The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children (15 page)

III.

Strong body. Tremendous voice. Determined sunburnt florid face. He had a huge moustache which jutted out from beneath his nose, reclining on thick lips. He looked like a bull elephant in rut. He was an excellent boxer and swordsman. He enjoyed running men through and shooting them in duels.

He duelled a neighbouring landlord, a certain Thornton, who had shot one of his dogs: Early morning. Grass covered with dew. They met in a birch forest, each man accompanied by his seconds. A surgeon was in attendance. Weapon: swords.

Counters and double counters. Caernarvon had a long arm. Straight thrust. Parry in
tierce.
Opponent remarkably cunning in fence
,
had spent a good deal of time in France.
Disengagement. Coupé to the neighbour’s neck. Excited at the sight of blood, the captain made a vigorous and somewhat premature assault. His sword flew out of his hand. The landlord, grinning, leapt forward. Caernarvon stepped back, drew a pistol from his pocket.

“
A pistol?” said his enemy. “We were supposed to fight with swords. I did not bring my pistol!”

“
So much the worse for you,” the captain said. “You ought not to have been such a damned idiot as to have left it at home.”

And with those words he killed him, terminating the fight.

“
Pistols are not to be used except by mutual consent,” declared one of Thornton’s seconds.

———

Bizarre duels:

Knives strapped to foreheads: men peck like birds, gouge each other in a ridiculous spectacle.

A duel with antique cannons (two 12 pdrs. cast by Perrier Frères) / frightful noise.

. . . got up as gladiators . . . . . .

IV.

V.

An Extract from the Memoirs of Captain Gareth Caernarvon:

My companion was Sir Bruce Roscommon, who was then still in his early manhood, and had not yet succumbed to those brutal vices which were to blight his later life and have left such a gross stain on his once noble character. We had a bodyguard of thirty camel-men, whom I had armed with Lee Enfield rifles. I myself was
carrying a Webley double-action revolver, a Mannlicher rifle and, most importantly, a Marlin .45-70 repeating rifle, weighing about 11 pounds and having a 28-inch octagonal barrel.

For four weeks we travelled at a speed of about twenty miles a day, that being as great a distance as a caravan of fully-loaded camels—each carrying around two-hundred pounds of provisions, tents and general gear—can manage. We crossed an extent of arid country, toiled among cliffs and rocky wastes, and then, entering an area more luxuriant, finally halted at the edge of a natural basin filled with muddy water and surrounded by rank-smelling shrubs.

Isibili-Ikhanda-Umkhobe, the two-headed rhino, had been spotted in that area some months before. The natives looked around themselves with wary reverence and mumbled prayers to their devilish gods. I opened a bottle of Linkwood whisky and offered Roscommon a toast to the kill.

Every morning, after breakfasting on strong black coffee and dried ox meat, we struck out, each in his own direction, in search of the tracks of the giant pachyderm. I was particularly intent on putting to death that thick-skinned, heavily built animal, for I dearly wanted such a head for my collection.

The temperatures were frightful. The thermometer rarely went below 110 Fahrenheit while the sun was up. Though I had not yet seen sign of the beast I was looking for, there was still light game: I killed a Barbary lion, warthogs and wildebeests; so our camp had an abundance of fresh meat and for dinner we had delightful stews and then conversed under the stars over our pipes and cups.

One evening, about three hours before sundown, while making my way through a portion of mimosa forest, I came across the fresh tracks of a rhinoceros as well as, to my delight, a goodly portion of its pungent and smoking spoor. The wind was favourable, blowing toward me from the direction in which the animal was moving; and it was apparent that the three-toed impressions in the earth had been made recently, probably within the last hour. My boots were rubber-soled, the terrain I went over flat and soft, generally padded with thick grasses, excellent ground cover. My gait was noiseless. Slowly, patiently I made my way along. I crept around a thicket and there, in a clearing which opened up before me, stood the great brute, about forty yards away, its magnificent hind-quarters proned in my direction. It began to turn and I kneeled. One of its heads was gigantic, its nose capped with an exciting horn, while the other head, which grew out of the former’s neck, was small and somewhat sickly looking.

I hastily drew a bead upon its chest, squeezed the trigger and let off a bullet. It was an ugly shot, lodging itself in the quarry’s flesh without doing adequate damage, and I felt ashamed. The rhinoceros snorted, rose to its feet and turned towards me, levelling its horns and pawing the earth. Then it came surging forward. My life was in peril. Coolly and quickly I set myself up for another blast; looked along the barrel, took aim at the larger head and fired. The shot was fine. The bullet landed square between its eyes. The beast swerved off, and began to break through the forest. Then its legs weakened and it came crashing to the earth. I approached. The rhino writhed on the ground in agony, hot blood spurting from its wound. The smaller head squealed, let out a bleating whistle, and I drank in its cries of pain, for they were as sweet to me as a cool glass of champagne. I then shoved my gun into the mouth of the smaller head and gave it a coup-de-grace, bits of its brain flying out, regurgitating, and dirtying my pants leg.

Smoothing my moustaches I looked down at the animal. There was some unfortunate damage to the skulls, but I, an admirable taxidermist
,
would still see them nicely mounted.

That evening Roscommon and myself enjoyed delightful umkhobe steaks, to the dismay of the natives.

V.

“
It is a lovely gown.”

“
Yes, I got it for him when I was last in London,” Emma said, and took a sip of her tea.

The velvet curtains cascaded down on either side of the panes of glass, making a pretty frame for: green sward, the captain thereon, in feminine attire: an iridescent, two-piece bronze gown. The bodice had a high detachable collar in cream-coloured silk, as well as a large cream-coloured inset which formed a ‘V’ from navel to throat. The upper portion of the skirt had horizontal ruching with vertical bands of cloth-covered buttons and eight box-pleats, accented with banding and buttons, giving it fullness as it approached the hemline.

———

He wore a corset, experiencing a most pleasurable sensation in being laced tight.

VI.

Sir Bruce Roscommon, the wrinkled flesh of his face ghastly, livid, sat in the restaurant of the Grand Hôtel du Monde drinking a whisky and water and smoking a cigarette. “Caernarvon had the finest collection of stag antlers existent,” he said, in a powerful but muddy voice. “All sorts of precious branches of horn, not only that he had secured with his own gun, but historical pieces as well. . . . A damned fine head of a stag shot by Duchess Magdalen of Saxony during the rutting season of 1656. . . . The beast must have come in close upon six hundredweight. . . . A really exceptional twenty-six pointer, such as few men have had the chance at. . . . Yes, those women of old certainly knew how to bring an animal to grass. . . . I don’t know what happened to the collection. . . . I suppose his people had them donated to a museum or something of the sort. . . . Maybe sold at auction for all I know.”

Roscommon took a long drink of his whisky and water. “Caernarvon was an interesting man,” he continued. “In my youth I admired him greatly. . . . But we had a falling out about something or other; though I don’t quite remember what. . . . I suppose he did not approve of my mode of life. . . . And I was not willing to live by another man’s system of honour. . . . It was all a bunch of nonsense really. A stupid sacrifice.”

VII.

He sat over his pipe. The floor of his study was covered with exotic animal hides, those of tigers and bears, and heads, marvels of taxidermy (gaping jaws, cold glass eyes), and weapons of all sorts were mounted on the walls: silver-hilted swords, outrageous scimitars, Spanish dirks and Russian Kindjals. A beautiful mace, made by the hands of Diego de Caias. Incredible helmets, in iron, gold and silver, shaped as fish, horrible demons. Gun racks: a combination matchlock and flintlock signed François Duclos; an unusual pneumatic canegun made of black laquered brass with a floral-embossed brass pommel and a hidden pop-out button-trigger; a 12 bore percussion shotgun by John Rigby of Dublin & c. & c.

There was a knock.

“
Come in!”

The large oak door, which was flanked by two enormous elephant tusks, opened. It was Emma.

“
The dress,” she said.

“
Yes?”

“
I have finished adjusting it.”

“
Oh!” Caernarvon rose from his chair.

“
I set it out on your bed.”

“
Then I will see.” The captain set down his pipe and strode forward.

“
Would you like some help trying it on?”

“
My dear girl, if I want help I will ask for it,” he said and exited.

Emma.
I have dreamed so very much.

Head of a Buffalo.
Is all she does is dream.

Russian Kindjal.
We have all seen it.

Emma.
Sigh.

Tiger Skin Rug.
Will she weep?

Pistol.
Oh, yes. She’ll weep.

Head of a Buffalo.
No. Her eyes are too small.

[
Emma weeps
.

Tiger Skin Rug
. She’s crying.

Russian Kindjal.
But I don’t see any tears.

Head of a Buffalo.
Her eyes are too small.

VIII.

In his lifetime he killed an enormous number of animals, as can be ascertained from his punctiliously kept shooting diary: 1,214 stags (34 of which were twenty points and upward), 2,129 red deer (985 of which were fourteen points and upward), 4,012 wild boar, 19 bears, 214 wolves, 11 beavers, 16 owls, 4 falcons, 2,314 vultures, 54 baboons, 2 marmosets, 1 gibbon, 218 hedgehogs, 415 badgers, 617 otters, 501 alligators, 1,107 crocodiles, 1 bongo, 74 bush pigs, 84 giraffes, 119 roan antelope, & c. & c. & c.

———

. . . dipnets, baskettraps, stonetraps, weirs, hooks and lines, rakes and spears.

*

A bait for catching pout
:

2 parts Cheshire cheese

2 parts hog’s blood

1 part anise seed

1 part crushed bombardier beetle

2 parts galbanum

1 part balsamic vinegar.

*

He had whaled, sunk his fist into the deep blubber of the beast.

*

Woodsmanship; scouting. He caught animals with baits of meat and smells, by blowing on whistles, appealing to their love instincts and other frauds. (Hear him gobble like a turkey.) In deep-dug pits filled with pointed stakes he caught elephants. Spring-traps for wild pigs; nooses for wild fowl; caltrops to catch the fawn. Ambush and stalking (deductions from a broken twig, from the faintest mark in the sand). When hunting with dogs, he kept a bitch’s fecund member in his coat pocket, and this stopped them from barking. Then: BANG! His gun would scream out: blood-flecked branches and blood soaked earth. . . . . . .