attitude is one of sheer obstinacy. Why not trust us? You see we trust
you. I stand pledged for you with Angria; but I flatter myself I know a
man when I see one: 'si fractus illabitur orbis'--you have already shown
your mettle. Of course I understand your scruples; I was young myself
once; I know the generous impulses that rule the hearts of youth. But
this is a matter that must be decided, not by feeling, but by hard fact
and cold reason. Who benefits by your scruples? A set of hard-living
money-grubbers in Bombay who fatten on the oppression of the ryot, who
tithe mint and anice and cummin, who hoard up treasure which they will
take back with their jaundiced livers to England, there to become pests
to society with their splenetic and domineering tempers. What's the
Company to you, or you to the Company? Why, Governor Pitt was an
interloper; and your own father: yes, he was an interloper, and an
interloper of the best."
"But not a pirate," said Desmond hotly, his scornful silence yielding at
last.
"True, true," said Diggle suavely; "but in the Indies, you see, we don't
draw fine distinctions. We are all buccaneers in a sense; some with the
sword, others the ledger. Throw in your lot frankly with me; I will
stand your friend----"
"You are wasting your breath and your eloquence," interrupted Desmond
firmly, "and even if I were tempted to agree, as I never could be, I
should remember who is talking to me." Then he added with a whimsical
smile, "Come, Mr. Diggle, you are fond of quotations; I am not; but
there's one I remember--'I fear the Greeks, even----'"
"You young hound!" cried Diggle, his sallow face becoming purple. His
anger, it seemed to Desmond afterwards reflecting on it, was out of
proportion to the cause of offence. "You talk of my eloquence. By
Heaven, when I see you again I will use it otherwise. You shall hear
something of how Angria wreaks his vengeance; you shall have a foretaste
of the sweets in store for an obstinate recalcitrant pigheaded fool!"
He strode away, leaving Desmond a prey to the gloomiest anticipations.
That evening, when the prisoners were squatting outside the shed for the
usual hour of talk before being locked up for the night, a new feature
was added to the entertainment. One of the Marathas had somehow
possessed himself of a tom-tom, and proved himself an excellent
performer on that weird instrument. While he tapped its sides, his
fellow Maratha, in a strange hard tuneless voice, chanted a song,
repeating its single stanza again and again without apparently wearying
his hearers, and clapping his hands to mark the time. It was a song
about a banya[#] with a beautiful young daughter-in-law, whom he
appointed to deal out the daily handful of flour expected as alms by
every beggar who passed his door. Her hands being much smaller than his
own, he pleased himself with the idea that, without losing his
reputation for charity, he would give away through her much less grain
than if he himself performed the charitable office. But it turned out
bad thrift, for so beautiful was she that she attracted to the door not
only the genuine beggars, but also many, both young and old, who had
disguised themselves in mendicant rags for the mere pleasure of
beholding her and getting from her a smile and a gentle word. It was a
popular song, and the warder himself was tempted to stay and listen
until, the hour for locking up being past, he at last recollected his
duty and bundled the prisoners into the shed.
[#] Hindu merchant.
"Sing inside if you must," he said, "but not too loud, lest the overseer
come with the bamboo."
Inside the shed, reclining on their charpoys, the men continued their
performance, changing their song, though not, as it seemed to Desmond,
the tune. He, however, was perhaps not sufficiently attentive to the
monotonous strains, for, as soon as the warder had left the yard, he had
unlocked his fetters and begun to work in the darkness. Poised on one
of the rafters, he held on with one hand to a joist, and with the other
plied a small saw, well greased with ghi. The sound of the slow careful
movements of the tool was completely drowned by the singing and the
hollow rat-a-pan of the tom-tom. Beneath him stood the Babu, extending
his dhoti like an apron, and catching in it the falling shower of
sawdust.
Suddenly the figure on the rafter gave a low whistle. Through the window
he had seen the dim form of the sentry outside approach the space
lighted by the rays from the lantern, which he had laid down at a corner
of the shed. Before the soldier had time to lift it and throw a beam
into the shed (which he did as much from curiosity to see the untiring
performers as in the exercise of his duty) Desmond had swung down from
his perch and stretched himself upon the nearest charpoy. The Babu
meanwhile had darted with his folded dhoti to the darkest corner. When
the sentry peered in, the two performing Marathas were sitting up; the
rest were lying prone, to all appearance soothed to sleep.
"Verily thou wilt rap a hole in the tom-tom," said the sentry with a
grin. "Better save a little of it for to-morrow."
"Sleep is far from my eyes," replied the man. "My comrades are all at
rest; if it does not offend thee----"
"No. Tap till it burst, for me. But without sleep the work will be
hard in the morning."
He went away. Instantly the two figures were again upon their feet, and
the sawing recommenced. For three hours the work continued, interrupted
at intervals by the visits of the sentry. Midnight was past before
Desmond, with cramped limbs and aching head, gave the word for the song
and accompaniment to cease, and the shed was in silence.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
*In which Mr. Diggle illustrates his argument; and there are strange
doings in Gheria harbour.*
The morning of the third day dawned--the last of the three allowed
Desmond for making up his mind. When the other prisoners were loosed
from their fetters and marched off under guard to their usual work, he
alone was left. Evidently he was to be kept in confinement with a view
to quickening his resolution. Some hours passed. About midday he heard
footsteps approaching the shed. The door was opened, and in the
entrance Diggle appeared.
"You will excuse me," he said with a sniff, "if I remain on the
threshold of your apartment. It is, I fear, but imperfectly aired."
He pulled a charpoy to the door, and sat down upon it, as much outside
as within. Taking out his snuff-box, he tapped it, took a pinch,
savoured it, and added:
"You will find the apartment prepared for you in my friend Angria's
palace somewhat sweeter than this your present abode--somewhat more
commodious also."
Desmond, reclining at a distance, looked his enemy calmly and steadily
in the face.
"If you have come, Mr. Diggle," he said, "merely to repeat what you said
yesterday, let me say at once that it is waste of breath. I have not
changed my mind."
"No, not to repeat, my young friend. 'Crambe repetita'--you know the
phrase? Yesterday I appealed, in what I had to say, to your reason;
either my appeal, or your reason, was at fault. To-day I have another
purpose. 'Tis pity to come down to a lower plane; to appeal to the more
ignoble part of man; but since you have not yet cut your wisdom teeth I
must e'en accommodate myself. Angria is my friend; but there are
moments, look you, when the bonds of our friendship are put to a heavy
strain. At those moments Angria is perhaps most himself, and I, perhaps,
am most myself; which might prove to a philosopher that there is a
radical antagonism between the Oriental and the Occidental character.
Since my picture of the brighter side has failed to impress you, I
propose to show you the other side--such is the sincerity of my desire
for your welfare. And 'tis no empty picture--'inanis imago,' as Ovid
might say--no, 'tis sheer reality, speaking, terrible."
He turned and beckoned. In a moment Desmond heard the clank of chains,
and by and by, at the entrance of the shed, stood a figure at sight of
whom his blood ran cold. It was the bent, lean, broken figure of a
Hindu, his thin bare legs weighted with heavy irons. Ears, nose, upper
lip were gone; his eyes were lit with the glare of madness; the parched
skin of his hollow cheeks was drawn back, disclosing a grinning mouth
and yellow teeth. His arms and legs were like sticks; both hands had
lost their thumbs; his feet were twisted; straggling wisps of grey hair
escaped from his turban. Standing there beside Diggle, he began to mop
and mow, uttering incomprehensible gibberish.
Diggle waved him away.
"That, my dear boy, illustrates the darker side of Angria's
character--the side which forbids me to call Angria unreservedly my
friend. A year ago that man was as straight as you; he had all his
organs and dimensions; he was rich, and of importance in his little
world. To-day--but you have seen him: it boots not to attempt in words
to say what the living image has already said. And within twenty-four
hours, unless you come to a better mind, even as that man is, so will
you be."
He rose slowly to his feet, bending upon Desmond a look of mournful
interest and compassion. Desmond had stood all but transfixed with
horror. But as Diggle now prepared to leave him, the boy flushed hot;
his fists clenched; his eyes flashed with indignation.
"You fiend!" was all he said.
Diggle smiled, and sauntered carelessly away.
That night, when the prisoners were brought as usual to the shed, and
warder and sentries were out of earshot, Desmond told them what he had
seen.
"It must be to-night, my brothers," he said in conclusion. "We have no
longer time. Before sunrise to-morrow we must be out of this evil
place. We must work, work, for life and liberty."
This night again the singer sang untiringly, the tom-tom accompanying
him with its weird hollow notes. And in the blackness, Desmond worked
as he had never worked before, plying his saw hour after hour, never
forgetting his caution, running no risks when he had warning of the
sentry's approach. And hour after hour the shower of sawdust fell
noiselessly into the Babu's outspread dhoti. Then suddenly the beating
of the tom-tom ceased, the singer's voice died away on a lingering wail,
and the silence of the night was unbroken save by the melancholy howl of
a distant jackal, and the call of sentry to sentry as at intervals they
went their rounds.
At midnight the guard was relieved. The new-comer--a tall, thin, lanky
Maratha--arriving at Desmond's shed, put his head in at the little
window-space, and flashed his lantern from left to right more carefully
than the man whom he had just replaced. The nine forms lay flat or
curled up on their charpoys--all was well.
Coming back an hour later, he fancied he heard a slight sound within the
shed. He went to the window and peered in, flashing his lantern as
before from left to right. But as he did so, he felt upon his throat a
grip as of steel. He struggled to free himself; his cry was stifled ere
it was uttered; his matchlock fell with a clatter to the ground. He was
like a child in the hands of his captor, and when the Gujarati in a
fierce low whisper said to him: "Yield, hound, or I choke you!" his
struggles ceased and he stood trembling in sweat.
But now came the sentries' call, passed from man to man around the
circuit of the fort.
"Answer the call!" whispered the Gujarati, with a significant squeeze of
the man's windpipe.
When his turn arrived, the sentry took up the word, but it was a thin
quavering call that barely reached the next man a hundred yards away.
While this brief struggle had been going on, a light figure within the
shed had mounted to the rafters and, gently feeling for and twisting
round a couple of wooden pins, handed down to his companions below a
section of the roof some two feet square, which had been kept in its
place only by these temporary supports. The wood was placed silently on
the floor. Then the figure above crawled out upon the roof, and let
himself down by the aid of a rope held by the two Biluchis within. It
was a pitch-dark night; nothing broke the blackness save the scattered
points of light from the sentries' lanterns. Stepping to the side of the
half-garrotted Maratha, who was leaning passively against the shed, the
sinewy hand of the Gujarati still pressed upon his windpipe, Desmond
thrust a gag into his mouth and with quick deft movements bound his
hands. Now he had cause to thank the destiny that had made him Bulger's
shipmate; he had learnt from Bulger how to tie a sailor's knot.
Scarcely had he bound the sentry's hands when he was joined by one of
his fellow-prisoners, and soon seven of them stood with him in the
shadow of the shed. The last man, the Gujarati, had held the rope while
the Babu descended. There was no one left to hold the rope for him, but
he swung himself up to the roof and climbed down on the shoulders of one
of the Biluchis. Meanwhile the sentry, whose lantern had been
extinguished and from the folds of whose garments his flint and
tinder-box had been taken, had now been completely trussed up, and lay
helpless and perforce silent against the wall of the shed. From the time
when the hapless man first felt the grip of the Gujarati upon his throat
scarcely five minutes had elapsed.
Now the party of nine moved in single file, swiftly and silently on
their bare feet, under the wall of the fort towards the north-east
bastion, gliding like phantoms in the gloom. Each man bore his burden:
the Babu carried the dark lantern; one of the Marathas the coil of rope;
the other the sentry's matchlock and ammunition; several had small
bundles containing food, secreted during the past three days from their
rations.
Suddenly the leader stopped. They had reached the foot of the narrow
flight of steps leading up into the bastion. Just above them was a
sentinel. The pause was but for a moment. The plan of action had been
thought out and discussed. On hands and knees the Gujarati crept up the
steps; at his heels followed Desmond in equal stealth and silence. At
the top, hardly distinguishable from the blackness of the sky, the
sentinel was leaning against the parapet, looking out to sea. Many a
night had he held that post, and seen the stars, and listened to the
rustle of the surf; many a night he had heard the call of the sentry
next below, and passed it to the man on the bastion beyond; but never a
night had he seen anything but the stars and the dim forms of vessels in
the harbour, heard anything but the hourly call of his mates and the
eternal voice of the sea. He was listless, bemused. What was it, then,
that made him suddenly spring erect? What gave him that strange
uneasiness? He had heard nothing, seen nothing, yet he faced round, and
stood at the head of the steps with his back to the sea. The figures
prone below him felt that he was looking towards them. They held their
breath. Both were on the topmost step but one; only a narrow space
separated them from the sentinel; they could hear the movement of his
jaws as he chewed his pan supari.[#] Thus a few moments passed.
Desmond's pulse beat in a fever of impatience; every second was
precious. Then the sentinel moved; his uneasiness seemed to be allayed;
he began to hum a Maratha camp song, and, half turning, glanced once
more out to sea.
[#] Nut of the areca palm wrapped in the leaf of the betel plant.
The moment was come. Silently Fuzl Khan rose to his feet; he sprang
forward with the lightness, the speed, the deadly certainty of a
Thug[#]; his hand was on the man's throat. Desmond, close behind, had a
gag ready, but there was no need to use it. In the open the Gujarati
could exert his strength more freely than through the narrow window of
the shed. Almost before Desmond reached his side the sentinel was dead.
In that desperate situation there was no time to expostulate. While the
Gujarati laid the hapless man gently beside the gun that peeped through
the embrasure of the parapet, Desmond picked up the sentinel's
matchlock, ran softly back, and summoned his companions. They came
silently up the steps. To fasten the rope securely to the gun-carriage
was the work of a few instants; then the Gujarati mounted the parapet,
and, swarming down the rope, sank into the darkness. One by one the men
followed; it came to the Babu's turn. Trembling with excitement and
fear he shrank back.
[#] Name of a class of hereditary stranglers.
"I am afraid, sahib," he said.
Without hesitation Desmond drew up the rope and looped the end.
"Get into the loop," he whispered.
The Babu trembled but obeyed, and, assisting him to climb the parapet,
Desmond lowered him slowly to the foot of the wall. Then he himself
descended last of all, and on the rocks below the little group was
complete. They were free! But the most difficult part of their
enterprise was yet to come. Behind them was the curtain of the fort;
before them a short, shelving rocky beach and the open sea.
No time was wasted. Walking two by two for mutual support over the
rough ground, the party set off towards the jetty. They kept as close
as possible to the wall, so that they would not be seen if a sentinel
should happen to look over the parapet; and being barefooted, the slight
sound they might make would be inaudible through the never-ceasing swish
of the surf. Their feet were cut by the sharp edges of the rocks; many
a bruise they got; but they kept on their silent way without a murmur.
Reaching the angle of the wall, they had now perforce to leave its
shelter, for their course led past the outskirts of the native town
across a comparatively open space. Fortunately the night was very dark,
and here and there on the shore were boats and small huts which afforded
some cover. The tide was on the ebb; and, when they at length struck
the jetty, it was at a point some twenty yards from its shoreward end.
Groping beneath it they halted for a moment, then the two Marathas
separated themselves from the rest, and, with a whispered word of
farewell, disappeared like shadows into the blackness. The sea was not
for them; they would take their chance on land.
From a point some distance beyond the end of the jetty shone a faint
glimmer of light. Desmond silently drew the Gujarati's attention to it.
"They are gambling," whispered the man.
"So much the better for our chances," thought Desmond. Turning to the
Babu he whispered: "Now, Surendra Nath, you know what to do?"
"Yes, sahib."
Placing their bundles in the woodwork supporting the jetty, five members
of the party--the Biluchis, the Mysoreans, and the Babu--stole away in
the darkness. Desmond and the Gujarati were left alone. The Babu
placed himself near the end of the jetty to keep guard. The two
Mysoreans struck off thence obliquely for a few yards until they came to
a rude open shed in which the Pirate's carpenters were wont to work
during the rains. From a heap of shavings they drew a small but heavy
barrel. Carrying this between them they made their way with some
difficulty back towards the jetty, where they rejoined the Babu.
Meanwhile the Biluchis had returned some distance along the path by
which they had come from the fort, then turned off to the left, and came
to a place where a number of small boats were drawn up just above high
water. The boats were the ordinary tonis[#] of the coast, each
propelled by short scull paddles. Moving quickly but with great caution
the Biluchis collected the paddles from all these boats save one,
carried them noiselessly down to the water's edge, waded a few yards
into the surf, and setting down their burdens, pushed them gently
seawards. They then returned to the one boat which they had not robbed
of its paddle, and lay down beside it, apparently waiting.
[#] Small boats cut out of the solid tree, used for passing between the
shore and larger vessels.
By and by they were joined by the Mysoreans. The four men lifted the
toni, and carrying it down to the jetty, quietly launched it under the
shadow of the woodwork. A few yards away the Babu sat upon the barrel.
This was lifted on board, and one of the men, tearing a long strip from
his dhoti, muffled the single paddle. Then all five men squatted at the
water-side, awaiting with true Oriental patience the signal for further
action.
Not one of them but was aware that the plight of the two sentries they
had left behind them in the fort might at any moment be discovered. The
hourly call must be nearly due. When no response came from the sentry
whose beat ended at their shed the alarm would at once be given, and in
a few seconds the silent form of the sentinel on the bastion would be
found, and the whole garrison would be sped to their pursuit. But at
this moment of suspense only the Babu was agitated. His natural
timidity, and the tincture of European ways of thought he had gained
during his service in Calcutta, rendered him less subject than his
Mohammedan companions to the fatalism which rules the Oriental mind. To
the Mohammedan what must be must be. Allah has appointed to every man
his lot; man is but as a cork on the stream of fate. Not even when a
low, half-strangled cry came to them across the water, out of the
blackness that brooded upon the harbour, did any of the four give sign
of excitement. The Babu started, and rose to his feet shivering; the
others still squatted, mute and motionless as statues of ebony, neither
by gesture nor murmur betraying their consciousness that at any moment,
by tocsin from the fort, a thousand fierce and relentless warriors might
be launched like sleuth-hounds upon their track.
Meanwhile, what of Desmond and the Gujarati?
During the months Desmond had spent in Gheria he had made himself
familiar, as far as his opportunities allowed, with the construction of
the harbour and the manner of mooring the vessels there. He knew that
the gallivats of the Pirate's fleet, lashed together, lay about eighty
yards from the head of the jetty under the shelter of the fortress rock,
which protected them from the worst fury of the south-west monsoon. The
grabs lay on the other side of the jetty, some hundred and twenty yards
towards the river--except three vessels which were held constantly ready
for sea somewhat nearer the harbour mouth.
He had learnt, moreover, by cautious and apparently casual inquiries,
that the gallivats were under a guard of ten men, the grabs of twenty.
These men were only relieved at intervals of three days; they slept on
board when the vessels were in harbour and the crews dispersed ashore.
In thinking over the difficult problem of escape, Desmond had found
himself in a state of perplexity somewhat similar to that of the man who
had to convey a fox and a goose and a bag of corn across a river in a
boat that would take but one at a time. He could not, with his small
party, man a gallivat, which required fifty oarsmen to propel it at
speed; while if he seized one of the lighter grabs, he would have no
chance whatever of outrunning the gallivats that would be immediately
launched in pursuit. It was this problem that had occupied him the
whole day during which Diggle had fondly imagined he was meditating on
Angria's offer of freedom.