The Sirdar's Oath: A Tale of the North-West Frontier

Not quite all, however, were so minded. Haslam, the Forest Officer, for instance, was not so sure on the point; possibly, because Cynthia had not thought it worth while laying herself out to captivate him, possibly not. Anyway, he remarked at the Tarletons’ one day, —

“I wonder if Raynier will weep for joy when he gets back or not?”

“Why, what do you mean, Mr Haslam?” said his hostess.

“Nothing. Only that I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”

“Sour grapes, Mr Haslam,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, not meaning it, for she happened to be one of those who did not take the new arrival at her own valuation.

Haslam chuckled.

“That’s just it. You’ve hit it, Mrs Tarleton. There will be found a good deal of acidity about that particular bunch, and that’s why I don’t envy Raynier.”

“Well, you can’t expect anyone to be perfect, can you?” struck in Tarleton, inconsequently oppositious as usual.

“Never said I could,” answered Haslam, lighting another cheroot. “What do you think about her, Miss Clive?”

“How can I give an opinion on a ‘brother woman,’ Mr Haslam, especially to a man?” laughed Hilda. “If I don’t say she’s perfect, you’ll go away and tell everybody I’m jealous. If I do you won’t believe me.”

“Hallo. That’s rather good,” said the Forest Officer, who liked Hilda Clive, and resented the fact of the other coming there to cut her out, as he persisted on looking at it. “But, I say. Talking of – er – who we were talking about – it’s my belief she’s hedging.”

“What the doose do you mean by that Haslam?” said Tarleton. The other cackled.

“Why, she’s making running up there in the garrison. Supposing Raynier never came back, poor chap – eh? Or supposing he was hauled over the coals for not foreseeing this tumasha, as it’s not impossible he may be, and sent back to some beastly Plains station – what then? Young Beecher for instance – they say he has no end of expectations. Eh? They do a good deal together.”

“Now, really, Mr Haslam, you are a regular scandalmonger,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, who was thoroughly enjoying the Forest Officer’s strictures. “I’m sure Miss Daintree is a very nice, sweet, affectionate girl, and Mr Raynier is to be congratulated.”

“Affectionate dev – h’m, h’m. She’s got a cold eye.”

“A what?”

“A cold eye. Look at it next time. It’s the eye of a fish – a shark for choice.”

“Well, you couldn’t expect her to have a warm one, could you?” drowsed Tarleton, who was half asleep. Whereat they all roared.

Now in all of this there was more than a little, for, apart from her natural inclination to have as good a time as possible, here amid entirely new conditions of life, and forming as they did a marked contrast to those of a country vicarage, Cynthia had kept her ears open as well as her eyes. Even station gup had not as yet linked Raynier’s name with that of Hilda Clive. But it had speculated as to the view that would be taken at headquarters of the Political Agent allowing himself to be lulled into a state of absolute blindness on the subject of the ill-affectedness of the Gularzai; the most important and powerful tribe within his jurisdiction. All of which Cynthia had not been slow to take in; and Captain Beecher, who was always on hand with his dogcart, or a very sleek and serviceable Waler – of which she was secretly afraid – if she preferred riding, was very devoted, and substantially sound, and Cynthia was verging on thirty. And a live and frisky dog was very much better than a dead and reduced lion, and Haslam was an abominable cynic who knew his India, and the dominant population thereof, thoroughly.

Hilda Clive, watching this state of things, said nothing, only thought. So completely did she say nothing in fact, that the station decided that in view of the circumstances of the case, she was singularly lacking in appreciation, not to say gratitude. She and Raynier had been together through the winnowing of a common danger. She had come out of it safe and sound, he had not. Yet she seemed to give him no further thought.

Did she not?

“All are forgetting him,” she said to herself, in the bitterness of her intense self-concentration. “All are forgetting him – even decrying him, and there are those hungrily ready to step into his shoes. All the more reason to show him that here is one who is not.”

She thanked Heaven she was well off; indeed, for a single woman, almost rich. Nothing can be done in this world without filthy lucre. She had been endowed with this if not with the art of drawing men round her like flies around a jar of stale marmalade. Money can buy anything within certain limits, even life. Yet how many there would have expended say one thousand rupees to purchase that of Herbert Raynier’s?

But she? She shut herself up in her own room a good deal just then, shut herself up with business papers – which, by the way, she thoroughly understood. And running through all her calculations and correspondence were certainly recollections of a time spent in a free al fresco life; and subsequently, in an al fresco life which was anything but free, and hedged round with hardship at every turn, and somehow it seemed that that time was not the least enjoyable period of her existence. Then she would push away all the business matter in front of her, and pass her hands over her brows, and if anyone had broken in upon her at that time it would have been to see upon Hilda Clive’s face a look that rendered it wondrously soft and lovable and attractive.

But through it all there mingled a puzzled and half-distressed state of mind. Her strange powers of foresight seemed to hover around, and yet refuse to be called into definite action. There was something to be done, they told her, and she was the one to do it; yet what, and how? Ah, now it was clear. Money would purchase anything – even life.

The first thing she had done on her return to Mazaran was to present Mehrab Khan with such a substantial sum in rupees as to cause that faithful Mussulman to stare. Then she had set to work to obtain for him a sort of indefinite furlough, so that he could attach himself wholly and entirely to her service, which he was by no means loth to do. It had not been difficult, because, as it happened, his term of enlistment had all but expired, and Mehrab Khan was far too valuable a jemadar of Levy Sowars to part with at that juncture; wherefore, through Haslam, who, as we have seen, stood her friend, and others, she contrived that the authorities should allow her the use of him pro tem. To what she would turn that use we shall see anon.

Chapter Twenty Three

Of the Sirdar’s Oath

The unhappy prisoner, forced along by strong and ruthless hands, recognised that he was in the alley way upon which he had looked down from the parapet, what time the shrieks of the tortured man had forced him to stop his ears. Heaven help him! To what death of lingering torment were these barbarians going to put him? There was the very door, and through it he was now dragged.

The horrible greasy fumes which had sickened him before hung about the place, which, entering as he did from the light, seemed to lie in a semi-gloom, suggestive of all sorts of hideous imaginings. At the further end was something that looked like a long iron coffin, raised about eighteen inches from the floor. To this he was forced forward.

Raynier’s blood curdled within him as the full horror of this awful object broke upon him. No coffin was it, but a bath – and the iron rings and chains let into its sides, two at each end, told their own tale. So too, did the ashes of a dead fire underneath. The upper end was padded. The sufferer might not dash out his own brains; might not seek relief from his frightful torment that way.

Faint and sick, his senses in a whirl, he gazed stupidly at the horrid thing. Was his brain giving way? It seemed so. Hardly knowing how he got there he was outside in the air again.

“Our bathroom does not please thee, Feringhi,” said a voice. Looking up, his eyes met the baleful sneering ones of Murad Afzul.

“I have been ill with fever of late. You forget,” he answered, instinctively striving to disguise the despair and terror which the sight of the horrid place had stamped upon his countenance. Then he fainted.

When he came to himself again he was in semi-darkness. A man was bending over him, and seemed to be trying to revive him. He recognised the Hakim.

“Where am I? Oh!”

He had tried to rise, only to discover that he was chained by the ankles to an iron ring in the stone floor. His hands, however, were free. He saw further that he was in a damp and gloomy apartment akin to a dungeon, a grating above the door serving to let in air and light.

“Take away your remedies, Hakim Sahib,” he said, bitterly. “I have no wish to be revived for the purpose of being tortured, and I suppose it was for that reason I was taken care of before?”

“It is the Nawab’s orders,” answered the other. “Ill would it fare with me did I not carry them out.”

“Well, I will not help you, then.”

“You will not be helping yourself in that case, Sahib,” said the Hakim, “for then they would work their will on you at once. See – there is food. Bethink. Is there no object in gaining time?”

“If so, I know not what it can be,” answered Raynier. And then an idea seized him. This man might help him to escape, of course, for a large reward. But when it was put to him the Hakim shook his head. It was impossible. Besides, what would be his own fate were it suspected he had even thought of such a thing! And as though terrified at the idea he went out, leaving the prisoner alone.

Raynier pondered over the Hakim’s words. Was there significance in them? It might be so. But why should he renew his strength in order the longer to endure the tortures which Mushîm Khan, whom he had thought his friend but now proved to be a most bitter and vindictive enemy, had in store for him? There was the food beside him, within his reach. There, too, was wine, which struck him as a strange circumstance, remembering that he was in the midst of rigid Mahomedans. Clearly he was to be fatted up for the sacrifice, and yet – and yet – Nature was strong. He needed the stimulant badly, and – took it.

Immediately thereafter he fell asleep. Sleep, too, he needed badly. In spite of his constrained attitude he slumbered hard and soundly. Once more he was with Hilda, and now it seemed that his whole being was bound up with hers. The horrors he had gone through, the privations and perils they had both gone through, were far behind. They knew each other now, and heart and mind were laid bare to each other as they stood, the world outside, they two, alone. The strong, sweet dream-wave rolled over his soul, and all was forgotten save that they two were together – together for all time.

The harsh creaking of the door, flung open, aroused him. The delusion sped in demoniacal mockery. The prison, the chains, the impending torture were realities.

Three persons had entered – Mushîm Khan, his brother, and a third. Raynier sat up to confront them with what dignity he was able. The Nawab spoke.

“I will not waste words on thee, Feringhi. Know, then, that as our brother, the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, was put to death by thy father at the time of the great rising, so must thy father’s son suffer death at the hands of the brothers of Allahyar Khan, even ourselves, a life for a life, for thus is it written in the Holy Koran. Moreover, I have sworn it.”

The words were uttered deliberately, almost with a judicial solemnity, but the savage hatred upon the face of the speaker seemed to be struggling with the solemnity of their utterance.

“What proof have ye of this, O Chief of the Gularzai, whom I had reckoned my friend?” answered Raynier, “for the Prophet likewise orders that none be condemned without proof.”

“Here is proof.” And the speaker handed him the parchment he had received from Hadji Haroun.

Raynier took it, studying it long and earnestly. He was conversant with Pushtu, and could write it almost as well as he could speak it: and the perusal of the document only served to convince him that its substance was, in all probability, correct; and that his father had, in his capacity of commanding officer, sanctioned the execution of the Gularzai sirdar as described. As to the circumstances of ignominy attendant upon the execution, well, he knew that such things had been done in the Mutiny. Moreover, his recollections of his father were such as to convince him that at such a time the latter was not likely to have erred on the side of leniency. Then an idea struck him.

“It may be as you say, Chief of the Gularzai. It is long ago, and who can say for certain what happened then? If it be so, I deplore it. But you have cited the Koran. Hear now the words of the sacred revelation: ‘O true believers, the law of retaliation is ordained for the slain: the free shall die for the free, and the servant for the servant, and a woman for a woman: but he whom his brother shall forgive may be obliged to make satisfaction for what is just, and a fine shall be set on him, with humanity. This is indulgence from your Lord, and mercy.’ Will ye not, therefore, forgive me, my brothers?”

There was nothing abject in his tone, no suspicion of cringing. For a few moments his listeners stood as though thunderstruck. This unbeliever quoted glibly from the holy volume. Then the third of the trio, who had kept somewhat in the background and of whom Raynier had not taken much notice, spoke.

“Feringhi, thou hast evidently studied the revelations of Mahomed – the blessed of Allah. Wilt thou not now make profession of the faith?”

Here was a loophole. Raynier thought of what he had undergone, of how completely he was in the power of this unsparing and vengeful people; of the horrors he had witnessed, and of what might be in store for himself. He thought of Hilda Clive, and how life might hold out for him a long vista of its fairest and brightest, and the temptation was great. But he thought, too, on the opinions he had more than once expressed when discussing such “conversions,” and how they were dishonouring to the British name. He was not an ostentatiously religious man, but when it came to forswearing Christianity, the line had to be drawn. So he answered, —

“I could not do that, for it would be to forswear myself. I honour your religion, but were I to profess it I should be speaking a lie.”

Now, while he said this, Raynier’s eye had rested on something – something that was in the hand of the man who had spoken last. It was a malacca cane.

The blood rushed wildly through his being. He stared at the thing. There it was, a stout, silver-topped malacca cane – a very unwonted article in the hand of a white-clad, turbaned Gularzai. Heavens! what did it mean? He stared at the man who carried it – a tall, handsome, commanding-looking representative of his race – and then his mind rushed back from the stronghold of the Chief of the Gularzai, to the shouting, roaring, riotous mob in the heart of the city of London. And this was the man he had rescued from its uproarious violence.

“Do you not remember me, brother?” he said, in English, his heart seeming to burst in the revulsion of returning hope. “That is the stick I armed you with when you were beset by numbers. Look! In the middle of it is the dent made by the falling iron which would otherwise have crushed your head in.”

He stopped short. No flash of recognition lit up the features of the Gularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood. He paused. Then he said, in Pushtu, – “Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?”

“Shere Dil Khan. He is my son.” The answer was curt and cold. Raynier went on, —

“If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life of thy son, Shere Dil Khan. The dent in that stick was made by the iron which would have crushed his head. Upon the knob are the letters of my name. May I handle it for a moment? It is not a weapon – and, am I not chained?”

The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand. As he did so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised him completely. It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough and exasperated crowd. But for all the recognition on the face of the other it might have been a mask.

Raynier took the stick. One glance at it was sufficient. There, on the massive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R. – his initials.

Somehow, hope died again within him. It might be that Shere Dil Khan had forgotten his English, or he might be under some vow not to use it – and, acting on this idea, Raynier told the whole story in their own tongue. Still no sign of recognition, of corroboration lit up that impassive countenance. He could see that the story was aiding him not in the smallest degree, even if it were believed at all.

“Well,” he concluded, realising this, “there is no gratitude in the world. If you save a man’s life, he is the one to seek out your own.”

“Thou hast appealed to our mercy, Feringhi,” said Mushîm Khan, “and not in vain. Thou hast been shown some small glimpse of the torments we had designed for thee, but Allah is merciful and shall we be less so? Wherefore, these we remit and thou shalt only suffer death – death by the sword, at the rising of to-morrow’s sun, in the presence of the warriors of the Gularzai assembled here. For it has been sworn, and who may break an oath?”

And the three chiefs went forth, leaving the prisoner alone. This, then, was how he next saw the silver-mounted stick which had saved the life of a man – and that man the son of his executioner. Was there such a thing as gratitude in the world?

Chapter Twenty Four

On the Grave’s Dark Brink

When, immediately on leaving his prisoner, Mushîm Khan was informed that a believer had been brought in, escorting a woman, veiled, who had come far to communicate with him upon a matter of importance, the Nawab betrayed no surprise, nor did the statement that the woman, although dressed as one of their own women, was a Feringhi, elicit any, either. He coldly directed that they should be conducted to his durbar hall, and, accompanied by his son and Kuhandil Khan, he proceeded thither.

Hilda Clive dropped her veil as she came into the presence of the chiefs. They returned her salaam gravely, eyeing her with the same furtive curiosity as that which she felt with regard to them. What stately men they were, she thought. The very simplicity of their snowy garments and beautifully-folded turbans added a dignity from which any barbaric splendour of jewels and colours would have detracted. So this was Mushîm Khan, she thought, instinctively recognising the Nawab. He was indeed a noble-looking man – and, although cold and stern at that moment, his face was not a cruel one – and the same held good of the others. Surely she would obtain that for which she was here.

And how came it that she was here? Simply one of those strange impressions of prévoyance to which she was at times given. It had been borne in upon her with a vivid and startling suddenness that the missing man was in great peril; so incisive and convincing indeed was this impression as to dispel forthwith the idea that he was a courteously-treated prisoner of war in the hands of a generous and honourable enemy. She, and she alone, had power to save him. All Orientals were fond of money, she had heard – fortunately, she had plenty. She would literally redeem him, would buy his release, even though it cost her every farthing she had in the world.

The plan once conceived, she lost no time in carrying it out. She said no word about it to anybody, for fear of being interfered with, but, leaving a note for the Tarletons, she started off with Mehrab Khan for the Nawab’s stronghold.

The Baluchi had raised no objection. He took it as quite a matter of course that she should require him to accompany her alone into the midst of a hostile tribe. So, having adopted the Gularzai attire and being well armed, he had brought her in safety hither.

But now poor Hilda found herself in a quandary at the off-set. Her knowledge of Hindustani was of the slightest, and Mehrab Khan’s knowledge of English nil. She could make him understand her in ordinary matters, but as an interpreter she feared he might prove of little use. But here aid came from an unlooked-for quarter.

“If you will allow me to be your interpreter, madam, I will strive to convey to my father what you wish to say.”

Hilda stared. It was Shere Dil Khan who had spoken, and his English was well-nigh faultless. She thanked him, and then without waste of words set forward the object of her visit. But it was hardly necessary for him to interpret the Nawab’s reply. She knew that it was a stern and emphatic refusal.

“Who is this woman, and what is she to the prisoner?” asked Mushîm Khan. “Is she his wife?”

This, though more courteously rendered, brought the colour to Hilda’s face, and she replied that she was not – but only a distant relation. She thought it was time delicately to hint at the question of ransom.

Delicately – yes – because there was that about these stately chiefs that seemed to render the subject as difficult of approach as though they were Europeans of social equality.

“I know that it is not unusual, Sirdar Sahib, to ransom prisoners of war,” she said. “This I am prepared with. Will a lakh of rupees satisfy the Nawab?”

“I cannot put that to my father,” said Shere Dil Khan.

“Is it not enough? Well, name your own price.” Her colour came and went, and she spoke eagerly and quickly.

“It is not that, but – ”

“Well, put it, put it!” returned Hilda, unable to restrain an impatient stamp of the foot. “Put it, I entreat you.”

He looked at her hesitatingly for a moment, then complied. A change came over the features of Mushîm Khan as he listened, and his eyes fairly blazed with wrath.

“Am I a vile Hindu trader to be approached with such an offer?” he said. “Is the blood of my brother – the ignominy of his death – a mere question of rupees, of a lakh more or less? Tell this woman that all the rupees in the treasury of the Sirkar for a hundred years would not redeem the man whose father put to death with ignominy one of our house. He dies at sunrise to-morrow. As for her, she came alone and trusting to my protection. Praised be Allah, it shall be extended to her, and to her attendant. Let refreshment be given her, and with my safe conduct let her depart.”

This Shere Dil Khan duly rendered. But Hilda did not move. Great tears rose to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

“He must not die, ah – he must not die,” she said. “Listen, Sirdar Sahib. Tell the Nawab I offer him all I have in the world, five lakhs of rupees, in redemption of this life. See, I have braved all and every danger, and travelled alone here to save it. He is brave, he must be generous. Oh, make him relent.”

Animation made all the difference in the world to Hilda Clive’s appearance. When she was animated to this extent she was beautiful – moreover, the Gularzai dress became her well. Shere Dil Khan looked at her with pity and concern. But the faces of the other two remained hard as granite.

“I have said and I have no more to say,” answered the Nawab, when this had been translated to him. “He dies at sunrise. I have sworn it. And now, let her depart.”

Hilda stood for a few moments in silence, her great eyes fixed upon the Nawab’s face. Then she said, —

“May I not see him? May I not bid him farewell? That will not break the chief’s oath.”

Mushîm Khan pondered for a moment and frowned. The terrible vendetta spirit had entirely warped his nature, which was not naturally a harsh or cruel one, rendering him utterly merciless. But he answered, —

“She can see him until the hour of prayer. Then she must depart as she came.”

Hilda thanked the Nawab, then, having directed her Baluchi escort to wait for her there, without the loss of a moment, turned to follow Shere Dil Khan, who had been chosen to accompany her. As they drew near the place of Raynier’s confinement he said, —

“I have been ordered to be present throughout your interview, but I will not carry out that literally. You shall see your relation alone. This is the place.”

She entered the door he held open, then closed it behind her. She and Herbert Raynier were alone together.

“Great Heavens!” cried the latter, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with amazement. “Great Heavens! Hilda!”