The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

He could never raise himself above the rock projection from which the chain hung – that much was certain. But – the point whence he had let himself down was only a foot to the right. There the edge did not overlap.

Steadying his over-wrought nerves, he drew himself up once more. Holding on tightly he reached forth one hand. It grasped the brink. Carefully he felt along the hard rock. Yes – that would do. Now for it. He put forth the other hand.

And now the moment was crucial. One arm was already along the floor above the edge. Campian’s fate hung in the balance there in the pitchy gloom. Beneath him all black darkness, death, horror, annihilation. The merest feather weight either way would turn the scale. He let go of the chain with his feet. A last and mighty effort, and – he was lying safe and sound on the rock-floor above; well nigh unconscious with exhaustion and the awful strain his nerves had undergone.

For long he lay thus. Then the cravings of hunger became more than he could bear. Physical nature reasserted itself. He must obtain food at all risks. The forest bungalow was not far from that place. There he would find it.

It must have been hours since he took refuge here. His enemies had surprised him just at daybreak; now it was high noon. Prudence counselled that he should wait until night – physical craving argued that by then he would hardly have strength left him to make his way anywhere; and the physical argument prevailed, as it ordinarily does.

He stepped forth quickly and gained the shelter of the juniper forest. The glare of the sun blinded him, and the sparse foliage afforded but poor shade. He staggered along exhausted, yet full of renewed hope and resolution.

But for the mental and bodily exhaustion which half dulled his faculties, he would have become aware of a peculiar nasal, droning sound a short distance in front of him. As it was he hardly heard it, or if so, missed its significance. When, however, he became alive to the latter it was too late.

In a small open space, overhung on the further side by rocks, a score of turbaned figures were kneeling. They were in two rows, and, barefooted, were prostrating themselves in the approved method of the faithful at prayer. Then, rising, repeated, with one voice, their orisons, which were led by a single figure a little in advance of the rest. It was too late. With the first footfall of the intruder, round came several shaggy faces. The effect was magical. The entire band of fervid devotees sprang to its feet as one man. Tulwars whirled from their scabbards, and, in a moment, the intruder was surrounded. Well might the latter now despair. Well might he realise that the bitterness of death was indeed past. All that he had gone through was as nothing. He had walked, with his eyes open, right into the midst of his enemies, had placed, of his own act, his life in their hands. Foremost among the threatening, scowling countenances was the repulsive, exultant one of Umar Khan.

“Ah! ah!” snarled this implacable savage, with a grin of exultation. “Lo, the sheep returns to the slaughter, for so wills it God.”

“Allah?” repeated the destined victim, catching the last word. “Hearken, Moslem, în hearken!” he called out in Hindustani, eyeing with unconcern the uplifted sword of his arch enemy. Then, standing there in their midst, and facing in the direction they had been facing while at prayer, he extended both hands heavenward, and uttered in a loud, firm voice:

“La illah il Allah,

Mohammed er rasoul Allah!”

A gasp of wonder went up from those who beheld. As by magic every weapon was lowered. Campian had professed the faith of Islam.

For some moments these fanatical brigands stared stupidly at each other, then at the figure of the sometime infidel, but now believer. The spell was broken by their leader.

“It is well!” he said, advancing upon Campian, and again raising his tulwar. “There is rejoicing in Paradise now, for in a moment it will be the richer for a newly gained soul.”

But before the weapon could descend, an interruption occurred. A little bowed, bent figure came hurrying into the group. Campian recognised the sometime leader of the devotions.

“Hold now, my children,” he cried, in tones quavering with age and excitement, as he interposed his staff and rosary between the weapon of Umar Khan and its intended victim. “Have ye not grievously offended God? Have ye not broken into his hour of prayer, with brawling and strife? Would you further damn your own souls by shedding the blood of a true believer within this holy ziarat (a local shrine or sanctuary) – for I myself have heard the profession of this Feringhi? Have no fear, my son – have no fear,” he added, turning to Campian, and placing an aged, wrinkled claw upon one shoulder. “None shall do thee hurt, thou, who art now one of the faithful – for if any harm thee,” shaking his staff menacingly, “let him shrivel before the curse of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf.”

The only words of this address intelligible to the now ransomed victim – though he understood the burden thereof – was the name – and at that he could not repress a start of amazement. Those around beholding this were equally astonished.

“See,” they said among themselves. “Even to the infidel has the fame and holiness of the Syyed Aïn Asrâf reached.”

Even Umar Khan dare not openly resist the will of one so holy as the Syyed, and that as a matter of fact. But though baulked for the present, he turned sullenly away, meditating further mischief.

Chapter Nineteen.

Hopes and Fears

A Regimental band was playing in the grounds of the Shâlalai 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 Shâlalai 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 Mehriâb station affair. He had started absolutely confident of success, but he might as well have started to stalk the wily markhôr 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 Mehriâb 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 Sirkâr 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. Shâlalai 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 Shâlalai,” she was saying as he came in. “Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shâlalai?”

“Oh, about five thousand – of all sorts.”

“About five thousand,” she repeated, “horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathâns 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 Shâlalai, and representatives of all the tribes and clans and septs gathered daily in the durbar hall to meet the Sirkâr 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.