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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
In 'The Devil's Guard' by Talbot Mundy, readers are plunged into a gripping thriller novel filled with suspense, mystery, and intrigue. Set against the backdrop of a fascinating historical era, the book expertly combines elements of adventure and espionage, keeping the reader on the edge of their seat throughout. Mundy's writing style is both engaging and vivid, painting a vivid picture of the characters and settings. The novel's intricate plot twists and fast-paced narrative will surely captivate fans of action-packed thrillers. This literary work is a testament to Mundy's skill as a master storyteller, drawing readers in with his immersive prose and intricate storytelling. Talbot Mundy's 'The Devil's Guard' is a must-read for anyone interested in thrilling plots, historical settings, and expertly crafted narratives. With its compelling storyline and well-developed characters, this novel is sure to leave a lasting impression on readers who enjoy high-stakes adventure and suspense.
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The Devil's Guard
(Thriller Novel)
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. Chullunder ghose shoots shrewdly with the other barrel of his gun.
We remark upon the slowness of the snail and of the tortoise, but the processes of evolution are incomparably more slow, so that they escape our observation altogether. None the less, we are evolving, although few of us as we suppose. For supposition is the fumes of decomposing vanity—the instrument by which the Devil’s Guard beclouds that road on which we are ascending, lest we see too much and so imagine ourselves gods before the devil in us is evaporated.
—from The Book Of The Sayings Of Tsiang Samdup
I find myself wondering why I should go to the trouble to write what few men will believe. Why do we try to leave records behind us? Why not wait until I meet old friends again on the bank beyond the river, when we can compare notes and laugh at the amateur drama we all combined to spoil with such enthusiasm! Frankly, I don’t know. The impulse is to set down an account of this adventure, in spite of the uncertainty that it will ever reach the United States.
I am writing in a draughty cave, in a temperature that numbs fingers, freezes ink at intervals and makes concentration on the task extremely difficult to a man unused to writing anything but field reports on mines and ordinary business letters. The sheets of this manuscript are fluttering under the stones I have to use as paper-weights; my feet are nearly frozen in a fur bag filled with yak-dung; I am filthy from weeks without washing, and extremely sore from bruises, as well as suffering from what I think is indigestion, due to bad food. Moreover, Jimgrim is not here. He has a clearer brain than mine, a better memory and clearer judgment of essentials. I must tell the story to the best of my recollection without the advantage of comparing notes with him.
Jimgrim—born James Schuyler Grim, but known as Jimgrim all over the Near East, Arabia, parts of Africa, and from Dera Isfail Khan to Sikkim —has served in the Intelligence Departments of at least five nations, always reserving United States citizenship. He speaks a dozen languages so fluently that he can pass himself off as a native; and since he was old enough to build a fire and skin a rabbit the very midst of danger has been his goal, just as most folk spend their lives looking for safety and comfort. When he is what other men would reckon safe, the sheer discomfort of it bores him.
He is the best friend a man could have, the least talkative, the most considerate; and he seems to have no personal ambition—which, I suppose, is why the world rewarded him with colonelcies that he did not seek and opportunities for self-advancement that he never used. Jimgrim could have had anything he cared to ask for in the way of an administrative post; and, funnily enough, the one thing that he always wanted was denied him. From his youth he wished to be an actor. That he is one of exceeding merit, is beyond dispute; but, except for occasional amateur performances behind the lines of armies, he has never set foot on the stage.
He looks as if he were half-Cherokee, although I believe there is only a trace of red man in his ancestry. He has a smile that begins faintly at the corners of his eyes, hesitates there as if to make sure none will be offended by it, and then spreads until his whole face lights with humor, making you realize that he has understood your weakness and compared it with his own. If you have any self-respect at all you can’t pick quarrels with a man who takes that view of life; the more he laughs at you, the more you warm toward him, since he is laughing at himself as well as you.
Grim and I were in Darjeeling with our backs against the porch of a hotel from which the whole range of the Himalayas could be seen, on one of those rare days of autumn when there was neither rain nor mist. The peak of Kanchenjunga stood up sharp and glittering against a turquoise sky. In our ears was the roar of the Ranjit River. In the distance, almost straight in front of us and looking, in that clear air, scarcely fifty miles away, was the outline of the frontier of Tibet.
We had returned, about a week before, from Assam, where I had gone to report on some oil indications. Grim, who made the trip with me, had amused himself by making Nepalis, Lepchas, Sikkimese and Bhutanis believe he was a Tibetan in disguise; and on the other hand, when he had met some old Tibetan pilgrims returning from India toward the Tse-tang Pass he had convinced them he was born in Sikkim. I have seen him play the same game frequently in Arab countries, using the dialect of one tribe to disguise from another such discrepancies of accent as might otherwise betray him.
We were not, I remember, talking. Grim is a man with whom you can sit for hours on end, saying nothing, enjoying his company. Our eyes were on that splendid panorama, neither of us at the moment guessing that our destiny would lead us across it and up to the roof of the world (but not back again). We cannot now go back to the friends we knew and the world we have left behind; but, being at a loose end, we had been discussing, that morning, whether or not we should visit some friends in California.
It was Grim who spoke first, rolling a cigarette and setting his feet on the veranda rail, framing Kanchenjunga between them as if he were squinting at the mountain through a V-sight.
“What next?” he asked.
I did not know. I was sick of business. Grim cares nothing about money, and I had made all I shall ever need; yet we were neither of us in the least disposed to loaf. Neither he nor I have any relatives who matter, we are both unmarried, we agree in loathing politics, and we are both verging on middle age—at that period of life, that is to say, when a man’s real usefulness ought to begin. If a man hasn’t acquired judgment and stability at forty-nine, he had better grow fat and keep out of the way.
I knew Grim had been into Tibet. He was with Younghusband’s expedition, when he got himself into disfavor by ignoring the military problems he was there ostensibly to help clear up, and studying exclusively those apparently insignificant odds and ends, that, he maintains, are “the guts of things.” I did not even guess that he was thinking about Tibet while he stared between his feet at Kanchenjunga.
Before I could answer him there came and sat beside us a small smart Englishman by the name of Dudley Tyne—not a man we knew well, nor knew very much about except that he was popular, reputed dangerous, and in some vague way connected with the Secretariat. He knew how to be tactfully agreeable, but the tact was almost overdone, with the result that one fell on guard against him, though without any definite sense of dislike. We invited him to drink, and for five or six minutes he talked about the mountain range that filled the whole horizon.
He used considerable subtlety in reaching his objective, which was information about Elmer Rait, an American of Columbus, Ohio, with whom I went to school, and with whom I was for several years in partnership until I decided it was not worthwhile to try to continue to get along with him. The things a man says don’t matter much; it is the way he feels toward yourself and others, that makes him friend or not. Elmer Rait and I talked the same language, but thought from entirely opposed angles, and I came at last to the conclusion that he was rotten at the core, although he never did anything liable to get him into prison.
However, that was personal opinion. It was no excuse for telling tales against Rait, so I answered Mr. Tyne extremely guardedly, obliging him to disclose his reasons for so many questions.
“Rait is in Tibet,” he told me at last. “Our government has signed a treaty with Tibet. We recognize their right to keep strangers out of their country, and we’ve agreed to close the frontier. Rait has slipped through, which makes it awkward.”
Grim was listening, his eyes still fixed on Kanchenjunga. I noticed that he took his feet down off the rail, but he threw away his cigarette and rolled another as if the conversation didn’t interest him much.
“In what way are Rait’s movements supposed to concern me?” I asked, expecting to be told that I would have to sign a promise not to try to cross the frontier—that being the Indian Government’s usual method with individuals whose exact intentions are unknown. All governments lock stable doors immediately after a horse has bolted. I would have signed such a promise without question, but fortunately it had no more entered the heads of Anglo-Indian officials than it had mine that I might venture across the border.
“I was told you quarreled with Rait some years ago. I thought you might not object to giving us information,” Tyne suggested.
I told him the exact truth; that I had none sufficiently recent to be of any use. It was seven years since I had seen or heard from Rait.
“He seems to know your whereabouts,” Tyne answered. “Our information is that he wrote to you from Lhasa, sending the letter by hand to someone in Darjeeling. Would you mind letting me see that letter?”
I told him I had not received it. His manners were irreproachable and he left us before long with the impression that he believed every word I said. As if to wipe away the least trace of official unpleasantness he begged us to join him at dinner that night at the club; and because we wished to show that we had not resented his questioning, Grim and I accepted. While we were at dinner with him both our rooms in the hotel were searched and every single document in our possession was gone through thoroughly. To make the raid look plausible a watch-and-chain, a little money and some odds and ends of jewelry were stolen—all of which the police recovered for us next day with an alacrity and lack of fuss that was beyond all praise, but left no doubt as to who had searched our papers.
As we surveyed our upset luggage Grim looked at me and asked in the casual voice with which he hides emotion.
“Do you suppose Rait went to Tibet for his health? What about that? Like to look for him?”
I nodded. If memory serves, that was all the conferring we did as to whether or not we should follow Rait over the border. The very fact that his object in going was a mystery was enough to make us take the trail.
Tyne had asked us again and again to suggest to him who might be the individual to whom Rait would direct a letter for delivery to me. We had not even tried to imagine who it might be. But now, as we looked at our clothes scattered over the floor, and realized that we had been invited out to dinner that the spies might search our rooms without risk of disturbance, we did some thinking, thought of the same man simultaneously and both spoke at once
“Chullunder Ghose!”
There was nobody else in Darjeeling whom Rait would dare to trust and who, at the same time, was known to Rait to have been more or less in my confidence. True, Grim and I had been in Darjeeling for several days since our return from Assam, and Chullunder Ghose had neither presented himself nor sent a messenger; but the fat babu, supposing it was he who had received Rait’s letter, would be the last person on earth to betray its whereabouts to the authorities by any sort of hasty movement.
Said Grim: “If the babu has that letter, he has read it. Probably he hopes to keep its contents to himself.”
Nevertheless, we made no move until the day following, after the police had brought back our stolen trinkets. We did not even discuss the subject, but both pondered it, and both of us reached the same conclusion as to how best to avoid the incessant watchfulness of the ubiquitous Indian spies.
“Hancock!”
It was Grim who voiced the suggestion uppermost in both our minds. Will Hancock is a reverend, possessed of weird ideas of heaven and hell and an entirely hospitable nature. He wears blue spectacles and runs a mission away across the Ranjit River, thirty miles beyond Darjeeling, breeding sturdy little ponies on the side, and writing commentaries on the Buddhist scriptures in his spare time. He has proved, to his own satisfaction, that all the Pali manuscripts are forgeries; that the original Garden of Eden was in Ceylon; that the Afghans and Afridis are the ten lost tribes of Israel; that Alexander never crossed the Indus; and that Moses wrote the Pentateuch. He is a mild man in all except argument, an honest man in everything except debate, a genial, good-natured fellow until you mention any of the subjects and side-issues he has made his own. Behind his graying brown beard and heavily smoked glasses there is so obviously nothing except benevolence and bookish brains that not even the Intelligence Department keeps an eye on him.
“We can make it by sunset,” said I.
But we did not. It was nearly midnight when we rode up to the mission and awoke Will Hancock from a just man’s sleep by making a noise like a cat-and-dog fight, which he came out in pajamas to prevent. It took him about five minutes to unlock the iron gate under the archway, which would keep out almost anything except artillery (whereas the wall is hardly high enough to keep the knee-high convert-children in); but we rode in at last and were welcome, though we kept him out of bed beside a fragrant log fire in the mission dining-room until the dawn dyed Kanchenjunga’s summit gold and crimson and the brass bell summoned him to prayer.
Will Hancock, who is much too shrewd not to have suspected us of mischief, sent his ponies to the hotel for our luggage and a messenger to bring Chullunder Ghose, thus throwing all suspicion off the scent, since nobody would dream of connecting Will with any intrigue more desperate than an assault on Shakespeare under the banner of Francis Bacon, sometime Earl of Verulam.
We rewarded him by praising his clean mission work-shops, where an otherwise fortunate folk were being taught to shoulder Adam’s curse and to acquire expensive tastes for unsuitable objects. We submitted to hearing uncomfortably clean, uncomprehending children sing the Ten Commandments; and in the afternoon Grim played the chapel organ, rendering “Nobody Knows How Dry I Am and Alexander’s Ragtime Band” so wonderfully that Will Hancock thought they were from Handel. (He is no authority on music.)
And in the evening came Chullunder Ghose, a sturdy-legged pony panting under him, three or four chins all grinning, a new heliotrope turban impudently poised on his enormous head, and a fat, sleek, pompous, half-ingratiating, half-truculent swagger, announcing the fact that he was glad to see us—not a doubt of that.
“Rammy sahib! And Jimgrim sahib! I am jolly well reborn! This babu might be father of twins, so proud I am at this summons, which is, doubtless, prelude to an offer of emolument! Oh yes, believe me, both yours very truly! Only name job and be done with it!”
Ungraciously, because we knew him and proposed to establish sound relationships at once, we tipped him off the pony and drove rather than led him into Hancock’s study, where the treatises on Francis Bacon and Mosaic miracles were heaped on chairs as well as on the desk and shelves. There was nowhere to sit except on the floor, so we arranged ourselves cross-legged in a triangle with the babu’s face toward the lamp so that we might read his artfully concealed emotions. Then I held out my hand.
“Give me Rait’s letter!” I said abruptly.
He shook hands, making believe he had not understood me.
“Rammy sahib, this is like old times,” he said, heaving an enormous sigh. “How tempus does jolly well fugit. Is your honor prosperous?”
He looked much too prosperous. He had been robbing some Americans, as all Darjeeling knew, and had not yet had time to lose the money by trying to treble or quadruple it.
“Rait’s letter!” I repeated.
He affected not to hear and began complimenting Jimgrim on his personal appearance:
“Like money in pocket to see you, sahib! Like sunrise on perpetual snow- peaks! This babu basks in your honor’s beatific presence!”
“Rait’s letter!” I said a third time, spanking a fist into my hand for emphasis.
“Sahib, I heard you first shot out of barrel. Silence means dissent —not knowing, can’t say—who is Rait?—What letter? —And besides, I brought no documents. How should I know why you sent for me?”
“Have you read the letter?” Grim asked. “If so, tell us what was in it; bring the letter afterward.”
Chullunder Ghose rocked to and fro and scratched his stomach through the opening of an imported mauve and white-striped flannel shirt.
“Am all ears,” he suggested. “Suitable proposition might act on memory like water from a can on radish seeds. No knowing. Might do worse than try it.”
“You want a blind promise? What do you take us for?” asked Grim.
“Verity in all her nudity is priceless,” said Chullunder Ghose. “Nevertheless, am scoundrel personally and would sell same. Sealed bids will be answered very promptly.”
“I’ll bid you a broken neck,” I told him.
“You should take that bid to the police for registration,” he retorted. “This babu is incorruptible by anything but bribes. Am honest scoundrel, not contemptible skin-salvationist.”
“How many people beside yourself have read the letter?” Grim asked.
“Sahib, you have set accurate foot on cockroach of domestic infelicity. This babu’s wife of bosom is new fangled female who believes in ruling roost. Being virtuous mother of seven children, same being now grown up but not self-supporting—as this babu can testify on stacks of holy books of all religions—she is peevishly disposed toward secretiveness and keen on cash. Having been promised money by insidious stranger and believing, as your honors seem to do, that your humble servant had received mysterious letter from unknown correspondent, she proceeded to search all this babu’s garments—drawing blank as certainly as if she had bought ticket in Calcutta Sweep.”
For a while he chuckled silently, shaking his great stomach, until we grew impatient. Then:
“By and by this babu was observed to bury tin biscuit-box by moonlight, under heap of manure in which she cobra was reported to have laid eggs. Report was false, since cobras are non est in neighborhood but same made no difference to female nerves. Mongooses were bought, which slew chickens of neighbors. Wandering snake charmers were consulted, and discovered cobras naturally, having brought same with them. Subsequently, coolie hired to rake manure heap brought forth empty biscuit-tin and were accused of having stolen all its contents. Heated acrimony, I assure you—followed by such meditation—you could hear my wife’s brain clicking like imported Swiss alarm-clock.
“Virtuous mother of children had to maintain innocence and yet ease strain of her increasing curiosity and appetite for money. Same is complicated process. Much house-cleaning, in order to look under carpets; likewise most ill-tasting victuals, containing adulterants purchased from unlicensed bazaar bootlegger of confounded drugs intended to make me talk in sleep. Resultant bellyache, however, totally prevented sleep, and this babu’s haphazard remarks were beside the point altogether.
“Diet was changed, and tasted much worse. Self-preservation being first rule of all sensible religions, this babu, obeying number one rule, pretended sleep and talked much, suggesting many hiding-places—in all of which nobody home! My wife is good objectionist—first-class, but lacking enchantment which distance might add! Ring bell—they’re off! Devil take hindermost! Where do we go from here!”
Grim signaled with his eyes. I seized the babu by the arms and jerked him off his balance. Grim stuck a hand into his waist-cloth, laughed, and showed Rait’s letter in the lamplight. I let go, and the babu sat up, trying to look dignified as he rearranged his turban.
“You fat scoundrel!” I said. “That is my letter, addressed to me. What do you mean by not handing it over?”
“Fat belly and fat head are not same thing!” the babu answered. “I am honest scoundrel, which is whole point.”
“The seal has been broken and replaced,” said Grim.
“Contents of said letter being consequently known to this babu!” remarked Chullunder Ghose and once more scratched his stomach. “Am your honors’ most obedient humble servant—in predicament from which I beseech rescue for the sake of former services. Tibetan spies who offered money to my wife for information as to contents of that letter are no more eager than British authorities who did ditto.”
“Do you want to be bribed to hold your tongue?” Grim asked him.
Chullunder Ghose looked shocked—grieved-half-incredulous.
“Jimgrim sahib, I am scoundrel from necessity, but honest always. Being short of money, through inability to pull purse-strings of tight-wad wife —to whom I gave all my money for safe-keeping, easy-going disposition and experience of up-and-downishness of fortune being damn bad mixture —I, nevertheless, scorned offers of Tibetan spies, who would have bought that letter from me, cash down—and being refused would undoubtedly have killed me for it, had they been sure that they knew where to find it. “
“Then what do you want?” demanded Grim.
“Salary plus expenses!”
“To do what?”
“Whither thou goest, I go, same as Ruth and Boaz, in English History!”
“You’re a lot too fat,” said Grim.
“Not so. This is all guts,” said the babu, smacking his enormous thighs. Then suddenly he changed his tone of voice and began pleading, swaying backward and forward, hurling the words at us. “Sahibs! I have read that letter! You will go to Tibet. You will not be able to resist! Have I more character than you? Can I resist? I have brains—imagination — courage; I have tasted all adversities; I have encountered dangers: I am failed B.A. Calcutta University, who might have been topnotcher barrister, with only ten more marks! I am adventurer by instinct, same as you, and shall a dark skin stop me? Formerly I have shared your risks; I have been loyal to you; I have kept your secrets; I have never cheated you—not even from the petty cash box when you had your office in the Chandni Chowk in Delhi and a child could have robbed you without your knowing it. I have never refused to obey an order. I have spied and run errands and lied for you. I have made your honor and your success mine—more than mine, for I have set them ahead of mine! And all my life—I tell you, all my life!—I have longed, I have craved to go to Tibet! Shall I let this opportunity escape me? Not so! Do you make me threaten you? Then that is your fault. You are not fools: you are strong white sahibs, who know as well as I do that the color of a man’s skin is no criterion. There are white cowards and brown brave men—brown cowards and white brave men. You know that, and you have tested me a hundred times. So—scoundrel that I am—I offer you my services, to go to Tibet. Should you say yes, then I shall serve you to the death. But should you say no, then I, also, shall say no. You shall not go to Tibet without me, for I will tell the contents of that letter to the Tibetan spies and to the British authorities, both!”
He paused, out of breath, with his hands on his knees, his jaws, that were black with the close-shaven hair, shining with sweat in the lamplight.
“He has more guts than I thought,” said Grim. “How many people besides yourself have read the letter, babu-ji?”
“None! On my honor!”
“Were you followed to this place?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. We shall soon discover,” said Chullunder Ghose, a trifle sulkily.
Grim signaled with his eyes again. I nodded.
“We shall have to call your bluff —” said Grim. “Without reading the letter, or deciding anything else, we refuse to be blackmailed. You may go and tell your tale to the authorities and get your money for it.”
Chullunder Ghose looked downcast. He lowered his head for a moment so that we saw nothing but his turban.
“Too bad,” he said, looking up again. “Oh, very well, I am scoundrel. I can also be magnanimous. I love you both and you may go to Tibet. I shall not tell. But I am sorry. I am heart-broken babu.”
“We shall pay you, of course, for your silence,” said Grim.
“Sahib, I refuse to take your money! Permission to you to go to Tibet is my free gift. You shall not deny me that one consolation.”
Grim caught my eye again, and again I nodded.
“No,” he said, “we won’t deny you anything in reason. If we go to Tibet, you shall come with us.”
Chullunder Ghose grinned. He did his best to look surprised, but he entirely failed. The rascal had merely shot us with the other barrel of his gun. He had been shrewd enough to realize that Grim was only testing him by offering to call his buff. He won the trick; and neither he nor we have since regretted that he did.
CHAPTER II. “A manuscript in the handwriting of jesus!”
Three men set forth seeking fortune. And the one found gold; another came on good land, and he tilled it. But the third saw sunlight making jewels of the dew. All three went by the same road. Each one thought himself the richer.
Elmer rait’s letter had been wrapped in dogskin and then enclosed in a tough brown envelope. It smelled vaguely of ghee. The white paper was filthy with finger-marks, torn here and there, and turned yellow in places with age, as if Rait had made use of such stuff as he found in the markets of Lhasa.
“Dear Jeff: What on earth did we quarrel about? I forget. Nothing serious anyhow—probably ethics. You’re a muscular moralist, whereas I’m practical and don’t even want to make things better than they are. And here I am in Lhasa—the Forbidden City!—thinking of you, wishing you were here too, in spite of those winkers you wear, which you think are respectable compunctions, for all the world like an old maid in a bathing costume with the pants tied round her ankles. You ought to have been a bishop. You’d look splendid with a miter and crook. And how that fist of yours would shake a pulpit! However, there is nobody quite like you: nobody quite so whole-souled in stupidity with so much force behind it; nobody quite so willing to oblige a friend, and especially when the friend least deserves it; nobody more dependable. You’re like a phalanx in reserve, or a siege-train—anything heavy and honest, that can hit like Billy-o when pointed in the right direction.
“Which is Tibet in this instance. Come along. I dare say money wouldn’t tempt you, even though your ancestors were Scotch and you’ve a fortune salted down in tax-exemptums. I have spent seven years preparing for this trip, and I have got through this far as a Tibetan trader with a Chinese accent. I am after loot, though not the kind of loot that you’ll appreciate —ancient manuscripts—priceless. Those won’t tempt you either. This will.
“I am headed for Sham-bha-la. The place is said to be fictitious, although three or four explorers have been within thirty or forty miles of it. You’ve heard of it, of course; you and I talked about it years ago; that time we met the Lama in Benares, who was paying his way with stamped gold ingots.
“When I started out for Lhasa I was not yet sure that Sham- bha-la is a real place, but now I’m positive. I’m almost sure I can get there, and get in, but almost equally sure I can’t get out again without help. Hence this S.O.S. call for the phalanx.
“I will split with you fifty fifty. It is true about the ancient libraries; the books are written on palm-leaves, treated with mastic such as the old Egyptians used, that has preserved them perfectly. They’re bound with leather thongs between wooden blocks, which have had to be renewed every few centuries.
“The people who live in Sham-bha-la can read those books, which are in a language much older than Sanskrit. They are not a warlike people; they will not take life; they protect themselves from intrusion and interference by taking advantage of Tibetan superstition and dislike of strangers. The Dalai Lama, who is a well-meaning man, and the Tashi Lama, who is an extremely intelligent religionist, do what they are told by these Sham- bha-la people, who advise them secretly.
“It would take too long to tell you how I found out all about them, but remember: although we quarreled about morals or some such nonsense, I never once gave you a wrong steer during all the years we were in partnership. If you find my trail and come to Sham-bha-la, I promise you full pay for all your trouble—gold, priceless manuscripts and information that will make historians and scientists look sick. Think of the fun of refuting the high-brows!
“Your danger will be mainly from Tibetans, who are dead- set on keeping all foreigners out of the country. I have quite convinced them I was born in Tibet and kidnapped over the Chinese border in my youth, but there’s a rumor that a white man has slipped in through Gyang-tse (which is the way I came) so they’ll be keeping an extra sharp lookout along that route. They strip all suspected wayfarers and search them, which is no joke with the wind at twenty below zero; so stain your skin with something permanent.
“It’s an awful journey, which will suit you to a T. The country is hell, and you’ll like it. There’s no food fit to eat, no sugar, and you mayn’t smoke. The wind gives you toothache, and Tibetans never wash; dirt helps to keep them warm and fuel is scarce everywhere. Tibetans are all right—no bigger rogues than you and me—but awfully suspicious. Yes, I know well you believe you are honest. The Tibetans won’t believe it, so look out for them.
“Beware of women, who are in a minority in Tibet and therefore doubly dangerous. Some of them go in for polyandry, and they like men Herculean, so beware! They get indignant when their overtures are turned down, and the other husbands take it as an insult to themselves, so they go after you with bows and arrows. One white man I heard of—I forget his name—fell for the proposition, hoping to find some way to visit Lhasa; he found himself one of nine and, being the latest recruit—a mere Plebe, as it were—was made bell-hop to the gang. I’m told he stuck it out for five or six years, always trying to escape, until he almost forgot he was white; but one day he took a bath in a hot spring, the dye gave out, and the woman was tired of him anyway. So they had him examined by a government official, who found him guilty, had him flogged to death and fed him to the dogs. The fact that the woman and all her husbands were also flogged to death was not much consolation to him. Better avoid matrimony, even at the risk of seeming rude.
“Don’t trust anyone on British territory, except Chullunder Ghose, who is an impudent scoundrel but extremely fond of you. Him you will have to trust, so make the best of it. You had better bring him with you; he will die in the passes, which is the best thing that could happen to him. You will probably need one confidant who can make the grade, but whatever you do, don’t bring along a white man. Choose someone you can kick, and who won’t matter much if he dies. Any white man would be certain to turn quarrelsome, at this elevation, with the bad grub, and dirt, and one thing and another. Particularly, don’t bring Jimgrim or Narayan Singh. I know they’re your friends, or you think they are, but I hate them both. They think they know too much, and neither of them has the slightest use for me.
“You must make your way toward Lhasa and work that great lump of a head of yours for all it’s worth. Discover my Tibetan name and where I am. Naturally, I don’t dare to write my Tibetan name in this letter, which might fall into the wrong hands, in spite of all precautions. You will have to prospect for me. You remember those marks we used to make on rocks when we were prospecting? Look out for those or something like them. Where-ever you see such a mark beside the main road you may look for a message in writing not far from it—probably hidden under the stones of one of the countless roadside cairns on which each passer-by sticks a prayer-flag.
“You can’t get in through China, because the Chinese and Tibetans haven’t made peace, except nominally, and both sides have blocked the frontier. They say it’s equally impossible to get down through Siberia, because the Soviet people have closed all routes, which are said to be almost impassable anyhow. Sven Hedin came up several years ago along the Valley of the Indus, while the Maharajah of Kashmir pretended to look the other way; there was an awful row about it, and the odds are that way’s blocked; the Maharajah won’t dare look away another time. You’d better take the least used and most difficult route you can find, and hold your tongue about it.
“The chief danger, of course, is from spies on the Indian side of the border, who might learn of your intentions and tip off the Lhasa Government. There’s a telegraph wire between Lhasa and Gyang-tse, at which latter place there’s a British officer and a small detachment of troops who help the Tibetans to watch the border. It’s the funniest amateur telegraph set you ever saw, but it serves its purpose, which is to help them keep out foreigners.
“Kashmiris and Bhutanis are allowed to travel in Tibet without much interference. Let your beard grow, curl it, and you’ll look enough like a Kashmiri merchant to get by, provided you don’t talk too much. Don’t kid yourself that you can speak Kashmiri like a native. You never could. You can’t. You never will. You can look the part, and you’re a better actor than your idiotic modesty allows you to pretend. So pretend to be sick —or be deaf and dumb—or mad. Affliction is a passport everywhere. You always were mad anyhow; you ought to find that role easy.
“Either I am on the track of the most important discovery of modern times, or else I shall explode a fable that a third of the world has believed so long that it has become a tenet of religion. After seven years’ preparation and inquiry I am confident that this is not a mare’s nest, however, and that the results will exceed expectations. The main trouble will be to get out with the loot, which is why it’s so important you should come.
“My argument is this: These men in Sham-bha-la possess important secrets, and they are clever enough to have kept themselves hidden —almost, you might say, a myth—for centuries, although in ancient times there used to be a traveled highway to their door, all the way across Asia from Europe. Why they withdrew into their shell, I don’t know. It is said that Pythagoras went to them; and so did Lao-Tse. They hide themselves, and they protect themselves behind the screen of the Tibetans’ savagery, but they won’t take life. So, if we can penetrate the screen, we’re safe.
“Do you remember the story about that woman who once overheard the secrets of Freemasonry? They couldn’t kill her. They couldn’t turn her loose with their secrets. They had to admit her into the Order. Why she didn’t take advantage of them to start a lodge for women and make herself Grand-Mistress of it, is beyond me to imagine. Some weird point of morals probably, which certainly would never limit me.
“From what I have heard and definitely ascertained and guessed—one thing added to another—I believe that I can get through and oblige these Sham-bha-la people to admit me into their secrets. If they can find some way of binding me, that will mean more to me than a wisp of straw, good luck to them! I’ll give them best if they can prove it; but they will have to prove something more than that they can make me take an oath on an ancient book. To get there, to meet them and to force their hand is up to me. To make me keep their secrets after that, is up to them. They’ll have to use their wits if they propose to pack me off without an armful of their ancient books—if nothing else. And get this: I am told there is a manuscript in the handwriting of Jesus!
“So now you know enough to start you rolling blankets! Bring no tobacco with you, but as much sugar as you can hide among your loads: there isn’t any sugar in all Tibet, and you’ll crave it like a hop-head yelling for his coke.
“If you should get any hint of my whereabouts before you reach Lhasa, leave Lhasa out of your itinerary. The monks here are fanatical, suspicious, quarrelsome and rather wide-awake. Be careful at the wayside inns, where there are always spies, who get paid by results and are therefore keen on the job.
“Wear snow spectacles, and don’t wash. A clean man, who has no lice on him, is certain to arouse suspicion. There—I think that’s all. I’m going to count on you to come, and shall make all my plans accordingly. You will suit yourself, of course. But if you don’t come you will have it on your conscience that you left me in the lurch after my running the prodigious risk of writing you this letter, which might easily betray me if the wrong man should get hold of it. Just for once in your life don’t moralize—don’t preach to yourself—don’t get all bogged up in a sticky code of out-of-fashion ethics, but remember I was once your partner, and come just as fast as your obstinate old legs can bring you.
“Yours, E. R.”
I read the letter aloud to Grim.
“I hope they’ve fed him to the dogs,” he commented. “He’s rotten!”
“Nevertheless,” remarked Chullunder Ghose, “he is absolutely right about Narayan Singh, who should not come with us. That Sikh slew the Dead Sea! This babu is pretty good insurance risk without Narayan Singh to get us into trouble by sticking his sword into all comers. Am pacifist for totally immoral reasons, same being it is safer. Smack me and I smack you. Smile, and the world regards you as pigeon whom it can pluck much less aggressively. Let us therefore not be aggressors but leave Narayan Singh behind.”
“He’s in the railway police now,” Grim remarked. “Generally on duty at one of the Delhi stations, watching passengers off the express trains.”
“How democratic! Am already out-voted!” said Chullunder Ghose. “That Sikh will increase majority to three to one. Am personally G.B. Shavian opinionist, believing that majorities are always wrong—but never mind, I would rather be wrong than have to live in a barrel like Diogenes. It is also better to pay income taxes than to be a hermit. Let us make plans.”
CHAPTER III. In which Benjamin yields as a woman should — for love, not money.
My son, some kings are commonplace, and not all laborers are worthy of their hire. But this I say to you: that if you are in league with gods to learn life and to live it, neither kings nor commoners can possibly prevent you, though they try their utmost. You shall find help unexpectedly, from strangers who, it may be, know not why.
It was not long before we learned that we had failed to throw spies off the scent. That night we sat up late discussing Tibet with Will Hancock, who had a surprising amount of information about the country. We did not admit to him that we intended to make our way over the border, he being one of those conscientious men who would have felt obliged to inform the government of anything he actually knew. But he is no man’s fool; he answered all our questions without committing any such indiscretion as to ask us questions in return.
Will Hancock’s chief anxiety was the season of the year. It was already autumn: the monsoon was likely to break at almost any time, after which the valleys and all the lower slopes of the Himalayas would be deluged, and the upper passes would be blocked with snow. However, he had other reasons for instilling caution:
“Some people enjoy disobeying governments,” he said, blinking at us through his horn-rimmed spectacles. “But up in Tibet they have made a cult of disobedience to God! It is a lie that there is any pure philosophy or pure religion up there. What there is, is sorcery—black magic—the same evil that the witch of Endor practised and that brought Sodom and Gomorrah to their ruin—that alliance with the powers of evil that the Apostle Paul denounced. With all my heart I would advise anyone against trespassing in Tibet.”
“You should publish a book on the subject,” said Grim.
“What—and advertise iniquity?”
Will Hancock lectured us for hours on the sin of curiosity, but at the end of it I think he realized he had only contrived to arouse that vice in us.
Next morning there was a great bell-ringing at the outer gate and a man named Tsang-Mondrong, a Tibetan, asked to see the “white sahibs.”
“Was fifty-fifty spy of both sides on Younghusband expedition!” said Chullunder Ghose. But Grim, who was on that expedition too, did not remember him.
He turned out to be one of those products of the meeting of the East and West who can speak English with extraordinary fluency, and who think they understand the Western point of view so well as to be able to impose their espionage unsuspected. He had been keeping watch on Chullunder Ghose and had simply followed him out to the mission.
He pretended to think that Grim and I were planning an expedition after big game, asked whether we had permits, and offered his services as guide, saying he knew some good bear country and some trails leading northward that were hardly ever used and consequently teeming with big game of all kinds. It was a ridiculously obvious trap to get us to reveal our plans to him. He sat there, itching to be questioned.
So we told him we were leaving for Bombay and Europe; and to convince him I asked him to take a telegram back to Darjeeling for despatch to Bombay, ordering reservations on the earliest available steamer, but wording the telegram in such way that the steamer people would not accept it as a definite order. He agreed to take the telegram but hung around all morning questioning the mission servants and even trying to get Hancock to reveal our confidences.
He was one of the ugliest men I have ever seen, and the more we saw of him, the more hideous he seemed to become. In the first place he was pock- marked, and the pits were so deep and wide that they resembled the craters on the moon seen through a high-powered telescope. He had the usual Mongolian high cheek-bones and more or less almond eyes, but his eyes were yellow, not brown, with a tinge of green in them, and as he had neither eyelashes nor eyebrows, the effect was gruesome. Where eyebrows should have been there was a scar that looked as if it might have been made by a whip thong. The teeth of his lower jaw projected and when he grinned, which he did almost whenever he spoke, his lower lip drew downward and displayed the gum. His skin was the color of raw pig’s liver. His neck was so short that his head seemed to grow from his shoulders, which were extremely wide. He had unusually long arms, a long body, and legs much too short for his height; the sleeves of his bazaar-made khaki jacket hardly came below his elbows, whereas his trousers had to be rolled up several inches. One foot was considerably larger than the other.
Yet, in spite of those deformities, he was as active as a cat, and though his head was narrow and stupid looking—though, in fact, he actually was stupid in many respects almost to the verge of idiocy—he was very sharp-witted and far-sighted, as well as persistent along lines where he thought his own particular personal interests were concerned.
“He will be harder to get rid of than a louse without disinfectant,” said Chullunder Ghose. “He will take that telegram and show it to the authorities, to prove to them that we do not need to be watched, by that means securing a monopoly of watching us. Thus, when the time comes to betray us he will not need to share the reward; and he will certainly first blackmail us out of our senses before handing over what is left of us for the authorities to jump on. Argue with me! Subdue me with violence! Make rude remarks about my mother! Prove to me, black on white, that I am wrong! Nevertheless, I know and have told you.”
Chullunder Ghose was right, and we believed him, but, we had a plan that we thought would hide our objective, and make it appear mere waste of time to shadow us. The trails leading into Tibet by way of Sikkim and Bhutan are more numerous than many people think, and some of them are not so difficult as rumor makes them out to be. Armies, for instance, have marched over those passes in midwinter, and there is hardly any season of the year when Tibetans are unable to reach India if they wish. But all the well-known routes were certain to be watched, especially since it was known to the Tibetans, as well as the British Government, that Rait had crossed the border; and though we did not actually know of any other route than those marked on the maps, we had more reasons than one for going first of all to Delhi.
In Delhi was our friend Narayan Singh, whom we proposed to take with us. And in Delhi was a Jew named Benjamin, who certainly has never been in Tibet, but, whose network of business connections is like a ganglion of nerves that ramify through Asia.
So to Delhi we made our way by train from Darjeeling, attracting as little attention to ourselves as possible and marking “Bombay” on our luggage labels. Darjeeling is the mountain terminus of a two-foot gauge line that runs through some of the finest scenery in the world to Siliguri, which is the main-line junction. On Darjeeling station was the usual crowd of Lepchas, Nepalis, Eurasians, Sikkimese, Bengalis, nondescripts, and a scattering of Europeans, and there were certainly police spies in the crowd, some of whom studied our luggage labels. Three men and a woman were within earshot when we bought the tickets, and one half-naked individual appeared to be watching Chullunder Ghose to see whether or not he was in attendance on us. But there was no sign of Tsang-Mondrong until the whistle blew for the train to start. Then, leaning out of a window, I saw him run out of the waiting-room and jump into a third-class carriage.
At Siliguri he concealed himself behind a mound of luggage; but I saw him leave his lurking place to buy a ticket and when the main-line train came in he boarded it. Thereafter, at every station at which the express stopped on the way to Delhi he was out on the platform watching for us.
Chullunder Ghose came into our compartment and regaled us with gloomy reminiscences. He appeared already to have lost all confidence in the success of our adventure.
“Tsang-Mondrong,” he said, “is identical swine who gave lessons in Tibetan to Rait sahib, continuing same for six months until discovered tearing secret notes out of a memorandum book. Rait sahib being little man, resultant fight was jolly well worth one rupee admission. This babu witnessed that imbroglio and afterward assisted to recorrect alignment of Tibetan’s limbs, Rait sahib having ju-jitsued hind leg into place where teeth should be and vice versa. Reconstruction was like Chinese puzzle with directions how to open it inside. Tsang-Mondrong probably is contemplating vengeance, hoping to trace Rait sahib by following us. You may think you know a lot, but you have no idea how these savages pursue a vengeance to the limit. Wait and see!”
However, there is such a thing as luck, although it usually comes with a sting in its tail, and having made you overconfident, presents you with a crisis and deserts you when you least expect it. On the Delhi station platform was Narayan Singh in khaki uniform with a row of medal ribbons on his breast. His black beard parted in a flashing smile the moment he saw us, and he came running, waving his arm commandingly for porters, in two minds whether to salute or to throw convention to the winds and shake us by the hand. “Sahibs!” he exclaimed. “Sahibs!” He seemed more glad to see us than if we had been brothers risen from the grave. “What now! This police work is no trade for a man like me!”
Grim took him by the elbow and pointed out Tsang-Mondrong, who was making his way through the crowd toward the exit where he would be able to keep an eye on us.
“Arrest him!” said Grim. “Keep him under lock and key until we’ve given him the slip. Then chuck your job and come to us at Benjamin’s.”
He grinned. A minute later the Tibetan made the grave mistake of offering resistance to arrest and, furthermore, misjudged Narayan Singh’s strength, which is not much less than mine. Three policemen came up on the run with their yellow truncheons swinging, and Tsang-Mondrong had not even enough senses left to be meek with by the time the handcuffs had been snapped on. He was hurled into the station lock-up and there held incommunicado for the ambulance.
Grim and I took one cab, Chullunder Ghose another, and we drove by different routes through the swarming, stinking streets to Benjamin’s in the Chandni Chowk, which is the old Street of the Silversmiths, the heart of the business zone of modern Delhi. The old Jew’s shop draws no attention to itself, its narrow, shabby-looking front being wedged between two warehouses, but that appearance is deceptive; the narrow front part where the counter is, with a row of shelves behind it, leads to a curtain at the rear beside a stairway, and beyond that is a vast and shadowy warehouse where the odds and ends of all the world, from London to Peking, are piled in heaps amid a smell of saddlery, dried-camel sweat, old clothes and spices.
The old Jew received us warily, his red-rimmed eyes betraying nervousness, artistic-looking fingers scratching his chin through a long beard streaked with gray.
“Jimgrim!” he said. “Ramsden! Tscha-tacha! Vultures! Kites! When you gather, there is trouble! What now?”
We sat down on a pile of carpets in the gloom and lighted cigarettes before we answered, he peering at us, slightly stooped, kneading his fingers together—a typical Asian Jew, if there is such a thing, more nervous than a bird and full of wisdom won in combat with the world’s unfairness —timid where a Gentile would be rash, bold where a Gentile would not dare to venture—generous, thrifty, honest, a keen bargainer contemptuous of fools—a man of strong affections and extreme fears.
“Confidences, Benjamin,” I said, when I had smoked about a quarter of a cigarette and Grim continued silent.
“Nah-nah! Keep your confidences? Those are dangerous!” He scratched his head, pushing his embroidered silk turban forward over his forehead.
“When did you begin to play safe?” Grim inquired.
“Nobody brings confidences here unless he wants money or—”
“Give him our money,” said Grim, and I began to count out Bank-of-England notes.
“Trouble!” said Benjamin. “I smell trouble! Take your money to the bankers!”
“The clerks who keep bank ledgers sell their information. You know that as well as I do, Benjamin,” said Grim. “Give us a receipt, and tell us how to get to Tibet.”
He flew into a passion of denials, swearing he knew nothing about Tibet, never had been there, knew nobody who had been, had had nothing to do with the country at any time, and did not intend to have anything to do with it.
“And I am old,” he added. “I know best.”
“It is because you are old, and you know, and we know you, that we have come to you,” said Grim.
“But it is against the law! There is an order in council—”
“Benjamin,” said Grim, “who thought about order in council, or law, when your relatives were starving in a Turkish prison and Jeff Ramsden helped them out? Did you study law when you hid Rabindra Das after the Amritsar business and helped him escape into Persia?”
“Who told you that?” Benjamin demanded.
“Rabindra Das. I also helped him to escape,” said Grim.
“Yei-yei-yei—who shall keep secrets while you live Jimgrim? How many of you go to Tibet?”
“Jeff and I, Narayan Singh and Chullunder Ghose.”
“Tshuh! You talk madness! You—yes—maybe. Ramsden? Better take an elephant! Chullunder Ghose! Narayan Singh? The one will talk to all comers and try to sell lottery tickets to the Tashi Lama; the other will offer to fight the whole Tibetan army!”
Nevertheless, Benjamin took up the money from the mat and went to a desk in the corner to write a receipt. It was while he was doing that, that Chullunder Ghose came in, as genial and confident as if he owned the store, with none of its responsibilities.
“Salaam, Benjamin! Salaam, O chosen person! Son of the great Joshua who made the sun stand still, salaam! We wish for chariot of Elijah in which to cross Himalayan Mountains; order same for us, taking care that taximeter has been properly inspected—submarine of Jonah being useless in this instance! Nevertheless, be careful of police, who will look up chariot’s license number!”
