spoken in a whisper, the rhinoceros had heard him. He drove his horn into the tree and retired angrily to a discreet distance. Then his contempt for us overcame his prudence. He turned his back on the tree and expelled a powerful jet of urine over the base of the tree from about twelve feet away. This done, he trotted off into the bush, apparently well content that we were of no immediate danger to him.
Hugo and I gave a sigh of relief. It was now practically dark. Only a faint light over the western horizon showed where the sun had set. The strange sounds of the night had already started. A bush-baby’s eerie cry rang out quite close by, nearly dislodging me from my perch. I could feel my pulse beating madly and the odd pricking sensation on the back of my hands that fright produces.
“Hush!” Hugo whispered harshly.
I listened more frantically to the sounds all about us, wondering what he could have heard. The butt of the rifle rested comfortably in my groin and it occurred to me that I had no idea whether it was loaded or not. It was too late to ask Hugo though, for now I too could hear some muffled footsteps coming towards us, signalled by the call of an owl that was too perfect to be real.
I sat up sharply, suddenly cold. Now that the moment had come, I wished myself anywhere but where I was. I was frightened ! I stared out into the darkness, knowing that the poachers were coming closer, but quite unable to see anything at all. They would see us more easily, I thought, for our skins were white. The tree seemed a very fragile protection against their sharp eyes.
Hugo was apparently unmoved. There was no movement at all from his side of the tree, but I knew his eyes were fixed on the dead hulk of the elephant, waiting, waiting for what? They were there! I knew they were there, so why didn’t he do something? Was he going to go on waiting until they had seized the ivory and departed?
It seemed not. His muscles were tensed as hard as the tree in which he sat. Then slowly, very, very slowly, he took a strong grip on the bough in front of him and, completely silently, dropped down on to the ground below.
If I had been frightened before, I was now scared stiff. I hugged my rifle to me, fondly imagining that I was going to give
Hugo some kind of cover as he moved forward. But he didn’t move at all. Beyond him, I too could see the corpse of the elephant. I could smell it too. The strong smell of elephant mixed with the already rotting flesh where the flies had been at work round the wounds that the poachers’ spears had made in the thick grey skin.
Then, from nowhere, came the poachers. They walked steadily in a line, one behind the other, dressed in torn shorts and singlets, a few with a blanket tied at the corners around their shoulders. They were armed with the weapons of a former age: bows and arrows; long-bladed spears; and the all-purpose machete, used for digging, fighting or gardening, the panga. Hugo was undoubtedly right. The guilty men were the rich ones, making all the money while they sat on the coast, secure behind their cover of genuine businesses that hid their remorseless greed. These were the fools, dazzled by the colour of the coins they would never see, exploited as surely as the poor animals they murdered.
The men stopped a few yards away from the elephant. There was a moment’s discussion as they noticed the circle of hyenas, snarling dares at each other to close in on the dead beast, but united in resisting any attempt by the poachers to take their meal away from them. Hyenas look so cowardly—they are often mistaken for such, but they have unlooked-for depths when they are attacked and it was clear that the poachers were unwilling to tangle with them.
The endless African discussion went on and on. The rise and fall of their voices was a natural part of their way of doing things. All would be heard. All would give lengthy advice as to what they should do. They would begin with the
Hugo and I gave a sigh of relief. It was now practically dark. Only a faint light over the western horizon showed where the sun had set. The strange sounds of the night had already started. A bush-baby’s eerie cry rang out quite close by, nearly dislodging me from my perch. I could feel my pulse beating madly and the odd pricking sensation on the back of my hands that fright produces.
“Hush!” Hugo whispered harshly.
I listened more frantically to the sounds all about us, wondering what he could have heard. The butt of the rifle rested comfortably in my groin and it occurred to me that I had no idea whether it was loaded or not. It was too late to ask Hugo though, for now I too could hear some muffled footsteps coming towards us, signalled by the call of an owl that was too perfect to be real.
I sat up sharply, suddenly cold. Now that the moment had come, I wished myself anywhere but where I was. I was frightened ! I stared out into the darkness, knowing that the poachers were coming closer, but quite unable to see anything at all. They would see us more easily, I thought, for our skins were white. The tree seemed a very fragile protection against their sharp eyes.
Hugo was apparently unmoved. There was no movement at all from his side of the tree, but I knew his eyes were fixed on the dead hulk of the elephant, waiting, waiting for what? They were there! I knew they were there, so why didn’t he do something? Was he going to go on waiting until they had seized the ivory and departed?
It seemed not. His muscles were tensed as hard as the tree in which he sat. Then slowly, very, very slowly, he took a strong grip on the bough in front of him and, completely silently, dropped down on to the ground below.
If I had been frightened before, I was now scared stiff. I hugged my rifle to me, fondly imagining that I was going to give
Hugo some kind of cover as he moved forward. But he didn’t move at all. Beyond him, I too could see the corpse of the elephant. I could smell it too. The strong smell of elephant mixed with the already rotting flesh where the flies had been at work round the wounds that the poachers’ spears had made in the thick grey skin.
Then, from nowhere, came the poachers. They walked steadily in a line, one behind the other, dressed in torn shorts and singlets, a few with a blanket tied at the corners around their shoulders. They were armed with the weapons of a former age: bows and arrows; long-bladed spears; and the all-purpose machete, used for digging, fighting or gardening, the panga. Hugo was undoubtedly right. The guilty men were the rich ones, making all the money while they sat on the coast, secure behind their cover of genuine businesses that hid their remorseless greed. These were the fools, dazzled by the colour of the coins they would never see, exploited as surely as the poor animals they murdered.
The men stopped a few yards away from the elephant. There was a moment’s discussion as they noticed the circle of hyenas, snarling dares at each other to close in on the dead beast, but united in resisting any attempt by the poachers to take their meal away from them. Hyenas look so cowardly—they are often mistaken for such, but they have unlooked-for depths when they are attacked and it was clear that the poachers were unwilling to tangle with them.
The endless African discussion went on and on. The rise and fall of their voices was a natural part of their way of doing things. All would be heard. All would give lengthy advice as to what they should do. They would begin with the
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