CHAPTER XI
AT THE GATE OF LAHORE
Shere Ali, accordingly, travelled with reluctance to Bombay, and at thatport an anonymous letter with the postmark of Calcutta was brought to himon board the steamer. Shere Ali glanced through it, and laughed, knowingwell his countrymen's passion for mysteries and intrigues. He put theletter in his pocket and took the northward mail. These were the daysbefore the North-West Province had been severed from the Punjab, andinstructions had been given to Shere Ali to break his journey at Lahore.He left the train, therefore, at that station, on a morning when thethermometer stood at over a hundred in the shade, and was carried in abarouche drawn by camels to Government House. There a haggard andheat-worn Commissioner received him, and in the cool of the evening tookhim for a ride, giving him sage advice with the accent of authority.
"His Excellency would have liked to have seen you himself," said theCommissioner. "But he is in the Hills and he did not think it necessaryto take you so far out of your way. It is as well that you should get toKohara as soon as possible, and on particular subjects the Resident,Captain Phillips, will be able and glad to advise you."
The Commissioner spoke politely enough, but the accent of authority wasthere. Shere Ali's ears were quick to notice and resent it. Some yearshad passed since commands had been laid upon him.
"I shall always be glad to hear what Captain Phillips has to say," hereplied stiffly.
"Yes, yes, of course," said the Commissioner, taking that for granted."Captain Phillips has our views."
He did not seem to notice the stiffness of Shere Ali's tone. He was tiredwith the strain of the hot weather, as his drawn face and hollow eyesshowed clearly.
"On general lines," he continued, "his Excellency would like you tounderstand that the Government has no intention and no wish to interferewith the customs and laws of Chiltistan. In fact it is at this momentparticularly desirable that you should throw your influence on the sideof the native observances."
"Indeed," said Shere Ali, as he rode along the Mall by the Commissioner'sside. "Then why was I sent to Oxford?"
The Commissioner was not surprised by the question, though it wasabruptly put.
"Surely that is a question to ask of his Highness, your father," hereplied. "No doubt all you learnt and saw there will be extremelyvaluable. What I am saying now is that the Government wishes to give nopretext whatever to those who would disturb Chiltistan, and it looks toyou with every confidence for help and support."
"And the road?" asked Shere Ali.
"It is not proposed to carry on the road. The merchants in Kohara thinkthat by bringing more trade, their profits would become less, while thecountry people look upon it as a deliberate attack upon theirindependence. The Government has no desire to force it upon the peopleagainst their wish."
Shere Ali made no reply, but his heart grew bitter within him. He hadcome out to India sore and distressed at parting from his friends, fromthe life he had grown to love. All the way down the Red Sea and acrossthe Indian Ocean, the pangs of regret had been growing keener with eachnew mile which was gathered in behind the screw. He had lain awakelistening to the throb of the engine with an aching heart, and with everylonging for the country he had left behind growing stronger, everyrecollection growing more vivid and intense. There was just oneconsolation which he had. Violet Oliver had enheartened him to make themost of it, and calling up the image of her face before him, he hadstriven so to do. There were his plans for the regeneration of hiscountry. And lo! here at Lahore, three days after he had set foot onland, they were shattered--before they were begun. He had been trainedand educated in the West according to Western notions and he was nowbidden to go and rule in the East according to the ideals of the East.Bidden! For the quiet accent of authority in the words of the unobservantman who rode beside him rankled deeply. He had it in his thoughts to cryout: "Then what place have I in Chiltistan?"
But though he never uttered the question, it was none the less answered.
"Economy and quiet are the two things which Chiltistan needs," said theCommissioner. Then he looked carelessly at Shere Ali.
"It is hoped that you will marry and settle down as soon as possible,"he said.
Shere Ali reined in his horse, stared for a moment at his companion andthen began quietly to laugh. The laughter was not pleasant to listen to,and it grew harsher and louder. But it brought no change to the tiredface of the Commissioner, who had stopped his horse beside Shere Ali'sand was busy with the buckle of his stirrup leather. He raised his headwhen the laughter stopped. And it stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
"You were saying--" he remarked politely.
"That I would like, if there is time, to ride through the Bazaar."
"Certainly," said the Commissioner. "This way," and he turned at rightangles out of the Mall and its avenue of great trees and led the waytowards the native city. Short of it, however, he stopped.
"You won't mind if I leave you here," he said. "There is some work to bedone. You can make no mistake. You can see the Gate from here."
"Is that the Delhi Gate?" asked Shere Ali.
"Yes. You can find your own way back, no doubt"; and the unobservantCommissioner rode away at a trot.
Shere Ali went forward alone down the narrowing street towards the Gate.He was aflame with indignation. So he was to be nothing, he was to donothing, except to practice economy and marry--a _nigger_. Thecontemptuous word rose to his mind. Long ago it had been applied to himmore than once during his early school-days, until desperate battles andblack eyes had won him immunity. Now he used it savagely himself tostigmatise his own people. He was of the White People, he declared. Hefelt it, he looked it. Even at that moment a portly gentleman of Lahorein a coloured turban and patent-leather shoes salaamed to him as hepassed upon his horse. "Surely," he thought, "I am one of the Sahibs.This fool of a Commissioner does not understand."
A woman passed him carrying a babe poised upon her head, with silveranklets upon her bare ankles and heavy silver rings upon her toes. Sheturned her face, which was overshadowed by a hood, to look at Shere Alias he rode by. He saw the heavy stud of silver and enamel in her nostril,the withered brown face. He turned and looked at her, as she walkedflat-footed and ungainly, her pyjamas of pink cotton showing beneath hercloak. He had no part or lot with any of these people of the East. Theface of Violet Oliver shone before his eyes. There was his mate. Herecalled the exquisite daintiness of her appearance, her ruffles of lace,the winning sweetness of her eyes. Not in Chiltistan would he find awoman to drive that image from his thoughts.
Meanwhile he drew nearer to the Delhi Gate. A stream of people flowed outfrom it towards him. Over their heads he looked through the archway downthe narrow street, where between the booths and under the carvedoverhanging balconies the brown people robed and turbaned, in saffron andblue, pink and white, thronged and chattered and jostled, a kaleidoscopeof colour. Shere Ali turned his eyes to the right and the left as hewent. It was not merely to rid himself of the Commissioner that he hadproposed to ride on to the bazaars by way of the Delhi Gate. Theanonymous letter bearing the postmark of Calcutta, which had been placedin his hand when the steamer reached Bombay, besought him to pass by theDelhi Gate at Lahore and do certain things by which means he would hearmuch to his advantage. He had no thought at the moment to do theparticular things, but he was sufficiently curious to pass by the DelhiGate. Some intrigue was on hand into which it was sought to lure him. Hehad not forgotten that his countrymen were born intriguers.
Slowly he rode along. Here and there a group of people were squatting onthe ground, talking noisily. Here and there a beggar stretched out amaimed limb and sought for alms. Then close to the gate he saw that forwhich he searched: a man sitting apart with a blanket over his head. Noone spoke to the man, and for his part he never moved. He sat erect withhis legs crossed in front of him and his hands resting idly on his knees,a strange and rather grim figure; so motionless, so utterly lifeless heseemed. The blanket reached
almost to the ground behind and hung downto his lap in front, and Shere Ali noticed that a leathern begging-bowlat his side was well filled with coins. So he must have sat just in thatattitude, with that thick covering stifling him, all through the fieryheat of that long day. As Shere Ali looked, he saw a poor bent man inrags, with yellow caste marks on his forehead, add a copper pi to thecollection in the bowl. Shere Ali stopped the giver.
"Who is he?" he asked, pointing to the draped figure.
The old Hindu raised his hand and bowed his forehead into the palm.
"Huzoor, he is a holy man, a stranger who has lately come to Lahore, butthe holiest of all the holy men who have ever sat by the Delhi Gate. Hisfame is already great."
"But why does he sit covered with the blanket?" asked Shere Ali.
"Huzoor, because of his holiness. He is so holy that his face mustnot be seen."
Shere Ali laughed.
"He told you that himself, I suppose," he said.
"Huzoor, it is well known," said the old man. "He sits by the road allday until the darkness comes--"
"Yes," said Shere Ali, bethinking him of the recommendations in hisletter, "until the darkness comes--and then?"
"Then he goes away into the city and no one sees him until the morning";and the old man passed on.
Shere Ali chuckled and rode by the hooded man. His curiosity increased.It was quite likely that the blanket hid a Mohammedan Pathan from beyondthe hills. To come down into the plains and mulct the pious Hindu by somesuch ingenious practice would appeal to the Pathan's sense of humouralmost as much as to his pocket. Shere Ali drew the letter from hispocket, and in the waning light read it through again. True, the postmarkshowed that the letter had been posted in Calcutta, but more than onenative of Chiltistan had come south and set up as a money-lender in thatcity on the proceeds of a successful burglary. He replaced the letter inhis pocket, and rode on at a walk through the throng. The darkness camequickly; oil lamps were lighted in the booths and shone though theunglazed window-spaces overhead. A refreshing coolness fell upon thetown, the short, welcome interval between the heat of the day and thesuffocating heat of the night. Shere Ali turned his horse and rode backagain to the gate. The hooded beggar still sat upon the ground, but hewas alone. The others, the blind and the maimed, had crawled away totheir dens. Except this grim motionless man, there was no one squattingupon the ground.
Shere Ali reined in beside him, and bending forward in his saddle spokein a low voice a few words of Pushtu. The hooded figure did not move, butfrom behind the blanket there issued a muffled voice.
"If your Highness will ride slowly on, your servant will follow and cometo his side."
Shere Ali went on, and in a few moments he heard the soft patter of a manrunning barefoot along the dusty road. He stopped his horse and thepatter of feet ceased, but a moment after, silent as a shadow, the manwas at his side.
"You are of my country?" said Shere Ali.
"I am of Kohara," returned the man. "Safdar Khan of Kohara. May God keepyour Highness in health. We have waited long for your presence."
"What are you doing in Lahore?" asked Shere Ali.
In the darkness he saw a flash of white as Safdar Khan smiled.
"There was a little trouble, your Highness, with one Ishak Mohammedand--Ishak Mohammed's son is still alive. He is a boy of eight, it istrue, and could not hold a rifle to his shoulder. But the trouble tookplace near the road."
Shere Ali nodded his head in comprehension. Safdar Khan had shot hisenemy on the road, which is a holy place, and therefore he camewithin the law.
"Blood-money was offered," continued Safdar Khan, "but the boy would notconsent, and claims my life. His mother would hold the rifle for himwhile he pulled the trigger. So I am better in Lahore. Moreover, yourHighness, for a poor man life is difficult in Kohara. Taxes are high. SoI came down to this gate and sat with a cloak over my head."
"And you have found it profitable," said Shere Ali.
Again the teeth flashed in the darkness and Safdar Khan laughed.
"For two days I sat by the Delhi Gate and no one spoke to me or dropped asingle coin in my bowl. But on the third day a good man, may God preservehim, passed by when I was nearly stifled and asked me why I sat in theheat of the sun under a blanket. Thereupon I told him, what doubtlessyour Highness knows, that my face is much too holy to be looked upon, andsince then your Highness' servant has prospered exceedingly. The deviceis a good one."
Suddenly Safdar Khan stumbled as he walked and lurched against thehorse and its rider. He recovered himself in a moment, with prayersfor forgiveness and curses upon his stupidity for setting his footupon a sharp stone. But he had put out his hand as he stumbled andthat hand had run lightly down Shere Ali's coat and had felt thetexture of his clothes.
"I had a letter from Calcutta," said the Prince, "which besought me tospeak to you, for you had something for my ear. Therefore speak, andspeak quickly."
But a change had come over Safdar Khan. Certainly Shere Ali was wearingthe dress of one of the Sahibs. A man passed carrying a lantern, and thelight, feeble though it was, threw into outline against the darkness apith helmet and a very English figure. Certainly, too, Shere Ali spokethe Pushtu tongue with a slight hesitation, and an unfamiliar accent. Heseemed to grope for words.
"A letter?" he cried. "From Calcutta? Nay, how can that be? Some foolishfellow has dared to play a trick," and in a few short, effectivesentences Safdar Khan expressed his opinion of the foolish fellow and ofhis ancestry distant and immediate.
"Yet the letter bade me seek you by the Delhi Gate of Lahore," continuedShere Ali calmly, "and by the Delhi Gate of Lahore I found you."
"My fame is great," replied Safdar Khan bombastically. "Far and wide ithas spread like the boughs of a gigantic tree."
"Rubbish," said Shere Ali curtly, breaking in upon Safdar's vehemence."I am not one of the Hindu fools who fill your begging-bowl," and helaughed.
In the darkness he heard Safdar Khan laugh too.
"You expected me," continued Shere Ali. "You looked for my coming. Yourears were listening for the few words of Pushtu. Why else should you say,'Ride forward and I will follow'?"
Safdar Khan walked for a little while in silence. Then in a voice ofhumility, he said:
"I will tell my lord the truth. Yes, some foolish talk has passed fromone man to another, and has been thrown back again like a ball. I too,"he admitted, "have been without wisdom. But I have seen how vain suchtalk is. The Mullahs in the Hills speak only ignorance and folly."
"Ah!" said Shere Ali. He took the letter from his pocket and tore it intofragments and scattered the fragments upon the Road. "So I thought. Theletter is of their prompting."
"My lord, it may be so," replied Safdar Khan. "For my part I have no lotor share in any of these things. For I am now of Lahore."
"Aye," said Shere Ali. "The begging-bowl is filled to overflowing at theDelhi Gate. So you are of Lahore, though your name is Safdar Khan and youwere born at Kohara," and suddenly he leaned down and asked in a wistfulvoice with a great curiosity, "Are you content? Have you forgotten thehills and valleys? Is Lahore more to you than Chiltistan?"
So perpetually had Shere All's mind run of late upon his isolation thatit crept into all his thoughts. So now it seemed to him that there wassome vague parallel between his mental state and that of Safdar Khan. ButSafdar Khan's next words disabused him:
"Nay, nay," he said. "But the widow of a rich merchant in the city here,a devout and holy woman, has been greatly moved by my piety. She seeks myhand in marriage and--" here Safdar Khan laughed pleasantly--"I shallmarry her. Already she has given me a necklace of price which I have hadweighed and tested to prove that she does not play me false. She is veryrich, and it is too hot to sit in the sun under a blanket. So I will be amerchant of Lahore instead, and live at my ease on the upper balcony ofmy house."
Shere Ali laughed and answered, "It is well." Then he added shrewdly:"But it is possible that you may yet at some time meet th
e man inCalcutta who wrote the letter to me. If so, tell him what I did with it,"and Shere Ali's voice became hard and stern. "Tell him that I tore it upand scattered it in the dust. And let him send the news to the Mullahs inthe Hills. I know that soft-handed brood with their well-fed bodies andtheir treacherous mouths. If only they would let me carry on the road!"he cried passionately, "I would drag them out of the houses where theybatten on poor men's families and set them to work till the palms oftheir hands were honestly blistered. Let the Mullahs have a care, SafdarKhan. I go North to-morrow to Kohara."
He spoke with a greater vehemence than perhaps he had meant to show. Buthe was carried along by his own words, and sought always a strongerepithet than that which he had used. He was sore and indignant, and hevented his anger on the first object which served him as an opportunity.Safdar Khan bowed his head in the darkness. Safe though he might be inLahore, he was still afraid of the Mullahs, afraid of their curses, andmindful of their power to ruin the venturesome man who dared to standagainst them.
"It shall be as your Highness wishes," he said in a low voice, and hehurried away from Shere Ali's side. Abuse of the Mullahs wasdangerous--as dangerous to listen to as to speak. Who knew but what thevery leaves of the neem trees might whisper the words and bear witnessagainst him? Moreover, it was clear that the Prince of Chiltistan was aSahib. Shere Ali rode back to Government House. He understood clearly whySafdar Khan had so unceremoniously fled; and he was glad. If the fool ofa Commissioner did not know him for what he was, at all events SafdarKhan did. He was one of the White People. For who else would dare tospeak as he had spoken of the Mullahs? The Mullahs would hear what he hadsaid. That was certain. They would hear it with additions. They would tryto make things unpleasant for him in Chiltistan in consequence. But ShereAli was glad. For their very opposition--in so loverlike a way did everythought somehow reach out to Violet Oliver--brought him a little nearerto the lady who held his heart. He found the Commissioner sealing up hisletters in his office.
That unobservant man had just written at length, privately andconfidentially, both to the Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab at thehill-station and to the Resident at Kohara. And to both he had written tothe one effect:
"We must expect trouble in Chiltistan."
He based his conclusions upon the glimpse which he had obtained into thetroubled feelings of Shere Ali. The next morning Shere Ali travellednorthwards and forty-eight hours later from the top of the Malakand Passhe saw winding across the Swat valley past Chakdara the road whichreached to Kohara and there stopped.