Fitzpatrick Jock of the Bushveld

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-86842-463-4
Verlag: Jonathan Ball
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

Jock of the Bushveld is the classic and much-loved story based on the true experiences of Sir Percy Fitzpatrick and his Staffordshire bull terrier, Jock. The story begins in the 1880s, at the time of the South African gold rush, when a young Fitzpatrick worked as an ox-wagon transport rider in the old Transvaal. There he came across a man who was in the process of drowning a puppy, the runt of the litter. He saved the dog and the story of his ever-faithful and loving companion was born. First published in 1907, Jock of the Bushveld has been reprinted many times since. Now, with a fresh and engaging cover, and in a new handy B-format, this timeless South African classic retains the charm of the original story along with the original illustrations by Edmund Caldwell. It will no doubt continue to be enjoyed by children and adults alike.

JAMES PERCY FITZPATRICK was born in King William's Town in 1862. Always active in politics, he also found time to write several books besides the classic Jock of the Bushveld. His first book, Through Mashonaland with Pick and Pen, was published in 1892, followed by The Outspan: Tales of South Africa in 1897 and The Transvaal from Within in 1899. He died on his Eastern Cape Farm, Amanzi, in 1931, where he is buried.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fitzpatrick, Percy

Leseproben

INTO THE BUSHVELD

‘Distant hills are always green’, and the best gold further on. That is a law of nature – human nature – which is quite superior to facts; and thus the world moves on.

So from the Lydenburg gold-fields prospectors ‘humping their swags’ or driving their small pack-donkeys spread afield, and transport-riders with their long spans and rumbling waggons followed, cutting a wider track where traders with winding strings of carriers had already ventured on. But the hunters had gone first. There were great hunters whose names are known. Others as great who missed the accident of fame, and after them hunters who traded, and traders who hunted. And so too with prospectors, diggers, transport-riders and all.

Between the gold-fields and the nearest port lay the bushveld, and game enough for all to live on. Thus, all were hunters of a sort, but the great hunters – the hunters of big game – were apart; we were the smaller fry, there to admire and to imitate.

Perched on the edge of the Drakensberg, we overlooked the wonder-world of the bushveld, where the big game roamed in thousands. Living on the fringe of a hunter’s paradise, most of us were drawn into it from time to time, for shorter or longer spells, as opportunity and our circumstances allowed. Little by little one got to know the names, appearances, and habits of the many kinds of game. In the quiet nights there were long talks under the waggons, in the grass shelters in the woods, or in the wattle-anddaub shanties of the diggers. Here I learned to understand something of the man we knew simply as Rocky, and here I first heard of Jim Makokel’.

Jim was a Zulu waggon-driver who had worked for one of our party – Bob Saunderson. ‘We came right on to a lioness waiting for us, and I got her,’ said Bob one night when it was his turn to provide our ‘nights’ entertainment, ‘and then there were shouts, and I saw a couple of cubs, pretty well grown, making off in the grass. This driver, Jim, legged it after one of them, a cub about as big as a Newfoundland dog. I followed as fast as I could, but he was a big Zulu and went like a buck, yelling like mad all the time. We were in the bend of one of the long pools down near the Komati, and when I got through the reeds the cub was at the water’s edge facing Jim, and Jim was dancing around heading it off with only one light stick. As soon as it saw us coming on, the cub took to the water, and Jim after it. It was as good as a play. Jim swam up behind, and putting his hand on its head ducked it right under. The cub turned as it came up and struck out at him viciously, but he was back out of reach. When it turned again to go Jim ducked it again, and it went on like that six or eight times, till the thing was half drowned and had no more fight in it. Then Jim got hold of it by the tail and swam back to us, still shouting and quite mad with excitement.

‘Of course, you can say it was only a cub; but it takes a good man to go up naked and tackle a thing with teeth and claws that can cut you into ribbons.’

‘Was Jim here today?’ I asked, as soon as there was an opening. Bob shook his head with a kindly regretful smile. ‘No, sonny, not here; you’d have heard him. Jim’s gone. I had to sack him. A real fine worker, but a terror to drink, and always in trouble. He wore me out.’

We were generally a party of half a dozen – the owners of the four waggons, a couple of friends trading with Delagoa Bay, a man from Swaziland, and Rocky, an old Yankee hunter-prospector. It was our holiday time, before the hard work with loads would commence, and we dawdled along feeding up the cattle and taking it easy ourselves.

It was too early for loads in Delagoa Bay so we moved slowly and hunted on the way, sometimes camping for several days in places where the grass and water were good.

Game there was in plenty, but it did not come my way. Days went by with, once or twice, the sight of some small buck just as it disappeared, and many times the noise of something in the bush or the sound of galloping feet. Others brought their contributions to the pot daily, and there seemed to be no reason in the world why I alone should fail – no reason except sheer bad luck! It is difficult to believe you have made mistakes when you do not know enough to recognise them, and have no idea of the extent of your own ignorance; and then bad luck is such an easy and such a flattering explanation.

If I did not go so far on the easy road of excuse-making as to put all the failures down to bad luck, perhaps Rocky deserves the credit.

One evening as we were lounging round the camp fire, Robbie, failing to find a soft spot for his head on a thorn log, got up reluctantly to fetch his blankets, exclaiming with a mock tragic air:

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite,

That ever I was born to set it right.

We knew Robbie’s way. There were times when he would spout heroics, suggested by some passing trifle, his own face a marvel of solemnity the whole time, and only the amused expression in his spectacled grey eyes to show he was poking fun at himself. An indulgent smile, a chuckle, and the genial comment ‘Silly ass!’ came from different quarters, for Robbie was a favourite. Only Old Rocky maintained his usual gravity.

As Robbie settled down again in comfort, the old man remarked in level thoughtful tones, ‘I reckon the feller who said that was a waster, he chucked it!’ There was a short pause in which I, in my ignorance, began to wonder if it was possible that Rocky did not know the source; or did he take the quotation seriously? Then Robbie answered in mild protest, ‘It was a gentleman of the name of Hamlet who said it.’

‘Well, you can bet he was no good, anyhow,’ Rocky drawled out.

‘A man who blames his luck is no good.’

‘You don’t believe in luck at all, Rocky?’ I ventured to put in.

‘I don’t say there’s no such thing as luck – good and bad. But it isn’t the explanation of success and failure – not by a long way. When another man pulls off what you don’t, the first thing you’ve got to believe is it’s your own fault, and the last, it’s his luck. And you’ve just got to wade in and find out where you went wrong, and put it right, without any excuses and explanations.’

‘But, Rocky, explanations aren’t always excuses, and sometimes you really have to give them.’

‘Sonny, you can be dead sure there’s something wrong about a thing that doesn’t explain itself. One explanation’s as bad as two mistakes – it doesn’t fool anybody except yourself.’

I was beaten. It was no use going on, for I knew he was right. I suppose the other fellows also knew whom he was getting at, but they said nothing; and the subject seemed to have dropped, when Rocky, harking back to Robbie’s quotation, said, with a ghost of a smile, ‘I reckon if Hamlet had to keep the camp in meat we’d go hungry.’

Rocky had no fancy notions. He hunted for meat and got it as soon as possible. He was seldom out long, and rarely indeed came back empty-handed. I had already learnt not to be too ready with questions. It was better, so Rocky put it, ‘to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut’. But the results at first hardly seemed to justify the process. At the end of a week of failures and disappointments all I knew was that I knew nothing – a very notable advance it is true, but one quite difficult to appreciate.

The only dog with us was licking a cut on her shoulder – the result of an unauthorised rush at a wounded buck – and after an examination of her wound we had wandered over the account of how she had got it, and so on to discussing the dog herself. Rocky was in silence, smoking and looking into the fire, and the little discussion was closed by someone saying, ‘She’s no good for a hunting dog – too plucky!’ It was then I saw Rocky’s eyes turned slowly on the last speaker. He looked at him thoughtfully for a good minute, and then remarked quietly, ‘There is no such thing as too plucky.’ And with that he stopped, almost as if inviting contradiction. Whether he wanted a reply or not one cannot say; anyway, he got none. No one took Rocky on unnecessarily, and at his leisure he resumed: ‘She’s no fool, but she hasn’t been taught. Men have got to learn, dogs too. Boys are like pups – you’ve got to help them but not too much, and not too soon. They’ve got to learn themselves. I reckon if a man’s never made mistake he’s never had a good lesson.’

My eyes were all for Rocky, but he was not looking my way, and when the next remark came, and my heart jumped and my hands and feet moved of their own accord, his face was turned quite away from me towards the man on his left.

‘It’s just the same with hunting. It looks so easy a boy reckons it doesn’t need any teaching. Well, let him try. Mostly you’ve got to make a fool of yourself once or twice to know what it feels like and how to avoid it. Best to do it young – it teaches a boy; but it kind of breaks a man up.’

The old man paused, then naturally and easily picked up his original point, and turning another look on Jess, said, ‘You got to begin on the pup. It isn’t her fault; it’s yours. She’s full of the right stuff, but she’s got to learn. Dogs are all different, good and bad – just like men: some learn quick; some’ll never learn. But there aren’t any too plucky!’

He tossed a chip of green wood into the heart of the...