Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Alwa’s eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light. One of them shouted from below. Alwa jerked the cord, and the great gate yawned, well-oiled and silent. The oncomer raced straight for the middle of the intercepting line of horsemen; they — knowing him by this time for no friend — started to meet him; and Alwa’s eight, unannounced and unexpected, whirled into them from the rear.

  In a second there was shouting, blind confusion — eddying and trying to reform. The lone galloper pulled clear, and Alwa’s men drove his opponents, crupper over headstall, into a body of the main contingent who had raced up in pursuit. They rammed the charge home, and reeled through both detachments — then wheeled at the spur and cut their way back again, catching up their man at the moment that his horse dropped dead beneath him. They seized him beneath the arms and bore him through as the great gate dropped and cut his horse in halves. Then one man took the galloper up behind his saddle, and bore him up the hill unquestioned until he could dismount in front of Alwa.

  “Who art thou?” demanded the owner of the rock, recognizing a warrior by his trademarks, but in no way moderating the natural gruffness of his voice. Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh’s intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted.

  “Jaidev Singh — galloper to Byng-bahadur. I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first.”

  “They are both here.”

  “Then my letter is for both of them.”

  Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga each took one step forward, and the Sikh gave Cunningham a tiny, folded piece of paper, stuck together along one edge with native gum. He tore it open, read it in the light of a trooper’s lantern, and then read it again aloud to Mahommed Gunga, pitching his voice high enough for Alwa to listen if he chose.

  “What are you two men doing?” ran the note. “The very worst has happened. We all need men immediately, and I particularly need them. One hundred troopers now would be better than a thousand men a month from now. Hurry, and send word by bearer. S. F. BYNG.”

  “How soon can you start back?” asked Cunningham.

  “The minute I am provided with a horse, sahib.”

  Cunningham turned to Alwa.

  “Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”

  Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.

  “Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed. “Food waits, thou. Thou art a Sikh — thou eatest meat — meat, then, is ready.”

  The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions. All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed. So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned. Cunningham then turned on Alwa.

  “Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice. “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no. If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”

  “You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.

  “I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”

  Alwa stared hard at him. That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart. He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds. The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.

  “So was thy father,” he said slowly. “My cousin said thou wast thy father’s son!”

  “I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham. “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”

  “Bismillah! Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear. Then he thought better of his dignity. “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men. We will have another conference.”

  “I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.

  “Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions! Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”

  “I have a suggestion to make, sahib,” smiled Alwa, closing the door of the rock-hewn chamber on the three of them.

  “Hear mine first!” said Cunningham, with a hint of iron in his voice.

  “Ay! Hear his first! Hear Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!” echoed Mahommed Gunga. “Let us hear a plan worth hearing!” And Alwa looked into a pair of steady eyes that seemed to see through him — past him — to the finished work beyond.

  “Speak, sahib.”

  “You are pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne?”

  “Ha, sahib.”

  “Then, I guarantee you shall! You shall not go to the Company’s aid until you have satisfactory guarantees that your homes and friends will not be assailed behind your backs.”

  “Guarantees to whose satisfaction, sahib?”

  “Yours!”

  “But with whom am I dealing?” Alwa seemed actually staggered. “Who makes these promises? The Company?”

  “I give you my solemn word of honor on it!”

  “It is at least a man who speaks!” swore Alwa.

  “It is the son of Cunnigan-bahadur!” growled Mahommed Gunga, standing chin erect. He seemed in no doubt now of the outcome. He was merely waiting for it with soldierly and ill-concealed impatience.

  “But, sahib—”

  “Alwa-sahib, we have no time for argument. It is yes or no. I must send an answer back by that Sikh. He must — he shall take my answer! Either you are loyal to our cause or you are not. Are you?”

  “By the breath of God, sahib, I am thinking you leave me little choice!”

  “I still await an answer. I am calling on you for as many men as you can raise, and I have made you specific promises. Choose, Alwa-sahib. Yes or no?”

  “The answer is yes — but—”

  “Then I understand that you undertake to obey my orders without question until such time as a senior to me can be found to take over the command.”

  “That is contingent on the agreement,” hesitated Alwa.

  “I would like your word of honor, Alwa-sahib.”

  “I pledge that not lightly, sahib.”

  “For that very good reason I am asking for it. I shall know how far to trust when I have your word of honor!”

  “I knew thy father! Thou art his son! I trusted him for good reason and with good result. I will trust thee also. My word is given, on thy conditions, sahib. First, the guarantees before we ride to the British aid!”

  And you obey my orders?

  “Yes. My word is given, sahib. The oath of a Rajput, of a Rangar, of a soldier, of a zemindar of the House of Kachwaha; the oath of a man to a man, sahib; the promise of thy father’s friend to thy father’s son! Bahadur” — he drew himself to his full height, and clicked his spurs together— “I am thy servant!”

  Cunningham saluted. All three men looked in each other’s eyes and a bond was sealed between them that nothing less than death could sever.

  “Thank you,” said Cunningham quite quietly. “And now, Alwa-sahib” — (he could strike while the iron glowed, could this son of Cunnigan!)— “for the plan. There is little time. Jaimihr must escape tonight!”

  “Sahib, did I understand aright?”

  Alwa’s jaw had actually dropped. He looked as though he had been struck. Mahommed Gunga slammed his sabre ferule on the stone floor. He too, was hard put to it to believe his ears.

  “Jaimihr is the key to the position. He is nothing but a nuisance where he is. Outside he can be made to help us.”

  “Am I dreaming, or art thou, sahib?” Alwa stood with fists cl
inched on his hips and his legs apart — incredulous. “Jaimihr to go free? Why that Hindoo pig is the source of all the trouble in the district!”

  “We are neither of us dreaming, Alwa-sahib. Jaimihr is the dreamer. Let him dream in Howrah City for a day or two, while we get ready. Let him lead his men away and leave the road clear for us to pass in and out.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, I know. He is your prisoner, and your honor is involved, and all that kind of thing. I’m offering you, to set off against that, a much greater honor than you ever experienced in your whole life yet, and I’ve put my order in the shape of a request for the sake of courtesy. I ask you again to let me arrange for Jaimihr to escape.”

  “I was mad. But it seems that I have passed my word!” swore Alwa.

  “I give you your word back again, then.”

  “Bismillah! I refuse it!”

  “Then I do with Jaimihr as I like?”

  “I gave my word, sahib.”

  “Thanks. You’ll be glad before we’ve finished. Now I’ve left the raising of as many men as can be raised to you, Alwa-sahib. You will remember that you gave your promise on that count, too.”

  “I will keep that promise, too, sahib.”

  “Good. You shall have a road clear by tonight.”

  He stepped back a pace, awaited their salute with the calm, assured authority of a general of division, returned it, and left the two Rajputs looking in each other’s eyes.

  “What is this, cousin, that thou hast brought me to?” demanded Alwa.

  Mahommed Gunga laughed and shook his sabre, letting it rattle in its scabbard.

  “This? This is the edge of the war that I promised thee a year ago! This is the service of which I spoke! This is the beginning of the blood-spilling! I have brought thee the leader of whom we spoke in Howrah City. Dost remember, cousin? I recall thy words!”

  “Ay, I recall them. I said then that I would follow a second Cunnigan, could such be found.”

  “And this is he!” vowed Mahommed Gunga.

  “Ho! But we Rangars have a leader! A man of men!”

  “But this plan of his? This loosing of the trapped wolf — what of that?”

  “I neither know nor care, as yet! I trust him! I am his man, as I was his father’s! I have seen him; I have heard him; I have felt his pulse in the welter of the wrath of God. I know him. Whatever plans he makes, whatever way he leads, those are my plans, my road! I serve the son of Cunnigan!”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Did he swear with his leg in a spring-steel trap

  And a tongue dry-cracked from thirst?

  Or down on his knees at his lady’s lap

  With the lady’s lips to his own, mayhap,

  And his head and his heart aburst?

  Nay! I have listened to vows enough

  And never the oath could bind

  Save that, that a free man chose to take

  For his own good reputation’s sake!

  They’re qualified — they’re tricks — they break —

  They’re words, the other kind!

  MAHOMMED GUNGA had long ago determined to “go it blind” on Cunningham. He had known him longest and had the greatest right. Rosemary McClean, who knew him almost least of all, so far as length of time was concerned, was ready now to trust him as far as the Risaldar dared go; her limit was as long and as devil-daring as Mahommed Gunga’s. Whatever Scots reserve and caution may have acted as a brake on Duncan McClean’s enthusiasm were offset by the fact that his word was given; so far as he was concerned, he was now as much and as obedient a servant of the Company as either of the others. Nor was his attitude astonishing.

  Alwa’s was the point of view that was amazing, unexpected, brilliant, soldierly, unselfish — all the things, in fact, that no one had the least right to expect it to turn out to be. Two or three thousand men looked to him as their hereditary chieftain who alone could help them hold their chins high amid an overwhelming Hindoo population; his position was delicate, and he might have been excused for much hesitation, and even for a point-blank refusal to do what he might have preferred personally. He and his stood to lose all that they owned — their honor — and the honor of their wives and families, should they fight on the wrong side. Even as a soldier who had passed his word, he might have been excused for a lot of wordy questioning of orders, for he had enough at stake to make anybody cautious.

  Yet, having said his say and sworn a dozen God-invoking Rangar oaths before he pledged his word, and then having pledged it, he threw Rajput tradition and the odds against him into one bottomless discard and proceeded to show Cunningham exactly what his fealty meant.

  “By the boots and beard of Allah’s Prophet!” he swore, growing freer-tongued now that his liberty of action had been limited. “Here we stand and talk like two old hags, Mahommed Gunga! My word is given. Let us find out now what this fledgling general of thine would have us do. If he is to release my prisoner, at least I would like to get amusement out of it!”

  So he and Mahommed Gunga swaggered across the courtyard to where Cunningham had joined the McCleans again.

  “We come with aid and not objections, sahib,” he assured him. “If we listen, it may save explanations afterward.”

  So at a sign from Cunningham they enlarged the circle, and the East and West — bearded and clean-shaven, priest and soldiers, Christian and Mohammedan — stood in a ring, while almost the youngest of them — by far the youngest man of them — laid down the law for all. His eyes were all for Rosemary McClean, but his gestures included all of them, and they all answered him with nods or grunts as each saw fit.

  “Send for the Sikh!” commanded Cunningham.

  Five minutes later, with a lump of native bread still in his fist, Jaidev Singh walked up and saluted.

  “Where is Byng-bahadur now?” asked Cunningham.

  “At Deeseera, sahib — not shut in altogether, but hard pressed. There came cholera, and Byng-bahadur camped outside the town. He has been striking, sahib, striking hard with all too few to help him. His irregulars, sahib, were disbanded at some one’s orders just before this outbreak, but some of them came back at word from him. And there were some of us Sikhs who knew him, and who would rather serve him and die than fight against him and live. He has now two British regiments with him, sadly thinned — some of my people, some Goorkhas, some men from the North — not very many more than two thousand men all told, having lost heavily in action and by disease. But word is going round from mouth to mouth that many sahibs have been superseded, and that only real sahibs such as Byng-bahadur have commands in this hour. Byng-bahadur is a man of men. We who are with him begin to have courage in our bones again. Is the answer ready? Yet a little while? It is well, sahib, I will rest. Salaam!”

  “You see,” said Cunningham, “the situation’s desperate. We’ve got to act. Alwa here stands pledged to protect Howrah and you have promised to aid Jaimihr. Somebody’s word has got to break, and you may take it from me that it will be the word of the weakest man! I think that that man is Jaimihr, but I can’t be sure in advance, and we’ve got to accept his promise to begin with. Go to him, Miss McClean, and make a very careful bargain with him along the line I mapped out for you. Alwa-sahib, I want witnesses, or rather overhearers. I want you and Mahommed Gunga to place yourselves near Jaimihr’s cell so that you can hear what he says. There won’t be any doubt then about who has broken promises. Are you ready, Miss McClean?”

  She was trembling, but from excitement and not fear. Both Rajputs saluted her as she started back for the cell, and whatever their Mohammedan ideas on women may have been, they chose to honor this one, who was so evidently one of them in the hour of danger. Duncan McClean seemed to be praying softly, for his lips moved.

  When the cell-door creaked open, Alwa and Mahommed Gunga were crouched one on either side, listening with the ears of soldiers that do not let many sounds or words escape them.

  “Jaimihr-sahib!” she whispered. “Jaimihr-sahib
!”

  “Ha! Sahiba!” Then he called her by half a dozen names that made the listening Rangars grin into their beards.

  “Jaimihr-sahib” — she raised her voice a little now— “if I help you to escape, will you promise me my safety under all conditions?”

  “Surely, sahiba!”

  “Do you swear to protect every living person on this hill, including the Alwa-sahib and Cunningham-sahib?”

  “Surely, sahiba.”

  “You swear it?”

  “I swear it on my honor. There is no more sacred oath.”

  “Then, listen. I can help you to escape now. I have a rope that is long enough to lower you over the parapet. I am prepared to risk the consequences, but I want to bargain with you for aid for my Countrymen.”

  Jaimihr did not answer.

  “The Alwa-sahib and his Rangars stand pledged to help your brother!”

  “I guessed at least that much,” laughed Jaimihr.

  “They would not help you against him under any circumstances. But they want to ride to the Company’s aid, and they might be prepared to protect you against him. They might guarantee the safety of your palace and your men’s homes. They might exact a guarantee from Howrah.”

  Jaimihr laughed aloud, careless of the risk of being overheard, and Rosemary knew that Cunningham’s little plan was useless even before it had been quite expounded. She felt herself trembling for the consequences.

  “Sahiba, there is only one condition that would make me ride to the British aid with all my men.”

  “Name it!”

  “Thou art it!”