The conclusion reached in Most Interesting Men, the previous dispatch, is that dangerous game hunting, by all measures, delivers exactly what I’m looking for in a line of work or, at a minimum, in a serious avocation. It is both action-oriented and risky. Yet, while that would be good for me in the main, it’s possible that I’ll suffer injury upon entering the fray, even if my goal always would be to emerge unscathed. For if you chase after lions, tigers, leopards, etc., then sooner or later one will get the best of you. Fair enough, but given that I have a moral obligation to protect human life, including my own, it raises a question: Is dangerous game hunting meaningful or is it simply thrill-seeking for its own sake? And since the endeavor involves more than just the human being, a second question also must be addressed: Is dangerous game hunting ethically sound with respect to the quarry being pursued as well the landscape within which it exists?
Is it meaningful?
Dangerous endeavors are not all of equal merit. Some are quite meaningful while others are less so. The key attribute differentiating these two broad classes is sensibleness, which is the degree to which it is necessary that a dangerous endeavor be undertaken. Properly evaluating the matter, though, entails adopting a group- rather than an individual-level perspective.
Now, consider the average U.S. Navy Seal. He not only possesses an inordinately high appetite for danger, it is likely that he also lives out Ernest Hemingway’s famous dictum: There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter. Our Navy Seal, in other words, is a bit extreme. Even so, his embracing danger in the form of special forces work is sensible, and thus eminently meaningful, inasmuch as it’s necessary that someone do so if the United States is to be kept safe from its enemies. In other words, people sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.1
Likewise, history demonstrates that, at the group-level, someone must hunt dangerous game if humans are to remain at the top of the food chain rather than be regularly predated upon. The endeavor then is just as meaningful as special forces work. For geriatric and/or injured lions, tigers, and leopards, etc. sometimes become man-eaters once they’re no longer fit enough to pursue their normal prey. The infamous lions of Tsavo and the man-eating tigers and leopards of Kumaon make that point clearly. Each entailed that a dangerous game hunter pursued them as a defensive measure. John H. Patterson came to the rescue in the Tsavo region of Kenya and Jim Corbett did the same in the Kumaon division of India.2,3
Now, Patterson and Corbett essentially functioned as counter-punchers in the fight between man and fierce beast, which is an effective strategy. However, it’s not the only one. For a preemptive strike actually works just as well or better – a fact made manifest by the behavioral difference between two populations of dangerous game, Vermont and New Jersey black bears, as a function of hunting and the lack thereof – a dichotomy that was explained by a Vermont Department of Fish and Wildlife biologist at a lecture I attended as a Green Mountain state hunter education instructor.
You see, Vermont black bears tend to leave people alone as a consequence of being continuously hunted for quite a long time. For they’re the descendants of individuals that instinctively knew humans were bad news, stayed out of our way, and subsequently survived to pass on their genes. New Jersey black bears, in contrast, have not been continuously hunted over the course of generations and therefore lack an innate fear of people. Thus, one is likely to approach you should you be unlucky enough to cross paths with it in the woods.
Lions, tigers, bears: I should also include an instance involving a leopard, too, since it’s my favorite among fierce beasts. No matter, though, because the examples given above adequately demonstrate that both proactive and reactive dangerous game hunting keeps people safe. Not that it’s something everyone ought to be doing. Only a few need apply. Yet, at the group-level, dangerous game hunting is necessary and thus sensible, making it a meaningful endeavor rather than a case of thrill-seeking for its own sake.
Is it ethically sound?
We must now come to grips with two additional ethical considerations involving dangerous game hunting. Although the matter actually is quite simple. If dangerous game hunting benefits the quarry at the population level as well as the landscape within which it lives, then it’s morally good. But if it harms either one or both, then it’s bad.
As it stands, the reality is that pursuing dangerous game serves to protect both species and ecosystems the world over whenever it operates in the context of the rule of law and the spirit of reciprocity between hunters and local populations.4 Yet, I will focus on the African context from here on. Though North America and Asia each provide relevant examples, the African safari, as mentioned previously in Most Interesting Men, is the classic venue for the pursuit of dangerous game. Therefore, it is fitting that I fix my gaze on that which lies south of the Sahara.
The African Scene
Often criticized on account that it serves mostly wealthy white, middle-aged males from North America and Europe, the African hunting safari in pursuit of one or several of the Big Five dangerous game species is needed today more than ever. For it generates a lot of income from very little off-take, and thus is a critical conservation-funding resource. This is especially true given that African wildlife, in the aggregate, has decreased by roughly 75-percent between 1970 and 2020, mainly as a consequence of (1) habitat loss due to the expansion of agriculture and public infrastructure and (2) poaching to supply the bushmeat trade on the one hand and Chinese traditional medicine on the other.5,6
We all need to eat, of course, and developing nations have a right to improve their standards of living, but Chinese medicine ought to be shut down. For it is criminal, not because it’s unalloyed nonsense but because it operates in total disregard of both animal welfare, species survival, and the rule of law. Yet, as long as its practitioners and customers are willing to pay for poaching, African (as well as Asian) wildlife will be decimated well above and beyond what it will suffer by rights in the name of feeding people and improving standards of living.
Now, Kenya is an intriguing case in light of the fact that it banned regulated hunting, including that of dangerous game, in 1977 on the grounds that it was both barbaric and a relic of colonialism. Yet, the degradation there has been greater than in African countries that continue to allow it. For while agricultural encroachment and poaching were problems in Kenya before the ban, they grew even worse after wildlife lost the economic value that it had as a function of hunting. In fact, the degradation is especially rampant in the northern part of the country, a region that receives disproportionately little in the way of conservation resources as a consequence of it being far from tourist destinations.7 As one individual associated with the NGO, Protection and Conservation of Endangered Species, stated, “[People in Northern Kenya] have nothing to gain from wildlife apart from losing livestock and loved ones in human-wildlife conflicts.”8
It’s safe to assume the individual quoted above is referencing lion depredation in particular. Therefore, let us entertain a hypothetical. What if Kenya followed the model employed in Tanzania, its southern neighbor, which permits regulated lion hunting as well as the pursuit of other game species? Would it change the average northern Kenyan’s attitude? Tanzania, after all, has nearly stopped poaching and the illegal grazing of livestock in protected areas because it both has the resources to do so and has provided local populations an economic incentive to protect wildlife and wild places thanks in large part to hunting.9,10,11
Think about it. The total cost associated with grassing one wild lion in Tanzania is approximately $100,000 USD, and it rises north of $150,000 USD after factoring in all associated fees and charges.12 Since money talks, if the same transaction is allowed in Kenya and if the locals in the north received a healthy share of the profit, then why wouldn’t their attitude toward wildlife and wild places change for the better? Why wouldn’t they be less inclined to either poach lions and other wildlife on behalf of Chinese crime syndicates or turn habitat into grazing land? For doing the right thing in that context would be quite lucrative. Again, regulated hunting of all types including that of dangerous game has been demonstrably good in Tanzania, as well as other African countries, both for the quarry pursued (at the population-level) as well as the landscape within which it lives. It is therefore reasonable to conclude that it would be beneficial in Kenya, too.
A Caveat
Not that the pursuit of dangerous game is perfect. In fact, two examples from the world of African lion hunting unequivocally demonstrate there’s room for reform. The first is localized to South Africa. Here, lion hunting is dependent upon captive breeding and the subsequent pursuit of tamed specimens, which is a disgrace.13 The second happens too often wherever lions are hunted, and that is the taking of male specimens in the prime of life, each time disrupting the social structure of the pride, which results in high collateral mortality among cubs and sometimes females.14,15
My sense, however, is that African lions have faired better than Asian tigers thanks to regulated hunting. The latter actually have not been pursued on a sporting basis anywhere for quite some time. Even so, it seems that they have suffered more habit fragmentation, poaching, and human-wildlife conflict than lions over the same interval. All of which suggests that the absence of economic incentives provided by regulated sport hunting have rendered Asian tigers more vulnerable rather than less. It’s just an hypothesis, but I believe it to be a worthy candidate for testing by the likes of an organization such as the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN).
Due Diligence, Yours and Mine
I’ve only glossed the evidence demonstrating that dangerous game hunting is ethically sound, benefiting both the quarry at the population level as well as the landscape within which it lives. Yet, the subject deserves to be treated more thoroughly. To begin, while I chose to focus on Africa because that is the pursuit of dangerous game’s classic venue, the endeavor spans multiple countries throughout the World. Yet, many countries in Africa as well as in Asia and elsewhere have struggled to maintain the rule of law, which is a pre-condition for the benefits describe herein to materialize. In truth, regulated dangerous game hunting sometimes comes up short because of political instability and/or law enforcement deficits. It is then reasonable that you directly examine the references listed at the end of this dispatch to gain a greater understanding of the matter.
As for me, I’ve done my due diligence and can embrace dangerous game hunting either as a line of work or as a serious avocation since it is both a meaningful and an environmentally ethical endeavor. Although I won’t be running off to Africa anytime soon. Remember, hunting dangerous game there is rightfully expensive. It’s something for which you save over a number of years. That is, unless you’re an industrial magnate, an oil tycoon, or a Wall Street banker. Newsflash: I’m none of the above.
Perhaps that leaves you protesting, “What’s with all your talk then in Run Amok about being so restless that you desire something that puts you at risk of developing a mild case of PTSD, blah, blah, blah?” Well, hold on. I never said, “Never.” Only that I won’t be running off to Africa anytime soon. I still want to be a most interesting man in the manner of Teddy Roosevelt, though. Moreover, I’m already backing my words with action. For if you’ve read Souvenir de…, Le Chasseur sportive et le 2 Février, and Pre-Christmas Crackers, then you’re aware that I’m having a modified Remington Model 1917 Enfield made such that I might go after wild boar and feral pigs, both of which are technically dangerous game. But back to Africa: I actually can see myself going on a hunting safari in pursuit of a fierce beast or two, especially since I had a vivid dream about it while I was writing Most Interesting Men.
A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh…
Now, I make it a point to publish a dispatch on voyageursfieldsport.com at least once a month. Even so, every summer since establishing Voyageurs Fieldsport, I also embark on a personal death march, pushing the limit on hours worked, and therefore it’s a commitment that’s difficult to uphold between Memorial Day and Labor Day. While I met the deadline last June by writing something very short and sweet and then again last August by pulling something from the vault, last July slipped by, which bothered me enough that I resolved to press doubly hard this go around. Unfortunately, I also was so dog-tired this July that I kept putting the month’s dispatch off and, when I finally started it, I was beset with writer’s block.
Yet, a commitment is truly one only if you’re willing to give it your all. Well, I knew that to complete Most Interesting Men on time, what I needed was to immerse myself in what you might call the spirit of the African hunting safari, and the form it took was listening to The Tokens’ The Lion Sleeps Tonight on a loop while I wrote. It worked, too. Most Interesting Men was published on July 28th, with a few minor flaws when it went live, but I fixed those on August 11th.
Most remarkably, though, The Lion Sleeps Tonight altered my frame of mind more than I expected. Again, I had this vivid dream. And it consisted of being in Tanzania with three friends and fellow members of the Runagates Club – Brian, Rob, and Mike – on a hunting safari, namely in pursuit of Cape buffalo. Brian’s the exuberant one, Rob’s the muscular one, and Mike is the intelligent one. My persona, however, is a bit complicated. For I’m either none of the above or the all-rounder. Play it whatever way pleases you. No matter what, I just may be the most interesting one because, over the course of the dream, I and I alone experience all four cardinal conflict types: Man against God, Man against Nature, Man against Man, and Man against Himself.
Nitro Express
The dream opens off-stage. And what I know is that (1) Brian has booked a safari for four with Paul and Alice Fahey who run a hunting service with their two sons Adam and Charlie out of their coffee plantation in Babati, Tanzania, but the hunting ground proper is on a concession of theirs further to the north near the border with Kenya; (2) that Brian, Rob, Mike, and me drive to Boston-Logan and fly KLM to Amsterdam-Schiphol where we board a connecting flight to Dar es Salaam-Julius Nyerere; (3) Rob buys a 5-pack of Davidoff Nicaragua Short Corona cigars duty free before passing through customs; (4) Adam Fahey meets and drives us to Babati; and (5) Paul is away purchasing farm machinery, and so Alice is running the hunting lodge single-handedly as Adam and Charlie each has a wife and children and live elsewhere. On-stage, though, the action begins with what is perhaps the pièce de résistance: I adventitiously grass a tom leopard while hunting impala around the Fahey’s coffee plantation. And this actually happens on the warm-up day – before we even trek north to the concession to pursue Cape buffalo.
These are the details regarding the leopard. Charlie is guiding me and we’re moving in on a lone impala ram. I’m using my new Sig Cross Fury chambered in 6.8 x 51 Hybrid topped with a Schmidt and Bender 3-20 x 50 PM-2 Ultra Short telescopic sight. Although I should check on this because I think 7mm is the minimum bullet caliber allowed for non-dangerous game in Tanzania, and so I’m already contravening the law. Perhaps that explains Charlie’s demeanor. What happens is that I put my rifle up on the sticks ready to shoot this impala about 105-meters distant, but I notice an odd shading in the grass to the left, almost on the edge of the sight picture. It’s a leopard about to pounce. So, I whisper to Charlie, “There’s a leopard to the left of the impala.” He brings his binos up and sees it, but I sense he’s hesitant. So I tell him I need to drop down for a high neck shot. And without waiting for his response, I take my rifle off the sticks and hand them to him before he even lowers his binos.
I surmise you’re wondering, what with all the movement, how we could’ve avoided spooking the leopard. The thing is the cat’s far too single-mindedly focused on the impala, and so it doesn’t notice us. The critical detail, though, is that I’m reading Charlie’s mind now and I know he isn’t going to let me shoot the cat using my Sig Cross Fury because he believes the chambering is too light. Consequently, I hand him the sticks, giving him something to do before he can say anything, and he acts reflexively. I take a knee, shoot true, and the cat drops with paws-up twitching before Charlie can think much about it.
The manner by which I grass this tom leopard is a grand achievement, and so now comes the hardest part of the dream to relate. Success, not only in the realm of dangerous game hunting but also managing people like they’re pieces of furniture, goes straight to my head and I immediately lapse into the sin of pride and probably a few others that are even deadlier. It’s odd how winning can be a double-edged sword.
Hereon, though, I’m following the narrative approach that Ernest Hemingway employed in Green Hills of Africa (1935). It’s a non-fiction account of his first African safari written in the style of a novel, which I believe made an already engaging yarn even better. Now, do I believe my jab at the craft will stack-up to Hemingway’s? No, but in the spirit of being the man in the arena, promoted by the 26th President of the United States and dangerous game hunter, Theodore Roosevelt, I’ll do it anyhow.
1
Everyone returned to the big house at the end of the day and cleaned-up. Dinner was delightful – gemsbok tenderloin medallions perfectly grilled over an acacia wood fire, paired to a signature South African pinot noir, and served with smoked celeriac purée, rice, and wild goosefoot salad. My compliments to Alice. She was handling the evening alone. Paul, her husband, was in Dar es Salaam purchasing farm machinery. We might have passed him on our way to Babati, too. Who knows? Even her sons Adam and Charlie couldn’t be here as each one had a family commitment.
Paul and Alice Fahey started their hunting service 37-years earlier when Tanzania was busy proving that leftism can ruin coffee the same as it ruins everything it touches economically or socially. They inherited his grandfather’s coffee estate in 1982 when it was on the verge of collapse courtesy of Ujamaa. With two young boys and a newborn girl to take care of, they had to do something or else. So in 1985, Paul and Alice diversified into commercial sport hunting and it prospered enough that it saved the estate.
Farming eventually turned profitable again. Tanzanian socialism had run its course by the 1990s and world coffee consumption and commodity prices trended strong all that decade. Even so, Paul and Alice not only kept their hunting service, they grew it.
Brian learned of the Faheys from the owner of the company he works for who hunts internationally and spoke highly of their operation. That’s what directed the four of us to Babati. While we missed Paul, we were benefitting from Adam and Charlie’s guiding, and enjoying Alice’s cooking. Yet, we didn’t remain long at the table once the meal was over. For Brian, Rob, and Mike immediately went outside to the circular fire hearth. Although I lingered a little longer.
“You mind if I make myself a gin and tonic?” I asked.
“Not at all, the liquor cabinet is over there.” Alice pointed to the sideboard opposite the sink on the other side of the freestanding counter. “Tonic and lime are in the refrigerator.”
Upon opening the sideboard, I saw a bottle of Aggazzotti Modena walnut liqueur at the very front. Reaching for it, I then held it up in the light. “You don’t see this all that often.”
“Paul likes it with crushed ice.”
I proceeded to take a few more bottles out and pushed others off to the side until the only item between me and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire was a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon Barrel Strength, which I grabbed and held aloft. ’ALC/VOL: 62.7%’ was printed on the label. “Hot!” I mused, then asked aloud “Do you and Paul get many Americans?”
Alice turned my way. “A few – more from Europe – a lot of Germans.”
“Even after all these years.”
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Alice then looked closely at what was in my hand. “Have as much as you like. A Diageo representative left it several years ago.”
“I’ll pass.” I then grabbed the Bombay Sapphire. “Do you have large ice cubes?”
“In the freezer above.”
“And where do you keep your glassware?”
“On the other end of the sideboard.”
Opening the door to the right, I pulled out two tumblers, but then noticed a tray of tall, narrow shot glasses. Each one was about 10.5 centimeters high and 3.5 wide. The shape of the interior was that of a cylinder that transitioned to a shallow ogive at the bottom. And though it was quite narrow and upright in the manner of a magnum rifle cartridge, it possessed a suitably thick base – about 2 centimeters deep as measured from the vertex – and thus was well-balanced.
“Where did you get these narrow gauge 2-ouncers?”
“A Scottish client gave them to us. Niall Simpson’s his name. He took a buff up north where you’re going.”
“I like them. But I’ll be certain to take an even larger buff than his. Naill’s probably a piker anyhow. “
Retrospectively, I believe my comment was off-putting. Moreover, it revealed that something very ugly was stirring inside of me, and stirring rapidly. For I was savoring every bit of having successfully manipulated Charlie. Moreover, I both wanted to tangle again and knew exactly where to find trouble. So, after collecting the remaining ingredients, I made the gin and tonic and went outside to join the others by the fire hearth.
2
The Sun was hovering just above the horizon and the sky was clear – electric-blue above a thin strip of burnt orange to the west, progressively blacker and darker to the east. Rob was stirring the embers of the fire as I neared and, after placing three acacia chunks upright against each other in the middle, a hearty flame arose, which inspired Brian to lean forward, palms out. “It’s turning chilly with this clear sky. The fire feels good,” he opined, and he was right. People pay for spa treatment inferior to what we were enjoying.
“Mike, what would you and Julie be doing this evening if you were back home?” Brian asked.
“Thursday night…now with the children gone, we’d probably be watching an old movie – a musical like Damn Yankees or something.”
At that, Rob pulled a small package from his inside jacket pocket. “When did you start smoking cigars?” I asked.
“I didn’t. But I saw this 5-pack at Schiphol. They’re duty-free. Why not?” He held the pack in the light of the fire and read the label. “Davidoff Nicaragua Short Corona – I don’t know enough to say if they’re good, but any of you want one?”
“No cigars!” Brian exclaimed.
“Why?” Rob asked.
“It’ll ruin the aroma of the fire.”
Mike then held his right hand out to Rob. “Sure,” he said.
“Come on, guys!” Brian protested.
But Mike countered, “Brian, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“Freud!” Rob exclaimed. A second later, the exchange was made.
I didn’t like it, though. Was it Rob’s cock-sureness? If so, then it irritated me. Although it wouldn’t have before. But Rob possessed the commanding heights, which worked my blood up.
Now, Rob was physically formidable. He was no tyrant, though, and was actually rather good-natured. Yet being about 5’ 11’’ and a lean 220-pounds in his prime, he was built tough. While he and I both boxed, we were in very different weight classes, me being a lanky 6’ 2” 150-pounder in my prime, and so I never faced him.
But this evening, my blood really was up, and not because of the gin and tonic in my hand. For I had taken no more than two sips of it. Moreover, I had only one glass of wine at dinner. And yet I was, in fact, intoxicated by my ego. It was then bad timing when Rob started a round of one-upmanship. “Steve, I’m assuming you’ll be taking your usual girly bath tonight.”
“Only if you are,” I retorted. I then set my face like flint, tightened my neck, and began to speak emphatically. “But then you’ve not done much today! I have!”
By my words, posture, and tone of voice, I’d implied that Rob was an inept hunter. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s the best Adirondack tracker there is. Moreover, his remark was good-natured. He meant nothing by it. Yet, it struck a nerve.
I then began to generalize. “You’ve a big punch, Rob. But you’re a brawler; a weight bully,” I said angrily. “Sometimes you win. Yet, only because you go about it like an elephant leaning on a picket fence. Of course, you’re going to knock it down! But it takes more, Rob, if you want to be good. Show some finesse for once!”
Rob just stared at me, mouth open. I mean he and I always engaged in one-upmanship. Yet, this new side of my personality was coming ‘out-of-the-blue.’ “Yeah…What got into you?” Rob mumbled.
“Nothing. I’ve only grown tired of watching you bumble around in the bush!” I then held out my gin and tonic and uttered the standard Runagates Club toast – “To God, Family, and Country in that order” – and then took a gulp.
Rob reciprocated with a long drag on his cigar and blew a mighty stream of hot vapor upwards at the Tanzanian sky, now fully starlit. “Yeah, and to you, as well,” he replied. “That was quite a pronghorn you killed in Oklahoma.”
“Yes, it was. I’m good at what I do.”
Rob was now getting angry. “Pete told me that you hunted hard as soon as the season opened, but you bumbled around up to the wire. He said you kept spooking them.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But you know how Pete is. He likes to embellish. Besides, I never stalked pronghorn before. You know, they’ve incredible eyesight and there’s little to hide your movement.”
“I know.” Rob then took another long drag. As strong as it is, cigar smoke soon shot from his nostrils. “I also know I’d be able to manage Oklahoma pronghorn in only a day or two,” he said.
I glared at him. “Sure, as long as you find the right guide to compensate for what you lack. You still have to make the shot. Although, Rob, you always use too much gun. Granted, that covers a multitude of sins, and so you get by.” I then downed the rest of my drink. “But you always make a mess of it!”
Rob clenched his hands. “I don’t know what got into you. But if you have something to prove, then prove it!”
Ignoring his challenge, I instead nonchalantly asked, “Are you still Episcopalian?”
“What?”
“Are you still Episcopalian?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?”
“Nothing…Just that I hear the Episcopal Church pretty much lets you do anything, even marry your neighbor’s Jack Russell terrier if you want,” I said while laughing. “Rob, I bet it probably would consecrate you a bishop if you did! But poor Anne and your children: They’d disapprove. Although what has me on the edge of my seat – and I know I speak for all the guys at the Runagates Club – is whether the Jack Russell with whom you’ll tie the knot will be a boy or a girl.”
“That’s going too far, Steve.” Mike warned.
“Oh, I don’t mean to offend Episcopalians. Look, I try to be a man for all seasons. I really do. Live and let live! Even so, I have my limit. I’m only looking out for you, Rob! Jack Russell terriers are too quarrelsome!”
“That does it!” Rob threw his cigar violently to the ground, stood up, and began closing the distance.
I then quickly set the empty rocks glass on the arm of my chair, clenched my hands, and rose to my feet. “Finally, the moment!” I mused. “But I can’t let it go long!”
As Rob came at me, I assumed my southpaw fighting stance, ready for his monster right cross. Instead, he only fainted it, throwing a left hook instead. But I rolled to my right and he missed while also countering with my left overhand cross as I came up. But he blocked that with a high guard. Rob then threw a short jab and it caught my chin and, given his strength, I probably would have gone down if it had been a long one with steam behind it. Shaking it off, though, I stepped forward to his left and, pivoting, threw a long right hook to his side. I then initiated a second long right hook, this one to his temple. Yet, Mike jumped up and, with his right hand, grabbed my right arm before it gained momentum, then shifted behind me and wrapped his left arm around my neck. Brian had jumped to his feet, too, but in front of Rob, tying him up, although barely so.
“Steve, is there anything you want to say?” Mike yelled. “Is there anything that we might not know?”
“Let go of me!”
“Answer the question!”
“I said, “Let go of me!””
“Answer the question!”
“No!”
Rob then shifted his weight rightward to begin closing the distance again, but Brian leaned into him all the harder while shouting, “Damn it, Steve!”
Our volume was now up high, enough for Alice, who was in the house, to hear everything. Apparently, Brian’s exclamatory remark was the last straw, and she came running out to the fire. “What is happening here?” she screamed.
Rob pointed at me. “I’m going to knock his teeth down his throat! That’s what’s happening!”
“No, no, stop it!” she pleaded. “I’ll kick all of you out, no refunds, if it doesn’t stop.”
Rob pointed his finger at me again. “Answer the question!”
“Steve, all of this is on you!” Brian exclaimed.
“I threw my back out on the drive from New York to Oklahoma!” I shouted, which was true, but it evaded the question. “I couldn’t hug close enough to the ground and kept getting busted! That’s why it took so long for me to kill a pronghorn!”
“So, you’re a sickly cripple, one foot in the grave! What does that have to do with you being an ass tonight?” Rob shouted.
If my dark ego-trip came ‘out-of-the-blue,’ then its departure was equally unforeseen and abrupt. For somehow at that very moment it struck me. Not only I, but even my three friends, would soon reap what I, and only I, had sown. All the money we’d spent and we were about to be sent home, no refunds, with nothing to show for it. I knew I had to settle down. For it really would be on me and I would never be able to look my friends in the face again. It probably also would ruin it for me at the Runagates Club back home and I would end-up dropping out.
I thus relaxed my entire body and hung my head low. Sensing the dramatic shift in my demeanor, Mike let go of me. And observing Mike, Brian likewise relinquished his grip on Rob. The two of us were now left to our own devices, which made Alice only more nervous.
“I mean it! No fighting!” she declared.
Brian put his right arm out in her direction, beckoning her off. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine. Why don’t you go inside?”
“Yeah, we got it under control,” Mike assured. “We really do.” All of us then took our seats to reinforce the idea that the fighting was indeed over.
“I mean it. No fighting,” Alice then returned to the house, but once there, I could see her through the kitchen window picking up her mobile. “She’s calling for back-up,” I mused while sighing.
3
“Where did my cigar go?” Rob growled. “There it is.” Retrieving it from the ground, he proceeded to grab a burning stick from the fire for a re-light while simultaneously pointing at me. “You keep your mouth shut! We’re close to the Equator, but I’ll pound your face to the Arctic if you start again!”
Mike, though, ran interference before I could respond. “Rob, have you ever traveled to Scandinavia?”
“Yeah, Sweden!” he shouted, still red in the face. “They make great chainsaws!”
“And before that, great rifles,” I added. Rob glared at me as if I wasn’t allowed to speak. “My maternal grandmother’s family is from Husqevarna, Sweden. So, stuff it!”
“Simmer down, Steve,” Brian admonished. And I did just that. For our African hunting safari in pursuit of a range of quarry, but namely Cape buffalo, was Brian’s idea. In fact, he pushed so hard for it – even wanting all twelve of us founding Runagaters, which is what we call ourselves, to go on the warpath in Tanzania – that he made it seem as if it was a necessity. Although Brian probably never expected that Huff would come along. I know I wouldn’t have. Huff’s too cheap. Nonetheless, Brian achieved a 25-percent conversion rate by convincing Rob, Mike, and me to join him – impressive given how expensive an African hunting safari is.
I’ve always been fond of Brian, too. We grew up together. Then again, I also grew up with Rob and Mike. All of them always have been there for me, which I think is one reason why I was now finding my treatment of them to be quite unsavory, and enough to change my tone. “They worked in the gun factory,” I said. “My Swedish ancestors did. Husqvarna made rifles until the 1970s.”
Rob grunted approvingly. He then turned to Brian, pointing his cigar at him. “You! Have you ever traveled to Scandinavia?”
Brian attempted to make light of Rob’s rather gruff question. “No, I’m not much for blondes.”
“Brian, you have a weird streak,” Rob retorted before drawing on his cigar. “What’d you say: “Cigar smoke will ruin the aroma of the fire?” You’re high-strung. What’s next: ballet lessons?” Then while exhaling again through his nose, he added, “Of course, you’ll meet women that way. Although you’re married, and so that’s neither here nor there. But ballet lessons will ruin you.”
Brian started to twitch at the mouth as if he was testing words. This time, however, I ran interference. “What doesn’t ruin you when you lose perspective?” I paused for a moment to gauge if Rob would be receptive to what was coming next. “All of you need to hear this. There’s no point in apologizing privately because all of you have been affected. Rob, I’m sorry for putting you down as a hunter and other things. Grassing the leopard today went straight to my head. You’ve always been stiff competition. And I’ve always wanted to out-do you.”
I couldn’t yet bring myself to confessing the true root problem even if I had privately repudiated it. Still, Rob looked incredulously at me. “You mean killing the leopard wasn’t enough?”
“I suppose not.”
Rob shook his head and chuckled. “I’d no idea you had such a fragile ego.”
What’s worse: your friends knowing that you behaved treacherously or thinking that you suffer from an inferiority complex? Tell me, because in that moment I didn’t know. All I did was continue apologizing.
“Also, I’m sorry for what I said about Episcopalians and you marrying a Jack Russell terrier and made a bishop. It was—“
Mike interrupted, though. “Actually, being Episcopalian myself, it’s kinda true. Anything goes.”
“Rob, just find yourself a golden retriever!” Brian exclaimed while laughing.
Rob flashed a stoney mean-mug at him. “Are you calling me a pervert?”
“No, oh, not, not at all,” Brian stammered. “You’re totally legit.” Then he added, “It was just a joke.”
“It isn’t funny! But back to you, Steve. What are you trying to prove? I thought more highly of you. I was wrong.”
And that caught me flat-footed. While I couldn’t say anything aloud, I was privately musing, “Rob’s bang-on. What’s there to prove? And what’s to gain pushing people around? All it’ll get me is the Devil’s own day.” So, I just stared heavenward at the firmament for a while until I remarked, “It’s so vast! It’s beautiful!”
Looking upward, Rob begrudgingly agreed. “You’re on thin ice with me, Steve. But this night sky,” he then paused to draw on his cigar, “it is beautiful.” That inaugurated, in turn, a brief interval of silence – as all four of us now were marveling at the firmament – during which Rob softened all the more. “How’s your chin?” he finally asked.
I hadn’t at all thought about it, and so I felt it with my left hand. “There’s a lump. It’ll be good and swollen tomorrow morning. How’s your side?”
“You clipped me in the spleen.”
“You didn’t show it.”
“You hit hard for a welterweight.”
“Oh…Thank you.”
“Rob, you really know how to make a guy feel good about himself,” Mike quipped.
Brian, though, managed to find his verbal footing during the interval. “You know, it’s not simply the hunting that makes a sporting trip memorable,” he opined. “It’s the camp life, too.”
“I agree,” Rob boomed confidently.
“Yeah, and not just deer camp,” Brian added, “which is always best of times. Even the food tastes better!”
“Alice hit it out of the park tonight!” Rob blurted.
“Yes, she did,” Brian agreed. Anyhow, the conversation’s better, the insights…And not just for us, but for many guys and places. It’s always been that way on the hunt. Read Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa.”
“Yes, Chapter Eight, The Stream passage,” Mike said.
“Exactly!” Brian exclaimed. “What Hemingway could do with a run-on sentence. I think it’s a contender for the most profound passage in the English language.”
“Hemingway was onto something,” Mike declared. “Does it matter who’s president?”
“I sure think it does!” Rob exclaimed. Gesturing with his cigar, he looked at me, and I reciprocated by giving him a thumbs-up. We were making progress.
Mike responded by qualifying his previous statement. “You’re right. But it isn’t as big a thing as we think. Every four years, we act like we believe the fate of the World – everything that matters – depends on the guy in the White House, but it doesn’t.”
Brian looked sympathetically at Mike before opining, “Come to think of it, we go through a 4-year cycle. We act like the girl in the song It’s Oh So Quiet. You know what I mean?”
“No, I actually don’t,” Rob retorted. “What song?”
“It’s by Betty Hutton,” Mike said.
A silent minute elapsed, during which all of us stared into the fire. Brian then continued his Green Hills of Africa exposition. “The picture of camp life in Chapter 9 is good, too. In fact, Hemingway, P.O.M., and Pop sound as if they’re talking today.” He then brought out his phone. “Listen to this:
“World’s in a hell of a shape,” Pop stated.
“Awful.”
“What’s going on in America?”
“Dammed if I know! Some sort of Y.M.C.A. show. Starry-eyed bastards spending money that somebody will have to pay. Everybody in our town quit work to go on relief. Fishermen all turned carpenters. Reverse of the Bible.””
Brian turned to me. “Steve, what do you think about the state of things?”
“Not now,” Mike complained. “That’ll work him up and he needs to calm down.” Yet, I knew why Brian had solicited my opinion. Regarding politics, Rob and I were twins. Our views were the same and he was attempting to strengthen the truce, as fragile as it was, by implicitly invoking our sense of commonality.
“Mike, it’s fine,” Brian argued.
“Politically?” I asked.
“Anything,” Brian said. But yeah, politically.”
“Nothing good lasts,” I declared. “Although we fool ourselves into believing the opposite, despite poets and scientists reminding us otherwise – like Robert Frost. Have any of you read Nothing Gold Can Stay? To the man, they shook their heads ‘No.’ “I’ll recite it for you then.”
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
“You can tell Frost knew the woods. He knew it so well he uses Nature to illustrate the human experience. But that’s how it is. Most political projects are fraught with problems from the start. Yet, even the good ones have a shelf life.”
“Fascinating ” Rob blurted. “Few things are as delightful as an evening of intelligent conversation.”
“You’re a smart ass!” I reflexively responded, much as I would if a doctor had struck my kneecap with a mallet. “You think you—“
“Enough!” Brian yelled while pointing at me.
I paused and looked at Mike. He nodded and I knew I had to make amends. It was another long minute, but it finally came out of me. “Rob, I apologize – bad form.”
“It’s okay by me,” Rob replied.
“Well, not by me. Off-color language is inarticulate and low class; bad manners.” Brian fired a glaring look. I paused again. “What I mean is that you deserve more respect…And I failed the test.”
“What test?” Rob abrasively asked. But then he changed his tone. “I baited you. And you took it. Smart as you are, you’re not smart enough.” He smiled disdainfully. “Stupid ass, you’re human.”
“Huh?” I mused. “He’s now fighting my corner.” Rob once again caught me flat-footed. “Was I wrong then for tangling with him?…Yeah, I was. Rob’s intent is essentially friendly. Mine was hostile.”
Nothing lasts forever, though. Eventually, I settled on the way forward. I was going to change the subject.
“Brian, I don’t remember you informing us what you’ll be using on buffs.”
“What will you be carrying?” Rob asked.
“Me – I’ll be using a customized Remington M1917 Enfield battle rifle. It’s one of two that I had built for me. I kept the first one chambered in its original .30-06 Springfield for hunting wild boar and feral pig. This one, however, I had rechambered in .375 Ruger. But Brian, what about you?”
Mike interjected before Brian could answer. “Guys, Brian loves tradition, and so he’s probably using a Griffin & Howe sporter. No, that’s over-budget. But it won’t be a sporterized K98 or a M1903 either. That’s not Brian, which leaves one option – a pre-64 Winchester Model 70. But will it be in .416 Rigby or .458 Winchester Magnum? No, Brian’s too exhuberant for .416 Rigby, and so it has to be .458 Winchester.”
Brian smiled and laughed gleefully. “Where do I begin? It would have to be my 50th birthday on June 6th, 2018.”
“Get to the point!” Rob demanded.
“Well, I guess I should grab the rifle out of my locker and show you,” he retorted. “Wait while I get it.” Rob then assured him we weren’t going anywhere, after which Brian scurried off to fetch his buff rifle.
4
Brian returned with a Pelican hardshell gun case in hand. After setting it down and retaking his seat, he then turned leftward, bent his torso over the armrest of his chair, and unlocked the case, opening it flat. “Woah!” Rob exclaimed as his eyes widened. I couldn’t see the contents and neither could Mike as our views were obscured by the fire. Yet, when Brian held aloft a long blued steel object, consisting of two rifle barrels fused together, in his left hand and a butt section in his right, we followed Rob’s lead, and expressed our amazement, too.
Brian proceeded to assemble the two pieces together. Then he reached down and grabbed a forestock, locked it in place, and opened the action of a double rifle that we instinctively knew was peerless. “Here it is: a Rigby Rising Bite double rifle chambered in .470 Nitro Express!” The three of us stared in disbelief. “Grandpa Lloyd gave it to me on my 50th birthday. This is what I’ll be using to hunt buffs!”
“How did your grandfather afford a gun like that?” Rob asked.
“Yeah, how did he?” Mike chimed.
“He got it during the War.”
A jaundiced expression immediately overcame me. “So he looted it?”
“No, more like he liberated it.”
“That has a nice ring,” I cynically retorted.
“Seriously, Grandpa Lloyd pretty much liberated it and I’m going to give you proof.” Brian set the Rigby down on his hardcase and, in turn, brought out a manila envelope and removed three copies each of two documents. He handed the first set to Rob. This is a copy of the letter that my Grandpa Lloyd wrote and gave to me with the Rigby.” Brian then handed the second set to me. “And this is a statement of provenance and a private investigator’s report. Pass them around. Take one of each and read it.”
“It’s too dark to read,” Mike protested. “We need more light.” He then grabbed three chunks of acacia and stood them upright in the fire.
“That’ll take too long,” I said while removing my phone and switching on the flashlight. Rob did the same and Mike followed suit. I then proceeded to read the letter.
5
February 9th, 2018
Brian,
Today is my 95th birthday. Not only have a lived my three score and ten, but God has seen fit to give me an extra 25 years whether I wanted them or not. My back is sore, eyes dim, and teeth gone. Worst of all is the passing of your Grandma Lloyd this past October. There’s a woman behind nearly everything us men do. We’re actually wanderers without them, myself included. I’m lost without Eileen. For this reason, I long to be honorably discharged. But here I am.
You, however, are in the late Summer of your life and can rightfully expect to enjoy a few more good years. Because of that, and because you are both my only grandson and love to hunt, I am bequeathing a firearm to you that has been in my possession since 1944, but one that I’ve neither used nor made public. It is a Rigby Rising Bite double rifle, chambered in .470 Nitro Express, that was made in 1912 for a wealthy Belgian named Édouard Proulx.
You actually have been the designated recipient of the Rigby since Eileen and I revised our will in 1984. Originally, I intended you to receive it only after I had died. Maybe it has to do with your grandmother’s death or the fact that you’ll be turning 50 in June, but I changed my mind and want you to have the Rigby now. I gave my other firearms to your father and Uncle Drew about 15-years ago when I knew my hunting days were over. So you might get the rest of my gun collection down the road. What follows is my account of how the Rigby came into my possession.
I, CPL Walter J. Lloyd, 2nd Platoon Troop B, of the 38th Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron, was leading a three-man counter-reconnaissance patrol in the vicinity of Eschweide the morning of November 30th, 1944, looking for sign of enemy infiltration of our line. PFC George Artuso drove our quarter-ton truck, and PFC David Kilmer manned the .30 caliber LMG while I observed. At approximately, 07:00 hours, we stopped at a small two-story house that was occupied by its owner, many of the dwellings having been abandoned for the time being.
After inspecting outbuildings and glassing the surrounding fields, we entered the house and confronted the inhabitant, a man in his late 40s or early 50s who was missing his right leg from the knee down and whose right cheek was mildly disfigured, and proceeded to question him. We were cordial, but the man was circumspect. That gave us reason to turn his place inside-out for evidence of aid given, or collusion with, his countrymen in uniform.
The farmhouse was very modest with one exception. At the second story landing, directly across from the stairs, a room, roughly 10 by 10-feet, with one window, was purposed as a chapel. An odd luxury but still a luxury in what was otherwise a strictly utilitarian habitation. An oak prayer kneeler was positioned against the exterior wall opposite the doorway, and on the window sill above it sat a Cross carved from oak from which hung a rosary. Built into each flanking wall was a storage cabinet, consisting of upper and lower compartments; the first fronted by glass-paned doors, the second by ones of solid oak secured by a keyed lock. The upper compartment on the right contained a small porcelain panel of the Virgin Mary and a collection of figurines. The one on the left was occupied by what may be described as a religious library. Regarding the room’s overall effect, it was the equal of any church in its ability to inspire reverence despite its simplicity or maybe because of it.
The only item of note we turned up was a German uniform from World War One, which PFC Kilmer discovered in the man’s wardrobe. I documented the features and later determined that, if it belonged to the man in question, he was a lance corporal in VIII Corps, 15th Division, 29th Brigade, 25th Infantry Regiment “von Lützow.” In that moment, however, I simply suspected that he was once a German infantryman during the Great War.
When I asked him about his experiences from 1914 to 1918, he was remarkably taciturn. For this reason, we searched his house and outbuildings a second time, but even more thoroughly than before. PFC Kilmer canvassed the former while PFC Artuso did the latter. I personally escorted the man to the chapel room and instructed him to open the locked portion of each of the cabinets. He initially objected but then I stated they were going to be opened no matter what. Either he was going to use a key or I was going to use my foot. He acquiesced and unlocked the lower cabinets. The contents of the right side consisted of the following:
- Mauser Karabiner 98k, 7.92 x 57mm Mauser
- Luger C96 “Broomhandle” pistol, 9mm Luger
- Merkel O/U (I think it was a 200E.), 16-gauge
- Mannlicher-Schoenauer Model 1903 Carbine, 6.5 x 54mm M-S (I know it for certain.)
- Mauser (I think it was a Type B.), 7 x 64mm Brenneke
- Ammunition and gun care materials
All firearms, with the exception of the Luger C96, were set on horizontally aligned notches. The pistol was laid atop the bottom shelf under which two drawers contained ammunition and gun care materials. In contrast, the left lower cabinet, while structurally the mirror image of the right, was nearly empty, only containing two guns stored in their original cases, one set atop the other on the bottom shelf. They were as follows:
- Boss Over/Under “Rose and Scroll,” 12-gauge
- Rigby Rising Bite double rifle, .470 Nitro Express
The man clearly was a hunter as evidenced by all but two of the firearms. In particular, the Mannlicher-Schoenauer was unusually tinged a very dark crimson-brown at the forestock and the grip. I surmise it was the effect of years of deer blood wiped on the stock – an après la chasse ritual. However, the Karabiner 98k and Luger C96 were military arms. While the latter appeared to have been gained during his assumed service in World War One, the former wasn’t, it having been adopted by the Wehrmacht in the 1930s. PFC Kilmer’s and PFC Artuso’s second search yielded nothing of interest, but the presence of the Karabiner 98k gave me reason to believe that he was in fact aiding and abetting his countrymen in uniform. We thus confiscated it and the pistol. The man did not object.
With respect to his sporting arms, most GIs would have confiscated them, as well. However, after interrogation, we confiscated only the Boss shotgun and the Rigby double rifle and left the rest with him. We took these because I was convinced they did not belong to him. At a minimum, he stole them. I later found out that he committed far worse than theft.
Before we returned to our platoon, I had PFC Artuso pull our Jeep into a wood and we drew numbers for who was getting what of the contraband. The rule was the man drawing the lowest number chose one piece of ordnance as his. The man drawing the second lowest would then select one piece from the three remaining and the man drawing the highest number would get the two guns that were left. It so happened that I drew the lowest number and subsequently selected the Rigby double rifle. PFC Artuso drew the second lowest and subsequently chose the Boss O/U, leaving PFC Kilmer with the Karabiner 98k and Luger C96.
PFC Kilmer faced no obstacle getting his war treasure out of Europe. In contrast, PFC Artuso and I both feared that a higher-up would confiscate ours if discovered. Consequently, each of us presented to the unit pass coordinator Kilmer’s 98k as his own for the declaration and then he supplanted it with the real object when packaging it up for shipment out. That is the way that I managed to send the Rigby Rising Bite double rifle to your great-grandparents in Granville, New York for safe-keeping.
I certainly couldn’t use the Rigby on anything in New York, and so the rifle just sat in one closet or the other. All I did was oil it periodically. Several years went by. Grandma Lloyd and I married in 1946, and your Aunt Susan and your mother were born in 1947 and 1949. I finally cabled John Rigby and Company, London, England in 1951, requesting a Certificate of Provenance for the Rising Bite double rifle in my possession, which I duly received. According to Rigby’s records, it was made in 1912 and sold to a Belgian named Édouard Proulx of Neufchâteau.
The question then was how the rifle ended in the hands of the German in Eschweide. Was it by purchase, by inheritance, or by something nefarious? I suspected the latter simply because the Rigby was a very expensive firearm while everything about the man suggested he was of modest means.
The Rigby was so valuable that it alone was worth several times more than the remainder of my earthly belongings. Be that as it may, my conscience eventually convicted me and I could no longer count the Rigby as my own. I was only the custodian. If the rifle was obtained nefariously, then it had to be returned, if not to Édouard Proulx, then to his wife or offspring.
Working through the Belgian Consulate in New York City, I contacted officials in Neufchateau and discovered that Édouard Proulx and his wife Camille were both shot to death inside their house, and their house subsequently burned with their corpses inside, in August 1914 coincident with the German invasion. Interestingly, the man in Eschweide was a German soldier during World War One. That’s all I knew until 1969 when, inspired by the 25th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, I hired Agence d’Enquête Peerless, a Brussels detective agency, to determine the identities and whereabouts of Édouard and Camille’s offspring. What was discovered was that they had no children, which meant that the Rigby Rising Bite was rightfully mine.
Agence d’Enquête Peerless charged no mean sum for its services. Nonetheless, if the Rising Bite double rifle was mine, then I had just properly come into wealth, and so I tasked the agency to detail Édouard Proulx’s life history, namely his family background and how he made his fortune. It was discovered that he was born in Liege in 1861, the second son of a foundry owner. Édouard was very shrewd and ambitious. In 1882, he struck out on his own and, punching above his weight, wrangled a concession in the Congo Free State (CFS). Édouard managed his concession directly. For he lived there in the CFS. In 1887, he married Camille Dufrane, also of Liege, and she joined him in the CFS. Via a combination of business acumen, ruthless brutality, and good timing, his company prospered during the rubber boom in the 1890s and 1900s. Yet, his fortune was built on ‘red rubber,’ meaning that his company terrorized and practically enslaved the Congolese inhabitants in his concession to attain the raw materials – latex and ivory – from which he profited. In short, Édouard was a direct participant in the real life Heart of Darkness that was the CFS.
It can be argued that Édouard had blood on his hands far more than average because his ownership wasn’t of the absentee nature. Rather, he played an unusually active role for a concession owner. Yet, Édouard apparently saw the writing on the wall when the abuses occurring in the CFS became an international scandal. For he sold his company in 1908 just before the CFS was annexed by Belgium.
Édouard and Camille returned home to Liege quite wealthy and set about living a life of leisure. Édouard also apparently enjoyed hunting, and so he and Camille moved to Neufchateau in the Ardennes for the sport. Based on his purchase of the Rigby double rifle chambered in .470 NE, he probably also had returned, or was planning to return, to Africa to hunt dangerous game.
Yet, fortune turned against Édouard and Camille. In 1914, during what is now referred to as the Rape of Belgium, they were shot and their home was looted and burned. What exactly precipitated their demise, no one knew until 1969.
When I returned to Belgium in 1969 for the 25th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, I also detoured over the border into Germany to revisit that small two-story house in Eschweide. To my surprise, the man was still alive and residing there. His daughter and her family had moved in and were looking after him. He remembered me, too. While he had every right to drive me away, he invited me inside and his daughter served tea.
I tried to be a polite guest, but I had to put to rest the matter of what happened to Édouard and Camille Proulx. For this reason, I stated quite frankly that I knew how the man got the Rigby Rising Bite double rifle and the Boss shotgun. To some degree I was bluffing, because I only had an educated hunch. The man, however, was no poker player. Rather, he freely confessed as if he was unloading a burden.
I was correct. He was a German soldier in Belgium in the opening days of World War One and his unit took part in the overrunning of Neufchateau. He and his comrades were on edge, fearing civilian reprisals against them. Their heavy-handed actions, at first, were committed only to scare Belgians into submission. Unfortunately, their methods took on a life of their own and they soon engaged in wholesale criminal action.
It was in that context that he was leading a squad of infantrymen, searching house to house for contraband and chanced upon the Proulx residence. The German man was also an avid hunter, and when Édouard protested against the seizure of his Rigby and Boss, he shot both him and Camille, not out of a desire to maintain control and public order but out of covetousness. He wrapped the ‘contraband’ in a table cloth and, before leaving, lit a kerosene lamp, which he subsequently threw against the center hallway floor. The Proulx residence was ablaze as he walked away.
The man’s tenure in the German Army ended abruptly the next month when he was badly wounded by a shell burst during the First Battle of the Marne. It took off his lower right leg and disfigured his face. He thus returned to his parent’s home in Eschweide and worked as a herdsman on a nearby farm. After the war, he married a girl from Aachen and they had two children – the oldest a boy and the youngest a girl – and tried to live a normal life as a train station attendant in Aachen.
Yet, he was a haunted man – not by the combat, but by his actions in Neufchateau – and suffered from nightmares. He started drinking heavily. He lost his job. His wife kicked him out. Destitute, he was taken in by the Roman Catholic Diocese of Aachen, and he steadily put his life in order. He eventually returned to Eschweide and, with the help of the local priest, secured a meager position in the Monschau Constabulary. Over time, he worked his way up to becoming the jailor, which is the reason he stayed put while most other citizens of Monschau and its environs left when the Allies pushed into Germany. The man also had lost his son in September 1944. He died in combat during the Battle of Hürtgen Forest, and so it can be argued that he might not have wanted to go on afterwards.
Despite the fact that I was forward, the man confided that he appreciated my directness. According to him, because I already knew his secret, he had nothing to hide and therefore nothing to lose by confessing, which lifted a burden off his shoulders. Interestingly, he confided that my confiscating Édouard Proulx’s Boss and Rigby in 1944 actually lifted the greater burden off his shoulders even if he initially resisted.
Brian, I’m about to sermonize. But I’m the son of a Welsh Methodist minister who was the son of a Welsh Methodist minister, and so I can be forgiven. The Rigby Rising Bite double rifle I’m bequeathing to you was initially made for a Belgian with human blood on his hands. Édouard took life away from Congolese villagers in order to gain the wealth that permitted him to afford it. And a German man took the lives of Édouard and Camille to gain it. I know the rain falls on the just and the unjust, but this time I like to think that each was brought to ruin simply and only because, firstly, they ruined others and, secondly, we live in a universe that is innately moral, governed by unbreakable principles and laws. If so, then let this Rigby be a constant reminder to you, as it has been to me all these years, that no one gets away with anything. If you can’t live the rest of your days honorably out of love for God, then hopefully you’ll still rise to the occasion because you fear Him.
Lastly, pride-of-possession is enough, but it would please me to no end if one day you used your Rigby on the hunt. That, of course, means traveling to Africa. Now, odds favor my receiving that honorable discharge before you go on safari. Yet, I will be eager to hear your report when we meet again in Paradise.
Yours Truly,
Walter J. Lloyd (Grandpa Lloyd)
Granville, New York
P.S. I understand the concept of Paradise is rooted in the Indo-European notion of a royal deer park. If so, then it will indeed be paradise, and you and I will be in our element for the rest of time.
6
I finished reading the letter and proceeded to examine the Certificate of Provenance, then glanced over the investigator’s report. I’d yet to hold the rifle, but it was too much for words because Brian’s Rigby Rising Bite was as complete a package as a buff rifle could be. It embodied the history of late-stage Western Civilization, taught a moral lesson wherein the prospect of redemption for one’s transgressions was implicitly present, highlighted the ties that bind family and friends, and all of it superimposed on the exceptional design, workmanship, and fit-for-purpose character of the rifle itself.
“Brian, this is fascinating,” I admitted. “I now understand why you pushed so hard for this African hunting safari.”
Mike seconded my opinion. “It really is fascinating,” he said.
Rob, however, got to the root of the matter. He extended his right arm toward Brian and said, “Hand it to me. I wanna see it.”
But his gesture mobilized me for battle and I jumped to my feet, intercepting the rifle as it was being exchanged. “Oh, no you don’t,” I said to Rob. “I’m holding it first even if I have to knock your teeth down your throat.” I then winked. Rob flashed a smile and yielded in return.
I’ve never held anything so exquisitely made – the texture of wood and metal, how well they mated together; the smooth and unequivocal motion and sound of the action as it opened and closed, the rifle’s balance in my forehand when I brought it to shoulder, and more. Its visual beauty only served to heighten its allure. In short, the Rigby Rising Bite exuded perfection.
“I think I’m in love again,” I said. “Everything about it is sensuous, even the sobriquet of the chambering. Nitro Express – it not only denotes power but it has a dash that magazine rifle chamberings lack.” I shifted my gaze away from the Rigby and addressed the guys. “You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely,” Brian answered. “The name itself evokes the image of a charging buffalo.”
“Not that you want a buff charging you to be anything more than image,” Miked quipped.
Rob finally had enough. “Give it to me, Steve. You’ve had your fun. It’s my turn now.” So, I handed him the rifle and then watched him size it up. He paid closer attention to its mechanics than I did, especially its lock-up. “This is very interesting. The way it unlocks.” Rob then held the rifle vertically out toward Mike, giving the latter a top-view of the piece. “Watch what happens when I press the thumb-lever.”
“The rear post drops out of the barrel extension loop,” Mike said.
“Right,” Rob confirmed as he closed the rifle’s action. “The loop sits in this recess with these two posts inside, which hold the shut action tight. You see how the front post is stationary for strength and support.”
“Uh-huh.”
Rob then put his index finger to the rear post. “But the contact point is this rabbit. When it drops, the barrel extension loop is free and the action opens in response to the unsupported weight. Here, watch again.” Rob pressed the thumb-lever, giving an encore demonstration.
“Hand it to me.” Rob then passed the Rigby over to Mike for inspection. The latter thoroughly examined it, opening and closing the action and shouldering the rifle several times.
“You know guys,” Brian said. “I could go for a gin and tonic now. Therefore, I must take leave, but only briefly.” Then he added, “Would any of you like a G and T while I’m at it?”
“Hey, show us a .470 Nitro Express cartridge before you head in,” Rob insisted.
“Alright.” Brian proceeded to retrieve a representative of the said cartridge from his hardcase and handed it to Rob. “Hefty, isn’t it?”
“A beast,” Rob said as he tossed it hand to hand. He then passed the cartridge to Mike. “Here, what do you think?”
“Massive. It’ll drop a buff.” Mike then handed the cartridge to me.
“It certainly is.” Because, from the base to apex, the round was about 4 inches in length. “Quite a long, tall package of brass, lead, and nitrocellulose,” I added. Then it struck me all in one fell swoop. “Long and brassy,” I mused, then exclaimed, “That’s it! Guys, I’m making the cocktails! Brian, you stay put. This one’s on me! But scratch the gin and tonic. I’m making all of us a Nitro Express.”
Rob was incredulous. “What, you’re going to handload?”
“No, this is a cocktail I’m making.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Mike remarked.
“That’s because I just invented it. Rob, gimme a cigar.”
“What? You can’t handle one of these. You’re a lightweight.”
“You mean welterweight. But just trust me.” I then grabbed as flat a slab of acacia from the wood pile as I could find while barking at Rob, “Come on, I don’t have all night. Hand it over.”
“Alright, alright – here you go.”
7
The kitchen light was on when I entered the lodge, but Alice was elsewhere. I, however, was too excited to mind my manners. “Alice,” I shouted. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the front room,” she yelled. “What’s your hurry?”
“Come here. I have an idea for a new cocktail. But I need maple syrup. Might you have it?”
Alice rounded the corner into the hallway and sauntered into the kitchen. “What’s with the stick of wood in your hand?”
“I’m using it to make cocktails.”
“Huh?”
“It’s an American thing. The maple syrup?”
“Does this mean you’re done fighting?”
“Absolutely. Now, do you have maple syrup?”
“Yes, we brought four bottles of it home with us from Quebec City. Are you okay with it being Canadian?”
“Sure, but just this once. Where is it?”
“I’ll get it.” Alice opened the refrigerator and retrieved a half-quart glass bottle. It looked perfect for the job, and the label, which stated ‘Grade A, Dark,’ confirmed it was so.
“Thank you. What took you to Quebec City?”
“Winter Carnival. We were over there promoting our business at the Montreal Outdoors, Hunting, Fishing, and Camping Show and visited Quebec City for the Carnival before the show started.”
“Did you and Paul sample the caribou?”
“What do you mean?”
“The spiced red wine and rye whiskey.”
“Oh yes, delicious. It keeps you warm.”
“That it, does. Alice, you’re going to help me. Grab four of those 2-ounce shot glasses that Naill gave you, the bottle of Bulleit the Diageo rep gave you, and Paul’s walnut liqueur. But first show me what you have for a bar spoon.” Alice opened the sideboard and produced an implement possessing a helical handled capped by a flat disc small enough in diameter to fit into one of Niall’s shot glasses. “This is perfect.” She then brought me the requested ingredients one by one. “Oh, I forgot. Do you mind if I light a little cigar tobacco on this stick of wood here in your kitchen?”
“I don’t like the smell of tobacco smoke in the house.”
“What if I did it in the sink and opened the window above it?”
“Uhh—”
“Please, just this once?”
“Alright.”
“Thank you!” At that, I dislodged enough filler tobacco from Rob’s duty-free but still expensive Nicaraguan onto the acacia slab to form an appropriately sized pile. “You have matches, right?”
“Yes.” Alice reached into a drawer and removed a box of barnburners. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Striking a match, I lit the tobacco and, once a healthy red glow developed, I proceeded to invert shot glasses in series over the tobacco heap just long enough per vessel to render the inside of each one opaque. I then lined all four shot glasses in a row.
“Okay, watch what I do. Put the handle of the spoon inside and drizzle just enough syrup down the stem to fill the ogive, like so.” I set the bottle of maple syrup down. “Can you uncap the walnut liqueur and bourbon for me, please?”
“Sure.”
“Now, carefully poor about an ounce and a half of walnut liqueur down the stem. Don’t make a mess. Perfect… And top-up to the rim with Bulleit. That’s it. If you do it just like I showed you, you’ll get these three distinct layers as a function of their different specific gravities.”
After the work was done, I gripped the four shot glasses with contents in my right hand. “Thank you, Alice,” I said, and headed outside.
“It’s my pleasure,” she yelled as I went through the doorway.
Reaching fireside, I proceeded to hand each man his Nitro Express. “Here ya go, Mike. Yours, Rob. Brian, what a surprise you pulled! Guys, the Nitro Express is a layered drink. So, don’t just chug. Sip at it.” I then proudly held my Nitro Express up and out to the others. “To God, Family, and Country in that order!”
“To God, Family, and Country in that order!” they exclaimed in return. A new era of ‘good feeling’ had commenced. Well, we talked of old times – the people we knew back home, both alive and dead, as well as the mistakes we made during our formative years.
“Steve,” Mike said. “Back in the early 80s, I actually expected you to end up in the state pen. You were getting into fights and put in that special program in middle school. What was it called?
“S.W.A.T.”
Mike laughed. “That’s right, I remember. What did it stand for?”
“I couldn’t tell ya – too long ago. Just that I was constantly getting into trouble.”
Unfortunately, Rob had to add his two cents. “I remember you snuck out of the house one night and spray-painted Mrs. DeWitt’s floral sheets that she left on her clothes line. You painted them solid white…And you also cracked an egg into the gas tank of the Hathaway’s VW Bug. You know they had to tear the engine apart to fix it?”
“Yeah…Thanks for bringing it up.”
“But look at you now.”
“Yeah…Look at me now.”
Of course, we also reminisced about the many hours spent together afield with rod and gun in-hand. But when each of us had finished his Nitro Express, I finally inquired, “So what d’ya think?”
“It’s interesting,” Brian replied. “There’s that faint trace of cigar. You’d think I’d object to it, but it adds something. Leave it out and the drink drops a peg. The bourbon at the start is so hot, though.”
“It’s Bulleit Barrel Strength – 63% alcohol!”
“Man, that’s on the edge,” Mike remarked. “I like whiskey neat, like you do, but I’d cut it with water. It’s borderline.”
“It’s a Nitro Express! It’s supposed to pack a wallop. Bulleit – Get it?”
“I do,” Rob said. And I love it!”
“Of course, you do!” But this turkey dog—”
“Hold off, Steve,” Brian protested. “Before you start your diatribe, I want to say that, with the walnut liqueur and then the final transition to the even sweeter maple syrup, it actually works great. Nice work. I like it.”
“I guess I do, too, then,” Mike said.
“Steve, make me another one,” Rob instructed.
“Sure.” I then looked at Brian and Mike. “What about you two?”
“Yeah, make us another round,” Mike said. I didn’t wait for Brian. Mike’s word was all the vote of confidence I needed.
“You got it!”
8
As before, I boisterously entered the lodge. “Hey Alice, I’m making another round of NE’s. Is it okay if I help myself?” It was going to be quick work. With the exception of the shot glasses, everything was still out, even the cigar.
Alice was upstairs, and so she replied at volume. “Go ahead.” However, she was curious enough to come down and was soon standing in the kitchen.
“They liked your cocktail?”
“I think so.”
“You’re in a better mood now.”
“Yep.”
“I know it’s not the liquor. You were cheery when you came in before. What happened?”
I stood and looked at her, choosing my words carefully. “Brian has a Rigby Rising Bite with him that his Grandfather Lloyd gave him. It’s a long story, though, and my guys are waiting.”
“Nevermind that. I’ll make the second round. You head outside.”
“Are you sure?”
“I watched you closely the first time.”
“Okay, use the remaining four 2-ouncers. That’s critical.”
“Of course. Now, shove off!”
I quickly rejoined the guys around the hearth. In the meantime, though, Brian had connected his phone to the outdoor speaker and they were listening to The Lion Sleeps Tonight by The Tokens on a loop, and were back to the opening chorus stanza and singing along when I reached them:
“A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh,
A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh,
A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh,
A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh.”
Brian then took over, and started singing along solo to the first verse.
“In the jungle, the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.”
Yet, he was cut short when Alice arrived fireside holding a serving tray with our cocktails. “Gents, each one grab his Nitro Express,” she said. Rob, Brian, and I took ours without difficulty. Yet, Mike was on the other side of the fire and had to get up. “No, you sit,” Alice instructed as she walked around to him. “I have to be careful. This glassware is tipsy, but there.” With Mike now set to go, Brian raised his Nitro Express in the air and exclaimed, “One more time: To God, Family, and Country in that order!”
“To God, Family, and Country in that order!” we shouted.
Just then two vehicles, an old Land Rover Defender and a late model Ford Escape, pulled into the drive. Adam and three of his trackers stepped out of the Defender. Charlie, likewise, exited the Escape while his wife and three children remained in the SUV and observed.
“Mum, I left as soon as you called,” Adam said. “But it took a while to get hold of my trackers and Charlie.” Then he turned to Brian, Rob, Mike, and me. “Do you fellas have any questions before we start north tomorrow for a little buff hunting?”
“Sometimes clients need direction with what to bring,” Charlie added.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Boys, it was a false alarm.” Alice then turned to address us. “I forgot to call Adam back. I’m so sorry.”
Adam was a little bewildered, though. “Mum said on the phone that you were fighting. Is that so?”
“No, just having a bit of sport,” I replied.
“You mean you didn’t get enough sport today shooting the leopard?” Charlie inquired.
“Grassing the leopard was a blast.”
“Yeah, literally,” Charlie remarked. “I don’t know why I let you do it.”
“But there’s no game as dangerous as Rob, here,” I quipped.
“Rob, here? Ah, just wait until we get you on a buff. You’ll see,” Charlie assured. He next turned to Alice. “Mum, I have to leave. Beth and I need to get the children in bed.” Then giving her a kiss, he walked back to his vehicle and drove away while Adam and the trackers did the same.
Brian, Rob, Mike, and myself, though, picked-up where we left-off with The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Well, almost where we left-off, that is. It was now the start of verse three. This time, however, I did the solo.
Hush, my darling, don’t fear, my darling,
The lion sleeps tonight.
Repeating the line, I then turned to Rob, opening my arms wide.
Hush, my darling, don’t fear, my darling,
The lion sleeps tonight.
And he was so moved by my gesture that, in response, he drew up into his chair, clasped his hands together over his heart, and fluttered his eyelashes.
Good ‘ole Rob. The evening certainly started on the wrong foot, thanks to me, but it was ending on a high note. Diplomatic relations between the two of us were now fully restored. All of which means that the lion will indeed sleep tonight.
The End
Postscript
That was quite a dream, and it even flirted with being a nightmare early on. But it seems that I should go on an African hunting safari someday. Although leopard actually would be my preferred species of dangerous game to hunt. The problem, however, is that it costs upwards of $60,000 USD. In sum, I’ve always been a Timex rather than a Rolex man. Therefore, since Cape buffalo is far more affordable ($20,000 USD), it would suffice.
Still, it pleases me that others are willing to pay the fees associated with pursuing lions, leopards, and the like. Perhaps someday it might be you. Fortune favors the prepared mind, though. The key is to find something thematically aligned with the spirit of an African hunting safari to help you assume the proper mentality. Yet, I warn you: Be judicious. For the last thing you want is to pick a fight with the mightiest guy in camp and then return home with a black eye or busted lip because of it. Retrospectively, Rob probably would have thrashed me if hadn’t been for Mike and Brian’s intervention. You, however, might not be so lucky.
- George Orwell is often credited with the remark, but he actually never said it. It’s apocryphal (https://files.libcom.org/files/Notes%20on%20Nationalism%20-%20George%20Orwell.pdf). Although Orwell is on record for denouncing pacifism as hypocrisy and thus it fits him. Either way, the pronouncement remains true all the same. ↩︎
- Patterson, J. H. (1908). The Man-eaters of Tsavo and Other East African Adventures: London, Macmillan. ↩︎
- Corbett, J. (1944). Man-eaters of Kumaon. In The Jim Corbett Omnibus. 1991. Oxford University Press, Oxford, UK. ↩︎
- https://www.perc.org/2019/07/18/the-role-of-hunting-in-conserving-african-wildlife/. ↩︎
- https://justconservation.org/dossier-hunting-and-human-wildlife-conflict. ↩︎
- https://news.cgtn.com/news/2024-10-12/WWF-Africa-s-wildlife-population-declines-by-76-since-1970-1xDKQwQKV6o/p.html. ↩︎
- https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5039022/. ↩︎
- https://africageographic.com/stories/poaching-and-trafficking-on-the-rise-in-northern-kenya-threatening-endangered-giraffe-cheetah-and-more/. ↩︎
- https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/oryx/article/trophy-hunting-and-lion-conservation-a-question-of-governance/5C7B42A9594CB8F93E398D3589412D7E. ↩︎
- https://www.undp.org/tanzania/stories/poaching-protection-tanzanias-wildlife-thriving-again. ↩︎
- https://www.mdpi.com/2071-1050/14/3/1288. ↩︎
- https://www.johnsharpsafaris.com/hunts-offered/#1768319275588-6bc711cf-6a46. ↩︎
- https://bloodlions.org. ↩︎
- https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-fast-furious-and-brutally-short-life-of-an-african-male-lion/. ↩︎
- https://www.ewash.org/what-happens-to-female-lions-when-a-new-male-takes-over/#google_vignette. ↩︎