by Jim Corbett
II
The Chuka man-eater was now disorganizing life for everyone in the Ladhya valley, and shortly after Ibbotson had been appointed Deputy Commissioner-in-Charge of the three districts of Naini Tal, Almora, and Garhwal, we joined forces to try to rid his division of the menace.
It was early afternoon on a sweltering hot day in April 1937 that Ibby, his wife Jean, and I, alighted from our motor bus at the Boom above Baramdeo. We had left Naini Tal in the early hours of the morning and, travelling via Haldwani and Tanakpur, arrived at the Boom at the hottest time of the day, covered in dust from head to foot, and with many sore spots in unseen and tender places. A cup of tea drunk while sitting on yielding sand on the bank of the Sarda river helped restore our spirits, and taking the short cut along the river bank we set off on foot to Thuli Gadh where our tents, sent in advance, had been pitched.
Starting after breakfast next morning we went to Kaladhunga. The distance between Thuli Gadh and Kaladhunga via the Sarda gorge is eight miles, and via Purnagiri, fourteen miles. The Ibbotsons and I went through the gorge while our servants and the men carrying our kit went via Purnagiri. The gorge is four miles long and was at one time traversed by a tramway line blasted out of the rock cliff by J. V. Collier when extracting the million cubic feet of sal timber presented by the Nepal Durbar to the Government of India as a thank-offering after the First World War. The tramway line has long since been swept away by landslides and floods, and these four miles necessitate a great deal of rock climbing where a false step or the slipping of a hand-hold would inevitably precipitate one into the cold river. We negotiated the gorge without mishap, and at the upper end, where Collier’s tramline entered the forest, we caught two fish in a run where a rock of the size of a house juts out into the river.
Word had been sent ahead for the patwaris and Forest Guards working in the area to met us at Kaladhunga and give us the latest news of the man-eater. We found four men awaiting our arrival at the bungalow and the reports they gave us were encouraging. No human beings had been killed within the past few days, and the tiger was known to be in the vicinity of Thak village where three days previously it had killed a calf.
Kaladhunga is a gently rising cone-shaped peninsula roughly four miles long and a mile wide, surrounded on three sides by the Sarda river and backed on the fourth by a ridge of hills five thousand feet high. The bungalow, a three-roomed house with a wide verandah, faces east and is situated at the northern or upper end of the peninsula. The view from the verandah as the morning sun rises over the distant hills and the mist is lifting is one of the most pleasing prospects it is possible to imagine. Straight in front, and across the Sarda, is a wide open valley running deep into Nepal. The hills on either side are densely wooded, and winding through the valley is a river fringed with emerald-green elephant grass. As far as the eye can see there are no human habitations and, judging from the tiger and other animal calls that can be heard from the bungalow; there appears to be an abundant stock of game in the valley. It was from this valley that Collier extracted the million cubic feet of timber.
We spent a day at Kaladhunga, and while our men went on to Chuka to pitch our tents and make camp we fished, or, to be correct, the Ibbotsons fished while I, who had been laid up with malaria the previous night, sat on the bank and watched. From the broken water below the bungalow to the point of the peninsula—a stretch of some five hundred yards—the Ibbotsons, who are expert thread-line casters, combed the river with their one-inch spoons without moving a fish. The small river that flows down the Nepal valley joins the Sarda opposite the point of the peninsula. Here the Sarda widens out and shallows, and flows for two hundred yards over rocks before entering a big pool. It was at the upper end of this run and well out in the river that Ibby hooked his first fish—an eight-pounder—which needed careful handling on the light tackle before it was eventually brought to the bank and landed.
All keen anglers delight in watching others of the craft indulging in this, one of the best of outdoor sports. As for myself, I would just as soon watch another fishing than fish myself, especially when fish are on the take, the foothold uncertain—as it always is in the Sarda—and the river fairly fast. Shortly after Ibby killed his fish, Jean—who was fishing in broken water thirty yards from the bank—hooked a fish. Her reel only held a hundred yards of thread line, and fearing that the fish would make for the pool and break her, she attempted to walk backwards while playing the fish, and in doing so lost her footing and for a long minute all that was visible of her was the toe of one foot and the point of her rod. You will naturally assume that I, forgetting my recent attack of malaria, dashed out to her rescue. As a matter of fact I did nothing of the kind and only sat on the bank and laughed, for to attempt to rescue either of the Ibbotsons from a watery grave would be as futile as trying to save an otter from drowning. After a long and a violent struggle Jean upended herself, and reaching the bank killed her fish, which weighed six pounds. Hardly had she done so when Ibby, in making a long cast, slipped off the rock on which he was standing and disappeared under water, rod and all.
From the bottom end of the pool below the run, the river turns to the right. On the Nepal side of this bend in the river there had stood a giant semul tree, in the upper branches of which a pair of ospreys had for many years built their nest. The tree had been an ideal home for the birds, for not only had it commanded an extensive view of the river, but the great branches growing out at right angles to the trunk had also provided tables on which to hold and devour their slippery prey. The monsoon floods of the previous year had cut into the bank and washed away the old tree and the ospreys had built themselves a new nest in a tall shisham tree standing at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards from the river.
The run was evidently the favourite fishing ground of ospreys, and while the female sat in the nest the male kept flying backwards and forwards over the Ibbotsons’ heads. Eventually tiring of this unprofitable exercise it flew farther down the river to where a few partly submerged rocks broke the surface of the water, making a small run. Fish were evidently passing this spot, and a dozen times the osprey banked steeply, closed his wings, and dropped like a plummet and, checking himself with widespread wings and tail before reaching the water, rose flapping to regain height for his next cast. At last his patience was rewarded. An unwary fish had come to the surface directly below him, and without a moment’s pause he went from flat flight into a lightning dive through a hundred feet of air and plunged deep into the broken water. His needle-sharp and steel-strong talons took hold, but the catch was evidently heavier than he anticipated. Time and time again with wildly threshing wings he attempted to launch himself into the air, only to sink down again on his breast feathers. I believe he would have had to relinquish his catch had not a gust of wind blowing up river come at this critical moment to help him. As the wind reached him he turned downstream and, making one last desperate effort, got the fish clear of the water. Home was in the opposite direction from that in which he was now heading but to turn was impossible, so, selecting a great slab of rock on the bank on which to land, he made straight for it.
I was not the only one who had been watching the osprey, for he had hardly landed on the rock when a woman who had been washing clothes on the Nepal side of the river called out excitedly, and a boy appeared on the high bank above her. Running down the steep track to where the woman was standing, he received his instructions and set off along the boulder-strewn bank at a pace that threatened his neck and limbs at every stride. The osprey made no attempt to carry off his prey, and as the boy reached the rock it took to the air, circling round the boy’s head as he held up the fish—which appeared to be about four pounds in weight—for the woman to see.
For some time thereafter I lost sight of the osprey, and we had finished our lunch before I again saw him quartering the air above the run in which he had caught the fish of which the boy had deprived him. Back and forth he flew for many minutes, always at the same height, and then he
banked, dropped fifty feet, again banked and then plunged straight into the water. This time his catch was lighter—a kalabas about two pounds in weight—and without effort he lifted it clear of the water and, holding it like a torpedo to reduce wind pressure, made for his nest. His luck was out that day, however, for he had only covered half the distance he had to go, when a Pallas fish-eagle twice his weight and size came up from behind, rapidly overtaking him. The osprey saw him coming and altering his course a point to the right headed for the forest with the object of shaking off his pursuer among the branches of the trees. The eagle realizing the object of this manoeuvre emitted a scream of rage and increased his speed. Only twenty yards more to go to reach safety, but the risk was too great to take and, relinquishing his hold of the kalabas, the osprey—only just in time—hurled himself straight into the air. The fish had not fallen a yard before the eagle caught it and, turning in a graceful sweep, made off down river in the direction from which he had come. He was not to escape with his booty as easily as he expected, however, for he had only gone a short distance on his return journey when the pair of crows that fed on the osprey’s leavings set off to bait him, and to shake them off he too was compelled to take to the forest. At the edge of the forest the crows turned back and the eagle had hardly disappeared from view when falling out of the sky came two Tawny eagles going at an incredible speed in the direct line the Pallas eagle had taken. I very greatly regret I did not see the end of the chase for, from the fact that while I watched neither of the birds rose out of the forest, I suspect that the Pallas eagle retained his hold on the fish too long. I have only once seen a more interesting chase. On that occasion I was taking a line of eighteen elephants through grass and the ten guns and five spectators who were sitting on the elephants, shooting black partridge, saw a bush chat pass—without once touching the ground—from a sparrow-hawk that killed it just in front of our line of elephants to a red-headed merlin, then to a honey buzzard, and finally to a peregrine falcon who swallowed the little bird whole. If any of the guns or spectators who were with me that February morning read this chapter, they will recall the occurrence as having taken place on the Rudrapur Maidan.
After an early breakfast next morning we moved from Kaladhunga to Chuka, an easy march of five miles. It was one of those gorgeous days that live long in the memory of a fisherman. The sun was pleasantly warm; a cool wind blowing down from the north; a run of chilwa (fingerlings) in progress; and the river full of big fish madly on the take. Fishing with light tackle we had many exciting battles, all of which we did not win. We ended the day, however, with enough fish to feed our camp of thirty men.
III
To assist us in our campaign against the man-eater, and to try to prevent further loss of human life, six young male buffaloes had been sent up from Tanakpur in advance of us, to be used as bait for the tiger. On our arrival at Chuka we were told that the buffaloes had been tied out for three nights, and that though a tiger’s pugmarks had been seen near several of them, none had been killed. During the next four days we visited the buffaloes in the early morning; tried to get in touch with the tiger during the day, and in the evening accompanied the men engaged in tying out the buffaloes. On the fifth morning we found that a buffalo we had tied up at Thak, at the edge of the jungle in which the two boys had lost their lives, had been killed and carried off by a tiger. Instead of taking its kill into the dense jungle as we had expected, the tiger had taken it across an open patch of ground, and up on to a rocky knoll. This it had evidently done to avoid passing near a machan from which it had been fired at—and quite possibly wounded—on two previous occasions. After the buffalo had been dragged for a short distance its horns got jammed between two rocks, and being unable to free it, the tiger had eaten a few pounds of flesh from the hindquarters of the kill and then left it. In casting round to see in which direction the tiger had gone, we found its pugmarks in a buffalo wallow, between the kill and the jungle. These pugmarks showed that the killer of the buffalo was a big male tiger.
It was generally believed by the District Officials—on what authority I do not know—that the man-eater was a tigress. On showing them the tracks in the buffalo wallow we were told by the villagers that they could not distinguish between the pugmarks of different tigers and that they did not know whether the man-eater was male or female, but that they did know it had a broken tooth. In all the kills, human as well as animal, that had taken place near their village they had noticed that one of the tiger’s teeth only bruised the skin and did not penetrate it. From this they concluded that one of the man-eater’s canine teeth was broken.
Twenty yards from the kill there was a jamun tree. After we had dragged the kill out from between the rocks we sent a man up the tree to break a few twigs that were obstructing a view of the kill from the only branch of the tree in which it was possible to sit. This isolated tree on the top of the knoll was in full view of the surrounding jungle, and though the man climbed it and broke the twigs with the utmost care, I am inclined to think he was seen by the tiger.
It was now 11 a.m., so, sending our men back to the village to have their midday meal, Ibby and I selected a bush under which to shelter from the sun and talked and dozed, and dozed and talked throughout the heat of the day. At 2.30 p.m., while we were having a picnic lunch, some kalege pheasants started chattering agitatedly at the edge of the jungle where the buffalo had been killed, and on hearing them our men returned from the village. While Ibby and his big-hearted man, Sham Singh, went into the jungle where the pheasants were chattering—to attract the tiger’s attention—I climbed silently into the jamun tree. Giving me a few minutes in which to settle down, Ibby and Sham Singh came out of the jungle and returned to our camp at Chuka, leaving my two men at Thak.
Shortly after Ibby had gone the pheasants started chattering again and a little later a kakar began barking. The tiger was evidently on the move, but there was little hope of his crossing the open ground and coming to the kill until the sun had set and the village had settled down for the night. The kakar barked for a quarter of an hour or more before it finally stopped, and from then until sunset, except for the natural calls of a multitude of birds, the jungle—as far as the tiger was concerned—was silent.
The red glow from the setting sun had faded from the Nepal hills on the far side of the Sarda river, and the village sounds had died down, when a kakar barked in the direction of the buffalo wallow; the tiger was returning to his kill along the line he had taken when leaving it. A convenient branch in front of me gave a perfect rest for my rifle, and the only movement it would be necessary to make when the tiger arrived would be to lower my head on to the rifle butt. Minute succeeded minute until a hundred had been added to my age and then, two hundred yards up the hillside, a kakar barked in alarm and my hope of getting a shot, which I had put at ten to one, dropped to one in a thousand. It was now quite evident that the tiger had seen my man breaking the twigs off the tree, and that between sunset and the barking of this last kakar he had stalked the tree and seeing me on it had gone away. From then on kakar and sambhar called at intervals, each call a little farther away than the last. At midnight these alarm calls ceased altogether, and the jungle settled down to that nightly period of rest ordained by Nature, when strife ceases and the jungle fold can sleep in peace. Others who have spent nights in an Indian jungle will have noticed this period of rest, which varies a little according to the season of the year and the phases of the moon, and which as a rule extends from midnight to 4 a.m. Between these hours killers sleep. And those who go in fear of them are at peace. It may be natural for carnivores to sleep from midnight to 4 a.m., but I would prefer to think that Nature had set apart these few hours so that those who go in fear of their lives can relax and be at peace.
Day was a few minutes old when, cramped in every joint, I descended from the tree and, unearthing the thermos flask Ibby had very thoughtfully buried under a bush, indulged in a much needed cup of tea. Shortly after my two men arrived and w
hile we were covering the kill with branches, to protect it from vultures, the tiger called three times on a hill half a mile away. As I passed through Thak on my way back to camp the greybeards of the village met me and begged me not to be discouraged by my night’s failure, for, they said, they had consulted the stars and offered prayers and if the tiger did not die this day it would certainly die on the next or, may be, the day after.
A hot bath and a square meal refreshed me and at 1 p.m. I again climbed the steep hill to Thak and was told on my arrival that a sambhar had belled several times on the hill above the village. I had set out from camp with the intention of sitting up over a live buffalo; and, to ensure while doing so that the tiger did not feed in one place while I was waiting for him in another, I placed several sheets of newspaper near the kill I had sat over the previous night. There was a well-used cattle track through the jungle in which the villagers said the sambhar had called. In a tree on the side of this track I put up a rope seat, and to a root on the track I tied the buffalo. I climbed into the tree at three o’clock, and an hour later first a kakar and then a tiger called on the far side of the valley a thousand yards away. The buffalo had been provided with a big feed of green grass, and throughout the night it kept the bell I had tied round its neck ringing, but it failed to attract the tiger. At daylight my men came for me and they told me that sambhar and kakar had called during the night in the deep ravine in which the boy’s red cap and torn clothes had been found, and at the lower end of which we had tied up a buffalo at the request of the villagers.
When I got back to Chuka I found that Ibby had left camp before dawn. News had been received late the previous evening that a tiger had killed a bullock eight miles up the Ladhya valley. He sat up over the kill all night without seeing anything of the tiger, and late the following evening he returned to camp.
