Part 12

They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby: “Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!”

“Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging answer came; “The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.”

Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more: “Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!”

They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain, And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.

Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing, So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, they have stuffed his mouth with gold. Ye know the truth of his tender ruth -- and sweet his favours are: Ye have heard the song -- How long? How long? from Balkh to Kandahar.

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST

When spring-time flushes the desert grass, Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the snowbound trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town.

In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.

The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and -- then came I To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year. But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, “Better is speech when the belly is fed.” So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.

We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. Four things greater than all things are, -- Women and Horses and Power and War. We spake of them all, but the last the most, For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford. Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. Quoth he: “Of the Russians who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. But we look that the gloom of the night shall die In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. That unsought counsel is cursed of God Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.

“His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; And the colt bred close to the vice of each, For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech. Therewith madness -- so that he sought The favour of kings at the Kabul court; And travelled, in hope of honour, far To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are. There have I journeyed too -- but I Saw naught, said naught, and -- did not die! He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath Of `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', -- Legends that ran from mouth to mouth Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South. These have I also heard -- they pass With each new spring and the winter grass.

“Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, Back to the city ran Wali Dad, Even to Kabul -- in full durbar The King held talk with his Chief in War. Into the press of the crowd he broke, And what he had heard of the coming spoke.

“Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child; But those who would laugh restrained their breath, When the face of the King showed dark as death. Evil it is in full durbar To cry to a ruler of gathering war! Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, That grew by a cleft of the city wall. And he said to the boy: `They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel. And the Russ is upon us even now? Great is thy prudence -- await them, thou. Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, Surely thy vigil is not for long. The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? Surely an hour shall bring their van. Wait and watch. When the host is near, Shout aloud that my men may hear.'

“Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? A guard was set that he might not flee -- A score of bayonets ringed the tree. The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, When he shook at his death as he looked below. By the power of God, who alone is great, Till the seventh day he fought with his fate. Then madness took him, and men declare He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, And sleep the cord of his hands untied, And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.

“Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. Of the gray-coat coming who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. Two things greater than all things are, The first is Love, and the second War. And since we know not how War may prove, Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!”

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi, an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps, on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety. A Maratta trooper tells the story:--

The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair, When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the Mlech, -- Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.

Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords -- The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao, Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharpest swords, And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!

Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared, The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray; We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard, We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.

The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran, We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen; 'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began, A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!

There was no room to clear a sword -- no power to strike a blow, For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast -- Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.

To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood -- To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade -- Above the dark Upsaras* flew, beneath us plashed the blood, And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.

* The Choosers of the Slain.

I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao; I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: -- “Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao! Go shame his squadrons into fight -- the Bhao -- the Bhao is slain!”

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray -- When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head, Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way; But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold; A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life; But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold, And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.