Then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten
terrible seconds. The dew from the trees above spattered down like rain
on the unseen backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at
first, and Little Toomai could not tell what it was. But it grew and
grew, and Kala Nag lifted up one forefoot and then the other, and
brought them down on the ground--one-two, one-two, as steadily as
trip-hammers. The elephants were stamping all together now, and it
sounded like a war drum beaten at the mouth of a cave. The dew fell from
the trees till there was no more left to fall, and the booming went on,
and the ground rocked and shivered, and Little Toomai put his hands up
to his ears to shut out the sound. But it was all one gigantic jar that
ran through him--this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw earth.
Once or twice he could feel Kala Nag and all the others surge forward
a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of
juicy green things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom
of feet on hard earth began again. A tree was creaking and groaning
somewhere near him. He put out his arm and felt the bark, but Kala Nag
moved forward, still tramping, and he could not tell where he was in the
clearing. There was no sound from the elephants, except once, when two
or three little calves squeaked together. Then he heard a thump and a
shuffle, and the booming went on. It must have lasted fully two hours,
and Little Toomai ached in every nerve, but he knew by the smell of the
night air that the dawn was coming.
The morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills,
and the booming stopped with the first ray, as though the light had
been an order. Before Little Toomai had got the ringing out of his head,
before even he had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in
sight except Kala Nag, Pudmini, and the elephant with the rope-galls,
and there was neither sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to
show where the others had gone.
Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it,
had grown in the night. More trees stood in the middle of it, but the
undergrowth and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back.
Little Toomai stared once more. Now he understood the trampling. The
elephants had stamped out more room--had stamped the thick grass and
juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny
fibers, and the fibers into hard earth.
“Wah!” said Little Toomai, and his eyes were very heavy. “Kala Nag, my
lord, let us keep by Pudmini and go to Petersen Sahib’s camp, or I shall
drop from thy neck.”
The third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and
took his own path. He may have belonged to some little native king’s
establishment, fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away.
Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eating early breakfast, his
elephants, who had been double chained that night, began to trumpet, and
Pudmini, mired to the shoulders, with Kala Nag, very footsore, shambled
into the camp. Little Toomai’s face was gray and pinched, and his
hair was full of leaves and drenched with dew, but he tried to salute
Petersen Sahib, and cried faintly: “The dance--the elephant dance! I
have seen it, and--I die!” As Kala Nag sat down, he slid off his neck in
a dead faint.
But, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two
hours he was lying very contentedly in Petersen Sahib’s hammock with
Petersen Sahib’s shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk,
a little brandy, with a dash of quinine, inside of him, and while the
old hairy, scarred hunters of the jungles sat three deep before him,
looking at him as though he were a spirit, he told his tale in short
words, as a child will, and wound up with:
“Now, if I lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the
elephant folk have trampled down more room in their dance-room, and
they will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that
dance-room. They made more room with their feet. I have seen it. Kala
Nag took me, and I saw. Also Kala Nag is very leg-weary!”
Little Toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into
the twilight, and while he slept Petersen Sahib and Machua Appa followed
the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles across the hills.
Petersen Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he
had only once before found such a dance-place. Machua Appa had no need
to look twice at the clearing to see what had been done there, or to
scratch with his toe in the packed, rammed earth.
“The child speaks truth,” said he. “All this was done last night, and
I have counted seventy tracks crossing the river. See, Sahib, where
Pudmini’s leg-iron cut the bark of that tree! Yes; she was there too.”
They looked at one another and up and down, and they wondered. For the
ways of elephants are beyond the wit of any man, black or white, to
fathom.
“Forty years and five,” said Machua Appa, “have I followed my lord, the
elephant, but never have I heard that any child of man had seen what
this child has seen. By all the Gods of the Hills, it is--what can we
say?” and he shook his head.
When they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal. Petersen
Sahib ate alone in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp should
have two sheep and some fowls, as well as a double ration of flour and
rice and salt, for he knew that there would be a feast.
Big Toomai had come up hotfoot from the camp in the plains to search for
his son and his elephant, and now that he had found them he looked at
them as though he were afraid of them both. And there was a feast by
the blazing campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants,
and Little Toomai was the hero of it all. And the big brown elephant
catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all
the secrets of breaking the wildest elephants, passed him from one to
the other, and they marked his forehead with blood from the breast of a
newly killed jungle-cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated and
free of all the jungles.
And at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs
made the elephants look as though they had been dipped in blood too,
Machua Appa, the head of all the drivers of all the Keddahs--Machua
Appa, Petersen Sahib’s other self, who had never seen a made road in
forty years: Machua Appa, who was so great that he had no other name
than Machua Appa,--leaped to his feet, with Little Toomai held high in
the air above his head, and shouted: “Listen, my brothers. Listen, too,
you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua Appa, am speaking! This
little one shall no more be called Little Toomai, but Toomai of the
Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him. What never
man has seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor of the
elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles is with him. He shall
become a great tracker. He shall become greater than I, even I, Machua
Appa! He shall follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed
trail, with a clear eye! He shall take no harm in the Keddah when he
runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips
before the feet of the charging bull elephant, the bull elephant
shall know who he is and shall not crush him. Aihai! my lords in the
chains,”--he whirled up the line of pickets--“here is the little one
that has seen your dances in your hidden places,--the sight that never
man saw! Give him honor, my lords! Salaam karo, my children. Make your
salute to Toomai of the Elephants! Gunga Pershad, ahaa! Hira Guj, Birchi
Guj, Kuttar Guj, ahaa! Pudmini,--thou hast seen him at the dance, and
thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl among elephants!--ahaa! Together! To Toomai
of the Elephants. Barrao!”
And at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the
tips touched their foreheads, and broke out into the full salute--the
crashing trumpet-peal that only the Viceroy of India hears, the Salaamut
of the Keddah.
But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, who had seen what never
man had seen before--the dance of the elephants at night and alone in
the heart of the Garo hills!
Shiv and the Grasshopper
(The song that Toomai’s mother sang to the baby)
Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,
From the King upon the _guddee_ to the Beggar at the gate.
_All things made he--Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all,--
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_
Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor,
Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;
Battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,
And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.
Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low--
Parbati beside him watched them come and go;
Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest--
Stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast.
_So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! Turn and see.
Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine,
But this was Least of Little Things, O little son of mine!_
When the dole was ended, laughingly she said,
“Master, of a million mouths, is not one unfed?”
Laughing, Shiv made answer, “All have had their part,
Even he, the little one, hidden ’neath thy heart.”
From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief,
Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf!
Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv,
Who hath surely given meat to all that live.
_All things made he--Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all,--
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_
Her Majesty’s Servants
You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three,
But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee.
You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop,
But the way of Pilly Winky’s not the way of Winkie Pop!
It had been raining heavily for one whole month--raining on a camp
of thirty thousand men and thousands of camels, elephants, horses,
bullocks, and mules all gathered together at a place called Rawal Pindi,
to be reviewed by the Viceroy of India. He was receiving a visit from
the Amir of Afghanistan--a wild king of a very wild country. The Amir
had brought with him for a bodyguard eight hundred men and horses who
had never seen a camp or a locomotive before in their lives--savage
men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of Central Asia. Every
night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel ropes and
stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels
would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents,
and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep.
My tent lay far away from the camel lines, and I thought it was safe.
But one night a man popped his head in and shouted, “Get out, quick!
They’re coming! My tent’s gone!”
I knew who “they” were, so I put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled
out into the slush. Little Vixen, my fox terrier, went out through the
other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling,
and I saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance
about like a mad ghost. A camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry
as I was, I could not help laughing. Then I ran on, because I did not
know how many camels might have got loose, and before long I was out of
sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud.
At last I fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew I was
somewhere near the artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at
night. As I did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and
the dark, I put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a
sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that I found, and lay along the
tail of another gun, wondering where Vixen had got to, and where I might
be.
Just as I was getting ready to go to sleep I heard a jingle of harness
and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears. He belonged to
a screw-gun battery, for I could hear the rattle of the straps and rings
and chains and things on his saddle pad. The screw-guns are tiny little
cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes
to use them. They are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find
a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country.
Behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching
and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a
strayed hen’s. Luckily, I knew enough of beast language--not wild-beast
language, but camp-beast language, of course--from the natives to know
what he was saying.
He must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to
the mule, “What shall I do? Where shall I go? I have fought with a white
thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck.” (That was
my broken tent pole, and I was very glad to know it.) “Shall we run on?”
“Oh, it was you,” said the mule, “you and your friends, that have
been disturbing the camp? All right. You’ll be beaten for this in the
morning. But I may as well give you something on account now.”
I heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel
two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum. “Another time,” he said,
“you’ll know better than to run through a mule battery at night,
shouting `Thieves and fire!’ Sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet.”
The camel doubled up camel-fashion, like a two-foot rule, and sat down
whimpering. There was a regular beat of hoofs in the darkness, and a big
troop-horse cantered up as steadily as though he were on parade, jumped
a gun tail, and landed close to the mule.
“It’s disgraceful,” he said, blowing out his nostrils. “Those camels
have racketed through our lines again--the third time this week. How’s a
horse to keep his condition if he isn’t allowed to sleep. Who’s here?”
“I’m the breech-piece mule of number two gun of the First Screw
Battery,” said the mule, “and the other’s one of your friends. He’s
waked me up too. Who are you?”
“Number Fifteen, E troop, Ninth Lancers--Dick Cunliffe’s horse. Stand
over a little, there.”
“Oh, beg your pardon,” said the mule. “It’s too dark to see much. Aren’t
these camels too sickening for anything? I walked out of my lines to get
a little peace and quiet here.”
“My lords,” said the camel humbly, “we dreamed bad dreams in the night,
and we were very much afraid. I am only a baggage camel of the 39th
Native Infantry, and I am not as brave as you are, my lords.”
“Then why didn’t you stay and carry baggage for the 39th Native
Infantry, instead of running all round the camp?” said the mule.
“They were such very bad dreams,” said the camel. “I am sorry. Listen!
What is that? Shall we run on again?”
“Sit down,” said the mule, “or you’ll snap your long stick-legs between
the guns.” He cocked one ear and listened. “Bullocks!” he said. “Gun
bullocks. On my word, you and your friends have waked the camp very
thoroughly. It takes a good deal of prodding to put up a gun-bullock.”
I heard a chain dragging along the ground, and a yoke of the great sulky
white bullocks that drag the heavy siege guns when the elephants won’t
go any nearer to the firing, came shouldering along together. And almost
stepping on the chain was another battery mule, calling wildly for
“Billy.”
“That’s one of our recruits,” said the old mule to the troop horse.
“He’s calling for me. Here, youngster, stop squealing. The dark never
hurt anybody yet.”
The gun-bullocks lay down together and began chewing the cud, but the
young mule huddled close to Billy.
“Things!” he said. “Fearful and horrible, Billy! They came into our
lines while we were asleep. D’you think they’ll kill us?”
“I’ve a very great mind to give you a number-one kicking,” said Billy.
“The idea of a fourteen-hand mule with your training disgracing the
battery before this gentleman!”
“Gently, gently!” said the troop-horse. “Remember they are always like
this to begin with. The first time I ever saw a man (it was in Australia
when I was a three-year-old) I ran for half a day, and if I’d seen a
camel, I should have been running still.”
Nearly all our horses for the English cavalry are brought to India from
Australia, and are broken in by the troopers themselves.
“True enough,” said Billy. “Stop shaking, youngster. The first time
they put the full harness with all its chains on my back I stood on
my forelegs and kicked every bit of it off. I hadn’t learned the real
science of kicking then, but the battery said they had never seen
anything like it.”
“But this wasn’t harness or anything that jingled,” said the young mule.
“You know I don’t mind that now, Billy. It was Things like trees, and
they fell up and down the lines and bubbled; and my head-rope broke, and
I couldn’t find my driver, and I couldn’t find you, Billy, so I ran off
with--with these gentlemen.”
“H’m!” said Billy. “As soon as I heard the camels were loose I came away
on my own account. When a battery--a screw-gun mule calls gun-bullocks
gentlemen, he must be very badly shaken up. Who are you fellows on the
ground there?”
The gun bullocks rolled their cuds, and answered both together: “The
seventh yoke of the first gun of the Big Gun Battery. We were asleep
when the camels came, but when we were trampled on we got up and walked
away. It is better to lie quiet in the mud than to be disturbed on good
bedding. We told your friend here that there was nothing to be afraid
of, but he knew so much that he thought otherwise. Wah!”
They went on chewing.
“That comes of being afraid,” said Billy. “You get laughed at by
gun-bullocks. I hope you like it, young un.”
The young mule’s teeth snapped, and I heard him say something about not
being afraid of any beefy old bullock in the world. But the bullocks
only clicked their horns together and went on chewing.
“Now, don’t be angry after you’ve been afraid. That’s the worst kind
of cowardice,” said the troop-horse. “Anybody can be forgiven for being
scared in the night, I think, if they see things they don’t understand.
We’ve broken out of our pickets, again and again, four hundred and fifty
of us, just because a new recruit got to telling tales of whip snakes at
home in Australia till we were scared to death of the loose ends of our
head-ropes.”
“That’s all very well in camp,” said Billy. “I’m not above stampeding
myself, for the fun of the thing, when I haven’t been out for a day or
two. But what do you do on active service?”
“Oh, that’s quite another set of new shoes,” said the troop horse. “Dick
Cunliffe’s on my back then, and drives his knees into me, and all I have
to do is to watch where I am putting my feet, and to keep my hind legs
well under me, and be bridle-wise.”
“What’s bridle-wise?” said the young mule.
“By the Blue Gums of the Back Blocks,” snorted the troop-horse, “do you
mean to say that you aren’t taught to be bridle-wise in your business?
How can you do anything, unless you can spin round at once when the
rein is pressed on your neck? It means life or death to your man, and of
course that’s life and death to you. Get round with your hind legs under
you the instant you feel the rein on your neck. If you haven’t room to
swing round, rear up a little and come round on your hind legs. That’s
being bridle-wise.”
“We aren’t taught that way,” said Billy the mule stiffly. “We’re taught
to obey the man at our head: step off when he says so, and step in when
he says so. I suppose it comes to the same thing. Now, with all this
fine fancy business and rearing, which must be very bad for your hocks,
what do you do?”
“That depends,” said the troop-horse. “Generally I have to go in among a
lot of yelling, hairy men with knives--long shiny knives, worse than
the farrier’s knives--and I have to take care that Dick’s boot is just
touching the next man’s boot without crushing it. I can see Dick’s lance
to the right of my right eye, and I know I’m safe. I shouldn’t care to
be the man or horse that stood up to Dick and me when we’re in a hurry.”
“Don’t the knives hurt?” said the young mule.
“Well, I got one cut across the chest once, but that wasn’t Dick’s
fault--”
“A lot I should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!” said the
young mule.
“You must,” said the troop horse. “If you don’t trust your man, you may
as well run away at once. That’s what some of our horses do, and I don’t
blame them. As I was saying, it wasn’t Dick’s fault. The man was lying
on the ground, and I stretched myself not to tread on him, and he
slashed up at me. Next time I have to go over a man lying down I shall
step on him--hard.”