Parewah factory.--A 'Bobbery Pack.'--Hunt through a village after a
cat.--The pariah dog of India.--Fate of 'Pincher.'--Rampore hound.
--Persian greyhound.--Caboolee dogs.--A jackal hunt.--Incidents of
the chase.
After living at Puttihee for two years, I was transferred to another
out-factory in the same concern, called Parewah. There was here a very
nice little three-roomed bungalow, with airy verandahs all round. It
was a pleasant change from Puttihee, and the situation was very pretty.
A small stream, almost dry in the hot weather, but a swollen, deep,
rapid torrent in the rains, meandered past the factory. Nearing the
bullock-house it suddenly took a sweep to the left in the form of a
wide horseshoe, and in this bend or pocket was situated the bungalow,
with a pretty terraced garden sloping gently to the stream. Thus the
river was in full view from both the front and the back verandahs.
In front, and close on the bank of the river, stood the kitchen,
fowl-house, and offices. To the right of the compound were the stables,
while behind the bungalow, and some distance down the stream, the
wheel-house, vats, press-house, boiling-house, cake-house, and
workshops were grouped together. I was but nine miles from the
bead-factory, and the same distance from the station of Mooteeharree,
while over the river, and but three miles off, I had the factory of
Meerpore, with its hospitable manager as my nearest neighbour. His
lands and mine lay contiguous. In fact some of his villages lay beyond
some of mine, and he had to ride through part of my cultivation to
reach them.
Not unfrequently we would meet in the zillah of a morning, when we
would invariably make for the nearest patch of grass or jungle, and
enjoy a hunt together. In the cool early mornings, when the heavy night
dews still lie glittering on the grass, when the cobwebs seem strung
with pearls, and faint lines of soft fleecy mist lie in the hollows by
the watercourses; long ere the hot, fiery sun has left his crimson bed
behind the cold grey horizon, we are out on our favourite horse, the
wiry, long-limbed _syce_ or groom trotting along behind us. The
_mehter_ or dog-keeper is also in attendance with a couple of
greyhounds in leash, and a motley pack of wicked little terriers
frisking and frolicking behind him. This mongrel collection is known as
'the Bobbery Pack,' and forms a certain adjunct to every assistant's
bungalow in the district. I had one very noble-looking kangaroo hound
that I had brought from Australia with me, and my 'bobbery pack' of
terriers contained canine specimens of all sorts, sizes, and colours.
On nearing a village, you would see one black fellow, 'Pincher,' set
off at a round trot ahead, with seemingly the most innocent air in the
world. 'Tilly,' 'Tiny,' and 'Nipper' follow.
Then 'Dandy,' 'Curly,' 'Brandy,' and 'Nettle,' till spying a cat in the
distance, the whole pack with a whimper of excitement dash off at a mad
scramble, the hound straining meanwhile at the slip, till he almost
pulls the _mehter_ off his legs. Off goes the cat, round the corner of
a hut with her tail puffed up to fully three times its normal size.
Round in mad, eager pursuit rattle the terriers, thirsting for her
blood. The _syce_ dashes forward, vainly hoping to turn them from their
quest. Now a village dog, roused from his morning nap, bounds out with
a demoniac howl, which is caught up and echoed by all the curs in the
village.
Meanwhile the row inside the hut is fiendish. The sleeping family
rudely roused by the yelping pack, utter the most discordant screams.
The women with garments fluttering behind them, rush out beating their
breasts, thinking the very devil is loose. The wails of the unfortunate
cat mingle with the short snapping barks of the pack, or a howl of
anguish as puss inflicts a caress on the face of some too careless or
reckless dog. A howling village cur has rashly ventured too near.
'Pincher' has him by the hind leg before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'
Leaving the dead cat for 'Toby' and 'Nettle' to worry, the whole pack
now fiercely attack the luckless _Pariah_ dog. A dozen of his village
mates dance madly outside the ring, but are too wise or too cowardly to
come to closer quarters. The kangaroo hound has now fairly torn the
rope from the keeper's hand, and with one mighty bound is in the middle
of the fight, scattering the village dogs right and left. The whole
village is now in commotion, the _syce_ and keeper shout the names of
the terriers in vain. Oaths, cries, shouts, and screams mingle with the
yelping and growling of the combatants, till riding up, I disperse the
worrying pack with a few cracks of my hunting whip, and so on again
over the zillah, leaving the women and children to recover their
scattered senses, the old men to grumble over their broken slumbers,
and the boys and young men to wonder at the pluck and dash of the
_Belaitee Kookoor_, or English dog.
The common Pariah dog, or village dog of India, is a perfect cur; a
mangy, carrion-loving, yellow-fanged, howling brute. A most unlovely
and unloving beast. As you pass his village he will bounce out on you
with the fiercest bark and the most menacing snarl; but lo! if a
terrier the size of a teacup but boldly go at him, down goes his tail
like a pump-handle, he turns white with fear, and like the arrant
coward that he is, tumbles on his back and fairly screams for mercy. I
have often been amused to see a great hulking cowardly brute come out
like an avalanche at 'Pincher,' expecting to make one mouthful of him.
What a look of bewilderment he would put on, as my gallant little
'Pincher,' with a short, sharp, defiant bark would go boldly at him.
The huge yellow brute would stop dead short on all four legs, and as
the rest of my pack would come scampering round the corner, he would
find himself the centre of a ring of indomitable assailants.
How he curses his short-sighted temerity. With one long howl of utter
dismay and deadly fear, he manages to get away from the pack, leaving
my little doggies to come proudly round my horse with their mouths full
of fur, and each of their little tails as stiff as an iron ramrod.
That 'Pincher,' in some respects, was a very fiend incarnate. There was
no keeping him in. He was constantly getting into hot water himself,
and leading the pack into all sorts of mischief. He was as bold as
brass and as courageous as a lion. He stole food, worried sheep and
goats, and was never out of a scrape. I tried thrashing him, tying him
up, half starving him, but all to no purpose. He would be into every
hut in a village whenever he had the chance, overturning brass pots,
eating up rice and curries, and throwing the poor villager's household
into dismay and confusion. He would never leave a cat if he once saw
it. I've seen him scramble through the roofs of more than one hut, and
oust the cat from its fancied stronghold.
I put him into an indigo vat with a big dog jackal once, and he whipped
the jackal single-handed. He did not kill it, but he worried it till
the jackal shammed dead and would not 'come to the scratch.' 'Pincher's'
ears were perfect shreds, and his scars were as numerous almost as his
hairs. My gallant 'Pincher!' His was a sad end. He got eaten up by an
alligator in the 'Dhans,' a sluggish stream in Bhaugulpore. I had all
my pack in the boat with me, the stream was swollen and full of weeds.
A jackal gave tongue on the bank, and 'Pincher' bounded over the side
of the boat at once. I tried to 'grab' him, and nearly upset the boat
in doing so. Our boat was going rapidly down stream, and 'Pincher'
tried to get ashore but got among the weeds. He gave a bark, poor
gallant little dog, for help, but just then we saw a dark square snout
shoot athwart the stream. A half-smothered sobbing cry from 'Pincher,'
and the bravest little dog I ever possessed was gone for ever.
There is another breed of large, strong-limbed, big-boned dogs, called
Rampore hounds. They are a cross breed from the original upcountry dog
and the Persian greyhound. Some call them the Indian greyhound. They
seem to be bred principally in the Rampore-Bareilly district, but one
or more are generally to be found in every planter's pack. They are
fast and strong enough, but I have often found them bad at tackling,
and they are too fond of their keeper ever to make an affectionate
faithful dog to the European.
Another somewhat similar breed is the _Tazi_. This, although not so
large a dog as the Rhamporee, is a much pluckier animal, and when well
trained will tackle a jackal with the utmost determination. He has a
wrinkled almost hairless skin, but a very uncertain temper, and he is
not very amenable to discipline. _Tazi_ is simply the Persian word for
a greyhound, and refers to no particular breed. The common name for a
dog is _Kutta_, pronounced _Cootta_, but the Tazi has certainly been an
importation from the North-west, hence the Persian name. The wandering
Caboolees, who come down to the plains once a year with dried fruits,
spices, and other products of field or garden, also bring with them the
dogs of their native country for sale, and on occasion they bring
lovely long-haired white Persian cats, very beautiful animals. These
Caboolee dogs are tall, long-limbed brutes, generally white, with a
long thin snout, very long silky-haired drooping ears, and generally
wearing tufts of hair on their legs and tail, somewhat like the
feathering of a spaniel, which makes them look rather clumsy. They
cannot stand the heat of the plains at all well, and are difficult to
tame, but fleet and plucky, hunting well with an English pack.
My neighbour Anthony at Meerpore had some very fine English greyhounds
and bulldogs, and many a rattling burst have we had together after the
fox or the jackal. Imagine a wide level plain, with one uniform dull
covering of rice stubble, save where in the centre a mound rises some
two acres in extent, covered with long thatching grass, a few scrubby
acacia bushes, and other jungly brushwood. All round the circular
horizon are dense forest masses of sombre looking foliage, save where
some clump of palms uprear their stately heads, or the white shining
walls of some temple, sacred to Shiva or Khristna glitter in the
sunshine. Far to the left a sluggish creek winds slowly along through
the plain, its banks fringed with acacias and wild rose jungle. On the
far bank is a small patch of _Sal_ forest jungle, with a thick rank
undergrowth of ferns, thistles, and rank grass. As I am slowly riding
along I hear a shout in the distance, and looking round behold Anthony
advancing at a rapid hand gallop. His dogs and mine, being old friends,
rapidly fraternise, and we determine on a hunt.
'Let's try the old patch, Anthony!'
'All right,' and away we go making straight for the mound. When we
reach the grass the syces and keepers hold the hounds at the corners
outside, while we ride through the grass urging on the terriers, who,
quivering with excitement, utter short barks, and dash here and there
among the thick grass, all eager for a find.
'Gone away, gone away!' shouts Anthony, as a fleet fox dashes out,
closely followed by 'Pincher' and half a dozen others. The hounds are
slipped, and away go the pack in full pursuit, we on our horses riding
along, one on each side of the chase. The fox has a good start, but now
the hounds are nearing him, when with a sudden whisk he doubles round
the ridge encircling a rice field, the hounds overshoot him, and ere
they turn the fox has put the breadth of a good field between himself
and his pursuers. He is now making back again for the grass, but
encounters some of the terriers who have tailed off behind. With
panting chests and lolling tongues, they are pegging stolidly along,
when fortune gives them this welcome chance. Redoubling their efforts,
they dash at the fox. 'Bravo, Tilly! you tumbled him over that time;'
but he is up and away again. Dodging, double-turning, and twisting, he
has nearly run the gauntlet, and the friendly covert is close at hand,
but the hounds are now up again and thirsting for his blood. 'Hurrah!
Minnie has him!' cries Anthony, and riding up we divest poor Reynard of
his brush, pat the dogs, ease the girths for a minute, and then again
into the jungle for another beat.
This time a fat old jackal breaks to the left, long before the dogs are
up. Yelling to the _mehters_ not to slip the hounds, we gather the
terriers together, and pound over the stubble and ridges. He is going
very leisurely, casting an occasional scared look over his shoulder.
'Curly' and 'Legs,' two of my fastest terriers, are now in full view,
they are laying themselves well to the ground, and Master Jackal thinks
it's high time to increase his pace. He puts on a spurt, but condition
tells. He is fat and pursy, and must have had a good feed last night on
some poor dead bullock. He is shewing his teeth now. Curly makes his
rush, and they both roll over together. Up hurries Legs, and the jackal
gets a grip, gives him a shake, and then hobbles slowly on. The two
terriers now hamper him terribly. One minute they are at his heels, and
as soon as he turns, they are at his ear or shoulder. The rest of the
pack are fast coming up.
Anthony has a magnificent bulldog, broad-chested, and a very Goliath
among dogs. He is called 'Sailor.' Sailor always pounds along at the
same steady pace; he never seems to get flurried. Sitting lazily at the
door, he seems too indolent even to snap at a fly. He is a true
philosopher, and nought seems to disturb his serenity. But see him
after a jackal, his big red tongue hanging out, his eyes flashing fire,
and his hair erected on his back like the bristles of a wild boar. He
looks fiendish then, and he is a true bulldog. There is no flinching
with Sailor. Once he gets his grip it's no use trying to make him let
go.
Up comes Sailor now.
He has the jackal by the throat.
A hoarse, rattling, gasping yell, and the jackal has gone to the happy
hunting grounds.
The sun is now mounting in the sky. The hounds and terriers feel the
heat, so sending them home by the keeper, we diverge on our respective
roads, ride over our cultivation, seeing the ploughing and preparations
generally, till hot, tired, and dusty, we reach home about 11.30,
tumble into our bath, and feeling refreshed, sit down contentedly to
breakfast. If the _dak_ or postman has come in we get our letters and
papers, and the afternoon is devoted to office work and accounts,
hearing complaints and reports from the villages, or looking over any
labour that may be going on in the zeraats or at the workshops. In the
evening we ride over the zeraats again, give orders for the morrow's
work, consume a little tobacco, have an early dinner, and after a
little reading, retire soon to bed to dream of far away friends and the
happy memories of home. Many an evening it is very lonely work. No
friendly face, and no congenial society within miles of your factory.
Little wonder that the arrival of a brother planter sends a thrill
through the frame, and that his advent is welcomed as the most
agreeable break to the irksome monotony of our lonely life.