The Devil's Guard, page 3
"If you should get any hint of my whereabouts before you reach Lhassa, leave Lhassa out of your itinerary. The monks here are fanatical, suspicious, quarrelsome and rather wide-awake. Be careful at the wayside inns, where there are always spies, who get paid by results and are therefore keen on the job.
"Wear snow spectacles, and don't wash. A clean man, who has no lice on him, is certain to arouse suspicion. There—I think that's all. I'm going to count on you to come, and shall make all my plans accordingly. You will suit yourself, of course. But if you don't come you will have it on your conscience that you left me in the lurch after my running the prodigious risk of writing you this letter, which might easily betray me if the wrong man should get hold of it. Just for once in your life don't moralize—don't preach to yourself— don't get all bogged up in a sticky code of out-of-fashion ethics, but remember I was once your partner, and come just as fast as your obstinate old legs can bring you. "Yours, E. R."
I read the letter aloud to Grim.
"I hope they've fed him to the dogs," he commented. "He's rotten!"
"Nevertheless," remarked Chullunder Ghose, "he is absolutely right about Narayan Singh, who should not come with us. That Sikh slew the Dead Sea! This babu is pretty good insurance risk without Narayan Singh to get us into trouble by sticking his sword into all comers. Am pacifist for totally immoral reasons, same being it is safer. Smack me and I smack you. Smile, and the world regards you as pigeon whom it can pluck much less aggressively. Let us therefore not be aggressors but leave Narayan Singh behind."
"He's in the railway police now," Grim remarked. "Generally on duty at one of the Delhi stations, watching passengers off the express trains."
"How democratic! Am already out-voted!" said Chullunder Ghose. "That Sikh will increase majority to three to one. Am personally G.B. Shavian opinionist, believing that majorities are always wrong— but never mind, I would rather be wrong than have to live in a barrel like Diogenes. It is also better to pay income taxes than to be a hermit. Let us make plans."
Chapter Three—In which Benjamin yields as a woman should, for love, not money.
My son, some kings are commonplace, and not all laborers are worthy of their hire. But this I say to you: that if you are in league with gods to learn life and to live it, neither kings nor commoners can possibly prevent you, though they try their utmost. You shall find help unexpectedly, from strangers who, it may be, know not why. —From The Book of Sayings of Tsiang Samdup
It was not long before we learned that we had failed to throw spies off the scent. That night we sat up late discussing Tibet with Will Hancock, who had a surprising amount of information about the country. We did not admit to him that we intended to make our way over the border, he being one of those conscientious men who would have felt obliged to inform the government of anything he actually knew. But he is no man's fool; he answered all our questions without committing any such indiscretion as to ask us questions in return.
Will Hancock's chief anxiety was the season of the year. It was already autumn: the monsoon was likely to break at almost any time, after which the valleys and all the lower slopes of the Himalayas would be deluged, and the upper passes would be blocked with snow. However, he had other reasons for instilling caution:
"Some people enjoy disobeying governments," he said, blinking at us through his horn-rimmed spectacles. "But up in Tibet they have made a cult of disobedience to God! It is a lie that there is any pure philosophy or pure religion up there. What there is, is sorcery—black magic—the same evil that the witch of Endor practised and that brought Sodom and Gomorrah to their ruin—that alliance with the powers of evil that the Apostle Paul denounced. With all my heart I would advise any one against trespassing in Tibet."
"You should publish a book on the subject," said Grim. "What— and advertise iniquity?"
Will Hancock lectured us for hours on the sin of curiosity, but at the end of it I think he realized he had only contrived to arouse that vice in us.
Next morning there was a great bell-ringing at the outer gate and a man named Tsang-Mondrong, a Tibetan, asked to see the "white sahibs."
"Was fifty-fifty spy of both sides on Younghusband expedition!" said Chullunder Ghose. But Grim, who was on that expedition too, did not remember him.
He turned out to be one of those products of the meeting of the East and West who can speak English with extraordinary fluency, and who think they understand the Western point of view so well as to be able to impose their espionage unsuspected. He had been keeping watch on Chullunder Ghose and had simply followed him out to the mission.
He pretended to think that Grim and I were planning an expedition after big game, asked whether we had permits, and offered his services as guide, saying he knew some good bear country and some trails leading northward that were hardly ever used and consequently teeming with big game of all kinds. It was a ridiculously obvious trap to get us to reveal our plans to him. He sat there, itching to be questioned.
So we told him we were leaving for Bombay and Europe; and to convince him I asked him to take a telegram back to Darjiling for despatch to Bombay, ordering reservations on the earliest available steamer, but wording the telegram in such way that the steamer people would not accept it as a definite order. He agreed to take the telegram but hung around all morning questioning the mission servants and even trying to get Hancock to reveal our confidences.
He was one of the ugliest men I have ever seen, and the more we saw of him, the more hideous he seemed to become. In the first place he was pock-marked, and the pits were so deep and wide that they resembled the craters on the moon seen through a high-powered telescope. He had the usual Mongolian high cheek-bones and more or less almond eyes, but his eyes were yellow, not brown, with a tinge of green in them, and as he had neither eyelashes nor eyebrows, the effect was gruesome. Where eyebrows should have been there was a scar that looked as if it might have been made by a whip thong. The teeth of his lower jaw projected and when he grinned, which he did almost whenever he spoke, his lower lip drew downward and displayed the gum. His skin was the color of raw pig's liver. His neck was so short that his head seemed to grow from his shoulders, which were extremely wide. He had unusually long arms, a long body, and legs much too short for his height; the sleeves of his bazaar-made khaki jacket hardly came below his elbows, whereas his trousers had to be rolled up several inches. One foot was considerably larger than the other.
Yet, in spite of those deformities, he was as active as a cat, and though his head was narrow and stupid looking—though, in fact, he actually was stupid in many respects almost to the verge of idiocy— he was very sharp-witted and far-sighted, as well as persistent along lines where he thought his own particular personal interests were concerned.
"He will be harder to get rid of than a louse without disinfectant," said Chullunder Ghose. "He will take that telegram and show it to the authorities, to prove to them that we do not need to be watched, by that means securing a monopoly of watching us. Thus, when the time comes to betray us he will not need to share the reward; and he will certainly first blackmail us out of our senses before handing over what is left of us for the authorities to jump on. Argue with me! Subdue me with violence! Make rude remarks about my mother! Prove to me, black on white, that I am wrong! Nevertheless, I know and have told you."
Chullunder Ghose was right, and we believed him, but, we had a plan that we thought would hide our objective, and make it appear mere waste of time to shadow us. The trails leading into Tibet by way of Sikkim and Bhutan are more numerous than many people think, and some of them are not so difficult as rumor makes them out to be. Armies, for instance, have marched over those passes in midwinter, and there is hardly any season of the year when Tibetans are unable to reach India if they wish. But all the well-known routes were certain to be watched, especially since it was known to the Tibetans, as well as the British Government, that Rait had crossed the border; and though we did not actually know of any other route than those marked on the maps, we had more reasons than one for going first of all to Delhi.
In Delhi was our friend Narayan Singh, whom we proposed to take with us. And in Delhi was a Jew named Benjamin, who certainly has never been in Tibet, but, whose network of business connections is like a ganglion of nerves that ramify through Asia.
So to Delhi we made our way by train from Darjiling, attracting as little attention to ourselves as possible and marking "Bombay" on our luggage labels. Darjiling is the mountain terminus of a two-foot gauge line that runs through some of the finest scenery in the world to Siliguri, which is the main-line junction. On Darjiling station was the usual crowd of Lepchas, Nepalis, Eurasians, Sikkimese, Bengalis, nondescripts, and a scattering of Europeans, and there were certainly police spies in the crowd, some of whom studied our luggage labels. Three men and a woman were within earshot when we bought the tickets, and one half-naked individual appeared to be watching Chullunder Ghose to see whether or not he was in attendance on us. But there was no sign of Tsang-Mondrong until the whistle blew for the train to start. Then, leaning out of a window, I saw him run out of the waiting-room and jump into a third-class carriage.
At Siliguri he concealed himself behind a mound of luggage; but I saw him leave his lurking place to buy a ticket and when the main-line train came in he boarded it. Thereafter, at every station at which the express stopped on the way to Delhi he was out on the platform watching for us.
Chullunder Ghose came into our compartment and regaled us with gloomy reminiscences. He appeared already to have lost all confidence in the success of our adventure.
"Tsang-Mondrong," he said, "is identical swine who gave lessons in Tibetan to Rait sahib, continuing same for six months until discovered tearing secret notes out of a memorandum book. Rait sahib being little man, resultant fight was jolly well worth one rupee admission. This babu witnessed that imbroglio and afterward assisted to recorrect alignment of Tibetan's limbs, Rait sahib having ju-jutsued hind leg into place where teeth should be and vice versa. Reconstruction was like Chinese puzzle with directions how to open it inside. Tsang-Mondrong probably is contemplating vengeance, hoping to trace Rait sahib by following us. You may think you know a lot, but you have no idea how these savages pursue a vengeance to the limit. Wait and see!"
However, there is such a thing as luck, although it usually comes with a sting in its tail, and having made you overconfident, presents you with a crisis and deserts you when you least expect it. On the Delhi station platform was Narayan Singh in khaki uniform with a row of medal ribbons on his breast. His black beard parted in a flashing smile the moment he saw us, and he came running, waving his arm commandingly for porters, in two minds whether to salute or to throw convention to the winds and shake us by the hand. "Sahibs!" he exclaimed. "Sahibs!" He seemed more glad to see us than if we had been brothers risen from the grave. "What now! This police work is no trade for a man like me!"
Grim took him by the elbow and pointed out Tsang-Mondrong, who was making his way through the crowd toward the exit where he would be able to keep an eye on us.
"Arrest him!" said Grim. "Keep him under lock and key until we've given him the slip. Then chuck your job and come to us at Benjamin's."
He grinned. A minute later the Tibetan made the grave mistake of offering resistance to arrest and, furthermore, misjudged Narayan Singh's strength, which is not much less than mine. Three policemen came up on the run with their yellow truncheons swinging, and Tsang-Mondrong had not even enough senses left to be meek with by the time the handcuffs had been snapped on. He was hurled into the station lock-up and there held incommunicado for the ambulance.
Grim and I took one cab, Chullunder Ghose another, and we drove by different routes through the swarming, stinking streets to Benjamin's in the Chandni Chowk, which is the old Street of the Silversmiths, the heart of the business zone of modern Delhi. The old Jew's shop draws no attention to itself, its narrow, shabby- looking front being wedged between two warehouses, but that appearance is deceptive; the narrow front part where the counter is, with a row of shelves behind it, leads to a curtain at the rear beside a stairway, and beyond that is a vast and shadowy warehouse where the odds and ends of all the world, from London to Pekin, are piled in heaps amid a smell of saddlery, dried-camel sweat, old clothes and spices.
The old Jew received us warily, his red-rimmed eyes betraying nervousness, artistic-looking fingers scratching his chin through a long beard streaked with gray.
"Jimgrim!" he said. "Ramsden! Tscha-tacha! Vultures! Kites! When you gather, there is trouble! What now?"
We sat down on a pile of carpets in the gloom and lighted cigarettes before we answered, he peering at us, slightly stooped, kneading his fingers together—a typical Asian Jew, if there is such a thing, more nervous than a bird and full of wisdom won in combat with the world's unfairness—timid where a Gentile would be rash, bold where a Gentile would not dare to venture—generous, thrifty, honest, a keen bargainer contemptuous of fools—a man of strong affections and extreme fears.
"Confidences, Benjamin," I said, when I had smoked about a quarter of a cigarette and Grim continued silent.
"Nah-nah! Keep your confidences? Those are dangerous!" He scratched his head, pushing his embroidered silk turban forward over his forehead.
"When did you begin to play safe?" Grim inquired.
"Nobody brings confidences here unless he wants money or—"
"Give him our money," said Grim, and I began to count out Bank-of- England notes.
"Trouble!" said Benjamin. "I smell trouble! Take your money to the bankers!"
"The clerks who keep bank ledgers sell their information. You know that as well as I do, Benjamin," said Grim. "Give us a receipt, and tell us how to get to Tibet."
He flew into a passion of denials, swearing he knew nothing about Tibet, never had been there, knew nobody who had been, had had nothing to do with the country at any time, and did not intend to have anything to do with it.
"And I am old," he added. "I know best."
"It is because you are old, and you know, and we know you, that we have come to you," said Grim. "But it is against the law! There is an order in council—"
"Benjamin," said Grim, "who thought about order in council, or law, when your relatives were starving in a Turkish prison and Jeff Ramsden helped them out? Did you study law when you hid Rabindra Das after the Amritsar business and helped him escape into Persia?"
"Who told you that?" Benjamin demanded.
"Rabindra Das. I also helped him to escape," said Grim.
"Yei-yei-yei—who shall keep secrets while you live Jimgrim? How many of you go to Tibet?"
"Jeff and I, Narayan Singh and Chullunder Ghose."
"Tshuh! You talk madness! You—yes—maybe. Ramsden? Better take an elephant! Chullunder Ghose! Narayan Singh? The one will talk to all comers and try to sell lottery tickets to the Tashi Lama; the other will offer to fight the whole Tibetan army!"
Nevertheless, Benjamin took up the money from the mat and went to a desk in the corner to write a receipt. Its was while he was doing that, that Chullunder Ghose came in, as genial and confident as if he owned the store, with none of its responsibilities.
"Salaam, Benjamin! Salaam, O chosen person! Son of the great Joshua who made the sun stand still, salaam! We wish for chariot of Elijah in which to cross Himalayan Mountains; order same for us, taking care that taximeter has been properly inspected—submarine of Jonah being useless in this instance! Nevertheless, be careful of police, who will look up chariot's license number!"
Benjamin eyed him sourly; there had never been love lost between them—as there never is when one man laughs at life and at himself, while the other takes all things seriously. Benjamin, who probably has suffered less from disappointment than Chullunder Ghose, and who at any rate has grown rich, resents the suggestion that life is a comedy, whereas the babu, who was ever a spendthrift, mocks death itself, since he believes that death is nothing but the end of an illusion.
"That fool will ruin you," said Benjamin, inviting a retort that might lead to an excuse to wash his hands of us. But the babu sat still, like a contemplative idol, only opening one eye a trifle wider as Narayan Singh strode in.
The Sikh was no longer in uniform, but he stood before us with arms folded on his breast and a soldier's attitude toward life's problems stamped all over him.
"The Tibetan Tsang-Mondrong will undoubtedly receive a month's hard labor for resisting three policemen," he announced. "They three, not I, have charged him, being young men seeking credit—thus releasing me from having to give evidence. Tsang-Mondrong is unknown in Delhi, so can call no witnesses. What next do we under-take?"
"Tibet," I said; and he grinned.
It is impossible to write of him without emotion. Even in this draughty cave, with a ninety-mile wind howling across barren wastes outside, I grow warm at the thought of him; and I can write of him with less restraint, since he is dead—having died as calmly as he lived, thrusting himself into danger for the sake of others.
He was a soldier first and last, with all of a Sikh soldier's ruthlessness when it came to action, but a patience beyond praise until the moment came when patience would no longer be a virtue. He regarded this life, in so far as I could ever dig down through the silences to his philosophy, as something like an armed camp, in which all the hosts of evil are arrayed against each individual's manhood. When he killed (and he must have slain dozens) he did it with a strange impersonality that in no way handicapped his zeal or efficiency. He never boasted—had no pride in any ordinary meaning of the term—and undertook the meanest task without a moment's hesitation, being utterly above all caste restrictions. And he wend off into the unknown with us with no more fuss or excitement than if he were about to cross the street.
He stalked through the world like a stranger to it, having no home ties I ever heard of, and no religious interests that he ever mentioned—a thing very unusual in a Sikh. I never saw him pray, nor heard him say a word against another man's religion, except good-naturedly, when Chullunder Ghose, or some one else teased him.
