Kuderent jungle.--Charged by a pig.--The biter bit.--'Mac' after the
big boar.--The horse for pig-sticking.--The line of beaters.--The boar
breaks.--'Away! Away!'--First spear.--Pig-sticking at Peeprah.--The
old 'lungra' or cripple.--A boar at bay.--Hurrah for pig-sticking!
There was a very fine pig jungle at a place called Kuderent, belonging
to a wealthy landowner who went by the name of the Mudhobunny Baboo. We
occasionally had a pig-sticking meet here, and as the jungle was
strictly preserved, we were never disappointed in finding plenty who
gave us glorious sport. The jungles consisted of great grass plains,
with thickly wooded patches of dense tree jungle, intersected here and
there by deep ravines, with stagnant pools of water at intervals; the
steep sides all thickly clothed with thorny clusters of the wild
dog-rose. It was a difficult country to beat, and we had always to
supplement the usual gang of beaters with as many elephants as we could
collect. In the centre of the jungle was an eminence of considerable
height, whence there was a magnificent view of the surrounding country.
Far in the distance the giant Himalayas towered into the still clear
air, the guardian barriers of an unknown land. The fretted pinnacles
and tremendous ridges, clothed in their pure white mantle of
everlasting snow, made a magnificent contrast to the dark, misty,
wooded masses formed by the lower ranges of hills. In the early
morning, when the first beams of the rising sun had but touched the
mountain tops, leaving the country below shrouded in the dim mists and
vapours of retiring night, the sight was most sublime. In presence of
such hills and distances, such wondrous combinations of colour, scenery
on such a gigantic scale, even the most thoughtless become impressed
with the majesty of nature.
Our camp was pitched on the banks of a clear running mountain stream,
brawling over rocks and boulders; and to eyes so long accustomed to the
never ending flatness of the rich alluvial plains, and the terrible
sameness of the rice swamps, the stream was a source of unalloyed
pleasure. There were only a few places where the abrupt banks gave
facilities for fording, and when a pig had broken fairly from the
jungle, and was making for the river (as they very frequently did),
you would see the cluster of horsemen scattering over the plain like
a covey of partridges when the hawk swoops down upon them. Each made
for what he considered the most eligible ford, in hopes of being first
up with the pig on the further bank, and securing the much coveted
first spear.
When a pig is hard pressed, and comes to any natural obstacle, as a
ditch, bank, or stream, he almost invariably gets this obstacle between
himself and his pursuer; then wheeling round he makes his stand,
showing wonderful sagacity in choosing the moment of all others when he
has his enemy at most disadvantage. Experienced hands are aware of
this, and often try to outflank the boar, but the best men I have seen
generally wait a little, till the pig is again under weigh, and then
clearing the ditch or bank, put their horses at full speed, which is
the best way to make good your attack. The rush of the boar is so
sudden, fierce, and determined, that a horse at half speed, or going
slow, has no chance of escape; but a well trained horse at full speed
meets the pig in his rush, the spear is delivered with unerring aim,
and slightly swerving to the left, you draw it out as you continue your
course, and the poor pig is left weltering in his blood behind you.
On one occasion I was very rudely made aware of this trait. It was a
fine fleet young boar we were after, and we had had a long chase, but
were now overhauling him fast. I had a good horse under me, and 'Jamie'
and 'Giblets' were riding neck and neck. There was a small mango
orchard in front surrounded by the usual ditch and bank. It was nothing
of a leap; the boar took it with ease, and we could just see him top
the bank not twenty spear lengths ahead. I was slightly leading, and
full of eager anxiety and emulation. Jamie called on me to pull up, but
I was too excited to mind him. I saw him and Giblets each take an
outward wheel about, and gallop off to catch the boar coming out of the
cluster of trees on the far side, as I thought. I could not see him,
but I made no doubt he was in full flight through the trees. There was
plenty of riding room between the rows, so lifting my game little horse
at the bank, I felt my heart bound with emulation as I thought I was
certain to come up first, and take the spear from two such noted heroes
as my companions. I came up with the pig first, sure enough. _He_ was
waiting for _me_, and scarce giving my horse time to recover his stride
after the jump, he came rushing at me, every bristle erect, with a
vicious grunt of spite and rage. My spear was useless, I had it
crosswise on my horse's neck; I intended to attack first, and finding
my enemy turning the tables on me in this way was rather disconcerting.
I tried to turn aside and avoid the charge, but a branch caught me
across the face, and knocked my _puggree_ off. In a trice the savage
little brute was on me. Leaping up fairly from the ground, he got the
heel of my riding boot in his mouth, and tore off the sole from the
boot as if it had been so much paper. Jamie and Giblets were sitting
outside watching the scene, laughing at my discomfiture. Fortunately
the boar had poor tusks, and my fine little horse was unhurt, but I got
out of that orchard as fast as I could, and ever after hesitated about
attacking a boar when he had got a bank or ditch between him and me,
and was waiting for me on the other side. The far better plan is to
wait till he sees you are not pressing him, he then goes off at a surly
sling trot, and you can resume the chase with every advantage in your
favour. When the blood however is fairly up, and all one's sporting
instincts roused, it is hard to listen to the dictates of prudence or
the suggestions of caution and experience.
The very same day we had another instance. My manager, 'Young Mac,' as
we called him, had started a huge old boar. He was just over the boar,
and about to deliver his thrust, when his horse stumbled in a rat hole
(it was very rotten ground), and came floundering to earth, bringing
his rider with him. Nothing daunted, Mac picked himself up, lost the
horse, but so eager and excited was he, that he continued the chase on
foot, calling to some of us to catch his horse while he stuck his boar.
The old boar was quite blown, and took in the altered aspect of affairs
at a glance; he turned to charge, and we loudly called on Mac to 'clear
out.' Not a bit of it, he was too excited to realise his danger, but
Pat fortunately interposed his horse and spear in time, and no doubt
saved poor Mac from a gruesome mauling. It was very plucky, but it was
very foolish, for heavily weighted with boots, breeches, spurs, and
spear, a man could have no chance against the savage onset of an
infuriated boar.
In the long thick grass with which the plain was covered the riding was
very dangerous. I remember seeing six riders come signally to grief
over a blind ditch in this jungle. It adds not a little to the
excitement, and really serious accidents are not so common as might be
imagined. It is no joke however when a riderless horse comes ranging up
alongside of you as you are sailing along, intent on war; biting and
kicking at your own horse, he spoils your sport, throws you out of the
chase, and you are lucky if you do not receive some ugly cut or bruise
from his too active heels. There is the great beauty of a well trained
Arab or country-bred; if you get a spill, he waits beside you till you
recover your faculties, and get your bellows again in working order; if
you are riding a Cabool, or even a waler, it is even betting that he
turns to bite or kick you as you lie, or he rattles off in pursuit of
your more firmly seated friends, spoiling their sport, and causing the
most fearful explosions of vituperative wrath.
There is something to me intensely exciting in all the varied incidents
of a rattling burst across country after a fighting old grey boar. You
see the long waving line of staves, and spear heads, and quaint shaped
axes, glittering and fluctuating above the feathery tops of the swaying
grass. There is an irregular line of stately elephants, each with its
towering howdah and dusky mahout, moving slowly along through the
rustling reeds. You hear the sharp report of fireworks, the rattling
thunder of the big _doobla_ or drum, and the ear-splitting clatter of
innumerable _tom-toms_. Shouts, oaths, and cries from a hundred noisy
coolies, come floating down in bursts of clamour on the soft morning
air. The din waxes and wanes as the excited beaters descry a 'sounder'
of pig ahead; with a mighty roar that makes your blood tingle, the
frantic coolies rally for the final burst. Like rockets from a tube,
the boar and his progeny come crashing through the brake, and separate
before you on the plain. With a wild cheer you dash after them in hot
pursuit; no time now to think of pitfalls, banks, or ditches; your
gallant steed strains his every muscle, every sense is on the alert,
but you see not the bush and brake and tangled thicket that you leave
behind you. Your eye is on the dusky glistening hide and the stiff
erect bristles in front; the shining tusks and foam-flecked chest are
your goal, and the wild excitement culminates as you feel your keen
steel go straight through muscle, bone, and sinew, and you know that
another grisly monster has fallen. As you ease your girths and wipe
your heated brow, you feel that few pleasures of the chase come up to
the noblest, most thrilling sport of all, that of pig-sticking.
The plain is alive with shouting beaters hurrying up to secure the gory
carcase of the slaughtered foe. A riderless horse is far away, making
off alone for the distant grove, where the snowy tents are glistening
through the foliage. On the distant horizon a small cluster of eager
sportsmen are fast overhauling another luckless tusker, and enjoying in
all their fierce excitement the same sensations you have just
experienced. Now is the time to enjoy the soothing weed, and quaff the
grateful 'peg'; and as the syces and other servants come up in groups
of twos and threes, you listen with languid delight to all their
remarks on the incidents of the chase; and as, with their acute
Oriental imagination nations they dilate in terms of truly Eastern
exaggeration on your wonderful pluck and daring, you almost fancy
yourself really the hero they would make you out to be.
Then the reunion round the festive board at night, when every one again
lives through all the excitement of the day. Talk of fox-hunting after
pig-sticking, it is like comparing a penny candle to a lighthouse, or a
donkey race to the 'Grand National'!
Peeprah Factory with its many patches of jungle, its various lakes and
fine undulating country, was another favourite rendezvous for the
votaries of pig-sticking. The house itself was quite palatial, built on
the bank of a lovely horseshoe lake, and embosomed in a grove of trees
of great rarity and beautiful foliage. It had been built long before
the days of overland routes and Suez canals, when a planter made India
his home, and spared no trouble nor expense to make his home
comfortable. In the great garden were fruit trees from almost every
clime; little channels of solid masonry led water from the well to all
parts of the garden. Leading down to the lake was a broad flight of
steps, guarded on the one side by an immense peepul tree, whose hollow
trunk and wide stretching canopy of foliage had braved the storms of
over half a century, on the other side by a most symmetrical almond
tree, which, when in blossom, was the most beautiful object for miles
around. A well-kept shrubbery surrounded the house, and tall
casuarinas, and glossy dark green india-rubber and bhur trees, formed a
thousand combinations of shade and colour. Here we often met to
experience the warm, large-hearted hospitality of dear old Pat and his
gentle little wife. At one time there was a pack of harriers, which
would lead us a fine, sharp burst by the thickets near the river after
a doubling hare; but as a rule a meet at Peeprah portended death to the
gallant tusker, for the jungles were full of pigs, and only honest hard
work was meant when the Peeprah beaters turned out.
The whole country was covered with patches of grass and thorny jungle.
Knowing they had another friendly cover close by, the pigs always broke
at the first beat, and the riding had to be fast and furious if a spear
was to be won. There were some nasty drop jumps, and deep, hidden
ditches, and accidents were frequent. In one of these hot, sharp
gallops poor 'Bonnie Morn,' a favourite horse belonging to 'Jamie,' was
killed. Not seeing the ditch, it came with tremendous force against the
bank, and of course its back was broken. Even in its death throes it
recognised its master's voice, and turned round and licked his hand. We
were all collected round, and let who will sneer, there were few dry
eyes as we saw this last mute tribute of affection from the poor dying
animal.
THE DEATH OF 'BONNIE MORN.'
Alas, my 'Brave Bonnie!' the pride of my heart,
The moment has come when from thee I must part;
No more wilt thou hark to the huntsman's glad horn,
My brave little Arab, my poor 'Bonnie Morn.'
How proudly you bore me at bright break of day,
How gallantly 'led,' when the boar broke away!
But no more, alas! thou the hunt shall adorn,
For now thou art dying, my dear 'Bonnie Morn.'
He'd neigh with delight when I'd enter his stall,
And canter up gladly on hearing my call;
Rub his head on my shoulder while munching his corn,
My dear gentle Arab, my poor 'Bonnie Morn.'
Or out in the grass, when a pig was in view,
None so eager to start, when he heard a 'halloo';
Off, off like a flash, the ground spurning with scorn,
He aye led the van, did my brave 'Bonnie Morn.'
O'er _nullah_ and ditch, o'er hedge, fence, or bank,
No matter, _he'd_ clear it, aye in the front rank;
A brave little hunter as ever was born
Was my grand Arab fav'rite, my good 'Bonnie Morn.'
Or when in the 'ranks,' who so steady and still?
None better than 'Bonnie,' more 'up' in his drill;
His fine head erect--eyes flashing with scorn--
Right fit for a charger was staunch 'Bonnie Morn.'
And then on the 'Course,' who so willing and true?
Past the 'stand' like an arrow the bonnie horse flew;
No spur his good rider need ever have worn,
For he aye did his best, did my fleet 'Bonnie Morn.'
And now here he lies, the good little horse,
No more he'll career in the hunt or on 'course':
Such a charger to lose makes me sad and forlorn;
I _can't_ help a tear, 'tis for poor 'Bonnie Morn.'
Ah! blame not my grief, for 'tis deep and sincere,
As a friend and companion I held 'Bonnie' dear;
No true sportsman ever such feelings will scorn
As I heave a deep sigh for my brave 'Bonnie Morn.'
And even in death, when in anguish he lay,
When his life's blood was drip--dripping--slowly away,
His last thought was still of the master he'd borne;
He neighed, licked my hand--and thus died 'Bonnie Morn.'
One tremendous old boar was killed here during one of our meets, which
was long celebrated in our after-dinner talks on boars and hunting. It
was called 'THE LUNGRA,' which means the cripple, because it had been
wounded in the leg in some previous encounter, perhaps in its hot
youth, before age had stiffened its joints and tinged its whiskers with
grey. It was the most undaunted pig I have ever seen. It would not
budge an inch for the beaters, and charged the elephants time after
time, sending them flying from the jungle most ignominiously. At length
its patience becoming exhausted, it slowly emerged from the jungle,
coolly surveyed the scene and its surroundings, and then, disdaining
flight, charged straight at the nearest horseman. Its hide was as tough
as a Highland targe, and though L. delivered his spear, it turned the
weapon aside as if it was merely a thrust from a wooden pole. The old
_lungra_ made good his charge, and ripped L's. horse on the shoulder.
It next charged Pat, and ripped his horse, and cut another horse, a
valuable black waler, across the knee, laming it for life. Rider after
rider charged down upon the fierce old brute. Although repeatedly
wounded none of the thrusts were very serious, and already it had put
five horses _hors de combat_. It now took up a position under a big
'bhur' tree, close to some water, and while the boldest of us held back
for a little, it took a deliberate mud bath under our very noses.
Doubtless feeling much refreshed, it again took up its position under
the tree, ready to face each fresh assailant, full of fight, and
determined to die but not to yield an inch.
Time after time we rode at the dauntless cripple. Each time he charged
right down, and our spears made little mark upon his toughened hide.
Our horses too were getting tired of such a customer, and little
inclined to face his charge. At length 'Jamie' delivered a lucky spear
and the grey old warrior fell. It had kept us at bay for fully an hour
and a half, and among our number we reckoned some of the best riders
and boldest pig-stickers in the district.
Such was our sport in those good old days. Our meets came but seldom,
so that sport never interfered with the interests of honest hard work;
but meeting each other as we did, and engaging in exciting sport like
pig-sticking, cemented our friendship, kept us in health, and
encouraged all the hardy tendencies of our nature. It whetted our
appetites, it roused all those robust virtues that have made Englishmen
the men they are, it sent us back to work with lighter hearts and
renewed energy. It built up many happy, cherished memories of kindly
words and looks and deeds, that will only fade when we in turn have to
bow before the hunter, and render up our spirits to God who gave them.
Long live honest, hearty, true sportsmen, such as were the friends of
those happy days. Long may Indian sportsmen find plenty of 'foemen
worthy of their steel' in the old grey boar, the fighting tusker of
Bengal.
[Illustration: PIG-STICKERS.]