Mohammed's Tooth/Chapter 2

CAME to with a splitting headache, and lay wondering in a kind of twilight, caused, as I discovered presently, by a guttering candle stuck in a knot-hole in a board on a stamped earth floor. Overhead there were beams made of all sorts of odds and ends, including two telegraph poles marked with the British Government's broad arrow, and a length of standard railway metal.

My fingers informed me I was lying on sheepskins or something of the sort; and in among the singing in my ears I could distinguish occasional sounds obviously made by some one rather close to me; but I did not move my head for several minutes, because it hurt too much for one reason, and for another it seemed wise to get some information before betraying any. It was night; that much was obvious. But I could not guess how many nights I might have lain unconscious, and it felt like eons since that blow from behind had knocked me sprawling. There seemed to be two people in the room, or hut, or what ever it was, and one of them was crooning to herself in a language that if I ever understood I could not then remember. It was decidedly cold, and at last I shivered, whereat I felt agreeably soft fingers feeling the back of my hand.

“Shall I throw another sheepskin over you?” a voice asked.

So I turned my head and saw Joan Angela in riding-breeches on the ground beside me. She looked tired, but not otherwise distressed.

“How did you get here?” I asked her stupidly.

“Don't try to talk for a while yet. Listen,” she answered. “I was afraid once or twice you were dead; and you're so heavy they had to handle you roughly, although I think they tried to be decent in their own fashion. There's a cut on the back of your head, but I don't think it's deep, and I've bandaged it, so don't move.”

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

“Several hours. But don't talk. I'll tell you all about it if you'll listen.”

So I lay still, and presently Joan Angela began.

“I was on my way to the Lancers' camp. There were two men with me, and I'd sent a third in advance to say I was coming, and would be late, but was all right. My horse had gone lame, and I was letting him take it easy. But it was later than I thought, and I think we'd lost the way; I'm sure we covered lots of unnecessary miles, and when it grew dark the men seemed to lose their bearings altogether. But I knew if we reached the river and turned along the bank we'd be all right, and it was no use turning back, even if I'd cared to; so we rode on. The men were Beluchis, who'd been lent to me by the Farquharsons, when they left home—supposed to be awfully faithful and so on, but too stupid for words.

“Well, we reached the river at last, and they said to turn to the right, but I knew better. If we had turned to the right, maybe you and I wouldn't be here now, but I'd have missed the Lancers' camp, and then some other brigands would have bagged me, so what's the odds? I knew I'd taken the right direction.

“It got so dark at last you couldn't see a thing. Then some men jumped out of a hole by the river bank and knifed my Beluchis without a word. I had a pistol and tried to use it, but another rascal cut my horse's throat, and grabbed me as he fell, so the shot went wild. Then he knocked the pistol out of my hand and I was prisoner. But he didn't see where the pistol went to, and I've got it now. They treated me reasonably well, and while they talked I sat down—right on the pistol.

“I wasn't worried much. The Beluchis were dead, and of course that was horrible, but I despise a man who's so afraid he has to have a woman show him which way to turn; and they didn't put up any fight, they were just cowards. I was sorrier for the horse. And I knew the Lancers would be out looking for me in two ticks, because they expected me to dinner, and besides, that third Beluchi had ridden on ahead to tell them I was really on the way.

“What puzzled me was that the men who'd captured me—there were nine of them—started to lead me off in the wrong direction. We kept along the river bank. I was even crazy enough for a minute to think they were taking me to the Lancers' camp to hand me over. I could see the camp lights in the distance. There was a man in charge of the party—a chieftain I suppose—whom they all called Kangra Khan; he was the only one who seemed to know a word of English, but when I asked him a question or two he ordered me to hold my tongue. He even threatened to kill me if I made a noise, but I didn't believe him. I kept raising my voice in the hope some of the Lancers' outposts would hear me; and at last I really did hear some one coming. It turned out to be you.

“Kangra Khan put his hand over my mouth then, and I bit it. I wish you'd heard him swear! But he's a gentlemanly sort of savage and didn't hit back. They shot your horse, and they were awfully sore because you killed one of their men, and that was why they knocked you on the head instead of roping you. You nearly killed Kangra Khan, by the way. Your bullet seared his cheek, and would have hit me if I'd been about a foot more to the right.

“Well, you were knocked out; but some one struck a match, and I recognized you. And you weren't dead, because I could feel your heart beating. Then we heard what might be Lancers coming. The party grew scared, and got ready to scatter. They were about to tie my hands, and one man folded up a bit of sheepskin for a gag. I didn't fancy that.

“Of course, it was worse than a hundred to one chance of the Lancers coming on you in the dark; and if they didn't stumble on you you'd be dead before morning. So I promised them I'd come quietly provided they took you too. If not, no. And I started in to yell to prove it!

“Kangra Khan seems something of a sportsman in his own way, and took me at my word. He gave orders to the gang to pick you up and carry you gently. It seems you'd cut their boat loose, and we had to go miles back along the bank until we found another one, and we crossed the river at last in the craziest box of a thing you ever saw. I thought we were sure to be drowned a dozen times. The boat was half full of water, and you lay on the bottom with the water flopping over you, and me holding your head up so you could breath [sic].

“They had turned loose the two horses that belonged to my Beluchis, so the Lancers would follow them and give Kangra Khan a chance to slip by unobserved. He didn't cross the river with the rest of us, but continued along the bank in the direction of the Lancers' camp, saying he'd see me later and that he held me to my promise to go quietly. I told him I'd come to his funeral when the British hanged him, and he grinned as if he thought that a good joke.

“Once we'd crossed the river the going was fairly easy for a long time, but they hurried me and lugged you until I felt nearly as all in as you looked. I had to remind 'em a good many times of the chief's orders to treat you gently; and as they didn't know any English, and I can't talk their language, it wasn't so easy. But I remembered I'd heard 'em call him Kangra Khan; so I kept saying, 'Kangra Khan!' and pointing to you, and frowning, and presently they saw the point. I guess they're scared of him, and I don't blame 'em—he looks like a top-dog.

“Then we came to these hills, and the going began to be awful. They had to lug me up precipices by the hands. When daylight comes I daresay it'll all look simple enough, but in the dark it felt like climbing Everest or something. When we reached this hut they shoved me in, and threw in some sheepskins, and you on top of them, and left us. But a little later on they opened the door and pushed in an old woman—at least she looks old—that's her you hear crooning. She's scared to death of us.

“Every once in a while she shows me a knife about a yard long. But she brought a candle with her, which is something. I guess it'll be dawn soon. This hut's built of stones and mud and stolen timber, with bits of old sacking and stuff like that in the chinks. Are you cold? Are your clothes nearly dry? Let me feel them.”

“Does the old woman know any English?” I asked.

“No. I've tried her. I think that song she's croaking is a prayer, or an exorcism. It's intended to keep us from bewitching her; that's my guess. How does your head feel?”

Nothing obliges a man to recover so swiftly as something particular to think about, and Lord knew I had that in plenty. If I had my choice, for instance, between saving Joan Angela Leich or Rheims Cathedral, the building would go without a moment's hesitation. I managed to turn my head to look at her.

You can't change her much. Her hair was all untidy, and her jacket and shirt affair were stained with dirt, but she was mighty good to look at, nevertheless. The guttering candle threw half of her face in shadow, but made her brave eyes shine, and the outline of her face was something that is never born outside America, whatever fools may say about the “melting pot.” There was no nonsense there, no humbug, no claptrap, but a gallant good humor, and a disregard for things of no account that seems to me better than religion.

She had on a long, dove-colored overcoat, but it was chilly, and I told her to take one of the sheepskins and throw it over her to keep off the draft that came whimpering through the cracks; apparently she hadn't thought of that before. She had to pull the sheepskin out from under me. Then, because the gods who supervise such things were willing, I fell asleep, which in men like me, who am nearly all physique with out much brains, is a pretty sure sign of recovery.

HEN I awoke it was broad day light, as you could tell by the light streaming in through cracks. Joan Angela was dozing, chin on knees, with her back against a wall, and the old hag was mixing up a mess of goat's milk and some sort of grain—our breakfast presumably. I got up, and found I could stand without holding on to anything, but that was about all; so I copied Joan Angela's example and sat with my back to the wall.

Five minutes after that the door opened and in strode Kangra Khan. He stood leaning on his rifle looking at us, while I blinked at the sunshine. There were men crowding to the door behind him, but he motioned them back angrily and slammed the door in their faces, which did not, however, prevent them from clapping their eyes to the cracks.

After about a minute's silence, during which the old hag stirred away steadily at the porridge, he gave me Allah's blessing. I assured him he needed it more than I did.

“A man,” I said, “who commits such treachery as you have done, will need pity rather badly by and by.”

“Inshallah!” he answered. “I am sorry you were hurt, but you killed two of my men. What wrong had they done you?”

There was no need to answer with words. I glanced at Joan Angela, who was studying him quietly over the top of her knees.

“Is the Sahiba hurt?” he asked.

“She seems to be a prisoner,” I answered.

“And a good one!” he retorted. “What of it? What treachery have I done? Lo, I kept the promise. I was at the fire, and spoke with Ali Babul in the sahibs' presence. Moreover, I told the fat pig Ali Babul I will not help the Punjabis. Lo, I spat at him to prove it! Lo, I have no need to bargain with the dog!”

He gestured magnificently in Joan Angela's direction.

“They tell me the sahiba has a mint of money!”

“So we're held for a ransom?” I asked.

“Aye, a great one!”

I gestured upward with my thumb. There was the roar of two aeroplanes over head.

“The Lancers will come presently,” I assured him.

“Aye! Those fools will prod a hornet's nest! They are across the river now. I sent my man an hour since to warn them to turn back again. They will make him prisoner. When they question him, he will ask whether four hundred can wisely attack us. I have twenty thousand men.”

I accepted that statement with reserve. Accuracy as to numbers is unknown in all that Northwest country. Two thousand—twenty thousand—even two hundred thousand—might mean pretty much the same thing. Still, his point was obvious.

“Defeat them, and you deal with the guns behind them. Beat the guns, and comes an army,” I answered.

“Comes the army, and who shall guard the prince? Is the Punjab so contented? Do the British want war?” he asked me. “Nay! I tell you, they will rather pay my bill! A crore of rupees and sahiba goes free—thou with her. Otherwise, the Melikani will send battleships, and land an army, and fight the British from the rear!”

They have peculiar notions about the United States in some parts of the world, and it was no use telling him how slight the prospect was of Congress voting for a war in India. Since the A. E. F. went to France they all believe that anything might happen.

His case looked stronger than I cared to admit to him. It would probably take weeks, and months perhaps, before the British could bring a force to bear sufficient for invasion of that territory. For defense they were fairly well provided, but it is another matter to advance across savage and supplyless hills. Besides, as he said, there was the prince; undoubtedly they did not want a war while he was visiting India. About our only chance was if the British should strike suddenly and surround the place where we were now hidden, which could not be far from the border. But as if he had read my thoughts, Kangra Khan deprived me of that faint hope that minute.

“They hunt on a false scent,” he said, grinning. “Today we lie here. Tonight we move on. By tomorrow they may hunt a year and never find you. In a week you will be farther from them than the mountain was from Mohammed, on whom Allah's blessing! Shall they come to you then?”

He could only have one object in telling me his plans. The much more usual method is to keep a prisoner in the dark as to his destiny. He was talking to me, but at Joan Angela, hoping she would offer to pay the demanded ransom. But ignorance of the extent of danger is a great fortifier of courage; and inborn love of adventure is no weak straw to blow away with argument.

“I won't pay!” Joan Angela said simply, looking up and straight into his eyes. I think she was rather enjoying herself.

For a moment a look of cruelty crossed his face. The Hills—the spirit of the Hills—the barren, cruel heart of Allah's “Slag heap,” as they call it, that compels and curses and deprives the weakest, hardening the hardest, reminded him he might compel too. There are ways and means; and there are women who are more expert than men in inventing agony for prisoners—all at his beck and call. But something manly in him seemed to fight that suggestion down. He laughed, showing yellow, irregular teeth.

“I have seen men's hearts fail. Is a woman's resolution greater?” he asked ironically. Then, with bitter meaning: “Eat while you have the chance!”

He motioned to the hag, who brought the bowl of porridge and set it down between Joan Angela and me, together with two old, rusty spoons. The stuff was smoky and nearly cold, nor any too clean, and we preferred our fingers to the spoons. There was grit, too, in the stuff. But I think Joan Angela enjoyed it, partly because almost any food was good after a long fast and a wetting; mainly because of the adventure, and the novelty.

Kangra Khan stood watching us, smiling rather grimly. We might have been two strange animals being fed in a cage. On the whole he seemed rather pleased with us, but I thought I detected a trace of anxiety underlying his cavalierly air, as if perhaps all were not so well with him as he pretended. There were the eyes to the cracks, for instance, and the voices of his men outside, suggesting neither discipline nor overconfidence in their leader. Their eagerness to get a glimpse of Joan Angela, and some of the comments I overheard, brought another thought, and it was just as well Joan Angela did not understand the language

“You know this woman's honor is in your keeping;” I said, looking straight at him. He did not answer; so I added to the hint. “You will be held answerable. If harm should befall her, the British would never rest until they hanged you in a pig skin. They would burn your carcass afterwards.”

He showed his teeth again. No Moslem enjoys that threat.

“Let her beware of herself!” he answered surlily. “By Allah, who am I that you should say such words to me?”

“Let's hope you're a man of discretion,” I answered; and at that he turned his back on us and went outside to snarl and argue with his men.

Whereat Joan Angela nudged me and touched her jacket pocket in which the little automatic pistol lay; which was all very well as a last recourse, but none too comforting at that.

Meanwhile, my head ached, and if we were to be moved on somewhere that night it behooved me to get in fit condition for the march, or otherwise I would be unfit to snatch opportunity. It may have been fever; a man's brain after a severe blow is seldom in shape to judge sensibly; but the only line of action that appealed at all to me just then was to escape by some means as we threaded the hills by night, and work our way back to the Jhelum River. I began to talk it over with Joan Angela.

I have been blamed since because I did not advise her there and then to agree to pay the ransom. Then they could have sent a messenger to make the necessary stipulations with the military; bankers, or the Government, would doubtless have advanced the money on Joan Angela's note, and even a third of a million dollars would hardly have inconvenienced her much. But the truth is, it hardly occurred to me.

Courage is more contagious than disease. If she had dallied with the notion, I might have urged it. But the indomitable spirit was so strong in her that there was lots to spare, and some of it conveyed itself to me. It was likely enough she would have despised me if I had ventured to propose surrender—not that I would have let that prevent it, if I had thought it best to yield. But you can't consider yielding—not in Joan Angela's company.

As an abstract proposition failure is incomprehensible to her; and as a concrete fact it never seems to have been part of her experience. Men have called me an idiot for not insisting on her handing over the ransom money; but neither King, nor Grim, nor Narayan Singh found fault with me in that respect; and I know that as I sat there in the hut beside her—admiring her, I admit—the only line of thought I followed was how to escape by subtlety or violence. And I am not a subtle person.

“Let's take turns sleeping,” I proposed. “Pocket any kind of food and any weapon that comes within reach. Above all, don't give them any idea that we're thinking of escape.”

She went and lay down on the sheep-skins that had been my bed, and I kept watch while she dropped off to sleep like a two-year-old. The old woman started her crooning again, as if sleep were productive of evil spirits to be exorcised. But after awhile it occurred to me she was trying to work magic to cast a spell over us; so I pretended to doze off too, sitting up, and surprized her in the act of searching Joan Angela's jacket pocket.

That put me in possession of a knife. She flashed the weapon the instant she saw I was awake, and I took it from her, twisting her wrist until she gasped; but she did not scream, and she was at such pains to make no noise that I could not help noticing the circumstance. She seemed much more anxious than I was to avoid being heard by the watchers on guard outside.

What is it that makes a man act, when his own judgment has nothing definite on which to base itself. Intuition? Stored up experience? I don't know. I only do know that I shoved that long knife down my breeches-leg, took the old woman by the scruff of her wrinkled neck, opened the door, which was only fastened with a leather thong, and kicked her out into the midst of an astonished circle of Pathans, who were sitting around a six-stick fire gambling and discussing prospects. She landed almost in the fire. Two of them pointed their rifles at me, and the rest kicked her further on her way, she screaming and cursing, they laughing, throwing stones after her as she slid out of sight down a shoulder of rock.

HEN I stood in the doorway, not worried about rifles, since I argued they would hardly shoot a prisoner worth money if they could avoid it; but curious. Four of the men were playing a game with a wooden board and pebbles—a sort of prehistoric form of checkers. I went and sat down between two of them and looked on, remembering to bless them in the name of the Prophet of God, and they returned the blessing civilly enough, although one great hairy ruffian standing on the look-out near by slapped his rifle meaningly. I nodded to him, and he seemed to accept that as a satisfactory promise of good conduct. His principal business seemed to be to watch the British aeroplanes and give warning if they should turn in our direction.

One of the players asked me if I had any money to gamble with, but I was not fool enough to say yes. I always carry money. There were four five-hundred-rupee notes tucked away in a pocket inside my waist band, and I suspected Joan Angela of having more than that in some fairly safe hiding place; but the sight of money would have acted like blood on wolves. There are better ways than bribery to win the friendship of a savage. Admire a horseman's horse, a musician's music, a politician's politics, and he is your man.

I singled out the strongest-looking of them, and admired his muscle. He began to show off, picking up a piece of wood about the thickness of an ax-haft and breaking it with a jerk. I “saw” that and raised him, breaking one of the pieces, which was more than twice as difficult. It made my head ache, but aroused the excited interest of them.

The fellow came back at me with an offer to try hand-grips, elbows to the ground; so we lay down face to face, each with his right elbow on the rock, and gripped fingers; he chose a tricky grip that gave him an advantage, but I let him have it, and rapped his knuckles on the rock so sharply that he shouted, and they all laughed. He refused to try that a second time, so to put him in good temper I let him beat me at pulling against each other, foot to foot, and after that we were all on excellent terms. He told me his name was Akbar bin Mahommed.

I asked him why he had been so glad to see the old hag kicked out from the hut, but instead of answering the question they all became suddenly interested in their rifles and pretended to hear sounds among the rocks below that called for investigation; so when they had quit that foolishness I began to tell them stories, remembering how Grim was used to managing wild Arabs in that way. They became like children almost instantly, and one man turned his back so that I might rest my head against his while I talked.

I told about magic I had witnessed in Benares, and about imaginary old women who could turn a man into a crow, the crow into an alligator, the alligator into a fish, and the fish into an insect, after which the insect could be trodden on and squashed by the first hoof that happened along—evolution vice versa, as it were. They voted that a splendid story, and began to brag about their own witches. The hag whom I had kicked so cavalierly turned out to be one of them.

Her principal virtue, or demerit—according as a man employed her or became her victim—was that she could see in the dark what a man would do by daylight; and by mixing incantations with his food could prevent his doing this or that thing and oblige him to do something else. That, they said, was why Kangra Khan had sent her into the hut with us; and they added that now no doubt I would have to do as Kangra Khan wished. But they all claimed to have suffered under the old harridan in some way or other. She had made this man's cow abortive, that man's wife barren, and the other's child had died of smallpox. One fellow vowed he had spent nine months in Peshawar jail, all because, for spite, she had given him the wrong magic when he set forth to rob soldiers at the guard-post.

“But she will bewitch your foot for having kicked her!” Akbar bin Mahommed added by way of afterthought. “And that is a pity, for the foot is a good strong man's. Better kill her next time, lest a worse evil befall. By Allah, I myself would kill her if I dared; but my son is only two years old, and at that age men die easily.”

“Is she devoted to Kangra Khan?” I asked him.

“Devoted to the! She supports him! None dare refuse to obey him for fear of her.”

It seemed likely Kangra Khan would resent my having kicked the hag, if that was the state of local politics. I suggested something of the sort, but they all laughed.

“Nay! He, too, is afraid of her. The next time she refuses him a request, he will bring her back to thee to be kicked and choked! None of us dares wring her neck, but who cares whether she bewitches thee?”

I asked where the British Lancers were, and with considerable glee they pointed out a sort of amphitheatre in the foot-hills about twenty miles away. After a while I made out an extended string of dots, like insects, and they told me those were the Lancers vainly searching in the wrong direction for Joan Angela and me.

“And by Allah, there be some on this side who will get boots and new weapons!” they added. “Kangra Khan has set an ambush.”

I asked about Kangra Khan, and they all agreed he was a good strategist, but a domineering fellow who could not brook rivalry or even argument.

“He thinks that when he speaks, his word is Allah's, and the mullah must stand aside, praying backwards under his breath! In time of fighting Kangra Khan is best; in peace, the mullah; so we play the one against the other; but by the Prophet—on whom blessings!—a man can hardly call his life his own in any event.”

An aeroplane began to circle in a long curve in our direction, and we could see the machine-gun ready to search out nooks and crannies; so I was ordered back into the hut, whose roof I noticed then was hidden from above on three sides by an over leaning crag camouflaged by the rock's shadow. It would probably be impossible for a flyer to see the hut at all until late afternoon. I stood in the door and watched the guard take cover as skillfully as if they had had a course in Flanders; then went in and took my turn on the sheepskins, while Joan Angela stood watch.

They brought us meat and stolen rice at noon, with curry in it—pretty evil stuff. I cached a little of the rice in a handkerchief and went to sleep again, we taking turn and turn about until evening, when they brought us more food, this time bread of a sort made in the form of flat cakes like chupatties. I cached quite a lot of that.

Then Kangra Khan came, looking tired and none too well satisfied. He omitted the customary blessing as he filled the doorway and stood glaring in at us with his rifle slung behind his back.

“You have a last chance now to pay the ransom,” he said angrily. “The mullah has paper and pen. Will you sign a letter for us to send?”

Joan Angela laughed at him, which is not a wise course to take toward a chieftain in those savage hills.

“No,” she said, “I've promised to attend your funeral. That's the only promise you'll ever get from me!”