An abundant breakfast duly despatched, there was a buckling of spurs, a slinging of brandy-bottles, an examination of hog-spears, and other preliminary movements for the foray. Outside, too, was a great muster of Augustus’s retainers, coolies or factory men, real “blue demons,” in almost Paradisaic costume, with long sticks, or latees, over their shoulders, wherewith to beat the jungles.
Augustus now vaulted on his Arab, a beautiful creature, with a high reputation, as I was told, as a hog-hunter (horses in India enjoy the sport as much as their masters), and with his spear in hand gave the signal for departure. Out marched the whole cavalcade, I mounted on a sturdy little hill pony, called a tangan, as hard-mouthed and headstrong a little devil, as I afterwards discovered to my cost, as ever tumbled a griffin.
Each of us hunters was armed with a spear, whilst spare ones were carried by the syces. The spear used in this sport, by the way, is a very formidable weapon. The shaft is about seven feet long, the head an elongated heart, or rather leaf-shape, as keen as a razor, and to aid its murderous effect, the butt-end is loaded with about a half-pound of lead.
We now wound along, bending our course for the banks of a river, where wild hogs and other game were said to abound. Having crossed the plain, we found, ourselves amongst mango groves and woodland, interspersed with scattered huts and small villages, and I became, by some accident, separated a good distance from my companions.
In passing the edge of a tope, or mango grove, an adventure happened, which, though somewhat derogatory to my dignity in its results, my integrity as a historian obliges me to relate. A pause in the narrative may, however, be expedient, in order to give me the requisite degree of composure.
CHAPTER XIV.
In passing the grove mentioned in the last chapter, by the edge of a fosse, or ditch, overgrown with bushes, and not far from some miserable huts, I thought I heard a rustling, and reining up my tangan and listening, I could distinguish the deep bass of a grunter, with the running treble of sundry little pigs. My heart went pit-a-pat; here, thought I, is a glorious discovery! I shall be the first to rouse the grizzly monster from his lair, and launch a spear at him. I wished, however, to be sure, and listened again—’twas a palpable grunt.
“Yoicks! tally-ho!” shouted I, waving my hat, as a signal for my friends to come up and share in the anticipated sport.
Roused by my voice, and a stone cast into the ditch by my syce, an unclean beast of large dimensions, black and mangy, issued therefrom, and, rather leisurely, I thought, for a wild boar, jogged across the open space, followed by a tribe of young ones. Now then, Frank Gernon, I mentally exclaimed, gird up the loins of thy resolution, and prepare for desperate deeds.
Thus internally soliloquizing, I slacked my rein, put spurs to my tangan, and, spear in hand, rode furiously at him. La Mancha’s knight did not charge his windmill more valiantly. I pushed him hard, but he kept ahead, dodging, joltering, and grunting, and for the life of me I could not place myself in a position to give him the coup de grace. At length, by vigorously urging my beast, I found myself alongside; my arm was raised; the glittering javelin poised with as direful a presage as that of one of Homer’s heroes; already in imagination my burnished point had searched out the seat of life, and I saw the crimson tide distilling from the wound; I rose to deal the mighty stroke, when snap went the stirrup-leather, away flew my spear, and I, and not the hog, incontinently bit the dust. Yes, down I came, a thundering thump.