Thirty-seven Years a Hunter

I was born on March 22nd, 1869 to Cecil Adderly, a Presbyterian missionary to the Creek tribe in Oklahoma Territory, and his wife, Ellen. My father did the missionary work relative to converting the Creek Indians to Christianity. He also supplied the Creek with things the US government had promised but never delivered.

My mother served as a nurse to the sick and to the Creek women in childbirth, and taught English and mathematics in the missionary school. She also made sure I was well versed in English, mathematics, geography, and history. She said she would not have her son grow up ignorant and unable to express himself in proper English like most of the people living in Oklahoma Territory at the time.

I do not remember much about my earliest years. They were the years most children experience, I would suppose, years of carefree play at anything and everything. Most children would have played with their siblings or with other children who lived in the same town. I played with the boys of the Creek tribe as there were no other white children on the reservation.

Our "play" was more learning the ways of the Creek than anything else. While my mother attempted to civilize the Creek boys, their fathers were teaching them the old Creek ways. As a result, I learned many of those ways, and some, like tracking, hunting, and the butchering of animals were to prove very useful in my future life.

By the time I was fourteen, I could track most animals and people even through thick brush or over hard ground and rock, could catch a rabbit in a snare or stalk and kill a deer with only a knife, and could bring that meat back for the family table. I was happy with my new knowledge. My mother and father were not. My father's intent was for me to follow in his footsteps and pursue a career in theology. My mother's wish was that I would become a schoolteacher and teach on the Creek reservation.

All those goals ended the winter of my fifteenth year when my father was stricken with the grippe and died. Since he was the actual missionary and my mother was not, all assistance from the missionary group ended. The Creek were happy to have my father preach to them and for my mother to teach them, but were not willing to be the sole support for a mother and her son. My mother would be forced to move back to Illinois to live with her family.

It was to both our dismay that we learned Father's generosity toward the Creek had been accomplished to some extent by the borrowing of funds from a bank. After his death, Mother was responsible for repaying those funds, but she had no way to do so. After some negotiations with the bank, it was agreed I would work on a cattle ranch in Texas owned by the President of the bank. My servitude would last until the loan was repaid. So began the second part of my education.

Life on a cattle ranch was both exciting hard work and endless hours of boredom. Spring was the time calves were born, and the time the cattle were rounded up for branding and castrating the bull calves. Those were days of rising at dawn, working with struggling cattle until dusk, and then falling into bed nearly too tired to fall asleep. As I had not yet gained my full height and weight, my job that first spring was to maintain the fire for the branding irons and to collect the severed testicles of the bull calves. Most of those were sold to the hotel restaurant in the town ten miles from the ranch, and it was my responsibility to ride a horse those ten miles with a bucket of testicles hanging from the horn of the saddle. The cook there would bread them with flour and serve them to people who ate at the restaurant.

I would start after the mid-day meal and arrive back at the ranch late at night. The reward for my trouble was a plate of "calf fries" and fried potatoes saved for me by the cook. While calf fries were not my favorite food, being of a somewhat unusual texture, they did make a filling meal after nearly eight hours in the saddle.

Summer was cutting out the fattened steers from the prior year's calves and then driving them to market. That trip usually took around four months because cattle were sold based upon their weight, and cattle will lose weight if forced to walk long distances every day. By fall, the cattle would be safely in a pen near a railroad, and we cowboys would be on our way back to the ranch.

Winter was a time for repairs to harness, gates, and any of the many things that break on a ranch. While the work was not difficult, it did require strength in some cases. In most cases, like re-stitching the traces on a draft harness, it was just boring, tedious work.

Three years later, that difficult work and varied tasks had changed me. I'd grown to a full six feet tall and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. I'd also learned how to run a ranch, how to break and handle horses, and how to repair my own clothing. Due to a bad sprain caused by wrestling with a stubborn bull calf, I was assigned to assist the cook for two weeks and learned how to cook. That three years also served to square things with the bank. I was free to choose my path in life.

My intention was to remain a cowhand, at least until I could save enough money to buy some cattle of my own. I did begin working toward that goal, but some new expenses were forced upon me. During the term required to repay my father's debt, the ranch owner had furnished me a horse, saddle, and bridle. Once the debt was paid, I drew wages and had to purchase my own mount and equipment.

On the drives to take cattle to market, I had witnessed other cowhands shooting a wolf following the herd, and the cook shot a deer now and then as a welcome change from our normal food. Toward that end, I purchased a Winchester 1873 rifle and a scabbard to carry it on my saddle. Once I'd made those purchases, I began saving my money.

That plan changed as well one spring a year later when I delivered the bucket of calf testicles to the diner in town. There on the wall of the diner was an advertisement from the US Cavalry for experienced trackers to track down Apache Indians who wouldn't go to the reservation.

They promised more money than I could have made on a ranch, and it seemed like tracking wild Indians would be more of a challenge than wrestling muddy calves. I sent my application on the next train, and three weeks later, I received notice of my hiring and where I should report.

I am not particularly proud of my time as an Army Scout. Tracking Indians was a rewarding challenge because they were very skilled a hiding the tracks they left behind. Seeing their fate once I led the Army troops to their location was not. I had been led to believe that once found, the Indians would be transported to the designated reservation in Oklahoma. That was the case part of the time, but other times, what I had done was arrange for their deaths in a volley of rifle fire. In my way of thinking, the Apache Indians were not all that different from the Creek boys I'd grown up with. They only wanted to live as they had for untold years. That they fought back was as much the fault of government not keeping their promises as the desire of the Indians to remain free to roam their old territory.

Had I not given my word to support the US Cavalry, I would have left after the first such instance where the Indians were killed. I could not go back on my word though, and so kept tracking Apaches for two years. After that, I was free to do as I pleased, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I left the fort as a civilian again.

What I was to do next had been the subject of my thoughts for about six months. I had considered going back to the life of cowhand, but I remembered the back breaking work and the boredom. The military life had been easier and more exciting, but was too confining for my liking. I had been told where to go and what to do and not do since the age of fifteen and I was tired of it. I wanted the freedom to do as I wanted, when I wanted, and where I wanted.

As well as the changes that had happened in my life over the last five years, the West I had loved as a boy had changed as well. While there were still some areas where one could truly be free, they were rapidly disappearing as more settlers moved in. More settlers meant towns and towns meant laws that had to be obeyed, no matter how confining those laws were.

The answer came to me a week before I left the US Cavalry. During a conversation with a sergeant, I learned of a man named Albert Jordan. According to the sergeant, who had known him when they both worked as cowhands, Albert had decided to leave Texas because of some trouble he'd gotten himself into. That trouble was he'd shot the son of the local mayor in a fair fight, but the mayor didn't see it the same way. He was looking for a way to put Albert in jail.

The sergeant said Albert had, "Up and gone to Africa". When I asked why he would go to Africa, the sergeant smiled.

"Well, Albert heared about these English hunters that shoots these big cats they gots over there so's they don't eat the cows them black fellers over there raise. He figured he'd go git a job doin' that. He heared they's rich fellers from England what goes to Africa to shoot elephants and lions and all sorts of other stuff, an' they pay real good for somebody to take 'em where them animals are. He figured if'n the lion shootin' don't work out, he can guide them rich fellers to where they can shoot whatever they want. Don't know if'n he did ner not, but that mayor cain't git to him way over there, now can he?"

I thought about that when I went to bed that night. I wasn't too interested in shooting lions, but being a guide seemed a lot like being a Calvary scout. I could track about anything that walked or crawled, so finding animals shouldn't be much of a problem. I'd have to learn how Africa was different, but that would be more exciting than anything I could do in Texas.

There was only one way to find out. Because I was on the trail most of my time in the US Cavalry, I'd not spent much of my pay. Between the train to Galveston and my passage on a steamship to Mombasa, I spent almost two thirds of my money. Once I'd booked my passage, I sold old Blue, my horse, and my saddle and bridle, but I kept my Winchester. If I was going to guide hunters, I'd surely need a rifle.

The trip to Mombasa is best left undescribed as it was long and boring most of the time. Going through the Mediterranean and then down the Suez Canal was more interesting. In the Mediterranean, I saw many other ships, most of them under sail. The going was slower in the Suez Canal, but at times the steamer was relatively close to one bank or the other and I saw many different kinds of wildlife.

From a distance, the port of Mombasa did not look much different than the port I'd left at Galveston. Once the steamer was docked though, the view was much different. At the port in Galveston, most of the people walking around had been white. In Mombasa, the opposite was true. Only the officials operated the port were white. The laborers were all black. While this was an odd sight, it did not concern me. I had worked with black cowhands on the ranch and other than the color of their skin, didn't seem to be much different than the white cowhands.

What was more unusual was the dress of those workers. In Texas, most black people wore the same clothing as I did. In Mombasa the usual dress for men appeared to be just a thin cloth wrap that was draped over one shoulder and wrapped around the body or a sort of loincloth much like the American Indians sometimes wore. The dress of the women was quite a shock to me. Some wore the same cloth wrap as the men, but more than a few wore only a skirt of the same type of material and their breasts were completely exposed. At first I thought that could be explained by the fact that many of these women were suckling a baby, but I saw that the same dress was worn by women far past the years of bearing children.

Where an American woman would have rather been shot dead than to expose her bare breasts to any except her husband, these women seemed to not be embarrassed in the least. The men also seemed to take no notice. I confess I was more than a little affected by this sight, it being the first time in my life I had seen the sight. Attempting to divert my eyes had no effect because half-naked women were on all sides of me.

It was in an attempt to look away I spied a white man in a military uniform. As I was now in Africa, but unemployed and with meager finances, I thought perhaps he might direct me to an employer. I walked up to him, smiled, and asked where I might apply to guide hunters into the interior in search of game.

The man looked me up and down, and then in a very British accent said, "American, I assume?"

I nodded.

"Yes, I'm from Texas."

He frowned.

"I fear you have been misinformed. There are no such companies in Mombasa. There are only a handful of British ex-military officers who from time to time guide expeditions into the interior. Africa is much different from any other place in the world, and you know nothing about the terrain and wildlife. You would best serve your interests if you were to return to America."

It was a disappointment to learn that there were no actual companies who needed guides, but wasn't going to let him change my mind, not after all the time I'd spent on that steamer getting here.

"I came all this way to try my hand at guiding hunters. Would you know of anyone who might take me on, even if it's just for the work I can do in exchange for room and board?"

He stroked his chin, then frowned again.

"There is one man, a fellow Brit, who is making up an expedition of exploration into the interior. If I am to understand correctly, he has hired the services of Harold Smythe as his guide. Harold can be a true bloody bastard at times, but he is basically an honest man. He could possibly be in need of an assistant. The last man who worked with him was mauled by a leopard, and to my knowledge Harold has not found a substitute."

He gave me directions to Mr. Smythe's home, and I walked there immediately. I found Mr. Smythe on what served as a front porch of his house and sipping from a glass I later learned contained gin and tonic. Harold was maybe fifty and looked to be in pretty good shape for a man that old. He wasn't particularly tall, but he looked strong as an ox. He also looked as if this gin and tonic was the last of several. He was sprawled in his chair instead of actually sitting there.

I extended my hand and introduced myself.

"Mr. Smythe...Mr. Harold Smythe? I am John Briscoe Adderly. An English officer at the port told me you might be in the need of an assistant. I am here to apply for the job."

He looked up at me and blinked a couple of times like he was trying to focus his eyes. Surprisingly his speech was not slurred as I had expected.

"Just because 'e's a damned officer in 'er Majesty's Royal Navy, that damned brother of mine is always trying to look out for me. Well, I was in the Royal Army, the real fighting army. Fought at Rorke's Drift in '79. William's never been in battle so 'e don't know what it takes to be a real man. All 'e knows is 'ow to look pretty in 'is uniform. I took a ball in the leg from a Zulu musket at Rorke's and the surgeon said I'd never walk again, but I can stand on my own two feet against any man. Here, I'll be showing you that right now."

Harold attempted to get out of his chair, but while his own two feet seemed pretty stable, his own two legs weren't up to the task. I caught him as he was falling face first onto the porch floor, but nearly dropped him the rest of the way down. He was so drunk he basically went limp in my hands and he was heavy. When I finally got him back in his chair, Harold looked up at me and smiled.

"Young fellow, a lot of men would have let me fall. I'll be thanking you. You 'ad your dinner yet?"

When I said I hadn't, Harold bellowed, "Kam, there'll be one more for dinner tonight."

A couple of minutes later, an older black woman in a colorful dress walked out of the door. I'd expected a native language or at least a strong accent, but her speech sounded very English.

"Mister Smythe, you need not yell. I am old but I am not deaf. I have a kudu roast in the oven and it will be ready in half an hour. I will set another place at the table for your guest."

She looked me up and down and then smiled.

"Welcome to Mombasa, Mr..."

"Adderly", I replied, "John Adderly".

"Welcome to Mombasa, Mr. Adderly. Will you be staying the night? If you are, I will make up a bed for you."

Before I could answer, Harold bellowed again.

"Woman, of course 'e's staying the night. Any man who keeps me from falling on my arse deserves dinner and a bed."

The woman looked back at me and smiled again.

"Mr. Smythe acts this way because of the gin and tonic. He is usually more civilized."

With that, she turned and walked back into the house. Harold watched her then muttered, "Damned woman tells everything she knows", then looked up at me.

"Kam is Swahili and 'er real name is Kamaria but I call 'er Kam. It means bright like the moon in Swahili. That's what she is -- Swahili. She isn't my servant like it looks. She's more wife than servant. Kam lives with me and does my cooking and cleaning. That's because 'er husband' was my head man 'til 'e got killed by a rhino 'e surprised one day.

"Widow-women in Africa sort of get passed around to the dead husband's brothers an' cousins, and they can't own anything. Kam knew what was going to 'appen to 'er if she stayed in 'er village and told the village she wasn't going to do it. They forced 'er to leave with just the clothes on 'er back. Well, she found me, and promised to take care of me if I'd take care of 'er. I didn't know 'er then, but she spoke good English. Learned 'er English from a missionary school when she was younger. She seemed like a nice woman, so I said she could stay. Been with me for almost twenty years now."

Harold chuckled then.

"Only thing wrong with Kam is she says what she thinks all the time. If I didn't like 'er, I'd have thrown 'er out on her arse years ago."

"So she's your wife?"

Harold shook his head.

"No, she just lives with me. White people around here don't approve of a white man marrying a native woman. Oh, you can fuck 'em all you want, but you can't marry one. We never did anything like that anyway and we're both too old to do anything now. I just like 'er and she likes me, though you wouldn't know it sometimes."

When Kam came back outside, she said dinner was ready. Between the two of us, we got Harold to his feet and walked him inside to the table.

Kam's kudu roast tasted a lot like venison to me, and it was really good. The bed she showed me after dinner was an actual bed, and not just a cot like I'd had on the steamer. Before she left the room, she smiled again.

"Harold...I call him Mr. Smythe when someone is visiting because that is the proper way, but to me he's just Harold. He'll be better tomorrow morning, you'll see, and he's a good man. He won't forget that you helped him tonight, just like he didn't forget the wife of the man who worked for him."

I went to bed thinking Harold and Kam might not be man and wife legally, but they acted a lot like I remembered my mother and father acting.

That night was the start of an experience in understanding how little I really knew from a man who knew more than I thought any one man could ever know. Harold knew the habits of the animals down to the smallest detail, and understood how to get the natives to do what he needed them to do without driving them like slaves. For both, he was respected by the natives if not by his brother. I think Harold was pleased with the former. He didn't give a hoot about the latter. More than once he described his brother as a pompous arse who couldn't find his own arse with both hands and a mirror.