JOCK OF THE BUSHVELD
J Percy FitzPatrick (1862-1931) was born of Catholic Irish immigrant parents in King William's Town, then capital of British Kaffraria, shortly to be incorporated into Cape Colony when his father was transferred as a judge to the Supreme Court in Cape Town. Sent for schooling to England up to age twelve, and then to Saint Aidan's College in Grahamstown, this ginger-haired, freckled oldest son and non-communicant, with the sudden death of his father in 1880, soon had to support his mother and several siblings. At first he worked as a clerk in Cape Town's Standard Bank (the ‘Cage’), resigning on his twenty-first birthday to strike out and try his luck in the Transvaal's goldrush at legendary Lydenburg and Pilgrim's Rest. There the action of the present work takes place – from May 1885 to September 1887 – by which date he stumbles penniless into Barberton, the new boom-town. There for the twice-weekly Barberton Herald and Transvaal Mining Journal he penned his first work in ten episodes – ‘Sketches of De Kaap Goldfields’ by Percy St John. This was followed under his own name by Through Mashonaland with Pick and Pen (1892); his collection of campfire tales, The Outspan of 1897, in which several frontier characters like Soltke and Sebougwaan first appear; and The Transvaal from Within (1899).
Married in 1889, he had five children growing up in Johannesburg. At Rudyard Kipling's prompting he wrote out several drafts of his stories of his greenhorn youth of twenty years before under the title The Life, the Man and the Dog. After a Schreineresque prelude, he soon achieved the hard stride expected of canine stories in the Jack London mode. He finalised the work while being treated for a duodenal ulcer in Bavaria and on the Riviera. By 1906 he was able to sponsor the British artist Edmund Caldwell on safari in the Lowveld to gather material to illustrate the typescript of what became known as Jock of the Bushveld. The book's first impression appeared from Longman in London in 5 000 hardback copies in September 1907, with three further printings that year. In South Africa it was duly translated into Afrikaans (by Gustav S Preller in 1909) and into Zulu as well.
The text of Jock of the Bushveld here follows the uncut original edition, together with FitzPatrick's ‘Postscript to Jock’ of 1909, which was included in his posthumously published South African Memories (from Cassell in 1932), but deleted from subsequent editions. This is followed by his ‘The Creed of Jock’ of 1920 (not previously published), which serves to complete the entire Jock dossier for the first time.
The Sunday Times, Johannesburg (20 October 1907):
‘If I had met the dog in life I should have tried to tempt him from his allegiance to Sir Percy by all the lures and enticements of which an unprincipled dog-lover is capable.’
The Rand Daily Mail (24 October 1907):
‘A South African book, written by a South African, of which all South Africans may be proud.’
The Star, Johannesburg (1 November 1907):
‘The hero is a dog. But Jock is not primarily a book about dogs. Nor is it a child's book, in spite of its dedication. Principally it is a story of men for men.’
The Indian Planters Gazette (1907):
‘From start to finish Jock is eminently readable and it should be in every library, club and mess.’
Theodore Roosevelt to Earl Grey, quoted in Fitz:
‘Tell him it's the best and truest story of a dog I have ever read, and I think I have read them all.’
Wilfred Thesiger (in My Kenya Days, 1994):
‘Like many a modern-day explorer, as a boy my favourite reading was Jock.’
Manfred Nathan (in Southern African Literature, 1925):
‘While the style is ostensibly plain and matter of fact, it reveals the art which conceals art. It is a valuable picture of a phase of adventurous existence which, in the nature of things, few are fortunate enough to experience.’
Roy Campbell (1928):
‘That faithful quadruped with human soul Whose tale has caused so many tears to roll.’
William Charles Scully (in The Star, 1937):
‘Jock of the Bushveld has been taken to the heart of South Africa: it will be a classic’
Christopher Hope (in The Times Literary Supplement, 20 December 1985):
‘Jock of the Bushveld is a curious, potent mixture of charm and savagery which has survived both to remain readable.’
Stephen Gray (on the centenary of Jock's death, African Wildlife, 1986):
‘It is to FitzPatrick's enduring credit that in our literature he turned the African hunter's tale in the direction of recognisable fact and experience. Jock is worth re-reading for that – and yes, sometimes old Jock, just to watch you: that is enough.’
William Pretorius (in The Weekly Mail, 12 December 1986):
‘The difficulty in presenting Jock to modern audiences on film is that classic colonialism is no longer fashionable. It has been thoroughly exposed as offensive, a fact recognised by at least one publisher, who has not only modernised their edition, but sanitised it as well by removing “prejudicial racial references”, thus doing an effective whitewash job.’
Stephen Coan (in The Natal Witness, 17 December 1995):
‘First the good news, you can take children to see the latest – the second – film version of Jock. People happy to watch Staffies run around for an hour or so will find much to enjoy.’
Left:
J Percy FitzPatrick
Below: Cartoon in The Rand Daily Mail on first publication, 1907
JOCK OF THE BUSHVELD
J Percy FitzPatrick
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Jock of the Bushveld first published 1907
This edition with supplementary texts published by Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd 2007
Reprinted 2007
This edition copyright © Stephen Gray 2007
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978-0-14-193006-0
Dedication
It was the youngest of the High Authorities who gravely informed the Inquiring Stranger that
‘JOCK BELONGS TO THE LIKKLE PEOPLE!’
That being so, it is clearly the duty,
no less than the privilege, of the
Mere Narrator to
Dedicate
THE STORY OF JOCK
to
Those Keenest and Kindest of Critics,
Best of Friends and Most Delightful
of Comrades
THE LIKKLE PEOPLE
Original illustrations by Edward Caldwell
Contents
Preface
Jock of the Bushveld
Notes
He has Come
Postscript to Jock
The Creed of Jock
Entering Barberton’s main street, 1887, as in The Illustrated London News
Preface
‘Sonny, you kin reckon it dead sure, thar’s something wrong ‘bout a thing that don’t explain itself.’
That was Old Rocky’s advice, given three-and-twenty years ago – not forgotten yet but, in this instance, respectfully ignored.
It happened some years ago and this was the way of it: the Fox of Ballybotherem having served three generations – in his native Tipperary, in Kaffraria and in the Transvaal – seemed entitled to a rest; and when, in the half-hour before ‘lights out’ which is the Little People’s particular own, the demand came from certain Autocrats of the Nightgown: ‘Now tell us something else!’ it occurred to the Puzzled One to tell of Jock’s fight with the table leg. And that is how the trouble began. Those with experience will know what followed; and, for those less fortunate, the modest demand of one, comfortably tucked up tailorwise, and emphasising his points by excited handshakes with his toes, will convey the idea: ‘It must be all true! And don’t leave out anything!’
To such an audience a story may be told a hundred times, but it must be told, as Kipling says, ‘Just so!’ that is, in the same way; because, even a romance (what a three-year-old once excused as ‘only a play tell’) must be true – to itself!
Once Jock had taken the field it was not long before the narrator found himself helped or driven over the pauses by quick suggestions from the Gallery; but there were days of fag and worry when thoughts lagged or strayed, and when slips were made, and then a vigilant and pitiless memory swooped like the striking falcon on its prey. There came a night when the story was of the Old Crocodile, and one in the Gallery – one of more exuberant fancy – seeing the gate open ran into the flower-strewn field of romance and by suggestive questions and eager promptings helped to gather a little posy: And he caught the Crocodile by the tail, didn’t he?’ And he hung on and fought him, didn’t he?’ And the Old Crocodile flung him high into the air? High!’ and, turning to the two juniors, added, ‘Quite as high as the house!’ And the narrator – accessory by reason of a mechanical nod and an absent-minded ‘Yes’ – passed on, thinking it could all be put right next time. But there is no escape from the ‘tangled web’ when the Little People sit in judgment. It was months later when retribution came. The critical point of the story was safely passed when – Oh! the irony and poetic justice of it – it was the innocent tempter himself who laid his hand in solemn protest on the narrator’s shoulder and, looking him reproachfully in the eyes, said ‘Dad! You have left out the best part of all. Don’t you remember how…’
And the description which followed only emphasises the present writer’s unfitness for the task he has undertaken. In the text of the story and in the illustration by my friend Mr Caldwell (who was himself subjected to the same influence) there is left a loophole for fancy: it is open to anyone to believe that Jock is just beginning or just ending his aerial excursion. The Important People are not satisfied; but then the page is not big enough to exhibit Jock at the top of that flight – of fancy!
From the date of that lesson it was apparent that reputations would suffer if the story of Jock were not speedily embodied in some durable and authoritative form, and during a long spell of ill health many of the incidents were retold in the form of letters to the Little People. Other Less Important Persons – grown-ups – read them and sometimes heard them, and so it came about that the story of Jock was to be printed for private circulation, for the Little People and their friends. Then the story was read in manuscript and there came still more ambitious counsels, some urging the human story of the early days, others the wild animal life of South Africa. Conscious of many deficiencies the narrator has left two great fields practically untouched, adhering to the original idea – the story of Jock; and those who come into it, men and animals, come in because of him and the life in which he played so large a part. The attempt to adapt the original letters to the symmetry of a connected story involved, as one might have known, endless trouble and changes, necessitating complete rewriting of most parts; and the responsibility and work became still greater when, after a casual and unforeseen meeting, my friend Mr Caldwell accepted the suggestion to come out to South Africa and spend six months with us in order to study the game in its native bush and to know the conditions of the life and put that experience into the work of illustrating Jock.
The writer is well aware that, from the above causes and one other, there are grave inequalities in style and system, and in plane of phrase and thought, in different parts of the book. For this feature the ‘one other’ cause is alone put forward as a defence. The story belongs to the Little People, and their requirements were denned – ‘It must be all true! Don’t leave out anything!’ It has been necessary to leave out a great deal; but the other condition has been fully and fairly complied with; for it is a true story from beginning to end. It is not a diary: incidents have been grouped and moved to get over the difficulty of blank days and bad spells, but there is no incident of importance or of credit to Jock which is not absolutely true. The severest trial in this connection was in the last chapter, which is bound to recall perhaps the most famous and most cherished of all dog stories. Much, indeed, would have been sacrificed to avoid that; but it was unthinkable that, for any reason, one should in the last words shatter the spell that holds Jock dear to those for whom his life is chronicled – the spell that lies in ‘a true story’.
Little by little the book has grown until it has come perilously near the condition in which it might be thought to have Pretensions. It has none! It is what it was: a simple record, compiled for the interest and satisfaction of some Little People, and a small tribute of remembrance and affection offered at the shrine of the old life and those who made it – tendered in the hope that someone better equipped with opportunities and leisure may be inspired to do justice to it, and to them, for the sake of our native land.
The Background
Of the people who live lonely lives, on the veld or elsewhere, few do so of their own free choice. Some there are shut off from all their kind – souls sheathed in some film invisible, through which no thrill of sympathy may pass; some barred by their self-consciousness, heart hungry still, who never learned in childhood to make friends; some have a secret or a grief; some, thoughts too big or bad for comradeship. But most will charge to Fate the thoughtless choice, the chance or hard necessity that drew or drove them to the life apart; they know the lesson that was learned of old: ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’
Go out among them, ever moving on, whose white bones mark the way for others’ feet – who shun the cities, living in the wilds, and move in silence, self-contained. Who knows what they think, or dream, or hope, or suffer? Who can know? For speech among that hard-schooled lot is but a half-remembered art.
Yet something you may guess, since with the man there often goes – his dog; his silent tribute to The Book. Oh, it’s little they know of life who cannot guess the secret springs of loneliness and love that prompt the keeping of a trifling pet; who do not know what moves a man who daily takes his chances of life and death – man whose ‘breath is in his nostrils’ – to lay his cheek against the muzzle of his comrade dog, and in the trackless miles of wilderness feel he has a friend. Something to hold to; something to protect.
There was old Blake – ‘mad, quite mad’, as everybody knew – of whom they vaguely said that horses, hounds, coaches, covers, and all that goes with old estates, were his – once. We knew him poor and middle-aged. How old to us! Cheery a
nd unpractical, with two old pointers and a fowling-piece, and a heart as warm as toast. We did not ask each other’s business there; and, judging by the dogs and gun, we put him down as a ‘remittance man’. But that, it seems, was wrong. They were all his.
He left no letters – a little pile of paper ash; no money and no food! That was his pride. He would not sell or give away his dogs! That was his love. When he could not keep them it seemed time to go! That was his madness. But before he went, remembering a friend in hospital, he borrowed two cartridges and brought him in a brace of birds. That was old mad Blake, who ‘moved on’ and took his dogs with him, because they had always been together, and he could not leave their fate to chance. So we buried him with one on either side, just as he would have liked it!
There was Turner, who shot the crocodile that seized his dog and, reckless of the others, swam in and brought the dog to land.
There was the dog that jumped in when his master slipped from the rock and, swimming beside him, was snapped down in his stead! And there was the boy who tried a rescue in the dark – when a rustle, yelp and growl told that the lions had his dog – and was never seen again.
So it goes, and so it went, from year to year: a little showing now and then, like the iceberg’s tip, from which to guess the bulk below.
There was a Boy who went to seek his fortune. Call him boy or man: the years proved nothing either way! Some will be boyish always; others were never young: a few – most richly dowered few – are man and boy together. He went to seek his fortune, as boys will and should; no pressure on him from about; no promise from beyond. For life was easy there, and all was pleasant, as it may be – in a cage. ‘Today’ is sure and happy; and there is no ‘tomorrow’ – in a cage.
There were friends enough – all kind and true – and in their wisdom they said: ‘Here it is safe: yonder all is chance, where many indeed are called, but few – so few – are chosen. Many have gone forth; some to return, beaten, hopeless and despised; some to fall in sight outside; others are lost, we know not where; and ah! so few are free and well. But the fate of numbers is unheeded still; for the few are those who count, and lead; and those who follow do not think How few, but cry How strong! How free! Be wise and do not venture. Here it is safe: there is no fortune there!’
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