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CHAPTER XV
"Ich Liebe Dich"
Early one morning in December, in the year 186 – , I left my camp with a pointer at my heels to explore the foothills to the northwest of Nyagong. The region abounded with iron ore, and the mining syndicate I represented instructed me to conduct my prospecting in a way that would not arouse the suspicion of the manager of another company that had already established iron works at Kaladoongie. So it speedily became noised about in that section of the Terai that I was one of the many Englishmen who spend their leave of absence in the jungle for the purposes of sport.
There was a shrewd nip in the air when I started, and the barrels of my gun were so cold that I was glad I had put on a pair of thick gloves.
The jungle was hardly awake when I struck into the path that skirted the Bore Nuddee. Presently, a green parrot "kr-r-r-d" tentatively, as a faint flush appeared in the cloudless east. A wild boar jumped a fence a few hundred yards ahead of me, followed by the sounder, of which he was chief, as they left the fields they had been marauding during the night. A nilghai, with his wicked-looking horns, soon followed, and lumbered noiselessly away. These were the thieves of the Terai, and they were, naturally, hurrying to their coverts before the coming day should be upon them.
Suddenly, the dewy silence was broken by the invocation of a black partridge, – the muezzin of the jungle. "Sobhan theri koodruth!" How solemnly, and with what splendor of utterance and pause this voice of the Terai announces the miracle of the morning! The cry was taken up and passed on with a significance that dwarfed the passing of the fiery torch as told by Scott in "The Lady of the Lake." And immediately thereafter the jungle was singing its many-voiced matin, not the least "notable note" of which was the challenge of the jungle-cock, who is a native of the Terai, and whose vigorous voice is not raucous with the civilized laryngeal affections of the "tame villatic fowl."
And then, in the awakening of the forest, there came – Italian opera! A well-poised soprano voice silenced the jungle choir by a brilliantly executed chromatic scale, as though the singer were trying her voice. Finding it flexible enough for her purpose, she launched into the difficult – and abominable – aria, "Di tale amore che dirsi" in "Il Trovatore." She suddenly stopped, as though she were ashamed of the rubbish she sang; and, after a pause of half a minute, my soul was stirred by the air of Beethoven's immortal "Ich Liebe Dich," sung to the following words, which were beautifully enunciated:
I love thee, dear! All words would fail
To tell the true and tender theme;
Such ardent thoughts, and passion pale,
And humble suit, I fondly deem,
Would need a poet's rapturous mind.
Oh! if fit words could but be bought,
If Love's own speech I could but find,
I'd sell my soul to express my thought,
So you should in Love's toils be caught!
Oh! then a kindlier sun would shine,
The vermeiled flowers would look more fair,
The common world would seem divine,
And daily things appear most rare;
My soul, a soaring lark, would rise
To greet the morning of thy love
So sweetly dawning in thine eyes,
And in thy smiles, which should approve.
The tender charm of the sweet old song – now utterly neglected for more brazen utterances, and which only Beethoven could have written – was thoroughly appreciated by the singer.
Wishing to see her without myself being discovered, and hoping to hear her sing again, I "stalked" her – and, behold, she was a Padhani! I couldn't be mistaken, for she was singing David's "O ma maitresse," as I watched her from behind the bole of a great huldoo tree.
A little boy, about three years in age, played beside her as she sat on a fallen tree trunk and took part in the matin of the Terai. There was a noble breadth between her eyes that reminded one of the Sistine Madonna, and an air of repose about her figure which was set off by her simple garments.
She was, without doubt, Chambeli, the Padhani protégé of the Fishers, whose flight from her husband, the Rev. John Trusler, immediately after her return to the Terai, had been the sensation of the season at Naini Tal a few years ago.
Snapping a dry twig with my foot to attract her attention, I stepped into the open and approached her. Her first impulse was to flee, but she quickly regained her composure and awaited me, standing, her eyes meeting mine without the least embarrassment.
"Your singing attracted me," I began, taking off my hat to her.
"Yes?" she replied, evidently not at all anxious to come to my relief in the awkward position I had sought.
"It was very beautiful – "
"And it is finished," she interrupted. There was a slight tone of contempt in her voice as she thus gave me to understand that my presence was unwelcome. But, as a student of psychology, I was not to be so easily moved from my design of "investigating the case" before me.
"The Rev. John Trusler is dead." I paused awhile to see how she would be affected. Then, as she gave no sign of emotion, I went on, "He hanged himself a few days after you left him."
"My God!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her side and seating herself on the fallen tree.
The child, who had been clinging to his mother's dress and regarding me with round, brown eyes, began to cry when he saw his mother's sudden emotion. She took him up in her arms and cuddled his head to her bosom, saying in the Padhani patois, "Mea mithoo, mea mithoo! hush, my butcha."
In the silence that ensued after the child had been quieted there came the regular stroke of a woodman's axe, and presently the refrain of a Padhani song sung by a man.
When the woman had regained her calm, she looked up at me somewhat defiantly and said, "What business had they to come between me and my jungle mother? What right had they to impose moral shackles on one who was above their petty codes?"
"The Fishers were moved by kindness, surely; they educated you, and Christianized you, and through them you met and married an honorable man."
"Educated me, forsooth!" she exclaimed with scorn, her nostrils twitching; "they robbed me of my five senses, and gave me instead – accomplishments. Can you tell the time of the day from the sun, sir? Can you say when the sambhur passed whose track is at your feet, and how many wolves were in the pack that followed him? Would your sense of smell lead you to a pool of fresh water in mid-jungle? Can you feel the proximity of a crouching leopard without seeing it? What sort of education is it that neglects the senses? Oh, the highest product of your civilization – your poet-laureate, Tennyson – felt the same thing stir in his pulses when he wrote 'Locksley Hall,' and deprecated the 'poring over miserable books' with blinded eye-sight."
"'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,'" I quoted, as she paused in her rapid discourse.
"For the European, perhaps; not for the Chinaman. No, I have no feeling of gratitude towards those you speak of; for the large freedom of the Terai they gave me a brick cage in London; they gave me endless crowds of miserable men and women for these, my green brothers, who are always happy," and she put out her hand and caressed a tree that grew beside her.
"As for Christianity," she resumed, "it is but one facet in the jewel, morality. Christ was but an adept, I take it, who attained to his miraculous powers – as do our rishis and jogis – by prayer and fasting and meditation. I cannot see that Christian vices are fewer or more venial than those of our people."
"But don't you miss your books, and the keeping in touch with the progress of civilization?" I asked.
"Must I quote 'books in the running brooks' to you? What book is there like this book of God's?" and she swept her arm round her. "And if my son grow up to be brave and strong, that will be civilization enough for me."
"But your music?"
"Ah! that is the only thing I miss. But I recollect all of Schumann's songs and Schubert's, some of Beethoven's – and then I make songs of my own to fit the moods of my jungle mother, and I have some small skill in weaving words for them."
"And the man who hanged himself?"
"He was no man," she flashed; "who had not the strength of a girl, and who was as weak-eyed as the bat in daytime! You shall see a man indeed, one who fears not to track the tiger afoot, and who even beats me when he sees fit," and she called aloud, "Aho! Kali Dass, aho!"
The sound of the woodman's axe ceased, and presently we heard some one approaching through the jungle.
"'Twere better that he should know from me that you and I had had speech together, than that he should learn it from the Terai, for our men are very terrible when they are wrought upon by jealousy." Then, after a pause, she went on, "Don't speak to me in English in his presence. He won't like it."
She rose and half veiled her face with her chudder, as a splendid young Padhan bearing an immense load of wood entered the glade. He threw down his burden as soon as he perceived me, and, snatching up his axe, advanced menacingly towards me. He was a bronze Apollo, with the air of freedom that is native to mountaineers and woodsy folks.
"The sahib intended no harm, Kali Dass," began the woman; "and he hath given me tidings of his death."
"What of it? He was but a quail."
"But now canst thou become a Christian, and – marry me."
"Marry one who was twice a widow? Nana Debi forbid! I must admonish thee when we return to our hut. Come."
Fearing that any further interest in the case on my part would but increase the severity of her punishment, I turned down the jungle path.
Just before leaving the glade I looked back; the woman had one knee on the ground, and with outstretched arms she was balancing the load of wood that Kali Dass was putting on her head.
CHAPTER XVI
The Smoking of a Hornets' Nest
"The 'big rains' will begin to-night," said the bunnia at Lal Kooah, as Ram Deen took his seat on the mail-cart.
"And there will be much lightning and thunder," added one of the by-standers, "the night is so still."
The sky was inky, and the Terai awaited the coming storm in a breathless silence which was only emphasized by the parting blasts of Ram Deen's bugle. The horses had their ears twitched forward apprehensively, and started, every now and then, at the objects revealed by the light of the lamps. A mile or so beyond Lal Kooah a few heavy drops of rain pattered on the broad leaves of the overarching huldoos. Suddenly the sky was rent by a streak of lightning, – the avant courier of the mighty monsoon, – and it was immediately followed by the terrific thunder that bayed at its heels.
In the intensified silence that ensued Ram Deen blew his bugle to reassure the frightened horses. He had barely ceased when there came the sharp crack of a pistol-shot, and a far cry, "Ram dhwy! ram dhwy! Aho! Ram Deen, aho!"
"Tis the voice of Goor Dutt," said the hostler, "and he looketh on fear."
Ram Deen urged his team into a flying gallop as the storm struck the jungle and woke its mighty voices. Wind and rain, and trees with leafless branches for stringed instruments, made an elemental orchestra that discoursed cataclysmic music.
Whilst the thunder crackled and crashed overhead to the steady and sullen roar of the rain the horses came to a sudden stand-still. In the feeble lamplight Ram Deen discerned a man lying in the middle of the road. Taking one of the lamps, he held it to his face. It was Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver. He was unconscious, and had a deep wound on his head from which the blood was still welling.
Hanging on a wild plum-tree that grew on the edge of the road was a bloodstained turban that fluttered in the storm. Tying it securely to the branch whence it hung, Ram Deen placed the unconscious bullock driver at the bottom of the mail-cart, the hostler supporting his head.
Arrived at Kaladoongie, Ram Deen roused the native apothecary at the dispensary. Goor Dutt was carried in and laid on a charpoi, and whilst the apothecary attended to his hurts Ram Deen knocked on the Thanadar's house, saying, "Wake, Thanadar ji. There be bad men abroad to-night, and blows to pay."
When the two friends returned to the dispensary Goor Dutt was looking about him in a dazed fashion. The stimulant administered to him had begun to take effect, and the sight of the tall driver roused him to a recollection of the events of the night.
"Lakhoo's men," said he, feebly. "I counted five by the light of the torch they burned. They beset me, and doubtless I had been slain, but they heard thy bugle, and, whilst they hesitated, I shouted to thee, and, freeing one hand, I drew the pistol Charlie Sahib gave me and fired once, and then a great darkness fell upon me."
Whilst the Thanadar roused a couple of his men Ram Deen slipped into his own garden to release Hasteen, for the great dog would be needed in the hunting of that night.
The sky was emptying itself in great sheets of rain as the mail-cart sped away with the dog running beside it. When they reached the tree to which the turban was tied Ram Deen removed it and held it out to Hasteen, who, after sniffing at it for a moment, started off at a trot, with his nose to the ground. But the scent was bad, owing to the heavy rain, and the dog began to run round in widening circles in his search for a trail, whilst the men stayed on the edge of the road. Suddenly the dog bayed, and, following the direction of the sound, they came up with him as he stood by Goor Dutt's cart, from which the bullocks had been removed.
"The man stricken by Goor Dutt rode hence on a bullock," said Ram Deen, who had been examining the tracks in the mire with a lantern; "there be signs of but four men going hence, Thanadar Sahib, whereas five walked beside the wagon till it stopped here."
The cart was in the jungle about a hundred yards from the road. The noise made by its progress had been entirely drowned in the roar of the storm, so that Ram Deen had not heard it.
"See, sahib," said Ram Deen, pointing to the trail made by the heavy animals in their course through the jungle, and which not even the rain had effaced, "we shall not need Hasteen's nose, but his teeth, ere the daybreak."
Fastening the turban taken from the tree round Hasteen's neck, Ram Deen struck into the trail, the dog walking beside him, whilst the others followed in single file. The tall driver stopped occasionally to examine the ground with his lantern. He had with him the revolver given to him by Captain Barfield, but his main dependence was on the long bamboo club, loaded with lead, which he carried in his right hand.
The events that followed were thus told to Captain Fisher, the deputy commissioner of the district, who came down the next day from Naini Tal to investigate them.
"Sahib," began Ram Deen, whose left arm was in a sling, "it was thus: We followed the trail that led along the right bank of the Bore Nuddee, till we came to the ford, where the stream was now a roaring torrent owing to the great rain, which never ceased to drum on the Terai all that night.
"Here those we sought had crossed to the left bank, and then continued up the hill to the garden of Thapa Sing; through the door of the hut, wherein Heera Lal, who is kin to me, used to dwell, there came the gleam of firelight.
"Then the Thanadar bid stand, saying, ''Twere well to take them alive, Ram Deen, so that the sircar may not be despoiled of the hanging of them. What sayest thou?'
"'Such as these cannot be taken alive, Thanadar ji,' I replied.
"'What would you?' he inquired.
"'They be hornets, khodawund,' I made answer, 'and must be smoked out of their nest. When they come forth we will take them as we best may.'
"So we proceeded without noise to the hut, and when we reached it the lantern showed us that the Thanadar, and I, and Hasteen, whom I had unloosed, were alone. For, behold, the policemen had fled, not having stomachs for blows; their blood had turned to milk and their livers to water. For their fathers are jackals and their mothers without honor; and the sahib will doubtless bestow upon them the reward due to their valor.
"And the Thanadar growled in his beard at the baseness of his men, and whispered, 'Those dogs of mine have made it necessary that we should slay these within, Ram Deen, should they refuse to surrender, instead of taking them alive;' and I nodded assent.
"We could hear the wounded man groan inside the hut, and one said, 'Never mind, Kunwa, I slew Goor Dutt for thy hurt, and had these who are with us been men instead of children, we had slain the driver of the mail-cart, whose voice is greater than his strength, and his legs but female bamboos.'
"'Thou art a liar!' I shouted, kicking in the thatch door of the hut, which fell in the fire on the hearth. In a moment the hut was in a blaze. Two men ran forth through the doorway, and, in the light of the burning hut, I could see other twain breaking through the wall of thatch at the rear, whilst Kunwa, the wounded man, who was unable to move, greeted with appalling screams the death that approached him.
"'I will attend to these, Thanadar Sahib!' I shouted; 'do thou and Hasteen look to those that escape from the rear.' And the Thanadar, calling the dog, ran to the back of the hut.
"Seeing but one man in front of them, the dacoits – strong men and tall – ran in upon me. I anticipated the blow of one, and he fell to the ground without even a cry; but the club of the other had crushed my skull, had I not warded it with my left arm, which was broken thereby; and ere my assailant could again swing his weapon I had stretched him beside his companion.
"From the other side of the burning hut came the sounds of a terrible combat and of heavy blows. I made what haste I could, and as I turned the corner of the hut I stumbled over the body of the Thanadar. Six paces beyond was Hasteen, and he was serving the sircar as he best might. He stood over one of the dacoits, whom he held by the throat, whilst the other rained blows on him, till I made the fight an equal one between dog and man; and then, because my arm pained shrewdly, I was fain to sit on a fallen tree, whilst Hasteen finished the fray in his own manner; the man in the hut, meanwhile, uttering screams that even a strong man might not hear unmoved.
"But he on the ground could not scream by reason of the fangs at his throat; he only gurgled, and rattled dreadfully, and the foam flew from his lips as the great dog shook him from side to side. When his head swayed helplessly I knew he was dead, so I bade Hasteen release him; and the man in the hut having ceased his outcries, I made shift to raise the Thanadar, and lo, he was dead, and the Terai bereft of a great and a good man, and I of the best of friends. And now, as the sahib knoweth but too well, there be none in the Terai to maintain the orders of the sircar."
"Nevertheless, Ram Deen," said Captain Fisher, "the sircar will look to you in the future to be a terror to evil-doers, and here are papers making you Thanadar of this district. What say you?"
"The sircar is my father and my mother, Fisher Sahib; but this thing may not be. I have neither learning nor wisdom to uphold the English raj as it should be upheld. Besides, who is to drive the mail-cart?"
"There be drivers a-plenty, Ram Deen, but not many who will strike a blow for the right and defend the poor and the fatherless. Thy munshi will instruct thee in the duties of thy office. But beyond all things, remember this: There must be no budmashes in thy district, Ram Deen, Thanadar." Then, before Ram Deen could make reply, he went on, "Oh, yes, the reward; thou wilt receive from the sircar two thousand five hundred rupees for the slaying of Lakhoo's men."
"But Goor Dutt slew one of them, Captain Sahib, and Hasteen another."
"Well, give Goor Dutt what thou wilt and bestow a collar of honor, with spikes of brass, on Hasteen. Thou art Thanadar henceforth, and the sircar expects you to be just in all your dealings."
And as he finished, word having gone through Kaladoongie that Ram Deen was now Thanadar, the men who crowded round the Deputy Commissioner's tent raised a mighty shout: "Ram Deen, Thanadar, ke jhai!"
"What meant that shout?" asked Tara, when Ram Deen returned home an hour later.
"Congratulation to thy Lumba Deen (long legs) for a trifle of money and some little honor as salve for a broken bone, Light in Darkness."
"What honor?" she inquired, eagerly.
"But the money was the greater, my Star – "
"Now, nay, my lord trifles with me. The honor, the honor!" she demanded.
"And if I were to tell thee that they have made me Thanadar of this Zemindaree?"
"'Tis but thy due, my lord; and thou hast but prepared the way for thy man-child. Said I not many moons ago that he should be Thanadar of Kaladoongie one day!"
"See to it that he is brave and strong, Heart of my Heart, else were he better dead."
"I will help her in the bringing up of thy son," said a tall woman, – she of the muffled face, – coming into the room; "and he shall be worthy of thee, who art now as great as thou hast been always good."
