by Talbot Mundy
“That man,” mumbled Ismail behind him, “is not as other sahibs I have known. He is a man, this one! He will do unexpected things!”
“Forward!” King called to them, thinking they were grumbling. “Forward, men of the ‘Hills’!”
Chapter VII
The owl he has eyes that are big for his size,
And the night like a book he deciphers;
“Too-woop!” he asserts, and “Hoo-woo-ip!” he cries,
And he means to remark he is awfully wise;
But he lags behind us, who are “on” to the lies
Of the hairy Himalayan knifers!
For eyes we be, of Empire, we,
Skinned and puckered and quick to see,
And nobody guesses how wise we be,
Nor hidden in what disguise we be,
A-cooking a sudden surprise we be
For hairy Himahlyan knifers!
After a time King urged his horse to a jog-trot, and the five Hillmen pattered in his wake, huddled so close together that the horse could easily have kicked more than one of them. The night was cold enough to make flesh creep; but it was imagination that herded them until they touched the horse’s rump and kept the whites of their eyes ever showing as they glanced to left and right. The Khyber, fouled by memory, looks like the very birthplace of the ghosts when the moon is fitful and a mist begins to flow.
“Cheloh!” King called merrily enough; but his horse shied at nothing, because horses have an uncanny way of knowing how their riders really feel. They led mules and the spare horse, instead of dragging at their bridles, pressed forward to have their heads among the men, and every once and again there would sound the dull thump of a fist on a beast’s nose — such being the attitude of men toward the lesser beasts.
They trotted forward until the bed of the Khyber began to grow very narrow, and Ali Masjid Fort could not be much more than a mile away, at the widest guess. Then King drew rein and dismounted, for he would have been challenged had he ridden much farther. A challenge in the Khyber after dark consists invariably of a volley at short range, with the mere words afterward, and the wise man takes precaution.
“Off with the mules’ packs!” he ordered, and the men stood round and stared. Darya Khan, leaning on the only rifle in the party, grinned like a post-office letter box.
“Truly,” growled Ismail, forgetting past expression of a different opinion, “this man is as mad as all the other Englishmen.”
“Were you ever bitten by one?” wondered King aloud.
“God forbid!”
“Then, off with the packs — and hurry!”
Ismail began to obey.
“Thou! Lord of the Rivers! (For that is what Darya Khan means.) What is thy calling?”
“Badragga” (guide), he answered. “Did she not send me back down the Pass to be a guide?”
“And before that what wast thou?”
“Is that thy business?” he snarled, shifting his rifle-barrel to the other hand. “I am what she says I am! She used to call me ‘Chikki’ — the Lifter! — and I was! There are those who were made to know it! If she says now I am badragga, shall any say she lies?”
“I say thou art unpacker of mules’ burdens!” answered King. “Begin!”
For answer the fellow grinned from ear to ear and thrust the rifle-barrel forward insolently. King, with the movement of determination that a man makes when about to force conclusions, drew up his sleeves above the wrist. At that instant the moon shone through the mist and the gold bracelet glittered in the moonlight.
“May God be with thee!” said “Lord of the Rivers” at once. And without another word he laid down his rifle and went to help off-load the mules.
King stepped aside and cursed softly. To a man who knows how to enforce his own authority, it is worse than galling to be obeyed because he wears a woman’s favor. But for a vein of wisdom that underlay his pride he would have pocketed the bracelet there and then and have refused to wear it again. But as he sweated his pride he overheard Ismail growl:
“Good for thee! He had taught thee obedience in another bat of the eye!”
“I obey her!” muttered Darya Khan.
“I, too,” said Ishmail. “So shall he before the week dies! But now it is good to obey him. He is an ugly man to disobey!”
“I obey him until she sets me free, then,” grumbled Darya Khan.
“Better for thee!” said Ismail.
The packs were laid on the ground, and the mules shook themselves, while the jackals that haunt the Khyber came closer, to sit in a ring and watch. King dug a flashlight out of one of the packs, gave it to Ismail to hold, sat on the other pack and began to write on a memorandum pad. It was a minute before he could persuade Ismail that the flashlight was harmless, and another minute before he could get him to hold it still. Then, however, he wrote swiftly.
“In the Khyber, a mile below you.
“Dear Old Man — I would like to run in and see you, but
circumstances don’t permit. Several people sent you
their regards by me. Herewith go two mules and their
packs. Make any use of the mules you like, but store
the loads where I can draw on them in case of need.
I would like to have a talk with you before taking the
rather desperate step I intend, but I don’t want to be
seen entering or leaving Ali Masjid. Can you come
down the Pass without making your intention known?
It is growing misty now. It ought to be easy. My men
will tell you where I am and show you the way. Why
not destroy this letter?
“Athelstan.”
He folded the note and stuck a postage stamp on it in lieu of seal. Then he examined the packs with the aid of the flashlight, sorted them and ordered two of the mules reloaded.
“You three!” he ordered then. “Take the loaded mules into Ali Masjid Fort. Take this chit, you. Give it to the sahib in command there.”
They stood and gaped at him, wide-eyed — then I came closer to see his eyes and to catch any whisper that Ismail might have for them. But Ismail and Darya Khan seemed full of having been chosen to stay behind; they offered no suggestions — certainly no encouragement to mutiny.
“To hear is to obey!” said the nearest man, seizing the note, for at all events that was the easiest task. His action decided the other two. They took the mules’ leading-reins and followed him. Before they had gone ten paces they were all swallowed in the mist that had begun to flow southeastward; it closed on them like a blanket, and in a minute more the clink of shod hooves had ceased. The night grew still, except for the whimpering of jackals. Ismail came nearer and squatted at King’s feet.
“Why, sahib?” he asked: and Darya Khan came closer, too. King had tied the reins of the two horses and the one remaining mule together in a knot and was sitting on the pack.
“Why not?” he countered.
Solemn, almost motionless, squatted on their hunkers, they looked like two great vultures watching an animal die.
“What have they done that they should be sent away?” asked Ismail. “What have they done that they should be sent to the fort, where the arrficer will put them in irons?”
“Why should he put them in irons?” asked King.
“Why not? Here in the Khyber there is often a price on men’s heads!”
“And not in Delhi?”
“In Delhi these were not known. There were no witnesses in Delhi. In the fort at Ali Masjid there will be a dozen ready to swear to them!”
“Then, why did they obey?” asked King.
“What is that on the sahib’s wrist?”
“You mean — ?”
“Sahib — if she said, ‘Walk into the fire or over that Cliff!’ there be many in these ‘Hills’ who would obey without murmuring!”
“I have nothing against them,” said King. “As long as they are my men I will not send them into a trap.”
/> “Good!” nodded Ismail and Darya Khan together, but they did not seem really satisfied.
“It is good,” said Ismail, “that she should have nothing against thee, sahib! Those three men are in thy keeping!”
“And I in thine?” King asked, but neither man answered him.
They sat in silence for five minutes. Then suddenly the two Hillmen shuddered, although King did not bat an eyelid. Din burst into being. A volley ripped out of the night and thundered down the Pass.
“How-utt! Hukkums dar?” came the insolent challenge half a minute after it — the proof positive that Ali Masjid’s guards neither slept nor were afraid.
A weird wail answered the challenge, and there began a tossing to and fro of words, that was prelude to a shouted invitation:
“Ud-vance-frrrennen-orsss-werrul!”
English can be as weirdly distorted as wire, or any other supple medium, and native levies advance distortion to the point of art; but the language sounds no less good in the chilly gloom of a Khyber night.
Followed another wait, this time of half an hour. Then a man’s footsteps — a booted, leather-heeled man, striding carelessly. Not far behind him was the softer noise of sandals. The man began to whistle Annie Laurie.
“Charles? That you?” called King.
“That you, old man?”
A man in khaki stepped into the moonlight. He was so nearly the image of Athelstan King that Ismail and Darya Khan stood up and stared. Athelstan strode to meet him. Their walk was the same. Angle for angle, line for line, they might have been one man and his shadow, except for three-quarters of an inch of stature.
“Glad to see you, old man,” said Athelstan.
“Sure, old chap!” said Charles; and they shook hands.
“What’s the desperate proposal?” asked the younger.
“I’ll tell you when we are alone.”
His brother nodded and stood a step aside. The three who had taken the note to the fort came closer — partly to call attention to themselves, partly to claim credit, partly because the outer silence frightened them. They elbowed Ismail and Darya Khan, and one of them received a savage blow in the stomach by way of retort from Ismail. Before that spark could start an explosion Athelstan interfered.
“Ismail! Take two men. Go down the Pass out of car-shot, and keep watch! Come back when I whistle thus — but no sooner!”
He put fingers between his teeth and blew until the night shrilled back at him. Ismail seized the leather bag and started to obey.
“Leave that bag. Leave it, I say!”
“But some man may steal it, sahib. How shall a thief know there is no money in it?”
“Leave it and go!”
Ismail departed, grumbling, and King turned on Darya Khan.
“Take the remaining man, and go up the Pass!” he ordered. “Stand out of ear-shot and keep watch. Come when I whistle!”
“But this one has a belly ache where Ismail smote him! Can a man with a belly ache stand guard? His moaning will betray both him and me!” objected “Lord of the Rivers.”
“Take him and go!” commanded King.
“But—”
King was careful now not to show his bracelet.
But there was something in his eye and in his attitude — a subtle suggestive something-or-other about him — that was rather more convincing than a pistol or a stick. Darya Khan thrust his rifle-end into the hurt man’s stomach for encouragement and started off into the mist.
“Come and ache out of the sahibs’ sight!” he snarled.
In a minute King and his brother stood unseen, unheard in the shadow by a patch of silver moonlight. Athelstan sat down on the mule’s pack.
“Well?” said the younger. “Tell me. I shall have to hurry. You see I’m in charge back there. They saw me come out, but I hope to teach ’em a lesson going back.”
Athelstan nodded. “Good!” he said. “I’ve a roving commission. I’m ordered to enter Khinjan Caves.”
His brother whistled. “Tall order! What’s your plan?”
“Haven’t one — yet. Know more when I’m nearer Khinjan. You can help no end.”
“How? Name it!”
“I shall go up in disguise. Nobody can put the stain on as well as you. But tell me something first. Any news of a holy war yet?”
His brother nodded. “Plenty of talk about one to come,” he said. “We keep hearing of that lashkar that we can’t locate, under a mullah whose name seems to change with the day of the week. And there are everlasting tales about the ‘Heart of the Hills.”’
“No explanation of ’em?” Athelstan asked him.
“None! Not a thing!”
“D’you know of Yasmini?”
“Heard of her of course,” said his brother.
“Has she come up the Pass?”
His brother laughed. “No, neither she nor a coach and four.”
“I have heard the contrary,” said Athelstan.
“Heard what, exactly?”
“She’s up the Pass ahead of me.”
“She hasn’t passed Ali Masjid!” said his brother, and Athelstan nodded.
“Are the Turks in the show yet?” asked Charles.
“Not yet. But I know they’re expected in.”
“You bet they’re expected in!” The younger man grinned from ear to ear. “They’re working both tides under to prepare the tribes for it. They flatter themselves they can set alight a holy war that will put Timour Ilang to shame. You should hear my jezailchies talk at night when they think I’m not listening!”
“The jezailchies’ll stand though,” said Athelstan.
“Stake my life on it!” said his brother. “They’ll stick to the last man!”
“I can’t tell you,” said Athelstan, “why we’re not attacking brother Turk before he’s ready. I imagine Whitehall has its hands full. But it’s likely enough that the Turk will throw in his lot with the Prussians the minute he’s ready to begin. Meanwhile my job is to help make the holy war seem unprofitable to the tribes, so that they’ll let the Turk down hard when he calls on ’em. Every day that I can point to forts held strongly in the Khyber is a day in my favor. There are sure to be raids. In fact, the more the merrier, provided they’re spasmodic. We must keep ’em separated — keep ’em from swarming too fast — while I sow other seeds among ’em.”
His brother nodded. Sowing seeds was almost that family’s hereditary job. Athelstan continued:
“Hang on to Ali Masjid like a leech, old man! The day one raiding lashkar gets command of the Khyber’s throat, the others’ll all believe they’ve won the game. Nothing’ll stop ’em then! Look out for traps. Smash ’em on sight. But don’t follow up too far!”
“Sure,” said Charles.
“Help me with the stain now, will you?”
With his flash-light burning as if its battery provided current by the week instead of by the minute, Athelstan dragged open the mule’s pack and produced a host of things. He propped a mirror against the pack and squatted in front of it. Then he passed a little bottle to his brother, and Charles attended to the chin-strap mark that would have betrayed him a British officer in any light brighter than dusk. In a few minutes his whole face was darkened to one hue, and Charles stepped back to look at it.
“Won’t need to wash yourself for a month!” he said. “The dirt won’t show!” He sniffed at the bottle. “But that stain won’t come off if you do wash — never worry! You’ll do finely.”
“Not yet, I won’t!” said Athelstan, picking up a little safety razor and beginning on his mustache. In a minute he had his upper lip bare. Then his brother bent over him and rubbed in stain where the scrubby mustache had been.
After that Athelstan unlocked the leather bag that had caused Ismail so much concern and shook out from it a pile of odds and ends at which his brother nodded with perfect understanding. The principal item was a piece of silk — forty or fifty yards of it — that he proceeded to bind into a turban on his head, his broth
er lending him a guiding, understanding finger at every other turn. When that was done, the man who had said he looked in the least like a British officer would have lied.
One after another he drew on native garments, picking them from the pile beside him. So, by rapid stages he developed into a native hakim — by creed a converted Hindu, like Rewa Gunga, — one of the men who practise yunani, or modern medicine, without a license and with a very great deal of added superstition, trickery and guesswork.
“I wouldn’t trust you with a ha’penny!” announced his brother when he had done.
“Really? As good as all that?”
“The part to a T.”
“Well — take these into the fort for me, will you?” His brother caught the bundle of discarded European clothes and tucked them under his arm. “Now, re-member, old man! This is the biggest show there has ever been! We’ve got to hold the Khyber, and we can’t do it by riding pell-mell into the first trap set for us! We must smash when the fighting starts — but we mayn’t miss! We mayn’t run past the mark! Be a coward, if that’s the name you care to give it. You needn’t tell me you’ve got orders to hunt skirmishers to a standstill, because I know better. I know you’ve just had your wig pulled for laming two horses!”
“How d’you know that?”
“Never mind! I’ve been seconded to your crowd. I’m your senior, and I’m giving you orders. This show isn’t sport, but the real red thing, and I want to count on you to fight like a trained man, not like a natural-born fool. I want to know you’re holding Ali Masjid like Fabius held Rome, by being slow and wily, just for the sake of the comfortable feeling it will give me when I’m alone among the ‘Hills.’ Hit hard when you have to, but for God’s sake, old man, ware traps!”
“All right,” said his brother.
“Then good-by, old man!”
“Good-by, Athelstan!”
They stood facing and shook hands. Where had been a man and his reflection in the mist, there now seemed to be the same man and a native. Athelstan King had changed his very nature with his clothes. He stood like a native — moved like one; even his voice was changed, as if — like the actor who dyed himself all over to act Othello — he could do nothing by halves.
