Quoth little red jackal, famishing, “Lo,
Yonder a priest and a soldier go;
You can see farthest, and you ought to know,--
Which shall I wander with, carrion crow?”
The crow cawed back at him, “Ignorant beast!
Soldiers get glory, but none of the feast;
Soldiers work hardest, and snaffle the least.
Take my advice on it--Follow the priest!”
IT was two hours after sunrise on the second day that followed
Cunningham's desertion of his party when he and Mahommed Gunga first
caught sight of a blue, baked rock rising sheer out of a fringe of
green on the dazzling horizon. It was a freak of nature--a point pushed
through the level crust of bone-dry earth, and left to glitter there
alone.
“That is my cousin Alwa's place!” exclaimed Mahommed Gunga, and he
seemed to draw a world of consolation from the fact.
The sight loosed his tongue at last; he rode by Cunningham, and deigned
an explanation now, at least, of what had led to what might happen. He
wasted little breath on prophecy, but he was eloquent in building up
a basis from which Cunningham might draw his own deductions. They had
ridden through the cool of the night in easy stages, and should have
camped at dawn; but Mahommed Gunga had insisted that the tired animals
could carry them for three hours longer.
“A soldier's horse must rest at the other end sahib,” he had laughed.
“Who knows that they have not sent from Abu to arrest both thee and me?”
And he had not vouchsafed another word until, over the desert glare, his
cousin's aerie had blazed out, beating back the molten sun-rays.
“It looks hotter than the horns of hell!” said Cunningham.
“The horns of hell, sahib, are what we leave behind us! They grow hot
now! Thy countrymen--the men who hated thee so easily--heated them and
sit now between them for their folly!”
“How d'you mean? 'Pon my soul and honor, Risaldar, you talk more riddles
in five minutes than I ever heard before in all my life!”
“There be many riddles I have not told yet--riddles of which I do not
know the answer. Read me this one. Why did the British Government annex
the state of Oudh? All the best native soldiers came from Oudh, or
nearly all. They were loyal once; but can a man be fairly asked to
side against his own? If Oudh should rise in rebellion, what would the
soldiers do?”
“Dunno, I'm sure,” said Cunningham.
“Read me this one, then. By pacifying both Mohammedan and Hindoo and by
letting both keep their religion, by sometimes playing one against the
other and by being just, the British Government has become supreme
from the Himalayas to the ocean. Can you tell me why they now issue
cartridges for the new rifles that are soaked in the fat of cows and
pigs, thus insulting both Mohammedan and Hindoo?”
“I didn't know it was so.”
“Sahib, it is! These damned new cartridges and this new drill-sahib,
I--I who am loyal to the marrow of my bones--would no more touch those
cartridges--nor bite them, as the drill decrees--than I would betray
thee! Pig's fat! Ugh!”
He spat with Mohammedan eloquence and wiped his lips on his tunic sleeve
before resuming.
“Then, like a flint and steel, to light the train that they have laid,
they loose these missionaries, in a swarm, from one end of India to the
other. Why? What say one and all? Mohammedan and Hindoo both say it is a
plot, first to make them lose their own religion by defilement, then
to make Christians of them! Foolishness to talk thus? Nay! It was
foolishness to act thus!
“Sahib, peace follows in the wake of soldiers, as we know. Time and time
again the peace of India has been ripped asunder at the whim of priests!
These padre people, preaching new damnation everywhere, are the flint
and steel for the tinder of the cartridge fat!”
“I never knew you to croak before, Mahommed Gunga.”
“Nor am I croaking. I am praising Allah, who has sent thee now to the
place whence the wind will come to fan the hell flames that presently
will burn. The wind will blow hot or cold--for or against the
government--according as you and I and certain others act when
opportunity arrives! See yonder!”
They had been seen, evidently, for horsemen--looking like black ants on
the desert--seemed to have crawled from the bowels of the living rock
and were galloping in their direction.
“Friends?” asked Cunningham.
“Friends, indeed! But they have yet to discover whether we are friends.
They set me thinking, sahib. Alwa is well known on this country-side and
none dare raid his place; few would waste time trying. Therefore, it is
all one to him who passes along this road; and he takes no trouble, as
a rule, to send his men out in skirmishing order when a party comes in
view. Why, then, does he trouble now?”
“Couldn't say. I don't know Alwa.”
“I am thinking, sahib, that the cloud has burst at last! A blood-red
cloud! Alwa is neither scare-monger nor robber; when he sends out armed
men to inspect strangers on the sky-line, there is war! Sahib, I grow
young again! Had people listened to me--had they called me anything but
fool when I warned them--thou and I would have been cooped up now in
Agra, or in Delhi, or Lucknow, or Peshawur! Now we are free of the
plains of Rajputana--within a ride of fifty of my blood-relations,
and they each within reach of others! Ho! I can hear the thunder of
a squadron at my back again! I am young, sahib--young! My old joints
loosen! Allah send the cloud has burst at last--I bring to two thousand
Rangars a new Cunnigan-bahadur! Thy father's son shall learn what
Cunnigan-bahadur taught!”
He lapsed into silence, watching the advancing horsemen, who swooped
down on them in an ever-closing fan formation. His tired horse sensed
the thrill that tingled through its rider's veins, and pranced again,
curving his neck and straining at the bit until Mahommed Gunga steadied
him. The five behind--even the mule-drivers too--detected excitement
in the air, and the little column closed in on its leaders. All eyes
watched the neck-and-neck approach of Alwa's men, until Cunningham at
last could see their turbans and make out that they were Rangars, not
Hindoos. Then he and the Risaldar drew rein.
There were twenty who raced toward them, but no Alwa.
“It is as I thought!” declared Mahommed Gunga. “It is war, sahib! He has
summoned men from his estates. As a rule, he can afford but ten men for
that fort of his, and he would not send all his men to meet us--he has a
garrison up yonder!”
Like blown dust-devils the twenty raced to them, and drew up thundering
within a lance-length. A sword-armed Rangar with a little gold lace on
his sleeve laughed loud as he saluted, greeting Mahommed Gunga first.
The Risaldar accepted his salute with iron dignity.
“Forgive him, sahib!” he whispered to Cunningham. “The jungli knows no
better! He will learn whom to salute first when Alwa has said his say!”
But Cunningham was in no mood just then to stand on military ceremony or
right of precedence. He was too excited, too inquisitive, too occupied
with the necessity for keeping calm in the face of what most surely
looked like the beginning of big happenings. These horsemen of Alwa's
rode, and looked, and laughed like soldiers, new-stripped of the hobble
ropes of peace, and their very seat in the untanned saddles--tight down,
loose-swaying from the hips, and free--was confirmation of Mahommed
Gunga's words.
They wheeled in a cloud and led the way, opening a little in the centre
to let the clouds of sand their horses kicked up blow to the right and
left of Cunningham and his men. Not a word was spoken--not a question
asked or a piece of news exchanged--until the whole party halted at the
foot of Alwa's fortress home--a great iron gate in front of them and
garden land on either side--watered by the splashing streamlet from the
heights above.
“Men of the house of Kachwaha have owned and held this place, sahib,
since Allah made it!” whispered Mahommed Gunga. “Men say that Alwa has
no right to it; they lie! His father's father won the dower-right!”
He was interrupted by the rising of the iron gate. It seemed solid,
without even an eyehole in it. It was wide enough to let four horses
under side by side, and for all its weight it rose as suddenly and
evenly as though a giant's hand had lifted it. Immediately behind it,
like an actor waiting for the stage-curtain to rise, Alwa bestrode his
war-horse in the middle of a roadway. He saluted with drawn sabre, and
this time Cunningham replied.
Almost instantly the man who had led the gallopers and had saluted
Mahommed Gunga spurred his horse up close to Cunningham and whispered:
“Pardon, sahib! I did not know! Am I forgiven?”
“Yes,” said Cunningham, remembering then that a Rajput, and a Rangar
more particularly, thinks about points of etiquette before considering
what to eat. Alwa growled out a welcome, rammed his sabre home, and
wheeled without another word, showing the way at a walk--which was all
a wild goat could have accomplished--up a winding road, hewn out of the
solid mountain, that corkscrewed round and round upon itself until it
gave onto the battlemented summit. There he dismounted, ordered his men
to their quarters, and for the first time took notice of his cousin.
“I have thy missionary and his daughter, three horses for thee, and thy
man,” he smiled.
“Did Ali Partab bring them?”
“Nay. It was I brought Ali Partab and the rest! My promise is redeemed!”
Mahommed Gunga thrust his sword-hilt out and smiled back at him.
“I present Raff-Cunnigan-sahib--son of Pukka-Cunnigan-bahadur!” he
announced.
Alwa drew himself up to his full height and eyed young Cunningham as a
buyer eyes a war-horse, inch by inch. The youngster, who had long since
learned to actually revel in the weird sensation of a hundred pairs of
eyes all fixed on him at once, felt this one man's gaze go over him
as though he were being probed. He thanked his God he had no fat to be
detected, and that his legs were straight, and that his tunic fitted
him!
“Salaam, bahadur,” said Alwa slowly. “I knew thy father.
So--thou--art--his--son. Welcome. There is room here always for a guest.
I have other guests with whom you might care to speak. I will have a
room made ready. Have I leave to ask questions of my cousin here?”
Cunningham bowed in recognition of his courtesy, and walked away to
a point whence he could look from the beetling parapet away and away
across desert that shone hot and hazy-rimmed on every side. If this were
a man on whom he must depend for following--if any of all the more
than hints dropped by the risaldar were true--it seemed to him that his
reception was a little too chilly to be hopeful.
After a minute or two he turned his eyes away from the dazzling plain
below and faced about to inspect the paved courtyard. Round it, on
three sides of a parallelogram, there ran a beautifully designed and
wonderfully worked-out veranda-fronted building, broken here and there
by cobbled passages that evidently led to other buildings on the far
edge of the rock. In the centre, covered by a roof like a temple-dome
in miniature, was the ice-cold spring, whose existence made the fort
tenable. Under the veranda, on a long, low lounge, was a sight that
arrested his attention--held him spell-bound--drew him, tingling in
a way he could not have explained--drew him--drew him, slow-footed,
awkward, red--across the courtyard.
He heard Mahommed Gunga swear aloud; he recognized the wording of the
belly-growled Rangar oath; but it did not occur to him that what
he saw--what was drawing him--could be connected with it. He looked
straight ahead and walked ahead--reached the edge of the veranda--took
his helmet off--and stood still, feeling like an idiot, with the sun
full on his head.
“I'd advise you to step into the shade,” said a voice that laughed more
sweetly than the chuckling spring. “I don't know who you are, but I'm
more glad to see you than I ever was in my life to see anybody. I can't
get up, because I'm too stiff; the ride to here from Howrah City all but
killed me, and I'm only here still because I couldn't ride another yard.
My father will be out in a moment. He's half-dead too.”
“My name is Cunningham.”
“I'm Miss McClean. My father was a missionary in Howrah.”
She nodded to a chair beside her, and Cunningham took it, feeling
awkward, as men of his type usually do when they meet a woman in a
strange place.
“How in the world did you get in?” she asked him. “It's two days now
since the Alwa-sahib told us that the whole country is in rebellion. How
is it that you managed to reach here? According to Alwa, no white man's
life is safe in the open, and he only told me today that he wouldn't let
me go away even if I were well enough to ride.”
“First I've heard of rebellion!” said Cunningham aghast at the notion of
hearing news like that a second hand, and from a woman.
“Hasn't Alwa told you?”
“He hasn't had time to, yet.”
“Then, you'd better ask him. If what he say is true--and I think he
tells the truth--the natives mean to kill us all, or drive us out of
India. Of course they can't do it, but they mean to try. He has been
more than kind--more than hospitable--more than chivalrous. Just because
he gave his word to another Rangar, he risked his life about a dozen
times to get my father and me and Ali Partab out of Howrah. But, I don't
think he quite liked doing it--and--this is in confidence--if I were
asked--and speaking just from intuition--I should say he is in sympathy
with the rebellion!”
“How long have you been here?” asked Cunningham.
“Several days--ten, I think. It seemed strange at first and rather awful
to be lodged on a rock like this in a section of a Rangar's harem!
Yes, there are several women here behind the scenes, but I only see the
waiting-women. I've forgotten time; the news about rebellion seems too
awful to leave room for any other thought.”
“Who was the Rangar to whom Aliva gave his word? Not Mahommed Gunga, by
any chance?”
“Yes, Mahommed Gunga.”
“Well, I'm--!” Cunningham clipped off the participle just in time.
“There is something, then, in the talk about rebellion! That man's been
talking in riddles to me ever since I came to India, and it looks as
though he knew long in advance.”
He was about to cross-examine Miss McClean rigorously, even at the risk
of seeming either rude or else frightened; but before his lips could
frame another question he caught sight of Mahommed Gunga making signals
to him. He affected to ignore the signals. He objected to being kept in
the dark so utterly, and wished to find out a little for himself before
listening to what the Rangars had to say. But Mahommed Gunga started
over to him.
He could not hear the remark Mahommed Gunga made to Alwa over his
shoulder as he came.
“Had I remembered there was a woman of his own race here, I would have
plunged him straight into the fighting! Now there will be the devil
first to pay!”
“He has decision in at least one thing!” grinned Alwa.
“Something that I think thou lackest, cousin!” came the hot retort.
Alwa turned his back with a shake of his head and a thin-lipped
smile--then disappeared through a green door in the side of what seemed
like solid rock. A moment later Mahommed Gunga stood near Cunningham,
saluting.
“We ask the favor of a consultation, sahib.”
Cunningham rose, a shade regretfully, and followed into the rock-walled
cavern into which Alwa had preceded them. It was nearly square--a hollow
bubble in the age-old lava--axe-trimmed many hundred years ago. What
light there was came in through three long slits that gave an archer's
view of the plain and of the zigzag roadway from the iron gate below.
It was cool, for the rock roof was fifty or more feet thick, and the
silence of it seemed like the nestling-place of peace.
They sat down on wooden benches round the walls, with their soldier legs
stretched out in front of them. Alwa broke silence first, and it was of
anything but peace he spoke.
“Now--now, let us see whose throats we are to slit!” he started
cheerfully.