Hussein

by Patrick O'Brian

  ‘The camel came nearer and nearer, the djinni was upon him. The Prince rose in his stirrups, raised his sword, and lo, the djinni vanished. He struck hard at the flying sand, so hard that he cast himself to the earth, where he lay senseless, while his horse galloped back to the village of black tents.

  ‘He came to himself when the first stars were pricking in the sky. About two miles away he could see the tents of the village, for he had ridden in a vast circle.

  ‘Now the men of the desert are of a catholic hospitality, so when the Prince’s horse came back some of the men went out on their camels to search for him. The sandstorm had obliterated his horse’s tracks, so they were obliged to leave their search when the evening came.

  ‘The poet in the Prince would not consider returning to the village, but the man in him was very hungry, and infinitely more thirsty. He sat on a stone for a long time, while the stars came out, and the lights appeared among the tents.

  ‘In the end he compromised with himself, saying that if by chance he saw the girl, he would neither look at her nor speak. He came halting into the village, and the dogs barked. Men came out, and he was led to the chief’s tent, where, after he had eaten and drunk, the men came in, and they spoke together. Sashiya brought coffee, for she was the daughter of the chief, and when men spoke to her she answered them, looking in their faces, as the custom is in those parts.

  ‘The Prince thought very deeply for some time as he watched her, and looking into his thoughts he perceived that he had been wrong, for she was flawless, so she could not be idealised and spoilt by herself; she was perfect.

  ‘The Prince, who gave his name as Ikbal Haider, remained several days in the black tents reciting poems and telling tales beyond compare, so that his hosts were filled with exceeding great joy.

  ‘Now it is the custom in those parts that the women may not be betrothed until they consent thereunto, and up to that time Sashiya had not been pleased with any of the suitors who came to her father. After a little time the Prince, or Ikbal as he called himself, remarked that her father was a man of importance in the desert, for he owned more than a thousand camels, which is great wealth; and although he dwelt with all the simplicity of the nomads, yet he was a man of fierce pride and high lineage, being the chief of his tribe.

  ‘The chief favoured a marriage between Sashiya and Sikander, the chief of a neighbouring tribe who was of equal lineage, and Sikander was ardent in his wooing. This caused Ikbal great unease, for he hesitated to declare his love, and concealed it under a lighthearted mien. But it did not deceive Sashiya at all; she had known of his state from the beginning, being a woman, and she was by no means displeased, for his beauty and his excellence had set a flame within her. Yet she, for her part, was afraid to declare herself, for fear that her father and Sikander would straightway kill Ikbal.

  ‘So the days passed, and they abode in this perplexity. A man came bearing news through the desert on his way to the court of the Shah. He was a Persian, a servant of the Persian ambassador — Ikbal had seen him at his father’s court. He paused at the well, where Ikbal spoke to him in his own tongue, asking news of Kathiawar.

  ‘“The Maharajah is dead,” said the man, remounting, “and the state is in turmoil, for the Prince is gone.”

  ‘He shouted the last words as he galloped away, and Ikbal sat suddenly on the kerb of the well. Until twilight he grieved for his father, and then Sashiya came to the well.

  ‘They looked full into each other’s eyes; and that, as one might say, was that. When they resumed to the village the moon was high and brilliant. Ikbal saddled his horse and rode furiously towards Kathiawar; Sashiya stood long at the well, watching him go in the moonlight. She saw three camels come from behind a sand dune and follow him; Sikander and two of his cousins were on them.

  ‘The Prince rode for three hours before he was aware of the camels. He noticed them as he was walking his horse up a steep incline of loose sand, and he turned to look at them. He was troubled, not knowing their purpose, so he went up to the top of the dune and loosened his sword. As they came nearer he saw that they bore lances, and, his doubt resolved, he felt a strange joy that he had never known before. His sword blazed in the moon; it was an ancient blade of very notable steel; it had come out of the West when the Franks fought with S’allah ud Din.

  ‘At the foot of the dune the men halted; one struck his lance into the sand and came forward unarmed; Ikbal sheathed his sword. They greeted one another courteously, and after they had spoken of indifferent things a little, the man said, “By an unfortunate chance you have offended my cousin Sikander in a matter of which you know, and he will kill you now; in what way would you wish to encounter him?”

  ‘ “I shall be pleased to dispatch your cousin, for whom I have the greatest respect, with whatever arms he chooses — either mounted, armed as we are, or on foot, with swords.”

  ‘ “Swords would, I think, be quickest. I wish you a speedy journey to Paradise, for you are a proper young man.”

  ‘They encountered half-way down the slope. Ikbal held his sword with both hands, for it was long-handled with a long straight blade, after the manner of foreign swords. They stood with their sword points touching for a moment, then Sikander’s blade hissed forward and shot by Ikbal’s neck, cutting it lightly; he sprang back, and they circled round warily, feinting for an advantage. With the sharp pain of the wound, Ikbal lost all fear; he gripped his sword firmly, and it quivered in his grasp. He felt imbued with a new virtue. Suddenly Sikander beat twice at his sword and cut again and again with great power and speed at his head. Ikbal laughed, and budged not an inch, but guarded himself perfectly, hardly knowing how he did it. Twice Sikander’s sword cut into his shoulder, but he did not feel it: there was a pause, and Ikbal attacked with all his heart. The swords flashed and blazed in great sweeps, ringing together with a joyous sound; their feet stamped, and they breathed hard, gruntingly. All at once their swords were locked at the hilts, and they stood face to face, with their arms upstretched. Then, by tacit agreement, they stepped back and wiped the sweat from their eyes.

  ‘They began again with the same furious onslaught; this time Ikbal struck Sikander under his left arm, so the blood flowed from them both. For nearly an hour they fought thus, pausing now and then, but continuing with renewed fury after every rest.

  ‘Neither could gain any advantage until the very height of the onslaught, when they seemed ringed with the gleam of their swords, and the sound of their fighting was like the shoeing of seven horses; then it happened that each struck with great force so that their blades met edge to edge. Fire sprang therefrom, and Ikbal’s sword bit clean through the opposing steel, leaving Sikander with six inches of blade. Sikander sprang back, and slipped on a blood-wet stone. Ikbal ran to raise him, and called for another sword. Sikander thanked him gravely; they refreshed themselves with a little water, and began again. But Ikbal had remarked the great virtue of his blade, and within five minutes Sikander was swordless again.

  ‘He would not turn and run, but stood to await the blow; yet again Ikbal called for the third sword, but Sikander would not accept it.

  ‘ “I yield myself wholly,” he said, “'for you are the finest swordsman in the world.”

  ‘ “By no means,” replied Ikbal, “you are the better fighter, but I had the fortune of the blade.”

  ‘Then they attended to their wounds and ate food. They slept until the morning, and then Ikbal took Sikander aside and unfolded his whole case to him. It transpired that Sikander did not greatly desire Sashiya, for the standards of the desert were not those of Kathiawar, but he had desired to be her father’s heir — the old chief had no son.

  ‘Ikbal promised him this, and they swore brotherhood upon bread and salt.

  ‘They returned to Sikander’s tents, and he sent out a call to the men of his tribe. By evening a thousand armed horsemen were there, and at dawn the next day they rode for Kathiawar.

  ‘They found that the wazir had already
killed the concubine, and had seized the leopard throne by corrupting the palace guard. These put up something of a resistance, but Sikander’s men went through them like fire through dried grass.

  ‘Ikbal came to the wazir in the audience hall. The wazir faced him with a scimitar, but Ikbal forced him back and back until he was in a corner, and then Ikbal drove so furious a blow upon him that the sword bit him from his forehead to his loins, so that he fell in two pieces.

  ‘Then Ikbal feasted Sikander and his followers with a feast that continued without break for three days and two nights, and he sent them away laden with royal gifts. As soon as his state was untroubled, he took ten noble stallions, and rode them without any pause at all until he came to the village of the black tents.

  ‘Sashiya stood by the well. He leant from his saddle and plucked her from the ground.

  ‘She was his maharani for thirty-eight years, and she bore him seven sons and some daughters. The tale is done!

  ‘And mark that the greater part of the Maharajah’s good fortune was attributable to his munificence to the tellers of tales.’

  Twenty

  The audience threw pice and annas on to the cloak that Hussein sat upon. The two men cast in a rupee, and walked away with the crowd, following a pair of new-comers. Hussein and Ram Narain waited until they were out of sight, and then they walked away slowly in the other direction, taking every conceivable precaution. When they were out of the town, and walking through the fields, Ram Narain said, ‘I hardly think, with all my training, that I could have done that.’

  ‘It was a poor tale, and badly mangled in my great desire to reach the end rapidly without entirely spoiling it, but it served.’

  ‘That is true; from the beginning to the end they could not suspect anything, yet they were watching most keenly, for your faults were the faults of a true story-teller. I thought time and again that you would falter, but it was flawless for our purpose.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, when I was once into the tale, I almost wholly forgot them, and at first the swing of the verse was a great help in keeping on; but towards the end I was obliged to improvise a good deal, and I became nervous, so the tale suffered badly.’

  When they approached the place where they had left Jehangir, they separated, and crept towards him with an infinity of care, but Jehangir caught the scent of them, and came slowly towards Hussein.

  There were no signs of any man having been there, so they continued their journey after Hussein had rearranged the pad more comfortably. It was very hard work doing this, for when they got it off they had to take all the gold out before they could get it back again, and they took peculiar pains to pick up all the pieces again. However, it was a delightful task handling the great hoard. When it all lay on the ground Hussein rolled upon it with almost indecent joy. Ram Narain, too, poured it through his fingers with a gloating sound. The rest of their journey appeared flat and tame: they reached Puniat in two easy stages, and Ram Narain went to the station and sent a telegram; then he came back to await the arrival of the other men.

  ‘Perhaps’, he said, ‘it would be as well not to mention the gold in my report. Its absence might lead to adverse comment.’

  ‘Maybe you are right,’ replied Hussein. ‘After all, you know even better than I the inconceivable turpitude and unclean minds of officials.’

  They had taken possession of a disused hut in the jungle outside the village, and the gold lay upon the floor. Ram Narain had bought some grain sacks in Puniat, and they filled these; when all was divided they leaned them against the wall of the hut, and tied their necks with grass. It was then that Ram Narain told Hussein that Purun Dass had not died from his beating — he had known it for a long while.

  The next two days passed in a happy daze for Hussein: they took turns in keeping guard, but nothing untoward happened. In the morning of the third day Ram Narain went into Puniat and returned with two Englishmen and an old wrinkled man, who might have been a sadhu had he not been dressed in ill-fitting European clothes. Ram Narain had hidden the paper, wrapped in cloth, in the branches of a high tree. He brought it down for them, and they read it in the hut. Hussein squatted before the sacks, so that no one might bump into them. When they had done the Englishmen shook hands with Ram Narain without a word, and the old man sat cackling upon the floor.

  Then one of the sahibs bade Ram Narain relate the whole circumstances, which he did, enlightening Hussein upon many points of his earlier movements. When he had done, the larger Englishman, speaking perfect Urdu, said, ‘But this excellent young man must be rewarded. Will he work with you in the future?’

  ‘I think not, huzoor,’ replied Ram Narain, ‘for the present, at any rate, I know that he has other and pressing affairs to attend.’

  ‘But some suitable reward …’

  ‘Mam-bap,’ said Hussein, ‘any reward at your hands would be excessive, but if your servant might venture a suggestion, there was a certain trifling matter of one Purun Dass, a bunnia, who was beaten in his temple by a friend of mine who wishes to return to those parts — perhaps, possibly, some slight amelioration of the criminal proceedings …?’

  ‘It is, of course, quite impossible to corrupt British justice,’ said the Englishman, ‘a matter of assault … hm … and possibly sacrilege … hm. Did it all happen some time ago?’

  ‘A long time ago, huzoor,’ replied Hussein fervently.

  ‘Well, it is conceivable that a fine might be held to cover the matter. Purun Dass was the bunnia’s name? Where did this happen?’

  ‘In Laghat, sahib: he is a notoriously evil man.’

  ‘Who — your friend or the bunnia? In passing, what was the friend’s name?’

  ‘Assuredly the bunnia, huzoor; my friend is a benevolent man, mild, peaceable, well-disposed towards the Government, and an incomparable teller of tales; a most worthy man; one deserving of all possible clemency.’

  ‘His name?’

  Hussein gazed upon the ground, and began to cough. The sahib said, ‘Well, perhaps that is not a vital point at the moment. I feel moderately certain that if your friend returns to Laghat, he will find that a fine will be all that he is faced with. Moreover, although I, of course, can make no promises, it is also possible that the fine will be paid for him by some benevolently disposed person. Your friend will naturally appreciate the value of discretion and silence.’

  ‘Huzoor, I am your servant’s servant.’

  When the men had gone, Ram Narain said, ‘Now we must go to Patalipore; we shall arrive there by noon, and if you are wise you will put the gold in the English bank there, as I shall. I understand these matters.’ He explained it all to Hussein, who saw that it was a wise thing.

  Jehangir lifted the long sacks up to Hussein and Ram Narain on his back, and they arranged them there. It was strange that they were able to travel on the road through the village; at first Hussein had a crisis of nerves as each man passed them on the road, and he grasped the sacks convulsively, but by the time they were near Patalipore he was used to it. They stopped at a merchants’ caravanserai, and Ram Narain went on to speak with the manager of the bank, where he had an account. He came back in a little while with the manager and a lorry. They loaded the sacks into the lorry, and drove to the bank; there the gold was weighed out before them, and a large number of papers were signed. Hussein thought it a little odd that no questions were asked, but he knew Ram Narain’s surpassing skill in explaining matters.

  Eventually they gave Hussein a book showing an enormous sum standing to his credit, and a cheque book. They each drew out a considerable sum in rupees, and left.

  As they walked towards the caravanserai, Ram Narain said, ‘I have other matters to pursue, and I must leave this afternoon by a train. You are safe now, for the Rajah will not do anything at all to annoy the Sirkar, but beware of appearing too rich; dress as a wealthy merchant, but be frugal in your expenditure, and haggle over an anna, otherwise you will be cheated. Again, remember that if anything untoward occur,
you are to go straightway to one or another of those sahibs whose styles and whose dwellings I recited to you. Now we shall buy clothes.’

  They turned in at one end of the cloth workers’ bazaar itinerant story-tellers; they came out at the other, after the passage of time, rich merchants, proud bellied, and haughty-eyed. Then they returned to the caravanserai and commanded a most notable meal. After they had wiped their lips and washed their hands, Ram Narain said, ‘Here are three maxims that have guided me always with women: employ them and be happy. The first is, “Women are fundamentally immoral, essentially possessive, and infinitely variable”, the second is, “A woman who is kept busy bearing sons has no time for adultery”, and the third was told to me by a sahib, who translated from his own tongue for me; it contains the wisdom of the West, “A woman, a bitch, and a tree that bears walnuts are the more fecund the more they are beaten”. Bear these things in mind, eschew dangerous evil, and die young, then you will be happy.’

  They took a very affectionate leave of each other, and Ram Narain departed.

  Suddenly he heard running footsteps behind him; he stiffened, glided his hand to his knife, and slipped into a doorway.

  It was Hussein. ‘I had forgotten these,’ he said, showing a handful of gold. ‘I drew them from the pad when it seemed that we should have to leave the rest — eight fall to your share.’

  ‘Thank you, Hussein,’ said Ram Narain, with his rare smile; he sought for words, but none came: then he shook him by the hand in the English manner, and went away into the crowd.

  Hussein walked slowly through the bazaars; at first he was somewhat downcast at his friend’s going, for circumstances had brought them very close together. But his discovery of the power of money revived his heart as he wandered through the stalls of the goldsmiths, knowing that he could buy anything that he desired.