RE-CAST
Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
And what, we have been makes us what we are.
There was a momentary pause; then Major Agar spoke.
“In that case,” he observed, “the British force occupying this country
for the last week has consisted of myself and thirty Goorkhas.”
“Precisely so! And it was by the merest chance that I found out that you
were here. It was only guesswork at the best. A bazaar report reached me
that poor old Stevenor had been cut to pieces. I hate blaming a dead man,
but I really don't know what he can have been about. He made some hideous
mistake somewhere. We buried him yesterday. On hearing the report, I
thought it better to come up myself, having a little knowledge of the
country. Brought two companies, and half a squadron to act as scouts. We
reached Barkoola yesterday, and found the poor chaps as they had fallen.
And some of those carpet-warriors at home say that a black man can't
fight! Can't he! Not so much brandy this time, please. Yes, fill it up.”
Agar set the regulation water-bottle down on his gifted table.
“I have the Devil's own luck!” he murmured. “While they were burying I
missed you from among the officers; and then it struck me that you
might have got away before the disaster. We counted the men, and found
thirty-four short, so we came on here. By God! what a chap Mistley was!
We came here without a check. His maps are perfect!”
“Yes,” admitted Agar, “that man knew his business!”
There was something in his tone that might have been envy or perhaps mere
admiration; for this man knew himself to be inferior in many ways to him
who had first crossed the mountain pass on which he stood.
“The worst of it is,” went on the great officer, “that you are
telegraphed home as killed.”
He paused on the last word, watching its effect. It would seem that,
behind the busy black eyes, there was the beginning of a thought hatched
within the grey close-cut head which, _en fait de têtes,_ was without its
rival in the Empire.
“That is soon remedied,” opined the Major with a cheerful laugh.
“Ye--es!”
The great man was thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the tips of the
first and second fingers, drawing in his under lip at the same time, and
apparently taking pleasure in the rasping sound caused by the friction
over the shaven chin.
There is usually something written in the human countenance--some single
virtue, vice, or quality which dominates all petty characteristics. Most
faces express weakness--the faces that pass one in the streets. Some are
the incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on sensuality.
The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed indomitable,
invincible determination, and _nothing else_. It was the face of one who
was ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single all-pervading
purpose. In this respect he was a splendid commander, for he was as
nearly heartless as men are made.
The big fair Englishman who had occupied Mistley's Plateau for a week,
exactly one hundred and seventy miles from assistance of any description,
and in the heart of the enemy's country, smiled down at his companion
with a simple wonder.
“Got something up your sleeve, sir?” he inquired softly, for he knew
somewhat of his superior officer's ways.
“Yes!” replied the other curtly. “A trump card!”
He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, as
a jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat.
“It's like this,” he said. “You're dead. I want you to stay dead for a
little while--say six months to a year!”
Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under the
weight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, he
awaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence.
After a short pause the other proceeded to explain.
“You frontier men,” he said, “are closely watched; we know that. There
will be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishap
to Stevenor, although, God knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not so
dangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are out
of the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months
you will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when
you were being watched by them.”
“I see,” answered Agar quietly. “Not dead, but gone--up country.”
“Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you.”
The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The great
man was afraid that his tool would refuse to work under this exacting
touch.
“But what about my people?” asked Agar.
“Oh, I will put that right. You see, they have got over the worst of it
by this time. It is wonderful how soon people do get over it. They have
known it for a week now, and have bought their mourning and all that.”
There came a look into Agar's face which the little officer did not
understand. We never do understand what we could not feel ourselves, and
it is not a matter of wonder that the lesser intelligence should foil the
greater in this instance. There was a depth in Jem Agar which was beyond
the fathom of his keen-witted companion.
“I am going home,” continued General Michael, “almost at once. The first
thing I do on landing is to go straight to your people and tell them. We
cannot afford to telegraph it. Telegraph clerks are only human, and it is
worth the while of the newspapers in these days of large circulation to
pay a heavy price for their news. We all know that some items, published
_can_ only have been bought from the telegraph clerks.”
Agar was making a mental calculation.
“That means,” he said, “two months before they hear.”
The expression on the face of the little man was scarcely human in its
heartless cunning.
“Hardly,” he answered carelessly. “And when they hear the reason they
will admit that the result is worth the sacrifice. It will be the making
of you!--and of me!” added the black eyes with a secretive gleam.
“It is,” went on the General, “such a chance as only comes once to a man
in his lifetime. I wish I had had it at your age.”
The voice was a pleasant one, with that ring of friendliness and
familiarity which is usually heard in the tones of an educated Jew; for
General Michael was that rare combination, a Jew and a soldier.
“I don't like leaving them so long under the mistake,” answered Agar,
half yielding to authoritative persuasion, half tempted by ambition and a
love of adventure. “I don't like it, General. The straight thing would be
to telegraph home at once.”
In the wavering smile that crossed the dark face there was suggested a
fine contempt for the straight thing unaccompanied by some tangible
advantage.
“Who are they?” inquired the General almost affectionately. “Who are your
people?”
Agar walked to the tent door and looked out. There was some clatter of
swords going on outside, and as commander of this post it was his duty to
know all that was passing. He turned, and standing in the doorway, quite
filling it with his bulk, he answered:
“My father died three years ago. I have a step-mother and a step-brother,
that is all--besides friends.”
The General stooped to loosen the strap of his spur.
“Of course,” he said in that attitude, “I know you are not a married
man.”
“No.”
Beneath the brim of the helmet, which he had not laid aside, the Jew's
keen black eyes were watching, watching. But they saw nothing; for there
is no one so impenetrable as a man with a clear conscience and a large
faith.
“My idea was,” continued General Michael, “that two, or at the most
three, people besides you and I be let into the secret.”
“Three,” said Agar, with quiet decision.
“Three?”
“Yes.”
The General tacitly allowed this point and passed on with characteristic
promptitude to another.
“Are you a man of property?”
“Yes, I inherit my father's place down in Hertfordshire.”
“I'll tell you why I ask. There are those beastly lawyers to think of. At
your death it is to be presumed that the estate comes to your brother.
The legal operations must be delayed somehow. I will see to it,” he added
in a concise, almost snappish way.
Agar smiled, although he was conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort.
He was not a highly sensitive or a nervous man, and this feeling was more
than might have been expected to arise from an attendance, as it were, at
one's own obituary arrangements. The General seemed to be remarkably well
informed on these smaller points, and something prompted Jem Agar to ask
him if the idea he had just propounded was a suddenly conceived one.
“No,” replied the General with a singular pause.
“No, I once knew a man who did the same thing for a different purpose,
but the idea was identical. I do not claim to be the originator.”
“And there was no hitch? It was successful?” inquired Agar.
“Yes,” replied the older soldier in a far-away voice, as if he had
mentally gone back to the results of that man's deception. “Yes, it was
successful. By the way, you say your people live down in Hertfordshire?”
“Yes.”
“I once knew a girl--long ago, in my younger days--who married a man
called Agar, and went to live in Hertfordshire. The name did not strike
me until you mentioned the county. I wonder if the lady is now your
step-mother.”
“My step-mother's name was Hethbridge,” replied Jem Agar.
“The same. How strange!” said the General indifferently. “Well, she has
probably forgotten my existence these thirty years. She has one son, you
say?”
“Yes, Arthur. He is twenty-three--five years younger than myself.”
The shifty black eyes excelled themselves at this moment in rapidity of
observation. They seemed to be full of question, of many questions, but
none were forthcoming.
“Ah!” said General Michael indifferently. “He is,” pursued Jem Agar, “a
delicate fellow; does nothing; though I believe he is going to be called
to the Bar.”
The General, having passed most of his life in India, where men work or
else go home, did not take in the full meaning of this; but he was keen
as a ferret, and he saw easily that Jem Agar despised his step-brother
with that cruel contempt which strong men feel for weak.
“Mother's darling?” he suggested.
“Yes, that is about it,” replied Agar. He was too simple, too innately
upright and honest to perceive the infinite possibilities opened up by
the fact upon which General Michael had pounced.
“In case you decide to accept my offer,” the older man went on, “you
would wish your stepmother and step-brother to be told?”
“Yes, and one other person.”
“Ah, and another person. You could not limit it to two?” urged the
General.
“No!” replied Agar with a decision which the other was wise enough to
consider final. Moreover, the General omitted to ask the name of this
third person, urged thereto by one of those strokes of instinct which
indicate the genius of the commander of men.
General Michael, moreover, deemed it prudent to carry the matter no
further at that moment. He rose from his seat on the bed, stretched his
lithe limbs, and said:
“Well, this won't do! We must get to work. I propose retreating
to-morrow morning at daylight.”
They passed out of the tent together and proceeded to give their orders,
moving in and out among the busy men. There was a subtle difference in
their reception which was perhaps patent to both, though neither deemed
it necessary to make any comment. Wherever Agar went the eager little
black faces of his Goorkhas met him with a smile or a grin of delight;
when General Michael passed by, the dusky features hardened suddenly to a
marble stillness, and the beady eyes were all soldier-like attention.
They feared and loved the one because they felt that there was something
in him which they could not understand; they feared and hated the other
because his nature was nearer to their own, and they defined the evil in
it.
Moreover, each had his reputation--that of General Michael dating from
the Mutiny; the other, a younger and a cleaner record.
It is considered the proper thing to talk in England of the unvoiced
millions of India. No greater mistake could be made. These millions have
a voice, but it does not reach to us because they do not raise it. They
talk with it among themselves.
They had talked of General Michael for thirty years, and all that there
was in him had been discussed to its very dregs. Thus their impenetrable
faces hardened when he passed, their shadowy secretive eyes looked beyond
him with a vacancy which was not the vacancy of dulness.