Not Quite a Husband

by Sherry Thomas

  “So you are criticizing the professional opinions of the officers at Malakand and Chakdarra?” she asked pointedly.

  “I know it sounds presumptuous, but I think their daily polo games send a signal not of confidence, but of complacency. Were I a native with rebellion in my heart, I would be encouraged that my enemy is asleep at the post.”

  She was silent. He pushed on. “Let’s stay here, where it’s safe and more or less comfortable, and wait until the next set of messengers come up from Malakand with news.”

  “But that could easily mean we’d be stuck here a whole week.”

  “A week isn’t so much delay when you consider that we are facing an unknown danger that could easily escalate out of control.”

  “No.” Her hand gripped the edge of a shutter, her knuckles white. “I cannot disagree more. If there is to be danger, we are much better off behind the front lines. Once we are south of Malakand, whatever the tribes of Upper Swat Valley decide will be of little importance to us.”

  “That is assuming we can make it behind the front lines in time. It would be safer to remain in a neutral territory, rather than risk being caught in the crossfire.”

  “If there is to be such a thing as a crossfire, as the officers at Malakand evidently do not believe, I’m hardly confident of Dir’s neutrality.”

  “The Khan of Dir receives sixty thousand rupees a year from us. He would be a fool to take part in any sort of sedition that might impoverish his treasury so much.”

  “I don’t doubt that the Khan, in his infinite wisdom, thinks first and foremost of his treasury. But the fakir aims only to fan the passions of the common man. Who is to say that in staying here, we wouldn’t make ourselves an easy target for hotheaded young men from nearby villages?”

  He cursed the unfortunate timing of things. “If this is about last night,” he said wearily, “then I take back everything I said. At this moment there is nothing more important to me than your safety. Stay and you can have whatever you want with me.”

  As soon as he said it he knew it was the wrong thing to say. She flushed, turned even paler than before, and took a step back from the window. “How noble of you, to sacrifice your virtue to my unforgiving rapacity. No, thank you, I don’t want anything to do with you. And you are wrong. There is no more danger ahead of us than behind us or all around us.”

  He sighed. Further arguments served no purpose—her mind was already made up. He had two choices: Either he could take the autocratic route and remind her that she could not advance a step without him, or somehow he must find a way to massage her into compliance without stripping away all her dignity in the matter.

  If only he’d kept his mouth shut before offering to prostitute himself for her acquiescence, he could have used seduction as a tool. Now the only thing he could think of was firearms.

  “All right, let’s settle this at twenty paces.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  But he’d already walked away. A moment later, she heard him coming into the dak bungalow. She stepped into the vestibule. “What did you say again?”

  He didn’t answer. He went into his room and came out with a rifle slung over one shoulder, a steel mug in his hand, and the handle of a pistol sticking out of his coat pocket. “Come with me.”

  They walked out of the dak bungalow, to curious looks from the coolies, and marched for nearly a quarter of a mile before he stopped and tied the steel mug from the branch of a small tree. Then he walked away from it.

  “That’s more than twenty paces,” she said when he stopped.

  “Forty, since the tree can’t move twenty paces on its own,” he said.

  With that, he loaded the rifle from the breech, raised it, fired, and hit the mug with a loud metalic clang.

  “Your turn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you insist on meeting danger head-on, show me you can protect yourself. I’ll give you three chances. You hit the mug, I’ll make arrangements to get us to Malakand as swiftly as possible. You fail, we venture no further south until either the trouble clears or it becomes evident that there will be no trouble. Choose your weapon, rifle or pistol.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m not a crack shot.”

  “No, what is ridiculous is that I’m giving you a chance—any chance—to dictate the course of our action. If I’m wrong and nothing happens in Swat Valley, we lose a week of our life to boredom. If you are wrong and things go awry, we lose our lives. Full stop.”

  “Balderdash. Our soldiers in the Swat Valley were there for the previous campaign. They know the local population far better than we do. It is their professional judgment that they have nothing to fear. I prefer to put my stock in their expertise, rather than your intuition.”

  “Then let’s shoot for it. Here’s your pistol.”

  And it was her pistol, a double-barrel Remington derringer. She’d forgotten altogether that she had one. He must have kept it with him when he and the coolies packed her things before they left Rumbur Valley.

  She grabbed the pistol. In a righteous huff, she took aim and pulled the trigger. The pistol jumped in her grip, the noise startling her, but there was no echoing clank against the steel mug, only a dull thud somewhere.

  She fired again. Again, nothing.

  As she extended her hand for one more cartridge, he said, “May I remind you that this is binding? You accepted the challenge, you accepted the terms.”

  She pivoted the barrels upward and reloaded. “Is it as binding on you as it is on me?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Bastard. This was no contest. It was a trick to get her to accede to his wishes, while making it appear as if she’d been given a fair shake at her wishes.

  No, I will not remain here with you.

  It was hot. She perspired under the rear flap of her hat. She took it off and felt the sun beating down against her unprotected nape. The river was wide and swift here. A single rope hung over it. A man in a chair suspended from the rope was crossing the river toward their side. He stared at Bryony in astonishment.

  She raised the pistol slowly and sighted the mug. She must succeed. And she would. She wanted to leave far more than he wanted to stay. If there was to be no new beginning for them, then their story had ended three years ago, and their epilogue ended the night before. It was time to close the book.

  She pulled the trigger. And saw the jerky swing of the steel mug before she heard the jarring hit. She dropped her arm to her side and stood a moment, breathing hard.

  Deliverance.

  She turned toward him. He was still staring at the mug in disbelief.

  “Did you say ’as swiftly as possible?” she asked brightly.

  She thought they would depart immediately. Instead, Leo huddled for a while with the guides, who then left by themselves.

  “Where have they gone?”

  “To set up a rudimentary stage system for us,” he said curtly. “We will leave at first light tomorrow and make for Malakand.”

  “In one day?”

  “I can’t in good conscience caravan on as if nothing is the matter. Since you want to get behind the front line, I will get you there as fast as I can.”

  “How far are we from Malakand?”

  “Seventy miles or thereabout.”

  “And how many changes of horses will we have?”

  “Two.”

  On the road into Kashmir, ponies were changed every six miles. Here they would have to use the same horses for twenty-five miles.

  “What about the coolies?”

  “They will remain here until the guides return for them and then head south. I will wait for them at Malakand. Don’t worry about your things. I’ll have them shipped to London.”

  She nodded. “Very good.”

  “Prepare for a long day. The horses are not bred for speed; we’ll be lucky if we can manage seven miles an hour on average.”

  “Understood.”

  He sig
hed and put his hands on her arms.

  “You can still change your mind, Bryony,” he said. “Let us wait here in safety rather than going forward to tempt Fate.”

  “Nothing will happen. We will arrive in Malakand tomorrow night sore but well.”

  “And if not?”

  A chill ran down her back. Until this moment she’d been immune from any and all fear with regard to the Mad Fakir and his doings—but that was because Leo had shouldered all the responsibilities for their safety. Now the onus had shifted. Should anything go wrong, all the blame rested squarely with her.

  “I believe I’ve already proved that my marksmanship is up to the task,” she said. “The die is cast. Let’s have no more doubts or demurrals.”

  He moved away from her. “I hope you are right,” he answered. “I hope to God you are right.”

  By eleven o’clock the next morning they finally came across a blue scarf tied on a tree, signaling the end of their first stage. They were running late. Even under perfect conditions, with the narrowness of the road and its tendency to shift, twist, and drop unexpectedly, they would not have been able to gallop at any appreciable speed. But the storm from two nights ago had slowed their progress even further. At quite a few stretches, the rain had washed mud, rocks, and broken tree limbs onto the road, forcing them to pick their way through the debris.

  Hamid had two new horses ready for them and food he’d procured at a nearby village. He also had encouraging news. The Khan of Dir had expressly forbidden his people from participating in the Mad Fakir’s schemes. Their safety should be assured for as long as they traveled in Dir.

  And as soon as they left Dir, they’d be within view of a British installation. Bryony unwound somewhat—she hadn’t realized how tense she had been, how anxious, as the road stubbornly refused to allow them a rapid progress.

  By mid-afternoon they reached Sado, a village that had no significance whatsoever, except that it marked the point where their road would leave the Panjkora Valley and take a sharp turn east-southeast.

  From Sado it was thirty-five miles to Chakdarra, and another eight miles to Malakand. She estimated that they had perhaps four hours of daylight left. They’d have to slow down once night fell, so it was likely they’d only manage to get to Chakdarra at the end of the day. But that was fine. At Chakdarra they’d still be completely out of danger and from Chakdarra she could still reach Nowshera in less than a day.

  “Are you all right?” Leo asked.

  They’d stopped to rest and water their horses by a stream that fed the Panjkora. She was crouched by the water, soaking a handkerchief. Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies merely glow. In damp, cool England perhaps. In India ladies too sweated like horses, especially ladies who rode in the middle of the day under an unsympathetic sun at an altitude of less than three thousand feet.

  She looked up at him. He usually shaved in the evenings, but he hadn’t the night before. She wanted to stare at the stubbles on his face—the shadow of growth that kissed the firm set of his jaw and the leanness of his features. She turned her face back to her handkerchief. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m used to this,” he said. “Is the sun getting too harsh?”

  He’d been quite lovely to her. Were she to judge him solely by his demeanor, she’d never have guessed that they’d fought heatedly the day before and that he was staunchly opposed to this southward venture.

  She wrung the handkerchief dry and patted her face with it. “The sun is tolerable.”

  As she rose, he handed her a canteen of water. “You can open a button or two on your jacket if it gets warmer. You are a man today. Enjoy your freedom.”

  He’d decided that it was safer for them to appear as two men traveling, rather than a man and a woman. He’d have preferred for them to be in native dress, but neither of them could keep a turban from unraveling, so two sahibs they remained. She was dressed in his spare clothes. His shirt and jacket were loose on her but his trousers had braces and stayed loyally above her waist.

  She sipped just enough water to moisten the inside of her mouth—relieving herself was even more of a problem in men’s clothes than in women’s; best to have as little need of it as possible. Capping the canteen, she gave it back to him.

  He helped her into the saddle and handed her the reins. “This is not how I would have us part ways, Bryony.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “So let us get on with it.”

  The storm seemed to have bypassed Lower Dir altogether. Southeast of Sado, the road improved nicely, wide and smooth enough for wheeled vehicles. The terrain continued to slope lower; their horses picked up speed.

  Along the road there were more travelers than Bryony was accustomed to seeing—she attributed it to the better condition of the road and greater proximity to the more populous Swat Valley. Her mind still clouded with the events of the two previous days, it took her a while to see that for every traveler going northwest, there were ten going southeast.

  They were all men—no surprises there—traveling on foot. They were armed—again not surprising, in a land where blood feuds were common and disputes frequent. She considered for a moment whether they were the Mad Fakir’s followers, then dismissed the thought out of hand—Upper Swat Valley lay quite in the opposite direction of where these men were coming from. Far more likely that they were on their way to a wedding or some other such communal celebration.

  They were two miles past Sado when they passed a group at least a hundred strong at prayer, their weapons by their sides. Another mile later, under the shade of an enormous banyon tree, some fifty men sat drinking tea and chatting. This latter group looked up as Leo and Bryony rode past, but otherwise ignored them.

  Half an hour later, however, they came to a third large group of men. The men were about sixty in number and took up almost the entire width of the road. At the sound of riders approaching, the men stopped and turned around. They looked at Leo and Bryony. To Bryony’s dismay, almost half of the men, particularly the younger ones, reached for the hilts of their swords.

  She opened her mouth to call to Leo, but no sounds emerged from her suddenly numb throat. But as if he heard her silent entreaty, Leo slowed his horse somewhat and motioned Bryony to draw up to his left.

  “We will pass them on the left. You stay exactly abreast of me and you do not stop no matter what, do you understand?”

  She nodded, her heart not quite beating.

  “Now ride as fast as you can.”

  They urged the horses into as much of a gallop as these sturdy beasts of burden were capable of. The men continued to stare at them, as they drew near, as they veered up the slope beyond the edge of the road, Leo passing just out of reach of the men at the periphery of the group.

  And the men were behind them. But before Bryony could breathe again, a series of soft metallic hisses made her peer over her shoulder. A good three dozen swords had been pulled out of their sheaths and held overhead, their blades gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  Leo beheld that same display of power and belligerence. His face turned to hers. There was no fear in his eyes, but his hand clutched tightly around his revolver.

  “They were all wearing white,” she said, her heart now beating like a war drum. “In every group we’ve passed, the men were all wearing white.”

  He returned the revolver to its holster under his jacket. “So they were.”

  He needed to say nothing more. The men were headed toward a common purpose, and it wasn’t a Pan-Swati game of cricket.

  “I don’t—I don’t suppose we can turn back now?”

  “No, can’t turn back now,” he said. “Ride faster.”

  Bryony was petrified. So much so that when they came to the rendezvous point with Imran, the elder guide, Leo had to pull her off her horse and then pry her fingers one by one from the reins.

  She stood with her back against an apricot tree. They were at the edge of a quiet village. The sun had slid behind the top of the slo
pes. The air, smelling of hoof-trampled oregano, cool with the arrival of early evening, would have been hugely welcome at their previous stop; but now the breeze made her shiver—or perhaps it only made her shiver worse. And the village itself further fueled her fear: It was fortified, with silent, watchful presences behind narrow slits in the high earthen walls.

  Beside her, Leo and Imran conferred in whispers.

  “I thought the Khan of Dir had forbidden his men to rally to the Mad Fakir,” Leo said.

  “These are not Dir men. They come from Bajaur.” Imran’s leathery face was troubled. “They even invited me to join them, an old man like me. You must get away from here as soon as possible.”

  Leo did not ask whether there was still time to get away, and Bryony did not dare. The men saddled the new horses and transferred saddlebags that held bare essentials. When they were done, Leo told Imran to be mindful of his own safety and sent the guide on his way back north.

  He turned back, looked at Bryony, and frowned. “Did you drink?”

  Bryony looked down at the canteen he’d given her after he helped her off her horse. Did she drink? She had no recollection. She’d forgotten altogether that she had the canteen.

  He took the canteen, unscrewed its cap, and put it back in her hand again. “Drink. And take more than a sip. It will be dark soon enough and no one will see you if you must relieve yourself.”

  She did as she was told with a dumb obedience.

  “And eat this.” He pressed a biscuit into her palm.

  “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach felt as if it had been stepped on, repeatedly.

  “Your nerves may not want food. But your body does. We’ve still hours of riding ahead of us. You must keep up your strength.”

  She could not suppress a whimper of panic. Hours. How many more armed men would they come across? The region was crisscrossed with valleys rich in alluvial deposits. Crops pushed eagerly through the soil and grew with a lust that would have amazed peasants who had to eke out their living on less blessed dirt. She could only guess at the size of population this ease of cultivation supported.