Feb. 2, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
169 
A Camp Tragedy Avenged. 
One dark windy night on the Limpopo River, 
a terrible tragedy happened in his camp. The 
appalling roar of a lion was heard, followed by 
the shrieking of Hottentots, then one of them, 
Stofolus, rushed up to his master’s wagon 
shrieking out, “The lion! The lion! He has 
got Hendrick. Hendrick is dead!” It was 
too true. Hendrick, Cumming’s most trusty 
Hottentot, had been seized by the camp-fire and 
carried off. They did what they could, but on 
such a night, pitch dark and windy, little could 
be attempted. The dogs were encouraged to 
attack the dangerous brute, but the lion re¬ 
peatedly drove them off, and, s.afe in his bushy 
lair, actually devoured the unfortunate man 
within fifty yards of the camp. “As day broke,” 
says Cumming. “we heard the lion dragging 
something up the river side, under the cover of 
the bank, and we proceeded to inspect the scene 
of the night’s awful tragedy. In the hollow, 
where the beast had consumed its prey, we 
found one leg of the unfortunate Hendrick, 
bitten off below the knee, the shoe still on his 
foot; the grass and bushes were all stained with 
blood, and fragments of his pea coat lay around. 
Poor Hendrick! I knew that old coat, and had 
often seen some of its shreds in the dense 
coverts where the elephants had charged after 
my unfortunate after-rider. Hendrick was by 
far the best man I had—of a most cheerful dis¬ 
position, a first-rate wagon driver, fearless in 
the field, very active, willing and obliging, and 
his loss to us all was very serious. I felt sick at 
heart, and could not remain at the wagons, so 
I resolved to go after the elephants to divert my 
mind.” Gordon Cumming shot an elephant and 
returned to camp two hours before sunset; then 
he orders horses to be saddled and goes in 
search of the man eater. The lion had taken 
covert in some reeds, and the dogs were sent 
in to dislodge him. He held up the river.bank, 
but presently turned and stood at bay. “As I 
approached,” says Cumming, “its horrid head 
was to me, his jaws open, growling fiercely and 
his tail waving from side to side. 
“On beholding the brute, my blood boiled 
with rage, and, setting my teeth, I dashed my 
steed forward within thirty yards of him, and 
shouting ‘Your time is up, old fellow,’ placed 
my rifle to my shoulder and waited for a broad¬ 
side. This the next moment he exposed, when 
I sent a bullet through his shoulder and dropped 
him on the spot; he again rose, but I finished 
him with a second in the breast. The natives 
now came up in wonder and delight, and order¬ 
ing John to cut off his head and forepaws and 
bring them to the wagons, I mounted my horse 
and galloped home, having been absent about 
fifteen minutes. When the Bakalahari women 
heard that the man-eater was dead, they danced 
for joy, calling me their ‘father’.” Thus was 
poor Hendrick avenged.” 
Gordon Cumming passed through much of 
the country of the Bechuanas before a shot from 
the rifle had ever wakened its savage echoes. 
Much of the territory was absolutely virgin 
ground, and he found the great game there 
wandering in their- primeval solitudes just as 
they had wandered through uncounted years 
of the past. He often waxes enthusiastic in his 
descriptions. One can hardly wonder at his joy 
and delight. Ascending a mountain in the 
Bakwena country, he says: “I obtained a 
glorious view of the surrounding country; it 
was truly a fine and boundless prospect; 
beautifully wooded plains and mountains 
stretched away on every side until distance was 
lost among the faint blue outlines of the moun¬ 
tain range. Throughout all this country, and 
vast tracts beyond it, I had the satisfaction to 
reflect that a never-ending succession of herds 
of every species of noble game which the hunter 
could desire pastured there in undisturbed se¬ 
curity, and as I gazed I felt that it was all my 
own, and that I at length possessed the undis¬ 
puted sway over a forest in comparison with 
which the most extensive moor and mountain 
tracts of the wealthiest European sportsman 
sink into utter insignificance.” Truly the lot 
of the big game hunters of those early Victorian 
days was an enviable one. His first giraffe was 
shot in this magnificent country of Middle 
Bechuanaland, even at the present day—although 
most of the game has gone—one of the most 
beautiful regions of all South Africa. 
His First Giraffe. 
A little before sunset his driver remarked to 
him: “I was going to say, sir, that that old tree 
was a camelopard.” Looking where the man 
pointed, Cumming saw that the old tree was in¬ 
deed a giraffe, and turning his eyes a little to the 
right beheld a troop of these stately creatures, 
standing at gaze, “their heads actually towering 
above the trees of the forest.” It was late, but 
the fiery Highlander galloped straight at the 
troop and presently ranging close up to .the 
stern, of a fat cow he brought her down. 
“No pen or words,” he writes, “can convey 
to a sportsman what it is to ride in the midst 
of a troop of gigantic giraffes; it must be ex¬ 
perienced to be understood; they emitted a 
powerful perfume, which in the run came hot 
into my face, reminding me of the smell of a 
hive of heather honey in September. The greater 
part of this chase led through bushes of wait-a- 
bit thorns of the most effective description, and 
my legs and arms were covered with blood long 
before I had finished the giraffe. I rode as 
usual in the kilt, with my arms bare to the 
shoulder—it was Chapelpark of Badenoch’s old 
gray kilt, but in this gallop it received its death 
blow.” 
A wonderful game country it must have been. 
“I had ridden,” he says, “only a short distance 
across the valley when I fell in with a troop of 
blue wildebeest (brindled gnu), and presently 
saw seven majestic koodoos standing on the 
mountain side high above me; in trying to stalk 
these I disturbed a troop of graceful pallahs 
and a herd of zebras, which clattered along the 
mountain and spoiled my stalk with the koo¬ 
doo. To these succeeded a large herd of 
buffaloes, reclining under a clump of mimosa 
trees, and, securing my horse to a tree. I pro¬ 
ceeded to stalk in on them, and killed the 
patriarch of the herd, which, as usual, brought 
up the rear.” Next day, he sallies out again, 
picks up a large herd of buffalo, gives chase, 
and, after an exciting hunt full of danger and 
surprises, slays two magnificent old bulls. Re¬ 
turning to the wagons, by way of light recrea¬ 
tion he bowls over “a stag sassaby and a princely 
old buck pallah.” 
In his very first elephant hunt, which hap¬ 
pened in this country, Cumming was within an 
ace of coming to grief. He wounded a big cow 
with fine tusks. “Having placed myself,” he 
says, “between her and the retreating troop, I 
dismounted within forty yards of her in open 
ground, and Colesberg being extremely frigh¬ 
tened, gave me much trouble, jerking my arm 
when I tried to fire. At length I let fly, but on 
endeavoring to regain the saddle, my horse 
would not allow me to mount; and when I tried 
to lead him, and run for it, he backed toward 
the wounded elephant. At this moment I heard 
another close behind me; and looking about 
beheld the ‘friend’ (which had previously en¬ 
deavored to assist the wounded cow), with up¬ 
lifted trunk, charging down upon me at top 
speed, trumpeting shrilly and following an old 
deaf pointer named Schwarts, that trotted along 
before the enraged • animal. I felt certain she 
would have either me or the horse.” Luckily, 
at this critical moment, the dogs came up and 
took off the attention of the charging elephant; 
and Cumming, springing into the saddle, was 
presently able to finish his task and bring down 
the first of many a huge elephant slain in 
Africa. She carried a pair of long and perfect 
tusks, and the sportsman was, naturally, in high 
spirits at his success. 
A Sportsman’s Noblest Prize. 
Gordon Cumming was particularly fond of 
night shooting, and, lying in some small hole 
by some desert pool or fountain, watched the 
many species of game arrive, after their long 
thirsty day under the African sun, and drink 
deeply. In those days and for long after, while 
game remained plentiful in South Africa, many 
great hunters indulged themselves in this pur¬ 
suit. The sport seems to have had a peculiar 
fascination, and under the wonderful African 
moonlight some of the strangest sights and 
the most exciting adventures were experienced. 
It was not an uncommon thing for Cumming 
to slay a couple of rhinoceroses, a lion, and 
perhaps a buffalo and an antelope or two in the 
course of a single night. Having bagged his 
fiftieth elephant and a lioness a day or two be¬ 
fore, Cumming, on the 3d of September, 1848, . 
went down to a fountain in the Bamangwato 
country, and betook himself to his hiding place, 
having baited the ground for lions with a dead 
pallah antelope shot that afternoon. It was 
clear moonlight, and his men had scarcely lain 
down upon their blankets when the terrible 
voice of a lion was heard to the eastward. Cum¬ 
ming had already slain a white rhinoceros, and 
a troop of wild dogs having attempted to carry 
off the dead pallah, he had fired into them. 
Then came a clattering of hoofs and an im¬ 
mense herd of brindled gnu approached the 
water. As they drank, the hunter shot the lead¬ 
ing cow, which ran sixty yards up the slope be¬ 
hind them and fell dead. “Soon after,” he says, 
“a lion gave a most appalling roar on the bushy 
height opposite, which was succeeded by a 
death-like silence that lasted for nearly a minute. 
I had then only one shot in my four barrels, 
and hastily loading, kept with breathless at¬ 
tention the strictest watch in front, expecting 
every moment to see the terrible king of beasts 
approaching, but he was too cunning.” After 
fifteen minutes of anxious suspense “I heard 
the hyaenas and jackals give way on either 
side behind me, and turning my head round 
beheld a huge and majestic lion, with a black 
mane which nearly swept the ground, standing 
over the carcass.” Seizing the dead gnu, the 
lion dragged it some distance up the hill and 
halted to take breath. “I had not,” continues 
the hunter, “an instant to lose; he stood with 
his right side exposed to me in a very slanting 
position, the ball took effect and the lion sank 
to the shot. All was still as dqath for many 
seconds, when he uttered a deep growl, and 
slowly gaining his feet, limped toward the 
cover, where he halted, roaring mournfully as if 
dying.” It was still night, and night in the 
lion veldt is never, too safe, but, anxious to 
preserve his trophy from the attacks of the 
hyaenas and jackals, Cumming went back to 
camp, brought out dogs and a couple of horses, 
and sought the lion. He found him stretched 
dead. “No description,” he says “could give 
a correct idea of the surpassing beauty of this 
most majestic animal as he still lay warm before 
me. I lighted a fire and gazed with delight 
upon his lovely black mane, his massive arms, 
his sharp yellow nails, his hard and terrible 
head, his immense and powerful teeth, his per¬ 
fect beauty and symmetry throughout; and felt 
that I had won the noblest prize that this wide 
world could yield to a sportsman.” Night 
shooting, it is to be remarked, is by -no means 
so easy as it sounds from the great hunter’s 
description. Even under a brilliant moon, as 1 
can testify, the light is not the same as under 
the clear sunshine, and the shot can never be 
so certain. Gordon Cumming’s immense and 
most varied bags at this species of shooting, 
are, setting aside the risks he always ran, all 
the more wonderful. 
Anchoring a Hippo. 
Fear, however, was a thing absolutely un¬ 
known to such a man. He would tackle any¬ 
thing living. The great python of Africa is 
not the kind of creature that the average man 
cares about handling in the wild state. A fear¬ 
some looking serpent, having great con¬ 
strictive power and attaining as much as 20 feet 
in length, it is far from an attractive object in 
natural history. Yet Cumming once seized one 
of these monsters by the tail just as it was en¬ 
tering a crevice beneath a mass of rock, and 
getting a rawhide thong round the middle of 
its body tugged at it with the aid of his Hotten¬ 
tot, Kleinboy, until the reptile relaxed his hold. 
The snake suddenly springing out at them open- 
jawed snapped within a foot of their legs. Re-- 
leasing his hold, Cumming quickly overtook the 
