Jock of the Bushveld

by Percy Fitzpatrick

  A couple of weeks later I heard from my friend: ‘You will be interested to hear that that lunatic of yours reached his kraal all right; but that’s not his fault. He is a holy terror. I have never known such a restless animal: he is like a change in the weather – you seem to feel him everywhere, upsetting everything and everyone the whole time. I suppose you hammered him into his place and kept him there; but I wouldn’t have him as a gift. It is not that there was anything really wrong; only there was no rest, no peace.

  ‘But he’s a gay fighter! That was a treat: I never laughed so much in my life. Below the Devil’s Kantoor we met a lot of waggons from Lydenburg, and he had a row with one of the drivers, a lanky nigger with dandy patched clothes. The boy wouldn’t fight – just yelled blue murder while Jim walloped him. I heard the yells and the whacks, like the beating of carpets, and there was Jim laying it on all over him – legs, head, back and arms – with a sort of ferocious satisfaction, every whack being accompanied by a husky suppressed shout: Fight, Shangaan! Fight! But the other fellow was not on for fighting; he floundered about, yelled for mercy and help, and tried to run away; but Jim simply played round him – one spring put him alongside each time. I felt sorry for the long nigger and was going to interfere and save him, but just then one of his pals called out to their gang to come along and help, and ran for his sticks. It was rare fun then. Jim dropped the patched fellow and went like a charging lion straight for the waggons where the gang were swarming for their sticks, letting out right and left whenever he saw a nigger, whether they wanted to fight or not; and in about five seconds the whole lot were heading for the bush with Jim in full chase.

  ‘Goodness knows what the row was about. As far as I can make out from your heathen, it is because the other boy is a Shangaan and reads the Bible. Jim says this boy – Sam is his name – worked for you and ran away. Sam says it is not true, and that he never even heard of you, and that Jim is a stranger to him. There’s something wrong in this, though, because when the row began, Sam first tried to pacify your lunatic, and I heard him sing out in answer to the first few licks, Kahle, Umganaam; Kahle, Makokel’! (Gently, friend; gently, Makokel’.) Wow Makokela, y’ ou bulala mena! (Wow, Makokela, you will kill me.) He knew Jim right enough; that was evident. But it didn’t help him; he had to skip for it all the same. I was glad to pay the noble Jim off and drop him at his kraal. Sam was laid up when we left.’

  It is better to skip the change from the old life to the new – when the luck, as we called it, was all out, when each straw seemed the last for the camel’s breaking back, and there was always still another to come. But the turn came at last, and the ‘long arm of coincidence’ reached out to make the ‘impossible’ a matter of fact. It is better to skip all that: for it is not the story of Jock, and it concerns him only so far that in the end it made our parting unavoidable.

  When the turn did come it was strange, and at times almost bewildering, to realise that the things one had struggled hardest against and regarded as the worst of bad luck were blessings in disguise and were all for the best. So the new life began and the old was put away; but the new life, for all its brighter and wider outlook and work of another class, for all the charm that makes Barberton now a cherished memory to all who knew the early days, was not all happy.

  The new life had its hours of darkness too; of almost unbearable ‘trek fever’; of restless, sleepless longing for the old life; of ‘homesickness’ for the veld, the freedom, the roaming, the nights by the fire and the days in the bush! Now and again would come a sleepless night with its endless procession of scenes, in which some remembered from the past were interlinked with others imagined for the future; and here and there in these long waking dreams came stabs of memory – flashes of lightning vividness: the head and staring eyes of the kudu bull, as we had stood for a portion of a second face to face; the yawning mouth of the maddened crocodile; the mamba and its beady hateful eyes, as it swept by before the bushfire. And there were others too that struck another chord: the cattle, the poor dumb beasts that had worked and died: stepping stones in a man’s career; the ‘books’, the ‘chalk and blackboard’ of the school – used, discarded and forgotten! No, they were not forgotten; and the memory of the last trek was one long mute reproach on their behalf: they had paved the roadway for the Juggernaut man.

  All that was left of the old life was Jock; and soon there was no place for him. He could not always be with me; and when left behind he was miserable, leading a life that was utterly strange to him, without interest and among strangers. While I was in Barberton he accompanied me everywhere, but – absurd as it seems – there was a constant danger for him there, greater though less glorious than those he faced so lightly in the veld. His deafness, which passed almost unnoticed and did not seem to handicap him at all in the veld, became a serious danger in camp. For a long time he had been unable to hear a sound, but he could feel sounds: that is to say, he was quick to notice anything that caused a vibration. In the early days of his deafness I had been worried by the thought that he would be run over while lying asleep near or under the waggons, and the boys were always on the lookout to stir him up; but we soon found that this was not necessary. At the first movement he would feel the vibration and jump up. Jim realised this well enough, for when wishing to direct his attention to strange dogs or Shangaans, the villain could always dodge me by stamping or hammering on the ground, and Jock always looked up: he seemed to know the difference between the sounds he could ignore, such as chopping wood, and those that he ought to notice.

  In camp – Barberton in those days was reckoned a mining camp, and was always referred to as ‘camp’ – the danger was due to the number of sounds. He would stand behind me as I stopped in the street, and sometimes lie down and snooze if the wait was a long one; and the poor old fellow must have thought it a sad falling off, a weary monotonous change from the real life of the veld. At first he was very watchful, and every rumbling wheel or horse’s footfall drew his alert little eyes round to the danger point; but the traffic and noise were almost continuous and one sound ran into another. Thus he became careless or puzzled and on several occasions narrowly escaped being run over or trodden on.

  Once, in desperation after a bad scare, I tried chaining him up, and although his injured reproachful look hurt, it did not weaken me: I had hardened my heart to do it, and it was for his own sake. At lunchtime he was still squatting at the full length of the chain, off the mat and straw, and with his head hanging in the most hopeless dejected attitude one could imagine. It was too much for me – the dog really felt it; and when I released him there was no rejoicing in his freedom as the hated collar and chain dropped off. He turned from me without a sign or sound of any sort and, walking off slowly, lay down some ten yards away with his head resting on his paws! He went to think – not to sleep.

  I felt abominably guilty and was conscious of wanting to make up for it all the afternoon.

  Once I took him out to Fig Tree Creek fifteen miles away and left him with a prospector friend at whose camp in the hills it seemed he would be much better off and much happier. When I got back to Barberton that night he was waiting for me, with a tag of chewed rope hanging round his neck, not the least ashamed of himself, but openly rejoicing in the meeting and evidently never doubting that I was equally pleased. And he was quite right there.

  But it could not go on. One day as he lay asleep behind me, a loaded waggon coming sharply round a corner as nearly as possible passed over him. The wheel was within inches of his back as he lay asleep in the sand. There was no chance to grab – it was a rush and a kick that saved him; and he rolled over under the waggon, and found his own way out between the wheels.

  A few days after this Ted passed through Barberton, and I handed Jock over to him, to keep and to care for until I had a better and safer home for him.

  One day some two years later there turned up at my quarters an old friend of the transport days – Harry Williams. He had been away on a long trek
‘up north’ to look for some supposed mine of fabulous richness of which there had been vague and secret reports from natives. He stayed with me for some days and one evening, after the bout of fever and ague had passed off and rest and good feeding had begun to pull him round, he told us the story of their search. It was a trip of much adventure, but it was the end of his story that interested me most; and that is all that need be told here.

  They had failed to find the mine; the native who was supposed to know all about it had deserted, with all he could carry off; they were short of food and money, and out of medicines; the delays had been great; they were two hundred miles from any white men; there was no road but their own erratic track through the bush; the rains had begun and the fever season set in; the cattle – they had one waggon and span – were worn out; the fever had gripped them, and of the six white men, three were dead, one dying and two only able to crawl; most of their boys had deserted; one umfaan fit for work, and the driver – then delirious with fever – completed the party.

  The long journey was almost over; and they were only a few treks from the store and camp for which they were making; but they were so stricken and helpless it seemed as though that little was too much and they must die within reach of help. The driver, a big Zulu, was then raving mad; he had twice run off into the bush and been lost for hours. Precious time and waning strength were spent in the search, and with infinite effort and much good luck they had found him and induced him to return. On the second occasion they had enticed him on to the waggon and, as he lay half unconscious between bursts of delirium, had tied him down flat on his back, with wrists and ankles fastened to the buckrails. It was all they could do to save him: they had barely strength to climb up and pour water into his mouth from time to time.

  It was midday then, and their dying comrade was so far gone that they decided to abandon one trek and wait for evening, to allow him to die in peace. Later on, when they thought it was all over, they tried to scrape out a grave for him, and began to pull out one old blanket to wrap round him in place of a shroud and coffin. It was then that the man opened his eyes and faintly shook his head; so they inspanned as best they could and made another trek. I met the man some years afterwards, and he told me he had heard all they said, but could only remember one thing, and that was Harry’s remark, that ‘two gin cases were not enough for a coffin, so they would have to take one of the blankets instead.’

  In the morning they went on again. It was then at most two treks more to their destination; but they were too weak to work or walk, and the cattle were left to crawl along undriven; but after half an hour’s trekking they reached a bad drift where the waggon stuck; the cattle would not face the pull. The two tottering trembling white men did their best, but neither had strength to use the whip; the umfaan led the oxen this way and that, but there was no more effort in them. The water had given out, and the despairing helpless men saw death from thirst awaiting them within a few hours’ trek of help; and to add to the horror of it all the Zulu driver, with thirst aggravating his delirium, was a raving lunatic – struggling and wrenching at his bonds until the waggon rattled, and uttering maniac yells and gabbling incessantly.

  Hours had gone by in hopeless effort; but the oxen stood out at all angles, and no two would pull together in answer to the feeble efforts of the fainting men. Then there came a lull in the shouts from the waggon and in answer to the little voorloper’s warning shout, ‘Pasop, Baas!’ (Look out, Master!), the white men looked round and saw the Zulu driver up on his knees freeing himself from the riems. In another moment he was standing up full height – a magnificent but most unwelcome sight: there was a thin line of froth along the half opened mouth; the deep-set eyes glared out under eyebrows and forehead bunched into frowning wrinkles, as for a few seconds he leaned forward like a lion about to spring and scanned the men and oxen before him; and then as they watched him in breathless silence, he sprang lightly off the waggon, picked up a small dry stick as he landed and ran up along the span.

  He spoke to the after-ox by name as he passed; called to another, and touched it into place; thrust his way between the next one and the dazed white man standing near it, tossing him aside with a brush of his arm, as a ploughshare spurns a sod; and then they saw how the boy’s madness had taken him. His work and his span had called to him in his delirium; and he had answered. With low mutterings, short words hissed out, and all the sounds and terms the cattle knew shot at them – low pitched and with intense repression – he ran along the span, crouching low all the time like a savage stealing up for murderous attack.

  The two white men stood back and watched.

  Reaching the front oxen, he grasped the leading riem and pulled them round until they stood level for the straight pull out; then down the other side of the span he ran with cat-like tread and activity, talking to each and straightening them up as he had done with the others; and when he reached the waggon again, he turned sharply and overlooked the span. One ox had swung round and stood out of line; there was a pause of seconds, and then the big Zulu called to the ox by name – not loudly but in a deep low tone, husky with intensity – and the animal swung back into line again.

  Then out of the silence that followed came an electrifying yell to the span: every bullock leaned to its yoke, and the waggon went out with a rush.

  And he drove them at a half trot all the way to the store: without water; without help; without consciousness; the little dry twig still in his hand, and only his masterful intensity and knowledge of his work and span to see him through.

  ‘A mad troublesome savage,’ said Harry Williams, ‘but one of the very best. Anyhow, we thought so; he saved us!’

  There was something very familiar in this, and it was with a queer feeling of pride and excitement that I asked: ‘Did he ever say to you, My catchum lion ‘live?’

  ‘By gum! You know him? Jim: Jim Makokel’!’

  ‘Indeed I do. Good old Jim!’

  Years afterwards Jim was still a driver, working when necessary, fighting when possible, and enjoying intervals of lordly ease at his kraal where the wives and cattle stayed and prospered.

  His Duty

  And Jock?

  But I never saw my dog again. For a year or so he lived something of the old veld life, trekking and hunting; from time to time I heard of him from Ted and others. Stories seemed to gather easily about him, as they do about certain people, and many knew Jock and were glad to bring news of him. The things they thought wonderful and admirable made pleasant news for them to tell and welcome news to me, and they were heard with contented pride, but without surprise, as ‘just like him’: there was nothing more to be said.

  One day I received word from Ted that he was off to Scotland for a few months and had left Jock with another old friend, Tom Barnett – Tom, at whose store under the big fig-tree Seedling lies buried; and although I was glad that he had been left with a good friend like Tom, who would care for him as well as anyone could, the life there was not of the kind to suit him. For a few months it would not matter; but I had no idea of letting him end his days as a watchdog at a trader’s store in the kaffir country. Tom’s trouble was with thieves; for the natives about there were not a good lot, and their dogs were worse. When Jock saw or scented them, they had the poorest sort of luck or chance: he fought to kill, and not as town dogs fight; he had learned his work in a hard school, and he never stopped or slackened until the work was done; so his fame soon spread and it brought Tom more peace than he had enjoyed for many a day. Natives no longer wandered at will into the reed enclosed yard; kaffir dogs ceased to sneak into the store and through the house, stealing everything they could get. Jock took up his place at the door, and hungry mongrels watched him from a distance or sneaked up a little closer when, from time to time, he trotted round to the yard at the back of the building to see how things were going there.

  All that was well enough during the day; but the trouble occurred at night. The kaffirs were too scared to risk being c
aught by him, but the dogs from the surrounding kraals prowled about after dark, scavenging and thieving where they could; and what angered Tom most of all was the killing of his fowls. The yard at the back of the store was enclosed by a fence of close-packed reeds, and in the middle of the yard stood the fowl-house with a clear space of bare ground all round it. On many occasions kaffir dogs had found their way through the reed fence and killed fowls perching about the yard, and several times they had burgled the fowl-house itself. In spite of Jock’s presence and reputation, the night robbing still continued, for while he slept peacefully in front of the store, the robbers would do their work at the back. Poor old fellow! They were many and he was one; they prowled night and day and he had to sleep sometimes; they were watchful and he was deaf; so he had no chance at all unless he saw or scented them. There were two small windows looking out on to the yard, but no door in the back of the building; thus, in order to get into the yard, it was necessary to go out of the front door and round the side of the house. On many occasions Tom, roused by the screaming of the fowls, had seized his gun and run round to get a shot at the thieves; but the time so lost was enough for a kaffir dog, and the noise made in opening the reed gate gave ample warning of his coming.

  The result was that Tom generally had all his trouble for nothing; but it was not always so. Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and invariably got some satisfaction out of what followed. Once Jock caught one of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held on to the hindleg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he had caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in the bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance.