The Eagle Cliff, R. M. Ballantyne [best fiction books to read .txt] 📗

“At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.

“Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing—”

“Skippin’, sor, ye said.”

“Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him—”

“Oh! was he killed?” exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!

There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question which sudden anxiety had forced from him.

“But why wasn’t you killed?” he asked almost indignantly.

“Whisht! honey, an’ ye’ll hear, av ye’ll howld your tongue.”

“You must know,” continued Jackman, “that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.

“At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was ‘method in his madness.’ Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.

“I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, ‘Arrah! then, but he was heavy!’”

“An’ that must have been true—what-ever” said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.

“What you remark is true likewise, Shames,” said the skipper.

“Go on—quick!” cried Junkie, eagerly.

“Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.

“The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster’s face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying—as if it had been a mere kitten—head over heels into a small hollow!”

“Well done! Capital!” shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.

A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to “go on.”

“There is not much to go on with now, my boy,” continued the narrator; “for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.

“There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.

“Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?”

“Yes, but go on wi’ the hunt,” said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.

“No, no, boys; you’ve had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us.”

“Well, not much,” replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. “There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don’t expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we’ll be going.”

“Shames,” said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, “I wonder if a good thrashin’ like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?”

“Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don’t think it would,” replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.

“You are right, Shames,” said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. “It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient.”

“Then what for are ye always poonishin’ me, an’ tellin’ me to be coot, when ye say it won’t make me coot?” asked Donald.

“Because, Tonal’, it iss my duty to tell ye to be coot, although I cannot make ye coot, ye rascal!” answered the fisherman, sternly; “but I can make ye obey me by poonishin’ you—ay, an’ I wull do it too.”

Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when “poonishment” would cease to secure even obedience—at least in his case!

“You are right, Ian,” said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. “Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director’s aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre.”

“But I want to know,” said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman’s side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, “why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?”

“Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick,” said Jackman, laughing. “You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage.”

“There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie,” remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.

“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.

“Hold your tongues!” growled Junkie—the more classic “shut up” not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.

“You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant’s head are not of equal thickness,” said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. “The only point in an elephant’s forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull.”

With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.

Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother’s admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not