# Benefit of Doubt/Chapter 12
### CHAPTER XII.
#### “Mahommed Babar wants a cavalry saber.”

Themullah's servant came into the mosque and changed the bandage on King's head as an excuse for listening to deliberations from which he would normally have been excluded. In theory the mosque is absolutely democratic, but in practise there are tyrannies and sharp distinctions that a man must understand before he can cope with Moslem politics. If the mullah had been there in person his servant would undoubtedly have been excluded.
But the mullah, of necessity, was playing for his own hand. Having advised the village elders to oppose the claims and the temperate methods of Mahommed Babar, he could ill afford to continue to advise them in their hour of defeat. On his way down the village he had seen them driven forth by the Northerner, and had divined, with professional insight into local politics, that jealousy among themselves had practically made Mahommed Babar a gift of the leadership.
So he sent the servant to change the bandage on King's head, King being another Northerner and therefore very likely destined to be the first one's ally. And as for himself he took the obvious course—entered the house and the room assigned to Mahommed Babar's use, and waited.
His servant came first, reported that King's head was a great deal better, and gave an almost phonographic account of Mahommed Babar's final victory in the mosque; so that when the Northerner himself arrived, striding down-street with the peculiarly even motion of a man long used to spurs, and entered the house with his handsome head bowed gloomily, the mullah was well posted.
“Are you rested? Have you bathed? Permit my servant to trim your honor's beard and nails,” the mullah suggested, rising and bowing.
Mahommed Babar stroked his beard and eyed the mullah for a moment in critical silence, well aware of the man's unstable friendship—equally aware of the mullah's possible importance as an ally, if wisely managed.
Nothing for nothing is the universal law of politics, with its practical opposite quid pro quo. In the East there are symbols, still continuing, that have their counterpart in Western decorations and honorary titles.
“Bring me a saber,” said Mahommed Babar. “A cavalry saber, clean and sharp, the heavier the better.”
The mullah understood. He was accepted. Subject to Mahommed Babar's overriding authority, his influence was likely to be greater than ever. An orthodox leader of rebellion—rare, but oh how wise! The mullah bowed, and almost visibly began to plan small indignities for his political rivals.
“What became of the Northerner whose head was injured when the scouts surprized him in the night?” demanded Mahommed Babar.
“Your honor refers to Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan?”
“If that is his name. What became of him?”
“He has been in the mosque all morning.”
Mahommed Babar started almost imperceptibly.
“Unconscious?”
“No. I had his head dressed. He recovers. He is anxious to speak with your honor.”
Mahommed Babar began to pace the room, chin forward and hands behind him, to and fro, to and fro, wrestling with indecision. There were moments when his fine teeth and hard eyes gleamed with an iron resolve, followed almost immediately by a different interpretation of the same impulse. Once or twice he stood, and held his dark beard in both hands as if about to tear it in the Eastern expression of distracted grief.
Mullahs, priests, ministers know all those signs. They can recognize pride, honesty, fine frenzy, patriotism, determination, compromise. The mullah watched stealthily, looking away each time Mahommed Babar faced about.
“What do you say his name is? Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan? Great names! A great man possibly.”
He faced the mullah and stood with legs apart looking down at him, holding one elbow and stroking his beard again.
“See that he is respectfully treated. Let him have no weapons, but he may come and go unmolested. That is my order.”
It was the very first detailed order given by Mahommed Babar since his grasp of the leadership, and the mullah's opportunity to attach his own imprint to authority.
“If he comes and goes but has no weapons harm may befall him, sahib. Better imprison him.”
“I have spoken! If harm befalls him, let his blood be on your head! Let me have word of everything he says and does.”
“Your honor will not speak with him?”
“No.”
The mullah hesitated, devoured by curiosity, which eats the brains of some men as worms gnaw the belly of a dog.
“He has no beard, but—is he your honor's brother?”
Mahommed Babar glared. The word brother in the East has various significances. Moreover, a mullah's curiosity more often than not has teeth. Answer, and he perverts the answer. Refuse, and he draws his own conclusions. Appear to mistrust him, and he mistrusts you. Trust him, and take the consequences!
“You may get the answer to that question from Sirdar Mahommed Akbar Khan, and you have my leave to go!” replied Mahommed Babar, resuming his stride up and down the room with his hands behind him.
So the mullah returned to. the mosque, where the elders had done arguing, and announced his restored importance in a short speech. He had prayed, he informed them; that being his business and he a faithful man. In answer the Lord of Mercies had inspired him to go and visit Mahommed Babar down the street. During the ensuing interview knowledge had been born in his mind in a flash that this Mahommed Babar was the Lord's appointed leader, and he had therefore blessed him in the name of the Most High, whose right arm would now surely uphold the Moplah cause.
Mahommed Babar, a very prince of men and a lover of God if there ever was one, had accepted the blessing and given thanks for it, requesting him, the mullah, to continue with spiritual mediations and wise advice. In view of the facts, and of his conviction that all this was Allah's will, it was his duty to urge them to obey Mahommed Babar implicitly in all things—for the present. He added the last words in more or less of an undertone, having not only a fine imagination but a well-developed bump of preparedness against contingencies.
The elders departed, discovering scant amusement in the mullah's sermon, but bent on making the most of the situation. They were so eager to keep an eye on one another that they flocked out, elbowing and shoving—hurrying down street to undo the advantage gained by those who had stood nearest to the mosque door.
The mullah approached King, who was still lying down with his bandaged head cushioned on the folds of his turban.
“Your honor's brother is disturbed for your honor's safety,” said the mullah. “He orders a bodyguard appointed for your honor, lest harm befall. There is a little room behind this mosque—clean—comfortable—my son and my servant would bring food——”
King noted the tense and was careful to look pleased. The mullah's underhandedness was easy enough to see through, but the word brother was not so easy. He suspected guesswork, not believing that Mahommed Babar would have proclaimed relationship for any reason. He had probably given orders that made the mullah suspect blood-relationship as the only likely explanation. There might even be a slight facial resemblance. He was no such fool as to enlighten the mullah one way or the other.
“Has your honor a weapon?” the mullah asked, almost off-handedly, not looking directly at him, but sidewise. Conscious of the automatic still tucked snugly against his ribs, King shook his head.
“Get me one!” he urged. “Those rascals who struck me on the head took mine.”
The mullah looked relieved, and beckoned King to follow. Almost laughing, King obeyed him and passed out through the rear door of the mosque into a tiny court, at the back of which was a one-story thatched building. As a jail it was ridiculous. Nevertheless—
“This is where your honor must stay until further orders,” said the mullah.
King noted the “must,” and bowed acknowledgment. The mullah looked relieved again, as King observed. When men of the North, or Moplahs of the South, make prisoners they search them, usually strip them, and invariably lock them in a place whence escape is impossible.
The mullah showed the way into a reasonable room, carpeted with matting. It had two windows, barred with upright wooden rods. The ceiling was low and of calico. The door had obviously been stolen from some ready-made imported wooden building and could be kicked down easily. There was a folding canvas cot, a camp-chair, and a few odds and ends, including a bundle of old swords and bayonets in a corner, some of them dating from before the Mutiny. One of them was an enormous cavalry saber, much heavier than is used in any army nowadays.
The mullah made an armful of the weapons and pitched them all out in the yard, as if tidying the place. Reconsidering things, he brought the big saber in again. A very tactful man that mullah. Quite a strategist.
“There is a cot—a chair—your honor may rest here and get well. Would your honor do a favor for me? There is no hurry, but when the head feels better. This saber now—an old one—I place no faith in such things, but prefer this.”
He pulled out a Mauser repeating pistol and patted it meaningly. King noticed rust on the sliding action and wondered whether the thing would go off.
“Your brother Mahommed Babar wants a cavalry saber. Would your honor care to clean and sharpen this for him? See, it was a good one once. Whoever owned it knew how to use it, too. Look at the notches he has nicked below the hilt—nine, ten, eleven men! A fighter! Your honor—a fighting man—sharpening a saber must be—see, I have a box of implements—files, a whetstone, sand, leather and some rags. There is water in that iron jar. Your honor is willing?”
Diplomacy! But two can play at that—none better than King, who can seem to play the other fellow's game more innocently than a sheep led by the bell-wether.
“If your honor's head were only ——”
“Much better!” announced King. “Hardly aches now.”
“I will be back in an hour. If that saber could be ready.”
“Easily.”
“I must find the right men for guards, who will treat your honor reasonably well.”
It had been “bodyguards” the first time. “Reasonably well” seemed also a concession to unnamed contingencies. King bent his head to hide a smile and examined the blade of the saber.
“I would prefer this personally!” said the mullah, pulling out his Mauser pistol and patting it meaningly again. Very diplomatic!
“They are better than a sword,” said King, reaching for the box of rusty files and things.
“So. I will be back in an hour,” said the mullah, and went out, locking the door after him, incidentally forgetting in his haste the patriarchal blessing that he should have paused in the doorway to invoke.
Both men were beautifully satisfied. The mullah now had to ask no favors of the blacksmith, who was a person given to curiosity and almost as much independence as the men of his ancient guild who hammered armor for the knights of old. His guest was busy and undoubtedly believed himself a prisoner. He had time to hunt up discreet individuals, who would mount guard for a day or two and hold their tongues. There was no such simple way of reporting a man's sayings and doings as to keep the individual under lock and key. And, as he wanted very badly to be absent for the next few days, the arrangement was all the more convenient.
Last, but not least, the saber was likely to be cleaned and sharpened in such fashion as would delight even such a fierce soldier as Mahommed Babar. Excellent! There is no God but Allah, who is all-wise and who directs the thoughts of the faithful. Mahommed is the Prophet of Allah, on whom be peace! He emerged from the mosque and walked down-street with an air of contemplative statesmanship:
In the bedroom King worked at the saber contentedly. He might need it—if the mullah or his servants should return too soon. Meanwhile, it might be true that Mahommed Babar needed it, in which case——
King was this kind of man: He would either break the weapon or make it as near perfect as he could. He cleaned it—made it as sharp as a razor—within half-an-hour; tested it a time or two by hacking at the door until the cheap lock came in pieces; scratched on the blade with the sharpest file and the smallest letters he could compass, 'To Mahommed Babar from A. K. with compliments'; returned it to its scabbard, stood it in the corner, and walked out. It was no use closing the door; the frame and lock were smashed too noticeably.
An hour later the mullah, returning with four chosen sycophants, discovered the bird flown but the saber leaning upright in a corner, clean and sharp. He did not examine the blade beyond testing of its sharpness with his thumb. And he had this element of greatness—he could see the uselessness of crying over spilt milk.
“Go and look for him!” he ordered. “Find him, be polite to him, but bring him back and keep him in here?”
Then he went to deliver the saber to Mahommed Babar, for that was urgent. He delivered it in presence of all the elders, who were suitably and flatteringly jealous. Mahommed Babar did examine the blade—every inch of it—seemed able to read the inscription on it—possibly the maker's name. He looked pleased, and yet not pleased as he nodded and slung the saber at his waist. A strange, uncommunicative, puzzling sort of man, Mahommed Babar.