Thirty-seven Years a Hunter

Harold did need a man to help him with the expedition he'd been hired to lead. He did fine guiding hunters and explorers because the pace was slow. He didn't do so well with the porters because of a limp caused by his leg injury and porters must travel quickly. That is so camp will be already set up and functioning when the client arrives after his foray into the bush.

To that end, I stayed with the porters while he led the client into the bush. We'd arrange a place to stop for lunch, so the porters and I traveled there to set up some tables and prepare lunch. The head man would lead the way, and by the time Harold and the clients arrived, the teapot would be boiling, a table and chairs would be set under an awning, and lunch would be ready. I wasn't really needed to do anything because that was the job of the head man. Harold just put me there to learn about how things work in the bush.

After lunch, we'd do the same thing, except that was my time to hunt. We had fifty porters and fifty porters eat a lot. It was my responsibility to bring down a couple tommies or a larger antelope at least every other day. The head man would have the carcass dressed out and carried along to our campsite. Once there, that meat would become dinner for the whole camp.

After the evening meal, Harold would open the box that held our supply of liquor and offer drinks to the clients and to me. Most, since they were English, favored either gin and tonic or scotch whiskey. Not wanting to seem like I was different, I tried both, but couldn't stomach the gin and tonic. It tasted too much like the medicine my mother gave me for a cold. I did develop a taste for scotch though.

I noticed early on that Harold limited himself to one gin and tonic a night. That was to prove his routine when on safari. While he often drank himself to sleep when at home in Mombasa, I never saw him drunk while in the bush, and one night on that first safari, I understood why.

We never traveled far in one day, maybe ten miles or so. Harold said that was because clients didn't want to be so tired they couldn't go on the next day. As a result, dinner was at about six in the evening and there were about two hours of daylight left after we finished eating. Those hours were spent by playing card games or just sitting around the fire and listening to Harold tell his many stories.

It was such a night that I learned an important lesson. The evening breeze was cooling of the heat of the day a little, and the sounds that came to us from the distance told us the night animals were beginning to stir. We were camped in a small clearing near a river, so we also heard the frogs advertising for mates. Harold was telling a story about a rhino he'd tracked for a client when one of the porters who had been washing pots in the river ran into the camp. He was yelling "tembo akija, tembo akija" -- elephant coming, elephant coming.

I started for my tent for my Winchester, but Harold caught my arm.

"John, sit still while I take care of this."

Then he called to Knumbo, his Swahili gunbearer.

"Knumbo, the four-bore".

Knumbo was in his usual place. He was never more than ten feet from Harold. I'd thought that a little odd to, but learned the reason as well that evening.

Knumbo handed Harold the massive rifle, a short, double barreled rifle that shot a cartridge nearly as long as my hand and almost an inch in diameter. I'd never seen Harold shoot the heavy gun, but I could see why. My Winchester with it's 44-40 cartridge were fine for antelope and other small game because it didn't destroy much meat. The big four-bore would have ruined half an antelope carcass.

Harold slightly broke the breach to confirm the rifle was loaded, then started walking in the direction from which the porter had come. He had only gone about twenty feet when a massive elephant with equally massive tusks smashed through the trees at a run. Harold waited until the elephant was twenty yards from his position, then cocked both hammers, raised the rifle and sighted down the barrels.

He let the elephant get five yards closer before pulling the trigger. The rifle belched a cloud of thick smoke and the elephant slowed, but didn't stop. The second blast of the rifle filled the air with enough smoke it was difficult to see what happened. When the smoke cleared, there was Harold walking back to camp. The elephant lay on the ground twitching a little but otherwise still. I could see one hole between its eyes and one a little higher up on its forehead.

Harold handed the rifle to Knumbo.

"Be sure to swab out the barrels until they shine, Knumbo."

Knumbo nodded and then walked the short distance to his tent.

Harold, sat down, sipped his gin and tonic, then turned to the rest of us.

"Bull in musth. I hoped he'd turn and run when he saw me, but they can't help themselves when they're in musth. They'll kill anything in their path. The native boy must have surprised him at the river, and the bull decided to give chase. The thick brush and trees slowed the bull down enough the boy could stay ahead of him. Otherwise, he'd have been crushed to a pulp. Seen it before."

I'd been raised to not waste anything, and yet here was more meat than our entire safari could eat in a month. I asked Harold if he was just going to leave it there.

He shook his head.

"After they cut the bull's tusks out, the head man will send a runner to a village not far from here. They'll cut up the bull and take the meat. The scavengers will take what's left tonight. By tomorrow morning, there won't be anything left of that bull except a few guts and bones."

I said I understood now why he'd stopped me from getting my rifle. Harold just chuckled when I told him that.

"If you'd shot that bull with your Winchester and he even felt it, you'd just have made him madder. It takes a big rifle to down an elephant. That's why I have the four-bore.

"Sometimes a hunting client isn't as accurate as he should be, and sometimes he runs. That puts him, me, and the gunbearers in danger. I don't like doing it, but it's up to me to stop the animal before it can get to us. Most of the time, I have to wait until the animal is within about ten yards so the client has a chance to shoot. I don't like letting an elephant get that close. They're faster than you'd believe, and once they can reach you, you're dead.

"It's the same case with most of the big animals -- rhino, buffalo, even lions. It's worse when the client only wounds one. Sometimes they'll circle back on you and try to ambush you. Then the range gets a lot closer. I've had a lion charge from ten feet away and drop a foot from my feet after I shot him. The only reason he didn't get me was I knew he had to be there in a stand of brush, so I was ready for him."

I stayed with Harold for two years and helped him on three safaris during that time. I'd have stayed with him longer if his luck hadn't run out. Our client, a rich British businessman had wanted to bag a big lion before he went home. Harold and I found him one and tracked it to a clump of thorn bush about fifty feet from where we stopped.

Harold explained that he'd have three porters flush the lion from the bush and the client should be ready to shoot as soon as the lion broke cover. All went according to that plan until the client shot and missed. He was carrying a Lee-Metford in.303 British caliber, big enough for a lion with good shot placement, and second shots were usually pretty fast. This client wasn't very familiar with the rifle and fumbled the second shot.

Harold waited a little too long. He brought down the lion, but instead of at his feet, the lion was on top of him. Before it died, it had ripped Harold's belly open with the claws on its back feet. He died a few minutes later.

Since I was second in command, Harold's death meant I was now in command. I told the client he had his lion and as soon as the skinners could skin it out, we were headed back to Mombasa.

We'd been in the bush for three weeks and had been working our way back in the direction of Mombasa already. Three days of walking brought us and Harold's body into town. While the head man and the porters took the client and his trophies to the port, two porters and I took Harold's body to the local undertaker. I then went to Harold's house to tell Kam.

She listened quietly until I finished, then, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she sighed.

"He knew this would happen one day, and it was the way he wanted it to happen. I will miss him, but now he walks the same land as a spirit, and he walks without his limp. I know his spirit is happy. Will you help me bury him? He told me where he wants his body to lie."

The funeral wasn't anything like I was used to. Every porter and his family were there under the thorn tree a few miles out of town. It seemed like half of Mombasa was there as well. All were dressed in what must have been their finest clothing.

It was sort of a dual funeral service. The local Presbyterian minister said a few words about how Harold had lived his life. Then several of the porters spoke to the crowd in Swahili. I didn't understand much of that, but Kam said they were telling of their experiences with Harold and how much they would miss him.

After that, Harold's casket, just the plain wooden box Kam said he wanted, was lowered into the grave. Kam said she and I would toss the first dirt on top of the casket as a way of honoring Harold. After we did that, the rest of the mourners did the same. Then, most of the mourners began to dance. Kam said that was how they helped Harold enter the spirit world.

I was watching Kam and the others dance when I heard a voice behind me.

"Heathen practice, isn't it, to think they can dance Harold's soul to Heaven, not that he had much of a soul and would go to Heaven anyway."

It was Harold's brother, the same Navy officer who had told me about Harold at the pier when I landed in Africa. He was standing there in his uniform and frowning.

I hadn't seen him since that day, and since I lived with Harold, I assumed they never spoke. It seemed to me to be an insult that he'd only show up for Harold's funeral.

"No, it's just what they believe. I can't fault them for that."

He took a paper from his inside pocket and handed it to me.

"You'll fit right in with them if that's how you think. This is Harold's will. He gave it to me before your last expedition. I think he suspected something might happen to him.

"He had no family other than me, and he left me nothing, not that he had anything I wanted. He left everything to you. If I were you, I'd sell everything and go back to America. This is a country ruled by Britain for the British. We don't need Americans and their ideas about how to run a country."

I probably should have punched him in his smug face, but I didn't. I still regret that sometimes. It would have made me feel better and I'm sure Harold would have laughed his approval.

Instead, I took Harold's will and read it. It was pretty simple. He left me the house and everything he owned on the condition that I would let Kam live in the house until she died and make sure she was properly buried when that happened.

I was going to thank Harold's brother, but when I turned to do that, he was gone.

The dancing stopped shortly after that, and Kam walked up beside me.

"I saw Harold's brother talking with you. What did he want?"

She looked a little worried, so I smiled.

"He gave me Harold's will. Harold left everything to me, so I guess you'll be cooking and cleaning for me now if you think you can stand me."

Kam looked a little relieved.

"You are not going to go back to America?"

I shook my head and smiled.

"No. I like your kudu stew too much."

I wasn't prepared for the way Kam hugged me. I mean, it was more like how my mother always hugged me, so it didn't do anything to me, but it was the first time I'd ever seen her do something like that.

For the next two years, I continued doing what Harold had done, that being guiding hunters and explorers into the interior. Most were still wealthy Brits, and word had apparently spread in their society in England that my safaris were safe and enjoyable.

It was between expeditions that my life changed once again. It began as a simple scouting trip. I had a client coming from London in three weeks who wanted a trophy of every major game animal in Kenya, and he wanted the biggest and best I could find for him. That was going to take at least four weeks in the bush, and maybe more. The biggest and best game animals got to be the biggest and best by being the smartest. It's usually difficult to find them without a lot of looking.

To save some time, I decided to locate some suitable animals ahead of time and lead him to where I'd seen them. At that time of year, elephants, rhinos, buffalo, and the other wildlife didn't move much because the grasses were lush and the streams and rivers were filled with water. Because they had an almost infinite supply of food, the lions and leopards didn't move either. Once I found a good animal, chances were it would stay in the same general area.

I took Knumbo and my head man, Jabali, along on the trip as well as a cook and two porters. Harold had taught Jabali how to shoot a rifle and he was an excellent shot as well as a skilled tracker. He would kill meat for us while the cook and porters set up our camp.

Harold had once remarked that the best lions used to be located in the area where the Maasai tribes lived and raised their cattle. He had also told me it was not a good idea to hunt there because of the rinderpest epidemic that had nearly wiped out most of the antelope and other hoofed animals as well as the native cattle. As a result, the lion and leopard populations had also suffered.

The year before my scouting expedition, I'd read the epidemic had run its course and wildlife were moving back into the area. I figured it was worth a trip to see if the lion and leopard populations were recovering as well. If they were, it would be the biggest and strongest lions leading the rest.

The day I and Knumbo crossed into Maasai land, my hopes were confirmed. The rich grass land that made the area so attractive to the Maasai for their cattle was also attractive to the gazelles, antelope, and zebra that were the food source for lions and leopards. There were huge herds of each quietly grazing, and since it was the time of year when young are born, there were smaller versions of each species trotting beside their mothers.

Knumbo and I spotted several prides of lions lounging in the shade of the acacia trees during the afternoon. That was what I'd hoped to see, and the male lions were big and heavy with long manes, just the type of trophy my client had written he wanted.

We'd been walking for about a mile since we saw the last lion pride when we saw another, but this pride was gathered around the base of the acacia and looking up. As we got closer, we heard a woman's voice though we couldn't yet see her.

"Go away. Go away."

Since none of the lions were trying to climb the tree, I knew they were just interested in the woman and did not want her for lunch. It wasn't unheard of for lions to kill humans if the lion was old or disabled, but these lions were young and fit. With all the game around, they wouldn't seek out a human for food. They would run as soon as they saw one. Like all cats, lions are curious, and since they'd probably never seen a human in a tree, that's why they were looking instead of running.

I asked Knumbo to give me my Winchester, and once he had, I fired three shots in the air. The lion pride took one look at us and left at a run. Knumbo and I then walked up to the tree to rescue the woman.

How she managed to get up there, I didn't know, but there she was, clinging to a low branch with her arms and legs, and she was as naked as the day she was born. When she saw us, she shrieked, "For Heaven's sake, don't look at me. Have you no decency?"

I turned my back to the tree mostly out of embarrassment. I'd seen the bare breasts of many native women, but I'd ever seen any white woman completely naked before. Knumbo wasn't embarrassed, but he grinned and turned because I did, and then chuckled, "White woman make uume stand up, no?"

I ignored his joke and shouted up to the woman.

"If you come down, I'll give you my bush jacket to cover yourself."

I heard the swish of branches, then a plop as something hit the ground, and then a moaned "Ow, that hurt". I started to turn, but the woman shouted, "Stay there. I am fine. I just landed wrong. Take off your jacket and hold it behind you."

I did as she asked, and felt my jacket quickly whisked from my hand. A few seconds later, she said, "You may turn around now."

She was tall enough my bush jacket barely covered her buttocks. She looked to be in her early twenties, and her golden blonde hair and beautiful face captured my eyes. Her eyes were as blue as the Kenyan sky at noon, her nose small and delicate, and her lips were full and sensuous.

She smiled then.

"Thank you for chasing away the lions. I thought I would be forced to stay there for another night."

"You spent last night in that tree?"

She nodded.

"Yes I did. The women of the Maasai village said I would be safe in a tree."

I noticed a thin trickle of blood running down her leg from under my bush jacket. She'd been injured somehow, and in Africa, it is not a good idea to ignore any injury no matter how small.

"Miss, you're bleeding."

"I know that, but it is just a scratch I got climbing the tree. I will be fine."

I shook my head.

"No, you won't, not unless you get that wound cleaned and bandaged. I'll take you to my camp where I have things to do that with."

She didn't say anything as we walked back to camp. Once there, I gave her my tent, a bucket of water from the cook's fire, soap, gauze bandages, and a bottle of gin to use as an antiseptic. I was about to leave when Knumbo entered with a brightly colored Swahili wrap in his hand.

"I thought the white woman might want something better to wear."

He winked at me then.

"And your uume will stay down."

We left her there to do as she would, and I retired to the fire and some scotch while Knumbo went to clean my Winchester. I was half way through the scotch when she came out of my tent, and I could not help but stare at her.

The Swahili wrap was made for a man of Knumbo's size, so she'd had to wrap it tightly around her body or it would have fallen off. Doing so had accented the curve of her breasts, narrow waist, and full hips. As Knumbo had teased earlier, I did feel the tightening of which he spoke. She was a very beautiful and arousing woman.

She walked up to me, extended her hand, and said "I am Sharon Wainwright. Would you be so kind as to give me your name?"

I took her hand though shaking hands with a woman was something I'd never done before. Her handshake was gentle but surprised me by how firm it was.

"I'm John Adderly, a guide of explorers and hunters. I am dying to know how you ended up in that tree nak...without your clothes."

She frowned.

"It is a long story. Would you happen to have another chair...and if that is scotch, would you have another glass? I could use a sip or two to settle my nerves."

Once she was seated at the table and after a couple sips of scotch she explained.

"I came to Africa to assist Doctor Ainsley Mann in his study of the Maasai culture. He had read the works of Edward Taylor and James Frazer and disagreed with their conclusions. Since neither had been anywhere other than England, he wanted to come to Kenya and study the Maasai to gain information from the source.

"He felt a woman could gain the trust of the Maasai women better than a man, and selected me to be that woman. He would do physical examinations of the Maasai men and question them about their culture. I would do the same with the Maasai women.