Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “I, too, have worshipped,” he said simply, and she smiled acknowledgment. He remembered the smile now — inimitable — wondered why he had not noticed it before.

  “Did you know that Jullunder was a lineal descendant of the Emperor Akbar? By a junior wife, but direct descent. He inherited many of Akbar’s qualities — all of the best ones and one of the worst, if ambition is bad. He was wild to make Jullunder prosperous; he wanted to see it the best governed state in the world, and he was not above wanting to enlarge its borders, either. You know, it’s only a two by four state, hardly larger than an English county, but well populated and potentially rich.”

  Gup nodded. “Good saises (horse attendants) come from Jullunder.”

  “And good swordsmen — good sturdy yeomen — good upstanding men of their word, who look you in the eye and judge for themselves whether they will follow you or not,” she retorted.

  “I sit rebuked.”

  “Jullunder saw my act in London and sent his card back-stage. It was a long time before I would meet him, but a friend arranged it finally. I won’t pretend I fell in love with him, but I did fall in love with his splendid ideas, and I have never for one split second regretted having married him. If ever a man and woman were companions with one united purpose to keep our minds off trivialities, he and I were. It was up to me to get used to Oriental customs, and I did. It was up to me to turn my back on old ties and associations, and I did that too. It was up to him to make concessions to my race, habits, prejudices, ignorance — and he did. He never failed once. We dreamed, worked, rode together, encouraging and finding fault with people, helping where we could and preventing hardship where we could, until I knew every mountain and valley and stream in Jullunder and might almost say I knew the name of every headman in the state. I was known as the Ranee who Laughs and Sings.”

  “I remember hearing of it.” Gup was hardly conscious of food on the table. A wave of emotion had swept over him such as he had not felt since the early days of the war — something that seemed to have swept him into an unknown orbit, wherein impossibilities did not exist. However, he made no effort to explain it to himself, perhaps for fear he might resist it. For the moment he swam with the tide. “Go on,” he said, “I’m listening.”

  “We soon grew enormously wealthy. Not that our income was particularly big, but we used it wisely. We purchased stocks in the United States, always buying and hardly ever selling — only selling in order to buy something better managed, that had better prospects. When the war came all our stocks went up through a hole in the sky. They were all in my name. I am probably one of the richest women in the world.”

  “I pity you.”

  “You need not. Money is the means to do things. However, the war brought us our share of sadness. We equipped a corps of transport troops — self-contained, able to protect itself to a certain extent. It was sent to Mesopotamia, where the men died like rats, mainly of dirt and neglect. When additional troops were asked for we did what we could, but our main effort was already spent — thrown away — wasted. Then Jullunder died. They said he died of pneumonia, but I know better. Does shame and a broken heart mean anything to you?”

  “Shame, yes,” Gup answered. “But I have a heart that won’t break. I wish it could. I’ve done my best to break it.”

  “Major Glint came on the scene then. He got himself appointed political agent. It was really he who vetoed my succession. I believe the Indian Government would have confirmed it but for him. He hunted up that rotter — Jullunder’s second cousin — and I know what happened to Glint’s bank account in London, although the payment was made so craftily that it would be difficult to prove anything; besides, that was wartime, when officials were too busy for that sort of investigation. Jullunder’s second cousin was appointed Rajah, and I was dumped into the discard, but not before Glint had interviewed me and had dropped a few hints. I understood his hints. I made the mistake of not bribing him. I should have bribed him. He would have been at my mercy then. As it was, he was afraid he had said too much and had made a too dangerous enemy. He began to try to drive me out of India.”

  “Why didn’t you go?” Gup asked her. But he knew that he himself would not have gone. “There are lots of other countries where money can pauperize people and give you a sense of superiority.”

  “I thought of it. But I don’t like defeat. I mean, I don’t like to admit it. And — perhaps I’m wrong, but I despise laziness, and I don’t want my money to help to make any one lazy. I thought, too, of my sense of superiority. I have it. I don’t need to create it or to strengthen it. I know I have more ability than most people have, and ability is magic; it makes you sick unless you use it.”

  “Why not marry another Rajah?” Gup suggested, as deliberately rude, for caution’s sake, as he could force himself to be.

  “I could have — a twenty-one gun man with a territory ten times the size of Jullunder. But he had no genius and only wanted to be lazy with my money. I hate rotters of any kind; they’re nothing but a waste of human life.”

  He attacked her again, but with words not quite so barbed with bitterness: “And I suppose all that money was burning a hole in your patience?”

  “It was. I began to make use of it. In a sense it was India’s money, although I made it elsewhere. I began to finance the so-called patriots who pretend to be seeking India’s independence. I had to do it secretly, which led to my organizing a very intricate network of spies and agents. I have a sort of genius for choosing men; most of the men I choose turn out to be what I think they are. But the leaders of the independence movement were not men of my choosing, and I soon learned they were a mixture of incompetents and scoundrels looking for their own personal advantage or else too crazy to be worth attention. I don’t refer to Ghandi — he’s an angel and exactly as much use as any other angel would be. Two or three other good men worked themselves to death or died with broken hearts. The others — well, a Hindu would rather scrag a Moslem than go to work; and a Moslem would rather put a Hindu to indignity than agree with him that twice two are four. I had to choose. I chose the Moslems.”

  “Why? They’re as crazy as any one else, and they haven’t produced a civilization of their own worth mentioning since the Moors invaded Spain.”

  “They have more backbone than the others. They are less broad-minded, but they know how to unite. I need united rifles at my back.”

  “They haven’t rifles.”

  “In India, no. But north of the border, yes. Do you begin to see now what I’m planning?”

  Gup saw too well. He nodded. He began to feel uncomfortable. Though a man leave all that he hath, and renounce allegiance to the flag under which he has fought with valor, and though he do so from the highest motive, he shall none the less be disturbed by the news of another doing it. Gup never had renounced allegiance, he had only fretted at the mediocrity to which it tied him. A revulsion of feeling swept over him and he began to lean the other way. Nevertheless, he decided to hear the story to a finish. “Go on,” he said.

  “North of the border is No Man’s Land,” she went on. “The tribes have neither chiefs nor central government. The governments of India and Afghanistan have used them as a sort of buffer state. Why? Because neither side could conquer them. They would have been conquered long ago if it were possible, but they are splendid fighting men and their country is almost inaccessible to armies. Are they civilized? No. Why? Because it has pleased other people to keep them uncivilized, for strategic reasons. Are they armed? Yes — for the most part with modem rifles. Have they plenty of ammunition? Yes, because I saw to that; money will buy anything, and there were millions of rounds of rifle ammunition left after the war, that nobody knew what to do with, and that almost any one would sell, whether or not he owned it. I bought and the tribes have; that is that.”

  “And you trust me with that information?”

  “Why not? You are a sane man — not a jingo — you can see straight. How far to the northward of Pe
shawar, or of this place, does the King’s writ run?

  They might shoot or hang me for doing it if I were caught, but haven’t I perfect right to deal with the tribes as I please? I should not have had that right if they had accepted me as Ranee of Jullunder, but they broke their own treaties and their own law, as well as the ancient law of the state of Jullunder, when they turned me out and even confiscated some of my personal property. I am no more beholden to such a government. If it has the power to restrain me, well and good. If it has the wit to suspect what I am doing, that is my misfortune. But if not — are you such a man as would betray me to a government that has broken every promise it ever made?”

  McLeod writhed. No governments keep promises, except in exchange for votes or money. Human rule means human fear, stupidity and weakness, with a little virtue added if the voters are awake. He himself had cursed all rulers but he knew that almost any government is better than such anarchy as savages with rifles can produce.

  “Some promises,” he answered, “are impossible to keep.”

  “Yes,” she said, “and the moves of destiny are impossible to prevent. What if the tribes beyond the frontier — the Pathan, the Afridi, the Mohmand, the Shinwari, the Orakzai — what if the tribes who overlook the Khyber, and half of Afghanistan — what if they should invite me to be their leader? Has any one the right to say no? And if I accept, has any one the right to call me a traitor?”

  “After that, what?” he demanded.

  “I was a civilizing influence in Jullunder.”

  He stared at her, resentment growing. That was her first shade of equivocation and it touched off the explosive in him that was never difficult to reach. “If you don’t care to tell me the truth,” he retorted, “I’ll go now. You are not thinking of civilization. You are planning to invade India.”

  “What of it? Can you tell me of a single instance, in the whole course of history, where a people has won independence without war? Can you tell me of one civilization that had a chance to be born until its progenitors proved their mettle? Were the Scots weaned on sweet words — or bitter fighting? Did the Irish win their independence by bullets or blarney? Was the United States suckled at a dove’s breast or an eagle’s? How about Germany — France — England? How about the States of South America? Mexico — South Africa — Italy?”

  “Yes. But why should you interfere?”

  She looked straight at his eyes and the ancient Egyptian look, so noticeable about her mouth, seemed suddenly to strengthen her entire face, making it ruthless and yet good-humored, although more proud than pride itself. “Because destiny commands!”

  “I have heard of others who believed they could read destiny,” he sneered.

  “You are thinking of Napoleon and William of Hohenzollern. I prefer to think of Joan of Arc, Bolivar, LaFayette, Garibaldi, Boadicea, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan — or of any of the countless foreigners who have lent their swords to the evolving universe! I would even rather think of Byron.” She paused a moment. “Do you think I am utterly selfish? Do you think I am afraid to die?”

  “I think you are mad,” he answered.

  The sky-blue eyes looked full and straight at him again. “Has no one accused you of being mad?”

  He bit his lip, not knowing what to say to her. She evidently knew the nature of his own experience; it would be no use talking platitudes or pretending he felt loyal to established institutions. He hated to be illogical; it was better to say nothing. He rose to his feet.

  “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “You refuse?” She laughed at him; and again he knew that her laughter was not bravado. It was based on something that she knew and that he did not know; he recognized that, without imagining what trump she could have up her sleeve. And she maddened him by not playing the trump. “Some day soon,” she said, “you will be like MacMahon, and like Napoleon I shall have to wonder whether I can trust you within the sound of bagpipes! You are going? Very well. I feel quite sure I can trust you not to betray my confidence.”

  He bowed and strode out of the room not glancing back. What need? There was a picture of her in his mind that could never fade. She was a Woman among women and her words would burn him to his dying day, because they were the logical extension of his own words and his own thoughts that had brought him at such loggerheads with the established order. He would let that be a lesson to him — no more rebellion, come what might! But what a woman! What a life he and she could have led if it had been his destiny to know her and fall in love with her before she met her Rajah. But now, he supposed, she was ruined — too far gone along the road from which there is no turning back. He thought then bitterly of destiny, whose cheap trick had let him see her in London, across the footlights, when she was caroling and laughing until London threw its hats at her and turned the stage into a wilderness of costly flowers — then brought him face to face with her again in such a place as this, amid such circumstances. What if he had known and loved her in the London days, instead of wasting his ideals on the light-headed fool whom he married? Would it have come to this pass? He believed not. Was it his own fault, that he had not been awake in those days? Are we all shown our opportunity and then let alone to seize or leave it? Was destiny mocking him — and her? If so, he thought not much of destiny — thought no more highly of it than of certain of the claws and fangs of human government that he had cursed in bitterness of soul.

  The same girl who admitted him now led him forth again along the passage. She, too, although she said no word, appeared to be in no doubt of the outcome of the interview; she smiled with a kind of confidential approval, as much as to say that this was no more than a beginning of acquaintance. So he supposed she had not been listening through curtains, since otherwise she would have known that it was good-by.

  At the outer door the same Pathan was standing, heavy from lack of sleep but jovial and full of swagger.

  “Huzoor, salaam alaikum! Praised be the Prophet, may Allah grant at last thou art the man! It is a nightlong weariness of heart to serve a woman, but a strong man’s face is daybreak!”

  “Peace, fool!” Rahman came into the passage, redeyed, too, with wakefulness, masking curiosity, if such he had, beneath an air of gruff impatience. “Huzoor, we should make haste, if your Honor pleases. If we dally, we may be seen; if we are seen, God pity us!”

  Now mark him, lion-like in sullen mood

  Upon his own spoor turning, visioning his den

  Well hidden in the zone familiar where brood

  Old enemies but no new danger. Then

  There meet him, like sly hunters who pursue

  To have no more of him within their zone,

  Old unslain ghosts. So at the ghosts he knew

  He hurls his new-born hate of the Unknown.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “It is very seldom wise to run away, by God!”

  GUP MCLEOD mounted the black stallion and reached for the rein of Rahman’s horse that was protesting against a cold saddle so violently that Rahman could not come near enough to get a foot into the stirrup.

  He deliberately memorized his bearings, his blue, far-seeing eyes scanning the line of hills and making note of distances. Then he turned in the saddle to study the grass-grown mound that overlay the ruin, fixing it in mind until he knew that he could recognize it in the dark. It was all one to Gup McLeod that Rahman watched him with sleepy interest, like a cat with one eye open; it suited his mood to let the Afghan know how carefully he mapped the landscape in his mind. He defied suspicion — defied everything except his own right to govern himself. He even turned inquisitor, lest Rahman should think him afraid to be curious.

  “Where is the man who rode last night with us? What was his name — Pepul Das?”

  “He has an errand,” Rahman answered. Then, as if to fall in with McLeod’s mood: “It is an errand that concerns your Honor’s business.”

  He drew no response. Gup’s personal affairs, at the moment, were beneath consideration; he could think
of nothing less interesting. But the Afghan’s curiosity was rising as his blood flowed more freely with the movement of the good horse under him. And there was never a hunter of men who did not relish the prospect that he who has been hunted shall know afterward, and understand, who hunted him, and how.

  “There are your Honor’s tents and servants — and a horse or two.”

  No answer.

  “There is he with the teeth to be considered — Glint with the heart of a jackal and such teeth as no hyena has. Pepul Das plays fox to the jackal.”

  No response. Abominably tawdry were the threads of circumstance that Glint thought so important. He began to marvel at the subtlety of destiny that could use Glint’s meanness like a trigger in the mechanism that had lifted Lottie Carstairs to a throne, taught her the feel of power, and then turned her loose to discover what outlawry means. Insufferably self-important and abysmally ignominious Glint, a tool of destiny! A cockroach causing the death of possibly a hundred thousand men! It might easily cost that number to persuade a headstrong woman of the error of her way. So a cockroach, in the infinite design is as important as the rest of us? But what a mess! What a blood-hungry monster this destiny is that schools the actors, sets the stage, and looks on. Rahman again:

  “Now a man is by nature a fool, and a jackal is restless — so that Glint is a restless fool. A spy, he must be fed by lesser spies, or he would grow lonely and might learn wisdom — which Allah forbid! If he were wise he might be dangerous! And if he knew not where to find your Honor, he might make haste and seize your Honor’s tents, which would be inconvenient. We took care, but informers may have told him whither the tents were taken. It was thought wise to protect the tents by sending Pepul Das to betray to him the place where your Honor will rest at midday. Thus he will pursue your Honor and not seize the tents. And your Honor may either avoid him or—”

  He drew response at last. A sudden wave of anger so swept over Gup McLeod that the stallion felt it and snatched at the reins, to be off at full gallop. It needed a minute of iron will and horsemanship to rein him in. Then Gup turned savagely on Rahman, speaking almost gently because the violence was in the spirit of the words: