CHAPTER I.

JUNGLE TALES

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“Mrs. Croker has already achieved a secure foothold in that temple of

Anglo-Indian fiction whereof Mr. Rudyard Kipling is the high-priest.

Her tales have a freshness and piquancy that are all their own....

So long as the author of ‘Diana Barrington’ can produce works of the

quality of ‘Village Tales and Jungle Tragedies,’ she will assuredly not

lack an audience.”--_Athenæum._

“These tales are really original and excellent work. Mrs. Croker knows

her India minutely, and proves her knowledge by a thousand delicate

touches.”--_Woman._

“Mrs. Croker writes of India as one knowing it well, and with deep

sympathy for the people among whom her time was spent, for the village

sorrows and tragedies she was able to share. And in a considerable

measure she succeeds in bringing home to readers at home the daily life

of the East.”--_Glasgow Herald._

“The stories are all written from a peculiar knowledge of the life

they describe, and with a lively eye directed to its picturesqueness.

They make an interesting and entertaining book, which will be heartily

enjoyed by every one who reads it.”--_Scotsman._

“The magician’s car of fiction next transports us to India, the

magician being that very competent and attractive writer Mrs. B. M.

Croker. Her ‘Village Tales’ are so good that they bracket her, in our

judgment, with Mrs. F. A. Steel in comprehension of native Indian life

and character.”--_Times._

“Mrs. Croker makes the tales interesting and attractive, and her ready

sympathy with the Indian people, whom we are gradually coming to know

through the interpretation of some of our very best writers, strikes

the reader afresh in this volume.”--_World._

“Mrs. Croker shows once more a pretty talent, and her volume is

replete with sentiment and romance. Her animal stories are really

touching.”--_Globe._

“Mrs. Croker’s volume is bright and readable. She has done good work

already in other fields; one expects a story of hers to be at any rate

pleasant reading. These Indian tales are no exception.”--_North British

Mail._

“Mrs. Croker’s stories show her grasp of Indian character, and her

realisation of the nameless charm which casts its glamour over the

East and its peoples.... ‘Two Little Travellers,’ the last story, is

exquisitely pathetic.”--_Star._

“The stories are among the best of their kind. The author knows equally

well how to write of Anglo-Indian or purely native life.”--_Morning

Post._

“Mrs. Croker, who knows India exceptionally well, and is a practised

writer, has handled this variety of subjects in a spirited and

entertaining style.”--_Literary World._

“A prettily got-up book containing seven Indian tales, well told,

with abundant evidence of a thorough knowledge of the country and its

people.... There is not a dull line in the book, and in its perusal the

desire for more keeps growing, even to the end of the last beautiful

tale of Indian life.”--_Asiatic Quarterly Review._

“Mrs. Croker’s seven little tales of native India are such very quick

and easy reading that many persons will probably overlook the skill

to which the result is due. The authoress evidently knows both what a

short story ought to be, and how to make one.”--_Graphic._

“Brilliant pictures of Indian life and manners. Mrs. Croker possesses

the pen of a ready writer united to the imagination of a true

artist.”--_Liberal._

“The tales are simple in themselves and plainly told, with an

unmistakable atmosphere of truth and reality about them.”--_Guardian._

“The quality of Mrs. Croker’s work is at this time sufficiently well

known, and it is enough to say that in her last volume are to be found

all those qualities which have secured for its predecessors a welcome

at the hands of the public.”--_Tablet._

[Illustration: HER BLACK EYES BLAZED WITH EXCITEMENT.]

JUNGLE TALES

BY B. M. CROKER

_Author of_

‘_Pretty Miss Neville_,’

‘_Diana Barrington_,’

‘_The Spanish Necklace_,’

‘_In Old Madras_,’

_etc._

A NEW IMPRESSION WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY JOHN CHARLTON

LONDON HOLDEN & HARDINGHAM 1913

“Ah! what a warning for thoughtless man,

Could field or grove, could any spot of earth,

Show to his eye an image of the pangs

Which it hath witnessed!”

Wordsworth.

THESE TALES ARE INSCRIBED

TO

OLD FRIENDS

IN THE CENTRAL AND NORTH-WEST PROVINCES

IN MEMORY OF

MANY PLEASANT HOURS IN CAMP AND CANTONMENT.

B. M. C.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

A Free-Will Offering 1

“The Missus.” A Dog Tragedy 37

The Betrayal of Shere Bahadur 63

“Proven or not Proven?” The True Story of Naim Sing, Rajpoot 96

An Outcast of the People 124

An Appeal to the Gods 146

Two Little Travellers 166

VILLAGE TALES

AND

JUNGLE TRAGEDIES.

A FREE-WILL OFFERING.

“Kismiss,” as the natives call it, is anything but a jovial and merry

season to me, and I heartily sympathize with those prudent souls who

flee from the station or cantonment, and bury themselves afar off

in the jungle, until the festive season has been succeeded by the

practical New Year! Christmas in India is an expensive anniversary to

a needy subaltern such as I am. Putting aside the necessary tips to

the mess-servants, the letter-corporal, and colour-sergeant, I have my

own retinue (about ten in number), who overwhelm me with wreaths and

flowers culled from my garden, and who expect, in return, solid rupees

of the realm. This is reasonable enough; but it passes the limits of

reason and patience when other peopled body-servants, peons, syces,

and all the barrack dhobies, and every “dog” boy in the station, lie

in ambush in order to thrust evil-smelling marigolds under my nose,

with expectant salaams! Last Christmas cost me nearly the price of a

pony--this Christmas, I resolved to fly betimes with my house-mate,

Jones of the D.P.W. We would put in for a week’s leave, and eat our

plum-pudding at least sixty miles from Kori.

Alas! my thrifty little scheme was knocked on the head by a letter

from my cousin Algy Langley. He is the eldest son of an eldest son;

I am the younger son of a second son: and whereas I am a sub. in an

infantry regiment, grilling on the plains of India, and working for my

daily bread, Algy has run out for one cold weather, merely in search of

variety and amusement.

“Why on earth should relations think it necessary to meet on one

particular day, in order to eat a tasteless bird and an indigestible

pudding?”

I put this question to Jones, as we sat in our mutual verandah, opening

the midday dâk.

“Just look at this; it’s a beastly nuisance!” and I handed him Algy’s

note, which said--

“Dear old Perky (my Christian name is Perkin),--This is to give notice

that I am coming to eat my Christmas dinner with you. I arrive on the

21st, per mail train.--Yours,

“A. Langley.”

“What is your cousin like?” inquired Jones.

“Oh, a regular young London swell, who has never roughed it in his

life. I suppose I shall have to turn out of my room,” I grumbled; “and

I must borrow Robinson’s bamboo cart to meet him, for I believe he

would faint if I put him in a bullock tonga at first--he must arrive at

that by degrees!”

“Is there no chance of our getting off to Karwassa? Wouldn’t he come

and have a try for the man-eater?” urged Jones.

“Not he!” I rejoined emphatically; “he is a lady-killer--that is his

only kind of sport. I’m glad I have not put in for my leave; you and I

will go later--the tiger will wait.”

“Yes, he has waited a good while,” retorted Jones, sarcastically;

“nearly three years, and about a dozen shikar parties have been got up

for his destruction, and still he keeps his skin! But, somehow, I have

a presentiment that _we_ shall get him.”

* * * * *

The next day Jones and I met Algy at the station. He had brought three

servants, a pile of luggage, and looked quite beautiful as he stepped

out on the platform, wearing a creaseless suit, Russia-leather boots,

gloves, and a white gauze veil to keep off the dust. His handkerchief

was suggestive of the most “up-to-date” delicate scent, as he passed

it languidly over his forehead, and gave directions to have his late

compartment cleared.

As books, an ice-box, fruit, a fan, cushions, and a banjo, were handed

out one by one, I gathered, from Jones’s expressive glance, that he

granted that my cousin was a hopeless subject for the jungle.

“Well, Perky,” he said, slapping me on the back, “I’ve got everything

now--what are you waiting for?”

“Your lady’s-maid,” I promptly answered, as I nodded at the banjo,

pillows, and fan.

“I like to be comfortable,” he confessed. “One may as well take one’s

ease as not; it has an excellent and soothing effect on the temper.”

But I noticed that he caught sight of Jones’s grin, and coloured

deeply--whether with rage or shame, I could not guess. As I drove my

guest up to our lines, I secretly marvelled as to what had brought him

to our little Mofussil station, a two days’ railway journey through

the flattest, ugliest country. He had been staying at Government

House, Calcutta, at various splendid Residencies, and had had every

opportunity of seeing India from the most commanding and luxurious

point of view. Why had he sought _me_ out?

Later on, as we sprawled in long chairs in my portico overlooking a

sun-baked compound,--with a view chiefly consisting of the back of my

neighbour’s stables, and Jones’s little brown bear, mowing and moping,

under a scraggy mango tree,--I put the inevitable question:

“Well, Algy, what do you think of India?”

“Not much,” he answered. “It is not a bit like what I have expected:

it is not as Eastern as Egypt. The scenery that I have seen consists

of bushes, boulders, and terra-cotta plains. I don’t care about ruins

and buildings; what I want to come at are the people and customs of the

land--so far, it’s all England, not India: England at the sea-side,

dressing, dancing, racing, flirting; clothes are thinner, manners are

easier; but it’s England--England--England!”

I did what I could for him. I took him to a garden-party, to call on

the beauty of the station, to write his name in the general’s book,

to mess, to a soldier’s sing-song; and still he was discontented. He

had been faintly amused with our “pot” gardens and trotting bullocks;

nevertheless, he continued to grumble in this style--

“Your band plays the last new coster song, your ladies believe that

they wear the latest fashions, your men read the latest news not two

days old, your servants speak English and speak it fluently. Your

butler plays the fiddle, and he told me this morning that my banjo was

‘awfully nice.’ I desire that you will introduce me (if you can) to

India without European clothes--stripped and naked. I want to get below

the surface, below officialdom, and general orders, and precedence;

scrape the skin, and show me Hindostan.”

“Show me something out of the common.” This was his querulous

parrot-cry.

“Would you care to come out into the jungle sixty miles away,” I

ventured, “to a place that has no English attributes, and help to shoot

a notorious man-eating tiger? There is a reward of five hundred rupees

for his skin. For the last two years he has devastated the country.”

“Like it!” cried Algy, suddenly, sitting erect, “why, it’s the very

thing. I’ll go like a shot. I am ready to start to-night. What’s the

name of the place?”

“Karwassa. This man-eater has killed, they say, more than a hundred

people, and if we shoot him, we cover ourselves with glory; if we fail,

we are no worse than half the regiment, and most of the station.”

Algy figuratively leapt at the idea; he was out of his chair, pacing

the verandah, long ere I had ceased to speak.

“How soon could we start?”

“As soon as I obtained leave,” I replied.

“Oh, bother leave!” he retorted, impatiently.

“Still, it is a necessary precaution,” I answered. “If I go without it

I shall be cashiered, and _that_ would be a bother.”

“All right; put in for it at once. The sooner we are off the better,”

cried Algy. “Let us get the first shikari in the province, and if he

puts us fairly on the tiger, the five hundred rupees shall be his. I

pay all expenses.”

“But Jones wants----”

“Yes, Jones, by all means,” he interrupted; “you had better lay your

heads together without delay. He told me he was a born organizer, so

you might, perhaps, leave the transport and commissariat in his hands,

whilst you secure leave, and the keenest and best shikari. Money _no_

object.”

“You are keen enough, Algy,” I remarked; “but, of course, you have no

experience of big game. _Can_ you shoot?”

“I can hit a stag, and I’ve accounted for crocodile, but I have never

seen a tiger in a wild state.”

“Ah! and you’ll find a tiger is quite another pair of shoes,” I assured

him impressively.

The day before Christmas we started in the highest spirits. Algy wore a

serviceable shikar suit, strong blue putties, and shooting-boots, and

looked as workmanlike as possible. Our destination, Karwassa, lay sixty

miles due north, and we travelled forty-five miles along the smooth

trunk road in a dogcart, with relays of horses, and arrived early in

the afternoon at Munser Dâk Bungalow--a neat white building, in a

neat little compound, that was almost swallowed up by the surrounding

jungle. Here we experienced our first breakdown. Jones prided himself

on doing everything on a “system”--but the system failed ignominiously.

Our luggage and servants were fifteen miles behind, and we could not

proceed that night, so we resigned ourselves into the hands of the

Dâk bungalow khansamah, who slew the usual Dâk bungalow dinner for

our behoof. There was a fair going on in the village, and we strolled

across to inspect it. A fair of the kind was no novelty to me; but

Algy was childishly delighted with all he witnessed, and stood gazing

in profound amazement at the stalls of Huka heads, pewter anklets,

bangles, and coarse, bright native cloths for turbans and sarees; the

money was chiefly copper pice and cowrie shells--the shell currency

was a complete revelation to our Londoner, as was a tangle-haired,

ash-bedaubed fakir, with his head thrust through a square iron frame,

so devised that rest was impossible. He could never lean back, never

lie down, never know ease. He had worn this instrument of torture for

twelve years, and was a most holy man--so Nuddoo, the shikari, informed

us.

“But what is the good of it?” demanded Algy. “What the dickens does he

do it for?”

“For a vow,” was the solemn reply.

“I’d rather be dead than have to wear an iron gate round my neck,”

rejoined Algy. “But I suppose he thinks he is doing the right thing,

and probably he is a good sort.”

And he gave the good sort five rupees.

Next morning we started in real earnest, for the real jungle--each on

a separate little cart or chukrun, drawn by a pair of small trotting

bullocks; the driver rode on the pole, and behind him there was just

room for one person, if he curled himself up, and sat cross-legged. We

formed quite a long procession, as we passed down the village street,

and all the population came out to speed the sahibs, “who were going

to try and shoot the Karwassa man-eater.” Judging by their looks, they

were by no means sanguine of our success.

Our road was a mere track, up and down the sides of shallow

water-courses, across the dry beds of great rivers, over low hills,

and through heavy jungle. The country grew wilder and wilder; here and

there we scared a jackal, here and there a herd of deer; villages were

very few and far between, and we had passed two that were absolutely

deserted: melancholy hamlets, with broken chatties, abandoned ploughs,

and grass-grown hearths--now the abode of wild dogs. We were gradually

approaching our destination, a cattle country, below a long range of

densely wooded hills; having halted at midday to rest our animals for a

few hours, we then set out again. But twenty miles is a long distance

for a little trotting bullock, especially if his head be turned from

home. The eager canter, or brisk trot, had now become a mere spasmodic

crawl; for the last mile Algy--the most keen and energetic of the

party--had been belabouring and shouting at his pair. What a sight for

his club friends, could they have beheld him, the elegant Algy, hoarse,

coatless, and breathless! In spite of his desperate exertions, his

cattle came to a full stop, and suddenly lay down--an example promptly

followed by others. “Darkness was coming,” urged Nuddoo, pointing to

the yellow sunset. “We were near an evil country, and it was about

_his_ usual time. Karwassa was two koss further, and we had best camp

and light fires, and spend the night where we had halted. The sahibs

could sleep under the carts, their servants were in waiting, also their

food--all would be well.”

I must honestly confess that I thought this a most sensible

proposition; but Algy, who had suddenly developed an entirely new

character, would not listen to it. During his short sojourn in India,

he had picked up a wonderful amount of useful Hindostani words,

which he strung together recklessly, and by means of some of them,

accompanied by frantic gesticulation, he informed all present that

“_he_ was not going to sleep under a cart, but was resolved to spend

the night at Karwassa. He would walk there.”

After a short, but stormy, altercation, my cousin carried his point,

and set out, accompanied (with great reluctance) by Jones, Nuddoo the

shikari, and myself. Algy took command of the party, and got over

the ground at an astonishing pace. The yellow light faded and faded,

and was succeeded by a grey deathly pallor that rapidly settled down

upon the whole face of nature. We marched two and two, along the

grass-grown, neglected roads, glancing askance at every bush, at every

big tuft of elephant grass (at least, I speak for myself). At last,

to my intense relief, the smoke and fires of a village came in view.

It proved to be Karwassa--Karwassa strongly entrenched behind its mud

walls and a bamboo palisade. After some parley we were admitted by the

chowkidar (or watchman), and presently surrounded by the villagers, a

poverty-stricken crew, with a depressed, hunted look.

“Once more a party of sahibs come to shoot the man-eaters,” they

exclaimed. “Ah, many sahibs had come and come and gone, and naught

availed them against the Bagh. He was no Janwar--but an evil spirit.”

“But two days ago,” said the Malgoozar, or head-man--a high-caste

Brahmin, with a high-bred face--“he had taken a boy from before his

mother’s eyes, as she tilled the patch of vegetables; the screams of

the child--he had heard them himself. Ah, ye-yo!”

And he shook his enormous orange turban, and his handsome dignified

head, in a truly melancholy fashion. “Moreover, the tiger had taken the

woman’s husband--there was not a house in the village that had not lost

at least one inmate.”

“Why did they not go away?” I asked.

“Yea--truly, others had abandoned their houses and lands, and fled--but

to what avail? The thing was not a Janwar, but a devil.”

A murmur of assent signified that the villagers had accepted their

scourge, with the apathetic fatalism of their race. We were presently

conducted to an empty hut, provided with broad string beds--and a

light. Our Christmas dinner was simple; it consisted of chuppatties

and well water, and our spirits were in keeping with our fare; the

surrounding misery had infected us. We were even indebted for our

present lodgings to the tiger--he had dined upon its former tenant

about a month previously. By all accounts he was old, and lame of one

hind leg, and had discovered that a human being is a far easier prey

than nimble cattle, or fleeting deer. He had studied the habits of his

victims, and would stalk the unwary, or the loiterer, like a great

cat. Alas! many were the tragedies; with success he had grown bolder,

and even broad noonday, and the interior of the village itself, now

afforded no protection from his horrible incursions.

The next morning our carts arrived, and we unpacked (the salt, tea,

and corkscrew had been forgotten). Afterwards we set out to explore,

first the vegetable patches, then the meagre crops, and finally we were

shown the dry river bed, the tiger’s high-road to Karwassa. We tracked

him easily in the soft, fine, white sand; there were his three huge

paws, and a fainter impression of the fourth. Also, there were marks of

something dragged, and several dark brown splashes; it was here that he

had carried off the wife of one of our present guides, who had looked

on,--being powerless to save her.

Needless to say, we were filled with a raging thirst for the blood of

this beast--Algy especially. He jawed, he bribed, he gesticulated, he

held long conferences with the villagers, with Nuddoo the shikari--an

active, leather-skinned man, with a cast in his left eye, who spoke

English fluently, and wore a tiger charm. Algy accommodated himself to

circumstances with astonishing facility. Most of the night we sat up

in a machan, or platform in a tree, over a fat young buffalo, hoping

to tempt the man-eater after dark. Subsequently Algy slept soundly on

his native charpoy, breakfasted on milk and chuppatties, and sallied

forth, gun on shoulder, to tramp miles over the surrounding country.

He was indefatigable, and easily wore _me_ out. As I frankly explained,

I could not burn the candle at both ends, and sit curled up in a

tree till two o’clock in the morning, and then walk down game that

self-same afternoon. He never seemed to tire, and he left the champagne

and whisky to us, and shot on milk or cold cocoa. His newly acquired

Spartan taste declined our imported dainties (tinned and otherwise),

and professed to prefer, in deference to our surroundings, a purely

vegetable diet.

It was an odd fancy, which I made no effort to combat. Naturally there

was more truffled turkey and _pâté de foie gras_ and boar’s head for

_us_! Algy was a successful shot, and reaped the reward of his energy

in respectable bags of black buck, hares, sand grouse, chickhira,

bustard, peacock--no, though sorely tempted, he refrained from bagging

the bird specially sacred to his hosts. Days and nights went by, and

so far we were as unsuccessful as our forerunners. In spite of our

fat and enticing young buffalo, whom we sometimes sat over from sunset

until the pale wintry dawn glimmered along the horizon, we never caught

one glimpse of the object of our expedition. Algy was restless, Nuddoo

at his wits’ end, whilst Jones had given up the quest as a bad job!

One evening we all gathered round the big fire in the village “chowk”

(for the nights were chilly), having a “bukh” with the elders, and,

being encompassed by a closely investing audience of the entire

population--including, of course, infants in arms--our principal topic

was the brute that had so successfully eluded us.

“He will never be caught save by one bait,” remarked a venerable man,

wagging his long white beard.

“And what is that, O my father?” I asked.

“A man or a woman,” was the startling reply; “and those we cannot give.”

“Yea, but we can!” cried a shrill voice. There was a sudden movement

in the crowd, and a tall female figure broke out of the throng, and

pushed her way into the open space and the full light of the fire.

She wore the usual dark red petticoat, short-sleeved jacket, and blue

cloth or veil over her head. This she suddenly tossed aside, and, as

she stood revealed before us, her hair was dishevelled, her black

eyes blazed with excitement; but she was magnificently handsome.

No flat-faced Gond this, but a Marathi of six-and-twenty years of

age--supremely beautiful.

“Protectors of the poor,” she cried, flinging out her two modelled

arms, jingling with copper bangles, “here am _I_. I am willing, and

thou shalt give _me_. The shaitan has slain my man and my son. When the

elephant is gone, why keep the goad? This devil of tigers has eaten

more than one hundred of our people, and I gladly offer my life in

exchange for his. Cattle! no”--with scorn. “He seeks not our flocks;

he seeks _us_! Have we not learned that, above all, he prefers women

folk and young? Therefore, behold I give myself”--looking round with a

dramatic gesture of her hand--“to save all these.”

“It is Sassi,” muttered the Malgoozar, “the widow of Gitan. Since seven

days her mind hath departed. She is mad.”

“Nay, my father, but I am wise! Truly, it is the sahib’s shikari who is

foolish, and of but little wit. He knows not the ground. There is the

stream close to the forest and the crops. The sahibs shall sit above

in the old bher tree, with their guns. They shall tie me up below.

Lo, I will sing, yea, loudly, and perchance the tiger will come. He

is now seven days without food from our village. Surely he must be

an-hungered. I will sing, and bring him to the great lords’ feet--even

to his death and mine. Then will my folk be avenged, and my name

remembered--Sassi the Marathi, who gave her life for her people!”

She paused, and every eye was fixed upon her as she stood amidst a

breathless silence, awaiting our answer, as immovable as a statue.

“Truly, what talk is so foolish as the talk of a woman?” began the

Malgoozar, fretfully. “Small mouth, big speech----”

“Nay, my father,” interrupted Nuddoo, eagerly, “but she speaks words

of wisdom, and ’tis I that am the fool. The lord sahib returns in two

days’ time--and we have done naught.”

As he spoke, his best eye was fixed on Sassi with an expression of

ravenous greed not to be described. Apparently he saw the five hundred

rupees now within a measurable distance!

“She can lure him, she shall stand on the stack of Bhoosa that pertains

to Ruckoo, the chowkidar; she will sing--the nights are still. The Bagh

will hear, he will come, and, ere he can approach, the sahibs will

shoot him. After all”--with a contemptuous shrug--“it is but a mad

woman and a widow.”

“Nuddoo,” shouted Algy, “if I ever hear you air those sentiments again,

I’ll shoot you. We don’t want that sort of bait; and, if we did, I

would sooner tie _you_ up, than a woman and a widow.”

Nuddoo’s eager protestations, and Algy’s expostulations, were loud and

long, and during them a stern-faced old hag placed her hand on Sassi’s

shoulder, drew her out of the crowd, and the episode was closed.

Our expedition that night was, as usual, fruitless. We climbed into

our tree platform, the now accustomed buffalo dozed in his place

undisturbed. Evidently Algy’s mind dwelt on the recent scene at the

chowk, and he harangued me from time to time, in an excited whisper, on

the subject of Sassi’s heroism, her wonderful beauty, and Nuddoo’s base

suggestion. He was still whispering, when I fell asleep. And now it

had come to our last day but one. Jones looked upon further effort as

supreme folly. He wanted, for once, a night’s unbroken rest, and at six

o’clock we left him lying on his string bed, on the flat of his back,

smoking cigarettes and reading a two-shilling novel--a novel dealing

with smart folk in high life--a book that carried his thoughts far, far

from a miserable mud village in the C.P. and its living scourge. How I

envied Jones! I would thankfully have excused myself, but Algy was _my_

cousin; he had taken command of the trip, and of me, ever since we had

quitted the great trunk road--and I was entirely under his orders.

Nuddoo was not above accepting a hint; this time our machan was lashed

into a big pepul tree on the border of the forest, and the edge of a

stream that had its home in the hills. We were about two miles from

Karwassa as the crow flies, and, as we were rather early, we had

ample time to look about us; the scene was a typical landscape in

the Central Provinces. To our left lay the hills, covered with dense

woodlands, from whose gloomy depths emerged the now shallow river,

which trickled gently past us over its bed of dark blue rock and

gravel. Beyond the stream, and exactly facing us, lay a vast expanse of

grain--_jawarri_, _gram_, and vetches--as far as the eye could reach,

the monotonous stretch being broken, here and there, by a gigantic and

solitary jungle tree. To the right, and on our side of the bank, was

an exquisite sylvan glade, a suitable spot to which the forest fairies

might issue invitations to the neighbouring elves to “come and dance

in the moonbeams.” Between the great trees, the waving crops, and the

murmuring brook, I could almost have imagined myself in the midlands

of England--save for certain tracks in the sand beneath our tree. Its

enormous roots were twisted among rocks and boulders, and, where a spit

of gravel ran out into the clear water, were many footprints, which

showed where the bear, hyena, tiger, and jackal had come to slake their

thirst. I noticed that Nuddoo seemed restless and strange, and that his

explanations and answers were incoherent, not to say foolish.

“This looks a likely enough place,” said Algy, with the confidence of

a man who had been after tiger for years. “But, I say, Nuddoo, where’s

the chap with the buffalo--where is our tie-up?”

“Buffalo never started yet--plenty time--coming by-and-by, at

moonrise,” stammered Nuddoo; and, as I climbed into the machan, and he

took his place next me, with our rifles, it struck me that Nuddoo was

not sober. He smelt powerfully of raw whisky--our whisky--his lips were

cracked and dry, and his hand shook visibly. What had he been doing?

“It will be an awful sell if there is no tie-up, and the tiger happens

to go by,” said Algy, irritably.

“The gara will be here without fail, your honour’s worship. It will be

all right, I swear it by the head of my son. Moreover, we will get the

tiger--to-night he touches his last hour.”

There was no question that Nuddoo, for the first time in my experience,

was very drunk indeed. Presently the full moon rose up and illuminated

the lonely landscape, the haunted jungle, the crops, the glade, and

turned the forest stream to molten silver. It was nine o’clock, and,

whilst Nuddoo slumbered, Algy and I held our breath, as we watched

a noble sambur stag come and drink below us. He was succeeded by an

old boar, next came a hyena; it was a popular resort; in short, every

animal appeared but the one we wanted--and _he_ was undoubtedly in the

neighbourhood, for the deer seemed uneasy.

It was already after ten, and Algy was naturally impatient, and eagerly

looking out for our devoted “gara.” He and I were bending forward,

listening anxiously; the forest behind us seemed full of stealthy

noises, but we strained our ears in vain for the longed-for sound of

buffalo hoofs advancing from the front. Nuddoo still slept soundly, and

at last Algy, in great exasperation, leant over and shook him roughly.

“Ay,” he muttered, in a sleepy grunt, “it is all right, sahib, the gara

will come without fail.”

Even whilst he spoke, we heard, not fifty yards away, the voice of a

woman singing in the glade, and Nuddoo now started up erect, and began

to tremble violently.

It was light as day, as we beheld Sassi advancing slowly in our

direction, singing in a loud clear voice an invocation to Mahadeo the

Destroyer!

When she had approached within earshot she halted, and, raising her

statuesque face to her namesake the moon, chanted--

“O great lords in the pepul tree, whereto Nuddoo, the drunkard,

hath led you,

Behold, according to my promise, lo! I have come.

I sing to my gods, and perchance I will bring the tiger to your

honours’ feet.”

For the space of three heart-beats, we remained motionless--paralyzed

with horror,--and then Nuddoo, who was gibbering with most mysterious

terror, gave me a sudden and an involuntary push.

There, to the left, was _something_ coming rapidly through the crops!

The grain parted and waved wildly as it passed; in a moment a huge

striped animal, the size of a calf, had crossed the river with a

hurried limp.

“Kubberdar! Bagh! Bagh!” roared Algy to the woman. To me, “You’ve got

him!”

Undoubtedly it was _my_ shot, but I was excessively flurried--it was

new to me to have a human life hanging on my trigger; as he sprang

into the open glade I fired--and missed. I heard my cousin draw in

his breath hard; I saw the woman turn and face us. The tiger’s spring

and Algy’s shot seemed simultaneous; as the echo died away, there

was not another sound--the great brute lay dead across the corpse

of his victim. I was now shaking as much as Nuddoo; my bad aim had

had a frightful result. Before I could scramble down, Algy, with

inconceivable rashness, was already beside the bodies, where they lay

in the middle of the glade--the monster stretched above his voluntary

prey.

The news spread to the village in some miraculous manner. Had the

birds of the air carried the great tidings? The entire community were

instantly roused by the intelligence. Man, woman, yea, and child, came

streaming forth, beating tom-toms and shouting themselves hoarse with

joy. They collected about the tiger--who was evidently of far more

account than the woman--they kicked him, cursed him, spat on him, and

secretly stole his whiskers for a charm against the evil eye. They

thrummed the tom-toms madly as they marched round and round Algy--the

hero of the hour.

Nuddoo had now entirely forgotten his tremors, he was almost delirious

with excitement; the five hundred rupees were his, he could live on

them--and on his reputation as the slayer of the great Karwassa

man-eater--for the remainder of his existence. He talked till he

frothed at the corners of his mouth, he boasted here, he boasted

there. He declared that “_he_ had encouraged Sassi, and given her an

appointment as the gara, or tie-up. Yea, she had spoken truly--there

was no other means!”

Released from his honours and the transports of the tom-toms, these

fatal words fell on Algy’s ears, and he went straight for Nuddoo. What

he said or did, I know not, but this I know, that from that moment I

never saw Nuddoo again until weeks later, when he came to me by stealth

in Kori, exceedingly humble and sober, and received, according to

Algy’s instructions, “five hundred rupees; but if he asks you for a

chit,” wrote Algy, “kick him out of the compound.”

The tiger was big and heavy, he required twenty coolies to carry him

back to Karwassa--for his last visit. Sassi was borne on the frame of

our machan--ere she was placed there, an old hag covered the beautiful

dead face with her veil, and slipped off her sole ornaments, the copper

bangles, in a business-like fashion.

“Give me one of those,” said Algy, who was standing by. “I will pay you

well. Were you her mother?”

“Her grandmother,” replied the crone. “She was mad. Lo, now she is

gone, I shall surely starve!” and she began to whimper for the first

time. Truly, she knew this sahib was both rich and open-handed.

Algy and I slept soundly for the remainder of that eventful night;

but it is my opinion that the villagers never went to rest at all.

The moment we set foot in the street the next morning, a vast crowd

surged round my cousin; every one of them carried a string of flowers

or--highest compliment--a gilded lime. Women brought their children,

from the youngest upwards, and Algy was soon the centre of the village

nursery. All these little people were solemnly requested “to look well

upon that honoured lord, and to remember when they were old, and to

tell it to their children, that their own eyes had rested on the great

sahib who had killed the shaitan of Karwassa.”

Algy was loaded with honours and flowers; I must confess that he bore

them modestly, and he, on his side, paid high tribute to Sassi the

Marathi. He commanded that she should have a splendid funeral. The

most costly pyre that was ever seen in those parts was erected, the

memory of the oldest inhabitant was vainly racked to recall anything

approaching its magnificence. The village resources, and the resources

of three other hamlets, were strained to the utmost tension to provide

sandal-wood, oil, jewels, and dress. If Algy’s London “pals” could hear

of him spending fifty pounds on the burning of a native woman, how they

would laugh and chaff him! I hinted as much, and got a distinctly nasty

reply. He was quite right; roughing it _had_ a bad effect upon his

temper. At sundown the whole population assembled by the river bank to

witness the obsequies of Sassi the widow of Gitan; they marvelled much

(and so did I) to behold my cousin standing by, bare-headed, during the

entire ceremony.

We set out on our return journey that same evening--travelling by

moonlight had no dangers now! Algy distributed immense largesse among

his friends, viz. the entire community (he also paid all our expenses

like a prince). He and the inhabitants of Karwassa parted with many

good wishes and mutual reluctance; indeed, a body of them formed a

running accompaniment to us for nearly a dozen miles. Our spoil, the

tiger’s skin, was a poor specimen. The stripes had a dull, faded

appearance; but it measured, without stretching, a good honest ten

feet from nose to tip of tail. Once we were out of the jungle, and

back in the land of bungalows, daily posts, and baker’s bread, Algy

relapsed from a keen and intrepid sportsman into an indolent, drawling

dandy. The day after our return to Kori, he took leave of me in these

remarkable words--

“Well, good-bye, Perky. You are not a bad sort, though you are not much

of a chap to shoot or rough it. However, I have to thank you for taking

me off the beaten track, and showing me something which I shall never

forget,--and that was entirely out of the common.”

“THE MISSUS.”

A DOG TRAGEDY.

When the Royal British Skirmishers were quartered in Bombay, their

second in command was Major Bowen, a spare, grizzled, self-contained

little soldier, who lived alone in one of those thatched bungalows

that resemble so many monstrous mushrooms, bordering the racecourse.

“The Major,” as he was called _par excellence_, was best described by

negatives. He was not married. He was not a ladies’ man. Nor was he

a sportsman; nor handsome, young, rich, nor even clever--in short,

he was not remarkable for anything except, perhaps, his dog. No one

could dispute the fact that Major Bowen was the owner of an uncommon

animal. He and this dog had exchanged into “the Skirmishers” from

another regiment six years previously, and though the pair were at

first but coldly received, they adapted themselves so admirably to

their new surroundings that ere long they had gained the esteem and

goodwill of both rank and file; and, as time wore on, there actually

arose an ill-concealed jealousy of their old corps, and a disposition

to ignore the fact that they had not always been part and parcel of

the gallant Skirmishers. Although poor, and having but little besides

his pay, the Major was liberal--both just and generous; and if he was

mean or close-fisted with any one, that person’s name was Reginald

Bowen. He had an extremely lofty standard of honour and of the value of

his lightest word. He gave a good tone to the mess, and though he was

strict with the youngsters, they all liked him. Inflexible as he could

look on parade or in the orderly-room, elsewhere he received half the

confidences of the regiment; and many a subaltern had been extricated

from a scrape, thanks to the little Major’s assistance--monetary and

otherwise. He was a smart officer and a capital horseman, and here was

another source of his popularity. He lent his horses and ponies, with

ungrudging good faith, to those impecunious youths who boasted but

the one hard-worked barrack “tat;” and many a happy hour with hounds,

or on the polo-ground, was spent on the back of the Major’s cattle.

Major Bowen did not race or hunt, and rarely played polo; in fact, he

was not much interested in anything--although upwards of forty, he was

supremely indifferent to his dinner!--the one thing he really cared

about was his _dog_: a sharp, well-bred fox-terrier, with bright eyes

and lemon-coloured ears,--who, in spite of the fact that her original

name was “Minnie,” had been known as “the Missus” for the last five

years. This name was given to her in joke, and in acknowledgment of her

accomplishments; the agreeable manner in which she did the honours of

her master’s bungalow, and the extraordinary care she took of him, and

all his property. It was truly absurd to see this little creature--of

at most sixteen pounds’ weight--gravely lying, with crossed paws, in

front of the Major’s sixteen hands “waler,” whilst he was going round

barracks, or occupied in the orderly-room. Her pose of self-importance

distinctly said, “The horse and syce are in _my_ charge!”

She went about the compound early every morning, and rigorously turned

out vagrants, suspicious-looking visitors to the servants’ quarters,

and all dogs and goats! She accompanied her master to mess, and fetched

him home, no matter how late the hour--and through the rains (and they

are no joke in Bombay) it was just the same; there was the chokedar,

with his mackintosh and lantern; and there was also, invariably, the

shivering, sleepy little Missus. It was of no avail to tie her up at

home; not only were her heartrending howls audible for a quarter of a

mile, but on one occasion she actually arrived under the dinner-table,

chain and all, to the discomfort of the Colonel’s legs, the great

scandal of the mess-sergeant, and her own everlasting disgrace! So

she was eventually suffered--like wilful woman--to have her way.

Her master’s friends were her friends, and took the Missus quite

seriously--but she drew the line at dogs. It must be admitted that her

manners to her own species were--not nice. She had an unladylike habit

of suddenly sitting down when she descried one afar off, and sniffing

the, so to speak, tainted air, that was nothing more nor less than a

deliberate insult to any animal with the commonest self-respect; many a

battle was fought, many a bite was given and received. The Missus was

undeniably accomplished; she fetched papers and slippers, gave the paw,

and in the new style--on a level with her head, walked briskly on her

hind legs, could strum on the piano, and sing, accompanying herself to

a clear, somewhat shrill, soprano. There was a little old pianette in

the Major’s sitting-room, on which she performed amid great applause.

It was _not_ true that the instrument had been purchased solely for her

use, or that she practised industriously for two hours a day. No--the

pianette had been handed over to her master by a young man (who had

subsequently gone to the dogs) as the only available payment of a sum

the Major had advanced for him. Battered old tin kettle as it was, that

despised piano had cost one hundred pounds! But no one dreamt of _this_

when they laughed at its shortcomings. The Missus was passionately fond

of music, and escorted her owner to the band; but she escorted him

almost everywhere--to the club, round the barracks, the racecourse,

to church--here she was ignominiously secured in the syce’s “cupra,”

as she had a way of stealthily peeping in at the various open doors,

and endeavouring to focus her idol, which manœuvre--joined with her

occasional assistance in the chanting--proved a little trying to the

gravity of the congregation. Of course she went to the hills--where she

had an immense acquaintance; she had also been on active service on the

Black Mountain, and when one night a prowling Afridi crept on his hands

and knees into the Major’s tent, he found himself unexpectedly pinned

by a set of sharp teeth,--he carried the mark of that bite to his grave.

Major Bowen was not the least ashamed of his affection for his dog.

She was his weak point--even the very Company’s dhobies approached him

through her favour. He was president of the mess, and in an excellent

manner had officiated for years in that difficult and thankless

office; a good man of business--prompt, clear-headed, methodical, and

conscientious. No scamping of accounts, no peculations overlooked, a

martinet to the servants, and possibly less loved than feared. But

this is a digression from the Missus. Her master was foolishly proud of

her good looks--very sensitive respecting her little foibles (which he

clumsily endeavoured to conceal), and actually touchy about her age!

When the Missus had her first, and only, family, it was quite a great

local event. The Major’s establishment was turned completely upside

down; there was racing and chasing to procure two milch goats for

the use of the infants and their mother, and a most elegant wadded

basket was provided as a cradle. But, alas! the Missus proved a most

indifferent parent. She deserted her little encumbrances at the end

of one day, and followed her master to the Gymkana ground. He was

heartily ashamed of her, and positively used to remain indoors for the

sake of keeping up appearances. He could not go to the club, and have

the Missus waiting conspicuously outside with the pony, when all the

world knew that she had no business to be there, but had four young

and helpless belongings squealing for her at home! She accorded them

but little of her company, and appeared to think that her nursery cares

were entirely the affair of the two milch goats! One of her neglected

children pined, and dwindled, and eventually died, was placed in a

cigar-box, and buried in a neat little grave under a rose-bush in the

compound, whilst its unnatural mamma looked on from afar off, a totally

uninterested spectator! The three survivors were handsome puppies, and

the Major exhibited them with pride to numerous callers, and finally

bestowed them among his friends (entirely to please their mother,

whom they bored to death). They were gratefully accepted, not merely

on their own merits, but also as being a public testimonial of their

donor’s high opinion and esteem.

* * * * *

It was towards the end of the monsoon, when the compound was almost

afloat, and querulous frogs croaked in every corner of the verandahs,

that Major Bowen became seriously ill with low malarious fever. He had

been out ten years--“five years too long,” the doctor declared; “he

must go home at once, and never return to India.” This was bad news for

the regiment, and still worse for the invalid, who helped a widowed

sister with all he could spare from his colonial allowances. There

would not be much margin on English pay!

He was dangerously ill in that lofty, bare, whitewashed bedroom in

Infantry Lines. He would not be the first to die there. No,--not by

many. His friends were devoted and anxious. The Missus was devoted and

distracted. She lay all day long at the foot of his cot, watching and

listening, and following his slightest movement with a pair of agonized

eyes.

At length there was a change--and for the better. The patient was

promoted into a cane lounge in the sitting-room, to solids, and to

society--as represented by half the regiment. He looked round his

meagrely furnished little room with interested eyes. There was not

a speck of dust to be seen, everything was in its place, to the

letter-weight on the writing-table, and the old faded photos in their

shabby leather frames. Missus’s basket was pushed into a far corner.

She had not used it for weeks. He and Missus were going home, and would

soon say good-bye for ever to the steep-roofed thatched bungalow,

the creaking cane chairs, the red saloo purdahs, to the verandahs,

embowered in pale lilac “railway” creeper, to the neat little

garden--to the regiment--to Bombay. Their passages were taken. They

were off in the _Arcadia_ in three days.

* * * * *

That afternoon, the Major had all his kit and personal property paraded

in his sitting-room, in order that the packing of his belongings (he

was a very tidy man) should take place under his own eyes. The bearer

was in attendance, and with him his slave and scapegoat--the chokra.

The bearer was a stolid, impassive-looking Mahomedan, with a square

black beard, and a somewhat sullen eye.

“Abdul,” said his master, as his gaze travelled languidly from one

neatly folded pile of clothes to another--from guns in cases to

guns not in cases, to clocks, revolvers, watches, candlesticks--the

collection of ten years, parting gifts, bargains, and legacies--“you

have been my servant for six years, and have served me well. I have

twice raised your wages, and you have made a very good thing out of me,

I believe, and can, no doubt, retire and set up a ticca gharry, or a

shop. I am going away, and never coming back, and I want to give you

something of mine as a remembrance--something to remember me by, you

understand?”

The bearer deliberately unfolded his arms, and salaamed in silence.

“You may choose anything you like out of this room,” continued the

Major, with unexampled recklessness.

Abdul’s eyes glittered curiously--it was as if a torch had suddenly

illumined two inky-black pools.

“Sahib never making joke--sahib making really earnest?”--casting on

him a glance of almost desperate eagerness. The glance was lost on his

master, whose attention was fixed on a discarded gold-laced tunic and

mess-jacket.

“Of course,” he said to himself, “Abdul will choose them,” for gold

lace is ever dear to a native heart, it sells so well in the bazaar,

and melts down to such advantage.

“Making earnest!” repeated the invalid, irritably. “Do I ever do

otherwise? Look sharp, and take your choice.”

“Salaam, sahib,” he answered, and turned quickly to where the Missus

was coiled up in a chair. “I take my choice of anything in this room.

Then I take--the--dog.”

“The--_dog_!” repeated her owner, with a half-stupefied air.

“Verily, I am fond of Missy. Missy fond of master. The dog and I will

remember the sahib together, when he is far away.”

The sahib felt as if some one had suddenly plunged a knife in his

heart. In Abdul’s bold gaze, in Abdul’s petition, he, too late,

recalled the solemn (but despised) warning of a brother-officer:

“That bearer of yours is a vindictive brute; you got his son turned out

of the mess, and serve him right, for a drunken, thieving hound! But

sleek as he looks, Abdul will have it in for you yet;” and this was

accomplished, when he said, “The dog and I, sahib, will remember you

together.”

Major Bowen was still desperately weak, and he had just been dealt

a crushing blow; but the spirit that holds India was present in

that puny, wasted frame, and, with a superhuman effort, he boldly

confronted the two natives--the open-mouthed, gaping chokra, the

respectfully exultant bearer--and said, “Atcha” (that is to say,

“good”), “it is well;” and then he feebly waved to the pair to depart

from him, for he was tired.

Truly it was anything but “good.” It seemed the worst calamity that

could have befallen him. He was alone, and face to face with a terrible

situation. He must either forfeit his word, or his dog,--which was it

to be?

In all his life, to the best of his knowledge, he had never broken his

faith, and now to do it to a native!--that was absolutely out of the

question. But his dog--his friend--his companion--with whom he never

meant to part, as long as she lived (for _she_ had given her to him).

He sat erect, and looked over at the Missus, where she lay curled up;

her expressive eyes met his eagerly.

Little, O Missus, do you guess the fatal promise that has just been

made, nor how largely it concerns _you_. Her master lay back with

a groan, and turned his face away from the light, a truly miserable

man! His faithful Missus!--to have to part with her to one of the

regiment would have been grief enough; but to a Mahomedan, with their

unconcealed scorn of dogs! He must have been mad when he made that rash

offer; but then, in justification, his common sense urged, “How was

he to suppose that Abdul would choose anything but a silver watch, a

gun, or the worth of fifty rupees?” Major Bowen was far from being an

imaginative man, but as he lay awake all night long, and listened to

the wild roof-cats stealing down the thatch, and heard them pattering

back at dawn, one mental picture stood out as distinctly as if he was

looking at it with his bodily sight, and it was actually before him.

A low, squalid mud hut in a bazaar; a native string bed, and tied to

it by a cord--_the Missus_. “The Missus,” with thin ribs, a staring

coat, and misery depicted on her little face, the sport of the children

and the flies--starved, forlorn, heartbroken--dumbly wondering what had

happened to her master, and why he had so cruelly deserted her! Oh,

when was he coming to fetch her? Not knowing, she was at least spared

_this_--that he would never come.

What an insane promise! As he recalled it, he clenched his hands in

intolerable agony. Why did he not _offer_ his watch--his rifle? he

would give Abdul a thousand rupees, gladly, to redeem the dog, but his

inner consciousness assured him that Abdul, thanks to him, was already

well-to-do, and that his revenge was worth more to him than money. This

would not be the case with most natives, but he knew, to his cost, that

Abdul’s was a stern, tenacious, relentless nature. At one moment, he

had decided to poison the Missus with his own hands--prussic acid was

speedy; at another, he had resolved to remain in India, doctors or no

doctors.

“And sacrifice your life?” again breathed common sense. “Die for a

dog!” True, but the dog was not a dog to him. She was his comrade,

his sympathizer, his friend. Meanwhile, the object of all these

mental wrestlings and agonies slept the sleep of the just, innocent,

and ignorant; but in any case, it is a question if a dog’s anxieties

ever keep it awake. Her master never closed his eyes; he saw the dawn

glimmer through the bamboo chicks; he saw Abdul, the avenger, appear

with his early tea, and Abdul found him in high fever; perhaps Abdul

was not greatly surprised!

Friends and brother-officers flocked in that day, and sat with the

Major, and they noted with concern that he looked worse than he had

done at any period of his illness. His naturally pinched face was

worn and haggard to a startling degree. Moreover, in spite of the

news of the high prices his horses had fetched, he was terribly

“down,” and why? A man going home, after ten years of India, is

generally intolerably cheerful. They did their best to enliven him,

these good-hearted comrades, and--unfailing topic of interest--they

discoursed volubly and incessantly of the Missus.

“She is looking uncommonly fit,” said young Stradbrooke, the owner of

one of her neglected children. “She knows she is going to England. She

was quite grand with me just now! She hates boating like the devil! I

wonder how she will stand fourteen days at sea?”

There was a perceptible silence after this question, and then the Major

said in a queer voice--

“She is--not--going.”

“Not going?” An incredulous pause, and then some one exclaimed: “Come,

Major, you know you would just as soon leave your head behind.”

“All the same--I am leaving her----”

“And which of us is to have her?” cried the Adjutant. “Take notice,

all, that I speak first. You won’t pass over me, sir. Missus and I

were always very chummy, and I want her to look after my chargers and

servants, fetch my slippers, bring me home from mess--and to take care

of me and keep me straight.”

“I have already given her away to----” the rest of the sentence seemed

to stick in the Major’s throat, and his face worked painfully.

“Away to whom?” repeated young Stradbrooke. “Say it’s to _me_, sir.

I’ve one of the family already--and Missus likes me. I know her pet

biscuits, and there are heaps of rats in my stables--such whoppers!”

“Given her--to the bearer--Abdul,” he answered, stoutly enough, though

there was still a little nervous quivering of the lower lip.

If the ceiling had parted asunder and straightway tumbled down on

their heads, the Major’s audience would not have been half so much

dumfoundered. For a whole minute they sat agape, and then one burst

out--

“I say, Major, it’s a joke--you would not give her out of the regiment;

she is on the _strength_.”

“She is promised,” replied the Major, in a sort of husky whisper.

Every one knew that the Major’s promises were a serious matter, and

after this answer there ensued a long dismayed silence. The visitors

eventually turned the topic, and tried to talk of other matters--the

last gazette, the new regimental ribbon, of anything but of what every

mind was full, to wit, “the Missus.”

The news respecting her bestowal created quite a sensation that evening

at the mess--far more than that occasioned by a newly announced

engagement, for there was an element of mystery about _this_ topic. Why

had the Missus been given away?

“Bowen must be off his chump,” was the general verdict, “poor old chap,

to give the dog to that rascal Abdul, of all people!” (One curious

feature in Anglo-Indian life, is the low opinion people generally

entertain of their friends’ servants.) “The proper thing was, of

course, to buy the dog, and keep her in the regiment; and when the

Major came to his right senses, how glad he would be, dear old man!”

The Adjutant waylaid Abdul in the road, and said, curtly--

“Is this true, about the dog?--that your sahib has given her to you?”

Abdul salaamed. How convenient and non-committal is that gesture!

“What will you take for her?”

“I never selling master’s present,” rejoined the bearer, with superb

dignity.

“What does a nigger want with a dog?” demanded the officer, scornfully.

“Well, then, swop her--_that_ won’t hurt your delicate sense of honour.

I’ll get you an old pariah out of the bazaar, and give you fifty rupees

to buy him a collar!”

“I have refused to-day one thousand rupees for the Missy,” said Abdul,

with increased hauteur.

“You lie, Abdul,” said the officer, sternly; “or else you have been

dealing with a stark, staring madman.”

“I telling true, Captain Sahib. I swear by the beard of the Prophet.”

“Who made the offer?”

“Major Bone”--the natives always called him “Major Bone.”

“Great Scott! Poor dear old chap” (to himself): “I had no idea he was

so badly touched. It is well he is going home, or it would be a case of

four orderlies and a padded room. So much for this beastly country!”

Then to Abdul, “Look here; don’t say a word about that offer, and come

over to my quarters, and I’ll give you some dibs--the sun has been too

much for your sahib--and mind you be kind to the Missus; if not, I’ll

come and shoot her, and thrash you within an inch of your life.”

“Gentlemen Sahib never beating servants. Sahib touch me, I summon in

police-court, and I bring report to regimental commanding officer.

Also, I going my own country, Bareilly, and I never, never selling kind

master’s present.”

“I know lots of Sahibs in a pultoon (_i.e._ regiment) at Bareilly, and

I shall get them to look out for you and the dog, Mr. Abdul. You treat

‘kind master’s present’ well, and it will be well with you,--if not, by

Jove, you will find that I have got a long arm. I am a man of my word,

so keep your mouth shut about the Major. To-night my bearer will give

you ten rupees.” And he walked on.

“Bowen must be in a real bad way, when he gives his beloved dog to a

native, and next day wants to buy it back for a thousand rupees,” said

Captain Young to himself. “I thought he looked queer yesterday, but I

never guessed that he was as mad as twenty hatters.”

* * * * *

The hour of the Major’s departure arrived; he had entreated, as a

special favour, that no one would come to see him off. This request

was looked upon as more of his eccentricity, and not worthy of serious

consideration; he would get all right as soon as he was at sea, and

the officers who were not on duty hurried down to see the last of

their popular comrade. He drove up late, looking like death, his

face so withered, drawn, and grey, and got out of a gharry, promptly

followed by Abdul, carrying the Missus. The steam-launch lay puffing

and snorting at the steps--the other passengers were aboard--there was

not a moment to lose. The Major bade each and all a hurried farewell;

he took leave of the Missus last. She was still in Abdul’s arms, and

believed in her simple dog mind that her master was merely bound for

one of those detestable sails up the harbour. As she offered him an

eager paw, little did she guess that it was good-bye for ever, or that

she was gazing after him for the last time, as he feebly descended the

steps and took his place in the tender that was to convey him to the P.

and O. steamer.

He watched the crowd of friends wildly waving handkerchiefs; but he

watched, above all, with a long, long gaze of inarticulate grief, a

dark turbaned figure, that stood conspicuously apart, with a small

white object in his arms: watched almost breathlessly, till it faded

away into one general blur. The Bengal civilian who sat next to Major

Bowen in the tender, stared at him in contemptuous astonishment. He

had been twenty-five years in the country (mitigating his exile with

as much furlough--sick, privilege, and otherwise--as he could possibly

obtain), and this was the first time he had seen a man quit the shores

of India--with _tears in his eyes_!

THE BETRAYAL OF SHERE BAHADUR.

I am merely the wife of a British subaltern, whereas my aunt Jane is

the consort of a commissioner. One must go to India, to realize the

enormous and unfathomable gulf which yawns between these two positions.

Take, for instance, that important difference--the difference in pay.

On the first of each month, Aunt Jane’s lord and master receives

several thousand and odd rupees--a heavy load for two staggering peons

to carry from the treasury--whereas my husband’s poor little pittance,

of two hundred and fifty-six rupees and odd annas, our bearer swings in

a lean canvas bag, and in one hand, with an air of jaunty contempt!

At dinner-parties and other grand functions, I see my aunt’s

round-shouldered back, and well-known yellow satin, leading the van,

with her hand on the host’s arm, whilst I humbly bring up the rear--one

of the last joints in the tail of precedence.

Afterwards--after coffee, conversation, and music--not a woman in

the room may venture to stir, until my little fat relative has “made

the move” and waddled off to her carriage. Mr. Radcliffe, my uncle

by marriage, rules over a large district; he is a stout, puffy,

imposing-looking man, attended by much pomp and circumstance, and many

scarlet-clad chuprassis. His wife rules him--as well as the station;

manages every one’s affairs, acts as the censor of public morals, and

may be implicitly relied upon to utter the disagreeable things that

_ought_ to be said, but that no one but herself is willing to say. The

Radcliffes have no family, and therefore she has ample time to indulge

her fine powers of observation, organization, and conversation. When I

married, and was about to come to India, a year ago, my people remarked

on an average once a week--

“If you are going to Luckmee, you will be quite close to your aunt Jane

at Rajapore, and only think how delightful that will be for you!” but I

was by no means so confident of this supreme future joy. Rajapore is a

large mixed military and civil station; Luckmee is on the same line of

rail, a run of a couple of hours; a small and insignificant cantonment,

which looks up to Rajapore as its metropolis, and does all its shopping

there. No, I did not find it at all delightful, being within such easy

hail of Aunt Jane. She made unexpected descents--as a rule, early in

the morning--driving up from the station in a rickety “ticca gharry,”

to spend what she called “a good long day.” First of all, she went

over the bungalow precisely as if it was to let furnished, and she was

the incoming tenant; then she cross-examined me closely, read my home

letters, looked at my bazaar account, sniffed at my new frocks, snubbed

my friends, and departed by the last train in the highest spirits,

leaving me struggling with the idea that I was _still_ a rather

troublesome schoolgirl in short frocks and a pig-tail. Now and then

I returned the visit--by command--drove with Aunt Jane in her state

barouche, in which she sat supported by a pair of rather faded Berlin

wool cushions, great eyesores to my critical English taste, which

largely discounted the fine carriage, big bay walers, fat coachman (an

Indian Jehu of any pretension must be corpulent), the running syces,

and splendid silver-mounted chowries or yâk tails.

I also was present at various heavy tiffins and dinners, in the

capacity of deputy assistant hostess and niece. I had come in now, to

wait upon Aunt Jane and “take leave,” as she was just off to England,

and had imperatively summoned me to report myself ere she started. I

found the great square white bungalow externally gay with _Bignonia

vinusta_, internally in the utmost confusion. The hall was littered

with straw and bits of newspapers, the drawing-room was full of

packing-cases, half the contents of the cellar were paraded on the

floor, and dozens of tins of “Europe” stores were also on review, all

being for sale. Aunt Jane was seated at a writing-table, revising lists

with a rapid pen.

“You discover me,” she exclaimed, offering a plump cheek, “sitting like

Marius among the ruins of Carthage.”

I was dumb. I had no idea until now that Marius was a stout little

elderly woman, wearing a shapeless grey wide-awake and blue spectacles.

“I feel almost fit for the poggle khana (mad-house),” she continued.

“Just look here! Here is my list of furniture, come back from

making the round of the station, and all that has been taken is a

watering-pot, six finger-glasses, and a pie-dish!” (The truth was

that people were tired of my aunt’s lists.) “And here are dozens

of servants clamouring for chits--and a man waiting to buy the

cows. I wish to goodness some one would buy your uncle’s shikar

camel,”--reading aloud from list,--“‘young, strong, easy trot and walk,

with saddle, Rs. 200.’ Your uncle is going to chum with Mr. Jones. He

does not intend shooting this season--even _he_ finds it an expensive

pursuit,” this in a significant parenthesis. “I’ve not put away the

ornaments, nor sold off my stores, nor packed one of my own things.”

I muttered some sympathetic remark, but I knew that Aunt Jane enjoyed

these “earthquakings” immensely. She was constantly uprooting her

establishment, and taking what she called “a run home.”

“And you go on Monday?” I inquired.

“Yes, child; though I don’t believe I shall ever be ready. Your mother,

of course, will want to know how you are? I must candidly tell her that

you are looking dreadfully pasty. Ah! I see you have got a parcel.”

“Only a very little one,” I pleaded apologetically.

“Well, well, I suppose I must _try_ and take it; and now what are your

plans?”

“Tom has got two months’ leave, and Charlie is coming up from Madras;

we are going away on a trip into the real jungle.”

“For what?” she asked tartly.

“Well, to see something different from the routine of cantonment life,

something different from the band-stand and D.W.P. pattern church--to

see _real_ India.”

“What folly! Real India, indeed!” she snorted; “as if you would _ever_

see it! It makes me wild to hear of people talking, and worse still,

writing about India, as if one person could grasp even a small corner

of it. Here am I, twenty-five years in the country, speaking the

language fluently, and what do I know?” she paused dramatically. “The

bazaar prices, the names of the local trees and flowers, the rents of

the principal houses up at Simla.” (I have reason to believe that my

aunt did herself gross injustice; she knew the private affairs of half

the civilians in the provinces, and was on intimate terms with their

“family skeletons.”) “As to the character of the people! I cannot even

fathom my own ayah, and she is with me eleven years.”

“I believe some people know a great deal about India,” I ventured to

protest.

“Stuff!” she interrupted. “One person may know a little of one part

of the continent, but there are twenty Indias!--all different, with

different climates, customs, and people. What resemblance is there

between a Moplah on the west coast and a Leucha from Darjeeling, a

little stunted Andamanese and a Sikh; a Gond from the C.P. and a Pathan

from the frontier; a Bengali Baboo and a bold Rohilla?” (Aunt Jane

was now mounted on her hobby, and I had nothing to do but to look and

listen.) “Every one thinks his own little corner is India. You, as an

officer’s wife--the wife of a subaltern in a marching regiment”--(she

always insisted on the prefix “marching”)--“have better chances than a

civilian, for they live in one groove; you are shot about from Colombo

to Peshawar. However, much good it will do you, for you are naturally

dull, and have no talent for observation.”

“No, not like _you_, Aunt Jane,” I ventured with mild sarcasm: was she

not going home?

“And where are you bound for?” she pursued.

“About a hundred miles out, due north.”

“That is the Merween district, I know it well. We were in that division

years ago. Had you consulted _me_, before making your plans, your uncle

might have arranged about elephants for you. It’s too late now,” with a

somewhat triumphant air.

“But we don’t want elephants,” I protested; “we have our ponies.”

“Id----” correcting herself, “simpleton! I meant for shooting from.

The district is full of long grass. Tom will get no deer, nor indeed

any game on foot. You may have the shikar camel, if you like, for his

keep, and the Oontwallah’s pay--no?” as I shook my head emphatically.

“Well, I can give you one tip: take plenty of tinned stores; the

villages are scattered, and Brahmin. You won’t get an egg, much less

a fowl--at most a little ghee and flour; but I strongly advise you to

take your own poultry, and a couple of milch goats, also _plenty_ of

quinine and cholera mixture; parts of the country are very marshy and

unhealthy. I suppose you have tents? _We_ cannot lend you any.”

“Yes, we have three, thank you.”

“And so your brother Charles is going with you! Tell him that _I_ think

he had much better have stayed quietly with his regiment, and worked

for the higher standard--a boy only out two years. Of course _you_ are

paying his expenses?”

I nodded. Tom was moderately well off; though we were not rich, we were

not exactly poor, and I always had a firm conviction that Aunt Jane

would have liked me _much_ better if I had been a pauper! As it was,

she considered me dangerously independent.

“Of course you think you know your own business best!” removing her

spectacles as she spoke, “but mark my words, you will find this trip

a great deal more costly than you imagine. With us civilians it is

different, a sort of royal progress; but with you--well, well,” shaking

her head, “you must buy your own experience!”

A week later we had set forth, Tom, Charlie, and myself. We took Aunt

Jane’s advice (it was all she had given us), and despatched our tents

and carts twenty-four hours’ ahead, so as to give them a good start.

We cantered out after them, a fifteen-mile ride, the following day.

It was my first experience of camp life, and perfectly delightful;

the tent under the trees felt so cool and fresh, in comparison with a

sun-baked bungalow. Our servants, who appeared quite at home, had built

a mud fireplace, and were cooking the dinner; the milch goats were

browsing, and the poultry picking about in the adaptable manner of an

Indian bazaar fowl. Our next halt was to be twenty miles farther on, at

an engineer’s bungalow, which was splendidly situated between a forest

swarming with game and a river teeming with fish. Here we intended

to remain for some time; we should be in the territory of the Rajah

of Betwa, and were bearers of a letter asking for his assistance, in

the way of procuring provisions in the villages. At midday we halted

for several hours in a mango tope, the home of thousands of monkeys,

and went forward again about four o’clock. Our road was bordered at

either side by a golden sea of gently waving crops, for we were in the

heart of a great wheat country. Presently we passed through the town

of Betwa, which chiefly consisted of a long dirty bazaar, an ancient

fort, and a high mud wall, enclosing the palace of the rajah. About a

mile beyond the outskirts, we beheld a cloud of yellow dust rapidly

approaching.

“I’ll bet ten to one it’s the rajah,” said Tom, as he abruptly pulled

up his pony.

I felt intensely excited. I had never seen a real live rajah in my

life; and I held myself in readiness for any amount of pomp and

splendour, from milk-white arabs with gold trappings, to a glass coach.

But what was this that I beheld, as we drew respectfully to one side?

I could scarcely believe my own eyes, as there thundered by a most

dilapidated waggonette, drawn by one huge bony horse and a pony, truly

sorry steeds; the harness was tied up with rope, and even rags! Seated

in front was a spare dark man, with a disagreeable expression, dressed

in a stuff coat, the colour of Reckitt’s blue, and a gold skull-cap.

He salaamed to us in a condescending manner, and was presumably the

rajah. A fat pock-marked driver held the reins; in the body of the

waggonette were six men (the suite), and their united weight gave the

vehicle a dangerous tilt backwards. The equipage was accompanied by

four ragamuffins, with long spears, riding miserable old screws with

bell-rope bridles. They kept up a steady tittuping canter, raising a

cloud of suffocating dust, in which they presently vanished.

“I can’t believe that _that_ is a rajah, much less _our_ rajah,” I

remarked to my companions.

“I can,” said Tom, emphatically. “He looks what he is--an unmitigated

scoundrel, and a miser. Did you notice how close his eyes were

together? He is a rich man, too; is lord of the soil as far as your

eyes can see. His grandfather owned a great deal more before the

Mutiny, but it was shorn from him, and he was thankful to be left with

an acre--or his life.”

“Why?” asked Charlie and I in a breath.

“He came out of that bad business very badly. When the inhabitants of

Luckmee were surprised, they sent their women and children to him for

protection, he being, as they supposed, their very good friend; but

he simply bundled them all out, and they were every one massacred. The

rajah then believed that the mutineers would carry everything before

them, but after the fall of Delhi he changed his tune, and sent on a

charger the head of the chief leader in these parts--his own nephew,

as it happened, but this is a detail--in order to make his peace. Of

course, he saved his skin, but he had a bad record, and his grandson is

a chip of the old block.”

“Who told you all this?” I inquired.

“The collector. He says this man grinds down the ryots shamelessly, and

does many a queer thing that ought to land him in a court of law. Here

is the forest, and here, thank goodness, is _the_ bungalow at last.”

Our halting-place proved to be a thatched stone cottage, containing

three rooms, and bath-rooms; there was a deep verandah all round,

excellent servants’ quarters and stables--in short, it was the beau

idéal of a jungle residence. One verandah looked towards the forest,

with its cool, dark recesses, the other commanded the river, and beyond

it, faintly on the sky line, glimmered the snows.

The bungalow was surrounded by about twenty acres of park-like pasture,

through which ran a public road leading to a fine bridge. We took in

these details as we lounged about in the moonlight after dinner, and

unanimously agreed that our present quarters were quite perfect in

every respect.

The next day we fished--a nice, lazy, unexciting occupation. I

sauntered home early in the afternoon--not being a particularly

enthusiastic angler--and disposed myself in a comfortable deep straw

chair in the verandah, in order to enjoy a novel and what I considered

a well-earned cup of tea. As I reclined at my ease, devouring fiction

and cake, sandwich fashion, my attention was arrested by a sound of

loud crashing and smashing of branches in the usually death-like

stillness of the forest. I sat erect, gazing intently at the violent

storm among the leaves, expecting to see emerge a deer, a pig, or, at

the very worst, a peacock! But after staring steadily for some time, I

found that I was looking at the back of a remarkably tall elephant.

The ayah, who was also watching, pointed and called out, “Hathi, mem

sahib, burra hathi,” as if I did not know an elephant when I saw one!

Presently I descended the steps, strolled across the green, and pushed

aside the bushes. There I beheld a lean native, all ribs and turban,

busily engaged in baking his chupatties over a fire of sticks--a little

wizened man, with a sharp cruel face, and close behind him stood a

huge gaunt elephant, or rather the framework of one, for the animal

was shockingly thin. Its poor backbone was as sharp as a razor; its

skin hung in great wrinkles; its eye--an elephant’s eye is small and

ugly--this beast’s eye gave expression to its whole body, and had a

woful look of inarticulate misery, of almost desperate, human

appeal.

The mahout stood up and salaamed, and forthwith he and I began to

converse--that is to say, we made frantic endeavours to understand one

another--the ayah, whose curiosity had dragged her forth, now and then

throwing in a missing word.

“By my favour, it was the rajah’s state elephant; he had also three

others; he sent them into the forest to feed and to rest, when he did

not require them. This, Shere Bahadur (brave lion), was the great

processional elephant, and had a superb cloth-of-gold canopy that

covered him from head to tail.”

(“Poor brute!” I said to myself, “otherwise he would be a terribly

distressing spectacle.”)

“Why is he so thin?” I demanded anxiously.

“Because he is old,” was the ready answer, “more than one hundred

years. He had been, so folk said, a war-elephant taken in battle. He

was worth thousands and thousands of rupees once. He knew no fear, and

no fatigue. Moreover, he was a great shikar elephant--many tigers had

he faced”--and here the mahout proudly showed me the traces of some

ancient scars--“even now the Sahib Log borrowed him as an honour.”

“And what had he to eat?” I inquired.

“More than he could swallow--twelve large chupatties twice a day--this

size”--holding his skinny arms wide apart--“also ghoor, and sugar-cane,

and spice.”

I looked about. I saw no sign of anything but a few branches of neem

tree, and the preparations for the mahout’s own meagre meal.

“Hazoor, he has had his khana--he has dined like a prince,” reiterated

the mahout. “Kuda ka Kussum,” that is to say, “so help me God.”

Nevertheless I remained incredulous. I went over to the bungalow and

brought out a loaf, to the extreme consternation of our khansamah--we

being forty miles from the nearest bazaar bakery--this I broke in two

pieces, and presented it to Shere Bahadur, who seized it ravenously. Of

course it was a mere crumb, and the wrinkled eager trunk was piteously

held out for more; but more I dared not give, for I was in these days

entirely under the yoke of my domestics! I related my little adventure

during dinner--small episodes become great ones in the jungle, where

we had no news, no dâk. Afterwards we took our usual stroll in the

moonlight, and Charlie and I went to visit my new acquaintance. He was

alone. The mahout was away, probably smoking at a panchayet in the

nearest village. In a short time we were joined by Tom, who, as he came

up, exclaimed--

“By Jove, he _is_ thin! I’ve just been hearing all about the beast

from the shikarri; he knows him well. He was a magnificent fellow in

his day. The rajah has not the heart to feed him in his old age, and

turns him out to pick up a living, or starve--whichever he likes.

_He_ is not going to pay for his keep, and so the poor brute is dying

by inches. Every now and then, when there is a ‘tamasha,’ he is sent

for--for a rajah without elephants is like a society woman without

diamonds.”

“And the twelve chupatties, and spices, and sugar?” I exclaimed.

“All moonshine!” was the laconic reply.

I thought a great deal of that miserable famishing animal. He preyed on

my mind, in the watches of the night: I could hear him through the open

window, moving restlessly among the bushes. I was sorely tempted to

rise and steal my own loaves, and give him every crumb in the larder!

Next morning I boldly commanded four enormous cakes to be made, and

took them to him myself. He seemed to know me, and swallowed them down

with wolfish avidity.

When we were fishing that same evening I noticed the elephant down

in the shallows of the river, standing knee-deep in the rushes; his

figure, in profile against the orange sunset, looked exactly like the

arch of a bridge, so wasted was he.

In the course of a day or two we had firmly cemented our acquaintance.

Shere Bahadur came up to the verandah for sugar-cane and bread, and

salaamed to me ostentatiously whenever we met.

“As we are feeding the beast, we may as well make use of him,” remarked

Tom, one morning. “The mahout declares that the rajah will let us have

him for his keep, and his own wages--six rupees a month. We can have a

howdah, and the elephant will be very useful when we get among the long

grass and the deer.”

“Yes, do let us have him,” I gladly agreed. I could not endure to leave

him behind, to return to his ration of neem leaves and semi-starvation.

Tom therefore despatched a “chit” by the mahout to the rajah, and the

next day Shere Bahadur came shuffling back, carrying a howdah and his

owner’s sanction, also a paper which Tom was requested to sign.

This document (written on the leaf of a copy-book, in English, with

immense flourishes) set forth--“That Tom would guarantee to hand Shere

Bahadur back, in good condition, at the end of two months, and that

if anything happened to the elephant, short of natural death, Tom was

responsible for the value of the animal, and the sum of two thousand

rupees.”

“Well,” said Tom, “it is fair enough, though I doubt if the poor old

bag of bones is worth two hundred rupees. He will be well fed, and

returned in good case, and if he dies now on our hands, after living a

century, it will be a base piece of ingratitude for all your kindness;

however, there is life in the old boy yet. You and he are great chums.

He is a splendid shikar elephant, though a bit slow. I think it is a

capital bunderbast.” And he signed.

The mahout (now our servant) was full of zeal and zest, and came and

laid his head on my feet, and assured me that “I was his father and his

mother, and that he was my slave.”

I took care to see Shere Bahadur fed daily. He now really received a

dozen thick chupatties, and plenty of sugar-cane and ghoor, and his

expression lost its look of anguish and famine, though it was early

days to expect any improvement in his figure. When we marched, he

accompanied us, and I rode in the howdah and enjoyed it. He picked his

way so cleverly, and thrust branches aside from our path so carefully,

and seemed (though this may be a wild flight of imagination) to _like_

to work for me. He was capital at going through jungle, or over rough

ground, but in marshy places the poor dear old gentleman seemed to have

great difficulty in getting along, and to have but little power in his

hind quarters.

Six weeks of our leave had melted away, as it were--time had passed

but too rapidly. Shere Bahadur proved invaluable out shooting. Thanks

to him, Tom had got a fine tigress, and Charlie some splendid head of

deer. They looked so odd in the high elephant grass--no elephant to

be seen, but merely two men, as it were sailing along in a howdah. Our

last days were, alas! drawing near; our stores were becoming perilously

low. It was the end of March, the grass and leaves were dry as tinder

and brittle as glass, as the hot winds swept over them. Yes, it was

imperative to exchange these charming tents for the thick cat-haunted

thatch of our commonplace bungalow. We were all sunburnt, happy, and

somewhat shabby. I had contrived to see something of India, after all.

I knew the habits of some of the birds and beasts--the names of flowers

and trees. I had gazed at my own reflection in lonely forest pools,

that were half covered with water-lilies, and from whose sedgy margin

flocks of bright-plumaged water-fowl had flashed.

I had met the peacock and his wives leisurely sauntering home after a

night of pillage in the grain fields. I had seen, in a sunny glade, a

wild dog playing with her puppies. I had watched the big rohu turning

lazily over in the river; the sly grey alligator lying log-like on the

bank; the blue-bull, or nilgai, dashing through the undergrowth. In

short, I had seen a good deal, though I _was_ dull.

Twice a day I visited my dear friend Shere Bahadur. I had become quite

attached to him, and I firmly believe that he loved me devotedly.

One evening I arrived rather earlier than usual on my rounds, and

discovered the mahout in deep converse with another man, a stranger,

who brought his visit to an abrupt close, and said, as he hurried away,

“Teen Roze” (_i.e._ “three days”), to which the mahout responded,

“Bahout Atcha” (_i.e._ “good”).

“It is my Bhai,” he explained. Every one seems to be every one else’s

brother, especially suspicious-looking acquaintances. “He has come a

long journey with a message from my father--my father plenty sick,

calling for me.” An every-day excuse for “taking leave,” only second

to the death of the delinquent’s grandmother.

On the afternoon of the third day we found it too hot to go out early,

and were sitting in our dining-room tent fanning ourselves vigorously

and playing “spoof,” when we suddenly heard a great commotion--a sound

of shouting and running and trumpeting. A tiger, or a “must” elephant,

was my first idea. Yes, there it was! A cry of “The elephant! the

elephant!” It was an elephant--_my_ elephant. We hurried to where a

crowd of all our retainers had collected. A quarter of a mile away

there was a sudden dip in the ground, a half-dried-up pool of water,

covered with a glaze of dark blue scum, surrounded by an expanse of

black oozy mud, fringed with rushes and great water-reeds,--the sort of

place that was the sure haunt of malarious fever--and struggling in the

midst of the quagmire was Shere Bahadur. He had already sunk up to his

shoulders, whilst his mahout lay on the bank tearing his hair, beating

his head upon the ground, and shrieking at intervals, “My life is

departing! my life is departing!” Tom angrily ordered him to arise, and

get to his place on the animal’s back, and endeavour to guide him out

at the safest part; but it appeared to be all quagmire, and quivered

for yards at every movement of the elephant. The mahout gibbered, and

sobbed, but complied. He scrambled on to Shere Bahadur’s neck, and

yelled, gesticulated, urged, and goaded. No need; the poor brute was

aware of the danger--he was labouring now, not for other people’s

profit or pleasure, but for his own life. Every one ran for wood,

wine-cases, or branches, and flung them to the elephant; and it was

pitiful to see how eagerly he snatched at them, and placed them beneath

him, and endeavoured to build himself a foothold. After long and

truly desperate exertions, he got his forelegs right up on the sound

ground, ropes were thrown to him, but, alas! it was all of no avail;

the morass was a peculiarly bad one, and his powerless hind quarters

were unable to complete the effort and land him safely. No, the cruel

quagmire slowly, surely, and remorselessly sucked him down; and, after

a most determined effort on the part of the spectators, and a frenzied

but impotent struggle on his own, Tom turned to me and exclaimed--

“Poor old boy! it’s not a bit of good; he will have to go!”

“Go where?” I cried. “He can be saved; he must be saved,” I added,

hysterically.

“Impossible; he has not sufficient power to raise himself; the ground

is a sort of quicksand. If there was another elephant here, we might

manage to haul him out; but, as it is, it is a mere question of

time--he will be gone in half an hour.”

I wept, implored, ran about like one demented, begging, bribing,

entreating the natives to help. And, I must confess, they all did

their very best, nobly led by Tom and Charlie. But their efforts were

fruitless. Shere Bahadur’s hour had come. He had escaped bullets,

grape-shot, and tiger, to be gradually swallowed down by that slimy

black quagmire, and--horrible thought--buried alive! At the end of

a quarter of an hour he had sunk up to his ears, and had ceased to

struggle. His trunk was still above the mud. His poor hidden sides!--we

could hear them going like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. It appeared

to me that his eye sought mine!

Oh, I could endure the scene no longer. I left the crowd to see the

very end, rushed back to the tent, flung myself on my bed, covered

up my head, and wept myself nearly blind. It seemed hours and

hours--twenty-four hours--before Tom came in, and said, as solemnly as

if he were announcing the death of a friend, “It is all over.”

* * * * *

The detestable mahout over-acted his part; at first he simulated

frenzy, his grief far surpassed mine, he gibbered, wept, and beat

his breast, and rolled upon the ground at our feet in a paroxysm of

anguish, as he assured us that the rajah was a ruthless lord, and

that when he returned to Betwa without the Hathi he would certainly

be put to torture, and subsequently to death. And then Tom suddenly

bethought himself of the terms of the agreement. The elephant had _not_

died a natural death. No, he had “gone down quick into the pit.” He

was dead, and Tom was bound to pay two thousand rupees (about £150).

He looked exceedingly glum, but there was no other alternative; yes,

he must pay--even if he could not contrive to look pleasant. He most

reluctantly sent the rajah a cheque for the amount on the Bank of

Bengal, and the mahout departed with somewhat suspicious alacrity,

leaving the howdah behind him.

Afterwards, we became acquainted with two extraordinary facts. One was

that the rajah had carefully arranged for the death of the elephant,

even before we left our first camp; that the mahout’s so-called

brother was simply a special messenger, who had been despatched to

“hurry up” the tragedy. Discovery the second, that the mahout had been

seen by our shikarri and several other men deliberately goading and

urging the elephant into the quagmire. The wise animal had at first

steadily resisted, but putting implicit faith in his rider--who had

driven him for years--and being the most docile of his race, he had

ultimately yielded, and obediently waded in to his death. At first we

indignantly refused to credit these stories, and declared that they

were merely the ordinary malicious native slander; but subsequently a

slip of copy-book paper was discovered in the pocket of the howdah,

which, being interpreted by Tom, read as follows--

“Make no delay. Bad quagmire. Give fifty rupees.--Betwa.”

And Shere Bahadur was betrayed for that sum.

We received in due time an effusive letter from the Rajah of Betwa,

written, as usual, on the leaf of a copy-book, and inscribed with

numerous ornamental flourishes. He also enclosed a formal stamped

receipt, which is on my bill-file at the present moment, and is not the

least remarkable of the many curious documents there impaled. It says--

“Received from Mister Captain Thomas Hay, the sum of two thousand

government rupees, the value of one War elephant--lost!”

“PROVEN OR NOT PROVEN?”

THE TRUE STORY OF NAIM SING, RAJPOOT.

Look around, and above, with your mind’s eye, and behold high hills

and deep narrow valleys--valleys overflowing with corn, and hills

speckled with flocks; no, these are not the Alps,--nor yet the Andes;

the sturdy brown people have the Tartar type of face, their stubborn,

shaggy ponies are of Thibetan breed. You stand on the borders of

Nepaul, and among the lower slopes of the great Himalayas--a remote

district, but tolerably populated and prosperous. There are many

snug, flat-roofed houses scattered up and down the niches in these

staircase-like heights, encompassed with cowsheds, melon gardens,

groves of walnut trees, and a few almost perpendicular acres of murga

(grain); their proprietors are well-to-do, their wants inconsiderable,

the possession of a pony, half a dozen goats, and a couple of milch

buffaloes, constitutes a man of means, who is as happy in his way as,

perhaps happier than, the English or Irish owner of a great landed

estate. Moreover, this pastoral life has its pleasures: there are

holy festivals, fairs, feasts, wrestling-matches,--and occasionally a

little gambling and cock-fighting. But even in these primitive mountain

regions, life is not _all_ Arcadian simplicity; there are black spots

on the sun of its existence, such as envy, hatred, malice, jealousy,

false-witness, and murder.

Peaceful, even to sleepiness, as the district appears, serene and

immovable as the grand outline of its lofty white horizon, nevertheless

this remote corner of the world has been the scene of a renowned

trial--a trial which outrivalled many a notorious case in far-away

Europe for exciting violent disputes, disturbances, and bloodshed--a

trial which convulsed Kumaon, Kali Kumaon, and Gurwalh--whose effects,

as it were the ripples from a stone cast into still waters, are

experienced to the present hour in the shape of curses, collisions, and

feuds. At the root of the trouble was, as usual, a woman.

Durali (which signifies ‘darling’) was the grandchild and only

surviving relative of Ahmed Dutt, a thriftless, shrivelled old

hill-man, who smoked serrus (or Indian hemp) until he brought himself

into a condition of imbecility, and suffered his worldly affairs to

go to ruin; his hungry cattle and goats strayed over his neighbours’

lands, he cared not for crops, nor yet for wor-hos (boundary marks),

he cared for nought but his huka, and his warm padded quilt, and

abandoned the beautiful Durali, like the cattle, to her own devices.

Now, according to Durali, these devices were supremely innocent: she

spun wool, kept fowl, laboured somewhat fitfully in the fields, and

tended the jungle of dahlias and marigolds which threatened to swallow

up the little slab-roofed dwelling--that was all. So said Ahmed Dutt’s

granddaughter, but public opinion held a different view; it lifted

up its voice (in a shrill treble), and declared that Durali, being

by general consent the most beautiful woman in Kumaon, had wrung the

hearts of half the young--ay, and old--men in the province; that of a

truth her suitors were legion; but that she turned her back on all of

them--as she would have fools to believe--no!

Her grandfather was indigent, as who could deny? Whence, then, the rich

silver necklet, the bangles, the great belt of uncut turquoise, blue

as the spring sky--whence the strong Bhootia pony? Had Ahmed Dutt been

otherwise than a smoke-sodden idiot and a dotard, he had, according

to custom, sold this valuable chattel a full year ago, and received

as her price three hundred rupees, yea, and young asses, perchance,

and buffaloes. As it was, Durali ruled him tyrannically, flouted all

humble pretenders for her hand, and at eighteen years of age was her

own mistress, fancy-free, poor, ambitious, and beautiful--miraculously

beautiful! since her wondrous loveliness stirred even the leathern

hearts of these hill-men; and she possessed a face, figure, craft, and

coquetry, amply warranted to set the whole of Kumaon in a blaze. Yea,

the saying that “to be her friend was unfortunate, to be her suitor

beckoned death,” deterred but few. It was undeniable that Farid Khan

had fallen over the khud, on the bad road to Pura; do not his bones

lie, to this day, unburied and bleaching, at the foot of that awful

precipice? _Who_ said that his rival, Jye Bhan, had pushed him in the

dark? Who could prove it? At any rate, he was no more. As was also

Kalio Thapa, carried away by a mighty flood in the Sardah river--how

it befell, who could say? And there was, moreover, Phulia, who had

certainly hanged himself because Durali had spurned him.

Many were her adorers, and exceedingly bitter the hatred they bore to

one another.

Durali was tall, erect, and Juno-like, with a skin like new wheat,

features of a bold Greek type, abundant jet-black hair, and a pair

of magnificent eyes. Other women declared that there was magic in

these--certainly they spoke with tongues, they commanded, exhorted,

entreated, dazzled, and bewitched.

But Durali owed nothing to the fine feathers which enhance the

attractions of so many fine birds. She wore a dark-blue petticoat and

short cotton jacket, a few bangles and a copper charm--the ordinary

attire of an ordinary Pahari girl; dress could add but little to her

superb personality.

The handsome granddaughter of Ahmed Dutt was well known by reputation

in the surrounding villages, her name was in every one’s mouth, her

fame had penetrated even as far as Almora itself. At the sacred feast

of the Dusserah, where crowds assemble to behold the yearly sacrifice,

there Durali appeared for the first time, and in gala costume, wearing

a short-sleeved red velveteen bodice, an enviable silver necklet, and

a flower behind each ear. The eyes of half the multitude were riveted

on the hill beauty--instead of the devoted buffalo, which had been tied

up for days, at the quarter guard of the Ghoorkas, and now innocently

awaited its impending fate.

Yes, people actually thronged, and pressed, and pushed, and strove,

in order to obtain a good look at the famous Durali, for whom men had

contended, and fought--ay, and died.

* * * * *

There was a sudden lull in the loud hum of voluble Pahari tongues,

and all attention was concentrated on a renowned athlete, who stepped

forward with the huge Nepaulese sacrificial knife in his hand, and with

one swift dexterous blow severed the buffalo’s ponderous head from his

body. Immediately ensued a frenzied rush on the part of the spectators,

in order to dip a piece of cloth in the smoking blood. There was also

a determined, nay, a ferocious struggle between two young men, as to

which should have the privilege of plunging Durali’s handkerchief, on

her behalf, into the holy stream. This coveted office fell to Naim

Sing, who wrung the cloth from the feebler grasp of Johar, the son of

Turroo. This contest over a blood-stained rag was noted at the time.

It was an evil omen, and more than one old crone shook her grey head,

as she muttered, “Mark ye, my sisters, there will be yet more trouble

between the strivers--yea, bloodshed.”

The victor was the son of Bhowan Sing, who lived in the village of

Beebadak, and cultivated a considerable amount of fertile land. He had

three sons--Umed Sing, Rattan Sing, and Naim Sing; the latter was the

Benjamin of the family, a handsome youth, with a lithe, symmetrical

figure, bold eloquent grey eyes, and crisp black locks, the champion

wrestler of his pergunnah (and of the district); possessed not merely

of an active and powerful body, but an active and powerful mind. His

appearance, his age, and his stronger character, were not the only

reasons that made him looked up to by his brethren and neighbours,

and a ruler in his father’s house; some two years previously, whilst

digging a well, he had discovered a pot of coins, and was now the owner

of twenty pairs of pearls, fifty gold mohurs, four ponies, and a herd

of milch buffaloes. Happy the woman whom Naim Sing would take to wife!

Johar, the son of Turroo, was a sturdy, square-faced youth, honest and

cheerful, who had nought to cast into the balance against prowess,

ponies, and pearls, save one slender accomplishment, and his heart--he

played somewhat skilfully on a whistle, which was fashioned out of the

thigh-bone of a man, and profusely studded with great rough turquoises.

He was in much request at all the revellings within thirty miles--that

is to say, Johar with his whistle.

Not long after the Dusserah, the venerable Ahmed Dutt smoked himself

peacefully out of this world, and was duly burnt, with every necessary

formality. His granddaughter being left forlorn, now took an old woman

to live with her in the little stone house under the edge of the Almora

road, as you go to Loher Ghât. Durali was in straitened circumstances;

the murga crop had failed, three of her lean kine were dead, but she

was befriended by Naim Sing, who evinced much sympathy for her desolate

condition; and it was a matter of whispered gossip that Johar was also

secretly performing acts of kindness--secretly, indeed, for none dared

to put themselves into competition with the formidable Naim Sing,--and

it was believed that he was the favoured suitor.

At harvest-time, Naim Sing was compelled to be absent for ten days,

on an urgent mission to the foot of the hills. Immediately on his

return, he hastened to Durali’s hut, and found her absent. Wearied by a

rapid march of thirty miles, he cast himself down among the long rice

stalks at the foot of a choora tree, and there impatiently awaited the

reappearance of his divinity. As he lay half dozing in the heat, his

practised ear heard steps and voices, and looking through the rice

stalks he beheld a couple leisurely approaching. The man was playing on

a bone whistle, and the woman carried sheaves of wheat upon her stately

head. There was no difficulty in recognizing Durali and Johar. The

jealous watcher lay still, listening eagerly with quick-coming breath.

It appeared to him that the beguiling Durali by no means discouraged

her companion’s advances, which were couched in the usual flowery

terms of Oriental flattery. “Oh, woman, thou hast sheaves on thy head,

but they appear like clusters of pomegranates on thy shoulders. There

is none like thee. The light of thy beauty hath illumined my soul!

As for Naim Sing, he is a seller of dog’s flesh! an owl, the son of

an owl; he is vain as the sandpiper, who sleeps with his legs up, in

order to support the sky at night. Listen, O core of my heart! it hath

come to mine ears, that trade and barter have nought to do with his

hasty excursions to the plains--he hath a wife at Huldwani--hence his

journeys.”

This was too much for the endurance of his enraged listener, who,

leaping furiously upon Johar, clove his head with his heavy tulwar

(sword). Johar staggered, blinded with blood, and defenceless, then,

turning, ran for his life; but his infuriated enemy, flinging the

shrieking girl to one side, swiftly pursued the wounded wretch to

where he had sought refuge in a cowshed, dashed in the frail door,

and there despatched him. Presently he returned, fierce-eyed, savage,

blood-stained, to confront the horror-stricken and trembling Durali.

“Woman,” he cried hoarsely, “I have slain him--thine the sin. His

death be on thy head!”

But she, with many tears and vows, vociferously protested her

innocence, and in a surprisingly short time appeased Naim Sing’s wrath.

Now that the rage of his jealousy and vengeance had been satisfied, he

began to realize the result of his passion; he had slain a man--not

the first who had met his death at his hands. He had once killed

an antagonist in a wrestling-match--that was a misadventure; this

was--well, the Sirkar would call it--murder.

The shades of evening had not yet fallen, and until then he dared not

set about concealing the corpse. He found Durali a cunning adviser and

an unscrupulous accomplice. Men die hard, especially wiry hill-men, and

Johar had not passed away in silence; his expiring groans were heard by

Bucko, the old woman, and Naim Sing was therefore compelled to admit

her into the secret.

When the moon rose, the three conspirators bound up the body and

carried it down to one of the fields, there they carefully uprooted

each stalk, each distinct plant, growing over the surface of what was

to form the future grave, which was next excavated, and Johar, the son

of Turroo, was dropped into the hole, his whistle flung contemptuously

after him, and both were presently covered up with earth--and wheat.

The burying-party returned to the hut, where Naim Sing inflicted a

small wound on his leg with a cut of his tulwar, in order to support

the statement he proposed making to the authorities, that Johar had

attacked him with murderous intent, and, having failed in his effort,

fled. Next morning Naim Sing called on the Tehel-seldhar and made his

report, and the Tehel-seldhar despatched a tokdar (responsible official

for a cluster of villages) to take steps for the capture of Johar, the

son of Turroo. But Johar was not to be found, or even heard of, and

his own family became seriously alarmed, and suspected foul play. If

he had fled and departed on a long journey, wherefore had he left his

boots, clothes, and money behind? The connections of Naim Sing were

powerful, their pirohet, or family priest, his personal friend--rumour

and suspicion were strangled--but there were grave whispers round the

fires in the huts, all over the hills: what had befallen Johar, the son

of Turroo?

However, a murder was a common event. Blood-feuds were acknowledged,

and soon the circumstance was allowed to fade into oblivion by all but

Rateeban, a lame man, Johar’s twin brother, who took a solemn oath

at Gutkoo temple to avenge him. He suspected Durali; he watched her

and her house by stealth. Why was one small corner of the wheat-field

uncut? He made her overtures of friendship, he flattered, he fawned;

by dint of judicious questions, and even more judicious information,

Rateeban gained his end. Oh, false love! Oh, treachery! Oh, woman! it

was the beautiful Durali who led Rateeban to his brother’s grave,

who showed him the blood splashes on the cowshed walls, who told him

the truth. Yes, jealousy is doubtless as cruel as the grave. Durali

had capitulated and given her long-beleaguered heart wholly to Naim

Sing--his eloquence, good looks, prowess,--ay, and presents,--had

carried the citadel, and lo! the dead man’s words were verified. Naim

Sing had already a wife at Huldwani, a bold dark woman of the plains,

to whom he was secretly wed by strictest and securest ceremonial.

To the amazement and indignation of himself and his kinsmen, Naim Sing

was arrested and carried to Almora jail, there to await his trial; his

friends and connections (who were many and powerful) made a desperate

attempt to secure his release; bribes, and even threats, were used; but

what could avail against the evidence of the treacherous Durali?--and

the evidence of the dead body? Yes, Naim Sing, the champion wrestler,

the leading youth in his district, handsome, popular, rich, in the

full zenith of his days and vigour, was bound to be despatched to

the dark muggy shores of the Salween river, and end his existence

ingloriously in Moulmein jail. Never again would he take part in a

wrestling-match, or breast his native mountains and chase the ibex

and makor; his beloved hills, and his ancestral home, would know him

no more. Rateeban, Johar’s lame brother, would have preferred the

blood of his enemy, but was fain to be contented with his sentence,

“Transportation for life.” He exulted savagely in his revenge, and

actually accompanied the gang of wretched prisoners the whole march of

ninety miles to the railroad--on foot--in order that he might enjoy the

ecstasy of gloating over his foe in chains! Each day at sundown, when

the party halted, Rateeban came and stood opposite to Naim Sing, and,

leaning on his stick, mocked him. It was rumoured that Rateeban was

not the sole voluntary escort, but that a woman, veiled, and riding a

stout grey pony, stealthily followed the party afar off! It was Durali,

who, when it was too late, was distracted with penitence and anguish.

Her remorse was eating away her very heart--but to what avail now?

Huldwani is a large, populous native town on the edge of the Terai,

a few miles from the foot of the hills, and here a frantic creature

awaited the prisoners, or rather the prisoner Naim Sing. She tore

her hair, she beat her head upon the ground, and Naim Sing was not

unmoved--no. Then she lifted up her hands and her voice, and cursed

with hideous screaming curses “that woman who had wrought this great

shame and wickedness--that other woman on the hills!” And the other

woman, having heard with her ears and seen with her eyes, turned back

and retraced those weary ninety miles, _now_ more in anger than in

sorrow,--for such is human nature.

In less than twelve months, the news came to the hills that Naim Sing

had died in Moulmein prison, the death certificate said of atrophia,

but his father and brethren called it a broken heart. “He was ever too

wild a bird for a cage,” proclaimed his kinsmen and friends; and within

a short time he was as completely forgotten as Johar, whom he had

slain, and Durali, whom he had deceived, and who had disappeared.

* * * * *

After a lapse of twenty years, two men belonging to the village where

Rateeban lived, returned from a pilgrimage, and announced that at the

great fair at Hardwar, on the Ganges, they had seen _Naim Sing_--who

had saluted them as Brahmins. He had with him three horses, and a

woman--his wife--and looked in good health, and prosperous. Rateeban,

at first angrily incredulous, finally determined to investigate

this matter in person, and once more travelled the wearisome ninety

miles which lay between his home and the railway. Though every step

was painful, he heeded it not, such is the power of hate! With

inexhaustible patience, he followed clue after clue; he searched for

nearly three months, and was at last rewarded by success. Back up

to the hills, to a distant village in Gurwalh, among the spectators

at a great wrestling-match, he tracked and found Naim Sing!--Naim

Sing, surprisingly little changed. Where were the signs of convict

labour, the marks of irons, and of that life that burns into a man’s

soul? He looked somewhat older, his temples were bald, but his figure

was as upright, his foot as firm, his eye as keen as ever. Rateeban

swore to him, with fervour, as an escaped convict, and had him

instantly arrested. There was no doubt of his identity; there was the

self-inflicted scar on his leg, the bone in his arm which had been

broken by wrestling. The criminal was brought back to Almora, in order

to be arraigned for unlawful return from transportation, and tried

under section 226 of the Indian Penal Code.

The tidings of the resurrection and return of Naim Sing was passed by

word of mouth from village to village. His father and brethren, his

friends and relations, and those of Johar and Rateeban, and, in short,

everybody’s friends, flocked into Almora to attend the trial. The case

was heard in the court-house, which stands within the old fort; and

not only was the court itself crammed to suffocation, but the crowds

overflowed the surrounding enclosure, even down the narrow stone steps,

and away into the streets. Thousands and thousands were assembled,

and as the days went on the interest quickened, and the case became a

matter of furious contention between two factions--for and against:

the party who declared the culprit was indeed the real, true, and only

Naim Sing, and the party who swore that he was _not_. Fierce feuds were

engendered, torrents of abuse and angry blows were exchanged,--blood

was freely shed.

All Kumaon and Gurwalh had encompassed Almora like an invading army,

and Kumaon, Gurwalh, and the respectable Goorka station itself, were in

an uproar, and seething like a witches’ cauldron.

The prisoner stood up boldly, as befitted the namesake of the lion,

and confronted his accusers with a haughty and impassive mien. But

surely--surely those keen grey eyes were the eyes of Naim Sing!

“I am not the criminal,” he declared. “Who is this Naim Sing--this

murderer? and what hath he to do with me? Behold I am Krookia, and

my father is Rusool Sing, who lives in the village of Tolee; my star

is Jeshta and Ras, and my horoscope is with Gunga Josh, if he be yet

alive.”

Moreover, he brought witnesses, and the certificate of Naim Sing’s

death in Moulmein jail.

“The people of the pergunnah, which you aver that you belong to, do not

know you,” said the Crown prosecutor. “But Rateeban recognized you; how

can you explain that?”

“There be two Rateebans,” was the glib answer, “and one is mine enemy.”

“Strange that Rateeban, the enemy of Naim Sing, is your enemy also.”

“I doubt not that the lame dog--may his race be exterminated!--hath

many foes. I know him not. He hath been the means of sending one man to

prison for life, and now, behold, he would despatch another. It is a

vicious ambition. As for the people of my village, lo! many years ago,

I found a treasure, and my neighbours quarrelled and beat and robbed

me. They have no desire to recall their own black deeds, nor my face. I

fled to the plains, where I have taken road contracts for the Sirkar,

and prospered.”

“Naim Sing also found a treasure,” said the advocate. “Does the land in

these hills yield so many of these crops?”

“By your honour’s favour, I cannot tell. I found one treasure, to my

cost. Money is a man-slayer.”

Many witnesses recognized or repudiated the prisoner, and there was

hard swearing on both sides.

At length a young Baboo from Allahabad was put forward--a keen,

intelligent, brisk-looking youth, wearing a velvet cap and patent

leather boots, embellished with mother-of-pearl buttons.

“Twenty years ago I dwelt in Bareilly,” he said. “There were four of

us children, my mother, and my father, who was sick unto death. The

jail daroga, who was his kinsman, came to him privily one night, and

whispered long. I was awake, being an-hungered, and heard all that was

said.

“‘Lo! Gunesheb, thou art my kinsman. Thou art poor and sick, thy days

are numbered; wouldst thou die a rich man?’

“‘Would I die in Paradise?’ said my father.

“‘A gang of convicts pass here to-morrow, on their way to Calcutta

and Moulmein beyond the sea. Wilt thou take the place of one of them?

Thou art his size and height; thou hast not long to live, he has a

strong young life; and in return for thy miserable body he will give

four hundred rupees, ten pairs of pearls, one pair of gold bangles, and

three ponies.’

“My father went forth that same hour with the jail daroga, and returned

no more. Next day my mother wept sore; yea, even though she had gold

bangles on her arms, very solid, and pearls and silver in a cloth;

also there were three ponies, strong and fat, in our yard. Later, she

took us to see when the convicts passed along the road, and we rode

on the ponies beside them for two days. She told the warders she had

a brother, falsely accused, who was in the gang. He wore a square cap

pulled far over his eyes, and he coughed as he marched. As we left,

he embraced me tenderly, by favour of the warders. I knew he was my

father. Afterwards we went south, and returned to Bareilly no more.”

Thus Gunesheb had bartered away his few remaining months of life for

the benefit of his family, and Naim Sing had spread a bold free wing,

and enjoyed his liberty for twenty years! He had the ceaseless craving

of a born hill-man to return to the mountains. The line of snows edging

the burnt-up plains had drawn him like a magnet. Slowly but surely,

becoming reckless with time and impunity, he had cast fear and caution

to the winds, as once more the smell of the pine-needles and of the

wood smoke crept into his blood!

As he sat in the dock, the prisoner deliberately scanned every face

with an air of lofty indifference. He swore to the last that “he

was Krookia, the son of Rusool Sing,” but no respectable land-owner

identified him under that name. Moreover, the wife of Naim Sing had

been recognized at her native place wearing her rings and bangles, sure

and certain token that her husband was _alive_; and in the face of

overwhelming evidence, the culprit was sentenced for the second time on

the same spot to be transported beyond the seas for the term of his

natural life.

Then Naim Sing arose, tall and erect, a dignified and impressive

figure, carrying his two-score years with grace, and made a most

powerful and thrilling appeal in his own defence--an appeal for an

innocent man, who was about to be banished for ever from his home

and country, because, forsooth, his features had the ill fortune to

resemble those of a dead murderer!

During his speech, one could almost hear a leaf fall outside the court.

The previous quiet had now changed to what resembled a hush of awe.

The audience within and without--the windows and doors stood wide, and

exhibited an immense sea of human heads--hung with avidity on each

sonorous syllable. Not a gesture, not a glance was lost. So stirring

and impassioned was his eloquence, that every heart was shaken, and

many were moved to tears. But the condemned man pleaded his cause in

vain; in fact, his silver tongue afforded but yet another proof of his

identity. His fate was sealed. Fearing a public tumult, he was removed

secretly ere dawn, marched down the mountain sides for the last time,

despatched to the Andamans,--and there he died.

So ended a trial that lasted many days, that was more discussed and

fought over than any law-suit of the period; a case which is fiercely

argued and hotly debated even to the present hour; a cause which has

divided scores of households and separated chief friends. For there are

some who declare that the real Naim Sing expired in Moulmein jail khana

nineteen years previously, and that the vengeance of Rateeban demanded

two lives for one; also that the heavily bribed son of Gunesheb had

borne black false witness, his father having died in his own house; and

that, of a truth, an innocent man was condemned to transportation and

death: but there be some who think otherwise.

AN OUTCAST OF THE PEOPLE.

“Pushed by a power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,

We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.”

Sir A. Lyall.

Jasoda was seventeen years of age, and fair as a sunrise on the snows.

She dwelt in a district not far from the Goomptee river, among the

wheat and poppy fields that are scattered over Rohilcund.

As a little girl, all had gone well with her; she was petted and

caressed; she played daily in the sun with other village children,

erecting palaces and temples with dust and blossoms; her hair was

carefully plaited and plastered with cocoanut oil; she wore a big

nose-ring, anklets, and bangles--not brass or pewter, but real silver

ones, for she was married to the heir of a rich thakur, a delicate,

puny boy of her own age. But one rains he died, and there was sore,

sore lamentation. Had Jasoda realized what his death signified to her,

she would have wailed ten times louder than any paid mourner; but

ignorance was surely bliss, and she was not _very_ sorry, for Sapona

had been greedy, fretful, and tyrannical. He had often struck her,

pinched her, and pulled her long plaits, or run screaming with tales

to his mother--a fat woman with a shrill tongue and a heavy arm--whom

Jasoda feared.

But after Sapona had been carried away to the burning ghâut, all

seemed changed; every one appeared to hate Jasoda, yea, even her own

grandmother. Her ornaments were taken off, her head was shorn, her

cloth, though white, was coarse and old; there were no more games under

the tamarind trees, and no more sweets. Jasoda’s life was blighted

in the bud, for, at the tender age of six, she was that miserable

outcast, a Braminee widow. Poor pariah! she would stand aloof, with

wide-open wistful eyes (ostentatiously shunned by the other children

in the courtyard), and wonder what it all meant. She would piteously

inquire of her grandmother, as the crone sat spinning cotton, “What she

had done. Wherefore might she not eat with her, and why did Jooplee

push her, and strike her, if she approached her? and wherefore did

her mother-in-law, and other women, hold aside their clothes lest she

should touch them as she passed?”

“The shadow of a widow is to be dreaded, and--it is the custom, it

is our religion,” muttered the old woman, as if speaking to herself.

No doubt the days of suttee were better; then the girl had one grand

hour, applauded by the world; she was holy and sanctified, and hers was

a glorious triumph as she walked in procession behind the tom-toms,

whilst thousands looked on with awe, and the devout pressed forward to

touch her garments. Was not a moment like that worth years of drudgery

and misery, blows and scorn? True, at the end of the march, there was

the funeral pyre under the peepul tree; but if there was oil among

the faggots, and the wood was not too green, and the priests plied

the suttee with sufficient bhang, it was nought! And her screams were

always drowned in the shouting and the tom-toms. She herself had seen

a suttee; yes, and the girl was forced into it. She had no spirit; she

wept, and shrieked, and struggled,--so people had whispered,--but her

relations drove her to the faggots, for the family of a suttee are held

in much esteem! Truly it were better for Jasoda, this child with the

beautiful face, to have died for the honour of her people than to live

to be their scapegoat and their slave!

As years went on, and hot weather, monsoon, and cold season passed,

and crops were sown and cut, and there were births and marriages and

deaths, Jasoda grew up. She was now seventeen, and very fair to see.

Her mother-in-law hated her, as did also her brother; and, more than

all, her brother’s wife, and her sisters-in-law. In spite of their fine

silk sarees and gold ornaments, they were but little stars, whilst this

accursed girl was as the sun at noonday!

Jasoda was the drudge of the family,--a large clan, dwelling, as

is customary, within the same enclosure. These courtyards, built

irregularly, somewhat resemble a child’s house of cards; narrow

footpaths between the mud walls compose the village streets. You may

steer your way among these beaten tracks, and beneath these sun-baked

entrenchments, and never see a single house; merely various postern

doors which enclose a space, possibly containing ten hovels, and as

many families. One of the largest courtyards in the village belonged

to Padooram, the brother of Jasoda; he was the richest man in the

whole pergunnah, owned land and cattle and plough bullocks, and had

no bunnia’s claims to disquiet his sleep. His wife, a fat, pock-marked

woman, boasted real gold bangles, and a jewelled nose-ring, and was

the envy of her sex. There was Jasoda’s father and mother-in-law, and

Monnee and Puthao, their married daughters; her younger brother; his

wife and family; also her old grandmother; and Jasoda was the servant

of them all. Truly they were hard masters and merciless mistresses.

She, their slave, arose at dawn. She drew water till her arms ached.

She ground meal, and cooked, and polished the brass cooking-vessels;

she carried the clothes of these households to the ghât, and washed

them; she minded the children, and milked the buffaloes, and herded

the cattle. More than this, when one of the plough bullocks was sick,

her brother placed the yoke on Jasoda’s shoulders, and drove her as

companion to the spotted ox, up and down the long furrows, and in the

sight of all people. To them it was as nought; no one cried shame,

or pitied her--she was only a _widow_. In the harvest season there

was much to do, from daylight till dusk, cutting cane and corn, and

carrying and stacking, and working at the sugar-press. Sometimes,

strong girl as she was, Jasoda wept from sheer weariness. Yet, for all

this toil, she barely got enough to keep her from semi-starvation. She

was flung the scraps that were left from meals, as well as the rags of

the family. Nor did she ever receive one kind word or look, not even

from her grandmother. However, she was amply compensated for this cruel

indifference from another source. Many were the kind words and looks

bestowed on her by the young men of the village; but Jasoda was proud.

Jooplee, her sister-in-law, famed for the most evil mind and wicked

tongue within many koss, even _she_ could find no cause of offence in

her drudge, save that she was the fairest maiden in all the taluka, and

this fault she punished with the zeal and vigour of an envious and ugly

woman! Jasoda was desperately unhappy. What had she done to men or

gods, to be treated thus cruelly? And there was nothing to look forward

to, even in twenty years’ time. Her present lot would only be altered

by death--and after death? There was no future existence for such as

_she_. Many a time she crept away, and poured out all her wrongs to

the squat stone idol daubed with red paint, whose temple was the shade

of the peepul tree. She asked him, “Why women were ever born into the

land?” and besought his help with tears and passionate pleadings. In

vain she cried, “Ram, ram,” and took him offerings of flowers, and

gashed her arm with a sickle, and shed her hot young blood before him.

He maintained his habitual placid pose, his vacant stare, his graven

grin, and gave no sign. No, at the end of six weary moons there was

still no answer to her prayers. Heart-sick, Jasoda now went and gazed

longingly at the river. She stole away to visit it whilst her relations

took their midday rest in the cane-fields. Alas! it was very low, and

fat muggers lay upon its grey mud banks, as lazy as so many logs of

wood, though their evil little eyes were active enough--watching for

floating corpses. No, no; a big rapid torrent in the rains, with a

strong flood, fed by the far-away snows, rushing boldly onward, bearing

great blocks of foam on its brown bosom,--into _that_ she could cast

herself, but not into one of these slow, slimy channels, creeping past

greasy banks, whereon ravenous alligators would battle for her body.

As time advanced, the tyranny of the family became more oppressive,

and Jasoda threw patience to the winds--indeed, it had long been

threadbare. To be sent five or six koss in the burning June sun, to

gratify the momentary whim of Taramonnee, a child, or, rather, imp

of five, was beyond endurance, and represented the proverbial “last

straw.” The domestic martyr being hopeless and desperate, now turned

on her tormentors, as a leopardess at bay. Why should she be as an

ox, a beast of burthen, all her days? She gave shrill invective for

invective, accepted curses and blows with sullen indifference, and

refused to work beyond a certain portion. Yea, they might kill her, if

they so willed; it would be all the better; and she oscillated between

fits of hot passion and moods of cold obstinacy. Her aged grandmother

could not imagine what had happened to the household slave. She was

usually so long-suffering, so easily driven and abused. The hag and

the other women put their heads together and took counsel, whilst the

rebel sat aloof in a dark corner of her hut, like some wild animal in

its den, her fixed dark eyes staring out on the glaring white courtyard

with an expression of intense, hopeless despair. She hated every one.

She felt that she could almost kill them. Truly she had been born in an

evil hour and under an evil star, and she cursed both hour and planet.

There were Junia and Talloo, girls who had played with her: each had

a husband and babies and bangles; yea, and cows of their own. Why was

she beaten and half starved, and treated like a stray pariah dog? She

was handsomer than either. Isa, the son of Ganga, had told her that her

eyes were stars, her teeth as seed pearls, and her lips like the bud

of the pomegranate; yet these fat, ugly women slept at ease on their

charpoys, whilst she toiled in the cold grey dawn or in the scorching

noonday heat!

Above all creatures who breathed, she detested Jooplee, her

sister-in-law, the mother of Taramonnee; and next to her, Taramonnee,

a shrill-voiced, malignant imp, who pinched and bit her secretly, and

who once--when she was tied up and beaten--danced before her, and made

mouths at her and mocked her, clapping her hands with fiendish ecstasy.

For many months a great fire had been smouldering in Jasoda’s

heart, and woe be to the hand that stirred it! Once more it was the

cane-cutting season, and she was toiling hard all day, reaping and

carrying and stacking. She was very very weary, and whilst the carts

lumbered villagewards with the last load, she sat down under a peepul

tree to rest. It was the soft hour of sunset, the cattle were going

home, bats were flickering to and fro, the low evening smoke lay like

a pale blue veil over the land: smoke from fires where many hungry

people were baking the universal chupatti. Jasoda fell fast asleep, and

dreamt. Her dreams were pleasant, for she dreamt that she was dead.

Suddenly she was rudely awoke by an agonizing pain. No, it was not a

snake-bite; it was a pinch from the sharp strong fingers of Jooplee’s

daughter, who, gazing intently into her face, cried with malicious

glee--

“Ah, lazy one, arise and work! I shall tell of thee, and to-night thou

shalt be beaten. The neighbours refuse to believe that father beats

thee, because thou dost not scream. Mother said so. But thou shalt

scream to-night, so that thy cries can be heard as far as the bunnia’s

shop. Get up, pig!” And she pushed her with her foot.

It needed but a touch like this to rouse the sleeping flame. Instantly

Jasoda sprang erect, rage in her heart and murder in her eye. At least

she would rid herself of this insect, and, snatching up a stone, she

dashed it at the child with all the force of a muscular arm, and

with the fury of years of repressed passion. The aim was true, and

Taramonnee fell. For a second her limbs twitched convulsively, and then

she lay still--oh, tragically still.

“Rise!” screamed Jasoda. “Rise! and may thine eyes be darkened, thou

little devil!”

But there was no movement; Taramonnee was evidently stunned. Jasoda

stooped and raised her, whilst a terrible fear crept over her. The

child’s head fell back, her hand dropped. Was it possible? Could she

be _dead_? Yes, she was dead, though she had not meant to kill her;

and, since she could not bring her to life, what was she to do? She

gazed with horror at this awful, motionless thing, whose life she

herself had taken, oh, how easily! She could no longer endure those

staring, glazing eyes, she must put them out of her sight. Raising

the limp body with a supreme effort, she carried it in her arms to a

dry well at some distance, and then averting her face, she threw it

down. It struck against the sides, with a dull muffled sound, and fell

to the bottom with a hideous crash that made her shudder. As Jasoda

went slowly homewards, she was conscious that she was now the same as

Moola, the son of Maldhu, who had cut his wife’s throat with a sickle;

or the city girl, who drowned her baby in the tank in the Mango tope.

She cooked the evening meal as usual, and heard Jooplee inquire for

Taramonnee, and send to seek her at a neighbour’s; presently she became

anxious, talked of snakes, hyenas, and devils, and even went herself

to each postern door, and called, “Taramonnee, Taramonnee;” but she

never once thought of inquiring about her from the sullen girl who was

washing the cooking-pots. The old grandmother said soothingly, “Surely

she hath gone with Almonee, who lives across the river.” But this did

not satisfy her anxious parent, and the neighbourhood was summoned, and

a great search made. It was full moon--a splendid harvest moon--and

bright as day. All night long Jasoda lay awake, watching the moonbeams

and listening to the melancholy howl of the jackals, and the heavy thud

of the ripe banka fruit as it fell in the courtyard. Should she run

away or stay? she asked herself. She debated the vital question long,

and finally resolved that she would abide and await her fate! She was

weary of life. Why prolong it? The river was low; best perish by the

rope, and thus end all. At least she would have rest and peace, and

perhaps a new and better life in another world.

At daybreak, the body of Taramonnee was brought in and laid before her

mother, who tore her hair in a frenzy, and beat her head against the

wall. The hakim was summoned, and solemnly declared that the child had

not met her death by accident. No; behold, there was the blow on her

temple; of a surety, she had been murdered,--and by whom? Jooplee read

the answer in Jasoda’s eyes.

“Yes, I struck her,” admitted the girl boldly. “She came to me by the

cane-field, and pinched me sorely when I was asleep. I am _glad_ she is

dead.”

She repeated the same story to four police, who arrived at noon,

and bound her arms, and led her away to jail. She suffered it to be

believed that she had murdered the child in cold blood, and thrown

her down the well. Jasoda’s case was unusually simple; there was but

a brief trial. The culprit offered no defence, and had apparently no

friends. It was known that she had always hated Taramonnee and her

mother; she had found the former alone, had slain her,--and was glad.

Her own mouth destroyed her. The village was in a ferment. The court

was crowded; Jooplee and her people were ravening for revenge. As for

Jasoda’s kindred, they knew she must be hanged--which thing was worse

than suttee--disgrace instead of glory would cover them! When asked if

she had aught to say, Jasoda stood up before the judge, a beautiful

young creature, with the passionate dark eyes and the regular features

of her race, and the form of a Grecian nymph, and answered distinctly--

“No, my lord sahib, I care not for my life; and, if it is the will of

the sirkar, let them take it.” To herself she said, “Better this end

than the other; the river is low.”

As Jasoda lay under sentence of death, her venerable grandmother

bestirred herself to save her. She was a shrivelled, hideous old hag,

with a ragged red chuddah over her head, and she sat at the gate of the

judge’s compound daily, and cried for the space of two hours without

ceasing.

“Do hai! Do hai! Do hai!” _i.e._ “Mercy! mercy! mercy!” She then

adjourned to the cantonment magistrate’s abode, and shrieked the same

prayer outside his gates; and finally to the civil surgeon’s, who

was also the jail superintendent; and to him, for this reason, she

devoted one hour extra, and her voice never once failed. Thus much for

being the scold of the village! There was intense excitement in the

neighbourhood as the day of execution drew nigh, and lo! one evening,

when a great gallows was raised on the maidan, there were already

collected thousands of people, precisely as if it were some holy spot,

a scene of pilgrimage--all attracted by the same desire--to see a woman

hanged!

It was indeed a grand tamasha. The crowds far surpassed in numbers

those who assembled at the yearly feast. The local inhabitants noted

with complacency the hundreds of total strangers who came for many

miles on foot, on ponies, or in ekkas. Old Sona ceased now to scream

and beat her breast. She felt like one of the actors in a tremendous

tragedy, and was the object of a certain amount of curiosity and

attention--a position that was entirely novel, and--alas! alas! that

it must be chronicled--secretly enjoyed. The sun rose on the fatal

day--the last sunrise Jasoda would ever see--the great prison gates

opened, and a body of police marched slowly forth. Then came Jasoda,

walking between two warders. There was a murmur among the throng. She

was surprisingly fair to behold, and for once in her life she wore a

dress like girls of her class. A wealthy and eccentric woman in the

city had sent it to her. Yes, she was as fair as the newly risen dawn.

She stood and steadily surveyed the immense expectant multitude. She

recognized the eyes of many people from her own village fixed upon her

with a mixture of interest and awe. She beheld her old grandmother,

and her brother, and Moonee, and Pathoo, and Jai Singh, the son of

Herk Singh, who had compared her to Parbutti herself and to the new

moon. It seemed to her that to be the centre of interest to so vast a

throng was almost as fine as a suttee! The last moment arrived, and the

superintendent asked her if she had anything to say, any bequests to

make.

“Bequests!” and she almost laughed. “Truly I have nothing in the world

save a few rags. But thou mayest give my body to my grandmother; she

seems sorry. I have nothing to say. The child hurt me, and I struck

her. I meant not to kill her; nevertheless, she died; that is all. She

is dead, and I shall soon be dead also.”

Jasoda’s fortitude did not fail her--no, not when her arms were

pinioned, her petticoats tied about her feet, the cap drawn over her

face. She never once quailed or trembled.

* * * * *

When the body had been cut down, and the crowd had dispersed, the

superintendent sent for the old grandmother, who came, dry-eyed and

fierce.

“It is somewhat against rules,” he said, “but I am going to grant you

the girl’s only request: she said you were to have her body--take it

away, and burn it!”

“I!” shrieked the harridan. “_I_ touch her after the dones (hangmen)

have laid their hands on her! _I_, a high-caste Braminee! Do with the

carrion as thou wilt!” and she spat on the ground and went her way.

Thus, after death, neglect and scorn pursued poor hot-tempered Jasoda,

even to the grave.

Nevertheless, had she but known it, her wrongs were most amply avenged.

Who was there to do the work of the family--nay, of five families?

She who had been their slave for years was sorely missed. The lazy,

useless womenkind had now to cook and bake, draw water and feed cows,

and grumbled loudly and quarrelled savagely among themselves--yea, even

to blows--though the task of one was now portioned among so many. The

patient, graceful figure, toiling to and from the well, or laden with

wood or fodder, was no longer to be met, and was missed by more than

her own household.

“She was the fairest girl in all the district,” said Gopal, the

bunnia’s son. “There was no joy in her life, she seemed glad to die.

Truly her execution was a grand tamasha, and brought many strangers

from afar.”

This was her epitaph.

Jasoda’s name is still green in the memory of the villagers of

Sharsheo; not that they acknowledge any special claim on her part

to beauty, virtue, or martyrdom, but simply because it is not easy

to forget that Jasoda, the daughter of Akin-alloo, and the widow of

Sapona, was hanged.

AN APPEAL TO THE GODS.

“We be the gods of the East,

Older than all;

Masters of mourning and feast,

How shall we fall?”

Within forty miles of where the Himalayas rise from the plains,

and the sunrise unveils the blushing snows--and precisely half a

koss from the Kanāt river--lies the hamlet of Haru, surrounded by

a tangle of castor-oil plants, mango trees, and tamarinds, and

standing in the midst of a fertile tract of cane, corn, and poppy. The

scarlet-and-white poppies, the stiff, green cane, the waving yellow

wheat, also the village (which boasted nine hundred souls at the last

census), were the joint property of two wealthy zemindars. The northern

part of Haru--including the crops sown for the opium department--was

the inheritance of Durga Pershad, a tall, dark, gaunt man, with an

unpleasant and sinister expression. The wheat, cane, and southern

end of the town belonged to Golab Rai Sing, who bore but a scant

resemblance to his name--“the King of Roses;” he was, in fact, a stout,

smiling, pock-marked person, with a glib tongue, and a close fist.

These two zemindars hated one another as thoroughly as men in their

position were not only bound, but born to do. They had not merely been

bequeathed adjoining lands, and a whole village between them, but a

venerable blood feud, which had been conscientiously handed down from

generation to generation.

In good old days--days within living memory--there had been desperate

outbreaks, dacoities, and murders, attended with the usual sequel:

hanging or imprisonment beyond the seas. Now, in more civilized times

(although the vital question of the well by the temple was yet in

abeyance, passed on from collector to collector), the rival factions

were content with pounding each other’s cattle, burning each other’s

fodder, and blackening each other’s characters. Both had a large

following of tenants, relations, parasites; and he who brought tidings

that evil had befallen the enemy was a truly welcome guest! When the

great men met, they simply scowled and passed on their way, and their

women-folk laid every sin to the charge of their neighbours that it is

possible for the depraved imagination of a practised native slanderer

to conceive.

Golab Rai Sing was the richer of the two zemindars, though Durga

Pershad owned a larger extent of ground; but it was whispered that he

had lost much money in a law-suit, and that Muttra Dass (the soucar)

held a mortgage on his best crops; nevertheless, he carried his head

high, and his wife had real silver tyres to the wheels of her ekka!

It was the first moon in the new year, and the collector’s camp was

pitched under the mango tope, between the village and the river; he

had but recently returned from two years’ furlough, and from the whirl

of politics and the turmoil of life at high pressure; also, he was new

to the district.

As he stood meditating on the river bank at dawn, and saw the snows

rise on the horizon with the sun, watched the strings of cattle soberly

threading their way to pasture, heard the doves cooing in the woods,

and the rippling of the river through the water plants, he said to

himself, “Here at least is rest and peace.” Casting his eyes toward the

red-roofed houses, half concealed among bananas and cachar trees,--with

their exquisite purple flowers--

“I am not sure that these people have not six to four the best of

it,” he remarked aloud (no one but his dog received this startling

confidence), as he gazed enviously at a group of lean brown Brahmins

who were dipping piously in the Kanāt, and pouring water from their

brass lotahs; he thought of his own tailor’s and other bills, his

wife’s insane extravagance, her flirtations, his hard work, his years

of enforced exile.

“Yes,” he continued, “_we_ know nothing about it. We wear ourselves

out running after phantoms. Here is contentment, assurance of future

happiness, and present peace.”

But then, you see, he was a new man--a visionary--and was totally

ignorant of the internal condition of this picturesque and primitive

hamlet.

The same day, as in duty bound, the two zemindars, each mounted on a

pony, and followed by a crowd of retainers, waited upon the collector

sahib, apparently on the most amicable terms. Just once a year they

were compelled to masquerade as friends, though when they had the

collector’s ear in private audience, their mutual complaints were both

numerous and bitter. They bore, as offerings, fruit and wreaths of

evil-smelling marigolds (that noxious flower so amazingly dear to the

native of India); also Golab Rai Sing carried with him one thing which

his rival lacked, and that was his son and only child, Soonder--_i.e._

“the beautiful”--a lively boy of five years, who was gaily attired

in a rose-coloured satin coat, and wore a purple velvet cap and gold

bangles. He was a sharp and unquestionably spoiled urchin. He sat with

his father and friends, or with his mother and her associates, and

listening open-eared, like the proverbial little pitcher, heard many

things that were not good for his morals--heard perpetual ridicule and

abuse of the enemy of his house; therefore, when he encountered Durga

Pershad in fields or byways, he made hideous grimaces at him, squinted

significantly, and called him “dog,” “pig,” “robber”--behaviour that

naturally endeared him to Pershad, who yearned with irrepressible

craving to find him alone! Subsequently the heir of Golab Rai Sing

would return to his fond parents, boast of his performance, and receive

as reward and encouragement lumps of sticky cocoanut and deliciously

long, wormy native sweets.

On the supreme occasion of the yearly reception, the child Soonder was

as prettily behaved and hypocritical as his elders. The collector’s

lady noticed him--and that publicly. She knew better than to say he

was a handsome boy (for, if she had no fear of the evil eye, it was

otherwise with her audience), but she gave him a picture paper, and

a battledore and shuttlecock, and his father swelled, beamed, and

literally shone with pride--for was not the presentation made in the

face of childless Durga Pershad, and all the elders of the people?

And greater glory was yet in store for this fortunate zemindar. The

collector, having looked over various papers, and heard witnesses (many

false), actually deigned to visit the well in person, and concluded

what he considered a shamefully procrastinated case, and finally made

over the Kooah well, and all its rights, to Golab Rai Sing and his

heirs for ever!

That night Golab made a great feast to all his followers, and bitter

were the thoughts of his defeated rival, as he lay sleepless on his

string charpoy, listening to the devilish exultation implied by the

ceaseless tom-toms.

As days went on, his thoughts became still more poignant; it seemed

to him that his friends were showing defection. Golab Rai had fine

crops, on which there was no lien; he had a son to light the torch of

his funeral pyre; he had the well. Of a truth, he had _too_ much! And

he, Pershad, had been flung in the dust, like a broken gurrah. Thus he

reflected as he sat brooding on the river-bank at sundown. The cattle

were strolling home through the marshes, the cranes were wheeling

overhead, close by a fierce, lean, black pariah gnawed some mysterious

and ghastly meal among the rushes, and on a sandbank lay three huge

alligators--motionless as logs of wood--crafty as foxes, voracious as

South Sea sharks. Durga Pershad glanced indifferently at the cattle,

at the cranes, but as his eyes fell on the alligators they kindled,

they blazed with a truly sinister flash--the alligators had offered him

an idea!

* * * * *

It was the feast of lights or lanterns, the festival of Lucksmi, wife

of Vishnu, and the goddess of festival. She, however, brought naught

but sore misfortune to the house of Golab Rai, for since sundown the

child was missing--was gone, without leaving a trace. Amongst the busy

excitement of preparing the illuminations and decorations, he had

vanished. His mother supposed he was with his father, and his father

believed him to be with his mother. Every house, byre, and nook--yea,

even the well, was searched in vain. Durga Pershad was humbly appealed

to, as he sat on his chabootra stolidly smoking his huka.

“Why question me?” he replied. “How should I know aught of the brat?

What child’s talk is this?”

A whole day--twenty-four long hours--elapsed, and suspicion pointed a

steady finger at Durga Pershad. Of late it was noticed that he and the

child had been friends--that he had given Soonder sweets--yea, and a

toy. One man averred that he saw a pair resembling them going towards

the river about sundown. The child was jumping for joy, and had a green

air-balloon in his hand.

This, Durga Pershad swore, was a black lie; he had never left the

village; his kinsman could speak.

“For how much?” scoffed the other side. “What fool will credit a man’s

relations?”

Four days passed, and Golab Rai had aged by twenty years. His round,

fat face was drawn and shrivelled; he was bent like an aged man, and

tottered as he walked.

As for his wife, she had almost lost her senses, though both she and

her husband clung wildly to hope, and he had lavished money unsparingly

in rewards and horse-flesh. As a last resource, the miserable mother

of Soonder came and cast her dishevelled person at the feet of Durga

Pershad--Durga Pershad, whom all her life she had mocked, reviled, and

figuratively spat upon.

“Take all I possess!” she cried--“my jewels, my eyes, my very life; but

tell me what thou hast done with him? Doth he yet live? My life, all

thou wilt, for his!”

As she spoke, a little cap was brought--a velvet cap, soaking with

water. It had been found by a fisherman three miles down the river.

This was sufficient answer to the question, “Doth he yet live?” The

child was no more, his cap bore witness; and Gindia, his mother,

swooned as one that was dead.

Yes, Soonder had been thrown to the alligators, without doubt; cast

into their jaws, like a kid or a dog. In their mind’s eye, the

villagers beheld the hideous scene, they heard the shriek, saw the

splash, and the ensuing scuffle. What death should Durga Pershad die?

The whole place was in an uproar; excitement was at fever heat. The

police were sent for to Hassanpore, the nearest large station, and the

suspected zemindar was marched away, and lodged in the Jail Khana; even

his own people were dumb.

Durga Pershad stoutly avowed his innocence by every oath under a

Hindoo heaven. He engaged, at enormous expense, an English pleader

from Lucknow. He paid much money elsewhere. There was no case. If one

man swore he met him with the child at sundown on the feast of lights,

there were five unshaken witnesses who had seen him at the same hour in

the village.

Therefore Durga Pershad was acquitted; and, moreover, in the words of

the Sudder judge, “without a stain on his character!”

Nevertheless, matters were not made equally agreeable for him at

home. His own partisans--save his tenants--held aloof with expressive

significance, and those who were wont to assemble on his chabootra of

an evening to smoke, argue, and bukh, were reduced by more than half.

But he held his head as high as ever, whilst that of his enemy lay low,

even to the dust. Of what avail now to Golab Rai were his crops, his

rents, his great jars of “ghoor” (coarse sugar), even his well, when he

had no longer a child--a son and heir?

The immediate effects of the tragedy gradually faded away; it had

ceased to be the sole daily topic, and it was again winter-time. One

chill, starlight evening, as Durga Pershad was riding home alone among

the cane-fields, he was suddenly set upon by a number of men, who had

lain in ambush in the crops. A cloth was thrown over his head, he

was dragged off his pony, and hustled into a doolie, which set off

immediately, and at great speed. There were many riding and running

beside it--the terrified prisoner heard the sound of steps and hoofs

and muttered voices. It seemed to him that he travelled for days; but,

in truth, he had only journeyed twenty hours, when he was suddenly

set down, the sliding door was pushed back, and he was hauled forth.

He found himself standing in a temple (an unknown temple), and by the

light of blazing torches he recognized at least one hundred familiar

faces, including those of Golab Rai and the priest of the village of

Haru. He was so cramped and dazed that at first he could only stagger

and blink; but as his hands were untied, he found his voice.

“What foul deed is this?” he demanded hoarsely. “Where am I?”

“Thou art within the most holy temple of Gola-Gokeranath,” answered

the priest, impressively. “We have appealed to man for justice--and in

vain. Therefore, we now approach the gods! Is it not so, my brothers?”

The reply was a prolonged murmur of hoarse assent from the quiet,

fierce-eyed crowd.

“Behold the image of Mahadeo, the destroyer!” continued the priest,

pointing to a conical stone in the middle of the temple, on which

the holy Ganges water dripped without ceasing. “Here is the mark of

Hanuman’s thumb, where he rested on his way to Ceylon to war against

the great giant Ravan.”

A venerable Mahant, or high-priest of the Gosains, now advanced, and

said, in a voice tremulous with age--

“Lay thy hand upon this spot, O Durga Pershad, and swear as I shall

speak.”

Durga Pershad held back instinctively, but the pressure of fifty arms

constrained him, and he yielded.

“If I have had part or lot in the death of Soonder, the son of Golab

Rai Sing----”

There was an expressive pause for a full moment, and no sound was

audible save the slow, monotonous dripping of the sacred stream.

Durga Pershad shuddered, but repeated the sentence somewhat unsteadily.

“--I call upon Mahadeo, the most holy, the destroyer, to smite me with

the black leprosy in the sight of all men, and that within three

moons. May I die in torture, and by piecemeal. May I be abhorrent

alike to men and gods, and after death, may I hang by my feet for one

thousand years above a fire of chaff.”

Durga Pershad echoed this hideous sentence with recovered composure.

Truly, it was a vast relief to find that his end was not yet--his life

in no present danger.

Here was a weird and ghostly scene! The dark, damp temple, at dead of

night, the crowd of stern, accusing countenances, lit up by flashes

of torchlight, the austere high-priest in his robe of office, and

the haggard culprit, the central figure, glaring defiance, with his

uplifted hand upon the cold wet stone! There seemed to the wretched

accused some accursed power in this holy image; the stone clung

tenaciously to his trembling flesh, and he was sensible of an awful,

death-like chill that penetrated to the very marrow of his bones.

* * * * *

In a few minutes the lights were extinguished, the wolfish-faced crowd

had melted away, and Durga Pershad found himself alone. He stumbled

out of the shrine, and by the cold, keen starlight descried the edge

of a large tank, which was surrounded by temples. He had never visited

the place of his own free will, but he recognized it from description

as undoubtedly the most holy Gola, where two hundred thousand pilgrims

flocked to worship once a year.

At daybreak he made his way to the bazaar, and there sold a silver

chain,--for he had no money. It might be imagination, but he believed

that people looked upon him with suspicious eyes. Three days later, he

was at home once more. He told no one that he had been kidnapped--no,

not even his mother or his wife.

By the end of a month, Durga Pershad had become an altered man. He

looked wofully lean and haggard, he scarcely ate, slept, or smoked, and

appeared dreadfully depressed. He now cared nought for taxes, rents,

or crops, and complained of a strange numbness in his limbs. Much to

the surprise of his household, he undertook a pilgrimage to Hurdwar,

the source of the Ganges (some one had suggested most holy Gola--some

one ignorant of Durga’s enforced expedition). He had barely returned

from Hurdwar when, as if possessed by a fever of piety, he set forth

for Badrinath, in the Himalayas. After that long and arduous journey,

he passed rapidly down to Benares. From thence, concluding an absence

of four months, he returned finally to Haru, and shut himself up within

his own courtyard and in his own house, refusing to see even his

nearest of kin. And now it began to be whispered about from ear to ear

that Durga Pershad, the son of Govindoo Pershad, was smitten with the

kôrh--or black leprosy.

Yes, the grasp of that terrible disease was upon him. His features

altered, thickened, and took the fatal and unmistakable leonine look.

In a surprisingly short time he had lost the fingers of both hands.

To show himself abroad would simply be to proclaim his guilt, and the

judgment of Mahadeo--whose wrath he had invoked. For weeks and weeks he

successfully evaded his enemies, fortified within his own house, and

protected by his wife and mother, whose shrill tongues garrisoned it

effectually.

When it became known that the hours of Durga Pershad were numbered,

a body of the elders, led by the village priest, came and sternly

demanded an entrance. They would take _no_ denial. After frantic

clamour and frenzied resistance, they gained admittance--admittance to

the very presence of the leper, who lay in a darkened room, huddled up

on a string bed.

“Behold,” cried the priest in a sonorous voice, “the finger of Mahadeo,

and the punishment of the slayer of a child! Speak, ere your tongue rot

away, and declare unto us what befell the boy at thy hands, O Durga

Pershad, leper!”

“Begone!” screamed his wife. “Depart, devil, born with the evil eye,

come to mock at the afflicted of the gods!”

“When he hath spoken, we will go our ways,” answered a solemn voice;

“but otherwise, we remain until the end.”

Durga Pershad raised himself laboriously on his charpoy; his head was

muffled up in a brown blanket, he was nearly blind, and cried aloud, in

a shrill, piercing falsetto--

“Yea, here is the answer--the god’s answer”--and he thrust out a

leprous arm--“I did it.”

“How? Hasten to speak, O vile one!”

“I long desired his life,” he panted. “He came with me to the

river-bank of his own accord, for I had promised him a rare spectacle.

My heart was hot within me--yea, as a red-hot horse-shoe. Even as he

clamoured for my promise, I flung him to the alligators. It was over in

a minute--but--I hear his scream now!”

Then Durga Pershad covered his face, and lo! as he turned to the wall,

he died.

TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS.

CHAPTER I.

Gram had fallen to nine seers for the rupee, which affected the

sahibs who kept horses and polo ponies; and rice was down to eight

measures--this affected the villagers and ryots. The rains due at

Christmas had failed. There was talk of a great scarcity and a sore

famine in the land, especially among the sleek, crafty bunnias, who

bought up every ounce of grain in the district when it was cheap,

and at the first whisper of failing crops--often a rumour started by

themselves--locked it up relentlessly, in hopes of starvation prices,

refusing to sell save at exorbitant rates.

What is a road coolie to do under these conditions?--a man whose daily

wage never exceeds one anna and a half, no matter how markets may

fluctuate. Three rupees’ worth of grain will keep him alive for twenty

days; but how is he to exist for the remainder of the month? How is he

to feed his children, to pay his tiny rental, and the village tax?

This was a problem that Chūnnee pondered over, as he sat on a heap of

stones at the side of the road, with his empty basket at his feet,

and a look of despair upon his handsome, and usually good-humoured,

countenance.

Alas! Chūnnee had been born under an evil star. Scorpio was his

constellation, and all the luck had ebbed from him, as surely as it had

flowed towards his half-brother Zālim Sing.

Now, Zālim Sing was prosperous and well-to-do, the proprietor of a good

mud house, a patch of castor oil, and two biggahs of land, planted

in rape and linseed; he also owned a huge milch buffalo, a pair of

plough bullocks, and the only ekka within three koss. Yes, an ekka that

came to him with his wife, all lavishly decorated with brass knobs and

ornamental work, an ekka that had yellow curtains, and was drawn by

a bay tat (a bazaar pony), with six rows of blue beads round her ewe

neck. Zālim Sing was prouder of his turn-out than any parvenu’s wife

with her first equipage; and perhaps it was on the strength of this,

more than his store of linseed and his plot of land, that the village

elders hearkened to him with respect. He was a lean, shrewd-looking

man, with a cast in his eye and a halt in his gait. Nevertheless, he

had prospered, and the world had gone well with him, whereas it had

gone ill with his half-brother.

But Chūnnee was not wise in his generation; he had bartered away his

share of the ancestral home for two cows, a grindstone, and some brass

cooking-pots. The cows had died the rains before last, the cooking-pots

were pawned to the local soucar; his crop of one mango tree had

failed, he had no capital except his sturdy frame, two horny hands, and

his coolie basket.

In his hovel there were his children--Girunda, a boy aged ten, and

Gyannia, a girl of four. There was also a mat, an old charpoy, a

reaping-hook, a couple of earthen pots, and a white cat. This was all

that Chūnnee possessed in the wide world. It might have sufficed, had

he had wisdom like his brother; but, alas! he had no brains. There he

sat, on the kunker heap, that glaring February afternoon. The land was

still covered with cane crops; the barley was green, and in the ear;

dry leaves were whirling along the road; the banka tree was dropping

red flowers from its grey, leafless branches; the mango tree was in

blossom. Yes, the hot weather, the time of parching and scarcity, would

be on them soon. Suddenly he heard a rattling, and felt a cloud of

warm yellow dust. It was his brother’s ekka. Zālim Sing and a friend

tore past at a gallop, and scarcely noticed the coolie on the side of

the road, beyond a hoarse laugh of derision. Why had fortune been kind

to one brother and cruel to another? Why had his cows died?--his wife

been bitten by a “karite” as she cut vetches, and expired at sundown in

agonies? Ah, Junia was a loss--nigh as great as the cows. She cooked,

and minded the children; she earned one anna a day for reaping; she was

fortunate to die young; she had never lived to know hunger. Why had

some people stores and treasures, to whom they were of no use, whilst

others lacked a morsel to keep them from perishing?

Chūnnee sat for half an hour with his arms loosely folded on his

breast, and pondered this question in his heart. Presently he arose,

and picked up his basket, and took the path towards his village, where

its brown mud walls and straw roofs stood out in strong relief against

a noble tope of mango trees; but these mangoes were the property of the

sirkar (government). Many an envious eye had been cast on them and

their fine yearly harvests. Despite bazaar rumours about scarcity, it

was surely what is called a bunnia’s famine; for this hungry, handsome

Rajpoot, with the form and sinews of some Greek god, made his way

homewards between marvellous crops at either side of the well-beaten

path. The self-same rich land was yielding gram, rape, linseed; whilst

barley towered high above all. Where else will the earth yield four

harvests with little manure or care? But not an inch of this fertile

soil called Chūnnee master! And what to him was all this fertility?

As he strode along, a fierce temptation kept pace with his steps, and

whispered eagerly in his ear--

“There is old Turroo, thy great-uncle; he is nigh ninety years of age,

and rich; his head was grey in the mutiny year. True, he favours Zālim

Sing. They say he hath even advanced him money for seeds, because he

is prosperous; and he will not look at thee, because thou art poor,

much less suffer thee to cross his threshold. They declare he hath

a treasure buried--some that he came upon in the mutiny year. What

avails it to him? He hath his huka and his opium, his warm bedding, and

brass cooking-pots. He only enjoys money when he looks at it--and thy

children are starving. They say that thousands of rupees are hidden

under his floor, and one hundred rupees would make thee a rich man.

Thou mightest till that plot of ground near the big baal tree, and buy

two plough bullocks for twenty-five rupees. Krisna would then lend

thee his plough. Set grain--not linseed, having no mill--grain at even

twelve seers next year, and thou wilt be a wealthy man; yea, and better

than Zālim Sing, who will no longer scoff at thee or cover thee with

dust. Thou wilt have no need to go out as coolie. Thou wilt have plenty

of flour, and dál, and fresh tobacco in thy huka. It is easy--as easy

as breathing. But to rob--to rob an old man?” inquired conscience.

“True; but thine own kinsman, who cannot carry his money to the

burning ghâut, it ought to be thine some day. Thou art his heir, though

he hates thee--men often hate their next-of-kin. His hoarding--it is of

no use to him--it will save thee and thine from death.”

“But how--how can I take it?” inquired Chūnnee of the tempter.

“Behold, the nights are dark, the moon doth not rise till morn; thou

hast thy krooplie still; dig through the mud wall. They say the box is

buried near the hearth; open it, and carry away what thou wilt in thy

cloth. The old man sleeps as though a corpse--he drinks opium. He has

no one in the house, no dog. It is so easy; truly, it is a marvel he

hath not been robbed before! Take it; be bold. Truly, it is half thine.

Thou canst keep a pony, too, and buy silver bangles for Gyannia.”

“But how can I account for this sudden wealth? All the world knows that

I am but a beggar.”

“Carry it forth and hide it, bury it in a hole far away; for doubtless

there will be a great search. Some weeks later, take a few rupees, and

go by rail to Lucknow; and come back, and say thy wife’s grandmother

hath died, and left thee one hundred rupees. The gold and jewels thou

wilt take in a roll of bedding to Lucknow, and sell. It will all be

easy; have no fear.”

As these ideas were working in his brain, and he was the sport of two

conflicting feelings, Chūnnee was rapidly approaching his little hovel,

which lay on the outskirts of the village of Paroor. It was a small

hamlet of mud houses, huddled together most irregularly. There was no

main street, nor even an attempt at one; no chief entrance--merely half

a dozen footpaths running into the village from various directions.

There would be a high mud wall and doorway leading into an enclosure,

containing twenty small huts, and as many families, all connected;

here were also ponies, calves, fowl, the property of the clan, and

perchance a bullock-cart or a sugar-press. These enclosures were set

down indiscriminately, and joined together; the only village street, an

irregular path, that threaded its way between them. There were “sets”

even here, as in higher circles; inmates of one mud courtyard, who

owned a sugar-press, looked down on the inmates of those who had none.

Most people looked down on Chūnnee, the coolie--even the women,

although he was a handsome, well-made fellow. What are looks, when a

man has not a pice, and owns nought save two crying children? Chūnnee

made his way past a crowd collected round a khooloo, or sugar-mill--a

rude, wooden affair, turned by two bullocks, fed with bits of raw cane,

which it squeezes into a receptacle in the ground, and subsequently

empties into another vat indoors, where the sugar is boiled, and

finally poured off into huge jars (similar to those which contained the

forty thieves), and sent to middlemen, who thereby reap much profit.

Paroor was in the midst of a sugar country, and boasted half a dozen

of these rude sugar-mills.

Chūnnee passed through the scattered strips of cane, basket in

hand--there were no greetings for him--and, turning a corner, dived

between two mud walls into a small hut that stood by itself. A slim,

nearly naked lad ran out to meet him, with a look of expectation on his

intelligent face, but, alas! his father was empty-handed. On the mat

lay a little girl with curly hair and a fair but puny face. She was

fast asleep, holding in her arms a miserably thin bazaar kitten--or it

might be a full-grown cat stunted in size.

“She was hungry; I fetched her some banka fruit from cows--now she is

asleep,” explained the boy. “There is a little barley--the last--I made

it,” and he pointed to a cake, a very small one, baking on some embers.

“Father, what shall we do to-morrow?” he asked, as his father devoured

the only food he had seen that day.

“There is still the reaping-hook.”

“Gunesh offers two annas for it.”

“And it cost a rupee and a half.”

“I went to-day to old Turroo, to ask him for a few cowries, or a bit

of a chupatti for Gyannia--she was crying with hunger, and calling for

food.”

“And what did he give thee?”

“He smote me a blow on the back with his staff”--pointing to a weal on

his shoulder. “He said I was a devil’s spawn, good for nothing; like

thee--a beggar.”

“I would not be as I am, but I have never had a chance--never one

chance.” And, ravenous as he was, Chūnnee the famished yielded half his

cake in answer to his son’s wistful and expectant eyes.

When darkness had fallen on the village, the inhabitants went to bed

like the birds--it saved oil--though there were a few budmashes who sat

up all night and gambled; each visiting the other’s house in turn, and

providing light and drink. Yes, drink--drink, from the fatal mowra

tree. The fever of gambling seemed to be all over the land. Some

gambled away their money, clothes, tools, cattle, but this gang kept

their proceedings secret--yea, even from their nearest neighbours.

Chūnnee had never gambled.

As, by degrees, the children were called in, and the houses shut, the

village grew dark and quiet. About twelve o’clock, Chūnnee rose, and

felt for his krooplie (a mattock with a short handle); then he opened

the door and looked forth; there was not a sound to be heard, save the

breathing of the children and the distant howling of a pack of jackals.

There were the clear cold stars in the sky, showing above the opposite

wall. Should he do it? Oh, if Heaven would but send him a sign! It

seemed to him that his devout wish was instantly fulfilled, for at that

moment Gyannia turned in her sleep, moaning her frequent and pitiful

cry when awake, “I am hungry.”