by W E Johns
The boys stopped. They looked at each other.
“Something happens,” said Habu.
Before James could point out that this was evident, down the track came rushing a man wild-eyed and obviously terrified. He did not stop, and such was his haste that he nearly knocked them over. He shouted something, but what it was James did not catch. Naturally, he thought it had something to do with the leopard, and looked quickly for a handy tree to climb. “What’s the matter with him? What did he say?” he asked Habu.
“He said elephant.”
“Mr. Lane’s elephant, perhaps.”
“Yes.”
“That would be a trained elephant.”
Habu shrugged.
“We’d better find out what’s going on.”
They had not gone far when another distraught man came racing down the track. He, too, would have passed, but James caught him by the arm and held him. “What is it?” he asked in Hindi.
The man broke into an incoherent babble too fast for him to follow. Habu understood, and when the man broke off he explained.
The man with them had seen the leopard sunning itself on the edge of the lantana near its lair. He had told Mr. Lane who, thinking this was an opportunity not to be missed had decided not to wait for the extra cartridges. He had gone on the elephant, with its regular mahout.1 The man with them, who had seen the leopard, had also gone on the elephant to mark its position. The leopard was still there. Mr. Lane had shot at it but only wounded it. Whereupon the leopard had charged. It had jumped on the elephant’s trunk to get at the men on its back. The elephant, mad with fear and pain, had stampeded, throwing its head about to dislodge the creature that had its claws in its trunk. Mr. Lane had been thrown off, dropping his rifle. Then the mahout fell. The elephant had trampled him to death. It then rushed towards the village, throwing off the leopard on the way. The man with them, seeing his chance, had jumped off and was running for his life when he met them. The elephant, in a frenzy, was running wild, berserk.
“Where is it now?” James asked the man.
He answered it was in the village smashing everything it could reach.
“Where is Mr. Lane?”
The man didn’t know. The last he had seen of him was when he had been thrown off the elephant.
“I think we will go back,” Habu said sensibly.
“Go back if you wish. I shall go on,” replied James in a matter-of-fact voice; which did not mean he under-estimated the risks. To take on a wounded leopard, unarmed, with a fear-crazed elephant into the bargain, seemed little short of lunacy; but the appalling predicament of Mr. Lane could not be ignored. He might be dead. On the other hand he might still be alive and helpless. Things couldn’t be left like that. Something would have to be done. Just what James did not know. All he knew was he would have to do something—or at least try.
“I will see what the elephant is doing,” he said, and walked on up the path.
Habu followed. A little way behind him came the village man. Clearly, he did not like this idea at all, and it is to his credit that he stayed with them. There was no more shouting in the village but there were other more ominous sounds.
When the jungle opened out to allow the village to come into view the situation was instantly apparent. Not a soul was in sight. But there stood the elephant, with blood streaming down its trunk, looking around suspiciously. It squealed, and trotting over to a house that stood on stilts proceeded to demolish it, tearing up the corner posts and flinging them aside in a paroxysm of fury. It was plain that in this state it was unapproachable.
James turned to the villager. “Where did the accident happen?”
The man pointed to a broad track that ended in a field of tussocky grass.
“How far?”
“Close.”
“Wait here,” James said.
“I will come with you,” Habu said.
“Wait,” ordered James sternly. “One is enough.”
With the caution the situation demanded, taking care not to make a noise or show himself, he began picking a way through the jungle to get nearer to the field. He had not far to go. The first thing he saw when he reached the rough grass was the almost naked body of a brown man, evidently the unfortunate mahout. It did not move. He crept on. Presently he made out the spots of the leopard; lying still, stretched out in the grass. James watched it intently for a minute. Was it dead? A swarm of flies over it suggested it might be. How to make sure? He marked an escape route up a tree, picked up a piece of dead wood and threw it. It didn’t hit the leopard but it fell near. The beast did not move.
He went on a little way, eyes seeking what he most anxiously sought. Mr. Lane. If the leopard had killed him, or mauled him, he should not be far away. He could not see him. Climbing on the low-hanging branch of a tree he surveyed the scene of the tragedy. He dare not call for fear the leopard was still alive. A white object half buried in a tuft of grass caught his eye. He made it out to be a sun helmet. Nearby, a long object could just be seen in some longer grass. The light clothes worn by a white man? If so it could only be Mr. Lane.
With the leopard so near it took all James’ nerve to break cover, but having done so he walked quickly towards the spot. On the way he picked up a rifle. A .476 Westley Richards. The safety catch was off. He jerked open the breech. An expended cartridge fell out. He reloaded quickly from the ammunition he had brought with him. Feeling better with a weapon in his hands, keeping a wary eye on the leopard he hurried on. He saw the object was the hunter. Even before he reached him he thought from the absence of bloodstains on his clothes he had not been mauled.
Coming up he saw his eyes were open. He knelt beside him.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked quickly.
Mr. Lane’s eyes opened wider. “Young Bigglesworth, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Never mind that. I—”
“Watch out. There’s a wounded leopard.”
“I’ve seen it. I think it’s dead. Can you walk?”
“No. I think my leg’s broken. Elephant stepped on it. Can’t move my shoulder. I landed on it when I fell. Broken something there, too.”
“I can’t carry you so I shall have to leave you while I fetch help,” said James tersely. “I’ll be as quick as I can. First I’ll make sure the leopard is dead.”
“Where’s the elephant?”
“In the village. It’s mad. I shall have to shoot it or I shan’t be able to get helpers.” With that James hurried off.
First he went to the leopard, finger on trigger ready to shoot at the first sign of movement. It was dead, with a pool of blood under its mouth. Mightily relieved he walked on quickly to the mahout. To his amazement, on his arrival the man sat up.
“They told me you were dead,” blurted James.
“Not dead, sahib.”
“I can see that,” retorted James sarcastically. “They said the elephant trod on you.”
“No. I hold her leg.”
Just what the man meant by this James did not waste time to inquire. “Why did you stay here?” he asked, puzzled.
“Stay still. Then leopard think I’m dead.”
“It’s dead,” informed James. “Can you walk?”
The man stood up and put the matter to test and found that he could, if somewhat stiffly.
“Come with me,” ordered James, and carried on towards the village.
The mahout followed.
Coming in sight of the houses they saw the elephant was still there: standing still by the demolished hut on which apparently it had worked off its rage. It looked more normal, but James thought it would be unwise to trust it. He wanted helpers to carry the stricken hunter. “I shall have to shoot it,” he decided.
“No, sahib. No shoot,” the mahout pleaded. “Good elephant. My friend.” And with that he started walking towards the animal making coaxing noises and calling “Fatima, Fatima,” presumably the elephant’s name.
Either it understood or recognized its master’s v
oice, for the effect was electrical. The elephant spun round in its own length. For an instant it stared. It uttered a whimpering little cry and with its trunk held high trotted towards them.
James, anything but happy, held his fire, still prepared for trouble. But his fears were soon dispelled, and presently he was staring incredulously at the astonishing spectacle of the mahout, with tears running down his face, caressing the big beast’s injured trunk as it was held out to him as if for sympathy. From the queer noises it made the elephant might have been weeping, too.
Touching though it was, James had too much to do than allow this to go on. “You’d better do something; wash the blood off,” he advised. “There should be some disinfectant in Mr. Lane’s luggage.”
The mahout, with a hand on the elephant’s trunk, walked off.
Habu must have seen all this, for he now came running. In fact, now the danger was past people appeared from all directions. James was thinking quickly; and it may be remarked here that it was this early training that taught him to make quick decisions; and act on them.
“The leopard is dead. Mr. Lane has been hurt,” he told Habu swiftly, “He needs a doctor. Find a man who knows the way to the Forest Post where he is stationed. There should be a doctor there.”
Such a man was found. In fact, two. They went off together at a run.
“Now we shall have to see about getting Mr. Lane into the village,” went on James tersely. “He can’t walk. Get some men to cut bamboos to make a frame for a stretcher. I’ll leave that to you. I must go back to Mr. Lane. Bring the stretcher along as soon as it’s ready. It isn’t far to go.” He hurried back to the injured man, and to make the story short, in less than half-an-hour Mr. Lane had been brought in and made as comfortable as possible on the floor of the headman’s house. He was in some pain, but he assured James there was nothing more he could do. The doctor would do whatever was necessary.
James was relieved to hear this. The sun was already getting low, and as he told Habu, they had better be on their way or their fathers would be getting anxious. A guide was found who knew a way to cross the river without using the bridge and they set off.
The crossing proved to be a final test of nerve. It involved the descent of an almost sheer cliff to the water. The only way of getting to the other side of the raging water was by stepping, and sometimes jumping, from rock to rock. Being wet with spray they were slippery, and a fall could have been fatal. There was a stiff climb up the opposite bank to reach the level ground above, then a long walk through thick jungle to reach the track where it ended at the collapsed bridge. However, all this was accomplished without accident.
With night fast falling the boys hurried on towards home, some time later to meet a party led by Lalu Din, Habu’s father, that had been sent out to look for them. There had been anxiety on their account.
Tired, and more than a little leg-weary, James arrived home in moonlight and went at once to see his father to explain his delayed return. He had to describe in detail all that had happened.
Said his father, seriously, shaking his head: “I’m afraid, James, you’re taking too much on yourself.”
“What else could I do?” protested James.
“Keep away from trouble, or one of these days you’ll end up badly. It won’t be for much longer. You’ll soon be on your way to England. There you will have fewer opportunities to take risks, at all events with dangerous animals. Now you’d better have something to eat and get to bed, or we’ll be having you down with another relapse of fever.”
“Yes, sir,” replied James obediently.
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1 Elephant keeper and driver.
DEATH IN THE WATER
THE crocodile occurs in all warm-water countries, in rivers, lakes, and sometimes in the sea off the coast, notably in the vicinity of islands. By any standards it is a loathsome beast. With age it can grow to an enormous size. It is a flesh eater. Year after year it takes a steady toll of life, both animal and human, for which reason it is hated and feared by everyone. Samuel Baker, the celebrated explorer and big game hunter, and a man not given to exaggeration, tells of seeing crocodiles with the girth of a hippopotamus.
Even the largest mammals, except perhaps the elephant, can fall victim to its voracious appetite. Some years ago an explorer named Max Fleischman secured a remarkable series of photographs, which caused a sensation at the time, of a crocodile killing a rhinoceros. It was dragged into the water and drowned. When one considers the size, weight and power of a rhinoceros, it is easy to realize what little hope a man would have once those terrible jaws had closed on him. Hunters who would face a charging lion “without turning a hair” have been known to blanch at the idea of being seized by a crocodile. There is probably no more terrible death.
There are crocodiles in all the rivers of India. Everyone in the country knows that. Boys know it as a European boy learns that wasps have stings. Young James Bigglesworth knew a lot about these beasts, mostly from hearsay, because he took no chances of meeting one and therefore seldom saw one of man-eating size. There were occasionally fatal accidents. These occurred most commonly among women who went to the river to fetch water or to wash their clothes. Crocodiles know these places, and when one of the brutes is known to have taken up residence it makes life difficult for the people who have to rely on the river for water.
It was almost inevitable that sooner or later James would encounter one. This is how it came about. There was a river, not a very big one, about a quarter of a mile from the village. It was, as a matter of detail, the same river that he had crossed with Habu to reach Bandali, when the bridge had broken as described in an earlier chapter. But that was much higher up, where the water, icy cold, made its first rush down the hills from the snow-covered mountains. There it was too cold and too fast to attract crocodiles. But by the time it had reached the lower ground it had warmed up and for the most part took a more sluggish course, occasional rocky rushes linking deep, quiet pools. Its course lay through jungle, trees and scrub pressing along its banks, sometimes overhanging to make a near approach difficult.
One day, James, out for a stroll, for no particular reason took a path that ended at the river. This path had been made by generations of women walking from the village to the river for the purposes described earlier. There was a reason why the path ran in this particular direction. It had its terminus at one of the few open places on the bank of the river. This was a small stony beach caused by the water swinging round a bend. For the same reason it had formed a wide deep pool, shallow on the near side but running deep under the opposite bank. Towards one end of the beach, half in the water, was a great sloping slab of black rock which must have been cast there in ages past by a particularly heavy spate. The upper surface of this rock had been worn smooth as polished marble by countless women beating their wet clothes on it to clean them, as is the customary manner in India. The reason why the place was known in the village as the Black Rock was obvious.
James reached the spot to find it occupied by three small boys, aged about seven, who were disporting themselves in the shallow water, splashing each other and making a lot of noise, as boys will. They may not have been able to swim. At all events, fortunately for them, they did not go in above their waists. This could not have been for fear of crocodiles because the pool had the reputation of being safe. At any rate, there had never been any trouble there.
James, hot and a little leg-weary, sat down to rest before starting on the walk home. He did not go down to the beach but took up a position a little to one side where the water flowed round a low but rather steep grassy bank. He was himself tempted to have a “dip” but refrained because, being hot, he was afraid of taking a chill.
He had been sitting there for some minutes, amused by the boys’ antics, when he noticed a ripple on the deeper water farther out in the stream. Being of a curious nature he watched it, thinking perhaps it was a mahseer, a fish rather like a salmon whi
ch can run up to a fair size. It is common in many Indian rivers. He began to have second thoughts when the ripple took on a definite V shape and began to move faster towards the place where the boys were playing. Then, when two knobs appeared above the surface just beyond the point of the ripple he realized the truth. They were the eyes of a crocodile, and a large one.
With a yell of warning he sprang to his feet. The boys, sensing danger, made for the beach. Quick though James had been he was not fast enough. Two of the boys splashed their way on to the stones. The other, who had been almost below him, had farther to go. The water being clear James could now see the dark shape streaking through the water like a great arrow. This last boy just failed to reach the bank. He let out a scream of terror, and after clutching wildly at the air stumbled and fell. Through the turmoil in the water James saw the crocodile had him by the leg. The other two boys, seeing what had happened, danced about helplessly, waving their arms and screaming—which in fact was about all they could do.
James, on his feet, looked down in horror. There was apparently nothing he could do, either. He had no weapon, merely a light walking cane, and that was useless for such an occasion. As he stared the crocodile’s head showed above the surface of the water. Hardly knowing what he was doing, but seized with a burning hatred of the reptile, he braced himself and jumped. His heels landed squarely on the hideous head. The shock of this must have caused the crocodile to release its hold on the boy. James, of course, unable to keep his balance, fell. That was almost inevitable. But he was on his feet in an instant. Grabbing the madly struggling boy by the hair he somehow managed to drag him to the beach, and safety. Where the reptile went he didn’t know. He didn’t see it again. Not that he spent much time looking for it. Shaking, and stone cold with fear when he realized what he had done, James gave himself a moment to recover and then turned his attention to the boy, now lying on the beach groaning and crying with one of his legs fairly spurting blood. The other two boys just stood staring, wild-eyed, mouths open but dumb with shock.