The Rifle And The Hound In Ceylon(Fiscle Part-3), Sir Samuel White Baker [most inspirational books .txt] 📗

Neither See Him Nor Could He See Me. Had It Not Been For

The Fear Of Killing The Dogs,  I Would Have Fired Where The Bushes Were

Moving,  But As It Was I Could Do Nothing. A Rifle Was Useless In Such

Jungle. At Length The Boar Broke His Bay,  But Again Resumed It In A

Similar Secure Position. There Was No Possibility Of Assisting The Dogs,

And He Was Cutting Up The Pack In Detail. If Lucifer And Lena Had Been

There We Could Have Killed Him,  But Without Seizers We Were Helpless In

Such Jungle.

 

This Lasted For An Hour,  At The Expiration Of Which We Managed To Call

The Dogs Off. Old Smut Had Stuck To Him To The Last,  In Spite Of His

Disabled State. The Old Dog,  Perfectly Exhausted,  Crawled Out Of The

Jungle : He Had Received Several Additional Wounds,  Including A Severe

Gash In His Throat. He Fell From Exhaustion,  And We Made A Litter With

Two Poles And A Horsecloth To Carry Him Home. Bran,  Merriman,  And

Ploughboy Were All Severely Wounded. We Were Thoroughly Beaten. It Was

The First Time That We Had Ever Been Beaten Off,  And I Trust It May Be

The Last. We Returned Home With Our Vanquished And Bleeding Pack--Smut

Borne In His Litter By Four Men--And We Arrived At The Kennel A

Melancholy Procession. The Pack Was Disabled For Weeks,  As The Two

Leading Hounds,  Merriman And Ploughboy,  Were Severely Injured.

 

Poor Old Smut Lingered For A Few Days And Died. Thus Closed His Glorious

Career Of Sport,  And He Left A Fame Behind Him Which Will Never Be

Forgotten. His Son,  Who Is Now Twelve Months Old,  Is The Facsimile Of

His Sire,  And Often Recalls The Recollection Of The Old Dog. I Hope He

May Turn Out As Good.* (*Killed Four Months Afterwards By A Buck Elk.)

 

Misfortunes Never Come Alone. A Few Weeks After Smut's Death,  Lizzie,  An

Excellent Bitch,  Was Killed By A Leopard,  Who Wounded Merriman In The

Throat,  But He Being A Powerful Dog,  Beat Him Off And Escaped. Merriman

Had Not Long Recovered From His Wound,  When He Came To A Lamentable And

Diabolical End.

 

On December 24,  1852,  We Found A Buck In The Jungles By The Badulla

Road. The Dead Nillho So Retarded The Pack That The Elk Got A Long Start

Of The Dogs; And Stealing Down A Stream He Broke Cover,  Crossed The

Badulla Road,  Ascended The Opposite Hills,  And Took To The Jungle Before

A Single Hound Appeared Upon The Patina. At Length Merriman Came

Bounding Along Upon His Track,  Full A Hundred Yards In Advance Of The

Pack. In A Few Minutes Every Dog Had Disappeared In The Opposite Jungle

On The Elk's Path.

 

This Was A Part Of The Country Where We Invariably Lost The Dogs,  As

They Took Away Across A Vast Jungle Country Towards A Large And Rapid

River Situated Among Stupendous Precipices. I Had Often Endeavoured To

Find The Dogs In This Part,  But To No Purpose; This Day,  However,  I Was

Determined To Follow Them If Possible. I Made A Circuit Of About Twenty

Miles Down Into The Low Countries,  And Again Ascending Through

Precipitous Jungles,  I Returned Home In The Evening,  Having Only

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Recovered Two Dogs,  Which I Found On The Other Side Of The Range Of

Mountains,  Over Which The Buck Had Passed. No Pen Can Describe The

Beauty Of The Scenery In This Part Of The Country,  But It Is The Most

Frightful Locality For Hunting That Can Be Imagined. The High Lands

Suddenly Cease; A Splendid Panoramic View Of The Low Country Extends For

Thirty Miles Before The Eye; But To Descend To This,  Precipices Of

Immense Depth Must Be Passed; And From A Deep Gorge In The Mountain,  The

Large River,  After A Succession Of Falls,  Leaps In One Vast Plunge Of

Three Hundred Feet Into The Abyss Below. This Is A Stupendous Cataract,

About A Mile Below The Foot Of Which Is The Village Of Perewelle. I

Passed Close To The Village,  And,  Having Ascended The Steep Sides Of The

Mountain,  I Spent Hours In Searching For The Pack,  But The Roaring Of

The River And The Din Of The Waterfalls Would Have Drowned The Cry Of A

Hundred Hounds. Once,  And Only Once,  When Halfway Up The Side Of The

Mountain,  I Thought I Heard The Deep Bay Of A Hound In The River Below;

Then I Heard The Shout Of A Native; But The Sound Was Not Repeated,  And

I Thought It Might Proceed From The Villagers Driving Their Buffaloes. I

Passed On My Arduous Path,  Little Thinking Of The Tragic Fate Which At

That Moment Attended Poor Merriman.

 

The Next Day All The Dogs Found Their Way Home To The Kennel,  With The

Exception Of Merriman. I Was Rather Anxious At His Absence,  As He Knew

The Whole Country So Thoroughly That He Should Have Been One Of The

First Dogs To Return. I Was Convinced That The Buck Had Been At Bay In

The Large River,  As I Had Seen His Tracks In Several Places On The

Banks,  With Dog Tracks In Company; This,  Added To The Fact Of The Two

Stray Dogs Being Found In The Vicinity,  Convinced Me That They Had

Brought The Elk To Bay In The River,  In Which I Imagined He Had Beaten

The Dogs Off. Two Or Three Days Passed Away Without Merriman's Return;

And,  Knowing Him To Be The Leading Hound Of The Pack,  I Made Up My Mind

That He Had Been Washed Down A Waterfall And Killed.

 

About A Week After This Had Happened,  A Native Came Up From The Low

Country With The Intelligence That The Dogs Had Brought The Buck To Bay

In The River Close To The Village Of Perewelle,  And That The Inhabitants

Had Killed The Elk And Driven The Dogs Away. The Remaining Portion Of

This Man's Story Filled Me With Rage And Horror. Merriman Would Not

Leave The Body Of The Elk: The Natives Thought That The Dog Might Be

Discovered In Their Village,  Which Would Lead To The Detection Of The

Theft Of The Elk; They,  Therefore,  Tied This Beautiful Hound To A Tree,

Knocked His Brains Out With A Hatchet,  And Threw His Body Into The

River. This Dog Was A Favourite With Everyone Who Knew The Pack. The

Very Instant That I Heard The Intelligence,  I Took A Good Stick,  And,  In

Company With My Brother,  Three Friends,  And My Informant,  We Started To

Revenge Merriman. Perewelle Is Twelve Miles From My House Across

Country: It Was Six P.M. When We Started,  And We Arrived At A Village

Within Two Miles Of This Nest Of Villains At Half-Past Eight. Here We

Got Further Information,  And A Man Who Volunteered To Point Out Three

Men Who Were The Principal Actors In Murdering The Dog. We Slept At This

Village,  And,  Rising At Four O'clock On The Following Morning,  We

Marched Towards Perewelle To Surprise The Village And Capture The

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Offenders.

 

It Was Bright Moonlight,  And We Arrived At The Village Just At Break Of

Day. The House Was Pointed Out In Which The Fellows Lived; We

Immediately Surrounded It,  And Upon Entering We Seized The Offenders.

Upon Searching The House We Found A Quantity Of Dried Venison,  A Spear

And An Axe,  Covered With Blood,  With Which They Had Destroyed The

Unfortunate Dog.

 

Taking A Fine Gutta-Percha Whip,  I Flogged The Culprits Soundly; And We

Forced Them To Lead The Way And Point Out The Very Spot Of The Elk's

Death. They Would Not Confess The Dog's Murder,  Although It Was Proved

Against Them.

 

It Was A Frightful Spot,  About Two Hundred Paces Below The Foot Of The

Great Fall. The River,  Swollen By The Late Rain,  Boiled,  And Strove With

The Opposite Rocks,  Lashing Itself Into Foam,  And Roaring Down Countless

Cataracts,  Which,  Though Well Worthy Of The Name,  Sank Into

Insignificance Before The Mighty Fall Which Fed Them. High Above Our

Heads Reared The Rocky Precipice Of A Thousand Feet In Height,  The

Grassy Mountains Capped With Forest,  And I Could Distinguish The Very

Spot From Which I Had Heard The Shouts Of Men On The Day Of Merriman's

Death. Had I Only Known What Was Taking Place Below,  I Might Perhaps

Have Been In Time To Save The Dog.

 

We Found The Blood And Remains Of The Offal Of The Buck,  But We,  Of

Course,  Saw No Remains Of The Dog,  As The Power Of The Torrent Must Soon

Have Dashed Him To Atoms Against The Rocks.

 

Thus Ended Poor Merriman: A Better Hound Never Lived. Unfortunately,

Ceylon Laws Are Often Administered By Persons Who Have Never Received A

Legal Education,  And The Natives Escaped Without Further Punishment Than

The Thrashing They Had Received. Of This,  However,  They Had A Full Dose,

Which Was A Sweet Sauce To Their Venison Which They Little Anticipated.

 

The Few Descriptions That I Have Given Of Elk-Hunting Should Introduce A

Stranger Thoroughly To The Sport. No One,  However,  Can Enjoy It With As

Much Interest As The Owner Of The Hounds; He Knows The Character Of

Every Dog In The Pack--Every Voice Is Familiar To His Ear; He Cheers

Them To The Attack; He Caresses Them For Their Courage; They Depend Upon

Him For Assistance In The Struggle,  And They Mutually Succour Each

Other. This Renders The Dog A More Cherished Companion Than He Is

Considered In England,  Where His Qualities Are Not Of So Important A

Nature; And It Makes The Loss Of A Good Hound More Deeply Felt By His

Master.

 

Having Thus Described The General Character Of Ceylon Sports In All

Branches,  I Shall Conclude By A Detailed Journal Of One Trip Of A Few

Weeks In The Low Country,  Which Will At Once Explain The Whole Minutiae

Of The Shooting In The Island. This Journal Is Taken From A Small Diary

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Which Has Frequently Accompanied Me On These Excursions,  Containing

Little Memoranda Which,  By Many,  Might Be Considered Tedious. The Daily

Account Of The Various Incidents Of A Trip Will,  At All Events,  Give A

Faithful Picture Of The Jungle Sports.