‘Those are their families, you know.’ The manager, quite grave hitherto, laughed out suddenly. ‘Of course, it seems mighty droll to you, but we’re accustomed to it. Each clan claims to be descended from the thing after which it is named. You mustn’t ask me how the Stomach of a pig can have children. That’s beyond our understanding. The point is that certain of these stocks may not intermarry under pain of death—that’s their law. So you may fancy the rumpus when strange Potatoes arriving here find one of their breed——’ he laughed again. ‘It does sound funny, when you think of it! Last night, however, when the usual disturbance broke out—a new gang arrived yesterday, you know—Minjar, the Eel, who is the other fellow that has married some girl he ought not to, declared he had made blood-brotherhood with the chief of the Bhutias across the river, who would come to avenge him if he were hurt. And I fancy that’s not quite such nonsense as you would think. I saw Minjar there that time I got the orchid——’
Forstermann heard no more of the tale. The orchid! They reached the pool, and he shot ducks conscientiously, but his thoughts were busy in devising means to lead the conversation back to that point.
There was no need of finesse, however. At a word the manager told everything. He it was who found the Cypripedium which had caused such a fuss, when shooting on the other side of the river—that is, beyond British territory. Struck with its beauty, he gathered a plant or two and gave them to Mr. Spicer. It took him several days’ journey to reach the spot, but he was shooting by the way. Tigers abounded there—so did fever. The mountaineers were as unfriendly as they dared to be. For these reasons Mr. Spicer begged him not to return. The same motive, doubtless, caused the planter to be reticent towards others.
With a clear conscience and heartiest thanks Forstermann bade his host farewell next day. He had a long and painful search before him still, for his informant could give no more than general directions. The plant grew upon rocks along the bed of a stream to the north-west of Mr. Spicer’s plantation, not less than two days’ journey from the river—that was about all. The inhabitants of the country, besides tigers, were savages.
Many a stream did Forstermann explore under the most uncomfortable circumstances, wading thigh-deep, hour after hour, day after day. I am sorry that I have not room even to summarise the long letter in which he detailed those adventures.
To search the upland waters would have been comparatively easy; he might have walked along the bank. But the Cypripedium grew in a valley; and nowhere is tropical vegetation more dense than in those steaming clefts which fall from the mountains of Bhutan. To cut a path was out of the question; the work would have lasted for months, putting expense aside. It was necessary to march up the bed of the stream.
Forstermann ascended each tributary with patient hopefulness, knowing that success was certain if he could hold out. And it came at length to one so deserving; but the manager had wandered to a much greater distance than he thought. After wading all the forenoon up a torrent which had not yet lost its highland chill, Forstermann reached a glade, encircled by rocks steep as a wall—so steep that he had to fashion rakes of bamboo wherewith to drag down the masses of orchid which clung to them. It was Cypripedium Spicerianum!
Then arose the difficulty of getting his plunder away. After much journeying to and fro, Forstermann engaged thirty-two Bhutias, half of them to carry rice for the others along those mountain tracks, where 25 lbs. is a heavy load. So they travelled until, one day, after halting at a village, the men refused to advance. The road ahead was occupied by a tiger—I should mention that such alarms had been incessant; in no country are tigers so common or so dangerous as in Bhutan. Forstermann drove them along; at the next bit of jungle eight threw down their loads and vanished. He found himself obliged to return, but eight more were missing when he reached the village. There was no other road. Gradually the poor fellow perceived that he must abandon his enterprise or clear the path. At sunset, they told him, the brute would be watching—probably in a tree, described with precision. Forstermann spent the time in writing farewell letters—making his will, perhaps. Towards sunset, he took a rifle and a gun and sallied forth.
The Bhutias assured him that there was no danger—from this enemy, at least—until he reached the neighbourhood of the tree; but we may imagine the terrors of that lonely walk, which must be repeated in darkness, if he lived, or if the tiger did not show. But luck did not desert a man so worthy of favour. He recognised the tree, an old dead stump overhanging the path, clothed in ferns and creepers. Surveying it as steadily as the tumult of his spirits would allow, in the fading light he traced a yellow glimmer among the leaves. Through his field-glass, at twenty yards’ distance, he scrutinised this faint shadow. The tiger grew impatient—softly it raised its head—so softly behind that screen of ferns that a casual wayfarer would not have noticed it. But it was the hint Forstermann needed. With a prayer he took aim, fired—threw down his rifle and snatched the gun. But crash—stone-dead fell the tiger, and its skin is a hearthrug on which I stood to hear this tale.
So on March 9, 1884, 40,000 plants of Cypripedium Spicerianum were offered at Stevens’ Auction Rooms.