EYE-WITNESS.
Sir Henry Lennox had resigned his post, and the military despotism
in Khemistan proper was at an end. The Europeans at Alibad journeyed
in two detachments to the port on the river to bid farewell to the old
warrior, who was making his last triumphal progress amid the tears and
lamentations of the people to whom, according to his enemies and their
newspapers, his name was a signal for universal execration. The
General and his flotilla of steamers passed on, and Major Keeling
returned to Alibad, refusing to be comforted. The epoch of the soldier
was over, that of the civilian had begun, and, like his old commander,
he detested civilians as a class, without prejudice to certain
favoured individuals, with a furious hatred. Mr Crayne, the newly
appointed Commissioner, was not only a civilian but a man of such an
awkward temper that it was said his superiors and contemporaries at
Bombay had united to thrust the post upon him. It was not his by
seniority, but they would have been willing to see him made
Governor-General if it would remove him from their immediate
neighbourhood. In him Major Keeling perceived a foeman worthy of his
steel, and before the new ruler had fairly arrived in the province,
they were embarked upon a fierce paper warfare over almost every point
of Mr Crayne’s inaugural utterance. After a hard day’s work, it was a
positive refreshment to the soldier to sit down and compose a fiery
letter to his obnoxious superior; and since he was one of those to
whom experience brings little wisdom, he repeated with zest the old
mistake which had made him a by-word in official circles. More than
once in former years, when he thought he had made a specially good
point in a controversy of this kind, or forced his opponent into a
particularly untenable corner, he had sent the correspondence to the
Bombay papers, which were ready enough to print it, salving their
consciences by printing also scathing remarks on the sender. They gave
him no sympathy, and the military authorities sent him stinging
rebukes; but as if by a kind of fatality he did the same thing over
again as often as circumstances made it possible. His friends and
subordinates looked on with fear and trembling, and whispered that the
only reason he was still in the service was the fact that no one else
could keep the frontier quiet: his enemies chuckled while they
writhed, and said that the man was hard at work twisting the rope to
hang himself, and it must be long enough soon.
It was unfortunate that Ferrers should have chosen this particular
time to ask for leave in order to pay a visit to his uncle. He was
heartily sick of the frontier, and the prospect of the Christmas
festivities at Bab-us-Sahel was very pleasant. Moreover, he was
anxious to bring himself to Mr Crayne’s remembrance. These months of
hard service in a detestable spot like Alibad ought to have quite
wiped out the memory of his past follies, and the uncle who had
refused a request for money with unkind remarks such as made his
nephew’s ears tingle still, might be willing to help him in other ways
now that he could do so without cost to himself. By dint of studiously
respectful and persistent letters congratulating Mr Crayne on his
appointment, Ferrers had succeeded in eliciting a sufficiently cordial
invitation to spend Christmas at Government House, provided he could
obtain leave. His uncle did not offer to pay his expenses; but for the
provision of the heavy cost of the journey he relied, in his usual
fashion, on the trustfulness of the regimental _shroff_--an elastic
term for an official whose functions included both banking and
money-lending. The obstacle came just where he had not expected it,
for Major Keeling refused to grant him leave. It was true that Ferrers
had already had the full leave to which he was entitled, and had spent
it in hunting, but a more prudent man than the Commandant might have
felt inclined to stretch a point, with the view of conciliating the
ruling power. Not so Major Keeling. If he had felt the slightest
inclination to grant Ferrers’ request, the fact that he was Mr
Crayne’s nephew would have kept him from doing so; but as it was, he
rated Ferrers severely for asking for leave at all when the freebooter
Shir Hussein was still at large in his district and foiling all
attempts to lay him by the heels. Exasperated alike by the refusal and
the rebuke, Ferrers rode back to Shah Nawaz in a towering passion, and
casting aside the restraint which he had hitherto maintained, gave
vent to his feelings by inveighing furiously against the Commandant in
the presence of Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq. The Mirza listened calmly, and
with something like amusement, saying little, but the few words he
uttered were calculated to inflame his employer’s rage rather than to
allay it.
“Keeling has made up his mind to persecute me for being my uncle’s
nephew!” cried Ferrers at last. “I won’t stand it. I’ll appeal to the
Commissioner. He can’t refuse to take my side when he sees how I’m
treated.”
“It may be he will remove you to another post, sahib,” suggested the
Mirza.
“I only wish he would! I’d go like a shot.”
“It may be that Kīlin Sahib wishes it also.” The suggestion was made
in a meditative tone, and Ferrers turned and looked at the Mirza.
“What do you mean? Hasn’t he just refused to let me go?”
“It is one thing to go for a while and return, and another to depart
permanently, sahib,” was the answer.
“You mean that he hopes to make me throw up the frontier altogether?
What business has he to try and turn me out?”
“Nay, sahib, it is not for me to say. But it may be he has no desire
that there should always be one near him who might carry tales to your
honour’s uncle.”
“What tales could I carry? The man’s straight enough. He does himself
more harm by one of his own letters that I could do him in a year.”
“Even if your honour told all that you know?”
“Why, of course. What are you driving at, Mirza? I wish you wouldn’t
be so abominably mysterious.”
“If Firoz Sahib knows nothing now that his honoured uncle would care
to hear, it may be he might learn something.”
“There you go again! What is it? Do you know anything?”
“Is it for the dust of the earth, the poor servant of Firoz Sahib, to
utter words against the great Kīlin Sahib, the lord of the border?
The lips of my lord’s slave are sealed.”
“That they’re not. You’ve gone too far to draw back now. If you don’t
tell me what you mean, I’ll have it out of you one way or another.”
“Nay, my lord will not so far forget himself as to utter threats to
his servant?” said the Mirza, in a silky tone which nevertheless
reminded Ferrers that his dependant could make things very unpleasant
for him if he liked. “As I have said, I may not bear testimony against
Kīlin Sahib; but who shall blame me if I enable my lord to see with
his own eyes the things of which I speak?”
“By all means. Splendid idea!” said Ferrers, divided between the
desire of conciliating the Mirza and a certain reluctance to spy upon
the Commandant. But this quickly gave place to excitement. What could
he be going to discover? “When can you do this?” he asked. “And how
can you manage about me?”
“If my lord will deign to put on once more, as often in the past, the
garments of the faithful, and will pledge himself to say nothing of
what he sees save what I may give him leave to reveal, I will lead him
this very night to a certain place where he shall see things that will
surprise him.”
“Oh, all right!” said Ferrers, forgetting that he was putting himself
once more into the Mirza’s power. “The _daffadar_ must know we are
going out in disguise, in case of an alarm in the night, but he had
better think we are going to try and track Shir Hussein. You look
after the clothes, of course. Do we ride or walk?”
“We will ride the first part of the way, sahib, and two ponies shall
be in readiness; but the place to which we go is a _pir_’s tomb in the
hills this side of the Akrab Pass, and there we must walk. But we
shall return to the ponies, and be here again by dawn.”
The Mirza bowed himself out, and Ferrers whiled away the rest of the
day in vain speculations. Was he about to discover that Major Keeling
amused himself with such adventures as he and his friends at
Bab-us-Sahel had been wont to undertake? He thought not, for, though
born and partly brought up in India, the Major had always spoken with
contemptuous dislike of Europeans who aped the natives, or tried to
live a double life. Of course that might be only to throw his hearers
off the scent, but still--and Ferrers went over the ground again, with
the same result. He had not come to any decision as to what he was to
expect to see by the time the Mirza thought it was safe to start, and
he could get no satisfaction from him. He was to judge with his own
eyes, and not be prepared beforehand for what he was to be shown.
It was a long ride over the desert, which shone faintly white in the
starlight. There was no wind, and the whirling sand which made
travelling so unpleasant in the daytime was momentarily still. The
distant cry of a wild animal was to be heard at times, but no human
beings seemed to be abroad save the two riders. It was different,
however, when they had reached the mountains, and, picketing the
ponies in a convenient hollow, began to climb a rocky path, for here
and there in front of them was to be seen a muffled figure. Once or
twice they passed or were overtaken by one of these, with whom the
Mirza exchanged a low-toned greeting, the words of which Ferrers could
not distinguish. Sooner than he expected they found themselves
entering a village of rough mud-huts, which had evidently grown up
around and under the protection of a larger building, a Moslem
sanctuary of some sort. This must be the tomb of the _pir_, or holy
man, of whom the Mirza had spoken, thought Ferrers; and he noticed
that muffled figures like those he had seen on the way up seemed to be
thronging into it. The place was built of rough mud-brick, but there
were rude traces of decoration about the walls, and some architectural
features in the form of a bulb-shaped dome and two rather squat
minarets. Ferrers and his guide joined the crowd at the entrance, and
were pressing into the building with them, when Ferrers felt the Mirza
grasp his arm, and impel him aside. They seemed to have turned into a
dark passage between two walls, while the rest of the crowd had gone
straight on, and a man with whom the Mirza spoke for a moment, and who
was apparently one of the keepers of the tomb, closed a door behind
them as soon as they had entered. Still guided by the Mirza, Ferrers
stumbled along the passage until a faint gleam of starlight through a
loop-hole showed him that there was a spiral staircase in front. The
steps were choked with sand and much decayed, but the two men made
shift to climb them, and came out at last on a fairly smooth mud
platform, which was evidently the roof of the tomb. The Mirza walked
noiselessly across it until he came to the dark mass which represented
the bulging dome, and Ferrers, following, found that rude steps had
been devised in the mouldering brickwork, so that it was possible to
mount to the top. Once there, a sudden rush of oil-fumes and mingled
odours reached him, and he would have coughed but for the Mirza’s
imperative whisper ordering silence. Following his guide’s example, he
lay down on the slope of the dome, supporting himself by gripping with
his fingers the edge of the brickwork, over which he looked. He had
noticed that although from the ground the top of the dome appeared
roughly spherical, it was in reality flattened, and now he found that
this flat effect was caused by the absence of the concluding courses
of brickwork, which would answer to a key-stone, so that a round hole
was left for the admission of light and air. They could thus look
right down into the building, upon the actual tomb, marked by an
oblong slab of rough stone, immediately below them, and upon the men
whom they had seen entering, now seated on the floor in reverential,
expectant silence. The place was lighted by a number of smoking
oil-lamps, which revealed the rude arabesques in blue and crimson
decorating the walls, and brought out a gleam of shining turquoise and
white higher up, where were the remains of a frieze of glazed tiles,
and which were also accountable for the fumes which obliged Ferrers to
turn his head away every now and then for a breath of fresh air.
After one of these interruptions, he became aware that a service of
some kind had begun. A voice was droning out what sounded like a
liturgy, and the congregation were kneeling with their foreheads to
the floor, and performing the proper genuflexions at suitable
intervals. Presently the Mirza grasped his arm again, and directed his
attention to the officiating reader. Ferrers could only discern him
dimly, and saw him, moreover, from behind; but presently it began to
dawn upon him that the figure was in some way familiar. The man was
very tall, and, for an Oriental, of an extraordinarily powerful build.
His flowing robes were of purest white, but his girdle was scarlet;
and round a pointed cap of bright steel, in shape like the fighting
headgear of the Khemistan Horse, he wore a scarlet turban. After a
time he had occasion to turn round, and Ferrers, with a thrill for
which he could not at first account, saw his face. Again there was
that impression of familiarity. The thick black hair, the bushy beard,
the strongly marked features, the keen eyes--Ferrers knew them all;
and when he realised what this meant, he was only prevented by the
Mirza’s arm from slipping off the dome. To find Major Keeling reading
Arabic prayers in a Mohammedan place of worship was a shock for which
nothing he had hitherto seen had prepared him.
Presently the service came to an end, and the reader disappeared from
view. From the movements of the audience, it seemed that they were
grouping themselves round him at one end of the building; and, at the
Mirza’s suggestion, Ferrers slipped and shuffled round the dome until
he reached a point opposite to his former position. Here he could
again obtain a glimpse of the white and scarlet figure, seated now in
a niche in the end wall, with the congregation sitting before him like
disciples in the presence of a teacher. What followed was more or less
of a mystery to Ferrers, for it was difficult to see clearly, and
almost impossible to hear. All spoke in low voices, and the mingled
sounds rose confusedly to the opening in the dome. But it seemed
evident that reports of some kind were given in by certain of the
audience, whose attire showed them to belong to various tribes, or
even to different regions of Central Asia; that orders were issued,
and small strips torn from the teacher’s white robe blessed and
distributed among those present. All this was highly interesting; but
from what followed, Ferrers, whose religious sense was by no means
keen, drew back revolted. To see his Commandant breathing on the eager
hearers who crowded round him as he rose, or laying his hands on their
heads, according as they entreated a blessing or the favour of his
holy breath, was bad enough. But there were some who suffered from
bodily ailments, and the teacher must needs lay his hand upon the spot
affected and mutter a prayer; and for those who had sick friends at
home he must write charms on scraps of paper and mutter incantations
over them. Then, just as he was about to leave the place, a very old
man pushed forward and grasped his robe.
“O my lord!” he cried, and his high quavering voice reached Ferrers
clearly, “strengthen the faith of thy servant. Months ago I disobeyed
thy commands, and sought a sign from thee in the daytime and in the
presence of the ignorant and the infidel. Thou didst pour scorn upon
me, such as I well deserved, but pardon me now. All those that are
here have seen thy power, save only thy servant. Only a little sign, O
my lord--to behold fire breathed from thy lips, or a light shining
round thee----”
The teacher held up his hand for silence, and answered in the same low
voice as before. Though Ferrers strained his ears, he could not hear
what was said, but the Mirza was at his side.
“The Sheikh says that he will show the faithful a new miracle,” he
whispered. “Many of them have seen him breathe fire, but now a sweet
odour, as of roses, shall suddenly encompass him, that they may know
the worth of his prayers.”
“The odour of sanctity!” chuckled Ferrers, in mingled amusement and
disgust; and presently, rather to his astonishment, a faint but
distinct perfume of attar of roses made itself felt among the
oil-fumes which rose through the opening. To the crowd below the scent
must have been much more evident, and their expressions of joy and
wonder broke out loudly. The old man who had asked for a miracle flung
himself down in transports of delight, and kissed the ground before
the Sheikh’s feet, and there were urgent entreaties to be led forth at
once against the enemy, which were promptly refused. When the teacher
had disappeared from view, the Mirza touched Ferrers’ arm, and they
scrambled down the dome and crept to the side of the roof, where,
sheltered by the minaret, they looked over the edge. The red and white
of the Sheikh’s dress were clearly discernible, but it was not easy to
see what was going on among his supporters. As Ferrers’ eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, however, he perceived that a shallow grave
had been dug, and that a coffin was ready to be committed to it. He
looked round at the Mirza with horror. Were these men about to dispose
of the body of some member of their mysterious association who had
been false to his vows, and suffered for it? But the Mirza’s whisper
was reassuring--
“It is the body of a man of Gamara, who died here yesterday. The
Sheikh will utter spells which will preserve it from decay, that when
the friends are about to return home they may take up the body and
bury it in the burial-place of his fathers in his own land.”
The Sheikh’s incantations were lengthy, and before they were over the
Mirza and Ferrers descended the staircase again. As they passed the
loophole at its foot, the Mirza directed Ferrers’ attention to a
brazier filled with glowing charcoal which stood in a recess in the
opposite wall.
“The Sheikh had smeared the wooden walls of the niche in which he sat
with attar of roses before the service began, and placed this brazier
here,” he said. “He knew that as the heat penetrated through the wall,
the perfume would make itself felt.”
“Wily beggar! he leaves nothing to chance,” said Ferrers, and stopped
suddenly with sick disgust. The successful charlatan of whom he spoke
was a British officer, a man whose hand he had grasped in friendship.
They groped along the passage, and slipped out noiselessly by the door
into the crowd of disciples. When the funeral was over the Sheikh bade
farewell to his followers, and mounted a black horse which had been
brought forward in readiness. Ferrers restrained himself with
difficulty from whistling to the horse.
“If it was Miani, he might know my whistle,” he said to himself; “but
I can’t believe Keeling would use him on such a business as this.”
The Sheikh rode off alone, and the assembly melted away quickly.
Ferrers and the Mirza picked their way down the path in silence, found
their ponies, and said nothing until they were at a safe distance from
the hills. Then Ferrers turned to his companion.
“What does it mean?” he said.
“He that you have seen is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, sahib. Whether he is
also any one else is for you to say.”
“But is it possible that the man can be a British officer all day and
a Mohammedan fanatic at night? Who is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, by the
way--not the old joker who lives in the hills to the west?”
“The same, sahib.”
“But what is he driving at? Who is he going to war with?”
“It is not for me to say, sahib; but it may be that he designs to
conquer the nations even as far as Gamara.”
Ferrers reflected. To Major Keeling, as to many British officers at
the time, the name of Gamara was like a red rag to a bull, and it was
one of their favourite dreams that one day a British Indian army would
sweep the accursed spot from the face of the earth. It was not
inherently impossible that, despairing of seeing the dream ever
fulfilled by constituted authority, Major Keeling should proceed to
make it a reality by methods of his own. But the means--the mummery,
trickery, dissimulation that were necessary,--how could he stoop to
them, and yet pose as an honourable man?
“Have you ever spied there before?” asked Ferrers of the Mirza.
“Often, sahib.”
“And what have you seen at other times?”
“Always the same sort of things, sahib--plannings and pretended
miracles. But I can show you more than this in another place, only it
may not be yet for a time.”
“Let it be as soon as possible.” Ferrers rode on silently. It did not
occur to him to inquire what had suggested to the Mirza the idea of
spying on Major Keeling, or what result he hoped to gain from it. He
scarcely heard Fazl-ul-Hacq’s voice adjuring him not to breathe a
syllable about what he had seen until he gave him leave, for he was
asking himself a question. Next week he must go into Alibad for
Christmas, and meet Major Keeling at every turn. How could he treat
him as if he knew nothing of his proceedings?