accomplishment, and I'd been well-grounded in tent-pegging by the late Muhammed Iqbal, so it was no surprise that I took the greatest number of pegs, and would have got even more if I'd had a pony that I knew, and my lance hadn't snapped in a touch peg on the last round. It was enough to take the cup, though, and old Bloody Bill Hewitt, the garrison commander, slipped the handle over my broken lance-point in front of the marquee where all the top numbers of Meerut society were sitting applauding politely, the ladies in their crinolines and the men behind their chairs.
'Shabash, sowar,' says Bloody Bill. 'Where did you learn to manage a lance?'
'Peshawar Valley, hussor,' says I.
'Company cavalry?' says he, and I said no, Peshawar police.
'Didn't know they was lancers,' says he, and Carmichael-Smith, who was on hand, laughed and said to Hewitt in English:
'No more they are, sir. It's a rather delicate matter, I suspect — this bird here pretends he's never served the Sirkar before, but he's got Guide written all over him.
Shouldn't wonder if he wasn't rissaldar — havildar at least. But we don't ask embarrassing questions, what? He's a dam' good recruit, anyway.'
'Ah,' says Hewitt, grinning; he was a fat, kindly old buffer. ' 'Nough said, then.' And I was in the act of saluting when a little puff of wind sprang up, scattering the papers which were on the table behind him, and blowing them under the pony's hooves. Like a good little toady, I slipped out of the saddle and gathered them up, and without thinking set them on the table and put the ink-pot on top of them, to hold them steady — a simple, ordinary thing, but I heard an exclamation, and looked up to see Duff Mason, one of the infantry colonels, staring at me in surprise. I just salaamed and saluted and was back in my saddle in a second, while they called up the next man for his prize, but as I wheeled my pony away I saw that Mason was looking after me with a puzzled smile on his face, and saying something to the officer next to him.
Hollo, thinks I, has he spotted something? But I couldn't think I'd done anything to give myself away — until next morning, when the rissaldar called me out of the ranks, and told me to report to Mason's office in the British lines forthwith. I went with my heart in my mouth, wondering what the hell I was going to do if he had seen through my disguise, only to find it was the last thing my guilty conscience might have suspected.
'Makarram Khan, isn't it?' says Mason, when I stood to attention on his verandah and went through the ritual of hilt-touching. He was a tall, brisk, wiry fellow with a sharp eye which he cast over me. 'Hasanzai, Peshawar policeman — but only a few weeks' Army service?' He spoke good Urdu, which suggested he was smarter than most, and my innards quaked.
'Well, now, Makarram,' says he, pleasantly. 'I don't believe you. Nor does your own Colonel. You're an old soldier — you ride like one, you stand like one, and what's more you've held command. Don't interrupt — no one's trying to trap you, or find out how many throats you've cut in the Khyber country in your time: that's nothing to me. You're here now, as an ordinary sowar — but a sowar who gathers up papers as though he's as used to handling 'em as I am. Unusual, in a Pathan — even one who's seen service, don't you agree?'
'In the police, husoor,' says I woodenly, 'are many kitabs*(*Books.) and papers.'
'To be sure there are,' says he, and then added, ever so easily, in English, 'What's that on your right hand?'
I didn't look, but I couldn't help my hand jerking, and he chuckled and leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself.
'I guessed you understood English when the commander and your Colonel were talking in front of you yesterday,' says he. 'You couldn't keep it out of your eyes. Well, never mind; it's all to the good. But see here, Makarram Khan — whatever you've done, whatever you've been, where's the sense in burying yourself in the ranks of a native cavalry pultan?*(*Regiment.) You've got education and experience; why not use 'em? How long will it take you to make subedar,*(*Native officer.) or havildar even, in your present situation? Twenty years, thirty — with down-country cavalry? I'll tell you what — you can do better than that.'
Well, it was a relief to know my disguise was safe enough, but the last thing I wanted was to be singled out in any way. However, I listened respectfully, and he went on:
'I had a Pathan orderly, Ayub Jan; first-class man, with me ten years, and now he's gone back home, to inherit. I need someone else — well, you're younger than he was, and a sight smarter, or I'm no judge. And he wasn't a common orderly — never did a menial task, or anything of that order; wouldn't have asked him to, for he was Yusufzai — and a gentleman, as I believe you are, d'you see?' He looked at me very steady, smiling. 'So what I want is a man of affairs who is also a man of his hands — someone I can trust as a soldier, messenger, steward, aide, guide, shield-on-shoulder —' He shrugged. 'When I saw you yesterday, I thought ‘That's the kind of man.’ Well — what d'ye say?'
I had to think quickly about this. If I could have looked at myself in the mirror, I suppose I was just the sort of ruffian I'd have picked myself, in Duff Mason's shoes. Pathans make the best orderly-bodyguards-comrades there are, as I'd discovered with Muhammad Iqbal and Ilderim. And it would be a pleasant change from barracks — but it was risky. It would draw attention to me; on the other hand my character was established by now, and any lapses into Englishness might be explained from the past which Mason and Carmichael-Smith had wished upon me. I hesitated, and he said quietly:
'If you're thinking that coming out of the ranks may expose you to greater danger of — being recognised by the police, say, or some inconvenient acquaintance from the past … have no fear of that. At need, there'll always he a fast horse and a dustuck*(*Permit.) to see you back to the Black Mountain again.'
It was ironic — he thought I went in fear of discovery as a deserter or Border raider, when my only anxiety was that I'd be unmasked as a British officer. Bit of a lark, really — and on that thought I said very good, I'd accept his offer.
'Thank you, Makarram Khan,' says he, and nodded to a table that was set behind his chair, against the chick: there was a drawn sabre lying on it, and I knew what was expected of me. I went past him, and put my hand on the blade — it had been so arranged that with my body in between, he couldn't see from where he sat whether I was touching the steel or not. The old dodge, thinks I, but I said aloud:
'On the haft and hilt, I am thy man and soldier.' 'Good,' says he, and as I turned he held out his hand. I took it, and just for devilment I said:
'Have no fear, husoor — you will smell the onion on your fingers.' I knew, you see, that in anticipation of the oath, he would have rubbed onion on the blade, so that he could tell afterwards if I'd truly touched it while I swore. A Pathan who intended to break his oath wouldn't have put his hand on the steel, and consequently wouldn't have got the onion-smell on his fingers.
'By Jove!' says he, and quickly sniffed his hand. Then he laughed, and said I was a Pathan for wiliness, all right, and we would get along famously.
Which I'm bound to say we did — mind you, our association wasn't a long one, but while it lasted I thoroughly enjoyed myself, playing major-domo in his household, for that's what it amounted to, as I soon discovered. His bungalow was a pretty big establishment, you see, just off the east end of the Mall, near the British infantry lines, with about thirty servants, and since there was no proper mem-sahib, and his khansamah*(*Butler.) was almost senile, there was no order about the place at all. Rather than have me spend my time dogging him about his office, where there wasn't much for me to do except stand looking grim and impressive, Duff Mason decided I should make a beginning by putting his house and its staff into pukka order (as I gathered Ayub Jan had done in his time) and I set about it. Flashy, Jack-of-all-trades, you see: in the space of a few months I'd already been a gentleman of leisure, staff officer, secret political agent, ambassador, and sepoy, so why not a nigger butler for a change?
You may think it odd — and looking back it seems damned queer to me, too — but the job was just nuts to me. I was leading such an unreal existence, anyway, and had become so devilish bored in the sepoy barracks, that I suppose I was ready enough for anything that occupied my time without too much effort. Duff Mason's employ was just the ticket: it gave me the run of a splendid establishment, the best of meat and drink, a snug little bunk of my own, and nothing to do but bully menials, which I did with a hearty relish that terrified the brutes and made the place run like clockwork. All round, I couldn't have picked a softer billet for my enforced sojourn in Meerut if I'd tried. (Between ourselves, I've a notion that had I been born in a lower station in life I'd have made a damned fine butler for some club or Town house, yes-me-lording the Quality, ordering flunkeys about, putting upstarts in their place, and pinching the port and cigars with the best of them.)
