Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “It would be a very canny person who could read the secret of your mind,

  I should say!” laughed Tess.

  “I am as simple as the sunlight!” Yasmini answered honestly. “It is

  Samson who is dark, not I.”

  Yasmini began making ready for departure, giving a thousand orders to dependents she could trust.

  “At the polo game,” she asked Tess, “when the English ask questions as to where you have been, and what you saw, what will you tell them?”

  “Why not the truth? Samson expressly asked me to cultivate your acquaintance.”

  “Splendid! Tell them you traveled on camel-back by night across the desert with me! By the time they have believed that we will think of more to add to it! We return by elephant to Sialpore together, timing our arrival for the polo game. There we separate. You watch the game together with your husband. I shall be in a closed carriage — part of the time. I shall be there all the time, but I don’t think you will see me.”

  “But you say they have rifled your palace. Where will you sleep?” Tess asked.

  “At your house on the hill!”

  “But that is in Gungadhura’s territory. Aren’t you afraid of him?”

  “Of Gungadhura? I? I never was! But now whoever fears him would run from a broken snake. I have word that the fool has murdered Mukhum Dass the money-lender. You may trust the English to draw his teeth nicely for him after that! Gungadhura is like a tiger in a net he can not break!”

  “He might send men to break into the house,” Tess argued.

  “There will be sharper eyes than any of his watching!”

  But Tess was alarmed at the prospect. She did not mind in the least what the English might have to say about it afterward; but to have her little house the center of nocturnal feuds, with her husband using his six-shooters, and heaven only knew what bloodshed resulting, was more of a prospect than she looked forward to.

  “Sister,” said Yasmini, taking her by both hands. “I must use your house.

  There is no other place.”

  No one could refuse her when her deep blue eyes grew soft and pleading, let alone Tess, who had lived with her and loved her for a week.

  “Very well,” she answered; and Yasmini’s eyes softened and brightened even more.

  “I shall not forget!”

  Getting ready was no child’s play. It was to be a leisurely procession in the olden style, with tents, servants, and all the host of paraphernalia and hangers-on that that entails; not across the desert this time, but around the edge of it, the way the polo ponies went, and out of Gungadhura’s reach. For, however truly Yasmini might declare that she was not afraid of Gungadhura (and she vowed she never boasted), she was running no unnecessary risks; it takes a long time for the last rats to desert a sinking ship, (the obstinate go down with it), and just as long for the last assassins to change politics. She was eager to run all the risks when that was the surest strategy, but cautious otherwise.

  The secret of her safety lay in the inviolable privacy surrounding woman’s life in all that part of India — privacy that the English have respected partly because of their own inherent sense of personal retirement, partly because it was the easiest way and saved trouble; but mainly because India’s women have no ostensible political power, and there is politics enough without bringing new millions more potential agitators into light. So word of her life among the women did not travel swiftly to official ears, as that of a male intriguer would certainly have done. Utirupa was busy all day long with polo, and the Powers that Be were sure of it, and pleased. What Gungadhura knew, or guessed, was another matter; but Gungadhura had his own hands full just then.

  So they formed part of a procession that straggled along the miles, of elephants, camels and groups of ponies, carts loaded with tents, chattering servants, parties of Rajput gentlemen, beggars, hangers-on, retainers armed with ancient swords, mountebanks, several carriage-loads of women, who could sing and dance and were as particular about their veiling as if Lalun were not their ancestress, the inevitable faquirs, camel-loads of entertainers, water-carriers, sheep, asses, and bullock-drawn, squeaking two-wheeled carts aburst with all that men and animals could eat. Three days and nights of circus life, as Tess described it afterward to Dick.

  Yasmini and Tess rode part of the way on an elephant, lying full-length in the hooded howdah with a view of all the country-side, starting before dawn and resting through the long heat of the day. But monotony formed no part of Yasmini’s scheme of life, and daring was the very breath she breathed. Most of the time they rode horseback together, disguised as men and taking to the fields whenever other parties drew too close. But sometimes Yasmini left Tess on the elephant, and mingled freely with the crowd, her own resourcefulness and intimate knowledge of the language and the customs enough protection.

  Nights were the amazing time. A great camp spread out under ancient trees — bonfires glowing everywhere, and native followers squatted around them, — long, whinnying horse-lines — elephants, great gurgling shadows, swaying at their pickets — shouting, laughter, music, — and, over all, soft purple darkness and the stars.

  For it was something more than a mere polo tournament that they were traveling to. It had grown out of a custom abolished by the government, of traveling once a year to Sialpore to air and consider grievances — a custom dating from long before the British occupation, when the princes of the different states were all in rival camps and that was about the only opportunity to meet on reasonably friendly terms. In later years it had looked like developing into a focus of political solidity; so some ingenious commissioner had introduced the polo element, eliminating, item after item, all the rest. Then the date had been changed to the early hot weather, in order to reduce attendance; but the only effect that had was to keep away the English from outlying provinces. It was the one chance that part of Rajputana had to get together, and the Rajputs swarmed to the tournament — along the main trunk road that the English had reconstructed in early days for the swifter movement of their guns. (It did not follow any particular trade route, although trade had found its way afterward along it.)

  Yasmini saw Utirupa every night, she apparently as much a man as he in turban and the comfortable Rajput costume — shorter by a bead, but as straight-standing and as agile. Tess and Hasamurti used to watch them under the trees, ready to give the alarm in case of interruption, sometimes near enough to catch the murmured flow of confidence uniting them in secrecy of sacred, unconforming interviews. It was common knowledge that Yasmini was in the camp, but she was always supposed to be tented safely on the outskirts, with her women and a guard of watchful servants all about her. There was no risk of an affront to her in any case; it was known that Utirupa would attend to that.

  Each night between the bonfires there was entertainment — men who walked tight-ropes, wrestlers, a performing horse, ballad-singers and, dearest delight of all, the tellers of Eastern tales, who sat with silent rings of men about them and reeled off the old, loved, impossible adventures of the days when the gods walked with men on earth — stories of miracles and love and derring-do, with heroes who could fight a hundred men unscathed, and heroines to set the heart on fire.

  Then off again before sunrise in the cool amid the shouting and confusion of a breaking camp, with truant ponies to be hunted, and everybody yelling for his right of road, and the elephants sauntering urbanely through it all with trunks alert for pickings from the hay-carts. They were nights and days superbly gorgeous, all-entertaining, affluent of humor.

  Then on the third day, nearing Sialpore toward evening they filed past two batteries of Royal Horse Artillery, drawn up on a level place beside the road to let them by — an act of courtesy not unconnected with its own reward. It is never a bad plan to let the possibly rebellious take a long look at the engines of enforcement.

  “Ah!” laughed Yasmini, up in the howdah now beside Tess on the elephant, “the guns of the gods! I said the gods were helpi
ng us!”

  “Look like English guns to me,” Tess answered.

  “So think the English, too. So thinks Samson who sent for them. So, too, perhaps Gungadhura will think when he knows the guns are coming! But I know better. I never promise the gods too much, but let them make me promises, and look on while they perform them. I tell you, those are the guns of the gods!”

  Chapter Twenty

  A bad man ruined by the run of luck

  May shed the slime — they’ve done it,

  Times and again they’ve done it.

  That turn to aspiration out of muck

  Is quick if heart’s begun it,

  If heart’s desire’s begun it.

  But ‘ware revenge if greater craft it is

  That jockeyed him to recognize defeat,

  Or greater force that overmastered his —

  Efficiency more potent than deceit

  That craved his crown and won it!

  Safer the she-bear with her suckling young,

  Kinder the hooked shark from a yardarm hung,

  More rational a tiger by the hornets stung

  Than perfidy outcozened. Shun it!

  “Millions! Think of it! Lakhs and crores!”

  The business of getting a maharajah off the throne, even in a country where the overlords are nervous, and there is precedent, is not entirely simple, especially when the commissioner who recommends it has a name for indiscretion and ambition. The government of conquered countries depends almost as much on keeping clever administrators in their place as on fostering subdivision among the conquered.

  So, very much against his will, Samson was obliged to go to see a high commissioner, who is a very important person indeed, and ram home his arguments between four walls by word of mouth. He did not take Sita Ram with him, so there is a gap in the story at that point, partly bridged by Samson’s own sketchy account of the interview to Colonel Willoughby de Wing, overheard by Carlos de Sousa Braganza the Goanese club butler, and reported to Yasmini at third hand.

  There were no aeroplanes or official motor-cars at that time to take officials at outrageous speed on urgent business. But Samson’s favorite study in his spare time was Julius Caesar, who usually traveled long distances at the rate of more than a hundred miles a day, and was probably short-winded from debauch into the bargain. What the great Julius could do, Samson could do as well; but in spite of whip and spur and post, ruthless robbery of other people’s reserved accommodation, and a train caught by good luck on the last stage, it took him altogether seven valuable days and nights. For there was delay, too, while the high commissioner wired to Simla in code for definite permission to be drastic.

  The telegram from the secretary of state pointed out, as Samson had predicted that it would, the desirability of avoiding impeachment and trial if that were possible, in view of the state of public unrest in India and the notorious eagerness of Parliament at home to interfere in Indian affairs.

  “Get him to abdicate!” was the meat of the long message.

  “Can you do it?” asked the high commissioner.

  “Leave that to me!” boasted Samson. “And now this other matter. These ‘islands’ as they’re called. It’s absurd and expensive to continue keeping up a fort inside the maharajah’s territory. There’s no military advantage to us in having it so near our border. And there are totally unnecessary problems of administration that are entailed by the maharajah administering a small piece of territory on our side of the river. I’ve had a contract drawn for your approval — Sir Hookum Bannerjee drew it, he’s a very able lawyer — stipulating with Utirupa, in consideration of our recognition of himself and his heirs as rulers of the State of Sialpore, that he shall agree to exchange his palace and land on our side of the river against our fort on his side. What do you think of it?”

  “It isn’t a good bargain. He ought to give us more than that in the circumstances, against a fort and — and all that kind of thing.”

  “It’s a supremely magnificent bargain!” retorted Samson. “Altogether overlooking what we’ll save in money by not having to garrison that absurd fort, it’s the best financial bargain this province ever had the chance of!”

  “How d’ye mean?”

  Samson whispered. Even those four solid walls were not discreet enough.

  “The treasure of Sialpore is buried in the River Palace grounds! Millions!

  Think of it — Millions! Lakhs and crores!”

  The high commissioner whistled.

  “That ‘ud mean something to the province, wouldn’t it! Show me your proofs.”

  How Samson got around the fact that he had no actually definite proofs, he never told. But he convinced the high commissioner, who never told either, unless to somebody at Simla, who buried the secret among the State Department files.

  “I’ll wire Simla,” said the high commissioner presently, “for permission to authorize you to set your signature to that contract on behalf of government. The minute I get it I’ll wire you to Sialpore and confirm by letter. Now you’d better get back to your post in a hurry. And don’t forget, it would be difficult in a case like this to err on the side of silence, Samson. Who’ll have to be told?”

  “Nobody but Willoughby de Wing. I’ll have to ask him for troops to guard the River Palace grounds. There’s a confounded American digging this minute in the River Palace grounds by arrangement with Gungadhura. He’ll have to be stopped, and I’ll have to make some sort of explanation.”

  “What’s an American doing in Sialpore?”

  “Prospecting. Has a contract with Gungadhura.”

  “Um-m-m! We’ll have Standard Oil in next! Better point out to Utirupa that contracts with foreigner’s aren’t regarded cordially.”

  “That’s easily done,” said Samson. “Utirupa is nothing if not anxious to please.”

  “Yes, Utirupa is a very fine young fellow — and a good sportsman, too,

  I’m told.”

  “There is no reason why Utirupa should recognize the contract between Gungadhura and the American. It was a private contract — no official sanction. If Gungadhura isn’t in position to continue it—”

  “Exactly. Well — good-by. I’ll look forward to a good report from you.”

  By train and horse and tonga Samson contrived to reach Sialpore on the morning before the day set for the polo tournament. He barely allowed himself time to shave before going to see Dick Blaine, and found him, as he expected, at the end of the tunnel nearly a hundred yards long that started from inside the palace wall and passed out under it. The guards at the gate did not dare refuse the commissioner admission. So far, Dick had not begun demolition of the palace, but had dragged together enough lumber by pulling down sheds and outhouses. He was not a destructive-minded man.

  “Will you come outside and talk with me?” Samson shouted, amid the din of pick and shovel work.

  “Sure.”

  Dick’s poker face was in perfect working order by the time they reached the light. But he stood with his back to the sun and let Samson have the worst of the position.

  “You’re wasting time and money, Blaine. I’ve come to tell you so.”

  “Now — that’s good of you.”

  “Your contract with Gungadhura is not worth the paper it’s written on.”

  “How so?”

  “He will not be maharajah after noon today!”

  “You don’t mean it!”

  “That information is confidential, but the news will be out by tomorrow. The British Administration intends to take over all the land on this side of the river. That’s confidential too. Between you and me, our government would never recognize a contract between you and Gungadhura. I warned you once, and your wife a second time.”

  “Sure, she told me.”

  “Well. You and I have been friends, Blaine. I’d like you to regard this as not personal. But—”

  “Oh, I get you. I’m to call the men off? That it?”

  “You’ve only until tom
orrow in any case.”

  “And Gungadhura, broke, to look to for the pay-roll! Well — as you say, what’s the use?”

  “I’d pay your men off altogether, if I were you.”

  “They’re a good gang.”

  “No doubt. We’ve all admired your ability to make men work. But there’ll be a new maharajah in a day or two, and, strictly between you and me, as one friend to another, there’ll be a very slight chance indeed of your getting a contract from the incoming man to carry on your mining in the hills. I’d like to save you trouble and expense.”

  “Real good of you.”

  “Er — found anything down there?” Samson nodded over his shoulder toward the tunnel mouth.

  “Not yet.”

  “Any signs of anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  Samson looked relieved.

  “By the way. You mentioned the other day something about evidence relating to the murder of Mukhum Dass.”

  “I did.”

  “Was it anything important?”

  “Maybe. Looked so to me.”

  “Would you mind giving me an outline of it?”

  “You said that day you knew who murdered Mukhum Dass?”

  “Yes. When I got in this morning there was a note on my desk from Norwood, the superintendent of police, to say that they’ve arrested your butler and cook, and the murderer of Mukhum Dass all hiding together near a railway station. The murderer has squealed, as you Americans say. They often do when they’re caught. He has told who put him up to it.”

  “Guess I’ll give you this, then. It’s the map out of the silver tube that Mukhum Dass burgled from my cellar. Gungadhura gave it to me with instructions to dig here. You’ll note there’s blood on it.”

  Samson’s eyes looked hardly interested as he took it. Then he looked, and they blazed. He put it in his inner pocket hurriedly.

  “Too bad, Blaine!” he laughed. “So you even had a map of the treasure, eh? Another day or two and you’d have forestalled us! I suppose you’d a contract with Gungadhura for a share of it?”