"There's a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft To keep
watch for the life of Poor Jack!"
In truth, Babar needed such a cherub in the first days of his
King-ship, for Kasim and Hussan, his two advisers, fell foul of one
another. The former, bluff, honest, facetious, a pious, faithful,
religious Moslem who carefully abstained from forbidden meats and
drinks, and whose judgment and talents were uncommonly good though he
could neither read nor write, was for the forward policy. Hussan,
polished, active, a man of courage who wrote excellent verses and was
remarkable for his skill in playing polo and leap-frog, was for
diplomacy. And against these latter qualifications even honest Kasim's
ingenuous and elegant vein of wit could not stand.
At least in young Babar's judgment. Old Isan-daulet his grandmother
was, however, of a different opinion, and even Dearest-One, his
sister, ventured to rally him gently on his choice of Prime-minister.
"What," asked Babar hotly in reply, "is Hussan the worse for playing
games? Is a man the worse for doing all things well?"
"Nay! but rather the better--so be it that they be men's things," she
replied, going on imperturbably with the embroidery of a new pennon
for her brother. It was green and violet, his favourite colours, and
she was scrolling a text on it in crinkled gold. As she sat in the
sunshine on the flat roof of the citadel, her bare head gleaming brown
in the glare of light, her mourning garment of dark blue short in the
sleeves and low at the neck showing her wheat-coloured skin, she was a
pretty creature, though her nose was too long, her chin too short for
real beauty: that lay in her eyes, amber-tinted like her brother's.
"Man's things! What be man's things?" argued Babar irritably. "Is
cousin Baisanghar no man because he could help thee embroider two
years agone?"
The princess held her head very high. It was not nice of her brother
to import strange young men into the conversation, and distinctly mean
of him to mention that old breach of etiquette. Had she not heard
enough of it from her mother, ever since? Luckily grandam Isan-daulet,
being desert-born, had not been so shocked, or life would have been
unendurable. And as for Baisanghar! Everyone knew he was not at all a
proper young man, though he was so charming, so sweet-tempered, so ...
"Lo! brother!" she said with asperity, checking her vagrant thoughts,
"if one fool shook a baby's rattle better than another, he would be
wise man to thee. But 'tis not I only who find leap-frog Hussan a
smooth-tongued hypocrite. Grandmother has her eye on him."
"Then can no harm happen," said the boy-King cheerfully, rising,
however, with suspicious alacrity as if to escape from the subject. In
truth he was somewhat afraid of old Isan-daulet though he tried to
minimise his awe by asserting that very few of her sex could equal her
in sagacity!
Events, however, had marched with great rapidity, and Sultan Ahmed,
his uncle, was now with his army but sixteen miles from Andijan.
So something must be settled. Kasim was for defiance and defence,
Hussan for diplomatic and dutiful submission; since the King of
Samarkand was, ever, indubitably suzerain-lord of Ferghana.
"Words against works," quoth honest Kasim, who loved to be
epigrammatic. His experience told him that if you fought fair you
failed at times, but in the end you came out top dog in the general
scrimmage of claims and clans.
"Nay!" retorted Hussan, "I desire diplomacy, not dare-devil disregard
of common precautions."
Babar, however, frowned at both as he sat listening to the council of
war or peace. He favoured neither pugnacity nor deceit.
"Look you, gentlemen," he said, frowning. "All admit my Uncle Ahmed to
be a fool whom fools lead by the nose; but is that cause why I should
treat him foolishly, and so disgrace myself? I will neither fight nor
yield till I have made him understand how the matter lies. So, let a
scribe be brought and I will indite him a letter."
"No letter ever did any good," grumbled illiterate Kasim.
"Especially if it be not received nor read," suggested Hussan
sardonically. "The King of Samarkand is supreme and may refuse aught
but a personal interview."
Kasim shot furious glances: such talk savoured to him of treason; but
Babar only looked gravely from one adviser to the other.
"So be it," he said cheerfully. "If he refuse reception or
understanding, then--if so it pleases God--I can defeat him at my
leisure. Meanwhile write thus, O scribe!--with all proper titles,
compliments and reverences--'I, Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar, rightful
heir, and _by acclaim_ (underline that, scribe!) of this Kingdom of
Ferghana, do with courtesy and reasonableness point out that it is
plain that if you take this country you must place one of your
servants in charge of it, since you reign at Samarkand. Now I am at
once your servant and your son. Also I have a hereditary right to the
government. If therefore you entrust me with this employment, your
purpose will be attained in a far more easy and satisfactory way than
by fighting and killing a number of people (and horses) needlessly.
Wherefore I remain your loyal feudatory Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar.'"
He beamed round on the council for approval of this logical argument,
then added hastily, "And, scrivener! put 'Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar'
large; and 'King of Ferghana' larger still at the very end. That will
show him my intentions."
If it did, the effect was poor: for though the letter was duly
engrossed on silk paper sprinkled with rose-essence and gold-dust,
enclosed in a brocade bag, and sent to the invading camp at Kaba,
the only answer to its irrefutable logic was a further advance of
spear-points and pennons to within four miles of the citadel.
Kasim was jubilant. Jocose and bellicose he routed out armouries for
catapults, and kept long files of men busy in passing up stones from
the river bed, while forage parties raided the bazaars for provisions.
If there was to be a defence it must be the longest on record, even if
it were unsuccessful in the end.
Babar himself donned mail and corselet for the first time. But he
discarded the latter soon; it made him, he said, feel like a trussed
pheasant, and he preferred the wadded coatee which would turn most
scimitar cuts. It made him look burly as he strode round the ramparts,
so that the sentries smiled to themselves and felt a glow at the heart
remembering how young he was.
The stoutness, resolution, and unanimity of his soldiers and subjects
to fight to the last drop of their blood, the last gasp of their life,
without yielding, filled the boy with unmixed admiration. It was part
of the general splendidness of things which almost dazzled him.
"My younger troops display distinguished courage," he said gravely,
and Kasim hid a smile with difficulty as he replied, "They have youth
in their favour, Most Excellent. It is a great gift."
Then he went out and roared over the joke on the ramparts to the
sentries' huge delight. When next the young King went his rounds,
smiles greeted him everywhere. He was a King to be proud of, and his
family was worth fighting for--all of them! Especially the tall, slim
figure with close-drawn veil which would often accompany the King at
dusk. For Dearest-One was keenly interested in things militant, and
was free to come and go, as the Turkhi women were, with due
restrictions. And these were few in Babar's clan, which, as
Grandmother Isan-daulet would boast, was "desert born."
But, after all, the preparations were unnecessary. The little cherub
intervened, rather to the boy's chagrin, though he admitted piously
that Providence in its perfect power and wisdom had brought certain
events to pass which frustrated the enemies' designs, and made them
return whence they came without success, and heartily repenting them
of their attempt.
An exceedingly satisfactory but at the same time a disappointing end
to his first chance of a real fine fight; and he watched one reverse
after another overtake his foes on the other side of the Black-river
with almost sympathetic eyes.
"There is a murrain amongst their horses now," reported the chief
farrier one day, "my sister's son who is in service with the
Samarkandis crept over last night to beg condiments for Prince
Baisanghar's charger which is down--the same that the Most Excellent
gave him three years agone."
"Baisanghar?" echoed Babar hurriedly. "I knew not that he was--amongst
mine enemies!" Then he paused, and reason came to him. "Likely he is
with his father of Tashkend who hovers on the edge of invasion, and
hath ridden over--there is no harm in that. What didst give the
fellow?"
The farrier laughed. "A flea in his ear, Most Clement! A likely story,
indeed, that I should help our enemies."
Babar frowned and turned away. "'Twas a good horse, poor beast," he
murmured. And afterwards, he went over to the women's quarters, and,
as his wont was, retailed the story to those three, Isan-daulet, his
mother and Dearest-One. The grim old Turkhoman lady was sympathetic
about the horses, as a daughter of the Steppes must needs be, but
stern over the necessities of war. His mother, more soft-hearted than
ever by reason of her mourning, wept silently. But Dearest-One, was,
as ever, a joy.
"I would bastinado the farrier," she said vindictively. "The poor
brute; and then think of cousin Baisanghar. He loved the horse!"
Her beautiful eyes flashed and yet were melting, her long brown
fingers gripped her embroidery closer yet more caressingly. Her
brother sate and looked at her admiringly, yet with a certain
diffidence. Sometimes Dearest-One went beyond him; she seemed to
unfold wings and skim away into another world. And when he asked her
whither she went, she would smile mysteriously and say:
"Thou wilt unfold thy wings also, some day, O little-big-one, and find
a new world for thyself."
There was little leisure now, however, for aught but watch and ward.
Any moment of the day or night might bring assault; but the days
passed and none came. And then one morning broke and showed a smaller
camp than had been on the low lying river bank the night before; there
was a bustle, too, about the still-standing tent pegs, and with the
first glint of sunlight one Dervish Mahomed Turkhau rode over the
narrow bridge and demanded, on the part of his master, an audience
with Hussan. Old Kasim looked daggers, but there was no objecting. By
virtue of his position as Prime-minister Hussan was the man to go, and
he went. So out in the Place-of-Festivals beyond the gates, they met
and parleyed: thus patching up a sort of peace, as Babar reported
contemptuously to his faithful three. He was intensely disgusted and
disappointed, while Kasim looked sorrowfully at his piles of stones.
"They will do for next time," he said finally, cheering himself up
with the remembrance that there were many other claimants to the
throne of Ferghana to be reckoned with besides Sultan Ahmed. And by
evening most of the garrison had found solace for their disappointment
in overeating themselves, after the disciplined rations which
Kasim-Beg, mindful of the possibility of a long siege, had already
ordained; but Babar and his foster-brother Nevian were out all day on
their little Turkhoman horses, chasing the white deer and shooting with
their bows and arrows at a cock pheasant or two.
They brought home one in the evening which, as the boy boasted, was so
fat, that four men could have dined on the stew of it!
"'Twill do for our dinner anyhow," said Babar's mother, and
thereinafter she and Isan-daulet bullied cooks and scullions and
gently quarrelled with each other for a good two hours over the proper
family recipe for making "_ishkanah_."
And afterwards they sat together in an arched sort of balcony
vestibule between the women's apartments and the men's rooms and
talked happily, yet soberly of the future. Old Isan-daulet indeed,
waxed prophetic. "See you, my sons-in-law will come to harm, not good.
Ahmed has had to renounce his evil desires. Mahmud will have to do the
same; and let them pray God He send not punishment also." And she
pursed up her thin lips and looked as if she knew something.
But the Khanum, Babar's mother, said little; her heart was still
sad and she crept away early to her bed, followed after awhile by
Isan-daulet, leaving stern injunctions on Dearest-One not to sit up
over-long.
So brother and sister were left alone, and she went and sat beside him
as he dangled his legs over the parapet of the balcony; for he dearly
loved looking down from a height. It was to be a dark night so he
could see little even of the roofs below, or the slabs of stone let
into the wall at intervals to form a sort of ladder by which a bold
man could climb from one to the other. And beyond, all was shadow,
darker in some places than others. Besprinkled too with stars: the
moving star or two of a lantern in the earth-shadow, but in the sky
those changeless, changeful beacons, those twinkling tireless stars,
motionless in their constellations, yet ever moving on and on ...
Round what?...
"Look!" he cried suddenly, "the scimitar of the Warrior is sheathed in
the hills--my hills!"--
And it was so. Orion shone to the north, setting slowly behind the
mighty rampart of shadowed mountains in which the starry sword was
already hidden.
They sat silent for a little while, hand in hand, like the children
that they were. And then suddenly a noise below them, made Babar swing
his legs to the ground and stand firm before his sister.
"Who goes?" he asked and his voice rang through the darkness; but no
answer came.
"'Twas a falling stone, methinks," said his sister carelessly; yet
even as she spoke she also sprang to her feet, every atom of her, soul
and body alert for something, she scarce knew what.
She knew, however, in a second, for a darker shadow showed vaguely at
the end of the balcony, vaulted lightly over the parapet, and a
pleasant voice said gaily--
"Mirza Baisanghar of the House of Timur, cousin to the King of
Ferghana, at your service."
"Baisanghar!" echoed Babar. "How camest thou?--" then, even in his
confusion remembering, as he generally did, _les convenances_ for
others he added: "Thou hadst best retire, my sister, after making thy
appropriate salutation."
So, for one second the girl's eyes straining through the starlight
could see her cousin. A charming figure truly! Not dressed, like her
brother, in country clothes, but in the silks and satins of the town.
A dainty figure too, of middle height and slender make, yet manly
withal. The round face, unlike the faces of his cousins, showing
Turkhoman descent unmistakably, yet with such indescribable
attractiveness.
"May the Peace of the Most High be upon you, my cousin," she said
softly and her voice fluttered.
"And may His Peace remain with you, fair lady," he replied gravely,
with the finest of Court salutes. That was all; then she withdrew and
the shadows hid her going.
"By my soul, Baisanghar," said Babar joyously, when he had seated
himself and his cousin side by side among the cushions, "I am utterly
rejoiced to see thee again; though how, or wherefore thou camest--"
Prince Baisanghar interrupted him with a light laugh. "How, sayest
thou? By the roof of course; have I not been in Andijan before? and
did I not once climb hitherwards--but of that, no more! Only thou wilt
have to set thy masons to work, coz; for by God's truth my foothold
was but rotten more than once. Sure I must be born to the bowstring
since sudden death will not have me elseways! Yet of all seriousness,
I
came nigh to being dashed to pieces. And as for wherefore? Sure I came
in duty bound to thank my kingly cousin for his courteous gift of
horse-medicine. Aye! and for my horse too--for the second time--since,
thanks to the drugs, he is alive and kicking."
Babar sat back. "Horse-medicines?" he echoed. "What horse-medicine?--I
sent thee none."
Baisanghar turned his head instantly to the darkness, and his voice
rose perceptibly. "Yet it came from thee, my cousin," he replied
blandly, "with thy salutations. In a packet of silken paper--such as
ladies use for their trinkets, and tied with crinkled gold-thread such
as ladies use--"
"Yea! it was I, Mirza Baisanghar," came a voice from the darkness; a
voice clear, unabashed. "I sent it--I, the Princess Royal, so
there is no need for fine wit to beat about the bush. I sent it,
because--because my brother the King gave thee the horse and I was
loth--loth it should die."
The voice trailed away faintly, and Mirza Baisanghar's eyes brimmed
over with soft mirth; while Babar, forgetful of all save outraged
etiquette, said sternly:
"Sister! and I told thee to go."
"And I went," retorted the voice rebelliously, "so far as eyesight
goes. None can see me and 'tis the woman's right to listen."
Prince Baisanghar laughed aloud. "By the prophet! she speaks truth,
coz; ladies have the law of listening all over the world; aye! and of
speaking too. So let be, since we are cousins and free-born Chagatai
of the house of Ghengis."
But Babar stickled. "Aye, _we_ are; but thou art not--not on thy
mother's side."
"My mother!" echoed Baisanghar, his voice full of amusement. "Lo! I
admit it! On my mother's side I am beyond salvation, being of the wild
Horde-of-Black-Sheep! for which may God forgive me since 'tis not my
fault I was not born a White-Lamb!" He named the two great divisions
of his Turkhoman ancestry with infinite zest, then went on lightly:
"But I fail of myself in other ways--many of them. I made an ode
concerning it, a while past, that sets Baisanghar Black-Sheep-Prince
forth to a nicety!" and he began airily to hum a tune.
"Sing it to us, cousin," came that sweet voice from the darkness.
There was a moment of silence, as if the hearer were startled, perhaps
touched; then came the almost stiff reply:
"My fair cousin is too kind. The ode as verse is nothing worth. And
its subject is, beyond belief--bad! Still, since she is Princess-Royal
and I am but her slave, the order is obeyed."
So through the night and out into the stars his high tenor voice rose
and trilled in minor quavers.
[Illustration: Music notes for first and third stanzas.]
1. Some-times with pi-ous-ness I crawl
To-wards High Heav'n on whit-ed wall
3. Back to the dust and dirt I fly
Where un-sub-stan-tial shad-ows lie.
[Illustration: Music notes for second stanza.]
2. Or rest a-while on tree or flow'r
And dream but on-ly for an hour.
The quavers ceased, and there was silence from the darkness; but
Babar's boyish voice rose cheerful as ever.
"'Tis good, cousin, and, in a measure, true. Yet need it not be so,
surely. Thou hast no lack of parts. Who is more accomplished, of more
pleasant disposition or more charming manners?"
"I came not hitherto to be catalogued for sale," interrupted
Baisanghar curtly. "Of a truth I am admirable. I sing, I dance, I
paint--yea! I paint uncommon--I could paint one fair lady's portrait
could I but see her--"
Still there was silence from the shadows, and a frown came to the
laughter-loving face. "But I waste time," he continued, "and I have
much to say, for thine ear alone."
He spoke to the darkness, and he waited, his face softening while a
whispering sound as of light departing feet rose for a space then died
away in the distance.
It was a good half hour afterwards that Mirza Baisanghar, who knew his
way well about the palace at Andijan, came with buoyant step down the
spiral stairs which ended in a narrow vaulted passage that led to the
sally-port.
His cousin, from whom he had parted most affectionately, had given him
the pass-word, so, secure from molestation, he was carelessly humming
the refrain of his own ode ...
"Back to the dirt and dust I fly
Where unsubstantial shadows lie."
The light-hearted, cynical words echoed along the arches and on them
rose a curious sound, half cry, half sob, followed by a torrent of hot
denial.
"It is a lie! It is not true and thou knowest it. Why shouldest thou
say such things of thyself, O Baisanghar?--they--they--hurt!"
The young man stood still as if turned to stone.
"Dearest-One," he whispered at last, using the familiar name he was
accustomed to hear--"Dost really care--so much?--And I--" he paused
and a mirthless laugh rang false upon the darkness--"Princess--I
cannot even thank thee--I--I dare not--save for the horse-medicines--"
Here the artificial note left his voice and with a sudden cry "If I
could--if I could, beloved," his eager hands went out and found what
they sought, a lithe, warm, young body ready to his arms. But almost
ere he clasped it he thrust it from him roughly.
"Go!" he said briefly. "Go, girl--and forget me--if thou canst. Yet
remember this--if ever woman's lips touch mine, they would be
yours--but that will be never--never!"
The next instant he was gone. Dearest-One stood, straining her eyes
unavailingly into the darkness for a space: then she cowered down in
on herself and sat shivering, her wide eyes open, fixed. But there was
nothing to be seen in her heaven or earth: nothing to be realised,
save that he would not even touch her.