London, 1957.
It was a quiet gentleman's club, with thick carpet that muffled even a heavy footstep. A few waiters went round to fetch a glass of port here, a snifter of brandy there. In one corner sat a tall white haired old man, who like alot of the senior members were ex British army. This man was in his early 70's, spare of build, with a tan to his completion that spoke of long service in tropical places.
On this evening he was reading the daily copy of the Times and had been smoking a strait stem Dunhill pipe. He set the newspaper down and took out an old two bladed pocket knife from a vest pocket that was attached to his watch chain. The silver chain looped over his slight paunch to his pocket watch in the opposite vest pocket, and a large claw dangling from the chain close to the watch. The knife itself was old, with the stag handles turned a rich nut brown by the years. The blade was a medium Grey in color. One of the younger members who had joined the club was seated near him, and watched with great interest as the old man carefully loosened the dottle from the bowl of the Dunhill, and gently tapped the pipe out in an ashtray on the side table. The old man folded up the blade of the small knife and slipped it back into the vest pocket it had come from.
"Exuse me, sir. You're Colonel Barham, arn't you?" the young man asked.
"Yes, that would be me" the old Colonel replied in a good natured but almost weary tone, "Let me guess, you want to hear some of the famous exploits of the old days, hmm? India?, Africa?, the Mideast?"
"Oh I wouldn't impose on you in that way sir. Just that big claw you have on your watch chain is most interesting. It must have come from a very large animal."
"Yes," said the Colonel, "it came from the lion that very nearly got me. In fact that one right over there"
In the reading room there were some game mounts scattered around, a impala on one wall, a tiger that another club member had got in India, and over on the other side of the room a large male lion in a full mount. it was an exceptional mount exept for the black spot on the lions face. The young man had seen the mount and looked casually at it in passing. He had never examined it closely before. This time he walked over and looked closely and saw the black spot was actually a bullet hole that was done at such close range that the fur was powder burned around it. He walked back over and sat down by the colonel.
"Good God sir, it looks like it was a close call there!"
The old Colonel reflected on it. Then spoke softly.
"Yes, my life near ended that day when I was a young subaltern not long out of Sandhurst. I had been posted to Kenya..."
Kenya, 1908
The hot African sun beat down and almost all living things on the Savannah sought shade. exept for the hunting party.
A lion had killed two villagers the night before, and as part of the local army constabulary, a young officer and some of the native Masai tribesmen were out to hunt down down the lion while it lay up during the day. They were guided by an old experienced white hunter named Jones, who knew the local terrain as well as the Masai, but was armed with a Holland & Holland double rifle instead of spears like the tribesmen. The young British officer carried the spare Holland & Holland.
"I don't like it, Barham. I don't like it at all, not natural. This cat's not acting right. We've already passed several good spots he should have laid up in, but he's headed for the tall grass. Its foolish to try to follow him in there."
"Well we can't very well keep feeding him villagers until you find a good spot to take him. We'll just have to beard the lion in his own den, so to speak." said the young officer.
Jones bit his lip trying to hold back a bitter comment about young know-it-all Sandhurst school boys.
"Look Barham, you just don't follow a lion into the tall grass, especially one who is proven to be a man killer!"
"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'll go in, and you go round the other side and try to flush him to me. I'll have Simi with me and a few of his warriors." replied the young officer. The tall black man next to him nodded his head in agreement.
Simi was the village headman, and was a veteran of the Masai way of hunting lion with spears. In his hand was a 6 foot spear with a couple feet of razor edged pointed steel at the end.
"I go with you, Bwanna." said the tribesman.
"The hell with both of you." shouted the hunter, "I get paid to hunt down dangerous lions, not get killed doing it."
Barham and Simi stepped into the tall grass and started forward slowly, pausing every few steps to listen. The worked their way forward for maybe the space of a quarter of an hour when suddenly in front of them came an earth shaking roar. Visibility was no more than a dozen paces, but Barham stepped forward with the Holland & Holland at his shoulder. Simi was by his side, and two more Masai were out to the right and left.
Another roar and there was a rushing in the tall grass in front of them, coming closer by the second. Simi had the spear up ready to throw, Barham had a finger on the first of the dual triggers. When it came, it was all over in the blink of an eye.
A large patch of brown fur flashed out of the tall brown grass and Barham let his first round off, staggering the charging cat. Then he had a flash of vision of the express sights against the yellow eyed face with the huge teeth coming at him in a final charge, and the Holland & Holland slammed back into his shoulder again. Simi yelled something and then Barham was hit by what felt like a high speed train. The rifle was knocked from his hand and he went flying back with a great weight pressing him into the dry ground. A thick smell of cat musk was smothering him as he heard his Masai yelling, and then the weight was gone.
The tribesmen had pulled the now dead cat off him, and they were checking him for mauling injures that somehow he did not have. Simi, and then Jones were looking down on him, telling him not to move for a moment. Jones took a silver flask out of his bush jacket pocket and unscrewed the cap and held it up to Barhams lips. The strong brandy burned down his gullet and lit a fire in his belly.
"Alright, help me up, it's not like I've been killed." Barham said.
Simi went over and examined the cat closely. He had thrust his spear into the cat while it was in midair, but the wound was not what killed the lion. He pointed to the back of the lions head, where a massive injury had splattered brain matter over its back. On the lions face was a bullet hole that was surrounded by powder burned fur.
"Bwanna shoot him right in face, blow brains out back." the tribesman said.
"He's right, Barham, looks like your second shot took him right through the head. He was dead when he hit you. This is going to make a hell of a mount. I know a bloke in Nairobi that does a great full charge mount."
Off to the side the Masai were having an exited conversation, during which some of them were pointing at Barham. Simi came over to them.
"They want to honor you for your brave stand with the lion." said Simi, " It will make you an honorary member of our tribe."
"Don't say no," whispered Jones, "Its a great honor, and a even greater insult if you don't have a go with it."
"Do you have a knife that will always be with you?" asked the tribesman.
Barham almost said no, but then remembered the small pocket knife he had purchased just before leaving England. He took out the small two bladed George Wostenholm knife. It was still so new that the stag was bone white and brown, and the blades still shiny and unused.
"This will always be with me, I promise."
Simi took the knife while the rest of the Masai warriors chanted and beat the butt of their spears on the ground in time to the chant. Simi went over to the lion and dipped the knife blade in the bloody exit wound on the back of the big cats head and came back to Barham. Carefully, he made a mark with the blood on each of Barhams cheeks, one on his for-head, and then handed the little knife back to the young officer. The tribesmen cheered and took turns slapping Barham on the back.
"We are now brothers, you have killed a lion up close. You will always be one of us now." Simi told him.
Barham stood looking down at the dead cat that nearly took his life. Then he turned to Jones.
"Can your man in Nairobi mount him up and leave the bullet hole with the powder burn? I don't want him cleaned up."
"Sure he can, but why?" asked the old white hunter.
"To remind me to not be such an arrogant young idiot in the future. You were right to not follow him into the grass, and I'm alive by luck. Please forgive me." and Barham held out his hand to the white hunter.
Jones took his hand, and there in the tall grass of Kenya, a young officer learned a valuable lesson.
London, 1957.
The old Colonel paused and lifted a finger and a waiter came over.
"May I have a short brandy, Charles?"
"Of course sir." the waiter went off to get the old man a drink.
The old Colonel looked at the young man he had been telling the story to.
"So you see, every time I've looked at that lion in the past decades that have gone by, its been a reminder to heed the advise of those who have been there before me. When I served in both world wars as well as the Malaysia troubles, I gave great weight to my Sargent's advise. It saved mine and my mens lives many times. Never think you know it all, boyo, because just about the time you think you do, life has a way of showing you that you don't. That lion almost killed me but for a lucky shot, because I didn't heed the hunter that had been doing what he did since I was born. "
The waiter returned with the brandy, and the Colonel took a good slug.
"Story telling is such thirsty work, don't you know?"
It was a quiet gentleman's club, with thick carpet that muffled even a heavy footstep. A few waiters went round to fetch a glass of port here, a snifter of brandy there. In one corner sat a tall white haired old man, who like alot of the senior members were ex British army. This man was in his early 70's, spare of build, with a tan to his completion that spoke of long service in tropical places.
On this evening he was reading the daily copy of the Times and had been smoking a strait stem Dunhill pipe. He set the newspaper down and took out an old two bladed pocket knife from a vest pocket that was attached to his watch chain. The silver chain looped over his slight paunch to his pocket watch in the opposite vest pocket, and a large claw dangling from the chain close to the watch. The knife itself was old, with the stag handles turned a rich nut brown by the years. The blade was a medium Grey in color. One of the younger members who had joined the club was seated near him, and watched with great interest as the old man carefully loosened the dottle from the bowl of the Dunhill, and gently tapped the pipe out in an ashtray on the side table. The old man folded up the blade of the small knife and slipped it back into the vest pocket it had come from.
"Exuse me, sir. You're Colonel Barham, arn't you?" the young man asked.
"Yes, that would be me" the old Colonel replied in a good natured but almost weary tone, "Let me guess, you want to hear some of the famous exploits of the old days, hmm? India?, Africa?, the Mideast?"
"Oh I wouldn't impose on you in that way sir. Just that big claw you have on your watch chain is most interesting. It must have come from a very large animal."
"Yes," said the Colonel, "it came from the lion that very nearly got me. In fact that one right over there"
In the reading room there were some game mounts scattered around, a impala on one wall, a tiger that another club member had got in India, and over on the other side of the room a large male lion in a full mount. it was an exceptional mount exept for the black spot on the lions face. The young man had seen the mount and looked casually at it in passing. He had never examined it closely before. This time he walked over and looked closely and saw the black spot was actually a bullet hole that was done at such close range that the fur was powder burned around it. He walked back over and sat down by the colonel.
"Good God sir, it looks like it was a close call there!"
The old Colonel reflected on it. Then spoke softly.
"Yes, my life near ended that day when I was a young subaltern not long out of Sandhurst. I had been posted to Kenya..."
Kenya, 1908
The hot African sun beat down and almost all living things on the Savannah sought shade. exept for the hunting party.
A lion had killed two villagers the night before, and as part of the local army constabulary, a young officer and some of the native Masai tribesmen were out to hunt down down the lion while it lay up during the day. They were guided by an old experienced white hunter named Jones, who knew the local terrain as well as the Masai, but was armed with a Holland & Holland double rifle instead of spears like the tribesmen. The young British officer carried the spare Holland & Holland.
"I don't like it, Barham. I don't like it at all, not natural. This cat's not acting right. We've already passed several good spots he should have laid up in, but he's headed for the tall grass. Its foolish to try to follow him in there."
"Well we can't very well keep feeding him villagers until you find a good spot to take him. We'll just have to beard the lion in his own den, so to speak." said the young officer.
Jones bit his lip trying to hold back a bitter comment about young know-it-all Sandhurst school boys.
"Look Barham, you just don't follow a lion into the tall grass, especially one who is proven to be a man killer!"
"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'll go in, and you go round the other side and try to flush him to me. I'll have Simi with me and a few of his warriors." replied the young officer. The tall black man next to him nodded his head in agreement.
Simi was the village headman, and was a veteran of the Masai way of hunting lion with spears. In his hand was a 6 foot spear with a couple feet of razor edged pointed steel at the end.
"I go with you, Bwanna." said the tribesman.
"The hell with both of you." shouted the hunter, "I get paid to hunt down dangerous lions, not get killed doing it."
Barham and Simi stepped into the tall grass and started forward slowly, pausing every few steps to listen. The worked their way forward for maybe the space of a quarter of an hour when suddenly in front of them came an earth shaking roar. Visibility was no more than a dozen paces, but Barham stepped forward with the Holland & Holland at his shoulder. Simi was by his side, and two more Masai were out to the right and left.
Another roar and there was a rushing in the tall grass in front of them, coming closer by the second. Simi had the spear up ready to throw, Barham had a finger on the first of the dual triggers. When it came, it was all over in the blink of an eye.
A large patch of brown fur flashed out of the tall brown grass and Barham let his first round off, staggering the charging cat. Then he had a flash of vision of the express sights against the yellow eyed face with the huge teeth coming at him in a final charge, and the Holland & Holland slammed back into his shoulder again. Simi yelled something and then Barham was hit by what felt like a high speed train. The rifle was knocked from his hand and he went flying back with a great weight pressing him into the dry ground. A thick smell of cat musk was smothering him as he heard his Masai yelling, and then the weight was gone.
The tribesmen had pulled the now dead cat off him, and they were checking him for mauling injures that somehow he did not have. Simi, and then Jones were looking down on him, telling him not to move for a moment. Jones took a silver flask out of his bush jacket pocket and unscrewed the cap and held it up to Barhams lips. The strong brandy burned down his gullet and lit a fire in his belly.
"Alright, help me up, it's not like I've been killed." Barham said.
Simi went over and examined the cat closely. He had thrust his spear into the cat while it was in midair, but the wound was not what killed the lion. He pointed to the back of the lions head, where a massive injury had splattered brain matter over its back. On the lions face was a bullet hole that was surrounded by powder burned fur.
"Bwanna shoot him right in face, blow brains out back." the tribesman said.
"He's right, Barham, looks like your second shot took him right through the head. He was dead when he hit you. This is going to make a hell of a mount. I know a bloke in Nairobi that does a great full charge mount."
Off to the side the Masai were having an exited conversation, during which some of them were pointing at Barham. Simi came over to them.
"They want to honor you for your brave stand with the lion." said Simi, " It will make you an honorary member of our tribe."
"Don't say no," whispered Jones, "Its a great honor, and a even greater insult if you don't have a go with it."
"Do you have a knife that will always be with you?" asked the tribesman.
Barham almost said no, but then remembered the small pocket knife he had purchased just before leaving England. He took out the small two bladed George Wostenholm knife. It was still so new that the stag was bone white and brown, and the blades still shiny and unused.
"This will always be with me, I promise."
Simi took the knife while the rest of the Masai warriors chanted and beat the butt of their spears on the ground in time to the chant. Simi went over to the lion and dipped the knife blade in the bloody exit wound on the back of the big cats head and came back to Barham. Carefully, he made a mark with the blood on each of Barhams cheeks, one on his for-head, and then handed the little knife back to the young officer. The tribesmen cheered and took turns slapping Barham on the back.
"We are now brothers, you have killed a lion up close. You will always be one of us now." Simi told him.
Barham stood looking down at the dead cat that nearly took his life. Then he turned to Jones.
"Can your man in Nairobi mount him up and leave the bullet hole with the powder burn? I don't want him cleaned up."
"Sure he can, but why?" asked the old white hunter.
"To remind me to not be such an arrogant young idiot in the future. You were right to not follow him into the grass, and I'm alive by luck. Please forgive me." and Barham held out his hand to the white hunter.
Jones took his hand, and there in the tall grass of Kenya, a young officer learned a valuable lesson.
London, 1957.
The old Colonel paused and lifted a finger and a waiter came over.
"May I have a short brandy, Charles?"
"Of course sir." the waiter went off to get the old man a drink.
The old Colonel looked at the young man he had been telling the story to.
"So you see, every time I've looked at that lion in the past decades that have gone by, its been a reminder to heed the advise of those who have been there before me. When I served in both world wars as well as the Malaysia troubles, I gave great weight to my Sargent's advise. It saved mine and my mens lives many times. Never think you know it all, boyo, because just about the time you think you do, life has a way of showing you that you don't. That lion almost killed me but for a lucky shot, because I didn't heed the hunter that had been doing what he did since I was born. "
The waiter returned with the brandy, and the Colonel took a good slug.
"Story telling is such thirsty work, don't you know?"
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