The Devil's Guard, page 5
It was the end of the summer season. Tourists and officials on vacation poured out through the pass, the stream of motor-cars and carts constantly delaying us, since there are only certain places where wheeled traffic can pass. Threading our way patiently against the hurrying flood of tourist-cars and luggage trucks, we might have excited curiosity if we had been dressed as Europeans, but as Kashmiri merchants we only drew down objurgations on our heads.
In spite of old Benjamin's mysterious hints, we felt like schoolboys on a picnic. There was exhilaration in the air—a certain winelike sharpness and a wind that bore the dust along in clouds, but not a hint yet of the Himalayan winter, although Narayan Singh swore once or twice that he could smell snow. We mocked his pessimism and enjoyed the scenery, behind a driver who scorned precipices.
I had not adopted the deaf and dumb role yet, but kept my head wrapped in a shawl, pretending to have toothache on both sides of my mouth, in order to avoid conversation with strangers. But by night, when we cooked our meal beside the truck preparatory to sleeping underneath it, we were at the mercy of benevolence. There is a freemasonry of sickness, and the native Indian is nothing if not inquisitive. Men camped near by came to sit beside us and compare notes, keeping Grim, Narayan Singh and Chullunder Ghose in turn busy answering questions about what ailed me, and I was offered remedies that ranged all the way from opium to powdered brick from a Moslem martyr's tomb.
However, we were not in actual danger of discovery until we bumped and swung downhill toward the Kashmir Valley, where the River Jhelum lay like a turquoise ribbon winding through a paradise of green and amber. At the foot of the last decline, beside a bridge, Kashmiri officials waited to take toll of our belongings and examine all loads for contraband; and while they overhauled the truck, I sat down in its shadow.
Grim talked to the officials and so entertained them that they neglected to open our important bundles, in which the unregistered rifles were concealed; and Chullunder Ghose explained to Kashmiris, who were loafing, looking on, over-curious, that I was suffering from a disease so contagious as to poison people if my breath should touch them.
That was all very well for the time being, but one of them, out of the kindness of his heart, went and fetched a Parsee doctor, who was making his way in a car to the plains after a vacation spent in Srinagar.
The Parsee was as kind and fussy and insistent as if I had been his wife's relation. He not knowing more of the Kashmiri tongue than I did, it was easy enough to escape suspicion on the score of language, but I had to show him my mouth and the absence of any signs of sickness puzzled him. He took my temperature, and, finding that normal, invited me to strip myself and submit to a swift physical examination.
I refused for religious reasons—always a reliable excuse for anything in India, and though he continued to try to persuade me, making use of every argument a decent doctor could, I think he had about exhausted both his patience and enthusiasm and would have left me to rot of any disease I wished, but for one of those apparently insignificant incidents that so often upset calculations.
Narayan Singh, begging a ride on a government mule-wagon, had gone forward into Srinagar to see about our lodgings for the night and there was nobody near our truck except the Parsee doctor and myself. One of our heavier loads, disarranged by the customs crew, teetered on the truck's edge and would have fallen on the Parsee, had I not jumped and caught it, guiding it to the ground. So far, well and good; but now habit took charge of me: instinctively, at once, without a second thought, I hove it back in place. It was a load that probably two normally active men would find it all they could do to lift.
The Parsee gaped at me; but the worst of it was that an English doctor, passing in an auto on his way to Rawalpindi, saw the incident and, knowing the Parsee, called out to him
"Studying anatomy? By gad, where did you find that Hercules? What is he?"
The Parsee invited him to come and look, with the result that I was faced by two inquisitors instead of one, and jealousy, that was racial as well as professional, impelled them both to put me through another third degree. I had to rehearse my symptoms all over again, and it happened that the Englishman was one of those inquiring geniuses who take their profession extremely seriously.
It is easy enough to deceive a doctor, provided you avoid all technicalities and merely complain of agony; his anxiety to relieve you makes him take complaints for granted. He suspected me of some obscure nervous trouble, possibly due to overstrain, made me flex all my muscles, asked even what village I came from and of what disease my grandfather had died—nodded—made notes in a memorandum book—and offered me a seat in his auto to Rawalpindi, where he offered to treat me in the hospital free of charge.
Then Grim came to the rescue with a string of lies about a doctor in the Punjab who had recommended winter in the Kashmir Valley as a cure, and in the end the English doctor gave the Parsee a lift, the two driving off toward Rawalpindi discussing nervous maladies with the argumentative enthusiasm of professional zealots.
That would not have mattered, had they not continued the discussion that evening in the dak—a sort of hotel midway of the pass—where there was a large assorted company, some of whom joined in the conversation and were treated to a description of me, an account of my feat of strength and, no doubt, to some very interesting medical theories. However, we did not know that until later.
About nine o'clock the following night, in Srinagar, as we four sat around a lantern in a corner, with our backs against the wall of the warehouse behind Benjamin's agents' store, discussing what might have become of the son-in-law Mordecai, there entered a Kashmiri clerk who announced that a sahib wished to see us.
We fell into a panic, naturally. The word sahib is not applied exclusively to Europeans but we jumped to the conclusion that the British authorities had learned of our movements and had sent some one to investigate. We had had to wait a day in Srinagar because of news that a police patrol was coming in along the Ladakh road, and to have met the police would have been inconvenient, to say the least of it, if only because we had unregistered firearms hidden in our packs.
After a hurried consultation we decided to receive this sahib, whoever he might be, where we sat in the semi-darkness, giving as our excuse that we were travel-tired and that one of us was ill. I wrapped my head in the shawl again and leaned back in the corner.
A Tibetan entered, dressed in ready-made European khaki. He announced his name as Tsang-yang. After staring at us for a moment he sat down on our carpet uninvited, which was no good sign; and he began at once to speak to us in English, which was worse.
He was an ugly man, enormous as to height although awkwardly proportioned, with extremely bright, alert Mongolian eyes. The suit he wore hung badly on his Oriental frame, having worked up at the sleeves and knees; but he spoke English very well indeed and possessed an air of confidence that betokened long association with Europeans. We learned later that he came originally from the Province of Kam in Tibet, where nearly all the men are giants in stature.
Though he had been sufficiently ill-mannered to sit down without waiting for an invitation, and though his grin was impudent, he addressed us as "learned sirs"—a phrase implying deep respect, because Tibetans regard learning as the only royal road to virtue. The combination of insolence and politeness seemed to give the clue to his intentions. Grim whispered the word "blackmail."
Narayan Singh stared angrily, doing his best to create an inhospitable atmosphere—an art in which the Sikhs excel when so disposed (as they can do the opposite with equal grace). It was Chullunder Ghose who bore the burden of the conversation.
"Son of impertinence, what do you want?" he demanded. "Only death has the right to interrupt four worthy men at prayer."
"Pray on," said the Tibetan. "I shall wait."
Chullunder Ghose snorted. "Sit on a dung-hill and smell roses! The Lords of Life to whom we offer meditation prefer thought unpolluted by diabolism! Make your interruption and go swiftly!'
"I was recently in jail," said the Tibetan, as if he thought the boast should recommend him.
"I could have guessed it," said Chullunder Ghose.
"In jail I met Tsang-Mondrong," said our visitor. "Seven days after he entered the jail, I left it, and with him I made a bargain that I should find you as soon as might be and should follow you with all speed. I learned you were at Benjamin the Jew's in Delhi. Thence I traced you to Rawalpindi, where a letter from Benjamin overtook you, warning you against me. But I read the letter before you received it. At Rawalpindi I lost sight of you, because you were rather clever in spreading rumors that you were turning south again. But we have a saying: `When in doubt, turn northward,' so I took the road to Srinagar, I though I despaired of finding you."
"Despair was not mutual. You give us bellyache," Chullunder Ghose assured him.
"But at the flak, where I sat in shadow close to the veranda, I overheard men speaking of a very strong Kashmiri, suffering from an affliction of the mouth that interfered with speech. One of Benjamin's assistants having spoken to me of the strength of him whose skin was stained—how he lifted the bales in the store and took his amusement wrestling with the Sikh, whom he always defeated easily—I hoped again. I knew that one who spoke Kashmiri badly might pretend he could not speak at all. I followed. I am here."
"And where do you go from here? You have permission to go swiftly," said Chullunder Ghose.
"I go where you go," the Tibetan answered.
He spoke naively. Nine times out of ten when a Tibetan tells you frankly he will go with you it is safe to presume he is friendly and dependable. The tenth time it would be wiser to trust a snake.
Narayan Singh spoke suddenly. "What were you in jail for?" he demanded.
"Nothing," the man answered. "A policeman lied about me, saying I was fighting in the street, whereas I merely looked on. Why should I fight in the street, and with whom? I have never fought in the street in all my life."
Chullunder Ghose leaned toward him, pointing with two fingers at his eyes.
"I, too, am liar when it suits me!" he remarked. "Where did you learn English!"
"At Mission School, Darjiling."
"Where did you get that scar on cheek-bone? Also from missionary? What were you formerly? Monk?"
The Tibetan nodded. Regretting the admission, he began, too late, to shake his head. Chullunder Ghose mocked him
"Being monk, you never fought in streets of Lhassa? Not at festival of New Year, when monks have charge of city and all shop-keepers shut doors and windows for fear of them? You were expelled from Lhassa! You ran away to escape flogging or execution!"
"No," said the Tibetan. "I left the Dre-pung Monastery of my own accord. I wished to learn foreign knowledge. My superior in the monastery had put me to a great shame—I, who did nothing to deserve it. I was beaten. This mark on my cheek is from the whip they used."
"Save and except that it is the mark of a knife wound that is a very probable story!" said Chullunder Ghose. "You left that monastery in disgrace, running away without kissing the abbott goodby or taking anything except the monastery money! Nevertheless, when Tsang-Mon-drong, who is paid agent in confidence of Tibetan authorities, finds you in jail, he trusts you! You are not paid agent of Tibetan Government? I bet you are! I think you learned English in Pekin, China. I think that you were formerly Tibetan spy of Chinese Government, until the Chinese were defeated and no longer paid you stipulated sum per month. I think now you would like to return to Tibet, because you are homesick for your gruesome wilderness—and you think we are on our way to Tibet—and you hope to reestablish yourself by betraying us after you shall have stolen from us all you can lay your hands on. Is it not so?" "I am sure you will not go to Tibet until the spring, because the snow is in the passes," the man answered. "But I think you will go then, because a man named Rait is there already, and he wrote a letter to that one" (he pointed at me) "which you yourself delivered."
"So you would like to come with us, in the hope of finding Rait sahib? Is that it?"
"If you go to Tibet, I go with you!" Tsang-Yang answered.
I abandoned my role of sick man then and took a hand in the discussion, not exactly figuratively; took him by the neck, flung him into the corner behind me and sat on him. Narayan Singh took one of his arms and twisted it, but there was no need; his head had hit the wall. Grim stuffed a piece of sacking in his mouth and Chullunder Ghose bound the gag in place with long strips of calico.
It was a simple swift solution of the difficulty for the moment, but we did not accomplish it without a certain amount of noise and for several minutes we waited to see whether the disturbance had attracted attention from the front part of the store.
No one came, but that was no proof, we were not being quietly observed through some crack in the partition; and though it was likely we could trust Benjamin's Kashmiri agents up to a certain point, it would be foolish as well as unfair to expect them to run grave risks with the authorities on our account.
Chullunder Ghose, with a fat man's sense of humor, did his best to make our flesh creep.
"What now to do with dead Tibetan!" he remarked.
But he was not dead; I could feel him breathing.
"The brute must come with us," said Grim. "If we turn him loose the very least he'll do will be to betray Benjamin."
"And up yonder in high mountains there are many slippery places!" said Chullunder Ghose.
"Let us go," said Narayan Singh, getting up and beginning to remove the sacks that we had heaped on the prisoner, who lay still.
"Search him first!" Chullunder Ghose advised. "First aid to restoring consciousness is to turn all pockets inside out and feel for money between skin and undershirt!"
It was Grim's quick fingers that removed a leather wallet from a bandage over the man's ribs. We covered up our prisoner with sacks again and sat down in a circle to examine the find by the light of our smoky lantern.
On the outside of the wallet were the letters E.R. stamped in gold. Inside it was Rait's passport, some receipts, a woman's letter, and a photograph of me!
The receipts were all for trade-goods—matches, dyes, cooking utensils and silk that Rait had bought to take with him to Tibet in his guise of merchant; they were made out to bearer and marked "goods to be delivered at place agreed on road to Gyangtse."
The letter from the woman had no right to be in anybody's wallet. She was an author with an international reputation, who had learned of Rait's intention to visit Tibet and was trying to dissuade him. Her passionate appeals to him to come to Europe and "continue a soul-communion begun in Simla" would have been burned by any decent fellow instantly, to prevent their falling into strangers' hands.
That letter in Rait's wallet was a searchlight thrown on his character. It scandalized Chullunder Ghose, who is no sufferer from squeamishness, but having been Rait's partner for a number of years I had understood something of his cynicism. I was about to burn the letter, when Grim snatched it from me.
"Didn't you see the use he's made of it?" he asked.
He held it close up to the lantern. Some of the words had been faintly underscored with an instrument—perhaps a thumbnail—that had scratched the paper without penetrating deep. Grim—hunting for the underscored words—read the message
"Buried—and—spot—marked—to—satisfy-you—this—is—right— direction—Look—out—for—indications—of—turning—toward—West— this—side—of—Lhassa—Remember—it—is—hard—to—look—into— fierce—light—which—casts—black—shadow—consequently—don't— expect—important—discovery—without—nerve-racking—experiences— This—fool's—letter—doesn't—deserve—to—be—put—to—such—good— use—but—[and here a whole sentence was underscored] the very universe seems to be built on a foundation of broken hearts, so come at once, come quickly!"
Grim wrote down the message and I burned the woman's letter. It was plain enough that Rait had left Lhassa, had taken some trail leading westward, and had left that wallet buried by the road to mark the trail for me. But two things were not at all clear: why had he carried with him into Tibet documents that, if found on his person, would convict him of being a foreigner? And how had the wallet come into Tsang-yang's possession?
There was nothing to be learned just then from the Tibetan, who was still unconscious from the contact with his head against the wall. We decided not to let him know that we had found the wallet, but to wait and see what happened.
Meanwhile, what to do with him? There was a back door to the warehouse and, near that, a barrow with bicycle wheels and a canvas cover, not unlike an ambulance. We tied him securely on that, arranging our lighter baggage around and over him, almost breaking down the frail conveyance, which Narayan Singli and I pushed out through the back door, while Grim and Chullunder Ghose went to make excuses to our hosts, who turned out to be only too glad to be rid of us, barrow and all.
They explained to Grim exactly where the ponies were, that had been bought on Benjamin's instruction, and promised to send our heavier loads neat day by porter to an empty storehouse in a ravine beside the road to Ladakh, where we could repack them if we wished, and load the ponies at our leisure, without any one being the wiser.
It was a cold black night. The north wind, whistling from the Karakorum Mountains, seemed to make the bright stars shiver and reduce themselves to pin-points. The River Jhelum, flowing through the midst of Srinagar, lapped noisily against the bridge piles. There was a lonely feeling—a foretaste of winter—sharpened by a few bright lights from the hotels, where the last of the summer visitors were making the most of the season's end and probably dreading the hot plains of India as much as we dreaded the snow- bound passes leading into Tibet.
But we were off. And though we sneaked into the night like criminals, the thought was comforting that we had caught the only man likely to betray us. When he recovered consciousness he would be a nuisance and a danger, but not nearly so dangerous as he would have been had we left him behind without knowing he was on our trail.
