Chapter 11

Moreover, the party would soon be in want of food. The bearers had with them provisions for only one day, and though Ahmed did not know how much food was in the palki, he suspected that it was very little: the zamindar would hardly have foreseen the possibility of so long a delay in reaching his brother's house. Ruksh could find some little sustenance in the leaves of the shrubs around him, but he would soon strip them bare. There was water in the bed of the nullah, and the bearers had already given the girl some in the lotah she had used before; they themselves of course, being Hindus, would not drink from the vessel which her lips had contaminated, but stooped and lapped up the running water. But none of the party was in a condition to wait through the long hours of an Indian day in the hottest season of the year, and then to undertake a night march, without more refreshment than it seemed possible for them to obtain. Ahmed thought over the situation with no little anxiety. To move away might be immediately fatal; the only alternative was to remain hidden on the chance of the sowars by and by moving off.

Once more Ahmed climbed the tree to keep watch. The sun rose higher and higher, and yet there was no sign of a movement among the party. But after some time he noticed the man who had gone over the brow of the hill returning. He came much faster than he had gone. Rejoining his waiting comrade, he mounted his horse, and the two galloped down to the rest. Instantly the whole party sprang to their feet, loosened their horses, and sprang into the saddle. A few even started to ride across the plain in a straight line for the nullah, and Ahmed feared that in a few minutes the fugitives would be discovered. He knew that if they were seen there was no help for them; with his single hand he could do nothing against a troop of horse. The sowars came on until they were within a hundred yards of the nullah, and Ahmed shrank back among the leaves, fearing lest he might be seen and so draw the men on. But they suddenly wheeled half round and cantered to the road, where they halted.

Their comrades meanwhile, though they had mounted their horses, had not left the plantation. Apparently they were waiting to see if the report brought to them by their scout was correct. After some time they appeared to decide that it was a false alarm, for half-a-dozen now left the main body and rode up the hillock, dismounting as the others had done previously, and skirmishing forward over the crest. In a few minutes they returned and trotted back again. The smaller body who had taken panic returned slowly to rejoin their comrades. They all dismounted, tethered their horses, and once more stretched themselves at ease under the shade of the plantation.

Ahmed watched them for a long time. There was no sign of further movement among them. It looked as if they had settled down to doze through the hot hours of the day. The prospect of being kept at a standstill became more and more unendurable. To say nothing of the torture of remaining through the long hours of torrid heat without adequate protection or sufficient food, there was the danger that, if his journey could not be resumed until nightfall, he would reach the encampment of the Guides only to find them gone. Was it not possible, he wondered, in some way to get past or round the men who lay between him and safety? Obviously the whole party, with the palki, could not advance openly across the bare plain. Nor could he alone venture to go, in the tell-tale uniform of the Guides, to bring assistance to the missy sahib. If only he were clad in the costume of Shagpur he would have risked the attempt.

Suddenly a new idea crossed his mind. Was it possible to disguise himself? The palki-wallahs could not help him; they had little on but their loin-cloths. He wished he had stripped the zamindar whom he had left on the ground. There was not likely to be a spare dhoti in the palki. But he remembered the coloured hangings of that vehicle. If he tore those down and wound them over his khaki tunic, they might raise a question as to what his race and position were, but they would certainly never cause any one to suspect that he was one of the Guides.

Hitherto he had shrunk from leaving the missy sahib. But now the position was desperate. To die of fright, hunger, and exposure to the heat might be her fate; an accident might at any moment lead to her discovery; yet there was at least a chance that by carrying out the plan which had suggested itself to him he could secure her safety. The bearers had been cowed into submissiveness; the natives, for all their brave talk, were very amenable to stern and authoritative handling. Threats of grievous punishment on the one hand, and promises of liberal bakshish on the other, might at any rate keep their wills in a state of oscillation, so that they would not make up their minds to any positive course. And if only the missy sahib would summon up a little resolution, and show that she meant to use the knife he had given her if they attempted to betray her whereabouts, he would feel a certain confidence in leaving her for a time. He could at any rate fasten them more tightly together. There were creepers growing on the sides of the nullah, and strands of these would make very serviceable bonds.

His resolution fixed, he climbed down the tree and crept to the palki. It was difficult for him to explain his purpose to the girl without the assistance of the bearers, but he did not wish them to know too much. The missy sahib herself was so depressed from anxiety and want of sleep, as well as from the effects of the heat, that she was slower to apprehend than she might otherwise have been. But he succeeded after a time in making her understand that he was going to bring help from the sahibs, who were very near at hand, and that during his absence she was to strike without compunction any of the bearers who tried either to free himself or to give an alarm. Then he cut lengths of creeper sufficient for his purpose, and tied the men's arms and legs together so that they could not move. He did not gag them; they were in a state of abject submission; and when he told them that the missy sahib would certainly kill them if they uttered a word above a whisper, they declared that they had no tongues until he gave them leave. Then he wrenched the muslin curtains of the palki from their fastenings, and with the missy sahib's help his khaki was soon entirely concealed.

As she twisted the stuff around him she suddenly said--

"There is a little black hole in your pagri, and the cloth is scorched around it. Did you know that?"

He did not understand her until at her bidding he took the pagri from his head, and she pointed to the spot. Then he remembered that the zamindar had fired almost point-blank at him, and did not doubt that the bullet had gone through his head-dress. But he had no words to explain this to the girl, and would hardly have done so if he could. It had been a narrow escape: a Pathan took such incidents as a matter of course.

Having made his preparations, he repeated his orders to the men, and led his horse gently up the nullah towards the road. It was now midday; the sun burnt at its fiercest; not a living soul was passing along the road, and the horsemen at the plantation were without doubt in a state of somnolence. It was not at all improbable that he might mount and ride some paces before he was seen. He crept quietly along the nullah until he reached the end, then sprang lightly into the saddle, walked the horse the few yards to the road, and urged it to a mad gallop towards Delhi. Some few seconds passed before the clatter of the hoofs was heard by the men dozing in the plantation; then some of them rose lazily to their feet and gazed at this strange figure in yellow and red tearing along so furiously. As soon as he was within hailing distance Ahmed flung up his arms and shouted--

"The Feringhis! The sahibs! They are upon us! Fly for your lives!"

The effect was magical. The lethargic sowars were galvanized into activity. Those who were already upon their feet rushed to their horses, unloosed them, and in a few moments were galloping at a headlong speed in a direction at right angles to the road. Those who had as yet been too sleepy or too incurious to rise sprang up and followed their comrades' example. Soon the whole party was scattered, each man riding as his fear directed him, the dust of the plain flying up in clouds from the heels of their horses. And still Ahmed rode on, crying lustily, "The sahibs are upon us!"

He breasted the hillock, topped the crest, and gained the other side. Then he saw what had so much occupied the sowars earlier in the day. Some three miles ahead of him the white tents of the Guides gleamed in the sunlight. Between him and them there was a small mounted patrol of the same corps. He gave a joyful shout, and Ruksh flew down the gentle slope with responsive gaiety. The men of the patrol caught sight of him as soon as he of them, though in the distance it was impossible to distinguish what or who he was. On he rode, and as he drew nearer he began to tear off the coloured muslin that disguised him. The khaki was disclosed. Wondering, the sowars of the patrol watched as he approached, shading their eyes against the sunbeams. Presently one of them recognized the horse; there was no horse like Ruksh in the corps. Then another shouted, "'Tis Ahmed!" and cantered to meet him.

"What news?" he cried.

But Ahmed galloped past, throwing a mere word of greeting to his comrades. Nor did he draw rein until he reached the commandant's quarters. Then his story was quickly told. Five minutes afterwards a half-troop rode out under Lieutenant Hawes, Ahmed leading the way. When they reached the crest there was no sign of the mutineers. They had utterly vanished off the plain. Riding down to the nullah, they found the palki-wallahs lying fast asleep in the shade of the bushes where Ahmed had left them, and the missy sahib asleep in the palki, grasping the knife. Ahmed flung himself from his horse, kicked the bearers awake, and cut their bonds. Meanwhile Lieutenant Hawes was trying to awaken the girl, speaking to her quietly so as not to startle her. His low tones making no impression, he touched her lightly on the arm. She sprang up with a shriek, lifting the knife. Then, seeing an English face, and hearing an English voice, she flung down the weapon and, to Lieutenant Hawes' amazement, fairly flung herself into his arms.

"Poor child! You are safe now," he said. "Here, you," he cried sharply to the palki-wallahs, "get to your poles; quickly!"

The four men hastened to obey, and the party set off to return to the camp.

"Your nobility will remember the bakshish," said one of them to Ahmed as they started.

"Chup! Am I not one of Lumsden Sahib's Guides?" was the answer.

Later in the day, Ahmed told the whole story in detail to the group of officers. The missy sahib had already given them her version of it, and had indeed sung the praises of the young Guide, and asked Captain Daly to reward him handsomely. Daly, however, knew that the proud native of North-west Hindustan is a good deal more sensitive in matters of this kind than the average man of the plains, and while giving Ahmed unstinted praise, he refrained from offering any tangible recompense.

"I am proud to have you in the corps," he said. "The matter will not be forgotten, and when we have finished the march, and have a little time to rest, I will give you a sheep so that you may feast your friends."

Praise from the sahib was reward enough to the men of the Guides. And Sherdil, who had heard the story from Ahmed previously, was envious, and bemoaned his ill-luck in missing the opportunity which had fallen to his friend.

"May water never flow through that accursed nullah!" he cried. "None of us were able to leap it; it took me half-an-hour to get my horse out of it, and the others had to go a great way round about. And then we were recalled, but we returned later and sought you, and found, not you, but a dog of a Hindu lying with a cut in his shoulder, and we finished what you had left undone."

Savagery was in the blood of these men. The butchery of a wounded man gave them no compunction, and Ahmed, who had grown up among them, was as ignorant as they themselves of the chivalry which bids an Englishman spare his beaten foe.

When the evening cool descended, Captain Daly sent the missy sahib under escort to Karnal, where she would be safe under the protection of Mr. Le Bas.

It was the morning of the 9th of June when the Guides reached the camp on the Ridge, two miles north-west of Delhi. They marched in as firm and light as if they had come but a mile instead of thirty. News of their great achievement had been brought in by native couriers, and a vast crowd was assembled to meet these intrepid warriors who had covered five hundred and eighty miles in twenty-two days. As they reached the lines, Ahmed was amazed to see some of the infantry break their ranks and rush up to an English officer distinguished by his very fair hair. They clung to his stirrups, some kissed his hands, others his feet, pressing upon him with such excitement as to cause alarm to some of his fellow-officers.

"What is it?" asked Ahmed of Sherdil.

"'Tis that they are pleased to see Hodson Sahib. He was our commander when Lumsden Sahib went over the black water, and we love him. Wah! he is a fighter. See him with the sword: there is no match for him. It is good to see him again."

And then came an opportunity for these hardy warriors to show the stuff of which they were made. Even as they approached the Ridge a staff-officer galloped to meet them, and accosting Captain Daly asked how soon he could be ready for action.

"In half-an-hour," replied the gallant captain.

It happened that since early morning parties of horse and foot had sallied from Delhi to attack the advanced posts of the British. Since attack is ever the best defence, General Barnard ordered his men to move out and drive back the enemy. The Guides went forward at the trumpet call with irresistible dash, and were soon engaged hand to hand with the vastly superior numbers of the mutineers. They carried all before them, but at a heavy price. Lieutenant Battye was shot through the body, and died murmuring "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." Lieutenant Hawes was clipped across the face with a sword, Lieutenant Kennedy was wounded in the arm; and Captain Daly himself, after having his horse killed under him, was struck in the leg by a spent bullet. Many of the men were killed or wounded. But to be in the thick of a fight was as wine to the Guides. Every man burned to uphold the honour of the corps, and though they were saddened by the loss of so many officers and men before they had even pitched their tents, they were conscious of having borne themselves as their loved commander Lumsden Sahib would have wished them to do, and were content.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH

Some Lathi-wallahs and a Camel

One afternoon, about ten days after the arrival of the Guides, an orderly came to Captain Daly's tent, where the captain was sitting on a camp-stool at the door, drinking a cup of tea with Lieutenant Kennedy.

"The general's compliments, sir," said the orderly, saluting, "and will you kindly step over to his tent for a minute or two?"

"Immediately," said Captain Daly. "Orders for to-morrow, I suppose," he added to Kennedy, as he got up to go.

When he entered General Barnard's tent, the general handed him a letter, saying--

"What do you make of that, Daly?"

Daly took the letter, and read, in a sloping angular hand, as follows--

"DEAR GENERAL BARNARD--

"My father is safe. How thankful I am! And I know you will be glad too. Yesterday I received the enclosed note from him; you see it is written on the back of a torn label. He is in Delhi, but does not say where; I suppose he was afraid to write too much in case the chit fell into the hands of the mutineers. The man who brought it knows nothing; perhaps it is that he knows but will not tell. Will you try to find out where my dear father is? Some good friend must be hiding him. I know you have spies in the city, and I should be so happy if you could find out something more about him, and whether he is well, and many, _many_ other things. Do help me, there's a good friend.

"Yours sincerely,

"MARY CRADDOCK.

"P.S.--Perhaps that young Guide who saved me from the horrid men would go into the city. He would do _anything_ for me, I know."

"Just like a girl," said Daly, handing the letter back.

"Now that's not fair," said the kindly old general. "Wait till you have daughters of your own, Daly. It is good news that Craddock is still alive; his wife, poor woman, was killed as she was escaping. He and I are old friends. D'you know him?"

"No. But the idea is impossible, of course. Without more information it would be like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. Besides, he's in hiding; no one would have the ghost of a chance of finding him."

"One of his servants may be faithful, and keeping him concealed."

"Yes, but better not set anybody inquiring too closely for Craddock's servants. If those fiends suspect one of them is hiding an Englishman it will be all up with him and his master too."

"Still, Craddock is my friend, and I stood godfather to his girl. Couldn't one of Hodson's spies help us? Or this Guide she mentions--what about him?"

"He's a clever young fellow, no doubt--showed pluck and resource in saving the girl; but I don't know that I should like to send him into that wasps' nest. One of Hodson's spies would run less risk."

"Well, we'll ask Hodson. Poor fellow! He is rather knocked up, I'm afraid."

The general sent an orderly to ask Lieutenant Hodson to visit him, and in a few minutes he appeared. The case was put to him, and he read Mary Craddock's letter.

"All my men are out," he said. "Let's have a look at this man of yours, Daly. Who is he?"

"A Pathan," replied Daly, and related how Ahmed had rescued the girl.

"A likely fellow. Have him up, general."

Ahmed, in company with Sherdil, was eating a mess of rice stewed in a soup of sheep's tail, when a naik of the corps came up and said that the general wished to see him.

"Hai!" said Sherdil, with a sigh. "Now it is coming, Ahmed-ji. Verily thou wilt be a dafadar, or maybe a jamadar, before Sherdil, son of Assad. What must be will be."

Ahmed wondered what the summons to the general's presence could mean. He had had a part in the brushes with the enemy, which had been of daily occurrence since the corps arrived; but he had done nothing to signalize himself. Hodson gave him a quick look as he came up and saluted.

"Your name?" he said in the Pashtu tongue.

"Ahmed, son of Rahmut Khan of Shagpur, sahib," said the boy.

"A good specimen of the breed," said Hodson to the others. "The general wants you to go into the city," he added, speaking again in Ahmed's own language. There was no officer in India more expert than Hodson in the speech of the natives.

"I am ready, sahib," said Ahmed at once.

"You'll have to pretend to be a mutineer, you know."

"With the hazur's pardon I will not do that. There is no need."

"Then how will you go? The khaki would betray you."

"I would go, sahib, as I went with Sherdil, son of Assad, to Mandan, the village of Minghal Khan."

"Ah! and how was that?"

Ahmed told how the company of Afghan traders had entered the village, and about the box containing porcelain from Delhi. He related the story simply, without any of the boastful garniture which comes so readily to an oriental's lips. The officers listened with interest, Hodson keeping his keen blue eyes fixed on the boy's face.

"This is the oddest Pathan I ever came across," he said in English when Ahmed had finished the story. To Ahmed he said, "Then you will go as an Afghan trader? How will you do that? Traders do not go alone."

"If I might have Sherdil, son of Assad, and Rasul Khan, and Dilawur----"

"No, no, that won't do.--He wants half your corps, Daly.--You must go alone."

"As the hazur pleases." He paused, and thought for a minute, the officers watching him. "I will go alone, sahib," he said. "The tale will be that I was one of many, travelling towards Delhi with Persian shawls for the princes' women. And we were set upon by a band of Gujars, and I alone escaped."

"But if you go alone the Gujars may catch you, for of course you cannot go to the city from the Ridge; you must approach as from a distant part."

"It is as the sahib says."

"You will take the risk?"

"If the captain sahib commands."

"Never met so direct a fellow," said Hodson to the others. "My spies have a good deal to say about bakshish, as a rule. Well," he went on in Pashtu, "what will you want?"

"Clothes, shawls, and a camel, sahib."

"And where will you get them?"

"In the bazar at Karnal, sahib."

"Steal them, eh?"

"Buy them with the hazur's rupees," said Ahmed, with a smile.

"And what are you going to do in Delhi?"

"I wait for commands, sahib."

"Can you write?"

"No, sahib."

"Of course not. Then you will be no good to me."

"But with rupees I can pay a munshi, sahib."

"He is our man," said Hodson in English. "He has an answer for everything, and judging by the way he told us his story just now we shan't have so much trouble in sifting his information as we have with Rajab Ali's friends."

Rajab Ali was a one-eyed maulavi, an old friend of Sir Henry Lawrence, whose many connections about the court of Delhi frequently sent Hodson news of what was going on in the city. These communications were sometimes made verbally by trusty messengers, sometimes in writing, on tiny scrolls of the finest paper, two and a quarter inches long by one and a half broad. The writing on them was so minute that the translation when written out filled more than two pages of large letter paper. But the actual information they contained was so scanty, and so much embellished in the manner no oriental can avoid, that the separation of the corn from the chaff gave Hodson a great deal of trouble. Moreover, being written by hangers-on of the court, they included a vast amount of unreliable gossip and hearsay. Hodson welcomed the opportunity of gaining news that might be gleaned among the people themselves. He had reason to believe that a great number of the more respectable inhabitants of Delhi, who had had experience of the benefits of orderly government, deplored the excesses of the sepoys and badmashes of the city, and the disorders that sprang from the weakness of the king. It would be a material gain to the besiegers to learn how far that feeling extended, and how far the normal population would support the hordes of rebels who were constantly pouring into the city.

"You will go among the people," said Hodson to Ahmed, "into the bazars, among the sepoys, and listen to their talk, and find out what they think and what their hearts are. You will learn who comes into the city, and how many they are, and what news they bring from other parts; and you will go to Fazl Hak, a maulavi to whom you will be recommended by Rajab Ali, and make him write all this down, saying no more than the truth, and these letters you will send to me, cunningly concealed, by messengers who will be appointed. Is it understood?"

"Hazur, it is understood."