by Ruskin Bond
They reached the top and looked down on a very curious sight. Below them lay a small, hollow, cup-shaped space, cleared, like the former opening, of all shrubs and smaller trees, and, among the litter of broken wood and disordered foliage, either asleep or lazily chewing the green food at their sides, lay a number of elephants. Several were large old tuskers, 'but, to Punch's dismay, he discerned among them two or three calves, and he knew that the mothers, always more vigilant than the males, would now be unusually watchful and fierce. If they should discover the presence of human beings, a charge was inevitable, and old stories, told him years before by European and native hunters, warned him of the extreme danger to themselves, practically unarmed as they were, of such a course.
He touched Maclaren on the shoulder, pointed to two big trees near the path, and sufficiently stout to withstand the charge of the strongest elephant, and made hurriedly but silently for one.
Maclaren followed him with equal haste and caution, but it was almost too late. Despite all their care, some sound must have been overheard, or perhaps the wind carried the scent of man—deadliest and most dreaded foe of all wild beasts—to some wakeful member of the slumbering herd, for, with a shrill scream of alarm, a huge, cow-elephant scrambled to her feet. The others followed her example, and for a moment all was confusion, before the herd closed up together, and stood, perfectly still, as though puzzling out the cause of the alarm. Then the first to move, forcing her way through the herd, threw up her trunk, and waved it in the air to catch the direction of the scent, then it was as rapidly drawn down, curled up, and she started to charge.
She came up the hill with almost incredible rapidity, and Maclaren, although most of his energies were devoted to the task of clambering up the tree trunk, regardless of prickly creepers and torn hands, face, and clothing, was yet able to observe, with considerable astonishment, the wonderful grace and dignity of the animal's movements. His former experience of elephants had been of domesticated beasts, performing various tasks in such a way as to exhibit them at their worst, their huge size and strength only increasing the awkwardness of their movements. But now, in her native forests, surrounded by giant vegetation, and moving in her silent wrath with great easy strides, very swiftly, but smoothly and regularly, there was something grand and majestic in this charge.
However, Maclaren had little time to notice all this, and to Punch, who had often before been an interested spectator at an elephant hunt, if not an actual hunter, there was nothing novel in the business, except the fact that the usual quarry was hunting the men, instead of the men hunting the elephant. He was already well up his tree, out of the reach of both tusks and trunk, and now turned anxiously to see how Maclaren was faring. But the sailor had not been equally fortunate. While he was still only some eight or ten feet from the ground the elephant sighted him, and, with another shrill snort of fury, prepared to charge.
Maclaren had not been at sea for six years for nothing. He caught at the branches above him with frantic haste, and hauled himself up with all possible speed, but even then he could not have got out of the way in time if Punch had not created a diversion in his favour.
The boy knew that it would be impossible to do serious damage to the huge brute with the poor weapon, a stout, iron-tipped, bamboo spear, which was all that he possessed, but he also knew how easily the anger of the elephant could be diverted for the time being, and he launched the spear with all his force against her great flapping ear. It sped truly and struck home, and the animal screamed once more with rage and pain, turned round, and charged straight at Punch's tree.
But here even her great strength could do little damage, for the great stem, although it rocked and creaked at each of her frantic charges, could have withstood greater force than she could bring to bear against it, and the boy was out of her reach, sitting astride a branch well above her head. She soon realised this and returned to Maclaren, but he had taken advantage of the few moments' respite to climb as high as Punch himself, and, beyond a few splinters, and much swaying and groaning, his tree was none the worse for her attack.
The remainder of the herd had galloped away into the jungle, but from time to time came an appealing cry from her deserted calf, and at length the old elephant seemed weary of her fruitless attack. She looked from the one tree to the other, eyeing the two lads keenly with her little bright eyes, then, with one more angry scream, she dashed off to join her companions.
The danger was over for the present, but she might return, and the two young fellows thought it wise to remain for a considerable time in their leafy shelter. Then, at length, they ventured to descend and resume their march, but this time they preferred to take their own path, even at the risk of travelling once more in a circle.
From Among Pirates and Pygmies
By K.M. Eady (1897)
A Superannuated Elephant
WG. Adam
bout the year 1815, when the British finally decided to have done with the Kandian kings of the hill country in Ceylon, an elephant, named Maharajah, was imported from India for the transport of heavy guns. The beast had then been some years in captivity, and, ten years later, when his battery was stationed at Badulla, he was liberated as being too old for further work. At the time the last part of this decision was made, an order was issued to have the animal shot, but, on account of his faithful servitude and as a general favourite owing to his invariable good temper, the death sentence was commuted to one of banishment for life.
At first, Maharajah would not leave the lines. Even when ridden away for twenty miles or so by his mahout and let loose in the jungle, he would return, seeming to have no desire for freedom. Later, just before the battery was removed to a new centre, for the fifth time he was taken off into the jungle and left, on this occasion in the wild country between Taldena and Aluthnuwara.As before, Maharajah made his way back to Badulla, only to find that his battery had left the town and forsaken him. For some days, the elephant loitered about in apparent hope of the return of his friends, then he gave up hope and made his way back to Taldena, near which village he lived for some time until an enterprising Sinhalese attempted to catch him. This was against the beast's idea of the fit, so, after breaking a stockade built for his benefit, and damaging two men seriously (of which there is a record) he took to the jungles lying near the Umi-oya river. He was an easily recognised animal, for the tethering marks on his hind legs and the deep trace scars down his sides gave him away wherever he went; besides, he was always solitary and did not seem to mind whether men saw him or not. As the 'gun elephant' he was known and respected in that country until 1855, when a party of surveyors took umbrage at the fact that he followed them for some days, and, much against local opinion, fired at him.
Appuharmy, an old tracker of the district, who died some ten years ago, remembered thin happening well as a boy. Maharajah took little notice of the shooting at the time, merely retiring into the jungle; but, two nights later, he raided the survey camp, smashed everything, stamped the remains deep into the earth, and killed two men in the general scuffle. There is a private record of this, mentioning the 'gun elephant,' besides Appuharmy's word. Hue and cry was raised now against Maharajah lest, having tasted the delight of killing, he might do further damage. The villagers were turned out with torch and tomtom to drive him from the country, upon which the animal took to the Umi-oya river bed and tramped off up stream at a quick march.
At, or near, the village of Palugama he was headed by a crowd who sought to stop him until someone or other arrived to shoot him. Maharajah thought nothing of crowds. He marched straight through the middle of them on up the stream until he came to a deep pool, which happened to be the favourite bathing place of the high priest of Subraderahama Temple. Report has it that the priest was going through his three hundred ablutions at the time, and that the elephant stopped respectfully to watch him. The last upsetting of the little brass ceremonial washing bucket having been completed, the priest turned to his interrupter and admonished hi
m for his misdeeds, laying a ban on him that he must immediately retire into the mountain country to the south and remain there for the rest of his life. What truth there may be in this is questionable, nevertheless, the priest's name has been handed down as one who had great power over wild animals. Maharajah apparently took the hint, for he walked right past the house of the before-mentioned Appuharmy's father, slap through the scattered hill villages, and on up the three thousand feet of sloping mountainside until he was lost in the then practically unknown Pattipola jungles.
Twelve years ago, when I first came to that district, old Appuharmy regaled me with tales of the 'gun elephant,' and, in poking about the jungles, I soon found his enormous foot-marks and finally saw him. There was no mistaking Maharajah, his size, Indian shape, and tethering scars with the pink trace mauls, causing him to be easily recognised. He conformed to the usual habits of the local breed of mountain elephants in that he roamed the north-east mountain slopes during the south-west winds and vice versa, but he had his own ways in every thing else.
In June 1930, I found the marks of an eight-foot elephant right on the ridge dividing the south-west and north-east slopes, and, strangely enough, this beast seemed to scorn the rules of sheltering from the monsoon winds, for the tracks were in evidence on the hill-tops for over six months. I put the animal down as a cow, and, after about ten weeks, she was undoubtedly joined by another elephant from the north-east, none other than the 'gun elephant.' The two did not actually live together, but, elephant fashion, seemed to keep in communication with each other, perhaps at an average half-mile range, always within reach of a known elephant 'lodging place,' or spot where the beasts invariably stay for a night in passing over the ridge, situated on the wide elephant 'road.'
When crossing the country on the seventh February 1931, I noticed the marks of the cow some two hundred yards from the 'lodging place.' At her heels were the tracks of a new-born calf, while, in attendance, were the great lumbering prints of the old 'gun' bull. The spot where the birth had taken place was easy to find, being the 'lodging place,' and it was evident that it had occurred the day before. It was also positive that the bull had not only watched the proceeding but had actually fed the cow during travail. One point must be made positive—it is practically certain that the 'gun elephant' was not the father of the calf, for the cow had been with a small herd in the Ambawella district until a short time before she segregated herself, while the bull had always lived, in the Horton Plains—Pattipola country. As a matter of fact, such chivalry is not uncommon in the 'wild,' particularly amongst elephants, who always seem to consider it a point of honour to look after the weak or distressed of their own race.
My next meeting with the elephant trio was on 29 July 1931, when I came across the elders in the open teaching the calf the use of his tiny trunk, or, in other words, playing vigorously with him. The cow, standing on higher ground, kept her trunk entangled in that of her offspring, and wrestled with him, gently pushing him back. The old bull stood aside, mumbling and stretching about with his trunk, obviously wishing to join in the fun. Presently, the calf broke away from his mother and 'charged' his step-father, whereupon the old bull bundled off a few yards seeming to counterfeit terror, before engaging his trunk with the youngster's and allowing himself to be pushed downhill into a swamp.
The mother apparently did not approve of step-fathers as playmates, or feared the swamp, for she trundled down the slope, bumped the bull further into the bog with sundry resounding slaps of her trunk, and then tantalised her baby with her trunk-tip until he followed her on to sounder ground again. This performance was repeated three times while I watched, and, from the noise, continued on for at least an hour after I left.
Two days later, I saw the calf washed by force, nor did he appear to appreciate the process any more than a spoilt human child would. He was propelled relentlessly into mid-river, to be well squirted over and rubbed by his guardians. Naturally, he yelled objections and fought for liberty the whole time.
The family left my immediate district a few days later, making their way to the flattish jungles of the Elk Plains beyond the railway, where their marks were seen for six months or more, after which they were joined by a third adult male elephant. This last is a beast of about nine feet, proclaimed 'rogue' for doing some slight damage to plantations and getting in the way of a train, but he is about as harmless an animal as can be imagined. The villagers drove him from the plantations so that, he should not be killed, and though he attached himself to the 'gun' bull's party, he has only been allowed to live on the outskirts of it, or to act rearguard.
For some reason, this addition caused the family to roam more widely, and the next clear thing known of them, barring their foot-prints, was that they had taken to a jungle down near
Palugama and were bathing fearlessly in the river daily, so much so that they were photographed by several people. One day, they approached the temple bathing pool and disturbed the present incumbent in his three hundred outpourings of the bucket over his head. The old bull trumpeted loudly, turned swiftly, and led the way upstream. Leaving it below the house of the late Appuharmy's father, now owned by his grandson, the quartet marched single file in broad daylight slap through the scattered hill villages, and on up the three thousand feet of sloping mountainside until they disappeared into the Pattipola jungles—travelling the exact line to an inch that Maharajah had climbed over fifty years before, and had never been known, to even cross in the interim.
State Railways Magazine, 1930
The Pale One
John Eyton
I
he Pale One was one of the most mysterious creatures in the world—a she-elephant, queen of her herd and of the vast jungles wherein they moved. Her kingdom stretched from the blue Nilgiri Hills, through leagues of rugged hillocks clothed in scrub, to the dense jungles on the Cauvery's banks. She and her kind had but little to do with the works of man, save for the occasional descent on a village at the jungle edge, when they would maraud a few fields for fodder; sometimes too in the dusk, on the Ootacamund road or on the way to Mercara, men would see great shadowy forms ahead of them, and would flee—but she was hardly aware of man at all.
Perhaps, her colour had attracted the great Tusker, who had wandered alone in the forests of Coorg until a bullet drove him from his old haunts into the jungle by the river. One evening, he saw the herd at drinking, and challenged at once, stamping and roaring and calling their ancient leader—the giant of the One Tusk—to battle; then all night he wandered round the bamboo brake, trumpeting defiance. In the morning the memorable battle started, which lasted three days and determined, in sight of all, the leadership of the herd. The jungle-folk kept away; even the tiger and the buffalo avoided the battle-ground, where trees were uprooted and pounded into the floor; where the very forest swayed to the movements of the fighters, while the cows trembled for their calves, and the young males stood aloof and envied the prowess. At last, height and great spirit won the victory over age and experience; the elephant of the One Tusk went alone and wounded from his kingdom, never to be seen again, while the great black Tusker danced the dance of victory and lorded it over the young males, and chose his bride.
She was of a paler grey than the rest, who were almost black, and her paleness came of an old stock, and won her his regard. So, the Pale One knew her lord.
Who can tell of the wanderings of the herd during the three years which followed? They rarely stayed long in one place. In the rainy time they sought the hills, and in the dry time they followed the river, where they would stand at evening in the deep, draining great gulps, squirting one another, teaching the young to swim, revelling in the cool and depth of it. Great, black, shiny monsters they were, but by the side of the greatest of all was always one of paler hue, whom he served, towering over her with his immense height, full of tusk, broad of forehead, with great spreading ears. He ruled the twenty-five elephants of the herd sternly, nor brooked interference from other herds whi
ch crossed their path, so that they became famous, and had the freedom of all the jungles of the south, with the coolest places for the heat, the best drinking pools, and the sweetest bamboo groves. No elephant ever stood in the path of the big black Tusker, lord of the Pale One.
In the third summer of their wandering, directly after the rains, there came a spirit of unrest on the herd. They were leaving the hills for the country of green scrub and luscious fresh food, welcoming the sun, which they had not seen for many days. Yet, one day, as they stood basking in the open, a feeling of restlessness came on them. To an elephant this means either that he is in love or that he is being interfered with; in the latter case it is the instinct of the curtailment of that freedom which is his birthright. The old mother of the herd felt it first, as it came on the breeze to her, and she communicated the news. They were not alone in the jungle; something was stirring between them and the hills—other elephants perhaps—or something unknown.
One or two of the younger males threw up their trunks and squealed, and were promptly dealt with by the Tusker, who wanted to listen, and said so; then shuffling and stamping ceased; mothers quieted their calves; only the breeze from the hills sighed in the grass and tiny birds twittered; then from far away knowledge came to them.
The ground vibrated ever so slightly; other elephants were afoot . . . a great herd . . . two, three herds . . . one from the direction of the sun, another from the hills, and another from the plain of great grass. But there was something else . . . a new smell, vaguely disconcerting . . . men.
Then, an unusual thing happened: the big Tusker did not, as was his wont, turn to challenge the new herds, but began to move uneasily, aloof from the rest, throwing his trunk and shifting his feet; presently he moved slowly away, and the Pale One joined him; then, one by one, the rest followed. When they were together, the rush quickened to full pace, and they thrust through the thickets, massed like a wedge, driving a road over the country, never stopping till nightfall. It was a new experience—the first of many—and it meant panic. The herd had rarely travelled like that, at full pace, en masse, careless of its mothers and the calves . . . and never for a whole day. But they got beyond the area of unrest, and were in free land again, where the ground brought no vibrations, and the breeze no upsetting smell. They did not forget these things, because only a few things are forgotten by elephants, but they puzzled over them that night, and next day moved on towards the distant river jungles, not en masse; but in open feeding formation, eating as they went. For two days they travelled on over the low hillocks, each day making a longer midday halt; then, on the third day, they came upon a little pool with good green feeding on its banks, where they stayed a night and a day, carelessly feeding and wallowing. But at dusk they saw a new thing.
