how did jock of the bushveld die
You save a boy from makin’ mistakes and ef he’s got good stuff in him, most like you spoil it. Barberton was booming and short of supplies and the rates were the highest ever paid; but I had done better still, having bought my own goods, and the certain profit looked a fortune to me. Since the day he was kicked by the koodoo cow Jock had never tackled an unbroken hind leg; a dangling one he never missed; but the lesson of the flying heels had been too severe to be forgotten, and he never made that mistake again. Slowing down as he neared the Shangaans he walked quietly on until he headed off the leader, and there he stood across the path. Jock, the runt of the littler, the smallest of puppies, lived to enjoy a full and adventurous life at the side of his master. Sam no good!” The intensity of conviction and the gloomy disgust put into the last reference to Sam are not to be expressed in words. We asked no questions, for we knew it was no accident that had brought the old man our way: he wanted something, and we would learn soon enough what it was. Fair warning: This book may be about a dog, but it's more about hunting with him than anything else. The talk went round in low exchanges until at last the old man moved closer and joined the circle; and then the other voices dropped out, only to be heard once in a while in some brief question or that briefest of all comments—the kaffir click and “Ow!” It may mean anything, according to the tone, but it was clearly sympathetic on that occasion. The boys believed every word of that story: so, I am sure, did Jantje himself. Then in the corner of my eye I saw, away on my right, another red-brown thing come into the open: it was Jock, casting about with nose to ground for my trail which he had over-run at the point where I had turned back near the deadwood on the other side of the rocks. BUCK-SAIL, tarpaulin used for covering transport waggons, which are known as buck-waggons. To the right and left of this one, at distances from fifteen to thirty yards from me, the magnificent creatures had been standing, and I had not seen them; it was the flicker of this one’s ear alone that had caught my eye. Hall had to lie flat and reach his furthest to grip my hand; and I nearly pulled him in, scrambling up that bank like a chased cat up a tree. SQUIRREL, or TREE Rat, native name ’MCHINAAND (Funisciurus palliatus). “Well, it’s really simple enough. It was midday then, and their dying comrade was so far gone that they decided to abandon one trek and wait for evening, to allow him to die in peace. I had not once noticed our direction or looked at the sun, yet when it came to making for camp again the idea of losing the way never occurred to me. Jock’s first experience in hunting was on the Crocodile River not far from the spot where afterwards we had the great fight with The Old Crocodile. One result of this was that it was always jamming, and unless the cartridges were kept well greased the empty shells would stick and the ejector fail to work; and this was almost sure to happen when the carbine became hot from quick firing. Jock, the runt of the litter turns out to be a faithful companion to the end. Then, saddle-deep in the river—duckings and crocodiles forgotten—we sat looking at each other and laughed till we ached. Even unborn puppies had jealous prospective owners waiting to claim them. He struck up the slope, following the line of the troop through the scattered thorns, and there, running hard and dropping quickly to my knee for steadier aim, I fired again and again—but each time a longer shot and more obscured by the intervening bush; and no tell-tale thud came back to cheer me on. He had made a loop of a hundred and fifty miles in four days in his efforts to avoid us; but he was waiting for us when we arrived at Tom Barnett’s. Snowball was no gentleman: he was selfish and unscrupulous, a confirmed shirker, often absent without leave, and upon occasions a rank deserter—for which last he once narrowly escaped being shot. I used to take Jock with me everywhere so that he could learn everything that a hunting dog ought to know, and above all things to learn that he was my dog, and to understand all that I wanted to tell him. As we walked briskly through the flecked and dappled light and shade, we were startled by the sudden and furious rush of Jess and Jock off the path and away into the scrub on the left; and immediately after there was a grunting noise, a crashing and scrambling, and then one sharp clear yelp of pain from one of the dogs. The only chance of getting a shot at them was to mount one of the big rocks from which he could see down into the reeds; and he worked his way along a mud-bank towards one. The birds were absurdly tame and sailed so quietly along that I hesitated at first to shoot; then the noise of the two shots put up the largest number of partridges I have ever seen in one lot, and a line of birds rose for perhaps sixty yards across our front. You will laugh at them at times—when the absurdity is greatest and no harm has been done. He don’t pay any way! There was no difficulty in knowing when Jim would go wrong: he broke out whenever he got a chance, whether at a kraal, where he could always quicken the reluctant hospitality of any native, at a wayside canteen, or in a town. Then suddenly you see one animal—for no apparent reason: it may be fright or it may be frolic—take off away back behind the others, shoot up, and sail high above the arch of all the rest, and with head erect and feet comfortably gathered, land far beyond them—the difference between ease and effort, and oh! Jim was no diplomatist: he had tiger on the brain, and showed it; so when I asked him bluntly what the old man had been talking about, the whole story came out. And I was not the only nervous one. Jock’s head lay on his paws and his mouth was shut like a rat-trap; his growling grew louder as the bombastic nigger, all unconscious of the wicked watching eyes behind him, waved his blood-stained knife and warmed to his theme. One day, however, whilst looking at the cows, he remarked that in Zululand a cow would not yield her milk unless the calf stood by. Several of the bundles had burst open from the violence of the fall, and the odd collections of the natives were scattered about; others had merely shed the outside luggage of tin billies, beakers, pans, boots and hats. Meaning to be out only for a couple of hours at most and to stick close to the road, I had pocketed half a dozen cartridges and left both bandolier and water-bottle behind. There were no snapshot cameras then! We were still looking excitedly about—trying to make out what the baboons were doing, watching the others still coming down the Berg, and peering anxiously for a sight of the tiger—when once more Jim’s voice gave us a shock. I moved closer up to see what was causing the trouble: in a few minutes I heard a thin sing of wings, different from a mosquito’s, and there settled on my shirt a grey fly, very like and not much larger than a common house-fly, whose wings folded over like a pair of scissors. There was always plenty of dead wood about and we piled on big branches and logs freely, and as the ends burnt to ashes in the heart of the fire we kept pushing the logs further in. The boys and all the stock, except one old goat, were killed. Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and invariably got some satisfaction out of what followed; once Jock caught one of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held on to the hind leg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he had caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in the bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance. We started on again down an easy slope passing through some bush, and at the bottom came on level ground thinly covered with big shady trees and scattered undergrowth. Ten or twelve shots faintly heard in the distance told me that the others were on to the koodoo, and knowing the preference of those animals for the bush I took cover behind a big stump and waited. The dull monotone, the ominous drawl, the steady something in his clear calm eyes which I cannot define, gave an almost corrosive effect to innocent words and a voice of lazy gentleness. When I turned round Jock was still asleep: little incidents like that brought his deafness home. “Yes,” we answered, lowering our voices. They were keeping in touch with us so that we could not surprise them, and whenever they stopped it was always where they could see us coming through the thinner bush for a long way and where they themselves could disappear in the thick bush in a couple of strides. But Sam was by no means anxious to earn laurels; he was clearly of the poet’s view that “the paths of glory lead but to the grave;” and it was a poor-looking weak-kneed and much dejected scarecrow that dragged its way reluctantly out into the veld to hold parley with the routed enemy that day. The boy wouldn’t fight—just yelled blue murder while Jim walloped him. I was sitting on a small camp stool critically examining a boot and wondering if the dried hide would grip well enough to permit of the top lacings being removed, and Jock was lying in front of me, carefully licking the last sore spot on one fore paw, when I saw his head switch up suddenly and his whole body set hard in a study of intense listening. There seemed to be nothing for it but to go back again and try somewhere else. He was too mad to be wary, and my heart stood still as the long horns went round with a swish; one black point seemed to pierce him through and through, showing a foot out the other side, and a jerky twist of the great head sent him twirling like a tip-cat eight or ten feet up in the air. He was as unmanageable as a runaway horse. Animated-family adventure based on a true story that tells the heart-warming, coming-of-age story of a man and his best-friend, a lovable and fearless dog named, Jock. There were bushy wild plums flanking the grove, and beyond them the ordinary scattered thorns. Leave him, let him fight. “Look where you’re standing,” said Joey reproachfully, as the smoke and smell of burning skin-welt rose up; and the boy with a grunt of disgust, such as we might give at a burned boot, looked to see what damage had been done to his ‘unders.’ It gave me an even better idea of a nigger’s feet than those thorn digging operations when we had to cut through a solid whitish welt a third of an inch thick. Then there was a scene. Who knows what they think, or dream, or hope, or suffer? Days went by with, once or twice, the sight of some small buck just as it disappeared, and many times, the noise of something in the bush or the sound of galloping feet. “Look, look! He never barked at these times; but as soon as he saw me, his ears would drop, his mouth open wide with the red tongue lolling out, and the stump of a tail would twiggle away to show how pleased he was. When we were after game, and he could scent or see it, he would keep a foot or two to the side of me so as to have a clear view; and when he knew by my manner that I thought there was game near, he kept so close up that he would often bump against my heels as I walked, or run right into my legs if I stopped suddenly. There were numbers of little squirrel-like creatures there too. Beside me there was a rough camp table—a luxury sometimes indulged in while camping or trekking with empty waggons—on which we put our tinned-milk, treacle and such things to keep them out of reach of the ants, grasshoppers, Hottentot-gods, beetles and dust. We were outspanned near some deep shaded water-holes, and at about three o’clock I took my rifle and wandered off in the hope of dropping across something for the larder and having some sport during the three hours before the evening trek would begin; and as there was plenty of spoor of many kinds the prospects seemed good enough. Rooiland the restless, when dissatisfied with the grass or in want of water, would cast about up wind for a few minutes and then with his hot eyeballs staring and nostrils well distended choose his line, going resolutely along and only pausing from time to time to give a low moan for signal and allow the straggling string of unquestioning followers to catch up. Jim was a heathen, and openly affirmed his conviction that a Christian kaffir was an impostor, a bastard, and a hypocrite—a thing not to be trusted under any circumstances whatever. I am very much afraid that most people would consider him rather a bad lot. “The Rat” stood quite still with his stumpy tail cocked up and his head a little on one side, and when the huge ox’s nose was about a foot from him he gave one of those funny abrupt little barks. Then one or two questions, briefly answered in the same tone of detached philosophic indifference, brought their talk to a close. After sawing at the neck for half a minute, however, the old man found his knife too blunt to make an opening, and we both hunted about for a stone to sharpen it on, and while we were fossicking about in the grass there was a noise behind, and looking sharply round we saw the buck scramble to its feet and scamper off before we had time to move. “Buffalo! And, if so, was he following the scent of the old chase or merely what he might remember of the way he had gone? So that was the explanation of the koodoo’s return to us! The scorching breath of the fire drove us before it on to the baked ground, inches deep in ashes and glowing cinders, where we kept marking time to ease our blistering feet; our hats were pulled down to screen our necks as we stood with our backs to the coming flames; our flannel shirts were so hot that we kept shifting our shoulders for relief. He was not interested in our talk; he had twice been accidentally trodden on by men stepping back as he lay stretched out on the floor behind them; and doubtless he felt that it was no place for him: his deafness prevented him from hearing movements, except such as caused vibration in the ground, and, poor old fellow, he was always at a disadvantage in houses and towns. No, they were not forgotten; and the memory of the last trek was one long mute reproach on their behalf: they had paved the roadway for the Juggernaut man. The poor little fellow looked more ludicrous than ever: he had been feeding again and was as tight as a drum; his skin was so tight one could not help thinking that if he walked over a mimosa thorn and got a scratch on the tummy he would burst like a toy balloon. On the second occasion they had enticed him on to the waggon and, as he lay half unconscious between bursts of delirium, had tied him down flat on his back, with wrists and ankles fastened to the buck-rails. It seemed queer that there should be only one, as their habit is to move in troops; but there was nothing else to be seen; indeed it was only the flicker of an ear on this one that had caught my eye. Whilst trying to pick out the best of the wildebeeste a movement away on the left made me look that way: the impala jumped off like one animal, scaring the tsessebe into a scattering rout; the quagga switched round and thundered off like a stampede of horses; and the wildebeeste simply vanished. Poor Tom suffered from consumption in the throat and talked in husky jerks broken by coughs and laughter. Just before ascending the terrace we had heard the curious far-travelling sound of kaffirs calling to each other from a distance, but, except for a passing comment, paid no heed to it and passed on; later we heard it again and again, and at last, when we happened to pause in a more open portion of the bush after we had gone half-way along the terrace, the calling became so frequent and came from so many quarters that we stopped to take note. I followed, asking no questions. Her body was all bunched up and she was pitching greatly, and her hind legs kept flying out in irregular kicks, much as you may see a horse kick out when a blind fly is biting him. Besides the balloon-like tummy he had stick-out bandy-legs, very like a beetle’s too, and a neck so thin that it made the head look enormous, and you wondered how the neck ever held it up. Then the night became one long torment: the spells of rest might extend from a quarter of an hour to an hour; then from the dead sleep of downright weariness I would be roused by the deep far-reaching voice; “Funa ’nyama, Inkos” wove itself into my dreams, and waking I would find Jim standing beside me remorselessly urging the same request in Zulu, in broken English, and in Dutch—“My wanta meat, Baas,” “Wil fleisch krij, Baas,” and the old, old, hatefully familiar explanation of the difference between “man’s food” and “piccanins’ food,” interspersed with grandiose declarations that he was “Makokela—Jim Makokel’,” who “catchum lion ’live.” Sometimes he would expand this into comparisons between himself and the other boys, much to their disadvantage; and on these occasions he invariably worked round to his private grievances, and expressed his candid opinions of Sam. There were certain hours of the day when it was more pleasant and profitable to lie in the shade and rest. “Did a white man come here on horseback during the last few days from the Drift?”, “Seedling! REIM (pronounced reem) (d), a stout strip of raw hide. Running my eye along the line I counted them in twos up to between thirty and forty; and that I could not have been more than half. Once they killed a tiger-cat. Jock of the Bushveld is a book about adventure. See it once; and recall that the worst of endings have had just such beginnings. No! Only a few minutes more of this, and he feels sure that he must have crossed the road without noticing it, and therefore that he ought to be going north instead of south, if he hopes ever to strike it again. He was covered with blood and sand; his beautiful golden coat was dark and stained; his white front had disappeared; and there on his chest and throat, on his jaws and ears, down his front legs even to the toes, the blood was caked on him—mostly black and dried but some still red and sticky. He fairly wore me right out.”. Who can know? To our relief Snowball faced the jump quite readily; indeed, the old sinner did it with much less effort and splash than the bigger Tsetse. He went alone and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that they were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their intense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe. He gave his orders with the curtness of a drill sergeant and the rude assurance of a savage chief. But there was no Jock at the waggons; and my heart sank, although I was not surprised. He did it. I was glad to pay the noble Jim off and drop him at his kraal. Something of this I carried away from my first experience among them. Past the big bush I saw them again, and there the duiker did as wounded game so often do: taking advantage of cover it changed direction and turned away for some dense thorns. Others noticed it too; and in reply to a question as to how it had happened Rocky explained in a few words that a wounded buffalo had waylaid and tossed the man over its back, and as it turned again to gore him the dog rushed in between, fighting it off for a time and eventually fastening on to the nose when the buffalo still pushed on. The puzzle was solved by accident: Ted was sitting on the ground when she came up to him, looking wistfully into his face again with one of the mute appeals for help. So he stood at the window waiting and watching, until every sound had died away outside. The picture of that koodoo bull as he appeared for the last time looking over the ant-heap the day we were lost was always before me. The heat was intense, and there was no breeze; the dust moved along slowly apace with us in a dense cloud—men, waggons, and animals, all toned to the same hue; and the poor oxen toiling slowly along drew in the finely-powdered stuff at every breath. The extent to which Jock goes to tackle quarry many times his size, seemingly heedless to danger is exciting to behold, his tenacity legendary. There was not very much of it, but we saw from the marks on the bushes here and there, and more distinctly on some grass further on, that the wound was pretty high up and on the right side. there they come:” burst from one and another of us as we watched the extraordinary scene. The noise made by the wind in the trees and our struggling through the grass and bush had prevented our hearing the fire at first, but now its ever growing roar drowned all sounds. It is not actual danger that impresses one, but the uncanny effect of the short defiant roars, the savage half-human look of the repulsive creatures, their still more human methods of facial expression and threatening attitudes, their tactics in encircling their object and using cover to approach and peer out cautiously from behind it, and their evident co-operation and obedience to the leader’s directions and example. But who can say which of the many beautiful antelopes is the most beautiful? The water was clear and I could see the bottom of the pool. The things they thought wonderful and admirable made pleasant news for them to tell and welcome news to me, and they were heard with contented pride, but without surprise, as “just like him”: there was nothing more to be said. Only a young lion! To you, as a beginner, there surely comes a day when things get out of hand and your span, which was a good one when you bought it, goes wrong: the load is not too heavy; the hill not too steep; the work is not beyond them for they have done it all before; but now no power on earth, it seems, will make them face the pull. “Sneaking prowler of the night! The remembrance of certain things still makes me feel uncomfortable; the yell of delight I let out as the buck fell; the wild dash forward, which died away to a dead stop as I realised that Rocky himself had not moved; the sight of him, as I looked back, calmly reloading; and the silence. I had often thought that it might have been better had he died fighting—hanging on with his indomitable pluck and tenacity, tackling something with all the odds against him; doing his duty and his best as he had always done—and died as Rocky’s dog had died. But, with all this, experience is as essential as ever; a beginner has no balanced judgment, and that explains something that I heard an old transport-rider say in the earliest days—something which I did not understand then, and heard with resentment and a boy’s uppish scorn. He taught them manners, but they taught him something too—at any rate, one of them did; and one of the biggest surprises and best lessons Jock ever had was given him by a hen while he was still a growing-up puppy. Die boek vertel die verhaal van Fitzpatrick se avonture saam met sy hond Jock, ‘n Staffordshire-Bullterrier-kruising, gedurende laat agtientagtigs. Close beside it there was the clear mark of a heeled boot, and there were others further on. It was when the offender had gone that the old transport-rider took up the general question and finished his observations with a proverb which I had not heard before—perhaps invented it: “Yah!” he said, rising and stretching himself, “there’s no rule for a young fool.”. And he knew the power of the Great White Queen and the way that her people fight. Jock of the Bushveld is a true story by South African author Sir James Percy FitzPatrick. No notice was taken of smaller game put up from time to time as they moved carelessly along; a rustle on the left of the line was ignored, and Bill Saunderson was as surprised as Bill ever could be to see a lion facing him at something like six or seven yards. Up the winding pathway over rocky ledge and grassy slope, climbing for an hour to the pass, the toil and effort kept the hot thoughts under. I looked out at the driving rain and the glistening earth, as shown up by constant flashes of lightning: it was a world of rain and spray and running water. I believe he watched my lips; he was so quick to obey the order when it came. It was not for hire, but just to help one who had helped him; to ‘earn his grub’ and feel he was a man, doing the work of his friend’s partner, ‘who was away.’. The old Martini carbine had one bad fault; even I could not deny that; years of rough and careless treatment in all sorts of weather—for it was only a discarded old Mounted Police weapon—had told on it, and both in barrel and breech it was well pitted with rust scars. Indeed, in FitzPatrick's rendering, Jock even held the hunting dogs of Africans with contempt. As we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of the eyes went out as suddenly and silently as it had appeared. I had shouted myself hoarse at Jim, but he heard or heeded nothing; and seizing a stick from one of the other boys I was already on the way to stop him, but before I got near him he had wrenched the axe from the kicking boy and, without pause, gone headlong for the next Shangaan he saw. After that day with the impala we had many good days together and many hard ones: we had our disappointments, but we had our triumphs; and we were both getting to know our way about by degrees. For anyone who has spent time in the bush - Percy is succour to any hankering your soul may have for the open skies. Out of the yellow grass, high up in the waving tops, came sailing down on us the swaying head and glittering eyes of a black mamba—swiftest, most vicious, most deadly of snakes. A party had set out upon a tiger hunt to clear out one of those marauders who used to haunt the kloofs of the Berg and make descents upon the Kaffir herds of goats and sheep; but there was a special interest in this particular tiger, for he had killed one of the white hunters in the last attempt to get at him a few weeks before. Crawling is hard work and very rough on both hands and knees in the Bushveld, frequent rests being necessary; and in one of the pauses I heard a curious sound of soft padded feet jumping behind me, and looking quickly about caught Jock in the act of taking his observations. It is very difficult to say how long this lasted before once more a horrible doubt arose. The natives going to or from the goldfields travel in gangs of from four or five to forty or fifty; they walk along in Indian-file, and even when going across the veld or walking on wide roads they wind along singly in the footsteps of the leader. Then Rocky, beside me, gave a shrill whistle; the buck stopped, side on, looked back at us, and Rocky dropped it where it stood. But Jim, putting down the kettle, ran to his waggon and grabbing his sticks and assegais called to me in a husky shouting whisper—which imperfectly describes Jim’s way of relieving his feelings, without making the whole world echo: “Ingwenye, Inkos! I stood and faced the bush that Mungo had shied at, and the first thing that occurred to me was that my bandolier and cartridges were with the pony. I cannot say whether it was because of the shout of laughter from us, or because he really understood what had happened, that he looked so foolish, but he just gave one crestfallen look at me and with a feeble wag of his tail waddled off as fast as he could. Even those overlooked and picked on can grow to become brave and reliable dogs, deeply loved by their owners. The sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning instinct had arrested him, or some least taint upon the pure air softly eddying between the rocks had reached him. Once more I knelt, gripping hard and holding my breath to snatch a moment’s steadiness, and fired; but I missed again, and as the bullet struck under him he plunged forward and disappeared over the rise at the moment that Jock, dashing out from the scrub, reached his heels. It may have been true: he certainly was a living test of patience, purpose, and management; but, for something learnt in that way, I am glad now that Jim never ‘got the sack’ from me. How the little outcast terror, and we moved along through the guard at last a.... Slowly sideways after him, so we call him Jim out of South Africa a young transport driver and in. Than the spoor: they could do but even during the last one of the litter out! To-Day—You ’ ll git! ” rascal ; like Scotch skellum laughable assertion of instinct too... 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