Chapter Forty Four.
Now shall ye see
Our Roman hunting.
Shakespeare.
Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, ev’ry region near
Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder!
Shakespeare.
At an early hour, Courtenay and his companions started with their attendants for the scene of action. Several elephants, as well as horses, had been provided, that the officers might mount them when they arrived, and fire from their backs with more deliberate aim. In less than two hours they reached the spot which they had surveyed the day before. The game, which had been driven from jungle to jungle for many miles round, was now collected together in one large mass of underwood and low trees, three sides of which were surrounded by the natives, who had been employed in the service, and who had been joined by many hundreds from the town and neighbouring villages. As soon as the party arrived, those who were on horseback dismounted, took their stations upon the howdahs of the elephants, and collected at the corner of that side of the jungle at which the animals were to be driven out. The scene was one of the most animating and novel description. Forty or fifty of the superior classes of natives, mounted upon fiery Arabians, with their long, glittering boar-spears in their hands, and above one hundred on foot, armed with muskets, surrounded the elephants upon which the officers were stationed. The people who were waiting round the jungle, silent themselves, and busy in checking the noise and impatience of the dogs, held in leashes, whose deep baying was occasionally answered by a low growl from the outskirts of the wood, now received the order to advance. Shouts and yells, mixed with the barking of the dogs, were raised in deafening clamour on every side. The jungle, which covered a space of fifteen or twenty acres, and which had hitherto appeared but slightly tenanted, answered as if endued with life, by waving its boughs and rustling its bushes in every direction, although there was nothing to be seen.
As they advanced, beating with their long poles, and preserving a straight and compact line, through which nothing could escape, so did the jungle before them increase its motion; and soon the yells of thousands of men were answered by the roars and cries of thousands of brute animals. It was not, however, until the game had been driven so near to the end of the jungle at which the hunters were stationed, and until they were huddled together so close that it could no longer contain them, that they unwillingly abandoned it. The most timorous, the rabbit and the hare, and all the smaller tribes, first broke cover, and were allowed to pass unnoticed; but they were soon followed by the whole mass, who, as if by agreement among themselves, had determined at once to decide their fate.
Crowded in incongruous heaps, without any distinction of species or of habits, now poured out the various denizens of the woods—deer in every variety, locking their horns in their wild confusion; the fierce wild-boars, bristling in their rage; the bounding leopards; the swift antelope, of every species; the savage panthers; jackals, and foxes, and all the screaming and shrieking infinities of the monkey tribe. Occasionally, amongst the dense mass could be perceived the huge boa-constrictor, rolling in convolutions—now looking back with fiery eyes upon his pursuers, now precipitating his flight—while the air was thronged with its winged tenants, wildly screaming, and occasionally dropping down dead with fear. To crown the whole, high in the expanse, a multitude of vultures appeared, almost stationary on the wing, waiting for their share of the anticipated slaughter. And as the beasts threw down and rolled over each other in their mad career, you might have fancied from the universal terror which prevailed, that it was a day of judgment to which the inhabitants had been summoned.
It was not a day of mercy. The slaughter commenced; shot after shot laid them in the dust, while the natives, on their Arabians, charged with their spears into the thickest of the crowd, regardless of the risk which they encountered from the muskets of other parties. The baying of the large dogs, who tore down their victims, the din occasionally increased by the contention and growls of the assailed, the yells of the natives, and the shrill cries of the elephants, raised, in obedience to their conductors, to keep the more ferocious animals at a distance, formed a scene to which no pen can do justice. In a few minutes all was over; those who had escaped were once more hid, panting, in the neighbouring jungles, while those who had fallen covered the ground, in every direction, and in every variety.
“Very fine tiger-hunt, sar,” observed the interpreter to Courtenay, with exultation.
“Very fine indeed: Seymour, this is something like a battue. What would some of your English sportsmen have given to have been here? But, interpreter, I don’t see any tigers.”
“Great tigers? No, sar, no great tiger in this country. Call dis tiger?” said the man, pointing with his finger to a prostrate leopard.
Such is the case—the regal Bengal tiger, as well as his rival the lion, admits of no copartnership in his demesnes. On the banks of the impetuous rivers of India, he ranges, alone, the jungles which supply his wants, and permits them not to be poached by inferior sportsmen. Basking his length in the sun and playing about his graceful tail, he prohibits the intrusion of the panther or the leopard. His majestic compeer seems to have entered into an agreement with him, that they shall not interfere with each other’s manorial rights, and where you find the royal tiger, you need not dread the presence of the lion. Each has established his dominion where it has pleased him, both respecting each other, and leaving the rest of the world to be preyed upon by their inferiors.
“Well, Prose, how many did you kill?”
“Why, to tell you the truth, Seymour, I never fired my musket. I was so astonished and so frightened that I could not; I never believed that there were so many beasts in the whole universe.”
“I am convinced,” observed Macallan, “that I saw an animal hitherto undescribed—I fired at it, but an antelope bounded by as I pulled my trigger, and received the ball—I never regretted anything so much in my life. Did you see it?”
“I saw a number of most indescribable animals,” replied Courtenay; “but let us descend, and walk over the field of slaughter.”
The party dismounted, and for some time amused themselves with examining the variety of the slain. The deer and antelopes were the most plentiful; but, on enumeration, nine panthers and leopards, and fifteen wild-boars, headed the list. Prose and Seymour were walking side by side, when they perceived a monkey sitting on the ground, with a most pitiful face; it was of a small variety, with a long tail; it made no effort to escape as they approached it, but on the contrary appeared to court their notice, by looking at them with a melancholy air, and uttering loud cries, as if in pain.
“Poor little fellow,” said Seymour, apostrophising the animal, “it looks as if it were a rational being.—Where are you hurt?”
The monkey, as if it were a rational being, looked down at one of his hind legs, and put his finger into the wound where the ball had entered.
“Well, now, I do declare,” said Prose, “but the poor beast understands you.”
Seymour examined the leg without any resistance on the part of the monkey, who continued to look first at the wound, and then in their faces, as if to say, “Why did you do it?”
“Macallan, come here,” ejaculated Seymour, “and see if you can assist this poor little fellow.”
Macallan came up, and examined the wound. “I think it will recover; the bone is not broken, and no vital part is touched. We’ll bandage it up, and take him home.”
“How very like a human being it is,” observed Courtenay; “it appears only to want speech—it’s really excessively annoying.”
“Rather mortifying to our pride, I grant,” replied Macallan.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Seymour tore up his handkerchief for bandages, and the monkey was consigned to the care of a native. (Par parenthèse, it eventually recovered; and from the peculiarity of its history, and the request of Seymour, was allowed by Captain M— to remain on board of the frigate, where it became a great favourite. High Caste, on the contrary, disappeared a few days after his reception, having been thrown overboard by some of the people that he had bitten, and Captain M— made no inquiries after him. So much for the two monkeys.)
By this time the natives had collected the game, which was carried in procession before the officers. The leopards and panthers, which they skinned and rudely stuffed with grass, in an incredibly short time, leading the procession, followed by the wild boars, deer, and antelopes, each carried between two men, slung under bamboos, which rested on their shoulders. The procession having passed in review before them, continued its course to the town, followed by crowds of people who had come out to join the sport.
“Gentlemen, like dine here?” inquired the interpreter—“soon make dinner ready, but no ab tent.”
“Thanks to you, doctor, they won’t trust us with another. I vote we dine here; for I am hungry enough to eat a buffalo, without anchovy sauce—eh, Mr Prose? Let us dine under yon acacia, on the little mount. There is a fine breeze blowing, and plenty of shade from the tree.”
Courtenay’s proposal was agreed to, and the interpreter gave the directions. He then told the doctor, that if Saib wished to see snake-man, he come now, and bring very fine snake.
The man made his appearance, holding in his hand a small earthen chatty, or pot, in which he had confined the snake, covered over with a linen rag. He exchanged a few sentences with the interpreter, who explained that “man not afraid of bite of snake, and if gentleman give him rupee, he let snake bite him—man eat herb, same as little beast that kill snake.”
“Oh, that plant that the ichneumon resorts to when bitten,” exclaimed Macallan. “This will be a most curious fact, and I must witness it. Interpreter, tell him that I will reward him handsomely.”
“How does he catch the snakes?” inquired Seymour.
“Blow little pipe, sar,” replied the interpreter, pointing to a small reed, perforated with five or six holes, suspended by a string to the man’s neck; “snake like music.”
He then proceeded to explain the manner of taking the snakes, which was effected by lying down close to the hole where the snake was, and by playing a few soft notes with the pipe. The snake, attracted by the sound, puts his head out of the hole, and is immediately firmly grasped by the neck, by which he is held until his fangs are extracted, by jerking them out with a piece of rag, held for him to bite at.
“Strange,” observed Courtenay, “that snakes should be fond of music, and still stranger that people should have discovered it.”
“And yet it has long been known—perhaps, from time immemorial,” answered Macallan. “The comparisons of Scripture are all derived from eastern scenery and eastern customs. Do you not recollect the words of the Psalmist, who compareth the wicked to the deaf adder, who ‘will not harken to the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely’?”
“I recollect it now,” answered Courtenay; “from which I infer, that as snakes are not caught for nothing, they danced before King Solomon.”
“Perhaps they did, or at least in his time.”
The man carefully removed the cloth from the top of the chatty, and watching his opportunity, seized the snake by the neck, who immediately wound itself round his arm. Holding it in that position, he rapidly chewed leaves which he had wrapped in the cloth which encircled his loins. After having laid a heap of the masticated leaves near him, he swallowed a large quantity, and then applied the head of the snake to his left ear, which the animal immediately bit so as to draw blood. It was a cobra di capella of the largest size, being nearly six feet long. As soon as the snake had bitten him, he replaced it in the chatty, and at the same time that he continued to swallow the leaves, rubbed the wounded part with some of the heap which he had masticated, and laid down beside him.
There was a silence, and a degree of painful anxiety, on the part of the spectators, during the process. The man appeared to be sick and giddy, and lay down, but gradually recovered, and making a low salaam, received his largess, handed the snake, in the chatty, to Macallan, and departed.
“A most curious fact—an excessively curious fact,” observed the doctor, putting up his tablets, and a handful of the leaves, which he had taken the precaution to obtain.
“Now, gentlemen, dinner all ready,” observed the interpreter.
The dinner had been spread out on the little mount pointed out by Courtenay. It rose, isolated from the plain, to the height of about thirty feet, with a steep and regular ascent on every side. The summit was flat, and in the centre the acacia waved its graceful and pendent flowers to the breeze, each moment altering the position of the bright spot of sunshine, which pierced through its branches, and reflected on the grass beneath. The party (consisting of the officers of the ship, the grave deputy, and his immediate suite, about fifteen in number), whose appetites were keen from their morning exercise and excitement, gladly hailed the summons, and seating themselves in a circle round the viands, which were spread under the tree, crossed their legs, after the Mahometan custom, and made a furious attack upon the provender.
Macallan, to secure his newly-acquired treasure, hung the chatty, by its string, upon one of the long thorns of the acacia, and then took his seat with the rest. Ample justice having been done to what had been placed before them, mirth and good-humour prevailed. Courtenay had just persuaded the grave old deputy to break through the precepts of his religion, and partake of the forbidden cup, in the shape of a tumbler of madeira, when the chatty, which the doctor had suspended aloft, by the constant waving of the tree to the wind, worked off the thorn, and falling down in the very centre of the circle, smashed into atoms, and the cobra di capella met their gaze, reared upon the very tip of his tail, his hood expanded to the utmost in his wrath, hissing horribly, and darting out his forked tongue,—wavering, among the many, upon whom first to dart.
Never was a convivial party so suddenly dispersed. For one, and but one moment, they were all paralysed; no one attempted to get up and run away—then, as if by a simultaneous thought, they all threw themselves back, tossing their heels over their heads, and continuing their eccentric career. Mussulmen and Europeans all tumbled backwards, heels over heads, down the descent, diverging in every point of the compass, until they reached their respective situations at the bottom of the mount; while the cobra di capella still remained in his menacing attitude, as if satisfied with the universal homage paid to his dreadful powers.
They all recovered their legs (as they had gained the bottom of the hill) about the same time. Courtenay and Seymour, now that the danger was over, were convulsed with laughter—Macallan in amazement—Prose, with his eyes starting out of his head, uttering his usual “I do declare”—the deputy as grave as ever—and the remainder, fortunately, more frightened than they were hurt.
One of the native servants put an end to the scene, by reascending the hill with a long bamboo, with which he struck the animal to the ground, and subsequently despatched him. By this time all had recovered from their alarm, and in a few minutes their seats were resumed. The doctor, who was vexed at the loss of his snake, commenced an examination of the body, and was still more mortified to find that the wily Hindoo had deceived him, the venomous fangs having been already extracted.
“It is positively a fact,” observed he to Courtenay, in ill-humour, “he has cheated me.”
“A most curious fact,” replied Courtenay, shrugging up his shoulders, and lowering the corners of his mouth. “Now, Macallan, what’s the use of your memoranda about time of biting, appearance of patient, etcetera? Allow, for once, that there are some things which are ‘excessively annoying.’”
The party soon after remounted, and proceeded to the town. The next morning they repaired on board, and the queen having, at last, concocted the letter of thanks, the Aspasia weighed, and proceeded to Bombay.