Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “If your honor will be seated, I will find my servant.”

  Ommony raised no objection. Unless your host in those parts commits himself to some extent by supplying food and drink you have small chance of gaining your point. He sat down on the bed and pulled out a cigar — paused — lighted it — smoked — smoked the whole of it. His host was gone more than half an hour, yet it was not politic to arouse suspicion by betraying it.

  Meanwhile the mullah went into the mosque and sat there. He wanted time to think. He took off his turban and pressed his temples between both hands. Put on the turban again and knelt in prayer. Laid his forehead on the mosque floor — then rose and beat his forehead with his fists. Went out and found his servant, but suddenly changed his mind about what he had meant to say. Abused him roundly for looking like a fool, to the shame of his Creator, and then coaxed him, begging him to be discreet. Ordered him into the mosque. Ordered him out again. Called him back. Made him squat down before him. Warned him how Allah is omnipresent — omniscient — knows, hears, sees all things and reads men’s hearts. Bound the servant to secrecy by half a score inviolable oaths — and then sent him downhill to tell the whole party who were standing guard over the prisoners to march all four of them away at once to Padanaram, and to bring him an answer.

  The answer came back in the shape of a protesting Moplah, who accompanied the servant and demanded to know whether they were to march through the jungle by night. Was the whole world crazy all at once? The mullah told the servant to say yes. The other refused indignantly, because of the danger. The mullah cursed him; then cursed and coaxed alternately; then coaxed — through the mosque door. They compromised. The prisoners were to be taken out of the village immediately, sleep wherever there was shelter, hurry on to Padanaram at dawn. Praise Allah! The mullah had not compromised himself. He could claim afterward that he had sent the prisoners along, or that he had not. None had seen him talking through the mosque door, except the servant; he could beat him.

  He returned to Ommony, who was pacing the room restlessly — had to go out again, however, because he had forgotten in the excitement to tell his servant to bring food. Came back again and sat down rather humbly on the floor in front of Ommony.

  “And now, O Father of the Forest, let us seek to oblige each other,” he suggested.

  “Have you ordered food for that officer and his men?” Ommony demanded.

  “That is what took this long while. It was necessary to see the food was suitable. It has been done.”

  He described in considerable detail the ingredients and condiments that had gone into the imaginary stew, whereat Ommony professed himself satisfied. Ommony began to explain the situation in detail, dwelling on the baseness of murdering unarmed men who came carrying white flags. He told why they were coming. He, Ommony, had consented to the expedition for no reason whatever except to save the Moplahs from consequences that inevitably must ensue if they should murder those two prisoners at Padanaram.

  The mullah grew nervous again. He suggested that the consequences might not be so serious. Ommony disabused his mind. After the British victory, which must come sooner or later, the defeated Moplahs would be falling over one another to denounce the authors of every outrage, and nothing would be easier than for the British to identify culprits, who would be hanged after trial and conviction.

  The mullah became very nervous indeed. Ommony pointed out that foreigners from other parts of India, who might look just at present like responsible people, would undoubtedly try to run away before the end came, leaving the Moplahs to shoulder the consequences.

  The mullah, more nervous than ever, excused himself to go and see why the food was so long coming — actually to find his servant and countermand the order about taking those prisoners to Podanaram. But he could not find the servant. He had to get another man to make tea for his guest, and by the time that came at last it was after sunset.

  “Where are my friends going to sleep?” demanded Ommony.

  The mullah professed not to know. By that time he was too jumpy to invent a workable lie on the spur of a moment. Ommony insisted on finding out where they were to sleep; invited the mullah to accompany him, but threatened to go alone and investigate otherwise. Not knowing exactly what excuse to make, but hoping for something to turn up, the mullah took a lantern and followed him out, taking the lead as they passed through the gap in the fence and drew abreast of the mosque portico.

  There a man ran into them — cannoned off the mullah in the dark and nearly upset Ommony. He was heaving — sweating — did not smell like a native of Madras — and Ommony’s nose was jungle keen. The man collapsed on the portico, gasping for breath. Ommony took the lantern from the mullah and, stooping to see who had come in all that haste, looked into the face of Athelstan King!

  “Oh, hello!” he said. “‘Lo, Cot!”

  Ommony and the mullah picked him up between them and supported him into the mosque, where Ommony kicked his boots off as a concession to the mullah’s prejudices.

  “Thought you were dead,” he said, smiling at King in the dancing, dim lantern light.

  “That was guesswork, Cot, not thinking! Is it true—” He lay down a minute, still panting for breath, then sat up again. “Sorry. Ran uphill. Is it true you had an officer and three men with you? Women said so. Why d’you let ’em take ’em to Podanaram?”

  Ommony’s lower jaw dropped a trifle as he turned on the mullah, that was all. The mullah recognized a crisis and proceeded to use his natural weapon.

  “This person is an English spy, for he speaks English!” he announced. “You — you had our confidence! I will denounce you both!”

  “Man without brains or hope of life eternal!” exclaimed King in the vernacular. “I come from Mahommed Babar, who now has four hundred followers. He cares nothing for mullahs — all for his friends! He is within a march of here.”

  The mullah chewed the cud on that a minute, then nodded and got up to leave the mosque.

  “Sit down there!” commanded Ommony, who, however, had no weapon.

  The mullah reached into the folds of his clothes for his own rusty Mauser — hearing a low whistle and, turning, found himself looking down the barrel of King’s little automatic.

  “Give me your weapon, and sit down!” ordered Ommony. The mullah obeyed in both particulars.

  “I was scratching myself,” he explained. “I wasn’t going to use that.”

  “Allah’s own truth!” agreed Ommony. “It wouldn’t have gone off. Here, take it.”

  The mullah stored the Mauser away again with an air of drawing comfort from it nevertheless.

  “We’ve got to do something quick!” said King. He tapped the mullah’s knee with an arresting finger. “It is not too late for you to put yourself right! We are men worth making friends of, Ommony and I. Can you bring that officer and his men back here at once?”

  “I don’t know where they are,” said the mullah impotently.

  Ommony gave King a brief account of how they had come, King interjecting short, quick questions, which Ommony answered in the same laconic code. Then:

  “Every prisoner in Podanaram, including Judge Wilmshurst and his wife, is going to be tortured and murdered!” King announced. “Some talk of making it a public exhibition. The majority favors doing it in secret and showing the bodies afterward from village to village — commit ’em as accessories — encourage further outrage — offset the influence of Mahommed Babar, who preaches decency and enforces it.”

  “Better get word to him,” Ommony suggested.

  “I’ve just come from him. Strange fellow. Had a long talk. Seems it was we who drove him to rebellion. Yes, you and I, Cot! ‘Member when we shot Shere Ali? ‘Member how he flinched, or seemed to? Swears he didn’t. Swears he stepped back to tempt the brute, and had perfect confidence in us. When he saw the look on our faces he knew he wasn’t one of us and never would be! That’s his version of it. Says we thought him a coward, and he didn’t care to argue
.”

  “That kind of talk is always true,” said Ommony. “A liar would have invented something plausible.”

  “I tried to get him interested in Mr. and Mrs. Wilmshurst; heard all about them in a temple where this mullah left me. Mahommed Babar said he was sorry for Mrs. Wilmshurst, hardly interested in the judge, and busy in any event. True, too. Really is busy. They’re flocking to his standard in scores by the hour. Then there came a rumor about you and a party of British soldiers surrounded and cut up in the jungle.”

  “Mahommed Babar didn’t believe a word of it — gave me leave to live — said he will always consider himself my friend — and hinted that the interview was over. I came hurrying here to investigate the rumor about you and soldiers. It’s bad, Cot. Rotten. What are we going to do?”

  “I can go to Podanaram,” suggested Ommony.

  “Worse and worse! They’d kill you out of hand, and impale your head to prove all hell’s loose! No. Think of something else. This mullah. What about him? He cooked the goose. Can he uncook it?”

  Ommony considered the mullah for a moment.

  “He has points. He has points,” he answered. “I wouldn’t trust him out of my sight.”

  “D’you know where Mahommed Babar is?” asked King, and the mullah nodded.

  Both King and Ommony considered in silence for several minutes. Each kept looking at the other. The same idea was dawning in both minds and the mullah recognized the birth of a force that would sweep him he knew not whither.

  “I have been a friend to both of you — to both of you!” he muttered.

  “Do you understand that the murder of those prisoners must be stopped?” King demanded at last.

  The mullah nodded. He would have agreed to almost anything, but he seemed convinced of that.

  “If we promise to report to the authorities that you did so, are you willing to use your influence to prevent those people from being tortured and killed?”

  “In the name of the Lord of Mercies, yes.”

  “You realize that Mahommed Babar has forbidden outrage from the first? Good. As a mullah you have influence with his men? Good. If you go and argue with his men that this outrage at Padanaram must be prevented, he cannot accuse you of being in opposition to him, can he? Better and better. Go and do that. Go with Ommony sahib. If you do your work cleverly, when Mahommed Babar tells his men that this crime at Padanaram must be prevented, they will have been convinced already. They will obey with alacrity. Small time will be wasted. Will you do that?”

  “Better let me go alone,” the mullah answered, ever on the alert for a chance to switch plans undetected. Then suddenly he recalled an earlier thought that, he must have a witness if his alibi was to be the least use. “No. No. It is good. I will go with Ommon-ee.”

  King shut both fists in a characteristic gesture. “As you suggested; keep him in sight, Cot. I’m off to Podanaram — now — tonight — no argument. Arrive as soon after dawn as I can make it. Will you lend me your pony? Have to take a chance on leopards.”

  “Take the pony certainly. But what when you get there?” asked Ommony.

  “Surrender, of course — tell ’em I’m an Englishman. They’ll add me to the list for auto-da-fe. You tell Mahommed Babar where I am. Say I sent you. Don’t say anything about his father and mine, but say as regards that tiger incident I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You think—”

  “I know! Has the pony been fed?”

  “He has. And there’s a jungli who can get you by the leopards,” answered Ommony.

  CHAPTER 16. “Tomorrow a big victory!”

  Although it lacked two hours of dawn, the roar amid the trees was like the din of a city. In a clearing, partly natural and partly new — hewn, the watch-fires threw sparks that would have set Ommony’s heart on fire, but more by luck than arrangement the dry trees had not caught. There was a glow over the tree-tops, and a great din where the blacksmith labored, so that from half a mile away it might have looked like a Titan’s forge. Only it would have been very risky for strangers to come within a mile, because of the pickets who guarded every negotiable track.

  Mahommed Babar had done with indecision. He walked resolutely from one fire to the next addressing scant words to the men who cleaned their weapons by the blaze or merely awoke from slumber to greet him as he went by. No need to listen to what he said. His attitude — with a great old-fashioned saber slung from his shoulder by a modern Sam Browne belt; the reception he received; the air of alert expectancy he left behind him — all were perfectly eloquent. Nevertheless, the words, being the expression of the spirit in him, were important.

  “Tomorrow a big victory! Obedience, remember — wait for the word — leave loot to the jackals — be tigers! Be proud! Seek nothing but to conquer in fair fight — and the rest is sure! You shall have a victory tomorrow, and then forward to another one!”

  As savages will, they turned his words over and over by one fire, while he strode to the next, where someone would stir the sleepers and they would all sit up and grunt at him.

  “They conquered India by discipline — by obedience to orders — by fighting fair and not establishing resentment. When they take prisoners they treat them well, caring for the wounded. Do ye so likewise. In no other way can ye win freedom.”

  He had the fiery eye and carriage of a man of action — looked like a fighting man — and yet refrained from foaming at the mouth and calling on God to curse whoever disagreed with him. Which, if they did not analyze, they at least appreciated. He told them at another fire how he had thrown his all, including life, into the scale. They might trust him to do his best for them.

  “There are others who urge you to outrage now, who will run from the first sign of disaster. You will find me with you to the end, whatever that may be!”

  By one fire a fellow sneered openly, demanding what hope of profit had brought him from the North to claim leadership.

  “I fight for all India,” he answered. “I forbid rape and murder, and you hate me. But I tell you, it is only by such fighting as I permit that you can win freedom and set India free!”

  The idea of setting India free was a brand-new one to most of them. If he left an excellent impression, it was much like a ship’s wake that prevails but seldom long. There were men who followed him surreptitiously from fire to fire, undoing his words, reversing them, pouring scorn on them, quoting the Koran in evidence that it is right to murder infidels of all sorts.

  “He says that he will be with us to the end, but that is talk. Watch him! He will leave us in the lurch. Even tomorrow, possibly. The Khalifate Committee speak ill of him. They say he is paid by Hindus to protect their property and lives. It is hinted that he serves the British. If that were so, that might explain why he insists on treating prisoners so tenderly! Turn that thought over in your minds, my brothers! Victory tomorrow? For whom? For himself doubtless!”

  He had no other means of thwarting the discontented element than that he took, constantly moving about and appealing to the spirit of the others. He had hardly had time to surround himself with a group of loyalists, hand picked, really to be depended on, although he had done his best along that line. Over by his tent, which was a tarpaulin spread over branches, his more or less inner guard waited for him. When he approached they showed him a good deal of deference; but that was not in necessarily every instance more than their way of excusing themselves for accepting his leadership. To obey him and not appear to respect him would have been to make themselves ridiculous.

  The bonfire in front of a tarpaulin was his G.H.Q. Thither the runners came, bringing messages from the out-thrown intelligence units — spies, the enemy called them — scouts, they called themselves — experts unquestionably. Mahommed Babar sat down on a log with his saber across his knees, and two runners who had been waiting for him stood up to tell their story.

  “The British work their way along the railway line. They toil by night, with great oil-burning lamps that
roar exceedingly. Where the bridges are broken they use timber very cunningly. Soldiers guard the workers with machine-guns, and a tee-rain follows fifty paces at a time as fast as the rails are laid.” Another took up the tale from another angle.

  “They push supplies along the mended line — heavily guarded — food and ammunition for a thousand men perhaps—”

  “Perhaps!” agreed Mahommed Babar with a dry nod. “They have no thousand men. Two hundred men in five days eat as much as a thousand men in one.”

  “They come fast, sahib! It is better we oppose them now.”

  “Let them come!” he answered.

  Some of the men around the fire caught one another’s eyes at that. One of them tendered advice;

  “But, sahib, if we let them come too far there are others who will pounce on them and get the loot. We are not the only armed men in the woods.”

  “We are the wise men of the woods!” he answered. “Let others fight them. We will cut their line of communications when the time comes. They will be obliged to surrender. The more well-treated prisoners we have, the easier it will be to make satisfactory terms. What we must do is to defeat, not aggravate.”

  “Sahib, they say you have a purpose in holding us back.”

  “I have a purpose.”

  “They say a private purpose.”

  “None who believes that need follow me.”

  There began to be a fairly obvious division of his adherents into two. Perhaps a third of them believed their own advantage lay in supporting him as long, at least, as success might seem to attend his methods. Two-thirds proposed to use him for their own ends, and, if he would not be used, either to force his hand or else cast him off.