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Transcriber's Note:

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      [Drawing: . . .] indicates a hand-drawn Illustration

IN AFRICA

Hunting Adventures in the Big Game Country

by

JOHN T. McCUTCHEON

Cartoonist of the Chicago Tribune

Illustrated with Photographs and Cartoons by the Author

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. One Morning's Bag]

Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers

Copyright 1910
The Tribune Company, Chicago

Copyright 1910
The Bobbs-Merrill Company

Press of
Braunworth & Co.
Bookbinders and Printers
Brooklyn, N.Y.

                TO THOSE ADVENTUROUS SOULS WHO
            RESENT THE RESTRAINT OF THE BEATEN PATH
               THESE OBSERVATIONS OF AN AMATEUR
                         ARE DEDICATED

PREFATORY NOTE

This collection of African stories has no pretentious purpose. It is
merely the record of a most delightful hunting trip into those
fascinating regions along the Equator, where one may still have
"thrilling adventures" and live in a story-book atmosphere, where the
"roar of the lion" and the "crack of the rifle" are part of the
every-day life, and where in a few months one may store up enough
material to keep the memory pleasantly occupied all the rest of a
lifetime. The stories are descriptive of a four-and-a-half months' trip
in the big game country and pretend to no more serious purpose than
merely to relate the experiences of a self-confessed amateur under such
conditions.

                                              JOHN T. McCUTCHEON

_August, 1910_

                          CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE                                                       Page
  The Preparation for Departure. Experiences with Willing
  Friends and Advisers                                               1

CHAPTER TWO
  The First Half of the Voyage. From Naples to the Red Sea,
  with a Few Side-Lights on Indian Ocean Travel                     13

CHAPTER THREE
  The Island of Mombasa, with the Jungles of Equatorial Africa
  "Only a Few Blocks Away." A Story of the World's Champion
  Man-Eating Lions                                                  28

CHAPTER FOUR
  On the Edge of the Athi Plains, Face to Face with Herds of
  Wild Game. Up in a Balloon at Nairobi                             43

CHAPTER FIVE
  Into the Heart of the Big Game Country with a Retinue of
  More Than One Hundred Natives. A Safari and What It Is            65

CHAPTER SIX
  A Lion Drive. With a Rhino in Range Some One Shouts
  "Simba" and I Get My First Glimpse of a Wild Lion. Three
  Shots and Out                                                     82

CHAPTER SEVEN
  On the Tana River, the Home of the Rhino. The Timid are
  Frightened, the Dangerous Killed, and Others Photographed.
  Moving Pictures of a Rhino Charge                                105

CHAPTER EIGHT
  Meeting Colonel Roosevelt in the Uttermost Outpost of
  Semi-Civilization. He Talks of Many Things, Hears that he has
  Been Reported Dead, and Promptly Plans an Elephant Hunt          123

CHAPTER NINE
  The Colonel Reads Macaulay's "Essays," Discourses on Many
  Subjects with Great Frankness, Declines a Drink of Scotch
  Whisky, and Kills Three Elephants                                141

CHAPTER TEN
  Elephant Hunting Not an Occasion for Lightsome Merrymaking.
  Five Hundred Thousand Acres of Forest in Which the
  Kenia Elephant Lives, Wanders and Brings Up His Children         164

CHAPTER ELEVEN
  Nine Days Without Seeing an Elephant. The Roosevelt
  Party Departs and We March for the Mountains on Our Big
  Elephant Hunt. The Policeman of the Plains                       184

CHAPTER TWELVE
  "Twas the Day Before Christmas." Photographing a Charging
  Elephant, Cornering a Wounded Elephant in a River Jungle
  Growth. A Thrilling Charge. Hassan's Courage                     201

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  In the Swamps of the Guas Ngishu. Beating for Lions We
  Came Upon a Strange and Fascinating Wild Beast, Which
  Became Attached to Our Party. The Little Wanderobo Dog           214

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  Who's Who in Jungleland. The Hartebeest and the Wildebeest,
  the Amusing Giraffe and the Ubiquitous Zebra, the
  Lovely Gazelle and the Gentle Impalla                            233

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  Some Natural History in Which it is Revealed that a Sing-Sing
  Waterbuck is Not a Singing Topi, and that a Topi is Not
  a Species of Head-dress                                          251

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  In the Tall Grass of the Mount Elgon Country. A Narrow
  Escape from a Long-Horned Rhino. A Thanksgiving Dinner
  and a Visit to a Native Village                                  269

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  Up and Down the Mountain Side from the Ketosh Village to
  the Great Cave of Bats. A Dramatic Episode with the Finding
  of a Black Baby as a Climax                                      291

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  Electric Lights, Motor-Cars and Fifteen Varieties of Wild
  Game. Chasing Lions Across the Country in a Carriage             313

CHAPTER NINETEEN
  The Last Word in Lion Hunting. Methods of Trailing, Ensnaring
  and Otherwise Outwitting the King of Beasts. A
  Chapter of Adventures                                            325

CHAPTER TWENTY
  Abdullah the Cook and Some Interesting Gastronomic Experiences.
  Thirteen Tribes Represented in the Safari. Abdi's
  Story of His Uncle and the Lions                                 341

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  Back Home from Africa. Ninety Days on the Way Through
  India, Java, China, Manila and Japan. Three Chow Dogs and
  a Final Series of Amusing Adventures                             360

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  Ways and Means. What to Take and What Not to Take. Information
  for Those that Wish, Intend or Hope to Hunt in the
  African Highlands                                                384

                               IN AFRICA

CHAPTER I

THE PREPARATION FOR DEPARTURE. EXPERIENCES WITH WILLING FRIENDS AND
ADVISERS

Ever since I can remember, almost, I have cherished a modest ambition to
hunt lions and elephants. At an early age, or, to be more exact, at
about that age which finds most boys wondering whether they would rather
be Indian fighters or sailors, I ran across a copy of Stanley's _Through
the Dark Continent_. It was full of fascinating adventures. I thrilled
at the accounts which spoke in terms of easy familiarity of "express"
rifles and "elephant" guns, and in my vivid but misguided imagination, I
pictured an elephant gun as a sort of cannon--a huge, unwieldy
arquebus--that fired a ponderous shell. The old woodcuts of daring
hunters and charging lions inspired me with unrest and longing--the
longing to bid the farm farewell and start down the road for Africa.
Africa! What a picture it conjured up in my fancy! Then, as even now, it
symbolized a world of adventurous possibilities; and in my boyhood
fancy, it lay away off there--somewhere--vaguely--beyond mountains and
deserts and oceans, a vast, mysterious, unknown land, that swarmed with
inviting dangers and alluring romance.

One by one my other youthful ambitions have been laid away. I have given
up hope of ever being an Indian fighter out on the plains, because the
pesky redskins have long since ceased to need my strong right arm to
quell them. I also have yielded up my ambition to be a sailor, or
rather, that branch of the profession in which I hoped to
specialize--piracy--because, for some regretful reason, piracy has lost
much of its charm in these days of great liners. There is no treasure to
search for any more, and the golden age of the splendid clipper ships,
with their immense spread of canvas, has given way to the unromantic age
of the grimy steamer, about which there is so little to appeal to the
imagination. Consequently, lion hunting is about the only thing
left--except wars, and they are few and far between.

And so, after suffering this "lion-hunting" ambition to lie fallow for
many years, I at last reached a day when it seemed possible to realize
it. The chance came in a curiously unexpected way. Mr. Akeley, a man
famed in African hunting exploits, was to deliver a talk before a little
club to which I belonged. I went, and as a result of my thrilled
interest in every word he said, I met him and talked with him and
finally was asked to join a new African expedition that he had in
prospect. With the party were to be Mrs. Akeley, with a record of
fourteen months in the big game country, and Mr. Stephenson, a hunter
with many years of experience in the wild places of the United States,
Canada and Mexico. My hunting experience had been chiefly gained in my
library, but for some strange reason, it did not seem incongruous that I
should begin my real hunting in a lion and elephant country.

[Drawing: _Getting Ready for Lion Shooting_]

I had all the prowess of a Tartarin, and during the five months that
elapsed before I actually set forth, I went about my daily work with a
mind half dazed with the delicious consciousness that I was soon to
become a lion hunter. I feared that modern methods might have taken away
much of the old-time romance of the sport, but I felt certain that there
was still to be something left in the way of excitement and adventure.

The succeeding pages of this book contain the chronicle of the nine
delightful months that followed my departure from America.

In the middle of August Mr. Stephenson and I arrived in London. Mr.
Akeley had ordered most of our equipment by letter, but there still
remained many things to be done, and for a week or more we were busy
from morning till night.

It is amazing how much stuff is required to outfit a party of four
people for an African shooting expedition of several months' duration.
First in importance come the rifles, then the tents and camp equipment,
then the clothes and boots, then the medical supplies, and finally the
food. Perhaps the food might be put first in importance, but just now,
after a hearty dinner, it seems to be the least important detail.

Many men outfitting for an African campaign among wild animals secure
their outfits in London. It is there, in modest little shops, that one
gets the weapons that are known to sportsmen from one end of the world
to the other--weapons designed expressly for the requirements of African
shooting, and which have long stood the test of hard, practical service.
For two days we haunted these famous gun-makers' shops, and for two days
I made a magnificent attempt to look learnedly at things about which I
knew little.

[Drawing: _Practising in the Museum_]

At last, after many hours of gun shopping, attended by the constant
click of a taxicab meter, I assembled such an imposing arsenal that I
was nervous whenever I thought about it. With such a battery it was a
foregone conclusion that something, or somebody, was likely to get hurt.
I hoped that it would be something, and not somebody.

The old-time "elephant gun" which shot an enormous ball and a staggering
charge of black powder has given way to the modern double-barreled
rifle, with its steel bullet and cordite powder. It is not half so heavy
or clumsy as the old timers, but its power and penetration are
tremendous. The largest of this modern type is the .650 cordite--that
is, it shoots a bullet six hundred and fifty thousandths of an inch in
diameter, and has a frightful recoil. This weapon is prohibitive on
account of its recoil, and few, if any, sportsmen now care to carry one.
The most popular type is the .450 and .475 cordite double-barreled
ejector, hammerless rifles, and these are the ones that every elephant
hunter should have.

We started out with the definite purpose of getting three .450s--one for
Mr. Akeley, one for Mr. Stephenson, and one for myself; also three
nine-millimeter (.375) Mannlichers and two .256 Mannlichers. What we
really got were three .475 cordites, two nine-millimeter Mannlichers,
one eight-millimeter Mauser, and two .256 Mannlichers. We were switched
off the .450s because a government regulation forbids the use of that
caliber in Uganda, although it is permitted in British East Africa, and
so we played safe by getting the .475s. This rifle is a heavy gun that
carries a bullet large enough to jolt a fixed star and recoil enough to
put one's starboard shoulder in the hospital for a day or so.
Theoretically, the sportsman uses this weapon in close quarters, and
with a bullet placed according to expert advice sees the charging lion,
rhino or elephant turn a back somersault on his way to kingdom come. It
has a tremendous impact and will usually stop an animal even if the
bullet does not kill it. The bullets of a smaller rifle may kill the
animal, but not stop it at once. An elephant or lion, with a small
bullet in its heart, may still charge for fifty or one hundred yards
before it falls. Hence the necessity for a rifle that will shock as well
as penetrate.

[Drawing: _Advice from a Cheerful Stranger_]

Several experienced African lion hunters strongly advise taking a
"paradox," which in their parlance is affectionately called a
"cripple-stopper." It looks like what one would suppose an elephant gun
to look like. Its weight is staggering, and it shoots a solid ball,
backed up by a fearful charge of cordite. They use it under the
following conditions: Suppose that a big animal has been wounded and not
instantly killed. It at once assumes the aggressive, and is savage
beyond belief. The pain of the wound infuriates it and its one object in
life is to get at the man who shot it. It charges in a well-nigh
irresistible rush, and no ordinary bullet can stop it unless placed in
one or two small vital spots. Under the circumstances the hunter may not
be able to hold his rifle steady enough to hit these aforesaid spots.
That is when the paradox comes in. The hunter points it in a general way
in the direction of the oncoming beast, pulls the trigger and hopes for
the best. The paradox bullet hits with the force of a sledge hammer, and
stuns everything within a quarter of a mile, and the hunter turns
several back somersaults from the recoil and fades into bruised
unconsciousness.

We decided not to get the paradox, preferring to trust to hitting the
small vital spots rather than transport the weapon by hand through long
tropical marches.

The nine-millimeter rifles were said to be large enough for nearly all
purposes, but not reassuring in extremely close quarters. The .256
Mannlichers are splendid for long range shooting, as they carry a small
bore bullet and have enormous penetrating power.

The presumption, therefore, was that we should first shoot the lion at
long range with the .256, then at a shorter range with the
nine-millimeter, then at close range with the .475 cordite, and then
perhaps fervently wish that we had the paradox or a balloon.

After getting our arsenal, we then had to get the cartridges, all done
up in tin boxes of a weight not exceeding sixty pounds, that being the
limit of weight which the African porter is expected to carry. There
were several thousand rounds of ammunition, but this did not mean that
several thousand lions were to be killed. Allowing for a fair percentage
of misses, we calculated, if lucky, to get one or two lions.

After getting our rifles and ammunition under satisfactory headway, we
then saw that our seventy-two "chop" boxes of food were sure to be ready
in time to catch our steamer at Southampton.

And yet these preliminary details did not half conclude our shopping
preliminaries in London. There were camping rugs, blankets, cork
mattresses, pillows and pillow cases, bed bags, towels, lanterns,
mosquito boots, whetstones, hunting and skinning knives, khaki helmets,
pocket tapes to measure trophies, Pasteur anti-venomous serum,
hypodermic syringes, chairs, tables, cots, puttees, sweaters, raincoats,
Jaeger flannels, socks and pajamas, cholera belts, Burberry hunting
clothes, and lots of other little odds and ends that seemed to be
necessary.

The clothes were put up in air-proof tin uniform cases, small enough to
be easily carried by a porter and secure enough to keep out the millions
of ants that were expected to seek habitation in them.

[Drawing: _Part of the Equipment_]

Most of our equipment, especially the food supplies, had been ordered by
letter, and these we found to be practically ready. The remaining
necessities, guns, ammunition, camera supplies, medical supplies,
clothes, helmets, and so on, we assembled after two days of prodigious
hustling. There was nothing then to be done except to hope that all our
mountainous mass of equipment would be safely installed on the steamer
for Mombasa. This steamer, the _Adolph Woermann_, sailed from Hamburg on
the fourteenth of August, was due at Southampton on the eighteenth and
at Naples on the thirtieth. To avoid transporting the hundred cases of
supplies overland to Naples, it was necessary to get them to Southampton
on the eighteenth. It was a close shave, for only by sending them down
by passenger train on that morning were they able to reach Southampton.
Fortunately our hopes were fulfilled, and at last we received word that
they were on board and were careening down toward Naples, where we
expected to join them on the thirtieth.

[Drawing: Map]

[Drawing: Map]

[Drawing: _Studying the Lion's Vital Spots_]

After disposing of this important preliminary, we then had time to visit
the zoo at South Kensington and the British museum of natural history,
where we carefully studied many of the animals that we hoped to meet
later under less formal conditions. We picked out the vital spots, as
seen from all angles, and nothing then remained to be done but to get
down to British East Africa with our rifles and see whether we could hit
those vital spots.

Mr. Akeley had an elaborate moving picture machine and we planned to get
some excellent pictures of charging animals. The lion, rhino or other
subject was to be allowed to charge within a few feet of the camera and
then with a crack of our trusty rifles he was supposed to stop. We
seemed safe in assuming, even without exaggeration, that this would be
exciting.

It was at least that.

At last we said farewell to London, a one-sided ceremony, stopped at
Rheims to see the aviators, joined the Akeleys at Paris, and after
touching a few of the high spots in Europe, arrived in Naples in ample
time to catch our boat for Mombasa.

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST HALF OF THE VOYAGE. FROM NAPLES TO THE RED SEA, WITH A FEW
SIDE LIGHTS ON INDIAN OCEAN TRAVEL

Lion hunting had not been fraught with any great hardships or dangers up
to this time. The Mediterranean was as smooth as a mill-pond, the Suez
Canal was free from any tempestuous rolling, and the Red Sea was placid
and hot. After some days we were in the Indian Ocean, plowing lazily
along and counting the hours until we reached Mombasa. Perhaps after
that the life of a lion hunter would be less tranquil and calm.

The _Adolph Woermann_ was a six-thousand-three-hundred-ton ship, three
years old, and so heavily laden with guns and ammunition and steel rails
for the Tanga Railway that it would hardly roll in a hurricane. There
were about sixty first-class passengers on board and a fair number in
the second class. These passengers represented a dozen or so different
nationalities, and were bound for all sorts of places in East, Central,
and South Africa. Some were government officials going out to their
stations, some were army officers, some were professional hunters, and
some were private hunters going out "for" to shoot.

There were also a number of women on board and some children. I don't
know how many children there were, but in the early morning there seemed
to be a great number.

These Indian Ocean steamers are usually filled with an interesting lot
of passengers. At first you may only speculate as to who and what they
are and whither they are bound, but as the days go by you get acquainted
with many of them and find out who nearly everybody is and all about
him. On this steamer there were several interesting people. First in
station and importance was Sir Percy Girouard, the newly appointed
governor of British East Africa, who was going out to Nairobi to take
his position. Sir Percy is a splendid type of man, only about forty-two
years old, but with a career that has been filled with brilliant
achievements. He was born in Canada and was knighted in 1900. He looks
as Colonel Roosevelt looked ten years ago, and, in spite of a firm,
definite personality of great strength, is also courteous and kindly. He
has recently been the governor of northern Nigeria, and before that time
served in South Africa and the Soudan. It was of him that Lord Kitchener
said "the Soudan Railway would never have been built without his
services."

The new governor was accompanied by two staff officers, one a Scotchman
and the other an Irishman, and both of them with the clean, healthy look
of the young British army officer. There would be a big reception at
Mombasa, no doubt, with bands a-playing and fireworks popping, when the
ship arrived with the new executive.

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. "Crossing the Line"
Ceremonies]

[Photograph: Mr. Stephenson, Mr. and Mrs. Akeley and Mr. McCutcheon.
Courtesy of Boyce Balloonagraph Expedition]

[Drawing: _Before and After Outfitting_]

There were also several officials with high-sounding titles who were
going out to their stations in German East Africa. These gentlemen were
mostly accompanied by wives and babies and between them they imparted a
spirited scene of domesticity to the life on shipboard. The effect of a
man wheeling a baby carriage about the deck was to make one think of
some peaceful place far from the deck of a steamer.

Little Tim was the life of the ship. He was a little boy aged eighteen
months, who began life at Sombra, in Nyassaland, British Central Africa.
Just now he was returning from England with his father and mother.
Little Tim had curly hair, looked something like a brownie, and was
brimming over with energy and curiosity every moment that he was awake.
If left alone five minutes he was quite likely to try to climb up the
rigging. Consequently he was never left alone, and the decks were
constantly echoing with a fond mother's voice begging him not to "do
that," or to "come right here, Tim." One of Tim's chief diversions was
to divest himself of all but his two nearest articles of wear and sit in
the scuppers with the water turned on. A crowd of passengers was usually
grouped around him and watched his manoeuvers with intense interest.
He was probably photographed a hundred times and envied by everybody on
board. It was so fearfully hot in the Red Sea that to be seated in
running water with almost no clothes on seemed about the nicest possible
way to pass the time.

[Drawing: _Little Tim_]

There was a professional elephant hunter on board. He was a quiet,
reserved sort of man, pleasant, and not at all bloodthirsty in
appearance. He had spent twenty years shooting in Africa, and had killed
three hundred elephants. On his last trip, during which he spent nearly
four years in the Congo, he secured about two and one-half tons of
ivory. This great quantity of tusks, worth nearly five dollars a pound,
brought him over twenty thousand dollars, after paying ten per cent. to
the Congo government. The Belgians place no limit upon the number of
elephants one may shoot, just so they get their rake-off. In British
territory, however, sportsmen are limited to only two elephants a year
to those holding licenses to shoot. Our elephant hunter friend was now
on his way back to shoot some more.

[Drawing: _The Elephant Hunter and His Bag_]

There was another interesting character on board who caused many of us
to stop and think. He was a young British army officer who was mauled by
a lioness several months ago in Somaliland. He now walked with a decided
limp and was likely to lose his commission in the army because of
physical infirmities. He was cheerful, pleasant, and looked hopefully
forward to a time when he could have another go at a lion. This is the
way the thing happened: Last March he was shooting in Somaliland and ran
across a lioness. He shot her, but failed to disable her. She
immediately charged, chewed up his leg, arm and shoulder, and was then
killed by his Somali gunbearer. He was days from any help. He dressed
his own wounds and the natives tried to carry him to the nearest
settlement. Finally his bandages were exhausted, the natives deserted,
and it was only after frightful suffering that he reached help. In three
weeks blood poisoning set in, as is usual after the foul teeth of a lion
have entered the flesh, and for several months he was close to death.
Now he was up and about, cheerful and sunny, but a serious object lesson
to the lion hunters bound for the lair of the lion.

In the smoking-room of the _Adolph Woermann_ was a bronze bust of Mr.
Woermann presented by himself. Whether he meant to perpetuate his own
memory is not vital to the story. The amusing feature lies in the fact
that some irreverent passenger, whose soul was dead to the sacredness of
art, put a rough slouch hat on Mr. Woermann one night, with
side-splitting results. Mr. W. is a man with a strong, intelligent
German face, something like that of Prince Henry, and in the statue
appears with bare neck and shoulders. The addition of a rakish slouch
hat produced a startling effect, greatly detracting from the strictly
artistic, but adding much to the interest of the bust. It looked very
much as though he had been ashore at Aden and had come back on board
feeling the way a man does when he wants his hat on the side of his
head. Still, what can a shipowner expect who puts a nude bust of himself
in his own ship?

[Drawing: _Having Fun with Mr. Woermann_]

[Drawing: _An African Hair-Cut_]

The ship's barber was the Associated Press of the ship's company, and
his shop was the Park Row of the vessel. He had plenty of things to talk
about and more than enough words to express them. Every vague rumor that
floated about was sure to find lodgment in the barber shop, just as a
piece of driftwood finally reaches the beach. He knew all the secrets of
the voyage and told them freely.

One day I went down to have my hair trimmed. He asked if I'd have it
done African style. "How's that?" I inquired. "Shaved," said he, and
"No," said I. A number of the Germans on board were adopting the African
style of hair-cut, and the effect was something depressing. Every bump
that had lain dormant under a mat of hair at once assumed startling
proportions, and red ears that were retiring suddenly stuck out from the
pale white scalp like immense flappers. A devotee of this school of
tonsorial art had a peeled look that did not commend him to favorable
mention in artistic circles. But the flies, they loved it, so it was an
ill wind that blew no good.

The Red Sea has a well-earned reputation of being hot. We expected a
certain amount of sultriness, but not in such lavish prodigality as it
was delivered. The first day out from Suez found the passengers peeling
off unnecessary clothes, and the next day found the men sleeping out on
deck. There wasn't much sleeping. The band concert lasted until
ten-thirty, then the three Germans who were trying to drink all the beer
on board gave a nightly saengerfest that lasted until one o'clock, and
then the men who wash down the decks appeared at four. Between one and
four it was too hot to sleep, so that there wasn't much restful repose
on the ship until we got out of the Red Sea.

[Drawing: _We Slept on Deck in the Red Sea_]

Down at the end of the Red Sea are the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. In the
middle of the straits is the island of Perim, a sun-baked, bare and
uninviting chunk of land that has great strategic value and little else.
It absolutely commands the entrance to the Red Sea, and, naturally, is
British. Nearly all strategic points in the East are British, from
Gibraltar to Singapore. A lighthouse, a signal station, and a small
detachment of troops are the sole points of interest in Perim, and as
one rides past one breathes a fervent prayer of thanksgiving that he is
not one of the summer colony on Perim.

They tell a funny story about an English officer who was sent to Perim
to command the detachment. At the end of six months an official order
was sent for his transfer, because no one is expected to last longer
than six months without going crazy or committing suicide. To the great
surprise of the war office a letter came back stating that the officer
was quite contented at Perim, that he liked the peace and quiet of the
place, and begged that he be given leave to remain another six months.
The war office was amazed, and it gladly gave him the extension. At the
end of a year the same exchange of letters occurred and again he was
given the extension.

I don't know how long this continued, but in the end the war office
discovered that the officer had been in London having a good time while
a sergeant-major attended to the sending of the biannual letter. I
suppose the officer divided his pay with the sergeant-major. If he did
not he was a most ungrateful man.

The _Adolph Woermann_ is a German ship and is one of the best ones that
go down the east coast. Its passengers go to the British ports in
British East Africa, to the German ports in German East Africa, and to
several other ports in South Africa. Consequently the passengers are
about equally divided between the English and the Germans, with an
occasional Portuguese bound for Delagoa Bay or Mozambique.

When we first went aboard our party of four desired to secure a table by
ourselves. We were unsuccessful, however, and found it shared by a
peaceful old gentleman with whiskers. By crossing with gold the palm of
the chief steward, the old gentleman was shifted to a seat on the first
officer's right. Later we discovered that he was Sir Thomas Scanlon, the
first premier of South Africa, the man who gave Cecil Rhodes his start.

There were many interesting elements which made the cruise of the
_Woermann_ unusual. Mr. Boyce and his party of six were on board and
were on their way to photograph East Africa. They took moving pictures
of the various deck sports, also a bird's-eye picture of the ship, taken
from a camera suspended by a number of box kites, and also gave two
evenings of cinematograph entertainment.

There were also poker games, bridge games, and other forms of seaside
sports, all of which contributed to the gaiety of life in the Indian
Ocean. In the evening one might have imagined oneself at a London
music-hall, in the daytime at the Olympian games, and in the early
morning out on the farm. There were a number of chickens on board and
each rooster seemed obliged to salute the dawn with a fanfare of
crowing. They belonged to the governor and were going out to East Africa
to found a colony of chickens. Some day, years hence, the proud
descendents of these chickens will boast that their ancestors came over
on the _Woermann_, just as some people boast about their ancestors on
the _Mayflower_.

[Drawing: _Mauled by a Lion_]

When we crossed the equator, a committee of strong-arm men baptized
those of the passengers who had never before crossed the line. Those who
had crossed the line entered into the fun of the occasion with much
spirit and enthusiasm.

On the hottest day of the trip, just as we left Suez, when the mercury
was sputtering from the heat, we heard that the north pole had been
discovered. It cooled us off considerably for a while.

THE ISLAND OF MOMBASA, WITH THE JUNGLES OF EQUATORIAL AFRICA "ONLY A FEW
BLOCKS AWAY." A STORY OF THE WORLD'S CHAMPION MAN-EATING LIONS

In this voyage of the _Woermann_ there were about twenty Englishmen and
thirty Germans in the first class, not including women, and children.
There was practically no communication between the two nationalities,
which seemed deeply significant in these days when there is so much talk
of war between England and Germany. Each went his way without so much as
a "good morning" or a _guten abend_. And it was not a case of
unfamiliarity with the languages, either, that caused this mutual
restraint, for most of the Germans speak English. It was simply an
evidence that at the present time there is decidedly bad feeling between
the two races, and if it is a correct barometer of conditions in Europe,
there is certain to be war one of these days. On the _Woermann_, we only
hoped that it would not break out while the weather was as hot as it was
at that time.

The Germans are not addicted to deck sports while voyaging about, and it
is quite unusual to find on German ships anything in the way of deck
competition. The German, while resting, prefers to play cards, or sing,
or sit in his long easy chair with the children playing about. The
Englishman likes to compete in feats of strength and takes to deck
sports as a duck takes to water. I don't know who started it, but some
one organized deck sports on the _Woermann_, and after we left Aden the
sound of battle raged without cessation. Some of the competitions were
amusing. For instance, there was the cockfight. Two men, with hands and
knees hobbled with a stick and stout rope, seat themselves inside a
circle, and the game is for each one to try to put the other outside the
circle. Neither can use his hands.

[Drawing: _The Cock Fight_]

It is like wrestling in a sitting position with both hands tied, the
mode of attack being to topple over one's opponent and then bunt him out
of the circle. There is considerable skill in the game and a fearful lot
of hard work. By the time the victor has won, the seat of the trousers
of each of the two contending heroes has cleaned the deck until it
shines--the deck, not the trousers.

In a similar way the deck is benefited by the "are you there" game. Two
men are blindfolded, armed with long paper clubs, and then lie at full
length on the deck, with left hands clasped. One then says, "Are you
there?" and when the other answers, "I am," he makes a wild swat at
where he thinks the other's head to be. Of course, when the man says "I
am," he immediately gets his head as far away from where it was when he
spoke as is possible while clasping his opponent's hand. The "Are you
there" man makes a wild swing and lands some place with a prodigious
thump. He usually strikes the deck and seldom hits the head of the other
man. If one of them hits the other's head three times he wins. In the
meantime the deck has been thoroughly massaged by the two recumbent
heroes as they have moved back and forth in their various offensive and
defensive manoeuvers.

[Drawing: "_Are You There?_"]

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. A Study in Mombasa Shadows]

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. Mombasa Is a Pretty Place]

[Photograph: Transportation in Mombasa]

[Drawing: _The Spar and Pillow Fight_]

The pillow fight on the spar is the most fun. Two gladiators armed with
pillows sit astride a spar and try to knock each other off. It requires
a good deal of knack to keep your balance while some one is pounding you
with a large pillow. You are not allowed to touch the spar with your
hands, hence the difficulty of holding a difficult position. When a man
begins to waver the other redoubles his attack, and slowly at first, but
surely, the defeated gladiator tumbles off the spar into a canvas
stretched several feet below. It is lots of fun, especially for the
spectator and the winner.

Then, of course, there were other feats of intellectual and physical
prowess in the _Woermann_ competition, such as threading the needle,
where you run across the deck, thread a needle held by a woman, and then
drag her back to the starting point. The woman usually, in the
excitement of the last spirited rush, falls over and is bodily dragged
several yards, squealing wildly and waving a couple of much agitated
deck shoes, and so forth.

Similar to this contest is the one where the gentleman dashes across the
deck with several other equally dashing gentlemen, kneels at the feet of
a woman who ties his necktie and then lights his cigarette. The game is
to see who can do this the quickest and get back to the starting place
first. If you have ever tried to light a cigarette in a terrible hurry
and on a windy deck, you will appreciate the elements of uncertainty in
the game.

These deck sports served to amuse and divert during the six days on the
Indian Ocean, and then the ship's chart said that we were almost at
Mombasa. The theoretical stage of the lion hunt was nearly over and it
was now a matter of only a few days until we should be up against the
"real thing." I sometimes wondered how I should act with a hostile lion
in front of me--whether I would become panic-stricken or whether my
nerve would hold true. There is lots of food for reverie when one is
going against big game for the first time.

[Drawing: _Chalking the Pig's Eye_]

We landed at Mombasa September sixteenth, seventeen days out from
Naples.

Mombasa is a little island about two by three miles in extent. It is
riotous with brilliant vegetation, and, as seen after a long sea voyage
through the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean, it looks heavenly except for
the heat. Hundreds of great baobab trees with huge, bottle-like trunks
and hundreds of broad spreading mango trees give an effect of tropical
luxuriance that is hardly to be excelled in beauty anywhere in the East.
Large ships that stop at the island usually wind their course through a
narrow channel and land their passengers and freight at the dock at
Kilindini, a mile and a half from the old Portuguese town of Mombasa,
where all the life of the island is centered. There are many relics of
the old days around the town of Mombasa and the port of Kilindini, but
since the British have been in possession a brisk air of progress and
enterprise is evident everywhere. Young men and young women in tennis
flannels, and other typical symptoms of British occupation are
constantly seen, and one entirely forgets that one is several thousand
miles from home and only a few blocks from the jungles of equatorial
Africa. We dreaded Mombasa before we arrived, but were soon agreeably
disappointed to find it not only beautiful and interesting, but also
pleasantly cool and full of most hospitable social life.

When our ship anchored off Kilindini there was a great crowd assembled
on the pier. There were many smart looking boats, manned with uniformed
natives, that at once came out to the ship, and we knew that the town
was _en fête_ to welcome the newly appointed governor, Sir Percy
Girouard.

He and his staff landed in full uniform. There were addresses of welcome
at the pier, a great deal of cheering and considerable photographing.
Then the rest of the passengers went ashore and spent several hours at
the custom house. All personal luggage was passed through, and we
embarked on a little train for Mombasa. The next day we registered our
firearms and had Smith, Mackenzie and Company do the rest. This firm is
ubiquitous in Mombasa and Zanzibar. They attend to everything for you,
and relieve you from much worry, vexation and rupees. They pay your
customs duties, get your mountains of stuff on the train for Nairobi,
and all you have to do is to pay them a commission and look pleasant.
The customs duty is ten per cent. on everything you have, and the
commission is five per cent. But in a hot climate, where one is apt to
feel lazy, the price is cheap.

Thanks to the governor, our party of four was invited to go to Nairobi
on his special train. It left Mombasa on the morning of the nineteenth
of September, and at once began to climb toward the plateau on which
Nairobi is situated, three hundred and twenty-seven miles away. We had
dreaded the railway ride through the lowlands along the coast, for that
district has a bad reputation for fever and all such ills. But again we
were pleasantly disappointed. The country was beautiful and interesting,
and at four o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at Voi, a spot that is
synonymous with human ailments. It is one of the famous ill health
resorts of Africa, but on this occasion it was on its good behavior. We
stopped four hours, inspected everything in sight, and at eight o'clock
the special began to climb toward the plateau of East Africa. At nine
o'clock we stopped at Tsavo, a place made famous by the two man-eating
lions whose terrible depredations have been so vividly described by
Colonel Patterson in his book, _The Man Eaters of Tsavo_. These two
lions absolutely stopped all work on the railroad for a period of
several weeks. They were daring beyond belief, and seemed to have no
fear of human beings. For a time all efforts to kill them were in vain.
Twenty-eight native workmen were eaten by them, and doubtless many more
were unrecorded victims of their activity. The whole country was
terrorized until finally, after many futile attempts, they were at last
killed.

No book on Africa seems complete unless this incident is mentioned
somewhere within its pages.

We looked out at Tsavo with devouring interest. All was still, with the
dead silence of a tropical night. Then the train steamed on and we had
several hours in a berth to think the matter over. In the early hours of
morning, we stopped at Simba, the "Place of Lions," where the
station-master has many lion scares even now. In the cold darkness of
the night we bundled up in thick clothes and went forward to sit on the
observation seat of the engine. Slowly the eastern skies became gray,
then pink, and finally day broke through heavy masses of clouds. It was
intensely cold. In the faint light we could see shadowy figures of
animals creeping home after their night's hunting. A huge cheetah
bounded along the track in front of us. A troop of giraffes slowly
ambled away from the track. A gaunt hyena loped off into the scrub near
the side of the railroad and then, as daylight became brighter, we found
ourselves in the midst of thousands of wild animals. Zebras,
hartebeests, Grant's gazelles, Thompson's gazelles, impalla, giraffes,
wildebeests, and many other antelope species cantered off and stood to
watch the train as it swept past them. It was a wonderful ride, perhaps
the most novel railway ride to be found any place in the world. On each
side of the Uganda Railroad there is a strip of land, narrow on the
north and wide on the south, in which game is protected from the
sportsman, and consequently the animals have learned to regard these
strips as sanctuary. There were many tales of lions as we rode along,
and the imagination pictured a slinking lion in every patch of reeds
along the way. I heard one lion story that makes the man-eaters of Tsavo
seem like vegetarians. It was told to me by a gentleman high in the
government service--a man of unimpeachable veracity. He says the story
is absolutely true, but refused to swear to it.

Once upon a time, so the story goes, there was a caravan of slaves
moving through the jungles of Africa. The slave-drivers were cruel and
they chained the poor savages together in bunches of ten. Each slave
wore an iron ring around his neck and the chain passed through this ring
and on to the rest of the ten. For days and weeks and months they
marched along, their chains clanking and their shoulders bending beneath
the heavy weight. From time to time the slave-drivers would jog them
along with a few lashes from a four-cornered "hippo" hide _kiboko_, or
whip. Quite naturally the life was far from pleasant to the chain-gang
and they watched eagerly for a chance to escape. Finally one dark night,
when the sentinels were asleep, a bunch of ten succeeded in creeping
away into the darkness. They were unarmed and chained from neck to neck,
one to another. For several days they made their way steadily toward the
coast. All seemed well. They ate fruit and nuts and herbs and began to
see visions of a pleasant arrival at the coast.

[Drawing: _They Made Their Way Steadily Toward the Coast_]

But, alas! Their hopes were soon to be dispelled. One night a deep
rumbling roar was heard in the jungle through which they were picking
their unanimous way. A shudder ran through the slaves. "_Simba_," they
whispered in terror. A little while later there was another rumble, this
time much closer. They speedily became more frightened. Here they were,
ten days' march from the coast, unarmed, and quite defenseless against a
lion.

Presently the lion appeared, his cruel, hungry eyes gleaming through the
night. They were frozen with horror, as slowly, slowly, slowly the great
animal crept toward them with his tail sibilantly lashing above his
back. They were now thoroughly alarmed and realized to the utmost that
the lion's intentions were open to grave suspicion. Breathlessly they
waited, or perhaps they tried to climb trees, but being chained together
they could not climb more than one tree. And there was not a single tree
big enough to hold more than nine of them. The record of the story is
now obscure, but the horrid tale goes on to relate that the lion gave a
frightful roar and leaped upon the tenth man, biting him to death in a
single snap. The dilemma of the others is obvious. They knew better than
to disturb a lion while it is eating. To do so would be to court sudden
death. So they sat still and watched the beast slowly and greedily
devour their comrade. Having finished his meal the great beast,
surfeited with food, slowly moved off into the jungle.

[Drawing: _The Lion's Intentions Were Open to Grave Suspicions_]

Immediately the nine remaining slaves took to their heels, dragging the
empty ring and chain of the late number ten. All night long they ran
until finally they became exhausted and fell asleep. In the afternoon
they again resumed their march, hopeful once more. But alas! again.

Along about supper-time they heard the distant roar of a lion. Presently
it sounded nearer and soon the gleaming eyes of the lion appeared once
more among the jungle grass. Once again they were frozen with horror as
the hungry beast devoured the last man in the row--number nine. Again
they sat helpless while the man-eater slowly finished his supper, and
again they were overjoyed to see him depart from their midst. As soon as
the last vestige of his tail had disappeared from view they scrambled up
and hiked briskly toward the coast, nine days away.

[Drawing: _While the Man-Eater Finished His Supper_]

They were now thoroughly alarmed, and almost dreaded the supper hour.
The next night the lion caught up with them again and proceeded to
devour number eight. He then peacefully ambled away, leaving another
empty ring.

The next night there was a spirited contest to see which end of the
chain should be last, but a vote was taken and it was decided six to one
in favor of continuing in their original formation. The one who voted
against was eaten that night and the remaining six, with the four empty
rings clanking behind them, resumed their mournful march to the coast,
six days away.

[Drawing: _Two to One_]

For five nights after this, the lion caught up with them and diminished
their number by five. Finally there was only one left and the coast was
a full day's march away. Could he make it? It looked like a desperate
chance, but he still had hopes. He noticed with pleasure that the lion
was becoming fat and probably could not travel fast. But he also noticed
with displeasure that he had forty feet of chain and nine heavy iron
neck rings to lug along and that extra weight naturally greatly
handicapped him. It was a thrilling race--the coast only one day away
and life or death the prize! Who can imagine the feelings of the poor
slave? But with a stout heart he struggled on through poisonous
morasses, and pushed his way through snaky creepers. The afternoon sun
slowly sank toward the western horizon and--

The locomotive at this point of the story screeched loudly. The wheels
grated on the track and my official friend leaped off the cow-catcher.

"Here!" I shouted, "what's the finish of that story?"

"I'll tell you the rest the next time I see you," he sang out, and so I
don't know just how the story ended.

CHAPTER IV

ON THE EDGE OF THE ATHI PLAINS, FACE TO FACE WITH GREAT HERDS OF WILD
GAME. UP IN A BALLOON AT NAIROBI

Before Colonel Roosevelt drew the eyes of the world on British East
Africa Nairobi was practically unheard of. The British colonial office
knew where it was and a fair number of English sportsmen had visited it
in the last six or eight years. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty Americans
had been in Nairobi on their way to the rich game fields that lie in all
directions from the town, but beyond these few outsiders the place was
unknown. Now it is decidedly on the map, thanks to our gallant and
picturesque Theodore. It has been mentioned in book and magazine to a
degree that nearly everybody can tell in a general way where and what it
is, even if he can not pronounce it.

Before coming to Nairobi I had read a lot about it, and yet when I
reached the place it seemed as though the descriptions had failed to
prepare me for what I saw. We arrived under unusual conditions. Files of
native soldiers were lined up on the platform of the station to welcome
the new governor, and the whole white population of the town, several
hundred in number, were massed in front of the building. The roofs and
trees were filled with natives and the broad open space beyond the
station was fringed with pony carts, bullock carts, rickshaws, cameras,
and some hotel 'buses. Several thousand people, mostly East Indians and
natives, were among those present. Lord Delamere, who has adopted East
Africa as his home, and who owns a hundred thousand acres or so of game
preserves, read an address of welcome, and Sir Percy, in white uniform
and helmet, responded with a speech that struck a popular note. There
were dozens of cameras snapping and the whole effect was distinctly
festive in appearance.

[Drawing: _In the Back Yard of Nairobi_]

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. Dressed to Kill]

[Photograph: Courtesy of Boyce Balloonagraph Expedition. The Balloon
Ascension]

[Photograph: Courtesy of Boyce Balloonagraph Expedition. The Norfolk
Hotel, Nairobi]

The town lies on the edge of the Athi Plains, a broad sweep of
sun-bleached grass veldt many miles in extent. From almost any part of
the town one may look out on plains where great herds of wild game are
constantly in sight. In an hour's leisurely walk from the station a man
with a gun can get hartebeest, zebra, Grant's gazelle, Thompson's
gazelle, impalla, and probably wildebeest. One can not possibly count
the number of animals that feed contentedly within sight of the town of
Nairobi, and it is difficult to think that one is not looking out upon a
collection of domesticated game. Sometimes, as happened two nights
before we reached Nairobi, a lion will chase a herd of zebra and the
latter in fright will tear through the town, destroying gardens and
fences and flowers in a mad stampede. We met one man who goes out ten
minutes from town every other day and kills a kongoni (hartebeest) as
food for his dogs. If you were disposed to do so you could kill dozens
every day with little effort and almost no diminution of the visible
supply.

Nairobi is new and unattractive. There is one long main thoroughfare,
quite wide and fringed with trees, along which at wide intervals are the
substantial looking stone building of the Bank of India, the business
houses, the hotels, and numbers of cheap corrugated iron, one-story
shacks used for government purposes. A native barracks with low iron
houses and some more little iron houses used for medical experiments and
still some more for use as native hospitals are encountered as one takes
the half-mile ride from the station to the hotel. A big square filled
with large trees marks the park, and a number of rather pretentious
one-story buildings display signs that tell you where you may buy almost
anything, from a suit of clothes to a magazine rifle.

[Drawing: _The Main Street Is a Busy Place_]

Goanese, East Indian, and European shops are scattered at intervals
along this one long, wide street. Rickshaws, pedestrians, bullock carts,
horsemen, and heavily burdened porters are passing constantly back and
forth, almost always in the middle of the street. Bicycles, one or two
motorcycles, and a couple of automobiles are occasionally to be seen.
The aspect of the town suggests the activity of a new frontier place
where everybody is busy. At one end the long street loses itself in the
broad Athi Plains, at the other it climbs up over some low hills and
enters the residence district on higher ground. Here the hills are
generously covered with a straggly growth of tall, ungraceful trees,
among which, almost hidden from view, are the widely scattered bungalows
of the white population.

[Photograph: An Embo Apollo]

[Photograph: The Askari Patrols the Camp]

Branching off from the main street are side streets, some of them
thronged with East Indian bazaars, about which may be found all the
phases of life of an Indian city. Still beyond and parallel with the one
main street are sparsely settled streets which look ragged with their
tin shacks and scattered gardens.

Nairobi is not a beautiful place, but it is new and busy, and the people
who live there are working wonders in changing a bad location into what
some day will be a pretty place. It is over five thousand feet high,
healthy, and cold at night. Away off in the hills a mile or more from
town is Government House, where the governor lives, and near by is the
club and a new European hospital, looking out over a sweep of country
that on clear days includes Kilima-Njaro, over a hundred miles to the
southeast, and Mount Kenia, a hundred miles northeast.

You are still in civilization in Nairobi. Anything you want you may buy
at some of the shops, and almost anything you may want to eat or drink
may easily be had. There are weekly newspapers, churches, clubs, hotels,
and nearly all the by-products of civilization. One could live in
Nairobi, only a few miles from the equator, wear summer clothes at noon
and winter clothes at night, keep well, and not miss many of the
luxuries of life. The telegraph puts you in immediate touch with the
whole wide world, and on the thirtieth of September you can read the
Chicago _Tribune_ of August thirty-first.

At present the chief revenue of the government is derived from shooting
parties, and the officials are doing all they can to encourage the
coming of sportsmen. Each man who comes to shoot must pay two hundred
and fifty dollars for his license as well as employ at least thirty
natives for his transport. He must buy supplies, pay ten per cent.
import and export tax, and in many other ways spend money which goes
toward paying the expenses of government. The government also is
encouraging various agricultural and stock raising experiments, but
these have not yet passed the experimental stage. Almost anything may be
grown in British East Africa, but before agriculture can be made to pay
the vast herds of wild game must either be exterminated or driven away.
No fence will keep out a herd of zebra, and in one rush a field of grain
is ruined by these giant herds. Experiments have failed satisfactorily
to domesticate the zebra, and so he remains a menace to agriculture and
a nuisance in all respects except as adding a picturesque note to the
landscape.

Colonel Roosevelt, in a recent speech in Nairobi, spoke of British East
Africa as a land of enormous possibilities and promise, but in talks
with many men here I found that little money has been made by those who
have gone into agriculture in a large way. Drought and predatory herds
of game have introduced an element of uncertainty which has made
agriculture, as at present developed, unsatisfactory.

Colonel Roosevelt has become a popular idol in East Africa. Everywhere
one meets Englishmen who express the greatest admiration for him. He has
shrewdly analyzed conditions as they now exist and has picked out the
weak spots in the government. For many years prior to the arrival of Sir
Percy Girouard the country has been administered by weak executives, and
its progress has been greatly retarded thereby. The last governor was
kind, but inefficient, and some months ago was sent to the West Indies,
where he is officially buried. Roosevelt came, sized up the situation,
and made a speech at a big banquet in Nairobi. Nearly two hundred white
men in evening clothes were there. They came from all parts of East
Africa, and listened with admiration to the plain truths that Theodore
Roosevelt told them in the manner of a Dutch uncle. Since then he has
owned the country and could be elected to any office within the gift of
the people. He talked for over an hour, and it must have been a great
speech, if one may judge by the enthusiastic comments I have heard about
it. When an Englishman gets enthusiastic about a speech by an American
it must be a pretty good speech.

Newland and Tarlton is the firm that outfits most shooting parties that
start out from Nairobi. They do all the preliminary work and relieve you
of most of the worry. If you wish them to do so, they will get your
complete outfit, so you need not bring anything with you but a suitcase.
They will get your guns, your tents, your food supplies, your mules,
your head-man, your cook, your gunbearers, your askaris (native
soldiers), your interpreter, your ammunition, and your porters. They
will have the whole outfit ready for you by the time you arrive in
Nairobi. When you arrive in British East Africa, a-shooting bent, you
will hear of Newland and Tarlton so often that you will think they own
the country.

Mr. Newland met us in Mombasa, and through his agents sent all of our
London equipment of tents and guns and ammunition and food up to
Nairobi. When we arrived in Nairobi he had our porters ready, together
with tent boys, gunbearers, and all the other members of our _safari_,
and in three days we were ready to march. The firm has systematized
methods so much that it is simple for them to do what would be matters
of endless worry to the stranger. In course of time you pay the price,
and in our case it seemed reasonable, when one considers the work and
worry involved. Most English sportsmen come out in October and November,
after which time the shooting is at its height. Two years ago there were
sixty _safaris_, or shooting expeditions, sent out from Nairobi. When we
left, late in September, there were about thirty.

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. The Great White Way in
Nairobi]

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce The Busiest Place in Nairobi]

[Photograph: Umbrella Acacias]

[Drawing: _The New Governor Looks Something Like Roosevelt_]

Each party must have from thirty to a couple of hundred camp attendants,
depending upon the number of white men in the party. Each white man,
requires, roughly, thirty natives to take care of him. In our party of
four white people we had one hundred and eighteen. One would presume
that the game would speedily be exterminated, yet it is said that the
game is constantly increasing. After one day's ride on the railway it
would be hard to conceive of game being more plentiful than it was while
we were there. Mr. Roosevelt carried nearly three hundred men with him,
collected a great quantity of game, and necessarily spent a great deal
of money. It is said that the expenses of his expedition approached ten
thousand dollars a month, but the chances are that this figure is much
more than the actual figure.

At the time of our arrival there was a shortage in the porter supply,
and we were obliged to take out men from a number of different tribes.
Swahili porters are considered the best, but there are not enough to go
round, so we had to take Swahilis, Bagandas, Kikuyus, Kavirondos,
Lumbwas, Minyamwezis, and a lot more of assorted races. Each porter
carries sixty pounds on his head, and when the whole outfit is on the
trail it looks like a procession of much importance.

The Norfolk Hotel is the chief rendezvous of Nairobi. In the course of
the afternoon nearly all the white men on hunting bent show up at the
hotel and patronize the bar. They come in wonderful hunting regalia and
in all the wonderful splendor of the Britisher when he is afield. There
is nearly always a great coming and going of men riding up, and of
rickshaws arriving and departing. Usually several tired sportsmen are
stretched out on the veranda of the long one-storied building, reading
the ancient London papers that are lying about. Professional guides,
arrayed in picturesque Buffalo Bill outfits, with spurs and
hunting-knives and slouch hats, are among those present, and amateur
sportsmen in crisp khaki and sun helmets and new puttees swagger back
and forth to the bar. There is no denying the fact that there is
considerable drinking in Nairobi. There was as much before we got there
as there was after we got there, however. After the arrival of the
European steamer at Mombasa business is brisk for several days as the
different parties sally forth for the wilds.

[Drawing: _At the Norfolk Hotel Bar_]

On our ship there were four different parties. A young American from
Boston, who has been spending several years doing archæological work in
Crete, accompanied by a young English cavalry officer, were starting out
for a six-weeks' shoot south of the railway and near Victoria Nyanza.

Two professional ivory hunters were starting for German East Africa by
way of the lake. Mr. Boyce and his African balloonograph party of seven
white men were preparing for the photographing expedition in the Sotik,
and our party of four was making final preparations for our march.
Consequently there was much hurrying about, and Newland and Tarlton's
warehouse was the center of throngs of waiting porters and the scene of
intense activity as each party sorted and assembled its mountains of
supplies.

Seager and Wormald got off first, going by train to Kijabe, where they
were to begin their ten days' march in the Sotik. Here they were to try
their luck for two or three weeks and then march back, preparatory to
starting home.

The professional ivory hunters were slow in starting. There was delay in
getting mules. One of them had shot three hundred elephants in the
Belgian Congo during the last four years, and it was suspected he had
been poaching. The other had been caught by the Belgian authorities on
his last trip, lost all his ivory and guns by confiscation, but was
ready to make another try. The ivory game is a rich one and there are
always venturesome men who are willing to take chances with the law in
getting the prizes.

The Boyce party with its two balloons and its great number of box kites
and its moving picture equipment and its twenty-nine cameras and its
vast equipment was slow in starting, but it expected to get away on
September twenty-fourth, the day after we left. They planned to fill
their balloon in Nairobi and tow it at the end of a special train as far
as Kijabe, where they were to strike inland from the railway. They were
encamped on a hill overlooking the city, with their two hundred and
thirty porters ready for the field and their balloon ready to make the
first ascension ever attempted in East Africa.

Throngs of natives squatted about, watching the final preparations, and
doubtless wondered what the strange, swaying object was. On the evening
of the twenty-second the party gave a moving picture show at one of the
clubs for the benefit of St. Andrew's church. A great crowd of
fashionably dressed people turned out and saw the motion picture records
of events which they had seen in life only a couple of days before.
There were moving pictures of the arrival of the governor's special
train, his march through the city, and many other events that were fresh
in the minds of the audience. There were also motion pictures taken on
the ship that brought us down from Naples to Mombasa, and it was most
interesting to see our fellow passengers and friends reproduced before
us in their various athletic activities while on shipboard. Mr. Boyce
gave an afternoon show for children, an evening show for grown-ups, and
was to give another for the natives the following night. The charities
of Nairobi were much richer because of Mr. Boyce and his African
Balloonograph Expedition.

While in Nairobi we visited the little station where experiments are
being made in the "sleeping sickness." An intelligent young English
doctor is conducting the investigations and great hopes are entertained
of much new information about that most mysterious ailment that has
swept whole colonies of blacks away in the last few years.

In many little bottles were specimens of the deadly tsetse fly that
causes all the infection. And the most deadly of all was the small one
whose distinguishing characteristic was its wings, which crossed over
its back. These we were told to look out for and to avoid them, if
possible. They occur only in certain districts and live in the deep
shade, near water. They also are day-biting insects, who do their biting
only between eleven o'clock in the morning and five o'clock in the
afternoon.

In the station there were a number of monkeys, upon which the fly was
being tried. They were in various stages of the disease, but it seemed
impossible to tell whether their illness was due to the sleeping
sickness germ or was due to tick fever, a common malady among monkeys.
In one of the rooms of the laboratory there were natives holding little
cages of tsetse flies against the monkeys, which were pinioned to the
floor by the natives. The screened cages were held close to the stomach
of the helpless monkey, and little apertures in the screen permitted the
fly to settle upon and bite the animal.

There are certain wide belts of land in Africa called the "tsetse fly
belts," where horses, mules and cattle can not live. These districts
have been known for a number of years, long before the sleeping sickness
became known. In the case of animals, the danger could be minimized by
keeping the animals out of those belts, but in the case of humans the
same can not be done. One infected native from a sleeping sickness
district can carry the disease from one end of the country to the other,
and when once it breaks out the newly infected district is doomed.
Consequently the British authorities are greatly alarmed, for by means
of this deadly fly the whole population of East Africa might be wiped
out if no remedy is discovered. It has not yet been absolutely proven
that East Africa is a "white man's country," and in the end it may be
necessary for him to give up hope of making it more than a place of
temporary residence and exploration.

We were also shown some ticks. They are the pests of Africa. They exist
nearly every place and carry a particularly malicious germ that gives
one "tick fever." It is not a deadly fever, but it is recurrent and
weakening. There are all kinds of ticks, from little red ones no bigger
than a grain of pepper to big fat ones the size of a finger-nail, that
are exactly the color of the ground. They seem to have immortal life,
for they can exist for a long time without food. Doctor Ward told us of
some that he had put in a box, where they lived four years without food
or water. He also told us of one that was sent to the British museum,
put on a card with a pin through it, and lived over two years in this
condition. It is assumed, however, that it sustained fatal injuries,
because after a two years' fight against its wound it finally succumbed.

We were told to avoid old camping grounds while on _safari_, because
these spots were usually much infested with ticks waiting for new
camping parties. Wild game is always covered with ticks and carries them
all over the land. As you walk through the grass in the game country the
ticks cling to your clothes and immediately seek for an opening where
they may establish closer relations with you. Some animals, like the
rhino and the eland, have tick birds that sit upon their backs and eat
the ticks. The egrets police the eland and capture all predatory ticks,
while the rhino usually has half a dozen little tick birds sitting upon
him.

However, we were starting out in a day or so, and in a few days expected
to learn a lot more about ticks than we then knew.

It is supposed to require a certain amount of nerve to go lion shooting.
It is also supposed to require an additional amount to face an angry
rhino or to attempt to get African buffalo. The last-named creature is a
vindictive, crafty beast that is feared by old African hunters more than
they fear any other animal. In consequence of these dangers we decided
that it might be well to give our nerves a thorough test before going
out with them. If they were not in good condition it would be well to
know of it before rather than after going up against a strange and
hostile lion.

That is why we went up in the balloon in Nairobi. The balloon was one of
the two Boyce balloons and had never been tried. It was small, of twelve
thousand cubic feet capacity, as compared with the seventy thousand foot
balloons that do the racing. It was also being tried at an altitude of
over five thousand feet under uncertain wind and heat conditions, and so
the element of uncertainty was aggravated. We felt that if we could go
up in a new balloon of a small size it might demonstrate whether we
should later go up a tree or stand pat against a charging menagerie.

There was a great crowd gathered on the hill where this balloon was
being inflated. Since five o'clock in the morning the gas had been
generating in the wooden tanks, and from these was being conducted by a
cloth tube to the mouth of the balloon. The natives squatted wonderingly
about in a circle, mystified and excited. At three o'clock the balloon
was over half filled and was swaying savagely at its anchorage. A strong
wind was blowing, and Mr. Lawrence, who had charge of the ascension, was
apprehensive. He feared to fill the balloon to its capacity lest the
expansion of the gas due to the hot sun should explode it.

At half past three the basket was attached and it looked small--about
the size of a large bushel basket, three feet in diameter and three feet
deep. The balloon, heavily laden with sand-bags, was lightened until it
could almost rise, and in this condition was led across to an open spot
sufficiently far from the nearest trees. The crowd thronged up pop-eyed
and quivering with excitement. Then there was a long wait until the wind
had died down a bit, which it did after a while. The eventful moment had
arrived, and Mr. Stephenson, of our party, climbed into the basket. He
is only six feet five inches in height and weighs only two hundred and
thirty pounds. He had on a pair of heavy hunting boots, for we were
leaving for the hunting grounds immediately after the ascension. One by
one the restraining bags of sand were taken off, but still the balloon
sat on the ground without any inclination to do otherwise.

A wave of disappointment spread over the crowd. Suddenly a brilliant
inspiration struck the gallant aëronaut. He took off one of his heavy
hunting boots and cast it overboard. The balloon arose a foot or two and
then sagged back to earth. Then the other boot was cast over and the
balloon rose several feet, swaying and whipping savagely over the heads
of the crowd. The wind was now blowing pretty hard, and when the wire
was run out the balloon started almost horizontally for the nearest
tree, rising slightly.

[Drawing: _Throwing Out Ballast_]

The wire was stopped at once and the balloon thus suddenly restrained,
changed its horizontal course to an upward one. At about sixty feet up
the wire was again paid out and the balloon made a dash for the trees
again. Once more the balloon was stopped and rose to a height of one
hundred and fifty feet, where it swayed about with the pleasant face of
Stephenson looking over the edge of the basket. He had to sit down, as
there was not room to stand. The ascension seemed a failure with the
handicap of two hundred and thirty pounds, and so the balloon was reeled
down to the earth again. It was not a great ascension, but the amateur
aëronaut had gained the distinction of making the first balloon
ascension ever made in East Africa. He would have gone higher if his
shoes had been heavier.

To me fell the next chance, and I knew that my one hundred and forty
pounds would not seriously handicap the balloon. Once more there was a
long wait until the wind died down, and all of a sudden the cylinder of
wire was released and the ground sank hundreds of feet below me. The
horizon widened and the whole vast plain of the African highlands
stretched out with an ever-widening horizon. New mountain peaks rose far
away and native villages with ant-like people moving about appeared in
unexpected quarters. Away below, the crowd of people looked like little
insects as they gazed up at the balloon. Grasping the ropes that led
from the basket to the balloon, I stood and waved at them and could hear
the shouts come up from a thousand feet below.

I was not frightened. There was no sensation of motion as long as the
balloon was ascending. Aside from looking at the wonderful scene that
opened out before me, I believe I thought chiefly about where I should
land in case the wire broke. The balloon would undoubtedly go many miles
before descending, and five miles in any direction would lead me into a
primitive jungle or veldt. A hundred miles would take me into almost
unexplored districts in some directions, where the natives would greet
me as some supernatural being. Perhaps I might be greeted as a god
and--just in the midst of these reflections they began to reel in the
balloon. The sudden stopping was not pleasant, for then the balloon
began to sway. Slowly the earth came nearer and the wind howled through
the rigging and the partly filled bag flapped and thundered. The wire,
about as thick as a piano wire, looked frail, but at last after a slow
and tedious descent a safe landing was made amid the wondering natives.
Cameras clicked and the moving picture machine worked busily as the
balloon was secured to earth again.

To Mrs. Akeley of our party fell the next chance to go up. As she was
lifted into the basket the feminine population of Nairobi gazed in
wonder that a woman should dare venture up in a balloon. The cameras
clicked some more, somebody shook hands with her, and it began to look
quite like a leave-taking. Just when all was ready the wind sprang up
savagely and an ascension seemed inexpedient. There was a long wait and
still the wind continued in gusts. At last it was determined that we
might as well settle down for better conditions, so Mrs. Akeley was
lifted out and we waited impatiently for the wind to die down.

At last it died down, all was hurriedly prepared for the ascension, and
Mrs. Akeley took her place again in the basket. In an instant the
balloon shot up a couple of hundred feet and was held there for a
moment. The wind once more sprang up and the balloon was drawn down amid
the cheers of the crowd. She had been the first woman to make an
ascension in British East Africa, if not in all of Africa.

We then mounted our mules and rode out on the open plains. Several hours
before, our entire camp had moved and we were to join them at a
prearranged spot out on the Athi Plains. All our preliminary worries
were over and at last we were actually started. At six o'clock, far
across the country we saw the gleaming lights of our camp-fires and the
green tents that were to be our homes for many weeks to come. Enormous
herds of hartebeest and wildebeest were on each side, and countless
zebras. That night two of us heard the first bark of the zebra, and we
thought it must be the bark of distant dogs. It was one of our first
surprises to learn that zebras bark instead of neigh.

CHAPTER V

INTO THE HEART OF THE BIG GAME COUNTRY WITH A RETINUE OF MORE THAN ONE
HUNDRED NATIVES. A SAFARI AND WHAT IT IS

When I first expressed my intention of going to East Africa to shoot big
game some of my friends remarked, in surprise: "Why, I didn't know that
you were so bloodthirsty!" They seemed to think that the primary object
of such an expedition was to slay animals, none of which had done
anything to me, and that to wish to embark in any such project was an
evidence of bloodthirstiness. I tried to explain that I had no
particular grudge against any of the African fauna, and that the thing I
chiefly desired to do was to get out in the open, far from the picture
post-card, and enjoy experiences which could not help being wonderful
and strange and perhaps exciting.

The shooting of animals merely for the sake of killing them is, of
course, not an elevating sport, but the by-products of big game hunting
in Africa are among the most delightful and inspiring of all
experiences. For weeks or months you live a nomadic tent life amid
surroundings so different from what you are accustomed to that one is
both mentally and physically rejuvenated. You are among strange and
savage people, in strange and savage lands, and always threatened by
strange and savage animals. The life is new and the scenery new. There
is adventure and novelty in every day of such a life, and it is that
phase of it that has the most insistent appeal. It is the call of the
wild to which the pre-Adamite monkey in our nature responds.

Even if one never used his rifle one would still enjoy life on _safari_.
_Safari_ is an Arabic word meaning expedition as it is understood in
that country. If you go on any sort of a trip you are on _safari_. It
need not be a shooting trip.

Of course everybody who has read the magazines of the last year has been
more or less familiarized with African hunting. He has read of the
amount of game that the authors have killed and of the narrow escapes
that they have had.

He also has read about expeditions into districts with strange names,
but naturally these names have meant nothing to him. I know that I read
reams of African stuff about big game shooting and about _safari_, yet
in spite of all that, I remained in the dark as to many details of such
a life. I wanted to know what kind of money or trade stuff the hunter
carried; what sort of things he had to eat each day; what he wore, and
how he got from place to place. Most writers have a way of saying: "We
equipped our _safari_ in Nairobi and made seven marches to such and such
a place, where we ran into some excellent eland." All the important
small details are thus left out, and the reader remains in ignorance of
what the tent boy does, who skins the game that is killed, and what sort
of a cook stove they use.

The purpose of this chapter is to tell something about the little things
that happen on _safari_. First of all, at the risk of repeating what has
been written so often before, I will say a few words about the personnel
of a _safari_, such as the one I was with.

There were four white people in our expedition--Mr. and Mrs. Akeley, Mr.
Stephenson, and myself. Mr. Akeley's chief object was to get a group of
five elephants for the American Museum of Natural History and
incidentally secure photographic and moving picture records of animal
life. Both he and Mrs. Akeley had been in Africa before and knew the
country as thoroughly perhaps as any who has ever been there. Mr. Akeley
undoubtedly is the foremost taxidermist of the world, and his work is
famous wherever African animal life has been studied. Mr. Stephenson
went for the experience in African shooting, and I for that experience
and any other sort that might turn up.

To supply an expedition of four white people, we had one head-man, whose
duty it was to run the _safari_--that is, to get us where we wanted to
go. The success and pleasure of the _safari_ depends almost wholly upon
the head-man. If he is weak, the discipline of the camp will disappear
and all sorts of annoyances will steadily increase. If he is strong,
everything will run smoothly.

[Drawing: _The Cook--A Toto--The Head-Man_]

Our head-man was a young Somali, named Abdi. For several years he was
with Mr. McMillan of Juja farm, and he spoke English well and knew the
requirements of white men. He was strikingly handsome, efficient, and
ruled the native porters firmly and kindly. Each day we patted ourselves
on the back because of Abdi.

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. It Is Tropical Along the Athi
River]

[Photograph: Hippos in the Tana River]

[Photograph: Our Camp Down on the Tana]

Second in the list came our four gunbearers, all Somalis, they being
considered the best gunbearers. The duty of the gunbearer is always to
be with you when you are hunting, to carry your gun, and to have it in
your hand the instant it is needed. Then there were four second
gunbearers, who came along just behind the first gunbearers. The second
men were, in our case, selected from the native porters, and were
subject to the orders of the first gunbearer. The first gunbearer
carries your field-glasses and your light, long-range rifle; the second
gunbearer carries your camera, your water bottle, and your heavy cordite
double-barreled rifle. In close quarters, as in a lion fight, the first
gunbearer crouches at your elbow, hands the big rifle to you; you fire,
and he immediately takes the rifle and places in your hands the other
rifle, ready for firing. By the time you have fired this one the first
is again ready, and in this way you always have a loaded rifle ready for
use. There frequently is no time for turning around, and so the first
gunbearer is at your elbow with the barrel of one rifle pressed against
your right leg that you may know that he is there. Sometimes they run
away, but the Somali gunbearers are the most fearless and trustworthy,
and seldom desert in time of need. The gunbearer has instructions never
to fire unless his master is disarmed and down before the charge of a
beast. When an animal is killed the gunbearers skin it and care for the
trophy. Usually when on a shooting jaunt of several hours from camp
several porters go along to carry home the game.

Third in the social scale came the askaris--armed natives in uniforms
who guard the camp at night. One or more patrol the camp all night long,
keep up the fires and scare away any marauding lion or hyena that may
approach the camp. We had four askaris, one of whom was the noisiest man
I have ever heard. He reminded me of a congressman when congress is not
in session.

[Drawing: _Gunbearer--Askari--Tent Boy--Porter_]

Then came the cook, who is always quite an important member of the
community, because much of the pleasure of the _safari_ depends upon
him. Our cook was one that the Akeleys had on their former trip. His
name was Abdullah, he had a jovial face and a beaming smile, cooked
well, and was funny to look at. He wore a slouch hat with a red band
around it, a khaki suit and heavy shoes. When on the march he carried
his shoes and when in camp he wore a blue jersey and a polka-dotted
apron which took the place of trousers. He was good-natured, which
atoned somewhat for his slowness. The suggestion may be made that he
might not have been slow, but that our appetites might have been so fast
that he seemed slow.

The cook usually picks out a likely porter to help him, or a _toto_,
which means "little boy" in Swahili. There are always a lot of boys who
go along, unofficially, just for the fun and the food of the trip. They
are not hired, but go as stowaways, and for the first few days out
remain much in the background. Gradually they appear more and more until
all chance of their being sent back has disappeared, and then they
become established members of the party. They carry small loads and help
brighten up the camp. Then there are the tent boys, personal servants of
the white people. Each white person has his tent boy, who takes care of
his tent, his bedding, his bath, his clothes, and all his personal
effects. A good tent boy is a great feature on _safari_, for he relieves
his master of all the little worries of life. The tent boys always wait
on the table and do the family washing. They also see that the drinking
water is boiled and filtered and that the water bottles are filled each
evening.

Last of all come the porters, of whom we had eighty. There were
Swahilis, Wakambas, Kikuyus, Masai, Minyamwezis, Lumbwas, Bagandas,
Kavirondos, and doubtless members of various other tribes. It was their
duty to carry the camp from place to place, each porter carrying sixty
pounds on his head. When they arrive at the spot selected for camp they
put up the tents, get in firewood, and carry in what game may later be
shot by the white men.

Then, lowest in the social scale, are the saises, or grooms. There is
one for each mule or horse, of which we had four. The sais is always at
hand to hold the mount and is supposed to take care of it after hours.

The foregoing members of our personally conducted party, therefore,
included:

   Head-man      1
   Gunbearers    4
   Askaris       4
   Cook          1
   Tent Boys     4
   Porters      80
   Saises        4
   "Totos"      20

The head-man and the four gunbearers get seventy-five rupees a month,
the askaris fifteen rupees, the cook forty rupees, the tent boys twenty
and twenty-five rupees, depending upon experience, the porters ten
rupees, and the saises twelve rupees. The _totos_ get nothing except
food and lodging, as well as experience, which may be valuable when they
grow up to be porters at ten rupees a month. A rupee is about
thirty-three cents American. We were also required by law to provide a
water bottle, blanket, and sweater for each porter, as well as uniforms
and water bottles, shoes and blankets for all the other members of the
party. We also supplied twenty tents for them.

For the first day or two on _safari_ there may be little hitches and
delays, but after a short time the work is reduced to a beautiful
system, and camp is broken or pitched in a remarkably short time. The
porters get into the habit of carrying a certain load and so there is
usually little confusion in distributing the packs.

[Photograph: At the Edge of the Athi River]

[Photograph: The Totos Are Not Fastidious]

Life and activity begin early in camp. You go to bed early and before
dawn you are awakened by the singing of countless birds of many kinds.
The air is fresh and cool, and you draw your woolen blankets a little
closer around you. The tent is closed, but through the little cracks you
can see that all is still dark. In a few moments a faint grayness steals
into the air, and off in the half darkness you hear the Somali
gunbearers chanting their morning prayers--soft, musical, and soothing.
Then there are more voices murmuring in the air and the camp slowly
awakens to life. Some one is heard chopping wood, and by that time day
breaks with a crash. All is life, and the birds are singing as though
mad with the joy of life and sunshine. A little later a shadowy figure
appears by your cot and says, "_Chai, bwana_" which means, "Tea,
master."

You turn over and slowly sip the hot tea, while outside in the clear
morning air the sound of voices grows and grows until you know that
eighty or a hundred men are busy getting their breakfasts. The crackling
of many fires greets your ears and the pungent smell of wood fires
salutes your nostrils. You look at your watch and it is perhaps five or
half past. The air is still cold and you hasten to slip out of your cot.
It is never considered wise to bathe in the morning here.

Your shoes or boots are by your bed, all oiled and cleaned, and your
puttees are neatly rolled, ready to be wound around you from the tops of
the shoes to the knee. Your clean flannels (one always wears heavy
flannel underclothes and heavy woolen socks in this climate) are laid
out and your clothes for the day's march are ready for you. You get into
your clothes and boots, go out of your tent, and find there a basin of
hot water and your toilet equipment. The basin is supported on a
three-pronged stick thrust into the ground and makes a thoroughly
satisfactory washstand. The fire in front of the cook's tent is burning
merrily and he and his assistants are busily at work on the morning
breakfast. Twenty other camp-fires are burning around the twenty small
white tents that the porters and others occupy, and scores of half-clad
natives are cooking their breakfasts. The ration that we were required
to give them was a pound and a half of ground-corn a day for each man,
but in good hunting country we got them a good deal of meat to eat. They
are very fond of hartebeest, zebra, rhino, and especially hippo. In
fact, they are eager to eat any kind of meat, so that anything we killed
was certain to be of practical use as food for the porters. This fact
greatly relieves the conscience of the man who shoots an animal for its
fine horns. Six porters sleep in each of the little shelter tents which
we were required to supply them, and this number sleeping so closely
packed served to keep them warm through the cold African highland
nights.

By six o'clock our folding table in the mess tent is laid with white
linen and white enamel dishes for breakfast. So we take our places. If
we are in a fruit country we have some oranges and bananas or papayas, a
sort of pawpaw that is most delicious; it is a cross between a
cantaloupe and a mango. Then we have oatmeal with evaporated cream and
sugar; then we have choice cuts from some animal that was killed the day
before--usually the liver or the tenderloin. Then we have eggs and
finish up on jam or marmalade and honey. We have coffee for breakfast
and tea for the other meals.

While we are eating the tent boys have packed our tin trunks, our
folding tent table, our cots and our pillows, cork mattresses and
blankets. The gunbearer gets our two favorite rifles and cameras,
field-glasses and water bottles. Then down comes the double-roofed green
tents, all is wrapped into closely-packed bags, and before we are
through with breakfast all the tented village has disappeared and only
the mess tent and the two little outlying canvas shelters remain. It is
a scene of great activity. Porters are busily making up their packs and
the head-man with the askaris are busy directing them. In a half-hour
all that remains is a scattered assortment of bundles, all neatly bound
up in stout cords.

One man may carry a tent-bag and poles, another a tin uniform case with
a shot-gun strapped on top; another may have a bedding roll and a chair
or table, and so on until the whole outfit is reduced to eighty compact
bundles which include the food for the porters, the ant-proof food boxes
with our own food, and the horns and skins of our trophies. The work of
breaking camp is reduced to a science.

Our gunbearers are waiting and the saises with the mules are in
readiness. So we start off, usually walking the first hour or two, with
gunbearers and saises and mules trailing along behind. Soon afterward we
look back to see the long procession of porters following along in
single file. Our tent boys carry our third rifle, and behind them all
comes the head-man, ready to spur on any lagging porters.

[Drawing: _Our Safari on the March_]

The early morning hours are bright and cool, but along about nine
o'clock the equatorial sun begins to beat down upon our heavy sun
helmets and our red-lined and padded spine protectors. But it is seldom
hot for long. A cloud passes across the sun and instantly everything is
cooled. A wave of wind sweeps across the hill and cools the moist brow
like a camphor compress. An instant later the sun is out again and the
land lies swimming in the shimmer of heat waves. Distant hills swim on
miragic lakes, and if we are in plains country the mirages appear upon
all sides.

We rarely shot while on a march from camp to camp. We walked or rode
along, watching the swarms of game that slowly moved away as we
approached. The scenery was beautiful. Sometimes we wound along on game
trails or native trails through vast park-like stretches of rolling
hills; at other times we climbed across low hills studded with thorn
scrub, while off in the distance rose the blue hills and mountains. To
the northward, always with us, was the great Mount Kenia, eighteen
thousand feet high and nearly always veiled with masses of clouds. On
her slopes are great droves of elephants, and we could pick out the spot
where three years before Mrs. Akeley had killed her elephant with the
record pair of tusks.

Our marches were seldom long. At noon or even earlier we arrived at our
new camping place, ten or twelve miles from our starting of the morning.
Frequently we loitered along so that the porters might get there first
and the camp be fully established when we arrived. At other times we
arrived early and picked out a spot, where ticks and malaria were not
likely to be bothersome.

We usually camped near a river. Our first camp was on the Athi Plains,
near Nairobi; our second at Nairobi Falls, where the river plunges down
a sixty-foot drop in a spot of great beauty. Our third camp was on the
Induruga River, in a beautiful but malarious spot; our fifth was on the
Thika Thika River, where it was so cold in the morning that the vapor of
our breathing was visible; and our sixth on a wind-blown hill where a
whirlwind blew down our mess tent and scattered the cook's fire until
the whole grass veldt was in furious flames. It took a hundred men an
hour to put out the flames.

Our next camp was at Fort Hall, where a poisonous snake came into my
tent while I was working. It crawled under my chair and was by my feet
when I saw it. It was chased out and killed in the grass near my tent,
and a porter cut out the fangs to show me. For a day or two I looked
before putting on my shoes, but after that I ceased to think of it.

After that time our camps were along the Tana River, in a beautiful
country thronged with game, but, unhappily, a district into which
comparatively few hunters come on account of the fever that is said to
prevail there. We were obliged to leave our mules at Fort Hall because
it was considered certain death to them if we took them into this fly
belt.

When the porters arrive at a camping place a good spot is picked out for
our four tents and mess tent, the cook tent is located, and in a short
time the camp is ready. In my tent the cot is spread, with blankets
airing; the mosquito net is up, the table is ready, with toilet
articles, books and cigars laid out. The three tin uniform cases are in
their places, my cameras are in their places, as are also the guns and
lanterns. A floor cloth covers the ground and a long easy chair is ready
for occupancy. Towels and water are ready, and pajamas and cholera belt
are on the pillow of the cot. Everything is done that should be done,
and I am immediately in a well established house with all my favorite
articles in their accustomed places.

[Drawing: _The Safari in Camp_]

A luncheon, with fruit, meat, curry and a pastry is ready by the time we
are, and then we smoke or sleep through the broiling midday hours. Mr.
Stephenson--or "Fred," as he is with us--and I go out on a scouting
expedition and look for good specimens to add to our collection of horns
or to get food for the porters. Sometimes the whole party went out,
either photographing charging rhinos or shooting, but this part of the
daily program was usually too varied to generalize as part of the daily
doings. Several porters went with each of us to bring in the game, which
there is rarely any uncertainty of securing.

In the evening we return and find our baths of hot water ready. We take
off our heavy hunting boots and slip into the soft mosquito boots. After
which dinner is ready and our menu is strangely varied. Sometimes we
have kongoni steaks, at other times we have the heart of waterbuck or
the liver of bushbuck or impalla. Twice we had rhino tongue and once
rhino tail soup. We eat, and at six o'clock the darkness of night
suddenly spreads over the land. We talk over our several adventures of
the afternoon, some of which may be quite thrilling, and then, with camp
chairs drawn around the great camp-fire, and with the sentinel askari
pacing back and forth, we spend a drowsy hour in talking. Gradually the
sounds of night come on. Off there a hyena is howling or a zebra is
barking, and we know that through all those shadowy masses of trees the
beasts of prey are creeping forth for their night's hunting. The
porters' tents are ranged in a wide semicircle, and their camp-fires
show little groups of men squatting about them. Somewhere one is playing
a tin flute, another is playing a French harp, and some are singing. It
is a picture never to be forgotten, and rich with a charm that will
surely always send forth its call to the restless soul of the man who
goes back to the city.

Sometimes the evening program is different. When one of us brings in
some exceptional trophy there is a great celebration, with singing and
native dances, and cheers for the Bwana who did the heroic deed. The
first lion in a camp is a signal for great rejoicing and
celebrating--however, that is another story--the story of my first lion.

At nine o'clock the tents are closed and all the camp is quiet in sleep.
Outside in the darkness the askari paces to and fro, and the thick
masses of foliage stand out in inky blackness against the brilliant
tropic night. We are far from civilization, but one has as great a
feeling of security as though he were surrounded by chimneys and
electric lights. And no sleep is sweeter than that which has come after
a day's marching over sun-swept hills or through the tangled reed beds
where every sense must always be on the alert for hidden dangers.

CHAPTER VI

A LION DRIVE. WITH A RHINO IN RANGE SOME ONE SHOUTS "SIMBA" AND I GET MY
FIRST GLIMPSE OF A WILD LION. THREE SHOTS AND OUT

Like every one who goes to Africa with a gun and a return ticket, I had
two absorbing ambitions. One was to kill a lion and the other to live to
tell about it. In my estimation all the other animals compared to a lion
as latitude eighty-seven and a half compares to the north pole. I wanted
to climb out of the Tartarin of Tarascon class of near lion hunters into
the ranks of those who are entitled to remark, "Once, when I was in
Africa shooting lions," etc. A dead lion is bogey in the big game
sport--the score that every hunter dreams of achieving--and I was
extremely eager to make the dream a reality.

When speaking with English sportsmen in London my first question was,
"Did you get any lions?" If they had, they at once rose in my
estimation; if not, no matter how many elephants or rhinos or buffaloes
they may have shot, they still remained in the amateur class.

On the steamer going down to Mombasa the hunting talk was four-fifths
lion and one-fifth about other game. The cripple who had been badly
mauled by a lion was a person of much distinction, even more so than the
ivory hunter who had killed three hundred elephants.

[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. Mr. Stephenson's Lion]

[Photograph: A Post Mortem Inquiry]

On the railway to Nairobi every eye was on the lookout for lions and
every one gazed with intense interest at the station of Tsavo and
remembered the famous pair of man-eaters that had terrorized that place
some years before.

In Nairobi the men who had killed lions, and those who had been mauled
by them (and there are many of the latter), were objects of vast
concern, and the little cemetery with its many headstones marked "Killed
by lion" added still greater fire to my interest.

[Drawing: _The Jolly Little Cemetery_]

Consequently, when we marched out of Nairobi on the evening of September
twenty-third, with tents and guns and a hundred and twenty men, the
dominating thought was of lions. If ever any one had greater hope and
less expectation of killing a lion I was the one.

We had planned a short trip of from three to five weeks northeast of
Nairobi in what is called the Tana River country. While there are some
lions in that section, as there are in most parts of British East
Africa, it is not considered a good lion country. Buffaloes, rhinos,
hippos, giraffes, and many varieties of smaller game are abundant,
largely because the Tana River is in a bad fever belt and hunting
parties generally prefer to go elsewhere. This preliminary trip was
intended to perfect our shooting, so that later, when in real lion
country, we might be better equipped to take on the king of beasts with
some promise of hitting him.

[Drawing: _Peering for Lions_]

The tree-tops and corrugated iron roofs of Nairobi had hardly dropped
behind a long, sun-soaked hump of the Athi Plains when I began to peel
my eyes inquiringly for lions. All the lion stories that I had heard for
the preceding few months paraded back and forth in my memory, and if
ever a horizon was thoroughly scanned for lion, that horizon just out of
Nairobi was the one. Hartebeests in droves loped awkwardly away from the
trail and then turned and looked with wondering interest at us. Zebras,
too fat to run, trotted off, and also turned to observe the invaders.
Gazelles did the same, and away off in the distance a few wildebeests
went galloping slowly to a safe distance. They were probably safe at any
distance had they only known it, for up to the hour when I cantered
forth from Nairobi in quest of lions and rhinos I had not shot at
anything for three years, nor hit anything for ten.

Night came on--the black, sudden night of Africa--and we went into camp
four miles from Nairobi without ever having heard the welcome roar of a
lion. It was a distinct disappointment. I remembered the story about the
lions that stampeded the zebras through the peaceful gardens of Nairobi
only a few nights before--also the report that some man-eaters had been
recently partaking of nourishment along the very road upon which we were
now camping. I also remembered hearing that lions had been seen prowling
around the edge of the town and that the Athi Plains are a time-honored
habitat of the lion family. On the other hand, I thought of Mr.
Roosevelt, who had recently been reducing the supply. I also remembered
how many hunters had spent years in Africa without ever seeing a lion,
and how Doctor Rainsford had made two different hunting trips to Africa,
always looking for lions, but without success.

During our first three days of marching, we looked industriously for
lions. On broad, grassy plain, in low scrub, on the slopes of low
hills--everywhere we looked for them. If a flock of vultures circled
above a distant spot we went over at once in the hope of surprising a
lion at his kill. Every reed bed was promptly investigated, every dry
nullah was explored. McMillan's farm, which is a farm only in name, was
scoured without ever a sign or a hint that a lion lurked thereabouts.
Mr. McMillan has four lions in a cage, but they snarled so savagely that
we hastened away to look for lions elsewhere. The second day we crossed
the Nairobi River, the third day we crossed the Induruga River, and the
fourth day we camped down on the Athi River. Here we struck a clue. Two
English settlers came over and told us that lions had been heard the
night before near their ranch house, on the slopes of Donyo Sabuk, a
high solitary round top mountain rising from the Athi Plains, and we
determined to organize our first lion hunt. It was here that Mr. Lucas
was killed by a lion a short time before.

A lion hunt, or a lion drive, is quite a ceremony. You take thirty or
forty natives, go to the place where the lion was heard, and then beat
every bit of cover in the hope of scaring out the beasts. Lions are fond
of lying up during the day in dry reed beds, and when you go out looking
for them, you are most likely to find them in such places.

[Photograph: Mr. Stephenson's Splendid Buffalo]

[Photograph: "Lion Camp"]

[Photograph: The Lion and Lioness in Camp]

We started, three of us, with forty porters, at about daybreak. At seven
o'clock we had climbed up the side of the mountain to the spot where the
lions were supposed to be lurking--a long, reed-filled cleft in the side
of the slope. The porters were sent up to one end of the reed bed,
twenty on each side, while we went below to where the lion would
probably be driven out by their shouting and noise. The porters
bombarded the reeds with stones while we waited with rifles ready for
the angry creature to dash out in our vicinity. It was an interesting
wait, with plenty of food for thought. I wondered why the Englishmen had
not come out to get the lions themselves, and then remembered that one
of them had been mauled by a lion and had henceforth remained neutral in
all lion fights. I wondered many other things which I have now
forgotten. I was quite busy wondering for some time as I waited. In the
meantime the lions failed to appear.

Bushbuck, waterbuck, and lots of other herbivora appeared, but no
carnivora. We raked the reed bed fore and aft, and combed the long grass
in every direction. A young rhino was startled in his morning nap, ran
around excitedly for a while, and then trotted off. Birds of many
varieties fluttered up and wondered what the racket was about. At ten
o'clock we decided that the lions had failed to do their part of the
program, and that no further developments were to be expected. So we
marched back homeward, got mixed up with another rhino, and finally
gained camp, seven miles away, just as our hunger had reached an
advanced stage.

The next day we marched to the Thika Thika River, then to Punda Milia,
and then to Fort Hall. Some one claimed to have heard a lion out from
Fort Hall early in the morning, but I more than half suspect it was one
of our porters who reverberates when he sleeps. From Fort Hall we
crossed the Tana and made three marches down the river. Rhinos were
everywhere jumping out from behind bushes when least expected and in
many ways behaving in a most diverting way. For a time we forgot lions
while dodging rhinos. There were dozens of them in the thick, low scrub,
with now and then a bunch of eland, or a herd of waterbuck, or a few
hundred of the ubiquitous kongoni.

We camped in a beautiful spot down on the Tana. The country looked like
a park, with graceful trees scattered about on the rolling lawn-like
hills. On all sides was game in great profusion. Hippos played about in
the river, baboons scampered about on the edge of the water, monkeys
chattered in the trees, and it seemed as though nearly all of the eight
hundred varieties of East African birds gave us a morning serenade. A
five-minutes' walk from camp would show you a rhino, while from the top
of any knoll one could look across a vast sweep of hills upon which
almost countless numbers of zebras, kongoni, and other animals might be
seen.

But never a lion. It certainly looked discouraging.

As a form of pleasant excitement, we began to photograph rhinos, Mr.
Akeley took out his moving-picture machine, advanced it cautiously to
within a few yards of the unsuspecting rhino, and then we tried to
provoke a charge. We took a dozen or more rhinos in this way, often
approaching to within a few yards, and if there is any more exciting
diversion I don't know what it is. I've looped the loop and there is no
comparison. It is more like being ambushed by Filipino insurgents--that
is, it's the same kind of excitement, with more danger.

One day it was necessary to shoot a big bull rhino. He staggered and
fell, but at once got up and trotted over a hill. Having wounded him, it
was then necessary for me to follow him, which I did for three blazing
hours. From nine o'clock till twelve I followed, with the sun beating
down on the dry, grass-covered hills as though it meant to burn up
everything beneath it. If any one had asked me, "Is it hot enough for
you?" I should have answered "Yes" without a moment's hesitation. The
horizon shimmered in waves of heat. From the top of one hill I could see
my rhino half a mile away on the slope of another. When I reached the
slope he was a mile farther on. I began to think he was a mirage. For a
wounded animal, with two five-hundred-grain shells in his shoulder, he
was the most astonishing example of vitality I have ever seen. He would
have been safe against a Gatling gun. There were more low trees a mile
farther on, and I plodded doggedly on in the hope of getting a little
relief from the sun. As I drew near I noticed a rhino standing under the
trees, but he was not the wounded one. I decided that the shade was
insufficient for both of us and moved swiftly on. Across the valley on
the slope of another blistered hill stood the one I was looking for. He
didn't seem to be in the chastened mood of one who is about to die. He
seemed vexed about something, probably the two cordite shells he was
carrying. I at last came up within a hundred yards of him. He had got my
wind and was facing me with tail nervously erect. The tail of a rhino is
an infallible barometer of his state of mind. With his short sight, I
knew that he could not see me at that distance, but I knew that he had
detected the direction in which the danger lay. By slowly moving ahead,
the distance was cut to about seventy yards, which was not too far away
in an open country with a wounded rhino in the foreground. I resolved to
shoot before he charged or before he ran away, and so I prepared to end
the long chase with an unerring shot.

Suddenly a sound struck my ear that acted upon me like an electric
shock:

"_Simba!_"

It was the one word that I had been hoping to hear ever since leaving
Nairobi, for the word means "lion." My Somali gunbearer was eagerly
pointing toward a lone tree that stood a hundred yards off to the left.
A huge, hulking animal was slowly moving away from it. It was my first
glimpse of a wild lion. He was half concealed in the tall, dry grass and
in a few seconds had entirely disappeared from view. We rushed after
him. The rhino was completely forgotten and was left to charge or run
away as he saw fit. When we reached the spot where the lion was last
seen there was no trace of him. He apparently was not "as brave as a
lion." We followed the course that he presumably took and presently
reached the crest of a ridge. Then the second gunbearer, a keen-eyed
Kikuyu, discovered the lion three hundred yards off to the right. After
reaching the top of the hill the animal had swung directly off at right
angles with the idea of reaching cover in a dry creek bed some distance
away. I started to shoot at three hundred yards, but before I could take
a careful aim the lion had disappeared in the grass. For an hour we
thrashed the high reeds in the dry creek bed with never a sign of the
king of beasts. He had apparently abdicated. He had vanished so
completely that I thought he had escaped toward some low hills a mile
farther on. The disappointment of seeing a lion and not getting it, or
at least shooting at it, was keen to a degree that actually hurt.

[Drawing: _Game Was Plenty for a Minute or Two_]

There was nothing left but to resume our chase after the wounded rhino.
It was like going back to work after a pleasant two weeks' vacation. We
presently found him on a far distant hill, and after an hour's tramp in
the sun we came up to him in the middle of the rolling prairie. There
was not a tree for a mile, nor a single avenue of escape in case he
charged. Horticulture had never interested me especially, but just at
this moment I think a tree, even a thorn tree, would have been a
pleasant subject for intimate study. However, to make a long story
longer, I shot him at a hundred yards and felt certain that both shells
struck. Yet he wheeled around and, stumbling occasionally, was off like
a railway train. Again we followed, two miles of desperate tramping in
that merciless sun, up hills and down hills, until finally we entirely
lost all trace of him. It was now two o'clock. I had eaten nothing since
five o'clock in the morning, my water bottle was so nearly empty that I
dared take only a swallow at a time, my knees were sore from climbing
hills and wading through the tall, dry prairie grass, and I decided to
give up this endless pursuit of a rhino who wouldn't die after being hit
with four cordite shells.

The dry creek bed lay in the course of our homeward march, and we
resolved to take a final look at it. There seemed no likelihood that the
lion was there, and I walked into the place with the supreme courage of
one who doesn't expect to find anything hostile. My head gunbearer and I
had crossed and were walking down in the grass at one side. My second
gunbearer was on the opposite side, and the stillness of death hung over
the burning plain.

There was not a sign of life in any direction. The second gunbearer was
instructed to set fire to the grass in the hope of awakening some
protest from the lion in case he was still in the vicinity. There was a
dry crackling of flames, and before we could count ten a deep growl came
from somewhere in front of me, evidently on one of the edges of the
creek bed. The second gunbearer was the first to locate him, and he
signaled for me to come over on his side of the creek. In a moment I had
dashed down and had climbed out on the other side and was eagerly gazing
at a clump of bushes indicated by the Kikuyu. At first I could
distinguish nothing, but soon I saw the tawny flanks and the lashing
tail of the lion. His head was hidden by the bushes. At that time we
were about a hundred yards from him and it was necessary to circle off
to a point where the rest of his body could be seen. A little side
ravine intervened, and I had to cross it and come directly down through
the clump of bushes. The grass was high, and it was not until I had come
within forty yards of the lion that I could get a clear view of him. He
was glaring at me, with tail waving angrily, and his mouth was opened in
a savage snarl. I could see that he didn't like me.

I raised the little .256 Mannlicher, aimed carefully at his open mouth
and fired. The lion turned a back somersault and a great thrill of
exultation suffused me. Already I saw the handsomely mounted lion-skin
rug ornamenting my den at home. We approached cautiously, always
remembering that the real danger of lion hunting comes after the lion
has been shot. We threw stones in the grass where he had lain, but no
answering growl was heard. I thought he was dead, but when we finally
reached the spot where he had been there was no sign of him. He had
vanished again. I searched the ravine and then crossed to the high grass
on the other side. Then we saw him for an instant, half-concealed, just
in front of us. His head was hanging, and he looked as though he had
been hard hit. Again he disappeared and we searched high and low for
him. For several hundred feet we beat the grass without result.

Then the grass was again fired and again the hoarse growl came in angry
protest. Walking slowly, with guns ready for instant use, we advanced
until we could see him under a tree seventy yards ahead on my side of
the ravine. He was growling angrily. This time I used the
double-barreled cordite rifle and the first shot struck him in the
forehead without knocking him down. He sprang up and the second shot
stretched him out. He was still alive when I came up to him, and a small
bullet was fired into the base of his brain to reduce the danger of a
final charge.

Old hunters always caution one about approaching a dying lion, for often
the beast musters up unexpected vitality, makes a final charge, kills
somebody, and then dies happy. So we waited a few feet away until the
last quiver of his sides had passed. One of the boys pulled his tail and
shook him, but there was no sign of life. He was extinct.

A new danger now threatened. The grass fire that the second gunbearer
had started was sweeping the prairie, fanned by a strong wind, and there
seemed to be not only the danger of abandoning the lion, but of being
forced to flee before the flames. So we fell to work beating out the
nearest fires, and trusted that a shifting of the wind would send the
course of the flames in another direction.

It was now four o'clock. We were nine miles from camp and food, and we
knew that at six o'clock darkness would suddenly descend, leaving us out
in a rhino-infested country, far from camp. The water was nearly gone
and the general outlook was far from pleasing.

The gunbearers skinned the lion. My first shot had struck one of his
back teeth, breaking it squarely off, and then passed through the fleshy
part of the neck. It was a wound that would startle, but not kill. The
second shot had hit him between the eyes, but had glanced off the skull,
merely ripping open the skin on the forehead for five inches. The third
shell had killed him, except for the convulsive heaving that was finally
stilled by the small bullet in the base of the brain.

[Drawing: _As I Planned to Look in the Photograph of "My First
Lion"_]

The skinning was interesting. All the fat in certain parts of the body
was saved, for East Indians bid high for it and use it as a lubricant
for rheumatic pains. The two shoulder blades are always saved and are
considered a valuable trophy. They are little bones three inches long,
unattached and floating, and have long since ceased to perform any
function in the working of the body. The broken tooth was found and
saved, and, of course, a photograph was taken. My gunbearer took the
picture, and when it was developed there was only a part of the lion and
part of the lion slayer visible. It was a good picture of the tree,
however.

[Drawing: _As I Looked--From Photograph by Gunbearer_]

At four-thirty the homeward march was begun. At five-thirty two rhinos
blocked the path and one of them had to be shot. At six we were still
several miles from camp, with the country wrapped in darkness. The water
was gone and only one shell remained for the big gun. Somewhere ahead
were miles of thorn scrub in which there might be rhinos or buffaloes.
Two days before I had killed two large buffaloes in the district through
which we must pass, and there was every likelihood of others still being
there. At seven we were hopelessly lost in a wide stretch of hippo
grass, and I had to fire a shot in the hope of getting an answering shot
from camp. In a couple of moments we heard the distant shot, and then
pressed on toward camp. The lion had been carried on ahead while we
stopped with the rhino, and so the news reached the camp before us. A
long line of porters came out to greet us and a great reception
committee was waiting at the camp. It was the first lion of the
expedition, and as such was the signal for great celebration. That night
there were native dances and songs around the big central camp-fire and
a wonderful display of pagan hilarity.

It had been a hard day. Fourteen hours without food, several hours
without water, and miles of hard tramping through thorn scrub in the
darkness and of long, broiling stretches in the blazing sunlight. It
seemed a good price to pay even for a lion, but that night, as I finally
stretched out on my cot, I was conscious from time to time of a glow of
pleasure that swept over me. It seemed that of all human gratifications
there was none equal to that experienced by the man who has killed his
first lion.

My second lion experience came three days later. With a couple of tents
and about forty porters our party of four had marched across to a point
a couple of miles from where I had killed the lion. We hoped to put in a
day or two looking for lions, some of which had been reported in that
district. The porters went on ahead with the camp equipment, while we
came along more slowly. Mr. Akeley had taken some close-range
photographs of rhinos, and we were just on the point of starting direct
for the new camp when we ran across two enormous rhinos standing in the
open plain. One was extremely large, with an excellent pair of horns,
and it was arranged that I should try to secure this one as a trophy,
while Mr. Akeley secured a photograph of the event. At thirty-five yards
I shot the larger one of the two, and it dropped in its tracks. The
other started to charge, but was finally driven away by shouting and by
shots fired in the air. The photograph was excellent and quite dramatic.

For an hour the gunbearers worked on the dead rhino and finally secured
the head and feet and certain desirable parts of the skin. At noon we
resumed our march for camp, two or three miles away. We had hardly gone
half the distance when one of the tent boys was seen far ahead, riding
the one mule that we had dared to bring down the Tana River. It was
evident that something important had occurred and we hurried on to meet
him.

"_Simba!_" he shouted, as soon as he could be heard. In a moment we had
the details. One of the saises had seen two lions, a large male and
female, quite near the camp. Porters were instructed to watch the beasts
until we should arrive, and now were supposed to be in touch with them.
We omitted luncheon and struck off at once in the direction indicated by
the tent boy. We soon came up to the porters and an instant later saw
the lions. It was a beautiful sight. The two animals were majestically
walking up the rocky slope of a low, fire-scorched hill a few hundred
yards away. The male was a splendid beast, with all the splendid dignity
of one who fears nothing in the whole wide world. From time to time the
two lions stopped and looked back at us, but with no sign of fear.
Several times they lay down, but soon would resume their stately course
up among the rocks.

I shall never forget the picture that lay before me. It was as though
some famous lion painting of Gérôme or Landseer had come to life,
sometimes the animals being outlined clearly against the blue sky and at
other times standing, with splendid heads erect, upon the rocks of the
low ridge that rose ahead of us.

We stalked them easily. Several porters were left where the lions could
constantly see them, while we three, Akeley, Stephenson and I, with our
six gunbearers, worked around the base of the hill until we were able to
climb up on the crest of it, being thus constantly screened from view of
the lions. At the crest was an abrupt outcropping of blackened rocks,
where we stopped to locate the two animals. They were nowhere to be
seen. Twenty-five yards farther along on the crest was another little
ledge of rocks, and we worked our way silently along to it in the
expectation that the lions might have advanced that far. But even then
our search disclosed nothing. For some time we waited, scouring the
neighborhood with our glasses, and had almost reached the conclusion
that the lions had made off down the other side of the hill and had
reached the cover of a shallow ravine some distance away. Then we saw
them--exactly where we had last seen them before we had started our
stalk. They were still together and showed no sign of alarm nor
knowledge of our presence so near them. At this time they were one
hundred and ten yards away. They lay down again behind the rocks and we
waited twenty minutes for them to show themselves. Off to our right and
in the valley another large male lion appeared and moved slowly away
among the low scrub trees.

Finally we decided to rouse the two lions by shouting, but before this
decision could be carried out the male rose above the rocks and stood
plainly in view. It had previously been arranged that Mr. Stephenson
should try for the male, while I should try for the female. In an
instant he fired with his big rifle, the lion whirled around and then
started running down the hill to the right.

Then the lioness appeared and I wounded her with my first shot. She ran
out in the open toward us, but evidently without knowing from where the
firing came. A second shot was better placed and I saw her collapse in
her tracks. Leaving the lioness, I went down to where Stephenson had
followed the lion. Several shots had been fired, but the lion was still
running, although badly wounded. Just as it reached a small tree down on
the slope a shot was put into a vital spot, and the lion went wildly
over on his side. Even then he managed to drag himself under the small
bushes surrounding the tree, where a moment later Mr. Stephenson killed
him with a shot from his .318 Mauser.

[Drawing: _"A Very Interesting Experience," Said I Coolly, a Couple
of Days Later_]

We measured and photographed the lion, and then I took my camera to get
a picture of the dead lioness up on the ridge. She was sitting up
snarling, and I was the most surprised person in the world. I shot at
her and she ran fifty yards to a small tree, where she came to a stop.
Two more shots from my big gun finished her, and the photograph was
finally secured.

Leaving the porters to watch the two lions, we followed the third lion
that had been seen in the valley. He had not gone far and we soon found
him, but too far away to get a shot. For an hour we followed him, but he
finally disappeared and could not be located again.

It was sundown when our porters reached camp with the two lions, and it
was then that we ate our long-deferred luncheon.

A week later, while marching from the Tana River to the Zeka River, Mr.
and Mrs. Akeley and I came across a large lion, accompanied by a
lioness. They were first seen moving away across a low sloping ridge of
the plains within a couple of miles of where we had killed the lion and
lioness a week before. We followed them and came up with them after a
brisk walk of ten minutes. Both were hiding in the grass near the crest
of the slope, and we could see their ears and eyes above the long grass.
We crouched down a hundred yards away and the lion rose to see where we
had gone. Mrs. Akeley fired and missed, but her second shot pierced his
brain and he fell like a log. We expected a charge from the lioness and
waited until she should declare herself. But she did not appear and her
whereabouts remained an anxious mystery until she was finally seen
several hundred yards away making her way slowly up a distant hill.
Half-way up she sat down and watched us as we made our way cautiously in
the grass to where her mate lay as he fell, stone dead. We afterward
followed her, but she escaped from view and could not be located. This
lion was the largest we had seen and measured nine feet from tip to tip.

This was our last experience with lions in the Trans-Tana country. After
that we went up in the elephant country on Mount Kenia, but that is a
story all in itself.

Lion hunting is the best kind of African hunting in one respect. One
feels no self-reproach in having killed a lion, for there is always the
comforting thought that by killing one lion you have saved the lives of
three hundred other animals. Every lion exacts an annual toll of at
least that number of zebras, hartebeests, or other forms of antelopes,
all of which are powerless to defend themselves against the great
creature that creeps upon them in cover of darkness. So a lion hunter
may consider himself something of a benefactor.

CHAPTER VII