Part 4

"Of course, you don't mean that, Reginald," she observed with some asperity, "and I confess I'm rather surprised that you, in your position, should have made such a remark. You'll be giving our guests an altogether wrong impression, but," turning to Hector, "you mustn't take what my husband says seriously, Captain Graeme; he often jokes in this way."

"Mayfield's your cousin, ain't he, Sir Reginald?" said Hector, unheeding. "He and Lady Edith were staying with my governor last covert shooting."

"No; she is. Rockingham was my father's brother. Good old Uncle Jack, wonder when I'll see him again. Gad, I remember...."

"Won't you tell us about the frontier, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "You know, Captain Graeme, my husband's one of the great authorities on the subject; indeed, his Excellency, a great friend of ours, once told me he considered him the greatest. I'm sure you would like to hear about it, both of you."

"Very much," said Hector, lying back in his chair and lighting another cigarette.

"It's hardly the subject for a picnic lunch, my dear," said the Resident, rather annoyed at being shown off in this manner, "and I'm sure it wouldn't interest our guests."

"Indeed, Sir Reginald, it would," answered Lucy, dealing a surreptitious kick at her husband's foot, at which with a low growl he opened his closing eyes.

"Some mullah fellow been stirring 'em up, hasn't he, Sir Reginald?" he observed sleepily.

"The Hadda Mullah," said the Resident briefly, "trying to proclaim a religious war. Jehad, they call it. Don't think he will, all the same, for the Afridis have no religion to speak of. They'll be a hard nut to crack, if they do rise; but let's be off, it's time we were at those bears again. Wait a minute, though," he added, suddenly rising and hurrying out of the tent; "there's a man I want to see before we start. You stay here," looking hard at his wife, "amuse our guests till I return, Sarah. I won't be a minute."

"Now then, what is it?" he said sharply to a blue-clad native, with a leather belt round his waist, whose approach he had observed through the open door of the tent. "Letter for me? Hum, I was afraid of it, a wire too for Graeme sahib. Damn, but it's bad luck on her. All right, here's the sahib coming out now. You can give him the wire--not now, you fool, wait for three minutes."

"Oh, Mrs. Graeme, come over here and have a look at my bear, fine chap, isn't he? I'll have him skinned for you if you like; he'll make rather a good carriage-rug."

"It's awfully kind of you, Sir Reginald, but I couldn't think ... Why, what on earth's the matter with my husband? He seems very angry. Good--good heavens, what's that in his hand? It's, heavens, it's a telegram. Oh, Hector, what is it?"

"Only a recall, Lucy, that's all, an order to return, from that old fool Schofield. But I won't go. I'll see him damned first, by the Lord I will! I'm here on leave, and here I'll stay. You see now what comes of being in the Service, always at the beck and call of some jumpy idiot of a C.O."

"But--but why, Hector, what for?"

"I don't know; all it says is 'Return at once.' Some silly inspection, I suppose. But I ain't going. I'll wire to say 'Regret impossible.' Here, you fool with the belt, give me a form."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Graeme," said his host gravely.

"Can't I? I'll soon show you I can. Why ... what do you mean, do you know anything of this, Sir Reginald?"

"The 1st Lancers leave Riwala for the frontier to-night. The Afridis have risen, after all, and seized the Khyber forts. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Graeme, but I was afraid of it all along. That's why I didn't want to come to-day."

Lucy said nothing.

"What's all this?" said Lady Wilford, coming up. "Oh," on hearing the news, "I _do_ call that a shame, my dear, I am so sorry."

Lucy again made no answer, but, turning, left the group and walked slowly away to her tent.

"Oh, but, Reginald," continued his wife, really distressed, "surely something can be done, these two poor creatures, why not send a wire to say Captain Graeme's sick and can't move? They'd believe you, though of course they wouldn't him."

"My dear, what you suggest is impossible."

"I should just think it is," said Graeme, the anger on whose face had now turned to joy. "What! me skulk up here while my regiment's fighting on the frontier, not much. Here, I must get back to Shiraz at once. Ahmed Khan, put my things together, ek dum.[#] And you," to the peon, "order me a tonga when you get back. Gad, but this is good business, Lucy. Now where's my wife got to?"

[#] Immediately.

The Resident looked at him curiously. He didn't much like his guest at that moment.

"I think," he said rather coldly, "she has gone away to her tent. It's a bit rough on her, Graeme, you know."

"By Jove, yes, of course it is. I must go and find her at once. When do you think we can start, Sir Reginald?"

"Time enough if you leave Baramoula to-morrow. You can't do it to-night; besides, if you're thinking of your brother officers, they'll have gone by now."

"I sincerely trust they have. I don't want their company, Porky in a tonga would be just about the limit, and I must go to-night. I shouldn't sleep a wink if I didn't. Oh, let's be off. You can give me a permit, I suppose, for the road?"[#]

[#] A permit from the Resident of Kashmir is required by those wishing to make the Tonga journey to the plains by night. This is on account of the dangerous nature of the road.

"Oh, as far as that goes, there'd be no difficulty, but..."

"That's settled then. I'll go and tell Lucy."

"Very well, if you insist, we'll be ready in half an hour from now. You can manage it, I suppose, Sarah?" to his wife, who was looking at Graeme with indignant eyes.

"Oh yes, but I really think..."

"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his mind. Rather a sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but the latter was already on his way to the tent, where he found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed, quietly sobbing.

At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector; tears were a rare occurrence with Lucy. He knelt down beside her and tried to take her hand.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid I've been beastly selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement I never thought of that. I can see now it's devilish hard on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't to go; but I must; you see that, don't you, dear?"

No answer but sobs.

Hector was nonplussed. He could make love as well as most men--perhaps even better--but in the capacity to feel the sorrows of others his nature was altogether lacking, and he knew no other way to dry a woman's tears save with kisses. Such grief merely bored and annoyed him, and, as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in spite of himself a faint feeling of grievance began to take possession of him.

"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could. "Pull yourself together, dear; after all, you are more to blame for this than me."

"I, Hector, oh, how?"

"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to. You see now what has come of it."

"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your sake, Hector."

"And that being so," continued Graeme, feeling his advantage, "it's hardly logical to complain. After all, fighting is what we're for, not loafing about barracks. Why, it was only last night that you were at me to take my profession seriously, and now, when I've got a chance at last, you grumble. It isn't fair, Lucy, it isn't really; makes the going ten times worse for me."

"I--I'm not grumbling, only--crying a little. I--I shouldn't be human if I didn't. Oh, Hector, are you made of stone?"

"Of course I'm not, only I've got more self-control. I feel it every bit as much as you do; it's the same for me, you know."

"It isn't, it isn't!" sobbed Lucy. "You've got the excitement, your brother officers and--and the rest. You're not left alone with nothing to do but think, as I shall be after to-morrow, for you must go then, I suppose. Oh, dearest, couldn't you wait for just one more day, for my sake, Hector?"

"I--I'm afraid I must go to-night, Lucy," stammered Hector.

The girl sat up, her eyes rather wild.

"To-night? Oh no, no, you can't; you mustn't go to-night. I--I couldn't bear it, Hector."

"I must, dear; if I didn't, they might put me under arrest for disobedience to orders. Think what might be said too, that brute O'Hagan, for instance."

"What does it matter about him? I come first. And you can't go to-night. The road's not safe. Those awful precipices."

"There's no danger, Lucy, and, believe me, I must." Hector's jaw set and his eyes hardened.

A long pause. Graeme looked at his watch. Quarter of an hour had already passed.

"Lucy, dear," he began again, "I don't wish to hurry you, but Sir Reginald told me to say that he would start in half an hour;" and Lucy at once rose, except for her pale face and red eyes, to all appearances calm once more.

"Very well, Hector," she said in a level voice, "I will be ready. Tell Sir Reginald I won't keep him waiting. I--I should like an hour or two at Shiraz, though, if you can wait so long. I want to see about your things."

"Oh, of course, dear, and, Lucy, you know, don't you, that it's not want of feeling on my part? I hate it as much as you do, probably more, only..."

"Yes, yes, but please leave me now, Hector, or I shan't--shan't. Oh, go--go."

She half pushed him out of the tent and closed the flap behind him.

* * * * *

"That fellow was right," muttered Hector, as some hours later he rode down the hill on his way to Baramoula, "who said soldiers ought not to be married. I wish to heaven I'd sent in my papers before I left England, as I wanted to; but she wouldn't have it, said she wanted me to make a name for myself, and now the time's come, it seems she doesn't want it at all. No more do I, much rather stay behind with her. God, how cursedly miserable I feel, so much for love for a woman stirring a man's ambition and making him keen to do things. It don't, it takes all the heart out of him. Hullo, there's Baramoula, now I wonder whether that fool ordered my tonga?" and shaking up his pony he rode on at a canter.

*CHAPTER IV*

Early morning on the Khyber Hills. Not the autumn morning known to dwellers in rural England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of russet and gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but something far different from that. Here is no green of grass, no vitalising chill of morning air, but instead a dull burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony plain and glowing mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless blue.

In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British soldier stood watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki uniform creased and tumbled, and, though his _role_ of sentry was no laborious one, already stained with dark patches of sweat. Around him for miles stretched the brown monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there by ragged-edged nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy beds of which a few withered shrubs and tussocks of grass clung hard to a miserable existence.

Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains barred the view, a rampart of earth and stone glaring red in the sunlight; sheer from the plain it rose, a forbidding barrier between India and Afghanistan, a barrier too with but few gateways, one of which, however--a dark rift in the hills--lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.

Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains, could be seen the mud walls and strong square towers of a Pathan village, apparently deserted save for the occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a few herds of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the hillside hard by. Far away behind him, the solid walls and ramparts of Fort Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh stronghold, and now the temporary abode of her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers.

Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke, through which now and again could be seen the faint twinkle of lance-point and sword-scabbard, and, the dust at times clearing, strings of mules and horses moving to and from a pond of muddy water. Over all was a pitiless brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its rays smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort Hussein into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.

Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too hot to hold, viewed all these things with aching eyes, and spat on the ground and swore. "An' this is bein' on active service," he muttered, "this doin' of guards and pickets more than wot a man 'as in barriks, no fightin', no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,' an' stinkin' rations and 'ot beer when you git 'ome. Wot are we 'ere for, I'd like to know, wot for did they send the ridgmint up 'ere? Fed up, that's wot I am, fair fed up." He paused, took off his helmet and wiped his brow. He then replaced the headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins when out of sight of authority, and, taking from his breast-pocket a packet of "Swell" cigarettes, lit one and resumed his soliloquy.

"Wonder what 'Ooky's doin' over there?" he murmured, gazing towards a hillock some two miles away to the front of him, where a small group of horses could be seen standing. "Fancy the bloke a-sendin' 'im on detached post, ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all. 'Ullo, they're movin', strike me, they're gone, now what the 'ell does that mean?" He remained staring vacantly.

Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported, was nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view in the depths of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers were lying; to which force he was now acting as look-out man.

Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by the process known in the Service as "linking," were the horses, black with sweat and restlessly kicking at the buzzing flies, while their riders, except the luckless Bates and a few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting in a circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation to which the British soldier is addicted. Some yards away Hector Graeme was lying on his back, his head resting on his helmet and a handkerchief spread over his face. For an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but, the flies and heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and was listening to the conversation of the men.

The detachment of which he was this morning in command, or rather one similar to it--for the duty devolved on each troop of the regiment in turn--was sent out daily from Fort Hussein to its present position, its mission being to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen from the direction of the Pass. For the better fulfilment of the task allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear of horseflesh, it was customary to push forward from the troop itself a detached post of six men under a non-commissioned officer. These were stationed on a small hillock about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their orders being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.

To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to a certain Sergeant Walker, familiarly known as "Hooky," for, as every soldier is aware, in the Army all Walkers are "Hookies," just as all Clarkes are "Nobbies."

It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its hillock that had so excited the interest of Private Bates, and, curiously enough, at the same time, the conversation in the nullah had also turned on the subject of this particular non-commissioned officer.

"Think 'Ooky's caught the 'Addy Mullah yet, Jim?" said a voice.

"Shouldn't wonder at all, Spider," was the answer, "got 'im tied by a neck-rope to 'is 'orse and a-bringin' of 'im up before the orfcer. Now then, 'Addy, quick march, 'alt, saloot. Stand up straight, can't yer? and stop fiddlin' with yer 'ands. This 'ere 'Addy, sir, 'as been givin' a lot of trouble lately, creatin' of disturbances in the Khyber Parse. Most troublesome man, sir, can't do nothin' with 'im. Sivin days to barriks? Very good, sir. Right turn, dismiss. Come back, d'ye 'ear, and saloot the orfcer properly.'"

"'Ooky's a bloke like a lot more we 'ave in the Army," said another, Wilde by name, "always a-gettin' of a man 'set' and naggin' at 'im. 'E makes crime, does Sergeant Walker."

"That's a fact, Oscar, and 'e 'imself ain't no perticler class, neither. 'E don't know 'is 'orses and 'e don't know 'is drill, but 'e's got a kind o' soapy way with 'im wot goes down with Rawson. Don't get round 'im, though," jerking his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to a cautious whisper.

"'Oo, 'im? Why, Taylor, 'im as is waiter in the orfcer's Mess, says as 'ow the other orfcers..." The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

"Orfcers, wot do they know? Why..." Mumble, mumble, and then, in the heat of controversy, a voice raised:

"'E ain't a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the 'ole squadron knows that. Ferrers, 'oo's Ferrers? Give me 'Ector, and you can 'ave the rest, ole man and all."

"Now then, stop that language," came sharply from a recumbent figure with three gold stripes on his arm, surmounted by a crown. Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly become alive to the enormity of the present discussion, and hastened to intervene. At his voice a hush fell on the group till, authority once more slumbering, the conversation was resumed.

"Wot for then 'as 'e gone and put 'Ooky on detached post, that's what I want to know?" said a voice, echoing the same doubt that had arisen in Private Bates's mind.

"Better arsk 'im, cully, not me. 'E knows 'Ooky same as 'e knows every man in the squadron, and if so be as 'e's put 'Ooky to watch the Parse, 'e's got 'is reasons for it, same like 'e always 'as."

A somewhat curious smile played over Hector's face as he listened, for the speaker was right in what he said. He _did_ know his men. More, he had an intimate knowledge of their natures and capabilities, such as no other officer of the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he tried. However, the other officers had not tried, the study of character in no way being regarded as part of the training of an officer in the British Army. With Hector such knowledge was a natural gift, as well as a hobby, and possibly it was owing to this that he possessed his curious popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson, his squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.

And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately selected a non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be one of the most incompetent in the regiment, for the responsible position he now held. But again, as Private Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these would probably have much astonished that person, as well as anyone else to whom they had been divulged.

Briefly they were as follows. The present was the fourth occasion on which Graeme had been entrusted with this particular mission, and so far as had also happened to his brother officers, the proceedings had been of a singular tameness--no sign of an enemy having been seen and no shot fired. While they were content to grumble, Hector had determined to act and at all costs to have some little fighting to his credit, even if this should involve an attack on the Pass with his one troop.

On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the problem of how his object was to be attained, he had by chance overheard a conversation between the redoubtable Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as was his wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous companion that "give me but arf a chance, and I will show them I am afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass I mean to go sooner or later, orders or no orders."

Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally, to the astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and told him he would be in command of the detached post that day. This information he supplemented with a few remarks on the necessity of daring and enterprise on the part of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote dealing with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting in defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown. Having thus fired an already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he despatched the man on his mission, observing with secret gratification his victim surreptitiously borrow the trumpeter's revolver, and with this tucked away in his holster depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than was his wont.

Having then watched the party's arrival at their destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah, occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing happened. By now he had abandoned hope, and was apathetically listening to his soldiers' talk when there was a sudden general cry of "'Ullo!" and removing the handkerchief from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging eyes staring at him from above. It was Bates the sentry, an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.

"Beggy pardon, sir," he gasped, '"Ook ... Sergeant Walker, sir, 'as left 'is 'ill, and there's 'eavy firin' goin' on in the Parse, you can 'ear it quite plain from 'ere."

A chorus of "Gawds," a scuffle, a rush, and all were up the nullah's side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed on the dark rift in the mountain wall. Yes, there it was, the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold thrill ran through him--that strange sensation, half awe, half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears the sound beats for the first time.

In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his part. He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few minutes hence be standing in Death's presence, nay, might have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible as the stones on which he lay.

Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued, but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant and his party was there a trace. They were gone, apparently swallowed up in the mountains.

At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.

At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.

"Made a 'ash of it, same as I thought he would."

"Been up the Parse, cont'r'y to orders."

"An' now 'ookin out of it, double quick?"

"'Ow many's been shot, I wonder?"

"Mount," from Graeme, and straightway there was a cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to, regardless of ownership. A blast of bad language rose up like smoke.

"Leave my 'orse alone, Ginger. Get on yer own ruddy 'orse."

"Which of you blokes 'as pinched my lance?"

"Take yer 'orse's foot off my carbine."