A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shalalai Club, which
institution constituted the ordinary afternoon resort of the society of
the station.
A row of subalterns were roosting on the railing in front of the
exclusively male department of the club, while their dogs fought and
frisked, and snarled and panted, on the sward underneath. Every variety
of dog--large and small, mongrel and thoroughbred--was there
represented; indeed far more variety than might have been discerned
among their owners, who, for the most part, were wonderfully alike; as
to ideas, no less than in outward aspect.
As the afternoon wore on, more subs would ride up by twos and threes, on
bicycles or in dog-carts--or even the homely necessary "gharri"--with
more dogs, and after going inside for a "peg," would emerge to swell the
ranks of those already on the rail; their dogs the while engaging in
combat with those already on the sward.
This rail-roost was a deeply cherished institution, which no
consideration apparently was able to shake; whether the frowns or hints
of superiors, or the attractions of the ornamental sex. This was
scarcely surprising, for the ornamental sex as represented at Shalalai
was, with very little exception, singularly unornamental; which, though
paradoxical, was none the less fact.
The tennis courts were in full blast, with a fringe of spectators.
There were many sunshades and up-to-date hats and costumes scattered
about the lawn, yet upwards of forty British subalterns roosted upon the
railing.
"Hallo, Cox," sung out one, hailing a new comer. "When are you going to
catch Umar Khan?"
"No betting on this time, Cox," said another, "unless it's on Umar
Khan."
He addressed was a handsome, pleasant, fresh faced young fellow, who
held a somewhat important political post. The point of the banter on
the subject of Umar Khan was that Cox had started in pursuit of that
bold bandit immediately on receipt of the news of the Mehriab station
affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as
well have started to stalk the wily markhor with the regimental band
playing before him. That had been some weeks ago, but as yet neither
Cox nor anyone else had ever come within measurable prospect of laying
the marauder by the heels.
"Oh, _bus_!" retorted Cox. "Pity they don't turn out some of you
fellows after him. A week or so of tumbling about among rocks and
stones would do you all the good in life. Anyone know where Upward's to
be found, by the way?"
"The jungle-wallah? He was in the billiard room just now knocking fits
out of old Jermyn with that tiger-potting stroke of his. Why? Anything
fresh turned up?"
"I expect you fellows will soon be started after Umar Khan," retorted
Cox, looking knowing, as he turned away to find Upward.
"Wonder if he really means it?" said one of the rail-roosters, after he
had left, and then they fell to talking about the notorious brigand, and
discussing a current rumour to the effect that the Government
contemplated arresting the principal Marri chiefs for suspected
complicity in Umar Khan's misdemeanours, and holding them as hostages
against the surrender of that outlaw, and the safe restoration of his
prisoner.
"Wonder if that poor devil Campian's throat has been cut yet?"
conjectured someone.
"More than likely. If not it will be, directly any of the chiefs are
interfered with."
"They won't bone Mr Umar Khan," said another Solon of the rail-roost.
"He's skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won't give
him up, you bet. Shouldn't wonder if he was at the bottom of it all
himself." At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the
sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.
A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters--evoked
by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number,
were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.
"By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here," added
the speaker plaintively.
"She _can_ handle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer," cut in another of more
sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the
turn-out. "She's got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old
Jermyn's. Isn't that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his
wife couldn't drive him?"
"No. You've got the affair all mixed," returned yet another
emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived
among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion
concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the
quadruped under dispute.
"I don't think Miss Wymer is pretty," declared a Solon of the rail.
"She's awfully fetching, though."
"Rather. There's a something about her you don't often meet with, and
you don't know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn't old
Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?"
"Oh, he's that on every woman under the sun--in rotation. This one let
him have what for, though."
"Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?" exclaimed several.
"Rather. They were talking about the Mehriab affair, and Bracebrydge
said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know
what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well,
he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than
hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first
opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she
thought she knew one or two who wouldn't have waited for that--they'd
have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him
straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell
you--great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in
the eye."
"Serve him jolly well right," declared one of the listeners, and his
opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among
those who roosted on the railing.
"I think Miss Cheriton's the prettiest of the two," said the youth who
had first spoken. "She's one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in
my life."
"Then why don't you make hay while the sun shines?" rejoined another.
"Go and make yourself agreeable--if you can, that is. They've just gone
into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something,
chappie."
"I think I will." And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he
went. Those remaining continued their subject.
"Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed ass to have hit that
particular nail on the head. It's my belief he couldn't have hit the
wrong one harder, anyway."
"The devil he couldn't!"
"Well, I don't know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had,
thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn't
count. If they hadn't altogether set up a _bundobust_, it was most
likely only a question of time."
"_Miss_ Wymer hasn't been to a dance since that affair," struck in
another oracle of the rail. "Looks as if there was some fire beneath
the smoke. What?"
"That don't follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to
have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his
fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that
would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn't care to think, while she was
frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking
the poor chap to pieces."
It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers
expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally
self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings,
Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without--
in popular parlance--giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and
night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last;
calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of
these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of
the old days she dared not even think--and, since this tragedy had come
between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained
from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too
pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a
comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a
natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not
entirely escape comment, as we have seen.
She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different
in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate,
they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a
good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in
common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present
subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost
hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the
captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose
it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air.
For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the
aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan's envoy--none
other than Ihalil Mohammed himself--he who had negotiated the terms.
Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner
would not be handed over. It was not in the _bundobust_. Nothing had
been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five
thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der' Ali stared at each other in blank
dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such
stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been
understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook
his head slightly, and repeated--as impassable as ever, "It was not in
the _bundobust_."
Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal
treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any
rate, not one _pice_ should they get from him until the sahib was handed
over safe and sound. Then they should have every _anna_ of it. Not
before.
At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one shaggy eyebrow, and remarked
laconically:
"Sheep are flayed after they are dead, _not before_."
The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this
remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his
temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver.
This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two shaggy eyebrows and observed:
"Sheep are flayed _and roasted_ after they are dead--_not before_."
Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity.
The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough
even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole
situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture
produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would
be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it
unmolested--and, indeed, such was the case.
"Is the sahib still alive?" asked the Colonel.
"He is still alive."
"And well?"
"And well."
"Very good. Now then, Der' Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell
his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib
safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will
pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him,
then the _Sirkar_ will never rest until he has hung him and every man
Jack of the gang--hung 'em in pigskins, by God, and burnt them
afterwards. What does he say to that?"
Der' Ali, being judicious, substituted courteous epithets for the
naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and
Der' Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain
terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had
not scrupled to make use, substituting for it mysterious and sinister
hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil's
reply was characteristically laconic.
"Well, what does he say?" repeated the Colonel testily.
"He say--he hears, _Huzoor_."
"Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der' Ali?"
"He say--he can't say, _Huzoor_," answered the interpreter, having
elicited that terse reply.
"Tell him to go to the devil, then," said the Colonel, unable to resist
an angry stamp of the foot.
Der' Ali rendered this as--"Go in peace," and Ihalil, uttering an
impassive "Salaam," mounted his camel, and--did so.
They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere
white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and
shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their
prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the
chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or
semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would
like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All
men loved money--even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little--
he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar
Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were
offered him.
But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there
was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then
those interested in Campian's fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost
abandoned hope.
But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual.
Shalalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian's fate,
except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested
in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder
of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare.
That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical,
predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly
nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling
picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up
as unsafe--for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either
side contain scowling, shaggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was
there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?
Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of
paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay assiduous
court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow.
She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay,
sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over,
shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be
there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been
thrown together a lot in Upward's camp--moreover, when he and
Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he
improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled the _tangi_ adventure,
and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his
equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-glass. It was
too damned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking
face and well-knit soldierly figure--that any girl could prefer a dry
old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that--so, giving his
gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to
start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.
But on reaching Upward's bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not
alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly
believe his ears. She was depreciating--yes, actually depreciating--the
British Army.
"I don't know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shalalai,"
she was saying as he came in. "Thousands of them. How many are there,
Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shalalai?"
"Oh, about five thousand--of all sorts."
"About five thousand," she repeated, "horse, foot, and artillery, and
yet a dozen ragged Pathans can race about the country, killing people at
will."
"That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?" said Fleming, somewhat shortly,
for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering,
tone.
"I think he _is_ going to be the `everlasting' Umar Khan," she retorted
quickly. "Why don't some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming?
There are enough of you, at any rate."
"We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton," he replied stiffly.
"If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn't wait for orders if there was
anything of that sort to be done," she retorted, with delightful
inconsistency. "I'd get leave to raise a troop, and I'd never rest till
I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on
the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of
course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and--I'm very fond of
her."
Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously,
suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him.
By George, it was not merely on Campian's account she wanted Umar Khan
run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said:
"There's a good deal in what you say, Miss Cheriton. I must think out
how the thing may be done." Then he talked on other and indifferent
matters, and shortly took his leave.
Meanwhile the bi-annual _jirgeh_, or tribal council, was in progress at
Shalalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs
gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet the _Sirkar_ and ventilate
grievances and settle disputes, and in short to discuss matters
generally between themselves and the Executive. Stately chiefs and
their retinues--tall, dignified men, picturesque in their snowy turbans
and long hair and flowing beards, wending thither beneath the
plane-shaded avenue--passed in strange contrast the dapper sub skimming
along on his bicycle, or fashionably attired ladies in their
high-wheeled dogcart flashing by at a hard trot, bound for club or
gymkhana ground. Such, however, they eyed as impassively as they did
the crowd of low caste Hindus which thronged the bazaar; for the
training of their wild desert home had left no room for the display of
emotions. Now and then, recognising some official, they might utter a
grave "Salaam," accompanied by a slight raising of the hand, but that
was all. A contrast indeed! The unchanging East, in its melancholy
dignity and fund of awe-suggesting power--because power held in the
mystery of reserve--jostled by fussy, domineering, up-to-date
civilisation; the fierce, wild, untamable spirits masked by those
copper-hued and dignified countenances, side by side with the careless,
pleasure loving, yet intensely pushing and practical temperament
underlying the fresh, tawny-haired Anglo-Saxon faces. Even the very
headgear suggested a vivid contrast--the multitudinous folds of the
snowy and graceful turban expressive of absence of all capacity for
flurry--cool deliberateness, repose, wisdom--even as the cock of the
perky "bowler" seemed a very object lesson in itself of push and bounce
and "there-to-stay" tenacity.
Now and then one or two of the sirdars would visit Upward to talk
officially on forest matters in their respective districts, or to view
his multifold trophies of the chase, which keenly interested them.
These visits Upward encouraged, hoping to learn something of Campian's
fate. But it was of no avail. Of the massacre at Mehriab station, and
the doings of Umar Khan in general, the wily Asiatics professed the
profoundest ignorance, not with effusive reiteration, but in a grave,
nonchalant, dignified way, as though the matter were entirely unworthy
of their notice or cognisance, once and for all. But to Vivien Wymer,
who never lost an opportunity of studying these people, such visits were
of untold interest; moreover, they seemed to result in a certain degree
of hope renewed. These stately, courteous-mannered potentates had not
got cruel faces. There was a noble look about most of them, even a
benevolent one. Surely these were not the men to sanction a coldblooded
murder.
Meanwhile, during the _jirgeh_, the matter of Umar Khan was receiving
the full attention of the Executive. It was one thing for the chiefs to
protest ignorance in private and unofficial conversation with Upward,
with whom, diplomatically, they had no earthly concern. Carefully and
with due deliberation the authorities narrowed the net--and it was
decided to arrest Yar Hussain Khan, who, as the outlaw's feudal chief,
was responsible for his behaviour--and a sirdar of the Brahuis who was
proved to have sheltered and screened him.
The chiefs in question made no trouble over the decision of the
_Sirkar_. With Oriental impassibility they accepted the situation, and
were placed under guard accordingly. But two nights later Umar Khan
swooped down upon a Levy post within ten miles of Shalalai, surprised
and massacred the handful of Hindu sepoys in charge, and rolled a couple
of field pieces down the mountain side, retiring as swiftly as he had
appeared: while the Brahui clans in the neighbourhood began to make
themselves disagreeable by various small acts of aggression which
rendered it unsafe to venture many miles beyond the lines.
Things began to look uncommonly lively in and about that station
containing five thousand troops--horse, foot and artillery.