Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “I have no fear, sahiba. I am not afraid to open this door wide and make a bid for liberty. It would not be wise, that is all, and thou — and I must deal in wisdom.”

  His words came through the dark very evenly — spaced evenly — as though he weighed each one of them before he voiced it. She gathered the impression that he was thinking for his very life. She felt unable to think for her own. She felt impelled to listen — incredulous, helpless, frightened, — not a little ashamed. She was thinking more of the awful things those Moslem gentlemen would say about her should they come and discover her in Jaimihr’s cell.

  “Listen, sahiba! From end to end of India thy people are either dead, or else face to face with death. There is no escape anywhere for any man or woman — no hope, no chance. The British doom is sealed. So is the doom of every man who dared to side with them.”

  She shuddered. But she had to listen.

  “There will be an army here within a day or two. My men — and I number them by thousands — will come and rip these Rangars from their roost. Those that are not crucified will be thrown down from the summit, and there shall be a Hindoo shrine where they have worshipped their false god. Then, sahiba, if thou art here — perhaps — there might — yet — be a way-perhaps, yes? — a way, still, to escape me?”

  She was trembling. She could not help beginning to believe him. Whatever might be true of what he said was certainly not comforting.

  “But, while my army comes in search of me, my brother Howrah will be making merry with my palace and belongings. There will be devastation and other things in my army’s rear for which there is no need and for which I have no stomach. I detest the thought of them, sahiba. Therefore, sahiba, I would drive a bargain. Notice, sahiba, I say not one word of love, though love such as mine is has seldom been offered to a woman. I say no word of love — as yet. I say, help me to escape by night, when I may make my way unseen back to my men: enable me to reach Howrah before my dear brother is aware of my trouble and before his men can start plundering, and name your own terms, sahiba!”

  Name her own terms — name her own terms — name her own terms! The words dinned through her head and she could grasp no other thought. She was alone in a cell with Jaimihr, and she could get out of it if she would name her terms! She must name them — she must hurry — what were they? What were her terms? She could not think.

  “Understand, sahiba. Certain things are sure. It is sure my men will come. It is sure that every Rangar on this rock will meet a very far from pleasant death—”

  He grinned, and though she could not see him grin, she knew that he was doing it. She knew that he was even then imagining a hundred horrors that the Rangars would endure before they died. She might name her terms. She could save them.

  “No!” she hissed hoarsely. “No! They are my terms! I name them! You must spare them — spare the Rangars — spare every man on this hill, and theirs, and all they have!”

  “Truly are those thy terms, sahiba?”

  “Truly! What others can I ask?”

  “They are granted, sahiba!”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  She knew that he was speaking at least half the truth. She knew his power. She knew enough of Howrah City’s politics to be convinced that he would not be left at the mercy of a little band of Rangars. She knew that there were not enough Rangars on the whole countryside to oppose the army that would surely come to his rescue. And whether he were dead or living, she knew well enough that the vengeance would be wreaked on every living body on the hill. Alwa might feel confident, not she. She trembled now with joy at the thought that she — she the most helpless and useless of all of them — might save the lives of all.

  But then another phase of the problem daunted her. She might help Jaimihr go. He might escape unobserved with her aid. But then? What then? What would the Rangars do to her? Had she sufficient courage to face that? It was not fear now that swept over her so much as wonder at herself. Jaimihr detected something different in her mental attitude, and, since almost any change means weakness to the Oriental mind, he was quick to try to take advantage of it. He guessed right at the first attempt.

  “And what wilt thou do here, sahiba? When I am gone, and there is none here to love thee—”

  “Peace!” she commanded. “Peace! I have suffered enough—”

  “Thou wilt suffer more, should the Rangars learn—”

  “That is my business! Let me pass! I have bargained, and I will try to fulfil my part!”

  She stepped toward the door, but he held out both his arms and she saw them. She had no intention of being embraced by him, whatever their conspiracy.

  “Stand back!” she ordered.

  “Nay, nay, sahiba! Listen! Escape with me! These Rangars will not believe without proof that thou hast saved their lives by bargaining. They will show thee short shrift indeed when my loss is discovered. Come now and I will make thee Maharanee in a week!”

  “I would be as safe with one as with the other!” she laughed, something of calm reflection returning to her. “And what proof have I in any case that you will keep your word, Jaimihr-sahib. I will keep mine — but who will keep yours, that has been so often broken?”

  “Sahiba—”

  “Show me a proof!”

  “Here — now — in this place?”

  “Convince me, if you can! I will give myself willingly if I can save my father by it and these Rangars and Mr. Cunningham; but your bare word, Jaimihr-sahib, is worth that!”

  She snapped her fingers, and he swore beneath his breath. Then he remembered his ambition and his present need, and words raced to his aid — words, plans, oaths, treachery, and all the hundred and one tricks that he was used to. He found himself consciously selecting from a dozen different plans for tricking her.

  “Sahiba” — he spoke slowly and convincingly. In the gloom she could see his brown eyes levelled straight at hers, and she saw they did not flinch— “there is none who knows better than thou knowest how my brother and I stand to each other.” She shuddered at the reiterated second person singular, but he either did not notice it or else affected not to. “Thou know est that there is no love between him and me, and that I would have his throne. The British could set me on that throne unless they were first overwhelmed. Wert thou my legal wife, and were I to aid the British in this minute of their need, they would not be overwhelmed, and afterward they would surely set me on the throne. Therefore I pledge my word to lead my men to the Company’s aid, provided that these Rangars ride to my aid. My brother plans to overcome me first, and then take arms against the British. If the Rangars come to help me I will ride with them to the Company’s aid afterward. That is my given word!”

  “Then the throne of Howrah is your price, Jaimihr-sahib?”

  “Thou art the price and the prize, sahiba! For thee I would win the throne!”

  She actually laughed, and he winced palpably. There was no doubt that he loved her after a manner of his own, and her contempt hurt him.

  “I have said all I can say,” he told her. “I have promised all I can promise. What more is there to say or offer? If I stay here, I swear on the honor of a Rajput and a prince of royal blood, that every living man and woman on this rock, excepting thee only, shall be dead within a week. But if I escape by thy aid, and if, at thy instance, these Rangars and their friends ride to my help against my brother, then I will throw all my weight — men and influence — in the scale on the British side.”

  “And — ?”

  “And thou shalt be Maharanee!”

  “Never!”

  “But in case that the British should be beaten before we reach them, then, sahiba! Then in case of thy need!”

  “Jaimihr-sahib, I will help you to escape tonight on the terms that you have named — that you spare these Rangars and every living body on this hill. Then I will do my utmost to persuade the Rangars to ride to your assistance on your condition, that you lead your men to help the British afterward. And i
f my action in helping you escape should make the Rangars turn against me and my immediate friends, I shall claim your protection. Is that agreed?”

  “Sahiba — absolutely!”

  “Then let me pass!”

  Reluctantly he stood aside. She slipped out and let the bar down unobserved. But she had not recovered all her self-possession when she reached the courtyard.

  “Evening, Miss McClean,” said Cunningham; and she all but fainted, she was strained to such a pitch of nervousness.

  “Where have you come from, Miss McClean?” asked Cunningham. And she told him. She was not quite so stiff-chinned as she had been.

  “What were you doing there?”

  She told him that, too.

  “Where is your father?”

  “In his chair on the veranda, Mr. Cunningham. There, in that deep shadow.”

  “Come to him, please. I want your explanation in his presence.”

  She followed as obediently as a child. The sense of guilt — of fright — of impending judgment left her as she walked with him, and gave place to a glow of comfort that here should be a man on whom to lean. She did not fight the new sensation, for she was growing strangely weary of the other one. By the time that they had reached her father, and he was standing before Cunningham wiping his spectacles in his nervous way, she had completely recovered her self-possession, although it is likely she would not have given any reason for it to herself.

  Cunningham held a lantern up, so that he could study both their faces. His own face muscles were set rigidly, and he questioned them as he might have cross-examined a spy caught in the act. His voice was uncompromising, and his manner stern.

  “Do you both understand how serious this situation is?” he asked.

  “We naturally do,” said Duncan McClean. The Scotsman was beginning to betray an inclination to bridle under the youngster’s attitude, and to show an equally pronounced desire not to appear to. “More so, probably, than anybody else!”

  “Are you positive — both of you — you too, Mr. McClean — that all that talk about treasure in Howrah City is not mere imagination and legend?”

  “Absolutely positive!” They both answered him at once, both looking in his eyes across the unsteady rays of the flickering, smoky lamp. “The amount has been, of course, much exaggerated,” said McClean, “but I have no doubt there is enough there to pay the taxes of all India for a year or two.”

  “Then I have another question to ask. Do you both — or do you not — place yourselves at the service of the Company? It is likely to be dangerous — a desperate service. But the Company needs all that it can muster.”

  “Of course we do!” Again both answered in one breath.

  “Do you understand that that involves taking my orders?”

  This time Duncan McClean did the answering, and now it was he who seized the lamp. He held it high, and scanned Cunningham’s face as though he were reading a finely drawn map.

  “We are prepared — I speak for my daughter as well as for myself — to obey any orders that you have a right to give, young man.”

  “You misunderstand me,” answered Cunningham. “I am offering you the opportunity to serve the Company. As the Company’s senior officer in the neighborhood, I am responsible to the Company for such orders as I see fit to give. I could not have my orders questioned. I don’t mind telling you that I’m asking you, as British subjects, no more than I intend to ask Alwa and his Rangars. You can do as much as they are going to be asked to do. You can’t do more. But you can do less if you like. You are being given the opportunity now to offer your services unconditionally — that is to say in the only manner in which I will accept them. Otherwise you will remain non-combatants, and I shall take such measures for your safety as I see fit. Time presses. Your answer, please!”

  “I will obey your legal orders,” said McClean, still making full use of the lantern.

  “I refuse to admit the qualification,” answered Cunningham promptly. “Either you will obey, or you will not. You are asked to say which, that is all.”

  “I will obey,” said Rosemary McClean quietly. She said it through straight lips and in a level voice that carried more assurance than a string of loud-voiced oaths.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Since my daughter sees fit to — ah — capitulate, I have no option.”

  “Be good enough to be explicit.”

  “I agree to obey your orders.”

  “Thank you.” He seemed to have finished with McClean. He turned away from him and faced Rosemary, not troubling to examine her face closely as he had done her father’s, but seeming none the less to give her full attention. “I understood you to say that you promised to help Prince Jaimihr to escape from his cell tonight?”

  “WHAT?”

  Duncan McClean could not have acted such amazement. Cunningham desired no further evidence that he had not been accessory to his daughter’s visit to the prisoner. He silenced him with a gesture. And now his eyes seemed for the time being to have finished with both of them; in spite of the darkness they both knew that he had resumed the far-away look that seemed able to see things finished.

  “Yes,” said Rosemary. “I promised. I had to.”

  Her father gasped. But Cunningham appeared to follow an unbroken chain of thought, and she listened.

  “Well. You will both realize readily that we, as British subjects, are ranged all together on one side opposed to treachery, as represented by the large majority of the natives. That means that our first consideration must be to keep our given word. What we say, — what we promise — what we boast — must tally with what we undertake, and at the least try, to do. You must keep your word to Jaimihr, Miss McClean!”

  She stared back at Cunningham through wide, unfrightened eyes. Whatever this man said to her, she seemed unable to feel fear while she had his attention. Her father seemed utterly bewildered, and she held his hand to reassure him.

  “On the other hand, we cannot be guilty of a breach of faith to our friend Alwa here. I must have a little talk with him before I issue any orders. Please wait here and — ah — do nothing while I talk to Alwa. Did you — ah — did you agree to marry Jaimihr, should he make you Maharanee?”

  “No! I told him I would rather die!”

  “Thank you. That makes matters easier. Now tell me over again from the beginning what you know about the political situation in Howrah. Quickly, please. Consider yourself a scout reporting to his officer.”

  Ten minutes later Cunninham heard a commotion by the parapet, and stalked off to find Alwa, close followed by Mahommed Gunga. The grim old Rajput was grinning in his beard as he recognized the set of what might have been Cunningham the elder’s shoulders.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Ye may go and lay your praise

  At a shrine of other days

  By the tomb of him who gat, and her who bore me;

  My plan is good — my way —

  The sons of kings obey —

  But, I’m reaping where another sowed before me.

  JAIDEV SINGH was a five-K man, with the hair, breeches, bangle, comb, and dagger that betoken him who has sworn the vow of Khanda ka Pahul. Every item of the Sikh ritual was devised with no other motive than to preserve the fighting character of the organization. The very name Singh means lion. The Sikh’s long hair with the iron ring hidden underneath is meant as a protection against sword-cuts. And because their faith is rather spiritual than fanatical — based rather on the cause of things than on material effect — men of that creed take first rank among fighting men.

  Jaidev Singh arrived soon after the moon had risen. The notice of his coming was the steady drumming footfall of his horse, that slowed occasionally, and responded to the spur again immediately.

  Close to the big iron gate below Alwa’s eyrie there were some of Jaimihr’s cavalry nosing about among the trampled gardens for the dead and wounded they had left there earlier in the afternoon. They ceased searching, and formed up
to intercept whoever it might be who rode in such a hurry. Above them, on the overhanging ramparts, there was quick discussion, and one man left his post hurriedly.

  “A horseman from the West!” he announced, breaking in on Alwa’s privacy without ceremony.

  “One?”

  “One only.”

  “For us or them?”

  “I know not, sahib.”

  Alwa — glad enough of the relief from puzzling his brain — ran to the rampart and looked long at the moving dot that was coming noisily toward his fastness but that gave no sign of its identity or purpose.

  “Whoever he is can see them,” he vowed. “The moon shines full on them. Either he is a man of theirs or else a madman!”

  He watched for five more minutes without speaking. Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga, coming out at last in search of him, saw the strained figures of the garrison peering downward through the yellow moon rays, and took stand on either side of him to gaze, too, in spellbound silence.

  “If he is their man,” said Alwa presently, “he will turn now. He will change direction and ride for the main body of them yonder. He can see them now easily. Yes. See. He is their man!”

  On a horse that staggered gamely — silhouetted and beginning to show detail in the yellow light — a man whose nationality or caste could not be recognized rode straight for the bivouacking cavalry, and a swarm of them rode out at a walk to meet him.

  The tension on the ramparts was relaxed then. As a friend in direst need the man would have been welcome. As one of enemy, with a message for them, however urgent, he was no more than an incident.

  “By Allah!” roared Alwa suddenly. “That is no man of theirs! Quick! To the wheels! Man the wheels! Eight men to horse!”

  He took the cord himself, to send the necessary signal down into the belly of the rock. From his stables, where men and horses seemed to stand ready day and night, ten troopers cantered out, scattering the sparks, the whites of their horses’ eyes and their drawn blades gleaming; without another order they dipped down the breakneck gorge, to wait below. The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares. They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another. He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off. He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa’s iron gate and to be thundering on hell’s own horse in quest of it again.