CHAPTER XI

In the Clutches of Pir Baksh

Three hours after Ensign Russell and Havildar Ambar Singh had entered the besieged house, a swarthy man in the uniform of a native officer picked himself tenderly up from the ground, and wondered to find himself still alive. It was Pir Baksh the subadar. For hours he had lain unconscious, deaf to the moans of the maimed and dying men who lay stretched on every side amid the chaos of shattered timber and masonry.

His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to rise he called loudly for help.

But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It was a corpse--no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge again and again into the unconscious body.

But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.

Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great caution, for day had not yet come.

"Who is there?" they called.

"It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!--bring me water if ye are followers of the Prophet!"

The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the injured officer.

"All my bones are broken, I think," said he. "Ye have been long in coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him; he shall die more slowly."

He drank the water feverishly.

"Now, carry us to my brother's house, and do not let all the people know that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently."

As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan--for he, of course, was the Englishman--was still unconscious, and before the light that precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of the town.

The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing in his ears, and he still shivered with fright.

For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread.

During one of these intervals the door opened, and a Mohammedan sepoy entered bearing a little bread and a brass vessel containing water. Tynan devoured these to the last drop and crumb.

"Who are you?" he asked the man. "Tell me, where am I?"

The sepoy answered not a word and left the room. The food and drink had done the ensign good, brain and body becoming more brisk. He rose groaning from the bed and tried the door. It was locked, and he understood at last that he was a prisoner. A tremor ran down his back, and he felt cold, though the room was like a hothouse. A captive among the mutineers! Horrible prospect! But why should they have brought him here? he asked himself. Why not have straightway killed him? Could it be that they meant to torture him? The wretched boy groaned aloud, and in a frenzy of rage and despair kicked and beat the door, though every blow was anguish.

He had not long to wait. Muhammed Baksh, his host, called angrily to Ghulam Beg, the silent waiter, and together they entered the room and began to belabour the unlucky ensign with long bamboo canes.

Tynan fiercely sprang at his assailants, but being in no condition to do battle, he was soon driven ignominiously into a corner, where he cowered and shrieked for mercy. One of his tormentors pointed to the bed; Tynan crawled upon it, and without having spoken a word the two quitted the room.

Again the boy rose and dragged himself towards the window, where his last spark of hope died out. The shutters were clamped down, and even had he been fit and strong he could not have removed them without the aid of tools. He sank down upon the charpoy, a prey to the most realistic horrors that could be conjured up by a dull imagination. How long he lay there, miserable in mind and aching all over, he knew not. It seemed that whole days must have passed before the silent Ghulam Beg brought in a meagre supper. Worn-out nature then reasserted itself; as he lay on the bed his aching head seemed to grow larger and larger, filling all the room, and soon he was lost to consciousness.

Aroused by the entrance of his breakfast of chupattis and water, he implored the sepoy to speak to him and let him know his fate. But the man might have been a mute. Without a word, or gesture, or sign of comprehension Ghulam Beg left the prison-chamber, and another day of horror was passed, and a night in which blessed sleep almost forsook the captive boy.

The sound of a key creaking in the rusty lock aroused him, and he rose to his feet as the sepoy attendant brought in the unappetizing fare. Behind him Pir Baksh stalked in, his arm in a sling, his cruel eyes leering horribly as he gazed upon his victim.

"I trust, Ensign Sahib," said he with much politeness, "that my servant has been courteous and attentive, and has not disturbed your repose by chattering too much. I am greatly honoured that the heaven-born should deign to share our humble roof, and I trust that our guest has been comfortable."

The unceasing pain and the solitude had taken most of the spirit out of poor Tynan. Instead of resenting this insolence he implored the brute to tell him what his fate was to be.

"Ungrateful Feringhi!" exclaimed the subadar indignantly. "Not a word of thanks for my hospitality! Art thou aware that I have saved thy life?"

"Indeed, subadar, I thank you," said Tynan humbly.

"And I thank thee," said Pir Baksh, pointing to his injured arm, and continuing:

"Yea, I thank thee for this, and for many an hour of pain. 'Twas a clever trick to blow up the arsenal, but thou didst little think, infidel dog, that there would be a heavy price to pay. Thou didst reject my offer of terms, and all that I have suffered since, aye, and double and treble that, thou shalt know before death shall mercifully release thee."

Tynan trembled in every limb, and weakly replied:

"It was not I who blew up the magazine. I was against the deed. And dost thou not remember, subadar, that I would have surrendered to thee had not the other prevented me?"

"Well, he is dead, and thou shalt pay for the sins of thy brother."

"Nay, spare me, and my father will pay thee well."

A sudden thought seemed to strike the subadar. He reflected for a few moments before answering the appeal.

"Wilt thou swear thou hadst no hand in the explosion?" ha asked, after a pause.

"I will--indeed, I swear it."

"I must needs think it over," said Pir Baksh musingly. He quitted the room, leaving the boy torn by conflicting emotions. The consciousness that he had not played a manly part, the conviction that his rival Ted Russell would never have been so weak, gave a sharper point to his fears and troubles. On the other hand, had he not been given a faint hope of escape? Do not judge the lad too harshly. It was not death alone, but the prospect of torture that had unnerved him; and remember that the pain of his injuries and the workings of his imagination during the past two days of solitary confinement were calculated to break the spirit of any man above the average, and poor Tynan had hardly the makings of a hero in his character. His case was one for pity rather than contempt. Only those who would have withstood the temptation have the right to despise him utterly, and they would be the last to do so.

His hopes of mercy were misplaced. The amount of that quality nourished in the breast of Pir Baksh would have shamed a famished wolf. The rascal had changed his tone because he recollected that the greater his victim's hopes, the more poignant would his suffering be on finding himself deceived. Next evening he again visited the prisoner, and brought paper, pen, and ink.

"What was that sound of cheering an hour or two ago?" asked Tynan. He had heard the acclamations that had greeted the arrival of the mutinous Guides, and wondered if help had come.

"It means that we have had reinforcements, and that within twelve hours not one of your friends will be alive."

Tynan looked keenly at the speaker as he continued.

"Perhaps there may be one Feringhi left alive in Aurungpore; it depends on thee. I have been thinking it over, and am inclined to save thy life. We both hate Russell Sahib, and we may prove useful one to another."

The prisoner's heart began to beat more hopefully, and he expressed his thanks towards the callous brute.

"But on conditions," resumed Pir Baksh. "First, I must have five thousand rupees--a promise in writing for that amount."

"You shall have it," said Tynan eagerly. "My father will not grudge it."

The subadar nodded his head solemnly and went on:

"Secondly, thou must write me a _chit_ in English and Urdu, acknowledging that thou dost owe thy life to my mercy and loyalty."

"I will do that, and never shall I forget thy goodness."

"Thou shalt also write that I, Pir Baksh, was loyal to the Kumpani Bahadur, though forced to appear disloyal. That I tried to restrain the sepoys during the attack on the fortress, and to save the lives of the English officers, but was prevented by the rebels, who threatened to kill me as a traitor ... What! Thou dost hesitate?"

Tynan had turned pale. Could he sign that lying document and be himself a traitor? Had not Pir Baksh shot the colonel?

"No, subadar, I cannot do that," he said, with hesitation, not decision.

"Very good, sahib."

The fierce light that came into the eyes of Pir Baksh sent a thrill of despair through Tynan's breast. He began to find excuses. He told himself that the proposed statement would be partly true, for Pir Baksh had offered to spare their lives. He caught at that weak saving-clause, and enlarged upon it until he had almost persuaded himself that he could only be blamed for exaggeration, not for downright lying. Then he remembered how Pir Baksh, by shooting the colonel, had brought the mutiny to pass, and was guilty of all the bloodshed.

The subadar noted his indecision, and said:

"There will be none to contradict, your countrymen are as good as dead."

"I will write as you say," said Tynan slowly, "if you will swear to save my life."

He had decided. He was ready to sign a paper absolving this villain from the reward of his treachery and blood-guiltiness. And the final inducement had been the assurance that the traitor's plot would be crowned with such success that all Tynan's compatriots would be slain. And this was the man he was ready to hold up as a loyal subject fit to be rewarded for his fidelity!

"By the Prophet's beard I will do my best to save thee," the subadar declared. "We must escape from the town, or I too shall suffer the penalty."

Seizing pen and ink in feverish haste to get it over, Tynan wrote as the Mohammedan directed him. First, the promise to pay five thousand rupees on one sheet of paper, and then a document that might save Pir Baksh from all consequences of mutiny and murder in the event of his capture by the British. When he had finished, his gaoler took the pen and wrote in Urdu at the foot:--

"I, Pir Baksh, subadar of the 193rd B.N.I., do solemnly promise, on my oath as a Moslem, to do my best to effect the escape of Ensign Tynan of the same regiment, a prisoner among the rebels in Aurungpore. Filled with admiration of his courage in risking his life in the execution of his duty by planning and carrying out the blowing up of the magazine, I also risk my life to save his."

"But I've already told you I didn't do that," the ensign protested, as he read the added words. "It was Russell's doing altogether."

"No need to say so, sahib," said Pir Baksh. "He is dead, and so indeed will all the Feringhis be to-morrow, and no one can claim the credit. Russell Sahib I hate, for do I not owe him this broken arm and bloody head? And if I mistake not, he is no friend of thine, so why not take the credit of the deed and be promoted and raised to honour? Help me, sahib, and I will help thee."

Tynan found nothing to say in reply. He remembered the many injuries he fancied he had received at Russell's hands--the thrashing of a week or two ago, the contempt with which he had been treated in the fort when his junior took the command from him and threatened him in front of the men. Why not pay him out? After all, what did it matter now? It could be put right if necessary when he should have reached a place of safety. The first consideration was to save his own life.

"We shall slip away to-morrow," said the subadar. "I will go and make all arrangements now. Remember that my life also is sacrificed if we are discovered."

So saying the double traitor took his leave. Outside the door he chuckled grimly and proceeded to tear up the "promise to pay" the five thousand rupees. For a very good reason he had no intention of claiming that, but the other papers he carefully preserved. After the boy had been murdered, he could easily make up some story and fabricate some evidence to show that they had been followed and attacked, and that he escaped by the skin of his teeth, more alive than dead, and never saw the ensign again. Pir Baksh meant to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds so long as the British held their own.

But most of all he meant to kill Harry Tynan.

Left to himself Ensign Tynan sat down upon the string bed, and leant forward to think it all over, elbows on knees and his chin resting in the palm of his right hand. As a rule he was not a very thoughtful person, but the nightmare of the past few days might well effect a change. Of habit, not of character though! Peril, suffering, and anxiety may develop the good or bad that is there already, but will hardly transform a weak character into a strong one.

For a long time the boy sat motionless, wondering what Pir Baksh really meant. Was he genuine? Did he mean to save him? Tynan did not trust the man, yet he assured himself again and again that the Mohammedan must be intending to try, or why should he have demanded the promise of a reward--a document useless unless he was actually saved. And what about that other paper? Ted Russell would never have signed it, conscience whispered.

"I only wish Russell was here instead of me," he muttered, and gave the bedstead a vicious kick.

"But he's dead," came a reminder from his better self, and there followed a recollection of the statement added by the subadar, the lie that robbed the dead of the credit of a glorious deed.

"Everything seems to go wrong with me," he sullenly muttered. "I've no luck like other people. Never mind, it's not of much consequence. What I've got to think about is how to get out of this hole. I believe after all that that black brute means to murder me. Well, I'll try to sleep on it."

He lay down, and an idea occurred to him. Rising to his feet he knelt down in the attitude of prayer. Hardly ever since he had left home for school had he so much as made believe to pray for help and guidance, but now he wondered he had not thought of it before. Had he lived two or three hundred years ago he would have vowed invaluable offerings to the shrine of his patron saint, and, the danger over, would as promptly have forgotten to fulfil the vow.

Parrot-like, he repeated the Lord's Prayer without considering in the least its meaning, and then he prayed wildly to be saved from death. But not once did he dream of asking earnestly for forgiveness, not once did he seriously repent his foolish, harmful life, nor did he make the least resolve to cancel in the morning the lies to which he had signed his name that night.

He rose from his knees and once more lay down.