Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  By the side of Abdul Dost squatted a white-robed figure in a clean turban, bearing a staff in his hand, and by his knee was a slim boy. Muhammad Asad stared up into the sky from his blind eyes, his lips murmuring gentle prayers, but the boy whispered something into the ear of Abdul Dost.

  The mansabdar glanced up and smiled.

  “It was a good fight. I shall not see another like it.”

  He tried to lift one arm, and Khlit saw that his hand was mangled, and heard men whisper behind his back that the ribs of Abdul Dost were broken about his heart and that he would be a cripple henceforth. Khlit barely heard. He let the hilt of his broken sword fall to the earth, and took the other hand of his friend in his for a moment.

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  Legends of the Sungarian Gate, leading from Mongolia into Europe.

  “Leave us,” he said harshly to the onlookers.

  He sat down by Abdul Dost, his dust-stained, weary face alight with gratitude and relief. Abdul Dost would live.

  In the silence came the faint mutter of prayer from the bearded lips of Muhammad Asad—“Allah akbar—Allah il allah!”—and presently the blind man turned his face toward Khlit.

  “O Kha Khan,” he whispered, “you have saved my people. How may we do you fitting honor?”

  He reached out a questioning hand, but the boy at his side spoke softly, saying that Khlit was asleep.

  On the morrow, as swiftly as it came, the remnant of the Horde drifted away to the northern passes before snow should close the way. And because of the speed of their departure many tales arose in the Afghan land and the hill country—tales of spirits that had fought in Badakshan. To these stories Muhammad Asad, who became kwajah of the Afghans and leader of his people, made reply—

  “Not by spirits, nor by the strength of warriors, was the Mogul defeated—but by the fellowship of two men.”

  Appendix

  Adventure magazine, where all of the tales in this volume first appeared, maintained a letter column titled “The Camp-Fire.” As a descriptor, “letter column” does not quite do this regular feature justice. Adventure was published two and sometimes three times a month, and as a result of this frequency and the interchange of ideas it fostered, “The Camp-Fire” was really more like an Internet bulletin board of today than a letter column found in today's quarterly or even monthly magazines. It featured letters from readers, editorial notes, and essays from writers. If a reader had a question or even a quibble with a story, he could write in, and the odds were that the letter would not only be printed but that the story's author would draft a response.

  Harold Lamb and other contributors frequently wrote lengthy letters that further explained some of the historical details that appeared in their stories. The letters about the stories included in this volume, with introductory comments by Adventure editor Arthur Sullivan Hoffman, follow, and appear in order of publication. The date of the issue of Adventure is indicated, along with the title of the Lamb story that appeared in the issue. Lamb did not write a letter about every story.

  November 1, 1919: “The Skull of Shirzad Mir”

  The old Cossack, Khlit, has been a friend of ours for some time and now H. A. Lamb is introducing us to some new people whom

  I think you will also come to like. There are more of these tales to come and it may be that after a while Khlit may wander down and meet these new people himself. But not for quite a while.

  Incidentally, how do you pronounce his name? I always sounded it as if it were spelled “Kleet” but Mr. Lamb tells me it should be pronounced with the “i” short—“Klitt.” However, I've known him too long by the former sound and can't make the change comfortably.

  A word from Mr. Lamb about these Moguls of the early seventeenth century:

  Tales of Abdul Dost deal with the Moguls of India, in the early seventeenth century. Scene of “The Skull of Shirzad Mir” laid in northern hill country of Afghanistan.

  As for the skull in question. They were frequently made into drinking cups. A fashion of the time—to have an enemy chieftain's skull on exhibit, ornamented with gold or silver according to the wealth of the possessor.

  There's a good deal of history in back of Abdul Dost's tales. Badakshan, home of Shirzad Mir, was the backbone of the Mogul kingdom before the great conquerors descended from the hills into Hindustan and central India. Once in India, the Moguls never returned to their homeland; but they had a great fondness for Kabul and Kashmir, showing it was from politic rather than personal reasons that they favored Delhi and Agra over the hills.

  In the time of Abdul Dost Jahangir was on the throne of India, and Jahangir did not match up to his two great forebears, Babur and Akbar. It was the old story of the fighting conqueror whose descendants became palace figureheads and ruled through women and eunuchs.

  Babur was a man's man, and his memoirs are an unbroken tale of fighting, mostly against odds. He won the respect even of his Rajput enemy, Rajah Sanga, who must have been an experienced judge of fighters as he was blinded in one eye, without one arm, lame and with eighty other battle scars. Babur enjoyed picking up two men and carrying them, leaping across the battlements of a rampart. In his own words, the year before he died:

  “I swam across the Ganges for amusement. I counted my strokes and found that I swam over in thirty-three; then I took my breath and swam back. I had crossed by swimming every river I met except (until then) the Ganges.”

  Akbar also was a fine strain of man, and Jahangir displayed flashes of his heritage of courage, will and humor. The Mogul was absolute owner of most of the land within the empire, and when Jahangir took the throne there was a general rush on the part of the amirs and begs to register their claims. It was a case of first heard, best rewarded. Likewise, the powers at court were of mixed nationality—Rajputs, Persians, Afghans, Uzbeks and Turki-Mohammedans. The Mogul couldn't afford to play favorites. Shirzad Mir was late.

  Sir Ralph Weyand I have drawn from the historical John Mil-denhall, or Midnall. Mildenhall sailed from London for Syria in 1599, bearing a letter from Queen Elizabeth to the Mogul. Left Aleppo 1600 for Kandahar. Received at court at Agra about three years later. Portuguese intrigue defeated his efforts to gain trade firman. The Portuguese were then firmly dug in at Goa and Surat. They had valuable trade rights, and their priests were in favor at court (owing to the Moguls' policy to countenance every creed).

  Mildenhall suspected his interpreter—probably with reason— of a fondness for Portuguese gold, and determined that he must be able to speak Persian in person. Learned Persian in six months, escaped poisoning by his enemies, put some of said enemies out of action, returned to court and argued his own case. Said the Moguls had received little hard cash—although the satellites of the throne had got much—and won his trade concession. The first, I think, granted to an Englishman.

  Mildenhall's second chapter doesn't make such good reading. He was, as the chronicle has it, in “an exceeding great rage” at his enemies; bartered his concession somehow for money; got together a fortune of 120,0001 after returning to Persia; later, changed his religion, turned rogue and disappeared.

  In order to keep the Englishman of the Abdul Dost tales clear of this second chapter, I've re-christened him Sir Weyand and set him on his own, but his adventures follow closely the first part of Mildenhall's career.

  December 12, 1919: “Said Afzel's Elephant”

  A few points about “Said Afzel's Elephant.” It may seem improbable that three men could do what Abdul Dost and his friends tackled. In India at that time, however, a noble from the court traveled with a large following of slaves, personal attendants, eunuchs, wives, buffoons, hafiz, or poem readers, bearers, et cetera.

  Few of such gentry were fighting men by inclination or training. And even today the hillmen of Afghanistan, such as the Afridis, are excellent combatants when so inclined. At that time tribal warfare was the rule and the hillmen were skilled in weapons. They had to be.

  As to Said Afzel. The character of the opium-usi
ng poet is not overdrawn. Drugs of varied sort were in general use, and it was the fashion to remain stupefied for certain lengths of time. The Rajputs were addicted to opium in very large quantities. One passage in the memoirs of Babur relates that he kept sober at a drinking party of his friends in order to see what the bout would be like. He watched them drink wine, then change to bhang and distilled spirits, ending up with opium and more wine until “they became senseless or began to commit all manner of follies, whereupon I had myself carried out.”

  A good deal has been written of the treasure of the Moguls. This was hardly so very great in money, but consisted of enormous quantities of jewels, especially diamonds and rubies, horses, cloth-of-gold, et cetera. The amount of an amir's treasure measured the number of fighting-men he could buy; hence the possession of a store of riches as in this story was more valuable to an ambitious noble than a small kingdom.

  April 15, 1920: “Ameer of the Sea”

  A word on the “bracelet-brother” custom of the Rajputs, from Colonel Tod, annalist of Rajasthan. The custom is quite ancient, and has more than once played an important part in the wars of central India.

  “The Rajput lady sends a bracelet either by her handmaid, or the family priest, to the knight of her choice. With the rakhi she confers the title of adopted brother; and, while its acceptance secures to her all the protection of a cavalier servant, scandal itself never suggests any other tie to his devotion. He may hazard his life in her service, and yet never receive a smile in reward.

  “No honor is more highly esteemed than that of being the rakhi band bhai or 'bracelet-bound-brother,' of a princess.”

  The bracelet was generally sent when the woman in question was in distress, in warfare. Naturally, the rakhi usually passed between Rajput and Rajput, but at least on one occasion—that of Humayon, mentioned in the story—the bracelet was bestowed upon a man of another race. There is no reason why an Englishman of this period could not have been selected as a brother-in-arms, inasmuch as the choice was determined more by the courage and known fighting ability of the man than by rank or caste.

  July 15, 1920: “Law of Fire”

  Most of us are familiar with the Hindu custom of suttee. It prevailed until stamped out by the British—and they had a hard time doing it—in the middle of the last century. Not all of us, perhaps, are aware of the religious significance of the act—the burning of a widow on the funeral fire.

  It seems that the widows—often several in number—believed that their voluntary death insured themselves a higher life, according to the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. Thus, if they died in this manner seven times, they became perfect. Most of the women went to the funeral pyre voluntarily, and displayed extraordinary courage. But the Brahmans always had along an orchestra of horns and cymbals to drown the cries of the victim, in case the woman's strength gave way under the ordeal. Also, the priests had long poles ready, to prevent any attempt to escape from the pyre.

  As to those who did escape the suttee, Francois Bernier, the French physician who wandered over India during the seventeenth century, says:

  I have been often in the company of a fair idolator who contrived to save her life by throwing herself upon the protection of the scavengers (halakhors) who assemble on these occasions, when they learn that the intended victim is young and handsome, that her relations are of little note, and that she is to be accompanied by only a few of her acquaintance.

  Yet the woman whose courage fails at the sight of the horrible apparatus of death, and who avails herself of the presence of these men to avoid the impending sacrifice, cannot hope to pass her days in happiness, or to be treated with respect.

  Never again can she live with the Hindus; no individual of that nation (religion) will at any time or under any circumstances, associate with a creature so degraded, who is accounted utterly infamous and execrated because of the dishonour which her conduct has brought upon the religion of the country. Consequently she is ever afterward exposed to the ill-treatment of her low and vulgar protectors.

  There is no Mogul [meaning, probably, Mussulman—H. A.

  Lamb] who does not dread the consequences of contributing to the preservation of a woman devoted to the burning pile, or who will venture to offer asylum to one who escapes from the fangs of the Brahmans. But many widows have been rescued by the Portuguese.

  I'm not sure that Mohammedan women were burned, but often slaves were sacrificed with their mistress. The girl of the tale, being a Mohammedan, was not bound to the Hindu ritual.

  As for Abdul Dost, he was hardly a man to be influenced by the power of the Brahmans. And Khlit conducted himself upon the favorite phrase found in U.S. Army instruction—“as circumstances may direct.”

  September 18, 1920: “Masterpiece of Death”

  Concerning those interesting professional murderers of whom we've all heard, and in connection with his novelette in this issue, Harold Lamb gives us some facts that are doubtless new to most of us:

  Most of us have had experience with thugs of various kinds. And we are still alive and kicking. Not many of us know about the thags of India.

  They were not dacoits—as the British government supposed until Seringapatam and 1799—nor were they organized gangs of robbers and murderers. Rather, they were murderers and robbers, the one thing coming before the other. They were professional men, law-abiding and harmless except in this one respect, and they took immense pride in their profession.

  This pride was not religious pride, and the thags were not essentially Kali-worshipers, I think. In fact nearly half were Mohammedans. Kali was a kind of tutelary deity and a certain percentage of spoil gained from the murders by thaggi was set aside as a propitiatory offering to the goddess. Regarding these Mohammedans Captain Sleeman—who devoted a lifetime to stamping out thaggi in India in the nineteenth century and failed of complete success—says a curious thing. He asked some condemned thags whether the taking of life was not proscribed by the law of the Prophet. The answer was that the victims of the thags were without doubt predestined to die. In slaying them the Mohammedan thags only aided destiny and hence were guiltless of bloodshed.

  Another general misbelief among us is that the thags murdered Europeans. They vary rarely did so, unless necessary. When one member of a band of travelers had been killed by these hereditary students of death, it was a law of their cult that all members of the party must meet a like fate. Nor did they kill women, not from any reverence for woman as a sex but because it was generally considered unlucky. They went entirely by omens. Many a traveler on the highway was saved when in company with thags by a snake crossing the road from the wrong side.

  It was a curious profession, this, and very skillfully conducted. Estimates of the known deaths by thags run as high as fifteen hundred per year in Central India alone. And the actual deaths were many more, for the simple reason that the phansigars— stranglers—rarely left any evidence of their work. Those who were condemned to death attended to the matter themselves, knotting the halter rope under their right ear, and jumping off into oblivion—perhaps actuated by the rigid caste of the professional and also by firm conviction that to be hanged by the hand of a chumar was unendurable.

  And it is one of the curiosities of human life that these devotees of human death never held themselves to be criminals. The son followed the trade of the father. Wives sometimes never knew their husbands were phansigars. The young lads who were—as they termed it—“hard-breasted” enough to be given a rumal, or strangling noose, were as proud as an English youth of the same age upon whom knighthood had been conferred.

  During Khlit's time the thags were powerful and usually unmolested. They were rich, and an established part of the community. In “The Masterpiece of Death,” Khlit, who was a warrior by profession and a believer in the merits of a fair fight with bare weapons when a fight was necessary, meets some members of this cult.

  Sleeman archives. What I meant was this: “the peculiar customs of thaggi appeari
ng in the tale have the confessions of the stranglers themselves and testimony before Catpain Sleeman for authority.”

  November 3, 1920: “The Curved Sword”

  When I first read Harold lamb's story “The Masterpiece of Death” in the mid-Sept. issue my brain was shipwrecked on the mixture of “thag,” “thug,” “thuggi,” and “thaggi.” So I wrote Mr. Lamb for help and here's his reply. I admit I passed the buck to Mr. Noyes as to whether we'd use an “a” or a “u.” I refused to look at those words again and don't even know which he chose.

  You see, any magazine has to adopt one system of spelling and stick to it, despite awkward exceptions that will arise under any system. We happen to use the Standard Dictionary in the office and now and then the spellings grieve Mr. Lamb (and others).

  How come? Highbinders and gunmen are called “thugs” in this country. We derived the word from England, via India, where a curious assassin-robber fraternity called itself thags (singular, thag). The cult or science of the murderers is known as thaggi, just as the cult of masons is known as masonry. (The word “thuggi” was a slip on my part.)

  If you must give the Standard its pound of flesh, spell 'em “thug,” “thugs,” and “thuggi.” The “a” is, I think, correct, if you look on the word as a quotation from the native language. That's just what it is—in the story.

  But if we spell “thag” “thug,” we should write “Jagannath” as “Juggernaut.” As to this last, I've seen it spelled at least twelve ways by the authorities. Why not write down all the variations, put 'em in a hat on separate slips of paper, and let the foreman of the composing-room draw one?

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  Denomination unspecified by Lamb.