The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

Even then, however, he was in an ugly and vindictive frame of mind, and whether his intervention or protection would have been extended to the captive under ordinary circumstances, it is hard to say. As it was, the mere accidental glimpse of the ring worn by Campian had worked wonders.

The fact was that Campian seldom wore this ring. He had done so of late, thinking it in keeping with the Eastern dress he had assumed, but formerly he had hardly remembered that it was in his possession. Even of late, however, it had passed unnoticed, partly from the fact of Aïn Asrâf’s sight being dim with age partly that none of those who custodied him were of the family of Dost Hussain. Fortunate, indeed, that it had been upon his finger at that critical moment.

At a village on their road they fell in with Aïn Asrâf. The old Syyed was genuinely rejoiced at beholding his neophyte once more. The latter, in spite of his own protests, anger, menaces even, had been spirited off by the lawless and irreligious followers of Umar Khan, nor had he been able to learn his whereabouts.

“Ah, my son,” he said at the close of their cordial greeting, “Allah watches over His own – and His Prophet holds hell in store for they who oppress them. Yet, it is well. I may no more be with thee to instruct thee in the fair flowers of the faith. Yet forget not that Allah has delivered thee in thine extremity, and that not once.”

Then he signed that the hour of prayer was at hand, and all dismounted, and the same orisons – uttered alike by chief and lowest herdsman – by the upright and the criminal – by the true ally and treacherous outlaw – went up from the desert sand from that group with their faces to the setting sun.

The old Syyed attached himself to their band, being readily provided, by the people of the village, with a camel, for they had no horses, and was treated with great deference by all – both as the uncle of the chief, and in his capacity of saint. Through the medium of Sohrâb Khan, the English speaking Baluchi, Campian was able to while away the monotony of the road in converse. He learnt much of what had befallen since his captivity – of the arrest of the Sirdar, the anxiety as to his own fate, and the doings of Umar Khan, with whom his present friends seemed not altogether out of sympathy – in fact, he decided that if it depended upon their aid, the chances of capturing that redoubted freebooter were infinitesimal. Thus they fared onward, day after day, through tangi and over kotal, threading deep mountain valleys, and traversing sun-baked plains; now resting for the night at mud-walled villages, now camping out in the open beneath the desert stars.

The Kachîn valley at last! How well he remembered its long, deep configuration. Now after his enforced wanderings over those grim deserts, even its sparse foliage was like a cool and refreshing oasis. And what experiences, strange and startling, had he not known within its narrow limits. There, above the juniper growth rose the mass of rock wherein was the markhôr cave. It seemed strange to think that the face of that ordinarily rugged mountain side should contain what it did.

Then a misgiving seized him. What if it should contain nothing? What if he had been allowing his over-wrought imagination to run away with him? The chest was there – no doubt about that, but what if it contained nothing more than a lot of old parchments, or a storage of ordinarily trumpery trinkets? Things might, in that event, take an awkward turn. But no, he would not believe it. The strength of the chain, the weight of the chest, the weird, unheard of place of its concealment, the care and labour involved in designing such a hiding place, all pointed to this being the object of his search. And then, too, the topographical features of the surroundings were all exactly as set forth in his father’s instructions. Every piece of the puzzle seemed to fit in to a nicety.

And this chief was the son of the refugee Afghan whose life his father had saved, and in the inscrutable workings of time it had come about that the debt should be repaid twofold, that his own life should be saved, first by the brother, then by the son of Dost Hussain. On the eventual slaughter of the latter by the Brahuis, Yar Hussain then an infant, had found refuge with the Marri tribe, and by dint of descent on his mother’s side, had, on reaching years of manhood, claimed and seized the position he now held. All this Campian learned as they travelled along; and a very stirring – if complicated – tale of Eastern intrigue, and fierce, ruthless tribal feud it was.

A feeling of awe was upon the party as they entered the gloomy crack which constituted the portal of the now historic markhôr cave. Upon the Baluchis the superstitious associations which clustered round the place had their effect. The Syyed Aïn Asrâf was muttering copious exorcisms and adjurations from the sacred book, and the wild desert warriors were overawed at the thought that here was about to be unfolded that which had been placed there by the hands of those long since dead. Upon the European, however, the associations were multifold. That first exploration of the cave, the chance arrival of Vivien Wymer, and their long, quiet talk as they investigated it together all came back to him. Then the tragedy, his escape, and the hours he had spent hanging in the very mouth of that hideous gulf – here again the hidden hoard of the dead chief had been instrumental in preserving the life of his rescuer’s son, for what would the latter have done but for the resting place afforded by the chain and that which it supported, whit time Umar Khan, with his bloodthirsty brigands had run him literally to earth?

Taking a torch from one of the bystanders, and holding it out at arm’s length over the gulf, he said:

“Look down there, my brother, yonder is the Ruby Sword.”

“I see nothing,” replied Yar Hussain, who, lying flat on the brink, was peering over. “Stay – yes. Something is hanging. It is of iron. It is a chain. You – three of you – hold your lights out over yon black opening of hell.” Then as they obeyed he went on – “Yes. There it is. There is a chest – bound with brass. Of a truth the secret is at length revealed.”

Even the impassive reticence of the Oriental seemed to relax. There was a note of strong excitement in the deep tones of the chief, and his eyes dilated as he beheld at last that which contained his long buried heirloom. He gave orders that the chest should be at once drawn up.

This was not difficult. By Campian’s advice they had come well provided with strong camel-hide ropes. These were noosed, and the loops being swung round the chest on either side of the chain – a very simple process in the strong light of many torches – were drawn tight. Then, at the word from Campian, who superintended the operation, and whose interest and excitement were hardly less than that of the chief, they hauled away. The chest proved of less weight than they expected, and lo! – in a trice – it lay safe upon the floor of the cave.

Many and pious were the ejaculations of those who beheld. The massive chain, somewhat indented in the wood through the weight it had so long sustained, was at length filed through, and the chest borne to the entrance of the cave to be opened in full daylight.

Seen there it was indeed black and venerable with age, and the lettering on the cover so blurred that the old eyes of Aïn Asrâf were hardly equal to the task of deciphering it. But the impatience of those around was deepening every moment, and Yar Hussain with his own hands began to open the chest.

It was secured by cunning locks, the device of which was known to him. The hinges, stiff and rusty with age and damp, at first would not turn, then yielded to a couple of hearty tugs. The while every head was craned forward, every spectator was breathless with expectation. As an instance of how one can persuade oneself into a belief in any theory, even now no misgiving came to Campian lest the chest should contain nothing of any value.

An aromatic and pungent odour filled the air on the opening of the box. At first a layer of sheepskin vellum, then parchments. At these Yar Hussain merely glanced hurriedly and continued his investigations. One bag – then another – five bags of the same soft sheepskin and carefully tied, each about the size of an orange. On opening these – lo! three of them contained precious stones, cut, and some of splendid size and water. The other two were filled with uncut stones. This was beginning to look promising.

The next layer being uncovered yielded to view some magnificent personal ornaments, bracelets and the like, thickly jewelled. These were lifted out, and then the third skin covering being removed, that contained by the last and lower compartment of the chest lay revealed. Something long, wrapped in several rolls of the soft wash leather. Carefully, almost reverently, Yar Hussain unfolded these and – There it lay, in the bottom of the chest, hilt and scabbard literally glowing with splendid rose red jewels, relieved by the white flash of diamonds, dazzling the eyes of the beholders with the suddenness of its glare – there it lay, in its long hidden splendour, the cherished heirloom of the refugee Durani chief – the priceless Ruby Sword.

For some moments the surrounding Baluchis stood staring in stupefied silence, then they broke forth in ejaculations as to the wonderful ways of Allah, and so forth. Campian, beholding the wealth thus displayed, could not but feel some sort of qualm as he remembered how he might have concealed his knowledge until able to turn it to his own material account. It was only momentary, however, and he was the first to break in with a practical remark.

“Hearken, Sohrâb Khan,” he said. “I think I have now done all that I can do. Tell the sirdar that he and his have returned to me the service that my father rendered to his, have returned it twofold, and I, for my part, am rejoiced to have been the means by which he has come into the possession of his own. But there are those in Shâlalai I would fain see again, and if it is all the same to him, I think” – with a glance at the sun – “we might fetch Mehriâb station in time to catch the afternoon train.”

This very Western and end of the nineteenth century phrase breaking in upon such a scene of Eastern and mediaeval romanticism struck its utterer as almost ludicrous in its incongruity.

“In truth, that is comprehensible,” replied Yar Hussain, when this suggestion was put to him – “and it shall be done. Yes, my brother, who art now one of us, thy wishes shall be fulfilled. But now, receive this,” – placing in his hand one of the bags of cut stones – “and choose from among these,” – pointing to the jewelled bracelets – “that some recompense may be made thee for thy sufferings at the hands of our people, and that the remembrance of thy brethren here may be pleasant and sweet when thou art among thine own people in the years to come.”

Campian, repressing the momentary instinct which moved him to decline so splendid a gift, made choice of one of the bracelets – not one of the best, however. It was a splendid ornament for all that, and a tightening of the heart went through him as he wondered to himself if it would ever be worn. Then he asked if he could keep the Durani ring, which he valued more than ever.

“Surely,” was the sirdar’s reply. “In truth it is restored to a believer, and hath amply fulfilled its mission.”

When the train for Shâlalai stopped at Mehriâb station that day, the few European passengers it contained were lazily astonished by the presence on the platform of an evidently important Baluchi sirdar, accompanied by a large retinue. Their astonishment grew to activity, however, when one of the group, before entering a first-class carriage, took leave of them in excellent English, which was duly translated to the chief and his following by one of their number, the departure of the train being signalled by a perfect chorus of farewell “salaams” from those left behind. They were destined to be still more mightily astonished upon the arrival of the train at the last station or two before Shâlalai by the appearance of a European, of military or official aspect, who greeted the supposed Oriental with cordial handgrip, singing out in a voice that carried the whole length of the train:

“Devilish glad to see you back, old chap. And I’ve brought you your togs, so you’ll have time to get into them as we go along. By George, though, you look no end of a real sirdar in that get-up, all the same.”

And taking a Gladstone bag from the attendant bearer, he jumped in too.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Light

“After months – which seemed years – of the most abominable hardship, wearying anxiety, and constant danger, the security and restfulness of this sort of thing is simply beyond all words to define.”

Thus Campian, clad in irreproachable evening dress, with a wave of the hand which takes in the lighted table and trophy hung walls. The only other occupant of Upward’s dining room has just entered, likewise in full panoply – with opera-cloak, and fan and gloves.

“Yes. That is indeed true. Do you know, I wish we had not got to go out to-night.”

“Then why do we; for as it happens I entirely share that wish. Suppose we stay at home instead. Or are you going to say ‘Duty’?”

Vivien does not at once reply. Something in the tone, in the scarcely veiled meaning wherewith he emphasises the word, strikes home to her. The Upward party and her uncle have gone on, bound for a regimental theatrical performance at the Assembly Rooms, and they two are left to follow. Not many days have gone by since Campian’s return to Shâlalai; not many more are to go by before he leaves it – almost certainly for ever.

“Shall we stay at home then, dear?” answers Vivien, a little wave of unsuppressed tenderness in her voice. “We may throw duty overboard for once, for the sake of a poor returned wanderer. But – I have made you this, and in any case you must wear it.” “This” being an exquisite little “button-hole” which she is now carefully pinning on for him. The great tiger jaws on the walls seem to snarl inaudibly in the lamplight – as though to remind both of the multifold perils of the beautiful, treacherous East.

Now, the act of pinning on a button-hole under some circumstances is bound to lead to a good deal, therefore in this case, that an arm should close around the operatrix seems hardly surprising.

“Do you still venerate that vacant old fetish? It parted us once, Vivien.”

Again she is silent, and her eyes fill. The great black and orange stripes of the tiger skins seem to dance in angry rays before her vision. Her voice will not come to her. But he continues:

“Has it never occurred to you that you – that we – made a very considerable mistake that time? We each found our counterpart in the other. Surely such an experience is unique. Then what happened? You set up a fetish – a miserable fraud – a mere whimsical conception of an idol – and called it Duty – while I – I was fool enough to let you do it.”

“I don’t know why things were ordered that way,” he continues, for still Vivien makes no reply – “or for what purpose, of earth or heaven, five years of happiness should have been knocked off our lives. But for whatever it is, I don’t believe for a moment it was arranged we should meet so strangely and unexpectedly in this out of the way part of the world – all for nothing. We have been brought together again, and we have tried to keep up the rôle of strangers – of mere acquaintances – and the whole thing is a most wretched and flimsy fiasco. Is it not?”

“Yes.”

She is looking at him now, full and earnestly. Her fingers are toying with the “button-hole” she has pinned on his coat. Unconsciously she is leaning on him as he holds her within his embrace.

“Our love showed forth in every moment, in every word, in every action of our lives,” he continues. “The mask we tried to wear was quite unavailable to stifle the cry of two aching hearts. Listen, darling. There is no room for affectation between us now. Our love is as ever it was – rather is it stronger. Am I right?”

“Yes. You are the one love of my life, and always have been. And you know it – dearest.”

So sweet, so soft comes this reply, that the very tones are as an all pervading caress.

“Those five years are beyond our reach,” he continues. “They are gone never to return, but we can make up for them during the remainder of our lives. And – we will. Will we not?”

“Yes – we will.”

The reply, though low, is full-voiced and unhesitating. Luminous eyes, sweet with their love light, are raised to his, and the man’s head is drawn down to meet again that kiss which seemed to join soul to soul in the dread hour of peril and of bloodshed and self-abnegation. And, with the moment, the long years of desolation and heart-emptiness are as though they had never been – for after the drear gloom of their weary length – the sharp and fiery trial of their culmination, Love has triumphed, and now there is light.