King–of the Khyber Rifles - ebook

CHAPTER 1

Suckled were we in a school unkind
On suddenly snatched deduction
And ever ahead of you (never behind!)
Over the border our tracks you’ll find,
Wherever some idiot feels inclined
To scatter the seeds of ruction.
For eyes we be, of Empire, we!
Skinned and Puckered and quick to see
And nobody guesses how wise we be.
Unwilling to advertise we be.
But, hot on the trail of ties, we be
The pullers of roots of ruction!
– Song of the Indian Secret Service

THE men who govern India – more power to them and her! – are few. Those who stand in their way and pretend to help them with a flood of words are a host. And from the host goes up an endless cry that India is the home of thugs, and of three hundred million hungry ones.

The men who know – and Athelstan King might claim to know a little – answer that she is the original home of chivalry and the modern mistress of as many decent, gallant, native gentlemen as ever graced a page of history.

The charge has seen the light in print that India – well-spring of plague and sudden death and money-lenders – has sold her soul to twenty succeeding conquerors in turn.

Athelstan King and a hundred like him whom India has picked from British stock and taught, can answer truly that she has won it back again from each by very purity of purpose.

So when the world war broke the world was destined to be surprised on India’s account. The Red Sea, full of racing transports crowded with dark- skinned gentlemen, whose one prayer was that the war might not be over before they should have struck a blow for Britain, was the Indian army’s answer to the press.

The rest of India paid its taxes and contributed and muzzled itself and set to work to make supplies. For they understand in India, almost as nowhere else, the meaning of such old-fashioned words as gratitude and honor; and of such platitudes as, “Give and it shall be given unto you.”

More than one nation was deeply shocked by India’s answer to “practices” that had extended over years. But there were men in India who learned to love India long ago with that love that casts out fear, who knew exactly what was going to happen and could therefore afford to wait for orders instead of running round in rings.

Athelstan King, for instance, nothing yet but a captain unattached, sat in meagerly furnished quarters with his heels on a table. He is not a doctor, yet he read a book on surgery, and when he went over to the club he carried the book under his arm and continued to read it there. He is considered a rotten conversationalist, and he did nothing at the club to improve his reputation.

“Man alive – get a move on!” gasped a wondering senior, accepting a cigar. Nobody knows where he gets those long, strong, black cheroots, and nobody ever refuses one.

“Thanks – got a book to read,” said King.

“You ass! Wake up and grab the best thing in sight, as a stepping stone to something better! Wake up and worry!”

King grinned. You have to when you don’t agree with a senior officer, for the army is like a school in many more ways than one.

“Help yourself, sir! I’ll take the job that’s left when the scramble’s over. Something good’s sure to be overlooked.”

“White feather? Laziness? Dark Horse?” the major wondered. Then he hurried away to write telegrams, because a belief thrives in the early days of any war that influence can make or break a man’s chances. In the other room where the telegraph blanks were littered in confusion all about the floor, he ran into a crony whose chief sore point was Athelstan King, loathing him as some men loathe pickles or sardines, for no real reason whatever, except that they are what they are.

“Saw you talking to King,” he said.

“Yes. Can’t make him out. Rum fellow!”

“Rum? Huh! Trouble is he’s seventh of his family in succession to serve in India. She has seeped into him and pickled his heritage. He’s a believer in Kismet crossed on to Opportunity. Not sure he doesn’t pray to Allah on the sly! Hopeless case.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite!”

So they all sent telegrams and forgot King who sat and smoked and read about surgery; and before he had nearly finished one box of cheroots a general at Peshawar wiped a bald red skull and sent him an urgent telegram.

“Come at once!” it said simply.

King was at Lahore, but miles don’t matter when the dogs of war are loosed. The right man goes to the right place at the exact right time then, and the fool goes to the wall. In that one respect war is better than some kinds of peace.

In the train on the way to Peshawar he did not talk any more volubly, and a fellow traveler, studying him from the opposite corner of the stifling compartment, catalogued him as “quite an ordinary man.” But he was of the Public Works Department, which is sorrowfully underpaid and wears emotions on its sleeve for policy’s sake, believing of course that all the rest of the world should do the same.

“Don’t you think we’re bound in honor to go to Belgium’s aid?” he asked. “Can you see any way out of it?”

“Haven’t looked for one,” said King.

“But don’t you think –”

“No,” said King. “I hardly ever think. I’m in the army, don’t you know, and don’t have to. What’s the use of doing somebody else’s work?”

“Rotter!” thought the P.W.D. man, almost aloud; but King was not troubled by any further forced conversation. Consequently he reached Peshawar comfortable, in spite of the heat. And his genial manner of saluting the full- general who met him with a dog-cart at Peshawar station was something scandalous.

“Is he a lunatic or a relative or royalty?” the P.W.D. man wondered.

Full-generals, particularly in the early days of war, do not drive to the station to meet captains very often; yet King climbed into the dog-cart unexcitedly, after keeping the general waiting while he checked a trunk!

The general cracked his whip without any other comment than a smile. A blood mare tore sparks out of the macadam, and a dusty military road began to ribbon out between the wheels. Sentries in unexpected places announced themselves with a ring of shaken steel as their rifles came to the “present,” which courtesies the general noticed with a raised whip. Then a fox-terrier resumed his chase of squirrels between the planted shade-trees, and Peshawar became normal, shimmering in light and heat reflected from the “Hills.”

(The P.W.D. man, who would have giggled if a general mentioned him by name, walked because no conveyance could be hired. Judgment was in the wind.)

On the dog-cart’s high front seat, staring straight ahead of him between the horse’s ears, King listened. The general did nearly all the talking.

“The North’s the danger.”

King grunted with the lids half-lowered over full dark eyes. He did not look especially handsome in that attitude. Some men swear he looks like a Roman, and others liken him to a gargoyle, all of them choosing to ignore the smile that can transform his whole face instantly.

“We’re denuding India of troops – not keeping back more than a mere handful to hold the tribes in check.”

King nodded. There has never been peace along the northwest border. It did not need vision to foresee trouble from that quarter. In fact it must have been partly on the strength of some of King’s reports that the general was planning now.

“That was a very small handful of Sikhs* you named as likely to give trouble. Did you do that job thoroughly?”

King grunted.

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