The flat of a meadow below the cliffs and the
cliffs themselves. Just below the rise lay a single patch of
standing rape not over two acres in extent, the only sign of
human life. It was as though this little bit had overflowed from
the countless millions on the plateau above. Beyond it arose a
thin signal of smoke.
We sipped our lime juice and rested. Soon our attention was
attracted by the peculiar actions of a big flock of very white
birds. They rose suddenly from one side of the tiny rape field,
wheeled and swirled like leaves in the wind, and dropped down
suddenly on the other side the patch. After a few moments they
repeated the performance. The sun caught the dazzling white of
their plumage. At first we speculated on what they might be, then
on what they were doing, to behave in so peculiar a manner. The
lime juice and the armchair began to get in their recuperative
work. Somehow the distance across that flat did not seem quite as
tremendous as at first. Finally I picked up the shotgun and
sauntered across to investigate. The cause of action I soon
determined. The owner of that rape field turned out to be an
emaciated, gray-haired but spry old savage. He was armed with a
spear; and at the moment his chief business in life seemed to be
chasing a large flock of white birds off his grain. Since he had
no assistance, and since the birds held his spear in justifiable
contempt as a fowling piece, he was getting much exercise and few
results. The birds gave way before his direct charge, flopped
over to the other side, and continued their meal. They had
already occasioned considerable damage; the rape heads were bent
and destroyed for a space of perhaps ten feet from the outer edge
of the field. As this grain probably constituted the old man's food supply
for a season, I did not wonder at the vehemence with which he shook
his spear at his enemies, nor the apparent flavour of his language,
though I did marvel at his physical endurance. As for the birds,
they had become cynical and impudent; they barely fluttered out
of the way.
I halted the old gentleman and hastened to explain that I was
neither a pirate, a robber, nor an oppressor of the poor. This as
counter-check to his tendency to flee, leaving me in sole charge.
He understood a little Swahili, and talked a few words of
something he intended for that language. By means of our mutual
accomplishment in that tongue, and through a more efficient sign
language, I got him to understand the plan of campaign. It was
very simple. I squatted down inside the rape, while he went
around the other side to scare them up.
The white birds uttered their peculiarly derisive cackle at the
old man and flapped over to my side. Then they were certainly an
astonished lot of birds. I gave them both barrels and dropped a
pair; got two more shots as they swung over me and dropped
another pair, and brought down a straggling single as a grand
finale. The flock, with shrill, derogatory remarks, flew in an
airline straight away. They never deviated, as far as I could
follow them with the eye. Even after they had apparently
disappeared, I could catch an occasional flash of white in the
sun.
Now the old gentleman came whooping around with long, undignified
bounds to fall on his face and seize my foot in an excess of
gratitude. He rose and capered about, he rushed out and gathered
in the slain one by one and laid them in a pile at my feet. Then
he danced a jig-step around them and reviled them, and fell on
his face once more, repeating the word "Bwana! bwana! bwana!"
over and over-"Master! master! master!" We returned to camp
together, the old gentleman carrying the birds, and capering
about like a small boy, pouring forth a flood of his sort of
Swahili, of which I could understand only a word here and there.
Memba Sasa, very dignified and scornful of such performances, met
us halfway and took my gun. He seemed to be able to understand
the old fellow's brand of Swahili, and said it over again in a
brand I could understand. From it I gathered that I was called a
marvellously great sultan, a protector of the poor, and other
Arabian Nights titles.
The birds proved to be white egrets. Now at home I am strongly
against the killing of these creatures, and have so expressed
myself on many occasions. But, looking from the beautiful white
plumage of these villainous mauraders, to the wrinkled countenance
of the grateful weary old savage, I could not fan a spark of
regret. And from the straight line of their retreating flight I
like to think that the rest of the flock never came back, but
took their toll from the wider fields of the plateau above.
Next day we reentered the game-haunted wilderness, nor did we see
any more native villages until many weeks later we came into the
country of the Wakamba.
XIX. THE TANA RIVER
Our first sight of the Tana River was from the top of a bluff. It
flowed below us a hundred feet, bending at a sharp elbow against
the cliff on which we stood. Out of the jungle it crept
sluggishly and into the jungle it crept again, brown, slow,
viscid, suggestive of the fevers and the lurking beasts by which,
indeed, it was haunted. From our elevation we could follow its
course by the jungle that grew along its banks.
