Away in the Kharawan desert the dust columns are whirling heavenward in
many a tall spiral shaft; more like the hissing steam jets of some vast
geyser than anything so dry and unadhesible as mere sand.
A dead flat level, stretching afar into misty distance on the skyline on
every hand--its only vegetation a low scrubby attempt at growth; the
fierce sun at a white heat overhead; the sky as brass--what life can
this awful wilderness by any possibility support? Yet so wonderful, so
inexhaustible are the resources of Nature that even here both man and
beast can fare along, and that moderately well.
Camels, with their loads, kneel on the sand, resting from their labours;
with their ugly heads and weird snaky necks and unceasing guttural
snarling roar, conveying the idea of hideous antediluvian monsters
somehow or other forgotten by the Flood in this desert waste. A flock
of black goats, cropping daintily at the sparse attempt at herbage, or
crouching in groups chewing the cud, represents the other phase of
animal life there, unless three or four gaunt Pathan curs employed at
assisting to herd the same. Here and there a tent, or mere shelter of
tanned camel hide, blackened by the heat of innumerable suns, stretched
upon poles, affords a modicum of shelter from the arid baking heat.
It is the hour of prayer. Grouped together the believers are kneeling--
facing towards the holy city; whose exact direction they have a
marvellous faculty for determining with accuracy. As one man they sink
down in their twofold prostration, forehead to the earth, then rise
again, and the droning hum of voices goes out upon the shimmer of the
scorching air. One, in front of the rest, leads the devotions, a
little, shrunken, aged figure, and by his side is another, but it is the
form of a man in all the vigour of his prime.
With more than ordinary unction the prescribed formulae are repeated.
No abstraction or looking round is here, such as the faithful when
individually devout may occasionally give way to. Perhaps it is the
holy character and reputation of the leader that ensures this edifying
result, for the Syyed Hadji Ain Asraf is justly invested with both of
these.
He who prays side by side with this pillar and prop of Moslem orthodoxy
is arrayed like the rest. His white turban, cool and voluminous in its
folds, is the same as that of these swarthy copper-hued sons of the
desert--so, too, are the graceful flowing garments and chudda, in which
he is clad. His shoes are off his feet, and his prostrations and
general attitude differ in no wise from those employed by the other
devotees--the outcome of a lifetime's habit. Yet, as the orisons over,
all rise and resume their shoes and their wonted and work-a-day
demeanour, a close observer might well notice that this is no fanatical
son of the Orient but a man of Anglo-Saxon blood--in short, none other
than Howard Campian.
How then is it that the part has come to him so easily? He had
professed Islam, it is true; but that as a mere expedient to save
himself from the murderous blades of Umar Khan and his followers. Yet
it is strange how the varying phases of life will unconsciously affect
the man who is accustomed to pass through many of them. Your wooden
headed, groove-compressed John Bull, in his stay-at-home,
stick-in-the-mud-ishness, is impervious to any such impressions. He is
too devoid of sympathy for the ideas of any other living soul, for one
thing. But the true cosmopolitan, the globe wanderer, whose wanderings
leave him more and more with an open mind, can see things differently,
can even realise that the multifold races and tongues and creeds who
inhabit this earth do not necessarily do so on gracious sufferance of
John Bull aforesaid, with whom, by the way, they have not the shadow of
an idea in common. It happened that Campian had some acquaintance with
the Koran, in fact possessed an English translation of the sacred
volume; a circumstance which stood him in right good stead with those
who held him in durance. The faith of Islam had always struck him as a
rational creed, moral and orderly, with the claims of a fair amount of
antiquity behind it; wherefore now, under duress and as a matter of
expediency, no great shock was entailed upon him in subscribing its
tenets. Besides, his profession of faith involved no denial of any
article of faith he might previously have held. The assertion that
Mohammed was the prophet of God seemed not an outrageous one, looking at
the fact that the stupendous creed, founded or revealed by the seer of
Mecca, held and swayed countless millions, who for sheer devoutness,
consistency to their own profession, and the grandeur of unity, could
give large points to the cute, up-to-date Christian with his one day's
piety and six days' fraud, and his jangling discord of multifold sects.
He was a good bit of a natural actor, wherefore, having a part to play,
he identified himself with it, and played it thoroughly. Partly from
motives of convenience, for his own clothing had undergone wild, rough
treatment of late, partly from those of expediency, he had adopted the
dress of his custodians, and his dark, sunbrowned face, clear cut
features and full beard, framed in the white voluminous turban, was
quite as the face of one of themselves. Only the eyes seemed to betray
the Anglo-Saxon, yet blue or grey eyes are not uncommon among some of
the Afghan tribes.
It is by no means certain that his profession of faith would have
availed to save his life at the rancorous hands of Umar Khan--that
lawless freebooter being impatient of the claims of creed when they
conflicted with his own strong inclinations--but for the interference of
the Syyed Ain Asraf. The dictum of the latter, however, especially in a
matter of faith, was not to be gainsaid. Not by halves, either, had the
Syyed done things. He rejoiced over his new convert, insuring for him
good treatment, and, in short, everything but liberty. We have just
stated that Campian possessed a translation of the Koran, and the fact
that he did so seemed a mark to all that his was no sudden forced
conversion. He had evidently been making a study of their holy
religion, as the Syyed pointed out.
To this lead Campian assiduously played up. The volume was at the
bungalow of the Colonel Sahib, where he had been staying, he explained,
and thither he prevailed on them to accompany him, in order to fetch it.
Nor was that all, for he made use of the circumstance to prevail upon
them to spare the house, as having contained a volume of the sacred
book, and under whose roof had come many inspirations which had led to
his conversion. They had looted the place somewhat, but had refrained
from doing much real damage.
The Syyed Ain Asraf then, had taken his proselyte completely under his
wing, and, through the interpreting agency of Buktiar Khan, was never
tired of instructing him in all the tenets and rules and discipline of
Islam. This was not altogether unwelcome to the said proselyte, and
that for diverse reasons. For one thing the subject really interested
him, and greatly did it beguile the tedium and hardship of his
captivity: for another he was anxious to establish the friendliest
relationship with the old Syyed. The name had recalled itself to his
recollection the moment he heard it uttered. This was the other name
mentioned in connection with the treasure and the ruby sword--Syyed Ain
Asraf, the brother of the fugitive Durani chief, Dost Hussain Khan.
Did this old man know? Was he in the secret, or had all clue been lost?
Again, did that mysterious chest, so startlingly, so grimly lighted
upon by himself, actually contain that rare and priceless treasure?
Often would Campian's thoughts go back to those awful hours spent
hanging over the black depths of the chasm. Often would he wonder
whether the discovery was an actual fact, or a dream, a phantasmagoria
of his state of over-wrought mind and body, and in the hot glare of the
desert he would shade his eyes as though the better to live over again
those hours of horror and of pitchy gloom. But when he would have liked
to sound the old Syyed on the subject, that curse, the barrier of
language, would come in. Save for a smattering of the most ordinary
words, which he had picked up, Campian could only communicate through
the agency of Buktiar Khan, and Buktiar Khan was at best but a slippery
scoundrel, and totally untrustworthy where a matter of such passing
importance was involved.
Campian had long since given up his first idea, viz: that he was being
held as a hostage, to be released on payment of the stipulated five
thousand rupees. That sum he knew had been paid, duly as to time and
conditions, but to his representations that he should be set at liberty
the reply was consistently short and to the point. It was not in the
_bundobust_. So he made up his mind to bide his time patiently, keep
his eyes and ears open, pick up as much of the language as he could, and
pursue his studies of the Koran under the tuition of his now spiritual
guide, Ain Asraf.
That venerable saint found in him a most promising neophyte--and through
the agency of the ex-chuprassi they would hold long theological debates
on this or that point of faith, or the exact interpretation of the words
of the Prophet, wherein the Moslem doctors were wont to read diverse or
ambiguous meaning; and the cheap and spick and span English translation
formed yet one more of those strange life contrasts beside the yellow
parchment scroll covered with its Arabic text--while the Syyed, with the
aid of pebbles placed out, or squares and circles described in the dust,
strove to convey to his disciple some idea of the configuration of the
holy city and the inviolable temple; the sacred Caaba and the stone of
Abraham.
Strange and wild had been Campian's experiences during the long weeks--
months now--since his recapture. His jauntily-expressed self
gratulation on the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of the
Baluchis he can remember now with a rueful smile. Hurried here and
hurried there--now freezing among bleak mountain-tops, now roasting on
the waterless desert: subsisting on food perfectly abominable to
civilised palate, and housed in low square huts, the nocturnal gambols
of whose multifold tenantry tried his as yet scanty stock of Moslem
patience--in truth he has had enough and to spare of such experiences.
So interminable and tortuous withal have been his wanderings that at the
present moment he has not the least idea as to his whereabouts, or
whether Shalalai is north, south, east, or west, or far or near--or
indeed anything about it. One redeeming point about the situation is
that after the first week of his captivity nothing more has been seen of
Umar Khan. That obnoxious ruffian had disappeared as effectually as
though death or his own free will had severed his connection with the
band.
With the additional security the absence of the arch-brigand brought to
him, there came fits of terrible depression. What was going to be the
end of all this, and whither did they purpose to convey him? Northward,
to wild untrodden regions of Afghanistan or Persia when the band should
find it expedient to flee thither--and, what then? Sooner or later the
enmity of Umar Khan would take effect in his murder, secret or open.
And he was so helpless, for though, as we have said, he had adopted
their costume as well as their creed, and was suffered to go out and in
among them at will, never by any chance did his custodians allow him
aught in the shape of a weapon.
And now, as we see him here in the heart of the Kharawan desert, after
the hour of prayer, the old Syyed for the twentieth time and with
unswerving patience and copious diagram is explaining the exact position
of the stone of Abraham and its distance from the holy Caaba, he makes
up his mind to try and break the ice.
"Ask the Syyed, Buktiar," he says, "who was the Sirdar Dost Hussain
Khan?"
But before the ex-chuprassi can put the question, a light dawns over the
aged face. As the question is put it deepens and glows.
"Ya--Allah!" he responds, raising hands and eyes heavenward. "His soul
is in the rim of Paradise, my son. Yet, what knowest thou of Dost
Hussain Khan?"
Campian debated a moment or so what reply to make. There was nothing
suspicious about this, for Orientals are never in a hurry. But he was
spared the necessity of replying at all, for a diversion occurred which
threw the camp into a state of wild excitement.
Away on the skyline a cloud of dust was rising. Onward it swept at a
great rate of speed, whirling heavenward; and through it the tossing of
horses' heads, and the white turbans of their riders.
The dust cloud whirled over them. Recovering from the momentary
blindness of its effect, Campian beheld a score and a half of wild
Baluchis dashing up on horseback. A dozen of these had leaped from
their steeds, and--yes--they were coming straight for him. He had no
weapon, yet in that flash of time he noticed that not a tulwar was
drawn. They flung themselves upon him, bore him to the earth by sheer
weight of numbers, and in a trice he was powerless, bound fast in a
cruelly painful attitude, being in fact trussed up in such wise as to be
brought as nearly into the shape of a huge ball as the human frame is
capable of being brought. Nor was this all. They rammed a gag into his
mouth--a horrible gag composed of a wedge of wood covered with very
dirty rag--and in this plight he was hauled to one of the kneeling
camels, and, literally turned into a bale by being wrapped in sacking,
was loaded up among the other packages upon the animal's back.
The agony of it was excruciating. Every bone in his body ached with the
distortion of the enforced and unwonted attitude. The rack would have
been a joke to it. Moreover, what with the filthy gag, and the sacking
which covered him, he was more than half suffocated. Flames danced and
reeled before his eyes--his brain was bursting. Then a couple of
sickening lurches and jolt--jolt--jolt. The roaring, snarling animal
had risen and was proceeding at its ordinary pace--and now, in addition
to the torture of his strained attitude, the jolting impact of the other
packages seemed in danger of crushing the life out of him against the
pack saddle.
Wherefore this outrage? A moment before, free, comparatively almost one
of themselves, and now--What was the meaning of this abominable
treatment?
Ha! What was that? The trampling of horses--the rush of many hoofs--
nearer and nearer. Now it was thundering around--and racked,
suffocated, half dead, in his agonising and ignominious position, the
blood rushed tingling through the unfortunate man's frame, for over and
above the sudden tumult rose a loud English voice. Rescue at last! In
his sore and painful plight, he nearly fainted with the revulsion of the
thought.
"Tell the devils to stop," it cried. "Now, Sohrab, ask them who they
are, and all about themselves."
And he who listened there helpless, recognised the fresh, bluff voice.
It was that of his quondam camp-mate--Fleming. If only he could make
his presence known--but that noisome gag rendered all sound as
impossible as his bonds rendered movement. He heard the question put by
the Baluchi interpreter, likewise the long-winded reply. Then another
English voice--an impatient one.
"I believe we'd better push on, Fleming. These devils'll take half the
day jawing here. I'm dead certain that was Umar Khan himself in that
crowd just now, and they'll have nearly half an hour's start of us.
Let's get on, say I."
"I don't know quite what to do, Sinclair," said the first voice. "I've
a good mind to overhaul these chaps' loads. There might be some clue in
them--some bit of loot perhaps--which might be a guide to us."
Heavens! How the wretched prisoner strained and tugged at his bonds.
If he could but loosen that diabolical gag ever so slightly! He could
see in imagination the whole scene--the two English officers at the head
of their native troopers; the sullen, scowling Baluchis standing by
their camels hardly deigning to do more than barely answer the questions
put to them; then the impatience of the subaltern shading his eyes to
gaze horizon-ward--and the more cautious, reflective countenance of the
captain. Yes, he could see it all. Rescue, within a yard of him!
Great God! was it to reach him--to touch him, and yet pass him by? He
strained at his bonds till his eyes seemed to burst from his head. One
sound would bring him immediate rescue, immediate freedom--yet not by a
hair's-breadth would that devilish gag relax its constraint.
"Pho! What could we find that would help us?" rejoined the impatient
voice of the subaltern. "And every moment Umar Khan is putting another
mile of this infernal desert between him and us."
The argument seemed to weigh. The sharp, crisp word to advance--the
rattle of sabres and the jingle of bits; the thud of the troop-horses'
feet, and the swish of the thrown-up sand--all told its own tale to the
ears of the wretched prisoner as the troop swept onward, literally
within a couple of yards of him, and soon died away. Then the renewed
jolt--jolt, told that the camels had resumed their interrupted march.
It was the last straw. Physical anguish and mental revulsion proved too
much. The unfortunate man lost all consciousness in a dead swoon.