by Talbot Mundy
The ancient sport of twisting the lion’s tail happened to be in full swing just then, and the lion was being more than usually careful (having a big war on his hands), so that it was not so very greatly to be wondered at that presently Dan was paroled in my custody. We being both non-entities, nobody was jealous; and the mention of our new status in the papers was so small, and stowed away among important items, that probably nobody saw it. I secured railway passes for us both, and we set forth like boys from school.
I mentioned that he had fallen in love with India. From the heat to the insects, from the smells to the snakes and temples and the view, including trees and roads and people, he made one vast idol of it all, keeping second place in his heart for me because, he said, I had given him the golden opportunity.
We traveled, and hunted, and looked. We rode pig together at Palanpur; shot tiger at Sirohe, where tarantulas and heat combined nearly to put an end to both of us; played polo at Mount Abu, and he played so well that a junior Civil Servant denounced what he chose to call insolence on the part of a paroled prisoner. (We had to go away lest the parole be withdrawn, and that was of course the best thing that could happen, for it drove us further afield.)
There was not a district worthy of its name up and down the length of India that we did not visit, overlooking no opportunity for sport, yet mindful always of the end in view and of the great report that must be written.
(Perhaps some day they will take that report from its pigeon hole and publish it to an astonished world. It would have been worded ten times as radically if Dan had had his way, but I was in awe of the Powers that Be and respectful of their feelings, and in the long hot nights, when our cots were side by side that one punkah might fan the two of us, I made him see discretion if not reason.)
The burden of Dan’s song, day in day out, was that he had found his proper métier — his bent — his plane — his role. God must have made him for the very purpose of detecting India’s galls and healing them. We must write this report together, using our combined powers of observation, my patience, and his wit. It should go in over my signature, and be received with gratified amazement by a Secretary of State, who would pass it on to a Viceroy, who would promptly send for me. Then I, out of the goodness and fearless honesty of a simple heart, should assure the Viceroy that other fingers than my own had wielded that amazing pen, and — to put it in plain American — that he, Dan Ivan, was the guy. The Viceroy, of course, would send for Dan at once and load him with responsibility. (Never mind the salary — mind you tell him I’d work for the love of it. If you forget that, you and I are not friends!)
Under the spur of that enthusiasm and those wonderful ideals the report grew long, and there were many places where the ink was smudgy because sweat had mingled with it in the heat of midnight oil. (We’ve got to have this thing done, you know, and ready to turn in the minute they give me back my parole!)
Unexpected things were written in it. We camped one ever memorable night, for instance, with the traders who had brought three thousand horses from over the northern border. When the grain was eaten, and the squealing and whinnying almost ceased; when the pipes were lit, and we all sat on little carpets thinking we could hear the stars, a man sang. Dan never knew a word of that language, but almost until dawn he set down by fitful candlelight the thoughts the man’s song brought him. The last sentence was to the effect that poetry and music are avenues to men’s hearts.
“As if Government doesn’t know that!” said I, when he waked me to make me read it.
“Rot! All Governments think a brass band’s music! Show me a Government record or one Government decree poetically worded! You can’t! Of course you can’t! There isn’t one! Now that fellow who sang knew all about spiritual things — I know he did, you needn’t argue — you could tell it by his voice and the way he would stop to meditate between one stanza and another — the song was a prayer — nothing less — a verse-prayer in a minor key. Such men must be met on their own level.”
I laughed because I happen to know Pashtu. “Shall I tell you the gist of a dozen of the least indecent verses?” I asked, and as he did not answer I sketched the details briefty.
“Well — what can you expect?” he retorted when the shock wore off after a minute or two, “The Government licks ’em with a stick for minor crime — wouldn’t that brutalize an angel?”
“What would they do in America,” said I, “to anyone who sang that song in public?”
“No American would sing it,” he answered, scandalized.
“But supposing I went to America and sang it?”
“Who would suppose such foolishness? The point is, these men would respond at once to wiser treatment. They yearn for righteousness, and Government gives ’em irrigation and a new stone jail.”
It was true about the irrigation, and where that is there is little surplus labor. The report was to be about supplies of unskilled labor available for Crown Colonies.
“Let’s try a native state again,” said I.
“One where Government hasn’t perverted ’em so much,” he agreed.
So we found a native state less civilized than most, and while we studied the crowded hordes who some day might be loosed on a desert colony to grow wheat, cholera struck like a snake in the night and nearly a thousand died before morning. There were three other white men within a hundred miles; they pressed us into service, and though other help came as fast as camel and horse could hurry, it was long before we were free to seek less melancholy places.
For a while Dan’s name was a charm to conjure with in that old city of hot nights. They corrupted it to Danee Vanee, and he moved among them almost as a god, with straight, dark hair like theirs — brown eyes like theirs — graceful, lean limbs — his head crowned with a turban against the scorching sun — not so unlike their proudest in appearance that they could not detect his sympathy and trust him.
Government heard of his doings by telegraph (for I attended to that myself), and over the wire in the course or a week or two came Dan’s release from parole as reward for service rendered. Watching him as he read the telegram I saw his old super-intolerance for the accepted, cut-and-dried judgments sweep over him like fire, and because I was more tired than I had ever been I grew afraid and warned him not to be a fool.
“I won’t be,” he answered, crunching the telegram and tossing it to me to lock in our one despatch box, that contained the great report. “But I’d like ’em to know how much I care for their rewards!”
“They might have expressed it more tactfully,” I admitted, “but wasn’t it the proper thing to give you back your freedom?”
“How can they give me back my own?” he demanded.
Nevertheless, he spent the greater part of that night concocting a letter that would express sufficiently to satisfy convention, yet not too much to scarify his conscience, some kind of appreciation; and the final result was a marvel of ingenuity.
“ ‘Render unto Cæsar—’ “ he quoted as he sealed the letter. “Cæsar’s a harder one to please than God!”
Next day there was the old light behind his eyes, and the old swing back in his stride again. Danee Vanee passed from being minister in mental chains, in whom the natives (chained by superstition) recognized a fellow prisoner, to that much more rare amazing thing, the free man serving unpaid from choice. And in the pride of having scorned the praise or Caesar he fell victim to the wine of being worshipped. He thought it inspiration. (Later, because of his clean ideals, inspiration came of it.)
The soldiery (not quite as well drilled as the regular Indian army, nor nearly as sure of themselves) began to look to him for approval of their own lame efforts, presently for advice and after a while for orders. It came to be the normal thing, that nobody commented on, for Dan Ivan, the American without a scrap of authority or rank, to shout to men whose cousins were the playmates of a reigning prince, and to see his orders obeyed at a run. We were forced to admit (we others, who did have semblance of authority and therefore
precedence and pride and other handicaps) that only the spirit of democracy could have earned him such confidence; arrogance, and the habits of ages had to yield before his clear perception of essentials. Yet, our very appreciation of him contributed to his fall, for we trusted him too far.
The cholera waned to a mere dozen deaths a day and we began to think of our own affairs, when a whole district thirty miles down stream took sick. It was as if we had subdued the center of a forest fire to find ourselves surrounded and cut off. Short handed even after all the help that had been sent us, there seemed but one sensible thing to do — to leave Danee Vanee in unofficial (but actual) charge of the main camp and ourselves invade the countryside in twos with all the native assistance we could raise and train. And so for a month we all forgot everything except the battle with ignorance and dirt.
Then, as the scourge burned itself out as it were, we began gathering again toward the centre and, three days march by bullock cart from headquarters, I got the first intimation, that Dan might be in need of help. A scrawl reached me in his handwriting, asserting that the most ridiculous condition had arisen and if I could come it might be a good idea.
So I cut the three days journey into two, and found Dan under arrest with an armed guard at each door of his quarters. The British resident, who of course was officially held responsible for leaving Dan in charge, had been given leave of absence by wire and a military man “who knew not Joseph” had come by camel to investigate. I found him busy and disinclined to answer questions; so, after a few words with the only other European on the scene I drove through the main bazaar to see things for myself, and thence to Dan’s verandah, where I found him smoking moodily.
“This is where our road forks a second time,” he said, laughing without a trace of mirth. “You’re in time to say good bye!”
“You’ve got plenty of friends,” I answered. “Why not see it through.”
“That’s what I’ve done,” he said, shoving both hands deep into his pockets. He no longer wore the Rajput turban but was United States American again in panama and linen collar. “I’ve taken thought and seen it through. I’m clean through. I leave tomorrow.”
I noticed there was no regret in his voice, and swift as lightning he detected what I missed.
“Come with me!” he urged. “I’d be sorry to lose you.”
“I’m sorry too, what possessed you, Dan?” I answered, taking the only other chair and reaching for his cigarettes; they were of the cheap, bazaar kind, although I noticed a box of imported ones unopened on the table.
“Help yourself to the others,” he growled. “That new military specimen who’s here to investigate sent them up — I suppose as a sort of sedative. Help yourself, and take the rest back to him, won’t you?”
“What possessed you?” I repeated. Plainly, in his bitterness he classed me with tyranny because of my appointment.
“Sense possessed me! Horse sense! Common sense! Decency! Cholera took charge again a week ago — two hundred and eleven cases the first night. All the old blankets had been burned and I wanted new ones — to soak in hot water, like we did at first, and wrap round the poor devils’ tummies to ease the cramp. Weren’t any blankets. What could I do! What would anybody do — I mean any man with a heart in him? I learned that Hookum Lal, the old scoundrel, had twenty bales of ’em in his godown in the main bazaar, so I sent him word to deliver ’em at once and charge to me.”
“Well?”
“He sent back an answer that the price was trebled and the terms cash with order. What would you have done?”
“Almost anything,” I said, “except what you did.”
“Oh — ah — yes — of course,” he retorted, “I forgot for a moment you’ve a commission of kinds. Strange what a Government label will do to a sane man! I’ll tell you what I did. I sent the old scoundrel an offer in writing of the old price plus ten per cent, and he didn’t even answer. I sent along the money, but he wouldn’t take it. So I called twenty soldiers — you know how they used to like my ordering ’em about — and marched at the head of ’em in a hurry to Hookum Lal’s godown. He had the gall to sit there with the door locked behind him. I’ll bet a thousand he was waiting for me. He had a key in his lap as big as a fireman’s axe. I tossed the money in his lap and told him to hand the blankets over.”
I squealed, for I could not help it, and Dan looked at me sadly, as if I were damned for no fault of his.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“Hookum Lal? He spat. He tossed the money aside, and spat into the dust between us.”
“And you?”
“I kept my temper, but I told him men were lying in agony for lack of his blankets to alleviate the pain.”
“Go on. And he?”
“He raised the price another hundred per cent.”
“Of course. That’s his creed. What happened next?”
“Why then I believe I kicked him. He got up and ran like a lump of fat on a hot stove, sputtering; so I didn’t waste any more time. I ordered the soldiers to stave in the godown door with their butts, and they tried it at once, but the door proved too solid for that game. So I showed ’em how to make a battering ram out of a teak beam from an old house near-by, and we had the door down in fine style in very few minutes. Then I pressed some onlookers into service and made ’em carry the blankets to where I needed ’em. What are you laughing at?”
“The arrogance of ignorance,” I said. “Go on.”
“As soon as I began to put the blankets into use the soldiers left en bloc. Deserted isn’t the right word. They marched off in fours, under their own officer. Next thing that happened was a riot — no, not in camp — outside — crowd came surging from the city and proclaimed bloody murder from every bit of rising ground. No soldiers in camp now, of course, to keep order — and all the cholera patients who could walk or even crawl began slipping out to join the crowd. That’s what gave the cholera the merry little boost it got. Next thing, the crowd began throwing stones, and I took a stand where I thought I could do most good and dared ’em to come any further. Yes, I had your gun, and I took good care they saw it. No sign of Hookum Lal anywhere. I’d have shot that gent on sight, but he knew better than to show up. What d’you suppose happened next?”
“You’re telling it. Go on.”
“The soldiers came back, only twice as many of ’em, led by a man on horseback who wasn’t a soldier at all — an oldish looking wasp of a man with white whiskers dyed blue and a slit in one ear. The prime minister for aught I know.”
“Prime minister’s near enough,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well. They arrested me. Bluebeard gave the order and they — you might almost call ’em my own men — they seemed to take a delight in hustling me into this place. You’d have thought I’d poisoned a couple of rajahs and a crown prince! Never a sign of Hookum Lal. Never a word of him. Haven’t seen him since I kicked him and he ran. Somebody — the prime minister, I suppose — telegraphed the Indian Government, and they sent that curried colonel person who confirmed my arrest — and sent me cigarettes, confound him! When I spoke of Hookum Lal he said, “A-hem! Hurrr-umph!” and twiggled his moustache and walked away. What d’you suppose he meant by that?”
“Do you expect the Indian Government to flatter Hookum Lal more than it must?” I hazarded.
“Oh, I see. Well, this military gent came back presently, holding his moustache on with one hand, and had the gall to offer me pay for my services to date at the corresponding rate of a British sergeant major, on condition that I leave the country.”
“What did you do? Spit, like Hookum Lal?” I asked.
“No, I laughed at him. Then he said they would also pay my first class passage to America.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him to go to hell, and he hasn’t been back since. He’s sent me cigarettes — Government stores, I suppose—”
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “If you’ll open the box you’ll probably
find his own initials and his regimental crest on each cigarette.”
“Oh. I beg his pardon. Here — pass me the box and I’ll smoke one. Help yourself.”
“So the long and the short of it is you’re deported.”
“No! By gorry no! By gee! If it amounted to that I’d stay and hire lawyers and drag in the consul, and fight the Indian Government to the last ditch. I don’t give a damn for the Indian Government, and I’ve been at no pains to hide the fact. I leave India at my own initiative and my own expense. I’m going back to God’s country. I’ve been in this glorious jail eleven days, waiting for nothing but for you to come and lend me the price.”
Now that was exceedingly inconvenient. Because he had not chosen to let his New York bankers know where he was, I had financed him during the whole of his stay in India; and in addition to that we had all beggared ourselves buying emergency supplies with small prospect of Government refunding us.
“I shall have to borrow it,” I told him.
“Go ahead,” said he. “I’ll make it good.”
“Twelve per cent’s the lowest rate a shroff would charge.”
“Who cares?”
But it isn’t easy to borrow considerable sums of money without security when your job is as impermanent as mine was. I had to get my note endorsed; and I have chuckled a good deal wondering what Dan would have said had he known who endorsed it. I went straight to the “curried military gent,” who “twiggled his moustache” and wrote his name on the back of the paper without a moment’s hesitation.
“I’d have been happy to lend him the money myself,” he explained, “if he’d cared to ask. He seems to be a man of very proper spirit. It’s too bad to have to take the case seriously but, you know, the politics of these native states — especially these smaller ones — is a ticklish business — and er — I might add — the position of a pardoned prisoner of war is — ah — rather ticklish too. We appreciate his services. We would much rather overlook this business, but — candidly — we don’t dare.”
“My own impression,” I said. “is that he’s too upset by the natives taking sides with Hookum Lal against him to care what Government thinks or does.”