CHAPTER TWENTY.
AT DARKEST HOUR.
Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward inmany a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vastgeyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand.
A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline onevery hand--its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; thefierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass--what life canthis awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, soinexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man andbeast 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 gutturalsnarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsterssomehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flockof black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, orcrouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase ofanimal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathan curs employed atassisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter oftanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretchedupon 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 amarvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sinkdown in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then riseagain, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of thescorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, alittle, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is theform 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 whenindividually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is theholy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifyingresult, for the Syyed Hadji Ain Asraf is justly invested with both ofthese.
He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxyis arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in itsfolds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of thedesert--so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in whichhe is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations andgeneral attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the otherdevotees--the outcome of a lifetime's habit. Yet, as the orisons over,all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-daydemeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanaticalson of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood--in short, none otherthan Howard Campian.
How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He hadprofessed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to savehimself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yetit is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affectthe man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your woodenheaded, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home,stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He istoo devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for onething. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderingsleave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently,can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds whoinhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance ofJohn Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow ofan idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance withthe Koran, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacredvolume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with thosewho held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as arational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount ofantiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter ofexpediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing itstenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of anyarticle of faith he might previously have held. The assertion thatMohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking atthe fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer ofMecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness,consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, couldgive large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day'spiety 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 frommotives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, roughtreatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted thedress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cutfeatures and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, wasquite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betraythe Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some ofthe Afghan tribes.
It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would haveavailed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan--thatlawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when theyconflicted with his own strong inclinations--but for the interference ofthe Syyed Ain Asraf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in amatter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had theSyyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for himgood treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have juststated that Campian possessed a translation of the Koran, and the factthat he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forcedconversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holyreligion, as the Syyed pointed out.
To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at thebungalow 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 uponthem to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacredbook, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led tohis conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrainedfrom doing much real damage.
The Syyed Ain Asraf then, had taken his proselyte completely under hiswing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was nevertired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline ofIslam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, andthat for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interestedhim, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of hiscaptivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliestrelationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to hisrecollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other namementioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword--Syyed AinAsraf, 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 lightedupon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure?Often would Campian's thoughts go back to those awful hours spenthanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonderwhether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoriaof his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of thedesert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over againthose hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have likedto sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier oflanguage, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinarywords, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate throughthe agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slipperyscoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passingimportance was involved.
Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was beingheld as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated fivethousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time andconditions, but to his representations that he should be set at libertythe reply wa
s consistently short and to the point. It was not in the_bundobust_. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keephis eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, andpursue his studies of the Koran under the tuition of his now spiritualguide, Ain Asraf.
That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte--and throughthe agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debateson this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the wordsof the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse orambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translationformed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellowparchment scroll covered with its Arabic text--while the Syyed, with theaid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust,strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of theholy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone ofAbraham.
Strange and wild had been Campian's experiences during the long weeks--months now--since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed selfgratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of theBaluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here andhurried there--now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting onthe waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable tocivilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambolsof whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslempatience--in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences.So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at thepresent moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, orwhether Shalalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near--orindeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation isthat after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen ofUmar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually asthough death or his own free will had severed his connection with theband.
With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought tohim, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be theend of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward,to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band shouldfind it expedient to flee thither--and, what then? Sooner or later theenmity 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 adoptedtheir costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and inamong them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow himaught in the shape of a weapon.
And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, afterthe hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and withunswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact positionof the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makesup his mind to try and break the ice.
"Ask the Syyed, Buktiar," he says, "who was the Sirdar Dost HussainKhan?"
But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over theaged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows.
"Ya--Allah!" he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. "His soulis in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of DostHussain Khan?"
Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothingsuspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he wasspared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred whichthrew the camp into a state of wild excitement.
Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at agreat rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing ofhorses' heads, and the white turbans of their riders.
The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentaryblindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wildBaluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped fromtheir steeds, and--yes--they were coming straight for him. He had noweapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar wasdrawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheerweight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in acruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to bebrought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame iscapable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into hismouth--a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with verydirty rag--and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneelingcamels, 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 thedistortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would havebeen a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sackingwhich covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced andreeled before his eyes--his brain was bursting. Then a couple ofsickening lurches and jolt--jolt--jolt. The roaring, snarling animalhad risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace--and now, in additionto the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the otherpackages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against thepack saddle.
Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost oneof themselves, and now--What was the meaning of this abominabletreatment?
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, theblood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man's frame, for over andabove the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! Inhis sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of thethought.
"Tell the devils to stop," it cried. "Now, Sohrab, ask them who theyare, 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 makehis presence known--but that noisome gag rendered all sound asimpossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put bythe Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then anotherEnglish voice--an impatient one.
"I believe we'd better push on, Fleming. These devils'll take half theday jawing here. I'm dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in thatcrowd 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'vea good mind to overhaul these chaps' loads. There might be some clue inthem--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 couldsee in imagination the whole scene--the two English officers at the headof their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing bytheir camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questionsput to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes togaze horizon-ward--and the more cautious, reflective countenance of thecaptain. 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? Hestrained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. Onesound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom--yet not by ahair's-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint.
"Pho! What could we find that would help us?" rejoined the impatientvoice of the subaltern. "And every moment Umar Khan is putting anothermile of this infernal desert between him and us."
The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance--therattle 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 theears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literallywithin a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewedjolt--jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march.It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved toomuch. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon.
The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan Page 20
