ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY BULLETIN 



19 



WILD HUNTERS OF WILD (JAME 



Bi/ William Beebe 

 ( 'urator of Birds 



J HAVE seen a French front line give way 

 because some quartermaster far in the rear 

 made an error in food and water supply. 1 

 have been in a bombing machine starting on a 

 two-hundred mile trip, which came to grief 

 within sight of its hangar, because a mechanic 

 forgot, or was careless. I have known a great 

 German attack to crumble because distant muni- 

 tion workers misloaded their shells, and three 

 out of every five which fell in the preparatory 

 barrage were duds and failed to explode. 



When creeping up on some big game animal, 

 of what use is your skill in aiming, your free- 

 dom from buck fever, your hunter's knowledge 

 in awaiting just the right moment, if your gun 

 bearer fails you at the last, and your hand, out- 

 stretched behind, fails to receive the rifle, 

 loaded and ready? Many photographs of bird 

 or beast would have been impossible without 

 the intuitive co-operation of the camera bearer 

 — a naked savage perhaps, who could not un- 

 derstand a camera, and whose eyes would fail 

 to recognize even the perspective in a photo- 

 graphic print. Yet if he be a real shikari, he 

 will unfold your graflex, and when your hands 

 are free, .after worming yourself through vines 

 and underbrush, place the -strange black box 

 with its single staring eye in your quivering, 

 outstretched grasp. It takes months to reach 

 the haunts of your big game; a successful stalk 

 may last many hours; but a misjudgment of two 

 seconds on the part of your shikari will make 

 naught of all this preparation. 



1 have hunted with many savage men in many 

 lands, and the best were the Sea Dyaks in cen- 

 tral Borneo, and the worst were the Malays. 



It is an easy thing to become known as a 

 fair-minded and generous Sahib to one's sweep- 

 er and cook and luggage coolies, but to win and 

 hold the respect of your native hunter is no light 

 task. When I meet a man who is a hero to his 

 shikari. I know he is worth knowing in other 

 ways than in the jungle. 



It is contrast that etches deepest into mem- 

 ory, and so I think of my past servants and 

 bearers in pairs — the most aristocratic — the ut- 

 terly slavish; the bravest — the most cowardly; 

 the cleanest — the filthiest. 



Again there comes to mind the incident of 

 Angad Singh. He was a Sikh — handsome as a 

 Greek, dignified and proud as only a Sikh can 



be. For the space of a few months lie was my 

 shikari and syce, and as brave and keen in the 

 hunt as he was courteous and patient. Across 

 my nightly campfire I came to know him more 

 intimately. When the embers glowed brilliant- 

 ly in the utter blackness of night, we drew close, 

 for we were camped near a high pass in north- 

 ern Burma, and the icy breath from the Tibetan 

 snows siphoned down with the mist at night- 

 fall. Twice on similar evenings we had started 

 at the sight of a tall form looming suddenly. 

 ghostly, from the darkness. The apparition 

 made us reach for our weapons, for more than 

 once poisoned arrows had rattled against our 

 canvas, sent from the cross-bow of some Chinese 

 renegade. But we now knew our regular eve- 

 ning visitor would be only Angad Singh, the 

 Sikh, come obviously for the following day's 

 commands, actually in the hope of a chance to 

 talk for a few moments at the sahib's fire. 



Angad Singh was a true Sikh and wore the 

 five k's of his caste — the uncut hair, the short 

 trousers, the iron bangle, the steel dagger, and 

 the comb. His manners were those of a cour- 

 tier. But Angad Singh had a temperate daring 

 which set him apart. Sustained by the thin 

 veil of asking for orders, he stood by our camp- 

 fire each evening, grave, respectful, attentive. 

 I asked after the horses one by one. and ascer- 

 tained that the worn girth had been mended, 

 and I promised punishment for the syce who 

 had driven the extra pack-mule over the aconite 

 meadows, without harm, to be sure, but with a 

 carelessness not to be condoned. 



Then each evening I spoke of some subject 

 casually, very casually, for any more direct 

 speech would touch our difference in caste, and 

 we should both become conscious, and the de- 

 lightfully slender daring of Angad Singh would 

 be ended forever. It was always a subject of 

 my own country and always of war. for the 

 Sikh is first a warrior, and next native, shikari. 

 syce, or what not. And his eyes would glisten, 

 and in the flickering light I would see him sway 

 restlessly, as a tethered elephant sways when 

 the wind blows from swampy jungle. I spoke 

 once of the great war between the North and 

 the South, and of the battle waged at Gettys- 

 burg. After a respectful pause, the question 

 came eagerly, "At this great battle. O Sahib, at 

 the Burg of Gettys. this Pickett Sahib, did he 

 not charge with elephants?'' And I considered 



