In India and Ceylon, elephants have been caught and tamed from time immemorial, and when we compare their colossal strength with the physical weakness of man, it must surely be considered a signal triumph of his intelligence and courage, that he is able to bend such gigantic creatures to his will. The professional elephant-catchers of Ceylon, or Panickeas, as they are called, are particularly remarkable for their daring and adroitness. Their ability in tracing their huge game, rivalling that of the American Indian in following the enemy’s trail, has almost the certainty of instinct, and hence their services are eagerly sought by the European elephant-hunters. ‘So keen is their glance, that almost at the top of their speed, like hounds running breast-high, they will follow the course of an elephant over glades covered with stunted grass, where the eye of a stranger would fail to discover a trace of its passage, and on through forests strewn with dry leaves, where it seems impossible to perceive a footstep. Here they are guided by a bent or broken twig, or by a leaf dropped from the animal’s mouth on which they can detect the pressure of a tooth. If at fault, they fetch a circuit like a setter, till lighting on some fresh marks, they go ahead again with renewed vigour. So delicate is the sense of smell in the elephant, and so indispensable is it to go against the wind in approaching him, that the Panickeas, on those occasions when the wind is so still that its direction cannot be otherwise discerned, will suspend the film of a gossamer to determine it, and shape their course accordingly. On overtaking the game, their courage is as conspicuous as their sagacity. If they have confidence in the sportsman for whom they are finding, they will advance to the very heel of the elephant, slap him on the quarter, and then convert his timidity into anger, till he turns upon his tormentor, and exposes his heavy front to receive the bullet which is awaiting him. So fearless and confident are they, that two men without aid or attendants will boldly attempt to capture the largest-sized elephant. Their only weapon is a flexible rope made of buffalo’s hide, with which it is their object to secure one of the hind-legs. This they effect either by following in his footsteps when in motion, or by stealing close up to him when at rest, and availing themselves of the propensity of the elephant at such moments to sling his feet backwards and forwards, they contrive to slip a noose over his hind-leg.
‘At other times, this is achieved by spreading the noose on the ground, partially concealed by roots and leaves, beneath a tree on which one of the party is stationed, whose business it is to lift it suddenly by means of a cord, raising it on the elephant’s leg at the moment when his companion has succeeded in provoking him to place his foot within the circle, the other end having been previously made fast to the stem of a tree. Should the noosing be effected in open ground, and no tree of sufficient strength at hand round which to wind the rope, one of them allowing himself to be pursued by the enraged elephant, entices him towards the nearest grove, when his companion, dexterously laying hold of the rope as it trails along the ground, suddenly coils it round a suitable stem, and brings the fugitive to a stand-still. On finding himself thus arrested, the natural impulse of the captive is to turn on the man who is engaged in making fast the rope, a movement which it is the duty of his colleague to prevent by running up close to the elephant’s head, and provoking him to confront him by irritating gesticulations and incessant shouts of dah! dah! a monosyllable the sound of which the elephant peculiarly dislikes. Meanwhile the first assailant having secured one noose, comes up from behind with another, with which, amidst the vain rage and struggles of the victim, he entraps a fore-leg, the rope being as before secured to another tree in front, and the whole four feet having been thus entangled, the capture is completed.
‘A shelter is then run up with branches to protect him from the sun, and the hunters proceed to build a wigwam for themselves in front of their prisoner, kindling their fires for cooking, and making all the necessary arrangements for remaining day and night on the spot, to await the process of subduing and taming his rage. Picketed to the ground like Gulliver by the Lilliputians, the elephant soon ceases to struggle, and what with the exhaustion of ineffectual resistance, the constant annoyance of smoke, and the liberal supply of food and water with which he is indulged, a few weeks generally suffice to subdue his spirit, when his keepers at length venture to remove him to their own village, or to the seaside for shipment to India.
‘No part of the hunter’s performances exhibits greater skill and audacity than this first forced march of the recently captured elephant. As he is still too morose to submit to be ridden, and it would be equally impossible to lead or to drive him by force, the ingenuity of the captors is displayed in alternately irritating and eluding his attacks, but always so attracting his attention, as to allure him along in the direction in which they want him to go.
‘In Ceylon, the principal place for exporting these animals to India is Manaar on the western coast, to which the Arabs from the continent resort, bringing horses to be bartered for elephants. In order to reach the sea, open plains must be traversed, across which it requires the utmost patience of the Panickeas to coax their reluctant charge. At Manaar the elephants are usually detained till any wound on the leg caused by the rope has been healed, when the shipment is effected in the most primitive manner, it being next to impossible to induce the still untamed creature to walk on board, and no mechanical contrivances being provided to ship him. A native boat, of about forty tons burthen, is brought alongside the quay, and being about three parts filled with the strong-ribbed leaves of the Palmyra palm, it is lashed so that the gunwale may be as nearly as possible on a line with the level of the wharf. The elephant, being placed with his back to the water, is forced by goads to retreat till his hind-legs go over the side of the quay; but the main contest commences when it is attempted to disengage his fore-feet from the shore, and force him to entrust himself on board. The scene becomes exciting from the screams and trumpetings of the elephants, the shouts of the Arabs, and the rushing of the crowd. Meanwhile the huge creature strains every nerve to regain the land; and the day is often consumed before his efforts are overcome, and he finds himself fairly afloat. The same boat will take from four to five elephants, who place themselves athwart it, and exhibit amusing adroitness in accommodating their own movements to the rolling of the little vessel, and in this way they are ferried across the narrow strait which separates the continent of India from Ceylon.’[38]
Unfortunately, my limits forbid me entering upon a detailed account of the great elephant hunts of India and Ceylon, where whole herds are driven into an enclosure and entrapped in one vast decoy. This may truly be called the sublime of sport, for nowhere is it conducted on a grander scale, or so replete with thrilling emotions. The keddah or corral, as the enclosure is called, is constructed in the depth of the forest, several hundred paces long, and half as broad, and of a strength commensurate to the power of the animals it is intended to secure. Slowly and cautiously the doomed herds are driven onwards from a vast circuit by thousands of beaters in narrowing circles to the fatal gate, which is instantly closed behind them, and then the hunters, rushing with wild clamour and blazing torches to the stockade, complete the terror of the bewildered animals. Trumpeting and screaming with rage and fear, they rush round the corral at a rapid pace, but all their attempts to force the powerful fence are vain, for wherever they assail the palisade, they are met with glaring flambeaux and bristling spears, and on whichever side they approach, they are repulsed with shouts and discharges of musketry. For upwards of an hour their frantic efforts are continued with unabated energy, till at length, stupified, exhausted, and subdued by apprehension and amazement, they form themselves into a circle, and stand motionless under the dark shade of the trees in the middle of the corral.
To secure the entrapped animals, the assistance of tame elephants or decoys is necessary, who, by occupying their attention and masking the movements of the nooser, give him an opportunity of slipping one by one a rope round their feet until their capture is completed.
The quickness of eye displayed by the men in watching the slightest movement of an elephant, and their expertness in flinging the noose over its foot, and attaching it firmly before the animal can tear it off with its trunk, are less admirable than the rare sagacity of the decoys, who display the most perfect conception of the object to be attained, and the means of accomplishing it. Thus Sir Emerson Tennent saw more than once, during a great elephant hunt which he witnessed in 1847, that when one of the wild elephants was extending his trunk, and would have intercepted the rope about to be placed over his leg, the decoy, by a sudden motion of her own trunk, pushed his aside and prevented him; and on one occasion, when successive efforts had failed to put the noose over the leg of an elephant who was already secured by one foot, but who wisely put the other to the ground as often as it was attempted to pass the noose under it, he saw the decoy watch her opportunity, and when his foot was again raised, suddenly push in her own leg beneath it, and hold it up till the noose was attached and drawn tight.
It may easily be imagined that the passage from a life of unfettered liberty in the cool and sequestered forest to one of obedience and labour, must necessarily put the health of the captured animals to a severe trial. Many perish in consequence of the fearful wounds on the legs occasioned by their struggling against the ropes, and it has frequently happened that a valuable animal has lain down and died the first time it was tried in harness from what the natives designate a ‘broken heart.’ Official records prove that more than half of the elephants employed in the public departments of the Ceylon government die in one year’s servitude, and even when fully trained and inured to captivity, the working elephant is always a delicate animal, subject to a great variety of diseases, and consequently often incapacitated from labour. Thus, in spite of his colossal strength, which cannot even be employed to its full extent, as it is difficult to pack him without chafing the skin, and waggons of corresponding dimension to his muscular powers would utterly ruin the best constructed roads, it is very doubtful whether his services are in proportion to his cost, and Sir J. E. Tennent is of opinion that two vigorous dray horses would, at less expense, do more effectual work than any elephant.
In no kind of labour does the elephant display a greater ingenuity than in dragging and piling felled timber, going on for hours disposing of log after log, almost without a hint or a direction from his attendant. In this manner two elephants, employed in piling ebony and satin wood in the yards attached to the Commissariat stores at Colombo, were so accustomed to the work that they were enabled to accomplish it with equal precision and with greater rapidity than if it had been done by dock-labourers. When the pile attained a certain height which baffled their conjoint efforts to raise one of the heavy logs of ebony to the summit, they had been taught to lean two pieces against the heap, up the inclined plane of which they gently rolled the remaining logs, and placed them trimly on the top.