There’s a convict more in the Central Jail,
Behind the old mud wall;
There’s a lifter less on the Border trail,
And the Queen’s Peace over all,
Dear boys
The Queen’s Peace over all.
For we must bear our leader’s blame,
On us the shame will fall,
If we lift our hand from a fettered land
And the Queen’s Peace over all,
Dear boys,
The Queen’s Peace over all!
THE RUNNING OF SHINDAND.
I
The Indus had risen in flood without warning. Last night it was a
fordable shallow; to-night five miles of raving muddy water parted bank
and caving bank, and the river was still rising under the moon. A litter
borne by six bearded men, all unused to the work, stopped in the white
sand that bordered the whiter plain.
‘It’s God’s will,’ they said. ‘We dare not cross to-night, even in a
boat. Let us light a fire and cook food. We be tired men.’
They looked at the litter inquiringly. Within, the Deputy Commissioner
of the Kot-Kumharsen district lay dying of fever. They had brought him
across country, six fighting-men of a frontier clan that he had won over
to the paths of a moderate righteousness, when he had broken down at the
foot of their inhospitable hills. And Tallantire, his assistant, rode
with them, heavy-hearted as heavy-eyed with sorrow and lack of sleep. He
had served under the sick man for three years, and had learned to love
him as men associated in toil of the hardest learn to love--or hate.
Dropping from his horse he parted the curtains of the litter and peered
inside.
‘Orde--Orde, old man, can you hear? We have to wait till the river goes
down, worse luck.’
‘I hear,’ returned a dry whisper. ‘Wait till the river goes down. I
thought we should reach camp before the dawn. Polly knows. She’ll meet
me.’
One of the litter-men stared across the river and caught a faint twinkle
of light on the far side. He whispered to Tallantire, ‘There are his
camp-fires, and his wife. They will cross in the morning, for they have
better boats. Can he live so long?’
Tallantire shook his head. Yardley-Orde was very near to death. What
need to vex his soul with hopes of a meeting that could not be? The
river gulped at the banks, brought down a cliff of sand, and snarled
the more hungrily. The litter-men sought for fuel in the waste-dried
camel-thorn and refuse of the camps that had waited at the ford. Their
sword-belts clinked as they moved softly in the haze of the moonlight,
and Tallantire’s horse coughed to explain that he would like a blanket.
‘I’m cold too,’ said the voice from the litter. ‘I fancy this is the
end. Poor Polly!’
Tallantire rearranged the blankets. Khoda Dad Khan, seeing this,
stripped off his own heavy-wadded sheepskin coat and added it to the
pile. ‘I shall be warm by the fire presently,’ said he. Tallantire
took the wasted body of his chief into his arms and held it against his
breast. Perhaps if they kept him very warm Orde might live to see his
wife once more. If only blind Providence would send a three-foot fall in
the river!
‘That’s better,’ said Orde faintly. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but is--is
there anything to drink?’
They gave him milk and whisky, and Tallantire felt a little warmth
against his own breast. Orde began to mutter.
‘It isn’t that I mind dying,’ he said. ‘It’s leaving Polly and
the district. Thank God! we have no children. Dick, you know, I’m
dipped--awfully dipped--debts in my first five years’ service. It isn’t
much of a pension, but enough for her. She has her mother at home.
Getting there is the difficulty. And--and--you see, not being a
soldier’s wife--’
‘We’ll arrange the passage home, of course,’ said Tallantire quietly.
‘It’s not nice to think of sending round the hat; but, good Lord! how
many men I lie here and remember that had to do it! Morten’s dead--he
was of my year. Shaughnessy is dead, and he had children; I remember he
used to read us their school-letters; what a bore we thought him! Evans
is dead--Kot-Kumharsen killed him! Ricketts of Myndonie is dead--and I’m
going too. “Man that is born of a woman is small potatoes and few in
the hill.” That reminds me, Dick; the four Khusru Kheyl villages in our
border want a one-third remittance this spring. That’s fair; their crops
are bad. See that they get it, and speak to Ferris about the canal. I
should like to have lived till that was finished; it means so much for
the North-Indus villages--but Ferris is an idle beggar--wake him up.
You’ll have charge of the district till my successor comes. I wish they
would appoint you permanently; you know the folk. I suppose it will
be Bullows, though. ‘Good man, but too weak for frontier work; and he
doesn’t understand the priests. The blind priest at Jagai will bear
watching. You’ll find it in my papers,--in the uniform-case, I think.
Call the Khusru Kheyl men up; I’ll hold my last public audience. Khoda
Dad Khan!’
The leader of the men sprang to the side of the litter, his companions
following.
‘Men, I’m dying,’ said Orde quickly, in the vernacular; ‘and soon there
will be no more Orde Sahib to twist your tails and prevent you from
raiding cattle.’
‘God forbid this thing!’ broke out the deep bass chorus. ‘The Sahib is
not going to die.’
‘Yes, he is; and then he will know whether Mahomed speaks truth, or
Moses. But you must be good men, when I am not here. Such of you as live
in our borders must pay your taxes quietly as before. I have spoken of
the villages to be gently treated this year. Such of you as live in the
hills must refrain from cattle-lifting, and burn no more thatch, and
turn a deaf ear to the voice of the priests, who, not knowing the
strength of the Government, would lead you into foolish wars, wherein
you will surely die and your crops be eaten by strangers. And you must
not sack any caravans, and must leave your arms at the police-post when
you come in; as has been your custom, and my order. And Tallantire Sahib
will be with you, but I do not know who takes my place. I speak now true
talk, for I am as it were already dead, my children,--for though ye be
strong men, ye are children.’
‘And thou art our father and our mother,’ broke in Khoda Dad Khan with
an oath. ‘What shall we do, now there is no one to speak for us, or to
teach us to go wisely!’
‘There remains Tallantire Sahib. Go to him; he knows your talk and your
heart. Keep the young men quiet, listen to the old men, and obey. Khoda
Dad Khan, take my ring. The watch and chain go to thy brother. Keep
those things for my sake, and I will speak to whatever God I may
encounter and tell him that the Khusru Kheyl are good men. Ye have my
leave to go.’
Khoda Dad Khan, the ring upon his finger, choked audibly as he caught
the well-known formula that closed an interview. His brother turned
to look across the river. The dawn was breaking, and a speck of white
showed on the dull silver of the stream. ‘She comes,’ said the man
under his breath. ‘Can he live for another two hours?’ And he pulled the
newly-acquired watch out of his belt and looked uncomprehendingly at the
dial, as he had seen Englishmen do.
For two hours the bellying sail tacked and blundered up and down the
river, Tallantire still clasping Orde in his arms, and Khoda Dad Khan
chafing his feet. He spoke now and again of the district and his wife,
but, as the end neared, more frequently of the latter. They hoped he did
not know that she was even then risking her life in a crazy native boat
to regain him. But the awful foreknowledge of the dying deceived them.
Wrenching himself forward, Orde looked through the curtains and saw how
near was the sail. ‘That’s Polly,’ he said simply, though his mouth was
wried with agony. ‘Polly and--the grimmest practical joke ever played on
a man. Dick--you’ll--have--to--explain.’
And an hour later Tallantire met on the bank a woman in a gingham
riding-habit and a sun-hat who cried out to him for her husband--her
boy and her darling--while Khoda Dad Khan threw himself face-down on the
sand and covered his eyes.