CHAPTER VIII.
TOO CLEVER BY HALF.
“FOR the last time!” said Colonel Bayard, with a comical glance of self-pity at Richard, as they rode out the next morning preceded by the chobdars with their silver sticks and followed by the barbaric escort.
“Not a bit of it! You’ll never be left mud-crawling with a black regiment. The G.-G. will find out his mistake in no time, and send for you back.”
“It would take a good deal to make him do that. I was promised the Agency for the down-river states when he sent Lennox here, but there’s no word of it now. Don’t look so shockingly cut up, Richard. I tell you it’s a release from bondage for me, after the lacquey way I have been treated this summer by his lordship—bandied about like a racquet-ball! Old Lennox would have kept me on as his personal assistant—doing the deed first and getting permission afterwards—if I would have stayed; but I asked for furlough instead, and he put the Asteroid at my disposal to take me down the river in the handsomest way. A singular character, that old chap, but a thorough good fellow.”
“I hear he spoke very properly of you at the dinner they gave you before starting.”
“Properly? Nay, I assure you I didn’t know where to look. I might have been Scipio Africanus and Sir Philip Sidney rolled into one, instead of a failed Political going back to his regiment a poorer man than when he left it twenty years ago. By the bye, I don’t know whether I am in order in taking the sowari [retinue] with me to-day. Merely a private individual now, I suppose.”
“Not till you have left Khemistan, surely! If Sir Henry’s attitude is as generous as you say, he couldn’t grudge you the ordinary marks of respect.”
“Ay, but to him they ain’t ordinary, and he means to put an end to ’em. He has no chobdars himself, and he’s going to abolish these. An escort he can tolerate—but only on state occasions, of course—because it can follow him at a gallop, but fellows walking in front of him and making him ride slow—never!”
“How does he ever expect to impress these people?” said Richard bitterly. “They won’t have an atom of respect for him.”
“Oh, you should hear him on the subject. He thinks we can’t compete with the Indians in matters of show and state, so he won’t try. They will be more impressed by seeing we can do without every single thing they care about, so he says. And I’m bound to say he lives up to his theories. I thought so when I dined with him—privately, I mean; not the burra khana—and found everything camp-fashion. The plates and dishes and so on came out of his canteens—he takes a couple about with him so as to be able to give dinner-parties, he told me—and what d’ye think was the principal thing on the table? Why, pork chops and common bazar stuff at that—and the old chap tucking into them with real gusto and pressing ’em on me!”
“Well, if he can survive that sort of thing, he ought certainly to impress the Khans,” said Richard drily. “But it’s a pity he don’t stay here under their eye, for they ain’t impressed a bit at present.”
But in this he was wrong, as appeared speedily. Due notice had been sent to the Fort of Colonel Bayard’s desire to pay a farewell visit to their Highnesses, and the proper message of welcome received in return. But the message was couched in terms more flowery and formal than quite suited the intimate relations which had prevailed between the Resident and his charges, and there was no sign on the road of the messengers who should have met the procession at stated points and implored the visitor to hasten, since he alone could pour the snow-cooled sherbet of delight into the parched mouth of expectation. The reason for this lapse from good manners appeared on the visitors’ arrival at the Fort, for it seemed that a sudden illness had prostrated the ruling family at one blow. One Khan after another for whom Colonel Bayard enquired was declared to be sick, the attendants adding intimate and distressing details on a scale that did credit to their memories—or possibly their imaginations.
“Oh, let them alone!” said Richard, in a hasty whisper. “They funk meeting you.”
“But why should they funk meeting me? Nay”—to the embarrassed attendants,—“if their Highnesses are indeed so ill, I must postpone my journey, for I could not dream of leaving Khemistan while those who have been to me as sons are lying between life and death. I will send my own physician to visit them, and I myself will spend each day at the Palace, that I may be at hand the moment they call for me.”
Hurried consultations ensued, messengers came and went, and at last the chief spokesman advanced again. “Let the Resident Sahib be pleased to enter. Rather than force him to delay his departure, and incur the wrath of his lord the General Sahib”—Colonel Bayard stiffened perceptibly,—“their Highnesses will bedew the blossoms of affection with the tears of regret even at the risk of their health.”
He paused for a moment to see whether the visitor would take the hint, then sighed and led the way in. Apparently the Khans thought it safer to receive their fallen friend in a body, for the official disregarded Colonel Bayard’s request to be allowed to pay his respects to them separately, which would have seemed more natural. If they did not appear to be sick, at any rate they all looked very sorry for themselves when he and his assistant faced at last the row of seated figures on their cushions. Long wadded coats concealed their pleated muslin tunics and wide silk trousers, and the only touch of brightness was given by the gay kincob which covered their flowerpot-shaped caps. As politeness demanded, one and all declared that the mere sight of the fortunate face of the Resident Sahib had instantly banished all traces of illness, and then hurried on to enquire whether he also was well and prosperous. The formalities of salutation, perfunctory though they might be, took some time when each Khan had to be addressed and to reply separately, and it was beginning to look as though the whole interview would be occupied with such matters, when Sir Henry Lennox’s health and prosperity came under discussion as well. The example was set by Gul Ali Khan, the venerable white-bearded head of the family, whose memory went back to the days of conquest, when the wild band of Arabit chieftains had swooped down from their fastnesses upon Khemistan, and dispossessing the native rulers, reigned in their stead. He was the last survivor of the conquerors, and wore with dignity the turban which proclaimed him Chief of his house—the coveted emblem which would not descend to the son for whom he would fain have secured it, but to an interloper, the son of his father’s old age. This interloper, Shahbaz Khan, a handsome dapper man—absurdly young-looking to be the brother of the aged Gul Ali—sat beside him, and took up the strain of affectionate enquiry. For the Khans positively overflowed with anxiety for the General’s health, and their enquiries were couched in such terms of affection that even Colonel Bayard—loath as he was to believe it—could not mistake their drift. His day was over and done with; Sir Henry Lennox was the rising sun.
It was a bitter pill, but Colonel Bayard would not have been himself had he not done his best to take advantage of this new loyalty to influence his faithless charges for their good. When all the questions all the Khans could think of on Sir Henry’s affairs had been asked and answered, and before they could start on those of the Governor-General, he interposed a courteous hope that their admiration for the General’s character would make it easy for them to satisfy him on the subject of the breaches of treaty. Instantly a change that might be felt passed over them, as though each face had withdrawn itself behind a veil. Gul Ali answered with dignity—
“The Resident Sahib need not fear. The treaties we have made we shall keep, provided the English keep theirs.”
This did not sound very hopeful to the man who had been trying in vain for so long to get them to keep those very treaties, but Colonel Bayard answered politely—
“Of that your Highnesses need have no fear while matters are in the hands of the General. I rejoice to be able to leave Khemistan with all difficulties so happily arranged.”
Gul Ali’s expression was a little fatuous, as he said like an automaton, “The treaties we have made we shall keep, but we will sign no new treaty.”
Since it was known to Colonel Bayard that Lord Maryport intended to impose new and stricter obligations on the Khans, owing to their persistent breaches of former treaties, he did not feel able to say more than—“It is not for me to anticipate what the General may have to say to your Highnesses, but if the old treaties are kept there will certainly be no need for a new one.”
Khair Husain Khan, a clever-looking man with rather Jewish features, interposed. “The English pledged themselves not to interfere in any way with our rights over our own subjects. To that we hold!” triumphantly.
“Yet is it well for your Highnesses so to treat your subjects that they flee to the protection of the English?”
“If they do, we will have them back!” put in young Kamal-ud-din arrogantly. “Yes, even if they have to be torn from the hem of the General Sahib’s skirts!”
This, or something like it, was the Khans’ latest exploit, since their officials had invaded the boundaries of the Sahar Cantonment, and dragged away a number of unfortunates who had sought refuge there from their oppressors. But it seemed to be recognised that this was going rather far, for Khair Husain said hastily, with a soothing wave of the hand—
“The wretches had failed to pay their taxes, as the Resident Sahib knows. If they were allowed to escape, all Khemistan would seek an asylum with the British.”
“But why did they fail to pay?” asked Colonel Bayard boldly. “Was it not because it was known they had amassed riches, and their taxes were so much increased as to strip them of all?”
Gul Ali laughed complacently. “True—quite true. It is not well for subjects to grow rich, for they become troublesome. If they heap up wealth, it must be for their masters.”
“Since this is the last time I shall see the face of your Highnesses, let me beg once more that you will look at this matter differently. It is all of a piece with your imposing tolls designed to kill the traffic on the river. A wealthy people is an honour and a strong support to princes, and the making of money by honest means should be encouraged, not hindered.” The black looks bent on Colonel Bayard made him pause, and he added, with some emotion, “Your Highnesses will not hear me, I see. But let me entreat you to listen to the General, though his tongue be strange, and he neglect the forms of ceremony I have always been careful to use. Should he propose an interview, speak to him plainly of what is in your hearts. He will do this in any case, for it is not his custom to disguise his meaning.”
Gul Ali rode off hastily upon a side-issue. “It is not well to meet the envoys of the Farangis in consultation nowadays,” he said. “There was a certain Ethiopian Sardar who did so.”
The taunt was a bitter one—and worse, deserved,—for at the outset of the Ethiopian disasters the British Envoy, struggling desperately in the toils cast about him, had stooped to invite the foremost of his assailants to a conference, with the intention of making him a prisoner. In the remotest corners of Asia stray Englishmen were to rue the attempt for many a day, though the Envoy had paid with his life for trying to use the weapons of men better acquainted with them than he. But it had been cast in Colonel Bayard’s teeth before, and he met it with a bold counter-attack.
“True, Khan Sahib, and it was not the Sardar who suffered. Had the treachery been his, would it have surprised you?”
“Nay, but it was the Elchi Sahib’s!” came in chorus.
“And he paid the penalty. But has such treachery never been known in Khemistan?”
“Never on the part of a Farangi!” promptly.
“I thank your Highnesses in the name of my country. Has it ever been known of any Farangi anywhere?”
“Never until now. But what one Farangi has done, another may do.”
“I think not. The Elchi’s deed has been condemned by every Farangi who heard of it. I know of none who would imitate it—least of all the General.”
“He had better not!” cried Kamal-ud-din rudely. “He comes to Khemistan with a few hundred white soldiers, who are even now dying fast of sicknesses great and small, while our armies are numbered by thousands, and they are growing every day. Should he seek to defy or betray us, death such as the Elchi met with will be the least thing he has to fear.”
Astonished and displeased, Colonel Bayard made as if to rise from his chair. “I must ask leave of your Highnesses to retire——” he was beginning, but Shahbaz Khan interposed hastily.
“Nay, this is shameful talk! O my brother, is it to go forth to the world that the Khans of Khemistan permitted such things to be said in their hearing concerning their father and protector, the Bahadar Jang?”
“Nay, nay!” said Gul Ali timorously. “Youth speaks with the tongue of youth, which is headstrong and foolish. The General Sahib will know how to regard the folly.”
The mildness of the rebuke gave Kamal-ud-din fresh courage. “The General Sahib has nothing to fear if he comes to us in peace and openness of mind,” he said sullenly, “But who is he that we must guard our tongues when speaking of his greatness? He may call himself Bahadar Jang” [valiant in fight]—this was one of the polite epithets employed by the Khans in his interview with them which Sir Harry, who was not a conspicuously modest man, save in the presence of the fair sex or the Duke of Wellington, had accepted with some complacency as merely appropriate,—“but in all his years of warfare he has not taken spoil enough to put a single diamond in his sword-hilt!”
“Farangi Generals don’t go to war for the sake of loot,” said Colonel Bayard. “Any spoil the General Sahib might take he would present to his and my august mistress, the Queen of England.” He turned slightly to bow towards the large engraving of the young Queen which hung crookedly on the wall—suggesting that it had been put there hurriedly when the interview was found inevitable—very sleek of hair, very lofty of brow, sweetly simpering as to expression, and obviously overburdened with a headgear recalling the mural crown of antiquity. Richard followed his example, and the Khans salamed perfunctorily. The words seemed to have given them a new idea.
“Then the rulers of Farangistan also do not like their subjects to be too rich,” chuckled Gul Ali.
“To strip a conqueror of his booty is poor policy,” said Kamal-ud-din with a fine air of detachment. “My Sardars will always be allowed to keep what they win.”
“Lest, being robbed of their due by their own master, they should seek it at the hands of his enemies,” said his cousin Karimdâd, going a step further. The prudent Khair Husain pulled them up hastily.
“Nay, nay; what foolish talk is this? Did not the General Sahib refuse at our hands the great gift we offered him, though the Lât Sahibs who visited us before accepted a lesser one?”
This was another of Colonel Bayard’s troubles—the simplicity with which two Generals fresh from home had accepted the large sums of money ceremonially offered them on their way up the river towards Ethiopia. Apparently no one who knew the interpretation that would be placed upon their action had liked to warn them of it, with the result that the two wholly innocent soldiers were regarded by the Khans as their pensioners for the future. He took refuge in sententious generalities.
“It was taught me in my youth that the richest man is he who has fewest wants. May we not then say that the enemy most to be dreaded is the man who needs nothing for himself?”
For once the Khans appeared impressed, and before the effect could wear off he asked permission to depart, leaving them to digest his words. Each and all overwhelmed him with demands that he would assure the General of their affectionate interest in his welfare, and thus reminded afresh of his own eclipse, he escaped at last. It was in one way a relief to be offered no more substantial parting gifts than the wreaths of strongly-scented yellow flowers with which he and Richard were invested with due ceremony, but there was a sting in the omission. A robe of honour and a jewelled sword would not have cost the Khans much—even if he had kept them, like the Generals, instead of refusing them.
“Queer set of chaps those,” growled Richard, as they rode away decorated with their floral boas. “Every time I see ’em I feel it more strongly.”
“I fear they are hopeless,” responded Colonel Bayard, with unusual depression. “If they won’t take Lennox seriously, they’re done for. He ain’t going to stand any nonsense.”
“Is the country to be annexed, then?”
“I believe not. But he is very strong on getting rid of the family’s collective authority, and setting up a single Khan with full responsibility. And that will mean the end of all things to the rest.”
“But very good for Khemistan, and our relations with it.”
“True. You look at the matter in a common-sense light, but it’s a positive pain to me to think of the extinction of this benevolent patriarchal rule.”
Richard wondered a little at his leader’s idea of benevolence, but still sought to comfort him. “Perhaps they’ll all refuse to accept the change.”
“You say that, knowing how sadly ready they always are to intrigue against one another? D’ye know that Khair Husain sent to the General secretly the one night he was here, to try to curry favour with him?”
“No, indeed. Khair Husain? But he ain’t in the running for the succession, even.”
“He meant to be. He offered to declare for us if we would make him Chief Khan and back him up against the rest. The spies should have told you. Not that there’s anything to complain of in old Harry’s action in the matter. He told the Vakil that he couldn’t deal with Khair Husain unless he spoke in the name of the rest—which of course he couldn’t. Then the fellow was idiot enough to say that if he appeared to take part against us, we were kindly to understand his heart was in the right place nevertheless, to which the General simply replied that he wasn’t going to help him to deceive the other Khans. If he wanted to take our side, he must come out and do it openly. Exit the Vakil highly disgusted.”
“Serve the rascal right! But we shall have plenty of that sort of thing if Sir Harry presses ’em hard.”
“I believe you—particularly if it occurs to Gul Ali to try to square him in the matter of the succession. Has the old man been trying any fresh tricks to get the turban for Karimdâd, d’ye know?”
“Oh, he’s always at it—trying to make a party in his favour among the other Khans, and he has been uncommonly busy lately.”
“I thought so—from the extra special affection in Shahbaz Khan’s manner to him. That chap is a deep one.”
“Shahbaz Khan? I suppose so. But after all, he is the rightful heir, and he has to sit by and look on while his brother tries to steal his inheritance away. Gul Ali has a good deal to offer, and poor Shahbaz can only give promises at present. You haven’t turned against him, have you?”
“I? No, certainly not. But I have always a weak spot for Gul Ali, and to see Shahbaz fawning upon him——”
“But what can the fellow do? There’s no open war. He can only keep the peace—and keep his eyes open. They’re a nice set—all the lot of ’em. I dare be bound Kamal-ud-din’s the only one that wouldn’t sell the rest to the General for the promise of the turban, and that’s because he don’t care about it. So long as he has Umarganj to retire to, and a caravan to plunder now and then, he’s happy.”
“He seemed precious full of fight, I noticed. What’s that new decoration he sports so conspicuously? They can hardly have got back that Luck—what was it called?—which was stolen years ago.”
“I’m afraid they have—and I’m afraid it’s my fault.” Richard told the story of the Seal of Solomon, and Colonel Bayard laughed.
“Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference, though they may think it will. Mrs Ambrose is the only sufferer so far, it seems to me.”
“I was going to ask you if you would get me something in the way of jewellery in Bombay—to give her. Fact is, I’m in a precious awkward position. I think I told you she had spent a lot of money in paying the debts of that brother of hers—the General’s A.D.C.? Well, if you’ll believe me, the fellow’s begun to pay it back!”
“You couldn’t well sound more disgusted if he had begun borrowing afresh! But I see your difficulty. You feel bound to lay it out on something for her personal use? By all means—I quite agree with you. Give me some idea what you want, and I shall be honoured with the commission.” He glanced across approvingly at the younger man. He had not looked for such delicacy of feeling from Richard Ambrose, who might have been expected to welcome the return of the money too eagerly to think of the circumstances, and he stretched out a hand and laid it kindly on his shoulder. “You feel you ought not to have brought your wife to Khemistan? But cheer up, my dear fellow! Her health and spirits have stood it amazingly so far. If only my own dear wife—— But I shall soon be with her at home now, so I must not repine. You ain’t afraid of Sahar for Mrs Ambrose? Don’t let them frighten her by calling it ‘the Graveyard.’ It’s not that it’s unhealthy, simply that the desert round is packed with graves—a burial-place for thousands of years, I dare say.”
“She ain’t frightened—not she! Haven’t you observed that ladies never are frightened or miserable about the things they ought to be—that you expect them to be? They go through ’em as cool as a cucumber. And then some ridiculous little thing, that no man in his senses would ever think of again, they go and break their hearts about!”
“Indeed I had not noticed. I fear I have always taken it for granted Mrs Bayard would be alarmed, and she has indulged me by letting me think so. Very kind of her, ’pon my word! But I trust the other half of your observation ain’t true. I should be sorry to think I had made my wife unhappy—however innocently.”
His tone was so anxious and grieved that Richard administered comfort hastily. “Oh, don’t be afraid. If you ever did such a thing, Mrs Bayard would know it was unintentional, trust her! I wish Mrs Ambrose enjoyed that consolation.”
“Tell her so—and she will,” suggested Colonel Bayard.
“But I’m hanged if it would be true. Tell you what—a cross-grained fellow who has lived all his life alone has no business to marry. It’s no happiness for either of ’em.”
“Ask Mrs Ambrose,” said Colonel Bayard again.
Mrs Ambrose’s husband smiled reluctantly. “You know as well as I do that whether the answer I received was that she was happy or miserable, it would be liable to be reversed the next moment, for no reason that anybody could perceive!”
“The very wife for you, Richard, my good fellow!” Colonel Bayard shook his head wisely. “You ain’t allowed to presume on your happiness, nor yet to persist in your misery, for if you ain’t in a new mood a quarter of an hour later, Mrs Ambrose will be! Be thankful for your good fortune, I tell you. Most men would give their ears for such a wife as yours—and a brother-in-law a friend at court to boot!”
“I never thought I should have to be grateful for being related to that young rip Brian!” growled Richard.
“Well, if you ain’t grateful, I am for you. The General may pride himself on never taking a suggestion, but he can’t be altogether uninfluenced by the members of his own family. And if you can make use of that influence in favour of my poor foolish Khans, they and I will bless you yet.”
Not even the chilliness of that last interview could lessen Colonel Bayard’s sense of responsibility for the wayward charges he had watched over so long. Despite all his admiration for him, Richard waxed a little impatient when he thought of it. It would be uncommonly good for the Khans to come in contact with some one who did not mind letting them know that he saw through their foolish stratagems, and would brush away their subterfuges—however roughly. Colonel Bayard, with the kindest intentions, had left them in a fool’s paradise too long; they thought the length of their tether was infinite. But unless he was much mistaken, the old warrior now at Sahar would bring them up resolutely with a round turn before very long. Even now, from certain enquiries which had been addressed to him, Richard judged he was preparing to do this.
There was nothing shilly-shally about Sir Henry Lennox’s methods. He had been ordered to disband the Political Establishment, and that unlucky body faded like the baseless fabric of a vision. The Asteroid, in bringing Colonel Bayard, brought also orders, addressed to Richard, dealing with the Qadirabad Agency and its staff. The place was to be closed and left in charge of a reduced guard with one European officer, to prevent plundering, and a few servants. Though there was to be no Resident in future, it would no doubt be necessary to send frequent envoys to the Khans, and a European-built house in healthy surroundings was a prize not lightly to be let go. The rest of the inmates went various ways. Some were summoned to Sahar—the Ambroses, that part of the Khemistan Horse which was not already with the General, Captain Crosse, Sir Dugald Haigh, and a few other officers whose units were in the country. But most followed Colonel Bayard by the next steamer down the river—first to Bab-us-Sahel and thence to Bombay, where the outraged Services, already on bad terms with Sir Harry, swore that even if Lord Maryport’s inspiration had not come from him, the brutal haste with which the order had been carried out was all his own, and vowed vengeance accordingly.