Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “We fighting men came to find a leader. You show us words and dalliance,” one man grumbled.

  “The woods are already full of loot, but the others have it all. Where is ours?” said another.

  “Listen!” said a third. “There is a Hindu shroff who has fled to Calicut, but his house lies yonder, half a day’s march. Once he lent me a little money. Three times with the aid of the notes I signed he took away all I had, and he claims that I still owe him more than he originally lent me. Lead to that man’s village! Let me see the burning of his whole property! Thereafter you may lead me where you will!”

  Mahommed Babar got to his feet, rested his hands on the saber in front of him, and met the gaze of every man in turn. The firelight shone in his eyes, and the most inexpert guesser might have known that even his Oriental patience was near exhaustion.

  “How many times shall I tell you I am no man’s agent?” he demanded. He spoke through his teeth, spitting the words at them. “I lead, or I do not lead.”

  “Very well, lead on!” retorted someone from just beyond the zone of light. “Thus far you have only led on little forays. We will give you until an hour after dawn to lead us against this big force that comes along the railway. Defeat that for us — lead us to all that loot — and we will follow you from here to the sea and plunder Calicut and give you all the richest gems in the city!”

  That was short notice. The stars were already paling. A considerable murmur of applause greeted the last speaker, and before Mahommed Babar could reply another runner came, announcing that Moplahs to the north and westward wanted to know at what hour the attack on the railway repairing party should begin. He was answered in chorus.

  “An hour after dawn! Mahommed Babar will lead us then or sooner!”

  Somebody hustled the messenger out of the light-zone and sent him away on the run to deliver his answer. Other men by the bivouac fires began passing the word along, and the enthusiasm leaped from fire to fire until the whole clearing roared the news, and the men in the outer ring of Mahommed Babar’s circle smiled.

  Another word began passing from lip to lip among the shadows. “Now we shall see! He says he will be with us to the end. They say he will run from real danger. We shall know within an hour or two.”

  That was such obviously good leverage that the inner circle caught it up and used it.

  “Now deeds may answer words and all will know that you are not paid by the enemy to save their lives and property!”

  There was nothing indecisive in his answer. He drew his saber with a jerk of the wrist that made the fine steel thrum.

  “It is good!” he answered. “Ye shall have your way! An hour after dawn I will lead against the British force — and by the holy blood of martyrs ye shall rub your noses into the worst of it! I will pistol the man who flinches! Headmen! — jemadars! — join your parties — inspect weapons — see the men are fed — be ready!”

  In a moment he was almost alone by the fire, standing, staring rather gloomily in front of him, angry because he knew he was being forced into a mistake, yet seeing no way out of it. True, he might snatch a victory, but it would be costly and worth nothing. If he could only hold them back he knew he could accomplish something worthwhile, at almost no cost in life at all.

  Well, there was nothing else for it; he must establish his reputation, on which authority must rest. He was turning to eat the food that a servant brought when another messenger arrived.

  “A sahib comes!”

  “A sahib? What sahib? You are crazy!”

  But the sahib, walking swiftly and followed by a weary mullah, arrived almost as soon as the messenger.

  “Don’t shoot, Mahommed Babar!” said the sahib’s good-humored voice. “I’m Ommony.”

  CHAPTER 17. “I am a rebel.”

  The door of the priest’s chamber in the temple of Padanaram opened suddenly and they thrust a man in so violently that he stumbled and fell over the recumbent body of a soldier who lay asleep on the stone floor. There were only two cots. One was occupied by Mrs. Wilmshurst.

  “Is this to be another Black Hole of Calcutta?” she complained.

  The suggestion was absurd. It was a good, large, airy room for one thing. The sun was already above the trees outside and flooded the room through a large window set high in the wall, through which escape might almost have been possible, for there was no glass — no bars. Only, one did not know what was outside, and the judge was neither active nor adventurous. The soldier acquiesced, dog-weary, and knowing what they knew.

  The judge had lent his cot for a few hours to Linkinyear, who sat up and stared.

  “Oh, are we to have natives in here?” asked Mrs. Wilmshurst in the identical tone of voice that has made most of the trouble between the East and West.

  The man recovered himself, apologized to the soldier, and faced Mrs. Wilmshurst’s cot, on which she lay clothed, languidly fanning herself.

  “Pardon the interruption, but they threw me in here,” he explained.

  “Oh well — if you couldn’t help it, I suppose—”

  “I could have helped it all right,” he answered.

  By that time they were all staring at him — judge, Linkinyear, three privates of the line, and Mrs. Wilmshurst — puzzled principally by the excellence of his English.

  “Oh — beg pardon! I forgot. My name’s King. Traveling incog, that’s all.”

  “Not Major King — whom I met at Poona?” Mrs. Wilmshurst would have used her lorgnon if she had had one. “Mr. Ommony’s friend? Well, I never! You look as if you need a bath. Sorry we can’t oblige you.”

  “Well, well!” her husband exclaimed, stepping forward to shake hands. “At least we’re safe then! The famous Athelstan King—”

  “Not in the least safe,” King interrupted. “Has anybody tried that window? Backs, please.”

  Two of Linkinyear’s men stood face to the wall, and King climbed on to their shoulders. One glance through the window was sufficient.

  “Not at all safe. Small yard — high wall — jungle. Two men with rifles on the wall, and probably others on the temple roof. Impracticable.”

  “What then?” the judge asked. “Why are you here? You say you could have helped it?”

  “Heard you were all here, so came and surrendered to the Khalifate Committee. They were delighted, of course.”

  “Goodness gracious! Why didn’t you run the other way and bring some help?” Mrs. Wilmshurst asked indignantly. “If the authorities knew we were here they’d—”

  “No time,” King assured her. She was right in her diagnosis. He was not a lady’s man. “We’re to be murdered. High noon today. Bodies disgustingly mutilated, before death or afterward — then placed on view — excite the Moplahs. Murder will be secret. Afterwards they’ll advertise it. Scheme is to persuade Moplahs to go in for frightfulness wholesale.”

  “Oh, my God!” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “What do they kill you with? Knives?”

  “Pardon me, old top, but have you a weapon of any kind?” asked Linkinyear.

  “Sorry. No. Had a pistol, but they searched me rather thoroughly just now,” King answered.

  “How do you know that is their intention?” asked the judge. “Perhaps they were only threatening you on purpose to terrify—”

  “Oh no. You see, I didn’t tell them who I was at first. They mistook me for a friend. Told everything. It was after that that I mentioned my real name and nationality, and of course then there was nothing to do but kill me or throw me in here. Mean minutes while they decided that point!”

  “But, my dear man — that was quixotic, wasn’t it? Outside, and incognito, there was surely always a chance in a thousand to help save us, whereas—”

  “Whereas inside I’ve an even chance,” King interrupted. “Cot Ommony has gone for help to a friend of mine, who has influence and some backing. He can’t refuse to rescue me — at least, I hope not. He won’t, if I know him. The risk is he may be overruled by the men about him. And, of
course, he may arrive too late. I’d say the chance was fifty-fifty.”

  Mrs. Wilmshurst got up and paced the floor, trying to master herself. Her husband began to offer sympathy, a little clumsily but kindly. She shook him off.

  “I tell you what,” she said suddenly. “We ought to pray. Let’s all pray. Do you hear me?”

  They heard, but none responded. She returned to her cot to lie down and pray by herself.

  “What do you say they kill you with? Knives?” she asked. “Oh, my God!”

  King entered into details, in particular about the Khalifate Committee, whose prisoners they were.

  “Moplahs are decent savages. That Committee are devils,” he insisted. “All they’re playing for is ructions, north, south, east, and west. Bag them, and this Moplah business might be over in a month or two.”

  “Why discuss that? They’ve bagged us!” said the judge with a wry smile.

  “Oh, my God! I can’t remember any prayers!” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “Which of you knows a prayer?”

  One of the privates did, and volunteered to prove it. Mrs. Wilmshurst welcomed him and they knelt against the cot, one on either side.

  “Can’t we stage a show of some kind?” wondered Linkinyear. “We might stand by the door and swat them as they come through — swat or scrag them. Kill a few before they snaffle us. The hell of it is they’ll get the beldame anyhow. If I’d a gun—”

  “Come and listen, Lu!” Mrs. Wilmshurst called to her husband. “This man prays beautifully! He has made me cry already! Come here at once!”

  The judge went and sat on the end of the cot, listening with a rather puzzled look. He might have been hearing a witness in a rare language.

  “If Mahommed Babar comes too late,” said King, “there’s this — perhaps we couldn’t have used our lives to better advantage.”

  “How so?” demanded Linkinyear. “I’d rather take mine with the damage I’d done all in full view around me!”

  “It might be the last of this Committee,” King answered. “The sight of us all dead may arouse Mahommed Babar to the—”

  There came a kick against the door. It opened slightly. There was a noise of scuffling, and it closed again.

  “There! Someone’s coming to the rescue! There! That comes of praying!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilmshurst, getting off her knees. The door opened wide. A man in a khaki shirt and pants, without much else on, was hurled in backward and the door slammed shut.

  “There? Is that your Mahommed Babar?”

  It was Cotswold Ommony, flat on his back. King helped him to his feet.

  “‘Lo, Cot!”

  “‘Lo, Athelstan!”

  “Any prospect?”

  “None whatever!”

  “How did you come so quickly?”

  “Borrowed his horse. When I gave him your message he was eating chupatties, standing in front of his tent. He went on eating.

  “‘My friend King sahib asks more than he knows,’ he answered. ‘You speak of the benefit of doubt. Whose doubt?’”

  “‘Your own,’ I said. ‘He has no doubt of you.’”

  “He looked me in the face for about a minute after that. You know the way he strokes his beard, standing with his legs apart? He looked pretty much like a man, with an old-fashioned saber he’s dug up from somewhere. I liked him. I hope he realized it.”

  “‘No time to waste,’ I said. ‘This is post-haste or nothing!’”

  “‘You shall see what you shall see,’ he answered, and began shouting for some of the headmen. They came running.

  “‘These are some of my most loyal,’ he told me, and then began explaining to them what was wanted.

  “You never saw such a riot! They turned on him like wild dogs. Accused him of treason. Said he had promised to lead ’em against troops on the railway line, and led they would be or else teach him what became of traitors! The mullah was down among the men already, playing his part, but some of the headmen ran and gave their version, and if it hadn’t been for a half-dozen stalwarts they’d have scoughed Mahommed Babar there and then. Several men took shots at him. He strode in among them like a man and a brother. Good to watch.”

  “It turned their hearts like eggs on a skillet. They shifted the blame on me — said I’d come there to corrupt him. I became the target. Nine or ten of them missed me beautifully. He managed to control them for a moment somehow, and gave me his pony to escape on. Told me to cut and run back to my bungalow, where I’d be safe. I came here, of course, hoping my influence might have weight, but I’m worse than useless. The Committee told me point-blank they would rather cut my throat than anyone’s, because of the effect on the country-side. They stripped me of nearly everything and pitched me in here, but I kicked two of them in the belly — hard! — before they got my boots!”

  “What time is it?” King asked.

  “Oh, about half-past ten — quarter to eleven — somewhere there. They took my watch. Not an earthly chance of Mahommed Babar’s making it, even if he decides to and they let him come.”

  “Any one know any hymns?” asked Mrs. Wilmshurst. “I can hum tunes, but who knows the words of a hymn?”

  Ommony did. They say in the woods that Ommony knows everything. He not only could sing hymns, but he could put that peculiar verve into them that distinguishes faith from mere habit of say-so. When Ommony hymned you knew somehow that God, Allah, Jehovah, Elohim, Maheshwara — it, he, they all are one! — was in heaven, and all was well with the world, at least in principle! You could believe it as long as he kept on singing, beating time with hand, foot, shoulders, head — sometimes with all his body. Captain of unexpectedness, he knew psalms — could sing them, too!

  It takes time to roll out those stately meters. It may have been nearly noon when the door opened and a voice called:

  “Come out, one at a time! Mr. Ommon-ee first!”

  They half-closed the door again from the outside. It was impossible to see who waited. They intended to kill quickly, one by one, or else they were few out there and did not feel confident.

  “We’ll soon see,” said Ommony, and walked out before the others could raise a hand to prevent him.

  “Follow up?” whispered Linkinyear. One of those stage whispers that can penetrate stone walls and be heard through the talkie-talk of siege guns. He led; King was next; the others herded Mrs. Wilmshurst in between them; and they all surged for the door — which, however, was slammed in their faces.

  “When they open again let me go first,” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “They won’t dare offer violence to a woman.”

  “Ladies last!” King answered over his shoulder.

  “Pig! Ill-mannered boor!” she retorted, and they all laughed. When the door opened again — just a little — very cautiously — they rushed it in a scrum all together, but failed of their purpose. Someone on the far side had forestalled them by placing a beam so that the door could only open wide enough to pass one person at a time. Linkinyear disappeared through the opening as if sucked through by a vacuum. The door shut suddenly — opened again and King felt his neck in a noose. He could not step back to avoid it because of Mrs. Wilmshurst, who pressed forward from behind. He was hauled through choking, and the door was once more slammed.

  Young Linkinyear was already stripped to the waist and tied with his hands behind one of the fluted temple pillars. Three men were holding and tying Ommony when King was dragged in, and they tied him next. There were only nine of the enemy.

  “The whole of the Khalifate Committee,” said Ommony, “and only nine to our eight! If only we had known!”

  One of the three who were tying him struck him on the mouth. The Committee’s smallest, meanest, most self-assertive member nodded pleasantly at that, examined King’s thin rope and struck it a few times with the edge of his hand to make sure that it bit into the flesh, and then took charge of proceedings, giving orders without any suggestion of sharing authority with others. He was the whole raise — the works — the brains — the up-to-da
te Napoleon.

  “Now there are only four men and a woman in there. Draw your pistols. Stand by the door. Open it wide. Let them come through. If the soldiers make any resistance, shoot them, for they don’t matter much.”

  The first man through was one of the three privates. He charged in with his fists clenched, ready to do battle with the universe. But a Hindu tripped him as he went by. Another noosed him as he lay prone, and dragged him, strangling, to one of the pillars, where he had no difficulty in tying him single-handed — passing the rope around the pillar and kicking his victim until he stood upright — then choking him helpless with one hand while he roped the man’s arms with the other.

  The second soldier through was knocked more or less unconscious by a pistol-butt, so that he, too, was easily tied in place by one man. The third soldier pulled judge Wilmshurst and his wife back into the room.

  “Come on in, ye devils, and fight like men if ye can!” he challenged, striking his Lancashire fighting attitude, which holds feet as well as hands ready.

  Instead of going in they sent a bullet. He fell forward, and his brains spread in a way that made Mrs. Wilmshurst scream. But that was the last exhibition she made of any kind of weakness. The judge took his wife by the hand, kissed her, and they walked through together. Once through the door they were seized, dragged apart, and tied like the others, the judge at one end and his wife at the other next to Linkinyear. Linkinyear, with a rope cutting into his wrists, called on all that was left of his lone command to act like men, and they responded by telling Mrs. Wilmshurst to “Cheer up, ma’am, and not be down-’earted!” Whereat she laughed and called them darlings. Her own wrists were in agony, but she said nothing about that.

  There were twenty pillars supporting a dome. Six more were missing — had been knocked out and carried off by Moslems — and it was a marvel that the dome had not collapsed. The gap thus caused faced the temple door, which, nevertheless, was only dimly discernible in the gloom. The prisoners had been tied to the pillars directly facing the gap, so that when the door opened the light shone directly in their faces. On the right also, only dimly discernible beyond the pillars, was a blank wall with a huge image at either end and a long stone bench between the two. Eight of the Committee went and sat on that bench, while a ninth opened the door to look out on the temple portico.