📜 Vilhelm Valloittaja – Rudyard Kiplingin unohtumaton kertomus! 🏰✨

🌟 Sukella keskiaikaisen Englannin jännittävään maailmaan Rudyard Kiplingin mestariteoksen parissa! “Vilhelm Valloittaja” on osa Kiplingin kuuluisasta kokoelmasta *Puck of Pook’s Hill*, jossa historia herää eloon tarinoiden ja mielikuvituksen voimalla. Tämä äänitarina vie sinut aikamatkalle aikaan, jolloin normannit saapuivat Englantiin ja koko kansakunnan kohtalo muuttui. 🎧📖

🔔 Tilaa nyt kanavamme ja pysy mukana seikkailuissa: [https://bit.ly/AanikirjatSuomeksi](https://bit.ly/AanikirjatSuomeksi)

-Sisar Rosa 🕵️‍♀️🔍 – Wilkie Collinsin Klassikkotrilleri[https://youtu.be/ggGLX7Vsxy8]
-📜 Vilhelm Valloittaja – Rudyard Kiplingin unohtumaton kertomus! 🏰✨[https://youtu.be/RFQfkJEkR0Y]

📘 Tarinan sisältö:
– Tutustumme Vilhelm Valloittajan nousuun valtaan 🛡️👑
– Näkökulma lapsille ja nuorille suunnatulla kielellä, kuitenkin historiallisesti tarkasti ✍️
– Osa Kiplingin taianomaisesta sarjasta, joka yhdistää historiaa ja fantasiaa 🧚

🎯 Miksi kuunnella tämä tarina?
– Opettavainen ja viihdyttävä kertomus historiasta
– Kiplingin kiehtova kerronta tempaa mukaansa kaikenikäiset
– Täydellinen ääni- tai iltasatu lapsille sekä nostalginen kuuntelukokemus aikuisillekin

🔥 Muista tykätä videosta, kommentoida ja jakaa se ystäville, jotka rakastavat historiaa ja kirjallisuutta!

📢 Kuuntele, opi ja unohdu aikamatkalle! ✨🎙️

🔎 Hashtagit:
#VilhelmValloittaja #RudyardKipling #ÄänikirjaSuomeksi #Lastenkirjallisuus #Klassikkotarina #HistoriaElää #Aikamatka #Normannivalloitus #Keskiaika #SuomenkielinenÄänikirja #TarinaElämään #PuckOfPooksHill #KiplingSuomeksi #KeskiaikainenEnglanti #HistoriallinenFiktio #Seikkailuäänikirja #Kirjallisuusklassikko #SadutJaTarut #Lastenäänikirja #SuomiÄänikirjat

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00:00:32 Chapter 1.
01:11:39 Chapter 2.
02:06:47 Chapter 3.
02:36:22 Chapter 4.

Welcome to the story ‘William the Conqueror’ by Rudyard Kipling. This story takes us to a time when English history took a new turn with the Norman Conquest. Kipling’s vivid narrative and historical perspective bring to life the events that shaped the future of an entire nation. Join us as we dive into an era where sword, honor and power games controlled human destinies. On the Audiobooks Suomeksi channel, you can enjoy this and many other classic stories in your own language. Chapter 1. His Ancestor’s Grave. There are those who claim that if there were only one loaf of bread in India, it would be divided equally among the Plowdens, the Trevors, the Beadons and the Rivett Carnacs. That proverb refers to the fact that a few families serve in India from generation to generation, just as dolphins migrate in succession across the open sea. Let us take a small, overlooked example. There has always been a Devonshire Chinn in or near Central India, ever since Lieutenant Humphrey Chinn, a fireman in the Bombay European Regiment , who was present at the Seringapatam raid in 1799. Alfred Ellis Chinn, Humphrey’s younger brother, was in Bombay as a commander of a grenadier regiment from 1804 to 1813, and saw many battles during that time. And in 1813, a member of the same family, John Chinn—we may call him the first John Chinn —came to prominence in the harsh times as a very mediocre civil servant at a place called Mundesur. He died young, but left his mark on the new country, and the Honorable Board of the Honourable East India Company immortalized his virtues in a magnificent resolution, and paid for his burial in the Satpura mountains. He was succeeded by his son Lionel Chinn, who had left his humble old Devonshire home for good, only to be severely wounded in the fighting of the Rebellion. He spent his active life less than a hundred and fifty miles from John Chinn’s grave, and rose to the rank of captain of a small regiment of wild Highlanders; most of those warriors had known his father. His son John was born in a little thatched and mud-walled hut, which still stands eighty miles from the nearest railway, in the heart of a withered, tiger-spotted country. Colonel Lionel Chinn served for thirty years, and then went to rest. In the Channel his ship passed the overseas troopship which was taking his son east to fulfil the duties of the family tradition. The Chinns are happier than most people, for they know exactly what is to become of them. The talented Chinn applies to the Bombay Civil Department and is soon on his way to Central India, where he is received with admiration by all. The less talented Chinn enters the Police or Forest Department, and sooner or later he too appears in Central India, and it is from this fact that the proverb arises: Central India is inhabited by Bhils, Mairas and Chins, all of whom resemble each other like berries. The race is short-legged, dark and taciturn, and its least talented representatives are excellent marksmen. John Chinn the second was rather talented than stupid, but being the eldest son, he, in accordance with the Chinn tradition, entered the army. It was his duty to remain in his father’s regiment for life, although that unit was such that most men would have paid a lot to get out of it. Its soldiers were suspicious, small and dark-skinned people, with pale green uniforms and black leather shoulder straps and cuffs. Their friends called them Wuddars, which means a low-breed people who eat rats dug out of the ground. But the Wuddars were not offended by this. They were the only real Wuddars, and their pride was based on the following reasons: First, they had fewer English officers than any other regiment. Second, their junior officers did not ride on review, as was usually the case, but walked at the head of their men. A man who could keep pace with the briskly marching Wuddars must have excellent lungs and legs. Thirdly, they were the best Pukka Shikarris, thoroughbred hunters in all India. Fourthly, they were ninety-nine per cent Wuddars,—formerly they had been Chinns Irregular Bhil Levies, but now, always and forever Wuddars. No Englishman came to their mess except by special desire or by the tradition of his family. The officers spoke to their soldiers a language which not two hundred of the white men of India understood, and the soldiers were their children; they were all descended from the Bhils, who are perhaps the strangest of all the strange races of India. They were and are in soul and heart half-savage, cautious, suspicious, and full of all kinds of superstition. The races we call Indians encountered the Bhils as the owners of the land when they invaded India thousands of years ago . The chronicles call them Prears, Aborigines, Dravidians, etc. When a Rajput chief, whose lineage his singers can trace back twenty centuries, ascends the throne, he is not considered to have been installed until his forehead has been smeared with the blood of a Bhil. The Rajputs, it is true, claim that this ceremony has no significance, but the Bhil knows that it is the last shadow of his rights as the oldest owner of the land. Centuries of oppression and persecution have made the Bhils cruel and half-crazy robbers and cattle thieves, and when the English came, the Bhils seemed almost as susceptible to civilization as the tigers in their jungles. But John Chinn I, Lionel’s father, our John’s grandfather, settled among them, lived and lived there, learned their language, shot the deer that plundered their meager crops, and won their confidence, so that some of the Bhils learned to plough and sow , and others were lured into the service of the Company to behead their friends. When they had discovered that the ranks did not know how to behead quickly, they took up the job as a laborious but enjoyable sport, and developed a burning desire to keep the wild Bhils in check. John Chinn I gave them a written promise that the government would forgive their past neglect if they behaved well from the appointed day, and as John Chinn was known for never breaking his word—he once promised to hang a Bhil who was considered inviolable in his native land, and did so in full view of the tribe—the Bhils became a settled people so rapidly that they themselves did not know how it had happened. It was the kind of quiet and unobtrusive work that is now being done all over India, and although John Chinn’s only reward was, as I have just mentioned, a government-paid grave, the little hill people never forgot him. Colonel Lionel Chinn knew and loved the Bhils too, and before his service was over they had acquired a very fine culture. Many of them could hardly be distinguished from the low-born Hindu peasants; but to the south, where John Chinn I was buried, the wildest of them roamed the Satpura ranges, cherishing the legend that Jan Chinn, as they called him, would one fine day return to his people. Meanwhile they were suspicious of the white man and his ways. The slightest provocation would make them rob and murder indiscriminately, but if they were treated gently they would repent like children and promise never to do so again. The regimental Bhils—the men in uniform—were excellent in many respects, but they needed to be refreshed and kept in good spirits. They became bored unless they were occasionally allowed to go out and thrash tigers, and their cold-blooded audacity—all Wuddars harass tigers on foot, it is their race— astonished even the officers. They used to chase a wounded tiger as carelessly as if it had a broken wing. a sparrow, and this was in a country full of caves and chasms, where the beast might hold a dozen men in its grip as long as it pleased. Now and then some unfortunate man would be taken to the barracks with his head crushed and his ribs broken; but his comrades never learned caution, they were content to make an end of the tiger. Young John Chinn stumbled down from the back seat of a two-wheeled buggy before the porch of the only brass pavilion in the Woodlands, and his rifle-boxes fell to the ground around him. The little, slender, hooked-nosed boy stood there, bewildered like a lost goat, shaking the white dust from his knees, while the buggy rattled away along the chalky road. But inwardly he was content. This was the place where he had been born, and it had remained much the same as when he had been sent to England as a child, fifteen years before. A couple of new buildings had appeared, but the air and the smell and the sunshine were the same; and the little green men who walked across the training ground looked very familiar. Three weeks ago John Chinn would have insisted that he did not remember a word of Bhili, but at the mess door he found his lips forming sentences he did not understand—fragments of old lullabies and the last words of the commands his father had shouted to the soldiers. The colonel watched him as he mounted the stairs and laughed. Look! he said to the major. There is no need to ask about that puppy’s lineage . He is Big Chinn. I think his father looked like that in his fifties. I hope he shoots as well, said the major. At least he has a whole arsenal of weapons with him. He wouldn’t be Chinn if he didn’t shoot. Look at the way he sniffs with his nose. A real Chinnie nose. Waving his handkerchief just like his father. This is the second edition—line by line. Good God, this is almost witchcraft! said the major, peering out through the slats of the blind. If he is the rightful heir, he—Old Chinn could never pass that curtain without touching it, and so does —His son!” cried the colonel, jumping up. It is witchcraft, repeated the major. The boy had been caught in the eye by a ragged reed blind that hung between the porch posts, and he had been mechanically tugging at it to straighten it. Old Chinn had cursed that curtain three times a day many years ago; he could never get it to hang as he pleased. His son entered the hall in a fivefold silence . They welcomed him for his father’s sake, and stared at him for his own sake. He looked ridiculously like the portrait of the colonel hanging on the wall, and after clearing a little dust from his throat, he went to his quarters with the old man’s short, silent jungle steps. A worthy heredity, said the major. It comes from three generations who have lived among the Bhils. And the men know it, said one of the officers. They have stood waiting for the young man, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. I am sure that if he does not offend them once, they will fall on their knees in companies and worship him. There is nothing so good as having a father as their predecessor, said the major. I am a high-flyer in the eyes of my men. I have only been in the regiment twenty years, and my respected father was only an esquire. But what now? Why should the foreman of the porters that young Chinn had with him rush away like that with his bundles? He went out on the porch and called out to the man to stop—this was a typical new officer’s servant who speaks English and steals whenever he can. What is going on? cried the major. Lots of bad people here. I’ll go my way, sir, was the answer. They’ve taken the Sahib’s keys and say they’ll shoot. Very ingenious—very enlightening. What those highland bandits can do! Someone must have startled the man. thoroughly. And the major wandered leisurely home to his quarters to dress for the meal. Young Chinn, wandering as if in a dream, had made a circuit of the camp before he went into his little humble hut. He lingered a moment before the captain’s quarters, where he had been born; then he stopped for a while at the camp well, where he had been wont to sit of an evening with his nurse, and at the little garrison church, where the officers went to worship if a priest of some official religion happened to be travelling through the country. It looked very modest compared with the gigantic buildings he was accustomed to see, but it was the same church as before. Every now and then he passed by a group of silent soldiers who were doing him homage. They might well be the same men who had carried him on their backs when he wore his first scab. A faint light shone from his room, and as he entered he felt his feet embraced and heard a voice murmuring from the floor. Who is it? asked young Chinn, unconsciously using the Blihi language. I carried you in my arms, Sahib, when I was a strong man and you a little rascal who only shouted, shouted, shouted. I am your servant, as I was your father’s servant before. We are all your servants. Young Chinn could not utter a word, and the voice continued: I have taken your keys from that fat stranger and sent him away; and I have buttoned the shirt you are to wear at the mess. Who will take care of it but me? And the boy has grown up to be a man and has forgotten his nurse; but my nephew will make a good servant, or I will cover him twice a day. And then a little grey-haired, wrinkled, ape-like man, with medals and knighthoods on his coat , rose straight as an arrow from the ground , and saluted with a stammer and a tremor. Behind him a young and sinewy Bhil in a uniform was taking the last from Chinn’s brass shoes. Chinn’s eyes filled with tears. The old man handed him the keys. Strangers are scum. That man will never return. We are all servants of your father’s son. Has the Sahib forgotten who took him to see the captive tiger in the village across the river , when his mother was so frightened and he himself so jumpy? Chinn saw the event before him as clearly as a magic lantern picture. Bukta, he cried, and added in the same breath: You promised that nothing bad would happen to me. Are you really Bukta? The man lay at his feet again. He has not forgotten. He remembers his people, as his father did. Now I can die. But first I want to live to show the Sahib how to kill tigers. That is my nephew. If he does not behave himself, send him to me, and I will surely kill him, for the Sahib is now with his own people. Ah Jan baba—Jan baba! My own Jan baba. I will stay here to see that he does his duty properly. Take off your boots, you ram’s head! Sit down on the bed, Sahib, and let me look at you. Yes, you are Jan baba! He offered the young man the hilt of his sword in a sign of submission, an homage otherwise bestowed only on viceroys, governors, generals, and little children who are much loved, and Chinn touched the hilt mechanically with three fingers , muttering something, he himself did not know what. It happened to be the same answer he had used in his childhood when Bukta jokingly called him Little General Sahib. The Major’s quarters were opposite Chinni’s, and when he heard his servant exclaim in surprise, he looked out. Then the Major rose to his tent bed and whistled, for the sight he saw— the eldest of the natives, who held the rank of officer in the regiment, a pure-blooded Bhil, who was a Knight of the British Indian Order, and who held a higher position among his own people than many a Bengal prince— serving a newly-baked junior officer—it was a little too much for his nerves. The hoarse hunting horn blew the brass signal, which is a long one. First a few shrill notes, like the shouts of distant drivers, and then, strong, full, and booming, the final line of a wild song: Hohoi, hohoi, the green fields of Mundore—the fields! All the little children were asleep when the Sahib last heard that signal, said Bukta, handing Chinn a clean handkerchief. The signal brought back to the latter’s mind the memory of his mosquito-curtained hammock, his mother’s kiss, and the sound of footsteps that grew fainter the deeper he fell into sleep. Then he buttoned the black collar of his brass coat and went out to dinner like a prince who has just inherited his father’s crown. Old Bukta went away puffing out his mustache and twisting his moustache. He knew his own worth, and no power in the world would have made him button the shirts of the young officers or give them clean handkerchiefs. But when he took off his uniform that evening and gathered his men around him to take a few puffs in peace from his pipe, he told them what he had done, and they said he had done the right thing. Whereupon Bukta advanced a theory which would have been pure madness in a white man; but the whispering warriors examined it from all sides and found that there was much to support it. Under the oil lamps of the mess the conversation was going on, as usual, on the subject that never wears out, shikar— the hunting of big game of all kinds. Chinn’s eyes widened as he realized that each of his comrades had shot a different tiger in the Wuddari manner—that is, from the ground, not from a shooting range, nor from the back of a tame elephant. Translator’s note. — and made no more of it than if the beast had been a dog. Nine times out of ten, said the major, a tiger is no more dangerous than a porcupine. But on the tenth occasion you will get home feet first. Now the conversation became lively, and long before midnight Chinn’s brain was full of stories about tigers—man-eaters and cattle-killers, each of whom practiced his special profession as consistently as a clerk, and old calm, exceedingly cunning creatures, known in the fair by such nicknames as Puggy, who was lazy and had enormous paws, and Mrs Malapropos, who would dive out when least expected, and make a real racket. Then they talked about Bhil superstition—a broad and fascinating subject—until young Chinn suspected that he was being fed willow rope. “No, indeed, we won’t,” said the officer who sat on his right. “We know all about you. You are a Chinn, and you have some sort of hereditary right here. But if you do n’t believe us, what are you going to do when old Bukta starts talking? He knows a lot about ghost stories and tigers that went to their own hell, and tigers that walked on their hind legs, and your grandfather’s riding tiger, too . It’s strange he hasn’t told you all about that yet. You know that some of your ancestors are buried in the Satpura region, don’t you?” said the major, as Chinn smiled helplessly. ” Of course I do,” replied Chinn, who knew the Chinn genealogy like the back of his hand. The book was in his Devonshire home in old worn covers on a china table behind the piano , and the children were allowed to study it on Sundays. Well, I wasn’t quite sure about that. Your venerable ancestor, my son, has, if the Bhils are to be trusted, his own tiger— a saddled tiger, which he rides across the country when he comes across it. I don’t think it’s very fitting for an ex -tax collector, but the Southern Bhils believe it. And our men, who are supposed to be somewhat cold-blooded, wouldn’t dare go hunting if they heard that Jan Chinn was on the move and is jogging through the forests on the back of his tiger. They say that the animal is spotted, not striped, and that it resembles a tortoise- shell cat. It is a terrible beast and a sure sign that war or plague or—or something else is coming. It is a delightful family legend. How do you think that story came about? asked Chinn. Ask the Bhils of Satpura. Old Jan Chinn was a great hunter before our Lord. Perhaps it is the tiger’s revenge, or perhaps he still hunts them. You must go to his grave as soon as possible and get information about it. Bukta will help you. He asked me before you came if you had already killed a tiger by chance. If you have not, he will certainly take you under his wing. Of course, it is very important that you kill a tiger. And with Bukta it goes very well. The Major was quite right. During the exercises, Bukta kept an uneasy eye on Chinn, and could see the whole line moving as the young officer opened his mouth to utter his first word of command. The colonel also started, for he could have sworn that Colonel Lionel Chinn was there, who had come back from Devonshire to start a new life. Bukta had further developed his special theory among his confidants, and all the rank and file accepted it as a sort of article of faith, for every word and every movement of young Chinn seemed to confirm it. The old man immediately took steps to absolve his favourite of the shame of not having shot a tiger; but he was not disposed to be content with any creature that happened to come near. In his own villages he represented the lower court, the high court, and the supreme court, and when his people, who were alert and active, brought word that the tracks of a tiger had been found, he ordered men to be sent out to lie in wait at the hunting and watering places to make sure that the beast was worthy of such a man. Three or four times the men returned and told him truthfully that the animal was a mangy or undersized animal— a she-tigress thin from nursing, or an old toothless male, and Bukta tried to restrain young Chinn’s impatience. At last the noble animal was traced—a ten-foot cattle-killer, shiny-haired, wrinkled-nosed, moustachioed, lively and lively, and young. It had killed a man just for the fun of it, said the hunters. Feed it! declared Bukta, and the villagers obediently supplied cattle for the tiger’s amusement, to keep it near. Princes and great men have chartered ships to India, and spent great sums of money, only to catch a glimpse of creatures that were not half so handsome as Bukta’s tiger. It is not right, he said to the colonel, when he asked for a hunting leave, that my colonel’s son, who is certainly… that my colonel’s son should waste his maiden shot on a trifling jungle animal. That may come later. I have waited a long time for a real tiger. It has now come from the land of the Mairs. In a week its skin will be here. Messi gritted his teeth with envy. If he had wanted to, Bukta could have invited them all along, and they would have gone gladly. But he set out with only Chinn; Two days they rode in a hunting cart, and one day they walked until they came to a rocky, sunny valley with a pond of clear water. It was a scorching hot day, and of course the boy immediately took off his clothes and went swimming, while Bukta stayed on the shore. White skin shines far in the brown jungle, and what Bukta saw on Chinn’s back and right shoulder made him step closer, his eyes wide with wonder. I must have forgotten that it is not proper to strip naked in front of a man of his position, Chinn thought as he splashed in the water. Look how the little rascal stares. — What now, Bukta? A sign, was the whispered answer. It is nothing. You know it runs in our family. Chinn was a little annoyed. He had not remembered the dark red birthmark on his shoulder, or he would not have bathed. It was said to appear on every other knee, but strangely enough it did not appear until eight or nine years after birth, and it could not be considered an ornament in any way, unless it was now considered that it was part of the Chinn heritage. He hurried ashore and dressed quickly; then they continued on their way until they met a couple of Bhils, who immediately threw themselves on the ground. My people, muttered Bukta, who did not seem to pay the slightest attention to them, and therefore your people too, Sahib. When I was young, there were fewer of us, but we were not so weak. Now there are many of us, but we are a weak tribe. And that must be remembered. How do you want to shoot it, Sahib? From a tree or from a shelter that my people can build? In daylight or at night? From the ground and in broad daylight, said young Chinn. That is always your way, I have heard, said Bukta as if to himself. I will go and hunt it down. Then we two will go after it. I will take the rifle. You have yours. No more are needed. What tiger could resist you! They met the tiger at the end of a ravine by a small pond; it was full and dozing in the May sunshine. A partridge woke it, and it turned to fight. Bukta did not even try to raise his rifle, but kept looking at Chinn, who answered the beast’s terrible roar of attack with a single shot —Bukta thought he had been aiming for hours—and the bullet pierced the throat and broke the spine at the back of the neck, between the shoulder blades. The animal faltered, twitched, and fell, and before Chinn could fully comprehend what had happened, Bukta asked him to stand still while he measured the distance between the marksman’s feet and the creature’s twitching paws . Fifteen, said Bukta, small steps. There is no need for another shot , Sahib. It will bleed to death nicely there, and it is not worth ruining the hide. I said they would not be needed, but they came anyway—to be on the lookout. On either side of the pass there was a sudden swarm of natives—a swarm that could have shot every rib of the beast if Chinn had missed . But they kept their guns concealed and pretended to be only enthusiastic drivers. Five, six waited for the order to skin the prey. Bukta saw the life go out of the beast’s untamed eyes; then he raised one hand and turned. We have no reason to pay attention to that, he said. From now on we can kill whatever we want. Hold out your hand, Sahib! Chinn obeyed. The hand did not tremble in the slightest, and Bukta nodded: That was your way too. My men skin quickly. They carry the hide to the camp. Will the Sahib follow me to my poor village and forget for the night that I am his superior? And these men—the drivers. They have worked hard and perhaps… If they skin badly, I will skin them. They are my people. Here I am different from the regiment. It was true. When Bukta took off his uniform and put on the poor dress of his own people, he forgot even the civilization he had learned. After a moment’s conversation with his subjects, he organized an orgy for the next night, and the orgies of the Bhils are such that it is difficult to describe them. Proud of his triumph, Chinn willingly took part, without understanding the mysteries of the feast . Wild people crowded around him , offering sacrifices. He gave his flask to the elders of the village. They became eloquent and covered him with flowers. Gifts and loans that were not particularly suitable were thrust upon him, and hellish music roared around the red fires, as singers sang ancient songs and danced strange dances. The ancestral potions were very strong, and Chinn was often forced to taste them, but there must have been some special addition to the drink, for why else would he have fallen asleep so suddenly and woken up only the next morning—half a day’s march from the village? The Sahib was very tired. Just before dawn he fell asleep, explained Bukta. My people carried him here, and now it is time for us to return to camp. Hearing Bukta’s calm and respectful tone of voice and seeing his sure and serious gait, it was hard to believe that the same man, only a few hours before, had been flailing and swinging among the naked savages of the jungle. My people were very delighted to see the Sahib. They will never forget it. When the Sahib first goes out to hire soldiers, he must go to my people, and he will get as many as he wants. Chinn kept his secret except for the shooting of the tiger, and Bukta adorned the event with audacious boldness. The hoist was indeed the most beautiful that had been hung in the mess, and the most luxurious of all. When Bukta could not accompany his son into the forest, he left him in good hands, and in talking with the wild Bhils in the dark and in the wells by the roadside, on his marches and during his holidays, Chinn learned to know their ways and wishes better than any other man in his life. Before long his regimental men dared to talk to him about their relatives—most of them had got into some trouble —and left their disputes to him to settle. They used to come to his porch in the dark to tell him, in the familiar manner of the Wuddaris, without pretense, about such and such a young man and such and such a woman in some distant village. Now, how many cows did the fugitive Sahib think he should pay? On another occasion a Bhil had received a written order from the government to go to a fortified town on the plains to be a witness in some court case, and he wanted to know whether it was wise to disobey the order. But if he dared to obey, would he have any hope of getting back alive? But what have I to do with all this? asked Chinn impatiently of Bukta. I am a soldier. I do not understand the law. Holy! The law is for madmen and white men. Give the Bhils a clear and direct order, and they will obey it. You are their law! But why? Bukta’s face became quite expressionless. The thought had never crossed his mind for a long time. Perhaps it was because of the name. A Bhil does not like any stranger. Give them orders, Sahib —two, three, four words at a time, so that they can fit in their heads. That is enough. Chinn then briskly distributed his orders, not suspecting that the word that had slipped from his lips in passing at the mess before dinner became, in the villages beyond the misty hills , a law to which no higher authority could be appealed. For every word he uttered was considered as a law enacted by Jan Chinn I; for he had—so the legend whispered—come back to earth to oversee the third generation of Bhils in the flesh and blood of his grandson . Of this there could be no doubt. All the Bhils knew that the reborn Jan Chinn, after killing his first tiger in this later form, had graced Bukta’s village with his presence , and that he had eaten and drunk with the people, as he had been accustomed to do before. On his back and right shoulder —Bukta had probably put drops of the law into Chinn’s drink— everyone had seen the same scarlet mark that the high gods had impressed on Jan Chinn I’s body when he first came among the Bhils. To those foolish, short-sighted white people who had no eyes, he was only a slender young officer in the Wuddar regiment, but his own people knew that he was Jan Chinn, the man who made men of Bhils; and in that belief they hastened to spread his words far and wide, taking great care not to change them on the way. But like a child playing alone, the savage fears more than anything else that he may be laughed at or made to reveal his secrets, and so the little people held to their convictions. without his own knowledge, and the colonel, who thought he knew his regiment, did not guess that every one of the six hundred swift-footed, round-eyed privates who stood at rigid attention with their rifles, believed firmly and unshakably that the junior officer on the left flank was a demigod, twice born— the patron god of their country and their people. The gods of the land themselves had stamped their mark on his new flesh, and who dared to doubt the work of the gods of the land? Chinn, who was of practical inclination, saw that his family name was of great use to him, both in the army and elsewhere. His men never caused any trouble—discipline is never broken when a god watches over it—and he knew that when needed he would have the best drivers in the country. They believed that Jan Chinn I protected them, and in that belief they displayed a fearlessness that eclipsed all the courage that had previously been displayed by the enthusiastic Bhils. His room began to look like a hobbyist’s natural history museum, despite the fact that he sent a great many skulls and horns home to Devonshire. The people soon learned, which was very human, to know the weaknesses of their god. He
was incorruptible, to be sure, but butterflies, beetles, and above all the rarer large animals pleased him greatly. In other respects he followed the traditions of the Chinnis. He was feverish. A whole night spent in the damp valley guarding a tethered goat would have given the major a month’s malaria, but Chinnis was not affected in the least. He had been, as they said, salted before he was born. In the autumn of his second year of service , a disturbing rumour crept up the ground and spread rapidly among the Bhils. Chinn heard nothing of it until one day, over the dinner table, one of his fellow officers said to him in the mess: “Your venerable ancestor is on the move and rampaging in the Satpura country. You should really try to get hold of him.” I don’t want to show any lack of respect, but I am really starting to get tired of my venerable ancestor.” Bukta talks of nothing else. What is the old fellow doing now? Riding around the country in the moonlight on his famous tiger. So they say. About two thousand Bhils have seen him galloping over the Satpura peaks and scaring people to death. They believe it blindly, and the Satpurans practice their devotion at his altar—at his grave, I mean. It must seem a shame to see your own grandfather treated as a god. What reason have you to believe that the story is not nonsense from beginning to end? You see, the men pretend to know nothing about it. They claim they have never heard of the Chinn tiger. But that is a clear lie, for every Bhil has heard of it. There is one thing we have forgotten, said the Colonel thoughtfully. When a local god appears on earth he always foretells some trouble, and those Bhils of Satpura are about as wild as they were when your grandfather died, my son. That means something. Are they going to go to war? asked Chinn. I cannot say—not yet. But it would not particularly surprise me. I have not heard a word of the whole affair. That proves the same thing. They are hiding something. Buktahan always tells me everything. Why has he not spoken of it? This question Chinn asked the old man himself that very evening, and the answer filled the old man with astonishment. Why should I tell you something you already know very well. Yes, a spotted tiger roams the Satpura land. What do the wild Bhils think it means? They do not know it. They are waiting. Sahib, what is going to happen? Just say one little word and we will be satisfied. Us? What have civilized Bhils to do with things from the south, from among the jungle Bhils? When Jan Chinn wakes up, every Bhil must be ready. But he has not woken up, Bukta. Sahib, said the old man, and his eyes were full of gentle reproof, why does he ride in the bright moonlight, unless he wishes to be seen? We know he is awake, but we do not know what he wants. Is it a sign for all Bhils, or only for those who live in Satpura? Say just one little word, Sahib, and I will take it to the rank and file and send it to our villages. Why is Jan Chinn riding across the country? Who has done wrong? Does it mean plague? Or anthrax? Will our children die? Does it mean sword and battle? Remember, Sahib, that we are your people and your servants, and that in this life of yours I have carried you in my arms—unsuspecting anything. Bukta has evidently peered too much into the bottom of the glass tonight, thought Chinn, but if I can, I must do something to appease the old rascal. This is like the rumours of a great rebellion on a reduced scale. He threw himself into a deep rocking-chair, on which was spread his first tiger-skin, and his weight threw clawed paws over his shoulders. He grasped them mechanically as he spoke , and wrapped the striped fur around him like a cloak. Now I will tell you the truth, Bukta, he said, and leaned forward with the great tiger’s skull on his shoulder; he wondered what kind of lie he would cook up now. I see that you are going to tell the truth, answered the other in a trembling voice. Jan Chinn rides his spotted tiger on the Satpura hills, you say. So be it. In that case the sign means only the Satpura people, and not the Bhils who plough and sow in the east and north, the Bhils of Kandesh and others, but only the Bhils of Satpura, who, as I have heard, are savage and ignorant. It is a sign to them, then. Good or bad? Undoubtedly good. For why should Jan Chinn wish ill to those he has made men of? The nights are hot there; it is a pain to sleep in bed without being able to turn, and Jan Chinn wants to see how his people are prospering. That is why he gets up, whistles to his spotted tiger, and rides for a breath of fresh air. If the Satpura people would stay in their villages and not sneak into the forests after dark, they would escape his sight. Truly, Bukta, the whole thing is simply that he wants to see his own country again. Send this news south and tell them with greetings that it is my own word. Bukta bowed to the floor. Good God! thought Chinn, that sick-eyed idolater is a first-class officer and honest as stamped money. It is best that I explain the matter thoroughly. And he continued: If the Bhils of Satpura ask what this sign means, tell them that Jan Chinn wants to see how they keep their promise to live honorably. Perhaps they have committed robbery; perhaps they intend to rebel against the government’s orders; perhaps there is a dead man lying in the jungle; and that is why Jan Chinn has come to see for himself . Is he angry? Oh! Am I ever angry with my Bhils? I speak harsh words and make many threats. You know best that it is not very dangerous, Bukta. I have seen you smile behind your hand. I know you understand me. The Bhils are my children. I have said that many times. Ah yes, we are your children, said Bukta. And it is the same with my father’s father, Jan Chinn. He wants to see his people and the country he loved once more . It is a good spirit, Bukta. I will say it. Go now and tell them. And I hope from the bottom of my heart, he added, that my greetings will reassure them. He threw off his tiger skin and yawned long and carelessly, revealing his well-kept teeth. Bukta rushed out and was met with a whole deafening barrage of eager questions from the soldiers. That is true, said Bukta. He wrapped himself in a cloak and spoke from inside it. He wants to see his own country. The sign is not meant for us, and besides, he is a young man. Surely he cannot sleep without riding through the nights? He says the bed is too hot and the air too stuffy. He goes out for a night’s ride now and then for pleasure . He has said so. The grey-bearded listeners were startled. He says the Bhils are his children. You know he never lies. He has told me so. And the Bhils of Satpura? What does the sign mean to them? Nothing. It is only a pleasure ride, as I said. He rides there to see if they will obey the government, as he impressed upon their minds in his first life. And if they do not? That is not what he said. Now the light went out in Chinn’s room. You see, said Bukta. Now he is going out. Nevertheless, he is a good spirit, as he himself said. Why should we fear Jan Chinn, who made men of Bhils? We are under his protection, and you know that Jan Chinn never left anyone he had promised to protect to his own luck. When he is older and has a wife, he will stay in his bed until morning. A regimental commander is usually the first to notice the slightest changes of mood in his troops . That is why the colonel explained a few days later that someone was instilling the fear of God in the Wuddars for a while. When he was the only one with official authority, it pained him to see such unanimous virtue. It is almost too good to last long, he said. If only I could guess what those little Jews have in mind. At the turn of the month he thought he had received an explanation when he was ordered to be ready to put down any unrest that might arise among the Bhils of Satpura ; These were, to put it mildly, dissatisfied because the paternal government had sent them a skilled vaccinator with lancets, lymph and officially registered calves. To use the official language, they had expressed great reluctance to all prophylactic measures, had forcibly detained the vaccinator and were about to neglect the duties of their subjects. That means, in other words, that they are in a real panic— just like during the census, said the colonel, and if we scare them into the mountains, firstly we will never get them, and secondly they will go on raids until we get further orders. I should like to know which God-forsaken idiot is trying to vaccinate the Bhils. I already knew that trouble was coming. Fortunately , only native troops will be used and that we can therefore organize some kind of military expedition and let them get away with it. It makes sense to destroy our best drivers just because they won’t be vaccinated! They’re just crazy with fear. Could you perhaps, sir, said Chinn the next morning, give me fourteen days’ hunting leave? You goblin, are you going to run away just when the enemy is threatening! — the colonel laughed. — That’s all right, but in that case I ‘ll have to put an earlier date on the leave ticket, for we’ve been ordered to be ready to go, you understand. But we can assume that you submitted your application three days ago and are now on your way south. I’d be happy to take Bukta with me too. Of course. I think it will be good. You have a kind of hereditary influence over those little men, and they’ll listen to you, when they’ll run wildly at the sight of our uniforms . You’ve never been to that corner of the country before, have you? Be careful they don’t send you to your family grave young and innocent. I think all will be well, though, if you can only get them to listen to you. I think so too, sir, but if—if they behave foolishly —and something happens—you understand—I hope you’ll make it sound as if they were just frightened. I wouldn’t forgive myself if someone—someone with my name gave them trouble. The colonel nodded, but made no reply. Chinn and Bukta set out at once. Bukta had not mentioned a word that after the excited Bhils had dragged the official vaccinator into the hills, messenger after messenger had crept to him to pray fervently, with their heads on the ground, that Jan Chinn would come to explain the unknown horror that threatened his people. The omen of the spotted tiger was now quite clear. May Jan Chinn console his people, for the help of mortals was powerless. Bukta simplified this prayer to a mere request that Jan Chinn go there. Nothing would have been more agreeable to the old warrior than a refreshing campaign against the Bhils of Satpura, whom, as a pure-blooded Bhil, he despised; but as Jan Chinn’s representative he had duties to the whole people, and he was firmly convinced that forty troubles would befall his village if he betrayed the Bhils’ confidence. And besides, Jan Chinn knew everything, and he rode a spotted tiger. They traveled thirty miles on foot and horse, and were rapidly approaching the wall-like blue line of the Satpura mountains. Bukta was very silent. Just after noon they began the arduous climb, but the sun was already setting when they reached the plateau next to the rugged, jungle-covered hill where Jan Chinn I was buried, so that, as he had hoped, he could keep an eye on his people from up there . All over India there are forgotten graves dating back to the early eighteenth century—there are colonels and generals of long-disbanded armies , visitors to India who went on hunting expeditions and never returned, commissioners, agents, clerks, and section chiefs of the venerable East India Company by the hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands. The English people forget quickly, but the natives have a faithful memory, and if a man has done good in his lifetime, they remember it after his death. Jan Chinn’s dilapidated square grave was covered with wild flowers and nuts, rolls of wax and honey, bottles of native liquor and disgusting cigars, buffalo horns and bunches of dry grass. At one end was a clumsy clay figure, representing a white man in an old-fashioned pointed hat riding a tiger. As they approached the grave, Bukta bowed to the ground in greeting. Chinn uncovered his head and began to examine the worn inscription on the stone. As far as he could read it word by word and letter by letter, it read as follows: Here lies JOHN CHIN, Esq. Collector of Taxes……… … without bloodshed and without fear of the authorities My office…. sor…….. The trust …… Affection…. was finally…… submitted…. …… lalnkuuliaaksl The people ……..i them…… . ntn Hai . lituksen……. Eternal………. Hållits………. ……. The Governor-General and the Executive…. have ordered to be erected………. …. died Aug. 19 p. 184………. at the age of. On the other side of the grave were some verses that he could no longer make out.
Chinn stood for a moment leaning against the gravestone, his thoughts on the deceased, who had been his own flesh and blood, and in the Devonshire home. Then his gaze shifted to the vast expanses below, and he nodded: Yes, it is a giant’s work… for everyone… for my small part too. He must have been a man worth knowing after all… Bukta, where are my people? Not here, Sahib. No one dares to come here except in a large group. They are waiting up there. Let us climb up there! But Chinn remembered a rule of Eastern diplomacy and replied with an air of indifference: I have come this long way only because the Satpura men are stupid and dare not visit our camp. Now they may come here to see me. I am not the servant of the Bhils, but their master. I am going—I am going, groaned the old man. Night was falling, and at any moment Jan Chinn might whistle his terrible horse from the darkening jungle. For the first time in his long life, Bukta defied an official order and betrayed his superior; he did not return, but hurried to the leveled summit of the hill and cried out quietly. Men were streaming out from all sides—small trembling men with bows and arrows, who had been waiting for the two since midday. Where is he? asked one. At his own grave. He orders you to come there, said Bukta. Right now? Yes. Let him rather send his spotted tiger upon us. We dare not go there. Neither will I, though I have carried him in my arms when he was a little child in this life. Wait here until daybreak. But surely he will be angry? He gets very angry, for he has nothing to eat. But he has assured me many times that the Bhils are his children. In the daylight I believe it, but—in the moonlight I am not quite sure. What nonsense have you Satpura pigs come up with to trouble him? A man came to us in the name of the Government, with long magic knives and a bewitched calf, to bewitch us all into cattle by cutting us at the arms. We were terribly frightened, but we did not kill the man. He is here, tied up—a black man, and we think he has come from the west. He says he had orders to cut us all with knives—especially the women and children. We did not believe it was an order, and we were frightened and hid in our mountains. Some of our men have taken horses and bullocks from the plains, and others dams and clothes and ear-rings. Have you killed anyone? Our men? No, not yet. But many rumors that run like flames up the slope have excited the young men. I sent a man to inquire of Jan Chinn whether worse was to be expected. This was the very horror he foretold when he appeared on the back of his spotted tiger. He himself says otherwise, said Bukta, and he told, with suitable additions , all that young Chinn had told him as he sat wrapped in the tiger’s fur in his rocking chair. Do you think, someone finally asked, that the government will use force against us? No, answered Bukta. Jan Chinn will draw up an order, and you will obey. All the rest is a matter between the government and Jan Chinn. I myself have some knowledge of those magic knives and the pricking. It is a magic remedy for smallpox. But in what way, I do not know. And it is none of your business. If he will help us and protect us from the wrath of the government, we will obey Jan Chinn in everything, but—but we dare not go to the grave tonight. They heard young Chinn below calling out to Bukta, but they hid and sat silent, waiting for the spotted tiger. The grave had been a sacred place for nearly half a century. If Jan Chinn preferred to sleep there, who had a better right to it than he? But they would not come within his sight until daybreak. At first Chinn was furiously angry, but then it occurred to him that Bukta probably had every reason to stay, and he did, and that his own dignity must suffer from gossiping like that without getting an answer. So he leaned against the base of the tombstone and spent the warm night , now dozing, now smoking, pleased to be a legitimate, feverish, genuine Chinn. He drew up his war plan, as his grandfather would have done; and when Bukta came in the morning with a whole store of provisions, Chinn did not mention the old man’s nightly escape. Bukta would have felt calmer if the other had vented his anger; but Chinn ate with a good appetite before saying anything. ” They are very frightened,” said Bukta, who was not in a particularly cheerful mood himself. They only need to be given an order. They will explain “They will obey you if you will protect them from the government. ” “I know that,” replied Chinn, as he slowly climbed the peak. A few elderly men stood there in a semicircle; but the greater part of the people—the women and children—were hidden in the bushes. They had not the least desire to hear the wrath of Jan Chinn I. Chinn sat down on a jagged boulder and finished his cigar , while the men breathed heavily around him. Then he roared so unexpectedly that they jumped high: ” Bring here the man who was imprisoned!” There was a jostling and shouting, and then came the Hindu vaccinator, trembling with fear and bound hand and foot in the same way as the ancient Bhils bound their human victims. He was pushed gently before Chinn, but he did not look at him. I said—the man who was bound. Is it a joke that you bring me a man roped like a buffalo? Since when have the Bhils had the power and right to tie people up for fun? Cut! Half a dozen knives hastily cut the ropes, and the man crawled to Chinn’s feet; he picked up his lancet and lymphatic tube. Then he pointed with his forefinger in a semicircle and said in a strong and emphatic voice: “Swine!” Ah, whispered Bukta. Now he speaks. Woe to you foolish people! I have come on foot from my house, shaking the congregation, to make clear to you a thing that every man except the Bhils of Satpura would have seen from afar. You know the smallpox that digs holes and scars in your children so that they look like wasp nests. The Government has decreed that anyone who is pricked in the hand with these little knives that I hold here in my hand shall be safe from that disease. All Sahibs are protected in this way, and so are a great many Hindus. Here is the mark. Look! He pulled up his sleeve and showed the little white inoculation marks on his white skin: Come here, all of you, and look! A few of the daredevils came up to him and nodded their heads in a wise way. There was indeed a mark, and they knew that other terrible marks were hidden under the shirt. Armelias was indeed Jan Chinn, who did not show them, and thus proved his divinity. Has not the man you have bound told you all this? I said—a hundred times, but they answered with blows, groaned the inoculator, wringing his hands. But you are pigs and you did not believe; and therefore I come here to save you, first from smallpox, then from your insane fear, and finally perhaps from prison and the rope. I gain nothing in this matter, and it is no pleasure to me, but for the sake of him who rests there and who made men of the Bhils ”—he gestured with his hand towards the grave—“I, who am his flesh and blood, his son’s son, will come to your aid. And I speak the truth, as does Jan Chinn.” The crowd murmured respectfully, and one by one the men who had been hiding crept out of the jungle to join the others. There was no sign of anger on the face of their god. These are my orders. God grant that they may follow them, but I think I have made a good impression on them so far . I will stay with you while this man sent by the government carves your arms with his knife. In three or perhaps five or seven days your arms will swell and begin to sting and itch. The spirit of smallpox will then fight in your wretched blood against the orders of the government. I will therefore remain here until I see that the smallpox is conquered, and I will not leave until men and women and little children show me such marks on their arms as I have just shown you. I have with me two good rifles and a man whose name is known among animals and men. We will hunt together, he and I, and your young men and all of you may eat and sleep in peace. That is my command. There was a long silence, during which the scales swayed. I will change The old white-haired sinner, who stood on his weak legs, finally whispered: There are some horses and a couple of bullocks and other trifles for which we need a cowl. They have not come here by purchase or exchange. The fight was over, and Jan Chinn sighed with relief. The young Bhils had been on a raid, but if we acted quickly enough, everything could be put back to its former state. I will write you a cowl as soon as the horses, bullocks and other goods are counted here before me and sent back to where they came from. But first we will put the Government mark on all those who have not yet had smallpox. Then he whispered to the vaccinator: If you show any fear, you will probably never see Poona again, my friend! There is not enough vaccine for all these people, the man replied. They have killed the calf. They do not know the difference. Prick them in turn and give me two lancets. I will deal with the oldest ones. The old diplomat who had asked for a letter of protection was the first victim. He fell into Chinn’s hands and did not dare to flinch. As soon as he was free, he dragged a comrade to the spot and held him, and in the end the whole thing became a child’s game. The vaccinated dragged the unvaccinated before Chinn, explaining that the whole tribe had to suffer the same pains. The women screamed, and the children ran away howling; but Chinn only laughed and brandished his sharp lancet. “This is a great honor,” he cried. ” Tell them, Bukta, what honor it will be for them when I mark them in my own high person . No, no, I cannot mark them all. The Hindu must have some work, but I will touch the marks he has made, so that all may have equal honor. This is how the Rajputs prick their pigs.” Hey, you half-eyed brother! Catch that girl and bring her here. She need not slip away, for she is not yet married and I am not going to propose. Will she not come? Then she will be ashamed of her little brother—a stout boy, a good boy. He holds his hand out like a soldier. Just look. He does not flinch at a drop of blood. Some fine day he will enlist in my regiment. And now, mother of many, we will touch you gently, for smallpox has been here before us. It is quite true that this magic will break the power of Mata. After this there will be no small-scarred faces among the Bhils of Satpura, and then you can ask for many cows for every girl you marry. And so he chatted and joked, mixing in Bhil language and jokes that bore the stamp of their coarse humour, until the lancets were dull and the vaccinators were about to die of exhaustion. But human nature is the same everywhere, and the unvaccinated became jealous of their comrades; in their frenzy they almost started a fight. Then Chinn changed from doctor to judge and began a formal inquiry into the recent robberies. We are thieves of Mahadeo, the Bhils answered simply. That is our fate, and we were so afraid. We always steal when we are afraid. Then they came straight to the point and openly, like children recounting a robbery. All was still left except two bullocks and a bottle of spirits, which had been lost, which Chinn promised to replace out of his own purse, and ten of the chiefs were sent into the Lowlands with a curious document, written on a notebook and addressed to the chief constable of the district. Jan Chinn had made it known beforehand that the document would prepare its bearers for a warm reception, but it was still better than losing their liberty. Armed with this safe-conduct, the penitent robbers set out for the Lowlands. They had no particular desire to meet Mr. Dundas Fawne of the police force, a cheerful and playful youth of twelve or thirteen , or to see again the victims of their robberies. The scene of the incident. Trying to keep in the middle, they met the only chaplain the government had provided for all irregulars within fifteen thousand square miles, and were soon standing before him in a cloud of dust. He was a priest of some kind, they knew, and, what was more, a good hunter who was hospitable to his drivers. When he read Chinn’s letter he laughed, and they took it as a good omen, until he called the police constables, who shut up the horses and bullocks in a corral, and then laid their heavy hands on three of Mahadeo’s wide-faced band of thieves . The chaplain himself gave them his official whip. It hurt, but that was what Jan Chinn had said before. They smiled submissively, but would not surrender their safe-conduct, for fear that they would go to prison. On their way home they met Mr. D. Fawne himself, who had heard of the robberies and was not particularly merciful. True, said the eldest of the party, when scene number two had been happily concluded, true, Jan Chinn’s safe-conduct has saved our liberty, but it seems as if that paper ticket contained too many whiplashes. Throw it away! One of them climbed a tree and stuck the paper in a branch forty feet above the ground, where it could not arouse anyone’s anger. Warm and battered, but happy, the ten returned the next day to Jan Chinn; who was sitting among the timid Bhils, all of whom were looking at their arms, not daring to rub them—they were afraid their god would be angry. That was a good kowl, said the leader. First the chaplain, who was laughing, took our catch and beat three of us, as promised. Then we met Fawne Sahib, who frowned and asked about the catch. We told the truth, and then he beat us all up, one after the other, and called us bad names. Then he gave us these scrolls, and they handed Chinn a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, and we went on our way. We left the cowl in a tree, for its power was such that as soon as we showed it to any Sahib we got our backs. But if you hadn’t had that cowl, said Jan Chinn solemnly, you would all have been marched to jail with a policeman on either side of you. You’re just about to become my drivers. These people are unfortunate, and we’ll hunt until they get better. To-morrow night we’ll have a feast. Among other things, not really fit for printing, it is recorded in the chronicles of the Bhils of Satpura that for the next five days from the day he had set his mark on them, Jan Chinn I hunted his people down, and that on the fifth night the tribe got gloriously and thoroughly drunk. Jan Chinn bought home-made spirits of terrible strength, and shot countless wild boars and deer, so that if anyone felt sick, he had doubly reason to do so. While enduring this headache and stomachache, they had no time to think about their arms, but followed Jan Chinn faithfully through the jungles, and as their trust grew day by day, men, women, and children began to secretly go to their villages as they happened to pass by. They spread the news that it was good to be pricked with magic knives, that Jan Chinn had really come back to life as a god who wasted food and drink, and that the Bhils of Satpura would be the most popular of all peoples if they did not itch. From then on, in their imagination, they always associated this friendly demigod with gluttonous feasts and government vaccines and lancets. Yes, tomorrow I will go back to my home, said Jan Chinn to his faithful retinue, who had not been discouraged by liquor, gluttony, and swollen glands . Children and savages have a home-made in their religion it was difficult to keep their idols in due honor, and they had lived quietly with Jan Chinn. But when he mentioned his home, a dark shadow fell over his people. Will the Sahib not come back again? asked the one who had been vaccinated first. We shall see, answered Chinn evasively. Come then as a white man—come as a young man whom we know and whom we love, for you know that we are a weak people. If we should see you again—your horse— They tried to cheer themselves up. I have no horse. I came on foot—with that Bukta. What do you mean? You know—that creature you have chosen for your night-horse. The little men trembled with fear. For my night-horse? Bukta, what nursery rhyme is this? Bukta had been very silent in Chinn’s company since the night he ran away, and was grateful for this casual question. They know it, Sahib, he whispered. They mean the spotted tiger. It comes from the place where you used to sleep once. It is your horse as it has been for three generations. My horse? Now the Bhils have dreamed a dream. It is not a dream. Do dreams leave the tracks of immense paws on the ground? Why show two faces to your people? They know your nocturnal rides, and they—and they— Fear and would like to see them disappear? Bukta nodded. Unless you need it. It is your horse. Oh, that mutiny leaves tracks, said Chinn. We have seen them. They form a sort of village path around the grave. Can you find them and follow them for me? In daylight—if one accompanies you and above all stays close. I will ride right beside you, and let us see that Jan Chinn does not ride anymore! The Bhils, hearing the last words, raised a loud shout of joy. To Chinn this was just an ordinary hunting expedition— down hills, past jagged boulders, dangerous perhaps, if his mind was not in order, but no worse than the twenty others he had been on. But his Bhils, they flatly refused to drive, and would only follow the tracks, the sweat pouring from their faces. They pointed out the tracks of enormous paws that led down the slope until five hundred feet below Jan Chinn’s grave they disappeared into a narrow hollow. It was a shamelessly open road, a home-made highway, trodden with no intention of keeping it a secret. The rascal must be collecting tribute, Chinn muttered to himself, before asking aloud whether men or cattle were his friend’s taste. Cattle, was the answer. Two heifers a week. We drive them to him at the foot of the hill. It has become a habit of his. If we did not, he would come after us. Blackmail and robbery, said Chinn. I do not mean to say that I would be tempted to go into the cave after it. What should we do? The Bhils drew aside, but Chinn took up his position behind a rock with his rifle at the ready. He knew that tigers were usually timid animals, but one that had been feasting on cattle for a long time must have become a little arrogant. It speaks, whispered one of the furthest. It knows everything. Well, that was the height of shamelessness! said Chinn. An angry howl came from the cave—a direct challenge to battle! Come out then! cried Chinn. Come out, junker! Show yourself to us! The animal knew very well that there was some connection between the brown, naked Bhils and that weekly tax; but the white helmet shining in the sunlight irritated it, and it did not like the sound that disturbed its rest. With a snort like a sated snake it crawled out of its den and stood yawning and blinking at the opening. The rays of the sun fell on its right shoulder, and Chinn was astonished. He had never seen such a tiger. The head except for one, which was clearly striped, it was spotted—not striped, but spotted like a child’s rocking horse—black spots on a red-gold ground. The part of the neck and nape that should have been white was orange-yellow, and the tail and paws were black. It blinked its eyes sleepily for about ten seconds, then it bent its head down thoughtfully, its jaws clenched, and the animal stared stubbornly at the man before it. The position was designed to bring into sharp view the round crown with two broad stripes running crosswise. Standing there with its head down , it somehow resembled a diabolically menacing pantomime mask. It had a kind of magnetism with which it had often paralyzed its victims, and though Chinn was anything but a frightened heifer, she stood for a moment motionless, surprised by the strangeness of the attack. The head of the beast—the body seemed to have disappeared behind it—its wild, skull-like head crept nearer, and its angry tail lashed the grass. To right and left the Bhils had gathered to see how Jan Chinn would discipline his own horse. By my honour! thought Chinn, he is trying to frighten me! And then he put a shot between the eyes like a jackal, and in the twinkling of an eye he sprang aside. The immense, panting mass, reeking of blood, whizzed past him up the slope, and he followed cautiously after it. The tiger made no attempt to turn in the jungle; it rushed forward for light and air—face raised, jaws gaping, clawing the sand with its huge forefeet in death throes. It has had enough, said Jan Chinn, looking after it. If it were a partridge it would take flight. Its lungs must be full of blood. The animal had thrown itself over a boulder and disappeared beyond its sight. Jan Chinn checked that the other pipe was in the hole. But the red mark led straight as an arrow to his grandfather’s grave, and there, amidst broken liquor bottles and fragments of clay figurines, the tiger, gasping for breath, gave up its life. If my venerable ancestor could see this, said Jan Chinn, he would be proud of me. Eyes, lower jaw and lungs. A fine shot at once. As he laid his measuring tape on the stiffening body, he whistled to Bukta. Six, eight, ten, oh my! That’s nearly eleven— let’s say eleven. Foreleg twenty-four—five—seven and a half. Tail too short, three feet. But, my gosh, what skin! Hello, Bukta! Bukta! Get your knives here soon! Is it really quite dead? came a startled voice from behind the cliff. I did not kill my first tiger in this way, said Chinn. I never would have thought that Bukta would slip away. I had no spare rifle. It—it is a spotted tiger, said Bukta, not paying attention to the spike. It is dead. Whether all the Bhils of Satpura, vaccinated and unvaccinated, had been near to watch the chase, Chinn could not say; but the whole slope was now suddenly teeming with little men, shouting, singing, and thumping. But none dared to take the knife until he himself had made the first cut in the handsome hide. And as the shadows began to fall they ran away from the blood-red grave, and no amount of persuasion could make them return before daybreak. So Chinn had to spend another night in the open air, guarding the carcass from jackals and thinking of his ancestor. He returned to the lowlands, escorted by a singing army of three hundred men ; A Hindu vaccinator walked beside him, and the huge tiger’s pelt was carried before him as a sign of victory. As the army disappeared suddenly and silently like quail into a high cornfield, Chinn realized that he was approaching civilization, and a short turn of the road took him to the camp. He left the pelt on some carts for all to see and reported to the colonel. “All is clear about them now,” he said seriously. ” There is not an ounce of malice in them. They were only frightened. I am vaccinated the whole lot, and they are terribly fond of it. But how—how is it here, sir? That is what I am trying to get at here, said the Colonel. I am not quite sure whether we are to consider ourselves a brigade or a police force. However, I think we may use the latter term. How did you get the Bhils vaccinated? Yes, sir, replied Chinn, I have thought about it, and I see I have a kind of hereditary influence over them. I knew that, for otherwise I would not have let you go; but where is it really? It is a little strange. To me it seems as if I were my own grandfather reborn, and as if I had disturbed the peace of the country by riding around at night on a tiger. If I had not done that, I do not think they would have allowed themselves to be vaccinated, but they could not resist us both. And now, sir, I have vaccinated them and shot my tiger horse as a sort of show of favour. You never saw such a thing. The Colonel chewed his moustache thoughtfully. How in the world, he said, can I get this into my report? In fact, the official account of the Bhil vaccination terror did not contain a word about Lieutenant Jan Chinn, their god. But Bukta knows it and the department knows it and every Bhil in Satpura knows it. And now Bukta fervently hopes that Jan Chinn will soon marry and leave his power to his son; for if the Chinn succession is broken and the little Bhils are left to their own imaginations, it will only mean new trials for the Satpura people. Chapter 2. The Marriage of a Jungle Boy. Of the administrative wheels that turn under the Government of India, none is more important than the Forest Department. All the forests and new plantations of India are under its care, or will be when the Government gets sufficient funds for it. Its servants fight against the shifting sand-streams and the shifting dunes: they build dams on their sides and in front, and tie them up with coarse grass and honeysuckle pines according to the Nancy system. They are responsible for all the logs in the state forests of the Himalayas, as well as for the clear-cut slopes where the monsoon winds sweep cracks and deep ravines; each one becomes a slough that cries out to the world what carelessness can do. They experiment with foreign trees by whole battalions, and they caress the blue gum tree to make it take root and perhaps dry up the canal fever. In the plains their chief duty is to see that the fire-cuttings of the reserve forests are in order, so that when the drought comes and the cattle die, they can at once open these areas to the herds of the villagers and let the people gather the wood from there. They cut down and plant trees along the railway embankments so that the locomotives do not have to suffer from lack of fuel; they calculate the income of the estates they manage to the nearest five decimal places; they act as doctors and midwives to the vast teak forests of Upper Burma, the rubber of the eastern jungles, and the yam trees of the south; and their enterprises are almost always hampered by lack of funds. When the work of a forest officer takes him far from the cleared roads and public thoroughfares, he becomes acquainted with much more than just forestry: he gets to know the inhabitants and customs of the jungle; he encounters tigers, bears, leopards, wild dogs, and all kinds of deer, not just once or twice on a hunting trip, but as a matter of habit in his daily activities. He spends much of his time in the saddle or in a tent—for he is a lover of newly planted trees, of strange rangers, and of shaggy scent dogs—until the forest he tends in turn leaves its mark on him, and he ceases to sing the silly French songs he learned in Nancy, and becomes as silent as the silent creatures of the jungle. Gisborne had served in the Forestry Department for four years. At first he loved his work above all else, because it took him on horseback into the great forests and gave him power and dignity. Then he hated the work with a passion, and would gladly have given a year’s wages for a month’s social life such as India could offer. When the crisis was over, the forests took him again, and he was glad to serve them again, to deepen the clearings, to protect the greenery he had planted from the older foliage, to dredge the overgrown streams, and to strengthen the forest in its last struggle, when, oppressed by the long winding road, it was dying and dying. On a windless day, that grass might be burned, and the hundreds of animals that had lived in it would flee pale flames in broad daylight. Then the forest would rise from the black earth in neat rows of saplings, and Gisborne, who watched the growth, was satisfied. His bungalow, a thatched, whitewashed cottage of two rooms, was at the other end of the great rukh. He made no attempt to keep the garden, for the rukh crept up to his doorstep, skirting its bamboo thicket, and he rode from his porch into its heart without need of a buggy. Abdul Gafur, his stout Mohammedan servant, looked after him when he was at home, and spent the rest of his time talking to the native servants whose huts were behind the bungalow. There were not many of them: two stableboys, a cook, a water-carrier, and a servant—that was all. Gisborne cleaned his own rifle and kept no dog. The dogs frightened the game away, and he enjoyed finding out for himself where the subjects of his kingdom drank at moonrise, ate before dawn, and slept in the heat of the day. The rangers lived in small huts far from the rukh, and came only when a falling tree had injured one of them or a wild beast had wounded one of them. Otherwise Gisborne was alone. In the spring the rukh would sprout some new leaves, but then it would lie empty, untouched by the hand of the year, waiting for rain. Yet now, on still nights, there was more noise and howling from the darkness: the roar of king tigers fighting, the growl of a haughty dog-deer , or the rhythmic chopping of wood as an old wild boar sharpened its fangs on a trunk. In the silos Gisborne would lay aside his little-used rifles, for he considered killing a crime. In the summer, in the intoxicating heat of May, the rukh would curl up under a furrow, and Gisborne would watch for the first sign of the swirling smoke that would warn of a forest fire. Then came the rainy season, and the rukh would disappear piece by piece into a warm mist, and the broad leaves would drum all night with great drops of rain; there were the sounds of running water and the lush green, green that fluttered as the wind blew through it, and lightning wove patterns behind the dense new growths of the foliage, until the sun came out again, and steam rose from the hot rukh into the newly washed sky. Then the heat and the dry night chill again diluted all the colors to tiger yellow. So Gisborne learned to know his rukh. and was very happy. His salary came month by month, but he needed very little money. The notes went into the drawer where he kept letters from home. If he ever touched them, it was with the intention of buying something in the Calcutta Botanical Gardens or giving some forest ranger’s office a sum of money that the Indian Government would never have given as a relief when a man died. Reward is pleasant, but revenge is equally necessary, and when he could take revenge, Gisborne took revenge. One fine night a man came running and told me, panting, that a ranger was lying dead in the Kanye River, his head crushed like an eggshell. Gisborne set out at daybreak to search for the murderer. Only travellers and sometimes young soldiers tell the world what great hunters they are. The rangers consider their shikari to be part of their day job, and no one has heard of their hunting adventures. Gisborne walked to the spot where The murder had happened: the widow was bending over the body, weeping, and a couple of men were examining the marks in the soft ground. It is the Red, said one of them. I knew it would attack people again, but there is plenty of game for it here anyway. It must have done this out of sheer devilry. The Red is lying on the rock beyond the sal trees, said Gisborne. He knew the tiger by name. Not now, Sahib, not now. It is raging now and running hither and thither. Remember, the first kill always brings three. Our blood drives them mad. Perhaps it is behind us as we speak. It has gone to the next hut, said another of the others. There are only four kosas there. Who is that? Gisborne turned with the others to look. The other man came walking along the dried-up streambed; except for the rag wrapped around his waist he was quite naked. But on his head he wore a garland of the flowers of a difficult vine. So silently did he move on the small flints that even Gisborne, accustomed to the soft steps of his followers, was astonished. The tiger that has killed, the stranger began without greeting, has gone to drink, and is now sleeping under a boulder behind that hill. His voice was as clear and clear as a bell, quite different from the usual whine of the natives, and when he bent his face to the sunlight, it shone as if an angel had walked in the forest. The widow stopped her lamentation and looked at the stranger with wide eyes, then returned with redoubled force to her duty. Shall I show the way to the Sahib? said the man simply. ” If you are sure…” began Gisborne. ” Quite sure. I saw it less than an hour ago—that dog. It is not yet time for it to eat human flesh. It has still a dozen healthy teeth in its wretched head.” The men who had been kneeling by the tracks crept away quickly, for fear that Gisborne would demand that they go with him, and the youth laughed to himself. Come, Sahib, he cried, and turned and went ahead. Not so fast. I cannot keep up with that pace, said the white man. Stop! Your face is new to me. Very possible. I have come to this forest only recently. From what village? I have never had a village. I come from that. He stretched out his hand towards the north. A gypsy then? No, Sahib. I have no caste, and therefore no father. What is your name? Mowgli, Sahib. And what is the Sahib’s name? I am the chief of the forest of this rukhln—Gisborne is my name. What? Shall we count the trees and the blades of grass here? Just so that gypsies like you do not set them on fire. My kind? I would not harm the jungle at any price. It is my home. He turned to Gisborne with an irresistible smile, and held up his hand in warning. Now, Sahib, we must go a little carefully. It is no use waking that dog, though he sleeps soundly. Hadn’t it been better if I went ahead and drove him upwind to Sahib? By Allah! When did naked men begin to drive tigers hither and thither like cattle? replied Gisborne, astonished at the man’s boldness. The man laughed softly: “Well, then follow me and shoot him as you are wont to with that heavy English gun of yours. ” Gisborne followed his guide’s tracks, slithering, crawling, groaning, stopping, and panting with all the hardships and difficulties of jungle travel. He was purple and generally sweating when Mowgli at last bade him raise his head and peer over a bluish, sunlit boulder towards a nearby pool. Right on this bank lay a tiger in comfortable repose, lazily licking its large shoulder and four paws. It was old, yellow-toothed, and a little mangy, but in that position and in the sunshine it still made a mighty impression. Gisborne had no great notions of sport when it came to a man-killer. The creature was a dangerous animal, and it had to be killed as quickly as possible. He waited a moment to catch his breath, then he rested his rifle on the rock and whistled. The beast’s head turned slowly within twenty feet of the barrel, and Gisborne planted his charges expertly, one behind the shoulder and the other just under the eye. At that range the thick bones were no protection from the exploding bullets. Well, the skin was not worth keeping anyway, he said, when the smoke had cleared and the animal was writhing and panting in its last agonies. A dog’s death to a dog, said Mowgli calmly. There is really nothing in that carcass worth taking with you. And the muzzle hairs? You will not take the muzzle hairs? asked Gisborne, who knew how much the rangers valued them. Me? Am I then a wretched jungle shikarri, strutting about on a tiger’s muzzle? Here come his friends. A hawk, flying low, whistled shrilly over their heads, and Gisborne took out the empty cartridges and wiped the sweat from his face. If you are not a shikarri, where did you get that information about tigers? he said. No tracker could have done his job better. I hate all tigers, Mowgli answered shortly. Let me carry the Sahib’s rifle! Arré, that is a very fine mutiny, this one. Where is the Sahib going now? To my home. May I come with him? I have never been in a white man’s house before. Gisborne turned his course towards his bungalow; Mowgli walked silently before him, his brown skin gleaming in the sun. He looked curiously at the veranda and the two chairs that had been placed there, fingered the split bamboo blinds suspiciously, and finally entered, still looking back. Gisborne lowered one of the blinds to block the sunlight from the veranda, but almost before it had touched the floor Mowgli had taken a step back and was standing with his chest held high outside. Is that a trap? he asked quickly. Gisborne laughed: “White men do not trap people. You are truly a jungle-dweller.” I see, said Mowgli, that it has neither caught nor fallen. I —I have never seen such a thing before. ” He tiptoed in and looked wide-eyed at the furnishings of both rooms. Abdul Gafur, who was setting lunch on the table, looked at his guest with deep contempt. “So much trouble to eat, and so much trouble to sleep after eating,” said Mowgli, grimacing. Yes, we have it better in the jungle. It is very strange. There are many precious things here. Is the Sahib not afraid of being stolen from? I have never seen so many strange things. He stared at the dusty brass tray from Benares, which rested on a wobbly stand. Only a thief from the jungle would steal from here, said Abdul Gafur, and slammed the plate on the table. Mowgi’s eyes widened, and he looked at the white-bearded Mohammedan. When the goats in my country start bleating too loudly, we cut their throats, he answered cheerfully. But don’t be afraid. I will go my way. He turned and disappeared into the rukh. Gisborne looked after him with a laugh, but then sighed. There was not much to occupy the minds of the forest officials outside their regular work , and this boy of the forest, who seemed to know tigers as well as other people know dogs, would have given him a little change. He was a strange creature, thought Gisborne. He reminded me of the pictures in the ‘Classic Family Book.’ I should have liked to have taken him into my service. He would have made an excellent follower. I should like to know where he went. That evening Gisborne sat on his verandah under the stars and smoked as usual. A cloud of smoke rose from the pipe’s nest. When it cleared, he saw Mowgli sitting on the porch railing with his arms folded at his side. The spirit could not have appeared more silently. Gisborne huffed and dropped his pipe. “There is no man in that rukh to talk to,” said Mowgli. “That is why I came here.” He picked up the pipe and handed it to Gisborne. “Oh,” said Gisborne. “What news of the rukh? Have you met the tiger again? ” Nilghais are a kind of antelope. The Suomentaja change their pastures now, as is their custom, at the new moon. The wild boars are near the Kanye stream, for they will not feed in the same place as the nilghais, and a leopard has killed one of the sows in the long grass that grows on the water’s edge. I know nothing more. How did you find out all that? asked Gisborne, leaning forward, looking into his eyes that shone in the starlight. How could I not find out? Nilghais have their own ways, and even a child knows that wild boars do not eat where it is. I do not know that, said Gisborne. Oh, yes. And your business is—so the men in the huts have told me—to look after this whole rukh. He laughed to himself. It is easy to talk and tell children’s stories, Gisborne answered sharply, for the laughter offended him. To say that this and that happens in the rukh. No one can wrap you in your words. As for the suckling carcass, I can show you its bones to-morrow, answered Mowgli calmly. And if the Sahib will sit here, I can drive one of the nilghais here, and by listening closely to the sounds the Sahib can easily tell where it comes from. Mowgli, the jungle has made you mad, said Gisborne. Who could drive a nilghai? Hush—sit still! I am going. “Damn it, the man is a ghost,” said Gisborne, for Mowgli had vanished into the darkness, and there was no sound of footsteps. The rukh spread itself in great velvet bands in the vague gleam that fell from the starry sky —so silent and still that the slightest movement of the wind in the treetops was heard as clearly as the breathing of a child peacefully sleeping. Abdul Gafur was heaping plates in the kitchen. ” Hush there!” cried Gisborne, and began to listen, as a man accustomed to the silence of the rukh might listen. To preserve his self-respect in solitude he used to change his dress every evening for dinner, and the stiff white pleat of his shirt rustled as he breathed, until he drew it aside a little. Then the tobacco in his slightly smoky pipe began to hum, and he threw it away. Now the only thing that disturbed the grave silence was the rukh’s night breathing. From a vague distance came the faint echo of a wolf’s howl, trailing through the immeasurable darkness. Then silence returned, and it seemed to last for many hours. At last, when his legs had already gone completely numb up to the knees, Gisborne heard a distant rustling in the thicket. He hesitated until he heard it again, and then again. It is from the west, he muttered, something is moving there. The sound grew louder—rustling after rustling, leaping after leaping—and was joined by the panting of a severely distressed nilghai, a nilghai that fled in blind terror , regardless of direction. A shadow flickered between the tree trunks, turned, came back panting, and jerked upright, so that the ground shook, almost within his reach. It was a nilghai bull, soaked with dew— a long loose tendril of vine hung from its mane, and its eyes shone in the light from the house. The animal was startled at the sight of the man , and fled along the edge of the rukh until the darkness swallowed it up. The first thought in Gisborne’s bewildered mind was that it was unseemly to drive the great blue bull of the rukh out to be seen in that way. As he stood there, squirming, he heard a soft voice say: It came from the water, where it was leading the herd. It came from the west. Do you believe it now, Sahib, or must I bring the whole herd here to be counted? Sahib will look after this rukh. Mowgli sat down again on the porch rail, breathing a little faster than usual. Gisborne stared at him with his mouth open. How was that possible? he said. Sahib saw it for himself. The bullock was being driven——driven like a buffalo. Hah, hah! It will make a pretty story as it returns to the herd. This was quite new to me. Can you run as fast as a nilghai? Sahib saw it for himself. If Sahib ever wants to know more about the ways of animals, I, Mowgli, am here. This is a good rukh, and I intend to stay here. Just stay, and if you ever need a meal, my servants will give you one. Yes, I do like boiled food, Mowgli answered quickly. No man can say otherwise than that I eat boiled and fried food as much as anyone else. I remember those meals. For my part, I promise that the Sahib will sleep in his own house in perfect safety, and that no thief will break into his house to carry off his abundant treasures. The conversation ended of itself, for Mowgli had suddenly disappeared. Gisborne sat smoking for a long time, and the result of his meditations was that in Mowgli he had found the most ideal tracker and ranger that he and the department could ever find. I must somehow get him into the service of the Government. A man who can drive a nilghat would know more about the rukh than fifty others. He is a marvel—a lusus naturae, a whim of nature— but he must become a ranger if he is to settle here permanently, said Gisborne. Abdul Gafur’s opinion was less favorable. He confided to Gisborne during the landing that the strangers from God knows where were professional thieves, and that he himself could not tolerate naked vagabonds who could not even behave themselves when speaking to white people. Gisborne laughed and told him to mind his own business, and Abdul Gafur went away muttering. Later that night he had occasion to get up and whip his thirteen-year-old daughter. No one knew why, but Gisborne heard the commotion. In the days that followed Mowgli came and went like a shadow. He had set up his primitive household near the bungalow, but on the edge of the rukh, where Gisborne, when he came out on the veranda to breathe fresh air, would often see him sitting with his forehead on his knees, or lying stretched out on a branch of a tree, pressed against it like some nocturnal animal. Then Mowgli might call out to him a greeting or wish him good sleep, if he did not come to Gisborne to tell him his strange stories about the ways of the animals of the rukh. Once he went into the stable and looked at the horses there with eagerness . That, said Abdul Gafur emphatically, was a clear sign that he would steal a horse one fine day. Why did he not take an honorable step if he was going to live near here? But no, he must go about like a loose camel, putting crazy heads on his wheels and telling people to do stupid things. When they met, Abdul Gafur would always sternly order Mowgli to fetch water or pluck birds, and Mowgli would always obey , laughing carelessly . He has no caste, said Abdul Gafur. He will do something. Keep an eye on him, Sahib! A snake is a snake and a jungle gypsy is a thief as long as he lives. Shut up! said Gisborne. You are free to discipline your own family, as long as it doesn’t make too much noise, for I know your ways. But don’t meddle in my affairs. I know him better than you. He is only a little funny. On the contrary, very funny, said Abdul Gafur. But we shall see how this ends. A few days later Gisborne had to go on a three-day mission to the Rukh. Abdul Gafur was old and fat and was left at home. He did not want to sleep in the forest rangers’ huts, and he had a weakness for demanding grain and oil and milk as tribute in the name of his master from the forest rangers, who found it difficult to value such things. kindness. Gisborne rode out early in the morning, a little annoyed that his forest man had not come to the porch to guide him. Gisborne liked him—he liked Mowgli’s strength, his speed, his quiet gait, and his ever-cheerful, open smile; his ignorance of all the requirements of propriety and politeness, and the childish stories he told of the actions of the animals of the rukh which Gisborne now began to believe. After riding an hour in the green he heard a rustle behind him, and Mowgli crept up to his stirrups. We have three days’ work before us in the new plantings, said Gisborne. Well, said Mowgli, it is always fun to tend the young trees. They grow fast, if the animals will only leave them alone. We must drive the wild boars away again. Again? said Gisborne, smiling. Yes, they were uprooting and scurrying in the young hall last night, and I drove them away. That is why I did not come to the porch this morning. Pigs should not really be kept on this side of the rukh at all. We must keep them down the Kanye River. We might as well herd the clouds. But, Mowgli, if it is as you say, you are working as a herdsman in the rukh without any pay… Is this not the Sahib’s rukh? said Mowgli, looking up quickly. Gisborne nodded gratefully and went on: “Wouldn’t it be better to get paid for your work by the Government? After a long service you get a pension. I have thought about that,” said Mowgli, “but rangers live in huts with closed doors, and all that seems like a trap to me. But I am thinking about it… Think about it very carefully now, and then let me know what you have decided. Here we will rest and eat breakfast.” Gisborne dismounted and dug his breakfast out of a homemade saddle-bag. He saw the day rising hot in the morning. Mowgli lay down on the grass beside him and stared at the sky. Suddenly he whispered languidly: Sahib, did you give orders at the bungalow that they should take the white mare out today? No, she is fat and old and limps a little at the end. How is that? For they ride fast and not at all slowly along the road that leads to the railway line. Pyb, there are two kosses there. That is a thorn. Mowgli raised his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. The road makes a great curve from the bungalow. It is at most a kosse there as the crow flies; and the sound flies, as the birds do. Shall we look? What nonsense? Run a kosse in this heat just to see where a sound comes from. No, the horse is Sahib’s. I only mean to lure her here. If she is not Sahib’s horse, so what. If she is Sahib’s mare, Sahib can do what he wants. For it is ridden hard indeed . And how do you think you will get it here, my boy? Has the Sahib forgotten? Just as the nilghain did, no differently . Then get up and run, if you are so disposed to it. Oh, I need not run. He stretched out his hand as if to be silent, and, still on his back in the grass, made three deep, slurping sounds, which were quite new to Gisborne. It will come, said Mowgli then. Let us wait in the shade. Long eyelashes drooped over his wonderful eyes, and he seemed to be falling asleep in the stillness of the morning. Gisborne waited patiently; Mowgli was indeed a laughingstock, but otherwise just the kind of jolly companion a solitary ranger could hope for. Hoh! Hoh! said Mowgli sleepily, his eyes still closed. It has thrown the rider off its back. Well, first comes the mare and then the man. Then he yawned, so that Gisborne’s stallion neighed. Three minutes later, a white mare, saddled and bridled but without a rider, galloped into the clearing where they were sitting, and joined her companion. It is not very hot, said Mowgli, but in this heat the sweat rises slowly. Soon we shall see the rider, for a man goes slower than a horse—especially if he happens to be an old, fat man. Allah! It is the work of the devil, cried Gisborne, jumping up, for he heard a cry from the jungle. Never mind it, Sahib. He is not hurt. He will say it is the work of the devil. Oh, listen! Who is there? The voice of Abdul Gafur, in extreme fear, imploring the unknown powers to have mercy on him and his grey hair. No, I cannot bear it any longer, he cried. I am an old man and have lost my turban. Arré! Arré! But I will try! I will run! O you spirits of darkness! I am a Mohammedan! The thicket parted, and Abdul Gafur appeared, turbanless and shoeless, his belt flying, mud and grass in his fists , and his face dark red. He saw Gisborne, screamed again, rushed before him, and threw himself exhausted and trembling at his feet. Mowgli looked at him with deliberate pity. “This is no play,” said Gisborne gravely. “The man is dying, Mowgli. Oh, he is not dying. He is only afraid.” Abdul Gafur groaned and stood up, trembling in every limb. It was witchcraft—witchcraft and the devil’s game,” he sobbed, fumbling with his hands on his chest. “For my sins the devils have whipped me through the forest. Now it is over. I repent. Take these, Sahib!” And he handed his master a bundle of dirty papers. What does this mean, Abdul Gafur? asked Gisborne, who already knew what was to come. Throw me in prison—all the notes are here—but help me that the devils do not pursue me. I have transgressed against the Sahib and his salt, which I have eaten; but if it had not been for those forest spirits, I would have bought land far from here and lived all my life in peace and quiet. He struck his head on the ground in despair and fear. Gisborne leafed through the stack of notes. There were his saved monthly wages for the last nine months—the little note that had been lying in his drawer among the letters from home. Mowgli looked at Abdul Gafur and laughed to himself. I will not mount a horse again. I will go home with the Sahib, and then he will send me under guard to prison. The Government gives many years for such a crime, said the old man gloomily. Rukh’s loneliness gives rise to strange thoughts and a whole series of actions. Gisborne looked at Abdul Gafur and remembered that he had been a good servant and that he had taken the trouble to accustom the new butler to the ways of the house, and that at best he would only get a new face and a new tongue. Listen, Abdul Gafur, he said. You have done very wrong and have completely lost your izzat and reputation. But I suppose this has suddenly occurred to you? Allah! I have never thought of banknotes before. Evil seized my throat when I looked at them. I suspected so. Go back to my house, then, and when I come home I will deliver the money by courier to the bank, and then the matter will be forgotten. You are too old for prison. And besides, your family is innocent. For lack of an answer Abdul Gafur burst into tears and buried his head between Gisborne’s ox-hide riding boots. “So I shall not be dismissed?” he murmured between his sobs. We shall see. It all depends on how you behave when I come back. Mount your mare and ride home in peace. But the devils? Rukh is full of devils. Fear not, my thunder. They will do you no harm if you only obey the Sahib’s orders, said Mowgli. And otherwise they would drive you back home—by the nilghai road. Abdul Gafur was tying his belt; his jaw hung down, and he stared at Mowgli. Are they his devils? His devils! And I had intended to “Go back and blame the witch. That was a good plan, but before I set the trap I must first see how big the thing is to be caught. Now I will not think of anyone taking one of the Sahib’s horses. I do not remember anyone trying to make me a thief in the Sahib’s eyes, and that my devils have dragged me here by the legs. But is it not time for us to go? ” Mowgli looked inquiringly at Gisborne. But Abdul Gafur went quickly to the white mare, jumped on her back, and ran away. The forest path rumbled and roared after him. “Very well,” said Mowgli. “But he will be thrown down again if he does not hold on to the mane. Now it is time for you to tell me what all this means,” said Gisborne, very seriously. “What does this talk about your devils mean? How can people be driven here and there in a rukh like cattle? Answer me! Is the Sahib angry that I saved his money?” No, but there is something behind that which I do not like. Very well. If I rise now and take three steps into the rukh, no one, not even the Sahib, will find me until I wish. I would not do it gladly, but I do not want to tell either. Be patient a little while, Sahib, and one fine day I will show you everything, for one day, if you will, we will ride the deer together. There is no devil’s game in this at all. But… I know the rukh as well as any other man knows his kitchen. Mowgli spoke as if he were speaking to an impatient child. Gisborne was embarrassed, disappointed, and a little annoyed, and made no reply, but stared at the ground and thought. When he looked up, the forest man had disappeared. It is not good to be, said a quiet voice from the thicket, when friends are bad. Wait till evening, Sahib, when the air is cooler. Left alone in the middle of the rukh, Gisborne cursed at first, but then laughed, mounted his horse, and rode on. He stopped at a ranger’s hut, inspected a couple of new plantings, ordered a path burned into the dry grass, and then set off for a campsite he had chosen—a group of boulders with a crude roof of branches and leaves over them; it was near the banks of the Kanye stream. It was already dusk when he came into sight of the spot, and the rukh was awakening to its silent, prey-filled nocturnal life. A campfire was flickering on a cliff, and the wind carried the scent of a very tasty dinner. Hm! said Gisborne. That’s better than cold food. The only one who can be here is Müller, and officially he should be inspecting Changamanga’s rukh. I should like to know what he’s doing here in my territory. The big German, who was the chief of the forests of all India, the chief gamekeeper from Burma to Bombay, had a habit of gliding like a bat from place to place without giving any notice of his arrival , and of diving himself out just where he was least expected. According to his theory, unexpected inspections, the detection of defects, and on-the-spot reprimands were infinitely better than a slow correspondence ending in a written and official reprimand, which years later might be brought against the forest official. That is, as he explained it: If I just talk to my sons as a German uncle, they will say: ‘That damned old Müller too,’ — and then do better next time. But if my thick-headed chief of staff writes and says that Müller, the chief inspector, is very unhappy, it won’t help at all when I’m not there, and secondly, the fool who comes after me may say to my best boys: Look, you’ve been reprimanded by my predecessor.’ I say that broad and broad writings don’t make trees grow. Müller’s deep voice echoed from the darkness behind the campfire; he stood there with his hand on the shoulder of his favorite cook. Not so much sauce, you son of Beliel! Worcester sauce, it is not just water. Look, Gisborne! You are coming for a very bad dinner. Where is your camp? — and he stepped forward to shake hands. I am in my camp, sir, said Gisborne. I had no idea you were here. Müller looked at the young man’s well-proportioned figure. Good! Very good! A horse and some cold food. When I was young, I made my camp that way. Now you must dine with me. I went to headquarters to draw up my report for the last month. I wrote half of it — hoh hoh! — and gave the rest to my clerk and went out again. That government is crazy about those reports. Gisborne laughed, for he remembered the many stories that had been told of the escapades between Müller and the government. As the most outspoken of all the officials, he was in a special position, for as an expert in forestry he was unrivalled. If I find you, Gisborne, sitting in your bungalow and scribbling me reports on your plantations, instead of riding on them, I will transfer you to the middle of the Bekaneer wilderness to plant there. I am sick of all reports and stupid papers… we have work to do. Oh, there is no danger of me wasting my time on that. I hate paperwork as much as you do, sir. The conversation now turned to professional matters. Muller had a lot of questions to ask and Gisborne a lot of orders and references to take until dinner was ready. It was the finest meal Gisborne had eaten for months. No matter how far the provisions were , it was not to interfere with the task entrusted to Muller’s cook; and the menu began out there in the wilderness with the loin of fresh-water fish and ended with coffee and brandy. Ah, said Muller at last, and sighed with pleasure as he lit a cigar and sank into his worn-out camp chair. When I’m busy putting together my reports, I’m a freethinker and an atheist, but here in the rukh I’m more than a Christian. I’m also a pagan. He rolled his cigar stub on his tongue with pleasure, let his hands fall to his knees, and stared ahead at the rukh, heavy with evening dew, full of creeping sounds: the rustling of branches, reminiscent of the crackling of fire behind him; the crackling of a branch bent by the heat and now stretching out in the cold night; the ceaseless murmur of the Kanye stream and the rustling of the upland grasslands hidden behind the crest of the hills . He blew out a thick cloud of smoke and began to recite Heine to himself. Yes, everything is very well. Very well. Yes, I work miracles, God knows, and they will succeed too. I remember the time when there was no rukh as big as your palm from here to the fields, and the cattle in the dry season were allowed to eat the bones of dead cattle. Now the trees are back. They were planted by a freethinker, who knew the very cause that gave birth to them! But the trees served their old gods —and the gods of the Christians complained bitterly. They could not live in the rukh, Gisborne. A shadow moved on one of the riding paths—it moved and drew nearer in the starlight. I have spoken the truth. Tst! There is the Faun, coming to greet the Chief Inspector. Heavens, it is the god. Look! Mowgli there came with his white wreath on his head and a half- peeled branch in his hand—he approached the fire suspiciously, ready to flee back into the foliage at the slightest provocation. It is one of my friends, said Gisborne. He is looking for me. Hello, Mowgli! Müller had scarcely blinked when the man was at Gisborne’s side, and exclaimed: “I did wrong to go. I did wrong, but I did not know that the female that was killed in the river was on the move and was looking for you. Otherwise I would not have gone. She has followed your tracks, Sahib.” He is a bit of a joker, said Gisborne, and he talks about the animals of these parts as if they were his friends. Of course—of course. Who would know them but the Faun?” said Müller gravely. “What does he say about tigers—that god who knows you?” so well? Gisborne lit another cigar, and before he had finished his story of Mowgli and his doings it had become a long one that almost scorched his whiskers. Muller listened without interrupting. It is not madness, he said at last, when Gisborne had described Abdul Gafur’s wild ride. It is not madness at all. What is it then? He left me this morning in a rather sullen mood, when I had asked him to tell me how he had done it. I think he is a little strange in some way or other. No, he is not strange at all, but this is very strange. They usually die young—people like that. And you say that the servant did not know what was driving the horse, and of course the nilghai could not speak. No, damn it, there was nothing there. I listened, and I have a keen ear. The bull and the man came headlong—mad with fear. Müller did not answer, but instead looked Mowgli from head to toe, and then beckoned him to come closer. Mowgli approached him cautiously, as a buck would if he saw suspicious tracks. No danger, said Müller in the native tongue. Hold out your hand! He moved his hand along the other man’s arm and nodded. As I thought. Now give me your knee here! He felt the kneecap and the socket of the knee and smiled. A couple of white scars caught his attention. Did you get those when you were very young? he said. Yes, answered Mowgli, smiling. From the caresses of some little ones. And he went on over his shoulder to Gisborne: This Sahib knows a lot. Who is he? You shall hear that later, my friend. Well, where do they live? Mowgli made a circle with his hand. Oh, yes. And you can drive nilghais. Look there! There stands my mare by her stake. Can you get her here without startling her? Can I get the mare to the Sahib without startling her? repeated Mowgli, in a slightly higher voice. Nothing is easier if the halter is only loosened. Loosen the halter! shouted Müller to the groom. Scarcely had he obeyed the order when the strong Australian mare raised her head and pricked up her ears. “Careful! I do not want her to be driven into the rukh,” said Müller. Mowgli still stood before the fire—in appearance and figure exactly like the Greek forest god, as he is described in many books. The mare lifted her hind leg and found that she was not tied, then she walked quickly to her master and laid her head, shaking, against his chest. It came of itself. My horses would do the same, said Gisborne . “ Try to see if she sweats,” said Mowgli. Gisborne put his hand on the mare’s steaming plates. “Enough,” said Müller. Enough, repeated Mowgli, and the echo answered from some rock behind him. Disgusting, isn’t it, said Gisborne. No, just wonderful—very wonderful. Don’t you understand yet, Gisborne? I admit I don’t understand at all. Well, then I won’t say anything. He says he will show you what it is some day. It would be wrong for me to speak. I just can’t understand how he hasn’t been dead long ago. Now listen, you. He nodded to Mowgli and returned to the native language: I am the chief of all the rukhs in all India and around the Black Water. I don’t know how many men I have— five thousand, maybe ten. You must—not ride in the rukhs and drive animals for fun, but serve me, who am the government where the forests are concerned, and live in this rukh as a ranger; to drive away the goats of the villagers when no order has been given to let them graze in the rukh; to look after them when such an order has been given, to inform Gisborne Sahib whether there are tigers in the rukh and where they are, and what animals are in the forests; and to keep a close watch on all fires in the rukh, for you can give the warning quicker than anyone else. For this work you will be paid every month in silver, and finally, when you have a wife and cattle and perhaps children, you will have a pension. What do you say to that? That is what I just—,” began Gisborne. My Sahib spoke of such a thing this morning. I have been walking about all day thinking about it, and my answer is ready now. I will serve, if I may serve in this rukh and no other, Gisborne Sahib and no other. So be it. In a week’s time there will be a written order giving the honour of the Government as security for a pension. You may build your hut on the spot which Gisborne Sahib shall show you. I was just going to suggest this to you, said Gisborne. It was not necessary, when I had only seen the man. There will never be a gamekeeper of his kind. He is a marvel. I tell you, Gisborne, you will find it out for yourself some day. You see, he is the foster-brother of every animal in the rukh. I would be easier to understand the matter. It will come, it will come. I tell you, only once before— and that was thirty years ago—have I met a boy who started out as this man has started out. And he died. You sometimes hear about them in the census reports, but they all die. This man has been allowed to live, and he is an anachronism, for he is older than the Iron Age and the Stone Age. He is the beginning of human history—the Adam of Paradise , and now we need Eve. No, he is older than that fairy tale, as surely as the rukh is older than the gods. Gisborne, I am a heathen now. All the long evening then Müller sat smoking his smoking and staring into the darkness, and his lips moved, and his face shone wonderfully. He went to his tent, but soon returned in his majestic rose-red nightgown, and the last words that Gisborne heard him utter to the rukh in the deep silence of midnight were these, which he recited with great poise: Meiss’ is the torment of unnaturalness. The spring-power is in your veins. Your father is Priapus, your mother is Libitina immortal. Now I know it. Whether I were pagan or Christian, the innermost secrets of the rukh I shall never know. At midnight a week later, Abdul Gafur stood ashen with rage by Gisborne’s bedside and begged him in a whisper to wake up. Rise, Sahib, he stammered. Rise and take your rifle. My honor has been robbed of me. Rise and shoot before anyone has seen it. The old man’s face had changed so much that Gisborne was startled. That is why the jungle-dweller helped me to set the Sahib’s table and fetch water and pluck the birds. They have gone their separate ways together, despite all my beatings, and now the man sits among his demons, luring the girl’s soul into the horn. Rise, Sahib, and come with me. He put the rifle in the sleepy Gisborne’s hand and almost pulled him out onto the porch. They are sitting in that rukh, barely a rifle’s length from the house. Follow me quietly. What is this? What is going on, Abdul? Mowgli and his demons. And my own daughter too, said Abdul Gafur. Gisborne whistled and followed him. Now he understood why Abdul Gafur whipped his daughter at night, and why Mowgli helped with the business of a man whom his own power—whatever it was —had proved guilty of theft. The proposal of the forest-dweller is soon made. The forest was filled with the sound of flutes, as if some wandering forest god had sat there playing, and as they drew nearer they heard the murmur of human voices. The path ended in a small semicircular clearing, bordered by tall grass and partly by trees. In the middle sat Mowgi, on a fallen tree trunk, his back to the onlookers, a fresh wreath on his head and his arm around Abdul Gafur’s daughter’s neck; he was playing a primitive bamboo flute, and four large wolves were dancing solemnly on their hind legs to the music. There are his devils, whispered Abdul Gafur. He had a bundle of stakes in his hand. A drawn-out, quivering sound came from the flute; then the animals stopped their dance and lay down on the ground, looking at the girl with their attentive green eyes. Do you see now, said Mowgli. There is nothing dangerous here, is there? I told you, little braveheart, that it was not dangerous, and you believed me. Your father said—oh, if you could have seen your father when he was driven along the nilghai road—your father said that they were devils; and by Allah, who is your God, I do not wonder that he thought so. The girl laughed a little pearly laugh, and Gisborne heard Abdul grit his few remaining teeth. It was not the same girl that Gisborne had seen creeping about the house, veiled and silent, but another altogether—a woman who had burst into full bloom in one night, like violets that bloom in one hour of scorching heat. They are my playmates and my brothers, the children of the mother who nursed me, as I told you behind the kitchen, Mowgli went on. The children of the father who stood between me and the cold at the mouth of the cave when I was a little naked child. Just look—one of the wolves raised his gray muzzle and licked Mowgli’s knee—my brothers know I speak of them. Yes, when I was a little child there was that cub that rolled around with me on the ground. But you said you were born of a man, the girl crouched down and pressed herself closer to his shoulder. “You are born of a man, aren’t you ?” I said? Yes, I know I am born of man, because my heart is in your power, you little one. The girl’s head slipped under Mowgli’s chin. Gisborne raised his hand to warn Abdul Gafur, who was not at all moved by the strange sight. But still I was a wolf among wolves, until the hour came when those who lived in the jungle bade me go, because I was a man. Who bade you go? That is not at all like the speech of a real man. Animals, do you understand? You little one, you would never believe it, but it was so. The animals of the jungle bade me go, but these four followed me, because I was their brother. Then I became a herdsman among men and learned their language. Ho hoo! The herds paid tribute to my brothers, until a woman, a woman, my dear, saw me one night playing with my brothers in a mown field. Then they said that I had devils in me, and they drove me out of the village with sticks and stones, and the four of them came with me secretly and not in the sight of others. This was after I had learned to eat boiled food and speak boldly. From village to village I went, O heart of my heart, sometimes as a herdsman, sometimes as a buffalo-driver, sometimes as a trail-follower, but there was never a man who dared to raise his finger twice against me. He stooped to pat another wolf-head. Don’t you like them too? There is nothing evil in them, and no witchcraft. Look, they know you already. The forests are full of all kinds of evil spirits, said the girl, trembling. That is a lie. A child’s lie, answered Mowgli very seriously. I have slept in the dew under the stars and long, dark nights, and I suppose I know it. The jungle is my home. Should a man fear his own rafters and his wife’s husband’s stove? Bend down and caress them! They are dogs and dirty, muttered the girl, and bent down with her face turned away. After eating the fruit we remember the law, said Abdul Gafur bitterly. What is the use of waiting any longer, Sahib? Shoot! Be quiet! Let us hear what has happened, said Gisborne. That was well done, said Mowgli, and put his arm around the girl again. Dogs or not, they have followed me through a thousand villages. Ah, and where was your heart then? Through a thousand villages! You have met a thousand girls. Am I—am I the only girl who has got your heart? By what name must I swear? By Allah, of whom you speak? No, by your own life, which is in you, and I am content. Where was your heart in those days? Mowgli laughed: In my belly, for I was young and always hungry. That is why I learned to hunt and to follow the tracks, giving orders to my brothers as a king to his armies. With them I drove the nilghain to the foolish young Sahib, and the fat fat mare to the fat fat Sahib, when they asked my power. It would have been just as easy to drive them myself. Even now, he raised his voice somewhat, even now I know that behind me stand your father and Gisborne Sahib. No, do not run, for if there were ten men they would not dare to take a step forward. Remember that if your father strikes you again I will speak the word and drive him round the rukh again. One of the wolves rose and bared his teeth. Gisborne felt Abdul Gafur tremble beside him. In a moment the place was empty, and the fat man was hurrying away. “ Now only Gisborne Sahib remains,” said Mowgli, still without turning, “but I have eaten Gisborne Sahib’s bread, and soon I shall be in his service, and my brothers will serve him by driving game and bringing news. Hide in the grass!” The girl fled, and the tall grass closed in behind her and the wolf who followed her as a guard. Now Mowgli turned and stood with the three remaining wolves facing Gisborne as he came to him. “Here is the whole magic,” said Mowgli, pointing to the three. The fat Sahib knew that we who have grown up among wolves crawl on our elbows and knees for the first year. By testing my arms and knees he guessed the truth that you did not understand. Is it so wonderful, Sahib? I think it is much more wonderful than witchcraft. So these drove the nilghais? Yes, as they could drive the Sahib if I commanded them. They are my eyes and my feet. Then see that the Sahib has no double-barreled gun with him. They have yet to learn one thing and another, for they stand one behind the other, so that two shots would kill all three. Yes, but they know that they will become your servants as soon as I am a ranger. Whether you are a ranger or not, Mowgli, you have brought shame to Abdul Gafur. You have disgraced his house and darkened his face. His face darkened when he took your money, and it became still darker when he whispered in your ear that you would kill a naked man. I will speak to Abdui Gafur myself, for I am a government official who is to receive a pension. He may have his wedding according to any religion he likes, if he does not feel like running again. I will speak to him at dawn. Besides— the Sahib has his own house, and this is mine. It is time to go to bed again, Sahib.” Mowgli turned and disappeared into the grass, leaving Gisborne alone. The forest god’s hint could not be misunderstood, and Gisborne returned to the bungalow; on the porch he met Abdul Gafur, torn with anger and fear , who answered his words with gibberish. Calm down, calm down! said Gisborne, shaking him, for he seemed about to have another fit. Muller Sahib has made him a gamekeeper, and as you know he will receive a pension later and be in the service of the Government. He is a loose—mlech—a dog among dogs, a scavenger. Can’t a pension take that away? Allah knows! Besides, you yourself have seen that the accident has happened. Will you announce it to all the servants ? Arrange a shadi quickly, and the girl will make him an orthodox Mohammedan. The man is very pleasant. Do you wonder that the girl, after all the beatings you have given her, had got, fled to his protection? Didn’t he say he would drive me with his wild beasts? At least I pretended to hear him. If he is a magician, he is the most skillful of all. Abdul Gafur thought for a long time. Then he collapsed and howled, forgetting as if he was a Mohammedan: “You are a Brahmin. I am your cow. Set things straight and save my honor if it can be saved. ” Gisborne went to the rukh again and called out to Mowgli. The answer came from above and was not particularly meek. “Speak nicely!” said Gisborne, looking up. “It is not at all intended to deprive you of your place and drive you, your wolf, out of here. But the girl must return to her father’s house tonight. Tomorrow we will celebrate the shad according to Mohammedan law, and then you may freely take her with you. Take her back to Abdul Gafur now!” I hear. Two voices murmured, as if in consultation, among the leaves. And then came the answer: We obey—for the last time. A year later, Müller and Gisborne rode in a rukh, discussing official matters. They came to the rocks near the Kanye stream. Müller rode a little ahead. In the shade of a thicket of thorn bushes a beautiful brown boy was playing, and just above him the head of a gray wolf poked out of the thicket. Gisborne had just the right moment to hit Müller’s rifle, and the bullet flew whistling through the branches of the trees. Are you mad? roared Müller. Can’t you see? I can see, answered Gisborne calmly. The mother is somewhere nearby. You must have woken up the whole crowd, damn it! The bushes parted, and the uncovered woman snatched the child into her arms. Who shot, Sahib? she cried to Gisborne. This Sahib. He didn’t remember your husband’s friends. Didn’t remember? Well, that might easily happen, for we who live among them forget that there is anything strange about them. Mowgli is fishing in the stream. Will the Sahib see him? Come out, you rude skins! Come out of the bushes and greet the Sahib nicely! Müller’s eyes grew even bigger. He stepped from the back of his gleaming mare, and at once the jungle opened up for four wolves, who began to leap around Gisborne. The woman stood nursing her child, and pushed them away when they came too close to her bare feet. You were quite right about Mowgli, said Gisborne. I would have told you about it, but I have been so used to these tricks during these twelve months that it had completely faded from my memory. Oh, no apologies, said Müller. What about it. Good God! ‘And I work miracles—and they come true too!’ WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR Chapter 3. If you have once been able to carry the great work to its destination, its magnitude is still greater if no one knows about it. Has it become an official declaration yet? They have already gone so far that here and there they admit that there is a shortage of grain, and in a couple of districts relief measures have been taken, if the newspapers tell you. That means that the official declaration will come as soon as they are sure of the men and rolling stock. I should not be surprised if conditions were as hard as in the times of the great famine. Impossible, replied Scott, turning slightly in his long cane chair. There has been a good harvest in the northern parts, and reports come from Bombay and Bengal that they have received more than they can use themselves. It can surely be stopped before it has time to spread. Martyn took the newspaper from the table, read the telegram once more, and threw his feet on the arm of his chair. It was a hot, dark, stifling evening, oppressed by the fumes of the newly moistened park walkway. The flowers in the club garden lay dead and black, the little lotus pond had completely dried up, and the tamarisk trees were completely white with dust. Most of the gentlemen had gathered in the Park’s music pavilion— a local military band was playing on the club porch, blowing worn-out trumpets. waltzes—or to the polo field or to the high- walled courtyard, where it was hotter than a sauna. Fifty stableboys were holding their masters’ horses, waiting for their return. Now and then a rider could be seen coming into the club’s fenced yard and slowly going out to the whitewashed barracks that stood next to the main building. The men lived in them, and every evening at dinner they saw the same faces opposite them; so they lingered in their offices as long as possible to get away from that unpleasant company. What are you going to do? asked Martyn. Let’s take a bath before dinner. The water is as good as boiled, said Scott. I’ve bathed today. Then let’s play billiards. The billiard room is already full. Just sit down and don’t be so unpleasantly energetic. The snorting camel stopped outside the gate, and its driver put his hand in his leather bag. “Kubber, you’re a jerk,” the man said, throwing down a supplement, a piece of paper, printed on one side only and soaked with ink. It was nailed to a green board, among the notices of horses for sale and lost dogs. Martyn rose sleepily and went to the board. After reading the supplement he let out a little whistle. “Now it’s declared,” he cried. “One, two, three—eight counties have been declared famine-stricken. Jimmy Hawkins has been appointed to head the relief work. Good choice!” said Scott, showing interest for the first time. ” If you’re in doubt, take a Punjabi—that’s a good rule of thumb. I was under Jimmy when I first came here, and he was in Punjab County then. He’s got more energy than most . Jimmy’s a new-born gentleman now,” said Martyn, “And a real gentleman, though a hardened civilian.” The carriages stopped in front of the porch, and a man emerged from them, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was the editor of the only newspaper in the capital of a province of twenty-five million colored and five hundred white inhabitants , and as the paper’s staff was limited to himself and his assistant, his working hours varied from ten to twenty hours a day. Now, Raines, said Martyn, stopping him, you who know everything can probably tell what the Madras famine will be like. No one can tell yet. There’s been a long message over the telephone, and I’m just on my way to the club to put it together. Madras has admitted that it can’t handle its own affairs alone, and Jimmy seems to be getting a free hand in choosing his assistants. Arbuthnot has been given a hint to be on the alert. Arbuthnot of Peshawar? The same man. And Ellis and Clay are from the North-West District , and have taken fifty men with them from Bomhay. It really looks as if a real famine is coming. They are nearer the scene than we are. But if it is necessary to seek help from the Punjab so early, then something more serious must be coming than it seems at first, said Martyn. Here today, there tomorrow. But you can’t expect to stay in the same place forever, said Scott, rising and throwing down one of Marryat’s novels. Martyn, your sister is waiting for you. A gray horse was crouching near the porch, the oil lamp of which threw a dim light on the young lady’s brown riding coat and pale face under a white felt hat. I will be right away, said Martyn. Can’t you come to dinner with us, Scott? William, is there any food at home? I will ride to see, answered the girl. You can come with her at eight o’clock. Scott went to his room to change, and put on a suit of dress appropriate to the season, which was plain white from the waist to the ankles, except for a wide silk belt. The Martyn dinner was a much improved version of the club meals, which usually consisted of roast goat, tough chicken, and tinned food. But it was a pity that Martyn could not afford to send his sister to the mountains for the hot season. As a police inspector Martyn received a magnificent salary, six hundred silver rupees in bad currency, and this was clearly visible in his small apartment, which consisted of four rooms. The usual white and blue striped carpets covered the bumpy floor, the usual phulkaris with glass beads on the whitewashed walls, the usual collection of chairs in the dining room, all different and bought at an auction after the death of a comrade, and the usual grease stains on the walls where the punk ribbon had hung. It looked as if everything had been taken down and arranged last night and would be packed up again tomorrow. There was not a single door in the house that hung properly on its hinges. The small windows, fifteen feet above the floor, were full of wasp nests, and lizards were chasing flies between the rafters. But all this was part of Scott’s life, and he was so accustomed to it that he paid no attention to such trifles. That was the way all lived who had the same income, and in a country where every man’s income, age, and social position are printed in a book that everyone can read, it is not worth the trouble, by word or deed , to try to make others believe that their position was better than it was. Scott had been in the service of the Irrigation Department for eight years, and received eight hundred rupees a month; he had the opportunity, after serving faultlessly for twenty-two more years, to retire to rest, secure in a pension of four hundred rupees a month. During his service he had lived mostly in tents or temporary barracks, where he could barely sleep, eat, and write letters, and his work had been to open and maintain new canals, to manage a herd of several thousand natives of different races , and to pay large sums of silver. That spring he had finished—and not without honour—the last section of the great Mosul Canal , and then, against his will, for he detested office work, had been sent to the provincial capital for the hot season to be the only man in charge of the department’s accounts and stores in a sweltering office. Martyn knew it, William, his sister, knew it, and every man knew it. Scott, as did the rest of the world, knew that Miss Martyn had come to India four years ago to manage the household for her brother, who, as every man knew, had lent her the money to pay for her passage , and that the girl, by all accounts, should have been married long ago. But instead she had given her mittens to fifty officers, to a civil servant twenty years her senior, and to a doctor. This too was common knowledge. He had been in the city for three hot seasons, because his brother was in debt and could not afford even the cheapest lodgings in the mountains for his sister. His face was moon-white, and in the middle of his forehead was a scar about the size of a shilling, the mark of a Delhi sore, the kind that comes from bad drinking water and eats into the flesh until it is ripe for burning with acids . But in spite of this William had had much fun during those four years. Twice he had nearly drowned while wading his horse across a river, once he had been carried away by a camel, once he had witnessed a night attack by bandits on his brother’s camp, had seen justice administered with long sticks in the open air, could speak Urdu as well as the crude Punjabi dialect with a fluency that was the envy of those who had been in the country much longer than he; besides, he had completely given up the habit of writing to his aunts in England and picking out clippings from English magazines, had been present during a very difficult cholera year, when he had seen things that cannot be described, and the flower of all his experiences was typhoid fever, which had lasted six weeks, after which she had been obliged to shave her head. And all this, though she was not yet twenty-three years old! It is quite probable that her aunts would not have approved of a girl who never set foot on the ground unless there was a horse to ride, who rode to balls wrapped in a shawl, who kept her hair cut short and curled, who did not care whether she was called William or Bill, whose speech was adorned with the flowery dialects of the country, who could appear in amateur plays, play the banjo, look after eight servants and two horses, the servants’ wages and illnesses, and look men calmly straight in the eye—yes, even after they had proposed and received mittens. I like men who do something decent, she had said to the teacher who was instructing the draper’s sons in the understanding of poetry, and when the man became sensitive and poetic, William explained that he could not understand poetry for fivepence and that his head always started to hurt when he read the verses. After this another broken heart fled to the Club. But it was really William’s fault, because he enjoyed listening to men talk about their work, and that was the surest way to make a man fall at a woman’s feet. Scott had known her for three years and had almost always met her when his and Martyn’s camps had happened to be next to each other on the edge of the Indian desert. He had also danced with the girl many times at the big Christmas parties, which could be attended by up to five hundred white people, and he had always had great respect for her cooking and good dinners. William looked more like a boy than usual as he sat on the leather-covered sofa after dinner, one leg under the other, his low forehead, covered with black curls, deeply furrowed. He rolled cigarettes for his brother and thrust his round chin forward when he had finally got his tobacco evenly packed, and almost as carelessly as a schoolboy throws a stone, he threw the finished cigarettes across the room to his brother, who caught them with his other hand, continuing his conversation with Scott. Their conversation was exclusively about professional matters, canals and canal maintenance, the sinful villagers who took more water than they had paid for, the even more incorrigible native police who turned a blind eye to these thefts, the relocation of villages to newly irrigated areas, and the war against the southern desert dwellers that would break out when the government allocated funds for the construction of the planned Luni canal network. Scott spoke openly of his earnest desire to be a part of this work, where he would know both the country and the people, and Martyn sighed for himself a ticket to the foot of the Himalayas and told his thoughts of his superiors; all the while William rolled his cigarettes without saying a word, but smiling kindly at his brother when he grew hot. At ten o’clock Scott’s horse was brought to the gate, and the evening was over. The lights were flickering from both the low bungalows where the daily paper was printed, and as it was too early to think of going to bed, Scott went to exchange a few words with the editor. Naked to the waist like a sailor standing at a cannon, Raines lay in the lounge waiting for the night telegraph. He was of the opinion that if he was not at work all day and most of the night, he was liable to catch a fever. Therefore he ate and slept among his bundles of papers. Can you begin to do that? he asked sleepily. I didn’t mean to trouble you here. How? I’ve been to dinner at the Martyns’. I mean the famine, of course. Martyn has also been ordered to be sent to places where help is needed. They take helpers wherever they can. I just sent you a note to the club asking if you could take a letter from there to write us a week. from the south, say one or two columns. Of course, no alarmist stuff, just plain facts about the measures that have been taken, and so on. The usual fee is ten rupees a column. I regret having to refuse, but that doesn’t suit me, said Scott absently, looking at the map of India hanging on the wall. A pity for Martyn, a pity indeed. I wonder what he’s doing to his sister. And what the hell are they doing to me? I ‘ve no experience of famine. I’ve never been in one. Have I really been ordered? Yes, here’s a telegram. You’ve been put on relief work and given a bunch of natives who are dying like flies. There’s one Hindu doctor and a bottle of choleretics for every ten thousand inhabitants . The order is because you happen to be free. Anyone who doesn’t do the work of two men feels like a call to duty. It feels as bad as any famine in ten years. Unfortunately, it’s part of our job. I’ll probably get an official order tomorrow. It’s a good thing I happened to peek in here. It’s best to start packing right away. Do you happen to know who’s going to take my place? Raines was flipping through his telegrams. Murreen Mc Evan, he replied. Scott laughed. And he thought he’d have to keep it cool all summer! That news certainly doesn’t please him. But it’s not worth the trouble to talk. Good night! Two hours later Scott could rest in his empty room with a clear conscience. Two worn leather bags, a leather water bottle, a tin icebox and his fancy saddle were piled up by the door, and the payment for last month’s full board at the Club was under the pillow. The next day he received an official order and at the same time a private telegram from Sir James Hawkins, who never forgot capable men, and now requested him, as the famine was severe and the white men were in great want, to arrive as soon as possible at a place with a complicated name. The fat, ruddy-cheeked youth arrived about noon, lamenting fate and famine, which can never grant a man three months’ leave. He was Scott’s successor, another cog in the machinery set in motion by his comrade, whose services were now, as the official letter said, placed at the disposal of the Madras Government for the relief of the famine until otherwise directed. Scott handed over the cash register, pointed to the coolest corner of the study, warned against excessive enthusiasm, and set off, accompanied by his faithful servant Faiz Ullah, in the dark hired carriages to the fortified station, in order to catch the express train to the south. The heat was stifling, and he thought with almost horror that he had a journey of at least four days and five nights ahead of him. Faiz Ullah, accustomed to sticking his nose in every direction, threw himself fearlessly into the crowd on the platform, while Scott, puffing on a black cigar, waited for his carriage to be hitched up. A dozen native policemen, with rifles and caps, cut their way through the crowd of Punjabi peasants, Sikh artisans, and Afreede peddlers with their greasy curls, and gave Martyn’s suitcase, icebox, water bottles, and slings a formidable protection. They saw Faiz Ullah’s raised hand and directed their course towards it. My Sahib and your Sahib are travelling together, Faiz Ullah said to Martyn’s servant. And therefore you and I, O brother, must get places near them, and because of our master’s position no one dares to disturb us. When Faiz Ullah informed him that everything was in order, Scott got into the carriage and settled himself on a wide leather-covered sofa , having first taken off his coat and shoes. At the last moment Martyn burst in, hot and sweaty. “Don’t curse now,” said Scott calmly, “it’s too late to change carriages, and we’ll share my ice. What are you doing here?” asked Martyn. I am being sent on loan to the Madras Government, just like you. A bloody hot evening. Will you take any men with you? Yes, a dozen. I suppose I shall be assigned to supervise the distribution of grain. I had no idea you had received the order too. I did not learn of it till I came from you last night. Raines was the first to say so. The official order came in the morning, McEvan released me at four o’clock, and I went at once. I should not be surprised if this famine could be of great use—if, of course, we get out of it alive. Jimmy should at least let us work together, said Martyn, and then, after a moment’s silence, said: My sister is with us. Good thing, said Scott. I suppose he will get off the train at Uneball and go on to Simla from there. Who is he going to stay with? No, that’s the trouble. He intends to come with me. Scott stood up suddenly and stared at his companion. What on earth? You don’t mean you don’t have the means… No, I could have scraped together the money somehow. You could have come to me first, said Scott stiffly, we’re not that strangers to each other. Well, you don’t have to look offended. I could have done that, but you don’t know my sister. All day I’ve done nothing but explain, beg, and command—I lost my good humor at seven in the morning and I still haven’t got it back —but she wouldn’t hear of any compromises. A wife has a right to come along if she wants to, and William insists she has the same right. You see, we’ve been together almost all our lives, ever since our parents died. She doesn’t sound like just any ordinary sister. All the sisters I’ve heard of would have preferred to stay where they were. She’s as capable as a man, Martyn went on. He arranged everything in the bungalow while I argued with him, and in three hours he had all our subchiz’s baggage in order —servants, horses, and all. I did not get my orders till ten o’clock. Jimmy Hawkins is not very well. A famine-stricken county is not a fit place for a woman to stay. Mrs. Jim—I mean Lady Jim is in camp with her husband. She has agreed to take my sister in any case. William wired her on his own responsibility, asking if she would come with him, and put an end to all my arguments by showing her his reply. Scott burst into a hearty laugh. If she could do that, she could take care of herself, and Mrs. Jim would not let her come to harm. There are not many women, wives or sisters, who would volunteer to go to a famine-stricken county. And it is not through ignorance. She was in the cholera last year. The train stopped at Amritsar, and Scott went into the ladies’ carriage, which was immediately behind theirs. William nodded amiably as he sat there, his travelling hat in its unruly curls. Come and have a cup of tea, he said. It’s the best cure in the world for the heat. Do I look as if I were about to have a heat stroke? You never know, William replied wryly. It’s always best to be on the safe side. The way she had arranged herself showed that she was a seasoned traveller. A bottle of water wrapped in a blanket hung from the window blind, a china tea set, which had been packed in cotton wool in a basket, was arranged on the sofa, and a travel spirit kit was fixed on a shelf. William generously offered them large cups of tea, which prevents the neck veins from swelling too much during a hot night. It was typical of the girl that once her decision was made, she would not talk about it again. Living among men who had much to do and very little time for it had taught him to withdraw into the shadows and help himself. He gave no indication by word or deed that he might be of service to either of them during the expedition . useful and encouraging, but quietly went about his business, packed up the tea-service when the tea was drunk, and afterwards passed out cigarettes to his guests.. We didn’t expect anything like this at this time yesterday, said Scott. I’ve learned to expect anything, said William. Our existence hangs, so to speak, on the end of a telegraph wire. But this may be of use to us all—promotions, if we survive . Yes, when this is over we shall be in our own places, replied Scott, equally seriously. I hope to get my share of the work on the Luni Canal, but it’s not easy to say how long the famine will last. Hardly longer than October, said Martyn. It will end then, one way or another. And we have nearly a week’s journey ahead of us, said William. Think how dusty we shall be before we get there! For a day they travelled through familiar country, and as they drove along the edge of the great Indian desert during the next day, they recalled their experiences from their first years of school, when they had travelled that way from Bombay. But soon after , the language in which the names of the stations were written changed, and they arrived in a strange land to the south, where even the smells that filled the air were new. Many long trains laden with grain lay ahead of them, and even from this distance they could see Jim’s organizing hand. They waited on the temporary double tracks to let the long lines of empty wagons that were returning north pass; then they were hitched to the slowly crawling train, and at midnight they were allowed to alight from the wagons somewhere, heaven knew where, but it was terribly hot there, and there they had to walk back and forth for a long time between the sacks of grain. Then they came to India, which was even stranger to them than to many an Englishman who had never travelled— the flat, red India of palms, Palmyra palms, and rice, the India of picture books—and they found it dead and parched with heat. They had left the uninterrupted passenger traffic of the north and west far behind them. Here people walked along the sides of the train, carrying children in their arms, and now and then a grain wagon would be uncoupled, around which men and women would gather like ants around honey. Once they saw on a dusty plain a little group of brown soldiers, each carrying a human body on his shoulder, and when the train stopped once more to leave the wagon, they saw that the men’s loads were not dead, but starving people, gathered by the irregulars from the dead oxen. A little later they met here and there some white men whose tents were pitched near the railway embankment, and who came with written orders to untie the wagons. They were too busy to do anything but nod to Scott and Martyn, and cast a puzzled glance at William, who had nothing else to do but to prepare the tea and watch the gentlemen try to restrain the crowding and moaning skeletons, while they themselves untied the marked wagons and took receipts from the hollow-eyed white men who spoke a different dialect from theirs. They suffered from the want of ice, soda water, and tea, for they had been on the road for six days and seven nights, and this time seemed to them seven times seven years. At last they arrived at their destination on a dry, hot morning, where they were met by Jim Hawkins, the head of the Famine Commission, unwashed, stubbly, but brisk, and in full command of the situation. He explained at once that Martyn would be allowed to serve on the trains until further orders; he was to return with the empty cars and collect the starving people wherever he could get his hands on them, and take them to the famine camp on the border of the eight distressed counties. Then he was to get fresh supplies of grain and return with them, and his constables were to guard the grain cars and collect the starving people. people and leave them in a camp a hundred miles to the south. Scott—Hawkins was glad to see him again—was to go at once, at the head of an oxcart line, south to a starvation camp far from the railroad, where he was to leave his starving people—for there would certainly be no lack of them on his way—and then await further orders. Otherwise, Scott would have to act according to his best judgment in every detail. William bit his lower lip. There was no one in the whole world who could compare with his only brother, but the orders that Martyn had received left nothing to his own judgment. Dusty from rushing to the heels, and with a deep frown on his forehead from much thinking during the past week, but with his usual calm and collected demeanor, he stepped from the wagon. Mrs. Jim—who should have been Lady Jim, but no one remembered to give her the proper title—immediately seized him. Oh, how glad I am to see you, she cried at once, her voice breaking into a sob. Of course you shouldn’t have come, but… but there’s not a single woman here, and we must help each other, you see. And then we must help all those poor people and little children they sell. I’ve seen some of them by the road, said William. Isn’t it awful? I’ve bought twenty of them… they ‘re in the camp. But won’t you have something to eat first? We ‘ve got more than ten people to work with here, and I’ve got a horse for you. Ah, how glad I am to see you! You’re from the Punjab too, you know that. Calm down, Lizzie, said Hawkins. We’ll take care of you, Miss Martyn. I’m sorry I can’t give you breakfast, Martyn, but you’ll have to get some food for yourself when you go. Leave two of your men to help Scott. These poor wretched scoundrels don’t know how to run freight cars. Saunders— this was to the engine driver, who was sitting dozing in the coal car— reverse the engine and take those empty cars away. The track is clear to Anundrapillay, and you will get new orders from there, and you, Scott, can load your cars from these freight cars and get going as soon as possible. That red-shirted native is the interpreter and conductor. He has tried to escape; so keep an eye on him. Lizzie, you can drive to Miss Martyn’s camp and tell her they are sending me a railman. Scott, with the help of Faiz Ullah and a couple of policemen, was already taking his freight cars to the freight cars and pulling aside the sliding doors while the others were filling sacks with sorghum and wheat. Hawkins stood watching them load the first car. A fine man, he thought. If all goes well, I’ll let him try hard. It was, in Hawkins’s opinion , the highest courtesy that a man could pay another. An hour later Scott was on his way. The Hindu doctor had threatened him with the penalty of the law, because he, a member of the Indian Medical Board, had been compelled to accompany him, contrary to all the regulations of the personal liberty of a subject. The interpreter had asked leave to go and see his mother, who happened to be lying on the point of death three miles away. Only a little, a very little time, and then I will be back immediately, Sahib. But both had to follow. Two policemen armed with sticks formed the rear guard, and last came Faiz Ullah, who, with the Mohammedan contempt—it was evident in every feature of his face—for all Hindus and strangers, explained to the drivers that although Scott Sahib was a man feared in all directions, yet he, Faiz Ullah, had the supreme power. The procession passed Hawkins’ camp, three striped tents under dead trees, and beyond them the starvation barracks where the unfortunates huddled around the dams. “I wish William hadn’t come here,” muttered Scott, glancing around. “When the rain comes, we’ll really get cholera is upon us. William seemed to have already become acquainted with the famine regulations, which, when a famine is declared, supersede all ordinary laws. Scott saw him in the midst of a group of weeping women, dressed in his brown riding-dress and blue-grey felt hat. Can you lend me fifty rupees? asked William. I forgot to ask Jack for money before he left. I will use it to buy condensed milk for the children. Scott took the money from his belt and handed it to the girl without a word. In God’s name, be careful, he said. Oh, I am in no danger. We shall have the milk in two days . Indeed, I should have said that you should have one of Sir Jim’s horses. There is a grey Kabyle here that seemed to suit you, and that is why I said you should take it. Was it good? Impossibly well done. But I am afraid none of us must now think what is suitable and what is not. Scott was dressed in a very worn hunting jacket, the seams of which were already white and the cuffs ragged. William examined him thoughtfully from his helmet to his greased boots. You look very neat to me. Are you sure you have everything you need with you, quinine, chlordyne, and so on? Yes, I think so, replied Scott, hastily fumbling in his pockets. At once his horse was brought, and he jumped into the saddle and rode away.
Goodbye, he cried. Goodbye and good journey, replied William. I am very grateful for the loan. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the tent. The wagon rolled slowly along the dusty road into the hot Gehenna of the south. Chapter 4. The world shall not know our love — only the two of us! If others know it — its beauty fades more pale. The work was strenuous, although he traveled at night and camped during the day. But as far as the eye could see, there was no one whom Scott had to call master. He was as free as Jimmy Hawkins, and freer still, for the government kept him bound by telegraph wire, and if Jimmy had paid any serious attention to the telegrams, his mortality rate from starvation would have been much higher. After a few days of traveling at a snail’s pace, Scott got a glimpse of the greatness of the India he served, and it astonished him. His wagons were, as we know, loaded with wheat, sorghum, and oats, which are excellent food, if they are ground. But the people to whom he brought this life-giving food were rice-eaters. They knew how to pound rice in their mortars, but they were not familiar with the heavier stones used in the North, much less with the stuff which the white man dragged to them with so much trouble. They asked for the rice they were accustomed to, and when they could not find it, they left the wagons weeping. What did they do with these strange hard grains that stuck in their throats? They said they wanted to die, and many kept their word. Others accepted their share and exchanged enough wheat to last a week for a handful of rotten rice that some scoundrel had saved. A few put their grains in rice mortars, pounded them as much as they could, and then mixed them with dirty water, but such were comparatively few. Scott had had a vague idea that the people of southern India lived on rice, but he had spent his entire service in the wheatlands and rarely seen rice, and he could not imagine that people in times of famine would rather starve to death in front of sacks of wheat than taste a food they did not know. In vain did the interpreter try to explain to them what the situation was, in vain did the two policemen eagerly point out with signs how they should proceed. Seeing the hunger, they returned to their bark and clay, their herbs and leaves, and left the opened sacks untouched. But in between came women who counted their skeletal children at Scott’s feet, before staggering away themselves. Faiz Ullah defended the opinion that the deaths of these strangers were the will of God, and that therefore the dead should simply be ordered to be burned. But that was no reason for the Sahib to give up all comforts, and Faiz Ullah, an experienced traveller, had picked up a few lean goats along the way and let them follow the train. In order to get milk for breakfast, he fed them grain, which the stupid natives despised. Well, if the Sahib doesn’t mind, said Faiz Ullah, we can give the children a little milk. But as the Sahib knew, children were very cheap, and Faiz Ullah thought for himself that the Government had not made any regulations for them. Scott now used very strong language towards Faiz Ullah and the two policemen, and ordered them to seize as many goats as possible. This order they obeyed with delight, and many of the goats were taken in. Once the herds had been fed, they were more than willing to follow the wagons, and after giving them plenty of food for a few days —for want of which people died like flies— they could again be milked successfully. But I am no goatherd, said Faiz Uilah. That does not befit my izzat. When we come across the Bias, we can talk of izzat again, replied Scott. But before that you and the two policemen will sweep the camp, if I command you. Well, that is how it will be, murmured Faiz Uilah, if the Sahib must want it now—and he showed how the goat was to be milked. Now we will begin to feed them, said Scott, three times a day we will feed them—and he stooped to milk them and had a terrible convulsion. If you have ever tried to maintain constant communication between a restless mother goat and a little kid who is dying of hunger, you know how taxing it is on the nervous system. But Scott’s little ones were fed. Morning, noon, and night he would always lift them solemnly from the burlap bags that hung from the cots and from the roof of the wagon. There were many who could barely breathe, and the milk had to be dropped into their mouths drop by drop, with careful interruptions, so that they would not choke. Every morning the goats also had to be fed, and as they were easily scattered without a shepherd and the natives were not to be trusted, Scott was forced to give up riding and instead walk slowly at the head of his herd, adjusting his pace accordingly. All this was absolutely absurd, and he felt how ridiculous it was, but at least he managed to save lives, and when the women saw that their children had not died, they also tried to eat this strange food and dragged themselves behind the wagons, blessing the lord of the goats. Give the women something to live for, Scott said to himself, sneezing at the dust that hundreds of little feet kicked up into the air, and they will live to suffer in some way or other. But this is more solid than William’s condensed milk. But this will be enough to make fun of my comrades for the rest of my life. At last he reached his destination, where he learned that a ship loaded with rice had arrived from Burma and that the rice stores could be used. He also found an Englishman who was worn out by work as a manager, had his wagons loaded, and returned the way he had come. He left some of the children and half of the goats in the starvation camp. He did not receive any thanks from the Englishman for this action, for he had already too many little children and the man did not know what to do with them. Scott’s back was now accustomed to bending, and in addition to his official duties he distributed rice on the way. More and more children and goats joined him, but now many of the little ones were dressed in rags and had ribbons and rings around their necks and ankles. That, said the interpreter, thinking that Scott did not understand, means, that the mothers hope once more that they may be able to reclaim them from the authorities. The sooner the better, said Scott. But at the same time he noted with a kind of pride that those little Ramasawmays were fattening up like bantam chickens. When the wagons were emptied, he set out for Hawkins’ camp, and timed his arrival for dinner, for it had been a long time since he had eaten at a set table. He had not planned his arrival to be dramatic, but the sunset happened so that when he took off his helmet to let the evening breeze cool his brow, the sun from the horizon shone directly into his eyes, so that he could not see ahead. But one who sat waiting at the tent door saw with new eyes a young man, as handsome as Paris, a god with a golden halo, walking slowly at the head of his herd, with little cupids running at his feet. The onlooker laughed—William, in his frosty blue blouse, laughed uncontrollably at Scott, who, trying to look as unassuming as possible, stopped his army and asked William to admire his nursery. The sight was incongruous, but they had long since left the convention behind them at Amritsar Station, fifteen thousand miles to the north. They come at a good time, said William. We have only twenty-five here at the moment. The women have already begun to fetch them back. Do you look after the children? Yes—Mrs. Jim and I. We never thought of goats. We have tried condensed milk and water. Deaths? More than I care to think of, said William, trembling. What about you? Scott made no reply. Many small funerals had been held on his way—many mothers had wept when they could no longer find their children, whom they had left in the care of the Government. Now Hawkins came out with a razor in his hand, at which Scott cast lustful glances, for he had a beard which greatly annoyed him. And when they had settled themselves in the tent at the dinner table, he told of his journey in a few words, as if it had been an official announcement. Mrs. Jim sobbed now and then, and Jim nodded approvingly; but William’s grey eyes were fixed on the newly shaven face, for Scott seemed to be telling only him. How good for the poor country, said William, leaning his head on his hand. His cheeks were hollow, and the scar on his forehead had become more distinct, but his beautiful, full neck rose like a pillar from the ruffle of the blouse which he had chosen for his social dress in camp. It was sometimes impossible to laugh, said Scott. You see, I knew little about milking or babies at first. My comrades will make a good joke of me when the matter reaches the north. “Let them mock us,” said William haughtily. “We have each done a little of everything since we came here. I know Jack has.” This was for Hawkins, and the great man smiled kindly. “Your brother is a very distinguished officer, William,” he said, ” and I have honored him by treating him according to his merits. Remember, I write secret reports. You must also mention that William is worth his weight in gold,” said Mrs. Jim. “I don’t know how we could have gotten along without him. He has been our everything.” He pressed his hand into the one that held William’s reins, and William returned it with a warm squeeze. Jim beamed with satisfaction. Everything was going very well in his world. Three of his stupidest, laziest, and most worthless men were dead, and their places had been filled by far better ones. The rainy season was approaching day by day. The famine had been suppressed in five out of eight districts, and the death rate had not, after all, become alarmingly high—due to the circumstances. looking. He examined Scott carefully, like a man-eater , and delighted in his muscles and his iron-hard frame. He is about to fall head over heels in love, Jim said to himself, but he can still do the work of two men. Then he noticed that Mrs. Jim was telegraphing him, and the telegraph message, in their system of abbreviations, meant: A clear case. Look at them! He looked and listened. William only said: What can you expect from a country where a bhishete water-carrier is called a tunnicutch? — and Scott answered nothing but: It must be very nice to get back to the Club. Save me one dance at the Christmas party; will you? It is a long way from here to Lawrence Hall, said Jim. You had better go to bed early, Scott. There will be empty carriages to-morrow, and you can start loading at five o’clock. Aren’t you going to give Mr. Scott a day’s rest? I would like to, Lizzie. I’m sorry I can’t. As long as he’s standing, we’ll have to use him. Well, at least I’ve had one European evening… Goblin, I almost forgot! What am I to do with my kids? Leave them here, said William. We’ll take care of all that, and give us as many goats as you can. I must learn to milk at once. If you’ll bother to get up early enough tomorrow morning, I’ll show you how it’s done. I must milk, you see. One more
thing: one half of the kids have rings and things around their necks. You must be careful not to take them off… if you see the mothers happen to come. You seem to have forgotten that I have some experience in that matter. I hope you won’t strain yourselves too much.’ Scott’s voice trembled with ill-concealed anxiety. I’ll take care of him, said Mrs. Jim, who was typing out a hundred-word telegram. And then she left the room with William, while Jim stayed to give Scott orders for the next campaign. It was very late—nearly nine. Jim, you’re a monster, said his wife that evening, and the famine chief laughed. Not at all, my dear. I remember when I founded the first settlement at Jandiala, purely out of love for a girl in a crinoline, and she was as sly as you are now, Lizzie. I never did such fine work as I did then. She’ll work like a madwoman. But you could have given her one day. And let them come to a decision now? No, my friend, this is the happiest time of their lives. I don’t think either of those dear children notice what they’re in for. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that charming? Get up at three o’clock to learn to milk. God bless his heart! Oh gods, why must we grow old and fat? He is delightful. He has done more under me… Under you! After a day here he had taken command, and you were under him, and that is the position we are in still. He rules you almost as well as you rule me. — He does not rule me, and that is why I like him. He is as straightforward as a man—as his brother. His brother is weaker than he. Martyn always looks to me for orders, but he is honest and not afraid of work. I confess, however, that I like William better, and if I had a daughter… The conversation ended there. Far away in Derajat there was a grave more than twenty years old, and neither of them spoke of it now. All the same, you have a responsibility, added Jim, after a pause . God bless them! said his wife, half asleep. Before the stars had grown bright, Scott, who was sleeping in the empty carriage, awoke, and went quietly to his work. It was unnecessary for him to wake Faiz Ullah and the interpreter. As he sat milking, with his head close to the ground, he did not hear William come until he was standing beside him. in his old faded riding-dress, his eyes still heavy with sleep, a cup of tea and a piece of toast in his hand. On the ground lay a child, writhing in his rags, and a six-year-old peered over Scott’s shoulder. “Now, little rascal,” said Scott, “how do you think you can get your share of the pen, if you don’t keep quiet?” A cool, white hand held the child, while the milk dripped into its mouth. “Good morning,” said the milkman. “You can’t imagine how these little rascals can writhe. I can,” whispered William, for they were all asleep. “But I usually use a spoon or a pacifier. Your children are fatter than mine… And you’ve been doing this constantly, twice a day?” His voice was almost choked. ” Yes, isn’t it ridiculous? Now you can try,” said Scott, and made way for the girl. “Be careful!” A goat is not a cow. The goat protested against the unfamiliar hand, and Scott had to quickly pull the child aside. Then it was time to start over, and William laughed softly and with amusement. He managed to feed two children, and then a third. Aren’t those poor little things well behaved? asked Scott. I have taught them. They were busy, and look! It was bright day, and before they knew it the camp was awake, and they were on their knees among the goats, startled by the day and red to the temples. But the whole wide world that was rolling out of the darkness might well have heard what had passed between them. Oh, said William uncertainly, as he picked up a cup of tea and a loaf of bread from the ground. I had made this for you. Now it is freezing cold. I thought you might not have been able to cook anything so early. It is best not to drink it now. It is—it is freezing cold. You did awfully well. That is very good. Very awfully well indeed. I will leave my children and my goats with you and Mrs. Jim, and of course there is someone here in the camp who can show you how to milk. Of course, said William, growing redder and stiffer; as he went back to his tent he rubbed his face eagerly with the saw. Now there was weeping and wailing in the camp, as the older children saw that their nurse was preparing to leave without them. Faiz Ullah condescended to play with the policemen, and Scott turned scarlet with shame, for Hawkins, who was already in the saddle, was whining as hard as he could. Another of the children broke free from Mrs. Jim and ran as nimbly as a rabbit to Scott and caught hold of his leg; William followed with long, light steps. I won’t—I won’t, shrieked the child, clinging to Scott. They’ll only kill me. I don’t know them. I say, Scott said in Tamil, I say she means you no harm. Follow her and you will get food. Come, said William, panting, and casting an annoyed look at the helpless Scott. Go back, the latter said at last to William. In a minute I will send this little bugger to you. The Mahdika tone had an effect, but not in the way Scott had intended. The boy relaxed his grip and said with dignity: I did not know this woman was yours. I will go with her. Then he shouted to his companions, who were waiting to see how his adventure would end before they too fled: Go back and eat! She is our man’s wife. She obeys his orders. Jim was about to burst out laughing. Faiz Ullah and the two police constables grinned, and Scott’s orders to the drivers fell like hail. It is the way of the Sahibs to speak the truth in their presence, said Faiz Ullah. The time will soon come when I must seek another place of service. Young wives, especially those who speak our language, are insufferable to honorable servants when the weekly bills come up. William pretended to be thinking of other things. Ten days later came to his brother’s camp to get orders, and heard Scott’s goat idea being discussed. He said then, laughing: “Well, now that’s as clear as day. He’ll be Bakri Scott all his life .” “Bakri” is a northern dialect for goat. ” What a sight! I’d give half a month’s pay to see him suckle his starving children. I’ve fed some conjees with rice water, but there’s nothing strange about it. It’s disgraceful,” said his sister, her eyes blazing. “If a man does something—something like that, you other men just think of a silly nickname for him, and then you laugh and pretend to be terribly witty. That’s right,” said Mrs. Jim approvingly. ” Well, you say that, William. Who called Miss Demby a partridge last winter if not you? India is a land of nicknames, after all.” That was another matter, replied William. She’s only a girl, and she walks like a partridge, that’s for sure. But it’s not right to make fun of a man. Scott doesn’t care about that, said Martyn. It’s impossible to make old Scott angry. I’ve been trying for eight years, and you’ve only known him for three. What does he look like? He looks very pretty, replied William, and went away with a flush on his cheeks. Bakri Scott, I suppose! But then he laughed, for he knew the country he lived in. But Bakri it is anyway —and he repeated it quietly over and over, until it finally sounded very pretty. When he returned to his service on the railway, Martyn spread the name among his comrades, so that Scott encountered it when he came back with his empty wagons. The natives thought it was some European title, and the drivers used it in all innocence, until Faiz Ullah, who could tolerate no new inventions, gave them a good spanking. There was not much time for milking now except in the big camps, where Jim had taken up Scott’s idea and was feeding large herds of goats on grain from the north that no one wanted. So much rice had now arrived in those eight counties that it would have saved the population if it had been distributed quickly. No one was better suited to this task than the strong canal builder, who never lost his temper, never gave unnecessary orders, and never questioned when he had received an order. Scott had to work hard, tenderly tending his oxen, washing their chafed necks every day so as not to lose time, leaving the rice in the smaller starvation camps, and returning by rapid night marches to the big central camps, where Hawkins’ monotonous telegram always awaited: Do it again. And he did it again and again, while Jim Hawkins, fifty miles away, marked on a large map the track of his clattering wagons through the tried country. The others did their work well—Hawkins knew when it was all over that every one had worked perfectly—but Scott was the best of them, for he always carried jingling rupees with him, and paid for his own repairs and any unexpected extras on the spot, trusting that he would be reimbursed in due course. In theory the government should have paid for every shoe and every wheel-spike; but the government paid very slowly, and the sharp-witted and careful officials wrote terribly long statements against unauthorized expenditure of eightpence. The man who wants to do effective work must rely on his own bank account or get his money in some other way. I told you he should work, said Jim to his wife, when six weeks had passed. He has been single-handedly supervising two thousand men on the Mohsul Canal for a whole year, and he is less trouble than young Martyn and his ten constables. I am morally assured—the government only does not recognize moral debts—that he has spent half his salary in wheel grease. Look at this, Lizzie, a single week’s work. Forty miles in two days with twenty wagons; a two-day stop to build a hunger shack for young Rogers. Rogers, the idiot, should have built it himself! Then forty miles back, six wagons loaded on the way. That same evening he writes me a semi-official report of twenty pages , stating that the people of those parts ‘could be advantageously employed in relief work, and suggesting that he should have them repair an old defective cistern which he has found, and which should be of great use in the rainy season. He thinks he can have the pond clear in fourteen days. Look at his marginal drawings—aren’t they clear and excellent? I knew he was a scoundrel, but I didn’t know he was so terribly scoundrel. I must show William this, said Mrs. Jim. The child wears himself out with the little ones. No more than you, my dear. Well, in two months we will be on dry land again. I am sorry I cannot offer you the Victoria Cross. William sat up in his tent late into the night, reading page after page of Scott’s strong handwriting, tenderly examining the drawings for the repair of the reservoir, and frowning at the lines of numbers where the water supply calculations were. He can do anything, the girl exclaimed to herself, and… well, I have done my duty too. I have saved a couple of children. He dreamed for the twentieth time of a god with a golden halo, and woke up brisk and refreshed to feed dozens of dirty children, poor homeless little ones, picked up from the roadside, covered in wounds and so thin that their bones almost protruded from their skin. Scott was not able to get his transport, but his letter was sent to the Government in due course, and he was able—as is very common in India— to take the comfort of another reaping what he had sown. That is very instructive and elevating to the soul. He is too good to waste his time on canals, said Jimmy. Any man can keep an eye on the coolies. Don’t worry about being offended, William; he can do what he wants, but I need my pearl to lead the bullock-drivers, and I have transferred him to the Khanda district, where he can start again. He must be on his way. He is no coolie, said William, offended. He should be allowed to work on his waterworks. He is the best at his trade, and that means a lot; but if I have to use a razor to cut through the hard rocks, I prefer to take the sharpest. Shall we not see him again soon? asked Mrs. Jim. I am sure the poor boy has not had a proper meal for a whole month. He must be sitting in his carriage eating sardines with his fingers. There is a time for everything, my dear. Duty before comfort— that’s what Mr. Chucks said. No, but mate, Merry, smiled William. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to dance again and listen to the band and sit under the roof. I could well imagine I hadn’t worn a ball gown. Come on, said Mrs. Jim, who had been sitting lost in thought. If he goes to Khanda, he’ll pass us five miles away. Of course he’ll come here then. No, he won’t come here, said William. How do you know, my dear? It would take time from his work, and he doesn’t think he has time. He will come, said Mrs. Jim, winking. It depends entirely on him. There’s not the slightest reason why he shouldn’t come if he’s wanted, said Jim. He’s not wanted, replied William calmly. That wouldn’t be his way. You really get to know people in times like these, Jim said dryly. But William’s face was as calm as ever, even now when he insisted that Scott wouldn’t come. At last the rainy season came, late but all the more abundant. Dry, the cracked earth turned to red mud, and the servants killed snakes in the camp, where for about a fortnight everyone had to stay inside—all except Hawkins, who rode horses and frolicked contentedly in the wet. Now the government had issued an order that the population should be given grain and loaned money to buy oxen; and the white men were made to work doubly hard to perform this new duty; while William had to hop from brick to brick—they were set in the trodden mud—to give his bulging roads a warm medicine that made them rub their round bellies. The milking goats feasted in the tall grass. Scott, who was now in Khanda County, far to the southeast, gave no sign of himself except the usual telegram reports to Hawkins. The wretched roads were gone; the drivers were half mutinous; one of the policemen borrowed from Martyn had died of cholera; and Scott had taken thirty grams of quinine to suppress a fever brought on by hard work in the heavy rain. But not a word was mentioned in his reports. He was again working from a depot on the railway , and fifteen miles in every direction was his work-place. When full loads could no longer be used, Scott took quarter loads, and therefore accelerated the work, so that it went four times faster. He did not want to give a foothold to the epidemic, which would have gained an unpredictable speed if the natives had been gathered by the thousands in the relief camps. It was cheaper to use the government oxen, make them work until they died, and then leave them by the roadside to be picked by the crows. Scott was now living in a time when eight years of sensible living and hard work were bearing fruit, though his head rang and the ground danced under his feet when he stood and under his bed when he slept. Hawkins had thought it best to make him a bullfighter, well, that was Hawkins’ business, Scott thought. There were men up north who would know what he had done, men who had served in his department for thirty years who would say it was no worse, and at the top, high above all men of any worth, there was William who would approve of his actions because he understood such things. He had trained his brain so that it could do the mechanical work of the day, though his own voice rang strangely in his ears and his hands on the desk grew as big as pillowcases or as small as peas. That tenacity carried his body to the railway station, and dictated a telegram to Hawkins, in which he announced that the Khanda district was now, as far as he could see, saved , and that he awaited further orders. The electrician, who was a native, must have been less pleased when the big, thin man fell upon him, unconscious; but his annoyance was probably due less to the weight of the fallen man than to the abuse and blows with which Faiz Ullah had treated him when he entered and found his master under a bench. Then Faiz Ullah got hold of blankets and quilts and shawls and wrapped Scott in them above and below and tied his hands with strong tent ropes and poured some terrible herbal concoction on him and made a constable fight with him when he wanted to get out of the terrible heat of his blankets and closed the telegraph office for two nights and a day to keep out the curious. And when a locomotive lantern appeared on the tracks and Hawkins peeped in at the door, Scott saluted the foreman, in a weak but natural voice, and behind him stood Faiz Ullah and took all the credit. Oh heavens, for two nights he was a pagal, said Faiz Ullah. Look at my nose and look at the police constable’s eye. He hit us with his fists; but we sat on him, and though his words were tez, we let him sweat. He is now weaker than a child, but the fever is gone, thank God. The only memories of it are my nose and the constable’s eye. Sahib, must I ask for leave because the Sahib has beaten me? And Faiz Ullah laid his long, slender hand gently on Scott’s breast to be assured that the fever was over, before he went out to open a tin of beef stew and give a back to anyone who laughed at his swollen nose. All is well in the district, whispered Scott. This means nothing. Did you get my telegram? I shall be well again in a week. I do not understand how it happened. I shall be well in a few days. You must follow us to camp, said Hawkins. But—but… It is almost all over now. We have no need of you Punjabis any more. On my honour, we do not need you. Martyn is going back in a couple of weeks. Arbuthnot has already travelled, and Clay and Ellis are finishing some new canal which the Government have built as a relief work. Mortens is dead—but he was a Bengali, and you did not know him. Indeed, you and Will—Miss Martyn—seem to be coping better than anyone else. Oh, how is he? The young man’s voice rose and fell as he spoke. He is doing very well when I left. The Roman Catholic missionaries have taken in the children who were not taken away, to raise them into little priests; Basil’s mission takes some, and the mothers the rest. You should hear the little poor things howl when they are taken away from William. He is a little worn out, but so are we all. Well, when do you think you can get out of here? I can’t come to camp like this. And I won’t, replied Scott irritably. Well, you don’t look particularly jolly, but from what I’ve noticed, your coming seems to be a source of joy, whatever your condition. I’ll check your work here for a couple of days, if you’ll allow it, and in the meantime you can gather your strength under Faiz Ullah’s care. When Hawkins’s inspection was over, Scott was already on his feet, and he turned bright red when Jim said that his work in the county was as good as it could be, and added that he had considered Scott his right-hand man all through the famine, and would consider it his duty to make it official. They returned by rail to the old camp; but there were no longer any crowds there now, the fires were dead and black, and the hunger barracks were almost empty. You see? said Jim. We haven’t much to do. We’d better ride up to see my wife. A tent has been pitched for you. Dinner is at seven. We’ll meet then. Riding slowly, Scott came to William, who was sitting in his old riding clothes in the doorway of the dining tent, his hands in his lap, white as ashes, weak and emaciated, his hair unpolished. There was no sign of Mrs. Jim, and William could say nothing but: Good God, how you look. I have had a fever. You don’t look particularly well either. Oh, death can’t do that to me. But now we’ve got it under control. I suppose you know that. Scott nodded: We’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Hawkins told me. Before Christmas, says Mrs. Jim. Isn’t it fun to be back. I can almost smell the Christmas fire already, said William, drawing air into his lungs. We’ll get there in good time, so that we can get everything ready for Christmas. I hope the Punjab County won’t be so mean as to move Jack somewhere else for the New Year. It seems as if the Punjab and all that were a hundred years ago, doesn’t it? Do you regret coming here? No, not now that it’s all over. But it’s been awful here. You see, we had to sit still and not get anything done, and Sir Jim was away so much. You couldn’t do anything! How did the milking go after that? Very well—after you taught me. The conversation broke off, and there was an almost audible silence. Still no sign of Mrs. Jim. That is why I think I owe you the fifty rupees I used to buy condensed milk. I thought you might come here when you were transferred to Khanda District, and that I would then have a chance to pay my debt. But you didn’t come. My road was five miles from the camp. We were on the move for a while, you see, and the carriages had to stop every five minutes, and I couldn’t get there until ten o’clock at night. But I really wanted to. You knew that, didn’t you? I—I think—I—knew, replied William, looking the other man straight in the eye. Now he was no longer white. Do you understand? Why didn’t you ride here? I understood, of course. Why? Because you couldn’t, of course. I knew that. Would you have cared? If you had come—but I knew you wouldn’t —but if you had come, I would have cared a great deal. You know I would have cared. I thank God I didn’t. But oh, how I felt. I dared not ride ahead of the carriages for fear I should have led them here. Do you believe it? I knew you couldn’t,” said William modestly. “Here are your fifty rupees.” Scott bent down and kissed the hand that held the dirty notes. The other hand patted him clumsily but gently on the top of the head. And you knew too, didn’t you?” said William in a changed voice. “No, on my honour, I didn’t know. I didn’t—didn’t dare hope, but—Tell me, were you riding the day I passed here on my way to Khanda?” William nodded and smiled like an angel surprised at a good deed. So I caught a glimpse of your dress… In the palm grove by the southern drive. I saw your helmet when you came from the mullahs at the temple—just to make sure you were well. Does that please you? This time Scott did not kiss her hand, for they were now inside the dimness of the dining tent, and William’s legs gave out, so that he had to sit down on the nearest chair, where he cried for a long time and happily with his head in his hands. And when Scott thought he must try to calm the girl, she did not seem to need such consolation, for she hurried off to her own tent. And Scott went out and smiled broadly and idiotically. But when Faiz Ullah handed her something to drink, he found it necessary to support the other with one hand, otherwise the good whisky and soda water would have been wasted. There are many kinds of fever. Of that and much else, William said: It’s a terrible thing to be engaged when you’re not in an official position. We’re lucky we have so much work. Work? said Jim, when William’s words had been told him. Neither of them are any good for anything now. I can’t get Scott to work even five hours a day. Half the time he’s floating in the clouds. Yes, but they’re so pretty to see, Jimmy. It breaks my heart when they go away. Can’t you do something for Scott? I’ve got the government under the impression—or at least I hope I have—that he was the one who solved the whole famine. But all he asks is to be allowed to start building the Luni Canal, and William is just as crazy. Have you heard them talk about sluices and locks and waste water. That’s their way of dreaming, I suppose. Mrs. Jim smiled a bright smile: Oh, they only talk about that at intervals. God bless them! And so it was that Love was allowed to run about the camp with impunity, while the men were clearing away the famine wastes from those eight districts. As the express train passed over the mile-long bridge of the Sutlej, morning came, bringing with it the piercing cold of December, the dull blue outlines of the tamarisks, the domes of the decayed tombs, and All the scents of the white fields of northern India. Wrapped in a posket— a sheepskin coat embroidered with silk and edged with astrakhan—William gazed with moist eyes and open nostrils at the familiar and beloved landscape. The south, with its pagodas and palm trees, the overpopulated Hindu south, was behind them. Here was the country he loved, and before him lay a good life among people of his own caste and to his liking. Passengers came from almost every station—men and women going out to spend Christmas week with their tennis rackets, their polo sticks, their worn clubs, their fox terriers, and their saddles. Most of them wore fur coats, like William, for in the north there is as little play with the frost as in the south with the heat. And William stood among them with his hands deep in his pockets, his collar over his ears, stamping his feet on the platform and walking back and forth to keep warm; now and then he dropped into different carriages, where everyone congratulated him. Scott was among the young men at the other end of the train, and there they made a great deal of fun of him and the suckling children and the milking goats, but now and then he would wander under William’s window and ask: Fun, isn’t it? — and William would answer with a sigh of pleasure: Very, very fun. It was so good to hear the great names of his native towns. Umballa, Ludhiana, Phillour, Jullundur — they rang in his ears like wedding bells, and William felt a deep and sincere pity for all the strangers — visitors, tourists, and those who had just arrived to enter the service of the country. It was a splendid homecoming, and when the young men gave the Christmas ball, William was, in a way, the most distinguished guest of honour. He and Scott danced almost exclusively with each other, and sat at intervals in the great, dim gallery, from which they had a fine view of the beautiful teak floor, where uniforms flashed and spurs jingled and new evening gowns and four hundred dancers whirled, so that the flags that adorned the pillars fluttered. At midnight, fifty gentlemen from the Club, who had not cared for the dance, came to play the Salutation, and—it was a surprise the marshals had arranged—the music suddenly stopped and the hidden singers struck up Good King Wenceslaus, and William sang along in the gallery, stamping his foot: Follow me, boy! Fear no more, you must! Courage is needed, lest winter bleed. Oh, if they would sing something else! Isn’t it wonderful when the tunes come from the dark like this? You see, over there Mrs. Gregory is wiping her eyes. It’s like home, said Scott. I remember… Hush! Listen, my dear! And the song began again: An angel in heaven said thus… Ah! said William and pressed closer to Scott. Why were you startled with fright? I bring you great joy that is coming to the peoples of the earth. Our Lord Christ is born to you today, and this is a sign to you: a babe lies in a manger. This time William — William the Conqueror — wiped his eyes. Thank you for listening to Rudyard Kipling’s story ‘William the Conqueror’. This historical story reminds us of how individual events can change entire kingdoms and leave their mark on the memory of generations. I hope you enjoy the journey into the past guided by Kipling’s words. Remember to subscribe to the Audiobooks in Finnish channel so you don’t miss out on new classic works and stories. See you next time.