Tiger Hills (40 page)

Machu nodded.

“It is not like this in my village. Green. Very green. Wheat,” the sikh added by way of explanation, “we have wheat fields.”

They were silent for a while and then Machu stirred. “I had an ancestor who lived, oh, I don't know, maybe two hundred years ago. He was a great sportsman, a hunter without peer. Very tall. The family has preserved the tunic he wore. It barely holds together now, but it is there, in the ancestral home. In all these years since he passed on, not one other man has managed to fit into it. He was a fearless warrior, they say; they still talk about his feats during the wars we waged against Mysore.

“This mighty ancestor, though, was only too human. Many years after his first marriage, when he was far past his prime and
the age when these things are considered acceptable, he fell headlong in love with a young woman. He tried at first to stay away, telling himself he was being foolish.

“But no matter how far he went, no matter how he tried to forget, the memory of her was burned in his flesh. Like a bullet that had wormed its way into his heart, like a hook that had pierced his gut.

“Like the faint traces of snake poison he secretly believed still swam in his blood.

“Finally, unable to fight this anymore, he did the only thing he could. He wed the lovely maiden, convincing himself that his first wife would understand. She would sympathize with his obsession, embracing the newcomer to her bosom like a sister.

“Besides, he said to himself, he was the head of the household, was he not? Who was to decree how many wives he could have? Bolstering himself thus, he made his way home decked in his wedding regalia, his blushing bride by his side. And there was his first wife to greet him, standing on the steps of their home—arms akimbo, eyes flashing with fury, and brandishing a sword.”

Machu grinned, his teeth gleaming briefly in the dark. “Our women, they are tigresses. No matter how our fearless hero begged, no matter how much he threatened or pleaded or how many jewels he promised her, his wife refused to let him into the house. Finally, the hapless bridegroom had no choice but to build an identical home, right next to the first. It was there he housed his second family.”

Machu paused, his eyes distant. “It all worked out eventually,” he added. “They lived harmoniously enough after that, or at least that's what people say.”

He tilted his head and looked up at the stars. “I am done with the army,” he said abruptly. “After this war, I am putting in my papers and going home.”

“To your village, huh? Is it green?”

“Lush. She is beautiful,
sardarji,
so beautiful, my heart aches each time I look at her.”

The hour of the second watch began and the guards changed. Machu fell exhausted into his bedroll. He lay there for a moment, utterly still.
He was going home.
A gradual peace descended upon his drawn features. He shut his eyes and slipped almost immediately, and for the first time since he had left Coorg, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when he was being roused again. It was time for the patrol. A handful of men under the command of Lieutenant Balmer were to go up to the pass that led to the mountains to find out how far the insurgents were from the camp. The sikh from the previous guard leaned forward as they assembled by the quarter guard. “I will rip their arses apart,” he whispered enthusiastically to Machu, stabbing his fingers into the air. “Let even one of them come into sight.”

Machu grinned in spite of himself, the dimple flashing in his cheek. He glanced around at the rest of the men. One of the volunteers had been assigned to the party and was looking a little green as he turned toward the pass.

They slipped from the camp under cover of this last hour of darkness. The stars were slowly receding, faint pinpricks of light in the purple sky. The air was cool, the final breath of freshness before the dust devils started to blow again, filling eyes and boots with sand.

Machu walked steadily on in the fading moonlight, the stillness about him solidifying his thoughts. This was not his war. This was not his land. He would give in his papers, he thought again to himself. He had some money saved; they would get by. Devi … his heart quickened.

A chill breeze blew through the pass and despite himself Lieutenant Balmer shivered.
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, still were the pipe and drum
… The line from the poem ran through his mind. For the life of him he couldn't remember what followed after: …
still
were…still were…still were the pipe and drum
… It suddenly seemed of paramount importance that he remember.

Ah!
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, still were the pipe and drum. Save heavy tread and weapon clang, our onward march was dumb.
Shifting the strap of his rifle, he continued silently forward.

The mountains, crystalline-shadowed, gazed meditatively down at their passage.

They were now at least a mile from the camp. The pass narrowed to a sharp-edged defile ahead, barely wide enough to fit two men standing shoulder to shoulder before turning sharply to the left. Through there, Balmer decided, they would reconnoiter just beyond the turn, then head back to the camp. He signaled to his men, and they moved up the defile.

For a split second, the silence continued. And then, a fiendish yell, bestial, bloodthirsty, ricocheted from the ancient crags into the velvet-cloaked valleys below.

The soldiers had stumbled on the enemy, thousands upon thousands of men creeping stealthily through the gorge and toward the sleeping camp.

The 20th opened fire at once, letting loose volley after volley of shots into the enemy at close range. They were met with howls of rage from the Pashtuns, who quickly lifted their own rifles.

“Fall back, fall back,” Balmer cried. They moved back, pace by pace, still firing. The noise bouncing off the rock face was deafening.

The 20th retreated, taking up position before the turn and the narrow defile, behind a rough outcrop of rock; the first line of defense kneeling, the second standing upright behind them, reloading and firing, reloading and firing into the enemy as they tried repeatedly to breach the turn. Shrapnel flew as bullets thudded into the rock face, bodies began to litter the defile, and still the Afghans pressed forward. They clambered over the bodies of their fallen comrades, letting loose wild volleys of bullets before being mowed down themselves. Still they came: for each Pashtun fallen, two more to take his place. Their bullets, too, began to find marks—a soldier immediately to Machu's left; another, hit in the neck, gurgling blood and clawing wild-eyed at his throat as he fell.

The soldiers shot a rocket into the air to warn the camp, the acrid stink of the shell burning their nostrils. As the shell flared high above them, it highlighted for an instant the desperate scene before them. The Pashtuns were gaining ground, Machu saw. They were being cut down steadily by the 20th, but there were too few soldiers to hold them at bay for much longer. And when they did breach the corner and get into the pass … He glanced at Balmer, saw the anxiety in his face. “Stay strong, men, stay strong,” Balmer shouted over the din, “not long now before they send us reinforcements. Sepoys, hold steady.”

Another soldier cried out, the rifle falling from his hand as he slumped forward. “Get his bullets,” Machu shouted, but there was barely time to reload. The Afghans were pushing forward, leaping around the pass.

Balmer reached into his belt pouch, but there were no more bullets.
We need ammunition,
Balmer thought desperately, searching behind him in the still empty pass.
Where are the reinforcements?

The volunteer officer stood next to him, firing wildly. There were so many of the enemy rushing around the corner, it did not matter that his aim was unpracticed; he shot erratically into their numbers, and with each bullet someone fell. And then his rifle, too, fell silent. Machu saw him turn to Balmer, gesticulating wildly. “The camp,” he shouted into Balmer's ear, “we must retreat.” Balmer shook his head, not bothering with words. They would never make it, Machu knew, not with the mob that would tear after them.

“I'm out, no more ammo,” the volunteer cried again. “What do we do?”

The last rifles of the 20th sputtered to a halt. For just an instant, the pass fell silent again, the Afghans listening intently around one corner, the soldiers searching behind them on the other, willing the reinforcements to arrive. Balmer stared at his men, momentarily at a loss. Machaiah was looking steadily at him, Balmer saw, the tight resignation in the older man's face speaking plainly of what must follow.

Balmer shut his eyes for a brief, calming instant. A vast bank
of rhododendrons flashed through his mind, the enormous hedge of it that lined their garden back home. His mother sitting in the shade, in a white wicker chair, her favorite tabby purring on her lap.
I'm sorry, Mother.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled his revolver from the holster. “This is it, men,” he said. “Remember, glory to the Twentieth.”

The sikhs pulled their turbans from their heads, their hair tumbling wild and loose down their backs.
“Wahe guru ki khalsa, wahe guru ki fateh!!”
they cried, thrusting their bayonets ferociously in the air. And alongside them, another voice that echoed from the mountains.

“AYYAPPA SWAMI!” Machu roared, leaping with what remained of the patrol from behind the outcrop into the pass.

Machu thrust his bayonet through a Pashtun, skewering him, but even as he fell, the man slashed at Machu's shoulder. He stepped aside, the blade of the sword nicking his skin then falling away. He turned, pushed his bayonet through another man, removed it cleanly, thrust again. Duck, move, thrust, parry, thrust, remove, step aside, turn, thrust, remove, thrust. Something hit him on the head, he staggered for a moment as a warm gush of liquid streamed down his face, then righted himself,
thrust.

Back and forth his arm moved, no time to think, just this fluid dance, the hunter and the hunted. His blade turned dark, slicing through muscle and sinew. Thrust and remove, thrust and remove, the odikathi digging deep into the tiger's guts. Dust rose thick in the air from beneath the churning feet, the screams of men echoing from the rocks. A foul stench of involuntarily voided bowels from among the fallen mingled with the acrid sting of gunpowder and the mineral smell of blood. From the corner of his eye, Machu saw the volunteer officer go down.
Balmer,
he thought,
where is Balmer?

He turned just in time to see the lieutenant fall forward. An Afghan stood over him, both arms raised high as he prepared to bring his sword crashing down. “SWAMIYE AYYAPPA!” Machu smashed his bayonet into the man's spine, viciously twisting the blade. He was pulling it free when a man came rushing up to him
and brought his sword down on Machu's arm. Machu shouted in agony. Bending his head, he butted the man ferociously in the nose, felt rather than heard the cartilage crunch apart. The man staggered back, clutching at his face. Grabbing his bayonet in his left hand, Machu stabbed it through the Pashtun's throat.

In the distance, the blare of bugles. The reinforcements, at last. From behind them, the faint roar of men, the war cries of the sikhs. Machu grinned, a wild, wolfish grin, the dimple dancing in his cheek. It would not be long now.

He stood over Balmer, not sure if the lieutenant was alive or dead, his right arm nearly sliced through, dangling uselessly from his side. His face was wet with blood, it was dripping into his eyes, so that he could barely see. No time to think, just this dance, this eternal, exhilarating dance, thrust and parry, thrust, remove, thrust. The hooves of horses, thundering up the pass. Machu laughed out loud. “El Kheir,” he roared, “
El Kheir!
May victory be eternally bound to your forelock …
I am going home.
”

He could hardly see through the blood; he was fighting more from instinct than anything else. Thrust and remove, thrust … a bullet hit him square in the chest. Machu jerked backward from the force of it; to his great surprise, he found his legs would no longer hold him. He fell hard to the ground, the breath knocked from his body.

Everything went silent, as if wads of cotton had suddenly been plugged in his ears. The flash of swords about him. The blue-white glint of their tips, as if the stars hung lower this morning. The unbound hair of the sikhs whirling about them as, one by one, they too fell.

Machu was filled with an inexplicable urge to laugh. It was all so ridiculous. Honor, glory—all trampled underfoot in some misbegotten pass. The battle would end soon, he knew, and eventually the war. The world would turn. Men would forget. And then, as sure as the sun was rising even now in the east, the very same battles would be waged again, for reasons that would not matter. Who would remember the blood staining the dust; who would mourn hope, lost forever?

A man was poised above him, his sword lifted. Machu gripped his bayonet. The Afghan raised his arm high and Machu stabbed the bayonet upward, into the man's groin. The man dropped like a stone and suddenly Machu's hearing returned. The cries were louder behind him; he could hear the horses pounding up the pass. The Afghans began to falter. How many, he wondered idly, had the sardarji killed?