A regiment is more exacting of its colonel than ever was lady of her
lord; the more truly he commands, the better it loves him, until at
last the regiment swallows him and he becomes part of it, in thought
and word and deed. Distractions such as polo, pig-sticking,
tiger-shooting are tolerable insofar as they steady his nerve and train
his hand and eye; to that extent they, too, subserve the regiment. But
a woman is a rival. So it is counted no sin against a cavalry colonel
should he be a bachelor.
There remained no virtue, then, in the eyes of Outram's Own for Colonel
Kirby to acquire; he had all that they could imagine, besides at least
a dozen they had not imagined before he came to them. There was not one
black-bearded gentleman who couched a lance behind him but believed
Colonel Kirby some sort of super-man; and, in return, Colonel Kirby
found the regiment so satisfying that there was not even a lady on the
sky-line who could look forward to encroaching on the regiment's
preserves.
His heart, his honor, and his rare ability were all the regiment's, and
the regiment knew it; so he was studied as is the lot of few. His
servant knew which shoes he would wear on a Thursday morning, and would
have them ready; the mess-cook spiced the curry so exactly to his taste
that more than one cook-book claimed it to be a species apart and
labeled it with his name. If he frowned, the troopers knew somebody had
tried to flatter him; if he smiled, the regiment grinned; and when his
face lacked all expression, though his eyes were more than usually
quick, officer, non-commissioned officer and man alike would sit tight
in the saddle, so to speak, and gather up their reins.
His mood was recognized that afternoon as he drove back from the club
while he was yet four hundred yards away, although twilight was closing
down. The waler mare--sixteen three and a half, with one white stocking
and a blaze that could be seen from the sky-line--brought his big
dog-cart through the street mud at a speed which would have insured the
arrest of the driver of a motor; but that, if anything, was a sign of
ordinary health.
Nor was the way he took the corner by the barrack gate, on one wheel,
any criterion; he always did it, just as he never failed to acknowledge
the sentry's salute by raising his whip. It needed the observant eyes
of Outram's Own to detect the rather strained calmness and the almost
inhumanly active eye.
"Beware!" called the sentry, while he was yet three hundred yards away.
"Be awake!"
"Be awake! Be awake! Beware!"
The warning went from lip to lip, troop to troop, from squadron stables
on to squadron stables, until six hundred men were ready for all
contingencies. A civilian might not have recognized the difference, but
Kirby's soldier servant awakened from his nap on the colonel's door-mat
and straightened his turban in a hurry, perfectly well aware that there
was something in the wind.
It was too early to dress for dinner yet; too late to dress for games
of any kind. The servant was nonplussed. He stood in silence, awaiting
orders that under ordinary circumstances, or at an ordinary hour, would
have been unnecessary. But for a while no orders came. The only sound
in those extremely unmarried quarters was the steady drip of water into
a flat tin bath that the servant had put beneath a spot where the roof
leaked; the rain had ceased but the ceiling cloth still drooped and
drooled.
Suddenly Kirby threw himself backward into a long chair, and the
servant made ready for swift action.
"Present my compliments to Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh sahib, and ask
him to be good enough to see me here."
The servant saluted and was gone. Kirby relapsed again into the depth
of the chair, staring at the wall in front of him, letting his eye
travel from one to another of the accurately spaced-out pictures,
pieces of furniture and trophies that proclaimed him unmarried. There
was nothing whatever in his quarters to decoy him from his love. There
were polo sticks in a corner where a woman would have placed a standard
lamp, and where the flowers should have stood was a chest to hold
horse-medicines. There was a vague smell about the place of varnish,
polish and good leather.
The servant was back again, stiff at the salute, within five minutes.
"_Ne hai_."
"Not there? Not where? Not in his quarters? Then go and find him. Ask
where he is. Hurry!"
So, since the regiment was keyed to watchfulness, it took about five
minutes more before it was known that Ranjoor Singh was not in
barracks. The servant returned to report that he had been seen driving
toward the bazaar in a _tikka-gharri_.
Then entered Warrington, the adjutant, and the servant was dismissed at
once.
"Bad business," said Warrington, looking thoroughly cheerful.
"What now?"
"One of Squadron D's men murdered in the bazaar this afternoon. Body's
in the morgue in charge of the police. 'Nother man who was with him
apparently missing. No explanation, and the p'lice say there aren't any
clues."
He twisted at a little black mustache and began to hum.
"Know where Ranjoor Singh is by any chance?" asked Kirby.
"Give me three guesses--no, two. One--he's raising hell with all the
police in Delhi. Two--he's at the scene of the murder, doing detective
work on his own. I heard he'd driven away--and, anyhow, it's his
squadron. Man's probably his second cousin, twenty or thirty times
removed."
"Send somebody to find him!" ordered Kirby.
"Say you want to have a word with him?"
Kirby nodded, and Warrington swaggered out, humming to himself exactly
as he hoped to be humming when his last grim call should come, the
incarnation of efficiency, awake and very glad. A certain number of
seconds after he had gone two mounted troopers clattered out toward the
bazaar. Ten minutes later Warrington returned.
"D Squadron's squattin' on its hunkers in rings an' lookin' gloomy," he
said, as if he were announcing some good news that had a touch of humor
in it. "By the look of 'em you'd say they'd been passed over for active
service and were meditatin' matrimony."
"By gad, Warrington! You don't know how near that guess is to the
truth!"
Kirby's lips were smiling, but his voice was hard. Warrington glanced
quickly at him once and then looked serious.
"You mean--"
"Yes," said Kirby.
"Has it broken yet?"
"No."
"Is it goin' to break?"
"Looks like it. Looks to me as if it's all been prearranged. Our crowd
are sparring for time, and the Prussians are all in a hurry. Looks that
way to me."
"And you mean--there's a chance--even a chance of us--of Outram's Own
bein' out of it? Beg your pardon, sir, but are you serious?"
"Yes," said Kirby, and Warrington's jaw fell.
"Any details that are not too confidential for me to know?" asked
Warrington.
"Tell you all about it after I've had a word with Ranjoor Singh."
"Hadn't I better go and help look for him?"
"Yes, if you like."
So, within another certain number of split seconds, Captain Charlie
Warrington rode, as the French say, belly-to-the-earth, and the fact
that the monsoon chose that instant to let pour another Noah's deluge
seemed to make no difference at all to his ardor or the pace to which
he spurred his horse.
An angry police officer grumbled that night at the club about the
arrogance of all cavalrymen, but of one Warrington in particular.
"Wanted to know, by the Big Blue Bull of Bashan, whether I knew when a
case was serious or not! Yes, he did! Seemed to think the murder of one
sowar was the only criminal case in all Delhi, and had the nerve to
invite me to set every constable in what he termed my parish on the one
job. What did I say? Told him to call to-morrow, of course--said I'd
see. Gad! You should have heard him swear then--thought his eyes 'ud
burn holes in my tunic. Went careering out of the office as if war had
been declared."
"Talking of war," said somebody, nursing a long drink under the
swinging punkah, "do you suppose--"
So the manners of India's pet cavalry were forgotten at once in the
vortex of the only topic that had interest for any one in clubdom, and
it was not noticed whether Warrington or his colonel, or any other
officer of native cavalry looked in at the club that night.
* * * * *
Warrington rode into the rain at the same speed at which he had
galloped to the police station, overhauled one of the mounted troopers
whom he himself had sent in search of Ranjoor Singh, rated him soundly
in Punjabi for loafing on the way, and galloped on with the troop-horse
laboring in his wake. He reined in abreast of the second trooper, who
had halted by a cross-street and was trying to appear to enjoy the
deluge.
"Any word?" asked Warrington.
"I spoke with two who said he entered by that door-that small door down
the passage, sahib, where there is no light. It is a teak door, bolted
and with no keyhole on the outside."
"Good for you," said Warrington, glancing quickly up and down the wet
street, where the lamps gleamed deceptively in pools of running water.
There seemed nobody in sight; but that is a bold guess in Delhi, where
the shadows all have eyes.
He gave a quiet order, and trooper number one passed his reins to
number two.
"Go and try that door. Kick it in if you can--but be quick, and try not
to be noisy!"
The trooper swung out of the saddle and obeyed, while Warrington and
the other man faced back to back, watching each way against surprise.
In India, as in lands less "civilized," the cavalry are not allowed to
usurp the functions of police, and the officer or man who tries it does
so at his own risk. There came a sound of sudden thundering on teak
that ceased after two minutes.
"The door is stout. There is no answer from within," said the trooper.
"Then wait here on foot," commanded Warrington. "Get under cover and
watch. Stay here until you're relieved, unless something particularly
worth reporting happens; in that case, hurry and report. For
instance"--he hesitated, trying to imagine something out of the
unimaginable--"suppose the risaldar-major were to come out, then give
him the message and come home with him. But--oh, suppose the place
takes fire, or there's a riot, or you hear a fight going on
inside--then hurry to barracks--understand?"
The wet trooper nodded and saluted.
"Get into a shadow, then, and keep as dry as you can," ordered
Warrington. "Come on!" he called to the other man.
And a second later he was charging through the street as if he rode
with despatches through a zone of rifle fire. Behind him clattered a
rain-soaked trooper and two horses.
Colonel Kirby stepped out of his bathroom just as Warrington arrived,
and arranged his white dress-tie before the sitting-room mirror.
"Looks fishy to me, sir," said Warrington, hurrying in and standing
where the rain from his wet clothes would do least harm.
There was a space on the floor between two tiger-skins where the
matting was a little threadbare. Messengers, orderlies or servants
always stood on that spot. After a moment, however, Kirby's servant
brought Warrington a bathroom mat.
"How d'ye mean?"
Warrington explained.
"What did the police say?"
"Said they were busy."
"Now, I could go to the club," mused Kirby, "and see Hetherington, and
have a talk with him, and get him to sign a search-warrant. Armed with
that, we could--"
"Perhaps persuade a police officer to send two constables with it
to-morrow morning!" said Warrington, with a grin.
"Yes," said Kirby.
"And if we do much on our own account we'll fall foul of the Indian
Penal Code, which altereth every week," said Warrington.
"If it weren't for the fact that I particularly want a word with him,"
said Kirby, giving a last tweak to his tie and reaching out for his
mess-jacket that the servant had laid on a chair, "there'd not be much
ground that I can see for action of any kind. He has a right to go
where he likes."
That point of view did not seem to have occurred to Warrington before;
nor did he quite like it, for he frowned.
"On the other hand," said Kirby, diving into his mess-jacket and
shrugging his neat shoulders until they fitted into it as a charger
fits into his skin, "under the circumstances--and taking into
consideration certain private information that has reached me--if I
were supposed to be behind a bolted door in the bazaar, I'd rather
appreciate it if Ranjoor Singh, for instance, were to--ah--take action
of some kind."
"Exactly, sir."
"Hallo--what's that?"
* * * * *
A motor-car, driven at racing speed, thundered up the lane between the
old stacked cannon and came to a panting standstill by the colonel's
outer door. A gruff question was answered gruffly, and a man's step
sounded on the veranda. Then the servant flung the door wide, and a
British soldier stepped smartly into the room, saluted and held out a
telegram.
Kirby tore it open. His eyes blazed, but his hands were steady. The
soldier held out a receipt book and a pencil, and Kirby took time to
scribble his initials in the proper place. Warrington, humming to
himself, began to squeeze the rain out of his tunic to hide impatience.
The soldier saluted, faced about and hurried to the waiting car. Then
Kirby read the telegram. He nodded to Warrington. Warrington, his
finger-ends pressed tight into his palms and his forearms quivering,
raised one eyebrow.
"Yes," said Kirby.
"War, sir?"
"War."
"We're under orders?"
"Not yet. It says, 'War likely to be general. Be ready.' Here, read it
for yourself."
"They wouldn't have sent us that if--"
"Addressed to O.C. troops. They had those ready written out and sent
one to every O.C. on the list the second they knew."
"Well, sir?"
"Leave the room, Lal Singh!"
The servant, who was screwing up his courage to edge nearer, did as he
was told.
Kirby stood still, facing the mirror, with both arms behind him.
"They're certain to send native Indian troops to Europe," he said.
"We're ready, sir! We're ready to a shoe-string! We'll go first!"
"We'll be last, Warrington, supposing we go at all, unless we find
Ranjoor Singh! They'll send us to do police work in Bengal, or to guard
the Bombay docks and watch the other fellows go. I'm going to the club.
You'd better come with me. Hurry into dry clothes." He glanced at the
clock. "We'll just have time to drive past the house where you say he's
supposed to be, if you hurry."
The last three words were lost, for Captain Warrington had turned into
a thunderbolt and disappeared; the noise of his going was as when a
sudden windstorm slams all the doors at once. A moment later he could
be heard shouting from outside his quarters to his servant to be ready
for him.
He certainly bathed, for the noise of the tub overturning when he was
done with it was unmistakable. And eight minutes after his departure he
was back again, dressed, cloaked and ready.
"Got your pistol, sir?"
"Yes," said Kirby.
"Thought I'd bring mine along. You never know, you know."
Together they climbed into the colonel's dog-cart, well smothered under
waterproofs. Kirby touched up another of his road-devouring walers, the
sais grabbed at the back seat and jumped for his life, and they shot
out of the compound, down the line of useless cannon and out into the
street, taking the corner as the honor of the regiment required. Then
the two big side-lamps sent their shafts of light straight down the
metaled, muddy road, and the horse settled down between them to do his
equine "demdest"; there was a touch on the reins he recognized.
* * * * *
They reached the edge of the bazaar to find the crowd stirring,
although strangely mute.
"They'll have got the news in an hour from now," said Kirby. "They can
smell it already."
"Wonder how much truth there is in all this talk about German merchants
and propaganda."
"_H-rrrrr-ummm_!" said Kirby.
"Steady, sir! Lookout!"
The near wheel missed a native woman by a fraction of an inch, and her
shrill scream followed them. But Kirby kept his eyes ahead, and the
shadows continued to flash by them in a swift procession until
Warrington leaned forward, and then Kirby leaned back against the reins.
"There he is, sir!"
They reined to a halt, and a drenched trooper jumped up behind to kneel
on the back seat and speak in whispers.
"No sign of him at all?" asked Kirby.
"No, sahib. But there has been a light behind a shutter above there. It
comes and goes. They light it and extinguish it."
"Has anybody come out of that door?"
"No, sahib."
"None gone in?"
"None."
"Any other door to the place?"
"There may be a dozen, sahib. That is an old house, and it backs up
against six others."
"What we suffer from in this country is information," said Warrington,
beginning to hum to himself.
But Kirby signed to the trooper, and the man began to scramble out of
the cart.
"Between now and our return, report to the club if anything happens,"
called Warrington.
The whip swished, the horse shot forward, and they were off again as if
they would catch up with the hurrying seconds. People scattered to the
right and left in front of them; a constable at a street crossing blew
his whistle frantically; once the horse slipped in a deep puddle, and
all but came to earth; but they reached the club without mishap and
drove up the winding drive at a speed more in keeping with convention.
"Oh, hallo, Kirby! Glad you've come!" said a voice.
"Evening, sir!"
Kirby descended, almost into the arms of a general in evening dress.
They walked into the club together, leaving the adjutant wondering what
to do. He decided to follow them at a decent distance, still humming
and looking happy enough for six men.
"You'll be among the first," said the general. "Are you ready,
Kirby--absolutely ready?"
"Yes,"
"The wires are working to the limit. It isn't settled yet whether
troops go from here via Canada or the Red Sea--probably won't be until
the Navy's had a chance to clear the road. All that's known--yet--is
that Belgium's invaded, and that every living man Jack who can be
hurried to the front in time to keep the Germans out of Paris will be
sent. Hold yourself ready to entrain any minute, Kirby."
"Is martial law proclaimed yet?" asked Kirby in a voice that the
general seemed to think was strained, for he looked around sharply.
"Not yet. Why?"
"Information, sir. Anything else?"
"No. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Kirby nearly ran into Warrington as he hurried back toward the door.
"Find a police officer!" he ordered.
"They all passed you a minute ago, sir," answered Warrington. "They're
headed for police headquarters. Heard one of 'em say so."
Kirby pulled himself together. A stranger would not have noticed that
he needed it, but Warrington at his elbow saw the effort and was glad.
"Go to police headquarters, then," he ordered. "Try to get them to
bring a dozen men and search, that house; but don't say that Ranjoor
Singh's in there."
"Where'll I find you, sir?"
"Barracks. Oh, by the way, we're a sure thing for the front."
"I knew there was some reason why I kept feelin' cheerful!" said
Warrington. "The risaldar-major looks like gettin' left."
"Unless," said Kirby, "you can get the police to act to-night--or
unless martial law's proclaimed at once, and I can think of an excuse
to search the house with a hundred men myself. Find somebody to give
you a lift. So long."
Kirby swung into his dog-cart, the sais did an acrobatic turn behind,
and again the horse proceeded to lower records. Zigzag-wise, through
streets that were growing more and yet more thronged instead of silent,
they tore barrackward, missing men by a miracle every twelve yards.
Kirby's eyes were on a red blotch, now, that danced and glowed above
the bazaar a mile ahead. It reminded him of pain.
Presently the horse sniffed smoke, and notified as much before settling
down into his stride again. The din of hoarse excitement reached
Kirby's ears, and in a moment more a khaki figure leaped out of a
shadow and a panting trooper snatched at the back seat, was grabbed by
the sais, and swung up in the rear.
"Sahib--"
"All right. I know," said Kirby, though he did not know how he knew.
They raced through another dozen streets until the glare grew blinding
and the smoke nearly choked him. Then they were stopped entirely by the
crowd, and Colonel Kirby sat motionless; for he had a nearly perfect
view of a holocaust. The house in which Ranjoor Singh was supposed to
be was so far burned that little more than the walls was standing.
The North Wind hails from the Northern snows,
(His voice is loud--oh, listen ye!)
He cried of death--the death he knows--
Of the mountain death. (Oh, listen ye!)
Who looks to the North for love looks long!
Who goes to the North for gain goes wrong!
Men's hearts are hard, and the goods belong
To the strong in the North! (Oh, listen ye!)
Whose lot is fair--who loves his life--
Walks wide, stays wide of the Northern knife!
(Ye men o' the world, oh, listen ye!)
YASMINI'S SONG.