They formed a line in the darkness and Janki led them--for a pit-man in a strange pit is only one degree less liable to err than an ordinary mortal underground for the first time. At last they saw a flare-lamp, and Gangs Janki, Mogul, and Rahim of Twenty-Two stumbled dazed into the glare of the draught-furnace at the bottom of Five: Janki feeling his way and the rest behind.
"Water has come into Twenty-Two. G.o.d knows where are the others. I have brought these men from Tibu"s gallery in our cutting; making connection through the north side of the gallery. Take us to the cage," said Janki Meah.
At the pit-bank of Twenty-Two, some thousand people clamoured and wept and shouted. One hundred men--one thousand men--had been drowned in the cutting. They would all go to their homes to-morrow. Where were their men? Little Unda, her cloth drenched with the rain, stood at the pit-mouth calling down the shaft for Kundoo. They had swung the cages clear of the mouth, and her only answer was the murmur of the flood in the pit"s eye two hundred and sixty feet below.
"Look after that woman! She"ll chuck herself down the shaft in a minute," shouted the Manager.
But he need not have troubled; Unda was afraid of Death. She wanted Kundoo. The a.s.sistant was watching the flood and seeing how far he could wade into it. There was a lull in the water, and the whirlpool had slackened. The mine was full, and the people at the pit-bank howled.
"My faith, we shall be lucky if we have five hundred hands on the place to-morrow!" said the Manager.
"There"s some chance yet of running a temporary dam across that water.
Shove in anything--tubs and bullock-carts if you haven"t enough bricks.
Make them work now if they never worked before. Hi! you gangers, make them work."
Little by little the crowd was broken into detachments, and pushed towards the water with promises of overtime. The dam-making began, and when it was fairly under way, the Manager thought that the hour had come for the pumps. There was no fresh inrush into the mine. The tall, red, iron-clamped pump-beam rose and fell, and the pumps snored and guttered and shrieked as the first water poured out of the pipe.
"We must run her all to-night," said the Manager wearily, "but there"s no hope for the poor devils down below. Look here, Gur Sahai, if you are proud of your engines, show me what they can do now."
Gur Sahai grinned and nodded, with his right hand upon the lever and an oil-can in his left. He could do no more than he was doing, but he could keep that up till the dawn. Were the Company"s pumps to be beaten by the vagaries of that troublesome Tarachunda River? Never, never! And the pumps sobbed and panted: "Never, never!" The Manager sat in the shelter of the pit-bank roofing, trying to dry himself by the pump-boiler fire, and, in the dreary dusk, he saw the crowds on the dam scatter and fly.
"That"s the end," he groaned." "Twill take us six weeks to persuade "em that we haven"t tried to drown their mates on purpose. Oh, for a decent, rational Geordie!"
But the flight had no panic in it. Men had run over from Five with astounding news, and the foremen could not hold their gangs together.
Presently, surrounded by a clamorous crew, Gangs Rahim, Mogul, and Janki, and ten basket-women, walked up to report themselves, and pretty little Unda stole away to Janki"s hut to prepare his evening meal.
"Alone I found the way," explained Janki Meah, "and now will the Company give me pension?"
The simple pit-folk shouted and leaped and went back to the dam, rea.s.sured in their old belief that, whatever happened, so great was the power of the Company whose salt they ate, none of them could be killed.
But Gur Sahai only bared his white teeth and kept his hand upon the lever and proved his pumps to the uttermost.
"I say," said the a.s.sistant to the Manager, a week later, "do you recollect _Germinal?_"
"Yes. "Queer thing. I thought of it in the cage when that balk went by.
Why?"
"Oh, this business seems to be _Germinal_ upside down. Janki was in my veranda all this morning, telling me that Kundoo had eloped with his wife--Unda or Anda, I think her name was."
"Hillo! And those were the cattle that you risked your life to clear out of Twenty-Two!"
"No--I was thinking of the Company"s props, not the Company"s men."
"Sounds better to say so _now;_ but I don"t believe you, old fellow."
IN FLOOD TIME
Tweed said tae Till: "What gars ye rin sae still?"
Till said tae Tweed: "Though ye rin wi" speed An" I rin slaw-- Yet where ye droon ae man I droon twa."
There is no getting over the river to-night, Sahib. They say that a bullock-cart has been washed down already, and the _ekka_ that went over a half hour before you came has not yet reached the far side. Is the Sahib in haste? I will drive the ford-elephant in to show him. _Ohe, mahout_ there in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad, and if he will face the current, good. An elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram Pershad is separated from his friend Kala Nag. He, too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well done! Well done! my King! Go half way across, _mahoutji,_ and see what the river says. Well done, Ram Pershad! Pearl among elephants, go into the river! Hit him on the head, fool! Was the goad made only to scratch thy own fat back with, b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Strike! Strike! What are the boulders to thee, Ram Pershad, my Rustum, my mountain of strength? Go in! Go in!
No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag that he cannot come over. See! He has swung round and is shaking his head. He is no fool. He knows what the Barhwi means when it is angry.
Aha! Indeed, thou art no fool, my child! _Salaam,_ Ram Pershad, Bahadur!
Take him under the trees, _mahout,_ and see that he gets his spices.
Well done, thou chiefest among tuskers. _Salaam_ to the Sirkar and go to sleep.
What is to be done? The Sahib must wait till the river goes down. It will shrink to-morrow morning, if G.o.d pleases, or the day after at the latest. Now why does the Sahib get so angry? I am his servant. Before G.o.d, _I_ did not create this stream! What can I do? My hut and all that is therein is at the service of the Sahib, and it is beginning to rain.
Come away, my Lord. How will the river go down for your throwing abuse at it? In the old days the English people were not thus. The fire-carriage has made them soft. In the old days, when they drave behind horses by day or by night, they said naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage sat down in the mud. It was the will of G.o.d--not like a fire-carriage which goes and goes and goes, and would go though all the devils in the land hung on to its tail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people. After all, what is a day lost, or, for that matter, what are two days? Is the Sahib going to his own wedding, that he is so mad with haste? Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old man and see few Sahibs.
Forgive me if I have forgotten the respect that is due to them. The Sahib is not angry?
His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the _numah_-tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead leaves of all the years of the past flourish together. Old and new and that which is gone out of remembrance, all three are there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and drink milk. Or--would the Sahib in truth care to drink my tobacco? It is good.
It is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in service there, sent it to me. Drink, then, Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube. The Sahib takes it like a Musalman. Wah! Wah! Where did he learn that? His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says that there is no wedding in the matter at all? Now _is_ it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me who am only a black man? Small wonder, then, that he is in haste.
Thirty years have I beaten the gong at this ford, but never have I seen a Sahib in such haste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very long time.
Thirty years ago this ford was on the track of the _bunjaras,_ and I have seen two thousand pack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rail has come, and the fire-carriage says _buz-buz-buz,_ and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide across that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now that there are no _bunjaras_ to camp under the trees.
Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the dawn. Listen! The boulders are talking tonight in the bed of the river.
Hear them! They would be husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. _Wahi! Ahi!
Ugh!_ Thirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I and--where is the oil for the lamp?
Your pardon, but, because of my years, I sleep no sounder than a dog; and you moved to the door. Look, then, Sahib. Look and listen. A full half _kos_ from bank to bank is the stream now--you can see it under the stars--and there are ten feet of water therein. It will not shrink because of the anger in your eyes, and it will not be quiet on account of your curses. Which is louder, Sahib--your voice or the voice of the river? Call to it--perhaps it will be ashamed. Lie down and sleep afresh, Sahib. I know the anger of the Barhwi when there has fallen rain in the foot-hills. I swam the flood, once, on a night ten-fold worse than this, and by the Favour of G.o.d I was released from Death when I had come to the very gates thereof.
May I tell the tale? Very good talk. I will fill the pipe anew.
Thirty years ago it was, when I was a young man and had but newly come to the ford. I was strong then, and the _bunjaras_ had no doubt when I said "this ford is clear." I have toiled all night up to my shoulder-blades in running water amid a hundred bullocks mad with fear, and have brought them across losing not a hoof. When all was done I fetched the shivering men, and they gave me for reward the pick of their cattle--the bell-bullock of the drove. So great was the honour in which I was held! But, to-day when the rain falls and the river rises, I creep into my hut and whimper like a dog. My strength is gone from me. I am an old man and the fire-carriage has made the ford desolate. They were wont to call me the Strong One of the Barhwi.
Behold my face, Sahib--it is the face of a monkey. And my arm--it is the arm of an old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a woman has loved this face and has rested in the hollow of this arm. Twenty years ago, Sahib.
Believe me, this was true talk--twenty years ago.
Come to the door and look across. Can you see a thin fire very far away down the stream? That is the temple-fire, in the shrine of Hanuman, of the village of Pateera. North, under the big star, is the village itself, but it is hidden by a bend of the river. Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you take off your clothes and adventure? Yet I swam to Pateera--not once but many times; and there are _muggers_ in the river too.
Love knows no caste; else why should I, a Musalman and the son of a Musalman, have sought a Hindu woman--a widow of the Hindus--the sister of the headman of Pateera? But it was even so. They of the headman"s household came on a pilgrimage to Muttra when She was but newly a bride. Silver tires were upon the wheels of the bullock-cart, and silken curtains hid the woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their conveyance, for the wind parted the curtains and I saw Her. When they returned from pilgrimage the boy that was Her husband had died, and I saw Her again in the bullock-cart. By G.o.d, these Hindus are fools! What was it to me whether She was Hindu or Jain--scavenger, leper, or whole? I would have married Her and made Her a home by the ford. The Seventh of the Nine Bars says that a man may not marry one of the idolaters? Is that truth?
Both Shiahs and Sunnis say that a Musalman may not marry one of the idolaters? Is the Sahib a priest, then, that he knows so much? I will tell him something that he does not know. There is neither Shiah nor Sunni, forbidden nor idolater, in Love; and the Nine Bars are but nine little f.a.gots that the flame of Love utterly burns away. In truth, I would have taken Her; but what could I do? The headman would have sent his men to break my head with staves. I am not--I was not--afraid of any five men; but against half a village who can prevail?
Therefore it was my custom, these things having been arranged between us twain, to go by night to the village of Pateera, and there we met among the crops; no man knowing aught of the matter. Behold, now! I was wont to cross here, skirting the jungle to the river bend where the railway bridge is, and thence across the elbow of land to Pateera. The light of the shrine was my guide when the nights were dark. That jungle near the river is very full of snakes--little _karaits_ that sleep on the sand--and moreover, Her brothers would have slain me had they found me in the crops. But none knew--none knew save She and I; and the blown sand of the river-bed covered the track of my feet. In the hot months it was an easy thing to pa.s.s from the ford to Pateera, and in the first Rains, when the river rose slowly, it was an easy thing also. I set the strength of my body against the strength of the stream, and nightly I ate in my hut here and drank at Pateera yonder. She had said that one Hirnam Singh, a thief, had sought Her, and he was of a village up the river but on the same bank. All Sikhs are dogs, and they have refused in their folly that good gift of G.o.d--tobacco. I was ready to destroy Hirnam Singh that ever he had come nigh Her; and the more because he had sworn to Her that She had a lover, and that he would lie in wait and give the name to the headman unless She went away with him. What curs are these Sikhs!
After that news, I swam always with a little sharp knife in my belt, and evil would it have been for a man had he stayed me. I knew not the face of Hirnam Singh, but I would have killed any who came between me and Her.
Upon a night in the beginning of the Rains, I was minded to go across to Pateera, albeit the river was angry. Now the nature of the Barhwi is this, Sahib. In twenty breaths it comes down from the Hills, a wall three feet high, and I have seen it, between the lighting of a fire and the cooking of a _chupatty,_ grow from a runnel to a sister of the Jumna.
When I left this bank there was a shoal a half mile down, and I made shift to fetch it and draw breath there ere going forward; for I felt the hands of the river heavy upon my heels. Yet what will a young man not do for Love"s sake? There was but little light from the stars, and midway to the shoal a branch of the stinking deodar tree brushed my mouth as I swam. That was a sign of heavy rain In the foot-hills and beyond, for the deodar is a strong tree, not easily shaken from the hillsides. I made haste, the river aiding me, but ere I touched the shoal, the pulse of the stream beat, as it were, within me and around, and, behold, the shoal was gone and I rode high on the crest of a wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the Sahib ever been cast into much water that fights and will not let a man use his limbs? To me, my head upon the water, it seemed as though there were naught but water to the world"s end, and the river drave me with its driftwood. A man is a very little thing in the belly of a flood. And _this_ flood, though I knew it not, was the Great Flood about which men talk still. My liver was dissolved and I lay like a log upon my back in the fear of Death. There were living things in the water, crying and howling grievously--beasts of the forest and cattle, and once the voice of a man asking for help.
But the rain came and lashed the water white, and I heard no more save the roar of the boulders below and the roar of the rain above. Thus I was whirled down-stream, wrestling for the breath in me. It is very hard to die when one is young. Can the Sahib, standing here, see the railway bridge? Look, there are the lights of the mail-train going to Peshawur!
The bridge is now twenty feet above the river, but upon that night the water was roaring against the lattice-work and against the lattice came I feet first. But much driftwood was piled there and upon the piers, and I took no great hurt. Only the river pressed me as a strong man presses a weaker. Scarcely could I take hold of the lattice-work and crawl to the upper boom. Sahib, the water was foaming across the rails a foot deep! Judge therefore what manner of flood it must have been. I could not hear. I could not see. I could but lie on the boom and pant for breath.