by W E Johns
The answer was a groan of agony.
“What is it, sir?”
The Skipper seemed to fight for breath. He groaned again. “It’s—another—heart—attack.”
“The pills,” James said, remembering what had been said in the bungalow. “Where are the pills?”
“I left them—in—the haversack.” The words ended in a spasm.
“The haversack!” James’ own heart seemed to die in him as he remembered the haversack had been left in the headman’s house. His brain whirled. Without the pills... by daylight it might be too late. He could not sit there and watch his companion die. His brain cleared suddenly as he perceived there was only one thing for it. The pills would have to be fetched. He looked down. Somewhere in the blackness below the goat bleated dismally. There was a new note in its voice. Terror. The steady patter of raindrops drowned all other sounds.
Now he knew what he had to do James did not hesitate. First he took off the long muffler that he had really worn as a protection against mosquitoes and tied the Skipper’s arm to a branch so that he could not fall off the machan. He picked up the torch and directed the beam into the clearing. But the beam was weak and did not reach far. All he could see was the goat. It was standing rigid, staring at a certain point of the jungle. He flicked off the torch and put it in his pocket. Then, cold with such a fear as he had never known, he went down the steps. On the ground, torch in hand, he set off up the track that led to the village.
Then followed a nightmare never to be forgotten. To make matters worse, the light of the torch dropped to a glimmer, its battery apparently exhausted. James walked on at a steady pace. Only by an effort did he refrain from breaking into a run which he knew would end in panic-stricken flight. His only hope, he told himself, was to keep his head. The raindrops splashed, every drop a stealthy rustle, a footstep in the jungle.
The village came into sight. Some of the houses showed lights. Every door was shut, as he expected. He reached the first. A low murmur of voices came from inside. He knocked. The voices stopped. He could hear no movement. He banged on the door. “Let me in,” he shouted, feeling his nerve failing. The door remained closed. Even at that terrible moment he could not blame the fear-petrified people inside.
He walked on to the next door. The same thing happened. It took another effort to walk the fifty yards to the headman’s house. A light showed at the window but the door of course was shut and bolted. He hammered on it, shouting “Open”. No answer. “Open the door, it’s me.” No answer. His voice rose. “Shall I tell the world that Hamid Lal with a medal has the liver of a chicken?” he yelled desperately. A pause. A bolt was drawn. The door opened an inch. James thrust it wide and rushed in. Even before he could turn he heard the door slammed and bolted. Hamid Lal stared at him, eyes saucering with dismay. He seemed incapable of speech.
“Lovell sahib is sick,” informed James curtly. “He must have medicine. It’s in here.” He picked up the haversack and turned out the contents. Another moment and the little bottle of pills was in his pocket. “I need a torch,” he went on tersely. Hamid Lai pointed to a number that leaned against the wall; short sticks with a bundle of dry grass and brushwood tied to the end. James snatched one and lit it at the little open fire burning on the hearth. “Now let me out,” he ordered.
“No.”
“Open the door!"
“No, sahib.”
James thrust the old man aside, marvelling that a man of known courage could be reduced to such terror by superstition. Opening the door, holding the torch high he strode out into the deserted village. Instantly the door was slammed and bolted behind him. An awful feeling of loneliness swept over him and he had to brace himself not to rush back into the house. Instead, with calculated deliberation, his teeth set, he marched back down the track towards the machan. The thought did not occur to him but never in his life would he be confronted with such a test as the one to which he set his face as he set off down that dreadful track aware of what might be waiting. His every nerve screamed at him to go back.
Half-way to the machan the moon came out from behind the cloud and everything was bathed in an eerie blue light that only made the shadows under the trees the more impenetrable. The rain stopped but water still dripped from the leaves with sounds like breathing, furtive movements...
The clearing came into sight. James’ every instinct was to turn and rush away from the fearful place. Stone cold, dry-lipped, he went on without altering his pace. The goat was still there. It was not grazing. It made no sound. Quivering in every limb it stared fixedly at something on the edge of the clearing. At what? What could it see? James had a grim suspicion. As he drew near a wave of intense sympathy for the poor little beast, tethered and unable to escape, surged over him. With it came a sudden fury; a burning hatred of the tiger. With a wild yell he dashed forward and hurled the blazing torch at the spot where the goat was staring. He did not wait to see the result. He made for the tree and went up the ladder like a monkey. As he mounted two significant sounds followed him. One was a deep-throated woof that was certainly not made by the goat. The other was a crash of brushwood.
Panting, he fell on the platform. The Skipper was still there just as he had left him; hunched up, moaning feebly. James took out the bottle of pills. His hands were so shaky that he nearly dropped them. He unscrewed the cap of the water-bottle and raising the half-conscious man by the shoulder held it to his mouth, in his haste spilling some of the contents. “Drink,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Come on. Skipper. Drink. Try. I’ve got the pills.”
The Skipper’s eyes opened, dull, unseeing. James parted his lips and slipped a pill in his mouth. “Drink,” he ordered firmly. The Skipper took a sip and swallowed.
“Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Drink some more water to make sure,”
The sick man made the effort and then fell back breathing heavily. Two or three minutes passed. Then he said weakly: “Ah! Thanks. That’s better.”
“Have another pill?”
“Not now. Later.”
James snatched a glance down into the moonlit glade. The goat was still there. Nibbling grass. The torch had burned itself out. He untied the securing muffler.
Presently the Skipper raised himself into a sitting position. In a curious voice, as if the thought had just struck him, he said: “The pills. Where were they?”
“In your haversack.”
“How did they get here?”
“I fetched them.”
A pause, as if the meaning of this was sinking home. “Do you mean—you’ve been—to the village?” asked the Skipper incredulously.
“Of course.”
“Oh my God!” murmured Captain Lovell. “If your father ever learns I let you do that he’ll shoot me.”
“You didn’t let me,” corrected James cheerfully. “You didn’t know anything about it. I shan’t tell him if you don’t.”
“Did you see the tiger?”
“No, but he was there. I shooed him off by throwing a torch at him.”
The Skipper made a queer noise in his throat. “So you shooed off a man-eater, eh!” A little later, in a voice that was fast gathering strength, he went on. “Let me tell you something, James. If you live to be a hundred you’ll never do a braver thing than what you did tonight—and I know what I’m talking about. I don’t regard myself as a coward, but I wouldn’t have gone down those steps for all the treasures in India. Not even with a rifle.”
“What else would you expect me to do?” protested James, “Now let me tell you something. If I’m ever more frightened than I was this night I doubt if I’d live to tell the tale. I was petrified. When your torch packed up on me I really thought I’d die.”
“That’s the real test of courage, James,” said the Skipper seriously. “It’s easy for a man who doesn’t know the meaning of fear to be brave. It’s the man who is afraid, but faces up to it, who deserves a royal salute. Such men are gold. Pure gold. Now tell me what
happened.”
James told him.
They sat on the machan till dawn without seeing or hearing anything of the tiger. “You scared him,” said the Skipper as, taking the goat with them they returned to the village. “Not many men can say they’ve scared a man-eater.”
And it may be said here that the tiger never again troubled the village of Cungit. Hamid Lal may have been right when he explained, simply: “His demon warned him to go away, for here death awaited him.”
For some time after this adventure three words spoken by Captain Lovell remained in James’ memory. They were ‘Gold. Pure gold.’ Had he, he wondered, established a false reputation, one that might be difficult to live up to? Had he, like a soldier who wins the Victoria Cross, set a standard for courage that would have to be maintained or invite criticism? We on our part may wonder how far this affected his future career.
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1 A platform built in a tree.
A CHAPTER OF ADVENTURES
It started when a runner arrived breathless from Bandali, a village some six or seven miles up in the foothills north of the bungalow where resided the Assistant Commissioner of the United Provinces in India, Bigglesworth sahib, when he had business in that part of his district. The gist of the message the man brought was this.
A Forest Survey officer named Mr. Lane had arrived at the village following complaints that a leopard was causing trouble, killing cattle and goats. This leopard had become bold and had often been seen. It was old and had lost an eye; but it was cunning. It had been wounded and was now doubly dangerous. It had made its lair in an area of lantana1 close to the village. As this would be too dangerous to enter on foot Mr. Lane had sent for an elephant hoping to get a shot from its back, which would command a wide view. He found he was short of cartridges for his rifle, a .476 Westley Richards, so could the Assistant Commissioner please send him up a packet by the messenger.
This was a simple request and not an unusual one. But it so happened that the man to whom it was addressed was ill with an attack of dysentery, and the message was actually taken by one of the office staff, Lalu Din. With him at the time was his son, Habu, a lad of fourteen, and the Commissioner’s twelve-year-old son, James. They had been talking in the garden when the weary messenger arrived, and suspecting something was wrong had followed him in. James at once took the message to his father, whose answer was:
“Send him the cartridges. You’ll find some in the magazine.”
“Shall I take them myself?” asked James.
“Why?”
“The messenger is exhausted. He has run all the way. He needs a rest. I have been to Bandali two or three times so I know the way.”
The sick man hesitated.
“It’s perfectly safe,” prompted James. “There’s a track all the way. Habu can come with me for company. We’ll be back before sunset and perhaps be able to tell you the leopard has been shot.”
“Very well. But keep out of the way. Hunting a wounded leopard is no business for boys. And come back before dark. You know the night air is bad for you.”
“I’ll stay in the village while Mr Lane does the hunting and then come straight back,” promised James, “I’ll get the cartridges.” Well satisfied he went to the magazine where the cartridges were kept, put a packet in his pocket and rejoined Lalu Din who was giving the messenger some refreshment. “I’m taking the cartridges myself,” he announced. “This man needs a rest. May Habu come with me to keep me company?”
Lalu Din raised no objection. It was no great distance to the village where Mr. Lane was waiting. There was a forest path all the way, part of it through tea estates where men and women would be working, so there was no danger—or so it could be assumed.
In a few minutes the boys were on their way, James wearing shirt, shorts, light shoes and sun helmet, Habu merely a loin cloth. Neither carried a weapon, partly to save weight and because it was not supposed that one would be needed. James meant every word he had said to his father. Certainly he had not the slightest intention of going anywhere near a wounded leopard.
Travelling non-stop they made good time.
A mile short of the objective they came to a bridge. They knew it was there. James had crossed it more than once and had taken it for granted that it was safe, although to anyone unaccustomed to native bridges the crossing might be an alarming experience. This one was a particularly primitive affair. Four hand-made grass ropes had been thrown across a precipitous-sided nullah perhaps thirty yards wide. The ropes were braced together at intervals. Across the lower pair some slats had been tied to form a sort of catwalk for pedestrians only. A hundred feet below a torrent of muddy water foamed its way through a chaos of fallen rocks.
The trouble with these home-made bridges—if one can call them that—is this. Once erected it is nobody’s business to do anything to them. They are expected to last for ever. In fact, they last only until they break, when some unlucky traveller comes to grief. Naturally, not an uncommon occurrence.
No such thought entered James’ head. It is better not to think about such things. He sat down to wipe the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, for the air was hot and sticky, with the result that Habu went on to make the crossing first. As James watched him, without any particular interest, it suddenly struck him that the flimsy structure was sagging and swaying more than it should. However, perhaps this was because Habu was striding along in the manner of one who has done this sort of thing all his life and thinks nothing of it.
He was about half-way across, with James just starting to follow, when it happened. There came a soft twang. The bridge dropped in the middle, some five or six feet. Some slats hurtled down into the torrent. More dangled, end on. Another rope snapped. Part of the bridge, with Habu clinging to it, hung suspended over the chasm.
At the first lurch James thought the entire bridge had gone. He clutched at one of the two hand ropes. It remained secure. From this position he saw his companion swinging like a pendulum on a single rope from what remained of the middle of the bridge. “Hang on, Habu,” he yelled, although it was hard to see what he could do. Common sense urged him to get back to the bank he had just left while it was still possible. “Hold on,” he shouted again, his racing brain telling him that should he add his weight to that of his Indian friend at the weakest part of the bridge the whole thing would collapse and they would both fall to their deaths in the raging flood below. But to leave Habu in that awful position, absolutely helpless, was unthinkable.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, for his actions were no longer the result of serious thought, hand over hand he went on along the hand ropes. The bridge lurched. It sagged sickeningly. The flimsy structure creaked. More slats fell. Every second, it seemed, must be the last. Then, suddenly, fear vanished. Stone cold, he was concerned only with what he was doing, or attempting to do.
Unbelievably the remaining ropes held and he reached the lowest part, which was of course immediately above Habu. But he was still out of reach: by at least three feet. James considered the situation. Part of the broken bridge to which he was clinging was a trifle lower. Low enough for him to be able to touch Habu. Even if he went down, should the bridge hold, which seemed unlikely, he doubted if he would have the strength to pull his friend up.
“I can’t hold on much longer,” cried Habu desperately.
“Wait! I’m coming,” encouraged James, and began to lower himself down the tangle of ropes, bamboo, and slats. This, although terrifying, helped him when it sagged lower under his weight and he found himself nearly alongside his friend. With all his weight on his arms his own strength was fast failing. He realized that to pull Habu up was out of the question. “Habu,” he said through his teeth. “Do you hear me?” He was not sure because of the noise made by the rushing water.
“Yes.”
“Get hold of my legs and climb up to the rope.”
“I can’t.”
“You must. It’s the on
ly way. Try.”
James felt Habu’s arms close over his legs in a grip of iron. Slowly, inch by inch, the Indian began to drag his slim body up his own. The bridge creaked horribly. It seemed impossible that it could bear the double weight. James flinched as Habu’s finger nails clawed into the skin of his neck. There was a dreadful moment when his shirt began to tear, but the collar held, choking him. Then, suddenly, the strain ended, and he realized that Habu had reached the hand rope. He expected him to go on to safety. He hoped he would, to shift some of the weight from what was obviously the weakest part of what remained of the bridge. Instead, looking up, he saw him lying flat on some slats offering his hands.
“Go,” choked James.
“Come,” cried Habu.
James thought it no time to argue. Exerting his last ounce of strength he took the hands and in a moment lay gasping beside his companion. “Go,” he panted, too exhausted himself to move.
Habu crawled along the slanting slats that still held and reached the far bank. After a pause to get his breath James followed him and collapsed in a bank of ferns gasping like a stranded fish. For a little while neither spoke. Then they met each other’s eyes and Habu managed to force a sickly smile.
James, who saw nothing funny in what had happened, voiced the first question that came into his head. “How are we going to get home?”
“There will be other ways across the river,” declared Habu confidently. “Someone from the village will show us the way they used before there was a bridge.”
“I hope you are right,” James said. “Let’s go on. Mr. Lane will be waiting for the cartridges.” He felt in his pocket to make sure they were still there after his exertions.
Rising, they went on their way.
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1 A creeping shrub that forms dense thickets.
MORE TROUBLE
THE boys might be pardoned for thinking they had had enough adventure for one day, had they thought about it. There were no more bridges to cross, anyway. But if this was what they hoped they were mistaken. The real problem, although they were unaware of it, was not behind them but in front. The first indication of this came when, on the jungle-lined track leading into the village, from somewhere ahead came a gunshot. A minute or two later there was an outcry of cries and screams mingled with the trumpeting of an elephant.