by Talbot Mundy
A boat grounded amid the surf, and Ranjoor Singh jumped out of it, followed by Tugendheim and his four guards. The boat’s crew leaped into the water and hauled the boat high and dry, and as they did that I saw the ship’s lantern disappear altogether.
Ranjoor Singh went straight to the Turkish captain. “Your money,” said he, speaking in English slowly — I wonder, sahib, oh, I have wondered a thousand times in what medley of tongues strange to all of them they had done their bargaining!— “Your money,” said he, “is in the boat in which I came. Take it, and take your men, and go!”
The captain and his crew said nothing, but got into the boats and pushed away. One of the boats was overturned in the surf, and there they left it, the sailors scrambling into the other boats. They were out of sight and sound in two minutes. Then Ranjoor Singh turned to me.
“Send and gather fire-wood!” he ordered.
“Where shall dry wood be in all this rain?” said I.
“Search!” said he.
“Sahib,” said I, “a fire would only betray our whereabouts.”
“Are you deaf?” said he.
“Nay!” I said.
“Then obey!” said he. So I took twenty men, and we went stumbling through rain and darkness, hunting for what none of us believed was anywhere. Yet within fifteen minutes we found a hut whose roof was intact, and therefore whose floor and inner parts were dry enough. It was a little hut, of the length of perhaps the height of four men, and the breadth of the height of three — a man and a half high from floor to roof-beam. It was unoccupied, but there was straw at one end — dry straw, on which doubtless guards had slept. I left the men standing there and went and told Ranjoor Singh.
I found him talking to the lined up men in no gentle manner. As I drew nearer I heard him say the word “Wassmuss.” Then I heard a trooper ask him, “Where are we?” And he answered, “Ye stand on Asia!” That was the first intimation I received that we were in Asia, and I felt suddenly lonely, for Asia is wondrously big, sahib.
Whatever Ranjoor Singh had been saying to the men he had them back under his thumb for the time being; for when I told him of my discovery of the hut he called them to attention, turned them to the right, and marched them off as obedient as a machine, Tugendheim following like a man in a dream between his four guards and struggling now and then to loose the wet thongs that were beginning to cut into his wrists. He had not been trussed over-tenderly, but I noticed that Ranjoor Singh had ordered the gag removed.
The hut stood alone, clear on all four sides, and after he had looked at it, Ranjoor Singh made the men line up facing the door, with himself and me and Tugendheim between them and the hut. Presently he pushed Tugendheim into the hut, and he bade me stand in the door to watch him.
“Now the man who wishes to ask questions may,” he said then, and there was a long silence, for I suppose none wished to be accused of impudence and perhaps made an example for the rest. Besides, they were too curious to know what his next intention might be to care to offend him. So I, seeing that he wished them to speak, and conceiving that to be part of his plan for establishing good feeling, asked the first question — the first that came into my head.
“What shall we do with this Tugendheim?” said I.
“That I will show you presently,” said he. “Who else has a question to ask?” And again there was silence, save for the rain and the grinding and pounding on the beach.
Then Gooja Singh made bold, as he usually did when he judged the risk not too great. He was behind the men, which gave him greater courage; and it suited him well to have to raise his voice, because the men might suppose that to be due to insolence, whereas Ranjoor Singh must ascribe it to necessity. Well I knew the method of Gooja Singh’s reasoning, and I knitted my fists in a frenzy of fear lest he say the wrong word and start trouble. Yet I need not have worried. I observed that Ranjoor Singh seemed not disturbed at all, and he knew Gooja Singh as well as I.
“It seems for the time being that we have given the slip to both Turks and Germans,” said Gooja Singh; and Ranjoor Singh said, “Aye! For the time being!”
“And we truly stand on Asia?” he asked.
“Aye!” said Ranjoor Singh,
“Then why did we not put those Turks ashore, and steam away in their ship toward Gallipoli to join our friends?” said he.
“Partly because of submarines,” said Ranjoor Singh, “and partly because of gun-fire. Partly because of mines floating in the water, and partly again from lack of coal. The bunkers were about empty. It was because there was so little coal that the Germans trusted us alone on board.”
“Yet, why let the Turks have the steamer?” asked Gooja Singh, bound, now that he was started, to prove himself in the right. “They will float about until daylight and then send signals. Then will come Turks and Germans!”
“Nay!” said Ranjoor Singh. “No so, for I sank the steamer! I myself let the sea into her hold!”
Gooja Singh was silent for about a minute, and although it was dark and I could not see him. I knew exactly the expression of his face — wrinkled thus, and with the lower lip thrust out, so!
“Any more questions?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and by that time Gooja Singh had thought again. This time he seemed to think he had an unanswerable one, for his voice was full of insolence.
“Then how comes it,” said he, “that you turned those Turks loose in their small boats when we might have kept them with us for hostages? Now they will row to the land and set their masters on our tracks! Within an hour or two we shall all be prisoners again! Tell us why!”
“For one thing,” said Ranjoor Singh, without any resentment in his voice that I could detect (although THAT was no sign!), “I had to make some sort of bargain with them, and having made it I must keep it. The money with which I bribed the captain and his mate would have been of little use to them unless I allowed them life and liberty as well.”
“But they will give the alarm and cause us to be followed!” shouted Gooja Singh, his voice rising louder with each word.
“Nay, I think not!” said Ranjoor Singh, as calmly as ever. “In the first place, I have a written receipt from captain and mate for our money, stating the reason for which it was paid; if we were made prisoners again, that paper would be found in my possession and it might go ill with those Turks. In the second place, they will wish to save their faces. In the third place, they must explain the loss of their steamer. So they will say the steamer was sunk by a submarine, and that they got away in the boats and watched us drown. The crew will bear out what the captain and the mate say, partly from fear, partly because that is the custom of the country, but chiefly because they will receive a small share of the bribe. Let us hope they get back safely — for their story will prevent pursuit!”
For about two minutes again there was silence, and then Gooja Singh called out: “Why did you not make them take us to Gallipoli?”
“There was not enough coal!” said I, but Ranjoor Singh made a gesture to me of impatience.
“The Germans wished us to go to Gallipoli,” said he, “and I have noticed that whatever they may desire is expressly intended for their advantage and not ours. In Gallipoli they would have kept us out of range at the rear, and presently they would have caused a picture of us to be taken serving among the Turkish army. That they would have published broadcast. After that I have no idea what would have happened to us, except that I am sure we should never have got near enough to the British lines to make good our escape. We must find another way than that!”
“We might have made the attempt!” said Gooja Singh, and a dozen men murmured approval.
“Simpletons!” came the answer. “The Germans laid their plans for the first for photographs to lend color to lies about the Sikh troops fighting for them! Ye would have played into their hands!”
“What then?” said I, after a minute, for at that answer they had all grown dumb.
“What then?” said he. “Why, this: We are in Asia, but still
on Turkish soil. We need food. We shall need shelter before many hours. And we need discipline, to aid our will to overcome! Therefore there never was a regiment more fiercely disciplined than this shall be! From now until we bring up in a British camp — and God knows when or where that may happen! — the man who as much as thinks of disobedience plays with death! Death — ye be as good as dead men now!” said he.
He shook himself. A sense of loneliness had come on me since he told us we were in Asia, and I think the men felt as I did. There had been nothing to eat on the steamer, and there was nothing now. Hunger and cold and rain were doing their work. But Ranjoor Singh stood and shook himself, and moved slowly along the line to look in each man’s face, and I took new courage from his bearing. If I could have known what he had in store for us, I would have leaped and shouted. Yet, no, sahib; that is not true. If he had told me what was coming, I would never have believed. Can the sahib imagine, for instance, what was to happen next?
“Ye are as good as dead men!” he said, coming back to the center and facing all the men. “Consider!” said he. “Our ship is sunk and the Turks, to save their own skins, will swear they saw us drown. Who, then, will come and hunt for dead men?”
I could see the eyes of the nearest men opening wider as new possibilities began to dawn. As for me — my two hands shook.
“And we have with us,” said he, “a hostage who might prove useful — a hostage who might prove amenable to reason. Bring out the prisoner!” said he.
So I bade Tugendheim come forth. He was sitting on the straw where the guards had pushed him, still working sullenly to free his hands. He came and peered through the doorway into darkness, and Ranjoor Singh stood aside to let the men see him. They can not have seen much, for it was now that utter gloom that precedes dawn. Nor can Tugendheim have seen much.
“Do you wish to live or die?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and the German gaped at him.
“That is a strange question!” he said.
“Is it strange,” asked Ranjoor Singh, “that a prisoner should be asked for information?”
“I am not afraid to die,” said Tugendheim.
“You mean by rifle-fire?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and Tugendheim nodded.
“But there are other kinds of fire,” said Ranjoor Singh.
“What do you mean?” asked Tugendheim.
“Why,” said Ranjoor Singh, “if we were to fire this hut to warm ourselves, and you should happen to be inside it — what then?”
“If you intend to kill me,” said Tugendheim, “why not be merciful and shoot me?” His voice was brave enough, but it seemed to me I detected a strain of terror in it.
“Few Germans are afraid to be shot to death,” said Ranjoor Singh.
“But what have I done to any of you that you should want to burn me alive?” asked Tugendheim; and that time I was positive his voice was forced.
“Haven’t you been told by your officers,” said Ranjoor Singh, “that the custom of us Sikhs is to burn all our prisoners alive?”
“Yes,” said Tugendheim. “They told us that. But that was only a tale to encourage the first-year men. Having lived in India, I knew better.”
“Did you trouble yourself to tell anybody better?” asked Ranjoor Singh, but Tugendheim did not answer.
“Then can you give me any reason why you should not be burned alive here, now?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“Yes!” said Tugendheim. “It would be cruel. It would be devil’s work!” He was growing very uneasy, although trying hard not to show it.
“Then give me a name for the tales you have been party to against us Sikhs!” said Ranjoor Singh; but once more the German refrained from answering. The men were growing very attentive, breathing all in unison and careful to make no sound to disturb the talking. At that instant a great burst of firing broke out over the water, so far away that I could only see one or two flashes, and, although that was none too reassuring to us, it seemed to Tugendheim like his death knell. He set his lips and drew back half a step.
“Can you wish to live with the shame of all those lies against us on your heart — you, who have lived in India and know so much better?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“Of course I wish to live!” said Tugendheim.
“Have you any price to offer for your life?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and stepping back two paces he ordered a havildar with a loud voice to take six men and hunt for dry kindling. “For there is not enough here,” said he.
“Price?” said Tugendheim. “I have a handful of coins, and my uniform, and a sword. You left my baggage on the steamer—”
“Nay!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Your baggage came ashore in one of the boats. Where is it? Who has it?”
A man stepped forward and pointed to it, lying in the shadow of the hut with the rain from the roof dripping down on it.
“Who brought it ashore?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“I,” said the trooper.
“Then, for leaving it there in the rain, you shall carry it three days without assistance or relief!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Get back to your place in the ranks!” And the man got back, saying nothing. Ranjoor Singh picked up the baggage and tossed it past Tugendheim into the hut.
“That is all I have!” said Tugendheim.
“If you decide to burn, it shall burn with you,” said Ranjoor Singh, “and that trooper shall carry a good big stone instead to teach him manners!”
“GOTT IN HIMMEL!” exclaimed Tugendheim, losing his self-control at last. “Can I offer what I have not got?”
“Is there nothing you can do?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“In what way? How?” asked the German.
“In the way of making amends to us Sikhs for all those lies you have been party to,” said Ranjoor Singh. “If you were willing to offer to make amends, I would listen to you.”
“I will do anything in reason,” said Tugendheim, looking him full in the eye and growing more at ease.
“I am a reasonable man,” said Ranjoor Singh.
“Then, speak!” said Tugendheim.
“Nay, nay!” said Ranjoor Singh, “it is for you to make proposals, and not for me. It is not I who stand waiting to be burned alive! Let me make you a suggestion, however. What had we Sikhs to offer when we were prisoners in Germany?”
“Oh, I see!” said Tugendheim. “You mean you wish me to join you — to be one of you?”
“I mean,” said Ranjoor Singh, “that if you were to apply to be allowed to join this regiment for a while, and to be allowed to serve us in a certain manner, we would consider the proposal. Otherwise — is my meaning clear?”
“Yes!” said Tugendheim.
“Then — ?’ said Ranjoor Singh.
“I apply!” said Tugendheim; and at that moment the havildar and his men returned with some straw they had found in another tumble-down hut. They had it stuffed under their overcoats to keep it dry. “Too late!” said Tugendheim with a grimace, but Ranjoor Singh bade them throw the straw inside for all that.
“In Germany we were required to set our names to paper,” he said, and Tugendheim looked him in the eyes again for a full half minute. “Do you expect better conditions than were offered us?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“I will sign!” said Tugendheim.
“What will you sign?” asked Ranjoor Singh.
“Anything in reason,” answered Tugendheim.
“Let me tell you what I have here, then,” said Ranjoor Singh, and he groped in his inner pocket for a paper, that he brought out very neatly folded, sheltering it from the rain under his cape. “This,” said he, “is signed by the Turkish captain and mate of that sunken steamer. It is a receipt for all our money, to be taken and divided equally between you — mentioned by name — and them — mentioned also by name, on condition that the ship be sunk and we be let go. If you will sign the paper — here — above their signatures — it will entitle you to one-third of all that money. They would neither of them dare to refuse to share with you!”
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bsp; “What if I refuse to sign?” asked Tugendheim, making a great savage wrench to free his wrists, but failing.
“The suggestion is yours,” said Ranjoor Singh. “You have only your own judgment for a guide.”
“If I sign it, will you let me go?” he asked.
“No,” said Ranjoor Singh, “but we will not burn you alive if you sign. Here is a fountain-pen. Your hands shall be loosed when you are ready.”
Tugendheim nodded, so I went and cut his hands loose; and when I had chafed his wrists for a minute or two he was able to write on my shoulder, I bending forward and Ranjoor Singh watching like a hawk lest he tear the paper. But he made no effort to play tricks.
When Ranjoor Singh had folded the paper again he said: “Those two Turks quite understood that you were to be asked to sign as well. In fact, if there is any mishap they intend to lay all the blame on you. But it is to their interest as much as yours to keep us from being captured.”
“You mean I’m to help you escape?” asked Tugendheim.
“Exactly!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Now that you have signed that, I am willing to bargain with you. We intend to find Wassmuss.”
Tugendheim pricked up his ears and began to look almost willing.
“We have heard of this Wassmuss, and have taken quite a fancy to him. Your friends proposed to send us to the trenches, but we have already had too much of that work and we intend to find Wassmuss and take part with him. Let your business be to obey me implicitly and to help us reach Wassmuss, and on the day we reach our goal you shall go free with this paper given back to you. Disobey me, and you shall sample unheard-of methods of repentance! Do we understand each other?”
“I understand you!” said Tugendheim.
“I, too, wish to understand,” said Ranjoor Singh.
“It is a bargain,” said Tugendheim. But I noticed they did not shake hands after European fashion, although I think Tugendheim would have been willing. He was a hearty man in his way, given to bullying, but also to quick forgetfulness; and I will say this much for him, that although he was ever on the lookout for some way of breaking his agreement, he kept it loyally enough while a way was lacking. I have met men I liked less.