Gil the Gunner - George Manville Fenn (people reading books .TXT) 📗
- Author: George Manville Fenn
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Somehow, in spite of my desperate position, fully expecting that, at my next refusal, the rajah would flash out and try force to bring me to his way, I felt after my calm, quiet, nightly prayer, out there in the silence of that forest, more at rest and full of hope.
“Things generally mend when they come to the worst,” I said, with a sigh; and now, giving up all expectation of any visitor making his way to my couch that night, I lay listening to the faint calling of the huge cat that was prowling about, gazing the while at my shaded lamp, round which quite a dozen moths were circling, and finally dropped off to sleep.
It was late in the morning when I opened my eyes, to find the white figure of Salaman patiently in attendance, waiting for me to get up.
He smiled as soon as he saw that I was awake, and threw open the folds of the tent door to admit the sunshine. Then, with all the skill and cleverness of the native valet, he carefully waited on me, relieving me of all difficulties due to my wounded arm, which was painful in the extreme if I attempted to move it, and when I was nearly dressed, turned silently to the door to signal to his men to be ready with my early coffee.
“The morning is very hot, my lord,” he said; “and I have told them to place the breakfast under the tree. It is a fresh spot, which I hope my lord will like.”
At that moment there was a low moaning cry, as of some one in pain, hurried steps, loud voices, and then a dull thud, as if some one had fallen.
Salaman ran out of the tent, and I followed, to find that, some twenty yards away, a figure in ragged white garments was lying on the ground, his face covered with blood, which literally dyed his garments; and as he lay there upon his breast with his arms extended, one hand held a little round shield, the other grasped a bloody sword.
“What is it?” cried Salaman to four of his men, who were standing about the prostrate figure.
“As we live, we do not know,” said one of them. “He came running up, crying for help, and when we spoke, he looked back as if frightened, and struggled on till he fell, as you see.”
“He has been attacked by budmashes,” said another.
“No,” said the first. “Look at his long beard; he is a holy man—a fakir.”
At that moment the poor fellow tried to raise himself, and groaned out the words, “Bagh, bagh!”
“Ah!” cried Salaman, bending down over him.
“Quick! some cotton—some water,” I said; “the poor fellow has been attacked and mauled by a tiger.”
“Bagh, bagh!” groaned the man again, and he struggled up now to rest upon his shield-hand, gazing wildly round, and, shuddering before seeming satisfied that the danger was passed, he raised his curved sword and looked at it.
By this time one of the men had fetched some strips of cotton, and another brought fresh water, a portion of which the fakir drank heartily, but resented the attendant’s action, as he sought to bathe his face, but submitted willingly to having his arm washed and the wounds tied up.
They proved to be only superficial; but, all the same, they were four ugly scratches down the fleshy part of the man’s left arm, while over his right shoulder there were three more marks, which had bled pretty freely; and now, as I stood by helpless myself, I listened as he told the attendants how he was slowly journeying, thinking of staying by the first well, as the sun was growing hot, the tiger suddenly sprang out at him, alighting upon his back, and sending him down insensible. That he had come to, struggled up, and was on his way again, sick, but eager to get away from the edge of the forest, when the tiger had appeared again, creeping from tuft of grass to bush, tracking him, he said, as a cat does a mouse, and always threatening to spring.
For long enough this continued, till at last it sprang, after the poor fellow had suffered that most intense agony of dread. As the tiger sprang, he in turn had involuntarily crouched, holding the sword before him, so that the savage beast leaped right upon it, as it struck him down, deluging him with blood, and then uttering a snorting yell as it bounded away again amongst the low growth of the forest-side.
He rose and continued his retreat, but the beast appeared again, still skulking along near the track, and threatening to spring, but with a rush back it had plunged into some dry grass; and had not reappeared as he staggered on, faint with terror, till he had caught sight of one of my attendants, and run on here, to fall completely exhausted.
They led the poor fellow away as, after seeing that he was out of danger, I turned from him in disgust, and soon after was seated at my morning meal.
“How is the old man?” I asked Salaman. “Have you given him a bath?”
“Oh no, my lord.”
“A few chatties thrown over him ought to do him good.”
“But he is a holy man, my lord. He would be ready to curse us, if we did so. He has not washed for years.”
“He looked it,” I said. “But why?”
“Who knows, my lord? Perhaps he had sworn an oath. He is one of the blessed.”
“Will he go on to-day?”
“No, my lord. He will stay till he is strong enough to go. It is a blessing on our camp for him to be here, and the tiger must have been possessed of the evil spirit to dare to attack a fakir.”
“Well, don’t let him come near me,” I said. “I believe that cleanliness is next to godliness, Salaman. You are strange people: if I, a Christian, drink out of one of your vessels, you would say it was defiled, and break it. But you go and handle that nasty, dirty old man, and say it is a blessing for him to come.”
“Yes, my lord; he is a fakir.”
“Very good,” I said; “but, I repeat, don’t let him come near me.”
“He will not, my lord. We could not have it. He might curse my lord, because he is an unbeliever.”
“Well, never mind that,” I said. “He knows no better. I trust he was more frightened than hurt.”
“Yes, my lord; but those are ugly wounds.”
“Yes,” I said. “But what would the rajah say at your having people so near?”
“His highness may not know. He would be angry if he knew that the fakir was here. But if he does know—well, it was fate.”
“Will he come to-day?”
“Thy servant knoweth not. It would be better that he stayed till the holy man has gone his way.”
The rajah did not come that day, nor the next, and it troubled me sadly, for it made me feel that he thought he was sure of me, and the more I led that solitary life, and satisfied myself that I was most carefully watched, the more I dreaded my firmness.
For, in my greatest fits of despondency, I began asking myself why I should hold out. If the English were driven out of India, who would know or care anything about me?
But I always came back to the dirty slip of paper with the characters on that I could not read. They meant hope to me, and friends coming to help me, and this gave me strength.
The second day after the dirty old fakir came, I went for a walk, for my horse had not arrived; and, as I expected, the sentries were at hand, but they did not follow me, and I soon found out the reason. About a quarter of a mile from my tent, I came upon a fierce-looking man, sitting like a statue upon his horse, grasping his lance, and, whichever way I went, there were others.
To test this, I turned in several directions—in amongst the trees, and out toward the slope leading to the plain; but everywhere there were these mounted sentries ready to start out quietly from behind some tree, and change their position so as to be a hundred yards ahead of me wherever I went; and it was all done so quietly that, to a casual observer, it would have appeared as if they had nothing whatever to do with me, but were simply watching the country for advancing foes, an idea strengthened by the way in which signals were made with their tall lances.
They took no notice of me, and apparently, as in their case, I took no notice of them, but finished my stroll, after gathering in all I could of the aspect of the beautiful slope, the forest at its head, and the far-spreading plain below, thinking what a splendid domain the rajah owned, and then made for my tent, with the mounted men slowly closing in again.
I could only escape by night, I remember thinking, and I was getting close up to the trees that hid our little camp, dolefully pondering over my position and the hopelessness of succour from without, when all at once a hideous figure rose up from beneath a tree and confronted me; and as I stopped short, startled by the foul appearance of the man, with his long tangled hair and wild grey beard, I saw Salaman and two of his helpers come running toward us, just as the old fakir—for it was he—raised his hands, and in a denunciatory way poured forth a torrent of wild abuse. His eyes looked as if starting out of his head; he bared his arms, and, as it seemed to me, cursed and reviled me savagely as an infidel dog whom he would deliver over to the crows and jackals, while he hoped that the graves of my father, mother, and all our ancestors, might be defiled in every possible way.
And all the time he looked as if he would spring upon me, but I did not much fear that, for he was very old, and as weak as could be from his wounds. This and his passion, which increased as Salaman and the men came up, forced him to cling to a tree for support, but his tongue was strong enough, though his throat grew hoarse, and his voice at last became a husky whisper, while Salaman and the others tried to calm him, though evidently fearing to bring the curses down upon their own heads, and shrinking from the old wretch whenever he turned angrily upon them, as they tried to coax him away.
These efforts were all in vain, and as I stood there quite firm, not liking to appear afraid, and caring very little for his curses, his voice grew inaudible, and he began to spit upon the ground.
“I pray my lord to go,” said Salaman at last.
“Why should I go?” I said pettishly. “Drive the reviling old rascal away.”
“No, no, my lord,” he whispered; “we dare not.”
“Then I shall complain to the rajah. I am sure he would not have me annoyed in this way if he knew.”
“No, my lord,” said Salaman, humbly; “but what can thy servant do?”
“Do? Send the dirty old madman off.”
“Oh, hush, my lord, pray,” whispered Salaman. “Thy servant loves to serve thee, and his highness is thy friend. If aught befel my lord from the holy man’s curses, what should I do?”
“Do?” I repeated. “Send him about his business.”
“But he will not go, my lord, until he pleases.”
“Then I shall send one of the sowars with a message to the rajah,” I said firmly. “I am not going to be insulted by that old dog.”
“My lord, I pray,” said Salaman, imploringly. “His highness would punish me, and my lord knows
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