“If convenient!”—Jaffer stared at the bombshell.
It had chased him through the alleys of his native town to the little
hospital, and exploded exactly when he needed a steady nerve. This
came of almost never writing to Chat. Not once since Christmas had he
entertained the boys with a letter about the conditions of things in
Peshawar. The hill-tribes had kept the cantonments busy all winter. After
four years of docility they had begun their old owl-tricks of swooping
down by night to carry off silver and guns. Everybody in Peshawar lived
in fear. Dean’s hotel had been guarded every night, and so had every shop
that could afford it.
It was Tuesday, April 21, the sixth day of the second month of Jomhadi.
Jaffer had risen that morning from happy dreams of travel. In a week he
would be starting for Chicago, and in six he would be shaking hands with
Dr. Trench. Consequently the Caravansery had seemed sublimed in a golden
haze. Why, then, when one was so anxious to get back to one’s friends,
should one’s friends arise and smash the whole illusion?
Had the cool Bengali the slightest notion of what he was asking? Did Chat
suppose that Tashkent was an island where Jaffer’s steamer would stop?
The expense of turning aside at Bombay, sailing up the Persian Gulf, and
visiting Tashkent by railway could not be an anna less than three hundred
rupees.
Oh, this was an absurd intrusion on a perfect morning. To the north arose
the eternal barrier, which he, a born Peshawari, had never crossed. He
had once been up the Khyber Pass, as everybody had, but not beyond the
limits of English supervision. He and his father had proceeded in a tonga
as far as Ali Masjid, and had driven back the whole distance at top
speed, before their permit should expire.
As he stared out of the window at the sunlit mountains, a certain
boyhood feeling returned. What lay behind them? How often he had heard
the stories! But he had been away to school so many years that he had
grown to manhood without a single adventure in the land of his nearest
neighbours. Perhaps he had better borrow the camel on which he had been
exercising all winter, and cross the Amir’s country. It would not be
safe, but it would be cheap, and if there was any real reason why he
should go to Russia, the trip might be considered.
He stood by his chief till they had taken out a ryot’s appendix, and then
he got excused. He went home and told his mother that the message was
nothing to be alarmed at. He went to his room and got out all of Chat’s
letters, and read them over.
So this Bokharan chap was a prince. The wire used the phrase, though the
letters only referred to him as a vizier’s son. Here was a photograph
of the fellow, with the cat named “Jaffer,” taken by Deland. And,
apparently, Saadi had a brother in Kabul—a doctor, not a prince.
It was a pleasant proposition—this asking a man to travel a thousand
miles and back to dun a prince. At the same time, Saadi had evidently
stolen a thousand dollars from the doctor. Chat was a careful fellow, and
would not make such a request unless he felt certain that the man was
guilty.
The trip by rail and steamer was out of the question. But he might
possibly afford the trip if he went by Kabul, and moreover he would have
to go to Kabul to make inquiries from that brother. But he would need
careful instruction. In this his father could not help him, for his
father was merely a minor government official. Who then? Some Peshawar
merchant, preferably an Afghan.
Immediately he thought of Umar Khel, wholesale and retail tea-merchant,
whom he had known all his life, and whose fleetest camel he had been
riding for exercise. Umar was an Afghan, a Gilzai, untamed by age or
sorrow. Umar had a cousin in Kabul who acted as his correspondent there.
Jaffer presumed that there was also a correspondent in Bokhara, though
the caravan trade with Bokhara was small.
Jaffer lighted a cigarette, strolled out, and made his way to the bazaar.
Umar Khel’s shop was open, but he had not yet appeared, and Jaffer sat
down to await the master. He presently arrived, tall, thin, and gloomy,
with beard of snow. He had never stained it black, as so many Asiatics do
at the first onset of age.
Jaffer rose and salaamed. “I am going away, Umar Khel.”
Umar gave him one sarcastic look. “Allah be praised!”
Jaffer took the rebuff silently.
“Allah be praised!” repeated Umar Khel venomously. “Rasul will be able to
walk freely without keeping his hand on his pocket-book.”
“It is a thought which had not occurred to me, Umar Khel, but I perceive
the source and sense of it. Your guards are expensive.”
Umar Khel glanced at him. “Afreen!” he snarled reluctantly, which was as
much as to say that he approved the saucy answer. “And whither goes my
Rasul? To Velait?”
“No, not to England, thou friend of my father. I had far rather go to
Germany. In fact, however, I return to the land of the free.”
“Go in the safety of God, and beware of freedom.”
“Freedom, Umar Khel, is as the breath of my nostrils.”
“Freedom, Rasul Rahim, is as the breath of a hillman. Freedom is the
breath of a thief. Freedom is a djinn. Freedom is an infidel sect.”
Jaffer let him bubble a moment, and tried a new tack. “I venture to
repeat that freedom is sweet to me. I long to be out of the sight of
Englishmen. Nay, why should I not speak out? I weary of these busybodies.”
“Silence, Rasul! The British Raj is just, according to its knowledge and
nature.”
Jaffer was silent.
“It is not needful to be so suddenly tame. The Raj has its faults.”
“I come asking favours, Umar Khel, and I must not speak my mind.”
“Now, by Allah, thou shalt! I will not have it said of me in my old age
that I muzzled the young camel, for the Khaneh is dead, and my sons are
far hence, and I am lonely.”
But Jaffer held his peace, thinking of the aged La-aal, the Pearl, the
wife whom the Afghan would not name, but referred to as “the head of the
house.” And Jaffer turned his head away, that he might show some sympathy.
The old man regarded that profile keenly.
“Rasul has the eagle nose. He is like an Afghan. He resembles my cousin’s
son in Kabul.”
“Then in Kabul I should like to see your cousin’s son. I should like to
mount the pass and see the world.”
“Bah! The frog mounted a lump of mud and said he had seen Kashmir. Your
duty is to the sick of Peshawar. You are too young to remember the father
of Amir Habibullah, but when Abdur Rahman came into the kingdom, no man’s
life was safe. Did Abdur Rahman hold durbar with justices in wigs? No.
He made every man his brother’s keeper. If men desired to escape that
duty, he struck off a hand. But Jaffer longs for freedom, not for duty.
Tauba! Tauba! for shame!” And Umar spat on the ground.
“Umar Khel, the freedom which I most desire is the freedom of
Afghanistan. Will you lend me the swift she-camel as far as Kabul?
Perchance your nephew would bring the Houri back and visit you here.”
“Perchance! It is what Abdul of all things most desires, and what the
Amir will not grant him. They that are in shall stay in, and they that
are out shall stay out!”
“And does Umar Khel approve such tyranny?”
“Yes! Habibullah follows wisely in the steps of the old lion. He does not
want his best young men contaminated by Stamboul.”
“Contaminated, Umar Khel?”
“Verily, thou fool. All Islam waxes soft save in the land behind
the mountains. Stamboul is full of ether for the body, and ether of
materialism for the soul. It is not strange that the infidel has stolen
certain provinces away from them. Softness, ever softness! Habibullah
will have none of it. Too soon he must face the Russian in a struggle for
life.”
“Nevertheless I must go, Umar Khel. I must start with Thursday’s caravan,
for yesterday’s has gone.”
“My guest is speaking folly, and I shall attend to my correspondence
while he digests what I have said. Amar Singh, bring me paper and reed.”
While Amar Singh was getting the writing materials, his master proceeded.
“Does Jaffer recall why melons are not to be had in the fruit market in
Kabul?”
“No.”
“Does he not recall that they are sold in Mandi Kalan near the charcoal?”
“I have never been in Kabul.”
“Ah! Jaffer has not climbed the mulberry tree, yet now he girds his loins
to climb the kikar thorns. Don’t you know that you cannot get to Kabul
without the special writ of the Amir?”
“I had forgotten. I have been away six years.”
“Rasul, I marvel that you tell it. Not all the asses have followed the
camels this day. One remains, and if he tries to follow, he will eat the
stick.”
“Far be it from me to dispute my father’s friend. Behold, I am an ass.”
The writing materials came, and the old man slowly began to write. When
he had finished his first letter, he looked up.
“You have a passport?”
“Yes.”
“You have ocriti lista—special permission from the Russian minister of
war to ride on the Central Asian Railway?”
“No, Umar Khel. I have said that I am an ass, and behold, Umar Khel is
wise and of many years. He will tell me how long it will take to get
these things—the Amir’s firman, and the Russian writ.”
“The first,” said Umar Khel, as he took another pen and deliberately
began another letter, “you can get in one month. The second you can never
get. British subjects living in Peshawar can never hope for ocriti lista
in Russia. Rasul will now forget that he is the foolish son of a wise
father, and Amar Singh will bring us some tea.”
Jaffer sighed a drop of his heart’s blood, and lighted another cigarette.
By the time the second letter was finished, Amar Singh had brought a
steaming infusion of the best Kangra, with cakes and strawberries.
Jaffer accepted a very sweet cake and a cup of tea, though he would
much have preferred coffee. Three weaknesses had Jaffer, and these were
cigarettes, coffee, and sweet cakes. Three weaknesses—yet a month later
they served him well.
“How soon, my ignorant son, do you leave for America?”
“I don’t know. I had expected to start this week. But What you tell me
breaks my heart.”
“Wait till it is healed. Peshawar is pleasant in May, and the raiders
are quieting down. With whom do you lodge among the godless be-iman of
Chicago?”
“With Hakim Trench. He is my revered master.”
“Do not speak like a Hindu. But you may speak to me of Trench.”
“He is a great physician, Umar Khel, and young, and especially he has
compassion on the sickness of children. I thank the Compassionate One
that I was permitted to study with Hakim Trench in the book of the body.”
“Peace be upon him. He is only a Christian, but in Sura second it is
written that the Christian who believes in the last day shall never be
grieved. Well, you have been to me as my own son this day, brave and
foolish. To-morrow I have new and wonderful teas due from China. Come
after two days, I will give you a gift for Trench.”
“I will come, and I will say many thanks in his name.”
“A trifle! Wretched stuff! But it is for the friend of my friend, and we
will choose a good canister.”