07 Gimlet Bores In Page 5

  Panting, soaked with perspiration, his face scratched and his clothes torn, he struggled on in the company of a set of men as barbaric as he had ever seen. Sometimes they looked at him and laughed, as if it was all good fun. Cub grinned back, although to him the situation was anything but funny. Even at that critical moment he found time to wonder who or what these fellows took him to be. Perhaps, as the battle was a "free for all", it didn't matter. What began to worry him was how he was going to find Gimlet at the end of all this.

  Slowly the noise subsided. The shooting, which had for some time been sporadic, fizzled out altogether. Gasping, wiping sweat from his eyes, Cub struggled on up the slope with his rough but romantic-looking companions. He remained with them as the lesser of two evils. It was plain now that they regarded him as being one of themselves, but it would be a different story if he fell into the hands of the troops. He could only hope that none of the others had been caught. There was not much risk of that while they were on their feet, he thought. What he feared was that one of them might have been hit by a stray bullet, for in that case, if the others were near, they would not leave the wounded man.

  At length the ridge was reached. Cub shouted, but getting no reply, went on down into the valley beyond. The going was still difficult. Instead of climbing up, it was now a matter of scrambling down, hanging on to any handhold that offered.

  In the middle of this he suddenly found himself next to Copper.

  "Wotcher, chum, 'ow do yer go?" enquired Copper breezily.

  "Not so good," panted Cub. "Where are the others?"

  "Search me, mate," returned Copper. "We'll look for 'em when we get clear of the shindy. Wot a party we dropped into, and not 'alf. Gimlet chose a nice spot fer a sit-down, my oath 'e did. First time in me life I didn't know which side I was fightin' for."

  "I chose the wild boys," Cub told him.

  "Same as you, mate," asserted Copper. "I didn't like the look of them greycoats. From wot I see with me own eyes they're a sight too 'andy hangin' people. The hangman got 'is block knocked off, any old how."

  "Did he?"

  "Too true. A bloke fetched 'im a beauty on the napper with the thick end of a pistol that should put 'im outer business for a bit."

  "Haven't you seen Gimlet at all?" asked Cub.

  "Once, just before we got to the top. He was going up the 'ill like a lamplighter with another bloke—I believe, the one they were goin' ter

  'ang."

  "I hope we soon find him," said Cub. "Goodness only knows where we're going."

  "It's all the same ter me, mate," returned Copper cheerfully.

  Deep down in the valley they came upon some

  men drinking at a brook. Not far away a horn began a discordant hooting.

  "I'd say that's the rallying signal," remarked Copper looking in the direction of the sound.

  They turned towards it, and it was soon seen that he was right. In an open glade a number of men had already collected, and others were coming in.

  "Strewth! Wot a mob," muttered Copper. "If my ole Ma could see wot sort o' company '

  er little boy was in she'd throw a fit. Hello, there's the bloke they were goin' ter 'ang.

  There 'e is, over there, 'avin' a wash."

  Now that the battle was over Cub noticed that they were being regarded with a good deal of curiosity. Some men, talking earnestly, obviously discussing them, came towards them. Then, to Cub's great relief, out of the undergrowth came Gimlet, with Trapper, both looking more than somewhat dishevelled. Seeing Cub and Copper they came over to them, voicing their satisfaction that they had survived the conflict. What they had escaped into, however, was a matter of some doubt, for the party was soon surrounded by a curious crowd—which, in the circumstances, was not surprising.

  The ranks parted to admit into the circle the man who was to have been hanged. He, too, regarded them with a puzzled expression. Twice he half opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something but did not know how to begin. Actually, his trouble was, as he explained later, he did not know what language to use. Finally he asked what was obviously a question in a language unknown to any of them.

  Gimlet shook his head.

  The man tried another, with like result, upon which he shook his head and looked at his companions helplessly.

  Gimlet took a chance as the only way out of the difficulty. Tapping himself on the chest with a finger, he said: "British."

  The look of amazement that came over the man's face was almost comical.

  "You are—

  British?" he questioned incredulously, slowly, but without a trace of accent.

  "We are," answered Gimlet.

  "How very extraordinary," said the man in a voice of wonder. "So am I."

  It was Gimlet's turn to stare. "You're British!" he exclaimed.

  "Alexander McAlister is my name," said the man, smiling. "Alexander Gregorovitch McAlister was the name I was christened. Gregorovitch was my mother's maiden name."

  He touched his kilt. "Didn't you recognise the tartan?" he enquired, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  Gimlet admitted that he hadn't. He might have added that the garment was so worn and faded with age that a Scot might well have failed to name it.

  "The kilt belonged to my father," explained the man simply. "Of course, I'm not called McAlister here. The word would come strangely to Eastern lips. Here I am Gregorovitch, Greggo to my band, Greggo the Scourge to certain other people. For, you see, I am the most renowned bandit chief between Persia and the Ukraine."

  This seemed to tickle Copper's sense of humour. He laughed raucously.

  "Well, if that ain'

  t a fair coughdrop," he chuckled. "This will be somethin' ter talk about when I get 'ome."

  The Scot's eyes twinkled. "First, you will have to get home," he reminded. He looked at Gimlet. "For that matter, what are you doing here?"

  "That," answered Gimlet cautiously, "is a long story."

  "Come over here and tell me about it while my men brew some tea," invited the bandit.

  "That's good news anyway," said Copper. "A cup 'o tea is just wot I could do with."

  "We like our tea even here," said the Scot. "It is wonderful to hear my father's language spoken again after so many years."

  "What about the people who were going to hang you?" asked Gimlet. "Have you come far enough to be safe from them?"

  Greggo smiled contemptuously. "That Kalmuck riff-raff wouldn't dare to follow me here,

  " he said confidently. "They know where to stop. You see, I am the real ruler here. The occupying troops may patrol the roads and the cities, but that is all. Come over here where we shall be quiet. Then we can talk."

  CHAPTER VI

  A STRANGE SAD STORY

  NOTHING more was said until they were seated in a quiet corner of the glade, where big mugs of sweet black tea, and a wooden dish of oatcakes, were soon set before them. A box of long, yellow, Russian cigarettes, was also produced, and the lone Scot put it where all could reach.

  "Now tell me what you are doing in this beautiful but savage country," he requested. "

  You must know that if you are caught by its self-appointed rulers you will never leave it?

  "

  "Yes, we knew that before we came; for we came here with a purpose, not by accident,"

  answered Gimlet. "But first, will you tell me something that I am most anxious to know?

  "

  The bandit assented.

  "Were you a prisoner in the fort near the place where you were to be hanged?"

  "Yes."

  "Is the fort called Kalashan?"

  "It is."

  "Were there any other prisoners there besides yourself?"

  "Many."

  "Did you see them?"

  "No." The bandit smiled grimly. "But I sometimes heard them calling for mercy. Mercy! What do those ruffians of the garrison know of mercy?"

  "Mercy from what?" asked Gimlet curiously. "Whippings, and horrors
better left unsaid."

  "By whose orders?"

  "The governor of the fort. It is to me an extraordinary thing that a creature that looks like a man, and speaks like a man, can have instincts more debased than those of any _wild beast. I simply cannot understand it."

  "What's his name?"

  "Vladimir Karzoff. He wears the uniform of a Russian general, although where at first he saw the light of day I couldn't guess. He is certainly more Asiatic than European. I am told that he was at one time a driller at the Anglo-Persian oil fields, which probably accounts for the fact that he speaks English and Persian with equal fluency. His brutal treatment of the men under him caused so many strikes that he was sacked.

  He retaliated, so it is said, by murdering the white manager. Then he bolted with three cronies who are still with him. They act as a sort of personal bodyguard. The Revolution gave him a chance to show just what sort of foul brute he is. No doubt he would be a revolutionary in any country. He is a big man with a broad flat face and a straggling black beard. You will know him if you see him, which I sincerely hope, for your sakes, you will not."

  "Big bad wolf, eh?" put in Copper.

  "A wolf; cruel though it is by nature, would be a lamb in comparison,"

  said the Scot bitterly.

  "Did you by any chance learn the names of any of the prisoners?" asked Gimlet.

  "I was never in a position to speak to them. I knew of only one. He was a merchant of Baku who had a country house not far away. He was denounced for making a remark against the government. He was hanged. His body is still on the scaffold—you may have noticed it?"

  Gimlet nodded. "We did. We saw something of the behaviour of the occupying troops as we came here." In a few words he described what had happened at the cottage.

  "That sort of thing is an everyday occurrence here," said the bandit.

  "The country is practically depopulated. The few people who remain live in terror, slowly starving to death. All food belongs to the government.

  No one may possess a firearm to shoot a bird or a rabbit. Through my spies I shall learn the names of those who murdered that man and burnt his house. For that they shall pay. I, Greggo the Scourge, swear that."

  The speaker looked at Gimlet critically. "From your questions I think there is someone in the fort in whom you are interested?"

  Gimlet agreed.

  "And you hope to get him out?"

  "That is our purpose here."

  The bandit king shook his head. "I wouldn't say that it is impossible because, as I have seen, anything in this strange country is possible.

  But your task is one which no man in his right mind would undertake. I could not get out; nor'could my men, who are brave, and know every inch of the country, get me out."

  "But you did get out," reminded Gimlet.

  "That was not the same thing," argued the bandit. "I was brought out."

  "To be hanged."

  "Yes."

  "Why were you brought out?"

  "Partly through the folly and incompetence of the Governor-General in Baku, who wanted a public hanging to make an example of me, and partly through the vanity of Karzoff and his Kalmuck soldiers who would let everyone see how well they did their work. Of course, the date and time of the hanging was a secret, or supposed to be, for fear of what actually did happen. But I have spies everywhere, and my men, learning the secret, did what was necessary. The wretched country is now so corrupt that money will buy anything or anybody. I think it is because everyone needs money to get away from a place that has become accursed. Tell me; who is it you seek—or would you rather not tell?"

  Gimlet smiled. "As from what you tell me nothing here is secret you may as well know at once. I hope to rescue a Turkish gentleman of importance who had the misfortune to be shipwrecked on the coast. We received information that he is a prisoner in Fort Kalashan. I thought perhaps you would be able to confirm that, because if he is not there we should be taking useless risks in going on with our mission."

  The bandit drew long and thoughtfully at his cigarette. "I may be able to find out for you because I have friends inside the place as well as outside. There again is where our enemies are so foolish. The Kalmuck soldiers will not do menial work—woodcutting, water carrying, and so on—

  so people of the country are taken in and forced to do it.

  Officially they are paid servants, but, of course, they never see the money. Karzoff puts it all into his own pocket. That is how everything here is done. The workers are really prisoners, and slaves at that; but because of the duties they have to perform, which sometimes take them outside the fort—under guard, of course—they have a certain amount of licence. It was through one of them that my men knew where I was, and the hour fixed for my execution. Naturally, they are on our side, knowing that their only hope of ultimate freedom is through us. Through them I may be able to help you; be sure that I will do all in my power; but it is a dangerous game that you play."

  There was a short silence while the bandit chief considered the matter.

  Then he went on.

  "For the time being you could not do better than stay here while I put my spies to work.

  Here you will be safe. While you wait I will tell you all I know about the fort. By the way, how did you come to this country?"

  "By aeroplane."

  "And how do you intend to go home?"

  "By the same method."

  "You may be here for some time. The thing you hope to do could not be arranged in a day."

  "The man who brought me here will wait." "Very well. The first thing I must do is find out if this man of yours is in the fort. What is his name?"

  "Ismit Pasha."

  "I will remember it," said the bandit. "You must understand that I would, if I could, release every prisoner in the place, particularly some who are there under suspicion of having befriended me or my men, or sent me information. No man deserves such a fate as to be shut up for life in that dreadful place, for that is what imprisonment there means.

  The only release is death."

  "Do you intend to stay here yourself?" asked Gimlet.

  "For a little while, yes, while I make fresh plans. My scouts will warn me if there is danger. The Kalmucks do not venture far from the road, for they know the fate that awaits them should they meet my men. Sometimes there is a big attack on us. When that happens we retire to a place in the mountains where not all the armies of Europe could find us. This is a strange, strange land, where strange things happen."

  Gimlet smiled. "I can believe that."

  "For instance, you would not expect to find a Scotsman living here?"

  "I would have been less surprised to find an Eskimo or a Hottentot,"

  stated Gimlet. "Not that I should have taken you for a Scot in that colourful rigout."

  A ghost of a smile softened the Scotsman's face. "In this land a bandit chief must dress for the part. No man would get a following were he to take to the hills in a blue serge suit. What I wear, except for my kilt, is the old-time dress of the country. Here, fashions have changed little, except in the towns, in a thousand years or more. But you must be wondering how I came to be here in the first place, and why I stay."

  Gimlet confessed to some curiosity in the matter.

  "Sometimes I myself wonder why I stay," said the Scot with a sigh. "For I am getting old, and would see my native heather before I die. Besides, I am weary of this silly game of piling up riches which I shall never spend."

  "Then why do you go on doing it?" asked Cub.

  "Because, my boy, it is one way I can hurt the people I hate, and have good cause to hate.

  There are other ways, but robbing them is one. Still, one gets tired even of hating."

  "Do you really mean that you don't spend what you steal?" enquired Cub curiously.

  "Sometimes I give money away. My men use some; not much, for they have no more use for money than I have. I have a big treasure hidden away in the hills. It must sound sil
ly to you, so much money and nothing to do with it."

  "Why not give it ter the poor people?" suggested Copper.

  The Scot shook his head. "That would only do them an injury. If they were seen spending money they would be asked where it came from. If they told the truth they would be punished. If they lied it would still do them no good, because the money would be taken away from them by the local commissars and I should have the trouble of stealing it all over again."

  "Why not give it to the hospitals?" suggested Cub.

  "Hospitals? There are none. No. Think of a way to spend money usefully here and you will do me a service. Some goes for bribes, for services rendered, but I still have much more than I need."

  "Who are these men of yours?" was Cub's next question.

  "Outcasts, like me."

  "Are there no Britishers among them?"

  "No.

  I am alone.

  There are Russians,

  Armenians, Persians, Syrians, Ukrainians, Georgians, Circassians, and many tribesmen of mixed breed, all waifs and strays of society because they prefer freedom to a yoke. I haven't seen a Britisher in thirty years. They all went, all were killed, long ago, when I took to the hills."

  "I'd say it's time you went 'ome," said Copper bluntly.

  "That's just it," said the Scot sadly. "You see, this is my home. I have never had another.

  Scotland to me is only a name, but one that moves me strangely, because something inside me tells me that it is to that country I really belong.

  I would like to see it. Often I have thought of going, but there are difficulties. Perhaps I have left it too late, and now lack the initiative to make the effort."

  "Tch. A man who stops to smooth out difficulties gets no place," declared Trapper.

  Looking at the Scot, Gimlet went on. "What freak of fate put you here in the first instance?"

  "I will tell you," answered the bandit. "This is how it came about. To tell all the story would take too long, but there will be enough time, while my men are broiling some meat, to run over the plain facts."

  Reaching for another cigarette he lighted it, and began.

  "Rather more than thirty years ago I was a respectable young man living happily with his family in Baku, which is the great oil port on the Caspian Sea, on the other side of the Isthmus, in the Republic of Azerbeijan. A lot of British money had been invested there, for most of the development of the place had been done by British engineers. One of those who came in the early days was a Scotsman named Angus McAlister. He was my father. In Baku he met one of the beautiful, blue-eyed, golden-haired girls, for which the Circassian Republic is—or was—famous. Her parents had fled from Circassia when that country was overrun by the Russians in the last century. My father and the girl were married. I was one of their two children. My father prospered, and just before the first Great War was the owner of some of the most important petroleum undertakings. With my sister we were a united family, and lived in a fine big house. Little did we guess in those happy days what disasters were to fall upon us.