Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  As many of the outposts as could be reached were told to fight their own way in, and those that could not be reached were left to defend themselves until the big blow had been struck at the heart of things. If Delhi could be taken, the rebels would be paralyzed and the rescue of beleaguered details would be easier; so, although odds of one hundred or more to one are usually considered overlarge in wartime — when the hundred hold the fort and the one must storm the gate — there was no time lost in hesitation. Delhi was the goal; and from north and south and east and west the men who could march marched, and those who could not entrenched themselves, and made ready to die in the last ditch.

  Some of the natives were loyal still. There were men like Risaldar Mahommed Khan, who would have died ten deaths ten times over rather than be false in one particular to the British Government. It was these men who helped to make intercommunication possible, for they could carry messages and sometimes get through unsuspected where a British soldier would have been shot before he had ridden half a mile. Their loyalty was put to the utmost test in that hour, for they can not have believed that the British force could win. They knew the extent of what was out against them and knew, too, what their fate would be in the event of capture or defeat. There would be direr, slower vengeance wreaked on them than on the alien British. But they had eaten British salt and pledged their word, and nothing short of death could free them from it. There was not a shred of self interest to actuate them; there could not have been. Their given word was law and there it ended.

  There were isolated commands, like that at Jundhra, that were too far away to strike at Delhi and too large and too efficient to be shut in by the mutineers. They were centers on their own account of isolated small detachments, and each commander was given leave to act as he saw best, provided that he acted and did it quickly. He could either march to the relief of his detachments or call them in, but under no condition was he to sit still and do nothing.

  So, Colonel Carter’s note addressed to O. C. — Jundhra only got two-thirds of the way from Doonha. The gunner who rode with it was brought to a sudden standstill by an advance-guard of British cavalry, and two minutes later he found himself saluting and giving up his note to the General Commanding. The rebels at Jundhra had been worsted and scattered after an eight-hour fight, and General Turner had made up his mind instantly to sweep down on Hanadra with all his force and relieve the British garrison at Doonha on his way.

  Jundhra was a small town and unhealthy. Hanadra was a large city, the center of a province; and, from all accounts, Hanadra had not risen yet. By seizing Hanadra before the mutineers had time to barricade themselves inside it, he could paralyze the countryside, for in Hanadra were the money and provisions and, above all, the Hindu priests who, in that part of India at least, were the brains of the rebellion. So he burned Jundhra, to make it useless to the rebels, and started for Hanadra with every man and horse and gun and wagon and round of ammunition that he had.

  Now news in India travels like the wind, first one way and then another. But, unlike the wind, it never whistles. Things happen and men know it and the information spreads — invisible, intangible, inaudible, but positive and, in nine cases out of ten, correct in detail. A government can no more censor it, or divert it, or stop it on the way, than it can stay the birthrate or tamper with the Great Monsoon.

  First the priests knew it, then it filtered through the main bazaars and from them on through the smaller streets. By the time that General Turner had been two hours on the road with his command every man and woman and child in Hanadra knew that the rebels had been beaten back and that Hanadra was his objective. They knew, too, that the section had reached Doonha, had relieved it and started back again. And yet not a single rebel who had fought in either engagement was within twenty miles of Hanadra yet!

  In the old, low-ceilinged room above the archway Mahommed Khan paced up and down and chewed at his black mustache, kicking his scabbard away from him each time he turned and glowering at the priest.

  “That dog can solve this riddle!” he kept muttering. Then he would glare at Ruth impatiently and execrate the squeamishness of women. Ruth sat on the divan with her face between her hands, trying to force herself to realize the full extent of her predicament and beat back the feeling of hysteria that almost had her in its grip. The priest lay quiet. He was in a torture of discomfort on the upturned table, but he preferred not to give the Risaldar the satisfaction of knowing it. He eased his position quietly from time to time as much as his bandages would let him, but he made no complaint.

  Suddenly, Ruth looked up. It had occurred to her that she was wasting time and that if she were to fight off the depression that had seized her she would be better occupied.

  “Mahommed Khan,” she said, “if I am to leave here on horseback, with you or with an escort, I had better collect some things that I would like to take with me. Let me in that room, please!”

  “The horse will have all that it can carry, heavenborn, without a load of woman’s trappings.”

  “My jewels? I can take them, I suppose?”

  He bowed. “They are in there? I will bring them, heavenborn!”

  “Nonsense! You don’t know where to find them.”

  “The ayah — will — will show me!”

  He fitted the key into the lock and turned it, but Ruth was at his side before he could pass in through the door.

  “Nonsense, Risaldar! The ayah can’t hurt me. You have taken her knife away, and that is my room. I will go in there alone!”

  She pushed past him before he could prevent her, thrust the door back and peered in.

  “Stay, heavenborn — I will explain!”

  “Explain what?”

  The dim light from the lamp was filtering in past them, and her eyes were slowly growing accustomed to the gloom. There was something lying on the floor, in the middle of the room, that was bulky and shapeless and unfamiliar.

  “Ayah!” said Ruth. “Ayah!”

  But there was no answer.

  “Where is she, Risaldar?”

  “She is there, heavenborn!”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “Aye! She sleeps deeply!”

  There was, something in the Rajput’s voice that was strange, that hinted at a darker meaning.

  “Ayah!” she called again, afraid, though she knew not why, to enter.

  “She guards the jewels, heavenborn! Wait, while I bring the lamp!”

  He crossed the room, brought it and stepped with it past Ruth, straight into the room.

  “See!” he said, holding the lamp up above his head. “There in her bosom are the jewels! It was there, too, that she had the knife to slay thee with! My sword is clean, yet, heavenborn! I slew her with my fingers, thus!”

  He kicked the prostrate ayah, and, as the black face with the wide-open bloodshot eyes and the protruding tongue rolled sidewise and the body moved, a little heap of jewels fell upon the floor. Mahommed Khan stooped down to gather them, bending, a little painfully, on one old knee — but stopped half-way and turned. There was a thud behind him in the doorway. Ruth Bellairs had fainted, and lay as the ayah had lain when Risaldar had not yet locked her in the room.

  He raised the lamp and studied her in silence for a minute, looking from her to the bound priest and back to her again.

  “Now praised be Allah!” he remarked aloud, with a world of genuine relief in his voice. “Should she stay fainted for a little while, that priest—”

  He stalked into the middle of the outer room. He set the lamp down on a table and looked the priest over as a butcher might survey a sheep he is about to kill.

  “Now — robber of orphans — bleeder of widows’ blood — dog of an idol-briber! This stands between thee and Kharvani!” He drew his sword and flicked the edges of it. “And this!” He took up the tongs again. “There is none now to plead or to forbid! Think! Show me the way out of this devil’s nest, or—” He raised the tongs again.

  At that minute came a
quiet knock. He set the tongs down again and crossed the room and opened the door.

  VII.

  Mahommed Khan closed the door again behind his half-brother and turned the key, but the half-brother shot the bolt home as well before he spoke, then listened intently for a minute with his ear to the keyhole.

  “Where is the priest’s son?” growled the Risaldar, in the Rajput tongue.

  “I have him. I have the priestling in a sack. I have him trussed and bound and gagged, so that he can neither speak nor wriggle!”

  “Where?”

  “Hidden safely.”

  “I said to bring him here!”

  “I could not. Listen! That ayah — where is she?”

  “Dead! What has the ayah to do with it?”

  “This — she was to give a sign. She was not to slay. She had leave only to take the jewels. Her orders were either to wait until she knew by questioning that the section would not return or else, when it had returned, to wait until the memsahib and Bellairs sahib slept, and then to make a sign. They grow tired of waiting now, for there is news! At Jundhra the rebels are defeated, and at Doonha likewise.”

  “How know you this?”

  “By listening to the priests’ talk while I lay in wait to snare the priestling. Nothing is known as yet as to what the guns or garrison at Doonha do, but it is known that they of Jundhra will march on Hanadra here. They search now for their High Priest, being minded to march out of here and set an ambush on the road.”

  “They have time. From Jundhra to here is a long march! Until tomorrow evening or the day following they have time!”

  “Aye! And they have fear also! They seek their priest — listen.”

  There were voices plainly audible in the courtyard down below, and two more men stood at the foot of the winding stairway whispering. By listening intently they could hear almost what they said, for the stone stairway acted like a whispering-gallery, the voices echoing up it from wall to wall.

  “Why do they seek him here?”

  “They have sought elsewhere and not found him; and there is talk — He claimed the memsahib as his share of the plunder. They think—”

  Mahommed Khan glared at the trussed-up priest and swore a savage oath beneath his breath.

  “Have they touched the stables yet?” he demanded.

  “No, not yet. The loot is to be divided evenly among certain of the priests, and no man may yet lay a hand on it.”

  “Is there a guard there?”

  “No. No one would steal what the priests claim, and the priests will not trust one another. So the horses stand in their stalls unwatched.”

  The voices down the stairs grew louder, and the sound of footsteps began ascending, slowly and with hesitation.

  “Quick!” said the Risaldar. “Light me that brazier again!”

  Charcoal lights quickly, and before the steps had reached the landing Mahommed Khan had a hot coal glowing in his tongs:

  “Now speak to them!” he growled at the shuddering priest. “Order them to go back to their temple and tell them that you follow!”

  The priest shut his lips tight and shook his head. With rescue so near as that, he could see no reason to obey. But the hot coal touched him, and a Hindu who may be not at all afraid to die can not stand torture.

  “I speak!” he answered, writhing.

  “Speak, then!” said the Risaldar, choosing a larger coal. Then, in the priest’s language, which none — and least of all a Risaldar — can understand except the priests themselves, he began to shout directions, pitching his voice into a high, wailing, minor key. He was answered by another sing-song voice outside the door and he listened with a glowing coal held six inches from his eyes.

  “An eye for a false move!” hissed Mahommed Khan. “Two eyes are the forfeit unless they go down the stairs again! Then my half-brother here will follow to the temple and if any watch, or stay behind, thy ears will sizzle!”

  The High Priest raised his voice into a wail again, and the feet shuffled along the landing and descended.

  “Put down that coal!” he pleaded. “I have done thy bidding!”

  “Watch through the window!” said the Risaldar. “Then follow!”

  His giant half-brother peered from behind the curtain and listened. He could hear laughter, ribald, mocking laughter, but low, and plainly not intended for the High Priest’s ears.

  “They go!” he growled.

  “Then follow.”

  Once again the Risaldar was left alone with the priest and the unconscious Ruth. She was suffering from the effects of long days and nights of nerve-destroying heat, with the shock of unexpected horror super-added, and she showed no disposition to recover consciousness. The priest, though, was very far from having lost his power to think.

  “You are a fool!” he sneered at the Risaldar, but the sword leaped from its scabbard at the word and he changed that line of argument. “You hold cards and know not how to play them!”

  “I know along which road my honor lies! I lay no plans to murder people in their sleep.”

  “Honor! And what is honor? What is the interest on honor — how much percent?”

  The Risaldar turned his back on him, but the High Priest laughed.

  “‘The days of the Raj are numbered!” said the priest. “The English will be slain to the last man and then where will you be? Where will be the profit on your honor?”

  The Risaldar listened, for he could not help it, but he made no answer.

  “Me you hold here, a prisoner. You can slay or torture. But what good will that do? The woman that you guard will fall sooner or later into Hindu hands. You can not fight against a legion. Listen! I hold the strings of wealth. With a jerk I can unloose a fortune in your lap. I need that woman there!”

  “For what?” snarled the Risaldar, whirling round on him, his eyes ablaze.

  “‘For power! Kharvani’s temple here has images and paintings and a voice that speaks — but no Kharvani!”

  The Rajput turned away again and affected unconcern.

  “Could Kharvani but appear, could her worshipers but see Kharvani manifest, what would a lakh, two lakhs, a crore of rupees mean to me, the High Priest of her temple? I could give thee anything! The power over all India would be in my hands! Kharvani would but appear and say thus and thus, and thus would it be done!”

  The Risaldar’s hand had risen to his mustache. His back was still turned on the priest, but he showed interest. His eyes wandered to where Ruth lay in a heap by the inner door and then away again.

  “Who would believe it?” he growled in an undertone.

  “They would all believe it! One and all! Even Mohammedans would become Hindus to worship at her shrine and beg her favors. Thou and I alone would share the secret. Listen! Loose me these bonds — my limbs ache.”

  Mahommed Khan turned. He stooped and cut them with his sword.

  “Now I can talk,” said the priest, sitting up and rubbing his ankles. “Listen. Take thou two horses and gallop off, so that the rest may think that the white woman has escaped. Then return here secretly and name thy price — and hold thy tongue!”

  “And leave her in thy hands?” asked the Risaldar.

  “In my keeping.”

  “Bah! Who would trust a Hindu priest!”

  The Rajput was plainly wavering and the priest stood up, to argue with him the better.

  “What need to trust me? You, sahib, will know the secret, and none other but myself will know it. Would I, think you, be fool enough to tell the rest, or, by withholding just payment from you, incite you to spread it broadcast? You and I will know it and we alone. To me the power that it will bring — to you all the wealth you ever dreamed of, and more besides!”

  “No other priest would know?”

  “Not one! They will think the woman escaped!”

  “And she — where would you keep her?”

  “In a secret place I know of, below the temple.”

  “Does any other know it?”


  “No. Not one!”

  “Listen!” said the Risaldar, stroking at his beard. “This woman never did me any wrong — but she is a woman, not a man. I owe her no fealty, and yet — I would not like to see her injured. Were I to agree to thy plan, there would needs be a third man in the secret.”

  “Who? Name him,” said the priest, grinning his satisfaction.

  “My half-brother Suliman.”

  “Agreed!”

  “He must go with us to the hiding-place and stay there as her servant.”

  “Is he a silent man?”

  “Silent as the dead, unless I bid him speak!”

  “Then, that is agreed; he and thou and I know of this secret, and none other is to know it! Why wait? Let us remove her to the hiding-place!”

  “Wait yet for Suliman. How long will I be gone, think you, on my pretended flight?”

  “Nay, what think you, sahib?”

  “I think many hours. There may be those that watch, or some that ride after me. I think I shall not return until long after daylight, and then there will be no suspicions. Give me a token that will admit me safely back into Hanadra — some sign that the priests will know, and a pass to show to any one that bids me halt.”

  The priest held out his hand. “Take off that ring of mine!” he answered. “That is the sacred ring of Kharvani — and all men know it. None will touch thee or refuse thee anything, do they have but the merest sight of it!”

  The Risaldar drew off a clumsy silver ring, set with three stones — a sapphire and a ruby and an emerald, each one of which was worth a fortune by itself. He slipped it on his own finger and turned it round slowly, examining it.

  “See how I trust thee,” said the priest.

  “More than I do thee!” muttered the Risaldar.

  “I hear my brother!” growled the Risaldar after another minute. “Be ready to show the way!”

  He walked across the room to Ruth, tore a covering from a divan and wrapped her in it; then he opened the outer door for his half-brother.

  “Is it well?” he asked in the Rajput tongue.

  “All well!” boomed the half-brother, eying the unbound priest with unconcealed surprise.