Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  It was growing by that time to be very nearly dawn, and the weather did not improve. The rain came down in squalls and sheets and the wind screamed through, it, and we were famished as well as wet to the skin — all, that is to say, except Tugendheim, who had enjoyed the shelter of the hut. The teeth of many of the men were chattering. Yet we stood about for an hour more, because it was too dark and too dangerous to march over unknown ground. I suspect Ranjoor Singh did not dare squander what little spirit the men had left; if they had suspected him of losing them in the dark they might have lost heart altogether.

  But at last there grew a little cold color in the sky and the sea took on a shade of gray. Then Ranjoor Singh told off the same four men who had first arrested him to guard our prisoner by day and night, taking turns to pretend to be his servant, with orders to give instant alarm should his movements seem suspicious. After that Tugendheim was searched, but, nothing of interest being found on him, his money and various little things were given back.

  “Had he no pistol?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

  “Yes,” said I, “but I took it when we bound and gagged him on the steamer.” And I drew it out and showed it, feeling proud, never having had such a weapon — for the law of British India is strict.

  “Why did you not tell me?” he asked, and I was silent. “Give it here!” said he, and I gave it up. He examined it, drew out the cartridges, and passed it to Tugendheim, who pocketed it with a laugh. It was three days before he spoke to Tugendheim and caused him to give me the pistol back. I think the men were impressed, and I was glad of it, although at the time I felt ashamed.

  Presently Ranjoor Singh himself chose an advance guard of twenty men and put me in command of it.

  “March eastward,” he ordered me. “According to my map, you should find a road within a mile or two running about northeast and southwest; turn to the left along it. Halt if you see armed men, and send back word. Keep a lookout for food, for the men are starving, but loot nothing without my order! March!” said he.

  “May I ask a question, sahib,” said I, still lingering.

  “Ask,” said he.

  “Would you truly have burned the German alive?” said I, and he laughed.

  “That would have been a big fire,” said he. “Do you think none would have come to investigate?”

  “That is what I was thinking,” said I.

  “Do such thoughts burn your brain?” said he. “A threat to a bully — to a fool, folly — to a drunkard, drink — to each, his own! Be going now!”

  So I saluted him and led away, wondering in my heart, the weather growing worse, if that were possible, but my spirits rising. I knew now that my back was toward Gallipoli, where the nearest British were, yet my heart felt bold with love for Ranjoor Singh and I did not doubt we would strike a good blow yet for our friends, although I had no least idea who Wassmuss was, nor whither we were marching. If I had known — eh, but listen, sahib — this is a tale of tales!

  CHAPTER V

  If a man stole my dinner, I might let him run; but if he stole my horse, he and I and death would play hide-and-seek! — RANJOOR SINGH

  That dawn, sahib, instead of lessening, the rainstorm grew into a deluge that saved us from being seen. As I led my twenty men forward I looked back a time or two, and once I could dimly see steamers and some smaller boats tossing on the sea. Then the fiercest gust of rain of all swept by like a curtain, and it was as if Europe had been shut off forever — so that I recalled Gooja Singh’s saying on the transport in the Red Sea, about a curtain being drawn and our not returning that way. My twenty men marched numbly, some seeming half-asleep.

  By and by, with heels sucking in the mud, we came to the road of which Ranjoor Singh had spoken and I turned along it. It had been worn into ruts and holes by heavy traffic and now the rain made matters worse, so we made slow progress. But before long I was able to make out dimly through the storm what looked like a railway station. There was a line of telegraph poles, and where it crossed our road there were buildings enough to have contained two regiments. I could see no sign of men, but in that light, with rain swirling hither and thither, it was difficult to judge. I halted, and sent a man back to warn Ranjoor Singh.

  We blew on our fingers and stamped to keep life in ourselves, until at the end of ten minutes he came striding out of the rain like a king on his way to be crowned. My twenty were already speechless with unhappiness and hunger, but he had instilled some of his own spirit into the rest of the regiment, for they marched with a swing in good order. He had Tugendheim close beside him and had inspired him, too. It may be the man was grinning in hope of our capture within an hour, and in that case he was doomed to disappointment. He was destined also to see the day when he should hope for our escape. But from subsequent acquaintance with him I think he was appreciating the risk we ran and Ranjoor Singh’s great daring. I say this for Tugendheim, that he knew and respected resolution when he saw it.

  When I had pointed out what I could see of the lay of the land, Ranjoor Singh left me in charge and marched away with Tugendheim and Tugendheim’s four guards. I looked about for shelter, but there was none. We stood shivering, the rain making pools at our feet that spread and became one. So I made the men mark time and abused them roundly for being slack about it, they grumbling greatly because our prisoner was marched away to shelter, whereas we must stand without. I bullied them as much as I dared, and we stamped the road into a veritable quagmire, as builders tread mud for making sun-dried bricks, so that when three-quarters of an hour had passed and a man came running back with a message from Ranjoor Singh there was a little warmth in us. I did not need to use force to get the column started.

  “Come!” said the trooper. “There is food, and shelter, and who knows what else!”

  So we went best foot first along the road, feeling less than half as hungry and not weak at all, now that we knew food was almost within reach. Truly a man’s desires are the vainest part of him. Less hungry we were at once, less weary, and vastly less afraid; yet, too much in a hurry to ask questions of the messenger!

  Ranjoor Singh came out of a building to meet us, holding up his hand, so I made the men halt and began to look about. It was certainly a railway station, with a long platform, and part of the platform was covered by a roof. Parallel to that was a great shed with closed sides, and through its half-open door I could smell hay — a very good smell, sahib, warming to the heart. To our right, across what might be called a yard — thus — were many low sheds, and in one there were horses feeding; in others I could see Turkish soldiers sprawling on the straw, but they took no notice of us. Three of the low sheds were empty, and Ranjoor Singh pointed to them.

  “Let all except twenty men,” said he, “go and rest in those sheds. If any one asks questions, say only ‘Allah!’ So they will think you are Muhammadans. If that should not seem sufficient, say ‘Wassmuss!’ But unless questioned many times, say nothing! As you value your lives, say nothing more than those two words to any one at all! Rather be thought fools than be hanged before breakfast!”

  So all but twenty of the men went and lay down on straw in the three empty sheds, and I took the twenty and followed him into the great shed with closed sides. Therein, besides many other things, we beheld great baskets filled with loaves of bread, — not very good bread, nor at all fresh, but staff of life itself to hungry men. He bade the men count out four loaves for each and every one of us, and then at last, he gave me a little information.

  “The Germans in Stamboul,” he said, “talked too loud of this place in my hearing.” I stood gnawing a loaf already, and I urged him to take one, but he would eat nothing until all the men should have been fed. “They detrain Dervish troops at this point,” said he, “and march them to the shore to be shipped to Gallipoli, because they riot and make trouble if kept in barracks in Skutari or Stamboul. This bread was intended for two train-loads of them.”

  “Then the Dervishes will riot after all!” said I, and he laughed — a
thing he does seldom.

  “The sooner the better!” said he. “A riot might cover up our tracks even better than this rain.”

  “Is there no officer in charge here?” I asked him,

  “Aye, a Turkish officer,” said he. “I heard the Germans complain about his inefficiency. A day or two later and we might have found a German in his place. He mistakes us for friends. What else could we be?” And he laughed again.

  “But the telegraph wire?” said I.

  “Is down,” he said, “both between here and Skutari, and between here and Inismid. God sent this storm to favor us, and we will praise God by making use of it.”

  “Where is Tugendheim?” said I, but it was some minutes before he answered me, for, since the loaves were counted he went to see them distributed, and I followed him.

  “Tugendheim,” he said at last, “has driven the Turkish officer to seek refuge in seclusion! I used the word ‘Wassmuss,’ and that had effect; but Tugendheim’s insolence was our real passport. Nobody here doubts that we are in full favor at Stamboul. Wassmuss can keep for later on.”

  “Sahib,” said I, seeing he was in good humor now, “tell me of this Wassmuss.”

  “All in good time!” he answered. And when he has decided it is not yet time to answer, it is wisest to be still. After fifteen or twenty minutes with the men, I followed him across the yard and entered the station waiting-room — a pretentious place, with fancy bronze handles on the doors and windows.

  Lo, there sat Tugendheim, with his hands deep in his pockets and a great cigar between his teeth. His four guards stood with bayonets fixed, making believe to wait on him, but in truth watching him as caged wolves eye their dinner. Ranjoor Singh was behaving almost respectfully toward him, which filled me with disgust; but presently I saw and understood. There was a little window through which to sell tickets, and down in one corner of it the frosting had been rubbed from off the glass.

  “There is an eye,” said I in an undertone, “that I could send a bullet through without difficulty!” But Ranjoor Singh called me a person without judgment and turned his back.

  “When do we start?” asked Tugendheim.

  “When the men have finished eating,” he answered, and at that I stared again, for I knew the men’s mood and did not believe it possible to get them away without a long rest, nor even in that case without argument.

  “What if they refuse?” said I, and Ranjoor Singh faced about to look at me.

  “Do you refuse?” he asked. “Go and warn them to finish eating and be ready to march in twenty minutes!”

  So I went, and delivered the message, and it was as I had expected, only worse.

  “So those are his words? What are words!” said they. “Ask him whither he would lead us!” shouted Gooja Singh. He had been talking in whispers with a dozen men at the rear of the middle hut.

  “If I take him such dogs’ answers,” said I, “he will dismiss me and there will be no more a go-between.”

  “Go, take him this message,” shouted Gooja Singh. “But for his sinking of our ship we should now be among friends in Gallipoli! Could we not have seized another ship and plundered coal? Tell him, therefore, if he wishes to lead us he must use good judgment. Are we leaves blown hither and thither for his amusement? Nay! We belong to the British Army! Tell him we will march toward Gallipoli or nowhither! We will march until opposite Gallipoli, and search for some means of crossing.”

  “I will take that as Gooja Singh’s message, then,” said I.

  “Nay, nay!” said he. “That is the regiment’s message!” And the dozen men with whom he had been whispering nodded acquiescence. “Is Gooja Singh the regiment?” I asked.

  “No,” said he, “but I am OF the regiment. I am not a man running back and forth, false to both sides!”

  I was not taken by surprise. Something of that sort sooner or later I knew must come, but I would have preferred another time and place.

  “Be thou go-between then, Gooja Singh!” said I. “I accepted only under strong persuasion. Gladly I relinquish! Go thou, and carry thy message to Ranjoor Singh!” And I sat down in the entrance of the middle hut, as if greatly relieved of heavy burdens. “I have finished!” I said. “I am not even havildar! I will request reduction to the ranks!”

  For about a minute I sat while the men stared in astonishment. Then they began to rail at me, but I shook my head. They coaxed me, but I refused. Presently they begged me, but I took no notice.

  “Let Gooja Singh be your messenger!” said I. And at that they turned on Gooja Singh, and some of them went and dragged him forward, he resisting with arms and feet. They set him down before me.

  “Say the word,” said they, “and he shall be beaten!”

  So I got on my feet again and asked whether they were soldiers or monkey-folk, to fall thus suddenly on one of their number, and he a superior. I bade them loose Gooja Singh, and I laid my hand on his shoulder, helping him to his feet.

  “Are we many men with many troubles, or one regiment?” said I.

  At that most of them grew ashamed, and those who had assaulted Gooja Singh began to make excuses, but he went back to the rear to the men who had whispered with him. They drew away, and he sat in silence apart, I rejoicing secretly at his discomfiture but fearful nevertheless.

  “Now!” said I. “Appoint another man to wait on Ranjoor Singh!”

  But they cried out, “Nay! We will have none but you. You have done well — we trust you — we are content!”

  I made much play of unwillingness, but allowed them to persuade me in the end, yielding a little at a time and gaining from them ever new protestations of their loyalty until at last I let them think they had convinced me.

  “Nevertheless,” said they, “tell Ranjoor Singh he must lead us toward Gallipoli!” They were firm on that point.

  So I went back to the waiting-room and told Ranjoor Singh all that had happened, omitting nothing, and he stood breaking pieces from a loaf of bread, with his fingers, not burying his teeth into the loaf as most of us had done. He asked me the names of the men who had so spoken and I told him, he repeating them and considering each name for a moment or two.

  “Have they finished eating?” he asked at last, and I told him they had as good as finished. So he ate his own bread faster.

  “Come,” he ordered presently, beckoning to Tugendheim and the four guards to follow.

  It was raining as hard as ever as we crossed the station yard, and the men had excuse enough for disliking to turn out. Yet they scented development, I think, and none refused, although they fell in just not sullenly enough to call for reprimand. Ranjoor Singh drew the roll from his inner pocket and they all answered to their names. Then, without referring to the list again, he named those who I had told him used high words to me, beginning at Gooja Singh and omitting none.

  “Fall out!” he ordered. And when they had obeyed, “Fall in again over there on the left!”

  There were three-and-twenty of them, Gooja Singh included, and they glared at me. So did others, and I wondered grimly how many enemies I had made. But then Ranjoor Singh cleared his throat and we recognized again the old manner that had made a squadron love him to the death at home in India — the manner of a man with good legs under him and no fear in his heart. All but the three-and-twenty forgot forthwith my part in the matter.

  “Am I to be herdsman, then?” said he, pitching his voice against wind and rain. “Are ye men — or animals? Hunted animals would have known enough to eat and hurry on. Hunted animals would be wise enough to run in the direction least expected. Hunted animals would take advantage of ill weather to put distance between them and their foe. Some of you, then, must be less than animals! Men I can lead. Animals I can drive. But what shall be done with such less-than-animals as can neither be led nor driven?”

  Then he turned about half-left to face the three-and-twenty, and stood as it were waiting for their answer, with one hand holding the other wrist behind his back. And they stood
shifting feet and looking back at him, extremely ill-at-ease.

  “What is the specific charge against us?” asked Gooja Singh, for the men began to thrust him forward. But Ranjoor Singh let no man draw him from the main point to a lesser one.

  “You have leave,” said he, “to take one box of cartridges and go! Gallipoli lies that way!” And he pointed through the rain.

  Then the two-and-twenty forgot me and began at once abusing Gooja Singh, he trying to refute them, and Ranjoor Singh watching them all with a feeling, I thought, of pity. Tugendheim, trying to make the ends of his mustaches stand upright in the rain, laughed as if he thought it a very great joke; but the rest of the men looked doubtful. I knew they were unwilling to turn their backs on any of our number, yet afraid to force an issue, for Ranjoor Singh had them in a quandary. I thought perhaps I might mediate.

  “Sahib,” said I.

  “Silence!” he ordered. So I stepped back to my place, and a dozen men laughed at me, for which I vowed vengeance. Later when my wrath had cooled I knew the reprimand and laughter wiped out suspicion of me, and when my chance came to take vengeance on them I refrained, although careful to reassert my dignity.

  After much argument, Gooja Singh turned his back at last on the two-and-twenty and saluted Ranjoor Singh with great abasement.

  “Sahib,” said he, “we have no wish to go one way and you another. We be of the regiment.”

  “Ye have set yourselves up to be dictators. Ye have used wild words. Ye have tried to seduce the rest. Ye have my leave to go!” said Ranjoor Singh.

  “Nay!” said Gooja Singh. “We will not go! We follow the regiment!”

  “Will ye follow like dogs that pick up offal, then?” he asked, and Gooja Singh said, “Nay! We be no dogs, but true men! We be faithful to the salt, sahib,” said he. “We be sorry we offended. We be true men — true to the salt.”