Ghost Stories From The Raj Read online

  "I expect they are men who turn themselves into panthers; after all, a panther would be too stupid to turn itself into a man, wouldn't it?"

  There was just enough appearance of logic in this inadequate answer to satisfy Briggs for a moment. Buchan pressed his advantage by adding: "I expect you are very tired. Here, take this whisky and soda and run off for a bath. It's all ready for you; and then we'll have tea and you will tell me the whole story."

  Briggs had his whisky and soda and the alcohol and the soothing tones of his host helped to restore his sanity. After he had tubbed and changed, he returned, and during tea he told Buchan his amazing adventure. He then repeated his question as to the origin of panther people.

  "Well," said Buchan, "I agree with Savile that it does not really matter, although, judging by his wife's case, it would seem to be the exclusive privilege of humans to turn themselves into panthers. An Indian would say that Mrs. Savile's spirit entered her husband's body after he had shot her; but that only raises the further question whence Mrs. Savile acquired her science. On the other hand, Savile may have invented the story so as to keep you in the forest while he worked up power to change himself into a wild beast. Like your self-starter he may have found it hard to start his internal engine. I tell you what. When you are returning to Dharwar I'll go with you and I'll take with me my six-shooter—none of your popgun pea-shooter Browning automatics—but a real man-stopping Colt six-barrelled revolver and I'll have a cartridge in every barrel. If your friend Savile turns up he'll get something that will check his deplorable versatilities."

  Buchan chuckled and Briggs laughed.

  As a matter of fact Buchan got no chance of displaying the man-stopping powers of his heavy Colt, for neither of them ever set eyes on Savile. Enquiries at Yeroda jail showed that no Englishman of that name had been imprisoned there. Of course the name 'Savile' may have been assumed; or perhaps Buchan was wrong and Briggs' undesirable acquaintance was really a panther which had somehow or other discovered the art of turning itself into a man, and not a man who knew how to turn himself into a panther.

  From Indian Christmas Stories (1936)

  ———————

  1 . The mountains on the western boundary of the great central plateau of India.

  2. Large state tent.

  3. Tracks.

  4. Canvas door of tent.

  The Old Graveyard at Sirur

  by C.A. Kincaid

  HEN I WAS JUDGE OF POONA SEVERAL YEARS BEFORE the Great War, my tours of inspection used at times to take me to Sirur, the old cantonment some forty miles from Poona that had housed the Poona Horse ever since the conquest of 1818. Not far from the officers' mess and their mud bungalows was the old cemetery. It was no longer used, but it contained the graves of officers of former generations who had succumbed to cholera, enteric fever and the score of other diseases that in eastern lands lie in wait for the English soldier. In the centre rose a tombstone considerably bigger than the others and I often noticed the Indian troopers salute it as they passed. I was loth to question the officers of the Poona Horse, although I knew one or two of them fairly well. It was none of my business and I thought that they might think me impertinent if I probed the matter. One day, however, after seeing several men salute very rigidly with eyes turned towards the central monument, I could no longer control my curiosity; and, meeting a Captain Johnson, an excellent and understanding gentleman, I blurted out:

  "Excuse my stupid curiosity; but would you mind telling me why your troopers salute so regularly and so correctly the graveyard. Although they very rightly honour their living superiors, I find it strange that they should salute the dead as well."

  "Oh they don't salute the graveyard; they salute old Colonel Hutchings. He commanded the regiment in the eighteen-twenties. He comes out, so they say, and sits on his tomb. It is that big one in the centre. He sits on it and every now and then his wife joins him."

  "My dear chap, what are you talking about? They are both dead as doornails. Do you mean their ghosts sit on the tombstone? Have you seen them yourself?"

  "Well, I don't know," said Johnson, looking rather confused. "I thought I did once or twice; but it was no doubt my imagination."

  "I say, do tell me: who was this Colonel Hutchings? Why does he sit on his tomb? Who was his wife? Why does she sit on his tomb, too?"

  "Look here," said Johnson good-humouredly. "I know what an infernal prober you are; but I have neither the time nor the knowledge to stand your cross-examination. You are going into Poona shortly; send for old Rissaldar Major Shinde. I'll write you down his address. He knows all about Colonel Hutchings; he tells us the story after mess sometimes when we ask him to Sirur, as we do once a year at the time of our annual regimental sports. He retired ages ago, but his memory is as fresh as ever."

  As Johnson spoke he wrote down the name of the Rissaldar Major and his address in Shukurwar Peth, a well-known quarter in Poona city.

  Shortly after my return to headquarters, I sent a line from the Sangam, the judge's official residence, to Rissaldar Major Shinde. I begged him kindly to call on me at 9 a.m. any day that he might be free. I mentioned Captain Johnson's name and told him frankly that I wanted to hear all he could tell me about the cemetery at Sirur, and especially Colonel Hutchings' tomb. Two mornings later a fine old Maratha gentleman drove up in a tonga and was shewn in with every sign of respect by the judge's macebearer.

  After shaking my visitor cordially by the hand, I thanked him for coming, and said: "Your name is Shinde, is it not? Are you a member of the family of H.H. the Maharaja of that name?"

  "I, Sahib, am a Shinde of Kizarnagar; and you, who have studied our history will remember how the great Madhavrao Shinde would have given up all his titles to be one of my family; but that is another matter. I read in your letter that you wanted to hear about Colonel Hutchings Sahib. He was in a sense more nearly related to me than H.H. the Maharaja; for he married a lady of our family."

  "Married a lady of your family? What do you mean, Rissaldar Sahib? He was an Englishman and he could not have married a lady of your family. Nor would her parents have allowed her to marry a Christian no matter who he was."

  "Yes, indeed, Sahib, he did, and that was the cause of the trouble. If you care to listen, I shall tell you the story."

  "Oh, please do."

  "Colonel Hutchings Sahib, so my father used to tell me, was stationed at Kirkee before the Peshwa fought the English in 1818. Hutchings was then a handsome young Captain Sahib and was, it appears, very attractive to our women. One day he and a squadron of horse, mostly recruited from Musulmans and Mhars and all ready to die for their English leader, were riding along the banks of the Muta Mula below where the great dam and bridge now are. It so happened that one of the Shindes of Kizarnagar had died, and, as was then the custom of our family, his widow had given out that she would become a suttee and burn with her lord. She was, however, quite a young girl, probably not more than fifteen years of age. When she saw the pyre ready for her to ascend, she lost all control of herself and began to scream and struggle like a maniac. Her mother and married sister tried to soothe her and offered her opium, so that she might be drugged and not feel the pain of burning. But no, Sahib, the widow woman would not listen. One of her brothers wished to stun her with a blow from one of the logs from the pyre; but her mother was reluctant to have this done; for the women of her family—she was a Ghatle from Kolhapur—had never before flinched from the flames. She thought that it would be a disgrace if her daughter did not sit erect on the pyre with her husband's head on her lap and a candle held upright in each hand.

  "Just then Hutchings Sahib rode up. The widow, seeing a foreigner, called to him for help. Hutchings Sahib was then a brave young soldier. He did not understand that he was about to insult our holy religion. All he saw was a young and pretty woman, calling to him to save her from a painful death. He turned to his squadron and said: 'Well, brothers, will you help me to carry her out of danger?' Of course those M
lecchas and untouchables were only too pleased. So he charged the crowd. Unarmed, and taken by surprise, they offered little resistance. The dead man's brothers did indeed shew fight; but they were cut down and one of them killed. A couple of Mhars lifted the widow woman in front of Hutchings Sahib's saddle. He turned his horse, rallied his squadron and rode back to Kirkee. There he got a Portuguese padre Sahib, who lived with the Portuguese troops of the Peshwa's army, to marry him to the widow. Thus when the Peshwa's minister complained to Elphinston Sahib, the resident, and demanded the woman back that she might complete the suttee ceremony, Elphinston Sahib said that as she had by her second marriage become an Englishwoman and a subject of the king of England, he would not give her up.

  "The Peshwa's government told our people and added that owing to the widow woman's remarriage they could do nothing for us. We were furious. The suttee ceremony had been stopped. All the merit that would thereby have been acquired by our dead relative had been lost. The widow had been carried off, our kinsmen had been killed, and we were to get no redress. Well, we resolved that if the Peshwa would not help us we should help ourselves. We vowed that we should kill Hutchings Sahib and the widow woman also."

  "You say 'we', Rissaldar Sahib, but you could not have been alive then."

  "Quite true, Sahib. I was not born until many years afterwards. I am only seventy years old now. By 'we' I mean the Shindes of Kizarnagar."

  "I understand; but do go on, Rissaldar Sahib, with your story."

  "As the Sahib pleases. We vowed, as I have said, to kill Hutchings Sahib. It was not, however, easy. Hutchings Sahib and the widow woman lived in a house almost surrounded by the troopers' lines; and as a rumour had spread that we sought their lives, the lines were well guarded and no one allowed inside. One day, it is true, two of our people got through the gates, but before they could do anything they were caught, beaten half dead and thrown out. This added fuel to our hatred; still we could do nothing, for not long afterwards the Peshwa fought the English and they beat him at Kirkee and Ashta. In the end he surrendered and the English, as the Sahib knows, took his country. The Poona Horse were stationed at Sirur. Hutchings Sahib had fought very bravely in the war and he was promoted to command the regiment and to be a Colonel Sahib. He, of course, went to live there too and the widow woman went with him; and all the time we were eating our hearts out with ungratified hatred. It must have been six years after he had risen to command the regiment and was about to return to England that our chance came. We had long hung about Sirur in vain, for he was very cautious. One day, however, when he went a little way out of Sirur in a palki, either to shoot blackbuck or chinkara, four of our men rushed out of their hiding place in the dry bed of a river. Slashing the palki bearers' legs with our swords, we made them drop the palki and then we fell on the Colonel and killed him. His gun was unloaded, but he made a great fight and with his sword wounded two of our men before we could finish him. This was our undoing; for the palki men ran back and told the widow woman. She told the police that the murderers must have been Shindes from our village. The police went there and, finding two of our men with unhealed wounds, arrested them. They were identified by the palki bearers and hanged. We were now resolved to kill the widow at all costs; but a day or two after the execution she took opium, died and was buried besides the Colonel Sahib. The officers raised the big monument that you have seen over both of them; but they have carved on it only the name of Hutchings Sahib; for they were ashamed of his marriage to a woman not of his race. Ever since the Colonel Sahib sits from time to time on his tomb. Sometimes, although more rarely, the widow woman sits beside him; so the troopers always salute as they pass the tomb. Everyone of them has at one time or another seen him in the spirit."

  "So that is the tale, Rissaldar Sahib, thank you ever so much for it."

  "There is no need for thanks, Sahib. It is I who should thank you for your courteous hearing. Moreover, that is not all the story, there is more to tell; only no doubt the Sahib is weary and I shall come again some other day."

  "Oh no, Rissaldar Sahib," I said quickly, afraid that I should lose the rest of the yarn. "Do go on. So far from tiring me, your words have made me feel young again."

  "The Presence is too kind. Well then I shall continue. Many, many years afterwards we Shindes heard that the son of Colonel Hutchings Sahib's sister, a young man called Furley Sahib, had been posted to the Poona Horse. I was then a youth of twenty years and it was arranged that I should enlist as a trooper in the same regiment and, when the chance came, kill Furley Sahib. I must admit that I was not very eager to do this. The quarrel was all so old and I realized that if my plan succeeded, I should probably be hanged; and that if I failed I should have had to work and train as a soldier for nothing. I did not want to be a soldier. I wanted to stay in Kizarnagar and farm our lands. Still my father and my elder kinsmen put such pressure on me and said so many times that it would be a family disgrace if I did not avenge the honour of the Shindes, that at length I gave way. I joined the Poona Horse as a trooper and after some time I contrived to get myself appointed as an orderly to Furley Sahib. He was a fine young man and I had no feeling of dislike towards him; but I could not escape from the task laid upon me. While I was pondering how to kill him—either by arsenic in his tea or by an open attack on him—war broke out with Afghanistan. Furley Sahib immediately got himself transferred to the 2nd Bombay Cavalry and I asked him to take me with him. I was sure that in a battle I could shoot him without anyone noticing me. Furley Sahib was pleased at my request and we went together by train until we caught up the 2nd Bombay Cavalry near the frontier. I shall not weary the Sahib with a long account of what happened. The Sahib knows the history of the war better than I do. It is enough to say that the 2nd Bombay Cavalry were sent with a body of Indian infantry and the 66th English regiment under General Burrows Sahib to hold Kandahar. Stuart Sahib occupied Kabul. One day Burrows Sahib's scouts told him that Ayub Khan and some five thousand Afghans were assembled in the hills only six or seven miles away. Burrows Sahib decided to attack Ayub Khan and disperse his force before it grew to a great army; for the Afghans were streaming to join Ayub Khan from all quarters. Next morning Burrows Sahib and his brigade moved out against Ayub Khan; but we soon learnt that the scouts had either lied deliberately or had themselves been misled. We went more than twelve miles before we saw the Afghans and then we found that they numbered fifty thousand and not five thousand. Nevertheless Burrows Sahib gave orders to attack; indeed he could hardly have done otherwise, for the enemy were advancing against him at great speed. We of the 2nd Bombay Cavalry were on the right flank and three of the squadrons were commanded by three Monteith brothers, who that day shewed themselves to be real soldiers, very brave and skilful. Suddenly we heard a buzzing noise far away to the left. This was the first rush of the Afghan Ghazis and their shouts reached us in the distance like the hum of bees swarming at the end of the Deccan cold weather. Burrows Sahib formed his infantry into squares and they shot so steadily that the Ghazis were stopped and forced to take cover. Then some minutes later the Ghazis rallied and again charged with the same humming sound. Again Burrows Sahib formed his men into squares and broke the Ghazi rush with musketry fire. Then that accursed Ayub Khan brought up his guns from behind the hills and before our footsoldiers could deploy into open order, he fired with fury at our squares. Under cover of this fire the Ghazis again charged and our men, confused by the cannonade and with great gaps in their ranks, were not able to stop them as they had done before. Burrows Sahib ordered a retirement; but under the heavy cannon fire and the attacks of the Afghans our infantry broke and it seemed as if our entire army would be destroyed. It was then that the three Monteith brothers shewed such courage and skill. Every time the Ghazis tried to get round the infantry, we of the 2nd Bombay Cavalry charged, each squadron led by a Monteith Sahib. Thus the infantry were able to get back safe to Kandahar. It was during the cavalry fighting that I thought that my chance had come. Lifting my carbine, I took
a steady aim at Furley Sahib's back. No one noticed me, as all the troopers were watching the Ghazis and our infantry; I was just about to pull the trigger when I was knocked off my horse by a most violent blow. Some vile Afghan had fired a jezail in our direction and the shot hit me in the chest, just as I was about to shoot Furley Sahib. At first he did not notice my fall, but when the retreat began he saw me on the ground and, lifting me up, put me on the saddle in front of him and so brought me alive to Kandahar. There he looked after me and I soon recovered. By doing this, Furley Sahib wiped out our quarrel, and from that time on I became his devoted friend; and no words of my kinsmen had any influence with me."

  "I suppose you were in Kandahar when Lord Roberts marched from Kabul to relieve you."

  The old Rissaldar Major drew himself up and saluted on hearing the famous soldier's name: "Yes, indeed I was; the great Roberts Sahib came all the way from Kabul with the speed of Hanuman himself. In the meantime, however, Ayub Khan had tried to take Kandahar by storm and had been beaten back with heavy loss. Many of the Afghans had deserted and we had killed and wounded some ten thousand; so that Lord Roberts Sahib's task was easier than that of Burrows Sahib. Still he did his work thoroughly and so routed that demon of an Ayub Khan that he never fought the English again. That is my whole story."

  "Well, thank you ever so much for it; but what happened to Furley Sahib?"

  "He got safely through the Afghan War; afterwards he returned to the Poona Horse and rose to command it. It was he who gave me my last promotion and made me a Rissaldar Major. He was like a father to me and after his retirement he wrote to me every Christmas. I felt it deeply when he died, two years ago."