In the Clutches of Pir Baksh
Three hours after Ensign Russell and Havildar Ambar Singh had entered
the besieged house, a swarthy man in the uniform of a native officer
picked himself tenderly up from the ground, and wondered to find himself
still alive. It was Pir Baksh the subadar. For hours he had lain
unconscious, deaf to the moans of the maimed and dying men who lay
stretched on every side amid the chaos of shattered timber and masonry.
His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that
had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him
sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to
rise he called loudly for help.
But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow
for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It
was a corpse--no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth
and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His
hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a
start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the
agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge
again and again into the unconscious body.
But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman
could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as
nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there
and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and
carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.
Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length
his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great
caution, for day had not yet come.
"Who is there?" they called.
"It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!--bring me water if ye are followers of the
Prophet!"
The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and
a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the
injured officer.
"All my bones are broken, I think," said he. "Ye have been long in
coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him;
he shall die more slowly."
He drank the water feverishly.
"Now, carry us to my brother's house, and do not let all the people know
that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill
him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently."
As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan--for he, of course,
was the Englishman--was still unconscious, and before the light that
precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and
secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of
the town.
The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan
recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking
string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the
sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The
shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out
his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he
sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had
lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a
sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing
in his ears, and he still shivered with fright.
For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an
eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking
up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread.
During one of these intervals the door opened, and a Mohammedan sepoy
entered bearing a little bread and a brass vessel containing water.
Tynan devoured these to the last drop and crumb.
"Who are you?" he asked the man. "Tell me, where am I?"
The sepoy answered not a word and left the room. The food and drink had
done the ensign good, brain and body becoming more brisk. He rose
groaning from the bed and tried the door. It was locked, and he
understood at last that he was a prisoner. A tremor ran down his back,
and he felt cold, though the room was like a hothouse. A captive among
the mutineers! Horrible prospect! But why should they have brought him
here? he asked himself. Why not have straightway killed him? Could it be
that they meant to torture him? The wretched boy groaned aloud, and in a
frenzy of rage and despair kicked and beat the door, though every blow
was anguish.
He had not long to wait. Muhammed Baksh, his host, called angrily to
Ghulam Beg, the silent waiter, and together they entered the room and
began to belabour the unlucky ensign with long bamboo canes.
Tynan fiercely sprang at his assailants, but being in no condition to
do battle, he was soon driven ignominiously into a corner, where he
cowered and shrieked for mercy. One of his tormentors pointed to the
bed; Tynan crawled upon it, and without having spoken a word the two
quitted the room.
Again the boy rose and dragged himself towards the window, where his
last spark of hope died out. The shutters were clamped down, and even
had he been fit and strong he could not have removed them without the
aid of tools. He sank down upon the charpoy, a prey to the most
realistic horrors that could be conjured up by a dull imagination. How
long he lay there, miserable in mind and aching all over, he knew not.
It seemed that whole days must have passed before the silent Ghulam Beg
brought in a meagre supper. Worn-out nature then reasserted itself; as
he lay on the bed his aching head seemed to grow larger and larger,
filling all the room, and soon he was lost to consciousness.
Aroused by the entrance of his breakfast of chupattis and water, he
implored the sepoy to speak to him and let him know his fate. But the
man might have been a mute. Without a word, or gesture, or sign of
comprehension Ghulam Beg left the prison-chamber, and another day of
horror was passed, and a night in which blessed sleep almost forsook the
captive boy.
The sound of a key creaking in the rusty lock aroused him, and he rose
to his feet as the sepoy attendant brought in the unappetizing fare.
Behind him Pir Baksh stalked in, his arm in a sling, his cruel eyes
leering horribly as he gazed upon his victim.
"I trust, Ensign Sahib," said he with much politeness, "that my servant
has been courteous and attentive, and has not disturbed your repose by
chattering too much. I am greatly honoured that the heaven-born should
deign to share our humble roof, and I trust that our guest has been
comfortable."
The unceasing pain and the solitude had taken most of the spirit out of
poor Tynan. Instead of resenting this insolence he implored the brute to
tell him what his fate was to be.
"Ungrateful Feringhi!" exclaimed the subadar indignantly. "Not a word of
thanks for my hospitality! Art thou aware that I have saved thy life?"
"Indeed, subadar, I thank you," said Tynan humbly.
"And I thank thee," said Pir Baksh, pointing to his injured arm, and
continuing:
"Yea, I thank thee for this, and for many an hour of pain. 'Twas a
clever trick to blow up the arsenal, but thou didst little think,
infidel dog, that there would be a heavy price to pay. Thou didst reject
my offer of terms, and all that I have suffered since, aye, and double
and treble that, thou shalt know before death shall mercifully release
thee."
Tynan trembled in every limb, and weakly replied:
"It was not I who blew up the magazine. I was against the deed. And dost
thou not remember, subadar, that I would have surrendered to thee had
not the other prevented me?"
"Well, he is dead, and thou shalt pay for the sins of thy brother."
"Nay, spare me, and my father will pay thee well."
A sudden thought seemed to strike the subadar. He reflected for a few
moments before answering the appeal.
"Wilt thou swear thou hadst no hand in the explosion?" ha asked, after a
pause.
"I will--indeed, I swear it."
"I must needs think it over," said Pir Baksh musingly. He quitted the
room, leaving the boy torn by conflicting emotions. The consciousness
that he had not played a manly part, the conviction that his rival Ted
Russell would never have been so weak, gave a sharper point to his fears
and troubles. On the other hand, had he not been given a faint hope of
escape? Do not judge the lad too harshly. It was not death alone, but
the prospect of torture that had unnerved him; and remember that the
pain of his injuries and the workings of his imagination during the past
two days of solitary confinement were calculated to break the spirit of
any man above the average, and poor Tynan had hardly the makings of a
hero in his character. His case was one for pity rather than contempt.
Only those who would have withstood the temptation have the right to
despise him utterly, and they would be the last to do so.
His hopes of mercy were misplaced. The amount of that quality nourished
in the breast of Pir Baksh would have shamed a famished wolf. The rascal
had changed his tone because he recollected that the greater his
victim's hopes, the more poignant would his suffering be on finding
himself deceived. Next evening he again visited the prisoner, and
brought paper, pen, and ink.
"What was that sound of cheering an hour or two ago?" asked Tynan. He
had heard the acclamations that had greeted the arrival of the mutinous
Guides, and wondered if help had come.
"It means that we have had reinforcements, and that within twelve hours
not one of your friends will be alive."
Tynan looked keenly at the speaker as he continued.
"Perhaps there may be one Feringhi left alive in Aurungpore; it depends
on thee. I have been thinking it over, and am inclined to save thy life.
We both hate Russell Sahib, and we may prove useful one to another."
The prisoner's heart began to beat more hopefully, and he expressed his
thanks towards the callous brute.
"But on conditions," resumed Pir Baksh. "First, I must have five
thousand rupees--a promise in writing for that amount."
"You shall have it," said Tynan eagerly. "My father will not grudge it."
The subadar nodded his head solemnly and went on:
"Secondly, thou must write me a _chit_ in English and Urdu,
acknowledging that thou dost owe thy life to my mercy and loyalty."
"I will do that, and never shall I forget thy goodness."
"Thou shalt also write that I, Pir Baksh, was loyal to the Kumpani
Bahadur, though forced to appear disloyal. That I tried to restrain the
sepoys during the attack on the fortress, and to save the lives of the
English officers, but was prevented by the rebels, who threatened to
kill me as a traitor ... What! Thou dost hesitate?"
Tynan had turned pale. Could he sign that lying document and be himself
a traitor? Had not Pir Baksh shot the colonel?
"No, subadar, I cannot do that," he said, with hesitation, not decision.
"Very good, sahib."
The fierce light that came into the eyes of Pir Baksh sent a thrill of
despair through Tynan's breast. He began to find excuses. He told
himself that the proposed statement would be partly true, for Pir Baksh
had offered to spare their lives. He caught at that weak saving-clause,
and enlarged upon it until he had almost persuaded himself that he could
only be blamed for exaggeration, not for downright lying. Then he
remembered how Pir Baksh, by shooting the colonel, had brought the
mutiny to pass, and was guilty of all the bloodshed.
The subadar noted his indecision, and said:
"There will be none to contradict, your countrymen are as good as dead."
"I will write as you say," said Tynan slowly, "if you will swear to save
my life."
He had decided. He was ready to sign a paper absolving this villain from
the reward of his treachery and blood-guiltiness. And the final
inducement had been the assurance that the traitor's plot would be
crowned with such success that all Tynan's compatriots would be slain.
And this was the man he was ready to hold up as a loyal subject fit to
be rewarded for his fidelity!
"By the Prophet's beard I will do my best to save thee," the subadar
declared. "We must escape from the town, or I too shall suffer the
penalty."
Seizing pen and ink in feverish haste to get it over, Tynan wrote as the
Mohammedan directed him. First, the promise to pay five thousand rupees
on one sheet of paper, and then a document that might save Pir Baksh
from all consequences of mutiny and murder in the event of his capture
by the British. When he had finished, his gaoler took the pen and wrote
in Urdu at the foot:--
"I, Pir Baksh, subadar of the 193rd B.N.I., do solemnly promise, on my
oath as a Moslem, to do my best to effect the escape of Ensign Tynan of
the same regiment, a prisoner among the rebels in Aurungpore. Filled
with admiration of his courage in risking his life in the execution of
his duty by planning and carrying out the blowing up of the magazine, I
also risk my life to save his."
"But I've already told you I didn't do that," the ensign protested, as
he read the added words. "It was Russell's doing altogether."
"No need to say so, sahib," said Pir Baksh. "He is dead, and so indeed
will all the Feringhis be to-morrow, and no one can claim the credit.
Russell Sahib I hate, for do I not owe him this broken arm and bloody
head? And if I mistake not, he is no friend of thine, so why not take
the credit of the deed and be promoted and raised to honour? Help me,
sahib, and I will help thee."
Tynan found nothing to say in reply. He remembered the many injuries he
fancied he had received at Russell's hands--the thrashing of a week or
two ago, the contempt with which he had been treated in the fort when
his junior took the command from him and threatened him in front of the
men. Why not pay him out? After all, what did it matter now? It could be
put right if necessary when he should have reached a place of safety.
The first consideration was to save his own life.
"We shall slip away to-morrow," said the subadar. "I will go and make
all arrangements now. Remember that my life also is sacrificed if we are
discovered."
So saying the double traitor took his leave. Outside the door he
chuckled grimly and proceeded to tear up the "promise to pay" the five
thousand rupees. For a very good reason he had no intention of claiming
that, but the other papers he carefully preserved. After the boy had
been murdered, he could easily make up some story and fabricate some
evidence to show that they had been followed and attacked, and that he
escaped by the skin of his teeth, more alive than dead, and never saw
the ensign again. Pir Baksh meant to run with the hare and hunt with the
hounds so long as the British held their own.
But most of all he meant to kill Harry Tynan.
Left to himself Ensign Tynan sat down upon the string bed, and leant
forward to think it all over, elbows on knees and his chin resting in
the palm of his right hand. As a rule he was not a very thoughtful
person, but the nightmare of the past few days might well effect a
change. Of habit, not of character though! Peril, suffering, and anxiety
may develop the good or bad that is there already, but will hardly
transform a weak character into a strong one.
For a long time the boy sat motionless, wondering what Pir Baksh really
meant. Was he genuine? Did he mean to save him? Tynan did not trust the
man, yet he assured himself again and again that the Mohammedan must be
intending to try, or why should he have demanded the promise of a
reward--a document useless unless he was actually saved. And what about
that other paper? Ted Russell would never have signed it, conscience
whispered.
"I only wish Russell was here instead of me," he muttered, and gave the
bedstead a vicious kick.
"But he's dead," came a reminder from his better self, and there
followed a recollection of the statement added by the subadar, the lie
that robbed the dead of the credit of a glorious deed.
"Everything seems to go wrong with me," he sullenly muttered. "I've no
luck like other people. Never mind, it's not of much consequence. What
I've got to think about is how to get out of this hole. I believe after
all that that black brute means to murder me. Well, I'll try to sleep on
it."
He lay down, and an idea occurred to him. Rising to his feet he knelt
down in the attitude of prayer. Hardly ever since he had left home for
school had he so much as made believe to pray for help and guidance, but
now he wondered he had not thought of it before. Had he lived two or
three hundred years ago he would have vowed invaluable offerings to the
shrine of his patron saint, and, the danger over, would as promptly have
forgotten to fulfil the vow.
Parrot-like, he repeated the Lord's Prayer without considering in the
least its meaning, and then he prayed wildly to be saved from death. But
not once did he dream of asking earnestly for forgiveness, not once did
he seriously repent his foolish, harmful life, nor did he make the least
resolve to cancel in the morning the lies to which he had signed his
name that night.
He rose from his knees and once more lay down.