Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  He showed Gup through a hospital that, on the face of it, at least, would have done credit to the most efficient army in the world. There appeared to be nothing lacking. There were field supplies all ready to be rushed into action. There was a Russian who had licked a hundred Hillmen into shape as orderlies, and each man seemed to know what would be required of him when the murdering game began. There was a corps of stretcher-bearers. There were medical supplies in quantities beyond belief. The nurses were nearly all Anglo-Eurasions and Goanese, who had had experience in British-Indian hospitals, but there were some white women, several of whom were widows of British soldiers. Most of the surgeons and assistant surgeons were Bengalis, but there was a Japanese in charge of them who had won his laurels, as a young man, in the war with Russia — and had lost them after-ward for selling opium to Chinese through the parcel post. The ventilation of the tunnels was a miracle of ingenuity, contrived by making use of the natural flow of warm air upward; it was sucked up by the heat, a quarter of a mile away, of oil that had been burning in the bowels of the mountain, no man knew how many years. There was no pressure such as results from forced draught, but a constant, hardly noticeable flow of fresh cool air through every passage and into every corner.

  Dr. Dost Singh did his best to camouflage his pride under a mask of cynicism, but he did not deceive even himself:

  “Magnificent out of the dust it came,” he quoted. “We made it out of nothing but a lot of caverns filthy from bats and owls. It’s pretty, isn’t it? But oh, when the slaughter begins! I’d rather be a pig at the gate of a sausage factory — less fuss — sooner over with! It’s all on paper like a German army time-sheet, but wait and see what happens when we get the wind up!”

  “Could you evacuate?” Gup asked him. “I mean, supposing a plane dropped poison-gas where it might flow in through the ventilating system, how soon could you empty the place?”

  The question sounded almost casual, as if Gup were only asking for the sake of showing an encouraging interest.

  “Oh, I’ve thought that out. That comes under the head of fire drill. Fifteen minutes for the patients. Longer, of course, for the stores — perhaps much longer, depending on how many men could be spared from some other department. Might have to abandon a part of the stores.”

  “What would you do with the wounded?”

  “There’s a ledge, two thousand feet above us, protected by an overleaning bulge of the cliff — total area an acre and a half — and from there on up there is a practicable pathway leading to the summit. But gas is the last risk we have to consider. No enemy we have to reckon with would use it. Some of our idiots have been making gas from cyanide — suicide gas, I call it — deadly stuff — too deadly — kill us, too! I’d almost bet you that it creeps against the wind! And who knows what tricks a wind will play among these gorges?”

  Gup made mental note of all that, but to Dr. Dost Singh he appeared to be skimming the surface of things and in rather a hurry to get to something more important. He betrayed small interest in the radio plant that Jonesey showed him presently; his apparently casual questions leading nowhere in particular that Jonesey could detect. And Jonesey was as keen to detect Gup’s ultimate purpose as a medieval monk inquiring into the secret heresies of some one’s soul; but all that Jonesey accomplished was to keep Gup thoroughly on guard against his curiosity.

  Then Rahman displayed the fruits of genius. He claimed credit for the skeleton battalions that lay, hair-trigger ready, in the subterranean barracks. Numbers of the men wore medal-ribbons; most of them had served at least one period of enlistment in the British-Indian or Afghan army; scores of them had “dug in” in the Flanders mud, and hundreds had sickened and sweltered amid flies in Mesopotamia. There were Afghans who had fought alongside Arabs in the Allenby drive against the Turks in Palestine — and Pathans who had fought with the Turks — Afridis who had lain in London drawing-rooms converted into hospitals and convalescent wards — men who had toiled in the grime of deep-sea bunkers — men who had been submarined — men who were wanted for murder in Indian cities — men who limped from having served a prison sentence in the heavy fetters that they rivet to the legs of felons reckoned likely to escape. There were men who had traded horses all the way from Nijni Novgorod to Bombay; men who had looted caravans from Trebizond to Pekin. And there were plain men, simply waiting for an opportunity to prove themselves as hard-boiled as the others. Each man was a nucleus, around whom others could gather when summoned by messenger or signal from near or far-off villages.

  And to all these men the Ranee was the invisible core of the mystery. Even the majority of the senior officers had hardly more than glimpsed her, and then veiled. They had heard her royal voice, perhaps at night, addressing them in terms of faith in an ideal and a vision of unfolding destiny, but each man’s own imagination had been left to fill in details and even to suggest what the ultimate aim might be. Izzat was the one word handed down and tossed from lip to lip; it signifies the personal integrity and honor of the man who uses it. Each interpreted the word as freely as he chose, except that all knew it implied obedience to orders.

  Punishments were drastic. There were cells at the ends of tunnels in the mountain, where no light ever entered, and no sound excepting once a day the footsteps of a guard who brought bread and water. There was a pinnacle of rock where a man could be strapped up naked in the sun by day and in the bitter night air, to reflect on the folly of protest against wheels of will when they are once set moving. And there was the grim “Tarpean” crag, so many thousand feet in air that it was painful to gaze at it against the sun; the crag on which the blindfold “accidents” were staged because the Ranee had forbidden murder. At the crag’s foot, inaccessible and deep, there was a chasm into which no man had ever looked, unless from the summit; so that no man ever knew what happened to the bodies of men who fell into that dreadful place and there were shuddering hints about the gates of hell. The hints were no less serious because the foot of the cliff shone greenish-yellow in the sun and the fumes of sulphur now and then came stenching forth from only Allah knew what awful throat.

  “They’ll cut loose if they don’t get work to do! They’ll either join the Amir and make him invincible, or they’ll plunder India on their own account. Or they’ll obey me. Can I hold ’em?” Gup had led men into hell and out again, in Flanders mud, by being big and letting all men see him dignified and unafraid. He had the trick of making himself a center of attention, and he knew he had it. He knew that from now on, until the end of this adventure, he must play-act; he must strut his part in buskins on a stage where the applause would be men’s obedience. He had nothing, literally no resources but his own height, dignity and mother-wit. He used them.

  Obviously, since the Ranee cultivated mystery and unseen purposes behind impenetrable veils, his cue must be to do the opposite. That much was as logical and simple as arithmetic. He must show himself, and make men feel the thrill that follows confident commands delivered in a voice as vibrant as dynamic will can make it. They must think of him as the man on horseback; as the symbol, almost, of a dim ideal flashing into concrete form; as visible, audible, calm, unhesitating, proud authority. And he could do that. He could do it without effort. He could do it so easily that often his own countrymen had thought him arrogant and vain when, if the truth were known, he had been miserable with a sense of his own unimportance, feeling like an insect on the face of blind infinity. Because of his appearance he had been an irritant and an offense to “brass hats” and a target for the gibes of self-assertive weaklings; but a tower of strength to men in doubt and men in trouble. He understood that perfectly. God had given him guts and good looks; he saw no shame in using them, although he would have preferred the wilderness that Omar Khayyam praised, with Lottie singing to him and a book to read.

  So he strutted his part, and he took the big black stallion that had been brought up-valley from the hut where Rahman left him — ramping full he was of corn and the whinny of stabled ma
res, and he rode like a grim Mogul to the long parade-ground where he watched the skeleton battalions put through their drill. They made him choke. The steady tramp of them was like the rhythm of eternal forces moving in the arteries of time, and he knew the emotion, and the craving for more emotion, that has sent the Cæsars and Iskanders sailing on a restless tide, believing that they made it.

  There was nothing rigid, nothing brittle or numb about those veterans. They swung with an elastic step. The motion of the line responding to Gup’s trumpet-throated thunder of command was as exciting as the burst of surf on rock-staked beaches. There was unity of will, not gummed up by the goose-step glue that conscripts are supposed to need to keep them from milling in mobs. Their movement was as laborless and curving as the play-flight of carrier-pigeons — not a straight line in a thousand of them, and no hesitancy, nor a foot set wrong — until they halted at last with a thunder of grounded rifle-butts, and dressed, and stood like statues. Not a sound then, not a ripple in the ranks. But every pair of eyes looked straight at Gup’s and seemed to ask him “Whither?” and to urge him with the silent pleading of a hunting dog: “Lead on, Bahadur! North, south, east or west is all one to the lashkar! Lead us!”

  Gup avoided the Ranee all that day. He dreaded the thought of answering inevitable questions. Was it impossible to save her from disaster and prevent a war without playing the part of a hypocrite? God, how he hated it!

  That drove him. He mastered and memorized details, gathering in mind the total sum of his resources. No planes — no artillery. Even the Amir probably had a half-dozen planes; he certainly had field-guns. The British-Indian army would have planes, artillery, tanks and, it might be, poison-gas, although he doubted that. He must avoid, at all costs and by any means, a sudden onslaught by the British army, which might elect to try to smash this outlaw army first, before the Amir could get into action. That would certainly start the Amir moving, and then who could stop the Ranee’s troops from throwing in their lot with the man from the North?

  He had no means of knowing that the Amir’s spies were stirring such unrest in India that the Indian army had had to be kept at strategic points to prevent rebellion. Nor did he guess how much reliance would be placed on Tom O’Hara’s curt report, sent down the O’Hara had escaped from the caverns.

  One other point that puzzled him was how to account for the insolent over-confidence of the Amir’s message to the Ranee. It was as clear as daylight that Harriet Dover had thought of poisoning the Amir’s wife, whether or not she had made the attempt. Gup guessed she had probably made the attempt and had been detected. Certainly she had sought to make herself a power in Asia by offering to betray the Ranee into the Amir’s hands, either as wife or prisoner. But how had she proposed to do that? The Russians? Rahman had said there was one Russian who commanded a thousand men. He thought of sending for all the Russians and examining them, but that seemed only likely to put them on their guard; so instead he sent again for Rahman, who was inspecting stables. He had to trust somebody.

  “Rahman,” he said, “we agreed that you and I are friends. I intend to trust you to the hilt.”

  “Speak on, Huzoor.”

  “This business is rotten. It can lead to nothing except ruin for the Ranee and every one of us, unless we act like men, not maniacs. You’re an Afghan. But do you wish to see your Ranee in an Afghan harem?”

  “No, by God.”

  “Do you wish to be the Amir’s servant?”

  “I would die first.”

  “Will you agree with me, then, that the thing to do is to save the Ranee from disaster and, by doing the Indian Government a good turn, to get amnesty for all of us, including her and you and me?”

  “But by God, she will not be saved! I know her! She is proud and not of the sort that fears death.”

  “That Amir,” said Gup, “has a card up his sleeve.”

  “There is this that I know concerning him,” said Rahman, “he sits on a shaking throne and seeks a war to occupy his restless men and bring him wealth and prestige. He would dearly love to control this army of ours. And by my beard, if he could get our Ranee into his hands he might be able to control it. My thought is, that Bibi Harriet Dover has made him some such offer and that she has her plans all laid.”

  “Yes, but why should she do that?”

  “Allah, that is easy to imagine! Our Ranee has compunctions — Bibi Harriet has none whatever! In the beginning, when wrath sat on the Ranee’s brow and there was nothing to do but talk and make ready — organize — plan — smuggle, intrigue, it was easy to make the Ranee talk even of conquering India. Bloodshed, Gup Bahadur, looks less crimson on a map of Asia than on a square mile when the guns begin. So the closer we came to actualities the harder it was to persuade our Ranee to make one move that should bring on warfare, and that is a mood that stirs contempt in such as Bibi Harriet, who craves excitement. Allah! That woman would rather be torn on a torture-rack than suffer mediocrity! Her mild eyes are the mask of murder. Her slow smile is a silken sheath concealing treachery. These things I knew, but what could I do? Remonstrate? I was accused of jealousy! Lo, I hunted and trapped me a man who might solve the riddle — and here you stand, Bahadur.”

  “That doesn’t explain the Amir’s insolence. He is an Afghan. So are you. Explain it for me.”

  “Not so difficult. He is a vain man who thinks himself clever. He has heard of Mustapha Kemal and Mussolini — of Lenin and Trotzky — and he remembers the fame of Abdurrahman. He will emulate all those and surpass them in cunning! So — let us say that the Bibi Harriet convinces him, through secret agents, that she has a plan by which she can betray our Ranee to him — what then? How shall he be cunning? Shall he be beholden to the Bibi Harriet if he can help that? Not he! Remember: he is vain and inexperienced; he thinks the glamour of an Amir’s name is likelier than not to terrify and turn a woman’s head. And he knows that the Ranee no longer dares to retreat to India. So he sends that message, hoping she will realize he never would have sent it unless he knew he could take by force what he demands with insolence.”

  “Did you set spies to watch the Amir’s men?”

  “Surely. They were heard to say nothing of any import. But they set forth homeward laughing.”

  “Is Harriet Dover at liberty?”

  “By God, no! I have seen to that. She keeps her room with only the Bibi Marwarid. They two are one twin-devil. Guards are in the corridor.”

  “Whom does she trust?”

  “Jonesey and my man Pepul Das.”

  “And do you trust either of them?”

  “Pepul Das.”

  “Does she know that you trust Pepul Das?”

  “Surely. But she does not know that Pepul Das would rather die than play me false. It is from Pepul Das that I have learned most of what I know about the Bibi Harriet.”

  “If Pepul Das should go to her and pretend to be indignant with you and me, would she believe him?”

  “Irish’allah — probably. And why not? In extremity people lean on any prop that offers.”

  “And Jonesey?”

  “As I told you already, Bahadur, that man Jonesey is a mischief, whom nothing but mischief interests. He is no seeker of rewards. He craves no power. If a thing amuses him, he does it. It is all one to him where the sun shines, so be he sits in it. It is all one to him who laughs or suffers, so be Jonesey is amused.”

  “And Harriet Dover trusts him?”

  “Allah! Why not? Are they not two kidneys of one devil? Gup Bahadur, if it had not been for those two, none of this could have happened. Now that it has happened, if it were not for those two it might succeed! Thus wonderful are God’s ways. There is no explaining them!”

  “Are Jonesey and the Russians friendly?”

  “He is friendly with every one.”

  “Particularly with the Russians?”

  “Yes.”

  “And one of them commands a thousand men? Might not Jonesey have tempted the Russians? Might not six Russians and
a thousand men seize the Ranee and surrender her to the Amir?”

  “It might be,” said Rahman — slowly — grudgingly. “The Amir undoubtedly has spies in this place?” Rahman admitted that more readily. “Spies are like the pox, Bahadur. They break out at all times in all sorts of places. There are good preventives and good remedies, but there is never absolute immunity from spies or sickness.”

  “So the Amir may be well informed of what goes on here?”

  “Insh’ allah. Why not?”

  “Rahman, if you were the Amir, what would you do?”

  “Bahadur, I would have raped this nest so suddenly that there would be no time to summon the troops from their villages. I would have blocked the entrances as boys block up a rat-hole. But for that he is already too late. The troops are already summoned to the swearing in of Gup Bahadur.”

  “What do you believe the Ranee means to do?” Gup asked him.

  “She is a proud woman. She will not abandon her hope of a kingdom. And she is a loyal woman. She will not desert her friends, even though they betray her. Gup Bahadur, saving only Allah and a good horse, there is no such fountain of forgiveness as an honest woman. If the Bibi Harriet pleads sickness and pretends shame and contrition, our Ranee will forgive her. And then may you and I beware of vengeance!”