Part 5

It took more than a week after the departure of the Sultan of Trengganu for the natives to get their fill of celebration. While they feasted and danced, I made my plans for the stocks in which the sixty elephants were to be broken.

The breaking of elephants, especially so large a herd, is a long, tedious job. I was thankful that I had Prince Omar with me to keep the natives working. The hunter, who kills and skins his animals, has a simple life compared with the collector, who must not only take the animals alive and uninjured, but convey them through miles of jungle country to a port. Months of hard labor were before us, and the success of the expedition was by no means assured, even though we had our elephants safe in the stockade. It was to be a great test in managing the natives.

There is only one thing that a Malay values, and that is his _kris_--his knife. To lose this cherished possession means to lose honor. There is a saying to the effect that money will buy everything but a lucky kris. Their disregard of money makes all dealings with Malays extremely difficult, and their dislike for work has completely blocked more than one project. To my mind, the Malays are the laziest people in the world.

When work is an exciting or amusing game, such as the hunt, they will go on for days without signs of fatigue. They seem to keep alive by some fanatic energy. But when work is just plain labor, they will say "Wait," or "I must think." Or a Malay may say candidly: "Sir, I have just had plenty to eat. I am content." Many times I have had a Malay tell me, when I asked him to do some work, that he had enough rice and fish for the day and that he might die during the night. It is an unanswerable argument. Tomorrow's food can be found when tomorrow comes.

The Malay's food is simple and his clothes are few. With no more effort than dropping a few seeds and covering them with earth, he can grow most of the food he needs, aside from his rice and fish. One catch of fish will supply his family for weeks and give him a surplus to sell to the Chinese traders. With the money he can buy some cloth and a little powder. Six or seven good-sized chickens cost one Mexican dollar; eggs cost one Mexican cent; yams, one or two cents each; pineapples, two or three cents. Why worry about the tomorrow that may never come? Why should a Malay gentleman, who believes in Allah and whose stomach is full, do the labor that can be done by heathen, pig-eating Chinese?

"Will you row me across the river?" I asked a Malay one day.

"_Tûan_, I have eaten and I have had plenty," he responded. "You may take my boat and row yourself across the river. Tomorrow, if Allah grants me life and if I need the boat, I will swim over for it."

That Malay trait of living for the moment has led many a European to murder, and more than once it made me feel like running _âmok_. It is maddening. Getting work out of Malays is a fine art, a science to be learned only after years of patient arguing and cajoling. And yet, with all their laziness, they are lovable people. In most cases they are brave and willing to do anything for a person they like.

Under the circumstances, sick with fever and worn out by the drive through the jungle, I was entitled to some doubt as to what the next few months would bring. The Sultan had left strict orders that I was to be provided with all the labor I needed, and Omar was there to assist me. However, I waited with anxiety to see what the attitude of the natives would be after they had finished celebrating, and I was encouraged to find that I had earned the name _Tûan Gâjah_--Sir Elephant. They were deeply impressed by the power of the white man who had engineered a great drive of sixty elephants and who owned the exceedingly marvelous gun that his man, Ali, displayed with such proud ostentation.

Inasmuch as they were receiving no money for their work, they had some right to object, but I humored them with promises of celebrations and games. The white man's camp became a popular place in Trengganu. Wonderful tales of what was done there spread through the country, and the men who had been to the camp could command an audience in their home compounds when they returned. The elephant drive was a historic event in the country, and henceforth we had little trouble with labor.

The work of breaking wild elephants must be carried on with painstaking exactness, for one elephant can create havoc in a few seconds if the men lose control. The first task is the building of the stocks where the elephants are to be held while they become accustomed to men; then comes the work of driving into the ground, about four feet apart, two rows of heavy stakes, leading from the trap to the stocks. Also, next the trap, a small enclosure, four or five feet wide by fifteen long, is built at the end of the passageway formed by the stakes. The piles of the trap are removed from the entrance to this enclosure and bars are substituted. Since the elephants were given practically no food during the time they were kept in the trap, they were half starved when the breaking commenced. In their weakened condition they were much less dangerous to handle, and, too, they could then be fed in such a way as to impress upon them the fact that good behavior brings good treatment.

The young elephants required no breaking, and so they were lured from the trap with food. They roamed about the camp, playing and watching operations.

As soon as the tuskers were taken from the trap, they were killed for their ivory. The tusks were worth almost as much as I could get for the live animals, and tusks are far easier to handle than animals that have to be broken and fed. Also, as the animal dealers say, the elephant might "eat and die." I did the killing with my express rifle. The explosive bullets produced instant death. Another way of killing an elephant is to strangle him by running two ropes around his neck and having elephants pull him in opposite directions.

As soon as all the equipment for breaking was ready, I instructed the natives in their work. With a select crew of men, I rehearsed all the details of what we were going to do and how we were going to do it. Finally, I ordered food placed in the enclosure and the bars drawn. The nearest elephant saw the food, sniffed, flapped his ears and walked in. Breaking commenced.

As soon as the elephant enters the small enclosure, the bars behind him are slipped. He eats the food so eagerly that he does not realize quite what is happening and the men put the knee- and foot-hobbles on him. These allow him about one quarter of his normal step. Rattan ropes are fastened to his feet and drawn out through the bars; his trunk is secured so that he can do no damage with it.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding about what an elephant can do with his trunk. It is a sensitive organ and he never uses it for heavy labor, but he can strike a terrific blow with it. I have seen many a man's ribs and arms broken when he neglected to take the proper precautions. In approaching a dangerous elephant, a man should come up sideways, with the nearer arm folded to protect the ribs. Then, if the elephant strikes, he should try to catch the blow on the upper part of the arm, where there is the most flesh to protect the bone. Such a blow never knocks a man flat; it sends him spinning like a top until he tumbles over.

The elephant uses both his trunk and his lungs in calling, and he has a large variety of sounds and combinations of sound with which to express himself. When rushing an enemy, he trumpets shrilly; when enraged by wounds, he grumbles hoarsely from his throat; he expresses fear by a shrill, brassy trumpet and a roar; and pleasure by a continued low squeaking through the trunk. When apprehensive of danger or when attempting to intimidate an enemy, he raps the end of his trunk smartly on the ground and trumpets. The peculiar noise sounds like that produced by the rolling up of a sheet of tin.

In a moment of danger, the elephant coils his trunk to protect it from injury. When he is engaged in heavy work, such as piling lumber, he may use his trunk to balance the load he is carrying on his tusks, but never to bear part of the burden. If an unharnessed elephant must pull a rope, he holds it in his mouth, taking good care to keep his trunk out of the way. It has happened many times that an elephant-keeper--not a trainer, for a trainer knows better--has used a hook a little too freely on an elephant's trunk. If he doesn't get killed, he picks himself up several yards from where he was standing. A trainer is invariably pleased at such an occurrence, because it shows that the keeper was abusing the elephant and has merely received his deserts. The elephant is a good, faithful animal, and he does not attack his keeper without excuse, except when he is in what is called the "must" period, which I shall describe later.

When the elephant is secured by hobbles, foot-ropes and trunk-ropes, the bars leading from the enclosure are removed. The foot-ropes have been fastened to the stakes and are loosened as the elephant walks out. The men holding the ropes attached to the fore feet wind them around the two stakes ahead, and those holding the ropes attached to the hind feet wind them about the first stakes. In this way the animal is drawn forward, step by step, toward the stocks, while natives prod him from behind with poles. If he tries to bolt, he simply falls over. It is a difficult, trying job, because the elephant is still vicious.

The stocks are built in covered stalls, so that each elephant is separate from the others. Two large uprights are driven into the ground in the shape of a V; the elephant's head is drawn between them, and they are pulled together at the top so that he is held securely behind the ears. At the corners are uprights, with poles to fence him in, running between them. These poles, located a trifle below his belly, support two cross-bars, one just behind his fore legs, and the other in front of his back legs. In this position it is impossible for the elephant to lie down or to move; he can wiggle his legs and wave his trunk, but that is all.

The elephant remains in the stocks for about two weeks. During that time he is fed and petted by a keeper appointed for that particular job. The keeper crawls over his back and rubs him behind the ears and gives him water, fruit and bamboo shoots. The elephant learns not to be afraid when a man is near him, and he gradually becomes more docile. During these two weeks he is fed very lightly because he must be kept in a weakened condition.

After two or three weeks, according to the disposition of the elephant, ropes are again attached to his feet, and he is led out of the stocks. This time he wears only the knee-hobbles, which allow him more play. Eight or ten men hold each of the ropes; his keeper sits on his head with a prod; another crew hold the rope attached to his trunk; and six or eight men follow with rattan whips. The men with the whips beat him continually. At first, in the excitement, he does not mind the whipping; then he finds the pain unbearable. The men on the trunk-ropes lead him about from right to left, while the men on the foot-ropes stand ready to trip him if he tries to bolt. At last he gives a bellow of pain and the whipping stops.

This one bellow marks a surprising change in the animal. His spirit is broken and he acknowledges that man is his master. The fact that he is instantly fed and petted helps him to make up his mind, of course, and to forget about the old, wild ways of the jungle. Thereafter, a keeper who does not deliberately make him angry can handle him easily. His schooling is brief and he learns readily to turn, kneel, back and pull. In return he is given plenty of food and is tied to a tree instead of being put in the stocks.

It occasionally happened that an elephant refused to bellow. In that case, I had the men lead him out to be shot, for I knew I should be wasting time in trying to break him.

The opinion is generally held by those who have had the best opportunities of observing the elephant, that the popular estimate of its intelligence is a greatly exaggerated one; that instead of being the exceptionally wise animal it is believed to be, its sagacity is of a very mediocre description. Of the truth of this opinion no one who has lived amongst elephants can entertain a doubt.

The elephant's size and staid appearance, its gentleness, and the ease with which it performs various services with its trunk, have probably given rise to the exalted idea of its intellect. Amongst those not intimately acquainted with it, and it being but little known outside of its native countries, what is known of it justly make it a general favorite and leads to tales of intelligence being not only accepted without investigation, but welcomed with pleasure.

One of the strongest features in the domesticated elephant's character, is its obedience. It is also readily taught, but its reasoning faculties are far below those of a dog, and possibly other animals, and in matters beyond the range of its daily experience, it evinces no special discernment; while quick at comprehending anything taught to it, it is decidedly wanting in originality.

Let us consider whether the elephant displays more intelligence in its wild state than other animals. Though possessed of a proboscis, which is capable of guarding it against such dangers, it readily falls into a pit dug for catching it, only covered with a few sticks and leaves. Its fellows make no effort to assist the fallen one, as they might easily do by kicking in the earth around the pit, but they flee in terror.

It commonly happens that a young elephant falls into a pit near which the mother will remain until the hunter comes, without doing anything to assist it, not even feeding it by throwing in a few branches. This, no doubt, is more difficult of belief to most people than if they were told that the mother supplied it with grass, brought water in her trunk, or filled up the pit with trees and effected the young one's release.

Whole herds of elephants are driven into ill concealed enclosures which no other wild animal could be got to enter, and single ones are caught by their legs being tied together by men under cover of a couple of tame elephants. Elephants which happen to effect their escape are caught again without trouble. Even experience does not bring wisdom.

These facts are certainly against the conclusion that the elephant is an extraordinarily shrewd animal, much less one possessed of the power of reasoning in the abstract, with which he is commonly credited. I do not think I traduce the elephant, when I say it is in many things a stupid animal, and I can assert with confidence that all the stories I have heard of it, except those relating to feats of strength or docility performed under its trainer's or keeper's direction, are beyond its intellectual power and are but pleasant fiction.

It often happens that persons who do not understand elephants give them credit for performing actions which are suggested to them, and in which they are directed by their trainer or by the mahout on their necks. I think that all who have had to deal with elephants, will agree in saying that their good qualities cannot be exaggerated and that their vices are few, and only occur in exceptional animals. The not uncommon idea that elephants are treacherous and retentive of injury, is a groundless one.

Elephants do not push with their foreheads or the region above their eyes, but with the base of the trunk or snout, about one foot below the eyes. Elephants are poor sighted, and are so intent on being off when thoroughly started, that I have been almost brushed against without being discovered.

The rapidly advancing line of huge heads and cocked ears bobbing up and down as the elephants come rushing on, leveling everything before them, is a trying sight, and at first one requires some nerve--and the reflection they are escaping, not charging--to stand still.

If circumstances ever occur to make a run unavoidable, the pursued hunter should always take down hill and choose the steepest place at hand, as the elephants fear to trust themselves on a rapid descent at any great pace; uphill, or on the level, man would be immediately overtaken. When elephants are close at hand, standing in indecision, no one should shout to turn them; a charge by one or more of them is sure to be made if they are suddenly started at this time.

Eight months passed at breaking elephants. I was sick with fever and dysentery and I was glad when we could break camp. Riding on the head of an elephant, I led my catch through the jungle to port. Once again I paid my respects to the Sultan, who told me that I might hunt in Trengganu whenever I pleased. A year before, I should have been wildly delighted at the prospect of having Trengganu open to me under his protection, but now, with my health broken, I did not care much if I never saw the country again.

I arranged for the keeping of the animals until they could be brought by boat to Singapore, and then I caught the first coast steamer south, taking four elephants with me. At Singapore I found that the story of the big capture had been the talk of the city for months. In fact, several days after I arrived, I went to call on my former enemy, Mahommed Ariff, and he took off his turban and bowed. We had many dealings after that, and he always treated me with the greatest respect and honesty.

When I was leading one of the smaller elephants through the street on my way to the animal house I had rented in Orchard Road, I was approached by an Arab.

"_Tûan mau jûal_? (Sir, do you wish to sell?)" he asked.

"Of course," I answered. I was sick and tired and I did not want to be bothered.

He persisted. "Tûan, how much?"

"All of them or just one?"

"That one," he answered, pointing to the elephant I was leading.

I thought he was asking just out of curiosity, and so I set a price that I thought would silence him--$3,000 Mexican.

"Tûan, truly will you sell it for that?"

"Yes."

He followed me to the animal house, and I wondered what he had on his mind. As a matter of fact, I would have sold the elephant for $450, because it was young and small. At the animal house, he again asked me if I would sell for $3,000; then he undid several of the shirts he was wearing and pulled forth an old wallet. He gave me $500 to bind the bargain and called a friend of his to act as witness. When he left to get the rest of the money, I went to the stall where I had placed the animal and examined it.

It didn't take me long to discover why the Arati was willing to pay $3,000. The little elephant had twenty toes instead of the usual eighteen. Twenty-toed elephants are held in veneration throughout India, and are keenly sought by all the rajas and maharajas for the prosperity they are supposed to bring. They are guarded more carefully and quartered even more sumptuously than the white elephants of Siam, and the price they will bring is determined almost entirely by the amount the rajas can gather together. My little twenty-toed elephant was a faultless specimen. He was about five years old and stood four and a half feet high. His head was perfectly shaped; his back was straight and absolutely even with the top of his head.

I was naturally disgusted to think that I had let such a bargain slip out of my hands, and, when the Arab returned, I blamed him for cheating me when I was sick with the fever. I abused him and his ancestors and gave a great show of indignation. He begged me to take the money and give him the elephant; I refused the money and told him to take the elephant out of my sight.

"I have put a curse on him," I said. "He will be dead within twenty-four hours."

At this he burst into tears, begging me to remove the curse. He said that he was a poor man and that the elephant's death would ruin him. Finally we reached a compromise. He would pay me an extra $500, and I would arrange transportation to India for the elephant. Then, if the sale proved profitable, he was to return to Singapore and pay me an additional $500. He swore by Allah and the Prophet that he would keep his word. So I removed the curse and took his money and he departed happily. A month later he returned and paid me the $500. He had sold the elephant to the Maharaja of Mysore for 10,000 rupees. The Arab later bought four large elephants from me.

During my nineteen years in the Malay Archipelago I captured hundreds of elephants, but none of the herds was so large as my first catch. And, though I always looked carefully at the elephant's feet before I sold him, never again did I bag one with twenty toes.

Of all the animals I have handled in my experience as a collector, I prefer elephants. They are interesting and amusing beasts, and, once broken, they become hard-working and affectionate. They never show any inclination to go back to the jungle, even when used for the purposes of running wild elephants. In Siam all the driving of herds into the traps is done on female elephants, and their presence calms the herd. I have seen the tame elephants press in upon a wild elephant, holding him while he docilely allowed himself to be hobbled.

The hunts in Siam are for tuskers, and the females are for the most part allowed to run free again to breed. The tuskers are used in the teak forests for handling logs. The females bear young about every three years until they reach an age of from seventy to seventy-five years. The period of carrying varies from eighteen months in the case of a female baby to twenty-one months in the case of a male. A baby elephant, as I have already written, weighs approximately two hundred pounds at birth and stands thirty-six inches high. It suckles from six to nine months. The breasts of the female are located just back of the fore legs, and the baby runs its trunk up along its mother's side while nursing. Its next food is fruit and the tenderest bamboo shoots. It is very fond of sugar. It grows at the rate of one inch a month up to its third year and attains its full growth, but not maturity, at about twenty-five. The age of an elephant is told largely by the ears; an old animal has ragged ears and sunken cheeks. The height of an elephant is almost exactly twice the distance around its foot.

A herd of elephants is invariably led by the females, perhaps because they are the more alert to catch the least sign of danger. If the herd is put to flight, the males take the lead, breaking through the jungle and making a trail for the females and young. An elephant never goes around things; he either pushes them to one side or goes straight through. He is very sure-footed and, on anything that looks doubtful, he will never step without first putting out a foot and trying it. For that reason, it requires some skill to build a pit-trap that will not attract attention. A pit-trap is practically useless, however, because the elephant is invariably injured in the fall; it allows the capture of the baby, in the case of females, but at the cost of the good, full-grown animal. Wild elephants, grazing in a herd, travel rapidly if they are frightened, but usually they saunter along, sleeping during the day and feeding at night. Their food consists chiefly of grasses, bamboo shoots, cocoanuts and the bark of some trees. Lone elephants and outcasts from the herd are dangerous animals and should be killed.