Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Two hundred and eight,” said I.

  “How many armed men with them?” he asked. “My eyes are yet dim from the blow.”

  “One hundred and four,” said I, “and an officer or two.”

  He nodded. “The prisoners would have been a nuisance,” he said, “yet we might have used them later. What with camels and what with horses — and there is a good spot for an ambuscade through which they must pass presently — I went and surveyed it while they cooked my dinner — never mind, never mind!” said he. “If you had made a mistake it would have been disastrous. Yet — two hundred and eight camels would have been an acquisition — a great acquisition!”

  So my self-esteem departed — like water from a leaky goatskin, and I lay beside him watching the last dozen camels cross our trail, the nose of one tied to the tail of another, one man to every two. I lay conjecturing what might have been our fate had I had cunning enough to capture that whole caravan, and not another word was spoken between us until the last two camels disappeared beyond a ridge. Then:

  “Was there any man close by, when you found me?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

  “Nay, sahib,” said I.

  “Was there any man whose actions, or whose words, gave ground for suspicion?” he asked.

  “Nay, sahib,” I began; but I checked myself, and he noticed it.

  “Except — ?” said he.

  “Except that when Gooja Singh came,” I said, “he seemed unwilling to believe you were asleep.”

  “How long was it before Gooja Singh came?” he asked.

  “He came almost before I had laid you under the tree and covered you,” said I.

  “And you told him I was asleep?” he said.

  “Yes,” said I; and at that he laughed silently, although I could tell well enough that his head ached, and merriment must have been a long way from him.

  “Has Gooja Singh any very firm friend with us?” he asked, and I answered I did not know of one. “The ammunition bearers who were his friends now curse him to his face,” I said.

  “Then he would have to do his own dirty work?” said he.

  “He has to clean his own rifle,” I answered. And Ranjoor Singh nodded.

  Then suddenly his meaning dawned on me. “You think it was Gooja Singh who struck the blow?” I asked. We were sitting up by that time. The camels were out of sight. He rose to his feet and beckoned for his horse before he answered.

  “I wished to know who else might properly be suspected,” he said, taking his horse’s bridle. So I beckoned for my horse, and ordering the cart in which he had lain to be brought along after us, I rode at a walk beside him to where our infantry were left in hiding.

  “Sahib,” I said, “it is better after all to shoot this Gooja Singh. Shoot him on suspicion!” I urged. “He makes only trouble and ill-will. He puts false construction on every word you or I utter. He misleads the men. And now you suspect him of having tried to kill you! Bid me shoot him, sahib, and I obey!”

  “Who says I suspect him?” he answered. “Nay, nay, nay! I will have no murder done — no drumhead tyranny, fathered by the lees of fear! Let Gooja Singh alone!”

  “Does your head not ache?” I asked him.

  “More than you guess!” said he. “But my heart does not ache. Two aches would be worse than one. Come silently!”

  So I rode beside him silently, and making a circuit and signaling to the watchers not to betray our presence, we came on our hiding infantry unsuspected by them. We dismounted, and going close on foot were almost among them before they knew. Gooja Singh was on his feet in their midst, giving them information and advice.

  “I tell you Ranjoor Singh is dead!” said he. “Hira Singh swears he is only asleep, but Hira Singh lies! Ranjoor Singh lies dead on top of the corn in the cart in yonder gully, and Hira Singh—”

  I know not what more he would have said, but Ranjoor Singh stopped him. He stepped forward, smiling.

  “Ranjoor Singh, as you see, is alive,” he said, “and if I am dead, then I must be the ghost of Ranjoor Singh come among you to enforce his orders! Rise!” he ordered. “Rise and fall in! Havildars, make all ready to resume the march!”

  “Shoot him, sahib!” I urged, taking out my pistol, that had once been Tugendheim’s. “Shoot him, or let me do it!”

  “Nay, nay!” he said, laughing in my face, though not unkindly. “I am not afraid of him.”

  “But I, sahib,” I said. “I fear him greatly!”

  “Yet thou and I be two men, and I command,” he answered gently. “Let Gooja Singh alone.”

  So I went and grew very busy ordering the column. In twenty minutes we were under way, with a screen of horsemen several hundred yards ahead and another little mounted rear-guard. But when the order had been given to resume the march and the carts were squeaking along in single file, I rode to his side again with a question. I had been thinking deeply, and it seemed to me I had the only answer to my thoughts.

  “Tell me, sahib,” I said, “our nearest friends must be the Russians. How many hundred miles is it to Russia?”

  But he shook his head and laughed again. “Between us and Russia lies the strongest of all the Turkish armies,” he said. “We could never get through.”

  “I am a true man!” I said. “Tell me the plan!” But he only nodded, and rode on.

  “God loves all true men,” said he.

  CHAPTER VI

  Where the weakest joint is, smite. — RANJOOR SINGH.

  Well, sahib, Abraham caught up with us on the evening of the third day after leaving with that letter to the Germans in Angora, having ridden moderately to spare his horse. He said there were only two German officers there when he reached the place, and they seemed worried. They gave him the new saddle asked for, and a new horse under it; also a letter to carry back. Ranjoor Singh gave me the horse and saddle, letting Abraham take my sorry beast, that was beginning to recover somewhat under better treatment.

  Ranjoor Singh smiled grimly as he read the letter. He translated parts of it to me — mainly complaints about lack of this and that and the other thing, and very grave complaints against the Turks, who, it seemed, would not cooperate. You would say that was good news to all of us, that should have inspired us with new spirit. But as I said in the beginning, sahib, there are reasons why the British must rule India yet a while. We Sikhs, who would rule it otherwise, are all divided.

  We were seven non-commissioned officers. If we seven had stood united behind Ranjoor Singh there was nothing we could not have done, for the men would then have had no example of disunity. You may say that Ranjoor Singh was our rightful officer and we had only to obey him, but I tell you, sahib, obedience that is worth anything must come from the heart and understanding. Ranjoor Singh was as much dependent on good-will as if we had had the choosing of him. So he had to create it, and that which has once been lost, for whatever reason, is doubly and redoubly hard to make again. He did what he did in spite of us, although I tried to help.

  Of us seven, first in seniority came I; and as I have tried already to make clear I was Ranjoor. Singh’s man (not that he believed it altogether yet). If he had ordered me to make black white, I would have perished in the effort to obey; but I had yet to prove that.

  Next in order to me was Gooja Singh, and although I have spared the regiment’s shame as much as possible, I doubt not that man’s spirit has crept out here and there between my words — as a smell creeps from under coverings. He hated me, being jealous. He hated Ranjoor Singh, because of merited rebuke and punishment. He was all for himself, and if one said one thing, he must say another, lest the first man get too much credit. Furthermore, he was a BADMASH, [Footnote: Low ruffian.] born of a money-lender’s niece to a man mean enough to marry such. Other true charges I could lay against him, but my tale is of Ranjoor Singh and why should I sully it with mean accounts; Gooja Singh must trespass in among it, but let that be all.

  Third of us daffadars in order of seniority was Anim Singh, a big man,
born in the village next my father’s. He was a naik in the Tirah in ‘97 when he came to the rescue of an officer, splitting the skull of an Orakzai, wounding three others, and making prisoner a fourth who sought to interfere. Thus he won promotion, and he held it after somewhat the same manner. A blunt man. A fairly good man. A very good man with the saber. A gambler, it is true — but whose affair is that? A ready eye for rustling curtains and footholds near open windows, but that is his affair again — until the woman’s husband intervenes. And they say he can look after himself in such cases. At least, he lives. Behold him, sahib. Aye, that is he yonder, swaggering as if India can scarcely hold him — that one with his arm in a sling. A Sikh, sahib, with a soldier’s heart and ears too big for his head — excellent things on outpost, where the little noises often mean so much, but all too easy for Gooja Singh to whisper into.

  Of the other four, the next was Ramnarain Singh, the shortest as to inches of us all, but perhaps the most active on his feet. A man with a great wealth of beard and too much dignity due to his father’s THALUKDARI [Footnote: Landed estate.] His father pockets the rent of three fat villages, so the son believes himself a wisehead. A great talker. Brave in battle, as one must be to be daffadar of Outram’s Own, but too assertive of his own opinion. He and Gooja Singh were ever at outs, resentful of each other’s claim to wisdom.

  Next was Chatar Singh, like me, son and grandson of a soldier of the raj — a bold man, something heavy on his horse, but able to sever a sheep in two with one blow of his saber — very well regarded by the troopers because of physical strength and willingness to overlook offenses. Chatar Singh’s chief weakness was respect for cunning. Having only a great bull’s heart in him and ability to go forward and endure, he regarded cunning as very admirable; and so Gooja Singh had one daffadar to work on from the outset (although I did what I could to make trouble between them).

  The remaining two non-commissioned officers were naiks — corporals, as you would say — Surath Singh and Mirath Singh, both rather recently promoted from the ranks and therefore likely to see both sides to a question (whereas a naik should rightly see but one). Very early I had taken those two naiks in hand, showing them friendship, harping on the honor and pleasure of being daffadar and on the chance of quick promotion.

  Given a British commanding officer — just one British officer — even a little young one — one would have been enough — it would have been hard to find better backing for him. Even Gooja Singh would scarcely have failed a British leader. But not only was the feeling still strong against Ranjoor Singh; there was another cloud in the sky. Did the sahib ever lay his hands on loot? No? Ah! Love of that runs in the blood, and crops out generation after generation!

  Until the British came and overthrew our Sikh kingdom — and that was not long ago — loot was the staff of life of all Sikh armies. In those days when an army needed pay there was a war. Now, except for one month’s pay that, as I have told, the Germans had given us, we had seen no money since the day when we surrendered in that Flanders trench; and what the Germans gave us Ranjoor Singh took away, in order to bribe the captain of a Turkish ship. And Gooja Singh swore morning, noon and night that as prisoners of war we should not be entitled to pay from the British in any event, even supposing we could ever contrive to find the British and rejoin them.

  “Let us loot, then, and pay ourselves!” was the unanimous verdict, I being about the only one who did not voice it. I claim no credit. I saw no loot, so what was the use of talking? We were crossing a desert where a crow could have found small plunder. But being by common consent official go-between I rode to Ranjoor Singh’s side and told him what the men were saying.

  “Aye,” he nodded, not so much as looking sidewise, “any one would know they are saying that. What say the Turk and Tugendheim?”

  “Loot, too!” said I, and he grunted.

  It was this way, sahib. Our Turkish officer prisoner was always put with his forty men to march in front — behind our advance guard but in front of the carts and infantry. Thus there was no risk of his escaping, because for one thing he had no saddle and rode with much discomfort and so unsafely that he preferred to march on foot more often than not; and for another, that arrangement left him never out of sight of nearly all of us. One of us daffadars would generally march beside him, and some of the Syrian muleteers had learned English either in Egypt or the Levant ports, so that there was no lack of interpreters. I myself have marched beside the Turk for miles and miles on end, with Abraham translating for us.

  “Why not loot? Who can prevent you? Who shall call you to account?” was the burden of the Turk’s song.

  And Tugendheim, who spoke our tongue fluently, marched as a rule among the men, or rode with the mounted men, watched day and night by the four troopers who had charge of him — better mounted than he, and very mindful of their honor in the matter. He made himself as agreeable as he could, telling tales about his life in India — not proper tales to tell to a sahib, but such as to make the troopers laugh; so that finally the things he said began to carry the weight that goes with friendliness. He soon discovered what the feeling was toward Ranjoor Singh, and somehow or other he found out what the Turk was talking about. After that he took the Turk’s cue (although he sincerely despised Turks) and began with hint and jest to propagate lust for loot in the men’s minds. Partly, I think, he planned to enrich himself and buy his way to safety — (although God knows in which direction he thought safety lay!). Partly, I think, he hoped to bring us to destruction, and so perhaps offset his offense of having yielded to our threats, hoping in that way to rehabilitate himself. So goes a lawyer to court, sure of a fee if his client wins, yet sure, too, of a fee if his client loses, enjoying profit and entertainment in any event. Yet who shall blame Tugendheim? Unlike a lawyer, he stood to take the consequences if both forks of the stick should fail. I told Ranjoor Singh all that Tugendheim and the Turk were saying to the men, and his brow darkened, although he made no comment. He did not trust me yet any more than he felt compelled to.

  “Send Abraham to me,” he said at last. So I went and sent Abraham, feeling jealous that the Syrian should hear what I might not.

  Ranjoor Singh had been forcing the pace, and by the time I speak of now we had nearly crossed that desert, for a rim of hills was in front of us and all about. It was not true desert, such as we have in our Punjab, but a great plain already showing promise of the spring, with the buds of countless flowers getting ready to burst open; when we lay at rest it amused us to pluck them and try to determine what they would look like when their time should come. And besides flowers there were roots, remarkably good to eat, that the Syrians called “daughters of thunder,” saying that was the local name. Tugendheim called them truffles. A little water and that desert would be fertile farm-land, or I never saw corn grow!

  Ranjoor Singh conversed with Abraham until we entered a defile between the hills; and that night we camped in a little valley with our outposts in a ring around us, Ranjoor Singh sitting by a bright fire half-way up the side of a slope where he could overlook us all and be alone. We had seen mounted men two or three times that day, they mistaking us perhaps for Turkish troops, for they vanished after the first glimpse. Nevertheless, we tethered our horses close in the valley bottom, and lay around them, ready for all contingencies.

  I remember that night well, for it was the first since we started eastward in the least to resemble our Indian nights. It made us feel homesick, and some of the men were crooning love-songs. The stars swung low, looking as if a man could almost reach them, and the smoke of our fires hung sweet on the night air. I was listening to Abraham’s tales about Turks — tales to make a man bite his beard — when Ranjoor Singh called me in a voice that carried far without making much noise. (I have never known him to raise his voice so high or loud that it lost dignity.) “Hira Singh!” he called, and I answered “Ha, sahib!” and went clambering up the hill.

  He let me stand three minutes, reading my eyes through t
he darkness, before he motioned me to sit. So then we sat facing, I on one side of the fire and he the other.

  “I have watched you, Hira Singh,” he said at last. “Now and again I have seemed to see a proper spirit in you. Nay, words are but fragments of the wind!” said he. (I had begun to make him protestations.) “There are words tossing back and forth below,” he said, looking past me down into the hollow, where shadows of men were, and now and then the eye of a horse would glint in firelight. Then he said quietly, “The spirit of a Sikh requires deeds of us.”

  “Deeds in the dark?” said I, for I hoped to learn more of what was in his mind.

  “Should a Sikh’s heart fail him in the dark?” he asked.

  “Have I failed you,” said I, “since you came to us in the prison camp?”

  “Who am I?” said he, and I did not answer, for I wondered what he meant. He said no more for a minute or two, but listened to our pickets calling their numbers one to another in the dark above us.

  “If you serve me,” he said at last, “how are you better than the stable-helper in cantonments who groomed my horse well for his own belly’s sake? I can give you a full belly, but your honor is your own. How shall I know your heart?”

  I thought for a long while, looking up at the stars. He was not impatient, so I took time and considered well, understanding him now, but pained that he should care nothing for my admiration.

  “Sahib,” I said finally, “by this oath you shall know my heart. Should I ever doubt you, I will tear out your heart and lay it on a dung-hill.”

  “Good!” said he. But I remember he made me no threat in return, so that even to this day I wonder how my words sounded in his ears. I am left wondering whether I was man enough to dare swear such an oath. If he had sworn me a threat in return I should have felt more at ease — more like his equal. But who would have gained by that? My heart and my belly are not one. Self-satisfaction would not have helped.