The trapped wolf bared his fangs and swore,
“But set me this time free,
And I will hunt thee never more!
By ear and eye and jungle law,
I'll starve--I'll faint--I'll die before
I bury tooth in thee!”
WHILE Alwa raged alone, and while Mahommed Gunga talked to Cunningham
in a rock-room near at hand, Rosemary McClean saw fit to take a hand
in history. It was not her temperament to sit quite idle while others
shaped her destiny; nor was she given to mere brooding over wrongs. When
a wrong was being done that she could alter or alleviate it was her way
to tackle it at once without asking for permission or advice.
From where her chair was placed under the long veranda she could see the
passage in the rock that led to Jaimihr's cell. She saw his captors take
him up the passage; she heard the door clang shut on him, and she saw
the men come back again. She heard them laugh, too, and she overheard a
few words of a jest that seemed the reason for the laughter.
In Rajputana, as in other portions of the East, men laugh with meaning
as a rule, and seldom from mere amusement. Included in the laugh there
usually lies more than a hint of threat, or hate, or cruelty. And, in
partial confirmation of the jest she unintentionally overheard, she saw
no servant go to the chuckling spring to fill a water-jar. She recalled
that Jaimihr only sipped as much as he could dip up in the hollow of his
hand, and that physical exertion and suffering of the sort that he had
undergone produces prodigious thirst in that hot, dry atmosphere.
She waited until dark for Cunninham, growing momentarily more restless.
She recalled that she was a guest of Alwa's, and as such not free to
interfere with his arrangements or to suggest insinuations anent his
treatment of prisoners. She recalled the pride of all Rajputs, and its
accompanying corollary of insolence when offended. There would come no
good--she knew--from asking anybody whether Jaimihr was allowed to drink
or not.
Cunningham, with that middle-aged air of authority laid over the fire
and ability of youth, would be able, no doubt, to enforce his wishes in
the matter after finding out the truth about it. But Cunningham did not
come; and she remembered from a short experience of her own what thirst
was.
The men-at-arms were all on the ramparts now, watching the leaderless
cavalry on the plain. They had even left the cell door unguarded, for it
was held shut by a heavy beam that could not be reached from the inside;
and they were all too few, even all of them together, to hold that rock
against eight hundred. It was characteristic, though, and Eastern of the
East, that they should omit to padlock the big beam. It pivoted at its
centre on a big bronze pin, and even a child could move it from the
outside; it was only from the inside that it was uncontrollable. From
inside one could have jerked at the door for a week and the big beam
would have lain still and efficient in its niche in the rock-wall; but
a little pressure underneath one end would send it swinging in an arc
until it hung bolt upright. Then the same child who had pushed it up
could have swung the teak door wide.
Rosemary, growing momentarily thirstier herself as she thought of the
probable torture of the prisoner, walked down to the spring and filled
a dipper, as she had done half a dozen times a day since she first
arrived. She had carried almost all her own and her father's water,
for Joanna was generally sleeping somewhere out of view, and no other
body-servant had been provided for her. There was a fairly big brass
pitcher by the spring. She filled it. Nobody noticed her.
Then she recalled that nobody would notice her if she were to carry the
brass pitcher in the direction of her room, for she had done that often.
She picked it up, and she reached the end of the veranda with it without
having called attention to herself. She set it down then to make quite
sure that she was unobserved.
But some movement of the cavalry on the plain below was keeping the eyes
of the garrison employed. Although a solitary lantern shone full on her,
she reached the passage leading to the prisoner's cell unseen; and she
walked on down it, making no attempt to hide or hurry, remembering that
she was acting out of mercy and had no need to be ashamed. If she were
to be discovered, then she would be, and that was all about it, except
that she would probably be able to appeal to Cunningham to save her from
unpleasant consequences. In any case, she reasoned, she would have done
good. She was quite ready to get herself and her own in trouble if by
doing it she could insure that a prisoner had water.
But she was not seen. And no one saw her set the jar down by the door.
No one except the prisoner inside heard her knock.
“Have you water, Jaimihr-sahib?” she inquired.
The East has a hundred florid epithets for one used in the West; and
in a land where water is as scarce as gold and far more precious the
mention of water to a thirsty man calls forth a flood of thought such
as only music or perhaps religion can produce in luckier climes. Jaimihr
waxed eloquent; more eloquent than even water might have made him had
another--had even another woman--brought it. He recognized her voice,
and said things to her that roused all the anger that she knew. She had
not come to be made love to.
She thought, though, of his thirst. She remembered that within an hour
or two he might be raving for another reason and with other words. The
big beam lifted on her hands with barely more effort than was needed
to lift up the water-jar; the door opened a little way, and she tried,
while she passed the water in, to peer through the darkness at the
prisoner. But there were no windows to that cell, and such dim light as
there was came from behind her.
“They have bound me, sahiba, in this corner,” groaned Jaimihr. “I cannot
reach it. Take it away again! The certainty that it is there and out of
reach is too great torture!”
So she slipped in through the door, leaving it open a little way--both
her hands busy with the brass pitcher and both eyes straining their
utmost through the gloom--advancing step by step through mouldy straw
that might conceal a thousand horrors.
“You wonder, perhaps, why I do not escape!” said a voice. And then she
heard the cell door close again gently.
Now she could see Jaimihr, for he stood with his back against the door,
and his head was between her and the little six-inch grating that was
all the ventilation or light a prisoner in that place was allowed.
“So you lied to me, even when I brought you water?” she answered. She
was not afraid. She had nerve enough left to pity him.
“Yes. But I see that you did not lie. I am still thirsty, sahiba.”
He held out both hands, and she could see them dimly. There were no
chains on them, and he was not bound in any way. She gave him the jar.
“Let me pass out again before you drink,” she ordered. “It is not known
that I am in here, and I would not have it known.”
She could have bitten out her tongue with mortification a moment
afterward for letting any such admission escape her. She heard him
chuckle as he drank--he choked from chuckling, and set the jar down
to cough. Then, when he had recovered breath again, he answered almost
patronizingly.
“Which would be least pleased with you, sahiba? The Rangars, or thy
father, or the other Englishman? But never mind, sahiba, we are friends.
I have proved that we are friends. Never have I taken water from the
hands of any man or any woman not of my own caste. I would have died
sooner. It was only thou, sahiba, who could make me set aside my caste.”
“Let me pass!”
She certainly was frightened now. It dawned on her, as it had at once on
him, that at the least commotion on his part or on hers a dozen Rangars
would be likely to come running. And just as he had done, she wondered
what explanation she would give in that case, and who would be likely
to believe it. To have been caught going to the cell would have been one
thing; to be caught in it would be another. He divined her thoughts.
“Have no fear, sahiba. Thou and I are friends.”
She did not answer, for words would not come. Besides, she was beginning
to realize that words would be of little help to her. A woman who will
tell nothing but the truth under any circumstances and will surely keep
her promises is at a disadvantage when conversing with a man who surely
will not tell the truth if he can help it and who regards his given word
with almost equal disrespect.
“I have no fear, sahiba. I am not afraid to open this door wide and make
a bid for liberty. It would not be wise, that is all, and thou--and I
must deal in wisdom.”
His words came through the dark very evenly--spaced evenly--as though
he weighed each one of them before he voiced it. She gathered the
impression that he was thinking for his very life. She felt unable to
think for her own. She felt impelled to listen--incredulous, helpless,
frightened,--not a little ashamed. She was thinking more of the awful
things those Moslem gentlemen would say about her should they come and
discover her in Jaimihr's cell.
“Listen, sahiba! From end to end of India thy people are either dead, or
else face to face with death. There is no escape anywhere for any man or
woman--no hope, no chance. The British doom is sealed. So is the doom of
every man who dared to side with them.”
She shuddered. But she had to listen.
“There will be an army here within a day or two. My men--and I number
them by thousands--will come and rip these Rangars from their roost.
Those that are not crucified will be thrown down from the summit, and
there shall be a Hindoo shrine where they have worshipped their false
god. Then, sahiba, if thou art here--perhaps--there might--yet--be a
way-perhaps, yes?--a way, still, to escape me?”
She was trembling. She could not help beginning to believe him. Whatever
might be true of what he said was certainly not comforting.
“But, while my army comes in search of me, my brother Howrah will be
making merry with my palace and belongings. There will be devastation
and other things in my army's rear for which there is no need and
for which I have no stomach. I detest the thought of them, sahiba.
Therefore, sahiba, I would drive a bargain. Notice, sahiba, I say not
one word of love, though love such as mine is has seldom been offered
to a woman. I say no word of love--as yet. I say, help me to escape by
night, when I may make my way unseen back to my men: enable me to reach
Howrah before my dear brother is aware of my trouble and before his men
can start plundering, and name your own terms, sahiba!”
Name her own terms--name her own terms--name her own terms! The words
dinned through her head and she could grasp no other thought. She was
alone in a cell with Jaimihr, and she could get out of it if she would
name her terms! She must name them--she must hurry--what were they? What
were her terms? She could not think.
“Understand, sahiba. Certain things are sure. It is sure my men will
come. It is sure that every Rangar on this rock will meet a very far
from pleasant death--”
He grinned, and though she could not see him grin, she knew that he was
doing it. She knew that he was even then imagining a hundred horrors
that the Rangars would endure before they died. She might name her
terms. She could save them.
“No!” she hissed hoarsely. “No! They are my terms! I name them! You must
spare them--spare the Rangars--spare every man on this hill, and theirs,
and all they have!”
“Truly are those thy terms, sahiba?”
“Truly! What others can I ask?”
“They are granted, sahiba!”
“Oh, thank God!”
She knew that he was speaking at least half the truth. She knew his
power. She knew enough of Howrah City's politics to be convinced that
he would not be left at the mercy of a little band of Rangars. She knew
that there were not enough Rangars on the whole countryside to oppose
the army that would surely come to his rescue. And whether he were dead
or living, she knew well enough that the vengeance would be wreaked on
every living body on the hill. Alwa might feel confident, not she. She
trembled now with joy at the thought that she--she the most helpless and
useless of all of them--might save the lives of all.
But then another phase of the problem daunted her. She might help
Jaimihr go. He might escape unobserved with her aid. But then? What
then? What would the Rangars do to her? Had she sufficient courage to
face that? It was not fear now that swept over her so much as wonder at
herself. Jaimihr detected something different in her mental attitude,
and, since almost any change means weakness to the Oriental mind, he
was quick to try to take advantage of it. He guessed right at the first
attempt.
“And what wilt thou do here, sahiba? When I am gone, and there is none
here to love thee--”
“Peace!” she commanded. “Peace! I have suffered enough--”
“Thou wilt suffer more, should the Rangars learn--”
“That is my business! Let me pass! I have bargained, and I will try to
fulfil my part!”
She stepped toward the door, but he held out both his arms and she saw
them. She had no intention of being embraced by him, whatever their
conspiracy.
“Stand back!” she ordered.
“Nay, nay, sahiba! Listen! Escape with me! These Rangars will not
believe without proof that thou hast saved their lives by bargaining.
They will show thee short shrift indeed when my loss is discovered. Come
now and I will make thee Maharanee in a week!”
“I would be as safe with one as with the other!” she laughed, something
of calm reflection returning to her. “And what proof have I in any case
that you will keep your word, Jaimihr-sahib. I will keep mine--but who
will keep yours, that has been so often broken?”
“Sahiba--”
“Show me a proof!”
“Here--now--in this place?”
“Convince me, if you can! I will give myself willingly if I can save my
father by it and these Rangars and Mr. Cunningham; but your bare word,
Jaimihr-sahib, is worth that!”
She snapped her fingers, and he swore beneath his breath. Then he
remembered his ambition and his present need, and words raced to his
aid--words, plans, oaths, treachery, and all the hundred and one tricks
that he was used to. He found himself consciously selecting from a dozen
different plans for tricking her.
“Sahiba”--he spoke slowly and convincingly. In the gloom she could
see his brown eyes levelled straight at hers, and she saw they did not
flinch--“there is none who knows better than thou knowest how my brother
and I stand to each other.” She shuddered at the reiterated second
person singular, but he either did not notice it or else affected not
to. “Thou know est that there is no love between him and me, and that
I would have his throne. The British could set me on that throne unless
they were first overwhelmed. Wert thou my legal wife, and were I to aid
the British in this minute of their need, they would not be overwhelmed,
and afterward they would surely set me on the throne. Therefore I pledge
my word to lead my men to the Company's aid, provided that these Rangars
ride to my aid. My brother plans to overcome me first, and then take
arms against the British. If the Rangars come to help me I will ride
with them to the Company's aid afterward. That is my given word!”
“Then the throne of Howrah is your price, Jaimihr-sahib?”
“Thou art the price and the prize, sahiba! For thee I would win the
throne!”
She actually laughed, and he winced palpably. There was no doubt that he
loved her after a manner of his own, and her contempt hurt him.
“I have said all I can say,” he told her. “I have promised all I can
promise. What more is there to say or offer? If I stay here, I swear on
the honor of a Rajput and a prince of royal blood, that every living
man and woman on this rock, excepting thee only, shall be dead within a
week. But if I escape by thy aid, and if, at thy instance, these Rangars
and their friends ride to my help against my brother, then I will throw
all my weight--men and influence--in the scale on the British side.”
“And--?”
“And thou shalt be Maharanee!”
“Never!”
“But in case that the British should be beaten before we reach them,
then, sahiba! Then in case of thy need!”
“Jaimihr-sahib, I will help you to escape tonight on the terms that you
have named--that you spare these Rangars and every living body on this
hill. Then I will do my utmost to persuade the Rangars to ride to your
assistance on your condition, that you lead your men to help the British
afterward. And if my action in helping you escape should make the
Rangars turn against me and my immediate friends, I shall claim your
protection. Is that agreed?”
“Sahiba--absolutely!”
“Then let me pass!”
Reluctantly he stood aside. She slipped out and let the bar down
unobserved. But she had not recovered all her self-possession when she
reached the courtyard.
“Evening, Miss McClean,” said Cunningham; and she all but fainted, she
was strained to such a pitch of nervousness.
“Where have you come from, Miss McClean?” asked Cunningham. And she told
him. She was not quite so stiff-chinned as she had been.
“What were you doing there?”
She told him that, too.
“Where is your father?”
“In his chair on the veranda, Mr. Cunningham. There, in that deep
shadow.”
“Come to him, please. I want your explanation in his presence.”
She followed as obediently as a child. The sense of guilt--of fright--of
impending judgment left her as she walked with him, and gave place to a
glow of comfort that here should be a man on whom to lean. She did not
fight the new sensation, for she was growing strangely weary of the
other one. By the time that they had reached her father, and he was
standing before Cunningham wiping his spectacles in his nervous way, she
had completely recovered her self-possession, although it is likely she
would not have given any reason for it to herself.
Cunningham held a lantern up, so that he could study both their faces.
His own face muscles were set rigidly, and he questioned them as
he might have cross-examined a spy caught in the act. His voice was
uncompromising, and his manner stern.
“Do you both understand how serious this situation is?” he asked.
“We naturally do,” said Duncan McClean. The Scotsman was beginning to
betray an inclination to bridle under the youngster's attitude, and to
show an equally pronounced desire not to appear to. “More so, probably,
than anybody else!”
“Are you positive--both of you--you too, Mr. McClean--that all that talk
about treasure in Howrah City is not mere imagination and legend?”
“Absolutely positive!” They both answered him at once, both looking in
his eyes across the unsteady rays of the flickering, smoky lamp. “The
amount has been, of course, much exaggerated,” said McClean, “but I have
no doubt there is enough there to pay the taxes of all India for a year
or two.”
“Then I have another question to ask. Do you both--or do you
not--place yourselves at the service of the Company? It is likely to be
dangerous--a desperate service. But the Company needs all that it can
muster.”
“Of course we do!” Again both answered in one breath.
“Do you understand that that involves taking my orders?”
This time Duncan McClean did the answering, and now it was he who seized
the lamp. He held it high, and scanned Cunningham's face as though he
were reading a finely drawn map.
“We are prepared--I speak for my daughter as well as for myself--to obey
any orders that you have a right to give, young man.”
“You misunderstand me,” answered Cunningham. “I am offering you the
opportunity to serve the Company. As the Company's senior officer in the
neighborhood, I am responsible to the Company for such orders as I see
fit to give. I could not have my orders questioned. I don't mind telling
you that I'm asking you, as British subjects, no more than I intend to
ask Alwa and his Rangars. You can do as much as they are going to be
asked to do. You can't do more. But you can do less if you like. You
are being given the opportunity now to offer your services
unconditionally--that is to say in the only manner in which I will
accept them. Otherwise you will remain non-combatants, and I shall take
such measures for your safety as I see fit. Time presses. Your answer,
please!”
“I will obey your legal orders,” said McClean, still making full use of
the lantern.
“I refuse to admit the qualification,” answered Cunningham promptly.
“Either you will obey, or you will not. You are asked to say which, that
is all.”
“I will obey,” said Rosemary McClean quietly. She said it through
straight lips and in a level voice that carried more assurance than a
string of loud-voiced oaths.
“And you, sir?”
“Since my daughter sees fit to--ah--capitulate, I have no option.”
“Be good enough to be explicit.”
“I agree to obey your orders.”
“Thank you.” He seemed to have finished with McClean. He turned away
from him and faced Rosemary, not troubling to examine her face closely
as he had done her father's, but seeming none the less to give her full
attention. “I understood you to say that you promised to help Prince
Jaimihr to escape from his cell tonight?”
“WHAT?”
Duncan McClean could not have acted such amazement. Cunningham desired
no further evidence that he had not been accessory to his daughter's
visit to the prisoner. He silenced him with a gesture. And now his eyes
seemed for the time being to have finished with both of them; in spite
of the darkness they both knew that he had resumed the far-away look
that seemed able to see things finished.
“Yes,” said Rosemary. “I promised. I had to.”
Her father gasped. But Cunningham appeared to follow an unbroken chain
of thought, and she listened.
“Well. You will both realize readily that we, as British subjects, are
ranged all together on one side opposed to treachery, as represented
by the large majority of the natives. That means that our first
consideration must be to keep our given word. What we say,--what we
promise--what we boast--must tally with what we undertake, and at the
least try, to do. You must keep your word to Jaimihr, Miss McClean!”
She stared back at Cunningham through wide, unfrightened eyes. Whatever
this man said to her, she seemed unable to feel fear while she had his
attention. Her father seemed utterly bewildered, and she held his hand
to reassure him.
“On the other hand, we cannot be guilty of a breach of faith to our
friend Alwa here. I must have a little talk with him before I issue any
orders. Please wait here and--ah--do nothing while I talk to Alwa. Did
you--ah--did you agree to marry Jaimihr, should he make you Maharanee?”
“No! I told him I would rather die!”
“Thank you. That makes matters easier. Now tell me over again from
the beginning what you know about the political situation in Howrah.
Quickly, please. Consider yourself a scout reporting to his officer.”
Ten minutes later Cunninham heard a commotion by the parapet, and
stalked off to find Alwa, close followed by Mahommed Gunga. The grim old
Rajput was grinning in his beard as he recognized the set of what might
have been Cunningham the elder's shoulders.