Part 5 (1/2)
LATER, lying on Yar Mohammad's coa.r.s.e shawl, his head propped on one of the saddles, Shafi Sahib had begun to revive.
”Do not apologize,” he said in a faint voice, fiicking long fingers in Yusuf's direction. ”I should have said something.” Drops of water clung to the stubble of his beard and spotted his snowy s.h.i.+rt.
Before Yusuf could reply, a noisy thras.h.i.+ng erupted from inside the bush nearest to Shafi Sahib's makes.h.i.+ft bed. The dusty branches parted as if by themselves, and a ragged figure of a man lurched into the sunlight. Brandis.h.i.+ng a wooden staff, the man turned his head rapidly from side to side as if looking for someone, then, his staff high, moved jerkily to where Shafi Sahib lay full-length on the earth.
With a hasty prayer that Yar Mohammad knew how to handle his knife, Yusuf reached for his tulwar, his eyes moving rapidly from the attacker to the bushes. Where was the rest of the gang? How many were there?
”You are the one,” the intruder cried, his voice a dark, rasping sound, ”who can tell the foreign lady, who can tell her-”
”Stop!” Yusuf shouted to the man's back as he struggled to free the heavy, curved sword from its scabbard. ”Do not move!”
Ignoring his warnings, the stranger took another step toward Shafi Sahib.
Yusuf's blade slid free. As he swung back, preparing to slice the intruder in half, fingers gripped his forearm.
”Wait,” said Yar Mohammad into his ear. ”Look at Shafi Sahib.”
The old gentleman had made no move to s.h.i.+eld himself. Instead, he peered interestedly at the tattered figure standing over him. ”Speak,” he commanded.
The stranger's staff fell to the ground as he raised his arms over his head. ”You must tell the foreign lady,” he said, ”whose horse bears the five lucky signs, that the path she takes will bring her peace.”
”Which foreign lady?” Shafi Sahib raised himself on one elbow.
The madman ignored him. ”Tell her to be careful.” His voice sounded like stones rolling down a hill. ”Tell her, khabardar khabardar, khabardar khabardar-”
Without finis.h.i.+ng what he had begun to say, he reached for his rod and strode to the bush. Ignoring the long, cruel thorns, he parted its branches with his bare hands, turned, and stepped backward into the thicket. The branches shuddered, then closed upon him.
Baffied, Yusuf peered into the silent bush. Seeing nothing, he turned away, shaking his head, to find Shafi Sahib on his feet.
”We must go now,” he said. His face, ashen when they had stopped, was now fresh and animated.
Yusuf and Yar Mohammad stared.
”We must start for Lah.o.r.e at once,” Shafi Sahib insisted, in the voice of one accustomed to command.
”But,” Yusuf protested, ”we are going to the Maharajah's camp, are we not? We must find the Faqeer and-”
”No,” the old gentleman said firmly. ”We have no need of the Chief Minister. Come, there is no time to be lost.”
Once again he had to be helped onto his ancient mare. Once mounted, he waved an arm toward the north. ”Lah.o.r.e,” he cried, ”we must ride for Lah.o.r.e!”
TWO days later as they traveled the busy road, Yusuf kept his face averted from his two companions. There was nothing to be gained from letting them see his rage. Why, oh why, had Shafi Sahib insisted on bypa.s.sing the Maharajah's camp?
Yusuf let a lungful of air out through tight lips. He had done his best to explain their urgent need to contact Faqeer Azizuddin, but his efforts had come to nothing. Ah, if Allah in His wisdom had given Yusuf a golden tongue, he could have made the old gentleman see reason. But Yusuf's gift, useless in this case, had been the steady hand and tight-clinging knee of a cavalryman.
He leaned and spat into the dust. Surely this change in their plans was not because of a stick-waving madman? Surely Shafi Sahib did not believe in that nonsense? Yusuf steered his horse impatiently around a bullock cart piled high with firewood that crawled, groaning, toward the Maharajah's camp, the same camp that they were to leave, unvisited, behind them.
If it were safe to do so, he would gladly have turned back and galloped alone toward the line of tents still visible behind them in the distance. Once there, he would have begged the Maharajah's Chief Minister for his a.s.sistance in freeing little Saboor, then hastened back to join his companions. But Yar Mohammad was not a professional man-at-arms, and Allah knew the road was not safe. Among the crowds of merchants and travelers between Lah.o.r.e and the Maharajah's camp, there were certain to be cutthroats and thieves. Left to themselves, Shafi Sahib and the groom could be robbed and killed ten times over before he returned.
No, the facts could not be changed. There was now no hope of Yusuf's carrying out the instructions he had been given. If he survived, Ha.s.san's poor little son would have to be rescued by someone else.
Yusuf skirted a deep rut in the road. All this had happened because, by some ill fortune, Shafi Sahib, the Shaikh's trusted friend, had gone quite mad. Tears stung Yusuf's eyes. How could he face Ha.s.san, his most loved friend, with this news?
Shafi Sahib had begun to speak. Was it to him? Yusuf turned to look behind him.
”Yusuf Sahib.” The old gentleman's tired voice held a teasing note. ”Why do you try to do all the work yourself? Do you not remember Allah, the All-Powerful? If it is His will that the child is to be rescued, then no one can keep him at the Citadel. If it is not His will to spare the child, then no power on earth can save him. Is that not so?”
Yusuf nodded numbly. The old man cleared his throat. ”In any case, O kind and honest soldier,” he added, smiling serenely, ”there is no need to worry. Your prayers have already been answered.”
Atroop of Bengal Lancers trotted past Mariana on the avenue, their black mustaches bristling. Artillery shots boomed in the distance. She slowed her mare, her eyes following the lancers. Her father would enjoy as much as she did all the preparations for this campaign into Afghanistan. She imagined him bent over a map at her writing table, working out the various roles of the British and Sikh forces in the campaign, his gentle face alight as he spoke of the difficulty of moving the heavy British guns over the mountain pa.s.ses into Afghanistan, and of the likelihood of Afghan resistance to the British-leaning monarch who would replace their present king.
The Governor-General, together with everyone else, was looking forward to the moment when Shah Shuja, their handpicked Afghan prince, would enter Kabul at the head of the triumphant Sikh and British armies, to be installed upon the throne of the most strategically valuable country in Central Asia.
What would be the result, Mariana wondered, of this exciting invasion whose preparations had taken two years? British supremacy in Afghanistan would of course quash forever the Tsar of Russia's ambition to control Central Asia, but surely there would be other changes. Surely there would emerge a new, almost British Afghanistan, withEnglish officers in the streets, and English horse races being held in its faraway cities with wonderful names: Kandahar, Jalalabad, Kabul ...
One day, she would see Afghanistan for herself, eat its fabled fruits, breathe its air, and read its poetry.
Ahead of her, a British officer rode toward the red gate. Mariana watched the sentries stiffen to attention as he pa.s.sed through. If Papa were here, he would understand her pa.s.sion for languages, as she understood his pa.s.sion for war. He would appreciate Muns.h.i.+ Sahib.
She nodded to the sentries as she rode through the entrance. It had been days since her last lesson. Was Muns.h.i.+ ill? He had not looked well since the day he had come to her in the rain. She must talk Major Byrne into giving her a second chair. The poor old man should not be made to stand all the way through their lessons.
People had begun to gather in the doorway of the dining tent. She was late once again. It was lunchtime already, and she was still wearing her riding clothes.
A man in a blue uniform stood talking to the White Rabbit. Was it Harry Fitzgerald? Mariana strained to look, leaning awkwardly in the sidesaddle, and saw that it was, just as her mare stumbled, wrenching her from her seat, and knocking her foot from the stirrup. Unable to stop herself, she plunged, headfirst, to the ground.
Someone approached. She sat up, gasping at a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her skirts had now settled modestly about her, but her legs had fiown into the air in front of everyone. She must get away at once. Where was her riding hat?
”It's lucky her foot came out of the stirrup,” said a man's voice. ”She might have been dragged. Look at these sharp stones. She may be hurt. Call the doctor.”
”No,” Mariana tried to say over the sound of someone running off.
She forced herself dizzily to her feet, crying out when a hand gripped her injured arm. It was the White Rabbit. He peered at her, his chinless face full of concern. ”We must get you to the shade, Miss Givens. Allow me to help you into the dining tent.”
To be gaped at by everyone in camp? Absolutely not. She pulled away, shaking her head. ”No, thank you, Lieutenant Sotheby,” she said hastily. ”Please help me to remount my horse.”
”But your horse has been taken away, Miss Givens.”
”What?” Mariana looked behind her. It was true. Her mare was gone. ”Well then, Lieutenant Sotheby,” she said, holding out her good arm, her teeth clenched in a smile against a sudden desire to weep, ”you must walk me to my tent.”
”Of course, Miss Givens,” said the Rabbit, who then pretended, all the way to her tent, not to have seen the tears of mortification she could not hide.
”MEMSAHIB, Memsahib!”
Dittoo's voice pierced Mariana's sleep. She sat up. She was still wearing her riding habit. Her mouth tasted sour. Her head ached from her fall. What time was it?
”The ladies are calling you, Memsahib! They want you to join them outside their tents before dinner.”
Injured or not, she could not refuse. She stood and began to undo her b.u.t.tons. The last thing she wanted to do was face them all now. Wincing, she pulled her injured arm from its tight sleeve. She could not bear to think what had come into view when her legs had gone over her head.