The Durbar—Outside the palace—The State elephants—The soldiery—The Durbar Hall—Officials and gentry of the State—The throne—Queen Victoria's banner—The hidden ladies—Purdah nashin—Arrival of theDewan—The Maharajah's entry—The Sons' Salute—A chivalrous Indian custom—Nuzzurs—The Dewan's task—The Maharani—An Indian reformer—Bramo Samaj—Pretty princesses—An informal banquet—Thenautch—A moonlight ride—The Maharajah—A soldier and a sportsman—Cooch Behar—The palace—A dinner-party—The heir's birthday celebrations—Schoolboys' sports—Indian amateur theatricals—An evening in the palace—A panther-drive—Exciting sport—Death of the panther—Partridge shooting on elephants—A stray rhinoceros—Prince Jit's luck—Friendly intercourse between Indians and Englishmen—An unjust complaint.
The Durbar—Outside the palace—The State elephants—The soldiery—The Durbar Hall—Officials and gentry of the State—The throne—Queen Victoria's banner—The hidden ladies—Purdah nashin—Arrival of theDewan—The Maharajah's entry—The Sons' Salute—A chivalrous Indian custom—Nuzzurs—The Dewan's task—The Maharani—An Indian reformer—Bramo Samaj—Pretty princesses—An informal banquet—Thenautch—A moonlight ride—The Maharajah—A soldier and a sportsman—Cooch Behar—The palace—A dinner-party—The heir's birthday celebrations—Schoolboys' sports—Indian amateur theatricals—An evening in the palace—A panther-drive—Exciting sport—Death of the panther—Partridge shooting on elephants—A stray rhinoceros—Prince Jit's luck—Friendly intercourse between Indians and Englishmen—An unjust complaint.
The long arcaded front of the Palace of Cooch Behar gleamed in the glow of torches held by hundreds of white-clad natives. From the broad steps of the entrance to the lofty dome above it was outlined with lamps flickering in the night breeze. Before the great portals were ranged two lines of elephants with the State silver howdahs and trappings of heavily embroidered cloth of gold. Their broad faces streaked with white paint in quaint designs, their tusks tipped with brass, the great beasts looked like legendary monsters in the ruddy torchlight as they stood swinging their trunks, flapping their ears, and shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Up the lanebetween them came carriages and palankeens bearing the officials and nobles of the State to do homage to their Maharajah, who this night held his annual Durbar. The flight of broad steps in front of the great doorway was crowded with swordsmen and spearmen; while on the ground below were the uniformed State Band under a European conductor, and a Guard of Honour of the red-coated Cooch Behar Infantry with muzzle-loading muskets.
The large circular Durbar Hall running up to the high domed roof and surrounded by a balustraded gallery seemed set for a stage scene. The floor was covered with the seated forms of officials and gentry clothed in white and wearing their jewels. On a dais under a golden canopy stood an empty gilt throne, one arm fashioned into the shape of an elephant, the other a tiger. Beside it was a large banner, the gift of the late Queen Victoria, heavily embroidered in gold with the same animals, which are the armorial bearings of the State. Behind the throne stood a number of swordsmen and halberdiers. One portion of the gallery was shrouded by latticed screens, from behind which came the rustle of draperies and the murmur of female voices; for they hid Her Highness the Maharani, her daughters, and the ladies of Cooch Behar—purdah nashin, that is, "hidden behind the veil" and never to reveal their faces to any men but their near kin. In another part of the gallery were a few British officers and civilians gazing with interest on the brilliant spectacle below. Through the great entrance could be seen the crowd outside, the soldiery and the lines of restlessly swaying elephants. Through them up the broad roadway came a palankeen borne on the shoulders of cooliesand surrounded by torch-bearers and swordsmen. A cheer went up from the crowd; and all inside the hall rose as the palankeen stopped, and from it emerged a frail old man, clothed in white and adorned with splendid jewels which flashed in the ruddy glow of the torches and the clearer light of the electric lamps. It was theDewan, the Prime Minister of the State. As he entered the Durbar Hall the mass of white-robed officials swayed like a field of ripe grain in the wind, as all present bowed to him. He took his place before the empty throne.
Then the assemblage bent lower and a murmured acclamation went up from all as their Maharajah entered, followed by a procession of Indian aides-de-camp in white uniforms with gold aigulettes, white spiked helmets and trailing swords, similar to the summer dress of British officers in India. His Highness was clothed in a beautiful native garb of pale blue, with apuggri, or turban, of the same delicate hue with a diamond-studded aigrette. From the broad gold belt around his waist hung a jewelled scimitar. His breast glittered with orders and war medals, for he had seen active service with the British Army. His jewels flashed in coloured fire in the lamps.
With slow and stately step he passed through the great chamber and seated himself on the golden throne; while silver trumpets pealed a welcome and the State Band played the National Anthem of Cooch Behar. Then came a silence and an expectant pause; and there entered four gallant young figures, the Maharajah's sons. Foremost came the heir, Prince Rajendra Narayen, in the scarlet tunic of the Westminster Dragons, and his brother, PrinceJitendra, in the beautiful white, blue and gold uniform of the Imperial Cadet Corps. Then followed Prince Victor, a godson of the late Queen Victoria, in the same magnificent dress, and the youngest son, Prince Hitendra, in a fine Indian costume of cloth of gold. The four young men halted and fronted their royal father. Then the heir apparent walked forward to the steps of the throne and held out his sheathed sword horizontally before him in the splendid Indian salute which means "I place my life and my sword in your hand." His Highness bent forward and touched the hilt, the emblematic sign meaning "I accept the gift and give you back your life." Prince Rajendra let fall the sword to his side, brought his hand to his helmet in military salute and took his place on the dais beside his father. Each of the other sons came forward in turn, did homage likewise; and then the four stood two and two on each side of the throne.
Never have I looked on a more picturesque ceremonial or magnificent spectacle than this scene of the Durbar. It seemed too splendid, too glowing with colour, to be real life. The brilliantly lit chamber, the flashing of jewels and gold, the dense throng of white-clad officials, the glittering weapons of the armed attendants; and then the four richly apparelled princes pledging their fealty to their Sovereign and Sire in the historic Oriental custom that has come down to us through the storied ages of Indian chivalry. I could hardly realise that this gorgeous pageant was not some magnificent stage scene.
The staff officers now came forward and offered their swords. Then theDewan, followed by the swarms of officials and nobles, advanced one by oneto the steps of the throne and presented theirmuzzurs, the Indian offering of gold or silver coins, which His Highness "touched and remitted," as the quaint phrase runs. Each, after salaaming profoundly before the throne, retired backwards and brought his gift to an official, who counted the amount of the offering, for next day the donor would be dowered with a present of equal amount, a profitable transaction as his own was returned to him.
An attendant brought forward a splendid embossed gold hookah two feet high and placed it before the throne. The long snake-like gold tube and mouthpiece were handed to the Maharajah, who smoked during the remainder of the proceedings. For now a quaint ceremony began. The accounts of the various parts and departments of the State were brought solemnly to theDewan, who sat on the floor surrounded by piles of account-books, which he examined. When he had concluded his lengthy task the Durbar came to an end. The assemblage rose and bowed low as the Maharajah, attended by his sons and his aides-de-camp, passed in procession out of the hall.
Half an hour later the few military and civilian guests assembled in the beautiful State drawing-room, where we were joined by the Maharani and her two pretty daughters attired in exceedingly artistic native costumes and wearing delicately tintedsarisdraped most becomingly over their heads. Her Highness looked almost as youthful and lovely as on the day when the Maharajah first saw her and lost his heart to her. For, unlike most Indian marriages, theirs was a true love-match. She was a daughter ofthe famous religious reformer, Mr Sen, the founder of theBramo Samajfaith, which substitutes for the mythology and the seventy thousand deities of the Hindu worship, a purer belief in one God. The Maharani has the fair complexion of high-class Brahmin ladies, and an individuality and a charm of her own that makes her hosts of friends. The pretty young princesses seemed more to be masquerading in an attractive fancy dress than wearing their national costume; for they had been brought up by English governesses and educated in England, had danced through the ball-rooms of London and Calcutta in the smartest Parisian toilettes, and were as much at home in the Park or at a gala night at the Opera as in their own country.
Owing to the Durbar, dinner was served at a late hour in the State dining-room, a spacious apartment in white and gold. At one end hung full-length portraits of our host and hostess in the gorgeous robes they wore at the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in the celebrations in London. Table and sideboard shone with massive silver cups won at race-meetings and shows by the horses of the Cooch Behar stable. Native servants in scarlet and gold waited on the guests; but with all the luxury of a banquet served on silver there was no formality about the meal. The Maharajah and his sons had changed their magnificent attire for a comfortable native dress; and listening to their conversation in colloquial English on polo, shooting, and London theatrical gossip it was hard to realise that an hour before they had been playing their picturesque parts in such a stately Oriental pageant. All the family generally used English as their speech. The boys had been educatedat Eton; and Victor, in addition, had done a course at an American University.
After dinner we adjourned to the Durbar Hall again to witness from the galleries anautch; and real Indian dancing is a spectacle of which the European soon has his fill. And somewhere about three o'clock in the morning, fatigued with the monotonous chant and the lazily moving fat figures of thenautchgirls, overpowered by the heated atmosphere heavy with scent, I gladly hailed the suggestion of Prince Rajendra to escape from it all and go for a mad rush in his motor-car through the surrounding country in the brilliant moonlight. His brothers followed us in their cars.Nautchesand motor-cars, the brilliant spectacle of the Durbar and these Eton-bred Indian Princes; what a fantastic medley it all seemed! And the swift sweep through the park in the cool morning air back to an Indian palace and a guest-chamber fitted like the best bedroom in a Europeanhôtel de luxe. But when next day I left, in response to an urgent message bidding me come to shoot a tiger near Buxa, even the prospect of the sport scarcely reconciled me to quitting the lavish hospitality of my hosts.
The Maharajah of that day is unfortunately no longer alive. The descendant of a hill race, he had all the fighting spirit of his ancestors who left their mountains to carve out a kingdom for themselves among the unwarlike dwellers of the Bengal plains. He took part in the Tirah Campaign with our troops, and held the rank of colonel in our Indian Cavalry. A sportsman, he was regarded throughout India, that land of sportsmen, as one of the best authorities in the world on big-game shooting. He had not hisequal in the art of managing a beat with elephants; and it was a marvellous sight to see him working a long line of them through thick jungle with the skill of a M.F.H. with his hounds in covert. He was a splendid horseman. Excelling in all games, he brought up his sons in the love of sport and athletics and made them fine polo players, first-class cricketers and footballers and crack shots. But, in addition, he was an extremely clever and well-read man and a most interesting talker. He had been everywhere, seen everything, and knew most of the interesting personalities of the day. His hospitality was proverbial. In his residences in Calcutta and Darjeeling, in his Palace of Cooch Behar, he kept open house. His courtesy and charm of manner endeared him to all who knew him.
On my first visit to Cooch Behar in response to an invitation of His Highness, Creagh and I were met at the railway station by Captain Denham White, then temporarily acting civil surgeon of the State. He drove us through the town which, though small, is well planned. The streets are broad, well laid, and shaded with trees. In the centre of it lies a large square tank or pond surrounded by roads bordered by public and official buildings. Here afterwards I often saw the invalid permanent civil surgeon, for whom Captain White was then acting, sitting in a chair on the bank fishing, with a table beside him on which his servant laid his tea. And undisturbed by the endless procession of bullock carts, coolies, and natives of all ages, the old doctor sat and cast his line, hooking some extraordinary large fish at times.
The poorer houses of the town were built on postswith bamboo walls and thatched roofs, similar to the Filipino dwellings in Manila, cool and airy and far healthier than the awful abodes of the lower classes in an English city. Cooch Behar could boast a fine college, a good civil hospital and quite a comfortable prison. I visited it once and found the thieves, highway robbers, and murderers, anything but miserable despite their chains, making soda water, grinding corn, cultivating vegetables or eating better and more plentiful meals than they had ever got in their own homes.
Beyond the town we drove through the open tree-shaded park to the palace, a long two-storied building with arcaded verandas above and below. It was shaped like a T laid on its side; and at the junction of the two strokes was the portico leading to a large hall, off which opened the great Durbar room surmounted by its lofty white dome. On the left of the entrance, as one approached, were, on both stories, the long series of guest-chambers. On the right along the lower veranda was the State dining-room. Off the entrance hall to the right a broad staircase led to the upper story. Its walls were crowded with trophies of sport which had fallen to the Maharajah's rifle all over the world. Heads of bison, Indian and Cape buffaloes, moose, wapiti,sambhur, cheetal and roe deer from Germany—relics of many lands. To the right lay the State drawing-room and the splendidly appointed billiard-room carpeted with the skins of tigers. It occupied the front end of the short stroke of the T, and so from its windows and doors gave a fine view over the park on three sides, which made it a popular apartment for the afternoon tea rendezvous with the ladies of the family and their Europeanguests. Behind, lay the private apartments of His Highness, the Maharani and her daughters, from the flat roofs above which, reached by a small staircase, one could see for many miles over the flat country beyond the English-like park. From here the Maharani could look down unseen, for in deference to the customs of her husband's subjects she and her daughters werepurdahin the State outside the palace, and watch her sons playing football with the Cooch Behar team in the annual association tournament for a cup given by His Highness. The ground was situated in the park close under the walls of the building.
At the time of this visit the Maharajah was the only member of the family in Cooch Behar. He had issued invitations to a dinner-party in our honour that evening, at which we met his staff and some of the principal gentlemen of his State. He joined us at dinner himself; for, being a follower of theBramo Samajfaith, he had no religious prejudices that prevented him from eating with Europeans. I have hunted, shot, played polo and pigsticked with Hindu Princes who yet could not sit down at the same table with me when I dined at their palaces. At most they entered the room when dinner was over and filled a glass of wine to drink our Sovereign's health. But this meal in Cooch Behar was enlivened for me by the interesting conversation of my host, whom I was meeting for the first time. The State Band played outside the dining-room. After dinner we adjourned to the billiard-room or made up a bridge table. The Maharajah was practically the first Indian Prince to adopt English customs and was a frequent visitor to England, where he and his consortwere great favourites of the late Queen Victoria. For her and the then reigning monarch King Edward VII. he entertained the warmest personal regard and admiration; and his loyalty to the British rule was founded on his sincere conviction of the benefits it conferred on India. I remember that during dinner that night he said to me:
"If ever, during my lifetime, the British quitted India, my departure would precede theirs; for this would be no country to live in then. Chaos, bloodshed and confusion would be its lot."
I drew him out on the subject of big-game shooting, of which few men living knew more, and listened with interest to his tales ofshikar. Then the conversation ranged to art, the theatre, war, and politics; and on each he could speak entertainingly. He was deeply interested in developing the resources of his State and was anxious to introduce scientific methods among his farmers. Among other plans he was anxious to improve the quality of the native tobacco grown largely in the State, and had got for the purpose the best species of American and Turkish plants. His third son Victor, after finishing his course at an American University, was sent to Cuba to inspect the plantations and factories, and study the methods in use there.
On the following day my subaltern and I were obliged to set our faces towards Buxa again; and it seemed like turning our backs on civilisation when we left the luxury of Cooch Behar Palace behind us and wended our way to our solitary little Station in the hills.
On another occasion I was present for the celebrations of the birthday of the eldest son, PrinceRajendra, best known to his friends as "Raji," who is now the Maharajah.[6]] In the palace park the annual sports of the Cooch Behar Boys' School were held. To a European new to India the sight of the native youngsters competing in sprint, hurdle and long-distance races and doing high and broad jumps like their contemporaries in England would have seemed strange. But wherever the Briton goes he takes his sports and games with him and imbues the race he finds himself among with his own love of them. So Chinese lads play cricket and football; and swarthy-bearded Indian sepoys rush round the obstacle course in their regimental sports or play side by side with their white officers on the hockey ground.
Among the marquees in the enclosure for the spectators who were watching the schoolboys' competitions was one which was shrouded bychikks, or bamboo latticed blinds which enabled the occupants to see all that was passing outside and remain invisible themselves. It was intended for the use of the Maharani and her daughters, who, as I have said, werepurdahin their own State in deference to the prejudices of the Cooch Beharis. This custom among the Hindus sprang up at the time of the Mohammedan invasions, partly from imitation of their conquerors, but probably more to shield their women from the licentious gaze of the victorious Mussulmans, who would have had small scruple in seizing any female whose Beauty attracted them.
The Maharani and the young princesses emerged heavily veiled from the palace and entered a motor-car which was shrouded in white linen in such a wayas to hide them from sight. It took them through the park to the sports enclosure, where servants held up white sheets to form a lane through which the ladies could pass unseen to the seclusion of their marquee.
Among the celebrations in honour of the day—how English customs are seizing in the East!—was an amateur theatrical performance by the Young Men's Club of Cooch Behar. After dinner, Prince Raji motored me into the town to see it. The play was in Bengali, the plot being an episode in the history of the State several hundred years ago and containing much bloodshed and tragedy. It was excellently well staged and the acting was capital. Being ignorant of the language I was dependent on my companion's explanations. Like all Oriental plays it was of inordinate length; and having witnessed six or seven acts I was quite ready to depart without waiting for the end when my friend suggested it.
Once when staying at the palace I was fortunate in having an opportunity of witnessing the Maharajah's skill in handling a line of elephants in a beat. The previous night at dinner he told us that he had received information of a "kill" by a panther near a village five miles away, and that he had given orders for his elephants to be ready on the spot next morning. The male guests present hailed the news with joy. We happened to be a curiously assorted party in race and in costume round the table that night. The Maharajah and his family wore Indian dress, as they usually did in the palace; though elsewhere they invariably wore European attire. Two Sikh nobles, officers of the Maharajah of Patiala's Bodyguard,were in correct evening clothes but wore whitepuggrisround their heads, which concealed their long hair, which the Sikh is forbidden by his religion to cut. They were tall, handsome men with the good features of their race. As they spoke no English, we were obliged to converse with them in Urdu. The Maharani was not well acquainted with that language and so was forced to appeal to me to interpret for her several times. The Indian aide-de-camp of His Highness wore white mess dress; while a major in a British regiment and I were in the conventional black and white.
After dinner we joined the ladies in the beautiful yellow and gold State drawing-room. We found one of the pretty young princesses seated at the piano, making a delightful picture in the charming Indian dress, the gold-borderedsaridraped becomingly over her dark hair, her tiny bare feet pressing the pedals as she played—how incongruous it seemed!—a selection from a musical comedy; and, attracted by the melody of the song then the rage in London, her brothers came in from the billiard-room to join in the chorus.
Next morning my orderly woke me at 4-30 a.m. I hurriedly drank my tea and got into shooting kit; for we were to start at five o'clock. When I came out of my room on to the lower veranda I found some of our party already assembled by the great entrance. The Maharajah was seated in his motor-car with his youngest daughter, Princess Sudhira, beside him. To my surprise she was attired in a very smartly cut coat and skirt and wore a sun helmet; for, as she promptly informed me, she did not consider herself old enough—she was only sixteen—to be botheredby the restrictions ofpurdahwhen it did not suit her. Her father shook his head and smiled at the pretty rebel against Hindu customs.
Major F—— and I went with them in their car; while the Sikh officers followed in another. We sped rapidly through the park and out along rough country roads, by thatched cottages and grass huts, groves of mango trees and dense thickets of bamboo. By the village wells dark-eyed women, poising their water jars on their heads turned to stare at us as we passed in a cloud of dust. From the hamlets tiny naked children rushed out to gaze at theshaitan ki gharri—the "devil's car." We soon reached the spot where the elephants were waiting for us beside the road. On the backs of the splendid tuskers intended for the shooters were howdahs fitted with gun rests and seats. Our elephants knelt down for us to clamber up. The Maharajah, with the true spirit of hospitality, left the sport to his guests and went off to take charge of the line of beaters. Princess Sudhira, armed with a camera, shared his howdah. The shooting elephants moved across the fields to anullahfilled with small trees and scrub jungle, in which the panther was reported to be hiding, and took up places in or on either bank of it. The beaters made a long circuit and formed line across thenullah. Then at a signal from the Maharajah they advanced towards us. As the ground on either side consisted of open, ploughed fields devoid of cover the panther would be forced to come along the ravine to the guns. The loud cries of themahouts, the trumpeting of the elephants, the crashing of trampled jungle and the rending of boughs torn from the trees made a pandemonium of noise. I was posted high up on a bankand had a good general view of the scene. One of the Sikh nobles suddenly raised his rifle and fired; and I saw the lithe form of the panther for a few seconds as it dashed past his elephant and bounded like a great cat along thenullah. I caught an occasional glimpse of it between the patches of jungle but could not succeed in getting a shot. The Sikh's bullet had wounded it; but for the time it had succeeded in making its escape.
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 excitedmahoutskeep 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 mymahoutforward 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. PrincessSudhira 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. Severalmahoutsclimbed 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 grass under the elephants' feet. A scattered fire opened along the line and the partridges dropped in crumpled balls 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 inshikar. His father was absent in Assam 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 thefamily 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 mass 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 hisbicycle 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 ofhiswife 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 emancipates his own womenkind he cannot reasonably expect to be allowed a familiar footing in an Englishman's home.
FOOTNOTES:[6]He died inA.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.
[6]He died inA.D.1913, and was succeeded by his brother, Prince Jitendra.
[6]He died inA.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.
[7]He died in 1911; and his eldest son and successor, Rajendra, died in 1913. Prince Jitendra is now Maharajah.
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 passengers on the steamer—American globe-trotters—the court martial—A callous criminal—Appeal to the Viceroy—Sentence of death—The execution.
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 passengers 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 glass 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 withweapons 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 assassin. 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 assassin 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 assassin 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 akhakur. 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 God, Balderston, there has been a murder," I cried. "Thatwasa 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 noreply. 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 assassin. 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 assassin, 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 assistant, the very inefficient substitute 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. "Tryto 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 assistant, useless, like so many of his race, in an emergency.
"Oh, for God'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 assassin. 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 fortwere 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:
"Sahib, the outer door of my room, which I left open, is now closed and bolted from the inside. Farid Khan must be within."
I went to the room, which was in the same single-storied building as the barrack-room in which the crime had been committed. I tried the door. It was fastened at the bottom. Bidding the sepoys with me load their rifles, I endeavoured to push the door in, sincerely hoping that if I succeeded I would not be received by a bullet. The door resisted, then gave way so suddenly that I fell inside head foremost. I sprang up hurriedly with the uncomfortable feeling that at any moment I might have the murderer's bayonet in me. I groped round the room in the darkness, then lit a match and found the place empty. The door must have swung to in the wind and the bolt fallen down and been caught in the socket. Annoyed at having the scare for nothing I turned to walk out and found myself confronted by the muzzles of my men's rifles, for they could not see who was emerging from the dark interior. Having no desire to be shot by mistake, I quickly let them know who I was. As I came out into the open air, a voice cried:
"Sahib, Sahib! He has escaped. He has left the fort"; and a native follower rushed up breathlessly to say that he had just been passed by a flying figure which had climbed over the back gate.
Calling to my two sepoys to follow me, I ran to this gate and struggled with the stiff bolts. With difficulty we dragged open the heavy iron leaves which grated noisily on their hinges. Outside lay a strip of grass dotted with trees and a few wooden sheds. It ran the length of the back wall but was only forty yards wide, ending on the edge of the precipice which fell sheer for three hundred feet. Down the steep face a zigzag path was cut leading to the hill on which the segregation hospital, burned in the forest fires, had stood. I searched around and inside the sheds and moved cautiously over the grassy shelf, keeping carefully away from the brink of the cliff. I was not carrying a weapon myself; for the night was so dark that the murderer, if he stood motionless, would see us first and could get in the first shot. If he missed I preferred trying to close with him at once, and not engaging in a duel with rifles with him. Should I succeed in grappling with him, the bayonets of my two men would soon end the struggle.
Where the back wall terminated the side walls joined it at right angles; and here our task became doubly dangerous, for they were built almost on the edge of the precipice; and we had to move along in single file, keeping one hand on the wall, for a false step meant a fall on to the rocks far below. I groped cautiously along in the utter darkness, feeling much more afraid of tumbling over the cliffs than I was of the chance of meeting with the murderer.But, though I did not know it at the time, we had already passed him; for he was standing motionless behind one of the trees near the back wall, watching us as we went by, ready to fire at us if we saw and tried to catch him.
Then, when we had gone by, he stole silently down the zigzag path and climbed the opposite hill, intending to descend on the other side and gain the mountain road leading down to Santrabari.
But when I had completely circled the outer walls I entered the fort by the front gate and at once sent off a party of men under my old Rajput Subhedar, Sohanpal Singh, to go down to Santrabari and hide in the elephant stables. I gave them orders that, if the fugitive came by, they were to cover him with their rifles, call on him to surrender and shoot him down if he attempted to resist. The murderer, crouching on the hill above, heard them passing on the road below him, and turned off in another direction.
Having sent off another party along the mountain-track to Chunabatti, I fell out the detachment and entered the orderly-room to hold an inquiry into the case. The story of the crime was soon told. In the barrack-room there were thirty-three beds, all occupied except the one exactly opposite Shaikh Bakur's. This belonged to the missing sentry, Farid Khan, who was on guard for the night. The men had been awakened by the deafening report of a rifle fired in the room. Although, when they had gone to sleep, the big wall-lanterns had been extinguished and the room was in darkness, there was now a small lamp burning beside Farid Khan's bed. By its light some of the sepoys saw a figure rush outthrough the open door and heard the clatter of heavy nailed boots on the stone-paved veranda outside. The colour-havildar had shrieked out: "I am shot! I am shot!"
Suddenly the small lamp was extinguished; and the darkness increased the confusion of the room. The men nearest Shaikh Bakur rushed to his bedside, others called out to him to ask what was the matter; some cried out for the lamps to be lit; and others, not realising what had happened, shouted inquiries. At last a lantern was lighted and revealed the unfortunate man writhing in agony on his bed. Meanwhile the sentry on the quarter guard not fifty yards away, hearing the shot and the consequent uproar, awoke the havildar in charge of the guard. He ordered the bugler to sound the "alarm." The guard having fallen in, thenaik(or corporal) went to the magazine close by and found that the sentry over it, whom he had visited fifteen minutes before, was missing from his post. On the "alarm" being sounded, the sepoys rushed out of their barrack-rooms with their rifles and accoutrements and fell in on parade. Still the magazine sentry did not appear, and his absence aroused suspicion. It was remembered that he was a young Mussulman called Farid Khan whom I had checked on parade that morning for carelessness in drill and who had been previously reprimanded by Shaikh Bakur for not having his accoutrements clean.
I discovered that the small lamp, which had been burning when the shot was fired and the murderer ran out of the room, had been put out by a young sepoy who slept in the next cot to Farid Khan's, apparently to help the assassin to escape in thedarkness. This sepoy came from the same district as the missing sentry and was his intimate friend. I made him a prisoner.
There was nothing more to be done now until daylight, except to dispatch telegrams to the police and to regimental and brigade headquarters. I sent everyone off to bed and sat alone in the orderly-room by the light of a solitary lamp, planning out measures to capture the murderer. The cries from the barrack-room had ceased; for the poor havildar was dead, and his body had been removed to the hospital. After the recent confusion and bustle the stillness and silence seemed intense. I was haunted by the vision of the murdered man's face and filled with a bitter resentment against his slayer. The odds were greatly in favour of the assassin's escape. In the wild country around us, the broken, jungle-covered hills, the dense forest, a fugitive could hide himself indefinitely, provided only that he could procure food. If he succeeded in making his way to the main railway line the only chance of capturing him lay in his returning to his own country, hundreds of miles away; and I had telegraphed to the police of his village. The knowledge I had acquired of the country about us in shooting and on the march stood me now in good stead. The little railway from Buxa Road would be too dangerous for him; but he might try to make his way on foot to the junction of the main line at Gitaldaha; or a route through the forest led to villages and tea gardens at Kalchini, whence he might eventually reach another railway. But what I feared most was that he might commit suicide somewhere in the mountains or in the jungle and his body be never found,or cross the border to Bhutan, where he would probably be murdered for his rifle. In either case we would always remain ignorant of his fate. Then it would be believed that he had succeeded in effecting his escape. Four or five years before, another murder had been committed in the regiment and the assassin had never been captured. It would be a fatal thing if this murderer also succeeded in avoiding arrest; as it might encourage a repetition of the crime. The hours were interminable. It seemed as if the daylight to help us in our search would never come. My thoughts wandered to the fugitive. I pictured him lying out in the jungle, trembling at every rustle in the undergrowth that might herald the stealthy approach of a savage beast, realising now that his life was forfeit and that henceforth every man's hand was against him. I wondered if in the hours of silent watching in the darkness he had begun to appreciate his deed and its consequences.
At last the wished-for dawn came. I sent out armed patrols in all directions to follow up every track and to occupy every village and hamlet in which the fugitive might try to obtain food. Other parties went by train to Gitaldaha, one to remain there, the rest to go east and west to the junctions of other railways. When these dispositions were complete we had a net, fifty miles wide, around the district. These patrols had orders to take the fugitive dead or alive. I instructed them to shoot him down if he attempted to resist; for I did not want to lose another of my men by his hand.
The day passed wearily. No news came in; and I chafed at the inaction. At noon a sepoy rushedup to my bungalow to tell me that the men of the quarter guard had heard two shots on a wooded hill about half a mile from the fort. I doubled out with an armed party at once and searched the jungle around, without result. To this day I have never found an explanation of these shots, which had been distinctly heard by all the sepoys left in the fort. Night fell without any intelligence reaching me from any of the parties out. The native officers urged us to have a guard placed over the Mess and my bungalow, lest the murderer should be tempted to come back in the dark and shoot me; but I refused, as I wished the men to get all the rest they could in view of the exertions they might be called on to make. I slept little that night; for the memory of the tragedy weighed heavily on me.
Next morning some of the patrols straggled in, exhausted and weary, having found no trace of the fugitive. But in the afternoon Tyson of Hathipota and an officer of the Royal Engineers named Marriott, who had been staying with him in his bungalow, rode into Buxa; and from them I got the first news of the murderer. For on their way from Hathipota they had met one of our search-parties under a havildar, called Ranjit Singh, who told them of the crime and said that he had been informed by villagers at Jainti that a man carrying a rifle had been seen coming out of the jungle early that morning and going east. Shortly afterwards one of Ranjit Singh's patrol arrived and confirmed this. The havildar had sent him back to report to me and tell me that the rest of the party were continuing in pursuit. The news was electrifying. Although the fugitive was going in the opposite direction towhere his home lay, yet he was heading towards a river down which he could get by boat to a main railway line. It was imperative to bar his way. I gave orders for a party to start by the first train to Gitaldaha, change to this main line, and proceed to the point where it crossed the river. There they were to detrain and search every boat coming down from the north. A native officer was dispatched on Balderston's pony at once to overtake Ranjit Singh and urge him on the trail. Then I ordered sixty Rajputs, who being Hindus would not be in sympathy with the Mohammedan fugitive, to prepare to start in half an hour and march through the forest to Hathipota, where they were to halt for the night. I determined to take command of this party myself. It was to be spread out into a cordon miles long between the hills and the main railway line. As I had to send telegrams warning the police in the direction in which the murderer was moving and make other arrangements, I sent the party on ahead under a native officer.
Our guests and Balderston volunteered for the pursuit. The latter borrowed a small pony about twelve hands high from abunniah, as he had lent his own to the native officer. Mounting our horses we set off down the steep mountain-road to Santrabari. When we reached the more level ground we galloped the three miles to Buxa Road Station. I expected to overtake my party before we reached this point, but to my surprise found no signs of them. It turned out that they had taken a short cut through the forest.
From the station a narrow track led through the jungle to Jainti. We rode down it in single file.Night had now fallen, and under the trees the darkness was intense. Marriott was leading and I was immediately behind him; but I could not see even his horse. Our animals stumbled over the fallen trees. Overhanging boughs, invisible to us, nearly swept us from our saddles. A crash and an exclamation from the leader told us that his horse had come to grief. Bruised by the fall, Marriott picked himself up and remounted. And on we blundered in the utter darkness. But there was a greater danger. We were passing through a part of the forest much frequented at night by wild elephants. None of us were armed; and the prospect of meeting with a rogue was not pleasant. Even if it did not attack us it would certainly stampede our horses. And to be bolted with in the thick forest in the dark would be a dangerous experience. Imagination peopled the black jungle with lurking tigers ready to spring out on us; and every sound seemed to herald the approach of a wild elephant. A deer crashing through the undergrowth would have been sufficient to scare our horses. To make matters worse Balderston's tiny pony could not keep up with us. Every time it lagged behind and its rider failed to answer our shouts, we were obliged to halt and wait for them. I shall not readily forget the terrors of that night ride. We were confronted by the constant risk of a fall over a prostrate tree-trunk or of being knocked out of the saddle by a low branch, and by the likely chance of encountering some dangerous wild beast. To keep up our spirits and in the hope of scaring off the elephants, tigers and bears by the far from melodious sounds, we sang choruses loudly in rather shaky voices. The milesthrough the forest seemed interminable; and I felt that I would sooner face a dozen armed murderers than ride them again.
At last we emerged on the bank of the river at Jainti, on the other side of which was the road to Hathipota along which we had come on our return from the ten days' march with the detachment. Our relief at being clear of the forest was great. We splashed through the shallows and set off at a gallop along the road. Suddenly my horse stumbled and fell in a hole, throwing me over its head. I was badly shaken, but I climbed into the saddle as the others, hearing the sound of the fall, pulled up and came back to me. The hole had evidently been dug in the roadway by a wild boar that night; as it had not been there when Tyson and Marriott came by in the morning. We rode on again. When I expressed to Tyson, cantering alongside, my relief at being out of the forest and safe from the chance of a meeting with wild elephants, I was appalled at hearing that the stretch of road we were then on was a regular thoroughfare for these animals on their way from the hills to the jungle.
We reached Tyson's bungalow about ten o'clock and found that my men had not arrived; and they did not march in until midnight. The native officer in command had tried a short cut through the forest, following a woodcutter's path which led the party into deepnullahs, up precipitous banks, and through the densest jungle. The sepoys were utterly exhausted by their toilsome march. The three elephants had started out with them, carrying the men's blankets and rations, but had fallen far behind. But when Tyson showed the partyquarters for the night in one of his sheds, no one waited for food or bedding but flung himself on the floor and fell asleep at once.
Ranjit Singh's patrol had reached the village of Hathipota near the tea garden on the previous night. The havildar had learned at Jainti that a man in white dress and carrying a rifle had been seen coming from the forest and crossing the river early on the morning after the murder. Farid Khan, having been on guard, was clad in khaki uniform when he left the fort. But the villagers told Ranjit Singh that this man had a bundle rolled up in a military greatcoat. The havildar guessed that the murderer had been wearing white undress under his uniform and had taken off the latter during the night. So he crossed the river and found in the dust of the road to Hathipota the footprints of a man wearing ammunition boots. He followed them for some miles until they turned off into the jungle, where he lost the trail. Thinking that Hathipota Village was the nearest place where the fugitive could procure food, he pushed on with his two men and hid close to it all night. As by morning their quarry had not appeared, the patrol went on to the ferry over the Raidak River near the planters' club, where the detachment had bivouacked and held sports on the march. Ranjit Singh had brought with him an armed policeman whom he had met at Jainti and who had been sent out to search for the murderer. But this worthy had no desire to meet him and declined to accompany our havildar any farther, alleging that he was fatigued by the previous day's exertions and must stay to rest and refresh himself in Hathipota. But scarcely had our patrol left thevillage when the policeman, standing with a group of peasants, was horrified by the sudden apparition of a man dressed in white and carrying a rifle. It was Farid Khan. The guardian of the law, though he had a rifle himself, was far too frightened to use it. Farid Khan walked boldly up to him and asked him if any sepoys had visited the village. The terrified policeman, anxious to get rid of him at all costs, told him that a havildar with a party who were looking for him, had just left. He even told him truthfully the direction they had taken. Farid Khan at once disappeared into the jungle.
Meanwhile Ranjit Singh, having reached the river and learned from the ferryman that the fugitive had not arrived there, warned the former not to help the murderer across the stream if he came. Then the patrol turned back to Hathipota. There they were informed of Farid Khan's appearance in the village. They at once retraced their steps to the ferry and found that the fugitive had come to it soon after they had left. He had reached it by a jungle path. When the ferryman refused to take him over the river Farid Khan raised his rifle and threatened to shoot him; and the man was forced to take him across. Ranjit Singh and his men at once followed.
No news of this had reached us. Next morning, as soon as there was light enough to show the way, I marched my party off in a south-easterly direction to reach a point from which we could spread out and form the cordon. Marriott accompanied us, and Balderston was now mounted on a good pony lent him by Tyson, who was obliged to remain behind. As the little column swung along in the light of therising sun, the excitement of the chase was visible in the sepoys. Struck by their silence, unusual when "marching at ease," I turned in the saddle to look at them. Every man's face was set in a grim, stern look; and as they strode on their eyes swept the country around with quick, keen glances as if they expected to see the fugitive every moment. Absorbing as is the chase of wild animals it is nothing to the excitement of a man-hunt. I forgot that we were tracking a human being to his doom, and remembered only that I had the blood of one of my best soldiers to avenge and that I was pursuing a cowardly murderer. I had given orders to all that Farid Khan, if overtaken and seen to be armed, was to be fired at on the spot; for I was determined to give him as little chance as possible to kill anyone else. Had I come upon him myself I would have shot him down without compunction, and regretted only that my bullet saved him from the gallows.
Some miles ahead of us lay a village which contained a police station. I sent Balderston and Marriott galloping on ahead to give warning to the havildar and constables in it, as they might not yet have heard of the crime. The column tramped on in gloomy silence through fairly open country, until we reached the new Raidak River and found our way barred by the swift-flowing stream. However, at this point there was a ferry consisting of a small dug-out canoe. I halted the detachment and was superintending the embarkation of the first batch of men, when higher up on the opposite bank two horsemen appeared. They were Marriott and Balderston. They called out across the water something that I did not hear. But the sepoysfarther along on our side of the river did; and a wild burst of cheering from them startled me. They seemed to have gone mad. They threw theirpuggrisin the air and waved their rifles above their heads yelling excitedly. Then a wild rush was made towards me.
"They've caught him, Sahib. Ranjit Singh has caught him," they cried, as they crowded round me. Never in my service had I seen the usually stolid sepoys so moved. Only then did I realise fully their bitter feeling of personal hatred of the treacherous assassin who had slain a comrade, and how keenly they had desired his capture.
Fording the stream the two officers approached me. Balderston waved his helmet, his face aglow with excitement.
"They've got him, major! They've got the brute, thank God!" he cried.
A load seemed lifted off my heart; but a sudden fear gripped me.
"Are the others safe?" I asked. "Anyone shot?"
"No, no. They sprang on him before he could use his rifle," he replied, as his pony scrambled up the bank. Swinging himself out of the saddle he continued: "We met Ranjit Singh on the road bringing him along. They are not far off. They tracked him to a village and overpowered him before he could resist. He had his loaded rifle beside him."
That was the first happy moment I had experienced since the fatal night. The murderer was in our hands; and my poor havildar's death would be avenged.
We stood in silence beside the river, watching the opposite bank intently. At last on it appeared a little group of figures, three in khaki, a fourth in white. Again the cheering burst out from the sepoys and continued as the canoe was sent across the stream to bring over the prisoner and his captors. Farid Khan was in front, his hands bound behind his back by a rope, the end of which was held by Havildar Ranjit Singh, who carried a rifle. As they came down the sloping path to the water's edge, it occurred to me that the prisoner, when in the cranky boat, might endeavour to capsize it and drown himself. So I ordered two or three of my best swimmers to strip and be ready to plunge into the river. But Farid Khan stepped carefully into the canoe and seated himself in the bottom of it and never moved until it reached our side. He laughed amusedly when one of his escort, trying to spring ashore, fell into the shallow water. As the canoe grounded the sepoys crowded round it with menacing looks; and we officers had to drive them back. Had we not been there they would have lynched him. Some cursed and reviled him, while others applauded his captors. But coolly and unconcernedly he stepped ashore with a cynical smile on his face. When the havildar had marched him up in front of me he stood quietly at attention. He was a young man twenty-one years old, with good features and a slight, well-knit frame. He returned my gaze steadily and seemed as little perturbed as though the offence he would have to answer for were of the slightest nature. The havildar handed me a rifle.
"This was in the prisoner's possession when I arrested him," he said.
I examined the weapon. The barrel was fouled; and in the magazine were eight cartridges.
I warned Farid Khan that anything he said might be used in evidence against him, and then asked:
"Why did you run away from the fort?"
"Because, when I had shot the colour-havildar, it was the only thing to do," he replied unconcernedly.
"You confess that you did shoot Shaikh Bakur?" I said.
"Yes, I did shoot him."
"Why?"
"Because he punished me and abused me that day. I knew that I would be on guard that evening and would have cartridges for my rifle. So I resolved to shoot him. At first I did not intend to do it in the night; as it would cause a lot of trouble to the other sepoys of the detachment, since they would be obliged to turn out and try to capture me. But while I was on sentry I thought the matter over and reflected that I might not have as good a chance to kill him in the morning as when he was sleeping. So I determined to make sure of him and do it at once."
He spoke calmly and without the least sign of remorse or apprehension.
"How did you do it?" I asked.
"As soon as thenaik(corporal) of the guard had visited my post at eleven o'clock that night, I walked across to the barrack-room. I groped my way to my cot, beside which was a small lamp. This I lighted. Then I got my pipe, sat down on my bed and had a smoke. When I had finished it I stood up and took my rifle, which I loaded. Shaikh Bakurwas lying asleep opposite me. I shot him and ran out of the room."
I tried to picture the scene with the callous youngster calmly smoking as he watched his unconscious victim. I wondered if the sight of his enemy's face had aroused his anger as he looked at it.
"How was Shaikh Bakur lying?" I questioned. "Was his face turned towards you?"
"I don't know," he replied indifferently. "His head was covered up in the bedclothes; and I could not see it."
The cold-blooded manner of the crime horrified me. The murderer had coolly fired at a huddled mass of blankets. The listening sepoys around us were awed into silence as he calmly related the details of his foul deed.
"What did you do then?" I asked.
"I reloaded my rifle to shoot anyone who tried to stop me, thus putting one cartridge in the chamber and leaving eight in the magazine. I ran out of the room and stood outside near the building until the sepoys began to come out. Then I went to the back gate. While I was climbing it the bolt of the rifle dropped back and let the cartridge in the breach fall out. So you will only find eight in the magazine. Soon I heard the gate open and saw you come out with two men. I got behind a tree and watched you pass within five yards of me."
"Why did not you shoot me?" I said.
"Oh, I had no desire to kill you, Sahib, as long as you did not discover and try to capture me. If you had I would have shot you."
He spoke as coolly about killing me as if it were a most ordinary matter. I was less indifferent, andfelt thankful that I had not blundered on him in the dark. I realised fully what a narrow escape I had had.
"Why did you take your rifle with you when you went off?" I asked.
For the first time his indifferent manner vanished. A malevolent gleam shone in his eyes.
"Because my greatest enemy still lived," he said. "The man I most wanted to kill was the subhedar-major. I had gone to his room first that night and tried to enter it. But, luckily for him, the door was bolted. So, as I was determined to shoot someone, I went to the barrack-room and killed Shaikh Bakur. But I took my rifle; for I resolved to escape, hide in the jungle until the pursuit was over, then return at night and kill the subhedar-major."
He announced his murderous intention with the utmost calmness. I thanked God that we had been able to capture him; for if he had returned and shot his native officer, he would then have run amuck and killed until slain himself.
"How did you get away?" I said.
"After you had passed me, Sahib, I went down the zigzag path. I meant to get on to the road to Santrabari, but heard the patrol passing down it below me and knew that you had cut my retreat off that way. So I sat on the hill until daylight and then made my way through the forest to Jainti."
I asked him if he had any accomplices. He denied that he had; and, when I refused to believe him, he said:
"Why should I tell a lie now? I know that my life is forfeit."
"Yes," I replied. "You'll hang for this."
"I don't care. My father has five other sons and can spare me. But my one regret," he said, and again a baleful light shone in his eyes, "is that my worst enemy still lives."
I turned away from him and interrogated Ranjit Singh about the capture.