GARM — A HOSTAGE

One night, long ago, I drove to an Indian military cantonment called Mian Mir to watch amateur theatricals. As we passed behind the infantry barracks, a soldier—his cap tilted over one eye—rushed in front of the horses, shouting that he was a dangerous highway robber. He was actually a friend of mine, so I told him to go home before anyone caught him.

But he stumbled and fell under the carriage pole. I heard the voices of a military guard searching for someone, so the driver and I quickly coaxed him into the carriage, drove home at speed, undressed him, and put him to bed. The next morning, he woke with a sore head and deep shame. After his uniform was cleaned and dried, and he had been shaved and made tidy, I drove him back to the barracks with his arm in a fine white sling, reporting that I had accidentally run over him. I told this story not to his sergeant—a hostile and suspicious man—but to his lieutenant, who did not know us so well.

Three days later, my friend came to call.

At his heels slobbered and fawned one of the finest bull-terriers I had ever seen—of the old-fashioned breed, two parts bull and one part terrier. He was pure white, with a fawn-colored saddle just behind his neck and a fawn diamond at the base of his thin, whippy tail. I had admired him from a distance for more than a year. Vixen, my own fox-terrier, knew him too but did not approve.

"'E's for you," said my friend, though he did not look as if he liked parting with him.

"Nonsense! That dog's worth more than most men, Stanley," I said.

"'E's that and more. 'Tention!" The dog rose on his hind legs and stood upright for a full minute. "Eyes right!" He sat on his haunches and turned his head sharply to the right. At a sign, he rose and barked three times. Then he shook hands with his right paw and bounded lightly to my shoulder. There he made himself into a necktie, limp and lifeless, hanging down on either side of my neck. I was told to pick him up and throw him in the air. He fell with a howl and held up one leg.

"Part o' the trick," said his owner. "You're going to die now. Dig yourself your little grave an' shut your little eye."

The dog hobbled to the garden edge, dug a hole, and lay down in it. When told he was cured, he jumped out, wagging his tail and whining for applause. He was put through half a dozen other tricks—showing how he would hold a man safely (I was that man, and he sat before me, teeth bared, ready to spring) and how he would stop eating at the word of command. Just as I finished praising him, my friend made a gesture that stopped the dog as if he had been shot, took a piece of blue-lined paper from his helmet, handed it to me, and ran away, while the dog looked after him and howled. I read:

"SIR—I give you the dog because of what you got me out of. He is the best I know, for I made him myself, and he is as good as a man. Please do not give him too much to eat, and please do not give him back to me, for I'm not going to take him, if you will keep him. So please do not try to give him back any more. I have kept his name back, so you can call him anything and he will answer, but please do not give him back. He can kill a man as easy as anything, but please do not give him too much meat. He knows more than a man."

Vixen sympathetically joined her shrill little yap to the bull-terrier's despairing cry. I was annoyed, for I knew that a man who cares for dogs is one thing, but a man who truly loves one dog is quite another. Dogs, at best, are verminous vagrants, self-scratchers, foul feeders, and unclean by the law of Moses and Mohammed. But a dog with whom one lives alone for at least six months in the year—a free thing, tied to you so strictly by love that without you he will not stir or exercise; a patient, temperate, humorous, wise soul who knows your moods before you know them yourself—is not a dog under any ruling.

I had Vixen, who was all my dog to me, and I felt what my friend must have felt at tearing out his heart and leaving it in my garden. However, the dog understood clearly enough that I was his master and did not follow the soldier. As soon as he drew breath, I made much of him. Vixen, yelling with jealousy, flew at him. Had she been male, he might have enjoyed a fight, but he only looked worried as she nipped his deep iron sides. He laid his heavy head on my knee and howled anew. I had meant to dine at the Club that night, but as darkness drew in—and the dog snuffed through the empty house like a child recovering from a fit of sobbing—I felt I could not leave him to suffer his first evening alone. So we fed at home, Vixen on one side and the stranger on the other. She watched every mouthful he took and expressed her opinion of his table manners, which were actually much better than hers.

It was Vixen's habit, until the weather grew hot, to sleep on my bed, her head on the pillow like a Christian. In the morning, I always found that the little thing had braced her feet against the wall and pushed me to the very edge of the cot. That night, she hurried to bed with purpose, every hair on end, one eye on the stranger, who had dropped onto a mat in a helpless, hopeless way, all four feet spread, sighing heavily. She settled her head on the pillow several times to show off her little airs, then struck up her usual whiny before sleep. The stranger softly edged toward me. I put out my hand, and he licked it. Instantly, my wrist was between Vixen's teeth, and her warning growl said plainly that if I took further notice of the stranger, she would bite.

I caught her by the scruff of her fat neck with my left hand, shook her severely, and said, "Vixen, if you do that again, you'll be put into the verandah. Now, remember!" She understood perfectly, but as soon as I released her, she mouthed my right wrist once more, ears back and body flattened, ready to bite. The big dog's tail thumped the floor in a humble, peacemaking way. I grabbed Vixen a second time, lifted her out of bed like a rabbit (she hated that and yelled), and, as promised, set her outside in the verandah with the bats and the moonlight. She howled. Then she used coarse language—not to me, but to the bull-terrier—until she coughed with exhaustion. Then she ran around the house trying every door. She went to the stables and barked as if someone were stealing the horses, an old trick of hers. Finally, she returned, her snuffling yelp saying, "I'll be good! Let me in, and I'll be good!"

I let her in, and she flew to her pillow. Once she was quiet, I whispered to the other dog, "You can lie at the foot of the bed." The bull jumped up at once. Though I felt Vixen quiver with rage, she knew better than to protest. So we slept till morning.

They had early breakfast with me, bite for bite, until the horse came around and we went for a ride. I don't think the bull had ever followed a horse before. He was wild with excitement, while Vixen, as usual, squealed and darted about, taking charge of the procession. Near a village we usually passed with caution, because all the yellow pariah dogs of the place gathered there. They were half-wild, starving beasts—utter cowards, but when nine or ten of them gather, they will mob and kill an English dog. I kept a whip with a long lash for them. That morning, they attacked Vixen, who had perhaps deliberately moved beyond my horse's shadow. The bull was plowing along in the dust fifty yards behind, rolling in his run and smiling as bull-terriers do. I heard Vixen squeal; half a dozen curs closed in on her.

A white streak came up behind me; a cloud of dust rose near Vixen. When it cleared, I saw one tall pariah with his back broken, and the bull wrenching another to the ground. Vixen retreated to the protection of my whip, and the bull trotted back, smiling more than ever, covered with the blood of his enemies.

That decided me to call him "Garm of the Bloody Breast," a great person in his time, or "Garm" for short. Leaning forward, I told him what his temporary name would be. He looked up as I repeated it, then raced away. I shouted "Garm!" He stopped, raced back, and came up to ask my will. Then I saw that my soldier friend was right—this dog knew more than a man and was worth more than a man. At the end of the ride, I gave an order Vixen knew and hated: "Go away and get washed!" Garm understood some part of it, and Vixen interpreted the rest. The two trotted off together solemnly. When I reached the back verandah, Vixen had been washed snowy-white and was very proud of herself, but the dog-boy would not touch Garm unless I stood by. So I waited while he was scrubbed. Garm, with soap creaming on his broad head, looked at me to make sure this was what I expected him to endure. He knew the dog-boy was only following orders.

"Another time," I told the dog-boy, "you will wash the great dog with Vixen when I send them home."

"Does he know?" asked the boy, who understood dogs.

"Garm," I said, "another time you will be washed with Vixen." I knew he understood. Indeed, at the next washing day, when Vixen fled under my bed, Garm stared at the doubtful boy, then stalked to the place where he had been washed before and stood rigid in the tub.

The long days in my office tried him sorely. We three drove off each morning at half past eight and returned at six or later. Vixen, knowing the routine, went to sleep under my table, but the confinement ate into Garm's soul. He often sat on the verandah looking out at the Mall, and I knew what he expected. Sometimes a company of soldiers would march toward the Fort, and Garm would roll out to inspect them. Or an officer in uniform would enter the office, and it was pitiful to see Garm's welcome to the cloth—not the man. He would leap at him, sniff and bark joyously, then run to the door and back.

One afternoon, I heard him bay with full throat—a sound I had never heard before—and he disappeared. When I drove into my garden at day's end, a soldier in white uniform scrambled over the far wall, and Garm that met me was a joyous dog. This happened two or three times a week for a month.

I pretended not to notice, but Garm and Vixen both knew. Garm would slip away from the office about four o'clock, as if to look at the scenery, moving so quietly I would not have noticed but for Vixen. The jealous little dog under the table would give a sniff and snort, just loud enough to alert me. Garm might leave forty times a day, and Vixen would not stir, but when he slunk off to meet his true master in my garden, she told me in her own tongue. That was the one sign that Garm did not fully belong to our family. They were the best of friends, but Vixen made clear I was never to forget Garm didn't love me as she did. I never expected it. The dog was not mine—could never be mine—and I knew he was as miserable as his master, who walked eight miles a day to see him. I felt the sooner they were reunited, the better for all.

One afternoon, I sent Vixen home alone in the dogcart (Garm had already gone), and rode over to the cantonment to find another friend, an Irish soldier who was close to the dog's master. I explained the whole situation. "Stanley's in my garden crying over his dog. Why doesn't he take him back? They're both unhappy."

"Unhappy! There's no sense in the little man anymore. But 'tis his fit."

"What fit? He travels fifty miles a week to see the brute, and he pretends not to notice me when we meet on the road. I'm as unhappy as he is. Make him take the dog back."

"It's the penance he's set himself. After you ran him over that convenient night when he was drunk, I joked that if he were Catholic, he'd do penance. Off he went with that idea and a bout of fever, and nothing would do but he must give you the dog as a hostage."

"Hostage for what? I don't want hostages from Stanley."

"For his good behavior. He's keeping straight now, the way it's no pleasure to associate with him."

"Has he taken the pledge?"

"If it were only that, I wouldn't worry. You can take the pledge for three months on and off. He says he'll never see the dog again, and so, mark you, he'll keep straight forever. You know his fits? Well, this is one of them. How's the dog taking it?"

"Like a man. He's the best dog in India. Can't you make Stanley take him back?"

"I can do no more than I have. But you know his fits. He's just doing his penance. What will he do when he goes to the Hills? The doctor's put him on the list."

It is the custom in India to send a number of invalids from each regiment to hill stations for the hot weather. Though the men enjoy the cool and comfort, they miss the barracks society and try to return early. This move would bring matters to a head, so I left the Irishman hopefully, though he called after me, "He won't take the dog, sir. You can bet your month's pay on that. You know his fits." I never pretended to understand Private Ortheris, so I did the next best thing—I left him alone.

That summer, the invalids of my friend's regiment were ordered to the Hills early, as the doctors believed marching in the cool would do them good. Their route lay south to a place called Umballa, then east into the hills toward Kasauli, Dugshai, or Subathoo. I dined with the officers the night before they left—they were to march at five in the morning. At midnight, I drove into my garden and surprised a white figure climbing over the wall.

"That man," said my butler, "has been here since nine, talking to that dog. He is quite mad."

"Why did you not tell him to go away?"

"I did not tell him to go away because he has been here many times before, and because the dog-boy told me that if I did, that great dog would kill me. He did not wish to speak to the Protector of the Poor, and he did not ask for food or drink."

"Kadir Buksh," I said, "that was well done, for the dog would surely have killed you. But I do not think the white soldier will come anymore."

Garm slept poorly that night, whimpering in his dreams. Once he sprang up with a clear, ringing bark, and I heard his tail wag until it woke him, the bark dying into a howl. He had dreamed he was with his master again, and I nearly cried. It was all Stanley's silly fault.

The invalids' first halt was several miles from their barracks on the Amritsar road, ten miles from my house. By chance, one of the officers drove back for a good dinner at the Club (march cooking is always poor), and I met him there. He was a close friend, and I knew he loved dogs properly. His pet was a big, fat retriever going to the Hills for his health, and even in April the round brown brute puffed and panted in the verandah as if about to burst.

"It's amazing," said the officer, "what excuses these invalids make to get back to barracks. There's a man in my company asked leave to return to cantonments to pay a debt he'd forgotten. I was so amused I let him go, and he jingled off in an ekka, as pleased as Punch. Ten miles to pay a debt! Wonder what it really was?"

"If you drive me home, I think I can show you," I said.

So he drove me to my house in his dogcart with the retriever, and on the way I told him Garm's story.

"I was wondering where that brute had gone. He's the best dog in the regiment," said my friend. "I offered the little fellow twenty rupees for him a month ago. But he's a hostage, you say, for Stanley's good conduct? Stanley's one of my best men when he chooses."

"That's the reason why," I said. "A second-rate man wouldn't have taken things to heart like this."

We drove quietly to the far end of the garden and crept around the house. Near the wall, among tamarisk trees, was a place where Garm kept his bones, and even Vixen was forbidden to sit there. In the bright Indian moonlight, I saw a white uniform bending over the dog.

"Good-bye, old man," we heard Stanley say. "For 'Eving's sake, don't get bit and go mad from any measly pi-dog. But you can look after yourself, old man. You don't get drunk and run about hitting your friends. You takes your bones and you eats your biscuit, and you kills your enemy like a gentleman. I'm goin' away—don't 'owl—I'm goin' off to Kasauli, where I won't see you no more."

I could hear him holding Garm's nose as the dog lifted it to the stars. "You'll stay here and be'ave, and I'll go away and try to be'ave, and I don't know 'ow to leave you. I don't know—"

"I think this is damn silly," said the officer, patting his foolish old retriever. He called to the private, who jumped to his feet, marched forward, and saluted.

"You here?" said the officer, turning away.

"Yes, sir, but I'm just going back."

"I shall leave at eleven in my cart. You come with me. I can't have sick men running about. Report to me at eleven, here."

We went inside without saying much, but the officer muttered and pulled his retriever's ears. That dog was a disgraceful, overfed doormat. When he waddled off to my cookhouse for food, I had a brilliant idea.

At eleven o'clock, the officer's dog was nowhere to be found, and his owner made a great fuss, calling and searching through my garden for half an hour. Then I said, "He's sure to turn up in the morning. Send a man by rail, and I'll find the beast and return him."

"Beast?" said the officer. "I value that dog more than any man I know. It's fine for you to talk—your dog's here." Indeed, Vixen was under my feet, and had she been missing, food and wages would have stopped until her return. Some people grow fond of dogs not worth a whip's cut. My friend had to drive away at last, with Stanley in the back seat.

Then the dog-boy said to me, "What kind of animal is Bullen Sahib's dog? Look at him!"

I went to the boy's hut, and there lay the fat old reprobate, chained to a mat. He must have heard his master calling for twenty minutes but hadn't tried to free himself. "He has no face," said the dog-boy scornfully. "He is a spaniel. He never tried to get that cloth off his jaws when his master called. Vixen-baba would have jumped through the window, and that Great Dog would have killed me with his muzzled mouth. There are many kinds of dogs."

Next evening, who turned up but Stanley. The officer had sent him back fourteen miles by rail with a note begging me to return the retriever if found, or to offer large rewards. The last train left at half past ten, and Stanley stayed till ten, talking to Garm. I argued, entreated, and even threatened to shoot the bull-terrier, but the little man was firm as a rock, though I gave him a good dinner. Garm knew this was their last meeting and followed Stanley like a shadow. The retriever said nothing but licked his lips and waddled off without even a thank-you to the disgusted dog-boy.

After that last meeting, I felt as wretched as Garm, who moaned in his sleep all night. At the office, he found a spot under the table near Vixen and lay flat until it was time to go home. No more running to the verandah, no more secret meetings. As the heat grew, the dogs were forbidden to run beside the cart; instead, they sat beside me on the seat—Vixen with her head under my left arm, Garm at the left handrail.

Vixen thrived in this routine, announcing all traffic with her shrill bark—bullock carts, camels, led ponies—and keeping her dignity when passing low friends. Other dogs answered her yaps, and bullock drivers grinned and made way. But Garm cared for none of it. His big eyes stared at the horizon, his mouth shut. Another dog in the office, Bob the Librarian, belonged to my chief. He was a well-meaning idiot who chased imaginary rats among the bookshelves. He would invite Garm to join, but Garm would ignore him, curling up, leaving Bob whining at an uninterested back. The office was as cheerful as a tomb in those days.

Only once did I see Garm content with his surroundings. He had gone for an unauthorized walk with Vixen one Sunday morning when a young artilleryman tried to steal them both. Vixen, knowing better than to take food from soldiers, trotted home with a piece of mutton and laid it on the verandah, looking up for my approval. I asked where Garm was, and she ran ahead to show me. About a mile up the road, we found the artilleryman sitting stiffly on a culvert with a greasy handkerchief on his knees. Garm stood before him, looking pleased. Whenever the man moved, Garm bared his teeth silently. A broken string hung from his collar; the man held the other half. He explained, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, that he had met this dog and was taking him to the Fort to be killed as a stray.

I said Garm didn't seem like a stray to me, but he could take him if he wished. He said he didn't care to. I told him to go alone. He refused, saying he'd follow my advice once I called off the dog. I ordered Garm to escort him to the Fort, and Garm marched him solemnly up to the gate—a mile and a half in the hot sun. I told the quarter guard what had happened, but the young man was angrier than necessary when they laughed. Several regiments, I heard, had tried to steal Garm before.

That month, the hot weather truly began. The dogs slept in the bathroom on the cool bricks. Each morning, as soon as my bath was filled, they jumped in, and the man had to fill it again for them. When I suggested a small tub, the man laughed, "Nay, it is not their custom. They would not understand. Besides, the big bath gives them more space."

The punkah coolies came to know Garm well. He noticed that when the fan stopped, I would call out, and if the coolie slept, I'd wake him. Garm learned to lie in the air wave, and if the punkah stopped, he'd growl, stare at the rope, and if that didn't wake the man—it usually did—he'd tiptoe over and whisper in his ear. Vixen never made this connection, so Garm gave me many hours of cool sleep. Yet he was utterly miserable, clinging to me so closely that others noticed and envied. If I moved rooms, he followed; if my pen paused, his head was in my hand; if I turned in bed, he was at my side. He knew I was his only link to his master, and his eyes constantly asked, "When will this end?"

Living with him, I didn't realize how thin he'd become until a man at the Club said, "That dog of yours will die in a week. He's a shadow." I dosed him with iron and quinine, which he hated. He lost his appetite, and even letting Vixen eat his dinner didn't rouse him. We held a consultation with the best doctor in the place, a lady doctor who cured kings' wives, and the Deputy Inspector General of the Veterinary Service of India. They examined him, and I told them his story. Garm lay on a sofa, licking my hand.

"He's dying of a broken heart," said the lady doctor.

"Upon my word," said the Deputy Inspector General, "I believe Mrs. Macrae is quite right."

The doctor wrote a prescription, and the veterinary officer checked it for proper dog doses—the first time our doctor allowed his prescription to be edited. The strong tonic perked him up for a week, but then he faded again. I asked a friend to take him to the Hills, but when the carriage came, Garm understood. His hackles rose; he sat in front of me and growled—the most awful sound I've heard from a dog. I shouted for my friend to leave at once, and once the carriage was gone, Garm laid his head on my knee and whined. So I knew his answer, and I set about finding Stanley's address in the Hills.

My own holiday came in late August. My chief and Bob had already gone, so I counted the days on a calendar I hung by my cot. Vixen had been with me to the Hills five times and loved the cool and the wood fires. This time, I said to Garm, "We are going back to Stanley at Kasauli. Stanley—Kasauli. Kasauli—Stanley." I repeated it many times. Actually, our destination was another place, but I dared not change the name. Garm began to tremble, then barked, then leaped up, frisking. I held up my hand: "Not now. When I say 'Go,' we'll go." I brought out the little blanket coat and spiked collar Vixen wore in the Hills, to protect against cold and leopards, and let them smell them. What they said, I don't know, but it made a new dog of Garm. His eyes brightened; he barked joyfully, ate well, and killed rats. If he whined, I'd just say "Stanley—Kasauli" to cheer him.

When my chief returned, brown and annoyed by the heat, we began packing. Vixen knew the routine, rolling in and out of the trunk. At the station, she sang songs from the front seat, then hurried into the carriage and curled up, watching the platform with her black-patched eye. Garm followed, and the crowd gave way. He sat on the pillows, eyes blazing and tail wagging furiously.

We reached Umballa in the misty dawn, and the men shouted for their dak carriages to take us to Kalka at the foot of the hills. Garm was puzzled by the roomy carriages, but Vixen hopped in, and he followed. The Kalka road, before the railway, was forty-seven miles of changing horses every eight miles. Most horses jibbed and kicked, but they went well with Garm's deep bay behind. We forded rivers, bullocks pulling, Vixen barking directions. Garm was silent and curious, needing reassurance about Stanley and Kasauli. We lunched at Kalka, where Garm ate for two.

After Kalka, the road wound into the mountains, and we took a curricle with half-broken ponies changed every six miles.

No railroad existed then, for Simla was seven thousand feet up. We climbed switchbacks, the driver's bugle tooting at dangerous turns, Vixen singing, Garm baying. Kadir Buksh smiled, glad to escape the heat. Occasionally we'd meet a friend descending, and we'd exchange greetings: "What's it like below?" "Hotter than cinders! What's it like above?" "Perfect!"

Suddenly Kadir Buksh said, "Here is Solon." Garm snored, head on my knee. Solon was an unpleasant little cantonment, but cool and healthy. We stopped at a rest house, and I took both dogs for a walk. A soldier told me we'd find Stanley "out there," pointing to a bare hill.

When we climbed, we saw him—the very man who had caused this trouble—sitting on a rock, face in his hands, overcoat hanging loose. He looked utterly lonely and dejected, crumpled against the gray hillside.

Then Garm left me. Without a word, without moving his legs, he flew through the air. I heard the thud as he struck Stanley, knocking him over. They rolled together on the ground, shouting, yelping, hugging. I couldn't tell which was which until Stanley stood, whimpering. He said he'd had fever and felt weak, but even as I watched, both man and dog seemed to fill out, like dried apples swelling in water. Garm was all over him—on his shoulder, his chest, his feet. Stanley spoke through a cloud of Garm, gulping and sobbing. I couldn't understand much, except that he'd thought he might die, but now he was well, and he'd never give Garm up again to anyone below the rank of Beelzebub. Then he said he was hungry and thirsty and happy.

We went down for tea, where Stanley ate a feast of sardines, jam, mutton, and pickles, while Garm clambered over him. Then Vixen and I continued on our way. Garm said goodbye three times, offering each paw, leaping to my shoulder, then escorting us a mile down the road, singing joyously, before racing back to his true master. Vixen remained silent, but as the cold twilight fell and the lights of Simla appeared across the hills, she snuffled at my chest. I unbuttoned my coat and tucked her inside. She gave a contented sniff and fell asleep, her head on my breast, until we arrived at Simla—two of the four happiest people in all the world that night.