Before putting his left hand into his mouth he said, a little unsteadily:–
“If I’m knocked aht you go on shootin’ at flashes and do magazine-fire fer rushes. If they gets in ‘ere, we’re tripe in two ticks.”
Then he fainted for a while, came to, and felt much better. “Goo’ job it’s the left fumb,” he observed as he strove to re-charge his magazine. The dull thud of bullet into flesh became a frequent sound. The last observation that Horace made to the remnant of his men was:–
“Bli’ me! they’re all rahnd us now–like flies rahnd a fish-barrer. Dam’ swine!…”
* * * * *
Firing steadily at the advancing mobs the street-end pickets retired on the Prison and were admitted as the surging crowds amalgamated, surrounded the walls, and opened a desultory fire at the loopholes and such of the defenders as fired over the coping from ladders.
One detachment, with some show of military discipline and uniform, arrayed itself opposite the gate and a couple of hundred yards from it, lining the ditch of the road, and utilizing the cover and shadow of the trees. Suddenly a large party, mainly composed of Mahsuds, and headed by a very big powerful man, made a swift rush to the gate, each man bearing a bundle of faggots or a load of cut brushwood, save two or three who bore vessels of kerosene oil. With reckless courage and daring, they ran the gauntlet of the loopholes and the fire from the wall-top, piled their combustibles against the wooden gate, poured gallons of kerosene over the heap, set fire to it, and fled.
The leaping flames spread and shot forth licking tongues and, in a few minutes, the pile was a roaring crackling furnace.
The mob grew denser and denser toward the gate side of the Prison, leaving the remaining portions of the perimeter thinly surrounded by those who possessed firearms and had been instructed to shoot at loopholes and at all who showed themselves over the wall. It was noticeable to Captain Malet-Marsac that the ever-increasing mob opposite the fire left a clear front to the more-or-less uniformed and disciplined body that had taken up a position commanding the gate.
That was the game was it? Burn down the gate, pour in a tremendous fire as the gate fell, and then let the mob rush in and do its devilmost….
What was happening on the hill-top? The picket must be holding whatever force had attacked it, for no shots were entering the Prison compound and the only casualties were among those at the loopholes and on the ladders and platforms round the walls. How long would the gate last? Absolutely useless to attempt to pour water on the fire. Even if it were not certain death to attempt it, one might as well try to fly, as to quench that furnace with jugs and _chatties_[69] of water.
[69] Bowls.
There was nothing to be done. Every man who could use a rifle was at loophole or embrasure, ammunition was plentiful, all non-combatants were hidden. Every one understood the standing-orders in case of such an emergency….
The gate was on fire. It was smoking on the inner side, warping, cracking, little flames were beginning to appear tentatively, and disappear again.
“_Now_ bugler!” said Captain Malet-Marsac, and Moussa Isa’s _locum tenens_ blew his only call–a series of long loud G’s…. The gate blazed, before long it would fall…. A hush fell upon the expectant multitude without, the men of the more-or-less uniformed and disciplined party raised their rifles, a big burly man bawled orders….
With a crash and leaping fountain of sparks the gate fell into the dying fire, a mighty roar burst from the multitude, and a crashing fusillade from the rifles of the uniformed men….
As their magazine-fire slackened, dwindled to a desultory popping, and ceased, the mob with a howl of triumph surged forward to the gaping gateway, trampled and scattered the glowing remnants of the fire, swarmed yelling through, and–found themselves face to face with a stout semicircular rampart of stone, earth and sandbags, which, loopholed, embrasured and strongly manned, spanned the gateway in a thirty-yard arc. From the centre of it, pointing at the entrance, looked the maxim gun.
“_Fire_,” shouted a voice, and in a minute the place was a shambles. Before Maxim and Lee-Metford were too hot to touch, before the baffled foe fell back, those who surged in through the gate climbed, not over a wall of dead, but up on to a platform of dead, a plateau through which ran a valley literally blasted out by the ceaseless maxim-fire….
And, as the less fanatical, less courageous, less bloodthirsty withdrew and gathered without and to one side, where they were safe from that terrible fire-belching rampart that was itself like the muzzle of some gigantic thousand-barrelled machine-gun, they were aware, in their rear, of a steady tramp of running feet and of the orders:–
“From the centre _extend_! At the enemy in front; fixed sights; _fire_,” and of a withering hail of bullets.
Colonel Ross-Ellison had arrived in the nick of time. It was a “crowning mercy” indeed, the beginning of the end, and when (a few days later), over a repaired bridge, came a troop-train, gingerly advancing, the battalion of British troops that it disgorged at Gungapur Road Station found disappointingly little to do in a city of women, children, and eminently respectable innocent, householders.
* * * * *
On the hill-top, at dawn, Colonel Ross-Ellison and Captain Malet-Marsac found all that was left of the picket and sentry-group,–of the latter, three mangled corpses, the headless deserter, and a just-living man, horribly slashed. It was Moussa Isa Somali who improvised a stretcher and lifted this poor fellow on to it and tended him with the greatest solicitude and faithful care. Was he not Jones Sahib who at Duri gave him the knife wherewith he cleansed his honour and avenged his insulted People?
Of the picket, nine lay dead and one dying. Of the dead, one had his lower jaw neatly and cleanly removed by a bullet. Two had bled to death.
“‘Ullo, Guvner!” whispered Corporal Horace Faggit through parched cracked lips. “We kep’ ’em orf. We ‘eld the bleedin’ fort,” and the last effect of the departing mind upon the shot-torn, knife-slashed body was manifested in a gasping, quavering wail of–
“‘Owld the Fort fer Hi am comin'”
Jesus whispers still.
“‘Owld the Fort fer Hi am comin,'” –By Thy graice we will.
Each of these corpses Moussa Isa carried reverently down to the Prison that they might be “buried darkly at dead of night” with the other heroes, in softer ground without the walls–a curious funeral in which loaded rifles and belted maxim played their silent part. Apart from the honoured dead was buried the body of Private Augustus Grabble, shot against the Prison wall by order of Colonel Ross-Ellison for cowardice in the face of the enemy and desertion of his post. So was that of Private Green, deserter also. After the uninterrupted ceremony, Moussa Isa, in the guise of an ancient beggar, lame, decrepit, and bandaged with foul rags, sought the city and the news of the bazaar.
Limping down the lane in which stood the tall silent house that his master often visited, he saw three men emerge from the well-known low doorway.
Two approached him while one departed in the opposite direction. One of these two held the arm of the other.
“I must hear his voice again. I have not heard his voice again,” urged this one insistently to the other.
“Nay–but I have heard thine, thou Dog!” said Moussa Isa to himself, and turning, followed.
In a neighbouring bazaar the man who seemed to lead the other left him at the entrance to a mosque–a dark and greasy entry with a short flight of stone steps.
As he set his foot upon the lowest of these, a hand fell upon the neck of the man who had been led, and a voice hissed:–
“_Salaam! O Ibrahim the Weeper!_ Salaam! A ‘_Hubshi_’ would speak with thee….” and another hand joined the first, encircling his throat….
“Art thou dead, Dog?” snarled Moussa Isa, five minutes later….
Moussa Isa never boasted (if he realized the fact) that the collapse of the revolt and mutiny in Gungapur, before the arrival of troops, was due as much to the death of its chief ringleader and director, the blind faquir, as to the disastrous repulse of the great assault upon the Military Prison.
Sec. 2.
It had gone. Nothing remained but to clear up the mess and begin afresh with more wisdom and sounder policy. It was over, and, among other things now possible, Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison might ask the woman he loved whether she could some day become his wife. He had saved her life, watched over her, served her with mind and body, lived for her. And she had smiled upon him, looked at him as a woman looks at the man she more than likes, had given him the encouragement of her smiles, her trust, affectionate greeting on return from danger, prayers that he would be “careful” when he went forth to danger.
He believed that she loved him, and would, after a decent interval, even perhaps a year hence, marry him.
And then he would abandon the old life and ways, become wholly English and settle down to make her life a happy walk through an enchanted valley. He would take her to England and there, far from all sights, sounds and smells of the East, far from everything wild, turbulent, violent, crush out all the Pathan instincts so terribly aroused and developed during the late glorious time of War. He would take himself cruelly in hand. He would neither hunt nor shoot. He would eat no meat, drink no alcohol, nor seek excitement. He would school himself until he was a quiet, domesticated English country-gentleman–respectable and respected, fit husband for a delicately-bred English gentlewoman. And if ever his hand itched for the knife-hilt, his finger for the trigger, his cheek for the rifle-butt, his nostrils for the smell of the cooking-fires, his soul for the wild mountain passes, the mad gallop, the stealthy stalk–he would live on cold water until the Old Adam were drowned.
He _would_ be worthy of her–and she should never dream what blood was on his hands, what sights he had looked on, what deeds he had done, what part he had played in wild undertakings in wild places. English would he be to the back-bone, to the finger tips, to the marrow; a quiet, clean, straight-dealing Englishman of normal tastes, habits, and life.
Strange if, with all his love of fighting, he could not fight (and conquer) himself. Yes–his last great fight should be with himself…. He would call, to-day, at the bungalow to which Mrs. Dearman, prior to starting for Home, had removed as soon as the carefully-guarded Cantonment area was pronounced absolutely safe as a place of residence for the refugees who had been besieged in the old Military Prison.
She would be sufficiently “straight” in her bungalow, by this time, to permit of a formal mid-day call being a reasonable and normal affair….
“Good-morning, Preserver of Gungapur,” said Mrs. Dearman brightly; “have the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order materialized yet–or don’t they give them to Volunteers? What a shame if they don’t!”
“I want something far more valuable and desirable than those, Mrs. Dearman,” said Colonel Ross-Ellison as he took the extended hand of his hostess, who was a picture of coolness and health.
“Oh?–and–what is that?” she asked, seating herself on a big settee with her back to the light.
“You,” was the direct and uncompromising reply of the man who had been leading a remarkably direct and uncompromising life for several years.
Mrs. Dearman trembled, flushed and paled.
“What _do_ you mean?” she managed to say, with a fine affectation of coolness, unconcern, and indifference.
“I mean what I say,” was the answer. “I want _you_. I cannot live without you. I want to take care of you. I want to devote my life to making you happy. I want to make you forget this terrible experience and tragedy. You are lonely and I worship you. I want you to marry me–when you can–later–and let me serve you for the rest of my life. Make me the happiest and proudest man in the world and I will strive to be the noblest.”
He was very English then–in his fine passion. He took her hand and it was not withdrawn. He bent to look in her eyes, she smiled, and in a second was in his embrace, strained to his breast, her lips crushed by his.
For a minute he could not speak.
“I cannot believe it,” he whispered at length. “Is this a dream?”
“You are a very concrete dream–dear,” said Mrs. Dearman, re-arranging crushed and disarranged flowers at her breast, blushing and laughing shyly.
The man was filled with awe, reverence and a deep longing for worthiness.
The woman felt happy in the sense of safety, of power, of pride in the love of so fine a being.
“And how long have you loved me?” she murmured.
“Loved you, Cleopatra? Dearest–I have loved you from the moment my eyes first fell on you…. Poor salt-encrusted, weary, bloodshot eyes they were too,” he added, smiling, reminiscent.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Dearman, puzzled.
“Ah–I have a secret to tell you–a confession that will open those beautiful eyes wide with surprise. I first saw you when you _were_ Cleopatra Brighte.”
“Good gracious!” ejaculated Mrs. Dearman in great surprise. “When_ever_ when?”
“I’ll tell you,” said the man, smiling fondly. “You have my photograph. You took it yourself–on board the ‘Malaya’.”
“I?” said Mrs. Dearman. “What _are_ you talking about?”
“About you, dearest, and the time when I first saw you–and fell in love with you;–love at first sight, indeed.”
“But I never photographed you on board ship. I never saw you on a ship. I met you first here in Gungapur.”
“Do you remember the ‘Malaya’ stopping to pick up a shipwrecked sailor, a castaway, in a little dug-out canoe, somewhere in the Indian Ocean, when you were first coming out to India? But of course you do–you have the snap-shot in your collection….”
“Why–yes–I remember, of course–but that was a horrid, beastly _native_. The creature could only speak Hindustani. He was the sole survivor of the crew of some dhow or bunder-boat, they said…. He lived and worked with the Lascars till we got to Bombay. Yes….”
“I was that native,” said Colonel Ross-Ellison.
“_You_,” whispered Mrs. Dearman. “_You_,” and scanned his face intently.
“Yes. I. I _am_ half a native. My father was a Pathan. He—-“
“_What_?” asked the woman hoarsely, drawing away. “_What_? _What_ are you saying?”
“I am half Pathan–my father was a Pathan and my mother an Australian squatter’s daughter.”
“_Go_,” shrieked Mrs. Dearman, springing to her feet. “_Go_. You wretch! You mean, base liar! To cheat me so! To pretend you were a gentleman. Leave my house! Go! You horrible–_mongrel_–you—-. To take me in your arms! To make love to me! To kiss me! Ugh! I could die for shame! I could _die_—-“
The face of the man grew terrible to see. There was no trace of the West in it, no sign of English ancestry, the face of a mad, blood-mad Afghan.
“_We will both die_,” he gasped, and took her by the throat.
* * * * *
A few minutes later a Pathan in the dirty dress of his race fled from Colonel Ross-Ellison’s bungalow in Cantonments and took the road to the city.
Threading his way through its tortuous lanes, alleys, slums and bazaars he reached a low door in the high wall that surrounded an almost windowless house, knocked in a particular manner, parleyed, and was admitted.
The moment he was inside, the custodian of the door slammed, locked and bolted it, and then raised an outcry.
“Come,” he shouted in Pushtoo. “The Spy! The Feringhi! The Pushtoo-knowing English dog, that Abdulali Habbibullah,” and he drew his Khyber knife and circled round Ross-Ellison.
A clatter of heavy boots, the opening of wooden “windows” that looked inward on to the high-walled courtyard, and in a minute a throng of Pathans and other Mussulmans entered the compound from the house–some obviously aroused from heavy slumber.
“It is he,” cried one, a squat, broad-shouldered fellow, as they stood at gaze, and long knives flashed.
“Oho, Spy! Aha, Dog! For what hast thou come?” asked one burly fellow as he advanced warily upon the intruder, who backed slowly to the angle of the high walls.
“To die, Hidayetullah. To die, Nazir Ali Khan. To die slaying! Come on!” was the reply, and in one moment the speaker’s Khyber knife flashed from his loose sleeve into the throat of the nearest foe.
As he withdrew it, the door-keeper slashed at his abdomen, missed by a hair’s-breadth, raised his arm to save his neck from a slash, and was stabbed to the heart, the knife held dagger-wise. Another Pathan rushing forward, with uplifted knife held as a sword, was met by a sudden low fencing-lunge and fell with a hideous wound, and then, whirling his weapon like a claymore in an invisibly rapid Maltese cross of flashing steel, the man who had been Ross-Ellison drove his enemies before him, whirled about, and established himself in the opposite corner, and spat pungent Border taunts at the infuriated crowd.
“Come on, you village curs, you landless cripples, you wifeless sons of burnt fathers! Come on! Strike for the credit of your noseless mothers! Run not from me as your wives ran from you–to better men! Come on, you sweepers, you swine-herds, you down-country street-scrapers!” and they came on to heart’s content, steel clashed on steel and thudded on flesh and bone.
“Get a rifle,” cried one, lying bleeding on the ground, striving to rise while he held his right shoulder to his neck with his partly severed left hand. As he fainted the shoulder gaped horribly.
“Get a cannon,” mocked Ross-Ellison. “Get a cannon, dogs, against one man,” and again, whirling the great jade-handled knife, long as a short sword, he rushed forward and the little mob gave ground before the irresistible claymore-whirl, the unbreakable Maltese cross described by the razor-edge and needle-point.
“It is a devil,” groaned a man, as his knife and his hand fell together to the ground, and he clapped his turban on the stump as a boy claps his hat upon some small creature that he would capture.
The madman whirled about in the third corner and, as he ceased the wild whirl, ducked low and lunged, lessening the number of his enemies by one. This lunge was a new thing to men who could only slash and stab, a new thing and a terrible, for it could not be parried save by seizing the blade and losing half a hand.
“Come on, you growing maidens! Come on, grandmothers! Come on, you cleaners of pig-skins, you washers of dogs! Come on!” and as he shouted, the door crashed down and a patrol of British soldiers, attracted by the noise, and delayed by the stout door, burst into the courtyard.
“At the henemy in front, fixed sights,” shouted the corporal in charge. And added an order not to be found in the drill-book: “Blow ’em to ‘ell if they budges.”
In the hush of surprise his voice arose, addressing the fighters: “_Bus_[70] you bleedin’ soors,[71]” said Corporal Cook. “_Bus_; and you _dekho_[72] ‘ere. If any of you _jaos_[73] from where ‘e is, I’ll _pukkaro_[74] ‘im and give ‘im a punch in the _dekho_.”
[70] Enough, stop.
[71] Swine.
[72] Look.
[73] Jao = go (imperative).
[74] Seize (imperative).
And, as bayonets rose breast-high and fingers curled lovingly round triggers, every knife but that of Ross-Ellison disappeared as by magic, and the Corporal beheld a little crowd of innocent men endeavouring to secure a dangerous lunatic at the risk of their lives–terrible risk, as the bodies of five dead and dying men might testify.
“I give myself up to you as a murderer, Corporal,” said he who had been Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison. “I am a murderer. If you will take me before your officer I will confess and give details.”
“I’m agoin’ to take you bloomin’ well all,” replied the surprised Corporal. “Chuck down that there beastly carvin’ knife. You seem a too ‘andy cove wiv’ it.”
At the Corporal’s order of, “Prod ’em all up agin that wall and shoot any bloke as moves ‘and or ‘oof,” the party of panting, bleeding and perspiring ruffians was lined up, relieved of its weapons, and duly marched to the guard-room.
Here, one of the gang (later identified as the man who had been known as John Robin Ross-Ellison, and who insisted that he was a Baluchi) declared that he had just murdered Mrs. Dearman in her drawing-room and made a full statement–a statement found to be only too true, its details corroborated by a trembling _hamal_ who had peeped and listened, as all Indian servants peep and listen.
* * * * *
Duly tried, all members of the gang received terms of imprisonment (largely a prophylactic measure), save the extraordinary English-speaking Baluchi, who had long imposed, it was said, upon Gungapur Society in the days before that Society had disappeared in the cataclysm.
A few days before the date fixed for the execution of this very remarkable desperado, Captain Michael Malet-Marsac, Adjutant of the Gungapur Volunteer Corps, received two letters dated from Gungapur Jail, one covering the other. The covering letter ran:–
“MY DEAR MALET-MARSAC,
“I forward the enclosed. Should you desire to attend the execution you could accompany the new City Magistrate, Wellson, who will doubtless be agreeable.
“Yours sincerely,
“A. RANALD, Major I.M.S.”
The accompaniment was from John Robin Ross-Ellison Mir Ilderim Dost Mahommed Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan.
“MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,
“For the credit of the British I am pretending to be a Baluchi. I am not a Baluchi and I hope to die like a Briton–at any rate like a man. I have been held responsible for what I did when I was not responsible, and shall be killed in cold blood by sane people, for what I did in hot blood when quite as mad as any madman who ever lived. I don’t complain–I _ex_plain. I want you to understand, if you can, that it was not your friend John Ross-Ellison who did that awful deed. It was a Pathan named Ilderim Dost Mahommed. And yet it was I.” [“Poor chap is mad!” murmured the bewildered and horrified reader who had lived in a kind of nightmare since the woman he loved had been murdered by the man he loved. “The strain of the war has been too much for him. He must have had sunstroke too.” He read on, with misty sight.]
“And it is I who will pay the penalty of Ilderim Dost Mahommed’s deed. As I say, I do not complain, and if the Law did not kill me I would certainly kill myself–to get rid of Ilderim Dost Mahommed.
“I have thought of doing so and cheating the scaffold, but have decided that Ilderim will get his deserts better if I hang, and I may perhaps get rid of him, thus, for ever.
“Will you come? I would not ask it of any living soul but you, and I ask it because your presence would show me that you blindly believe that it was not John Robin Ross-Ellison who killed poor Mrs. Dearman, and that would enable me to die quite happy. Your presence would also be a great help to me. It would help me to feel that, whatever I have lived, I die a Briton–that if I could not live without Ilderim Dost Mahommed I can die without him. But this must seem lunatic wanderings to you.
“I apologize for writing to you and I hesitated long. At length I said, ‘I will tell him the truth–that the deed was not done by Ross-Ellison and perhaps he will understand, and come’. Mike–_John Robin Ross-Ellison did not murder Mrs. Dearman_.
“Your distracted and broken-hearted ex-friend,
“J.R. ROSS-ELLISON.”
“He _was_ ‘queer’ at times,” said Captain Michael Malet-Marsac. “There was a kink somewhere. The bravest, coolest, keenest chap I ever met, the finest fighting-man, the truest comrade and friend,–and from time to time something queer peeped out, and one was puzzled…. Madness in the family, I suppose…. Poor devil, poor, poor devil!” and Captain Malet-Marsac stamped about and swore, for his eyes tingled and his chin quivered.
Sec. 3.
Captain Michael Malet-Marsac alighted from his horse at the great gate of the Gungapur Jail, loosed girths, slid stirrup irons up the leathers to the saddle, and handed his reins to the orderly who had ridden behind him.
“Walk the horses up and down,” said he, for both were sweating and the morning was very cold. Perhaps it was the cold that made Captain Michael Malet-Marsac’s strong face so white, made his teeth chatter and his hands shake. Perhaps it was the cold that made him feel so sick, and that weakened the tendons of his knees so that he could scarcely stand–and would fain have thrown himself upon the ground.
With a curious coughing sound, as though he swallowed and cleared his throat at the same moment, he commenced to address another order or remark to the mounted sepoy, choked, and turned his back upon him.
Striding to the gate, he struck upon it loudly with his hunting-crop, and turning, waved the waiting orderly away.
Not for a king’s ransom could he have spoken at that moment. He realized that something which was rising in his throat must be crushed back and swallowed before speech would be possible. If he tried to speak before that was done–he would shame his manhood, he would do that which was unthinkable in a man and a soldier. What would happen if the little iron wicket in the great iron door in the greater wooden gates opened before he had swallowed the lump in his throat, had crushed down the rising tumult of emotion, and a European official, perhaps Major Ranald himself, spoke to him? He must either refuse to answer, and show himself too overcome for speech–or he must–good God forbid it–burst into tears. He suffered horribly. His skin tingled and he burnt hotly from head to foot.
And then–he swallowed, his will triumphed–and he was again as outwardly self-possessed and nonchalant as he strove to appear.
He might tremble, his face might be blanched and drawn, he might feel physically sick and almost too weak and giddy to stand, but he had swallowed, he had triumphed over the rising flood that had threatened to engulf him, and he was, outwardly, himself again. He could go through with it now, and though his face might be ghastly, his lips white, his hand uncertain, his gait considered and careful, he would he able to chat lightly, to meet Ross-Ellison’s jest with jest–for that Ross-Ellison would die jesting he knew….
Why did not the door open? Had his knock gone unheard? Should he knock again, louder? And then his eye fell upon the great iron bell-pull and chain, and he stepped towards it. Of course–one entered a place like this on the sonorous clanging of a deep-throated bell that roused the echoes of the whole vast congeries of buildings encircled by the hideous twelve-foot wall, unbroken save by the great gatehouse before which he stood insignificant. As his shaking hand touched the bell-pull he suddenly remembered, and withdrew it. He was to meet the City Magistrate outside the jail and enter with him. He could gain admittance in no other way.
He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes to seven. Wellson should be there in a minute–he had said, “At the jail-entrance at 6.45”. God send him soon or the new-found self-control might weaken and a rising tide creep up and up until it submerged his will-power again.
With an effort he swallowed, and turning, strode up and down on a rapid, mechanical sentry-go.
A guard of police-sepoys emerged from a neighbouring guard-room and “fell in” under the word of command of an Inspector. They were armed with Martini-Henry rifles and triangular-bladed bayonets, very long. Their faces looked cruel, the stones of the gate-house and main-guard looked cruel, the beautiful misty morning looked cruel.
Would that damned magistrate never come? Didn’t he know that Malet-Marsac was fighting for his manhood and terribly afraid? Didn’t he know that unless he came quickly Malet-Marsac would either leap on his horse and ride it till it fell, or else lose control inside the jail and either burst into tears, faint, or–going mad–put up a fight for his friend there in the jail itself, snatch weapons, get back to back with him and die fighting then and there–or, later, on the same scaffold? His friend–by whose side he had fought, starved, suffered, triumphed–his poor two-natured friend….
Could not one of these cursed clever physicians, alienists, psychologists, hypnotists–whatever they were–have cut the strange savagery and ferocity out of the splendid John Robin Ross-Ellison?…
A buffalo passed, driven by a barely human lout. The lout was free–the brainless, soulless bovine lout was free in God’s beautiful world–and Ross-Ellison, soldier and gentleman, lay in a stone cell, and in quarter of an hour would dangle by the neck in a pit below a platform–perhaps suffering unthinkable agonies–who could tell?… His old friend and commandant–
Would Wellson never come? What kept the fellow? It was disgraceful conduct on the part of a public servant in such circumstances. Think what an eternity of mental suffering each minute must now be to Ross-Ellison! What was he doing? What were they doing to him? _Could_ the agony of Ross-Ellison be greater than that of Malet-Marsac? It must be a thousand times greater. How could that tireless activity, that restless initiative, that cool courage, that unfathomable ingenuity be quenched in a second? How could such a wild free nature exist in a cell, submit to pinioning, be quietly led like a sheep to the slaughter? He who so loved the mountain, the wild desert, the ocean, the free wandering life of adventure and exploration.
Would Wellson never come? It must be terribly late. Could they have hanged Ross-Ellison already? Could he have gone to his death thinking his friend had failed him; had passed by, like the Levite, on the other side; had turned up a sanctimonious nose at the letter of the Murderer; had behaved as some “friends” do behave in time of trouble?
Could he have died thinking this? If so, he must now know the truth, if the Parsons were right, those unconvincing very-human Parsons of like passions, and pretence of unlike passions. Could his friend be dead, his friend whom he had so loved and admired? And yet he was a murderer–and he had murdered … _her_….
Captain Michael Malet-Marsac leant against a tree and was violently sick.
Curse the weak frail body that was failing him in his hour of need! It had never failed him in battle nor in athletic struggle. Why should it weaken now. He _would_ see his friend, and bear himself as a man, to help him in his dreadful hour.
Would that scoundrel never come? He was the one who should be hanged.
A clatter of hoofs behind, and Malet-Marsac turned to see the City Magistrate trot across the road from the open country. He drew out his watch accusingly and as a torrent of reproach rose to his white parched lips, he saw that the time was–exactly quarter to seven.
“‘Morning, Marsac,” said the City Magistrate as he swung down from the saddle. “You’re looking precious blue about the gills.”
“‘Morning, Wellson,” replied the other shortly.
To the City Magistrate a hanging was no more than a hair-cut, a neither pleasing nor displeasing interlude, hindering the doing of more strenuous duties; a nuisance, cutting into his early-morning report–writing and other judicial work. He handed his reins to an obsequious sepoy, eased his jodhpores at the knee, and rang the bell.
The grille-cover slid back, a dusky face appeared behind the bars and scrutinized the visitors, the grille was closed again and the tiny door opened. Malet-Marsac stepped in over the foot-high base of the door-way and found himself in a kind of big gloomy strong-room in which were native warders and a jailer with a bunch of huge keys. On either side of the room was an office. Following Wellson to a large desk, on which reposed a huge book, he wrote his name, address, and business, controlling his shaking hand by a powerful effort of will.
This done, and the entrance-door being again locked, bolted, and barred, the jailer led the way to another pair of huge gates opposite the pair through which they had entered, and opened a similar small door therein. Through this Malet-Marsac stepped and found himself, light-dazzled, in the vast enclosure of Gungapur Jail, a small town of horribly-similar low buildings, painfully regular streets, soul-stunning uniformity, and living death.
“‘Morning, Malet-Marsac,” said Major Ranald of the Indian Medical Service, Superintendent of the jail. “You look a bit blue about the gills, what?”
“‘Morning, Ranald,” replied Malet-Marsac, “I _am_ a little cold.”
Was he really speaking? Was that voice his? He supposed so.
Could he pretend to gaze round with an air of intelligent interest? He would try.
A line of convicts, clad in a kind of striped sacking, stood with their backs to a wall while a native warder strode up and down in front of them, watching another convict placing brushes and implements before them. Suddenly the warder spoke to the end man, an elderly stalwart fellow, obviously from the North. The reply was evidently unsatisfactory, perhaps insolent, for the warder suddenly seized the grey beard of the convict, tugged his head violently from side to side, shook him, and then smote him hard on either cheek. The elderly convict gave no sign of having felt either the pain or the indignity, but gazed straight over the warder’s head. Of what was he thinking? Of what might be the fate of that warder were he suddenly transported to the wilds of Kathiawar, to lie at the mercy of his late victim and the famous band of outlaws whom he had once led to fame–a fame as wide as Ind?
There was something fine about the old villain, once a real Robin Hood, something mean about the little tyrant.
Had Ranald seen the incident? No, he stood with his back to a buttress looking in the opposite direction. Did he always stand with a wall behind him in this terrible place? How could he live in it? A minute of it made one sick if one were cursed with imagination. Oh, the horror of the prison system–especially for brave men, men with a code of honour of their own–possibly sometimes a higher code than that of the average British politician, not to mention the be-knighted cosmopolitan financier, friend of princes and honoured of kings.
Could not men be segregated in a place of peace and beauty and improved, instead of being segregated in a dull hell and crushed? What a home of soulless, hopeless horror!… And his friend was here…. Could he contain himself?… He must say something.
“Do you always keep your back to a wall when standing still, in here?” he asked of Major Ranald.
“I do,” was the reply, “and I walk with a trustworthy man close behind me.” “Would you like to go round, sometime?” he added.
“No, thank you,” said Malet-Marsac. “I would like to get as far away as possible and stay there.”
Major Ranald laughed.
“Wouldn’t like to visit the mortuary and see a post-mortem?”
“No, thank you.”
“What about the Holy One?” put in the City Magistrate. “Did you ‘autopsy’ him? A pleasure to hang a chap like him.”
“Yes, the brute. I’ll show you his neck vertebrae presently if you like. Kept ’em as a curiosity. An absolute break of the bone itself. People talk about pain, strangulation, suffocation and all that. Nothing of the sort. Literally breaks the neck. Not mere separation of the vertebrae you know. I’ll show you the vertebra itself–clean broken….”
Captain Malet-Marsac swayed on his feet. What should he do? A blue mist floated before his eyes and a sound of rushing waters filled his ears. Was he fainting? He must _not_ faint, and fail his friend. And then, the roar of the waters was pierced and dominated by the voice of that friend saying–
“Hul_lo_! old bird. Awf’ly good of you to turn out, such a beastly cold morning.”
John Robin Ross-Ellison had come round an adjacent corner, a European warder on either side of him and another behind him, all three, to their credit, as white as their white uniforms and helmets. On his head was a curious bag-like cap.
Ross-Ellison appeared perfectly cheerful, absolutely natural, and without the slightest outward and visible sign of any form of perturbation.
“‘Morning, Ranald,” he continued. “Sorry to be the cause of turning you out in the cold. Gad! _isn’t_ it parky. Hope you aren’t going to keep me standing. If I might be allowed I’d quote unto you the words which a pretty American girl once used when I asked if I might kiss her–‘_Wade right in, Bub!_'”
“‘Fraid I can’t ‘wade in’ till seven o’clock–er–Ross-Ellison,” answered the horribly embarrassed Major Ranald. “It won’t be long.”
“Right O, I was only thinking of your convenience. _I’m_ all right,” said the remarkable criminal, about to suffer by the Mosaic law at the hands of Christians, to receive Old Testament mercy from the disciples of the New, to be done-by as he had done.
An Indian clerk, salaaming, joined the group, and prepared to read from an official-looking document.
“Read,” said Major Ranald, and the clerk in a high sing-song voice, regardless of punctuation, read out the charge, conviction and death-warrant of the man formerly calling himself John Robin Ross-Ellison, and now professing and confessing himself to be a Baluchi. Having finished, the clerk smiled as one well pleased with a duty well performed, salaamed and clacked away in his heelless slippers.
“It is my duty to inquire whether you have anything to say or any last request to make,” said Major Ranald to the prisoner.
“Well, I’ve only to say that I’m sorry to cause all this fuss, y’ know–and, well, yes, I _would_ like a smoke,” replied the condemned man, and added hastily: “Don’t think I want to delay things for a moment though–but if there is time….”
“It is four minutes to seven,” said Major Ranald, “and tobacco and matches are not supposed to be found in a Government Jail.”
Ross-Ellison winked at the Major and glanced at a bulge on the right side of the breast of the Major’s coat.
At this moment the warder standing behind the condemned man seized both his wrists, drew them behind him and fastened them with a broad, strong strap.
“H’m! That’s done it, I suppose,” said the murderer. “Can’t smoke without my hands. Queer idea too–never thought of it before. Can’t smoke without hands…. Rather late in life to realize it, what?”
“Oh, yes, you can,” said the Major, drawing his big silver cheroot-case from his pocket and selecting a cheroot. Placing it between the prisoner’s lips he struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar. Ross-Ellison drew hard and the cigar was lit. He puffed luxuriously and sighed.
“Gad! That’s good,” he said, “May some one do as much for you, old chap, when _you_ come to be–er–no, I don’t mean that, of course…. Haven’t had a smoke for weeks. Yes–you can smoke without hands after all–but not for long without feeling the inconvenience. I used to know an American (wicked old gun-running millionaire he was, Cuba way, and down South too) who could change his cigar from one corner of his mouth right across to the other with his tongue. Fascinatin’ sight to watch….”
Captain Malet-Marsac swallowed continuously, lest he lose the faculty of swallowing–and be choked.
Major Ranald looked at his watch.
“Two minutes to seven. Come on,” he said, and took the cheroot from the prisoner’s mouth.
“Good-bye, Mike,” said that person to the swallowing fainting wretch. “Don’t try and say anything. I know exactly what you feel. Sorry we can’t shake hands,” and he stepped off in the wake of Major Ranald, closely guarded by three warders.
The City Magistrate and Captain Malet-Marsac followed. At Major Ranald’s knock, the small inner door of the gate-house was opened and the procession filed through it into the strong room where the warders stood to attention. Having re-fastened the door, the jailer opened the outer one and the procession passed out of the jail into the blessed free world, the world that might be such a place of wonder, beauty, delight, health and joy, were man not educated to materialism, false ideals, false standards, and blind strife for nothing worth.
The sepoy-guard stood in a semicircle from the gate-house to the entrance to a door-way in the jail-wall. Ross-Ellison took his last look at the sky, the distant hills, the trees, God’s good world, and then turned into the doorless door-way with his jailers, and faced the scaffold in a square, roofless cell. The warder behind him drew the cap down over his face, and he was led up a flight of shallow stairs on to a platform on which was a roughly-chalked square where two hinged flaps met. As he stood on this spot the noose of the greased rope was placed round his neck by a warder who then looked to Major Ranald for a sign, received it, and pulled over a lever which withdrew the bolts supporting the hinged flaps. These fell apart, Ross-Ellison dropped through the platform, and Christian Society was avenged.
Without a word, Captain Malet-Marsac strode, as in a dream, to his horse, rode home, and, as in a dream, entered his sanctum, took his revolver from its holster and loaded it.
Laying it on the table beside him, he sat down to write a few words to the Colonel of his regiment, Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley of the 99th Baluch Light Infantry, and to send his will to a brother-officer whom he wished to be his executor.
This done, he took up the revolver, placed the muzzle in his mouth, the barrel pointing upward, and–pulled the trigger.
_Click_!
And nothing more.
A tiny, nerve-shattering, world-shaking, little universe-rocking _click_–and nothing more.
A bad cartridge. He remembered complaints about the revolver ammunition from the Duri Small Arms Ammunition Factory. Too long in stock.
Should he try the same one again, or go on to the next? Probably get better results from the first, as the cap would be already dented by the concussion. He took the muzzle of the big revolver from his aching mouth and, releasing the chamber, spun it round…. He would place it to his temple this time. Holding one’s mouth open was undignified. He raised the revolver–and John Bruce burst into the room. He had seen Malet-Marsac ride by, and knew where he had been.
“Half a second!” he shouted. “News! Do that afterwards.”
“What is it?” asked Malet-Marsac, taken by surprise.
“Put that beastly thing in the drawer while I tell you, then. It might go off. I hate pistols,” said Bruce.
Malet-Marsac obeyed. Bruce was a man to be listened to, and what had to be done could be done when he had gone. If it were some last piece of duty or service, it should be seen to.
“It is this,” said Bruce. “You are a liar, a forger, a thief, a dirty pickpocket, a coward, a seller of secrets to Foreign Powers,” and, ere the astounded soldier could speak, John Bruce sprang at him and tried to knock him out. “Take that you greasy cad–and fight me if you dare,” he shouted as the other dodged his punch.
Malet-Marsac sprang to his feet, furious, and returned the blow. In a second the men were fighting fiercely, coolly, murderously.
Bruce was the bigger, stronger, more scientific, and there could be but one result, given ordinary luck. It was a long, severe, and punishing affair.
“Time,” gasped Malet-Marsac at length, and dropped his hands. “Get–breath–fight–decently–time–‘nother round–after,” and as he spoke Bruce knocked him down and out, proceeding instantly to tie his feet with the punkah-cord and his hands with two handkerchiefs and a pair of braces. This done, he carried him into his bedroom, and laid him on the bed, and sprinkled his face with water.
Malet-Marsac blinked and stirred.
“Awful sorry, old chap,” said Bruce at length. “I thought it the best plan. Will you give me your word to chuck the suicide idea, or do you want some more?”
“You damned fool! I….” began the trussed one.
“Yes, I know–but I solemnly swear I won’t untie you, nor let anybody else, until you’ve promised.”
Malet-Marsac swore violently, struggled valiantly and, anon, slept.
When he awoke, ten hours later, he informed Bruce, sitting by the bed, that he had no intention of committing suicide….
Years later, as a grey-haired Major, he learnt, from the man’s own brother, the story of the strange hero who had fascinated him, and of whose past he had known nothing–save that it had been that of a _man_.