The only things which can not be explained are facts. So,
use 'em. A riddle is proof there is a key to it. Nor is it
a riddle when you've got the key. Life is as simple as all
that.--Cocker
Delhi boasts a round half-dozen railway stations, all of them designed
with regard to war, so that to King there was nothing unexpected in the
fact that the train had brought him to an unexpected station. He
plunged into its crowd much as a man in the mood might plunge into a
whirlpool,--laughing as he plunged, for it was the most intoxicating
splurge of color, din and smell that even India, the many-peopled--even
Delhi, mother of dynasties--ever had evolved.
The station echoed--reverberated--hummed. A roar went up of human
voices, babbling in twenty tongues, and above that rose in differing
degrees the ear-splitting shriek of locomotives, the blare of bugles,
the neigh of led horses, the bray of mules, the jingle of gun-chains and
the thundering cadence of drilled feet.
At one minute the whole building shook to the thunder of a grinning
regiment; an instant later it clattered to the wrought-steel hammer of a
thousand hoofs, as led troop-horses danced into formation to invade the
waiting trucks. Loaded trucks banged into one another and thunderclapped
their way into the sidings. And soldiers of nearly every Indian military
caste stood about everywhere, in what was picturesque confusion to the
uninitiated, yet like the letters of an index to a man who knew. And
King knew. Down the back of each platform Tommy Atkins stood in long
straight lines, talking or munching great sandwiches or smoking.
The heat smelt and felt of another world. The din was from the same
sphere. Yet everywhere was hope and geniality and by-your-leave as if
weddings were in the wind and not the overture to death.
Threading his way in and out among the motley swarm with a
great black cheroot between his teeth and sweat running into
his eyes from his helmet-band, Athelstan King strode at ease--at
home--intent--amused--awake--and almost awfully happy. He was not in the
least less happy because perfectly aware that a native was following him
at a distance, although he did wonder how the native had contrived to
pass within the lines.
The general at Peshawur had compressed about a ton of miscellaneous
information into fifteen hurried minutes, but mostly he had given him
leave and orders to inform himself; so the fun was under way of winning
exact knowledge in spite of officers, not one of whom would not have
grown instantly suspicions at the first asked question. At the end of
fifteen minutes there was not a glib staff-officer there who could have
deceived him as to the numbers and destination of the force entraining.
“Kerachi!” he told himself, chewing the butt of his cigar and keeping
well ahead of the shadowing native. Always keep a “shadow” moving until
you're ready to deal with him is one of Cocker's very soundest rules.
“Turkey hasn't taken a hand yet--the general said so. No holy war yet.
These'll be held in readiness to cross to Basra in case the Turks
begin. While they wait for that at Kerachi the tribes won't dare begin
anything. One or two spies are sure to break North and tell them what
this force is for--but the tribes won't believe. They'll wait until the
force has moved to Basra before they take chances. Good! That means no
especial hurry for me!”
He did not have to return salutes, because he did not look for them.
Very few people noticed him at all, although he was recognized once
or twice by former messmates, and one officer stopped him with an
out-stretched hand.
“Shake hands, you old tramp! Where are you bound for next? Tibet by any
chance--or is it Samarkand this time?”
“Oh, hullo, Carmichel!” he answered, beaming instant good-fellowship.
“Where are you bound for?” And the other did not notice that his own
question had not been answered.
“Bombay! Bombay--Marseilles--Brussels--Berlin!”
“Wish you luck!” laughed King, passing on. Every living man there, with
the exception of a few staff-officers, believed himself en route for
Europe; their faces said as much. Yet King took another look at the
piles of stores and at the kits the men carried.
“Who'd take all that stuff to Europe, where they make it?” he reflected.
“And what 'u'd they use camel harness for in France?”
At his leisure--in his own way, that was devious and like a string of
miracles--he filtered toward the telegraph office. The native who had
followed him all this time drew closer, but he did not let himself be
troubled by that.
He whispered proof of his identity to the telegraph clerk, who was a
Royal Engineer, new to that job that morning, and a sealed telegram was
handed to him at once. The “shadow” came very close indeed, presumably
to try and read over his shoulder from behind, but he side-stepped into
a corner and read the telegram with his back to the wall.
It was in English, no doubt to escape suspicion; and because it was
war-time, and the censorship had closed on India like a throttling
string, it was not in code. So the wording, all things considered, had
to be ingenious, for the Mirza Ali, of the Fort, Bombay, to whom it
was addressed, could scarcely be expected to read more than between the
lines. The lines had to be there to read between.
“Cattle intended for slaughter,” it ran, “despatched Bombay on Fourteen
down. Meet train. Will be inspected en route, but should be dealt with
carefully, on arrival. Cattle inclined to stampede owing to bad scare
received to North of Delhi. Take all precautions and notify Abdul.” It
was signed “Suliman.”
“Good!” he chuckled. “Let's hope we get Abdul too. I wonder who he is!”
Still uninterested in the man who shadowed him, he walked back to the
office window and wrote two telegrams; one to Bombay, ordering the
arrest of Ali Mirza of the Fort, with an urgent admonition to discover
who his man Abdul might be, and to seize him as soon as found; the other
to the station in the north, insisting on close confinement for Suliman.
“Don't let him out on any terms at all!” he wired.
That being all the urgent business, he turned leisurely to face his
shadow, and the native met his eyes with the engaging frankness of an
old friend, coming forward with outstretched hand. They did not shake
hands, for King knew better than to fall into the first trap offered
him. But the man made a signal with his fingers that is known to not
more than a dozen men in all the world, and that changed the situation
altogether.
“Walk with me,” said King, and the man fell into stride beside him.
He was a Rangar,--which is to say a Rajput who, or whose ancestors had
turned Muhammadan. Like many Rajputs he was not a big man, but he looked
fit and wiry; his head scarcely came above the level of King's chin,
although his turban distracted attention from the fact. The turban was
of silk and unusually large.
The whitest of well-kept teeth, gleaming regularly under a little black
waxed mustache betrayed no trace of betel-nut or other nastiness, and
neither his fine features nor his eyes suggested vice of the sort that
often undermines the character of Rajput youth.
On second thoughts, and at the next opportunity to see them, King was
not so sure that the eyes were brown, and he changed his opinion about
their color a dozen times within the hour. Once he would even have sworn
they were green.
The man was well-to-do, for his turban was of costly silk, and he was
clad in expensive jodpur riding breeches and spurred black riding boots,
all perfectly immaculate. The breeches, baggy above and tight, below,
suggested the clean lines of cat-like agility and strength.
The upper part of his costume was semi-European. He was a regular Rangar
dandy, of the type that can be seen playing polo almost any day at
Mount Abu--that gets into mischief with a grace due to practise and
heredity--but that does not manage its estates too well, as a rule, nor
pay its debts in a hurry.
“My name is Rewa Gunga,” he said in a low voice, looking up sidewise at
King a shade too guilelessly. Between Cape Comorin and the Northern Ice
guile is normal, and its absence makes the wise suspicious.
“I am Captain King.”
“I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“From her!” said the Rangar, and without exactly knowing why, or being
pleased with himself, King felt excited.
They were walking toward the station exit. King had a trunk check in
his hand, but returned it to pocket, not proposing just yet to let this
Rangar over-hear instructions regarding the trunk's destination; he was
too good-looking and too overbrimming with personal charm to be trusted
thus early in the game. Besides, there was that captured knife, that
hinted at lies and treachery. Secret signs as well as loot have been
stolen before now.
“I'd like to walk through the streets and see the crowd.”
He smiled as he said that, knowing well that the average young Rajput of
good birth would rather fight a tiger with cold steel than walk a mile
or two. He drew fire at once.
“Why walk, King sahib? Are we animals? There is a carriage waiting--her
carriage--and a coachman whose ears were born dead. We might be
overheard in the street. Are you and I children, tossing stones into a
pool to watch the rings widen!”
“Lead on, then,” answered King.
Outside the station was a luxuriously modern victoria, with C springs
and rubber tires, with horses that would have done credit to a viceroy.
The Rangar motioned King to get in first, and the moment they were both
seated the Rajput coachman set the horses to going like the wind. Rewa
Gunga opened a jeweled cigarette case.
“Will you have one?” he asked with the air of royalty entertaining a
blood-equal.
King accepted a cigarette for politeness' sake and took occasion to
admire the man's slender wrist, that was doubtless hard and strong as
woven steel, but was not much more than half the thickness of his own.
The Rajputs as a race are proud of their wrists and hands. Their swords
are made with a hilt so small that none save a Rajput of the blood could
possibly use one; yet there is no race in all warring India, nor any
in the world, that bears a finer record for hard fighting and sheer
derring-do. One of the questions that occurred to King that minute was
why this well-bred youngster whose age he guessed at twenty-two or so
had not turned his attention to the army.
“My height!”
The man had read his thoughts!
“Not quite tall enough. Besides--you are a soldier, are you not? And do
you fight?”
He nodded toward a dozen water-buffaloes, that slouched along the street
with wet goatskin mussuks slung on their blue flanks.
“They can fight,” he said smiling. “So can any other fool!” Then, after
a minute of rather strained silence: “My message is from her.”
“From Yasmini?”
“Who else?”
King accepted the rebuke with a little inclination of the head. He spoke
as little as possible, because he was puzzled. He had become conscious
of a puzzled look in the Rangar's eyes--of a subtle wonderment that
might be intentional flattery (for Art and the East are one). Whenever
the East is doubtful, and recognizes doubt, it is as dangerous as a
hillside in the rains, and it only added to his problem if the Rangar
found in him something inexplicable. The West can only get the better of
the East when the East is too cock-sure.
“She has jolly well gone North!” said the Rangar suddenly, and King
shut his teeth with a snap. He sat bolt upright, and the Rangar allowed
himself to look amused.
“When? Why?”
“She was too jolly well excited to wait, sahib! She is of the North,
you know. She loves the North, and the men of the 'Hills'; and she knows
them because she loves them. There came a tar (telegram) from Peshawur,
from a general, to say King sahib comes to Delhi; but already she had
completed all arrangements here. She was in a great stew, I can assure
you. Finally she said, 'Why should I wait?' Nobody could answer her.”
He spoke English well enough. Few educated foreign gentlemen could have
spoken it better, although there was the tendency to use slang that
well-bred natives insist on picking up from British officers; and as he
went on, here and there the native idiom crept through, translated. King
said nothing, but listened and watched, puzzled more than he would
have cared to admit by the look in the Rangar's eyes. It was not
suspicion--nor respect. Yet there was a suggestion of both.
“At last she said, 'It is well; I will not wait! I know of this sahib.
He is a man whose feet stand under him and he will not tread my growing
flowers into garbage! He will be clever enough to pick up the end of
the thread that I shall leave behind and follow it and me! He is a true
hound, with a nose that reads the wind, or the general sahib never would
have sent him!' So she left me behind, sahib, to--to present to you the
end of the thread of which she spoke.”
King tossed away the stump of the cigarette and rolled his tongue round
the butt of a fresh cheroot. The word “hound” is not necessarily a
compliment in any of a thousand Eastern tongues and gains little by
translation. It might have been a slip, but the East takes advantage of
its own slips as well as of other peoples' unless watched.
The carriage swayed at high speed round three sharp corners in
succession before the Rangar spoke again.
“She has often heard of you,” he said then. That was not unlikely, but
not necessarily true either. If it were true, it did not help to account
for the puzzled look in the Rangar's eyes, that increased rather than
diminished.
“I've heard of her,” said King.
“Of course! Who has not? She has desired to meet you, sahib, ever since
she was told you are the best man in your service.”
King grunted, thinking of the knife beneath his shirt.
“She is very glad that you and she are on the same errand.” He leaned
forward for the sake of emphasis and laid a finger on King's hand. It
was a delicate, dainty finger with an almond nail. “She is very glad.
She is far more glad than you imagine, or than you would believe. King
sahib, she is all bucked up about it! Listen--her web is wide! Her
agents are here--there--everywhere, and she is obeyed as few kings have
ever been! Those agents shall all be held answerable for your life,
sahib,--for she has said so! They are one and all your bodyguard, from
now forward!”
King inclined his head politely, but the weight of the knife inside
his shirt did not encourage credulity. True, it might not be Yasmini's
knife, and the Rangar's emphatic assurance might not be an unintentional
admission that the man who had tried to use it was Yasmini's man. But
when a man has formed the habit of deduction, he deduces as he goes
along, and is prone to believe what his instinct tells him.
Again, it was as if the Rangar read a part of his thoughts, if not all
of them. It is not difficult to counter that trick, but to do it a man
must be on his guard, or the East will know what he has thought and what
he is going to think, as many have discovered when it was too late.
“Her men are able to protect anybody's life from any God's number of
assassins, whatever may lead you to think the contrary. From now forward
your life is in her men's keeping!”
“Very good of her; I'm sure,” King murmured. He was thinking of the
general's express order to apply for a “passport” that would take him
into Khinjan Caves--mentally cursing the necessity for asking any kind
of favor,--and wondering whether to ask this man for it or wait until he
should meet Yasmini. He had about made up his mind that to wait would
be quite within a strict interpretation of his orders, as well as
infinitely more agreeable to himself, when the Rangar answered his
thoughts again as if he had spoken them aloud.
“She left this with me, saying I am to give it to you! I am to say that
wherever you wear it, between here and Afghanistan, your life shall be
safe and you may come and go!”
King stared. The Rangar drew a bracelet from an inner pocket and held it
out. It was a wonderful, barbaric thing of pure gold, big enough for a
grown man's wrist, and old enough to have been hammered out in the very
womb of time. It looked almost like ancient Greek, and it fastened with
a hinge and clasp that looked as if they did not belong to it, and might
have been made by a not very skillful modern jeweler.
“Won't you wear it?” asked Rewa Gunga, watching him. “It will prove a
true talisman! What was the name of the Johnny who had a lamp to rub?
Aladdin? It will be better than what he had! He could only command a lot
of bogies. This will give you authority over flesh and blood! Take it,
sahib!”
So King put it on, letting it slip up his sleeve, out of sight,--with
a sensation as the snap closed of putting handcuffs on himself. But the
Rangar looked relieved.
“That is your passport, sahib! Show it to a Hill-man whenever you
suppose yourself in danger. The Raj might go to pieces, but while
Yasmini lives--”
“Her friends will boast about her, I suppose!”
King finished the sentence for him because it is not considered good
form for natives to hint at possible dissolution of the Anglo-Indian
Government. Everybody knows that the British will not govern India
forever, but the British--who know it best of all, and work to that end
most fervently--are the only ones encouraged to talk about it.
For a few minutes after that Rewa Gunga held his peace, while the
carriage swayed at breakneck speed through the swarming streets. They
had to drive slower in the Chandni Chowk, for the ancient Street of the
Silversmiths that is now the mart of Delhi was ablaze with crude colors,
and was thronged with more people than ever since '57. There were a
thousand signs worth studying by a man who could read them.
King, watching and saying nothing, reached the conclusion that Delhi was
in hand--excited undoubtedly, more than a bit bewildered, watchful,
but in hand. Without exactly knowing how he did it, he grew aware of a
certain confidence that underlay the surface fuss. After that the sea
of changing patterns and raised voices ceased to have any particular
interest for him and he lay back against the cushions to pay stricter
attention to his own immediate affairs.
He did not believe for a second the lame explanation Yasmini had left
behind. She must have some good reason for wishing to be first up the
Khyber, and he was very sorry indeed she had slipped away. It might be
only jealousy, yet why should she be jealous? It might be fear--yet why
should she be afraid?
It was the next remark of the Rangar's that set him entirely on his
guard, and thenceforward whoever could have read his thoughts would have
been more than human. Perhaps it is the most dominant characteristic of
the British race that it will not defend itself until it must. He had
known of that thought-reading trick ever since his ayah (native
nurse) taught him to lisp Hindustanee; just as surely he knew that its
impudent, repeated use was intended to sap his belief in himself. There
is not much to choose between the native impudence that dares intrude on
a man's thoughts, and the insolence that understands it, and is rather
too proud to care.
“I'll bet you a hundred dibs,” said the Rangar, “that she jolly well
didn't fancy your being on the scene ahead of her! I'll bet you she
decided to be there first and get control of the situation! Take me?
You'd lose if you did! She's slippery, and quick, and like all Women,
she's jealous!”
The Rangar's eyes were on his, but King was not to be caught again.
It is quite easy to think behind a fence, so to speak, if one gives
attention to it.
“She will be busy presently fooling those Afridis,” he continued, waving
his cigarette. “She has fooled them always, to the limit of their bally
bent. They all believe she is their best friend in the world--oh, dear
Yes, you bet they do! And so she is--so she is--but not in the way they
think! They believe she plots with them against the Raj! Poor silly
devils! Yet Yasmini loves them! They want war--blood--loot! It is all
they think about! They are seldom satisfied unless their wrists and
elbows are bally well red with other peoples' gore! And while they
are picturing the loot, and the slaughter of unbelievers--(as if they
believed anything but foolishness themselves!)--Yasmini plays her own
game, for amusement and power--a good game--a deep game! You have seen
already how India has to ask her aid in the 'Hills'! She loves power,
power, power--not for its name, for names are nothing, but to use
it. She loves the feel of it! Fighting is not power! Blood-letting
is foolishness. If there is any blood spilt it is none of her
doing--unless--”
“Unless what?” asked King.
“Oh--sometimes there were fools who interfered. You can not blame her
for that.”
“You seem to be a champion of hers! How long have you known her?”'
The Rangar eyed him sharply.
“A long time. She and I played together when we were children. I know
her whole history--and that is something nobody else in the world knows
but she herself. You see, I am favored. It is because she knows me very
well that she chose me to travel North with you, when you start to find
her in the 'Hills'!”
King cleared his throat, and the Rangar nodded, looking into his eyes
with the engaging confidence of a child who never has been refused
anything, in or out of reason. King made no effort to look pleased, so
the Rangar drew on his resources.
“I have a letter from her,” he stated blandly.
From a pocket in the carriage cushions he brought out a silver tube,
richly carved in the Kashmiri style and closed at either end with a
tightly fitting silver cap. King accepted it and drew the cap from one
end. A roll of scented paper fell on his lap, and a puff of hot wind
combined with a lurch of the carriage springs came near to lose it
for him; he snatched it just in time and unrolled it to find a letter
written to himself in Urdu, in a beautiful flowing hand.
Urdu is perhaps the politest of written tongues and lends itself most
readily to indirectness; but since he did not expect to read a catalogue
of exact facts, he was not disappointed.
Translated, the letter ran:
“To Athelstan King sahib, by the hand of Rewa Gunga.
Greeting. The bearer is my well-trusted servant, whom
I have chosen to be the sahib's guide until Heaven
shall be propitious and we meet. He is instructed
in all that he need know concerning what is now in hand,
and he will tell by word of mouth such things as ought
not to be written. By all means let Rewa Gunga travel
with you, for he is of royal blood, of the House of
Ketchwaha and will not fail you. His honor and mine
are one. Praying that the many gods of India may heap
honors on your honor's head, providing each his proper
attribute toward entire ability to succeed in all things,
but especially in the present undertaking,
“I am Your Excellency's humble servant,
--Yasmini.”
He had barely finished reading it when the coachman took a last corner
at a gallop and drew the horses up on their haunches at a door in a high
white wall. Rewa Gunga sprang out of the carriage before the horses were
quite at a standstill.
“Here we are!” he said, and King, gathering up the letter and the silver
tube, noticed that the street curved here so that no other door and no
window overlooked this one.
He followed the Rangar, and he was no sooner into the shadow of the door
than the coachman lashed the horses and the carriage swung out of view.
“This way,” said the Rangar over his shoulder. “Come!”