The Eagle Cliff, Robert Michael Ballantyne [top 10 books to read TXT] 📗

battle. Like equally-matched veterans they advanced with grim purpose and wary deliberation. With heads erect, and curled trunks, they met, more like wrestlers than swordsmen, each seeming to watch for a deadly grip. Suddenly they locked their trunks together, and began to sway to and fro with awful evidence of power, each straining his huge muscles to the uttermost--the conflict of Leviathan and Behemoth!

"For only a few minutes did the result seem doubtful to the hundreds of spectators, who, on elephant-back or hill-side, gazed with glaring eyes and bated breath, and in profound silence. The slightly superior bulk and weight of our gladiator soon began to tell. The rogue gave way, slightly. Chand Moorut, with the skill of the trained warrior or the practised pugilist, took instant advantage of the move. With the rush of a thunder-bolt he struck the rogue with his head on the shoulder. The effect was terrific. It caused him to turn a complete somersault into the jungle, where he fell with a thud and a crash that could be heard far and near, and there he lay sprawling for a few moments, nothing but struggling legs, trunk, and tail being visible above the long grass!"

"Hooray!" shouted Junkie, unable to restrain himself.

"Just what my man Quin said," continued Jackman. "Only he added, `Musha!' `Thunder-an'-turf,' and `Well, I niver!' And well he might, too, for none of us ever saw such a sight before. But the victory was not quite gained yet, for the rogue sprang up with amazing agility, and, refusing again to face such a terrible foe, he ran away, pursued hotly and clamorously by the whole khedda. I made my mahowt keep as close to Chand Moorut as possible, wishing to be in at the death. Suddenly a louder uproar in advance, and a shrill trumpeting assured me that the rogue had again been brought to bay.

"Although somewhat exhausted and shaken by his flight and the tremendous knock down, he fought viciously, and kept all his smaller foes at a respectful distance by repeated charges, until Chand Moorut again came up and laid him flat with another irresistible charge. He staggered to his feet again, however, and now the other fighting elephants, Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and others, were brought into action. These attacked the rogue furiously, knocking him down when he attempted to rise, and belabouring him with their trunks until he was thoroughly exhausted. Then one of the khedda men crept up behind him on foot, with thick ropes fitted for the purpose of tying him, and fixed them on the rogue's hind legs. But the brave man paid heavily for his daring. He was still engaged with the ropes when the animal suddenly kicked out and broke the poor fellow's thigh. He was quickly lifted up and taken to camp.

"Not so quickly, however, was the rogue taken to camp! As it was growing dark, some of us resolved to bivouac where the capture had been made, and tied our captive to a tree. Next morning we let him go with only a hind leg hobbled, so that he might find breakfast for himself. Then, having disposed of our own breakfast, we proceeded to induce our prisoner to go along with us--a dangerous and difficult operation. As long as he believed that he might go where he pleased, we could induce him to take a few steps, forward, but the moment he understood what we were driving at, he took the sulks, like an enormous spoilt child, and refused to move. The koonkies were therefore brought up, and Raj Mungul, going behind, gave him a shove that was irresistible. He lost temper and turned furiously on Raj, but received such an awful whack on the exposed flank from Isri Pershad, that he felt his case to be hopeless, and sulked again. Going down on his knees he stuck his tusks into the ground, like a sheet anchor, with a determination that expressed, `Move me out o' this if you can!'

"Chand Moorut accepted the unspoken challenge. He gave the rogue a shove that not only raised his hind legs in the air, but caused him to stand on his head, and finally hurled him on his back. As he rose, doggedly, he received several admonitory punches, and advanced a few paces. Spearmen also were brought forward to prick him on, but they only induced him to curl his trunk round a friendly tree that came in his way, and hold on. Neither bumping, pricking, nor walloping had now any effect. He seemed to have anchored himself there for the remainder of his natural life by an unnatural attachment.

"In this extremity the khedda men had recourse to their last resource. They placed under him some native fireworks, specially prepared for such emergencies, and, as it were, blew him up moderately. Being thus surprised into letting go his hold of the tree, he was urged slowly forward as before. You see, we did not want to kill the beast, though he richly deserved death, having killed so many natives, besides keeping a whole neighbourhood in alarm for years. We were anxious to take him to camp, and we managed it at last, though the difficulty was almost superhuman, and may to some extent be conceived when I tell you that, although we spent the whole of that day, from dawn to sunset, struggling with our obstinate captive, and with the entire force of the khedda, we only advanced to the extent of four or five hundred yards!"

Now, while this amazing story was being told by Giles Jackman to his friends in Barret's room, a very different story was being told in the room above them. That room was the nursery, and its only occupants were little Flo and her black doll. The rain had cleared off towards the afternoon, and a gleam of sunshine entering the nursery windows, had formed a spot of intense light on the nursery floor. This seemed to have suggested something of great interest to Flo, for, after gazing at it with bright eyes for some time, she suddenly held the doll before her and said--

"Blackie, I'm goin' to tell you a stowy--a bustingly intewestin' stowy."

We must remind the reader here that Flo was naturally simple and sweet, and that as Junkie was her chief playmate, she was scarcely responsible for her language.

"The stowy," continued Flo, "is all 'bout Doan of Ak, who was bu'nt by some naughty men, long, long ago! D'you hear, Blackie? It would make your hair stand on end--if you had any!"

Thereupon the little one set Blackie on a stool, propped her against the wall, and gave her a fairly correct account of the death of the unfortunate Joan of Arc, as related by Mrs Gordon that morning. She wound up with the question,--"Now, what you think of _zat_, Blackie?"

As Blackie would not answer, Flo had to draw on her own bank of imagination for further supplies of thought.

"Come," she cried, suddenly, with the eagerness of one whose cheque has just been honoured; "let's play at Doan of Ak! You will be Doan, and I will be the naughty men. I'll bu'n you! You mustn't squeal, or kick up a wumpus, you know, but be dood."

Having made this stipulation, our little heroine placed the black martyr on an old-fashioned straw-bottomed chair near the window, and getting hold of a quantity of paper and some old cotton dresses, she piled the whole round Blackie to represent faggots. This done, she stepped back and surveyed her work as an artist might study a picture.

"You've dot your best muslin fock on, da'ling, an it'll be spoiled; but I don't care for zat. Now, say your pays, Doan."

With this admonitory remark, Flo screwed up a piece of paper, went to the fireplace, made a very long arm through the fender, and lighted it. Next moment she applied the flame to the faggots, which blazed up with surprising rapidity.

Stepping quickly back, the dear little child gazed at her work with intense delight beaming from every feature.

"Now be dood, Blackie. Don't make a wumpus!" she said; and as she said it, the flames caught the window curtains and went up with a flare that caused Flo to shout with mingled delight and alarm.

"I wonder," remarked Mrs Gordon, who chanced to be in the drawing-room on the windward side of the nursery, "what amuses Flo so much!"

She arose and went, leisurely, to see.

Roderick, the groom, being in the harness-room on the lee side of the nursery at the time, made a remark with the same opening words.

"I wonder," said he, "what _that_ wull pe!" A sniffing action of the nose told what "that" meant. "Don't you smell a smell, Tonal'?"

Donald sniffed, and replied that he did--"what-e-ver."

"It wull pe somethin' on fire, Tonal'," said the groom, dropping the harness-brush and running out to the yard.

Donald being of the same opinion, followed him. At the same moment a piercing shriek was heard to issue from the house and wild confusion followed.

"Fire! fire!" yelled a voice in the yard outside, with that intensity of meaning which is born of thorough conviction.

Who that has never been roused by "fire!" can imagine the sensations that the cry evokes, and who that really has experienced those sensations can hope to explain them to the inexperienced? We cannot. We will not try.

But let us not plunge with undue haste into a fire!

It will be remembered that we left Jackman in Barret's room, having just ended his elephant story, to the satisfaction of his friends, while Mrs Gordon was on her way to the nursery, bent on investigation. Well, the voice that shrieked in the nursery was that of Mrs Gordon, and that which yelled in the yard was the voice of the groom, supplemented by Donald's treble.

Of course the gentlemen sprang to their feet, on hearing the uproar, dashed from the room in a body, and made straight for the nursery. On the way they met Mrs Gordon with Flo in her arms--all safe; not a hair of her pretty little head singed, but looking rather appalled by the consequences of what she had done.

"Safe! thank God!" exclaimed the laird, turning and descending with his wife and child, with some vague thoughts that he might be likely to find Mrs Moss in her favourite place of resort, the library.

He was right. He found her there in a dead faint on the floor. He also found his three boys there, exerting themselves desperately to haul her out of the room by a foot and an arm and the skirt of her dress.

"We knew she was here, daddy," gasped Eddie, "and came straight to help her."

"Out o' the way!" cried the laird as he grasped Mrs Moss in his arms and bore her away. "Mother and Flo are safe, boys. Look out for yourselves."

"I'll go for the photographs! Come, help me, Ted," cried Archie, as he ran up the now smoking stairs.

"I'll go for Milly!" cried the heroic Junkie, as, with flashing eyes, he dashed towards her room.

But Barret had gone for Milly before him! and without success. She was not in her room. "Milly! Milly!" he