Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 17

  “Well?” I said anxiously.

  “Very well, thank you. Here they are,” and he produced from the pocket of his coat the spolia opima in the shape of a pair of ears, that looked very large to me. There was a little blood on them and on his hands as he handed the precious trophies to me for inspection. We stood by the open door, and while I was turning over the ears curiously in my hands, he looked down at his clothes.

  “I think I will take a bath,” he said; “I must have been in a dirty place.”

  “My dear fellow,” I said, taking his hand, “this is absurd. I mean all this affected calmness. I was angry at your going in that way, to risk your head in a tiger’s mouth; but I am sincerely glad to see you back alive. I congratulate you most heartily.”

  “Thank you, old man,” he said, his pale face brightening a little. “I am very glad myself. Do you know I have a superstition that I must fulfil every wish of — like that — even half expressed, to the very letter?”

  “The ‘superstition,’ as you call it, is worthy of the bravest knight that ever laid lance in rest. Don’t part with superstitions like that. They are noble and generous things.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered, “but I really am very superstitious,” he added, as he turned into the bathing connât. Soon I heard him splashing among the water jars.

  “By-the-bye, Griggs,” he called out through the canvas, “I forgot to tell you. They are bringing that beast home on an elephant. It was much nearer than we supposed. They will be here in twenty minutes.” A tremendous splashing interrupted him. “You can go and attend to that funeral you were talking about last night,” he added, and his voice was again drowned in the swish and souse of the water. “He was rather large — over ten feet — I should say. Measure him as soon as he—” another cascade completed the sentence. I went out, taking the measuring tape from the table.

  In a few minutes the procession appeared. Two or three matutinal shikarries had gone out and come back, followed by the elephant, for which Isaacs had sent the ryot at full speed the moment he was sure the beast was dead. And so they came up the little hill behind the dining-tent. The great tusker moved evenly along, bearing on the pad an enormous yellow carcass, at which the little mahout glanced occasionally over his shoulder. Astride of the dead king sat the ryot, who had directed Isaacs, crooning a strange psalm of victory in his outlandish northern dialect, and occasionally clapping his hands over his head with an expression of the most intense satisfaction I have ever seen on a human face. The little band came to the middle of the camp where the other tigers, now cut up and skinned elsewhere, had been deposited the night before, and as the elephant knelt down, the shikarries pulled the whole load over, pad, tiger, ryot and all, the latter skipping nimbly aside. There he lay, the great beast that had taken so many lives. We stretched him out and measured him — eleven feet from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, all but an inch — as a little more straightening fills the measure, eleven feet exactly.

  Meanwhile, the servant and shikarries collected, and the noise of the exploit went abroad. The sun was just rising when Mr. Ghyrkins put his head out of his tent and wanted to know “what the deuce all this tamäsha was about.”

  “Oh, nothing especial,” I called out. “Isaacs has killed an eleven foot man-eater in the night. That is all.”

  “Well I’m damned,” said Mr. Ghyrkins briefly, and to the point, as he stared from his tent at the great carcass, which lay stretched out for all to see, the elephant having departed.

  “Clear off those fellows and let me have a look at him, can’t you?” he called out, gathering the tent curtains round his neck; and there he stood, his jolly red face and dishevelled gray hair looking as if they had no body attached at all.

  I went back to our quarters. Isaacs was putting the ears, which he had carefully cleansed from blood, into a silver box of beautiful workmanship, which Narain had extracted from his master’s numerous traps.

  “Take that box to Miss Westonhaugh’s tent,” he said, giving it to the servant, “with a greeting from me — with ‘much peace.’” The man went out.

  “She will send the box back,” said I. “Such is the Englishwoman. She will take a pair of tiger’s ears that nearly cost you your life, and she would rather die than accept the bit of silver in which you enclose them, without the ‘permission of her uncle.’”

  “I do not care,” he said, “so long as she keeps the ears. But unless I am much mistaken, she will keep the box too. She is not like other Englishwomen in the least.”

  I was not sure of that. We had some tea in the door of our tent, and Isaacs seemed hungry and thirsty, as well he might be. Now that he was refreshed by bathing and the offices of the camp barber, he looked much as usual, save that the extreme paleness I had noticed when he came in had given place to a faint flush beneath the olive, probably due to his excitement, the danger being past. As we sat there, the rest of the party, who had slept rather later than usual after their fatigues of the previous day, came out one by one and stood around the dead tiger, wondering at the tale told by the delighted ryot, who squatted at the beast’s head to relate the adventure to all comers. We could see the group from where we sat, in the shadow of the connât, and the different expressions of the men as they came out. The little collector of Pegnugger measured and measured again; Mr. Ghyrkins stood with his hands in his coat pockets and his legs apart, then going to the other side he took up the same position again. Lord Steepleton Kildare sauntered round and twirled his big moustache, saying nothing the while, but looking rather serious. John Westonhaugh, who seemed to be the artistic genius of the party, sent for a chair and made his servant hold an umbrella over him while he sketched the animal in his notebook, and presently his sister came out, a big bunch of roses in her belt, and a broad hat half hiding her face, and looked at the tiger and then round the party quickly, searching for Isaacs. In her hand she held a little package wrapped in white tissue paper. I strolled up to the group, leaving Isaacs in his tent. I thought I might as well play innocence.

  “Of course,” I remarked, “those fellows have bagged his ears as usual.”

  “They never omit that,” said Ghyrkins.

  “Oh no, uncle,” broke in Miss Westonhaugh, “he gave them to me!”

  “Who?” asked Ghyrkins, opening his little eyes wide.

  “Mr. Isaacs. Did not he kill the tiger? He sent me the ears in a little silver box. Here it is — the box, I mean. I am going to give it back to him, of course.”

  “How did Mr. Isaacs know you wanted them?” asked her uncle, getting red in the face.

  “Why, we were talking about them last night before dinner, and he promised that if he shot a tiger to-day he would give me the ears.” Mr. Ghyrkins was redder and redder in the morning sun. There was a storm of some kind brewing. We were collected together on the other side of the dead tiger and exchanged all kinds of spontaneous civilities and remarks, not wishing to witness Mr. Ghyrkins’ wrath, nor to go away too suddenly. I heard the conversation, however, for the old gentleman made no pretence of lowering his voice.

  “And do you mean to say you let him go off like that? He must have been out all night. That beast of a nigger says so. On foot, too. I say on foot! Do you know what you are talking about? Eh? Shooting tigers on foot? What? Eh? Might have been killed as easily as not! And then what would you have said? Eh? What? Upon my soul! You girls from home have no more hearts than a parcel of old Juggernauts!” Ghyrkins was now furious. We edged away towards the dining-tent, making a great talk about the terrible heat of the sun in the morning. I caught the beginning of Miss Westonhaugh’s answer. She had hardly appreciated the situation yet, and probably thought her uncle was joking, but she spoke very coldly, being properly annoyed at his talking in such a way.

  “You cannot suppose for a moment that I meant him to go,” I heard her say, and something else followed in a lower tone. We then went into the dining-tent.

  “Now look here, Katharine,” Mr. Ghyrkins�
�� irate voice rang across the open space, “if any young woman asked me — —” John Westonhaugh had risen from his chair and apparently interrupted his uncle. Miss Westonhaugh walked slowly to her tent, while her male relations remained talking. I thought Isaacs had shown some foresight in not taking part in the morning discussion. The two men went into their tents together and the dead tiger lay alone in the grass, the sun rising higher and higher, pouring down his burning rays on man and beast and green thing. And soon the shikarries came with a small elephant and dragged the carcass away to be skinned and cut up. Kildare and the collector said they would go and shoot some small game for dinner. Isaacs, I supposed, was sleeping, and I was alone in the dining-tent. I shouted for Kiramat Ali and sent for books, paper, and pens, and a hookah, resolved to have a quiet morning to myself, since it was clear we were not going out to-day. I saw Ghyrkins’ servant enter his tent with bottles and ice, and I suspected the old fellow was going to cool his wrath with a “peg,” and would be asleep most of the morning. John would take a peg too, but he would not sleep in consequence, being of Bombay, iron-headed and spirit-proof. So I read on and wrote, and was happy, for I like the heat of the noon-day and the buzzing of the flies, and the smell of the parched grass, being southern born.

  About twelve o’clock, when I was beginning to think I had done enough work for one day, I saw Miss Westonhaugh’s native maid come out of her mistress’s tent and survey the landscape, shading her eyes with her hand. She was dressed, of course, in spotless white drapery, and there were heavy anklets on her feet and bangles of silver on her wrist. She seemed satisfied by her inspection and went in again, returning presently with Miss Westonhaugh and a large package of work and novels and letter-writing materials. They came straight to where I was sitting under the airy tent where we dined, and Miss Westonhaugh established herself at one side of the table at the end of which I was writing.

  “It is so hot in my tent,” she said almost apologetically, and began to unroll some worsted work.

  “Yes, it is quite unbearable,” I answered politely, though I had not thought much about the temperature. There was a long silence, and I collected my papers in a bundle and leaned back in my chair. I did not know what to say, nor was anything expected of me. I looked occasionally at the young girl, who had laid her hat on the table, allowing the rich coils of dazzling hair to assert their independence. Her dark eyes were bent over her work as her fingers deftly pushed the needle in and out of the brown linen she worked on.

  “Mr. Griggs,” she began at last without looking up, “did you know Mr. Isaacs was going out last night to kill that horrid thing?” I had expected the question for some time.

  “Yes; he told me about midnight, when he started.”

  “Then why did you let him go?” she asked, looking suddenly at me, and knitting her dark eyebrows rather fiercely.

  “I do not think I could have prevented him. I do not think anybody could prevent him from doing anything he had made up his mind to. I nearly quarrelled with him, as it was.”

  “I am sure I could have stopped him, if I had been you,” she said innocently.

  “I have not the least doubt that you could. Unfortunately, however, you were not available at the time, or I would have suggested it to you.”

  “I wish I had known,” she went on, plunging deeper and deeper. “I would not have had him go for — for anything.”

  “Oh! Well, I suppose not. But, seriously, Miss Westonhaugh, are you not flattered that a man should be willing and ready to risk life and limb in satisfying your lightest fancy?”

  “Flattered?” she looked at me with much astonishment and some anger. I was sure the look was genuine and not assumed.

  “At all events the tiger’s ears will always be a charming reminiscence, a token of esteem that any one might be proud of.”

  “I am not proud of them in the least, though I shall always keep them as a warning not to wish for such things. I hope that the next time Mr. Isaacs is going to do a foolish thing you will have the common sense to prevent him.” She returned to her starting-point; but I saw no use in prolonging the skirmish, and turned the talk upon other things. And soon John Westonhaugh joined us, and found in me a sympathetic talker and listener, as we both cared a great deal more for books than for tigers, though not averse to a stray shot now and then.

  In this kind of life the week passed, shooting to-day and staying in camp to-morrow. We shifted our ground several times, working along the borders of the forest and crashing through the jungle after tiger with varying success. In the evenings, when not tired with the day’s work, we sat together, and Isaacs sang, and at last even prevailed upon Miss Westonhaugh to let him accompany her with his guitar, in which he proved very successful. They were constantly together, and Ghyrkins was heard to say that Isaacs was “a very fine fellow, and it was a pity he wasn’t English,” to which Kildare assented somewhat mournfully, allowing that it was quite true. His chance was gone, and he knew it, and bore it like a gentleman, though he still made use of every opportunity he had to make himself acceptable to Miss Westonhaugh. The girl liked his manly ways, and was always grateful for any little attention from him that attracted her notice, but it was evident that all her interest ceased there. She liked him in the same way she liked her brother, but rather less, if anything. She hardly knew, for she had seen so little of John since she was a small child. I suppose Isaacs must have talked to her about me, for she treated me with a certain consideration, and often referred questions to me, on which I thought she might as well have consulted some one else. For my part, I served the lovers in every way I could think of. I would have done anything for Isaacs then as now, and I liked her for the honest good feeling she had shown about him, especially in the matter of the tiger’s ears, for which she could not forgive herself — though in truth she had been innocent enough. And they were really lovers, those two. Any one might have seen it, and but for the wondrous fascination Isaacs exercised over every one who came near him, and the circumstances of his spotless name and reputation for integrity in the large transactions in which he was frequently known to be engaged, it is certain that Mr. Ghyrkins would have looked askance at the whole affair, and very likely would have broken up the party.

  In the course of time we became a little blasé about tigers, till on the eighth day from the beginning of the hunt, which was a Thursday, I remember, an incident occurred which left a lasting impression on the mind of every one who witnessed it. It was a very hot morning, the hottest day we had had, and we had just crossed a nullah in the forest, full from the recent rains, wherein the elephants lingered lovingly to splash the water over their heated sides, drowning the swarms of mosquitoes from which they suffer such torments, in spite of their thick skins. The collector called a halt on the opposite side; our line of march had become somewhat disordered by the passage, and numerous tracks in the pasty black mud showed that the nullah was a favourite resort of tigers — though at this time of day they might be a long distance off. I had come next to the collector after we emerged from the stream, the pad elephants having lingered longer in the water, and Mr. Ghyrkins with Miss Westonhaugh was three or four places beyond me. It was shady and cool under the thick trees, and the light was not good. The collector bent over his howdah, looking at some tracks.

  “Those tracks look suspiciously fresh, Mr. Griggs,” said the collector, scrutinising the holes, not yet filled by the oozing back water of the nullah. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Indeed, yes. I do not understand it at all,” I replied. At the collector’s call a couple of beaters came forward and stooped down to examine the trail. One of them, a good-looking young gowala, or cowherd, followed along the footprints, examining each to be sure he was not going on a false spoor; he moved slowly, scrutinising each hole, as the traces grew shallower on the rising ground, approaching a bit of small jungle. My sight followed the probable course of the track ahead of him and something caught my eyes, which are remarkably good, even at a
great distance. The object was brown and hairy; a dark brown, not the kind of colour one expects to see in the jungle in September. I looked closely, and was satisfied that it must be part of an animal; still more clearly I saw it, and no doubt remained in my mind; it was the head of a bullock or a heifer. I shouted to the man to be careful, to stop and let the elephants plough through the undergrowth, as only elephants can. But he did not understand my Hindustani, which was of the civilised Urdu kind learnt in the North-West Provinces. The man went quickly along, and I tried to make the collector comprehend what I saw. But the pad elephants were coming out of the water and forcing themselves between our beasts, and he hardly caught what I said in the confusion. The track led away to my left, nearly opposite to the elephant bearing Mr. Ghyrkins and his niece. The little Pegnugger man was on my right. The native held on, moving more and more rapidly as he found himself following a single track. I shouted to him — to Ghyrkins — to everybody, but they could not make the doomed man understand what I saw — the freshly slain head of the tiger’s last victim. There was little doubt that the king himself was near by — probably in that suspicious-looking bit of green jungle, slimy green too, as green is, that grows in sticky chocolate-coloured mud. The young fellow was courageous, and ignorant of the immediate danger, and, above all, he was on the look out for bucksheesh. He reached the reeds and unclean vegetables that grew thick and foul together in the little patch. He put one foot into the bush.

  A great fiery yellow and black head rose cautiously above the level of the green and paused a moment, glaring. The wretched man, transfixed with terror, stood stock still, expecting death. Then he moved, as if to throw himself on one side, and at the same instant the tiger made a dash at his naked body, such a dash as a great relentless cat makes at a gold-fish trying to slide away from its grip. The tiger struck the man a heavy blow on the right shoulder, felling him like a log, and coming down to a standing position over his prey, with one paw on the native’s right arm. Probably the parade of elephants and bright coloured howdahs, and the shouts of the beaters and shikarries, distracted his attention for a moment. He stood whirling his tail to right and left, with half dropped jaw and flaming eyes, half pressing, half grabbing the fleshy arm of the senseless man beneath him — impatient, alarmed, and horrible.