He seemed cut nearly in half; a wound fourteen inches in length from the lower part of the belly passed up his flank, completely severing the muscle of the hind leg, and extending up to the spine.His hind leg had the appearance of being nearly off, and he dragged it after him in its powerless state, and, with a fierce bark, he rushed upon three legs once more to the fight.Advancing to within six feet of the boar, I could not even see him, both he and the dogs were so perfectly concealed by the thick underwood.Suddenly the boar charged.I jumped upon a small rock and hoped for a shot, but although he came within three feet of the rifle, I could neither see him nor could he see me.Had it not been for the fear of killing the dogs, I would have fired where the bushes were moving, but as it was I could do nothing.A rifle was useless in such jungle.At length the boar broke his bay, but again resumed it in a similar secure position.There was no possibility of assisting the dogs, and he was cutting up the pack in detail.If Lucifer and Lena had been there we could have killed him, but without seizers we were helpless in such jungle.
This lasted for an hour, at the expiration of which we managed to call the dogs off.Old Smut had stuck to him to the last, in spite of his disabled state.The old dog, perfectly exhausted, crawled out of the jungle : he had received several additional wounds, including a severe gash in his throat.He fell from exhaustion, and we made a litter with two poles and a horsecloth to carry him home.Bran, Merriman, and Ploughboy were all severely wounded.We were thoroughly beaten.It was the first time that we had ever been beaten off, and I trust it may be the last.We returned home with our vanquished and bleeding pack--Smut borne in his litter by four men--and we arrived at the kennel a melancholy procession.The pack was disabled for weeks, as the two leading hounds, Merriman and Ploughboy, were severely injured.
Poor old Smut lingered for a few days and died.Thus closed his glorious career of sport, and he left a fame behind him which will never be forgotten.His son, who is now twelve months old, is the facsimile of his sire, and often recalls the recollection of the old dog.I hope he may turn out as good. (Killed four months afterwards by a buck elk.)Misfortunes never come alone.A few weeks after Smut's death, Lizzie, an excellent bitch, was killed by a leopard, who wounded Merriman in the throat, but he being a powerful dog, beat him off and escaped.Merriman had not long recovered from his wound, when he came to a lamentable and diabolical end.
On December 24, 1852, we found a buck in the jungles by the Badulla road.The dead nillho so retarded the pack that the elk got a long start of the dogs; and stealing down a stream he broke cover, crossed the Badulla road, ascended the opposite hills, and took to the jungle before a single hound appeared upon the patina.At length Merriman came bounding along upon his track, full a hundred yards in advance of the pack.In a few minutes every dog had disappeared in the opposite jungle on the elk's path.
This was a part of the country where we invariably lost the dogs, as they took away across a vast jungle country towards a large and rapid river situated among stupendous precipices.I had often endeavoured to find the dogs in this part, but to no purpose; this day, however, I was determined to follow them if possible.I made a circuit of about twenty miles down into the low countries, and again ascending through precipitous jungles, I returned home in the evening, having only recovered two dogs, which I found on the other side of the range of mountains, over which the buck had passed.No pen can describe the beauty of the scenery in this part of the country, but it is the most frightful locality for hunting that can be imagined.The high lands suddenly cease; a splendid panoramic view of the low country extends for thirty miles before the eye; but to descend to this, precipices of immense depth must be passed; and from a deep gorge in the mountain, the large river, after a succession of falls, leaps in one vast plunge of three hundred feet into the abyss below.This is a stupendous cataract, about a mile below the foot of which is the village of Perewelle.Ipassed close to the village, and, having ascended the steep sides of the mountain, I spent hours in searching for the pack, but the roaring of the river and the din of the waterfalls would have drowned the cry of a hundred hounds.Once, and only once, when halfway up the side of the mountain, I thought I heard the deep bay of a hound in the river below;then I heard the shout of a native; but the sound was not repeated, and I thought it might proceed from the villagers driving their buffaloes.Ipassed on my arduous path, little thinking of the tragic fate which at that moment attended poor Merriman.
