This story is a continuation of the previous post (see below).

Featured image: Clary Palmer-Wilson. (Artist: Gregg Davies)

CLOSE CALL WITH A LEOPARD

It was late in the afternoon and shadows were lengthening before Musa, Clary’s gun bearer, exhausted from his ordeal, stumbled into the house of Clary’s father in Tanga. “Your son has been attacked by a leopard and is close to death!” he gasped before sinking to the floor croaking for water. 

This was bad news. William knew of many leopard attacks, none of which had ended happily. Hastily, he assembled two long, stout poles, a heavy blanket, sheets, and some sisal rope to make a stretcher. Then, while selecting six strong men from his workers to be stretcher-bearers, he coaxed precise directions to the village from Musa who was too exhausted to make the return journey. The man had done well to make the perilous trek at such a fast pace. He would be well rewarded later.

“Twende. Let’s go.” The rescue party set out into the fading light of the dying day. By the time they arrived at the edge of town, night had fallen. Hurriedly walking in the dark, they lost their way several times. But then they noticed the smell of smoke from the bush fire that had been lit during the leopard fight and, later, its yellow glow above the distant horizon. Finally, the pale light of the village’s only kerosene lantern, seen through an open window of the headman’s hut, guided William out of the darkness and straight to his son’s bedside. 

Drawn by this big event in their monotonous lives, villagers stared through every window and door of the hut as Clary, his pale face showing both agony and shame, narrated the incident to his father—agony from the unattended leg wounds, and shame at being outwitted and outdone by a wild animal. William, however, finding that he had arrived in time to find his son alive, was greatly relieved.  Clary was badly mauled, yes, but still conscious and alive.

Willing hands lifted Clary from the blood-soaked bed and placed him on the uncomfortable jerry-rigged stretcher. Then four strong carriers heaved it onto their shoulders.  Clary faced a long, jolting ride back to Tanga, and it wasn’t going to be easy for the porters either. They had to carry a heavy load on the thorn-strewn paths through the dark bushland crawling with wild game, slithering snakes, and biting insects. “Let’s go,” William motioned to the waiting carriers, and without a word, they set off.

Early the next morning, Clary’s father, red-eyed and dead tired, walked into the room, already brightly lit by the early morning sun, where Clary was sleeping. He was trailed by a Kanzu-clad servant carrying an enamel washbasin steaming with boiled water and a white towel folded over one arm. Uncorking a dark green bottle, “Doctor” William, poured tiny purple crystals into the hot water. Little whirls of violet smoke curled up from each grain, which darkened the water into a deep purple liquid. “Permanganate crystals”, said William, before his son could ask. “We must disinfect your wounds before gangrene sets in. Otherwise, both of your legs risk being amputated! Leopard claws are full of rotten meat from their kills, so washing out the wound with this solution is your only chance.”

Then, with the warning, “Son, this is going to hurt like hell,” William poured cup after hot cup of liquid over Clary’s legs, washing away dried blood, dirt, and yellow body fluid, and staining the towel a sickly blue-black color. A sound like a lion roaring with its jaws wired shut escaped through Clary’s clenched teeth as he struggled to control the tears welling up in his eyes.  However, his father wasn’t done yet. “The most painful part of your recovery is still to come,” he warned. Closing the door behind him, he left his son alone to rest and reflect on his ordeal and to contemplate his future… assuming he had one.

“My hunting days are over,” Clary internally moaned.  Who will trust me to guide them after this?  He could not understand how he had missed that leopard, which was lying right at his feet, or why the big gun did not fire at the critical moment when the angry cat was on him. He could not comprehend what had gone so terribly wrong, yet the deep red wounds on his torn legs were certain proof that indeed it had all gone wrong. 

With this on his mind, Clary asked a servant to bring him his 400 Jeffrey rifle, which he carefully examined, noting the leopard’s teeth marks and dried white saliva marking the ends of the barrels. But then he found something unexpected, the two triggers bent right back against the rear of the trigger guard. Then he checked the safety catch, which came off with a “click” that sounded more like an explosion as he suddenly realized what had gone wrong the day before: the gun had an automatic safety catch; open the breech and the safety is automatically pushed to “safe.”

Now he remembered! When he was lying on the ground under the bush fending off the leopard, he’d broken open the gun, reloaded, closed the breech, rammed the barrels into the leopard’s mouth, and, not realizing the safety catch was on, squeezed both steel triggers so hard he’d bent them back against the rear guard, rendering the gun useless. It would have to be repaired by a good gunsmith.

For young Clary, the following three weeks were the most boring of his life. Confined to his bed where his slowly healing legs were cleaned daily, he did nothing except eat, sleep, read, talk, listen, and defecate. But that ended one morning when his father announced that Clary must start walking again before his damaged muscles settled into a new straight position. Otherwise, he would find walking upright difficult and painful and probably walk with a limp the rest of his life. 

William then lifted Clary into a sitting position on the bed with his legs dangling over the side, and from there into a standing position. With a loud yelp of pain, Clary pulled free and sat down again. Blood oozed from cracked black leg scabs that had torn open when he tried to stand.  “Son”, William said, “I warned you it would be painful. But if you don’t start walking now, you’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life.” So, several times each day, Clary practiced walking, one slow, painful step after another, until he could reach the bedroom door unaided by the African servant standing ready to lend a hand in case of a fall. 

A month or so later, Clary had improved to where, armed with a rifle and accompanied by his dog, Satan and a porter, he was taking daily walks into the countryside. Ambling down Tanga’s main road past the imposing German-era Kaiserhof hotel, they strolled beneath huge shady mango trees and between rows of swaying coconut palms into the bush beyond the railway station. Returning home in the cool evening, with the salty tang of the sea breeze in the air, Satan trotting at his heels, and a fat kill draped over the porter’s shoulders, Clary finally felt his world was in order. It only remained to deal with his shame about the leopard incident.

For days, storm clouds had gathered into huge, woolly towers far out to sea, signaling the coming of the rainy season. Nightly rumblings of thunder carried into the little room where Clary lay awake contemplating a return to the place of his mauling. He had to lay his mind to rest about how he’d missed a leopard only inches away from the gun’s muzzle. Furthermore, he must do it before the rains came to wash away all evidence of the incident. “I have to go tomorrow,” he told his father.

The next day, Clary was up before dawn. Breakfasting on tea and chapatis, he was out of town before first light, carrying his repaired 400 Jeffery’s Express rifle and accompanied by a young helper with a haversack containing water bottles, biltong (air-dried, cured meat) and a twist of tobacco as a gift for the village headman.  Satan, whining sulkily, was forced to stay safely at home, as leopards, should Clary meet any on the way, were partial to juicy dogs.

They did not stop until they reached the settlement by the old baobab trees where the villagers were pleasantly surprised to see him alive. Gratefully receiving the gift of tobacco, the headman informed Clary that the leopard had not been seen or heard of since the incident. Their goats were grazing peacefully once more. 

Clary only recognized the thicket because of the termite mound, the fire having turned the thicket into an untidy mass of blackened, tangled branches protruding from a grey-black carpet of charred leaves. He pushed his way through the tangle of burned branches and leaf ash until once more he stood atop the termite castle where the events of that fateful day came flooding back. Then, looking down, as he had done on that same afternoon many months before, he could hardly believe his eyes as he stared right into a hole in the side of the mound. It was a deep hole, large enough to hide a full-grown leopard.

Finally, Clary understood what had happened: The big cat had crouched inside this hole, shielded from Clary’s fusillade of 303 bullets. Then the mound’s earth walls had protected it against the blast from his double-barreled rifle fired at point-blank range. (Inches to one side of the hole – just where the leopard’s neck and shoulder would have been had it had been lying on instead of in the anthill – were two bullet holes where the slugs from the 400 had slammed into the dry earth.)

For the first time since the incident, Clary felt relief. No longer did he need to blame himself for not killing the leopard.  Admittedly, he’d forgotten to switch off the Jeffrey 400’s safety catch. However, Clary vowed, he would never do that again. And, having decided that, he realized with a thrill that he could be a professional hunter after all. 

Clary discovers the leopard’s lair

(Artist: Gregg Davies)

Immersed in thought, Clary didn’t realize how dark the sky had become. The first large raindrops began to plop down as he hurried to take the footpath back home, raising mushroom clouds of dust, perfuming the air with that unique smell of fresh rain on thirsty soil. The rains had finally started. 

And despite getting soaked, Clary didn’t mind a bit. He was too happy.