Life in an Indian Outpost Part 11

The Maharajah came up and rearranged the beat. Our howdah elephants were sent along the banks; and we took up fresh positions farther on. Again the line of beaters bore down on us. The panther clung obstinately to the cover, not moving until the beaters were almost on it. Then it slunk cautiously towards the guns and gave the other Sikh officer a chance to wound it again. It turned and dashed against the line of beaters, recoiling almost from under the elephants' feet. For the first time I got a clear view of it but dared not fire lest I should hit anyone in the line. The elephants trumpeted shrilly; and while some tried to charge it and impale it on their tusks, others stampeded. All was confusion; but the Maharajah's voice rang loud above the uproar and made the excited _mahouts_ keep their animals in the alignment. The panther, baffled in his attempt to break through, turned again and charged towards us. I lost sight of it in the scrub; but both Sikhs fired, and I saw it spring up the bank towards Major F---- who stopped it with a bullet. I urged my _mahout_ forward and came on it rolling on the ground howling in agony and tearing up the earth with sharp claws. It was surrounded by the elephants of the other sportsmen and of the Maharajah.

Princess Sudhira calmly leant over the front of her howdah and snapshotted it as it sprang up and tried to charge, only to be bowled over by a final shot. With a last spasm the beautiful animal sank on the ground and lay still, its yellow and black skin shining in the brilliant sunlight. Several _mahouts_ climbed down and approached the body cautiously, while we covered it with our rifles. But it was dead at last; and they lifted it on to the pad of one of the "beater" elephants.

Then, exchanging our weapons for shot-guns we moved off in a long line over the fields in search of partridges. Birds were plentiful. Covey after covey flashed up from the gra.s.s under the elephants' feet. A scattered fire opened along the line and the partridges dropped in crumpled b.a.l.l.s of feathers. How different it seemed from walking them up over the stubble in the brisk air of an autumn morning in distant England! The Maharajah was shooting now and we soon secured a good bag.

We reached the road, found the motor-cars waiting for us, and were whirled back to the palace. Panther and partridges before breakfast--what an attractive programme that would be for a shooting-party in an English country-house!

Though formerly the haunt of every species of big game, Cooch Behar has been so opened up for cultivation that it no longer affords cover for the larger animals of the chase. But in recent years the Maharajah's second son, Jitendra, had an unexpected bit of good fortune in _shikar_.

His father was absent in a.s.sam organising a big shoot, and had taken with him all his elephants except one. "Jit," then little more than a schoolboy, was the only member of the family at the palace and was very disgusted at being considered too young to be taken on the shoot. But the Fates were good to him. One day an excited peasant repaired to the palace with the information that a rhinoceros had appeared in a village not five miles from the town. Jit was incredulous. Such a thing seemed impossible; for a rhino had not been seen in Cooch Behar State for many years. But the man stuck to his story. So the boy sent the solitary elephant out to the spot, mounted his bicycle and rode to the village.

Here he found a crowd of peasants surrounding, at a respectful distance, a small clump of bamboos in the middle of a large bare field in which several cows were grazing. It seemed impossible that a rhinoceros, which in India always inhabits dense jungle, could have come into such open country. But the villagers declared the animal was there in the bamboos.

Jit, still half incredulous, mounted his elephant. Hardly had he done so when a large rhinoceros burst out from the tiny patch of cover, and, apparently objecting to the presence of the cows, charged furiously at them. Up went their tails and off went the cows. Round and round the field they raced, the young heifers leaping and frisking like black buck, while the rhino lumbered heavily after them. The villagers scattered and fled. The scene was so comical that Jit, standing like a circus-master in the centre of the ring, could hardly stop laughing long enough to lift his rifle and take aim. At last he fired; and the rhinoceros checked, stumbled forward a few paces and collapsed in an inert ma.s.s on the ground. Then the boy, fearful lest his father might resent his having appropriated the best bit of sport that the State had afforded for years, got on his bicycle and sped home to write a hurried letter of explanation and apology, which had the effect of the proverbial "soft answer."

The late Maharajah of Cooch Behar,[7] as I have said, was practically the first Indian Prince to adopt English customs, and, with his family, mixed freely in European society. By doing so he helped greatly the cause of friendly intercourse between the two races and did much to break down the great barrier between Briton and Indian. But, be it remembered, that barrier is not of the white man's raising. Educated Indians when in England, complain bitterly to sympathising audiences that in their own land they are not admitted freely into Anglo-Indian society. And the cry is taken up parrot-like and echoed in the British Isles by people absolutely ignorant of Indian conditions. The educated native, fresh from the boarding-houses of Bayswater, claims that he has a right to be introduced to a white man's house, to his wife and daughters. But he would hardly let a European see the face of _his_ wife or permit him to enter anywhere but the fringe of his domicile. He has all the Oriental's contempt for women, and yet demands to be freely admitted to the society of English ladies, for whom in his heart he has no respect. And we who live in the land know it. But until he emanc.i.p.ates his own womenkind he cannot reasonably expect to be allowed a familiar footing in an Englishman's home.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] He died in A.D. 1913, and was succeeded by his brother, Prince Jitendra.

[7] He died in 1911; and his eldest son and successor, Rajendra, died in 1913. Prince Jitendra is now Maharajah.

CHAPTER XII

A MILITARY TRAGEDY

In the Mess--A gloomy conversation--Murder in the army--A gallant officer--Running amuck on a rifle-range--"Was that a shot?"--The alarm--The native officer's report--The "fall in"--A dying man--A search round the fort--A narrow escape--The flight--Search parties--The inquiry into the crime--A fifty miles cordon--An unexpected visit--Havildar Ranjit Singh on the trail--A night march through the forest--A fearsome ride--The lost detachment--An early start--The ferry--The prisoner--A well-planned capture--The prisoner's story--The march to Hathipota--Return to the fort--A well-guarded captive--A weary wait--A journey to Calcutta--The escort--Excitement among the pa.s.sengers on the steamer--American globe-trotters--the court martial--A callous criminal--Appeal to the Viceroy--Sentence of death--The execution.

A January night in Buxa. The last bugle call, "lights out," had sounded in the fort at a quarter-past ten o'clock, and the silence of the mountains hung over the little Station. In the Mess, Balderston and I drew our chairs closer to the cheery wood fire, for the weather was bitterly cold. The gla.s.s doors leading on to the veranda were closed.

The servants had retired for the night and we were alone, for our Irish doctor was absent on leave. I cannot remember what gave our conversation so gloomy a turn, but the talk ran on cases of murder in the army.

Where men trained to the use of arms and with weapons within reach are found, there is always the danger of this crime, due to sudden anger or long-smouldering resentment; and no army in the world is free from it.

And when a man has committed one murder, too often he is liable to "see red" and run amuck, killing until he is killed himself. Consequently his apprehension is fraught with much danger. Though I have rarely known a case occur in an Indian regiment in which a British officer has been the first victim, yet many have fallen in leading attempts to seize an a.s.sa.s.sin. At night the sound of a shot in barracks sends a thrill through all who hear it; for it generally means that some grim tragedy has been accomplished. And it may only usher in a series of crimes and a desperate search for an armed a.s.sa.s.sin in the darkness where death is lurking; not a soldier's glorious ending on the battlefield, but a pitiful fate at the hand of a comrade.

I had just related to my companion a happening which I had witnessed some years before when, at a large rifle meeting and in the presence of hundreds of men, a sepoy ran amuck and shot down a native officer and a havildar or sergeant. A young British subaltern standing close by rushed at him unarmed. The murderer cried:

"Do not come on, Sahib, I do not want to harm you."

But the officer still advanced. The sepoy, to frighten him, sent a bullet close to him, then, failing to stop him, fired again and shot him through the heart. Then, as we around were closing in on him, the a.s.sa.s.sin placed the muzzle of his rifle to his head and blew his own brains out, rather than be taken alive.

Scarcely had I recounted this incident when I thought I heard the sound of a shot coming from the direction of the fort. I sprang from my chair and ran out on to the veranda. The night was perfectly still. I listened for a few minutes.

"What is the matter, major?" cried Balderston from the mess-room.

"Did you not hear a shot?" I asked.

"No," he replied.

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter-past eleven o'clock. Just then from the parade ground came the short, harsh bark of a _khakur_. It was like the noise I had heard; for I had noticed that, instead of the sharp, clear ring of a rifle-shot, the sound had been a long-drawn-out one. So, laughing at what seemed my nervous fear, I went in again and closed the door. But before I could sit down a bugle rang out loudly in the fort. It was sounding the "Alarm"; and it was followed by loud shouts.

"Good G.o.d, Balderston, there has been a murder," I cried. "That _was_ a shot I heard. Get your revolver, turn out your orderly with his rifle, and follow me to the fort."

I sprang down the steps into the garden and raced down the steep road.

Across it lay a broad stream of light from the window of my bungalow; and as I ran through it I thought that if anyone was lying in wait for me with murderous intent, here was the place for him. As I neared the parade ground I vaguely made out in the darkness two figures approaching me. I called out in Hindustani:

"Who is there?"

No answer came. I shouted again but got no reply. This was suspicious; but as I was unarmed the only thing to do was to close with them. I ran up to them and found them to be two sepoys with rifles. To my relief they said:

"We are men of the guard sent by the subhedar-major to you, Sahib.

Someone has fired a shot inside the fort."

I ran past them across the parade ground and at the gate was met by my senior native officer who stopped me and said in a low tone:

"Sahib, Colour-Havildar Shaikh Bakur has been shot in his bed. The sentry on the magazine, a young Mussulman named Farid Khan, has disappeared with his rifle."

The news stunned me. Shaikh Bakur was one of my best non-commissioned officers. And the murderer was still at large. The sentry's absence from his post pointed to his being the a.s.sa.s.sin. In that case he had still nine rounds of ball ammunition, and, if he wished to run amuck, held as many lives in his hand. I eagerly questioned the subhedar-major; but he could tell me no more.

The sepoys were falling in in front of the quarter guard and the company orderlies were calling over the rolls by the light of lanterns to see if any of the men were missing. I ordered them to extinguish the lamps, which only served to give a target to the invisible a.s.sa.s.sin, and bade the section commanders check their sections by memory. The sound of my voice stilled the confusion; and only the low muttering of the havildars and equally low responses of the sepoys were heard. Suddenly from a barrack-room close by rang out shrieks and wailing groans.

"What is that noise, subhedar-major?" I asked.

"It is Shaikh Bakur, Sahib. He is not dead and is crying out in his pain."

As at that moment Balderston arrived I ordered him to examine the rifles of all in the detachment and see if a shot had been fired from any of them. Then I went to the room from which the cries proceeded. The high-roofed, stone-paved chamber was lighted only by a small lantern that cast weird shadows on the ceiling and showed a group of men standing around a bed at the far end. On it the wounded man was writhing in agony, trying with frenzied strength to hurl himself on to the floor; and it required the united efforts of two men to hold him on the cot. He was a dreadful sight. From a bullet hole in his chest the blood welled out at every motion of the body. His face was wet with sweat, the lips drawn back showing the white teeth clenched in pain. His staring eyes saw nothing; and he was delirious. Again and again his awful shrieks rang out through the lofty room and then subsided into meaningless mutterings. In the group by the bed stood an old native hospital a.s.sistant, the very inefficient subst.i.tute for our absent doctor. He was weeping copiously and seemed utterly helpless. I questioned him about the wound.

"Sir, he has been shot through the body; and the bullet has come out through the chest," he sobbed.

"Have you--can you do anything for him?" I said.

"Sir, it is hopeless. The man will die," he cried through his tears.

I shook him by the shoulders.

"Collect yourself, _babu-ji_," I said sternly. "Try to do something.

Can you not give him an opiate to relieve the pain?"

He wrung his hands in the abandonment of helpless despair.

"Sir, the case is hopeless. The man will die," he repeated mechanically.

I could scarcely hear him through the heart-rending shrieks of the dying man, whose handsome bearded face was distorted, and his strong frame convulsed in agony. I turned again to the weeping Brahmin hospital a.s.sistant, useless, like so many of his race, in an emergency.

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, drug him into insensibility and let him die in peace," I cried.

But he only sobbed helplessly. As I turned to leave the death-bed, I trod on an empty cartridge-case. I picked it up. It was the one from which the fatal bullet had been fired. It showed that the murderer had reloaded his rifle on the spot and intended that the killing should not end there. I went out into the darkness again. The sepoys were standing silently in the ranks; and the native officers were gathered in a group around Balderston. As the rifle of every man in the detachment, except the missing sentry, had been examined and found clean, it was evident that Farid Khan was the murderer. He had been reprimanded that day, so I learned, by Shaikh Bakur for having his accoutrements dirty on parade.

It was a small cause to take a man's life for. But now the first thing to do was to try and find the a.s.sa.s.sin. This was no easy task on so dark a night, for there was cover for him everywhere in the fort. No one could tell in what corner he might be lurking, ready to shoot down the search-party. Then the means of egress from the fort were easy. The loopholed walls connecting the various barrack-rooms were low; and a man could scale them at any point. As I hurriedly thought over the best means of beginning the hunt, the piteous shrieks of the dying man rang through the silent night and chilled our blood.

I took a couple of armed men with me and commenced to search the empty buildings of the fort. One of the native officers came running to me and called out: