Green Hills of Africa

by Ernest Hemingway

P.O.M. was sleeping. She was always lovely to look at asleep, sleeping

  quietly, close curled like an animal, with nothing of the being dead look

  that Karl had asleep. Pop slept quietly too, you could see his soul was

  close in his body. His body no longer housed him fittingly. It had gone on

  and changed, thickening here, losing its lines, bloating a little there, but

  inside he was young and lean and tall and hard as when he galloped lion on

  the plain below Wami, and the pouches under his eyes were all outside, so

  that now I saw him asleep the way P.O.M. saw him always. M'Cola was an old

  man asleep, without history and without mystery. Droopy did not sleep. He

  sat on his heels and watched for the safari.

  We saw them coming a long way off. At first the boxes just showed above

  the high grass, then a line of heads, then they were in a hollow, and there

  was only the point of a spear in the sun, then they came up a rise of ground

  and I could see the strung out line coming towards us. They had gone a

  little too far to the left and Droopy waved to signal them toward us. They

  made camp, Pop warning them to be quiet, and we sat under the dining tent

  and were comfortable in the chairs and talked. That night we hunted and saw

  nothing. The next morning we hunted and saw nothing and the next evening the

  same. It was very interesting but there were no results. The wind blew hard

  from the east and the ground was broken in short ridges of hills coming down

  close {from} the forest so you could not get above it without sending your

  scent on ahead of you on the wind to warn everything. You could not see into

  the sun in the evening, nor on the heavy shadowed hillsides to the west,

  beyond which the sun was setting at the time the rhino would be coming out

  of the forest, so all the country to the westward was a loss in the evening

  and in the country we could hunt we found nothing. Meat came in from Karl's

  camp by some porters we sent back. They came in carrying quarters of tommy,

  grant, and wildebeeste, dusty, the meat seared dry by the sun, and the

  porters were happy, crouched around their fires roasting the meat on sticks.

  Pop was puzzled why the rhino were all gone. Each day we had seen less and

  we discussed whether it could be the full moon, that they fed out at night

  and were back in the forest in the morning before it was light, or that they

  winded us, or heard the men, and were simply shy and kept in the forest, or

  what was it? ' Me putting out the theories, Pop pricking them with his wit,

  sometimes considering them from politeness, sometimes with interest, like

  the one about the moon.

  We went to bed early and in the night it rained a little, not a real

  rain but a shower from the mountains, and in the morning we were up before

  daylight and had climbed up to the top of the steep grassy ridge that looked

  down on to the camp, on to the ravine of the river bed, and across to the

  steep opposite bank of the stream, and from where we could see all the hilly

  slopes and the edge of the forest. It was not yet light when some geese flew

  overhead and the light was still too grey to be able to see the edge of the

  forest clearly in the glasses. We had scouts out on three different hill

  tops and we were waiting for it to be light enough for us to see them if

  they signalled.

  Then Pop said, 'Look at that son of a bitch', and shouted at M'Cola to

  bring the rifles. M'Cola went jumping down the hill, and across the stream,

  directly opposite us, a rhino was running with a quick trot along the top of

  the bank. As we watched he speeded up and came, fast trotting, angling down

  across the face of the bank. He was a muddy red, his horn showed clearly,

  and there was nothing ponderous in his quick, purposeful movement. I was

  very excited at seeing him.

  'He'll cross the stream,' Pop said. 'He's shootable.'

  M'Cola put the Springfield in my hand and I opened it to make sure I

  had solids. The Rhino was out of sight now but I could see the shaking of

  the high grass.

  'How far would you call it?'

  'All of three hundred.'

  'I'll bust the son of a bitch.'

  I was watching, freezing myself deliberately inside, stopping the

  excitement as you close a valve, going into that impersonal state you shoot

  from.

  He showed, trotting into the shallow, boulder-filled stream. Thinking

  of one thing, that the shot was perfectly possible, but that I must lead him

  enough, must get ahead, I got on him, then well ahead of him, and squeezed

  off. I heard the {whonk} of the bullet and, from his trot, he seemed to

  explode forward. With a whooshing snort he smashed ahead, splashing water

  and snorting. I shot again and raised a little column of water behind him,

  and shot again as he went into the grass; behind him again.

  'Piga,' M'Cola said. 'Piga!'

  Droopy agreed.

  'Did you. hit him?' Pop said.

  'Absolutely,' I said. 'I think I've got him.'

  Droopy was running and I re-loaded and ran off after him. Half the camp

  was strung out across the hills waving and yelling. The rhino had come in

  right below where they were and gone on up the valley towards where the

  forest came close down into the head of the valley.

  Pop and P.O.M. came up. Pop with his big gun and M'Cola carrying mine.

  'Droopy will get the tracks,' Pop said. 'M'Cola swears you hit him.'

  'Piga!' M'Cola said.

  'He snorted like a steam engine,' P.O.M. said. 'Didn't he look

  wonderful going along there?'

  'He was late getting home with the milk,' Pop said. 'Are you {sure} you

  hit him? It was a godawful long shot.'

  'I {know} I hit him. I'm {pretty} sure I've killed him.'

  'Don't tell any one if you did,' Pop said. 'They'll never believe you.

  Look! Droopy's got blood.'

  Below, in the high grass, Droop was holding up a grass blade towards

  us. Then, stooped, he went on trailing fast by the blood spoor.

  'Piga,' M'Cola said. 'M'uzuri!'

  'We'll keep up above where we can see if he makes a break,' Pop said.

  'Look at Droopy.'

  Droop had removed his fez and held it in his hand.

  'That's all the precautions he needs,' Pop said. 'We bring up a couple

  of heavy guns and Droopy goes in after him with one article less of

  clothing.'

  Below us Droopy and his partner who was trailing with him had stopped.

  Droopy held up his hand.

  'They hear him,' Pop said. 'Come on.'

  We started toward them. Droopy came toward us and spoke to Pop.

  'He's in there,' Pop whispered. 'They can hear the tick birds. One of

  the boys says he heard the faro, too. We'll go in against the wind. You go

  ahead with Droopy. Let the Memsahib stay behind me. Take the big gun. All

  right.'

  The rhino was in high grass, somewhere in there behind some bushes. As

  we went forward we heard a deep, moaning sort of groan. Droopy looked around<
br />
  at me and grinned. The noise came again, ending this time like a

  blood-choked sigh. Droopy was laughing. 'Faro,' he whispered and put his

  hand palm open on the side of his head in the gesture that means to go to

  sleep. Then in a jerky-flighted, sharp-beaked little flock we saw the tick

  birds rise and fly away. We knew where he was and, as we went slowly

  forward, parting the high grass, we saw him. He was on his side, dead.

  'Better shoot him once to make sure,' Pop said. M'Cola handed me the

  Springfield he had been carrying. I noticed it was cocked, looked at M'Cola,

  furious with him, kneeled down and shot the rhino in the sticking place. He

  never moved. Droopy shook my hand and so did M'Cola.

  'He had that damned Springfield cocked,' I said to Pop. The cocked gun,

  behind my back, made me black angry.

  That meant nothing to M'Cola. He was very happy, stroking the rhino's

  horn, measuring it with his fingers spread, looking for the bullet hole.

  'It's on the side he's lying on,' I said.

  'You should have seen him when he was protecting Mama,' Pop said.

  'That's why he had the gun cocked.'

  'Can he shoot?'

  'No,' Pop said. 'But he would.'

  'Shoot me in the pants,' I said. 'Romantic bastard.' When the whole

  outfit came up, we rolled the rhino into a sort of kneeling position and cut

  away the grass to take some pictures. The bullet hole was fairly high in the

  back, a little behind the lungs.

  'That was a hell of a shot,' Pop said. 'A hell of a shot. Don't ever

  tell any one you made that one.'

  'You'll have to give me a certificate.'

  'That would just make us both liars. They're a strange beast, aren't

  they?'

  There he was, long-hulked, heavy-sided, prehistoric looking, the hide

  like vulcanized rubber and faintly transparent looking, scarred with a badly

  healed horn wound that the birds had pecked at, his tail thick, round, and

  pointed, flat many-legged ticks crawling on him, his ears fringed with hair,

  tiny pig eyes, moss growing on the base of his horn that grew out forward

  from his nose. M'Cola looked at him and shook his head. I agreed with him.

  This was the hell of an animal.

  'How is his horn?'

  'It isn't bad,' Pop said. 'It's nothing extra. That was a hell of a

  shot you made on him though, brother.'

  'M'Cola's pleased with it,' I said.

  'You're pretty pleased with it yourself,' P.O.M. said.

  'I'm crazy about it,' I said. 'But don't let me start on it. Don't

  worry about how I feel about it. I can wake up and think about that any

  night.'

  'And you're a good tracker, and a hell of a fine bird shot, too,' Pop

  said. 'Tell us the rest of that.'

  'Lay off me. I only said that once when I was drunk.'

  'Once,' said P.O.M. 'Doesn't he tell us that every night?'

  'By God, I {am} a good bird shot.'

  'Amazing,' said Pop. 'I never would have thought it. What else is it

  you do?'

  'Oh, go to hell.'

  'Mustn't ever let him realize what a shot that was or he'll get

  unbearable,' Pop said to P.O.M.

  'M'Cola and I know,' I said.

  M'Cola came up. 'M'uzuri, B'wana,' he said. 'M'uzuri sana.'

  'He thinks you did it on purpose,' Pop said.

  'Don't you ever tell him different.'

  'Piga m'uzuri,' M'Cola said. 'M'uzuri.'

  'I believe he feels just the way you do about it,' Pop said.

  'He's my pal.'

  'I believe he is, you know,' Pop said.

  On our way back across country to our main camp I made a fancy shot on

  a reedbuck at about two hundred yards, offhand, breaking his neck at the

  base of the skull. M'Cola was very pleased and Droopy was delighted.

  'We've got to put a stop to him,' Pop said to P.O.M. 'Where did you

  shoot for, really?'

  'In the neck,' I lied. I had held full on the centre of the shoulder.

  'It was awfully pretty,' P.O.M. said. The bullet had made a crack when

  it hit like a bat swung against a fast ball and the buck had collapsed

  without a move.

  'I think he's a damned liar,' Pop said.

  'None of us great shots is appreciated. Wait till we're gone.'

  'His idea of being appreciated is for us to carry him on our

  shoulders,' Pop said. 'That rhino shot has ruined him.'

  'All right. You watch from now on. Hell, I've shot well the whole

  time.'

  'I seem to remember a grant of some sort,' Pop was teasing. So did I

  remember him. I'd followed a fine one out of the country missing shot after

  shot all morning after a series of stalks in the heat, then crawled up to an

  ant hill to shoot one that was not nearly as good, taken a rest on the ant

  hill, missed the buck at fifty yards, seen him stand facing me, absolutely

  still, his nose up, and shot him in the chest. He went over backwards and as

  I went up to him he jumped up and went off, staggering.

  I sat down and waited for him to stop and when he did, obviously

  anchored, I sat there, using the sling, and shot for his neck, slowly and

  carefully, missing him eight times straight in a mounting, stubborn rage,

  not making a correction but shooting exactly for the same place in the same

  way each time, the gun bearers all laughing, the truck that had come up with

  the outfit holding more amused niggers, P.O.M. and Pop saying nothing, me

  sitting there cold, crazy-stubborn-furious, determined to break his neck

  rather than walk up and perhaps start him off over that heat-hazy, baking,

  noontime plain. Nobody said anything. I reached up my hand to M'Cola for

  more cartridges, shot again, carefully, and missed, and on the tenth shot

  broke his damned neck. I turned away without looking toward him.

  'Poor Papa,' P.O.M. said.

  'It's the light and the wind,' Pop said. We had not known each other

  very well then. 'They were all hitting the same place. I could see them

  throw the dust.'

  'I was a bloody, stubborn fool,' I said.

  Anyway, I could shoot now. So far, and aided by flukes, my luck was

  running now.

  We came on into sight of camp and shouted. No one came out. Finally

  Karl came out of his tent. He went back as soon as he saw us, then came out

  again.

  'Hey, Karl,' I yelled. He waved and went back in the tent again. Then

  came toward us. He was shaky with excitement and I saw he had been washing

  blood off his hands.

  'What is it?'

  'Rhino,' he said.

  'Did you get in trouble with him?'

  'No. We killed him.'

  'Fine. Where is he?'

  'Over there behind that tree.'

  We went over. There was the newly severed head of a rhino that was a

  rhino. He was twice the size of the one I had killed. The little eyes were

  shut and a fresh drop of blood stood in the corner of one like a tea
r. The

  head bulked enormous and the horn swept up and back in a fine curve. The

  hide was an inch thick where it hung in a cape behind the head and was as

  white where it was cut as freshly sliced coco-nut.

  'What is he? About thirty inches?'

  'Hell, no,' said Pop. 'Not thirty inches.'

  'But he iss a very fine one, Mr. Jackson,' Dan said.

  'Yes. He's a fine one,' Pop said.

  'Where did you get him?'

  'Just outside of camp.'

  'He wass standing in some bush. We heard him grunt.'

  'We thought he was a buffalo,' Karl said.

  'He iss a very fine one,' Dan repeated.

  'I'm damned glad you got him,' I said.

  There we were, the three of us, wanting to congratulate, waiting to be

  good sports about this rhino whose smaller horn was longer than our big one,

  this huge, tear-eyed marvel of a rhino, this dead, head-severed dream rhino,

  and instead we all spoke like people who were about to become seasick on a

  boat, or people who had suffered some heavy financial loss. We were ashamed

  and could do nothing about it. I wanted to say something pleasant and

  hearty, instead, 'How many times did you shoot him?' I asked.

  'I don't know. We didn't count. Five or six, I guess.'

  'Five, I think,' said Dan.

  Poor Karl, faced by these three sad-faced congratulators, was beginning

  to feel his pleasure in the rhino drained away from him.

  'We got one too,' said P.O.M.

  'That's fine,' said Karl. 'Is he bigger than this one?'

  'Hell, no. He's a lousy runt.'

  'I'm sorry,' Karl said. He meant it, simply and truly.

  'What the hell have you got to be sorry about with a rhino like that?

  He's a beauty. Let me get the camera and take some pictures of him.'

  I went after the camera. P.O.M. took me by the arm and walked close

  beside me.

  'Papa, please try to act like a human being,' she said. 'Poor Karl.

  You're making him feel dreadfully.'

  'I know it,' I said. 'I'm trying not to act that way.'

  There was Pop. He shook his head. 'I never felt more of a four-letter

  man,' he said. 'But it was like a kick in the stomach. I'm really delighted,

  of course.'

  'Me too,' I said. 'I'd rather have him beat me. You know that. Truly.

  But why couldn't he just get a good one, two or three inches longer? Why did

  he have to get one that makes mine ridiculous? It just makes ours silly.'

  'You can always remember that shot.'

  'To hell with that shot. That bloody fluke. God, what a beautiful

  rhino.'

  'Come on, let's pull ourselves together and try to act like white

  people with him.'

  'We were {awful,'} P.O.M. said.

  'I know it,' I said. 'And all the time I was trying to be jolly. You

  {know} I'm delighted he has it.'

  'You were certainly jolly. Both of you,' P.O.M. said.

  'But did you see M'Cola,' Pop asked. M'Cola had looked at the rhino

  dismally, shaken his head and walked away.

  'He's a wonderful rhino,' P.O.M. said. 'We must act decently and make

  Karl feel good.'

  But it was too late. We could not make Karl feel good and for a long

  time we could not feel good ourselves. The porters came into camp with the

  loads and we could see them all, and all of our outfit, go over to where the

  rhino head lay in the shade. They were all very quiet. Only the skinner was

  delighted to see such a rhino head in camp.

  'M'uzuri sana,' he said to me. And measured the horn with shiftings of

  his widespread hand. 'Kubwa sana!'

  'N'Dio. M'uzuri sana,' I agreed.

  'B'wana Kabor shoot him?'

  'Yes.'

  'M'uzuri sana.'

  'Yes,' I agreed. 'M'uzuri sana.'

  The skinner was the only gent in the outfit. We had tried, in all the

  shoot, never to be competitive. Karl and

  I had each tried to give the other the better chance on everything that

  came up. I was, truly, very fond of him and he was entirely unselfish and

  altogether self-sacrificing. I knew I could outshoot him and I could always

  outwalk him and, steadily, he got trophies that made mine dwarfs in

  comparison. He had done some of the worst shooting at game I had ever seen