The old man's keen eye glittered as he salaamed to the very ground.
Oliver turned round to the fat boy in his silks and satins, and shook
him warmly by the hand until he made the twining, serpent-shaped
bracelets jingle. "We are going to be chums after this," he said.
"Chums!" repeated Rattam; "what are they?"
"Friends, if you like it better," retorted Oliver.
"Friends! ah, that I understand. That is good," replied the young
chieftain, taking Oliver's hand between his own in his Eastern fashion.
Happily for Oliver, no little bag of musk was near to drop into it. He
was perfumed past all endurance already by "that beggar with the
scent-bottle."
"Now," cried Oliver, "I should like to be off with the old man. I'm
good for a ten-mile walk any day. What say you? Could we be back again
before my uncle starts?"
Rattam drew himself up with dignity. "It would hardly become me to
walk," he said with emphasis.
Oliver's impatient shrug was cut short by a summons to the hall of
audience. The deputy was going. It was Rattam's turn to sigh, for he
was as weary of perching on a chaukee, or chair, as Oliver was of the
scent-bottle. He managed to draw up one leg unseen by his tutor.
Mrs. Desborough was amused to discover the fabulous powers attributed to
her, and soothed the Ranee's disappointment by sketching the three
little girls as they stood together in the flickering light and shade
cast from the fretwork of the balcony.
But now the word passed round that the sahib was going. A breath of
life entered into the five shawl bundles. Rattam's other foot found its
way to the floor. In walked the two stout gentlemen in white with a tray
of wreaths. Oliver espied the scent-bottle in the back-ground, and
thought about flight. The Rana took up a splendid wreath of weeping
jessamine, with its pure white blossoms trailing loosely over his
outspread arm, and dropped it solemnly over the deputy's head. He, poor
man, was doing his utmost to preserve his gravity, and half succeeded.
But Mr. Desborough's utterly failed when a superb circlet of white and
orange _immortelles_ found its way to his neck. He took refuge in a fit
of coughing, which approached strangulation when he caught sight of
Horace's face. The little fellow was just brought in from the gardens,
and stared with wide-open eyes, literally struck dumb by his father's
absurd appearance. For the five by the wall gravely left their chairs
and followed the Rana's example, until Mr. Desborough's shirt front was
lost to sight beneath the multitude of garlands.
The band was gathering in the porch, and the pompous peons were waiting.
"Good-night, gentlemen," said the deputy, shaking hands all round.
"By your honour's condescension, may your slaves be reserved in health,"
replied the five, salaaming to the ground, and they followed him to the
top of the steps, where the Rana was standing.
The tomtoms and trumpets struck up with a sudden blare as the horses
were led forward.
Oliver squeezed Rattam's hand as he whispered his last question, "When
will the shikaree get back?"
"I shall send him to you," answered Rattam; and they parted.
Mrs. Desborough and the children were already in their dandies, crossing
the bridge, as the horses cantered out of the castle gate sniffing the
cool hill breezes.
"In pity, free me from this rubbish, boy," sighed the deputy, turning to
his nephew; when he beheld ten coolies running behind them, carrying
between them jars of sweetmeats slung upon bamboos--a parting gift from
the Rana.
"Uncle," said Oliver in a low voice, "I have something to tell you."
Whilst Mr. Desborough shunted wreath after wreath into his wife's lap,
shaking himself after each surrender like a dog emerging from the water,
Oliver was explaining to his uncle about Rattam and the shikaree.
Horace was fast asleep, and Kathleen's eyes were blinking, when they
reached the bungalow.
"Cheer up, little woman!" whispered Oliver, as he bade her good-night;
"Master Gravity, in his saffron satin, is going to find out what his
fellows have really seen."
"You shall have my bird!" she exclaimed in her rush of gratitude.
"Nonsense, you silly little goose! You must not give away a keepsake.
Do you think I am like those dusky beggars on the hill? My hands are
empty enough, ready for work, and I mean to keep them so," retorted
Oliver, stretching them out with intense satisfaction to prove the truth
of his words.
He did not see her again, for by daybreak the Desboroughs were all _en
route_ for home, sweet home.
How happy the children were to see the many-gabled roof once more,
embowered as usual in an ever-increasing mass of foliage and flowers,
and replete with joyous life in every corner! The owl still sat in the
entrance of his hole, blinking benevolently at Kathleen and Horace as
they took their first run round the wide, cool veranda hand in hand,
just to see if all the old pets were safe. Kites and hoopoes and blue
jays were screaming and croaking to their hearts' content.
The ayah called Kathleen to look at her billee, as she called the
kitten, which had grown immensely in their absence. Then she lifted up
Horace to watch the gitchree, or squirrel, leaping from bough to bough
among the garden trees, and to listen to the cooing of the jangalee, or
wood-pigeon.
The dark faces of the gardener and the bhisti appeared at unexpected
corners, with new treasures they had been saving for the little beebee.
One had tamed a moongus, a cat-like creature as big as a greyhound, and
excellent for rats and mice, and equally good for cockroaches and many
another insect pest which life in India knows only too much about.
Its soft gray coat and arching back, and all its amusing ways, won a
smile from mamma as it ran about the house, sniffing at every new thing,
and examining every hole and corner with the greatest curiosity.
Finally, it set to work with teeth and claw, and dug itself a
subterranean retreat by the door-step, where it could munch its dinner
undisturbed by the liberties of its many neighbours. It was so clean,
mamma had not a word to say against it. So with that and Kathleen's
mina, who was trusted to leave his cage whenever he liked, the children
had plenty of amusement, and the first few days at home sped rapidly
away.
One evening, when they were returning from their walk, Kathleen with
Sailor by her side, and a coolie holding an umbrella over them both,
they were hailed by Oliver, who was driving in his uncle's boondee (a
hooded gig drawn by two oxen) to the gates of the indigo factory. A
long train of native carts, creaking under their load of indigo pulp,
were waiting to enter. One ghareewan, or carter, had brought a rumour
that a fair child had been seen by some hunters in the jungle. The tale
had passed from lip to lip, until it had reached Mr. Desborough, who was
pacing his office floor in unwonted agitation.
Oliver sprang out of the chaise and made his way through the press with
most unusual energy for India. He entered the labyrinth of
straw-thatched sheds, passed the great crushing-mill, which a party of
half-dressed men were treading, and got splashed by the dark-blue stream
issuing from it. Never mind; on he pressed, inquiring for the sahib.
He was almost deafened by the hissing and sputtering of the steam from
the huge boiling vat, when he became aware that on all sides the men
were rushing from their work, and pointing to a dark reddish cloud that
had suddenly appeared in the north.
He could not tell in the least what all this uproar could mean, so he
tried to edge his way through the crowd of hideous blue figures who were
gesticulating and screaming at their loudest. Then they began to snatch
up the stones around them, which they poised in their hands as if
prepared to hurl them at the skies. Oliver thought of a riot, and was
thankful to perceive Mr. Desborough himself step out from one of the
numerous sheds and glance hurriedly around. Just then a stick struck
Oliver on the head. He looked round; a second was thrown at him. The
men had not sent it, for it came from an opposite direction. He glanced
upwards; another was hurled at his back. He did not like that at all.
In spite of the agitation visible in Mr. Desborough's manner, he began
to laugh as Oliver tried to run from his unseen persecutors, and pointed
to the roof of a great shed out of which the busy workers were rushing
pell-mell. Oliver looked up, and saw a troop of black-faced monkeys,
big fellows three or four feet high, clambering over it. They caught
his eye at last, and then the shower was renewed in earnest. He saw
their switching tails and grinning teeth. And oh, the chattering and
jabbering from five-and-twenty monkeys in a passion was something very
tremendous indeed! Oliver gathered up a handful of the sticks which
were showered around him, and shied them back again.
"Stop, stop, my lad!" shouted Mr. Desborough. "Throwing at monkeys will
not do. Come in here."
Oliver darted into the counting-house, fully believing the riot he had
been anticipating among the men was already in full swing among the
monkeys.
"They are hunimans, my boy, the most sacred of all the monkey tribe.
Had you hurt one of them you might have paid for it with your life.
Timid and peaceable as my men appear, they would have mobbed you in a
moment," exclaimed Mr. Desborough.
"Peaceable!" repeated Oliver; "why, they are yelling like furies."
"Oh, they are watching the locusts. Can't you see them coming?" replied
Mr. Desborough, pointing to the rapidly-moving cloud, which seemed
extending itself in every direction, darkening the air as it came.
"Strange," said the boy; "but I have something here for you that is
stranger still."
As he was speaking Oliver unpacked a lump of clayey earth, and showed it
to him with an elation he could scarcely conceal.
"Look at that, Mr. Desborough. Do you see those marks? What are they?"
he demanded breathlessly. "The print of a child's foot," he added, after
a momentary pause. "The most sagacious hunter among the hills dug it up
two nights ago at the entrance of the koond by the ruined temple. It is
proof positive that a wild child is wandering in the jungle. Can it be
your lost little one?"
The father's hand trembled as he held up the lump of earth to the
fast-decreasing light.
"Send for Iffley!" he exclaimed.
"He is waiting for you, Mr. Desborough--waiting at my uncle's with the
wonderful old man who dug up the footprint. We have gathered the most
experienced beaters and trackers from the villages round. By the time we
reach my uncle's bungalow he will have everything ready to beat the
koond."
Mr. Desborough waited to hear no more. He was already striding across
the open space between the sheds towards his home. Oliver hurried after
him. The sky above them was darkened by a fluttering host of beating
wings. Look which way they would, the air was thick with locusts,
appearing like dark-red spots in the increasing gloom, but white as
snowflakes where the sunlight still lingered.
The fearful hullaballoo the factory-workers were making to prevent the
locusts settling down was caught up and redoubled by every ghareewan at
the factory gate. The living cloud that now completely overhung the
place was slowly and surely descending.
Up went the shower of stones, forcing it to rise some feet into the air
and flutter further.
The men knew well if the locusts were once permitted to settle, not a
green leaf would be left in the village, and the sahib's garden would
become a barren waste before sunrise.
The exceeding singularity of the sight, which held Mrs. Desborough
spell-bound on her veranda, was altogether lost upon her husband, who
saw nothing but his children slowly returning from their evening stroll,
like all the rest of the world, gazing upwards. Oliver alone cast a
wary eye at the monkeys, who, having given the young stranger notice to
quit in their most peremptory fashion, were making off again to rob the
nearest fruit-shop whilst its owner stood gazing at the wondrous insect
army hovering in mid-air.
Mr. Desborough snatched his boy from under the ayah's arm, pulled off
his shoes and socks, and bade him stamp his feet with all his might on
the garden bed.
Mrs. Desborough called out in horror, for she thought some one of the
myriad insects in earth or air would be sure to dart a fiery sting into
the pretty "pink, five-beaded sole."
Determined to spare her the burning suspense which Mr. Desborough was
telling himself was sure to end in the bitterest disappointment, he
would not let Oliver enter the compound.
"Iffley has sent for me," was all the explanation he volunteered as he
seized the gardener's spade, and dug up the clod upon which Horace had
been stamping. He dared not tell her more, for he saw too plainly her
grief for the missing little one was sapping her life. Any sudden shock
and a spasm at the heart might snatch her from him in a moment.
*CHAPTER XII.*
_*BEATING THE KOOND.*_
As the boondee, with its two Mysore oxen, came in sight, Major Iffley,
who had been watching for it at the gate of the deputy's compound, rode
out to meet it.
"Come, old boy," he said to Mr. Desborough; "we are only waiting for
you. Marching orders have been out an hour or more. Come in and change
your coat. No use going on an errand like ours in any colour but
dead-leaf brown. St. Faine has got one waiting for you. Only be quick,
for the brutes have not yet left their lair, and we have a four-mile
ride to reach it."
Out sprung Mr. Desborough. Dare he put so much faith in a few faint
marks on a crumbling clod? Yet he was the first in the saddle as the
hunting-train set forth from Runnangore. A most singular sight awaited
them. As they looked down into the valleys they saw them filled with
fluttering wings, and every mountain height encircled by its reddish
cloud. All locusts, and nothing but locusts. Vultures and kites flew
about in great disorder. A cold breeze from the hills told of the
probability of a coming storm. In sheltered places the oppression in
the air was awful. The locusts called off the attention of the men, but
they also concealed them from the keen, bright eyes that were waking up
with thoughts of evening prey.
As they drew nearer the hills, the ground became so rough and broken the
horses began to stumble. There was nothing for it but to dismount, leave
the horses with the grooms, and proceed on foot. Tara Ghur, the old
hunter with the wonderful Tartar eye, took the lead. On, on they crept
in perfect silence, until they perceived the sheen of a pool of water
sparkling at their feet. It lay at the base of a projecting spur of
rock, and was overlooked by the picturesque ruins of a native temple.
It was small, and overgrown with tall tropical weeds. The flight of
steps to the temple court was half buried in mud. The white pillars of
the colonnade which surrounded it were still unbroken, but the dome
above the shrine had fallen in. Yew and cypress flourished on the spot
where Hindu suppliants were used to bring their offerings to Mata Devee,
the dreaded goddess of destruction.
How strange Oliver felt it to be living in a land where idols abound!
One by one they climbed the broken stair, and gathering round the
prostrate figure of the fallen idol, arranged their plan. From this
ascent they looked down upon the sombre depths of the rugged koond.
Round the shoulder of the hill, on the other side, was the entrance to a
similar gorge. Tara Ghur led them towards the one in which he had dug up
the footprint. He sent the jogies forward one after the other, like a
living ladder, until they reached the topmost height of the precipice at
the back of the koond.
Another division, who were to act as scouts, climbed the trees, some of
them warily venturing further and further into the leafy abyss, leaping
like monkeys from bough to bough.
Mr. Desborough, the deputy, and the major took up their position where
the opening was the narrowest, so that no living thing hiding within the
darkest recesses could rush out unseen. Mr. Desborough and the deputy
were on one side; the major, Oliver, and the old shikaree on the other.
The space between them was scarcely more than fifty yards across. Old
Tara had marked the trees commanding the surest outlook. Mr. Desborough
was the first to mount to his post of observation. The hunter handed
him up his loaded gun.
"No, no," said the father; "no firing."
"No firing!" repeated the major. "Then how do you expect to recover the
child from a pack of raging wolves? Face the truth like a man,
Desborough. If your boy is alive in this jungle, some wolf has adopted
him, and it will guard that child with all the affectionate fidelity of
a noble-hearted dog."
"Ah! but you need the true, clear eye and unerring hand of a William
Tell. Not one of us possesses them. No, no; I dare not suffer a single
shot to be fired," answered the father desperately.
"Well," interposed the deputy soothingly, "nothing of the sort may be
necessary. We are not yet sure this child, if child there be, is yours.
Trust us, we have come to save it, not to hurt it. Still, I say, we
must rescue it at all risks."
"Time, sahib, time presses," urged the shikaree.
They climbed into their appointed places. The deputy and Mr. Desborough
on their side commanded the better view. Then the jogies began their
work at the back of the koond, hurling down fragments of rock and
stones, striking and crashing among the trees, beating tomtoms and
howling with all their might. The terrific row they made was repeated
by the hollow echoes from the opposite side of the winding gorge, and
was enough to scare even bears and tigers from their sleep.
The shouts redoubled. A tiny white flag, waving on the top of a long
bamboo, fluttered above the tree-tops. It was the signal from the
jogies on the heights. Something had been viewed. All the father's life
seemed centring in his eye and ear. The cry of the jackals was
beginning. The scream of the owls was echoed back from the temple
ruins, where the bats were wheeling in endless circles. Then up rose
the moon, flooding the temple hill with its silvery radiance, and giving
an exaggerated profundity to the depths of the ravine. The pool, or
jheel, below the overhanging rock shone like a burnished shield. In the
open ground between, which the beasts must cross as they were driven out
of the koond, any object could be clearly seen. Then the scouts who
were posted in the trees by the sides, each with his matchlock, blazed
away with powder only, to prevent any of the beasts rushing up the
steep, and turn them back towards the watchers by the entrance. There
was a crashing and heaving in the thick underwood. A tiger showed and
hid again in the jow.
Oliver's heart gave a great bound. Oh no, it was not fear! But he felt
the presence of danger, and his cheek grew pale with excitement. Not a
shot was fired; not a sound escaped them. There must be nothing to
intimidate the other inmates of the koond which might be following. The
dead silence was broken only by the tiger's grunting. Did it scent its
foes in the trees around? It did what nothing but a tiger could ever
do--sent its innocent young cub before it into the danger. What a
contrast between the tiger and the wolf! But for once the unsuspecting
young one did not fall a sacrifice to its mother's selfishness. It ran
towards the water, crouching in the moonje grass which tigers love so
well. Another furious onslaught from the jogies, and the mother flashed
past like lightning, rearing up and roaring as it plunged into the
jheel. The scouts came down from the trees and began to talk. They
were half afraid the tiger was the only game that would show that night.
Should they move on to the second koond to seek for the wolves? Then
Tara Ghur bade all be still. His ear detected a movement in the
distance--a tremor among the leaves, which no one else would have
perceived. The scouts changed their places, flying back to the trees,
and blazed away as before.
They were near to that korinda bush, but they did not know it. The
tiger had started, and the patriarch of the wolves gave tongue from the
other koond.
Mr. Desborough turned away from the darkness of the koond to watch the
gaunt, lean, savage forms that were gathering on the moonlit ground to
follow the track of the tiger. A movement in the tangle around escaped
him. But Tara Ghur was aware of it. Oliver saw him bend forward, and
his eye was quick to follow the hunter's. Tara knew that something was
coming along the track where he dug up the footprint.
That footprint! The father was thinking of it. The trace was so slight,
yet it was exactly like Horace's. His heart was sickening with
suspense. Were they on a wrong scent, after all? thought the major, when
out leaped the family from the korinda, with answering cries to the
leader of the pack, who was rushing down the slope. The appalling howls
of his following, as they gathered from brake and bush, might have
chilled the stoutest heart. No child was there. The tall grass bent
and swayed about the tree; then a small white form bounded from the
midst of it like a kangaroo, but the old gray wolf was beside it.
Shouts from opposite sides of the ravine gave warning that something had
been sighted. The small white thing dropped in the towering grass. A
gun was fired. It was Major Iffley's. The wolf had pounced upon her
nursling. The gun was loaded with small shot for the purpose. The
major fired along the ground. The wolf received the charge in her
shoulder. They could see her clawing the earth as she felt the pain,
and then dropped down as if she were dead in the tufted grass. They
could hear the screams of the terrified child.
"Carl! Carl!" Mr. Desborough called in coaxing tones of fatherly
endearment, which rose to command as he met with no reply. The scouts
were darting from point to point, as far as ground and jungle permitted.
The three friends sprang down from the trees, only charging Oliver to
stay were he was. They loaded their guns with ball, and advanced
cautiously to within a yard or so of the giant grass tuft. They
stationed themselves at even distances, that whichever way the wolf
leaped out they might be ready to shoot him sideways through the head,
so that the ball should not enter the tuft of grass. Their first object
was to rouse the wolf and make it show. They trusted that terror would
prevent the child leaving the shelter in which it lay concealed.
Tara Ghur had broken off a tall branch from the tree in which he had
remained, and creeping along one of its mighty arms, peered down into
the grass, but could see nothing. He stirred it up with the broken
branch, but roused nothing except a screaming pea-hen.