by Frank Coates
Hungerford smiled. ‘Christian charity, is it? Well, that would be a laugh; but what have you to say to that, Ali?’
‘Is it not the bwana’s orders to keep discipline?’ Ali said, glaring at Hungerford from under bushy eyebrows. ‘This man was insolent.’
‘Hmm …’ Hungerford said, turning back to Ira. ‘We have a problem, Mr Ketterman. Even if, as you say, my man is a bully, I cannot condone insolence. I have to maintain discipline among the men, otherwise we will have the devil’s own trouble.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, this young buck’s your man, Mr Ketterman. Can you keep him out of trouble in the future?’
‘I can. Sam has been very helpful to me, and has not caused any trouble thus far. You can leave the matter in my hands.’
‘Very well, then. That’s the end of it. Ali, back to work.’
Before the head man retreated, he gave Sam a lingering, malicious look.
Hungerford waited until he was out of earshot.
‘When I asked you to keep your man out of trouble, Mr Ketterman, I wasn’t referring to his behaviour.’
‘No? Then what do you mean?’
‘I mean that you should keep him away from my head man. From what I’ve observed, he’s not a man to be angered. More than one has come to a bloody end after tangling with Swahili Ali.’
Ira dabbed the tincture on Sam’s lacerated shoulder.
‘Sorry, my boy,’ he said as Sam pulled back in surprise. ‘I should have warned you.’
‘What is it?’ Sam asked, looking at the yellow stain on his brown skin.
‘It’s iodine. To prevent infection.’
As usual, Sam wanted to know all about iodine and infection.
When Ira had answered his questions, Sam asked one more: ‘How do you know so much?’
Ira smiled as he peeled a strip of plaster from its roll. ‘I don’t know. Some things are learned without ever knowing how one learns them.’ He placed the plaster over the strip of gauze on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Surely you are the same. For instance, yesterday we came upon a green mamba. I thought it was trying to get away from us, but you pulled me back just in time. How did you know it was about to strike?’
‘I thought everyone knew: when the mamba slides to the side like that, it means it wants to bite.’
‘I certainly didn’t know.’
‘Hmm … then I must have learned from someone; maybe it was my grandfather.’
‘Then I have you or your grandfather to thank.’
Sam gently touched the plaster. ‘Iodine. Where did you learn of iodine?’
‘Maybe at university. I can’t remember.’
‘What is university?’
Ira told him about New York University and of his studies in engineering that eventually led him to work in the exciting new motor vehicle industry. He wondered why the interminable questions never became annoying, but Sam was a sponge, absorbing information in an effortless stream.
His recollections of NYU brought back memories of meeting his wife at an inter-varsity basketball game.
‘You are married?’ Sam asked.
‘Was married. A long time ago.’
The conversation drifted into a discussion on divorce.
His wife, Ruth, didn’t want a divorce. She couldn’t understand why Ira wasn’t content with their lives. She reminded him that they had stuck together through the lean years, but now, just as their life was becoming more comfortable, he wanted out of their marriage.
It had been a very painful period for both of them. More so for Ruth as Ira couldn’t explain that, in his mind, the marriage had been a fake.
Ira seldom spoke about those painful times with anyone, but he opened up to Sam. Soon he realised he had burdened the young man with too much of his misery, but there was only compassion in his new friend’s eyes. The empathy was touching and very unsettling for Ira. He was drawn almost irresistibly to reach for Sam; to hold him.
Ira had to flee the overwhelming emotion. He made an excuse and hurried from the tent towards the camp fire.
Bill Hungerford sat at the fireside, a Maasai red shuka draped over the shoulders of his blue silk shirt, and a glass of Dewar’s White Label in his hand. He was alone at the fire, but standing just beyond the throw of firelight was his ancient Kamba gun bearer, Kazimoto, there to keep a watchful eye over Hungerford, as he had done for the past seventeen years.
Ira Ketterman came stumbling from the shadows.
‘Mr Ketterman. Good evening to you.’
‘Oh, Mr Hungerford. Good evening.’
‘Out to catch some air before bed, is it?’
‘What? Oh, yes. That is, no. I thought I’d warm myself for a spell before retiring with my book.’
‘Fine idea. Would you care for a drop of scotch to keep off the chill?’
Ketterman stared at the bottle for a long moment. ‘Scotch, yes. That would be useful. Yes, it would.’
Hungerford fished a glass from his chop-box and poured him a generous portion.
‘Thank you,’ Ketterman said, taking a seat on a log opposite.
The two men sipped whisky in silence.
‘We have only about a week remaining here in the Serengeti before we must turn for home,’ Hungerford said. ‘So, have you thought any more about your lion scene?’
‘My lion scene! Yes, I have.’
‘And are you still determined to go through with it?’
Ketterman said he was.
‘In that case, this may be our last opportunity to do it. Kazimoto has found a good many lions not far from here. They’re in scattered scrub, but there are clearings where you might be able to take some good shots with your cameras.’
‘Excellent. When do we start?’
‘We could try tomorrow if you wish, but I must first make sure you understand the danger involved in what you are planning.’
Ketterman nodded.
Hungerford said that in all his years as a white hunter he had seen many lion attacks, but no two were the same.
‘Sometimes they sham a retreat before making a full-blooded charge. Sometimes they lie in ambush. I have heard of a wounded lion that stalked the hunter for hours before coming in for a kill. They are smart animals, Mr Ketterman. And the most powerful killer in Africa. Faced with superior numbers, he will flee. A lion will only attack if he feels threatened or has been wounded. If we are to get the action you want for your moving pictures, I must arrange sufficient inducement for him to flee, but not so much as to make him attack. So, this is what I have been thinking we should do.’
Hungerford explained he would divide his men into three groups. Two groups would be engaged in driving the lions from their hide or resting place towards the camera. Each group would have an armed gun bearer for protection. A smaller group would remain with Hungerford.
‘This is our biggest risk. I don’t like relying on gun bearers to give cover to the beaters, but I have no choice. I can only be in one place and that will have to be with you, just in case the lion has more on his mind than escape.’
About mid-morning, the camera safari received good news. The trackers had found fresh lion scat not far away, and Hungerford rallied the porters to pick up the pace. It was their first positive sighting after three long days of searching with nothing in the film canisters to show for it.
Sam loped along with the camera case in one hand and the tripod slung over his shoulder, but he could see that Ira was finding the forced march difficult: he stumbled over grass tufts and sweat tumbled from under the brim of his sun helmet.
Sam knew the reason for haste. They were running out of time. If they weren’t able to capture the lion footage in the next day or so, they would have to abandon the hunt and head back to Nairobi. He also knew that their need for haste had meant that Hungerford had kept this search party small.
Hungerford armed Kazimoto and another man and told them to stay with the beaters. Each had a 12-bore shotgun — a decent field piece heavily loaded with a one-ounce round ball. He said that if trouble came th
eir way the ball-loaded guns were the best chance of stopping a charging lion at close range. Ali would act as Hungerford’s gun bearer, carrying his favourite — a Rigby 470 Nitro Express — with the heavier Holland and Holland 577 in reserve.
Ali had made no further threats towards Sam, although his sullen glares left him in no doubt that the head man was still harbouring an intense resentment since his authority and standing with Hungerford were undermined by Sam and Ketterman. Ira had suggested that Sam keep to himself until Ali cooled off.
It was a further hour, an hour in which the sun climbed vertically above them, before word came that the lions were close by, resting in shade. Under normal circumstances Hungerford would have given the men a respite to regain their strength, but he pressed onwards with one of the trackers leading the way.
A little later, the white hunter went ahead to assess the situation.
Ira flopped to the ground in the miserly shade of a scrawny bush. Sam handed him the water bottle. He took it, barely able to mutter his thanks.
‘The light is good,’ Sam said by way of encouragement.
Ira squinted into the searing sky. ‘It is,’ he croaked. ‘Let’s hope that Mr Hungerford is able to find the promised lions. I don’t think I can go much further.’
Hungerford returned and issued orders to his gun bearers and beaters. Then he squatted beside Ira.
‘There’s a pride lying up in a donga over that hill,’ he said. ‘We think there are about nine of them. My men are going to circle to the rear of them and, on my signal, will drive the lions out of the creek bed, to where you will have your cameras.’ He looked at Ira closely. ‘Are you feeling up to this?’
Ira nodded, and struggled to his feet. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘And I have Sam here to help me with the camera reloads.’
‘Good; then let’s get into position.’
Hungerford and Ali led the way until they reached a small clearing in the patchy scrub.
‘We can drive the lions through that gap in the bush and onto the flat ground here. Will that do?’
Ira checked the panning angles and agreed.
Sam set down the heavy tripod and mounted the camera on it while Ira chose his film canisters.
When he’d made a few trial shoots, Ira told Hungerford he was ready.
Hungerford gave a long clear whistle and a moment later, the sound of beating drums and clattering metal came from the other side of the dry creek bed.
Ira started to roll the film and Sam stood behind him with the spare canister.
Suddenly there was a loud report and the beating stopped. In the silence Hungerford swore.
‘Christ! What’s happened?’ he muttered.
They listened. A few excited voices came from the other side of the creek bed.
‘I’d better have a look. Ali, take this,’ Hungerford said, handing Ali the 577. Turning to Ira, he said, ‘That was a 12-bore. One of the lions might have doubled back. Stay here while I see what’s happened.’
Hungerford started towards the donga, then turned back to add, ‘Mr Ketterman. Whatever you do, stay here with Ali.’
As Hungerford disappeared into the scrub, the distant voices faded. The three men waited in silence. Ira continued to crank the camera as if the action might relieve the tension.
There was a crashing sound in the thicket filling the creek bed and a lioness bolted into view. She was clearly nervous, casting backward glances into the bush. When she noticed her path was blocked by Ira and his camera crew, she paused for an instant before charging across the clearing, directly at them.
Sam took an involuntary step backwards but Ira remained behind the camera as the lioness swiftly covered the ground between them. She sprang at Ira, taking him and the camera equipment to the ground, but became tangled in the legs of the tripod. When she scrambled to her feet, she seized Ira by the arm.
Sam threw himself at the animal, hitting her in the rib cage with his shoulder and knocking her off balance. She and Sam rolled in the dust. Sam instinctively clung to her body to prevent her swinging around to strike him. The lioness snarled and twisted her strong body against his grasp. Sam could feel her muscles rippling under his grip. She freed a forepaw and raked it across Sam’s chest.
He heard Ira screaming, ‘Ali! Shoot it! Shoot it!’
When Ira saw the charging lioness in the viewfinder, it took a moment to register that this was not a movie, but reality. He had no sooner taken his eyes from behind the camera when the lioness struck him.
As the animal tore at his arm, he felt no pain. It was a surreal experience. How could a mechanical engineer from the Bronx have a lioness biting on his arm? And then it was gone and he was in the dust while Sam had amazingly taken his place, wrestling the huge beast — an animal twice his size.
Ira frantically searched for something to strike the lioness with and he saw Ali, standing a short distance away, gun at his side.
‘Ali!’ he screamed at him. ‘Shoot it! Shoot it!’
But Ali made no move. He was like a spectator at a boxing match: interested, but not involved.
Ira scrambled to his feet and lunged for Ali’s rifle. He pointed it at the lioness, but she squirmed around in her frantic attempt to free herself of Sam’s grasp. For a moment he had Sam in the sights instead.
Again the lioness turned and Ira took his chance. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened!
He fumbled for the safety catch. He couldn’t find it.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack!
Hungerford stood over the lioness; there was a hole the size of his fist where once she’d had an ear.
Sam climbed slowly to his feet, bloodied and shaken. He lifted the tripod high and plunged the three pointed feet into the dead lion’s chest.
CHAPTER 7
With his right arm trussed in a sling, Ira had difficulty opening the water bottle, but eventually managed to pour Sam a tumblerful, and took it to him where he lay on the camp stretcher set up in his tent.
Sam took it and lifted himself awkwardly onto his elbows. ‘Ira, please. I cannot drink when I am in bed,’ he pleaded. ‘May I sit for a while?’
‘Very well, but just for a moment,’ Ira said, throwing the tent flaps back to let the warm afternoon breeze ruffle the mosquito netting draped across the entrance. Ira dragged two folding canvas chairs to the opening.
Ira’s wound was relatively minor — the clean puncture marks of the lioness’s fangs were easily treated — but he was worried about Sam. The four deep claw marks carved into his chest were at great risk of becoming infected. According to Hungerford, lions had grooves running down the back of their claws that often retained small pieces of putrefying flesh from previous kills. He said claw wounds often became infected as a result and, although Ira had thoroughly cleaned them with permanganate of potash, it would take three days before they would know if Sam had blood poisoning.
Hungerford suggested they make haste to Nairobi as a precaution.
‘What happens if he gets blood poisoning out here?’ Ira had asked.
Hungerford shook his head. ‘It depends on how strong he is. In the end there’s nothing we can do but wait. Or, if you’re so inclined, pray.’
Ira regretted asking the question. It had been two days since the attack, and although they were still four days’ trek from Nairobi, he was confident all would be well, but was taking no chances. He arranged for Sam to ride with him on one of the wagons and, as soon as the men pitched his tent, he insisted that Sam take to his bed for a rest.
Ira pulled a small panatela from his shirt pocket and snipped the end. He enjoyed the whole cigar ritual. It postponed and therefore heightened the enjoyment. He ran his tongue around the end and applied the flame. The aromatic blue smoke played in the mosquito netting before it was whisked away on the breeze.
Ira puffed contentedly on the cigar; it was his fourth in two days. Although an irregular cigar smoker, Ira found they helped him to relax and to put the trauma of the lion attack behind hi
m.
‘Do you know what you did the other day, my boy?’
Sam looked at him, puzzled. ‘I am not sure what day you are meaning.’
‘I mean, you saved Henry Leland a whole lot of worry, is what you did.’
‘Who is Henry Leland?’
‘A master mechanic and founder of the Cadillac Automobile Company.’ Ira smiled at Sam’s confusion. ‘If you hadn’t so courageously flung yourself on that lioness, I wouldn’t be here, and Henry Leland wouldn’t be getting my new electric self-starter for his next model.’
He took another draw on his panatela, and blew a stream of smoke onto the glowing tip. He glanced again at Sam. ‘Oh, I know, I’m not making much sense to you,’ he said. ‘Nor me. I’ve become quite soppy over these last couple of days. An experience like that one with the lioness, well … when you face death, it makes a man reflect upon his past life. Not that the crankless car saved the world from anything, but it did make me a lot of money, and that’s what I’ve been thinking about. I’m no genius, just an electrical engineer who had the great good fortune of getting an education and applying it to make money. Anyone could do what I’ve done if they had the start I was lucky enough to get.’
He explained to Sam that he was the son of a miner, a poor man whose only assistance to his son was an introduction to the foreman at the asbestos mine in Vermont. Ira worked in the mines from the age of twelve. Eight years later, a distant uncle who owned a New York clothing business died and left his father a small inheritance, which he used in part to send Ira, his only child, to college. Ira took years to catch up but eventually graduated and found success in the motor vehicle industry. His invention of the electric self-starter for Cadillac made him a wealthy man. He said that if the USA went to war, as appeared likely, he’d make a fortune.
‘So, I’ve been thinking it’s about time I gave something back.’
He looked at Sam, who appeared completely bewildered by his ramblings.
‘Yes … It’s about time I gave something back.’
That night, Ira awoke to a strange sound. He listened in the dark. He thought it was perhaps a small tree inhabitant calling its mate — there had been a number of small furry creatures sheltering in the branches before dashing down to steal a morsel from the camp table, or scampering fleetingly into sight among the foliage. But after he became fully awake, he realised it came from Sam’s stretcher-bed, and that it was the sound of Sam’s teeth chattering.