A Soldier and a Gentleman/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
THE PANCH MAHAL’S BACK DOOR
The trumpet sends men roaring on to death;
The cold gray dawn sees strong men grim and white;
Fire, water, and the devastating breath
Of pestilence breed panic’s fright.
But, death in darkness—lurking, sheenless steel
The grip of unseen hands—the hot, hissed breath
The silent, gruesome fight with hand and heel
Unguessed at, unexpected—that is death.
COLONEL STAPLETON proved difficult in the matter of calling on Yasmini that evening, but Boileau stuck to his point. His private reason, of course, was that he wanted an excuse for going back again at once, but the reason he gave was one calculated to work on the Colonel’s well known gallantry.
“Of course, sir, it’s unusual, I know. But there you are. She’s a lone woman, and she’s frightened. She has a strange idea that the police will order her away unless we show we’re friendly.”
“But if she’s up to no mischief, why on earth should she be afraid of the police?”
“You said yourself, sir, not so very long ago that the police lose all sense of decency, or words to that effect. They could make things pretty uncomfortable for an unprotected woman. You’d never believe, sir, how anxious she was for me to bring you along.”
“I advised you not to go there again, you’ll remember.”
“I know you did, sir. I can only say I’m glad those weren’t orders. I’d like you to see for yourself what kind of woman she is. Then you’d understand my calling there again.”
The Colonel leaned back in his chair and looked hard at him for half a minute.
“I understand that much, at least, perfectly!” he answered. “Well—I’ll go, since she’s so anxious. But I shall give her plainly to understand that I can offer her no protection from the consequences of any action of her own, and I shall advise her to go away from here.”
“Will you come this evening?”
“Yes, I’ll come now and get it over.”
So the Colonel called for his horse, and he and Boileau rode together to the Panch Mahal, with a trooper behind and a lantern bearer in front and a great display of dignity.
“It’s a deuce of a strange hour to go calling on a native woman, Boileau, and I must confess I don’t at all like it.”
“You’ll find she’ll receive us well enough, sir.”
That prophecy proved justified. Yasmini outdid herself. She was coquetry, and subtlety, and dignity and grace in one; and though she left no stone unturned to win her way to Colonel Stapleton’s good graces, she let Boileau see that she was deeply in his debt for having brought him. If Boileau chose to misinterpret some of the soft glances that she sent him, that was understandable at least; and he was too overcome by Yasmini’s spell, and too amused by the Colonel’s evident amazement, to reason like a man of sense.
He forgot for the time being the gulf that separates the Englishman and native women of far lower caste than Yasmini; forgot that though the purdah might be absent for the once the rule of centuries remained the same; and remembered only that he was a very handsome man and she a lovely woman.
The Colonel told Yasmini what he had said he would. But he put it so delicately, in punctilious and perfect Hindustani, that all of the sting was taken out of it; he sounded more like a courtier assuring her of everlasting homage than a cavalry colonel declining his moral and material support.
“You see,” he said, “it’s no business of mine to ask you why you happen to be here. Any man with half an eye can see at a glance that you are charming, and as clever as you are beautiful. Therefore, madam, if you’ll excuse my saying so, people are quite justified in wondering why you don’t look for more healthful quarters. The neighborhood of this jungle can not be too wholesome; now, can it?”
“I have good reasons for being here—very good ones, Colonel sahib. Colonel sahib, may not a woman have her little secrets—or her big ones?”
“Certainly she may—and always does.” He bowed as a man conferring privileges.
“But she must not blame mere man for wondering what those secrets are,” he added.
He rose to go, but she begged him not to. She offered him refreshment, entertainment, anything; she called for her maids to dance and play on their guitars, and then, because he still persisted with his air of courteous but unpersuadable dignity, she drew him aside and whispered to him.
“I would like to tell you why I stay here, Colonel sahib; but it must be only for your ears. Then you will understand, and will protect me.”
“I can promise you nothing,” he warned. “Nothing, that is to say, more than is due to any woman from any man.”
“But I must tell it to you alone.”
“You’d better go, Boileau!” he said across his shoulder.
He was facing Yasmini, looking down into her eyes, and beginning to feel her spell. Boileau got up, bowed, and started for the stairs, but she left the Colonel and came over to him.
“He won’t remain,” she whispered. “I am sure he won’t. But I am frightened. I must have some one here this evening. Will you return?”
“I’ll do anything you say!”
“Then do you go straight home—straight home—” she laid one light hand on his shoulder, and he thrilled—“and when he returns, ride back again to me!”
“Why straight home?” wondered Boileau. “What earthly difference can that make to her?”
He did ride straight home; but when he reached his tent he was still wondering.
“Is she up to mischief with the Colonel now, I wonder? Can’t be! Still—I took him there, and I’m responsible.”
He called for his horse again, and then countermanded the order and sent for his personal servant, who came running with a lantern. Then he once more changed his mind, and took the lantern himself and started off.
Before he had gone a quarter of a mile he saw another lamp, and caught sight of the Colonel’s charger; he turned almost instinctively into a narrow track that led to the right of the main path. He felt ashamed of himself a moment later, but continued since he did not care to let the Colonel know that he had sought concealment and then changed his mind. He suspected that the narrow path that he had taken must come out eventually near the Panch Mahal, since there were no other buildings near to which a used track could lead.
His surmise proved correct. After half an hour of stumbling through the pitchy blackness, shuddering at the thought of snakes, he came out of the jungle at a corner of the Panch Mahal that he had never seen before, and stood still for a moment looking at it. It was not the exact rear of the building, but a wing that projected to the right of the rear in the direction of the thickest jungle, and there were no lights in the windows up above to prove that that part of the building was occupied. He could see the wall; though, clearly, for it was white, and he could make out the shape of the open windows.
The next thing he noticed was that a thick, knotted rope hung down from the top window nearly to the ground, swaying gently in the breeze. Then he heard a voice, and listened. The words were Hindustani, and the voice beyond doubt Yasmini’s.
“Any sign of him yet?”
“Not yet.”
He remembered then that two of Yasmini’s maids were from Madras, and that she had to use the common tongue of India to communicate with them. All the same, he wondered why he listened, and thought no better of himself for doing so.
“Go further, then, and see if he is coming. There must be at least one white man here to-night!”
“Now, what in blazes is the game?” thought Boileau.
He was not without brains, and, once his suspicions were aroused, not at all easy to trick. He much more than suspected now that Yasmini’s desire to see him was not actuated by any admiration. His cavalry training, too, had seeped into his system and made action—prompt, unexpected action—an essential remedy for doubt. He stooped, loosed the straps beneath his insteps that held his trousers tight, and pulled off his spurs. Then he saw some one, whom he took to be Yasmini herself, come to the window, haul up the rope, and hang the coils on some kind of projection. But when she went away the rope fell down again. She had left the window open.
Adventure—and excitement—and something primitive he could not have named—mystery and the lure of it—began to call to Boileau. The military were in charge now of operations against the outlaw, and as an officer he remembered that he had the right to investigate suspicious circumstances. Too—and that was not to be overlooked—his sudden appearance through a window might appeal to Yasmini’s feeling for romance. And then, he wanted to; and that was a good enough reason in itself. All of those arguments left quite out of account a feeling deeper down that told him there was danger near at hand. Danger never called to Boileau unanswered.
He walked up and seized the rope and jerked it. It was made fast at the top. A moment later he was shinning up it, as fast as a native would have done, and thanking Heaven that he had left his spurs behind.
He vaulted lightly through the window, and landed on something nearly solid that was on a divan underneath. A second later the something grunted, and an arm like a black snake licked out of the darkness, and he felt the sting of a knife that seared his cheek. Quicker than thought itself he gripped the wrist he could not see, wrenched at it, and sent the knife spinning; he heard it fall some distance away on wood. Next he was locked in a native wrestler’s hold that was something new in his experience. Not a word was said nor another sound made but heavy breathing. He was fighting for dear life against a slippery antagonist, who stank enough to sicken him, but whom he could not see!