by G. A. Henty
“It is a nasty place,” Ramajee Punt said, “to get him from. The beaters cannot get behind to drive him out, and the jungle is too thick to penetrate.”
“How do you intend to proceed?” Charlie asked.
“We will send a party to the top of the hill, and they will throw down crackers. We have brought some rockets, too, which we will send in from the other side. We will take our places, on our elephants, at the foot of the terrace.”
The three elephants took their posts, at the foot of the boulder covered rise. As soon as they had done so, the men at the top of the rock began to throw down numbers of lighted crackers; while, from either side, parties sent rockets whizzing into the jungle.
For some time the tiger showed no signs of his presence, and Charlie began to doubt whether he could be really there. The shikaris, however, declared that he was certainly in the jungle. He had, on the day before, carried off a woman from a neighbouring village; and had been traced to the jungle, round which a watch had been kept all night.
Suddenly, uttering a mighty roar, the tiger bounded from the jungle, and stood at the edge of the terrace. Startled at his sudden appearance, the elephants recoiled, shaking the aim of their riders. Three shots were, however, fired almost at the same moment; and the tiger, with another roar, bounded back into the jungle.
“I think,” the rajah said, “that he is badly hit. Listen to his roarings.”
The tiger, for a time, roared loudly at intervals. Then the sounds became lower and less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. In vain did the natives above shower down crackers. In vain were the rockets discharged into the jungle. An hour passed, since he had last been heard.
“I expect that he’s dead,” Charlie said.
“I think so, too,” Ramajee Punt replied; “but one can never be certain. Let us draw off a little, and take our luncheon. After that, we can try the fireworks again. If he will not move, then we must leave him.”
“But surely,” Charlie said, “we might go in and see whether he’s dead or not.”
“A wounded tiger is a terrible foe,” the Ramajee answered. “Better leave him alone.”
Charlie, however, was anxious to get the skin to send home, with those of the others he had shot, to his mother and sisters. It might be very long before he had an opportunity of joining in another tiger hunt; and he resolved that, if the tiger gave no signs of life when the bombardment of the jungle with fireworks recommenced, he would go in and look for his body.
CHAPTER 17
The Capture Of Gheriah
After having sat for an hour under the shade of some trees, and partaken of luncheon, the party again moved forward on their elephants to the jungle. The watchers declared that no sound, whatever, had been heard during their absence; nor did the discharge of fireworks, which at once recommenced, elicit the slightest response.
After this had gone on for half an hour, Charlie, convinced that the animal was dead, dismounted from his elephant. He had with him a heavy, double-barrelled rifle of the rajah’s; and Hossein, carrying a similar weapon, and a curved tulwar which was sharpened almost to a razor edge, prepared to follow immediately behind him. Three or four of the most courageous shikaris, with cocked guns, followed in Hossein’s steps.
Holding his gun advanced before him, in readiness to fire instantly, Charlie entered the jungle at the point where the tiger had retreated into it. Drops of blood spotted the grass, and the bent and twisted brushwood showed the path that the tiger had taken. Charlie moved as noiselessly as possible. The path led straight forward, towards the rocks behind, but it was not until within four or five yards of this that any sign of the tiger could be seen.
Then the bushes were burst asunder, and the great yellow body hurled itself forward upon Charlie. The attack was so sudden and instantaneous that the latter had not even time to raise his rifle to his shoulder. Almost instinctively, however, he discharged both of the barrels; but was, at the same moment, hurled to the ground, where he lay crushed down by the weight of the tiger, whose hot breath he could feel on his face. He closed his eyes, only to open them again at the sound of a heavy blow, while a deluge of hot blood flowed over him. He heard Hossein’s voice, and then became insensible. When he recovered, he found himself lying with his head supported by Hossein, outside the jungle.
“Is he dead?” he asked faintly.
“He is dead, Sahib,” Hossein replied. “Let the Sahib drink some brandy, and he will be strong again.”
Charlie drank some brandy and water, which Hossein held to his lips. Then the latter raised him to his feet.
Charlie felt his limbs and his ribs. He was bruised all over, but otherwise unhurt, the blood which covered him having flowed from the tiger. One of the balls which he had fired had entered the tiger’s neck, the other had broken one of its forelegs, and Charlie had been knocked down by the weight of the animal, not by the blow of its formidable paw.
Hossein had sprung forward on the instant, and with one blow of his sharp tulwar, had shorn clear through skin and muscle and bone, and had almost severed the tiger’s head from its body. It was the weight upon him which had crushed Charlie into a state of insensibility. Here he had lain, for four or five minutes, before Hossein could get the frightened natives to return, and assist him to lift the great carcass from his master’s body.
Upon examination, it was found that two of the three bullets first fired had taken effect. One had broken the tiger’s shoulder, and lodged in his body. The other had struck him fairly on the chest, and had passed within an inch or two of his heart.
“I thought,” Ramajee Punt said, as he viewed the body, “that one of his legs must have been rendered useless. That was why he lay quiet so long, in spite of our efforts to turn him out.”
Charlie was too much hurt to walk, and a litter was speedily formed, and he was carried back to the camp, where his arrival in that state excited the most lively lamentations on the part of Tim. The next morning he was much recovered; and was able, in the cool of the evening, to take his place in a howdah, and to return to the camp before Gheriah.
A few days later the fleet made its appearance off the town, and the same evening Tulagi Angria rode up to Ramajee Punt’s camp. Charlie was present at the interview, at which Angria endeavoured to prevail on Ramajee Punt, and Charlie, to accept a large ransom for his fort; offering them each great presents, if they would do their utmost to prevail on Admiral Watson, and Colonel Clive, to agree to accept it.
Charlie said at once that he was sure it was useless, that the English had now made a great effort to put a stop to the ravages which he, and his father before him, had for so many years inflicted upon their commerce; and that he was sure that nothing, short of the total destruction of the fort and fleet, would satisfy them. The meeting then broke up; and Charlie, supposing that Angria would return immediately, went back to his tent; where he directed Hossein at once to mingle with the men who had accompanied Angria, and to find out anything that he could concerning the state of things in the fort.
Hossein returned an hour later.
“Sahib,” he said, “Ramajee Punt is thinking of cheating the English. He is keeping Angria a prisoner. He says that he came into his camp without asking for a safe conduct; and that, therefore, he shall detain him.
“But this is not all. Angria has left his brother in command of the fort; and Ramajee, by threatening Angria with instant execution, has induced him to send an order to deliver the fort at once to him. Ramajee wants, you see, Sahib, to get all the plunder of the fort for himself, and his Mahrattas.”
“This is very serious,” Charlie said, “and I must let the admiral know, at once, what is taking place.”
When it became dark, Charlie, with Tim and Hossein, made his way through the Mahratta camp, down to the shore of the river. Here were numbers of boats, hauled up on the sand. One of the lightest of these was soon got into the water, and rowed gently out into the force of the stream. Then the oars were shipped, and they lay
down perfectly quiet in the boat, and drifted past the fort without being observed.
When they once gained the open sea, the oars were placed in the rowlocks, and half an hour’s rowing brought them alongside the fleet. Charlie was soon on board the flagship, and informed the admiral, and Colonel Clive, what Hossein had heard.
It was at once resolved to attack upon the following day. The two officers did not think it was likely that the pirates would, even in obedience to their chief’s orders, surrender the place until it had been battered by the fleet.
The next morning, the fort was summoned to surrender. No answer was received, and as soon as the sea breeze set in, in the afternoon, the fleet weighed anchor and proceeded towards the mouth of the river. The men-of-war were in line, on the side nearest to the fort, to protect the mortar vessels and smaller ships from its fire.
Passing the point of the promontory, they stood into the river, and anchored at a distance of fifty yards from the north face of the fort. A gun from the admiral’s ship gave the signal, and a hundred and fifty pieces of cannon at once opened fire, while the mortar vessels threw shell into the fort and town. In ten minutes after the fire began, a shell fell into one of Angria’s large ships, and set her on fire. The flames soon spread to the others, fastened together on either side of her, and in less than an hour this fleet, which had for fifty years been the terror of the Malabar coast, was utterly destroyed.
In the meantime the fleet kept up their fire, with the greatest vigour, upon the enemy’s works; and, before nightfall, the enemy’s fire was completely silenced. No white flag, however, was hung up, and the admiral had little doubt that it was intended to surrender the place to the Mahrattas.
As soon, therefore, as it became quite dark, Colonel Clive landed with the troops, and took up a position between the Mahrattas and the fort; where, to his great disappointment and disgust, Ramajee Punt found him in the morning. The admiral again summoned the fort, declaring that he would renew the attack, and give no quarter, unless it was surrendered immediately. The governor sent back to beg the admiral to cease from hostilities until next day, as he was only waiting for orders from Angria to surrender. Angria declared that he had already sent the orders.
At four in the afternoon, therefore, the bombardment was renewed; and in less than half an hour, a white flag appeared above the wall. As, however, the garrison made no further sign of surrender, and refused to admit Colonel Clive with his troops, when he advanced to take possession, the bombardment was again renewed, more vigorously than ever. The enemy were unable to support the violence of the fire, and soon shouted over the walls, to Clive, that they surrendered; and he might enter and take possession. He at once marched in, and the pirates laid down their arms, and surrendered themselves prisoners.
It was found that a great part of the fortifications had been destroyed by the fire, but a resolute garrison might have held the fort, itself, against a long siege. Two hundred guns fell into the hands of the captors, together with great quantities of ammunition, and stores of all kinds. The money and effects amounted to a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, which was divided among the captors. The rest of Angria’s fleet, among them two large ships on the stocks, was destroyed.
Ramajee Punt sent parties of his troops to attack the other forts held by the pirates. These, however, surrendered without resistance, and thus the whole country, which the pirates had held for seventy years, fell again into the hands of the Mahrattas, from whom they had wrested it.
Admiral Watson and the fleet then returned to Bombay, in order to repair the damages which had been inflicted upon them during the bombardment. There were great rejoicings upon their arrival there; the joy of the inhabitants, both European and native, being immense at the destruction of the formidable pirate colonies, which had so long ravaged the seas.
After the repairs were completed, the fleet, with the troops which had formed the expedition, were to sail for Madras. Charlie, however, did not wait for this; but, finding that one of the Company’s ships would sail, in the course of a few days after their return to Bombay, he obtained leave from Colonel Clive to take a passage in her, and to proceed immediately to Madras. Tim and Hossein, of course, accompanied him; and the voyage down the west coast of India, and round Ceylon, was performed without any marked incident.
When within but a few hours of Madras, the barometer fell rapidly. Great clouds rose up upon the horizon, and the captain ordered all hands aloft to reduce sail.
“We are in,” he said, “for a furious tempest. It is the breaking up of the monsoon. It is a fortnight earlier than usual. I had hoped that we should have got safely up the Hoogly before it began.”
Half an hour later the hurricane struck them, and for the next three days the tempest was terrible. Great waves swept over the ship, and every time that the captain attempted to show a rag of canvas, it was blown from the bolt ropes. The ship, however, was a stout one, and weathered the gale.
Upon the fourth morning the passengers, who had, during the tempest, been battened below, came on deck. The sky was bright and clear, and the waves were fast going down. A good deal of sail was already set, and the hands were at work to repair damages.
“Well, captain,” Charlie said to that officer, “I congratulate you on the behaviour of the ship. It has been a tremendous gale, and she has weathered it stoutly.”
“Yes, Captain Marryat, she has done well. I have only once or twice been out in so severe a storm, since I came to sea.”
“And where are we now?” Charlie asked, looking round the horizon. “When shall we be at Madras?”
“Well,” the captain said with a smile, “I am afraid that you must give up all idea of seeing Madras, just at present. We have been blown right up the bay, and are only a few hours’ sail from the mouth of the Hoogly. I have a far larger cargo for that place than for Madras, and it would be a pure waste of time for me to put back now. I intend, therefore, to go to Calcutta first, discharge and fill up there, and then touch at Madras on my way back.
“I suppose it makes no great difference to you.”
“No, indeed,” Charlie said. “And I am by no means sorry of the opportunity of getting a glimpse of Calcutta, which I might never otherwise have done. I believe things are pretty quiet at Madras, at present; and I have been so long away, now, that a month or two sooner or later will make but little difference.”
A few hours later, Charlie noticed a change in the colour of the sea, the mud-stained waters of the Hoogly discolouring the Bay of Bengal, far out from its mouth. The voyage up was a tedious one. At times the wind fell altogether and, unable to stem the stream, the ship lay for days at anchor, the yellow tide running swiftly by it.
“The saints presarve us, Mr. Charles! Did you ever see the like?” Tim Kelly exclaimed. “There’s another dead body, floating down towards us, and that is the eighth I’ve seen this morning. Are the poor hathen craturs all committing suicide together?”
“Not at all, Tim,” Charlie said, “the Hoogly is one of the sacred rivers of India, and the people on its banks, instead of burying their dead, put them into the river and let them drift away.”
“I calls it a bastly custom, yer honor, and I wonder it is allowed. One got athwart the cable this morning, and it frightened me nigh out of my sinses, when I happened to look over the bow, and saw the thing bobbing up and down in the water.
“This is tedious work, yer honor, and I’ll be glad when we’re at the end of the voyage.”
“I shall be glad, too, Tim. We have been a fortnight in the river already. But I think there is a breeze getting up, and there is the captain on deck, giving orders.”
In a few minutes, the ship was under way again, and the same night dropped her anchor in the stream, abreast of Calcutta. Charlie shortly after landed, and, proceeding to the Company’s offices, reported his arrival, and that of the four Sepoy officers. Hossein, who was not in the Company’s service, was with him merely in the character of a servant.
As the news of the share Charlie had had in the capture of Suwarndrug had reached Calcutta, he was well received; and one of the leading merchants of the town, Mr. Haines, who happened to be present when Charlie called upon the governor, at once invited him warmly to take up his residence with him, during his stay. Hospitality in India was profuse, and general. Hotels were unknown, and a stranger was always treated as an honored guest.
Charlie, therefore, had no hesitation whatever in accepting the offer. The four native officers were quartered in the barracks; and, returning on board ship, Charlie, followed by Tim and Hossein, and by some coolies bearing his luggage, was soon on his way to the bungalow of Mr. Haines.
On his way, he was surprised at the number and size of the dwellings of the merchants and officials, which offered a very strong contrast to the quiet and unpretending buildings round the fort of Madras. The house of Mr. Haines was a large one, and stood in a large and carefully kept garden. Mr. Haines received him at the door, and at once led him to his room, which was spacious, cool, and airy. Outside was a wide veranda, upon which, in accordance with the customs of the country, servants would sleep.
“Here is your bathroom,” Mr. Haines said, pointing to an adjoining room. “I think you will find everything ready. We dine in half an hour.”
Charlie was soon in his bath, a luxury which, in India, every European indulges in at least twice a day. Then in his cool white suit, which at that time formed the regular evening dress, he found his way to the drawing room. Here he was introduced to the merchant’s wife, and to his daughter, a girl of some thirteen years old, as well as to several guests who had arrived for dinner.
The meal was a pleasant one, and Charlie, after being cooped up for some weeks on board ship, enjoyed it much. A dinner in India is, to one unaccustomed to it, a striking sight. The punkah waving slowly to and fro, overhead, drives the cool air which comes in through the open windows down upon the table. Each guest brings his own servant, who, either in white or coloured robes, and in turbans of many different hues and shapes, according to the wearer’s caste, stands behind his master’s chair. The light is always a soft one, and the table richly garnished with bright-coloured tropical flowers.
