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CHAPTER X.
A SQUARE BARGAIN

 
"The faith of men that ha' brothered men,
By more than easy breath;
And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men,
In the open books of death."
 

– Kipling.

"Behold! Captain Sahib, – there where the sky touches earth. In the space of half an hour we arrive."

Desmond lifted sun-weary eyes to the horizon, and nodded.

When a man is consumed with thirst, and scorched to the bone, by five hours of riding through a furnace seven times heated in the teeth of a blistering wind, he is chary of speech; and the two rode forward in silence – mere specks upon the emptiness of earth and sky – keeping their horses to the long-distance canter that kills neither man nor beast. A detachment of forty sabres followed in their wake; and the rhythmical clatter rang monotonously in their ears.

The speck on the horizon was an outpost – a boundary mark of empire, – where a little party of men watched, night and day, for the least sign of danger from the illusive quiet of the hills.

It is these handfuls of men, natives of India all, stationed in stone watch-towers twenty miles apart along the Border, who keep the gateway of India barred; and who will keep it barred against all intruders for all time. The unobtrusive strength of India's Frontier amazes the new-comer. But only those who have spent their best years in its service know the full price paid for the upkeep of that same strength in hardship, unremitting toil, and the lives of picked men.

As the riders neared the post its outline showed, stern and clear-cut, against the blue of the sky. A single circular room, loop-holed and battlemented, set upon an outward sloping base of immense solidity, and surrounded by a massive stone wall: – a tower in which ten men could hold their own against five hundred. The look-out sentry, sighting the detachment afar off, gave the word to his companions, who lowered the ladder that served them for staircase; and when Desmond's party drew rein the door in the wall stood open to receive them.

During the halt that followed, the men, having fed and watered their horses, took what rest they might in patches of burning shadow within the wall. Though the sun-saturated masonry breathed fire, it served to shelter them from the withering wind that scours the Border at this fiery time of year.

Desmond, who had breakfasted five hours earlier on stale bread and a few sardines, lunched, with small appetite, on biscuits and a slab of chocolate, and moistened his parched throat with tepid whisky-and-water. Quenching his thirst was an achievement past hoping for till Kohat itself should be reached.

He had left the station with his detachment early on the previous day; had relieved four outposts between dawn and dusk, covering eighty miles of desert road, with four brief halts for rest; and had spent a night of suffocating wakefulness in a sun-baked windowless room, built out from the base of the last post relieved. It was all in the day's work – as Frontier men understand work. The exposure and long hours in the saddle had little effect upon his whipcord and iron frame: but a sharp attack of fever – unrecorded in his letter to his wife – had slackened his alertness of body and spirit; and it was with an unusual sense of relief that he faced the last twenty-mile stretch of road, leaving behind him six fresh men to take up the task of watching the blank, unchanging face of the hills.

Three hours later, the little party turned their horses' heads towards Kohat. The sun still smote the uncomplaining earth, and many miles of riding lay before them. But at least it was the beginning of the end; a fact which the two stout-hearted chargers seemed to recognise as clearly as their riders. The Ressaldar, who had not failed to note his Captain's slight change of bearing, proposed a short cut across country well known to himself.

"Hazúr," he urged, "there runs a long deep nullah, straight as a lance, across the plain; and as the sun falls lower, it would give some measure of shade."

"Well spoken, Ressaldar Sahib! I have had my fill of the road. I'm for the nullah. Come on, men."

And, striking out across country, they vanished from the earth's surface, entering one of those giant clefts in the clay soil formed by the early downrush of torrents from the hills.

Suddenly, in the midst of a swinging canter, the Ressaldar reined in his horse, and the rest followed suit. The old Sikh threw up his head, as a stag will do at the first whisper of danger. In the strong light his chiselled face, with its grey beard scrupulously parted and drawn up under his turban, showed lifeless as a statue; and his eyes had the far-off intentness of one who listens with every fibre of his being.

Desmond watched him in a growing bewilderment that verged on impatience.

"What's up now?" he demanded sharply.

But no flicker disturbed the rigid face: the keen eyes gave no sign. The old man raised a hand as if enjoining silence, dismounted hastily, and, kneeling down, pressed his ear close against the ground.

Desmond's suspense was short-lived but keen.

In less than ten seconds the Ressaldar was beside him, one hand on his bridle, a consuming anxiety in his eyes.

"Hazúr, it is a spate from the hills," he said between quick breaths. "It is coming with the speed of ten thousand devils and there are five miles to go before we can leave the nullah."

"Mount, then," the Englishman replied with cool decision. "We can but ride."

And swiftly, as tired horses could lay legs to ground, they rode.

Desmond could catch no sound as yet of the oncoming danger; but the practised ears of the native detected its increase, even through the rattle of hoofs that beat upon the brain like panic terror made audible.

"Faster, – faster!" he panted. His Captain's danger was the one coherent thought in his mind. Desmond merely nodded reassurance; and shifting a little in his saddle, eased matters as far as possible for Badshah Pasand.²⁰

The ground raced beneath their horses' hoofs. The serene strip of sky raced above their heads. The imprisoning walls fell apart before their eyes, seeming to divide like a cleft stick as they drew near, and reeling away on either hand as they passed on. All things in earth and heaven seemed fleeing in mortal haste save only themselves.

Theo Desmond heard the voice of the enemy at last: – an ominous roar, growing inexorably louder every minute. At the sound his head took a more assured lift; his mouth a firmer line; and the fire of determination deepened in his eyes.

By a movement of the rein he urged Badshah Pasand to renewed effort. But the devoted animal was nearing the end of his tether, and his rider knew it. Thick spume flakes blew backward from his lips, and the sawing motion of his head told its own tale.

Sher Dil, who was still going lustily, gained upon him by a neck, and the Ressaldar turned in his saddle.

"The spurs, Hazúr – the spurs!" he entreated, knowing well his Captain's abstemiousness in this regard.

But Desmond shook his head. Badshah Pasand was doing his utmost; and neither man nor beast can do more. He merely rose in the stirrups, pressed his heels lightly against the quivering flanks and, leaning forward, spoke a few words of encouragement almost in the charger's ear.

The sensitive animal sprang forward with a last desperate output of strength; and in the same instant a hoarse shout broke from Rajinder Singh.

"An opening – an opening, Captain Sahib! By the mercy of God we are saved!"

Five minutes later the whole party drew rein on the upper levels of earth, and their sometime pursuer swept tumultuously onward fifteen feet below.

Desmond's eyes had an odd light in them as he turned from the swirling waters to the impassive face of the man who had saved their lives.

"I do – not – forget," he said with quiet emphasis.

The old Sikh shook his head with a rather uncertain smile.

"True talk, Hazúr. I had known it without assurance. Yet was mine own help no great matter. It was written that my Captain Sahib should not die thus!"

"That may be," Desmond answered gravely, for he had been strangely upheld by the same conviction. "Yet there be also – these others. In my thinking it is no small matter that, except for your quickness of mind and hearing, forty-four good men and horses would now be at the mercy of that torrent. But this is no time for words. It still remains to reach Kohat before sundown."

The sun was slipping behind the hills, with the broad smile of a tyrant who fully enjoys the joke, when Desmond drew up before his own verandah and slid to the ground.

"Thank God that's over!" he muttered audibly. But he did not at once enter the house. His first care, as always, was for the horse he rode; and with him it was no mere case of the "merciful man," but of sheer love for that unfailing servant of the human race.

He accompanied Badshah Pasand to the stable, superintended the removal of his saddle, and looked him carefully all over. That done, he issued explicit orders for his treatment and feeding: the great charger – as though fully aware of his master's solicitude, – nuzzling a mouse-coloured nose against his shoulder the while.

Arrived in the comparative coolness of the hall, he shouted for a drink, and a bath. Then, turning towards the drawing-room, promised himself a few minutes blessed relaxation in the depths of his favourite chair.

But passing between the gold-coloured curtains he saw that which checked his advance, and banished all thought of relaxation from his brain.

Harry Denvil – whose buoyancy and simplicity of heart had led Desmond to christen him the Boy – sat alone at Evelyn's bureau, his head between his hands, despair in every line of his figure.

Desmond regarded him thoughtfully, marvelling that the sounds of his own arrival should have passed unheard. Then he went forward, and laid his hand on the Boy's shoulder.

"Harry! I don't seem to recognise you in that attitude. Anything seriously wrong?"

Denvil started, and revealed a face of dogged dejection.

"You here?" he said listlessly. "Never heard you come in."

"That's obvious. But – about yourself?"

The Boy choked down a sigh.

"Why the deuce should I bore you with myself, when you're hot and tired? I've been a confounded fool; if not worse, and the devil's in the luck wherever I turn."

But Desmond waited in expectant silence for the Boy's trouble to overflow. While he waited, the coveted "drink" arrived, and he emptied the long tumbler almost at a gulp. The station had run out of ice – a cheerful habit of Frontier stations; but at least the liquid was cool and stinging.

"Well?" he said at length, Denvil having returned to his former attitude. "I want something more explicit. How am I to help you, if you slam the door in my face?"

"Don't see how you can help me. I've only been … a great many kinds of a fool: and you– "

"Well, what of me? I've been plenty of kinds of fool in my time, I assure you. Money's the backbone of your trouble, no doubt. Nothing worse, I hope?"

Denvil's honest eyes met his own without flinching.

"No, on my honour – nothing worse. The money's bad enough." And the trouble came out in a quick rush of words – explanatory, contrite, despairing – all in one breath. For the Boy had Irish blood in his veins; and the initial difficulty over, he found it an unspeakable relief to disburden his soul to the man who had "brothered" him ever since he joined the Force.

Desmond, perceiving that the overflow, once started, was likely to be exhaustive and complete, took out pipe and tobacco, balanced himself on the arm of a chair, and listened gravely to the Boy's disjointed story.

It was a long story, and a commonplace one, if even the most trivial record of human effort and failure can be so styled. It was the story of half the subalterns in our Imperial Army – of small pay, engulfed by heavy expenses, avoidable and unavoidable; the upkeep of much needless uniform; too big a wine bill at Mess; polo ponies, and other luxurious necessities of Indian life, bought on credit; the inevitable appeal to the "shroff,"²¹ involving interest upon interest; the final desperate attempt to mend matters by high stakes at cards, and fitful, injudicious backing of horses, most often with disastrous results.

"Have you the smallest idea what the total damage amounts to?" asked Desmond, when all was said. "I'm bound to know everything now."

Denvil nodded.

"Close on fifteen hundred, I think," he answered, truthfully.

"Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you tell me all this sooner?"

"Oh, I kept hoping to get square somehow – without that. I wanted to stay in your good books; and I saw you were rather down on chaps who are casual about money. But I seem to be made that way, and – "

"So are most of us, my dear chap. But it's up to you to make yourself some other way, if you don't want to come a cropper and leave the Service. I hope I am no Pharisee, but I've been reared to believe that living in debt is an aristocratic, and rather mean form of theft. My notion of you doesn't square with that; and I know a good man when I see one. You'll never mend matters, I assure you, by playing the fool over horses and cards. How about your mother?"

Denvil looked down at the blank sheet of foreign note-paper before him, and answered nothing. He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.

"Can't you see that the fact of your having no father to pull you up sharp puts you on your honour to keep straight in every way, on her account? Does she know anything about all this?"

"How could I tell her?" the Boy murmured, without looking up. "She thinks me no end of a fine chap; and – and – I'm hanged if I know how to answer her letters since – things have got so bad – "

"When did you write last?"

"About six weeks ago."

Desmond flung out an oath.

"Confound you!" he cried hotly. "What do you think she's imagining by now? All manner of hideous impossibilities. I suppose you never gave that a thought – "

The Boy looked up quickly, pain and pleading in his blue eyes. "I say, Desmond, don't hit so straight. I know I've been a brute to her; and I feel bad enough about it, without being slanged – by you."

Theo Desmond's face softened, and he took the Boy's shoulders between his hands.

"My dear lad," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I hit too hard. But I feel rather strongly on that subject. I've no wish to slang you. I only want to set you on your feet, and keep you there. So we may as well get to business at once."

"Set me on my feet! How the devil's that to be done?"

Desmond smiled.

"It's simply a question of making up one's mind to things. In the first place we must sell Roland. He's the best pony you have."

Harry straightened himself sharply, but Desmond's gesture commanded silence.

"It's a cruel wrench, I know," he said gently. "Few men understand that better than myself. But it's all you can do. And you're bound to do it. You can advertise him as trained by me. He's safe to fetch seven hundred that way."

Denvil bent his head in desperate resignation.

"You are down on a fellow, Desmond. How about the other eight?"

"That will be – my affair."

Again the Boy was startled into protest.

"Look here! That's impossible. I couldn't pay you back within the next three years."

"Did I say anything about paying me back?"

"Desmond– you don't mean – ?"

Their eyes met, and Denvil was answered. He brought his fist down on the bureau with such force that Evelyn's knick-knacks danced again.

"By God, I won't have it!" he protested passionately. "I'll not take such a sum of money from you."

Desmond's smile showed both approval and amusement.

"No call for violence, Boy! I told you my mind was made up; and it's folly wasting powder and shot against a stone wall."

"Look here, though – can you manage it – easily?"

"Yes, I can manage it." And in the rush of relief Harry failed to note the significant omission of the adverb. "But it's to be a square bargain between us. No more shroffs; no more betting, or I come down on you like a ton of coals for my eight hundred. Stick to whist and polo in playtime. Polish up your Pushtoo, and get into closer touch with your Pathans. Start Persian with me, if you like, and replace Roland with the money you get for passing. But first of all write to your mother, and tell her the chief part of the truth. Not my share in it, please. That remains between ourselves and – my wife. She'll understand, never fear. Now – shake hands on that, and stick to it, will you?"

"Desmond, you are a trump!"

"No need for compliments between you and me, Harry. Shut up and get on with your letter."

Then, because his mind was freed from anxiety, he realised that the Boy's hand felt like hot parchment, and that his eyes were unusually bright.

"You've got fever on you," he said brusquely. "Feel bad?"

"Pretty average. My head's been going like an engine these two days. Couldn't eat anything yesterday or get a wink of sleep last night. That's what set my conscience stirring perhaps."

Desmond laughed.

"Likely as not! I'm off for Mackay all the same. Get into my chair and stay there till further orders. Don't bother your head about that letter. It shan't miss the mail. I'll write it myself to-night."

An invisible reminder from the doorway that the Heaven-born's bath had long been waiting, elicited a peremptory order for the Demon; and Amar Singh departed, mystified but obedient. The Sahib he worshipped, with the implicit worship of his race, was a very perplexing person at times.

James Mackay's verdict – given well out of the patient's hearing – was immediate and to the point.

"Typhoid, of course – 104°. Fool of a boy not to have sent for me sooner. Ought to have been in bed two days ago. Get him there sharp, and do what you can with wet sheets and compresses. I'll wire for a nurse, but we shan't get one. Never do. Not a ounce of ice in the place, and won't be for three days. That's always the way. He'll keep you on the go all night by the looks of him. May as well let the Major do most of it. You'd be none the worse for a few hours in bed yourself."

A certain lift of Desmond's head signified tacit denial, and the astute Scotsman knew better than to insist. Meeting Wyndham at the gate, he counselled a policy of non-resistance.

"The fellow's overdone without knowing it," he said. "Take my advice, man, and let him gang his ain gait. Fever or no, he's hard as nails, and he'll be glad enough to knock under in twenty-four hours' time."

Throughout that night of anxious battling with the fire of fever the two Englishmen seemed translated into mechanical contrivances for the administering of milk, brandy, and chicken-broth; for the incessant changing of soaked sheets, that were none too cool at best; and for allaying, as far as might be, a thirst that no water on earth can quench.

Nothing draws men into closer union than a common danger, or a common anxiety; and in the past twelve years these two had stood shoulder to shoulder through both many times over. But their zeal produced no manifest results. Denvil's temperature rose steadily, and his stress of mind broke out in a semi-coherent babble of remorse and self-justification, of argument and appeal, of desperate reckonings in regard to ways and means. Desmond left his station by the bed and crossed over to his friend, who was noiselessly washing a cup and saucer.

"Don't hear any more of that than you can help. Fact, you might as well take your chance of a short rest till he's quieter. I'll come and tell you, no fear."

Paul glanced up with his slow smile from the saucer he was polishing with elaborate care.

"On your word, Theo?"

"On my word."

And he retired obediently to his own room – the room that in the cold weather had belonged to Honor Meredith; that, even now, empty casket though it was, awoke in him a subtle sense of her presence; of the strength and cheerfulness that crowned her beauty like a diadem, and transformed his outlook on life.

The letter to Mrs Denvil was written in the small hours. Harry never discovered its contents; but his mother, after reading it half a dozen times, locked it up with a hoard of sacred treasures pertaining to her boy. And soon after six, in the pitiless gold of dawn, the two men cantered leisurely down to early parade.

Here Desmond's attention was arrested by the absence of Rajinder Singh. Hailing a lesser native officer, he learnt that the Ressaldar had been ill with sun-fever all night, and was still quite unfit for work. Hindus are creatures of little or no stamina, and they go down like mown grass before the unhealthy heat of the Frontier.

Desmond despatched a message to the stricken man, adding that he himself would come to make inquiry before eleven o'clock. On his return he found Harry temporarily quieter, and fallen into a light sleep.

"I must see Frank about him," he reflected, "on my way back from the Lines." For Frank was the regimental standby in every emergency, and would claim the lion's share of the nursing as a matter of course.

True to his word, Desmond was back on the deserted parade-ground by half-past ten, his syce pursuing him closely, a flat paper parcel under his arm. It contained a full-length photo of himself in the silver frame that had held his mother's picture, because frames were not to be procured at an hour's notice in Kohat, and he had a great wish that his gift should be complete: a lasting memento – such as the old Sikh would keenly appreciate – of their stirring ride, and of the fact that he owed his life to the man's remarkable quickness of ear and brain.

Rajinder Singh lived alone; for the Sikh, when he enters Imperial service, leaves his wife behind in her own village. His one-roomed hut was saturated with heat, and almost devoid of light. It contained a chair, a strip of matting, and a low string-bed, with red cotton quilt and legs of scarlet lacquer. Mud walls and floor alike were scrupulously clean. Sacred vessels, for cooking and washing, were stowed away out of reach of defilement. Above his bed the simple-hearted soldier had nailed a crude coloured print of the Kaiser-i-Hind in robes and crown; and on the opposing wall hung a tawdry looking-glass, almost as dear to his heart.

The Sirdar was nominally in bed; that is to say, he lay on the bare strings, beneath his cotton quilt, fully dressed in loose white tunic and close-fitting trousers. His turban alone had been discarded, and stood ready-folded beside him, a miracle of elaborate precision.

At the sound of hoofs he sat up instantly, his uncut hair and beard flowing down to his waist. In less than twenty seconds both had been twisted to a deft knot high on the head, his turban adjusted at an irreproachable angle; and, as Desmond's figure darkened the doorway, he staggered to his feet and saluted with a trembling hand.

"Sit down, sit down!" his Captain commanded him; and he obeyed, rather suddenly, with a rueful smile.

"The years steal away my strength, Hazúr. A little fever, and my bones become as water – yea, though I had once the might of ten in this dried-up arm."

Desmond smiled and shook his head.

"No reason to speak evil of the years, after yesterday, and the fever hath the power of seven devils over any man. I have been all night beside Denvil Sahib, who lieth without sense and strength this morning, young as he is."

"Denvil Sahib! I had not known. Is it fever also?"

"Yes, – the great fever. A matter of many weeks, and sore trouble of mind; for disease takes strong hold upon the strong. And what will come to the squadron, with both my troop commanders laid in their beds?"

"Na, – na, Hazúr. I will arise, even as I am – "

"That you will not, Sirdar Sahib," Desmond interposed with kindly decision; "we will rather give Bishan Singh a chance to prove that he is fit for promotion. I have had the assurance from him many times in words. Now I will have it in deeds – the fittest language for a soldier."

The deep-set eyes gleamed approval.

"Great is the wisdom of the Captain Sahib, understanding the deceitfulness of man's heart. Bishan Singh's tongue is as a horse without bit or bridle. If head and hand carry him as far, he will do well."

"True talk," Desmond answered, smiling. Then with the incurable diffidence of the Englishman when he is moved to do a gracious action, he held out his parcel. "See here, Rajinder Singh. This is a small matter enough for your acceptance. A token merely that – I do not forget."

"Hazúr!"

The eagerness of a child transfigured the man's weatherbeaten face, and his fingers plucked unsteadily at the string.

Desmond took out a knife and slit it without a word.

For a long moment Rajinder Singh gazed upon the miracle before him in silent wonder. To the unsophisticated native – and there are happily many left in India – a photograph remains an abiding miracle; a fact to be accepted and reverenced without explanation, like the inconsistencies of the gods.

"In very truth, it is the Captain Sahib himself!" he muttered with the air of one who makes an amazing discovery. Then, grasping his possession in both hands, he held it out at arm's length, examining every detail with loving care; glancing from the counterfeit to the original as if to satisfy himself that the artist had omitted nothing; for Desmond was wearing the undress uniform of the picture.

"Bahut, bahut salaam,²² Sahib!" he broke out in a tremulous fervour of gratitude. "It is your Honour's self, as I said, lacking only speech. Feature for feature – cord for cord. All things are faithfully set down. Behold, even these marks upon the scabbard, – the very scar upon your Honour's hand! Now, indeed, hath God favoured me beyond deserving; for my Captain Sahib abideth under this my roof until I die."

Rising unsteadily, in defiance of Desmond's mute protest, he removed the cherished looking-glass, hung the photo in its place, and, drawing himself up to his full six-feet-two of height, gravely saluted it.

"Salaam, hamara,²³ Captain Sahib Bahadur!"

Then he turned to find Desmond, who had risen also, watching him intently, his full heart in his eyes.

"I thought it would give you pleasure," he said, in a tone of restrained feeling, "but I had no knowledge that it would please you as much as that. I am very glad I thought of it. But now," he added more briskly, "enough of talk. There waiteth more work to be done than a man can accomplish before dark. Get you back to bed, Ressaldar Sahib, and stay there until I order otherwise."

Once outside, he sprang to the saddle, and set off at a canter through the withering, stupefying sunlight towards Captain Olliver's bungalow.