Death in the Silent Places

by Peter Hathaway Capstick

  For one thing, he himself writes that he never carried anything but solids. Further, the really high-velocity calibers he refers to as being so effective against the neck were not developed—by his own observation—until the 1940s, and by that time he had long since stopped hunting in Africa. We know his home in the highlands was cleverly built between two famous “deer forests,” with Bell located in the middle. He would happily shoot his neighbors’ red deer when they strayed onto his property, quite legally. Undoubtedly, he used the neck shot on many of these animals with excellent results, but I cannot see where he could have tested this shot on Cape buffalo and rhino, both of which would seem to have large neck areas. Further, I am all the more positive that he never experienced high-velocity soft-point neck shots in Africa. He would have quickly observed that nyika or miombo scrub-bush conditions tend to preclude the use of light, fast bullets, because intervening brush frequently deflects or even ruptures them en route to the target. Also, the heavy neck skin of both these animals would almost certainly cause cratering of very light soft-points. Bell was undoubtedly influenced by American friends, such as the late Colonel Townsend Whelen, often called the “dean of American riflemen,” who edited and assembled the manuscript of his last book, Bell of Africa. It’s worth noting that Whelen, a great cartridge developer and fond of high velocities, never hunted in Africa himself.

  While Bell was hunting in Unyoro, there was a bloody outbreak of mutiny among Sudanese troops, who, denied permanent female companionship at their posts, promptly whipped and killed every white officer they could find. It was quite an affair, the Sudanese grabbing all government property and arms, and paralyzing the countryside with the reintroduction of open slavery. When the mutiny was at last put down, the British became much more strict with their laws, which put a severe crimp in the caravan trading business. Clearly, some place out of reach of the bothersome authorities and their laws was required by the Muhammadan ivory/slave circuit, and it appeared to lie in the northeast of Uganda, an untouched land of savagery and raiding known ominously as Karamojo, today called Ka-ramoja. It was also reputed to have large numbers of huge-tusked elephants. Bell packed his bag.

  In 1902, the town of Mumias at the foot of snow-capped Mt. Elgon was the last vestige of law and order, there being a government post with troops located there. Beyond Mumias, the starting point for caravans bound for the whole Lake Rudolph Basin, only the strength of one’s party provided the least bit of safety. The laws of supply and demand being what they are and were, the first traders got much of the ivory already stockpiled at very low prices, the value of the commodity rising steadily as demand held and supply fell. As the natives had no guns at all, the only supply of new trade ivory was from snaring elephant, which was only marginally effective. Still, these relatively few tusks fetched extraordinary prices. When competition grew beyond reason for this ivory, some of the more enterprising traders decided it would be eminently more practical to steal and raid than pay, and so developed a massive campaign of intertribal warfare, assuring the outcome of these campaigns with their muskets. This caused the entire Karamojo region to become a segmented armed camp, nobody trusting anybody, particularly not strangers. This state of affairs also created the old problem Bell had encountered when trying to join an expedition in Kenya. As he was white and slaving was the order of the day in Karamojo, no trader would sell him donkeys, no Muhammadan would work for him and information about the interior was either a collection of straight lies or a casual shrug.

  At first, Bell couldn’t figure out why he was being treated with such difficulty. Later, upon crossing the Turkwell River, which flowed from Mt. Elgon and marked the limit of white law, he realized the atrocities being conducted on the other side of this aquatic “border.” As the traders were an extremely rubbery batch of cookies who understood that the whites could often reach far beyond what seemed to be their jurisdiction in lightning punitive raids, the very presence of one of them in the traders’ own backyard could spell trouble. Bell admits to being surprised that, considering the stakes, the trading community wasn’t firmer in its resistance to his expedition, such as poisoning him or having his throat cut.

  You may have noticed, however, that Bell was not easily dissuaded from anything he set his mind to. He got up a safari of non-Islamics: native Baganda, Kavirondo and WaNyamwezi men, using bullocks as heavy transport. The government agent at Mumias was a good sort and arranged for eight .577 Snider carbines for Bell’s askaris to fight off possible trouble and “instill confidence” in his porters. What was really interesting about the agent’s offer of the carbines was that there was no ammunition for them. Digging through the loose cartridges at the only store in Mumias, looking for .577s, Bell noticed that the Martini-Henry .450 cartridges had the same size base as the .577s and would fit in the chambers of the rifles, although the bore size was far too big. The effect would be like trying to blow a small marble through a sewage pipe; it could be done but would hardly be very effective or accurate. Or so Bell thought. In actuality, the askaris were such god-awful shots, anyway, that the odds of hitting something they were firing at were actually improved as the bullet, careening down the larger barrel, was guaranteed to fly just about anywhere except where aimed. This turned out to be precisely the effect, and Bell records that, during the trip, both hyenas and jackals were regularly killed in very poor light by his intrepid marksmen!

  For his own battery, Bell now had a .303 Lee Enfield bolt-action repeater, a .275 Rigby Mauser (the British nonmetric designation for the 7 x 57 mm. Mauser caliber), a double-barreled .450–.400 and the Mauser pistol with the detachable stock. Leaving Mumias with a notable lack of enthusiasm on the part of the populace, who normally put on a big sendoff for departing caravans, Bell and his men marched for seven days to the Turkwell River. Injun country clearly lay ahead.

  The first Karamojong people were met immediately after crossing the Turkwell. (Bell in his books calls them “Ka-ramojans,” although this is an incorrect anglicization from the correct term “Karamojong.”) Between the river and the nearest sizable village were about 150 miles of scattered settlements of “poor” or non-cattle-owning Karamojong, who scratched out a living by snare hunting. This tribe enjoyed a ferocious reputation among the traders, and with very good reason. As is the common custom with several African groups, manhood was achieved by proving one’s worth by murder. If you hadn’t killed somebody—man or woman, asleep or awake, armed or defenseless—you were regarded as something of an underachiever and denied the status of full manhood, along with all the goodies attached to this lofty station.

  It’s difficult for the outside mind to comprehend the seeming lack of logic among the Karamojong in not stipulating that the victim had to be vanquished in armed combat, or some other situation that might get the dusky knight-errant hurt or dead himself, thereby proving the bravery of the deed. Even among the related Masai of Tanzania and southern Kenya, fierce blood-and-milk-drinking lion hunters who gained manhood in the old days by spearing a lion or an enemy single-handed, it was the degree of danger associated with the act that brought the greatest glory, similar to the American Plains Indian “counting coup” by striking an armed enemy with his hand or a ceremonial stick or bow. Not the Karamojong. A woman murdered by a knife thrust in her sleep was as great a trophy as another warrior killed in a spear fight. The only sign given of the sex of the victim was the customary commemoration of the deed by tattooing the right side of the killer if the prey had been a man and the left if female. Obviously, due to this custom, there was never any shortage of young Karamojong on the prowl for strangers, particularly stragglers from a caravan.

  While Bell was hunting in Karamojo, there were three attacks on entire large and heavily armed trading caravans by this tribe of very tall, lanky spearmen, whose women were strangely short and squat. To suggest that these ambushes were successful would be a masterpiece of understatement. The first two outfits were wiped out, slaughtered to the last defender without the Kar
amojong attackers losing a man! The third assault must have been a touch sloppy; although again there were no native casualties, one trader did survive and escape. Obviously, the traders could not have been very pleased with the loss of three complete caravans, along with all their men and goods, but strangely enough they did not overly object to the Karamojong brazenly picking off stragglers, and anybody caught at a disadvantage in that country was almost actuarily dead. The reason for this apathy over the murders of their own men was simple: desertion. As most of the personnel of these caravans were themselves slaves, the certainty of achieving increased ventilation at the hands of the Karamojong while escaping greatly dampened any smoldering ideas of running off. Also, this effectively provided a way to keep nonslaves separated from their wages for years. After all, if they couldn’t get back to Mumias to complain to the government, how could they force payment?

  Bell got off to rather a flat start with the first two spearmen on the banks of the Turkwell; they were generally surly but did come to advise him the next morning of the location of four big bull elephant that had passed near their sleeping place during the night. Unimpressed with his puny rifles, they wanted to see the white man make a fool of himself. Bell shot two of the bulls over the heart after a long walk, one of them a single-tusker with one extremely fine tooth. The two Karamojong, who were suspected by the safari of setting up an ambush, had an obvious change in their attitude toward the Scot, and word quickly got around the scrub country that watching the “red man” with his little guns was good fun and provided lots of free meat.

  Hunting his way with good results, Bell arrived at the first large village, a headquarters for the traders called Mani-Mani, some 150 miles from the Turkwell. Along the way, he had his first confrontation with the Karamojong of several to come and began to make the reputation that would eventually lead, over the next five years he hunted the large area, to a good relationship with the people, despite a series of potentially deadly showdowns.

  The first of these confrontations was not really the fault of the Karamojong, but a misunderstanding. Knowing the custom of casual murder that pervaded the land, Bell was furious when told by his interpreter that five of his men were missing among the clusters of small villages. Suspecting foul play, he took five of his askaris and quickly cut out a large part of the Karamojong cattle herd. As might have been anticipated, this was not much appreciated by the natives, and in a few minutes Bell and his men were facing a good 400 highly motivated spearmen. The defiant little group of outsiders stood their ground, their leader ready with his ten-shot rifle and his Mauser pistol charged with the same number of rounds. Bell was not bluffing——he thought there was a good chance that if he killed the first few Karamojong, the rest would run before his new rapid-fire guns. He must have looked determined, because before it came to iron blades versus nickel-jacketed bullets, some elders, who had likely heard of him, lost their nerve, picking up and throwing grass in the traditional gesture for unconditional peace.

  Not relaxing, Bell asked for his porters. He was told that the elders didn’t know where they were but were certain that no harm had come to them. Telling them to go and bring the men back unharmed, the rifleman threatened to kill all the cattle (a very serious matter, as wealth was measured in cattle) and a generous assortment of the people, too. Almost immediately, the missing porters showed up, unhurt, having simply gotten lost in the maze of huts. The war was called off, but Bell always thought that his determination to protect any member of his party to the death probably carried far and wide that he was a “red man” best left alone.

  The illegal slave and ivory traders were not exactly dancing in the streets of Mani-Mani in celebration of Bell’s arrival there, but the Scot was most interested to meet the chap in charge, a very unusual man named Shundi. This huge, intelligent chief of pirates had been sold into slavery in Mombasa or Zanzibar, after being captured as a child at his native Kavirondo village. With enough smarts to realize that (this being before the “adoption” dodge) the Koran forbade one Muhammadan from keeping another of the faithful as a slave, he adopted the religion and was freed, and his own natural aptitude for business and trading had carried him to the top. This sable Horatio Alger ruled over quite a nasty collection of Arab, Persian, Baluchi and Swahili traders, none of whom were at all pleased with Bell’s presence, as he could well be an agent for the white man’s law. Any trouble they could possibly stir up for the interloper and his safari would be served with the greatest relish.

  The traders at Mani-Mani who were so anxious to put Bell into a jam did not wait very long to create a situation. As it was now the dry season and the livestock had to be watered from wells sunk into the groundwater of a nearby dry river bed, the elephant hunter came immediately when brought word of an incident brewing. At the wells, he found a gang of local Karamojong toughs driving his bullocks away from the water, not permitting them to drink from a canvas-lined depression into which the hauled water had been poured. Asking the forty-odd spearmen what was going on, they just laughed and refused to answer. When he told his men to take the beasts back to the water, three of the gang began to beat the animals in the face to drive them off.

  Bell was never short on courage nor especially shy. Surrounded by forty armed men, he snatched a heavy war club from one of the nearest and, leaping at one of the bloods hitting the bullocks, struck him over the head as hard as he could. Bell was a big man and in top condition, as well as furious. His dumbfounded reaction on smashing the native hard enough to kill him can be imagined when the war club shattered into splinters and the warrior turned around with a smile on his face. What Bell had forgotten was that all male Karamojong wear a clay headdress into which is molded a feltlike mass of their own and even their ancestors’ hair, with inset sockets to hold plumes erect. The headgear had absorbed the shock of the heavy blow like a slab of armor plate.

  Africans love nothing better than the unexpected, and the whole group of troublemakers exploded with laughter. Bell was nonplussed, but the laughter was infectious, and he was about to join in when he noticed a brave methodically sticking his spear blade through the irreplaceable groundsheet. That wasn’t funny. Bell drew the Mauser.

  The crowd became very quiet as the carbine stock was attached to the rear of the pistol’s grip; now it was finally recognized as a weapon, however weird-looking. At this time in Africa, the prevailing belief was that the power of guns lay in the fire that erupted from the muzzle loaders’ black-powder charge. The bullet was considered completely inconsequential, merely opening the skin so that the fire could get in and kill. The notion was firmly entertained that all one had to do to avoid being harmed was to duck upon seeing the first smoke puff. Smugly, everybody got ready to duck, after which they would probably have speared Bell and his men until they looked like a fancy cheese platter full of toothpicks. The “red man” took quick aim and fired. At the flat, bullwhip bark of the Mauser, the warrior who had been piercing the sheet was looking with injured amazement at his ruined spear, shot almost in half. Uh-oh, the Karamojong minds were clearly reflecting on their faces. No smoke! No good. Confused, the spearmen began to move back as Bell tried to tackle the man whose weapon he had destroyed, barely able to hold the powerful native until his men helped secure the man. Some of the crowd were beginning to turn mean, but before anybody could throw a spear, the Scot opened up on them with fast semiautomatic fire from the Mauser. The warriors panicked and ran, the bullets peppering the ground around their feet. Quickly reloading, Bell kept them hopping and scattering out to 500 yards.

  Taking custody of his prisoner, Bell put out word that he would be freed upon payment of a fine of ten goats and sheep, which arrived shortly thereafter. Undoubtedly, the Karamojong had been put up to their escapade by the traders, who hoped to have Bell intimidated or even killed. Quite the opposite was the result; rather than thinking of the “red man” as just some sort of poor Arab who couldn’t afford a proper caravan, both he and the Mauser, which was dubbed “Bom-B
om,” were treated with a new, healthy, vitamin-enriched respect.

  To give an idea of the physical aspect of elephant hunting and the fitness required on the part of a hunter, let’s go back to the day Bell found a medium-sized herd at eight one morning, having just killed a superb white rhino. The herd was moving along quite well, but, by running hard, Bell was able to catch up and pull alongside for the side brain shot. Each time he killed a tusker, he would lose his position and fall far behind, having to run for a mile or more to get a shot again. It was a fiercely hot day, and the lone man carried no water, despite the hard, almost constant running. When he found a puddle, he would suck at the moisture through clenched teeth to filter out the larval insects swarming in it. All day, without a break, Bell stuck with the herd, killing a total of only fifteen bulls. At sundown, he found himself still following them, when he noticed the body of the dead rhino shot ten long hours ago. They had inscribed a perfect circle! He had probably run and jogged close to thirty miles without food and little water, the dead elephants so widely scattered that it took his crew two days to locate and cut the tusks from the fifteen bulls. That was real elephant hunting!

  At the death of the Belgian King Leopold II in 1910, a great ivory rush started with the reversion of the lush Lado Enclave to the Sudan. It was a wild time, with the Belgians gone and the Sudanese not yet in authority; murder and theft were common among the whites who swarmed in. From the new Belgian Congo border posts, the heavily armed safaris of freebooters were a threatening sight, and some commandants feared an actual invasion. It was during this period that Bell happened to be paddling his new galvanized canoe down the shore of Lake Albert, leading his men in dugouts by several miles. When a heavy breeze sprang up and created a severe chop, the supply canoes pulled into the shelter of the Belgian post at Port Mahagi, where they were arrested by the Belgian forces and forced to the fort above. Returning, Bell was told what happened by some natives and, figuring it was all some kind of mistake, sent a note up and paddled away. In bare feet, his shoes with his captured men’s equipment, he wasn’t about to walk four or five hundred yards over sharp rocks.