The Taming of the Jungle

"Mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, "bide here with the hostler till I have tamed that she-devil, and then I will take thee to the captain sahib. The little one, – is it warm?"

"Quite warm, and still asleep, coach-wan. Go, and God advance thee!"

Ram Deen found the captain seated on a log in front of a blazing fire. With his elbows on his knees, the captain pressed a finger to each ear to escape the tirade of the terrible woman in the carriage. A touch on his shoulder made him start to his feet, and as he turned round Ram Deen salaamed gravely.

"I thought the sahib slept. No? Her speech galled thee," pointing to the carriage, "and thou wast fain not to hear it?"

The captain nodded assent. He was worn with the trying position his folly had placed him in, and, at another time, he might have resented the touch on his shoulder, but the tall native in front of him spoke with dignity and a quiet assurance indicative of a large fund of reserve force, – and he might be helpful.

"Where are thy servants, sahib?"

"They fled when she cursed them. May the devil take them!"

"I am the driver of the mail-cart on this road, sahib, as thou mayest see," said Ram Deen, pointing to his badge and bugle, "and this woman's tongue stayeth the Queen's mail; for on my cart, which I have left behind the bend of the road yonder, is a mem-sahib who perchance knoweth thee, for she, too, cometh from Naini Tal, and 'twere well she should not hear thy name on this woman's lips. She must not be kept waiting long, sahib, for the babe in her arms is but two weeks in age" (the captain started), "and the night is exceedingly bitter. Have I the sahib's permission to drive his carriage beyond the hearing of those who are fain to pass?"

"Drive her to Jehandum, coach-wan, so she come to no hurt."

Thereupon Ram Deen approached the carriage, and tapped on the door, saying, "Woman, it is not meet that the worthy traffic of the Queen's highway should be disturbed by thy unseemly conduct."

For answer he received a volley of curses in broken Hindustani, such curses as are in vogue in the barracks of English regiments in India; and the woman in the carriage wound up with a request for more brandy.

"Nay, it is not brandy thou shouldst have, but water, – cold water to cool thy hot tongue," and mounting the carriage Ram Deen urged the jaded horses into a trot.

Two hundred yards farther on the road crossed the Bore Nuddee, now a sluggish river about four feet deep. Leaving the road Ram Deen drove down the bank and into the stream. When the woman in the carriage heard the splashing of the horses, and felt the water rise to her knees, she screamed with fear and became suddenly sober.

"Hast had water enough to cool thy tongue?" asked Ram Deen, tapping on the roof of the carriage.

"Stop, stop!" she entreated, frantically. "I will do whatever you wish."

"Canst thou forget Captain Barfield's name, or must I drive into deeper water?"

"I know not whereof you speak."

"'Tis well! And who is thy husband?"

"A soldier whose regiment is at Delhi, whither I go."

"Thou must be true to him hereafter. – Ho there, horse! the alligators cannot swallow thee!"

"Alligators! Are there alligators in this river?" whined the woman in the carriage.

"There is scarce room for them within its banks."

"Oh, sahib, I am fain to go to my husband, whom alone I care for. Proceed, for the love of God!"

So Ram Deen drove her through the stream and up the opposite bank on to the road. When he had tied the horses to a tree by the highway, he said, "There will be travellers going thy way presently, and they will drive thee to Moradabad. Remember, I may have business in Delhi very soon. Salaam, Faithless One."

And the woman responded in a very meek tone, "Salaam."

"Come, mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, as he resumed his seat on the mail-cart; "the captain sahib awaits thee."

When they were abreast of the fire, she called in a faint, tremulous voice, "Harry, Harry, my dear husband! I am very tired, and very cold. Won't you come to me?"

Leaving the hostler in charge of the mail-cart, Ram Deen followed the captain as he carried his wife to the fire.

Seating her on the log, Captain Barfield knelt beside his wife, chafing and kissing her hands.

"Thank God, you found me!" he sobbed.

"The ayah told me a few hours after you left me that that – that woman had been seen to join you beyond Serya Tal; so I and the baby came to help you. You still love us, dearest?" she asked, pleadingly.

"My beloved, I am not worthy of you! There is a sword in my heart!" And he bowed his head on her lap and wept, whilst she stroked his hair with a slender hand.

"God has been very good to me to-night," she said, softly.

Soon after, removing the shawl from the little one's face, she said, "Kiss your baby, Harry."

His lips touched the little face. – It was very cold. He started back, and, taking the child from its mother's arms, he held it near the firelight. – It was dead!

As they looked across the little limp body into each other's eyes with speechless agony, Ram Deen bent over them and took the little one tenderly from the captain's hands.

"Attend to the living, sahib; I will see to thy dead," he said, softly.

He turned away his face from the sorrow that was too sacred to be witnessed by any one save God.

As Captain Barfield folded his young wife in his arms, a deep groan rent his breast at the thought of his folly and its consequence.

"Thou wert very tender – a mere blossom – and the frost withered thee," said Ram Deen very gently, composing the baby's limbs.

CHAPTER VI

For the Training of Biroo

"Ah, small villain, budmash! must I send thee back to Nyagong, thee and thy dog, to learn respect for thy betters? The Thanadar's son hath the ordering of thee, and thou hast beaten him, – toba, toba!"

"My father," replied Biroo, respectfully, to Ram Deen, "Mohun Lal took my kite, and when I strove to hold mine own he smote me, whereon I pulled his hair; and 'twas no fault of mine that it lacked strength and remained in my hand. So he set his dog on me; but Hasteen slew it. Wherein have I offended, my father?"

And the Thanadar laughed, saying, "Ram Deen, Mohun Lal but received his due." To the "defendant in the case" he said, "Get thee to sleep, Biroo; and be brave and strong; so will Nana Debi reward thee." Then turning to those who sat round the fire, he went on, "Brothers, 'tis late, and I would have speech with Ram Deen. Ye may take your leave."

When they were by themselves, the Thanadar spoke. "The man-child waxeth fierce and strong, my old friend; 'twere well he were restrained. He will be wealthy by thy favor, and the favor of Nyagong, when he cometh to man's estate, and 'twere pity that he should lack courtesy when he is a man grown."

"Thanadar ji, thou art his father as much as I am. Thou shouldst correct him with strokes whenas I am on the road and carrying the Queen's mail."

"Blows but inure to hardness, and – Gunga knoweth! – little Biroo is hard already. Why dost thou not give up the service of the Queen, and – " He paused, and after awhile asked, "What didst thou receive from Captain Barfield?"

"The gun thou hast seen, Thanadar ji; but from his mem-sahib five hundred rupees, a timepiece of gold, and whatsoever I may want hereafter. The money lieth in the hands of Moti Ram, the great mahajun (banker) of Naini Tal."

"Wah! Ram Deen, thou art thyself rich enough to be a mahajun. Consider, too, the kindness bestowed by Nyagong on Biroo at thy asking, – two hundred rupees and over, and much merchandise. Leave the road, my friend, and put thy money out at usury. A woman in thy hut to cook thy evening meal, and mend Biroo's ways, were not amiss. Eh? The daughters of the Terai are very fair, as thou knowest, coach-wan ji."

"The road hath been father and mother to me, Thanadar Sahib, since I lost my Buldeo, who knew not his mother; so I may not leave it. And when I think of Bheem Dass, bunnia and usurer of the village whereof I was potter three years ago, and whom ye found dead on the road the day I brought in the mail, and was made driver, as thou rememberest, I may not live by harassing the poor and the widow and fatherless. God forbid! As for women, – they be like butterflies that flit from flower to flower; perchance, if I could find a woman who cared not to gossip at the village well, and had eyes and thoughts for none save her husband, I might – but I must be about my business on the road, and I have no time for the seeking of such a woman. Wah! I have not, even as yet, tried the gun Barfield sahib gave me."

Soon afterwards, by an alteration of the service, Ram Deen brought the mail to Kaladoongie in the early afternoon, and availed himself of the opportunity thus afforded of rambling about during the rest of the day in the jungle with Biroo and Hasteen, in search of small game.

One day they came upon a half-grown fawn, at which Ram Deen let fly with both barrels; but as his gun was loaded with small shot only, the deer bounded away apparently unhurt, with Hasteen in hot pursuit, whilst Ram Deen and Biroo followed with what haste they could.

Presently, they could hear the baying of the great dog and the shrill cries of a woman in distress. Directed by these sounds, they crossed the road that leads to Naini Tal, and, scrambling up the bank and over a low stone wall, they found themselves in a neglected garden, in the middle of which was a grass hut, whence issued the cries that had quickened their steps. They arrived just in time, for Hasteen had almost dug himself into the hut.

Calling off the dog, Ram Deen hastened to allay the fears of the woman in the hut, who was still giving voice to her distress in the Padhani patois. "The dog will not harm thee; see, I have tied him with my waistband to a tree."

"Who art thou?" asked the woman. The tones of her voice, when she spoke, were exceedingly soft and pleasant, and made one long to look upon the face of the speaker.

"I am Ram Deen, the driver of the mail-cart, and well known in Kaladoongie."

"I have heard of thee and thy doings, and will come forth. But the dog (Nana Debi, was there ever such a dog! – he almost slew my fawn), art thou sure he cannot harm us?"

"Kali Mai twist my joints, if he be not well secured."

Whereupon the door of the hut was opened a few inches. Having satisfied herself that all was as Ram Deen had said, the young woman came out of the hut with one arm about the fawn.

She was a Padhani, and in her early womanhood. The simple kilt she wore allowed her shapely ankles to be seen, and her bodice well expressed the charms of her youthful figure. Ram Deen thought her eyes were not less beautiful than the fawn's.

After salaaming to him, she looked at her pet. "Oh, sahib, she bleeds, – my Ganda bleeds!" she exclaimed, pointing to a slender streak of red on the fawn's flank.

"Belike some thorn tore her skin as she fled," said Ram Deen; but he knew that at least one shot from his gun had taken effect.

"'Tis a sore hurt, Coach-wan sahib. Will she die?"

"Nay, little one, 'tis nought. See!" and with a wisp of grass Ram Deen wiped the blood from the fawn's skin.

"But the dog, coach-wan, – thou wilt not permit him to fright my Ganda again?"

"Of a surety, not." Then, with a hand on the fawn's head, he rebuked Hasteen, saying, "Villain, the jackals shall pursue thee if thou huntest here again!" And Hasteen hung his head, putting his tail between his legs; and the young girl knew that Ganda was safe thereafter from the great dog.

As they talked together, a very decrepit old man appeared at the door of the hut; after peering at Ram Deen from under his hand, he spoke in the flat, toneless voice of a deaf man: "Tumbaku, Provider of the Poor, give me tumbaku."

Ram Deen put his pouch of dried tobacco-leaf in the old man's hand, and looked inquiringly at the young woman.

"It is my grandfather, and he is deaf and nearly blind, – and a sore affliction. Give back his tumbaku to the sahib, da-da," she said in a louder voice to the old man.

"Nay, nay, let him keep it!" said Ram Deen; then after a pause, and by way of excuse for staying a little longer, he inquired the old man's name.

"Hera Lal, Coach-wan sahib; our kinsman is Thapa Sing, of Serya Tal, who was accounted rich, and planted this garden and these fruit trees many years ago. We stay here by his leave in the winter time, to keep the deer and wild hog out. My name is Tara, and I sell firewood to Gunga Ram the sweetmeat vender."

Whilst she was speaking, Biroo had approached the fawn with a handful of grass.

"Is this the little one they say ye found on the Bore bridge, sahib?" inquired the young Padhani.

Ram Deen nodded affirmatively.

"Poor child!" she exclaimed, and, moved by a sudden impulse of pity, she knelt beside Biroo, and smoothing the hair from his face she put a marigold behind his ear.

Next day, after he had delivered the mail, Ram Deen, making a bundle of his best clothes, started off into the jungle. When he was out of sight of the village, he donned a snowy tunic and a scarlet turban, and encased his feet in a pair of red, hide-sewn shoes. When Tara, on her way to the bazaar with a load of firewood, met him soon after, she thought she had never seen any one so bravely attired, and stepped off the path to make room for him to pass.

"Toba, toba!" he exclaimed; "it maketh my head ache to see the load thou bearest. Gunga Ram will, doubtless, give thee not less than eight annas for the firewood."

"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, Gunga Ram is just, and besides giving me the market price, – two annas, – he often bestoweth on me a handful of sweetmeats."

"Thou shalt sell no more wood to Gunga Ram. He is base, and his father is a dog. Set thy load at my door; here is the price thereof," and Ram Deen laid an eight-anna piece in her palm. Before she could recover from her astonishment he said, "The fawn Ganda, is her hurt healed?"

"It is well with her. And what of Biroo, sahib?"

"He is a budmash, Tara, and I repent me of befriending him."

"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, he is but little, and hath no mother."

"That is the evil of it," said Ram Deen, leaving her abruptly.

When Tara returned to her home that evening, she noticed the footprints of a man's shoes in the dust in front of the hut; her grandfather, looking at her cunningly, smoked sweetened tobacco that was well flavored, and the clay bowl of his hookah was new and was gayly painted.

A similar scene was enacted on the jungle path the next day, and many days in succession, and the tale of Biroo's iniquities grew at each recital. Every day there was some fresh villainy of his to relate, and each day Tara's grandfather waxed in affluence, which culminated one day in a new blanket and a small purse with money in it.

"Tara," said Ram Deen one day, "put down thy load; I have bad tidings to tell thee concerning Biroo. He and Hasteen killed a milch-goat to-day belonging to the Thanadar."

"'Twas the dog's doing, Ram Deen."

"Nay, Biroo is the older budmash, and planneth all the villainies. To-morrow I must pay the Thanadar three rupees and eight annas, or Hasteen will be slain and Biroo beaten with a shoe by the Thanadar's chuprassi."

"Biroo shall not be beaten for a matter of three or four rupees, sahib. Lo, here is the money," and Tara, taking a small purse from a tiny pocket in her bodice, held it out to him.

"Nay, listen further!" exclaimed Ram Deen, holding up his hands; "thou knowest I am wifeless, and I might have the best and fairest woman in the Terai for my wife; but she liketh not Biroo, and will not share my hut because of him. Verily, I shall return him to the men of Nyagong."

"Thou art, doubtless, entitled to the best and the fairest wife in the Terai," said Tara, with a sudden catch in her voice; "but Biroo goeth not back to Nyagong as long as our hut standeth and as long as Gunga Ram, who is a just man and a generous, will pay me two annas each day for wood." She turned away her face, so that Ram Deen should not see the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.

"'Tis well, Tara; thou shalt have him, but thou must beat him every day, and often, to make an upright man of him."

"Nana Debi wither the hand that striketh him! He is not a dog to be taught with stripes." Then, after a pause, she went on, "And the – the woman who is to be the best and fairest wife in the Terai, – what manner of woman is she?"

"She is about thine age."

"Yes?"

"And as tall as thou art."

"Proceed."

"Her voice is soft and sweet as a blackbird's, and her eyes are like a fawn's. Her name is – "

"Well, what is her name?"

"'Tis the most beautiful name that a woman can bear. Nay, how can I tell thee her name if thou wilt not look at me?"

When she had turned her eyes on him, he put his hands on her shoulders, saying, "Her name is Tara, star of the Terai."

And Tara put her head on his breast, and was very happy.

"Thou must beat Biroo, Beloved, or he will be hanged."

"Thou wouldst have been hanged, budmash, hadst thou been motherless and beaten by strangers. Biroo's mother will make him a better man than thou art, O Beater of Babes."

"And thou takest me for love?"

"Nay, coach-wan ji, but for the training of Biroo."

CHAPTER VII

Chandni

About a mile below the eastern gorge of Naini Tal, the favorite hill-station of Kumaon, is a Padhani village overlooking Serya Tal. It is inhabited by a few score of low-caste hill-men, who earn a living, they and their women-folk, by carrying rough-hewn stones from the hillsides for contractors engaged in building houses, or by selling fodder-grass and firewood to the English residents.

When a Padhani has accumulated sufficient means he purchases a wife and stays at home every other day; and when he has attained affluence and bought two wives, he stays at home altogether; which accounts for the fact that a large majority of these carriers of wood and stone are women.

It is not to be supposed that the Padhani women look upon their toilsome tasks as a hardship: nature, and the decrees of evolution, have endowed them with superb health and strength, and they are wont, as they carry the most astonishing loads, to sing joyous choruses, and so lighten their toils. Every one who has been to Naini Tal is familiar with the sight of a string of Padhani women, short-kilted, showing a span of brown skin between their bodices and skirts, and singing in unison.

They never seem to weary of their choruses, and Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department, and his khansamah, Bijoo, never tired of looking at them as they passed below his bungalow with swaying hips and jaunty carriage. They were a trifle darker than their Rajpoot sisters (quod tune, si fuscus Amyntas), and they might have been akin to Pharaoh's daughter, she who was "black but comely."

Now, Bijoo was a Padhani, and he took more than a casual interest – such as Captain Trenyon's, doubtless, was – in the laughing and singing crowd that filed below the captain's house several times a day. Chiefest among them, and distinguished by her beauty and her stature, was Chandni; and, ere the season was over, Bijoo purchased her from her crippled father for ten rupees, and, thereafter, Captain Trenyon turned his back on the Padhani traffic of the Mall to watch Chandni instead, as she helped Bijoo to clean the silver; and the songs of the Padhani women attracted him no more.

The following year, before the snows of February had cleared off from Shere-ke Danda and Larya Kata, Chandni returned alone to the house of her father, Thapa, at Serya Tal. It was night when she pushed back the thatch door of his hut, which was in darkness within, and called him by name:

"It is I, father, Chandni, thy daughter."

"Moon of my Heart!" said the old man, waking from his sleep, and he would have "lifted up his voice and wept," as is the manner of all orientals when greatly moved, but she prevented him by the impressiveness of her "Choop, choop! father; proclaim not my return to the village!"

"Where is Bijoo, the man thy husband?"

"Nana Debi alone knoweth, my father, and I have come back to thee."

"Is he dead, little one?"

"He is dead to me, da-da; and I have returned to cook thy food and carry wood and stone for thee, if thou wilt let me."

"Let thee, O Spray of Jessamine!" and the old man caught his breath, and once more she had to check his emotions with an imperative "Choop, choop!"

He left his charpoi, and raking together the embers in the chula, he blew on them till they kindled into a blaze, at which he lit a smoky chirag, whose dim light showed Chandni sitting on the ground with her back towards him, swaying to and fro, and crying softly "Aho, aho, mai bap!"

He sat by the fire patiently, waiting for her to speak, his hands trembling with apprehension.

When her composure was sufficiently restored, she said, "Thapa Sing, my father, Nana Debi hath no ears for a woman's prayers; do thou, therefore, sacrifice a goat to him to-morrow at Naini Tal, and entreat his curses on all Faringis. See, here is money," and she threw a small bag of coins towards him.

He picked up the purse, and after a pause she went on:

"My father, the Mussulmanis do well to veil their women's faces. Trenyon sahib looked upon me ere I was married to Bijoo, and since then, daily, in his jungle camp hath he scorched me with his eyes, till my cheeks felt as though the hot wind had blown on them.

"One day, Bijoo came home with a coin of gold in his hand, such as I had never seen before, and which, he said, the sahib had given him; and he bored a hole through it and hung it on my forehead, and bade me wear it there at the sahib's request; but he stabbed me with his eyes as he put it on me.

"And the next day, Bhamaraya, the sweeper's lame wife, (Kali Mai afflict her with leprosy!) came to the door of our hut, Bijoo being gone to the village market for food supplies, and she extolled my beauty, and showed a picture of myself made by Trenyon sahib by the help of the sun; and thereafter I veiled myself when I went abroad.

"She came again the next day, and whensoever Bijoo was away from home, always praising my lips and my eyes, and telling me what Trenyon sahib spake concerning me. And yesterday she came to me and said, 'Chandni, O Moon of the Jungle, Trenyon sahib would fain have speech with thee. To-night will he send Bijoo with a message to the thana at Kaladoongie, and when he is gone and the other servants be asleep I will conduct thee to the sahib's tent. See what he hath sent thee,' and she placed at my feet a gold bangle.

"When I would have spurned her and her lures from my door she laughed wickedly, saying, 'Ho, ho, my Pretty Partridge! if golden grain will not catch thee, assuredly thou art entangled in the snare of necessity, thou Wife of a Thief!' and she pointed at the coin on my forehead.

"Then, as my heart turned to water, she went on: 'To-morrow the Thanadar will return with Bijoo, and, unless thou asketh the clemency of the sahib, Bijoo will be charged with theft and taken back to Kaladoongie as a prisoner. – The Sircar sends men across the Black Water for lesser offences than this!'

"And being a woman, and fearing I knew not what dangers for Bijoo and myself, I entreated Bhamaraya to take me to the sahib's tent, promising to say naught to Bijoo.

"And thus it fell out, Bijoo being away, that I went with the lame she-wolf to Trenyon sahib's tent last night to make appeal for my husband."

She paused in her narrative once more, swaying herself to and fro and moaning, "Aho, aho!" Then, after a while, she went on:

"When we were in the sahib's presence Bhamaraya plucked the chudder from my face, saying, 'Lo, sahib, I have brought thee the Rose of the Terai!' Whereon he filled her palms with rupees. And as she left the room she spake to me, saying, 'The saving of Bijoo were an easy task for thy beauty, thou Flower-Faced Chandni.'

"And I stood suppliant before the sahib, with folded palms and downcast eyes, and in the silence I could hear the beating of my heart. After a while, and because he spake not, I looked up and met his eyes that burned upon my face; and then I knew the price that was set on Bijoo's safety.

"Falling before him, I clasped his feet, saying, 'Provider of the Poor, let thy servant depart in honor, and so add one more jewel to the crown of thy worth. See, here is the coin Bhamaraya says was stolen from thee by the man Bijoo, my husband.' And, unwinding the gold piece from my head, I laid it at his feet.