It was a bright, sunny day toward the end of October, and I was walking along the streets of the old Portuguese town of Mombasa on the east coast of Equatorial Africa. Behind me, in ragged formation, marched some twenty-five blacks, all but four of them with loads on their heads; the four were my personal “boys,” two gun-bearers, a cook, and a tent-boy. They were scattered among the crowd, hurrying up those that tried to lag behind for a last farewell to the wives and sweethearts who were following along on either side, clad in the dark-blue or more gaudily colored sheets that served them for clothes.

At length our heterogeneous assembly reached the white sands of the harbor, and amid much confusion we stowed away into a couple of long, broad dugouts and were ferried out to a dhow that lay moored not far from the shore. We set sail amid the shrill cries of the women and a crowd of small children who, on our approach, had scurried out of the water like so many black monitor lizards.

We steered out across the bay toward a headland some two miles distant. There was just enough breeze to ruffle the water, but the dhow sped along at a rate that belied appearances. Sprawling among their loads the men lit cigarettes and chatted and joked, talking of the prospects of the trip, or the recent gossip of Mombasa. The sailors, not knowing that I understood Swahili, began to discuss me in loud tones. An awkward silence fell upon the porters, who didn’t quite know how to tell them. Mali, my tent-boy, who was sitting near me, looked toward me and smiled. When the discussion became a little too personal, I turned to him and made a few pertinent remarks about the crew. The porters grinned delightedly, and rarely have I seen more shamefaced men than those sailors.

In far too short a time for all of us the dhow grounded on the other side and we jumped out and started to unload. A giant baobab-tree stood near the beach; a cluster of huts beneath it were occupied by some Swahilis who fished, and ran a small store, where my porters laid in a final supply of delicacies—sugar and tobacco.

It is customary to have a native head man, but on this short trip I had decided to do without one, for though the porters were new, my personal boys were old friends. Accordingly, when all the loads were ready and neatly arranged in line, I shouted “Bandika!” Great muscular black arms caught the packs and swung them up into place on the head, and off we started, along the old coast trail, worn deep with the traffic of centuries, and leading on for several hundred miles with native villages strung along its length. Behind me strode my two gun boys, then came the porters, all in single file, their present regular order a strong contrast with our disordered progress through the streets of Mombasa. Mali and Kombo, the cook, brought up the rear to look out for stragglers, and help unfortunates to rearrange their loads more comfortably.

A little way from the shore we passed an old Arab well; some women were drawing water from it, but at our approach they deserted their earthen jars and hurried away with shrill ejaculations. Fresh from the more arid interior, I imagined that the men would fill their gourds, but they filed past without stopping, for this was a land of many streams.

We continued on our way silently, now through stretches of sandy land covered with stunted bushes, now through native shambas, or cultivated fields, until we came upon a group of natives seated under a gigantic wide-spreading tree. It was a roadside shop, and the porters threw down their loads and shouldered their way to where the shopkeeper was squatting behind his wares—nuts, tobacco, tea, bits of brass wire, beads, and sweetmeats of a somewhat gruesome appearance. He was a striking-looking old fellow with a short gray beard. Pretty soon he came to where I was sitting with a measure of nuts for the white man; so in return I took out my tobacco-pouch and presented him with some of the white man’s tobacco.

After a few minutes’ rest we set out again and marched along for some time until we came to a cocoanut-palm grove, where I decided to camp for the night. The natives we were among were called the WaNyika—the “children of the wilderness.”

Leaving the men to arrange camp under the supervision of the gun-bearers, I strolled over to a nearby village where there was a dance in full swing. The men were regaling themselves with cocoanut-wine, an evil-tasting liquid, made from fermented cocoanut-milk, they told me. The moon, almost at full, was rising when I returned to camp, and after supper I sat and smoked and watched “the night and the palms in the moonlight,” until the local chief, or Sultani, as they called him, came up and presented me with some ripe cocoanuts, and sitting down on the ground beside me he puffed away at his long clay pipe, coughing and choking over the strong tobacco I had given him, but apparently enjoying it all immensely. When he left I remained alone, unable for some time to make up my mind to go to bed, such was the spell of the tropic moonlight and the distant half-heard songs of the dancing “children of the wilderness.”

Early next morning we were on our way, and that night were camped a few hundred yards from the village of a grizzled old Sultani, whose domains lay in the heart of the sable country, for it was in search of these handsome antelopes that I had come. In southern Africa the adult males of the species are almost black, with white bellies, but here they were not so dark in color, resembling more nearly the southern female sable, which is a dark reddish brown. Both sexes carry long horns that sweep back in a graceful curve over the shoulders, those of the male much heavier and longer, sometimes, in the south, attaining five feet in length. The sable antelope is a savage animal, and when provoked, will attack man or beast. The rapier-like horns prove an effective weapon as many a dog has learned to its cost.

My tent was pitched beneath one of the large shade-trees in which the country abounds. This one was the village council-tree, and when I arrived the old men were seated beneath it on little wooden stools. These were each hacked out of a single log and were only five or six inches high. The owner carried his stool with him wherever he went, slinging it over his shoulder on a bit of rawhide or a chain.

There was trouble in the village, for after the first formal greetings were over the old chief told me that one of his sons had just died. There was about to be held a dance in his memory, and he led me over to watch it. We arrived just as the ceremony was starting. Only small boys were taking part in it, and it was anything but a mournful affair, for each boy had strung round his ankles baskets filled with pebbles that rattled in time with the rhythm of the dance. In piping soprano they sang a lively air which, unlike any native music I had hitherto heard, sounded distinctly European, and would scarcely have been out of place in a comic opera.

When the dance was finished the Sultani came back with me to my tent, and sitting down on his stool beside me, we gossiped until I was ready to go to bed. I had given him a gorgeous green umbrella and a most meritorious knife, promising him further presents should success attend me in the chase. He, in addition to the customary cocoanuts, had presented me with some chickens and a large supply of a carrot-shaped root called mihogo; by no means a bad substitute for potatoes, and eaten either raw or cooked; having in the former state a slight chestnut flavor.

The first day’s hunting was a blank, for although we climbed hill after hill and searched the country with my spy-glasses, we saw nothing but some kongoni (hartebeeste), and I had no intention of risking disturbing the country by shooting at them, much as the men would have liked the meat. It was the rainy season, and we were continually getting drenched by showers, but between times the sun would appear and in an incredibly short time we would be dry again. The Sultani had given me two guides, sturdy, cheerful fellows with no idea of hunting, but knowing the country well, which was all we wanted. We loaded them down with cocoanuts, for in the middle of the day when one was feeling tired and hot it was most refreshing to cut a hole in a cocoanut and drink the milk, eating the meat afterward.

The following day we made a very early start, leaving camp amid a veritable tropical downpour. For half an hour we threaded our way through the semi-cultivated native shambas; the rain soon stopped, the sun rose, and we followed an overgrown trail through a jungle of glistening leaves. Climbing a large hill, we sat down among some rocks to reconnoitre. Just as I was lighting my pipe I saw Juma Yohari, one of my gun-bearers, motioning excitedly. I crept over to him and he pointed out, three-quarters of a mile away, a small band of sable crossing a little open space between two thickets. The country was difficult to hunt, for it was so furrowed with valleys, down the most of which there ran streams, that there was very little level land, and that little was in the main bush country—the Bara, as the natives called it. There were, however, occasional open stretches, but during the rainy season, as at present, the grass was so high everywhere that it was difficult to find game. We held a hurried consultation, Juma, Kasitura—my other gun-bearer—and myself; after a short disagreement we decided upon the course, and set out as fast as we safely could toward the point agreed on. It was exhausting work: through ravines, up hills, all amid a tangle of vines and thorns; and once among the valleys it was hard to know just where we were. When we reached what we felt was the spot we had aimed at, we could find no trace of our quarry, though we searched stealthily in all directions. I led the way toward a cluster of tall palms that were surrounded by dense undergrowth. A slight wind rose, and as I entered the thicket with every nerve tense, I heard a loud and most disconcerting crackle that caused me to jump back on to Yohari, who was close behind me. He grinned and pointed to some great dead palm-leaves pendant along the trunk of one of the trees that the wind had set in motion. The next instant I caught sight of a pair of horns moving through the brush. On making out the general outline of the body, I fired. Another antelope that I had not seen made off, and taking it for a female I again fired, bringing it down with a most lucky shot. I had hoped to collect male, female, and young for the museum, so I was overjoyed, believing that I had on the second day’s hunting managed to get the two adults. Yohari and Kasitura thought the same, but when we reached our quarry we found them to be both males; the latter a young one, and the former, although full grown in body, by no means the tawny black color of an old bull. We set to work on the skins, and soon had them off. Juma took one of the Shenzies[2] and went back to camp with the skins, while Kasitura and I went on with the other. We returned to camp by moonlight that night without having seen any more game. The porters had gone out and brought in the meat and there was a grand feast in progress.

After some antelope-steak and a couple of cups of tea I tumbled into bed and was soon sound asleep. The next thing I knew I was wide awake, feeling as if there were fourscore pincers at work on me. Bounding out of bed, I ran for the camp-fire, which was still flickering. I was covered with ants. They had apparently attacked the boys sleeping near me at about the same time, for the camp was in an uproar and there was a hurrying of black figures, and a torrent of angry Swahili imprecations. There was nothing for it but to beat an ignominious retreat, and we fled in confusion. Once out of reach of reinforcements we soon ridded ourselves of such of our adversaries as were still on us. Fortunately for us the assault had taken place not long before dawn, and we returned to camp safely by daylight.

That day we moved camp to the top of a neighboring hill, about a mile from the village. I spent the morning working over the skins which I had only roughly salted the night before; but in the afternoon we sallied forth again to the hunt.

We went through several unsuccessful days before I again came up with sable. Several times we had met with fresh tracks, and in each case Kasitura, who was a strapping Basoga from a tribe far inland and an excellent tracker, took up the trail and did admirable work. The country was invariably so dense and the game so wary that in spite of Kasitura’s remarkable tracking, only on two occasions did we sight the quarry, and each time it was only a fleeting glimpse as they crashed off. I could have had a shot, but I was anxious not to kill anything more save a full-grown female or an old master bull; and it was impossible to determine either sex or age.

On what was to be our last day’s hunting we made a particularly early start and pushed on and on through the wild bushland, stopping occasionally to spy round from some vantage-point. We would swelter up a hill, down into the next valley among the lovely tall trees that lined the brook, cross the cool, rock-strewn stream, and on again. The sable fed in the open only in the very early morning till about nine o’clock, then they would retreat into the thickets and doze until four or five in the afternoon, when they would again come out to feed. During the intervening time our only chance was to run across them by luck, or find fresh tracks to follow. On that particular day we climbed a high hill about noon to take a look round and have a couple of hours’ siesta. I found a shady tree and sat down with my back against the trunk. Ten miles or so away sparkled and shimmered the Indian Ocean. On all sides stretched the wonderful bushland, here and there in the distance broken by little patches of half-cultivated land. There had been a rain-storm in the morning, but now the sun was shining undimmed. Taking from my hunting-coat pocket Borrow’s Wild Wales, I was soon climbing far-distant Snowdon with Lavengro, and was only brought back to realities by Juma, who came up to discuss the afternoon’s campaign. We had scarcely begun when one of the Shenzies, whom I had sent to watch from a neighboring hill, came up in great excitement to say that he had found a large sable bull. We hurried along after him, and presently he pointed to a thicket ahead of us. Leaving the rest behind, Juma and I proceeded cautiously toward the thicket. We found two sable cows, which Juma felt sure were all that there were in the thicket, whereas I could not help putting some faith in the Shenzi who had been very insistent about the “big bull.” I was convinced at length that Juma was right, so I took aim at the better of the cows. My shooting was poor, for I only crippled her, and when I moved up close for a final shot she attempted to charge, snorting savagely, but too badly hit to cause any trouble.

We had spent some time searching for the bull, so that by the time we had the skin off, the brief African twilight was upon us. We had been hunting very hard for the last week, and were all of us somewhat fagged, but as we started toward camp I soon forgot my weariness in the magic of the night. Before the moon rose we trooped silently along, no one speaking, but all listening to the strange noises of the wilderness. We were following a rambling native trail, which wound along a deep valley beside a stream for some time before it struck out across the hills for camp. There was but little game in the country, still occasionally we would hear a buck that had winded us crashing off, or some animal splashing across the stream. In the more open country the noise of the cicadas, loud and incessant, took me back to the sound of the katydids in summer nights on Long Island. The moon rose large and round, outlining the tall ivory-nut palms. It was as if we were marching in fairyland, and with real regret I at length caught the gleam of the camp-fire through the trees.

It was after ten o’clock, when we had had something to eat, but Juma, Kasitura, and I gathered to work on the sable, and toiled until we began to nod off to sleep as we skinned.

Next morning I paid my last visit to the old Sultani, rewarding him as I had promised and solemnly agreeing to come back and live with him in his country. The porters were joyful, as is always the case when they are headed for Mombasa. Each thought of the joyous time he would have spending his earnings, and they sang in unison as they swung along the trail—careless, happy children. I, too, was in the best of spirits, for my quest had been successful, and I was not returning empty-handed.

III
The Sheep of the Desert