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
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.
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