Kitabı oku: «The Sirdar's Oath: A Tale of the North-West Frontier», sayfa 9
Chapter Eighteen
In the Mist
A more wretched night than that passed by the fugitives – two of them, at any rate – it would be hard to imagine. The wind blew piercingly cold at that altitude; the juniper wood, which at its best is about the worst fuel in the world, would not burn, but made up for the deficiency in the fabrication of abundant smoke. There was no way of baking or doing anything with the frugal aliment which Mehrab Khan had so unexpectedly produced, and so generously withal, for he might easily have kept it for himself. Wherefore it had to be consumed in the form of a raw paste mixed with rain water, and even this, both men, the European and the Oriental – whose creed ignorant people imagine to teach that women have no souls – refused to touch until Hilda insisted, and then they made a pretence.
Towards dawn, but while it was yet dark, Mehrab Khan sallied forth to obtain provisions somehow or other, and, haply, intelligence, leaving the most stringent injunctions that on no account short of actual discovery were they to move from their hiding-place. Shortly after sunrise he returned with both. A kid was slung behind his saddle, and a bag of grain in front, but he did not think it necessary to state that the owner, having been injudicious enough to refuse to give or sell either, and further, to manifest suspicion on the subject of himself, he had incontinently slain the said owner, and borne away the spoil – a feat which, to his wild Baluchi nature, represented an adequate commingling of business with pleasure, but which he knew that these Feringhis would regard in another light. The latter noticed, however, that he no longer wore his khaki, but was attired in the loose garments and turban of the Gularzai, and this he explained was for reasons of safety.
The intelligence which he had gleaned was partly satisfactory to them, and partly the reverse. Murad Afzul had surprised the camp, but the sahibs had not been injured, although carried away as prisoners. The Gularzai had raised the standard of the Prophet and joined in the jihad– the Nawab Mahomed Mushîm Khan being one of its most earnest and enthusiastic supporters. Sarbaland Khan, too, had joined, and the Nawab had appointed Murad Afzul one of his principal leaders. In brief, the whole country was up in arms, and a large force had been sent to surprise and overpower Mazaran.
“Well, that’s cheering sort of kubbur at any rate,” said Raynier, as he translated the burden of this communication to his companion. “One thing, it’s possible we are better off here than we would be in Mazaran, for the garrison there is no great shakes, and Polwarth the biggest ass that was ever given command even of a box of tin soldiers.”
Polwarth, it may be observed incidentally, was the commanding officer at Mazaran, and he and the new Political Agent did not love each other.
There was one item of news which Mehrab Khan had not thought necessary to disclose to his superior, and this was that the Nawab had issued orders to secure Raynier Sahib alive and at all costs, but alive. Great reward was promised to whoever should accomplish this, and bring him unharmed to Mushîm Khan, but should any slay him the reward should be death. But he who should deliver him up alive, the reward would make him a man of consequence for the rest of his days. And this was within the Baluchi’s power to earn.
“How is it you still cleave to us, Mehrab Khan?” Raynier said half bitterly, half affectionately. “All your fellow tribesmen and fellow believers are up against us. Why are you not with them?”
The man smiled. No well-simulated horror did he affect, for he felt none. The question struck him as practically and nakedly natural. Nor did he break into vehement protestations of fidelity, and so forth. He merely replied, —
“It is written, Huzoor.”
And the high Government official answered the Levy Sowar, —
“Be it so, my brother.”
Shut off from the world for days they remained thus in their lofty eyrie among the crags. A better shelter was found, and this not before it was needed, for the rainy weather continued and the cold at night was more than uncomfortable. Then Mehrab Khan went forth upon the maraud one night and stole a blanket or two and a poshtîn– a sort of ulster made of soft leather and fur-lined – as well as some more food. But from their hiding-place he steadfastly refused to allow them to budge.
On Hilda Clive these conditions of hardship, which would have driven the average civilised and cultured woman nearly out of her senses, seemed to have no effect at all – neither on her spirits nor on her health. As to the latter they positively seemed to suit her. She had acquired a colour and a brightness of eye such as had never lit up her face under conditions of civilisation, and Raynier, looking at her, would wonder twenty times a day how he could ever have passed her every day of his life for about three weeks, and taken no notice of her whatever. So much for looks. But as a companion, as a fellow castaway, she was perfect, he decided. She was full of ideas. She could converse on every subject under the sun, no matter what; the only topic she seemed to avoid, he was prompt to observe, being herself. More, he thought to notice even that she purposely avoided it, yet in such wise as to convey no idea of purposely concealing anything, but rather as not choosing to be drawn. She would beguile the time, too, in trying to learn Hindustani and Pushtu, under the joint tuition of himself and Mehrab Khan, frequently to the amusement of both.
Thus, as the days wore on, something uncommonly like a very real contentment settled down upon these two, here in the solitude of their vast mountain world – nay, more. Their converse began to take on a sort of insidiously familiar, not to say caressing, form of confidence, alike on the part of the one as on that of the other. Raynier began to forget that they were fugitives from a whole countryside, eager for their blood. To forget the perils to be encountered ere they should once more mingle among their kind. To forget the havoc and massacre and misery that had come about since last they had so mingled. And, more difficult still to forget, perhaps, the official ruin which would most probably await himself. Strangely enough, the only thing he could not forget, the only thing that would force itself upon his memory, and that with a horrid and most discordant jar, was the fact that Cynthia Daintree was on her way out to claim him – to claim him, upon whom she had absolutely no claim at all; would, in fact, by this time soon be landing.
Without, the elements stormed and raged. For two whole days at a time they would be unable to see outside their mountain abode, so thick and unyielding were the mists that encompassed it, and the rain poured down unceasingly, while now and again the roll of intermittent thunder would shake the mountain peaks in stunning reverberation the night through, and the red gleam seek out every corner of their cave abode. And when the mists parted, they gazed down upon shiny rock surfaces labyrinthed with ragged black chasms, or the dark wildness of a juniper forest swept by the wreaths of the flying scud.
But this state of comparative peace was not to last – was, in fact, destined to be brought to a most startling termination. One morning Mehrab Khan, who had been away on a foraging expedition, failed to return. The day passed, and still no Mehrab Khan. Night likewise failed to bring him, and now things began to look serious for these two, for their food supply was all but exhausted. As for the Baluchi, there was only one conclusion to be arrived at – he had been found by the enemy, and either killed or detained as a prisoner. As for themselves, something must be done, for it was clear they could not remain there to starve. With his own knowledge of the country, supplemented by further detail which Mehrab Khan had given him, Raynier thought he could find the way to Mazaran.
It was scarcely daylight when they started from their place of refuge. The weather had cleared overhead, but the ground was miry and slippery to the last degree, so much so indeed that, until they should reach smoother and more level ground, the horses were of more hindrance than help. But at the start Raynier discovered that his steed had gone dead lame to such an extent that to ride it would be downright dangerous here, where cliffs and slippery slopes abounded. It was decided to abandon the animal.
“Seems as if our troubles were beginning over again,” he said ruefully. “By Jove, it looks as if the story about the Syyed’s tangi was going to prove true again in our case.”
He spoke half jestingly, glancing at her the while. To his surprise she was looking very serious.
“No,” she answered. “I don’t think so. At least, unless – No – it’s of no use. I can’t see.”
She had passed her hand over her eyes, as he had seen her do on that strangely memorable night, and her face wore the same dreamy look. That, he knew, accounted for the seeming incoherence of her words. For Hilda Clive possessed in some degree the gift of clairvoyance, and what she saw now in front of them she preferred not to tell him just then. Whatever it was it took no definite shape in her own mind, hovering there vague but ominous. He looked at her curiously.
“Well, we’ll cheat that superstition yet,” he said, with a gaiety that was just a trifle forced.
They made but sorry headway, the horse slipping and stumbling to such an extent that Hilda preferred to walk, so that by the time day had fairly dawned they were scarcely more than three miles from their starting-point. It was deemed advisable to go into hiding once more, and here they were forced to finish what little food remained.
Towards dusk they started again. An unaccountable and wholly unwonted depression had come upon Hilda, while her escort, walking beside her horse, began to feel strangely weak and faint. He supposed it was the result of recent bad living and want of exercise, and then, with a chill of dismay, he recognised the infallible symptoms of his old fever. No – this would never do. He must pull himself together; and by way of doing this, he stumbled and fell dizzily forward.
With a little cry of alarm Hilda was off her horse in a moment and was beside him. She raised his head, laying a hand upon the damp and clammy brow.
“There, there! Do you feel better now?” she exclaimed, with a rush of tenderness in her tone.
“What an idiot I am,” he answered, but the smile was a sickly one as he tried to raise himself. “I shall be all right in a minute. Heavens! the horse! Hilda – quick – go after the silly brute. It would never do to lose it.”
In her anxiety to reach his side, Hilda had let the reins go, and now the animal was walking steadily off. She tried to coax it, but the result only seemed to be to accelerate its pace. She was quite a little way off now. Raynier had staggered to his feet, and had managed to take a few steps after her. Then he sank down in a dead faint.
The horse stopped. Now she would have it. Speaking soothingly, Hilda drew near. She had all but got her hand on the bridle rein, when the perverse brute slewed round. This manoeuvre he repeated three or four times and then resumed his stroll. After him again she went.
No – it was too bad. She would try no further. She must have come quite far already, but how far? She stopped and looked back. Great Heaven! what was this? The cloud which had encompassed the hilltop had extended, stealing silently and insidiously downward, blotting out the whole mountain side, blotting out the way she had come, blotting out everything save three or four yards of slimy wet ground immediately around her. How would she find her way back to where she had left her companion, and – what if she could not?
Chapter Nineteen
In Strange Quarters
Murad Afzul was in high glee, for which he had good reason. The Tarletons and Haslam he had released, conditionally on the promise of payment of a good round sum of rupees. True, the promise was so far on paper only, but curiously enough Murad Afzul, robber and general freebooter as he was himself, entertained a high opinion of the promises of the Sahibs – Feringhi infidels as they were; besides, there was just this amount of additional security, that did they repudiate their promise in this instance, why then, they had better go away and dwell right at the further end of India, and that at a day’s notice, even if they did not put the sea between them and him, for any closer proximity would certainly prove fatal to their health. As it was, the terms were satisfactory all round, for all observation had gone to convince that shrewd marauder that though it might be safe sport flaying and burning such of his Asiatic fellow-subjects who should fall into his hands, it did not pay to extend such operations to the Sahibs. They would stand robbery, but at the murder of themselves they drew the line. So a bundobust was entered into, and for what was, under the circumstances, a moderate ransom, the British captives were allowed to return to Mazaran, and they, reckoning that the Government would pay, deemed themselves mighty lucky in getting off so cheap. But Murad Afzul could afford to be moderate just then, for he was standing in for a stroke of business beside which the gains already secured were as a fleabite, and this was the capture of Herbert Raynier, and the reward offered by the Nawab for that feat.
Incidentally Murad Afzul had other kine to milk – which in their way would give a good, rich, profitable yield. The wily freebooter had issued orders that two men should be exempted from the slaughter which had taken place of the camp servants, and these two were Raynier’s chuprassis. He knew his way about, did Murad Afzul, whereupon he argued that if any man was likely to be the possessor of a considerable hoard of ill-gotten gains, that man would be a Government chuprassi. Accordingly he named a good round sum apiece, which Sunt Singh and Kaur Singh were invited to disgorge, and on their protesting their utter inability to do so, were immediately treated to an instalment of the consequences of such refusal duly persisted in.
It is curious how, even outside the covers of a book, or off the stage, poetic justice will sometimes overtake delinquents, and that as a sheer matter of cause and effect, and now for instance, as they yelled and writhed, each with a red-hot coal bound up within his left armpit – not the right, lest they should be unable to indite the requisite document authorising payment of their ransom – it did not, of course, occur to Sunt Singh and Kaur Singh that this was indirect result of their supercilious repulse of Chand Lall from their master’s audience, because they were unaware of the nature of his errand. But it is none the less certain that had that luckless trader been able to communicate that Murad Afzul and his gang of “budmashes” were out in the district, and dacoity in full blast, Raynier would never have ventured forth thus on a practically defenceless camping expedition, nor suffered others to do so either, in which contingency the events just recorded would, so far, never have taken place.
Raynier, awaking to consciousness, stared at the opposite wall, then at the furniture, then at the window, then closed his eyes again. A confused medley was flitting through his clouded brain. He seemed to see, but as if in a far-off time, the hiding-place among the mountain tops, the rain and mist and wild storms, to feel in a dull and uneasy form of sense the oppression of some peril hanging over him, but sequence of thought refused to come. Events chased each other in wild phantasmagoria through his mind, a sense of being hurled through space, a shock of some sort, a ring of shaggy fierce countenances and the flash of uplifted tulwars. Then, of a sudden, his mind cleared. He remembered the runaway horse and how his last sense had been that of being whirled into space, wrapped in a chill mist. But Hilda? What of her? Where was she? Had she been found too. Was she here, and – where on earth was he?
He opened his eyes wide now, and stared around the room. Yes, it was a room, but a strange one. The walls were of a dull brown colour, and unpapered. The window was a tall, narrow embrasure, glazed and partly open. In the doorway was a chik of fine split bamboo, draped by faded curtains, and a lamp of strange, but very artistic, design hung from the ceiling. Where was he? And he made a movement to spring out of bed.
A figure glided to his side, a figure clad in white and wearing a turban, and a hand was laid upon his wrist.
“Do not move, Sahib. The Sahib must lie quiet. The Sahib has been ill.”
The words were spoken in Hindustani, and now Raynier answered in the same tongue, —
“I suppose I have been. But where am I, and – who are you?”
“I am a Hakim (native physician.). The Sahib must not talk,” was the answer, ignoring the first part of the question. This the patient did not fail to notice.
“That is all right, Hakim Sahib” – Raynier was always polite in his address with natives, and if they had any title or rank never failed to give them the benefit of it. “But what I want to know is, where am I?”
The question was asked with some impatience. The doctor, seeing that he was likely to become excited, which would be highly prejudicial to the patient, and therefore equally so to his own interest, replied, —
“You are in the house of his Greatness the Nawab.”
“What?” almost shouted Raynier.
“In the house of the Nawab Mahomed Mushîm Khan,” repeated the Hakim.
“Oh, then, I am in good hands. The Nawab and I are friends. Is the Miss Sahib here too?”
Even if the doctor had not turned away to conceal it, Raynier would not have noticed the strange look which had come over his face, as indeed how should he?
“Yes, yes,” was the hurried answer. “Now the Sahib must not talk any more.”
“But I must see her if only for a minute. She will come, I know. Bring her to me, Hakim Sahib, then I will be as quiet as you wish.”
“That cannot be,” was the answer. “She is getting on well, but not well enough to talk to the Sahib. In a few days, perhaps. Now the Sahib must rest quiet or he will not get well enough to see her at all.”
Raynier sighed. There was sense in what the other said, he supposed, yet it was hard. Hilda would naturally have suffered from reaction, and could conceivably be anything but well. Why, he himself was as weak as a cat, as the sapient simile for some inscrutable reason puts it, the harmless, necessary domestic feline being, proportionately, of the strongest and most wiry of the animal creation.
“Can I see the Nawab, then?” he said.
“The Nawab is absent.”
“Then his brother, the Sirdar Kuhandil Khan? Will he not come and see me?”
“He too is absent, Sahib. In a few days, perhaps, when the Sahib is well.”
With this answer Raynier must fain be content. A drowsiness stole over him, begotten of the exertion of talking, and a great sense of security and comfort Mushîm Khan was his friend, and although he might have been drawn into the present bobbery – all these mountain tribes dearly loved the fun of fighting – why, he and Hilda would be perfectly safe under his roof. Hilda, of course, had been found at the same time as himself, and brought here. They would meet in a day or two, as the doctor had said, and when the fighting was over, why, then, they would return to Mazaran, and – good Heavens! why would the thought of Cynthia Daintree obtrude itself? And as, in consequence, he began to turn restlessly, the Hakim glided to his side.
“Drink this,” he said, pouring something from a phial. Raynier did so, and in another moment was slumbering hard and peacefully.
For two or three days longer was Raynier thus tended, but day and night the Hakim was with him, or in the room which lay behind the chik, or, if absent for a while, his place was supplied by an attendant. But not by any chance, not for one single instant was he ever left alone. Had he been a criminal awaiting the gallows he could not have been more closely and continuously watched. He tried to obtain information as to what was going on outside, but without avail. On general subjects the doctor or the attendant would converse, but let him once touch that of the present disturbance and they were closeness itself. Then he thought it was time to insist on seeing Hilda.
With deprecatory words, and far from easy in his mind, the Hakim told him that the Miss Sahib was not there. He had told him the contrary, it was true, but he was very weak and ill, and good news is better for a sick man than bad news, wherefore he had told him what he had.
What, then, had become of Miss Sahib? Raynier asked. Had she not been found at the same time as himself? He was repressing a murderous desire to leap upon and throttle this liar of a Hakim, and only the knowledge that violence would serve no good purpose whatever availed to restrain him. He controlled his voice, too, striving to speak calmly.
No, she had not been found, the doctor answered. It was not even known that there was a Miss Sahib with him at all. He had been found by a party of Gularzai in the early morning lying unconscious on the mountain side, and brought here. But there was nobody with him. And then the Hakim, looking at him with something like pity, it might have been thought, suggested that the time had come when the Sahib might take a little fresh air.
A few moments ago, and how welcome the idea would have been. He was longing to see something beyond the four walls of his room – of his prison; and from his window nothing was visible but another wall. But now the shock was too great, too stunning. He had pictured Hilda here with him, here in security, and, after their hardships, in some degree of comfort. And all the time this infernal Hakim had been feeding him on lies. What had become of her? He remembered how she had gone after the horse, but of the descent of the mist he remembered nothing. Had she wandered too far and been unable to find him again? Great Heaven! how awful. A defenceless woman, alone, lost, in that savage mountain solitude, with night coming on, and that woman Hilda Clive. And then by a strange inspiration came a modicum of comfort in the thought that it was Hilda Clive; for it brought back to him certain recollections. He remembered her bizarre midnight walk in a semi-trance, the perilous episode in the tangi and the consummate nerve and utter unconcern she had displayed. She had qualities, properties, gifts, what you will, which placed her utterly outside any other woman he had ever known – and these might now carry her through where another would succumb.
Following the Hakim and the attendant mechanically, Raynier found himself in a kind of courtyard, rather was it a roof, flat and walled in. He could see two or three other similar roof courtyards, with people on them. But where was he? He had been in Mushîm Khan’s dwelling, an ordinary mud-walled village similar in every way to a hundred others inhabited by the Gularzai and kindred border tribes, but this place was akin to a castle or rock fortress. He could not see much of it, but it seemed to him that the place he was in crowned the summit of a rock eminence, into which it was partly built. Had Mushîm Khan another dwelling, then – a mountain stronghold which he used in times of disturbance? It looked so.
How blue the sky was, how bracing the air. Raynier drew in deep draughts of the latter. He felt recovered already, and earnestly he longed for the return of the Nawab, that he might be set at liberty, and at once start in search of Hilda. Little he cared now about his official prospects or anything of the kind. This girl who had been his companion in danger and hardship filled all his thoughts.
And then immediately beneath him arose an outburst of the most awful cries and shrieks, such as could have been wrung only from a human being undergoing the extremity of anguish and bodily torture. With blanched face and chilled blood he rushed to the parapet and looked over.
