by W E Johns
He found Sula, and spent some time with him talking about nothing in particular until his watch told him it was time to be returning home for lunch. Sula said he would walk part of the way with him. He would come as far as a place known as the Plains. This was not exactly a plain but a small piece of derelict open country that had once been under cultivation. Bounded by a strip of jungle it was now a flat waste of long grass with a certain amount of thin scrub. The local people commonly used it to collect grass for their domestic animals, goats and the like. Actually, the proper track skirted it, but to cross it offered a short cut, and James had used it regularly without the slightest trouble.
Having reached this point Sula had stopped, saying he would now turn back, when a woman, wild-eyed and with hair flying, rushed out of the grass shouting “Tiger—tiger”. With hardly a glance at the boys she tore on without stopping.
“I’m going home,” announced Sula, abruptly.
James smiled tolerantly. “Oh fiddlesticks! I bet it’s a false alarm. She imagined it. What would a tiger be doing here? And if there is one it wouldn’t be likely to interfere with us.”
“I don’t know,” Sula said seriously. “That woman must have seen something. She looked pretty scared to me. See you tomorrow, perhaps.” He made for home at a brisk pace looking anxiously to right and left.
With a shrug James continued on his way, taking the short cut, a matter of perhaps two hundred yards.
He had reached about halfway when he heard a low growl. It was hard to say exactly where it came from. He looked around, with his heart in his mouth as the saying is, for he knew that the growl could only have come from a tiger or a leopard. He stood still, common sense advising a return to the track. He was alarmed, but not really frightened, and it was only as a precautionary measure that he unslung his rifle, which was hanging on his shoulder. He still did not think he might have to use it, and he still had no intention of looking for trouble; but he slipped off the safety catch and waited for the sound to be repeated.
Then, as he stood there, hesitating, undecided whether to go on or turn back, a movement caught his eye, and he saw the face of a tiger rise slowly from the grass to stare at him. The animal was closer than he liked, not more than thirty yards away.
With his heart beating faster he stood absolutely still. He knew it was the only thing to do. More than once the Skipper had told him that to make a sudden movement, or to run away, was the most certain way to provoke a charge. His words came back to him: “Never run. That’s fatal. You haven’t a hope. Stand still and stare the beast out, and it may have second thoughts about coming for you.”
This of course was sound advice, but in practice it was not as easy as it had sounded in theory. But James stood still and stared hard, hoping it would work. He thought it might. He knew that not all tigers are man-killers. The tiger stared back. These positions remained unchanged for what may have been a minute, although to James it seemed much longer than that. Then, by bad luck, something tickled the inside of his nose and he sneezed.
That did it. The tiger may have taken it for a challenge—but that was something only the tiger knew. With its eyes still on him it rose slowly to its feet. Its tail began to flick its sides. Now it will come, thought James, suddenly feeling surprisingly cool. Very slowly he brought the rifle to his shoulder and waited, still hoping the tiger would retire. It took two or three slow paces towards him. He noticed that it walked with a limp. Still hoping, he held his fire. It crouched, as if undecided.
Then it charged. Not in leaps and bounds, but in a low crouching run, as swift as the shadow of a cloud passing across the face of the sun. The matter no longer in doubt, James fired. The shot had no visible effect. He snapped in another cartridge and fired again. Still without effect. The tiger was now within ten yards. He just had time for one more shot, this time practically in the tiger’s face, and that was it. He held out the rifle to take the impact of the blow he was sure would come.
Instead, an extraordinary thing happened. Something entirely unexpected. He was prepared to be knocked down and mauled, but he found himself still standing up. At the last instant the tiger seemed to swerve slightly and rushed past him, so close that he could have touched it. For a second his nose was filled with the strong smell of tiger. It did not stop. It ran straight on. James spun round on the ground on which he stood, at the same time reloading, sure that the tiger would come back. It did not turn. It ran on. James did not fire again. He watched the animal go on to the belt of jungle, into which, without a backward glance, it disappeared.
Still James did not move; unable to comprehend what had happened he waited, finger on trigger, his mouth dry from shock. Was the creature blind? he wondered. Was it a genuine charge or really an attempt to escape? Had his shots caused the animal to swerve at the last moment? That can happen. He didn’t know the answer. He never did know. If it suited the tiger to go he was well content to let it go. He gave it five minutes. Once or twice he heard it growling in the bushes but it did not show itself After it had been silent for a minute or two, with his eyes still on the jungle he began to move, without haste, towards the track. As he crossed the tiger’s trail he saw spots of blood on the grass, which told him that at least one of his shots must have hit it.
Reaching the road, with a sigh of relief he looked back. There was no sign of the tiger. No sound. After a pause to steady himself he made for home, not without many a backward glance. He did not stop on the way. He had been severely shaken, and it would not be true to pretend otherwise. He walked into the garden to find his father there.
He was greeted by a long hard look. “I heard shots. Was that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You look pale. What happened?”
“I was charged by a tiger.”
“Where did this happen?”
“On the Plains.”
“What were you doing—a spot of private tiger hunting?”
“No, sir. I was on my way home when it came for me out of the long grass. It came straight at me otherwise you may be sure I’d have left it alone. I had to shoot.”
“What on earth was a tiger doing there?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen one there before.”
“Did you kill it?”
“Unfortunately no. But I wounded it. I saw the blood. Perhaps that’s why the charge was not fully maintained. At the last moment it swerved and went past me.”
“Where did it go?”
“Into that strip of jungle on the lower side of the grass.”
“Is it still there?”
“I think so. I heard it growling and crashing about just before I came on home. I was glad to get away.”
James’ father looked serious. “This is bad. A wounded tiger can be the very devil. Something will have to be done about it or we shall have trouble. I’ll send out word to warn people to keep well clear of the Plains and attend to the business in the morning, which will allow time for the tiger’s wound to stiffen. Go and drink a glass of water. You look as if you need it. You must have had a lucky escape.”
“Yes, sir. Very lucky.”
James had started to walk on when there was a rattle of hooves and Captain Lovell, on a riding pony, pulled up. With a wave and a cheerful greeting he dismounted.
“Where are you bound for?” inquired James’ father.
“Nowhere in particular,” was the answer. “I’m just riding round trying to gather information about a tiger.”
“What tiger?”
“The one that’s been making a nuisance of itself at Delapur.”
“What’s it been up to?”
“It started by taking goats, which itself is a bit unusual, but more recently it killed a woman cutting grass near the village. I went along hoping to get a crack at it, because, as you know, once they get a taste for that sort of meat they keep on. When I got to the village I was told the tiger hadn’t been seen for some days, nor its pug marks at the pool where it habitually drink
s. It must have moved, and I’ve been riding round looking for someone who may have seen it.”
“Funny you should say that. James bumped into a tiger within the last hour. He was walking across that piece of waste land we call the Plains when he says it made an unprovoked attack.”
“Did he kill it?”
“Unfortunately no. But he fired three shots and must have hit it because he saw blood spots on the grass where it made off. I was about to make arrangements to finish it off when you turned up.”
The Skipper looked at James, who had stood listening to the conversation. “Were you close to the tiger—close enough to get a good look at it?”
James smiled without humour. “Was I close? Too jolly close. It nearly knocked me down. If it had pressed home its charge I was a goner; but for some reason at the last moment it swerved past me and went on into the cover of some jungle.”
The Skipper nodded. “I’ve known them do that. I fancy it’s because at the last instant, if the man doesn’t move, they lose their nerve. My reason for asking if you had a close view was this: did you notice anything unusual about it?”
“No. I can’t say I did. To me it looked like any other tiger.”
“You didn’t notice if it had any difficulty in walking?”
“Yes. Now you mention it. Before it charged it seemed to walk with a limp.”
“That’s interesting,” the Skipper said. “Unless there are two limping tigers about it sounds as if you met the fellow I’ve been after. An old man in the village told me he thought it had a thorn in its foot. That would account for its bad behaviour. You’ll have to do something about it, Bigglesworth, or you’re likely to have man-eater trouble.”
“I shall go after him in the morning,” said James’ father. “That will allow time for the wound to stiffen and for me to get some beaters together.”
“If you can put me up for the night I’ll stay and give you a hand if you like.”
“Thanks. Much obliged. Stay by all means. Two guns can cover more ground than one.”
“Why not let young James here make a third gun?”
“No.” James’ father was emphatic. “This is no business for a lad of his age.”
“Oh please let me come, sir,” pleaded James.
“No. That’s final.”
“I’m not asking to shoot. Just let me watch, please. I’ll keep out of the way. There’s a good tree on the track overlooking the Plains. I’ve climbed it before. I could sit there and see everything. After all, it was my tiger to start with.”
“Oh very well. If you hit the tiger hard it may be dead by now. You can watch if you leave your rifle at home and promise not to leave the tree.”
“I promise. Thank you, sir,” agreed James joyfully.
When he got up the next morning it was to find preparations for the hunt well forward. About a dozen Gonds had assembled in the garden. It was their unpleasant task to drive the tiger from cover into the open. They were unarmed. Instead of a weapon each man carried an old bucket or a tin can of some sort, anything to make as much noise as possible. These men knew they would be taking their lives in their hands, but for that they were prepared; anything to get even with their hereditary enemy. Each man knew the ground and what was required of him.
There was no delay. The entire party moved off quietly, James’ father and the Skipper going in front to put the beaters into position. James made for his tree and took up a comfortable position in a forked branch from which he had a clear view of the scene of operations.
Presently his father and the Skipper arrived alone. They took places about fifty yards apart and the same distance from the belt of jungle. This they faced, rifles ready. James regarded them with admiration. They seemed so unconcerned although they knew that at any moment their lives would depend on quick and accurate shooting. They stood clear in the open. There was no way of escape should the tiger charge, as it probably would when it saw them. With a twinge of anxiety James began to hope the tiger would be found dead.
He admired the courage of the Gond beaters still more. They knew that should the angry tiger turn back on them instead of breaking cover one of them at least would be badly mauled, probably killed. A piece of stick was no weapon to fight a tiger. They knew the risks and were prepared to accept them, not so much for the relatively small sum of money they would be paid as the satisfaction of seeing their hated enemy, now a public menace, laid low. They also knew that the widow of a man killed would be taken care of. Again, perhaps this was an opportunity to demonstrate their nerve.
James’ father blew a long shrill blast on the whistle he carried. Instantly from the far side of the strip of jungle there broke out a tremendous din of yells and the banging of tin cans as the beaters advanced. The hunt was on.
Nearly breathless from excitement James watched. This, he thought, was real hunting. Not the killing of a fox or a badger but a creature that could, and would, fight back. He never forgot the picture of his father standing there, cool, calm and collected, waiting for striped death to emerge. Did this have any effect on the life he was to lead a few years later when he himself would be going out daily to meet death in a very different form, in the air? Possibly. No doubt it set a standard that he would feel he had to live up to.
The uproar continued, gradually drawing nearer.
James stared, his heart thumping in his chest. It nearly stopped beating when he saw the face of the tiger, just the face, appear in the fringe of shrubs straight in front of his father. But it was withdrawn instantly, as if the animal had realized the danger confronting it.
Apparently the Skipper had seen it, too, for he called: “Mark forward.”
James’ father raised a hand to show that he had seen the tiger.
Inside the jungle the din rose to a wild crescendo. Had the tiger broken back on the beaters? Never did James admire human courage more than at this moment; the sheer bravery of the men who were meeting a killer tiger on its own ground.
Then, in a flash, the tiger was there. It did not creep out. It burst out, tail lashing, fangs bared, a picture of snarling fury. It saw James’ father and hated him on sight. It charged. James, fascinated by the sight, heard the report of his father’s rifle. One shot. It was enough. With a terrible roar the tiger leapt high into the air, to fall tearing at the grass with its claws as it tried to get up. Its struggles ceased and it lay still.
The Skipper called: “Good shot, Bigglesworth. Great work.” An expression James often used later.
James’ father blew several short blasts on his whistle, and then, shouting to the beaters to stand back as they appeared in the thicket, he advanced towards the tiger, rifle still at the ready in case it should get up. He went close to the king of the jungle and put a bullet through its brain. Then he blew his whistle in a signal that it was all over.
The Gonds, cheering, ran up to tell the dead beast what they thought of it, and its ancestors. Some revealed their feelings by kicking the lifeless body; and if this might be thought unsporting let it not be forgotten that they had no reason to have any respect for tigers—anyway, not dead ones.
James, as excited as the natives, dropped out of his tree and raced for the spot. He arrived at the same time as the Skipper, who pointed to one of the tiger’s paws. It was badly swollen. Stooping, he withdrew a barbed porcupine quill and held it up. “This is what caused the mischief,” he said. “The poor brute must have suffered agonies with this thing through his foot. Look, it was already turning septic. It would have killed him in the long run.”
“Not before he would have killed several more people, so he’s better out of the way,” said James’ father, unmoved by sympathy. “He has only himself to blame. He should have had more sense than to fool about with a porcupine.”
An examination of the body revealed that two of James’ shots had struck it, although neither was likely to prove fatal. One had scored along its ribs, and the other, entering the mouth, had torn a strip of skin off the side of its face
as it came out. That, no doubt, was the shot James had fired point blank, and may have caused the swerve.
That was the end. The body of the tiger was carried off in triumph by the beaters, doubtless to have its whiskers cut off and some of its fat removed, the first for a lucky charm, and the second boiled down for ointment which (it is believed) is an infallible cure for rheumatism.
James would have said the beaters deserved it.
This was probably the tiger James had in mind when, some time afterwards, he was interviewed by the Headmaster on reporting to his school in England. At the same interview the Head said: “I believe you got a leopard, saving a man’s life,” To which James answered: “It was nothing, sir. He was an old man and the leopard went for his goat. I happened to come along with a rifle.” So James made light of an incident which, as the following chapter will show, was not quite the simple affair he implied.
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THE LAST ADVENTURE
THE morning came when James, now fourteen years of age, was informed by his father that his passage to England had been arranged so he had better start putting together the things he would like to take with him.
The intention at this stage of his life was that he should go to his father’s old school before going on to university to study for the stiff Indian Civil Service examination in order to follow his father’s profession. As we know, this did not happen. Long before the necessary time had elapsed his father had died and the world was tearing itself to pieces in the most ferocious war it had ever known; and inevitably James found himself involved in it. Thereafter his career ran on very different lines from the one he had anticipated. The same thing happened, of course, to countless other boys of his age—those who were lucky enough to survive. Twenty years later history was to repeat itself in a Second World War.