I am almost tired of recounting so many instances of the courage of these beasts.When I look back to those scenes, so many ghosts of victims rise up before me that, were I to relate one-half their histories, it would fill a volume.The object in describing these encounters is to show the style of animal that the buffalo is in his natural state.I could relate a hundred instances where they have died like curs, and have afforded no more sport than tame cows; but I merely enumerate those scenes worth relating that I have witnessed.This will show that the character of a wild buffalo can never be depended upon;and if the pursuit is followed up as a sport by itself, the nature of the animal cannot be judged by the individual behaviour of any particular beast.Some will fight and some will fly, and no one can tell which will take place; it is at the option of the beast.Caution and good shooting, combined with heavy rifles, are necessary.Without heavy metal the sport would be superlatively dangerous if regularly followed up.Many persons kill a wild buffalo every now and then; but I have never met with a single sportsman in Ceylon who has devoted himself to the pursuit as a separate sport.Unless this is done the real character of buffaloes in general must remain unknown.It may, however, be considered as a rule with few exceptions that the buffaloes seldom commence the attack unless pursued.Their instinct at once tells them whether the man advancing towards them over the plain comes as an enemy.
They may then attack; but if unmolested they will generally retreat, and, like all men of true courage, they will never seek a quarrel, and never give in when it is forced upon them.Many descriptions of my encounters with these animals may appear to militate against this theory, but they are the exceptions that I have met with; the fierce look of defiance and the quick tossing of the head may appear to portend a charge, but the animals are generally satisfied with this demonstration, and retreat.
Attack the single bulls and follow them up, and they will soon show their real character.Heavy rifles then make a good sport of what would otherwise be a chance of ten to one against the man.It must be remembered that the attack is generally upon an extensive plain, without a single sheltering tree; escape by speed is therefore impossible, and even a horse must be a good one or a buffalo will catch him.
Without wading through the many scenes of carnage that I have witnessed in this branch of sport, I will sum up the account of buffalo-shooting by a decription of one day's work at Minneria.
The tent was pitched in a secluded spot beneath some shady trees, through which no ray of sun could penetrate; the open forest surrounded it on all sides, but through the vistas of dark stems the beautiful green plain and glassy lake could be seen stretching into an undefined distance.The blue hills, apparently springing from the bosom of the lake, lined the horizon, and the shadowy forms of the Kandian mountains mingled indistinctly with the distant clouds.From this spot, with a good telescope, I could watch the greater part of the plain, which was at this time enlivened by the numerous herds of wild buffaloes scattered over the surface.A large bull was standing alone about half a mile from the tent, and I thought him a fine beast to begin with.
I started with two well-known and trusty gun-bearers.This bull apparently did not wish to fight, and when at nearly 400 yards' distance he turned and galloped off.I put up all the sights of the long two-ounce rifle, and for an instant he dropped to the shot at this distance, but recovering immediately he turned round, and, although upon only three legs, he charged towards me.At this distance I should have had ample time to reload before he could have come near me, so I took a quiet shot at him.with my four-ounce rifle.A second passed, and he pitched upon his head and lay upon the ground, struggling in vain to rise.This was an immensely long shot to produce so immediate an effect so reloading quickly I stepped the distance.I measured 352 paces, and Ithen stood within ten yards of him, as he still lay upon the ground, endeavouring vainly to rush at me.A ball in his head settled him.The first shot had broken his hind leg--and the shot with the big rifle had hit him on the nose, and, tearing away the upper jaw, it had passed along his neck and escaped from behind his shoulder.This was a great chance to hit him so exactly at such a range.His skull is now in England, exhibiting the terrific effect of the heavy ball.
I had made up my mind for a long day's work, and I therefore mounted my horse and rode over the plain.The buffaloes were very wild, as I had been shooting here for some days, and there were no less than forty-two carcasses scattered about the plain in different directions.I fired several ineffectual shots at immense ranges; at length I even fired at random into a large herd, which seemed determined to take to the jungle.
After they had galloped for a quarter of a mile, a cow dropped to the rear and presently fell.Upon riding up to her I found her in the last gasp; the random shot had struck her behind the shoulder, and I finished her by a ball in the head.One of the bulls from this herd had separated from the troop, and had taken to the lake; he had waded out for about 400 yards, and was standing shoulder-deep.This was a fine target; a black spot upon the bright surface of the lake, although there was not more than eighteen inches of his body above the water.I rode to the very edge of the lake, and then dismounting I took a rest upon my saddle.My horse, being well accustomed to this work, stood like a statue, but the ball dapped in the water just beyond the mark.The buffalo did not move an inch until the third shot.This hit him, and he swam still farther off; but he soon got his footing, and again gave a fair mark as before.I missed him again, having fired a little over him.
