captures are made in a different manner, and upon a greater scale.
What is done is to surround a herd and drive it into an enclosure
called a keddah. This is often a very complicated and difficult thing
to accomplish. Far away in some wild unsettled region of the Nilgiri
or Satpúra hills, the uplands of Mysore, or elsewhere, an English
official pitches his tent, surveys the country, and sends out scouts.
To him sooner or later comes a person without any clothes to speak
of, but with the most exquisite manners, and says that, owing to
his Excellency’s good fortune, by which all adverse influences have
been happily averted, he begs to represent that a herd of elephants,
who were created on purpose to be captured by him, is marked down.
Then the commander-in-chief of the catching forces opens a campaign
that may last for weeks, or even months. The topography has been
carefully studied with reference to occupying positions which will
prevent the animals from breaking through a line of posts that are
established around them, and between which communication is kept
up by flying detachments. Drafts of men from the district and a
trained contingent the officer brought with him, are manœuvred so
that they can concentrate upon the point selected for their keddah,
which is not constructed till towards the close of these movements,
since the area surrounded is very extensive and it is not at first
known exactly where it must be placed. Its position is fixed within
certain limits, however, and their object is to drive the herd in that
direction without at first attracting attention to the fact that this
is being done, and thereby causing continued alarm. Those who direct
proceedings know the character of elephants, and count upon their lack
of intelligence to aid them in carrying out the design. Before any
apprehension of real danger makes itself felt, they have voluntarily,
as it seems to them, moved away from parties who just showed themselves
from time to time and then disappeared. They still feed in solitudes
apparently uninvaded, still stand about after the manner of their kind,
blowing dust through their trunks or squirting water over their bodies.
They fan themselves with branches, and sleep in peace.
At length, long after the true state of things would have been fully
appreciated by most other species, the herd finds out that it is always
moving in a definite direction. Then a dim consciousness of the truth,
which day by day becomes more vivid until it arrives at certainty,
takes possession of their minds. From that time an exhibition of traits
which scarcely correspond with popular views upon the elephant’s
intellect is constantly made. If they had anything like the ability
attributed to them, the toils by which they are surrounded could be
broken with ease. There is no time from their first sight of a human
being to the very moment when they are bound to trees, at which they
could not escape. It is useless to say they do not know this; that is
precisely what the creatures are accused of. If they were such animals
as they are said to be, they would know it, and act accordingly. But
as soon as the situation is revealed, they become helpless; their
resources of every kind are at an end. They stand still in stupid
despair, break out in transient and impotent fits of rage, make
pitiable demonstrations of attack upon points where they could not
be opposed for an instant if the assault was made in earnest, and at
length suffer themselves to be driven into an enclosure that would no
more hold them against their will than if it had been made of gauze.
An elephant corral or keddah is a stout stockade with a shallow ditch
dug around it inside, and slight fences of brush diverging for some
distance from its entrance. Incredible as it may seem, single elephants
frequently break out of these places, but a herd hardly ever; they
have not enterprise, pluck, and presence of mind enough to follow the
example when it is set them. Sometimes, as we have seen, elephants may
be fierce and determined; desperation has been shown to be among the
possibilities of their nature. But whereas an exceptional individual
will, from pure ferocity, brave wounds and death, nothing can so move
the race as to cause a display of ordinary self-possession. It is
quite true that whenever the imprisoned band comes rushing down upon
any part of the keddah, they are met with fire-brands, the discharge
of unshotted guns, and an infernal clamor; but if that be urged in
explanation of their hesitation, it may be replied that if the whole
herd had as much resolution as a single lion brought to bay, they would
sweep away everything before them as the fallen leaves of their forests
are swept away by a gale.
Often among the bewildered and panic-stricken crowd within a corral
some animal is so dangerous that it has to be shot; the majority,
however, soon grow calmer, and then comes the task of securing those
which it is desirable to keep. When these are males, the procedure is
as follows: An experienced female is introduced; she marches up to the
tusker, and very shortly all sense of his situation vanishes from his
“half-human mind.” The fascinating creature who is made to cajole him
has a man on her neck whose voice and motions direct her in everything
she does; but that circumstance, which might undoubtedly be supposed
to attract the captive’s attention, is entirely overlooked, and when,
either by herself or with the assistance of another Delilah, she
has backed her Samson up against a tree, two or three other men who
have been riding on her back, but whom he has not noticed, slip down
and make him fast. As has been said, after a few fits of hysterics,
his resistance is at an end; the monarch of the forest is tamed,
and considering what has been written about elephants, it is indeed
surprising that no one has reported the precise course of thought that
produced his resignation. To express this change in the felicitous
language of Professor Romanes, the elephant has experienced “a
transformation of emotional psychology.” That is to say, a being which
has heretofore been nothing but an unreclaimed wild beast, is by the
simple process of being frightened, deceived, abused, and enslaved, at
once converted into one of the chief ornaments of animated nature!
The question arises as one ponders upon statements like this, whether
we really know anything worth speaking of about inferior animals, and
if it is possible to use expressions like “cruel as a tiger,” “brave
as a lion,” or “sagacious as an elephant,” rationally. As for any
philosophical, or, as Spencer calls it, “completely unified knowledge”
on the subject, nobody possesses it; at the same time the natural
sciences may be so applied as to bring certain truths to light in this
connection. It is plain, for example, that an elephant does not kill
his keeper because he is fond of him; but it is one thing to start
out with the assumption that this noble-hearted, affectionate, and
magnanimous animal would never have been guilty of such an act unless
it had been maltreated, and it is another, and quite a different
course to begin with the fact that the deed was done by a brute in
whose inherited nature no radical change could by any possibility have
been effected by such training as it has received. If now we endeavor
to ascertain what that nature was,--study the records of behavior in
wild and domesticated specimens, and look at this by the light which
biology and psychology, without any assumptions whatever, cast upon
it,--we shall find ourselves in the best position for investigating
any particular case under consideration. Many accounts of such murders
have been given at length. We know how, why, when, and where the animal
began its enmity, and the manner in which it was shown or concealed,
so that, having investigated the matter in the way described, we are,
to a certain extent, able, not to generalize the character of this
species, but to put aside immature opinions, and say that since very
many elephants exhibit traits which are in conformity with those to
be expected of them, these probably belong to the species at large,
and may be displayed with different degrees of violence whenever
circumstances favor their manifestation.
The chief characteristics of elephants have been discussed, and an
attempt has been made to place them in their true light. The writer
has not found the half-human elephant in nature, nor does it appear
from records that any one else has done so. An elephant is a wild
beast, comparatively with others undeveloped by a severe struggle
for existence; superficially changed in captivity, and cut off from
improvement by barrenness. It is capable of receiving a considerable
amount of instruction, and learns quickly and well; but how far its
acquisitions are assimilated and converted into faculty, is altogether
uncertain. In the savage state elephants do nothing that other animals
cannot do as well, and many of them better. Mere bulk, and its
accompaniment, strength, do not influence character in any definite
manner that can be pointed out.
In captivity, elephants are commonly obedient, partly because, having
never had any enemies to contend with, they are naturally inoffensive,
and partly for the reason that these animals are easily overawed, very
nervous, and extremely liable to feelings of causeless apprehension.
Courage in cold blood is certainly not one of their qualities;
nevertheless, being amenable to discipline, and having some sense of
responsibility, certain elephants are undoubtedly stanch both in war
and the chase.
This animal is easily excited, very irritable, prone to take offence,
and subject to fits of hysterical passion. Thus it happens that wild
elephants are the most formidable objects of pursuit known to exist,
and that the majority of those held in durance exhibit dangerous
outbreaks of temper. When an elephant is vicious, he displays
capabilities in the way of evil such as none of his kind, when left
to themselves, have ever been known to manifest in the direction of
virtue. A “rogue” is the most terrible of wild beasts; the captive
tusker who has determined upon murder finds no being but man, who in
the prosecution of his design is so patient, so self-contained, so
deceitful, and so deadly. It is idle to say, speaking of the relations
between elephants and men, that the good qualities of the former
greatly predominate, since if it had been otherwise, no association
between them would have been possible--they could not have inhabited
the same regions.
The concluding pages may, perhaps, serve to show how far this sketch of
the elephant’s character is compatible with facts.
Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) observes that,
“whether or not the elephant be the harmless creature he is represented
by many, certain it is that to the sportsman he is the most formidable
of all those beasts, the lion not excepted, that roam the African
wilds; and few there are who make the pursuit of him a profession, that
do not, sooner or later, come to grief of some kind.” Being social
animals, there is a certain sympathy and affection between members of
the same family; but while striking instances of this are recorded, the
bulk of evidence tends the other way.
Impressive examples of solicitude have, however, been observed. Moodie
tells that he saw a female--whom the experience of most hunters shows
to be much more likely to act in this manner than a male--guard her
wounded mate, and how she, “regardless of her own danger, quitted
her shelter in the woods, rushed out to his assistance, walked round
and round him, chased away the assailants, and returning to his side
caressed him. Whenever he attempted to walk, she placed her flank or
her shoulder to his wounded side and supported him.” Frederick Green
wrote an altogether unique account to Andersson of the succor of an
elephant that had been shot, by one who was a stranger, of the same
sex, and who encountered him far from the scene where his misfortune
had befallen him.
The Bushmen, he says, often asserted that elephants would carry water
in their trunks to a wounded companion at a long distance in the
“Weldt.” Green, however, did not believe it, until, while hunting in
the Lake Regions, he was compelled, from want of ammunition, “to leave
an elephant that was crippled (one of his fore legs had been broken,
besides having eleven wounds in his body) some thirty miles from the
waggons.”
“As I felt confident,” this writer continues, “that he would die of his
wounds ... I despatched Bushmen after him instead of going myself; but
they, not attending to my commands, remained for two days beside an
elephant previously killed by my after-rider. It was, therefore, not
until the fourth evening after I left this elephant that the Bushmen
came up with him.... They found him still alive and standing, but
unable to walk.... They slept near him, thinking he might die during
the night; but at an early hour after dark they heard another elephant
at a distance, apparently calling, and he was answered by the wounded
one. The calls and answers continued until the stranger came up, and
they saw him giving the hurt one water, after which he assisted in
taking his maimed companion away.” Such was the story told Green when
the party came back. He disbelieved their statements entirely, went off
to the spot to see what had happened for himself, and thus relates his
own observations:--
“The next afternoon found me at the identical place where I had left
the wounded elephant. I can only say that the account of the Bushmen as
to the stranger elephant coming up to the maimed one was proved by the
spoor; and that their further assertion as to his having assisted his
unfortunate friend in removing elsewhere was also fully verified from
the spoor of the two being close alongside of each other--the broken
leg of the wounded one leaving after it a deep furrow in the sand. As I
was satisfied that these parts of their story were correct, I did not
see any further reason to doubt the other.”
Male elephants rarely fall in the holes which undermine so many parts
of Africa; they carry their trunks low, have no one to look out for
but themselves, and so detect these traps, and generally uncover them.
Moodie makes the statement that many elephants follow the recent
trails of those who went before them to watering-places, and if these
turned off, took it for a sign of danger, and did not drink. After
what Inglis and Hallet say to the same effect of tigers, after St.
John’s observations upon red deer, and Lloyd’s on the Scandinavian
fox, inductive reasoning like this does not seem at all incredible.
Amral, chief of the Namaqua Hottentots, told Galton and Andersson that
on one occasion he and others were in pursuit of a herd of elephants,
and at length came to a wagon-track which the animals had crossed.
Here the latter, as was seen by their spoor, had come to a halt, and
after carefully examining the ground with their trunks, formed a circle
in the centre of which their leader took up his position. Afterwards
individuals were sent out to make further investigations. The _Raad_,
or debate, this chieftain went on to say, must have been long and
weighty, for they (the elephants) had written much on the ground with
their probosces. The decision evidently was that to remain longer
in that locality would be dangerous, and they therefore came to the
unanimous resolution to decamp forthwith. Attempts to overtake them,
Amral went on to say, were useless; for, though they followed their
tracks till sunset, they saw no more of them.
What these elephants thought when they found a track which, to them,
was new and inexplicable, is, of course, a matter of conjecture; but
their trail revealed everything that was done on this occasion, as
clearly as if the Hottentots had been eye-witnesses of their actions.
Colonel Julius Barras (“India and Tiger-Hunting”) entered _con amore_
into a study of the elephant, so far as its character came into play
when the animal was employed in sport; and he did what no other
gentleman, to the author’s knowledge, has ever done; namely, turned
mahout himself, and drove shikar tuskers against many a tiger. His
appreciation of this creature’s courage, benevolence, and reliability
is very much in accord with that which has been expressed; but he
offers some observations upon vice that should not be overlooked. “One
peculiarity of elephants,” remarks the Colonel, “is that, when desirous
of killing any one, they nearly always select as a victim their own or
a rival’s attendant.” It seems rather strained, however, to speak of
this fact as a “peculiarity,” since circumstances would naturally bring
about such a selection.
But no provocation need be offered to an elephant in order that he
should desire to kill a man. “Sahib,” said Mohammed Yakoob, the driver
of an immense old tusker, whom Colonel Barras had drawn from the
government stables at Baroda, “you see that this elephant is a beast
void of religion (_be imān_), and he hates the English.”
“Dear me,” answered the Colonel, “and how does he get on with the
natives?”
“Oh!” replied the mahout, “much better, but still he is uncertain even
with them. He has killed two, and there is but little doubt that he
will do for me, his keeper, sooner or later.”
Colonel Barras knew that Futteh Ali, the elephant in question, had
never seen him before, and was well aware that it was impossible
for this creature to feel offended at any act of his. The colonel’s
mind was also full of conventional ideas concerning elephants, so he
disbelieved what the driver told him, and resolved to make friends
with Futteh Ali, and ride him after tigers. He tells what happened in
the following words:--
“One afternoon I considered myself fortunate in arriving before Futteh
Ali when no one was in sight. I drew up in front of him with a few
pieces of chopped sugar-cane in my hand. I looked attentively at the
colossus, and could observe no signs of any unusual emotion. I spoke
to him in those tones which I flattered myself he considered dulcet.
On this he gently waved his ears and twinkled his eyes, as who should
say, ‘It’s all right; you are my friend.’ I now called out cheerfully,
‘Salaam, Futteh Ali, Salaam!’ and raised my arm at the same time. To
this he responded by lifting his trunk over his head in return for
the salute. This last act made assurance doubly sure. I mounted the
platform, and as I did so the elephant again flung up his trunk, and
opened his mouth, as if to accept with gratitude my sweet and juicy
offerings. But his heart was full of treachery. He well knew that with
his front feet manacled it would be useless to pursue me even if I
had but a few inches start of him. He therefore dissembled with great
cleverness and self-command till I had actually leant up against one of
his tusks, and had got my hand in his mouth; then he suddenly belched
forth a shout of rage, and made a sweep at me with his tusks that sent
me flying off the platform into the dust below.... I sat up bareheaded
and half-stunned, just in time to see the under-keeper, who had been
slumbering behind a pile of equipments all this time, sent with greater
force in a backward direction.... The elephant, meanwhile, had thrown
off the mask; it was evidently only the shackles on his front feet
that prevented him from getting off the platform and finishing us.”
Very few persons would have done the same, but Colonel Barras took
Futteh Ali for his Shikar elephant, and he afterwards carried him well
in many a dangerous strait. But he was wise enough never to give him a
second opportunity to take his life.
Another tusker enraged himself against Colonel Barras for a very
slight cause. He was coming back one day, riding this animal, Ashmut
Gūj by name, when, as he says, “I determined to see what this beast
would do, if I, seated on his back, were to imitate a tiger charging.”
Accordingly, he began to mimic that short, hoarse, savage cry, and the
elephant, who was not at all deceived, did nothing but raise his trunk.
The mahout, however, warned him to desist. “Every time you make that
noise,” said he, “the elephant points his trunk over his back and takes
a long sniff to inform himself as to which of his passengers is trying
to vex him.” Barras stopped at once, but the evil had been done.
“On arriving at the bungalow,” the Colonel continues, “I had quite
forgotten this little incident. Not so Ashmut Gūj. At the word of
command he bent his hind legs and allowed the three natives to slip off
his back in succession. I was the last to dismount, and as I touched
the ground the elephant rose with a swift motion, and aimed a fearful
kick at me with his enormous club-like hind foot. I started forward, so
as just to escape the blow, which would, of course, have annihilated
me. This elephant would never forgive me for the indignity I had put
upon him. Always upon dismounting he would try to rise, so as to repeat
his manœuvre, and it was necessary to make him kneel down completely
before I got off. Nor would I ever again feed him from my hand, as I
believe that if he could have got hold of me he would have trampled me.”
There is a tragic story told by the same author, of an elephant who
was “must.” His keeper did not know it, and, in fact, could not be
persuaded that such was the case.
Barras left Neemuch with a number of elephants, and among the rest an
old friend and favorite of his, Roghanath Gūj, whose mahout, Ghassee
Ram, had been in charge of him for eighteen years and thus acquired
a very great influence over the animal. Colonel Barras, who had not
seen this beast for some time, was at once struck by the indifference
displayed to his expressions of friendliness, and to those little
presents of sweets which these creatures enjoy so much. Evidently
Roghanath Gūj was changed; ill, perhaps? No, said and swore his
keeper, there was nothing the matter. His dulness, that sombre air
which excited surprise and suspicion, was nothing more than a little
irritability caused by the extremely hot weather. So Barras yielded his
better judgment to greater experience, and the consequence was that the
next day, while beating for a tiger, the elephant suddenly rushed upon
one of the attendants, and would have killed him if the man had not
taken off his turban and left it on a bush, while he himself slipped
down into the shade of a deep ravine. From this time forth Roghanath
Gūj was picketed by himself.
“Two days after,” says Barras, “we arrived at a small
village,”--Mehra,--“and close to it there were some enormous Banyan
trees, under which the elephants were secured. Opposite to them, on the
other side of a small clearing, stood our little camp. Here, after a
long and unsuccessful day’s beating after a wary tiger, we enjoyed our
late dinner, and had just sought our couches, clad for the night in our
light sleeping-suits, when a burst of affrighted cries broke upon our
ears. The tumult proceeded from the direction of the great tree where
Roghanath Gūj stood in solitude.
“We instantly rushed for our guns, and seized a hurricane lamp. We
made all haste in our slippered feet to the scene of action. As we got
within twenty yards of the elephant, Ghassee Ram (his driver) called
to us to halt. The animal, he said, was obeying him, and if nothing
further incensed him, he would be able to tie up his hind legs with a
rope, when he would be incapable (the fore-limbs being already chained)
of doing any more mischief. So we stood where we were, and waited
in great anxiety, whilst we could hear the mahout uttering the word
_Sōm-Sōm_, which is the order for an elephant to keep his hind quarters
towards any one who may be washing, or otherwise attending to him.
The night was as dark as pitch; nothing could be seen. According to
the different cries of the excited people, however, it was clear that
something had happened to the under-keeper of Roghanath Gūj. Some said
he was dead, some that he had escaped from his terrible assailant. I
called to the other elephant-keepers, but they had all gone with their
animals, I knew not whither, on the first alarm.
“Meanwhile Ghassee Ram was left quite alone to deal with the enraged
beast. Of course we talked to him all the time, and were prepared to
rush in and fire, as well as we could, if he called upon us to do
so. Every chance, however, would have been against our disabling the
elephant, who, maddened by such wounds as he might have received, would
have worked untold destruction during the long dark hours of a moonless
night. To the pluck of Ghassee Ram must be ascribed the avoidance of
such a calamity. In a few minutes, which seemed an age, the mahout
called out that we might advance. We did so, and never shall I forget
the weirdness of the scene that was lighted up by the bright rays of
the lamp I carried.