by Talbot Mundy
“On the other hand,” said Kirby, diving into his mess-jacket and shrugging his neat shoulders until they fitted into it as a charger fits into his skin, “under the circumstances — and taking into consideration certain private information that has reached me — if I were supposed to be behind a bolted door in the bazaar, I’d rather appreciate it if Ranjoor Singh, for instance, were to — ah — take action of some kind.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“Hallo — what’s that?”
A motor-car, driven at racing speed, thundered up the lane between the old stacked cannon and came to a panting standstill by the colonel’s outer door. A gruff question was answered gruffly, and a man’s step sounded on the veranda. Then the servant flung the door wide, and a British soldier stepped smartly into the room, saluted and held out a telegram.
Kirby tore it open. His eyes blazed, but his hands were steady. The soldier held out a receipt book and a pencil, and Kirby took time to scribble his initials in the proper place. Warrington, humming to himself, began to squeeze the rain out of his tunic to hide impatience. The soldier saluted, faced about and hurried to the waiting car. Then Kirby read the telegram. He nodded to Warrington. Warrington, his finger-ends pressed tight into his palms and his forearms quivering, raised one eyebrow.
“Yes,” said Kirby.
“War, sir?”
“War.”
“We’re under orders?”
“Not yet. It says, ‘War likely to be general. Be ready.’ Here, read it for yourself.”
“They wouldn’t have sent us that if—”
“Addressed to 0.C. troops. They had those ready written out and sent one to every O.C. on the list the second they knew.”
“Well, sir?”
“Leave the room, Lal Singh!”
The servant, who was screwing up his courage to edge nearer, did as he was told.
Kirby stood still, facing the mirror, with both arms behind him.
“They’re certain to send native Indian troops to Europe,” he said.
“We’re ready, sir! We’re ready to a shoe-string! We’ll go first!”
“We’ll be last, Warrington, supposing we go at all, unless we find Ranjoor Singh! They’ll send us to do police work in Bengal, or to guard the Bombay docks and watch the other fellows go. I’m going to the club. You’d better come with me. Hurry into dry clothes.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ll just have time to drive past the house where you say he’s supposed to be, if you hurry.”
The last three words were lost, for Captain Warrington had turned into a thunderbolt and disappeared; the noise of his going was as when a sudden windstorm slams all the doors at once. A moment later he could be heard shouting from outside his quarters to his servant to be ready for him.
He certainly bathed, for the noise of the tub overturning when he was done with it was unmistakable. And eight minutes after his departure he was back again, dressed, cloaked and ready.
“Got your pistol, sir?”
“Yes,” said Kirby.
“Thought I’d bring mine along. You never know, you know.”
Together they climbed into the colonel’s dog-cart, well smothered under waterproofs. Kirby touched up another of his road-devouring walers, the sais grabbed at the back seat and jumped for his life, and they shot out of the compound, down the line of useless cannon and out into the street, taking the corner as the honor of the regiment required. Then the two big side-lamps sent their shafts of light straight down the metalled, muddy road, and the horse settled down between them to do his equine “demdest”; there was a touch on the reins he recognized.
They reached the edge of the bazaar to find the crowd stirring, although strangely mute.
“They’ll have got the news in an hour from now,” said Kirby. “They can smell it already.”
“Wonder how much truth there is in all this talk about German merchants and propaganda.”
“H-rrrrr-umph!” said Kirby.
“Steady, sir! Lookout!”
The near wheel missed a native woman by a fraction of an inch, and her shrill scream followed them. But Kirby kept his eyes ahead, and the shadows continued to flash by them in a swift procession until Warrington leaned forward, and then Kirby leaned back against the reins.
“There he is, sir!”
They reined to a halt, and a drenched trooper jumped up behind to kneel on the back seat and speak in whispers.
“No sign of him at all?” asked Kirby.
“No, sahib. But there has been a light behind a shutter above there. It comes and goes. They light it and extinguish it.”
“Has anybody come out of that door?”
“No, sahib.”
“None gone in?”
“None.”
“Any other door to the place?”
“There may be a dozen, sahib. That is an old house, and it backs up against six others.”
“What we suffer from in this country is information,” said Warrington, beginning to hum to himself.
But Kirby signed to the trooper, and the man began to scramble out of the cart.
“Between now and our return, report to the club if anything happens,” called Warrington.
The whip swished, the horse shot forward, and they were off again as if they would catch up with the hurrying seconds. People scattered to the right and left in front of them; a constable at a street crossing blew his whistle frantically; once the horse slipped in a deep puddle, and all but came to earth; but they reached the club without mishap and drove up the winding drive at a speed more in keeping with convention.
“Oh, hallo, Kirby! Glad you’ve come!” said a voice.
“Evening, sir!”
Kirby descended, almost into the arms of a general in evening dress. They walked into the club together, leaving the adjutant wondering what to do. He decided to follow them at a decent distance, still humming and looking happy enough for six men.
“You’ll be among the first,” said the general. “Are you ready, Kirby — absolutely ready?”
“Yes,”
“The wires are working to the limit. It isn’t settled yet whether troops go from here via Canada or the Red Sea — probably won’t be until the Navy’s had a chance to clear the road. All that’s known — yet — is that Belgium’s invaded, and that every living man-jack who can be hurried to the front in time to keep the Germans out of Paris will be sent. Hold yourself ready to entrain any minute, Kirby.”
“Is martial law proclaimed yet?” asked Kirby in a voice that the general seemed to think was strained, for he looked around sharply.
“Not yet. Why?”
“Information, sir. Anything else?”
“No. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Kirby nearly ran into Warrington as he hurried back toward the door.
“Find a police officer!” he ordered.
“They all passed you a minute ago, sir,” answered Warrington. “They’re headed for police headquarters. Heard one of ’em say so.”
Kirby pulled himself together. A stranger would not have noticed that he needed it, but Warrington at his elbow saw the effort and was glad.
“Go to police headquarters, then,” he ordered. “Try to get them to bring a dozen men and search that house; but don’t say that Ranjoor Singh’s in there.”
“Where’ll I find you, sir?”
“Barracks. Oh, by the way, we’re a sure thing for the front.”
“I knew there was some reason why I kept feelin’ cheerful!” said Warrington. “The risaldar-major looks like gettin’ left.”
“Unless,” said Kirby, “you can get the police to act tonight — or unless martial law’s proclaimed at once, and I can think of an excuse to search the house with a hundred men myself. Find somebody to give you a lift. So long.”
Kirby swung into his dog-cart, the sais did an acrobatic turn behind, and again the horse proceeded to lower records. Zigzag-wise, through streets that were growing more and y
et more thronged instead of silent, they tore barrack- ward, missing men by a miracle every twelve yards. Kirby’s eyes were on a red blotch, now, that danced and glowed above the bazaar a mile ahead. It reminded him of pain.
Presently the horse sniffed smoke, and notified as much before settling down into his stride again. The din of hoarse excitement reached Kirby’s ears, and in a moment more a khaki figure leaped out of a shadow and a panting trooper snatched at the back seat, was grabbed by the sais, and swung up in the rear.
“Sahib—”
“All right. I know,” said Kirby, though he did not know how he knew.
They raced through another dozen streets until the glare grew blinding and the smoke nearly choked him. Then they were stopped entirely by the crowd, and Colonel Kirby sat motionless; for he had a nearly perfect view of a holocaust. The house in which Ranjoor Singh was supposed to be was so far burned that little more than the walls was standing.
CHAPTER 6
The North Wind hails from the Northern snows,
(His voice is loud — oh, listen ye!)
He cried of death — the death he knows —
Of the mountain death. (Oh, listen ye!)
Who looks to the North for love looks long!
Who goes to the North for gain goes wrong!
Men’s hearts are hard, and the goods belong
To the strong in the North! (Oh, listen ye!)
Whose lot is fair — who loves his life —
Walks wide, stays wide of the Northern knife!
(Ye men o’ the world, oh, listen ye!)
— from Yasmini’s Song.
THERE were police and to spare now, nor any doubt of it. Even the breath of war’s beginning could not keep them elsewhere when a fire had charge in the densest quarters of the danger zone. The din of ancient Delhi roared skyward, and the Delhi crowd surged and fought to be nearer to the flame; but the police already had a cordon around the building, and another detachment was forcing the swarms of men and women into eddying movement in which something like a system developed presently, for there began to be a clear space in which the fire brigade could work.
“Any bodies recovered?” asked Colonel Kirby, leaning from the seat of his high dogcart to speak to the English fireman who stood sentry over the water- plug.
“No, sir. The fire had too much headway before the alarm went in. When we got here the whole lower part was red-hot.”
“Any means of escape from the building from the rear?”
“As many as from a rat-run, sir. That house is as old as Delhi — about; and there are as many galleries up above connecting with houses at the rear as there are run-holes from cellar to cellar.”
“Any chance for anybody down in the cellar?”
“Doubt it, sir. The fire started there; the water’ll do what the fire left undone. Pretty bad trap, sir, I should say, if you asked me.”
“No reports of escape or rescue?”
“None that I’ve heard tell of.”
“And the house seems doomed, eh? Be some days before they can sort the debris over?”
“Lucky if we save the ten houses nearest it! Look, sir! There she goes!”
The roof fell in, sending five separate volumes of red sparks up into the cloudy night as floor after floor collapsed beneath the weight. The thunder of it was almost drowned in a roar of delight, for the crowd, sensing the new spirit of its masters, was in a mood for the terrible. Then silence fell, as if that had been an overture.
Out of the silence and through the sea of hot humanity, the white of his dress-shirt showing through the unbuttoned front of a military cloak, Warrington rode a borrowed Arab pony, the pony’s owner’s sais running beside him to help clear a passage. Warrington was still humming to himself as he dismissed both sais and pony and climbed up beside Kirby in the dog-cart.
“If Ranjoor Singh’s in that house, he’s in a predicament,” he said cheerfully. “I went to police headquarters, and the first officer I spoke to told me to go to hell. So I went into the next office, where all the big panjandrums hide — and some of the little ones — and they told me what you know, sir, that the house is in flames and every policeman who can be spared is on the job, so I came to see. If Ranjoor Singh’s in there — but I don’t believe he is!”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t believe the Lord ‘ud send us active service — not a real red war against a real enemy — and play a low-down trick on Ranjoor Singh. Ranjoor Singh’s a gentleman. It wouldn’t be sportsmanlike to let him die before the game begins.”
For a minute or two they watched the sparks go up and the crowd striking at the rats that still seemed to find some place of exit.
“There’s a place below there that isn’t red — hot yet,” said Kirby. “Those rats are not cooked through. Did you tell the police that you wanted a search warrant?”
“Yes. Might as well argue with an ant-heap. All of ’em too busy tryin’ for commissions in the Volunteers to listen. They’ve got it all cut an’ dried — somebody in the basement upset a lamp, according to them — nobody upstairs — nobody to turn in the alarm until the fire had complete charge! They offer to prove it when the fire’s out and they can sort the ashes.”
“Um-m-m! Tell ’em a trooper of ours saw a light there?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“‘Doubtless the lamp that was kicked over!’”
Colonel Kirby clucked to his horse and worked a way out to the edge of the crowd with the skill of one whose business is to handle men in quantity. Then he shot like a dart up side streets and made for barracks by a detour.
“Gad!” said Warrington suddenly.
“Who’s told ’em d’you suppose?”
“Dunno, sir. News leaks in Delhi like water from a lump of ice.”
In the darkness of the barrack wall there were more than a thousand men, women and children, many of them Sikhs, who clamored to be told things, and by the gate was a guard of twenty men drawn up to keep the crowd at bay. The shrill voices of the women drowned the answers of the native officer as well as the noise of the approaching wheels, and the guard had to advance into the road to clear a way for its colonel.
The native officer saluted and grinned.
“Is it true, sahib?” he shouted, and Kirby raised his whip in the affirmative. From that instant the guard began to make more noise than the crowd beyond the wall.
Kirby whipped his horse and took the drive that led to his quarters at a speed there was no overhauling. He wanted to be alone. But his senior major had forestalled him and was waiting by his outer door.
“Oh, hallo, Brammle. Yes, come in.”
“Is it peace, Jehu?” asked Brammle.
“War. We’ll be the first to go. No, no route yet — likely to get it any minute.”
“I’ll bet, then. Bet you it’s Bombay — a P. and O. — Red Sea and Marseilles! Oh, who wouldn’t be light cavalry? First-class all the way, first aboard, and first crack at ’em! Any orders, sir?”
“Yes. Take charge. I’m going out, and Warrington’s going with me. Don’t know how long we’ll be gone. If anybody asks for me, tell him I’ll be back soon. Tell the men.”
“Somebody’s told ’em — listen!”
“Tell ’em that whoever misbehaves from now forward will be left behind. Give ’em my definite promise on that point!”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No.”
“Then see you later.”
“See you later.”
The major went away, and Kirby turned to his adjutant.
“Go and order the closed shay, Warrington. Pick a driver who won’t talk. Have some grub sent in here to me, and join me at it in half an hour; say fifteen minutes later. I’ve some things to see to.”
Kirby wanted very much to be alone. The less actual contact a colonel has with his men, and the more he has with his officers, the better — as a rule; but it does not pay to think in the presence o
f either. Officers and men alike should know him as a man-who-has-thought, a man in whose voice is neither doubt nor hesitation.
Thirty minutes later Warrington found him just emerging from a brown study.
“India’s all roots-in-the-air an’ dancin’!” he remarked cheerfully. “There was a babu sittin’ by the barrack gate who offers to eat a German a day, as long as we’ll catch ’em for him. He’s the same man that was tryin’ for a job as clerk the other day.”
“Fat man?”
“Very.”
“Uh-h-h! No credentials — bad hat! Send him packing?”
“The guard did.”
Food was laid on a small table by a silent servant who had eyes in the back of his head and ears that would have caught and analyzed the lightest whisper; but the colonel and his adjutant ate hurriedly in silence, and the only thing remarkable that the servant was able to report to the regiment afterward was that both drank only water. Since all Sikhs are supposed to be abstainers from strong drink, that was accepted as a favorable omen.
The shay arrived on time to the second. It was the only closed carriage the regiment owned — a heavy C-springed landau thing, taken over from the previous mess. The colonel peered through outer darkness at the box seat, but the driver did not look toward him; all he could see was that there was only one man on the box.
“Where to?” asked Warrington.
“The club.”
Warrington jumped in after him, and the driver sent his pair straining at the traces as if they had a gun behind them. Three hundred yards beyond the barrack wall Colonel Kirby knelt on the front seat and poked the driver from behind.
“Oh! You?” he remarked, as he recognized a native risaldar of D Squadron. Until the novelty wears off it would disconcert any man to discover suddenly that his coachman is a troop commander.
“D’you know a person named Yasmini?” he asked.
“Who does not, sahib?”
“Drive us to her house — in a hurry!”
The immediate answer was a plunge as the whip descended on both horses and the heavy carriage began to sway like a boat in a beam-sea swell. They tore through streets that were living streams of human beings — streams that split apart to let them through and closed like water again behind them. With his spurred heels on the front seat, Warrington hummed softly to himself as ever, happy, so long as there were only action.
