‘If we have nice docile mounts I expect we can manage,’ I said to McTurk.
‘Oh, I’ll pick you out a pair of quiet animals,’ said McTurk, and he went off with Francis to arrange the details. Later he told us that we were to meet Francis and the horses at a spot about two miles away on the following morning. From there we were to strike out into the unknown.
The grassland was a lovely green-golden in the first rays of the sun when we set off, bumping our way in the jeep towards the distant line of trees, which was the place of rendezvous. The sky was a delicate jay’s-wing blue, and high above us two minute hawks circled slowly, searching the vast grassland for their breakfast. Dragonflies, vivid as fireworks, shot across the swerving nose of the jeep, and the warm wind of our progress stirred and tumbled the fawn dust of the track into a swirling cloud behind us. McTurk, holding the steering wheel negligently with one hand and using the other to cram his hat more firmly on his head, leant across and started to tell me something, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the engine and the wind.
‘This Indian . . . Francis . . . thought I’d warn you . . . apt to be a bit queer . . . gets excited . . . sort of fits, I think . . . says the world turns round inside his head . . . no reason why today . . . thought I’d warn you . . . quite harmless, of course.’
‘Are you sure he’s harmless?’ I roared back, aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘Oh, quite harmless, definitely.’
‘What’s all this?’ inquired Bob from the back seat. ‘McTurk says Francis has fits,’ I said soothingly. ‘Has what?’ shouted Bob.
‘Fits.’
Fits?’
‘Yes, you know . . . goes a bit queer in the head sometimes. But McTurk says he’s quite harmless.’
‘My God!’ said Bob sepulchrally, lying back in his seat and closing his eyes, an expression of extreme martyrdom on his face.
We reached the trees, and there, squatting on the ground, was Francis, his pixie hat tilted at a rakish angle. Behind him stood the horses in a dejected half-circle, heads drooping and reins dangling. They were clad in high pommelled and extremely uncomfortable-looking saddles. We extracted ourselves from the jeep and greeted Francis with a slightly strained joviality. McTurk wished us good hunting, turned the jeep and started off with a roar that sent all the horses on to their hind legs, stirrups and bits jangling. Francis calmed them somewhat and led them forward for our inspection. We gazed at our mounts, and they gazed back, with equal suspicion.
‘Which one are you going to have?’ I asked Bob.
‘I don’t suppose it’ll make much difference,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have the brown with the cast in its eye.’
That left me with a large grey that appeared to have a good deal of mule in its make-up. I addressed it in what I hoped was a cheerful voice and stepped up to its side, whereupon it waltzed sideways and showed the whites of its eyes.
‘Good boy,’ I crooned huskily, trying to get my foot into the stirrup.
‘It’s not a he, it’s a she,’ said Bob helpfully.
I at last managed to hoist myself on to my mount’s bony back, and I gathered up the reins hastily. Bob’s beast seemed more tractable, letting him get mounted before showing any signs of restiveness. Once he was planted in the saddle, however, it proceeded to walk backwards, quite slowly but with grim determination, and would, I think, have gone on until it reached the Brazilian border if its progress had not been halted by a large and prickly bush. It stopped dead and refused to move.
By this time Francis had mounted his grim black horse and was jogging off down the path, so, with an effort, I pulled my mount over and followed him. Bob’s cries of encouragement to his steed grew faint in the distance. We rounded a corner, and he became lost to view. Presently he caught up with us, his horse cleverly executing a form of motion that was a cross between a walk and a trot, while Bob jolted in the saddle, red in the face, clutching in one hand a large twig with which he belaboured the creature’s backside whenever he could spare a hand to do so. I reigned in and watched his progress with interest.
‘How does it feel?’ I inquired as he passed.
He gave me an awful look.
‘It . . . would . . . be . . . all . . . right . . .’ he replied, speaking between jolts, ‘if . . . he . . . would . . . only . . . move . . . properly.’
‘Wait a second,’ I said helpfully, ‘and I’ll come up behind and give him a slap.’
From behind, Bob and his steed looked as though they were performing an intricate rumba of the more Latin variety. I kicked my mount into a trot, and as I drew level with the waggling rump of the animal in front I gathered up my reins and leant over to give it a slap. Up till then my horse’s actions had been exemplary, but now he decided that I was making a sly and dastardly attack on him for no reason at all, so he gathered himself into a bunch and leapt forward with the alacrity of a grasshopper. I had a quick glimpse of Bob’s surprised face, and then we were shooting down the path towards Francis. As we drew level with him he turned in his saddle and grinned broadly. He chirruped to his horse, flapped the reins on its neck, and, before I realised what was happening, we were galloping neck and neck down the path, Francis uttering strange guttural yelps to his mount to encourage it to further efforts.
‘Francis!’ I yelled. ‘This is not a race . . . I’m trying to stop . . . stop!’
The idea slowly took root in our guide’s mind, and a look of acute disappointment spread over his face. Reluctantly he drew in his horse, and, to my infinite relief, mine followed suit. We stopped and waited until Bob danced up on his animal, and then I worked out a new arrangement:
Francis was to lead, Bob was to follow him, and I was to bring up the rear, and thus keep Bob’s steed up to the mark. So, at a gentle walk, we continued on our way.
The sun was now very hot, and the savannah stretched away before us, shimmering in its rays. Mile upon mile of grassland, green, gold, and brown, and in the distance, it seemed at the very rim of the world, a line of hump-backed mountains of pale greeny-blue. There was no life to be seen on this ocean of grass; the only moving things were ourselves and our shadows. For over two hours we rode through the knee-high grass, led by Francis who was slouching at ease in his saddle, his hat over his eyes, apparently asleep. The monotony of the view and the hot sun made us sleepy, and we followed our guide’s example and dozed.
Suddenly I opened my eyes and found to my surprise that the flat savannah had produced a hollow, a great oval crater with gently sloping sides, and in the centre was a reed-fringed lake, its banks covered with a scattering of stunted bushes. As we skirted the lake everything seemed suddenly to come to life: a small cayman slid into the smooth waters with hardly a ripple; ten jabirus storks marched solemnly along the further shore, gazing down their long beaks in a meditative kind of way; the bushes were full of tiny birds, twittering and fluttering.
‘Bob, wake up and enjoy the fauna,’ I suggested.
He peeped sleepily from under the brim of his hat, said ‘Um’ as intelligently as he could, and went back to sleep again.
Two emerald green lizards darted across the path between my horse’s slowly plodding hoofs, so eager in their pursuit of each other that they never noticed us. A diminutive kingfisher dropped from a branch into the lake and flew up to his perch again with something in his beak. Gold and black dragonflies zoomed about the reeds and hovered over the tiny pink orchids that bloomed like a mist over the swampy ground. On a battered tree stump sat a pair of black vultures: they watched us with a macabre hopefulness that was far from reassuring, in view of our guide’s mental condition. We rode past the lake and headed once more across the grassland, and the twittering of the birds faded and died behind us. Then there was only the steady swish of our horse’s legs pushing through the grass. I went to sleep.
I was awakened b
y my horse ambling to a standstill. I found that Francis had also awakened and now sat on his horse surveying the area like a battered Napoleon. In front of us the land lay flat as a chessboard; on our left the ground rose gently, the slope covered with great clumps of grass and stunted bushes. I rode up alongside our guide and looked at him inquiringly. He waved a brown hand and gestured at the country. I presumed that we had arrived at anteater territory.
‘What is it?’ inquired Bob.
‘I think this is where he saw the anteater.’
Francis, we had been assured, could speak English, and now was the great moment when he was to give us the details of the chase. Looking at me squarely in the eye he proceeded to utter a series of sounds which, for sheer incomprehensibility, I have rarely heard equalled. He repeated it twice while I listened carefully, but still I could not make out a single word that seemed at all familiar. I turned to Bob, who had been easing himself painfully up and down in the saddle and taking no part in this exchange.
‘Didn’t you say you could speak an Indian dialect?’
‘Well, yes. But those were Indians in Paraguay, and I don’t think it’s anything like Munchi.’
‘Can you remember any?’
‘Yes, I think so. Just a smattering.’
‘Well, have a shot at trying to understand what Francis is saying.’
‘Isn’t he talking English?’ asked Bob in surprise.
‘For all I can make of it he might be talking Patagonian. Go on, Francis, say it again.’
Francis, with a long-suffering air, repeated his little speech. Bob listened carefully with a frown on his face.
‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I can’t make anything of it. It’s certainly not English.’
We looked at Francis, and he looked pityingly back at us. Soon, however, an idea occurred to him, and with many gestures and shrill cries he at last managed to explain what he was getting at. This was the place where he had seen the anteater. Somewhere in this area it was probably asleep — here he folded his hands against his cheek, closed his eyes and uttered loud snores. We were to spread out into a line and beat through the undergrowth, making as much noise as possible.
So we spread out at thirty-yard intervals and urged our steeds through the long grass with loud cries and yodellings, feeling somewhat stupid as we did so. Francis, away on my right, was giving a very fair imitation of a pack of hounds in full cry while on my left I could hear Bob singing snatches of Loch Lomond, interspersed with shrill screeches of ‘shoo!’ — a combination guaranteed to flush any anteater. Thus we progressed for about half a mile, until my throat was sore with shouting, and I was beginning to wonder if there really had been an anteater there, or if, indeed, there were any anteaters in Guiana at all. My cries lost their first rich quality and became more like the depressed cawing of a lone crow.
Suddenly Francis uttered a piercing and triumphant cry, and I could see a dark shape bobbing through the long grass in front of his horse. I turned my steed and rode towards it as fast as I could, yelling to Bob as I did so. My horse staggered wildly over the tussocks of grass and the deep heat cracks in the soil as I urged him on. The dark shape burst from the cover of the long grass and started off across a comparatively grassless plain at a rolling gallop, and I saw that it was indeed an anteater, and a bigger one than any I had seen in captivity. He travelled across the plain at remarkable speed, his great icicle-shaped head swinging from side to side, and his shaggy tail streaming out behind him like a pennant. Francis was in hot pursuit, uncoiling his lasso as he rode and cheering his horse on with wild, staccato cries. I had by now extricated my horse from the long grass, and I headed him towards the anteater, but no sooner did he catch sight of our quarry than he decided he did not like it, and he turned and made off in the opposite direction with speed and determination. It took me all my time to turn him, for his mouth was like a bucket, but eventually I managed to gain a certain control over him. Even so, we approached the fray in a circular and crab-like fashion. I was just in time to see Francis gallop alongside the anteater, and, whirling his lasso, drop it over the beast’s head. It was a bad throw, for the noose slipped right over the anteater’s head, and he simply cantered straight through it, swerved wildly and headed back towards the long grass. Francis was forced to pause, haul in his rope and recoil it, and meanwhile the quarry was heading at full speed for thick undergrowth, in which it would be impossible for Francis to lasso him. Urging my reluctant mount forward I succeeded in heading the anteater off, and steering him back on to the plain, and by keeping my horse at a brisk canter I found I could stay alongside the animal.
The anteater galloped on over the plain, hissing and snorting down his long nose, his stunted little legs thumping on the sunbaked earth. Francis caught us up again, spun his rope round two or three times, and dropped it neatly over the animal’s forequarters, pulling the noose tight as it reached its waist. He was off his horse in a second, and, hanging grimly to the rope, he was dragged across the grass by the enraged anteater. Asking Bob to hold the horses, I joined Francis on the end of the rope. The anteater had incredible strength in his thick bow legs and shaggy body, and it was all the two of us could do to bring him to a standstill. Francis, the sweat pouring down his face, peered round; then he uttered a grunt and pointed behind me. Looking round I saw a small tree growing about a hundred yards away, the only one for miles.
Gasping and panting, we managed to chivvy the anteater towards it. When we at length arrived at the tree we succeeded in getting another loop of rope round the angry animal’s body, and then we proceeded to tie the loose end to the trunk of the tree. Just as we were tying the last knot Francis looked up into the branches and gave a warning yelp. Looking up I saw, about two feet above my head, a wasp’s nest about the size of a football, with the entire colony clinging to the outside and looking extremely irritated, to say the least. The anteater’s struggles were making the small tree sway as though struck by a hurricane, and the movement was not appreciated by the wasps. Francis and I backed away, silently and hurriedly. At our retreat the anteater decided to have a short rest before getting down to the stern work of removing the ropes. The tree stopped swaying, and the wasps settled down again.
We made our way back to where Bob was holding the horses and unpacked the various items we had brought with us to capture the anteaters: two large sacks, a ball of thick twine, and some lengths of stout cord. Armed with these and a murderous-looking jack-knife belonging to Francis, we again approached the tree. We were just in time to see the anteater shake himself free of the last loop of rope and waddle off across the savannah. I was only too pleased to leave Francis to disentangle his lasso from the wasp-infested tree, while I pursued the quarry on foot, rapidly tying a slip-knot in a piece of cord as I ran. I dashed up alongside the creature and flung my makeshift lasso at his head. I missed. I tried again with the same result. This went on for some time, until he became a trifle tired of my attention. He suddenly skidded to a standstill, turned, and rose up on his hind legs facing me. I also halted, and examined him warily, particularly the great six-inch claws with which his front feet were armed. He snuffled at me, quivering his long nose, his tiny boot-button eyes daring me to come a step nearer. I walked round him in a circumspect manner, and he revolved also, keeping his claws well to the fore. I made a rather half-hearted attempt to throw the noose over his head, but he greeted this with such a violent waving of his claws, and such enraged snuffling hisses, that I desisted and waited for Francis to bring his lasso. I made a mental note that seeing an animal behind bars in a well-regulated zoo is quite a different matter from trying to catch one armed with a short length of cord. In the distance I could see Francis still trying to disentangle his lasso from the tree without bringing the wasps down about his ears.
The anteater sat down on his tail and proceeded solemnly to brush bits of grass off his nose with his large, curved claws. I had noticed that
each time he hissed or snuffled a stream of saliva dribbled from his mouth, hanging in long and glutinous strands like thick spider’s web. As he galloped across the plain this sticky saliva trailed on the ground and collected bits of grass and twig. Each time he tossed his head in anger these strands of saliva and their debris were flapped on to his nose and shoulders, where they stuck like glue. Now he had come to the conclusion that this armistice was an ideal moment for a quick wash and brush up. Having cleaned his long gray nose to his satisfaction, he then rubbed his shoulders on the grass to free them from the adhesive saliva. Then he rose to his feet, gave an absurdly dog-like shake and plodded off towards the long grass as slowly and calmly as though such things as human beings with lassos had never entered his life. At this moment Francis joined me, out of breath but unstung, carrying his rope; we started after the anteater, who was still shuffling along in a slow, nonchalant way. Hearing our approach he sat down again and watched us in a resigned fashion. With two of us to deal with he was at a distinct disadvantage, and while I attracted his attention Francis crept up behind him, threw the noose over his shoulders and pulled it tight round his waist. He was off again in a moment dashing across the grass and dragging us with him. For half an hour we struggled back and forth across the savannah, but at last we succeeded in getting so many ropes around him that he could not move. Then we thrust him, trussed up and immobile as a Christmas turkey, into the largest sack, and sat down to have a much needed cigarette, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.
But then another snag made itself apparent. All the horses were unanimous in their disapproval when we tried to hoist the sackful of anteater on to their backs. Their alarm was increased by the anteater, who uttered loud and prolonged hisses every time we staggered up to the horses with him. We made several attempts but had to give up, for the horses showed every symptom of indulging in a collective nervous breakdown. After a good deal of thought Francis indicated that the only way out of the difficulty was for me to lead his horse while he followed behind carrying the anteater on his back.
Three Singles to Adventure Page 9