A Solitary Hunt

The small boat’s engine sputtered unevenly as it chugged it’s way along the wide and muddy river. The vessel’s Captain was a burly, barrel-chested man whose girth seemed determined to make up for his lack of height. He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and softly whistled to himself. The tune was an odd counterpoint to the staccato rhythm of the struggling engine. Large rivulets of sweat poured down the man’s reddened face and back. It was hotter than usual for the late morning and the air had a thick, viscous quality that seemed to cling to the skin instantly. The Captain breathed deeply in spite of the sultry and sticky nature of the air. He loved the untainted smell of the jungle. There was none of the soot or oppressive odors that would assail one’s nostrils in the middle of a large city like London. The lone passenger on the trip for the moment at least was inclined to disagree. He had the terrible misfortune of being downwind of the Captain during the voyage. Clearly of all the things to be found in this part of Venezuela, soap was definitely not among them. The passenger stretched his long and lean frame out as he sat up in his seat. The jungle was much more densely wooded now, than when he had nodded off.

“How much further, Captain?” The passenger asked in a deep, purring voice that carried the unmistakable sound of a well-bred gentleman.

“Not long now, Colonel Hardwick. We should be there within the hour.” Came the lively cockney-accented reply. The Colonel nodded in satisfaction and began to make a final check of his gear.

“Never heard of anyone ever going in there by themselves.” The Captain ventured as he steered the vessel toward the right side of a fork in the river. Colonel Hardwick sat quietly thoughtful for a moment, wiping a cotton handkerchief over his sandy colored brows.

“Well for this, the less people present, the less noise there will be. Stealth will be a premium commodity I should think.” The sailor barely contained his disbelief as he slowly shook his head. Cruising the river was one thing, but to go out into the bush alone was tantamount to madness. Given the nature of the Colonel’s business Captain Pierson wondered if the man had a death wish. A sharp metallic click snapped Pierson out of his reverie. He glanced back at Colonel Hardwick, who was checking the sights and action on his rifle. The Colonel’s steely blue eyes focused down the length of the weapon’s barrel. In all his years of service in His Majesty’s Army he had never wielded so fine a rifle as this one. The Magazine Lee-Enfield, or Emily was infinitely superior to the old Metford in almost every way. It was lighter, more accurate, could use the new smokeless powder (what a Godsend that was), and could even be loaded in a hurry thanks to a five-round charger. For now however, there was no need for haste and Colonel Hardwick meticulously loaded one .303 caliber cartridge at a time until the Emily’s ten-round capacity had been reached. Then he turned his attention to his sidearm. The Webley Mark One Service Revolver could hold six .455 caliber rounds and had been the workhorse of the army since 1887. Even ten years later it showed no signs of being replaced.

“It should be just around the next bend, Sir.” The pilot announced as his passenger rose and slung his rifle and equipment pack. Before long, the boat’s engine slowed and the Captain gently nudged the craft toward shore.

“Here we are. Now I will return in one week to pick you up as agreed, right?” Colonel Hardwick leapt from the deck onto the moist jungle soil.

“Very well, Captain. Good-bye and thank you.” Pierson waved farewell and added,

“Good hunting, Sir.” Hardwick nodded and the boat pulled away. Soon it had disappeared entirely. The hunter stood for a moment and simply listened. Now that the ponderous sound of the boat’s engine had faded away, the voice of the jungle seemed to come alive. All around, nature’s symphony began to play. Hardwick often found himself trying to isolate and concentrate on a single sound but in such an environment he knew this was impossible. He breathed in and smiled. The scent of newly fallen rain was still in the air. A lush, verdant canopy of vegetation nearly blotted out the sun. As he slowly walked deeper into the jungle the soil grew firmer under his boots. He moved with a light, practiced step that was designed to help him be as silent as possible.

He remembered when he first heard stories about this place during an evening card game in the smoking room of The Traveler’s Club in Pall Mall. Jameson was going on about how all the blank spots on the map had been getting filled in and how there was no real challenge left for a sporting gentleman. Thankfully Ralph had interrupted him. Ralph always was a man of nice timing whether it was in cards or conversation. He began to weave a tale about how wild and unexplored some portions of the jungles of South America were. He talked about how between the diseases and the wildlife a man stood a very good chance of not coming out alive. Hardwick’s eyes twinkled as he remembered the conclusion of his friend’s story. Ralph expounded upon how there was a quarry in those unknown jungles that was (as far as he knew) to yet be taken down by any member of the club. The room fell deadly silent at this pronouncement. The audience leaned in and listened most intently as Ralph described the magnificent creature.

The loud shrieking of some birds startled the hunter back to the present.

“Best not to let the mind wander too much.” He thought to himself as he continued on his way. It would be impossible to discern any sort of game trails in vegetation this thick but given the number of pelts to his credit this fact did not trouble Colonel Hardwick. Besides, for now he was content to enjoy the rapturous solitude that had enveloped him. Even though the jungle could hardly be considered a quiet place, he had always found his fellow man with few exceptions to be a rather noisy and inconsiderate lot. That opinion was formed before and during his time fighting in the army. First it was against the Zulus and then the Boers. What a heinous cacophony those tumults had been. The constant pounding of the artillery alone was enough to drive one mad. Mix that with the hailstorm of rifle and pistol shots. Then liberally sprinkle with the tortured sounds of maimed and injured men and you had one ungodly mess on your hands. One day he hoped war would become a much quieter affair.

He pushed a low hanging branch out of his way as he continued further inland. He did not believe in cutting and hacking his way through the bush. Why litter up the place? Mankind had damn few places left that it had not ruined somehow. He felt ill at ease to contribute to the shrinkage of the list. Colonel Hardwick stopped in his tracks as a new sound pressed upon his ears. It was running water. It did not take him long to reach the stream. A gentle rumble in his stomach reminded him that it had been a good while since he had breakfasted. This was as good a spot as any to see about luncheon. He leaned the Enfield against a nearby tree and rummaged through his equipment pack. He produced a spool of thin line with a shiny hook on one end. After unraveling a length of thread he baited the hook with a bit of salt pork and tossed it into the stream. After a few minutes he felt a healthy tug. Something had taken the bait. He quickly wound the line back onto the spool and without much difficulty pulled a strange looking fish from the water. It was round bodied but flat with a red belly. Its black eyes stared up at its captor. Colonel Hardwick went to procure the hook and as soon as his fingers were within reach of the mouth, the fish snapped at the invading digits. A stab of pain shot through Hardwick’s finger as the fish’s teeth sliced into his skin. With a grunt of annoyance the Colonel squeezed the toothsome fish behind the gills until the hook was released. He reached down to his hip and pulled his knife from its sheath. Hardwick sliced the fish open. He dropped the viscera into the stream and immediately the water was a furious frenzy of activity. The hunter watched the spectacle completely spellbound. He sliced off two small filets and tossed the remains of the fish into the water. Once again there was a flurry of agitation in the stream and Hardwick could see over a dozen similar looking fish savaging the remains of their disemboweled brother. He wondered if the gents at the club would believe him if he told them of these creatures. Also, more importantly he would have to be very cautious indeed when crossing deep water in this region.

After he had placed the fillets into his small, improvised cook pan (made from a spent copper artillery shell that had been pounded flat) Hardwick lit a small fire with his lighter and prepared his lunch. He knew that other men of his ilk insisted on having bearers and all manner of luxurious trappings when going on a hunt but he wanted no part of that. If he wanted the company of savages he would have stayed in Africa. If he wanted luxury he would be dining at the club. He preferred a few small necessities. It was all the better when one returned with a prize pelt without such assistance. Man against beast that was sporting. Man and his entourage against beast simply did not qualify. When lunch was concluded another basic urge made itself known to the huntsman.

“I trust you will forgive me.” He said as he patted the tree that he urinated on. When Colonel Hardwick had settled his affairs with the tree he packed up his belongings, picked up his rifle and proceeded upstream along the bank. All animals needed water and his quarry was no exception. If he stuck close to the stream it may yield positive results. After walking quite a way the hunter spied something unusual ahead of him. Resting near the water was what looked like the tail of a serpent and a rather large one at that. As he got closer Hardwick observed that his initial assessment of the creature’s size was grossly understated. This snake was massive. The tail had not moved since he first saw it. The Colonel carefully nudged it with the toe of his boot. There was no movement at all. He used his hands to spread the underlying vegetation out of his way. He wanted a better look at this creature. The girth of the snake did not disappoint. It’s circumference at its widest was as large around as a man’s head. Hardwick followed the lines of the serpent’s form for more than ten feet before he saw the first drops of blood on the ground. On what he presumed was the snake’s midsection there were multiple wounds that looked as if they had been inflicted with many straight razors. The next few yards of the giant reptile were savaged in a similar fashion but with greater ferocity. Upon closer examination the hunter observed that the internal organs were missing. A few feet more and Hardwick came upon the mangled mess of the head. Something very powerful had inflicted multiple deep puncture wounds on the serpent’s head. He could tell from the uneven consistency of texture and how the head yielded to pressure from his fingers that the skull had been crushed. The Colonel began to examine the ground where the head had lain. His eyes locked on a distinct impression in the moist soil. He held a steady hand over the ground and the outside of the imprint could be seen under his hand. He studied the depth of the impression as well as its general shape and nodded in satisfaction. Unsheathing his knife, Colonel Hardwick began to slice steaks off of the dead serpent. He unlatched the long, thin copper box that held the salt pork and other victuals. It seemed to be a companion piece to the cooking pan. He placed the steaks inside. They would certainly do for dinner.

“Looks like we’re dining at the same restaurant this evening.” Hardwick purred to himself as he secured his goods and slowly walked in the direction that the paw prints had departed toward. He had heard tales that these predators could haul large prey items straight up a tree to avoid thievery by scavengers, but perhaps the awkward bulk of the snake was too unwieldy for such an undertaking. All the same, in order to prey upon an animal as massive as that snake clearly required considerable physical prowess. Given the size of the paw prints that he was following, the Colonel could surmise that this animal was certainly large enough to foot the bill. As long as he could stay on this trail it would only be a matter of time before they would meet. The wounds on the serpent were still fresh so the creature was surely close at hand.

Colonel Hardwick took extra care to make as little sound as possible as he stalked the creature through the ever-thickening jungle. Once again the hunter’s handkerchief was retrieved from the pocket of his short trousers. He wiped the stinging perspiration out of his eyes and then dried his sweaty palms. Even this small precaution could insure a steadier grip on the rifle. As his eyes shifted from left to right the huntsman observed that it was getting slightly darker. Whether this was due to the density of the trees or the time of day he could not tell. A ticking watch was a dead giveaway to any creature with any sort of hearing worth considering. Slowly but surely Hardwick followed the tracks until they very abruptly stopped.

“Oh no.” He softly whispered to himself. The creature was up in the trees. Hardwick raised the rifle to eye level and slowly turned in a complete circle looking for the telltale yellow coat with black spots but saw nothing but trees. The damnable thing was not a ghost so it had to be right in this area. He refused to use blinds or sniper tactics while hunting but clearly this animal had no such honorable intentions. Visions of the serpent’s crushed skull flooded his mind as sweat sprang from his pores. He knew he was a sitting duck for what some could argue was a perfect ambush killer.

The predator watched from the comfort of a large tree branch. Its eyes needed no aid to see in the growing darkness. Day or night, the jaguar’s vision was as sharp as the arsenal of claws at its disposal. The thick muscles in its hind legs tensed in preparation to pounce. The two-legged prey seemed rooted to the spot where it stood. Years of practice had trained the great cat to instantly know the amount of power necessary to launch itself at its primary target, the skull. Unlike other relatives who would hone in on the throat, the jaguar’s favorite attack was a bite clean through the skull instantly killing or at least immobilizing the prey. Just as the cat was about to spring, the prey bolted toward the cover of some large trees. The animal instantly leapt into the air with its claws extended.

Colonel Hardwick felt a heavy blow land on his back knocking him to the ground. Air exploded from his lungs, his rifle clattered to the ground and a searing pain stabbed through his right shoulder. He could feel something slicing into the backs of his thighs but that was nothing compared to the storm of agony that was his shoulder. With strength brought on by panic Hardwick crawled out from under the weight of his attacker leaving his equipment pack behind. He quickly grabbed the rifle and while seated, turned to face his assailant. Steely blue eyes locked with those of the jaguar, which were emerald green. The Colonel’s mistake dawned on him with crystal clarity. It was little wonder that he could not see the creature. The great cat’s coat was a solid, lustrous black hue, but there could be no mistaking what it was. The jaguar continued to stare at the curious prey in front of him. As the cat licked the wounded man’s blood off it’s muzzle, Colonel Hardwick raised the rifle to his mangled shoulder. He cried out in pain as he fired. The report roared through the air like a thunderclap. The shot went wide as the rifle’s recoil stabbed into the Colonel’s gaping injury. The jaguar scampered into the jungle at the sound of the shot, leaving Colonel Charles Hardwick wounded and alone in the darkening Venezuelan jungle.

Hardwick leaned up against a tree trunk trying to calm himself. With a supreme effort he crawled toward his equipment pack. It was badly torn but the contents mostly remained within. He fetched his lighter from the pack and with the aid of some piled underbrush made a small fire. His shoulder was bleeding badly. Thankfully the jaguar missed his skull but that did not make his shoulder hurt any less. Once the fire was going well, he piled more plants on it and laid the blade of his knife in the midst of the flames. Hardwick slowly contorted his way out of his shredded shirt. He took special care with his injury trying to only move his arm as little as possible. The shirt would no longer serve as a garment, but it was perfect for bandages. First thing was first though. Colonel Hardwick retrieved a silver flask from the pack. The weight of it told him that there was more than enough to do the job. He gritted his teeth and poured gin into each of the puncture wounds in his shoulder. The alcohol burned terribly but he knew this was the best way to discourage infection.

“Now the hard part.” The wounded man twisted his ruined shirt until it resembled a length of rope and placed it horizontally in his mouth. He pulled his knife from out of the fire and with only a moment’s hesitation laid the glowing metal onto his wound. The Colonel bit down fiercely on the shirt, but could not help screaming as the wound was cauterized. He repeated this procedure for all the punctures in his shoulder. When the agonizing minutes of the impromptu operation passed he sat panting heavily. In the firelight he could see that his shoulder would not win any beauty contests (sizzled flesh rarely did) but at least it had stopped bleeding and with luck would not fester. He then soaked his handkerchief in some gin and cleaned the cuts on the backs of his legs. These still burned terribly but were not nearly as deep as the grievous damage done to his upper extremity.

“No point in taking chances.” Colonel Hardwick announced to no one in particular as he retrieved his knife from the fire again. Once more he braced himself for the pain as he touched the blade to his wounds. Again he screamed as he bit down on the shirt, but kept reminding himself he’d be better off for it. In his current situation, infection could be more dangerous than the jaguar. After what seemed like forever the Colonel placed his knife back into the fire. He knew this was as good a way as any to sterilize it, and slumped down against the tree he had been resting on before. Now he soaked the remnants of his shirt in gin and cut it into bandages. As he bound his wounds Hardwick forced himself to focus and survey his situation. He had lost a good deal of blood. Any relief would not come for six days. His wounds were sealed and bandaged but would be very tender. Worst of all was the fact that the creature had gotten a taste of his blood and would be craving more. Given the jaguar’s black coat he would be especially difficult to spot at night. He would have to inform Ralph of this little bit of information that he left out when next he saw him. His one hope was that he had yet to meet the animal that was not afraid of fire. If he piled more wood on the fire it would serve to keep the creature at bay while he slept. If he was lucky he just might survive the night. Every bit of plant matter within his grasp, whether it was leaves, twigs, or undergrowth were piled onto the fire. Finally in spite of his extremely perilous situation, Colonel Hardwick’s body demanded sleep. He curled up next to the fire and clutched his rifle as a fitful slumber overtook him.

When morning arrived Colonel Hardwick rose, stretched as best as his wounds would permit and examined his surroundings. The fire was barely smoldering. Tropical birds were chirping happily. It seemed as if the jungle too was just waking up. His natural impulse was to return to the stream and bathe a bit, but images of those horrific fish took precedence over the niceties of hygiene. That being decided, the next order of the day was breakfast. He had dined on serpent steak while he was in Burma. He wondered if the snakes in this hemisphere tasted any differently. The Colonel rebuilt his fire and after some very simple preparation Hardwick had his breakfast. To his surprise the steak was actually quite good. He doubted that he would order it at any time while dining out, but considering the circumstances it was most satisfactory.

After breakfast his thoughts turned to his adversary. The creature had gotten the drop on him before, but now he had a better understanding of the animal. Herein was the invaluable benefit of first hand experience. The jaguar was able to pick him out in the darkness, which conclusively proved that he like other cats had excellent night vision. Conversely though any creature that did its hunting at night was bound to be sluggish or inactive during the day. The animal had leapt onto him from the relative safety of the tree branches. In all probability the same environment would be used to protect the creature while it slept. It was true that the shade of the canopy would provide ample shadows that would conspire to hide the jaguar from his sight. In the end however, he knew the shiny black pelt would be adorning the wall of the club’s smoking room.

He picked up the Enfield and proceeded to clean it. Many a man bore scars from having failed to properly maintain his weapon and Hardwick had taken all the wounds from this animal that he planned to take. Right away he noticed the sharp pain in his shoulder when he tried to lift the Emily into a firing position. This was going to be difficult to say the least. He had no doubt that he could get a shot away, but his accuracy would be suspect at best. This would require a closer approach to the animal than what would be considered safe, but he figured the direr the struggle, the more profound the triumph. Once the rifle and the Webley revolver had been fully inspected, the Colonel now made a cursory investigation of his campsite. The jaguar had ambushed him in this miniature clearing so it stood to reason that he could follow any tracks leading away from the site of the struggle. While the creature was adept at climbing trees an animal of its muscular build could not travel by them. He could still be tracked. Hardwick spied a set of paw prints heading north, which was away from the direction he was attacked from. This was the trail.

He thoroughly cleaned up the campsite and changed into his one remaining fresh shirt. His equipment pack had been damaged but it could be press-ganged back into service with a little attention from a needle and thread. He double stitched every tear in the pack to be certain the repairs would at least last until he could get back to civilization. When the repairs were complete, he slung the pack over his untouched left shoulder, snatched up his rifle and headed north. With a patience that belayed his anxious mood Colonel Hardwick slowly stepped in the path laid out by the great cat. His eyes scanned the hanging branches around him. The hunter was striding well as he followed the animal’s tracks. He was constantly testing his injured shoulder. If he was able to increase the range of his mobility even a bit it could make the difference, but it was still damnably difficult.

Hardwick stopped in mid-stride. There he was! He’d almost walked right under him. He could see the jaguar sleeping on a low, sturdy branch. The hunter slowly raised the Enfield to the proper firing position. His wounded shoulder cried out in protest but Hardwick ignored it. He drew a clear sight on the creature’s head. A .303 round there would easily be fatal. The Colonel slowed his breathing. There was no hurry. He looked at the sleeping animal and placed his finger on the trigger. And then he stopped. He disliked the idea of shooting a dozing animal. The other members of the club would ask him how he came by the prized jaguar pelt. They would beg to hear the gripping tale of man against beast, and what would his answer be? That he snuck up on a sleeping creature and buried a bullet through his brain from 20 feet away? What did it say about him if he had to resort to such base tactics? There was no honor to be found in that sort of kill.

Charles Hardwick smiled to himself as he aimed the Emily a few feet over the animal’s head and fired. He felt another stab in his shoulder as the rifle’s recoil struck him. The Enfield’s report instantly woke the creature from its slumber. The jaguar leapt to its feet and let out a deep rumbling roar. Hardwick raised the Emily for another shot and a sharp metallic click was heard. A misfire! The great cat sprang from its refuge with claws bared toward the hunter. This time Hardwick was ready and struck a mighty blow to the creature’s muzzle with the butt of his rifle. He doubted if the players at the Lawn & Cricket Club could have done it any better. The jaguar howled in pain as it tumbled to the ground. Hardwick immediately drew his Webley revolver from the holster under his left shoulder and aiming through the pain, fired. The bullet struck home and bit into the animal’s hide near the spine. The jungle was filled with the jaguar’s cry of agony. Hardwick sighted the creature’s head again; only this time there would be no reprieve. He was preparing for the coup de grace. The animal however would not be stilled. The creature launched itself toward the Colonel. The huntsman fired, but missed and the great cat was upon him. The jaguar was snapping its jaws at Hardwick’s face while clawing viciously at his midsection. The wounded animal’s hot, rancid breath filled the Colonel’s lungs as the sheer bulk of the creature pressed on top of him. Claws tore into flesh as Hardwick used his left forearm to desperately defend against the jaguar’s killer skull bite. The jaws clamped down on his arm like a steel trap and the hunter cried out as he felt the cat’s fangs bury themselves in his flesh. Hardwick reached down with his right hand toward his hip. His fingers groped furiously until they wrapped around the handle of his knife. A second more and he buried the blade up to the hilt in the animal’s side. The jaguar convulsed and vomited blood into Hardwick’s face. The hunter knew instantly that he had found the animal’s heart. With a final shudder the great cat collapsed onto him. The relieved man let out a long sigh as he extricated himself from under the animal’s weight.

Hardwick stood and wiped the blood from his eyes. His left forearm was badly mangled and his stomach felt as if it was on fire. He reached into his pack and pulled out his silver flask. It was disappointingly empty. So he grabbed his canteen instead and raised it.

“Sorry it’s only water, but…here’s to you.” The toast was uttered and the canteen was tilted in the direction of the fallen animal. The Colonel surveyed the battlefield. There was so much blood. A profound fatigue settled into his bones. The hunter sat down against a tree to relax a bit. He went over in his mind what needed to be done. He’d have to bind up his wounds and then carefully skin the jaguar, but as he looked down at his blood soaked clothes, all Colonel Charles Hardwick wanted was to rest. And so he leaned his head back, looked all around him, and while admiring the beauty of the jungle, slowly closed his eyes.



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