The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Other Ghost Stories
you sit here and taking everything that you have” (I thought of the two
invaluable crows at the time), “I flatly refuse to give you my boots and
shall take whichever den I please.”
The stroke was a bold one, and I was glad when I saw that it had
succeeded. Gunga Dass changed his tone immediately, and disavowed all
intention of asking for my boots. At the time it did not strike me as at
all strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man of thirteen years’ standing
in the Service, and, I trust, an average Englishman, should thus
calmly threaten murder and violence against the man who had, for a
consideration it is true, taken me under his wing. I had left the world,
it seemed, for centuries. I was as certain then as I am now of my own
existence, that in the accursed settlement there was no law save that
of the strongest; that the living dead men had thrown behind them every
canon of the world which had cast them out; and that I had to depend
for my own life on my strength and vigilance alone. The crew of the
ill-fated _Mignonette_ are the only men who would understand my frame of
mind. “At present,” I argued to myself, “I am strong and a match for six
of these wretches. It is imperatively necessary that I should, for my
own sake, keep both health and strength until the hour of my release
comes--if it ever does.”
Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and drank as much as I could,
and made Gunga Dass understand that I intended to be his master, and
that the least sign of insubordination on his part would be visited with
the only punishment I had it in my power to inflict--sudden and violent
death. Shortly after this I went to bed. That is to say, Gunga Dass gave
me a double armful of dried bents which I thrust down the mouth of the
lair to the right of his, and followed myself, feet foremost; the
hole running about nine feet into the sand with a slight downward
inclination, and being neatly shored with timbers. From my den, which
faced the river-front, I was able to watch the waters of the Sutlej
flowing past under the light of a young moon and compose myself to sleep
as best I might.
The horrors of that night I shall never forget. My den was nearly as
narrow as a coffin, and the sides had been worn smooth and greasy by
the contact of innumerable naked bodies, added to which it smelled
abominably. Sleep was altogether out of question to one in my excited
frame of mind. As the night wore on, it seemed that the entire
amphitheatre was filled with legions of unclean devils that, trooping up
from the shoals below, mocked the unfortunates in their lairs.
Personally I am not of an imaginative temperament,--very few Engineers
are,--but on that occasion I was as completely prostrated with nervous
terror as any woman. After half an hour or so, however, I was able once
more to calmly review my chances of escape. Any exit by the steep sand
walls was, of course, impracticable. I had been thoroughly convinced of
this some time before. It was possible, just possible, that I might, in
the uncertain moonlight, safely run the gauntlet of the rifle shots. The
place was so full of terror for me that I was prepared to undergo
any risk in leaving it. Imagine my delight, then, when after creeping
stealthily to the river-front I found that the infernal boat was not
there. My freedom lay before me in the next few steps!
By walking out to the first shallow pool that lay at the foot of the
projecting left horn of the horseshoe, I could wade across, turn
the flank of the crater, and make my way inland. Without a moment’s
hesitation I marched briskly past the tussocks where Gunga Dass had
snared the crows, and out in the direction of the smooth white sand
beyond. My first step from the tufts of dried grass showed me how
utterly futile was any hope of escape; for, as I put my foot down, I
felt an indescribable drawing, sucking motion of the sand below. Another
moment and my leg was swallowed up nearly to the knee. In the moonlight
the whole surface of the sand seemed to be shaken with devilish delight
at my disappointment. I struggled clear, sweating with terror and
exertion, back to the tussocks behind me and fell on my face.
My only means of escape from the semicircle was protected with a
quicksand!
How long I lay I have not the faintest idea; but I was roused at last
by the malevolent chuckle of Gunga Dass at my ear “I would advise you,
Protector of the Poor” (the ruffian was speaking English) “to return to
your house. It is unhealthy to lie down here. Moreover, when the boat
returns, you will most certainly be rifled at.” He stood over me in the
dim light of the dawn, chuckling and laughing to himself. Suppressing
my first impulse to catch the man by the neck and throw him on to the
quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed him to the platform below the
burrows.
Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while I spoke, I asked: “Gunga Dass,
what is the good of the boat if I can’t get out _anyhow_?” I recollect
that even in my deepest trouble I had been speculating vaguely on the
waste of ammunition in guarding an already well protected foreshore.
Gunga Dass laughed again and made answer: “They have the boat only in
daytime. It is for the reason that _there is a way_. I hope we shall
have the pleasure of your company for much longer time. It is a pleasant
spot when you have been here some years and eaten roast crow long
enough.”
I staggered, numbed and helpless, toward the fetid burrow allotted to
me, and fell asleep. An hour or so later I was awakened by a piercing
scream--the shrill, high-pitched scream of a horse in pain. Those who
have once heard that will never forget the sound. I found some little
difficulty in scrambling out of the burrow. When I was in the open, I
saw Pornic, my poor old Pornic, lying dead on the sandy soil. How they
had killed him I cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that horse was
better than crow, and “greatest good of greatest number is political
maxim. We are now Republic, Mister Jukes, and you are entitled to a fair
share of the beast. If you like, we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall I
propose?”
Yes, we were a Republic indeed! A Republic of wild beasts penned at the
bottom of a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we died. I attempted
no protest of any kind, but sat down and stared at the hideous sight
in front of me. In less time almost than it takes me to write this,
Pornic’s body was divided, in some unclear way or other; the men and
women had dragged the fragments on to the platform and were preparing
their normal meal. Gunga Dass cooked mine. The almost irresistible
impulse to fly at the sand walls until I was wearied laid hold of me
afresh, and I had to struggle against it with all my might. Gunga Dass
was offensively jocular till I told him that if he addressed another
remark of any kind whatever to me I should strangle him where he sat.
This silenced him till silence became insupportable, and I bade him say
something.
“You will live here till you die like the other Feringhi,” he said,
coolly, watching me over the fragment of gristle that he was gnawing.
“What other Sahib, you swine? Speak at once, and don’t stop to tell me a
lie.”
“He is over there,” answered Gunga Dass, pointing to a burrow-mouth
about four doors to the left of my own. “You can see for yourself. He
died in the burrow as you will die, and I will die, and as all these men
and women and the one child will also die.”
“For pity’s sake tell me all you know about him. Who was he? When did he
come, and when did he die?”
This appeal was a weak step on my part. Gunga Dass only leered and
replied: “I will not--unless you give me something first.”
Then I recollected where I was, and struck the man between the eyes,
partially stunning him. He stepped down from the platform at once, and,
cringing and fawning and weeping and attempting to embrace my feet, led
me round to the burrow which he had indicated.
“I know nothing whatever about the gentleman. Your God be my witness
that I do not. He was as anxious to escape as you were, and he was
shot from the boat, though we all did all things to prevent him from
attempting. He was shot here.” Gunga Dass laid his hand on his lean
stomach and bowed to the earth.
“Well, and what then? Go on!”
“And then--and then, Your Honor, we carried him in to his house and
gave him water, and put wet cloths on the wound, and he laid down in his
house and gave up the ghost.”
“In how long? In how long?”
“About half an hour, after he received his wound. I call Vishnu to
witness,” yelled the wretched man, “that I did everything for him.
Everything which was possible, that I did!”
He threw himself down on the ground and clasped my ankles. But I had
my doubts about Gunga Dass’s benevolence, and kicked him off as he lay
protesting.
“I believe you robbed him of everything he had. But I can find out in a
minute or two. How long was the Sahib here?”
“Nearly a year and a half. I think he must have gone mad. But hear me
swear Protector of the Poor! Won’t Your Honor hear me swear that I never
touched an article that belonged to him? What is Your Worship going to
do?”
I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and had hauled him on to the
platform opposite the deserted burrow. As I did so I thought of my
wretched fellow-prisoner’s unspeakable misery among all these horrors
for eighteen months, and the final agony of dying like a rat in a hole,
with a bullet-wound in the stomach. Gunga Dass fancied I was going
to kill him and howled pitifully. The rest of the population, in the
plethora that follows a full flesh meal, watched us without stirring.
“Go inside, Gunga Dass,” said I, “and fetch it out.”
I was feeling sick and faint with horror now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled
off the platform and howled aloud.
“But I am Brahmin, Sahib--a high-caste Brahmin. By your soul, by your
father’s soul, do not make me do this thing!”
“Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and my father’s soul, in you go!”
I said, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed his head into
the mouth of the burrow, kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting down,
covered my face with my hands.
At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and a creak; then Gunga
Dass in a sobbing, choking whisper speaking to himself; then a soft
thud--and I uncovered my eyes.
The dry sand had turned the corpse entrusted to its keeping into a
yellow-brown mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off while I examined it.
The body--clad in an olive-green hunting-suit much stained and worn,
with leather pads on the shoulders--was that of a man between thirty and
forty, above middle height, with light, sandy hair, long mustache, and a
rough unkempt beard. The left canine of the upper jaw was missing, and
a portion of the lobe of the right ear was gone. On the second finger of
the left hand was a ring--a shield-shaped bloodstone set in gold, with
a monogram that might have been either “B.K.” or “B.L.” On the third
finger of the right hand was a silver ring in the shape of a coiled
cobra, much worn and tarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a handful of
trifles he had picked out of the burrow at my feet, and, covering the
face of the body with my handkerchief, I turned to examine these. I give
the full list in the hope that it may lead to the identification of the
unfortunate man:
1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the edge; much worn and
blackened; bound with string at the crew.
2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both broken.
3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver or nickel, name-plate, marked
with monogram “B.K.”
4. Envelope, postmark undecipherable, bearing a Victorian stamp,
addressed to “Miss Mon--” (rest illegible)--“ham”--“nt.”
5. Imitation crocodile-skin notebook with pencil. First forty-five pages