by Talbot Mundy
But the older man’s moderation and good humor were having more effect than the youngster realized. Linkinyear yielded nothing of his demands, but gained nothing. He did not want to return along the line with Ommony in tow; yet Ommony, by everlasting obstinacy and exasperating good temper, obliged him to threaten that again and again as the only alternative to Podanaram. He threatened it most pleadingly, reducing himself to a mental condition in which he would have cheerfully offered Ommony a year’s pay to yield, if only that would not have made himself ridiculous.
At last, being full of youth and overrunning energy, he reached the stage where the judge and his wife in Podanaram seemed to be the only goal worth striving for, and Ommony, biding that time, recognized it.
“There’s only one way we can agree,” he said at last.
“Name it!” snapped the youngster. “No toss of a coin! I won’t gamble on it! I go to Podanaram, or you come with me to G.H.Q.!”
“An armed party leaving here for Podanaram would be attacked and butchered for a certainty,” said Ommony. “But I might obtain permission for an unarmed party to go and speak with the prisoners.”
“Fine!” agreed Linkinyear. “D’you think they’d swap the judge and his missus against the lot of us? That ‘ud be good odds from their standpoint. Equally good from ours. If anything should happen to Mr. and Mrs. High Court Kadi our side would have to be enormously vindictive, whereas we wouldn’t matter. Nobody would care if we got scoughed. The game is to get the judge and his wife away to safety.”
“The Moplahs are not such fools,” Ommony answered, looking Linkinyear candidly in the eye. “They know the value of a judge and an English lady. They’d set no more value on you and your men than G.H.Q. would! No. But you may be able to talk with the prisoners and come away.”
“All right, I’ll go you!”
“You would have to leave your weapons here.” Linkinyear demurred.
“It’s against all the rules of war and the British service! I wouldn’t mind promising not to use them. We could agree to bury our cartridges somewhere, perhaps, but—”
“No butts or bayonets!”
“Man! We’d take their word not to attack us. They must take ours not to use our weapons.”
“If I go,” Ommony answered, “I go without even a hunting-knife. If you go, you do the same. I know the Moplahs. You don’t. I propose to return alive, which we never would if we carried rifles.”
“Unloaded rifles? Just for appearance?”
“The appearance is what would start trouble inevitably. No. White flag party. Same way that a Moplah might be allowed to penetrate our lines.”
“I’ll find out if the men are game,” said Linkinyear, and walked out on the veranda, arriving just too late to surprise them grouped with their ears to the open window.
Ommony went to the back door and whistled the same jungli who had attended Shere Ali’s obsequies. They exchanged guttural coughs and grunts for about a minute, and the jungli departed at a dog-trot.
“The men are perfectly splendid. Game to go anywhere on any terms!” said Linkinyear. “Now for your Moplah chiefs! Mind — you must make this a regular white flag party — honors of war — good faith on both sides — all that kind of thing!”
“Yes, all that kind of thing,” said Ommony. “I’ve sent for the chiefs.”
But it was dark — nine o’clock — before the same three chiefs came who had made terms with Ommony in the first instance.
“What is it, Ommon-ee? Who are these soldiers? We promised. You need no guards in this place.”
“Be seated. My servants shall bring food. You have prisoners at Podanaram — a judge and his wife.”
“Not we, but the Khalifate Committee. What of that, Ommon-ee? Do the British not take prisoners?”
Ommony chose a cigar and drew on his air of deliberate leisureliness.
“Have you ever defeated the English?” he asked after a moment.
“Not seriously. No. However, this time—”
“If they should defeat you, would it not be best if there were certain claims on their generosity that might be brought forward on the day of settlement?”
“We have treated you well, Ommon-ee.”
“But I am only a forester. The prisoners at Podanaram are very important ones. If they should be ill-treated—”
“As Allah hears us, they shall not be!”
“If I should send word into the British lines that of my own knowledge those two prisoners are well and are being treated kindly, there would be satisfaction,” said Ommony.
“Satisfaction begets good-will. And out of good-will no harm was ever born, even between enemies.”
“That is true. We trust you, Ommon-ee. We will take you to see those prisoners, but you must not spy on us; you must promise that.”
“I shall return to this place,” he answered, “and these soldiers will carry my report.”
“Good. They may wait here. Only we will take their weapons as guarantee. When you return we will give them back their weapons. That is fair.”
“But not wise!” Ommony answered. “It is better to leave their weapons here, subject to your promise not to interfere with them, and to take the officer and his men, unarmed, with me. In that way there will be no excuse for hostilities.”
The headmen objected strenuously, but Ommony refused equally strenuously to leave any of the party in his bungalow, saying that if anything under heaven were certain it was that news of soldiers being quartered there would leak abroad, and Moplahs from a distance, who knew nothing of the truce, would pay the place a business visit.
“These soldiers are too many,” said the chief who had red in his beard. “Send all but two of them back to the British lines. Later, when those two return with your message, we will give them a safe conduct.”
That was good common sense, but Linkinyear would not listen to it, for he himself would have had to return to G.H.Q. It would have been out of the question to send ten men back without so much as a non-commissioned man in charge. His adventurous heart was set on penetrating the jungle and the way to Podanaram and reporting the accomplished fact to his superiors. His men were no whit behind him in enthusiasm.
So Ommony held his ground, half admiring Linkinyear’s persistence, and wholly minded on his own account to look into the condition of the prisoners. There followed an interminable argument as to disposition of rifles and ammunition, which it was finally agreed should be locked up in Ommony’s Store-room.
Then the servants had to be sent for and carefully persuaded that the Moplah guard about to be set over them would guarantee their safety, and would not molest them, in Ommony’s temporary absence.
Last, but not least, there were the white flag terms to be discussed, and the exact conditions of the safe conduct, which it was agreed in any event were contingent on the soldiers’ good behavior.
One way and another, it was dawn before the white flag party left Ommony’s bungalow and plunged into the gloom along a jungle fire-lane.
CHAPTER 12. “Mahommed Babar wants a cavalry saber.”
The mullah’s servant came into the mosque and changed the bandage on King’s head as an excuse for listening to deliberations from which he would normally have been excluded. In theory the mosque is absolutely democratic, but in practice there are tyrannies and sharp distinctions that a man must understand before he can cope with Moslem politics. If the mullah had been there in person his servant would undoubtedly have been excluded.
But the mullah, of necessity, was playing for his own hand. Having advised the village elders to oppose the claims and the temperate methods of Mahommed Babar, he could ill afford to continue to advise them in their hour of defeat. On his way down the village he had seen them driven forth by the Northerner, and had divined, with professional insight into local politics, that jealousy among themselves had practically made Mahommed Babar a gift of the leadership.
So he sent the servant to change the bandage on King’s he
ad, King being another Northerner and therefore very likely destined to be the first one’s ally. And as for himself, he took the obvious course — entered the house and the room assigned to Mahommed Babar’s use, and waited.
His servant came first, reported that King’s head was a great deal better; and gave an almost phonographic account of Mahommed Babar’s final victory in the mosque. So that when the Northerner himself arrived, striding down-street with the peculiarly even motion of a man long used to spurs, and entered the house with his handsome head bowed gloomily, the mullah was well posted.
“Are you rested? Have you bathed? Permit my servant to trim your honor’s beard and nails,” the mullah suggested, rising and bowing.
Mahommed Babar stroked his beard and eyed the mullah for a moment in critical silence, well aware of the man’s unstable friendship — equally aware of the mullah’s possible importance as an ally, if wisely managed.
Nothing for nothing is the universal law of politics, with its practical opposite, quid pro quo. In the East there are symbols, still continuing, that have their counterpart in Western decorations and honorary titles.
“Bring me a saber,” said Mahommed Babar. “A cavalry saber, clean and sharp; the heavier the better.”
The mullah understood. He was accepted. Subject to Mahommed Babar’s overriding authority, his influence was likely to be greater than ever. An orthodox leader of rebellion — rare, but, oh, how wise! The mullah bowed, and almost visibly began to plan small indignities for his political rivals.
“What became of the Northerner whose head was injured when the scouts surprised him in the night?” demanded Mahommed Babar.
“Your honor refers to Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan?”
“If that is his name. What became of him?”
“He has been in the mosque all morning.”
Mahommed Babar started almost imperceptibly.
“Unconscious?”
“No. I had his head dressed. He recovers. He is anxious to speak with your honor.”
Mahommed Babar began to pace the room, chin forward and hands behind him, to and fro, to and fro, wrestling with indecision. There were moments when his fine teeth and hard eyes gleamed with an iron resolve, followed almost immediately by a different interpretation of the same impulse. Once or twice be stood and held his dark beard in both hands as if about to tear it in the Eastern expression of distracted grief.
Mullahs, priests, ministers know all those signs. They can recognize pride, honesty, fine frenzy, patriotism, determination, compromise. The mullah watched stealthily, looking away each time Mahommed Babar faced about.
“What do you say his name is? Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan? Great names! A great man possibly.”
He faced the mullah and stood with legs apart looking down at him, holding one elbow and stroking his beard again.
“See that he is respectfully treated. Let him have no weapons, but he may come and go unmolested. That is my order.”
It was the very first detailed order given by Mahommed Babar since his grasp of the leadership, and the mullah’s opportunity to attach his own imprint to authority.
“If he comes and goes but has no weapons harm may befall him, sahib. Better imprison him.”
“I have spoken! If harm befalls him, let his blood be on your head! Let me have word of everything he says or does.”
“Your honor will not speak with him?”
“No.”
The mullah hesitated, devoured by curiosity, which eats the brains of some men as worms gnaw the belly of a dog.
“He has no beard, but — is he your honor’s brother?”
Mahommed Babar glared. The word “brother” in the East has various significances. Moreover, a mullah’s curiosity more often than not has teeth. Answer, and he perverts the answer. Refuse, and he draws his own conclusions. Appear to mistrust him, and he mistrusts you. Trust him, and take the consequences!
“You may get the answer to that question from Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan, and you have my leave to go!” replied Mahommed Babar, resuming his stride up and down the room with his hands behind him.
So the mullah returned to the mosque, where the elders had done arguing, and announced his restored importance in a short speech. He had prayed, he informed them; that being his business and he a faithful man. In answer the Lord of Mercies had inspired him to go and visit Mahommed Babar down the street. During the ensuing interview knowledge had been born in his mind in a flash that this Mahommed Babar was the Lord’s appointed leader; and he had therefore blessed him in the name of the Most High, whose right arm would now surely uphold the Moplah cause.
Mahommed Babar, a very prince of men and a lover of God if there ever was one, had accepted the blessing and given thanks for it, requesting him, the mullah, to continue with spiritual meditations and wise advice. In view of the facts, and of his conviction that all this was Allah’s will, it was his duty to urge them to obey Mahommed Babar implicitly in all things — for the present. He added the last words in more or less of an undertone, having not only a fine imagination but a well-developed bump of preparedness against contingencies.
The elders departed, discovering scant amusement in the mullah’s sermon, but bent on making the most of the situation. They were so eager to keep an eye on one another that they flocked out, elbowing and shoving — hurrying down-street to undo the advantage gained by those who had stood nearest to the mosque door.
The mullah approached King, who was still lying down with his bandaged head cushioned on the folds of his turban.
“Your honor’s brother is disturbed for your honor’s safety,” said the mullah. “He orders a bodyguard appointed for your honor, lest harm befall. There is a little room behind this mosque — clean, comfortable — my son and my servant would bring food—”
King noted the tense and was careful to look pleased. The mullah’s under- handedness was easy enough to see through, but the word “brother” was not so easy. He suspected guesswork, not believing that Mahommed Babar would have proclaimed relationship for any reason. He had probably given orders that made the mullah suspect blood-relationship as the only likely explanation. There might even be a slight facial resemblance. He was no such fool as to enlighten the mullah one way or the other.
“Has your honor a weapon?” the mullah asked, almost off-handedly, not looking directly at him, but sidewise. Conscious of the automatic still tucked snugly against his ribs, King shook his head.
“Get me one!” he urged. “Those rascals who struck me on the head took mine.”
The mullah looked relieved, and beckoned King to follow. Almost laughing, King obeyed him and passed out through the rear door of the mosque into a tiny court, at the back of which was a one-story thatched building. As a jail it was ridiculous. Nevertheless —
“This is where your honor must stay until further orders,” said the mullah.
King noted the “must,” and bowed acknowledgment. The mullah looked relieved again, as King observed. When men of the North, or Moplahs of the South, make prisoners, they search them; usually strip them, and invariably lock them in a place whence escape is impossible.
The mullah showed the way into a reasonable room, carpeted with matting. It had two windows, barred with upright wooden rods. The ceiling was low and of calico. The door had obviously been stolen from some ready-made imported building and could be kicked down easily. There was a folding canvas cot, a camp-chair, and a few odds and ends, including a bundle of old swords and bayonets in a corner, some of them dating from before the Mutiny. One of them was an enormous cavalry saber, much heavier than is used in any army nowadays.
The mullah made an armful of the weapons and pitched them all out in the yard, as if tidying the place. Reconsidering things, he brought the big saber in again. A very tactful man, that mullah. Quite a strategist.
“There is a cot — a chair — your honor may rest here and get well. Would your honor do a favor for me? There is no hurry, but when the head feels b
etter. This saber now — an old one — I place no faith in such things, but prefer this.”
He pulled out a Mauser repeating pistol and patted it meaningly. King noticed rust on the sliding action and wondered whether the thing would go off.
“Your brother, Mahommed Babar, wants a cavalry saber. Would your honor care to clean and sharpen this for him? See, it was a good one once. Whoever owned it knew how to use it, too. Look at the notches he has nicked below the hilt — nine, ten, eleven men! A fighter! Your honor — a fighting man, sharpening a saber must be — see, I have a box of implements; files, a whetstone, sand, leather, and some rags. There is water in that iron jar. Your honor is willing?”
Diplomacy! But two can play at that — none better than King, who can seem to play the other fellow’s game more innocently than a sheep led by the bell-wether.
“If your honor’s head were only—”
“Much better!” announced King. “Hardly aches now.”
“I will be back in an hour. If that saber could be ready.”
“Easily.”
“I must find the right men for guards, who will treat your honor reasonably well.”
It had been “bodyguards” the first time. “Reasonably well” seemed also a concession to unnamed contingencies. King bent his head to hide a smile and examined the blade of the saber.
“I would prefer this personally!” said the mullah, pulling out his Mauser pistol and patting it meaningly again. Very diplomatic!
“They are better than a sword,” said King, reaching for the box of rusty files and things.
“So. I will be back in an hour,” said the mullah, and went out, locking the door after him, incidentally forgetting in his haste the patriarchal blessing that he should have paused in the doorway to invoke.
Both men were beautifully satisfied. The mullah now had to ask no favors of the blacksmith, who was a person given to curiosity and almost as much independence as the men of his ancient guild who hammered armor for the knights of old. His guest was busy and undoubtedly believed himself a prisoner. He had time to hunt up discreet individuals, who would mount guard for a day or two and hold their tongues. There was no such simple way of reporting a man’s sayings and doings as to keep the individual under lock and key. And, as he wanted very badly to be absent for the next few days, the arrangement was all the more convenient.