by Talbot Mundy
“So that message has been sent?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“Yes,” said the German.
“Then send this message also,” said Ranjoor Singh: “That the end has certainly come. Then close up your machine because unless you wish to fight for your existence there will be no more messages sent or received by you between here and Afghanistan.”
I thought that a strange message for Ranjoor Singh to bid him send. I did not believe that one of us, however weary, was willing to accept relief at the price of our friends’ lives. Nevertheless, I said nothing, having learned it is not wise to draw too swift conclusions when Ranjoor Singh directs the strategy.
But the German evidently thought so, too, for his eyes looked startled, and I took comfort from that.
“I understand you wish to reach Afghanistan?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“That is our eventual destination,” said the German.
“Very well,” said Ranjoor Singh. “Pack up your machine. Then I will permit your journey to the Afghan border, unhampered by me, on two conditions.”
“What two conditions?” asked the German.
“That your machine shall remain packed up until you reach Afghanistan, and that your doctor shall divide his services until then equally between your men and mine.”
“And after that, what?” asked the German.
“I have nothing to do with Afghanistan,” said Ranjoor Singh. “Keep the bargain and you are free as far as I am concerned to do what you like when you get there.”
So we had a doctor again at last, for the German agreed to the terms. Not one of us but needed medical aid, and the men were too glad to have their hurts attended, to ask very many questions; but they were certainly surprised, and suspicious of the new arrangement, and I did not dare tell them what I had overheard for fear lest suspicion of Ranjoor Singh be reawakened. I refused even to tell the other daffadars, which caused some slight estrangement between them and me. However, Ranjoor Singh was as conscious of that risk as I, and during all the rest of the long march he kept their camp and ours, their column and ours half an hour’s ride apart — sometimes even farther — sometimes half a day apart, to the disgust of the doctor, who had that much more trouble, but with the result of preventing greater friction.
To tell of all that journey across Persia would be but to remember weariness — weariness of horse and men. Sometimes we were attacked; more often we were run away from. We grew sick, our wounds festered and our hearts ached. Horses died and the vultures ate them. Men died, and we buried or burned their bodies according or not as we had fuel. We dried, as it were, like the bone-dry trail we followed, and only Ranjoor Singh’s heart was stout; only he was brave; only he had a song on his lips. He coaxed us, and cheered us, and rallied us. The strength of the regiment was but his strength, and as for the other party, who hung on our flank, or lagged behind us or preceded us by half a day, their Kurds deserted by fives and tens until there was scarcely a corporal’s guard remaining.
They must have been as weary as we, and as glad as we when at last at the end of a long drawn afternoon, we saw an Afghan sentry.
Has the sahib ever seen an Afghan sentry?
This one was gray and old and sat on his gray pony like a huddled ape with a tattered umbrella over his shoulder and his rifle across his knees. He looked less like a sentry than like a dead man dug up and set there to scare the birds away. But he was efficient, no doubt of that. He had seen us and passed on word of us the minute we showed on the sky-line, and the hills all about him were full of armed men waiting to give us a hot reception if necessary and to bar farther progress in any case.
So there we had to camp, just over the Afghan border, but farther apart from the Germans than ever — two, three miles apart, for now it became Ranjoor Singh’s policy to know nothing whatever about them. The Afghans provided us with rations and sent us one of their own doctors dressed in the uniform of a tram-car conductor, and their highest official in those parts, whose rank I could not guess because he was arrayed in the costume of a city of London policeman, asked innumerable questions, first of Ranjoor Singh and then of each of us individually. But we conferred together, and stuck to one point, that we knew nothing. Ranjoor Singh did not know better than we. The more he asked the more dumb we became until, perhaps with a view to loosing our tongues, the Afghans who mingled among us in the camp began telling what the Germans were saying and doing on the rise two miles away.
They had their machine set up, said they. They were receiving messages, said they, with this wonderful wireless telegraph of theirs. They kept receiving hourly news of disasters to the Allied arms by land and sea. And we were fearfully disturbed about all this, because we knew how important it must be for India’s safety that Afghanistan continue neutral. And why should such savages continue neutral if they were once persuaded that the winning side was that of the Central Powers? Nevertheless, Ranjoor Singh continued to grow more and more contented, and I wondered. Some of the men began to murmur.
In that camp we remained, if I rightly remember, six days. And then came word from Habibullah Kahn, the Afghan amir, that we might draw nearer Khabul. So, keeping our distance from the Germans, we helped one another into the saddle (so weak most of us were by that time) and went forward three days’ march. Then we camped again, much closer to the Germans this time, in fact, almost within shouting distance; and they again set up their machine, causing sparks to crackle from the wires of a telescopic tower they raised, to the very great concern of the Afghans who were in and out of both camps all day long. One message that an Afghan told me the Germans had received, was that the British fleet was all sunk and Paris taken. But that sort of message seemed to me familiar, so that I was not so depressed by it as my Afghan informant had hoped. He went off to procure yet more appalling news to bring me, and no doubt was accommodated. I should have had burning ears, but that about that time, their amir came, Habibullah Kahn, looking like a European in his neatly fitting clothes, but surrounded by a staff of officers dressed in greater variety of uniforms than one would have believed to exist. He had brought with him his engineers to view this wonderful machine, but before approaching either camp — perhaps to show impartiality — he sent for the German chief and one, and for Ranjoor Singh and one. So, since the German took his doctor, Ranjoor Singh took me, he and I both riding, and the amir graciously excusing me from dismounting when I had made him my salaam and he had learned the nature of the wound.
After some talk, the amir asked us bluntly whence we came and what our business might be, and Ranjoor Singh answered him we were escaped prisoners of war. Then he turned on the German, and the German told him that because the British had seen fit to cut off Afghanistan from all true news of what was happening in the world outside, therefore the German government, knowing well the open mind and bravery and wisdom of the amir and his subjects, had sent himself at very great trouble and expense to receive true messages from Europe and so acquaint with the true state of affairs a ruler and people with whom Germany desired before all things to be on friendly terms.
After that we all went down in a body — perhaps a hundred men, with the amir at our head, to the German camp; and there the German and his officers displayed the machine to the amir, who, with a dozen of his staff around him, appeared more amused than astonished.
So the Germans set their machine in motion. The sparks made much crackling from the wires, at which the amir laughed aloud. Presently the German chief read off a message from Berlin, conveying the kaiser’s compliments to his highness, the amir.
“Is that message from Berlin?” the amir asked, and I thought I heard one of his officers chuckle.
“Yes, Your Highness,” said the German officer.
“Is it not relayed from anywhere?” the amir asked, and the German stared at him swiftly — thus, as if for the first time his own suspicion were aroused.
“From Stamboul, Your Highness — relayed from Stamboul,” he said, as one who makes concessions
.
The amir chuckled softly to himself and smiled.
“These are my engineers,” said he, “all college trained. They tell me our wireless installation at Khabul, which connects us through Simla with Calcutta and the world beyond, is a very good one, yet it will only reach to Simla, although I should say it is a hundred times as large as yours, and although we have an enormous dynamo to give the energy as against your box of batteries.”
The Germans, who were clustered all about their chief, kept straight faces, but their eyes popped round and their mouths grew stiff with the effort to suppress emotion.
“This, Your Highness, is the last new invention,” said the German chief.
“Then my engineers shall look at it,” said the amir, “for we wish to keep abreast of the inventions. As you remarked just now, we are a little shut off from the world. We must not let slip such opportunities for education.” And then and there he made his engineers go forward to inspect everything, he scarce concealing his merriment; and the Germans stood aside, looking like thieves caught in the act while the workings were disclosed of such a wireless apparatus as might serve to teach beginners.
“It might serve perhaps between one village and the next, while the batteries persisted,” they said, reporting to the amir presently. The amir laughed, but I thought he looked puzzled-perplexed, rather than displeased. He turned to Ranjoor Singh:
“And you are a liar, too?” he asked.
“Nay, Your Royal Highness, I speak truth,” said Ranjoor Singh, saluting him in military manner.
“Then what do you wish?” asked the amir. “Do you wish to be interned, seeing this is neutral soil on which you trespass?”
“Nay, Your Royal Highness,” answered Ranjoor Singh, with a curt laugh, “we have had enough of prison camps.”
“Then what shall be done with you?” the amir asked. “Here are men from both sides, and how shall I be neutral?”
The German chief stepped forward and saluted.
“Your Royal Highness, we desire to be interned,” he said. But the amir glowered savagely.
“Peace!” said he. “I asked you nothing, one string of lies was enough! I asked thee a question,” he said, turning again to Ranjoor Singh.
“Since Your Royal Highness asks,” said Ranjoor Singh, “it would be a neutral act to let us each leave your dominions by whichever road we will!”
The amir laughed and turned to his attendants, who laughed with him.
“That is good,” said he. “So let it be. It is an order!”
So it came about, sahib, that the Germans and ourselves were ordered hotfoot out of the amir’s country. But whereas there was only one way the Germans could go, viz, back into Persia, there to help themselves as best they could, the road Ranjoor Singh chose was forward to the Khyber Pass, and so down into India.
Aye, sahib, down into India! It was a long road, but the Afghans were very kind to us, providing us with food and blankets and giving some of us new horses for our weary ones, and so we came at last to Landi Kotal at the head of the Khyber, where a long-legged English sahib heard our story and said “Shabash!” to Ranjoor Singh — that means “Well done!” And so we marched down the Khyber, they signaling ahead that we were coming. We slept at Ali Mas jib because neither horses nor men could move another yard, but at dawn next day we were off again. And because they had notice of our coming, they turned out the troops, a division strong, to greet us, and we took the salute of a whole division as we had once taken the salute of two in Flanders, Ranjoor Singh sitting his charger like a graven image, and we — one hundred three-and-thirty men and the prisoner Tugendheim, who had left India eight hundred strong-reeling in the saddle from sickness and fatigue while a roar went up in Khyber throat such as I scarcely hope to hear again before I die. Once in a lifetime, sahib, once is enough. They had their bands with them. The same tune burst on our ears that had greeted us that first night of our charge in Flanders, and we — great bearded men — we wept like little ones. They played IT IS A LONG, LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY.
Then because we were cavalry and entitled to the same, they gave us BONNIE DUNDEE and the horses cantered to it; but some of us rolled from the saddle in sheer weakness. Then we halted in something like a line, and a general rode up to shake hands with Ranjoor Singh and to say things in our tongue that may not be repeated, for they were words from heart to heart. And I remember little more, for I, too, swooned and fell from the saddle.
The shadows darkened and grew one into another. Hira Singh sat drawing silently in the dust, with his injured feet stretched out in front of him. A monkey in the giant tree above us shook down a little shower of twigs and dirt. A trumpet blared. There began much business of closing tents and reducing the camp to superhuman tidiness.
“So, sahib,” he said at last, “they come to carry me in. It is time my tale is ended. Ranjoor Singh they have made bahadur. God grant him his desire! May my son be such a man as he, when his day comes.
“Me! They say I shall be made commissioned officer — the law is changed since this great war began. Yet what did I do compared to what Ranjoor Singh did? Each is his own witness and God alone is judge. Does the sahib know what this war is all about?
“I believe no two men fight for the same thing. It is a war in each man’s heart, each man fighting as the spirit moves him. So, they come for me. Salaam, sahib. Bohut salaam. May God grant the sahib peace. Peace to the sahib’s grandsons and great-grandsons. With each arm thus around a trooper’s neck will the sahib graciously excuse me from saluting?”
THE END
THE IVORY TRAIL
OR, ON THE TRAIL OF TIPPOO TIB
This is Mundy’s autobiographical novel based on his failed safari to find the hidden treasure (a hoard of ivory tusks) of Tippoo Tib, a famous Arab slave trader of the nineteenth century. He also used the story in a 1937 radio serial featuring the hero Jack Armstrong. In 1919 the story was serialised in six parts in Adventure magazine under the title On the Trail of Tippoo Tib. When the novel was published in America it was well received and praised for its authentic feel – the Philadelphia Record wrote that the novel “pulsates with adventure”. A year later it was published in Britain by Constable. An attempt to transfer the story to the cinema was disappointing, as it became a low budget (for instance, no location shots were used) twelve part, twenty minutes each, serial presumably aimed at the juvenile “Saturday morning pictures” market in the early 1930’s and with the title The Jungle Mystery. It was remade as a feature movie in 1935, but sadly no prints of the film have survived. The story itself is set in the early 1900’s.
Mundy used many real people as the basis for his characters, including himself, who was represented by the narrator; the main character is Monty, the treasure hunter, who requires funds to stabilise the estates he has inherited. Monty’s comrades in adventure include Fred Oakes, his childhood pal; Kazimoto, his guide; the Greek, George Cutlass; and Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon, who is a German agent, as is Professor Schillingschen. Having decided to go in search of the treasure, the group travel to Africa and journey through many places including Nairobi and Lake Victoria and finally arriving at Mount Elgon. Other characters emerge along the way, such as Brown of Lumbwa, a hard drinking but stalwart man, who is grateful for the group’s help when his cattle are stolen. It is thanks to this act of goodwill that a large detour is taken through German held territories, where they witness distressing scenes of brutal Teutonic justice being meted out to African people. Of course the key question is: do they find the treasure, despite injury, the interference of secret agents and all the perils of a huge continent to which they did not belong?
Mundy has plenty to say (none of it complimentary) about the German presence in Africa, hardly surprising considering the times in which he was writing. He is particularly critical of the legal system they used in their territories, which was weighted almost entirely against Africans and in favour of Europeans. His words may seem harsh at times, but readers flocked t
o his defence, stating that Mundy had been accurate in his depictions of Africa and also German colonial rule. Mundy had spent a few years in Africa and presumably many of his observations from that time are in the book; however, his own African adventure was not without ignominy, as he was an ivory poacher and was also imprisoned for six months on a charge of vagrancy.
Portrait of Tippu Tip, House of Wonders Museum, Stone Town, Zanzibar
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE NJO HAPA* SONG
Green, ah greener than emeralds are, tree-tops beckon the
dhows to land,
White, oh whiter than diamonds are, blue waves burst on the
amber sand,
And nothing is fairer than Zanzibar from the Isles o’ the West
to the Marquesand.
I was old when the world was wild with youth
(All love was lawless then!)
Since ‘Venture’s birth from ends of earth
I ha’ called the sons of men,
And their women have wept the ages out
In travail sore to know
What lure of opiate art can leach
Along bare seas from reef to beach
