The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Other Ghost Stories
sentence--“make any escape that way. But you can try. I have tried. Once
only.”
The sensation of nameless terror and abject fear which I had in vain
attempted to strive against overmastered me completely. My long fast--it
was now close upon ten o’clock, and I had eaten nothing since tiffin on
the previous day--combined with the violent and unnatural agitation of
the ride had exhausted me, and I verily believe that, for a few minutes,
I acted as one mad. I hurled myself against the pitiless sand-slope I
ran round the base of the crater, blaspheming and praying by turns. I
crawled out among the sedges of the river-front, only to be driven back
each time in an agony of nervous dread by the rifle-bullets which cut
up the sand round me--for I dared not face the death of a mad dog among
that hideous crowd--and finally fell, spent and raving, at the curb of
the well. No one had taken the slightest notion of an exhibition which
makes me blush hotly even when I think of it now.
Two or three men trod on my panting body as they drew water, but they
were evidently used to this sort of thing, and had no time to waste
upon me. The situation was humiliating. Gunga Dass, indeed, when he had
banked the embers of his fire with sand, was at some pains to throw half
a cupful of fetid water over my head, an attention for which I could
have fallen on my knees and thanked him, but he was laughing all the
while in the same mirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on my first
attempt to force the shoals. And so, in a semi-comatose condition, I
lay till noon. Then, being only a man after all, I felt hungry, and
intimated as much to Gunga Dass, whom I had begun to regard as my
natural protector. Following the impulse of the outer world when dealing
with natives, I put my hand into my pocket and drew out four annas. The
absurdity of the gift struck me at once, and I was about to replace the
money.
Gunga Dass, however, was of a different opinion. “Give me the money,”
said he; “all you have, or I will get help, and we will kill you!” All
this as if it were the most natural thing in the world!
A Briton’s first impulse, I believe, is to guard the contents of his
pockets; but a moment’s reflection convinced me of the futility
of differing with the one man who had it in his power to make me
comfortable; and with whose help it was possible that I might eventually
escape from the crater. I gave him all the money in my possession, Rs.
9-8-5--nine rupees eight annas and five pie--for I always keep small
change as bakshish when I am in camp. Gunga Dass clutched the coins, and
hid them at once in his ragged loin cloth, his expression changing to
something diabolical as he looked round to assure himself that no one
had observed us.
“_Now_ I will give you something to eat,” said he.
What pleasure the possession of my money could have afforded him I am
unable to say; but inasmuch as it did give him evident delight I was not
sorry that I had parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt that he
would have had me killed if I had refused. One does not protest against
the vagaries of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were lower than
any beasts. While I devoured what Gunga Dass had provided, a coarse
_chapatti_ and a cupful of the foul well-water, the people showed not
the faintest sign of curiosity--that curiosity which is so rampant, as a
rule, in an Indian village.
I could even fancy that they despised me. At all events they treated me
with the most chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad.
I plied him with questions about the terrible village, and received
extremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I could gather, it had been
in existence from time immemorial--whence I concluded that it was at
least a century old--and during that time no one had ever been known to
escape from it. [I had to control myself here with both hands, lest the
blind terror should lay hold of me a second time and drive me raving
round the crater.] Gunga Dass took a malicious pleasure in emphasizing
this point and in watching me wince. Nothing that I could do would
induce him to tell me who the mysterious “They” were.
“It is so ordered,” he would reply, “and I do not yet know any one who
has disobeyed the orders.”
“Only wait till my servants find that I am missing,” I retorted, “and I
promise you that this place shall be cleared off the face of the earth,
and I’ll give you a lesson in civility, too, my friend.”
“Your servants would be torn in pieces before they came near this place;
and, besides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is not your fault, of
course, but none the less you are dead and buried.”
At irregular intervals supplies of food, I was told, were dropped down
from the land side into the amphitheatre, and the inhabitants fought for
them like wild beasts. When a man felt his death coming on he retreated
to his lair and died there. The body was sometimes dragged out of the
hole and thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot where it lay.
The phrase “thrown on to the sand” caught my attention, and I asked
Gunga Dass whether this sort of thing was not likely to breed a
pestilence.
“That,” said he with another of his wheezy chuckles, “you may see for
yourself subsequently. You will have much time to make observations.”
Whereat, to his great delight, I winced once more and hastily continued
the conversation: “And how do you live here from day to day? What do you
do?” The question elicited exactly the same answer as before--coupled
with the information that “this place is like your European heaven;
there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.”
Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mission School, and, as he himself
admitted, had he only changed his religion “like a wise man,” might have
avoided the living grave which was now his portion. But as long as I was
with him I fancy he was happy.
Here was a Sahib, a representative of the dominant race, helpless as
a child and completely at the mercy of his native neighbors. In a
deliberate lazy way he set himself to torture me as a schoolboy would
devote a rapturous half-hour to watching the agonies of an impaled
beetle, or as a ferret in a blind burrow might glue himself comfortably
to the neck of a rabbit. The burden of his conversation was that there
was no escape “of no kind whatever,” and that I should stay here till I
died and was “thrown on to the sand.” If it were possible to forejudge
the conversation of the Damned on the advent of a new soul in their
abode, I should say that they would speak as Gunga Dass did to me
throughout that long afternoon. I was powerless to protest or answer;
all my energies being devoted to a struggle against the inexplicable
terror that threatened to overwhelm me again and again. I can compare
the feeling to nothing except the struggles of a man against the
overpowering nausea of the Channel passage--only my agony was of the
spirit and infinitely more terrible.
As the day wore on, the inhabitants began to appear in full strength to
catch the rays of the afternoon sun, which were now sloping in at the
mouth of the crater. They assembled in little knots, and talked among
themselves without even throwing a glance in my direction. About four
o’clock, as far as I could judge Gunga Dass rose and dived into his lair
for a moment, emerging with a live crow in his hands. The wretched bird
was in a most draggled and deplorable condition, but seemed to be in no
way afraid of its master. Advancing cautiously to the river front, Gunga
Dass stepped from tussock to tussock until he had reached a smooth patch
of sand directly in the line of the boat’s fire. The occupants of the
boat took no notice. Here he stopped, and, with a couple of dexterous
turns of the wrist, pegged the bird on its back with outstretched wings.
As was only natural, the crow began to shriek at once and beat the air
with its claws. In a few seconds the clamor had attracted the attention
of a bevy of wild crows on a shoal a few hundred yards away, where they
were discussing something that looked like a corpse. Half a dozen crows
flew over at once to see what was going on, and also, as it proved, to
attack the pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a tussock,
motioned to me to be quiet, though I fancy this was a needless
precaution. In a moment, and before I could see how it happened, a
wild crow, who had grappled with the shrieking and helpless bird, was
entangled in the latter’s claws, swiftly disengaged by Gunga Dass, and
pegged down beside its companion in adversity. Curiosity, it seemed,
overpowered the rest of the flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and I
had time to withdraw to the tussock, two more captives were struggling
in the upturned claws of the decoys. So the chase--if I can give it so
dignified a name--continued until Gunga Dass had captured seven crows.
Five of them he throttled at once, reserving two for further operations
another day. I was a good deal impressed by this, to me, novel method of
securing food, and complimented Gunga Dass on his skill.
“It is nothing to do,” said he. “Tomorrow you must do it for me. You are
stronger than I am.”
This calm assumption of superiority upset me not a little, and I
answered peremptorily: “Indeed, you old ruffian! What do you think I
have given you money for?”
“Very well,” was the unmoved reply. “Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day
after, nor subsequently; but in the end, and for many years, you will
catch crows and eat crows, and you will thank your European God that you
have crows to catch and eat.”
I could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but judged it best under
the circumstances to smother my resentment. An hour later I was eating
one of the crows; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that I
had a crow to eat. Never as long as I live shall I forget that evening
meal. The whole population were squatting on the hard sand platform
opposite their dens, huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes.
Death, having once laid his hand upon these men and forborne to strike,
seemed to stand aloof from them now; for most of our company were
old men, bent and worn and twisted with years, and women aged to all
appearance as the Fates themselves. They sat together in knots and
talked--God only knows what they found to discuss--in low equable tones,
curiously in contrast to the strident babble with which natives are
accustomed to make day hideous. Now and then an access of that sudden
fury which had possessed me in the morning would lay hold on a man or
woman; and with yells and imprecations the sufferer would attack the
steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he fell back on the platform
incapable of moving a limb. The others would never even raise their
eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of the futility of their
fellows’ attempts and wearied with their useless repetition. I saw four
such outbursts in the course of the evening.
Gunga Dass took an eminently business-like view of my situation, and
while we were dining--I can afford to laugh at the recollection now,
but it was painful enough at the time--propounded the terms on which he
would consent to “do” for me. My nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at
the rate of three annas a day, would provide me with food for fifty-one
days, or about seven weeks; that is to say, he would be willing to cater
for me for that length of time. At the end of it I was to look after
myself. For a further consideration--_videlicet_ my boots--he would be
willing to allow me to occupy the den next to his own, and would supply
me with as much dried grass for bedding as he could spare.
“Very well, Gunga Dass,” I replied; “to the first terms I cheerfully
agree, but, as there is nothing on earth to prevent my killing you as