Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “I came to ask you questions, if you don’t mind. I have the regular globe-trotter’s trick of wanting information. What’s the Forza camp like? Do you think that the Bada-Mawidi, supposing they stir again, would be likely to attack it?”

  “Not a bit of it. That was the sort of thing that Gribton was always croaking about. Why, man, the Bada-Mawidi haven’t a kick in them. Besides, they are very nearly twenty miles off and the garrison’s a very fit lot. They’re all right. Trust them to look after themselves.” “But I have been hearing stories of Bada-Mawidi risings which are to come off soon.”

  “Oh, you’ll always hear stories of that sort. All the old women in the neighbourhood purvey them.”

  “Who are in charge at Forza?”

  “Holm and Andover. Don’t care much for Holm, but Andy is a good chap. But what’s this new interest of yours? Are you going up there?

  “I’m out here to shoot and explore, you know, so Forza comes into my beat. Thanks very much. See you to-night, I suppose.”

  Lewis went away dispirited and out of temper. He had been pitchforked among easy-going people, when all the while mysterious things, dangerous things, seemed to hang in the air. He had not the material for even the first stages of comprehension. No one suspected, every one was satisfied; and at the same time came those broken hints of other things. He felt choked and muffled, wrapped in the cotton-wool of this easy life; and all the afternoon he chafed at his own impotence and the world’s stupidity.

  When the two travellers presented themselves at the Logans’ house that evening, they were immediately seized upon by the hostess and compelled, to their amusement, to do her bidding. They were her discoveries, her new young men, and as such, they had their responsibilities. George, who liked dancing, obeyed meekly; but Lewis, being out of temper and seeing before him an endless succession of wearisome partners, soon broke loose, and accompanied Thwaite to the verandah for a cigar.

  The man was ill at ease, and the sight of young faces and the sound of laughter vexed him with a sense of his eccentricity. He could never, like George, take the world as he found it. At home he was the slave of his own incapacity; now he was the slave of memories. He had come out on an errand, with a chance to recover his lost self-respect, and lo! he was as far as ever from attainment. His lost capacity for action was not to be found here, in the midst of this petty diplomacy and inglorious ease.

  From the verandah a broad belt of lawn ran down to the edge of the north road. It lay shining in the moonlight like a field of snow with the highway a dark ribbon beyond it. Thwaite and Lewis walked down to the gate talking casually, and at the gate they stopped and looked down on the town. It lay a little to the left, the fort rising black before it, and the road ending in a patch of shade which was the old town gate. The night was very still, cool airs blew noiselessly from the hills, and a jackal barked hoarsely in some far-off thicket.

  The men hung listlessly on the gate, drinking in the cool air and watching the blue cigar smoke wreathe and fade. Suddenly down the road there came the sound of wheels.

  “That’s a tonga,” said Thwaite. “Wonder who it is.”

  “Do tongas travel this road?” Lewis asked.

  “Oh yes, they go ten miles up to the foot of the rocks. We use them for sending up odds and ends to the garrisons. After that coolies are the only conveyance. Gad, I believe this thing is going to stop.”

  The thing in question, which was driven by a sepoy in bright yellow pyjamas, stopped at the Logans’ gate. A peevish voice was heard giving directions from within.

  “It sounds like Holm,” said Thwaite, walking up to it, “and upon my soul it is Holm. What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?”

  “Is that you, Thwaite?” said the voice. “I wish you’d help me out. I want Logan to give me a bed for the night. I’m infernally ill.”

  Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not belie the words.

  “What is it?” said Thwaite. “Fever or anything smashed?”

  “I’ve got a bullet in my leg which has got to be cut out. Got it two days ago when I was out shooting. Some natives up in the rocks did it, I fancy. Lord, how it hurts.” And the unhappy man groaned as he tried to move.

  “That’s bad,” said Thwaite sympathetically. “The Logans have got a dance on, but we’ll look after you all right. How did you leave things in Forza?”

  “Bad. I oughtn’t to be here, but Andy insisted. He said I would only get worse and crock entirely. Things look a bit wild up there just now. There has been a confounded lot of rifle-stealing, and the Bada-Mawidi are troublesome. However, I hope it’s only their fun.”

  “I hope so,” said Thwaite. “You know Haystoun, don’t you?”

  “Glad to meet you,” said the man. “Heard of you. Coming up our way? I hope you will after I get this beastly leg of mine better.”

  “Thwaite will tell you I have been cross-examining him about your place. I wanted badly to ask you about it, for I got a letter this morning from a man called Marker with some news for you.”

  “What did he say?” asked Holm sharply.

  “He said that he had heard privately that the Bada-Mawidi were planning an attack on you to-morrow or the day after.”

  “The deuce they are,” said Holm peevishly, and Thwaite’s face lengthened.

  “And he told me to find some way of letting you know.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me earlier?” said Thwaite. “Marker should know if anybody does. We should have kept Holm up there. Now it’s almost too late. Oh, this is the devil!”

  Lewis held his peace. He had forgotten the solidity of Marker’s reputation.

  “What’s the chances of the place?” Thwaite was asking. “I know your numbers and all that, but are they anything like prepared?”

  “I don’t know,” said Holm miserably. “They might get on all right, but everybody is pretty slack just now. Andy has a touch of fever, and some of the men may get leave for shooting. I must get back at once.”

  “You can’t. Why, man, you couldn’t get half way. And what’s more, I can’t go. This place wants all the looking after it can get. A row in the hills means a very good possibility of a row in Bardur, and that is too dangerous a game. And besides myself there is scarcely a man in the place who counts. Logan has gone to Gilgit, and there’s nobody left but boys.”

  “If you don’t mind I should like to go,” said Lewis shamefacedly.

  “You,” they cried. “Do you know the road?”

  “I’ve been there before, and I remember it more or less. Besides, it is really my show this time. I got the warning, and I want the credit.” And he smiled.

  “The road’s bound to be risky,” said Thwaite thoughtfully. “I don’t feel inclined to let you run your neck into danger like this.”

  Lewis was busy turning over the problem in his mind. The presence of the man Holm seemed the one link of proof he needed. He had his word that there were signs of trouble in the place, and that the Bada-Mawidi were ill at ease. Whatever game Marker was playing, on this matter he seemed to have spoken in good faith. Here was a clear piece of work for him. And even if it was fruitless it would bring him nearer to the frontier; his expedition to the north would be begun.

  “Let me go,” he said. “I came out here to explore the hills and I take all risks on my own head. I can give them Marker’s message as well as anybody else.”

  Thwaite looked at Holm. “I don’t see why he shouldn’t. You’re a wreck, and I can’t leave my own place.”

  “Tell Andy you saw me,” cried Holm. “He’ll be anxious. And tell him to mind the north gate. If the fools knew how to use dynamite they might have it down at once. If they attack it can’t last long, but then they can’t last long either, for they are hard up for arms, and unless they have changed since last week they have no ammunition to speak of.”

  “Marker said it looked as if they were being put up to the job from over the frontier.” “Gad, then it
’s my turn to look out,” said Thwaite. “If it’s the gentlemen from over the frontier they won’t stop at Forza. Lord, I hate this border business, it’s so hideously in the dark. But I think that’s all rot. Any tribal row here is sure to be set down to Russian influence. We don’t understand the joint possession of an artificial frontier,” he added, with an air of quoting from some book.

  “Did you get that from Marker?” Holm asked crossly. “He once said the same thing to me.” His temper had suffered badly among the hills.

  “We’d better get you to bed, my dear fellow,” said Thwaite, looking down at him. “You look remarkably cheap. Would you mind going in and trying to find Mrs. Logan, Haystoun? I’ll carry this chap in. Stop a minute, though. Perhaps he’s got something to say to you.”

  “Mind the north gate... tell Andy I’m all right and make him look after himself... he’s overworking... if you want to send a message to the other people you’d better send by Nazri... if the Badas mean business they’ll shut up the road you go by. That’s all. Good luck and thanks very much.”

  Lewis found Mrs. Logan making a final inspection of the supper-room. She ran to the garden, to find the invalid Holm in Thwaite’s arms at the steps of the verandah. The sick warrior pulled off an imaginary cap and smiled feebly. “Oh, Mr. Holm, I’m so sorry. Of course we can have you. I’ll put you in the other end of the house where you won’t be so much troubled with the noise. You must have had a dreadful journey.” And so forth, with the easy condolences of a kind woman.

  When Thwaite had laid down his burden, he turned to Lewis.

  “I wish we had another man, Haystoun. What about your friend Winterham? One’s enough to do your work, but if the thing turns out to be serious, there ought to be some means of sending word. Andover will want you to stay, for they are short-handed enough.”

  “I’ll get Winterham to go and wait for me somewhere. If I don’t turn up by a certain time, he can come and look for me.”

  “That will do,” said Thwaite, “though it’s a stale job for him. Well, good-bye and good luck to you. I expect there won’t be much trouble, but I wish you had told us in the morning.”

  Lewis turned to go and find George. “What a chance I had almost missed,” was the word in his heart. The errand might be futile, the message a blind, but it was at least movement, action, a possibility.

  CHAPTER 26

  FRIEND TO FRIEND

  He found George sitting down in the verandah after waltzing. His partner was a sister of Logan’s, a dark girl whose husband was Resident somewhere in Lower Kashmir. The lady gave her hand to Lewis and he took the vacant seat on the other side.

  He apologized for carrying off her companion, escorted her back to the ballroom, and then returned to satisfy the amazed George.

  “I want to talk to you. Excuse my rudeness, but I have explained to Mrs. Tracy. I have a good many things I want to say to you.”

  “Where on earth have you been all night, Lewis? I call it confoundedly mean to go off and leave me to do all the heavy work. I’ve never been so busy in my life. Lots of girls and far too few men. This is the first breathing space I’ve had. What is it that you want?”

  “I am going off this very moment up into the hills. That letter Marker sent me this morning has been confirmed. Holm, who commands up at the Forza fort, has just come down very sick, and he says that the Bada-Mawidi are looking ugly, and that we should take Marker’s word. He wanted to go back himself but he is too ill, and Thwaite can’t leave here, so I am going. I don’t expect there will be much risk, but in case the rising should be serious I want you to do me a favour.”

  “I suppose I can’t come with you,” said George ruefully. “I know I promised to let you go your own way before we came out, but I wish you would let me stick by you. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing desperate,” said Lewis, laughing. “You can stay on here and dance till sunrise if you like. But to-morrow I want you to come up to a certain place at the foot of the hills which I will tell you about, and wait there. It’s about half distance between Forza and the two Khautmi forts. If the rising turns out to be a simple affair I’ll join you there to-morrow night and we can start our shooting. But if I don’t, I want you to go up to the Khautmi forts and rouse St. John and Mitchinson and get them to send to Forza. Do you see?”

  Lewis had taken out a pencil and began to sketch a rough plan on George’s shirt cuff. “This will give you an idea of the place. You can look up a bigger map in the hotel, and Thwaite or any one will give you directions about the road. There’s Forza, and there are the Khautmis about twenty miles west. Half-way between the two is that long Nazri valley, and at the top is a tableland strewn with boulders where you shoot mountain sheep. I’ve been there, and the road between Khautmi and Forza passes over it. I expect it is a very bad road, but apparently you can get a little Kashmir pony to travel it. To the north of that plateau there is said to be nothing but rock and snow for twenty miles to the frontier. That may be so, but if this thing turns out all right we’ll look into the matter. Anyway, you have got to pitch your tent to-morrow on that tableland just above the head of the Nazri gully. With luck I should be able to get to you some time in the afternoon. If I don’t turn up, you go off to Khautmi next morning at daybreak and give them my message. If I can’t come myself I’ll find a way to send word; but if you don’t hear from me it will be fairly serious, for it will mean that the rising is a formidable thing after all. And that, of course, will mean trouble for everybody all round. In that case you’d better do what St. John and Mitchinson tell you. You’re sure to be wanted.”

  George’s face cleared. “That sounds rather sport. I’d better bring up the servants. They might turn out useful. And I suppose I’ll bring a couple of rifles for you, in case it’s all a fraud and we want to go shooting. I thought the place was going to be stale, but it promises pretty well now.” And he studied the plan on his shirt cuff. Then an idea came to him.

  “Suppose you find no rising. That will mean that Marker’s letter was a blind of some sort. He wanted to get you out of the way or something. What will you do then? Come back here?”

  “N — o,” said Lewis hesitatingly. “I think Thwaite is good enough, and I should be no manner of use. You and I will wait up there in the hills on the off-chance of picking up some news. I swear I won’t come back here to hang about and try and discover things. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.”

  “It is rather a ghastly place. Wonder how the Logans thrive here. Odd mixture this. Strauss and hill tribes not twenty miles apart.”

  Lewis laughed. “I think I prefer the hill tribes. I am not in the humour for Strauss just now. I shall have to be off in an hour, so I am going to change. See you to-morrow, old man.”

  George retired to the ballroom, where he had to endure the reproaches of Mrs. Logan. He was an abstracted and silent partner, and in the intervals of dancing he studied his cuff. Miss A talked to him of polo, and Miss B of home; Miss C discovered that they had common friends, and Miss D that she had known his sister. Miss E, who was more observant, saw the cause of his distraction and asked, “What queer hieroglyphics have you got on your cuff, Mr. Winterham?”

  George looked down in a bewildered way at his sleeve. “Where on earth have I been?” he asked in wonder. “That’s the worst of being an absent-minded fellow. I’ve been scribbling on my cuff with my programme pencil.”

  Soon he escaped, and made his way down to the garden gate, where Thwaite was standing smoking. A sais held a saddled pony by the road-side. Lewis, in rough shooting clothes, was preparing to mount. From indoors came the jigging of a waltz tune and the sound of laughter, while far in the north the cliffs of the pass framed a dark blue cleft where the stars shone. George drew in great draughts of the cool, fresh air. “I wish I was coming with you,” he said wistfully.

  “You’ll be in time enough to-morrow,” said Lewis. “I wish you’d give him all the information you can about the place, Thwaite. He’s an ig
norant beggar. See that he remembers to bring food and matches. The guns are the only things I can promise he won’t forget.”

  Then he rode off, the little beast bucking excitedly at the patches of moonlight, and the two men walked back to the house.

  “Hope he comes back all right,” said Thwaite.

  “He’s too good a man to throw away.”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE ROAD TO FORZA

  The road ran in a straight line through the valley of dry rocks, a dull, modern road, engineered and macadamized up to the edge of the hills. The click of hoofs raised echoes in the silence, for in all the great valley, in the chain of pools in the channel, the acres of sun-dried stone, the granite rocks, the tangle of mountain scrub, there seemed no life of bird or beast. It was a strange, deathly stillness, and overhead the purple sky, sown with a million globes of light, seemed so near and imminent that the glen for the moment was but a vast jewel-lit cavern, and the sky a fretted roof which spanned the mountains.

  For the first time Lewis felt the East. Hitherto he had been unable to see anything in his errand but its futility. A stupider man, with a sharp, practical brain, would have taken himself seriously and come to Bardur with an intent and satisfied mind. He would have assumed the air of a diplomatist, have felt the dignity of his mission, and in success and failure have borne himself with self-confidence. But to Lewis the business which loomed serious in England, at Bardur took on the colour of comedy. He felt his impotence, he was touched insensibly by the easy content of the place. Frontier difficulties seemed matters for romance and comic opera; and Bardur resolved itself into an English suburb, all tea-parties and tennis. But at times an austere conscience jogged him to remembrance, and in one such fitful craving for action and enterprise he had found this errand. Now at last, astride the little Kashmir pony, with his face to the polestar and the hills, he felt the mystery of a strange world, and his work assumed a tinge of the adventurer. This was new, he told himself; this was romance. He had his eyes turned to a new land, and the smell of dry mountain sand and scrub, and the vault-like, imperial sky were the earnest of his inheritance. This was the East, the gorgeous, the impenetrable. Before him were the hill deserts, and then the great, warm plains, and the wide rivers, and then on and on to the cold north, the steppes, the icy streams, the untrodden forests. To the west and beyond the mountains were holy mosques, “shady cities of palm trees,” great walled towns to which north and west and south brought their merchandise. And to the east were latitudes more wonderful, the uplands of the world, the impassable borders of the oldest of human cultures. Names rang in his head like tunes — Khiva, Bokhara, Samarkand, the goal of many boyish dreams born of clandestine suppers and the Arabian Nights. It was an old fierce world he was on the brink of, and the nervous frontier civilization fell a thousand miles behind him.