A young man in a suit of brown karkee, with a white puggaree wound
round his pith helmet, was just mounting in front of his bungalow at
Deennugghur, some forty miles from Cawnpore, when two others came up.
“Which way are you going to ride, Bathurst?”
“I am going out to Narkeet; there is a dispute between the villagers and
a Talookdar as to their limits. I have got to look into the case. Why do
you ask, Mr. Hunter?”
“I thought that you might be going that way. You know we have had
several reports of ravages by a man eater whose headquarters seem to
be that big jungle you pass through on your way to Narkeet. He has been
paying visits to several villages in its neighborhood, and has carried
off two mail runners. I should advise you to keep a sharp lookout.”
“Yes, I have heard plenty about him; it is unfortunate we have no one at
this station who goes in for tiger hunting. Young Bloxam was speaking
to me last night; he is very hot about it; but as he knows nothing about
shooting, and has never fired off a rifle in his life, except at the
military target, I told him that it was madness to think of it by
himself, and that he had better ride down to the regiment at Cawnpore,
and get them to form a party to come up to hunt the beast. I told him
they need not bring elephants with them; I could get as many as were
necessary from some of the Talookdars, and there will be no want of
beaters. He said he would write at once, but he doubted whether any of
them would be able to get away at present; the general inspection is
just coming on. However, no doubt they will be able to do so before
long.”
“Well, if I were you I would put a pair of pistols into my holster,
Bathurst; it would be awfully awkward if you came across the beast.”
“I never carry firearms,” the young man said shortly; and then more
lightly, “I am a peaceful man by profession, as you are, Mr. Hunter,
and I leave firearms to those whose profession it is to use them. I
have hitherto never met with an occasion when I needed them, and am not
likely to do so. I always carry this heavy hunting whip, which I find
useful sometimes, when the village dogs rush out and pretend that they
are going to attack me; and I fancy that even an Oude swordsman would
think twice before attacking me when I had it in my hand. But, of
course, there is no fear about the tiger. I generally ride pretty fast;
and even if he were lying by the roadside waiting for a meal, I don’t
think he would be likely to interfere with me.”
So saying, he lightly touched the horse’s flanks with his spurs and
cantered off.
“He’s a fine young fellow, Garnet,” Mr. Hunter said to his companion;
“full of energy, and, they say, the very best linguist in Oude.”
“Yes, he is all that,” the other agreed; “but he is a sort of fellow
one does not quite understand. I like a man who is like other fellows;
Bathurst isn’t. He doesn’t shoot, he doesn’t ride--I mean he don’t care
for pig sticking; he never goes in for any fun there may be on hand; he
just works--nothing else; he does not seem to mix with other people;
he is the sort of fellow one would say had got some sort of secret
connected with him.”
“If he has, I am certain it is nothing to his personal disadvantage,”
Mr. Hunter said warmly. “I have known him for the last six years--I
won’t say very well, for I don’t think anyone does that, except,
perhaps, Doctor Wade. When there was a wing of the regiment up here
three years ago he and Bathurst took to each other very much--perhaps
because they were both different from other people. But, anyhow, from
what I know of Bathurst I believe him to be a very fine character,
though there is certainly an amount of reserve about him altogether
unusual. At any rate, the service is a gainer by it. I never knew a
fellow work so indefatigably. He will take a very high place in the
service before he has done.”
“I am not so sure of that,” the other said. “He is a man with opinions
of his own, and all sorts of crotchets and fads. He has been in hot
water with the Chief Commissioner more than once. When I was over at
Lucknow last I was chatting with two or three men, and his name happened
to crop up, and one of them said, ‘Bathurst is a sort of knight errant,
an official Don Quixote. Perhaps the best officer in the province in
some respects, but hopelessly impracticable.’”
“Yes, that I can quite understand, Garnet. That sort of man is never
popular with the higher official, whose likings go to the man who does
neither too much nor too little, who does his work without questioning,
and never thinks of making suggestions, and is a mere official machine.
Men of Bathurst’s type, who go to the bottom of things, protest against
what they consider unfair decisions, and send in memorandums showing
that their superiors are hopelessly ignorant and idiotically wrong, are
always cordially disliked. Still, they generally work their way to the
front in the long run. Well, I must be off.”
Bathurst rode to Narkeet without drawing rein. His horse at times
slackened its pace on its own accord, but an almost mechanical motion
from its rider’s heel soon started it off again at the rapid pace at
which its rider ordinarily traveled. From the time he left Deennugghur
to his arrival at Narkeet no thought of the dreaded man eater entered
Bathurst’s mind. He was deeply meditating on a memorandum he was about
to draw up, respecting a decision that had been arrived at in a case
between a Talookdar in his district and the Government, and in which, as
it appeared to him, a wholly erroneous and unjust view had been taken
as to the merits of the case; and he only roused himself when the horse
broke into a walk as it entered the village. Two or three of the head
men, with many bows and salutations of respect, came out to receive him.
“My lord sahib has seen nothing of the tiger?” the head man said; “our
hearts were melted with fear, for the evil beast was heard roaring in
the jungle not far from the road early this morning.”
“I never gave it a thought, one way or the other,” Bathurst said, as he
dismounted. “I fancy the horse would have let me know if the brute had
been anywhere near. See that he is tied up in the shed, and has food and
water, and put a boy to keep the flies from worrying him. And now let us
get to business. First of all, I must go through the village records
and documents; after that I will question four or five of the oldest
inhabitants, and then we must go over the ground. The whole question
turns, you know, upon whether the irrigation ditch mentioned in the
Talookdar’s grant is the one that runs across at the foot of the rising
ground on his side, or whether it is the one that sweeps round on this
side of the grove with the little temple in it. Unfortunately most of
the best land lies between those ditches.”
For hours Bathurst listened to the statements of the old people of the
village, cross questioning them closely, and sparing no efforts to sift
the truth from their confused and often contradictory evidence. Then he
spent two hours going over the ground and endeavoring to satisfy himself
which of the two ditches was the one named in the village records. He
had two days before taken equal pains in sifting the evidence on the
other side.
“I trust that my lord sees there can be no doubt as to the justice of
our claim,” the head man said humbly, as he prepared to mount again.
“According to your point of view, there is no doubt about it, Childee;
but then there is equally no doubt the other way, according to the
statements they put forward. But that is generally the way in all these
land disputes. For good hard swearing your Hindoo cultivator can be
matched against the world. Unfortunately there is nothing either in your
grant or in your neighbors’ that specifies unmistakably which of these
ancient ditches is the one referred to. My present impression is that it
is essentially a case for a compromise, but you know the final decision
does not rest on me. I shall be out here again next week, and I shall
write to the Talookdar to meet me here, and we will go over the ground
together again, and see if we cannot arrange some line that will be fair
to both parties. If we can do that, the matter would be settled without
expense and trouble; whereas, if it goes up to Lucknow it may all have
to be gone into again; and if the decision is given against you, and as
far as I can see it is just as likely to be one way as another, it will
be a serious thing for the village.”
“We are in my lord’s hands,” the native said; “he is the protector of
the poor, and will do us justice.”
“I will do you justice, Childee, but I must do justice to the other side
too. Of course, neither of you will be satisfied, but that cannot be
helped.”
His perfect knowledge of their language, the pains he took to sift all
matters brought before him to the bottom, had rendered the young officer
very popular among the natives. They knew they could get justice from
him direct. There was no necessity to bribe underlings: he had the
knack of extracting the truth from the mass of lying evidence always
forthcoming in native cases; and even the defeated party admired the
manner in which the fabric of falsehood was pulled to pieces. But the
main reason of his popularity was his sympathy, the real interest which
he showed in their cases, and the patience with which he listened to
their stories.
Bathurst himself, as he rode homewards, was still thinking of the
case. Of course there had been lying on both sides; but to that he was
accustomed. It was a question of importance--of greater importance, no
doubt, to the villagers than to their opponent, but still important
to him--for this tract of land was a valuable one, and of considerable
extent, and there was really nothing in the documents produced on either
side to show which ditch was intended by the original grants. Evidently,
at the time they were made, very many years before, one ditch or the
other was not in existence; but there was no proof as to which was the
more recent, although both sides professed that all traditions handed
down to them asserted the ditch on their side to be the more recent.
He was riding along the road through the great jungle, at his horse’s
own pace, which happened for the moment to be a gentle trot, when
a piercing cry rang through the air a hundred yards ahead. Bathurst
started from his reverie, and spurred his horse sharply; the animal
dashed forward at a gallop. At a turn in the road he saw, twenty yards
ahead of him, a tiger, standing with a foot upon a prostrate figure,
while a man in front of it was gesticulating wildly. The tiger stood as
if hesitating whether to strike down the figure in front or to content
itself with that already in its power.
The wild shouts of the man had apparently drowned the sound of the
horse’s feet upon the soft road, for the animal drew back half a pace as
it suddenly came into view.
The horse swerved at the sight, and reared high in the air as Bathurst
drove his spurs into it. As its feet touched the ground again, Bathurst
sprang off and rushed at the tiger, and brought down the heavy lash
of his whip with all his force across its head. With a fierce snarl it
sprang back two paces, but again and again the whip descended upon it,
and bewildered and amazed at the attack it turned swiftly and sprang
through the bushes.
Bathurst, knowing that there was no fear of its returning, turned at
once to the figure on the road. It was, as in even the momentary glance
he had noticed, a woman, or rather a girl of some fourteen or fifteen
years of age--the man had dropped on his knees beside her, moaning and
muttering incoherent words.
“I see no blood,” Bathurst said, and stooping, lifted the light figure.
“Her heart beats, man; I think she has only fainted. The tiger must have
knocked her down in its spring without striking her. So far as I can see
she is unhurt.”
He carried her to the horse, which stood trembling a few yards away,
took a flask from the holster, and poured a little brandy and water
between her lips.
Presently there was a faint sigh. “She is coming round,” he said to the
man, who was still kneeling, looking on with vacant eyes, as though he
had neither heard nor comprehended what Bathurst was doing. Presently
the girl moved slightly and opened her eyes. At first there was no
expression in them; then a vague wonder stole into them at the white
face looking down upon her.
She closed them again, and then reopened them, and then there was a
slight struggle to free herself. He allowed her to slip through his arms
until her feet touched the ground; then her eyes fell on the kneeling
figure.
“Father!” she exclaimed. With a cry the man leaped to his feet, sprang
to her and seized her in his arms, and poured out words of endearment.
Then suddenly he released her and threw himself on the ground before
Bathurst, with ejaculations of gratitude and thankfulness.
“Get up, man, get up,” the latter said; “your daughter can scarce stand
alone, and the sooner we get away from this place the better; that
savage beast is not likely to return, but he may do so; let us be off.”
He mounted his horse again, brought it up to the side of the girl, and
then, leaning over, took her and swung her into the saddle in front of
him. The man took up a large box that was lying in the road and hoisted
it onto his shoulders, and then, at a foot’s pace, they proceeded on
their way--Bathurst keeping a close watch on the jungle at the side on
which the tiger had entered it.
“How came you to travel along this road alone?” he asked the man. “The
natives only venture through in large parties, because of this tiger.”
“I am a stranger,” the man answered; “I heard at the village where we
slept last night that there was a tiger in this jungle, but I thought
we should be through it before nightfall, and therefore there was no
danger. If one heeded all they say about tigers one would never travel
at all. I am a juggler, and we are on our way down the country through
Cawnpore and Allahabad. Had it not been for the valor of my lord sahib,
we should never have got there; for had I lost my Rabda, the light of
my heart, I should have gone no further, but should have waited for the
tiger to take me also.”
“There was no particular valor about it,” Bathurst said shortly. “I saw
the beast with its foot on your daughter, and dismounted to beat it off
just as if it had been a dog, without thinking whether there was any
danger in it or not. Men do it with savage beasts in menageries every
day. They are cowardly brutes after all, and can’t stand the lash. He
was taken altogether by surprise, too.”
“My lord has saved my daughter’s life, and mine is at his service
henceforth,” the man said. “The mouse is a small beast, but he may
warn the lion. The white sahibs are brave and strong. Would one of my
countrymen have ventured his life to attack a tiger, armed only with a
whip, for the sake of the life of a poor wayfarer?”
“Yes, I think there are many who would have done so,” Bathurst replied.
“You do your countrymen injustice. There are plenty of brave men among
them, and I have heard before now of villagers, armed only with sticks,
attacking a tiger who has carried off a victim from among them. You
yourself were standing boldly before it when I came up.”
“My child was under its feet--besides, I never thought of myself. If
I had had a weapon I should not have drawn it. I had no thought of the
tiger; I only thought that my child was dead. She works with me, sahib;
since her mother died, five years ago, we have traveled together over
the country; she plays while I conjure. She takes round the saucer for
the money, and she acts with me in the tricks that require two persons;
it is she who disappears from the basket. We are everything to each
other, sahib. But what is my lord’s name? Will he tell his servant, that
he and Rabda may think of him and talk of him as they tramp the roads
together?”
“My name is Ralph Bathurst. I am District Officer at Deennugghur. How
far are you going this evening?”
“We shall sleep at the first village we come to, sahib; we have walked
many hours today, and this box, though its contents are not weighty,
is heavy to bear. We thought of going down tomorrow to Deennugghur, and
showing our performances to the sahib logue there.”
“Very well; but there is one thing--what is your name?”
“Rujub.”
“Well, Rujub, if you go on to Deennugghur tomorrow say nothing to anyone
there about this affair with the tiger; it is nothing to talk about. I
am not a shikari, but a hard working official, and I don’t want to be
talked about.”
“The sahib’s wish shall be obeyed,” the man said.
“You can come round to my bungalow and ask for me; I shall be glad to
hear whether your daughter is any the worse for her scare. How do you
feel, Rabda?”
“I feel as one in a dream, sahib. I saw a great yellow beast springing
through the air, and I cried out, and knew nothing more till I saw the
sahib’s face; and now I have heard him and my father talking, but their
voices sound to me as if far away, though I know that you are holding
me.”
“You will be all the better after a night’s rest, child; no wonder you
feel strange and shaken. Another quarter of an hour and we shall be at
the village. I suppose, Rujub, you were born a conjurer.”
“Yes, sahib, it is always so; it goes down from father to son. As soon
as I was able to walk, I began to work with my father, and as I grew
up he initiated me in the secrets of our craft, which we may never
divulge.”
“No, I know they are a mystery. Many of your tricks can be done by our
conjurers at home, but there are some that have never been solved.”
“I have been offered, more than once, large sums by English sahibs to
tell them how some of the feats were done, but I could not; we are bound
by terrible oaths, and; in no case has a juggler proved false to them.
Were one to do so he would be slain without mercy, and his fate in the
next world would be terrible; forever and forever his soul would pass
through the bodies of the foulest and lowest creatures, and there would
be no forgiveness for him. I would give my life for the sahib, but even
to him I would not divulge our mysteries.”
In a few minutes they came to the first village beyond the jungle. As
they approached it Bathurst checked his horse and lifted the girl down.
She took his hand and pressed her forehead to it.
“I shall see you tomorrow, then, Rujub,” he said, and shaking the reins,
went on at a canter.
“That is a new character for me to come out in,” he said bitterly; “I do
not know myself--I, of all men. But there was no bravery in it; it never
occurred to me to be afraid; I just thrashed him off as I should beat
off a dog who was killing a lamb; there was no noise, and it is noise
that frightens me; if the brute had roared I should assuredly have run;
I know it would have been so; I could not have helped it to have saved
my life. It is an awful curse that I am not as other men, and that I
tremble and shake like a girl at the sound of firearms. It would have
been better if I had been killed by the first shot fired in the Punjaub
eight years ago, or if I had blown my brains out at the end of the day.
Good Heavens! what have I suffered since. But I will not think of it.
Thank God, I have got my work; and as long as I keep my thoughts on that
there is no room for that other;” and then, by a great effort of will,
Ralph Bathurst put the past behind him, and concentrated his thoughts on
the work on which he had been that day engaged.
The juggler did not arrive on the following evening as he had expected,
but late in the afternoon a native boy brought in a message from him,
saying that his daughter was too shaken and ill to travel, but that they
would come when she recovered.
A week later, on returning from a long day’s work, Bathurst was told
that a juggler was in the veranda waiting to see him.
“I told him, sahib,” the servant said, “that you cared not for such
entertainments, and that he had better go elsewhere; but he insisted
that you yourself had told him to come, and so I let him wait.”
“Has he a girl with him, Jafur?”
“Yes, sahib.”
Bathurst strolled round to the other side of the bungalow, where Rujub
was sitting patiently, with Rabda wrapped in her blue cloth beside him.
They rose to their feet.
“I am glad to see your daughter is better again, Rujub.”
“She is better, sahib; she has had fever, but is restored.”
“I cannot see your juggling tonight, Rujub. I have had a heavy day’s
work, and am worn out, and have still much to do. You had better go
round to some of the other bungalows; though I don’t think you will do
much this evening, for there is a dinner party at the Collector’s, and
almost everyone will be there. My servants will give you food, and I
shall be off at seven o’clock in the morning, but shall be glad to see
you before I start. Are you in want of money?” and he put his hand in
his pocket.
“No, sahib,” the juggler said. “We have money sufficient for all our
wants; we are not thinking of performing tonight, for Rabda is not
equal to it. Before sunrise we shall be on our way again; I must be at
Cawnpore, and we have delayed too long already. Could you give us but
half an hour tonight, sahib; we will come at any hour you like. I would
show you things that few Englishmen have seen. Not mere common tricks,
sahib, but mysteries such as are known to few even of us. Do not say no,
sahib.”
“Well, if you wish it, Rujub, I will give you half an hour,” and
Bathurst looked at his watch. “It is seven now, and I have to dine. I
have work to do that will take me three hours at least, but at eleven I
shall have finished. You will see a light in my room; come straight to
the open window.”
“We will be there, sahib;” and with a salaam the juggler walked off,
followed by his daughter.
A few minutes before the appointed time Bathurst threw down his pen with
a little sigh of satisfaction.
The memo he had just finished was a most conclusive one; it seemed
to him unanswerable, and that the Department would have trouble in
disputing his facts and figures. He had not since he sat down to his
work given another thought to the juggler, and he almost started as a
figure appeared in the veranda at the open window.
“Ah, Rujub, is it you? I have just finished my work. Come in; is Rabda
with you?”
“She will remain outside until I want her,” the juggler said as he
entered and squatted himself on the floor. “I am not going to juggle,
sahib. With us there are two sorts of feats; there are those that are
performed by sleight of hand or by means of assistance. These are the
juggler’s tricks we show in the verandas and compounds of the white
sahibs, and in the streets of the cities. There are others that are
known only to the higher order among us, that we show only on rare
occasions. They have come to us from the oldest times, and it is said
they were brought by wise men from Egypt; but that I know not.”
“I have always been interested in juggling, and have seen many things
that I cannot understand,” Bathurst said. “I have seen the basket trick
done on the road in front of the veranda, as well as in other places,
and I cannot in any way account for it.”
The juggler took from his basket a piece of wood about two feet in
length and some four inches in diameter.
“You see this?” he said.
Bathurst took it in his hand. “It looks like a bit sawn off a telegraph
pole,” he said.
“Will you come outside, sahib?”
The night was very dark, but the lamp on the table threw its light
through the window onto the drive in front of the veranda. Rujub took
with him a piece of wood about nine inches square, with a soft pad on
the top. He went out in the drive and placed the piece of pole upright,
and laid the wood with the cushion on the top.
“Now will you stand in the veranda a while?”
Bathurst stood back by the side of the window so as not to interfere
with the passage of the light. Rabda stole forward and sat down upon the
cushion.
“Now watch, sahib.”
Bathurst looked, and saw the block of wood apparently growing. Gradually
it rose until Rabda passed up beyond the light in the room.
“You may come out,” the juggler said, “but do not touch the pole. If you
do, it will cause a fall, which would be fatal to my child.”
Bathurst stepped out and looked up. He could but just make out the
figure of Rabda, seemingly already higher than the top of the bungalow.
Gradually it became more and more indistinct.
“You are there, Rabda?” her father said.
“I am here, father!” and the voice seemed to come from a considerable
distance.
Again and again the question was asked, and the answer became fainter
and fainter, although it sounded as if it was a distant cry in response
to Rujub’s shout rather than spoken in an ordinary voice.
At last no response was heard.
“Now it shall descend,” the juggler said.
Two or three minutes passed, and then Bathurst, who was staring up into
the darkness, could make out the end of the pole with the seat upon
it, but Rabda was no longer there. Rapidly it sank, until it stood its
original height on the ground.
“Where is Rabda?” Bathurst exclaimed.
“She is here, my lord,” and as he spoke Rabda rose from a sitting
position on the balcony close to Bathurst.
“It is marvelous!” the latter exclaimed. “I have heard of that feat
before, but have never seen it. May I take up that piece of wood?”
“Assuredly, sahib.”
Bathurst took it up and carried it to the light. It was undoubtedly,
as he had before supposed, a piece of solid wood. The juggler had not
touched it, or he would have supposed he might have substituted for the
piece he first examined a sort of telescope of thin sheets of steel, but
even that would not have accounted for Rabda’s disappearance.
“I will show you one other feat, my lord.”
He took a brass dish, placed a few pieces of wood and charcoal in it,
struck a match, and set the wood on fire, and then fanned it until the
wood had burned out, and the charcoal was in a glow; then he sprinkled
some powder upon it, and a dense white smoke rose.
“Now turn out the lamp, sahib.”
Bathurst did so. The glow of the charcoal enabled him still to see the
light smoke; this seemed to him to become clearer and clearer.
“Now for the past!” Rujub said. The smoke grew brighter and brighter,
and mixed with flashes of color; presently Bathurst saw clearly an
Indian scene. A village stood on a crest, jets of smoke darted up
from between the houses, and then a line of troops in scarlet uniform
advanced against the village, firing as they went. They paused for a
moment, and then with a rush went at the village and disappeared in the
smoke over the crest.
“Good Heavens,” Bathurst muttered, “it is the battle of Chillianwalla!”
“The future!” Rujub said, and the colors on the smoke changed. Bathurst
saw a wall surrounding a courtyard. On one side was a house. It had
evidently been besieged, for in the upper part were many ragged holes,
and two of the windows were knocked into one. On the roof were men
firing, and there were one or two women among them. He could see their
faces and features distinctly. In the courtyard wall there was a gap,
and through this a crowd of Sepoys were making their way, while a
handful of whites were defending a breastwork. Among them he recognized
his own figure. He saw himself club his rifle and leap down into the
middle of the Sepoys, fighting furiously there. The colors faded away,
and the room was in darkness again. There was the crack of a match, and
then Rujub said quietly, “If you will lift off the globe again, I will
light the lamp, sahib.”
Bathurst almost mechanically did as he was told.
“Well, sahib, what do you think of the pictures?”
“The first was true,” Bathurst said quietly, “though, how you knew I was
with the regiment that stormed the village at Chillianwalla I know not.
The second is certainly not true.”
“You can never know what the future will be, sahib,” the juggler said
gravely.
“That is so,” Bathurst said; “but I know enough of myself to say that
it cannot be true. I do not say that the Sepoys can never be fighting
against whites, improbable as it seems, but that I was doing what that
figure did is, I know, impossible.”
“Time will show, sahib,” the juggler said; “the pictures never lie.
Shall I show you other things?”
“No, Rujub, you have shown me enough; you have astounded me. I want to
see no more tonight.”
“Then farewell, sahib; we shall meet again, I doubt not, and mayhap I
may be able to repay the debt I owe you;” and Rujub, lifting his basket,
went out through the window without another word.