The Man Who Would Be King | Page 7

my caravan would have been cut

up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!” grunted the
Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been
feloniously diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the
Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar.
“Ohé, priest, whence come you and whither do you go?”
“From Roum have I come,” shouted the priest, waving his whirligig;
“from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O
thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and
perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to sell
charms that are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the
sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they
are away, of the men who give me place in their caravan. Who will
assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with a
silver heel? The protection of Pir Kahn be upon his labors!” He spread
out the skirts of his gaberdine and pirouetted between the lines of
tethered horses.
“There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days,
Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai trader. “My camels go therewith. Do thou
also go and bring us good luck.”
“I will go even now!” shouted the priest. “I will depart upon my
winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan,” he
yelled to his servant “drive out the camels, but let me first mount my
own.”
He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and turning round to me,
cried:—
“Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell thee a
charm—an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.”
Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the
Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted.
“What d’ you think o’ that?” said he in English. “Carnehan can’t talk
their patter, so I’ve made him my servant. He makes a handsome

servant. ’Tisn’t for nothing that I’ve been knocking about the country
for fourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk neat? We’ll hitch on to a
caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we’ll see if we
can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs
for the Amir, O Lor! Put your hand under the camel-bags and tell me
what you feel.”
I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.
“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot, placidly.
“Twenty of ’em, and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs
and the mud dolls.”
“Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!” I said. “A
Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans.”
“Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every rupee we could beg, borrow,
or steal—are invested on these two camels,” said Dravot. “We won’t
get caught. We’re going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan.
Who’d touch a poor mad priest?”
“Have you got everything you want?” I asked, overcome with
astonishment.
“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a momento of your kindness,
Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half
my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is.” I slipped a small charm
compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.
“Good-by,” said Dravot, giving me his hand cautiously. “It’s the last
time we’ll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake
hands with him, Carnehan,” he cried, as the second camel passed me.
Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away
along the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could
detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai attested that
they were complete to the native mind. There was just the chance,

therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through
Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find death,
certain and awful death.
Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day
from Peshawar, wound up his letter with:—“There has been much
laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his
estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he
ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed
through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer
caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through
superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good-fortune.”
The two then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them,
but, that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary
notice.
* *