Chapter 18: The Wagers of Death

Spending time in The Hole is not something I would recommend. Judging by the dimensions the structure had been built to house Indians. A European could not stand fully upright without his head being forced into the bars of the cover, and had to sit, squat, or kneel, on the bare earth when not standing stooped. From ground level, I had a worm’s eye view of the world, and that was only a yard or two circumference around my ‘quarters’.

The sun broiled down, and it was just as well I was naked as the sweat poured off me like a river. Night-time was only marginally better as it was cooler, but the night insects had a banquet on my pallid white body. When the first rays of the sun lit up the pit I discovered bites all over my body, especially around my private parts, which had me scratching like a mangy dog. Eventually, the barred cover was removed and I was hauled out of the hole. If I thought my agony would now cease I was sadly mistaken.

I was given a dirty and ragged mundu to wear, so at least my dignity, or what was left of it, was preserved. A cloth was then tied around my eyes and I was dragged away to who knows where. Manacles were locked around my ankles, I felt a hand land on my shoulder from behind me, someone, a guard I suppose, took my hand and placed it on the shoulder of a fellow in front of me. At an order from the unseen guard, the line of manacled men shuffled forward. We travelled no more than a hundred yards before halting. The cloth was removed from my eyes, and I saw I was standing in a line of Indians, manacled together at their ankles. Being the tallest, I could see over the heads of those in front.

We were lined up alongside the parade ground/maidan, in the middle of which a party of men were digging a deep, narrow, pit. When the excavation was the size required by the Nubian in charge of the digging party the diggers were reattached to the line of prisoners. The man at the head of the manacled column gave a loud cry of distress as he was unchained from the line, taken to the pit and unceremoniously dropped in feet first. Three grinning Nubians shovelled soil and sand into the pit until all that was visible was the fellow’s head, his eyeballs glaring white in his terrified face. There came a blast of a trumpet, the double doors set into the wall at the western edge of the maidan swung open and an elephant lumbered in. The elephant’s rider, the mahout, brought the beast to a halt. The elephant raised its trunk and gave a great bellow. It was then I noticed spectators, some of them young women in colourful saris, lined the maidan. The poor fellow in the pit started wailing as he realised what was about to happen. The elephant was to be driven around the maidan until, either by accident or design, a foot would descend on the buried man’s head.

It took several hours before the deed was accomplished. I wondered why it had taken so long until I saw that the mahout was blindfolded. When the wretch in the pit finally expired, his skull fragmenting under the elephant’s foot, a mighty shout went up from the watchers.

The man behind me in the manacled line said, in an understandable English, “Money is wagered on how long before the elephant’s foot makes contact with the prisoner’s head. It seems the winner has made a lot of money.”

What remained of the fellow in the pit was dragged out, and two Indians carried the headless corpse away.

“His body will be thrown over the edge of the ravine,” my neighbour informed me. “All dead bodies end up at the bottom of the ravine.” He paused for a moment, “some live bodies are tossed over the edge but become dead when landing on the rocks below.”

The line of manacled men was marched, shuffled, back to where we had started, but we were not now wearing blindfolds. I was unmanacled and put back in The Hole, and the line of Indians disappeared around the corner of the main building.

I had not been fed or watered during my time in The Hole, and it seemed I was to be left to starve to death or expire through lack of water. However, about an hour after being returned to The Hole the fellow who I had been manacled to appeared above me. He handed down a goatskin of water and a hand of bananas through the bars.

“This will keep you going for a while, sahib.”

I thanked him and asked why he was helping me.

“Brahma says we have to help the afflicted, the downtrodden, the hungry and destitute. I can do little to free you from The Hole but I can ease your stay by picking a hand of bananas or filling a goatskin with water.” He made the graceful namaste gesture of India, used in greeting and departing, and left.

The water was delicious; the smell of the goatskin container was strong but was more than made up for by the coolness and freshness of the contents. I wolfed down two of the bananas in double quick time, but then, with my gnawing hunger slightly appeased, I spent a longer time devouring and appreciating the rest of the bunch. Bananas had never tasted so good as that hand, and I thanked – I cursed myself for the ungrateful beast I was. I had not thought to ask the name of my benefactor. I doubt what he had done would sit well with Eloise de La Zouche, and it occurred to me that my unnamed Good Samaritan could be the next poor soul planted up to his neck on the maidan awaiting the entrance of an elephant.

I endured another insect-plagued night until sunrise brought some relief from the voracious little beasts. The sun had just cleared the horizon when once again I was hauled out of the hole, manacled, blindfolded, and shuffled away with my companions to who knows where. It took us longer than the previous day to reach our destination so I assumed we had gone well beyond the maidan. When my blindfold was removed I saw we were halted by the two tall palm trees with the windlasses at their feet.

My neighbour was the same fellow as the day before, and after thanking him for the vittles’ I asked his name.

“I am Rangesh Gupta Chowdraty, Merchant and Trader, sahib.”

“How does a merchant and trader become a prisoner of Eloise de La Zouche?” I saw the name meant nothing to him. “You probably know her as the Baroness de Ath.”

He clapped his hand over my mouth.

“Hush sahib! The woman is the Goddess Kali. To refer to her by any other name is punishable by death. That is why poor Arum had his head crushed by an elephant yesterday.”

Two Nubian guards began to turn the windlasses, and the top of each tree was slowly winched down to ground level. It was then I heard a heart-rending wail of terror.

“They have removed the blindfold of the man to be executed, sahib. The frontman of the line is the one to be executed but he does not know he is at the front until his blindfold is removed, and he is always the last to have his blindfold removed.”

“How is it he does not know he is at the front of the line? There is no one in front of him for his hand to be placed on their shoulder.”

“It is one of the tricks of the guards. One will act as a prisoner in front of the leading man, and until the blindfold is removed no one can be sure where he stands in the line.”

By now the two treetops were brushing the ground, and both windlasses were locked with thick pieces of timber. The struggling, screaming man from the head of the line was dragged to the trees. Head downwards he was tied between the two trunks, his right arm and leg tied to the one trunk and his left arm and leg tied to the other. During the whole time, the man kept screaming until one of the guards gagged him. At a sign from a Nubian, who I recognised as Mahmoud, the windlasses were unlocked, allowing the two trees to spring apart. There was a short piercing shriek before the poor fellow strapped to them was torn in twain, showering the surrounding area with entrails, blood, and bones.

A guard examined the tree trunks, comparing how much of ripped flesh remained on each trunk.

“The Thug guards wager as to which tree trunk has the most of the body still attached,” Chowdraty informed me. “The left-hand tree is reputed to be the stronger and usually has more than the right, however, it seems the right-hand tree has won today!”

“How often do these barbaric acts takes place?”

“It depends on how angry Kali is feeling. We usually attend an execution once a week, but with you here I think we will be seeing more than usual this week.”

“What have I to do with it?” I could not understand how my being at the temple would increase the execution rate.

“The Thugs and the dacoits are always gossiping about Kali. It is known she desires you, but you have not yet succumbed to her charms and joined her in her bed. I think she is demonstrating what happens to those who displease her, sahib.”

I admit the idea had not occurred to me, but it seemed logical, and an Eloise characteristic. To change the subject I asked Chowdraty how he became Kali’s prisoner.

He gave a philosophic lift of his shoulders. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I live in Coimbatore, and two months ago I travelled to the village of Munavenchevvy to see how the coconut crop was faring. I deal in copra, and get most of my supplies from Munavenchevvy and other nearby villages. During the night Nubians, Thugs, and dacoits, in Kali’s employ arrived. They took several hostages, including me. Kali has followers placed in all the villages in the surrounding area and the inhabitants are forbidden to leave their village. If villagers try to contact the authorities, a hostage from the village gets executed. The villagers are as much prisoners as we hostages, and they also tend the soil and supply the temple with food. We hostages are also used as labourers around the temple complex.”

“So Kali will know if the authorities are moving towards the temple?”

“Yes, each village is occupied by a score of Thugs and or dacoits, who ensure no one leaves or enters the village, and report to Kali any movement of travellers on the roads.”

It was now obvious why the Madras Fusiliers had failed to materialise. Every move they made would be known, and I expect the Thugs and dacoits were keeping the Fusiliers occupied and well away from the temple. I sighed in resignation; if I wanted to gain my freedom it would have to be my own efforts.

A guard called us to our feet, and the manacled line returned to the temple, and I to The Hole

As I sat sweating in The Hole, I ruminated on the Armityges. It appeared they were not the self-sacrificing couple training young girls to be midwives but a pair of schemers willing to join forces with a woman who bathed in the blood of young girls. I could hardly believe Krish or Lillian would condone such a horrific act, but they seemed unconcerned when I blurted out the truth. At one time I would have trusted Krish Armityge with my life; however that trust had evaporated as he told those lies about me.