[Frontispiece: "A very striking figure was Assad Khan, as seen by the
light of torches carried by his attendants."--p. 87.]
LIFE IN THE
EAGLE'S NEST:
A Tale of Afghanistan.
BY
A. L O. E.,
(Charlotte Maria Tucker)
AUTHORESS OF "THE CLAREMONT TALES," "NED FRANKS," "SHEER OFF,"
"THE WHITE BEAR'S DEN," ETC.
London:
GALL & INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
AND EDINBURGH.
PREFACE.
The Authoress of the following tale has often said that she has
devoted her pen to her adopted country, India. Has she then changed
her purpose in again writing a story for British readers? No; though
in a different way, she is still seeking to serve the Missionary
cause. A.L.O.E. wants money for her "Mission Plough," a School for
Mohammedan and heathen boys in Batala, and it occurred to her that
hours, not taken from her city work, might be given to earning
something by literary effort.
The School which A.L.O.E. thus attempts to prop up by her quill,
sprang out of a felt want. Native boys were willing to hear the
Gospel, and in the Government School were taught no religion at all.
The Missionary Society to which A.L.O.E. belongs, restricts its
attention to women and girls; of course not a penny could be taken
from its funds for boys, though teaching them indirectly helps the
Zenana work--the seed of truth being sometimes carried by them to the
very strongholds of feminine bigotry.
Thus the "Mission Plough" is supported by no society; the expenses
are to be met by personal effort, or the assistance of those who
sympathise with its object. A.L.O.E most gratefully acknowledges
the great liberality with which kind friends have come to her aid.
May the Lord reward them a thousandfold for what they have done!
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. NEWS FROM ENGLAND
II. A SUDDEN CHANGE
III. GILDING RUBS OFF
IV. FAIRLY STARTED
V. A ROUGH WAY
VI. THE MOUNTAIN CHILD
VII. THE STRUGGLE COMES
VIII. PRISON LIFE
IX. THE AFGHAN CHIEF
X. CONSCIENCE AWAKENED
XI. REPENTANCE AND REPARATION
XII. THE HOUR OF PERIL
XIII. A DARING ATTEMPT
XIV. SPEAK OR DIE!
XV. THE KNOTTED ROPE
XVI. AFTER SEVEN YEARS
XVII. A RICH REWARD
XVIII. NOONTIDE GLARE
XIX. DECISION
XX. A POST OF PERIL
XXI. THE ATTACK
XXII. WHERE THE PILLAR RESTED
LIFE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST.
CHAPTER I.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
"The post-dák at last!" exclaimed Walter Gurney, springing to his
feet, as, encompassed by a cloud of dust, the vehicle for which he
had been watching appeared in the distance, the flourish of a horn
announcing its approach. The youth had been reclining under the
shade of a peepul tree, at the side of the road which led to a
frontier station on the border line which divides India from the land
of the Afghans. The post had always to be met at this point by
Walter, as the horses were never turned down the rude road which led
to a missionary's bungalow, situated about two miles off, almost
close to a native village. The Rev. William Gurney, till his death,
which had occurred about two months ere my story opens, had always
dwelt amongst his poor flock, "the world forgetting, by the world
forgot." The missionary's sole companion had been Walter, his only
son, whom he had himself educated in India, the neighbourhood of
mountains preventing the absolute necessity of his sending his
motherless boy to England.
This was the third time that Walter had anxiously gone to meet the
home mail. By his dying father's desire he had remained at Santgunge
till he should receive a letter from his grandmother in London, in
answer to the announcement of the missionary's death. Walter could
not form any plans for his own future till he should hear from the
nearest relative now left to him upon earth.
The expected letter was handed down by the coachman to Walter, and
with another blast of the horn the dák-gári* rattled on its way.
Walter returned to the peepul tree, and, leaning against its trunk,
examined the envelope of the letter before opening it to read the
contents.
* Post-cart or carriage.
"Black-edged, but not written in my grandmother's hand. She must
have been ill, which would account for her not writing before. The
news which I sent must have grieved her sorely."
Walter broke open the letter and glanced at the signature at the end;
it was that of his uncle, whose handwriting was strange to the youth.
Augustus Gurney, the wealthy banker, had never cared to keep up
intercourse with a brother who had demeaned himself, as he thought,
by becoming a humble missionary. The stiff, formal, business-like
writing was characteristic of him who had penned it. The letter was
dated from Eaton Square, 1871.
"DEAR WALTER,--The melancholy announcement of your father's decease
never reached your grandmother; it arrived on the day of her funeral.
I have delayed writing till all affairs were settled. You asked for
directions for your future course, and whether there were any means
of your finishing your education in some college in England. You
shall receive a frank reply. My mother's income being only a life
annuity, ceased at her death; she had no property to leave. There
are no funds available to pay your passage home or start you in life.
Every profession here is overcrowded. You must not look to me, as I
have three sous to provide for, and I never approved of the course
which your father chose to take. You had better try to find some
employment in India. Doubtless you have there plenty of friends;
here you would be amongst strangers.--Your affectionate uncle,
AUGUSTUS GURNEY."
"Strangers indeed," muttered Walter between his clenched teeth. "Can
this man, I will not call him uncle, actually receive the news of the
death of his only brother, a brother whom he always neglected, a
brother of whom he should have been proud, without so much as a
feeling of remorse, or one word of sympathy to his orphan? He does
not wish to be burdened with a poor relation! He shall certainly
never be troubled by me!" Walter crushed up the letter in his bands,
and with long rapid strides took his way along the rough,
weed-overgrown path which led to his desolate home. Bitter were the
orphan youth's reflections.
"'Doubtless you have plenty of friends,'" he writes. "Did my uncle
know nothing of the isolated life of self-denial led by my father
amongst our ignorant peasants? I have seen nothing of the world;
know no one to take me by the hand. Though I have a passion for
study, I have not received the educational advantages that would fit
me for Government employment. I have led a kind of Robinson Crusoe
life; I can shoot, can turn a straight furrow, ride, plant trees, and
do a little carpenter's work; talk to natives of India or Afghanistan
in half-a-dozen jargons; but I know little of mathematics, am only
self-taught in Latin; I could pass no examination,--at least I doubt
that I could,--and I have no funds to support me till I could study
up for one. I changed my last rupee to-day."
It may be little to the credit of Walter that indignation towards his
uncle and anxiety about his own future were the first thoughts that
came into his mind on learning of the death of his aged relative in
England. But Walter, brought up in the wilds of Santgunge, had never
seen his grandmother nor received any letter from her. Once a-month
an epistle from the old lady had regularly reached her missionary
son, with a brief message to his boy at the end. Before Walter
reached his home, more gentle feelings prevailed. He could feel
thankful that parent and son had both been spared the pang of
bereavement which had wrung his own heart. Walter thought of the
joyful surprise of the meeting above of those who for twenty years
had been severed on earth.
"Yes, a time will come when we shall care little whether our path was
rough or smooth on earth; whether it led upwards to distinction, or
downwards to poverty and trouble," said Walter to himself, as he
entered the little bungalow in which he had dwelt from his birth. It
was a most unadorned dwelling, built chiefly of sun-dried bricks, and
by no means in good repair, for the rains had injured the walls, and
white ants eaten into the timber. The interior matched the outside;
a few prints and texts, with an old brown map, were the only
ornaments; the rough mat on the brick floor had been worn into holes
by the tread of many bare feet. A few chairs and a table, a bookcase
and its contents, chiefly religious books, reports, and Urdu
pamphlets, summed up the furniture of the room which Walter entered.
The youth's own appearance was in character with his surroundings.
His clothes, originally of common material, were worn almost
threadbare. Walter was tall and slight, and the first impression
which a stranger would receive was that he was overgrown and
underfed. Though his age was barely seventeen, there were signs of
care on his countenance, and a sunken look under his eyes that told
of months of night watching and daily hardship. Yet a second glance
at his form, and the broad expansive brow from which the weary lad
now pushed back the wavy auburn hair, might suggest a presage that
after a few years the figure might be remarkably fine, the
countenance singularly intellectual.
Walter threw himself on a chair. Raising his eyes, their glance
rested on a picture with time-stained margin, which had been familiar
to him from his earliest childhood. The youth's almost sole
recollection of his mother was her explaining the meaning of the
print to her little boy, then young enough to be raised in her arms.
The print represented the Israelites encamped at night in the desert,
their tents made visible by the light streaming from the pillar of
fire before them. That print had been, as it were, the text of the
last exhortation which Walter had heard from his father, which
vividly now recurred to the mind of the desolate youth.
"God may lead us into the desert, my boy, but it is a blessed way if
His presence go with us. The eye of faith still sees the pillar of
cloud and fire to guide us wherever God wills we should go, and we
are safe--ay, and happy--as long as we follow the path marked out by
Him who is all wisdom and love."
"The pillar has for me long rested over this place," said Walter to
himself; "I would not have left my father, with his broken health, to
struggle on alone. But now the pillar will move on,--I wonder
whither! I had hoped to England--and Cambridge--with future honour
and usefulness beyond. That letter has dashed down all my air-built
castles! The desert around me looks very bare; but O my God!--my
father's God! do Thou guide me, and give me grace and courage to
follow on, nor turn aside to the right or the left."
Walter knelt down in his desolate home, and in a short but fervent
prayer commended himself to the guardian care of a Saviour God. He
arose from his knees cheered and refreshed. Walter then applied
himself to the homely care of preparing his evening meal, for, soon
after his father's death, he had dismissed his only servant. Some of
the native flock would willingly have worked for the missionary's
son, without hope of payment beyond that of a kind look and word, but
their offers had been declined with grateful thanks by the orphan.
Walter's gun had on this day supplied him with a more sumptuous
repast than usually fell to his lot; but he had emptied his
powder-flask for the charge which had brought down his pheasant, and
had no means of filling it again. The youth, as he plucked off the
beautiful feathers of his prize, saw in their loveliness a pledge
that He who had so clothed the bird of the jungle would not leave His
child uncared for. Walter had to light his fire, and cook his food,
as well as provide it. His kitchen was the open air; his
oven--native fashion--was formed of dried mud, and was of the
simplest construction. The apparatus comprised merely a few brass
vessels, and an iron plate for cooking _chapatties_.* While the
pheasant was being stewed, Walter proceeded to prepare this simple
substitute for the bread, which was a rare luxury in Santgunge.
Skilled as he was by practice, round balls of dough in Walter's hand
were successively patted out and flattened, then spread on the heated
iron and turned, till a nicely browned chapattie was ready. Walter,
engaged in his humble occupation, and absorbed in thoughts quite
unconnected with chapatties, did not notice the sound of a horse's
hoofs, and was rather startled by the loud voice of its rider, which
suddenly broke on the silence.
* Flat unleavened cakes.