Hira Singh by Talbot Mundy (page 3)

“Are you deaf?” said he.

“Nay!” I said.

“Then obey!” said he. So I took twenty men, and we went stumbling through rain and darkness, hunting for what none of us believed was anywhere. Yet within fifteen minutes we found a hut whose roof was intact, and therefore whose floor and inner parts were dry enough. It was a little hut, of the length of perhaps the height of four men, and the breadth of the height of three–a man and a half high from floor to roof-beam. It was unoccupied, but there was straw at one end–dry straw, on which doubtless guards had slept. I left the men standing there and went and told Ranjoor Singh.

I found him talking to the lined up men in no gentle manner. As I drew nearer I heard him say the word “Wassmuss.” Then I heard a trooper ask him, “Where are we?” And he answered, “Ye stand on Asia!” That was the first intimation I received that we were in Asia, and I felt suddenly lonely, for Asia is wondrously big, sahib.

Whatever Ranjoor Singh had been saying to the men he had them back under his thumb for the time being; for when I told him of my discovery of the hut he called them to attention, turned them to the right, and marched them off as obedient as a machine, Tugendheim following like a man in a dream between his four guards and struggling now and then to loose the wet thongs that were beginning to cut into his wrists. He had not been trussed over-tenderly, but I noticed that Ranjoor Singh had ordered the gag removed.

The hut stood alone, clear on all four sides, and after he had looked at it, Ranjoor Singh made the men line up facing the door, with himself and me and Tugendheim between them and the hut. Presently he pushed Tugendheim into the hut, and he bade me stand in the door to watch him.

“Now the man who wishes to ask questions may,” he said then, and there was a long silence, for I suppose none wished to be accused of impudence and perhaps made an example for the rest. Besides, they were too curious to know what his next intention might be to care to offend him. So I, seeing that he wished them to speak, and conceiving that to be part of his plan for establishing good feeling, asked the first question–the first that came into my head.

“What shall we do with this Tugendheim?” said I.

“That I will show you presently,” said he. “Who else has a question to ask?” And again there was silence, save for the rain and the grinding and pounding on the beach.

Then Gooja Singh made bold, as he usually did when he judged the risk not too great. He was behind the men, which gave him greater courage; and it suited him well to have to raise his voice, because the men might suppose that to be due to insolence, whereas Ranjoor Singh must ascribe it to necessity. Well I knew the method of Gooja Singh’s reasoning, and I knitted my fists in a frenzy of fear lest he say the wrong word and start trouble. Yet I need not have worried. I observed that Ranjoor Singh seemed not disturbed at all, and he knew Gooja Singh as well as I.

“It seems for the time being that we have given the slip to both Turks and Germans,” said Gooja Singh; and Ranjoor Singh said, “Aye! For the time being!”

“And we truly stand on Asia?” he asked.

“Aye!” said Ranjoor Singh,

“Then why did we not put those Turks ashore, and steam away in their ship toward Gallipoli to join our friends?” said he.

“Partly because of submarines,” said Ranjoor Singh, “and partly because of gun-fire. Partly because of mines floating in the water, and partly again from lack of coal. The bunkers were about empty. It was because there was so little coal that the Germans trusted us alone on board.”

“Yet, why let the Turks have the steamer?” asked Gooja Singh, bound, now that he was started, to prove himself in the right. “They will float about until daylight and then send signals. Then will come Turks and Germans!”

“Nay!” said Ranjoor Singh. “No so, for I sank the steamer! I myself let the sea into her hold!”

Gooja Singh was silent for about a minute, and although it was dark and I could not see him. I knew exactly the expression of his face– wrinkled thus, and with the lower lip thrust out, so!

“Any more questions?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and by that time Gooja Singh had thought again. This time he seemed to think he had an unanswerable one, for his voice was full of insolence.

“Then how comes it,” said he, “that you turned those Turks loose in their small boats when we might have kept them with us for hostages? Now they will row to the land and set their masters on our tracks! Within an hour or two we shall all be prisoners again! Tell us why!”

“For one thing,” said Ranjoor Singh, without any resentment in his voice that I could detect (although THAT was no sign!), “I had to make some sort of bargain with them, and having made it I must keep it. The money with which I bribed the captain and his mate would have been of little use to them unless I allowed them life and liberty as well.”

“But they will give the alarm and cause us to be followed!” shouted Gooja Singh, his voice rising louder with each word.

“Nay, I think not!” said Ranjoor Singh, as calmly as ever. “In the first place, I have a written receipt from captain and mate for our money, stating the reason for which it was paid; if we were made prisoners again, that paper would be found in my possession and it might go ill with those Turks. In the second place, they will wish to save their faces. In the third place, they must explain the loss of their steamer. So they will say the steamer was sunk by a submarine, and that they got away in the boats and watched us drown. The crew will bear out what the captain and the mate say, partly from fear, partly because that is the custom of the country, but chiefly because they will receive a small share of the bribe. Let us hope they get back safely–for their story will prevent pursuit!”

For about two minutes again there was silence, and then Gooja Singh called out: “Why did you not make them take us to Gallipoli?”

“There was not enough coal!” said I, but Ranjoor Singh made a gesture to me of impatience.

“The Germans wished us to go to Gallipoli,” said he, “and I have noticed that whatever they may desire is expressly intended for their advantage and not ours. In Gallipoli they would have kept us out of range at the rear, and presently they would have caused a picture of us to be taken serving among the Turkish army. That they would have published broadcast. After that I have no idea what would have happened to us, except that I am sure we should never have got near enough to the British lines to make good our escape. We must find another way than that!”

“We might have made the attempt!” said Gooja Singh, and a dozen men murmured approval.

“Simpletons!” came the answer. “The Germans laid their plans for the first for photographs to lend color to lies about the Sikh troops fighting for them! Ye would have played into their hands!”

“What then?” said I, after a minute, for at that answer they had all grown dumb.

“What then?” said he. “Why, this: We are in Asia, but still on Turkish soil. We need food. We shall need shelter before many hours. And we need discipline, to aid our will to overcome! Therefore there never was a regiment more fiercely disciplined than this shall be! From now until we bring up in a British camp–and God knows when or where that may happen!–the man who as much as thinks of disobedience plays with death! Death–ye be as good as dead men now!” said he.

He shook himself. A sense of loneliness had come on me since he told us we were in Asia, and I think the men felt as I did. There had been nothing to eat on the steamer, and there was nothing now. Hunger and cold and rain were doing their work. But Ranjoor Singh stood and shook himself, and moved slowly along the line to look in each man’s face, and I took new courage from his bearing. If I could have known what he had in store for us, I would have leaped and shouted. Yet, no, sahib; that is not true. If he had told me what was coming, I would never have believed. Can the sahib imagine, for instance, what was to happen next?

“Ye are as good as dead men!” he said, coming back to the center and facing all the men. “Consider!” said he. “Our ship is sunk and the Turks, to save their own skins, will swear they saw us drown. Who, then, will come and hunt for dead men?”

I could see the eyes of the nearest men opening wider as new possibilities began to dawn. As for me–my two hands shook.

“And we have with us,” said he, “a hostage who might prove useful–a hostage who might prove amenable to reason. Bring out the prisoner!” said he.

So I bade Tugendheim come forth. He was sitting on the straw where the guards had pushed him, still working sullenly to free his hands. He came and peered through the doorway into darkness, and Ranjoor Singh stood aside to let the men see him. They can not have seen much, for it was now that utter gloom that precedes dawn. Nor can Tugendheim have seen much.

“Do you wish to live or die?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and the German gaped at him.

“That is a strange question!” he said.

“Is it strange,” asked Ranjoor Singh, “that a prisoner should be asked for information?”

“I am not afraid to die,” said Tugendheim.

“You mean by rifle-fire?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and Tugendheim nodded.

“But there are other kinds of fire,” said Ranjoor Singh.

“What do you mean?” asked Tugendheim.

“Why,” said Ranjoor Singh, “if we were to fire this hut to warm ourselves, and you should happen to be inside it–what then?”

“If you intend to kill me,” said Tugendheim, “why not be merciful and shoot me?” His voice was brave enough, but it seemed to me I detected a strain of terror in it.

“Few Germans are afraid to be shot to death,” said Ranjoor Singh.

“But what have I done to any of you that you should want to burn me alive?” asked Tugendheim; and that time I was positive his voice was forced.

“Haven’t you been told by your officers,” said Ranjoor Singh, “that the custom of us Sikhs is to burn all our prisoners alive?”

“Yes,” said Tugendheim. “They told us that. But that was only a tale to encourage the first-year men. Having lived in India, I knew better.”

“Did you trouble yourself to tell anybody better?” asked Ranjoor Singh, but Tugendheim did not answer.

“Then can you give me any reason why you should not be burned alive here, now?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“Yes!” said Tugendheim. “It would be cruel. It would be devil’s work!” He was growing very uneasy, although trying hard not to show it.

“Then give me a name for the tales you have been party to against us Sikhs!” said Ranjoor Singh; but once more the German refrained from answering. The men were growing very attentive, breathing all in unison and careful to make no sound to disturb the talking. At that instant a great burst of firing broke out over the water, so far away that I could only see one or two flashes, and, although that was none too reassuring to us, it seemed to Tugendheim like his death knell. He set his lips and drew back half a step.

“Can you wish to live with the shame of all those lies against us on your heart–you, who have lived in India and know so much better?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“Of course I wish to live!” said Tugendheim.

“Have you any price to offer for your life?” asked Ranjoor Singh, and stepping back two paces he ordered a havildar with a loud voice to take six men and hunt for dry kindling. “For there is not enough here,” said he.

“Price?” said Tugendheim. “I have a handful of coins, and my uniform, and a sword. You left my baggage on the steamer–“

“Nay!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Your baggage came ashore in one of the boats. Where is it? Who has it?”

A man stepped forward and pointed to it, lying in the shadow of the hut with the rain from the roof dripping down on it.

“Who brought it ashore?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“I,” said the trooper.

“Then, for leaving it there in the rain, you shall carry it three days without assistance or relief!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Get back to your place in the ranks!” And the man got back, saying nothing. Ranjoor Singh picked up the baggage and tossed it past Tugendheim into the hut.

“That is all I have!” said Tugendheim.

“If you decide to burn, it shall burn with you,” said Ranjoor Singh, “and that trooper shall carry a good big stone instead to teach him manners!”

“GOTT IN HIMMEL!” exclaimed Tugendheim, losing his self-control at last. “Can I offer what I have not got?”

“Is there nothing you can do?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“In what way? How?” asked the German.

“In the way of making amends to us Sikhs for all those lies you have been party to,” said Ranjoor Singh. “If you were willing to offer to make amends, I would listen to you.”

“I will do anything in reason,” said Tugendheim, looking him full in the eye and growing more at ease.

“I am a reasonable man,” said Ranjoor Singh.

“Then, speak!” said Tugendheim.

“Nay, nay!” said Ranjoor Singh, “it is for you to make proposals, and not for me. It is not I who stand waiting to be burned alive! Let me make you a suggestion, however. What had we Sikhs to offer when we were prisoners in Germany?”

“Oh, I see!” said Tugendheim. “You mean you wish me to join you–to be one of you?”

“I mean,” said Ranjoor Singh, “that if you were to apply to be allowed to join this regiment for a while, and to be allowed to serve us in a certain manner, we would consider the proposal. Otherwise–is my meaning clear?”

“Yes!” said Tugendheim.

“Then–?’ said Ranjoor Singh.

“I apply!” said Tugendheim; and at that moment the havildar and his men returned with some straw they had found in another tumble-down hut. They had it stuffed under their overcoats to keep it dry. “Too late!” said Tugendheim with a grimace, but Ranjoor Singh bade them throw the straw inside for all that.

“In Germany we were required to set our names to paper,” he said, and Tugendheim looked him in the eyes again for a full half minute. “Do you expect better conditions than were offered us?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“I will sign!” said Tugendheim.

“What will you sign?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“Anything in reason,” answered Tugendheim.

“Let me tell you what I have here, then,” said Ranjoor Singh, and he groped in his inner pocket for a paper, that he brought out very neatly folded, sheltering it from the rain under his cape. “This,” said he, “is signed by the Turkish captain and mate of that sunken steamer. It is a receipt for all our money, to be taken and divided equally between you–mentioned by name–and them–mentioned also by name, on condition that the ship be sunk and we be let go. If you will sign the paper–here–above their signatures–it will entitle you to one-third of all that money. They would neither of them dare to refuse to share with you!”

“What if I refuse to sign?” asked Tugendheim, making a great savage wrench to free his wrists, but failing.

“The suggestion is yours,” said Ranjoor Singh. “You have only your own judgment for a guide.”

“If I sign it, will you let me go?” he asked.

“No,” said Ranjoor Singh, “but we will not burn you alive if you sign. Here is a fountain-pen. Your hands shall be loosed when you are ready.”

Tugendheim nodded, so I went and cut his hands loose; and when I had chafed his wrists for a minute or two he was able to write on my shoulder, I bending forward and Ranjoor Singh watching like a hawk lest he tear the paper. But he made no effort to play tricks.

When Ranjoor Singh had folded the paper again he said: “Those two Turks quite understood that you were to be asked to sign as well. In fact, if there is any mishap they intend to lay all the blame on you. But it is to their interest as much as yours to keep us from being captured.”

“You mean I’m to help you escape?” asked Tugendheim.

“Exactly!” said Ranjoor Singh. “Now that you have signed that, I am willing to bargain with you. We intend to find Wassmuss.”

Tugendheim pricked up his ears and began to look almost willing.

“We have heard of this Wassmuss, and have taken quite a fancy to him. Your friends proposed to send us to the trenches, but we have already had too much of that work and we intend to find Wassmuss and take part with him. Let your business be to obey me implicitly and to help us reach Wassmuss, and on the day we reach our goal you shall go free with this paper given back to you. Disobey me, and you shall sample unheard-of methods of repentance! Do we understand each other?”

“I understand you!” said Tugendheim.

“I, too, wish to understand,” said Ranjoor Singh.

“It is a bargain,” said Tugendheim. But I noticed they did not shake hands after European fashion, although I think Tugendheim would have been willing. He was a hearty man in his way, given to bullying, but also to quick forgetfulness; and I will say this much for him, that although he was ever on the lookout for some way of breaking his agreement, he kept it loyally enough while a way was lacking. I have met men I liked less.

It was growing by that time to be very nearly dawn, and the weather did not improve. The rain came down in squalls and sheets and the wind screamed through, it, and we were famished as well as wet to the skin–all, that is to say, except Tugendheim, who had enjoyed the shelter of the hut. The teeth of many of the men were chattering. Yet we stood about for an hour more, because it was too dark and too dangerous to march over unknown ground. I suspect Ranjoor Singh did not dare squander what little spirit the men had left; if they had suspected him of losing them in the dark they might have lost heart altogether.

But at last there grew a little cold color in the sky and the sea took on a shade of gray. Then Ranjoor Singh told off the same four men who had first arrested him to guard our prisoner by day and night, taking turns to pretend to be his servant, with orders to give instant alarm should his movements seem suspicious. After that Tugendheim was searched, but, nothing of interest being found on him, his money and various little things were given back.

“Had he no pistol?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“Yes,” said I, “but I took it when we bound and gagged him on the steamer.” And I drew it out and showed it, feeling proud, never having had such a weapon–for the law of British India is strict.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked, and I was silent. “Give it here!” said he, and I gave it up. He examined it, drew out the cartridges, and passed it to Tugendheim, who pocketed it with a laugh. It was three days before he spoke to Tugendheim and caused him to give me the pistol back. I think the men were impressed, and I was glad of it, although at the time I felt ashamed.

Presently Ranjoor Singh himself chose an advance guard of twenty men and put me in command of it.

“March eastward,” he ordered me. “According to my map, you should find a road within a mile or two running about northeast and southwest; turn to the left along it. Halt if you see armed men, and send back word. Keep a lookout for food, for the men are starving, but loot nothing without my order! March!” said he.

“May I ask a question, sahib,” said I, still lingering.

“Ask,” said he.

“Would you truly have burned the German alive?” said I, and he laughed.

“That would have been a big fire,” said he. “Do you think none would have come to investigate?”

“That is what I was thinking,” said I.

“Do such thoughts burn your brain?” said he. “A threat to a bully– to a fool, folly–to a drunkard, drink–to each, his own! Be going now!”

So I saluted him and led away, wondering in my heart, the weather growing worse, if that were possible, but my spirits rising. I knew now that my back was toward Gallipoli, where the nearest British were, yet my heart felt bold with love for Ranjoor Singh and I did not doubt we would strike a good blow yet for our friends, although I had no least idea who Wassmuss was, nor whither we were marching. If I had known–eh, but listen, sahib–this is a tale of tales!

CHAPTER V

If a man stole my dinner, I might let him run; but if he stole my horse, he and I and death would play hide-and-seek! –RANJOOR SINGH

That dawn, sahib, instead of lessening, the rainstorm grew into a deluge that saved us from being seen. As I led my twenty men forward I looked back a time or two, and once I could dimly see steamers and some smaller boats tossing on the sea. Then the fiercest gust of rain of all swept by like a curtain, and it was as if Europe had been shut off forever–so that I recalled Gooja Singh’s saying on the transport in the Red Sea, about a curtain being drawn and our not returning that way. My twenty men marched numbly, some seeming half-asleep.

By and by, with heels sucking in the mud, we came to the road of which Ranjoor Singh had spoken and I turned along it. It had been worn into ruts and holes by heavy traffic and now the rain made matters worse, so we made slow progress. But before long I was able to make out dimly through the storm what looked like a railway station. There was a line of telegraph poles, and where it crossed our road there were buildings enough to have contained two regiments. I could see no sign of men, but in that light, with rain swirling hither and thither, it was difficult to judge. I halted, and sent a man back to warn Ranjoor Singh.

We blew on our fingers and stamped to keep life in ourselves, until at the end of ten minutes he came striding out of the rain like a king on his way to be crowned. My twenty were already speechless with unhappiness and hunger, but he had instilled some of his own spirit into the rest of the regiment, for they marched with a swing in good order. He had Tugendheim close beside him and had inspired him, too. It may be the man was grinning in hope of our capture within an hour, and in that case he was doomed to disappointment. He was destined also to see the day when he should hope for our escape. But from subsequent acquaintance with him I think he was appreciating the risk we ran and Ranjoor Singh’s great daring. I say this for Tugendheim, that he knew and respected resolution when he saw it.

When I had pointed out what I could see of the lay of the land, Ranjoor Singh left me in charge and marched away with Tugendheim and Tugendheim’s four guards. I looked about for shelter, but there was none. We stood shivering, the rain making pools at our feet that spread and became one. So I made the men mark time and abused them roundly for being slack about it, they grumbling greatly because our prisoner was marched away to shelter, whereas we must stand without. I bullied them as much as I dared, and we stamped the road into a veritable quagmire, as builders tread mud for making sun-dried bricks, so that when three-quarters of an hour had passed and a man came running back with a message from Ranjoor Singh there was a little warmth in us. I did not need to use force to get the column started.

“Come!” said the trooper. “There is food, and shelter, and who knows what else!”

So we went best foot first along the road, feeling less than half as hungry and not weak at all, now that we knew food was almost within reach. Truly a man’s desires are the vainest part of him. Less hungry we were at once, less weary, and vastly less afraid; yet, too much in a hurry to ask questions of the messenger!

Ranjoor Singh came out of a building to meet us, holding up his hand, so I made the men halt and began to look about. It was certainly a railway station, with a long platform, and part of the platform was covered by a roof. Parallel to that was a great shed with closed sides, and through its half-open door I could smell hay- -a very good smell, sahib, warming to the heart. To our right, across what might be called a yard–thus–were many low sheds, and in one there were horses feeding; in others I could see Turkish soldiers sprawling on the straw, but they took no notice of us. Three of the low sheds were empty, and Ranjoor Singh pointed to them.

“Let all except twenty men,” said he, “go and rest in those sheds. If any one asks questions, say only ‘Allah!’ So they will think you are Muhammadans. If that should not seem sufficient, say ‘Wassmuss!’ But unless questioned many times, say nothing! As you value your lives, say nothing more than those two words to any one at all! Rather be thought fools than be hanged before breakfast!”

So all but twenty of the men went and lay down on straw in the three empty sheds, and I took the twenty and followed him into the great shed with closed sides. Therein, besides many other things, we beheld great baskets filled with loaves of bread,–not very good bread, nor at all fresh, but staff of life itself to hungry men. He bade the men count out four loaves for each and every one of us, and then at last, he gave me a little information.

“The Germans in Stamboul,” he said, “talked too loud of this place in my hearing.” I stood gnawing a loaf already, and I urged him to take one, but he would eat nothing until all the men should have been fed. “They detrain Dervish troops at this point,” said he, “and march them to the shore to be shipped to Gallipoli, because they riot and make trouble if kept in barracks in Skutari or Stamboul. This bread was intended for two train-loads of them.”

“Then the Dervishes will riot after all!” said I, and he laughed–a thing he does seldom.

“The sooner the better!” said he. “A riot might cover up our tracks even better than this rain.”

“Is there no officer in charge here?” I asked him,

“Aye, a Turkish officer,” said he. “I heard the Germans complain about his inefficiency. A day or two later and we might have found a German in his place. He mistakes us for friends. What else could we be?” And he laughed again.

“But the telegraph wire?” said I.

“Is down,” he said, “both between here and Skutari, and between here and Inismid. God sent this storm to favor us, and we will praise God by making use of it.”

“Where is Tugendheim?” said I, but it was some minutes before he answered me, for, since the loaves were counted he went to see them distributed, and I followed him.

“Tugendheim,” he said at last, “has driven the Turkish officer to seek refuge in seclusion! I used the word ‘Wassmuss,’ and that had effect; but Tugendheim’s insolence was our real passport. Nobody here doubts that we are in full favor at Stamboul. Wassmuss can keep for later on.”

“Sahib,” said I, seeing he was in good humor now, “tell me of this Wassmuss.”

“All in good time!” he answered. And when he has decided it is not yet time to answer, it is wisest to be still. After fifteen or twenty minutes with the men, I followed him across the yard and entered the station waiting-room–a pretentious place, with fancy bronze handles on the doors and windows.

Lo, there sat Tugendheim, with his hands deep in his pockets and a great cigar between his teeth. His four guards stood with bayonets fixed, making believe to wait on him, but in truth watching him as caged wolves eye their dinner. Ranjoor Singh was behaving almost respectfully toward him, which filled me with disgust; but presently I saw and understood. There was a little window through which to sell tickets, and down in one corner of it the frosting had been rubbed from off the glass.

“There is an eye,” said I in an undertone, “that I could send a bullet through without difficulty!” But Ranjoor Singh called me a person without judgment and turned his back.

“When do we start?” asked Tugendheim.

“When the men have finished eating,” he answered, and at that I stared again, for I knew the men’s mood and did not believe it possible to get them away without a long rest, nor even in that case without argument.

“What if they refuse?” said I, and Ranjoor Singh faced about to look at me.

“Do you refuse?” he asked. “Go and warn them to finish eating and be ready to march in twenty minutes!”

So I went, and delivered the message, and it was as I had expected, only worse.

“So those are his words? What are words!” said they. “Ask him whither he would lead us!” shouted Gooja Singh. He had been talking in whispers with a dozen men at the rear of the middle hut.

“If I take him such dogs’ answers,” said I, “he will dismiss me and there will be no more a go-between.”

“Go, take him this message,” shouted Gooja Singh. “But for his sinking of our ship we should now be among friends in Gallipoli! Could we not have seized another ship and plundered coal? Tell him, therefore, if he wishes to lead us he must use good judgment. Are we leaves blown hither and thither for his amusement? Nay! We belong to the British Army! Tell him we will march toward Gallipoli or nowhither! We will march until opposite Gallipoli, and search for some means of crossing.”

“I will take that as Gooja Singh’s message, then,” said I.

“Nay, nay!” said he. “That is the regiment’s message!” And the dozen men with whom he had been whispering nodded acquiescence. “Is Gooja Singh the regiment?” I asked.

“No,” said he, “but I am OF the regiment. I am not a man running back and forth, false to both sides!”

I was not taken by surprise. Something of that sort sooner or later I knew must come, but I would have preferred another time and place.

“Be thou go-between then, Gooja Singh!” said I. “I accepted only under strong persuasion. Gladly I relinquish! Go thou, and carry thy message to Ranjoor Singh!” And I sat down in the entrance of the middle hut, as if greatly relieved of heavy burdens. “I have finished!” I said. “I am not even havildar! I will request reduction to the ranks!”

For about a minute I sat while the men stared in astonishment. Then they began to rail at me, but I shook my head. They coaxed me, but I refused. Presently they begged me, but I took no notice.

“Let Gooja Singh be your messenger!” said I. And at that they turned on Gooja Singh, and some of them went and dragged him forward, he resisting with arms and feet. They set him down before me.

“Say the word,” said they, “and he shall be beaten!”

So I got on my feet again and asked whether they were soldiers or monkey-folk, to fall thus suddenly on one of their number, and he a superior. I bade them loose Gooja Singh, and I laid my hand on his shoulder, helping him to his feet.

“Are we many men with many troubles, or one regiment?” said I.

At that most of them grew ashamed, and those who had assaulted Gooja Singh began to make excuses, but he went back to the rear to the men who had whispered with him. They drew away, and he sat in silence apart, I rejoicing secretly at his discomfiture but fearful nevertheless.

“Now!” said I. “Appoint another man to wait on Ranjoor Singh!”

But they cried out, “Nay! We will have none but you. You have done well–we trust you–we are content!”

I made much play of unwillingness, but allowed them to persuade me in the end, yielding a little at a time and gaining from them ever new protestations of their loyalty until at last I let them think they had convinced me.

“Nevertheless,” said they, “tell Ranjoor Singh he must lead us toward Gallipoli!” They were firm on that point.

So I went back to the waiting-room and told Ranjoor Singh all that had happened, omitting nothing, and he stood breaking pieces from a loaf of bread, with his fingers, not burying his teeth into the loaf as most of us had done. He asked me the names of the men who had so spoken and I told him, he repeating them and considering each name for a moment or two.

“Have they finished eating?” he asked at last, and I told him they had as good as finished. So he ate his own bread faster.

“Come,” he ordered presently, beckoning to Tugendheim and the four guards to follow.

It was raining as hard as ever as we crossed the station yard, and the men had excuse enough for disliking to turn out. Yet they scented development, I think, and none refused, although they fell in just not sullenly enough to call for reprimand. Ranjoor Singh drew the roll from his inner pocket and they all answered to their names. Then, without referring to the list again, he named those who I had told him used high words to me, beginning at Gooja Singh and omitting none.

“Fall out!” he ordered. And when they had obeyed, “Fall in again over there on the left!”

There were three-and-twenty of them, Gooja Singh included, and they glared at me. So did others, and I wondered grimly how many enemies I had made. But then Ranjoor Singh cleared his throat and we recognized again the old manner that had made a squadron love him to the death at home in India–the manner of a man with good legs under him and no fear in his heart. All but the three-and-twenty forgot forthwith my part in the matter.

“Am I to be herdsman, then?” said he, pitching his voice against wind and rain. “Are ye men–or animals? Hunted animals would have known enough to eat and hurry on. Hunted animals would be wise enough to run in the direction least expected. Hunted animals would take advantage of ill weather to put distance between them and their foe. Some of you, then, must be less than animals! Men I can lead. Animals I can drive. But what shall be done with such less-than- animals as can neither be led nor driven?”

Then he turned about half-left to face the three-and-twenty, and stood as it were waiting for their answer, with one hand holding the other wrist behind his back. And they stood shifting feet and looking back at him, extremely iil-at-ease.

“What is the specific charge against us?” asked Gooja Singh, for the men began to thrust him forward. But Ranjoor Singh let no man draw him from the main point to a lesser one.

“You have leave,” said he, “to take one box of cartridges and go! Gallipoli lies that way!” And he pointed through the rain.

Then the two-and-twenty forgot me and began at once abusing Gooja Singh, he trying to refute them, and Ranjoor Singh watching them all with a feeling, I thought, of pity. Tugendheim, trying to make the ends of his mustaches stand upright in the rain, laughed as if he thought it a very great joke; but the rest of the men looked doubtful. I knew they were unwilling to turn their backs on any of our number, yet afraid to force an issue, for Ranjoor Singh had them in a quandary. I thought perhaps I might mediate.

“Sahib,” said I.

“Silence!” he ordered. So I stepped back to my place, and a dozen men laughed at me, for which I vowed vengeance. Later when my wrath had cooled I knew the reprimand and laughter wiped out suspicion of me, and when my chance came to take vengeance on them I refrained, although careful to reassert my dignity.

After much argument, Gooja Singh turned his back at last on the two- and-twenty and saluted Ranjoor Singh with great abasement.

“Sahib,” said he, “we have no wish to go one way and you another. We be of the regiment.”

“Ye have set yourselves up to be dictators. Ye have used wild words. Ye have tried to seduce the rest. Ye have my leave to go!” said Ranjoor Singh.

“Nay!” said Gooja Singh. “We will not go! We follow the regiment!”

“Will ye follow like dogs that pick up offal, then?” he asked, and Gooja Singh said, “Nay! We be no dogs, but true men! We be faithful to the salt, sahib,” said he. “We be sorry we offended. We be true men–true to the salt.”

Now, that was the truth. Their fault had lain in not believing their officer at least as faithful as they and ten times wiser. Every man in the regiment knew it was truth, and for all that the rain poured down in torrents, obscuring vision, I could see that the general feeling was swinging all one way. If I had dared, I would have touched Ranjoor Singh’s elbow, and have whispered to him. But I did not dare. Nor was there need. The instant he spoke again I knew he saw clearer than I.

“Ye speak of the salt,” said he.

“Aye!” said Gooja Singh. “Aye, sahib! In the name of God be good to us! Whom else shall we follow?”

“Aye, sahib!” said the others. “Put us to the test!”

The lined-up regiment, that had been standing rigid, not at attention, but with muscles tense, now stood easier, and it might have been a sigh that passed among them.

“Then, until I release you for good behavior, you three-and-twenty shall be ammunition bearers,” said Ranjoor Singh. “Give over your rifles for other men to carry. Each two men take a box of cartridges. Swiftly now!” said he.

So they gave up their rifles, which in itself was proof enough that they never intended harm, but were only misled by Gooja Singh and the foolishness of their own words. And they picked up the cartridge boxes, leaving Gooja Singh standing alone by the last one. He made a wry face. “Who shall carry this?” said he, and Ranjoor Singh laughed.

“My rank is havildar!” said Gooja Singh.

Ranjoor Singh laughed again. “I will hold court-martial and reduce you to the ranks whenever I see the need!” said he. “For the present, you shall teach a new kind of lesson to the men you have misled. They toil with ammunition boxes. You shall stride free!”

Gooja Singh had handed his rifle to me, and I passed it to a trooper. He stepped forward now to regain it with something of a smirk on his fat lips.

“Nay, nay!” said Ranjoor Singh, with another laugh. “No rifle, Gooja Singh! Be herdsman without honor! If one man is lost on the road you shall be sent back alone to look for him! Herd them, then; drive them, as you value peace!”

There being then one box to be provided for, he chose eight strong men to take turns with it, each two to carry for half an hour; and that these might know there was no disgrace attached to their task, they were placed in front, to march as if they were the band. Nor was Gooja Singh allowed to march last, as I expect he had hoped; he and his twenty-two were set in the midst, where they could eat shame, always under the eyes of half of us. Then Ranjoor Singh raised his voice again.

“To try to reach Gallipoli,” he said, “would be as wise as to try to reach Berlin! Both shores are held by Turkish troops under German officers. We found the one spot where it was possible to slip through undetected. We must make the most of that. Moreover, if they refuse to believe we were drownd last night, they will look for us in the direction of Gallipoli, for all the German officers in Stamboul knew how your hearts burned to go thither. It was a joke among them! Let it be our business to turn the joke on them! There will be forced marches now–long hungry ones–Form fours!” he ordered. “By the right–Quick march!” And we wheeled away into the rain, he marching on the flank. I ran and overtook him.

“Take a horse, sahib!” I urged. “See them in that shed! Take one and ride, for it is more fitting!”

“Better plunder and burn!” said he. “If a man stole my dinner I might let him run; but if he stole my horse, he and I and death would play hide-and-seek! We need forgetfulness, not angry memories, behind us! Keep thou a good eye on Tugendheim!”

So I fell to the rear, where I could see all the men, Tugendheim included! In a very few minutes we had lost the station buildings in the rain behind us and then Ranjoor Singh began to lead in a wide semicircle, so that before long I judged we were marching about southeastward. At the end of an hour or so he changed direction to due east, and presently we saw another telegraph line. I overtook him again and suggested that we cut it.

“Nay!” said he. “If that line works and we are not believed drowned, too many telegrams will have been sent already! To cut it would give them our exact position! Otherwise–why make trouble and perhaps cause pursuit?”

So we marched under the telegraph wire and took a course about parallel to it. At noon it ceased raining and we rested, eating the bread, of which every man had brought away three loaves. After that, what with marching and the wind and sun our clothes began to dry and we became more cheerful–all, that is to say, except the ammunition bearers, who abused Gooja Singh with growing fervency. Yet he was compelled to drive them lest he himself be court martialed and reduced to the ranks.

Cheerfulness and selfishness are often one, sahib, for it was not what we could see that raised our spirits. We marched by village after village that had been combed by the foragers for Turkish armies,–and saw only destitution to right and left, behind and before. The only animals we saw were dead ones except the dogs hunting for bones that might have marrow in them still.

We saw no men of military age. Only very old men were left, and but few of those; they and the women and children ran away at sight of us, except a very few who seemed careless from too much misery. One such man had a horse, covered from head to foot with sores, that he offered to sell to Ranjoor Singh. I did not overhear what price he asked, but I heard the men scoffing at such avarice as would rob the vultures. He went away saying nothing, like a man in stupor, leaving the horse to die. Nay, sahib, he had not understood the words.

We slept that first night in a village whose one street was a quagmire and a cesspool. There was no difficulty in finding shelter because so many of the houses were deserted; but the few inhabitants of the other houses could not be persuaded to produce food. Ranjoor Singh took their money away from, the four men whom I had overlooked when we all gave up our money on the steamer, and with that, and Tugendheim for extra argument, he went from house to house. Tugendheim used no tenderness, such being not his manner of approach, but nothing came of it. They may have had food hidden, but we ate stale bread and gave them some of it, although Ranjoor Singh forbade us when he saw what we were doing. He thought I had not been looking when he gave some of his own to a little one.

We were up and away at dawn, with all the dogs in Asia at our heels. They smelled our stale bread and yearned for it. It was more than an hour before the last one gave up hope and fell behind. They are hard times, sahib, when the street dogs are as hungry as those were.

Hunger! We met hunger day after day for eight days–hunger and nothing else, although it was good enough land–better than any I have seen in the Punjab. There was water everywhere. The air, too, was good to breathe, tempting us to fill our lungs and march like new men, yet causing appetite we could not assuage. We avoided towns, and all large villages, Ranjoor Singh consulting his map whenever we halted and marching by the little compass the Germans had given him. We should have seen sheep or goats or cattle had there been any; but there was none. Utterly not one! And we Sikhs are farmers, not easily deceived on such matters; we knew that to be grazing land we crossed. It was a land of fruit, too, in the proper season. There had been cattle by the thousand, but they were all gone–plundered by the Turks to feed their armies.

Ranjoor Singh did his best to make us husband our stale loaves, but we ate the last of them and became like famished wolves. Some of us grew footsore, for we had German boots, to which our feet were not yet thoroughly accustomed, but he gave us no more rest than he needed for his own refreshment–and that was wonderfully little. We had to nurse and bandage our feet as best we could, and march– march–march! He had a definite plan, for he led unhesitatingly, but he would not tell us the plan. He was stern when we begged for longer rests, merciless toward the ammunition bearers, silent at all times unless compelled to give orders or correct us. Most of the time he kept Tugendheim marching beside him, and Tugendheim, I think, began to regard him with quite peculiar respect; for he admired resolution.

Most of us felt that our last day of marching was upon us, for we were ready to drop when we skirted a village at about noon on the eighth day and saw in the distance a citadel perched on a rocky hill above the sky-line. We were on flat land, but there was a knoll near, and to that Ranjoor Singh led us, and there he let us lie. He, weary as we but better able to overcome, drew out his map and spread it, weighting the four corners with stones; and he studied it chin on hand for about five minutes, we watching him in silence.

“That,” said he, standing at last and pointing toward the distant citadel, “is Angora. Yonder” (he made a sweeping motion) “runs the railway whose terminus is at Angora. There are many long roads hereabouts, so that the place has become a depot for food and stores that the Turks plunder and the Germans despatch over the railway to the coast. The railway has been taken over by the Germans.”

“Are we to storm the town?” asked a trooper, and fifty men mocked him. But Ranjoor Singh looked down kindly at him and gave him a word of praise.

“No, my son,” he said. “Yet if all had been stout enough to ask that, I would have dared attempt it. No, we are perhaps a little desperate, but not yet so desperate as that.”

He began sweeping the horizon with his eyes, quartering the countryside mile by mile, overlooking nothing. I saw him watch the wheeling kites and look below them, and twice I saw him fix his gaze for minutes at a time on one place.

“We will eat to-night!” he said at last. “Sleep,” he ordered. “Lie down and sleep until I summon you!” But he called me to his side and kept me wakeful for a while yet.

“Look yonder,” said he, and when I had gazed for about two minutes I was aware of a column of men and animals moving toward the city. A little enough column.

“How fast are they moving?” he asked me, and I gazed for several minutes, reaching no decision. I said they were too far away, and coming too much toward us for their speed to be accurately judged. Yet I thought they moved slowly.

Said he, “Do you see that hollow–one, two, three miles this side of them?” And I answered yes. “That is a bend of the river that flows by the city,” said he. “There is water there, and fire-wood. They have come far and are heading toward it. They are too far spent to reach Angora before night. They will not try. That is where they will camp.”

“Sahib,” I said, considering his words as a cook tastes curry, “our men be overweary to have fight in them.”

“Who spoke of fighting?” said he. So I went and lay down, and fell asleep wondering. When he came and roused me it was already growing late. By the time I had roused the men and they were all lined up we could no longer see Angora for the darkness; which worked both ways- -those in Angora could not see us.

“If any catch sight of us,” said Ranjoor Singh, speaking in a loud voice to us all, “let us hope they mistake us for friends. What Turk or German looks for an enemy hereabouts? The chances are all ours, but beware! Be silent as ye know how! Forward!”

It was a pitiable effort, for our bellies yearned and our feet were sore and stiff. We stumbled from weariness, and men fell and were helped up again. Gooja Singh and his ammunition bearers made more noise than a squadron of mounted cavalry, and the way proved twice as long as the most hopeless had expected. Yet we made the circuit unseen and, as far as we knew, unheard–certainly unchallenged. Doubtless, as Ranjoor Singh said afterward, the Turks were too overriden by Germans and the Germans too overconfident to suspect the presence of an enemy.

At any rate, although we made more noise than was expedient, we halted at last among low bushes and beheld nine or ten Turkish sentries posted along the rim of a rise, all unaware of us. Two were fast asleep. Some sat. The others drowsed, leaning on their rifles. Ranjoor Singh gave us whispered orders and we rushed them, only one catching sight of us in time to raise an alarm. He fired his rifle, but hit nobody, and in another second they were all surrounded and disarmed.

Then, down in the hollow we saw many little campfires, each one reflected in the water. Some Turks and about fifty men of another nation sat up and rubbed their eyes, and a Turkish captain–an upstanding flabby man, came out from the only tent to learn what the trouble might be. Ranjoor Singh strode down into the hollow and enlightened him, we standing around the rim of the rise with our bayonets fixed and rifles at the “ready.” I did not hear what Ranjoor Singh said to the Turkish captain because he left me to prevent the men from stampeding toward the smell of food–no easy task.

After five minutes he shouted for Tugendheim, and the German went down the slope visibly annoyed by the four guards who kept their bayonets within a yard of his back. It was a fortunate circumstance for us, not only then but very many times, that Tugendheim would have thought himself disgraced by appealing to a Turk. Seeing there was no German officer in the hollow, he adopted his arrogant manner, and the Turkish officer drew back from him like a man stung. After that the Turkish captain appeared to resign himself to impotence, for he ordered his men to pile arms and retired into his tent.

Then Ranjoor Singh came up the slope and picked the twenty men who seemed least ready to drop with weariness, of whom I regretted to be one. He set us on guard where the Turkish sentries had been, and the Turks were sent below, where presently they fell asleep among their brethren, as weary, no doubt, from plundering as we were from marching on empty bellies. None of them seemed annoyed to be disarmed. Strange people! Fierce, yet strangely tolerant!

Then all the rest of the men, havildars no whit behind the rest, swooped down on the camp-fires, and presently the smell of toasting corn began to rise, until my mouth watered and my belly yearned. Fifteen or twenty minutes later (it seemed like twenty hours, sahib!) hot corn was brought to us and we on guard began to be new men. Nevertheless, food made the guard more sleepy, and I was hard put to it walking from one to another keeping them awake.

All that night I knew nothing of what passed in the camp below, but I learned later on that Ranjoor Singh found among the Syrians whose business was to load and drive carts a man named Abraham. All in the camp who were not Turks were Syrians, and these Syrians had been dragged away from their homes scores of leagues away and made to labor without remuneration. This Abraham was a gifted man, who had been in America, and knew English, as well as several dialects of Kurdish, and Turkish and Arabic and German. He knew better German than English, and had frequently been made to act interpreter. Later, when we marched together, he and I became good friends, and he told me many things.

Well, sahib, after he had eaten a little corn, Ranjoor Singh questioned this man Abraham, and then went with him through the camp, examining the plunder the Turks had seen fit to requisition. It was plain that this particular Turkish officer was no paragon of all the virtues, and Ranjoor Singh finally entered his tent unannounced, taking Abraham with him. So it was that I learned the details later, for Abraham told me all I asked.

On a box beside the bed Ranjoor Singh found writing-paper, envelopes, and requisition forms not yet filled out, but already signed with a seal and a Turkish signature. There was a map, and a list of routes and villages. But best of all was a letter of instructions signed by a German officer. There were also other priceless things, of some of which I may chance to speak later.

I was told by Abraham that during the conversation following Ranjoor Singh’s seizure of the papers the word Wassmuss was bandied back and forth a thousand times, the Turk growing rather more amenable each time the word was used. Finally the Turk resigned himself with a shrug of the shoulders, and was left in his tent with a guard of our men at each corner.

Then, for all that the night was black dark and there were very few lanterns, the camp began to be turned upside down, Ranjoor Singh ordering everything thrown aside that could not be immediately useful to us. There were forty carts, burdened to the breaking point, and twenty of them Ranjoor Singh abandoned as too heavy for our purpose. Most of the carts had been drawn by teams of six mules each, but ten of them had been drawn by horses, and besides the Turkish captain’s horse there were four other spare ones. There were also about a hundred sheep and some goats.

Ranjoor Singh ordered all the corn repacked into fourteen of the carts, sheep and goats into four carts, and ammunition into the remaining two, leaving room in each cart for two men so that the guard who had stood awake all night might ride and sleep. That left him with sixty-four spare horses. Leaving the Turkish officer his own horse, but taking the saddle for himself, he gave Tugendheim one, me another, the third to Gooja Singh–he being next non- commissioned officer to me in order of seniority, and having had punishment enough–and the fourth horse, that was much the best one, he himself took. Then he chose sixty men to cease from being infantry and become a sort of cavalry again–cavalry without saddles as yet, or stirrups–cavalry with rifles–cavalry with aching feet– but cavalry none the less. He picked the sixty with great wisdom, choosing for the most part men who had given no trouble, but he included ten or twelve grumblers, although for a day or two I did not understand why. There was forethought in everything he did.

The sheep that could not be crowded into the carts he ordered butchered there and then, and the meat distributed among the men; and all the plunder that he decided not to take he ordered heaped in one place where it would not be visible unless deliberately looked for. The plundered money that he found in the Turk’s tent he hid under the corn in the foremost cart, and we found it very useful later on. The few of our men who had not fallen asleep were for burning the piled-up plunder, but he threatened to shoot whoever dared set match to it.

“Shall we light a beacon to warn the countryside?” said he.

A little after midnight there began to be attempts by Turkish soldiers to break through and run for Angora. But I had kept my twenty guards awake with threats of being made to carry ammunition– even letting the butt of my rifle do work not set down in the regulations. So it came about that we captured every single fugitive. They were five all told, and I sent them, tied together, down to Ranjoor Singh. Thereupon he went to the Turk, and promised him personal violence if another of his men should attempt to break away. So the Turk gave orders that were obeyed.

Then, when all the plunder in the camp had been rearranged, and the mules and horses reapportioned, four hours yet before dawn, Ranjoor Singh took out his fountain-pen and executed the stroke of genius that made what followed possible. Without Abraham I do not know what he would have done. I can not imagine. Yet I feel sure he would have contrived something. He made use of Abraham as the best tool available, and that is no proof he could not have done as well by other means. I have learned this: that Ranjoor Singh, with that faith of his in God, can do anything. Anything. He is a true man, and God puts thoughts into his heart.

Among the Turk’s documents were big sheets of paper for official correspondence, similar to that on which his orders were written. Ranjoor Singh ascertained from Abraham that he who had signed those orders was the German officer highest in command in all that region, who had left Angora a month previously to superintend the requisitioning.

So Ranjoor Singh sent for Tugendheim, whose writing would have the proper clerical appearance, and by a lantern in the tent dictated to him a letter in German to the effect that this Turkish officer, by name Nazim, with all his men and carts and animals, had been diverted to the aid of Wassmuss. The letter went on to say that on his way back to Angora this same high German officer would himself cover the territory thus left uncared for, so that nothing need be done about it in the meanwhile. (He wrote that to prevent investigation and perhaps pursuit by the men in Angora who waited Nazim and his plunder.)

At the foot of the letter Abraham cleverly copied the signature of the very high German officer, after making many experiments first on another sheet of paper.

Tugendheim of course protested vehemently that he would do no such thing, when ordered to write. But Ranjoor Singh ordered the barrel of a Turkish soldier’s rifle thrust in the fire, and the German did not protest to the point of permitting his feet to be singed. He wrote a very careful letter, even suggesting better phraseology–his reason for that being that, since he was thus far committed, our total escape would be the best thing possible for him. The Germans, who are so fond of terrifying others, are merciless to their own who happen to be guilty of weak conduct, and to have said he was compelled to write that letter would have been no excuse if we were caught. Henceforward it was strictly to his interest to help us.

Finally, when the letter had been sealed in its envelope, there came the problem of addressing it, and the Turk seemed ignorant on that point, or else stupid. Perhaps he was wilfully ignorant, hoping that the peculiar form of the address might cause suspicion and investigation. But what with Tugendheim’s familiarity with German military custom, and Ranjoor Singh’s swift thought, an address was devised that served the purpose, judging by results.

Then came the problem of delivering the letter. To have sent one of the Turkish soldiers with it would have been the same thing as marching to Angora and surrendering; for of course the Turk would have told of what happened in the night, and where it happened, and all about it. To have sent one of the half-starved Syrians would probably have amounted to the same thing; for the sake of a bellyful, or from fear of ill-treatment the wretched man would very likely tell too much. But Abraham was different. Abraham was an educated man, who well understood the value to us of silence, and who seemed to hate both Turks and Germans equally.

So Ranjoor Singh took Abraham aside and talked with him five minutes. And the end of that was that a Turkish soldier was compelled to strip himself and change clothes with Abraham, the Turk taking no pleasure at all in the exchange. Then Abraham was given a horse, and on the outside of the envelope in one corner was written in German, “Bearer should be supplied with saddle for his horse and sent back at once with acknowledgment of receipt of this.”

There and then Ranjoor Singh gave Abraham the letter, shook hands with him, helped him on the horse, and sent him on his way–three hours before dawn. Then promptly he gave orders to all the other Syrians to strike camp and resume their regular occupation of driving mules.

The Turkish officer, although not deprived of his horse, was not permitted to ride until after daybreak, because of the difficulty otherwise of guarding him in the dark. The same with Tugendheim; although there was little reason for suspecting him of wanting to escape, with that letter fresh in his memory, he was nevertheless compelled to walk until daylight should make escape impossible.

The Turkish officer was made to march in front with his four-and- forty soldiers, who were given back their rifles but no bayonets or ammunition. Gooja Singh, whose two-and-twenty were ready by that time to pull his beard out hair by hair, was given fifty men who hated him less fiercely and set to march next behind the Turks. Then came the carts in single column, and after them Tugendheim and the remainder of our infantry. Behind the infantry rode the cavalry, and very last of all rode Ranjoor Singh, since that was for the present the post of chiefest danger.

As for me, I tumbled into a cart and fell asleep at once, scarcely hearing the order shouted to the Turk to go forward. The men who had been on guard with me all did the same, falling asleep like I almost before their bodies touched the corn.

When I awoke it was already midday. We had halted near some trees and food was being served out. I got under the cart to keep the sun off me, and lay there musing until a trooper had brought my meal. The meal was good, and my thoughts were good–excellent! For had we not been a little troop of lean ghosts, looking for graves to lie in? The talk along the way had been of who should bury us, or who should bury the last man, supposing we all died one by one! Had we not been famished until the very wind was a wall too heavy to prevail against? And were we not now what the drill-book calls a composite force, with full bellies, carts, horses and equipment? Who thought about graves any longer? I lay and laughed, sahib, until a trooper brought me dinner–laughed for contempt of the Germans we had left behind, and for the Turks whose plunder we had stolen,– laughed like a fool, like a man without brain or experience or judgment.

Not until I had eaten my fill did I bethink me of Ranjoor Singh. Then I rose lazily, and was astonished at the stiffness in my ankles. Nevertheless I contrived to stride with military manner, in order that any Turk or Syrian beholding me might know me for a man to be reckoned with, the added pain and effort being well worth while.

Nor did I have far to look for Ranjoor Singh. The instant I raised my eyes I saw him sitting on a great rock beneath the shadow of a tree, with his horse tied below him eating corn from a cloth spread on the ground. In order to reach him with least inconvenience, I made a circuit and approached from the rear, because in that direction the rock sloped away gradually and I was in no mood to climb, nor in condition to climb with dignity.

So it happened that I came on him unaware. Nevertheless, I was surprised that his ears should not detect my footfall. The horse, six feet below us, was aware of me first and snorted, yet Ranjoor Singh did not turn his head.

“Sahib!” said I; but he did not move.

“Sahib!” I said, going a step nearer and speaking louder. But he neither moved nor answered. Now I knew there was no laughing matter, and my hand trembled as I held it out to touch his shoulder. His arms were folded above his knees and his chin rested on them. I shook him slightly, and his chin fell down between his knees; but he did not answer. Now I knew beyond doubt he was not asleep, for however weary he would ever awake at a touch or the lightest whisper. I began to fear he was dead, and a feeling of sickness swept over me as that grim fear took hold.

“Sahib!” I said again, taking his shoulders with both hands. And he toppled over toward me, thus, like a dead man. Yet he breathed. I made certain he was breathing.

I shook him twice or thrice, with no result. Then I took him in my arms, thus, one arm under the knees and one under his armpits, and lifted him. He is a heavy man, all bone and sinew, and my stiff ankles caused me agony; but I contrived to lay him gently full length in the shadow of the tree-trunk, and then I covered him with his overcoat, to keep away flies. I had scarcely finished that when Gooja Singh came, and I cursed under my breath; but openly I appeared pleased to see him.

“It is well you came!” said I. “Thus I am saved the necessity of sending one to bring you. Our sahib is asleep,” I said, “and has made over the command to me until he shall awake again.”

“He sleeps very suddenly!” said Gooja Singh, and he stood eying me with suspicion.

“Well he may!” said I, thinking furiously–as a man in a burning house–yet outwardly all calm. “He has done all our thinking for us all these days; he has borne alone the burden of responsibility. He has enforced the discipline,” said I with a deliberate stare that made Gooja Singh look sullen, “and God knows how necessary that has been! He has let no littlest detail of the march escape him. He has eaten no more than we; he has marched as far and as fast as we; he has slept less than any of us. And now,” said I, “he is weary. He kept awake until I came, and fell asleep in my arms when he had given me his orders.”

Gooja Singh looked as if he did not believe me. But my words had been but a mask behind which I was thinking. As I spoke I stepped sidewise, as if to prevent our voices from disturbing the sleeper, for it seemed wise to draw Gooja Singh to safer distance. Now I sat down at last on the summit of the rock exactly where Ranjoor Singh was sitting when I spied him first, hoping that perhaps in his place his thoughts would come to me. And whether the place had anything to do with it or not I do not know, but certainly wise thoughts did come. I reached a decision in that instant that was the saving of us, and for which Ranjoor Singh greatly commended me later on. Because of it, in the days to come, he placed greater confidence in my ability and faithfulness and judgment.

“What were his orders?” asked Gooja Singh. “Or were they secret orders known only to him and thee?”

“If you had not come,” said I, “I would have sent for you to hear the orders. When he wakes,” I added, “I shall tell him who obeyed the swiftest.”

I was thinking still. Thinking furiously. I knew nothing at all yet about Abraham, and that was good, for otherwise I might have decided to wait there for him to overtake us.

“Have the men finished eating?” I asked, and he answered he was come because they had finished eating.

“Then the order is to proceed at once!” said I. “Send a cart here under the rock and eight good men, that we may lower our sahib into it. With the exception of that one cart let the column proceed in the same order as before, the Turk and his men leading.”

“Leading whither?” asked Gooja Singh.

“Let us hope,” said I, “to a place where orders are obeyed in military manner without question! Have you heard the order?” I asked, and I made as if to go and wake our officer.

Without another word Gooja Singh climbed down from the rock and went about shouting his commands as if he himself were their originator. Meanwhile I thought busily, with an eye for the wide horizon, wondering whether we were being pursued, or whether telegrams had not perhaps been sent to places far ahead, ordering Turkish regiments to form a cordon and cut us off. I wondered more than ever who Wassmuss might be, and whether Ranjoor Singh had had at any time the least idea of our eventual destination. I had no idea which direction to take. There was no track I could see, except that made by our own cart-wheels. On what did I base my decision, then? I will tell you, sahib.

I saw that not only Ranjoor Singh’s horse, but all the cattle had been given liberal amounts of corn. It seemed to me that unless he intended to continue by forced marches Ranjoor Singh would have begun by economizing food. Moreover, I judged that if he had intended resting many hours in that spot he would have had me summoned and have gone to sleep himself. The very fact that he had let me sleep on seemed to me proof that he intended going forward. Doubtless, he would depend on me to stand guard during the night. So I reasoned it. And I also thought it probable he had told the Turk in which direction to lead, seeing that the Turk doubtless knew more of that countryside than any. Ahead of us was all Asia and behind us was the sea. Who was I that I should know the way? But by telling the Turk to lead on, I could impose on him responsibility for possible error, and myself gain more time to think. And for that decision, too, Ranjoor Singh saw fit to praise me later.

They brought the cart, and with the help of eight men, I laid Ranjoor Singh very comfortably on the corn, and covered him. Then I bade those eight be bodyguard, letting none approach too close on pain of violence, saying that Ranjoor Singh needed a long deep sleep to restore his energy. Also, I bade them keep that cart at the rear of the column, and I myself chose the rear place of all so as to keep control, prevent straggling, and watch against pursuit.

Pursued? Nay, sahib. Not at that time. Nevertheless, that thought of mine, to choose the last place, was the very gift of God. We had been traveling about three parts of an hour when I perceived a very long way off the head of a camel caravan advancing at swift pace toward us–or almost toward us. It seemed to me to be coming from Angora. And it so happened that at the moment when I saw it first the front half of our column had already dipped beyond a rise and was descending a rather gentle slope.

I hurried the tail of the column over the rise by twisting it, as a man twists bullocks’ tails. And then I bade the whole line halt and lie down, except those in charge of horses; them I ordered into the shelter of some trees, and the carts I hurried behind a low ridge– all except Ranjoor Singh’s cart; that I ordered backed into a hollow near me. So we were invisible unless the camels should approach too close.

The Turks and Tugendheim I saw placed in the midst of all the other unmounted men, and ordered them guarded like felons; and I bade those in charge of mules and horses stand by, ready to muzzle their beasts with coats or what-not, to prevent neighing and braying. Then I returned to the top of the rise and lay down, praying to God, with a trooper beside me who might run and try to shake Ranjoor Singh back to life in case of direst need.

I lay and heard my heart beat like a drum against the ground, praying one moment, and with the next breath cursing some hoof-beat from behind me and the muffled reprimand that was certain to follow it. The men were as afraid as I, and the thing I feared most of all was panic. Yet what more could I do than I had done? I lay and watched the camels, and every step that brought them nearer felt like a link in a chain that bound us all.

One thing became perfectly evident before long. There were not more than two hundred camels, therefore in a fight we should be able to beat them off easily. But unless we could ambuscade them (and there was no time to prepare that now) it would be impossible to kill or capture them all. Some would get away and those would carry the alarm to the nearest military post. Then gone would be all hope for us of evading capture or destruction. But it was also obvious to me that no such caravan would come straight on toward us at such speed if it knew of our existence or our whereabouts. They expected us as little as we expected them.

So I lay still, trembling, wondering what Ranjoor Singh would say to me, supposing he did not die in the cart there–wondering what the matter might be with Ranjoor Singh–wondering what I should do supposing he did die and we escaped from this present predicament. I knew there was little hope of my maintaining discipline without Ranjoor Singh’s aid. And I had not the least notion whither to lead, unless toward Russia.

Such thoughts made me physically sick, so that it was relief to turn away from them and watch the oncoming caravan, especially as I began to suspect it would not come within a mile of us. Presently I began to be certain that it would cross our track rather less than a mile away. I began to whisper to myself excitedly. Then at last “Yes!” said I, aloud.

“Yes!” said a voice beside me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, “unless they suspect the track of our cart-wheels and follow it up, we are all right!”

I looked round into the eyes of Ranjoor Singh, and felt my whole skin creep like a snake’s at sloughing time!

“Sahib!” said I.

“You have done well enough,” said he, “except that if attacked you would have hard work to gather your forces and control them. But never mind, you did quite well enough for this first time!” said Ranjoor Singh.

“Sahib!” I said. “But I thought you were in a cart, dying!”

“In a cart, yes!” he said. “Dying, no–although that was no fault of somebody’s!”

I begged him to explain, and while we watched the camels cross our track–(God knows, sahib, why they did not grow suspicious and follow along it)–he told me how he had sat on the great rock, not very sleepy, but thinking, chin on knee, when suddenly some man crawled up from behind and struck him a heavy blow.

“Feel my head,” said he, and I felt under his turban. There was a bruise the size of my folded fist. I swore–as who would not? “Is it deep?” I said, still watching the camels, and before he answered me he sent the trooper to go and find his horse.

“Superficial,” he said then. “By the favor of God but a water bruise. My head must have yielded beneath the blow.”

“Who struck it?” said I, scarcely thinking what I said, for my mind was full of the camels, now flank toward us, that would have served our purpose like the gift of God could we only have contrived to capture them.

“How should I know?” he answered. “See–they pass within a half-mile of where I sat. Is not that the rock?” And I said yes.

“Had you lingered there,” he said, “word about us would have gone back to Angora at top camel speed. What possessed you to come away?”

“God!” said I, and he nodded, so that I began to preen myself. He noticed my gathering self-esteem.

“Nevertheless,” he said, aloud, but as if talking to himself, yet careful that I should hear, “had this not happened to me I should have seen those camels on the sky-line. Did you count the camels?”

“Two hundred and eight,” said I.

“How many armed men with them?” he asked. “My eyes are yet dim from the blow.”

“One hundred and four,” said I, “and an officer or two.”

He nodded. “The prisoners would have been a nuisance,” he said, “yet we might have used them later. What with camels and what with horses–and there is a good spot for an ambuscade through which they must pass presently–I went and surveyed it while they cooked my dinner–never mind, never mind!” said he. “If you had made a mistake it would have been disastrous. Yet–two hundred and eight camels would have been an acquisition–a great acquisition!”

So my self-esteem departed–like water from a leaky goatskin, and I lay beside him watching the last dozen camels cross our trail, the nose of one tied to the tail of another, one man to every two. I lay conjecturing what might have been our fate had I had cunning enough to capture that whole caravan, and not another word was spoken between us until the last two camels disappeared beyond a ridge. Then:

“Was there any man close by, when you found me?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“Nay, sahib,” said I.

“Was there any man whose actions, or whose words, gave ground for suspicion?” he asked.

“Nay, sahib,” I began; but I checked myself, and he noticed it.

“Except–?” said he.

“Except that when Gooja Singh came,” I said, “he seemed unwilling to believe you were asleep.”

“How long was it before Gooja Singh came?” he asked.

“He came almost before I had laid you under the tree and covered you,” said I.

“And you told him I was asleep?” he said.

“Yes,” said I; and at that he laughed silently, although I could tell well enough that his head ached, and merriment must have been a long way from him.

“Has Gooja Singh any very firm friend with us?” he asked, and I answered I did not know of one. “The ammunition bearers who were his friends now curse him to his face,” I said.

“Then he would have to do his own dirty work?” said he.

“He has to clean his own rifle,” I answered. And Ranjoor Singh nodded.

Then suddenly his meaning dawned on me. “You think it was Gooja Singh who struck the blow?” I asked. We were sitting up by that time. The camels were out of sight. He rose to his feet and beckoned for his horse before he answered.

“I wished to know who else might properly be suspected,” he said, taking his horse’s bridle. So I beckoned for my horse, and ordering the cart in which he had lain to be brought along after us, I rode at a walk beside him to where our infantry were left in hiding.

“Sahib,” I said, “it is better after all to shoot this Gooja Singh. Shoot him on suspicion!” I urged. “He makes only trouble and ill- will. He puts false construction on every word you or I utter. He misleads the men. And now you suspect him of having tried to kill you! Bid me shoot him, sahib, and I obey!”

“Who says I suspect him?” he answered. “Nay, nay, nay! I will have no murder done–no drumhead tyranny, fathered by the lees of fear! Let Gooja Singh alone!”

“Does your head not ache?” I asked him.

“More than you guess!” said he. “But my heart does not ache. Two aches would be worse than one. Come silently!”

So I rode beside him silently, and making a circuit and signaling to the watchers not to betray our presence, we came on our hiding infantry unsuspected by them. We dismounted, and going close on foot were almost among them before they knew. Gooja Singh was on his feet in their midst, giving them information and advice.

“I tell you Ranjoor Singh is dead!” said he. “Hira Singh swears he is only asleep, but Hira Singh lies! Ranjoor Singh lies dead on top of the corn in the cart in yonder gully, and Hira Singh–“

I know not what more he would have said, but Ranjoor Singh stopped him. He stepped forward, smiling.

“Ranjoor Singh, as you see, is alive,” he said, “and if I am dead, then I must be the ghost of Ranjoor Singh come among you to enforce his orders! Rise!” he ordered. “Rise and fall in! Havildars, make all ready to resume the march!”

“Shoot him, sahib!” I urged, taking out my pistol, that had once been Tugendheim’s. “Shoot him, or let me do it I”

“Nay, nay!” he said, laughing in my face, though not unkindly. “I am not afraid of him.”

“But I, sahib,” I said. “I fear him greatly!”

“Yet thou and I be two men, and I command,” he answered gently. “Let Gooja Singh alone.”

So I went and grew very busy ordering the column. In twenty minutes we were under way, with a screen of horsemen several hundred yards ahead and another little mounted rear-guard. But when the order had been given to resume the march and the carts were squeaking along in single file, I rode to his side again with a question. I had been thinking deeply, and it seemed to me I had the only answer to my thoughts.

“Tell me, sahib,” I said, “our nearest friends must be the Russians. How many hundred miles is it to Russia?”

But he shook his head and laughed again. “Between us and Russia lies the strongest of all the Turkish armies,” he said. “We could never get through.”

“I am a true man!” I said. “Tell me the plan!” But he only nodded, and rode on.

“God loves all true men,” said he.

CHAPTER VI

Where the weakest joint is, smite.
–RANJOOR SINGH.

Well, sahib, Abraham caught up with us on the evening of the third day after leaving with that letter to the Germans in Angora, having ridden moderately to spare his horse. He said there were only two German officers there when he reached the place, and they seemed worried. They gave him the new saddle asked for, and a new horse under it; also a letter to carry back. Ranjoor Singh gave me the horse and saddle, letting Abraham take my sorry beast, that was beginning to recover somewhat under better treatment.

Ranjoor Singh smiled grimly as he read the letter. He translated parts of it to me–mainly complaints about lack of this and that and the other thing, and very grave complaints against the Turks, who, it seemed, would not cooperate. You would say that was good news to all of us, that should have inspired us with new spirit. But as I said in the beginning, sahib, there are reasons why the British must rule India yet a while. We Sikhs, who would rule it otherwise, are all divided.

We were seven non-commissioned officers. If we seven had stood united behind Ranjoor Singh there was nothing we could not have done, for the men would then have had no example of disunity. You may say that Ranjoor Singh was our rightful officer and we had only to obey him, but I tell you, sahib, obedience that is worth anything must come from the heart and understanding. Ranjoor Singh was as much dependent on good-will as if we had had the choosing of him. So he had to create it, and that which has once been lost, for whatever reason, is doubly and redoubly hard to make again. He did what he did in spite of us, although I tried to help.

Of us seven, first in seniority came I; and as I have tried already to make clear I was Ranjoor. Singh’s man (not that he believed it altogether yet). If he had ordered me to make black white, I would have perished in the effort to obey; but I had yet to prove that.

Next in order to me was Gooja Singh, and although I have spared the regiment’s shame as much as possible, I doubt not that man’s spirit has crept out here and there between my words–as a smell creeps from under coverings. He hated me, being jealous. He hated Ranjoor Singh, because of merited rebuke and punishment. He was all for himself, and if one said one thing, he must say another, lest the first man get too much credit. Furthermore, he was a BADMASH, [Footnote: Low ruffian.] born of a money-lender’s niece to a man mean enough to marry such. Other true charges I could lay against him, but my tale is of Ranjoor Singh and why should I sully it with mean accounts; Gooja Singh must trespass in among it, but let that be all.

Third of us daffadars in order of seniority was Anim Singh, a big man, born in the village next my father’s. He was a naik in the Tirah in ’97 when he came to the rescue of an officer, splitting the skull of an Orakzai, wounding three others, and making prisoner a fourth who sought to interfere. Thus he won promotion, and he held it after somewhat the same manner. A blunt man. A fairly good man. A very good man with the saber. A gambler, it is true–but whose affair is that? A ready eye for rustling curtains and footholds near open windows, but that is his affair again–until the woman’s husband intervenes. And they say he can look after himself in such cases. At least, he lives. Behold him, sahib. Aye, that is he yonder, swaggering as if India can scarcely hold him–that one with his arm in a sling. A Sikh, sahib, with a soldier’s heart and ears too big for his head–excellent things on outpost, where the little noises often mean so much, but all too easy for Gooja Singh to whisper into.

Of the other four, the next was Ramnarain Singh, the shortest as to inches of us all, but perhaps the most active on his feet. A man with a great wealth of beard and too much dignity due to his father’s THALUKDARI [Footnote: Landed estate.] His father pockets the rent of three fat villages, so the son believes himself a wisehead. A great talker. Brave in battle, as one must be to be daffadar of Outram’s Own, but too assertive of his own opinion. He and Gooja Singh were ever at outs, resentful of each other’s claim to wisdom.

Next was Chatar Singh, like me, son and grandson of a soldier of the raj–a bold man, something heavy on his horse, but able to sever a sheep in two with one blow of his saber–very well regarded by the troopers because of physical strength and willingness to overlook offenses. Chatar Singh’s chief weakness was respect for cunning. Having only a great bull’s heart in him and ability to go forward and endure, he regarded cunning as very admirable; and so Gooja Singh had one daffadar to work on from the outset (although I did what I could to make trouble between them).

The remaining two non-commissioned officers were naiks–corporals, as you would say–Surath Singh and Mirath Singh, both rather recently promoted from the ranks and therefore likely to see both sides to a question (whereas a naik should rightly see but one). Very early I had taken those two naiks in hand, showing them friendship, harping on the honor and pleasure of being daffadar and on the chance of quick promotion.

Given a British commanding officer–just one British officer–even a little young one–one would have been enough–it would have been hard to find better backing for him. Even Gooja Singh would scarcely have failed a British leader. But not only was the feeling still strong against Ranjoor Singh; there was another cloud in the sky. Did the sahib ever lay his hands on loot? No? Ah! Love of that runs in the blood, and crops out generation after generation!

Until the British came and overthrew our Sikh kingdom–and that was not long ago–loot was the staff of life of all Sikh armies. In those days when an army needed pay there was a war. Now, except for one month’s pay that, as I have told, the Germans had given us, we had seen no money since the day when we surrendered in that Flanders trench; and what the Germans gave us Ranjoor Singh took away, in order to bribe the captain of a Turkish ship. And Gooja Singh swore morning, noon and night that as prisoners of war we should not be entitled to pay from the British in any event, even supposing we could ever contrive to find the British and rejoin them.

“Let us loot, then, and pay ourselves!” was the unanimous verdict, I being about the only one who did not voice it. I claim no credit. I saw no loot, so what was the use of talking? We were crossing a desert where a crow could have found small plunder. But being by common consent official go-between I rode to Ranjoor Singh’s side and told him what the men were saying.

“Aye,” he nodded, not so much as looking sidewise, “any one would know they are saying that. What say the Turk and Tugendheim?”

“Loot, too!” said I, and he grunted.

It was this way, sahib. Our Turkish officer prisoner was always put with his forty men to march in front–behind our advance guard but in front of the carts and infantry. Thus there was no risk of his escaping, because for one thing he had no saddle and rode with much discomfort and so unsafely that he preferred to march on foot more often than not; and for another, that arrangement left him never out of sight of nearly all of us. One of us daffadars would generally march beside him, and some of the Syrian muleteers had learned English either in Egypt or the Levant ports, so that there was no lack of interpreters. I myself have marched beside the Turk for miles and miles on end, with Abraham translating for us.

“Why not loot? Who can prevent you? Who shall call you to account?” was the burden of the Turk’s song.

And Tugendheim, who spoke our tongue fluently, marched as a rule among the men, or rode with the mounted men, watched day and night by the four troopers who had charge of him–better mounted than he, and very mindful of their honor in the matter. He made himself as agreeable as he could, telling tales about his life in India–not proper tales to tell to a sahib, but such as to make the troopers laugh; so that finally the things he said began to carry the weight that goes with friendliness. He soon discovered what the feeling was toward Ranjoor Singh, and somehow or other he found out what the Turk was talking about. After that he took the Turk’s cue (although he sincerely despised Turks) and began with hint and jest to propagate lust for loot in the men’s minds. Partly, I think, he planned to enrich himself and buy his way to safety–(although God knows in which direction he thought safety lay!). Partly, I think, he hoped to bring us to destruction, and so perhaps offset his offense of having yielded to our threats, hoping in that way to rehabilitate himself. So goes a lawyer to court, sure of a fee if his client wins, yet sure, too, of a fee if his client loses, enjoying profit and entertainment in any event. Yet who shall blame Tugendheim? Unlike a lawyer, he stood to take the consequences if both forks of the stick should fail. I told Ranjoor Singh all that Tugendheim and the Turk were saying to the men, and his brow darkened, although he made no comment. He did not trust me yet any more than he felt compelled to.

“Send Abraham to me,” he said at last. So I went and sent Abraham, feeling jealous that the Syrian should hear what I might not.

Ranjoor Singh had been forcing the pace, and by the time I speak of now we had nearly crossed that desert, for a rim of hills was in front of us and all about. It was not true desert, such as we have in our Punjab, but a great plain already showing promise of the spring, with the buds of countless flowers getting ready to burst open; when we lay at rest it amused us to pluck them and try to determine what they would look like when their time should come. And besides flowers there were roots, remarkably good to eat, that the Syrians called “daughters of thunder,” saying that was the local name. Tugendheim called them truffles. A little water and that desert would be fertile farm-land, or I never saw corn grow!

Ranjoor Singh conversed with Abraham until we entered a defile between the hills; and that night we camped in a little valley with our outposts in a ring around us, Ranjoor Singh sitting by a bright fire half-way up the side of a slope where he could overlook us all and be alone. We had seen mounted men two or three times that day, they mistaking us perhaps for Turkish troops, for they vanished after the first glimpse. Nevertheless, we tethered our horses close in the valley bottom, and lay around them, ready for all contingencies.

I remember that night well, for it was the first since we started eastward in the least to resemble our Indian nights. It made us feel homesick, and some of the men were crooning love-songs. The stars swung low, looking as if a man could almost reach them, and the smoke of our fires hung sweet on the night air. I was listening to Abraham’s tales about Turks–tales to make a man bite his beard– when Ranjoor Singh called me in a voice that carried far without making much noise. (I have never known him to raise his voice so high or loud that it lost dignity.) “Hira Singh!” he called, and I answered “Ha, sahib!” and went clambering up the hill.

He let me stand three minutes, reading my eyes through the darkness, before he motioned me to sit. So then we sat facing, I on one side of the fire and he the other.

“I have watched you, Hira Singh,” he said at last. “Now and again I have seemed to see a proper spirit in you. Nay, words are but fragments of the wind!” said he. (I had begun to make him protestations.) “There are words tossing back and forth below,” he said, looking past me down into the hollow, where shadows of men were, and now and then the eye of a horse would glint in firelight. Then he said quietly, “The spirit of a Sikh requires deeds of us.”

“Deeds in the dark?” said I, for I hoped to learn more of what was in his mind.

“Should a Sikh’s heart fail him in the dark?” he asked.

“Have I failed you,” said I, “since you came to us in the prison camp?”

“Who am I?” said he, and I did not answer, for I wondered what he meant. He said no more for a minute or two, but listened to our pickets calling their numbers one to another in the dark above us.

“If you serve me,” he said at last, “how are you better than the stable-helper in cantonments who groomed my horse well for his own belly’s sake? I can give you a full belly, but your honor is your own. How shall I know your heart?”

I thought for a long while, looking up at the stars. He was not impatient, so I took time and considered well, understanding him now, but pained that he should care nothing for my admiration.

“Sahib,” I said finally, “by this oath you shall know my heart. Should I ever doubt you, I will tear out your heart and lay it on a dung-hill.”

“Good!” said he. But I remember he made me no threat in return, so that even to this day I wonder how my words sounded in his ears. I am left wondering whether I was man enough to dare swear such an oath. If he had sworn me a threat in return I should have felt more at ease–more like his equal. But who would have gained by that? My heart and my belly are not one. Self-satisfaction would not have helped.

“Soon,” he said, looking into my eyes beside the fire, “we shall meet opportunities for looting. Yet we have food enough for men and mules and horses for many a day to come; and as the corn grows less more men can ride in the carts, so that we shall move the swifter. But now this map of mine grows vague and our road leads more and more into the unknown. We need eyes ahead of us. I can control the men if I stay with them, but in that case who shall ride on and procure intelligence?”

In a flash I saw his meaning. There was none but he wise enough to ride ahead. But who else could control the men–men who believed they had sloughed the regiment’s honor in a Flanders trench and a German prison camp? They were sloughing their personal honor that minute, fraternizing with Turkish prisoners. With their sense of honor gone, could even Ranjoor Singh control them? Perhaps! But if Ranjoor Singh rode forward, who should stay behind and stand in his shoes?

I looked at the stars, that had the color of jewels in them. I listened to the night birds. I heard the wind soughing–the mules and horses stamping–the murmur of men’s voices. My tongue itched to say some foolish word, that would have proved me unfit to be trusted out of sight. But the thought came to me to be still and listen. And still I remained until he began again.

“If I told the men what the true position is they would grow desperate,” he said. “They would believe the case hopeless.”

“They almost believe that now!” said I.

“Have the Turk and Tugendheim been kept apart?” said he.

“Aye,” I answered. “They have not had ten words together.”

“Good,” said he. “Neither Turk nor Tugendheim knows the whole truth, but if they get together they might concoct a very plausible, misleading tale.”

“They would better have been bound and gagged,” said I.

“No,” he answered. “If I had bound and gagged them it would have established sympathy between them, and they would have found some way of talking nevertheless. Kept apart and let talk, the Turk will say one thing, Tugendheim another.”

“True,” said I. “For now the Turk advises plunder to right and left, and settlement afterward among Armenian villages. He says there are women to be had for the taking. ‘Be a new nation!’ says he.”

“And what says Tugendheim?” asked Ranjoor Singh.

“‘Plunder!'” said I. “‘Plunder and push northward into Russia! The Russians will welcome you,’ says he, ‘and perhaps accept me into their secret service!–Plunder the Turks!’ says Tugendheim. ‘Plunder the Armenians!’ says the Turk.”

“I, too, would be all for Russia,” he answered, “but it isn’t possible. The coast of the Black Sea, and from the Black Sea down to the Persian frontier, is held by a very great Turkish army. The main caravan routes lie to the north of us, and every inch of them is watched.”

“I am glad then that it must be Egypt,” said I. “A long march, but friends at the other end. Who but doubts Russians?”

He shook his head. “Syria and Palestine,” he said, “are full of an army gathering to invade Egypt. It eats up the land like locusts. An elephant could march easier unseen into a house than we into Syria!”

“So we must double back?” said I. “Good! By now they must have ceased looking for us, supposing they ever thought us anything but drowned. Somewhere we can surely find a ship in which to cross to Gallipoli!”

He laughed and shook his head again. “We slipped through the one unguarded place,” he said. “If we had come one day later that place, too, would have been held by some watchful one, instead of by the fool we found in charge.”

Then at last I thought surely I knew what his objective MUST be. It had been common talk in Flanders how an expedition marched from Basra up the Tigris.

“Bagdad!” I said. “We march to Bagdad to join the British there! Bagdad is good!”

But he answered, “Bagdad is not yet taken–not yet nearly taken. Between us and Bagdad lies a Turkish army of fifty or sixty thousand men at least.”

I sat silent. I can draw a map of the world and set the rivers and cities and boundaries down; so I knew that if we could go neither north–nor south–nor westward, there remained only eastward, straight-forward into Persia. He read my thoughts, and nodded.

“Persia is neutral,” he said, with a wave of his hand that might mean anything. “The Turks have spared no army for one section of the Persian frontier, choosing to depend on savage tribes. And the Germans have given them Wassmuss to help out.”

“Ah!” said I, making ready to learn at last who Wassmuss might be. “When we have found this Wassmuss, are we to make him march with us