Driver Ants

DARKNESS came on suddenly, as it always does in the tropics, and the forests were alive with millions of night things which sing and fly and crawl and sting. I left the house, gun in hand, at about eight o’clock and took the path to my tree, in which I had built a platform where I expected to spend the night. The natives had reported that a herd of bush cows were in the habit of passing there every night. I hoped to get at least one, for the moon was full and I could see almost as well as in broad daylight.

I stood still in the path, listening, and remained thus for a full minute or more. So intent was my mind upon the bush cows which might appear at any moment that I had no thought for anything else until I suddenly became aware that something was wrong. In fact, I was now painfully conscious of it, for the whole surface of my body was covered with crawling things which stung me unmercifully. I had been standing squarely upon the line of march of an army of driver ants!

These creatures eat only living things, and they were doubtless delighted to find a banquet so near at hand. In the brief space of one minute the column had advanced up my trouser legs and had reached my head. What was I to do? In double-quick time I climbed up into the tree, tore off my clothing, and began scraping my body with my hands to remove the thousands of little pin-prickers that were making me frantic. When I had finished and the last one had been routed, I had a moment to reflect upon how ridiculous I looked — a missionary sitting up in a tree completely naked, picking off little things like a monkey in the zoo, I was reminded, too, of the time the drivers ate our own pet monkey because there was no tree in which he could take refuge.

Now driver ants are interesting little pests. Much has been written about them. I have often stopped to study a dark, snakelike line about an inch wide — restless millions of little ants all going the same way. So eager are they to arrive at their destination that they are impolite enough to walk on one another. They make me think of people in a panic at a fire when a courteous bow and ‘ après vous’ are exchanged for ‘over you’ with the bow omitted. I confess that my enthusiasm has sometimes led me to step too close to the line. Then I have been warned, by one of the scouts which ran up my leg and gave me a series of sharp nips, that I must retreat at once. So I have a profound respect for every one of these little fellows.

They are well-disciplined soldiers, possessing what would seem to be a high degree of intelligence. They march in perfect formation along a line which never exceeds an inch or an inch and a half in width. When they receive the order to break ranks, they scatter over every inch of territory in the neighborhood and devour every living thing in their path. When the order issues to reassemble, they come together like tributaries flowing into a main stream, and go upon their mysterious way. There are large scouts outside the line to keep the common soldiers in order and watch out for enemies. They run back and forth along the column giving each ant a hug, a handshake, a clout on the ear, or a punch on the jaw — I never have been able to determine which. If you disturb the line, these scouts will stick their heads up at you and show fight, at the same time making a slight hissing noise that sounds like exhaling breath. They appear to be either saying their prayers or feeling out for possible dangers.

The drivers live in the ground, but when they move from place to place they travel for a certain distance underground and then ascend to the surface, proceeding several hundred yards before descending again. One may see a black line of them on the path to-day and go back two days or even a week later and find the same line marching in the same direction, like a river fed by springs whose waters never run dry. Where do they come from, and where are they going?

The queen driver lives in a house made of ant cement which is about the size of one’s two fists. She is a huge, ungainly creature as large around as one’s forefinger and an inch and a half in length. When the colony moves, she is carried aloft by the workers. On such occasions the scouts that form the royal bodyguard assemble in large numbers and scatter farther than usual from the line of march to protect the queen upon whom the future of their race depends. The African natives believe that a man who can capture a queen driver will enjoy good fortune and soon become rich and prosperous.

The drivers are so called because they drive away or devour all insects and small animals. Even the large animals, however, have learned to fear these restless armies of ants. Elephants, for example, are more afraid of drivers than of any other living thing in the forests. A leopard or a bush cow will give an elephant the right of way, but drivers will hold him up for ransom. If the ants get in his trunk, an elephant will go mad with rage and pain, for he is powerless to shake them off.

Our former house in the Cameroon, where we lived for four years, was built on poles set in the ground. The walls were made of bark and the roof was thatched. This rude dwelling sheltered not only ourselves but myriads of cockroaches and scorpions. One evening, however, we were happy to have all the vermin destroyed as if by magic. We were sitting around the table reading when we noticed that the walls and roof had become alive with cockroaches and scorpions. They were on the run just as if they had been frightened. In their flight they made rustling noises like the patter of rain upon the thatch. What could it mean? We were soon enlightened. We felt pricking pains about our shoe tops. The drivers had arrived! They took complete possession of the house. We were forced out and had to spend the night with neighbors.

In the morning, eager to learn what had happened, we found that the ants had departed, but the wings of cockroaches and the remains of scorpions were scattered all over the floor to tell a tale of wholesale slaughter. The drivers had done their job thoroughly. It was a long time before we were again bothered by scorpions and roaches. Because they are such perfect exterminators of other insects, some people I have known have actually tried to coax the drivers into their houses.

They are afraid of fire and water. At one time we were camping in a native hut. The babies had been put to bed and my wife and I were having our supper served out under the African moon. Suddenly one of our native boys came running to us shouting that driver ants were surrounding the hut where the babies were sleeping. We summoned all our forces and made a barrage of fire around the place. The ants retreated in a hurry, and we were left to go to bed in perfect security.

On another occasion we were at the station and were awakened in the middle of the night by our guest, who seemed to be stamping about in his room. He had been attacked by drivers. I quickly filled four tins with water and set each bedpost in one of them. Our guest was then able to go back to sleep, even while the floor and walls were swarming with the murderous ants that could not cross the moat to get at their victim.

One day I was sitting under an old roof watching a column of drivers as they marched across the ceiling. In one spot they clustered together, clinging to one another’s bodies, until they hung suspended like a bunch of grapes. A shower of rain came up, and to my astonishment the cluster moved off out of the drip and re-formed under the roof in a dry spot.

The natives have told us about women who have been tied and placed in the path of driver ants, to be left there until all the flesh was eaten from their bones. Horrifying as such tales are, we could not realize the full degree of terror which drivers inspire in helpless creatures until we had a very narrow escape from them ourselves. One evening we had put the babies to bed and had gone out for a short visit at a neighbor’s house. We had been away hardly half an hour when we returned to discover that the drivers had come through the floor. One of the babies was black with them and was writhing in an agony of pain. We did the first thing we could think of; we filled a basin with water, put in some carbolic acid, and dipped the baby in it. The drivers let go, and the baby soon recovered, none the worse for the experience. But even now I shudder when I think that we might have delayed our return just a little longer — and been too late.