THE BETRAYAL OF SHERE BAHADUR.
I am merely the wife of a British subaltern, whereas my aunt Jane is the consort of a commissioner. One must go to India, to realize the enormous and unfathomable gulf which yawns between these two positions.
Take, for instance, that important difference—the difference in pay. On the first of each month, Aunt Jane’s lord and master receives several thousand and odd rupees—a heavy load for two staggering peons to carry from the treasury—whereas my husband’s poor little pittance, of two hundred and fifty-six rupees and odd annas, our bearer swings in a lean canvas bag, and in one hand, with an air of jaunty contempt!
At dinner-parties and other grand functions, I see my aunt’s round-shouldered back, and well-known yellow satin, leading the van, with her hand on the host’s arm, whilst I humbly bring up the rear—one of the last joints in the tail of precedence.
Afterwards—after coffee, conversation, and music—not a woman in the room may venture to stir, until my little fat relative has “made the move” and waddled off to her carriage. Mr. Radcliffe, my uncle by marriage, rules over a large district; he is a stout, puffy, imposing-looking man, attended by much pomp and circumstance, and many scarlet-clad chuprassis. His wife rules him—as well as the station; manages every one’s affairs, acts as the censor of public morals, and may be implicitly relied upon to utter the disagreeable things that ought to be said, but that no one but herself is willing to say. The Radcliffes have no family, and therefore she has ample time to indulge her fine powers of observation, organization, and conversation. When I married, and was about to come to India, a year ago, my people remarked on an average once a week—
“If you are going to Luckmee, you will be quite close to your aunt Jane at Rajapore, and only think how delightful that will be for you!” but I was by no means so confident of this supreme future joy. Rajapore is a large mixed military and civil station; Luckmee is on the same line of rail, a run of a couple of hours; a small and insignificant cantonment, which looks up to Rajapore as its metropolis, and does all its shopping there. No, I did not find it at all delightful, being within such easy hail of Aunt Jane. She made unexpected descents—as a rule, early in the morning—driving up from the station in a rickety “ticca gharry,” to spend what she called “a good long day.” First of all, she went over the bungalow precisely as if it was to let furnished, and she was the incoming tenant; then she cross-examined me closely, read my home letters, looked at my bazaar account, sniffed at my new frocks, snubbed my friends, and departed by the last train in the highest spirits, leaving me struggling with the idea that I was still a rather troublesome schoolgirl in short frocks and a pig-tail. Now and then I returned the visit—by command—drove with Aunt Jane in her state barouche, in which she sat supported by a pair of rather faded Berlin wool cushions, great eyesores to my critical English taste, which largely discounted the fine carriage, big bay walers, fat coachman (an Indian Jehu of any pretension must be corpulent), the running syces, and splendid silver-mounted chowries or yâk tails.
I also was present at various heavy tiffins and dinners, in the capacity of deputy assistant hostess and niece. I had come in now, to wait upon Aunt Jane and “take leave,” as she was just off to England, and had imperatively summoned me to report myself ere she started. I found the great square white bungalow externally gay with Bignonia vinusta, internally in the utmost confusion. The hall was littered with straw and bits of newspapers, the drawing-room was full of packing-cases, half the contents of the cellar were paraded on the floor, and dozens of tins of “Europe” stores were also on review, all being for sale. Aunt Jane was seated at a writing-table, revising lists with a rapid pen.
“You discover me,” she exclaimed, offering a plump cheek, “sitting like Marius among the ruins of Carthage.”
I was dumb. I had no idea until now that Marius was a stout little elderly woman, wearing a shapeless grey wide-awake and blue spectacles.
“I feel almost fit for the poggle khana (mad-house),” she continued. “Just look here! Here is my list of furniture, come back from making the round of the station, and all that has been taken is a watering-pot, six finger-glasses, and a pie-dish!” (The truth was that people were tired of my aunt’s lists.) “And here are dozens of servants clamouring for chits—and a man waiting to buy the cows. I wish to goodness some one would buy your uncle’s shikar camel,”—reading aloud from list,—“‘young, strong, easy trot and walk, with saddle, Rs. 200.’ Your uncle is going to chum with Mr. Jones. He does not intend shooting this season—even he finds it an expensive pursuit,” this in a significant parenthesis. “I’ve not put away the ornaments, nor sold off my stores, nor packed one of my own things.”
I muttered some sympathetic remark, but I knew that Aunt Jane enjoyed these “earthquakings” immensely. She was constantly uprooting her establishment, and taking what she called “a run home.”
“And you go on Monday?” I inquired.
“Yes, child; though I don’t believe I shall ever be ready. Your mother, of course, will want to know how you are? I must candidly tell her that you are looking dreadfully pasty. Ah! I see you have got a parcel.”
“Only a very little one,” I pleaded apologetically.
“Well, well, I suppose I must try and take it; and now what are your plans?”
“Tom has got two months’ leave, and Charlie is coming up from Madras; we are going away on a trip into the real jungle.”
“For what?” she asked tartly.
“Well, to see something different from the routine of cantonment life, something different from the band-stand and D.W.P. pattern church—to see real India.”
“What folly! Real India, indeed!” she snorted; “as if you would ever see it! It makes me wild to hear of people talking, and worse still, writing about India, as if one person could grasp even a small corner of it. Here am I, twenty-five years in the country, speaking the language fluently, and what do I know?” she paused dramatically. “The bazaar prices, the names of the local trees and flowers, the rents of the principal houses up at Simla.” (I have reason to believe that my aunt did herself gross injustice; she knew the private affairs of half the civilians in the provinces, and was on intimate terms with their “family skeletons.”) “As to the character of the people! I cannot even fathom my own ayah, and she is with me eleven years.”
“I believe some people know a great deal about India,” I ventured to protest.
“Stuff!” she interrupted. “One person may know a little of one part of the continent, but there are twenty Indias!—all different, with different climates, customs, and people. What resemblance is there between a Moplah on the west coast and a Leucha from Darjeeling, a little stunted Andamanese and a Sikh; a Gond from the C.P. and a Pathan from the frontier; a Bengali Baboo and a bold Rohilla?” (Aunt Jane was now mounted on her hobby, and I had nothing to do but to look and listen.) “Every one thinks his own little corner is India. You, as an officer’s wife—the wife of a subaltern in a marching regiment”—(she always insisted on the prefix “marching”)—“have better chances than a civilian, for they live in one groove; you are shot about from Colombo to Peshawar. However, much good it will do you, for you are naturally dull, and have no talent for observation.”
“No, not like you, Aunt Jane,” I ventured with mild sarcasm: was she not going home?
“And where are you bound for?” she pursued.
“About a hundred miles out, due north.”
“That is the Merween district, I know it well. We were in that division years ago. Had you consulted me, before making your plans, your uncle might have arranged about elephants for you. It’s too late now,” with a somewhat triumphant air.
“But we don’t want elephants,” I protested; “we have our ponies.”
“Id——” correcting herself, “simpleton! I meant for shooting from. The district is full of long grass. Tom will get no deer, nor indeed any game on foot. You may have the shikar camel, if you like, for his keep, and the Oontwallah’s pay—no?” as I shook my head emphatically. “Well, I can give you one tip: take plenty of tinned stores; the villages are scattered, and Brahmin. You won’t get an egg, much less a fowl—at most a little ghee and flour; but I strongly advise you to take your own poultry, and a couple of milch goats, also plenty of quinine and cholera mixture; parts of the country are very marshy and unhealthy. I suppose you have tents? We cannot lend you any.”
“Yes, we have three, thank you.”
“And so your brother Charles is going with you! Tell him that I think he had much better have stayed quietly with his regiment, and worked for the higher standard—a boy only out two years. Of course you are paying his expenses?”
I nodded. Tom was moderately well off; though we were not rich, we were not exactly poor, and I always had a firm conviction that Aunt Jane would have liked me much better if I had been a pauper! As it was, she considered me dangerously independent.
“Of course you think you know your own business best!” removing her spectacles as she spoke, “but mark my words, you will find this trip a great deal more costly than you imagine. With us civilians it is different, a sort of royal progress; but with you—well, well,” shaking her head, “you must buy your own experience!”
A week later we had set forth, Tom, Charlie, and myself. We took Aunt Jane’s advice (it was all she had given us), and despatched our tents and carts twenty-four hours’ ahead, so as to give them a good start. We cantered out after them, a fifteen-mile ride, the following day. It was my first experience of camp life, and perfectly delightful; the tent under the trees felt so cool and fresh, in comparison with a sun-baked bungalow. Our servants, who appeared quite at home, had built a mud fireplace, and were cooking the dinner; the milch goats were browsing, and the poultry picking about in the adaptable manner of an Indian bazaar fowl. Our next halt was to be twenty miles farther on, at an engineer’s bungalow, which was splendidly situated between a forest swarming with game and a river teeming with fish. Here we intended to remain for some time; we should be in the territory of the Rajah of Betwa, and were bearers of a letter asking for his assistance, in the way of procuring provisions in the villages. At midday we halted for several hours in a mango tope, the home of thousands of monkeys, and went forward again about four o’clock. Our road was bordered at either side by a golden sea of gently waving crops, for we were in the heart of a great wheat country. Presently we passed through the town of Betwa, which chiefly consisted of a long dirty bazaar, an ancient fort, and a high mud wall, enclosing the palace of the rajah. About a mile beyond the outskirts, we beheld a cloud of yellow dust rapidly approaching.
“I’ll bet ten to one it’s the rajah,” said Tom, as he abruptly pulled up his pony.
I felt intensely excited. I had never seen a real live rajah in my life; and I held myself in readiness for any amount of pomp and splendour, from milk-white arabs with gold trappings, to a glass coach. But what was this that I beheld, as we drew respectfully to one side? I could scarcely believe my own eyes, as there thundered by a most dilapidated waggonette, drawn by one huge bony horse and a pony, truly sorry steeds; the harness was tied up with rope, and even rags! Seated in front was a spare dark man, with a disagreeable expression, dressed in a stuff coat, the colour of Reckitt’s blue, and a gold skull-cap. He salaamed to us in a condescending manner, and was presumably the rajah. A fat pock-marked driver held the reins; in the body of the waggonette were six men (the suite), and their united weight gave the vehicle a dangerous tilt backwards. The equipage was accompanied by four ragamuffins, with long spears, riding miserable old screws with bell-rope bridles. They kept up a steady tittuping canter, raising a cloud of suffocating dust, in which they presently vanished.
“I can’t believe that that is a rajah, much less our rajah,” I remarked to my companions.
“I can,” said Tom, emphatically. “He looks what he is—an unmitigated scoundrel, and a miser. Did you notice how close his eyes were together? He is a rich man, too; is lord of the soil as far as your eyes can see. His grandfather owned a great deal more before the Mutiny, but it was shorn from him, and he was thankful to be left with an acre—or his life.”
“Why?” asked Charlie and I in a breath.
“He came out of that bad business very badly. When the inhabitants of Luckmee were surprised, they sent their women and children to him for protection, he being, as they supposed, their very good friend; but he simply bundled them all out, and they were every one massacred. The rajah then believed that the mutineers would carry everything before them, but after the fall of Delhi he changed his tune, and sent on a charger the head of the chief leader in these parts—his own nephew, as it happened, but this is a detail—in order to make his peace. Of course, he saved his skin, but he had a bad record, and his grandson is a chip of the old block.”
“Who told you all this?” I inquired.
“The collector. He says this man grinds down the ryots shamelessly, and does many a queer thing that ought to land him in a court of law. Here is the forest, and here, thank goodness, is the bungalow at last.”
Our halting-place proved to be a thatched stone cottage, containing three rooms, and bath-rooms; there was a deep verandah all round, excellent servants’ quarters and stables—in short, it was the beau idéal of a jungle residence. One verandah looked towards the forest, with its cool, dark recesses, the other commanded the river, and beyond it, faintly on the sky line, glimmered the snows.
The bungalow was surrounded by about twenty acres of park-like pasture, through which ran a public road leading to a fine bridge. We took in these details as we lounged about in the moonlight after dinner, and unanimously agreed that our present quarters were quite perfect in every respect.
The next day we fished—a nice, lazy, unexciting occupation. I sauntered home early in the afternoon—not being a particularly enthusiastic angler—and disposed myself in a comfortable deep straw chair in the verandah, in order to enjoy a novel and what I considered a well-earned cup of tea. As I reclined at my ease, devouring fiction and cake, sandwich fashion, my attention was arrested by a sound of loud crashing and smashing of branches in the usually death-like stillness of the forest. I sat erect, gazing intently at the violent storm among the leaves, expecting to see emerge a deer, a pig, or, at the very worst, a peacock! But after staring steadily for some time, I found that I was looking at the back of a remarkably tall elephant.
The ayah, who was also watching, pointed and called out, “Hathi, mem sahib, burra hathi,” as if I did not know an elephant when I saw one!
Presently I descended the steps, strolled across the green, and pushed aside the bushes. There I beheld a lean native, all ribs and turban, busily engaged in baking his chupatties over a fire of sticks—a little wizened man, with a sharp cruel face, and close behind him stood a huge gaunt elephant, or rather the framework of one, for the animal was shockingly thin. Its poor backbone was as sharp as a razor; its skin hung in great wrinkles; its eye—an elephant’s eye is small and ugly—this beast’s eye gave expression to its whole body, and had a woful look of inarticulate misery, of almost desperate, human appeal.
The mahout stood up and salaamed, and forthwith he and I began to converse—that is to say, we made frantic endeavours to understand one another—the ayah, whose curiosity had dragged her forth, now and then throwing in a missing word.
“By my favour, it was the rajah’s state elephant; he had also three others; he sent them into the forest to feed and to rest, when he did not require them. This, Shere Bahadur (brave lion), was the great processional elephant, and had a superb cloth-of-gold canopy that covered him from head to tail.”
(“Poor brute!” I said to myself, “otherwise he would be a terribly distressing spectacle.”)
“Why is he so thin?” I demanded anxiously.
“Because he is old,” was the ready answer, “more than one hundred years. He had been, so folk said, a war-elephant taken in battle. He was worth thousands and thousands of rupees once. He knew no fear, and no fatigue. Moreover, he was a great shikar elephant—many tigers had he faced”—and here the mahout proudly showed me the traces of some ancient scars—“even now the Sahib Log borrowed him as an honour.”
“And what had he to eat?” I inquired.
“More than he could swallow—twelve large chupatties twice a day—this size”—holding his skinny arms wide apart—“also ghoor, and sugar-cane, and spice.”
I looked about. I saw no sign of anything but a few branches of neem tree, and the preparations for the mahout’s own meagre meal.
“Hazoor, he has had his khana—he has dined like a prince,” reiterated the mahout. “Kuda ka Kussum,” that is to say, “so help me God.”
Nevertheless I remained incredulous. I went over to the bungalow and brought out a loaf, to the extreme consternation of our khansamah—we being forty miles from the nearest bazaar bakery—this I broke in two pieces, and presented it to Shere Bahadur, who seized it ravenously. Of course it was a mere crumb, and the wrinkled eager trunk was piteously held out for more; but more I dared not give, for I was in these days entirely under the yoke of my domestics! I related my little adventure during dinner—small episodes become great ones in the jungle, where we had no news, no dâk. Afterwards we took our usual stroll in the moonlight, and Charlie and I went to visit my new acquaintance. He was alone. The mahout was away, probably smoking at a panchayet in the nearest village. In a short time we were joined by Tom, who, as he came up, exclaimed—
“By Jove, he is thin! I’ve just been hearing all about the beast from the shikarri; he knows him well. He was a magnificent fellow in his day. The rajah has not the heart to feed him in his old age, and turns him out to pick up a living, or starve—whichever he likes. He is not going to pay for his keep, and so the poor brute is dying by inches. Every now and then, when there is a ‘tamasha,’ he is sent for—for a rajah without elephants is like a society woman without diamonds.”
“And the twelve chupatties, and spices, and sugar?” I exclaimed.
“All moonshine!” was the laconic reply.
I thought a great deal of that miserable famishing animal. He preyed on my mind, in the watches of the night: I could hear him through the open window, moving restlessly among the bushes. I was sorely tempted to rise and steal my own loaves, and give him every crumb in the larder!
Next morning I boldly commanded four enormous cakes to be made, and took them to him myself. He seemed to know me, and swallowed them down with wolfish avidity.
When we were fishing that same evening I noticed the elephant down in the shallows of the river, standing knee-deep in the rushes; his figure, in profile against the orange sunset, looked exactly like the arch of a bridge, so wasted was he.
In the course of a day or two we had firmly cemented our acquaintance. Shere Bahadur came up to the verandah for sugar-cane and bread, and salaamed to me ostentatiously whenever we met.
“As we are feeding the beast, we may as well make use of him,” remarked Tom, one morning. “The mahout declares that the rajah will let us have him for his keep, and his own wages—six rupees a month. We can have a howdah, and the elephant will be very useful when we get among the long grass and the deer.”
“Yes, do let us have him,” I gladly agreed. I could not endure to leave him behind, to return to his ration of neem leaves and semi-starvation. Tom therefore despatched a “chit” by the mahout to the rajah, and the next day Shere Bahadur came shuffling back, carrying a howdah and his owner’s sanction, also a paper which Tom was requested to sign.
This document (written on the leaf of a copy-book, in English, with immense flourishes) set forth—“That Tom would guarantee to hand Shere Bahadur back, in good condition, at the end of two months, and that if anything happened to the elephant, short of natural death, Tom was responsible for the value of the animal, and the sum of two thousand rupees.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it is fair enough, though I doubt if the poor old bag of bones is worth two hundred rupees. He will be well fed, and returned in good case, and if he dies now on our hands, after living a century, it will be a base piece of ingratitude for all your kindness; however, there is life in the old boy yet. You and he are great chums. He is a splendid shikar elephant, though a bit slow. I think it is a capital bunderbast.” And he signed.
The mahout (now our servant) was full of zeal and zest, and came and laid his head on my feet, and assured me that “I was his father and his mother, and that he was my slave.”
I took care to see Shere Bahadur fed daily. He now really received a dozen thick chupatties, and plenty of sugar-cane and ghoor, and his expression lost its look of anguish and famine, though it was early days to expect any improvement in his figure. When we marched, he accompanied us, and I rode in the howdah and enjoyed it. He picked his way so cleverly, and thrust branches aside from our path so carefully, and seemed (though this may be a wild flight of imagination) to like to work for me. He was capital at going through jungle, or over rough ground, but in marshy places the poor dear old gentleman seemed to have great difficulty in getting along, and to have but little power in his hind quarters.
Six weeks of our leave had melted away, as it were—time had passed but too rapidly. Shere Bahadur proved invaluable out shooting. Thanks to him, Tom had got a fine tigress, and Charlie some splendid head of deer. They looked so odd in the high elephant grass—no elephant to be seen, but merely two men, as it were sailing along in a howdah. Our last days were, alas! drawing near; our stores were becoming perilously low. It was the end of March, the grass and leaves were dry as tinder and brittle as glass, as the hot winds swept over them. Yes, it was imperative to exchange these charming tents for the thick cat-haunted thatch of our commonplace bungalow. We were all sunburnt, happy, and somewhat shabby. I had contrived to see something of India, after all. I knew the habits of some of the birds and beasts—the names of flowers and trees. I had gazed at my own reflection in lonely forest pools, that were half covered with water-lilies, and from whose sedgy margin flocks of bright-plumaged water-fowl had flashed.
I had met the peacock and his wives leisurely sauntering home after a night of pillage in the grain fields. I had seen, in a sunny glade, a wild dog playing with her puppies. I had watched the big rohu turning lazily over in the river; the sly grey alligator lying log-like on the bank; the blue-bull, or nilgai, dashing through the undergrowth. In short, I had seen a good deal, though I was dull.
Twice a day I visited my dear friend Shere Bahadur. I had become quite attached to him, and I firmly believe that he loved me devotedly. One evening I arrived rather earlier than usual on my rounds, and discovered the mahout in deep converse with another man, a stranger, who brought his visit to an abrupt close, and said, as he hurried away, “Teen Roze” (i.e. “three days”), to which the mahout responded, “Bahout Atcha” (i.e. “good”).
“It is my Bhai,” he explained. Every one seems to be every one else’s brother, especially suspicious-looking acquaintances. “He has come a long journey with a message from my father—my father plenty sick, calling for me.” An every-day excuse for “taking leave,” only second to the death of the delinquent’s grandmother.
On the afternoon of the third day we found it too hot to go out early, and were sitting in our dining-room tent fanning ourselves vigorously and playing “spoof,” when we suddenly heard a great commotion—a sound of shouting and running and trumpeting. A tiger, or a “must” elephant, was my first idea. Yes, there it was! A cry of “The elephant! the elephant!” It was an elephant—my elephant. We hurried to where a crowd of all our retainers had collected. A quarter of a mile away there was a sudden dip in the ground, a half-dried-up pool of water, covered with a glaze of dark blue scum, surrounded by an expanse of black oozy mud, fringed with rushes and great water-reeds,—the sort of place that was the sure haunt of malarious fever—and struggling in the midst of the quagmire was Shere Bahadur. He had already sunk up to his shoulders, whilst his mahout lay on the bank tearing his hair, beating his head upon the ground, and shrieking at intervals, “My life is departing! my life is departing!” Tom angrily ordered him to arise, and get to his place on the animal’s back, and endeavour to guide him out at the safest part; but it appeared to be all quagmire, and quivered for yards at every movement of the elephant. The mahout gibbered, and sobbed, but complied. He scrambled on to Shere Bahadur’s neck, and yelled, gesticulated, urged, and goaded. No need; the poor brute was aware of the danger—he was labouring now, not for other people’s profit or pleasure, but for his own life. Every one ran for wood, wine-cases, or branches, and flung them to the elephant; and it was pitiful to see how eagerly he snatched at them, and placed them beneath him, and endeavoured to build himself a foothold. After long and truly desperate exertions, he got his forelegs right up on the sound ground, ropes were thrown to him, but, alas! it was all of no avail; the morass was a peculiarly bad one, and his powerless hind quarters were unable to complete the effort and land him safely. No, the cruel quagmire slowly, surely, and remorselessly sucked him down; and, after a most determined effort on the part of the spectators, and a frenzied but impotent struggle on his own, Tom turned to me and exclaimed—
“Poor old boy! it’s not a bit of good; he will have to go!”
“Go where?” I cried. “He can be saved; he must be saved,” I added, hysterically.
“Impossible; he has not sufficient power to raise himself; the ground is a sort of quicksand. If there was another elephant here, we might manage to haul him out; but, as it is, it is a mere question of time—he will be gone in half an hour.”
I wept, implored, ran about like one demented, begging, bribing, entreating the natives to help. And, I must confess, they all did their very best, nobly led by Tom and Charlie. But their efforts were fruitless. Shere Bahadur’s hour had come. He had escaped bullets, grape-shot, and tiger, to be gradually swallowed down by that slimy black quagmire, and—horrible thought—buried alive! At the end of a quarter of an hour he had sunk up to his ears, and had ceased to struggle. His trunk was still above the mud. His poor hidden sides!—we could hear them going like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. It appeared to me that his eye sought mine!
Oh, I could endure the scene no longer. I left the crowd to see the very end, rushed back to the tent, flung myself on my bed, covered up my head, and wept myself nearly blind. It seemed hours and hours—twenty-four hours—before Tom came in, and said, as solemnly as if he were announcing the death of a friend, “It is all over.”
The detestable mahout over-acted his part; at first he simulated frenzy, his grief far surpassed mine, he gibbered, wept, and beat his breast, and rolled upon the ground at our feet in a paroxysm of anguish, as he assured us that the rajah was a ruthless lord, and that when he returned to Betwa without the Hathi he would certainly be put to torture, and subsequently to death. And then Tom suddenly bethought himself of the terms of the agreement. The elephant had not died a natural death. No, he had “gone down quick into the pit.” He was dead, and Tom was bound to pay two thousand rupees (about £150). He looked exceedingly glum, but there was no other alternative; yes, he must pay—even if he could not contrive to look pleasant. He most reluctantly sent the rajah a cheque for the amount on the Bank of Bengal, and the mahout departed with somewhat suspicious alacrity, leaving the howdah behind him.
Afterwards, we became acquainted with two extraordinary facts. One was that the rajah had carefully arranged for the death of the elephant, even before we left our first camp; that the mahout’s so-called brother was simply a special messenger, who had been despatched to “hurry up” the tragedy. Discovery the second, that the mahout had been seen by our shikarri and several other men deliberately goading and urging the elephant into the quagmire. The wise animal had at first steadily resisted, but putting implicit faith in his rider—who had driven him for years—and being the most docile of his race, he had ultimately yielded, and obediently waded in to his death. At first we indignantly refused to credit these stories, and declared that they were merely the ordinary malicious native slander; but subsequently a slip of copy-book paper was discovered in the pocket of the howdah, which, being interpreted by Tom, read as follows—
“Make no delay. Bad quagmire. Give fifty rupees.—Betwa.”
And Shere Bahadur was betrayed for that sum.
We received in due time an effusive letter from the Rajah of Betwa, written, as usual, on the leaf of a copy-book, and inscribed with numerous ornamental flourishes. He also enclosed a formal stamped receipt, which is on my bill-file at the present moment, and is not the least remarkable of the many curious documents there impaled. It says—
“Received from Mister Captain Thomas Hay, the sum of two thousand government rupees, the value of one War elephant—lost!”
“PROVEN OR NOT PROVEN?”
THE TRUE STORY OF NAIM SING, RAJPOOT.
Look around, and above, with your mind’s eye, and behold high hills and deep narrow valleys—valleys overflowing with corn, and hills speckled with flocks; no, these are not the Alps,—nor yet the Andes; the sturdy brown people have the Tartar type of face, their stubborn, shaggy ponies are of Thibetan breed. You stand on the borders of Nepaul, and among the lower slopes of the great Himalayas—a remote district, but tolerably populated and prosperous. There are many snug, flat-roofed houses scattered up and down the niches in these staircase-like heights, encompassed with cowsheds, melon gardens, groves of walnut trees, and a few almost perpendicular acres of murga (grain); their proprietors are well-to-do, their wants inconsiderable, the possession of a pony, half a dozen goats, and a couple of milch buffaloes, constitutes a man of means, who is as happy in his way as, perhaps happier than, the English or Irish owner of a great landed estate. Moreover, this pastoral life has its pleasures: there are holy festivals, fairs, feasts, wrestling-matches,—and occasionally a little gambling and cock-fighting. But even in these primitive mountain regions, life is not all Arcadian simplicity; there are black spots on the sun of its existence, such as envy, hatred, malice, jealousy, false-witness, and murder.
Peaceful, even to sleepiness, as the district appears, serene and immovable as the grand outline of its lofty white horizon, nevertheless this remote corner of the world has been the scene of a renowned trial—a trial which outrivalled many a notorious case in far-away Europe for exciting violent disputes, disturbances, and bloodshed—a trial which convulsed Kumaon, Kali Kumaon, and Gurwalh—whose effects, as it were the ripples from a stone cast into still waters, are experienced to the present hour in the shape of curses, collisions, and feuds. At the root of the trouble was, as usual, a woman.
Durali (which signifies ‘darling’) was the grandchild and only surviving relative of Ahmed Dutt, a thriftless, shrivelled old hill-man, who smoked serrus (or Indian hemp) until he brought himself into a condition of imbecility, and suffered his worldly affairs to go to ruin; his hungry cattle and goats strayed over his neighbours’ lands, he cared not for crops, nor yet for wor-hos (boundary marks), he cared for nought but his huka, and his warm padded quilt, and abandoned the beautiful Durali, like the cattle, to her own devices. Now, according to Durali, these devices were supremely innocent: she spun wool, kept fowl, laboured somewhat fitfully in the fields, and tended the jungle of dahlias and marigolds which threatened to swallow up the little slab-roofed dwelling—that was all. So said Ahmed Dutt’s granddaughter, but public opinion held a different view; it lifted up its voice (in a shrill treble), and declared that Durali, being by general consent the most beautiful woman in Kumaon, had wrung the hearts of half the young—ay, and old—men in the province; that of a truth her suitors were legion; but that she turned her back on all of them—as she would have fools to believe—no!
Her grandfather was indigent, as who could deny? Whence, then, the rich silver necklet, the bangles, the great belt of uncut turquoise, blue as the spring sky—whence the strong Bhootia pony? Had Ahmed Dutt been otherwise than a smoke-sodden idiot and a dotard, he had, according to custom, sold this valuable chattel a full year ago, and received as her price three hundred rupees, yea, and young asses, perchance, and buffaloes. As it was, Durali ruled him tyrannically, flouted all humble pretenders for her hand, and at eighteen years of age was her own mistress, fancy-free, poor, ambitious, and beautiful—miraculously beautiful! since her wondrous loveliness stirred even the leathern hearts of these hill-men; and she possessed a face, figure, craft, and coquetry, amply warranted to set the whole of Kumaon in a blaze. Yea, the saying that “to be her friend was unfortunate, to be her suitor beckoned death,” deterred but few. It was undeniable that Farid Khan had fallen over the khud, on the bad road to Pura; do not his bones lie, to this day, unburied and bleaching, at the foot of that awful precipice? Who said that his rival, Jye Bhan, had pushed him in the dark? Who could prove it? At any rate, he was no more. As was also Kalio Thapa, carried away by a mighty flood in the Sardah river—how it befell, who could say? And there was, moreover, Phulia, who had certainly hanged himself because Durali had spurned him.
Many were her adorers, and exceedingly bitter the hatred they bore to one another.
Durali was tall, erect, and Juno-like, with a skin like new wheat, features of a bold Greek type, abundant jet-black hair, and a pair of magnificent eyes. Other women declared that there was magic in these—certainly they spoke with tongues, they commanded, exhorted, entreated, dazzled, and bewitched.
But Durali owed nothing to the fine feathers which enhance the attractions of so many fine birds. She wore a dark-blue petticoat and short cotton jacket, a few bangles and a copper charm—the ordinary attire of an ordinary Pahari girl; dress could add but little to her superb personality.
The handsome granddaughter of Ahmed Dutt was well known by reputation in the surrounding villages, her name was in every one’s mouth, her fame had penetrated even as far as Almora itself. At the sacred feast of the Dusserah, where crowds assemble to behold the yearly sacrifice, there Durali appeared for the first time, and in gala costume, wearing a short-sleeved red velveteen bodice, an enviable silver necklet, and a flower behind each ear. The eyes of half the multitude were riveted on the hill beauty—instead of the devoted buffalo, which had been tied up for days, at the quarter guard of the Ghoorkas, and now innocently awaited its impending fate.
Yes, people actually thronged, and pressed, and pushed, and strove, in order to obtain a good look at the famous Durali, for whom men had contended, and fought—ay, and died.
There was a sudden lull in the loud hum of voluble Pahari tongues, and all attention was concentrated on a renowned athlete, who stepped forward with the huge Nepaulese sacrificial knife in his hand, and with one swift dexterous blow severed the buffalo’s ponderous head from his body. Immediately ensued a frenzied rush on the part of the spectators, in order to dip a piece of cloth in the smoking blood. There was also a determined, nay, a ferocious struggle between two young men, as to which should have the privilege of plunging Durali’s handkerchief, on her behalf, into the holy stream. This coveted office fell to Naim Sing, who wrung the cloth from the feebler grasp of Johar, the son of Turroo. This contest over a blood-stained rag was noted at the time. It was an evil omen, and more than one old crone shook her grey head, as she muttered, “Mark ye, my sisters, there will be yet more trouble between the strivers—yea, bloodshed.”
The victor was the son of Bhowan Sing, who lived in the village of Beebadak, and cultivated a considerable amount of fertile land. He had three sons—Umed Sing, Rattan Sing, and Naim Sing; the latter was the Benjamin of the family, a handsome youth, with a lithe, symmetrical figure, bold eloquent grey eyes, and crisp black locks, the champion wrestler of his pergunnah (and of the district); possessed not merely of an active and powerful body, but an active and powerful mind. His appearance, his age, and his stronger character, were not the only reasons that made him looked up to by his brethren and neighbours, and a ruler in his father’s house; some two years previously, whilst digging a well, he had discovered a pot of coins, and was now the owner of twenty pairs of pearls, fifty gold mohurs, four ponies, and a herd of milch buffaloes. Happy the woman whom Naim Sing would take to wife!
Johar, the son of Turroo, was a sturdy, square-faced youth, honest and cheerful, who had nought to cast into the balance against prowess, ponies, and pearls, save one slender accomplishment, and his heart—he played somewhat skilfully on a whistle, which was fashioned out of the thigh-bone of a man, and profusely studded with great rough turquoises. He was in much request at all the revellings within thirty miles—that is to say, Johar with his whistle.
Not long after the Dusserah, the venerable Ahmed Dutt smoked himself peacefully out of this world, and was duly burnt, with every necessary formality. His granddaughter being left forlorn, now took an old woman to live with her in the little stone house under the edge of the Almora road, as you go to Loher Ghât. Durali was in straitened circumstances; the murga crop had failed, three of her lean kine were dead, but she was befriended by Naim Sing, who evinced much sympathy for her desolate condition; and it was a matter of whispered gossip that Johar was also secretly performing acts of kindness—secretly, indeed, for none dared to put themselves into competition with the formidable Naim Sing,—and it was believed that he was the favoured suitor.
At harvest-time, Naim Sing was compelled to be absent for ten days, on an urgent mission to the foot of the hills. Immediately on his return, he hastened to Durali’s hut, and found her absent. Wearied by a rapid march of thirty miles, he cast himself down among the long rice stalks at the foot of a choora tree, and there impatiently awaited the reappearance of his divinity. As he lay half dozing in the heat, his practised ear heard steps and voices, and looking through the rice stalks he beheld a couple leisurely approaching. The man was playing on a bone whistle, and the woman carried sheaves of wheat upon her stately head. There was no difficulty in recognizing Durali and Johar. The jealous watcher lay still, listening eagerly with quick-coming breath. It appeared to him that the beguiling Durali by no means discouraged her companion’s advances, which were couched in the usual flowery terms of Oriental flattery. “Oh, woman, thou hast sheaves on thy head, but they appear like clusters of pomegranates on thy shoulders. There is none like thee. The light of thy beauty hath illumined my soul! As for Naim Sing, he is a seller of dog’s flesh! an owl, the son of an owl; he is vain as the sandpiper, who sleeps with his legs up, in order to support the sky at night. Listen, O core of my heart! it hath come to mine ears, that trade and barter have nought to do with his hasty excursions to the plains—he hath a wife at Huldwani—hence his journeys.”
This was too much for the endurance of his enraged listener, who, leaping furiously upon Johar, clove his head with his heavy tulwar (sword). Johar staggered, blinded with blood, and defenceless, then, turning, ran for his life; but his infuriated enemy, flinging the shrieking girl to one side, swiftly pursued the wounded wretch to where he had sought refuge in a cowshed, dashed in the frail door, and there despatched him. Presently he returned, fierce-eyed, savage, blood-stained, to confront the horror-stricken and trembling Durali.
“Woman,” he cried hoarsely, “I have slain him—thine the sin. His death be on thy head!”
But she, with many tears and vows, vociferously protested her innocence, and in a surprisingly short time appeased Naim Sing’s wrath. Now that the rage of his jealousy and vengeance had been satisfied, he began to realize the result of his passion; he had slain a man—not the first who had met his death at his hands. He had once killed an antagonist in a wrestling-match—that was a misadventure; this was—well, the Sirkar would call it—murder.
The shades of evening had not yet fallen, and until then he dared not set about concealing the corpse. He found Durali a cunning adviser and an unscrupulous accomplice. Men die hard, especially wiry hill-men, and Johar had not passed away in silence; his expiring groans were heard by Bucko, the old woman, and Naim Sing was therefore compelled to admit her into the secret.
When the moon rose, the three conspirators bound up the body and carried it down to one of the fields, there they carefully uprooted each stalk, each distinct plant, growing over the surface of what was to form the future grave, which was next excavated, and Johar, the son of Turroo, was dropped into the hole, his whistle flung contemptuously after him, and both were presently covered up with earth—and wheat.
The burying-party returned to the hut, where Naim Sing inflicted a small wound on his leg with a cut of his tulwar, in order to support the statement he proposed making to the authorities, that Johar had attacked him with murderous intent, and, having failed in his effort, fled. Next morning Naim Sing called on the Tehel-seldhar and made his report, and the Tehel-seldhar despatched a tokdar (responsible official for a cluster of villages) to take steps for the capture of Johar, the son of Turroo. But Johar was not to be found, or even heard of, and his own family became seriously alarmed, and suspected foul play. If he had fled and departed on a long journey, wherefore had he left his boots, clothes, and money behind? The connections of Naim Sing were powerful, their pirohet, or family priest, his personal friend—rumour and suspicion were strangled—but there were grave whispers round the fires in the huts, all over the hills: what had befallen Johar, the son of Turroo?
However, a murder was a common event. Blood-feuds were acknowledged, and soon the circumstance was allowed to fade into oblivion by all but Rateeban, a lame man, Johar’s twin brother, who took a solemn oath at Gutkoo temple to avenge him. He suspected Durali; he watched her and her house by stealth. Why was one small corner of the wheat-field uncut? He made her overtures of friendship, he flattered, he fawned; by dint of judicious questions, and even more judicious information, Rateeban gained his end. Oh, false love! Oh, treachery! Oh, woman! it was the beautiful Durali who led Rateeban to his brother’s grave, who showed him the blood splashes on the cowshed walls, who told him the truth. Yes, jealousy is doubtless as cruel as the grave. Durali had capitulated and given her long-beleaguered heart wholly to Naim Sing—his eloquence, good looks, prowess,—ay, and presents,—had carried the citadel, and lo! the dead man’s words were verified. Naim Sing had already a wife at Huldwani, a bold dark woman of the plains, to whom he was secretly wed by strictest and securest ceremonial.
To the amazement and indignation of himself and his kinsmen, Naim Sing was arrested and carried to Almora jail, there to await his trial; his friends and connections (who were many and powerful) made a desperate attempt to secure his release; bribes, and even threats, were used; but what could avail against the evidence of the treacherous Durali?—and the evidence of the dead body? Yes, Naim Sing, the champion wrestler, the leading youth in his district, handsome, popular, rich, in the full zenith of his days and vigour, was bound to be despatched to the dark muggy shores of the Salween river, and end his existence ingloriously in Moulmein jail. Never again would he take part in a wrestling-match, or breast his native mountains and chase the ibex and makor; his beloved hills, and his ancestral home, would know him no more. Rateeban, Johar’s lame brother, would have preferred the blood of his enemy, but was fain to be contented with his sentence, “Transportation for life.” He exulted savagely in his revenge, and actually accompanied the gang of wretched prisoners the whole march of ninety miles to the railroad—on foot—in order that he might enjoy the ecstasy of gloating over his foe in chains! Each day at sundown, when the party halted, Rateeban came and stood opposite to Naim Sing, and, leaning on his stick, mocked him. It was rumoured that Rateeban was not the sole voluntary escort, but that a woman, veiled, and riding a stout grey pony, stealthily followed the party afar off! It was Durali, who, when it was too late, was distracted with penitence and anguish. Her remorse was eating away her very heart—but to what avail now?
Huldwani is a large, populous native town on the edge of the Terai, a few miles from the foot of the hills, and here a frantic creature awaited the prisoners, or rather the prisoner Naim Sing. She tore her hair, she beat her head upon the ground, and Naim Sing was not unmoved—no. Then she lifted up her hands and her voice, and cursed with hideous screaming curses “that woman who had wrought this great shame and wickedness—that other woman on the hills!” And the other woman, having heard with her ears and seen with her eyes, turned back and retraced those weary ninety miles, now more in anger than in sorrow,—for such is human nature.
In less than twelve months, the news came to the hills that Naim Sing had died in Moulmein prison, the death certificate said of atrophia, but his father and brethren called it a broken heart. “He was ever too wild a bird for a cage,” proclaimed his kinsmen and friends; and within a short time he was as completely forgotten as Johar, whom he had slain, and Durali, whom he had deceived, and who had disappeared.
After a lapse of twenty years, two men belonging to the village where Rateeban lived, returned from a pilgrimage, and announced that at the great fair at Hardwar, on the Ganges, they had seen Naim Sing—who had saluted them as Brahmins. He had with him three horses, and a woman—his wife—and looked in good health, and prosperous. Rateeban, at first angrily incredulous, finally determined to investigate this matter in person, and once more travelled the wearisome ninety miles which lay between his home and the railway. Though every step was painful, he heeded it not, such is the power of hate! With inexhaustible patience, he followed clue after clue; he searched for nearly three months, and was at last rewarded by success. Back up to the hills, to a distant village in Gurwalh, among the spectators at a great wrestling-match, he tracked and found Naim Sing!—Naim Sing, surprisingly little changed. Where were the signs of convict labour, the marks of irons, and of that life that burns into a man’s soul? He looked somewhat older, his temples were bald, but his figure was as upright, his foot as firm, his eye as keen as ever. Rateeban swore to him, with fervour, as an escaped convict, and had him instantly arrested. There was no doubt of his identity; there was the self-inflicted scar on his leg, the bone in his arm which had been broken by wrestling. The criminal was brought back to Almora, in order to be arraigned for unlawful return from transportation, and tried under section 226 of the Indian Penal Code.
The tidings of the resurrection and return of Naim Sing was passed by word of mouth from village to village. His father and brethren, his friends and relations, and those of Johar and Rateeban, and, in short, everybody’s friends, flocked into Almora to attend the trial. The case was heard in the court-house, which stands within the old fort; and not only was the court itself crammed to suffocation, but the crowds overflowed the surrounding enclosure, even down the narrow stone steps, and away into the streets. Thousands and thousands were assembled, and as the days went on the interest quickened, and the case became a matter of furious contention between two factions—for and against: the party who declared the culprit was indeed the real, true, and only Naim Sing, and the party who swore that he was not. Fierce feuds were engendered, torrents of abuse and angry blows were exchanged,—blood was freely shed.
All Kumaon and Gurwalh had encompassed Almora like an invading army, and Kumaon, Gurwalh, and the respectable Goorka station itself, were in an uproar, and seething like a witches’ cauldron.
The prisoner stood up boldly, as befitted the namesake of the lion, and confronted his accusers with a haughty and impassive mien. But surely—surely those keen grey eyes were the eyes of Naim Sing!
“I am not the criminal,” he declared. “Who is this Naim Sing—this murderer? and what hath he to do with me? Behold I am Krookia, and my father is Rusool Sing, who lives in the village of Tolee; my star is Jeshta and Ras, and my horoscope is with Gunga Josh, if he be yet alive.”
Moreover, he brought witnesses, and the certificate of Naim Sing’s death in Moulmein jail.
“The people of the pergunnah, which you aver that you belong to, do not know you,” said the Crown prosecutor. “But Rateeban recognized you; how can you explain that?”
“There be two Rateebans,” was the glib answer, “and one is mine enemy.”
“Strange that Rateeban, the enemy of Naim Sing, is your enemy also.”
“I doubt not that the lame dog—may his race be exterminated!—hath many foes. I know him not. He hath been the means of sending one man to prison for life, and now, behold, he would despatch another. It is a vicious ambition. As for the people of my village, lo! many years ago, I found a treasure, and my neighbours quarrelled and beat and robbed me. They have no desire to recall their own black deeds, nor my face. I fled to the plains, where I have taken road contracts for the Sirkar, and prospered.”
“Naim Sing also found a treasure,” said the advocate. “Does the land in these hills yield so many of these crops?”
“By your honour’s favour, I cannot tell. I found one treasure, to my cost. Money is a man-slayer.”
Many witnesses recognized or repudiated the prisoner, and there was hard swearing on both sides.
At length a young Baboo from Allahabad was put forward—a keen, intelligent, brisk-looking youth, wearing a velvet cap and patent leather boots, embellished with mother-of-pearl buttons.
“Twenty years ago I dwelt in Bareilly,” he said. “There were four of us children, my mother, and my father, who was sick unto death. The jail daroga, who was his kinsman, came to him privily one night, and whispered long. I was awake, being an-hungered, and heard all that was said.
“‘Lo! Gunesheb, thou art my kinsman. Thou art poor and sick, thy days are numbered; wouldst thou die a rich man?’
“‘Would I die in Paradise?’ said my father.
“‘A gang of convicts pass here to-morrow, on their way to Calcutta and Moulmein beyond the sea. Wilt thou take the place of one of them? Thou art his size and height; thou hast not long to live, he has a strong young life; and in return for thy miserable body he will give four hundred rupees, ten pairs of pearls, one pair of gold bangles, and three ponies.’
“My father went forth that same hour with the jail daroga, and returned no more. Next day my mother wept sore; yea, even though she had gold bangles on her arms, very solid, and pearls and silver in a cloth; also there were three ponies, strong and fat, in our yard. Later, she took us to see when the convicts passed along the road, and we rode on the ponies beside them for two days. She told the warders she had a brother, falsely accused, who was in the gang. He wore a square cap pulled far over his eyes, and he coughed as he marched. As we left, he embraced me tenderly, by favour of the warders. I knew he was my father. Afterwards we went south, and returned to Bareilly no more.”
Thus Gunesheb had bartered away his few remaining months of life for the benefit of his family, and Naim Sing had spread a bold free wing, and enjoyed his liberty for twenty years! He had the ceaseless craving of a born hill-man to return to the mountains. The line of snows edging the burnt-up plains had drawn him like a magnet. Slowly but surely, becoming reckless with time and impunity, he had cast fear and caution to the winds, as once more the smell of the pine-needles and of the wood smoke crept into his blood!
As he sat in the dock, the prisoner deliberately scanned every face with an air of lofty indifference. He swore to the last that “he was Krookia, the son of Rusool Sing,” but no respectable land-owner identified him under that name. Moreover, the wife of Naim Sing had been recognized at her native place wearing her rings and bangles, sure and certain token that her husband was alive; and in the face of overwhelming evidence, the culprit was sentenced for the second time on the same spot to be transported beyond the seas for the term of his natural life.
Then Naim Sing arose, tall and erect, a dignified and impressive figure, carrying his two-score years with grace, and made a most powerful and thrilling appeal in his own defence—an appeal for an innocent man, who was about to be banished for ever from his home and country, because, forsooth, his features had the ill fortune to resemble those of a dead murderer!
During his speech, one could almost hear a leaf fall outside the court. The previous quiet had now changed to what resembled a hush of awe. The audience within and without—the windows and doors stood wide, and exhibited an immense sea of human heads—hung with avidity on each sonorous syllable. Not a gesture, not a glance was lost. So stirring and impassioned was his eloquence, that every heart was shaken, and many were moved to tears. But the condemned man pleaded his cause in vain; in fact, his silver tongue afforded but yet another proof of his identity. His fate was sealed. Fearing a public tumult, he was removed secretly ere dawn, marched down the mountain sides for the last time, despatched to the Andamans,—and there he died.
So ended a trial that lasted many days, that was more discussed and fought over than any law-suit of the period; a case which is fiercely argued and hotly debated even to the present hour; a cause which has divided scores of households and separated chief friends. For there are some who declare that the real Naim Sing expired in Moulmein jail khana nineteen years previously, and that the vengeance of Rateeban demanded two lives for one; also that the heavily bribed son of Gunesheb had borne black false witness, his father having died in his own house; and that, of a truth, an innocent man was condemned to transportation and death: but there be some who think otherwise.