The Taming of the Jungle

CHAPTER XIV

A Daughter of the Gods

To those in evening conclave round the fire came a long refrain sung on one high note by Goor Dutt, as his bullock-cart approached the village. "She died in the night of co-o-o-old," he keened. There was a pathos in his voice which told of his own sufferings, for the night was frosty, rather than those of some fictitious person.

"What freight to-night, byl-wan?" inquired the Thanadar, when he came within speaking distance.

"Vessels of clay, and a dead man," replied the little bullock driver.

Some one held a torch to the thing that lay across the end of the bullock driver's wagon, shrouded in a white cloth, on which was a red wet stain as big as a man's hand.

"'Tis Lakhoo, the dacoit," said the Thanadar, when the face of the corpse had been uncovered; "now, Nana Debi be praised for his taking off! Some one will be the richer for this deed by five hundred rupees."

Below the left breast of the corpse, and beneath the stain on the cloth that covered it, was a little hole that would scarce admit the tip of a man's finger, but whence, nevertheless, had issued the life of one of the terrors of the Terai. The dead man had been the head of a daring band of dacoits, whose depredations ranged from Rajpore to Bareilly, and on each of whose heads was a large reward, for they had not hesitated to commit murder when committing theft.

After Goor Dutt had refreshed his inner man and taken his place at the fire, he began: "This was the way of it: This evening, as I came hitherwards, there passed me two doolis, and he who held the torch to light the way was Lakhoo, whom I had seen once before at the thana at Moradabad, whence he afterwards escaped. As the doolis passed, he held the torch to my face, but I feigned sleep, and so he did not molest me.

"The baggage, slung on poles across the shoulders of the bearers, showed the people in the doolis to be Faringis; and I was minded to see what would happen, and, if need were, bring thee early word, Thanadar ji, as to Lakhoo's doings. So I tied my bullocks to a tree and followed the doolis, treading where the dust was thick and the shadows deepest.

"When the doolis arrived at the path that leads to Nyagong, men came out of the jungle and stopped the bearers; and I crept behind a bael tree on the edge of the road and within fifty paces of the travellers, so that I could see and hear all that passed, for the torch was bright and the night was still, and Lakhoo spoke as one who knoweth not the need for speaking low.

"And when those who carried the doolis knew that it was Lakhoo who had borne the torch for them, and that they were in the midst of his men, their livers turned to water. One, less frightened than the others, attempted to flee, but a bamboo lat descended on his skull, and he lay as one dead, and the rest moaned, 'Ram dhwy, ram dhwy!'

"'Ye Sons of Jackals! ye have naught to fear,' said Lakhoo. 'What were your miserable dole for the carrying of these doolis to me? But, remember, ye have nor eyes nor ears now if ye would have them hereafter!'

"And they whined, saying, 'We be blind and deaf, Bahadoor; and we know nothing, for we be poor men.'

"'Therefore are ye safe, ye sons of mothers without virtue, for they who sleep in the doolis are rich, and the family of the sahib who hanged my brother last year. Who would crack dry bones for sustenance when savory meat is at hand?'

"Thereafter he tapped on the roof of one of the doolis, saying, 'Wake, mem-sahib, wake!'

"'What is the matter, dooli-wallah?' was the reply, in the feeble voice of a sick woman.

"'This is the chowki, khodawund; but the fresh bearers are not here, and those who brought thee hither are spent and cannot proceed farther. But there are those here who will bear thee on thy journey for a proper price.'

"So she called aloud in her own tongue, and there came forth into the night, from the other dooli, a young lad rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning; and whilst he parleyed with his mother, the curtain of her dooli was lifted, and a young mem-sahib rose from it and stood beside the boy, and we could see they were brother and sister, but she was the older and taller by a span, and in the budding of her womanhood. The hair, that fell to her waist, was as spun gold in the light of the torches; rings and stones flashed in her ears and on her fingers, but they were nothing to the glances of her eyes, which met four-square the eyes of those to whom she spoke; and she looked at those who were present as though they were there to do her bidding.

"When the sick mem-sahib in the dooli had finished speaking, the younger one addressed the masalchi (torch-bearer), saying, 'How far is it to the next chowki, and what do you ask for taking us there?'

"'Two kos (six miles), mem-sahib, and the hire of my men is fifty rupees,' answered Lakhoo.

"'And what did you get for bringing us here?' asked she, turning to the dooli-bearers who stood round them.

"'They are poor men, missy baba, and know nothing,' said Lakhoo, at whom the dooli-bearers looked for instructions.

"'Son of a Pig!' exclaimed the young lad, taking a leather bag from his sister's hand and throwing the money, a rupee at a time, on the ground; 'there are fifty rupees. Proceed, for the mem-sahib, my mother, is sick, and must be on the hills ere the morning sun give heat,' and his face flushed in the torchlight.

"So Lakhoo tied the money in his waistband, and, without further speech, sat down and smoked the hookah that was passed to him.

"And after awhile the baba (boy), who had been walking to and fro with the young woman, his sister, stopped opposite Lakhoo, and spoke, saying, 'Why do you not proceed, dooli-wallah?'

"'Because I am waiting for my hire, baba ji,' replied Lakhoo.

"'I paid you but now,' exclaimed the young sahib.

"'The sahib is scarce awake,' said Lakhoo, in a bantering tone, 'and hath been dreaming.' And his men who formed the outer circle laughed insolently.

"'Liar!' shouted the young sahib, bursting into tears and clinching his hand; but his sister laid a restraining finger on his arm, and whispered in his ear.

"'We will give thee thy due, masalchi,' she said, as she went to her mother's dooli.

"When she returned, she put a three-cornered bag of leather in her brother's hand.

"'The young mem-sahib is as generous as she is beautiful,' said Lakhoo, fixing hot eyes on her, whereat her nostrils twitched; 'and her hair is more precious than gold.' And as he spake, he laid a desecrating hand on her locks.

"'Swine-born!" shouted the young lad, and drawing from the bag in his hand a toy that glittered in the torchlight, he put it to Lakhoo's breast and fired. The tall man bounded into the air like a stricken deer, and fell prone on his face. As the dacoits rose to their feet, I smote on the branches of the bael tree that sheltered me with my bamboo staff, shouting like three men, 'Thieves, thieves!' So Lakhoo's men fled headlong, and I came forth from my shelter, and salaamed to the baba and the young mem-sahib.

"'Thou hast earned five hundred rupees, sahib,' said I, 'by the killing of the great dacoit, Lakhoo.'

"'We had been slain, an' it had not been for thee,' said the young mem-sahib. 'Who and what art thou?'

"'Goor Dutt, byl-wan, mem-sahib,' I replied; 'and it is my highest reward to have served thee and thine.'

"'Now, nay, byl-wan, my brother, Charlie Sahib, herewith bestows on thee whatsoever reward is due for the killing of this dog.'

"'Ay, and this pistol, too,' interrupted the young lad, putting his glittering toy in my hand. And he showed me the wonder of it, – how it spake five times, if need were, and how to charge it.

"Then they put the dead man on my bullock-cart, which one of those present had been sent to fetch. And when the bearers took up the doolis, they shouted, as one man, 'Chali Sahib ke jhai!'"

"Wah, byl-wan ji, wah!" exclaimed Ram Deen, when Goor Dutt had finished, "thou art taller than most men. Let us honor a man, my brothers."

And those who sat round the fire sprang to their feet, and woke the slumbering village with the heartiness of their salutation, as they shouted, "Goor Dutt ji ke jhai!"

CHAPTER XV

"Ich Liebe Dich"

Early one morning in December, in the year 186 – , I left my camp with a pointer at my heels to explore the foothills to the northwest of Nyagong. The region abounded with iron ore, and the mining syndicate I represented instructed me to conduct my prospecting in a way that would not arouse the suspicion of the manager of another company that had already established iron works at Kaladoongie. So it speedily became noised about in that section of the Terai that I was one of the many Englishmen who spend their leave of absence in the jungle for the purposes of sport.

There was a shrewd nip in the air when I started, and the barrels of my gun were so cold that I was glad I had put on a pair of thick gloves.

The jungle was hardly awake when I struck into the path that skirted the Bore Nuddee. Presently, a green parrot "kr-r-r-d" tentatively, as a faint flush appeared in the cloudless east. A wild boar jumped a fence a few hundred yards ahead of me, followed by the sounder, of which he was chief, as they left the fields they had been marauding during the night. A nilghai, with his wicked-looking horns, soon followed, and lumbered noiselessly away. These were the thieves of the Terai, and they were, naturally, hurrying to their coverts before the coming day should be upon them.

Suddenly, the dewy silence was broken by the invocation of a black partridge, – the muezzin of the jungle. "Sobhan theri koodruth!" How solemnly, and with what splendor of utterance and pause this voice of the Terai announces the miracle of the morning! The cry was taken up and passed on with a significance that dwarfed the passing of the fiery torch as told by Scott in "The Lady of the Lake." And immediately thereafter the jungle was singing its many-voiced matin, not the least "notable note" of which was the challenge of the jungle-cock, who is a native of the Terai, and whose vigorous voice is not raucous with the civilized laryngeal affections of the "tame villatic fowl."

And then, in the awakening of the forest, there came – Italian opera! A well-poised soprano voice silenced the jungle choir by a brilliantly executed chromatic scale, as though the singer were trying her voice. Finding it flexible enough for her purpose, she launched into the difficult – and abominable – aria, "Di tale amore che dirsi" in "Il Trovatore." She suddenly stopped, as though she were ashamed of the rubbish she sang; and, after a pause of half a minute, my soul was stirred by the air of Beethoven's immortal "Ich Liebe Dich," sung to the following words, which were beautifully enunciated:

I love thee, dear! All words would failTo tell the true and tender theme;Such ardent thoughts, and passion pale,And humble suit, I fondly deem,Would need a poet's rapturous mind.Oh! if fit words could but be bought,If Love's own speech I could but find,I'd sell my soul to express my thought,So you should in Love's toils be caught!Oh! then a kindlier sun would shine,The vermeiled flowers would look more fair,The common world would seem divine,And daily things appear most rare;My soul, a soaring lark, would riseTo greet the morning of thy loveSo sweetly dawning in thine eyes,And in thy smiles, which should approve.

The tender charm of the sweet old song – now utterly neglected for more brazen utterances, and which only Beethoven could have written – was thoroughly appreciated by the singer.

Wishing to see her without myself being discovered, and hoping to hear her sing again, I "stalked" her – and, behold, she was a Padhani! I couldn't be mistaken, for she was singing David's "O ma maitresse," as I watched her from behind the bole of a great huldoo tree.

A little boy, about three years in age, played beside her as she sat on a fallen tree trunk and took part in the matin of the Terai. There was a noble breadth between her eyes that reminded one of the Sistine Madonna, and an air of repose about her figure which was set off by her simple garments.

She was, without doubt, Chambeli, the Padhani protégé of the Fishers, whose flight from her husband, the Rev. John Trusler, immediately after her return to the Terai, had been the sensation of the season at Naini Tal a few years ago.

Snapping a dry twig with my foot to attract her attention, I stepped into the open and approached her. Her first impulse was to flee, but she quickly regained her composure and awaited me, standing, her eyes meeting mine without the least embarrassment.

"Your singing attracted me," I began, taking off my hat to her.

"Yes?" she replied, evidently not at all anxious to come to my relief in the awkward position I had sought.

"It was very beautiful – "

"And it is finished," she interrupted. There was a slight tone of contempt in her voice as she thus gave me to understand that my presence was unwelcome. But, as a student of psychology, I was not to be so easily moved from my design of "investigating the case" before me.

"The Rev. John Trusler is dead." I paused awhile to see how she would be affected. Then, as she gave no sign of emotion, I went on, "He hanged himself a few days after you left him."

"My God!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her side and seating herself on the fallen tree.

The child, who had been clinging to his mother's dress and regarding me with round, brown eyes, began to cry when he saw his mother's sudden emotion. She took him up in her arms and cuddled his head to her bosom, saying in the Padhani patois, "Mea mithoo, mea mithoo! hush, my butcha."

In the silence that ensued after the child had been quieted there came the regular stroke of a woodman's axe, and presently the refrain of a Padhani song sung by a man.

When the woman had regained her calm, she looked up at me somewhat defiantly and said, "What business had they to come between me and my jungle mother? What right had they to impose moral shackles on one who was above their petty codes?"

"The Fishers were moved by kindness, surely; they educated you, and Christianized you, and through them you met and married an honorable man."

"Educated me, forsooth!" she exclaimed with scorn, her nostrils twitching; "they robbed me of my five senses, and gave me instead – accomplishments. Can you tell the time of the day from the sun, sir? Can you say when the sambhur passed whose track is at your feet, and how many wolves were in the pack that followed him? Would your sense of smell lead you to a pool of fresh water in mid-jungle? Can you feel the proximity of a crouching leopard without seeing it? What sort of education is it that neglects the senses? Oh, the highest product of your civilization – your poet-laureate, Tennyson – felt the same thing stir in his pulses when he wrote 'Locksley Hall,' and deprecated the 'poring over miserable books' with blinded eye-sight."

"'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,'" I quoted, as she paused in her rapid discourse.

"For the European, perhaps; not for the Chinaman. No, I have no feeling of gratitude towards those you speak of; for the large freedom of the Terai they gave me a brick cage in London; they gave me endless crowds of miserable men and women for these, my green brothers, who are always happy," and she put out her hand and caressed a tree that grew beside her.

"As for Christianity," she resumed, "it is but one facet in the jewel, morality. Christ was but an adept, I take it, who attained to his miraculous powers – as do our rishis and jogis – by prayer and fasting and meditation. I cannot see that Christian vices are fewer or more venial than those of our people."

"But don't you miss your books, and the keeping in touch with the progress of civilization?" I asked.

"Must I quote 'books in the running brooks' to you? What book is there like this book of God's?" and she swept her arm round her. "And if my son grow up to be brave and strong, that will be civilization enough for me."

"But your music?"

"Ah! that is the only thing I miss. But I recollect all of Schumann's songs and Schubert's, some of Beethoven's – and then I make songs of my own to fit the moods of my jungle mother, and I have some small skill in weaving words for them."

"And the man who hanged himself?"

"He was no man," she flashed; "who had not the strength of a girl, and who was as weak-eyed as the bat in daytime! You shall see a man indeed, one who fears not to track the tiger afoot, and who even beats me when he sees fit," and she called aloud, "Aho! Kali Dass, aho!"

The sound of the woodman's axe ceased, and presently we heard some one approaching through the jungle.

"'Twere better that he should know from me that you and I had had speech together, than that he should learn it from the Terai, for our men are very terrible when they are wrought upon by jealousy." Then, after a pause, she went on, "Don't speak to me in English in his presence. He won't like it."

She rose and half veiled her face with her chudder, as a splendid young Padhan bearing an immense load of wood entered the glade. He threw down his burden as soon as he perceived me, and, snatching up his axe, advanced menacingly towards me. He was a bronze Apollo, with the air of freedom that is native to mountaineers and woodsy folks.

"The sahib intended no harm, Kali Dass," began the woman; "and he hath given me tidings of his death."

"What of it? He was but a quail."

"But now canst thou become a Christian, and – marry me."

"Marry one who was twice a widow? Nana Debi forbid! I must admonish thee when we return to our hut. Come."

Fearing that any further interest in the case on my part would but increase the severity of her punishment, I turned down the jungle path.

Just before leaving the glade I looked back; the woman had one knee on the ground, and with outstretched arms she was balancing the load of wood that Kali Dass was putting on her head.

CHAPTER XVI

The Smoking of a Hornets' Nest

"The 'big rains' will begin to-night," said the bunnia at Lal Kooah, as Ram Deen took his seat on the mail-cart.

"And there will be much lightning and thunder," added one of the by-standers, "the night is so still."

The sky was inky, and the Terai awaited the coming storm in a breathless silence which was only emphasized by the parting blasts of Ram Deen's bugle. The horses had their ears twitched forward apprehensively, and started, every now and then, at the objects revealed by the light of the lamps. A mile or so beyond Lal Kooah a few heavy drops of rain pattered on the broad leaves of the overarching huldoos. Suddenly the sky was rent by a streak of lightning, – the avant courier of the mighty monsoon, – and it was immediately followed by the terrific thunder that bayed at its heels.

In the intensified silence that ensued Ram Deen blew his bugle to reassure the frightened horses. He had barely ceased when there came the sharp crack of a pistol-shot, and a far cry, "Ram dhwy! ram dhwy! Aho! Ram Deen, aho!"

"Tis the voice of Goor Dutt," said the hostler, "and he looketh on fear."

Ram Deen urged his team into a flying gallop as the storm struck the jungle and woke its mighty voices. Wind and rain, and trees with leafless branches for stringed instruments, made an elemental orchestra that discoursed cataclysmic music.

Whilst the thunder crackled and crashed overhead to the steady and sullen roar of the rain the horses came to a sudden stand-still. In the feeble lamplight Ram Deen discerned a man lying in the middle of the road. Taking one of the lamps, he held it to his face. It was Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver. He was unconscious, and had a deep wound on his head from which the blood was still welling.

Hanging on a wild plum-tree that grew on the edge of the road was a bloodstained turban that fluttered in the storm. Tying it securely to the branch whence it hung, Ram Deen placed the unconscious bullock driver at the bottom of the mail-cart, the hostler supporting his head.

Arrived at Kaladoongie, Ram Deen roused the native apothecary at the dispensary. Goor Dutt was carried in and laid on a charpoi, and whilst the apothecary attended to his hurts Ram Deen knocked on the Thanadar's house, saying, "Wake, Thanadar ji. There be bad men abroad to-night, and blows to pay."

When the two friends returned to the dispensary Goor Dutt was looking about him in a dazed fashion. The stimulant administered to him had begun to take effect, and the sight of the tall driver roused him to a recollection of the events of the night.

"Lakhoo's men," said he, feebly. "I counted five by the light of the torch they burned. They beset me, and doubtless I had been slain, but they heard thy bugle, and, whilst they hesitated, I shouted to thee, and, freeing one hand, I drew the pistol Charlie Sahib gave me and fired once, and then a great darkness fell upon me."

Whilst the Thanadar roused a couple of his men Ram Deen slipped into his own garden to release Hasteen, for the great dog would be needed in the hunting of that night.

The sky was emptying itself in great sheets of rain as the mail-cart sped away with the dog running beside it. When they reached the tree to which the turban was tied Ram Deen removed it and held it out to Hasteen, who, after sniffing at it for a moment, started off at a trot, with his nose to the ground. But the scent was bad, owing to the heavy rain, and the dog began to run round in widening circles in his search for a trail, whilst the men stayed on the edge of the road. Suddenly the dog bayed, and, following the direction of the sound, they came up with him as he stood by Goor Dutt's cart, from which the bullocks had been removed.

"The man stricken by Goor Dutt rode hence on a bullock," said Ram Deen, who had been examining the tracks in the mire with a lantern; "there be signs of but four men going hence, Thanadar Sahib, whereas five walked beside the wagon till it stopped here."

The cart was in the jungle about a hundred yards from the road. The noise made by its progress had been entirely drowned in the roar of the storm, so that Ram Deen had not heard it.

"See, sahib," said Ram Deen, pointing to the trail made by the heavy animals in their course through the jungle, and which not even the rain had effaced, "we shall not need Hasteen's nose, but his teeth, ere the daybreak."

Fastening the turban taken from the tree round Hasteen's neck, Ram Deen struck into the trail, the dog walking beside him, whilst the others followed in single file. The tall driver stopped occasionally to examine the ground with his lantern. He had with him the revolver given to him by Captain Barfield, but his main dependence was on the long bamboo club, loaded with lead, which he carried in his right hand.

The events that followed were thus told to Captain Fisher, the deputy commissioner of the district, who came down the next day from Naini Tal to investigate them.

"Sahib," began Ram Deen, whose left arm was in a sling, "it was thus: We followed the trail that led along the right bank of the Bore Nuddee, till we came to the ford, where the stream was now a roaring torrent owing to the great rain, which never ceased to drum on the Terai all that night.

"Here those we sought had crossed to the left bank, and then continued up the hill to the garden of Thapa Sing; through the door of the hut, wherein Heera Lal, who is kin to me, used to dwell, there came the gleam of firelight.

"Then the Thanadar bid stand, saying, ''Twere well to take them alive, Ram Deen, so that the sircar may not be despoiled of the hanging of them. What sayest thou?'

"'Such as these cannot be taken alive, Thanadar ji,' I replied.

"'What would you?' he inquired.

"'They be hornets, khodawund,' I made answer, 'and must be smoked out of their nest. When they come forth we will take them as we best may.'

"So we proceeded without noise to the hut, and when we reached it the lantern showed us that the Thanadar, and I, and Hasteen, whom I had unloosed, were alone. For, behold, the policemen had fled, not having stomachs for blows; their blood had turned to milk and their livers to water. For their fathers are jackals and their mothers without honor; and the sahib will doubtless bestow upon them the reward due to their valor.