The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

“Campian, confound it! We have only a dozen shots among us,” growled the Colonel. “What an ass I am to go about without a pistol.”

“We can do a lot with a dozen shots. And Der’ Ali has his tulwar.”

Der’ Ali was the Colonel’s bearer, who had been within at the time of the onslaught. He had been a trooper in his master’s old regiment, and they had seen service together on more than one occasion. What had become of the two syces and the forest guard, who were outside, they did not then know, for then the whole volume of the savage fanatics came surging up to the door. In their frenzy they fired wild shots at the solid iron plates.

“Tell them, Der’ Ali,” growled Colonel Jermyn, in Hindustani, “that they had better clear out and leave us alone. The Sirkâr will hang every man Jack of their tribe if they interfere with us. And the first man in here we’ll shoot dead; and the rest of them to follow.”

The bearer, who understood Baluchi well, rendered this, not minimising the resource and resolution of those within as he did so. A wild yell greeted his words. Then one, more frenzied or enterprising than the rest, pushed his rifle through the window, and the smashing of glass mingled with the report as he blazed into the room. But those within were up to that move. The window being on a line with the door, they had only to flatten themselves against the wall, and the bullet smashed harmless.

Then there was a rush on the window. Two men crashed through, badly cut by the glass. Before they could recover themselves they were shot dead. Even Campian’s wretched stores revolver did its work on this occasion. That halted the rest – for the moment.

Only for the moment. By a rapid movement, crawling beneath the level of the window sill, several managed to discharge their rifles well into the room. Narrowly the bullets missed the defenders.

“Look here. This is getting hot,” growled the Colonel. “Let’s give them one more volley and go into the loft. There one of us can hold the place for ever against the crowd.”

Campian had his doubts about the strategical wisdom of this. However, just then there was another rush through the window, and this time his revolver jammed. Outside were thirty furious Ghazis, urging each other on with wild fanatical yells. If they two were cut down what of Vivien? That decided him. She could hold that trap door against the crowd.

“All right, Colonel. Up you go. I and Der’ Ali will hold the window.”

“You and Der’ Ali be damned,” growled the staunch old veteran. “Obey orders, sir.”

“No, no. You forget I’m only a civilian, and not under orders. And – you must be with Vivien.”

No time was this for conventionalities, but even then the old man remembered the evening of the earthquake. “Well, I’ll cover your retreat from the ladder,” he said, and up he went.

Campian, by a wrench, brought the cylinder of his weapon round. Then, sighting the head of a Ghazi thrust prominently forward, he let go. It was a miss, but a near one. Under cover of it both he and the bearer gained the loft. A strange silence reigned. The assailants seemed to have drawn off.

It was a breathing space, and surely these needed it. The excitement and energetic action brought a relapse. So sudden was the change from a quiet ordinary leave taking to this hell of combat and bloodshed, that it told upon the nerves more than upon the physical resources. Then, too, they could sum up their position. Here they were beyond all possibility of relief. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. No train would be due at Mehriâb until eleven the next morning. Meanwhile these bloodthirsty barbarians would stick at nothing to reach their victims. These were cut off from human aid as entirely, to all intents and purposes, as though thousands of miles within the interior of Africa instead of in the heart of a theoretically peaceful country, over which waved the British flag.

“If only the telegraph clerk had been able to send a wire,” said the Colonel. “But even if the poor devil wasn’t cut down at the start, he’d have been in too big a scare to be able to put his dots and dashes together.”

Suddenly, with an appalling clatter, two or three logs were hurled through the window on to the floor of the waiting room below. Then some more, followed by a splash of liquid and a tin can. But the throwers did not show.

“By the Lord, they are going to try burning us out,” said Campian, in a low tone, watching the while for an enemy to show himself.

Then came more logs. They were old sleepers which had been piled up beside the line, and were as dry as lucifer matches. On to them came a great heap of tattered paper – the return forms and books found in the station offices. The assailants could load up a great pyre thus without incurring the slightest risk to themselves – could set it alight, too. That was what came of the British way of doing things – a heavily armoured and loop-holed door, and, alongside of it, an open and entirely unprotected window. Truly Upward had been right when he conjectured the Russians would have had a different way. No nation under the sun is more wedded to shortsightedness and red tape than that which is traditionally supposed to rule the waves.

Now indeed a feeling of blank despair came into the hearts of at any rate two out of the four as they watched these preparations. Vivien, fortunately, could not see them, for with splendid patience she sat quite still, and refrained from hampering her defenders, even with useless questions. The reek of paraffin rose up strong and sickening. The assailants had flung another can of it upon the pile of combustibles. All this they could do without exposing themselves in the least.

“Heavens I are we to be roasted or smoked in a hole?” growled the Colonel. “Cannot we cut our way through?”

Campian said nothing. His thoughts were too bitter. He had some belief that these barbarians would not harm Vivien. But death had never been less welcome than at that moment.

“Could we not propose terms to them, Colonel? Offer a big ransom, say?”

“Nothing like trying. Der’ Ali, ask the budmâshes how many rupees they want to clear out and leave us alone.”

The bearer, who spoke Baluchi well, did as he was told. The reply came sharp and decided. “Not any.”

“Try again, Der’ Ali. Tell the fools they’ll be none the better for killing us, and we’ll promise to do nothing towards having them caught. In fact, promise them anything.”

Then Der’ Ali, who was no fool, put the offer before them in its most tempting light. Everyone knew the Colonel Sahib. His word had never been broken, why should it be this time? The rupees would make them rich men for life, and would be paid with all secrecy. A Moslem himself, Der’ Ali quoted the Korân voluminously. It was not for themselves that they feared death, it was on account of the mem-sahib, for if they were slain what would become of her? And what said the Holy Korân? “If ye be kind towards women, and fear to wrong them, God is well acquainted with what ye do.”

For a time there was silence. The suspense of the beleaguered ones was terrible. Then the reply came.

“If the Colonel Sahib would give his promise to pay over the sum of five thousand rupees to an accredited messenger at a certain spot in eight days’ time he and the mem-sahib and their servant should be spared. But the other sahib must come down and deliver himself into their hands.”

“That’s all right,” said Campian cheerfully, when this had been rendered. “They want me as a hostage. Things are looking up. When they finger the rhino they’ll turn me adrift again, and meanwhile I shall see something of the inner life of the wily Baluch.”

“Tell them we’ll double the sum if they let all four of us go,” said the Colonel.

Der’ Ali put this, but the reply of the leader was again prompt and decided. It was in the negative. The other sahib must come and deliver himself into their hands.

“The question is, can we trust them?” said the Colonel. “Will they keep to their conditions in any case? Once we are out of this we are at their mercy.”

“Are we less so here?” said Campian. “A match put to that nice little pile and we shall be smoked or roasted in no time. No. Strike while the iron’s hot, say I. Der’ Ali, make them swear by all that they hold sacred to keep faith with us, and then I’ll come down.”

“Who is your leader, brothers?” called out the bearer.

“I, Ihalil Mohammed Khan,” returned the same deep voice that had before spoken.

Then Der’ Ali put to him the most binding oath he could call to mind, and Ihalil accepted it without hesitation. He bound himself by all the virtues of the Prophet, by the Korân, and by the holy Caaba, faithfully to observe the conditions he had laid down – in short, he almost swore too much.

“Say we accept, Der’ Ali. I’m coming down.”

“God bless you, my boy,” said the Colonel, as he wrung the other’s hand in farewell. “If it was only ourselves, I’d say let’s all hang together. But for Vivien’s sake. There, good-bye.”

“Rather – so long, we’ll say,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ll show up again in a few days.”

Vivien said nothing. A silent pressure of the hands was the extent to which she could trust herself.

For all his assumed cheerfulness it was a critical moment for Campian, as once more he stood upon the floor of the waiting room, and, stumbling over the heaped-up combustibles, stepped outside into the full glare of daylight. His nerves were at their highest tension. The chances that he would be cut to pieces or not the moment he showed his face were about even. As in a flash, that question as to whether he was ever afraid of anything darted through his mind. At that moment he was conscious of feeling most horribly and unheroically afraid.

No one would have thought it to look at him, though – certainly not those into whose midst he now stepped.

“Salaam, brothers!” he said in Hindustani, with a glance at the ring of shaggy scowling faces which hemmed him in.

The salute was sullenly returned, and then Ihalil, beckoning him to follow, led the way down the platform, surrounded by the whole party. They passed the body of the murdered policeman and that of the stationmaster, and at these some of the barbarians turned to spit, with muttered curses; and the platform, smeared and splattered with blood, was like the floor of a slaughter-house. Even the dirty white garments of the murderers were splashed with it.

Out through the gate at the end of the platform they went. Heavens, was the whole thing a dream – a nightmare? Why, it was less than an hour ago they had entered that gate all so light hearted and unthinking. He remembered the badinage he had been exchanging with Nesta as they passed in through it – and more than one reference as to meeting in Shâlalai in a week or two. Now – who could say whether he would meet anybody again – in a week or two or ever? And then his sight fell upon that which caused him well nigh to give up hope.

In the shade before the station master’s private quarters, a man was squatting – a wild, fierce-looking Baluchi. Before him the whole party now halted, treating him as with the deference due to a leader. But one glance at the grim, cruel face and eagle beak, and shaggy knotted brows, sufficed. In him Campian recognised the man who had scowled so demoniacally upon him in the retinue of the Marri sirdar – the man he had wounded and lamed for life when set upon by the Ghazis in the Kachîn valley. And this man was no other than the celebrated outlaw Umar Khan, and now, he was his prisoner.

And at that very moment it occurred to those left behind in the loft that any sort of stipulation as to the said prisoner being returned unharmed on the payment of the sum agreed upon had been entirely left out of the covenant.

Chapter Sixteen.

At Shâlalai