The Nawab Mahomed Mushim Khan, commonly known as Mushim Khan, Chief of
the Gularzai, was seated beneath the shade of an apricot tope,
discussing affairs of state with his brother and vizier, Kuhandil Khan.
The hour of prayer was just over, yet here and there a group of belated
worshippers was still engaged in the prescribed ceremonial, bowing down,
low and oft, in the direction of the Holy City, while others were
wending their way towards the gate in the long low mud wall behind which
stood the village. Here and there, too, knelt camels, in process of
being loaded for a journey, eternally snarling and roaring, as is the
way of those cross-grained, hideous, but essentially useful animals, and
flocks of black goats and of fat-tailed Persian sheep moved lazily off
to their browsing grounds attended by tall, shaggy herdsmen armed with
their long-barrelled, sickle-stocked guns--and accompanied by great
savage dogs, a match for wolf or panther, and far more dangerous than
either to any human being not well armed, who should incur their
hostility. Even as Raynier had set forth, there was not anything here
of the jewelled gorgeousness and architectural splendour popularly
associated with the conventional Nawab, yet it was Mushim Khan's
principal and favourite place of abode.
It lay in a basin-like hollow. Overhead and around, a grim array of
chaotic peaks towered to a considerable height--the slopes lined with
cliffs, and strewn with tumbled rocks, representing a vastness of area
which the unaccustomed eye took some time to appreciate. Through this
valley a small river flowed, having for its outlet a narrow, cliff-hung
pass, which was, in fact, the principal access to the great natural
amphitheatre.
In describing the chief's personal appearance Raynier had not
exaggerated. Mushim Khan was unquestionably a fine-looking man. Tall
and straight, his powerful frame was well set off by the flowing
whiteness of his garments, and the symmetrical folds of his snowy turban
made an effective framework to the strong and dignified face. It was a
finer face than those possessed by most of his countrymen, being
somewhat fuller, and, though regular of feature, yet had not that
hawk-like and predatory expression engendered by the lean and
exaggeratedly aquiline cast of profile of the rest. His full beard and
the two long tresses hanging low down on either side of his broad chest
were jet black, but in view of the custom of dyeing such his age would
be hard to determine approximately. His brother, the Sirdar Kuhandil
Khan, was scarcely his inferior in appearance--in fact, there was so
strong a family likeness between them that they might easily have been
mistaken for each other.
"I know not why we should join in this _jihad_," the chief was saying,
"nor do I know who is this Hadji Haroun who is stirring it up. He comes
from the Orakzai, and he had better return to them in peace."
"That had he," agreed the other. "And yet, wherever he goes unrest
remains behind him on his path. It seems that he of Kabul has too many
_mullahs_, and when such become troublesome he sends them forth to stir
up unrest among such as need them not."
"And our people are being inflamed by unrest, brother?"
"Are they not?" answered Kuhandil Khan. "Murad Afzul is here among them
again, and it seems that he is drawing all men with him."
"Murad Afzul?" and the chief's brows darkened. "Murad Afzul! I have a
mind to make an end of that robber. To what purpose should we allow
such as he to draw us into war with the Feringhi? And what should come
of such war? Will our land grow fat beneath it or our people increase?"
"It would not be good to make an end of him at this moment," said the
vizier. "His following is large and powerful, and our people are ever
turbulent. For long has he been teaching them to cast eyes upon
Mazaran, whose garrison is weak, and where there is much plunder."
"Then Murad Afzul is chief of the Gularzai," said Mushim Khan, bitterly.
"Well, we shall see, for I will order him to take his possessions and
depart."
"The omen is favourable," said the vizier, lifting his eyes. "Lo--here
he comes?"
Two men were approaching--one tall and of middle age, the other of
medium height and old. These drew near and salaamed, yet without the
obsequious servility customary on approaching the presence of the more
despotic Eastern ruler; for these mountain chiefs ruled more by
patriarchal prestige than despotic power. Mushim Khan gave them peace,
and they seated themselves.
With the taller and younger of the two we are already acquainted. The
other was lean and wrinkled, with fierce eyes staring restlessly out
from beneath shaggy brows. He had also a trick of clenching and
unclenching his claw-like fingers as though gripping something, and
this, together with his bony, hawk-like countenance and rolling eyes,
gave him an indescribably cruel, not to say demoniacal, aspect.
"Peace to the chief of the Gularzai," began this man, in a nasal grating
snuffle. "Peace to him whom the Feringhi hath created a Nawab, for men
say he loves peace."
"And on you peace, who have beheld the tomb of the Prophet," returned
Mushim Khan, in deep tones, for he was not pleased to behold this
stranger, this interfering _mullah_, who stirred up strife whichever way
he went, and was, in fact, engaged in preaching _jihad_ throughout the
mountain tribes.
The _mullah_, Hadji Haroun, was possessed of a very evil gift of
eloquence, evil because invariably turned towards the stirring up of
strife, and the sowing of plot and intrigue. For long he spoke,
unfolding his plan, the design of which was to involve the Gularzai in
common with other of the mountain tribes in an aggressive war with the
Indian Government. An insignificant military expedition was then on
foot against an insignificant unit of these, and here was a grand
opportunity to assert themselves, and enjoy some sport in the shape of
the slaughter of infidels, which would be pleasing to Allah at the same
time--and the seizing of considerable loot, which would be pleasing to
themselves. The opportunity was here. The Feringhi were unsuspicious
that any hostility could be in existence against them, for had not the
_Sirkar_ just created Mushim Khan a Nawab. The town of Mazaran simply
lay in the hand of the Gularzai, and could be taken without a blow,
captured by a clever surprise.
What tribe or combination of tribes had ever prevailed in the end when
pitted against the _Sirkar_? No--not in the end, but which of them was
any the worse? Soldiers were sent. There was a fight or two, and peace
was made. Then things were just as they had been before. The Gularzai
would soon become as women, and forget what battle was, if they sat
still much longer.
To all of this the chief listened gravely. He distrusted the speaker,
and wholly disapproved of the plan, for he had already been sounded on
the matter, and that not once. Murad Afzul spat from time to time,
nodding his evil head in approval as he gloated in anticipation over the
delights in store--of the bazaar in Mazaran running with blood, and the
camel loads of choice loot which should find their way to his mountain
retreat. Oh, there were merry times ahead.
Yet assuredly disappointment awaited, for Mushim Khan, having heard all
that had been said, absolutely declined to join in the plot. He had
given the _Sirkar_ assurances of his friendship. The new Sahib who had
come as representative of the _Sirkar_, had treated him
straightforwardly and as a brother, and he refused to behave towards him
treacherously and as a liar. Infidel or not, to act thus towards him
would not be pleasing to Allah, nor could it be justified out of the
teaching of His Prophet.
"As a brother?" repeated the crafty _mullah_, now about to throw his
trump card. "And was not the Sirdar Allahyar Khan a brother of the
Nawab?"
"Surely," answered Mushim Khan, looking slightly puzzled, for he saw no
coherence in the question.
"And his end--peace to his soul?" went on the _mullah_. "And his end,
what was it?"
"His end was that of a brave man if a mistaken one," replied the chief,
in a deep voice, and frowning, for he disliked and resented the raking
up of this matter. But Hadji Haroun nodded, looking as though awaiting
further particulars.
"He died fighting the Feringhi, by whom he was shot--and is now in
Paradise," supplemented Kuhandil Khan.
"But if he was not so shot?" pursued the _mullah_, a gleam of triumphant
malice darting from his cruel eyes.
"Then he is alive?"
The words broke simultaneously from the chief and his brother. But the
_mullah_ dropped his eyes to the ground, and for a moment kept silence.
Then he said,--
"Would that he were. Would that his end had been that of a soldier.
But it was not. Ya, Mahomed! What an end was his! Wah-wah! what an
end!"
And the crooked, claw-like fingers clenched and unclenched upon empty
air. Murad Afzul, who had been prepared for this psychological moment,
now rose, and having salaamed, moved away, for it was not fitting that
he should hear the terrible disclosure about to be made to the two
brothers.
"The Sirdar Allahyar Khan was a havildar in one of the regiments serving
under the Feringhi at the time of the great rising?" went on the
_mullah_, in a kind of slow monotone.
"And by them he was shot, by reason of the part he took against them in
the rising," said the chief. "And, after all, it was what he might
expect, for many of the Feringhi were then slain."
"By them he was not shot, O Chief of the Gularzai whom the Feringhi have
named Nawab," returned the _mullah_. "By them he was hanged."
"Hanged?" broke from both, in incredulous horror. "Now that cannot be.
The Feringhi would never put to so shameful a death a man of his
descent."
"Yet he was hanged, O chiefs--hanged in such fashion as is not to be
named--hanged with a portion of swine flesh tied to his body."
Both the listeners had half sprung to their feet, and all unconsciously
had struck a crouching, wild-beast attitude--and in truth their faces
were in keeping. Their lips had gone back from their teeth and their
eyes were glaring.
"Is this a lie, old man?" gasped Mushim Khan. "For if it is thou shalt
die. Yes, thou shalt die the death of the boiling fat unless thou canst
prove its truth, and this wert thou a hundred times a _mullah_ or even
the grandson of the Prophet himself."
But the other did not quail.
"It is no lie. Ya, Mahomed! To such a death did they put a Sirdar of
the Gularzai. Many were so put to death by the Feringhi, they declaring
that such had slain their women and children, having first been lashed,
and so also did Allahyar Khan die. But before he died there was one who
stood by to whom he whispered his bequest of vengeance, and from that
one at his own death came the knowledge to me. Read; here is proof."
He drew a soiled, faded parchment from beneath his clothing, and
tendered it to the chief. It was traced in Pushtu characters, and set
forth how the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, havildar in a regiment recruited
from all the border tribes, having been accused--and falsely--of being
concerned in the murders of women and children, was adjudged to be
hanged as the speaker had described; but the name of the officer in
command who had ordered this savage retribution was somewhat difficult
to decipher. Watching the two brothers, their heads meeting over the
scroll, their features perfectly convulsed with horror and fury, Hadji
Haroun smiled evilly to himself, though his countenance wore rather a
snarl than a smile.
"The name?" they growled, looking up. "The name, the name?"
"General Raynier Sahib," answered the _mullah_, fairly quivering with
delight. "Say now, Chief of the Gularzai. Is the Sahib yonder at
Mazaran still as thy brother?"
"What has _he_ to do with this?" thundered the chief.
"Ya, Allah! Observe, O Nawab. He who is now as the _Sirkar_ at Mazaran
is named Raynier Sahib. He is the son of the man who thus slew the
brother of the chief of the Gularzai. Say; is he still as thy brother?"