The Eagle Cliff

Mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint—barely perceptible—sound of the human voice. The stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. It was by no means a new sound to him. The shepherd’s voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. The converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution—not alarm. But there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. He raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark—we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point—to his wives.

These, meek and gentle—as females usually are, or ought to be—turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. Thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. Presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance.

We regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the Eagle Cliff.

Two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which Jackman and Quin were concealed. The others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them.

“Sure it’s a purty stag, afther all,” whispered Quin, who, in spite of elephantine-Indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the Scottish red-deer. “But they’re a long way off, sor.”

“Not too far, if the rifle is true,” said Jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight.

“You’ll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor,” remarked the somewhat garrulous Irishman.

“I won’t fire at the stag, Quin,” returned Jackman, quietly. “You and I have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. We can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again.”

All this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. Seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. One of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope.

Partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. So, at least, MacRummle discovered that day. After having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. These were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by Jackman, he had to watch two passes—one close above his post, the other close below it—either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. As it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. Then it became painful. At last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished.

When Jackman fired his shot, MacRummle’s ears refused to convey the information to his brain. He still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. One of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. MacRummle was gazing at the lower track just then! Having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded.

The sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman’s entire frame. He sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. Rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear.

Depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. This was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which Jackman had sent bounding towards him. Another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. MacRummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. Bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. Never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the Eagle Cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. The old man took no aim whatever. He merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. Each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. Showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. Smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. The rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and MacRummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather!

This unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. To Ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt.

“There iss noise enough—what-ë-ver!” remarked Skipper McPherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness.

“Look! look!” exclaimed Ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, “your friend McGregor has got a fright!”

“Ay, that’s true. Shames would be troubled in his mind, I think.”

There was indeed some reason to suppose so. The worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against Ivor’s advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. Just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. One of these McGregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. It was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation.

“Look out!” whispered the keeper.

As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor’s arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.

“Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry,” remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.

“Quick, man, fire!” cried Ivor, testily.

The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.

When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.

“Eh! man, are ’ee shot?” cried the captain, anxiously.

“Oo, ay, but I’m none the worse o’ it! I had a presentiment o’ somethin’ o’ this sort, an’ loaded his gun wi’ small shot,” replied the keeper.

Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that “treemendious” repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret’s face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!

It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.

“An’ sure it’s no wonder at all,” was Pat Quin’s remark; “for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an’ me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy.”

“Oh, do tell us about that,” cried Junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to Jackman.

“So I will, my boys; but not now. It will take too long. Some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes.”

“No, now, now!” cried Junkie.

Seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, Jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began.

Chapter Eight

Jackman’s Wonderful Elephant Story

“Once upon a time,” said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything…

“Yes,” murmured Junkie, nodding, “that’s the right way to begin.”

“But you must not interrupt, Junkie.”

“No, I won’t do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?”

“Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points,” replied Jackman.

“Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the ‘rogues,’ as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These ‘rogues’ are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.

“For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don’t mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.

“Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.

“But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.

“This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there.”

“Troth, sor, an’ av it wasn’t for Chand Moorut (blissin’s on his great sowl, av he has wan, an’ on his body av he hasn’t) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin’, but me feelin’s overcomed me.”

“No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I’ll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.

“You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.

“The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would run amuck to the great danger of every one. It happened thus:—

“A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.