*
Ogilvie also heard that cry faintly from the distance — heard it from the pass which, by the grace of God, he had at last found ahead of his horse. Hearing it, he interpreted it correctly, and wondered what he should do. After a moment of indecision he came to the conclusion that since, on his own, he could do nothing else, he must continue towards the place where he had last seen the sadhu. The holy man was scarcely mobile enough to move very far on his own account, and his death might yet have some effect on the tribes. Notwithstanding the fateful fact of the sign’s revelations, part of O’Kelly’s instructions held good still: the sadhu must die, much as Ogilvie revolted from the thought of lifting a hand against so old and frail a man. And then his body must be well concealed where no Pathan would ever find it. His very absence at a crucial time might cause some dismay, some upset, in the tribal ranks.
It was all that could be hoped for now.
Ogilvie rode on, fast, dangerously, obsessed now with the one thought and aim: to reach the sadhu before Nashkar Ali Khan could get his hands on him.
*
The eclipse of the moon was seen, naturally, over all Waziristan, though the long wailing of the sadhu was heard only in his own sector of the mountains. The great concourse of the tribal levies down towards Gumatti saw it and, like the sadhu himself, saw in it the hand of Mahomet. Around the camp-fires of the watchmen, the talk grew loud, the excitement mounted. Soon now the order would come from Maizar — the order to march upon the hated British. Kaspaturos was much in the air, and the older men told once again often-repeated stories, handed down from father to son through the centuries, of the glories and war endeavours of the past. Well-known as they were, these tales were avidly listened to afresh, and wild faces grew wilder, eyes shone more brightly in the flickering fires that dotted the great marshalling area between the hills; steel was sharpened yet again and loaded rifles dangerously flourished in the air.
In his palace outside Maizar Nashkar Ali Khan saw it, and then waited impatiently for confirmation of its meaning to reach him before he sent word on to his levies.
‘The significance is as obvious as the nose upon your face,’ he agreed with his principal adviser, ‘but until word comes from the sadhu I shall not move. This will mean no delay of any consequence, and it is most important that the tribes should be assured by the voice of the sadhu of the sign’s validity. Bring me the Earless One again.’
When Healey was ushered into his presence Nashkar Ali Khan looked at his bloodstained shoulder and leg, at the injuries Healey had sustained when he had crashed against the hard rock side of the track during Ogilvie’s escape from the escort. The Pathan said, ‘Soon now you will have your revenge, Earless One, upon the English arms seller, for I believe the sign has come. You have seen the shadow over the moon?’
‘Yes, Highness.’
‘An eclipse, of course, a natural phenomenon, but sent with special purpose tonight by Mahomet.’ Nashkar Ali Khan took Healey’s arm and led him across to one of the great windows. He stood for a moment in silence, looking out over the still faintly moonlit peaks. Then he asked, ‘You believe this to be the sign we have been waiting for, Earless One?’
‘It is not for me to say, Highness. The sadhu alone can pronounce. You have said, and rightly, that an eclipse is a natural event, predictable before it comes. Doubtless an eclipse is written...but the writing may not coincide with the wishes of Mahomet. When the sadhu speaks, the truth will be known. Until then, we cannot be entirely sure.’
The Pathan leader nodded. ‘Truly spoken, Earless One. Yet the great majority of our peoples will see, not an eclipse at all, but the sign.’
‘They have not all been given your knowledge of the skies, Highness.’ Healey bowed his head, to hide the irony in his expression.
‘You flatter me, Earless One. I was not boasting; I was saying this: I could use the eclipse as a sign, and give the word, and not wait for the sadhu, even though I have already told my chief minister that I shall do so.’
‘Why so, Highness? Why not wait?’
‘Because, Earless One, the Englishman may reach the sadhu before my men...and if he does, then the word will never come.’
Healey said, ‘This I doubt, Highness. The runner from the sadhu will be already on his way if indeed the sign has come, and even if the Englishman’s intent was to reach the sadhu, a thing of which we cannot be certain at all, then he will be too late. Besides, the men you have sent may have killed the Englishman by this time. Having themselves witnessed the punishment by death of the defaulting escort, they will use their very best endeavours, Highness!’
‘Then you think I should wait? This also, I confess, was my own first thought.’
‘A good thought, Highness. Yes, I think you should wait for the final confirmation, and then with a satisfied heart make it known to all Waziristan.’
*
‘Very considerate of our Maker,’ Lord Dornoch remarked to the R.S.M., riding at his side. He had failed to recognize the work of Mahomet in organizing the eclipse, which had so reduced the silver radiance that the Mounted Infantry striking force was now much less susceptible to any snipers that might be lurking outside Maizar. At Dornoch’s other side was Rob MacKinlay, still commanding B Company of the Royal Strathspeys but now detached as second-in-command of the Mounted Infantry, who were using the horses unharnessed from the wagons left behind at the arms dump. The rest of the M.I. was made up of a Colour-Sergeant and two Corporals, with fifteen uncomfortably-seated privates, raw — in more than one sense — blaspheming Scots quite at home in highland country but only so long as they were firmly upon their own two sturdy feet. ‘At the same time, of course, it does make it harder not to run into all these damn boulders,’ Dornoch added testily as he steered his horse round a particularly big one that had been lost in the shadows. Knowing nothing of the long-awaited sign, he yet felt a certain sense of unease, he didn’t know why. He said abruptly, ‘We must move faster, Rob. Sar’nt-Major, pass the word to the men. We must reach Maizar and this damned palace before it’s too late!’
Cunningham still dressed, as they all were, in his execrable native rags, wheeled his horse and made his way to the rear. It was while he was doing this that there came, like a thunderclap in the still night, the sound of a single shot from ahead, from where the advanced scouts were riding to protect the main body of horsemen. Close on its heels there came another, and another, and then a fusillade. By this time Lord Dornoch had called out the order to advance, and was himself sending his horse fast ahead, risking the treachery of the jagged boulders and smaller rocks. One of the scouts, he found, was coming back to report.
‘Well?’ Dornoch demanded. ‘What was that?’
‘Three natives, sir, mounted and heading north-west...they came suddenly from a defile to the left, sir —’
‘What’s the result?’
‘All killed, sir.’
‘And ours?’
‘Private Crummel, sir, dead. Shot through the throat.’
Dornoch nodded, and turned in the saddle as Cunningham rode up. ‘Burial party, Sar’nt-Major,’ he said curtly. ‘All bodies to be concealed beneath the rock. There’s no time for digging a grave for Crummel, but no evidence is to be left behind uncovered.’ He swung round on the scout who had reported. ‘First I’ll see the bodies of the tribesmen,’ he said.
He rode ahead with the scout, and dismounted by the three corpses. With MacKinlay’s help, he examined them thoroughly, going right through their clothing. Straightening, he said, ‘No help there. They could have been anybody, going anywhere. Merely bandits. Yet I’d doubt that.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Yes, on second thoughts I’d doubt it.’
‘Why so, Colonel?’ MacKinlay asked.
‘I don’t know, Rob, it’s just a feeling. Just a feeling...it’s the clothing for one thing. Pretty smelly — but too good for bandits, and besides, it has the look of a uniform, or a livery. Do you agree, Rob?’
‘It could be, Colonel. But if
so, what...?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dornoch said once again. He looked around at the dark rearing hills, at the peaks that cut against the lighter sky which was darkening fast as the shadow of the eclipse deepened. ‘If they’re uniforms, however scruffy, these men could be from the palace.’ He pointed back down the track, towards the entry to the defile which they had now passed. ‘I should say, I think, from our maps, that that’s the way from Maizar or thereabouts. And I’m wondering why three armed horsemen should be riding out from Maizar, and possibly from Nashkar Ali Khan’s palace, at this particular moment of history!’
‘I don’t understand, Colonel?’
‘Rob, the eclipse! You know these people — I’ve been bothered by that eclipse, I confess. The hillmen like to be guided by Mahomet, don’t they? Don’t you see? Who deals with heavenly signs in these parts?’
‘Soothsayers, I suppose...holy men.’
‘Exactly! Sadhus. There’s been talk of a sadhu being the king pin being this rising. The eclipse comes and Nashkar sees it as a sign, or a possible sign. He wants to find out what the portents are — very naturally! So he sends men to seek out the sadhu. How’s that?’
‘Wouldn’t the sadhu be at the palace, Colonel?’
‘Not necessarily. Usually these holy men like to be on their own. I suppose Mahomet is more likely to reveal himself to them in solitude! Besides, they’re solitaries anyway, ascetics —they don’t inhabit palaces willingly. Not for them the flesh-pots and the women, Rob!’ Dornoch laughed, and there was a mounting excitement in his laugh. ‘If we follow where those men were going, I’ve a feeling we might come upon the sadhu — and I believe it’s worth a try.’
‘Colonel, we’ve come to find Ogilvie,’ MacKinlay said.
‘That’s true, and we’re going to. But there was always a very big doubt that we’d be able to get inside the palace — and out again with Ogilvie. It was a risk we were all prepared to take, but if a better way offers itself, then we should think again. If we can get our hands on the sadhu, then we have a very effective hostage to secure Ogilvie’s release. Now do you see, Rob?’
‘By God I do, Colonel! Do you think we can bring it off?’
‘There’s no knowing, Rob, but the chances are no worse than they would be if we stormed the palace. And if we don’t find the sadhu, we go back to the first idea.’
‘With some time lost, Colonel.’
‘Time has always been one of the imponderables anyway, Rob.’ He looked back at the waiting men. ‘Move ‘em forward, Rob, the moment the dead are covered. Straight through the pass — and warn ‘em all to keep their eyes skinned and their rifles ready, more than ever now!’
Twenty minutes later, with the evidence of the encounter well hidden, they were on the move once more.
*
Somebody was scrambling down the side of the mountain, coming fast for the pass itself. Ogilvie, who had the sadhu in sight now — the old man was standing like a beanpole on his flat piece of rock — stopped dead, then moved for cover.
There was deep shadow all around, but he fancied he saw the movement on the slope; he could certainly hear the fall of stones dislodged by the hurried descent. Clearly, it must be the runner, bound for Maizar. Somewhere around, though he couldn’t yet see it, the runner’s horse must be tethered.
Still upon his own horse, he waited, motionless. Having no weapon, he would have to rely on being able to ride the man down when he reached the pass. That shouldn’t be too difficult. When that had been done, the sadhu would be easily enough dealt with, always provided the task was not interrupted by any of Nashkar’s men from Maizar. Ogilvie listened intently, but could pick up no sounds other than those made by the runner in his rapid descent into the pass.
Reaching the foot of the incline, the man headed away from Ogilvie, going, no doubt, for his horse. Ogilvie saw the outline of a rifle. He came out from cover, riding straight for the shadowy figure, and the man turned sharply, hesitated for a moment, then darted to one side and, as Ogilvie came on, reached out and laid hold of his leg, and pulled. Cursing, Ogilvie slid from his horse and hit hard ground. Twisting himself onto his back, he saw the man leaping at him, and he lashed out with both feet; he caught the man’s heavily bearded face but failed to deflect him. The tribesman merely gave a grunt of pain, dropped his rifle and fell upon Ogilvie’s body, hands reaching for the throat and getting a tight stranglehold. Gasping, Ogilvie tore and beat with his hands, feeling foul breath in his nostrils until the squeezing fingers stopped his own breathing. Overhead, the eclipse had by this time virtually extinguished the moon behind the earth’s shadow. Ogilvie was close to passing out when suddenly the holy man uttered once again, giving that strange long cry. It penetrated the drumming sounds in Ogilvie’s ears, and he was aware of his attacker looking upward at the peak, his attention on the sadhu but his fingers never for an instant relaxing their grip.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the cry stopped, nipped as it were in full voice.
There was an instant reaction from the runner.
The man gave a startled sound and let go of Ogilvie as though he no longer mattered, and scrambled to his feet, seizing his rifle and staring upwards, and making a low sound deep in his throat, like an animal at bay. Ogilvie, lying flat on the ground still, found his vision clearing; and he saw the tall figure of the old sadhu outlined starkly against the sky, arms lifted as if in supplication to the eclipse-obscured moon, or to Mahomet in his heaven.
The skinny body was swaying alarmingly, leaning like a windbent branch over the long drop onto the jagged rocks of the pass.
Ogilvie pulled himself up.
By now the runner was kneeling in prayer, making obeisances, arms and torso lifting and falling again. His backside was presented to Ogilvie, excellent target for a hefty kick, and his bayoneted rifle was by his side. As quietly as possible Ogilvie advanced, but to his surprise and alarm more shadows flitted from out of the sides of the pass, and there were more cries. There was a cold wind now, blowing around the sadhu and eddying down into the pass.
The runner, hearing the new arrivals, ceased praying and leapt to his feet, turned, grabbed his rifle again, and made a rush for Ogilvie behind his long, rusty bayonet. At the last moment Ogilvie dodged aside; as the steel slid past his body, he brought a fist down with almighty force on the back of the man’s neck. The runner collapsed in a heap, his face smacking into the rocky ground.
As the other men, four swift shadows, closed in, Ogilvie dived for the rifle. From the corner of his eye he saw two more shadows scrambling up the path that led to the sadhu.
They were too late.
There was one more long-drawn keening cry from the heights and the sadhu swayed outwards, arms lifted still.
Then, with an appalling scream, he toppled.
He fell clear over the edge as the scream echoed off the mountains. The men halted. As the skinny old body vanished from sight, they uttered loud cries of alarm, and there were sounds of moaning, of tenor and distress at being in the vicinity of a holy man’s death. Seconds later there was a dull, grisly thud from a little way along the pass, followed by driblets of falling rock fragments. Ogilvie saw where the body had landed: it was a whitish blur against the black of the lonely pass.
The cries from the other men continued.
The runner, back on his feet again, pointed towards Ogilvie.
‘The Englishman has killed the sadhu. It is he who has caused him to fall. For this he must die a thousand deaths, my brothers!’
‘It was not I.’ Ogilvie felt a cold sweat trickle down his back. This was a terrible and lonely place to die, a place of ghosts and dereliction and greedy vultures’ beaks. ‘The sadhu was struck down by Mahomet himself!’
This brought cries of anger.
‘Yes, truly, it was Mahomet.’ Ogilvie did his best to make his voice carry strength and conviction. ‘Mahomet killed the old man, struck him down because he had done a wicked thing, because he had poisoned men’s m
inds...because he had misinterpreted the will of Mahomet and had misread Mahomet’s sign. Do you not see?’ He glanced upward, briefly; the red-brown ball that was the moon in eclipse appeared not to have darkened any further. The natural phenomenon might now have reached its height, and it could be worth taking a prophetic risk. ‘The sign is coming to its end, and soon the moon will reappear, to show all men that Mahomet is displeased with the sadhu, whom he has killed!’
‘The Englishman speaks only lies,’ a voice said out of the darkness. let us kill him, brothers!’
‘I speak truth. What Nashkar Ali Khan thought was written, was not written! Is not the very death of the sadhu himself a more potent sign than any for which the sadhu was waiting?’
To minds orientated towards superstition there must surely be much more than a touch of godly wrath in that terrible fall from the heights in the very hour of what should have been the sadhu’s triumph! Surely, the symbolism couldn’t fail to register!
There was no direct reply to what he had said, though he caught a muttered word here and there, a sound of hostility and anger.
Then, with no more warning, the attack came.
Howling like wolves, intent upon pulling the Scotsman limb from limb, the shadows, all seven of them now, advanced upon him. Ogilvie did the only thing he could do, which was to retreat along the jagged pass, and hold the bayonet steady in front of him, and hope to kill at least some of them by steel and bullet before the end came. In his retreat he almost stumbled over the shattered remains of the sadhu lying in the pass. Then his back was literally to the wall, and the men were closing in.
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