Caste

by William Alexander Fraser

CHAPTER XXII

Hunsa had come back to the palace in haste so that the murder of Amir Khan might be discovered soon after Captain Barlow had left, and that the crime might be fastened upon the Sahib. As he waited, chatting to the guard, there was suddenly a frenzied deep-throated call of alarm from the upper level of rooms that was answered by other voices here and there crying out; there was the hurrying scuffling of feet on the marble stairs, and Yacoub appeared, his eyes wide in fright, crying:

"The Chief has been stabbed! he's dead! he's murdered! Guard the door—let no one out—let no one in!"

"Beat the nakara," the guard commanded; "raise the alarm!"

He seized his long-barrelled matchlock, blew on the fuse, and pointing up toward the moonlit sky, fired. Just within, in a little court, Yacoub, with heavy drum-stick, was pounding from the huge drum a thunderous vibrant roar, and somebody at his command had seized a horn, and from its copper throat a strident shriek of alarm split the air.

The narrow street was now one surging mass of excited Pindaris. With their riding whips they slashed viciously at any one other than their own soldier caste that ventured near, driving them out, crying: "This is alone for the Pindaris!"

A powerful, whiskered jamadar pushed his way through the mob, throwing men to the right and left with sweeps of his strong arm, and, reaching the guard, was told that Amir Khan lay up in his room, murdered. Then an hazari (commander of five thousand) came running and pushed through the throng that the full force of the tragedy held almost silent.

The guard saluted, saying: "Commander Kassim, the Chief has been slain."

"How—who?"

"I know not, Commander."

"Who has passed the guard here?"

"But one, the Afghan, who was expected by the Chief. He went forth but lately."

"A Patan!" Kassim roared. "Trust a woman and a snake but not a Patan." He turned to the whiskered jamadar: "Quick, go you with men and bring the Afghan." To another he said, "Command to enter from there"—his hand swept the mob in front—"a dozen trusty sowars and flood the palace with them. Up, up; every room, every nook, every place of hiding; under everything, and above everything, and through everything, search. Not even let there be exemption of the seraglio—murder lurks close to women at all times. Seize every servant that is within and bind him; let none escape."

He swept a hand out toward the Pindaris in the street that were like a pack of wolves: "Up the hill—surround the palace! and guard every window and rat-run!"

The guard saluted, venturing: "Commander, none could have entered from outside to do the foul deed."

"Liar! lazy sleeper!"—he smashed with his foot the hookah that sat on the marble floor, its long stem coiled like a snake—"While you busied over such, and opium, one has slipped by."

He reached out a powerful hand and seized the shoulder of a Pindari and jerked him to the step, commanding: "Stay here with this monkey of the tall trees, and see that none pass. I go to the Chief. When the Afghan comes have him brought up."

Hunsa had stood among the Pindaris, shoved hither and thither as they surged back and forth. Once the flat of a tulwar had smote him across the back, but when he turned his face to the striker who recognised him as a man of privilege, one of the amusers, he was allowed to remain.

The startling cry, "The Chief has been murdered! the Sultan is dead!" swept out over the desert sand that lay white in the moonlight, and the night air droned with the hum of fifty thousand voices that was like the song of a world full of bees. And the night palpitated with the beat of horses' feet upon the hard sand and against the stony ford of the parched river as the Pindari horsemen swept to Rajgar as if they rode in the sack of a city.

Hoarse bull-throated cries calling the curse of Allah upon the murderer were like a deep-voiced hymn of hate—it was continuous.

The bunnias, and the oilmen, and the keepers of cookshops hid their wares and crept into dark places to hide. The flickering oil lamps were blotted out; but some of the Pindaris had fastened torches to their long spears, and the fluttering lights waved and circled like shooting stars.

Rajgar was a Shoel; it was as if from the teak forests and the jungles of wild mango had rushed its full holding of tigers, and leopards, and elephants, and screaming monkeys.

Soon a wedge of cavalry, a dozen wild-eyed horsemen, pushed their way through the struggling mob, at their head the jamadar bellowing: "Make way—make the road clean of your bodies."

"They bring the Afghan!" somebody cried and pointed to where Barlow sat strapped to the saddle of his Beluchi mare.

"It is the one who killed the Chief!" another yelped; and the cries rippled along from mouth to mouth; tulwars flashed in the light of the lurid torches as they swept upward at the end of long arms threateningly; but the jamadar roared: "Back, back! you're like jackals snapping and snarling. Back! if the one is killed how shall we know the truth?"

One, an old man, yelled triumphantly: "Allah be praised! a wisdom—a wisdom! The torture; the horse-bucket and the hot ashes! The jamadar will have the truth out of the Afghan. Allah be praised! it is a wisdom!"

At the gate straps were loosed and Barlow was jerked to the marble steps as if he had been a blanket stripped from the horse's back.

"It is the one, Jamadar," the guard declared, thrusting his face into Barlow's; "it is the Afghan. Beyond doubt there will be blood upon his clothes—look to it, Jamadar."

"We found the Afghan in the serai, and he was attending to his horse as if about to fly; beyond doubt he is the murderer of our Chief," one who had ridden with the jamadar said.

"Bring the murderer face to face with his foul deed," the jamadar commanded; and clasped by both arms, pinioned, Barlow was pushed through the gate and into the dim-lighted hall. In the scuffle of the passing Hunsa sought to slip through, impelled by a devilish fascination to hear all that would be said in the death-chamber. If the case against the Sahib were short and decisive—perhaps they might slice him into ribbons with their swords—Hunsa would then have nothing to fear, and need not attempt flight.

But the guard swept him back with the butt of his long smooth-bore, crying: "Dog, where go you?" Then he saw that it was Hunsa, the messenger of his Chiefs favourite—as he took the Gulab to be—and he said: "You cannot enter, Hunsa. It is a matter for the jamadars alone."

At that instant the Gulab slipped through the struggling groups in the street, the Pindaris gallantly making way for her. She had heard of the murder of the Chief, and had seen the dragging in of the Afghan.

"Let me go up, guard," she pleaded.

"It is a matter for men," he objected. "The jamadar would be angry, and my sword and gun would be taken away and I should be put to scrub the legs of horses if I let you pass."

"The jamadar will not be angry," she pleaded, "for there is something to be said which only I have knowledge of. It was spoken to me by the Chief, he had fear of this Afghan, and, please, in the name of Allah, let Hunsa by, for being alone I have need of him."

The soft dark eyes pleaded stronger than the girl's words, and the guard yielded, half reluctantly. To the young Pindari he said, "Go you with these two, and if the jamadar is for cutting off their heads, say that those in the street pulled me from the door-way, and these slipped through; I have no fancy for the compliment of a sword on my neck."

In the dim hallway two men stood guarding the door to the Chief's chamber, and when the man who had taken the Gulab up explained her mission, one of them said, "Wait you here. I will ask of Kassim his pleasure." Presently he returned; "The Commander will see the woman but if it is a matter of trifling let the penalty fall upon the guard below. The mingling of women in an affair of men is an abomination in the sight of Allah."

When Bootea entered the chamber she gave a gasping cry of horror. The Chief lay upon the floor, face downward, just as he had dropped when slain, for Kassim had said; "Amir Khan is dead, may Allah take him to his bosom, and such things as we may learn of his death may help us to avenge our Chief. Touch not the body."

Her entrance was not more than half observed, for Kassim at that moment was questioning the Afghan, who stood, a man on either side of him, and two behind.

He was just answering a question from the Commander and was saying: "I left your Chief with the Peace of Allah upon both our heads, for he gripped my hand in fellowship, and said that we were two men. Why should I slay one such who was veritably a soldier, who was a follower of Mahomet?"

The man who had brought Barlow up to Amir Khan when he came for the audience, said: "Commander, I left this one, the Afghan, here with the Chief and took with me his sword and the short gun; he had no weapons."

"Inshalla! it was but a pretence," the Commander declared; "a pretence to gain the confidence of the Chief, for he was slain with his own knife. It was a Patan trick."

The Commander turned to the Afghan: "Why hadst thou audience with the
Chief alone and at night here—what was the mission?"

Barlow hesitated, a slight hope that might save his own life would be to declare himself as a Sahib, and his mission; but he felt sure that the Chief had been murdered because of this very thing, that somebody, an agent of Nana Sahib, had waited hidden, had killed the Chief and taken the paper. To speak of it would be to start a rumour that would run across India that the British had negotiated with the Pindaris, and if the paper weren't found there—which it wouldn't be—he wouldn't be believed. Better to accept the roll of the dice as they lay, that he had lost, and die as an Afghan rather than as an Englishman, a spy who had killed their Chief.

"Speak, Patan," Kassim commanded; "thou dwellest overlong upon some lie."

"There was a mission," Barlow answered; "it was from my own people, the people of Sind."

"Of Sindhia?"

"No; from the land of Sind, Afghanistan. We ride not with the
Mahrattas; they are infidels, while we be followers of the true
Prophet."

"Thou art a fair speaker, Afghan. And was there a sealed message?"

"There was, Commander Sahib."

"Where is it now?"

"I know not. It was left with Amir Khan."

There was a hush of three seconds. Then Kassim, whose eye had searched the room, saw the iron box. "This has a bearing upon matters," he declared; "this affair of a written message. Open the box and see if it is within," he commanded a Pindari.

"How now, woman," for the Gulab had stepped forward; "what dost thou here—ah! there was talk of a message from the Chief. It might be, it might be, because,"—his leonine face, full whiskered, the face of a wild rider, a warrior, softened as he looked at the slight figure,—"our noble Chief had spoken soft words of thee, and passed the order that thou wert Begum, that whatsoever thou desired was to be."

"Commander," Bootea said, and her voice was like her eyes, trembling, vibrant, "let me look upon the face of Amir Khan; then there are things to be said that will avenge his death in the sight of Allah."

Kassim hesitated. Then he said; "It matters not—we have the killer." And reverently, with his own hands, he turned the Chief on his back, saying, softly, "In the name of Allah, thou restest better thus."

The Gulab, kneeling, pushed back the black beard with her hand, and they thought that she was making oath upon the beard of the slain man. Then she rose to her feet, and said: "There is one without, Hunsa, bring him here, and see that there is no weapon upon him."

Kassim passed an order and Hunsa was brought, his evil eyes turning from face to face with the restless query of a caged leopard.

"There is no paper, Commander Sahib," the jamadar said, returning from his search of the iron-box.

"There was none such," Kassim growled; "it was but a Patan lie; the message is yonder," and he pointed to the smear of blood upon the marble floor.

Then he turned to Bootea: "Now, woman, speak what is in thy mind, for this is an affair of action."

"Commander Sahib," Bootea began, "yonder man,"—and she pointed a slim hand toward Barlow—"is not an Afghan, he is a Sahib."

This startling announcement filled the room with cries of astonishment and anger; tulwars flashed. Barlow shivered; not because of the impending danger, for he had accepted the roll of the dice, but at the thought that Bootea was betraying him, that all she had said and done before was nothing—a lie, that she was an accomplice in this murder of the Chief, and was now giving the Pindaris the final convincing proof, the reason.

To deny the revelation was useless; they would torture him, and he was to die anyway; better to die claiming to be a messenger from the British rather than as one sent to murder the Chief.

Kassim bellowed an order subduing the tumult; then he asked: "What art thou, a Patan, or as the woman says, an Englay?"

"I am a Sahib," Barlow answered; "a Captain in the British service, and came to your Chief with a written message of friendship."

Kassim pointed to the blood on the floor: "Thou wert a good messenger, infidel; thou hast slain a follower of the Prophet."

But Bootea raised a slim hand, and, her voice trembling with intensity, cried: "Commander, Amir Khan was not slain with the dagger, he was killed by the towel. Look you at his throat and you will see the mark."

"Bismillah!" came in a cry of astonishment from the Commander's throat, and the marble walls of the Surya-Mahal (room of audience) echoed gasps and curses. Kassim himself had knelt by the dead Chief, and now rising, said: "By Allah! it is true. That dog—" his finger was thrusting like a dagger at Barlow.

But Bootea's clear voice hushed the rising clamour: "No, Commander, the sahibs know not the thug trick of the roomal, and few thugs could have overcome the Chief."

"Who then killed him—speak quick, and with the truth," Kassim commanded.

He was interrupted by one of Hunsa's guards, crying: "Here, where go you—you had not leave!" And Hunsa, who had turned to slip away, was jerked back to where he had stood.

"It is that one," Bootea declared, sweeping a hand toward Hunsa. "About his waist is even now the yellow-and-white roomal that is the weapon of Bhowanee. With that he killed Amir Khan. Take it from him, and see if there be not black hairs from the beard of the Chief in its soft mesh."

"By the grace of Allah it is a truth!" the Commander ejaculated when the cloth passed to him had been examined. "It is a revelation such as came to Mahomet, and out of the mouth of a woman. Great is Allah!"

"Will the Commander have Hunsa searched for the paper the Sahib has spoken of?" Bootea asked.

"In his turban—" Kassim commanded—"in his turban, the nest of a thief's loot or the hiding-place of the knife of a murderer. Look ye in his turban!"

As the turban was stripped from the head of Hunsa the Pindari gave it a whirling twist that sent its many yards of blue muslin streaming out like a ribbon and the parchment message fell to the floor.

"Ah-ha!" and a man, stooping, thrust it into the hands of the Commander.

The Pindari who held the turban, threw it almost at the feet of Bootea, saying, "Methinks the slayer will need this no more."

Bootea picked up the blue cloth and rolled it into a ball, saying, "If it is permitted I will take this to those who entrusted Hunsa with this foul mission to show them that he is dead."

"A clever woman thou art—it is a wise thought; take it by all means, for indeed that dog's head will need little when they have finished with him," the soldier agreed.

Kassim had taken the written paper closer to the light. At sight of the thumb blood-stain upon the document, he gave a bellow of rage. "Look you all!" he cried holding it spread out in the light of the lamp; "here is our Chief's message to us given after he was dead; he sealed it with his thumb in his own blood, after he was dead. A miracle, calling for vengeance. Hunsa, dog, thou shalt die for hours—thou shalt die by inches, for it was thee."

Kassim held the paper at arm's length toward Barlow, asking: "Is this the message thou brought?"

"It is, Commander."

Kassim whirled on Hunsa, "Where didst thou get it, dog of an infidel?"

"Without the gate of the palace, my Lord. I found it lying there where the Sahib had dropped it in his flight."

"Allah! thou art a liar of brazenness." He spoke to a Jamadar: "Have brought the leather nosebag of a horse and hot ashes so that we may come by the truth."

Then Kassim held the parchment close to the lamp and scanned it. He rubbed a hand across his wrinkled brow and pondered. "Beside the seal here is the name, Rana Bhim," and he turned his fierce eyes on Barlow.

"Yes, Commander; the Rana has put his seal upon it that he will join his Rajputs with the British and the Pindaris to drive from Mewar Sindhia—the one whose Dewan sent Hunsa to slay your Chief."

"Thou sayest so, but how know I that Hunsa is not in thy hand, and that thou didst not prepare the way for the killing? Here beside the name of the Rana is drawn a lance; that suggests an order to kill, a secret order." He turned to a sepoy, "Bring the Rajput, Zalim."

While they waited Bootea said: "It was Nana Sahib who sent Hunsa and the decoits to slay Amir Khan, because he feared an alliance between the Chief and the British."

"And thou wert one of them?"

"I came to warn Amir Khan, and—"

"And what, woman—the decoits were your own people?"

"Yonder Sahib had saved my life—saved me from the harem of Nana Sahib, and I came to save his life and your Chief's."

Now there was an eruption into the chamber; men carrying a great pot of hot ashes, and one swinging from his hand the nosebag of a horse; and with them the Rajput.

"Here," Kassim said, addressing the Hindu, "what means this spear upon this document? Is it a hint to drive it home?"

The Rajput put his fingers reverently upon the Rana's signature. "That, Commander, is the seal, the sign. I am a Chondawat, and belong to the highest of the thirty-six tribes of Mewar, and that sign of the lance was put upon state documents by Chonda; it has been since that time—it is but a seal. Even as that,"—and Zalim proudly swung a long arm toward the wall where a huge yellow sun embossed on gypsum rested—"even that is an emblem of the Children of the Sun, the Sesodias of Mewar, the Rana."

"It is well," Kassim declared; "as to this that is in the message, to-morrow, with the aid of a mullah, we will consider it. And now as to Hunsa, we would have from him the truth."

He turned to the Gulab; "Go thou in peace, woman, for our dead Chief had high regard for thee; and Captain Sahib, even thou may go to thy abode, not thinking to leave there, however, without coming to pay salaams. Thou wouldst not get far."