day, the approach of which so well served the Strangler’s designs upon
Djalma, has succeeded a calm and serene night. The disk of the moon
rises slowly behind a mass of lofty ruins, situated on a hill, in the
midst of a thick wood, about three leagues from Batavia.
Long ranges of stone, high walls of brick, fretted away by time,
porticoes covered with parasitical vegetation, stand out boldly from the
sheet of silver light which blends the horizon with the limpid blue of
the heavens. Some rays of the moon, gliding through the opening on one
of these porticoes, fall upon two colossal statues at the foot of
an immense staircase, the loose stones of which are almost entirely
concealed by grass, moss, and brambles.
The fragments of one of these statues, broken in the middle, lie
strewed upon the ground; the other, which remains whole and standing, is
frightful to behold. It represents a man of gigantic proportions, with
a head three feet high; the expression of the countenance is ferocious,
eyes of brilliant slaty black are set beneath gray brows, the large,
deep mouth gapes immoderately, and reptiles have made their nest between
the lips of stone; by the light of the moon, a hideous swarm is
there dimly visible. A broad girdle, adorned with symbolic ornaments,
encircles the body of this statue, and fastens a long sword to its right
side. The giant has four extended arms, and, in his great hands, he
bears an elephant’s head, a twisted serpent, a human skull, and a bird
resembling a heron. The moon, shedding her light on the profile of this
statue, serves to augment the weirdness of its aspect.
Here and there, enclosed in the half-crumbling walls of brick, are
fragments of stone bas-reliefs, very boldly cut; one of those in the
best preservation represents a man with the head of an elephant, and the
wings of a bat, devouring a child. Nothing can be more gloomy than these
ruins, buried among thick trees of a dark green, covered with frightful
emblems, and seen by the moonlight, in the midst of the deep silence of
night.
Against one of the walls of this ancient temple, dedicated to some
mysterious and bloody Javanese divinity, leans a kind of hut, rudely
constructed of fragments of brick and stone; the door, made of woven
rushes, is open, and a red light streams from it, which throws its rays
on the tall grass that covers the ground. Three men are assembled in
this hovel, around a clay-lamp, with a wick of cocoanut fibre steeped in
palm-oil.
The first of these three, about forty years of age, is poorly clad in
the European fashion; his pale, almost white, complexion, announces
that he belongs to the mixed race, being offspring of a white father and
Indian mother.
The second is a robust African negro, with thick lips, vigorous
shoulders, and lank legs; his woolly hair is beginning to turn gray;
he is covered with rags, and stands close beside the Indian. The third
personage is asleep, and stretched on a mat in the corner of the hovel.
These three men are the three Thuggee chiefs, who, obliged to fly from
the continent of India, have taken refuge in Java, under the guidance of
Mahal the Smuggler.
“The Malay does not return,” said the half-blood, named Faringhea, the
most redoubtable chief of this homicidal sect: “in executing our orders,
he has perhaps been killed by Djalma.”
“The storm of this morning brought every reptile out of the earth,” said
the negro; “the Malay must have been bitten, and his body ere now a nest
of serpents.”
“To serve the good work,” proceeded Faringhea, with a gloomy air, “one
must know how to brave death.”
“And to inflict it,” added the negro.
A stifled cry, followed by some inarticulate words, here drew the
attention of these two men, who hastily turned their heads in the
direction of the sleeper. This latter was thirty years old at most. His
beardless face, of a bright copper color, his robe of coarse stuff, his
turban striped brown and yellow, showed that he belonged to the pure
Hindoo race. His sleep appeared agitated by some painful vision; an
abundant sweat streamed over his countenance, contracted by terror; he
spoke in his dream, but his words were brief and broken, and accompanied
with convulsive starts.
“Again that dream!” said Faringhea to the negro. “Always the remembrance
of that man.”
“What man?”
“Do you not remember, how, five years ago, that savage, Colonel Kennedy,
butcher of the Indians, came to the banks of the Ganges, to hunt the
tiger, with twenty horses, four elephants, and fifty servants?”
“Yes, yes,” said the negro; “and we three, hunters of men, made a better
day’s sport than he did. Kennedy, his horses, his elephants, and his
numerous servants did not get their tiger--but we got ours,” he added,
with grim irony. “Yes; Kennedy, that tiger with a human face, fell into
our ambush, and the brothers of the good work offered up their fine prey
to our goddess Bowanee.”
“If you remember, it was just at the moment when we gave the last tug to
the cord round Kennedy’s neck, that we perceived on a sudden a traveller
close at hand. He had seen us, and it was necessary to make away with
him. Now, since that time,” added Faringhea, “the remembrance of the
murder of that man pursues our brother in his dreams,” and he pointed to
the sleeping Indian.
“And even when he is awake,” said the negro, looking at Faringhea with a
significant air.
“Listen!” said the other, again pointing to the Indian, who, in the
agitation of his dream, recommenced talking in abrupt sentences;
“listen! he is repeating the answers of the traveller, when we told
him he must die, or serve with us on Thuggee. His mind is still
impressed--deeply impressed--with those words.”
And, in fact, the Indian repeated aloud in his sleep, a sort of
mysterious dialogue, of which he himself supplied both questions and
answers.
“‘Traveller,’ said he, in a voice broken by sudden pauses, ‘why that
black mark on your forehead, stretching from one temple to the other? It
is a mark of doom and your look is sad as death. Have you been a victim?
Come with us; Kallee will avenge you. You have suffered?’--‘Yes, I
have greatly suffered.’--‘For a long time?’--‘Yes, for a very long
time.’--‘You suffer even now?’--‘Yes, even now.’--What do you reserve
for those who injure you?’--‘My pity.’--‘Will you not render blow for
blow?’--‘I will return love for hate.’--‘Who are you, then, that render
good for evil?’--‘I am one who loves, and suffers, and forgives.’”
“Brother, do you hear?” said the negro to Faringhea; “he has not
forgotten the words of the traveller before his death.”
“The vision follows him. Listen! he will speak again. How pale he is!”
Still under the influence of his dream, the Indian continued:
“‘Traveller, we are three; we are brave; we have your life in our
hands--you have seen us sacrifice to the good work. Be one of us, or
die--die--die! Oh, that look! Not thus--do not look at me thus!’” As he
uttered these last words, the Indian made a sudden movement, as if to
keep off some approaching object, and awoke with a start. Then, passing
his hand over his moist forehead, he looked round him with a bewildered
eye.
“What! again this dream, brother?” said Faringhea. “For a bold hunter of
men, you have a weak head. Luckily, you have a strong heart and arm.”
The other remained a moment silent, his face buried in his hands; then
he replied: “It is long since I last dreamed of that traveller.”
“Is he not dead?” said Faringhea, shrugging his shoulders. “Did you not
yourself throw the cord around his neck?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian shuddering.
“Did we not dig his grave by the side of Colonel Kennedy’s? Did we not
bury him with the English butcher, under the sand and the rushes?” said
the negro.
“Yes, we dug his grave,” said the Indian, trembling; “and yet, only a
year ago, I was seated one evening at the gate of Bombay, waiting for
one of our brothers--the sun was setting behind the pagoda, to the right
of the little hill--the scene is all before me now--I was seated under a
figtree--when I heard a slow, firm, even step, and, as I turned round my
head--I saw him--coming out of the town.”
“A vision,” said the negro; “always the same vision!”
“A vision,” added Faringhea, “or a vague resemblance.”
“I knew him by the black mark on his forehead; it was none but he.
I remained motionless with fear, gazing at him with eyes aghast. He
stopped, bending upon me his calm, sad look. In spite of myself, I
could not help exclaiming: ‘It is he!’--‘Yes,’ he replied, in his gentle
voice, ‘it is I. Since all whom thou killest must needs live again,’ and
he pointed to heaven as he spoke, ‘why shouldst thou kill?--Hear me! I
have just come from Java; I am going to the other end of the world, to a
country of never-melting snow; but, here or there, on plains of fire or
plains of ice, I shall still be the same. Even so is it with the souls
of those who fall beneath thy kalleepra; in this world or up above, in
this garb or in another, the soul must still be a soul; thou canst not
smite it. Why then kill?’--and shaking his head sorrowfully, he went on
his way, walking slowly, with downcast eyes; he ascended the hill of
the pagoda; I watched him as he went, without being able to move: at the
moment the sun set, he was standing on the summit of the hill, his tall
figure thrown out against the sky--and so he disappeared. Oh! it was
he!” added the Indian with a shudder, after a long pause: “it was none
but he.”
In this story the Indian had never varied, though he had often
entertained his companions with the same mysterious adventure. This
persistency on his part had the effect of shaking their incredulity, or
at least of inducing them to seek some natural cause for this apparently
superhuman event.
“Perhaps,” said Faringhea, after a moment’s reflection, “the knot round
the traveller’s neck got jammed, and some breath was left him, the air
may have penetrated the rushes with which we covered his grave, and so
life have returned to him.”
“No, no,” said the Indian, shaking his head, “this man is not of our
race.”
“Explain.”
“Now I know it!”
“What do you know?”
“Listen!” said the Indian, in a solemn voice; “the number of victims
that the children of Bowanee have sacrificed since the commencement of
ages, is nothing compared to the immense heap of dead and dying, whom
this terrible traveller leaves behind him in his murderous march.”
“He?” cried the negro and Faringhea.
“Yes, he!” repeated the Hindoo, with a convinced accent, that made its
impression upon his companions. “Hear me and tremble!--When I met this
traveller at the gates of Bombay, he came from Java, and was going
towards the north, he said. The very next day, the town was a prey to
the cholera, and we learned sometime after, that this plague had first
broken out here, in Java.”
“That is true,” said the negro.
“Hear me still further!” resumed the other. “‘I am going towards the
north, to a country of eternal snow,’ said the traveller to me.
The cholera also went towards the north, passing through
Muscat--Ispahan--Tauris--Tiflis--till it overwhelmed Siberia.”
“True,” said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful:
“And the cholera,” resumed the Indian, “only travelled its five or six
leagues a day--a man’s tramp--never appeared in two places at once--but
swept on slowly, steadily,--even as a man proceeds.”
At the mention of this strange coincidence, the Hindoo’s companions
looked at each other in amazement. After a silence of some minutes,
the awe-struck negro said to the last speaker: “So you think that this
man--”
“I think that this man, whom we killed, restored to life by some
infernal divinity, has been commissioned to bear this terrible scourge
over the earth, and to scatter round his steps that death, from which he
is himself secure. Remember!” added the Indian, with gloomy enthusiasm,
“this awful wayfarer passed through Java--the cholera wasted Java. He
passed through Bombay--the cholera wasted Bombay. He went towards the
north--the cholera wasted the north.”
So saying, the Indian fell into a profound reverie. The negro and
Faringhea were seized with gloomy astonishment.
The Indian spoke the truth as to the mysterious march (still
unexplained) of that fearful malady, which has never been known to
travel more than five or six leagues a day, or to appear simultaneously
in two spots. Nothing can be more curious, than to trace out, on the
maps prepared at the period in question, the slow, progressive course of
this travelling pestilence, which offers to the astonished eye all the
capricious incidents of a tourist’s journey. Passing this way rather
than that--selecting provinces in a country--towns in a province--one
quarter in a town--one street in a quarter--one house in a
street--having its place of residence and repose, and then continuing
its slow, mysterious, fear inspiring march.
The words of the Hindoo, by drawing attention to these dreadful
eccentricities, made a strong impression upon the minds of the negro and
Faringhea--wild natures, brought by horrible doctrines to the monomania
of murder.
Yes--for this also is an established fact--there have been in India
members of an abominable community, who killed without motive, without
passion--killed for the sake of killing--for the pleasure of murder--to
substitute death for life--to make of a living man a corpse, as they
have themselves declared in one of their examinations.
The mind loses itself in the attempt to penetrate the causes of these
monstrous phenomena. By what incredible series of events, have men been
induced to devote themselves to this priesthood of destruction? Without
doubt, such a religion could only flourish in countries given up, like
India, to the most atrocious slavery, and to the most merciless iniquity
of man to man.
Such a creed!--is it not the hate of exasperated humanity, wound up to
its highest pitch by oppression?--May not this homicidal sect, whose
origin is lost in the night of ages, have been perpetuated in these
regions, as the only possible protest of slavery against despotism? May
not an inscrutable wisdom have here made Phansegars, even as are made
tigers and serpents?
What is most remarkable in this awful sect, is the mysterious bond,
which, uniting its members amongst themselves, separates them from all
other men. They have laws and customs of their own, they support and
help each other, but for them there is neither country nor family; they
owe no allegiance save to a dark, invisible power, whose decrees they
obey with blind submission, and in whose name they spread themselves
abroad, to make corpses, according to their own savage expression.(6)
For some moments the three Stranglers had maintained a profound silence.
Outside the hut, the moon continued to throw great masses of white
radiance, and tall bluish shadows, over the imposing fabric of the
ruins; the stars sparkled in the heavens; from time to time, a faint
breeze rustled through the thick and varnished leaves of the bananas and
the palms.
The pedestal of the gigantic statue, which, still entire, stood on the
left side of the portico, rested upon large flagstones, half hidden with
brambles. Suddenly, one of these stones appeared to fall in; and from
the aperture, which thus formed itself without noise, a man, dressed
in uniform, half protruded his body, looked carefully around him, and
listened.
Seeing the rays of the lamp, which lighted the interior of the hovel,
tremble upon the tall grass, he turned round to make a signal, and
soon, accompanied by two other soldiers, he ascended, with the greatest
silence and precaution, the last steps of the subterranean staircase,
and went gliding amongst the ruins. For a few moments, their moving
shadows were thrown upon the moonlit ground; then they disappeared
behind some fragments of broken wall.
At the instant when the large stone resumed its place and level, the
heads of many other soldiers might have been seen lying close in the
excavation. The half-caste, the Indian, and the negro, still seated
thoughtfully in the hut, did not perceive what was passing.
(6) The following are some passages from the Count de Warren’s very
curious book, “British India in 1831:” “Besides the robbers, who kill
for the sake of the booty they hope to find upon travellers, there is a
class of assassins, forming an organized society, with chiefs of their
own, a slang-language, a science, a free-masonry, and even a religion,
which has its fanaticism and its devotion, its agents, emissaries,
allies, its militant forces, and its passive adherents, who contribute
their money to the good work. This is the community of the Thugs or
Phansegars (deceivers or stranglers, from thugna, to deceive, and
phansna, to strangle), a religious and economical society, which
speculates with the human race by exterminating men; its origin is lost
in the night of ages.
“Until 1810 their existence was unknown, not only to the European
conquerors, but even to the native governments. Between the years 1816
and 1830, several of their bands were taken in the act, and punished:
but until this last epoch, all the revelations made on the subject by
officers of great experience, had appeared too monstrous to obtain the
attention or belief of the public; they had been rejected and despised
as the dreams of a heated imagination. And yet for many years, at the
very least for half a century, this social wound had been frightfully
on the increase, devouring the population from the Himalayas to Cape
Comorin and from Cutch to Assam.
“It was in the year 1830 that the revelations of a celebrated chief,
whose life was spared on condition of his denouncing his accomplices,
laid bare the whole system. The basis of the Thuggee Society is a
religious belief--the worship of Bowanee, a gloomy divinity, who is only
pleased with carnage, and detests above all things the human race. Her
most agreeable sacrifices are human victims, and the more of these
her disciple may have offered up in this world the more he will be
recompensed in the next by all the delights of soul and sense, by women
always beautiful, and joys eternally renewed. If the assassin meets the
scaffold in his career, he dies with the enthusiasm of a martyr, because
he expects his reward. To obey his divine mistress, he murders, without
anger and without remorse, the old man, woman and child; whilst, to his
fellow-religionists, he may be charitable, humane, generous, devoted,
and may share all in common with them, because, like himself, they are
the ministers and adopted children of Bowanee. The destruction of his
fellow-creatures, not belonging to his community--the diminution of the
human race--that is the primary object of his pursuit; it is not as a
means of gain, for though plunder may be a frequent, and doubtless an
agreeable accessory, it is only secondary in his estimation. Destruction
is his end, his celestial mission, his calling; it is also a delicious
passion, the most captivating of all sports--this hunting of men!--‘You
find great pleasure,’ said one of those that were condemned, ‘in
tracking the wild beast to his den, in attacking the boar, the tiger,
because there is danger to brave, energy and courage to display. Think
how this attraction must be redoubled, when the contest is with man,
when it is man that is to be destroyed. Instead of the single faculty
of courage, all must be called into action--courage, cunning, foresight,
eloquence, intrigue. What springs to put in motion! what plans to
develop! To sport with all the passions, to touch the chords of love
and friendship, and so draw the prey into one’s net--that is a glorious
chase--it is a delight, a rapture, I tell you!’
“Whoever was in India in the years 1831 and 1832, must remember the
stupor and affright, which the discovery of this vast infernal machine
spread through all classes of society. A great number of magistrates and
administrators of provinces refused to believe in it, and could not be
brought to comprehend that such a system had so long preyed on the body
politic, under their eyes as it were, silently, and without betraying
itself.”--See “British India in 183,” by Count Edward de Warren, 2 vols.
in 8vo. Paris, 1844.--E. S.