Tusker Read online

  Tusker

  Dougie Arnold

  Contents

  Title Page

  Author’s note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Copyright

  Author’s note

  As a young man working in Kenya in the 1980’s I fell in love with the country and its amazing wildlife. I have a vivid memory of trying to count the number of elephants in a herd as they passed us one evening, there were certainly over seventy. Amongst them was one whose tusks were so long they were close to touching the ground. I was awe struck! Such elephants are traditionally called “tuskers”. Today there are probably fewer than thirty of these giants left in the whole of Africa.

  Elephants remain under a constant threat, mostly as a result of intensified poaching for ivory. In the Great Elephant Census, the results of which were released in 2016, experts estimated that their population in Africa had dropped by over 110,000 in a decade. That means that only 415,000 remain across the whole continent. When I was born there were thought to be around 5 million!

  This book is dedicated to all those remarkable men and women who devote their lives, not just to the protection of elephants but of all our precious wildlife in every corner of the world.

  The rest of us owe you a huge debt of gratitude.

  Dougie Arnold

  Chapter One

  It had never occurred to Harry that this was a day on which he might die.

  He kicked the log further towards the dying embers and looked into the silent faces of the men who shared this night with him, each lost in his own thoughts. There was murder in the air and unless they had extreme good fortune, there wasn’t a thing they could do about it.

  He had forgotten just how dark African nights were. Of course the stars were like nothing he saw back home, here they filled the sky, but they were too distant to help. The moon was the problem, just a slither, and that is what made it such a dangerous time.

  His uncle Jim had posted their most trusted trackers at the vulnerable entry and exit points but it was a vast area and they were so thinly spread. In past years they could have counted on the help of the Kenya Wildlife Services to spare some rangers but not now. This was war and there were more important priorities than the Uwingoni Reserve. They were on their own.

  That morning Harry had watched the small herd, the rugged matriarch in the lead, her head swaying gently from side to side, as she climbed up the steep northern escarpment. The others dutifully followed, some of last year’s youngsters struggling with their footing on the loose rocks. He had willed them to turn back, anywhere was better than their northern border. One of the largest, the last into the tree line, had turned briefly, the early morning sun catching the whiteness of her tusks, and then she was gone.

  The walkie talkie crackled into life. “Base, this is Mike.”

  Harry snatched the set off the table. “Go ahead.”

  “They’re here, about eight of them I think, but it’s difficult to tell, and they’re on foot.”

  “Are you still up by the northern spur?”

  “Yes and they’re following baboon stream east. My guess is they are heading for the watering hole.”

  “Bastards,” muttered Harry as everyone who had been listening round the fire sprinted through the camp entrance towards the two waiting Land Rovers. There was a single treacherous track to the waterhole, dangerous at the best of times but on a dark night…

  The wheel spun easily in Bethwell’s hands as he took the sharp right-hand fork. It was pointless to drive quietly; the engine noise would carry a long way on a night like this. Anyway, he wanted the poachers to know they were coming, wanted them to feel the fear of being caught but above all else he wanted them to turn away from their target.

  Harry willed the Land Rover on. Startled waterbuck sprang back from the side of the track, the white ring of their rumps briefly highlighted in the darkness. Despite his youth he had bonded well with the others. He had such respect for them and they in turn had learnt to trust him. He hoped he would be worthy. The adrenalin coursed through his body but strangely he felt no fear, just an overwhelming urge to reach the waterhole in time.

  He was plotting the route in his head, he had always been fortunate to have that knack of being able to remember terrain well. Some people had photographic memories of what they read, for him it was almost as though there was a virtual map in his mind. Bethwell was an experienced driver but he would just stay to the main track, worried perhaps about the consequences of damaging the vehicle for which he was responsible.

  “Take the next left. If we go through the water splash and up the old buffalo track we can cut off a whole corner and perhaps save ten minutes.”

  Bethwell looked doubtful. “That’s a treacherous route Harry. It takes us right on the edge of the escarpment and the heavy rains last month washed it away in places. Are you sure?”

  Harry had to admit that he had his doubts but he had been hiking up there only five days ago and it had been dry since. “I’m sure we’ll manage and we couldn’t be in better hands.” Harry had this easy way with them, his uncle was a lovely guy but compliments to anyone were pretty few and far between.

  Bethwell smiled despite himself, “The buffalo track it is then. Hang on in the back this is going to be a bumpy ride.” He stopped momentarily before the turn, pressing down the small coloured gear stick that engaged four-wheel drive. There was no way they would make it otherwise.

  The wardens in the back braced themselves, sitting only on canvas webbing; they had an idea of what lay ahead. They were sideways on, facing each other, the rather ancient 303 Lee–Enfield rifles, relics from a bygone age, clamped firmly between their knees.

  Harry heard the loose stones clattering away under their wheels as the steepness of the track increased. Bethwell kept them to a middle course, quickly making corrections when he felt them slipping sideways. To their right was thick forest, and every so often the headlights caught the sudden movement of dark shapes as animals, ever cautious, distanced themselves from the oncoming noise and light.

  To their left the tree line had thinned out and all but disappeared, replaced instead by an almost sheer drop already some five hundred feet to the valley floor. Harry tried not to look down, he wasn’t bad with heights but it didn’t take a great imagination to picture what would happen if Bethwell misjudged one of the sharp bends. Even as the image played through his mind his senses were aware of some sort of burning smell. He glanced across at the temperature gauge, the needle hovering dangerously on red, hardly surprising after the gradient of the climb and the age of the vehicle. Almost everything in Uwingoni was a little tired and out of date he thought.

  “We should make it to the top of the ridge,” shouted Bethwell above the clatter of the engine. “When we level out she should start to cool down.”

  “I think you love this old lady more than your girlfriends,” smiled Harry, trying to inject some humour into the situation.

  Bethwell grimaced, but whether at the thought of his girlfriends or the damage he might be doing to his precious Land Rover, Harry was unsure.

  They took a final sharp right hander, the outside rear wheel almost biting on clean air and then they were there, and the thin line of the escarpment top lay
before them.

  Harry glanced back at the four men behind him. In the reflected light from the headlights he could make out the sheen of sweat across their faces. He wasn’t aware of any of them even speaking during the treacherous climb and they were only too happy to scramble out and stand on solid ground again. He didn’t blame them.

  This was as far as they could go by vehicle; the track simply petered out by the densely packed trees ahead. The waterhole was about another fifteen minutes on foot through weaving forest paths. They couldn’t wait for the others. He could see their headlights below. They had taken the safer route so they were still ten minutes away and time was far too precious. They would have to risk the waterhole by themselves; the others would just have to catch up as soon as they could.

  Kilifi took the lead; he didn’t need anyone to tell him. His normal cheerfulness suppressed, he moved with quiet purpose, often just speaking with his hands. If there was a better tracker in East Africa, thought Harry, he would be surprised.

  What was already a dark night became even more shadowy as the trees closed in around them. There was no obvious path but there were animal tracks that crisscrossed one another and Kilifi silently signalled for them to halt every few minutes while he examined the ground and then unfalteringly moved on again. The only sounds they were aware of, apart from each other, were animals scampering away from them deeper into the night.

  “The waterhole can’t be that far up ahead,” whispered Harry to Kilifi. He was not conscious of the sound of elephants or indeed other larger animals, but of course they might be in the clearing itself which radiated for about two hundred feet in a circle from the water.

  Far more concerning was the exact whereabouts of the poachers. They would have known the rangers were coming, simply from the sound of the Land Rovers. Mike had said he thought there were about eight of them which would make sense because they would physically have to carry any tusks back from an area like this. Their vehicles would almost definitely be beyond the northern boundary of the reserve. Worryingly he hadn’t heard from Mike since that transmission. However, communication signals were poor up here anyway and if he was following them closely he might well have his radio turned off.

  Kilifi had his right hand raised and everyone stopped, standing as motionless as possible. Had he seen something? Harry was now in the middle of the group, the only one without a weapon as was to be expected, the others had spent years in the bush honing their skills. He couldn’t come along and pick up a gun like some comic hero. Real life didn’t work like that. They were all crack shots and old though their rifles were, that was a comforting thought.

  Harry moved cautiously to the front of the line. Kilifi pointed to an area ahead where it seemed a little lighter and he realised that must be the waterhole; with no trees above he could start to make things out a little more clearly. Before they moved any closer he thought he would try Mike again. He pressed the side of the walkie talkie and the red transmission light glowed unnaturally bright.

  “Mike are you there? Come in.” Harry kept his voice as hushed as possible and tried again. “Mike, can you hear me?” Nothing, the silence was almost overpowering. Without details of the poachers, an already dangerous situation became potentially much more lethal.

  Some poachers were quite inexperienced, men who were desperate to risk anything to earn money in hard times. Others, however, were hardened, callous men who thought nothing of the slaughter they were carrying out and anyone or anything that stood in their way would be removed without hesitation. The wardens may be hunting them but the tables could easily turn and the hunters become the hunted.

  They edged cautiously towards the clearing, careful not to make a sudden movement, trying to blend with the tree trunks, breathing quietly and watching both ahead and where their footfall landed, intent on not giving away their position.

  The trees thinned out and they were able to see the waterhole itself. The first and most obvious thing was that there wasn’t an elephant in sight. Harry assumed they must have already had their evening drink. If they were on their way they were far too large to move quietly through the trees and undergrowth.

  There was surprisingly little activity at the waterhole. A family of warthogs were lapping noisily at the surface, their father keeping a close watch, his large tusks a reminder that, despite his size, he was to be treated with respect.

  Harry was aware of moving shadows behind the trees on the far side. He nudged Kilifi gently but he simply shook his head, indicating this was nothing to be concerned about. The shadows came slowly into focus as they moved very cautiously from cover into the open space. Despite their circumstances, Harry found himself transfixed. Moving with easy elegance towards the water were two greater kudu, large woodland antelope. Even in the half-light he could make out the reddish brown of their coats and the contrasting thin vertical white stripes that that gave them a touching beauty. Sniffing the air they stepped gently forward.

  Without warning the night erupted. White spurts of light on the far side of the water and the sound of bullets smacking into the branches and tree trunks just to their left, had everyone leaping for cover.

  “Flatten yourself behind a trunk,” shouted Kilifi, pushing Harry behind a large cedar tree. A second burst of fire a little more to the left. “They know we are here,” continued Kilifi, “but they certainly haven’t got a proper fix on us. Just stay still and quiet.” On the word quiet there were some very raucous bird calls and two large black and white hornbills, their peace shattered, flapped noisily out of the tree tops, their huge bills pulling them down before they rose once more in their rather ungainly flight. Again the guns on the far side blazed away.

  Bethwell joined them. “These guys are much more heavily armed than us but they are very raw, firing at any movement. That’s the good news. We could retreat out of harm’s way but then they would simply retrace their steps and be back again another night. Our rifles are worse than useless unless they are going to show themselves, which I doubt. Looks like they are using the old favourite, the AK-47, and we have no answer in this gloom to that sort of firepower.”

  Harry hadn’t said a word since that first burst. His heart was pounding and his hands sweaty. He was actually being shot at. This wasn’t a film where some heroic deed saves the day; this was the reality of the war against poaching. Perhaps when you are young you never think about dying, you feel somehow immortal, well he certainly didn’t feel that now.

  Despite or perhaps because of the threat his mind raced. Last time he had been at the waterhole, it had been exciting, dangerous he supposed, but in an entirely different way. He had come up with two of the younger men from camp to look for wild honey. One of them, Bear, the others called him, climbed trees with an ease that they could only marvel at. It had been a fruitless morning and so they had headed off to see whether there was any interesting game at the waterhole when Bear became very excited about a small greeny, brown bird no more than five inches long. It was a honey guide and he explained to Harry that often they led them to the hives of wild bees. Unbelievably they had followed it directly to this clearing and there fifty feet off the ground in an aging podo tree was a huge nest.

  Bear had shinned up using a large piece of leather that he wrapped round the trunk to help him a step at a time. When he had got level with the hive he lit some large foul smelling, smoky leaves which he had waved about vigorously to calm down the bees while he cut off a small part of the grey structure. Despite a few stings he had returned in one piece and they had enjoyed the wonderful delights of wild honey, making sure to leave a small piece as a present for the honey guide.

  Harry recognised the podo tree now as it stood out from the others around it. The plan formulating in his head seemed crazy but it might just work.

  Kilifi and Bethwell listened as he explained his idea. “The nest in that tree was huge; there must be thousands of bees in there. Can you imagine what would happen if we could bring part of it down near the poach
ers?” They had all been stung at one time or another by African bees and even hardened men jumped about with the pain. “Imagine hundreds swarming round you because their broken nest was suddenly at your feet.”

  “Interesting idea Harry but what about us?” inquired Bethwell. “They will be spreading out attacking anything that moves.”

  “I had thought about that,” he replied. “Jim told me a story about when he was attacked by wild bees; I suppose that is why I thought of it. He escaped the worst of their attention by diving into a nearby stream. Water is bee proof! And what do we have just behind us, the stream that feeds the waterhole.”

  He could see their minds analysing what he had just suggested and the slow smiles spreading across their faces gave him the answer he wanted.

  “Who are your best marksmen?” Harry asked. “I suggest we use two as that will double our chances of taking part of the nest down. The rest of us will already be back by the deepest parts of the stream that we can find. As soon as they have fired they will have given away our position and will have to make a run back to the safety of the water as fast as they can.”

  The plan was explained to everyone. It seemed straightforward and Harry hoped there wasn’t something he’d forgotten. He took the two marksmen up to the cover of the last trees before the clearing and pointed out the large dark shapes of the nest some fifty feet up. The bees were sleeping, if you didn’t have some prior knowledge you would never have guessed they were even there. The men drew back the bolt action of their old rifles, the bullets sliding comfortingly into the firing chambers and raised their weapons to their shoulders.

  Harry had done what he could so he moved back to the stream. The water was inky black in the shade of the trees and he eased himself slowly into its protection, with just his head sticking out. Four clear shots rang out in quick succession, followed immediately by the clatter of the poachers’ AK-47s. Then the gunfire stopped as quickly as it had begun.