# Benefit of Doubt/Chapter 17
### CHAPTER XVII.
#### “I am a rebel.”

The door of the priests' chamber in the temple of Podanaram opened suddenly and they thrust a man in so violently that he stumbled and fell over the recumbent body of a soldier, who lay asleep on the stone floor. There were only two cots. One was occupied by Mrs. Wilmshurst.
“Is this to be another Black Hole of Calcutta?” she complained.
The suggestion was absurd. It was a good, large, airy room for one thing. The sun was already above the trees outside and flooded the room through a large window set high in the wall, through which escape might almost have been possible, for there was no glass—no bars. Only, one did not know what was outside, and the judge was neither active nor adventurous. The soldiers acquiesced, dog-weary, and knowing what they knew.
The judge had lent his cot for a few hours to Linkinyear, who sat up and stared.
“Oh, are we to have natives in here?” asked Mrs. Wilmshurst in the identical tone of voice that has made most of the trouble between East and West.
The man recovered himself, apologized to the soldier, and faced Mrs. Wilmshurst's cot, on which she lay clothed, languidly fanning herself.
“Pardon the interruption, but they threw me in here,” he explained.
“Oh well—if you couldn't help it, I suppose——”
“I could have helped it all right,” he answered.
By that time they were all staring at him— judge, Linkinyear, three privates of the line and Mrs. Wilmshurst—puzzled principally by the excellence of his English.
“Oh—beg pardon! I forgot. My name's King. Traveling incog., that's all.”
“Not Major King—whom I met at Poona?” Mrs. Wilmshurst would have used her lorgnon if she had had one. “Mr. Ommony's friend? Well, I never! You look as if you need a bath. Sorry we can't oblige you.”
“Well, well!I am a rebel.” her husband exclaimed, stepping forward to shake hands. “At least we're safe then! The famous Athelstan King——”
“Not in the least safe,” King interrupted. “Has anybody tried that window? Backs, please.”
Two of Linkinyear's men stood face to the wall, and King climbed on to their shoulders. One glance through the window was sufficient.
“Not at all safe. Small yard—high wall—jungle. Two men with rifles on the wall, and probably others on the temple roof. Impracticable.”
“What then?” the judge asked. “Why are you here? You say you could have helped it?”
“Heard you were all here, so came and surrendered to the Khalifate Committee. They were delighted, of course.”
“Goodness gracious! Why didn't you run the other way and bring some help?” Mrs. Wilmshurst asked indignantly. “If the authorities knew we were here they'd——”
“No time,” King assured her. She was right in her diagnosis. He was not a lady's man. “We're to be murdered. High noon today. Bodies disgustingly mutilated, before death or afterward—then placed on view—excite the Moplahs. Murder will be secret. Afterward they'll advertise it. Scheme is to persuade Moplahs to go in for frightfulness wholesale.”'
“Oh my God!” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “What do they kill you with? Knives?”
“Pardon me, old top, but have you a weapon of any kind?” asked Linkinyear.
“Sorry. No. Had a pistol, but they searched me rather thoroughly just now,” King answered.
“How do you know that is their intention?” asked the judge. “Perhaps they were only threatening you on purpose to terrify----”
“Oh no. You see, I didn't tell them who I was at first. They mistook me for a friend. Told everything. It was after that that I mentioned my real name and nationality, and of course then there was nothing to do but kill me or throw me in here. Mean minutes while they decided that point!”
“But, my dear man—that was quixotic, wasn't it? Outside, and incognito, there was surely always a chance in a thousand to help save us, whereas——”
“Whereas inside I've an even chance,” King interrupted. “Cot Ommony has gone for help to a friend of mine, who has influence and some backing. He can't refuse to rescue me—at least I hope not. He won't, if I know him. The risk is, he may be overruled by the men about him. And of course, he may arrive too late. I'd say the chance was fifty-fifty.”
Mrs. Wilmshurst got up and paced the floor, trying to master herself. Her husband began to offer sympathy, a little clumsily but kindly. She shook him off.
“I tell you what!” she said suddenly. “We ought to pray. Let's all pray. Do you hear me?”
They heard, but none responded. She returned to her cot to lie down and pray by herself.
“What do you say they kill you with? Knives?” she asked. “Oh my God!”
King entered into details, in particular about the Khalifate Committee, whose prisoners they were.
“Moplahs are decent savages. That Committee are devils,” he insisted. “All they're playing for is ructions north, south, east and west. Bag them, and this Moplah business might be over in a month or two.”
“Why discuss that? They've bagged us!” said the judge with a wry smile.
“Oh my God! I can't remember any prayers!” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “Which of you knows a prayer?”
One of the privates did, and volunteered to prove it. Mrs. Wilmshurst welcomed him and they knelt against the cot, one on either side.
“Can't we stage a show of some kind?” wondered Linkinyear. “We might stand by the door and swat them as they come through—swat or scrag them. Kill a few before they snaffle us. The of it is they'll get' the beldame anyhow. If I'd a gun----”
“Come and listen, Lu!” Mrs. Wilmshurst called to her husband. “This man prays beautifully! He has made me cry already! Come here at once!”
The judge went and sat on the end of the cot, listening with a rather puzzled look. He might have been hearing a witness in rare language.
“If Mahommed Babar comes too late,” said King, “there's this—perhaps we couldn't have used our lives to better advantage.”
“How so?” demanded Linkinyear. “I'd rather take mine with the damage I'd done all in full view around me!”
“It might be the last of this Committee,” King answered. “The sight of us all dead may arouse Mahommed Babar to the——”
There came a kick against the door. It opened slightly. There was a noise of scuffling, and it closed again.
“There! Some one's coming to the rescue! There! That comes of praying!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilmshurst, getting off her knees.
The door opened wide. A man in a khaki shirt and pants, without much else on, was hurled in backward and the door slammed shut.
“There! Is that your Mahommed Babar?”
It was Cotswold Ommony, flat on his back. King helped him to his feet.
“°Lo, Athelstan!”
“Any prospect?”
“None whatever!”
“How did you come so quickly?”
“Borrowed his horse. When I gave him your message he was eating chupatties, standing in front of his tent. He went on eating.
“'My friend King sahib asks more than he knows,' he answered. 'You speak of the benefit of doubt. Whose doubt?'
“'Your own,' I said. 'He has no doubt of you.'
“He looked me in the face for about a minute after that. You know the way he strokes his beard, standing with his legs apart? He looked pretty much like a man, with an old-fashioned saber he's dug up from somewhere. I liked him. I hope he realized it.
“'No time to waste!' I said. post haste or nothing!'
“'You shall see what you shall see,' he answered, and began shouting for some of the headmen. They came running.
“'These are some of my most loyal,' he told me, and then began explaining to them what was wanted.
“You never saw such a riot! They turned on him like wild dogs. Accused him This is of treason. Said he had promised to lead 'em against troops on the railway line, and led they would be or else teach him what became of traitors! The mullah was down among the men already, playing his part, but some of the headmen ran and gave their version, and if it hadn't been for a half-dozen stalwarts they'd have scoughed Mahommed Babar there and then. Several men took shots at him. He strode in among them like a man and a brother. Good to watch.
“It turned their hearts like eggs on a skillet. They shifted the blame on me—said I'd come there to corrupt him. I became the target. Nine or ten of them missed me beautifully. He managed to control them for a moment somehow, and gave me his pony to escape on. Told me to cut and run back to my bungalow, where I'd be safe. I came here of course, hoping my influence might have weight, but I'm worse than useless. The Committee told me point-blank they would rather cut my throat than any one's, because of the effect on the countryside! They stripped me of nearly everything and pitched me in here, but I kicked two of them in the belly—hard!—before they got my boots!”
“What time is it?” King asked.
“Oh, about half-past ten—quarter to eleven—somewhere there. They took my watch. Not an earthly chance of Mahommed Babar's making it, even if he decides to, and they let him come.”
“Any one know any hymns?” asked Mrs. Wilmshurst. “I can hum tunes, but who knows the words of a hymn?”
Ommony did. They say in the woods that Ommony knows everything. He not only could sing hymns, but he could put that peculiar verve into them that distinguishes faith from mere habit of say-so. When Ommony hymned you knew somehow that God, Allah, Jehovah, Elohim, Maheshwara—it, he, they are all one!—was in heaven, and all was well with the world, at least in principle! You could believe it as long as he kept on singing, beating time with hand, foot, shoulders, head—sometimes with all his body. Captain of unexpectedness, he knew psalms—could sing them, too!
It takes time to roll out those stately meters. It may have been nearly noon when the door opened and a voice called:
“Come out, one at a time! Mr. Ommon-ee first!”
They half-closed the door again from outside. It was impossible to see who waited. They intended to kill quickly, one by one, or else they were few out there and did not feel confident.
“Well soon see,” said Ommony, and walked out before the others could raise a hand to prevent him.
“Follow up!' whispered Linkinyear. One of those stage whispers that can penetrate stone walls and be heard through the talki-talk of siege-guns. He led; King was next; the others herded Mrs. Wilmshurst in between them; and they all surged for the door—which, however, was slammed in their faces.
“When they open again let me go first,” said Mrs. Wilmshurst. “They won't dare offer violence to a woman.”
“Ladies last!” King answered over his shoulder.
“Pig! Ill-mannered boor!' she retorted, and they all laughed.
When the door opened again—just a little —very cautiously—they rushed it in a scrum all together, but failed of their purpose. Some one on the far side had forestalled them by placing a beam so that the door could only open wide enough to pass one person at a time. Linkinyear disappeared through the opening as if sucked through by a vacuum. The door shut suddenly—opened again—and King felt his neck in a noose. He could not step back to avoid it because of Mrs. Wilmshurst, who pressed forward from behind. He was hauled through choking, and the door was once more slammed.
Young Linkinyear was already stripped to the waist and tied with his hands behind one of the fluted temple pillars. Three men were holding and tying Ommony when King was dragged in, and they tied him next. There were only nine of the enemy.
“The whole of the Khalifate Committee,” said Ommony, “and only nine to our eight! If only we had known!”
One of the three who were tying him struck him on the mouth. The Committee's smallest, meanest, most self-assertive member nodded 'pleasantly at that, examined King's thin rope and struck it a few times with the edge of his hand to make sure that it bit into the flesh, and then took charge of proceedings, giving orders without any suggestion of sharing authority with others. He was the whole noise—the works—the brains—the uptodate Napoleon.
“Now there are only four and a woman in there. Draw your pistols. Stand by the door. Open it wide. Let them come through. If the soldiers make any resistance, shoot them, for they don't matter much.”
The first man through was one of the three privates. He charged in with his fists clenched, ready to do battle with the universe. But a Hindu tripped him as he went by. Another noosed him as he lay prone, and dragged him, strangling, to one of the pillars, where he had no difficulty in tying him single-handed—passing the rope around the pillar and kicking his victim until he stood upright—then choking him helpless with one hand while he roped the man's arms with the other.
The second soldier through was knocked more or less unconscious by a pistol-butt, so that he, too, was easily tied in place by one man. The third pulled Judge Wilmshurst and his wife back into the room.
“Come on in, ye devils, and fight like men if ye can!” he challenged, striking the Lancashire fighting attitude, which holds feet as well as hands ready.
Instead of going in they sent a bullet. He fell forward, and his brains spread in a way that made Mrs. Wilmshurst scream. But that was the last exhibition she made of any kind of weakness.
The judge took his wife by the hand, kissed her, and they walked through together. Once through the door they were seized, dragged apart, and tied like the others, the judge at one end and his wife at the other next to Linkinyear. Linkinyear, with a rope cutting into his wrists, called on all that was left of his lone command to act like men, and they responded by telling Mrs. Wilmshurst to “cheer up, ma'am! and not be down 'earted!” Whereat she laughed and called them darlings. Her own wrists were in agony, but she said nothing about that.
There were twenty pillars supporting a dome. Six more were missing—had been knocked out and carried off by Moslems—and it was a marvel that the dome had not collapsed. The gap thus caused faced the temple door, which, nevertheless, was only dimly discernible in the gloom. The prisoners had been tied to the pillars directly facing the gap, so that when the door opened the light shone directly on their faces. On the right also, only dimly discernible beyond the pillars, was a blank wall with a huge image at either end and a long stone bench between the two. Eight of the Committee went and sat on that bench, while a ninth opened the door to look out on the temple portico.
A vicious-looking rascal stood out there with his back to the door, but turned and saluted.
“Remember,” warned the committeeman, “If anybody comes, rap loudly and give us ample warning!”
He spoke Hindustanee, the lingua franca. They all did. Among nine committeemen there were five races and three creeds, and they could not have understood each other or their servants in any other tongue.
“All is well,” said the ninth, joining the others on the stone bench.
The Moplah chairman no longer sat in the midst but at the far end. The place of importance was occupied by Aurung Ali, the little, self-important man. He was the only one who looked quite comfortable, lolling back against the wall with his hands folded on his lap contentedly.
“Well, your honor Judge Wilmshurst,” he began sarcastically, “I believe the pleasure of recognition is mutual, eh? I recall you were in no hurry when you sentenced me to twenty years' imprisonment. I will be equally patient and provoking! We are all going to enjoy ourselves thoroughly in secret session. Isn't it nice!”
He said that in English; then to the Committee in Hindustanee:
“Now you understand. The evidence of torture can not be applied to a body successfully after death. It must be done painstakingly while they are living. I will not have them killed too soon. There must be proof, positive and convincing, that they were done to death miserably. This is an opportunity of a life-time to inaugurate a reign of reprisal and counter-reprisal that will last until India is aflame from end to end! Now, who has a pistol?”
They all had. They produced them, thinking he wished that. He cackled meaningly.
“There you are! You produce them much too readily! You will use them too readily!”
“I say, shoot them first!” said a rather fat man, shifting his legs nervously. “Only Moplahs will see the bodies afterwards. They have no professional coroners. We can say they were tortured, and they will believe it. I am against this business of torturing.”
“You mean, I suppose, that your brain has become as fat and flabby as your stomach! Idiot! We must take great care that the bodies fall into British hands! What would be the use of inflaming the passions of one side, without a corresponding hatred on the other?”
“We can easily make marks on them with a hot iron directly after death—almost the same second. None would ever know the difference,” the other objected.
“No! Look here, you're going to spoil everything! Lay down your pistols, all of you! Lay them on the bench! Look—see—there is mine. To hear you talk you might be a lot of ghandis preaching non-violence! Now, no backing out of this! We were all agreed. You must all commit yourselves. Each of you must lend a hand and torture somebody. Take your knives, and somebody bring the hot coal. Leave Mrs. Wilmshurst to me—I am sure the judge would rather have it that way!”
They obeyed him, laying their pistols on the bench, and in proof that it was fear and not compunction that had made him flinch it was the fat man who went at once to drag a glowing charcoal brazier out from behind one of the stone images. The remainder chose their victims with a business-like air. Aurung Ali bowing sarcastically -to Mrs. Wilmshurst.
“I want you to watch this, judge!” he said pleasantly, moving toward the brazier to choose an iron.
Not one of the prisoners said a word. Each stared at the devil in front of him. Each devil fingered a long knife, hesitating even yet to begin the abominable business.
“Now watch!” said Aurung Ali, whirling a hot iron.
But his movement was arrested by a quiet tap on the temple door, from outside. Every member of the Committee turned and faced the door as if Nemesis had already entered.
“Go on, go on!” exclaimed Aurung Ali. “That is nothing. I ordered him to knock loud for danger. This is some minor matter. I will go and see.”
He walked to the door, after thrusting the iron back into the fire to keep it hot, and drew the bolt back gingerly. The instant the edge of the bolt was clear the door was burst in violently, and the dead body of the man who had been left on guard was flung in like a sack, knocking Aurung Ali backward half-way across the temple floor. The blazing light of full noon shone in like a sunburst, and in the midst of that stood Mahommed Babar, with the mullah, haggard and red-eyed, behind him. Mahommed Babar held a pistol in each hand. There was nothing to be gained by moving. He stood there, summing up the situation, for about thirty seconds—then spoke to the mullah without turning his head. The mullah went to the stone bench and gathered all the pistols off it into his lap.
“This comes of hymns and praying!” announced Mrs. Wilmshurst. The soldier who had prayed with her was dead, but that thought did not occur until afterwards.
“If you would kindly cut our thongs, Mahommed Babar,” said King, “we could----”
But he left the mullah to do that. Without answering King, he spoke again, over his shoulder, and some one closed the temple door behind him. In the sudden change from light to gloom it was difficult to see, but none could mistake the sound of the saber licking from its scabbard, or the thrum as he wristed it to the attack.
It was then that Aurung Ali went mad and charged Mahommed Babar with a hot iron, upsetting all the charcoal on his way and screaming in the last frenzy of fear. There was a sudden swish and thud, and Aurung Ali's head rolled to Ommony's feet, where it lay mouthing at him.
Then panic seized the rest, and they pursued the mullah from shadow to shadow, from pillar to pillar, from corner to door. The door would not yield to them. The mullah shook the pistol-chambers empty as he ran and then threw away the weapon. They fought for the empty weapons, and screamed as they found them useless—rushing, swearing, imprecating, screaming—like rats in a pit with a terrier after them. And in among them—swift—unhurrying—certain as the act of de8tiny—Mahommed Babar's saber licked—and hacked—and thrust—until the last Committeeman backed away screaming in front of him and clung to Mrs. Wilmshurst for protection.
“You needn't kill him to oblige me,” she said. “Is he worth killing?”
Mahommed Babar hesitated—stepped a pace back—and seemed to go off guard. The frenzy of cowardice gripped the other, and he lunged with his long knife, missing Mahommed Babar by an inch. A thwack—a thud—and his head rolled to lie gaping near Aurung Ali's.
The mullah was struggling to cut thongs, making poor progress. Mahommed Babar shouted and the temple door was swung wide open. Twenty or thirty men peered in, crowding to see but not crossing the threshold. Mahommed Babar walked behind the prisoners and severed all thongs with his saber. King held his hand out. Mahommed Babar shook it, very stately and gently, perhaps because of the injured wrist.
“We're all awfully obliged,” said King.
“I say—we're simply frightfully grateful!” said Mrs. Wilmshurst.
“Yow re a man and a brother, Mahommed Babar,” put in Ommony.
“Won't some one introduce us?” asked the judge.
“Of course you'll come with us, old man?” King asked, taking Mahommed Babar's arm.
Linkinyear led his two privates to bring their dead comrade's body from the inner room.
“No, sahib. I have my work to do. I am a rebel. Here are fifty men who have put the Committee's men to flight. They will escort you to the British lines. Please give them safe conduct back again.”
“Ommony and I—this that you have done here—we can save you from a rebel's fate—” King began.
“Sahib, you and I are friends,” he interrupted. 'Forgive me, then, for my father's sake and yours. I am a rebel. I will be a rebel, until the end:”
He bowed to Mrs. Wilmshurst, then toward the open door, then to the judge, and kicked two gaping heads out of. the way.
“You have my leave to go,” he said, and stood waiting, only shaking hands with King and Ommony as they went by.