The Settler and the Savage by R. M. Ballantyne (great books to read txt) 📕

Chapter Twelve. Gives some Account of a Great Lion-Hunt.

Although the lion’s roar had been frequently heard by the settlers of Glen Lynden, some months elapsed before they came into actual conflict with his majesty. By that time the little colony had taken firm root. It had also been strengthened by a few families of half-castes or mulattos.

One morning it was discovered that a horse had been carried off by a lion, and as his track was clearly traceable into a neighbouring kloof, the boldest men of the settlement, as well as some Dutchmen who chanced to be there at the time, were speedily assembled for a regular hunt after the audacious thief.

It was a great occasion, and some of the men who became noted for prowess in after years began their career on that day. George Rennie, who ultimately acquired the title of the Lion-hunter, came to the rendezvous with a large elephant-gun on his shoulder; also his brother John, fearless and daring as himself. Then followed the brothers Diederik and Christian Muller,—frank, free, generous-hearted Dutchmen, who were already known as among the most intrepid lion-hunters of South Africa; and Arend Coetzer of Eland’s-drift; and Lucas Van Dyk, a tall dark muscular man of about six feet two, with a bushy black beard, and an eye like an eagle’s, carrying a gun almost as long and unwieldy as himself; and Slinger, Allie, and Dikkop, their sturdy Hottentot servants, with Dugal, a half-tamed Bushman, the special charge of Mr Pringle. These and several others were all armed with gun and spear and knife.

Soon our friend Sandy Black, who had been summoned from work in his garden, joined them with a rusty old flint-lock gun. He was followed by young Rivers, with a double-barrelled percussion of large calibre, and by Kenneth McTavish, accompanied by his wife and Jessie, both imploring him earnestly, “not to be rash, and to keep well out of danger!”

“Oh! Kenneth,” entreated Mrs M, “do be careful. A lion is such a fearful thing!”

“My dear, it’s not a ‘thing’, it’s an animal,” growled Kenneth, trying to induce his wife to go home.

“Yes, but it is so dangerous, and only think, if it should get hold of you—and I know your headstrong courage will make you do something foolhardy—what is to become of me and Jessie?”

It was evident from the tone of McTavish’s reply that he did not care much what should become of either wife or daughter just then, for he saw that his male friends were laughing at him, but he was fortunately relieved by Jerry Goldboy coming up at the moment—with the blunderbuss on his shoulder—and informing Mrs McTavish that her “pet,” a lamb which had been recently purchased from one of the Tarka boers, was at large, with two or three hungry dogs looking earnestly at it!

The good lady at once forsook the old goat, and ran back with Jessie to the rescue of the pet lamb.

“What have ’ee putt i’ the ’buss?” asked Sandy Black of Jerry, with a sly look, as the latter joined the group of hunters.

“Well, d’you know, I ain’t quite sure,” replied Jerry in some confusion; “I—I was called out so suddenly that I ’ad scarce time to think.”

“Think!” repeated Black; “it doesna tak’ muckle time to think hoo to load a gun, but to be sure your gun is a pecooliar ane.”

“Well, you see,” returned Jerry, with the troubled look still on his countenance, “it does require a little consideration, because it would be useless to load with my ordinary charge of gravel for a lion. Then I feared to put in large stones, lest they should jam in the barrel an’ bu’st the hold thing. So I collected a lot of hold buttons and a few nails, besides two or three thimbles, but—”

“Weel,” said Black, as his friend paused, “thae sort o’ slugs wull at least gie the lion a peppery sort o’ feeling, if naethin’ waur.”

“Yes, but, d’you see,” continued Jerry, “there was a silver tea-spoon on the table when I made the collection of things, and after I had loaded I I couldn’t find the tea-spoon, and I fear—”

Just at that moment Groot Willem galloped upon the scene and was received with a hearty cheer.

The Hottentots were now sent on in advance to trace out the “spoor”—in other words, the track of the lion.

On the way one of the Dutchmen entertained those of the settlers who were inexperienced with an account of the mode in which lion-hunts should be conducted. The right way to go to work, he said, was to set the dogs into the cover and drive the lion into the open, when the whole band of hunters should march forward together and fire either singly or in volleys. If he did not fall, but should grow furious and advance upon his assailants, then they should stand close in a circle and turn their horses with their heads from the foe, horses being usually much frightened at the sight of a lion. Some should hold the bridles, while others should kneel and take careful aim at the approaching enemy, which would crouch now and then as if to measure his distance and calculate the power of his spring. When he crouched, that was the time to shoot him fair in the head. If they should miss, which was not unlikely, or only wound the lion, and the horses should get frantic with tenor at his roars, and break loose, there was reason to fear that serious mischief might follow.

No Red Indian of the backwoods ever followed the “trail” of beast or foe more unerringly than these Hottentots and mulattos tracked that lion through brushwood and brake, over grass and gravel, where in many places, to an unskilled eye, there was no visible mark at all. Their perseverance was rewarded: they came upon the enemy sooner than had been expected. At the distance of about a mile from the spot where he had killed the horse they found him in a straggling thicket.

From this point of vantage he would by no means come out. The dogs were sent in, and they barked furiously enough, but the lion would not condescend to show fight. After some hours spent in thus vainly heating about the bush, George Rennie became impatient and resolved to “storm” the stronghold! In company with his brother John, and another man named Ekron, he prepared to enter the thicket where the lion was concealed, and persuaded three of the mulattos to follow in rear, and be ready to fire if their assault should prove abortive.

It was of no use that Lucas, Van Dyk, and the Mullers, and other experienced Dutchmen, tried to dissuade them from their enterprise by assuring them that it was a ridiculous as well as reckless mode of attack, and would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The brothers Rennie, as yet inexperienced, were obstinate. They were bent on attacking the lion in his den.

While this arrangement was being made the soul of Jerry Goldboy became unfortunately inflated with a desire to distinguish himself. Spiritually brave, though physically nervous, he made a sudden resolve to shoot that lion or die in the attempt! Without uttering a word he cocked his blunderbuss, and, before any one could prevent him, made a bold dash into the jungle at a point where the hounds were clamouring loudest.

“Save us a’, the body’s gane gyte!” exclaimed Sandy Black, promptly following. “Come on, freen’s, or he’s a deed man.”

Sandy’s impulse was suddenly arrested by a roar from the lion so tremendous that it appeared to shake the solid earth. Next moment Jerry beheld a large animal bound with a crash through the brake straight at him. His heart leaped into his mouth, but he retained sufficient vitality to present and fire. A wild yell followed, as the animal fell dead at his feet, and Jerry found that he had lodged the whole collection of buttons, nails, and miscellaneous articles, along with the tea-spoon, in the head of the best hound, which had been scared by the monarch’s appalling roar!

It is difficult to say whether laughter or indignant growls were loudest on the occurrence of this, but it is certain that the brothers Rennie entered the thicket immediately after, despite the almost angry remonstrances of the more knowing men, advanced to within about fifteen paces of the spot where the lion lay crouched among the gnarled roots of an evergreen bush with a small space of open ground on one side of it.

“Now then, boys,” said George Rennie, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder at the mulatto supports, “steady, and take good aim after we fire.”

He put the elephant gun to his shoulder as he spoke, his brother and comrade did the same; a triple report followed, and the three heavy balls, aimed with deadly precision, struck a great block of red stone behind which the lion was lying.

With a furious growl he shot from his lair like the bolt from a cross-bow. The mulattos instinctively turned and fled without firing a shot. The three champions, with empty guns, tumbled over each other in eager haste to escape the dreaded claws—but in vain, for with one stroke he dashed John Rennie to the ground, put his paw on him, and looked round with that dignified air of grandeur which has doubtless earned for his race the royal title. The scene was at once magnificent, thrilling, and ludicrous. It was impossible for the other hunters to fire, because while one man was under the lion’s paw the others were scrambling towards them in such a way as to render an aim impossible.

After gazing at them steadily for a few seconds the lion turned as if in sovereign contempt, scattered the hounds like a pack of rats, and, with a majestic bound over bushes upwards of twelve feet high, re-entered the jungle. With a feeling of indignation at such contemptuous treatment, George Rennie re-charged his gun in haste, vowing vengeance against the whole feline race—a vow which he fully redeemed in after years. His brother John, who was injured to the extent of a scratch on the back and a severe bruise on the ribs by the rough treatment he had received, arose and slowly followed his example, and Groot Willem, growling in a tone that would have done credit to the lion himself, and losing for the moment the usual wisdom of his countrymen in such encounters, strode savagely into the jungle, followed by Sandy Black and Jerry, the latter of whom appeared to labour under a sort of frenzied courage which urged him on to deeds of desperate valour. At all events he had recharged his piece of ordnance to the very muzzle with a miscellaneous compound of sand, stones, and sticks—anything, in short, that would go down its capacious throat,—and, pushing wildly past Groot Willem, took the lead.

It was perhaps well for these strangely-assorted hunters that the lion had made up his mind to quit the jungle. A few minutes later he was seen retreating towards the mountains, and the chase was renewed, with hounds and Hottentots in full cry. They came up with him in a short time at bay under a mimosa-tree by the side of a streamlet. He lashed his tail and growled fiercely as he glared at the dogs, which barked and yelped round him, though they took good care to keep out of reach of his claws. While they stirred up his wrath to the boiling point, they at the same time distracted his attention, so that a party of Hottentots, getting between him and the mountain side, took up a position on a precipice which overlooked the spot where he stood