Hussein. Patrick O’Brian
their tongues hanging out. When they were fairly close, Gill and Hussein took the rifle and the shot-gun, holding them clubbed, for there would be no time to load if all the dholes rushed them together.
Jehangir stumbled again; he fell to his knees, and stopped. He turned and faced the dholes. They spread out in a wide circle; they were panting fast by now, but they were still good for half a day’s running, whereas the elephant, with his heavy load and his lame foot, could not go much farther. Suddenly the circle contracted, and they were surrounded by a seething mass of dholes. Some scrambled with amazing agility on to his back; Gill guarded one side and Hussein the other, but they could hardly keep themselves from being pulled off. The elephant slipped to his knees again as he stamped on a dhole, and several of them came over his shoulders. They were beaten off, but one seized Hussein’s foot, and another tore Gill’s coat from his back. They all drew off for an instant, yelling like fiends: it was obvious that they were going to make a concerted charge. In a second they rushed all together. In desperation Hussein shouted, ‘Break away, hathi-raj!’
Jehangir grunted, and heaved himself out of the mass of dholes. He shook his great shoulders, and stamped again and again; he stumbled twice, and nearly went over, but he broke away. Dholes hung on to him all over, like leeches: Hussein and Gill beat them off. It was clear that he could not go much farther without a rest, and without having the thorn pulled from his foot. Before they had beaten the last dhole off, the elephant crossed a path. He uncoiled his trunk and sniffed the wind: then he turned along the path. The wild dogs followed.
‘By the mercy of Allah', said Hussein, ‘he has smelt a village.’
‘If only he can reach it,’ replied Gill, ‘everything will be all right.’
They swept on, the dholes running silently. Behind them, at the place where Jehangir had almost fallen, the kites and jackals, who had followed at a distance, closed in on the dead or dying wild dogs.
Jehangir was going along at a good speed, but his breath was coming short, and he faltered now and again in his stride. The dholes were less confident now; they came on just the same, but none of them was anxious to give the lead in attacking the elephant.
By a fluke Gill shot two of them with two successive shots, killing both. But just then the path dipped into a little valley. There was a muddy stream at the bottom, and as Jehangir came to it he hesitated, and the dholes crowded behind him, howling with new ferocity.
Hussein bent over his head, patting him and urging him on; at the bank he stopped dead, and several of the wild dogs leapt; one caught Jehangir’s tail; the sudden pain startled him, and he shot forwards: they were across the slow stream in a flurry of spray before the elephant realised it. The dholes swam across. There were only about thirty heads bobbing in the water now, but the pack was still quite large enough to be very dangerous, as all the weaker dholes had fallen back, and only the biggest and fiercest ones remained.
Jehangir smelt that the village was not far away, and he put on an extra spurt. After a little while a dense patch of thorns appeared; the path led in and out to the mud walls of the village, which was quite near now. Jehangir took no count of the path; he went straight through the thorn bushes; they crackled as he smashed through them.
The dholes were losing ground as they picked their way among the bushes. As they came nearer and nearer to the village many of them stopped.
Only one was near the elephant now: this one, with a prodigious effort, leapt up and snapped his teeth on the heel of Gill’s boot. It snarled, and bit clean through the heel; then Gill killed it with the butt of his rifle.
To their amazement they saw that the gates of the village were shut. Two or three shots rang out from the walls, and the bullets hummed unpleasantly close to their heads. But Jehangir was determined to get to the village, and nothing short of heavy artillery could have stopped him now; he rolled up his trunk under his tusks, bent his head, and putting on an extra burst of speed he fairly flew at the gates. Gill and Hussein crouched flat on his back. There was a rending crash; a cloud of dust flew up. When it faded they saw that Jehangir had destroyed the gates and half the thick mud wall as well; he was now standing in a deserted square surrounded by huts. A man crept from beneath the wreckage.
‘What the devil did you mean by firing on us?’ shouted Gill.
Hussein pointed, and whispered, ‘Ismail Khan.’
Gill said, ‘You’re right,’ and to the man, ‘Put your hands up.’ He covered him with his rifle, for he recognised Ismail Khan, a notorious dacoit.
The man salaamed. ‘Pray do not threaten a poor honest thief, huzoor,’ he said; ‘we will be peaceable.’
‘Then call your men out one by one, and tell them to lay down their arms: if anything else happens, I’ll shoot you as you stand.’
Ismail Khan obeyed: as each man came out from his hut Hussein covered him with the shot-gun. They laid down their weapons — ancient blunderbusses and matchlocks for the most part — in a pile by Jehangir, who stood quite still, breathing heavily.
‘We should have been able to entertain you more like men,’ said Ismail Khan, with a grin — for he held his hereditary and ancient profession to be no shame — ‘if we had not run out of powder. Will it be a hanging or only the jail-khana?’
‘That depends,’ said Gill; ‘now you will get me a very long rope. Let no other man move. Hussein, follow that man, and shoot him if he tries to escape.’
Hussein followed Ismail Khan, scowling fiercely to show that he was not at all afraid. The dacoit led the way into a hut where there were various jars of grain and stores. He paused for a moment, and Hussein raised his gun.
‘That jar is full of rupees,’ remarked the dacoit. ‘Get the rope,’ replied Hussein.
‘Handsome young mahouts can do a lot with a jar of rupees.’
‘That is true, but I do not believe that there are any there.’
‘Look and see for yourself — I am very liberal to my friends.’
‘Yes, and put my gun down: I am not quite a fool,’ said Hussein.
The dacoit turned the jar on its side: a stream of silver coins came out on to the mud floor. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. Hussein said nothing.
The dacoit showed another jar — smaller this time. ‘Gold,’ he whispered, opening a leather bag from inside the jar, ‘you understand?’ Hussein nodded; the dacoit threw the bag, and Hussein caught it in one hand, keeping his distance from the dacoit.
‘Now look the other way,’ said Ismail Khan, ‘so that you can swear by the Beard of the Prophet that you did not see me go.’
‘No,’ said Hussein.
‘What in Jehannum?’
‘I said no; now get that rope.’ He pointed the gun at the dacoit — he had tucked the little bag into his dhoti.
‘O son of Eblis — incredibly base leper …’
‘Silence, soor-ka-butcha. Get the rope.’ Hussein scowled ferociously. With no more words, but with an evil look, Ismail Khan brought out a coil of rope. Coming out of the door he made a rush at Hussein, flinging the heavy coil. Hussein ducked, and jabbed the dacoit in the stomach with the gun — he was not sure how to fire it. When Ismail Khan got his breath again, he picked up the rope and walked back quietly to the square where Gill sat on Jehangir, guarding the other prisoners. Gill dismounted and took the rope: as he put his rifle under his arm to take it, someone threw a knife: it knocked his topi off, but did no harm. Ismail Khan gathered himself together for a spring, and Hussein clubbed him from behind with the butt of the shot-gun. Before his topi had reached the ground, Gill fired from his hip, killing the man who had thrown the knife.
After that the dacoits were quite meek. They stood in a line with their hands behind them, and Hussein bound them, linking them all together.
They bound Ismail Khan and put him across Jehangir’s back. Before the dacoits