clothes tattered and streaked with blood. Then my heart leapt up into my mouth. ‘Good Lord,’ I whispered. I stared at the man who had once been my soldier, gore-stained and dead-eyed as he was. ‘But look here, Eliot,’ I said, feeling utterly appalled, ‘is there nothing we can do for him at all?’
Eliot stared at me, his bright, keen eyes betraying the depth of his despair. ‘I am sorry, Captain.’ He paused. ‘There is nothing, certainly, that I can do as yet. This disease seems more deadly than I had ever dared to imagine…’ His face was darkened by a sudden look of stem warning. ‘You must put him from your mind, Captain – he is not your soldier any more. Do not even approach him – for I suspect that a bite, even a scratch, may prove fatal.’
I glanced back at Compton. It was perfectly true there was nothing there; nothing; he might almost have been dead. And then, no sooner had I thought that, than I watched him start to change. It was no improvement for the better, however, for his face began to twist and his teeth to gnash, and his expression grew into one of imbecile savagery. He began to moan, as the whole crowd was moaning by now, and I wondered what this might possibly mean or portend. The music was reaching a most frenzied pitch and the crowd seemed roused to a fever of its own. Then, piercing even the general din, there came a scream of a kind I hope never to hear again, for it reached deep into my blood and chilled my very soul. The crowd fell silent, but hunger, I could see, was burning deep in their eyes. Again the scream rent the night; it was nearer to us now. Slowly the crowds began to fall away. The rhythm of the tabla beat faster, and yet more fast.
From the darkness a procession was making its way, a line of wretches tethered one to the other by neck chains and ropes. Two men led it, both in Russian uniforms, but their faces were as dead as those of Compton, and one had bullet wounds across his stomach; I recognised him as a soldier we had downed by the Kalibari Pass and left for dead. Yet now here he was again, and leading a chain-gang of those who must once have been his comrades-in-arms. For one of the prisoners was yelling in Russian; he screamed at his guards, and I realised that it was he who had been screaming before; now though, if anything, his despair seemed even more profound and I wondered what it was that could inspire such dread. The guard cuffed him across the face; the wretched man sobbed and fell silent; and a stillness settled over the whole ghastly scene. The procession had halted now, next to the statue of Kali. I inspected the row of prisoners. There were other Russians, and hill-folk too – men, women, even a child of seven or eight.
‘Sir,’ whispered the Sergeant-Major. ‘The very rear!’
I looked, then I swore beneath my breath, for I could make out the soldiers I had left to guard the Kalibari Pass. They were tied together like cattle by the neck. One of them glanced at Compton, but no trace of recognition crossed Compton’s face in return, and there was nothing to be distinguished there but degeneracy and greed.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice seemed to whisper from deep within my mind. It was the damnedest thing; I am half-tempted now to think that I imagined it all, but Eliot and Cuff both claimed later that they had heard the voice as well, chanting as I heard it chant, and speaking with the same melodious tone. What was it? How had it happened, that we should all experience the very same thing? I do not readily stick my neck out, but any old India hand, if he is honest, will admit that once or twice he has experienced things he couldn’t understand, and I believe that our hearing this voice was just such a thing. I like to think of myself as a level-headed chap; and the reader, I trust, will not lightly mark me down as a charlatan or crank. However – dread word! – I believe that what we heard was a mind-reader’s voice, a mind-reader
Eliot stared at me, his bright, keen eyes betraying the depth of his despair. ‘I am sorry, Captain.’ He paused. ‘There is nothing, certainly, that I can do as yet. This disease seems more deadly than I had ever dared to imagine…’ His face was darkened by a sudden look of stem warning. ‘You must put him from your mind, Captain – he is not your soldier any more. Do not even approach him – for I suspect that a bite, even a scratch, may prove fatal.’
I glanced back at Compton. It was perfectly true there was nothing there; nothing; he might almost have been dead. And then, no sooner had I thought that, than I watched him start to change. It was no improvement for the better, however, for his face began to twist and his teeth to gnash, and his expression grew into one of imbecile savagery. He began to moan, as the whole crowd was moaning by now, and I wondered what this might possibly mean or portend. The music was reaching a most frenzied pitch and the crowd seemed roused to a fever of its own. Then, piercing even the general din, there came a scream of a kind I hope never to hear again, for it reached deep into my blood and chilled my very soul. The crowd fell silent, but hunger, I could see, was burning deep in their eyes. Again the scream rent the night; it was nearer to us now. Slowly the crowds began to fall away. The rhythm of the tabla beat faster, and yet more fast.
From the darkness a procession was making its way, a line of wretches tethered one to the other by neck chains and ropes. Two men led it, both in Russian uniforms, but their faces were as dead as those of Compton, and one had bullet wounds across his stomach; I recognised him as a soldier we had downed by the Kalibari Pass and left for dead. Yet now here he was again, and leading a chain-gang of those who must once have been his comrades-in-arms. For one of the prisoners was yelling in Russian; he screamed at his guards, and I realised that it was he who had been screaming before; now though, if anything, his despair seemed even more profound and I wondered what it was that could inspire such dread. The guard cuffed him across the face; the wretched man sobbed and fell silent; and a stillness settled over the whole ghastly scene. The procession had halted now, next to the statue of Kali. I inspected the row of prisoners. There were other Russians, and hill-folk too – men, women, even a child of seven or eight.
‘Sir,’ whispered the Sergeant-Major. ‘The very rear!’
I looked, then I swore beneath my breath, for I could make out the soldiers I had left to guard the Kalibari Pass. They were tied together like cattle by the neck. One of them glanced at Compton, but no trace of recognition crossed Compton’s face in return, and there was nothing to be distinguished there but degeneracy and greed.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice seemed to whisper from deep within my mind. It was the damnedest thing; I am half-tempted now to think that I imagined it all, but Eliot and Cuff both claimed later that they had heard the voice as well, chanting as I heard it chant, and speaking with the same melodious tone. What was it? How had it happened, that we should all experience the very same thing? I do not readily stick my neck out, but any old India hand, if he is honest, will admit that once or twice he has experienced things he couldn’t understand, and I believe that our hearing this voice was just such a thing. I like to think of myself as a level-headed chap; and the reader, I trust, will not lightly mark me down as a charlatan or crank. However – dread word! – I believe that what we heard was a mind-reader’s voice, a mind-reader
Similar Books
