The Mercy of the Lord Part 40

_No Thoroughfare_

_Case of Plague within s'elp me Gawd_."

Segregation! by all that was holy!

I tied my horse to the inarched root of a _jund_ tree, set aside the braces, and made my way through the bushes.

It was quite a comfortable secluded spot. The grey-green set-with-scarlet brocade of the caper bushes formed a curtain round it, the floor of it was hard and white as marble; but in the middle of the little open s.p.a.ce there was, as one sees so often in this Bar land, a tiny hillock of sand that had been whirled thither and left by the wild dust storms which sweep over the Rajputana desert. And on this sand Job Charnock lay, his face turned up to the sky. He cannot have been dead long, for his body was untouched by wild birds or beasts, but he was quite dead. Perhaps though, the sleeves of his turkey-red shirt--the rest of it having evidently gone to the making of crosses--which were hung on sticks set in the sand at his head and his feet might, so far, have frightened away the animals. They might have been put there for the purpose; on the other hand they might have been meant as a last danger signal, not to prevent harm being done to him, but to prevent him from "'arming anybody." His bare body showed terribly emaciated; but his face was calm; it almost had a smile upon it.

Had he really died of the plague; or, in coming, it might be, to see me, had he lost his way, as a stranger might well do, in the pathless Bar, and fallen a victim to starvation? And had the recurrence of hunger brought on his curious hallucination once more?

Who could say? Plague was very prevalent. It might be one; it might be the other.

I stood looking at the peaceful face for a minute or two; then I made up my mind. He should have his wish; no one this time should interfere with his desire to "do no 'arm to n.o.body."

So, covering the body for the time with the doubled blanket I always use as a saddle cloth, I rode off to the nearest village, some six miles off, and returned with two men, pickaxes and shovels.

It took some time to dig a grave in that hard white soil; but when the coolies had done patting down the dry dust and limestone nodules into the long mound of earth which is the outward sign that a human body lies beneath, I lingered to peg one of the red crosses over it.

So he found Segregation at last. There was no more fear of his doing any harm to anyone.

SLAVE OF THE COURT

I sate in the sunshine of Delhi as it blazed down upon the trellised tombs of a dead dynasty. I was very tired; as police officers are apt to be when Crowned Heads travel in India. But my particular Monarch was away from my jurisdiction laying foundation stones elsewhere, so I had an off four-and-twenty hours. Not knowing Delhi as it should be known, I utilised my holiday for slow, solitary, silent sight-seeing, in the course of which I had driven out to the Kutb-minar, had bidden the carriage return to await me by Humayon's Tomb, so, with lunch in my pocket, had set out systematically to reconstruct old India out of the crowding ruins.

It is a fascinating occupation; but one provocative of dreams, and, as I rested, idly smoking, in the shade of a gnarled _jhund_ tree, I was more than half asleep. Around me lay the graves of Kings who had once ruled in the flesh. I had been trying, as it were, to live their lives, to see with their eyes, and the conclusion had been forced in upon me that though the monarchy had changed (and my particular Crowned Head was certainly not to pattern of the Old Indian autocrat) the country and the people had altered but little.

For instance, the pageant through the city streets of a few days past, with the brazen sunlight setting silks and satins aflame with vivid colours, and painting every shadow dark with the purple gloom of night, was, as it were, of all time; the faces of the crowd through which it cleft its way, were in type, in character, permanent.

I closed my eyes to visualize how the dapper Viceroy would have looked had he been scattering golden pistachios, silver almonds and enamelled rose leaves amongst the lieges, instead of sitting his horse purposefully, like an ill-fitting statue and inwardly rehearsing the detail of up-to-date benefits he had to proclaim at the end of his ride? Were they, I wondered, more satisfactory than the older largesse?

When I opened my eyes, I saw a naked old man squatted forlornly among the latticed graves. He held a flat basket--a gardener's basket--between his knees; it contained only one compact posy of closely crushed flowers--the _gul_ this and _gul_ that--beloved of natives; but I saw that a similar bunch had been laid on several of the tombs.

The man, however, was palpably _not_ a gardener. No one of Indian experience who on real hot-weather evenings had wandered round his back premises could have hesitated as to vocation. Either as _chef_ or scullion, the figure belonged to the cook-room; there was that in its very nakedness (save for a tight-wound waist cloth), that in the very polish of the close-shaved head, which was quaintly reminiscent of full-starched raiment and high-piled turban.

Now, I always speak to a native when I get him alone--it is a useful habit for a police officer--so I said casually:

"On what tomb, friend, are you going to put that bunch?"

The old figure turned, profuse--of course!--in _salaam_; it showed a wrinkled toothless face, overlaid with the smiles and subtlety of centuries of service. But its reply was dazed, forlorn.

"This slave of the Court," it mumbled, "seeks for a tomb that was but is not. G.o.d send some miscreant hath not taken the marble slab thereof for his idolatrous curry-stone! Lo! I can find it nowhere, and the inscription thereof is lost--is lost!"

A world of angry apprehension crept into the tired blear old eyes; the tired old hand shook visibly.

"What inscription?" I asked idly.

"My inscription, Protector of the Poor!" came the tired old voice.

"Yea! whatever this slave of the Court said, the writer Abd-un-Nubbi copied it."

I sate up more alert, vaguely reminiscent of something I had seen lately. "What was it about?" I queried; this time curiously.

"About the Heaven-Nestled Kings the slave of the Court served," came the reply, less wearily; and, as if some stored memory cylinder had been set going by keywords, the voice went on, gaining strength: "This old slave of the Court does not feel any shame in serving the Kings and the n.o.bles! This old slave of the Court, Mahmud, supplicates G.o.d that the name of the Heaven-Nestled Emperor Humayon and the Heaven-Nestled Emperor Akbar may be perpetuated for all time! Lo! may they have been given the robe of Paradise! This old slave of the Court honoured by the Earth-Cherished Emperor Jahangir was told, 'You have grown old. Serve in the tomb of the Heaven-Nestled One at Delhi.'

"Humbly says Mahmud, old slave of the Court! He has come nigh to ninety years, he has come nigh his end. He has pa.s.sed his life in luxury and ease through the kindness of Kings. Oh! Mahmud! no desire is left unfulfilled. Of giving and taking, buying and selling, bargainings in the bazaar, all is done with now!

"Lo! in this seat of Delhi, the rulers and the landholders, the elders and the neighbours should entrust this tomb and shrine (of which the total amount of expenses, including all necessary articles and allowances was 290,000 tankas) to those who are my heirs and who deserve to possess it, as it was built with my honestly-earned money."

The long-drawn-out quaintly ungrammatical Persian phrases ceased in a melancholy refrain: "But it has gone, Huzoor! Someone has taken away my tombstone."

I knew now what he was talking about; knew why that faint message of memory had come to me. I had seen this inscription, or something like it, in the Delhi Museum, on a square slab of white marble which the catalogue said had been found amongst some ruins not far from where we were sitting.

I looked at the old man; though he himself was well on in years, the impossibility of his words made me pa.s.s over major points to cavil at minor ones.

"My tombstone!" I echoed. "I suppose you mean this King's cook was a forbear of yours. You come of a servant family, I expect, ah! Prince of Personalities."

I gave him the full t.i.tle of the highest domestic office with intent.

It had a marvellous effect. His bowed back straightened itself; he seemed to sit resplendent in gold-laced coat and badge-wound turban.

"The Huzoor speaks truth," he said, with perfectly blatant dignity.

"Since the beginning of time my people have served Kings--and Sahibs."

The last was a palpable concession to the alien, and I could not help smiling. But the old man, despite his toothless, wrinkled, wagging head, was no subject for smiles. He sate there transfigured, his face shiny, an apotheosis of what folk nowadays call servility. You felt it in the warm scented sunshine; an atmosphere of dutiful devotion that brought a kindly interest to my heart.

"It hasn't been taken as a curry-stone," I said gravely: "it is quite safe. I saw it yesterday in the Wonder House." And then I remembered that my Crowned Head had paused over it to look and smile. "Yes! Prince of Personalities," I went on, "there it is. A marble slab with an inscription." So I went on to tell him what had occurred.

He sate and listened, gravely, reverently, and when I had finished he rose--I knew he would--and salaamed down to the ground.

"This poor Preparer-of-Plates is proud still to serve Majesty. May the Earth cherish the Wise King long! May Heaven nestle him when the time comes for soul to separate from body."

As I looked into the blazing sunshine at the old, naked, bald-headed figure, I swear it seemed to me clothed upon with all the liveries of all those centuries of service.

"Lo!" he went on, "let the tombstone remain in the Wonder House where it hath been honoured by the eye-glances of Kings. And as for the n.o.ble Huzoor who hath relieved this poor slave of the Court's mind concerning curry-stones----" he paused, took up the remaining posy from his basket and held it out to me between deferential palms. "It is all I have, Huzoor, but it is sweet," he said simply, "and I have asked so many before, and none could tell me."

In sudden impulse I took it. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Prince of Personalities!" I said, half in jest, "I'll stop at the Wonder House on my way home and put it on the tombstone. Will that satisfy you?"

Once again he salaamed to the ground. "The grat.i.tude of this old slave of the Court will go with the Huzoor all his days."

I left him salaaming still among the graves. As I drove back I regretted not having lingered to pick his brains concerning those centuries of his ancestors' service. Good stories must have been handed down as heirlooms; one curious as I was of the past might have heard much of interest.

But holiday was over. My Crowned Head had returned, making me responsible. In addition, fate was unkind. My major-domo, on whose care during those strenuous days when meals were oft-deferred. I was entirely dependent, fell sick and had to go to hospital. Not, however, before he had, in kindly Indian fashion, found me a subst.i.tute.

Everyone who has been in India knows the type of professional cook-room subst.i.tute. They are to be seen sometimes in old dak bungalows, survivals still of the patronage of other days when such posts were the recognised superannuation pensions for civilians' servants. And this subst.i.tute of mine--I call them scapegoats as a rule, since all the subsequent sins of omission or commission in the back purlieus are invariably laid to their charge--differed in no way from the type. He was rather more aggressive in starch than most. He had the biggest of white turbans, and the forward bow of his arched back was a little more accentuated than usual by folds on folds of white bandaging until he looked as if he were wearing an extra sized, new whited motor tyre round his waist. But his scanty beard was purple black, and his eyes were brightened to youth with beautiful rims of antimony. Altogether he looked his part to perfection; and for a wonder, performed it also.

My table servant admitted at once that he was a "master artificer," and I, personally, confessed that never had I had such appetising dinners.

Most of these subst.i.tutes have old-world dishes at their fingers' ends; dishes with strange names which philology can trace back to French and Portuguese origin, but this old man might have come from a Parisian restaurant.