The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

“Then get away on ahead and do it.”

The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton.

“You don’t seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shâlalai,” he said. “Five thousand of the British Army – horse, foot, and artillery! Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders, Nessita – and yet you are just as chûp as if you were coming away from it all.”

“Oh, don’t bother – just at the last, too,” retorted the girl, almost petulantly. “Besides – that joke is becoming rather stale.”

“Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke – is it stale too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won’t you tell me now, Nessie?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, this time quite petulantly. “Come along. We are a long way behind.”

“Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shâlalai in a week or two.”

“No, I won’t. And look here – I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Then, with apparent inconsequence – “It was mean of you to desert us like that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until now.”

They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis, all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours; chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a Snider rifle – with which he probably could not have hit the traditional haystack – and the joint party with their servants and two or three of the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted platform; for the arrival of the train – of which there was but one daily each way – was something of an event.

Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with the stationmaster – a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down country – as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door.

“Look at this, Colonel,” he said. “Just look, and tell me if ever you saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here’s a thick iron door, carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there’s no one armed enough to fire through either, except one policeman, who’d be cut down on the first outbreak of disturbance.”

“You’re right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English drawing room window. There’s a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well, you’d be hard put to it if you were reduced to that.”

“Rather. That’s how we British do things. I’ll answer for it the Russians wouldn’t. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they’ll have it too, one of these days at this rate.”

And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came, looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney, vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the windows, but Mehriâb was not a station where passengers often alighted, so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their multifold luggage – and good-byes were being exchanged.

“Now, Ernest, get in,” called out Mrs Upward. “We are just off.”

“No hurry. Where’s Tinkles? Got her on board?”

“Yes, here she is,” answered Hazel – hoisting up the little terrier to the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform.

“All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian, old chap, I suppose we’ll see you at Shâlalai in a week or two. Ta-ta.”

The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel.

The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from the Mehriâb valley like a door. The station master had retired within his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was shielding a match to light a cheroot, when – Heavens! What did this mean?

A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up – ten or a dozen, perhaps – advancing from the open country the other side of the line. They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead. The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell, still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells, expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay – and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead – rushed upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they tore back on to the platform.

The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he sprang within the waiting room.

“Back, back,” he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. “There’s a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door, Colonel.”

It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch – and no sooner had it done so than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of saving Campian’s life – and realising that fact, promptly decided to join their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed, the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic, commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate, rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred.

Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and shrieked for mercy.

Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they rushed into the station master’s office. Nobody! Into an inner room. Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered.

“The money – where is it?” said this man in Hindustani. “Give us over the rupees.”

“You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don’t let them kill me!” he pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys. In his terror he could not find them.

“Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!” urged the one who seemed to be the leader; “else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once.”

The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain less than they had expected.

“Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitân? Quick, lest we flay thee alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals,” growled the leader.

Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found, but no more.

“And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?”

“Quite all, Sirdar sahib.”

“Good.” And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the other dead.

Chapter Fifteen.

Hard Terms

Meanwhile those in the waiting room were doing all they could to make good their position, and that was not much. Their first attempt at forcing an entrance having failed, the four Marris had rushed among their countrymen who had firearms, striving to bring them against the door in force, or rake the room with a volley through the window, but their attention at the time was taken up with other matters, which afforded the beleaguered ones a brief respite.

“Non-combatants up here,” said Campian, pointing to the ladder and the trap door which has been mentioned. “Isn’t that the order, Colonel?”

“Yes, certainly. Up you go, Vivien.”

But Vivien refused to stir.

“I can do something at close quarters, too,” she said, drawing her revolver.

“Give it to me. I’ve not got mine with me. Now – go upstairs.”

“I may be of use here. Here’s the pistol, though,” handing it over.

“Will you obey orders, Viv? What sort of a soldier’s niece are you?”

“Do go,” said Campian, looking at her. “Well, I will, then.”

As she ascended the iron ladder Campian followed her up, under pretext of aiding her. In reality he managed so he should serve to screen her from any shot that might be fired, for the ladder was in full view of the window.

“I know why you came up behind me,” she whispered as she gained the loft. “It was to shield me in case they fired.”

Then, before he had time to begin his descent, she bent her head and kissed him, full on the lips.

Not a word did he speak as he went down that ladder again. The blood thrilled and tingled through his frame. Not all the fury of fanaticism which spurred the Ghazis on to mania could surpass the exaltation of fearlessness which was upon him as he tried to treasure up the warm sweetness of that kiss – and after five years!