Wild beasts

by J. Hampden Porter

The leader was mortally wounded at about ten paces from the water, went off two hundred yards, “and there stood, evidently dying.” His companions paused, “but soon one of them, the largest of the three, turned his head towards the fountain once more, and very slowly and warily came on.” At this moment the wounded elephant “uttered the cry of death and fell heavily to the ground.” The second one, still advancing, “examined with his trunk every yard of ground before he trod on it.” Evidently there was no dancing, screaming horde of negroes with assegais about; equally sure was it that danger threatened from human devices, and the elephant, not being inspired as is commonly supposed, was looking for the only peril he knew anything about; that is to say, a pit-fall. As for the explosion and flash, these most probably were mistaken for thunder and lightning. In this manner, and with frequent pauses, this animal went round “three sides of the fountain, and then walked up to within six or seven yards of the muzzles of the guns.” He was shot and disabled at the water’s edge. By this time ignited wads from the pieces discharged had set fire to a bunch of stubble near by, and two more old bulls who followed the original band, went up to the blaze; one, the older and larger, appearing to be “much amused at it.” This tusker staggered off with a mortal wound, and another came forward and stood still to drink within half pistol-shot of Colonel Cumming, who killed him. Three more male elephants now made their appearance, “first two, and then one,” and of these two were shot, though only one of them fatally. What possible explanation can the doctrine of instinct give of such behavior as this upon the part of wild beasts? How does this kind of conduct accord with the idea of a ready-made mind that does not need to learn in order to know? In what manner shall we adjust such conduct to preconceptions concerning natural timidity and that implanted fear of man “predetermined by the Deity”? It may be said, of course, that Colonel Cumming’s account was overdrawn; but the reply to an objection of this kind is that, overwhelming evidence to the same effect could be easily produced.

When an observant visitor walks along the line of platforms in an Indian elephant-stable, the differences exhibited by its occupants can scarcely fail to attract attention; and with every increase in his knowledge, these diversities accumulate in number and augment in importance. During the free intercourse of forest life, some influence, most probably sexual selection, has produced breeds whose characteristics are unmistakable. Even the uninitiated may at once recognize these. Koomeriah, Dwásala, and Meèrga elephants exhibit marked contrasts, and experience has taught Europeans their respective values. The first is the best proportioned, bravest, and most tractable specimen of its kind; but it is rare. Intermediate between the thoroughbred and an ugly, “weedy,” and in every way ill-conditioned Meèrga, comes what is called the Dwásala breed, to which about seventy per cent of all elephants in Asia belong. “Whole herds,” says Sanderson, “frequently consist of Dwásalas, but never of Koomeriahs.” Almost all animals used in hunting are of this middle class, and they constitute by far the largest division of those kept by the government. Females greatly outnumber males, and it may be owing to this fact that so many have been used in the pursuit of large game, although some famous sportsmen maintain that these are naturally more courageous and stancher than tuskers.

Great as are the unlikenesses seen among inmates of an establishment like that at Teperah, they will be found to be fully equalled by their dissimilarities in character; and those who have become familiar with elephants come to see that their dispositions and intelligence are to some extent displayed by their ordinary demeanor and looks. It is wonderful how much facial expression an elephant has. The face-skeleton is imperfect; that is to say, its nasal bones are rudimentary, while the mouth, and in fact all of the lower half of the face, is concealed beneath the great muscles attached to the base of the trunk. But in spite of that, and with his ears uncocked and his proboscis pendant, an elephant’s countenance is full of character.

Passing along the lines where they stand, shackled by one foot to stone platforms, one sees, or learns to see, the individualities their visages reveal. Occasionally a heavily-fettered animal is met with, whose mien is disturbed and fierce. In his “little twinkling red eye,” says Campbell, “gleams the fire of madness.” He is “must”; the victim of a temporary delirium which seems to arise from keeping male elephants apart from their mates. But at length, amid all the appearances of sullenness, good nature, stupidity, bad temper, apathy, alertness, and intelligence, which the visitor will encounter, a creature is met with in whose ensemble there is an indescribable but unmistakable warning. Go to his keeper and state your views. That “true believer,” if he happens to be a Mussulman, having salaamed in proportion to his expected bucksheesh, and said that Solomon was a fool in comparison with yourself, will then express his own sentiments but not so that the animal can hear him. These are to the effect that this elephant is an oppressor of the poor, a dog, a devil, an infidel, whose female relations to the remotest generations have been no better than they should be. That the kafir wants to kill him; is thinking about doing it at that moment, but Ul-humd-ul-illa, praise be to God, has not had a chance; though if it be his destiny, he will do so some day. Very probably these are not empty words. Most frequently the man knows what he is talking about. Still if one naturally asks, why then he stays in such a position, the answer breathes the very genius and spirit of the East. “Who can escape his destiny?” asks the idiotic fatalist, and remains where he is.

The systems of rewards and punishments by which discipline is kept up in a large elephant stable, affords several items of interest with respect to the character of these beasts. If, as sometimes is the case, an elephant shirks his work, or does it wrong on purpose, is mutinous, stubborn, or mischievous, a couple of his comrades are provided with a fathom or two of light chain with which they soundly thrash the delinquent, very much to his temporary improvement. This race is very fond of sweets, and sugar-cane or goor—unrefined sugar—forms an efficient bribe to good behavior. The animals take to drink very kindly, and when their accustomed ration of rum has been stopped for misconduct, they truly repent. Mostly, however, elephants are quiet, kindly beasts, and it is said by those who ought to know, that animosity is not apt to be cherished against men who correct them for faults of which they are themselves conscious. At the same time, nobody, if he is wise, gives an elephant cause to think himself injured. Very often the creature entertains this idea without cause, and it is not uncommon for them to conceive hatreds almost at first sight. D’Ewes (“Sporting in Both Hemispheres”) relates one of the many reliable incidents illustrative of the animal’s implacability when aggrieved. A friend of his, a field officer stationed at Jaulnah, owned an elephant remarkable for its “extreme docility.” One of the attendants—“not his mahout”—ill-treated the creature in some way and was discharged in consequence. This man left the station; but six years after he, unfortunately for himself, returned, and walked up to renew his acquaintance with the abused brute, who let him approach without giving the least indication of anger, and as soon as he was close enough, trampled him to death. This is the kind of anecdote which Professor Robinson remarks is “infinitely discreditable to the elephant”; that fact, however, has nothing to do with the truth. All those good qualities the creature possesses can be done justice to without making any excursions into sentimental zoölogy. Captain A. W. Drayson (“Sporting Scenes in Southern Africa”) asserts that “the elephant stands very high among the class of wild animals.” That means nothing; affords no help to those who are trying to find out how high it stands. Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) gives his opinion more at length. Of the animal’s sagacity he observes that it is, according to his ideas, “overrated. No elephant,” he says, “that I ever saw, would spontaneously interfere to save his master from drowning or from attack.... An enemy might assassinate you at the feet of your favorite elephant, but he would never attempt to interfere in your defence; he would probably run away, or, if not, remain impassive, unless especially ordered or guided by his mahout. This is incontestible.... It is impossible for an ordinary bystander to comprehend the secret signs which are mutually understood by the elephant and his guide.” Baker holds, with others who have really studied elephants, that when they evince any special sagacity, it is because they act under direction, and that if left to themselves they usually do the wrong thing. The species is naturally nervous, and this disability is increased by those alterations in its way of life that domestication involves. Captivity likewise shortens its existence. Profound physiological changes are thus produced, the most noticeable of which are barrenness, great capriciousness of appetite, enfeeblement of the digestive functions, and a marked vice of nutrition by which an animal that recovers from injuries the most severe in its wild state now finds every trifling hurt a serious matter, and often dies from accidents that would otherwise have been of little moment. In the same category must also be ranked the decreased endurance of tame elephants. The Asiatic species is much inferior to the African in this respect, by nature, but both sensibly deteriorate in this way when domesticated.

There is nothing to show that the African elephant is worse tempered than the Asiatic. It has never been reclaimed by the natives, and that fact no doubt has given rise to the opinion. In the Carthaginian, Numidian, and Roman provinces, this species was made use of very much as the other is now in India, and most if not all the famous homicidal elephants we know of, belonged to the latter country. But it would appear that a “rogue,” properly so called, requires peculiar conditions under which to develop. “Rogue elephants,” says Drummond, “are rare; indeed, it seems to me that it is necessary for the full formation of that amiable animal’s character that it should inhabit a well-populated district where continual opportunities are afforded for attacking defenceless people, of breaking into their fields, and, in general, of losing its natural respect for human beings; and as such conditions seldom exist in Africa, from the elephant chiefly inhabiting districts devoid of population on account of their unhealthiness, the rogue, properly so called, is seldom met with, though the solitary bull, the same animal in an earlier stage, is common enough.”

Drummond, it will be observed, clings to the superstition of man’s recognized primacy in nature; and if he had declared that his appointment to this position was handed down by tradition among elephants from the time of Adam and the garden of Eden, the absurdity could scarcely be greater. In what possible way can a wild beast that has not been hunted know anything about a man, except that he is an unaccountable-looking little creature, who walks like a bird, and has a very singular odor?

A rogue who infested the Balaghat District is described by Baker as a captured elephant who after a considerable detention escaped to the forest again. “Domestication,” he remarks, “seems to have sharpened its intellect and exaggerated its powers of mischief and cunning.... There was an actual love of homicide in this animal.” He continually changed place, so that no one could foretell his whereabouts, and approached those whom he intended to destroy with such fatal skill that they never suspected his presence until it was too late. He made the public roads impassable. By day and night the inhabitants of villages lying far apart heard the screams which accompanied his attack, and immediately this monster was in the midst of them, killing men, women, and children. At length Colonel Bloomfield, aided by the whole population, succeeded in hunting the beast down. “Maddened by pursuit and wounds, he turned to charge,” and as he lowered his trunk when closing, a heavy rifle ball struck him in the depression just above its base, and he fell dead.

Cunning as this elephant was, his actions displayed that lack of inventiveness which Sanderson charges against the race; and this defect saved the lives of many who would otherwise have been killed. If any one was out of reach in a small tree, the rogue never thought of getting at him by shaking its trunk. Both Sir Samuel and Captain R. N. G. Baker report having seen an elephant butt at a Balanites Egyptiaca when it was three feet in diameter, so that a man “must have held on exceedingly tight to avoid a fall.” It is certain that these animals are accustomed to dislodge various edibles by this means. But a change in circumstances prevented the Balaghat brute from resorting to a well-known act which would have lengthened considerably the list of his victims.

Places in Africa where elephants once abounded now contain none. They are less subject to epidemics than many species, but suffer from climatic disorders and the attacks of parasites. This, however, is not the reason for their disappearance from certain localities. They have fallen before firearms, or migrated in fear of them. “From my own observation,” says Baker, “I have concluded that wild animals of all kinds will withstand the dangers of traps, pit-falls, fire, and the usual methods employed for their destruction by savages, but will be speedily cleared out of an extensive district by firearms.”