by Talbot Mundy
“How did you get here?” I asked her stupidly.
“Don’t try to talk for a while yet. Listen,” she answered. “I was afraid once or twice you were dead; and you’re so heavy they had to handle you roughly, although I think they tried to be decent in their own fashion. There’s a cut on the back of your head, but I don’t think it’s deep, and I’ve bandaged it, so don’t move.”
“I don’t remember much. How long have I been here?” I asked.
“Several hours. But don’t talk. I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll listen.”
So I lay still, and presently Joan Angela began.
“I was on my way to the Lancers’ camp. There were two men with me, and I’d sent a third in advance to say I was coming, and would be late, but was all right. My horse had gone lame, and I was letting him take it easy. But it was later than I thought, and I think we’d lost the way; I’m sure we covered lots of unnecessary miles, and when it grew dark the men seemed to lose their bearings altogether. But I knew if we reached the river and turned along the bank we’d be all right, and it was no use turning back, even if I’d cared to; so we rode on. The men didn’t like it much. They were Biluchis, who’d been lent to me by the Farquharsons when they left home...supposed to be awfully faithful and so on, but too stupid for words.
“Well, we reached the river at last, and they said to turn to the right, but I knew better. If we had turned to the right, maybe you and I wouldn’t be here now, but I’d have missed the Lancers’ camp, and then some other brigands would have bagged me, so what’s the odds? I knew I’d taken the right direction.
“It got so dark at last you couldn’t see a thing. Then some men jumped out of a hole by the river bank and knifed my Biluchis without a word. I had a pistol and tried to use it, but another rascal cut my horse’s throat, and grabbed me as he fell, so the shot went wild. Then he knocked the pistol out of my hand and I was prisoner. But he didn’t see where the pistol went to, and I’ve got it now. They treated me reasonably well, and while they talked I sat down — right on the pistol.
“I wasn’t worried much. The Biluchis were dead, and of course that was horrible, but I despise a man who’s so afraid he has to have a woman show him which way to turn; and they didn’t put up any fight, they were just cowards. I was sorrier for the horse. And I knew the Lancers would be out looking for me in two ticks, because they expected me to dinner, and besides, that third Biluchi had ridden on ahead to tell them I was really on the way.
“What puzzled me was that the men who’d captured me — there were nine of them — started to lead me off in the wrong direction. We kept along the river bank. I was even crazy enough for a minute to think they were taking me to the Lancers’ camp to hand me over. I could see the camp lights in the distance. There was a man in charge of the party — a chieftain I suppose — whom they all called Kangra Khan; he was the only one who seemed to know a word of English, but when I asked him a question or two he ordered me to hold my tongue. He even threatened to kill me if I made a noise, but I didn’t believe him. I kept raising my voice in the hope some of the Lancers’ outposts would hear me; and at last I really did hear someone coming. It turned out to be you.
“Kangra Khan put his hand over my mouth then, and I bit it. I wish you’d heard him swear! But he’s a gentlemanly sort of savage and didn’t hit back. They shot your horse, and they were awfully sore because you killed one of their men, and that was why they knocked you on the head instead of roping you. You nearly killed Kangra Khan by the way. Your bullet seared his cheek, and would have hit me if I’d been about a foot more to the right.
“Well, you were knocked out; but someone struck a match and I recognized you. And you weren’t dead, because I could feel your heart beating. Then we heard what might be Lancers coming. The party grew scared and got ready to scatter. They were about to tie my hands, and one man folded up a bit of sheepskin for a gag. I didn’t fancy that.
“Of course, it was worse than a hundred to one chance of the Lancers coming on you in the dark; and if they didn’t stumble on you you’d be dead before morning. So I promised them I’d come quietly provided they took you too. If not, no. And I started in to yell to prove it!
“Kangra Khan seems something of a sportsman in his own way, and took me at my word. He gave orders to the gang to pick you up and carry you gently. It seems you’d cut their boat loose, and we had to go miles back along the bank until we found another one, and we crossed the river at last in the craziest box of a thing you ever saw. I thought we were sure to be drowned a dozen times. The boat was half-full of water, and you lay on the bottom with the water flopping over you, and me holding your head up so you could breathe.
“They had turned loose the two horses that belonged to my Biluchis, so that the Lancers would follow them and give Kangra Khan a chance to slip by unobserved. He didn’t cross the river with the rest of us, but continued along the bank in the direction of the Lancers’ camp, saying he’d see me later and that he held me to my promise to go quietly. I told him I’d come to his funeral when the British hanged him, and he grinned as if he thought that a good joke.
“Once we’d crossed the river the going was fairly easy for a long time, but they hurried me and lugged you until I felt nearly as all in as you looked. I had to remind them a good many times of the chief’s orders to treat you gently; and as they didn’t know any English, and I can’t talk their language, it wasn’t so easy. But I remembered I’d heard ’em call him Kangra Khan; so I kept saying ‘Kangra Khan!’ and pointing to you, and frowning, and presently they saw the point. I guess they’re scared of him, and I don’t blame ’em — he looks like a top-dog.
“Then we came to these hills, and the going began to be awful. They had to lug me up precipices by the hands. When daylight comes I daresay it’ll all look simple enough, but in the dark it felt like climbing Everest or something. When we reached this but they shoved me in, and threw in some sheepskins, and you on top of them, and left us. But a little later on they opened the door and pushed in an old woman — at least she looks old — that’s her you hear crooning. She’s scared to death of us. Every once in a while she shows me a knife about a yard long. But she brought a candle with her, which is something. I guess it’ll be dawn soon. This hut’s built of stones and mud and stolen timber, with bits of old sacking and stuff like that in the chinks. Are you cold? Are your clothes nearly dry? Let me feel them.”
“Does the old woman know any English?” I asked.
“No. I’ve tried her. I think that song she’s croaking is a prayer or an exorcism. It’s intended to keep us from bewitching her; that’s my guess. How does your head feel?”
Nothing obliges a man to recover so swiftly as something particular to think about, and Lord knew I had that in plenty. If I had my choice, for instance, between saving Joan Angela Leich or Rheims Cathedral, the building would go without a moment’s hesitation. I managed to turn my head to look at her.
You can’t change her much. Her hair was all untidy, and her jacket and shirt-affair were stained with dirt, but she was mighty good to look at, nevertheless. The guttering candle threw half of her face in shadow, but made her brave eyes shine, and the outline of her face was something that is never born outside America, whatever fools may say about the melting-pot. There was no nonsense there, no humbug, no claptrap, but a gallant good-humour, and a disregard for things of no account that seems to me better than religion.
I told her to take one of the sheepskins and throw it over her to keep off the draught that came whimpering through the cracks; apparently she hadn’t thought of that before. She had to pull the thing out from under me. Then, because the gods who supervise such things were willing, I fell asleep, which in men like me, who am nearly all physique without much brains, is a pretty sure sign of recovery.
When I awoke it was broad daylight, as you could tell by the light streaming in through cracks. Joan Angela was dozing, chin on knees, with her back against a wall, and the old hag
was mixing up a mess of goat’s milk and some sort of grain — our breakfast presumably. I got up and found I could stand without holding on to anything, but that was about all; so I copied Joan Angela’s example and sat with my back to the wall.
Five minutes after that the door opened and in strode Kangra Khan. He stood leaning on his rifle looking at us while I blinked at the sunshine. There were men crowding to the door behind him, but he motioned them back angrily and slammed the door in their faces, which did not, however, prevent them from clapping their eyes to the cracks.
After about a minute’s silence, during which the old hag stirred away steadily at the porridge, he gave me Allah’s blessing. I assured him he needed it more than I did.
“A man,” I said, “who commits such treachery as you have done will need pity rather badly by and by.”
“Inshallah!” he answered. “I am sorry you were hurt, but you killed two of my men. What wrong had they done you?”
There was no need to answer with words. I glanced at Joan Angela, who was studying him quietly over the top of her knees.
“Is the sahiba hurt?” he asked.
“She seems to be a prisoner,” I answered.
“And a good one!” he retorted. “What of it? What treachery have I done? Lo, I kept the promise. I was at the fire, and spoke with Ali Babul in the sahib’s presence. Moreover, I told the fat pig Ali Babul I will not help the Punjabis. Lo, I spat at him to prove it! Lo, I have no need to bargain with the dog!” He gestured magnificently in Joan Angela’s direction. “They tell me the sahiba has a mint of money!”
“So we’re held for a ransom?” I asked.
“Aye, a great one!”
I gestured upward with my thumb. There was the roar of two aeroplanes overhead.
“The Lancers will come presently,” I assured him.
“Aye! Those fools will prod a hornets’ nest! They are across the river now. I sent my man an hour since to warn them to turn back again. They will make him prisoner. When they question him he will ask whether four hundred can wisely attack us. I have twenty thousand men.”
I accepted that statement with reserve. Accuracy as to numbers is unknown in all that North-West country. Two thousand — twenty thousand — even two hundred thousand — might mean pretty much the same thing. Still, his point was obvious.
“Defeat them, and you deal with the guns behind them. Beat the guns, and comes an army,” I answered.
“Comes the army, and who shall guard the Prince? Is the Punjab so contented? Do the British want war?” he asked me. “Nay! I tell you they will rather pay my bill! A crore of rupees, and sahiba goes free — thou with her. Otherwise, the Melikani will send battleships and land an army, and fight the British from the rear!”
They have peculiar notions about the United States in some parts of the world, and it was no use telling him how slight the prospect was of Congress voting for a war in India. Since the A.E.F. went to France they all believe that anything might happen.
His case looked stronger than I cared to admit to him. It would probably take weeks, and months perhaps, before the British could bring a force to bear sufficient for invasion of that territory. For defence they were fairly well provided, but it is another matter to advance across savage and supply-less hills. Besides, as he said, there was the Prince; undoubtedly they did not want a war while he was visiting India. About our only chance was if the British should strike suddenly and surround the place where we were now hidden, which could not be far from the border. But as if he had read my thoughts, Kangra Khan deprived me of that faint hope that minute.
“They hunt on a false scent,” he said, grinning. “Today we lie here. Tonight we move on. By tomorrow they may hunt a year and never find you. In a week you will be further from them than the mountain was from Mahommed, on whom Allah’s blessing! Shall they come to you then?”
He could only have one object in telling me his plans. The much more usual method is to keep a prisoner in the dark as to his destiny. He was talking to me, but at Joan Angela, hoping she would offer to pay the demanded ransom. But ignorance is a great fortifier of courage; and inborn love of adventure is no weak straw to blow away with argument.
“I won’t pay!” Joan Angela said simply, looking up and straight into his eyes. I think she was rather enjoying herself.
For a moment a look of cruelty crossed his face. The hills — the spirit of the hills — the barren, cruel heart of Allah’s Slag-heap, as they call it, that compels and curses and deprives the weakest, hardening the hardest, reminded him he might compel too. There are ways and means; and there are women who are more expert than men in inventing agony for prisoners — all at his beck and call. But something manly in him seemed to fight that suggestion down. He laughed, showing yellow, irregular teeth.
“I have seen men’s hearts fail. Is a woman’s resolution greater?” he asked ironically. Then, with bitter meaning: “Eat while you have the chance!”
He motioned to the hag, who brought the bowl of porridge and set it down between Joan Angela and me, together with two old rusty spoons. The stuff was smoky and nearly cold, nor any too clean, and we preferred our fingers to the spoons. There was grit, too, in the stuff. But I think Joan Angela enjoyed it, partly because almost any food was good after a long fast and a wetting; mainly because of the adventure and the novelty.
Kangra Khan stood watching us, smiling rather grimly. We might have been two strange animals being fed in a cage. On the whole, he seemed rather pleased with us, but I thought I detected a trace of anxiety underlying his cavalierly air, as if perhaps all were not so well with him as he pretended. There were the eyes to the cracks, for instance, and the voices of his men outside, suggesting neither discipline nor over-confidence in their leader. Their eagerness to get a glimpse of Joan Angela, and some of the comments I overheard, brought another thought, and it was just as well Joan Angela did not understand the language.
“You know this woman’s honor is in your keeping?” I said, looking straight at him. He did not answer; so I added to the hint: “You will be held answerable. If harm should befall her the British would never rest until they hanged you in a pigskin. They would burn your carcase afterwards.”
He showed his teeth again. No Moslem enjoys that threat.
“Let her beware of herself!” he answered surlily. “By Allah, who am I that you should say such words to me?”
“Let’s hope you’re a man of discretion,” I answered; and at that he turned his back on us and went outside to snarl and argue with his men. Whereat Joan Angela nudged me and touched her jacket pocket in which the little automatic pistol lay; which was all very well as a last resource, but none too comforting at that.
Meanwhile my head ached damnably, and if we were to be moved on somewhere that night it behoved me to get in fit condition for the march, or otherwise I would be unfit to snatch opportunity. It may have been fever — a man’s brain after a severe blow is seldom in shape to judge sensibly — but the only line of action that appealed at all to me just then was to escape by some means as we threaded the hills by night, and work our way back to the Jhelum River. I began to talk it over with Joan Angela.
I have often wondered since why I did not advise her there and then to agree to pay the ransom. Then they could have sent a messenger to make the necessary stipulations with the military; bankers, or the Government, would doubtless have advanced the money on Joan Angela’s note, and even a third of a million dollars would hardly have inconvenienced her much. But the truth is, it hardly occurred to me.
Courage is more contagious than disease. If she had dallied with the notion I might have urged it. But the indomitable spirit was so strong in her that there was lots to spare, and some of it conveyed itself to me. It was likely enough she would have despised me if I had ventured to propose surrender — not that I would have let that prevent, if I had thought it best to yield. But you can’t consider yielding — not in Joan Angela’s company. As an abstract proposition, fail
ure is incomprehensible to her; and as a concrete fact it never seems to have been part of her experience. Men have called me an idiot for not insisting on her handing over the ransom money; but neither King, nor Grim, nor Narayan Singh found fault with me in that respect; and I know that as I sat there in the hut beside her (admiring her, I admit), the only line of thought I followed was how to escape by subtlety or violence. And I am not a subtle person.
“Let’s take turns sleeping,” I proposed. “Whichever of us is awake should pocket any kind of food obtainable and any weapon that comes within reach. I might hide a long knife, for instance, inside my breeches. Above all, don’t give them any idea that we’re thinking of escape. Now you go to sleep first.”
She has grit, that girl. She did not argue, but went and lay down on the sheepskins that had been my bed, and I kept watch while she dropped off to sleep like a two-year-old. The old woman started her crooning again, as if sleep were something dangerous, productive of evil spirits to be exorcised. But after a while it occurred to me she was trying to work magic to cast a spell over us; so I pretended to doze off too, sitting up, and surprised her in the act of searching Joan Angela’s jacket pocket.
That put me in possession of a knife. She flashed the weapon the instant she saw I was awake, and I took it from her, twisting her wrist until she gasped; but she did not scream, and she was at such pains to make no noise that I could not help noticing the circumstance. She seemed much more anxious than I was to avoid being heard by the watchers on guard outside.
What is it that makes a man act when his own judgment has nothing definite on which to base itself. Intuition? Stored-up experience? I don’t know. I only do know that scores of times I have acted swiftly in the face of facts that have seemed to suggest the opposite course, and in the outcome have scored heavily.
I shoved that long knife down my breeches-leg, took the old woman by the scruff of her wrinkled neck, opened the door, which was only fastened with a leather thong, and kicked her out into the midst of an astonished circle of Pathans, who were sitting around a six-stick fire discussing prospects. She landed almost in the fire. Two of them pointed their rifles at me and the rest kicked her further on her way, she screaming and cursing, they laughing, throwing stones after her as she slid out of sight down a shoulder of rock.
