The Strangler Vine, page 21
We rode the six miles to the Rao’s lakeside residence at Vishnagarh that night so as to be ready for the early start the next morning. The lake shone and undulated like silk. Next to it a city of embroidered tents had risen up – or rather three distinct communities of tents: one for native courtiers, one for European visitors, and the smallest for tradesmen and hangers-on. A little to the left of the tents and separated by an avenue of trees, the Rao’s palace was a rambling complex of white domes and pediments and curving balustrades. Beyond it was thick jangal.
Mir Aziz repaired to speak to the chief huntsman. He reported that a part of the jangal had been separated from the rest with stakes and fences, and within it there were said to be several tigers, perhaps up to five, including a parent and cub which had been preying on local livestock. His other news confirmed what he had predicted. While the Rao and his chosen few would be hunting on elephants, we Europeans would be watching and shooting from machans – platforms constructed in the trees. The tigers would be lured to the machans by buffalo carcasses that had been left nearby the day before, and driven towards them by a line of beaters. Sameer and I were disheartened. We had imagined ourselves stalking the creatures on foot or on horseback, not trapped on some platform.
Before the sun rose, a large crowd of villagers had gathered outside the Rao’s palace. Some held torches, some carried drums, and several bore elderly firearms that looked as if they had not been fired in a century. The Rao arrived on horseback with a party of sardars. On the far side of the multitude there was a large canvas screen kept aloft by long bamboo posts tied to it at intervals, behind which I guessed some of the Rao’s zenana sheltered. A shikari led us to a spot just next to the Resident’s party of himself, the Major General and four other gentlemen. There was no disguising our mutual antipathy. Mr Crouch-Symington just about stirred himself to acknowledge us, but his guests ostentatiously looked in any direction but ours. Blake ignored them, but I found their rudeness awkward, the more so when it became clear that we would all be placed either on the same machan or on two close together.
The beaters, armed with their drums and torches, were split into smaller groups and sent in single file to create a vast circle which would drive the tigers towards the Rao and the machans. The Rao’s party disappeared into the jangal on several elephants, then mounted shikaris led us through the jangal into a great meadow at the far end of which there was a ravine and a waterhole, by which were the carcasses of two water buffalo. The machans were balanced in the trees nearby, hidden in the leaves. The Major General, two gentlemen and a fleet of bearers carrying water bottles, drinks, metal trays of refreshments, and ammunition, climbed awkwardly into one. There was nothing for the Resident to do but to bring his spare guest to join us – along with a slightly smaller, but still lavish, contingent of servants with trays of food and sherberts. Mr Crouch-Symington’s tight yellow face was a picture of vexation. He nodded slightly at us then positioned himself and his friend as far from us as possible. Hidden in the trees behind us were two shikaris on horseback, each brandishing a long spear. Despite myself, I began to feel excited. Blake looked out across the meadow.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I never thought there was much sport in rounding up creatures and driving them into an ambush.’
Mir Aziz had told us the beaters would start on the signal of a single gun-shot and then move forward in an orderly line without a break. But the shouts, drums and flashes suddenly came with no warning, from a ridge some way north of us. Falteringly, confusedly, the other beaters followed.
Order was lost almost at once. From our platform we could just see some sections advancing quickly in one direction to volleys of shots, and others holding back or moving in the opposite direction. There was no line. We waited.
‘You are gloominess itself, Blake,’ I said after a while.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘These hunts are usually organized with great care. This is not. With the line broken and all in disarray the creatures may turn back on the beaters.’
We waited for what seemed like a long while. Then from the east came a wild beating of drums and great shouting. It sounded as if something ill had occurred, but we could see nothing. We waited. The Resident and his guest helped themselves to their refreshments and murmured quietly to each other.
Then, out of the trees, a tiger came padding swiftly but calmly as you please, heading for the waterhole. I raised my gun, but as I did so, there was a cracking below us, and to my horror the machan listed and began to slide downwards. I could see the Major General’s party in their machan across the ravine, standing in consternation. The machan gave a shudder and jerked off its branch on to the ground. Blake, Mir Aziz, Sameer and I – all leaning against the paling that ran about each side of the machan so as to prevent one misstepping and falling out – grasped on to it and protected ourselves from the worst of the fall, but I swear I felt its impact through every bone in my body.
The bearers – trays and broken glass about them – lay sprawled and dazed. But in a worse state were the Resident and his friend who had sat themselves away from us. They had both been flung through the air, out beyond the shelter of the tree, clear on to the ground, where they had fallen into crumpled heaps. Blake and I were stuck between a mass of broken branches and the paling of the machan, otherwise we would have run out to help them, but instead it was a mounted shikari who galloped out from the trees to their aid.
The collapse of the machan did not frighten the tiger one whit. It walked straight past the waterhole and the buffaloes, and on towards the Resident and his friend. Seeing this, the shikari swerved to distract or drive off the beast, but his horse was startled and the shikari was thrown down, his mount galloping terrified to the other end of the ravine. The two gentlemen had barely moved, while some of the bearers scrambled up but seemed uncertain where to run. Ahead of us the Major General’s party shrieked and called and someone loosed a bullet, to no effect. Mir Aziz and Sameer had by now managed to extricate us from the branches, and, somewhat stunned, I tried to stand up. Another shot went off.
The unhorsed shikari began to haul the Resident’s friend to his feet while shouting at the tiger and waving his sword, and the Resident slowly brought himself to his knees. The beast would not be distracted. It leapt towards the tumbled figures, grabbing the Resident by the neck. I thought I heard the man moan. The shikari rushed at it, thrusting with his sword, but the beast simply batted him out of its way, a claw ripping him from cheek to breast. Mir Aziz and Sameer shouted and ran past me. I could not take my eyes from the tiger. With Mr Crouch-Symington between its jaws, it turned and ran back into the forest.
The hair on my neck and arms rose, and I could hear my heart pumping in my ears. ‘I am going after it!’ I shouted to Blake, and I ran to where the creature had disappeared into the shadow.
‘Avery, you fucking half-wit!’ he shouted. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! Damn you, Avery, stop!’ I heard him shouting in Hindoostanee at Mir Aziz and Sameer. I felt light-headed, and a bubble of laughter rose up through my chest.
‘Don’t worry,’ I shouted, ‘I’m an excellent shot! It’s all I’m good for!’ And I ran. It was not hard to see where the creature had gone. Its passage had left the grasses and twigs quite crushed, the victim’s body left wavy patterns in the mud and there was a light but regular spotting of blood. One part of me acknowledged how foolish I was being, yet another part felt absurdly confident, as if my sight and hearing had been miraculously enhanced, and some sixth sense allowed me to apprehend the whole jangal. I was sure the creature was some way ahead, but I slowed down. After some minutes I heard someone coming up behind me – the breathing and rhythm of the steps clearly human. Blake was holding his musket. ‘You bloody fool! Come back.’ I shook my head and smiled, pointing down.
‘You came after me,’ I said, and took a drink from my water bottle.
‘I left Mir Aziz to take care of the shikari and bearers and get them into the other machan,’ he said. ‘The other shikari rode off for help.’ He caught his breath. ‘I didn’t trust Sameer not to go charging off with you on some idiot pursuit. Your hand isn’t fit to shoot with.’
‘It is perfectly fine. We cannot go back. What about that poor fellow, the Resident?’
Blake looked at me.
‘Well, he’s a rather awful fellow,’ he said, ‘but we cannot leave him to the beast.’
He took a drink from his own canteen, and looked about. ‘These creatures are clever and unpredictable. This one has a taste for men and might easily be circling round behind us. It might be sitting behind that rock watching us. If there is more than one, the beaters will have riled them. Something has gone very wrong with this shikar. I had a bad feeling from the start. We should get back to the machan.’
I shook my head. ‘I will not leave that man to his fate. I am going on. Leave me to it, if you fear for yourself.’
He frowned and looked about. ‘You’re a fool, Avery.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Don’t point your gun at me. Make as little noise as possible. Don’t speak.’
I grinned. We stepped slowly forward. Some hundred yards up the path we found a pitiful shred of clothing and more blood. The tiger had stopped to rest and had taken a bite of its prey. The tracks – the pug marks – and the blood were clear to see, but on each side the grasses grew so high and the undergrowth was so thick that there could have been a dozen tigers not inches from me and I would never have seen them. Then the trail turned back on itself the way we had come. Blake was right: the creature might be just behind us.
It became peculiarly quiet, as if the jangal were holding its breath. There was just the sound of our feet breaking dead leaves and twigs, and the receding cries of the beaters. The usual chorus of morning birds had fallen silent. We walked on. From time to time there were skitterings and hooves in the undergrowth. Once a heavy black sambar deer leapt across the path ahead of us. From higher up in the trees came the occasional chatter of monkeys and birds sounding warning cries. Among the sal trees the strangler vines were doing their work.
The trees opened out into a small clearing, and I could see the sun through the leaves. A monkey was chattering, a high-pitched nicker. I heard Blake take a breath. I spun and levelled my gun, but there was nothing. Then, behind the curtain of leaves and vines, something padded past me. Without thinking I stepped backward, almost falling over Blake. ‘Look there,’ he said. Beyond us, under a tree, was a small sorry pile of flesh, bone, hair and clothing that had once been Mr Crouch-Symington.
Blake knelt by the remains. ‘You’re a fool and I’m another,’ he whispered. Then he tugged my arm and pointed at the pug marks around the body and raised two fingers. There were two distinct sets: one splayed; the other neater, as if pressing less heavily upon the ground. Two tigers. He pointed at a tree that looked easy enough to climb and pushed me firmly towards it. One after the other we balanced our muskets on our backs and pulled ourselves up into the branches as high as we could, finding places to sit where we could watch the little clearing. After some time, there came a sound like a heavy cartwheel going over a grate; like gravel poured from a barrel; like a series of tuneless piano strings plucked: a sound I had never heard before, the sound of a tiger snarling. The noise came from a nest of boulders on the right side of the clearing. The beast growled intermittently and we sat silent in our tree. Then, deciding perhaps that we were not dangerous, or of any interest, or had gone, or that it could not wait another moment to feed, the creature walked out from behind its boulder.
It looked right and left as it went. It was a long creature, not in its first youth. Its coat was shaggy – even slightly mangy – and its stripes the colour of flame and charcoal. It padded over to the body, leaving me with a fine shot along its side, and I raised my gun. But just as I meant to pull the trigger, it sensed me and looked up. My barrel rustled through the leaves and I shot. I was sure the bullet had met its target. The creature flinched sideways, but then picked itself up and crashed out of the clearing.
I turned to Blake in apology. He pulled his hand through his hair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
‘We must try to finish it off.’
I hung my head and slowly climbed down the tree. My arm throbbed dreadfully. I dared not look to see if the wound had reopened, and pulled my shirtsleeve down to cover it. At the bottom Blake told me to reload my gun.
We walked on, following the trail. I lost track of the hour, but the sun seemed high. Eventually, we reached a point where overhanging leaves hid the way forward. Blake put his face up to the leaves, and I did the same. I could see a large meadow that led distantly towards the ravine where our machan had formerly sat. Far off, much further than I would have expected, I could see the other machan high in the trees. It seemed to be empty.
Before us, an elephant was staggering across the grass. Its mahout, riding on its neck holding a short metal pole, was quite unable to command it.
Out of the trees, perhaps fifteen yards from us, the tiger launched itself so fast that the line of its body seemed almost liquid. It was as if the jangal’s dappled shadows had turned themselves to flesh. One moment a ripple of breeze and shade, the next a snarling beast. It flung itself on to the elephant’s hind legs, as a cat climbs a curtain, and sank its great jaws into the hide to gain purchase.
The elephant wheezed and trumpeted in panic, its legs skittering and hopping, its little eyes popping. The howdah on its back lurched unsteadily, and the two occupants clung to its sides. The tiger released itself from the elephant’s hide, and the huge grey creature staggered forward and then began to topple, precipitating to the ground the mahout, who rolled clear of the creature, as well as the howdah. The two men were thrown wide of the collapsing elephant, their headgear shaken from their heads, swords tangled between their legs, guns knocked from their hands. As they scrambled to their feet, the tiger sprang towards them with a mighty leap. But the mahout flung himself between the monster and its quarry, and the tiger brought him down instead. The man screamed – a horrible, high-pitched mewing, as the tiger buried his jaws in his face and the back of his neck, and placed itself on top of him chest to chest, leaving me with a sight of its whole side. I fell to the ground, found my position, aimed and shot. I knew it was good even before the tiger shivered, reared slightly and tumbled sideways. The force with which it did so seemed to make the ground shake.
The mahout continued to scream. I stood up and ran into the clearing. I was dimly aware that Blake was behind me. As I ran, I saw that one of the two men was the Rao. He was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Behind him his companion, a lavishly dressed sardar, was leaning on his gun. The elephant, half-crazed, pulled itself up and hurled itself towards the trees. Blood oozed bright from the claw marks on the animal’s grey haunches. From those trees came a crashing of grasses and leaves. The elephant sheered off to the right. The sardar was so startled he almost leapt into the air. He lifted his rifle and aimed – somewhat wildly – into the trees. Nothing appeared, but the sounds beyond the trees continued.
The sardar, still unaware of us, still standing behind his Rao, his weapon still primed, straightened and took aim at a target I should never have expected. I acted without thought. I turned to Blake and he gave me his musket – I had had no time to reload my own. As the butt fitted into my shoulder my head became clear. I could tell the sight and the barrel were not perfectly matched, and made what allowance I could. Blake shouted in Hindoostanee. The Rao turned. The sardar looked up. As the Rao apprehended with horror the muzzle pointed at his head, I shot and the sardar fell into the dirt.
‘Reload!’ said Blake, putting a hand upon my shoulder. He ran forward and scooped up a handful of earth and pebbles and threw them at the tiger. Satisfied it was dead, he rushed over to the still-whimpering mahout and endeavoured to prise the man’s head out of the dead tiger’s jaws.
From the other side of the meadow came distant shouts. The Rao subsided on to the ground. I went to help him, passing the fallen sardar. From the corner of my eye I saw that the bullet had entered under his arm and gone into his chest, for he had been standing sideways to me. I retrieved the Rao’s turban and the sarpech, which gleamed red and gold among the grasses, and made to help him up, offering my hand under his elbow. He looked up at me, grimaced, drew his elbow back and regained his feet alone. I remembered that such high-caste Hindoos abhorred the touch of a European. I thought I might laugh out loud. ‘I do apologize, sir,’ I said, then remembered he would not understand me.
I scrabbled for a few words.
‘Mujay maaf kijiye Maharaj,’ I said haltingly.
I held out his turban and the jewel. I made to bow, but my legs seemed to buckle and instead I found myself on one knee. It seemed, nevertheless, the correct thing to do. The Rao smiled imperially and, without actually touching my hand, took them delicately from me. I have at last performed an almost heroic deed, I thought. And I have killed another man. Behind the Rao, Blake had removed his jacket and was proceeding to tie it tight round the mahout’s face. I saw him look past the Rao at me and give me a quizzical half-smile.
‘Come here, Avery, and hold this man’s head. There is something I must do.’
I stood up, bowed to the Rao and walked over. My movements were jerky; I did not quite have mastery over my own limbs. The mahout was alive, but he had fainted. Blood poured from his face, and I endeavoured to hold his head steady, but my hands were shaking. Blake strode towards the Rao, whose expression had regained its characteristic haughtiness. Blake bowed.
‘Maharaj!’ he began, and then issued a stream of quite unintelligible words in which I thought I identified the word ‘gun’. The Rao, who was using his as a crutch, stared at Blake as if he were mad. ‘Maharaj!’ Blake ventured again. The Rao glanced behind him. His courtiers and servants were some distance away. Quickly, he lifted his gun. It was a beautiful thing, inlaid with silver filigree. He opened the barrel and looked into it. He nodded. From within it he fished out a wad of blackened cotton with his long, delicate fingers and let it fall on the ground. Quickly, Blake bent over, picked it up, put it in his pocket and took several steps back.
