Another tusker enraged himself against Colonel Barras for a very slight cause. He was coming back one day, riding this animal, Ashmut Gūj by name, when, as he says, “I determined to see what this beast would do, if I, seated on his back, were to imitate a tiger charging.” Accordingly, he began to mimic that short, hoarse, savage cry, and the elephant, who was not at all deceived, did nothing but raise his trunk. The mahout, however, warned him to desist. “Every time you make that noise,” said he, “the elephant points his trunk over his back and takes a long sniff to inform himself as to which of his passengers is trying to vex him.” Barras stopped at once, but the evil had been done.
“On arriving at the bungalow,” the Colonel continues, “I had quite forgotten this little incident. Not so Ashmut Gūj. At the word of command he bent his hind legs and allowed the three natives to slip off his back in succession. I was the last to dismount, and as I touched the ground the elephant rose with a swift motion, and aimed a fearful kick at me with his enormous club-like hind foot. I started forward, so as just to escape the blow, which would, of course, have annihilated me. This elephant would never forgive me for the indignity I had put upon him. Always upon dismounting he would try to rise, so as to repeat his manœuvre, and it was necessary to make him kneel down completely before I got off. Nor would I ever again feed him from my hand, as I believe that if he could have got hold of me he would have trampled me.”
There is a tragic story told by the same author, of an elephant who was “must.” His keeper did not know it, and, in fact, could not be persuaded that such was the case.
Barras left Neemuch with a number of elephants, and among the rest an old friend and favorite of his, Roghanath Gūj, whose mahout, Ghassee Ram, had been in charge of him for eighteen years and thus acquired a very great influence over the animal. Colonel Barras, who had not seen this beast for some time, was at once struck by the indifference displayed to his expressions of friendliness, and to those little presents of sweets which these creatures enjoy so much. Evidently Roghanath Gūj was changed; ill, perhaps? No, said and swore his keeper, there was nothing the matter. His dulness, that sombre air which excited surprise and suspicion, was nothing more than a little irritability caused by the extremely hot weather. So Barras yielded his better judgment to greater experience, and the consequence was that the next day, while beating for a tiger, the elephant suddenly rushed upon one of the attendants, and would have killed him if the man had not taken off his turban and left it on a bush, while he himself slipped down into the shade of a deep ravine. From this time forth Roghanath Gūj was picketed by himself.
“Two days after,” says Barras, “we arrived at a small village,”—Mehra,—“and close to it there were some enormous Banyan trees, under which the elephants were secured. Opposite to them, on the other side of a small clearing, stood our little camp. Here, after a long and unsuccessful day’s beating after a wary tiger, we enjoyed our late dinner, and had just sought our couches, clad for the night in our light sleeping-suits, when a burst of affrighted cries broke upon our ears. The tumult proceeded from the direction of the great tree where Roghanath Gūj stood in solitude.
“We instantly rushed for our guns, and seized a hurricane lamp. We made all haste in our slippered feet to the scene of action. As we got within twenty yards of the elephant, Ghassee Ram (his driver) called to us to halt. The animal, he said, was obeying him, and if nothing further incensed him, he would be able to tie up his hind legs with a rope, when he would be incapable (the fore-limbs being already chained) of doing any more mischief. So we stood where we were, and waited in great anxiety, whilst we could hear the mahout uttering the word Sōm-Sōm, which is the order for an elephant to keep his hind quarters towards any one who may be washing, or otherwise attending to him. The night was as dark as pitch; nothing could be seen. According to the different cries of the excited people, however, it was clear that something had happened to the under-keeper of Roghanath Gūj. Some said he was dead, some that he had escaped from his terrible assailant. I called to the other elephant-keepers, but they had all gone with their animals, I knew not whither, on the first alarm.
“Meanwhile Ghassee Ram was left quite alone to deal with the enraged beast. Of course we talked to him all the time, and were prepared to rush in and fire, as well as we could, if he called upon us to do so. Every chance, however, would have been against our disabling the elephant, who, maddened by such wounds as he might have received, would have worked untold destruction during the long dark hours of a moonless night. To the pluck of Ghassee Ram must be ascribed the avoidance of such a calamity. In a few minutes, which seemed an age, the mahout called out that we might advance. We did so, and never shall I forget the weirdness of the scene that was lighted up by the bright rays of the lamp I carried.
“Under the tree, and with his back to its stem, towered the dark form of the elephant, whilst his mahout, a mere speck, stood a little to his right. No other living being was visible, but close to the animal, on the opposite side from Ghassee Ram, lay a small, shapeless object, which a second glance showed to be the missing man. The elephant, with his ears raised, seemed to be keeping guard over his victim, and would probably kill any one who should attempt to remove the body, which lay within reach of his trunk. Still, this must be done, and at once, for life might yet be lingering in the shattered frame. I therefore gave the hurricane lamp to the mahout, and ordered him to swing it up in the elephant’s face, and call out his name at the same time. Ghassee Ram, from the long habit of commanding this huge animal, had acquired some powerful tones. As he swung the lamp, that hung by a large ring, in the elephant’s face, and cried out ‘Roghanath Gūj, Roghanath Gūj,’ the animal seemed deeply impressed. As the light ascended for the third time towards his dazzled eyes, I darted from between my two friends, who stood covering the elephant with their guns, and drew forth the unfortunate keeper. He was terribly mangled, and quite dead.” This elephant was semi-delirious, and in that state the wild beast nature, which had been covered by a thin layer of educational polish, came out under the stimulus of some passing irritation. His mahout saw the man struck down, and interfered; but the animal was only restrained by his voice for a moment, and then completed the murder. He was not wholly demented, however; for Colonel Barras says, “I could not but be touched by the affection this huge creature displayed, even in his madness, towards the only two people he loved,—Ghassee Ram and myself. I fed him every day from my hand, and he never failed to clank his heavy chains, and turn round to watch me till I disappeared in my tent on leaving him.”
It is probable that many persons whose minds are made up on the subject of elephants, may see nothing in this account but a case of perversion due to disease, and will pass by the elephant’s evident power of self-restraint and discrimination as of no significance; contending that Roghanath Gūj, like all his kind, was naturally benevolent and amiable. Likewise, that the vagaries belonging to certain forms of mental alienation, temporary and chronic, are of the most eccentric and various character, and that this instance proves nothing with regard to the elephant’s inherent nature. As a mere matter of reasoning, the objection is valid, and logically it is unanswerable; but, perhaps, some of those who believe that these brutes possess virtues of which most men are nearly destitute, will inform the world why “must”-delirium or actual insanity in an elephant, always takes the form of homicidal mania.