by W E Johns
“What’s the hurry?” inquired James without moving, not feeling inclined for anything that demanded exertion.
“Come. Come quick,” was the answer.
“Come where, and why?” asked James, without enthusiasm.
“Now we make some money,” declared Sula.
“How?”
“Bring rifle. I show you.”
“How do we make money with a rifle?”
“Come. We waste time.”
Reluctantly James went into the house, took his rifle from the rack, put a handful of cartridges in his pocket and rejoined his dark-skinned companion.
“Now, what’s all this about?” he wanted to know.
“You will see.” Sula set off the way he had come.
James shrugged and followed. It did not occur to him that there was any danger or Sula would not have been so anxious to return. Two or three times as they walked up the hill to the tea plantation James asked to be told what they were going to do; but all he got from Sula, with a mysterious smile, was: “You’ll see.”
Later on James thought he should have guessed the truth. The proposal to make some money should have provided a clue. At this period the latest fashion in ladies’ shoes, in the capitals of Europe, was snakeskin, and as there was a limit to the amount of material available they were expensive. Skins were in demand and a good one could fetch up to ten pounds. However, James was not thinking of shoes, and fashion was the last thing in his mind.
When they arrived at the tea estate he saw at once that something was amiss. Women who should have been working were huddled in a group, obviously apprehensive, looking in their direction.
Sula led the way to one of the several drainage or irrigation ditches that crossed the plantation. These were narrow slit trenches about eighteen inches wide and from two to three feet deep. Again, later James thought he had been slow not to realize what was afoot, for to the best of his knowledge there was only one creature likely to seek shelter from the sun in such a place. Indeed, he had been warned that these trenches, dark, damp and cool, were often used by snakes to lie in during the heat of the day. So he really had little excuse for what was to follow; but for some reason he forgot.
Sula approached the trench on tip-toe. He beckoned. He pointed down. He made a sign that might have meant anything and backed away. James advanced. He peered. He looked. He stared. At first he could see nothing except the criss-crossed pattern of shadows cast by the overhanging grasses that flourished along the edge of the trench. They broke up the background at the bottom.
Then, suddenly, he saw it. What he actually saw was two unwinking eyes that glared balefully into his own. He realized instantly that he was looking at the head of a snake. His eyes followed the body, lying flat along the bottom of the trench. He thought it would never end, and his heart missed a beat when he perceived he was looking at an enormous python, the largest snake in India, if not in the world, with a body that can exceed thirty feet in length. Now Sula’s curious behaviour was explained. And the women’s.
James’ instant reaction was to remove himself as quickly as possible from the locality. If this was Sula’s idea of getting some easy money it was not his. If the Indian boy wanted the skin he could get it himself, for to enter into an argument with such a formidable creature was not seriously to be contemplated. Not as far as James was concerned, anyway.
Apparently the monster was lying quiet, and James asked no more than it would continue to do so. He resolved not to interfere. He knew of course that the python is not poisonous; that it kills by constriction; that is, by coiling itself round its victim and crushing it to death before swallowing it whole. He had also been told that when it attacks a python moves with the speed of a spring released from tension. So, for more reasons than one James was content to let sleeping dogs lie, or should we say, leave a quiet snake alone.
“Shoot,” urged Sula, taking care to stand well clear, but apparently still thinking of the value of the skin.
“No,” answered James, firmly. He could have done with some money, but he could think of easier ways than this to get it.
Without looking behind him he stepped backwards. There was a brittle crack as something snapped. A cry broke from his lips as a terrible pain shot up the calf of his leg. He sank down thinking he had been shot; but when he tried to get up he realized what had happened. He had put his heel on an old rotten tree stump. A piece had broken off short so that the entire weight of his body had been thrown on the muscle, or a tendon, in his calf This had snapped. He had heard it. Only those to whom this has happened know what it means. To put any weight on the leg is out of the question. The agony is excruciating, not to be borne. As James quickly realized when he tried to stand. He began to crawl away from the spot.
A warning shout from Sula made him look round. The python was gliding out of the trench, yard after yard of it, endlessly as it seemed.
Sick with pain James crawled faster. Or he tried. Sula, with his eyes on the snake, rushed forward to help him. He caught his toe on the same stump that had been the cause of James’ downfall and went headlong, knocking James flat. He was quickly on his feet, his eyes popping out of his head, to use the common expression. And no wonder. The python, head raised, tongue flickering, was coming straight towards them. He hesitated. “Run,” gasped James.
Sula’s answer was to snatch up the rifle James had dropped.
“No! Don’t shoot,” yelled James, near panic. He didn’t know what Sula’s marksmanship was like and was afraid that if he wounded the monstrous reptile he would only make matters worse. There was also some risk that in his frantic haste Sula might shoot him.
James, unable to move, sat still. Sula, by this time quite beside himself, screamed at the snake, although what good he thought this would do only he knew. Perhaps he didn’t know. In the distance the women, who could see what was happening, also started screaming. All this noise may have had some effect. Anyhow, the python glided on, taking not the slightest notice of the boys apart from hissing its displeasure. It passed so close to James that he could have touched it. He noticed a great swelling in the middle of its beautifully-marked body. This, as was explained to him presently, was probably the reason for the snake’s behaviour. It had recently had a meal and had been lying in the trench to digest it, which may take some time.
At all events, suddenly it was all over. The snake, to the unspeakable relief of both boys, went on past them to disappear from sight in the tea shrubs. Pale, weak and shaking, they watched it go.
It was at this juncture that Sula’s father, brought to the spot by the screaming, came running up. He was just in time to see the end of the business. It was he who explained the probable cause of the python’s lethargic conduct. Why it had left the trench was a matter for surmise. It may have been the sound of human voices close to it. It may have been sleeping when Sula first saw it, its presence having been revealed to him by the women who had seen the creature go into the ditch.
On this occasion James had to be carried home on an improvised stretcher. He walked with crutches for a fortnight and limped for a long time afterwards. The easy money Sula had anticipated did not materialize. James told him in no uncertain terms that he’d have to find an easier way to get some.
What his father had to say about it when he returned home, for of course James had to account for his injury, can perhaps be left to the imagination.
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A SORT OF EDUCATION
There is no record of the first occasion when young James Bigglesworth found it necessary to kill something; but living where he did when he was a boy, on the fringe of the jungle country in the United Provinces of India, then under British rule, with pests, some of them dangerous, finding their way into the garden and even into the house, it is likely that his experience in this respect began when he was quite small.
We know he had at least two early escapes from sudden death from what was, and still is, the most common peril in rural Indi
a: snake-bite; which accounts for thousands of deaths every year. This can happen anywhere at any time, for some of the most deadly Indian snakes are so small and inconspicuous that they can creep unnoticed into the most unlikely places. The risk of this is such a common occurrence that one becomes accustomed to it and soon thinks no more about it. It is accepted as a hazard as traffic is regarded in a city.
Of course, when a narrow escape does occur the shock serves as a rude reminder of what can happen. One has to learn to take care, to think fast or take the consequences.
James had such a shock when he was a mere nine years of age. He went to the bathroom. The door had been left ajar. When he pushed it open, a krait, a small but one of the deadliest of the Indian snakes, which must have been lying on top, fell off and landed on his shoulder, a position from which, luckily, it bounced off on to the floor. In one jump James was back through the doorway. The snake tried to leave at the same time. As it struck at him he slammed the door on it and broke its back.
He had another lucky escape when, intending to take a walk over some rough ground, he picked up his high “mosquito” boots to pull them on. One felt curiously heavy. Thinking some object had been accidentally dropped in it he was within an ace of inserting a hand to ascertain what it was. Instead, fortunately, he took the simplest way to find out by turning the boot upside down. Out fell a cobra which, for reasons best known to itself, must have decided the boot was a ready-made hole. He killed it with the old golf club, a putter, which he sometimes carried as a walking stick. He found it handy for swatting small creatures with nasty habits.
One day he killed another krait with the same instrument. Wearing only shorts and tennis shoes he had been “chipping” a golf ball about the garden. It had rolled into a weedy flower bed. Using the stick to part the weeds in order to find it he became aware of something creeping up his leg. Glancing down he saw with a thrill of horror that it was a krait. Its head was held back as if to strike.
James didn’t stop to think; to wonder what to do. There was no time for that. Nor did he lose his head. What he did may have been an instinctive reaction to peril. Taking the club by the iron, with the shaft, regardless of his leg, he struck the snake with all his force. The venomous creature fell off and he jumped clear. Then he beat it to death. Only then did he realize how hard he had struck. For a month he carried a livid blue and black bruise down his calf.
He did not regard these events as adventures. They were the hazards of his every-day life.
Curiously, perhaps, one of his narrowest escapes from what might have been a fatal accident involved a dog. It was not an ordinary dog as dogs are generally understood in England. It was a pariah. Actually, a pariah is the name given to the lowest class of Indian, shunned by everyone. A pariah-dog is the same thing in the canine population; an ownerless mongrel, an outcast. They are common in the East. Normally, acting as scavengers they do little harm. The real trouble with the one in question was, it was in the throes of hydrophobia, commonly called rabies, a hideous disease which as the result of strict quarantine laws has almost disappeared in Britain.
An animal suffering from it goes raving mad, foaming at the mouth, and in this condition it will attack anybody or anything with the greatest ferocity, going always for the throat or the face. A person, or certain animals, so bitten will catch the disease with the same result. What makes it almost impossible to eradicate in the East is the fact that wild animals, such as jackals, which may hang about the outskirts of a town, may have the disease. Should they encounter a dog and bite it that dog will almost inevitably develop rabies and pass it on to any human with whom it comes in contact.
The circumstances in which James became involved with a rabid dog were these. He was sitting on the verandah of his father’s bungalow when from on the road, not far away, came a series of screams. Running to the gate to ascertain the reason the explanation was instantly apparent. Less than forty yards away a young Indian girl was being attacked by a dog; a heavily-built brute of the lurcher type. Her dress was already in shreds and she was trying to fend it off with the remains of what had been a laundry basket. The insane behaviour of the dog made it evident that it was a victim of rabies. James recognized the girl as the pretty daughter of their dhobi-wallah1 who did the linen for the house.
He was not so foolish as to take on the rabid dog with his bare hands. He tore back to the house, snatched the nearest rifle—a .22 repeater—from its rack, grabbed some loose cartridges from the table drawer and, loading as he ran, raced back to the road.
He found the position more or less unchanged. The girl, no longer screaming, was fighting desperately to keep the dog off by slashing at it, or trying to smother it, with wet sheets. The ground was strewn with rags. No one had arrived to help her. This was understandable. To tackle the raving animal with anything less efficient than a firearm would have been idiotic, probably suicidal.
James ran towards the scene shouting to attract the dog’s attention and so perhaps give the girl a chance to get away. He succeeded better than he intended. The dog abandoned the girl and rushed at him in a frenzy, eyes wild, teeth bared, jaws slavering froth.
James stopped, took quick aim—perhaps too quick—and fired. A spurt of dust beside the dog told him that the shot had missed. He had to be more careful because the animal was more or less in line with the girl. He shouted to her to run but she seemed incapable of movement. With the dog now less than a dozen yards away he jerked another cartridge into the breech and fired again. Still the dog came on, although from the way it stumbled he knew he had hit it but obviously not in a vital place.
He just had time to reload and the dog was at him, snapping. There was no question of taking aim. He fired point blank from the hip. The dog did a somersault, fell and for a moment lay twitching. Then it got to its feet again and James had to do some quick side-stepping to avoid the clashing jaws. He reloaded as he did so. Then, thrusting the muzzle of the rifle almost into the dog’s mouth he pulled the trigger.
That did it. The cur rolled over and after some final convulsions lay still. He put another bullet through its brain to make sure. Then, satisfied it was dead, he hurried to the girl who still stood trembling amid the rags of the garments she had been carrying.
“Did it bite you?” he asked tersely.
“No, sahib,” gasped the girl.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Not a scratch anywhere?”
“No.” She showed her bare arms and legs to prove it. Then, crying, she began to collect her washing.
“Never mind those,” James said, noticing she had been splashed with foam from the dog’s mouth. “Go home at once and have a bath.”
“Yes, sahib.”
By now several people were hurrying towards them. The first to arrive was the girl’s father, incoherent and nearly hysterical.
“Take her home and make sure there isn’t a mark on her,” ordered James curtly. Then, as the man fell on his knees at James’ feet, calling down the blessings of heaven on him, he cut in abruptly. “Never mind about that. Take her home. Then fetch the dog and burn it—and mind you don’t scratch yourself on its teeth or claws.”
James’ father strode up. “I heard shots,” he said. He looked at the dead dog; then at James. “Did you do this?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hm. How did it happen?”
“I saw the dog attacking the girl so I fetched a rifle and shot it.”
“You should have called me, or one of the men.”
“There wasn’t time. As it was I thought I’d be too late.”
“Is that rifle still loaded?”
“Er—yes.”
“Then unload at once. It’s dangerous to stand about with a loaded firearm. That’s how accidents happen.”
James obeyed.
“Is the girl all right?” asked his father.
“Yes. Not a scratch on her as far as I could see. I’ve told her father to collec
t these rags and burn the body of the dog.”
“Quite right. These pariahs are a curse. If this should happen again, fetch me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered James, obediently.
If he got nothing else out of this encounter he won the undying gratitude of the dhobi-wallah and the devotion of his daughter. It may be, too, that it was this sort of education that taught him to think fast, act, and remain calm in moments of extreme danger.
A month after this affair he was on his way to England, to school. He never saw his father again. Many years were to pass before he had the unforgettable smell of India in his nostrils. When he left her shores he was still a boy with no suspicion of what the future held, of the war that was to change his life, of the still more deadly perils that awaited him in the skies of a stricken Europe. When he returned it was as a battle-scarred veteran.
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1 An Indian laundryman.
LIVING DANGEROUSLY
YOUNG James Bigglesworth had several nasty experiences when he was certainly not looking for trouble. They may not have been as desperate as some but they provided moments of acute anxiety.
It seems that no matter where one lives there is no escaping the risk of death or mutilation by accident. In the wilder parts of what are called the undeveloped countries the hazards of life are natural and must always have been so. In cities where the chance of being struck by a snake, or mauled by a wild animal, is non-existent, the danger is provided by man-made devices like mechanical transportation.
It must not be imagined that James encountered a dangerous beast every time he went out. Of course not. Weeks could go past without an incident worth mentioning. But it could happen, and on occasion did happen, perhaps when least expected; wherefore it became a way of life always to be on the alert.