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Title: The Ruby Sword
A Romance of Baluchistan
Author: Bertram Mitford
Illustrator: Harold Pifford
Release Date: July 3, 2011 [EBook #36606]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RUBY SWORD ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Ruby Sword
A Romance of Baluchistan
By Bertram Mitford
Illustrations by Harold Pifford
Published by F.V. White and Co, London.
The Ruby Sword, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE RUBY SWORD, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE GHAZIS.
"We love to roam, the wide world our home,
As the rushing whirlwind free;
O'er sea and land, and foreign strand,
Who would not a wanderer be!
"To the far off scenes of our youthful dreams
With a lightsome heart we go;
On the willing hack, or the charger's back,
Or the weary camel slow."
Thus sang the wayfarer to himself as he urged a potentially willing, but
certainly very tired hack along the stony, sandy road which wound
gradually up the defile; now overhanging a broad, dry watercourse, now
threading an expanse of stunted juniper--the whole constituting a most
depressing waste, destitute alike of animal, bird--or even insect--life.
The wayfarer sang to keep up his spirits, for the desolation of the
surroundings had already begun to get upon his nerves. He was
thoroughly tired out, and very thirsty, a combination of discomfort
which is apt to get upon one's temper as well. His steed, a sorry
quadruped at best, seemed hardly able to put one leg before another,
wearied out with a long day's march over arid plains, where the sun
blazed down as a vast burning-glass upon slabs of rock and mounds of dry
soil, streaked white here and there with gypsum--and now the ascent,
gradual as it was, of the mountain defile had about finished both horse
and rider.
Twice had the latter dismounted, with a view to sparing his worn-out
steed by leading it. But the exasperating quadruped, in shameful
disregard of the superabundant intelligence wherewith popular
superstition persists in endowing that noble--but intensely stupid--
animal the horse, flatly refused to be led; standing stockstill with
every attempt. So his efforts in the cause of combined humanity and
expediency thus defeated, the wayfarer had no alternative but to keep
his saddle, where, sitting wearily, and with feet kicked limply from the
stirrups, he now and then swung a spur-armed heel into the bony ribs--
which incentive had about as much effect as if applied to an ordinary
jog the while he went on half singing, half humming, to himself:
"There's a charm in the crag, there's a charm in the cloud,
There's a charm in the earthquake's throe;
When the hills are wrapt in a moonlit shroud
There's a charm in the glacier's snow.
"We bask in the blaze of the sun's bright rays
By the murmuring river's flow;
And we scale the peak of the mountain steep,
And gaze on the storms below.
"For use around a snug camp fire, that would be an excellent traveller's
song," said this one to himself--"But in the present instance I fear it
will be `gaze on the storms _above_,' and I don't like it."
Away up the pass a dark curtain of cloud, ominous and now growing inky
black in the subdued light following upon sunset, seemed to justify the
wayfarer's foreboding. It was distant enough as yet, but hung right
over what would surely be the said wayfarer's path.
"No, I don't like it," he went on, talking out loud to himself as he
frequently did when travelling alone. "It looks very like a night in
the open; nothing to eat, though there'll be plenty to drink presently
in the shape of rain-water, no shelter unless one can light upon an
overhanging rock. A sweet country to be landed down in without any of
the appliances of civilisation, and, from all accounts, not altogether a
safe one for the homeless wanderer. Decidedly the prospect is gaudy.
It positively corruscates with cheerfulness."
For which grim irony there was ample justification. Sundown had brought
no abatement of the boding oppressive heat, wherein not a breath of air
was stirring. Great hills shot up to the fast glooming sky on either
hand; now from the edge of the road itself, now from the valley bottom,
in no part of great width--beyond the stony bed of the dry watercourse;
their sides cleft here and there from base to summit by a jagged,
perpendicular rift--black and cavernous--their serrated ridges piled on
high in a confused jumble of sharp peak and castellated formation--the
home of the markhoor and mountain sheep. Here a smooth, unbroken slab
of rock, sloping at the well nigh precipitous angle of a high-pitched
roof--there, at an easier slant, a great expanse of rock face, seamed
and criss-crossed with chasms, like the crevasses on a glacier. No
vegetation, either, to relieve the all pervading, depressing greyness,
save where a ragged juniper or pistachio had found anchor along a ledge,
or fringed the lip of some dark chasm aforesaid.
No turn of the road brought any relief to the eye--any lifting of the
unconscious oppression which lay upon the mind; ever the same hills,
sheering aloft, fearsome in their dark ruggedness, conveying the idea of
vast and wellnigh untrodden fastnesses, grim, repellent, mysterious.
Nor below did variety lie; the same lifeless juniper forest, its dreary
trees set wide apart, its stoniness in places concealed by a coarse
growth of grass, or sparse and stunted shrub. For of such are the wild
mountain tracts of Baluchistan.
From an adjacent crag a raven croaked. The hoarse "cauk-cauk" cleft the
air with a startling suddenness, breaking in as it did upon the lifeless
and boding silence. High overhead a huge bird of prey circled in the
now glooming twilight, as though searching with lingering reluctance for
some sign of life, where there was no life, ere seeking its roost among
the black recesses of yon cliff-walled chasm.
"The sole signs of life emblems of fierce predatoriness and death--"
thought the wayfarer to himself. Very meet, indeed, for the
surroundings in which they were set. Below, ere leaving the plain
country, he had passed flocks of black-haired goats grazing, in charge
of armed herdsmen; or now and again a string of camels and asses--the
motive power of a party of wandering Baluchis. Some had given him the
"_Salaam_," and some had scowled resentfully at him as an intruder and
an infidel; but even of these he would almost gladly have welcomed the
sight now, so entirely depressing was the utter lifelessness of this
uninhabited land. Yet it could not be entirely uninhabited, for here
and there he had passed patches of corn land in the valley bottom, which
must have been under cultivation at one time, though now abandoned.
The cloud-curtain away in front began to give forth red fitful gleams,
and once or twice a low boom of distant thunder stirred the atmospheric
stillness. But the double crash that burst from the hillside now--those
red jets of flame--meant no war of the elements. At the same time, with
a buzzing, humming noise, something passed over the wayfarer's head.
Even the weary, played out steed was startled into a snort and a shy.
The rider, on his part, was not a little startled too, as he recalled
the evil reputation of the hill tribesmen, and realised that he himself
was at that moment constituting a target to some of these. Still, he
would not show alarm if he could help it.
"_Salaam_!" he shouted, raising his right hand with the palm outward and
open; a peace sign recognised by other barbarians among whom he had at
one time moved. "_Salaam_!" And his gaze was fixed anxiously upon the
group of boulders whence the shots had been fired.
For a moment there was no answer--Then it came--took shape, indeed,
after a fashion that was sufficiently alarming. Five figures sprang
from their place of concealment--five tall, copper-coloured, hook-nosed
barbarians, their fierce eyes gleaming with fanatical and racial
hatred--their black hair flowing in long locks beneath their ample white
turbans. Each held aloft a wicked looking, curved sword, and two
carried jezails, whose muzzles still smoked from the shots just fired
from them.
All this the wayfarer took in as in a lightning flash, as these wild
beings whirled down upon him. Their terrific aspect--the white quiver
of the naked swords, their ferocious yells stunning his ears, conveyed
meaning enough. He realised that this was a time to run--not to fight.
Luckily the horse, forgetting for the moment its weariness in the terror
of this sudden onslaught, sprang forward without waiting for the spurs
now rammed so hard and deep into its ribs. But the assailants had
chosen their ground well. The road here made a sudden descent--and was
rough and stony withal. The fleet-footed mountaineers could travel as
fast as the horse. Their flight over that rugged ground seemed as the
flight of a bird.
The foremost, wellnigh alongside, held his sword ready for a fatal
sweep. The awful devilish look on the face of this savage appalled the
traveller. It was now or never. He put his hand behind him; then,
pointing the revolver straight at his assailant, pressed the trigger.
The pistol was small, but hard driving. At such close quarters it could
not miss. The barbarian seemed to double up--and fell backwards on to
his head, flinging his arms in the air--his sword falling, with a
metallic clang, several yards away among the stones.
Just that brief delay saved the traveller. His assailants, now reduced
to four, halted but momentarily to look at their stricken comrade, and
by dint of rowelling the sides of his steed until the blood flowed
freely, he was able to keep the exhausted animal as near to a gallop as
it was capable of attaining. But the respite was brief. Their
bloodcurdling yells perfectly demoniacal now, the barbarians leaped
forward in pursuit. They seemed to fly. The tired horse could never
hope to outstrip them.
And as he thus fled, the wayfarer felt the cold shadow of Death's portal
already chill upon his brow, for he realised that his chances were
practically _nil_. He had heard of the "Ghazi" mania, which combined
the uncontrollable fighting frenzy of the old Norse Berserk with the
fervid fury of religious fanaticism. There was no warfare then existing
with any of the tribes of Baluchistan. These people, therefore, were
Ghazis, the most desperate and dangerous enemies to deal with, because
utterly fearless, utterly reckless. He had still five chambers in his
pistol, but the weapon was small, and quite unreliable, save at point
blank--in which case his enemies would cut him down before he had time
to account for more than one of themselves.
All this flashed through his mind. Then he realised that the ferocious
yelling had ceased. He looked back. A turn in the road hid the
pursuers from view, and now it was nearly dark. But the darkness
brought hope. Had they abandoned the pursuit? Or could he not conceal
himself in some of the holes and crevices on the stony hillside until
they should be tired of searching?
Still keeping his steed at its best speed--and that was not great--so as
to ensure a good start, he held on, warily listening for any sound of
his pursuers--and thus covered about two miles. A thunder peal rolled
heavily--its echoes reverberating from crag to crag--and the
cloud-curtain in front was alive with a dazzle of sheeting flame, which
lit up the road and the dreary landscape like noonday. By its light he
looked back. Still no sign of the pursuers, whose white flowing
garments could not have failed to catch his eye. Hope--strong hope--
rekindled within him.
But not for long. His horse, thoroughly blown, dropped into a walk. A
walk? A crawl rather, for the poor beast staggered along, its flanks
heaving violently, swaying at times, as though the mere effort to drag
one leg after another would bring it down, and once down well its rider
knew there would be no more rising. And then? One man--alone,
dismounted, inadequately armed--in the vast heart of an unknown country,
tracked down by fleet-footed pitiless destroyers, stung to a frenzy of
massacre by a twofold incentive--blood feud for a comrade slain, and the
fanatical dictates--or supposed dictates--of the most merciless religion
in the world. There could be but one end.
Again he dismounted. The horse, relieved of so much weight, seemed to
pant less distressingly. Every moment thus lost was a moment gained by
his bloodthirsty enemies to come up with him, yet he felt it to be the
wisest policy to spare his steed to the very utmost. Then he climbed
into the saddle once more.
Now the storm was wellnigh overhead. The thunder roared and crashed,
and great drops of rain shone like silver in the momentary dazzle of the
lightning gleam--In that livid flare, too, the peaks stood forth on
high, silhouetted against the heavens, and every bough of the ragged
juniper trees was clearly and delicately defined.
Something else, too, was clearly but appallingly defined--to wit, four
white-clad figures--with bronzed faces and flowing hair and flaming
eyes; and the sheen and flash of four curved naked swords. They had
been running in silence hitherto--but now--with a deafening howl they
hurled themselves forward on their prey--
Without even cocking his revolver, the hunted man dropped it to the
present and pressed the trigger. It would not move. Then he drew up
the hammer--no--tried to--It, too, would not move. The cylinder was
jammed. The cartridges--which he had purchased at one of those large
co-operative stores, where they sell many things, but nothing reliable--
were too tight a fit. The weapon was as useless as a bit of stick.
With a bitter curse upon the pettifogging dishonesty of his trading
fellow countrymen, the now desperate man wrenched off one of the
stirrups--not a bad weapon at a pinch--But once more fortune befriended
him. The horse, spurred by terror to one more effort, plunged down the
road, which now made a sudden descent. The stunning report of a jezail,
which the Ghazis had presumably stopped to reload, added to its terror,
but the missile hummed harmlessly by. And now in the ceaseless gleam of
the lightning, the fugitive saw right before him at the base of the
slope, the wide stony bed of a watercourse.
On, on, on, anyhow--though where safety lay was too great a hope to
enter his despairing brain--Then, drawing nearer and nearer from the
hills on his right came a strange, swirling, rushing roar. It was not
the thunder. It had a note of its own as it boomed louder and louder
with every second. It was as the breaking of surf against the base of
an echoing cliff. And as another vivid lightning flash lit up the whole
landscape with a noonday flare, the traveller beheld a sight that was
appalling in its wild terror.
A wall of water was sweeping down the dry nullah--a vast brown muddy
wave, many feet high. His escape was cut off. Yet not. So far it had
not reached the point where the road crossed. Could he be before it
there was safety. Otherwise death, either way.
In the nullah now, the slipping, stumbling horsehoofs were flashing up
showers of sparks in the blackness--Then another lightning gleam. The
fugitive glanced to the right, then wished he had not. The advancing
flood, tossing against the livid sky, was so awful as to unnerve him,
and he was just half way across. The four Ghazis arrived on the bank,
but even they shrank back from the roaring terror of that wave wall.
But the remaining loaded jezail spoke--and the miserable steed, stricken
by the missile, plunged forward, throwing the rider hard upon his head.
The wild triumph scream of the furious fanatics, leaping like demons in
the lightning's glare, was drowned by the bellowing voice of the flood.
It poured by--and now the whole wide bed of the watercourse was a very
hell of seething roaring waves. But on the further side from the
bloodthirsty Ghazis lay the motionless form of a man--He lay at full
length, face downwards, and the swirling eddies on the extreme edge of
the furious flood were just washing the soles of his riding boots, and
leaving little wisps of twigs and straws sticking in his upturned spurs.
CHAPTER TWO.
THROUGH FLOOD.
Ernest Aurelius Upward was the chief official in charge of the
Government forests of Baluchistan.
Now the said "forests" had about as much affinity to the idea of sylvan
wildness conveyed by that term as many of the Highland so-called deer
forests; in that they were mainly distinguishable by a conspicuous lack
of trees; such trees as there were consisting wellnigh entirely of the
stunted, profitless, and utterly unpicturesque juniper, which straggling
over the slopes of the hills and devoid of undergrowth imparted to the
arid and stony landscape somewhat of the aspect of a vast continental
burying-ground, badly kept and three parts forgotten.
Being thus devoid of undergrowth, the land was proportionately depleted
of wild life, since game requires covert. This added not to its
attractions in the eyes of Ernest Aurelius, who was a keen Nimrod. He
had been a mighty slayer of tiger during an experience of many years
spent in the Indian forest service. Long indeed was the death roll of
"Stripes" when that energetic official was around with rifle and camp
outfit among the jungly hills of his North West Province section. Of
panther he had long since ceased to keep count, while cheetul or
blackbuck he reckoned in with such small game as partridge or snipe. We
have said that the great rugged slopes and towering crags of his present
charge still held the markhor and wild mountain sheep; but Upward was
not so young as he had been and remembering the fine times he had had
with the far easier _shikar_ of the lower country, frankly declared his
distaste for the hard labour involved in swarming up all manner of
inaccessible heights at all sorts of unearthly hours of the day or night
on the off-chance of one precarious shot. So the _gadh_ and markhor, so
far as he was concerned, went unmolested.
But its lack of sport notwithstanding, his present charge had its
compensations. Life in camp among these elevated mountain ranges was
healthful and not unpleasant. At an altitude of anything up to 8,000
feet the air stirred keen and fresh, and the climate of Shalalai, the
cantonment station where he had his headquarters in the shape of a snug,
roomy bungalow and a garden in which he took much pride, was appreciated
alike by himself and others, to whom recollection was still vivid of the
torrid, enervating exhaustion of plains stations. Furthermore his term
of retirement was not many years distant and on the whole, Upward found
no great reason for discontent.
And now as we first make his personal acquaintance, he is riding slowly
across the valley bottom towards his camp. His mackintosh is streaming
with wet, and the collar tucked up to his ears, for the rain is falling
in a steady pitiless downpour. Two men of his Pathan forest guard walk
behind, one carrying his master's gun, the other a few brace of chikor
or grey partridge, an abominable unsporting biped, whom no amount of
education will convince of his duty to rise and be shot. The evening
has closed in wet and stormy, and the lightning gleam sheds its red
blaze upon the white tents of the camp. These tents, in number about a
dozen, are pitched among the trees of an apricot tope, whose leafage is
just beginning to bud forth anew after the devastations of a flight of
locusts. In front the valley bottom is open and comparatively level but
behind, the mountain range rises rugged and abrupt--its face cleft by
the black jaws of a fine _tangi_, narrow, but with perpendicular sides
rising to an altitude of several hundred feet. This picturesquely
forbidding chasm acts in rainy weather as a feeder to the now dry
watercourse on whose bank the camp is pitched.
The lamps are already lighted, and in one of the larger tents a lady is
seated reading. She looks up as Upward enters.
"What sport have you had, Ernest?"
"Only seven brace and a half."
"Oh come, that's not so bad. Are you very wet?"
"No--but my Terai hat is about spoiled; wish I had put on another,"
flinging off the soaked headgear in question. "These beastly storms
crop up every afternoon now, and always at the same time. There's no
fun in going out shooting. Khola, _Peg lao_."
The well trained bearer, who has been assisting his master out of his
soaked mackintosh, moves swiftly and noiselessly in quest of the needed
"peg."
"Well, I'll go and change. Where are the girls?"
"In their own tent. Hurry up though. Dinner must be quite ready."
By the time Upward is dried and toiletted--a process which does not take
him long--"the girls" are in. Two of them are not yet out of the short
frock stage. These are his own children, and are aged fourteen and
twelve respectively. The third, however, who is a couple of years
beyond her teens, is no relation, but a guest.
"Did you have any sport, Mr Upward?" says the latter, as they sat down
to table.
"No--there's no sport in chikor shooting. The chikor is the most
unsporting bird in the world. He won't rise to be shot at."
"What on earth do we stay on here for then?" says the elder of the two
children, who, like many Indian and colonially raised children, is not
slow to volunteer an opinion. "I wish we were going back to Shalalai
to-morrow."
"So do I," cuts in the other promptly.
"Oh--do you!" responds her parent mingling for himself a "peg"--"Why,
the other day you were all for getting into camp. You were sick of
Shalalai, and everybody in it."
"Well, we are not now. It's beastly here, and always raining," says the
younger one, teasing a little fox terrier under the table until it yelps
and snarls.
"Do go on with your dinner, Hazel, and leave the dog alone," urges her
mother in the mildest tone of gentle remonstrance.
"Oh, all right," with a pout and flounce. She is a queer,
dark-complexioned little elf is Hazel, with a vast mane of hair nearly
as large as herself--and loth to accept reproof or injunction without
protest--The other laughs meaningly, and then a squabble arises--for
they are prone to squabbling--which is finally quelled.
"Well, and what do you think, Miss Cheriton?" says Upward turning to
their guest, when this desirable result has been achieved. "Are you
sick of camp yet?"
"N-no--I don't think I am--At least--of course I'm not."
"I'm afraid Nesta does find it slow," puts in Mrs Upward--But before
Nesta Cheriton can utter a disclaimer, the other of the two children
gives a whistle.
"Lily, my dear girl!" expostulates her mother.
"I can't help it. Slow? I should think Nesta did find it slow. Why,
she was only saying this morning she'd give ten years of her life for a
little excitement."
"Lily is simply `embroidering,' Mr Upward," pleads Nesta, with a bright
laugh. "I said--at anytime--not only now or here."
"We could have found you excitement enough in some of my other
districts. You could have come after tiger with me."
"Oh no--no! That isn't the kind of thing I mean--And I can't think how
Mrs Upward could have done it"--with a glance at the latter. For this
gentle, refined looking woman with the pretty eyes and soft, charmful
manner, had stood by her husband's side when the striped demon of the
jungle, maddened with his wounds, ears laid back and eyes flashing green
flame, had swooped upon them in lightning charge, uttering that awful
coughing roar calculated to unnerve the stoutest of hearts--to drop, as
though lightning-struck, before the heavy Express bullet directed by a
steady hand and unflinching brain.
"Well, the kind of excitement you mean will roll up in a day or two in
the shape of Bracebrydge and Fleming"--replies Upward, with a genial
twinkle in his eyes--"they want to come after the chikor. It's rather a
nuisance--This place won't carry two camps. But I say, Miss Cheriton,
those fellows wont do any chikor shooting."
"Why not?--Isn't that what they are coming for?"
"Oh, yes. But then, you see, when the time comes to go out, each of
them will make some excuse to remain behind--or to double back. Neither
will want to leave the field open to the other."
"Ah, but--I don't care for either of them," laughed Nesta, not
pretending to misunderstand his meaning.
"Not? Why everybody is in love with Bracebrydge--or he thinks they
are--There's only one thing I must warn you against, and that is not to
spell his name with an `I'. There are two girls in Shalalai to my
knowledge who wrecked all their chances on that rock."
"Nonsense Ernest"--laughed his wife. "How can you talk such a lot of
rubbish? To talk sense now. I wonder when Mr Campian will turn up?"
"Any day or no day. Campian's such an uncertain bird. He never knows
his own plans himself. If he didn't know whether he was coming overland
from Bombay or round by sea to Karachi, I don't see how I can. Anyway,
I wrote him to the B.I. agents at Karachi telling him how to get to
Shalalai, and left a letter there for him telling him how to get here.
I couldn't do more. Khola, cheroot, _lao_."
Dinner was over now, and very snug the interior of the tent looked in
the cheerful lamplight, as Upward, selecting a cheroot from the box the
bearer had just deposited in front of him, proceeded to puff away
contentedly. The rain pattered with monotonous regularity on the
canvas, and, reverberating among the crags, the thunder rolled in
deep-toned boom.
"Beastly sort of night," said Upward, flicking the ash from his cheroot.
"The storm's passing over though. By Jove! I shouldn't wonder if it
brought the _tangi_ down. It must be falling heavy in that catchment
area."
A shade of alarm came into Nesta Cheriton's face.
"Should we be--er--quite safe here if it did?" she asked.
"Rather," said Upward. "The water comes through the _tangi_ itself like
an express train, but the nullah widens out below and runs off the
water. No fear. It has never been up as high as this. In fact, it
couldn't. By George! What was that?"
The two younger girls had got out cards and were deep in some game
productive of much squabbling. The conversation among their elders had
been carried on in an easy, placid, after-dinner tone. But through all
there came, distinctly audible, the sound of a sharp, heavy report, not
so very distant either.
"That's a shot, I'll swear!" cried Upward excitedly, rising to his feet
and listening intently. "Thunder? No fear. It's a shot. No mistaking
a shot. But who the deuce would be firing shots here and at this time
of night? Shut up Tinkles--shut up you little _soor_!" as the little
fox terrier charged savagely towards the purdah, uttering shrill,
excited barks.
Various emotions were manifest on the countenances of the listeners--one
or two even expressing a shade akin to fear. As they stood thus, with
nerves at tension, a new sound rushed forth upon the silence of the
night--a sort of hollow, bellowing roar--nearer and nearer--louder and
louder.
"The _tangi_!" cried Upward. "By George! the _tangi_ is down."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" crowed Lily, clapping her hands. "Let's go and look
at it. Come along, Nesta. Here's some excitement at last!"
"Wait for the lantern. Wait--wait--do you hear?" cried her mother.
"It's very dark; you might tumble in."
"Oh, hang the lantern," grumbled Lily. "The water will have passed by
that time, and I want to see it rush out."
She had her wish, however, for the lantern being quickly lighted, the
whole party stepped forth into the rain and the darkness. At first
nothing was visible, but as the radius of light struck upon the vertical
jaws of the great black chasm, they stopped for a moment, awed,
appalled--almost instinctively stepping back.
Forth from those vertical jaws vomited a perfect terror of roaring,
raging water. It was more like a vast spout than a mere stream was this
awful flood; of inky blackness save where the broken waves, meeting a
projection, seethed and hissed; and, amid the deafening tumult, the
rattle of rocks, loosened from their bed, and shot along like timber by
the velocity of the waters, mingled with the crash of tree trunks
against the smooth cliff walls of the rift. In a moment, with a roar
like a thunder burst, it had spread itself over the dry face of the
nullah, which was now rolling many feet deep of mountainous swirling
waves.
For a few moments they stood contemplating the wild tumult by the light
of the lantern. Then Mrs Upward, her voice hardly audible through the
bellowing of the waters, said:
"Now girls, we'd better go in. It's raining hard still."
This drew a vehement protest from Hazel and Lily. It was such fun
watching the flood, they urged. What did it matter about a little rain?
and so forth. But Tinkles, the little fox terrier, was now barking
furiously at something or other unseen, keeping, however, very close to
her master's legs, for all her expenditure of vocal ferocity. Then a
voice came out of the darkness--a male voice which, although soft and
pleasing, caused Nesta Cheriton to start and cling involuntary to
Upward's arm.
"_Huzoor_!" [A form of greeting more deferential than the better known
"Sahib."]
"What is it, Bhallu Khan?" said Upward, as the voice and the light of
the lantern revealed the chief forest guard.
The latter now began speaking quickly in Hindustani. Had the _Huzoor_
heard anything? Yes? Well there was something going on yonder. Just
before the _tangi_ came down there was a shot fired. It was on the
other side of the nullah. Something was going on.
Now Bhallu Khan was inclined to be long-winded in his statements. It
was raining smartly, and Upward grew impatient.
"I don't see what we can do," he bellowed through the roar of the water.
"We can't even go and see what's up. The _tangi_ is down, and the
_tumasha_, whatever it is, was on the other side."
"Not all the time, _Huzoor_," urged the forest guard. "While the roar
of the water was yet distant, we heard a strange noise--yes, a very
strange noise--It was as the clatter of hoofs in the bed of the dry
nullah, of shod hoofs. And then there was another shot--and the
hoof-strokes seemed to cease. Then the water came down and we could
hear no more of anything."
"Eh! another shot!" cried Upward, now thoroughly startled. "Why, what
the devil is the meaning of it?" This last escaped him in English--and
it brought the whole party around him, now all ears, regardless of the
rain. Only Nesta was out of it--not understanding Hindustani.
It was where the road crosses the nullah, Bhallu Khan explained. He
could not tell what it might be, but thought he had better inform the
_Huzoor_. It might even be worth while going that far to see if there
was anything to find out.
"Yes, let's go!"--cut in Lily. "Hurrah! here's a new excitement!"
"Let's go!" echoed her father sharply. "To bed, you mean. So off you
go there, both of you. Come--clear in--quick! Likely one wants a lot
of children fooling about in the dark on a night like this."
Heedless of their grumbling protest, Upward dived into his tent, and,
quickly arming himself with his magazine rifle and revolver, he came
forth. Bhallu Khan he instructed to bring another of the forest guard
to accompany them while a third was left to look after the camp.
In the darkness and rain they took their way along the bank of the
flood--Upward hardly knowing what he was expecting to find. The country
was wild, and its inhabitants wilder still. Quite recently there had
been an upheaval of lawlessness among a section of the powerful and
restless Marri tribe. What if some bloody deed of vendetta, or tribal
feud, had been worked out here, almost at his very door? He stumbled
along through the wet, coarse tussocks, peering here and there as the
forest guard held the lantern before him--his rifle ready. He hardly
expected to find anything living, but there was a weird creepiness about
this nocturnal quest after something sinister and mysterious that moved
him by sheer instinct to defensive preparation. Twice he started, as
the dark form of a half-stranded tree trunk with its twisted limbs
suggested the find of some human body--ghastly with wounds--distorted
with an agonising death. Suddenly Bhallu Khan stopped short, and with a
hurried and whispered exclamation held up the lantern, while pointing to
something in front.
Something which lay half in, half out of the water. Something which all
felt rather than saw had had life, even if life were no longer in it.
No tree trunk this time, but a human body. Dead or alive, however, they
were only just in time, for even as they looked the swirl of an eddy
threw a volume of water from the middle of the trunk right over the
neck--so quickly had the flood risen.
"Here--give me the lantern--And you two pull him out, sharp," said
Upward.
This, to the two stalwart hillmen, was but the work of a moment. Then
an exclamation escaped Bhallu Khan.
"It is a sahib!" he cried.
Upward bent over the prostrate form, holding the light to the face.
Then it became his turn to start in amazement.
"Good God! it's Campian!" he exclaimed--"Campian himself. But how the
devil did he get here like this, and--Is he alive or dead?"
"He is alive, _Huzoor_," answered Bhallu Khan, who had been scrutinising
the unconscious features from the other side.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE FOREST CAMP.
The following morning broke bright and clear, and save that there was a
coolness in the air, and the bed of the _tangi_ which had poured forth
its black volume of roaring destruction the night before was wet and
washed out--no trace of the wild whirl of the elements would now be
visible.
Campian awoke, feeling fairly restored, though as he opened his eyes
after his sound and heavy sleep he could hardly recall where he was, or
what had happened--nor in fact, did he particularly care whether he
could recall it or not. This frame of mind lasted for some time, then
his faculties began to reassert themselves. The events of the previous
night came back to him--the long, wearisome journey, the exhausted
steed, the sudden onslaught of the Ghazis, the pursuit--then that last
desperate effort for life--the rolling flood, the jezail shot, and--
oblivion. Now a thought struck him. Where was he? In a tent. But
whose tent? Was he a captive in the hands of his recent assailants?
Hardly. This was not the sort of treatment he would have met at their
hands, even if the unmistakably European aspect of all the fittings and
tent furniture did not speak for themselves. And at that moment, as
though to dispel all further grounds of conjecture, the purdah was moved
aside and somebody stole softly in. Campian closed his eyes, surveying
this unexpected visitant through the lids. Then he opened them.
"That you, Upward, or am I dreaming?"
"It's me right enough, old chap. How are you feeling--eh? A bit buzzy
still? How's the head?"
"Just as you put it--a bit buzzy. But I say, where are we?"
"In camp, at Chirria Bach."
"So? And where the devil might Chirria Bach be? I was bound for
Gushki. Thought you were there."
"Didn't you get my letter at Shalalai, saying we were going into camp?"
said Upward.
"Not any. I got one--There was nothing about camp in it--It told me to
come on to Gushki. But I fell in with two Johnnies there who were going
on a chikor shoot, and wanted me to cut in--I did--hence concluded to
find my way here across country instead of by the usual route. I'm fond
of that sort of thing, you know."
"Where are your things--and how is it you are all alone? This isn't the
country to ride around in like that--all alone--I can tell you."
"So I've discovered." And then he narrated the events of the previous
day's journey up to the time of his falling unconscious in the riverbed.
"Well you've had a devilish narrow squeak, old chap," pronounced Upward,
when he had done. "Do you know, if it hadn't been for old Bhallu Khan,
my head forest guard, hearing your gee scrambling through the nullah,
you would never have been seen again. We heard the first shot. It
seemed fishy, but it was no use bothering about it, because it was on
the other side of the water. Then the _tangi_ coming down kicked up
such a row that we couldn't hear ourselves speak, let alone hear the
other shot. You were more than half in the water when we found you,
and--I've been down to the place this morning--and the water has been
over more than twice your own length from where you were lying when we
hauled you out. Lucky old Bhallu Khan heard the racket--eh?"
"Rather. But, I say, Upward, I shot one of those brigands. Likely to
be trouble raised over that?"
Upward looked grave. "You never can tell," he said. "You see, in a
case of that sort, the Government has a say in the matter. Don't give
away anything about the shooting to anybody for the present, and we'll
think over what is best to be done--or not done--Perhaps you only winged
your man."
"I hope so, if it will save any further bother. But, it's a dashed cool
thing assailing a peaceable traveller in that way. There's no sort of
war on here?"
"No, but the fact of your being alone and unarmed--unarmed, at least, so
far as they could see--was a temptation to those devils. They hate us
like poison since we took over the country and prevented them--or tried
to prevent them--from cutting each other's throats, so they are not
likely to let slip an opportunity of cutting ours instead."
"And after that first shot, practically I was unarmed, thanks to the
swindling rascality of the British huckster in guaranteeing ammunition
that jammed in the pistol. No more co-operative stores for me, thanks."
Now again the purdah was lifted, and the bearer appeared, bringing in
tea and toast. Salaaming to Campian, he told his master that the
_mem-sahib_ would like to see him for a moment Upward, responding to the
call, promptly received a lecture for not merely allowing, but actively
inducing, the patient to talk too much. It could not be good for one
just recovering from a shock to the head to talk--especially on exciting
topics--and so on--and so on.
Meanwhile in another tent Nesta Cheriton and the two younger girls were
discussing the somewhat tragic arrival of the expected guest. To the
former, however, his personality appealed more than the somewhat
startling manner of his arrival.
"But what is he like, Lily?" she was saying--not quite for the first
time.
"Oh! I told you before," snapped Lily, waxing impatient, and burying
her nose in a book--She was wont to be petulant when disturbed in the
midst of an absorbing tale.
"He's rather fun," replied Hazel. "He isn't young, though. He's not as
old as father--still he isn't young."
"I expect he's quite an old fogey," said Lily. "I don't want to talk
about him any more," which reply moved Hazel to cackle elfishly, while
cutting weird capers expressive of the vein mischievous.
"Rather. He's quite an old fogey. Isn't he, Lily?"
"I wish you'd shut up," snapped that young person. "Can't you see I
want to read?"
But later on, viz about tiffin time, Campian being recovered enough to
put in an appearance, Nesta found good and sufficient reasons for the
reversal of her former verdict. As Hazel had said, the new arrival was
not young; yet her own term, "quite an old fogey," in no sense applied.
And the reversal of her said verdict took this form: "He'll do."
This indeed, in its not very occult meaning, might have held good were
the stranger even less qualified for her approval than she decided at a
glance he was--for they had been quite a fortnight in camp, and on any
male--save Upward, middle-aged and _range_, Nesta Cheriton's very
attractive blue eyes had not rested during precisely that period. And
such deficiency had to her already come to spell boredom.
In Shalalai the British army of all branches of the service had been at
her feet, and this for obvious reasons. She was young, attractive
beyond the ordinary, and a new importation. Now the feminine
counterpart of the British army as represented in Shalalai, though in
some cases young, was unattractive wellnigh without exception.
Furthermore, it was by no means new--wherefore Nesta had things all her
own way; for Shalalai, for social and every other purpose, _was_ the
British army--Upward and the agent to the governor-general being nearly
the only civilians in the place. So in Shalalai Nesta was happy, for
the British army, having as usual when not in active service, nothing
particular to do, swarmed around her in multifold adoration.
"Last time we saw each other we hardly reckoned to meet in such tragic
fashion, did we, Mrs Upward?" said Campian, as they sat down to tiffin.
"I only hope I haven't drawn down the ire of a vast and vendetta
nourishing tribe upon your peaceful camp."
"Oh, we're not nervous. The people who attacked you belong in all
probability right the other end of the country," she answered, easily.
"I sent over to Gushki to let the political agent know about it," said
Upward. "Likely they'll send back a brace of Levy sowars to have a
look round. Not that that'll do any good, for these darned
`catch-'em-alive-ohs' are all tarred with the same brush. They're
raised in the same country, you see."
"Seems to me a right casual section this same country," said Campian.
"You are all never tired of laying down what entirely unreliable
villains these border tribes are, yet you simply put yourselves at their
mercy. I'll be bound to say, for instance, that there's no such thing
as a watch kept over this camp at night, or any other."
"No, there isn't Tinkles here, though, would pretty soon let us know if
any one came too close."
"Yes, but not until they were on you. Say four or five like those who
tackled me--or even more--made up their minds to come for you some
night, what then? Why, they'd be in the tents hacking you to bits
before you had time to move a finger."
"Ghazis don't go to work that way, Campian. They come for you in the
open, and never break out with the premeditation a rush upon a camp
would involve."
"I've often thought the same," struck in Nesta. "I get quite nervous
sometimes, lying awake at night. Every sound outside makes me start.
Fancy nothing between you and all that may be in that horrible darkness,
but a strip of canvas. And the light seems to make it worse. I can
never shake off the idea that I can be seen."
"Why don't you put out the light then, Miss Cheriton?"
"Because I'm more frightened still to be in the dark. Ah now--you're
laughing at me"--she broke off, in a pretty gesture of protest.
The stranger was contemplating her narrowly, without seeming to. Good
specimen of her type was his decision, but these fair haired, blue-eyed
girls, though pretty enough as pictures, have seldom any depth. Self
conscious at every turn, though not aware of it, or, at any rate of
showing that she was. Pretty? Oh, yes, no mistake about that--knows
what suits her, too.
Whether this diagnosis was entirely accurate remains to be seen--that
its latter part was, a glance at Nesta left no doubt. She was attired
in white and light blue, which matched admirably her eyes and golden
hair, and she looked wonderfully attractive. The suspicion of sunbrown
which darkened her complexion had the effect of setting off the vivid
whiteness of her even teeth when she smiled. And then her whole face
would light up.
"What would you like to do this afternoon, old chap?" said Upward, as
tiffin over, the bearer placed the cheroot box on the table. "Don't
feel up to going after chikor, I suppose?"
"Well, I don't know. I think I do. But I left my shot gun down at
Chotiali with my other things."
"You'd much better sit still and keep yourself quiet for the rest of the
day, Mr Campian," warned Mrs Upward. "A nasty fall on the head isn't
a thing to be trifled with, especially in hot climates. I've seen too
much of that sort of thing in my time."
But the warning was overruled. Campian declared himself sufficiently
recovered, provided there was no hard climbing to be done. Tiffin had
set him up entirely.
"Do just as you like, old chap," said Upward. "You can use my gun. I
don't care about chikor. They are the rottenest form of game bird I
know. Won't rise, for one thing."
"Let's all go," suggested Lily. "We can keep behind. And we shall see
how many misses Mr Campian makes," she added, with her natural
cheekiness.
"It's hardly fair," objected the proposed victim--"I, the only gunner,
too--Why, all this `gallery' is bound to get on my nerves."
"Never mind--you can put it down to your fall, if you do miss a lot,"
suggested Nesta.
"Well, we'd better start soon, and not go too far either, for I
shouldn't wonder if this evening turned out as bad as last," said
Upward, rising from table. "Khola--Call Bhallu Khan."
The bearer replied that he was in front of the tent.
"So this is the man whose sharp hearing was the saving of my life?" said
Campian, as the head forester extended his salaam to him--And he put out
his hand.
The forester, a middle-aged Pathan of the Kakar tribe, was a fine
specimen of his race. He looked picturesque enough in his white loose
garments, his head crowned with the "Kulla," or conical cap, round which
was wound a snowy turban. He had eyes and teeth which a woman might
have envied, and as he grasped the hand extended to him, the expression
of his face was pleasing and attractive in the extreme.
"By Jove, Upward, this man is as different a type to the ruffians who
came for me last night as the proverbial chalk and cheese simile,"
remarked Campian, as they started for the shooting place. "They were
hook-nosed scoundrels with long hair and the expression of the devil,
whereas this chap looks as if he couldn't hurt a fly. He has an awfully
good face."
"Oh, he has. Still, with Mohamedans you never can be absolutely
certain. Any question of fanaticism or semi-religious war, and they're
all alike. We've had too many instances of that."
"Oh, come now, Ernest. You mustn't class good old Bhallu Khan with that
sort of native," struck in his wife. "If there was any sort of rising I
believe he'd stand by us with his life."
"I believe so too. Still, as I say, with Mohamedans you can never tell.
Look, Campian, this is where we found you last night. Here's where you
were lying, and here's where the water came up to during the night."
Campian looked somewhat grave as he contemplated the jagged edge of
sticks and straws which demarcated the water-line, and remembered that
awful advancing wave bellowing down upon him.
"Yes--It was a near thing," he said--"a very near thing."
But a word from the forester dispelled all such weighty reflections, and
that word was "Chikor!"
In and out among the grass and stones the birds were running--_running_.
The more they were shouted at the more they ran. At last several of
them rose. It was a long shot, but down came one.
This was repeated again and again. All the shots were long shots, and
there were as many misses as birds. There were plenty of birds, but
they persistently forebore to rise.
"Now you see why I'm not keen on chikor shooting, old chap," said
Upward, as after a couple of hours this sport was voted hardly worth
while. And subsequently Bhallu Khan expressed the opinion to his master
that the strange sahib did not seem much of a shikari. He might have
made quite a heavy bag--there were the birds, right under his feet, but
he would not shoot--he would wait for them to rise--and they invariably
rose much too far off to fire at with any chance of bringing them down.
CHAPTER FOUR.
INCIDENTAL.
"I'm afraid, Nesta, my child, that your soldier friends will have to
alight somewhere else if they want any chikor," pronounced Campian,
subsiding upon a boulder to light his pipe. "We've railroaded them
around this valley to such purpose that you can't get within a couple of
hundred yards. When are they due, by the way--the sodgers, not the
chikor?"
"To-day, I think. They have been threatening for the last fortnight."
"Threatening! Ingrate! Only think what a blessing their arrival will
shed. You will hear all the latest `gup' from Shalalai, and have a
couple of devoted poodles, all eagerness to frisk, and fetch and carry--
wagging their tails for approving pats, and all that sort of thing. And
you must be tired of this very quiet life, unrelieved save by a couple
of old fogies like yours truly and Upward?"
"Ah, I'm tired of the `gup' of Shalalai. I'm not sure I'm not quite
tired of soldiers."
"That begins to look brisk for me, my dear girl, I being--bar Upward--
nearly the only civilian in Baluchistan. The only flaw in this to me
alluring vista now opened out is--how long will it last? First of all,
sit down. There's no fun in standing unnecessarily."
She sat down on the boulder beside him, and began to play with the
smoothness of the barrels of the gun, which leaned against the rock
between them. It was early morning. These two had strolled _off_ down
the valley together directly after _chota hazri_--as they had taken to
doing of late. A couple of brace of chikor lay on the ground at their
feet, the smallness of the "bag" bearing out the accuracy of Campian's
prognostication as to the decadence of that form of sport. The sun,
newly risen, was flooding the valley with a rush of golden ether;
reddening the towering crags, touching, with a silver wand, the carpet
of dewdrops in the valley bottom, and mist-hung spider webs which
spanned the juniper boughs--while from many a slab-like cliff came the
crowing of chikor, pretty, defiant in the safety of altitude--rejoicing
in the newly-risen dawn.
Some fifty yards off, Bhallu Khan, having spread his chuddah on the
ground, and put the shoes from off his feet--was devoutly performing the
prescribed prostrations in the direction of the Holy City, repeating the
while the aspirations and ascriptions wherewith the Faithful--good, bad
and indifferent--are careful to hallow the opening of another day.
"You were asserting yourself tired of the garrison," went on Campian.
"Yes? And wherefore this--caprice, since but the other day you were
sworn to the sabre?"
"Was I? Well perhaps I've changed my mind. I may do that, you know.
But I don't like any of those at Shalalai. And--the nice ones are all
married."
This escaped her so spontaneously, so genuinely, that Campian burst out
laughing.
"Oh that's the grievance, is it?" he said. "And what about the others
who are--not nice?"
"Oh, I just fool them. Some of them think they're fooling me. I let it
go far enough, and then they suddenly find out I've been fooling them.
It's rather a joke."
"Ever taken anyone seriously?"
"That's telling."
"All right, then. Don't tell."
She looked up at him quickly. Her eyes seemed to be trying to read his
face, which, beyond a slightly amused elevation of one eyebrow, was
absolutely expressionless.
"Well, I have then," she said, with a half laugh.
"So? Tell us all about it, Nessita."
She looked up quickly--"I say, that's rather a good name--I like it. It
sounds pretty. No one ever called me that before."
"Accept it from me, then."
"Yes, I will. But, do you know--it's awful cheek of you to call me by
my name at all. When did you first begin doing it, by the way?"
"Don't know. I suppose it came so natural as not to mark an epoch.
Couldn't locate the exact day or hour to save my life. Shall I return
to `Miss Cheriton?'"
"You never did say that. You never called me anything--until--"
"Likely. It's a little way I have. I say--It's rather fun chikor
shooting in the early morning. What?"
"That means, I suppose, that you're tired of talking, and would like to
go on." And she rose from her seat.
"Not at all. Sit down again. That's right. For present purposes it
means that you won't go out with me any more like this of a morning
after those two Johnnies come."
"You won't want me then. You can all go out together. I should only be
in the way."
"That remark would afford nine-tenths of the British Army the
opportunity of retorting, `_You_ could never be that.' I, however, will
be brutally singular. Very probably you would be in the way--"
"Thanks."
"_If_ we all went out together--I was going to say when you interrupted
me."
A touch on the arm interrupted _hint_. It came from Bhallu Khan, who,
having concluded his devotions was standing at Campian's side, making
vehement gesticulations of warning and silence.
"Eh--what is it?" whispered Campian, looking eagerly in the direction
pointed at by the other.
The forester shook his head, and continued to gesticulate. Then he put
both forefingers to his head, one on each side above the ears, pointing
upwards.
"Does he mean he has seen the devil?" said Campian wonderingly. "I
guess he's trying to make us understand `horns.'"
Nesta exploded in a peal of laughter, which, though melodious enough to
human ears, must have had a terrifying effect on whatever had been
designated by Bhallu Khan. He ceased to point eagerly through the
scrub, but his new gesticulations meant unmistakably that the thing,
whatever it might be, was gone.
All the Hindustani they could muster between them--and that wasn't
much--failed to make the old forester understand. He smiled talked--
then smiled again. Then they all laughed together--But that was all.
Although actually on the scene of his midnight peril, Campian gave that
experience no further thought. Nearly a fortnight had gone by since
then, and no further alarm had occurred. Bhallu Khan had made inquiries
and in the result had learned that the adjacent and then somewhat
dreaded Marri tribe was innocent of the playful little event which had
so nearly terminated Campian's allotted span of joys and sorrows. The
assailants were Brahuis, of a notoriously marauding clan of that tribe,
located in the Khelat district. What they were doing here, so far away
from their own part of the country, however, he had not learned, or, if
he had, for reasons of his own he kept it to himself. This intelligence
lifted what shadow of misgiving might have lingered in the minds of
Upward and his wife, as showing that the incident was a mere chance
affair, and no indication of restlessness or hostility on the part of
the tribesmen in their own immediate neighbourhood.
Another fact gleaned by Bhallu Khan was that the man who had fallen to
Campian's shot was not killed--nor even fatally wounded. This relieved
all their minds, especially that of the shooter. It saved all sorts of
potential trouble in the way of investigation and so forth--likewise it
dispelled sundry unpleasant visions of a blood feud, which now and then
would obtrude in spite of all efforts at reasoning them away; for these
fierce fanatical mountaineers were hardly the men to suffer bloodshed to
pass unavenged. However, no one was much hurt, and the marauders had
taken themselves off to their own side of the country. Thus for about
ten days had life in Upward's camp held on its way just as though no
narrow escape of grim tragedy had thrown the visitor into its midst.
Its inmates rejoiced in the open air life, and, save at night or for an
afternoon siesta, were seldom indoors. The male section thereof,
notwithstanding plentiful denunciation of the wily chikor and its ways,
devoted much time to the pursuit of that exasperating biped, and all
would frequently join hands in exploring the surrounding country--tiffin
accompanying--to be laid out picnic fashion at some picturesque spot,
whether of breezy height or in the cool shade of a _tangi_. Thus did
Upward perform his forest inspections, combining business with
pleasure--and everybody was content.
And this statement we make of set purpose. No more aspirations after a
return to Shalalai were now in the air. The infusion of a new element
into the daily life of the camp seemed to make a difference. Campian
and the two younger girls were friends of old. He did not mind their
natural cheekiness--he had a great liking for them, and it only amused
him; moreover, it kept things lively. And Nesta Cheriton--sworn
worshipper of the sabre, speedily came to the conclusion that all that
was entertaining and companionable was not a monopoly vested in the
wearers of Her Majesty's uniform.
For between her and the new arrival a very good understanding had been
set up--a very good understanding indeed. But he, in the maturity of
years and experience, made light of what might have set another man
thinking. They were thrown together these two--and camp life is apt to
throw people very much together--He was the only available male,
wherefore she made much of him. Given, however, the appearance of two
or three lively subalterns on the scene, and he thought he knew how the
land would lie. But the consciousness in no wise disquieted him; on the
contrary it afforded him a little good-humouredly cynical amusement. He
knew human nature, as peculiar to either sex no less than as common to
both, and he had reached a point in life when the preferences of the
ornamental sex, for any permanent purpose, mattered nothing. But the
study of it as a mere subject of dissection did afford him a very great
amount of entertainment.
Mature cynic as he was, yet now, looking down at the girl at his side as
they took their way back through the wild picturesque valley bottom, the
dew shining like silver in the fast ascending sun, a moist woodland
odour arising from beneath the juniper trees, he could not but admit to
himself that her presence here made a difference--a very great
difference. She was wondrously pretty, in the fair, golden-haired
style; had pretty ways too--soft, confiding--and a trick of looking up
at one that was a trifle dangerous. Only that he felt rather sure it
was all part of her way with the male sex in general, and not turned on
for his benefit in particular, he might have wondered.
"Well?" she said, looking up suddenly, "what is it all about?"
"You. I was thinking a great deal about you. Now you are going to say
I had much better have been talking to you."
"No. But tell me what you were thinking."
"I was thinking how deftly you got away from that question of mine--
about the one occasion when you _did_ take someone seriously. Now tell
us all about it."
"Ah--I'm not going to tell you."
"Not, eh?"
"No--no--no! Perhaps some day."
"Well you'll have to look sharp, for I'm off in a day or two."
"No? you're not!" she cried, in a tone very like that of real
consternation. "Ah, you're just trying to crowd it on. Why, you're
here for quite a long time."
"Very well. You'll see. Only, don't say I never told you."
"But you mustn't go. You needn't. Look here--You're not to."
"That sounds rather nice--Very nice indeed. And wherefore am I not to
go, Nessita, mine angel?"
"Because I don't want you to. You're rather a joke, you know, and--"
"--And--what?"
"Nothing."
"That ought to settle it. Only I don't flatter myself my departure will
leave any gap. Remaineth there not a large garrison at Shalalai--horse,
foot, and artillery?"
"Oh, hang the garrison at Shalalai! You're detestable. I don't like
you any more."
"No? Well what will make you like me any more?"
"If you stay."
"That settles it. I cannot depart in the face of that condition," he
answered, the gravity of his words and tone simply belied by a whimsical
twinkle of the eyes. She, looking up, saw this.
"Ah, I believe you've been cramming all the time. I'll ask Mr Upward
when we get in, and if you have, I'll never forgive you."
"Spare thyself the trouble O petulant one, for it would be futile in any
case. If I have been telling nasty horrid wicked little taradiddles,
Upward won't give me away, for I shall tip him the masonic wink not to.
_You_ won't spot it, though you are staring us both in the face all the
time. So you'll have to keep your blind faith in me, anyhow. Hallo!
Stay still a minute. There are some birds."
In and out among the grass and stones, running like barn-door fowl was a
large covey. This time a whoop and a handful of gravel from Bhallu Khan
was effective. The covey rose with a jarring "whirr" as one bird. A
double shot--a bird fell to each.
"Right and left. That's satisfactory. I'm getting my hand in,"
remarked Campian. "They're right away," looking after the covey, "and I
feel like breakfast time. Glad we are almost back."
The white tents half-hidden in the apricot tope, and sheltered by the
fresh and budding green, looked picturesque enough against a background
of rugged and stony mountain ridge, the black vertical jaws of the
_tangi_, now waterless, yawning grim like the jaws of some silent
waiting monster. Native servants in their snowy puggarees, flitted to
and fro between the camp and the cook-tent, whence a wreath of blue
smoke floated skyward. A string of camels had just come in, and were
kneeling to have their loads removed, keeping up the while their hoarse
snarling roar, each hideous antediluvian head turning craftily on its
weird neck as though watching the chance of getting in a bite. But
between them and their owners, three or four wild looking Baluchis--
long-haired and turban-crowned--the understanding, whether of love or
fear, seemed complete, for these went about their work of unloading, the
normal expression of impassive melancholy stamped upon their copper-hued
countenances undergoing no change.
"Well, how many did you shoot?" cried Hazel, running out from the tents
as the two came in. "Only six!" as Bhallu Khan held up the "bag."
"Pho! Why we heard about twenty shots. Didn't we, Lily?"
"More. I expect they were thinking of you when they named this place,"
said the latter.
"Thought something cheeky was coming," remarked Campian tranquilly.
"The `cow-catcher' adorning thy most speaking countenance, Lilian my
cherub, has an extra upward tendency this morning. No pun intended, of
course."
"Oh--oh--oh!" A very hoot was all the expression that greeted this
disclaimer. But a sudden summons to breakfast cut short further
sparring.
"Upward, what's the meaning of Chirria Bach?" asked Campian when they
were seated. Lily and Hazel clapped their hands and cackled. Upward
looked up, with a laugh.
"It means `miss a bird' old chap. Didn't you know?"
"No. I never thought of it. Very good, Lilian my seraph. Now I see
the point of that extra smart remark just now. What do you think, Mrs
Upward? she said this place must have been named after me."
"They're very rude children, both of them," was the laughing reply.
"But I can't sympathise. I'm afraid you make them worse."
A wild crow went up from the two delinquents. Campian shook his head
gravely.
"After that we had better change the subject," he said. "By the way,
Upward, old Bhallu Khan went through an extraordinary performance this
morning. I want you to tell me the interpretation thereof."
"Was he saying his prayers? Have another chikor, old chap?"
"No--not his prayers. Thanks, I will. They eat rather better than they
shoot. Nesta and I were deep in the discussion of scientific and other
matters--"
"Oh, yes."
This from Lily, meaningly.
"Lilian, dearest. If you can tell the story better than I can"--with
grave reproach.
"Never mind--go on--go on"--rapped out the delinquent.
"--In the discussion of scientific and other matters," resumed Campian,
eyeing his former interruptor, "when Bhallu Khan suddenly enjoined
silence. He then put his fingers to his head--so--and mysteriously
pointed towards the nullah. It dawned on me that he meant something
with horns; but I knew there couldn't be _gadh_ or markhor right down
here in the valley, and close to the camp. Then Nesta came to the
rescue by suggesting that he must have seen the devil."
"Ah, I didn't suggest it!" cried Nesta. But her disclaimer was drowned
in a wild yelp of ecstasy that volleyed forth from the two younger
girls; in the course of which Hazel managed to swallow her tea the wrong
way, and spent the next ten minutes choking and spluttering.
Upward was shaking in quiet mirth.
"He didn't mean the devil at all, old chap, only a hare," he explained.
"A hare?" uttered Campian.
The blankness of his amazement started the two off again.
"Only a hare! Good heavens! But a hare, even in Baluchistan, hasn't
got horns."
"He meant its ears. Come now, it was rather smart of him--wasn't it?
Old Bhallu Khan is smart all round. He _buks_ a heap, and is an old
bore at times, but he's smart enough."
"Yes. It was smart. Yet the combined intelligence of Nesta and myself
couldn't get beyond the devil."
"Speak for yourself then," she laughed. And just then Tinkles, rushing
from under the table, darted forth outside, uttering a succession of
fierce and fiery barks.
"I expect it's those two Johnnies arriving," said Upward, rising. "Yes,
it is," as he lifted the "chick" and looked outside.
They all went forth. Two horsemen were turning off the road and making
for the camp.
CHAPTER FIVE.
CONCERNING TWO FOOLS.
"Major Bracebrydge--Captain Fleming"--introduced Upward. The first
lifted his hat punctiliously to Campian, the second put out his hand.
To the rest of the party both were already known.
"Well--ar--Upward--lots of chikor, eh?" began the first.
"Swarms. But they've become beastly wild. Campian has been harrying
them ever since we found him one dark night half in half out of the
nullah in flood."
"Oh, yes; we heard something of that I suppose--ar--Mr Campian--it
wasn't one magnified by half-a-dozen--ah, ha--ha. You were travelling
after dinner, you know--ah--ha--ha?"
A certain amount of chaff in fair good fellowship Campian didn't mind.
But the element of _bonhomie_ was lacking alike in the other's tone and
demeanour. The laugh too, was both fat and feeble. He did not deem
this specimen of garrison wit worthy of any answer. The other seemed
disappointed.
"I see our camels have turned up," he went on. "By Jove, Upward, I've
got a useless lot of servants. That new bearer of mine wants kicking
many times a day. Look at him now--over there. Just look at the
brute--squatting on his haunches when he ought to be getting things
together. I say though, you've got all the best of it here"--surveying
the apricot _tope_, which was incapable of sheltering even one more
tent--"we shall get all the sun."
"Sorry they didn't plant more trees, old chap," said Upward. "But then
we are here for a longish time, whereas it's only a few days with you.
Come in and have a `peg.' Fleming--how about a `peg'?"
"Oh, very much about a `peg,'" responded Fleming with alacrity. He had
been renewing his acquaintance with Nesta about as volubly as time
allowed.
"Well, what _khubbur_ from below?" asked Upward, when they were seated
in the large dining tent, discussing the said "pegs."
"Oh, the usual thing," said Bracebrydge. "Tribes restless Khelat way--
that's nothing--they always are restless."
"Ever since you've been in the country, old chap?" rejoined Upward, with
a dry smile, the point of which lay in the fact that the man who
undertook to give an exhaustive and authoritative opinion on the country
was absolutely new to it. He was not quartered at Shalalai, nor
anywhere else in Baluchistan; but was up, on furlough, from a hot
station in the lower plains.
"There is some talk of disturbance, though," said Fleming. "Two or
three of the Brahui sirdars sent a message to the A.G.G., which was
offhand, not to say cheeky. Let them. We'll soon smash 'em up."
"You may do," said Upward. "But there'll be lively times first. Then
there's all that disaffection in lower India. Things are looking
dicky--devilish dicky. I shouldn't wonder if we saw something before
long. I've always said so."
Then they got away from the general question to _gup_ of a more private
nature--even station _gup_.
"When are you coming back to Shalalai, Miss Cheriton?" said Fleming, in
the midst of this.
"I don't know. I've only just left it," Nesta answered. "Not for a
long time, I think."
"That's awful hard lines on Shalalai, Miss Cheriton--ah--ha--ha," said
Bracebrydge, twirling the ends of his moustache, which, waxed out on a
level with the line of his mouth, gave him a sort of barber's block
expression, which however, the fair of the above city, and of elsewhere,
deemed martial and dashing to a degree. This effect, in their sight,
was heightened by a jagged scar extending from the left eye to the lower
jaw, suggestive of a sword slash at close quarters, "facing the foe"--
and so forth. As a matter of hard fact this honourable wound had been
received while heading a storming party upon the quarters of a
newly-joined and rather high tempered subaltern, for "hazing" purposes.
The latter, anticipating such attentions had locked his door, and on the
arrival of the "hazing" party, had given out that the first man to enter
the room was going to receive something he wouldn't like in the least.
The door was burst open, and with characteristic gallantry the first man
to enter was Bracebrydge, who found the destined victim to be as good as
his word, for he received a heavy article of crockery, deftly hurled,
full in the face--and he didn't like it in the least--for it cut him so
badly right along the cheek that he had to retire perforce, bleeding
hideously. The next day the newly-joined subaltern sent in his papers,
saying he had no wish to belong to a service wherein it was necessary to
take such measures to defend oneself against the overgrown schoolboy
rowdyism of "brother" officers, and subsequently won distinction and the
V.C. as a daring and gallant leader of irregular horse in other parts of
Her Majesty's dominions.
"I suppose you fellows will want to give the birds a turn," said Upward,
after tiffin. "We'll get the ponies and start shooting from about four
miles down the valley. I'm afraid they're beastly wild until we get
that far."
"Don't know that I feel up to it," said Fleming. "Beastly fag the ride
up this morning. Think I'll just take it easy here in camp, Upward.
You and Bracebrydge can go. It'll be all the better for yourselves;
three guns are sure to have more sport than four."
Campian, who was in the joke, caught a sly wink from Upward, and
mightily enjoyed it. Here was the latter's prediction being already
fulfilled.
"What sort of fellow are you, Fleming?" said Bracebrydge. "What's the
good of coming up here on purpose to shoot, and then hanging up in camp?
Now I had thought of not going out. The fact is, I want to fetch a
snooze."
"Oh you don't want a snooze. You snored for ten hours at a stretch the
way up last night," retorted Fleming. "Now I didn't, and feel cheap in
consequence. You go along now, or you'll spoil the party. Upward and
Mr Campian are both keen on it."
"Rather. One of you fellows must come," declared Upward, bent on
keeping up the fun. "We might spare one of you, but not both. Three
guns we must have, to cover the ground properly."
"Then Fleming had better go," said Bracebrydge. "I'm sleepy."
"No fear, I'm going to remain in camp," declared Fleming. "I'm sleepy,
too."
"Why don't you toss for it?" suggested Upward. "Sudden death--the
winner to do as he likes."
The idea took on, and Fleming came out the winner.
"All right, Bracebrydge," said the latter, jubilant. "I'll have my
snooze while you sacrifice yourself in the cause of others--and sport."
The latter snarled, but even he drew the line at backing out of his
pledge.
Meanwhile Campian, no longer able to restrain a roar, had hurried from
the dining tent.
"What's the joke, now?" called out Nesta, who, with Mrs Upward, was
seated beneath the trees.
"Yes, it _is_ a joke."
"Well, we're spoiling to hear it; go on."
"Ssh--ssh! little girls shouldn't be impatient. The joke is this--Wait.
They're coming," with a look over his shoulder.
"No. They're not. Quick quick. What is it?"
"Well, the spectacle of two fellows old enough to know better, who have
come all the way up here on purpose to shoot, both keenly competing as
to who shall have the privilege of remaining in camp, is comical--to say
the least of it."
"Ah, I don't believe it--" said Nesta.
"Not, eh? Well they have even gone so far as to toss for the
privilege."
"And who won?"
"Him they call Fleming. Where are you going to take him for his
afternoon stroll, Nessita? I warn you _we_ are going _down_ the
valley."
"Then _we_ will go up it," laughed the girl. "Yes, I think he is the
best fun of the two."
"A pair of great sillies, both of them," laughed Mrs Upward.
"Steady. Here comes Fleming. But you won't see much of him. He is
only remaining behind with the express object of having an afternoon
snooze. Ta-ta--I'm off."
Fleming, who was at that moment emerging from the dining tent came over
to the two ladies, and throwing himself on the ground, lighted another
cheroot and began to talk. He was still talking animatedly when the
shooters started.
"I say, Fleming, when are you going to have your snooze?" called out
Bracebrydge nastily. "You don't look so sleepy now as you did--Ar--ha--
ha!" The shooters proceeded on the plan laid down, except that
Bracebrydge suggested they should leave the ponies much sooner than was
at first intended. Then, being in a villainous temper, he shot badly,
and wondered what the devil they had come to such an infernally rotten
bit of shooting for, and cursed the attendant forest guard, and made a
studiously offensive remark or two to Campian, who received the same
with the silence of utter contempt. Before they had been at it an hour,
he flung down his gun and burst out with:
"Look here Upward, I can't shoot a damn to-day, and my boot is chafing
most infernally. I shall be lame for a month if I walk any more.
Couldn't one of these fellows fetch my pony? I'll go back to camp."
"All right, old chap; do just as you like," replied Upward, giving the
necessary orders.
"Why not get on the gee, and ride on with us"--suggested Campian,
innocently. "The scenery is rather good further down."
"Oh, damn the scenery! Look here though. I don't want to spoil you two
fellows' shoot. You go on. Don't wait for me. The nigger will be here
with the horse directly."
"No. There's no point in waiting," assented Upward. "We'll go on eh,
Campian? So long, Bracebrydge."
The two resumed their shoot, cutting down a bird here and a bird there,
and soon came together again.
"That's a real show specimen, that man Bracebrydge," remarked Campian.
"What made you freeze on to him, Upward?"
"Oh, I met him in the Shalalai club. I never took to the man, but he
was in with some others I rather liked. It was Fleming who brought him
up here."
"So? But, do you know, it's a sorrowful spectacle to see a man of his
age--already growing grey--making such an egregious ass of himself.
Mind you, I'm not surprised at him being a little `gone'--she's a very
taking little girl--but to give himself away as he does, that's where
the lunacy of the affair comes in."
Upward chuckled.
"Bless your life, old chap, Bracebrydge isn't really `gone' there."
"Not, eh? Then he's a bigger idiot than even I took him for, letting
himself go like that."
"It's his way. He does just the same with every woman he comes across,
if she's at all decent-looking, and what's more is under the impression
she must be wildly `gone' on him; and by the way, some of them have
been. Wait till we get back to Shalalai; you may see some fun in that
line."
"They must be greater fools even than himself. I'm not a woman-hater,
but really the sex can roll out some stupendous examples of defective
intelligence--but then, to be fair, so can our own--as for instance
Bracebrydge himself. What sort of place is this, Upward?" he broke off,
as they came upon a low tumble-down wall surrounding a tree; the
enclosure thus formed was strewn with loose horns, as of sheep and
goats, and yet not quite like them.
"Why, it's a sort of rustic shrine, rigged up to some Mohammedan saint.
Isn't it, Bhallu Khan?" translating the remark.
The forester reached over the wall, and picking up a markhor horn, worn
and weather-beaten, held it towards them.
"He says it's where the people come to make offerings," translated
Upward. "When they want to have a successful stalk they vow a pair of
markhor horns at a place like this."
"And then deposit it here, and then the noble Briton, if in want of such
a thing to hang in his hall, incontinently bones it, and goes home and
lies about it ever after," cut in Campian. "Isn't that how the case
stands?"
"I don't think so. The horns wouldn't be good enough to make it worth
while."
"I suppose not," examining the one tendered him by the forester. "I
didn't know the cultus of Saint Hubert obtained among Mohammedans. Do
these people have legends and local ghosts, and all that kind of thing?"
"Rather. You just set old Bhallu Khan yarning--pity you can't
understand him though. Look. See that very tree over there?" pointing
out a large juniper. "He has a yarn about a fakir who used to jump
right over the top of it every day for a year."
"So? What did he do that for? As a pious exercise?"
"Something of the kind. But the joke of it is, the thing happened a
devil of a time ago. When I pointed out to him that any fool could have
done the same, considering that the tree needn't have been more than a
yard high, even then he hardly sees it."
"I should doubt that, Upward. My opinion is that our friend Bhallu Khan
was endeavouring to pull his superior's leg when he told that story."
"They are very stupid in some ways, though sharp as the devil in others.
And the odd part of it is that most of their local sacred yarns are of
the most absurd kind--well, like the tree and fakir story."
"They are rather a poor lot these Baluchis, aren't they? They don't go
in for a lot of jewels, on their clothes and swords, like the Indian
rajahs?"
"No. Some of the Afghan sirdars do, though--or at any rate used to."
"So? And what became of them all?"
"They have them still--though wait--let me see. There are yarns that
some are hidden away, so as not to fall into the hands of other tribes
as loot. There was a fellow named Keogh in our service who made a good
haul that way. A Pathan brought him an old battered sword belt,
encrusted with rough looking stones, which he had dug up, and wanted ten
rupees for it Keogh beat him down to five, and brought the thing as a
curio. How much do you think he sold it for?"
"Well?"
"Four thousand. The stones were sapphires."
"Where was this?" asked Campian quickly. "Anywhere near here?"
"No. Out the other side of Peshawur. You seem keen on the subject, old
chap! You haven't got hold of a notion there's anything to be done in
that line around here, eh?"
"Hardly. This sort of country doesn't grow precious stones, I guess,
except precious big ones."
"Where's Bracebrydge?" queried Upward, on their return to camp two hours
later.
"He isn't back yet," replied Nesta, with a very mischievous laugh.
"What? Why, he left us more than a couple of hours ago. What can have
become of the chap? He ought to have been back long before us."
"He was back, but he started off again," said Mrs Upward. "This time
he went the other way"--whereat both Nesta and Fleming laughed
immoderately.
"I think he started to hunt us up, didn't he, Mrs Upward?" spluttered
the latter.
"Oh, I don't know. But--I believe you saw him and gave him the go-by"--
whereat the inculpated pair exchanged glances, and spluttered anew.
"I see," said Upward, amusing himself by beginning to tease Tinkles--
whose growls and snaps afforded him considerable mirth. "How's his
chafed foot now--Oh-h!" The last as the little terrier, getting in a
bite, half play, half earnest, nipped him through his trousers.
"He didn't say anything about his chafed foot. Why, here he comes."
A very sulky looking horseman rode up and dismounted. Upon him Fleming
turned a fire of sly chaff; which had the effect of rendering
Bracebrydge sulkier than ever, and Bracebrydge sulky was not a pleasant
fellow by any means. He retorted accordingly.
"Never mind, old chap," cut in Upward. "It's all right now, and nearly
dinner time. Let's all have a `peg.' Nothing like a `peg' to give one
an appetite."
CHAPTER SIX.
OF THE RUBY SWORD.
Not without reasons of his own had Campian made such careful and minute
inquiries as to the traditions and legends of the strange, wild country
in which his lot was temporarily cast, and the key to those reasons was
supplied in a closely-written sheet of paper which he was intently
studying on the morning after the above conversation. It was, in fact,
a letter.
Not for the first or second time was he studying this. It had reached
him just after his arrival in the country, and the writer thereof was
his father.
The latter had been a great traveller in his younger days, and was
brimful of Eastern experience; full too, of reminiscence, looking back
to perilous years passed among fierce, fanatical races, every day of
which represented just so many hours of carrying his life in his hand.
Now he was spending the evening of life in peace and quiet. This was
the passage which Campian was now studying:
"It came to me quite as a surprise to hear you were in Afghanistan; had
I known you thought of going, there are a few things we might have
talked over together. I don't suppose the country is much changed.
Oriental countries never do change, any more than their people.
"You remember that affair we have often talked about, when I saved the
life of the Durani emir, Dost Hussain, and the story of the hiding of
the ruby sword. It--together with the remainder of the treasure--was
buried in a cave in a long narrow valley called Kachin, running almost
due east and west. The mountain on the north side is pierced by a very
remarkable _tangi_, the walls of which, could they be closed, would fit
like the teeth of a steel trap. I never saw the place myself, but Dost
Hussain often used to tell me about it when he promised me half of the
buried valuables. I was not particular to go into the subject with him
in those days, for I had a strong repugnance to the idea of being paid
for saving a man's life; indeed I used to tell him repeatedly I did not
need so costly a gift. But he would not hear of my objections,
declaring that when he was able to return for his property half of it
should be mine, and I fully believe he would have kept his word, for he
was a splendid fellow--more like an Arab that an Asiatic. But Dost
Hussain was killed by the Brahuis, and, so far as I was concerned, the
secret of the hidden valuables died with him. The only man I know of
who shared it was his brother, the Syyed Ain Asraf, but he is probably
dead, or, at any rate must have recovered it long ago. The sword alone
would have been of immense value. I saw it once. Both hilt and
scabbard were encrusted with splendid rubies and other stones, but
mostly rubies--and there were other valuables.
"It occurs to me that all this must have been hidden somewhere about
where you are now, and, if so, you might make a few inquiries. I would
like to know whether the sword was ever found or not. Find out if Ain
Asraf is still alive. If so, he must be very old now. It would be
interesting to me to hear how that affair ended, and would give an
additional object to your travels..." Then the letter went on to touch
upon other matters, and concluded.
As we have said, it was not the first time Campian had pondered over
these words, but every time he did so something in them seemed to strike
him in a fresh light. Well he remembered hearing his father tell the
story by word of mouth, but at such time it had interested him _as_ a
story and no more. Now, however, that he was in the very scene of its
enactment, it seemed to gain tenfold interest. What if this buried
treasure had never been recovered, had lain hidden all these years. The
affair dated back to the forties. Afghanistan his father had called
it--but this was Afghanistan then. In those days it owned allegiance to
the Amir of Kabul.
A long, narrow valley running almost due east and west! There were many
such valleys. And the _tangi_? Why the very _tangi_ at whose mouth
their camp was pitched was the only one cleaving the mountain range on
the northern side, and its configuration was exactly that of the one
described in his father's letter. He could not resist a thrill of the
pulses. What if this splendid treasure were in reality right under his
hand--if he only knew where to lay his hand upon it? There came the
rub. The mountain sides here and there were simply honeycombed with
caves. To strike the right one without some clue would be a forlorn
quest indeed; and he could talk neither Baluch nor Hindustani. The very
wildness of the possibility availed to quell any rising excitement to
which he might have felt inclined upon the subject; besides, was it
likely that this treasure--probably of double value, both on account of
its own worth, and constituting a sort of heirloom--would have been
allowed to lie buried for forty years or so, and eventually have been
forgotten? Somebody or other must have known its hiding place. No; any
possibility to the contrary must be simply chimerical.
Just then the "chik" was lifted, and Upward's head appeared within the
tent.
"Can I come in, old chap? Look here, we are all going on a little
expedition, so you roll out and come along. There's a bit of new
enclosed forest I want to look at and report on, so we are going to make
a picnic of it. There's a high _kotal_ between cliffs, which gives one
a splendid view; then we can go down into the valley, and home again
round another way, through a fine _tangi_ which is well worth seeing."
"I'm right on, Upward. I'll roll out. Do you mind sending Khola in
with the bath?"
"That's it. We are going to have breakfast a little earlier, and start
immediately afterwards. Will that suit you?"
"To a hair!"
The start was duly made, and Lily and Hazel found immense fun in
watching the efforts of the two knights of the sabre to secure the
privilege of riding beside Nesta, with the result that, as neither would
give way, the path, when it began to narrow, became inconveniently
crowded. The girl was looking very pretty in a light blouse and habit
skirt; her blue eyes dancing with mischievous mirth over the
recollection of the wild rush they had made to assist her to mount; and
how she, having accorded that privilege to Fleming, the other had
promptly taken advantage of it by manoeuvring his steed to the side of
hers, thus, for the time being, effectually "riding out" the much
disgusted Fleming.
"What's the real name of this place, Upward?" said Campian, when they
were fairly under way.
"Chirria Bach," said Lily. "We told you before. It was named after
you."
"Not of thee did I humbly crave information, mine angelic Lil. I record
the fact more in sorrow than in anger," he answered.
"It's called that on the Government maps," said Upward. "I think it has
another name--Kachin, I believe they call it--don't they, Bhallu Khan?"
"_Ha, Huzoor_, Kachin," assented the forester, who was riding just
behind.
"Is it the whole district, or only just this valley?" went on Campian.
"Only just this valley," translated Upward, who had put the question to
the old Pathan.
"Strange now--that I should be here, isn't it? I've heard my father
speak of this place. You know he was out here a lot--years ago--I
suppose there isn't another of the same name, is there?"
"He says, nowhere near this part of the country," said Upward, rendering
Bhallu Khan's reply. "But what made your father mention this place in
particular? Was he in any row here?"
"Perhaps he `missed birds' here, too," cut in the irrepressible Lily.
"I know. It was named after him--not you."
"That's it. Of course it was. Now, I never thought of that before,"
assented Campian, with a stare of mock amazement. "I believe, however,
Upward, that as a matter of fact, he remembered the rather remarkable
formation of that _tangi_ behind the camp."
Then he dropped out of the conversation, and thought over what he had
just heard. Truly this thing was becoming interesting. He had located
the very place. There could be no mistake about that. He had been on
the point of asking if Bhallu Khan had heard the story of the flight of
the Durani chief, or of Syyed Ain Asraf, but decided to let that alone
for the present.
"Who is that bounder, Campian?" Bracebrydge was saying. "Does anyone
know?"
"He isn't a `bounder,'" returned Nesta shortly. "He's awfully nice."
"Oh, awfully nice--ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge, with his
vacuous laugh. "Very sorry. Didn't know he was such a friend of
yours."
"But he is."
"Pity he goes about looking such a slouch then, isn't it?"
"It would be--if he did. But then everybody doesn't see the sense of
knocking about among rocks and stones got up as if he was just turned
out of a band box, Major Bracebrydge," she returned, quite angrily.
"Oh. Sorry I spoke--ah--ha--ha!" he retorted, recognising a shaft
levelled at his own immaculate turnout. Fleming came to the rescue.
"Don't know what's wrong with this fellow, Miss Cheriton. He's been so
crusty the last day or two. He ought to be invalided. Bracebrydge, old
man, buck up."
A couple of hours of easy riding, and the whole party gained the
_kotal_, to which we heard Upward make reference, and his eulogy of the
view afforded therefrom was in no sense undeserved. Right in front the
ground fell abruptly, well nigh precipitously, to a great depth; and in
the valley, or basin beneath, here and there a plot of flat land under
cultivation stood out green among the rolling furrows of grey rock and
sombre vegetation. Opposite rose a mighty mass of mountain, piled up
tier upon tier of great cliffs, and beyond this, far away to the left, a
lofty range dark with juniper, swept round to meet the heights which
shut in the amphitheatre from that side. Down into this the bridle path
over the _kotal_ wound, looking like a mere crack in a wall. A great
crag towered right overhead, its jutting pinnacles and ledges standing
defiantly forth against the sky.
"Not a bad spot for a picnic, is it?" said Upward complacently, as,
having dismounted, they stood taking in the view.
"By Jove, no," said Fleming. "Phew! what an idea of depth it conveys,
looking right down into that hole. Look Miss Cheriton. There are some
people moving down there. They seem about as big as flies."
"How big are flies? I always thought flies were small?" cut in Lily,
the irrepressible.
"Not always. Depends upon the fly," murmured Campian.
"Well, I shall have to leave you people for a while," said Upward.
"There's a new plantation up the hill I want to look at. Sha'n't be
more than an hour, and we can have tiffin then. It's quite early yet."
"I'll go with you, Upward," said Campian. And the two started, attended
by Bhallu Khan, mounted on his wiry Baluch pony.
"I'm getting deadly sick of that fellow Bracebrydge," began Upward. "I
wish to heaven he'd clear. He always wants to boss the whole show as if
it belonged to him. Did you hear him trying to dictate where we were to
pitch the tiffin camp?"
"Yes."
"He always does that sort of thing, or tries to be funny at somebody
else's expense. I'm getting jolly sick of it."
He was still more sick of it, when, on returning, he found that
Bracebrydge had carried his point, and actually had caused a removal of
the said site. However, Upward was of an easy going disposition, though
addicted to occasional fidgety fits, so he came to the conclusion that
it couldn't be helped now, and didn't really matter after all, and the
tiffin was plenteous and good, and the soda water well cooled. So they
fed, and chatted, and had a good time generally.
"I say, Upward. Can't someone throw a few bottles at that brute?"
remarked Bracebrydge, as, cheroots having been lit, the male element
stretched at full length on the ground, was lazily puffing at the same.
"He'll crack the drum of one's blessed ears directly, the howling
lunatic."
The noise complained of was a soft, melancholy, wailing sound, something
between a flute and a concertina, and it proceeded from one of the
forest guard, who was tootling into some instrument of native make.
"Does it _dik_ you, old chap?" replied Upward good naturedly. "I can
shut him up, but we rather like it. Bulbul Khan swears he invented that
instrument himself, and is immensely proud of it. We look upon him as
our Court minstrel of sorts. He's always tuning up when we go out
anywhere. Never without his pipes."
"What did you say the _soor's_ name was?" growled Bracebrydge.
"Bulbul Khan. That's my name for him," laughed Upward. "His real
name's Babul Han, but I christened him Bulbul Khan, because he's always
making melody. Not bad, eh?"
"Oh yes--beastly funny--Ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge.
Now the trampling of horse hoofs arrested the attention of the party,
and about a dozen mounted Baluchis, riding at a foot's pace, emerged
from the juniper forest. They made a picturesque group enough in their
white flowing garments and great turbans.
"Why, who can these be?" said Nesta, gazing upon the new arrivals with
some interest. "Who are they, Mrs Upward?"
"I'll ask Bhallu Khan." Then--"He says it is a sirdar of the Marris,
who has been up to Gushki to see the Political Agent, and is on his way
home."
"So?" said Campian, interested. "Wonder if he'd stop and have a talk.
Upward, roll up, old man. I want you to interview this very big swell."
"We don't want to be `dikked' by a lot of niggers," grunted Bracebrydge,
in an audible aside.
The cavalcade had halted some threescore yards away, and one of the men
now came forward to ask if the "jungle-wallah sahib" was there, because
the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would be glad to have a talk with him on an
official matter.
"Yar Hussain Khan?" repeated Upward, choking back a yawn. "I say,
Campian, you'd better take a good look at this fellow. He's no end of a
big chief among the Marris, though he's really of Afghan descent. Come
along with me and meet him." Then, turning to the Baluchi, he gave the
necessary answer.
All the party were armed with the inevitable tulwar--four of their
number, who were in immediate attendance on the chief, with Martini
rifles as well. These, however, they laid down, as, having dismounted,
they advanced to meet Upward.
The sirdar himself was a man of stately presence, standing over six
feet. His strong, handsome face, with its flowing black beard, was well
set off by the great turban wound round a blue _kulla_, whose conical
peak was just visible above the snowy folds. Two jetty tresses of long
hair fell over his broad chest, almost to the hem of a rich vest of blue
velvet embroidered with gold; the only colour which relieved his white
garments. Campian, for his part, as he returned the other's handshake,
and noted the free, full fearlessness of the glance which met his,
decided that here indeed was a noble specimen of an Oriental chieftain.
The subject of the latter's official talk with Upward was of no especial
importance, relating merely to certain grazing rights in dispute between
a section of his tribesmen and the Government. Then he accepted an
invitation to sit down and smoke a cigarette. But with the remainder of
the party he did not offer to shake hands, acknowledging their presence
by a dignified salute.
Upward, talking in Hindustani, brought round the conversation to matters
semi-political. "Was there anything in the rumours that had got about,
that the tribes were becoming restless all over the country?"
"The tribes always had been restless," was Yar Hussain's reply. "The
English had taken over the country not so very long ago. Was it likely
that the people could change their nature all at once? The English
sahibs found sport in stalking markhor or tiger shooting or in other
forms of _shikar_. The Baluchis found it in raiding. It was their form
of _shikar_."
Campian, who perforce had to await Upward's interpretation, had been
carefully observing their visitors, and noted that one among the chiefs
attendants was gazing at him with a most malevolent stare. This man
never took his glance off him, and when their eyes met that glance
became truly fiendish.
"That's a first-class explanation, and a candid one," was the comment he
made on Upward's rendering. "Tell him I hope they won't take any more
potshots at me when I'm wandering about alone--like they did that night
I arrived at your camp, Upward. Tell him I rather like the look of
them, and wish I could talk, so I could go in and out among them."
A slight smile came over the dignified gravity of the sirdar's features
as this was interpreted to him, and he replied.
"He says," translated Upward, "he will be very pleased if at any time
you should visit his village. The shooting at you he knows nothing
about, but is sure it could not have been done by any of his people."
Campian, looking up, again met the hostile glance above mentioned. The
man, who was seated a little behind his chief, was regarding him with a
truly fiendish scowl, and noting it he decided upon two things--that Yar
Hussain was a very fine fellow indeed, but that if he had any more
followers of the stamp of this malignant savage, it were better for
himself or any other infidel who desired to live out his length of days
to pause ere accepting this cordially worded invitation. Then, after a
few more interchanges of civilities, the sirdar and his followers rose
to take their leave.
Now the diabolical scowl wherewith that particular Baluchi had greeted
him, Campian at first set down to the natural hatred of a more than
ordinarily fanatical Moslem for the infidel and the invader. But as the
other drew nearer, spitting forth low envenomed curses, he half expected
the Ghazi mania would prove too much for the man, even in the presence
of his chief, and his hand instinctively moved behind him to his pistol
pocket. The fellow however, seemed to think better of it.
"Fine specimen, that sirdar, isn't he?" said Upward, as they watched the
party defiling down the steep hill path into the valley beneath.
"He is. By the way, did you notice the infernal scowl that hook-nosed
brigand of his turned on for my benefit all the time you were talking?"
"I thought he wasn't looking at you very amiably when they went away.
He can see you're a stranger, I suppose, and some of these fanatical
devils hate a stranger."
"There was more in it than that, Upward. Did you happen to notice he
walked with a slight limp?"
"No; I hardly--er yes, by the way, now I think of it, I did."
"Well, what if he should turn out to be the very identical cuss I winged
that night?"
"Phew!" whistled Upward. "But then, Bhallu Khan says they were Brahuis.
These are Marris."
"There may have been both among them. What is the sirdar's name,
again?"
"Yar Hussain Khan."
"Yes. Well, Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan seems a very nice fellow, and I
should much like to see him again; but probably I sha'n't, for the
simple reason that I don't in the least want ever to behold that
particularly abominable follower of his again."
But he little thought under what circumstances he was destined to behold
both again.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE TANGI.
"It's a thundering mistake allowing these fellows to wander all over the
country armed, like that," said Upward, commenting on their late
visitors, while preparations were being made for a start. "They are
never safe while they carry about those beastly tulwars. A fellow may
take it into his head to cut you down at any moment. If he has nothing
to do it with he can't; if he has he will. Government ought to put the
Arms Act into force."
"Then there'd be a row," suggested Campian.
"Let there be. Anything rather than this constant simmering. Not a
week passes but some poor devil gets stuck when he least expects it--in
broad daylight, too--on a railway station platform, or in the bazaar, or
anywhere. For my part, I never like to have any of these fellows
walking close behind me."
"No, I don't want either of you. I've had enough of you both for
to-day. I'm going to ride with Mr Campian now. I want to talk to him
a little."
Thus Nesta Cheriton's clear voice, which of course carried far enough to
be heard by the favoured one, as she intended it should. The pair of
discomfited warriors twirled their moustaches with mortification, but
their way of accepting the situation was characteristic, for while
Fleming laughed good-humouredly, if a trifle ruefully, Bracebrydge's
tone was nasty and sneering, as he replied:
"Variety is charming, they say, Miss Cheriton. Good thing for some of
us we are not all alike--ah--ha--ha!"
"I quite agree with you there," tranquilly remarked Campian, at whom
this profoundly original observation was levelled. Then he assisted
Nesta to mount.
The path down from the _kotal_ was steep and narrow, and the party was
obliged to travel single file. Finally it widened out as they gained
the more level valley bottom. Here were patches of cultivation, and
scattered among the rocks and stones was a flock of black goats, herded
by a wild looking native clad in a weather-beaten sheepskin mantle, and
armed with a long _jezail_ with a sickle shaped stock. Two wolfish curs
growled at the passers by, while their master uttered a sulky "salaam."
A blue reek of smoke rose from in front of a misshapen black tent,
consisting of little more than a hide stretched upon four poles, beneath
whose shelter squatted a couple of frowsy, copper-faced women. Two or
three more smoke wreaths rising at intervals from the mountain side, and
the distant bark of a dog, betokened the vicinity of other wandering
herdsmen.
"I never seem to see anything of you now," said the girl suddenly,
during a pause in the conversation, which up till then had been upon the
subject of the surrounding and its influences.
"Really? That sounds odd, for I have been under the impression that we
are looking at each other during the greater portion of every day, and
notably when we sit opposite each other at the not very wide, but
pre-eminently festive board."
"Don't be annoying. You know what I mean."
"That we don't go out chikor shooting together any more. You may
remember I foretold just such a possibility on the last occasion of our
joint indulgence in that pastime."
"Well but--why don't we?"
"For exactly the reason I then foretold. You seem better employed. I
amuse myself watching the fun instead."
She looked at him quickly. Was he jealous? Nesta Cheriton was so
accustomed to be spoiled and adored and competed for and quarrelled over
by the stronger sex, that she could hardly realise any member of the
same remaining indifferent to her charms. As a matter of fact, this one
was not indifferent. He appreciated them. Her blue-eyed, golden-haired
prettiness was pleasant to behold, in the close, daily intercourse of
camp life. He liked to notice her pretty ways, and there was something
rather alluring in her half affectionate and wholly confidential manner
towards himself. But--jealous? Oh no--no. He had lived too long, and
had too much experience of life for that phase of weakness. Nesta was
disappointed. She read no symptoms of the same in his face, her ear
detected no trace of bitterness or resentment in the tone.
"But I want to go out with you sometimes," she said. "Why do you avoid
me so of late?"
"My dear child, you never made a greater mistake in your life than in
thinking that. Here we are, you see, all crowded up together. We can't
all be talking at once--and--I thought you rather enjoyed the fun of
playing those two Johnnies off against each other."
"Ah, I'm sick of them. I wish they'd go back to Shalalai."
"I don't altogether believe that. Which is the favoured one, by the
way?"
"No, really. I rather like Captain Fleming, though." She laughed,
branching off with the light-hearted inconsequence of her type. "And--I
don't know what to do. He's awfully gone on me."
"And are you `awfully gone' on him?"
"Of course not. But I rather like him. I don't know what to do about
it."
"You don't know whether to buckle yourself for life to some one you
`rather like'--or not. Is that the long and short of it?"
"Yes."
"If you are a little idiot, Nessie, you will do it--if you are not, you
won't. You are dreadfully lacking in ballast, my child, even to dream
of such a thing, are you not?"
"I suppose so. I don't care a straw for anybody for more than a week or
so. Then I am just as sick of them as I can be. That's how I am."
"Except on that solitary occasion when you did take someone seriously.
Tell me about that, Nessita."
"No--no!"
"But you promised to, one of these days. Why not now?"
"What a tease you are. I won't tell it you now. No--nor ever.
There!--Hark! Wasn't that thunder?" she broke off suddenly.
"Yes. It's a long way off, though, travelling down yonder ridge. Won't
come near us."
Away along the summit of the further range a compact mass of cloud now
rested, and from this came a low distant peal. It represented one of
the thunderstorms common at that time of year, restricted in locality,
and of limited area. They gave it no further thought, and the
conversation running on from one subject to another, now grave, now gay,
carried them a long way over the road. The rest of the party were far
ahead. Bracebrydge was consoling himself by teasing Lily, and receiving
from that young person, not unaided by Hazel, many a repartee fully up
to the viciousness of his own thrusts. Fleming was riding with Mrs
Upward, while Upward and Bhallu Khan were constantly diverging from the
road, inspecting various botanical subjects with professional eye. Thus
Nesta and Campian, whether by accident or design of the former,
gradually dropped behind. Again, a long low boom of thunder pealed out
upon the stillness of the air.
"That's much nearer?" exclaimed the girl, looking up. "I say! I wish
it wouldn't! I don't like thunder."
"Scared of it?"
"Rather. What shall we do if it comes right over?"
"There may be some shelter of sorts further on. Meanwhile, don't think
about it. Go on talking to me. What subject shall we find to wrangle
about?"
She laughed, and very soon found a subject; and thus they continued
their way, until the path opened out from the narrow, stony,
juniper-grown valley they had been descending, on to a wide, open plain,
utterly destitute of foliage of any kind. The bulk of the party were
now visible again, further in advance, looking mere specks, nearly three
miles distant.
"They will be in the _tangi_ directly," said Nesta, shading her eyes to
watch the distant figures. "There, they are in it now," as the latter
disappeared in what looked like the mountain side itself, for no rift
was discernible from where these two now rode.
"We had better get on, hadn't we?" urged Campian.
"Oh no. I hate hurrying, and there's no earthly reason why we should."
So they held on at the same foot's pace over the plain, which stretched
its weary desolation far on either side of them. Here and there a great
hump of earth, streaked with white gypsum, relieved the dead level
monotony, but not a living thing--man, beast or bird--was in sight. Not
even a sound was audible, except the deep-toned growl of the thunder,
growing louder as they neared the mountain wall.
"Good study for a subject illustrating the jaws of Death," remarked
Campian, as, now before them, the mountain seemed to yawn apart in a
vertical fissure, which the stupendous height of the cliffs on either
hand caused to appear as a mere slit.
"Yes. And--it's beginning to rain."
Large drops were pattering down as they entered the jaws of the great
chasm, but once within them there was shelter for a space, for the
cliffs took an abrupt slant over at about a hundred feet above, so that
the sky was no longer visible. A trickle of muddy water was already
running down the stony footway. This should have warned Campian, at any
rate; but then his experience of the country and this particular feature
thereof, was not large. Nesta shivered.
"I don't like this at all," she said. "It is horrible. What if the
_tangi_ should come down?"
The other glanced upward. The cliff walls were smooth and straight.
Not a sign of ledge or projection to afford a foothold, no clinging
shrub or tree anchored in a cleft.
"Shall we go back?" he said. "There must be some way over."
"No, no. I came through here once before, and I remember Mr Upward
saying it would take a whole day to cross over the mountain. The
_tangi_ is only about a mile long."
"That means twenty minutes riding slow. Come along. We shall soon do
it."
But, even as his tone was, an ugly picture came before the speaker's
mind--that of a rush of black water many feet high, syphoned between
those smooth walls. Anxiously but furtively his glance scanned them as
they rode along.
As the narrowness of the passage wound and widened a little, the sky
once more became visible overhead. The sky? But it had clouded over,
and the rain fell somewhat smartly now upon the two wayfarers. A blue
gleam of lightning shot down into the depths, and the reverberating peal
which followed was as though telephoned in menacing boom through this
tube-like chasm. Hundreds and hundreds of feet they towered up now,
those iron-bound walls. It was like penetrating deeper and deeper into
the black heart of the mountain.
"See that place up there?" said Nesta, pointing to a kind of slanting
ledge quite twenty feet above and which might be reached by a strong
climber, though even then with difficulty. "Last time we came through
here, Bhallu Khan told us that two men had been overtaken by a rush, and
succeeded in getting to that point; but even there the water had reached
one of them and swept him away. Horrible, isn't it?"
"Very likely he invented the whole thing. He has an excellent
imagination, has our friend Bhallu Khan."
This he said to reassure her, not that he thought the incident
improbable. Indeed, glancing up at the spot indicated, he saw that
evidence in the shape of sticks and straws was not wanting to show that
the water had at some time reached that altitude, and the idea was not
pleasant. In the vivid sunshine of a cloudless day it would have added
interest to their way; now, with a gathering storm breaking over their
heads, and another half mile of what might at any moment become a raging
death-trap before them, it was dismal.
Another turn of the chasm, and the way, which had hitherto been level
and pebbly, now led up over steep and slippery slabs. It became
necessary to dismount, and here--Nesta's pony which she was leading, for
it became necessary to adopt single file, slipped and fell badly on its
side. By the time the terrified beast was on its legs again, shivering
and snorting, and sufficiently soothed down to resume the way, some
precious minutes had been lost.
"We might mount again now," said Campian, noting that the way was
smoother. "Come. Jump up."
But instead of placing her foot in the hand held ready to receive it,
the girl stood as though turned to stone. Every drop of blood had
forsaken her face, which was now white as that of a marble statue, her
lips ashy and quivering.
"Hark!" she breathed, rather than uttered. "It is coming! We are
lost!"
His own countenance changed, too. He had heard it as soon as herself--
that dull raving roar, echoing with hollow metallic vibration along the
rock walls. His heart almost died within him before the awfulness of
this peril.
"Oh no, nothing like that," he replied. "We must race it. We shall
distance it yet, if we only keep our heads."
The while he had put her into the saddle. Then taking the bridle, he
began to lead her pony over the dangerous point of the way. The brute
slipped and stumbled, now sliding, now about to pitch headlong, but both
got through.
"Now for it, Nessie. Give him all the pace you can, but keep him in
hand. We'll race it easily."
Down the _tangi_ now, giving their steeds all the rein they dared, these
two rode for dear life. Then Nesta's pony stumbling over a loose stone,
came right down, unhorsing his rider.
"Don't leave me! Oh don't leave me!" she shrieked despairingly. "I
can't move, my skirt is caught."
"Leave you. Is it likely? What do you take me for?" came his reply, as
in a moment he was dismounted and beside her. "Keep your head. It will
be all right in a moment. There!" as a vigorous tug brought the skirt
clear of the fallen animal, which lay as though stunned.
But as she gained her feet, the dull hollow booming, which had been
deepening ever behind them, became suddenly a roar of such terrible and
appalling volume, that Campian's steed, with a wild snort of alarm
jerked the bridle rein from his hand, and bolted wildly down the pass.
It all came before him as in a lightning flash. The utter hopelessness
of the situation. The flood had turned the corner of the reach they
were now in. He saw it shoot out from the projecting ridge, and hurl
itself with thunderous shock against the opposite rock face. Hissing
and bellowing it sprung high in the air, then, flung back, amid a vast
cloud of spray, it roared down upon them. One glance and only one, lest
the terror of the sight should paralyse him, and he realised that in
about two or three minutes that flood would be hurling their lifeless
bodies from side to side against those grim rock walls.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE DARK JAWS OF DEATH.
All as in a lightning flash some flicker of hope returned. For he saw
they were underneath the place which Nesta pointed out to him as having
afforded refuge to at any rate one in their position. It was their only
chance. Hope well nigh died again. To climb there alone would be
something of an undertaking--but with a helpless girl--
Yet he reached that point of refuge, but how he did so Campian never
knew--never will know to his dying day. The superhuman effort; the
hellish deafening din of the black flood as it shot past, so near as to
splash them, clinging there to the steep rock face, not more than half
way up to the place of refuge; of the words of encouragement which he
whispered to his half-fainting charge athwart the thunder-roar of the
waters, as he literally dragged her up beside him; of the tearing
muscles and cracking joints, and blazing, scintillating brain--of all
these he has a dim and confused recollection, and can only attribute the
accomplishment of the feat to a well nigh superhuman mania of
desperation.
Higher still! No time for a pause or rest--no permanent foothold is
here--and the waters are still rising. He dared not so much as look
down. The daze of the lightning striking upon the rock face aided his
efforts. The crash of the thunder peal was as entirely drowned in the
bellowing and strident seething of this huge syphoned flood, as though
it were silent.
The refuge at last, but what a refuge! Only by the most careful
distribution of weight could two persons support themselves on it for
any length of time. It was hardly even a ledge, hardly more than a mere
unevenness in the rock's surface. Yet, one of these two persons was a
terribly frightened and far from robust girl; the other seemed to have
expended air the strength within him in the effort of getting there at
all. Thus they clung, mere pigmy atoms against this stupendous cliff
wall; suspended over the seething hell of waters that would have churned
the life out of them within a moment or so of reaching its surface.
"There! We are safe now!" he gasped, still panting violently after the
exertion. "We have only to wait until the water runs off. It will soon
do that, you know."
"No, it will not," she replied, her blue eyes wide with terror, and
shudderingly turning her face to the cliff to avoid the awfulness of the
sight. "It may take days. The _tangi_ by the camp took a whole night
once. It was the night you came."
"Well, even then? Upward will have had time to get through safely,
ample time, and at the first opportunity they will come for us."
"They won't find us," she moaned. "You know that place I showed you
where Bhallu Khan told us the water had risen high enough to sweep a man
off. It was higher than this."
"I think not I think this is the higher of the two," he answered
mendaciously. In her fear she had not recognised the place, and he
would not undeceive her. For his part, he blessed the chance that had
put the idea into his head. But for her having narrated the incident as
they rode past, it might never have occurred to him that the attempt was
feasible, and--what then?
"We mustn't discount the worst," he went on.
"The chances of it rising any higher are _nil_, and even if it does,
there is plenty of margin before it reaches us. It isn't as if it were
a case of an incessant and regular downpour. It is only one of those
sharp afternoon thunder showers that run off these great slab-like rocks
as off a roof on a huge scale. My dear little girl, you must be brave,
and thank Heaven we were able to fetch this place at all. Look, I
believe it has run off a little lower already."
"Oh, no--no! I can't look. It is horrible--horrible!" she answered, as
venturing one peep forth, she again hid her face, shuddering.
And in truth her terror was little to be wondered at. It was growing
dusk now in the world without, and the roar and hiss of the vast flood
coursing with frightful velocity between those grim, cavernous cliffs in
the shades, would have tried the nerves of anybody contemplating the
scene from the impartial vantage ground of a place of safety. How then
did it seem to these two, crouching on a steep slant of rock, whose
unevenness alone sustained them in position; cowering over this awful
flood, which might at any moment, rising higher, sweep them into a
horrible death? And then, that the situation should lose nothing of its
terror, Campian noticed, with a sinking of the heart, that the water
actually was rising.
Yes. A mark upon the iron-bound face of the opposite cliff, which had
caught his attention on first being able to look round, was now covered.
Was it the gathering gloom, or had the scratch been washed away? No.
The latter was stratified. The water had risen nearly two feet.
The depth at first he judged to be about ten feet. Two more had been
added. He fixed another mark. The roaring was already so fearful it
could hardly be increased. The hissing, boiling eddies of the rush,
leaped over the new mark, then subsided--leaped again, and this time did
not subside. They streamed over, hiding it completely. And still the
rain poured down pitilessly, and he thought he could detect a peal of
thunder above the roar of the waters, which suggested a renewed burst
over the very catchment area which had supplied this flood. Well, he
had done what he could. The end was not in his hands.
"Oh-h--how cold it is!" moaned Nesta.
"Of course; I was forgetting," he replied, with great difficulty
divesting himself of his coat, for hardly so much as a finger could be
spared in the effort involved to hold himself--to hold both of them--in
position. But it was done at last, and the garment, all too light, he
wrapped around the girl's shivering form. She uttered a feeble protest,
which took not much overruling.
"What a precious pair of drowned rats we must look, Nessita," he said;
"and what a sight we shall be when they find us in the morning."
"But they never will find us in the morning--not me, at any rate."
"Won't they? They will though, and you will be the first to think of
the appearances. Why, that pretty curled fringe that I and those two
sodger Johnnies were eager to die for a little while ago is all over the
shop. You should just see it now."
Thus he bantered, as though they were in the snug dining tent at
Upward's camp instead of amid a raving hell of terror and of imminent
death. But the while the man's heart died within him, for in the last
faint touch of light he noticed that yet another mark, higher than the
rest, had disappeared.
"I wonder which of those two Johnnies aforesaid would give most to be
able to change places with me now," he went on, still bantering. "Or,
at any rate, won't they just say so to-morrow? Here, you must get up
close to me," he said, drawing her right to him. "It will serve the
double purpose of keeping you from going overboard and keeping you
warmer, and me too, perhaps."
If ever there was time and place for conventionality, assuredly it was
not here. Her violent shivering quieted down as she nestled against
him. The warmth of the contact and the additional sense of protection
combined to work wonders.
"Now, talk to me," he said; "or try and go to sleep, if you would
rather. I'll take care you don't fall over."
"Sleep? I don't suppose I shall ever sleep again."
"Rather, you will. And, Nessie, shall I tell you something you'd rather
like to hear? The water is already beginning to go down."
"What else has it been doing ever since we came up here?"
"That's right!" he cried, delighted at this little spark of the old fun
loving nature reasserting itself. "But, bar jokes, it really is
lowering. I have kept an eye upon certain marks that were covered just
now. They are visible again."
The rain had ceased. The bellowing of the flood was as loud as ever,
and but that they were talking into each other's ears, their voices
would have been well nigh inaudible. What he had said was true, and
with a great gladness of heart, he recognised the fact.
"No, no! You are only saying that to make me think it is all right,"
she answered, the wild eagerness in her tone betraying something of the
strain she had undergone. "It can't be really--is it? Say--is it
really?"
"It is really, so far as I can judge. But it has turned so confoundedly
dark, one can hardly see anything. Keep up your spirits, child. You
have had an adventure, that's all."
"Well, you are a good one to share it with," she murmured. "Tell me,
were you ever afraid of anything in your life?"
"I should rather think I was, of heaps of things. I should have been
hideously so before we started to climb up here, only there wasn't time.
Oh don't make any mistake about me. I know what funk is, and that of
the bluest kind."
Thus he talked on, lightly, cheerily, and the girl, if she could not
quite forget her numbness and terror and exhaustion, was conscious of no
small alleviation of the same. It was pitch dark now, but the thunder
of the waters, and the cavernous rattle of the stones and pebbles swept
along by their rush, seemed to have abated in volume. An hour went by,
then two. Nesta, half asleep, was answering drowsily. The gloom of the
great chasm lightened. A full moon had risen over the outside world,
and its rays were penetrating even to these forbidding depths. The
roaring of the flood had become a mere purling ripple. The water had
almost run off.
Campian was becoming frightfully exhausted. Not much longer could he
support this strain. Would Upward never arrive? He had succeeded,
providentially, in climbing up here, under stress of desperation, but to
descend safely now, cramped and exhausted as they both were, would be
impossible. A broken neck, or a broken limb or two, would be the sure
and certain result of any such attempt.
As the moon-rays brightened, he could make out the bottom of the
_tangi_, and it looked hideously far down, almost as if the rush of
water had worn it deeper. It was all seamed and furrowed up, and the
water was now babbling down in several little streams. Would help never
arrive!
Ha! At last! Voices--native voices--then, although talking in an
Oriental tongue, other voices, recognisable as European ones. The sound
was coming down the _tangi_.
"Wake up, Nessita. Here they are, at last."
But the girl had already heard, and started up with a suddenness which
would have hurled her to the base of the cliff but for his restraining
grasp.
"Wait, wait!" he urged. "Be doubly careful now. We don't want to break
our necks after a narrow shave of drowning." Then lifting up his voice,
he gave forth a mighty shout.
It was answered--answered by several voices. In the moonlight they
could make out figures hurrying down the _tangi_.
"Where are you?" sung out Upward, who led the way. Then he stopped
short, with an ejaculation of amazement, as the answer revealed the
objects of his search high overhead. "Good heavens! how did you get up
there?"
"Never mind now. What _we_ want to know is how to get down."
But with Bhallu Khan and one of his forest guard were two or three
sturdy Baluchis, who had joined the party--all wiry mountaineers--and by
dint of making a kind of human pyramid against the rock wall, the pair
were landed safely beneath.
Then many were the questions and answers and ejaculations, as the full
peril of the situation became apparent. Those who had undergone it had
not much to say. Nesta seemed half dazed with exhaustion and recent
terror, while Campian declared himself too infernally tired to talk.
Fleming however produced a flask, which went far to counteract the cold
and wet. The whole party was there. They had got safely through the
_tangi_, when the rain began to come down in torrents, and in an
incredibly short space of time the slab-like slopes of the hills had
poured down a vast volume into the dry nullah, which drained the valley
area. They themselves were through only just in time, but had felt no
great anxiety on account of the other two, reckoning them so far behind
that the impassability of the _tangi_ would be obvious to them directly
they reached it. Of course they would not attempt it. But to find them
here, half way through--saved as by a miracle, and then with the loss of
two horses--no, they had not reckoned upon that.
All this Upward explained. Then, looking up at their place of refuge:
"I don't suppose there's another place in the whole length of the
_tangi_ you could have taken refuge in, and how the mischief you ever
got to this one is a mystery to me."
"Well, for the matter of that, so it is to me, Upward," rejoined
Campian. "I'm perfectly certain I couldn't do it again for a thousand
pounds."
"Why, that's the place a man was swept off from the year before last.
Isn't it, Bhallu Khan?"
"_Ha, Huzoor_!" asserted the forester, taking in the burden of their
talk.
"Well, you've had a narrow escape, old chap--both of you have. I don't
know how you did it, but here you are. We were coming back to look for
you, thinking you had got turned round, and might get trying some other
way back, and this isn't an over-safe country for a couple of strangers
to get lost in at night. By the way, I can't make out why you got so
far behind. More than once we kept signalling you to come on. It
occurred to us you might miss the way. Didn't you see us?"
"No."
"None so blind as those who won't see--ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered
Bracebrydge, tailing off his vacuous laugh in would-be significance.
But of this remark Campian took absolutely no notice. It was not the
first time Bracebrydge had rendered himself offensive and quarrelsome in
the presence of ladies, and the inherent caddishness of this gallant
worthy was best recognised by the silence of contempt.
It was late before the party reached camp--later still when they got to
bed. All was well that ended well--so far, that is, for Nesta
Cheriton's nervous system had received a shock, which rendered her more
or less out of sorts for some time, during which time, however,
Bracebrydge and Fleming were recalled to Shalalai.
CHAPTER NINE.
AFTER LONG YEARS.
"Let's get the ponies, and jog over and look up Jermyn. Shall we,
Campian?" said Upward, during breakfast a few mornings later.
"I'm on. But--who's Jermyn when he's at home?"
"He isn't at home. He's out here now," cut in Lily.
"Smart young party, Lil," said Campian, with an approving nod. "And who
is he when he's out here now?"
"Why, Jermyn, of course."
"Thanks. That's precisely what I wanted to know. Thanks, fair Lilian.
Thine information is as terse as it is precise."
"_I_ should say _Colonel_ Jermyn if I were you, Lily," expostulated that
young person's mother; whereat Hazel crowed exultantly, and Campian
laughed. The latter went on:
"As I was saying, Upward, before we were interrupted, who is Jermyn?"
"Oh, he's a Punjab cavalry man up here on furlough. He's had fever bad,
and even Shalalai wasn't high enough for him, though he doesn't want to
go home, so he rented my forest bungalow for the summer. It's about
eight miles in the Gushki direction. You haven't been that way yet."
"So? And what does Jermyn consist of?"
"Eh? Ah, I see. Himself and a niece."
"What sort of a niece?"
"Hideous," cut in Hazel.
"Really, I can't allow that sort of libel to pass, even for a joke,"
said Mrs Upward. "She isn't hideous at all. Some people admire her
immensely."
"Pff!" ejaculated Lily, tip tilting her nose in withering scorn. "Too
black."
"Mr Campian likes them that way," cackled Hazel. "At least, he used
to," added this imp, with a meaning look across the table at Nesta. "I
was only humbugging. She isn't really hideous. We'll ride over too,
eh, Lil?"
"No, you won't--not much," retorted Upward decisively. "You two are a
precious deal too fond of running wild as it is, and you can just stay
at home for once. Besides, we don't want you at all. We may take on
some chikor on the way, or start after some from Jermyn's. Shall you be
ready in half an hour, Campian?"
The latter replied in the affirmative, and they rose from the table.
While they were preparing to start, he observed Nesta standing alone
under the trees.
"Well, Nessita, and of what art thou thinking?" he said, coming behind
her unnoticed. She started.
"Of nothing. I never think. It's too much trouble."
"Phew! Don't take it so much to heart. They'll soon be back."
"What a tease you are," she retorted petulantly. "I hope they won't.
If you only knew how sick I am of the pair of them."
"That so? I was going to say you'd have to make shift with me for the
next few days, but--There, it's a sin to tease her. What's the matter?
You're not looking up to your usual brilliancy of form and colouring,
little girl."
"Oh, I've got a most beastly headache. I'm going to try and go to sleep
all day, if those two wretched children will let me."
"Poor little girl! Shall I persuade Upward to let them come with us?"
"No, no. It doesn't matter. You'd better go now, or you'll start Mr
Upward fussing."
"And cussing?"
"Yes, that too. I'm going in now. Good-bye."
"Nesta looks very much below par this morning, Upward," said Campian, as
they rode along.
"Does she? Finds it dull, perhaps, now, without those two jokers.
She's never happy without a lot of them strung around her."
"_So_? These blue-eyed, fluffy headed girls usually are that way, I
have observed. They are wonderfully taking, but--lacking in depth."
"Thought at one time she was rather stringing _yours_ on to her
collection of scalps, old chap," said Upward, with a sly chuckle.
"Because we went out chikor shooting together once or twice?" replied
Campian tranquilly. "Talk of the devil--there _are_ some chikor." And
the next few minutes were spent in dismounting--a rapid fifty paces
through the sparse herbage--a whirr of wings--the triple crack of guns--
and a brace and a half of birds retrieved by the attendant forest guard;
while the remainder of the covey, having gained the mountain side, was
crawling up the rock slopes like spiders on a wall.
"See that hole, Campian?" said Upward, soon after they had resumed their
way. "That's the markhor cave. There's always a markhor there, the
people say."
"Let's go and see if he's at home now, except that we've only got shot
guns," replied Campian, looking up at the black fissure pointed out, and
which cleft the rock face some distance overhead, seeming to start from
a grassy ledge. It looked by no means an inaccessible sort of place.
"Bhallu Khan says he wouldn't be in now," said Upward, who had been
talking in Hindustani to the old Pathan. "He only sleeps there."
"So? Well, I don't believe in his markhor then, Upward. If the brute
was so regular in his habits as all that, he'd have been shot long ago."
"Very likely. But Bhallu Khan says the people are afraid of him. They
don't believe he is a real markhor, but a spirit that takes the form of
one. He is guarding some buried treasure, and it's unlucky to go near
the place."
"It wouldn't be unlucky if they found the treasure, by Jove! What does
it consist of?"
Upward spoke again to the old forester, whose answer, translated to
Campian, caused the latter fairly to start in his saddle, his scepticism
dispersed.
"He says it is supposed to be old sword hilts and things, encrusted with
the most priceless jewels. Hallo! You seem to believe in it, old
chap?"
"Not I. Only it reminded me of something else. But I suppose they have
a yarn of the kind attached to pretty nearly every hole and corner of
the land, eh?"
"Yes. I have heard of others; but, curiously enough, now I think of it,
this jewelled sword hilt idea doesn't seem to come into them. It's
generally a case of tons of gold mohurs, and all that sort of thing."
"I suppose so," asserted Campian tranquilly. But his tranquillity was
all outward, for as they continued their way, his mind was very lively
indeed. Was there really something in the legend? Had he struck upon
the clue at last--not merely a clue, but the actual spot? How he wished
he had learned Hindustani, so as to be able to communicate, at first
hand, with those who might be able to furnish other clues. All save the
wild Baluchis of the more remote and nomad clans spoke that language,
and it was of primary importance to obtain information of this kind at
first hand, and unfiltered through a third party.
"Campian's very _chup_ to-day," thought Upward, peering furtively at his
companion, who, during the last couple of miles, had hardly spoken,
except in monosyllables. "I wonder if the sly old dog is really smashed
on Nesta, and is thinking it over--I wonder?"
He would have wondered more could he have read the thoughts of "the sly
old dog" aforesaid, for they ran not upon love but upon lucre.
"There's the bungalow," said Upward presently, pointing out a white
low-roofed dwelling high up on the hillside. "Not a bad little place
for a while, but most confoundedly out of the way."
The path wound around the spurs, ascending more abruptly, mostly in the
shade of the junipers, here growing to greater size, and more thickly.
Presently they came out upon a small plateau, and the bungalow.
"Hallo, Upward! Glad to see you. Don't get many visitors up here."
"How do, colonel? This is Mr Campian--stopping with me. Nearly got
shot by some Pathan budmashes, and then drowned by the _tangi_ coming
down, on the night he arrived. You may have heard about it."
"Not a word--not a word. Haven't seen a soul for weeks. Glad to meet
you, Mr Campian. Fine view from here, isn't there?"
"Splendid," assented Campian, who had been taking in both the speaker
and the view. The former was of the pleasant, genial type of soldier--
elderly, grizzled, upright, well-groomed. The latter--well, it was
fine--uncommonly so. From its eyrie-like position, the bungalow
commanded a vast sweep of mountain and valley. Embedded against a
background of juniper slope the front of the plateau looked out upon a
scene, the leading idea conveyed by which was that of altitude and
vastness. Opposite, a line of great mountains shot up in craggy heads
to the sky; their slopes alternating in slab-like cliffs and gloomy
chasms running up into lateral valleys. Juniper forest, more or less
sparse, straggled along the base; and but for the aridity of the all
prevailing stone and the scattered vegetation, the view would have been
lovely. As it stood, it was only immense. Circling kites, uttering
their plaintive whistle, floated in clouds against the blue of the sky,
or, gracefully steering themselves with their long forked tails, soared
out over the valley.
"Fine air, too," went on Colonel Jermyn. "After the awful heat of some
of those plains stations you can appreciate it, I can tell you. But I
daresay, you got a taste of that on your way up?"
"Rather. Coming through Sindh, for instance, if you leaned back
suddenly in the train against the back of the seat, it was like leaning
against a lot of fizzling Vesuvian heads."
"Ah, prickly heat. We know what that is down below--don't we, Upward?"
But the reply was lost in the soft rustle of draperies, and a softer
voice:
"How do you do, Mr Upward?" As the three rose, it needed not the
formal introduction. The colonel's words seemed to sound from far away
in Campian's ears. "My niece--Miss Wymer."
The first utterance had been enough for Campian. There was no other
such voice in the world. And as he stood there, exchanging the formal
hand-clasp of ordinary every-day greeting with Vivien Wymer, small
wonder that his self-possession should be shaken to the core. For, five
years earlier, these two had parted--in anger and bitterness on the side
of one, a whole world of heart-consuming love on that of both. They had
parted, agreeing to be strangers thenceforward, and had been so, nor had
they set eyes on each other since. Now, by the merest of chances, and
totally unprepared, they met again amid the craggy mountain ranges of
wild Baluchistan.
"We were talking about the prickly heat, Vivien," went on the colonel.
"Mr Campian says it was like leaning against burning match-heads coming
up in the train--ha, ha! You look a trifle below par even now," turning
to Campian. "Won't you have a `peg'? Upward, excuse me--what a
forgetful ass I am. So seldom I see anyone up here I'm forgetting my
manners. After your long, hot ride, too!"
"Not feeling fit to-day. A new climate sometimes does knock me out at
first," replied Campian mendaciously, he being both by constitution and
practice as hard as nails. He was savage with himself for losing his
self-possession, even for a moment. "No lack of that article on the
other side, anyway," he thought bitterly.
Outwardly there was not. Vivien Wymer's manner in greeting him had been
so perfectly free and unconcerned that not one in ten thousand would
have dreamed she had ever set eyes on him before. Nor, as she sat there
talking to Upward, could the keenest ear have detected a trace of flurry
in her soft-voiced, flowing tones; and what ear could be keener than
that of the man who sat there, straining to catch every word--every
tone--while endeavouring to avoid replying at random to the conversation
of his host.
"That'll pick you up," said the latter, as the bearer appeared with a
tray containing very tall tumblers and a bottle and syphons. "Nothing
like a `peg' after a hot ride. We can't get ice up here, but I always
have the stuff kept in a cooler. Mix for yourself."
"You must come down to our camp for a day or two, Miss Wymer," Upward
was saying. "You'll come, too, won't you, colonel? There are still
some birds left. It's rotten shooting, but all there is here."
Thereupon the conversation turned on _shikar_ in general, and tiger in
particular, and Campian felt relieved, for now he could drop out of it.
Five years ago it was that he and Vivien had parted--yes, exactly five
years--and now, as he sat watching her, it seemed as though but five
days had passed over her, for all the change they had brought--
outwardly, at any rate. All was the same--the poise of the head--even
the arrangement of the rippling waves of soft dark hair had undergone
but slight alteration; the quick lifting of the eyelids, the glance,
straight and full, of the heavily fringed eyes. Yet, if taken feature
by feature, Vivien Wymer could not have been summed up as beautiful.
Was it a certain grace of movement inseparable from a perfect symmetry
of form--an irresistible, sensuous attractiveness side by side with a
rare refinement--that would have set her on the highest pinnacle, while
other women, beautiful as a dream, would have been passed by unnoticed?
He could not say. He only knew that she had appealed to him as no other
woman had ever done before or since; that the possession of her would
fill every physical and mental want--we desire to emphasise the latter
phase, in that it was a question of no wild whirlwind of infatuated
passion. She had drawn out in him--as regarded herself, at any rate--
all that was best; had even been the means of implanting within him
qualities wholly beneficial, and which he would have repudiated all
capacity for entertaining. In her he had recognised his destined
counterpart. He might live a thousand years and never again meet with
such. He was no longer young. He had known varied and eventful
experiences, including a sinister matrimonial one, mercifully for
himself, comparatively short. But Vivien Wymer had been the one love of
his life, and the same held good of him as regarded herself, yet they
met again now as strangers. One thing he decided. They were to keep up
the _role_. Since she wished it--and evidently she did wish it--he
would offer no enlightenment.
"Is your friend keen on sport, Upward?" the colonel was saying. "You
ought to take him to try for a markhor."
"Don't know that I care much for sport in that form," cut in Campian.
"It represents endless bother and clambering; all for the sake of one
shot, and that as likely as not a miss. The knowledge that it is going
to be your one and only chance is bound to make you shoot nervous. Now,
I like letting off the gun a great deal, not once only."
"Yes, it means a lot of hard work. Well, you've come to the wrong
country for sport."
"By the way, colonel," said Upward, "my head forester points out a cave
on the way here, where they say there's always a markhor. It doesn't
seem difficult to get at I don't believe in it myself, because there's a
legend attached." And thereupon he went into the whole story.
Vivien was listening with deepening interest.
"I should like to see that place," she said. "Anything to do with the
legends of the people and country is always interesting. Could we not
arrange to go and explore it? You say it is easy to get at?"
"I think so," answered Upward. "We might make a picnic of it. Two
fellows from Shalalai who joined camp with me are coming back to-morrow
or the next day, and we might all go together. What do you say,
colonel?"
"Oh, I don't mind. Getting rather old for clambering, though. Come
along in to tiffin; that's the second gong."
Throughout that repast, Vivien addressed most of her conversation to
Upward. Campian, however, who had pulled himself together effectually
by now, was observing her keenly. When she did have occasion to answer
some remark of his, it was as though she were talking to a perfect
stranger, beheld that morning for the first time. Very good. If that
were the line she desired to keep to, not in him was it to encroach upon
it. He had his share of pride, likewise of vindictiveness, and some of
the aggrieved bitterness of their parting was upon him now. But he
remembered also that the ornamental sex are consummate actors, and felt
savage with himself for having let down his own guard. And this
impassiveness he kept up throughout the ordeal of again saying good-bye.
"Well, and what did you think of Colonel Jermyn, Mr Campian?" queried
Mrs Upward, when they were seated at dinner that evening. The two men
had returned late, having fallen in with more chikor on the way, and she
had had no opportunity of catechising him before.
"He seems a pleasant sort of man," returned Campian. "There was some
scheme of cutting them into a kind of exploration picnic, wasn't there,
Upward?" he went on, with the idea of diverting an inevitable
cross-examination.
"_Them_! You saw the niece, then?" rapped out Hazel. "What did you
think of her?"
"Think? Why, that you are a shocking little libellist, Hazel,
remembering your pronouncement."
"It wasn't me who said she was too black; it was Lily."
"_He's_ mashed too," crowed that young person, grinning from ear to ear.
"Why `too,' Lilian? Is the name of those in that hapless plight
legion?"
"Rather. You haven't a ghost of a show. Down at Baghnagar she had
three regiments at her feet. But she wouldn't have anything to say to
any of them."
"That looks as if one _had_ a ghost of a show, Lil," replied Campian,
serenely bantering. In reality, he had two objects to serve--one to
cover the situation from all eyes, the other, haply to extract from the
chatter of this hapless child anything that might throw light on
Vivien's life since they parted.
"Pff! not you," came the reply, short and sharp. "There was _one_--
once. She chucked him. No show for anybody now."
"What a little scandalmonger it is," said Campian, going off into a
shout of laughter. He had to do it, if only to relieve his feelings.
The information thus tersely rapped out by Lily, and which drew down
upon the head of that young person a mild maternal rebuke for
slanginess, had sent his mind up at the rebound. "Where did she get
hold of that for a yarn, Mrs Upward?"
"Goodness knows. Things leak out. Even children like that get hold of
them in this country;" whereupon Lily sniffed scornfully, and Hazel
fired off a derisive cackle. "Do you think her good looking, Mr
Campian?"
"Decidedly; and thoroughbred at every point." The humour of the
situation came home to the speaker. Here he was, called upon to give a
verdict offhand as to the one woman who for years had filled all his
thoughts, who still--before that day to wit--had occupied a large
portion of them, and he did so as serenely and unconcernedly as though
he had never beheld her before that day. "Why did she chuck--the other
fellow?" he went on, moved by an irresistible impulse to keep them to
the subject.
"He turned out a rip, I believe," struck in Upward. "Lifted his elbows
too much, most likely. A lot of fellows out here do."
"You've got it all wrong, Ernest," said his wife. "You really shouldn't
spread such stories. It was for nothing of the sort, but for family
reasons, I believe; and the man was all right. And it wasn't out here
either."
"Oh, well, I don't know anything about it, and I'll be hanged if I
care," laughed Upward. "I asked them to come down here for a few days
soon, and they said they would. Then you can get it out of her
yourself."
CHAPTER TEN.
THE MARKHOR CAVE.
"There is a large section of our fellow subjects that votes Alpine
climbing the most incomprehensible form of lunacy known to science, on
the ground that to spend half one's life, and putting the whole of it in
pawn, scrambling up rocks and ice and snow, for the sake of getting to
the top of some pinnacle which a hundred people have already got to, and
thousands more eventually will, is to place one's self beyond the pale
of ordinary intelligence. But I wonder what such would say of a being
of mature age, and laying claim to the possession of ordinary
intelligence, who skips up in the middle of the night, and under the
guidance of an Asiatic whom he can't understand, and who can't
understand him, spends several hours crawling over boulders and along
blood curdling precipices, on the off-chance of one shot--and the
certainty of a miss--at an infernal wild goat, which is of no earthly
use to you when you get him, except to stick up his head and brag about
it ever after. The Alp-climber would have to cede to him the proud
distinction of prize imbecile, I guess."
Thus mused Campian, as, following in the wake of Bhallu Khan, he wormed
himself warily around an elbow of rock, between which and space, was a
foothold just twenty inches as to width, and precarious as to stability,
he bearing in mind the while two considerations--firstly, the
desirability of refraining from dislodging so much as a pebble;
secondly, the necessity of refraining from dislodging himself. The
first grey of early dawn was just breaking upon the mountain world, and
here he was spread-eagled against a cliff of dizzy height and well nigh
perpendicular formation: raked by a piercing wind, and wondering whether
he should eventually get off it by the ordinary tedious process of slow
and sure progression or by the rapid one of a false step--leading to
pulverisation. As to one consideration, however, he laboured under no
ambiguity of mind. Nothing on earth should induce him to return by the
way he had come, even if it must needs take a week to go round by some
safer way.
In due course however, the situation improved. The rock face grew less
perpendicular, the path wider, and finally they found themselves in a
steep gully. Here the old Pathan, pointing upward began signalling
vehemently, the gist of which Campian took to be that he must proceed
more noiselessly than ever, and that the ridge above being gained, they
would find markhor.
A clamber of a hundred feet--one pebble dislodged with a clatter,
bringing his heart to his mouth, and a reproachful glance from Bhallu
Khan--and they were cowering behind the top of the ridge. Campian
wanted a few moments to steady himself after their long, hard climb. He
could not shoot straight in a state of breathlessness, he declared.
It was quite light up here now, but the sun had not risen above the
eastern mountain-tops. As they peered over the ridge, the valley
beneath still lay in the grey half-dawn. But between it and their point
of vantage, on the rock-strewn slopes beneath, something was moving, and
it needed not the touch on the arm from the old Pathan and the barely
articulated whisper to set Campian's nerves tingling. He had already
taken the rifle from the forester so as to be in readiness.
"Markhor," he whispered.
Bhallu Khan nodded. A solitary ram, with fine horns, was browsing
unconcernedly. There was no getting any nearer. Campian set the sight
at four hundred yards. Then resting the rifle upon the rock in front of
him, he took a steady aim and drew trigger.
The roar of the piece among the echoing stillness of the craggy
solitudes was like a peal of thunder. The markhor gave one wild bound
into the air, and a thrill of exultation went through the shooter. But
the disappointed headshake of Bhallu Khan would promptly have undeceived
him, even had not the quarry taken to its heels and gone bounding down
the slope at a flying gallop. He let go a couple more shots from the
magazine, but wider than the first. Then he threw up the rifle in
mingled disgust and resignation, the markhor now being a mere bounding
and very badly frightened speck.
"No good!" he exclaimed. "Can't do anything with certainty over two
hundred yards, and that brute was nearer five than four. Well, I didn't
expect to, so am not disappointed, and it doesn't really matter a little
damn."
The only word of this reflection understood by Bhallu Khan being the
last, he smiled, and proceeded to expatiate in Hindustani, profusely
illustrating his harangue with signs. But of this, for his part,
Campian understood not even the last word.
He cared the less for his failure to bring down the game in that this
had not been his primary object. The pretext of sport had been a
pretext only. He wanted to explore the markhor cave, and that quietly
and by himself, wherefore, when a couple of days after their visit to
Jermyn he had suggested to Upward a markhor stalk, the latter,
remembering his expressed views on the subject of hard toil inadequately
rewarded, had evinced considerable surprise, but excused himself from
joining on that very ground, which was exactly what Campian had
expected.
Now they were no great distance above that cave, and he soon signalled
Bhallu Khan his desire to proceed thither. Somewhat to his surprise,
remembering the superstition attached, the old Pathan cheerfully
acquiesced, and a downhill climb of about three quarters of an hour
brought them to a position commanding its entrance. Signing him to
remain there and watch, the forester crawled round to the rock above the
gaping black fissure, where by dint of making a considerable noise, and
rattling down showers of stones, he hoped to drive forth its inmate.
But there came forth nothing.
"This markhor is a fraud, anyway," said Campian to himself. And he
signalled Bhallu Khan to return just as that estimable Asiatic had
himself arrived at the conclusion that there was no point in making
further efforts to scare out of a hole something which was not within
it. Then they sat on the rock together and conversed, as best they
could by signs, while Campian breakfasted on some sandwiches and the
contents of a business-like flask.
The sun had risen now, and was reddening the great craggy pinnacles on
high with the new glow of day. Later on these would bear an arid and
depressing aspect, but now they seemed to soar up proudly to the
deepening blue. Meditatively Campian watched the line of light as it
dropped lower and lower, soon to flood the valley with its fierce
heatwave. Now it had reached the _kotal_, now it was just touching the
junipers which embedded the forest bungalow. He could not see the
latter from his present position, it being shut off by a rounded spur;
but the immediate surroundings of it drew his glance. Not that they
reminded him--oh, no! He had needed no mere reminder since that chance
meeting three days ago. Bother thinking! Thinking was worse than
useless. Springing to his feet, he signed Bhallu Khan that he wanted to
explore the cave.
The fissure was easily approached, opening as it did on to a grass
ledge. Campian produced a couple of candles, thereby betraying
premeditation in this quest, and, lighting one, gave the other to the
old Pathan. Then they advanced into the darkness.
The fissure ran at a slant for about ten yards, then it widened out,
with a tolerably level floor, to an irregularly shaped rock chamber,
seeming to extend about thirty yards back. The light was flickering and
uncertain, and Campian, who was a little in front, felt his arm suddenly
and violently seized, and a voice vociferated in his ear. For a brief
fraction of a second the idea of treachery flashed through his mind;
then he recognised in Bhallu Khan's tone the vehemence not of menace but
of warning.
He had been about to step on a broad, black stripe which lay across the
floor of the cavern. Now he halted, his foot already raised. He
lowered his candle. The broad, black stripe was a fissure--a crevasse.
Of no great width was it--at that point only just wide enough to admit
his own body--still it _was_ wide enough. But what of its depth?
Motioning him to stand still, the forester picked up a handful of loose
stones, and dropped them in one by one. Both listened. The stones took
some time to strike anything, and then it was very far down. There was
yet a further and fainter concussion. Bhallu Khan smiled significantly,
and shook his head. Campian whistled. Both looked at each other. Then
they examined the crevasse again. No current of air arose, which argued
no outlet. But the thing was of ghastly depth.
"Your markhor is a fraud, Bhallu Khan," said Campian, as they inspected
the floor of the cave, and emphasising the statement by signs. "There
is no trace of such a thing ever having been into it."
The other smiled again, and nodded assent. But just then a sound
outside made them start and look at each other. It was that of a human
voice. Bhallu Khan blew out his light, and Campian followed his
example. Thus for a moment they waited.
Footsteps were advancing into the cave. Then the striking of a match.
They made out the figure of a man approaching--a native--bearing a
lighted candle, which he shaded with his hand. Behind him came another
figure, which they could not make out.
"Salaam, brother," said Bhallu Khan in Hindustani, at the same time
lighting his own candle.
The effect on the newcomer was disturbing. He gave a violent start,
dropping the candle, which went out. But by their own light Campian
could see a business-like revolver pointed straight at him, while a
full, clear, feminine voice cried out in purest English:
"Don't move, or I fire!"
It was his turn to start now. That voice! There was no other like it
in the world. He replied calmly:
"Yes. Pull off. You may as well. It won't really matter much."
"Oh!" Just a little cry escaped Vivien Wymer. She lowered the weapon,
then laughed, and there was a note in her laugh which, in one less self
possessed, less self reliant, might almost have been taken for
hysterical. "Who would have thought of finding you--anyone--here?" she
went on. "But I believe I was the more startled of the two."
"Yes, I am sure you were," he replied, advancing now into the light.
"We haven't said `How d'you do?' yet, and it's as well to keep up the
conventionalities."
She put forth her hand to meet his, and again they clasped hands. Again
they had met under strange and unlooked for circumstances--here, in the
semi-gloom of the mountain cave.
"I was so interested in hearing about this place," she said. "Mr
Upward's account of it seemed to hold my imagination, and I felt moved
to explore it for myself. I did not feel inclined to wait for a scheme
that might never come off. Besides, the associations of mystery and a
touch of eeriness would have no effect in the midst of an every day,
sceptical crowd."
"Great minds jump together! That was precisely my own idea. But who is
with you? Surely you are not alone, with only one servant, and not a
very reliable one at that, judging from his behaviour just now. It is
hardly safe, is it?"
"Yes, it is. All these northern border tribes are of the best type of
Mohammedan, and respect women. No, I am not afraid."
"You did not seem so just now, at any rate. But it is not only of that
sort of danger I was thinking. A gloomy hole like this might conceal
all kinds of hidden peril. It might be the den of a panther, or a wolf,
or even a snake. For instance, look at this. Keep behind me, though."
He led the way--it was only a few steps--to the scene of his own narrow
escape. There yawned the cleft, black and hideous.
"Keep back," he said, extending an arm instinctively, as though to bar a
nearer advance, and in doing so his hand accidentally closed upon hers.
He did not let it remain there, but it seemed as though a magnetic touch
were conveyed from frame to frame, and there came a softness into his
tone which accorded well with the protecting, shielding attitude.
"Is it very deep?" asked Vivien, holding her candle over the brim, and
peering down into the blackness.
"Well, judging by the sound, it takes a stone a good while to get to the
bottom. I should have been there myself long before this but for Bhallu
Khan here. In fact, I was placidly walking into it when he laid violent
hands on me."
"Really? How horrible! Let's leave it now, and go outside. The idea
of such a thing oppresses one in here."
She turned away. Her voice was unshaken. Beyond just a faint
quickening in her tone, she might have been listening to some mere
abstract risk run by somebody she had never seen or heard of before, and
Campian could not see her face.
"Just take one more look around before you go outside," he said. "The
idea of those hidden valuables being here won't wash. Both floor and
walls are of solid rock. There is no possibility of burying anything."
"Hardly, I should think," she answered, after a few moments' critical
survey of the interior. "But, this is not an artificial cavern,
surely?"
"No. I have seen others rather like it, though none quite of its size.
But if you follow out the formation of the place, it is all on the same
slant. The crevasse, to be sure, is at something of a different angle,
but that is nothing to go by here, where the whole side of a mountain is
seamed and criss-crossed with the most irregular network of fissures."
"What if the things are at the bottom of that cleft?" said Vivien.
At the bottom of it! This was a new idea. Was it a new light? But he
replied:
"Then they will remain there till the crack of doom. The hole is of
immense depth--Bhallu Khan and I sounded it from every point--and is
sure to contain noxious gas at a certain distance below the surface. Do
you mind if I ask you a favour?--oh nothing very great!" seeing her
start. "It is not to talk about this, or speculate before others as to
the possibility of such a thing existing."
"Why, of course, if you wish it! But--do you believe in it, then?"
"Perhaps partly. But it may be that I have something to go upon. When
I have more I will tell you more--but--I am forgetting--how on earth can
it interest you?"
"But it will interest me very much--and--" "you know it," she was going
to add, but substituted: "life is prosaic enough for a romantic search
of this sort to add new interest to it. How is it I did not know you
were here?"
"Here--on this spot, or in this country?"
"On this spot, I mean. The other is easily understood. We have been
living out of the way so long, and I see so few people. And you have
only recently arrived?"
"Yes. As to being in here, I had no pony to leave outside. I have been
climbing the mountains after markhor, hence a tolerably disreputable old
Khaki suit, and a battered and general air of not having been to bed all
night."
"Did you have any success?"
"No. I got in one shot, but missed it of course, just as I was saying
when up at your place the other day. However, what I really wanted to
do was to come in quietly here and explore."
"So did I. Where is my syce, I wonder? There is my pony," looking
around, for they had regained the entrance of the cave. "Ah! I see
him. He is at his prayers. Your man has joined him."
"Yes. Old Bhallu Khan is a whale at piety. I should think he stood a
first-class chance of the seventh heaven."
"These people are very devout," said Vivien, looking towards the two
Mohammedans, who, with their shoes off, and their chuddas spread on the
ground as praying carpets, were prostrating their foreheads to the
earth, and otherwise following out the prescribed formula--facing
towards the holy city. "I sometimes wonder if it is all on the
surface."
"I don't know why it should be. We make a good deal of show, too,
though in a different way; but I doubt if we are any better than they.
In fact, it is more than possible we are actually worse. But John Bull
has a fine, hearty, overgrown, schoolboy contempt for anything he can't
understand, and to him the bowings and prostrations enjoined by the
Moslem form of worship is sheer nonsense. For my part, I am not sure it
is not even too refined for him."
"Perhaps. I have often thought that to these people we must seem
something worse than Pagans. I hardly wonder at their fanatical hatred
of us."
"Neither do I, the more so that our attitude towards them is for the
most part well exemplified in the remark made to me by a fine wooden
specimen of John Bull the other day coming down the Red Sea. Two or
three of these travelling traders had got up on the forecastle, and were
praying towards Mecca. `Ever see such humbug in your life?' says this
chump. I said I had, and far greater humbug; in fact, couldn't see any
humbug in the present performance at all. Oh, but it was all on the
surface! How did he know that? I asked him. Oh, because they would
lie and cheat and so forth. But so would nine-tenths of the English
commercially engaged, I answered. Whereat he snorted, and moved off.
He thought I was a fool. I knew he was one."
"Very much so," assented Vivien. "I detest that wooden-headedness which
no amount of moving about the world will ever teach to think. And now
that those two good people are through with their devotions, it is time
I got home again. Oh, Meran Buksh, _ghora lao_!"
The syce sprang to execute this order, and in a minute Vivien's pony was
before her, ready to mount.
"Why this is the first time you have ever put me on a horse," she said,
as Campian seemed to be arranging her skirt with minute care, "and how
well you did it."
"Thanks," he said. "There. I hope you will not have too hot a ride
home. Good-bye."
"Good-bye. You will be coming up to see us again soon, I suppose, or we
shall be going to see Mrs Upward. You are going to make some stay, are
you not?"
He replied in the affirmative, and, looking at her as she sat there with
easy grace, he felt that never had his self-possession been in greater
peril. Cool and fresh and sweet in her light blouse and riding-skirt--
her glance full and serene meeting his--the flush of health mantling
beneath the soft skin, she was a picture in her dark, brilliant
attractiveness, framed against the background of savage rocks and ragged
junipers.
"Good-bye," was all he said.
A pressure of the hand, and she turned her pony and rode away at a walk,
the syce following.
Campian watched her out of sight. Then he did a curious thing--at any
rate for a man of mature age and judgment. He returned to the cave and
picked up a small rough stone, quite an ordinary stone it was, but while
they had stood talking Vivien had been rolling this stone absently to
and fro beneath the sole of her boot. Now he picked it up, and,
glancing at it for a moment, put it in his pocket. But he seemed to
change his mind, for, pulling it forth again, he hurled it away far over
the rocks.
Then he started out in the direction of Upward's camp, old Bhallu Khan,
carrying the rifle, following close at his heels.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
INTROSPECT.
"You're late, child. Had a long ride?" said Colonel Jermyn, who was
already at breakfast when Vivien entered.
"Not very. The mountain paths here are so rough, you have to keep
almost entirely to a walk. And I met Mr Campian, so we stopped and
chatted a little."
"Did you? Where?"
"Somewhere on the side of the mountain. I don't know the localities
here yet," replied Vivien, with perfect ease. She had been about to
say, "at the markhor cave," but remembering Campian's hint, refrained.
"He had been out after markhor, with that nice-looking old forester of
Mr Upward's, and was on his way back."
"Did he get any shots?"
"One, and missed it. He was quite unconcerned about it though, and
didn't go out of his way to invent half a hundred excuses for having
missed it."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the colonel. "So many of these young fellows--and old
ones too--are always full of reasons of that kind. A stone slipped from
under their foot, or the _shikari_ sneezed, or something. There is
something I rather like about that man. Who is he? Do you know
anything about him?"
This was shooting the bolt home with a vengeance. But Vivien's
self-possession was equal to the strain.
"Isn't there a family of that name in Brackenshire?" she asked
carelessly.
"I believe there is. Yes, very likely. I thought we might ask him to
come and stay a week or so when he has done with the Upwards, or even
before. What do you think about it, Vivien?"
"Wouldn't he find it desperately slow here, Uncle Edward?" she said, as
serenely as before.
"Perhaps; I don't know. If he did, he could always take himself off
again. And now, if you'll excuse me, dear, I'll do likewise, for that
confounded Levy sowar will be here directly for the _dak_, and I've got
a whole pile of letters to write. It's mail day, too."
Left to herself, Vivien moved about the room arranging here, dusting a
little there. No flowers were obtainable in this arid region of rocks,
save a few wild ones, but even of these she had made the best; and what
with little touches of feminine tastefulness in the arrangement of the
rooms, the old forest bungalow, rough and racketty, and hardly better
than a mere rest-house, stood quite transformed. Then, passing into her
own room, she shut the door, and sat down to think.
Far away from wild, craggy Baluchistan her thoughts went back. A chance
call, a chance introduction in a room full of people. A few minutes of
ordinary conversation as between strangers who met for the first time,
and--she had learned the mystery of life when life is young--though not
always then--had gazed within the golden gates of love; had trodden the
flower-springing sod of that radiant and mystic realm; and not only
that, but she had known, with a wondrous magnetic instinct, that in the
same moment of time another had learned that mystery too. Then she had
begun to live; then she had begun to realise what life could contain.
Other scenes rose before her as she sat here thinking--a vision of the
Park corner, in all the joyous glow and brilliancy of the London season
at its height--with one ever at her side--one who there in the midst of
all the varied types of beauty, and style and attractiveness of the
kingdom collected together, never--as she used to tell him half
playfully, but all proudly--never had eyes for any but herself. Ah, it
was something to be loved like that; and yet this was not the perfervid
enthusiasm, the red-hot glow of youthful adoration, but the love of one
considerably past that illusive stage; whose experiences had been
multifold, and frequently bitter. Again, she saw the green glories of
the Cliveden woods, mirrored in the broad placid surface, as she and one
other floated down that loveliest of lovely reaches in the fire-path of
the westering sunlight, alone together, the murmur of their voices and
the dipped wing of the hovering swallow blending with the lazy splash of
the sculls. Again, in the opera box, while the most splendid staging
perhaps that "Faust" had ever been put on with, held the entranced and
densely packed multitude in the lowered light, _she_ dwelt in a paradise
all her own, for had she not the presence, even the contact of that one?
Many and many a scene came before her now. Ah, that year! It had been
indeed a year of love. And in every such scene, in every such
recollection he had been ever the same. Never a moment of time that he
could spare but had been spent with her--indeed not a few also that he
could not--and throughout it all how perfectly free and happy together,
how thoroughly at home with each other they had been.
Why, then, had such a state of things been allowed to come to a close?
Heavens! It is a rare--well nigh unique--one, in all conscience. Had
he deceived her--disappointed her? Not any. But there had come
stalking along that goggle-eyed, sheet-and-turnip bogey hight Duty--that
Juggernaut which has crushed far more lives than it has ever fortified,
and now, in her retrospect, Vivien Wymer realised, not for the first
time, and no less bitterly, that this is just what it had done for hers.
For at the period to which her thoughts went back, she owned a mother--
and a selfish one, as mothers now and again are, all cant to the
contrary notwithstanding--and this devoted parent could not do without
her daughter, although she had another. Here was the jagged rock
beneath the surface of their unruffled sea, and upon it their freight of
happiness had been wrecked and cast away.
At the time Vivien had thought herself passing strong, and the
consciousness of this had done much to buoy her up amid such an
experience of agony and heartbreak that even now she hardly cares to
look back to. That had been five years ago. She was young then, and
now that she is nearer thirty than twenty she is able to realise that
she acted insanely; is able to realise that the love which that one had
lavished upon her was worth more than that of all the kindred in the
world ten times over, let alone such a consideration as an imaginary
duty towards a thoroughly selfish and exacting woman, merely because the
latter happened to be her nearest relation. She has come to realise the
absolute truth of his words, and the realisation brings with it no
solace, for, like most other experiences worth gaining, it has come too
late. Her mother has been dead for three years past, and her younger
sister, now married, is not eager to see too much of her; and to Duty,
as represented by these, Vivien has sacrificed her life.
But he--will he not relent and return? Can he live without her? Well,
five years have passed since they parted, and he has kept to their
agreement. She knows his nature--unswerving, vindictive--indeed the
very contrast afforded between this and the completeness of his love for
herself had not a little to do with drawing her to him. His words
during that awful parting had been few, and their raging bitterness to
some degree suppressed, and that he should come second to anything or
anybody, was what he never could and never would forgive.
Would he relent? Never. She went back to their chance meeting in the
markhor cave but a few hours ago, recalled every word of their
conversation. The very tone of his voice had never swerved. Her ear,
quick to detect any change, had detected none--not even by the smallest
inflection. His manner had been kind, friendly, full of a certain
modicum of regard--but that was all. Had he not often told her that a
lost illusion was gone for ever? Never could it be set up again. His
love was dead, and she had killed it.
But--was it? Surely not. It was only sleeping, deeply perhaps, but
would re-awaken. She would re-awaken it. It was impossible that such a
love as theirs had been could die in either of them as long as life
should last. Then a blank misgiving seized her. They had not met for
five years. Then she was twenty-three. What changes had the
intervening period effected in her?
She gazed into her mirror long and steadily. Yes, she was growing old--
old and plain, decidedly, she told herself with an aching bitterness of
heart. The soft sprightliness of five years earlier was no longer in
her face. It had gone. Alone with herself she need not dissimulate.
In those days the bright and sunny spirits of rejoicing youth had
radiated from her eyes; now, though her eyes were as lustrous and
brilliant as ever, their glance was a tired one, reflecting but the
sadness of a lonely and disappointed woman. Undoubtedly the change had
struck him, and with startling force. No; his love would never
re-awaken now. Why should it? In the day of her power she had let it
go; now her power had departed.
Then another thought came to her. That blue-eyed girl staying with the
Upwards--she was wondrously pretty. Vivien had seen her once in
Shalalai. The two would be thrown together day after day, and all day
long--had been so thrown together. They had even shared a common peril.
And she had youth on her side. What sort of tone would his voice have
taken while talking to her, Vivien wondered, again recalling the perfect
composure of his conversation but an hour or two ago in the cave. No
reference--not even a veiled one--to the past; no remark upon the
unexpectedness of their first meeting. True, he had seemed a trifle
disconcerted on the occasion of that meeting; but that was only
natural--and momentary. Yes, Nesta Cheriton was wonderfully pretty and
taking. Thus she tortured herself.
But while she could do that alone and with her own thoughts, Vivien
would rather have died than have allowed any glimmering of their gist to
be so much as suspected by any living soul, let alone the object of
them. She forgot to wonder at her own self-possession on the occasion
of that first meeting; and indeed on that of the subsequent one. It had
proved even more complete than his own, and she forgot to speculate as
to whether he might not be taking his cue from her and playing up to her
lead. That is the worst of introspection of the vehement kind, it is
absolutely blinding as regards the attitude towards the object which
inspires it.
Then, by a curious twist in her meditations, pride sprang into arms. If
one man could so completely dismiss her from his heart and memory, there
were others who could not. She unlocked a drawer of her writing-table
and took out a letter. Spreading it open before her, she glanced
through it. It was from one who was the owner of a fine old country
place and a good many thousands a year, and contained a passionate
appeal to her to reconsider her former refusals. This letter she had
intended to answer last week. But now?
She read it through again. Why should she continue to throw away life,
grieving over what was past and done with; what was inevitable; what was
dead and buried? It was more sensible to take life as it is, and make
the best of things. She would accept the man. There was no reason why
she should not, and every reason why she should.
She drew a sheet of paper to her, but before she had got further than
the address, a new thought struck her. What if she had so replied by
last mail--that is to say, the day before this other had been so
unexpectedly thrown back into her life? Nay, worse. What if she had so
replied to a like appeal from the same quarter nearly a year ago? That
decided her. She wrote her reply--and it was in the negative, very
unequivocally so--stamped and directed it, and threw it aside.
Then she did a strange--and in view of her former meditations--an
utterly inconsequent thing. She took another sheet of paper and wrote:
"We were to be strangers to each other. Had we not better remain so?
You will understand my meaning fully within the next few days. Of
course I have no right to try and influence your movements, so must
leave it to your own judgment to order them in what seems to me the only
rational and sensible way.
"Vivien."
This she put into an envelope, which she sealed, but did not stamp.
Then she directed it to "Howard Campian, Esquire, Chirria Bach."
No; she could not bear it. To be under the same roof with him for days,
possibly weeks at a time, and keep up the _role_ of strangers to each
other, would be too great a strain. Now, when he should receive her
uncle's invitation he would know what to do. On the face of such an
intimation there was but one course open to him. A rap came at the
door, and her uncle's voice:
"Got any letters to send, Viv? The Levy sowar is here."
"Only one," she answered, opening the door, and handing him the one
bearing the English address. "The other I want to go in the opposite
direction. The man can take it this evening when he passes here with
the Upwards' _dak_."
"All right." And in a moment more the clatter of the horse's hoofs died
away down the path, and the swarthy Baluchi, in his Khaki uniform,
jogged indifferently upon his way, as though he were not the bearer of
that which by a turn or freak of thought had just escaped being an
agency for entailing solemn consequences upon one or more lives.
"By George! this hill air seems to suit you, child," cried the jolly
colonel, gazing upon his niece with undisguised admiration. "I can't
make out what all these young fellows--young fools, I call them--are
about. Eh?"
"Have I not got a dear old uncle, who talks shocking nonsense on
privileged occasions?" returned Vivien, slipping her hand within his
arm. "Why, I am getting as old as the hills, and am `going off'
perceptibly every hour. Do I not own a looking-glass?"
"A looking-glass? Pooh! it's a lying one then. We'll pitch it over the
_khud_, and send Der' Ali down to the bazaar for one that is more
truthful. But, then--I am forgetting. This isn't Baghnagar, and
there's no bazaar."
"No, there isn't, and a good thing too, if it is going to conduce to
such scandalous waste," retorted Vivien brightly.
"I believe it's not fair, eh? It seems hard lines on you, child,
shutting you up here, with no one to talk to but a prosy old fellow like
me, eh?"
"Now, Uncle Edward, it is you who will have to go over that _khud_
instead of my poor, unoffending, candid looking-glass, if you persist in
talking such a prodigious quantity of nonsense."
That evening the Levy sowar arrived in due course, with Colonel Jermyn's
post, and clattered off, bearing that of Upward. But the letter
addressed to Howard Campian, at Chirria Bach, still lay upon Vivien's
writing-table.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
UMAR KHAN--FREEBOOTER.
Umar Khan was a Baluchi who bore a very bad record indeed.
One of his earlier exploits, in fact, that which was destined to start
him in his career of _budmashi_, and ultimately, in all probability,
land him on the scaffold and faggot pyre [Note 1], had taken place many
years before the events narrated in our story. He had been summoned
before the Political Agent to answer for complicity--real or alleged--in
the raiding upon and blackmailing of certain wandering herdsmen,
belonging to a weaker clan. The British official found him guilty, and
sentenced him to a term of imprisonment, a terrible punishment to the
free, wild man of the deserts and mountains.
The manner in which this one received the penalty to which he was doomed
was characteristic. His eyes blazed, and, his features working with
demoniacal fury, he spat forth a volume of curses and threats.
"What does he say?" inquired the Political Agent.
The interpreter replied that, apart from calling down all the most
forcible anathemas known to the Moslem creed upon the heads of those
concerned in his then discomfiture, the substance of the prisoner's
declaration was as follows:--The _Sirkar_ [Ruling power, _i.e._,
Government] was strong, but those who had borne witness against him were
not. Let them beware. He would have ten lives for that day's work.
The _Sirkar_ could not shut him up for ever. It could kill him, but
there were plenty left--several, even, who heard him that day--who would
accept his legacy of vengeance; and the witnesses against him had better
go across the wide sea, if haply they might, for no corner of the land
wherein they now dwelt was remote enough to hide them from the vengeance
of Umar Khan.
To this manifesto the Political Agent replied in words of weighty
warning. As the prisoner had said, the _Sirkar_ was strong--strong to
punish, as he had already discovered. If, on the expiration of his term
of imprisonment he continued his evil ways, or made any attempt to
fulfil his threat, he would speedily find that there was no corner of
the land remote enough to hide him from the vengeance of the _Sirkar_,
which in that case would be swift, condign, and terrible--in fact the
most terrible that could overtake him, viz: death with ignominy.
So Umar Khan duly served his term, and in the fulness of time was
released. For a while the authorities kept an eye on him, and all went
well. He was in no hurry, this wild, brooding, vindictive mountaineer.
He employed his period of enforced quietude in secretly locating every
one of those who had borne witness against him, and when the
surveillance over his movements had relaxed, he became as good as his
word. One night he started for some of the objects of his feud, and,
taking them by surprise, killed three. Two more he found in a
neighbouring village, and these also felt the weight of his _tulwar_.
But now things grew too lively. With half of his account of vengeance
settled, Umar Khan found himself forced to flee, unless he were prepared
to forego--and that forever--the other half. So flee he did, both fast
and far, hotly pursued by the Political Agent and a strong posse of Levy
sowars.
Now, the said Political was a staff corps man who had seen some service,
and, moreover a very energetic and zealous official; consequently, he
allowed the fugitive no more start than he could help, with the result
that the latter had no time to collect any following so as to afford him
the satisfaction of selling his life dearly. So day and night fled Umar
Khan; but turn and double as he would, the avenging force pressed him
hard, for the Levy sowars were men of the country, and knew all the
twists and turns of the mountains as well as he did; and their commander
was a seasoned campaigner, and as hard as nails. However, fortune
favoured him, and the hunted man succeeded in reaching a place of refuge
and of safety--as he thought.
As he thought! For, persistent as bloodhounds, that avenging band held
steadily upon his track. Finally they came up with him. Umar Khan was
in a tent asleep. Stealthily the pursuers drew up in crescent
formation, and their commander summoned Umar to come forth. For a
moment there was dead silence. Then swift as thought, a rifle muzzle
was poked through the flap of the tent. A loud report, and a bullet
sang past the official's ear. The latter, more than ever bent on
securing his prisoner alive, reiterated the summons, with the
alternative in the event of noncompliance, of ordering a volley to be
fired into the tent. The reply came as before, in the shape of another
bullet, which this time killed the horse of one of the sowars. The
order was given to fire.
The rattle and smoke of the volley rolled away--and lo! the sides of the
tent were riddled like a sieve. There was a moment or two of silence,
and again the officer challenged any who might be left alive to come
forth. There emerged from the tent door, a figure clad in the full
voluminous draperies and close veil of an Afghan woman.
She did not even look at the troop. She fled away over the plain as
fast as her legs could carry her, uttering shrill screams. Those who
looked on were filled with wild amaze. How could any living thing have
escaped that volley? A movement made to pursue her was simultaneously
checked, and then the Political Agent and some of the sowars entered the
tent, but cautiously.
Their caution in this instance was unnecessary. One human being alone
was in that tent--lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Such rude
furniture and utensils as there were had been riddled, and the ground
itself ploughed up with bullets. The human figure was limp and
lifeless, and--it was that of another woman.
An idea struck the official. He leaped outside the tent; his gaze
directed at the fast fleeing figure, now some distance away. He--and
those present--saw it drag out a horse from among the rocks and stones
of a dry nullah, and, flinging off the female attire, spring upon the
animal's back. Then darting forth a hand with defiant gesture, and
hurling back a final curse and menace, the fugitive--a wiry, muscular
male--flogged his steed into a furious gallop, and was speedily out of
range of the hurried volley sent after him.
The officer stared, and, we fear, cursed. The Levy sowars stared, and
certainly invoked Allah and his Prophet; while laughing at both, yet
storing up deeper vengeance for the slaughter of one of his most
faithful wives--who had shared and aided his flight, and eventually laid
down her life for him--fled Umar Khan far over the plains of
Afghanistan--further and further into that welcome land of refuge.
There lay the rub. They dare not pursue him further. Already a
violation of international law had been committed in carrying the
pursuit thus far. Well might the official feel foolish. That their
bird should be allowed to skip off right under their very noses in the
garb of the supposed female whom they had so very humanely spared was
enough to make him feel foolish. But he was destined to feel more so
subsequently, when an acrid representation from the Amir of Kabul
entailed upon him a Departmental wigging, although but a technical one.
After all, a man may be too zealous.
After that Umar Khan disappeared for a while. The Amir of Kabul, when
mildly requested to hand him over, declined crustily, on the ground that
an armed force had pursued a fugitive over his border without so much as
a by-your-leave. If the English attempted to police his country and
failed, he was not going to step in where they left off.
So the years went by, and Umar Khan was lost sight of and forgotten.
Then, suddenly, he reappeared in his old haunts.
Changes of administration had supervened. The Government did not care
to bother itself over a man who had been a desperate outlaw under its
predecessors, as long as he behaved himself and showed a disposition to
amend the error of his ways. Moreover, he was a member of one of the
most powerful and turbulent tribes in Baluchistan. The _Sirkar_
concluded to let sleeping dogs lie. So it shut its eyes, and Umar Khan
was left in peace.
In peace? Yes, so far as he was concerned. But he fixed his dwelling
among the wildest and most impracticable of mountain deserts--always
ensuring for himself a safe retreat--and thence he began to prey upon
all and any who had the wherewithal to pay up smartly for further
immunity.
Then complaints began to reach Shalalai. Peaceable _banyas_ had been
plundered of all the gains they had made during a travelling trade.
Merchants on a larger scale trading with Kabul had been relieved on a
proportionate scale, or even held to ransom. Umar Khan adopted a method
of his own for putting a stop to the complaints of such. It was the
method best expressed by the saw, "Dead men tell no tales"--and by way
of doing the thing thoroughly, he seized the whole of the plunder
instead of merely the half as heretofore, but took care that the owner
should not be on hand to lay any complaint. And leaving out many other
unchronicled misdeeds, we think we have said enough to establish our
opening statement, viz: that Umar Khan was a Baluchi who bore a very bad
record indeed.
He was not a sirdar, nor even a malik. He was, in fact, a nobody, who--
as not unfrequently happens among barbarian races--had raised himself to
a sort of sinister eminence by a daring fearlessness and a combination
of shrewdness and luck in evading the consequences of his countless acts
of aggression. Added to this, his enforced outlawry and the exploits,
half mythical, wherewith rumour credited him during that period, had
thrown a kind of halo around him in the eyes of his wild, predatory
fellow-tribesmen. Nominally he lived under and was responsible to the
Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan, who was chief over a large section of the
powerful Marri tribe; actually he was responsible to nobody in the wide
world. His own particular following was made up of all the "tough"
characters of the tribe, which is saying much, for the Marris bore the
reputation of numbering in their midst some very "tough" characters.
The saw relative to the endowment of anybody with a sufficiency of rope
was beginning to hold good in the matter of Umar Khan. Things were
going badly with him. He had been obliged to be more than liberal with
his ill-gotten gains in order to retain the adherence of his following,
and the shoe was beginning to pinch. Then his tribal chief had given
him a hint to sit tight; in short, had given him two alternatives--
either to behave himself or clear out.
He had about concluded to embrace the latter of these--and the motive
which had led him up to this conclusion was dual--and akin to that which
tells with like effect upon men far more civilised than the Baluchi
ex-outlaw. Umar Khan was hard up; likewise he was hipped. He was
perfectly sick of sitting still. Times were too peaceful altogether.
So he sold what few possessions he had left, and with the proceeds laid
in a stock of Snider rifles and ammunition.
Umar Khan sat in his village at sunrise. It was the hour of prayer, and
several of the faithful, dotted about, were devoutly prostrating
themselves, in the most approved fashion; indeed Umar himself had only
just finished the performance of his devotions, for your Moslem is a
logician in such matters, and has no idea of heaping up great damnation
to himself by committing two sins instead of one, as would be the case
were he to omit the prescribed devotion simply because he had just cut
somebody's throat. The low, flat, mud-walled houses were in keeping
with the surroundings--looking indeed as if they had but been dumped
down and left to dry, like other piles of earth and stones which had
rolled down the arid slopes and remained where they fell. A flock of
black goats and fat-tailed sheep, mingled together, was scattered over
the plain, though where they could find sustenance in such a desert,
Heaven alone knew. Camels, too, were stalking around, also making what
seemed an ironical attempt at browsing.
The sun had just risen beyond the far off limit of the desert plain,
tinging blood-red the line of jagged peaks shooting skyward behind the
village. Umar Khan sat in gloomy silence, smoking a narghileh, and,
like most Orientals, indulging in much expectoration. His grim,
hawk-like face, with the shaggy hanging brows meeting over his hooked
nose, looked more cruel and repulsive than ever, as he stroked his
beard, or pulled at the long black tresses, which hung down on each side
of his face. Then he looked up. A fellow-tribesman was coming towards
him. Umar Khan's glance now lit up with animation. The man came to him
and sat down. Their talk was short, but the ex-outlaw's expression of
countenance grew positively radiant, as the new arrival went on
unfolding his tidings.
Umar Khan rose and ordered his best horse to be saddled. As he rose, it
might have been noticed that he suffered from a slight limp. Then
taking with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself--if that
were possible--he rode forth.
For many hours they fared onward, avoiding the more frequented ways, and
travelling over precipitous mountain path and through wild _tangi_, by
routes well known to themselves, halting at convenient places to rest
and water their horses. All had rifles, as well as their curved
tulwars, and this savage band of hook-nosed, scowling copper-coloured
ruffians, armed to the teeth, looked about as forbidding, even terror
striking a crew as the peaceable wayfarer would _not_ wish to meet--say
half way through a _tangi_ where there was precious little room to pass
each other.
The sun was now considerably past the meridian, and at length the band,
at a word from Ihalil Mohammed--the man who had brought the news which
had led to this undertaking--halted amid some rock overlooking a broad
high-road.
Far away along its dusty length a speck appeared, growing larger as it
drew rapidly nearer, until it took the shape of a vehicle, containing
but one man, and he the driver. It was an ordinary "gharri," or hackney
cab. To meet this Ihalil and four others now rode down.
"Salaam, brother," they exclaimed, drawing up across the road.
"Salaam, Sirdar sahib," returned the driver, in tremulous tones, turning
pale at the sight of these fierce armed figures barring his way. The
man was an ordinary specimen of the low caste Hindu, and as such held in
utter contempt by these stalwart sons of the desert, and in repulsion as
a heathen and an idolater.
"Who art thou, brother; and whither faring?" queried Ihalil.
The man replied, in quaking tones, that he was but a poor
"gharri-wallah" hired to meet a certain holy _mullah_ who was travelling
from Shalalai to a village away far out in the desert. He was to bring
him on a stage of his journey, and expected to meet him not far from
that point.
"Good. Now turn thine old box on wheels out of the road and follow to
where we shall lead thee," commanded Ihalil.
The poor wretch dared not so much as hesitate, and presently the rickety
old rattle trap was drawn up behind the rocks. At sight of the rest of
the band the miserable Hindu gave himself up for dead.
"Salaam, Sirdar sahib," he faltered, cowering before the grim stare of
Umar Khan.
The latter then questioned him, in process of which one of the
freebooters stole up behind, his tulwar raised. The badly scared
"gharri-wallah," his eyes starting from his head, had no attention to
spare from the threatening scowl and searching questions of Umar Khan;
and of danger from behind was utterly unconscious. Then, at a nod from
Umar Khan, down came the tulwar upon the neck of the doomed Hindu.
It was badly aimed and did not sever the head, but cut far and deep into
the neck and shoulder. The miserable wretch fell to the ground, deluged
with a great spout of blood, but yet wailing dismally in agony and
terror. In a moment two more tulwars swung through the air, and the
sufferings of the murdered man--literally cut to pieces--were over,
though his limbs still beat the ground in convulsive struggles.
Umar Khan spat in derision, while the other barbarians laughed like
demons over this atrocious deed. The murderers wiped their swords on
the garments of their victim, and examined the keenly-ground edges
solicitously, lest they should be in any way notched or turned. But now
their attention was diverted. Another speck was growing larger and
larger on the road, this time advancing from the direction in which
their late victim had been proceeding. Drawing nearer it soon took
shape. Another "gharri" similar to the one whose driver they had
slaughtered.
The whole band rode down to meet it. Besides the driver it contained
another man.
"Peace, my sons," said the latter as they drew up.
"And on you peace," returned Umar Khan. "But first--for this dog.
Hold--Alight, both of ye."
There was that about the aspect of these armed brigands that would admit
of no hesitation. Both obeyed. This driver, too, was a low caste
Hindu. His "fare" was an old man, white-bearded, and wearing a green
turban.
No sooner were both fairly out of the "gharri," than Ihalil Mohammed
rode at the Hindu and cut him down. Others fell upon him with their
tulwars, and the miserable wretch, like his fellow-craftsman, was
literally hewn to pieces then and there. With savage shouts the
murderers waved their bloodstained weapons aloft, curvetting their
steeds around the survivor.
The latter turned pale. Quick as thought, however, he had drawn a
volume of the Koran from beneath his garments, and placed it upon his
head.
"La illah il Allah"--he began.
"--Mohammed er rasool Allah," [Note 2] chorused the blood thirsty
savages, as though in one fierce war shout, turning to hack once more at
the mangled carcase of the miserable Hindu.
"Hearken, my father," said Umar Khan, pointing his rifle at the
traveller. "A true believer is safe at the hands of other believers.
But, father, delay not to deliver over the seven hundred rupees which
are in thy sash."
The other turned paler still.
"Seven hundred rupees?" he exclaimed, holding up his hands. "What
should a poor _mullah_ do with such a sum?"
"Thou hast said it, my father. What indeed?" sneered Umar Khan. "What
indeed, save as alms for the poor, and the debtors and the insolvent, as
enjoins the holy Koran? And such thou seest before thee. Wherefore we
will receive them, father, and pray the blessing of Allah, and a rich
place in the seventh heaven for thee and thine."
"Do ye not fear God, O impious ones, that ye would rob His servant?"
said the _mullah_, waxing wroth in his desperation.
"We fear nobody," returned Umar Khan, with an evil sneer. "Yet, my
father, delay not any longer, lest this gun should go off by accident."
"Wah--wah!" sighed the _mullah_. "Be content my children--it may be ye
are poorer than I. Receive this packet, and the blessing of a servant
of the Prophet go with it. And now I will proceed upon my way."
"Wait but a few moments," replied Umar Khan, receiving the bag which the
other tendered him, and which he immediately handed to Ihalil with one
word--"Count!"
"It may not be, for the hour of evening prayer draws near. Peace be
with you, my children." And he made as though to move on.
"We will say it together then," replied Umar Khan, barring the way.
"What is this? Two hundred and fifty rupees? Two more packets hast
thou forgotten, my father, and--delay not, for the hour of evening
prayer draws near."
There was a grim, fell significance in the speaker's tone and
countenance. The _mullah_ no longer hesitated. With almost trembling
alacrity he drew forth the remaining bags, which being counted, were
found to contain the exact sum named.
"We give thee five rupees as an alms, my father," said Umar Khan,
tendering him that amount. Gloomily the _mullah_ pocketed it. "And
surely God is good to thee, that in these days thou hast been able to
relieve the necessities of Umar Khan."
A start of surprise came over the face of the other, at the mention of
the name of the dreaded ex-outlaw. He had more than a shrewd suspicion
that but for his sacred office he would be now even as his Hindu
driver--which went far to console him for the loss of his substance.
"Wah--wah!" he moaned, sitting down by the roadside. "My hard earned
substance which should comfort my old age--all gone! all gone!"
"The faithful will provide for thine old age, my father. And now, peace
be with thee, for we may not tarry here. But,"--sinking his voice to a
bloodcurdling whisper--"it is well to give alms in secret, for he who
should boast too loud of having bestowed them upon Umar Khan, not even
the holy sanctuary of Mecca would avail to shelter him."
"Blaspheme not, my son," cried the _mullah_, affecting great horror, and
putting his fingers to his ears--though, as a matter of fact, the
warning was one which he thoroughly understood.
They left him seated there by the roadside, despondent over his loss.
They left the two mangled bodies of their victims to the birds and
beasts of prey, and gave vent to their glee as they dashed off, in
shouts and blood thirsty witticisms. They were in high good humour,
those jovial souls. They had slain a couple of human beings--that was
to keep their hands in. They had robbed another of seven hundred
rupees--that would replenish the wasted exchequer for a time; and now
they cantered off to see if they could not do a little more in both
lines--and the goal for which they were heading was the Kachin valley.
Umar Khan had burnt his boats behind him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. To lend additional terror to capital punishment in the eyes of
Moslems on the northern border, the dead bodies of those executed for
fanatical murder were sometimes burned.
Note 2. "God is the God of gods--Mohammed the Prophet of God."--The
Moslem confession of faith.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
EXPERIMENTAL.
The days had gone by, and now Campian was installed in the forest
bungalow. Colonel Jermyn's invitation had gone forth, but the missive
which would have counteracted it had not, so here he was.
Not without some deliberation had he decided on accepting it. He had
thought himself safe; had reckoned he had safely parted with all
illusions, as conducive only to disturbance and anxiety, and the
greatest of all illusions was Vivien Wymer. But the sudden and unlooked
for reappearance of the latter had reopened a wound. Yet why? She was
the same as before. She had failed him once. She had sacrificed him to
others once, and would of course do so again unhesitatingly. Why not?
There was no such thing as love as they two had once looked at it--had
once imagined it. A mere illusion; pleasant while it lasted, painful
when its illusoriness became evident. But then the wrench, though
painful, even agonising, was over--and in its effect salutary. Five
years make a difference in a man's life. He had not been young then; he
was older now. Sensibility was blunted. The capacity for self-torment
was no longer his.
Love, the ever endurable! He had believed in that once. He was no
misogynist, even now. His experience of the other sex had been
considerable. He was ready to accord the members thereof the possession
of many delightful qualities. As friends they were staunch, as
companions unrivalled. Life unbrightened by feminine presence and
feminine influences would be a dull affair. But as exponents of Love,
the ever endurable, they were a failure; and exactly as he came to
appreciate this did he come to appreciate the other sex the more because
he had ceased to expect too much.
His experiences had been many and varied, and took in all types of the
softer sex, and he had found them wonderfully similar. The fire and
passion of to-day became chill and indifference a year hence. Then
Vivien Wymer had come into his life, and lo, all was changed. Here was
a glorious exception to the rather soulless rule. She met his every
want; she appealed to him as he could never have believed any woman
could, and by some strange, magnetic instinct, his own personality
appealed to hers. They seemed made for each other--and yet--he had been
sacrificed. Not even there was he to be all in all--to be first and
everything.
They had seen each other again once since that chance meeting in the
markhor cave. The colonel and his niece had ridden over to Upward's
camp to tiffin, and it was on that occasion that the hearty old soldier
had pressed him to come and pay them a visit. He had not even glanced
at Vivien, striving to read to what extent she would second the
invitation, but had accepted on the spot, yet not without a mental
reservation.
For there was one point which he desired to debate within himself, and
that was the very one which had occurred to Vivien. How could they two
be together under the same roof, in close, daily intercourse as mere
acquaintances, they two who had been so much to each other? How could
they bear the strain, how keep up the _role_?
Then when his meditations had reached this point, a strange exultant
thrill seemed to disturb the balance of his clearer judgment. Why
should the _role_ be kept up? After being parted for five years, they
had met again--nay, more--had been thrown together again in this
strange, wild country, that in former times had been to either of them
no more than a mere geographical name. Both were unchanged. There was
a softening in Vivien's voice, when off her guard, as on the last
occasion of their meeting, which seemed to point to the fact that she
was. For himself--well, he had grown older, wiser--and, he imagined,
harder. Still, the wound did seem to be reopening. Why, the whole was
almost as though Fate had gone out of her way to bring they two together
again.
Yes, he had grown harder. Love, the ever endurable! Ridiculous! She
had sacrificed him before, and would do so again if occasion arose. If
she did not do so it would be because occasion had not arisen, and this
consideration constituted a state of potential unreliability, which was
not reassuring. The idea even served to re-awaken much of the old
bitterness and rankling resentment, and he decided that it would be an
interesting, if coldblooded, study in character to observe how Vivien
herself would come out under such an ordeal as the close, intimate
intercourse which life beneath the same roof could not but involve.
Once there, he had no cause to regret his decision. The colonel was a
fine old soldier of the very best type. Most of his life had been spent
in India, and he was full of anecdote and reminiscence. He had served
through the Mutiny, and in several frontier disturbances, and his
knowledge of the country and its natives was intelligent and exhaustive.
He had been a sportsman, too, in his time--and, in short, was a man
whom it was a pleasure to talk with. He and Campian took to each other
immensely, and the two would sit together under the verandah of an
evening, smoking their cheroots and exchanging ideas, while Vivien
discoursed music through the open doors, upon a cottage piano which had
been lugged up, at some risk to its tuning and general anatomy, on board
the hideous necessary camel.
Decidedly it was very close quarters, indeed, this party of three,
isolated there in that remote forest bungalow, away among the chaotic,
piled up mountain deserts of wild Baluchistan; but there was no element
of monotony about it; indeed, how could there be when to two out of the
three life thus represented an ordeal that meant so much, that might
mean indeed so much more. Yet it spoke volumes for the self control of
both that no suspicion should have entered the mind of the third that
they had ever beheld each other elsewhere, and under very near
circumstances. Their intercourse was free and unrestrained, but it was
the easy intercourse of two people who had ideas in common and liked
each other's society, and totally devoid of any symptom of covering a
warmer feeling. They would frequently take rides or walks together
through the juniper forest, or to some point overlooking a new or wider
view of the great chaotic mountain waste, and it spoke volumes for their
self control that no allusion was ever made to the past. They would not
have been human if occasionally some undercurrent of feeling had not now
and then come unguardedly near the surface, but only to be instantly
repressed. It was as though both were engaged in a diplomatic game
requiring a high degree of skill, and in which each was watching the
next move of the other with a jealous eye.
Once, in course of their rides together, the two were threading a
_tangi_, and the sense of being shut within those high rock walls moved
Vivien to broach the subject of the adventure which had so nearly ended
in tragedy for her companion and his.
"It must have been a dreadful experience," she said, looking up at the
cliffs overhead.
"Yes. It was awkward. I've no use for a repetition of it."
His tone was discouraging, as though he would fain have changed the
subject. But she seemed to cling to it.
"I think that was a splendid feat," she went on, looking straight at
him. "I wish I knew what it was like never to be afraid."
"So do I--most heartily. But I simply don't believe in the existence of
that enviable state; if you can talk of the existence of a negative,
that is."
"But you do know what it is. Were you ever afraid of anything in your
life?"
The very words Nesta had used. Then he had not taken them in a
complimentary sense. He had thought the remark a foolish one. Now
coming from this woman, who had idealised him--who did still--with her
wide luminous eyes turned full upon his face, and that unguarded
softening which had again crept into her tone, there was a subtle
flattery in it which was delicious, but enervating. As a matter of fact
he really thought nothing of the feat, beyond what a lucky thing it was
they should have been able to save both their lives. He answered so
shortly as to seem ungracious.
"Very much and very often. I would rather run away than fight any day.
Fact."
"I don't believe you."
"No? People don't, I find. Some day I may do that very thing--then
when everybody is howling me down I can always turn round and say--`I
told you so, and you wouldn't believe me.'"
"But do you want them to believe you?"
"Why, of course. You don't know me at all, Vivien, even now." Then, as
if to hurry away from a dangerous slip. "By the by, I never can
understand the insane way in which even civilised and thinking people
elect to deify what they call courage or pluck. There is no such thing
really. It is purely a matter of opportunity or temperament--in short,
sheer accident. To get out of a tight place a man has got to do
something. While doing it he has no time to think. If he had, in nine
cases out of ten he'd run away."
"Yes? And what about when he has to go into a tight place?"
"Why, then he's got to go. And as a matter of fact it is funk that
drives him in. The opprobrium and possibly material penalty, he would
incur by backing out constitute the more formidable alternative of the
two. So of the two evils man, being essentially a self preserving
animal, instinctively chooses the least."
"Plausible, but not convincing," returned Vivien, with a laugh. "And is
there not something of what they call a `crank' underlying that
philosophy?"
"`They' are apt to say that of any application of the principles of
common sense,"--"as I have so often told you before," he was nearly
adding.
"Was Miss Cheriton very much scared that day? She says she'll never get
over it as long as she lives."
"Poor little girl. It must have been a ghastly experience. She behaved
very well; was no more scared than any other woman would have been, and
a good deal less so than some."
"What a pretty girl she is."
"Very--of her type."
Vivien was conscious of two emotions--swift, simultaneous as a lightning
flash; first a pang over the readiness with which he endorsed her
remark, then a heartbeat of relief, for those three words constituted a
whole saving clause.
"You must have seen a great deal of her?"
No sooner uttered than Vivien would have given anything to recall the
remark. What construction would he put upon it other than jealousy of
this blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, who had several years of youth the
advantage over herself?
"That depended upon circumstances. Nesta Cheriton has a great
_penchant_ for the British Army, and the British Army thoroughly
reciprocates the predilection. While the British Army was represented
at Chirria Bach I saw not much of her, over and above the occasions when
one had to meet in ordinary life. While it was unrepresented she seemed
to make herself equally happy in going chikor shooting with me. On the
whole, I rather like the little girl. She is bright and amusing, and
acts, I suppose, as a passing tonic to one's jaded and middle-aged
spirits."
His tone had been that of absolute and unaffected ease, and now it
occurred to him suddenly, and for the first time, that Vivien was
putting him through something of a catechism. The moral dissection
which he had promised himself in risking a sojourn beneath the same roof
with her had already begun, and this was only a phase of it. At such
times the old feeling of rankling bitterness would come upon him, and
with it a wave of desolation and heart-emptiness. Why had she failed
him--she his destined counterpart? Why had she proved so weak under a
not very strong ordeal? He had indeed become hard, when he could go
through day after day in closest companionship with her, and yet keep on
the mask, never once be betrayed into letting down his guard.
One consideration had acted as a salutary cold douche in the event of
the smouldering fires of his nature rising too near their restraining
rock crust. One day Vivien was telling him all about her uncle and how
she came to be keeping house for him. She had done so since her aunt's
death, and supposed she would go on doing so. He was such a dear old
man, she said--so thoughtful and kind and unselfish, and he had no one
to look after him but her. All of which her listener, even from his
short opportunity of observation, was inclined to endorse; but the sting
lay in the concluding consideration, for it recalled that other time.
In it had lain the pretext for sacrificing him to an imaginary duty. He
was not going to risk a repetition of what he had then undergone. The
iron entered deeper and deeper.
Once an incident occurred which nearly availed to shatter and melt it.
Vivien had gone into his room during his absence, as she frequently did,
to see if there was not some little touch she could add to its comfort
or attractiveness. An object on his table caught her attention. She
picked it up and examined it, and her eyes filled. Yet it was only an
old tobacco pouch, and a very worn and weather-beaten one at that--so
worn and frayed that hardly more than a few threads of the original
embroidery still hung to the cover. Then she did an extraordinary
thing. Instead of replacing it she took it away with her. That night
she sat up late, and lo, in the course of the day, going into his room
Campian found that the old battered pouch for which he had hunted high
and low was replaced by a beautiful new one, the embroidery of which was
a perfect work of art.
"Why did you take so much trouble?" he said when next they met. "You
could not have known I had lost the other."
"Is that why we were so glum last night?" she returned, a glad light,
struggling with a mischievous one, in her eyes. "Never mind. This is a
much better one."
"I loved that one. I would give a great deal to recover it, as you
ought to know."
"Wait a moment." She left him and returned almost immediately.
"Here it is--or what is left of it. Now--? What will you give?"
She held it out to him--then drew it back. Her eyes were raised to his.
Her voice was soft and caressing as ever he had heard it in the old
days. Just one of those trivial accidents bringing about the most
crucial moment in two lives--when, as usual, the most trivial of causes
availed utterly to mar its effect. That most trivial of causes was the
voice of Colonel Jermyn, followed by the entrance of its jolly
possessor.
"Here's the _dak_ just come from Upward. They're all going back to
Shalalai the day after to-morrow Campian, and want to know if you've had
enough of us yet. If you have they say they are leaving early and you'd
better be down at the camp to-morrow night. If you haven't--why--all
the better for us."
"The point is whether you haven't had enough of me, Colonel." But while
he made the laughing remark his glance travelled round to Vivien's face.
It was one of those moments when her guard was down. The interruption
had come so inopportunely. Decidedly the study he had promised himself
was bearing rich results.
"Pooh! Of course we haven't. Why, you've only just come. Besides, you
can get to Shalalai at any time. That's settled then. But I have an
idea. We might go down to Mehriab station and see them off. There are
some things I am getting up, and that idiot of a Babu in charge can't
send an intelligent answer to any question I write him. It's not a bad
sort of ride down there, and we'll kill two birds with one stone. What
do you say, Viv?"
"I beg to second it, Uncle Edward. The idea is an extremely good one."
To him who watched it, while not seeming to, there was an entire
revelation in Vivien's face during that momentary lifting of the veil.
She was as anxious to prolong the time as--he was. Yes, that is what it
amounted to. The experiment, from its coldblooded side, seemed to have
failed.
"We shall be up here some weeks longer, Campian"--went on the
Colonel--"but of course if you have to go, it is easy enough to get to
Shalalai. Meanwhile my boy, as long as you can make yourself happy here
we are only too glad."
"Oh, I can do that all right, Colonel. And I'm not tied to time in any
way either."
Again that relieved look on Vivien's face. Some weeks! What might not
be the result of those weeks was the thought that was in the minds of
both of them? What might not transpire within those weeks? Ah, if they
had only known.
"By the way there's another item of _kubbar_ in Upward's letter," went
on the Colonel, fumbling for that missive. "A _budmash_ named Umar Khan
has started out on a Ghazi expedition down Sukkaf way. He and several
others rode out along the road and cut down a couple of poor devils of
gharri-wallahs. Killed 'em dead as a door nail. There was a _mullah_
in one of the gharris, and they plundered him. He got out a Koran and
put it on his head--singing out that he was a _mullah. `Mullah_ or
not,' says Umar Khan--`hand out those seven hundred rupees you've got on
board.' And he had to hand them out. Sacrilegious scamps--ha, ha! But
if he hadn't been a _mullah_ they'd have cut him up too. Well these
_budmashes_ will have to swing for it. They'll soon be run to earth.
Nice country this, eh, Campian?"
"Rather. It seems to me only half conquered, and not that."
"Yes. It's run at a loss entirely. A mere buffer State. We hold it on
the principle of grabbing as much as we can and sticking to it, all the
world over--and in this particular instance putting as much as we can
between the Russians and India."
"And what if Umar Khan is not speedily run to earth?"
"Oh, then he'll knock around a bit and make things generally unpleasant.
Do a little dacoity from time to time. But we are bound to bone him in
the long run."
"There's an uncommonly queer closeness in the air this evening," said
the Colonel as they were sitting out under the verandah a little later.
"As if there was a storm of sorts working up. Yet there's no sign of
thundercloud anywhere. Don't you notice it, Vivien?"
"I think so. It has a dispiriting effect on one, as if something was
going to happen."
The sun had gone down in a lurid haze, which was not cloud, and the
jagged peaks of the opposite range were suffused in a hot, vaporous
afterglow, while the dark depth of juniper forest in the deep, narrow
valley seemed very far down indeed. What little air there was came in
warm puffs.
"We all seem rather _chup_ this evening," said the Colonel. "Viv, how
would it be to play us something lively to wake us up?"
She rose and went inside. Campian could still see her as she sat at the
piano, rattling off Gilbert and Sullivan at their liveliest. He could
continue the very favourite occupation in which he had been indulging--
that of simply watching her--noting every movement, the turn of the
head, the droop of the eyelids, the sweet and perfect grace which
characterised her most trivial act. This woman was simply perfect in
his sight--his ideal. Yet to all outward intent they were on the easy,
friendly terms of two people who merely liked each other and no more.
"Come and have a `peg,' Campian," said the Colonel presently.
"No thanks--not just now."
"Well, I'm going to," and away he went to the dining room.
Then Campian, sitting there, was conscious of a very strange and
startling phenomenon. There was a feeling as though the world were
falling away from beneath his feet, together with a dull rumble. There
was a clatter of glass and table ornaments in the drawing room, and he
could see Vivien sway and nearly fall from the music-stool. He sprang
to his feet to rush to her aid, and seemed hardly able to preserve his
own balance. Both staggering they met in the doorway.
"Oh, Howard, what is it?" she cried, seizing in both of hers the hand
which he had stretched out to help her.
"Quick. Come outside," was all he said. They were able to walk now,
and he drew her outside the verandah, right into the open. Then again
came that cavernous rumble, and the earth fairly reeled beneath their
feet.
"That's what all this heaviness in the air has been about," he said, as
the ground felt firm again. "A shock of earthquake."
"Is it over? Will there be any more?" she gasped, her white face and
dilated eyes turned up to his. She still held his hands, in her sudden
terror, casting all considerations of conventionality to the winds.
"I don't think so," he answered, a very tremble of tenderness in his
voice as he strove to reassure her. "These shocks generally go in twos
or threes, like waves. And even if there are any more we are all right
outside."
Here the humorous element asserted itself, in the shape of Colonel
Jermyn choking and coughing in the verandah. In his hand he held a tall
tumbler, nearly empty.
"Look at this, Campian," he cried. "A man can't even have a `peg' in
his own house without the whole world rising up against it. Flinging it
in his face, and half choking him, by George."
"Some awful big teetotaler must have gone below, Colonel, to raise
racket enough to knock your `peg' out of your hand. I hope you'll take
warning and forswear `pegs.'"
"Ha, ha! Well, Viv? Badly scared, child?"
She laughed, but the colour had not yet come back to her cheeks.
"I predicted something was going to happen, didn't I?" she said.
"And it has happened--and now there's another thing going to happen, and
that is dinner, so we'd better go inside and begin to think about it.
What? Is it safe? Of course, though, my dear, I don't wonder at it if
you were a little scared. It's an experience that is apt to be alarming
at first."
The while the speaker was chuckling to himself. He had been a witness
both by ear and eye to the foregoing scene, having overheard Vivien's
alarmed apostrophe.
"So? It has come to that, has it?" he was saying to himself.
"`Howard,' indeed? But how dark they've kept it. Well, well. They're
both of them old enough to look after themselves. `Howard,' indeed!"
and the jolly Colonel chuckled to himself, as with kindly eyes he
watched the pair that evening, reading their easy unrestrained
intercourse in an entirely new light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE TRAGEDY AT MEHRIAB.
Mehriab station, on the Shalalai line of railway, was situated amid
about as wild, desolate and depressing surroundings as the human mind
could possibly conceive.
A narrow treeless plain--along which the track lay, straight as a wall--
shut in by towering arid mountains, rising to a great height, cleft here
and there by a chasm overhung by beetling cliffs--black, frowning and
forbidding. At the lower end of the plain rose sad-hued mud humps,
streaked with gypsum. There was nothing to relieve the eye, no speck of
vivid green standing out from the parched aridity prevailing; but on the
other hand all was on a vast scale, and the little station and
rest-house looked but a tiny toy planted there beneath the stupendous
sweep of those towering hills.
In the latter of the buildings aforesaid, a tolerably lively party was
assembled, discussing tiffin, or rather having just finished discussion
of the same. It had been done picnic fashion, and the room was littered
with plates, and knives and forks, and lunch baskets, and paper, and all
the accompaniments of an itinerant repast.
"Have another `peg,' Campian," Upward was saying. "No? Sure? You
will, Colonel? That's right. We've plenty of time. No hurry whatever.
Hazel, don't kick up such a row, or you'll have to go outside. Miss
Wymer, don't let them bother you. What was I saying just now?"
He took up the thread of what he had been saying, and in a moment he and
the Colonel were deep in reminiscences of _shikar_. Vivien and Nesta
had risen and were strolling outside, and there Campian joined them.
The _dak_ bungalow extended its accommodation to travelling natives, for
whom there was a department opposite. Camels--some standing, some
kneeling, but all snarling--filled the open space in front of this, and
wild looking Baluchis in their great white turbans and loose garments
were squatting around in groups, placidly chatting, or standing alone in
melancholy silence.
"Look at this!" said Campian. "It makes quite a picture, taken against
the background of that loop-holed mud wall, with the great sweep of
mountain rising behind."
Several camels, some ready laden, some not, were kneeling. On one a man
was adjusting its load. He was a tall, shaggy, hook-nosed black bearded
ruffian, who from time to time cast a sidelong, malevolent glance at the
lookers on as he continued his work. In business-like manner he
proceeded to adjust each bale and package, then when all was complete,
he lifted from the ground a Snider carbine and hung it by its ring to a
hook on the high wooden pack saddle. Then he took up his curved sword;
but this he secured to the broad sabretache over his shoulder.
"Isn't that a picture in itself?" went on Campian. "Why, adequately
reproduced it would bring back the whole scene--the roaring of the
camels, the midday glow, the burning heat of this arid hole. I wonder
who they are by the way"--for others who had similarly accoutred their
camels were jerking the animals up, and preparing for the start.
Vivien turned to Bhallu Khan who was just behind, and translated his
answer.
"He says they are Brahuis from the Bolan side, going further in."
"Why are they all armed like that? Don't they trust their own people?"
"He says they may have heard that Umar Khan is on the warpath, and they
are not of his tribe. Nobody knows who anybody is who is not of his
tribe--meaning that he doesn't trust them."
It was something of a contrast to turn from these scowling, brigandish
looking wayfarers, to the beaming, benevolent, handsome countenance of
the old forest guard. They strolled around a little more, then voted it
too hot, and returned to the welcome coolness of the _dak_ bungalow.
Campian, always analytical, was conscious of a change, or rather was it
a development? Now that they were together--in a crowd--as he put it to
himself, there was a certain feeling of proprietary right that seemed to
assert itself in his relations with Vivien. It was something akin to
the feeling which was over him in the old time when they moved about
together. And yet, why? Well, the close intimate intercourse of the
last ten days or so had not been without its effect. Not without an
inward thrill either, could he recognise that this intercourse had but
begun. They were returning together, and to be candid with himself that
hot stifling arid afternoon here on one of the wildest spots on earth's
surface, he could not but recognise that this elation was very real,
very exhilarating indeed.
"I think we'd better stroll quietly up to the station," said Upward, as
they re-entered. "We may as well have plenty of time to get all this
luggage weighed and put right." Then relapsing into the vernacular:
"Khola, you know what goes in and what has to be weighed."
"_Ha, Huzoor_," assented the bearer.
"Then get away on ahead and do it."
The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the
way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton.
"You don't seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shalalai," he
said. "Five thousand of the British Army--horse, foot, and artillery!
Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders,
Nessita--and yet you are just as _chup_ as if you were coming away from
it all."
"Oh, don't bother--just at the last, too," retorted the girl, almost
petulantly. "Besides--that joke is becoming rather stale."
"Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke--is it stale
too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won't you tell me
now, Nessie?"
"No, I won't," she said, this time quite petulantly. "Come along. We
are a long way behind."
"Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shalalai in a week or two."
"No, I won't. And look here--I don't want to hear any more about it."
Then, with apparent inconsequence--"It was mean of you to desert us like
that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until
now."
They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And
there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis,
all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours;
chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their
bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a
Snider rifle--with which he probably could not have hit the traditional
haystack--and the joint party with their servants and two or three of
the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted
platform; for the arrival of the train--of which there was but one daily
each way--was something of an event.
Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with
the stationmaster--a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down
country--as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his
pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth
was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so
many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to
trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door
to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man
armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door.
"Look at this, Colonel," he said. "Just look, and tell me if ever you
saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here's a thick iron door,
carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is
utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there's no one armed enough
to fire through either, except one policeman, who'd be cut down on the
first outbreak of disturbance."
"You're right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English
drawing room window. There's a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well,
you'd be hard put to it if you were reduced to that."
"Rather. That's how we British do things. I'll answer for it the
Russians wouldn't. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young
fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they'll
have it too, one of these days at this rate."
And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came,
looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to
the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney,
vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head
of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and
hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the
windows, but Mehriab was not a station where passengers often alighted,
so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their
multifold luggage--and good-byes were being exchanged.
"Now, Ernest, get in," called out Mrs Upward. "We are just off."
"No hurry. Where's Tinkles? Got her on board?"
"Yes, here she is," answered Hazel--hoisting up the little terrier to
the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously
at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform.
"All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian,
old chap, I suppose we'll see you at Shalalai in a week or two. Ta-ta."
The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood
looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of
handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel.
The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from
the Mehriab valley like a door. The station master had retired within
his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room
collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was
shielding a match to light a cheroot, when--Heavens! What did this
mean?
A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up--ten or a dozen,
perhaps--advancing from the open country the other side of the line.
They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their
appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the
station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then
they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead.
The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He
received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell,
still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line
were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells,
expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis
rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for
more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay--
and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead--rushed
upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of
humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright
sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they
tore back on to the platform.
The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of
time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing
outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a
fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a
group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have
received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he
sprang within the waiting room.
"Back, back," he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. "There's
a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door,
Colonel."
It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention
to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly
tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch--and no sooner had it done so
than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage
howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of
saving Campian's life--and realising that fact, promptly decided to join
their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed,
the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by
accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed
up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost
to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid
contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic,
commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a
very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate,
rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed
and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred.
Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their
lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of
delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the
defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and
shrieked for mercy.
Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the
Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they
rushed into the station master's office. Nobody! Into an inner room.
Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing
than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out
from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top
of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching
there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian
telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His
yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the
sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the
latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority
intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered.
"The money--where is it?" said this man in Hindustani. "Give us over
the rupees."
"You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don't let them kill me!" he
pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys.
In his terror he could not find them.
"Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!" urged the one who seemed to be
the leader; "else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once."
The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just
then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much
he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain
less than they had expected.
"Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitan? Quick, lest we flay thee
alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals," growled the leader.
Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A
few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found,
but no more.
"And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?"
"Quite all, Sirdar sahib."
"Good." And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the
other dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
HARD TERMS.
Meanwhile those in the waiting room were doing all they could to make
good their position, and that was not much. Their first attempt at
forcing an entrance having failed, the four Marris had rushed among
their countrymen who had firearms, striving to bring them against the
door in force, or rake the room with a volley through the window, but
their attention at the time was taken up with other matters, which
afforded the beleaguered ones a brief respite.
"Non-combatants up here," said Campian, pointing to the ladder and the
trap door which has been mentioned. "Isn't that the order, Colonel?"
"Yes, certainly. Up you go, Vivien."
But Vivien refused to stir.
"I can do something at close quarters, too," she said, drawing her
revolver.
"Give it to me. I've not got mine with me. Now--go upstairs."
"I may be of use here. Here's the pistol, though," handing it over.
"Will you obey orders, Viv? What sort of a soldier's niece are you?"
"Do go," said Campian, looking at her. "Well, I will, then."
As she ascended the iron ladder Campian followed her up, under pretext
of aiding her. In reality he managed so he should serve to screen her
from any shot that might be fired, for the ladder was in full view of
the window.
"I know why you came up behind me," she whispered as she gained the
loft. "It was to shield me in case they fired."
Then, before he had time to begin his descent, she bent her head and
kissed him, full on the lips.
Not a word did he speak as he went down that ladder again. The blood
thrilled and tingled through his frame. Not all the fury of fanaticism
which spurred the Ghazis on to mania could surpass the exaltation of
fearlessness which was upon him as he tried to treasure up the warm
sweetness of that kiss--and after five years!
"Campian, confound it! We have only a dozen shots among us," growled
the Colonel. "What an ass I am to go about without a pistol."
"We can do a lot with a dozen shots. And Der' Ali has his tulwar."
Der' Ali was the Colonel's bearer, who had been within at the time of
the onslaught. He had been a trooper in his master's old regiment, and
they had seen service together on more than one occasion. What had
become of the two syces and the forest guard, who were outside, they did
not then know, for then the whole volume of the savage fanatics came
surging up to the door. In their frenzy they fired wild shots at the
solid iron plates.
"Tell them, Der' Ali," growled Colonel Jermyn, in Hindustani, "that they
had better clear out and leave us alone. The _Sirkar_ will hang every
man Jack of their tribe if they interfere with us. And the first man in
here we'll shoot dead; and the rest of them to follow."
The bearer, who understood Baluchi well, rendered this, not minimising
the resource and resolution of those within as he did so. A wild yell
greeted his words. Then one, more frenzied or enterprising than the
rest, pushed his rifle through the window, and the smashing of glass
mingled with the report as he blazed into the room. But those within
were up to that move. The window being on a line with the door, they
had only to flatten themselves against the wall, and the bullet smashed
harmless.
Then there was a rush on the window. Two men crashed through, badly cut
by the glass. Before they could recover themselves they were shot dead.
Even Campian's wretched stores revolver did its work on this occasion.
That halted the rest--for the moment.
Only for the moment. By a rapid movement, crawling beneath the level of
the window sill, several managed to discharge their rifles well into the
room. Narrowly the bullets missed the defenders.
"Look here. This is getting hot," growled the Colonel. "Let's give
them one more volley and go into the loft. There one of us can hold the
place for ever against the crowd."
Campian had his doubts about the strategical wisdom of this. However,
just then there was another rush through the window, and this time his
revolver jammed. Outside were thirty furious Ghazis, urging each other
on with wild fanatical yells. If they two were cut down what of Vivien?
That decided him. She could hold that trap door against the crowd.
"All right, Colonel. Up you go. I and Der' Ali will hold the window."
"You and Der' Ali be damned," growled the staunch old veteran. "Obey
orders, sir."
"No, no. You forget I'm only a civilian, and not under orders. And--
you must be with Vivien."
No time was this for conventionalities, but even then the old man
remembered the evening of the earthquake. "Well, I'll cover your
retreat from the ladder," he said, and up he went.
Campian, by a wrench, brought the cylinder of his weapon round. Then,
sighting the head of a Ghazi thrust prominently forward, he let go. It
was a miss, but a near one. Under cover of it both he and the bearer
gained the loft. A strange silence reigned. The assailants seemed to
have drawn off.
It was a breathing space, and surely these needed it. The excitement
and energetic action brought a relapse. So sudden was the change from a
quiet ordinary leave taking to this hell of combat and bloodshed, that
it told upon the nerves more than upon the physical resources. Then,
too, they could sum up their position. Here they were beyond all
possibility of relief. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon. No
train would be due at Mehriab until eleven the next morning. Meanwhile
these bloodthirsty barbarians would stick at nothing to reach their
victims. These were cut off from human aid as entirely, to all intents
and purposes, as though thousands of miles within the interior of Africa
instead of in the heart of a theoretically peaceful country, over which
waved the British flag.
"If only the telegraph clerk had been able to send a wire," said the
Colonel. "But even if the poor devil wasn't cut down at the start, he'd
have been in too big a scare to be able to put his dots and dashes
together."
Suddenly, with an appalling clatter, two or three logs were hurled
through the window on to the floor of the waiting room below. Then some
more, followed by a splash of liquid and a tin can. But the throwers
did not show.
"By the Lord, they are going to try burning us out," said Campian, in a
low tone, watching the while for an enemy to show himself.
Then came more logs. They were old sleepers which had been piled up
beside the line, and were as dry as lucifer matches. On to them came a
great heap of tattered paper--the return forms and books found in the
station offices. The assailants could load up a great pyre thus without
incurring the slightest risk to themselves--could set it alight, too.
That was what came of the British way of doing things--a heavily
armoured and loop-holed door, and, alongside of it, an open and entirely
unprotected window. Truly Upward had been right when he conjectured the
Russians would have had a different way. No nation under the sun is
more wedded to shortsightedness and red tape than that which is
traditionally supposed to rule the waves.
Now indeed a feeling of blank despair came into the hearts of at any
rate two out of the four as they watched these preparations. Vivien,
fortunately, could not see them, for with splendid patience she sat
quite still, and refrained from hampering her defenders, even with
useless questions. The reek of paraffin rose up strong and sickening.
The assailants had flung another can of it upon the pile of
combustibles. All this they could do without exposing themselves in the
least.
"Heavens I are we to be roasted or smoked in a hole?" growled the
Colonel. "Cannot we cut our way through?"
Campian said nothing. His thoughts were too bitter. He had some belief
that these barbarians would not harm Vivien. But death had never been
less welcome than at that moment.
"Could we not propose terms to them, Colonel? Offer a big ransom, say?"
"Nothing like trying. Der' Ali, ask the _budmashes_ how many rupees
they want to clear out and leave us alone."
The bearer, who spoke Baluchi well, did as he was told. The reply came
sharp and decided. "Not any."
"Try again, Der' Ali. Tell the fools they'll be none the better for
killing us, and we'll promise to do nothing towards having them caught.
In fact, promise them anything."
Then Der' Ali, who was no fool, put the offer before them in its most
tempting light. Everyone knew the Colonel Sahib. His word had never
been broken, why should it be this time? The rupees would make them
rich men for life, and would be paid with all secrecy. A Moslem
himself, Der' Ali quoted the Koran voluminously. It was not for
themselves that they feared death, it was on account of the mem-sahib,
for if they were slain what would become of her? And what said the Holy
Koran? "If ye be kind towards women, and fear to wrong them, God is
well acquainted with what ye do."
For a time there was silence. The suspense of the beleaguered ones was
terrible. Then the reply came.
"If the Colonel Sahib would give his promise to pay over the sum of five
thousand rupees to an accredited messenger at a certain spot in eight
days' time he and the mem-sahib and their servant should be spared. But
the other sahib must come down and deliver himself into their hands."
"That's all right," said Campian cheerfully, when this had been
rendered. "They want me as a hostage. Things are looking up. When
they finger the rhino they'll turn me adrift again, and meanwhile I
shall see something of the inner life of the wily Baluch."
"Tell them we'll double the sum if they let all four of us go," said the
Colonel.
Der' Ali put this, but the reply of the leader was again prompt and
decided. It was in the negative. The other sahib must come and deliver
himself into their hands.
"The question is, can we trust them?" said the Colonel. "Will they keep
to their conditions in any case? Once we are out of this we are at
their mercy."
"Are we less so here?" said Campian. "A match put to that nice little
pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while
the iron's hot, say I. Der' Ali, make them swear by all that they hold
sacred to keep faith with us, and then I'll come down."
"Who is your leader, brothers?" called out the bearer.
"I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan," returned the same deep voice that had before
spoken.
Then Der' Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind,
and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the
virtues of the Prophet, by the Koran, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully
to observe the conditions he had laid down--in short, he almost swore
too much.
"Say we accept, Der' Ali. I'm coming down."
"God bless you, my boy," said the Colonel, as he wrung the other's hand
in farewell. "If it was only ourselves, I'd say let's all hang
together. But for Vivien's sake. There, good-bye."
"Rather--so long, we'll say," was the cheerful reply. "I'll show up
again in a few days."
Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to
which she could trust herself.
For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian,
as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling
over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of
daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that
he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were
about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever
afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was
conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid.
No one would have thought it to look at him, though--certainly not those
into whose midst he now stepped.
"Salaam, brothers!" he said in Hindustani, with a glance at the ring of
shaggy scowling faces which hemmed him in.
The salute was sullenly returned, and then Ihalil, beckoning him to
follow, led the way down the platform, surrounded by the whole party.
They passed the body of the murdered policeman and that of the
stationmaster, and at these some of the barbarians turned to spit, with
muttered curses; and the platform, smeared and splattered with blood,
was like the floor of a slaughter-house. Even the dirty white garments
of the murderers were splashed with it.
Out through the gate at the end of the platform they went. Heavens, was
the whole thing a dream--a nightmare? Why, it was less than an hour ago
they had entered that gate all so light hearted and unthinking. He
remembered the _badinage_ he had been exchanging with Nesta as they
passed in through it--and more than one reference as to meeting in
Shalalai in a week or two. Now--who could say whether he would meet
anybody again--in a week or two or ever? And then his sight fell upon
that which caused him well nigh to give up hope.
In the shade before the station master's private quarters, a man was
squatting--a wild, fierce-looking Baluchi. Before him the whole party
now halted, treating him as with the deference due to a leader. But one
glance at the grim, cruel face and eagle beak, and shaggy knotted brows,
sufficed. In him Campian recognised the man who had scowled so
demoniacally upon him in the retinue of the Marri sirdar--the man he had
wounded and lamed for life when set upon by the Ghazis in the Kachin
valley. And this man was no other than the celebrated outlaw Umar Khan,
and now, he was his prisoner.
And at that very moment it occurred to those left behind in the loft
that any sort of stipulation as to the said prisoner being returned
unharmed on the payment of the sum agreed upon had been entirely left
out of the covenant.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
AT SHALALAI.
"By Jove, but it is good to be back again!" said Upward, in tones of
intense satisfaction as he sat down to tiffin in his bungalow at
Shalalai. "The garden is looking splendid, and then all the greenery in
the different compounds after those beastly stones and junipers--I'm
sick of the whole circus. Only a year or two more, thank goodness."
"Yes, it is always nice to be at home again," assented his wife. "Nesta
must be sick of roughing it, too."
"Well, I won't say that," answered the girl. "I'll only agree that I am
rather glad to be back again."
"So they will be at the club this afternoon," laughed Upward. "By the
way, why don't those children come in? They are always late. It's a
perfect nuisance."
A wrangle of voices, and the children did come in. Racket in hand, they
were disputing vehemently as to the rights and wrongs of a game they had
been obliged to break off in the middle of.
"Wonder how long Campian will stick at Jermyn's? I believe the old
chap's getting a bit smashed there."
"Nonsense, Ernest," laughed his wife. "You're always thinking someone
or other must be getting `smashed.'"
"Why shouldn't he? She's a deuced fine girl that niece of Jermyn's--and
then just think what a lot they'll see of each other. What do you think
about it, Miss Cheriton?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've never thought about it."
"Too black," put in Lily the irrepressible. "If he could run the
gauntlet of Nesta all this time, I don't think he's likely to go smash
there."
"Of course you're an authority on such matters, Lily," laughed her
mother. "Ernest, you see now what notions you put into the children's
heads."
"I don't want any tiffin," pronounced Hazel. "I only want to get at
those nectarines. They just are good. Bother camp! I like it much
better here."
The large, lofty, cool room in which they were was hung around with
trophies of the chase, all spoils of their owner's unerring rifle. One
end of the room was hung with the skin of an immense tiger, draped, as
it were, from ceiling to floor, the other with that of a somewhat
smaller one, which had clawed a native out of a tree and killed him
before Upward could get in a shot. Hard by was a finely marked
panther-skin whose erewhile wearer had badly mauled Upward himself!
Panther and jungle cat and cheetul and others were all represented, and
with horns of the blackbuck and sambur, tastefully disposed, produced an
effect that was picturesque and unique. It served another purpose, too,
as Upward used to say in his dry way. It gave people something to talk
about when they came to tiffin and dinner. It was sure to set them
comparing notes, or swearing they had seen or shot much bigger ones, and
so forth. At any rate, it kept them going.
The bungalow was surrounded on three sides by a garden of which Upward
was justly proud, for it was all of his own making. In front a trim
lawn, bright with flower beds, and beyond this a tennis court, of which
his neighbours did him the favour to make constant use. They likewise
did him the favour to plant their bicycles, dogs, and other impedimenta,
about his flower beds, or against the great crimson and purple
convolvulus blossoms entwining his summer-house, whereat he fumed
inwardly, but suffered in silence, from a misplaced good nature; and,
after all, it was a little way they had in Shalalai. Peaches and
nectarines and plums attained a high degree of excellence in their own
department, likewise every kind of green vegetable--and the verandah was
green and cool with all sorts of ferns.
"I wonder none of the garrison have been up, Miss Cheriton," he went on.
"They can't have got wind that you're back. What's that? Some of them
already?" For Tinkles, suddenly leaping from her chair, darted out into
the hall, barking shrilly and making a prodigious fuss. At the same
time steps were heard on the verandah.
"That's Fleming," said Upward, recognising the voice--then going out
into the hall. "Come in here, old chap. Well, what's the news?"
"There is some news, but--Hallo! Excuse me, Mrs Upward. Didn't know
you were at tiffin."
"It's all right. We're just done. Get into that chair and have a
`peg'--and then we can hear the _kubbur_."
"Well, it's not very definite as yet," replied Fleming, subsiding into
the chair indicated. "Thanks, Upward--only a small one, I've just had
one at the club. They say--By the bye, didn't you come in from Mehriab
yesterday?"
"Yes, of course. But why?"
"Was it all right?"
"Was what all right?"
"Why, the look of things?"
"We didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Jermyn and his niece and
Campian came down with us to see us off. There was nothing wrong then.
But why? What do they suspect?"
"Dunlop had occasion to wire officially to the stationmaster at Mehriab
yesterday afternoon and could get no reply. He kept on wiring, but it
was no good."
"Maybe some _budmash_ has been playing gooseberry with the wire."
"Cutting it? No. The communication is quite all right with the
stations next to Mehriab on either side."
"It was all right yesterday at Mehriab, for I sent a couple of wires
myself," said Upward. "Perhaps the telegraph clerk is taken ill."
"It might be that of course. But there's a rumour flying around the
bazaar this morning that Umar Khan has been raiding up the Kachin
valley. What if he has stuck up Mehriab station to plunder the safe?"
Upward whistled.
"Yes--that might be," he said. "Only I wish he had done it while we
were all there. I had two rifles and a shot gun and a six shooter. I
think among us all--myself and Campian and old Jermyn and my two
foresters--we'd have given Mr Umar Khan very particular what for. But
what should bring him up to those parts? He was supposed to be making
the other way when he cut up those two `gharri-wallahs.'"
"I don't know. It's only bazaar rumour, mind."
"Now I think of it," went on Upward, "there did seem rather more than
usual of the evil-looking _soors_ hanging about the platform. They'd
all got tulwars too. By Jove--what if they were only waiting till the
train had left to break out, and Ghazi the whole show? Oh, Lord! That
puts things in a new light. There were enough of them to do it too."
Fleming looked grave. "Then what about your friend and the Jermyns?" he
said.
"Heavens, yes. Perhaps the _soors_ waited until they had gone. Hallo,
Miss Cheriton. What's the matter?"
For Nesta had gone as pale as death--looking as if she would faint dead
away.
"It's nothing. I shall be all right again in a minute. Why do you
suggest such horrible things?" she broke off quite angrily. "It is
enough to upset one."
Both men looked foolish--and all stared. The outburst was so unlike
her.
"Let's go and see if we can get at something definite," said Upward,
jumping up. "Did you drive here, Fleming?"
"No--biked."
"All right I'll jump on mine and we'll spin round to McIvor's. He may
have got _kubbur_ of sorts--but these Politicals are so dashed close."
A three minutes' spin along the level military road brought the two men
to the Acting Political's. That official looked grave at sight of
Upward. He guessed his errand--and at once handed him a telegram.
"This is the latest," he said.
It was a long message, but the substance of it was that on the arrival
of the train due at Mehriab that morning at eleven, not a living soul
was in sight, nor was any signal down. The engine-driver slowed down
and advanced cautiously, when the fact of the massacre became apparent.
Then they had been signalled by Colonel Jermyn and his niece, who were
in a great state of horror and distress, and reported that their guest
had been taken away as prisoner by the Ghazis. They and the Colonel's
bearer were taken on to the next station beyond Mehriab, whence they
would return to Shalalai by the afternoon train.
"What's going to be done about it?" said Upward.
"We've started a strong body of Police after them, and two troops of
Sindh Horse are to follow," said the Political.
"Yes, and then they'll cut Campian's throat. In fact I wonder they
didn't already. It looks as if they wanted him ransomed, and if so--by
George--the way to do for him is to start dusting a lot of Police after
them."
The Political was a man of few words. He shrugged his shoulders, and
observed that the matter did not rest with him. He could give them all
the information he had at his disposal, but that was all.
"This wants thinking out, Fleming," said Upward, as they were spinning
along on their bicycles again. "What can be done? What the devil _can_
be done? As sure as they run those Ghazis close--then, goodnight to
Campian. But Jermyn will be here this evening--then we shall get at the
whole story."
The evening train arrived in due course, bringing with it the three
survivors of the outbreak. The Ghazis had kept faith with them, and had
retired, leaving them without further molestation. But the whole night
had to be got through, and a very trying one it was, for they were not
without fear lest some of the people in the neighbourhood, becoming
affected with the contagion of bloodshedding, should come and complete
what the Ghazis had left undone. Fortunately there was the _dak_
bungalow for them to retire to--and they were thus enabled to escape
from the immediate proximity of the ghastly slaughter-house scenes which
the platform, and indeed the railway station generally, presented. No
further alarm however had come their way, and they had been picked up by
the morning train, as detailed in the telegram.
They had come away, of course, with scarcely any luggage, but Upward's
bungalow was elastic, and therein they were promptly installed. Vivien,
now that the tension was relaxed, succumbed to a nervous reaction that
prostrated her for days--and which, indeed, was not entirely due to the
horrors she had gone through. The Colonel was loud on Campian's
praises. But for him they would never have got out of the mess, by
Jove, he declared. The fellow's coolness in venturing among those
cut-throats was splendid--and so on. When he got back again in a week
or two he would have some experiences, and he seemed the sort of fellow
who was partial to experiences. Thus the Colonel. But Upward,
listening, was not so easy in his mind. He hoped Campian would be back
among them in a week or two, but--Heavens! what if he were not? The
Marris were a savage lot, and these particular ones were a combination
of Ghazi and brigand. He felt uneasy--most infernally uneasy--in which
predicament he did two things--he sent for Bhallu Khan, and consulted
long and oft with the authorities.
The latter were not so eager to fall in with his views as he considered
they ought to be. It might be true, as he said, that aggressive action
against Umar Khan would imperil the life of the hostage, but on the
other hand, were they to sit supine for eight days, while that notorious
ruffian raided and plundered and murdered at will all over the country.
The knot of the difficulty however was cut, as is frequently the case,
by circumstances. Each movement against him, undertaken with great
promptitude and spirit, resulted in failure, whereat Upward, and others
interested in the fate of the hostage rejoiced. It was not likely that
such a ruthless barbarian as Umar Khan was known to be, would allow his
prisoner to be taken out of his hands alive--no, not for a moment--
whereas having kept faith so far he might do so until the end,
especially if a handsome _baksheesh_ was added to the stipulated sum.
After that, the sooner he was caught and hanged the better.
Meanwhile the affair caused great excitement in the outlying parts, and
not a little scare. Outlying shooting parties deemed it advisable to
return and some of the railway employes on the lonely stations along the
line--natives or Eurasians mostly--resigned their posts in panic,
fearing lest a similar fate should overtake themselves. On the arrival
of Bhallu Khan some news was gleaned, but not much. The Ghazis had hung
about the Kachin valley for a day or two, and had looted the forest
bungalow--refraining, however, from firing it. Then they seemed to have
disappeared entirely, and if he had any sort of inkling of their
probable destination, Bhallu Khan, a Baluchi himself, could not or would
not reveal it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
IN THE ENEMY'S HAND.
For a while the scowling barbarian contemplated Campian from under his
shaggy brows. Then he gave an order to his followers. There stepped
forward a man. This fellow had a villainous cast of countenance and a
squint. He was of mixed blood, being a cross between Baluch and
Punjabi. He had been at one time a _chuprassi_ in a Government office,
and talked English fairly well.
"Chief say--you know who he is?" he began.
"Can't say I do."
"Chief say--you ever see him before?"
"Can't be sure of that either. Yet, I have an idea I saw him once while
having a friendly talk with the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan."
At mention of the Sirdar's name, a faint show of interest seemed to come
into the saturnine features of those around. Then the interpreter went
on:
"Dis chief--he Umar Khan."
The interest wherewith he would have received this announcement was
dashed with a feeling as of the last glimmer of hope extinguished. It
was bad enough to know that he was in the power of a revengeful
barbarian with every motive for nourishing a deadly grudge against
himself, but that this man should turn out to be the famous outlaw,
whose savage and cruel nature was a matter of notoriety--well, he felt
as good as dead already.
Now he recognised that Umar Khan's object in leading the Ghazi outbreak
was not merely that of indiscriminate bloodshed, or even plunder. It
was to get possession of himself--for the purpose of wreaking some
deadly vengeance which he shuddered to contemplate--and well he might.
"Tell Umar Khan," he said, "that the money we have promised him will be
punctually paid--and that when I am back among my friends again in
Shalalai I will add to it another two thousand rupees."
The outlaw chief received the rendering of this with a contemptuous
grunt, and continued to glare none the less vindictively upon his
prisoner. Then he gave certain orders, in the result of which those who
had horses prepared to mount them, the remainder following on foot; for
those Marris who had been surprised into participating in the massacre
had now decided to cast in their lot with Umar Khan. A steed was also
provided for Campian, but over and above being an inferior beast, a
check rein, held by one of his custodians, was passed through the bit.
Before they set forth, however, the leader issued another order, and in
the result there stepped out from the stationmaster's house two men. To
his surprise the hostage recognised in these Bhallu Khan and the other
forest guard. So these were the traitors? These had brought this crew
of cut-throat murderers down upon them--and would share in the spoil.
Such was his first thought, but he had never made a greater mistake in
his life; the fact being that the two foresters were as innocent of
complicity as he himself. They had been squatting outside the station
after bidding farewell to their official superior. As fellow countrymen
and fellow believers, the Ghazis had refrained from putting them to the
sword, but had ordered them to remain within the outbuilding while the
work of blood and plunder proceeded--and neither to come forth nor to
look forth on pain of death. Now they were released. But first Umar
Khan treated them to a long harangue, to which they listened with
profound attention.
Campian--hailing the man who had acted as interpreter--told him to ask
the chief if he might write a line to the Colonel Sahib and send it by
the foresters. A curt refusal was returned, and he was ordered to
mount.
As the band receded over the plain, from its midst he could see the
white figures of the two foresters moving along the platform--but no
others. Yes--he could. He could make out Vivien's figure. He thought
he knew what was in her mind as she strained her glance over that amount
of space, if haply she might distinguish him in that throng of
retreating forms--and it seemed to him that their very souls went forth
to each other and met in blissful reconciliation. Then all was shut
from his gaze. The band was entering the black portal of a great
_tangi_.
The sight of its smooth rock walls brought back the recollection of that
other day, and the result was, on the whole, a cheering one. Then how
sore had been his strait. He had come through it, however. Why not
again?
At sundown they halted, and spreading their chuddas and putting off
their shoes, the whole band proceeded to perform their devotions in most
approved fashion. Behind them lay the mangled remains of their
unoffending and defenceless victims, slaughtered in cold blood; but then
these were heathens and infidels, and to slay such was a meritorious
act. So these sons of the desert and the mountain prayed in the
direction of Mecca with enhanced faith and fervour.
Throughout half the night they travelled onward. Onward and upward, for
they seemed to be ascending higher and higher among the jagged mountain
crests. The wind blew piercingly cold, and Campian shivered. They
threw him an old poshteen or fur-lined coat, and this he was glad to
pull round him in spite of qualms lest it should already be more or less
thickly populated. Soon after midnight they halted, and building a
large fire under an overhanging rock, lay down beside it. Campian, worn
out with fatigue and the reaction after the day's excitement, went into
a heavy dreamless sleep.
He was awakened by a push. It seemed as though he had been asleep but
five minutes, whereas in point of fact it must have been nearly midday,
so high in the heavens was the sun. He looked forth. Piles of
mountains in chaotic masses heaved up around; all stones and slag; no
trees, no herbage worthy of the name. One of the Baluchis handed him a
bowl of rice, cold and insipid, and a chunk of mahogany looking
substance, which smelt abominably rancid--and which he turned from with
loathing. It was in fact a hunk of dried and salted goat flesh. Having
got outside the first article of diet, he remembered ruefully how he had
been cheerful over the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of
the lively Baluchi, but this, as a beginning, was decidedly
discouraging.
This appeared to be a favourite halting place, judging from the old
marks of fires everywhere around, and a better hiding place it seemed
hard to imagine, such an eyrie was it, perched up here out of reach,
where one might pass below again and again and never suspect its
existence. The band seemed in no hurry, resting there the entire day.
Part of this the hostage turned to account by trying to win over the
good offices of the squint-eyed cross-breed.
This worthy, who rejoiced in the name of Buktiar Khan, was not
indisposed to talk. He too was promised a largesse when the prisoner
should be set at liberty.
"What you do to dis chief?" he said, in reply to this.
"Eh? I don't quite follow."
"Dis chief, he hate you very much. What you do to him?"
"Oh, I see," and the prisoner's heart sank. His chances of escaping
death--and that in some ghastly and barbarous form--looked slighter and
slighter. "I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never
harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from
me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the
opportunity, and if you don't, make the opportunity--that a man with the
name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over
injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?"
"I un'stand--when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You
strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother,
kill you, if not dis year, then next year."
A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other's
words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself
seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy
ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending
over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same
expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first
beheld it.
"O dog," began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his
foot, "dost guess what I am going to do with thee?"
"Put an end to me, I suppose," answered Campian wearily, when this had
been rendered. "But it doesn't seem fair. I yielded myself up on the
understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand
rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What
do you gain by my death?"
Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered:
"What do I gain? Revenge--blood for blood. But hearken. I had
intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if
Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the
dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog--pig--
answer that," growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working
himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. "Tell him what I said just
now, Buktiar--that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in
fair fight," was the answer.
But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went
on.
"I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As
I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet
instead."
A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to
the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this
frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and
helpless, and all that it involved--Oh, it was too terrible.
"I would rather die at once," he said. "It will come to that, for I
shall bleed to death in any case."
"Bleed to death? No, no. Fire is a good _hakim_," [Physician], replied
the Baluchi, with the laugh of a fiend. "Turn thy head and look."
Campian was just able to do this, though otherwise powerless to move.
Now he noticed that the fire near which they had been sitting had been
blown into a glow, and an old sword blade which had been thrust in it
was now red hot. The perspiration streamed from every pore at the
prospect of the appalling torment to which they were about to subject
him. Not even the thought that this was part of the forfeit he had to
pay for the saving of Vivien availed to strengthen him. Unheroic as it
may sound, there was no room for other emotion in his mind than that of
horror and shrinking fear. The ring of savage, turbaned countenances
thrust forward to witness his agony were to him at that moment as the
faces of devils in hell.
Umar Khan drew his tulwar and laid its keen edge against one of the
helpless man's ankles.
"Which foot shall come off first?" he snarled. "You, Mohammed, have the
hot iron ready."
He swung the great curved blade aloft, then down it came with a swish.
Was his foot really cut off? thought the sufferer. It had been done so
painlessly. Ah, but the shock had dulled the agony! That would follow
immediately.
Again the curved blade swung aloft. This time it was quietly lowered.
"Let him rise now," said Umar Khan, with a devilish expression of
countenance which was something between a grin and a scowl.
Those who held him down sprang off. In a dazed sort of way Campian rose
to a sitting posture and stared stupidly at his feet. No mutilated
stump spouting blood met his gaze. The vindictive savage had been
playing horribly upon his fears. He was unharmed.
"I have another thought," said Umar Khan, returning his sword to its
scabbard. "I will leave thee the use of thy feet until to-morrow
morning. Then thou shalt walk no more."
The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all
the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame
of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation,
with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose
than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from
the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely
helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done
with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if
it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A
desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such
outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan
should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces
the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their
weapons too carefully.
"Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?" he took occasion to
ask, "or is he only trying to scare me?"
"He mean it," replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the
prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. "Once
he cut off one man's feet--and hands too--and leave him on the mountain.
Plenty wolf that part--dey eat him."
This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of
these cruel savages--in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a
month or two ago he had never heard of--even now he did not know where
he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could
not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known
to him.
"I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape,"
he said. "If you can't help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I'll give
you five hundred."
The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he
was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and
money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect
of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook
his head in his perplexity.
"Money good, life better," he said. "Dey see me help you--then I dead.
What I do?"
Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of
the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that
day.
The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air,
and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires,
having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation
ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep.
Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian's mind. He was unbound,
and, to all appearances, unguarded--why should he not make the attempt?
Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light
would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally
great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs
and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than
he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked
deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping
Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was
alone in the darkness outside.
A thrill of exultation ran through his veins. Yet what was there to
exult over? He was alone upon the wild mountain side--unarmed, and
without food--in a perfectly unknown land. Every step he took fairly
bristled with peril. The wind increased in volume; the rain pattered
down harder. He could not see an inch in front of him. Any moment
might find him plunging from some dizzy height to dash himself into a
thousand fragments and Eternity. Here again his very desperation saved
him. Trusting entirely and blindly to luck, he skirted perils that
would have engulfed a more careful and less desperate man. Anything
rather than a repetition of his experience of that day.
On through the darkness--on ever. The howl of a wolf ranging the
mountain side was now and then borne to his ears upon the wind and rain:
and more than once the dislodgment of a loose stone or two, and its far
away thud, after a momentary space of silence, told that he was skirting
some vast height, whether of cliff or _tangi_--but even that failed to
chill his blood. He was moving--his energies were in action. That was
the great thing. He was no longer cold now. The exertion had warmed
him. He felt more and more exultant.
Yet with morning light his enemies would be upon his track. Here, among
their native rocks and crags, what chance had he against these
persistent, untiring hillmen? The savage hatred of Umar Khan, enhanced
by being deprived of a sure and certain prey, would strain every source
to effect his recapture. Well, he had the long night before him, and
the darkness and turbulence of the night were all in his favour.
If only he had some idea of his locality. The tidings of the outrage
would have reached Shalalai, and by now a strong military force would
have been moved up to Mehriab station to investigate the scene of the
massacre, and follow up its perpetrators. But he had no idea in which
direction Mehriab station lay, or what mountain heights might have to be
crossed before he could gain it.
Morning dawned. Weary eyed, haggard, exhausted with many hours of the
roughest kind of walking, stumbling over boulders and stones, bruised,
faint for want of food, the fugitive still held on. He was descending
into a long, deep valley, whose sides were covered with juniper forest.
Shelter, at any rate, its sparse growth might afford him. Ha! He knew
now where he was. It was the Kachin valley.
Yes, in the widening dawn every familiar feature was made more plain.
He had come over the high _kotal_ which he and Bhallu Khan had climbed
to when stalking markhor. There was the spur which shut out Chirria
Bach, and away up yonder the forest bungalow. Could he gain the latter
he could obtain food, of which he stood sorely in need, as well as arms
and ammunition. Some of the servants were still there. They would have
heard nothing of the tragedy on the railway line, and would be
momentarily expecting the return of the household. Turning to the right
he struck off straight for the house, full of renewed hope.
But that huge, practical joke entitled Life is, in its pitiless irony,
fond of dashing such. He had barely travelled half a mile when a rattle
of stones on the mountain side above arrested his attention. A score of
turbaned figures were clambering down the rocks. Spread out in a half
circle formation they were nearly upon him. There was no escape. Umar
Khan and his savage freebooters were not going back on their reputation
just yet. The fugitive's long night of peril, and labour, and
perseverance, had all gone for nothing. Several of the Ghazis were
already pointing their rifles, and in loud, harsh tones were calling on
him to halt.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
"MOHAMMED ER RASOUL ALLAH?"
"Ping-ping!" The bullets sang around him--splattering the rocks with
blue lead marks. Not for a moment did he think of stopping. They might
shoot him dead, but alive he would not yield. Besides there was one
last desperate chance, and he meant to try it.
The markhor cave! A final spurt would bring him to that. It was just
round yon shoulder of cliff, which at present concealed it. His
pursuers would not even see him enter it, and there were smaller holes
and crannies around which would puzzle them. Besides, he remembered
there were superstitions attaching to it. These might possibly deter
them from entering at all. It was a straw, but a slender one.
One great and final effort. He penetrated its normally forbidding but
now welcome blackness, and sank down panting on the rock-floor. For
some minutes he thus crouched, listening intently. He heard the rattle
of stones outside; now and then the tones of a deep voice, or the clink
of rifle-barrel or scabbard against the rock. The search was proceeding
right merrily, yet, why had it not begun here?
Some minutes went by. To the hunted man, crouching there, they meant
hours. Then the sound of steps approaching. They were going to search
the markhor cave. His last chance had failed.
The footsteps outside halted. Then he heard the voice of their owner
calling, and receiving answers from several other voices. He was
calling to his comrades to come and aid in the search. Superstition,
evidently, disinclined him to prosecute it alone. It could not be the
fugitive that he feared, seeing that the latter was unarmed, and
probably quite exhausted.
Then a wild and daring idea came into Campian's mind--in fact, so
utterly desperate a plan that were he allowed time to think of it, the
bare thought would suffice to send a cold shiver through his frame. The
chasm--into which he had so nearly stepped on the occasion of his first
and last visit to this place! The chasm--into whose black depths he and
Vivien had stood gazing, side by side. It was his last and only chance,
but--what a chance!
His matchbox contained a few wax vestas. The pursuers, probably still
collecting to explore the cave in force, had not begun to enter.
Groping his way round a rock corner which would partially or entirely
shield the light from those without, he struck a vesta, deadening, so
far as he was able, the sound with his hollowed hands. It flamed
forth--a mere flicker in the cavernous gloom. But it was sufficient for
his purpose.
There lay the black rift, like the great serpent for which he had at
first taken it. He was right at its brink. Then flinging into it the
spent vesta, he grasped the edge and let himself carefully down, hanging
by the grasp of his two hands alone on the lip of the fissure, in the
pitchy darkness over that awful unfathomable depth which seemed to go
down into the very heart of the earth.
The tension was fearful. He must let go. Every muscle was strained and
cracking. And now a glow of light told that his enemies were entering
with torches. Ha! he had overlooked that contingency. The light would
reveal his strained fingers grasping the rock. One cut of a tulwar--
and--
Then his feet came in contact with something--something that clinked
faintly as with the sound of metal. Groping carefully with both feet,
lo! they closed on what felt like an iron chain.
Heavens! it was a chain--a massive iron chain depending in some way from
the rock above. In the increasing glow of the torches he could make out
that. Here was a Heaven-sent chance. Grasping the great links firmly
with knees and feet, he let go, first with one hand, then the other, and
seized the chain. It, with its rough links, afforded a safe and solid
resting place for a time.
The pursuers had now arrived right at the brink. Their bizarre,
turbaned shadows on the opposite rock wall looked gnome-like in the
smoky glare of the torches. But in the said glare he recognised, with a
rush of hope, that unless they peered right over they could not see him,
for the chain hung from an iron bolt let into the rock, which here
projected just above his head.
The weird shadows on the rock danced and tossed, the guttering light
grotesquely exaggerating every movement. He who hung there could hear
the deep-toned voices right over him. The chain to which he clung
swayed and shivered with the concussion of the tramp of many feet above.
They held out a torch or two over the abyss, and dropped a few pebbles
down--even as he himself had done when with Bhallu Khan. He could hear
their exclamations as the stones struck far below with a faint thud.
Could he have understood them, his relief would have been greater still.
Among them, however, he thought to recognise the harsh, snarling voice
of Umar Khan.
"If the dog has gone down here," that worthy was saying, "why, then, he
is already suffering the torments of hell. If he entered this place at
all, how should he not have fallen in, seeing that it is darker than
night within the cave, and this hole is a pitfall to the unwary, and a
very entrance to the abode of devils?"
"In here he entered without doubt," said Ihalil Mohammed, "for every
other hole have we searched thoroughly."
To this the others assented. Their prisoner had undoubtedly given them
the slip. Dead or alive he would never be seen again.
All this the hunted man, thus hanging there, could not understand.
Would they never give up the search, he was wondering. Well for him
that he was in hard form and training--yet he was not so young as he
used to be, he recognised bitterly, as every joint and muscle ached with
the convulsive tension involved in thus supporting his own weight, for
an apparently unlimited period, entirely by compression. Well for him,
too, that the links were rough with red, flaky rust, thus affording
increased facility of hold. Yet would these hell hounds never give up
the search?
They were forced to at last. The red glow of the torches grew fainter,
then died out--so, too, did the sound of footsteps and voices. Campian
was in pitch darkness, suspended over this awful and unknown depth.
Now that the more active peril was withdrawn, and his attention thus
drawn inwards, he was able to think, to realise the full horror of his
position. How was he to return? Cramped, aching, exhausted, he felt as
though he could hardly hold on, let alone work his way upward. His
blood ran cold too as he realised what would have been his fate but for
this solid and substantial means of support right to his hand. Half a
yard further on either side, and--No, it would not bear thinking of, and
no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than one foot, unconsciously
lowered, came in contact with something.
Something hard, wide, horizontal it was, for as he cautiously increased
the pressure he felt it sway and tilt slightly. Then, with equal
caution, he lowered the other foot on the other side of the chain. It,
too, met with like support. Carefully, with both feet, he increased the
pressure so as to test the weight, still preserving his hand-hold.
Nothing gave way, and his heart leaped within him as he found he had
secured a firm resting place whereon to recruit his strength against his
return climb.
And now, safe for the time being, his thoughts were busy with
speculation as to this structure hung here in the black depths of the
gulf. A great massive iron chain supporting a convenient swinging
platform, had not found its way there expressly to afford him a secure
refuge in the hour of peril, that much was certain. Then his nerves
thrilled and tingled as the conjecture uttered by Vivien in this very
place came back to his mind: "_What if the things are at the bottom of
that cleft_?" Heavens! Had this structure to do with the hidden
treasure--the priceless ruby sword?
Instinctively he sought his matchbox. No. That would be madness. His
pursuers might not even have left the entrance of the cave. Not for
hours would it be safe to strike a light.
And for hours, indeed, he hung there and waited. He groped around the
platform, first with one foot then with the other, and it dawned upon
him that the structure was no ordinary board, or it would have tilted.
It was a solid block of wood--no--a box.
A box? A chest! That was it. What if it held the treasure itself?
And then by a strange fatality the conviction that this would prove to
be the case took firm hold of his mind--and if so, by what a terrible
sequence of tragic events had he been constituted its finder. Would not
the recent dread experiences be worth going through to have led up to
this splendid discovery? All would yet be well. The best of life was
before him yet Vivien's last look, as he descended from their place of
refuge to purchase her safety by delivering himself into the hands of
their enemies, burned warm within his soul. When he returned safe, as
one who returned from the dead, what would not her welcome be? Surely
the glow of the old days would be as nothing to this.
These and other such thoughts coursed through his mind as he hung there
in the pitchy blackness--and indeed it was well for him that such was
the case. Nothing is more utterly unnerving than any space of time
spent in an absolutely silent and rayless gloom, but when, in addition
to that, the subject is swung on a hanging platform, whose very
stability he can vouch for with no degree of certitude, over a chasm of
unknown depth, and that for hours, why, he needs a mental stimulus of a
pretty strong and exalted type.
Judging it safe at last to do so, Campian struck a light. Feeble enough
it seemed in the vast gloom, and not until it had burned out were his
eyes capable of seeing anything after being for hours in black darkness.
Then, stooping as low as he dared, he lit another. Yes. It was even
as he had conjectured. The platform he was standing on was a box or
chest.
It was of very old and hard grained wood, almost black, and clamped
together with solid brass bindings. It showed no sign of having
suffered from the ravages of time, and the upper part, which was all he
could see, was covered with Arabic characters, curiously inlaid--
probably texts from the Koran. He had no doubt but this was what had
occupied so much of his thoughts, the hidden and forgotten treasure
chest of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan. Little is it to
be wondered at if even there he felt thrilled with exultation as he
remembered what priceless valuables it certainly contained.
But that thrill of exultation sustained a rude shock--in fact died away.
For happening to glance up while lighting another match it came home to
him that whether the chest contained valuables or not, the probability
that he would ever be in a position to put that contingency to the test
was exceedingly slender; for to gain the brink of the chasm, and the
outer air again, looked from there an absolute impossibility. The
chain, and that which it supported, depended from a solid bolt let into
the rock, but the latter overhung it in a cornice or lip, which
projected nearly half a yard. He would never be able to worm himself
over this. And then it came home to him that he was beginning to feel
quite faint with hunger, and that his strength was leaving him fast.
Well, the feat must be attempted. Lighting another match--and he had
few left now--he sent a long steady look at the projection, the
fastening of the chain, and the distance from the edge. Then he began
his climb.
This was not great. The rock lip projected only about half a yard above
his hands at their highest tension. He drew himself up. He was under
the projection--groping outward along it in the darkness. Now he
gripped it firmly with both hands--still clinging to the chain with feet
and legs. He was about to swing himself off. One hand half-slipped
away. No, he could not do it. His strength failed him, likewise his
nerve. He was barely able to seize the chain again and let himself down
to the vantage ground of the box, where he stood literally trembling.
This would not do at all. He must rest for a few moments and recruit
his strength, must quell this shaky fit by sheer force of will. It
could not be--he argued with himself--that he had come through all this,
had made this royal discovery, by a chain of coincidences signal and
tragic, only to fail at the last; to be swept into nothingness; to
disappear from all human sight as completely as though dead and buried
already. He was a bit of a fatalist, too, and this partially supported
him now. If he was to come through safely, why he would--if not--! And
with this thought, as by an inspiration, came another idea.
He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the
chain hung--that much was certain. But--the point whence he had let
himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not
overlap.
Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more.
Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink.
Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes--that would do. Now for it.
He put forth the other hand.
And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor
above the edge. Campian's fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy
gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation.
The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of
the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and--he was lying
safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with
exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.
For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he
could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at
all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he
would find it.
It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had
surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence
counselled that he should wait until night--physical craving argued that
by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere;
and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.
He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest.
The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but
poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and
resolution.
But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his
faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound
a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if
so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the
latter it was too late.
In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of
turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted,
were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at
prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which
were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too
late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several
shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid
devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their
scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might
the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of
death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He
had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had
placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the
threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of
Umar Khan.
"Ah! ah!" snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation.
"Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God."
"Allah?" repeated the destined victim, catching the last word.
"Hearken, Moslem, in hearken!" he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with
unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in
their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at
prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm
voice:
"_La illah il Allah,
Mohammed er rasoul Allah_!"
A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every
weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.
For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other,
then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell
was broken by their leader.
"It is well!" he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his
tulwar. "There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be
the richer for a newly gained soul."
But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little
bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the
sometime leader of the devotions.
"Hold now, my children," he cried, in tones quavering with age and
excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of
Umar Khan and its intended victim. "Have ye not grievously offended
God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and
strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of
a true believer within this holy _ziarat_ [a local shrine or
sanctuary]--for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi?
Have no fear, my son--have no fear," he added, turning to Campian, and
placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. "None shall do thee
hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful--for if any harm thee,"
shaking his staff menacingly, "let him shrivel before the curse of the
Syyed Ain Asraf."
The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim--
though he understood the burden thereof--was the name--and at that he
could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this
were equally astonished.
"See," they said among themselves. "Even to the infidel has the fame
and holiness of the Syyed Ain Asraf reached."
Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the
Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the
present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
HOPES AND FEARS.
A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shalalai Club, which
institution constituted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of
the station.
A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the
exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and
frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety
of dog--large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred--was there
represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned
among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as
to ideas, no less than in outward aspect.
As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on
bicycles or in dog-carts--or even the homely necessary "gharri"--with
more dogs, and after going inside for a "peg," would emerge to swell the
ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in
combat with those already on the sward.
This rail-roost was a deeply cherished institution, which no
consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints
of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental sex. This was
scarcely surprising, for the ornamental sex as represented at Shalalai
was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though
paradoxical, was none the less fact.
The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators.
There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered
about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the
railing.
"Hallo, Cox," sung out one, hailing a new comer. "When are you going to
catch Umar Khan?"
"No betting on this time, Cox," said another, "unless it's on Umar
Khan."
He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who
held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on
the subject of Umar Khan was that Cox had started in pursuit of that
bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriab station
affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as
well have started to stalk the wily markhor with the regimental band
playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither
Cox nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying
the marauder by the heels.
"Oh, _bus_!" retorted Cox. "Pity they don't turn out some of you
fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and
stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward's to
be found, by the way?"
"The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits
out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything
fresh turned up?"
"I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan," retorted
Cox, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward.
"Wonder if he really means it?" said one of the rail-roosters, after he
had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and
discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government
contemplated arresting the principal Marri chiefs for suspected
complicity in Umar Khan's misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages
against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his
prisoner.
"Wonder if that poor devil Campian's throat has been cut yet?"
conjectured someone.
"More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are
interfered with."
"They won't bone Mr Umar Khan," said another Solon of the rail-roost.
"He's skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won't give
him up, you bet. Shouldn't wonder if he was at the bottom of it all
himself." At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the
sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.
A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters--evoked
by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number,
were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.
"By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here," added
the speaker plaintively.
"She _can_ handle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer," cut in another of more
sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the
turn-out. "She's got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old
Jermyn's. Isn't that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his
wife couldn't drive him?"
"No. You've got the affair all mixed," returned yet another
emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived
among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion
concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the
quadruped under dispute.
"I don't think Miss Wymer is pretty," declared a Solon of the rail.
"She's awfully fetching, though."
"Rather. There's a something about her you don't often meet with, and
you don't know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn't old
Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?"
"Oh, he's that on every woman under the sun--in rotation. This one let
him have what for, though."
"Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?" exclaimed several.
"Rather. They were talking about the Mehriab affair, and Bracebrydge
said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know
what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well,
he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than
hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first
opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she
thought she knew one or two who wouldn't have waited for that--they'd
have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him
straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell
you--great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in
the eye."
"Serve him jolly well right," declared one of the listeners, and his
opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among
those who roosted on the railing.
"I think Miss Cheriton's the prettiest of the two," said the youth who
had first spoken. "She's one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in
my life."
"Then why don't you make hay while the sun shines?" rejoined another.
"Go and make yourself agreeable--if you can, that is. They've just gone
into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something,
chappie."
"I think I will." And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he
went. Those remaining continued their subject.
"Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed ass to have hit that
particular nail on the head. It's my belief he couldn't have hit the
wrong one harder, anyway."
"The devil he couldn't!"
"Well, I don't know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had,
thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn't
count. If they hadn't altogether set up a _bundobust_, it was most
likely only a question of time."
"_Miss_ Wymer hasn't been to a dance since that affair," struck in
another oracle of the rail. "Looks as if there was some fire beneath
the smoke. What?"
"That don't follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to
have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his
fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that
would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn't care to think, while she was
frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking
the poor chap to pieces."
It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers
expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally
self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings,
Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without--
in popular parlance--giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and
night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last;
calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of
these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of
the old days she dared not even think--and, since this tragedy had come
between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained
from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too
pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a
comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a
natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not
entirely escape comment, as we have seen.
She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different
in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate,
they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a
good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in
common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present
subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost
hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the
captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose
it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air.
For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the
aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan's envoy--none
other than Ihalil Mohammed himself--he who had negotiated the terms.
Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner
would not be handed over. It was not in the _bundobust_. Nothing had
been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five
thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der' Ali stared at each other in blank
dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such
stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been
understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook
his head slightly, and repeated--as impassable as ever, "It was not in
the _bundobust_."
Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal
treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any
rate, not one _pice_ should they get from him until the sahib was handed
over safe and sound. Then they should have every _anna_ of it. Not
before.
At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one shaggy eyebrow, and remarked
laconically:
"Sheep are flayed after they are dead, _not before_."
The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this
remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his
temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver.
This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two shaggy eyebrows and observed:
"Sheep are flayed _and roasted_ after they are dead--_not before_."
Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity.
The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough
even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole
situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture
produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would
be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it
unmolested--and, indeed, such was the case.
"Is the sahib still alive?" asked the Colonel.
"He is still alive."
"And well?"
"And well."
"Very good. Now then, Der' Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell
his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib
safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will
pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him,
then the _Sirkar_ will never rest until he has hung him and every man
Jack of the gang--hung 'em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them
afterwards. What does he say to that?"
Der' Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the
naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and
Der' Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain
terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had
not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister
hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil's
reply was characteristically laconic.
"Well, what does he say?" repeated the Colonel testily.
"He say--he hears, _Huzoor_."
"Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der' Ali?"
"He say--he can't say, _Huzoor_," answered the interpreter, having
elicited that terse reply.
"Tell him to go to the devil, then," said the Colonel, unable to resist
an angry stamp of the foot.
Der' Ali rendered this as--"Go in peace," and Ihalil, uttering an
impassive "Salaam," mounted his camel, and--did so.
They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere
white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and
shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their
prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the
chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or
semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would
like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All
men loved money--even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little--
he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar
Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were
offered him.
But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there
was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then
those interested in Campian's fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost
abandoned hope.
But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual.
Shalalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian's fate,
except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested
in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder
of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare.
That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical,
predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly
nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling
picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up
as unsafe--for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either
side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was
there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?
Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of
paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous
court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow.
She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay,
sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over,
shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be
there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been
thrown together a lot in Upward's camp--moreover, when he and
Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he
improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled the _tangi_ adventure,
and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his
equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was
too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking
face and well-knit soldierly figure--that any girl could prefer a dry
old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that--so, giving his
gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to
start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.
But on reaching Upward's bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not
alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly
believe his ears. She was depreciating--yes, actually depreciating--the
British Army.
"I don't know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shalalai,"
she was saying as he came in. "Thousands of them. How many are there,
Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shalalai?"
"Oh, about five thousand--of all sorts."
"About five thousand," she repeated, "horse, foot, and artillery, and
yet a dozen ragged Pathans can race about the country, killing people at
will."
"That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?" said Fleming, somewhat shortly,
for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering,
tone.
"I think he _is_ going to be the `everlasting' Umar Khan," she retorted
quickly. "Why don't some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming?
There are enough of you, at any rate."
"We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton," he replied stiffly.
"If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn't wait for orders if there was
anything of that sort to be done," she retorted, with delightful
inconsistency. "I'd get leave to raise a troop, and I'd never rest till
I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on
the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of
course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and--I'm very fond of
her."
Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously,
suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him.
By George, it was not merely on Campian's account she wanted Umar Khan
run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said:
"There's a good deal in what you say, Miss Cheriton. I must think out
how the thing may be done." Then he talked on other and indifferent
matters, and shortly took his leave.
Meanwhile the bi-annual _jirgeh_, or tribal council, was in progress at
Shalalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs
gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet the _Sirkar_ and ventilate
grievances and settle disputes, and in short to discuss matters
generally between themselves and the Executive. Stately chiefs and
their retinues--tall, dignified men, picturesque in their snowy turbans
and long hair and flowing beards, wending thither beneath the
plane-shaded avenue--passed in strange contrast the dapper sub skimming
along on his bicycle, or fashionably attired ladies in their
high-wheeled dogcart flashing by at a hard trot, bound for club or
gymkhana ground. Such, however, they eyed as impassively as they did
the crowd of low caste Hindus which thronged the bazaar; for the
training of their wild desert home had left no room for the display of
emotions. Now and then, recognising some official, they might utter a
grave "Salaam," accompanied by a slight raising of the hand, but that
was all. A contrast indeed! The unchanging East, in its melancholy
dignity and fund of awe-suggesting power--because power held in the
mystery of reserve--jostled by fussy, domineering, up-to-date
civilisation; the fierce, wild, untamable spirits masked by those
copper-hued and dignified countenances, side by side with the careless,
pleasure loving, yet intensely pushing and practical temperament
underlying the fresh, tawny-haired Anglo-Saxon faces. Even the very
headgear suggested a vivid contrast--the multitudinous folds of the
snowy and graceful turban expressive of absence of all capacity for
flurry--cool deliberateness, repose, wisdom--even as the cock of the
perky "bowler" seemed a very object lesson in itself of push and bounce
and "there-to-stay" tenacity.
Now and then one or two of the sirdars would visit Upward to talk
officially on forest matters in their respective districts, or to view
his multifold trophies of the chase, which keenly interested them.
These visits Upward encouraged, hoping to learn something of Campian's
fate. But it was of no avail. Of the massacre at Mehriab station, and
the doings of Umar Khan in general, the wily Asiatics professed the
profoundest ignorance, not with effusive reiteration, but in a grave,
nonchalant, dignified way, as though the matter were entirely unworthy
of their notice or cognisance, once and for all. But to Vivien Wymer,
who never lost an opportunity of studying these people, such visits were
of untold interest; moreover, they seemed to result in a certain degree
of hope renewed. These stately, courteous-mannered potentates had not
got cruel faces. There was a noble look about most of them, even a
benevolent one. Surely these were not the men to sanction a coldblooded
murder.
Meanwhile, during the _jirgeh_, the matter of Umar Khan was receiving
the full attention of the Executive. It was one thing for the chiefs to
protest ignorance in private and unofficial conversation with Upward,
with whom, diplomatically, they had no earthly concern. Carefully and
with due deliberation the authorities narrowed the net--and it was
decided to arrest Yar Hussain Khan, who, as the outlaw's feudal chief,
was responsible for his behaviour--and a sirdar of the Brahuis who was
proved to have sheltered and screened him.
The chiefs in question made no trouble over the decision of the
_Sirkar_. With Oriental impassibility they accepted the situation, and
were placed under guard accordingly. But two nights later Umar Khan
swooped down upon a Levy post within ten miles of Shalalai, surprised
and massacred the handful of Hindu sepoys in charge, and rolled a couple
of field pieces down the mountain side, retiring as swiftly as he had
appeared: while the Brahui clans in the neighbourhood began to make
themselves disagreeable by various small acts of aggression which
rendered it unsafe to venture many miles beyond the lines.
Things began to look uncommonly lively in and about that station
containing five thousand troops--horse, foot and artillery.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
AT DARKEST HOUR.
Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward in
many a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vast
geyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand.
A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline on
every hand--its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; the
fierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass--what life can
this awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, so
inexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man and
beast can fare along, and that moderately well.
Camels, with their loads, kneel on the sand, resting from their labours;
with their ugly heads and weird snaky necks and unceasing guttural
snarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsters
somehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flock
of black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, or
crouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase of
animal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathan curs employed at
assisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter of
tanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretched
upon poles, affords a modicum of shelter from the arid baking heat.
It is the hour of prayer. Grouped together the believers are kneeling--
facing towards the holy city; whose exact direction they have a
marvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sink
down in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then rise
again, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of the
scorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, a
little, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is the
form of a man in all the vigour of his prime.
With more than ordinary unction the prescribed formulae are repeated.
No abstraction or looking round is here, such as the faithful when
individually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is the
holy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifying
result, for the Syyed Hadji Ain Asraf is justly invested with both of
these.
He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxy
is arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in its
folds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of the
desert--so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in which
he is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations and
general attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the other
devotees--the outcome of a lifetime's habit. Yet, as the orisons over,
all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-day
demeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanatical
son of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood--in short, none other
than Howard Campian.
How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He had
professed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to save
himself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yet
it is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affect
the man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your wooden
headed, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home,
stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He is
too devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for one
thing. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderings
leave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently,
can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds who
inhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance of
John Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow of
an idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance with
the Koran, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacred
volume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with those
who held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as a
rational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount of
antiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter of
expediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing its
tenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of any
article of faith he might previously have held. The assertion that
Mohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking at
the fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer of
Mecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness,
consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, could
give large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day's
piety and six days' fraud, and his jangling discord of multifold sects.
He was a good bit of a natural actor, wherefore, having a part to play,
he identified himself with it, and played it thoroughly. Partly from
motives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, rough
treatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted the
dress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cut
features and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, was
quite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betray
the Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some of
the Afghan tribes.
It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would have
availed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan--that
lawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when they
conflicted with his own strong inclinations--but for the interference of
the Syyed Ain Asraf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in a
matter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had the
Syyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for him
good treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have just
stated that Campian possessed a translation of the Koran, and the fact
that he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forced
conversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holy
religion, as the Syyed pointed out.
To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at the
bungalow of the Colonel Sahib, where he had been staying, he explained,
and thither he prevailed on them to accompany him, in order to fetch it.
Nor was that all, for he made use of the circumstance to prevail upon
them to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacred
book, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led to
his conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrained
from doing much real damage.
The Syyed Ain Asraf then, had taken his proselyte completely under his
wing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was never
tired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline of
Islam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, and
that for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interested
him, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of his
captivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliest
relationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to his
recollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other name
mentioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword--Syyed Ain
Asraf, the brother of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan.
Did this old man know? Was he in the secret, or had all clue been lost?
Again, did that mysterious chest, so startlingly, so grimly lighted
upon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure?
Often would Campian's thoughts go back to those awful hours spent
hanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonder
whether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoria
of his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of the
desert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over again
those hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have liked
to sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier of
language, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinary
words, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate through
the agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slippery
scoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passing
importance was involved.
Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was being
held as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated five
thousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time and
conditions, but to his representations that he should be set at liberty
the reply was consistently short and to the point. It was not in the
_bundobust_. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keep
his eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, and
pursue his studies of the Koran under the tuition of his now spiritual
guide, Ain Asraf.
That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte--and through
the agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debates
on this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the words
of the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse or
ambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translation
formed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellow
parchment scroll covered with its Arabic text--while the Syyed, with the
aid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust,
strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of the
holy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone of
Abraham.
Strange and wild had been Campian's experiences during the long weeks--
months now--since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed self
gratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the
Baluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here and
hurried there--now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting on
the waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable to
civilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambols
of whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslem
patience--in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences.
So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at the
present moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, or
whether Shalalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near--or
indeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation is
that after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen of
Umar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually as
though death or his own free will had severed his connection with the
band.
With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought to
him, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be the
end of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward,
to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band should
find it expedient to flee thither--and, what then? Sooner or later the
enmity of Umar Khan would take effect in his murder, secret or open.
And he was so helpless, for though, as we have said, he had adopted
their costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and in
among them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow him
aught in the shape of a weapon.
And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, after
the hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and with
unswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact position
of the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makes
up his mind to try and break the ice.
"Ask the Syyed, Buktiar," he says, "who was the Sirdar Dost Hussain
Khan?"
But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over the
aged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows.
"Ya--Allah!" he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. "His soul
is in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of Dost
Hussain Khan?"
Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothing
suspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he was
spared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred which
threw the camp into a state of wild excitement.
Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at a
great rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing of
horses' heads, and the white turbans of their riders.
The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentary
blindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wild
Baluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped from
their steeds, and--yes--they were coming straight for him. He had no
weapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar was
drawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheer
weight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in a
cruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to be
brought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame is
capable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into his
mouth--a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with very
dirty rag--and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneeling
camels, and, literally turned into a bale by being wrapped in sacking,
was loaded up among the other packages upon the animal's back.
The agony of it was excruciating. Every bone in his body ached with the
distortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would have
been a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sacking
which covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced and
reeled before his eyes--his brain was bursting. Then a couple of
sickening lurches and jolt--jolt--jolt. The roaring, snarling animal
had risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace--and now, in addition
to the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the other
packages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against the
pack saddle.
Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost one
of themselves, and now--What was the meaning of this abominable
treatment?
Ha! What was that? The trampling of horses--the rush of many hoofs--
nearer and nearer. Now it was thundering around--and racked,
suffocated, half dead, in his agonising and ignominious position, the
blood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man's frame, for over and
above the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! In
his sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of the
thought.
"Tell the devils to stop," it cried. "Now, Sohrab, ask them who they
are, and all about themselves."
And he who listened there helpless, recognised the fresh, bluff voice.
It was that of his quondam camp-mate--Fleming. If only he could make
his presence known--but that noisome gag rendered all sound as
impossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put by
the Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then another
English voice--an impatient one.
"I believe we'd better push on, Fleming. These devils'll take half the
day jawing here. I'm dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in that
crowd just now, and they'll have nearly half an hour's start of us.
Let's get on, say I."
"I don't know quite what to do, Sinclair," said the first voice. "I've
a good mind to overhaul these chaps' loads. There might be some clue in
them--some bit of loot perhaps--which might be a guide to us."
Heavens! How the wretched prisoner strained and tugged at his bonds.
If he could but loosen that diabolical gag ever so slightly! He could
see in imagination the whole scene--the two English officers at the head
of their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing by
their camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questions
put to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes to
gaze horizon-ward--and the more cautious, reflective countenance of the
captain. Yes, he could see it all. Rescue, within a yard of him!
Great God! was it to reach him--to touch him, and yet pass him by? He
strained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. One
sound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom--yet not by a
hair's-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint.
"Pho! What could we find that would help us?" rejoined the impatient
voice of the subaltern. "And every moment Umar Khan is putting another
mile of this infernal desert between him and us."
The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance--the
rattle of sabres and the jingle of bits; the thud of the troop-horses'
feet, and the swish of the thrown-up sand--all told its own tale to the
ears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literally
within a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewed
jolt--jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march.
It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved too
much. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
THE DURANI RING.
When he awoke to consciousness Campian realised that he was lying on a
charpoy, within a low, mud-plastered room.
His limbs were no longer bound, but his whole frame ached from head to
foot with a racking pain. With the first attempt to move he groaned,
and once more closed his eyes. That last fearful ordeal had been too
much for nerve and brain. Even now, as he awoke, the recollection of it
came back with a rush.
A slight rustling and the sound of a quiet footstep caused him to look
forth once more. A bearded, long-haired Baluchi was standing beside the
bed with an earthen bowl in his hand.
"_Kaha Syyed Ain Asraf hai_?" queried Campian.
But the man only shook his head, set down the bowl, and departed.
He drank the contents, which consisted of slightly curdled goat's milk,
and feeling vastly better, made up his mind to rise.
The turban he had before worn was lying beside him. Twisting it on, he
sallied forth.
The sun was sky high, but the air was no longer the scorching breath of
the desert. It was fresh, almost cool. As he looked around he could
see the towering head of a mountain beyond the line of roof.
A sort of labyrinth of mud-walls confronted and puzzled him, but of
inhabitants he saw not a soul. Making his way carefully forward he came
upon an open space, but walled in all round; in fact, he seemed to be in
a kind of walled village, and of the surrounding country nothing could
he descry but the mountain overhead.
Several savage looking Baluchis stood or squatted in groups. These
muttered a sulky "salaam," but their faces were all strange to him; not
one among them seemed to have been of the party amid which his lot had
formerly been cast. Women, too, here and there were visible--that is to
say, their clothing was, for their closely drawn chuddas, with the two
circular, barred eyeholes, conveyed to the spectator no sort of idea as
to whether the face within was young or old, pretty or hideous, comely
or hag-like.
Again he inquired for the old Syyed, only to meet with the same
unconcerned headshake. The mention of Buktiar Khan met with no more
satisfactory result. This was bad. The cross-eyed ex-chuprassi,
slippery scoundrel as he might be, was, at any rate, somebody to talk
to, and, furthermore, a valuable mouthpiece. For the kind-hearted old
Syyed he had conceived a genuine regard, and it was with something like
a real pang of regret that he missed the benevolent face and paternal
manner of that venerable saint. But, more important than all, he missed
the feeling of protection and security which the latter's presence had
inspired, and which, he realised with a qualm, he might only too soon
need; for a more forbidding, murderous looking set of ruffians than the
men who inhabited this village he thought he had never in his life
beheld.
Two of these, engaged in their devotions, on one side of the square,
attracted his attention. Moved by a desire to propitiate, he went over
to them, and putting off his shoes, spread his chudda beside them and
began to do likewise. And now, for the first time--realising his
insecurity, and missing the presence of his kind old preceptor--in his
strait and loneliness, a kind of reality seemed to come into the
formula; and bowing himself down towards Mecca, he felt that this creed
which unified the hearts of millions and millions might even be ordered
so as to form a link of brotherhood between himself and the fierce
hearts of those surrounding him--and, let it come from whatever source
it might, the inspiration was a sustaining one. He arose with renewed
confidence--even something of renewed hope.
Such, however, was not destined to last. As the days went by the
demeanour of those around grew more and more hostile--at times even
threatening. They would hardly reply to his civil and brotherly
"salaam," and would scowl evilly at him even during prayer. It began to
get upon his nerves.
And well it might. In the first place he was a close prisoner, never
being suffered to go outside the loop-holed walls, and the want of
exercise told upon his health. Then, he had no idea as to where he was,
or for what purpose he was being kept: that it was with the object of
ransom he had more than begun to abandon hope, since the weeks had
dragged into months, and yet no sign from the outside world. Into
months--for there were signs of approaching winter now. The peak of the
overhanging mountain took on more than one cap of powdery snow, and the
air, at nights, became piercingly cold. And then with the growing
hostility of those around, he framed a theory that they were but
awaiting the return of Umar Khan to put him to death, with such adjuncts
of cruelty as that implacable barbarian might feel moved to devise.
Would his fate ever be known? Why should it? Orientals were as close
as death when they chose to keep anything a mystery. But what mattered
whether it were known or not? Vivien? She would soon forget--or find
some "duty" to console her, he told himself in all the bitterness
fostered by his unnerved and strained state. No--but of her he would
not think; and this resolve, framed from the earliest stage of his
captivity, he had persistently observed. He needed all his strength,
all his philosophy. To dwell upon thoughts of her--only regained in
order to be re-lost--had a perilous tendency to sap both.
All manner of wild ideas of escape would come to him, only to be
dismissed. He had made one attempt, and failed. If that had been
unsuccessful--near home, so to say, and in country he knew--what sort of
success would crown any such effort here in a wild and unknown region,
which, for aught he knew, might be hundreds of miles from any European
centre? To fail again would render his condition infinitely worse, even
if it did not entail his death.
At last something occurred. It was just after the hour of morning
prayer. A sound struck full upon his ears. Away over the desert it
came--the long cracking roll of a rifle volley. Then another, followed
by a few scattered and dropping shots. Others had heard it, too, and
were peering through the loopholes in the outer wall. Faint and far it
was, but approaching--oh, yes, surely approaching.
Rescue? Surely this time it was. A clue to his whereabouts had been
found, and the search expedition had discovered him at last. The blood
surged hotly in his veins at the thought--but--with it came another.
Would these barbarians allow him to leave their midst alive? Not
likely.
Then a plan formulated itself in his mind. He would retire to the room
he occupied and barricade the door. That would allow his deliverers
time to appear in force. So far, however, the people within the village
fort made no hostile movement towards him. They seemed to have
forgotten his presence, so engrossed were they in observing what might
be going on outside. At last, however, the gates were thrown open to
admit three men on camels, supporting a fourth. Him they lowered
carefully to the ground, a fresh stream of blood welling forth from his
wounds as they did so, crimsoning his dirty white garments; and, in the
grim, drawn countenance, with its set teeth and glazing eyes, Campian
recognised the lineaments of Ihalil Mohammed.
The man was dying. Nothing but the tenacity of a son of the desert and
the mountain would have supported him thus far, with two Lee-Metford
bullets through his vitals. There he lay, however, the sands of life
ebbing fast, the very moments of his fierce, lawless, predatory career
numbered.
"You take care. Baluchi very cross," murmured a voice, in English, at
Campian's side. No need had he to turn to recognise in it that of
Buktiar Khan.
The warning was needed--yet even then, fully alive to his peril, he
could not forbear hurriedly asking what had happened. As hurriedly the
ex-chuprassi told him; which he was able to do while loosening the
saddle girths of his camel, the attention of the others, too, being
occupied with the dying man. A body of native horse led by two English
officers had come up to a neighbouring village, but the _malik_ who
ruled it had refused to allow them the use of the wells. The cavalry
had persisted, and then the Baluchis had fired upon them. There had
been a fight, and then a parley, and the English officers had set off in
pursuit of Umar Khan, who had been present until he saw how things were
going with his countrymen.
"No. The sahibs not come here. Umar Khan go right the other way,"
concluded Buktiar. "But--you take care--Baluchi very cross."
If ever there was point in a warning it was at that moment. Several of
those around Ihalil turned their heads and were eyeing the prisoner
ominously. The dying brigand, too, with hate in his glassy stare,
seemed to be muttering curses and menace, then with a last effort, spat
full in his direction. It was as though a signal had been given.
Campian, however, was quick and resourceful in his strait. In a flash,
as it were, he had whirled Buktiar's tulwar from its scabbard as the
ex-chuprassi was still leaning over his camel-gear, and with a rapid cut
had slashed the face of the foremost of the ferocious crew which now
hurled itself, howling, upon him. Then two or three quick bounds
backward and he was within his apartment, with the door banged to, and
the charpoy and a heavy chest which stood in the room so wedged against
it that it could not be forced by any method short of knocking out the
opposite wall.
For a while the hubbub was appalling, as the infuriated Baluchis hurled
themselves against the door, bellowing forth terrific shouts and curses.
The beleaguered man within stood there, his tulwar raised, panting
violently with the excitement and exertion, prepared to sell his life at
the price of several, for a desperate man armed with a tulwar and driven
to bay, is no joke--to the several. Then there was a sudden silence.
Campian, with every faculty of hearing strained, was speculating what
new device they would adopt to get at him. He had no hope now. It was
only a question of time. Then Buktiar's voice made itself heard,
calling out in English: "You come out I'sirdar--he want speak with you."
"Sirdar? What sirdar? Oh, skittles! You don't come it over me with
that thin yarn, Buktiar," replied Campian, with a reckless laugh,
evolved from the sheer hopelessness of his position.
"No. I speak true. I'sirdar--he just come--I'sirdar Yar Hussain Khan."
"Umar Khan, you mean--eh?"
"No--not Umar Khan. Yar Hussain--big sirdar of Marri."
"How am I to know if this fellow is lying or not?" soliloquised Campian
aloud. "See here, Buktiar. You're a damned fool if you don't do all
you can for me. You know I promised you a thousand rupees."
"I know, sahib. This time I speak true. You come out or I'sirdar
p'r'aps get angry and go away."
Campian resolved to risk it. Therein lay a chance--otherwise there was
none. Cautiously, yet concealing his caution, he flung open the door,
and stepped boldly forth, his very intrepidity begotten of the extremity
of his strait.
No. The ex-chuprassi had not lied. Standing there, his immediate
retinue grouped behind him, was a tall, stately figure. Campian
recognised him at a glance. It was the Marri sirdar, Yar Hussain Khan.
Behind the group several horses were standing, the chief's spirited
mount, with its ornate saddle cloth and trappings, being led up and down
the square by one of the young Baluchis. Not a weapon was raised as the
beleaguered man stepped forth. The village people stood around, sullen
and scowling.
"Salaam, Sirdar sahib!" said Campian advancing, having shifted the
tulwar, with which he would not part, to the left hand. "Buktiar,
remind the chief, that when we met before, at the jungle-wallah sahib's
camp, he said he would be glad to see me in his village, and--here I
am." And he extended his right hand.
But Yar Hussain did not respond with any cordiality to this advance,
indeed at first it seemed as though he were going to repel it
altogether. However, he returned the proffered handshake, though
coldly--and the sternness of his strong, dignified countenance in no
wise relaxed as he uttered a frigid "salaam."
Then a magical change flashed across his features, and his eyes lit up.
Throwing his head back, he stared at the astonished Campian.
"Put forth thy hand again, Feringhi," he said, in a quick, deep tone, as
though mastering some strong emotion. Wondering greatly--as the request
was translated by Buktiar--Campian complied. And now he saw light.
What had attracted the chief's attention was a ring he wore--a quaint
Eastern ring, in which was set a greenish stone covered with strange
characters.
"Where obtainedst thou this?" inquired Yar Hussain, still in the deep
tones of eager excitement, his eyes fixed upon the ring.
"From my father, to whom it was presented by an Afghan sirdar whose life
he was the means of saving. It was supposed to bring good fortune to
all who wore it. Have you ever seen a similar one, Sirdar sahib?"
But for answer there broke from several of those on either hand of the
chief, and who, with heads bent forward, were gazing upon the circlet,
hurried ejaculations.
"The Durani ring!" they exclaimed. "Yes, Allah is great. The Durani
ring!"
They stared at the circlet, then at its wearer, then at the ring again,
and broke forth into renewed exclamations. Yar Hussain the while seemed
as though turned into stone. Finally, recovering himself he said:
"This is a matter that needs talking over. We will discuss it within."
At these words the _malik_ of the village fort, with much deference,
marshalled the sirdar to his own house. With him went Campian and two
or three followers. Buktiar Khan, to his unmitigated disappointment,
was left outside. When they were seated--this time comfortably on
cushions, for this room was very different in its appointments to the
bare, squalid one which had been allotted to the prisoner hitherto--one
of the Baluchis addressed Campian in excellent English, to the latter's
unbounded astonishment.
"The sirdar would like to hear the story of that ring," he said. "You
need not fear to talk, sir. I am his half brother. I learnt English at
Lahore when I was Queen's soldier, so I tell the sirdar again all you
say."
Decidedly this was better than being dependent on an unreliable scamp
such as Buktiar Khan, and Campian felt quite relieved. For somehow he
realised that his peril was over--probably his oft repeated trials and
wearing captivity, but that might depend upon his own diplomacy, and
what deft use he might make of the circumstance of the ring.
For a few moments he sat silent and pondering. The story of the ring
was so bound up with that of the ruby sword and the hidden treasure that
it was difficult to tell the one without revealing the other. The
information which he himself possessed declared that the only man who
would be likely to know anything about the matter was the Syyed Ain
Asraf. He, however, had not recognised the ring. Could there be two
Syyeds Ain Asraf?
Then he remembered that Yar Hussain was of Afghan descent. Did he know
anything of the hiding of the treasure, or at any rate where it was
hidden? The first was possible, the second hardly likely, or he would
almost certainly have removed it.
"What was the name of the Durani sirdar?" asked Yar Hussain at last.
"Dost Hussain Khan," replied Campian. "He is my father," said the
chief, "and he rests on the rim of Paradise. There is truth in thy
statement, O Feringhi, who--they tell me--art now a believer. He was
saved by a Feringhi, and an unbeliever, yet a brave and true man, and
for him and his we never cease to pray."
"Then are we brothers, Sirdar," said Campian, "for the man who saved the
life of thy father is my father."
The astonishment depicted on the faces of those who heard this statement
was indescribable.
"Ya Allah!" cried the chief, raising hands and eyes to heaven.
"Wonderful are Thy ways! Hast thou a token, Feringhi?"
"Is not that of the ring sufficient?" returned Campian, purposely
simulating offence. "If not, listen. The Sirdar Dost Hussain Khan,
when pressed by his enemies, concealed his treasures, principal among
which was a ruby hilted sword of wellnigh priceless value. This
treasure is lost. None know of its whereabouts to this day."
The chief's kinsman, whose name was Sohrab Khan, hardly able to mask his
own amazement, translated this. An emphatic assent went up from all who
heard.
"The treasure was enclosed in a strong chest of dark wood, three cubits
in length, covered with words from the blessed Koran, and clamped with
heavy brass bindings," went on Campian. "The Durani sirdar was killed
by the Brahuis. And now, why has the secret of its whereabouts been
lost? Does not the Syyed Ain Asraf know of it?"
The astonishment on the faces of those who heard found outlet in a
vehement negative.
Then Sohrab Khan explained. The Syyed, he said, knew nothing. All that
the Feringhi, now a believer, had said was true. But the Sirdar Yar
Hussain Khan would fain repurchase the ring, because there was a
tradition in their house that its gift to an unbeliever--good and brave
man as that unbeliever was--had caused the disappearance of the
treasure. When it was recovered the secret of the whereabouts of the
ruby sword and the other valuables would be revealed. Would five
thousand rupees repurchase it?
To this Campian returned no immediate answer. He was turning the matter
over in his mind--not that of the sale and the proffered price, for on
that head his mind was clear. Of whatever value this lost property
might be, these people, and they alone, had any claim to it. There was
a strange fatality about the way they had been enabled to save his life,
and that at the most critical moments--first the Syyed Ain Asraf when
the sword of Umar Khan was raised above his defenceless head--now the
arrival of Yar Hussain and his following in time to rescue him from the
savage vengeance of the friends and kinsmen of Ihalil. His father had
foregone any claim upon the treasure, even when a share of it was
proffered him by the grateful potentate whose life he had saved; and now
he, too, meant to make no claim. He had ample for his own needs--all he
asked was restoration to liberty. Yet even for this he did not
stipulate.
"Listen," he said at length, and during the time occupied by his
meditations it was characteristic that no word or sign of impatience
escaped those dignified Orientals, notwithstanding the grave import of
the matter under discussion. "It seems that the tradition relating to
the recovery of the ring is one of truth. For if it was given to an
unbeliever--albeit a brave and true man--now is it recovered by a
believer. See"--holding out his hand, so that all might see the green
stone and its cabalistic characters--"see--am I not one of yourselves?
And now, O my brother, Yar Hussain Khan, I will restore unto thee this
treasure, even I; for it hath been revealed unto me. I have described
it and the chest which containeth it. Now, let us fare forth to the
valley called Kachin that thou mayest possess it once more."
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
THE RUBY SWORD.
As they rode forth from the village fort, and its gates closed behind
them, Campian could not but once more realise the strangeness of life,
and the sudden and unexpected turns the wheel of fate will take. He had
entered in a state of swooning unconsciousness, swung, in agonising and
ignominious attitude, one bale among the many which constitute a camel's
load. Now he rode forth at the right hand of the powerful Marri sirdar,
whose honoured guest and almost blood-brother he had become, and that by
a fortuitous chance which partook of the nature of a triviality. He was
mounted on a fine steed, and his worn and dingy garments had been
replaced, as though by magic, by the finest and snowiest of raiment--
even to one of the chief's highly ornamented vests of state.
How good it was to breathe again the air of freedom. Even the desert
waste in its wide expanse, the jagged treeless mountain peaks, took on
all manner of soft and changing lights in the golden glow of the
cloudless afternoon. Soon his terrible experiences would be as a dream
of the past. No impatience was upon him now. Life had taught him a
certain amount of philosophy, and so completely had he identified
himself with the part he had for months past been forced to sustain,
that something of the Eastern stoicism had transmitted itself to him.
Now he could allow himself to think--to dwell upon those last days
before the tragedy that had forced him into captivity and peril and
exile. Yet, why that uneasy stirring--why that misgiving? Could it be
that his impending restoration to nineteenth century life brought with
it something of the cares and pains and heart-searchings of busy,
up-to-date, restless, end of the century struggle after chimeras and
will o' the wisps? For months now all trace of him would have been
lost. He would have been given up as dead. How would Vivien accept the
general opinion? Perhaps she had long since left Shalalai. He
remembered their last parting well--ah, so well! But it had taken place
under stress of circumstances--of circumstances abnormal and strained.
In cooler moments all might have been different. And acting upon this
idea he had made no stipulation or request that he should be escorted to
Shalalai previous to revealing the place of concealment of the long
buried treasure. He had known experience of a meeting of this sort--all
the anticipation, the dwelling upon the thought thereof day and night,
the figuring out of its programme, and all the rest of it--and then,
when it came--mere commonplace; disappointment perhaps--not to say a
strong dash of disillusionment.
To reach the Kachin valley would take them some days--but Campian easily
prevailed upon the sirdar to despatch a swift messenger to Shalalai
announcing his safety and approaching return--and, indeed, it suited Yar
Hussain's own plans to do this.
We left that chief under arrest. Not long, however, was he detained.
It was found practically impossible on investigation to hold him
responsible for the doings of Umar Khan; moreover he represented, and
with perfect truth, that the hostage's interests were likely to suffer
from such detention--even if it did not entail upon him actual peril.
So he was released.
Even then, however, he was in an ugly and vindictive frame of mind, and
whether his intervention or protection would have been extended to the
captive under ordinary circumstances, it is hard to say. As it was, the
mere accidental glimpse of the ring worn by Campian had worked wonders.
The fact was that Campian seldom wore this ring. He had done so of
late, thinking it in keeping with the Eastern dress he had assumed, but
formerly he had hardly remembered that it was in his possession. Even
of late, however, it had passed unnoticed, partly from the fact of Ain
Asraf's sight being dim with age partly that none of those who custodied
him were of the family of Dost Hussain. Fortunate, indeed, that it had
been upon his finger at that critical moment.
At a village on their road they fell in with Ain Asraf. The old Syyed
was genuinely rejoiced at beholding his neophyte once more. The latter,
in spite of his own protests, anger, menaces even, had been spirited off
by the lawless and irreligious followers of Umar Khan, nor had he been
able to learn his whereabouts.
"Ah, my son," he said at the close of their cordial greeting, "Allah
watches over His own--and His Prophet holds hell in store for they who
oppress them. Yet, it is well. I may no more be with thee to instruct
thee in the fair flowers of the faith. Yet forget not that Allah has
delivered thee in thine extremity, and that not once."
Then he signed that the hour of prayer was at hand, and all dismounted,
and the same orisons--uttered alike by chief and lowest herdsman--by the
upright and the criminal--by the true ally and treacherous outlaw--went
up from the desert sand from that group with their faces to the setting
sun.
The old Syyed attached himself to their band, being readily provided, by
the people of the village, with a camel, for they had no horses, and was
treated with great deference by all--both as the uncle of the chief, and
in his capacity of saint. Through the medium of Sohrab Khan, the
English speaking Baluchi, Campian was able to while away the monotony of
the road in converse. He learnt much of what had befallen since his
captivity--of the arrest of the Sirdar, the anxiety as to his own fate,
and the doings of Umar Khan, with whom his present friends seemed not
altogether out of sympathy--in fact, he decided that if it depended upon
their aid, the chances of capturing that redoubted freebooter were
infinitesimal. Thus they fared onward, day after day, through _tangi_
and over _kotal_, threading deep mountain valleys, and traversing
sun-baked plains; now resting for the night at mud-walled villages, now
camping out in the open beneath the desert stars.
The Kachin valley at last! How well he remembered its long, deep
configuration. Now after his enforced wanderings over those grim
deserts, even its sparse foliage was like a cool and refreshing oasis.
And what experiences, strange and startling, had he not known within its
narrow limits. There, above the juniper growth rose the mass of rock
wherein was the markhor cave. It seemed strange to think that the face
of that ordinarily rugged mountain side should contain what it did.
Then a misgiving seized him. What if it should contain nothing? What
if he had been allowing his over-wrought imagination to run away with
him? The chest was there--no doubt about that, but what if it contained
nothing more than a lot of old parchments, or a storage of ordinarily
trumpery trinkets? Things might, in that event, take an awkward turn.
But no, he would not believe it. The strength of the chain, the weight
of the chest, the weird, unheard of place of its concealment, the care
and labour involved in designing such a hiding place, all pointed to
this being the object of his search. And then, too, the topographical
features of the surroundings were all exactly as set forth in his
father's instructions. Every piece of the puzzle seemed to fit in to a
nicety.
And this chief was the son of the refugee Afghan whose life his father
had saved, and in the inscrutable workings of time it had come about
that the debt should be repaid twofold, that his own life should be
saved, first by the brother, then by the son of Dost Hussain. On the
eventual slaughter of the latter by the Brahuis, Yar Hussain then an
infant, had found refuge with the Marri tribe, and by dint of descent on
his mother's side, had, on reaching years of manhood, claimed and seized
the position he now held. All this Campian learned as they travelled
along; and a very stirring--if complicated--tale of Eastern intrigue,
and fierce, ruthless tribal feud it was.
A feeling of awe was upon the party as they entered the gloomy crack
which constituted the portal of the now historic markhor cave. Upon the
Baluchis the superstitious associations which clustered round the place
had their effect. The Syyed Ain Asraf was muttering copious exorcisms
and adjurations from the sacred book, and the wild desert warriors were
overawed at the thought that here was about to be unfolded that which
had been placed there by the hands of those long since dead. Upon the
European, however, the associations were multifold. That first
exploration of the cave, the chance arrival of Vivien Wymer, and their
long, quiet talk as they investigated it together all came back to him.
Then the tragedy, his escape, and the hours he had spent hanging in the
very mouth of that hideous gulf--here again the hidden hoard of the dead
chief had been instrumental in preserving the life of his rescuer's son,
for what would the latter have done but for the resting place afforded
by the chain and that which it supported, whit time Umar Khan, with his
bloodthirsty brigands had run him literally to earth?
Taking a torch from one of the bystanders, and holding it out at arm's
length over the gulf, he said:
"Look down there, my brother, yonder is the Ruby Sword."
"I see nothing," replied Yar Hussain, who, lying flat on the brink, was
peering over. "Stay--yes. Something is hanging. It is of iron. It is
a chain. You--three of you--hold your lights out over yon black opening
of hell." Then as they obeyed he went on--"Yes. There it is. There is
a chest--bound with brass. Of a truth the secret is at length
revealed."
Even the impassive reticence of the Oriental seemed to relax. There was
a note of strong excitement in the deep tones of the chief, and his eyes
dilated as he beheld at last that which contained his long buried
heirloom. He gave orders that the chest should be at once drawn up.
This was not difficult. By Campian's advice they had come well provided
with strong camel-hide ropes. These were noosed, and the loops being
swung round the chest on either side of the chain--a very simple process
in the strong light of many torches--were drawn tight. Then, at the
word from Campian, who superintended the operation, and whose interest
and excitement were hardly less than that of the chief, they hauled
away. The chest proved of less weight than they expected, and lo!--in a
trice--it lay safe upon the floor of the cave.
Many and pious were the ejaculations of those who beheld. The massive
chain, somewhat indented in the wood through the weight it had so long
sustained, was at length filed through, and the chest borne to the
entrance of the cave to be opened in full daylight.
Seen there it was indeed black and venerable with age, and the lettering
on the cover so blurred that the old eyes of Ain Asraf were hardly equal
to the task of deciphering it. But the impatience of those around was
deepening every moment, and Yar Hussain with his own hands began to open
the chest.
It was secured by cunning locks, the device of which was known to him.
The hinges, stiff and rusty with age and damp, at first would not turn,
then yielded to a couple of hearty tugs. The while every head was
craned forward, every spectator was breathless with expectation. As an
instance of how one can persuade oneself into a belief in any theory,
even now no misgiving came to Campian lest the chest should contain
nothing of any value.
An aromatic and pungent odour filled the air on the opening of the box.
At first a layer of sheepskin vellum, then parchments. At these Yar
Hussain merely glanced hurriedly and continued his investigations. One
bag--then another--five bags of the same soft sheepskin and carefully
tied, each about the size of an orange. On opening these--lo! three of
them contained precious stones, cut, and some of splendid size and
water. The other two were filled with uncut stones. This was beginning
to look promising.
The next layer being uncovered yielded to view some magnificent personal
ornaments, bracelets and the like, thickly jewelled. These were lifted
out, and then the third skin covering being removed, that contained by
the last and lower compartment of the chest lay revealed. Something
long, wrapped in several rolls of the soft wash leather. Carefully,
almost reverently, Yar Hussain unfolded these and--There it lay, in the
bottom of the chest, hilt and scabbard literally glowing with splendid
rose red jewels, relieved by the white flash of diamonds, dazzling the
eyes of the beholders with the suddenness of its glare--there it lay, in
its long hidden splendour, the cherished heirloom of the refugee Durani
chief--the priceless Ruby Sword.
For some moments the surrounding Baluchis stood staring in stupefied
silence, then they broke forth in ejaculations as to the wonderful ways
of Allah, and so forth. Campian, beholding the wealth thus displayed,
could not but feel some sort of qualm as he remembered how he might have
concealed his knowledge until able to turn it to his own material
account. It was only momentary, however, and he was the first to break
in with a practical remark.
"Hearken, Sohrab Khan," he said. "I think I have now done all that I
can do. Tell the sirdar that he and his have returned to me the service
that my father rendered to his, have returned it twofold, and I, for my
part, am rejoiced to have been the means by which he has come into the
possession of his own. But there are those in Shalalai I would fain see
again, and if it is all the same to him, I think"--with a glance at the
sun--"we might fetch Mehriab station in time to catch the afternoon
train."
This very Western and end of the nineteenth century phrase breaking in
upon such a scene of Eastern and mediaeval romanticism struck its
utterer as almost ludicrous in its incongruity.
"In truth, that is comprehensible," replied Yar Hussain, when this
suggestion was put to him--"and it shall be done. Yes, my brother, who
art now one of us, thy wishes shall be fulfilled. But now, receive
this,"--placing in his hand one of the bags of cut stones--"and choose
from among these,"--pointing to the jewelled bracelets--"that some
recompense may be made thee for thy sufferings at the hands of our
people, and that the remembrance of thy brethren here may be pleasant
and sweet when thou art among thine own people in the years to come."
Campian, repressing the momentary instinct which moved him to decline so
splendid a gift, made choice of one of the bracelets--not one of the
best, however. It was a splendid ornament for all that, and a
tightening of the heart went through him as he wondered to himself if it
would ever be worn. Then he asked if he could keep the Durani ring,
which he valued more than ever.
"Surely," was the sirdar's reply. "In truth it is restored to a
believer, and hath amply fulfilled its mission."
When the train for Shalalai stopped at Mehriab station that day, the few
European passengers it contained were lazily astonished by the presence
on the platform of an evidently important Baluchi sirdar, accompanied by
a large retinue. Their astonishment grew to activity, however, when one
of the group, before entering a first-class carriage, took leave of them
in excellent English, which was duly translated to the chief and his
following by one of their number, the departure of the train being
signalled by a perfect chorus of farewell "salaams" from those left
behind. They were destined to be still more mightily astonished upon
the arrival of the train at the last station or two before Shalalai by
the appearance of a European, of military or official aspect, who
greeted the supposed Oriental with cordial handgrip, singing out in a
voice that carried the whole length of the train:
"Devilish glad to see you back, old chap. And I've brought you your
togs, so you'll have time to get into them as we go along. By George,
though, you look no end of a real sirdar in that get-up, all the same."
And taking a Gladstone bag from the attendant bearer, he jumped in too.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
LIGHT.
"After months--which seemed years--of the most abominable hardship,
wearying anxiety, and constant danger, the security and restfulness of
this sort of thing is simply beyond all words to define."
Thus Campian, clad in irreproachable evening dress, with a wave of the
hand which takes in the lighted table and trophy hung walls. The only
other occupant of Upward's dining room has just entered, likewise in
full panoply--with opera-cloak, and fan and gloves.
"Yes. That is indeed true. Do you know, I wish we had not got to go
out to-night."
"Then why do we; for as it happens I entirely share that wish. Suppose
we stay at home instead. Or are you going to say `Duty'?"
Vivien does not at once reply. Something in the tone, in the scarcely
veiled meaning wherewith he emphasises the word, strikes home to her.
The Upward party and her uncle have gone on, bound for a regimental
theatrical performance at the Assembly Rooms, and they two are left to
follow. Not many days have gone by since Campian's return to Shalalai;
not many more are to go by before he leaves it--almost certainly for
ever.
"Shall we stay at home then, dear?" answers Vivien, a little wave of
unsuppressed tenderness in her voice. "We may throw duty overboard for
once, for the sake of a poor returned wanderer. But--I have made you
this, and in any case you must wear it." "This" being an exquisite
little "button-hole" which she is now carefully pinning on for him. The
great tiger jaws on the walls seem to snarl inaudibly in the lamplight--
as though to remind both of the multifold perils of the beautiful,
treacherous East.
Now, the act of pinning on a button-hole under some circumstances is
bound to lead to a good deal, therefore in this case, that an arm should
close around the operatrix seems hardly surprising.
"Do you still venerate that vacant old fetish? It parted us once,
Vivien."
Again she is silent, and her eyes fill. The great black and orange
stripes of the tiger skins seem to dance in angry rays before her
vision. Her voice will not come to her. But he continues:
"Has it never occurred to you that you--that we--made a very
considerable mistake that time? We each found our counterpart in the
other. Surely such an experience is unique. Then what happened? You
set up a fetish--a miserable fraud--a mere whimsical conception of an
idol--and called it Duty--while I--I was fool enough to let you do it."
"I don't know why things were ordered that way," he continues, for still
Vivien makes no reply--"or for what purpose, of earth or heaven, five
years of happiness should have been knocked off our lives. But for
whatever it is, I don't believe for a moment it was arranged we should
meet so strangely and unexpectedly in this out of the way part of the
world--all for nothing. We have been brought together again, and we
have tried to keep up the _role_ of strangers--of mere acquaintances--
and the whole thing is a most wretched and flimsy fiasco. Is it not?"
"Yes."
She is looking at him now, full and earnestly. Her fingers are toying
with the "button-hole" she has pinned on his coat. Unconsciously she is
leaning on him as he holds her within his embrace.
"Our love showed forth in every moment, in every word, in every action
of our lives," he continues. "The mask we tried to wear was quite
unavailable to stifle the cry of two aching hearts. Listen, darling.
There is no room for affectation between us now. Our love is as ever it
was--rather is it stronger. Am I right?"
"Yes. You are the one love of my life, and always have been. And you
know it--dearest."
So sweet, so soft comes this reply, that the very tones are as an all
pervading caress.
"Those five years are beyond our reach," he continues. "They are gone
never to return, but we can make up for them during the remainder of our
lives. And--we will. Will we not?"
"Yes--we will."
The reply, though low, is full-voiced and unhesitating. Luminous eyes,
sweet with their love light, are raised to his, and the man's head is
drawn down to meet again that kiss which seemed to join soul to soul in
the dread hour of peril and of bloodshed and self-abnegation. And, with
the moment, the long years of desolation and heart-emptiness are as
though they had never been--for after the drear gloom of their weary
length--the sharp and fiery trial of their culmination, Love has
triumphed, and now there is light.
And here with the doings of our two principal characters we have no
further concern, and if this holds good of them, still more does it hold
good of those among whom their lot has been temporarily cast. But if
life, in its fatefulness, has refrained from dashing the cup of
happiness--tardily yet finally grasped--from the hands of these two, its
normal grimness of irony is not likely to suffer in the long run. For
Umar Khan is still at large. Force and diplomacy alike have failed to
bring that arch-free-booter and murderer within measurable distance of
the gallows and faggot pyre, which he has so richly earned a score of
times over. For the twenty-first time the wily evildoer has escaped
retribution, and in all probability will continue to do so. Which--if
not exactly satisfying to our reader's sense of poetic justice--is Life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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