The Taming of the Jungle Part 16

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 pa.s.sed on with a significance that dwarfed the pa.s.sing 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-c.o.c.k, 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 protege 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 embarra.s.sment.

"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 G.o.d!" 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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d'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 Da.s.s, 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 Da.s.s," 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 Da.s.s 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 rea.s.sure 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!