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Title: Sport and Work on the Nepaul Frontier
       Twelve Years Sporting Reminiscences of an Indigo Planter

Author: James Inglis

Release Date: January 24, 2004 [EBook #10818]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN NEPAUL ***




Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team




[Illustration: _Frontispiece_. TIGER HUNTING. RETURN TO THE CAMP.]


SPORT AND WORK

ON THE

NEPAUL FRONTIER


OR


TWELVE YEARS SPORTING REMINISCENCES

OF AN INDIGO PLANTER


By "MAORI"


1878




[Note: Some words in this book have a macron over a vowel. A macron
is a punctuation mark ( - ) and is represented herein as [=a], [=e]
or [=o].]


PREFACE.

I went home in 1875 for a few months, after some twelve years' residence
in India. What first suggested the writing of such a book as this, was
the amazing ignorance of ordinary Indian life betrayed by people at
home. The questions asked me about India, and our daily life there,
showed in many cases such an utter want of knowledge, that I thought,
surely there is room here for a chatty, familiar, unpretentious book
for friends at home, giving an account of our every-day life in India,
our labours and amusements, our toils and relaxations, and a few
pictures of our ordinary daily surroundings in the far, far East.

Such then is the design of my book. I want to picture to my readers
Planter Life in the Mofussil, or country districts of India; to tell
them of our hunting, shooting, fishing, and other amusements; to
describe our work, our play, and matter-of-fact incidents in our daily
life; to describe the natives as they appear to us in our intimate
every-day dealings with them; to illustrate their manners, customs,
dispositions, observances and sayings, so far as these bear on our own
social life.

I am no politician, no learned ethnologist, no sage theorist. I simply
try to describe what I have seen, and hope to enlist the attention and
interest of my readers, in my reminiscences of sport and labour, in the
villages and jungles on the far off frontier of Nepaul.

I have tried to express my meaning as far as possible without Anglo-Indian
and Hindustani words; where these have been used, as at times they could
not but be, I have given a synonymous word or phrase in English, so that
all my friends at home may know my meaning.

I know that my friends will be lenient to my faults, and even the
sternest critic, if he look for it, may find some pleasure and profit in
my pages.

JAS. INGLIS.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

Province of Behar.--Boundaries.--General description.--District of
Chumparun.--Mooteeharree.--The town and lake.--Native houses.--The
Planters' Club.--Legoulie.

CHAPTER II.

My first charge.--How we get our lands.--Our home farm.--System of
farming.--Collection of rents.--The planter's duties.

CHAPTER III.

How to get our crop.--The 'Dangurs.'--Farm servants and their duties.
--Kassee Rai.--Hoeing.--Ploughing.--'Oustennie.'--Coolies at Work.
--Sowing.--Difficulties the plant has to contend with.--Weeding.

CHAPTER IV.

Manufacture of Indigo.--Loading the vats.--Beating.--Boiling, straining,
and pressing.--Scene in the Factory.--Fluctuation of produce.--Chemistry
of Indigo.

CHAPTER V.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

Fishing in India.--Hereditary trades.--The boatmen and fishermen of
India.--Their villages.--Nets.--Modes of fishing.--Curiosities relating
thereto.--Catching an alligator with a hook.--Exciting capture.
--Crocodiles.--Shooting an alligator.--Death of the man-eater.

CHAPTER VII.

Native superstitions.--Charming a bewitched woman.--Exorcising ghosts
from a field.--Witchcraft.--The witchfinder or 'Ojah,'--Influence of
fear.--Snake bites.--How to cure them.--How to discover a thief.--Ghosts
and their habits.--The 'Haddick' or native bone-setter.--Cruelty to
animals by natives.

CHAPTER VIII.

Our annual race meet.--The arrivals.--The camps.--The 'ordinary,'--The
course.--'They're off.'--The race.--The steeple-chase.--Incidents of
the meet.--The ball.

CHAPTER IX.

Pig-sticking in India.--Varieties of boar.--Their size and height.
--Ingenious mode of capture by the natives.--The 'Batan' or buffalo
herd.--Pigs charging.--Their courage and ferocity.--Destruction of
game.--A close season for game.

CHAPTER X.

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!

CHAPTER XI.

The sal forests.--The jungle goddess.--The trees in the jungle.
--Appearance of the forests.--Birds.--Varieties of parrots.--A 'beat'
in the forest.--The 'shekarry.'--Mehrman Singh and his gun.--The Banturs,
a jungle tribe of wood-cutters.--Their habits.--A village feast.--We
beat for deer.--Habits of the spotted deer.--Waiting for the game.
--Mehrman Singh gets drunk.--Our bag.--Pea-fowl and their habits.--How
to shoot them.--Curious custom of the Nepaulese.--How Juggroo was
tricked, and his revenge.

CHAPTER XII.

The leopard.--How to shoot him.--Gallant encounter with a wounded
one.--Encounter with a leopard in a Dak bungalow.--Pat shoots two
leopards.--Effects of the Express bullet.--The 'Sirwah Purrul,' or
annual festival of huntsmen.--The Hindoo ryot.--Rice-planting and
harvest.--Poverty of the ryot.--His apathy.--Village fires.--Want of
sanitation.

CHAPTER XIII.

Description of a native village.--Village functionaries.--The barber.
--Bathing habits.--The village well.--The school.--The children.--The
village bazaar.--The landowner and his dwelling.--The 'Putwarrie' or
village accountant.--The blacksmith.--The 'Punchayiet' or village jury
system.--Our legal system in India.--Remarks on the administration of
justice.

CHAPTER XIV.

A native village continued.--The watchman or 'chowkeydar.'--The temple.
--Brahmins.--Idols.--Religion.--Humility of the poorer classes.--Their
low condition.--Their apathy.--The police.--Their extortions and knavery.
--An instance of police rascality.--Corruption of native officials.--The
Hindoo unfit for self-government.

CHAPTER XV.

Jungle wild fruits.--Curious method of catching quail.--Quail nets.
--Quail caught in a blacksmith's shop.--Native wrestling.--The trainer.
--How they train for a match.--Rules of wrestling.--Grips.--A wrestling
match.--Incidents of the struggle.--Description of a match between a
Brahmin and a blacksmith.--Sparring for the grip.--The blacksmith has
it.--The struggle.--The Brahmin getting the worst of it.--Two to one
on the little 'un!--The Brahmin plays the waiting game, turns the tables
_and_ the blacksmith.--Remarks on wrestling.

CHAPTER XVI.

Indigo seed growing.--Seed buying and buyers.--Tricks of sellers.--Tests
for good seed.--The threshing-floor.--Seed cleaning and packing.--Staff
of servants.--Despatching the bags by boat.--The 'Pooneah' or rent day.
--Purneah planters--their hospitality.--The rent day a great festival.
--Preparation.--Collection of rents.--Feast to retainers.--The reception
in the evening.--Tribute.--Old customs.--Improvisatores and bards.
--Nautches.--Dancing and music.--The dance of the Dangurs.--Jugglers
and itinerary showmen.--'Bara Roopes,' or actors and mimics.--Their
different styles of acting.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Koosee jungles.--Ferries.--Jungle roads.--The rhinoceros.--We go
to visit a neighbour.--We lose our way and get belated.--We fall into
a quicksand.--No ferry boat.--Camping out on the sand.--Two tigers close
by.--We light a fire.--The boat at last arrives.--Crossing the stream.
--Set fire to the boatman's hut.--Swim the horses.--They are nearly
drowned.--We again lose our way in the jungle.--The towing path, and
how boats are towed up the river.--We at last reach the factory.--News
of rhinoceros in the morning.--Off we start, but arrive too late.--Death
of the rhinoceros.--His dimensions.--Description.--Habits.--Rhinoceros
in Nepaul.--The old 'Major Capt[=a]n.'--Description of Nepaulese scenery.
--Immigration of Nepaulese.--Their fondness for fish.--They eat it
putrid.--Exclusion of Europeans from Nepaul.--Resources of the country.
--Must sooner or later be opened up.--Influences at work to elevate
the people.--Planters and factories chief of these.--Character of the
planter.--Has claims to consideration from government.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The tiger.--His habitat.--Shooting on foot.--Modes of shooting.--A
tiger hunt on foot.--The scene of the hunt.--The beat.--Incidents of
the hunt.--Fireworks.--The tiger charges.--The elephant bolts.--The
tigress will not break.--We kill a half-grown cub.--Try again for
the tigress.--Unsuccessful.--Exaggerations in tiger stories.--My
authorities.--The brothers S.--Ferocity and structure of the
tiger.--His devastations.--His frame-work, teeth, &c.--A tiger at
bay.--His unsociable habits.--Fight between tiger and tigress.--Young
tigers.--Power and strength of the tiger.--Examples.--His cowardice.
--Charge of a wounded tiger.--Incidents connected with wounded tigers.
--A spined tiger.--Boldness of young tigers.--Cruelty.--Cunning.--Night
scenes in the jungle.--Tiger killed by a wild boar.--His cautious
habits.--General remarks.

CHAPTER XIX.

The tiger's mode of attack.--The food he prefers.--Varieties of prey.
--Examples.--What he eats first.--How to tell the kill of a tiger.
--Appetite fierce.--Tiger choked by a bone.--Two varieties of tiger.
--The royal Bengal.--Description.--The hill tiger.--His description.
--The two compared.--Length of the tiger.--How to measure tigers.
--Measurements.--Comparison between male and female.--Number of
young at a birth.--The young cubs.--Mother teaching cubs to kill.
--Education and progress of the young tiger.--Wariness and cunning
of the tiger.--Hunting incidents shewing their powers of concealment.
--Tigers taking to water.--Examples.--Swimming powers.--Caught by
floods.--Story of the Soonderbund tigers.

CHAPTER XX.

No regular breeding season.--Beliefs and prejudices of the natives
about tigers.--Bravery of the 'gwalla,' or cowherd caste.--Claw-marks
on trees.--Fondness for particular localities.--Tiger in Mr. F.'s
howdah.--Springing powers of tigers.--Lying close in cover.--Incident.
--Tiger shot with No. 4 shot.--Man clawed by a tiger.--Knocked its eye
out with a sickle.--Same tiger subsequently shot in same place.--Tigers
easily killed.--Instances.--Effect of shells on tiger and buffalo.--Best
weapon and bullets for tiger.--Poisoning tigers denounced.--Natives
prone to exaggerate in giving news of tiger.--Anecdote.--Beating for
tiger.--Line of elephants.--Padding dead game.--Line of seventy-six
elephants.--Captain of the hunt.--Flags for signals in the line.
--'Naka,' or scout ahead.--Usual time for tiger shooting on the Koosee.
--Firing the jungle.--The line of fire at night.--Foolish to shoot at
moving jungle.--Never shoot down the line.--Motions of different animals
in the grass.

CHAPTER XXI.

Howdahs and howdah-ropes.--Mussulman custom.--Killing animals for food.
--Mysterious appearance of natives when an animal is killed.--Fastening
dead tigers to the pad.--Present mode wants improving.--Incident
illustrative of this.--Dangerous to go close to wounded tigers.
--Examples.--Footprints of tigers.--Call of the tiger.--Natives and
their powers of description.--How to beat successfully for tiger.
--Description of a beat.--Disputes among the shooters.--Awarding
tigers.--Cutting open the tiger.--Native idea about the liver of the
tiger.--Signs of a tiger's presence in the jungle.--Vultures.--Do they
scent their quarry or view it?--A vulture carrion feast.

CHAPTER XXII.

We start for a tiger hunt on the Nepaul frontier.--Indian scenery near
the border.--Lose our way.--Cold night.--The river by night.--Our boat
and boatmen.--Tigers calling on the bank.--An anxious moment.--Fire at
and wound the tigress.--Reach camp.--The Nepaulee's adventure with a
tiger.--The old Major.--His appearance and manners.--The pompous
Jemadar.--Nepaulese proverb.--Firing the jungle.--Start a tiger and
shoot him.--Another in front.--Appearance of the fires by night.--The
tiger escapes.--Too dark to follow up.--Coolie shot by mistake during
a former hunt.

CHAPTER XXIII.

We resume the beat.--The hog-deer.--Nepaulese villages.--Village
granaries.--Tiger in front.--A hit! a hit!--Following up the wounded
tiger.--Find him dead.--Tiffin in the village.--The Patair jungle.
--Search for tiger.--Gone away!--An elephant steeplechase in pursuit.
--Exciting chase.--The Morung jungle.--Magnificent scenery.--Skinning
the tiger.--Incidents of tiger hunting.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Camp of the Nepaulee chief.--Quicksands.--Elephants crossing rivers.
--Tiffin at the Nepaulee camp.--We beat the forest for tiger.--Shoot
a young tiger.--Red ants in the forest.--Bhowras or ground bees.--The
_ursus labialis_ or long-lipped bear.--Recross the stream.--Florican.
--Stag running the gauntlet of flame.--Our bag.--Start for factory.
--Remarks on elephants.--Precautions useful for protection from the
sun in tiger shooting.--The _puggree_.--Cattle breeding in India, and
wholesale deaths of cattle from disease.--Nathpore.--Ravages of the
river.--Mrs. Gray, an old resident in the jungles.--Description of
her surroundings.

CHAPTER XXV.

Exciting jungle scene.--The camp.--All quiet.--Advent of the cow-herds.
--A tiger close by.--Proceed to the spot.--Encounter between tigress
and buffaloes.--Strange behaviour of the elephant.--Discovery and
capture of four cubs.--Joyful return to camp.--Death of the tigress.
--Night encounter with a leopard.--The haunts of the tiger and our
shooting grounds.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Remarks on guns.--How to cure skins.--Different Recipes.--Conclusion.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Tiger Hunting--Return to the Camp
Coolie's Hut
Indigo Beating Vats
Indigo Beaters at work in the Vat
Indian Factory Peon
Indigo Planter's House
Pig Stickers
Carpenters and Blacksmiths at work
Hindoo Village Temples




CHAPTER I.


Province of Behar.--Boundaries.--General description.--District of
Chumparun.--Mooteeharree.--The town and lake.--Native houses.--The
Planters' Club.--Legoulie.

Among the many beautiful and fertile provinces of India, none can, I
think, much excel that of Behar for richness of soil, diversity of
race, beauty of scenery, and the energy and intelligence of its
inhabitants. Stretching from the Nepaul hills to the far distant
plains of Gya, with the Gunduch, Bogmuttee and other noble streams
watering its rich bosom, and swelling with their tribute the stately
Ganges, it includes every variety of soil and climate; and its various
races, with their strange costumes, creeds, and customs, might afford
material to fill volumes.

The northern part of this splendid province follows the Nepaulese
boundary from the district of Goruchpore on the north, to that of
Purneah on the south. In the forests and jungles along this boundary
line live many strange tribes, whose customs, and even their names and
language, are all but unknown to the English public. Strange wild
animals dispute with these aborigines the possession of the gloomy
jungle solitudes. Great trees of wondrous dimensions and strange
foliage rear their stately heads to heaven, and are matted and
entwined together by creepers of huge size and tenacious hold.

To the south and east vast billows of golden grain roll in successive
undulations to the mighty Ganges, the sacred stream of the Hindoos.
Innumerable villages, nestling amid groves of plantains and feathery
rustling bamboos, send up their wreaths of pale grey smoke into the
still warm air. At frequent intervals the steely blue of some lovely
lake, where thousands of water-fowl disport themselves, reflects from
its polished surface the sheen of the noonday sun. Great masses of
mango wood shew a sombre outline at intervals, and here and there the
towering chimney of an indigo factory pierces the sky. Government
roads and embankments intersect the face of the country in all
directions, and vast sheets of the indigo plant refresh the eye with
their plains of living green, forming a grateful contrast to the hard,
dried, sun-baked surface of the stubble fields, where the rice crop
has rustled in the breezes of the past season. In one of the loveliest
and most fertile districts of this vast province, namely, Chumparun, I
began my experiences as an indigo planter.

Chumparun with its subdistrict of Bettiah, lies to the north of
Tirhoot, and is bounded all along its northern extent by the Nepaul
hills and forests. When I joined my appointment as assistant on one
of the large indigo concerns there, there were not more than about
thirty European residents altogether in the district. The chief town,
Mooteeharree, consisted of a long _bazaar_, or market street, beautifully
situated on the bank of a lovely lake, some two miles in length. From
the main street, with its quaint little shops sheltered from the sun
by makeshift verandahs of tattered sacking, weather-stained shingles,
or rotting bamboo mats, various little lanes and alleys diverged,
leading one into a collection of tumble-down and ruinous huts, set up
apparently by chance, and presenting the most incongruous appearance
that could possibly be conceived. One or two _pucca_ houses, that is,
houses of brick and masonry, shewed where some wealthy Bunneah
(trader) or usurious banker lived, but the majority of the houses were
of the usual mud and bamboo order. There is a small thatched hut where
the meals were cooked, and where the owner and his family could sleep
during the rains. Another smaller hut at right angles to this, gives
shelter to the family goat, or, if they are rich enough to keep one,
the cow. All round the villages in India there are generally large
patches of common, where the village cows have free rights of pasture;
and all who can, keep either a cow or a couple of goats, the milk from
which forms a welcome addition to their usual scanty fare. In this
second hut also is stored as much fuel, consisting of dried cow-dung,
straw, maize-stalks, leaves, etc., as can be collected; and a ragged
fence of bamboo or _rahur_[1] stalks encloses the two unprotected
sides, thus forming inside a small court, quadrangle, or square. This
court is the native's _sanctum sanctorum_. It is kept scrupulously
clean, being swept and garnished religiously every day. In this the
women prepare the rice for the day's consumption; here they cut up and
clean their vegetables, or their fish, when the adjacent lake has been
dragged by the village fishermen. Here the produce of their little
garden, capsicums, Indian corn, onions or potatoes--perchance turmeric,
ginger, or other roots or spices--are dried and made ready for storing
in the earthen sun-baked repository for the reception of such produce
appertaining to each household. Here the children play, and are washed
and tended. Here the maiden combs out her long black hair, or decorates
her bronzed visage with streaks of red paint down the nose, and a
little antimony on the eyelids, or myrtle juice on the finger and toe
nails. Here, too, the matron, or the withered old crone of a
grandmother, spins her cotton thread; or, in the old scriptural
hand-mill, grinds the corn for the family flour and meal; and the
father and the young men (when the sun is high and hot in the heavens)
take their noonday _siesta_, or, the day's labours over, cower round
the smoking dung fire of a cold winter night, and discuss the prices
ruling in the bazaar, the rise of rents, or the last village scandal.

In the middle of the town, and surrounded by a spacious fenced-in
compound, which sloped gently to the lake, stood the Planters' Club, a
large low roofed bungalow, with a roomy wide verandah in front. Here
we met, when business or pleasure brought us to 'the Station.' Here
were held our annual balls, or an occasional public dinner party. To
the north of the Club stood a long range of barrack-looking buildings,
which were the opium godowns, where the opium was collected and stored
during the season. Facing this again, and at the extremity of the
lake, was the district jail, where all the rascals of the surrounding
country were confined; its high walls tipped at intervals by a red
puggree and flashing bayonet wherever a jail sepoy kept his 'lonely
watch.' Near it, sheltered in a grove of shady trees, were the court
houses, where the collector and magistrate daily dispensed justice, or
where the native _moonsiff_ disentangled knotty points of law. Here,
too, came the sessions judge once a month or so, to try criminal cases
and mete out justice to the law-breakers.

We had thus a small European element in our 'Station,' consisting of
our magistrate and collector, whose large and handsome house was built
on the banks of another and yet lovelier lake, which joined the town
lake by a narrow stream or strait at its southern end, an opium agent,
a district superintendent of police, and last but not least, a doctor.
These formed the official population of our little 'Station.' There
was also a nice little church, but no resident pastor, and behind the
town lay a quiet churchyard, rich in the dust of many a pioneer, who,
far from home and friends, had here been gathered to his silent rest.

About twelve miles to the north, and near the Nepaul boundary, was the
small military station of Legoulie. Here there was always a native
cavalry regiment, the officers of which were frequent and welcome
guests at the factories in the district, and were always glad to see
their indigo friends at their mess in cantonments. At Rettiah, still
further to the north, was a rich rajah's palace, where a resident
European manager dwelt, and had for his sole society an assistant
magistrate who transacted the executive and judicial work of the
subdistrict. These, with some twenty-five or thirty indigo managers
and assistants, composed the whole European population of Chumparun.

Never was there a more united community. We were all like brothers.
Each knew all the rest. The assistants frequently visited each other,
and the managers were kind and considerate to their subordinates.
Hunting parties were common, cricket and hockey matches were frequent,
and in the cold weather, which is our slackest season, fun, frolic,
and sport was the order of the day. We had an annual race meet, when
all the crack horses of the district met in keen rivalry to test their
pace and endurance. During this high carnival, we lived for the most
part under canvass, and had friends from far and near to share our
hospitality. In a future chapter I must describe our racing meet.


[1] The _rahur_ is a kind of pea, growing not unlike our English broom
    in appearance; it is sown with the maize crop during the rains,
    and garnered in the cold weather. It produces a small pea, which
    is largely used by the natives, and forms the nutritive article of
    diet known as _dhall_.




CHAPTER II.


My first charge.--How we get our lands.--Our home farm.--System of
farming.--Collection of rents.--The planter's duties.

My first charge was a small outwork of the large factory Seeraha. It
was called Puttihee. There was no bungalow; that is, there was no
regular house for the assistant, but a little one-roomed hut, built on
the top of the indigo vats, served me for a residence. It had neither
doors nor windows, and the rain used to beat through the room, while
the eaves were inhabited by countless swarms of bats, who, in the
evening flashed backwards and forwards in ghostly rapid flight, and
were a most intolerable nuisance. To give some idea of the duties of
an indigo assistant, I must explain the system on which we get our
lands, and how we grow our crop.

Water of course being a _sine qua non_, the first object in selecting
a site for a factory is, to have water in plenty contiguous to the
proposed buildings. Consequently Puttihee was built on the banks of a
very pretty lake, shaped like a horseshoe, and covered with water
lilies and broad-leaved green aquatic plants. The lake was kept by the
native proprietor as a fish preserve, and literally teemed with fish
of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. I had not been long at Puttihee
before I had erected a staging, leading out into deep water, and many
a happy hour I have spent there with my three or four rods out,
pulling in the finny inhabitants.

Having got water and a site, the next thing is to get land on which to
grow your crop. By purchase, by getting a long lease, or otherwise,
you become possessed of several hundred acres of the land immediately
surrounding the factory. Of course some factories will have more and
some less as circumstances happen. This land, however, is peculiarly
factory property. It is in fact a sort of home farm, and goes by the
name of _Zeraat_. It is ploughed by factory bullocks, worked by
factory coolies, and is altogether apart and separate from the
ordinary lands held by the ryots and worked by them. (A ryot means a
cultivator.) In most factories the Zeraats are farmed in the most
thorough manner. Many now use the light Howard's plough, and apply
quantities of manure.

The fields extend in vast unbroken plains all round the factory. The
land is worked and pulverised, and reploughed, and harrowed, and
cleaned, till not a lump the size of a pigeon's egg is to be seen. If
necessary, it is carefully weeded several times before the crop is
sown, and in fact, a fine clean stretch of Zeraat in Tirhoot or
Chumparun, will compare most favourably with any field in the highest
farming districts of England or Scotland. The ploughing and other farm
labour is done by bullocks. A staff of these, varying of course with
the amount of land under cultivation, is kept at each factory. For
their support a certain amount of sugar-cane is planted, and in the
cold weather carrots are sown, and _gennara_, a kind of millet, and
maize.

Both maize and gennara have broad green leaves, and long juicy
succulent stalks. They grow to a good height, and when cut up and
mixed with chopped straw and carrots, form a most excellent feed for
cattle. Besides the bullocks, each factory keeps up a staff of
generally excellent horses, for the use of the assistant or manager,
on which he rides over his cultivation, and looks generally after the
farm. Some of the native subordinates also have ponies, or Cabool
horses, or country-breds; and for the feed of these animals some few
acres of oats are sown every cold season. In most factories too, when
any particular bit of the Zeraats gets exhausted by the constant
repetition of indigo cropping, a rest is given it, by taking a crop of
oil seeds or oats off the land. The oil seeds usually sown are mustard
or rape. The oil is useful in the factory for oiling the screws or the
machinery, and for other purposes.

The factory roads through the Zeraats are kept in most perfect order;
many of them are metalled. The ditches are cleaned once a year. All
thistles and weeds by the sides of the roads and ditches, are
ruthlessly cut down. The edges of all the fields are neatly trimmed
and cut. Useless trees and clumps of jungle are cut down; and in fact
the Zeraats round a factory shew a perfect picture of orderly thrift,
careful management, and neat, scientific, and elaborate farming.

Having got the Zeraats, the next thing is to extend the cultivation
outside.

The land in India is not, as with us at home, parcelled out into large
farms. There are wealthy proprietors, rajahs, baboos, and so on, who
hold vast tracts of land, either by grant, or purchase, or hereditary
succession; but the tenants are literally the children of the soil.
Wherever a village nestles among its plantain or mango groves, the
land is parcelled out among the villagers. A large proprietor does not
reckon up his farms as a landlord at home would do, but he counts his
villages. In a village with a thousand acres belonging to it, there
might be 100 or even 200 tenants farming the land. Each petty villager
would have his acre or half acre, or four, or five, or ten, or twenty
acres, as the case might be. He holds this by a 'tenant right,' and
cannot be dispossessed as long as he pays his rent regularly. He can
sell his tenant right, and the purchaser on paying the rent, becomes
the _bona fide_ possessor of the land to all intents and purposes.

If the average rent of the village lands was, let me say, one rupee
eight annas an acre, the rent roll of the 1000 acres would be 1500
rupees. Out of this the government land revenue comes. Certain
deductions have to be made--some ryots may be defaulters. The village
temple, or the village Brahmin, may have to get something, the
road-cess has to be paid, and so on. Taking everything into account,
you arrive at a pretty fair view of what the rental is. If the
proprietor of the village wants a loan of money, or if you offer to
pay him the rent by half-yearly or quarterly instalments, you taking
all the risk of collecting in turn from each ryot individually, he is
often only too glad to accept your offer, and giving you a lease of
the village for whatever term may be agreed on, you step in as
virtually the landlord, and the ryots have to pay their rents to you.

In many cases by careful management, by remeasuring lands, settling
doubtful boundaries, and generally working up the estate, you can much
increase the rental, and actually make a profit on your bargain with
the landlord. This department of indigo work is called Zemindaree.
Having, then, got the village in lease, you summon in all your tenants;
shew them their rent accounts, arrange with them for the punctual
payment of them, and get them to agree to cultivate a certain
percentage of their land in indigo for you.

This percentage varies very considerably. In some places it is one
acre in five, in some one in twenty. It all depends on local
circumstances. You select the land, you give the seed, but the ryot
has to prepare the field for sowing, he has to plough, weed, and reap
the crop, and deliver it at the factory. For the indigo he gets so
much per acre, the price being as near as possible the average price
of an acre of ordinary produce: taking the average out-turn and prices
of, say, ten years. It used formerly to be much less, but the ryot
nowadays gets nearly double for his indigo what he got some ten or
fifteen years ago, and this, although prices have not risen for the
manufactured article, and the prices of labour, stores, machinery,
live stock, etc., have more than doubled. In some parts the ryot gets
paid so much per bundle of plants delivered at the vats, but generally
in Behar, at least in north Behar, he is paid so much per acre or
_Beegah_. I use the word acre as being more easily understood by
people at home than Beegah. The Beegah varies in different districts,
but is generally about two-thirds of an acre.

When his rent account, then, comes to be made out, the ryot gets
credit for the price of his indigo grown and delivered; and this very
often suffices, not only to clear his entire rent, but to leave a
margin in hard cash for him to take home. Before the beginning of the
indigo season, however, he comes into the factory and takes a cash
advance on account of the indigo to be grown. This is often a great
help to him, enabling him to get his seeds for his other lands,
perhaps ploughs, or to buy a cart, or clothes for the family, or to
replace a bullock that may have died; or to help to give a marriage
portion to a son or daughter that he wants to get married.

You will thus see that we have cultivation to look after in all the
villages round about the factory which we can get in lease. The ryot,
in return for his cash advance, agrees to cultivate so much indigo at
a certain price, for which he gets credit in his rent. Such, shortly,
is our indigo system. In some villages the ryot will estimate for us
without our having the lease at all, and without taking advances.
He grows the indigo as he would grow any other crop, as a pure
speculation. If he has a good crop, he can get the price in hard cash
from the factory, and a great deal is grown in this way in both
Purneah and Bhaugulpore. This is called _Kooskee_, as against the
system of advances, which is called _Tuccaree_.

The planter, then, has to be constantly over his villages, looking out
for good lands, giving up bad fields, and taking in new ones. He must
watch what crops grow best in certain places. He must see that he does
not take lands where water may lodge, and, on the other hand, avoid
those that do not retain their moisture. He must attend also to the
state of the other crops generally all over his cultivation, as the
punctual payment of rents depends largely on the state of the crops.
He must have his eyes open to everything going on, be able to tell the
probable rent-roll of every village for miles around, know whether the
ryots are lazy and discontented, or are industrious and hard-working.
Up in the early morning, before the hot blazing sun has climbed on
high, he is off on his trusty nag, through his Zeraats, with his
greyhounds and terriers panting behind him. As he nears a village, the
farm-servant in charge of that particular bit of cultivation, comes
out with a low salaam, to report progress, or complain that so-and-so
is not working up his field as he ought to do.

Over all the lands he goes, seeing where re-ploughing is necessary,
ordering harrowing here, weeding there, or rolling somewhere else. He
sees where the ditches need deepening, where the roads want levelling
or widening, where a new bridge will be necessary, where lands must be
thrown up and new ones taken in. He knows nearly all his ryots, and
has a kind word for every one he passes; asks after their crops, their
bullocks, or their land; rouses up the indolent; gives a cheerful nod
to the industrious; orders this one to be brought in to settle his
account, or that one to make greater haste with the preparation of his
land, that he may not lose his moisture. In fact, he has his hands
full till the mounting sun warns him to go back to breakfast. And so,
with a rattling burst after a jackal or fox, he gets back to his
bungalow to bathe, dress, and break his fast with fowl cutlets, and
curry and rice, washed down with a wholesome tumbler of Bass.




CHAPTER III.


How to get our crop.--The 'Dangurs.'--Farm servants and their duties.
--Kassee Rai.--Hoeing.--Ploughing.--'Oustennie.'--Coolies at work.
--Sowing.--Difficulties the plant has to contend with.--Weeding.

Having now got our land, water, and buildings--which latter I will
describe further on--the next thing is to set to work to get our crop.
Manufacture being finished, and the crop all cut by the beginning or
middle of October, when the annual rains are over, it is of importance
to have the lands dug up as early as possible, that the rich moisture,
on which the successful cultivation of the crop mainly depends, may be
secured before the hot west winds and strong sun of early spring lick
it up.

Attached to every factory is a small settlement of labourers, belonging
to a tribe of aborigines called _Dangurs_. These originally, I believe,
came from Chota Nagpoor, which seems to have been their primal home.
They are a cheerful industrious race, have a distinct language of their
own, and only intermarry with each other. Long ago, when there were no
post carriages to the hills, and but few roads, the Dangurs were
largely employed as dale runners, or postmen. Some few of them settled
with their families on lands near the foot of the hills in Purneah, and
gradually others made their way northwards, until now there is scarcely
a factory in Behar that has not its Dangur tola, or village.

The men are tractable, merry-hearted, and faithful. The women betray
none of the exaggerated modesty which is characteristic of Hindoo women
generally. They never turn aside and hide their faces as you pass, but
look up to you with a merry smile on their countenances, and exchange
greetings with the utmost frankness. In a future chapter I may speak at
greater length of the Dangurs; at present it suffices to say, that they
form a sort of appanage to the factory, and are in fact treated as part
of the permanent staff.

Each Dangur when he marries, gets some grass and bamboos from the
factory to build a house, and a small plot of ground to serve as a
garden, for which he pays a very small rent, or in many instances
nothing at all. In return, he is always on the spot ready for any
factory work that may be going on, for which he has his daily wage.
Some factories pay by the month, but the general custom is to charge
for hoeing by piece-work, and during manufacture, when the work is
constant, there is paid a monthly wage.

In the close foggy mornings of October and November, long before the
sun is up, the Dangurs are hard at work in the Zeraats, turning up the
soil with their _kodalies_, (a kind of cutting hoe,) and you can often
hear their merry voices rising through the mist, as they crack jokes
with each other to enliven their work, or troll one of their quaint
native ditties.

They are presided over by a 'mate,' generally one of the oldest men and
first settlers in the village. If he has had a large family, his sons
look up to him, and his sons-in-law obey his orders with the utmost
fealty. The 'mate' settles all disputes, presents all grievances to the
_sahib_, and all orders are given through him.

The indigo stubble which has been left in the ground is perhaps about a
foot high, and as they cut it out, their wives and children come to
gather up the sticks for fuel, and this of course also helps to clean
the land. By eleven o'clock, when the sluggish mist has been dissipated
by the rays of the scorching sun, the day's labour is nearly concluded.
You will then see the swarthy Dangur, with his favourite child on his
shoulder, wending his way back to his hut, followed by his comely wife
carrying his hoe, and a tribe of little ones bringing up the rear, each
carrying bundles of the indigo stubble which the industrious father has
dug up during the early hours of morning.

In the afternoon out comes the _hengha_, which is simply a heavy flat
log of wood, with a V shaped cut or groove all along under its flat
surface. To each end of the hengha a pair of bullocks are yoked, and
two men standing on the log, and holding on by the bullocks' tails, it
is slowly dragged over the field wherever the hoeing has been going on.
The lumps and clods are caught in the groove on the under surface, and
dragged along and broken up and pulverized, and the whole surface of
the field thus gets harrowed down, and forms a homogeneous mass of
light friable soil, covering the weeds and dirt to let them rot,
exposing the least surface for the wind and heat to act on, and thus
keeping the moisture in the soil.

Now is a busy time for the planter. Up early in the cold raw fog, he is
over his Zeraats long before dawn, and round by his outlying villages
to see the ryots at work in their fields. To each eighty or a hundred
acres a man is attached called a _Tokedar_. His duty is to rouse out
the ryots, see the hoes and ploughs at work, get the weeding done, and
be responsible for the state of the cultivation generally. He will
probably have two villages under him. If the village with its lands be
very extensive, of course there will be a Tokedar for it alone, but
frequently a Tokedar may have two or more villages under his charge. In
the village, the head man--generally the most influential man in the
community--also acts with the Tokedar, helping him to get ploughs,
bullocks, and coolies when these are wanted; and under him, the village
_chowkeydar_, or watchman, sees that stray cattle do not get into the
fields, that the roads, bridges and fences are not damaged, and so on.
Over the Tokedars, again, are Zillahdars. A 'zillah' is a small
district. There may be eight or ten villages and three or four Tokedars
under a Zillahdar. The Zillahdar looks out for good lands to change for
bad ones, where this is necessary, and where no objection is made by
the farmer; sees that the Tokedars do their work properly; reports
rain, blight, locusts, and other visitations that might injure the
crop; watches all that goes on in his zillah, and makes his report to
the planter whenever anything of importance happens in his particular
part of the cultivation. Over all again comes the JEMADAR--the head man
over the whole cultivation--the planter's right-hand man.

He is generally an old, experienced, and trusted servant. He knows all
the lands for miles round, and the peculiar soils and products of all
the villages far and near. He can tell what lands grow the best
tobacco, what lands are free from inundation, what free from drought;
the temper of the inhabitants of each village, and the history of each
farm; where are the best ploughs, the best bullocks, and the best
farming; in what villages you get most coolies for weeding; where you
can get the best carts, the best straw, and the best of everything at
the most favourable rates. He comes up each night when the day's work
is done, and gets his orders for the morrow. You are often glad to take
his advice on sowing, reaping, and other operations of the farm. He
knows where the plant will ripen earliest, and where the leaf will be
thickest, and to him you look for satisfaction if any screw gets loose
in the outside farm-work.

He generally accompanies you in your morning ride, shows you your new
lands, consults with you about throwing up exhausted fields, and is
generally a sort of farm-bailiff or confidential land-steward. Where he
is an honest, intelligent, and loyal man, he takes half the care and
work off your shoulders. Such men are however rare, and if not very
closely looked after, they are apt to abuse their position, and often
harass the ryots needlessly, looking more to the feathering of their
own nests than the advancement of your interests.

The only Jemadar I felt I could thoroughly trust, was my first one at
Parewah, an old Rajpoot, called Kassee Rai. He was a fine, ruddy-faced,
white-haired old man, as independent and straightforward an old farmer
as you could meet anywhere, and I never had reason to regret taking his
advice on any matter. I never found him out in a lie, or in a dishonest
or underhand action. Though over seventy years of age he was upright as
a dart. He could not keep up with me when we went out riding over the
fields, but he would be out the whole day over the lands, and was
always the first at his work in the morning and the last to leave off
at night. The ryots all loved him, and would do anything for him; and
when poor old Kassee died, the third year he had been under me, I felt
as if an old friend had gone. I never spoke an angry word to him, and I
never had a fault to find with him.

When the hoeing has been finished in zeraat and zillah, and all the
upturned soil battened down by the _hengha_, the next thing is to
commence the ploughing. Your ploughmen are mostly low caste
men--Doosadhs, Churnars, Moosahurs, Gwallahs, _et hoc genus omne_.
The Indian plough, so like a big misshapen wooden pickaxe, has often
been described. It however turns up the light soft soil very well
considering its pretensions, and those made in the factory workshops
are generally heavier and sharper than the ordinary village plough.
Our bullocks too, being strong and well fed, the ploughing in the
zeraats is generally good.

The ploughing is immediately followed up by the _hengha_, which again
triturates and breaks up the clods, rolls the sticks, leaves, and grass
roots together, brings the refuse and dirt to the surface, and again
levels the soil, and prevents the wind from taking away the moisture.
The land now looks fine and fresh and level, but very dirty. A host of
coolies are put on the fields with small sticks in their hands. All the
Dangur women and children are there, with men, women, and children of
all the poorest classes from the villages round, whom the attractions
of wages or the exertions of headmen Tokedars and Zillahdars have
brought together to earn their daily bread. With the sticks they beat
and break up every clod, leaving not one behind the size of a walnut.
They collect all the refuse, weeds, and dirt, which are heaped up and
burnt on the field, and so they go on till the zeraats look as clean as
a nobleman's garden, and you would think that surely this must satisfy
the fastidious eye of the planter. But no, our work is not half begun
yet.

It is rather a strange sight to see some four or five hundred coolies
squatted in a long irregular line, chattering, laughing, shouting, or
squabbling. A dense cloud of dust rises over them, and through the dim
obscurity one hears the ceaseless sound of the thwack! thwack! as their
sticks rattle on the ground. White dust lies thick on each swarthy
skin; their faces are like faces in a pantomime. There are the flashing
eyes and the grinning rows of white teeth; all else is clouded in thick
layers of dust, with black spots and stencillings showing here and
there like a picture in sepia and chalk. As they near the end of the
field they redouble their thwacking, shuffle along like land-crabs, and
while the Mates, Peons, and Tokedars shout at them to encourage them,
they raise a roar loud enough to wake the dead. The dust rises in
denser clouds, the noise is deafening, a regular mad hurry-scurry, a
wild boisterous scramble ensues, and amid much chaffing, noise, and
laughter, they scramble off again to begin another length of land; and
so the day's work goes on.

The planter has to count his coolies several times a-day, or they would
cheat him. Some come in the morning, get counted, and their names put
on the roll, and then go off till paytime comes round. Some come for an
hour or two, and send a relative in the evening when the pice are being
paid out, to get the wage of work they have not done. All are paid in
pice--little copper bits of coin, averaging about sixty-four to the
rupee. However, you soon come to know the coolies by sight, and after
some experience are rarely 'taken in,' but many young beginners get
'done' most thoroughly till they become accustomed to the tricks of the
artless and unsophisticated coolie.

The type of feature along a line of coolies is as a rule a very
forbidding and degraded one. They are mostly of the very poorest class.
Many of them are plainly half silly, or wholly idiotic; not a few are
deaf and dumb; others are crippled or deformed, and numbers are leprous
and scrofulous. Numbers of them are afflicted in some districts with
goitre, caused probably by bad drinking water; all have a pinched,
withered, wan look, that tells of hard work and insufficient fare. It
is a pleasure to turn to the end of the line, where the Dangur women
and boys and girls generally take their place. Here are the loudest
laughter, and the sauciest faces. The children are merry, chubby, fat
things, with well-distended stomachs and pleasant looks; a merry smile
rippling over their broad fat cheeks as they slyly glance up at you.
The women--with huge earrings in their ears, and a perfect load of
heavy brass rings on their arms--chatter away, make believe to be shy,
and show off a thousand coquettish airs. Their very toes are bedizened
with brass rings; and long festoons of red, white, and blue beads hang
pendent round their necks.

In the evening the line is re-formed before the bungalow. A huge bag of
copper coin is produced. The old Lallah, or writer, with spectacles on
nose, squats down in the middle of the assembled coolies, and as each
name is called, the mates count out the pice, and make it over to the
coolie, who forthwith hurries off to get his little purchases made at
the village Bunneah's shop; and so, on a poor supper of parched peas,
or boiled rice, with no other relish but a pinch of salt, the poor
coolie crawls to bed, only to dream of more hard work and scanty fare
on the morrow. Poor thing! a village coolie has a hard time of it!
During the hot months, if rice be cheap and plentiful, he can jog along
pretty comfortably, but when the cold nights come on, and he cowers in
his wretched hut, hungry, half naked, cold, and wearied, he is of all
objects most pitiable. It is, however, a fact little creditable to his
more prosperous fellow-countrymen, that he gets better paid for his
labour in connection with factory work, than he does in many cases for
tasks forced on him by the leading ryots of the village in connection
with their own fields.

[Illustration: COOLIE'S HUT.]

This first cleaning of the fields--or, as it is called, _Oustennie_--being
finished, the lands are all again re-ploughed, re-harrowed, and then
once more re-cleaned by the coolies, till not a weed or spot of dirt
remains; and till the whole surface is uniformly soft, friable, moist,
and clean. We have now some breathing time; and as this is the most
enjoyable season of the year, when the days are cool, and roaring wood
fires at night remind us of home, we hunt, visit, race, dance, and
generally enjoy ourselves. Should heavy rain fall, as it sometimes does
about Christmas and early in February, the whole cultivation gets
beaten down and caked over. In such a case amusements must for a time
be thrown aside, till all the lands have been again re-ploughed. Of
course we are never wholly idle. There are always rents to collect,
matters to adjust in connexion with our villages and tenantry,
law-suits to recover bad debts, to enforce contracts, or protect
manorial or other rights,--but generally speaking, when the lands have
been prepared, we have a slack season or breathing time for a month or
so.

Arrangements having been made for the supply of seed, which generally
comes from about the neighbourhood of Cawnpore, as February draws near
we make preparations for beginning our sowings. February is the usual
month, but it depends on the moisture, and sometimes sowings may go on
up till May and June. In Purneah and Bhaugulpore, where the cultivation
is much rougher than in Tirhoot, the sowing is done broadcast. And in
Bengal the sowing is often done upon the soft mud which is left on the
banks of the rivers at the retiring of the annual floods. In Tirhoot,
however, where the high farming I have been trying to describe is
practised, the sowing is done by means of drills. Drills are got out,
overhauled, and put in thorough repair. Bags of seed are sent out to
the villages, advances for bullocks are given to the ryots, and on a
certain day when all seems favourable--no sign of rain or high
winds--the drills are set at work, and day and night the work goes on,
till all the cultivation has been sown. As the drills go along, the
hengha follows close behind, covering the seed in the furrows; and once
again it is put over, till the fields are all level, shining, and
clean, waiting for the first appearance of the young soft shoots.

These, after some seven, nine, or perhaps fifteen days, according to
the weather, begin to appear in long lines of delicate pale yellowish
green. This is a most anxious time. Should rain fall, the whole surface
of the earth gets caked and hard, and the delicate plant burns out, or
being chafed against the hard surface crust, it withers and dies. If
the wind gets into the east, it brings a peculiar blight which settles
round the leaf and collar of the stem of the young plant, chokes it,
and sweeps off miles and miles of it. If hot west winds blow, the plant
gets black, discoloured, burnt up, and dead. A south wind often brings
caterpillars--at least this pest often makes its appearance when the
wind is southerly; but as often as not caterpillars find their way to
the young plant in the most mysterious manner,--no one knowing whence
they come. Daily, nay almost hourly, reports come in from all parts of
the zillah: now you hear of 'Lahee,' blight on some field; now it is
'Ihirka,' scorching, or 'Pilooa,' caterpillars. In some places the seed
may have been bad or covered with too much earth, and the plant comes
up straggling and thin. If there is abundant moisture, this must be
re-sown. In fact, there is never-ending anxiety and work at this
season, but when the plant has got into ten or fifteen leaf, and is an
inch or two high, the most critical time is over, and one begins to
think about the next operation, namely WEEDING.

The coolies are again in requisition. Each comes armed with a
_coorpee_,--this is a small metal spatula, broad-pointed, with which
they dig out the weeds with amazing deftness. Sometimes they may
inadvertently take out a single stem of indigo with the weeds: the eye
of the mate or Tokedar espies this at once, and the careless coolie is
treated to a volley of Hindoo Billingsgate, in which all his relations
are abused to the seventh generation. By the time the first weeding is
finished, the plant will be over a foot high, and if necessary a second
weeding is then given. After the second weeding, and if any rain has
fallen in the interim, the plant will be fully two feet high.

It is now a noble-looking expanse of beautiful green waving foliage. As
the wind ruffles its myriads of leaves, the sparkle of the sunbeams on
the undulating mass produces the most wonderful combinations of light
and shade; feathery sprays of a delicate pale green curl gracefully all
over the field. It is like an ocean of vegetation, with billows of rich
colour chasing each other, and blending in harmonious hues; the whole
field looking a perfect oasis of beauty amid the surrounding dull brown
tints of the season.

It is now time to give the plant a light touch of the plough. This
eases the soil about the roots, lets in air and light, tends to clean
the undergrowth of weeds, and gives it a great impetus. The operation
is called _Bedaheunee_. By the beginning of June the tiny red flower is
peeping from its leafy sheath, the lower leaves are turning yellowish
and crisp, and it is almost time to begin the grandest and most
important operation of the season, the manufacture of the dye from the
plant.

To this you have been looking forward during the cold raw foggy days of
November, when the ploughs were hard at work,--during the hot fierce
winds of March, and the still, sultry, breathless early days of June,
when the air was so still and oppressive that you could scarcely
breathe. These sultry days are the lull before the storm--the pause
before the moisture-laden clouds of the monsoon roll over the land
'rugged and brown,' and the wild rattle of thunder and the lurid glare
of quivering never-ceasing lightning herald in the annual rains. The
manufacture however deserves a chapter to itself.

[Illustration: INDIGO BEATING VATS.]




CHAPTER IV.


Manufacture of Indigo.--Loading the vats.--Beating.--Boiling,
straining, and pressing.--Scene in the Factory.--Fluctuation of
produce.--Chemistry of Indigo.

Indigo is manufactured solely from the leaf. When arrangements have
been made for cutting and carting the plant from the fields, the vats
and machinery are all made ready, and a day is appointed to begin
'Mahye' or manufacture. The apparatus consists of, first, a strong
serviceable pump for pumping up water into the vats: this is now mostly
done by machinery, but many small factories still use the old Persian
wheel, which may be shortly described as simply an endless chain of
buckets, working on a revolving wheel or drum. The machine is worked by
bullocks, and as the buckets ascend full from the well, they are
emptied during their revolution into a small trough at the top, and the
water is conveyed into a huge masonry reservoir or tank, situated high
up above the vats, which forms a splendid open air bath for the planter
when he feels inclined for a swim. Many of these tanks, called
_Kajhana_, are capable of containing 40,000 cubic feet of water or
more.

Below, and in a line with this reservoir, are the steeping vats, each
capable of containing about 2000 cubic feet of water when full. Of
course the vats vary in size, but what is called a _pucca_ vat is of
the above capacity. When the fresh green plant is brought in, the carts
with their loads are ranged in line, opposite these loading vats. The
loading coolies, 'Bojhunneas'--so called from '_Bojh_,' a bundle--jump
into the vats, and receive the plant from the cart-men, stacking it up
in perpendicular layers, till the vat is full: a horizontal layer is
put on top to make the surface look even. Bamboo battens are then
placed over the plant, and these are pressed down, and held in their
place by horizontal beams, working in upright posts. The uprights have
holes at intervals of six inches. An iron pin is put in one of the
holes; a lever is put under this pin, and the beam pressed down, till
the next hole is reached and a fresh pin inserted, which keeps the beam
down in its place. When sufficient pressure has been applied, the
sluice in the reservoir is opened, and the water runs by a channel into
the vat till it is full. Vat after vat is thus filled till all are
finished, and the plant is allowed to steep from ten to thirteen or
fourteen hours, according to the state of the weather, the temperature
of the water, and other conditions and circumstances which have all to
be carefully noted.

At first a greenish yellow tinge appears in the water, gradually
deepening to an intense blue. As the fermentation goes on, froth forms
on the surface of the vat, the water swells up, bubbles of gas arise to
the surface, and the whole range of vats presents a frothing, bubbling,
sweltering appearance, indicative of the chemical action going on in
the interior. If a torch be applied to the surface of a vat, the
accumulated gas ignites with a loud report, and a blue lambent flame
travels with amazing rapidity over the effervescent liquid. In very hot
weather I have seen the water swell up over the mid walls of the vats,
till the whole range would be one uniform surface of frothing liquid,
and on applying a light, the report has been as loud as that of a small
cannon, and the flame has leapt from vat to vat like the flitting
will-o'-the-wisp on the surface of some miasmatic marsh.

When fermentation has proceeded sufficiently, the temperature of the
vat lowers somewhat, and the water, which has been globular and convex
on the surface and at the sides, now becomes distinctly convex and
recedes a very little. This is a sign that the plant has been steeped
long enough, and that it is now time to open the vat. A pin is knocked
out from the bottom, and the pent-up liquor rushes out in a golden
yellow stream tinted with blue and green into the beating vat, which
lies parallel to, but at a lower level than the loading vat.

Of course as the vats are loaded at different hours, and the steeping
varies with circumstances, they must be ready to open also at different
intervals. There are two men specially engaged to look after the
opening. The time of loading each one is carefully noted; the time it
will take to steep is guessed at, and an hour for opening written down.
When this hour arrives, the _Gunta parree_, or time-keeper, looks at
the vat, and if it appears ready he gets the pinmen to knock out the
pin and let the steeped liquor run into the beating vat.

Where there are many vats, this goes on all night, and by the morning
the beating vats are all full of steeped liquor, and ready to be
beaten.

The beating now is mostly done by machinery; but the old style was very
different. A gang of coolies (generally Dangurs) were put into the
vats, having long sticks with a disc at the end, with which, standing
in two rows, they threw up the liquor into the air. The quantity forced
up by the one coolie encounters in mid air that sent up by the man
standing immediately opposite to him, and the two jets meeting and
mixing confusedly together, tumble down in broken frothy masses into
the vat. Beginning with a slow steady stroke the coolies gradually
increase the pace, shouting out a hoarse wild song at intervals; till,
what with the swish and splash of the falling water, the measured beat
of the _furrovahs_ or beating rods, and the yells and cries with which
they excite each other, the noise is almost deafening. The water, which
at first is of a yellowish green, is now beginning to assume an intense
blue tint; this is the result of the oxygenation going on. As the blue
deepens, the exertions of the coolie increase, till with every muscle
straining, head thrown back, chest expanded, his long black hair
dripping with white foam, and his bronzed naked body glistening with
blue liquor, he yells and shouts and twists and contorts his body till
he looks like a true 'blue devil.' To see eight or ten vats full of
yelling howling blue creatures, the water splashing high in mid air,
the foam flecking the walls, and the measured beat of the _furrovahs_
rising weird-like into the morning air, is almost enough to shake the
nerve of a stranger, but it is music in the planter's ear, and he can
scarce refrain from yelling out in sympathy with his coolies, and
sharing in their frantic excitement. Indeed it is often necessary to
encourage them if a vat proves obstinate, and the colour refuses to
come--an event which occasionally does happen. It is very hard work
beating, and when this constant violent exercise is kept up for about
three hours (which is the time generally taken), the coolies are pretty
well exhausted, and require a rest.

[Illustration: INDIGO BEATERS AT WORK IN THE VATS.]

During the beating, two processes are going on simultaneously. One is
chemical--oxygenation--turning the yellowish green dye into a deep
intense blue: the other is mechanical--a separation of the particles of
dye from the water in which it is held in solution. The beating seems
to do this, causing the dye to granulate in larger particles.

When the vat has been beaten, the coolies remove the froth and scum
from the surface of the water, and then leave the contents to settle.
The fecula or dye, or _mall_, as it is technically called, now settles
at the bottom of the vat in a soft pulpy sediment, and the waste liquor
left on the top is let off through graduated holes in the front. Pin
after pin is gradually removed, and the clear sherry-coloured waste
allowed to run out till the last hole in the series is reached, and
nothing but dye remains in the vat. By this time the coolies have had a
rest and food, and now they return to the works, and either lift up the
_mall_ in earthen jars and take it to the mall tank, or--as is now more
commonly done--they run it along a channel to the tank, and then wash
out and clean the vat to be ready for the renewed beating on the
morrow. When all the _mall_ has been collected in the mall tank, it is
next pumped up into the straining room. It is here strained through
successive layers of wire gauze and cloth, till, free from dirt, sand
and impurity, it is run into the large iron boilers, to be subjected to
the next process. This is the boiling. This operation usually takes two
or three hours, after which it is run off along narrow channels, till
it reaches the straining-table. It is a very important part of the
manufacture, and has to be carefully done. The straining-table is an
oblong shallow wooden frame, in the shape of a trough, but all composed
of open woodwork. It is covered by a large straining-sheet, on which
the mall settles; while the waste water trickles through and is carried
away by a drain. When the mall has stood on the table all night, it is
next morning lifted up by scoops and buckets and put into the presses.
These are square boxes of iron or wood, with perforated sides and
bottom and a removeable perforated lid. The insides of the boxes are
lined with press cloths, and when filled these cloths are carefully
folded over the _mall_, which is now of the consistence of starch; and
a heavy beam, worked on two upright three-inch screws, is let down on
the lid of the press. A long lever is now put on the screws, and the
nut worked slowly round. The pressure is enormous, and all the water
remaining in the _mall_ is pressed through the cloth and perforations
in the press-box till nothing but the pure indigo remains behind.

The presses are now opened, and a square slab of dark moist indigo,
about three or three and a half inches thick, is carried off on the
bottom of the press (the top and sides having been removed), and
carefully placed on the cutting frame. This frame corresponds in size
to the bottom of the press, and is grooved in lines somewhat after the
manner of a chess-board. A stiff iron rod with a brass wire attached is
put through the groove under the slab, the wire is brought over the
slab, and the rod being pulled smartly through brings the wire with it,
cutting the indigo much in the same way as you would cut a bar of soap.
When all the slab has been cut into bars, the wire and rod are next put
into the grooves at right angles to the bars and again pulled through,
thus dividing the bars into cubical cakes. Each cake is then stamped
with the factory mark and number, and all are noted down in the books.
They are then taken to the drying house; this is a large airy building,
with strong shelves of bamboo reaching to the roof, and having narrow
passages between the tiers of shelves. On these shelves or _mychans_,
as they are called, the cakes are ranged to dry. The drying takes two
or three months, and the cakes are turned and moved at frequent
intervals, till thoroughly ready for packing. All the little pieces and
corners and chips are carefully put by on separate shelves, and packed
separately. Even the sweepings and refuse from the sheets and floor are
all carefully collected, mixed with water, boiled separately, and made
into cakes, which are called 'washings.'

During the drying a thick mould forms on the cakes. This is carefully
brushed off before packing, and, mixed with sweepings and tiny chips is
all ground up in a hand-mill, packed in separate chests, and sold as
dust. In October, when _mahye_ is over, and the preparation of the land
going on again, the packing begins. The cakes, each of separate date,
are carefully scrutinised, and placed in order of quality. The finest
qualities are packed first, in layers, in mango-wood boxes; the boxes
are first weighed empty, re-weighed when full, and the difference gives
the nett weight of the indigo. The tare, gross, and nett weights are
printed legibly on the chests, along with the factory mark and number
of the chest, and when all are ready, they are sent down to the brokers
in Calcutta for sale. Such shortly is the system of manufacture.

During _mahye_ the factory is a busy scene. Long before break of day
the ryots and coolies are busy cutting the plant, leaving it in green
little heaps for the cartmen to load. In the early morning the carts
are seen converging to the factory on every road, crawling along like
huge green beetles. Here a cavalcade of twenty or thirty carts, there
in clusters of twos or threes. When they reach the factory the loaders
have several vats ready for the reception of the plant, while others
are taking out the already steeped plant of yesterday; staggering under
its weight, as, dripping with water, they toss it on the vast
accumulating heap of refuse material.

Down in the vats below, the beating coolies are plashing, and shouting,
and yelling, or the revolving wheel (where machinery is used) is
scattering clouds of spray and foam in the blinding sunshine. The
firemen stripped to the waist, are feeding the furnaces with the dried
stems of last year's crop, which forms our only fuel. The smoke hovers
in volumes over the boiling-house. The pinmen are busy sorting their
pins, rolling hemp round them to make them fit the holes more exactly.
Inside the boiling-house, dimly discernible through the clouds of
stifling steam, the boilermen are seen with long rods, stirring slowly
the boiling mass of bubbling blue. The clank of the levers resounds
through the pressing-house, or the hoarse guttural 'hah, hah!' as the
huge lever is strained and pulled at by the press-house coolies. The
straining-table is being cleaned by the table 'mate' and his coolies,
while the washerman stamps on his sheets and press-cloths to extract
all the colour from them, and the cake-house boys run to and fro
between the cutting-table and the cake-house with batches of cakes on
their heads, borne on boards, like a baker taking his hot rolls from
the oven, or like a busy swarm of ants taking the spoil of the granary
to their forest haunt. Everywhere there is a confused jumble of sounds.
The plash of water, the clank of machinery, the creaking of wheels, the
roaring of the furnaces, mingle with the shouts, cries, and yells of
the excited coolies; the vituperations of the drivers as some terrified
or obstinate bullock plunges madly about; the objurgations of the
'mates' as some lazy fellow eases his stroke in the beating vats; the
cracking of whips as the bullocks tear round the circle where the
Persian wheel creaks and rumbles in the damp, dilapidated wheel-house;
the-dripping buckets revolving clumsily on the drum, the arriving and
departing carts; the clang of the anvil, as the blacksmith and his men
hammer away at some huge screw which has been bent; the hurrying crowds
of cartmen and loaders with their burdens of fresh green plant or
dripping refuse;--form such a medley of sights and sounds as I have
never seen equalled in any other industry.

The planter has to be here, there, and everywhere. He sends carts to
this village or to that, according as the crop ripens. Coolies must be
counted and paid daily. The stubble must be ploughed to give the plant
a start for the second growth whenever the weather will admit of it.
Reports have to be sent to the agents and owners. The boiling must be
narrowly watched, as also the beating and the straining. He has a large
staff of native assistants, but if his _mahye_ is to be successful, his
eye must be over all. It is an anxious time, but the constant work is
grateful, and when the produce is good, and everything working
smoothly, it is perhaps the most enjoyable time of the whole year. Is
it nothing to see the crop, on which so much care has been expended,
which you have watched day by day through all the vicissitudes of the
season, through drought, and flood, and blight; is it nothing to see it
safely harvested, and your shelves filling day by day with fine sound
cakes, the representatives of wealth, that will fill your pockets with
commission, and build up your name as a careful and painstaking
planter?

'What's your produce?' is now the first query at this season, when
planters meet. Calculations are made daily, nay hourly, to see how much
is being got per beegah, or how much per vat. The presses are calculated
to weigh so much. Some days you will get a press a vat, some days it
will mount up to two presses a vat, and at other times it will recede
to half a press a vat, or even less. Cold wet weather reduces the
produce. Warm sunny weather will send it up again. Short stunted plant
from poor lands will often reduce your average per acre, to be again
sent up as fresh, hardy, leafy plant comes in from some favourite
village, where you have new and fertile lands, or where the plant from
the rich zeraats laden with broad strong leaf is tumbled into the
loading vat.

So far as I know, there seems to be no law of produce. It is the most
erratic and incomprehensible thing about planting. One day your presses
are full to straining, next day half of them lie empty. No doubt the
state of the weather, the quality of your plant, the temperature of the
water, the length of time steeping, and other things have an influence;
but I know of no planter who can entirely and satisfactorily account
for the sudden and incomprehensible fluctuations and variations which
undoubtedly take place in the produce or yield of the plant. It is a
matter of more interest to the planter than to the general public, but
all I can say is, that if the circumstances attendant on any sudden
change in the yielding powers of the plant were more accurately noted;
if the chemical conditions of the water, the air, and the raw material
itself, more especially in reference to the soil on which it grows, the
time it takes in transit from the field to the vat, and other points,
which will at once suggest themselves to a practical planter, were more
carefully, methodically, and scientifically observed, some coherent
theory resulting in plain practical results might be evolved.

Planters should attend more to this. I believe the chemical history of
indigo has yet to be written. The whole manufacture, so far as
chemistry is concerned, is yet crude and ill-digested. I know that by
careful experiment, and close scientific investigation and observation,
the preparation of indigo could be much improved. So far as the
mechanical appliances for the manufacture go, the last ten years have
witnessed amazing and rapid improvements. What is now wanted, is, that
what has been done for the mere mechanical appliances, should be done
for the proper understanding of the chemical changes and conditions in
the constitution of the plant, and in the various processes of its
manufacture[1].

[1] Since the above chapter was written Mons. P.I. Michea, a French
    chemist of some experience in Indigo matters, has patented
    an invention (the result of much study, experiment, and
    investigation), by the application of which an immense increase in
    the produce of the plant has been obtained during the last season,
    in several factories where it has been worked in Jessore, Purneah,
    Kishnaghur, and other places. This increase, varying according to
    circumstances, has in some instances reached the amazing extent
    of 30 to 47 per cent., and so far from being attended with a
    deterioration of quality the dye produced is said to be finer than
    that obtained under the old crude process described in the above
    chapter. This shows what a waste must have been going on, and what
    may yet be done, by properly organised scientific investigation.
    I firmly believe that with an intelligent application of the
    principles of chemistry and agricultural science, not only to the
    manufacture but to growth, cultivation, nature of the soil,
    application of manures, and other such departments of the
    business, quite a revolution will set in, and a new era in the
    history of this great industry will be inaugurated. Less area for
    crop will be required, working expenses will be reduced, a greater
    out-turn, and a more certain crop secured, and all classes,
    planter and ryot alike, will be benefited.

[Illustration: INDIAN FACTORY PEON.]

[Illustration: INDIGO PLANTER'S HOUSE.]




CHAPTER V.


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.




CHAPTER VI.


Fishing in India.--Hereditary trades.--The boatmen and fishermen of
India.--Their villages.--Nets.--Modes of fishing.--Curiosities
relating thereto.--Catching an alligator with a hook.--Exciting
capture.-Crocodiles.--Shooting an alligator.--Death of the man-eater.

Not only in the wild jungles, on the undulating plains, and among the
withered brown stubbles, does animal life abound in India; but the
rivers, lakes, and creeks teem with fish of every conceivable size,
shape, and colour. The varieties are legion. From the huge black
porpoise, tumbling through the turgid stream of the Ganges, to the
bright, sparkling, silvery shoals of delicate _chillooahs_ or
_poteeahs_, which one sees darting in and out among the rice stubbles
in every paddy field during the rains. Here a huge _bhowarree_ (pike),
or ravenous _coira_, comes to the surface with a splash; there a
_raho_, the Indian salmon, with its round sucker-like mouth, rises
slowly to the surface, sucks in a fly and disappears as slowly as it
rose; or a _pachgutchea_, a long sharp-nosed fish, darts rapidly by; a
shoal of mullet with their heads out of the water swim athwart the
stream, and far down in the cool depths of the tank or lake, a thousand
different varieties disport themselves among the mazy labyrinths of the
broad-leaved weeds.

During the middle, and about the end of the rains, is the best time for
fishing; the whole country is then a perfect network of streams. Every
rice field is a shallow lake, with countless thousands of tiny fish
darting here and there among the rice stalks. Every ditch teems with
fish, and every hollow in every field is a well stocked aquarium.

Round the edge of every lake or tank in the early morning, or when the
fierce heat of the day begins to get tempered by the approaching shades
of evening, one sees numbers of boys and men of the poorer classes,
each with a couple of rough bamboo rods stuck in the ground in front of
him, watching his primitive float with the greatest eagerness, and
whipping out at intervals some luckless fish of about three or four
ounces in weight with a tremendous haul, fit for the capture of a
forty-pounder. They get a coarse sort of hook in the bazaar, rig up a
roughly-twisted line, tie on a small piece of hollow reed for a float,
and with a lively earth-worm for a bait, they can generally manage in a
very short time to secure enough fish for a meal.

With a short light rod, a good silk line, and an English hook attached
to fine gut, I have enjoyed many a good hour's sport at Parewah. I used
to have a cane chair sent down to the bank of the stream, a _punkah_,
or hand fan, plenty of cooling drinks, and two coolie boys in
attendance to remove the fish, renew baits, and keep the punkah in
constant swing. There I used to sit enjoying my cigar, and pulling in
little fish at the rate sometimes of a couple a minute.

I remember hooking a turtle once, and a terrible job it was to land
him. My light rod bent like a willow, but the tackle was good, and
after ten minutes' hard work I got the turtle to the side, where my
boys soon secured him. He weighed thirteen pounds. Sometimes you get
among a colony of freshwater crabs.

They are little brown brutes, and strip your hooks of the bait as fast
as you fling them in. There is nothing for it in such a case but to
shift your station. Many of the bottom fish--the _ghurai_, the
_saourie_, the _barnee_ (eel), and others, make no effort to escape the
hook. You see them resting at the bottom, and drop the bait at their
very nose. On the whole, the hand fishing is uninteresting, but it
serves to wile away an odd hour when hunting and shooting are hardly
practicable.

Particular occupations in India are restricted to particular castes.
All trades are hereditary. For example, a _tatmah_, or weaver, is
always a weaver. He cannot become a blacksmith or carpenter. He has no
choice. He must follow the hereditary trade. The peculiar system of
land-tenure in India, which secures as far as possible a bit of land
for every one, tends to perpetuate this hereditary selection of trades,
by enabling every cultivator to be so far independent of his
handicraft, thus restricting competition. There may be twenty _lohars_,
or blacksmiths, in a village, but they do not all follow their calling.
They till their lands, and are _de facto_ petty farmers. They know the
rudiments of their handicraft, but the actual blacksmith's work is done
by the hereditary smith of the village, whose son in turn will succeed
him when he dies, or if he leave no son, his fellow caste men will put
in a successor.

Nearly every villager during the rains may be found on the banks of the
stream or lake, angling in an amateur sort of way, but the fishermen
of Behar _par excellence_ are the _mull[=a]hs_; they are also called
_Gouhree, Beeu_, or _Muchooah_. In Bengal they are called _Nikaree_,
and in some parts _Baeharee_, from the Persian word for a boat. In the
same way _muchooah_ is derived from _much_, a fish, and _mullah_ means
boatman, strictly speaking, rather than fisherman. All boatmen and
fishermen belong to this caste, and their villages can be recognised at
once by the instruments of their calling lying all around.

Perched high on some bank overlooking the stream or lake, you see
innumerable festoons of nets hanging out to dry on tall bamboo poles,
or hanging like lace curtains of very coarse texture from the roofs and
eaves of the huts. Hauled up on the beach are a whole fleet of boats of
different sizes, from the small _dugout_, which will hold only one man,
to the huge _dinghy_, in which the big nets and a dozen men can be
stowed with ease. Great heaps of shells of the freshwater mussel show
the source of great supplies of bait; while overhead a great hovering
army of kites and vultures are constantly circling round, eagerly
watching for the slightest scrap of offal from the nets. When the rains
have fairly set in, and the fishermen have got their rice fields all
planted out, they are at liberty to follow their hereditary avocation.
A day is fixed for a drag, and the big nets are overhauled and got in
readiness. The head _mullah_, a wary grizzled old veteran, gives the
orders. The big drag-net is bundled into the boat, which is quickly
pushed off into the stream, and at a certain distance from shore the
net is cast from the boat. Being weighted at the lower end it rapidly
sinks, and, buoyed on the upper side with pieces of cork, it makes a
perpendicular wall in the water. Several long bamboo poles are now run
through the ropes along the upper side of the net, to prevent the net
being dragged under water altogether by the weight of the fish in a
great haul. The little boats, a crowd of which are in attendance, now
dart out, surrounding the net on all sides, and the boatmen beating
their oars on the sides of the boats, create such a clatter as to
frighten, the fish into the circumference of the big net. This is now
being dragged slowly to shore by strong and willing arms. The women and
children watch eagerly on the bank. At length the glittering haul is
pulled up high and dry on the beach, the fish are divided among the
men, the women fill their baskets, and away they hie to the nearest
_bazaar_, or if it be not _bazaar_ or market day, they hawk the fish
through the nearest villages, like our fish-wives at home.

There is another common mode of fishing adopted in narrow lakes and
small streams, which are let out to the fishermen by the Zemindars or
landholders. A barricade made of light reeds, all matted together by
string, is stuck into the stream, and a portion of the water is fenced
in, generally in a circular form. The reed fence being quite flexible
is gradually moved in, narrowing the circle. As the circle narrows, the
agitation inside is indescribable; fish jumping in all directions--a
moving mass of glittering scales and fins. The larger ones try to leap
the barrier, and are caught by the attendant _mullahs_, who pounce on
them with swift dexterity. Eagles and kites dart and swoop down,
bearing off a captive fish in their talons. The reed fence is doubled
back on itself, and gradually pushed on till the whole of the fish
inside are jammed together in a moving mass. The weeds and dirt are
then removed, and the fish put into baskets and carried off to market.

Others, again, use circular casting nets, which they throw with very
great dexterity. Gathering the net into a bunch they rest it on the
shoulder, then with a circular sweep round the head, they fling it far
out. Being loaded, it sinks down rapidly in the water. A string is
attached to the centre of the net, and the fisherman hauls it in with
whatever prey he may be lucky enough to secure.

As the waters recede during October, after the rains have ended, each
runlet and purling stream becomes a scene of slaughter on a most
reckless and improvident scale. The innumerable shoals of spawn and
small fish that have been feeding in the rice fields, warned by some
instinct seek the lakes and main streams. As they try to get their way
back, however, they find at each outlet in each ditch and field a
deadly wicker trap, in the shape of a square basket with a V-shaped
opening leading into it, through which the stream makes its way. After
entering this basket there is no egress except through the narrow
opening, and they are trapped thus in countless thousands. Others of
the natives in mere wantonness put a shelf of reeds or rushes in the
bed of the stream, with an upward slope. As the water rushes along, the
little fish are left high and dry on this shelf or screen, and the
water runs off below. In this way scarcely a fish escapes, and as
millions are too small to be eaten, it is a most serious waste. The
attention of Government has been directed to the subject, and steps may
be taken to stop such a reckless and wholesale destruction of a
valuable food supply.

In some parts of Purneah and Bhaugulpore I have seen a most ingenious
method adopted by the _mullahs_. A gang of four or five enter the
stream and travel slowly downwards, stirring up the mud at the bottom
with their feet. The fish, ascending the stream to escape the mud, get
entangled in the weeds. The fishermen feel them with their feet amongst
the weeds, and immediately pounce on them with their hands. Each man
has a _gila_ or earthen pot attached by a string to his waist and
floating behind him in the water. I have seen four men fill their
earthen pots in less than an hour by this ingenious but primitive mode
of fishing. Some of them can use their feet almost as well for grasping
purposes as their hands.

Another mode of capture is by a small net. A flat piece of netting is
spread over a hoop, to which four or five pieces of bamboo are
attached, rising up and meeting in the centre, so as to form a sort of
miniature skeleton tent-like frame over the net. The hoop with the net
stretched tight across is then pressed down flat on the bottom of the
tank or stream. If any fish are beneath, their efforts to escape
agitate the net. The motion is communicated to the fisherman by a
string from the centre of the net which is rolled round the fisherman's
thumb. When the jerking of his thumb announces a captive fish, he puts
down his left hand and secures his victim. The _Banturs_, _Nepaulees_,
and other jungle tribes, also often use the bow and arrow as a means of
securing fish.

Seated on the branch of some overhanging tree, while his keen eye scans
the depths below, he watches for a large fish, and as it passes, he
lets fly his arrow with unerring aim, and impales the luckless victim.
Some tribes fish at night, by torchlight, spearing the fish who are
attracted by the light. In Nepaul the bark of the _Hill Sirres_ is
often used to poison a stream or piece of water. Pounded up and thrown
in, it seems to have some uncommon effect on the fish. After water has
been treated in this way, the fish, seemingly quite stupefied, rise to
the surface, on which they float in great numbers, and allow themselves
to be caught. The strangest part of it is that they are perfectly
innocuous as food, notwithstanding this treatment.

Fish forms a very favourite article of diet with both Mussulmans and
Hindoos. Many of the latter take a vow to touch no flesh of any kind.
They are called _Kunthees_ or _Boghuts_, but a _Boghut_ is more of an
ascetic than a _Kunthee_. However, the _Kunthee_ is glad of a fish
dinner when he can get it. They are restricted to no particular sect or
caste, but all who have taken the vow wear a peculiar necklace, made
generally of sandal-wood beads or _neem_ beads round their throats.
Hence the name, from _kunth_ meaning the throat.

The right to fish in any particular piece of water, is let out by the
proprietor on whose land the water lies, or through which it flows. The
letting is generally done by auction yearly. The fishing is called a
_shilkur_; from _shal_, a net. It is generally taken by some rich
_Bunneah_ (grain seller) or village banker, who sub-lets it in turn to
the fishermen.

In some of the tanks which are not so let, and where the native
proprietor preserves the fish, first-class sport can be had. A common
native poaching dodge is this: if some oil cake be thrown into the
water a few hours previous to your fishing, or better still, balls made
of roasted linseed meal, mixed with bruised leaves of the 'sweet
basil,' or _toolsee_ plant, the fish assemble in hundreds round the
spot, and devour the bait greedily. With a good eighteen-foot rod, fish
of from twelve to twenty pounds are not uncommonly caught, and will
give good play too. Fishing in the plains of India is, however, rather
tame sport at the best of times.

You have heard of the famous _mahseer_--some of them over eighty or a
hundred pounds weight? We have none of these in Behar, but the huge
porpoise gives splendid rifle or carbine practice as he rolls through
the turgid streams. They are difficult to hit, but I have seen several
killed with ball; and the oil extracted from their bodies is a splendid
dressing for harness. But the most exciting fishing I have ever seen
was--What do you think?--Alligator fishing! Yes, the formidable scaly
monster, with his square snout and terrible jaws, his ponderous body
covered with armour, and his serrated tail, with which he could break
the leg of a bullock, or smash an outrigger as easily as a whale could
smash a jolly-boat.

I must try to describe one day's alligator fishing.

When I was down in Bhaugulpore, I went out frequently fishing in the
various tanks and streams near my factory. My friend Pat, who is a keen
sportsman and very fond of angling, wrote to me one day when he and his
brother Willie were going out to the Teljuga, asking me to join their
party. The Teljuga is the boundary stream between Tirhoot and
Bhaugulpore, and its sluggish muddy waters teem with alligators--the
regular square-nosed _mugger_, the terrible man-eater. The _nakar_ or
long-nosed species may be seen in countless numbers in any of the large
streams, stretched out on the banks basking in the noonday sun. Going
down the Koosee particularly, you come across hundreds sometimes lying
on one bank. As the boat nears them, they slide noiselessly and slowly
into the stream. A large excrescence forms on the tip of the long
snout, like a huge sponge; and this is often all that is seen on the
surface of the water as the huge brute swims about waiting for his
prey. These _nakars_, or long-nosed specimens, never attack human
beings--at least such cases are very very rare--but live almost
entirely on fish. I remember seeing one catch a paddy-bird on one
occasion near the junction of the Koosee with the Ganges. My boat was
fastened to the shore near a slimy creek, that came oozing into the
river from some dense jungle near. I was washing my hands and face on
the bank, and the boatmen were fishing with a small hand-net, for our
breakfast. Numbers of attenuated melancholy-looking paddy-birds were
stalking solemnly and stiltedly along the bank, also fishing for
_theirs_. I noticed one who was particularly greedy, with his long legs
half immersed in the water, constantly darting out his long bill and
bringing up a hapless struggling fish. All of a sudden a long snout and
the ugly serrated ridgy back of a _nakar_ was shot like lightning at
the hapless bird, and right before our eyes the poor paddy was crunched
up. As a rule, however, alligators confine themselves to a fish diet,
and are glad of any refuse or dead animal that may float their way. But
with the _mugger_, the _boach_, or square-nosed variety, 'all is fish
that comes to his net.' His soul delights in young dog or live pork. A
fat duck comes not amiss; and impelled by hunger he hesitates not to
attack man. Once regaled with the flavour of human flesh, he takes up
his stand near some ferry, or bathing ghaut, where many hapless women
and children often fall victims to his unholy appetite, before his
career is cut short.

I remember shooting one ghastly old scaly villain in a tank near
Ryseree. He had made this tank his home, and with that fatalism which
is so characteristic of the Hindoo, the usual ablutions and bathings
went on as if no such monster existed. Several woman having been
carried off, however, at short intervals, the villagers asked me to try
and rid them of their foe. I took a ride down to the tank one Friday
morning, and found the banks a scene of great excitement. A woman had
been carried off some hours before as she was filling her water jar,
and the monster was now reposing at the bottom of the tank digesting
his horrible meal. The tank was covered with crimson water-lilies in
full bloom, their broad brown and green leaves showing off the crimson
beauty of the open flower. At the north corner some wild rose bushes
dropped over the water, casting a dense matted shade. Here was the
haunt of the _mugger_. He had excavated a huge gloomy-looking hole,
into which he retired when gorged with prey. My first care was to cut
away some of these bushes, and then, finding he was not at home, we
drove some bamboo stakes through the bank to prevent him getting into
his _manu_, which is what the natives term the den or hole. I then sat
down under a _goolar_ tree, to wait for his appearance. The _goolar_ is
a species of fig, and the leaves are much relished by cattle and goats.
Gradually the village boys and young men went off to their ploughing,
or grass cutting for the cows' evening meal. A woman came down
occasionally to fill her waterpot in evident fear and trembling. A
swarm of _minas_ (the Indian starling) hopped and twittered round my
feet. The cooing of a pair of amatory pigeons overhead nearly lulled me
to slumber. A flock of green parrots came swiftly circling overhead,
making for the fig-tree at the south end of the tank. An occasional
_raho_ lazily rose among the water-lilies, and disappeared with an
indolent flap of his tail. The brilliant kingfisher, resplendent in
crimson and emerald, sat on the withered branch of a prostrate
mango-tree close by, pluming his feathers and doubtless meditating on
the vanity of life. Suddenly, close by the massive post which marks the
centre of every Hindoo tank, a huge scaly snout slowly and almost
imperceptibly rose to the surface, then a broad, flat, forbidding
forehead, topped by two grey fishy eyes with warty-looking callosities
for eyebrows. Just then an eager urchin who had been squatted by me for
hours, pointed to the brute. It was enough. Down sank the loathsome
creature, and we had to resume our attitude of expectation and patient
waiting. Another hour passed slowly. It was the middle of the
afternoon, and very hot. I had sent my _tokedar_ off for a 'peg' to the
factory, and was beginning to get very drowsy, when, right in the same
spot, the repulsive head again rose slowly to the surface. I had my
trusty No. 12 to my shoulder on the instant, glanced carefully along
the barrels, but just then only the eyes of the brute were invisible. A
moment of intense excitement followed, and then, emboldened by the
extreme stillness, he showed his whole head above the surface. I pulled
the trigger, and a Meade shell crashed through the monster's skull,
scattering his brains in the water and actually sending one splinter of
the skull to the opposite edge of the tank, where my little Hindoo boy
picked it up and brought it to me.

There was a mighty agitation in the water; the water-lilies rocked to
and fro, and the broad leaves glittered with the water drops thrown on
them; then all was still. Hearing the report of my gun, the natives
came flocking to the spot, and, telling them their enemy was slain, I
departed, leaving instructions to let me know when the body came to the
surface. It did so three days later. Getting some _chumars_ and _domes_
(two of the lowest castes, as none of the higher castes will touch a
dead body under pain of losing caste), we hauled the putrid carcase to
shore, and on cutting it open, found the glass armlets and brass
ornaments of no less than five women and the silver ornaments of three
children, all in a lump in the brute's stomach. Its skull was
completely smashed and shattered to pieces by my shot. Its teeth were
crusted with tartar, and worn almost to the very stumps. It measured
nineteen feet.

But during this digression my friends Pat and Willie have been waiting
on the banks of the 'Teljuga.' I reached their tents late at night,
found them both in high spirits after a good day's execution among the
ducks and teal, and preparations being made for catching an alligator
next day. Up early in the morning, we beat some grass close by the
stream, and roused out an enormous boar that gave us a three mile spin
and a good fight, after Pat had given him first spear. After breakfast
we got our tackle ready.

This was a large iron hook with a strong shank, to which was attached a
stout iron ring. To this ring a long thick rope was fastened, and I
noticed for several yards the strands were all loose and detached, and
only knotted at intervals. I asked Pat the reason of this curious
arrangement, and was told that if we were lucky enough to secure a
_mugger_, the loose strands would entangle themselves amongst his
formidable teeth, whereas were the rope in one strand only he might
bite it through; the knottings at intervals were to give greater
strength to the line. We now got our bait ready. On this occasion it
was a live tame duck. Passing the bend of the hook round its neck, and
the shank under its right wing, we tied the hook in this position with
thread. We then made a small raft of the soft pith of the
plantain-tree, tied the duck to the raft and committed it to the
stream. Holding the rope as clear of the water as we could, the poor
quacking duck floated slowly down the muddy current, making an
occasional vain effort to get free. We saw at a distance an ugly snout
rise to the surface for an instant and then noiselessly disappear.

'There's one!' says Pat in a whisper.

'Be sure and not strike too soon,' says Willie.

'Look out there, you lazy rascals!' This in Hindostanee to the grooms
and servants who were with us.

Again the black mass rises to the surface, but this time nearer to the
fated duck. As if aware of its peril it now struggles and quacks most
vociferously. Nearer and nearer each time the black snout rises, and
then each time silently disappears beneath the turgid muddy stream. Now
it appears again; this time there are two, and there is another at a
distance attracted by the quacking of the duck. We on the bank cower
down and go as noiselessly as we can. Sometimes the rope dips on the
water, and the huge snout and staring eyes immediately disappear. At
length it rises within a few yards of the duck; then there is a mighty
rush, two huge jaws open and shut with a snap like factory shears, and
amid a whirl of foam and water and surging mud the poor duck and the
hideous reptile disappear, and but for the eddying swirl and dense
volumes of mud that rise from the bottom, nothing gives evidence of the
tragedy that has been enacted. The other two disappointed monsters swim
to and fro still further disturbing the muddy current.

'Give him lots of time to swallow,' yells Pat, now fairly mad with
excitement.

The grooms and grass-cutters howl and dance. Willie and I dig each
other in the ribs, and all generally act in an excited and insane way.

Pat now puts the rope over his shoulder, we all take hold, and with a
'one, two, three!' we make a simultaneous rush from the bank, and as
the rope suddenly tightens with a pull and strain that nearly jerks us
all on our backs, we feel that we have hooked the monster, and our
excitement reaches its culminating point.

What a commotion now in the black depths of the muddy stream! The
water, lashed by his powerful tail, surges and dashes in eddying
whirls. He rises and darts backwards and forwards, snapping his
horrible jaws, moving his head from side to side, his eyes glaring with
fury. We hold stoutly on to the rope, although our wrists are strained
and our arms ache. At length he begins to feel our steady pull, and
inch by inch, struggling demoniacally, he nears the bank. When once he
reaches it, however, the united efforts of twice our number would fail
to bring him farther. Bleeding and foaming at the mouth, his horrid
teeth glistening amid the frothy, blood-flecked foam, he plants his
strong curved fore-legs against the shelving bank, and tugs and strains
at the rope with devilish force and fury. It is no use--the rope has
been tested, and answers bravely to the strain; and now with a long
boar spear, Pat cautiously descends the bank, and gives him a deadly
thrust under the fore arm. With a last fiendish glare of hate and
defiance, he springs forward; we haul in the rope, Pat nimbly jumps
back, and a pistol shot through the eye settles the monster for ever.
This was the first alligator I ever saw hooked; he measured sixteen and
a half feet exactly, but words can give no idea of half the excitement
that attended the capture.




CHAPTER VII.


Native superstitions.--Charming a bewitched woman.--Exorcising ghosts
from a field.--Witchcraft.--The witchfinder or 'Ojah.'--Influence of
fear.--Snake bites.--How to cure them.--How to discover a thief.--Ghosts
and their habits.--The 'Haddick' or native bone-setter.--Cruelty to
animals by natives.

The natives as a rule, and especially the lower classes, are
excessively superstitious. They are afraid to go out after nightfall,
believing that then the spirits of the dead walk abroad. It is almost
impossible to get a coolie, or even a fairly intelligent servant, to go
a message at night, unless you give him another man for company.

A belief in witches is quite prevalent, and there is scarcely a village
in Behar that does not contain some withered old crone, reputed and
firmly believed to be a witch. Others, either young or old are believed
to have the evil eye; and, as in Scotland some centuries ago, there are
also witch-finders and sorcerers, who will sell charms, cast
nativities, give divinations, or ward off the evil efforts of wizards
and witches by powerful spells. When a wealthy man has a child born,
the Brahmins cast the nativity of the infant on some auspicious day.
They fix on the name, and settle the date for the baptismal ceremony.

I remember a man coming to me on one occasion from the village of
Kuppoorpuckree. He rushed up to where I was sitting in the verandah,
threw himself at my feet, with tears streaming down his cheeks, and
amid loud cries for pity and help, told me that his wife had just been
bewitched. Getting him somewhat soothed and pacified, I learned that a
reputed witch lived next door to his house; that she and the man's wife
had quarrelled in the morning about some capsicums which the witch was
trying to steal from his garden; that in the evening, as his wife was
washing herself inside the _angana_, or little courtyard appertaining
to his house, she was seized with cramps and shivering fits, and was
now in a raging fever; that the witch had been also bathing at the
time, and that the water from her body had splashed over this man's
fence, and part of it had come in contact with his wife's body--hence
undoubtedly this strange possession. He wished me to send peons at
once, and have the witch seized, beaten, and expelled from the village.
It would have been no use my trying to persuade him that no witchcraft
existed. So I gave him a good dose of quinine for his wife, which she
was to take as soon as the fit subsided. Next I got my old _moonshee_,
or native writer, to write some Persian characters on a piece of paper;
I then gave him this paper, muttering a bit of English rhyme at the
time, and telling him this was a powerful spell. I told him to take
three hairs from his wife's head, and a paring from her thumb and big
toe nails, and at the rising of the moon to burn them outside the walls
of his hut. The poor fellow took the quinine and the paper with the
deepest reverence, made me a most lowly _salaam_ or obeisance, and
departed with a light heart. He carried out my instructions to the
letter, the quinine acted like a charm on the feverish woman, and I
found myself quite a famous witch-doctor.

There was a nice flat little field close to the water at Parewah, in
which I thought I could get a good crop of oats during the cold
weather. I sent for the 'dangur' mates, and asked them to have it dug
up next day. They hummed and hawed and hesitated, as I thought, in
rather a strange manner, but departed. In the evening back they came,
to tell me that the dangurs would _not_ dig up the field.

'Why?' I asked.

'Well you see, Sahib,' said old Teerbouan, who was the patriarch and
chief spokesman of the village, 'this field has been used for years as
a burning ghaut' (i.e. a place where the bodies of dead Hindoos were
buried).

'Well?' said I.

'Well, Sahib, my men say that if they disturb this land, the "Bhoots"
(ghosts) of all those who have been burned there, will haunt the
village at night, and they hope you will not persist in asking them to
dig up the land.'

'Very well, bring down the men with their digging-hoes, and I will
see.'

Accordingly, next morning, I went down on my pony, found the dangurs
all assembled, but no digging going on. I called them together, told
them that it was a very reasonable fear they had, but that I would cast
such a spell on the land as would settle the ghosts of the departed for
ever. I then got a branch of a _bael_[1] tree that grew close by,
dipped it in the stream, and walking backwards round the ground, waved
the dripping branch round my head, repeating at the same time the first
gibberish that came into my recollection. My incantation or spell was
as follows, an old Scotch rhyme I had often repeated when a child at
school--

  'Eenerty, feenerty, fickerty, feg,
  Ell, dell, domun's egg;
  Irky, birky, story, rock,
  An, tan, toose, Jock;
  Black fish! white troot!
  "Gibbie Gaw, ye're oot."'

It had the desired effect. No sooner was my charm uttered, than, after
a few encouraging words to the men, telling them that there was now no
fear, that my charm was powerful enough to lay all the spirits in the
country, and that I would take all the responsibility, they set to work
with a will, and had the whole field dug up by the evening.

I have seen many such cases. A blight attacks the melon or cucumber
beds; a fierce wind rises during the night, and shakes half the mangoes
off the trees; the youngest child is attacked with teething
convulsions; the plough-bullock is accidentally lamed, or the favourite
cow refuses to give milk. In every case it is some 'Dyne,' or witch,
that has been at work with her damnable spells and charms. I remember a
case in which a poor little child had bad convulsions. The 'Ojah,' or
witch-finder, in this case a fat, greasy, oleaginous knave, was sent
for. Full of importance and blowing like a porpoise, he came and caused
the child to be brought to him, under a tree near the village. I was
passing at the time, and stopped out of curiosity. He spread a tattered
cloth in front of him, and muttered some unintelligible gibberish,
unceasingly making strange passes with his arms. He put down a number
of articles on his cloth--which was villainously tattered and
greasy--an unripe plantain, a handful of rice, of parched peas, a thigh
bone, two wooden cups, some balls, &c., &c.; all of which he kept
constantly lifting and moving about, keeping up the passes and
muttering all the time.

The child was a sickly-looking, pining sort of creature, rocking about
in evident pain, and moaning and fretting just as sick children do.
Gradually its attention got fixed on the strange antics going on. The
Ojah kept muttering away, quicker and quicker, constantly shifting the
bone and cups and other articles on the cloth. His body was suffused
with perspiration, but in about half an hour the child had gone off to
sleep, and attended by some dozen old women, and the anxious father,
was borne off in triumph to the house.

Another time one of Mr. D.'s female servants got bitten by a scorpion.
The poor woman was in great agony, with her arm swelled up, when an
Ojah was called in. Setting her before him, he began his incantations
in the usual manner, but made frequent passes over her body, and over
the bitten place. A gentle perspiration began to break out on her skin,
and in a very short time the Ojah had thrown her into a deep mesmeric
sleep. After about an hour she awoke perfectly free from pain. In this
case no doubt the Ojah was a mesmerist.

The influence of fear on the ordinary native is most wonderful. I have
known dozens of instances in which natives have been brought home at
night for treatment in cases of snake-bite. They have arrived at the
factory in a complete state of coma, with closed eyes, the pupils
turned back in the head, the whole body rigid and cold, the lips pale
white, and the tongue firmly locked between the teeth. I do not believe
in recovery from a really poisonous bite, where the venom has been
truly injected. I invariably asked first how long it was since the
infliction of the bite; I would then examine the marks, and as a rule
would find them very slight. When the patient had been brought some
distance, I knew at once that it was a case of pure fright. The natives
wrap themselves up in their cloths or blankets at night, and lie down
on the floors of their huts. Turning about, or getting up for water or
tobacco, or perhaps to put fuel on the fire, they unluckily tread on a
snake, or during sleep they roll over on one. The snake gives them a
nip, and scuttles off. They have not seen what sort of snake it is, but
their imagination conjures up the very worst. After the first outcry,
when the whole house is alarmed, the man sits down firmly possessed by
the idea that he is mortally bitten. Gradually his fears work the
effect a real poisonous bite would produce. His eye gets dull, his
pulse grows feeble, his extremities cold and numb, and unless forcibly
roused by the bystanders he will actually succumb to pure fright, not
to the snake-bite at all. My chief care when a case of this sort was
brought me, was to assume a cheery demeanour, laugh to scorn the fears
of the relatives, and tell them he would be all right in a few hours if
they attended to my directions. This not uncommonly worked by
sympathetic influence on the patient himself. I believe, so long as all
round him thought he was going to die, and expected no other result,
the same effect was produced on his own mind. As soon as hope sprang up
in the breasts of all around him, his spirit also caught the contagion.
As a rule, he would now make an effort to articulate. I would then
administer a good dose of sal volatile, brandy, eau-de-luce, or other
strong stimulant, cut into the supposed bite, and apply strong nitric
acid to the wound. This generally made him wince, and I would hail it
as a token of certain recovery. By this time some confidence would
return, and the supposed dying man would soon walk back sound and whole
among his companions after profuse expressions of gratitude to his
preserver.

I have treated dozens of cases in this way successfully, and only seen
two deaths. One was a young woman, my chowkeydar's daughter; the other
was an old man, who was already dead when they lifted him out of the
basket in which they had slung him. I do not wish to be misunderstood.
I believe that in all these cases of recovery it was pure fright
working on the imagination, and not snake-bite at all. My opinion is
shared by most planters, that there is no cure yet known for a cobra
bite, or for that of any other poisonous snake, where the poison has
once been fairly injected and allowed to mix with the blood[2].

There is another curious instance of the effects of fear on the native
mind in the common method taken by an Ojah or Brahmin to discover a
suspected thief. When a theft occurs, the Ojah is sent for, and the
suspected parties are brought together. After various _muntras_, i.e.
charms or incantations, have been muttered, the Ojah, who has meanwhile
narrowly scrutinized each countenance, gives each of the suspected
individuals a small quantity of dry rice to chew. If the thief be
present, his superstitious fears are at work, and his conscience
accuses him. He sees some terrible retribution for him in all these
_muntras_, and his heart becomes like water within him, his tongue gets
dry, his salivary glands refuse to act; the innocent munch away at
their rice contentedly, but the guilty wretch feels as if he had ashes
in his mouth. At a given signal all spit out their rice, and he whose
rice comes out, chewed indeed, but dry as summer dust, is adjudged the
thief. This ordeal is called _chowl chipao_, and is rarely
unsuccessful. I have known several cases in my own experience in which
a thief has been thus discovered.

The _bhoots_, or ghosts, are popularly supposed to have favourite
haunts, generally in some specially selected tree; the _neem_ tree is
supposed to be the most patronised. The most intelligent natives share
this belief with the poorest and most ignorant; they fancy the ghosts
throw stones at them, cast evil influences over them, lure them into
quicksands, and play other devilish tricks and cantrips. Some roads are
quite shunned and deserted at night, for no other reason than that a
ghost is supposed to haunt the place. The most tempting bribe would not
make a native walk alone over that road after sunset.

Besides the witchfinder, another important village functionary who
relies much on muntras and charms, is the _Huddick_, or cow doctor. He
is the only veterinary surgeon of the native when his cow or bullock
dislocates or breaks a limb, or falls ill. The Huddick passes his hands
over the affected part, and mutters his _muntras_, which have most
probably descended to him from his father. Usually knowing a little of
the anatomical structure of the animal, he may be able to reduce a
dislocation, or roughly to set a fracture; but if the ailment be
internal, a draught of mustard oil, or some pounded spices and
turmeric, or neem leaves administered along with the _muntra_, are
supposed to be all that human skill and science can do.

The natives are cruel to animals. Half-starved bullocks are shamefully
overworked. When blows fail to make the ill-starred brute move, they
give a twist and wrench to the tail, which must cause the animal
exquisite torture, and unless the hapless beast be utterly exhausted,
this generally induces it to make a further effort. Ploughmen very
often deliberately make a raw open sore, one on each rump of the
plough-bullock. They goad the poor wretch on this raw sore with a
sharp-pointed stick when he lags, or when they think he needs stirring
up. Ponies, too, are always worked far too young; and their miserable
legs get frightfully twisted and bent. The petty shopkeepers, sellers
of brass pots, grain, spices, and other bazaar wares, who attend the
various bazaars, or weekly and bi-weekly markets, transport their goods
by means of these ponies.

The packs of merchandise are slung on rough pack-saddles, made of
coarse sacking. Shambling along with knees bent together, sores on
every joint, and frequently an eye knocked out, the poor pony's back
gets cruelly galled; when the bazaar is reached, he is hobbled as
tightly as possible, the coarse ropes cutting into the flesh, and he is
then turned adrift to contemplate starvation on the burnt-up grass.
Great open sores form on the back, on which a plaster of moist clay, or
cowdung and pounded leaves, is roughly put. The wretched creature gets
worn to a skeleton. A little common care and cleanliness would put him
right, with a little kindly consideration from his brutal master, but
what does the _Kulwar_ or _Bunneah_ care? he is too lazy.

This unfeeling cruelty and callous indifference to the sufferings of
the lower animals is a crying evil, and every magistrate, European, and
educated native, might do much to ease their burdens. Tremendous
numbers of bullocks and ponies die from sheer neglect and ill treatment
every year. It is now becoming so serious a trouble, that in many
villages plough-bullocks are too few in number for the area of land
under cultivation. The tillage suffers, the crops deteriorate, this
reacts on prices, the ryot sinks lower and lower, and gets more into
the grasp of the rapacious money-lender. In many villages I have seen
whole tracts of land relapsed into _purtee_, or untilled waste, simply
from want of bullocks to draw the plough. Severe epidemics, like foot
and mouth disease and pleuro, occasionally sweep off great numbers;
but, I repeat, that annually the lives of hundreds of valuable animals
are sacrificed by sheer sloth, dirt, inattention, and brutal cruelty.

In some parts of India, cattle poisoning for the sake of the hides is
extensively practised. The _Chumars_, that is, the shoemakers,
furriers, tanners, and workers in leather and skins generally,
frequently combine together in places, and wilfully poison cattle and
buffaloes. There is actually a section in the penal code taking
cognisance of the crime. The Hindoo will not touch a dead carcase, so
that when a bullock mysteriously sickens and dies, the _Chumars_ haul
away the body, and appropriate the skin. Some luckless witch is blamed
for the misfortune, when the rascally Chumars themselves are all the
while the real culprits. The police, however, are pretty successful in
detecting this crime, and it is not now of such frequent occurrence
[3].

Highly as the pious Hindoo venerates the sacred bull of Shira, his
treatment of his mild patient beasts of burden is a foul blot on his
character. Were you to shoot a cow, or were a Mussulman to wound a
stray bullock which might have trespassed, and be trampling down his
opium or his tobacco crop, and ruining his fields, the Hindoos would
rise _en masse_ to revenge the insult offered to their religion. Yet
they scruple not to goad their bullocks, beat them, half starve them,
and let their gaping wounds fester and become corrupt. When the poor
brute becomes old and unable to work, and his worn-out teeth unfit to
graze, he is ruthlessly turned out to die in a ditch, and be torn to
pieces by jackals, kites, and vultures. The higher classes and
well-to-do farmers show much consideration for high-priced
well-conditioned animals, but when they get old or unwell, and demand
redoubled care and attention, they are too often neglected, till, from
sheer want of ordinary care, they rot and die.


[1] The _bael_ or wood-apple is a sacred wood with Hindoos. It is
    enjoined in the Shastras that the bodies of the dead should be
    consumed in a fire fed by logs of bael-tree; but where it is not
    procurable in sufficient quantity, the natives compound with their
    consciences by lighting the funeral pyre with a branch from the
    bael-tree. It is a fine yellow-coloured, pretty durable wood, and
    makes excellent furniture. A very fine sherbet can be made from
    the fruit, which acts as an excellent corrective and stomachic.

[2] Deaths from actual snake bite are sadly numerous; but it appears
    from returns furnished to the Indian Government that Europeans
    enjoy a very happy exemption. During the last forty years it would
    seem that only two Europeans have been killed by snake bite, at
    least only two well substantiated cases. The poorer classes are
    the most frequent victims. Their universal habit of walking about
    unshod, and sleeping on the ground, penetrating into the grasses
    or jungles in pursuit of their daily avocations, no doubt conduces
    much to the frequency of such accidents. A good plan to keep
    snakes out of the bungalow is to leave a space all round the
    rooms, of about four inches, between the walls and the edge of the
    mats. Have this washed over about once a week with a strong
    solution of carbolic acid and water. The smell may be unpleasant
    for a short time, but it proves equally so to the snakes; and I
    have proved by experience that it keeps them out of the rooms.
    Mats should also be all firmly fastened down to the floor with
    bamboo battens, and furniture should be often moved, and kept
    raised a little from the ground, and the space below carefully
    swept every day. At night a light should always be kept burning in
    occupied bedrooms, and on no account should one get out of bed in
    the dark, or walk about the rooms at night without slippers or
    shoes.

[3] Somewhat analogous to this is the custom which used to be a
    common one in some parts of Behar. _Koombars_ and _Grannes_, that
    is, tile-makers and thatchers, when trade was dull or rain
    impending, would scatter peas and grain in the interstices of the
    tiles on the houses of the well-to-do. The pigeons and crows, in
    their efforts to get at the peas, would loosen and perhaps
    overturn a few of the tiles. The grannes would be sent for to
    replace these, would condemn the whole roof as leaky, and the
    tiles as old and unfit for use, and would provide a job for
    himself and the tile-maker, the nefarious profits of which they
    would share together.

    Cultivators of thatching-grass have been known deliberately and
    wantonly to set fire to villages simply to raise the price of
    thatch and bamboo.




CHAPTER VIII.


Our annual race meet.--The arrivals.--The camps.--The 'ordinary.'--The
course.--'They're off.'--The race.--The steeple-chase.--Incidents of
the meet.--The ball.

Our annual Race Meet is the one great occasion of the year when all the
dwellers in the district meet. Our races in Chumparun generally took
place some time about Christmas. Long before the date fixed on,
arrangements would be made for the exercise of hearty hospitality. The
residents in the 'station' ask as many guests as will fill their
houses, and their 'compounds' are crowded with tents, each holding a
number of visitors, generally bachelors. The principal managers of the
factories in the district, with their assistants, form a mess for the
racing week, and, not unfrequently, one or two ladies lend their
refining presence to the several camps. Friends from other districts,
from up country, from Calcutta, gather together; and as the weather is
bracing and cool, and every one determined to enjoy himself, the meet
is one of the pleasantest of reunions. There are always several races
specially got up for assistants' horses, and long before, the
youngsters are up in the early morning, giving their favourite nag a
spin across the zeraats, or seeing the groom lead him out swathed in
clothing and bandages, to get him into training for the Assistants'
race.

As the day draws near, great cases of tinned meats, hampers of beer and
wine, and goodly supplies of all sorts are sent into the station to the
various camps. Tents of snowy white canvas begin to peep out at you
from among the trees. Great oblong booths of blue indigo sheeting show
where the temporary stables for the horses are being erected; and at
night the glittering of innumerable camp-fires betokens the presence of
a whole army of grooms, grass-cutters, peons, watchmen, and other
servants cooking their evening meal of rice, and discussing the chances
of the horses of their respective masters in the approaching races. On
the day before the first racing, the planters are up early, and in
buggy, dogcart, or on horseback, singly, and by twos and threes, from
all sides of the district, they find their way to the station. The
Planter's Club is the general rendezvous. The first comers, having
found out their waiting servants, and consigned the smoking steeds to
their care, seat themselves in the verandah, and eagerly watch every
fresh arrival.

Up comes a buggy. 'Hullo, who's this?'

'Oh, it's "Giblets!" How do you do, "Giblets," old man?'

Down jumps 'Giblets,' and a general handshaking ensues.

'Here comes "Boach" and the "Moonshee,"' yells out an observant
youngster from the back verandah.

The venerable buggy of the esteemed 'Boach' approaches, and another
jubilation takes place; the handshaking being so vigorous that the
'Moonshee's' spectacles nearly come to grief. Now the arrivals ride and
drive up fast and furious.

'Hullo, "Anthony!"'

'Aha, "Charley," how d'ye do?'

'By Jove, "Ferdie," where have you turned up from?'

'Has the "Skipper" arrived?'

'Have any of you seen "Jamie?"'

'Where's big "Mars'" tents?'

'Have any of ye seen my "Bearer?"'

'Has the "Bump" come in?' and so on.

Such a scene of bustle and excitement. Friends meet that have not seen
each other for a twelvemonth. Queries are exchanged as to absent
friends. The chances of the meeting are discussed. Perhaps a passing
allusion is made to some dear one who has left our ranks since last
meet. All sorts of topics are started, and up till and during breakfast
there is a regular medley of tongues, a confused clatter of voices,
dishes, and glasses, a pervading atmosphere of dense curling volumes of
tobacco smoke.

To a stranger the names sound uncouth and meaningless, the fact being,
that we all go by nicknames[1].

'Giblets,' 'Diamond Digger,' 'Mangelwurzel,' 'Goggle-eyed Plover,'
'Gossein' or holy man, 'Blind Bartimeus,' 'Old Boots,' 'Polly,'
'Bottle-nosed Whale,' 'Fin MacCoul,' 'Daddy,' 'The Exquisite,' 'The
Mosquito,' 'Wee Bob,' and 'Napoleon,' are only a very few specimens of
this strange nomenclature. These soubriquets quite usurp our baptismal
appellations, and I have often been called 'Maori,' by people who did
not actually know my real name.

By the evening, all, barring the very late arrivals, have found out
their various camps. There is a merry dinner, then each sahib, well
muffled in ulster, plaid, or great coat, hies him to the club, where
the 'ordinary' is to be held. The nights are now cold and foggy, and a
tremendous dew falls. At the 'ordinary,' fresh greetings between those
who now meet for the first time after long separation. The entries and
bets are made for the morrow's races, although not much betting takes
place as a rule; but the lotteries on the different races are rapidly
filled, the dice circulate cheerily, and amid laughing, joking,
smoking, noise, and excitement, there is a good deal of mild
speculation. The 'horsey' ones visit the stables for the last time; and
each retires to his camp bed to dream of the morrow.

Very early, the respective _bearers_ rouse the sleepy _sahibs_. Table
servants rush hurriedly about the mess tent, bearing huge dishes of
tempting viands. Grooms, and _grasscuts_ are busy leading the horses
off to the course. The cold raw fog of the morning fills every tent,
and dim grey figures of cowering natives, wrapped up over the eyes in
blankets, with moist blue noses and chattering teeth, are barely
discernible in the thick mist.

The racecourse is two miles from the club, on the other side of the
lake, in the middle of a grassy plain, with a neat masonry structure at
the further side, which serves as a grand stand. Already buggies,
dogcarts in single harness and tandem, barouches, and waggonettes are
merrily rolling through the thick mist, past the frowning jail, and
round the corner of the lake. Natives in gaudy coloured shawls, and
blankets, are pouring on to the racecourse by hundreds.

Bullock carts, within which are black-eyed, bold beauties, profusely
burdened with silver ornaments, are drawn up in lines. _Ekkas_--small
jingling vehicles with a dome-shaped canopy and curtains at the
sides--drawn by gaily caparisoned ponies, and containing fat, portly
Baboos, jingle and rattle over the ruts on the side roads.

Sweetmeat sellers, with trays of horrible looking filth, made seemingly
of insects, clarified butter, and sugar, dodge through the crowd
dispensing their abominable looking but seemingly much relished wares.
Tall policemen, with blue jackets, red puggries, yellow belts, and
white trousers, stalk up and down with conscious dignity.

A madcap young assistant on his pony comes tearing along across
country. The weighing for the first race is going on; horses are being
saddled, some vicious brute occasionally lashing out, and scattering
the crowd behind him. The ladies are seated round the terraced grand
stand; long strings of horses are being led round and round in a
circle, by the _syces_; vehicles of every description are lying round
the building.

Suddenly a bugle sounds; the judge enters his box; the ever popular old
'Bikram,' who officiates as starter, ambles off on his white cob, and
after him go half-a-dozen handsome young fellows, their silks rustling
and flashing through the fast rising mist.

A hundred field-glasses scan the start; all is silent for a moment.

'They're off!' shout a dozen lungs.

'False start!' echo a dozen more.

The gay colours of the riders flicker confusedly in a jumble. One horse
careers madly along for half the distance, is with difficulty pulled
up, and is then walked slowly back.

The others left at the post fret, and fidget, and curvet about. At
length they are again in line. Down goes the white flag! 'Good start!'
shouts an excited planter. Down goes the red flag. 'Off at last!'
breaks like a deep drawn sigh from the crowd, and now the six horses,
all together, and at a rattling pace, tear up the hill, over the sand
at the south corner, and up, till at the quarter mile post 'a blanket
could cover the lot.'

Two or three tails are now showing signals of distress; heels and whips
are going. Two horses have shot ahead, a bay and a black. 'Jamie' on
the bay, 'Paddy' on the black.

Still as marble sit those splendid riders, the horses are neck and
neck; now the bay by a nose, now again the black. The distance post is
passed with a rush like a whirlwind.

'A dead heat, by Jove!'

'Paddy wins!' 'Jamie has it!' 'Hooray, Pat!' 'Go it, Jamie!' 'Well
ridden!' A subdued hum runs round the excited spectators. The ardent
racers are nose and nose. One swift, sharp cut, the cruel whip hisses
through the air, and the black is fairly 'lifted in,' a winner by a
nose. The ripple of conversation breaks out afresh. The band strikes up
a lively air, and the saddling for the next race goes on.

The other races are much the same; there are lots of entries: the
horses are in splendid condition, and the riding is superb. What is
better, everything is emphatically 'on the square.' No _pulling_ and
_roping_ here, no false entries, no dodging of any kind. Fine, gallant,
English gentlemen meet each other in fair and honest emulation, and
enjoy the favourite national sport in perfection. The 'Waler' race, for
imported Australians, brings out fine, tall, strong-boned, clean-limbed
horses, looking blood all over. The country breds, with slender limbs,
small heads, and glossy coats, look dainty and delicate as antelopes.
The lovely, compact Arabs, the pretty-looking ponies, and the
thick-necked, coarse-looking Cabools, all have their respective trials,
and then comes the great event--the race of the day--the Steeplechase.

The course is marked out behind the grand stand, following a wide
circle outside the flat course, which it enters at the quarter-mile
post, so that the finish is on the flat before the grand stand. The
fences, ditches, and water leap, are all artificial, but they are
regular _howlers_, and no make-believes.

Seven horses are despatched to a straggling start, and all negotiate
the first bank safely. At the next fence a regular _snorter_ of a 'post
and rail'--topped with brushwood--two horses swerve, one rider being
deposited on his racing seat upon mother earth, while the other sails
away across country in a line for home, and is next heard of at the
stables. The remaining five, three 'walers' and two country-breds, race
together to the water jump, where one waler deposits his rider, and
races home by himself, one country-bred refuses, and is henceforth out
of the race, and the other three, taking the leap in beautiful style,
put on racing pace to the next bank, and are in the air together. A
lovely sight! The country is now stiff, and the stride of the waler
tells. He is leading the country-breds a 'whacker,' but he stumbles and
falls at the last fence but one from home. His gallant rider, the
undaunted 'Roley,' remounts just as the two country-breds pass him like
a flash of light. 'Nothing venture, nothing win,' however, so in go the
spurs, and off darts the waler like an arrow in pursuit. He is gaining
fast, and tops the last hurdle leading to the straight just as the
hoofs of the other two reach the ground.

It is now a matter of pace and good riding. It will be a close finish;
the waler is first to feel the whip; there is a roar from the crowd; he
is actually leading; whips and spurs are hard at work now; it is a mad,
headlong rush; every muscle is strained, and the utmost effort made;
the poor horses are doing their very best; amid a thunder of hoofs,
clouds of dust, hats in air, waving of handkerchiefs from the grand
stand, and a truly British cheer from the paddock, the 'waler' shoots
in half a length ahead; and so end the morning's races.

Back to camp now, to bathe and breakfast. A long line of dust marks the
track from the course, for the sun is now high in the heavens, the lake
is rippling in placid beauty under a gentle breeze, and the long lines
of natives, as well as vehicles of all sorts, form a quaint but
picturesque sight. After breakfast calls are made upon all the camps
and bungalows round the station. Croquet, badminton, and other games go
on until dinner-time. I could linger lovingly over a camp dinner; the
rare dishes, the sparkling conversation, the racy anecdote, and the
general jollity and brotherly feeling; but we must all dress for the
ball, and so about 9 P.M. the buggies are again in requisition for the
ball room--the fine, large, central apartment in the Planters' club.

The walls are festooned with flowers, gay curtains, flags, and cloths.
The floor is shining like silver, and as polished as a mirror. The band
strikes up the Blue Danube waltz, and amid the usual bustle,
flirtation, scandal, whispering, glancing, dancing, tripping, sipping,
and hand-squeezing, the ball goes gaily on till the stewards announce
supper. At this--to the wall-flowers--welcome announcement, we adjourn
from the heated ball-room to the cool arbour-like supper tent, where
every delicacy that can charm the eye or tempt the appetite is spread
out.

Next morning early we are out with the hounds, and enjoy a rattling
burst round by the racecourse, where the horses are at exercise.
Perchance we have heard of a boar in the sugar-cane, and away we go
with beaters to rouse the grisly monster from his lair. In the
afternoon there is hockey on horseback, or volunteer drill, with our
gallant adjutant putting us through our evolutions. In the evening
there is the usual drive, dinner, music, and the ordinary, and so the
meet goes on. A constant succession of gaieties keeps everyone alive,
till the time arrives for a return to our respective factories, and
another year's hard work.


[1] In such a limited society every peculiarity is noted; all our
    antecedents are known; personal predilections and little foibles
    of character are marked; eccentricities are watched, and no one,
    let him be as uninteresting as a miller's pig, is allowed to
    escape observation and remark. Some little peculiarity is hit
    upon, and a strange but often very happily expressive nickname
    stamps one's individuality and photographs him with a word.




CHAPTER IX.


Pig-sticking in India.--Varieties of boar.--Their size and height.
--Ingenious mode of capture by the natives,--The 'Batan' or buffalo
herd.--Pigs charging.--Their courage and ferocity.--Destruction of
game.--A close season for game.

The sport _par excellence_ of India is pig-sticking. Call it
hog-hunting if you will, I prefer the honest old-fashioned name. With a
good horse under one, a fair country, with not too many pitfalls, and
'lots of pig,' this sport becomes the most exciting that can be
practised. Some prefer tiger shooting from elephants, others like to
stalk the lordly ibex on the steep Himalayan slopes, but anyone who has
ever enjoyed a rattle after a pig over a good country, will recall the
fierce, delight, the eager thrill, the wild, mad excitement, that
flushed his whole frame, as he met the infuriate charge of a good
thirty-inch fighting boar, and drove his trusty spear well home, laying
low the gallant grey tusker, the indomitable, unconquerable grisly
boar. The subject is well worn; and though the theme is a noble one,
there are but few I fancy who have not read the record of some gallant
fight, where the highest skill, the finest riding, the most undaunted
pluck, and the cool, keen, daring of a practised hand are not _always_
successful against the headlong rush and furious charge of a Bengal
boar at bay.

A record of planter life in India, however, such as this aims at being,
would be incomplete without some reference to the gallant tusker, and
so at the risk of tiring my readers, I must try to describe a
pig-sticking party.

There are two distinct kinds of boar in India, the black and the grey.
Their dispositions are very different, the grey being fiercer and more
pugnacious. He is a vicious and implacable foe when roused, and always
shews better fight than the black variety. The great difference,
however, is in the shape of the skull; that of the black fellow being
high over the frontal bone, and not very long in proportion to height,
while the skull of the grey boar is never very high, but is long, and
receding in proportion to height.

The black boar grows to an enormous size, and the grey ones are,
generally speaking, smaller made animals than the black. The young of
the two also differ in at least one important particular; those of the
grey pig are always born striped, but the young of the black variety
are born of that colour, and are not striped but a uniform black colour
throughout. The two kinds of pig sometimes interbreed, but crosses are
not common; and, from the colour, size, shape of the head, and general
behaviour, one can easily tell at a glance what kind of pig gets up
before his spear, whether it is the heavy, sluggish black boar, or the
veritable fiery, vicious, fighting grey tusker.

Many stories are told of their enormous size, and a 'forty-inch tusker'
is the established standard for a Goliath among boars. The best
fighting boars, however, range from twenty-eight to thirty-two inches
in height, and I make bold to say that very few of the Present
generation of sportsmen have ever seen a veritable wild boar over
thirty-eight inches high.

G.S., who has had perhaps as much jungle experience as any man of
his age in India, a careful observer, and a finished sportsman,
tells me that the biggest _boar_ he ever saw was only thirty-eight
inches high; while the biggest _pig_ he ever killed was a barren
sow, with three-inch tusks sticking out of her gums; she measured
thirty-nine-and-a-half inches, and fought like a demon. I have shot
pig--in heavy jungle where spearing was impracticable--over thirty-six
inches high, but the biggest pig I ever stuck to my own spear was only
twenty-eight inches, and I do not think any pig has been killed in
Chumparun, within the last ten or a dozen years at any rate, over
thirty-eight inches.

In some parts of India, where pigs are numerous and the jungle dense,
the natives adopt a very ingenious mode of hunting. I have frequently
seen it practised by the cowherds on the Koosee _derahs_, i.e. the flat
swampy jungles on the banks of the Koosee. When the annual floods have
subsided, leaving behind a thick deposit of mud, wrack, and brushwood,
the long thick grass soon shoots up to an amazing height, and vast
herds of cattle and tame buffaloes come down to the jungles from the
interior of the country, where natural pasture is scarce. They are
attended by the owner and his assistants, all generally belonging to
the _gualla_, or cowherd caste, although, of course, there are other
castes employed. The owner of the herd gets leave to graze his cattle
in the jungle, by paying a certain fixed sum per head. He fixes on a
high dry ridge of land, where he runs up a few grass huts for himself
and men, and there he erects lines of grass and bamboo screens, behind
which his cattle take shelter at night from the cold south-east wind.
There are also a few huts of exceedingly frail construction for himself
and his people. This small colony, in the midst of the universal jungle
covering the country for miles round, is called a _batan_.

At earliest dawn the buffaloes are milked, and then with their
attendant herdsmen they wend their way to the jungle, where they spend
the day, and return again to the batan at night, when they are again
milked. The milk is made into _ghee_, or clarified butter, and large
quantities are sent down to the towns by country boats. When we want to
get up a hunt, we generally send to the nearest _batan_ for _khubber_,
i.e. news, information. The _Batanea_, or proprietor of the
establishment, is well posted up. Every herdsman as he comes in at
night tells what animals he has seen through the day, and thus at the
_batan_ you hear where tiger, and pig, and deer are to be met with;
where an unlucky cow has been killed; in what ravine is the thickest
jungle; where the path is free from clay, or quicksand; what fords are
safest; and, in short, you get complete information on every point
connected with the jungle and its wild inhabitants.

To these men the mysterious jungle reveals its most hidden secrets.
Surrounded by his herd of buffaloes, the _gualla_ ventures into the
darkest recesses and the most tangled thickets. They have strange wild
calls by which they give each other notice of the approach of danger,
and when two or three of them meet, each armed with his heavy,
iron-shod or brass-bound _lathee_ or quarter staff, they will not budge
an inch out of their way for buffalo or boar; nay, they have been known
to face the terrible tiger himself, and fairly beat him away from the
quivering carcase of some unlucky member of their herd. They have
generally some favourite buffalo on whose broad back they perch
themselves, as it browses through the jungle, and from this elevated
seat they survey the rest of the herd, and note the incidents of jungle
life. When they wish a little excitement, or a change from their milk
and rice diet, there are hundreds of pigs around.

They have a broad, sharp spear-head, to which is attached a stout cord,
often made of twisted hide or hair. Into the socket of the spear is
thrust a bamboo pole or shaft, tough, pliant, and flexible. The cord is
wound round the spear and shaft, and the loose end is then fastened to
the middle of the pole. Having thus prepared his weapon, the herdsman
mounts his buffalo, and guides it slowly, warily, and cautiously to the
haunts of the pig. These are, of course, quite accustomed to see the
buffaloes grazing round them on all sides, and take no notice until the
_gualla_ is within striking distance. When he has got close up to the
pig he fancies, he throws his spear with all his force. The pig
naturally bounds off, the shaft comes out of the socket, leaving the
spearhead sticking in the wound. The rope uncoils of itself, but being
firmly fastened to the bamboo, it brings up the pig at each bush, and
tears and lacerates the wound, until either the spearhead comes out, or
the wretched pig drops down dead from exhaustion and loss of blood. The
_gualla_ follows upon his buffalo, and frequently finishes the pig with
a few strokes of his _lathee_. In any case he gets his pork, and it
certainly is an ingenious and bold way of procuring it.

Wild pig are very destructive to crops. During the night they revel in
the cultivated fields contiguous to the jungle, and they destroy more
by rooting up than by actually eating. It is common for the ryot to dig
a shallow pit, and ensconce himself inside with his matchlock beside
him. His head being on a level with the ground, he can discern any
animal that comes between him and the sky-line. When a pig comes in
sight, he waits till he is within sure distance, and then puts either a
bullet or a charge of slugs into him.

The pig is perhaps the most stubborn and courageous animal in India.
Even when pierced with several spears, and bleeding from numerous
wounds, he preserves a sullen silence. He disdains to utter a cry of
fear and pain, but maintains a bold front to the last, and dies with
his face to the foe, defiant and unconquered. When hard pressed he
scorns to continue his flight, but wheeling round, he makes a
determined charge, very frequently to the utter discomfiture of his
pursuer.

I have seen many a fine horse fearfully cut by a charging pig, and a
determined boar over and over again break through a line of elephants,
and make good his escape. There is no animal in all the vast jungle
that the elephant dreads more than a lusty boar. I have seen elephants
that would stand the repeated charges of a wounded tiger, turn tail and
take to ignominious flight before the onset of an angry boar.

His thick short neck, ponderous body, and wedge-like head are admirably
fitted for crashing through the thick jungle he inhabits, and when he
has made up his mind to charge, very few animals can withstand his
furious rush. Instances are quite common of his having made good his
charge against a line of elephants, cutting and ripping more than one
severely. He has been known to encounter successfully even the kingly
tiger himself. Can it be wondered, then, that we consider him a 'foeman
worthy of our steel'?

To be a good pig-sticker is a recommendation that wins acceptance
everywhere in India. In a district like Chumparun where nearly every
planter was an ardent sportsman, a good rider, and spent nearly half
his time on horseback, pig-sticking was a favourite pastime. Every
factory had at least one bit of likely jungle close by, where a pig
could always be found. When I first went to India we used to take out
our pig-spear over the _zillah_ with us as a matter of course, as we
never knew when we might hit on a boar.

Things are very different now. Cultivation has much increased. Many of
the old jungles have been reclaimed, and I fancy many more pigs are
shot by natives than formerly. A gun can be had now for a few rupees,
and every loafing 'ne'er do weel' in the village manages to procure
one, and wages indiscriminate warfare on bird and beast. It is a
growing evil, and threatens the total extinction of sport in some
districts. I can remember when nearly every tank was good for a few
brace of mallard, duck, or teal, where never a feather is now to be
seen, save the ubiquitous paddy-bird. Jungles, where a pig was a
certain find, only now contain a measly jackal, and not always that;
and cover in which partridge, quail, and sometimes even florican were
numerous, are now only tenanted by the great ground-owl, or a colony of
field rats. I am far from wishing to limit sport to the European
community. I would let every native that so wished sport his double
barrels or handle his spear with the best of us, but he should follow
and indulge in his sport with reason. The breeding seasons of all
animals should be respected, and there should be no indiscriminate
slaughter of male and female, young and old. Until all true sportsmen
in India unite in this matter, the evil will increase, and bye-and-bye
there will be no animals left to afford sport of any kind.

There are cases where wild animals are so numerous and destructive
that extraordinary measures have to be taken for protection from their
ravages, but these are very rare. I remember having once to wage a war
of extermination against a colony of pigs that had taken possession of
some jungle lands near Maharjnugger, a village on the Koosee. I had a
deal of indigo growing on cleared patches at intervals in the jungles,
and there the pigs would root and revel in spite of watchmen, till at
last I was forced in sheer self-defence to begin a crusade against
them. We got a line of elephants, and two or three friends came to
assist, and in one day, and round one village only, we shot sixty-three
full grown pigs. The villagers must have killed and carried away nearly
double that number of young and wounded. That was a very extreme case,
and in a pure jungle country; but in settled districts like Tirhoot
and Chumparun the weaker sex should always be spared, and a close
season for winged game should be insisted on. To the credit of the
planters be it said, that this necessity is quite recognised; but
every pot-bellied native who can beg, borrow, or steal a gun, or in
any way procure one, is constantly on the look out for a pot shot at
some unlucky hen-partridge or quail. A whole village will turn out to
compass the destruction of some wretched sow that may have shewn her
bristles outside the jungle in the daytime.

In districts where cultivated land is scarce and population scattered,
it is almost impossible to enjoy pig-sticking. The breaks of open land
between the jungles are too small and narrow to afford galloping space,
and though you turn the pig out of one patch of jungle, he immediately
finds safe shelter in the next. On the banks of some of the large
rivers, however, such as the Gunduch and the Bagmuttee, there are vast
stretches of undulating sand, crossed at intervals by narrow creeks,
and spotted by patches of close, thick jungle. Here the grey tusker
takes up his abode with his harem. When once you turn him out from his
lair, there is grand hunting room before he can reach the distant patch
of jungle to which he directs his flight. In some parts the _jowah_ (a
plant not unlike broom in appearance) is so thick, that even the
elephants can scarcely force their way through, but as a rule the
beating is pretty easy, and one is almost sure of a find.




CHAPTER X.


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.]




CHAPTER XI.


The sal forests.--The jungle goddess.--The trees in the jungle.
--Appearance of the forests.--Birds.--Varieties of parrots.--A 'beat'
in the forest.--The 'shekarry.'--Mehrman Singh and his gun.--The
Banturs, a jungle tribe of wood-cutters.--Their habits.--A village
feast.--We beat for deer.--Habits of the spotted deer.--Waiting for
the game.--Mehrman Singh gets drunk.--Our bag.--Pea-fowl and their
habits.--How to shoot them.--Curious custom of the Nepaulese.--How
Juggroo was tricked, and his revenge.

Tirhoot is too generally under cultivation and too thickly inhabited
for much land to remain under jungle, and except the wild pig of which
I have spoken, and many varieties of wild fowl, there is little game to
be met with. It is, however, different in North Bhaugulpore, where
there are still vast tracts of forest jungle, the haunt of the spotted
deer, nilghau, leopard, wolf, and other wild animals. Along the banks
of the Koosee, a rapid mountain river that rolls its flood through
numerous channels to join the Ganges, there are immense tracts of
uncultivated land covered with tall elephant grass, and giving cover to
tigers, hog deer, pig, wild buffalo, and even an occasional rhinoceros,
to say nothing of smaller game and wildfowl, which are very plentiful.

The sal forests in North Bhaugulpore generally keep to the high ridges,
which are composed of a light, sandy soil, very friable, and not very
fertile, except for oil and indigo seeds, which grow most luxuriantly
wherever the forest land has been cleared. In the shallow valleys which
lie between the ridges rice is chiefly cultivated, and gives large
returns. The sal forests have been sadly thinned by unscientific and
indiscriminate cutting, and very few fine trees now remain. The earth
is teeming with insects, chief amongst which are the dreaded and
destructive white ants. The high pointed nests of these destructive
insects, formed of hardened mud, are the commonest objects one meets
with in these forest solitudes.

At intervals, beneath some wide spreading peepul or bhur tree, one
comes on a rude forest shrine, daubed all over with red paint, and with
gaudy festoons of imitation flowers, cut from the pith of the plantain
tree, hanging on every surrounding bough. These shrines are sacred
to _Chumpa buttee_, the Hindoo Diana, protectress of herds, deer,
buffaloes, huntsmen, and herdsmen. She is the recognised jungle
goddess, and is held in great veneration by all the wild tribes and
half-civilized denizens of the gloomy sal jungle.

The general colour of the forest is a dingy green, save when a deeper
shade here and there shows where the mighty bhur uprears its towering
height, or where the crimson flowers of the _seemul_ or cotton tree,
and the bronze-coloured foliage of the _sunpul_ (a tree very like the
ornamental beech in shrubberies at home) imparts a more varied colour
to the generally pervading dark green of the universal sal.

The varieties of trees are of course almost innumerable, but the sal is
so out of all proportion more numerous than any other kind, that the
forests well deserve their recognised name. The sal is a fine, hard
wood of very slow growth. The leaves are broad and glistening, and in
spring are beautifully tipped with a reddish bronze, which gradually
tones down into the dingy green which is the prevailing tint. The
_sheshum_ or _sissod_, a tree with bright green leaves much resembling
the birch, the wood of which is invaluable for cart wheels and
such-like work, is occasionally met with. There is the _kormbhe_, a
very tough wood with a red stringy bark, of which the jungle men make
a kind of touchwood for their matchlocks, and the _parass_, whose
peculiarity is that at times it bursts into a wondrous wealth of bright
crimson blossom without a leaf being on the tree. The _parass_ tree in
full bloom is gorgeous. After the blossom falls the dark-green leaves
come out, and are not much different in colour from the sal. Then there
is the _mhowa_, with its lovely white blossoms, from which a strong
spirit is distilled, and on which the deer, pigs, and wild bear love to
feast. The peculiar sickly smell of the _mhowa_ when in flower pervades
the atmosphere for a great distance round, and reminds one forcibly of
the peculiar sweet, sickly smell of a brewery. The hill _sirres_ is a
tall feathery-looking tree of most elegant shape, towering above the
other forest trees, and the natives strip it of its bark, which they
use to poison streams. It seems to have some narcotic or poisonous
principle, easily soluble in water, for when put in any quantity in a
stream or piece of water, it causes all the fish to become apparently
paralyzed and rise to the surface, where they float about quite
stupified and helpless, and become an easy prey to the poaching
'Banturs' and 'Moosahurs' who adopt this wretched mode of fishing.

Along the banks of the streams vegetation gets very luxurious, and
among the thick undergrowth are found some lovely ferns, broad-leaved
plants, and flowers of every hue, all alike nearly scentless. Here is
no odorous breath of violet or honeysuckle, no delicate perfume of
primrose or sweetbriar, only a musty, dank, earthy smell which gets
more and more pronounced as the mists rise along with the deadly
vapours of the night. Sleeping in these forests is very unhealthy.
There is a most fatal miasma all through the year, less during the hot
months, but very bad during and immediately after the annual rains; and
in September and October nearly every soul in the jungly tracts is
smitten with fever. The vapour only rises to a certain height above the
ground, and at the elevation of ten feet or so, I believe one could
sleep in the jungles with impunity; but it is dangerous at all times to
sleep in the forest, unless at a considerable elevation. The absence of
all those delicious smells which make a walk through the woodlands at
home so delightful, is conspicuous in the sal forests, and another of
the most noticeable features is the extreme silence, the oppressive
stillness that reigns.

You know how full of melody is an English wood, when thrush, blackbird,
mavis, linnet, and a thousand warblers flit from tree to tree. How the
choir rings out its full anthem of sweetest sound, till every bush and
tree seems a centre of sweet strains, soft, low, liquid trills, and
full ripe gushes of melody and song. But it is not thus in an Indian
forest. There are actually few birds. As you brush through the long
grass and trample the tangled undergrowth, putting aside the sprawling
branches, or dodging under the pliant arms of the creepers, you may
flush a black or grey partridge, raise a covey of quail, or startle a
quiet family party of peafowl, but there are no sweet singers flitting
about to make the vaulted arcades of the forest echo to their music.

The hornbill darts with a succession of long bounding flights from one
tall tree to another. The large woodpecker taps a hollow tree close by,
his gorgeous plumage glistening like a mimic rainbow in the sun. A
flight of green parrots sweep screaming above your head, the _golden
oriole_ or mango bird, the _koel_, with here and there a red-tufted
_bulbul_, make a faint attempt at a chirrup; but as a rule the deep
silence is unbroken, save by the melancholy hoot of some blinking owl,
and the soft monotonous coo of the ringdove or the green pigeon. The
exquisite honey-sucker, as delicately formed as the petal of a fairy
flower, flits noiselessly about from blossom to blossom. The natives
call it the 'Muddpenah' or drinker of honey. There are innumerable
butterflies of graceful shape and gorgeous colours; what few birds
there are have beautiful plumage; there is a faint rustle of leaves, a
faint, far hum of insect life; but it feels so silent, so unlike the
woods at home. You are oppressed by the solemn stillness, and feel
almost nervous as you push warily along, for at any moment a leopard,
wolf, or hyena may get up before you, or you may disturb the siesta of
a sounder of pig, or a herd of deer.

Up in those forests on the borders of Nepaul, which are called the
_morung_, there are a great many varieties of parrot, all of them
very beautiful. There is first the common green parrot, with a red
beak, and a circle of salmon-coloured feathers round its neck; they
are very noisy and destructive, and flock together to the fields
where they do great damage to the crops. The _lutkun sooga_ is an
exquisitely-coloured bird, about the size of a sparrow. The _ghur[=a]l_,
a large red and green parrot, with a crimson beak. The _tota_ a
yellowish-green colour, and the male with a breast as red as blood;
they call it the _amereet bhela_. Another lovely little parrot, the
_taeteea sooga_, has a green body, red head, and black throat; but the
most showy and brilliant of all the tribe is the _putsoogee_. The body
is a rich living green, red wings, yellow beak, and black throat; there
is a tuft of vivid red as a topknot, and the tail is a brilliant blue;
the under feathers of the tail being a pure snowy white.

At times the silence is broken by a loud, metallic, bell-like cry,
very like the yodel you hear in the Alps. You hear it rise sharp and
distinct, 'Looralei!' and as suddenly cease. This is the cry of the
_kookoor gh[=e]t_, a bird not unlike a small pheasant, with a
reddish-brown back and a fawn-coloured breast. The _sherra_ is another
green parrot, a little larger than the _putsoogee_, but not so
beautifully coloured.

There is generally a green, slime-covered, sluggish stream in all these
forests, its channel choked with rotting leaves and decaying vegetable
matter. The water should never be drunk until it has been boiled and
filtered. At intervals the stream opens out and forms a clear
rush-fringed pool, and the trees receding on either bank leave a lovely
grassy glade, where the deer and nilghau come to drink. On the glassy
bosom of the pool in the centre, fine duck, mallard, and teal, can
frequently be found, and the rushes round the margin are to a certainty
good for a couple of brace of snipe.

Sometimes on a withered branch overhanging the stream, you can see
perched the _ahur_, or great black fish-hawk. It has a grating,
discordant cry, which it utters at intervals as it sits pluming its
black feathers above the pool. The dark ibis and the ubiquitous
paddy-bird are of course also found here; and where the land is low and
marshy, and the stream crawls along through several channels, you are
sure to come across a couple of red-headed _sarus_, serpent birds, a
crane, and a solitary heron. The _moosahernee_ is a black and white
bird, I fancy a sort of ibis, and is good eating. The _dokahur_ is
another fine big bird, black body and white wings, and as its name
(derived from _dokha_, a shell) implies, it is the shell-gatherer, or
snail-eater, and gives good shooting.

When you have determined to beat the forest, you first get your coolies
and villagers assembled, and send them some mile or two miles ahead,
under charge of some of the head men, to beat the jungle towards you,
while you look out for a likely spot, shady, concealed, and cool, where
you wait with your guns till the game is driven up to you. The whole
arrangements are generally made, of course under your own supervision,
by your _Shekarry_, or gamekeeper, as I suppose you might call him. He
is generally a thin, wiry, silent man, well versed in all the lore of
the woods, acquainted with the name, appearance, and habits of every
bird and beast in the forest. He knows their haunts and when they are
to be found at home. He will track a wounded deer like a bloodhound,
and can tell the signs and almost impalpable evidences of an animal's
whereabouts, the knowledge of which goes to make up the genuine hunter.

When all is still around, and only the distant shouts of the beaters
fall faintly at intervals on the ear, his keen hearing detects the
light patter of hoof or paw on the crisp, withered leaves. His
hawk-like glance can pick out from the deepest shade the sleek coat or
hide of the leopard or the deer; and even before the animal has come in
sight, his senses tell him whether it is young or old, whether it is
alarmed, or walking in blind confidence. In fact, I have known a good
shekarry tell you exactly what animal is coming, whether bear, leopard,
fox, deer, pig, or monkey.

The best shekarry I ever had was a Nepaulee called 'Mehrman Singh.' He
had the regular Tartar physiognomy of the Nepaulese. Small, oblique,
twinkling eyes, high cheekbones, flattish nose, and scanty moustache.
He was a tall, wiry man, with a remarkably light springy step, a bold
erect carriage, and was altogether a fine, manly, independent fellow.
He had none of the fawning obsequiousness which is so common to the
Hindoo, but was a merry laughing fellow, with a keen love of sport and
a great appreciation of humour. His gun was fearfully and wonderfully
made. It was a long, heavy flint gun, with a tremendously heavy barrel,
and the stock all splices and splinters, tied in places with bits of
string. I would rather not have been in the immediate vicinity of the
weapon when he fired it, and yet he contrived to do some good shooting
with it.

He was wonderfully patient in stalking an animal or waiting for its
near approach, as he never ventured on a long shot, and did not
understand our objection to pot-shooting. His shot was composed of
jagged little bits of iron, chipped from an old _kunthee_, or
cooking-pot; and his powder was truly unique, being like lumps of
charcoal, about the size of small raisins. A shekarry fills about four
or five fingers' depth of this into his gun, then a handful of old
iron, and with a little touch of English powder pricked in with a pin
as priming, he is ready for execution on any game that may come within
reach of a safe pot-shot. When the gun goes off there is a mighty
splutter, a roar like that of a small cannon, and the slugs go hurtling
through the bushes, carrying away twigs and leaves, and not
unfrequently smashing up the game so that it is almost useless for the
table.

The _Banturs_, who principally inhabit these jungles, are mostly of
Nepaulese origin. They are a sturdy, independent people, and the women
have fair skins, and are very pretty. Unchastity is very rare, and the
infidelity of a wife is almost unknown. If it is found out, mutilation
and often death are the penalties exacted from the unfortunate woman.
They wear one long loose flowing garment, much like the skirt of a
gown; this is tightly twisted round the body above the bosoms, leaving
the neck and arms quite bare. They are fond of ornaments--nose, ears,
toes and arms, and even ancles, being loaded with silver rings and
circlets. Some decorate their nose and the middle parting of the hair
with a greasy-looking red pigment, while nearly every grown-up woman
has her arms, neck, and low down on the collar bone most artistically
tattooed in a variety of close, elaborate patterns. The women all work
in the clearings; sowing, and weeding, and reaping the rice, barley,
and other crops. They do most of the digging where that is necessary,
the men confining themselves to ploughing and wood-cutting. At the
latter employment they are most expert; they use the axe in the most
masterly manner, but their mode of cutting is fearfully wasteful; they
always leave some three feet of the best part of the wood in the
ground, very rarely cutting a tree close down to the root. Many of
them are good charcoal-burners, and indeed their principal occupation
is supplying the adjacent villages with charcoal and firewood. They use
small narrow-edged axes for felling, but for lopping they invariably
use the Nepaulese national weapon--the _kookree_. This is a heavy,
curved knife, with a broad blade, the edge very sharp, and the back
thick and heavy. In using it they slash right and left with a quick
downward stroke, drawing the blade quickly toward them as they strike.
They are wonderfully dexterous with the _kookree_, and will clear
away brush and underwood almost as quickly as a man can walk. They
pack their charcoal, rice, or other commodities, in long narrow
baskets, which they sling on a pole carried on their shoulders, as we
see the Chinese doing in the well known pictures on tea-chests. They
are all Hindoos in religion, but are very fond of rice-whiskey. Although
not so abstemious in this respect as the Hindoos of the plains, they
are a much finer race both physically and morally. As a rule they are
truthful, honest, brave, and independent. They are always glad to see
you, laugh out merrily at you as you pass, and are wonderfully
hospitable. It would be a nice point for Sir Wilfrid Lawson to
reconcile the use of rice-whiskey with this marked superiority in all
moral virtues in the whiskey-drinking, as against the totally-abstaining
Hindoo.

To return to Mehrman Singh. His face was seamed with smallpox marks,
and he had seven or eight black patches on it the first time I saw him,
caused by the splintering of his flint when he let off his antediluvian
gun. When he saw my breechloaders, the first he had ever beheld, his
admiration was unbounded. He told me he had come on a leopard asleep in
the forest one day, and crept up quite close to him. His faith in his
old gun, however, was not so lively as to make him rashly attack so
dangerous a customer, so he told me. 'Hum usko jans deydea oos wukt,'
that is, 'I _gave_ the brute its life that time, but,' he continued,
'had I had an English gun like this, your honour, I would have blown
the _soor_ (_Anglice_, pig) to hell.' Old Mehrman was rather strong in
his expletives at times, but I was not a little amused at the cool way
he spoke of _giving_ the leopard its life. The probability is, that had
he only wounded the animal, he would have lost his own.

These Nepaulese are very fond of giving feasts to each other. Their
dinner-parties, I assure you, are very often 'great affairs.' They are
not mean in their arrangements, and the wants of the inner man are very
amply provided for. Their crockery is simple and inexpensive. When the
feast is prepared, each guest provides himself with a few broad leaves
from the nearest sal tree, and forming these into a cup, he pins them
together with thorns from the acacia. Squatting down in a circle, with
half-a-dozen of these sylvan cups around, the attendant fills one with
rice, another with _dhall_, a third with goat's-flesh, a fourth with
_turkaree_ or vegetables, a fifth with chutnee, pickle, or some kind of
preserve. Curds, ghee, a little oil perhaps, sugar, plantains, and
other fruit are not wanting, and the whole is washed down with copious
draughts of fiery rice-whiskey, or where it can be procured, with
palm-toddy. Not unfrequently dancing boys or girls are in attendance,
and the horrid din of tom-toms, cymbals, a squeaking fiddle, or a
twanging sitar, rattling castanets, and ear-piercing songs from the
dusky _prima donna_, makes night hideous, until the grey dawn peeps
over the dark forest line.

Early in January, 1875, my camp was at a place in the sal jungles
called Lohurneah. I had been collecting rents and looking after my seed
cultivation, and Pat and our sporting District Engineer having joined
me, we determined to have a beat for deer. Mehrman Singh had reported
numerous herds in the vicinity of our camp. During the night we had
been disturbed by the revellers at such a feast in the village as I
have been describing. We had filled cartridges, seen to our guns, and
made every preparation for the beat, and early in the morning the
coolies and idlers of the forest villages all round were ranged in
circles about our camp.

Swallowing a hasty breakfast we mounted our ponies, and followed by our
ragged escort, made off for the forest. On the way we met a crowd of
Banturs with bundles of stakes and great coils of strong heavy netting.
Sending the coolies on ahead under charge of several headmen and peons,
we plunged into the gloom of the forest, leaving our ponies and grooms
outside. When we came to a likely-looking spot, the Banturs began
operations by fixing up the nets on the stakes and between trees, till
a line of strong net extended across the forest for several hundred
yards. We then went ahead, leaving the nets behind us, and each took up
his station about 200 yards in front. The men with the nets then hid
themselves behind trees, and crouched in the underwood. With our
kookries we cut down several branches, stuck them in the ground in
front, and ensconced ourselves in this artificial shelter. Behind us,
and between us and the nets, was a narrow cart track leading through
the forest, and the reason of our taking this position was given me by
Pat, who was an old hand at jungle shooting.

When deer are being driven, they are intensely suspicious, and of
course frightened. They know every spot in the jungle, and are
acquainted with all the paths, tracks, and open places in the forest.
When they are nearing an open glade, or a road, they slacken their
pace, and go slowly and warily forward, an old buck generally leading.
When he has carefully reconnoitred and examined the suspected place in
front, and found it clear to all appearance, they again put on the
pace, and clear the open ground at their greatest speed. The best
chance of a shot is when a path is in front of _them_ and behind _you_,
as then they are going slowly.

At first when I used to go out after them, I often got an open glade,
or road, in _front_ of me; but experience soon told me that Pat's plan
was the best. As this was a beat not so much for real sport, as to show
me how the villagers managed these affairs, we were all under Pat's
direction, and he could not have chosen better ground. I was on the
extreme left, behind a clump of young trees, with the sluggish muddy
stream on my left. Our Engineer to my right was about one hundred yards
off, and Pat himself on the extreme right, at about the same distance
from H. Behind us was the road, and in the rear the long line of nets,
with their concealed watchers. The nets are so set up on the stakes,
that when an animal bounds along and touches the net, it falls over
him, and ere he can extricate himself from its meshes, the vigilant
Banturs rush out and despatch him with spears and clubs.

We waited a long time hearing nothing of the beaters, and watching the
red and black ants hurrying to and fro. Huge green-bellied spiders
oscillated backwards and forwards in their strong, systematically woven
webs. A small mungoose kept peeping out at me from the roots of an old
india-rubber tree, and aloft in the branches an amatory pair of hidden
ringdoves were billing and cooing to each other. At this moment a
stealthy step stole softly behind, and the next second Mr. Mehrman
Singh crept quietly and noiselessly beside me, his face flushed with
rapid walking, his eye flashing with excitement, his finger on his lip,
and a look of portentous gravity and importance striving to spread
itself over his speaking countenance. Mehrman had been up all night at
the feast, and was as drunk as a piper. It was no use being angry with
him, so I tried to keep him quiet and resumed my watch.

A few minutes afterwards he grasped me by the wrist, rather startling
me, but in a low hoarse whisper warning me that a troop of monkeys was
coming. I could not hear the faintest rustle, but sure enough in a
minute or two a troop of over twenty monkeys came hopping and shambling
along, stopping every now and then to sit on their hams, look back,
grin, jabber, and show their formidable teeth, until Mehrman rose up,
waved his cloth at them, and turned them off from the direction of the
nets toward the bank of the stream.

Next came a fox, slouching warily and cautiously along; then a couple
of lean, hungry-looking jackals; next a sharp patter on the crisp dry
leaves, and several peafowl with resplendent plumage ran rapidly past.
Another touch on the arm from Mehrman, and following the direction of
his outstretched hand, I descried a splendid buck within thirty yards
of me, his antlers and chest but barely visible above the brushwood. My
gun was to my shoulder in an instant, but the shekarry in an excited
whisper implored me not to fire. I hesitated, and just then the stately
head turned round to look behind, and exposing the beautifully curving
neck full to my aim, I fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the
fine buck topple over, seemingly hard hit.

A shot on my right, and two shots in rapid succession further on,
shewed me that Pat and H. were also at work, and then the whole forest
seemed alive with frightened, madly-plunging pig, deer, and other
animals. I fired at, and wounded an enormous boar that came rushing
past, and now the cries of the coolies in front as they came trooping
on, mingled with the shouts of the men at the nets, where the work of
death evidently was going on.

It was most exciting while it lasted, but, after all, I do not think it
was honest sport. The only apology I could make to myself was, that the
deer and pig were far too numerous, and doing immense damage to the
crops, and if not thinned out, they would soon have made the growing of
any crop whatever an impossibility.

The monkey being a sacred animal, is never molested by the natives, and
the damage he does in a night to a crop of wheat or barley is
astonishing. Peafowl too are very destructive, and what with these and
the ravages of pig, deer, hares, and other plunderers, the poor ryot
has to watch many a weary night, to secure any return from his fields.

On rejoining each other at the nets, we found that five deer and two
pigs had been killed. Pat had shot a boar and a porcupine, the latter
with No. 4 shot. H. accounted for a deer, and I got my buck and the
boar which I had wounded in the chest; Mehrman Singh had followed him
up and tracked him to the river, where he took refuge among some long
swamp reeds. Replying to his call, we went up, and a shot through the
head settled the old boar for ever. Our bag was therefore for the first
beat, seven deer, four pigs, and a porcupine.

The coolies were now sent away out of the jungle, and on ahead for a
mile or so, the nets were coiled up, our ponies regained, and off we
set, to take another station. As we went along the river bank,
frequently having to force our way through thick jungle, we started 'no
end' of peafowl, and getting down we soon added a couple to the bag.
Pat got a fine jack snipe, and I shot a _Jheela_, a very fine waterfowl
with brown plumage, having a strong metallic, coppery lustre on the
back, and a steely dark blue breast. The plumage was very thick and
glossy, and it proved afterwards to be excellent eating.

Peafowl generally retire to the thickest part of the jungles during the
heat of the day, but if you go out very early, when they are slowly
wending their way back from the fields, where they have been revelling
all night, you can shoot numbers of them. I used to go about twenty or
thirty yards into the jungle, and walk slowly along, keeping that
distance from the edge. My syce and pony would then walk slowly by the
edges of the fields, and when the syce saw a peafowl ahead, making for
the jungle, he would shout and try to make it rise. He generally
succeeded, and as I was a little in advance and concealed by the
jungle, I would get a fine shot as the bird flew overhead. I have shot
as many as eight and ten in a morning in this way. I always used No. 4
shot with about 3-1/2 drams of powder.

Unless hard hit peafowl will often get away; they run with amazing
swiftness, and in the heart of the jungle it is almost impossible to
make them rise. A couple of sharp terriers, or a good retriever, will
sometimes flush them, but the best way is to go along the edge of the
jungle in the early morn, as I have described. The peachicks, about
seven or eight months old, are deliciously tender and well flavoured.
Old birds are very dry and tough, and require a great deal of that
old-fashioned sauce, Hunger.

The common name for a peafowl is _m[=o]r_, but the Nepaulese and Banturs
call it _majoor_. Now _majoor_ also means coolie, and a young fellow,
S., was horrified one day hearing his attendant in the jungle telling
him in the most excited way, '_Majoor, majoor_, Sahib; why don't you
fire?' Poor S. thought it was a coolie the man meant, and that he must
be going mad, wanting him to shoot a coolie, but he found out his
mistake, and learnt the double meaning of the word, when he got home
and consulted his _manager_.

The generic name for all deer is in Hindustani HURIN, but the Nepaulese
call it CHEETER. The male spotted deer they call KUBRA, the female
KUBREE. These spotted deer keep almost exclusively to the forests, and
are very seldom found far away from the friendly cover of the sal
woods. They are the most handsome, graceful looking animals I know,
their skins beautifully marked with white spots, and the horns wide and
arching. When properly prepared the skin makes a beautiful mat for a
drawing room, and the horns of a good buck are a handsome ornament to
the hall or the verandah. When bounding along through the forest, his
beautifully spotted skin flashing through the dark green foliage, his
antlers laid back over his withers, he looks the very embodiment of
grace and swiftness. He is very timid, and not easily stalked.

In March and April, when a strong west wind is blowing, it rustles the
myriads of leaves that, dry as tinder, encumber the earth. This
perpetual rustle prevents the deer from hearing the footsteps of an
approaching foe. They generally betake themselves then to some patch of
grass, or long-crop outside the jungle altogether, and if you want them
in those months, it is in such places, and not inside the forest at
all, that you must search. Like all the deer tribe, they are very
curious, and a bit of rag tied to a tree, or a cloth put over a bush,
will not unfrequently entice them within range.

Old shekarries will tell you that as long as the deer go on feeding and
flapping their ears, you may continue your approach. As soon as they
throw up the head, and keep the ears still, their suspicions have been
aroused, and if you want venison, you must be as still as a rock, till
your game is again lulled into security, As soon as the ears begin
flapping again, you may continue your stalk, but at the slightest
noise, the noble buck will be off like a flash of lightning. You should
never go out in the forest with white clothes, as you are then a
conspicuous mark for all the prying eyes that are invisible to you. The
best colour is dun brown, dark grey, or dark green. When you see a deer
has become suspicious, and no cover is near, stand perfectly erect and
rigid, and do not leave your legs apart. The 'forked-parsnip' formation
of the 'human form divine' is detected at a glance, but there's just a
chance that if your legs are drawn together, and you remain perfectly
motionless, you may be mistaken for the stump of a tree, or at the best
some less dangerous enemy than man.

As we rode slowly along, to allow the beaters to get ahead, and to let
the heavily-laden men with the nets keep up with us, we were amused to
hear the remarks of the syces and shekarries on the sport they had just
witnessed. Pat's old man, Juggroo, a merry peep-eyed fellow, full of
anecdote and humour, was rather hard on Mehrman Singh for having been
up late the preceding night. Mehrman, whose head was by this time
probably reminding him that there are 'lees to every cup,' did not seem
to relish the humour. He began grasping one wrist with the other hand,
working his hand slowly round his wrist, and I noticed that Juggroo
immediately changed the subject. This, as I afterwards learned, is the
invariable Nepaulese custom of showing anger. They grasp the wrist as I
have said, and it is taken as a sign that, if you do not discontinue
your banter, you will have a fight.

The Nepaulese are rather vain of their personal appearance, and hanker
greatly after a good thick moustache. This, nature has denied them, for
the hair on their faces is scanty and stubbly in the extreme. One day
Juggroo saw his master putting some bandoline on his moustache, which
was a fine, handsome, silky one. He asked Pat's bearer, an old rogue,
what it was.

'Oh!' replied the bearer, 'that is the gum of the sal tree; master
always uses that, and that is the reason he has such a fine moustache.'

Juggroo's imagination fired up at the idea.

'Will it make mine grow too?'

'Certainly.'

'How do you use it?'

'Just rub it on, as you see master do.'

Away went Juggroo to try the new recipe.

Now, the gum of the sal tree is a very strong resin, and hardens in
water. It is almost impossible to get it off your skin, as the more
water you use, the harder it gets.

Next day Juggroo's face presented a sorry sight. He had plentifully
smeared the gum over his upper lip, so that when he washed his face,
the gum _set_, making the lip as stiff as a board, and threatening to
crack the skin every time the slightest muscle moved.

Juggroo _was_ 'sold' and no mistake, but he bore it all in grim
silence, although he never forgot the old bearer. One day, long after,
he brought in some berries from the wood, and was munching them,
seemingly with great relish. The bearer wanted to know what they were,
Juggroo with much apparent _nonchalance_ told him they were some very
sweet, juicy, wild berries he had found in the forest. The bearer asked
to try one.

Juggroo had _another_ fruit ready, very much resembling those he was
eating. It is filled with minute spikelets, or little hairy spinnacles,
much resembling those found in ripe doghips at home. If these even
touch the skin, they cause intense pain, stinging like nettles, and
blistering every part they touch.

The unsuspicious bearer popped the treacherous berry into his mouth,
gave it a crunch, and then with a howl of agony, spluttered and spat,
while the tears ran down his cheeks, as he implored Juggroo by all the
gods to fetch him some water.

Old Juggroo with a grim smile, walked coolly away, discharging a
Parthian shaft, by telling him that these berries were very good for
making the hair grow, and hoped he would soon have a good moustache.

A man from the village now came running up to tell us that there was a
leopard in the jungle we were about to beat, and that it had seized,
but failed to carry away, a dog from the village during the night.
Natives are so apt to tell stories of this kind that at first we did
not credit him, but turning into the village he showed us the poor dog,
with great wounds on its neck and throat where the leopard had pounced
upon it. The noise, it seems, had brought some herdsmen to the place,
and their cries had frightened the leopard and saved the wretched dog.
As the man said he could show us the spot where the leopard generally
remained, we determined to beat him up; so sending a man off on
horseback for the beaters to slightly alter their intended line of
beat, we rode off, attended by the villager, to get behind the
leopard's lair, and see if we could not secure him. These fierce and
courageous brutes, for they are both, are very common in the sal
jungles; and as I have seen several killed, both in Bhaugulpore and
Oudh, I must devote a chapter to the subject.




CHAPTER XII.


The leopard.--How to shoot him.--Gallant encounter with a wounded
one.--Encounter with a leopard in a dak bungalow.--Pat shoots two
leopards.--Effects of the Express bullet.--The 'Sirwah Purrul,' or
annual festival of huntsmen.--The Hindoo ryot.--Rice-planting and
harvest.--Poverty of the ryot.--His apathy.--Village fires.--Want of
sanitation.

Writing principally for friends at home, who are not familiar with
Indian life, I must narrate facts that, although well known in Indian
circles, are yet new to the general reader in England. My object is of
course to represent the life we lead in the far East, and to give a
series of pictures of what is going on there. If I occasionally touch
on what may to Indian readers seem well-worn ground, they will forgive
me.

The leopard then, as a rule keeps to the wooded parts of India. In the
long grassy jungles bordering the Koosee he is not generally met with.
He is essentially a predatory animal, always on the outlook for a meal;
round the villages, nestling amid their sal forests, he is continually
on the prowl, looking out for a goat, a calf, or unwary dog. His
appearance and habits are well known; he generally selects for his
lair, a retired spot surrounded by dense jungle. The one we were after
now had his home in a matted jungle, growing out of a pool of water,
which had collected in a long hollow, forming the receptacle of the
surface drainage from the adjacent slopes. This hollow stretched for
miles towards the creek which we had been beating up; and the locality
having moisture and other concurring elements in its favour, the
vegetation had attained a luxuriance rarely seen in the dry uplands,
where the west winds lick up the moisture, and the soil is arid and
unpromising. The matted intertwining branches of the creepers had
formed an almost impervious screen, and on the basis thus formed, amid
the branches and creepers, the leopards had formed their lair. Beneath,
was a still stagnant pool; above, was the leafy foliage. The tracks led
down to a well-worn path.

Climbing like a cat, as the leopards can do, they found no difficulty
in gaining a footing on the mass of vegetation. They generally select
some retired spot like this, and are very seldom seen in the daytime.
With the approach of night, however, they begin their wandering in
quest of prey. In a beat such as we were having 'all is fish that comes
to the net,' and leopards, if they are in the jungle, have to yield to
the advance of the beaters, like the other denizens of the forest.

Experience tells you that the leopard is daring and ferocious. Old
experienced hands warn you, that unless you can make sure of your shot,
it is unwise to fire at a leopard approaching. It is better to wait
till he has got past you, or at all events is 'broadside on.' If you
only wound him as he is approaching, he will almost to a certainty make
straight at you, but if you shoot him as he is going past, he will,
maddened by pain and anger, go straight forward, and you escape his
charge. He is more courageous than a tiger, and a very dangerous
customer at close quarters. Up in one of the forests in Oudh, a friend
of mine was out one day after leopard, with a companion who belonged to
the forest department. My friend's companion fired at a leopard as it
was approaching him, and wounded it severely. Nothing daunted, and
recognising whence its hurt had come, it charged directly down on the
concealed sportsman, and before he could half realise the position,
sprang on him, caught his left arm in its teeth, and began mauling him
with its claws. His presence of mind did not desert him; noticing close
by the stump of a sal tree, that had been eaten by white ants till the
harder parts of the wood alone remained, standing up hard and sharp
like so many spikes of steel; and knowing that the leopard was already
badly wounded, and in all probability struggling for his life, he
managed to drag the struggling animal up to the stump; jammed his left
arm yet further into the open mouth of the wounded beast, and being a
strong man, by pure physical force dashed the leopard's brains out on
the jagged edges of the stump. It was a splendid instance of presence
of mind. He was horribly mauled of course; in fact I believe he lost
his arm, but he saved his life. It shows the danger of only wounding a
leopard, especially if he is coming towards you; always wait till he
has passed your station, if it is practicable. If you _must_ shoot,
take what care you can that the shot be a sure one.

In some of the hill stations, and indeed in the villages on the plains,
it is very common for a leopard to make his appearance in the house or
verandah of an evening.

One was shot in Bhaugulpore station by the genial and respected
chaplain, on a Sunday morning two or three years ago. As we went along,
H. told us a humorous story of an Assistant in the Public Works
Department, who got mauled by a leopard at Dengra Ghat, Dak Bungalow.
It had taken up its quarters in a disused room, and this young fellow
burning, with ardour to distinguish himself, made straight for the room
in which he was known to be. He opened the door, followed by a motley
crowd of retainers, discharged his gun, and the sequel proved that he
was _not_ a dead shot. He had only wounded the leopard. With a bound
the savage brute was on him, but in the hurry and confusion, he had
changed front. The leopard had him by the back. You can imagine the
scene! He roared for help! The leopard was badly hit, and a plucky
_bearer_ came to his rescue with a stout _lathee_. Between them they
succeeded in killing the wounded animal, but not before it had left its
marks on a very sensitive portion of his frame. The moral is, if you go
after leopard, be sure you kill him at once.

They seldom attack a strong, well-grown animal. Calves, however, goats,
and dogs are frequently carried off by them. The young of deer and pig,
too, fall victims, and when nothing else can be had, peafowl have been
known to furnish them a meal. In my factory in Oudh I had a small,
graceful, four-horned antelope. It was carried off by a leopard from
the garden in broad daylight, and in face of a gang of coolies.

The most commonly practised mode of leopard shooting, is to tie a goat
up to a tree. You have a _mychan_ erected, that is, a platform elevated
on trees above the ground. Here you take your seat. Attracted by the
bleating of the goat, the prowling leopard approaches his intended
victim. If you are on the watch you can generally detect his approach.
They steal on with extreme caution, being intensely wary and
suspicious. At a village near where we now were, I had sat up for three
nights for a leopard, but although I knew he was prowling in the
vicinity, I had never got a look at him. We believed this leopard to be
the same brute.

I have already described our mode of beating. The jungle was close, and
there was a great growth of young trees. I was again on the right, and
near the edge of the forest. Beyond was a glade planted with rice. The
incidents of the beat were much as you have just read. There was,
however, unknown or at any rate unnoticed by us, more intense
excitement. We knew that the leopard might at any moment pass before
us. Pat was close to a mighty bhur tree, whose branches, sending down
shoots from the parent stem, had planted round it a colony of vigorous
supports. It was a magnificent tree with dense shade. All was solemn
and still. Pat with his keen eye, his pulse bounding, and every sense
on the alert, was keeping a careful look-out from behind an immense
projecting buttress of the tree. All was deadly quiet. H. and myself
were occupied watching the gambols of some monkeys in our front. The
beaters were yet far off. Suddenly Pat heard a faint crackle on a dried
leaf. He glanced in the direction of the sound, and his quick eye
detected the glossy coats, the beautifully spotted hides of not _one_
leopard, but _two_. In a moment the stillness was broken by the report
of his rifle. Another report followed sharp and quick. We were on the
alert, but to Pat the chief honour and glory belonged. He had shot one
leopard dead through the heart. The female was badly hit and came
bounding along in my direction. Of course we were now on the _qui
vive_. Waiting for an instant, till I could get my aim clear of some
intervening trees, I at length got a fair shot, and brought her down
with a ball through the throat. H. and Pat came running up, and we
congratulated ourselves on our success. By and bye Mehrman Singh and
the rest of the beaters came up, and the joy of the villagers was
gratifying. These were doubtless the two leopards we had heard so much
about, for which I had sat up and watched. It was amusing to see some
villager whose pet goat or valued calf had been carried off, now coming
up, striking the dead body of the leopard, and abusing it in the most
unmeasured terms. Such a crowding round as there was! such a noise, and
such excitement!

While waiting for the horses to be brought, and while the excited mob
of beaters and coolies carried off the dead animals to the camp to be
skinned, we amused ourselves by trying our rifles at a huge tree that
grew on the further side of the rice swamp. We found the effects of the
'Express' bullet to be tremendous. It splintered up and burst the bark
and body of the tree into fragments. Its effects on an animal are even
more wonderful. On looking afterwards at the leopard which had been
shot, we found that my bullet had touched the base of the shoulder,
near the collar-bone. It had gone downwards through the neck, under the
collar-bone, and struck the shoulder. There it had splintered up and
made a frightful wound, scattering its fragments all over the chest,
and cutting and lacerating everything in its way.

For big game the 'Express' is simply invaluable. For all-round shooting
perhaps a No. 12 smooth-bore is the best. It should be snap action with
rebounding locks. You should have facilities and instruments for
loading cartridges. A good cartridge belt is a good thing for carrying
them, but go where you will now, where there is game to be killed, a
No. 12 B. L. will enable you to participate in whatever shooting is
going. Such a one as I have described would satisfy all the wishes of
any young man who perhaps can only afford one gun.

As we rode slowly along, we learned many curious facts of jungle and
native life from the followers, and by noticing little incidents
happening before our eyes. Pat, who is so well versed in jungle life
and its traditions, told us of a curious moveable feast which the
natives of these parts hold annually, generally in March or April,
which is called the _Sirwah Purrub_.

It seems to be somewhat like the old carnivals of the middle ages. I
have read that in Sardinia, and Italy, and Switzerland something
similar takes place. The _Sirwah Purrub_ is a sort of festival held in
honour of the native Diana--the _chumpa buttee_ before referred to. On
the appointed day all the males in the forest villages, without
exception, go a-hunting. Old spears are furbished up; miraculous guns,
of even yet more ancient lineage than Mehrman Singh's dangerous
flintpiece, are brought out from dusty hiding-places. Battle-axes, bows
and arrows, hatchets, clubs and weapons of all sorts, are looked up,
and the motley crowd hies to the forest, the one party beating up the
game to the other.

Some go fishing, others try to secure a quail or partridge, but it is a
point of honour that something must be slain. If game be not plentiful
they will even go to another village and slay a goat, which, rather
than return empty-handed, they will bear in triumph home. The women
meet the returning hunters, and if there has been a fortunate beat,
there is a great feast in the village during the evening and far on
into the night. The nets are used, and in this way they generally have
some game to divide in the village on their return from the hunt.
Ordinarily they seethe the flesh, and pour the whole contents of the
cooking-pot into a mess of boiled rice. With the addition of a little
salt, this is to them very palatable fare. They are very good cooks,
with very simple appliances; with a little mustard oil or clarified
butter, a few vegetables or a cut-up fish, they can be very successful.
The food, however, is generally smoked from the cow-dung fire. If you
are much out in these villages this smoke constantly hangs about,
clinging to your clothes and flavouring your food, but the natives seem
to like it amazingly.

In the cold mornings of December or January it hangs about like the
peat smoke in a Highland village. Round every house are great stacks
and piles of cow-dung cakes. Before every house is a huge pile of
ashes, and the villagers cower round this as the evening falls, or
before the sun has dissipated the mist of the mornings. During the day
the village dogs burrow in the ashes. Hovering in a dense cloud about
the roofs and eaves, and along the lower branches of the trees in filmy
layers, the smoke almost chokes one to ride through it. I have seen a
native sit till half-choked in a dense column of this smoke. He is too
lazy to shift his position; the fumes of pungent smoke half smother
him; tears run from his eyes; he splutters and coughs, and abuses the
smoke, and its grandfather, and maternal uncle, and all its other known
relatives; but he prefers semi-suffocation to the trouble of budging an
inch.

Sometimes the energy of these people is surprising. To go to a fair or
feast, or on a pilgrimage, they will walk miles upon miles, subsisting
on parched peas or rice, and carrying heavy burdens. In company they
sing and carol blithely enough. When alone they are very taciturn, man
and woman walking together, the man first with his _lathee_ or staff,
the woman behind carrying child or bundle, and often looking fagged and
tired enough.

Taking vegetables, or rice, or other commodities to the bazaar, the
carrier often slings his burden to the two ends of a pole worn over the
shoulder, much as Chinamen do. But they generally make their load into
one bundle which they carry on the head, or which they sling, if not
large and bulky, over their backs, rolled up in one of their cloths.

During the rice-planting season they toil in mud and water from
earliest morn till late into twilight. Bending and stooping all the
day, their lower extremities up to the knee sometimes in water, and the
scorching sun beating on their backs, they certainly show their patient
plodding industry, for it is downright honest hard work.

The young rice is taken from the nursery patch, where it has been sown
thick some time previously. When the rice-field is ready--a sloppy,
muddy, embanked little quagmire--the ryot gets his bundle of young
rice-plants, and shoves in two or three at a time with his finger and
thumb. These afterwards form the tufts of rice. Its growth is very
rapid. Sometimes, in case of flood, the rice actually grows with the
rise of the water, always keeping its tip above the stream. If wholly
submerged for any length of time it dies. There are over a hundred
varieties. Some are only suited for very deep marshy soils; others,
such as the _s[=a]tee_, or sixty-days rice, can be grown on comparatively
high land, and ripen early. If rain be scanty, the _s[=a]tee_ and other
rice crops have to be weeded. It is cut with a jagged-edged sort of
reaping-hook called a _hussooa_. The cut bundles are carried from the
fields by women, girls, and lads. They could not take carts in many
instances into the swamps.

At such times you see every little dyke or embankment with a crowd of
bustling villagers, each with a heavy bundle of grain on his head,
hurrying to and fro like a stream of busy ants. The women, with clothes
tucked up above the knee, plod and plash through the water. They go at
a half run, a kind of fast trot, and hardly a word is spoken--garnering
the rice crops is too important an operation to dawdle and gossip over.
Each hurries off with his burden to the little family threshing-floor,
dumps down his load, gives a weary grunt, straightens his back, gives a
yawn, then off again to the field for another load. It is no use
leaving a bundle on the field; where food is so eagerly looked for by
such a dense population, where there are hungry mouths and empty
stomachs in every village, a bundle of rice would be gone by the
morning.

As in Greece, where every man has to watch his vineyard at night, so
here, the _kureehan_ or threshing-floor each has its watchman at night.
For the protection of the growing crops, the villagers club together,
and appoint a watchman or _chowkeydar_, whom they pay by giving him a
small percentage on the yield; or a small fractional proportion of the
area he has to guard, with its standing crop, may be made over to him
as a recompense.

They thresh out the rice when it has matured a little on the
threshing-floor. Four to six bullocks are tied in a line to a post in
the centre, and round this they slowly pace in a circle. They are not
muzzled, and the poor brutes seem rather to enjoy the unwonted luxury
of feeding while they work. When there is a good wind, the grain is
winnowed; it is lifted either in bamboo scoops or in the two hands. The
wind blows the chaff or _bhoosa_ on to a heap, and the fine fresh rice
remains behind. The grain merchants now do a good business. Rice must
be sold to pay the rent, the money-lender, and other clamouring
creditors. The _bunniahs_ will take repayment in kind. They put on
the interest, and cheat in the weighments and measurements. So much has
to be given to the weigh-man as a perquisite. If seed had been borrowed,
it has now to be returned at a ruinous rate of interest. Some seed must
be saved for next year, and an average _poor_ ryot, the cultivator of
but a little holding, very soon sees the result of his harvesting melt
away, leaving little for wife and little ones to live on. He never
gets free of the money-lender. He will have to go out and work hard
for others, as well as get up his own little lands. No chance of a new
bullock this year, and the old ones are getting worn out and thin. The
wife must dispense with her promised ornament or dress. For the poor
ryot it is a miserable hand-to-mouth existence when crops are poor.
As a rule he is never out of debt. He lives on the scantiest fare;
hunger often pinches him; he knows none of the luxuries of life.
Notwithstanding all, the majority are patient, frugal, industrious,
and to the full extent of their scanty means even charitable and
benevolent. With the average ryot a little business goes a great way.
There are some irreconcileable, discontented, worthless fellows in
every village. All more or less count a lie as rather a good thing to
be expert in; they lie naturally, simply, and instinctively: but with
all his faults, and they are doubtless many, I confess to a great
liking for the average Hindoo ryot.

At times, however, their apathy and laziness is amazing. They are very
childish, petted, and easily roused. In a quarrel, however, they
generally confine themselves to vituperation and abuse, and seldom
come to blows.

As an instance of their fatalism or apathetic indolence, I can remember
a village on the estate I was managing taking fire. It was quite close
to the factory. I had my pony saddled at once, and galloped off for the
burning village. It was a long, straggling one, with a good masonry
well in the centre, shadowed by a mighty _peepul_ tree. The wind was
blowing the fire right along, and if no obstruction was offered, would
sweep off every hut in the place. The only soul who was trying to do a
thing was a young Brahmin watchman belonging to the factory. He had
succeeded in removing some brass jars of his own, and was saving some
grain. One woman was rocking to and fro, beating her breast and crying.
There sat the rest of the apathetic villagers in groups, not lifting a
finger, not stirring a step, but calmly looking on, while the devouring
element was licking up hut after hut, and destroying their little all.
In a few minutes some of my servants, syces, and factory men had
arrived. I tied up the pony, ordered my men to pull down a couple of
huts in the centre, and tried to infuse some energy into the villagers.
Not a bit of it; they would _not_ stir. They would not even draw a
bucket of water. However, my men got earthen pots; I dug up fresh earth
and threw it on the two dismantled huts, dragging away as much of the
thatch and _debris_ as we could.

The fire licked our faces, and actually got a footing on the first
house beyond the frail opening we had tried to make, but we persevered,
and ultimately stayed the fire, and saved about two thirds of the
village. I never saw such an instance of complete apathy. Some of the
inhabitants even had not untied the cattle in the sheds. They seemed
quite prostrated. However, as we worked on, and they began to see that
all was not yet lost, they began to buckle to; yet even then their
principal object was to save their brass pots and cooking utensils,
things that could not possibly burn, and which they might have left
alone with perfect safety.

A Hindoo village is as inflammable as touchwood. The houses are
generally built of grass walls, connected with thin battens of bamboo.
The roof is bamboo and thatch. Thatch fences surround all the little
courtyards. Leaves, refuse, cowdung fuel, and wood are piled up round
every hut. At each door is an open air fire, which smoulders all day. A
stray puff of wind makes an inquisitive visit round the corner, and
before one can half realise the catastrophe, the village is on fire.
Then each only thinks of his own goods; there is no combined effort to
stay the flames. In the hot west winds of March, April, and May, these
fires are of very frequent occurrence. In Bhaugulpore, I have seen,
from my verandah, three villages on fire at one and the same time. In
some parts of Oudh, among the sal forests, village after village is
burnt down annually, and I have seen the same catastrophe visit the
same village several times in the course of one year. These fires arise
from pure carelessness, sheer apathy, and laziness.

Sanitary precautions too are very insufficient; practically there are
none. Huge unsightly water-holes, filled during the rains with the
drainage of all the dung-heaps and mounds of offal and filth that
abound in the village, swelter under the hot summer sun. They get
covered with a rank green scum, and if their inky depths be stirred,
the foulest and most fearful odours issue forth. In these filthy pools
the villagers often perform their ablutions; they do not scruple to
drink the putrid water, which is no doubt a hotbed and regular nursery
for fevers, and choleraic and other disorders.

Many home readers are but little acquainted with the Indian village
system, and I shall devote a chapter to the description of a Hindoo
village, with its functionaries, its institutions, its inhabitants, and
the more marked of their customs and avocations.




CHAPTER XIII.


Description of a native village.--Village functionaries.--The barber.
--Bathing habits.--The village well.--The school.--The children.--The
village bazaar.--The landowner and his dwelling.--The 'Putwarrie' or
village accountant.--The blacksmith.--The 'Punchayiet' or village jury
system.--Our legal system in India.--Remarks on the administration of
justice.

A typical village in Behar is a heterogeneous collection of thatched
huts, apparently set down at random--as indeed it is, for every one
erects his hut wherever whim or caprice leads him, or wherever he can
get a piece of vacant land. Groves of feathery bamboos and broad-leaved
plumy-looking plantains almost conceal the huts and buildings. Several
small orchards of mango surround the village; the roads leading to and
from it are merely well-worn cattle tracks,--in the rains a perfect
quagmire, and in the hot weather dusty, and confined between straggling
hedges of aloe or prickly pear. These hedges are festooned with masses
of clinging luxuriant creepers, among which sometimes struggles up a
custard apple, an avocado pear, or a wild plum-tree. The latter is a
prickly straggling tree, called the _bhyre_; the wood is very hard, and
is often used for making ploughs. The fruit is a little hard yellow
crisp fruit, with a big stone inside, and very sweet; when it is ripe,
the village urchins throw sticks up among the branches, and feast on
the golden shower.

On many of the banks bordering the roads, thatching grass, or rather
strong upright waving grass, with a beautiful feathery plume, is
planted. This is used to make the walls of the houses, and these are
then plastered outside and in with clay and cowdung. The tall hedge
of dense grass keeps what little breeze there may be away from the
traveller. The road is something like an Irish 'Boreen,' wanting only
its beauty and freshness. On a hot day the atmosphere in one of these
village roads is stifling and loaded with dust.

These houses with their grass walls and thatched roof are called
_kutcha_, as opposed to more pretentious structures of burnt brick,
with maybe a tiled sloping or flat plastered roof, which are called
_pucca. Pucca_ literally means 'ripe,' as opposed to _cutcha_, 'unripe';
but the rich Oriental tongue has adapted it to almost every kind of
secondary meaning. Thus a man who is true, upright, respected, a man
to be depended on, is called a _pucca_ man. It is a word in constant
use among Anglo-Indians. A _pucca_ road is one which is bridged and
metalled. If you make an engagement with a friend, and he wants to
impress you with its importance, he will ask you, Now is that _pucca_?'
and so on.

Other houses in the village are composed of unburnt bricks cemented
with mud, or maybe composed of mud walls and thatched roof; these,
being a compound sort of erection, are called _cutcha pucca_. In the
_cutcha_ houses live the poorer castes, the _Chumars_ or workers in
leathers, the _Moosahms, Doosadhs_, or _Gwallahs_.

The _Dornes_, or scavengers, feeders on offal, have to live apart in a
_tolah_, which might be called a small suburb, by themselves. The
_Dornes_ drag from the village any animal that happens to die. They
generally pursue the handicraft of basket making, or mat making, and
the _Dorne tolah_ can always be known by the pigs and fowls prowling
about in search of food, and the _Dorne_ and his family splitting up
bamboo, and weaving mats and baskets at the doors of their miserable
habitation. To the higher castes both pigs arid fowls are unclean and
an abomination. _Moosahms, Doosadhs_, and other poor castes, such as
_Dangurs_, keep however an army of gaunt, lean, hungry-looking pigs.
These may be seen rooting and wallowing in the marshes when the rice
has been cut, or foraging among the mango groves, to pick up any stray
unripe fruit that may have escaped the keen eyes of the hungry and
swarming children.

There is yet another small _tolah_ or suburb, called the _Kusbee
tolah_. Here live the miserable outcasts who minister to the worst
passions of our nature. These degraded beings are banished from the
more respectable portions of the community; but here, as in our own
highly civilised and favoured land, vice hovers by the side of virtue,
and the Hindoo village contains the same elements of happiness and
misery, profligacy and probity, purity and degradation, as the fine
home cities that are a name in the mouths of men.

Every village forms a perfect little commonwealth; it contains all the
elements of self-existence; it is quite a little commune, so far as
social life is concerned. There is a hereditary blacksmith, washerman,
potter, barber, and writer. The _dhobee_, or washerman, can always be
known by the propinquity of his donkeys, diminutive animals which he
uses to transport his bundle of unsavoury dirty clothes to the pool or
tank where the linen is washed. On great country roads you may often
see strings of donkeys laden with bags of grain, which they transport
from far-away villages to the big bazaars; but if you see a laden
donkey near a village, be sure the _dhobee_ is not far off.

Here as elsewhere the _hajam_, or barber, is a great gossip, and
generally a favourite. He uses no soap, and has a most uncouth-looking
razor, yet he shaves the heads, beards, moustaches, and armpits of his
customers with great deftness. The lower classes of natives shave the
hair of the head and of the armpits for the sake of cleanliness and for
other obvious reasons. The higher classes are very regular in their
ablutions; every morning, be the water cold or warm, the Rajpoot and
Brahmin, the respectable middle classes, and all in the village who lay
any claim to social position, have their _goosal_ or bath. Some hie to
the nearest tank or stream; at all hours of the day, at any ferry or
landing stage, you will see swarthy fine-looking fellows up to mid
waist in the water, scrubbing vigorously their bronzed arms, and neck
and chest. They clean their teeth with the end of a stick, which they
chew at one extremity, till they loosen the fibres, and with this
improvised toothbrush and some wood ashes for paste, they make them
look as white and clean as ivory.

There is generally a large masonry well in the middle of the village,
with a broad smooth _pucca_ platform all round it. It has been built by
some former father of the hamlet, to perpetuate his memory, to fulfil a
vow to the gods, perhaps simply from goodwill to his fellow townsmen.
At all events there is generally one such in every village. It is
generally shadowed by a huge _bhur, peepul_, or tamarind tree. Here may
always be seen the busiest sight in the village. Pretty young women
chatter, laugh, and talk, and assume all sorts of picturesque attitudes
as they fill their waterpots; the village matrons gossip, and sometimes
quarrel, as they pull away at the windlass over the deep cool well. On
the platform are a group of fat Brahmins nearly nude, their lighter
skins contrasting well with the duskier hue of the lower classes. There
are several groups. With damp drapery clinging to their glistening
skins, they pour brass pots of cold water over their dripping bodies;
they rub themselves briskly, and gasp again as the cool element pours
over head and shoulders. They sit down while some young attendant or
relation vigorously rubs them down the back; while sitting they clean
their feet. Thus, amid much laughing and talking, and quaint gestures,
and not a little expectoration, they perform their ablutions. Not
unfrequently the more wealthy anoint their bodies with mustard oil,
which at all events keeps out cold and chill, as they claim that it
does, though it is not fragrant. Round the well you get all the village
news and scandal. It is always thronged in the mornings and evenings,
and only deserted when the fierce heat of midday plunges the village
into a lethargic silence; unbroken save where the hum of the hand-mill,
or the thump of the husking-post, tells where some busy damsel or
matron is grinding flour, or husking rice, in the cool shadow of her
hut, for the wants of her lord and master.

Education is now making rapid strides; it is fostered by government,
and many of the wealthier landowners or Zemindars subscribe liberally
for a schoolmaster in their villages. Near the principal street then,
in a sort of lane, shadowed by an old mango-tree, we come on the
village school. The little fellows have all discarded their upper
clothes on account of the heat, and with much noise, swaying the body
backwards and forwards, and monotonously intoning, they grind away at
the mill of learning, and try to get a knowledge of books. Other dusky
urchins figure away with lumps of chalk on the floor, or on flat pieces
of wood to serve as copy-books. The din increases as the stranger
passes: going into an English school, the stranger would probably cause
a momentary pause in the hum that is always heard in school. The little
Hindoo scholar probably wishes to impress you with a sense of his
assiduity. He raises his voice, sways the body more briskly, keeps his
one eye firmly fixed on his task, while with the other he throws a keen
swift glance over you, which embraces every detail of your costume, and
not improbably includes a shrewd estimate of your disposition and
character.

Hindoo children never seem to me to be boys or girls; they are
preternaturally acute and observant. You seldom see them playing
together. They seem to be born with the gift of telling a lie with most
portentous gravity. They wear an air of the most winning candour and
guileless innocence, when they are all the while plotting some petty
scheme against you. They are certainly far more precocious than English
children; they realise the hard struggle for life far more quickly. The
poorer classes can hardly be said to have any childhood; as soon as
they can toddle they are sent to weed, cut grass, gather fuel, tend
herds, or do anything that will bring them in a small pittance, and
ease the burden of the struggling parents. I think the children of the
higher and middle classes very pretty; they have beautiful, dark,
thoughtful eyes, and a most intelligent expression. Very young babies
however are miserably nursed; their hair is allowed to get all tangled
and matted into unsightly knots; their faces are seldom washed, and
their eyes are painted with antimony about the lids, and are often
rheumy and running with water. The use of the pocket handkerchief is
sadly neglected.

There is generally one open space or long street in our village, and in
a hamlet of any importance there is weekly or bi-weekly a bazaar or
market. From early morning in all directions, from solitary huts in
the forest, from struggling little crofts in the rice lands, from
fishermen's dwellings perched on the bank of the river, from lonely
camps in the grass jungle where the herd and his family live with their
cattle, from all the petty Thorpes about, come the women with their
baskets of vegetables, their bundles of spun yarn, their piece of woven
cloth, whatever they have to sell or barter. There is a lad with a pair
of wooden shoes, which he has fashioned as he was tending the village
cows; another with a grass mat, or bamboo staff, or some other strange
outlandish-looking article, which he hopes to barter in the bazaar for
something on which his heart is set. The _bunniahs_ hurry up their
tottering, overladen ponies; the rice merchant twists his patient
bullock's tail to make it move faster; the cloth merchant with his bale
under his arm and measuring stick in hand, walks briskly along. Here
comes a gang of charcoal-burners, with their loads of fuel slung on
poles dangling from their shoulders. A _box wallah_ with his attendant
coolie, staggering under the weight of a huge box of Manchester goods,
hurries by. It is a busy sight in the bazaar. What a cackling! What a
confused clatter of voices! Here also the women are the chief
contributors to the din of tongues. There is no irate husband here or
moody master to tell them to be still. Spread out on the ground are
heaps of different grain, bags of flour, baskets of meal, pulse, or
barley; sweetmeats occupy the attention of nearly all the buyers. All
Hindoos indulge in sweets, which take the place of beer with us;
instead of a 'nobbler,' they offer you a 'lollipop.' Trinkets, beads,
bracelets, armlets, and anklets of pewter, there are in great bunches;
fruits, vegetables, sticks of cane, skins full of oil, and sugar, and
treacle. Stands with fresh 'paun' leaves, and piles of coarse looking
masses of tobacco are largely patronised. It is like a hive of bees.
The dust hovers over the moving mass; the smells are various, none of
them 'blest odours of sweet Araby.' Drugs, condiments, spices, shoes,
in fact, everything that a rustic population can require, is here. The
_pice_ jingle as they change hands; the haggling and chaffering are
without parallel in any market at home. Here is a man apparently in the
last madness of intense passion, in fierce altercation with another,
who tries his utmost to outbluster his furious declamation. In a moment
they are smiling and to all appearance the best friends in the world.
The bargain has been concluded; it was all about whether the one could
give three _brinjals_ or four for one pice. It is a scene of
indescribable bustle, noise, and confusion. By evening however, all
will have been packed up again, and only the faint outlines of yet
floating clouds of dust, and the hopping, cheeky crows, picking up the
scattered litter and remnants of the market, will remain to tell that
it has been bazaar day in our village.

Generally, about the centre of it, there is a more pretentious
structure, with verandahs supported on wooden pillars. High walls
surround a rather commodious courtyard. There are mysterious little
doors, through which you can get a peep of crooked little stairs
leading to the upper rooms or to the roof, from dusky inside verandahs.
Half-naked, listless, indolent figures lie about, or walk slowly to and
from the yard with seemingly purposeless indecision. In the outer
verandah is an old _palkee_, with evidences in the tarnished gilding
and frayed and tattered hangings, that it once had some pretensions to
fashionable elegance.

The walls of the buildings however are sadly cracked, and numerous
young _peepul_ trees grow in the crevices, their insidious roots
creeping farther and farther into the fissures, and expediting the work
of decay, which is everywhere apparent. It is the residence of the
Zemindar, the lord of the village, the owner of the lands adjoining.
Probably he is descended from some noble house of ancient lineage. His
forefathers, possibly, led armed retainers against some rival in yonder
far off village, where the dim outlines of a mud fort yet tell of the
insecurity of the days of old. Now he is old, and fat, and lazy.
Possibly he has been too often to the money-lender. His lands are
mortgaged to their full value. Though they respect and look up to their
old Zemindar, the villagers are getting independent; they are not so
humble, and pay less and less of feudal tribute than in the old days,
when the golden palanquin was new, when the elephant had splendid
housings, when mace, and javelin, and matchlock-men followed in his
train. Alas! the elephant was sold long ago, and is now the property of
a wealthy _Bunniah_ who has amassed money in the buying and selling of
grain and oil. The Zemindar may be a man of progress and intelligence,
but many are of this broken down and helpless type.

Holding the lands of the village by hereditary right, by grant,
conquest, or purchase, he collects his rents from the villages through
a small staff of _peons_, or un-official police. The accounts are kept
by another important village functionary--the _putwarrie_, or village
accountant. _Putwarries_ belong to the writer or _Kayasth_ caste. They
are probably as clever, and at the same time as unscrupulous as any
class in India. They manage the most complicated accounts between ryot
and landlord with great skill. Their memories are wonderful, but they
can always forget conveniently. Where ryots are numerous, the
landlord's wants pressing, and frequent calls made on the tenantry for
payment, often made in various kinds of grain and produce, the rates
and prices of which are constantly changing, it is easy to imagine the
complications and intricacies of a _putwarrie's_ account. Each ryot
pretty accurately remembers his own particular indebtedness, but woe to
him if he pays the _putwarrie_ the value of a 'red cent' without taking
a receipt. Certainly there may be a really honest _putwarrie_, but I
very much doubt it. The name stands for chicanery and robbery. On
the one hand the landlord is constantly stirring him up for money,
questioning his accounts, and putting him not unfrequently to actual
bodily coercion. The ryot on the other hand is constantly inventing
excuses, getting up delays, and propounding innumerable reasons why
he cannot pay. He will try to forge receipts, he will get up false
evidence that he has already paid, and the wretched _putwarrie_ needs
all his native and acquired sharpness, to hold his own. But all ryots
are not alike, and when the _putwarrie_ gets hold of some unwary and
ignorant bumpkin whom he can plunder, he _does_ plunder him
systematically. All cowherds are popularly supposed to be cattle
lifters, and a _putwarrie_ after he has got over the stage of infancy,
and has been indoctrinated into all the knavery that his elders can
teach him, is supposed to belong to the highest category of villains. A
popular proverb, much used in Behar, says:--

  'Unda poortee, Cowa maro!
  Iinnum me, billar:
  Bara burris me, Kayashh marige!!
  Humesha mara gwar!!'

This is translated thus: 'When the shell is breaking kill the crow, and
the wild cat at its birth.' A _Kayasth_, writer, or _putwarrie_, may be
allowed to live till he is twelve years old, at which time he is sure
to have learned rascality. Then kill him; but kill _gwars_ or cowherds
any time, for they are invariably rascals. There is a deal of grim
bucolic humour in this, and it very nearly hits the truth.

The _putwarrie_, then, is an important personage. He has his
_cutcherry_, or office, where he and his tribe (for there are always
numbers of his fellow caste men who help him in his books and accounts)
squat on their mat on the ground. Each possesses the instruments of his
calling in the shape of a small brass ink-pot, and an oblong box
containing a knife, pencil, and several reeds for pens. Each has a
bundle of papers and documents before him, this is called his _busta_,
and contains all the papers he uses. There they sit, and have fierce
squabbles with the tenantry. There is always some noise about a
putwarrie's cutcherry. He has generally some half dozen quarrels on
hand, but he trusts to his pen, and tongue, and clever brain. He is
essentially a man of peace, hating physical contests, delighting in a
keen argument, and an encounter with a plotting, calculating brain.
Another proverb says that the putwarrie has as much chance of becoming
a soldier as a sheep has of success in attacking a wolf.

The _lohar_, or blacksmith, is very unlike his prototype at home. Here
is no sounding anvil, no dusky shop, with the sparks from the heated
iron lighting up its dim recesses. There is little to remind one of
Longfellow's beautiful poem. The _lohar_ sits in the open air. His
hammers and other implements of trade are very primitive. Like all
native handicraftsmen he sits down at his work. His bellows are made of
two loose bags of sheepskin, lifted alternately by the attendant
coolie. As they lift they get inflated with air; they are then sharply
forced down on their own folds, and the contained air ejected forcibly
through an iron or clay nozzle, into the very small heap of glowing
charcoal which forms the fire. His principal work is making and
sharpening the uncouth-looking ploughshares, which look more like flat
blunt chisels than anything else. They also make and keep in repair the
_hussowahs_, or serrated sickles, with which the crops are cut. They
are slow at their task, but many of them are ingenious workers in
metal. They are very imitative, and I have seen many English tools and
even gun-locks, made by a common native village blacksmith, that could
not be surpassed in delicacy of finish by any English smith. It is
foreign to our ideas of the brawny blacksmith, to hear that he sits to
his work, but this is the invariable custom. Even carpenters and masons
squat down to theirs. Cheap labour is but an arbitrary term, and a
country smith at home might do the work of ten or twelve men in India;
but it is just as well to get an idea of existing differences. On many
of the factories there are very intelligent _mistrees_, which is the
term for the master blacksmith. These men, getting but twenty-four to
thirty shillings a month, and supplying themselves with food and
clothing, are nevertheless competent to work all the machinery, attend
to the engine, and do all the ironwork necessary for the factory. They
will superintend the staff of blacksmiths; and if the sewing-machine of
the _mem sahib_, the gun-lock of the _luna sahib_, the lawn-mower,
English pump, or other machine gets out of order, requiring any metal
work, the _mistree_ is called in, and is generally competent to put
things to rights.

[Illustration: CARPENTERS AND BLACKSMITHS AT WORK]

As I have said, every village is a self-contained little commune. All
trades necessary to supplying the wants of the villagers are
represented in it. Besides the profits from his actual calling, nearly
every man except the daily labourer, has a little bit of land which he
farms, so as to eke out his scanty income. All possess a cow or two, a
few goats, and probably a pair of plough-bullocks.

When a dispute arises in the village, should a person be suspected of
theft, should his cattle trespass on his neighbour's growing crop,
should he libel some one against whom he has a grudge, or, proceeding
to stronger measures, take the law into his own hands and assault
him, the aggrieved party complains to the head man of the village.
In every village the head man is the fountain of justice. He holds
his office sometimes by right of superior wealth, or intelligence,
or hereditary succession, not unfrequently by the unanimous wish of
his fellow-villagers. On a complaint being made to him, he summons
both parties and their witnesses. The complainant is then allowed to
nominate two men, to act as assessors or jurymen on his behalf, his
nominations being liable to challenge by the opposite party. The
defendant next names two to act on his behalf, and if these are
agreed to by both parties, these four, with the head man, form what
is called a _punchayiet_, or council of five, in fact, a jury. They
examine the witnesses, and each party to the suit conducts his own
case. The whole village not unfrequently attends to hear what goes on.
In a mere caste or private quarrel, only the friends of the parties
will attend. Every case is tried in public, and all the inhabitants of
the village can hear the proceedings if they wish. Respectable
inhabitants can remark on the proceedings, make suggestions, and give
an opinion. Public feeling is thus pretty accurately gauged and
tested, and the _punchayiet_ agree among themselves on the verdict. To
the honour of their character for fair play be it said, that the
decision of a _punchayiet_ is generally correct, and is very seldom
appealed against. Our complicated system of law, with its delays, its
technicalities, its uncertainties, and above all its expense, its
stamp duties, its court fees, its bribes to native underlings, and the
innumerable vexations attendant on the administration of justice in
our revenue and criminal courts, are repugnant to the villager of
Hindostan. They are very litigious, and believe in our desire to give
them justice and protection to life and property; but our courts are
far too costly, our machinery of justice is far too intricate and
complicated for a people like the Hindoos. 'Justice within the gate'
is what they want. It is quite enough admission of the reality of our
rule--that we are the paramount power--that they submit a case to us
at all; and all impediments in the way of their getting cheap and
speedy justice should be done away with. A codification of existing
laws, a sweeping away of one half the forms and technicalities that at
present bewilder the applicant for justice, and altogether a less
legal and more equitable procedure, having a due regard to efficiency
and the conservation of Imperial interests, should be the aim of our
Indian rulers. More especially should this be the case in rural
districts where large interests are concerned, where cases involve
delicate points of law. Our present courts, divested of their hungry
crowd of middlemen and retainers, are right enough; but I would like
to see rural courts for petty cases established, presided over by
leading natives, planters, merchants, and men of probity, which would
in a measure supplement the _punchayiet_ system, which would be easy
of access, cheap in their procedure, and with all the impress of
authority. It is a question I merely glance at, as it does not come
within the scope of a book like this; but it is well known to every
planter and European who has come much in contact with the rural
classes of Hindostan, that there is a vast amount of smouldering
disaffection, of deep-rooted dislike to, and contempt of, our present
cumbrous costly machinery of law and justice.

If a villager wishes to level a withering sarcasm at the head of a
plausible, talkative fellow, all promise and no performance, ready
with tongue but not with purse or service, he calls him a _vakeel_,
that is, a lawyer. If he has to cool his heels in your office, or
round the factory to get some little business done, to neglect his
work, to get his rent or produce account investigated, wherever there
is worry, trouble, delay, or difficulty about anything concerning the
relations between himself and the factory, the deepest and keenest
expression of discontent and disgust his versatile and acute
imagination can suggest, or his fluent tongue give utterance to is,
that this is 'Adanlut lea mafich,' that is, 'Like a court of justice.'
Could there be a stronger commentary on our judicial institutions?

The world is waking up now rapidly from the lethargic sleep of ages.
Men's minds are keenly alive to what is passing; communications are
much improved; the dissemination of news is rapid; the old race of
besotted, ignorant tenants, and grasping, avaricious, domineering
tyrants of landlords is fast dying out; and there could be no
difficulty in establishing in such village or district courts as I
have indicated. All educated respectable Europeans with a stake in the
country should be made Justices of the Peace, with limited powers to
try petty cases. There is a vast material--loyalty, educated minds, an
honest desire to do justice, independence, and a genuine scorn of
everything pettifogging and underhand--that the Indian Government
would do well to utilise. The best friend of the Baboo cannot acquit
him of a tendency to temporise, a hankering after finesse, a too fatal
facility to fall under pecuniary temptation. The educated gentleman
planter of the present day is above suspicion, and before showering
titles and honours on native gentlemen, elevating them to the bench,
and deluging the services with them, it might be worth our rulers'
while to utilise, or try to utilise, the experience, loyalty, honour,
and integrity of those of our countrymen who might be willing to place
their services at the disposal of Government. 'India for the Indians'
is a very good cry; it sounds well; but it will not do to push it to
its logical issue. Unless Indians can govern India wisely and well, in
accordance with modern national ideas, they have no more right to
India than Hottentots have to the Cape, or the black fellows to
Australia. In my opinion, Hindoos would never govern Hindustan half,
quarter, nay, one tithe as well as Englishmen. Make more of your
Englishmen in India then, make not less of your Baboo if you please,
but make more of your Englishmen. Keep them loyal and content. Treat
them kindly and liberally. One Englishman contented, loyal, and
industrious in an Indian district, is a greater pillar of strength to
the Indian Government than ten dozen Baboos or Zemindars, let them
have as many titles, decorations, university degrees, or certificates
of loyalty from junior civilians as they may. Not India for the
Indians, but India for Imperial Britain say I.




CHAPTER XIV.


A native village continued.--The watchman or 'chowkeydar.'--The
temple.--Brahmins.--Idols.--Religion.--Humility of the poorer classes.
--Their low condition.--Their apathy.--The police.--Their extortions
and knavery.--An instance of police rascality.--Corruption of native
officials.--The Hindoo unfit for self-government.

One more important functionary we have yet to notice, the watchman or
_chowkeydar_. He is generally a _Doosadh_, or other low caste man, and
perambulates the village at night, at intervals uttering a loud cry or
a fierce howl, which is caught up and echoed by all the _chowkeydars_
of the neighbouring villages. It is a weird, strange sound, cry after
cry echoing far away, distance beyond distance, till it fades into
faintness. At times it is not an unmusical cry, but when he howls out
close to your tent, waking you from your first dreamless sleep, you do
not feel it to be so. The _chowkeydar_ has to see that no thieves
enter the village by night. He protects the herds and property of the
villagers. If a theft or crime occurs, he must at once report it to
the nearest police station. If you lose your way by night, you shout
out for the nearest _chowkeydar_, and he is bound to pass you on to
the next village. These men get a small gratuity from government, but
the villagers also pay them a small sum, which they assess according
to individual means. The _chowkeydar_ is generally a ragged, swarthy
fellow with long matted hair, a huge iron-bound staff, and always a
blue _puggra_. The blue is his official badge. Sometimes he has a
brass badge, and carries a sword, a curved, blunt weapon, the handle
of which is so small that scarcely an Englishman's hand would be found
to fit it. It is more for show than use, and in thousands of cases, it
has become so fixed in the scabbard that it cannot be drawn.

[Illustration: HINDOO VILLAGE TEMPLES.]

In the immediate vicinity of each village, and often in the village
itself, is a small temple sacred to Vishnu or Shiva. It is often
perched high up on some bank, overlooking the lake or village tank.
Generally there is some umbrageous old tree overshadowing the sacred
fane, and seated near, reclining in the shade, are several oleaginous
old Brahmins. If the weather be hot, they generally wear only the
_dhote_ or loin cloth made of fine linen or cotton, and hanging about
the legs in not ungraceful folds. The Brahmin can be told by his
sacred thread worn round the neck over the shoulder. His skin is much
fairer than the majority of his fellow villagers. It is not
unfrequently a pale golden olive, and I have seen them as fair as many
Europeans. They are intelligent men with acute minds, but lazy and
self-indulgent. Frequently the village Brahmin is simply a sensual
voluptuary. This is not the time or place to descant on their
religion, which, with many gross practices, contains not a little that
is pure and beautiful. The common idea at home that they are miserable
pagans, 'bowing down to stocks and stones,' is, like many of the
accepted ideas about India, very much exaggerated. That the masses,
the crude uneducated Hindoos, place some faith in the idol, and expect
in some mysterious way that it will influence their fate for good or
evil, is not to be denied, but the more intelligent natives, and most
of the Brahmins, only look on the idol as a visible sign and symbol of
the divinity. They want a vehicle to carry their thoughts upwards to
God, and the idol is a means to assist their thoughts heavenward. As
works of art their idols are not equal to the fine pictures and other
symbols of the Greeks or the Roman Catholics, but they serve the same
purpose. Where the village is very poor, and no pious founder has
perpetuated his memory, or done honour to the gods by erecting a
temple, the natives content themselves with a rough mud shrine, which
they visit at intervals and daub with red paint. They deposit flowers,
pour libations of water or milk, and in other ways strive to shew that
a religious impulse is stirring within them. So far as I have
observed, however, the vast mass of the poor toilers in India have
little or no religion. Material wants are too pressing. They may have
some dumb, vague aspirations after a higher and a holier life, but the
fight for necessaries, for food, raiment, and shelter, is too
incessant for them to indulge much in contemplation. They have a dim
idea of a future life, but none of them can give you anything but a
very unsatisfactory idea of their religion. They observe certain forms
and ceremonies, because their fathers did, and because the Brahmins
tell them. Of real, vital, practical religion, as we know it, they
have little or no knowledge. Ask any common labourer or one of the low
castes about immortality, about salvation, about the higher virtues,
about the yearnings and wishes that every immortal soul at periods
has, and he will simply tell you 'Khoda jane, hum greel admi,' i.e.
'God knows; I am only a poor man!' There they take refuge always when
you ask them anything puzzling. If you are rating them for a fault,
asking them to perform a complicated task, or inquiring your way in a
strange neighbourhood, the first answer you get will, ten to one, be
'Hum greel admi.' It is said almost instinctively, and no doubt in
many cases is the refuge of simple disinclination to think the matter
out. Pure laziness suggests it. It is too much trouble to frame an
answer, or give the desired information, and the 'greel admi' comes
naturally to the lip. It is often deprecatory, meaning 'I am ignorant
and uninformed,' you must not expect too 'much from a poor, rude,
uncultivated man like me.' It is often, also, a delicate mode of
flattery, which is truly oriental, implying, and often conveying in a
tone, a look, a gesture, that though the speaker is 'greel,' poor,
humble, despised, it is only by contrast to you, the questioner, who
are mighty, exalted, and powerful. For downright fawning
obsequiousness, or delicate, implied, fine-strung, subtle flattery, I
will back a Hindoo sycophant against the courtier or place-hunter of
every other nation. It is very annoying at times, if you are in a
hurry, and particularly want a direct answer to a plain question, to
hear the old old story, 'I am a poor man,' but there is nothing for it
but patience. You must ask again plainly and kindly. The poorer
classes are easily flurried; they will always give what information
they have if kindly spoken to, but you must not fluster them. You must
rouse their minds to think, and let them fairly grasp the purport of
your inquiry, for they are very suspicious, often pondering over your
object, carefully considering all the pros and cons as to your motive,
inclination, or your position. Many try to give an answer that they
think would be pleasing to you. If they think you are weary and tired,
and you ask your distance from the place you may be wishing to reach,
they will ridiculously underestimate the length of road. A man may
have all the cardinal virtues, but if they think you do not like him,
and you ask his character, they will paint him to you blacker than
Satan himself. It is very hard to get the plain, unvarnished truth
from a Hindoo. Many, indeed, are almost incapable of giving an
intelligent answer to any question that does not nearly concern their
own private and purely personal interests. They have a sordid,
grubbing, vegetating life, many of them indeed are but little above
the brute creation. They have no idea beyond the supply of the mere
animal wants of the moment. The future never troubles them. They live
their hard, unlovely lives, and experience no pleasures and no
surprises. They have few regrets; their minds are mere blanks, and
life is one long continued struggle with nature for bare subsistence.
What wonder then that they are fatalists? They do not speculate on the
mysteries of existence, they are content to be, to labour, to suffer,
to die when their time comes like a dog, because it is _Kismet_--their
fate. Many of them never strive to avert any impending calamity, such,
for example, as sickness. A man sickens, he wraps himself in stolid
apathy, he makes no effort to shake of his malady, he accepts it with
sullen, despairing, pathetic resignation as his fate. His friends
mourn in their dumb, despairing way, but they too accept the
situation. He has no one to rouse him. If you ask him what is the
matter, he only wails out, 'Hum kya kurre?' What can I do? I am
unwell. No attempt whatever to tell you of the origin of his illness,
no wish even for sympathy or assistance. He accepts the fact of his
illness. He struggles not with Fate. It is so ordained. Why fight
against it? Amen; so let it be. I have often been saddened to see poor
toiling tenants struck down in this way. Even if you give them
medicine, they often have not energy enough to take it. You must see
them take it before your eyes. It is _your_ struggle not theirs. _You_
must rouse them, by _your_ will. _Your_ energy must compel _them_ to
make an attempt to combat their weakness. Once you rouse a man, and
infuse some spirit into him, he may resist his disease, but it is a
hard fight to get him to TRY. What a meaning in that one word TRY! TO
ACT. TO DO. The average poor suffering native Hindoo knows nothing of
it.

Of course their moods vary. They have their 'high days and holidays,'
feasts, processions, and entertainments; but on the whole the average
ryot or small cultivator has a hard life.

In every village there are generally bits of uncultivated or jungle
lands, on which the village herds have a right of pasture. The cow
being a sacred animal, they only use her products, milk and butter.
The urchins may be seen in the morning driving long strings of
emaciated looking animals to the village pasture, which in the evening
wend their weary way backwards through the choking dust, having had
but 'short commons' all the day on the parched and scanty herbage.

The police are too often a source of annoyance, and become
extortionate robbers, instead of the protectors of the poor. It seems
to be inherent in the Oriental mind to abuse authority. I do not
scruple to say that all the vast army of policemen, court peons,
writers, clerks, messengers, and underlings of all sorts, about the
courts of justice, in the service of government officers, or in any
way attached to the retinue of a government official, one and all are
undeniably shamelessly venal and corrupt. They accept a bribe much
more quickly than an attorney a fee, or a hungry dog a shin of beef.
If a policeman only enters a village he expects a feast from the head
man, and will ask a present with unblushing effrontery as a perquisite
of his office. If a theft is reported, the inspector of the nearest
police-station, or _thanna_ as it is called, sends one of his
myrmidons, or, if the chance of bribes be good, he may attend himself.
On arrival, ambling on his broken-kneed, wall-eyed pony, he seats
himself in the verandah of the chief man of the village, who
forthwith, with much inward trepidation, makes his appearance. The
policeman assumes the air of a haughty conqueror receiving homage from
a conquered foe. He assures the trembling wretch that, 'acting on
information received,' he must search his dwelling for the missing
goods, and that his women's apartments will have to be ransacked, and
so annoys, goads, and insults the unfortunate man, that he is too glad
to purchase immunity from further insolence by making the policeman a
small present, perhaps a 'kid of the goats,' or something else. The
guardian of the peace is then regaled with the best food in the house,
after which he is 'wreathed with smiles.' If he sees a chance of a
farther bribe, he takes his departure saying he will make his report
to the _thanna_. He repeats his procedure with some of the other
respectable inhabitants, and goes back a good deal richer than he
came, to share the spoil with the _thannadar_ or inspector.

Another man may then be sent, and the same course is followed, until
all the force in the station have had their share. The ryot is afraid
to resist. The police have tremendous powers for annoying and doing
him harm. A crowd of subservient scoundrels always hangs round the
station, dependents, relations, or accomplices. These harry the poor
man who is unwise enough to resist the extortionate demands of the
police. They take his cattle to the pound, foment strife between him
and his neighbours, get up frivolous and false charges against him,
harass him in a thousand ways, and if all else fails, get him summoned
as a witness in some case. You might think a witness a person to be
treated with respect, to be attended to, to have every facility
offered him for giving his evidence at the least cost of time and
trouble possible, consistent with the demands of justice, and the
vindication of law and authority.

Not so in India with the witness in a police case, when the force
dislike him. If he has not previously satisfied their leech-like
rapacity, he is tormented, tortured, bullied, and kicked 'from pillar
to post,' till his life becomes a burden to him. He has to leave all
his avocations, perhaps at the time when his affairs require his
constant supervision. He has to trudge many a weary mile to attend the
Court. The police get hold of him, and keep him often in real durance.
He gets no opportunity for cooking or eating his food. His daily
habits are upset and interfered with. In every little vexatious way
(and they are masters of the art of petty torture) they so worry and
goad him, that the very threat of being summoned as a witness in a
police case, is often enough to make the horrified well-to-do native
give a handsome gratuity to be allowed to sit quietly at home.

This is no exaggeration. It is the every day practice of the police.
They exercise a real despotism. They have set up a reign of terror.
The nature of the ryot is such, that he will submit to a great deal to
avoid having to leave his home and his work. The police take full
advantage of this feeling, and being perfectly unscrupulous,
insatiably rapacious, and leagued together in villany, they make a
golden harvest out of every case put into their hands. They have made
the name of justice stink in the nostrils of the respectable and
well-to-do middle classes of India.

The District Superintendents are men of energy and probity, but after
all they are only mortal. What with accounts, inspections, reports,
forms, and innumerable writings, they cannot exercise a constant
vigilance and personal supervision over every part of their district.
A district may comprise many hundred villages, thousands of
inhabitants, and leagues of intricate and densely peopled country. The
mere physical exertion of riding over his district would be too much
for any man in about a week. The subordinate police are all interested
in keeping up the present system of extortion, and the inspectors and
sub-inspectors, who wink at malpractices, come in for their share of
the spoil. There is little combination among the peasantry. Each
selfishly tries to save his own skin, and they know that if any one
individual were to complain, or to dare to resist, he would have to
bear the brunt of the battle alone. None of his neighbours would stir
a finger to back him; he is too timid and too much in awe of the
official European, and constitutionally too averse to resistance, to
do aught but suffer in silence. No doubt he feels his wrongs most
keenly, and a sullen feeling of hate and wrong is being garnered up,
which may produce results disastrous for the peace and wellbeing of
our empire in the East.

As a case in point, I may mention one instance out of many which came
under my own observation. I had a _moonshee_, or accountant, in one of
my outworks in Purneah. Formerly, when the police had come through the
factory, he had been in the habit of giving them a present and some
food. Under my strict orders, however, that no policemen were to be
allowed near the place unless they came on business, he had
discontinued paying his black mail. This was too glaring an
infringement of what they considered their vested rights to be passed
over in silence. Example might spread. My man must be made an example
of. I had a case in the Court of the Deputy Magistrate some twenty
miles or so from the factory. The moonshee had been named as a witness
to prove the writing of some papers filed in the suit. They got a
citation for him to appear, a mere summons for his attendance as a
witness. Armed with this, they appeared at the factory two or three
days before the date fixed on for hearing the cause. I had just ridden
in from Purneah, tired, hot, and dusty, and was sitting in the shade
of the verandah with young D., my assistant. One policeman first came
up, presented the summons, which I took, and he then stated that it
was a _warrant_ for the production of my moonshee, and that he must
take him away at once. I told the man it was merely a summons,
requiring the attendance of the moonshee on a certain date, to give
evidence in the case. He was very insolent in his manner. It is
customary when a Hindoo of inferior rank appears before you, that he
removes his shoes, and stands before you in a respectful attitude.
This man's headdress was all disarranged, which in itself is a sign of
disrespect. He spoke loudly and insolently; kept his shoes on; and sat
down squatting on the grass before me. My assistant was very
indignant, and wanted to speak to the man; but rightly judging that
the object was to enrage me, and trap me into committing some overt
act, that would be afterwards construed against me, I kept my temper,
spoke very firmly but temperately, told him my moonshee was doing some
work of great importance, that I could not spare his services then,
but that I would myself see that the summons was attended to. The
policeman became more boisterous and insolent. I offered to give him a
letter to the magistrate, acknowledging the receipt of the summons,
and I asked him his own name, which he refused to give. I asked him if
he could read, and he said he could not. I then asked him if he could
not read, how could he know what was in the paper which he had
brought, and how he knew my moonshee was the party meant. He said a
chowkeydar had told him so. I asked where was the chowkeydar, and
seeing from my coolness and determination that the game was up, he
shouted out, and from round the corner of the huts came another
policeman, and two village chowkeydars from a distance. They had
evidently been hiding, observing all that passed, and meaning to act
as witnesses against me, if I had been led by the first scoundrel's
behaviour to lose my temper. The second man was not such a brute as
the first, and when I proceeded to ask their names and all about them,
and told them I meant to report them to their superintendent, they
became somewhat frightened, and tried to make excuses.

I told them to be off the premises at once, offering to take the
summons, and give a receipt for it, but they now saw that they had
made a mistake in trying to bully me, and made off at once. Mark the
sequel. The day before the case was fixed on for hearing, I sent off
the moonshee who was a witness of my own, and his evidence was
necessary to my proving my case. I supplied him with travelling
expenses, and he started. On his way to the Court he had to pass the
_thanna_, or police-station. The police were on the watch. He was
seized as he passed. He was confined all that night and all the
following day. For want of his evidence I lost my case, and having
thus achieved one part of their object to pay me off, they let my
moonshee go, after insult and abuse, and with threats of future
vengeance should he ever dare to thwart or oppose them. This was
pretty 'hot' you think, but it was not all. Fearing my complaint to
the superintendent, or to the authorities, might get them into
trouble, they laid a false charge against me, that I had obstructed
them in the discharge of their duty, that I had showered abuse on
them, used threatening language, and insulted the majesty of the law
by tearing up and spitting upon the respected summons of Her Majesty.
On this complaint I was accordingly summoned into Purneah. The charge
was a tissue of the most barefaced lies, but I had to ride fifty-four
miles in the burning sun, ford several rivers, and undergo much
fatigue and discomfort. My work was of course seriously interfered
with. I had to take in my assistant as witness, and one or two of the
servants who had been present. I was put to immense trouble, and no
little expense, to say nothing of the indignation which I naturally
felt, and all because I had set my face against a well known evil, and
was determined not to submit to impudent extortion. Of course the case
broke down. They contradicted themselves in almost every particular.
The second constable indeed admitted that I had offered them a letter
to the magistrate, and had not moved out of the verandah during the
colloquy. I was honourably acquitted, and had the satisfaction of
seeing the lying rascals put into the dock by the indignant magistrate
and prosecuted summarily for getting up a false charge and giving
false evidence. It was a lesson to the police in those parts, and they
did not dare to trouble me much afterwards; but it is only one
instance out of hundreds I could give, and which every planter has
witnessed of the barefaced audacity, the shameless extortion, the
unblushing lawlessness of the rural police of India.

It is a gigantic evil, but surely not irremediable. By adding more
European officers to the force; by educating the people and making
them more intelligent, independent, and self-reliant, much may be done
to abate the evil, but at present it is admittedly a foul ulcer on the
administration of justice under our rule. The menial who serves a
summons, gets a decree of Court to execute, or is entrusted with any
order of an official nature, expects to be bribed to do his duty. If
he does not get his fee, he will throw such impediments in the way,
raise such obstacles, and fashion such delays, that he completely
foils every effort to procure justice through a legal channel. No
wonder a native hates our English Courts. Our English officials, let
it be plainly understood, are above suspicion. It needs not my poor
testimony to uphold their character for high honour, loyal integrity,
and zealous eagerness to do 'justly, and to walk uprightly.' They are
unwearied in their efforts to get at truth, and govern wisely; but our
system of law is totally unsuited for Orientals. It is made a medium
for chicanery and trickery of the most atrocious form. Most of the
native underlings are utterly venal and corrupt. Increased pay does
not mean decrease of knavery. Cheating, and lying, and taking bribes,
and abuse of authority are ingrained into their very souls; and all
the cut and dry formulas of namby pamby philanthropists, the inane
maunderings of stay-at-home sentimentalists, the wise saws of
self-opinionated theorists, who know nothing of the Hindoo as he
really shews himself to us in daily and hourly contact with him, will
ever persuade me that native, as opposed to English rule, would be
productive of aught but burning oppression and shameless venality, or
would end in anything but anarchy and chaos.

It sounds very well in print, and increases the circulation of a paper
or two among the Baboos, to cry out that our task is to elevate the
oppressed and ignorant millions of the East, to educate them into
self-government, to make them judges, officers, lawgivers, governors
over all the land. To vacate our place and power, and let the Baboo
and the Bunneah, to whom we have given the glories of Western
civilization, rule in our place, and guide the fortunes of these
toiling millions who owe protection and peace to our fostering rule.
It is a noble sentiment to resign wealth, honour, glory, and power; to
give up a settled government; to alter a policy that has welded the
conflicting elements of Hindustan into one stable whole; to throw up
our title of conqueror, and disintegrate a mighty empire. For what? A
sprinkling of thinly-veneered, half-educated natives, want a share of
the loaves and fishes in political scrambling, and a few inane people
of the 'man and brother' type, cry out at home to let them have their
way.

No. Give the Hindoo education, equal laws, protection to life and
property; develop the resources of the country; foster all the virtues
you can find in the native mind; but till you can give him the energy,
the integrity, the singleness of purpose, the manly, honourable
straightforwardness of the Anglo-Saxon; his scorn of meanness,
trickery, and fraud; his loyal single-heartedness to do right; his
contempt for oppression of the weak; his self-dependence; his probity.
But why go on? When you make Hindoos honest, truthful, God-fearing
Englishmen, you can let them govern themselves; but as soon 'may the
leopard change his spots,' as the Hindoo his character. He is wholly
unfit for self-government; utterly opposed to honest, truthful, stable
government at all. Time brings strange changes, but the wisdom which
has governed the country hitherto, will surely be able to meet the new
demand that may be made upon it in the immediate present, or in the
far distant future.




CHAPTER XV.


Jungle wild fruits.--Curious method of catching quail.--Quail nets.
--Quail caught in a blacksmith's shop.--Native wrestling.--The
trainer.--How they train for a match.--Rules of wrestling.--Grips.
--A wrestling match.--Incidents of the struggle.--Description of a
match between a Brahmin and a blacksmith.--Sparring for the grip.--The
blacksmith has it.--The struggle.--The Brahmin getting the worst of
it.--Two to one on the little 'un!--The Brahmin plays the waiting
game, turns the tables _and_ the blacksmith.--Remarks on wrestling.

A peculiarity in the sombre sal jungles is the scarcity of wild fruit.
At home the woods are filled with berries and fruit-bearing bushes.
Who among my readers has not a lively recollection of bramble hunting,
nutting, or merry expeditions for blueberries, wild strawberries,
raspberries, and other wild fruits? You might walk many a mile through
the sal jungles without meeting fruit of any kind, save the dry and
tasteless wild fig, or the sickly mhowa.

There are indeed very few jungle fruits that I have ever come across.
There is one acid sort of plum called the _Omra_, which makes a good
preserve, but is not very nice to eat raw. The _Gorkah_ is a small red
berry, very sweet and pleasant, slightly acid, not unlike a red
currant in fact, and with two small pips or stones. The Nepaulese call
it _Bunchooree_. It grows on a small stunted-looking bush, with few
branches, and a pointed leaf, in form resembling the acacia leaf, but
not so large.

The _Glaphur_ is a brown, round fruit; the skin rather crisp and hard,
and of a dull earthy colour, not unlike that of a common boiled
potato. The inside is a stringy, spongy-looking mass, with small seeds
embedded in a gummy viscid substance. The taste is exactly like an
almond, and it forms a pleasant mouthful if one is thirsty.

Travelling one day along one of the glades I have mentioned as
dividing the strips of jungle, I was surprised to see a man before me
in a field of long stubble, with a cloth spread over his head, and two
sticks projecting in front at an obtuse angle to his body, forming
horn-like projections, on which the ends of his cloth twisted
spirally, were tied. I thought from his curious antics and movements,
that he must be mad, but I soon discovered that there was method in
his madness. He was catching quail. The quail are often very numerous
in the stubble fields, and the natives adopt very ingenious devices
for their capture. This was one I was now witnessing. Covering
themselves with their cloth as I have described, the projecting ends
of the two sticks representing the horns, they simulate all the
movements of a cow or bull. They pretend to paw up the earth, toss
their make-believe horns, turn round and pretend to scratch
themselves, and in fact identify themselves with the animal they are
representing; and it is irresistibly comic to watch a solitary
performer go through this _al fresco_ comedy. I have laughed often at
some cunning old herdsman, or shekarry. When they see you watching
them, they will redouble their efforts, and try to represent an old
bull, going through all his pranks and practices, and throw you into
convulsions of laughter.

Round two sides of the field, they have previously put fine nets, and
at the apex they have a large cage with a decoy quail inside, or
perhaps a pair. The quail is a running bird, disinclined for flight
except at night; in the day-time they prefer running to using their
wings. The idiotic looking old cow, as we will call the hunter, has
all his wits about him. He proceeds very slowly and warily, his keen
eye detects the coveys of quail, which way they are running; his ruse
generally succeeds wonderfully. He is no more like a cow, than that
respectable animal is like a cucumber; but he paws, and tosses, and
moves about, pretends to eat, to nibble here, and switch his tail
there, and so manoeuvres as to keep the running quail away from the
unprotected edges of the field. When they get to the verge protected
by the net, they begin to take alarm; they are probably not very
certain about the peculiar looking 'old cow' behind them, and running
along the net, they see the decoy quails evidently feeding in great
security and freedom. The V shaped mouth of the large basket cage
looks invitingly open. The puzzling nets are barring the way, and the
'old cow' is gradually closing up behind. As the hunter moves along, I
should have told you, he rubs two pieces of dry hard sticks gently up
and down his thigh with one hand, producing a peculiar crepitation, a
crackling sound, not sufficient to startle the birds into flight, but
alarming them enough to make them get out of the way of the 'old cow.'
One bolder than the others, possibly the most timid of the covey,
irritated by the queer crackling sound, now enters the basket, the
others follow like a flock of sheep; and once in, the puzzling shape
of the entrance prevents their exit. Not unfrequently the hunter bags
twenty or even thirty brace of quail in one field, by this ridiculous
looking but ingenious method.

The small quail net is also sometimes used for the capture of hares.
The natives stretch the net in the jungle, much as they do the large
nets for deer described in a former chapter; forming a line, they then
beat up the hares, of which there are no stint. My friend Pat once
made a novel haul. His _lobarkhanna_ or blacksmith's shop was close to
a patch of jungle, and Pat often noticed numbers of quail running
through the loose chinks and crevices of the walls, in the morning
when anyone went into the place for the first time; this was at a
factory called Rajpore. Pat came to the conclusion, that as the
blacksmith's fires smouldered some time after work was discontinued at
night, and as the atmosphere of the hut was warmer and more genial
than the cold, foggy, outside air, for it was in the cold season, the
quail probably took up their quarters in the hut for the night, on
account of the warmth and shelter. One night therefore he got some of
his servants, and with great caution and as much silence as possible,
they let down a quantity of nets all round the lobarkhanna, and in the
morning they captured about twenty quails.

The quail is very pugnacious, and as they are easily trained to fight,
they are very common pets with the natives, who train and keep them to
pit them against each other, and bet what they can afford on the
result. A quail fight, a battle between two trained rams, a cock
fight, even an encounter between trained tamed buffaloes, are very
common spectacles in the villages; but the most popular sport is a
good wrestling match.

The dwellers in the Presidency towns, and indeed in most of the large
stations, seldom see an exhibition of this kind; but away in the
remote interior, near the frontier, it is very popular pastime, and
wrestling is a favourite with all classes. Such manly sport is rather
opposed to the commonly received idea at home, of the mild Hindoo. In
nearly every village of Behar however, and all along the borders of
Nepaul, there is, as a rule, a bit of land attached to the residence
of some head man, or the common property of the commune, set apart for
the practice of athletic sports, chief of which is the favourite
_khoosthee_ or wrestling. There is generally some wary old veteran,
who has won his spurs, or laurels, or belt, or whatever you choose to
call it, in many a hard fought and well contested tussle for the
championship of his little world; he is 'up to every dodge,' and knows
every feint and guard, every wile and tactic of the wrestling ground.
It is generally in some shady grove, secluded and cool; here of an
evening when the labours of the day are over, the most stalwart sons
of the hamlet meet, to test each others skill and endurance in a
friendly _shake_. The old man puts them through the preliminary
practice, shows them every trick at his command, and attends strictly
to their training and various trials. The ground is dug knee deep, and
forms a soft, good holding stand. I have often looked on at this
evening practice, and it would astonish a stranger, who cannot
understand strength, endurance, and activity being attributed to a
'mere nigger,' to see the severe training these young lads impose upon
themselves. They leap into the air, and suddenly assume a sitting
position, then leap up again and squat down with a force that would
seem to jerk every bone in their bodies out of its place; this gets up
the muscles of the thighs. Some lie down at full length, only touching
the ground with the extreme tips of their toes, their arms doubled up
under them, and sustaining the full weight of the body on the extended
palms of the hands. They then sway themselves backwards and forwards
to their full length, never shifting hand or toe, till they are bathed
in perspiration; they keep up a uniform steady backward and forward
movement, so as to develop the muscles of the arms, chest, and back.
They practice leaping, running, and lifting weights. Some standing at
their full height, brace up the muscles of the shoulder and upper arm,
and then leaping up, allow themselves to fall to earth on the tensely
strung muscles of the shoulder. This severe exercise gets the muscles
into perfect form, and few, very few indeed of our untrained youths,
could cope in a dead lock, or fierce struggle, with a good village
Hindoo or Mussulman in active training, and having any knowledge of
the tricks of the wrestling school. No hitting is allowed. The Hindoo
system of wrestling is the perfection of science and skill; mere dead
weight of course will always tell in a close grip, but the catches,
the holds, the twists and dodges that are practised, allow for the
fullest development of cultivated skill, as against mere brute force.
The system is purely a scientific one. The fundamental rule is 'catch
where you can,' only you must not clutch the hair or strike with the
fists.

The loins are tightly girt with a long waist-belt or _kummerbund_ of
cloth, which, passed repeatedly between the limbs and round the loins,
sufficiently braces up and protects that part of the body. In some
matches you are not allowed to clutch this waist cloth or belt, in
some villages it is allowed; the custom varies in various places, but
what is a fair grip, and what is not, is always made known before the
competitors engage. A twist, or grip, or dodge, is known as a
_paench_. This literally means a screw or twist, but in wrestling
phraseology, means any grip by which you can get such an advantage
over your opponent as to defeat him. For every paench there is a
counter paench. A throw is considered satisfactory when BOTH shoulders
of your opponent touch the ground simultaneously. The old _khalifa_ or
trainer takes a great interest in the progress of his _chailas_ or
pupils. _Chaila_ really means disciple or follower. Every khalifa has
his favourite paenches or grips, which have stood him in good stead in
his old battling days; he teaches these paenches to his pupils, so
that when you get young fellows from different villages to meet, you
see a really fine exhibition of wrestling skill. There is little
tripping, as amongst our wrestlers at home; a dead-lock is uncommon.
The rival wrestlers generally bound into the ring, slapping their
thighs and arms with a loud resounding slap. They lift their legs high
up from the ground with every step, and scheme and manoeuvre sometimes
for a long while to get the best corner; they try to get the sun into
their adversaries eyes; they scan the appearance and every movement of
their opponent. The old wary fellows take it very coolly, and if they
can't get the desired side of the ground, they keep hopping about like
a solemn old ostrich, till the impetuosity or impatience of their foe
leads him to attack. They remind you for all the world of a pair of
game cocks, their bodies are bent, their heads almost touching. There
is a deal of light play with the hands, each trying to get the other
by the wrist or elbow, or at the back of the head round the neck. If
one gets the other by a finger even, it is a great advantage, as he
would whip nimbly round, and threaten to break the impounded finger;
this would be considered quite fair. One will often suddenly drop on
his knees and try to reach the ankles of his adversary. I have seen a
slippery customer, stoop suddenly down, grasp up a handful of dust,
and throw it into the eyes of his opponent. It was done with the
quickness of thought, but it was detected, and on an appeal by the
sufferer, the knave was well thrashed by the onlookers.

There are many professionals who follow no other calling. Wrestlers
are kept by Rajahs and wealthy men, who get up matches. Frequently one
village will challenge another, like our village cricket clubs. The
villagers often get up small subscriptions, and purchase a silver
armlet or bracelet, the prize him who shall hold his own against all
comers. The 'Champion's Belt' scarcely calls forth greater
competition, keener rivalry, or better sport. It is at once the most
manly and most scientific sport in which the native indulges. A
disputed fall sometimes terminates in a general free fight, when the
backers of the respective men lay on the stick to each other with
mutual hate and hearty lustiness.

It is not by any means always the strongest who wins. The man who
knows the most paenches, who is agile, active, cool, and careful, will
not unfrequently overthrow an antagonist twice his weight and
strength. All the wrestlers in the country-side know each other's
qualifications pretty accurately, and at a general match got up by a
Zemindar or planter, or by public subscription, it is generally safe
to let them handicap the men who are ready to compete for the prizes.
We used generally to put down a few of the oldest professors, and let
them pit couples against each other; the sport to the onlookers was
most exciting. Between the men themselves as a rule, the utmost good
humour reigns, they strive hard to win, but they accept a defeat with
smiling resignation. It is only between rival village champions,
different caste men, or worse still, men of differing religions, such
as a Hindoo and a Mahommedan, that there is any danger of a fight. A
disturbance is a rare exception, but I have seen a few wrestling
matches end in a regular general scrimmage, with broken heads, and
even fractured limbs. With good management however, and an efficient
body of men to guard against a breach of the peace, this need never
occur.

It rarely takes much trouble to get up a match. If you tell your head
men that you would like to see one, say on a Saturday afternoon, they
pass the word to the different villages, and at the appointed time,
all the finest young fellows and most of the male population, led by
their head man, with the old trainer in attendance, are at the
appointed place. The competitors are admitted within the enclosure,
and round it the rows of spectators packed twenty deep squat on the
ground, and watch the proceedings with deep interest.

While the _Punchayiet_, a picked council, are taking down the names of
intending competitors, finding out about their form and performances,
and assigning to each his antagonist, the young men throw themselves
with shouts and laughter into the ring, and go through all the
evolutions and postures of the training ground. They bound about, try
all sorts of antics and contortions, display wonderful agility and
activity; it is a pretty sight to see, and one can't help admiring
their vigorous frames, and graceful proportions. They are handsome,
well made, supple, wiry fellows, although they be NIGGERS, and Hodge
and Giles at home would not have a chance with them in a fair
wrestling bout, conducted according to their own laws and customs.

The entries are now all made, places and pairs are arranged, and to
the ear-splitting thunder of two or three tom-toms, two pair of
strapping youngsters step into the ring; they carefully scan each
other, advance, shake hands, or salaam, leisurely tie up their back
hair, slap their muscles, rub a little earth over their shoulders and
arms, so that their adversary may have a fair grip, then step by step
slowly and gradually they near each other. A few quick passages are
now interchanged; the lithe supple fingers twist and intertwine, grips
are formed on arm and neck. The postures change each moment, and are a
study for an anatomist or sculptor. As they warm to their work they
get more reckless; they are only the raw material, the untrained lads.
There is a quick scuffle, heaving, swaying, rocking, and struggling,
and the two victors, leaping into the air, and slapping their chests,
bound back into the gratified circle of their comrades, while the two
discomfited athletes, forcing a rueful smile, retire and 'take a back
seat.' Two couple of more experienced hands now face each other. There
is pretty play this time, as the varying changes of the contest bring
forth ever varying displays of skill and science. The crowd shout as
an advantage is gained, or cry out 'Hi, hi' in a doubtful manner, as
their favourite seems to be getting the worst of it. The result
however is much the same; after a longer or shorter time, two get
fairly thrown and retire. If there is any dispute, it is at once
referred to the judges, who sit grimly watching the struggle, and
comparing the paenches displayed, with those they themselves have
practised in many a well-won fight. On a reference being made, both
combatants retain their exact hold and position, only cease straining.
As soon as the matter is settled, they go at it again till victory
determine in favour of the lucky man. In no similar contest in England
I am convinced would there be so much fairness, quietness, and order.
The only stimulants in the crowd are betel nut and tobacco. All is
orderly and calm, and at any moment a word from the sahib will quell
any rising turbulence. It is now time for a still more scientific
exhibition.

Pat has a man, a tall, wiry, handsome Brahmin, who has never yet been
beaten. Young K. has long been jealous of his uniform success, and on
several occasions has brought an antagonist to battle with Pat's
champion. To-day he has got a sturdy young blacksmith, whom rumour
hath much vaunted, and although he is not so tall as Pat's wrestler,
his square, deep chest and stalwart limbs, give promise of great
strength and endurance.

As the two men strip and bound into the ring, there is the usual hush
of anticipation. Keen eyes scan the appearance of the antagonists.
They are both models of manly beauty. The blacksmith, though more
awkward in his motions, has a cool, determined look about him. The
Brahmin, conscious of his reputation, walks quickly up, with a smile
of rather ostentatious condescension on his finely cut features, and
offers his hand to the blacksmith. The little man is evidently
suspicious. He thinks this may be a deeply laid trap to get a grip
upon him. Nor does he like the bland patronising manner of
'Roopuarain,' so he surlily draws back, at which there is a roar of
laughter from the. crowd, in which we cannot help joining.

K. now comes forward, and pats his 'fancy man' on the back. The two
wrestlers thereupon shake hands, and then in the usual manner both
warily move backwards and forwards, till amid cries from the
onlookers, the blacksmith makes a sudden dash at the practised old
player, and in a moment has him round the waist.

He evidently depended on his superior strength. For a moment he fairly
lifted Roopnarain clean off his legs, swayed him to and fro, and with
a mighty strain tried to throw him to the ground. Bending to the
notes, Roopnarain allowed himself to yield, till his feet touched the
ground, then crouching like a panther, he bounded forward, and getting
his leg behind that of the blacksmith, by a deft side twist he nearly
threw him over. The little fellow, however, steadied himself on the
ground with one hand, recovered his footing, and again had the Brahmin
firmly locked in his tenacious hold. Roopuarain did not like the grip.
These were not the tactics he was accustomed to. While the other
tugged and strained, he, quietly yielding his lithe lissome frame to
every effort, tried hard with obstinate endeavour to untwist the hands
that held him firmly locked. It was beautiful play to see the mute
hands of both the wrestlers feeling, tearing, twisting at each other,
but the grasp was too firm, and, taking advantage of a momentary
movement, Roopnarain got his elbow under the other's chin, then
leaning forward, he pressed his opponent's head backward, and the
strain began to tell. He fought fiercely, he struggled hard, but the
determined elbow was not to be baulked, and to save himself from an
overthrow the blacksmith was forced to relax his hold, and sprang
nimbly back beyond reach, to mature another attack. Roopnarain quietly
walked round, rubbed his shoulders with earth, and with the same
mocking smile, stood leaning forward, his hands on his knees, waiting
for a fresh onset.

This time the young fellow was more cautious. He found he had no
novice to deal with, and the Brahmin was not at all anxious to
precipitate matters. By a splendid feint, after some pretty sparring
for a grip, the youngster again succeeded in getting a hold on the
Brahmin, and wheeling round quick as lightning, got behind Roopnarain,
and with a dexterous trip threw the tall man heavily on his face. He
then tried to get him by the ankle, and bending his leg up backwards,
he would have got a purchase for turning him on his back. The old man
was, however, 'up to this move.' He lay extended flat on his chest,
his legs wide apart. As often as the little one bent down to grasp his
ankle, he would put out a hand stealthily, and silently as a snake,
and endeavour to get the little man's leg in his grasp. This
necessitated a change of position, and round and round they spun, each
trying to get hold of the other by the leg or foot. The blacksmith got
his knee on the neck of the Brahmin, and by sheer strength tried
several times with a mighty heave to turn his opponent. It was no use,
however, it is next to impossible to throw a man when he is lying flat
out as the Brahmin now was. It is difficult enough to turn the dead
weight of a man in that position, and when he is straining every nerve
to resist the accomplishment of your object it becomes altogether
impracticable. The excitement in the crowd was intense. The very
drummer--I ought to call him a tom-tomer--had ceased to beat his
tom-tom. Pat's lips were firmly pressed together, and K. was trembling
with suppressed excitement. The heaving chests and profuse
perspiration bedewing the bodies of both combatants, told how severe
had been their exertions. The blacksmith seemed gathering himself up
for a mighty effort, when, quick as light, the Brahmin drew his limbs
together, was seen to arch his back, and with a sudden backward
movement, seemed to glide from under his dashing assailant, and
quicker than it takes me to write it, the positions were reversed.

The Brahmin was now above, and the blacksmith taking in the altered
aspect of affairs at a glance, threw himself flat on the ground, and
tried the same tactics as his opponent. The different play of the two
men now came strongly into relief. Instead of exhausting himself with
useless efforts, Roopnarain, while keeping a wary eye on every
movement of his prostrate foe, contented himself while he took breath,
with coolly and and yet determinedly making his grip secure. Putting
out one leg then within reach of his opponent's hand, as a lure, he
saw the blacksmith stretch forth to grasp the tempting hold.

Quicker than the dart of the python, the fierce onset of the kingly
tiger, the sudden flash of the forked and quivering lightning, was the
grasp made at the outstretched arm by the practised Brahmin. His
tenacious fingers closed tightly round the other's wrist. One sudden
wrench, and he had the blacksmith's arm bent back and powerless, held
down on the little fellow's own shoulders. Pat smiled a derisive
smile, K. uttered what was not a benison, while the Brahmins in the
crowd, and all Pat's men, raised a truly Hindoo howl. The position of
the men was now this. The stout little man was flat on his face, one
of his arms bent helplessly round on his own back. Roopnarain, calm
and cool as ever, was astride the prostrate blacksmith, placidly
surveying the crowd. The little man writhed, and twisted, and
struggled, he tried with his legs to entwine himself with those of the
Brahmin. He tried to spin round; the Brahmin was watching with the eye
of a hawk for a grip of the other arm, but it was closely drawn in,
and firmly pressed in safety under the heaving chest of the
blacksmith. The muscles were of steel; it could not be dislodged: that
was seen at a glance. The calmness and placidity of the old athlete
was surprising, it was wonderful. Still bending the imprisoned arm
further back, he put his knee on the neck of the poor little hero,
game as a pebble through it all, and by a strong steady strain tried
to bend him over, till we thought either the poor fellow's neck must
break, or his arm be torn from its socket.

He endured all without a murmur. Not a chance did he throw away. Once
or twice he made a splendid effort, once he tried to catch the Brahmin
again by the leg. Roopnarain pounced down, but the arm was as quickly
within its shield. It was now but a question of time and endurance.
Every dodge that he was master of did the Brahmin bring into play.
They were both in perfect training, muscles as hard as steel, every
nerve and sinew strained to the utmost tension. Roopnarain actually
tried tickling his man, but he would not give him a chance. At length
he got his hand in the bent elbow of the free arm, and slowly, and
laboriously forced it out. There were tremendous spurts and struggles,
but patient determination was not to be baulked. Slowly the arm came
up over the back, the struggle was tremendous, but at length both the
poor fellow's arms were tightly pinioned behind his back. He was
powerless now. The Brahmin drew the two arms backwards, towards the
head of the poor little fellow, and he was bound to come over or have
both his arms broken. With a hoarse cry of sobbing-pain and shame, the
brave little man came over, both shoulders on the mould, and the
scientific old veteran was again the victor.

This is but a very faint description of a true wrestling bout among
the robust dwellers in these remote villages. It may seem cruel, but
it is to my mind the perfection of muscular strength and skill,
combined with keen subtle, intellectual acuteness. It brings every
faculty of mind and body into play, it begets a healthy, honest love
of fair play, and an admiration of endurance and pluck, two qualities
of which Englishmen certainly can boast. Strength without skill and
training will not avail. It is a fine manly sport, and one which
should be encouraged by all who wish well to our dusky fellow subjects
in the far off plains and valleys of Hindostan.




CHAPTER XVI.


Indigo seed growing.--Seed buying and buyers.--Tricks of sellers.
--Tests for good seed.--The threshing-floor.--Seed cleaning and
packing.--Staff of servants.--Despatching the bags by boat.--The
'Pooneah' or rent day.--Purneah planters--their hospitality.--The
rent day a great festival.--Preparation.--Collection of rents.--Feast
to retainers.--The reception in the evening.--Tribute.--Old customs.
--Improvisatores and bards.--Nautches.--Dancing and music.--The dance
of the Dangurs.--Jugglers and itinerary showmen.--'Bara Roopes,' or
actors and mimics.--Their different styles of acting.

Besides indigo planting proper, there is another large branch of
industry in North Bhaugulpore, and along the Nepaul frontier there,
and in Purneah, which is the growing of indigo seed for the Bengal
planters. The system of advances and the mode of cultivation is much
the same as that followed in indigo planting proper. The seed is sown
in June or July, is weeded and tended all through the rains, and cut
in December. The planters advance about four rupees a beegah to the
ryot, who cuts his seed-plant, and brings it into the factory
threshing ground, where it is beaten out, cleaned, weighed, and packed
in bags. When the seed has been threshed out and cleaned, it is
weighed, and the ryot or cultivator gets four rupees for every
maund--a maund being eighty pounds avoirdupois. The previous advance
is deducted. The rent or loan account is adjusted, and the balance
made over in cash.

Others grow the seed on their own account, without taking advances,
and bring it to the factory for sale. If prices are ruling high, they
may get much more than four rupees per maund for it, and they adopt
all kinds of ingenious devices to adulterate the seed, and increase
its weight. They mix dust with it, seeds of weeds, even grains of
wheat, and mustard, pea, and other seeds. In buying seed, therefore,
one has to be very careful, to reject all that looks bad, or that may
have been adulterated. They will even get old useless seed, the refuse
stock of former years, and mixing this with leaves of the neem tree
and some turmeric powder, give it a gloss that makes it look like
fresh seed.

When you suspect that the seed has been tampered with in this manner,
you wet some of it, and rub it on a piece of fresh clean linen, so as
to bring off the dye. Where the attempt has been flagrant, you are
sometimes tempted to take the law into your own hands, and administer
a little of the castigation which the cheating rascal so richly
deserves. In other cases it is necessary to submit the seed to a
microscopic examination. If any old, worn seeds are detected, you
reject the sample unhesitatingly. Even when the seed appears quite
good, you subject it to yet another test. Take one or two hundred
seeds, and putting them on a damp piece of the pith of a plantain
tree, mixed with a little earth, set them in a warm place, and in two
days you will be able to tell what percentage has germinated, and what
is incapable of germination. If the percentage is good, the seed may
be considered as fairly up to the sample, and it is purchased. There
are native seed buyers, who try to get as much into their hands as
they can, and rig the market. There are also European buyers, and
there is a keen rivalry in all the bazaars.

The threshing-floor, and seed-cleaning ground presents a busy sight
when several thousand maunds of seed are being got ready for despatch
by boats. The dirty seed, full of dust and other impurities, is heaped
up in one corner. The floor is in the shape of a large square, nicely
paved with cement, as hard and clean as marble. Crowds of nearly nude
coolies, hurry to and fro with scoops of seed resting on their
shoulders. When they get in line, at right angles to the direction in
which the wind is blowing, they move slowly along, letting the seed
descend on the heap below, while the wind winnows it, and carries the
dust in dense clouds to leeward. This is repeated over and over again,
till the seed is as clean as it can be made. It is put through bamboo
sieves, so formed that any seed larger than indigo cannot pass
through. What remains in the sieve is put aside, and afterwards
cleaned, sorted, and sold as food, or if useless, thrown away or given
to the fowls. The men and boys dart backwards and forwards, there is a
steady drip, drip, of seed from the scoops, dense clouds of dust, and
incessant noise and bustle. Peons or watchmen are stationed all around
to see that none is wasted or stolen. Some are filling sacks full of
the cleaned seed, and hauling them off to the weighman and his clerk.
Two maunds are put in every sack, and when weighed the bags are hauled
up close to the _godown_ or store-room. Here are an army of men with
sailmaker's needles and twine. They sew up the bags, which are then
hauled away to be marked with the factory brand. Carts are coming and
going, carrying bags to the boats, which are lying at the river bank
taking in their cargo, and the returning carts bring back loads of
wood from the banks of the river. In one corner, under a shed, sits
the sahib chaffering with a party of _paikars_ (seed merchants), who
have brought seed for sale.

Of course he decries the seed, says it is bad, will not hear of the
price wanted, and laughs to scorn all the fervent protestations that
the seed was grown on their own ground, and has never passed through
any hands but their own. If you are satisfied that the seed is good,
you secretly name your price to your head man, who forthwith takes up
the work of depreciation. You move off to some other department of the
work. The head man and the merchants sit down, perhaps smoke a
_hookah_, each trying to outwit the other, but after a keen encounter
of wits perhaps a bargain is made. A pretty fair price is arrived at,
and away goes the purchased seed, to swell the heap at the other end
of the yard. It has to be carefully weighed first, and the weighman
gets a little from the vendor as his perquisite, which the factory
takes from him at the market rate.

You have buyers of your own out in the _dehaat_ (district), and the
parcels they have bought come in hour by hour, with invoices detailing
all particulars of quantity, quality, and price. The loads from the
seed depots and outworks, come rolling up in the afternoon, and have
all to be weighed, checked, noted down, and examined. Every man's hand
is against you. You cannot trust your own servants. For a paltry bribe
they will try to pass a bad parcel of seed, and even when you have
your European assistants to help you, it is hard work to avoid being
over-reached in some shape or other.

You have to keep up a large staff of writers, who make out invoices
and accounts, and keep the books. Your correspondence alone is enough
work for one man, and you have to tally bags, count coolies, see them
paid their daily wage, attend to lawsuits that may be going on, and
yet find time to superintend the operations of the farm, and keep an
eye to your rents and revenues from the villages. It is a busy, an
anxious time. You have a vast responsibility on your shoulders, and
when one takes into consideration the climate you have to contend
with, the home comforts and domestic joys you have to do without, the
constant tension of mind and irritation of body from dust, heat,
insects, lies, bribery, robbers, and villany of every description,
that meets you on all hands, it must be allowed that a planter at such
a time has no easy life.

The time at which you despatch the seed is also the very time when you
are preparing your land for spring sowings. This requires almost as
much surveillance as the seed-buying and despatching. You have not a
moment you can call your own. If you had subordinates you could trust,
who would be faithful and honest, you could safely leave part of the
work to them, but from very sad experience I have found that trusting
to a native is trusting to a very rotten stick. They are certainly not
all bad, but there are just enough exceptions to prove the rule.

One peculiar custom prevailed in this border district of North
Bhaugulpore, which I have not observed elsewhere. At the beginning of
the financial year, when the accounts of the past season had all been
made up and arranged, and the collection of the rents for the new year
was beginning, the planters and Zemindars held what was called the
_Pooneah_. It is customary for all cultivators and tenants to pay a
proportion of their rent in advance. The Pooneah might therefore be
called 'rent-day.' A similar day is set apart for the same purpose in
Tirhoot, called _tousee_ or collections, but it is not attended by the
same ceremonious observances, and quaint customs, as attach to the
Pooneah on the border land.

When every man's account has been made up and checked by the books,
the Pooneah day is fixed on. Invitations are sent to all your
neighbouring friends, who look forward to each other's annual Pooneah
as a great gala day. In North Bhaugulpore and Purneah, nearly all the
planters and English-speaking population belong to old families who
have been born in the district, and have settled and lived there long
before the days of quick communication with home. Their rule among
their dependants is patriarchal. Everyone is known among the natives,
who have seen him since his birth living amongst them, by some pet
name. The old men of the villages remember his father and his father's
father, the younger villagers have had him pointed out to them on
their visits to the factory as 'Willie Baba,' 'Freddy Baba,' or
whatever his boyish name may have been, with the addition of 'Baba,'
which is simply a pet name for a child. These planters know every
village for miles and miles. They know most of the leading men in each
village by name. The villagers know all about them, discuss their
affairs with the utmost freedom, and not a single thing, ever so
trivial, happens in the planter's home but it is known and commented
on in all the villages that lie within the _ilaka_ (jurisdiction) of
the factory.

The hospitality of these planters is unbounded. They are most of them
much liked by all the natives round. I came a 'stranger amongst them,'
and in one sense, and not a flattering sense, they tried 'to take me
in,' but only in one or two instances, which I shall not specify here.
By nearly all I was welcomed and kindly treated, and I formed some
very lasting friendships among them. Old traditions of princely
hospitality still linger among them. They were clannish in the best
sense of the word. The kindness and attention given to aged or
indigent relations was one of their best traits. I am afraid the race
is fast dying out. Lavish expenditure, and a too confiding faith in
their native dependants has often brought the usual result. But many
of my readers will associate with the name of Purneah or Bhaugulpore
planter, recollections of hospitality and unostentatious kindness, and
memories of glorious sport and warm-hearted friendships.

On the Pooneah day then, or the night before, many of these friends
would meet. The day has long been known to all the villages round, and
nothing could better shew the patriarchal semi-feudal style in which
they ruled over their villages than the customs in connection with
this anniversary. Some days before it, requisitions have been made on
all the villages in any way connected with the factory, for various
articles of diet. The herdsmen have to send a tribute of milk, curds,
and _ghee_ or clarified butter. Cultivators of root crops or fruit
send in samples of their produce, in the shape of huge bundle of
plantains, immense jack-fruits, or baskets of sweet potatoes, yams,
and other vegetables. The _koomhar_ or potter has to send in earthen
pots and jars. The _mochee_ or worker in leather, brings with him a
sample of his work in the shape of a pair of shoes. These are pounced
on by your servants and _omlah_, the omlah being the head men in the
office. It is a fine time for them. Wooden shoes, umbrellas, brass
pots, fowls, goats, fruits, in fact all the productions of your
country side are sent or brought in. It is the old feudal tribute of
the middle ages back again. During the day the _cutcherry_ or office
is crowded with the more respectable villagers, paying in rents and
settling accounts. The noise and bustle are great, but an immense
quantity of work is got through.

The village putwarries and head men are all there with their
voluminous accounts. Your rent-collector, called a _tehseeldar_, has
been busy in the villages with the tenants and putwarries, collecting
rent for the great Pooneah day. There is a constant chink of money, a
busy hum, a scratching of innumerable pens. Under every tree, 'neath
the shade of every hut, busy groups are squatted round some acute
accountant. Totals are being totted up on all hands. From greasy
recesses in the waistband a dirty bundle is slowly pulled forth, and
the desired sum reluctantly counted out.

From early morn till dewy eve this work goes on, and you judge your
Pooneah to have been a good or bad one by the amount you are able to
collect. Peons, with their brass badges flashing in the sun, and their
red puggrees shewing off their bronzed faces and black whiskers, are
despatched in all directions for defaulters. There is a constant going
to and fro, a hurrying and bustling in the crowd, a hum as of a
distant fair pervading the place, and by evening the total of the
day's collections is added up, and while the sahib and his friends
take their sherry and bitters, the omlah and servants retire to wash
and feast, and prepare for the night's festivities.

During the day, at the houses of the omlah, culinary preparations on a
vast scale have been going on. The large supplies of grain, rice,
flour, fruit, vegetables, &c., which were brought in as _salamee_ or
tribute, supplemented by additions from the sahib's own stores, have
been made into savoury messes. Curries, and cakes, boiled flesh, and
roast kid, are all ready, and the crowd, having divested themselves of
their head-dress and outer garments, and cleaned their hands and feet
by copious ablutions, sit down in a wide circle. The large leaves of
the water-lily are now served out to each man, and perform the office
of plates. Huge baskets of _chupatties_, a flat sort of
'griddle-cake,' are now brought round, and each man gets four or five
doled out. The cooking and attendance is all done by Brahmins. No
inferior caste would answer, as Rajpoots and other high castes will
only eat food that has been cooked by a Brahmin or one of their own
class. The Brahmin attendants now come round with great _dekchees_ or
cooking-pots, full of curried vegetables, boiled rice, and similar
dishes. A ladle-full is handed out to each man, who receives it on his
leaf. The rice is served out by the hands of the attendants. The
guests manipulate a huge ball of rice and curry mixed between the
fingers of the right hand, pass this solemnly into their widely-gaping
mouths, with the head thrown back to receive the mess, like an
adjutant-bird swallowing a frog, and then they masticate with much
apparent enjoyment. Sugar, treacle, curds, milk, oil, butter,
preserves, and chutnees are served out to the more wealthy and
respectable. The amount they can consume is wonderful. Seeing the
enormous supplies, you would think that even this great crowd could
never get through them, but by the time repletion has set in, there is
little or nothing left, and many of the inflated and distended old
farmers could begin again and repeat 'another of the same' with ease.
Each person has his own _lotah_, a brass drinking vessel, and when all
have eaten they again wash their hands, rinse out their mouths, and
don their gayest apparel.

The gentlemen in the bungalow now get word that the evening's
festivities are about to commence. Lighting our cigars, we sally out
to the _shamiana_ which has been erected on the ridge, surrounding the
deep tank which supplies the factory during the manufacturing season
with water. The _shamiana_ is a large canopy or wall-less tent. It is
festooned with flowers and green plantain trees, and evergreens have
been planted all round it. Flaring flambeaux, torches, Chinese
lanterns, and oil lamps flicker and glare, and make the interior
almost as bright as day. When we arrive we find our chairs drawn up in
state, one raised seat in the centre being the place of honour, and
reserved for the manager of the factory.

When we are seated, the _malee_ or gardener advances with a wooden
tray filled with sand, in which are stuck heads of all the finest
flowers the garden can afford, placed in the most symmetrical
patterns, and really a pretty tasteful piece of workmanship. Two or
three old Brahmins, principal among whom is 'Hureehar Jha,' a wicked
old scoundrel, now advance, bearing gay garlands of flowers, muttering
a strange gibberish in Sanskrit, supposed to be a blessing, but which
might be a curse for all we understood of it, and decking our wrists
and necks with these strings of flowers. For this service they get a
small gratuity. The factory omlah headed by the dignified, portly
_gornasta_ or confidential adviser, dressed in snowy turbans and
spotless white, now come forward. A large brass tray stands on the
table in front of you. They each present a _salamee_ or _nuzzur_, that
is, a tribute or present, which you touch, and it is then deposited
with a rattling jingle on the brass plate. The head men of villages,
putwarries, and wealthy tenants, give two, three, and sometimes even
four rupees. Every tenant of respectability thinks it incumbent on him
to give something. Every man as he comes up makes a low salaam,
deposits his _salamee_, his name is written down, and he retires. The
putwarries present two rupees each, shouting out their names, and the
names of their villages. Afterwards a small assessment is levied on
the villagers, of a 'pice' or two 'pice' each, about a halfpenny of
our money, and which recoups the putwarree for his outlay.

This has nothing to do with the legitimate revenue of the factory. It
never appears in the books. It is quite a voluntary offering, and I
have never seen it in any other district. In the meantime the
_Raj-bhats_, a wandering class of hereditary minstrels or bards, are
singing your praises and those of your ancestors in ear-splitting
strains. Some of them have really good voices, all possess the gift of
improvisation, and are quick to seize on the salient points of the
scene before them, and weave them into their song, sometimes in a very
ingenious and humorous manner. They are often employed by rich
natives, to while away a long night with one of their, treasured
rhythmical tales or songs. One or two are kept in the retinue of every
Rajah or noble, and they possess a mine of legendary information,
which would be invaluable to the collector of folk-lore and
antiquarian literature.

At some of the Pooneahs the evening's gaiety winds up with a _nautch_
or dance, by dancing girls or boys. I always thought this a most
sleep-inspiring exhibition. It has been so often described that I need
not trouble my readers with it. The women are gaily dressed in
brocades and gauzy textures, and glitter with spangles and tawdry
ornaments. The musical accompaniment of clanging zither, asthmatic
fiddle, timber-toned drum, clanging cymbal, and harsh metallic
triangle, is a sore affliction, and when the dusky prima donna throws
back her head, extends her chest, gets up to her high note, with her
hand behind her ear, and her poura-stained mouth and teeth wide
expanded like the jaws of a fangless wolf, and the demoniac
instruments and performers redouble their din, the noise is something
too dreadful to experience often. The native women sit mute and
hushed, seeming to like it. I have heard it said that the Germans eat
ants. Finlanders relish penny candles. The Nepaulese gourmandise on
putrid fish. I am fond of mouldy cheese, and organ-grinders are an
object of affection with some of our home community. I _know_ that the
general run of natives delight in a nautch. Tastes differ, but to me
it is an inexplicable phenomenon.

Amid all this noise we sit till we are wearied. Parin-leaves and betel
nut are handed round by the servants. There is a very sudorific odour
from the crowd. All are comfortably seated on the ground. The torches
flare, and send up volumes of smoke to the ornamented roof of the
canopy. The lights are reflected in the deep glassy bosom of the
silent tank. The combined sounds and odours get oppressive, and we are
glad to get back to the bungalow, to consume our 'peg' and our 'weed'
in the congenial company of our friends.

In some factories the night closes with a grand dance by all the
inhabitants of the _dangur tola_. The men and women range themselves
in two semicircles, standing opposite each other. The tallest of both
lines at the one end, diminishing away at the other extremity to the
children and little ones who can scarcely toddle. They have a wild,
plaintive song, with swelling cadences and abrupt stops. They go
through an extraordinary variety of evolutions, stamping with one foot
and keeping perfect time. They sway their bodies, revolve, march, and
countermarch, the men sometimes opening their ranks, and the women
going through, and _vice versa_. They turn round like the winding
convolutions of a shell, increase their pace as the song waxes quick
and shrill, get excited, and finish off with a resounding stamp of the
foot, and a guttural cry which seems to exhaust all the breath left in
their bodies. The men then get some liquor, and the women a small
money present. If the sahib is very liberal he gives them a pig on
which to feast, and the _dangurs_ go away very happy and contented.
Their dance is not unlike the _corroborry_ of the Australian
aborigines. The two races are not unlike each other too in feature,
although I cannot think that they are in any way connected.

Next morning there is a jackal hunt, or cricket, or pony races, or
shooting matches, or sport of some kind, while the rent collection
still goes on. In the afternoon we have grand wrestling matches
amongst the natives for small prizes, and generally witness some fine
exhibitions of athletic skill and endurance.

Some wandering juggler may have been attracted by the rumour of the
gathering. A tight-rope dancer, a snake charmer, an itinerant showman
with a performing goat, monkey, or dancing bear, may make his
appearance before the admiring crowd.

At times a party of mimes or actors come round, and a rare treat is
not seldom afforded by the _bara roopees_. _Bara_ means twelve, and
_roop_ is an impersonation, a character. These 'twelve characters'
make up in all sorts of disguises. Their wardrobe is very limited, yet
the number of people they personate, and their genuine acting talent
would astonish you. With a projecting tooth and a few streaks of clay,
they make up a withered, trembling old hag, afflicted with palsy,
rheumatism, and a hacking cough. They make friends with your bearer,
and an old hat and coat transforms them into a planter, a missionary,
or an officer. They whiten their faces, using false hair and
moustache, and while you are chatting with your neighbour, a strange
sahib suddenly and mysteriously seats himself by your side. You stare,
and look at your host, who is generally in the secret, but a stranger,
or new comer, is often completely taken in. It is generally at night
that they go through their personations, and when they have dressed
for their part, they generally choose a moment when your attention is
attracted by a cunning diversion. On looking up you are astounded to
find some utter stranger standing behind your chair, or stalking
solemnly round the room.

They personate a woman, a white lady, a sepoy policeman, almost any
character. Some are especially good at mimicking the Bengalee Baboo,
or the merchant from Cabool or Afghanistan with his fruits and cloths.
A favourite _roop_ with them is to paint one half of the face like a
man. Everything is complete down to moustache, the folds of the
puggree, the _lathee_ or staff, indeed to the slightest detail. You
would fancy you saw a stalwart, strapping Hindoo before you. He turns
round, and lo, a bashful maiden. Her eyes are stained with _henna_
(myrtle juice) or antimony. Her long-hair neatly smoothed down is tied
into a knot at the back, and glistens with the pearl-like ornaments.
The taper arm is loaded with armlets and bracelets. The very toes are
bedecked with rings. The bodice hides the taper waist and budding
bosom, the tiny ear is loaded with jewelled ear-rings, the very nose
is not forgotten, but is ornamented with a golden circle, bearing on
its circumference a pearl of great price. The art, the posturing, the
mimicry, is really admirable. A good _bara roopee_ is well worth
seeing, and amply earns the two or three rupees he gets as his reward.

The Pooneah seldom lasts more than the two days, but it is quite
unique in its feudal character, and is one of the old-fashioned
observances; a relic of the time when the planter was really looked
upon as the father of his people, and when a little sentiment and
mutual affection mingled with the purely business relations of
landlord and tenant.

I delighted my ryots by importing some of our own country recreations,
and setting the ploughmen to compete against each other. I stuck a
greasy bamboo firmly into the earth, putting a bag of copper coins at
the top. Many tried to climb it, but when they came to the grease they
came down 'by the run.' One fellow however filled his _kummerbund_
with sand, and after much exertion managed to secure the prize.
Wheeling the barrow blindfold also gave much amusement, and we made
some boys bend their foreheads down to a stick and run round till they
were giddy. Their ludicrous efforts then to jump over some water-pots,
and run to a thorny bush, raised tumultuous peals of laughter. The
poor boys generally smashed the pots, and ended by tumbling into the
thorns.




CHAPTER XVII.


The Koosee jungles.--Ferries.--Jungle roads.--The rhinoceros.--We go
to visit a neighbour.--We lose our way and get belated.--We fall into
a quicksand.--No ferry boat.--Camping out on the sand.--Two tigers
close by.--We light a fire.--The boat at last arrives.--Crossing the
stream.--Set fire to the boatman's hut.--Swim the horses.--They are
nearly drowned.--We again lose our way in the jungle.--The towing
path, and how boats are towed up the river.--We at last reach the
factory.--News of rhinoceros in the morning.--Off we start, but arrive
too late.--Death of the rhinoceros.--His dimensions.--Description.
--Habits.--Rhinoceros in Nepaul.--The old 'Major Capt[=a]n.'--Description
of Nepaulese scenery.--Immigration of Nepaulese.--Their fondness for
fish.--They eat it putrid.--Exclusion of Europeans from Nepaul.
--Resources of the country.--Must sooner or later be opened up.
--Influences at work to elevate the people.--Planters and factories
chief of these.--Character of the planter.--His claims to consideration
from government.

In the vast grass jungles that border the banks of the Koosee,
stretching in great plains without an undulation for miles on either
side, intersected by innumerable water-beds and dried up channels,
there is plenty of game of all sorts. It is an impetuous,
swiftly-flowing stream, dashing directly down from the mighty hills of
Nepaul. So swift is its current and so erratic its course, that it
frequently bursts its banks, and careers through the jungle, forming a
new bed, and carrying away cattle and wild animals in its headlong
rush.

The _ghauts_ or ferries are constantly changing, and a long bamboo
with a bit of white rag affixed, shows where the boats and boatmen are
to be found. In many instances the track is a mere cattle path, and
hundreds of cross openings, leading into the tall jungle grass, are
apt to bewilder and mislead the traveller. During the dry season these
jungles are the resort of great herds of cattle and tame buffaloes,
which trample down the dry stalks, and force their way into the
innermost recesses of the wilderness of grass, which grows ten to
twelve feet high. If you once lose your path you may wander for miles,
until your weary horse is almost unable to stumble on. In such a case,
the best way is to take it coolly, and halloo till a herdsman or
thatch-cutter comes to your rescue. The knowledge of the jungles
displayed by these poor ignorant men is wonderful; they know every
gully and watercourse, every ford and quicksand, and they betray not
the slightest sign of fear, although they know that at any moment they
may come across a herd of wild buffalo, a savage rhinoceros, or even a
royal tiger.

The tracks of rhinoceros are often seen, but although I have
frequently had these pointed out to me when out tiger shooting, I only
saw two while I lived in that district.

The first occasion was after a night of discomfort such as I have
fortunately seldom experienced. I had been away at a neighbouring
factory in Purneah, some eighteen or twenty miles from my bungalow. My
companion had been my predecessor in the management, and was supposed
to be well acquainted with the country. We had gone over to one of the
outworks across the river, and I had received charge of the place from
him. It was a lonely solitary spot; the house was composed of grass
walls plastered with mud, and had not been used for some time. F.
proposed that we should ride over to see H., to whom he would
introduce me as he would be one of my nearest neighbours, and would
give us a comfortable dinner and bed, which there was no chance of our
procuring where we were.

We plunged at once into the mazy labyrinths of the jungle, and soon
emerged on the high sandy downs, stretching mile beyond mile along the
southern bank of the ever-changing river. Having lost our way, we got
to the factory after dark, but a friendly villager volunteered his
services as guide, and led us safely to our destination. After a
cheerful evening with H., we persuaded him to accompany us back next
day. He took out his dogs, and we had a good course after a hare,
killing two jackals, and sending back the dogs by the sweeper. At
Burgamma, the outwork, we stopped to _tiffin_ on some cold fowl we had
brought with us. The old factory head man got us some milk, eggs, and
_chupatties_; and about three in the afternoon we started for the head
factory. In an evil moment F. proposed that, as we were near another
outwork called _Fusseah_, we should diverge thither, I could take over
charge, and we could thus save a ride on another day. Not knowing
anything of the country I acquiesced, and we reached Fusseah in time
to see the place, and do all that was needful. It was a miserable
tumbledown little spot, with four pair of vats; it had formerly been a
good working factory, but the river had cut away most of its best
lands, and completely washed away some of the villages, while the
whole of the cultivation was fast relapsing into jungle.

'Debnarain Singh' the _gomorsta_ or head man, asked us to stay for the
night, as he said we could never get home before dark. F. however
scouted the idea, and we resumed our way. The track, for it could not
be called a road, led us through one or two jungle villages completely
hidden by the dense bamboo clumps and long jungle grass. You can't see
a trace of habitation till you are fairly on the village, and as the
rice-fields are bordered with long strips of tall grass, the whole
country presents the appearance of a uniform jungle. We got through
the rice swamps, the villages, and the grass in safety, and as it was
getting dark, emerged on the great plain of undulating ridgy
sandbanks, that form the bed of the river during the annual floods. We
had our _syces_ (grooms) and two peons with us. We had to ride over
nearly two miles of sand before we could reach the _ghat_ where we
expected the ferry-boats, and, the main stream once crossed, we had
only two miles further to reach the factory. We were getting both
tired and hungry; a heavy dew was falling, and the night was raw and
chill. It was dark, there was no moon to light our way, and the stars
were obscured by the silently creeping fog, rising from the marshy
hollows among the sand. All at once F., who was leading, called out
that we were off the path, and before I could pull up, my poor old
tired horse was floundering in a quicksand up to the girths; I threw
myself off and tried to wheel him round. H. was behind us, and we
cried to him to halt where he was. I was sinking at every movement up
to the knees, when the syce came to my rescue, and took charge of the
horse. F.'s syce ran to extricate his master and horse; the two peons
kept calling, 'Oh! my father, my father,' the horses snorted, and
struggled desperately in the tenacious and treacherous quicksand; but
after a prolonged effort, we all got safely out, and rejoined H. on
the firm ridge.

We now hallooed and shouted for the boatmen, but beyond the swish of
the rapid stream to our right, or the plash of a falling bank as the
swift current undermined it, no sound answered our repeated calls. We
were wet and weary, but to go either backward or forward was out of
the question. We were off the path, and the first step in any
direction might lead us into another quicksand, worse perhaps than
that from which we had just extricated ourselves. The horses were
trembling in every limb. The syces cowered together and shivered with
the cold. We ordered the two peons to try and reach the ghat, and see
what had become of the boats, while we awaited their return where we
were. The fog and darkness soon swallowed them up, and putting the
best face on our dismal circumstances that we could, we lit our pipes
and extended our jaded limbs on the damp sand.

For a time we could hear the shouts of the peons as they hallooed for
the boatmen, and we listened anxiously for the response, but there was
none. We could hear the purling swish of the rapid stream, the
crumbling banks falling into the current with a distant splash.
Occasionally a swift rushing of wings overhead told us of the arrowy
flight of diver or teal. Far in the distance twinkled the gleam of a
herdsman's fire, the faint tinkle of a distant bell, or the subdued
barking of a village dog for a moment, alone broke the silence.

At times the hideous chorus of a pack of jackals woke the echoes of
the night. Then, at no great distance, rose a hoarse booming cry,
swelling on the night air, and subsiding into a lengthened growl. The
syces started to their feet, the horses snorted with fear; and as the
roar was repeated, followed closely by another to our left, and
seemingly nearer, H. exclaimed 'By Jove! there's a couple of tigers.'

Sure enough, so it was. It was the first time I had heard the roar of
the tiger in his own domain, and I must confess that my sensations
were not altogether pleasant. We set about collecting sticks and what
roots of grass we could find, but on the sand-flats everything was
wet, and it was so dark that we had to grope about on our hands and
knees, and pick up whatever we came across.

With great difficulty we managed to light a small fire, and for about
half-an-hour were nearly smothered by trying with inflated cheeks to
coax it into a blaze. The tigers continued to call at intervals, but
did not seem to be approaching us. It was a long weary wait, we were
cold, wet, hungry, and tired; F., the cause of our misfortunes, had
taken off his saddle, and with it for a pillow was now fast asleep. H.
and I cowered over the miserable sputtering flame, and longed and
wished for the morning. It was a miserable night, the hours seemed
interminable, the dense volumes of smoke from the water-sodden wood
nearly choked us. At last, after some hours spent in this miserable
manner, we heard a faint halloo in the distance; it was now past
eleven at night. We returned the hail, and bye-and-bye the peons
returned bringing a boatman with them. The lazy rascals at the ghat
where we had proposed crossing, had gone home at nightfall, leaving
their boats on the further bank. Our trusty peons, had gone five miles
up the river, through the thick jungle, and brought a boat down with
them from the next ghat to that where we were.

We now warily picked our way down to the edge of the bank. The boat
seemed very fragile, and the current looked so swift and dangerous,
that we determined to go across first ourselves, get the larger boat
from the other side, light a fire, and then bring over the horses. We
embarked accordingly, leaving the syces and horses behind us. The
peons and boatman pulled the boat a long way up stream by a rope, then
shooting out we were carried swiftly down stream, the dark shadow of
the further bank seeming at a great distance. The boatman pushed
vigorously at his bamboo pole, the water rippled and gurgled, and
frothed and eddied around. Half-a-dozen times we thought our boat
would topple over, but at length we got safely across, far below what
we had proposed as our landing place.

We found the boats all right, and the boatman's hut, a mere collection
of dry grass and a few old bamboos. As it could be replaced in an
hour, and the material lay all around, we fired the hut, which soon,
blazed up, throwing a weird lurid glow on bank and stream, and
disclosing far on the other bank our weary nags and shivering syces,
looking very bedraggled and forlorn indeed. The leaping and crackling
of the flames, and the genial warmth, invigorated us a little, and
while I stayed behind to feed the fire, the others recrossed to bring
the horses over.

With the previous fright however, their long waiting, the blazing
fire, and being unaccustomed to boats at night, the poor scared horses
refused to enter the boat, The boats are flat-bottomed or broadly
bulging, with a bamboo platform strewn with grass in the centre. As a
rule, they have no protecting rails, and even in the daytime, when the
current is strong and eddies numerous, they are very dangerous for
horses. At all events, the poor brutes would not be led on to the
platform, so there was nothing for it but to swim them across. The
boat was therefore towed a long way up the bank, which on the farther
side was nearly level with the current, but where the hut had stood
was steep and slushy, and perhaps twenty feet high. This was where the
deepest water ran, and where the current was swiftest. If the horses
therefore missed the landing ghat or stage, which was cut sloping into
the bank, there was a danger of their being swept away altogether and
lost. However, we determined on making the attempt. Entering the
water, and holding the horses tightly by the head, with a leading rope
attached, to be paid out in case of necessity; the boat shot out, the
horses pawed the water, entering deeper and deeper, foot by foot, into
the swiftly rushing silent stream. So long as they were in their
depth, and had footing, they were alright, but when they reached the
middle of the river, the current, rushing with frightful velocity,
swept them off their feet, and boat and horses began to go down
stream. The horses, with lips apart showing their teeth firmly set,
the lurid glare of the flame lighting up their straining eyeballs, the
plashing of the water, the dark rapid current flowing noiselessly
past; the rocking heaving boat, the dusky forms of syces, peons, and
boatman, standing out clear in the ruddy fire-light against the utter
blackness of the night, composed a weird picture I can never forget.

The boat shot swiftly past the ghat, and came with a thump against the
bank. It swung round into the stream again, but the boatman had
luckily managed to scramble ashore, and his efforts and mine united,
hauling on the mooring-rope, sufficed to bring her in to the bank. The
three struggling horses were yet in the current, trying bravely to
stem the furious rush of the river. The syces and my friends were
holding hard to the tether-ropes, which were now at their full
stretch. It was a most critical moment. Had they let go, the horses
would have been swept away to form a meal for the alligators. They
managed, however, to get in close to the bank, and here, although the
water was still over their backs, they got a slight and precarious
footing, and inch by inch struggled after the boat, which we were now
pulling up to the landing place.

After a sore struggle, during which we thought more than once the
gallant nags would never emerge from the water, they staggered up the
bank, dripping, trembling, and utterly overcome with their exertions.
It was my first introduction to the treacherous Koosee, and I never
again attempted to swim a horse across at night. We led the poor tired
creatures up to the fire, heaping on fresh bundles of thatching-grass,
of which there was plenty lying about, the syces then rubbed them
down, and shampooed their legs, till they began to take a little
heart, whinnying as we spoke to them and caressed them.

After resting for nearly an hour, we replaced the saddles, and F., who
by this time began to mistrust his knowledge of the jungles by night,
allowed one of the peons, who was sure he knew every inch of the road,
to lead the way. Leaving the smouldering flames to flicker and burn
out in solitude, we again plunged into the darkness of the night,
threading our way through the thick jungle grass, now loaded with dewy
moisture, and dripping copious showers upon us from its high walls at
either side of the narrow track. We crossed a rapid little stream, an
arm of the main river, turned to the right, progressed a few hundred
yards, turned to the left, and finally came to a dead stop, having
again lost our way.

We heaped execrations on the luckless peon's head, and I suggested
that we should make for the main stream, follow up the bank till we
reached the next ghat, where I knew there was a cart-road leading to
the factory. Otherwise we might wander all night in the jungles,
perhaps get into another quicksand, or come to some other signal
grief. We accordingly turned round. We could hear the swish of the
river at no great distance, and soon, stumbling over bushes and
bursting through matted chumps of grass, dripping with wet, and
utterly tired and dejected, we reached the bank of the stream.

Here we had no difficulty in following the path. The river is so
swift, that the only way boats are enabled to get up stream to take
down the inland produce, is by having a few coolies or boatmen to drag
the boat up against the current by towing-lines. This is called
_gooning_. The goon-ropes are attached to the mast of the boat. At the
free end is a round bit of bamboo. The towing-coolie places this
against his shoulder, and slowly and laboriously drags the boat up
against the current. We were now on this towing-path, and after riding
for nearly four miles we reached the ghat, struck into the cart-road,
and without further misadventure reached the factory about four in the
morning, utterly fagged and worn out.

About eight in the morning my bearer woke me out of a deep sleep, with
the news that there was a _gaerha_, that is, a rhinoceros, close to
the factory. We had some days previously heard it rumoured that there
were _two_ rhinoceroses in the _Battabarree_ jungles, so I at once
roused my soundly-sleeping friends. Swallowing a hasty morsel of toast
and a cup of coffee, we mounted our ponies, sent our guns on ahead,
and rode off for the village where the rhinoceros was reported. As we
rode hurriedly along we could see natives running in the same
direction as ourselves, and one of my men came up panting and
breathless to confirm the news about the rhinoceros, with the
unwelcome addition that Premnarain Singh, a young neighbouring
Zemindar, had gone in pursuit of it with his elephant and guns. We
hurried on, and just then heard the distant report of a shot, followed
quickly by two more. We tried to take a short cut across country
through some rice-fields, but our ponies sank in the boggy ground, and
we had to retrace our way to the path.

By the time we got to the village we found an excited crowd of over a
thousand natives, dancing and gesticulating round the prostrate
carcase of the rhinoceros. The Baboo and his party had found the poor
brute firmly imbedded in a quicksand. With organised effort they might
have secured the prize alive, and could have sold him in Calcutta for
at least a thousand rupees, but they were too excited, and blazed away
three shots into the helpless beast. 'Many hands make light work,' so
the crowd soon had the dead animal extricated, rolled him into the
creek, and floated him down to the village, where we found them
already beginning to hack and hew the flesh, completely spoiling the
skin, and properly completing the butchery. We were terribly vexed
that we were too late, but endeavoured to stop the stupid destruction
that was going on. The body measured eleven feet three inches from the
snout to the tail, and stood six feet nine. The horn was six and a
half inches long, and the girth a little over ten feet. We put the
best face on the matter, congratulated the Baboo with very bad grace,
and asked him to get the skin cut up properly.

Cut in strips from the under part of the ribs and along the belly, the
skin makes magnificent riding-whips. The bosses on the shoulder and
sides are made into shields by the natives, elaborately ornamented and
much prized. The horn, however, is the most coveted acquisition. It is
believed to have peculiar virtues, and is popularly supposed by its
mere presence in a house to mitigate the pains of maternity. A
rhinoceros horn is often handed down from generation to generation as
a heirloom, and when a birth is about to take place the anxious
husband often gets a loan of the precious treasure, after which he has
no fears for the safe issue of the labour.

The flesh of the rhinoceros is eaten by all classes. It is one of the
five animals that a Brahmin is allowed to eat by the _Shastras_. They
were formerly much more common in these jungles, but of late years
very few have been killed. When they take up their abode in a piece of
jungle they are not easily dislodged. They are fierce, savage brutes,
and do not scruple to attack an elephant when they are hard pressed by
the hunter. When they wish to leave a locality where they have been
disturbed, they will make for some distant point, and march on with
dogged and inflexible purpose. Some have been known to travel eighty
miles in the twenty-four hours, through thick jungle, over rivers, and
through swamp and quicksand. Their sense of hearing is very acute, and
they are very easily roused to fury. One peculiarity often noticed by
sportsmen is, that they always go to the same spot when they want to
obey the calls of nature. Mounds of their dung are sometimes seen in
the jungle, and the tracks shew that the rhinoceros pays a daily visit
to this one particular spot.

In Nepaul, and along the _terai_ or wooded slopes of the frontier,
they are more numerous; but 'Jung Bahadur,' the late ruler of Nepaul,
would allow no one to shoot them but himself. I remember the wailing
lament of a Nepaul officer with whom I was out shooting, when I
happened to fire at and wound one of the protected beasts. It was in
Nepaul, among a cluster of low woody hills, with a brawling stream
dashing through the precipitous channel worn out of the rocky,
boulder-covered dell. The rhinoceros was up the hill slightly above
me, and we were beating up for a tiger that we had seen go ahead of
the line.

In my eagerness to bag a 'rhino' I quite forgot the interdict, and
fired an Express bullet into the shoulder of the animal, as he stood
broadside on, staring stupidly at me. He staggered, and made as if he
would charge down the hill. The old 'Major Capt[=a]n,' as they called our
sporting host, was shouting out to me not to fire. The _mahouts_ and
beaters were petrified with horror at my presumption. I fancy they
expected an immediate order for my decapitation, or for my ears to be
cut off at the very least, but feeling I might as well be 'in for a
pound as for a penny,' I fired again, and tumbled the huge brute over,
with a bullet through the skull behind the ear. The old officer was
horror-stricken, and would allow no one to go near the animal. He
would not even let me get down to measure it, being terrified lest the
affair should reach the ears of his formidable lord and ruler, that he
hurried us off from the scene of my transgression as quickly as he
could.

The old Major Capt[=a]n was a curious character. The government of
Nepaul is purely military. All executive and judicial functions are
carried on by military officers. After serving a certain time in the
army, they get rewarded for good service by being appointed to the
executive charge of a district. So far as I could make out, they seem
to farm the revenue much as is done in Turkey. They must send in
so much to the Treasury, and anything over they keep for themselves.
Their administration of justice is rough and ready. Fines, corporal
punishment, and in the case of heinous crimes, mutilation and death are
their penalties. There is a tax of _kind_ on all produce, and licenses
to cut timber bring in a large revenue. A protective tariff is levied on
all goods or produce passing the frontier from British territory, and no
European is allowed to travel in the country, or to settle and trade
there. In the lower valleys there are magnificent stretches of land
suitable for indigo, tea, rice, and other crops. The streams are
numerous, moisture is plentiful, the soil is fertile, and the slopes of
the hills are covered with splendid timber, a great quantity of which is
cut and floated down the Gunduch, Bagmuttee, Koosee, and other streams
during the rainy season. It is used principally for beams, rafters, and
railway sleepers.

The people are jealous of intrusion and suspicious of strangers, but
as I was with an official, they generally came out in great numbers to
gaze as we passed through a village. The country does not seem so
thickly populated as in our territory, and the cultivators had a more
well-to-do look. They possess vast numbers of cattle. The houses have
conical roofs, and great quadrangular sheds, roofed with a flat
covering of thatch, are erected all round the houses, for the
protection of the cattle at night. The taxes must weigh heavily on the
population. The executive officer, when he gets charge of a district,
removes all the subordinates who have been acting under his
predecessor. When I asked the old Major if this would not interfere
with the efficient administration of justice, and the smooth working
of his revenue and executive functions, he gave a funny leer, almost a
wink, and said it was much more satisfactory to have men of your own
working under you, the fact being, that with his own men he could more
securely wring from the ryots the uttermost farthing they could pay,
and was more certain of getting his own share of the spoil.

With practically irresponsible power, and only answerable directly to
his immediate military superior, an unscrupulous man may harry and
harass a district pretty much as he chooses. Our old Major seemed to
be civil and lenient, but in some districts the exactions and
extortions of the rulers have driven many of the hard-working
Nepaulese over the border into our territory. Our landholders or
Zemindars, having vast areas of untilled land, are only too glad to
encourage this immigration, and give the exiles, whom they find
hard-working industrious tenants, long leases on easy terms. The
new-comers are very independent, and strenuously resist any
encroachment on what they consider their rights. If an attempt is made
to raise their rent, even equitably, the land having increased in
value, they will resist the attempt 'tooth and nail,' and take every
advantage the law affords to oppose it. They are very fond of
litigation, and are mostly able to afford the expense of a lawsuit. I
generally found it answer better to call them together and reason
quietly with them, submitting any point in dispute to an arbitration
of parties mutually selected.

Nearly all the rivers in Nepaul are formed principally from the
melting of the snow on the higher ranges. A vast body of water
descends annually into the plains from the natural surface drainage of
the country, but the melting of the snows is the main source of the
river system. Many of the hill streams, and it is particularly
observable at some seasons in the Koosee, have a regular daily rise
and fall. In the early morning you can often ford a branch of the
river, which by midday has become a swiftly-rolling torrent, filling
the channel from bank to bank. The water is intensely cold, and few or
no fish are to be found in the mountain streams of Nepaul. When the
Nepaulese come down to the plains on business, pleasure, or pilgrimage
their great treat is a mighty banquet of fish. For two or three
_annas_ a fish of several pounds weight can easily be purchased. They
revel on this unwonted fare, eating to repletion, and very frequently
making themselves ill in consequence. When Jung Bahadur came down
through Chumparun to attend the _durbar_ of the lamented Earl Mayo,
cholera broke out in his camp, brought on simply by the enormous
quantities of fish, often not very fresh or wholesome, which his
guards and camp followers consumed.

Large quantities of dried fish are sent up to Nepaul, and exchanged
for rice and other grain, or horns, hides, and blankets. The
fish-drying is done very simply in the sun. It is generally left till
it is half putrid and taints the air for miles. The sweltering,
half-rotting mass, packed in filthy bags, and slung on ponies or
bullocks, is sent over the frontier to some village bazaar in Nepaul.
The track of a consignment of this horrible filth can be recognised
from very far away. The perfume hovers on the road, and as you are
riding up and get the first sniff of the putrid odour, you know at
once that the Nepaulese market is being recruited by a _fresh_
accession of very _stale_ fish. If the taste is at all equal to the
smell, the rankest witches broth ever brewed in reeking cauldron would
probably be preferable. Over the frontier there seems to be few roads,
merely bullock tracks. Most of the transporting of goods is done by
bullocks, and intercommunication must be slow and costly. I believe
that near Katmandoo, the capital, the roads and bridges are good, and
kept in tolerable repair. There is an arsenal where they manufacture
modern munitions of war. Their soldiers are well disciplined, fairly
well equipped, and form excellent fighting material.

Our policy of annexation, so far as India is concerned, may perhaps be
now considered as finally abandoned. We have no desire to annex
Nepaul, but surely this system of utter isolation, of jealous
exclusion at all hazards of English enterprise and capital, might be
broken down to a mutual community of interest, a full and free
exchange of products, and a reception by Nepaul without fear and
distrust of the benefits our capitalists and pioneers could give the
country by opening out its resources, and establishing the industries
of the West on its fertile slopes and plains. I am no politician, and
know nothing of the secret springs of policy that regulate our
dealings with Nepaul, but it does seem somewhat weak and puerile to
allow the Nepaulese free access to our territories, and an unprotected
market in our towns for all their produce, while the British subject
is rigorously excluded from the country, his productions saddled with
a heavy protective duty, and the representative of our Government
himself, treated more as a prisoner in honourable confinement, than as
the accredited ambassador of a mighty empire.

I may be utterly wrong. There may be weighty reasons of State for this
condition of things, but it is a general feeling among Englishmen in
India that, _we_ have to do all the GIVE and our Oriental neighbours
do all the TAKE. The un-official English mind in India does not see
the necessity for the painfully deferential attitude we invariably
take in our dealings with native states. The time has surely come,
when Oriental mistrust of our intentions should be stoutly battled
with. There is room in Nepaul for hundreds of factories, for
tea-gardens, fruit-groves, spice-plantations, woollen-mills,
saw-mills, and countless other industries. Mineral products are
reported of unusual richness. In the great central valley the climate
approaches that of England. The establishment of productive industries
would be a work of time, but so long as this ridiculous policy of
isolation is maintained, and the exclusion of English tourists,
sportsmen, or observers carried out in all its present strictness, we
can never form an adequate idea of the resources of the country. The
Nepaulese themselves cannot progress. I am convinced that a frank and
unconstrained intercourse between Europeans and natives would create
no jealousy and antagonism, but would lead to the development of a
country singularly blessed by nature, and open a wide field for
Anglo-Saxon energy and enterprise. It does seem strange, with all our
vast territory of Hindustan accurately mapped out and known, roads and
railways, canals and embankments, intersecting it in all directions,
that this interesting corner of the globe, lying contiguous to our
territory for hundreds of miles, should be less known than the
interior of Africa, or the barren solitudes of the ice-bound Arctic
regions.

In these rich valleys hundreds of miles of the finest and most fertile
lands in Asia lie covered by dense jungle, waiting for labour and
capital. For the present we have enough to do in our own possessions
to reclaim the uncultured wastes; but considering the rapid increase
of population, the avidity with which land is taken up, the daily
increasing use of all modern labour-saving appliances, the time must
very shortly come when capital and energy will need new outlets, and
one of the most promising of these is in Nepaul. The rapid changes
which have come over the face of rural India, especially in these
border districts, within the last twenty years, might well make the
most thoughtless pause. Land has increased in value more than
two-fold. The price of labour and of produce has kept more than equal
pace. Machinery is whirring and clanking, where a few years ago a
steam whistle would have startled the natives out of their wits. With
cheap, easy, and rapid communication, a journey to any of the great
cities is now thought no more of than a trip to a distant village in
the same district was thought of twenty years ago. Everywhere are the
signs of progress. New industries are opening up. Jungle is fast
disappearing. Agriculture has wonderfully improved; and wherever an
indigo factory has been built, progress has taken the place of
stagnation, industry and thrift that of listless indolence and
shiftless apathy. A spirit has moved in the valley of dry bones, and
has clothed with living flesh the gaunt skeletons produced by
ignorance, disease, and want. The energy and intelligence of the
planter has breathed on the stagnant waters of the Hindoo intellect
the breath of life, and the living tide is heaving, full of activity,
purging by its resistless ever-moving pulsations the formerly stagnant
mass of its impurities, and making it a life-giving sea of active
industry and progress.

Let any unprejudiced observer see for himself if it be not so; let him
go to those districts where British capital and energy are not employed;
let him leave the planting districts, and go up to the wastes of
Oudh, or the purely native districts of the North-west, where there
are no Europeans but the officials in the _station_. He will find
fewer and worse roads, fewer wells, worse constructed houses, much
ruder cultivation, less activity and industry; more dirt, disease,
and desolation; less intelligence; more intolerance; and a peasantry
morally, mentally, physically, and in every way inferior to those who
are brought into daily contact with the Anglo-Saxon planters and
gentlemen, and have imbibed somewhat of their activity and spirit of
progress. And yet these are the men whom successive Lieutenant-Governors,
and Governments generally, have done their best to thwart and obstruct.
They have been misrepresented, held up to obloquy, and foully slandered;
they have been described as utterly base, fattening on the spoils of a
cowed and terror-ridden peasantry. Utterly unscrupulous, fearing neither
God nor man, hesitating at no crime, deterred by no consideration from
oppressing their tenantry, and compassing their interested ends by the
vilest frauds.

Such was the picture drawn of the indigo planter not so many years
ago. There may have been much in the past over which we would
willingly draw the veil, but at the present moment I firmly believe
that the planters of Behar--and I speak as an observant student of
what has been going on in India--have done more to elevate the
peasantry, to rouse them into vitality, and to improve them in every
way, than all the other agencies that have been at work with the same
end in view.

The Indian Government to all appearance must always work in extremes.
It never seems to hit the happy medium. The Lieutenant-Governor for
the time being impresses every department under him too strongly with
his own individuality. The planters, who are an intelligent and
independent body of men, have seemingly always been obnoxious to the
ideas of a perfectly despotic and irresponsible ruler. In spite
however of all difficulties and drawbacks, they have held their own. I
know that the poor people and small cultivators look up to them with
respect and affection. They find in them ready and sympathizing
friends, able and willing to shield them from the exactions of their
own more powerful and uncharitable fellow-countrymen. Half, nay
nine-tenths, of the stories against planters, are got up by the
money-lenders, the petty Zemindars, and wealthy villagers, who find
the planter competing with them for land and labour, and raising the
price of both. The poor people look to the factory as a never failing
resource when all else fails, and but for the assistance it gives in
money, or seed, or plough bullocks and implements of husbandry, many a
struggling hardworking tenant would inevitably go to the wall, or
become inextricably entangled in the meshes of the Bunneah and
money-lender.

I assert as a fact that the great majority of villagers in Behar would
rather go to the factory, and have their sahib adjudicate on their
dispute, than take it into Court. The officials in the indigo
districts know this, and as a rule are very friendly with the
planters. But not long since, an official was afraid to dine at a
planter's house, fearing he might be accused of planter proclivities.
In no other country in the world would the same jealousy of men who
open out and enrich a country, and who are loyal, intelligent, and
educated citizens, be displayed; but there are high quarters in which
the old feeling of the East India Company, that all who were not in
the service must be adventurers and interlopers, seems not wholly to
have died out.

That there have been abuses no one denies; but for years past the
majority of the planters in Tirhoot, Chupra, and Chumparun, and in the
indigo districts generally, not merely the managers, but the
proprietors and agents have been laudably and loyally stirring, in
spite of failures, reduced prices, and frequent bad seasons, to
elevate the standard of their peasantry, and establish the indigo
system on a fair and equitable basis. During the years when I was an
assistant and manager on indigo estates, the rates for payment of
indigo to cultivators nearly doubled, although prices for the
manufactured article remained stationary. In well managed factories,
the forcible seizure of carts and ploughs, and the enforcement of
labour, which is an old charge against planters, was unknown; and the
payment of tribute, common under the old feudal system, and styled
_furmaish_, had been allowed to fall into desuetude. The NATIVE
Zemindars or landholders however, still jealously maintain their
rights, and harsh exactions were often made by them on the cultivators
on the occasions of domestic events, such as births, marriages,
deaths, and such like, in the families of the landowners. For years
these exactions or feudal payments by the ryot to the Zemindar have
been commuted by the factories into a lump sum in cash, when villages
have been taken in farm, and this sum has been paid to the Zemindar as
an enhanced rent. In the majority of cases it has not been levied from
the cultivators, but the whole expense has been borne by the factory.
In individual instances resort may have been had to unworthy tricks to
harass the ryots, the factory middle-men having often been oppressors
and tyrants; but as a body, the indigo planters of the present day
have sternly set their faces to put down these oppressions, and have
honestly striven to mete out even-handed justice to their tenants and
dependants. With the spread of education and intelligence, the
development of agricultural knowledge and practical science, and the
vastly improved communication by roads, bridges, and ferries, in
bringing about all of which the planting community themselves have
been largely instrumental, there can be little doubt that these old
fashioned charges against the planters as a body will cease, and
public opinion will be brought to bear on any one who may promote his
own interests by cruelty or rapacity, instead of doing his business on
an equitable commercial basis, giving every man his due, relying on
skill, energy, industry, and integrity, to promote the best interests
of his factory; gaining the esteem and affection of his people by
liberality, kindness, and strict justice.

It can never be expected that a ryot can grow indigo at a loss to
himself, or at a lower rate of profit than that which the cultivation
of his other ordinary crops would give him, without at least some
compensating advantages. With all his poverty and supposed stupidity,
he is keenly alive to his own interests, quite able to hold his own in
matters affecting his pocket. I have no hesitation in saying that the
steady efforts which have been made by all the best planters to treat
the ryot fairly, to give him justice, to encourage him with liberal
aid and sympathy, and to put their mutual relations on a fair business
footing, are now bearing fruit, and will result in the cultivation and
manufacture of indigo in Upper Bengal becoming, as it deserves to
become, one of the most firmly established, fairly conducted, and
justly administered industries in India. That it may be so is, as I
know, the earnest wish, as it has long been the dearest object, of my
best friends among the planters of Behar.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The tiger.--His habitat.--Shooting on foot.--Modes of shooting.--A
tiger hunt on foot.--The scene of the hunt.-The beat.--Incidents of
the hunt.--Fireworks.--The tiger charges.--The elephant bolts.--The
tigress will not break.--We kill a half-grown cub.--Try again for
the tigress.--Unsuccessful.--Exaggerations in tiger stories.--My
authorities.--The brothers S.--Ferocity and structure of the tiger.
--His devastations.--His frame-work, teeth, &c.--A tiger at bay.
--His unsociable habits.--Fight between tiger and tigress.--Young
tigers.--Power and strength of the tiger.--Examples.--His cowardice.
--Charge of a wounded tiger.--Incidents connected with wounded tigers.
--A spined tiger.--Boldness of young tigers.--Cruelty.--Cunning.--Night
scenes in the jungle.--Tiger killed by a wild boar.--His cautious
habits.--General remarks.

In the foregoing chapters I have tried to perform my promise, to give
a general idea of our daily life in India; our toils and trials, our
sports, our pastimes, and our general pursuits. No record of Indian
sport, however, would be complete without some allusion to the kingly
tiger, and no one can live long near the Nepaul frontier, without at
some time or other having an encounter with the royal robber--the
striped and whiskered monarch of the jungle.

He is always to be found in the Terai forests, and although very
occasionally indeed met with in Tirhoot, where the population is very
dense, and waste lands infrequent, he is yet often to be encountered
in the solitudes of Oudh or Goruchpore, has been shot at and killed
near Bettiah, and at our pig-sticking ground near Kuderent. In North
Bhaugulpore and Purneah he may be said to be ALWAYS at home, as he can
be met there, if you search for him, at all seasons of the year.

In some parts of India, notably in the Deccan, and in some districts
on the Bombay side, and even in the Soonderbunds near Calcutta,
sportsmen and shekarries go after the tiger on foot. I must confess
that this seems to me a mad thing to do. With every advantage of
weapon, with the most daring courage, and the most imperturbable
coolness, I think a man no fair match for a tiger in his native
jungles. There are men now living who have shot numbers of tigers on
foot, but the numerous fatal accidents recorded every year, plainly
shew the danger of such a mode of shooting.

In Central India, in the North-west, indeed in most districts where
elephants are not easily procurable, it is customary to erect
_mychans_ or bamboo platforms on trees. A line of beaters, with
tom-toms, drums, fireworks, and other means for creating a din, are
then sent into the jungle, to beat the tigers up to the platform on
which you sit and wait. This is often a successful mode if you secure
an advantageous place, but accidents to the beaters are very common,
and it is at best a weary and vexatious mode of shooting, as after all
your trouble the tiger may not come near your _mychan_, or give you
the slightest glimpse of his beautiful skin.

I have only been out after tiger on foot on one occasion. It was in
the sal jungles in Oudh. A neighbour of mine, a most intimate and dear
friend, whom I had nicknamed the 'General,' and a young friend,
Fullerton, were with me. A tigress and cub were reported to be in a
dense patch of _nurkool_ jungle, on the banks of the creek which
divided the General's cultivation from mine. The nurkool is a tall
feathery-looking cane, very much relished by elephants. It grows in
dense brakes, and generally in damp boggy ground, affording complete
shade and shelter for wild animals, and is a favourite haunt of pig,
wolf, tiger, and buffalo.

We had only one elephant, the use of which Fullerton had got from a
neighbouring Baboo. It was not a staunch animal, so we put one of our
men in the howdah, with a plentiful supply of bombs, a kind of native
firework, enclosed in a clay case, which burns like a huge squib, and
sets fire to the jungle. Along with the elephant we had a line of
about one hundred coolies, and several men with drums and tom-toms.
Fullerton took the side nearest the river, as it was possible the
brute might sneak out that way, and make her escape along the bank.
The General's shekarry remained behind, in rear of the line of
beaters, in case the tigress might break the line, and try to escape
by the rear. My _Gomasta_, the General, and myself, then took up
positions behind trees all along the side of the glade or dell in
which was the bit of nurkool jungle.

It was a small basin, sloping gently down to the creek from the sal
jungle, which grew up dark and thick all around. A margin of close
sward, as green and level as a billiard-table, encircled the glade,
and in the basin the thick nurkool grew up close, dense, and high,
like a rustling barrier of living green. In the centre was the
decaying stump of a mighty forest monarch, with its withered arms
stretching out their bleached and shattered lengths far over the
waving feathery tops of the nurkool below.

The General and I cut down, some branches, which we stuck in the
ground before us. I had a fallen log in front of me, on which I rested
my guns. I had a naked _kookree_ ready to hand, for we were sure that
the tigress was in the swamp, and I did not know what might happen. I
did not half like this style of shooting, and wished I was safely
seated on the back of 'JORROCKS,' my faithful old Bhaugulpore
elephant. The General whistled as a sign for the beat to begin. The
coolies dashed into the thicket. The stately elephant slowly forced
his ponderous body through the crashing swaying brake. The rattle of
the tom-toms and rumble of the drums, mingled with the hoarse shouts
and cries of the beaters, the fiery rush of sputtering flame, and the
loud report as each bomb burst, with the huge volumes of blinding
smoke, and the scent of gunpowder that came on the breeze, told us
that the bombs were doing their work. The jungle was too green to
burn; but the fireworks raised a dense sulphurous smoke, which
penetrated among the tall stems of the nurkool, and by the waving and
crashing of the tall swaying canes, the heaving of the howdah, with
the red puggree of the peon, and the gleaming of the staves and
weapons, we could see that the beat was advancing.

As they neared the large withered tree in the centre of the brake, the
elephant curled up his trunk and trumpeted. This was a sure sign there
was game afoot. We could see the peon in the howdah leaning over the
front bar, and eagerly peering into the recesses of the thicket before
him. He lit one of the bombs, and hurled it right up against the hole
of the tree. It hissed and sputtered, and the smoke came curling over
the reeds in dense volumes. A roar followed that made the valley ring
again. We heard a swift rush. The elephant turned tail, and fled madly
away, crashing through the matted brake that crackled and tore under
his tread. The howdah swayed wildly, and the peon clung tenaciously on
to the top bar with all his desperate might. The _mahout_, or
elephant-driver, tried in vain to check the rush of the frightened
brute, but after repeated sounding whacks on the head he got her to
stop, and again turn round. Meantime the cries and shouting had
ceased, and the beaters came pouring from the jungle by twos and
threes, like the frightened inhabitants of some hive or ant-heap. Some
in their hurry came tumbling out headlong, others with their faces
turned backwards to see if anything was in pursuit of them, got
entangled in the reeds, and fell prone on their hands and knees. One
fellow had just emerged from the thick cover, when another terrified
compatriot dashed out in blind unreasoning fear close behind him. The
first one thought the tiger was on him. With one howl of anguish and
dismay he fled as fast as he could run, and the General and I, who had
witnessed the episode, could not help uniting in a resounding peal of
laughter, that did more to bring the scared coolies to their senses
than anything else we could have done.

There was no doubt now of the tiger's whereabouts. One of the beaters
gave us a most graphic description of its appearance and proportions.
According to him it was bigger than an elephant, had a mouth as wide
as a coal scuttle, and eyes that glared like a thousand suns. From all
this we inferred that there was a full grown tiger or tigress in the
jungle. We re-formed the line of beaters, and once more got the
elephant to enter the patch. The same story was repeated. No sooner
did they get near the old tree, than the tigress again charged with a
roar, and our valiant coolies and the chicken-hearted elephant vacated
the jungle as fast as their legs could carry them. This happened twice
or thrice. The tigress charged every time, but would not leave her
safe cover. The elephant wheeled round at every charge, and would not
shew fight. Fullerton got into the howdah, and fired two shots into
the spot where the tigress was lying. He did not apparently wound her,
but the reports brought her to the charge once more, and the elephant,
by this time fairly tired of the game, and thoroughly demoralised with
fear, bolted right away, and nearly cracked poor Fullerton's head
against the branch of a tree.

We could plainly see, that with only one elephant we could never
dislodge the tigress, so making the coolies beat up the patch in
lines, we shot several pig and a hog-deer, and adjourned for something
to eat by the bank of the creek. We had been trying to oust the
tigress for over four hours, but she was as wise as she was savage,
and refused to become a mark for our bullets in the open. After lunch
we made another grand attempt. We promised the coolies double pay if
they roused the tigress to flight. The elephant was forced again into
the nurkool very much against his will, and the mahout was promised a
reward if we got the tigress. The din this time was prodigious, and
strange to say they got quite close up to the big withered tree
without the usual roar and charge. This seemed somewhat to stimulate
the beaters and the old elephant. The coolies redoubled their cries,
smote among the reeds with their heavy staves, and shouted
encouragement to each other. Right in the middle of the line, as it
seemed to us from the outside, there was then a fierce roar and a
mighty commotion. Cries of fear and consternation arose, and forth
poured the coolies again, helter skelter, like so many rabbits from a
warren when the weasel or ferret has entered the burrow. Right before
me a huge old boar and a couple of sows came plunging forth. I let
them get on a little distance from the brake, and then with my
'Express' I rolled over the tusker and one of his companions, and just
then the General shouted out to me, 'There's the tiger!'

I looked in the direction of his levelled gun, and there at the edge
of the jungle was a handsome half-grown tiger cub, beautifully marked,
his tail switching angrily from side to side, and his twitching
retracted lips and bristling moustache drawn back like those of a
vicious cat, showing his gleaming polished fangs and teeth.

The General had a fine chance, took a steady aim, and shot the young
savage right through the heart. The handsome young tiger gave one
convulsive leap into the air and fell on his side stone dead. We could
not help a cheer, and shouted for Fullerton, who soon came running up.
We got some coolies together, but they were frightened to go near the
dead animal, as we could plainly hear the old vixen inside snarling
and snapping, for all the world like an angry terrier. We heard her
half-suppressed growl and snarl. She was evidently in a fine temper.
How we wished for a couple of staunch elephants to hunt her out of the
cane. It was no use, however, the elephant would not go near the
jungle again. The coolies were thoroughly scared, and had got plenty
of pork and venison to eat, so did not care for anything else. We
collected a lot of tame buffaloes, and tried to drive them through the
jungle, but the coolies had lost heart, and would not exert
themselves; so we had to content ourselves with the cub, who measured
six feet three inches (a very handsome skin it was), and very
reluctantly had to leave the savage mother alone. I never saw a brute
charge so persistently as she did. She always rushed forward with a
succession of roars, and was very wary and cunning. She never charged
home, she did not even touch the elephant or any of the coolies, but
evidently trusted to frighten her assailants away by a bold show and a
fierce outcry.

We went back two days after with five elephants, which with great
difficulty we had got together[1], and thoroughly beat the patch of
nurkool, killed a lot of pig and a couple of deer, shot an alligator,
and destroyed over thirty of its eggs, which we discovered on the bank
of the creek; and returning in the evening shot a nilghau and a black
buck, but the tigress had disappeared. She was gone, and we grumbled
sorely at our bad luck. That was the only occasion I was ever after
tiger on foot. It was doubtless intensely exciting work, and both
tigress and cub must have passed close to us several times, hidden by
the jungle. We were only about thirty paces from the edge of the
brake, and both animals must have seen us, although the dense cover
hid them from our sight. I certainly prefer shooting from the howdah.

Although it is beyond the scope of this book to enter into a detailed
account of the tiger, discussing his structure, habits, and
characteristics, it may aid the reader if I give a sketchy general
outline of some of the more prominent points of interest connected
with the monarch of the jungle, the cruel, cunning, ferocious king of
the cat tribe, the beautiful but dreaded tiger.

I should prefer to shew his character by incidents with which I have
myself been connected, but as many statements have been made about
tigers that are utterly absurd and untrue, and as tiger stories
generally contain a good deal of exaggeration, and a natural
scepticism unconsciously haunts the reader when tigers and tiger
shooting are the topics, it may be as well to state once for all, that
I shall put down nothing that cannot be abundantly substantiated by
reference to my own sporting journals, on those of the brothers S.,
friends and fellow-sportsmen of my own. To G.S. I am under great
obligations for many interesting notes he has given me about tiger
shooting. Joe, his brother, was long our captain in our annual
shooting parties. Their father and _his_ brother, the latter still
alive and a keen shot, were noted sportsmen at a time when game was
more plentiful, shooting more generally practised, and when to be a
good shot meant more than average excellence. The two brothers between
them have shot, I daresay, more than four hundred and fifty male and
female tigers, and serried rows of skulls ranged round the
billiard-rooms in their respective factories, bear witness to their
love of sport and the deadly accuracy of their aim. Under their
auspices I began my tiger shooting, and as they knew every inch of the
jungles, had for years been observant students of nature, were
acquainted with all the haunts and habits of every wild creature, I
acquired a fund of information about the tiger which I knew could be
depended on. It was the result of actual observation and experience,
and in most instances it was corroborated by my own experience in my
more limited sphere of action. Every incident I adduce, every
deduction I draw, every assertion I make regarding tigers and tiger
shooting can be plentifully substantiated, and abundantly testified
to, by my brother sportsmen of Purneah and Bhaugulpore. From their
valuable information I have got most of the material for this part of
my book.

Of the order FERAE, the family _felidae_, there is perhaps no animal
in the wide range of all zoology, so eminently fitted for destruction
as the tiger. His whole structure and appearance, combining beauty and
extreme agility with prodigious strength, his ferocity, and his
cunning, mark him out as the very type of a beast of prey. He is the
largest of the cat tribe, the most formidable race of quadrupeds on
earth. He is the most bloodthirsty in habit, and the most dreaded by
man. Whole tracts of fertile fields, reclaimed from the wild
luxuriance of matted jungle, and waving with golden grain, have been
deserted by the patient husbandmen, and allowed to relapse into
tangled thicket and uncultured waste on account of the ravages of this
formidable robber. Whole villages have been depopulated by tigers, the
mouldering door-posts, and crumbling rafters, met with at intervals in
the heart of the solitary jungle, alone marking the spot where a
thriving hamlet once sent up the curling smoke from its humble
hearths, until the scourge of the wilderness, the dreaded 'man-eater,'
took up his station near it, and drove the inhabitants in terror from
the spot. Whole herds of valuable cattle have been literally destroyed
by the tiger. His habitat is in those jungles, and near those
localities, which are most highly prized by the herdsmen of India for
their pastures, and the numbers of cattle that yearly fall before his
thirst for blood, and his greed for living prey, are almost
incredible. I have scarcely known a day pass, during the hot months,
on the banks of the Koosee, that news of a _kill_ has not been sent in
from some of the villages in my _ilaka_, and as a tiger eats once in
every four or five days, and oftener if he can get the chance, the
number of animals that fall a prey to his insatiable appetite, over
the extent of Hindustan, must be enormous. The annual destruction of
tame animals by tigers alone is almost incredible, and when we add to
this the wild buffalo, the deer, the pig, and other untamed animals,
to say nothing of smaller creatures, we can form some conception of
the destruction caused by the tiger in the course of a year.

His whole frame is put together to effect destruction. In cutting up a
tiger you are impressed with this. His tendons are masses of nerve and
muscle as hard as steel. The muscular development is tremendous. Vast
bands and layers of muscle overlap each other. Strong ligaments, which
you can scarcely cut through, and which soon blunt the sharpest knife,
unite the solid, freely-playing, loosely-jointed bones. The muzzle is
broad, and short, and obtuse. The claws are completely retractile. The
jaws are short. There are two false molars, two grinders above, and
the same number below. The upper carnivorous tooth has three lobes,
and an obtuse heel; the lower has two lobes, pointed and sharp, and no
heel. There is one very small tuberculous tooth above as an auxiliary,
and then the strong back teeth. The muscles of the jaws are of
tremendous power. I have come across the remains of a buffalo killed
by a tiger, and found all the large bones, even the big strong bones
of the pelvis and large joints, cracked and crunched like so many
walnuts, by the powerful jaws of the fierce brute.

The eye is peculiarly brilliant, and when glaring with fury it is
truly demoniac. With his bristles rigid, the snarling lips drawn back,
disclosing the formidable fangs, the body crouching for his spring,
and the lithe tail puffed up and swollen, and lashing restlessly from
side to side, each muscle tense and strung, and an undulating movement
perceptible like the motions of a huge snake, a crouching tiger at bay
is a sight that strikes a certain chill to the heart of the onlooker.
When he bounds forward, with a roar that reverberates among the mazy
labyrinths of the interminable jungle, he tests the steadiest nerve
and almost daunts the bravest heart.

In their habits they are very unsociable, and are only seen together
during the amatory season. When that is over the male tiger betakes
him again to his solitary predatory life, and the tigress becomes, if
possible, fiercer than he is, and buries herself in the gloomiest
recesses of the jungle. When the young are born, the male tiger has
often been known to devour his offspring, and at this time they are
very savage and quarrelsome. Old G., a planter in Purneah, once came
across a pair engaged in deadly combat. They writhed and struggled on
the ground, the male tiger striking tremendous blows on the chest and
flanks of his consort, and tearing her skin in strips, while the
tigress buried her fangs in his neck, tearing and worrying with all
the ferocity of her nature. She was battling for her young. G. shot
both the enraged combatants, and found that one of the cubs had been
mangled, evidently by his unnatural father. Another, which he picked
up in a neighbouring bush, was unharmed, but did not survive long.
Pairs have often been shot in the same jungle, but seldom in close
proximity, and it accords with all experience that they betray an
aversion to each other's society, except at the one season. This
propensity of the father to devour his offspring seems to be due to
jealousy or to blind unreasoning hate. To save her offspring the
female always conceals her young, and will often move far from the
jungle which she usually frequents.

When the cubs are able to kill for themselves, she seems to lose all
pleasure in their society, and by the time they are well grown she
usually has another batch to provide for. I have, however, shot a
tigress with a full-grown cub--the hunt described in the last chapter
is an instance--and on several occasions, my friend George has shot
the mother with three or four full-grown cubs in attendance. This is
however rare, and only happens I believe when the mother has remained
entirely separate from the company of the male.

The strength of the tiger is amazing. The fore paw is the most
formidable weapon of attack. With one stroke delivered with full
effect he can completely disable a large buffalo. On one occasion, on
the Koosee _derahs_, that is, the plains bordering the river, an
enraged tiger, passing through a herd of buffaloes, broke the backs of
two of the herd, giving each a stroke right and left as he went along.
One blow is generally sufficient to kill the largest bullock or
buffalo. Our captain, Joe, had once received _khubber_, that is, news
or information, of a kill by a tiger. He went straight to the
_baithan_, the herd's head-quarters, and on making enquiries, was told
that the tiger was a veritable monster.

'Did you see it?' asked Joe.

'I did not,' responded the _goala_ or cowherd.

'Then how do you know it was so large?'

'Because,' said the man, 'it killed the biggest buffalo in my herd,
and the poor brute only gave one groan.'

George once tracked a tiger, following up the drag of a bullock that
he had carried off. At one place the brute came to a ditch, which was
measured and found to be five feet in width. Through this there was no
drag, but the traces continued on the further side. The inference is,
that the powerful thief had cleared the ditch, taking the bullock
bodily with him at a bound. Others have been known to jump clear out
of a cattle pen, over a fence some six feet high, taking on one
occasion a large-sized calf, and another time a sheep.

Another wounded tiger, with two bullets in his flanks, the wound being
near the root of the tail, cleared a _nullah_, or dry watercourse, at
one bound. The nullah was stepped by George, and found to be
twenty-three paces wide. It is fortunate, with such tremendous powers
for attack, that the tiger will try as a rule to slink out of the way
if he can. He almost always avoids an encounter with man. His first
instinct is flight. Only the exciting incidents of the chase are as a
rule put upon record. A narrative of tiger shooting therefore is apt
in this respect to be a little misleading. The victims who meet their
death tamely and quietly (and they form the majority in every
hunt),--those that are shot as they are tamely trying to escape--are
simply enumerated, but the charging tiger, the old vixen that breaks
the line, and scatters the beaters to right and left, that rouses the
blood of the sportsmen to a fierce excitement, these are made the most
of. Every incident is detailed and dwelt upon, and thus the idea has
gained ground, that ALL tigers are courageous, and wait not for
attack, but in most instances take the initiative. It is not the case.
Most of the tigers I have seen killed would have escaped if they
could. It is only when brought to bay, or very hard pressed, or in
defence of its young, that a tiger or tigress displays its native
ferocity. At such a moment indeed, nothing gives a better idea of
savage determined fury and fiendish rage. With ears thrown back, brows
contracted, mouth open, and glaring yellow eyes scintillating with
fury, the cruel claws plucking at the earth, the ridgy hairs on the
back stiff and erect as bristles, and the lithe lissome body quivering
in every muscle and fibre with wrath and hate, the beast comes down to
the charge with a defiant roar, which makes the pulse bound and the
breath come short and quick. It requires all a man's nerve and
coolness, to enable him to make steady shooting.

Roused to fury by a wound, I have seen tigers wheel round with amazing
swiftness, and dash headlong, roaring dreadfully as they charged, full
upon the nearest elephant, scattering the line and lacerating the poor
creature on whose flanks or head they may have fastened, their whole
aspect betokening pitiless ferocity and fiendish rage.

Even in death they do not forget their savage instincts. I knew of one
case in which a seemingly dead tiger inflicted a fearful wound upon an
elephant that had trodden on what appeared to be his inanimate
carcase. Another elephant, that attacked and all but trampled a tiger
to death, was severely bitten under one of the toe-nails. The wound
mortified, and the unfortunate beast died in about a week after its
infliction. Another monster, severely wounded, fell into a pool of
water, and seized hold with its jaws of a hard knot of wood that was
floating about. In its death agony, it made its powerful teeth meet in
the hard wood, and not until it was being cut up, and we had divided
the muscles of the jaws, could we extricate the wood from that
formidable clench. In rage and fury, and mad with pain, the wounded
tiger will often turn round and savagely bite the wound that causes
its agony, and they very often bite their paws and shoulders, and tear
the grass and earth around them.

A tiger wounded in the spine, however, is the most exciting spectacle.
Paralysed in the limbs, he wheels round, roaring and biting at
everything within his reach. In 1874 I shot one in the spine, and
watched his furious movements for some time before I put him out of
his misery. I threw him a pad from one of the elephants, and the way
he tore and gnawed it gave me some faint idea of his fury and
ferocity. He looked the very personification of impotent viciousness;
the incarnation of devilish rage.

Urged by hunger the tiger fearlessly attacks his prey. The most
courageous are young tigers about seven or eight feet long. They
invariably give better sport than larger and older animals, being more
ready to charge, and altogether bolder and more defiant. Up to the age
of two years they have probably been with the mother, have never
encountered a reverse or defeat, and having become bold by impunity,
hesitate not to fly at any assailant whatever.

Like all the cat tribe, they are very cruel in disposition, often most
wantonly so. Having disabled his prey with the first onset, the tiger
plays with it as a cat does with a mouse, and, unless very sharp set
by hunger, he always indulges this love of torture. His attacks are by
no means due only to the cravings of his appetite. He often slays the
victims of a herd, in the wantonness of sport, merely to indulge his
murderous propensities. Even when he has had a good meal he will often
go on adding fresh victims, seemingly to gratify his sense of power,
and his love of slaughter. In teaching her cubs to kill for
themselves, the mother often displays great cruelty, frequently
killing at a time five or six cows from one herd. The young savages
are apt pupils, and 'try their prentice hand' on calves and weakly
members of the herd, killing from the mere love of murder.

Their cunning is as remarkable as their cruelty; what they lack in
speed they make up in consummate subtlety. They take advantage of the
direction of the wind, and of every irregularity of the ground. It is
amazing what slight cover will suffice to conceal their lurking forms
from the observation of the herd. During the day they generally
retreat to some cool and shady spot, deep in the recesses of the
jungle. Where the soft earth has been worn away with ragged hollows
and deep shady water-courses, where the tallest and most impenetrable
jungle conceals the winding and impervious paths, hidden in the gloom
and obscurity of the densely-matted grass, the lordly tiger crouches,
and blinks away the day. With the approach of night, however, his mood
undergoes a change. He hears the tinkle of the bells, borne by some of
the members of a retreating herd, that may have been feeding in close
proximity to his haunt all day long, and from which he has determined
to select a victim for his evening meal. He rouses himself and yawns,
stretches himself like the great cruel cat he is, and then crawls and
creeps silently along, by swampy watercourses, and through devious
labyrinths known to himself alone. He hangs on the outskirts of the
herd, prowling along and watching every motion of the returning
cattle. He makes his selection, and with infinite cunning and patience
contrives to separate it from the rest. He waits for a favourable
moment, when, with a roar that sends the alarmed companions of the
unfortunate victim scampering together to the front, he springs on his
unhappy prey, deprives it of all power of resistance with one
tremendous stroke, and bears it away to feast at his leisure on the
warm and quivering carcase.

He generally kills as the shades of evening are falling, and seldom
ventures on a foraging expedition by day. After nightfall it is
dangerous to be abroad in the jungles. It is then that dramas are
acted of thrilling interest, and unimaginable sensation scenes take
place. Some of the old shekarries and field-watchers frequently dig
shallow pits, in which they take their stand. Their eye is on the
level of the ground, and any object standing out in relief against the
sky line can be readily detected. If they could relate their
experiences, what absorbing narratives they could write. They see the
tiger spring upon his terror-stricken prey, the mother and her hungry
cubs prowling about for a victim, or two fierce tigers battling for
the favours of some sleek, striped, remorseless, bloodthirsty
forest-fiend. In pursuit of their quarry, they steal noiselessly
along, and love to make their spring unawares. They generally select
some weaker member of a herd, and are chary of attacking a strong
big-boned, horned animal. They sometimes 'catch a Tartar,' and
instances are known of a buffalo not only withstanding the attack of a
tiger successfully, but actually gaining the victory over his more
active assailant, whose life has paid the penalty of his rashness.

Old G. told me, he had come across the bodies of a wild boar and an
old tiger, lying dead together near Burgamma. The boar was fearfully
mauled, but the clean-cut gaping gashes in the striped hide of the
tiger, told how fearfully and gallantly he had battled for his life.

In emerging from the jungle at night, they generally select the same
path or spot, and approach the edge of the cover with great caution.
They will follow the same track for days together. Hence in some
places the tracks of the tigers are so numerous as to lead the tyro to
imagine that dozens must have passed, when in truth the tracks all
belong to one and the same brute. So acute is their perception, so
narrowly do they scrutinize every minute object in their path, so
suspicious is their nature, that anything new in their path, such as a
pitfall, a screen of cut grass, a _mychan_, that is, a stage from
which you might be intending to get a shot, nay, even the print of a
footstep--a man's, a horse's, an elephant's--is often quite enough to
turn them from a projected expedition, or at any rate to lead them to
seek some new outlet from the jungle. In any case it increases their
wariness, and under such circumstances it becomes almost impossible to
get a shot at them from a pit or shooting-stage. Their vision, their
sense of smell, of hearing, all their perceptions are so acute, that I
think lying in wait for them is chiefly productive of weariness and
vexation of spirit. It is certainly dangerous, and the chances of a
successful shot are so problematical, while the _disagreeables_, and
discomforts, and dangers are so real and tangible, that I am inclined
to think this mode of attack 'hardly worth the candle.'

With all his ferocity and cruelty, however, I am of opinion that the
tiger is more cowardly than courageous. He will always try to escape a
danger, and fly from attack, rather than attack in return or wait to
meet it, and wherever he can, in pursuit of his prey, he will trust
rather to his cunning than to his strength, and he always prefers an
ambuscade to an open onslaught.


[1] This was at the time the Prince of Wales was shooting in Nepaul,
    not very far from where I was then stationed. Most of the
    elephants in the district had been sent up to his Royal Highness's
    camp, or were on their way to take part in the ceremonies of the
    grand _Durbar_ in Delhi.




CHAPTER XIX.


The tiger's mode of attack.--The food he prefers.--Varieties of prey.
--Examples.--What he eats first.--How to tell the kill of a tiger.
--Appetite fierce.--Tiger choked by a bone.--Two varieties of
tiger.--The royal Bengal.--Description.--The hill tiger.--His
description.--The two compared.--Length of the tiger.--How to
measure tigers.--Measurements.--Comparison between male and female.
--Number of young at a birth.--The young cubs.--Mother teaching cubs
to kill.--Education and progress of the young tiger.--Wariness and
cunning of the tiger.--Hunting incidents shewing their powers of
concealment.--Tigers taking to water.--Examples.--Swimming powers.
--Caught by floods.--Story of the Soonderbund tigers.

The tiger's mode of attack is very characteristic of his whole nature.
To see him stealthily crouching, or crawling silently and sneakingly
after a herd of cattle, dodging behind every clump of bushes or tuft
of grass, running swiftly along the high bank of a watercourse, and
sneaking under the shadowing border of a belt of jungle, is to
understand his cunning and craftiness. His attitude, when he is
crouching for the final bound, is the embodiment of suppleness and
strength. All his actions are graceful, and half display and half
conceal beneath their symmetry and elegance the tremendous power and
deadly ferocity that lurks beneath. For a short distance he is
possessed of great speed, and with a few short agile bounds he
generally manages to overtake his prey. If baffled in his first
attack, he retires growling to lie in wait for a less fortunate
victim. His onset being so fierce and sudden, the animal he selects
for his prey is generally taken at a great disadvantage, and is seldom
in a position to make any strenuous or availing resistance.

Delivering the numbing blow with his mighty fore paw, he fastens on
the throat of the animal he has felled, and invariably tries to tear
open the jugular vein. This is his practice in nearly every case, and
it shews a wonderful instinct for selecting the most deadly spot in
the whole body of his luckless prey. When he has got hold of his
victim by the throat, he lies down, holding on to the bleeding
carcase, snarling and growling, and fastening and withdrawing his
claws, much as a cat does with a rat or mouse. Some writers say he
then proceeds to drink the blood, but this is just one of those broad
general assertions which require proof. In some cases he may quench
his thirst and gratify his appetite for blood by drinking it from the
gushing veins of his quivering victim, but in many cases I know from
observation, that the blood is not drunk. If the tiger is very hungry
he then begins his feast, tearing huge fragments of flesh from the
dead body, and not unusually swallowing them whole. If he is not
particularly hungry, he drags the carcase away, and hides it in some
well-known spot. This is to preserve it from the hungry talons and
teeth of vultures and jackals. He commonly remains on guard near his
_cache_ until he has acquired an appetite. If he cannot conveniently
carry away his quarry, because of its bulk, or the nature of the
ground, or from being disturbed, he returns to the place at night and
satisfies his appetite.

Tigers can sneak crouchingly along as fast as they can trot, and it is
wonderful how silently they can steal on their prey. They seem to have
some stray provident fits, and on occasions make provision for future
wants. There are instances on record of a tiger dragging a _kill_
after him for miles, over water, and through slush and weeds, and
feasting on the carcase days after he has killed it. It is a fact, now
established beyond a doubt, that he will eat carrion and putrid flesh,
but only from necessity and not from choice.

On one occasion my friends put up a tigress during the rains, when
there are few cattle in the _derahs_ or plains near the river. She had
killed a pig, and was eagerly devouring the carcase when she was
disturbed. Snarling and growling, she made off with a leg of pork in
her mouth, when a bullet ended her career. They seem to prefer pork
and venison to almost any other kind of food, and no doubt pig and
deer are their natural and usual prey. The influx, however, of vast
herds of cattle, and the consequent presence of man, drive away the
wild animals, and at all events make them more wary and more difficult
to kill. Finding domestic cattle unsuspicious, and not very formidable
foes, the tiger contents himself at a pinch with beef, and judging
from his ravages he comes to like it. Getting bolder by impunity, he
ventures in some straits to attack man. He finds him a very easy prey;
he finds the flesh too, perhaps, not unlike his favourite pig.
Henceforth he becomes a 'man-eater,' the most dreaded scourge and
pestilent plague of the district. He sometimes finds an old boar a
tough customer, and never ventures to attack a buffalo unless it be
grazing alone, and away from the rest of the herd. When buffaloes are
attacked, they make common cause against their crafty and powerful
foe, and uniting together in a crescent-shaped line, their horns all
directed in a living _cheval-de-frise_ against the tiger, they rush
tumultuously at him, and fairly hunt him from the jungle. The pig,
having a short thick neck, and being tremendously muscular, is hard to
kill; but the poor inoffensive cow, with her long-neck, is generally
killed at the first blow, or so disabled that it requires little
further effort to complete the work of slaughter.

Two friends of mine once shot an enormous old tiger on a small island
in the middle of the river, during the height of the annual rains. The
brute had lost nearly all its hair from mange, and was an emaciated
sorry-looking object. From the remains on the island--the skin,
scales, and bones--they found that he must have slain and eaten
several alligators during his enforced imprisonment on the island.
They will eat alligators when pressed by hunger, and they have been
known to subsist on turtles, tortoises, iguanas, and even jackals.
Only the other day in Assam, a son of Dr. B. was severely mauled by a
tiger which sprang into the verandah after a dog. There were three
gentlemen in the verandah, and, as you may imagine, they were taken
not a little by surprise. They succeeded in bagging the tiger, but not
until poor B. was very severely hurt.

After tearing the throat open, they walk round the prostrate carcase
of their prey, growling and spitting like 'tabby' cats. They begin
their operations in earnest, invariably on the buttock. A leopard
generally eats the inner portion of the thigh first. A wolf tears open
the belly, and eats the intestines first. A vulture, hawk, or kite,
begins on the eyes; but a tiger invariably begins on the buttocks,
whether of buffalo, cow, deer, or pig. He then eats the fatty covering
round the intestines, follows that up with the liver and udder, and
works his way round systematically to the fore-quarters, leaving the
head to the last. It is frequently the only part of an animal that
they do not eat.

A 'man-eater' eats the buttocks, shoulders, and breasts first. So many
carcases are found in the jungle of animals that have died from
disease or old age, or succumbed to hurts and accidents, that the
whitened skeletons meet the eye in hundreds. But one can always tell
the kill of a tiger, and distinguish between it and the other bleached
heaps. The large bones of a tiger's kill are always broken. The broad
massive rib bones are crunched in two as easily as a dog would snap
the drumstick of a fowl. Vultures and jackals, the scavengers of the
jungle, are incapable of doing this; and when you see the fractured
large bones, you can always tell that the whiskered monarch has been
on the war-path. George S. writes me:--

'I have known a tiger devour a whole bullock to his own cheek in one
day. Early in the morning a man came to inform me he had seen a tiger
pull down a bullock. I went after the fellow late in the afternoon,
and found him in a bush not more than twenty feet square, the only
jungle he had to hide in for some distance round, and in this he had
polished off the bullock, nothing remaining save the head. The jungle
being so very small, and he having lain the whole day in it, nothing
in the way of vultures or jackals could have assisted him in finishing
off the bullock.'

When hungry they appear to bolt large masses of flesh without
masticating it. The same correspondent writes:--

'We cut out regular "fids" once from a tiger's stomach, also large
pieces of bone. Joe heard a tremendous roaring one night, which
continued till near morning, not far from Nipunneah. He went out at
dawn to look for the tiger, which he found was dead. The brute had
tried to swallow the knee-joint of a bullock, and it had stuck in his
gullet. This made him roar from pain, and eventually choked him.'

As there are two distinct varieties of wild pig in India, so there
seems to be little doubt that there are two distinct kinds of tigers.
As these have frequently crossed we find many hybrids. I cannot do
better than again quote from my obliging and observant friend George.
The two kinds he designates as 'The Royal Bengal,' and 'The Hill
Tiger,' and goes on to say:--

'As a rule the stripes of a Royal Bengal are single and dark. The
skull is widely different from that of his brother the Hill tiger,
being low in the crown, wider in the jaws, rather flat in comparison,
and the brain-pan longer with a sloping curve at the end, the crest of
the brain-pan being a concave curve.

'The Hill tiger is much more massively built; squat and thick set,
heavier in weight and larger in bulk, with shorter tail, and very
large and powerful neck, head, and shoulders. The stripes generally
are double, and of a more brownish tinge, with fawn colour between the
double stripes. The skull is high in the crown, and not quite so wide.
The brain-pan is shorter, and the crest slightly convex or nearly
straight, and the curve at the end of the skull rather abrupt.

'They never grow so long as the "Bengal," yet look twice as big.

'The crosses are very numerous, and vary according to pedigree, in
stripes, skulls, form, weight, bulk, and tail. This I find most
remarkable when I look at my collection of over 160 skulls.

'The difference is better marked in tigers than in tigresses. The
Bengal variety are not as a rule as ferocious as the Hill tiger. Being
more supple and cunning, they can easier evade their pursuers by
flight and manoeuvre than, their less agile brothers. The former,
owing to deficiency of strength, oftener meet with discomfiture, and
consequently are more wary and cunning; while the latter, prone to
carry everything before them, trust more to their strength and
courage, anticipating victory as certain.

'In some the stripes are doubled throughout, in others only partially
so, while in some they are single throughout, and some have manes to a
slight extent.'

I have no doubt this classification is correct. The tigers I have seen
in Nepaul near the hills, were sometimes almost a dull red, and at a
distance looked like a huge dun cow, while those I have seen in the
plains during our annual hunts, were of a bright tawny yellow, longer,
more lanky, and not shewing half such a bold front as their bulkier
and bolder brethren of the hills.

The length of the tiger has often given rise to fierce discussions
among sportsmen. The fertile imagination of the slayer of a solitary
'stripes,' has frequently invested the brute he has himself shot, or
seen shot, or perchance heard of as having been shot by a friend, or
the friend of a friend, with a, fabulous length, inches swelling to
feet, and dimensions growing at each repetition of the yarn, till, as
in the case of boars, the twenty-eight incher becomes a forty inch
tusker, and the eight foot tiger stretches to twelve or fourteen feet.

Purists again, sticklers for stern truth, haters of bounce or
exaggeration, have perhaps erred as much on the other side; and in
their eagerness to give the exact measurement, and avoid the very
appearance of exaggeration, they actually stretch their tape line and
refuse to measure the curves of the body, taking it in straight lines.
This I think is manifestly unfair.

Our mode of measurement in Purneah was to take the tiger as he lay
before he was put on the elephant, and measure from the tip of the
nose, over the crest of the skull, along the undulations of the body,
to the tip of the tail. That is, we followed the curvature of the
spine along the dividing ridge of the back, and always were careful
and fair in our attempts. I am of opinion that a tiger over ten feet
long is an exceptionally long one, but when I read of sportsmen
denying altogether that even that length can be attained, I can but
pity the dogmatic scepticism that refuses credence to well ascertained
and authenticated facts. I believe also that tigers are not got nearly
so large as in former days. I believe that much longer and heavier
tigers--animals larger in every way--were shot some twenty years ago
than those we can get now, but I account for this by the fact that
there is less land left waste and uncultivated. There are more roads,
ferries, and bridges, more improved communications, and in consequence
more travelling. Population and cultivation have increased; firearms
are more numerous; sport is more generally followed; shooting is much
more frequent and deadly; and, in a word, tigers have not the same
chances as they had some twenty years ago of attaining a ripe old age,
and reaching the extremest limit of their growth. The largest tigers
being also the most suspicious and wary, are only found in the
remotest recesses of the impenetrable jungles of Nepaul and the Terai,
or in those parts of the Indian wilds where the crack of the European
rifle is seldom or never heard.

It has been so loudly asserted, and so boldly maintained that no tiger
was ever shot reaching, when fairly measured (that is, measured with
the skin on, as he lay), ten feet, that I will let Mr. George again
speak for himself. Referring to the royal Bengal, he says:--

'These grow to great lengths. They have been shot as long as twelve
feet seven inches (my father shot one that length) or longer; twelve
feet seven inches, twelve feet six inches, twelve feet three inches,
twelve feet one inch, and twelve feet, have been shot and recorded in
the old sporting magazines by gentlemen of undoubted veracity in
Purneah.

'I have seen the skin of one twelve feet one inch, compared with which
the skin of one I have by me _that measured as he lay_ (the italics
are mine) eleven feet one inch, looks like the skin of a cub. The old
skin looks more like that of a huge antediluvian species in comparison
with the other.

'The twelve footer was so heavy that my uncle (C.A.S.) tells me no
number of mahouts could lift it. Several men, if they could have
approached at one and the same time, might have been able to do so,
but a sufficient number of men could not lay hold simultaneously to
move the body from the ground.

'Eventually a number of bamboos had to be cut, and placed in an
incline from the ground to the elephant's saddle while the elephant
knelt down, and up this incline the tiger had to be regularly hauled
and shoved, and so fastened on the elephant.

'He (the tiger) mauled four elephants, one of whom died the same day,
and one other had a narrow _batch_, i.e. escape, of its life.

In another communication to me, my friend goes over the same ground,
but as the matter is one of interest to sportsmen and naturalists, I
will give the extract entire. It proceeds as follows:--

'Tigers grow to great lengths, some assert to even fourteen feet. I do
not say they do not, but such cases are very rare, and require
authentication. The longest I have seen, measured as he lay, eleven
feet one inch (see "Oriental Sporting Magazine," for July, 1871, p.
308). He was seven feet nine inches from tip of nose to root of tail;
root of tail one foot three inches in circumference; round chest four
feet six inches; length of head one foot two inches; fore arm two feet
two inches; round the head two feet ten inches; length of tail three
feet four inches.

'Besides this, I have shot another eleven feet, and one ten feet
eleven inches.

'The largest tigress I have shot was at Sahareah, which measured ten
feet two inches. I shot another ten feet exactly.' (See O.S.M., Aug.,
1874, p. 358.)

'I have got the head of a tiger, shot by Joe, which measured eleven
feet five inches. It was shot at Baraila.

'The male is much bigger built in every way--length, weight, size,
&c., than the female. The males are more savage, the females more
cunning and agile. The arms, body, paws, head, skull, claws, teeth,
&c., of the female, are smaller. The tail of tigress longer; hind legs
more lanky; the prints look smaller and more contracted, and the toes
nearer together. It is said that though a large tiger may venture to
attack a buffalo, the tigress refrains from doing so, but I have found
this otherwise in my experience.

'I have kept a regular log of all tigers shot by me. The average
length of fifty-two tigers recorded in my journal is nine feet six and
a half inches (cubs excluded), and of sixty-eight tigresses (cubs
excluded), eight feet four inches.

'The average of tigers and tigresses is eight feet ten and a quarter
inches. This is excluding cubs I have taken alive.'

As to measurements, he goes on to make a few remarks, and as I cannot
improve on them I reproduce the original passage:--

'Several methods have been recommended for measuring tigers. I measure
them on the ground, or when brought to camp before skinning, and run
the tape tight along the line, beginning at the tip of the nose, along
the middle of the skull, between the ears and neck, then along the
spine to the end of the tail, taking any curves of the body.

'No doubt measurements of skull, body, tail, legs, &c., ought all to
be taken, to give an adequate idea of the tiger, and for comparing
them with one another, but this is not always feasible.'

Most of the leading sportsmen in India now-a-days are very particular
in taking the dimensions of every limb of the dead tiger. They take
his girth, length, and different proportions. Many even weigh the
tiger when it gets into camp, and no doubt this test is one of the
best that can be given for a comparison of the sizes of the different
animals slain.

Another much disputed point in the natural history of the animal, a
point on which there has been much acrimonious discussion, is the
number of young that are given at a birth. Some writers have asserted,
and stoutly maintained, that two cubs, or at the most three, is the
extreme number of young brought forth at one time.

This may be the ordinary number, but the two gentlemen I have already
alluded to have assured me, that on frequent occasions they have
picked up four actually born, and have cut out five several times, and
on one occasion six, from the womb of a tigress.

I have myself picked up four male cubs, all in one spot, with their
eyes just beginning to open, and none of their teeth through the gums.
One had been trampled to death by buffaloes, the other three were
alive and scatheless, huddled into a bush, like three immense kittens.
I kept the three for a considerable time, and eventually took them to
Calcutta and sold them for a very satisfactory price.

It seems clear, however, that the tigress frequently has four and even
five cubs. It is rare, indeed to find her accompanied by more than two
well grown cubs, very seldom three; and the inference is, that one or
two of the young tigers succumb in very early life.

The young ones do not appear to grow very quickly; they are about a
foot long when they are born; they are born blind, with very minute
hair, almost none in fact, but with the stripes already perfectly
marked on the soft supple skin; they open their eyes when they are
eight or ten days old, at which time they measure about a foot and a
half. At the age of nine months they have attained to five feet in
length, and are waxing mischievous. Tiger cubs a year old average
about five feet eight inches, tigresses some three inches or so less.
In two years they grow respectively to--the male seven feet six
inches, and the female seven feet. At about this time they leave the
mother, if they have not already done so, and commence depredations on
their own account. In fact, their education has been well attended to.
The mother teaches them to kill when they are about a year old. A
young cub that measured only six feet, and whose mother had been shot
in one of the annual beats, was killed while attacking a full grown
cow in the government pound at Dumdaha police station. When they reach
the length of six feet six inches they can kill pretty easily, and
numbers have been shot by George and other Purneah sportsmen close to
their 'kills.'

They are most daring and courageous when they have just left their
mother's care, and are cast forth to fight the battle of life for
themselves. While with the old tigress their lines have been cast in
not unpleasant places, they have seldom known hunger, and have
experienced no reverses. Accustomed to see every animal succumb to her
well planned and audacious attacks, they fancy that nothing will
withstand their onslaught. They have been known to attack a line of
elephants, and to charge most determinedly, even in this adolescent
stage.

Bye-and-bye, however, as they receive a few rude shocks from
buffaloes, or are worsted in a hand-to-hand encounter with some tough
old bull, or savage old grey boar, more especially if they get an ugly
rip or two from the sharp tusks of an infuriated fighting tusker, they
begin to be less aggressive, they learn that discretion may be the
better part of valour, and their cunning instincts are roused. In
fact, their education is progressing, and in time they instinctively
discover every wile and dodge and cunning stratagem, and display all
the wondrous subtlety of their race in procuring their prey.

Old tigers are invariably more wary, cautious, and suspicious than
young ones, and till they are fairly put to it by hunger, hurt, or
compulsion, they endeavour to keep their stripes concealed. When
brought to bay, however, there is little to reproach them with on the
score of cowardice, and it will be matter of rejoicing if you or your
elephants do not come off second best in the encounter. Even in the
last desperate case, a cunning old tiger will often make a feint, or
sham rush, or pretended charge, when his whole object is flight. If he
succeed in demoralising the line of elephants, roaring and dashing
furiously about, he will then try in the confusion to double through,
unless he is too badly wounded to be able to travel fast, in which
case he will fight to the end.

Old fellows are well acquainted with every maze and thicket in the
jungles, and they no sooner hear the elephants enter the 'bush' or
'cover' than they make off for some distant shelter. If there is no
apparent chance of this being successful, they try to steal out
laterally and outflank the line, or if that also is impossible, they
hide in some secret recess like a fox, or crouch low in some clumpy
bush, and trust to you or your elephant passing by without noticing
their presence.

It is marvellous in what sparse cover they will manage to lie up. So
admirably do their stripes mingle with the withered and charred
grass-stems and dried up stalks, that it is very difficult to detect
the dreaded robber when he is lying flat, extended, close to the
ground, so still and motionless that you cannot distinguish a tremor
or even a vibration of the grass in which he is crouching.

On one occasion George followed an old tiger through some stubble
about three feet high. It had been well trampled down too by tame
buffaloes. The tiger had been tracked into the field, and was known to
be in it. George was within ten yards of the cunning brute, and
although mounted on a tall elephant, and eagerly scanning the thin
cover with his sharpest glance, he could not discern the concealed
monster. His elephant was within four paces of it, when it sprang up
at the charge, giving a mighty roar, which however also served as its
death yell, as a bullet from George's trusty gun crashed through its
ribs and heart.

Tigers can lay themselves so flat on the ground, and lie so perfectly
motionless, that it is often a very easy thing to overlook them. On
another occasion, when the Purneah Hunt were out, a tigress that had
been shot got under some cover that was trampled down by a line of
about twenty elephants. The sportsmen knew that she had been severely
wounded, as they could tell by the gouts of blood, but there was no
sign of the body. She had disappeared. After a long search, beating
the same ground over and over again, an elephant trod on the dead body
lying under the trampled canes, and the mahout got down and discovered
her lying quite dead. She was a large animal and full grown.

On another occasion George was after a fine male tiger. He was
following up fast, but coming to a broad nullah, full of water, he
suddenly lost sight of his game. He looked up and down the bank, and
on the opposite bank, but could see no traces of the tiger. Looking
down, he saw in the water what at first he took to be a large
bull-frog. There was not a ripple on the placid stagnant surface of
the pool. He marvelled much, and just then his mahout pointed to the
supposed bull-frog, and in an excited whisper implored George to fire.
A keener look convinced George that it really was the tiger. It was
totally immersed all but the face, and lying so still that not the
faintest motion or ripple was perceptible. He fired and inflicted a
terrible wound. The tiger bounded madly forward, and George gave it
its quietus through the spine as it tried to spring up the opposite
bank.

A nearly similar case occurred to old Mr. C., one of the veteran
sportsmen of Purneah. A tiger had bolted towards a small tank or pond,
and though the line followed up in hot pursuit, the brute disappeared.
Old C., keener than the others, was loth to give up the pursuit, and
presently discerned a yellowish reflection in the clear water. Peering
more intently, he could discover the yellowish tawny outline of the
cunning animal, totally immersed in the water, save its eyes, ears,
and nose. He shot the tiger dead, and it sank to the bottom like a
stone. So perfectly had it concealed itself, that the other sportsmen
could not for the life of them imagine what old C. had fired at, till
his mahout got down and began to haul the dead animal out of the
water.

Tigers are not at all afraid of water, and are fast and powerful
swimmers. They swim much after the fashion of a horse, only the head
out of the water, and they make scarcely any ripple.

'In another case,' writes George, 'though not five yards from the
elephant, and right under me, a tiger was swimming with so slight a
ripple that I mistook it for a rat, until I saw the stripes emerge,
when I perforated his jacket with a bullet.'

Only their head remaining out of water when they are swimming, they
are very hard to hit, as shooting at an object on water is very
deceptive work as to judging distance, and a tiger's head is but a
small object to aim at when some little way off.

Old C. had another adventure with a cunning rogue, which all but ended
disastrously. He was in hot pursuit of the tiger, and, finding no
safety on land, it took to swimming in a broad unfordable piece of
water, a sort of deep lagoon. Old C. procured a boat that was handy,
and got a coolie to paddle him out after the tiger. He fired several
shots at the exposed head of the brute, but missed. He thought he
would wait till he got nearer and make a sure shot, as he had only one
bullet left in the boat. Suddenly the tiger turned round, and made
straight for the boat. Here was a quandary. Even if lie killed the
tiger with his single bullet it might upset the boat; the lagoon was
full of alligators, to say nothing of weeds, and there was no time to
get his heavy boots off. He felt his life might depend on the accuracy
of his aim. He fired, and killed the tiger stone dead within four or
five yards of the boat.

On one occasion, when out with our worthy district magistrate, Mr. S.,
I came on the tracks of what to all appearance, was a very large
tiger. They led over the sand close to the water's edge, and were very
distinct. I could see no returning marks, so I judged that the tiger
must have taken to the water. The stream was rapid and deep, and
midway to the further bank was a big, oblong-shaped, sandy islet, some
five or six hundred yards long, and having a few scrubby bushes
growing sparsely on it. We put our elephants into the rapid current,
and got across. The river here was nearly a quarter of a mile wide on
each side of the islet. As we emerged from the stream on to the island
we found fresh tracks of the tiger. They led us completely round the
circumference of the islet. The tiger had evidently been in quest of
food. The prints were fresh and very well defined. Finding that all
was barren on the sandy shore, he entered the current again, and
following up we found his imprint once more on the further bank,
several hundred yards down the stream.

One tiger was killed stone dead by a single bullet during one of our
annual hunts, and falling back into the water, it sank to the bottom
like lead. Being unable to find the animal, we beat all round the
place, till I suggested it might have been hit and fallen into the
river. One of the men was ordered to dive down, and ascertain if the
tiger was at the bottom. The river water is generally muddy, so that
the bottom cannot be seen. Divesting himself of puggree, and girding
up his loins, the diver sank gently to the bottom, but presently
reappeared in a palpable funk, puffing and blowing, and declaring that
the tiger was certainly at the bottom. The foolish fellow thought it
might be still alive. We soon disabused his mind of that idea, and had
the dead tiger hauled up to dry land.

Surprised by floods, a tiger has been known to remain for days on an
ant-hill, and even to take refuge on the branch of some large tree,
but he takes to water readily, and can swim for over a mile, and he
has been known to remain for days in from two to three feet depth of
water.

A time-honoured tiger story with old hands, used to tell how the
Soonderbund tigers got carried out to sea. If the listener was a new
arrival, or a _gobe mouche_, they would explain that the tigers in the
Soonderbunds often get carried out to sea by the retiring tide. It
would sweep them off as they were swimming from island to island in
the vast delta of Father Ganges. Only the young ones, however,
suffered this lamentable fate. The older and more wary fellows, taught
perhaps by sad experience, used always to dip their tails in, before
starting on a swim, so as to ascertain which way the tide was flowing.
If it was the flow of the tide they would boldly venture in, but if it
was ebb tide, and there was the slightest chance of their being
carried out to sea, they would patiently lie down, meditate on the
fleeting vanity of life, and like the hero of the song--

  'Wait for the turn of the tide.'

Without venturing an opinion on this story, I may confidently assert,
that the tiger, unlike his humble prototype the domestic cat, is not
really afraid of water, but will take to it readily to escape a
threatened danger, or if he can achieve any object by 'paddling his
own canoe.'




CHAPTER XX.


No regular breeding season.--Beliefs and prejudices of the natives
about tigers.--Bravery of the 'gwalla,' or cowherd caste.--Clawmarks
on trees.--Fondness for particular localities.--Tiger in Mr. F.'s
howdah.--Springing powers of tigers.--Lying close in cover.--Incident.
--Tiger shot with No. 4 shot.--Man clawed by a tiger.--Knocked its eye
out with a sickle.--Same tiger subsequently shot in same place.--Tigers
easily killed.--Instances.--Effect of shells on tiger and buffalo.--Best
weapon and bullets for tiger.--Poisoning tigers denounced.--Natives
prone to exaggerate in giving news of tiger.--Anecdote.--Beating for
tiger.--Line of elephants.--Padding dead game.--Line of seventy-six
elephants.--Captain of the hunt.--Flags for signals in the line.
--'Naka,' or scout ahead.--Usual time for tiger shooting on the
Koosee.--Firing the jungle.--The line of fire at night.--Foolish to
shoot at moving jungle.--Never shoot down the line.--Motions of
different animals in the grass.

Tigers seem to have no regular breeding season. As a rule the male and
female come together in the autumn and winter, and the young ones are
born in the spring and summer. All the young tigers I have ever heard
of have been found in March, April, and May, and so on through the
rains.

The natives have many singular beliefs and prejudices about tigers,
and they are very often averse to give the slightest information as to
their whereabouts. To a stranger they will either give no information
at all, pleading entire ignorance, or they will wilfully mislead him,
putting him on a totally wrong track. If you are well known to the
villagers, and if they have confidence in your nerve and aim, they
will eagerly tell you everything they know, and will accompany you on
your elephant, to point out the exact spot where the tiger was last
seen. In the event of a 'find' they always look for _backsheesh_, even
though your exertions may have rid their neighbourhood of an
acknowledged scourge.

The _gwalla_, or cowherd caste, seem to know the habits of the yellow
striped robber very accurately. Accompanied by their herd they will
venture into the thickest jungle, even though they know that it is
infested by one or more tigers. If any member of the herd is attacked,
it is quite common for the _gwalla_ to rush up, and by shouts and even
blows try to make the robber yield up his prey. This is no
exaggeration, but a simple fact. A cowherd attacked by a tiger has
been known to call up his herd by cries, and they have succeeded in
driving off his fierce assailant. No tiger will willingly face a herd
of buffaloes or cattle united for mutual defence. Surrounded by his
trusty herd, the _gwalla_ traverses the densest jungle and most
tiger-infested thickets without fear.

They believe that to rub the fat of the tiger on the loins, and to eat
a piece of the tongue or flesh, will cure impotency; and tiger fat,
rubbed on a painful part of the body, is an accepted specific for
rheumatic affections. It is a firmly settled belief, that the whiskers
and teeth, worn on the body, will act as a charm, making the wearer
proof against the attacks of tigers. The collar-bone too, is eagerly
coveted for the same reason.

During the rains tigers are sometimes forced, like others of the cat
tribe, to take to trees. A Mr. McI. shot two large full grown, tigers
in a tree at Gunghara, and a Baboo of my acquaintance bagged no less
than eight in trees during one rainy season at Rampoor.

Tigers generally prefer remaining near water, and drink a great deal,
the quantity of raw meat they devour being no doubt provocative of
thirst.

The marks of their claws are often seen on trees in the vicinity of
their haunts, and from this fact many ridiculous stories have got
abroad regarding their habits. It has even been regarded by some
writers as a sort of rude test, by which to arrive at an approximate
estimate of the tiger's size. A tiger can stretch himself out some two
or two and a half feet more than his measurable length. You have
doubtless often seen a domestic cat whetting its claws on the mat, or
scratching some rough substance, such as the bark of a tree; this is
often done to clean the claws, and to get rid of chipped and ragged
pieces, and it is sometimes mere playfulness. It is the same with the
tiger, the scratching on the trees is frequently done in the mere
wantonness of sport, but it is often resorted to to clear the claws
from pieces of flesh, that may have adhered to them during a meal on
some poor slaughtered bullock. These marks on the trees are a valuable
sign for the hunter, as by their appearance, whether fresh or old, he
can often tell the whereabouts of his quarry, and a good tracker will
even be able to make a rough guess at its probable size and
disposition.

Like policemen, tigers stick to certain beats; even when disturbed,
and forced to abandon a favourite spot, they frequently return to it;
and although the jungle may be wholly destroyed, old tigers retain a
partiality for the scenes of their youthful depredations; they are
often shot in the most unlikely places, where there is little or no
cover, and one would certainly never expect to find them; they migrate
with the herds, and retire to the hills during the annual floods,
always coming back to the same jungle when the rains are over.

Experienced shekarries know this trait of the tiger's character well,
and can tell you minutely the colour and general appearance of the
animals in any particular jungle; they are aware of any peculiarity,
such as lameness, scars, &c., and their observations must be very keen
indeed, and amazingly accurate, as I have never known them wrong when
they committed themselves to a positive statement.

An old planter residing at Sultanpore, close on the Nepaul border, a
noted sportsman and a crack shot, was charged on one occasion by a
large tiger; the brute sprang right off the ground on to the
elephant's head; his hind legs were completely off the ground, resting
on the elephant's chest and neck; Mr. F. retained sufficient presence
of mind to sit close down in his howdah; the tiger's forearm was
extended completely over the front bar, and so close that it touched
his hat. In this position he called out to his son who was on another
elephant close by, to fire at the tiger; he was cool enough to warn
him to take a careful aim, and not hit the elephant. His son acted
gallantly up to his instructions, and shot the tiger through the
heart, when it dropped down quite dead, to Mr. F.'s great relief.

Some sportsmen are of opinion, that the tiger when charging never
springs clear from the ground, but only rears itself on its hind legs;
this however is a mistake. I saw a tiger leap right off the ground,
and spring on to the rump of an elephant carrying young Sam S. The
elephant proved staunch, and remained quite quiet, and Sam, turning
round in his howdah, shot his assailant through the head.

I may give another incident, to shew how closely tigers will sometimes
stick to cover; they are sometimes as bad to dislodge as a quail or a
hare; they will crouch down and conceal themselves till you almost
trample on them. One day a party of the Purneah Club were out; they
had shot two fine tigers out of several that had been seen; the others
were known to have gone ahead into some jungle surrounded by water,
and easy to beat. Before proceeding further it was proposed
accordingly to have some refreshment. The _tiffin_ elephant was
directed to a tree close by, beneath whose shade the hungry sportsmen
were to plant themselves; the elephant had knelt down, one or two
boxes had actually been removed, several of the servants were clearing
away the dried grass and leaves. H.W.S. came up on the opposite side
of the tree, and was in the act of leaping off his elephant, when an
enormous tiger got up at his very feet, and before the astounded
sportsmen could handle a gun, the formidable intruder had cleared the
bushes with a bound, and disappeared in the thick jungle.

The following adventure bears me out in my remark, that tigers get
attached to, and like to remain in, one place. Mr. F. Simpson, a
thorough-going sportsman of the good old type, had been out one day in
the Koosee derahs; he had had a long and unsuccessful beat for tiger,
and had given up all hope of bagging one that day; he thought
therefore that he might as well turn his attention to more ignoble
game. Extracting his bullets, he replaced them with No. 4 shot. In a
few minutes a peacock got up in front of him, and he fired. The report
roused a very fine tiger right in front of his elephant; to make the
best of a bad bargain, he gave the retreating animal the full benefit
of his remaining charge of shot, and peppered it well. About a year
after, close to this very place, C.A.S. bagged a fine tiger. On
examination, the marks of a charge of shot were found in the flanks,
and on removing the pads of the feet, numbers of pellets of No. 4 shot
were found embedded in them. It was evidently the animal that had been
peppered a year before, and the pellets had worked their way downwards
to the feet.

On another occasion, a man came to the factory where George was then
residing, to give information of a tiger. He bore on his back numerous
bleeding scratches, ample evidence of the truth of his story. While
cutting grass in the jungle, with a blanket on his back, the day being
rainy, he had been attacked by a tiger from the rear. The blanket is
generally folded several times, and worn over the head and back. It is
a thick heavy covering, and in the first onset the tiger tore the
blanket from the man's body, which was probably the means of saving
his life. The man turned round, terribly scared, as may be imagined.
In desperation he struck at the tiger with his sickle, and according
to his own account, he succeeded in putting out one of its eyes. He
said it was a young tiger, and his bleeding wounds, and the
persistency with which he stuck to his story, impressed George with
the belief that he was telling the truth. A search for the tiger was
made. The man's blanket was found, torn to shreds, but no tiger,
although the footprints of one were plainly visible. But some months
after, near the same spot, George shot a half grown tiger with one of
its eyes gone, which had evidently been roughly torn from the socket.
This was doubtless the identical brute that had attacked the
grass-cutter.

It is sometimes wonderful how easily a large and powerful tiger may be
killed. The most vulnerable parts are the back of the head, through
the neck, and broadside on the chest. The neck is the most deadly spot
of all, and a shot behind the shoulder, or on the spine, is sure to
bring the game to bag. I have seen several shot with a single bullet
from a smooth-bore, and on one occasion, George tells me he saw a
tigress killed with a single smooth-bore bullet at over a hundred
yards. The bullet was a _ricochet_, and struck the tigress below the
chest, and travelled towards the heart, but without touching it. She
fell twenty yards from where she had been hit. Another, which on
skinning we found had been shot through the heart, with a single
smooth-bore bullet at a distance of one hundred and fifty yards,
travelled for thirty yards before falling dead. Meiselback, a
neighbour of mine, shot three tigers successively, on one occasion,
with a No. 18 Joe Manton smooth-bore. Each of the three was killed by
a single bullet, one in the head, one in the neck, and one through the
heart, the bullet entering behind the shoulder.

On the other hand, I once fired no less than six Jacob's shells into a
tiger, all behind the shoulder, before I could stop him. The shells
seemed to explode on the surface the moment they came in contact with
the body. There was a tremendous surface wound, big enough to put a
pumpkin into, but very little internal hurt. On another occasion
(April 4, 1874) during one of the most exciting and most glorious
moments of my sporting life--buffaloes charging the line in all
directions, burning jungle all around us, and bullets whistling on
every side--I fired TWELVE shells into a large bull before I killed
him. As every shell hit him, I heard the sharp detonation, and saw the
tiny puff of smoke curl outward from the ghastly wound. The poor
maddened brute would drop on his knees, stagger again to his feet,
and, game to the last, attempt to charge my elephant. I was anxious
really to test the effect of the Jacob's shell as against the solid
conical bullet, and carefully watched the result of each shot. My
weapon was a beautifully finished No. 12 smooth-bore, made expressly
to order for an officer in the Royal Artillery, from whom I bought it.
From that day I never fired another Jacob's shell.

My remarks about the tiger springing clear off the ground when
charging, are amply borne out by the experience of some of my sporting
friends. I could quote pages, but will content myself with one
extract. It is a point of some importance, as many good old sportsmen
pooh-pooh the idea, and maintain that the tiger merely stretches
himself out to his fullest length, and if he does leave the ground, it
is by a purely physical effort, pulling himself up by his claws.

My friend George writes me: 'In several cases I have known and seen
the tiger spring, and leave the ground. In one case the tiger sprang
from fully five yards off. He crouched at the distance of a few paces,
as if about to spring, and then sprang clean on to the head of Joe's
_tusker_. An eight feet nine inch tigress once got on to the head of
my elephant, which was ten feet seven inches in height. Every one
present saw her leave the ground. Once, when after a tiger in small
stubble, about six feet high, I saw one bound over a bush so clean
that I could see every bit of him.' And so on.

For long range shooting the rifle is doubtless the best weapon. The
Express is the most deadly. The smooth-bore is the gun for downright
honest sport. Shells and hollow pointed bullets are the things, as one
sportsman writes me, 'for mutilation and cowardly murder, and for
spoiling the skin.' Poison is the resource of the poacher. No
sportsman could descend so low. Grant that the tiger is a scourge, a
pest, a nuisance, a cruel and implacable foe to man and beast; pile
all the vilest epithets of your vocabulary on his head, and say that
he deserves them all, still he is what opportunity and circumstance
have made him. He is as nature fashioned him; and there are bold
spirits, and keen sights, and steady nerves enough, God wot, among our
Indian sportsmen, to cope with him on more equal and sportsmanlike
terms than by poisoning him like a mangy dog. On this point, however,
opinions differ. I do not envy the man who would prefer poisoning a
tiger to the keen delight of patiently following him up, ousting him
from cover to cover, watching his careful endeavours to elude your
search; perhaps at the end of a long and fascinating beat, feeling the
electric excitement thrill every nerve and fibre of your body, as the
magnificent robber comes bounding down at the charge, the very
embodiment of ferocity and strength, the perfection of symmetry, the
acme of agility and grace.

Natives are such notorious perverters of the truth, and so often hide
what little there may be in their communications under such floods of
Oriental hyperbole and exaggeration, that you are often disappointed
in going out on what you consider trustworthy and certain information.
They often remind me of the story of the Laird of Logan. He was riding
slowly along a country road one day, when another equestrian joined
him. Logan's eye fixed itself on a hole in the turf bank bounding the
road, and with great gravity, and in trust-inspiring accents, he said,
'I saw a _tod_ (or fox) gang in there.'

'Did you, really;' cried the new comer.

'I did,' responded the laird.

'Will you hold my horse till I get a spade,' cried the now excited
traveller.

The laird assented. Away hurried the man, and soon returned with a
spade. He set manfully to work to dig out the fox, and worked till the
perspiration streamed down his face. The laird sat stolidly looking
on, saying never a word; and as he seemed to be nearing the confines
of the hole, the poor digger redoubled his exertions. When at length
it became plain that there was no fox there, he wiped his streaming
brow, and rather crossly exclaimed, 'I'm afraid there's no tod here.'

'It would be a wonder if there was,' rejoined the laird, without the
movement of a muscle, 'it's ten years since I saw him gang in there.'

So it is sometimes with a native. He will fire your ardour, by telling
you of some enormous tiger, to be found in some jungle close by, but
when you come to enquire minutely into his story, you find that the
tiger was seen perhaps the year before last, or that it _used_ to be
there, or that somebody else had told him of its being there.

Some tigers, too, are so cunning and wary, that they will make off
long before the elephants have come near. I have seen others rise on
their hind legs just like a hare or a kangaroo, and peer over the
jungle trying to make out one's whereabouts. This is of course only in
short light jungle.

The plan we generally adopt in beating for tiger on or near the Nepaul
border, is to use a line of elephants to beat the cover. It is a fine
sight to watch the long line of stately monsters moving slowly and
steadily forward. Several howdahs tower high above the line, the
polished barrels of guns and rifles glittering in the fierce rays of
the burning and vertical sun. Some of the shooters wear huge hats made
from the light pith of the solah plant, others have long blue or white
puggrees wound round their heads in truly Oriental style. These are
very comfortable to wear, but rather trying to the sight, as they
afford no protection to the eyes. For riding they are to my mind the
most comfortable head-dress that can be worn, and they are certainly
more graceful than the stiff unsightly solah hat.

Between every two howdahs are four or five pad elephants. These beat
up all the intervening bushes, and carry the game that may be shot.
When a pig, deer, tiger, or other animal has been shot, and has
received its _coup de grace_, it is quickly bundled on to the pad, and
there secured. The elephant kneels down to receive the load, and while
game is being padded the whole line waits, till the operation is
complete, as it is bad policy to leave blanks. Where this simple
precaution is neglected, many a tiger will sneak through the opening
left by the pad elephant, and so silently and cautiously can they
steal through the dense cover, and so cunning are they and acute, that
they will take advantage of the slightest gap, and the keenest and
best trained eye will fail to detect them.

In most of our hunting parties on the Koosee, we had some twenty or
thirty elephants, and frequently six or eight howdahs. These
expeditions were very pleasant, and we lived luxuriously. For real
sport ten elephants and two or three tried comrades--not more--is much
better. With a short, easily-worked line, that can turn and double,
and follow the tiger quickly, and dog his every movement, you can get
far better sport, and bring more to bag, than with a long unwieldy
line, that takes a considerable time to turn and wheel, and in whose
onward march there is of necessity little of the silence and swiftness
which are necessary elements in successful tiger shooting.

I have been out with a line of seventy-six elephants and fourteen
howdahs. This was on 16th March 1875. It was a magnificent sight to
see the seventy-six huge brutes in the river together, splashing the
water along their heated sides to cool themselves, and sending huge
waves dashing against the crumbling banks of the rapid stream. It was
no less magnificent to see their slow stately march through the
swaying, crashing jungle. What an idea of irresistible power and
ponderous strength the huge creatures gave us, as they heaved through
the tangled brake, crushing everything in their resistless progress.
It was a sight to be remembered, but as might have been expected, we
found the jungles almost untenanted. Everything cleared out before us,
long ere the line could reach its vicinity. We only killed one tiger,
but next day we separated, the main body crossing the stream, while my
friends and myself, with only fourteen elephants, rebeat the same
jungle and bagged two.

In every hunt, one member is told off to look after the forage and
grain for the elephants. One attends to the cooking and requirements
of the table, one acts as paymaster and keeper of accounts, while the
most experienced is unanimously elected captain, and takes general
direction of every movement of the line. He decides on the plan of
operations for the day, gives each his place in the line, and for the
time, becomes an irresponsible autocrat, whose word is law, and
against whose decision there is no appeal.

Scouts are sent out during the night, and bring in reports from all
parts of the jungle in the early morning, while we are discussing
_chota baziree_, our early morning meal. If tiger is reported, or a
kill has been discovered, we form line in silence, and without noise
bear down direct on the spot. In the captain's howdah are three flags.
A blue flag flying means that only tiger or rhinoceros are to be shot
at. A red flag signifies that we are to have general firing, in fact
that we may blaze away at any game that may be afoot, and the white
flag shews us that we are on our homeward way, and then also may shoot
at anything we can get, break the line, or do whatever we choose. On
the flanks are generally posted the best shots of the party. The
captain, as a rule, keeps to the centre of the line. Frequently one
man and elephant is sent on ahead to some opening or dry water-bed, to
see that no cunning tiger sneaks away unseen. This vedette is called
_naka_. All experienced sportsmen employ a naka, and not unfrequently
where the ground is difficult, two are sent ahead. The naka is a most
important post, and the holder will often get a lucky shot at some
wary veteran trying to sneak off, and may perhaps bag the only tiger
of the day. The mere knowledge that there is an elephant on ahead,
will often keep tigers from trying to get away. They prefer to face
the known danger of the line behind, to the unknown danger in front,
and in all cases where there is a big party a naka should be sent on
ahead.

Tigers can be, and are, shot on the Koosee plains all the year round,
but the big hunts take place in the months of March, April, and May,
when the hot west winds are blowing, and when the jungle has got
considerably trampled down by the herds of cattle grazing in the
tangled wilderness of tall grass. Innumerable small paths shew where
the cattle wander backward and forward through the labyrinths of the
jungle. In the howdah we carry ample supplies of vesuvians. We light
and drop these as they blaze into the dried grass and withered leaves
as we move along, and soon a mighty wall of roaring flame behind us,
attests the presence of the destroying element. We go diagonally up
wind, and the flames and smoke thus surge and roar and curl and roll,
in dense blinding volumes, to the rear and leeward of our line. The
roaring of the flames sounds like the maddened surf of an angry sea,
dashing in thunder against an iron-bound coast. The leaping flames
mount up in fiery columns, illuminating the fleecy clouds of smoke
with an unearthly glare. The noise is deafening; at times some of the
elephants get quite nervous at the fierce roar of the flames behind,
and try to bolt across country. The fire serves two good purposes. It
burns up the old withered grass, making room for the fresh succulent
sprouts to spring, and it keeps all the game in front of the line,
driving the animals before us, as they are afraid to break back and
face the roaring-wall of flame. A seething, surging sea of flame,
several miles long, encircling the whole country in its fiery belt,
sweeping along at night with the roar of a storm-tossed sea; the
flames flickering, swelling, and leaping up in the dark night, the
fiery particles rushing along amid clouds of lurid smoke, and the
glare of the serpent-like line reddening the horizon, is one of those
magnificent spectacles that can only be witnessed at rare intervals
among the experiences of a sojourn in India. Words fail to depict its
grandeur, and the utmost skill of Dore could not render on canvas, the
weird, unearthly magnificence of a jungle fire, at the culmination of
its force and fury.

In beating, the elephants are several yards apart, and, standing in
the howdah, you can see the slightest motion of the grass before you,
unless indeed it be virgin jungle, quite untrodden, and perhaps higher
than your elephant; in such high dense cover, tigers will sometimes
lie up and allow you to go clean past them. In such a case you must
fire the jungle, and allow the blaze to beat for you. It is common for
young, over eager sportsmen, to fire at moving jungle, trusting to a
lucky chance for hitting the moving animal; this is useless waste of
powder; they fail to realize the great length of the swaying grass,
and invariably shoot over the game; the animal hears the crashing of
the bullet through the dense thicket overhead, and immediately stops,
and you lose all idea of his whereabouts. When you see an animal
moving before you in long jungle, it should be your object to follow
him slowly and patiently, till you can get a sight of him, and see
what sort of beast he is. Firing at the moving grass is worse than
useless. Keep as close behind him as you can, make signs for the other
elephants to close in; stick to your quarry, never lose sight of him
for an instant, be ready to seize the first moment, when more open
jungle, or some other favourable chance, may give you a glimpse of his
skin.

Another caution should be observed. Never fire down the line. It is
astonishing how little will divert a bullet, and a careless shot is
worse than a dozen charging tigers. If a tiger does break back, let
him get well away behind the line, and then blaze at him as hard as
you like. It is particularly unpleasant to hear a bullet come singing
and booming down the line from some excited dunderhead on the far left
or right.

A tiger slouching along in front moves pretty fast, in a silent
swinging trot; the tops of the reeds or grass sway very gently, with a
wavering, side to side motion. A pig rushes boldly through, and a deer
will cause the grass to rock violently to and fro. A buffalo or
rhinoceros is known at once by the crashing of the dry stalks, as his
huge frame plunges along; but the tiger can never be mistaken. When
that gentle, undulating, noiseless motion is once seen, be ready with
your trusty gun, and remove not your eye from the spot, for the mighty
robber of the jungle is before you.




CHAPTER XXI.


Howdahs and howdah-ropes.--Mussulman custom.--Killing animals for
food.--Mysterious appearance of natives when an animal is killed.
--Fastening dead tigers to the pad.--Present mode wants improving.
--Incident illustrative of this.--Dangerous to go close to wounded
tigers.--Examples.--Footprints of tigers.--Call of the tiger.--Natives
and their powers of description.--How to beat successfully for tiger.
--Description of a beat.--Disputes among the shooters.--Awarding
tigers.--Cutting open the tiger.--Native idea about the liver of the
tiger.--Signs of a tiger's presence in the jungle.--Vultures.--Do they
scent their quarry or view it?--A vulture carrion feast.

The best howdahs are light, single-seated ones, with strong, light
frames of wood and cane-work, and a moveable seat with a leather
strap, adjustable to any length, on which to lean back. They should
have a strong iron rail all round the top, covered with leather, with
convenient grooves to receive the barrels of the guns, as they rest in
front, ready to either hand. In front there should be compartments for
different kinds of cartridges; and pockets and lockers under the seat,
and at the back, or wherever there is room. Outside should be a strong
iron step, to get out and in by easily, and a strong iron ring,
through which to pass the rope that binds the howdah to the elephant.

You cannot be too careful with your howdah ropes. A chain is generally
used as an auxiliary to the rope, which should be of cotton, strong
and well twisted, and should be overhauled daily, to see that there is
no chafing. It is passed round the foot-bars of the howdah, and
several times round the belly of the elephant.

Another rope acts as a crupper behind, being passed through rings in
the terminal frame-work of the howdah, and under the elephant's tail;
it frequently causes painful sores there, and some drivers give it a
hitch round the tail, in the same way as you would hitch it round a
post. Another steadying rope goes round the elephant's breast, like a
chest-band. 'A merciful man is merciful to his beast.' You should
always, therefore, have a sheet of soft well oiled leather to go
between the chest and belly ropes and the elephant's hide; this
prevents chafing, and is a great relief to the poor old _hathi_, as
they call the elephant. _Hatnee_ is the female elephant. _Duntar_ is a
fellow with large tusks, and _mukna_ is an elephant with small
downward growing tusks.

Many of the old fashioned howdahs are far too heavy; a firm, strong
howdah should not weigh more than 28 lbs. In most of the old fashioned
ones, there is a seat for an attendant. If your attendant be a
Mussulman, he hurries down as soon as you shoot a deer, to cut its
throat. The Mohammedan religion enjoins a variety of rules on its
professors in regard to the slaying of animals for food. Chief of
these is a prohibition, against eating the flesh of an animal that has
died a natural death; the throat of every animal intended to be eaten
should be cut, and at the moment of applying the knife, _Bismillah_
should be said, that is, 'In the name of God.' If therefore your
mahout, or attendant, belong to the religion of the _Koran_, he will
hurry down to cut the throat of a wounded deer if possible before life
is extinct; if it be already dead, he will leave it alone for the
Hindoos, who have no such scruples.

A number of _moosahurs, banturs, gwallas_, and other idlers, from the
jungle villages, generally follow in the wake of the line. If you
shoot many pigs, they carry off the dead bodies, and hold high
carnival in their homes in the evening. To see them rush on a slain
buffalo, and hack it to pieces, is a curious sight; they fight for
pieces of flesh like so many vultures. Sportsmen generally content
themselves with the head of a buffalo, but not a scrap of the carcase
is ever wasted. The natives are attracted to the spot, like ants to a
heap of grain, or wasps to an old sugar barrel; they seem to spring
out of the earth, so rapidly do they make their appearance. If you
were to kill a dozen buffaloes, I believe all the flesh would be taken
away to the neighbouring villages within an hour.

This appearance of men in the jungles is wonderful. You may think
yourself in the centre of a vast wilderness, not a sign of human
habitation for miles around; on all sides stretches a vast ocean of
grass, the resort of ferocious wild animals, seemingly untrodden by a
human foot. You shoot a deer, a pig, or other animal whose flesh is
fit for food; the man behind you gives a cry, and in ten minutes you
will have a group of brawny young fellows around your elephant, eager
to carry away the game. The way these natives thread the dense jungle
is to me a wonder; they seem to know every devious path and hidden
recess, and they traverse the most gloomy and dangerous solitudes
without betraying the slightest apprehension.

In fastening dead game to the pad of the carrying elephant great care
is necessary. Some elephants are very timid, and indeed all elephants
are mistrustful and suspicious of anything behind them. They are
pretty courageous in facing anything before them, but they do not like
a rustling or indeed any motion in their rear. I have seen a dog put
an elephant to flight, and if you have a lazy _hathi_, a good plan is
to walk a horse behind him. He will then shuffle along at a prodigious
pace constantly looking round from side to side, and no doubt in his
heart anathematising the horse that forces the running so
persistently.

The present method of roughly lashing on dead game anyhow requires
altering. Some ingenious sportsman could surely devise a system of
slings by which the dead weight of the game could be more equally
distributed. At present the dead bodies are hauled up at random, and
fastened anyhow. The pad gets displaced, the elephant must stop till
the burden is rearranged; the ropes, especially on a hot day, cut into
the skin and rub off the hair, and many a good skin is quite spoiled
by the present rough method of tying on the pad.

One day, in taking off a dead tiger from the pad, near George's
bungalow, the end of the rope (a new one) remained somehow fixed to
the neck of the elephant. When he rose up, being relieved of the
weight, he dragged the dead tiger with him. This put the elephant into
a horrible funk, and despite all the efforts of the driver he started
off at a trot, hauling the tiger after him. Every now and then he
would turn round, and tread and kick the lifeless carcase. At length
the rope gave way, and the elephant became more manageable, but not
before a fine skin had been totally ruined, all owing to this
primitive style of fastening by ropes to the pad. A proper pad, with
leather straps and buckles, that could be hauled as tight as
necessary--a sort of harness arrangement, could easily be devised, to
secure dead game on the pad. I am certain it would save time in the
hunting-field, and protect many a fine skin, that gets abraded and
marked by the present rough and ready lashing.

It is always dangerous to go too close up to a wounded tiger, and one
should never rashly jump to the conclusion that a tiger is dead
because he appears so Approach him cautiously, and make very certain
that he is really and truly dead, before you venture to get down
beside the body. It is a bad plan to take your elephant close up to a
dead tiger at all. I have known cases where good staunch elephants
have been spoiled for future sport, by being rashly taken up to a
wounded tiger. In rolling about, the tiger may get hold of the
elephants, and inflict injuries that will demoralise them, and make
them quite unsteady on subsequent occasions.

I have known cases where a tiger left for dead has had to be shot over
again. I have seen a man get down to pull a seemingly dead tiger into
the open, and get charged. Fortunately it was a dying effort, and I
put a bullet through the skull before the tiger could reach the
frightened peon. We have been several times grouped round a dying
tiger, watching him breathe his last, when the brute has summoned up
strength for a final effort, and charged the elephants.

On one occasion W.D. had got down beside what he thought a dead tiger,
had rolled him over, and, tape in hand, was about to measure the
animal, when he staggered to his feet with a terrific growl, and made
away through the jungle. He had only been stunned, and fortunately
preferred running to fighting, or the consequences might have been
more tragic; as it was, he was quickly followed up and killed. But
instances like these might be indefinitely multiplied, all teaching,
that seemingly dead tigers should be approached with the utmost
respect. Never venture off your elephant without a loaded revolver.

In beating for tiger, we have seen that the appearance of the kill,
whether fresh or old, whether much torn and mangled or comparatively
untouched, often affords valuable indications to the sportsman. The
footprints are not less narrowly looked for, and scrutinized. If we
are after tiger, and following them up, the captain will generally get
down at any bare place, such as a dry nullah, the edge of a tank or
water hole, or any other spot where footprints can be detected. Fresh
prints can be very easily distinguished. The impression is like that
made by a dog, only much larger, and the marks of the claws are not
visible. The largest footprint I have heard of was measured by George
S., and was found to be eight and a quarter inches wide from the
outside of the first to the outside of the fourth toe. If a tiger has
passed very recently, the prints will be fresh-looking, and if on damp
ground there can be no mistaking them. If it has been raining
recently, we particularly notice whether the rain has obliterated the
track at all, in any place; which would lead us to the conclusion that
the tiger had passed before it rained. If the water has lodged in the
footprint, the tiger has passed after the shower. In fresh prints the
water will be slightly puddly or muddy. In old prints it will be quite
clear; and so on.

The call of the male tiger is quite different from that of the female.
The male calls with a hoarse harsh cry, something between the grunt of
a pig and the bellow of a bull; the call of the tigress is more like
the prolonged mew of a cat much intensified. During the pairing season
the call is sharper and shorter, and ends in a sudden break. At that
time, too, they cry at more frequent intervals. The roar of the tiger
is quite unlike the call. Once heard it is not easily forgotten, The
natives who live in the jungles can tell one tiger from another by
colour, size, &c., and they can even distinguish one animal from
another by his call. It is very absurd to hear a couple of natives get
together and describe the appearance of some tiger they have seen.

In describing a pig, they refer to his height, or the length of his
tusks. They describe a fish by putting their fists together, and
saying he was so thick, _itna mota_. The head of a tiger is always the
most conspicuous part of the body seen in the jungle. They therefore
invariably describe him by his head. One man will hold his two hands
apart about two feet, and say that the head was _itna burra_, that is,
so big. The other, not to be outdone, gives rein to his imagination,
and adds another foot. The first immediately fancies discredit will
attach to his veracity, and vehemently asserts that there must in that
case have been two tigers; and so they go on, till they conclusively
prove, that two tigers there must have been, and indeed, if you let
them go on, they will soon assure you that, besides the pair of
tigers, there must be at least a pair of half-grown cubs. Their
imaginations are very fertile, and you must take the information of a
native as to tigers with a very large pinch of salt.

For successful tiger shooting much depends on the beating. When after
tiger, general firing should on no account be allowed, and the line
should move forward as silently as possible. In light cover, extending
over a large area, the elephants should be kept a considerable
distance apart, but in thick dense cover the line should be quite
close, and beat up slowly and thoroughly, as a tiger may lay up and
allow the line to pass him. On no account should an elephant be let to
lag behind, and no one should be allowed to rush forward or go in
advance. The elephants should move along, steady and even, like a
moving wall, the fastest being on the flanks, and accommodating their
pace to the general rate of progress. No matter what tempting chances
at pig or deer you may have, you must on no account fire except at
tiger.

The captain should be in the centre, and the men on the flanks ought
to be constantly on the _qui vive_, to see that no cunning tiger
outflanks the line. The attention should never wander from the jungle
before you, for at any moment a tiger may get up--and I know of no
sport where it is necessary to be so continuously on the alert. Every
moment is fraught with intense excitement, and when a tiger does
really show his stripes before you, the all-absorbing eager excitement
of a lifetime is packed in a few brief moments. Not a chance should be
thrown away, a long, or even an uncertain shot, is better than none,
and if you make one miss, you may not have another chance again that
day: for the tiger is chary of showing his stripes, and thinks
discretion the better part of valour.

All the line of course are aware, as a rule, when a tiger is on the
move, and a good captain (and Joe S., who generally took the direction
of our beats, could not well be matched) will wheel the line, double,
turn, march, and countermarch, and fairly run the tiger down. At such
a time, although you may not actually see the tiger, the excitement is
tremendous. You stand erect in the howdah, your favourite gun ready;
your attendant behind is as excited as yourself, and sways from side
to side to peer into the gloomy depths of the jungle; in front, the
mahout wriggles on his seat, as if by his motion he could urge the
elephant to a quicker advance. He digs his toes savagely into his
elephant behind the ear; the line is closing up; every eye is fixed on
the moving jungle ahead. The roaring of the flames behind, and the
crashing of the dried reeds as the elephants force their ponderous
frames through the intertwisted stems and foliage, are the only sounds
that greet the ear. Suddenly you see the tawny yellow hide, as the
tiger slouches along. Your gun rings out a reverberating challenge, as
your fatal bullet speeds on its errand. To right and left the echoes
ring, as shot after shot is fired at the bounding robber. Then the
line closes up, and you form a circle round the stricken beast, and
watch his mighty limbs quiver in the death-agony, and as he falls over
dead, and powerless for further harm, you raise the heartfelt,
pulse-stirring cheer, that finds an echo in every brother sportman's
heart.

Disputes sometimes arise as to whose bullet first drew blood. These
are settled by the captain, and from his decision there is no appeal.
Many sportsmen put peculiar marks on their bullets, by which they can
be recognised, which is a good plan. In an exciting scrimmage every
one blazes at the tiger, not one bullet perhaps in five or six takes
effect, and every one is ready to claim the skin, as having been
pierced with his particular bullet. Disputes are not very common, but
an inspection of the wounds, and the bullets found in the body,
generally settle the question. After hearing all the pros and cons,
the captain generally succeeds in awarding the tiger to the right man.

After a successful day, the news rapidly spreads through the adjacent
country, and we may take the line a little out of our way to make a
sort of triumphal procession through the villages. On reaching the
camp there is sure to be a great crowd waiting to see the slain
tigers, the despoilers of the people's flocks and herds.

It is then you hear of all the depredations the dead robber has
committed, and it is then you begin to form some faint conception of
his enormous destructive powers. Villager after villager unfolds a
tale of some favourite heifer, or buffalo, or cow having been struck
down, and the copious vocabulary of Hindostanee Billingsgate is almost
exhausted, and floods of abuse poured out on the prostrate head.

On cutting open the tiger, parasites are frequently found in the
flesh. These are long, white, thread-like worms, and are supposed by
some to be Guinea worms. Huge masses of undigested bone and hair are
sometimes taken from the intestines, shewing that the tiger does not
waste much time on mastication, but tears and eats the flesh in large
masses. The liver is found to have numbers of separate lobes, and the
natives say that this is an infallible test of the age of a tiger, as
a separate lobe forms on the liver for each year of the tiger's life.
I have certainly found young tigers having but two and three lobes,
and old tigers I have found with six, seven, and even eight, but the
statement is entirely unsupported by careful observation, and requires
authentication before it can be accepted.

A reported kill is a pretty certain sign that there are tigers in the
jungle, but there are other signs with which one soon gets familiar.
When, for example, you hear deer calling repeatedly, and see them
constantly on the move, it is a sign that tiger are in the
neighbourhood. When cattle are reluctant to enter the jungle,
restless, and unwilling to graze, you may be sure tiger are somewhere
about, not far away. A kill is often known by the numbers of vultures
that hover about in long, sailing, steady circles. What multitudes of
vultures there are. Overhead, far up in the liquid ether, you see them
circling round and round like dim specks in the distance; farther and
farther away, till they seem like bees, then lessen and fade into the
infinitude of space. No part of the sky is ever free from their
presence. When a kill has been perceived, you see one come flying
along, strong and swift in headlong flight. With the directness of a
thunderbolt he speeds to where his loathsome meal lies sweltering in
the noonday sun. As he comes nearer and nearer, his repulsive looking
body assumes form and substance. The cruel, ugly bald head, drawn
close in between the strong pointed shoulders, the broad powerful
wings, with their wide sweep, measured and slow, bear him swiftly
past. With a curve and a sweep he circles round, down come the long
bony legs, the bald and hideous neck is extended, and with talons
quivering for the rotting flesh, and cruel beak agape, he hurries on
to his repast, the embodiment of everything ghoul-like and ghastly. In
his wake comes another, then twos and threes, anon tens and twenties,
till hundreds have collected, and the ground is covered with the
hissing, tearing, fiercely clawing crowd. It is a horrible sight to
see a heap of vultures battling over a dead bullock. I have seen them
so piled up that the under ones were nearly smothered to death; and
the writhing contortions of the long bare necks, as the fierce brutes
battled with talons and claws, were like the twisting of monster
snakes, or the furious writhing of gorgons and furies over some fated
victim.

It has been a much debated point with sportsmen and naturalists,
whether the eye or the sense of smell guides the vulture to his feast
of carrion. I have often watched them. They scan the vast surface
spread below them with a piercing and never tiring gaze. They observe
each other. When one is seen to cease his steady circling flight, far
up in mid air, and to stretch his broad wings earthwards, the others
know that he has espied a meal, and follow his lead; and these in turn
are followed by others, till from all quarters flock crowds of these
scavengers of the sky. They can detect a dog or jackal from a vast
height, and they know by intuition that, where the carcase is there
will the dogs and jackals be gathered. I think there can be no doubt
that the vision is the sense they are most indebted to for directing
them to their food.

On one occasion I remember seeing a tumultuous heap of them, battling
fiercely, as I have just tried to describe, over the carcases of two
tigers we had killed near Dumdaha. The dead bodies were hidden
partially in a grove of trees, and for a long time there were only
some ten or a dozen vultures near. These gorged themselves so
fearfully, that they could not rise from the ground, but lay with
wings expanded, looking very aldermanic and apoplectic. Bye-and-bye,
however, the rush began, and by the time we had struck the tents,
there could not have been fewer than 150 vultures, hissing and
spitting at each other like angry cats; trampling each other to the
dust to get at the carcases; and tearing wildly with talon and beak
for a place. In a very short time nothing but mangled bones remained.
A great number of the vultures got on to the rotten limb of a huge
mango tree. One other proved the last straw, for down came the rotten
branch and several of the vultures, tearing at each other, fell
heavily to the ground, where they lay quite helpless. As an experiment
we shot a miserable mangy Pariah dog, that was prowling about the
ground seeking garbage and offal. He was shot stone-dead, and for a
time no vulture ventured near. A crow was the first to begin the feast
of death. One of the hungriest of the vultures next approached, and in
a few minutes the yet warm body of the poor dog was torn into a
thousand fragments, till nothing remained but scattered and disjointed
bones.




CHAPTER XXII.


We start for a tiger hunt on the Nepaul frontier.--Indian scenery near
the border.--Lose our way.--Cold night.--The river by night.--Our boat
and boatmen.--Tigers calling on the bank.--An anxious moment.--Fire at
and wound the tigress.--Reach camp.--The Nepaulee's adventure with a
tiger.--The old Major.--His appearance and manners.--The pompous
Jemadar.--Nepaulese proverb.--Firing the jungle.--Start a tiger and
shoot him.--Another in front.--Appearance of the fires by night.--The
tiger escapes.--Too dark to follow up.--Coolie shot by mistake during
a former hunt.

Early in 1875 a military friend of mine was engaged in inspecting the
boundary pillars near my factory, between our territory and that of
Nepaul. Some of the pillars had been cut away by the river, and the
survey map required a little alteration in consequence. Our district
magistrate was in attendance, and sent me an invitation to go up and
spend a week with them in camp. I had no need to send on tents, as
they had every requisite for comfort. I sent off my bed and bedding on
Geerdharee Jha's old elephant, a timid, useless brute, fit neither far
beating jungle nor for carrying a howdah. My horse I sent on to the
ghat or crossing, some ten miles up the river, and after lunch I
started. It was a fine cool afternoon, and it was not long ere I
reached the neighbouring factory of Im[=a]mnugger. Here I had a little
refreshment with Old Tom, and after exchanging greetings, I resumed my
way over a part of the country with which I was totally unacquainted.

I rode on, past villages nestling in the mango groves, past huge
tanks, excavated by the busy labour of generations long since
departed; past decaying temples, overshadowed by mighty tamarind
trees, with the _peepul_ and _pakur_ insinuating their twining roots
amid the shattered and crumbling masonry. In one large village I
passed through the bustling bazaar, where the din, and dust, and
mingled odours, were almost overpowering. The country was now assuming
quite an undulating character. The banks of the creeks were steep and
rugged, and in some cases the water actually tumbled from rock to
rock, with a purling pleasant ripple and plash, a welcome sound to a
Scotch ear, and a pleasant surprise after the dull, dead, leaden,
noiseless flow of the streams further down on the plains.

Far in front lay the gloomy belt of Terai, or border forest, here
called the _morung_, where the British territories had their extreme
limit in that direction. Behind this belt, tier on tier, rose the
mighty ranges of the majestic Himalayas, towering up in solemn
grandeur from the bushy masses of forest-clad hills till their
snow-capped summits seemed to pierce the sky. The country was covered
by green crops, with here and there patches of dingy rice-stubble, and
an occasional stretch of dense grass jungle. Quail, partridge, and
plover rose from the ground in coveys, as my horse cantered through;
and an occasional peafowl or florican scudded across the track as I
ambled onward. I asked at a wretched little accumulation of weavers'
huts where the ghat was, and if my elephant had gone on. To both my
queries I received satisfactory replies, and as the day was now
drawing in, I pushed my nag into a sharp canter and hurried forward.

I soon perceived the bulky outline of my elephant ahead, and on coming
up, found that my men had come too far up the river, had missed the
ghat to which I had sent my spare horse, and were now making for
another ferry still higher up. My horse was jaded, so I got on the
elephant, and made one of the peons lead the horse behind. It was
rapidly getting dark, and the mahout, or elephant driver, a miserable
low caste stupid fellow, evidently knew nothing of the country, and
was going at random. I halted at the next village, got hold of the
chowkeydar, and by a promise of backsheesh, prevailed on him to
accompany us and show us the way. We turned off from the direct
northerly direction in which we had been going, and made straight for
the river, which we could see in the distance, looking chill and grey
in the fast fading twilight. We now got on the sandbanks, and had to
go cautiously for fear of quicksands. By the time we reached the ghat
it was quite dark and growing very cold.

We were quite close to the hills, a heavy dew was falling, and I found
that I should have to float down the liver for a mile, and then pole
up stream in another channel for two miles before I could reach camp.

I got my horse into the boat, ordering the elephant driver to travel
all night if he could, as I should expect my things to be at camp
early in the morning, and the boatmen pushed off the unwieldy
ferry-boat, floating us quietly down the rapid 'drumly' stream. All is
solemnly still and silent on an Indian river at night. The stream is
swift but noiseless. Vast plains and heaps of sand stretch for miles
on either bank. There are no villages near the stream. Faintly, far
away in the distance, you hear a few subdued sounds, the only
evidences of human habitation. There is the tinkle of a cow-bell, the
barking of a pariah dog, the monotonous dub-a-dub-dub of a
timber-toned tom-tom, muffled and slightly mellowed by the distance.
The faint, far cries, and occasional halloos of the herd-boys calling
to each other, gradually cease, but the monotonous dub-a-dub-dub
continues till far into the night.

It was now very cold, and I was glad to borrow a blanket from my peon.
At such a time the pipe is a great solace. It soothes the whole
system, and plunges one into an agreeable dreamy speculative mood,
through which all sorts of fantastic notions resolve. Fancies chase
each other quickly, and old memories rise, bitter or sweet, but all
tinged and tinted by the seductive influence of the magic weed. Hail,
blessed pipe! the invigorator of the weary, the uncomplaining faithful
friend, the consoler of sorrows, and the dispeller of care, the
much-prized companion of the solitary wayfarer!

Now a jackal utters a howl on the bank, as our boat shoots past, and
the diabolical noise is echoed from knoll to knoll, and from ridge to
ridge, as these incarnate devils of the night join in and prolong the
infernal chorus. An occasional splash, as a piece of the bank topples
over into the stream, rouses the cormorant and gull from their placid
dozing on the sandbanks. They squeak and gurgle out an unintelligible
protest, then cosily settle their heads again beneath the sheltering
wing, and sleep the slumber of the dreamless. A sharp sudden plump, or
a lazy surging sound, accompanied by a wheezy blowing sort of hiss,
tells us that a _seelun_ is disporting himself; or that a fat old
'porpus' is bearing his clumsy bulk through the rushing current.

The bank now looms out dark and mysterious, and as we turn the point
another long stretch of the river opens out, reflecting the merry
twinkle of the myriad stars, that glitter sharp and clear millions of
miles overhead. There is now a clattering of bamboo poles. With a
grunt of disgust, and a quick catching of the breath, as the cold
water rushes up against his thighs, one of the boatmen splashes
overboard, and they commence slowly and wearily pushing the boat up
stream. We touch the bank a dozen times. The current swoops down and
turns us round and round. The men have to put their shoulders under
the gunwale, and heave and strain with all their might. The long
bamboo poles are plunged into the dark depths of the river, and the
men puff, and grunt, and blow, as they bend almost to the bottom of
the boat while they push. It is a weary progress. We are dripping wet
with dew. Quite close on the bank we hear the hoarse wailing call of a
tigress. The call of the tiger comes echoing down between the banks.
The men cease poling. I peer forward into the obscurity. My syce pats,
and speaks soothingly to the trembling horse, while my peon with
excited fingers fumbles at the straps of my gun-case. For a moment all
is intensely still.

I whisper to the boatmen to push out a little into the stream. Again
the tigress calls, this time so close to us that we could almost fancy
we could feel her breath. My gun is ready. The syce holds the horse
firmly by the head, and as we leave the bank, we can distinctly see
the outline of some large animal, standing out a dark bulky mass
against the skyline. I take a steady aim and fire. A roar of
astonishment, wrath, and pain follows the report. The horse struggles
and snorts, the boatman calls out 'Oh, my father!' and ejaculates
'hi-hi-hi!' in tones of piled up anguish and apprehension, the peon
cries exultantly 'Wah wah! khodawund, lug, gea,' that bullet has told;
oh your highness! and while the boat rocks violently to and fro, I
abuse the boatmen, slang the syce, and rush to grasp a pole, while the
peon seizes another; for we are drifting rapidly down stream, and may
at any moment strike on a bank and topple over. We can hear by the
growling and commotion on the bank, that my bullet has indeed told,
and that something is hit. We soon get the frightened boatmen quieted
down, and after another hour's weary work we spy the white outline of
the tents above the bank. A lamp shines out a bright welcome; and
although it is nearly twelve at night, the Captain and the magistrate
are discussing hot toddy, and waiting my arrival. My spare horse had
come on from the ghat, the syce had told them I was coming, and they
had been indulging in all sorts of speculations over my non-arrival.

A good supper, and a reeking jorum, soon banished all recollections of
my weary journey, and men were ordered to go out at first break of
dawn, and see about the wounded tiger. In the morning I was gratified
beyond expression to find a fine tigress, measuring 8 feet 3 inches,
had been brought in, the result of my lucky night shot; the marks of a
large tiger were found about the spot, and we determined to beat up
for him, and if possible secure his skin, as we already had that of
his consort.

Captain S. had some work to finish, and my elephant and bearer had not
arrived, so our magistrate and myself walked down to the sandbanks,
and amused ourselves for an hour shooting sandpipers and plover; we
also shot a pair of mallard and a couple of teal, and then went back
to the tents, and were soon busily discussing a hunter's breakfast.
While at our meal, my elephant and things arrived, and just then also,
the 'Major Capt[=a]n,' or Nepaulese functionary, my old friend, came up
with eight elephants, and we hurried out to greet the fat,
merry-featured old man.

What a quaint, genial old customer he looked, as he bowed and salaamed
to us from his elevated seat, his face beaming, and his little
bead-like eyes twinkling with pleasure. He was full of an adventure he
had as he came along. After crossing a brawling mountain-torrent, some
miles from our camp, they entered some dense kair jungle. The kair is
I believe a species of mimosa; it is a hard wood, growing in a thick
scrubby form, with small pointed leaves, a yellowish sort of flower,
and sharp thorns studding its branches; it is a favourite resort for
pig, and although it is difficult to beat on account of the thorns,
tigers are not unfrequently found among the gloomy recesses of a good
kair scrub.

As they entered this jungle, some of the men were loitering behind.
When the elephants had passed about halfway through, the men came
rushing up pell mell, with consternation on their faces, reporting
that a huge tiger had sprung out on them, and carried off one of their
number. The Major and the elephants hurried back, and met the man
limping along, bleeding from several scratches, and with a nasty bite
in his shoulder, but otherwise more frightened than hurt. The tiger
had simply knocked him down, stood over him for a minute, seized him
by the shoulder, and then dashed on through the scrub, leaving him
behind half dead with pain and fear.

It was most amusing to hear the fat little Major relate the story. He
went through all the by-play incident to the piece, and as he got
excited, stood right up on his narrow pad. His gesticulations were
most vehement, and as the elephant was rather unsteady, and his
footing to say the least precarious, he seemed every moment as if he
must topple over. The old warrior, however, was equal to the occasion;
without for an instant abating the vigour of his narrative, he would
clutch at the greasy, matted locks of his mahout, and steady himself,
while he volubly described incident after incident. As he warmed with
his subject, and tried to shew us how the tiger must have pounced on
the man, he would let go and use his hands in illustration; the old
elephant would give another heave, and the fat little man would make
another frantic grab at the patient mahout's hair. The whole scene was
most comical, and we were in convulsions of laughter.

The news, however, foreboded ample sport; we now had certain _khubber_
of at least two tigers; we were soon under weigh; the wounded man had
been sent back to the Major's head-quarters on an elephant, and in
time recovered completely from his mauling. As we jogged along, we had
a most interesting talk with the Major Capt[=a]n. He was wonderfully
well informed, considering he had never been out of Nepaul. He knew all
about England, our army, our mode of government, our parliament, and
our Queen; whenever he alluded to Her Majesty he salaamed profoundly,
whether as a tribute of respect to her, or in compliment to us as loyal
subjects, we could not quite make out. He described to us the route
home by the Suez canal, and the fun of his talk was much heightened by
his applying the native names to everything; London was _Shuhur_, the
word meaning 'a city,' and he told us it was built on the _Tham[=a]ss
nuddee_, by which he meant the Thames river.

Our magistrate had a Jemadar of Peons with him, a sort of head man
among the servants. This man, abundantly bedecked with ear-rings,
finger-rings, and other ornaments, was a useless, bullying sort of
fellow; dressed to the full extent of Oriental foppishness, and
because he was the magistrate's servant, he thought himself entitled
to order the other servants about in the most lordly way. He was now
making himself peculiarly officious, shouting to the drivers to go
here and there, to do this and do that, and indulging in copious
torrents of abuse, without which it seems impossible for a native
subordinate to give directions on any subject. We were all rather
amused, and could not help bursting into laughter, as, inflated with a
sense of his own importance, he began abusing one of the native
drivers of the Nepaulee chief; this man did not submit tamely to his
insolence. To him the magistrate was nobody, and the pompous Jemadar a
perfect nonentity. He accordingly turned round and poured forth a
perfect flood of invective. Never was collapse more utter. The Jemadar
took a back seat at once, and no more that day did we hear his
melodious voice in tones of imperious command.

The old Major chuckled, and rubbed his fat little hands, and leaning
over to me said, 'at home a lion, but abroad a lamb,' for, surrounded
by his women at home, the man would twirl his moustaches, look fierce,
and fancy himself a very tiger; but, no sooner did he go abroad, and
mix with men as good, if not better than himself, than he was ready to
eat any amount of humble pie.

We determined first of all to beat for the tiger whose tracks had been
seen near where I had fired my lucky shot the preceding night. A
strong west wind was blowing, and dense clouds of sand were being
swept athwart our line, from the vast plains of fine white sand
bordering the river for miles. As we went along we fired the jungle in
our rear, and the strong wind carried the flames raging and roaring
through the dense jungle with amazing fury. One elephant got so
frightened at the noise behind him, that he fairly bolted for the
river, and could not be persuaded back into the line.

Disturbed by the fire, we saw numerous deer and pig, but being after
tiger we refrained from shooting at them. The Basinattea Tuppoo, which
was the scene of our present hunt, were famous jungles, and many a
tiger had been shot there by the Purneah Club in bygone days. The
annual ravages of the impetuous river, had however much changed the
face of the country; vast tracts of jungle had been obliterated by
deposits of sand from its annual incursions. Great skeletons of trees
stood everywhere, stretching out bare and unsightly branches, all
bending to the south, shewing the mighty power of the current, when it
made its annual progress of devastation over the surrounding country.
Now, however, it was like a thin streak of silver, flashing back the
fierce rays of the meridian sun. Through the blinding clouds of fine
white sand we could at times, during a temporary lull, see its ruined
surface. And we were glad when we came on the tracks of the tiger,
which led straight from the stream, in the direction of some thick
tree jungle at no great distance. We gladly turned our backs to the
furious clouds of dust and gusts of scorching wind, and led by a
Nepaulee tracker, were soon crashing heavily through the jungle.

When hunting with elephants, the Nepaulese beat in a dense line, the
heads of the elephants touching each other. In this manner we were now
proceeding, when S. called out, 'There goes the tiger.'

We looked up, and saw a very large tiger making off for a deep
watercourse, which ran through the jungle some 200 yards ahead of the
line. We hurried up as fast as we could, putting out a fast elephant
on either flank, to see that the cunning brute did not sneak either up
or down the nullah, under cover of the high banks. This, however, was
not his object. We saw him descend into the nullah, and almost
immediately top the further bank, and disappear into the jungle
beyond.

Pressing on at a rapid jolting trot, we dashed after him in hot
pursuit. The jungle seemed somewhat lighter on ahead. In the distance
we could see some dangurs at work breaking up land, and to the right
was a small collection of huts with a beautiful riband of green crops,
a perfect oasis in the wilderness of sand and parched up grass.
Forming into line we pressed on. The tiger was evidently lying up,
probably deterred from breaking across the open by the sight of the
dangurs at work. My heart was bounding with excitement. We were all
intensely eager, and thought no more of the hot wind and blinding
dust. Just then Captain S. saw the brute sneaking along to the left of
the line, trying to outflank us, and break back. He fired two shots
rapidly with his Express, and the second one, taking effect in the
neck of the tiger, bowled him over as he stood. He was a mangy-looking
brute, badly marked, and measured eight feet eleven inches. He did not
have a chance of charging, and probably had little heart for a fight.

We soon had him padded, and then proceeded straight north, to the
scene of the Major's encounter with the tiger in the morning. The
jungle was well trampled down; there were numerous streams and pools
of water, occasional clumps of bamboos, and abrupt ridgy undulations.
It was the very jungle for tiger, and elated by our success in having
bagged one already, we were all in high spirits. The line of fire we
could see far in the distance, sweeping on like the march of fate, and
we could have shot numerous deer, but reserved our fire for nobler
game. It was getting well on in the afternoon when we came up to the
kair jungle. We beat right up to where the man had been seized, and
could see the marks of the struggle distinctly enough. We beat right
through the jungle with no result, and as it was now getting rather
late, the old Major signified his desire to bid us good evening. As
this meant depriving us of eight elephants, we prevailed on him to try
one spare straggling corner that we had not gone through. He laughed
the idea to scorn of getting a tiger there, saying there was no cover.
One elephant, however, was sent while we were talking. Our elephants
were all standing in a group, and the mahout on his solitary elephant
was listlessly jogging on in a purposeless and desultory manner, when
we suddenly heard the elephant pipe out a shrill note of alarm, and
the mahout yelled 'Bagh! Bagh!' tiger! tiger! The Captain was again
the lucky man. The tiger, a much finer and stronger built animal than
the one we had already killed, was standing not eighty paces off,
shewing his teeth, his bristles erect, and evidently in a bad temper.
He had been crouching among some low bushes, and seeing the elephant
bearing directly down on him, he no doubt imagined his retreat had
been discovered. At all events there he was, and he presented a
splendid aim. He was a noble-looking specimen as he stood there grim
and defiant. Captain S. took aim, and lodged an Express bullet in his
chest. It made a fearful wound, and the ferocious brute writhed and
rolled about in agony. We quickly surrounded him, and a bullet behind
the ear from my No. 16 put an end to his misery.

The old Major now bade us good evening, and after padding the second
tiger, and much elated at our success, we began to beat homewards,
shooting at everything that rose before us. A couple of tremendous pig
got up before me, and dashed through a clear stream that was purling
peacefully in its pebbly bed. As the boar was rushing up the farther
bank, I deposited a pellet in his hind quarters. He gave an angry
grunt and tottered on, but presently pulled up, and seemed determined
to have some revenge for his hurt. As my elephant came up the bank,
the gallant boar tried to charge, but already wounded and weak from
loss of blood, he tottered and staggered about. My elephant would not
face him, so I gave him another shot behind the shoulder, and padded
him for the _moosahurs_ and sweepers in camp. Just then one of the
policemen started a young hog-deer, and several of the men got down
and tried to catch the little thing alive. They soon succeeded, and
the cries of the poor little _butcha_, that is 'young one,' were most
plaintive.

The wind had now subsided, there was a red angry glare, as the level
rays of the setting sun shimmered through the dense clouds of dust
that loaded the atmosphere. It was like the dull, red, coppery hue
which presages a storm. The vast morung jungle lay behind us, and
beyond that the swelling wooded hills, beginning to show dark and
indistinct against the gathering gloom. A long line of cattle were
wending their way homeward to the batan, and the tinkle of the big
copper bell fell pleasingly on our ears. In the distance, we could see
the white canvas of the tents gleaming in the rays of the setting sun.
A vast circular line of smouldering fire, flickering and flaring
fitfully, and surmounted by huge volumes of curling smoke, shewed the
remains of the fierce tornado of flame that had raged at noon, when we
lit the jungle. The jungle was very light, and much trodden down, our
three howdah elephants were not far apart, and we were chatting
cheerfully together and discussing the incidents of the day. My bearer
was sitting behind me in the back of the howdah, and I had taken out
my ball cartridge from my No. 12 breechloader, and had replaced them
with shot. Just then my mahout raised his hand, and in a hoarse
excited whisper called out,

'Look, sahib, a large tiger!'

'Where?' we all exclaimed, getting excited at once. He pointed in
front to a large object, looking for all the world like a huge dun
cow.

'Why, you fool, that is a bullock.' I exclaimed.

My bearer, who had also been intently gazing, now said.

'No, sahib! that is a tiger, and a large one.'

At that moment, it turned partly round, and I at once saw that the men
were right, and that it was a veritable tiger, and seemingly a monster
in size. I at once called to Captain S. and the magistrate, who had by
this time fallen a little behind.

'Look out, you fellows! here's a tiger in front.'

At first they thought I was joking, but a glance confirmed the truth
of what I had said. When I first saw the brute, he was evidently
sneaking after the cattle, and was about sixty paces from me. He was
so intent on watching the herd, that he had not noticed our approach.
He was now, however, evidently alarmed and making off. By the time I
called out, he must have been over eighty yards away. I had my No. 12
in my hand, loaded with shot; it was no use; I put it down and took up
my No. 16; this occupied a few seconds; I fired both barrels; the
first bullet was in excellent line but rather short, the second went
over the animal's back, and neither touched him. It made him, however,
quicken his retreat, and when Captain S. fired, he must have been
fully one hundred and fifty yards away; as it was now somewhat dusky,
he also missed. He fired another long shot with his rifle, but missed
again. Oh that unlucky change of cartridges in my No. 12! But for
that--but there--we are always wise after the event. We never expected
to see a tiger in such open country, especially as we had been over
the same ground before, firing pretty often as we came along.

We followed up of course, but it was now fast getting dark, and though
we beat about for some time, we could not get another glimpse of the
tiger. He was seemingly a very large male, dark-coloured, and in
splendid condition. We must have got him, had it been earlier, as he
could not have gone far forward, for the lines of fire were beyond
him, and we had him between the fire and the elephants. We got home
about 6.30, rather disappointed at missing such a glorious prize, so
true is it that a sportsman's soul is never satisfied. But we had rare
and most unlooked-for luck, and we felt considerably better after a
good dinner, and indulged in hopes of getting the big fellow next
morning.

In the same jungles, some years ago, a very sad accident occurred. A
party were out tiger-shooting, and during one of the beats, a cowherd
hearing the noise of the advancing elephants, crouched behind a bush,
and covered himself with his blanket. At a distance he looked exactly
like a pig, and one of the shooters mistook him for one. He fired, and
hit the poor herd in the hip. As soon as the mistake was perceived,
everything was done for the poor fellow. His wound was dressed as well
as they could do it, and he was sent off to the doctor in a dhoolie, a
a sort of covered litter, slung on a pole and carried on men's shoulders.
It was too late, the poor coolie died on the road, from shock and loss
of blood. Such mistakes occur very seldom, and this was such a natural
one, that no one could blame the unfortunate sportsman, and certainly
no one felt keener regret than he did. The coolie's family was amply
provided for, which was all that remained to be done.

This is the only instance I know, where fatal results have followed
such an accident. I have known several cases of beaters peppered with
shot, generally from their own carelessness, and disregard of orders,
but a salve in the shape of a few rupees has generally proved the most
effective ointment. I have known some rascals say, they were sorry
they had not been lucky enough to be wounded, as they considered a
punctured cuticle nothing to set against the magnificent douceur of
four or five rupees. One impetuous scamp, being told not to go in
front of the line during a beat near Burgamma, replied to the warning
caution of his jemadar,

'Oh never mind, if get shot I will get backsheesh.'

Whether this was a compliment to the efficacy of our treatment (by the
silver ointment), or to the inaccuracy and harmlessness of our shooting,
I leave the reader to judge.

Our bag during this lucky day, including the tigress killed by my shot
on the river bank, was as follows: three tigers, one boar, four deer,
including the young one taken alive, eight sandpipers, nine plovers,
two mallards, and two teal.




CHAPTER XXIII.


We resume the beat.--The hog-deer.--Nepaulese villages.--Village
granaries.--Tiger in front.--A hit! a hit!--Following up the wounded
tiger.--Find him dead.--Tiffin in the village.--The Patair jungle.
--Search for tiger.--Gone away!--An elephant steeplechase in pursuit.
--Exciting chase.--The Morung jungle.--Magnificent scenery.--Skinning
the tiger.--Incidents of tiger hunting.

Next morning, both the magistrate and myself felt very ill, headachy
and sick, with violent vomiting and retching; Captain S. attributed it
to the fierce hot wind and exposure of the preceding day, but we, the
sufferers, blamed the _dekchees_ or cooking pots. These _dekchees_ are
generally made of copper, coated or tinned over with white metal once
a month or oftener; if the tinning is omitted, or the copper becomes
exposed by accident or neglect, the food cooked in the pots sometimes
gets tainted with copper, and produces nausea and sickness in those
who eat it. I have known, within my own experience, cases of copper
poisoning that have terminated fatally. It is well always thoroughly
to inspect the kitchen utensils, particularly when in camp; unless
carefully watched and closely supervised, servants get very careless,
and let food remain in these copper vessels. This is always dangerous,
and should never be allowed.

In consequence of our indisposition, we did not start till the
forenoon was far advanced, and the hot west wind had again begun to
sweep over the prairie-like stretches of sand and withered grass. We
commenced beating up by the Batan or cattle stance, near which we had
seen the big tiger, the preceding evening. S. however became so sick
and giddy, that he had to return to camp, and Captain S. and I
continued the beat alone. Having gone over the same ground only
yesterday, we did not expect a tiger so near to camp, more especially
as the fire had made fearful havoc with the tall grass. Hog-deer were
very numerous; they are not as a rule easily disturbed; they are of a
reddish brown colour, not unlike that of the Scotch red deer, and rush
through the jungle, when alarmed, with a succession of bounding leaps;
they make very pretty shooting, and when young, afford tender and
well-flavoured venison. One hint I may give. When you shoot a buck,
see that he is at once denuded of certain appendages, else the flesh
will get rank and disagreeable to eat. The bucks have pretty antlers,
but are not very noble looking. The does are somewhat lighter in
colour, and do not seem to consort together in herds like antelopes;
there are rarely more than five in a group, though I have certainly
seen more on several occasions.

This morning we were unlucky with our deer. I shot three, and Captain
S. shot at and wounded three, not one of which however did we bag.
This part of the country is exclusively inhabited by Parbutteas, the
native name for Nepaulese settled in British territory. Over the
frontier line, the villages are called Pahareeas, signifying
mountaineers or hillmen, from Pahar, a mountain. We beat up to a
Parbuttea village, with its conical roofed huts; men and women were
engaged in plaiting long coils of rice straw into cable looking ropes.
A few split bamboos are fastened into the ground, in a circle, and
these ropes are then coiled round, in and out, between the stakes;
this makes a huge circular vat-shaped repository, open at both ends;
it is then lifted up and put on a platform coated with mud, and
protected from rats and vermin by the pillars being placed on smooth,
inverted earthen pots. The coils of straw are now plastered outside
and in with a mixture of mud, chaff, and cowdung, and allowed to dry;
when dried the hut is filled with grain, and securely roofed and
thatched. This forms the invariable village granary, and looks at a
distance not unlike a stack or rick of corn, round a farm at home. By
the abundance of these granaries in a village, one can tell at a
glance whether the season has been a good one, and whether the frugal
inhabitants of the clustering little hamlet are in pretty comfortable
circumstances. If they are under the sway of a grasping and
unscrupulous landlord, they not unfrequently bury their grain in
clay-lined chambers in the earth, and have always enough for current
wants, stored up in the sun-baked clay repositories mentioned in a
former chapter.

Beyond the village we entered some thick Patair jungle. Its greenness
was refreshing after the burnt up and withered grass jungle. We were
now in a hollow bordering the stream, and somewhat protected from the
scorching wind, and the stinging clouds of fine sand and red dust. The
brook looked so cool and refreshing, and the water so clear and
pellucid, that I was about to dismount to take a drink and lave my
heated head and face, when a low whistle to my right made me look in
that direction, and I saw the Captain waving his hand excitedly, and
pointing ahead. He was higher up the bank than I was, and in very
dense Patair; a ridge ran between his front of the line and mine, so
that I could only see his howdah, and the bulk of the elephant's body
was concealed from me by the grass on this ridge.

I closed up diagonally across the ridge; S. still waving to me to
hurry up; as I topped it, I spied a large tiger slouching along in the
hollow immediately below me. He saw me at the same instant, and
bounded on in front of S. His Express was at his shoulder on the
instant; he fired, and a tremendous spurt of blood shewed a hit, a
hit, a palpable hit. The tiger was nowhere visible, and not a cry or a
motion could we hear or see, to give us any clue to the whereabouts of
the wounded animal. We followed up however, quickly but cautiously,
expecting every instant a furious charge.

We must have gone at least a hundred yards, when right in front of me
I descried the tiger, crouching down, its head resting on its fore
paws, and to all appearance settling for a spring. It was about twenty
yards from me, and taking a rather hasty aim, I quickly fired both
barrels straight at the head. I could only see the head and paws, but
these I saw quite distinctly. My elephant was very unsteady, and both
my bullets went within an inch of the tiger's head, but fortunately
missed completely. I say fortunately, for finding the brute still
remaining quite motionless, we cautiously approached, and found it was
stone dead. The perfect naturalness of the position, however, might
well have deceived a more experienced sportsman. The beast was lying
crouched on all fours, as if in the very act of preparing to spring.
The one bullet had killed it; the wound was in the lungs, and the
internal bleeding had suffocated it, but here was a wonderful instance
of the tiger's tenacity of life, even when sorely wounded, for it had
travelled over a hundred and thirty yards after S. had shot it.

It was lucky I missed, for my bullets would have spoiled the skull.
She was a very handsome, finely marked tigress, a large specimen, for
on applying the tape we found she measured exactly nine feet. Before
descending to measure her, we were joined by the old Major Capt[=a]n,
whose elephants we had for some time descried in the distance. His
congratulations were profuse, and no doubt sincere, and after padding
the tigress, we hied to the welcome shelter of one of the village
houses, where we discussed a hearty and substantial tiffin.

During tiffin, we were surrounded by a bevy of really fair and buxom
lasses. They wore petticoats of striped blue cloth, and had their arms
and shoulders bare, and their ears loaded with silver ornaments. They
were merry, laughing, comely damsels, with none of the exaggerated
shyness, and affected prudery of the women of the plains. We were
offered plantains, milk, and chupatties, and an old patriarch came out
leaning on his staff, to revile and abuse the tigress. From some of
the young men we heard of a fresh kill to the north of the village,
and after tiffin we proceeded in that direction, following up the
course of the limpid stream, whose gurgling ripple sounded so
pleasantly in our ears.

Far ahead to the right, and on the further bank of the stream, we
could see dense curling volumes of smoke, and leaping pyramids of
flame, where a jungle fire was raging in some thick acacia scrub. As
we got nearer, the heat became excessive, and the flames, fanned into
tremendous fury by the fierce west wind, tore through the dry thorny
bushes. Our elephants were quite unsteady, and did not like facing the
fire. We made a slight detour, and soon had the roaring wall of flame
behind us. We were now entering on a moist, circular, basin-shaped
hollow. Among the patair roots were the recent marks of great numbers
of wild pigs, where they had been foraging among the stiff clay for
these esculents. The patair is like a huge bulrush, and the elephants
are very fond of its succulent, juicy, cool-looking leaves. Those in
our line kept tearing up huge tufts of it, thrashing out the mud and
dirt from the roots against their forelegs, and with a grunt of
satisfaction, making it slowly disappear in their cavernous mouths.
There was considerable noise, and the jungle was nearly as high as the
howdahs, presenting the appearance of an impenetrable screen of vivid
green. We beat and rebeat, across and across, but there was no sign of
the tiger. The banks of the nullah were very steep, rotten looking,
and dangerous. We had about eighteen elephants, namely, ten of our
own, and eight belonging to the Nepaulese. We were beating very close,
the elephants' heads almost touching. This is the way they always beat
in Nepaul. We thought we had left not a spot in the basin untouched,
and Captain S. was quite satisfied that there could be no tiger there.
It was a splendid jungle for cover, so thick, dense, and cool. I was
beating along the edge of the creek, which ran deep and silent,
between the gloomy sedge-covered banks. In a placid little pool I saw
a couple of widgeon all unconscious of danger, their glossy plumage
reflected in the clear water. I called to Captain S. 'We are sold this
time Captain, there's no tiger here!'

'I am afraid not,' he answered.

'Shall I bag those two widgeon?' I asked.

'All right,' was the response.

Putting in shot cartridge, I shot both the widgeon, but we were all
astounded to see the tiger we had so carefully and perseveringly
searched for, bound out of a crevice in the bank, almost right under
my elephant. Off he went with a smothered roar, that set our elephants
hurrying backwards and forwards. There was a commotion along the whole
line. The jungle was too dense for us to see anything. It was one more
proof how these hill tigers will lie close, even in the midst of a
line.

S. called out to me to remain quiet, and see if we could trace the
tiger's progress by any rustling in the cover. Looking down we saw the
kill, close to the edge of the water. A fast elephant was sent on
ahead, to try and ascertain whether the tiger was likely to break
beyond the circle of the little basin-shaped valley. We gathered round
the kill; it was quite fresh; a young buffalo. The Major told us that
in his experience, a male tiger always begins on the neck first. A
female always at the hind quarters. A few mouthfuls only had been
eaten, and according to the Major, it must have been a tigress, as the
part devoured was from the hind quarters.

While we were talking over these things, a frenzied shout from the
driver of our naka elephant caused us to look in his direction. He was
gesticulating wildly, and bawling at the top of his voice, 'Come, come
quickly, sahibs, the tiger is running away.'

Now commenced such a mad and hurried scramble as I have never
witnessed before or since, from the back of an elephant. As we tore
through the tangled dense green patair, the broad leaves crackled like
crashing branches, the huge elephants surged ahead like ships rocking
in a gale of wind, and the mahouts and attendants on the pad
elephants, shouted and urged on their shuffling animals, by excited
cries and resounding whacks.

In the retinue of the Major, were several men with elephant spears or
goads. These consist of a long, pliant, polished bamboo, with a sharp
spike at the end, which they call a _jhetha_. These men now came
hurrying round the ridge, among the opener grass, and as we emerged
from the heavy cover, they began goading the elephants behind and
urging them to their most furious pace. On ahead, nearly a quarter of
a mile away, we could see a huge tiger making off for the distant
morung, at a rapid sling trot. His lithe body shone before us, and
urged us to the most desperate efforts. It was almost a bare plateau.
There was scarcely any cover, only here and there a few stunted acacia
bushes. The dense forest was two or three miles ahead, but there were
several nasty steep banks, and precipitous gullies with deep water
rushing between. Attached to each Nepaulee pad, by a stout
curiously-plaited cord, ornamented with fancy knots and tassels of
silk, was a small pestle-shaped instrument, not unlike an auctioneer's
hammer. It was quaintly carved, and studded with short, blunt,
shining, brass nails or spikes. I had noticed these hanging down from
the pads, and had often wondered what they were for. I was now to see
them used. While the mahouts in front rained a shower of blows on the
elephants head, and the spear-men pricked him up from behind with
their jhethas, the occupant of the pad, turning round with his face to
the tail, belaboured the poor hathee with the auctioneer's hammer. The
blows rattled on the elephant's rump. The brutes trumpeted with pain,
but they _did_ put on the pace, and travelled as I never imagined an
elephant _could_ travel. Past bush and brake, down precipitous ravine,
over the stones, through the thorny scrub, dashing down a steep bank
here, plunging madly through a deep stream there, we shuffled along.
We must have been going fully seven miles an hour. The pestle-shaped
hammer is called a _lohath_, and most unmercifully were they wielded.
We were jostled and jolted, till every bone ached again. Clouds of
dust were driven before our reeling waving line. How the Nepaulese
shouted and capered. We were all mad with excitement. I shouted with
the rest. The fat little Major kicked his heels against the sides of
his elephant, as if he were spurring a Derby winner to victory. Our
usually sedate captain yelled--actually yelled!--in an agony of
excitement, and tried to execute a war dance of his own on the floor
of his howdah. Our guns rattled, the chains clanked and jangled, the
howdahs rocked and pitched from side to side. We made a desperate
effort. The poor elephants made a gallant race of it. The foot men
perspired and swore, but it was not to be. Our striped friend had the
best of the start, and we gained not an inch upon him. To our
unspeakable mortification, he reached the dense cover on ahead, where
we might as well have sought for a needle in a haystack. Never,
however, shall I forget that mad headlong scramble. Fancy an elephant
steeple-chase. Reader, it was sublime; but we ached for it next day.

The old Major and his fleet racing elephants now left us, and our
jaded beasts took us slowly back in the direction of our camp. It was
a fine wild view on which we were now gazing. Behind us the dark
gloomy impenetrable morung, the home of ever-abiding fever and ague.
Behind that the countless multitude of hills, swelling here and
receding there, a jumbled heap of mighty peaks and fretted pinnacles,
with their glistening sides and dark shadowless ravines, their mighty
scaurs and their abrupt serrated edges showing out clearly and boldly
defined against the evening sky. Far to the right, the shining
river--a riband of burnished steel, for its waters were a deep steely
blue--rolled its swift flood along amid shining sand-banks. In front,
the vast undulating plain, with grove, and rill, and smoking hamlet,
stretched at our feet in a lovely panorama of blended and harmonious
colour. We were now high up above the plain, and the scene was one of
the finest I have ever witnessed in India. The wind had gone down, and
the oblique rays of the sun lit up the whole vast panorama with a
lurid light, which was heightened in effect by the dust-laden
atmosphere, and the volumes of smoke from the now distant fires,
hedging in the far horizon with curtains of threatening grandeur and
gloom. That far away canopy of dust and smoke formed a wonderful
contrast to the shining snow-capped hills behind. Altogether it was a
day to be remembered. I have seen no such strange and unearthly
combination of shade and colour in any landscape before or since.

On the way home we bagged a florican and a very fine mallard, and
reached the camp utterly fagged, to find our worthy magistrate very
much recovered, and glad to congratulate us on our having bagged the
tigress. After a plunge in the river, and a rare camp dinner--such a
meal as only an Indian sportsman can procure--we lay back in our cane
chairs, and while the fragrant smoke from the mild Manilla curled
lovingly about the roof of the tent, we discussed the day's
proceedings, and fought our battles over again.

A rather animated discussion arose about the length of the tiger--as
to its frame merely, and we wondered what difference the skin would
make in the length of the animal. As it was a point we had never heard
mooted before, we determined to see for ourselves. We accordingly went
out into the beautiful moonlight, and superintended the skinning of
the tigress. The skin was taken off most artistically. We had
carefully measured the animal before skinning. She was exactly nine
feet long. We found the skin made a difference of only four inches,
the bare skeleton from tip of nose to extreme point of tail measuring
eight feet eight inches.

As an instance of tigers taking to trees, our worthy magistrate
related that in Rajmehal he and a friend had wounded a tiger, and
subsequently lost him in the jungle. In vain they searched in every
conceivable direction, but could find no trace of him. They were about
giving up in despair, when S., raising his hat, happened to look up,
and there, on a large bough directly overhead, he saw the wounded
tiger lying extended at full length, some eighteen feet from the
ground. They were not long in leaving the dangerous vicinity, and it
was not long either ere a well-directed shot brought the tiger down
from his elevated perch.

These after-dinner stories are not the least enjoyable part of a
tiger-hunting party. Round the camp table in a snug, well-lighted
tent, with all the 'materials' handy, I have listened to many a tale
of thrilling adventure. S. was full of reminiscences, and having seen
a deal of tiger shooting in various parts of India, his recollections
were much appreciated. To shew that the principal danger in tiger
shooting is not from the tiger himself, but from one's elephant
becoming panic-stricken and bolting, he told how a Mr. Aubert, a
Benares planter, lost his life. A tiger had been 'spined' by a shot,
and the line gathered round the prostrate monster to watch its
death-struggle. The elephant on which the unfortunate planter sat got
demoralised and attempted to bolt. The mahout endeavoured to check its
rush, and in desperation the elephant charged straight down, close
past the tiger, which lay writhing and roaring under a huge
overhanging tree. The elephant was rushing directly under this tree,
and a large branch would have swept howdah and everything it contained
clean off the elephant's back, as easily as one would brush off a fly.
To save himself Aubert made a leap for the branch, the elephant
forging madly ahead; and the howdah, being smashed like match-wood,
fell on the tiger below, who was tearing and clawing at everything
within his reach. Poor Aubert got hold of the branch with his hands,
and clung with all the desperation of one fighting for his life. He
was right above the wounded tiger, but his grasp on the tree was not a
firm one. For a moment he hung suspended above the furious animal,
which, mad with agony and fury, was a picture of demoniac rage. The
poor fellow could hold no longer, and fell right on the tiger. It was
nearly at its last gasp, but it caught hold of Aubert by the foot, and
in a final paroxysm of pain and rage chawed the foot clean off, and
the poor fellow died next day from the shock and loss of blood. He was
one of four brothers who all met untimely deaths from accidents. This
one was killed by the tiger, another was thrown from a vehicle and
killed on the spot, the third was drowned, and the fourth shot by
accident.

Our bag to-day was one tiger, one florican, one mallard, and two
widgeon. On cutting the tiger open, we found that the bullet had
entered on the left side, and, as we suspected, had entered the lungs.
It had, however, made a terrible wound. We found that it had
penetrated the heart and liver, gone forward through the chest, and
smashed the right shoulder. Notwithstanding this fearful wound,
shewing the tremendous effects of the Express bullet, the tiger had
gone on for the distance I have mentioned, after which it must have
fallen stone-dead. It was a marvellous instance of vitality, even
after the heart, liver, and lungs had been pierced. The liver had six
lobes, and it was then I heard for the first time, that with the
natives this was an infallible sign of the age of a tiger. The old
Major firmly believed it, and told us it was quite an accepted article
of faith with all native sportsmen. Facts subsequently came under my
own observation which seemed to give great probability to the theory,
but it is one on which I would not like to give a decided opinion,
till after hearing the experiences of other sportsmen.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Camp of the Nepaulee chief.--Quicksands.--Elephants crossing rivers.
--Tiffin at the Nepaulee camp.--We beat the forest for tiger.--Shoot
a young tiger.--Red ants in the forest.--Bhowras or ground bees.--The
_ursus labialis_ or long-lipped bear.--Recross the stream.--Florican.
--Stag running the gauntlet of flame.--Our bag.--Start for factory.
--Remarks on elephants.--Precautions useful for protection from the
sun in tiger shooting.--The _puggree_.--Cattle breeding in India, and
wholesale deaths of cattle from disease.--Nathpore.--Ravages of the
river.--Mrs. Gray, an old resident in the jungles.--Description of her
surroundings.

Next morning we started beating due east, setting fire to the jungle
as we went along. The roaring and crackling of the flames startled the
elephant on which Captain S. was riding, and going away across country
at a furious pace, it was with difficulty that it could be stopped. We
crossed the frontier line a short distance from camp, and entered a
dense jungle of thorny acacia, with long dry grass almost choking the
trees. They were dry and stunted, and when we dropped a few lights
amongst such combustible material, the fire was splendid beyond
description. How the flames surged through the withered grass. We were
forced to pause and admire the magnificent sight. The wall of flame
tore along with inconceivable rapidity, and the blinding volumes of
smoke obscured the country for miles. The jungle was full of deer and
pig. One fine buck came bounding along past our line, but I stopped
him with a single bullet through the neck. He fell over with a
tremendous crash, and turning a complete somersault broke off both his
horns with the force of the fall.

We beat down a shallow sandy watercourse, and could see the camp of
the old Major on the high bank beyond. Farther down the stream there
was a small square fort, the whitewashed walls of which flashed back
the rays of the sun, and grouped round it were some ruinous looking
huts, several snowy tents, and a huge shamiana or canopy, under which
we could see a host of attendants spreading carpets, placing chairs,
and otherwise making ready for us. The banks of the stream were very
steep, but the guide at length brought us to what seemed a safe and
fordable passage. On the further side was a flat expanse of seemingly
firm and dry sand, but no sooner had our elephants begun to cross it,
than the whole sandbank for yards began to rock and tremble; the water
welled up over the footmarks of the elephants, and S. called out to
us, Fussun, Fussun! quicksand, quicksand! We scattered the elephants,
and tried to hurry them over the dangerous bit of ground with shouts
and cries of encouragement.

The poor animals seemed thoroughly to appreciate the danger, and
shuffled forward as quickly as they could. All got over in safety
except the last three. The treacherous sand, rendered still more
insecure by the heavy tread of so many ponderous animals, now gave way
entirely, and the three hapless elephants were left floundering in the
tenacious hold of the dreaded fussun. Two of the three were not far
from the firm bank, and managed to extricate themselves after a short
struggle; but the third had sunk up to the shoulders, and could
scarcely move. All hands immediately began cutting long grass and
forming it into bundles. These were thrown to the sinking elephant. He
rolled from side to side, the sand quaking and undulating round him in
all directions. At times he would roll over till nearly half his body
was invisible. Some of the Nepaulese ventured near, and managed to
undo the harness-ropes that were holding on the pad. The sagacious
brute fully understood his danger, and the efforts we were making for
his assistance. He managed to get several of the big bundles of grass
under his feet, and stood there looking at us with a most pathetic
pleading expression, and trembling, as if with an ague, from fear and
exhaustion.

The old Major came down to meet us, and a crowd of his men added their
efforts to ours, to help the unfortunate elephant. We threw in bundle
after bundle of grass, till we had the yielding sand covered with a
thick passage of firmly bound fascines, on which the hathee,
staggering and floundering painfully, managed to reach firm land. He
was so completely exhausted that he could scarcely walk to the tents,
and we left him there to the care of his attendants. This is a very
common episode in tiger hunting, and does not always terminate so
fortunately. In running water, the quicksand is not so dangerous, as
the force of the stream keeps washing away the sand, and does not
allow it to settle round the legs of the elephant; but on dry land, a
dry fussun, as it is called, is justly feared; and many a valuable
animal has been swallowed up in its slow, deadly, tenacious grasp.

In crossing sand, the heaviest and slowest elephants should go first,
preceded by a light, nimble pioneer. If the leading elephant shows
signs of sinking, the others should at once turn back, and seek some
safer place. In all cases the line should separate a little, and not
follow in each other's footsteps. The indications of a quicksand are
easily recognised. If the surface of the sand begins to oscillate and
undulate with a tremulous rocking motion, it is always wise to seek
some other passage. Looking back, after elephants have passed, you
will often see what was a perfectly dry flat, covered with several
inches of water. When water begins to ooze up in any quantity, after a
few elephants have passed, it is much safer to make the remainder
cross at some spot farther on.

In crossing a deep swift river, the elephants should enter the water
in a line, ranged up and down the river. That is, the line should be
ranged along the bank, and enter the water at right angles to the
current, and not in Indian file. The strongest elephants should be up
stream, as they help to break the force of the current for the weaker
and smaller animals down below. It is a fine sight to see some thirty
or forty of these huge animals crossing a deep and rapid river. Some
are reluctant to strike out, when they begin to enter the deepest
channel, and try to turn back; the mahouts and 'mates' shout, and
belabour them with bamboo poles. The trumpeting of the elephants, the
waving of the trunks, disporting, like huge water-snakes, in the
perturbed current, the splashing of the bamboos, the dark bodies of
the natives swimming here and there round the animals, the unwieldy
boat piled high with how-dahs and pads, the whole heap surmounted by a
group of sportsmen with their gleaming weapons, and variegated
puggrees, make up a picturesque and memorable sight. Some of the
strong swimmers among the elephants seem to enjoy the whole affair
immensely. They dip their huge heads entirely under the current, the
sun flashes on the dark hide, glistening with the dripping water; the
enormous head emerges again slowly, like some monstrous antediluvian
creation, and with a succession of these ponderous appearances and
disappearances, the mighty brutes forge through the surging water.
When they reach a shallow part, they pipe with pleasure, and send
volumes of fluid splashing against their heaving flanks, scattering
the spray all round in mimic rainbows.

At all times the Koosee was a dangerous stream to cross, but during
the rains I have seen the strongest and best swimming elephants taken
nearly a mile down stream; and in many instances they have been
drowned, their vast bulk and marvellous strength being quite unable to
cope with the tremendous force of the raging waters.

When we had got comfortably seated under the shamiana, a crowd of
attendants brought us baskets of fruit and a very nice cold collation
of various Indian dishes and curries. We did ample justice to the old
soldier's hospitable offerings, and then betel-nut, cardamums, cloves,
and other spices, and pauri leaves, were handed round on a silver
salver, beautifully embossed and carved with quaint devices. We lit
our cigars, our beards and handkerchiefs were anointed with attar of
roses; and the old Major then informed us that there was good khubber
of tiger in the wood close by.

The trees were splendid specimens of forest growth, enormously thick,
beautifully umbrageous, and growing very close together. There was a
dense undergrowth of tangled creeper, and the most lovely ferns and
tropical plants in the richest luxuriance, and of every conceivable
shade of amber and green. It was a charming spot. The patch of forest
was separated from the unbroken line of morung jungle by a beautifully
sheltered glade of several hundred acres, and further broken in three
places by avenue-looking openings, disclosing peeps of the black and
gloomy-looking mass of impenetrable forest beyond.

In the first of these openings we were directed to take up a position,
while the pad elephants and a crowd of beaters went to the edge of the
patch of forest and began beating up to us. Immense numbers of genuine
jungle fowl were calling in all directions, and flying right across
the opening in numerous coveys. They are beautifully marked with black
and golden plumes round the neck, and I determined to shoot a few by
and bye to send home to friends, who I knew would prize them as
invaluable material in dressing hooks for fly-fishing. The crashing of
the trees, as the elephants forced their way through the thick forest,
or tore off huge branches as they struggled amid the matted
vegetation, kept us all on the alert. The first place was however a
blank, and we moved on to the next. We had not long to wait, for a
fierce din inside the jungle, and the excited cries of the beaters,
apprised us that game of some sort was afoot. We were eagerly
watching, and speculating on the cause of the uproar, when a very fine
half-grown tiger cub sprang out of some closely growing fern, and
dashed across the narrow opening so quickly, that ere we had time to
raise a gun, he had disappeared in some heavy jhamun jungle on the
further side of the path.

We hurried round as fast as we could to intercept him, should he
attempt to break on ahead; and leaving some men to rally the mahouts,
and let them know that there was a tiger afoot, we were soon in our
places, and ready to give the cub a warm reception, should he again
show his stripes. It was not long ere he did so. I spied him stealing
along the edge of the jungle, evidently intending to make a rush back
past the opening he had just crossed, and outflank the line of beater
elephants. I fired and hit him in the forearm; he rolled over roaring
with rage, and then descrying his assailants, he bounded into the
open, and as well as his wound would allow him, came furiously down at
the charge. In less time however than it takes to write it, he had
received three bullets in his body, and tumbled down a lifeless heap.
We raised a cheer which brought the beaters and elephants quickly to
the spot. In coming through a thickly wooded part of the forest, with
numerous long and pliant creepers intertwisted into a confused tangle
of rope-like ligaments, the old Juddeah elephant tore down one of the
long lines, and dislodged an angry army of venomous red ants on the
occupants of the guddee, or cushioned seat on the elephant's pad. The
ants proved formidable assailants. There were two or three Baboos or
native gentlemen, holding on to the ropes, chewing pan, and enjoying
the scene, but the red ants were altogether more than they had
bargained for. Recognising the Baboos as the immediate cause of their
disturbance, they attacked them with indomitable courage. The mahout
fairly yelled with pain, and one of the Baboos, smarting from the
fiery bites of the furious insects, toppled clean backwards into the
undergrowth, showing an undignified pair of heels. The other two
danced on the guddee, sweeping and thrashing the air, the cushion, and
their clothes, with their cummerbunds, in the vain effort to free
themselves of their angry assailants. The guddee was literally covered
with ants; it looked an animated red mass, and the wretched Baboos
made frantic efforts to shake themselves clear. They were dreadfully
bitten, and reaching the open, they slid off the elephant, and even on
the ground continued their saltatory antics before finally getting rid
of their ferocious assailants.

In forest shooting the red ant is one of the most dreaded pests of the
jungle. If a colony gets dislodged from some overhanging branch, and
is landed in your howdah, the best plan is to evacuate your stronghold
as quickly as you can, and let the attendants clear away the invaders.
Their bite is very painful, and they take such tenacious hold, that
rather than quit their grip, they allow themselves to be decapitated
and leave their head and formidable forceps sticking in your flesh.

Other dreaded foes in the forest jungle are the Bhowra or ground bees,
which are more properly a kind of hornet. If by evil chance your
elephant should tread on their mound-like nest, instantly an angry
swarm of venomous and enraged hornets comes buzzing about your ears.
Your only chance is to squat down, and envelope yourself completely in
a blanket. Old sportsmen, shooting in forest jungle, invariably take a
blanket Avith them in the howdah, to ensure themselves protection in
the event of an attack by these blood-thirsty creatures. The thick
matted creepers too are a great nuisance, for which a bill-hook or
sharp kookree is an invaluable adjunct to the other paraphernalia of
the march. I have seen a mahout swept clean off the elephant's back by
these tenacious creepers, and the elephants themselves are sometimes
unable to break through the tangle of sinewy, lithe cords, which drape
the huge forest trees, hanging in slender festoons from every branch.
Some of them are prickly, and as the elephant slowly forces his way
through the mass of pendent swaying cords, they lacerate and tear the
mahout's clothes and skin, and appropriate his puggree. As you crouch
down within the shelter of your howdah, you can't help pitying the
poor wretch, and incline to think that, after all, shooting in grass
jungle has fewer drawbacks and is preferable to forest shooting.

One of the drivers reported that he had seen a bear in the jungle, and
we saw the earth of one not far from where the young tiger had fallen;
it was the lair of the sloth bear or _Ursus labialis_, so called from
his long pendent upper lip. His spoor is very easily distinguished
from that of any other animal; the ball of the foot shows a distinct
round impression, and about an inch to an inch and a half further on,
the impression of the long curved claws are seen. He uses these
long-curved claws to tear up ant hills, and open hollow decaying
trees, to get at the honey within, of which he is very fond. We went
after the bear, and were not long in discovering his whereabouts, and
a well-directed shot from S. added him to our bag. The best bear
shooting in India perhaps is in CHOTA NAGPOOR, but this does not come
within the limits of my present volume. We now beat slowly through the
wood, keeping a bright look out for ants and hornets, and getting fine
shooting at the numerous jungle fowl which flew about in amazing
numbers.

The forest trees in this patch of jungle were very fine. The hill
seerees, with its feathery foliage and delicate clusters of white
bugle-shaped blossom; the semul or cotton tree, with its wonderful
wealth of magnificent crimson flowers; the birch-looking sheeshum or
sissod; the sombre looking sal; the shining, leathery-leafed bhur,
with its immense over-arching limbs, and the crisp, curly-leafed
elegant-looking jhamun or Indian olive, formed a paradise of sylvan
beauty, on which the eye dwelt till it was sated with the woodland
loveliness.

In recrossing the dhar or water-course, we took care to avoid the
quicksands, and as we did not expect to fall in with another tiger, we
indulged in a little general firing. I shot a fine buck through the
spine, and we bagged several deer, and no less than five florican;
this bird is allied to the bustard family, and has beautiful drooping
feathers, hanging in plumy pendants of deep black and pure white,
intermingled in the most graceful and showy manner. The male is a
magnificent bird, and has perhaps as fine plumage as any bird on the
border; the flesh yields the most delicate eating of any game bird I
know; the slices of mingled brown and white from the breast are
delicious. The birds are rather shy, generally getting up a long way
in front of the line, and moving with a slow, rather clumsy, flight,
not unlike the flight of the white earth owl. They run with great
swiftness, and are rather hard to kill, unless hit about the neck and
head. There are two sorts, the lesser and the greater, the former also
called the bastard florican. Altogether they are noble looking birds,
and the sportsman is always glad to add as many florican as he can to
his bag.

We were now nearing the locality of the fierce fire of the morning; it
was still blazing in a long extended line of flame, and we witnessed
an incident without parallel in the experience of any of us. I fired
at and wounded a large stag; it was wounded somewhere in the side, and
seemed very hard hit indeed. Maddened probably by terror and pain, it
made straight for the line of fire, and bounded unhesitatingly right
into the flame. We saw it distinctly go clean though the flames, but
we could not see whether it got away with its life, as the elephants
would not go up to the fire. At all events, the stag went right
through his fiery ordeal, and was lost to us. We started numerous
hares close to camp, and S. bowled over several. They are very common
in the short grass jungle, where the soil is sandy, and are frequently
to be found among thin jowah jungle; they afford good sport for
coursing, but are neither so fleet, nor so large, nor such good eating
as the English hare. In fact, they are very dry eating, and the best
way to cook them is to jug them, or make a hunter's pie, adding
portions of partridge, quail, or plover, with a few mushrooms, and a
modicum of ham or bacon if these are procurable.

We reached camp pretty late, and sent off venison, birds, and other
spoils to Mrs. S. and to Inamputte factory. Our bag shewed a diversity
of spoil, consisting of one tiger, seven hog-deer, one bear _(Ursus
labialis)_, seventeen jungle fowl, five florican, and six hares. It
was no bad bag considering that during most of the day we had been
beating solely for tiger. We could have shot many more deer and jungle
fowl, but we never try to shoot more than are needed to satisfy the
wants of the camp. Were we to attempt to shoot at all the deer and pig
that we see, the figures would reach very large totals. As a rule
therefore, the records of Indian sportsmen give no idea of the vast
quantities of game that are put up and never fired at. It would be the
very wantonness of destruction, to shoot animals not wanted for some
specific purpose, unless indeed, you were raging an indiscriminate war
of extermination, in a quarter where their numbers were a nuisance and
prejudicial to crops. In that case, your proceedings would not be
dignified by the name of sport.

After a few more days shooting, the incidents of which were pretty
much like those I have been describing, I started back for the
factory. I sent my horse on ahead, and took five elephants with me to
beat up for game on the homeward route. Close to camp a fine buck got
up in front of me. I broke both his forelegs with my first shot, but
the poor brute still managed to hobble along. It was in some very
dense patair jungle, and I had considerable difficulty in bringing him
to bag. When we reached the ghat or ferry, I ordered Geerdharee Jha's
mahout to cross with his elephant. The brute, however, refused to
cross the river alone, and in spite of all the driver could do, she
insisted on following the rest. I got down, and some of the other
drivers got out the hobbles and bound them round her legs. In spite of
these she still seemed determined to follow us. She shook the bedding
and other articles with which she was loaded off her back, and made a
frantic effort to follow us through the deep sand. The iron chains cut
into her legs, and, afraid that she might do herself an irreparable
injury, I had her tied up to a tree, and left her trumpeting and
making an indignant lamentation at being separated from the rest of
the line.

The elephant seems to be quite a social animal. I have frequently seen
cases where, after having been in company together for a lengthened
hunt, they have manifested great reluctance to separate. In leaving
the line, I have often noticed the single elephant looking back at his
comrades, and giving vent to his disappointment and disapproval, by
grunts and trumpetings of indignant protest. We left the refractory
hathee tied up to her tree, and as we crossed the long rolling billows
of burning sand that lay athwart our course, she was soon lost to
view. I shot a couple more hog-deer, and got several plover and teal
in the patches of water that lay in some of the hollows among the
sandbanks. I fired at a huge alligator basking in the sun, on a
sandbank close to the stream. The bullet hit him somewhere in the
forearm, and he made a tremendous sensation header into the current.
From the agitation in the water, he seemed not to appreciate the
leaden message which I had sent him.

We found the journey through the soft yielding sand very fatiguing,
and especially trying to the eyes. When not shooting, it is a very
wise precaution to wear eye-preservers or 'goggles.' They are a great
relief to the eyes, and the best, I think, are the neutral tinted.
During the west winds, when the atmosphere is loaded with fine
particles of irritating sand and dust, these goggles are very
necessary, and are a great protection to the sight.

Another prudent precaution is to have the back of one's shirt or coat
slightly padded with cotton and quilted. The heat prevents one wearing
thick clothes, and there is no doubt that the action of the direct
rays of the burning sun all down the back on the spinal cord, is very
injurious, and may be a fruitful cause of sunstroke. It is certainly
productive of great lassitude and weariness. I used to wear a thin
quilted sort of shield made of cotton-drill, which fastened round the
shoulders and waist. It does not incommode one's action in any
particular, and is, I think, a great protection against the fierce
rays of the sun. Many prefer the puggree as a head-piece. It is
undeniably a fine thing when one is riding on horseback, as it fits
close to the head, does not catch the wind during a smart trot or
canter, and is therefore not easily shaken off. For riding I think it
preferable to all other headdresses. A good thick puggree is a great
protection to the back of the head and neck, the part of the body
which of all others requires protection from the sun. It feels rather
heavy at first, but one gets used to it, and it does not shade the
eyes and face. These are the two gravest objections to it, but for
comfort, softness, and protection to the head and neck, I do not think
it can be surpassed.

After crossing the sand, we again entered some thin scrubby acacia
jungle, with here and there a moist swampy nullah, with rank green
patair jungle growing in the cool dank shade. Here we disturbed a
colony of pigs, but the four mahouts being Mahommedans I did not fire.
As we went along, one of my men called my attention to some footprints
near a small lagoon. On inspection we found they were rhinoceros
tracks, evidently of old date. These animals are often seen in this
part of the country, but are more numerous farther north, in the great
morung forest jungle.

A very noticeable feature in these jungles was the immense quantity of
bleached ghastly skeletons of cattle. This year had been a most
disastrous one for cattle. Enormous numbers had been swept off by
disease, and in many villages bordering on the morung the herds had
been well-nigh exterminated. Little attention is paid to breeding. In
some districts, such as the Mooteeharree and Mudhobunnee division,
fine cart-bullocks are bred, carefully handled and tended, and fetch
high prices. In Kurruchpore, beyond the Ganges in Bhaugulpore
district, cattle of a small breed, hardy, active, staunch, and strong,
are bred in great numbers, and are held in great estimation for
agricultural requirements; but in these Koosee jungles the bulls are
often ill-bred weedy brutes, and the cows being much in excess of a
fair proportion of bulls, a deal of in-breeding takes place; unmatured
young bulls roam about with the herd, and the result is a crowd of
cattle that succumb to the first ailment, so that the land is littered
with their bones.

The bullock being indispensable to the Indian cultivator, bull calves
are prized, taken care of, well nurtured, and well fed. The cow calves
are pretty much left to take care of themselves; they are thin,
miserable, half-starved brutes, and the short-sighted ryot seems
altogether to forget that it is on these miserable withered specimens
that he must depend for his supply of plough and cart-bullocks. The
matter is most shamefully neglected. Government occasionally through
its officers, experimental farms, etc., tries to get good sire stock
for both horses and cattle, but as long as the dams are bad--mere
weeds, without blood, bone, muscle, or stamina, the produce must be
bad. As a pretty well established and general rule, the ryots look
after their bullocks,--they recognise their value, and appreciate
their utility, but the cows fare badly, and from all I have myself
seen, and from the concurrent testimony of many observant friends in
the rural districts, I should say that the breed has become much
deteriorated.

Old planters constantly tell you, that such cattle as they used to get
are not now procurable for love or money. Within the last twenty years
prices have more than doubled, because the demand for good
plough-bullocks has been more urgent, as a consequence of increased
cultivation, and the supply is not equal to the demand. Attention to
the matter is imperative, and planters would be wise in their own
interests to devote a little time and trouble to disseminating sound
ideas about the selection of breeding stock, and the principles of
rearing and raising stock among their ryots and dependants. Every
factory should be able to breed its own cattle, and supply its own
requirements for plough and cart-bullocks. It would be cheaper in the
end, and it would undoubtedly be a blessing to the country to raise
the standard of cattle used in agricultural work.

To return from this digression. We plodded on and on, weary, hot, and
thirsty, expecting every moment to see the ghat and my waiting horse.
But the country here is so wild, the river takes such erratic courses
during the annual floods, and the district is so secluded and so
seldom visited by Europeans or factory servants, that my syce had
evidently lost his way. After we had crossed innumerable streams, and
laboriously traversed mile upon mile of burning sand, we gave up the
attempt to find the ghat, and made for Nathpore.

Nathpore was formerly a considerable town, not far from the Nepaul
border, a flourishing grain mart and emporium for the fibres, gums,
spices, timbers, and other productions of a wide frontier. There was a
busy and crowded bazaar, long streets of shops and houses, and
hundreds of boats lying in the stream beside the numerous ghats,
taking in and discharging their cargoes. It may give a faint idea of
the destructive force of an Indian stream like the Koosee when it is
in full flood, to say that this once flourishing town is now but a
handful of miserable huts. Miles of rich lands, once clothed with
luxuriant crops of rice, indigo, and waving grain, are now barren
reaches of burning sand. The bleached skeletons of mango, jackfruit,
and other trees, stretch out their leafless and lifeless branches, to
remind the spectator of the time when their foliage rustled in the
breeze, when their lusty limbs bore rich clusters of luscious fruit,
and when the din of the bazaar resounded beneath their welcome shade.
A fine old lady still lived in a two-storied brick building, with
quaint little darkened rooms, and a narrow verandah running all round
the building. She was long past the allotted threescore years and ten,
with a keen yet mildly beaming eye, and a wealth of beautiful hair as
white as driven snow, neatly gathered back from her shapely forehead.
She was the last remaining link connecting the present with the past
glories of Nathpore. Her husband had been a planter and Zemindar.
Where his vats had stood laden with rich indigo, the engulphing sand
now reflected the rays of the torrid sun from its burning whiteness.
She shewed me a picture of the town as it appeared to her when she had
been brought there many a long and weary year ago, ere yet her step
had lost its lightness, and when she was in the bloom of her bridal
life. There was a fine broad boulevard, shadowed by splendid trees, on
which she and her husband had driven in their carriage of an evening,
through crowds of prosperous and contented traders and cultivators.
The hungry river had swept all this away. Subsisting on a few
precarious rents of some little plots of ground that it had spared,
all that remained of a once princely estate, this good old lady lived
her lonely life cheerful and contented, never murmuring or repining.
The river had not spared even the graves of her departed dear ones.
Since I left that part of the country I hear that she has been called
away to join those who had gone before her.

I arrived at her house late in the afternoon. I had never been at
Nathpore before, although the place was well known to me by
reputation. What a wreck it presented as our elephants marched
through. Ruined, dismantled, crumbling temples; masses of masonry half
submerged in the swift-running, treacherous, undermining stream; huge
trees lying prostrate, twisted and jammed together where the angry
flood had hurled them; bare unsightly poles and piles, sticking from
the water at every angle, reminding us of the granaries and godowns
that were wont to be filled with the agricultural wealth of the
districts for miles around; hard metalled roads cut abruptly off, and
bridges with only half an arch, standing lonely and ruined half way in
the muddy current that swept noiselessly past the deserted city. It
was a scene of utter waste and desolation.

The lady I mentioned made me very welcome, and I was struck by her
unaffected cheerfulness and gentleness. She was a gentlewoman indeed,
and though reduced in circumstances, surrounded by misfortunes, and
daily and hourly reminded by the scattered wreck around her of her
former wealth and position, she bore all with exemplary fortitude, and
to the full extent of her scanty means she relieved the sorrows and
ailments of the natives. They all loved and respected, and I could not
help admiring and honouring her.

She pointed out to me, far away on the south-east horizon, the place
where the river ran in its shallow channel when she first came to
Nathpore. During her experience it had cut into and overspread more
than twenty miles of country, turning fertile fields into arid wastes
of sand; sweeping away factories, farms, and villages; and changing
the whole face of the country from a fruitful landscape into a
wilderness of sand and swamp.

My horse came up in the evening, and I rode over to Inamputte,
leaving my kindly hostess in her solitude.




CHAPTER XXV.


Exciting jungle scene.--The camp.--All quiet.--Advent of the cowherds.
--A tiger close by.--Proceed to the spot.--Encounter between tigress
and buffaloes.--Strange behaviour of the elephant.--Discovery and
capture of four cubs.--Joyful return to camp.--Death of the tigress.
--Night encounter with a leopard.--The haunts of the tiger and our
shooting grounds.

One of the most exciting and deeply interesting scenes I ever
witnessed in the jungles, was on the occasion I have referred to in a
former chapter, when speaking of the number of young given by the
tigress at a birth. It was in the month of March, at the village of
Ryseree, in Bhaugulpore. I had been encamped in the midst of
twenty-four beautiful tanks, the history and construction of which
were lost in the mists of tradition. The villagers had a story that
these tanks were the work of a mighty giant, Bheema, with whose aid
and that of his brethren they had been excavated in a single night.

At all events, they were now covered with a wild tangle of water
lilies and aquatic plants; well stocked with magnificent fish, and an
occasional scaly monster of a saurian. They were the haunt of vast
quantities of widgeon, teal, whistlers, mallard, ducks, snipe, curlew,
blue fowl, and the usual varied _habitues_ of an exceptionally good
Indian lake. In the vicinity hares were numerous, and in the thick
jungle bordering the tanks in places, and consisting mostly of nurkool
and wild rose, hog-deer and wild pig were abundant. The dried-up bed
of an old arm of the Koosee was quite close to my camp, and abounded
in sandpiper, and golden, grey, goggle-eyed, and stilted plover,
besides other game.

It was indeed a favourite camping spot, and the village was inhabited
by a hardy, independent set of Gwallas, Koormees, and agriculturists,
with whom I was a prime favourite.

I was sitting in my tent, going over some village accounts with the
village putwarrie, and my gomasta. A posse of villagers were grouped
under the grateful shade of a gnarled old mango tree, whose contorted
limbs bore evidence to the violence of many a _tufan_, or tempest,
which it had weathered. The usual confused clamour of tongues was
rising from this group, and the sub; ect of debate was the eternal
'pice.' Behind the bank, and in rear of the tent, the cook and his
mate were disembowelling a hapless _moorghee_, a fowl, whose
decapitation had just been effected with a huge jagged old cavalry
sword, of which my cook was not a little proud; and on the strength of
which he adopted fierce military airs, and gave an extra turn to his
well-oiled moustache when he went abroad for a holiday.

Farther to the rear a line of horses were picketed, including my
man-eating demon the white Cabool stallion, my gentle country-bred
mare Motee--the pearl--and my handsome little pony mare, formerly my
hockey or polo steed, a present from a gallant sportsman and rare good
fellow, as good a judge of a horse, or a criminal, as ever sat on a
bench.

Behind the horses, each manacled by weighty chains, with his ponderous
trunk and ragged-looking tail swaying too and fro with a never-ceasing
motion, stood a line of ten elephants. Their huge leathery ears
flapped lazily, and ever and anon one or other would seize a mighty
branch, and belabour his corrugated sides to free himself of the
detested and troublesome flies. The elephants were placidly munching
their _chana_ (bait, or food), and occasionally giving each other a
dry bath in the shape of a shower of sand. There was a monotonous
clank of chains, and an occasional deep abdominal rumble like distant
thunder. All over the camp there was a confused subdued medley of
sound. A hum from the argumentative villagers, a lazy flop in the tank
as a raho rose to the surface, an occasional outburst from the ducks,
an angry clamour from the water-hens and blue-fowl. My dogs were lying
round me blinking and winking, and making an occasional futile snap at
an imaginary fly or flea. It was a drowsy and peaceful scene. I was
nearly dropping off to sleep, from the heat and the monotonous drone
of the putwarrie, who was intoning nasally some formidable document
about fishery rights and privileges.

Suddenly there was a hush. Every sound seemed to stop simultaneously
as if by pre-arranged concert. Then three men were seen rushing madly
along the elevated ridge surrounding one of the tanks. I recognised
one of my peons, and with him two cowherds. Their head-dresses were
all disarranged, and their parted lips, heaving chests, and eyes
blazing with excitement, shewed that they were brimful of some unusual
message.

Now arose such a bustle in the camp as no description could adequately
portray. The elephants trumpeted and piped; the _syces_, or grooms,
came rushing up with eager queries; the villagers bustled about like
so many ants aroused by the approach of a hostile foe; my pack of
terriers yelped out in chorus; the pony neighed; the Cabool stallion
plunged about; my servants came rushing from the shelter of the tent
verandah with disordered dress; the ducks rose in a quacking crowd,
and circled round and round the tent; and the cry arose of 'Bagh!
Bagh! Khodamund! Arree Bap re Bap! Ram Ram, Seeta Ram!'

Breathless with running, the men now tumbled up, hurriedly salaamed,
arid then each with gasps and choking stops, and pell-mell volubility,
and amid a running fire of cries, queries, and interjections from the
mob, began to unfold their tale. There was an infuriated tigress at
the other side of the nullah, or dry watercourse, she had attacked a
herd of buffaloes, and it was believed that she had cubs.

Already Debnarain Singh was getting his own pad elephant caparisoned,
and my bearer was diving under my camp bed for my gun and cartridges.
Knowing the little elephant to be a fast walker, and fairly staunch, I
got on her back, and accompanied by the gomasta and mahout we set out,
followed by the peon and herdsmen to shew us the way.

I expected two friends, officers from Calcutta, that very day, and
wished not to kill the tigress but to keep her for our combined
shooting next day. We had not proceeded far when, on the other side of
the nullah, we saw dense clouds of dust rising, and heard a confused,
rushing, trampling sound, mingled with the clashing of horns, and the
snorting of a herd of angry buffaloes.

It was the wildest sight I have ever seen in connection with animal
life. The buffaloes were drawn together in the form of a crescent;
their eyes glared fiercely, and as they advanced in a series of short
runs, stamping with their hoofs, and angrily lashing their tails,
their horns would come together with a clanging, clattering crash, and
they would paw the sand, snort and toss their heads, and behave in the
most extraordinary manner.

The cause of all this commotion was not far to seek. Directly in
front, retreating slowly, with stealthy, prowling, crawling steps, and
an occasional short, quick leap or bound to one side or the other, was
a magnificent tigress, looking the very personification of baffled
fury. Ever and anon she crouched down to the earth, tore up the sand
with her claws, lashed her tail from side to side, and with lips
retracted, long moustaches quivering with wrath, and hateful eyes
scintillating with rage and fury, she seemed to meditate an attack on
the angry buffaloes. The serried array of clashing horns, and the
ponderous bulk of the herd, seemed however to daunt the snarling
vixen; at their next rush she would bound back a few paces, crouch
down, growl, and be forced to move back again, by the short,
blundering rush of the crowd.

All the calves and old cows were in the rear of the herd, and it was
not a little comical to witness their ungainly attitudes. They would
stretch their clumsy necks, and shake their heads, as if they did not
rightly understand what was going on. Finding that if they stopped too
long to indulge their curiosity, there was a danger of their getting
separated from the fighting members of the herd, they would make a
stupid, headlong, lumbering lurch forward, and jostle each other, in
their blundering panic.

It was a grand sight. The tigress was the embodiment of lithe and
savage beauty, but her features expressed the wildest baffled rage. I
could have shot the striped vixen over and over again, but I wished to
keep her for my friends, and I was thrilled with the excitement of
such a novel scene.

Suddenly our elephant trumpeted, and shied quickly to one side, from
something lying on the ground. Curling up its trunk it began backing
and piping at a prodigious rate.

'Hullo! what's the matter now?' said I to Debnarain.

'God only knows,' said he.

'A young tiger!' 'Bagh ka butcha!' screams our mahout, and regardless
of the elephant or of our cries to stop, he scuttled down the pad rope
like a monkey down a backstay, and clutching a young dead tiger cub,
threw it up to Debnarain; it was about the size of a small poodle, and
had evidently been trampled by the pursuing herd of buffaloes.

'There may be others,' said the gomasta; and peering into every bush,
we went slowly on.

The elephant now shewed decided symptoms of dislike and a reluctance
to approach a particular dense clump of grass.

A sounding whack on the head, however, made her quicken her steps, and
thrusting the long stalks aside, she discovered for us three blinking
little cubs, brothers of the defunct, and doubtless part of the same
litter. Their eyes were scarcely open, and they lay huddled together
like three enormous striped kittens, and spat at us and bristled their
little moustaches much as an angry cat would do. All the four were
males.

It was not long ere I had them carefully wrapped in the mahout's
blanket. Overjoyed at our good fortune, we left the excited buffaloes
still executing their singular war-dance, and the angry tigress,
robbed of her whelps, consuming her soul in baffled fury.

We heard her roaring through the night, close to camp, and on my
friends' arrival, we beat her up next morning, and she fell pierced by
three bullets, after a fierce and determined charge. We came upon her
across the nullah, and her mind was evidently made up to fight. Nearly
all the villagers had turned out with the line of elephants. Before we
had time to order them away, she came down upon the line, roaring
furiously, and bounding over the long grass,--a most magnificent
sight.

My first bullet took her full in the chest, and before she could make
good her charge, a ball each from Pat and Captain G. settled her
career. She was beautifully striped, and rather large for a tigress,
measuring nine feet three inches.

It was now a question with me, how to rear the three interesting
orphans; we thought a slut from some of the villages would prove the
best wet nurse, and tried accordingly to get one, but could not. In
the meantime an unhappy goat was pounced on and the three young-tigers
took to her teats as if 'to the manner born.' The poor Nanny screamed
tremendously at first sight of them, but she soon got accustomed to
them, and when they grew a little bigger, she would often playfully
butt at them with her horns.

The little brutes throve wonderfully, and soon developed such an
appetite that I had to get no less than six goats to satisfy their
constant thirst. I kept the cubs for over two months, and I shall not
soon forget the excitement I caused, when my boat stopped at
Sahribgunge, and my goats, tiger cubs, and attendants, formed a
procession from the ghat or landing-place, to the railway station.

Soldiers, guards, engineers, travellers, and crowds of natives
surrounded me, and at every station the guard's van, with my novel
menagerie, was the centre of attraction. I sold the cubs to Jamrach's
agent in Calcutta for a very satisfactory price. Two of them were very
powerful, finely marked, handsome animals; the third had always been
sickly, had frequent convulsions, and died a few days after I sold it.
I was afterwards told that the milk diet was a mistake, and that I
should have fed them on raw meat. However, I was very well satisfied
on the whole with the result of my adventure.

I had another in the same part of the country, which at the time was a
pretty good test of the state of my nerves.

I was camped out at the village of Purindaha, on the edge of a gloomy
sal forest, which was reported to contain numerous leopards. The
villagers were a mixed lot of low-caste Hindoos, and Nepaulese
settlers. They had been fighting with the factory, and would not pay
up their rents, and I was trying, with every probability of success,
to make an amicable arrangement with them. At all events, I had so far
won them round, that they were willing to talk to me. They came to the
tent and listened quietly, and except on the subject of rent, we got
on in the most friendly manner.

It was the middle of April. The heat was intense. The whole atmosphere
had that coppery look which denotes extreme heat, and the air was
loaded with fine yellow dust, which the daily west wind bore on its
fever laden wings, to disturb the lungs and tempers of all good
Christians. The _kanats_, or canvas walls of the tent, had all been
taken down for coolness, and my camp bed lay in one corner, open all
round to the outside air, but only sheltered from the dew. It had been
a busy day. I had been going over accounts, and talking to the
villagers till I was really hoarse. After a light dinner I lay down on
my bed, but it was too close and hot to sleep. By and bye the various
sounds died out. The tom-toming ceased in the village. My servants
suspended their low muttered gossip round the cook's fire, wrapped
themselves in their white cloths, and dropped into slumber. 'Toby,'
'Nettle,' 'Whisky,' 'Pincher,' and my other terriers, resembled so
many curled-up hairy balls, and were in the land of dreams.
Occasionally an owl would give a melancholy hoot from the forest, or a
screech owl would raise a momentary and damnable din. At intervals,
the tinkle of a cow-bell sounded faintly in the distance. I tossed
restlessly, thinking of various things, till I must have dropped off
into an uneasy fitful sleep. I know not how long I had been dozing,
but of a sudden I felt myself wide awake, though with my eyes yet
firmly closed.

I was conscious of some terrible unknown impending danger. I had
experienced the same feeling before on waking from a nightmare, but I
knew that the danger now was real. I felt a shrinking horror, a
terrible and nameless fear, and for the life of me I could not move
hand or foot. I was lying on my side, and could distinctly hear the
thumping of my heart. A cold sweat broke out behind my ears and over
my neck and chest. I could analyse my every feeling, and I knew there
was some PRESENCE in the tent, and that I was in instant and imminent
peril. Suddenly in the distance a pariah dog gave a prolonged
melancholy howl. As if this had broken the spell which had hitherto
bound me, I opened my eyes, and within ten inches of my face, there
was a handsome leopardess gazing steadily at me. Our eyes met, and how
long we confronted each other I know not. It must have been some
minutes. Her eyes contracted and expanded, the pupil elongated and
then opened out into a round lustrous globe. I could see the lithe
tail oscillating at its extreme tip, with a gentle waving motion, like
that of a cat when hunting birds in the garden. I seemed to possess no
will. I believe I was under a species of fascination, but we continued
our steady stare at each other.

Just then, there was a movement by some of the horses. The leopard
slowly turned her head, and I grasped the revolver which lay under my
pillow. The beautiful spotted monster turned her head for an instant,
and shewed her teeth, and then with one bound went through the open
side of the tent. I fired two shots, which were answered with a roar.
The din that followed would have frightened the devil. It was a
beautiful clear night, with a moon at the full, and everything shewed
as plainly as at noonday. The servants uttered exclamations of terror.
The terriers went into an agony of yelps and barks. The horses
snorted, and tried to get loose, and my chowkeydar, who had been
asleep on his watch, thinking a band of dacoits were on us, began
laying round him with his staff, shouting, _Chor, Chor! lagga, lagga,
lagga!_ that is, 'thief, thief! lay on, lay on, lay on!'

The leopard was hit, and evidently in a terrible temper. She halted
not thirty paces from the tent, beside a jhamun tree, and seemed
undecided whether to go on or return and wreak her vengeance on me.
That moment decided her fate. I snatched down my Express rifle, which
was hanging in two loops above my bed, and shot her right through the
heart.

I never understood how she could have made her way past dogs,
servants, horses, and watchman, right into the tent, without raising
some alarm. It must have been more from curiosity than any hostile
design. I know that my nerves were very rudely shaken, but I became
the hero of the Purindaha villagers. I believe that my night adventure
with the leopardess did more to bring them round to a settlement than
all my eloquence and figures.

The river Koosee, on the banks of which, and in the long grass plains
adjacent, most of the incidents I have recorded took place, takes its
rise at the base of Mount Everest, and, after draining nearly the
whole of Eastern. Nepaul, emerges by a deep gorge from the hills at
the north-west corner of Purneah. The stream runs with extreme
velocity. It is known as a snow stream. The water is always cold, and
generally of a milky colour, containing much fine white sand. No
sooner does it leave its rocky bed than it tears through the flat
country by numerous channels. It is subject to very sudden rises. A
premonitory warning of these is generally given. The water becomes of
a turbid, almost blood-like colour. Sometimes I have seen the river
rise over thirty feet in twenty-four hours. The melting of the snow
often makes a raging torrent, level from bank to bank, where only a
few hours before a horse could have forded the stream without wetting
the girths of the saddle.

In 1876 the largest channel was a swift broad stream called the Dhaus.
The river is very capricious, seldom flowing for any length of time in
one channel. This is owing in great measure to the amount of silt it
carries with it from the hills, in its impetuous progress to the
plains.

In these dry watercourses, among the sand ridges, beside the humid
marshy hollows, and among the thick strips of grass jungle, tigers are
always to be found. They are much less numerous now however than
formerly. As a rule, there is no shelter in these water-worn,
flood-ravaged tracts and sultry jungles. Occasionally a few straggling
plantain trees, a clump of sickly-looking bamboos, a cluster of tall
shadowless palms, marks the site of a deserted village. All else is
waving grass, withered and dry. The villages, inhabited mostly by a
few cowherds, boatmen, and rice-farmers are scattered at wide
intervals. In the shooting season, and when the hot winds are blowing,
the only shadow on the plain is that cast by the dense volumes of
lurid smoke, rising in blinding clouds from the jungle fires.

According to the season, animal life fluctuates strangely. During the
rains, when the river is in full flood, and much of the country
submerged, most of the animals migrate to the North, buffaloes and
wild pig alone keeping possession, of the higher ridges in the
neighbourhood of their usual haunts.

The contrasts presented on these plains at different seasons of the
year are most remarkable. In March and April they are parched up,
brown, and dead; great black patches showing the track of a destroying
fire, the fine brown ash from the burnt grass penetrating the eyes and
nostrils, and sweeping along in eddying and blinding clouds. They then
look the very picture of an untenable waste, a sea of desolation,
whose limits blend in the extreme distance with the shimmering coppery
horizon. In the rainy season these arid-looking wastes are covered
with tall-plumed, reed-like, waving grass, varying from two to ten
feet in height, stretching in an unbroken sweep as far as the eye can
reach, except where an abrupt line shews that the swift river has its
treacherous course. After the rains, progress through the jungle is
dangerous. Quicksands and beds of tenacious mud impede one at every
step. The rich vegetation springs up green and vigorous, with a
rapidity only to be seen in the Tropics. But what a glorious hunting
ground! What a preserve for Nimrod! Deer forest, or heathered moor,
can never compete with the old Koosee Derahs for abundance of game and
thrilling excitement in sport. My genial, happy, loyal comrades
too--while memory lasts the recollection of your joyous, frank,
warm-hearted comradeship shall never fade.




CHAPTER XXVI.


Remarks on guns.--How to cure skins.--Different recipes.--Conclusion.

My remarks on guns shall be brief. The true sportsman has many
facilities for acquiring the best information on a choice of weapons.
For large game perhaps nothing can equal the Express rifle. My own
trusty weapon was a '500 bore, very plain, with a pistol grip, point
blank up to 180 yards, made by Murcott of the Haymarket, from whom I
have bought over twenty guns, every one of which turned out a splendid
weapon.

My next favourite was a No. 12 breachloader, very light, but strong
and carefully finished. It had a side snap action with rebounding
locks, and was the quickest gun to fire and reload I ever possessed. I
bought it from the same maker, although it was manufactured by W.W.
Greener.

Avoid a cheap gun as you would avoid a cheap Jew pedlar. A good name
is above riches so far as a gun is concerned, and when you have a good
gun take as much care of it as you would of a good wife. They are both
equally rare. An expensive gun is not necessarily a good one, but a
cheap gun is very seldom trustworthy. Have a portable, handy black
leather case. Keep your gun always clean, bright, and free from rust.
After every day's shooting see that the barrels and locks are
carefully cleaned and oiled. Nothing is better for this purpose than
rangoon oil.

For preserving horns, a little scraping and varnishing are all that is
required. While in camp it is a good plan to rub them with deer, or
pig, or tiger fat, as it keeps them from cracking.

To clean a tiger's or other skull. If there be a nest of ants near the
camp, place the skull in their immediate vicinity. Some recommend
putting in water till the particles of flesh rot, or till the skull is
cleared by the fishes. A strong solution of caustic water may be used
if you wish to get the bones cleaned very quickly. Some put the skulls
in quicklime, but it has a tendency to make the bones splinter, and it
is difficult to keep the teeth from getting loose and dropping out.
The best but slowest plan is to fix them in mechanically by wire or
white lead. A good preservative is to wash or paint them with a very
strong solution of fine lime and water.

To cure skins. I know no better recipe than the one adopted by my
trainers in the art of _shibar_, the brothers S. I cannot do better
than give a description of the process in the words of George himself.

'Skin the animal in the usual way. Cut from the corner of the mouth,
down the throat, and along the belly. A white stripe or border
generally runs along the belly. This should be left as nearly as
possible equal on both sides. Carefully cut the fleshy parts off the
lips and balls of the toes and feet. Clean away every particle of
fatty or fleshy matter that may still adhere to the skin. Peg it out
on the ground with the hair side undermost. When thoroughly scraped
clean of all extraneous matter on the inner surface, get a bucket or
tub of buttermilk, which is called by the natives _dahye_ or _mutha_.
It is a favourite article of diet with them, cheap and plentiful. Dip
the skin in this, and keep it well and entirely submerged by placing
some heavy weight on it. It should be submerged fully three inches in
the tub of buttermilk.

'After two days in the milk bath, take it out and peg it as before.
Now take a smooth oval rubbing-board about twelve inches long, five
round, and about an inch thick in the middle, and scrub the skin
heartily with this instrument. On its lower surface it should be cuts
in grooves, semicircular in shape, half an inch wide, and one inch
apart. During scrubbing use plenty of pure water to remove filth. In
about half an hour the pinkish-white colour will disappear, and the
skin will appear white, with a blackish tinge underneath. This is the
true hide.

'Again submerge in the buttermilk bath for twenty-four hours, and get
a man to tread on it in every possible way, folding it and unfolding
it, till all has been thoroughly worked.

'Take it out again, peg out and scrub it as before, after which wash
the whole hide well in clear water. Never mind if the skin looks
rotten, it is really not so.

'When washed put it into a tub, in which you have first placed a
mixture consisting of half an ounce of alum to each gallon of water.
Soak the skin in this mixture for about six hours, taking it up
occasionally to drain a little. This is sufficient to cure your skin
and clean it.'

The tanning remains to be done.

'Get four pounds of babool, tamarind, or dry oak bark. (The babool is
a kind of acacia, and is easily procurable, as the tamarind also is).
Boil the bark in two gallons of water till it is reduced to one half
the quantity. Add to this nine gallons of fresh water, and in this
solution souse the skin for two, or three, or four days.

'The hairs having been set by the soaking in alum, the skin will tan
more quickly, and if the tan is occasionally rubbed into the pores of
the skin it will be an improvement. You can tell when the tanning is
complete by the colour the skin assumes. When this satisfies the eye,
take it out and drain on a rod. When nearly dry it should be curried
with olive oil or clarified butter if required for wear, but if only
for floor covering or carriage rug, the English curriers' common
'dubbin,' sold by shopkeepers, is best. This operation, which must be
done on the inner side only, is simple.

'Another simple recipe, and one which answers well, is this. Mix
together of the best English soap, four ounces; arsenic, two and a
half grains; camphor, two ounces; alum, half an ounce; saltpetre, half
an ounce. Boil the whole, and keep stirring, in a half-pint of
distilled water, over a very slow fire, for from ten to fifteen
minutes. Apply when cool with a sponge. A little sweet oil may be
rubbed on the skins after they are dry.

'Another good method is to apply arsenical soap, which may be made as
follows: powdered arsenic, two pounds; camphor, five ounces; white
soap, sliced thin, two pounds; salt of tartar, twelve drams; chalk, or
powdered fine lime, four ounces; add a small quantity of water first
to the soap, put over a gentle fire, and keep stirring. When melted,
add the lime and tartar, and thoroughly mix; next add the arsenic,
keeping up a constant motion, and lastly the camphor. The camphor
should first be reduced to a powder by means of a little spirits of
wine, and should be added to the mess after it has been taken off the
fire.

'This preparation must be kept in a well-stoppered jar, or properly
closed pot. When ready, the soap should be of the consistency of
Devonshire cream. To use, add water till it becomes of the consistency
of clear rich soup.'

I have now finished my book. It has been pleasant to me to write down
these recollections. Ever since I began my task, death has been busy,
and the ranks of my friends have been sadly thinned. Failing health
has driven me from my old shooting grounds, and in sunny Australia I
have been trying to recruit the energies enervated by the burning
climate of India. That my dear old planter friends may have as kindly
recollections of 'the Maori' as he has of them, is what I ardently
hope; that I may yet get back to share in the sports, pastimes, joys,
and social delights of Mofussil life in India, is what I chiefly
desire. If this volume meets the approbation of the public, I may be
tempted to draw further on a well-stocked memory, and gossip afresh on
Indian life, Indian experiences, and Indian sport. Meantime, courteous
reader, farewell.





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