To the eye of one who knew less than nothing about horse-flesh, this immaculate purity was very striking, and quite as impressive was the condition of the horses, which was English — quite English. Naturally, none of them were in any sort of training beyond daily exercise, but they were fit and in such thoroughly good fettle. Many of them were out on the various tracks, and many were coming in. Roughly, two hundred go out of a morning, and, it is to be feared, learn from the heavy going of the Jodhpur courses how to hang in their stride. This is a matter for those who know, but it struck the Englishman that a good deal of the unsatisfactory performances of the Jodhpur stables might be accounted for by their having lost their clean stride on the sand, and having to pick it up gradually on the less holding down-country courses — unfortunately when they were not doing training gallops, but the real thing.
It was pleasant to sit down and watch the rush of the horses through the great opening — gates are not affected — going on to the countryside where they take the air. Here a boisterous, unschooled Arab shot out across the road and cried, “Ha! Ha!” in the scriptural manner, before trying to rid himself of the grinning black imp on his back. Behind him a Cabuli — surely all Cabulis must have been born with Pelhams in their mouths — bored sulkily across the road, or threw himself across the path of a tall, mild-eyed Kurnal-bred youngster, whose cocked ears and swinging head showed that, though he was so sedate, he was thoroughly taking in his surroundings, and would very much like to know if there were anybody better than himself on the course that morning. Impetuous as a schoolboy and irresponsible as a monkey, one of the Prince’s polo ponies, not above racing in his own set, would answer the question by rioting past the pupil of Parrott, the monogram on his bodycloth flapping free in the wind, and his head and hogged tail in the elements. The youngster would swing himself round, and polka-mazurka for a few paces, till his attention would be caught by some dainty Child of the Desert, fresh from the Bombay stables, sweating at every sound, backing and filling like a rudderless ship. Then, thanking his stars that he was wiser than some people, Number 177 would lob on to the track and settle down to his spin like the gentleman he was. Elsewhere, the eye fell upon a cloud of nameless ones, purchases from Abdul Rahman, whose worth will be proved next hot weather, when they are seriously taken in hand — skirmishing over the face of the land and enjoying themselves immensely. High above everything else, like a collier among barges, screaming shrilly, a black, flamboyant Marwari stallion, with a crest like the crest of a barb, barrel-bellied, goose-rumped, and river-maned, pranced through the press, while the slow-pacing waler carriage-horses eyed him with deep disfavour, and the Maharaja Kanwar’s tiny mount capered under his pink, Roman nose, kicking up as much dust as the Foxhall colt who had got on to a lovely patch of sand and was dancing a saraband in it. In and out of the tangle, going down to or coming back from the courses, ran, shuffled, rocketed, plunged, sulked, or stampeded countless horses of all kinds, shapes, and descriptions — so that the eye at last failed to see what they were, and only retained a general impression of a whirl of bays, greys, iron greys, and chestnuts with white stockings, some as good as could be desired, others average, but not one distinctly bad.
“We have no downright bad ‘uns in this stable. What’s the use?” said the Master of Horse, calmly. “They are all good beasts and, one with another, must cost more than a thousand rupees each. This year’s new ones bought from Bombay and the pick of our own studs are a hundred strong about. May be more. Yes, they look all right enough; but you can never know what they are going to turn out. Live-stock is very uncertain.” “And how are the stables managed? how do you make room for the fresh stock?” Something this way. Here are all the new ones and Parrott’s lot, and the English colts that Maharaja Pertab Singh brought out with him from Home. Winterlake out o’ Queen’s Consort that chestnut is with the two white stockings you’re looking at now. Well, next hot weather we shall see what they’re made of and which is who. There’s so many that the trainer hardly knows ‘em one from another till they begin to be a good deal forward. Those that haven’t got the pace, or that the Maharaja don’t fancy, they’re taken out and sold for what they’ll bring. The man who takes the horses out has a good job of it. He comes back and says: “I sold such and such for so much, and here’s the money.” That’s all. Well, our rejections are worth having. They have taken prizes at the Poona Horse Show. See for yourself. Is there one of those that you wouldn’t be glad to take for a hack, and look well after too? Only they’re no use to us, and so out they go by the score. We’ve got sixty riding-boys, perhaps more, and they’ve got their work cut out to keep them all going. What you’ve seen are only the stables. We’ve got one stud at Bellara, eighty miles out, and they come in sometimes in droves of three and four hundred from the stud. They raise Marwaris there too, but that’s entirely under native management. We’ve got nothing to do with that. The natives reckon a Marwari the best country-bred you can lay hands on; and some of them are beauties! Crests on ‘em like the top of a wave. Well, there’s that stud and another stud and, reckoning one with another, I should say the Maharaja has nearer twelve hundred than a thousand horses of his own. For this place here, two wagon-loads of grass come in every day from Marwar Junction. Lord knows how many saddles and bridles we’ve got. I never counted. I suppose we’ve about forty carriages, not counting the ones that get shabby and are stacked in places in the city, as I suppose you’ve seen. We take ‘em out in the morning, a regular string altogether, brakes and all; but the prettiest turn-out we ever turned out was Lady Dufferin’s pony four-in-hand. Walers — thirteen-two the wheelers, I think, and thirteen-one the leaders. They took prizes in Poona. That was a pretty turn-out. The prettiest in India. Lady Dufferin, she drove it when the Viceroy was down here last year. There are bicycles and tricycles in the carriage department too. I don’t know how many, but when the Viceroy’s camp was held, there was about one apiece for the gentlemen, with remounts. They’re somewhere about the place now, if you want to see them. How do we manage to keep the horses so quiet? You’ll find some o’ the youngsters play the goat a good deal when they come out o’ stable, but, as you say, there’s no vice generally. It’s this way. We don’t allow any curry-combs. If we did, the saises would be wearing out their brushes on the combs. It’s all elbow-grease here. They’ve got to go over the horses with their hands. They must handle ‘em, and a native he’s afraid of a horse. Now an English groom, when a horse is doing the fool, clips him over the head with a curry-comb, or punches him in the belly; and that hurts the horse’s feelings. A native, he just stands back till the trouble is over. He must handle the horse or he’d get into trouble for not dressing him, so it comes to all handling and no licking, and that’s why you won’t get hold of a really vicious brute in these stables. Old Ringwood he had four saises, and he wanted ‘em every one, but the other horses have no more than one sais apiece. The Maharaja he keeps fourteen or fifteen horses for his own riding. Not that he cares to ride now, but he likes to have his horses; and no one else can touch ‘em. Then there’s the horses that he mounts his visitors on, when they come for pig-sticking and such like, and then there’s a lot of horses that go to Maharaja Pertab Singh’s new cavalry regiment. So you see a horse can go through all three degrees sometimes before he gets sold, and be a good horse at the end of it. And I think that’s about all!”
A cloud of youngsters, sweating freely and ready for any mischief, shot past on their way to breakfast, and the conversation ended in a cloud of sand and the drumming of hurrying hooves.
In the Raika-Bagh are more racing cups than this memory holds the names of. Chiefest of all was the Delhi Assemblage Cup — the Imperial Vase, of solid gold, won by Crown Prince. The other pieces of plate were not so imposing. But of all the Crown Jewels, the most valuable appeared at the end of the inspection. It was the small Maharaja Kanwar lolling in state in a huge barouche — his toes were at least two feet off the floor — that was taking him from his morning dri
ve. “Have you seen my horses?” said the Maharaja Kanwar. The four twelve-hand ponies had been duly looked over, and the future ruler of Jodhpur departed satisfied.
XV
TREATS OF THE STARTLING EFFECT OF A REDUCTION IN WAGES AND THE PLEASURES OF LOAFERDOM. PAINTS THE STATE OF THE BOONDI ROAD AND THE TREACHERY OF GANESH OF SITUR.
“A twenty-five per cent reduction all roun’ an’ no certain leave when you wants it. Of course the best men goes somewhere else. That’s only natural, and ‘ere’s this sanguinary down mail a-stickin’ in the eye of the Khundwa down! I tell you, Sir, Injia’s a bad place — a very bad place. ‘Tisn’t what it was when I came out one and thirty year ago, an’ the drivers was getting their seven and eight ‘undred rupees a month an’ was treated as men.”
The Englishman was on his way to Nasirabad, and a gentleman in the Railway was explaining to him the real reason of the decadence of the Empire. It was because, the Rajputana-Malwa Railway had cut all its employés twenty-five per cent. It is ungenerous to judge a caste by a few samples; but the Englishman had on the Road and elsewhere seen a good deal of gentlemen on the Railway, and they spend their pay in a manner that would do credit to an income of a thousand a month. Now they say that the twenty-five per cent reduction deprives them of all the pleasures of life. So much the better if it makes them moderately economical in their expenditure. Revolving these things in his mind, together with one or two stories of extravagances not quite fit for publication, the Englishman came to Nasirabad, before sunrise, and there to an evil-looking tonga. Quoth Ram Baksh, proprietor, driver, sais, and everything else, calmly: “At this time of the year and having regard to the heat of the sun who wants a top to a tonga? I have no top. I have a top, but it would take till twelve o’clock to put it on. And behold Sahib, Padre Martum Sahib went in this tonga to Deoli. All the officer Sahibs of Deoli and Nasirabad go in this tonga for shikar. This is a ‘shutin-tonga’!” “When Church and Army are brought against one, argument is in vain.” But to take a soft, office-bred unfortunate into the wilderness, upon a skeleton, a diagram of a conveyance, is brutality. Ram Baksh did not see it, and headed his two thirteen-hand rats straight towards the morning sun, along a beautiful military road. “We shall get to Deoli in six hours,” said Ram Baksh the boastful, and, even as he spoke, the spring of the tonga bar snapt “mit a harp-like melodious twang.” “What does it matter?” said Ram Baksh. “Has the Sahib never seen a tonga-iron break before? Padre Martum Sahib and all the Officer Sahibs in Deoli — ” “Ram Baksh,” said the Englishman, sternly, “I am not a Padre Sahib nor an Officer Sahib, and if you say anything more about Padre Martum Sahib or the officer in Deoli I shall grow very angry, Ram Baksh.”
“Humph,” said Ram Baksh, “I knew you were not a Padre Sahib.” The little mishap was patched up with string, and the tonga went on merrily. It is Stevenson who says that the “invitation to the road,” nature’s great morning song, has not yet been properly understood or put to music. The first note of it is the sound of the dawn-wind through long grass. It is good, good beyond expression, to see the sun rise upon a strange land and to know that you have only to go forward and possess that land — that it will dower you before the day is ended with a hundred new impressions and, perhaps, one idea. It is good to snuff the wind when it comes in over large uplands or down from the tops of the blue Aravalis — dry and keen as a new-ground sword. Best of all is to light the First Pipe — is there any tobacco so good as that we burn in honour of the breaking day? — and, while the ponies wake the long white road with their hooves and the birds go abroad in companions together, to thank your stars that you are neither the Subaltern who has Orderly Room, the ‘Stunt who has office, or the Judge who has the Court to attend; but are only a loafer in a flannel shirt bound, if God pleases, to “little Boondi,” somewhere beyond the faint hills beyond the plain.
But there was alloy in this delight. Men had told the Englishman darkly that Boondi State had no love for Englishmen, that there was nowhere to stop, and that no one would do anything for money. Love was out of the question. Further, it was an acknowledged fact that there were no Englishmen of any kind in Boondi. But the Englishman trusted that Ganesh would be good to him, and that he would, somehow or other, fall upon his feet as he had fallen before. The road from Nasirabad to Deoli, being military in its nature, is nearly as straight as a ruler and about as smooth. Here and there little rocky hills, the last off-shoots of the Aravalis to the west, break the ground; but the bulk of it is fair and without pimples. The Deoli Force are apparently so utterly Irregular that they can do without a telegraph, have their mails carried by runners, and dispense with bridges over all the fifty-six miles that separate them from Nasirabad. However, a man who goes shikarring for any length of time in one of Ram Baksh’s tongas would soon learn to dispense with anything and everything. “All the Sahibs use my tonga; I’ve got eight of them and twenty pairs of horses,” said Ram Baksh. “They go as far as Gangra, where the tigers are, for they are ‘shutin-tongas.’” Now the Englishman knew Gangra slightly, having seen it on the way to Udaipur; and it was as perverse and rocky a place as any man would desire to see. He politely expressed doubt. “I tell you my tongas go anywhere,” said Ram Baksh, testily. A hay-wagon — they cut and stack their hay in these parts — blocked the road. Ram Baksh ran the tonga to one side, into a rut, fetched up on a tree-stump, rebounded on to a rock, and struck the road again. “Observe,” said Ram Baksh; “but that is nothing. You wait till we get on the Boondi Road, and I’ll make you shake, shake like a bottle.” “Is it very bad?” “I’ve never been to Boondi myself, but I hear it is all rocks — great rocks as big as this tonga.” But though he boasted himself and his horses nearly all the way, he could not reach Deoli in anything like the time he had set forth. “If I am not at Boondi by four,” he had said, at six in the morning, “let me go without my fee.” But by midday he was still far from Deoli, and Boondi lay twenty-eight miles beyond that station. “What can I do?” said he. “I’ve laid out lots of horses — any amount. But the fact is I’ve never been to Boondi. I shan’t go there in the night.” Ram Baksh’s “lots of horses” were three pair between Nasirabad and Deoli — three pair of undersized ponies who did wonders. At one place, after he had quitted a cotton wagon, a drove of gipsies, and a man on horseback, with his carbine across his saddle-bow, the Englishman came to a stretch of road so utterly desolate that he said: “Now I am clear of everybody who ever knew me. This is the beginning of the waste into which the scape-goat was sent.”
From a bush by the roadside sprang up a fat man who cried aloud in English: “How does Your Honour do? I met Your Honour in Simla this year. Are you quite well? Ya-as, I am here. Your Honour remembers me? I am travelling. Ya-as. Ha! Ha!” and he went on, leaving His Honour bemazed. It was a Babu — a Simla Babu, of that there could be no doubt; but who he was or what he was doing, thirty miles from anywhere, His Honour could not make out. The native moves about more than most folk, except railway people, imagine. The big banking firms of Upper India naturally keep in close touch with their great change-houses in Ajmir, despatching and receiving messengers regularly. So it comes to pass that the necessitous circumstances of Lieutenant McRannamack, of the Tyneside Tailtwisters, quartered on the Frontier, are thoroughly known and discussed, a thousand miles south of the cantonment where the light-hearted Lieutenant goes to his money-lender.
This is by the way. Let us return to the banks of the Banas River, where “poor Carey,” as Tod calls him, came when he was sickening for his last illness. The Banas is one of those streams which runs “over golden sands with feet of silver,” but, from the scarp of its banks, Deoli in the rains must be isolated. Ram Baksh, questioned hereon, vowed that all the Officer Sahibs never dreamed of halting, but went over in boats or on elephants. According to Ram Baksh the men of Deoli must be wonderful creatures. They do nothing but use his tongas. A break in some low hills gives on to the dead flat plain in which Deoli stands. “You must stop here for the night
,” said Ram Baksh. “I will not take my horses forward in the dark; God knows where the dak-bungalow is. I’ve forgotten, but any one of the Officer Sahibs in Deoli will tell you.”
Those in search of a new emotion would do well to run about an apparently empty cantonment, in a disgraceful shooting-tonga, hunting for a place to sleep in. Chaprassis come out of back verandahs, and are rude, and regimental Babus hop off godowns, and are flippant, while in the distance a Sahib looks out of his room, and eyes the dusty forlorn-hope with silent contempt. It should be mentioned that the dust on the Deoli Road not only powders but masks the face and raiment of the passenger.
Next morning Ram Baksh was awake with the dawn, and clamorous to go on to Boondi. “I’ve sent a pair of horses, big horses, out there and the sais is a fool. Perhaps they will be lost; I want to find them.” He dragged his unhappy passenger on the road once more and demanded of all who passed the dak-bungalow which was the way to Boondi. “Observe,” said he, “there can be only one road, and if I hit it we are all right, and I’ll show you what the tonga can do.” “Amen,” said the Englishman, devoutly, as the tonga jumped into and out of a larger hole. “Without doubt this is the Boondi Road,” said Ram Baksh; “it is so bad.”
It has been before said that the Boondi State has no great love for Sahibs. The state of the road proves it. “This,” said Ram Baksh, tapping the wheel to see whether the last plunge had smashed a spoke, “is a very good road. You wait till you see what is ahead.” And the funeral staggered on — over irrigation cuts, through buffalo wallows, and dried pools stamped with the hundred feet of kine (this, by the way, is the most cruel road of all), up rough banks where the rock ledges peered out of the dust, down steep-cut dips ornamented with large stones, and along two-feet deep ruts of the rains, where the tonga went slantwise even to the verge of upsetting. It was a royal road — a native road — a Raj road of the roughest, and, through all its jolts and bangs and bumps and dips and heaves, the eye of Ram Baksh rolled in its blood-shot socket, seeking for the “big horses” he had so rashly sent into the wilderness. The ponies that had done the last twenty miles into Deoli were nearly used up, and did their best to lie down in the dry beds of nullahs.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 659