the land of footprints-第7节

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locity　gun　needs　rather　especial　treatment；　mere　wiping　out　will　not　do。　I　found　that　Memba　Sasa　already　knew　all　about　boiling　water；　and　the　necessity　for　having　it　really　boiling；　about　subsequent　metal　sweating；　and　all　the　rest。　After　watching　him　at　work　I　concluded；　rightly；　that　he　would　do　a　lot　better　job　than　I。

To　the　new　employer　Memba　Sasa　maintained　an　attitude　of　strict　professional　loyalty。　His　personal　respect　was　upheld　by　the　necessity　of　every　man　to　do　his　job　in　the　world。　Memba　Sasa　did　his。　He　cleaned　the　rifles；　he　saw　that　everything　was　in　order　for　the　day's　march；　he　was　at　my　elbow　all　ways　with　more　cartridges　and　the　spare　rifle；　he　trailed　and　looked　conscientiously。　In　his　attitude　was　the　stolidity　of　the　wooden　Indian。　No　action　of　mine；　no　joke　on　the　part　of　his　companions；　no　circumstance　in　the　varying　fortunes　of　the　field　gained　from　him　the　faintest　flicker　of　either　approval；　disapproval；　or　interest。　When　we　returned　to　camp　he　deposited　my　water　bottle　and　camera；　seized　the　cleaning　implements；　and　departed　to　his　own　campfire。　In　the　field　he　pointed　out　game　that　I　did　not　see；　and　waited　imperturbably　the　result　of　my　shot。

As　I　before　stated；　the　result　of　that　shot　for　the　first　five　days　was　very　apt　to　be　nil。　This；　at　the　time；　puzzled　and　grieved　me　a　lot。　Occasionally　I　looked　at　Memba　Sasa　to　catch　some　sign　of　sympathy；　disgust；　contempt；　or…rarely…triumph　at　a　lucky　shot。　Nothing。　He　gently　but　firmly　took　away　my　rifle；　reloaded　it；　and　handed　it　back；　then　waited　respectfully　for　my　next　move。　He　knew　no　English；　and　I　no　Swahili。

But　as　time　went　on　this　attitude　changed。　I　was　armed　with　the　new　Springfield　rifle；　a　weapon　with　2；700　feet　velocity；　and　with　a　marvellously　flat　trajectory。　This　commanding　advantage；　combined　with　a　very　long　familiarity　with　firearms；　enabled　me　to　do　some　fairish　shooting；　after　the　strangeness　of　these　new　conditions　had　been　mastered。　Memba　Sasa　began　to　take　a　dawning　interest　in　me　as　a　possible　source　of　pride。　We　began　to　develop　between　us　a　means　of　communication。　I　set　myself　deliberately　to　learn　his　language；　and　after　he　had　cautiously　determined　that　I　really　meant　it；　he　took　the　greatest　pains…always　gravely…to　teach　me。　A　more　human　feeling　sprang　up　between　us。

But　we　had　still　the　final　test　to　undergo…that　of　danger　and　the　tight　corner。

In　close　quarters　the　gunbearer　has　the　hardest　job　in　the　world。　I　have　the　most　profound　respect　for　his　absolute　courage。　Even　to　a　man　armed　and　privileged　to　shoot　and　defend　himself；　a　charging　lion　is　an　awesome　thing；　requiring　a　certain　amount　of　coolness　and　resolution　to　face　effectively。　Think　of　the　gunbearer　at　his　elbow；　depending　not　on　himself　but　on　the　courage　and　coolness　of　another。　He　cannot　do　one　solitary　thing　to　defend　himself。　To　bolt　for　the　safety　of　a　tree　is　to　beg　the　question　completely；　to　brand　himself　as　a　shenzi　forever；　to　fire　a　gun　in　any　circumstances　is　to　beg　the　question　also；　for　the　white　man　must　be　able　to　depend　absolutely　on　his　second　gun　in　an　emergency。　Those　things　are　outside　consideration；　even；　of　any　respectable　gunbearer。　In　addition；　he　must　keep　cool。　He　must　see　clearly　in　the　thickest　excitement；　must　be　ready　unobtrusively　to　pass　up　the　second　gun　in　the　position　most　convenient　for　immediate　use；　to　seize　the　other　and　to　perform　the　finicky　task　of　reloading　correctly　while　some　rampageous　beast　is　raising　particular　thunder　a　few　yards　away。　All　this　in　absolute　dependence　on　the　ability　of　his　bwana　to　deal　with　the　situation。　I　can　confess　very　truly　that　once　or　twice　that　little　unobtrusive　touch　of　Memba　Sasa　crouched　close　to　my　elbow　steadied　me　with　the　thought　of　how　little　right　I…with　a　rifle　in　my　hand…had　to　be　scared。　And　the　best　compliment　I　ever　received　I　overheard　by　chance。　I　had　wounded　a　lion　when　out　by　myself；　and　had　returned　to　camp　for　a　heavier　rifle　and　for　Memba　Sasa　to　do　the　trailing。　From　my　tent　I　overheard　the　following　conversation　between　Memba　Sasa　and　the　cook：

〃The　grass　is　high；〃　said　the　cook。　〃Are　you　not　afraid　to　go　after　a　wounded　lion　with　only　one　white　man？〃

〃My　one　white　man　is　enough；〃　replied　Memba　Sasa。

It　is　a　quality　of　courage　that　I　must　confess　would　be　quite　beyond　me…to　depend　entirely　on　the　other　fellow；　and　not　at　all　on　myself。　This　courage　is　always　remarkable　to　me；　even　in　the　case　of　the　gunbearer　who　knows　all　about　the　man　whose　heels　he　follows。　But　consider　that　of　the　gunbearer's　first　experience　with　a　stranger。　The　former　has　no　idea　of　how　the　white　man　will　act；　whether　he　will　get　nervous；　get　actually　panicky；　lose　his　shooting　ability；　and　generally　mess　things　up。　Nevertheless；　he　follows　his　master　in；　and　he　stands　by。　If　the　hunter　fails；　the　gunbearer　will　probably　die。　To　me　it　is　rather　fine：　for　he　does　it；　not　from　the　personal　affection　and　loyalty　which　will　carry　men　far；　but　from　a　sheer　sense　of　duty　and　pride　of　caste。　The　quiet　pride　of　the　really　good　men；　like　Memba　Sasa；　is　easy　to　understand。

And　the　records　are　full　of　stories　of　the　white　man　who　has　not　made　good：　of　the　coward　who　bolts；　leaving　his　black　man　to　take　the　brunt　of　it；　or　who　sticks　but　loses　his　head。　Each　new　employer　must　be　very　closely　and　interestedly　scrutinized。　In　the　light　of　subsequent　experience；　I　can　no　longer　wonder　at　Memba　Sasa's　first　detached　and　impersonal　attitude。

As　time　went　on；　however；　and　we　grew　to　know　each　other　better；　this　attitude　entirely　changed。　At　first　the　change　consisted　merely　in　dropping　the　disinterested　pose　as　respects　game。　For　it　was　a　pose。　Memba　Sasa　was　most　keenly　interested　in　game　whenever　it　was　an　object　of　pursuit。　It　did　not　matter　how　common　the　particular　species　might　be：　if　we　wanted　it；　Memba　Sasa　would　look　upon　it　with　eager　ferocity；　and　if　we　did　not　want　it；　he　paid　no　attention　to　it　at　all。　When　we　started　in　the　morning；　or　in　the　relaxation　of　our　return　at　night；　I　would　mention　casually　a　few　of　the　things　that　might　prove　acceptable。

〃To…morrow　we　want　kongoni　for　boys'　meat；　or　zebra；　and　some　meat　for　masters…Tommy；　impala；　oribi；〃　and　Memba　Sasa　knew　as　well　as　I　did　what　we　needed　to　fill　out　our　trophy　collection。　When　he　caught　sight　of　one　of　these　animals　his　whole　countenance　changed。　The　lines　of　his　face　set；　his　lips　drew　back　from　his　teeth；　his　eyes　fairly　darted　fire　in　the　fixity　of　their　gaze。　He　was　like　a　fine　pointer　dog　on　birds；　or　like　the　splendid　savage　he　was　at　heart。

〃M'palla！〃　he　hissed；　and　then　after　a　second；　in　a　restrained　fierce　voice；　〃Na…ona？　Do　you　see？〃

If　I　did　not　see　he　pointed　cautiously。　His　own　eyes　never　left　the　beast。　Rarely　he　stayed　put　while　I　made　the　stalk。　More　often　he　glided　like　a　snake　at　my　heels。　If　the　bullet　hit；　Memba　Sasa　always　exhaled　a　grunt　of　satisfaction…〃hah！〃…in　which　triumph　and　satisfaction　mingled　with　a　faint　derision　at　the　unfortunate　beast。　In　case　of　a　trophy　he　squatted　anxiously　at　the　animal's　head　while　I　took　my　measurements；　assisting　very　intelligently　with　the　tape　line。　When　I　had　finished；　he　always　looked　up　at　me　with　wrinkled　brow。

〃Footie　n'gapi？〃　he　inquired。　This　means　literally；　〃How　many　feet？〃；　footie　being　his　euphemistic　invention　of　a　word　for　the　tape。　I　would　tell　him　how　many　〃footie〃　and　how　many　〃inchie〃　the　measurement　proved　to　be。　From　the　depths　of　his　wonderful　memory　he　would　dig　up　the　measurements　of　another　beast　of　the　same　sort　I　had　killed　months　back；　but　which　he　had　remembered　accurately　from　a　single　hearing。

The　shooting　of　a　beast　he　always　detailed　to　his　few　cronies　in　camp：　the　other　gunbearers；　and　one　or　two　from　his　own　tribe。　He　always　used　the　first　person　plural；　〃we〃　did　so　and　so；　and　took　an　inordinate　pride　in　making　out　his　bwana　as　being　an　altogether　superior　person　to　any　of　the　other　gunbearer's　bwanas。　Over　a　miss　he　always　looked　sad；　but　with　a　dignified　sadness　as　though　we　had　met　with　undeserved　misfortune　sent　by　malignant　gods。　If　there　were　any　possible　alleviating　explanation；　Memba　Sasa　made　the　most　of　it；　provided　our　fiasco　was　witnessed。　If　we　were　alone　in　our　disgrace；　he　buried　the　incident　fathoms　deep。　He　took　an　inordinate　pride　in　our　using　the　minimum　number　of　cartridges；　and　would　explain　to　me　in　a　loud　tone　of　voice　that　we　had　cartridges　enough　in　the　belt。　When　we　had　not　cartridges　enough；　he　would　sneak　around　after　dark　to　get　some　more。　At　times　he　would　even　surreptitiously　〃lift〃　a　few　from　B。's　gunbearer！

When　in　camp；　with　his　〃cazi〃　finished；　Memba　Sasa　did　fancy　work！　The　picture　of　this　powerful　half…savage；　his　fierce　brows　bent　over　a　tiny　piece　of　linen；　his　strong　fingers　fussing　with　little　stitches；　will　always　appeal　to　my　sense　of　the　incongruous。　Through　a　piece　of　linen　he　punched　holes　with　a　porcupine　quill。　Then　he　〃buttonhole〃　stitched　the　holes；　and　embroidered　patterns　between　them　with　fine　white　thread。　The　result　was　an　openwork　pattern　heavily　encrusted　with　beautiful　fine　embroidery。　It　was　most　astounding　stuff；　such　as　you　would　expect　from　a　French　convent；　perhaps；　but　never　from　an　African　savage。　He　did　a　circular　piece　and　a　long