Mohammed's Tooth/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
“The point, sahib! The point”
WE BREAKFASTED off goat, singed by Grim over resinous and smoky fire-brands, washed down with water tasting of frog-spawn or something similar that had a natural right to be in it. Then the fire went out, and the wind rose, and it was cold. We felt like shipwrecked mariners, and watched an aeroplane away over near the horizon, circling and circling without a chance of seeing us, nor any prospect of our being helped in time, even if we were seen. For the Pathans were on their way toward us from the other direction, taking their time about it, keeping cover, well aware, too, of that “fowl-that-laid-eggs on-the-wing.”
Their scouts were in a screen below us very soon after dawn, but the sun was well up over the hills before the main body arrived. They had been reenforced by the Orakzai contingent, and for lack of any thing better to do I counted upwards of three hundred of them. They took cover just out of practical rifle-shot, with their left flank on the well—our only source of water, of which we had stored two kerosene cans and eight or nine earthenware crocks full—about enough to last until next day, unless we should have to wash wounded.
Our Waziris were in the depths of despair. About half of them wanted to bolt, and the other half were in favor of opening fire with their remaining ammunition and then charging down to die.
“For let us die like men and please the Prophet—not as cattle in the byres in famine time!”
We did not dare to encourage them with lies about the Tooth. That course would have made them fanatical. They would then have charged ten times the number with hardly a moment's hesitation. King kept them quiet by telling them he had a ruse in store, appealing to their sense of cunning, never far below the surface.
It was after nine o'clock when some one waved a white cloth from a rock in the ravine, and we answered it. They waited for us for half an hour to go down to them, but we were not such fools as that; so at last Kangra Khan, with eight bearded giants at his back, came climbing up the ramp and halted in front of us, where we sat in line in the midst of the cavern-mouth. Our Waziris, some in the cavern, and some outside, hung around on the alert, as nervous as a pack of wolves. Akbar bin Mahommed stood behind us, showing his teeth in a grin mixed of apprehension and bravado.
“By Allah, I have come!” said Kangra Rhan.
“Why not? Did you not promise?” answered King.
“Aye. I keep my promises. Ye go free. But ye must leave the rifles. I have promised those to my men. And as for the Prophet's Tooth, that man—” he pointed to Akbar bin Mahommed—“must fight me for it!”
“That was not in the bargain,” said King.
“Nay, there was nothing in the bargain said about it. Neither yes, nor no. Therefore he must fight me for the Tooth, since I say so.”
“I have not yet given him the Tooth,” said Grim.
“What odds?” said Kangra Khan. “Give it to him now. He shall come down there—” he made a sweeping gesture in the general direction of the ravine—“and fight me—he who would be chief in my place! Then, if he wins, let him make himself chief! He shall have fair play. When the fight is over, ye shall all go free.”
It was all obviously prearranged. The eight stalwarts who stood back of him were grinning in the way men do who know they have you in a trap.
“You can't allow that!” said Joan Angela nervously. “Jeff! You can't allow Akbar to be killed on our account.”
She spoke to me because she knew me best; but in my mean mood she seemed to be singling me out as the one who most needed instruction in ethics. It added fuel to the anger that still smouldered in me. Akbar bin Mahommed blew on it.
“How can I fight?” he demanded. “Ram-is-den injured my wrist!”
“I have promised my people there shall be a fight,” said Kangra Khan. “So fight there must be!”
He did not frame the inference in words, but his gesture as he jerked his head toward the men below, and the truculent manner of the chieftains he had brought with him, left little to the imagination. There would be a fight or a wholesale slaughter, and we might suit ourselves. So I stood up. I did not consult the others, and I was careful to turn my back on Joan Angela.
“It's true I hurt Akbar bin Mahommed,” I said. “Fight me instead!”
“Nay, fight me!” said Narayan Singh, and leaped to his feet beside me.
“Don't, Jeff! Do sit down!” implored Joan Angela; and she could not have said anything to make me more determined.
“Leave this to me, sahib!” urged Narayan Singh; but I gripped him by the arm and swung him back behind me.
“Is it for the Tooth?” asked Kangra Khan, in Pushtu; so I answered in the same tongue.
“Yes,” I said, “since I'm fighting for Akbar bin Mahommed. Let the terms be stated, though. You name them.”
The men at his back were delighted. They grinned like a row of devils, and it was clear enough my challenge would have to be accepted or Kangra Khan would lose izzat. And his izzat means to a Pathan of breeding more than his religion. King and Grim sat saying nothing. There was nothing they could say, that would have been the slightest use.
“These be the terms,” said Kangra Khan. “If I slay thee, I take the Tooth. Slay me, and keep it.” Then he added in English, so that his own men might not understand. “It is a lie about the Tooth, but it will serve, and I can use it. That man”—he nodded at Grim—“may be a Hajji, but”
He did not finish the sentence. It was Grim who jumped into that breach. He spoke English too.
“Keep faith!” he warned. “Win the Tooth, and when we reach the border safely, I will procure a writing to prove that the Tooth is authentic. But if you lose it, and do not keep faith, I will admit I am a fraud and you a fool. Your men will kill me then; but not until then, because I am a Hajji. They will laugh you to scorn.”
Kangra Khan nodded. It was perfectly easy to guess what was passing in his mind. He wanted the title of Ghazi—slayer of an infidel—which would make him the unchallengeable leader of perhaps a dozen villages; and the Tooth, if he could keep up the fable about it, would make him a match for the mullahs, who are thorns in the sides of chieftains.
“I have sworn in the Name of Names to keep faith,” he said simply. “Moreover, I have a bone to pick with Ram-is-den, who took me by surprize and thinks he is as strong as I am! So let us fight.”
King and Grim had altogether too much faith in my prowess. They regarded it as a foregone conclusion that I could beat the Pathan, for they had both seen me in action. On more than one occasion it had been my physical strength and skill with old-fashioned weapons that had pulled Grim out of a tight place, and in all our adventures it had always been understood that each should contribute his utmost at any moment. The account was much better than square. Grim's brains had saved me scores of times; and King had saved us all by making friends of the Waziris. But Joan Angela took another point of view.
“Jeff, I won't have you take this risk on my account!” she said.
She looked miserable and indignant. I did not even answer her.
“Where shall the fight be? And what weapons?” I asked.
“Below there, in front of all my men,” he answered with a jerk of the head toward the ravine. “I fight with this tulwar.”
And he drew from his sash the weapon King had given him when we set him free.
“My sahib fights with this!” said Narayan Singh, seizing his long saber midway down the scabbard and holding it on a level with his eyes. Whereat all nine Pathans grinned hugely; as a weapon they considered it contemptible.
Kangra Khan saluted me with an air of mock-respect, and turned on his heel to swagger away with his chieftains.
“I will wait for you below. No hurry. By Allah, Ram-is-den, death waits for one of us, and I feel foreknowledge of long life in me!”
King became busy at once with our Waziri, for they crowded him, asking for explanations, and he had to instruct them very carefully. An ill-considered move on their part, or a mistake at the peak of excitement, was likely to upset everything and bring on massacre; for Kangra Khan's authority was none too absolute. Grim reenforced him, and the two had their hands full, the Waziris bitterly resenting the proposed surrender of their rifles. They swore they would rather die where they were, fighting. There was mutiny, until King promised them a brand-new rifle apiece when they should come to British territory.
Meanwhile, Joan Angela clung to my arm; and, boor though I had been to her, I was not brute enough to throw her off. She begged and implored me not to fight. There were no tears in her eyes, and she did not sob or act hysterically, but she said she would much rather go down below there and be killed than to have me killed on her account, while she looked on.
“Don't look, then!” I advised her.
“Jeff,” she said, “you're still nursing that grudge against me! I've admitted I was wrong. I've begged your pardon. I know you're a man who would never take advantage of a woman in a situation like that. I was alone, in the dark, in a well, and my nerves were on end—can't you—won't you understand that?”
I did understand it perfectly. But I did not answer.
“Don't you love me, Jeff?” she asked.
That question from Joan Angela was more surprizing than if all those mountains had suddenly been swept away. I turned at last, and met her eyes—the same, good, friendly gray eyes they had always been, as true and honest as the year is long.
“We all love you,” I answered.
“Jeff, I want you to marry me. You're not to go down there and be killed. You're to live, and marry me. There's some other way out of this. There must be!”
“That's kind, Joan,” I answered. “You make me very sorry I was so rude. But the sacrifice is much too great, and I'm not worth it. I'd be still less worth it if I accepted it. Besides, I have passed my word to fight the man.”
“Jeff, I mean it! You asked me once, and I refused. Now I ask you.”
“To keep me from fighting!” I said, trying hard to grin at her.
It takes more manhood than I have, to appear unaffected by Joan's arm on my shoulder, and her lips and eyes as near as need be.
“I mean it, Jeff!”
“Dear girl,” I said, “I'm grateful for the honor, but I don't believe you.”
“Jeff, I'm telling you the truth!”
“Joan,” I said, “you tell that to the Horse Marines. Or tell it again to me when this fight's over.”
“All right!” she said, suddenly releasing me and stepping back. “Get into the fight, then, and win! Have you forgiven me?”
Words would have been a lame reply to that. I deliberately strode two paces up to her and kissed her twice—the first time I had ever done that and, I don't mind betting, the last. Some day I expect to meet the man who has the right to kiss her; and I'll envy him.
I had forgotten Narayan Singh. Those were all-absorbing moments. He stepped forward grinning, with the saber in both hands, hilt toward me.
“Now the sahib will fight like the warriors of old!” he said. “Observe: This saber is a good one. But beware how you take the full weight of that tulwar on the guard. In distance you have the advantage. At close quarters weight and cutting edge are in his favor. Bear that in mind, sahib!”
He knew my shortcomings. He and I have practised sword-play by the hour together, and though I can beat him to his knees by sheer strength when I get close enough, he usually ends an afternoon by pinking me neatly pretty nearly where he will.
“Now it is no matter of laughter over a dozen bruises,” he warned me. “Tulwars cut deep. He will count on the edge. Use thou the point.”
Well, it was no use waiting. I looked to my shoes, which were worn by the rough work on the rocks. Narayan Singh cut frayed leather away and re-tied the laces firmly, cutting off the ends, for more fights than a few have been lost by clumsy footwork.
I took the saber, leaving the scabbard with Narayan Singh, and led the way down the ramp. The others followed, except King, who stayed with the Waziris to prevent them from approaching too close to the Pathans. By the time we reached the foot of the ramp most of our wounded were perched in a row like vultures on the ledge, and King and the rest of the Waziris had descended by the short cut, to squat like fans in the bleachers along a ledge low down.
The battle-ground was chosen already. Kangra Khan stood waiting there, swinging his heavy tulwar, with the black breast hair showing through a gap in his cotton shirt. He grinned at sight of me, and the Pathans in groups on every near-by rock, set up their battle-cry, “Allaho Akbar!” until the hills echoed it. King kept our Waziris silent somehow, and receiving no defiant answer the Pathans grew still.
They had picked out the only nearly level spot available—a sheet of smooth rock, crossed by a couple of layers like steps a few inches high. The rock was rather slippery, and sloped upward toward his end. More over, he had the sun behind him. But you can't expect a Pathan to understand the niceties of fair play.
Joan Angela, pale as a ghost, took her seat on a rock between Grim and Narayan Singh, with her arms around her knees: She had used the white uleema's turban to make bandages for the wounded, and her hair was all down over her shoulders, making her look younger, but forlorn—you might say shipwrecked. I threw off my sheepskin jacket and gave it to her to hold, but she put it on over her shoulders, for the wind was blowing hard and laden with bitterness from far-off ledges where snow never thawed. She did not speak. Grim laughed, for his own encouragement and mine.
“Rammy, old top,” he said, “be quick for the Lord's sake. We want to go home!”
I made some sort of lame joke in reply, and noticed Akbar bin Mahommed picking his way leisurely toward us over the rocks; he waved his hand, not exactly reassuringly. Then I strode out to meet Kangra Khan.
HE BEGAN at once to show his swordsmanship, no doubt to scare me. He could whirl that heavy tulwar so fast that it was invisible and sang like a dynamo. He could change hands while he did it, never checking speed, bending his body the while in all sorts of supple curves. His men set the ravine echoing again with their approval, and there were cat-calls directed at me, along with prayers to Allah to assist their chief.
But I have always thought that sort of display is rather unwise, for it gives your opponent a line on your strength and your weakness and applause leads to excitement, which saps swordsmanship. A swordman should be an enigma. I could see he was puzzled because I did not complain about the sun in my eyes, or make any fuss, but stood on guard in silence, waiting for him. The only sound from my side was the voice of Narayan Singh:
“Keep the hand low, sahib! Let the blows glance! Point!”
Then Kangra Khan came on like a whirling dervish, swinging at me as if my head were meat on a butcher's block. I sidestepped him, and he had to check his swing midway to guard my lunge, that even so laid one of his rib-bones open. The speed of his rush took him past me, and now the advantage of the sun was mine.
“Bohut atcha!” cried Narayan Singh. “The hand lower, sahib! Wait for him!”
I did not have to wait long. The Pathan was stung, and furious. He had to show his men the hurt was nothing and his spirit none the worse for it. He came on with a sort of hop, like a shot-putter's, one leg advanced, whirling the tulwar slowly; and his shift as he came within reach of my point was like lightning.
“Watch low!” cried Narayan Singh, and a swipe at my legs glanced off the saber that would have shorn them both through, had they been there.
His recovery was marvelous, and my point missed his shoulder by a foot. Then I went for him, driving him backward along the rock with blow after blow that brought sparks from his tulwar, while Narayan Singh cried:
“Steady, sahib! Steady!”
It was foolish. I was playing the Pathan's own game. He ducked and swerved suddenly, gave me the sun in my eyes again, and I felt blood flowing from my neck.
“The point, sahib! The point!” yelled Narayan Singh.
It was easier said than done, for we were breath to breath, and the tulwar blows were aimed like hail. But I knocked the tulwar up at last, and gave him the hilt in his teeth, which sent him reeling on his heels and brought my point in play. However, he still had the sun in his favor.
“You're not hurt!” yelled Grim. “That cut's nothing.”
But I could tell by the tribesmen's yelling that they thought otherwise; and Kangra Khan's grin was not wholly due to the blow I had landed on his mouth. He spat out a tooth and came on again.
But now I took warning and stuck to the point, he swiping and dodging in efforts to reach me, yet giving ground foot after foot as I lunged, with Narayan Singh's voice in my ear:
“Hand low, sahib! Slower recover!”
Then I used an old trick, and he fell for it. After a lunge that forced him to give ground I left my right leg well advanced, and he swung for it with all his might, while his men sent up a yell that pierced the sky. But the leg was not there when he struck, and the force of his blow made swift recovery impossible. I used the edge then, laying his shoulder open handsomely. He barely saved his life by clever footwork and a back-handed upward blow with the tulwar that was as clever as anything I have ever seen.
I had the sun of him again, and took full advantage of it, raining blow after blow on him that kept him on his heels. Then he set one foot wrong on the ledge that crossed the rock, and threw himself flat on his back rather than be run through. In silence, in which you could have heard a pin drop, I set my point at his throat and stood over him. He did not cry for quarter, but lay glaring up at me with eyes that I pitied. I have seen a hunted animal look that way.
“Good, Jeff! Very good!” I heard Joan Angela.
But it was not so good. There were the tribesmen to consider, and none but Kangra Khan to hold them to their word. That look in his eyes was a savage's. He was ashamed to be beaten so easily. Hate, and his notions of honor, our helplessness and the obvious fact that a cry from him would bring the tribesmen down on us to end the whole affair in the shortest, simplest way, were among the odds I had to reckon.
I stepped back, raising my point, and signed to him to rise, returning to my own end. I even gave him his own ground with his back to the sun, saluting him as he retired to have his wound attended. He answered the salute, and it had an excellent effect on the tribesmen; they did not applaud, but they murmured, and I could actually feel the change of attitude toward myself, as if it were a concrete thing that stirred the atmosphere. It began to look as if another round or two might win their friendship.
However, Grim, who came to my corner with Narayan Singh to staunch the blood flowing from my neck, brought bad news—worst imaginable.
“The Tooth's gone!” he said. “Akbar bin Mahommed stole it from the pocket in my sleeve! He has sneaked off to the hills. You've got to win now, Rammy, old top! If he sneaks round and shows that Tooth to the Pathans before you've licked your man, we're done for anyhow!”
There comes a time when the best of us succumb to nerves, and the mark of a good man then is the speed with which he regains self-command. I told Grim to sit down and think, for I had enough to keep me occupied.
Narayan Singh mopped up the blood on my neck and poured into my ear the abstract of along experience.
“You should have slain him, sahib! Never mind. Slay him the next time. That cut you gave him is nothing much. Now he will be like a wolf at bay. Beware of him! He is cunning. He will seek to regain the admiration of his men! Stick to the point, sahib! Put the sun in his eyes, and keep him at a distance! The Gods are good, and seek to discredit Allah, but they are wise, and dislike foolishness! Use only the point, sahib! When you lunge, be swifter, and recover much more slowly, keeping your eye on his eye. Never mind that thing he wields; you have the better weapon. Watch his eyes! Now!”
A roar went up from the Pathans as Kangra Khan stepped out on the rock again. His shirt was a mess of blood, but there was lots of liveliness about him, and he swung the tulwar once or twice, by way of challenge, with all the old skill, making the blade thrum. I walked out to meet him, stood on guard, and waited. He crouched low, and waited too, inviting me to attack, but I did not accept the invitation.
Suddenly he rushed in, mowing like a scythe-man at my legs. He forced me to stoop to guard myself. As I crouched lower and lower, playing the waiting game, he watched his chance and letting my point pass through his shirt—it grazed his ribs—sprang for my neck and with a jerk of his left hand nearly threw me forward on my face. Before I could quite recover and turn he was down on me with the tulwar. I caught the blow on the guard and it snapped the saber blade clean off. I heard Joan Angela scream.
The Pathans began yelling and dancing, and I felt the sting as the tulwar-blade hit home, gashing me from hip to thigh. But I did not fall, and I did crash the hilt like a cestus into his teeth. He reeled backward, and I closed with him. We went to the rock together, he under me, and I rained blows on him with the hilt while he struggled to get his right arm free and cut my throat with the tulwar.
“Smash him, Jeff! Oh, smash him!” Grim yelled. “Crush his guts!”
“Get the tulwar, sahib!” roared Narayan Singh. “Throw that hilt away and get the tulwar!”
I let the hilt go, for that gave me two hands, and I felt my strength oozing through the wound. The sole chance left me was speed and sheer strength. I dazed him with blows to the head and then, failing to seize the tulwar, got a hold on his jaw and tried to break his neck. I got my thumb on his wind-pipe. Over and over we went. He broke the head-lock—nearly broke my grip on his right forearm, chopping me badly in a dozen places—then yelled in agony as I got both hands on his wrist and he had to let the tulwar go.
Then to get the tulwar! Slimy with each other's blood, we rolled and strained and fought to reach it, while the Pathans danced in circles around us, yelling themselves hoarse. We were both growing weak, I bleeding worse than he, which gave me a strange advantage: his hand slipped wherever he gripped me. To offset that he set his fingers into a cut in my arm, and the agony of that spurred me to a last prodigious effort. I knew it was my last. He had me beaten if I failed.I gripped him around the waist, pinning one arm, whirled him, staggering to my feet, and hurled him into the midst of his yelling men. Then the world seemed to slide out from under my feet; I sat down backwards, still more or less conscious, but weak, and without even will to recover.
WHAT followed was like the vivid details of a nightmare, in which I seemed to have no part except as the arena in which opposing arguments struggled for the mastery. I felt Narayan Singh's arms, and Joan Angela's, but nothing seemed to matter, even when King came, and I recognized his voice quite close to me. He was talking with Grim to windward—in low tones probably—but the wind carried both voices, and my hearing sense was all at sixes and sevens. Joan Angela's voice in my ear seemed a mile away, and her words were a jumble; King's and Grim's were perfectly distinct.
“He stole the Tooth.”
“Who did?”
“The Waziri who killed Akbar bin Mahommed. Then three more Waziris fought him for it, and between them they lost it. It's gone. Are your fingers strong? Quick! Pull out one of my teeth!” That was King.
Then Grim:
“A green tooth won't do! Wait—I've got it! Stand in front of me!”
Then I heard, as distinctly as I now can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall above me, the crack as Grim broke up two hundred dollars' worth of U. S. dentistry.
“The biggest one!” said King. “Quick! They're coming! Give me the rest—I'll hide them.”
Then a war of words, in which izzat and shirm[1] predominated, along with excited argument about Waziri rifles. I know now what happened, but then it seemed no possiblen concern of mine.
Kangra Khan was too beaten and weak to control the Pathans, until King's experienced fingers bandaged him and chafed him back to full consciousness. There were men there who considered themsevles his formidable rivals for the chieftainship, who would have preferred to see him dead. But King helped him to the middle of the battle rock, and Grim presented him with the Tooth, wrapped in a page of Perisan notes extracted from his memorandum book. After that it was only a question of whether Kangra Khan would keep his word; no Pathan dared disobey him, now that he had the Prophet's Tooth to curse or bless with.
Our Waziris refused point-blank to keep their part of the agreement, and therein lay the difficulty. They refused to surrender their rifles, offering rather to do battle, man for man, with the Pathans. The idea of single combat had taken hold, and challenge followed challenge. It was King and Grim, pouring wise words into Kangra Khan's ears, who managed the business finally. Our Waziris were allowed to take their rifles with them over the British border—where they were confiscated promptly by the authorities, for various and sundry reasons, including the good one that every single rifle was originally stolen.
And to their honor be it written that, though we had two score Waziris who could stand and march and bear a load, they were eight Pathans who carried me to the border in a litter made of poles and sheepskin. And they have sent a deputation since, to tell me I am free of all their country; although I don't intend to test that generous laissez passer.
Joan Angela came and nursed me in the hospital; and when my great heap of thews and bones turned atavistic and recalled the cave-man trick of recovery from what common sense would say was certain death, she renewed her offer, very gently and sincerely.
But my head, as well as my heart, was functioning by that time.
“God knows,” I said, “I'll wear your offer in my hat until I die, and will try to live up to it. But I'm a middle-aged man, of middle-class means. You're a young girl, with millions, and all your life in front of you. There's the right man somewhere. I won't wrong him—or you.”
She said she was in earnest, and she was undoubtedly. But so was I, and I'm the man I have to live with. So we parted good friends. And if any of you ever chance to meet Joan Angela, and win her friendship, you may take it from me, you are fortunate; her friendship is stronger and longer, and has more grain in it than most have nowadays.
- ↑ Dishonor.