LIFE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST:

A Tale of Afghanistan.

BY

A. L O. E., (Charlotte Maria Tucker)

AUTHORESS OF "THE CLAREMONT TALES," "NED FRANKS," "SHEER OFF," "THE WHITE BEAR'S DEN," ETC.

London: GALL & INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE; AND EDINBURGH.

PREFACE.

The Authoress of the following tale has often said that she has devoted her pen to her adopted country, India. Has she then changed her purpose in again writing a story for British readers? No; though in a different way, she is still seeking to serve the Missionary cause. A.L.O.E. wants money for her "Mission Plough," a School for Mohammedan and heathen boys in Batala, and it occurred to her that hours, not taken from her city work, might be given to earning something by literary effort.

The School which A.L.O.E. thus attempts to prop up by her quill, sprang out of a felt want. Native boys were willing to hear the Gospel, and in the Government School were taught no religion at all. The Missionary Society to which A.L.O.E. belongs, restricts its attention to women and girls; of course not a penny could be taken from its funds for boys, though teaching them indirectly helps the Zenana work—the seed of truth being sometimes carried by them to the very strongholds of feminine bigotry.

Thus the "Mission Plough" is supported by no society; the expenses are to be met by personal effort, or the assistance of those who sympathise with its object. A.L.O.E most gratefully acknowledges the great liberality with which kind friends have come to her aid. May the Lord reward them a thousandfold for what they have done!

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. NEWS FROM ENGLAND II. A SUDDEN CHANGE III. GILDING RUBS OFF IV. FAIRLY STARTED V. A ROUGH WAY VI. THE MOUNTAIN CHILD VII. THE STRUGGLE COMES VIII. PRISON LIFE IX. THE AFGHAN CHIEF X. CONSCIENCE AWAKENED XI. REPENTANCE AND REPARATION XII. THE HOUR OF PERIL XIII. A DARING ATTEMPT XIV. SPEAK OR DIE! XV. THE KNOTTED ROPE XVI. AFTER SEVEN YEARS XVII. A RICH REWARD XVIII. NOONTIDE GLARE XIX. DECISION XX. A POST OF PERIL XXI. THE ATTACK XXII. WHERE THE PILLAR RESTED

LIFE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST.

CHAPTER I. NEWS FROM ENGLAND.

"The post-dák at last!" exclaimed Walter Gurney, springing to his feet, as, encompassed by a cloud of dust, the vehicle for which he had been watching appeared in the distance, the flourish of a horn announcing its approach. The youth had been reclining under the shade of a peepul tree, at the side of the road which led to a frontier station on the border line which divides India from the land of the Afghans. The post had always to be met at this point by Walter, as the horses were never turned down the rude road which led to a missionary's bungalow, situated about two miles off, almost close to a native village. The Rev. William Gurney, till his death, which had occurred about two months ere my story opens, had always dwelt amongst his poor flock, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot." The missionary's sole companion had been Walter, his only son, whom he had himself educated in India, the neighbourhood of mountains preventing the absolute necessity of his sending his motherless boy to England.

This was the third time that Walter had anxiously gone to meet the home mail. By his dying father's desire he had remained at Santgunge till he should receive a letter from his grandmother in London, in answer to the announcement of the missionary's death. Walter could not form any plans for his own future till he should hear from the nearest relative now left to him upon earth.

The expected letter was handed down by the coachman to Walter, and with another blast of the horn the dák-gári* rattled on its way. Walter returned to the peepul tree, and, leaning against its trunk, examined the envelope of the letter before opening it to read the contents.

* Post-cart or carriage.

"Black-edged, but not written in my grandmother's hand. She must have been ill, which would account for her not writing before. The news which I sent must have grieved her sorely."

Walter broke open the letter and glanced at the signature at the end; it was that of his uncle, whose handwriting was strange to the youth. Augustus Gurney, the wealthy banker, had never cared to keep up intercourse with a brother who had demeaned himself, as he thought, by becoming a humble missionary. The stiff, formal, business-like writing was characteristic of him who had penned it. The letter was dated from Eaton Square, 1871.

"DEAR WALTER,—The melancholy announcement of your father's decease never reached your grandmother; it arrived on the day of her funeral. I have delayed writing till all affairs were settled. You asked for directions for your future course, and whether there were any means of your finishing your education in some college in England. You shall receive a frank reply. My mother's income being only a life annuity, ceased at her death; she had no property to leave. There are no funds available to pay your passage home or start you in life. Every profession here is overcrowded. You must not look to me, as I have three sous to provide for, and I never approved of the course which your father chose to take. You had better try to find some employment in India. Doubtless you have there plenty of friends; here you would be amongst strangers.—Your affectionate uncle,

AUGUSTUS GURNEY."

"Strangers indeed," muttered Walter between his clenched teeth. "Can this man, I will not call him uncle, actually receive the news of the death of his only brother, a brother whom he always neglected, a brother of whom he should have been proud, without so much as a feeling of remorse, or one word of sympathy to his orphan? He does not wish to be burdened with a poor relation! He shall certainly never be troubled by me!" Walter crushed up the letter in his bands, and with long rapid strides took his way along the rough, weed-overgrown path which led to his desolate home. Bitter were the orphan youth's reflections.

"'Doubtless you have plenty of friends,'" he writes. "Did my uncle know nothing of the isolated life of self-denial led by my father amongst our ignorant peasants? I have seen nothing of the world; know no one to take me by the hand. Though I have a passion for study, I have not received the educational advantages that would fit me for Government employment. I have led a kind of Robinson Crusoe life; I can shoot, can turn a straight furrow, ride, plant trees, and do a little carpenter's work; talk to natives of India or Afghanistan in half-a-dozen jargons; but I know little of mathematics, am only self-taught in Latin; I could pass no examination,—at least I doubt that I could,—and I have no funds to support me till I could study up for one. I changed my last rupee to-day."

It may be little to the credit of Walter that indignation towards his uncle and anxiety about his own future were the first thoughts that came into his mind on learning of the death of his aged relative in England. But Walter, brought up in the wilds of Santgunge, had never seen his grandmother nor received any letter from her. Once a-month an epistle from the old lady had regularly reached her missionary son, with a brief message to his boy at the end. Before Walter reached his home, more gentle feelings prevailed. He could feel thankful that parent and son had both been spared the pang of bereavement which had wrung his own heart. Walter thought of the joyful surprise of the meeting above of those who for twenty years had been severed on earth.

"Yes, a time will come when we shall care little whether our path was rough or smooth on earth; whether it led upwards to distinction, or downwards to poverty and trouble," said Walter to himself, as he entered the little bungalow in which he had dwelt from his birth. It was a most unadorned dwelling, built chiefly of sun-dried bricks, and by no means in good repair, for the rains had injured the walls, and white ants eaten into the timber. The interior matched the outside; a few prints and texts, with an old brown map, were the only ornaments; the rough mat on the brick floor had been worn into holes by the tread of many bare feet. A few chairs and a table, a bookcase and its contents, chiefly religious books, reports, and Urdu pamphlets, summed up the furniture of the room which Walter entered. The youth's own appearance was in character with his surroundings. His clothes, originally of common material, were worn almost threadbare. Walter was tall and slight, and the first impression which a stranger would receive was that he was overgrown and underfed. Though his

age was barely seventeen, there were signs of care on his countenance, and a sunken look under his eyes that told of months of night watching and daily hardship. Yet a second glance at his form, and the broad expansive brow from which the weary lad now pushed back the wavy auburn hair, might suggest a presage that after a few years the figure might be remarkably fine, the countenance singularly intellectual.

Walter threw himself on a chair. Raising his eyes, their glance rested on a picture with time-stained margin, which had been familiar to him from his earliest childhood. The youth's almost sole recollection of his mother was her explaining the meaning of the print to her little boy, then young enough to be raised in her arms. The print represented the Israelites encamped at night in the desert, their tents made visible by the light streaming from the pillar of fire before them. That print had been, as it were, the text of the last exhortation which Walter had heard from his father, which vividly now recurred to the mind of the desolate youth.

"God may lead us into the desert, my boy, but it is a blessed way if His presence go with us. The eye of faith still sees the pillar of cloud and fire to guide us wherever God wills we should go, and we are safe—ay, and happy—as long as we follow the path marked out by Him who is all wisdom and love."

"The pillar has for me long rested over this place," said Walter to himself; "I would not have left my father, with his broken health, to struggle on alone. But now the pillar will move on,—I wonder whither! I had hoped to England—and Cambridge—with future honour and usefulness beyond. That letter has dashed down all my air-built castles! The desert around me looks very bare; but O my God!—my father's God! do Thou guide me, and give me grace and courage to follow on, nor turn aside to the right or the left."

Walter knelt down in his desolate home, and in a short but fervent prayer commended himself to the guardian care of a Saviour God. He arose from his knees cheered and refreshed. Walter then applied himself to the homely care of preparing his evening meal, for, soon after his father's death, he had dismissed his only servant. Some of the native flock would willingly have worked for the missionary's son, without hope of payment beyond that of a kind look and word, but their offers had been declined with grateful thanks by the orphan.

Walter's gun had on this day supplied him with a more sumptuous repast than usually fell to his lot; but he had emptied his powder-flask for the charge which had brought down his pheasant, and had no means of filling it again. The youth, as he plucked off the beautiful feathers of his prize, saw in their loveliness a pledge that He who had so clothed the bird of the jungle would not leave His child uncared for. Walter had to light his fire, and cook his food, as well as provide it. His kitchen was the open air; his oven—native fashion—was formed of dried mud, and was of the simplest construction. The apparatus comprised merely a few brass vessels, and an iron plate for cooking chapatties.* While the pheasant was being stewed, Walter proceeded to prepare this simple substitute for the bread, which was a rare luxury in Santgunge. Skilled as he was by practice, round balls of dough in Walter's hand were successively patted out and flattened, then spread on the heated iron and turned, till a nicely browned chapattie was ready. Walter, engaged in his humble occupation, and absorbed in

thoughts quite unconnected with chapatties, did not notice the sound of a horse's hoofs, and was rather startled by the loud voice of its rider, which suddenly broke on the silence.

* Flat unleavened cakes.

CHAPTER II. A SUDDEN CHANGE.

"Koi hai? any one there?" the usual summons to a servant in India, brought Walter to his feet. Turning, he saw in the horseman, splendidly mounted, who appeared before him, a gentleman whom he had only once met before, about three months previously, but whom he instantly recognised. Walter would have done so had thrice as many years intervened since the meeting.

For Dermot Denis was not one to be quickly forgotten. He was upwards of six feet in height, and with form graceful as well as powerfully built. A quantity of thick curly hair, of a tint that might be called golden, surmounted an intelligent face, both handsome and pleasant, whose grey eyes sparkled with life and fun. Walter had, as has been mentioned, seen Denis but once before; but it was under circumstances that had made a deep impression on his mind.

It had been a time of great trouble amongst the native Christians of Santgunge. Their crops had utterly failed. Their missionary was sinking under a slow and painful disease. Mr. Gurney, who felt the trials of his people more than his own, desired Walter to pay a visit to an official at the nearest station, which was fifteen miles away, to try to induce him to give some relief. It was a commission distasteful to the youth. He disliked playing the beggar, and had no faith in his own powers of persuasion. It was shyly that he told his father's message to the official, whom he found entertaining the handsome Irishman.

"I wish I could do more for your people," said the official, placing five rupees on the table; then, as if changing the subject, he turned and said, "Let me introduce you to Mr. Dermot Denis, an Irish gentleman, who, having more time and money on his hands than he knows what to make of, has come to India in search of adventures. Mr. Denis, this is the son of a missionary who, for twenty years, in a desolate jungle, has devoted his life to attempts to convert the natives."

The cordial shake of the young Irishman's hand which followed this introduction was gratifying to Walter, and still more so was the currency note for a hundred rupees which was frankly and pleasantly given. Walter could hardly utter a word of thanks, but his heart felt deeply grateful. Joyfully he bore back the large contribution, which his sick father received almost with tears, as a gift from heaven.

"God bless the generous donor!" he faltered.

"O father! I wish that you could have seen him!" exclaimed Walter, with the enthusiasm of youth. "I never met with any one like him, he looked so bright and brave! How noble he must be in whom wealth and position have raised no pride, one who gives without being asked, and in a manner so frank and kind!"

The parting words of Denis to Walter had been, "I'll some day invade you in your jungle, and see the fruits of your good father's attempts to manufacture monkeys into men."

And now the Irishman had kept his promise. Walter eagerly went forward to meet him, wrung his hand warmly, and in few words told him of the heavy loss which he himself had sustained.

"And you're here all alone!" exclaimed Denis, as he dismounted; "just call your sais (groom); my man has fallen desperately ill on the road—I had to leave him behind."

"I am my own sais, and will be yours," said Walter, laying his hand on the horse's bridle to lead it away.

"Groom and cook too? you're a clever fellow!" cried Denis, gaily. "I'm glad that I've caught you just at dinner-time, for I'm desperately hungry. Just returned from a long expedition, riding day and night from dawn to sunset. I'll just turn into the house and have a smoke, whilst you look after the bay."

Even had Walter had no reason to feel grateful towards Denis, he was much too hospitable to grudge the stranger a share of the dinner which was to have lasted himself for two meals, though he had had nothing but chapatties on the previous day, and it was doubtful when he would again be able to procure anything more substantial.

When Walter re-entered the dwelling, carrying with him the stewed pheasant and chapatties, he found his guest seated at his ease on a chair, with his feet on the table, smoking. Denis threw away his cigar, put down his feet, and applied himself with vigour to the occupation of eating his dinner, demolishing more than two-thirds of the pheasant, whilst talking all the time.

"A most unlucky chance for me, my fellow's falling ill!" he exclaimed. "He was a regular brick; could jabber several languages, was clever at everything—of course cheating his master included. I daresay that he shammed sickness, because he had no fancy to go where I am going. How to supply his place I know not. By-the-by, do you happen to know anything of Pushtoo?"*

* The language of the Afghans.

"I know it pretty well," replied Walter, who was a very good linguist; "Afghans frequently pass this way; we have had one here for weeks who has just recovered from a troublesome illness, and is going back to his home. He is a Kandahar man."

"A Kandahar man!" exclaimed Denis eagerly. "That's just what I wanted. Do you think that he would act as my guide into Afghanistan?"

"You do not mean that you think of crossing the border?" said Walter in surprise.

"Cross it? yes, and go a great way beyond it—as far as Kandahar, possibly to Kabul; I have a great object before me," said Denis, mysteriously lowering his voice.

"You are hardly aware of the danger——"

"Danger!" interrupted Denis, "I revel in danger. I know that the Afghans, every mother's son of them, are thieves and cut-throats; they slice off your head, and then——"

"And then?" said Walter, smiling.

"You have something to put into a book."

Walter could not help laughing at the Hibernian's bull; but resuming his grave expression he observed, "I do not think that you fully know what you would undertake."

"I know everything!" cried Denis, a little impatiently; "I've had it all dunned into me by every one whom I've met, but all I've heard only strengthens my resolution to go. I'm sick of travelling about in a place like India, where every black fellow salams you, and vows he's your slave. I've done India thoroughly all round; seen all that's to be seen, and much more. I've visited no end of Hindu mosques and Mohammedan temples, have dined with the Viceroy, and taken pot-luck with the Brahmins. Now I want something new and exciting. Besides, as I told you, I've an object in view. I'm going, if all the world should cry 'stay.'" And with a look of stern determination, Denis finished off the last bit of the pheasant.

Then followed a few seconds of silence. It was broken by Denis exclaiming, with the joyousness inspired by a happy thought: "I say, Walter, you will come with me! You know the language, you have made friends with the Afghans; having you with me would increase a thousandfold my chance of getting back with a whole skin. You're a good shot, I suppose?"—he glanced at a gun in a corner.

"Fair," replied Walter Gurney, who hardly ever missed his aim.

"You have a horse, I suppose?"

"A hill-pony,—not much of a mount."

"But, doubtless, he can keep his legs on the mountains; you're not such a weight as I am, though pretty nearly as tall. Yes, yes, you're just the companion I wanted; a jovial young chap, sticking at nothing, who can ride, shoot, cook, groom a horse, and I daresay shoe it at a pinch, and who will think no more of danger than I do."