The Adventure Megapack

by Wildside Press

  “Oh, my God, help me! Help me! Help me!” he heard her whispering desperately, and it shook him badly in that supreme moment. But, for the love he bore her, he meant that there should be no faltering in his stroke. Abruptly, the girl felt him start violently, and he began to quiver from head to feet. He cried out something in a strange voice.

  “Oh, my God!” he said in a sort of whispering, husky shout. “I can see! I can see! Oh, my God, I can see! We’re going to win! Mary, Mary! we’re going to win! I can see! I can see! I can see! I tell you, I can see!”

  He loosed her and put both his hands up to his bandages, which had slid down on to his nose, and tore them away in a mad kind of fashion, while the girl stood limp and sick against him, still half-fainting.

  “I can see! I can see!” he began to reiterate again.

  He seemed to have gone momentarily insane with the enormous revulsion from utter despair to hope. Suddenly he caught the girl madly into his arms, staring down at her through the darkness. He hugged her savagely to him, whispering hoarsely his refrain of:

  “I can see! I can see! I tell you I can see!”

  He held her a single instant or two like this; then he literally tossed her into one of the upper bunks.

  “Don’t move!” he whispered, his voice full of the most intense purpose. “I’m going to get square with that brute now. There’s a chance for both of us. Here, take the knife in case I don’t manage. Just lie still, whatever happens. You must be out of the way. I could tackle a hundred of them now.”

  He was silent, listening. By the sound of the men’s voices, the second mate knew that they had halted some little distance from the doorway. There they hung for a few moments, no man anxious to be the first to face the big officer. For they had no knowledge of his blindness.

  Then he caught Pathan’s voice urging them on.

  “Go on, lads! Go on! There won’t be much fight left in him!”

  At that, a feeling of dismay filled him. It was evident that Pathan was not going to head the attack, and he might die without ever getting his hands on to him.

  From the irresolute men came a shuffle of feet. Then a man’s voice rose—

  “Trow de flare into ze hoose.”

  To the second mate the remark suggested a course of action. He threw himself upon a sea-chest, so that his face could be seen from the doorway. He kept perfectly still. If the man threw the flare into the house they would see his damaged face and think him dead. It might be that the coward Pathan would venture to come into the place—then!

  Thud! Something struck the floor near him.

  He kept his eyes shut. He could see no light; but the smell of burning paraffin was plain in his nostrils. He listened intently and seemed to catch the sound of stealthy footsteps. Abruptly, a voice just without the doorway shouted:

  “They’re both dead! Both of ’em!”

  “What?”

  It was Pathan’s voice. He heard the noise of booted feet approaching at a run. They hesitated one instant on the threshold, then came within, and a surge of barefoot pads followed. The booted feet came to a stand not two yards away.

  For an instant there was silence, a bewildered, awestruck silence. Pathan’s voice broke it.

  “My God!” he said. “My God!”

  Immediately afterward he screamed, as the huge, bloodstained form of the big officer hurled itself upon him. There were cries from the men, and a pell-mell rush to escape. Someone fell upon the flare and extinguished it.

  There was a shivering silence. It was filled abruptly by the beginning of a sobbing entreaty from Pathan. This shrilled suddenly into a horrid screaming. The men were no longer trying for the doorway, for the second mate had got between it and them. They could see him indistinctly against the moonlight beyond. He was flogging the steel side of the house with something. Beyond the hideous thudding of the blows, the house was silent.

  One of the crouched men, tortured to madness, threw a belaying-pin. The next instant the second mate hurled himself among them. He had the battered steel door for a weapon, and the edge of it was as a plowshare amidst soil.

  Amid the cries of the men, the side of the house rang out a dull thunder beneath the weight of some blind, misdirected blow.

  Most of the men escaped upon their hands and knees, creeping out behind the man who smote and smote. They got to the forecastle upon all fours, too terrified and bewildered even to get to their feet. There, in the darkness, behind closed and barred doors, they sat and sweated, in company of those who had hesitated to enter the house.

  Presently the ship was quiet.

  The berserker rage eased out of the second mate and he perceived that the house was empty, and the mutiny truly ended. He cast the heavy steel door clanging through the open doorway, out on to the main deck, a dripping testimony of a man’s prowess against enormous odds.

  He stood a moment, breathing heavily. Then, remembering, he wheeled round in the darkness to where, in the gloom of the upper bunk, the girl lay shivering, with her hands pressed tightly over her ears.

  He caught her up in his great arms, with the one word, “Come!” and stepped through the open doorway into the moonlight, the fallen door ringing under his tread. Then, master of his ship, he carried her aft to the cabin.

  SAID AFZEL’S ELEPHANT, by Harold Lamb

  Put cloth of gold upon a fool and a multitude will do reverence to him; clothe a wise man in beggar’s garments, and few will honor him. Yet those few will have their reward.—Turkestan Proverb.

  CHAPTER I

  We were three men with two horses and two swords. We were outcasts in the thickets of the foothills of Badakshan, under the peaks of the Roof of the World. We had earned the wrath of the Mogul of India and there were two thousand riders searching for us.

  It was the year of the Ox—the year 1608 by the Christian calendar—and Jani Beg, the Uzbek, had taken Badakshan from my lord, Baber Shirzad Mir, sometimes called the Tiger Lord.

  Nevertheless, we three were happy. We had taken Shirzad Mir from the hands of Jani Beg, who had marked him for death.

  Aye, Shirzad Mir sat in the clean white robes in which he had prepared to die by a twisted bowstring around the neck, and laughed for joy of seeing the sun cast its level darts of light over the peaks and through the trees that gave us shelter. Our hearts—the Ferang’s and mine—were lifted up for a moment by the warmth that comes with early morning. We had an ache in our bellies for lack of food; we had not slept for a day and a night. Also, I was stiff with many bruises.

  “Tell me,” said Shirzad Mir, fingering his full beard, which was half gray, half black, “how you got me out of the prison of Khanjut.”

  While I watched, lying at the edge of the thicket on my side, the Ferang—the Englishman, Sir Ralph Weyand—explained how we had climbed through the water tunnel of Khanjut into the walls, and how we two alone had freed the Mir while Jani Beg and his men were tricked into looking the other way by a herd of cattle that we had sent to the gate of Khanjut.

  He spoke in his broken Mogholi, but Shirzad Mir, who was quick of wit, understood.

  “And whence came you?” he asked.

  Sir Weyand told how he had been sent to India as a merchant, and had been driven from the court of the Mogul by the wiles of the Portuguese priests. When he had done, Shirzad Mir rose up and touched his hand to earth, then pressed the back of it to his brow. This is something he has seldom done, being a chieftain by birth, and a proud man. Sir Weyand rose also and made salutation after the manner of his country.

  I watched from the corner of my eye, for my curiosity was still great concerning the Ferang: also, for all he had borne himself like a brave man that night, he was but a merchant and I knew not how far we could trust him. While I lay on the earth and scanned the groups of horsemen that scurried the plain below us, seeking for our tracks, the thought came to me that our fortunes were desperate.

  We were alone. The followers of Shirzad Mir were scattered through Badakshan, or slain.
The family of my lord was in the hands of Jani Beg—upon whom may the curse of God fall. To the north of Badakshan we would find none but Uzbeks, enemies. To the east was the nest of bleak mountains called by some the Hindu-Kush, by others the Roof of the World. To the West, the desert.

  True, to the south, the Shyr Pass led to the fertile plain of Kabul, but up this pass was coming Said Afzel, the son of Jani Beg, with a large caravan. I had heard that Said Afzel was a poor warrior, being a youth more fond of sporting with the women of his harem and with poets, than of handling a sword. Still, he had followers with him, for he was bearing the gifts of the Mogul Jahangir from Agra to Jani Beg.

  Something of this must also have been in the mind of Shirzad Mir, who had been lord of Badakshan for twice ten years, during the reign in India of the Mogul Akbar—peace be on his name!

  “I am ruler,” he smiled sadly, “of naught save two paces of forest land; my dress of honor is a robe of death. For a court I have but two friends.”

  Shirzad Mir was a broad man with kindly eyes and a full beard. He had strength in his hands to break the ribs of a man, and he could shoot an arrow with wonderful skill. He was hasty of temper, but generous and lacking suspicion. Because of this last, he had lost Badakshan to Jani Beg, the Uzbek.

  He knew only a little of writing and music; still, he was a born leader of men, perhaps because there was nothing he ordered them to do that he would not do himself. Wherefore, he had two saber cuts on his head and a spear gash across the ribs.

  Thinking to comfort him, I rose up from the place where I was watching and squatted down by them.

  “There are many in Badakshan,” I said—long ago he had granted me leave to be familiar with him—“who will come to you when they know you are alive.”

  “Who will tell them, Abdul Dost?” he asked mildly. “We will be hunted through the hills. The most part of the nobles of Badakshan have joined the standard of Jani Beg.”

  “The men of the hills and the desert’s edge are faithful, Shirzad Mir,” I said.

  They were herdsmen and outlaws for the most part. Our trained soldiers had been slain, all but a few hiding out in the hills.

  “Aye,” he exclaimed, and his brown eyes brightened. “Still, they are but men. To take up arms against the Uzbeks we need arms—also good horses, supplies and treasure. Have we these?”

  * * * *

  So we talked together in low tones, thinking that the Ferang slept or did not hear. Presently I learned that he understood, for, with many pains, he had taught himself our tongue.

  We spoke of the position of Jani Beg. Truly, it was a strong one. He himself held Khanjut, which was the citadel at the end of the Shyr ravine leading into India. Paluwan Chan, leader of his Uzbeks, was at the great town of Balkh with a garrison. Reinforcements were coming through the passes to the north from Turkestan. Outposts were scattered through the plains. Jani Beg was a shrewd commander. Only once did I know him to err badly in his plans. Of that I will tell in due time.

  Shirzad Mir, who was brave to the point of folly, said he would go somehow to Agra and appeal for mercy from Jahangir himself. I had been to Kabul and I knew that the intrigues of Jani Beg had made his quarrel seem that of the Mogul and—such is the witchery of evil words—Shirzad Mir seem to be a rebel.

  “That may not be,” I answered.

  Then the Ferang lifted his yellow head and spoke in his deep voice.

  “I heard at Agra, Shirzad Mir,” he said, weighing his words, “that you were a follower of the Mogul Akbar.”

  “Of Akbar,” nodded my lord, “the shadow of God and prince of princes. He was a soldier among many.”

  “So it has been told me.” Sir Weyand rested his chin on his fists and stared up where the blue sky of Badakshan showed through the trees. “When Akbar was in difficulty what plan did he follow?”

  “He was a brave man. God put a plan into his head when it was needed. He had the wisdom of books and many advisors.”

  “And with this wisdom, I have heard he always did one thing when he was pressed by great numbers of enemies.”

  Shirzad Mir looked thoughtfully at the Ferang. It was a strange thing that this merchant, who carried a straight sword and came over the sea in a boat, should know of the great Akbar. Verily, wisdom travels hidden ways.

  “Aye,” he said, “the Mogul Akbar would say to his men that they should attack—always attack.”

  “Then,” repeated Sir Weyand promptly, “we will attack. It is the best plan.”

  I threw back my head and laughed. How should the three of us, with but two horses, ride against the army of Jani Beg? How should we draw our reins against Khanjut? We should be slain as a lamp is blown out in the wind. A glance from Shirzad Mir, who frowned, silenced me when I was about to put this thought into speech.

  “How?” he asked, still frowning.

  Then I remembered that I also had asked this question of the Ferang and that his answer had freed Shirzad Mir. I drew closer to listen.

  “In my country,” said Sir Weyand, “there is a saying that he who attacks is twice armed.”

  He then told how an ameer of Spain, whose empire extended over Ferangistan and the lands across the western ocean, had sent a fleet of a thousand ships against England in Sir Weyand’s youth; and how the Queen of England had fitted out a much smaller fleet, dispatching it to sail against the invader.

  “Had we waited for the Spaniards on land, the issue might have been different,” he said. “As it was, few of the Dons escaped with a whole skin. The advantages of those attacking are these: they can chose the ground best suited to them; they can strike when they are ready; also, their numbers appear greater in a charge or onset.”

  The thought came to me that perhaps the Ferang, being a bold man, would not hesitate to turn against us if the chance offered. After all, he had been sent by his king to get money and trade concessions from India, and the small province of Badakshan could mean little to him. What did we know of the King of England—except that he had ships and very fine artillery?

  Still, at this time Sir Weyand needed the friendship of Shirzad Mir. And, although he was a merchant—which is a getter of money—he never in the weeks to come, and I watched closely, shunned the dangers we faced. Instead he welcomed a battle, and laughed, when he swung his long sword, as if he were about to go to a feast. It is written that a fight is like a cup of strong wine to some. Sir Weyand was such a man.

  “True,” nodded Shirzad Mir, who had listened with care, “the great Mogul Akbar once, when his men were wavering, went forward on his elephant to a knoll where all could see him; then he ordered his attendants to shackle the legs of the elephant with an iron chain so that he could not retreat. Whereupon his men rode forward, and the battle was won. Yet we are only three against as many thousands. In what quarter should we attack?”

  “Aye,” I put in, “where? We are not yet mad.”

  “We are like to be so from hunger or thirst,” replied the Ferang, “if we do not better our fortunes. I heard you say we had no place to flee, and so we must attack.”

  “Khanjut?” smiled Shirzad Mir almost mockingly.

  But the Ferang was not in jest.

  “If we had a few score followers, it would not be a bad plan. But that is for you to decide, Shirzad Mir. You know the country. If I think of a plan, I will tell you.”

  That was all he had in his mind. I was disappointed. Perhaps I had expected too much of him.

  “Meanwhile we must eat,” I pointed out, feeling the urge in my stomach. “Iskander Khan will surely give us food, also weapons, if he has any.”

  I did not add that my horse was at the aul of Iskander Khan. Last night I had ridden a wild ass from Khanjut. But I did not want to do so again—until my bruises healed.

  “It is well,” said Shirzad Mir.

  So he mounted one horse and the Ferang the other. I trotted before them, to spy out if the way was safe. Iskander Khan was the friend who had aided us with his herd of cattle and his t
wo sons the night before. His aul was hidden in the hills not far away. But, as we traveled, we did not think to find what was awaiting us there.

  CHAPTER II

  About the time of noonday prayers we came to the Kirghiz’ aul—three dome-shaped tents of willow laths covered with greased felt and hides. Over the opening of the biggest tent were yaks’ tails, also an antelope’s head. Under this sat Iskander Khan, cross-legged on the ground.

  He was a very old man, bent in the back, with the broad forehead and keen eyes of his race and a white beard that fell below his chest. His eyes were very bright and his skin had shriveled overnight. His turban was disarranged as if he had torn it in grief.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet when he saw Shirzad Mir. But my lord—because Iskander Khan had rendered him a great service, and because the Kirghiz was the older man—sprang down from his horse and went to meet him. Iskander Khan touched his hand to the earth and to his forehead three times; then Shirzad Mir embraced him.

  “We have come for food,” I said, looking for Wind-of-the-Hills, but seeing him not.

  Iskander Khan lifted his hands in despair and pointed to the empty huts.

  “It is my sorrow,” he said, “that Shirzad Mir of Badakshan should come to my aul and ask meat when I have none to give. There is kumiss in the cask, and this I will bring you.”

  He did so, filling a bowl with the mare’s milk, which is the distilled drink of the Kirghiz. Neither Shirzad Mir nor I liked kumiss. When we saw how disappointed Iskander Khan was at our refusal, we forced ourselves to drink some. As it happened, this was well, because the strong fluid eased the pang in our insides.

  Shirzad Mir glanced curiously about the vacant aul. In the days when he had known Iskander Khan, the Kirghiz had many sheep and cattle.

  Then Iskander Khan told us what had happened. The herd and flock which his sons had driven to the gate of Khanjut had been taken by Jani Beg, who was greatly angered at the trick we had played on him. Also, the two boys and the daughter of Iskander Khan had been taken by the Uzbek horsemen.