The Elephant Keeper Page 7
I hurried home. My father lay in the icy bed-room, and while my mother moaned and shook, Mrs. Perry held sway, muttering spells and incantations. “I knew it would happen. The Elephants! The Elephants! Where is the tusk?” When I said that I had not brought any tusk, my mother begged me to run back and fetch some, for my father’s life hung by a thread. I told her that I could not do so, that the Elephant was the property of Mr. Harrington; whereupon she cried out that I must ask Mr. Harrington. I did what I could to calm her and then attended to my father, who was burning hot, and in the absence of Dr. Chisholm, who had still not visited, I resolved to bleed him. Having fetched a knife, I laid bare his arm. “It will do no good!” cried Mrs. Perry, “he has Elephant Fever!” and my mother wailed that I was not a doctor, that we must wait for the doctor. “For how long? We cannot wait,” I said.—“We must wait!”—“But if we wait—the longer we wait—we cannot wait.”
We waited a few minutes, during which I felt my father’s pulse, which was running very fast and intermittent, and I then said that I did not think we should delay any longer, that he must be bled, and I stretched out his arm. However, my mother cried out, “O! I hear him! O! He is come!” running to the window and scratching at the frost flakes; but she was mistaken. “O, Tom, you must go and fetch him!”—“But Jim has been!”—“Then where is he? Why has he not come? Why? O! O!” for my poor father had given a kind of low groan, and she flung herself in agonies over the bed. “O! Timothy! You must not leave me! You must not!” As I stood back, knife in hand, I noticed Jim’s wan face and wondered whether, when he had spoken to Dr. Chisholm, he had conveyed with sufficient force the desperate nature of my father’s condition. Yet there was another suspicion which crossed my mind, that the doctor had decided to ignore my father’s illness, on account of what had happened with the Elephants when he was hunting. However, this may be to do Dr. Chisholm an injustice, for he did indeed arrive at the cottage about noon, though by then it was too late. It seems that he had been urgently called to attend to a gentleman by the name of Mr. Rogers, who had slipped in the snow and bruised an ankle.
I will pass over the melancholy details of my father’s death. His burial had to be delayed for two weeks, the ground being as hard as stone, even a pick would not penetrate it; during this period he lay stiff and frozen in his bed. My poor mother was greatly distracted and would not enter the room on any account; nor would she allow a single fire to be lit in the cottage, despite the extreme cold, and when Jim and I came to carry him down the stairs, she cried, “O, do not hurt him!” After the burial, she begged me not to go on working any longer with the Elephants, for fear that I would catch the same deadly Elephant Fever. Indeed, she was certain that I would catch it. She said, through her tears, that she had known from the beginning that the Elephants were dangerous and that no good would come of them; for an angel had warned Mrs. Perry in a dream, and Mrs. Perry had warned my mother, and my mother had warned me and my father, but neither of us would pay any heed, and now the best husband anyone had ever had was dead and cold, and I would die too, that was all but certain, and she would be left with Jim, who was no help to anyone, and she did not know what she would do. I attempted to reassure her; but she was deaf to all consolation, crying out that it did not matter what happened to her, since she would not be alive for much longer.
The story that the Elephants had been the cause of my father’s death was quickly spread by wagging tongues; chiefly, no doubt, that belonging to Mrs. Perry, but by others too; so that for a time it was generally believed that even to go near the Elephants was dangerous, while to breathe in a single particle of their breaths (which, in the frosty air, billowed from their mouths in clouds) was fatal. They were seen as walking contagions, and shunned by everyone but me; indeed, I too was widely shunned, with people saying that, if I had only cut off a piece of Timothy’s tusk, my father would still be alive, and that I could not have loved him enough. This was a most unjust charge, for I had loved my father as faithfully as any son could have done. I was greatly troubled on my own account, but also on that of the Elephants: when I looked at them and indeed, when they looked at me, with their sad, wrinkled eyes, I felt a kind of horror. How will you survive, I thought, with such a deadly reputation? At the same time, there was something that made me doubt—not that Elephant Fever existed, but that it could have led to my father’s death. I questioned my brother Jim, who repeated to me the exact words used by Dr. Chisholm: “Let us hope he is not ill with the dreaded Elephant Fever.” I said to Jim, “Then we do not know for certain that he died of Elephant Fever.” Jim agreed that we did not know for certain.
One Sunday after church, about three weeks after my father’s burial, I plucked up enough courage to ask Dr. Chisholm. He was with his wife and another lady, walking out of the churchyard. I waited for his approach.—“Excuse me, Sir, if you have a moment, Sir, may I speak with you?” He muttered an apology to the ladies.—“Yes, young man?”—“Relating to my father’s death.”—“I am sorry, who was your father?”—“Timothy Page.”—“Timothy Page?”—“Yes, Sir. He died three weeks ago. He was buried over there.” The snow on the top of the grave had melted, and the mound of earth that marked my father’s resting place was a dark brown. “Ah yes, to be sure,” he said, and with some impatience, “Well; what is it?” Whereupon I asked, whether it was certain that my father had died from Elephant Fever and, if so, whether other people might catch the same fever from the Elephants. “What? What? Elephant Fever? Stuff and nonsense! What gave you that foolish notion?” I stammered: “Sir, I understood from my brother—I understood from my brother that my father had Elephant Fever, Sir,”—By no means,” he repeated, “your father died from a Scarlet Fever.” I would have asked further questions—but with the ladies listening I felt constrained and aukward, and I thanked him and left.
My mother was waiting outside the churchyard. When she heard what Dr. Chisholm had said, she was very upset, and refused to believe me, or him; that is, she refused to believe that he had said what I told her he had said. She remained convinced that my father had been killed by Elephant Fever, and that I would die too, and that she would be turned out of the cottage by Mr. Harrington, and end up a pauper. Again she implored me to give up the Elephants. I said to her, “But, if I do not look after them, who will?” She replied, that was no concern of hers, and asked me to have pity on her, for she would not live long. Some days later, Mr. Harrington assured me that I need not worry about my mother, he would support her and let her remain in the cottage. “By the by, Tom,” said he, “Lizzy tells me that there is a strange story going around, about some disease known as Elephant Fever—you may like to know that I have spoken to Dr. Chisholm, and Mr. Coad, both of whom have assured me that no such disease exists.” This was a great relief to me, although it did not shake my mother’s convictions a single jot.
My father’s death meant that Bob Brown was now head groom at Harrington Hall, and I trusted neither him, nor Dick Shadwick, to help with the Elephants. Martin was too old, and too feeble, and Jim, my brother, too timid. However, when I needed assistance, I was sometimes able to call on Lizzy. She was very busy in the Hall, for Mrs. Harrington had given birth to twins and Lizzy had to help the old nurse in addition to her spider-brushing. However, she slipped away often enough. Her motives in visiting the cart-house were perhaps as much to do with me as the Elephants, for she and I were now sweet-hearts and spent as much time together as we dared.
Mr. Harrington often asked how much the Elephants had grown, and on March 1st, 1768, Lizzy and I measured their dimensions, which were now as follows:
FEMALE
From foot to foot, over the shoulder
13 feet, 8 inches
From the top of the shoulder, perpendicular height
8 feet, exactly
From the top of the face to the insertion of the tail
9 feet, 5 inches
Trunk
5 feet, 4 inches
Diameter of foot
>
10 inches
MALE
From foot to foot, over the shoulder
15 feet, 10 inches
From the top of the shoulder, perpendicular height
9 feet, 6 inches
From the top of the face to the insertion of the tail
11 feet, 1 inch
Trunk
6 feet, 2 inches
Diameter of foot
1 foot, 2 inches
Right tusk
19 inches
Left tusk
16 inches
From a comparison between these measurements, and those taken soon after the Elephants arrived in England, two years earlier, it will be seen that both animals had grown considerably. Each of Timothy’s tusks was longer by a full six inches, and this enabled me to make a fresh calculation of his age; for if the tusks had grown consistently at an annual rate of three inches since he was born, it followed that he was no more than six years old. However, there is some mystery here, for Mr. Coad told me that Timothy was much older, perhaps as old as twelve or thirteen, which I think was probably much closer to the truth.
That Timothy was now reaching the age of maturity was clear from the behaviour of his male member, which for much of the time he kept concealed, but which at other times, and without warning, would swell to a well nigh unbelievable size. This club, of a dark purplish or ruby hue, was perhaps three feet in length when fully engorged, although its crooked shape distorted its length. Thus hampered, he walked in an aukward fashion, his back legs wider than usual, the tip of the club dragging the ground and dribbling with urine, leaving a track like that of a snake, and sending up a plume of dust, so that it looked as if it was smoking. It was inevitable that this gave rise to much comment and curiosity. His engorgement first appeared on a warm, rainy morning in April, 1768, when he was standing in the yard and I was cleaning out the cart-house. I heard shouts of merriment from my fellow grooms, and when I saw what amused them so much, I laughed as well, though I was also embarrassed. Word spread quickly, and soon various gardeners appeared, holding their rakes and forks and spades, followed by several servants from the Hall, who put their hands to their mouths and giggled and pointed and made ribald observations. I did not feel that it was altogether proper to make a spectacle of the tusker, when he was so encumbered, and ordered him back in his quarters; he obeyed me but, I think, with great reluctance. Once the door was secured he reared up, trumpeting loudly, and backing into the walls of the cart-house.
In the succeeding week, this phenomenon of engorgement occurred persistently, and he became more and more restless and self-willed. Indeed, his character, which had formerly been mild and obedient, seemed to undergo a sea-change. With Jenny, he was truculent and irritable, pushing and shoving, sniffing her rump, and making persistent attempts to court and board, though she was unwilling to accept his attentions; and when I remonstrated with him, his eyes seemed to fill with a mixture of anger and defiance. I resolved to purge him, and made up three large balls of Rhubarb and Senna; but here my difficulties were at a beginning. In the matter of giving balls of physic to a horse, my father did not agree with the old idea that an iron should be used, except in cases of great necessity; for the horse quickly becomes terrified at the sight of the iron and has to be blind-folded on future occasions. Instead, my father had taught me a gentler practice: that, the horse’s mouth having been opened, and the tongue drawn to one side, the ball should be delivered by hand and placed on the root of the tongue; then, the tongue being released and the hand withdrawn, the horse’s head should be raised, to ease the passage of the ball down the gullet. If the ball remains stubbornly lodged in the gullet, the horse’s head should be raised further, and some water given.
Even if I were to enlist the help of Lizzy or the other grooms, this practice was not one which could be used with Timothy, for he was in far too high a temper to allow his mouth to be opened against his will. Hoping to disguise the smell, I smeared a ball with sweet oil and offered it to him as a tid-bit, but he snorted with the utmost contempt; and when I offered him the physic in a pail of sugared water, he kicked it aside. After this, I wondered whether to keep him confined, and yet to have deprived him of daily exercise, at a time of year when the woods and copses were a feast of vegetation, might have made him even less manageable. I confess that I was not sure what more to do, and without my father to hand lacked anyone who could give me sound advice. However, whether my father would have been of much help in the matter, must be doubted; for his experience related to horses, while the male Elephant is a far more dangerous and terrifying creature than a horse, and has a behaviour entirely of its own, as I shall describe.
Toward the end of that week, we set off for a large, tangled copse owned by Mr. Harrington, and lying on the far side of Thornhill. The air was still and calm, and with the sun’s rays dispersing a thin white mist, which hung lightly over the fields, it promised to be a fine day. Birds were singing gaily, and when we reached the copse I seem to remember hearing several nightingales in full song, for although some people in their ignorance think nightingales only sing at night they often do so by day. This particular copse was for some reason always more haunted by nightingales than any other around Thornhill. However, it was plain that Timothy’s mind was running only on one thing, and as Jenny was feeding he made many determined attempts to mount her. When she rejected his advances, he threw back his head and trumpeted so loudly that the trees seemed to shiver, the air vibrating in waves of sound. He kept up this fit of roaring for at least five minutes, after which he wrenched at thick branches, tearing them off their trunks and breaking them into fragments. None of this seemed to make any impression on Jenny, who affected not to notice and continued to feed, nor on the nightingales, which went on singing lustily from the depths of the thicket. At length Timothy seemed to calm down, though he remained engorged and full of resentment; his ears flapped wildly, and his club swung to and fro, spraying jets of fluid.
We were returning through the village when the usual pack of mungrel-curs surged out to give us their noisy greeting. They were an unruly mob, often pursuing us to the end of the village, the limit of their territory. In the past, the Elephants had always ignored them, treating them with an amused disdain—as a pair of giants might treat a beetle—however, on this particular day, one of these dogs, a small white mungrel with a curling tail, which clearly saw itself as the leader of the pack, summoned up its reserves of courage and, yapping wildly, put in a charge which took it between Timothy’s legs. Scarcely breaking stride, he bent his head and, with a violent swing of his trunk, sent the dog flying through the air. It travelled a full twenty yards before striking the side of the churchyard wall. I drew the Elephants to a halt, dismounted, and went over to the wretched dog, which was not moving; the force of the blow had broke its back. Returning to the tusker, I stood before him and ordered him to kneel; he refused. “Kneel down! Kneel down!” I shouted, but he would not kneel, though he knew the command well enough. His eyes were simmering.
I had never been afraid of him before, but at that moment, I believe, as he towered over me, his ears spread wide, my life hung in the balance. Something within him had changed: he had forgotten, or nearly forgotten, that I was his keeper, and instead saw me as a stranger. I did not dare shew my fear, but lifted the ankus, which I wore on a string round my neck, and held it before his eyes like a cross. “Kneel down! Kneel!” I roared. “Kneel—Timothy, kneel!” and either my words, or the sight of the ankus, pierced the fog which clouded his brain, and he knelt, to my very great relief, as may be imagined. I reproved him sternly, telling him that he ought to behave himself better, that he must control his passions, how otherwise could he be trusted? Although he might be irritated by the dogs, this was (I said) no reason to resort to violence. I have no doubt that he knew that I was displeased, for he appeared to listen carefully, his trunk drooping, his head depressed; and suddenly he keeled to his side and lay in the dust, the very picture of contrition
.
A pretty piece of play-acting, I said to myself; yet his behaviour alarmed me a good deal, for though he had obeyed me this once, would he do so again? Disinclined to offer him another chance of ending my life, I resolved to keep him safe in the cart-house until his temper improved. To my surprize, he entered the cart-house willingly enough; yet, within the space of an hour, the fit was upon him again, and he began to squeal and trumpet in a fury, backing into the walls and tugging at the beams with his trunk. It is hard to convey, to anyone who has not witnessed it, the power and strength of a male Elephant, even of one who is still not fully grown, like Timothy. The cart-house was built of good stone, but it trembled at the violence of his attacks, and unless I acted swiftly its destruction was inevitable. Moreover, if he ran loose in such a dangerous temper, he would be well nigh impossible to re-capture. In this desperate situation, I remembered something that Mr. Coad had mentioned, about the use of liquor to pacify angry Elephants. I ran to the cellars and, with the help of some other servants, fetched several casks of rum, and these I succeeded in introducing to the cart-house, though with great difficulty. The first cask, he kicked over, without understanding what it was; the second and third he drank readily enough, and as the spirit worked on him he grew calmer and fell into a daze. I was now able to slip chains round his legs, and to lead him out of the cart-house and into the grounds, where I tied him to the trunk of a large elm tree and left him to recover his senses.
This was not the end of the matter; for the dog belonged, as I discovered, to the vicar, the Reverend Amey, who had recently come to Thornhill. He was a pompous turkey-cock of a man, not above thirty years of age but already bald; and when he learnt of the accident he flapped his miserable wings and stalked up to the Hall. By ill fortune, Mr. Harrington was away in Bristol; instead, therefore, he unburthened himself to Mrs. Harrington, who sent Lizzy to tell me that, since the Elephants had become so unmanageable, they should be confined until Mr. Harrington returned. “Both Elephants?” I said to her (for it seemed unfair to punish Jenny, who was innocent of any wrong-doing), “why both?”—“Because Mrs. Harrington says so, Tom. You know she hates the Elephants.” I had not known this; indeed, I found it hard to imagine that anyone could hate the Elephants; and I asked Lizzy why. She gave a shrug. “I do not know why; maybe she thinks they are ugly. Especially now,” she added.—“Now? Why now?” I asked. “You mean because of Timothy?” She gave a mischievous smile. “It is monstrous, is it not? It is four times as big as a horse’s. Do you think we should measure it, for Mr. Harrington?”