He passed through the Koriapul bazar, which was filled with a motley throng of people of the trading classes, eagerly discussing the events of the day and the strong measures likely to follow upon the arrival of Bakht Khan. Ahmed ventured to delay for a few minutes in order to get an inkling of the general feeling of the people. Many were as confident of the ultimate success of the rebels as the sepoys themselves; but some of the older men, while as fervently desiring the crushing of the English as the rest, quietly dropped in words of caution and doubt. One of them said that he had heard from a servant of Ahsanullah, the king's physician, that that crafty old fox had foretold the doom of the city, and was suspected to be making provision for that fatal day.
Ahmed passed on. But instead of striking into the Nasirganj Road, which would bring him direct to the Kashmir gate and the main guard, he made his way by quiet and tortuous lanes, among the gardens of some of the principal residents, towards a point about half-way between the Kashmir gate and the Mori bastion. He was aware that, besides the heavy guns at the bastions, there were light guns along the whole of this part of the wall; but these could only be effectively used if the besiegers approached the city, and were, perhaps, hardly likely to be manned in force now. But when he came near enough to see them, he saw also that the gunners were on duty beside the guns, huddled together—the night was damp and chilly—and most of them, to all appearance, asleep. Now and then, however, he heard voices from these little knots of men; it behoved him to go warily. He passed along, keeping in shadow, until he reached a part of the wall where all was quiet. There was no firing either from the British lines or from the defences of the city, and the night was so still, with the brooding stillness of an imminent storm, that the slightest sound in his vicinity would have reached his ear. Pausing for a few moments for reassurance, he at length ventured to creep to the foot of the wall, and grope his way up the steps leading to the battlements, eight feet below the parapet. Half-way up he heard a faint call somewhere to his left, but it was not answered, and he went on till he gained the top.
Stealing along the battlements, he sought for some fissure in which he might plant his lathi. But he found none, and the masonry of the wall was far too hard to allow him to bore a hole in it without making a noise that was bound to attract attention. He wished he could have gone to one of the embrasures and tied his rope to the gun itself; but even if the gunners were asleep, it involved a risk he dared not run. He was at his wit's end to know what to do. Flat on his belly, to lessen the chances of being seen, he crawled along, seeking for a hole, and becoming more and more anxious as the moments fled. What if his warning should reach Hodson Sahib too late? The parapet was loopholed for musketry, but the loopholes afforded him no assistance. At length, when almost in despair, he came to a spot where a shot from one of the British guns had made a jagged rent in the parapet. Here, surely, at this fortuitous embrasure, he could put his fortune to the test. Gently unwinding the rope from about his body, he fixed the slip-knot on the lathi, and having laid this transversely across the gap, he paid out the rope until he felt it touch bottom.
Now came the critical moment. He knew that as soon as he attempted to cross the parapet there was a danger that, dark as the night was, his form might be seen. There was a gun with its group of gunners not many yards to his right. If one of the men should chance to look in his direction he could hardly escape discovery. He was thankful that the sky was overcast; indeed, his journey promised to be an uncomfortable one, for big spots of rain were falling. Perhaps these heralds of a storm might cause the gunners to huddle themselves more closely in their cloaks. But it was vain to delay; the sooner he made the attempt the better; so, one hand holding the rope, with the other he got a grip of the top of the parapet. Then he gave a sudden spring, gained the top, and grasping the rope with both hands, let himself swing free.
As he did so, there came a shout, followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps. His knuckles scraped against the wall; to protect his hands he pushed against the wall with his feet, but the result of this was to throw all his weight on his hands, and his palms were skinned as he slid rapidly down. The descent was only twenty-four feet. He touched the ground. Letting the rope go, he plunged down the scarp into the ditch, rushed across, up the counter-scarp and the glacis, and reached level ground on the other side. Then a shot flew over his head; he had been seen. Upright he would form a target, however indistinct, for the sepoys on the wall, and some of them were no mean marksmen. He dropped on hands and toes, and thus crawled as fast as he could over the soppy ground. Shots flew around him, but he escaped them all, and hurrying along until he judged that he could no longer be seen, he rose to his feet and ran at full speed across the Circular Road that encompasses the city, over a stretch of open ground, until he reached the Kudsia Road, and did not check his pace until he had got half-a-mile from the wall. And then the rain came down in a blinding torrent, and in five minutes he was drenched to the skin.
The rain favoured him in one respect—that it would keep people under cover. On the other hand, it added to the difficulties of his journey. Even on a clear night he would have found it by no means easy to find his way. He had nearly two miles to go before he could reach the British lines, and the ground was dotted with scrub and trees, and with houses and enclosures, some isolated, some clustered together. Some of the houses had been occupied before the rising by British officers and civil servants; they were now, he did not doubt, in the hands of the rebels. But his only course was to hurry forward, trusting to the good fortune that had hitherto befriended him.
For half-a-mile he went on across the swampy ground, then found himself among the walled enclosures. The best way to avoid observation was to find a lane, such as commonly divided one enclosure from another, and proceed along that. This he did, and for perhaps another quarter of a mile trudged on between high walls, the lane winding this way and that, but leading always, so far as he could judge, in the direction he wished to go. At length he found himself on open ground again, and now had some inkling of his locality. The building he had just passed was a large one, which he had seen, as he thought, often from the Ridge. He would very soon find himself on the gentle slope leading up to the British lines, and his journey would be ended.
He had not gone very far, however, when, even in the darkness, he thought he saw the forms of a number of men recumbent on the ground a little in front of him. He halted and crouched down. They might be the bodies of men killed in some outpost skirmish, but it was well to make sure. A moment later he heard whispers. The men were certainly alive. Were they rebels or a reconnoitring party from the British lines? There were adventurous sahibs, he knew, who would take advantage of just such a night as this to examine the outposts of the enemy. He listened intently, but for some time could not form any conclusion—the voices were too low. At length, however, he saw one of the men rise, and at the same time heard a voice uttering execrations on the accursed mlechas. Beyond doubt the men were rebels. He must make a circuit, and try to pass them on their flank; then, having got in front of them, trust to his heels.
It was clear from their low tones that they were in some fear of being discovered. A British outpost could not be far distant. He glanced to right and left, then, with the instinct of a scout, backwards along the path by which he had come. And now he received a sudden shock, for, scarcely more than fifty yards from him, there were five or six dark forms creeping towards him. In a moment he realized the situation. Without doubt these men formed part of a rebel outpost stationed in the building he had just passed. They had seen him pass, and with native quickness had recognized that his turban, the most conspicuous part of his dress, was not that of a sepoy. The presence of any other man at that place and hour was suspicious; he might be a spy returning to the British lines. The slow movements of the men indicated that they thought to take him by surprise, without alarming the British outpost by the sounds of a struggle.
They had seen him halt, and would know that he had caught sight of their comrades in advance. At any moment they might rush upon him. He felt that he was in a very tight place. Before and behind were enemies; and these latter, seeming to have anticipated his meditated flank movement, were spreading out as if to envelop him. What could he do? To attempt a dash through the men in front, who had clearly not yet seen him, would be too risky. There were more than a dozen men in the two parties, and he could not hope to escape all their shots if they fired. He had but a moment to decide, and in that moment he remembered the trick by which he had escaped a somewhat similar peril when he was escorting the missy sahib. With a quick movement he divested himself of the turban and the chogah which betrayed him as a trader; then, bending low and crouching forward, he gave a slight cry to attract the attention of the men in front. Before they were all on their feet he was in their midst, and murmuring "Feringhis!" pointed to the party stalking him behind, then sank to the ground as if wounded or exhausted.
His ruse had the effect he had calculated upon. Many a time in the course of the great struggle the mere hint that the sahibs were upon them sufficed to throw panic into the mutineers' hearts. A moment's reflection would have shown these men that they could scarcely have been taken in reverse unwarned by their comrades in the house. But the suddenness of the stranger's arrival, the darkness, the silence of the approaching forms, combined to banish reason: without a moment's hesitation they took to their heels, and scampered for safety away to the left in the direction of Sabzi Mandi. Instantly Ahmed jumped to his feet and set off at a headlong run towards the British lines. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he toppled over the edge of a nullah and went souse into the muddy pool at the bottom. As he ran, he heard sounds of conflict behind him. Apparently the men he had startled had dashed heedlessly into those of their comrades who were stealing round on the left. But the noise was almost immediately hushed: the mistake had no doubt been discovered, and the rebels did not wish to bring the Feringhis down upon them.
Dripping wet, bruised, and shaken, Ahmed groped his way along the nullah for some distance, then scrambled up the bank. But in his relief at escaping from the enemy he forgot his usual caution, and did not wait to prospect the ground before leaving the nullah. He had gone but a few paces, still running, when he heard a cry, "Who goes there?" Next moment he tumbled over a man, fell with a thud against another, and while struggling with rough hands laid upon him, realized that he had fallen plump into a British outpost.
"Give the word, you heathen son of a washer-woman," said a rough English voice, the owner of which had his hands on Ahmed's throat. "Give the word; jaldi karo."
"What have you got there, Tom?" said another voice.
"Blowed if it ain't a Pandy or some other drowned rat by the feel of him. What do you mean, you suar ka bachcha, by treading on the toes of a British rifleman? Hilo mat, you bloomin' reptile, or I'll stick my bay'net in your gala."
"Take me to Hodson Sahib," said Ahmed in halting English, as soon as he got his breath.
"Hodson Sahib be jiggered! We ain't khaki, as you might see with your cat's eyes; we're green, we are. You've come to the wrong shop for those everlasting Guides, if that's what you want. You've got gentlemen of the 60th Royal Rifles to deal with, let me tell you. He ain't got no rifle, mates, so there ain't no harm in him. What are you a-doing of here, and what was that there noise we heard just now?"
"Take me to Hodson Sahib," Ahmed repeated.
"Perhaps he's one of Hodson's spies, Tom," said a third man. "Better send him along to the Colonel."
"We can't send him, not having no conveniences for such. He'll just have to wait until we're relieved."
"But s'pose he's got news of an attack? There'd be a bit of a dust-up if the General didn't get warning in time."
"And there'd be another dust-up if an inspection-officer come along and found me absent from my juty. Rum thing, juty, you nigger; and the sooner you learn it the better. My juty says one thing, your juty,—if so be youareone of Hodson's spies—says another. If two juties pulls in hopposite directions, the thing that wants doing don't get done, and the consekinces is accordin'."
"Y' ought to bin a parson, Tom. Blest if ever I knowed such a chap for argyfying."
"Argyfy! I never do it. I only talk sense. That's what my mother used to say to the old man when they was talkin' over some little bit o' difference between 'em. 'Woman,' says he, 'your argyment's ridik'lous. Women ain't got no power of reasonin'.' 'And a good thing for you, Jimmy,' say she. 'Women ha' got sense.' And then they'd begin over again, and me eatin' bread and butter listenin' to 'em. 'The amount o' rubbidge that there poor boy do have to listen to from one as ought to bring him up proper!' says my father. 'True,' says she, 'and if he didn't take after me 'twould turn his little stomick, poor lamb!' And then he'd argyfy that too much butter warn't good for a boy's innards, and she'd listen and say nothing till the next slice was cut, and blest if he didn't lay it on thicker than her. Argyfyin' ain't in it against sense."
Ahmed was growing impatient under the rifleman's garrulity, though he took a certain pleasure in hearing his mother tongue again. The name "Jimmy" had caught his ear, and he remembered that he had himself been called by that name in those distant years of childhood that seemed like existence in another world. But meanwhile the night was passing; his news was yet untold; and he was meditating a flight from these English soldiers when he heard the tread of men marching, and in a few moments there came up a lieutenant going the rounds with a squad to see that the men of the outposts and pickets were attending to their duty.
"Who's this, sergeant?" said the lieutenant, observing Ahmed. "You know the rules: no visitors allowed?"
"Yes, sir, and he ain't exactly a visitor, that is we didn't invite him and didn't know he was coming; in fact, he came on us all of a heap like, and nearly knocked the breath out o' my body by falling right on top of me, sir. He asked for Hodson Sahib, sir, and I was just explaining that he'd come to the wrong shop."
"Brought khabar, eh?" said the lieutenant. "Take him to Mr. Hodson," he added, turning to one of his men, and Ahmed was forthwith conveyed along the Ridge until he reached his commander's tent. Hodson was in bed, but on hearing that a native had asked for him, he had Ahmed brought into the tent.
"Who are you?" he said, not recognizing his trooper in the bearded man before him.
"I am Ahmed Khan, sahib, and I come from Delhi with news."
"By Jove!" cried Hodson, "your get-up is first-rate." Then he laughed. "You are no doubt the man Fazl Hak wrote about; a simple trader, he said, who was no good at all for our job. Well, what have you got to say?"
He listened attentively as Ahmed told his story.
As his manner was, he questioned and cross-questioned him searchingly; it was no easy matter, as a rule, to sift out the bare truth from the natives' reports; but Ahmed's account was so simple and direct that he was speedily satisfied, and then he got up, and flinging on a long military cloak, went off to tell General Barnard in person what he had learnt.
"You are wet through," he said before he went, noticing Ahmed's bedraggled appearance. "My servant will give you some dry things. Go and get some sleep, and come to me in the morning."
"If there is to be fighting, and the hazur pleases," said Ahmed, "I should like to go with the Guides."
"Very well," said Hodson, giving him a keen look; "but don't put on the uniform. You are going to be useful, I think, and the secret had better be kept a little longer."
It was half-past two in the morning when a little force, consisting of three hundred and fifty men of the 61st Regiment, Hodson with the cavalry of the Guides, and Major Coke with some batteries of horse artillery, left camp to do battle with the mutineers and prevent if possible the attack on Alipur; if not, to intercept the rebels on their return. The force was under the command of Coke, of the Panjab Irregular Cavalry, who had arrived on the Ridge a few days before. He was a gallant officer, with a great reputation for his achievements in border warfare; no better man could have been chosen for the work in hand.
Alipur was eight miles distant on the Karnal Road. While Lieutenant Frederick Roberts with the infantry felt for the enemy along the road, Hodson with the Guides and Coke with the guns marched along the right bank of the Jumna Canal. Fortunately the rain had ceased, but the ground had been turned into a quagmire; the horses trod over their fetlocks in mud, and the progress of the column was slow. It was soon clear that all hope must be abandoned of saving the village and the little Sikh post guarding it. Still, the rebels must return to Delhi, and it was possible to relieve them of any plunder they had gained and to teach them a lesson.
The Guides marched on in the darkness. Ahmed had as yet attracted no attention among the troopers. Hodson's servant had rummaged out an old scarf which rolled up into a quite respectable turban, and a discarded great-coat which was not unlike the chogah he had left on the ground when escaping from the rebels. It was impossible to distinguish his dress in the night, and if anything strange had been noticed about his appearance, the fact that many had had to change their drenched garments might have sufficiently explained it. He took care to keep out of Sherdil's way; Sherdil was the most likely man to see through his disguise, and while his mission in Delhi was yet unfulfilled in its entirety, it was advisable to keep the secret.
Soon after daybreak the patrols came in sight of the enemy returning in triumph from Alipur. They had fallen on the village, slain the Sikhs to a man, burnt the place to the ground, and carried off a quantity of plunder, including an ammunition wagon and several camel-loads of small-arm cartridges.
At the sight of the rebel infantry in their red coats, Major Coke unlimbered the guns and brought them into action. They were only light field-pieces, and did little execution among the enemy, who, instead of standing their ground and making use of their overwhelming numbers, fell into a panic when the guns came within six hundred yards of them, and bolted, flinging away their shoes, belts and other impedimenta, in their mad haste to get away.
Then Hodson gave his eager men the word to charge. They swept down upon the disordered ranks of the rebels, and were soon engaged hand to hand with their cavalry. Shouting their war-cry "Wah-hah!" the Guides cut their way through them, smiting right and left with their swords.
Hodson himself was in the thick of the fray, and escaped hurt as by a miracle. His gallant horse, Feroza, was slashed with sabre cuts; his bridle was severed, and a piece of his glove was shorn off. The men were no whit behind their leader. Ahmed unhorsed one man with his lance, and recovered from the stroke just in time to ward off a desperate thrust from a sabre. The trooper at his side fell from his horse with a mortal wound in his neck; several of the horses were so badly wounded that they had to be killed. But the enemy would not stand, and the Guides' losses were only the one man killed and six wounded.
So desperate was the rebels' flight that they left behind them all their baggage and the spoil of their night's work at Alipur. Hodson would fain have pursued them to the very walls of Delhi, but the horses were so fatigued by their march over the heavy ground that they were incapable of further efforts. Major Coke's guns, moreover, sank so deep into the mud that they could scarcely be moved. The rebels were on higher ground, and the Guides howled with disappointment when they saw them drawing their guns away in safety. They came up with the tail-end of the infantry ere the morning was past, and inflicted heavy loss upon them, so that Bakht Khan, who had led the column in person, had little satisfaction in his night's adventure. All that his five thousand men had accomplished was the destruction of a small village, and the capture of plunder which they were now forced to leave behind them on the field.
The encounter with the enemy having taken place between the road and the canal, the British infantry could not come up in time to take part in it. But they were so much exhausted by the scorching heat of the day, following their march over the swamps, that many of the 61st sank down beneath trees as they returned to camp, and remained there until elephants were sent to bring them in.
As the Guides marched back to camp, Ahmed became the object of much curious speculation on the part of his comrades. Many had noticed the doughty way in which he had conducted himself during the brief encounter, and wondered who this bearded warrior was who fought among them in a garb so strange. He rode on gravely, not turning his head, nor taking part in the talk of the others. They questioned one another in low tones about him.
"Who is this stranger, and when did he come among us?" asked Rasul Khan, of Sherdil, son of Assad, as they rode a little behind him.
"Allah knows," replied Sherdil. "I know him not. I spoke of him to Hodson Sahib, and the sahib glared at me out of his blue eyes—eyes like a hawk's, Rasul—and asked me whether he was not a good fighter and worthy of the Guides. 'Verily he is, sahib,' I said, 'but we know him not.' 'Iknow him, is not that enough?' says the sahib. Peradventure he is a new recruit, Rasul, or a candidate, and there being no time for the tests the sahib bade him come with us and show what he could do. I care not, so that he does not become a dafadar before me."
"I will even ask his name," returned Rasul, riding his horse beside Ahmed's. "Thou of the black beard, what is thy name?"
"I am of the Guides," said Ahmed simply. "If thou desirest to know more, ask of the sahib."
Whereupon Rasul fell back and told Sherdil that the black-bearded one was either a very surly fellow or one of the sahibs in disguise. "For he spake to me in the tone the sahibs have when they bid us do things and we obey even as children. Of a truth he is a sahib, or at the very least a sowar from one of the English regiments. That is it, he is an English sowar, one of Blunt Sahib's men, perhaps, and his own clothes being wet he put on those of a banijara. If that be not the truth, Sherdil, we shall without doubt learn the truth when we come to camp. He is a good fighter, that is sure."
That evening Hodson sent for Ahmed, who in common with all the members of Coke's wearied force had slept through the day, and kept him for a long time. Ahmed felt afterwards as if he had been turned inside out. He related all that had happened to him since his departure from the Ridge; his fight with the lathi-wallahs, his interview with Fazl Hak (at which Hodson chuckled), his eavesdropping in Minghal Khan's house, the failure of all his attempts hitherto to discover anything about Dr. Craddock. He mentioned casually how he had seen the khansaman disappear through a hole in the wall.
"The rascal!" said Hodson. "Without doubt he has some little hoard of his own by which he sleeps. And you say that he talks foully about the sahibs?"
"True, hazur."
"I hope the villain will get his deserts some day. Craddock Sahib will without doubt be found—if he is yet alive—in some quiet garden or on some roof-top. You will go back into the city. I am pleased with you. You will find out all you can that will help us when the assault comes—the numbers of rebels at the various gates, the haunts of the ringleaders, the secret ways by which they may try to escape. And if you can discover anything of their plans again, as you have done, you must let me know. Have you money?"
"Enough, sahib, and I have still some goods to sell."
"Ah, I had forgotten your goods. I doubt whether you will find them as you left them."
"Then the bhatiyara will suffer many pangs," said Ahmed simply, and Hodson laughed.
It was many days, however, before Ahmed returned to Delhi. His exposure on the night of his escape, followed by the march and fighting, and the fatigues of returning in the heat, had brought on a slight fever. He lay up in the quarters of the camp-followers, trusting to Nature for his cure. And during these days he heard much talk of the incidents of the camp. Cholera had broken out; General Barnard himself died of it after a few hours' illness on the day after the sortie to Alipur. His successor, General Reed, was in ill-health, and officers and men were discussing who would really lead them. Many of the natives complained bitterly of their treatment by the British soldiers. The cook-boys, who carried their food, often had to dodge round shot from the city, and had become expert at it, dropping down on their knees when they saw the shot coming. And when they rose and went on with their pots and tins the men would jeer at them, and curse them for being late with the food. Ahmed, as he heard things like this, wondered whether all the sahibs had such contempt for their poor native servants.
Between nine and ten one morning the bugles sounded the alarm, and Ahmed, having recovered sufficiently to leave his charpoy, went out to see what was happening. He had heard the sounds of firing so often while lying sick that he would hardly have noticed it now but that it seemed so much nearer than ever before.
In the drizzling rain a party of cavalry was seen approaching a battery near the churchyard. One of the gunners had a portfire lighted in readiness for firing his gun, but Lieutenant Hills ordered him to refrain, judging from the horsemen's movements that they were a picket of the 9th Irregular Native Cavalry. All at once, however, it struck him that the picket was unusually large, and being now a little suspicious, he ordered his men to unlimber and open upon the horsemen. Before this could be done some fifteen or twenty of the enemy dashed over the canal bridge into the camp and rode straight for the guns.
Lieutenant Hills—he was a second lieutenant and a little fellow—saw that time must be gained for his men if the guns were to be saved. Without a moment's hesitation he charged the rebels single-handed, cut down the first man he met, and had just flung his pistol at a second when two sowars dashed upon him. Their horses collided with his in a terrific shock; the horse was rolled over, and Hills sent flying to the ground, thus escaping the swords of the enemy, one of which, however, shore a slice off his jacket. Half stunned, he lay still, and the rebel sowars left him for dead.
But Hills was not dead; in a minute or two he rose to his feet and looked about for his sword. There it was, on the ground about ten yards away. No sooner was it in his hand than three of the enemy returned—two on horseback, the third on foot. One of the horsemen charged him, but he leapt aside and dealt the man a blow that toppled him wounded from the saddle. The second man made full at him with his lance. Hills parried the thrust with a quick movement, and wounded the sowar in the head. Then up came the third man—a young, limber fellow. Hills was panting for breath after the violence of his exertions. In his fierce and rapid movements his cloak had in some way wound itself about his throat, so that he was almost suffocated. But after dealing with the horseman he stood to meet the last of his opponents, and as he came within reach aimed a shrewd blow at him with his sword. The new-comer was fresh and unwearied. He turned the stroke, seized Hills' sword by the hilt and wrenched it from his grasp. Thus left weaponless, a man might not be blamed if he took to flight. Not so Hills. He had neither sword nor pistol, but he had his fists, and he set upon the rebel with ardour, punching his head and face with such swift and vigorous blows that the man was quite unable to use his sword, and gave back. Unluckily, Hills slipped over his cloak on the sodden ground and fell flat. The rebel had just lifted his sword to cleave the fallen man's skull, when up galloped Major Tombs, his troop-captain, who had heard of the rebels' attack from a trooper of the Irregular Cavalry. In an instant he saw Hills' danger. He was still some thirty paces away, and before he could reach the spot the fatal blow would have been struck. Checking his horse, he rested his revolver on his left arm and took aim at the mutineer, shooting him through the body.
Major Tombs and the Lieutenant returned to their men, who had chased the rebels some little distance past the guns. Coming back by and by to secure the unlimbered gun, they saw another mutineer coolly walking off with the pistol which Hills had hurled at a rebel's head early in the fight. Hills closed with him: the man was a clever swordsman, and for a time it was a fencing-match between them. Then Hills rushed in with a thrust; the rebel jumped aside and dealt Hills a cut on the head that stretched him on the ground. Once more Major Tombs came to the rescue, and ended the matter with his sword.
This incident was the talk of the camp, and Ahmed, who had seen it all, learnt by and by that the officers were to be recommended for the Victoria Cross. He had never heard of this, and inquired what it was.
"Oh," said the bhisti to whom he put the question, "'tis a little brown cross that the great Memsahib over the black water pins to the dhoti of a soldier who is very brave."
"And is it given only to the sahibs, or to us folks of the country as well?"
"That I know not. I never heard of any one but a Feringhi getting it. But why dost ask! Dost think that thou, who art but a banijara, art brave enough to please the great Memsahib?"
"What I think matters nothing, O bhisti. But there are brave men everywhere, even among bhistis."
And Ahmed had now a new goal at which to aim.
Bahadur Shah, King of Delhi, was holding darbar in his private hall of audience—the Diwan-i-khas. It was an imposing scene: the pure white marble of the walls, ornamented with delicate inlaid work; the rich decorations and gorgeous colour of the ceiling; the arches with mosaic traceries, giving views of beautiful gardens: all this would have made a fit setting for a mighty monarch's court. The old king, tremulous with age and anxieties, sat in the centre on a dais of white marble, and no doubt deplored at times the cupidity of his predecessor Nadir Shah, who had turned into money, a hundred years before, the wondrous peacock throne, in which the spread tails of the birds were encrusted with sapphires and rubies and diamonds and other precious stones, cunningly arranged in imitation of the natural colours. But his monarchy was sadly diminished in wealth and dignity. Successive invaders had all taken something for themselves; and though he was in courtesy styled king, and received royal salutes from the guards at his doors, his territory had been confined, since the British imposed their rule upon him, to his palace; and instead of the untold wealth that had once been his, he had been granted the mere pittance of £120,000 a year. And now it seemed that he would lose even this, for the British still held the Ridge; his generals and their forty thousand men had as yet made good none of their confident boasts of sweeping the handful of Feringhis away, and the old king wished with all his heart that the mutineers had let well alone. He was depressed, wretched; what a mockery seemed that gilt scroll of Persian on the arches above his head—
"If on earth is a bower of bliss,It is this, it is this, it is this."
"If on earth is a bower of bliss,It is this, it is this, it is this."
The hall was thronged. There was Bakht Khan, the commander-in-chief, the square blunt soldier, who was yet said by some to hide under his bluffness a character of cunning and duplicity. To him the querulous old king turned a cold shoulder; for he had been for several weeks in the city, and yet no success had attended his arms save the burning of Alipur—a trumpery feat. There was Mirza Mogul, daily growing more jealous of his supplanter. Bakht Khan's men had received six months' pay in advance ('tis true it was the product of their own plundering), while Mirza Mogul had the greatest difficulty in squeezing a few thousand rupees out of the treasury to satisfy his clamorous troops. There was Ahsanullah, the king's physician, a thin fox-faced man in black; and Mirza Nosha, the poet, with verses in his pocket composed to celebrate the victory when it was won; and near him Hassan Askari, who had in his pocket Bakht Khan's order for the construction of five hundred ladders, so that the sepoys might escape over the walls if the English took the city. All the notabilities of Delhi were there, and for hours the old king sat, receiving petitions, hearing demands for redress from merchants who had been plundered, listening to the Kotwal's reports of the misdeeds of the young prince Abu Bakr, who was constantly intoxicated and engaged in riotous disorder. Saligram, the banker, complained that all his papers and chests had been rifled, and he was a ruined man. A messenger came in and reported that the English were constructing a new battery within half-a-mile of the walls. A poor old man, who said he was the king's cousin, made an offering of two rupees in aid of the holy cause. Another messenger entered with news that a detachment of the Nimuch brigade had gone out to fight the English, who had all run away. The king called him a liar; he had heard such news before. And then, just as the darbar was closing, there entered one of the king's attendants, and asked if the Lord of the World would graciously condescend to receive a chief from the hill country, who had entered the city at the head of three hundred well-mounted men.
"Who is he?" asked the king.
"Hazur, his true name no one knows; but his horsemen call him Asadullah, and in truth he is a very lion in wrath and courage. He has done great things among the Feringhis at Agra and Gwalior, and being at one time a prisoner of the English he hates them with a bitter hatred. And now he comes with three hundred brave men whom he has gathered, and craves leave to present a nassar to the Pillar of State, and to offer his services in the cause."
"We desire not to receive him," said the king. "Have we not soldiers enough in Delhi to pay, without adding more? If the English cannot be beaten with the forty thousand we now have, how shall three hundred help us?"
This was mere querulousness, as every one in the hall knew. The king dared not offend anybody at this critical moment in his affairs, certainly not a chief who could command a body of troops. After bidding the man wait, and keeping him waiting for a long time while he went through the form of consulting his advisers, the king announced that he would see this warrior whom men named the Lion of God. The official retired. In a few minutes there entered the hall a stately figure with flowing white beard and red turban. He made obeisance to the king, handed him a nassar of a hundred rupees, and declared in a strong, resonant voice that he was ready to fight the English, he and his three hundred men.
There was a group of officers at the end of the hall from which entrance was had to the Akab baths. They were so much preoccupied with a matter they were discussing, that the proceedings in the centre of the hall had for some time escaped their notice. Now, however, at the sound of that ringing voice, one of them, Minghal Khan, started, and immediately afterwards changed his position in such a way that he was partially hidden by one of the columns supporting the arcade. And there he remained until the rising of the king signified that the audience was at an end. Then he made towards the door among the throng, keeping close to the wall, and moving in the manner of one who avoids observation.
But the crowd was thick, and its departure slow, so that when the chief, whom his men had named Asadullah, left the side of the king—who had kept him in talk, having apparently taken a fancy to him—it chanced that as his eyes ranged round the hall, they fell upon the face of Minghal Khan, who at that very moment had turned a little aside to look at the new-comer. Their glances crossed; a light flashed in the eyes of each; and Asadullah, whom Minghal had known as Rahmut Khan, took a step forward as though to hasten after his enemy. But he checked himself. The king's palace was no place for the settlement of a personal quarrel: no doubt there would be opportunities. Each of the chiefs knew, as he caught the look in the other's eyes, that the fact that they were engaged in a common cause would not weigh for a moment if they came within reach of one another. The many discordant elements in Delhi were held together for the time by their common hatred of the English; if that bond were relaxed, they would fly apart with shattering force.
Minghal Khan got out of the palace before Rahmut Khan, and hastened immediately to his house. He then dispatched his khitmutgar to bid the attendance of one of the jamadars of his regiment.
"Salaam, Azim Ali," he said in response to the officer's greeting. "I have but now returned from the palace. The old king grows more feeble, and his authority less and less. There was much talk among us of the arrears of pay; but it is indeed true that the treasury is all but empty, and it will never be full while Wallidad Khan is collector of the revenue, and such pitiful nassars are brought to the king as were brought to-day. Imagine, Azim Ali, a bent old dodderer who claimed kinship with the Lord of the World, and offered him two rupees!"
"It is indeed pitiful," said the jamadar. "What is to be said to the sowars? They will assuredly plunder the shops if they get no pay, and the general has said that all plunderers shall be hanged."
"What, indeed? Is it not hard that our men, who have been enduring the heat and burden, throwing away their lives in fighting the English, should be worse off than such brigands as the men whom this Asadullah has brought into the city? The general forbids plunder: well, he is a friend of mine, and must be obeyed. But these new-comers, have they not plundered? What have they done but load themselves with the loot of villages, and snapped up ill-defended convoys—enterprises of little difficulty and less danger? There is great talk of this old freebooter as a man of high courage: hai! it is false. Do I not know of him? They call him lion; a more fitting name would be pariah dog. He is not a man to risk his skin. And yet, forsooth, he comes into Delhi at the head of these three hundred, and the king slobbers over him, and without doubt he will squeeze from the treasury what rupees he can, and then, when the word comes to fight, he will shelter himself behind us who know what fighting is, and expect his full share of plunder when the English are beaten. Hai! it is a shame and a scandal."
"True, most noble subahdar; it is enough to make our men rise up and claim that all who enter thus with full hands should share what they have among us."
"And what they could not keep but for us; for are there not princes in the city who, were these men left undefended, would swoop down like hawks upon them and strip them of all they have? Without us, trained soldiers, would not the English assuredly catch them and hang them up? Is this thing to be endured? Here are we, lodged within a shout's distance of them, and we starve while they live on the fat of the land."
Minghal knew the man he was talking to. He was a simple ruffian, who grew more and more indignant as his superior artfully stimulated his discontent.
"It would not be a matter of surprise to me," Minghal continued, "were the men to rise in their wrath and secure for themselves what is their just due. As a servant of our lord the king, and a loyal lieutenant of Bakht Khan, our commander-in-chief, I could not countenance such a transgression of his strict command; but I am a man like them: I know what hunger is: am I not myself often at my wit's end for the wherewithal to buy a meal, with many months' pay due to me? And as a man I could assuredly not blame any action that our sowars might take."
The simple jamadar gulped at the bait. Minghal had no need to say more. That same night, a Pathan trader who had entered the city by the Ajmir gate at sundown, just before all the gates were closed, witnessed a scene not unfamiliar in Delhi at this time of unrest and relaxed authority. In the space before a serai near the Jama Masjid, a great crowd of men was engaged in desperate rioting. He thought at first that it was one of those little affairs in which the princes of the blood, notably Abu Bakr, sometimes disported themselves: a raid upon a banker, or a silversmith, or some merchant who was suspected of having feathered his nest. But inquiring of an onlooker who stood out of harm's way watching the conflict, he learnt that the regiment of Minghal Khan—that bold warrior, and friend of the commander-in-chief—was attacking the quarters of a troop of three hundred Irregulars, men of all castes and no country, who had arrived in the city that day and been granted quarters in this serai by the king.
"And thou art a Pathan, too, by thy speech, O banijara," said the man. "Pathans are ever unruly—I mean no offence to thee, who art a man of peace. The noble subahdar, Minghal Khan, is a Pathan, and the leader of the new-comers is a Pathan also."
"What is his name, O bariya?" asked the trader, judging by his informant's attire that he was a swordsmith.
"Men call him Asadullah, and say he is a very great warrior. Bah! There is too much talk of very great warriors, and too little fighting. I am a good Musalman, and no man can say I am not a faithful subject of the king—may Allah be his peace!—but it is nevertheless the truth, O banijara, that I was more prosperous under the English raj than I am this day."
"There will be work for thee to-morrow, O grinder of swords, for many edges will be blunted. Hai! What a din they make! I can hardly hear myself speak. Why are they using no firearms?"
"That is easy to understand. I speak to a friend—thou and I are men of peace. Well, without doubt, this is not a quarrel that suddenly arises from a chance hot word. Not so—it was purposed from the beginning. Some of these new men are out in the streets, beholding the many fine sights of this city, and that seemed a good occasion to the men of Minghal Khan; for in truth these new men are said to have good store of plunder they have taken from the English as they came hither; and, as all men know, the soldiers of Minghal Khan, and of many another officer, are yearning for their pay. And so they came and fell upon the men of Asadullah at their quarters yonder, and brought no firearms, since they make a great noise; and the new men being taken wholly by surprise, had not time so much as to fetch their muskets. As thou seest, there is great fighting at the gate, and some are even now scaling the wall. Wah! Unless the Kotwal or Bakht Khan come with a great force, methinks in a little those men of Asadullah will be in a sad case, for the others are much greater in number. It is a good fight; as thou sayest, it will give me work to-morrow, my shop is hard by; and therefore I say, let them fight on."
The two stood side by side watching the fray. There was a great noise of clashing arms, and fierce yells, but such uproar was too common to have brought as yet any of the authorities to the spot. The defenders of the serai were hard pressed. Some had already been driven within the gate; more and more of the attackers had mounted the wall and leapt into the enclosure; and it seemed that the swordsmith's forecast of the end would be justified. But suddenly a group of eight or ten men rounded the corner of the street, remote from where the two watchers stood. They halted for a moment, as though they did not at once comprehend the meaning of the scene before them. The night was dark, but the light of the stars revealed those new arrivals as stalwart, turbaned men. Their pause was very brief. Then, drawing their talwars, they swept upon the rear of the hundred or more sepoys thronging in front of them. "Wah, wah!" they shouted, and their fierce war-cry fell upon the ears of the sepoys at the same time as their terrible weapons smote their limbs. The Pandies were taken utterly by surprise, and began to scatter in a panic. The diversion came in the nick of time. The defenders took heart from the arrival of their comrades; the attackers were divided in mind whether to stay or to flee; and in a very few moments the whole throng had melted away; those who were on the wall saw themselves unsupported and dropped to the street, and the new-comers followed in hot chase, being joined by others from within the gates.
"Wah! That was Asadullah himself," said the swordsmith. "Of a truth, he is a great warrior. Didst thou see him?"
"I saw a big man, and he seemed older than I had supposed, but it was too dark to see him clearly. I am a Pathan, as thou didst say, and were I a man of war, I would fain have had a part with them. But being a man of peace, far be it from me to endanger my skin in broils of this kind."
"Well, it is over now, and 'twere best for us to get ourselves home. Verily I shall have work in the morning, and it befits to be up early. The night is damp and chill, and now I look at thee, art thou not a-cold in that thin raiment of thine? Hill-men like thee are not wont to go so thinly clad."
"True, good bariya, and 'tis by evil chance I am as thou seest. I left my chogah in a certain place, and lo! within a little it was no longer there. I doubt not it is now among the belongings of some vile Hindu."
"Hai! Vile, indeed! When is this truce to be ended? The king has commanded that no cows be killed until the English are beaten, and we good Musalmans must forsooth abstain from that good meat for the sake of these Hindus. Wah! The time will come. Let but the English be destroyed, and then we will see what the Hindus have to say. Get thee a warmer covering, friend, and Allah be with thee."
He turned the corner of the street and was gone. The other went on his way, and coming to a shop in the nearest bazar, and finding it closed for the night, he battered on the door until it was opened with much grumbling by the owner—a man of hooked nose and venerable appearance. After nearly an hour's bargaining, the customer departed, wearing his purchase, a well-lined Afghan chogah. Then he proceeded quickly to a small serai on the other side of the Chandni Chauk.
"Salaam, bhatiyara, thou beholdest me again," he said on entering.
The innkeeper looked up with a start from among the pots in which he was preparing supper for two guests.
"Salaam," he said, with no great cordiality. "Thou hast been on a long visit to that friend of thine."
"Truly. Who can strive against fate! I was smitten with a fever. We hill-men suffer grievously in the plains in this time of rain. But I am now recovered, Allah be praised! and ready to go once more about my business. Give me to eat, I am very hungry; and then I will sleep. To-morrow I will go forth again with my goods, and maybe I shall find more ready buyers."
"Hai! who can strive against fate! But a few days after thou hadst departed, there came in the middle of the night vile robbers, and lo! when I awoke in the morning, thy goods were not. It is kismet."
"Thou sayest! and my camel—did he die?"
There was a tone of mockery in the question which apparently escaped the notice of the innkeeper, though it provoked a chuckle from the two traders who were tearing apart with their fingers a well-stewed fowl.
"Hai!" said the innkeeper, with a mournful face; "when thou didst not return, thy camel would not eat, and his hump sank away to flatness, and on the tenth day he died."
"Thou sayest? Of a truth, bhatiyara, he must needs come to life again no later than the morrow's sunrise, and those vile robbers must be pricked in their hearts and restore the goods they have stolen, or assuredly the Kotwal will come and visit this serai, and he will say, since it is so ill a place for man and beast, it must be made desolate. What must be will be."
"Hai! hai!" cried the man, lifting his hands, "how should a dead camel breathe again the breath of life, and evil-doers become good?"
"Even these things are possible, good bhatiyara. And now let me eat, and make ready a good charpoy. These things that I say shall come to pass even while I sleep."
And his two fellow-guests laughed aloud, while the innkeeper muttered in his beard.
Next morning Ahmed found his camel contentedly munching at his stall, with no visible diminution of his hump; and his bales of goods were ranged in decent order along the walls, though when he came to examine them he found that their contents were strangely mixed. But he said nothing of that; he only expressed to the innkeeper his gratification that the night had seen such wonders wrought, and after a simple breakfast he went out and, hiring no coolie this time, took a few of his more costly wares to visit his old friend the darwan of Minghal Khan. Cordial greetings passed between them; the darwan had pleasant recollections of the dainties with which he had been regaled by this excellent Pathan at his former visit. Then he asked why his friend had been so long in hiding the light of his countenance from him. Ahmed told him that he had been ill, and made him laugh heartily at his story of how the rascally innkeeper had brought a dead camel to life and restored stolen goods in the space of one night.
"And now, good darwan," he said, "thinkest thou I might show some of my wares to your noble master? My business has halted while I was sick, and I must needs sell somewhat lest I starve."
"Truly, my friend, it is an ill time. The great man has no money; we, his poor creatures who are not worthy to unloose his shoes, get no wages, and our khansaman sells more and more of our chattels day by day to get the wherewithal to buy our poor food. And I fear me, even if the illustrious one were as rich as Nadir Shah of old renown, it would be vain to approach him now. But a little while ago there came a chaprasi with news that his regiment had been rioting. Indeed (and this khabar was whispered in my ear) the men tried last night to gain some little sustenance from the plunder of some new men who have come—woe upon them!—to this sorely crowded city. And by ill-hap they had the worse of the encounter; verily these new-comers sting like scorpions; and their leader, one Asadullah, has gone to the palace to complain to the Protector of the Poor, our illustrious king. The great one is even now clothing himself in haste to go also to the palace and acquaint the Illustrious with the truth of the matter. And so it is an ill time, as I said; neither his pocket nor his temper suits with business of thy sort."
"Hai! how wretched is my lot!" said Ahmed.
"Here is the great one's horse," said the darwan, as a sais led the animal from the courtyard and began to walk him up and down. "And behold the great one himself."
He rose from his squatting posture at the door as Minghal came out. The subahdar was clearly in a state of great annoyance. He kicked aside the small bundle which Ahmed had laid on the ground, and bade him betake himself to Jehannum.
"Merciful one, be not wroth with the meanest of thy slaves," said Ahmed, salaaming humbly. "If I might but be allowed to see thy face at some more convenient season! I have wares of great beauty and worth, even such as might delight the eyes of the hazur himself and——"
"Bas, bas!" cried Minghal. "Get thee hence and trouble me not."
He called to the sais to bring up his horse.
"There is a shawl woven most marvellously with gold threads," Ahmed said, with an air of the greatest deference. "If the magnificent one would but deign the wink of an eye——"
"Enough, I say!" cried Minghal, with his foot in the stirrup. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Come to me to-morrow; I may then cast an eye on thy worthless trumpery."
"Hazur, thy servant's heart leaps for joy," said Ahmed, salaaming, and Minghal sprang to the saddle.
"Tell the khansaman to make ready a repast fit for princes against my return this night," he called to the darwan. "I shall not return until the sun goes down."
Then he rode off on his clattering way to the palace.
"Thou art favoured above all," said the darwan to Ahmed, "and, being a just man, thou wilt not forget to let a little flow over from thy full cup?"
"My prosperity shall be thine, worthy darwan; and the thought of the great one's favour to come will be as a delicious perfume to me this day."
On leaving the darwan, Ahmed found his way to the quarters of the men who had beaten off the attack of Minghal's regiment the night before. He felt some curiosity to see this warlike Pathan, named Asadullah, whose arrival had so soon been followed by a broil. When he reached the serai, he learnt that the chief had not yet returned from the palace; and knowing that Minghal had also gone thither to put his side of the story before the king, Ahmed guessed that the poor old monarch would have an uncomfortable morning.
He spent the rest of the forenoon in wandering about the city, picking up what news he could. Then he returned to his own serai for his midday meal and a sleep; he foresaw that he might have little opportunity for rest during the night. On awaking, he went out to the bazar and bought a stout hook, like those by which carcases are hung in butchers' shops. As he left the bazar, he overtook Minghal Khan's khansaman, who was returning with a load of provisions he had bought for his master's supper. Ahmed had wished more than once for an opportunity of conversing with the khansaman, and the present moment seemed favourable.
"Salaam, worthy khansaman," he said, stepping alongside the old man.
"Salaam, but I know thee not, stranger, and I am in haste," was the reply.
"Far be it from me to hinder one so venerable in years and so exalted in position, yet since thy worthy master has deigned to say that he will let his eye rest on my poor wares to-morrow, I would fain say a respectful word to the ruler of his household. It is a proud thing to serve one so high in the king's favour, and I warrant thou findest his service more to thy taste than that of him thou wast wont to serve—the accursed Feringhi."
The khansaman looked at him sharply.
"What knowest thou—a banijara from the hills, if my eyes see aright—of whom I served?" he said.
"Thy excellent darwan is a friend of mine," replied Ahmed, "and he has told me one or two things. How thy heart must have rejoiced when thy old master and all his family met their fate! Didst thou have a hand in it?"
"Would that I had!" said the khansaman, with fervour. "Would that all the dogs of Feringhis were even as that dog of a sahib under whose yoke I groaned!"
"'Tis beyond doubt that all his family were slain? Had he many sons?"
"None, save the child that now learns the vile learning of the Feringhis far over sea."
"That is pity. Maybe he had daughters?"
"One pale-faced thing, of no account."
"Without doubt she is dead also. Though indeed it is said that some of the Feringhis' women escaped, being preserved by some unworthy children of the Prophet. Even as I came hither I beheld such a pale-faced thing in the palki of a zamindar; not that I saw her, the palki being closed; but it was told me by the palki-wallahs. She had been seized out of the hands of her ayah and khitmutgar as she sought safety."
Ahmed watched the khansaman narrowly as he said this; but there was no change in the man's expression. It was that of complete indifference.
"I perceive we are drawing near to the great one's house," he continued. "Salaam aleikam!"
In a small lean-to off the stable of the serai, Ahmed fastened the hook he had bought to a short length of rope, and wound this about his body beneath his outer garment. Just after sunset he issued forth, carrying a lathi, and made his way across the Chandni Chauk to the narrow lane which ran past the back of Minghal's house. When he reached the spot at which he had descended from the colonnade, he unwound the rope, and raised it by means of the lathi until it rested on the top of the wall. Then he climbed up the rope, and having disengaged the hook, let himself down on the other side by means of the lathi; he laid his simple apparatus in a corner under the colonnade. While doing this he kept a wary eye on the servants' quarters that looked on to the garden, taking care to dodge the beam of light that issued from the kitchen, where, no doubt, preparations were being made for Minghal Khan's evening meal. Then he stole across the garden, and lurked for a little by the door.
Two hours later, Minghal Khan, having finished the more substantial portion of his meal, was reclining on cushions in his dining-room, eating sweetmeats and sipping sherbets with his guest, the Mirza Akbar Sultan. Both were in good spirits. The sweetmeats were a portion of some score hundredweight which the Kotwal had recently bought for the delectation of the soldiers, and which the king himself had inspected and deigned to taste. And a day or two before Akbar Sultan himself had summoned all the wealthy bankers of the city, at the instigation of the queen, and by means in which he was an adept, had extorted from them 8,000 rupees, a thousand of which he had immediately appropriated—was he not a prince?—handing five hundred, with princely generosity, to his good friend Minghal Khan.
"Truly thou art much in my debt," said the prince; "not more for rupees than for my support in that matter of the old rogue."
"I am thy unworthy servant, illustrious one," returned the other, "and all I have is thine. And how can I repay thee better than by helping thee to somewhat of the old rogue's booty?"
"Art thou sure he has this booty?"
"My head upon it, illustrious one. For what purpose has he sought refuge in this city? Only that his booty may not fall into the hand of the Feringhis, for assuredly he has no mind to fight them. Wah! thou camest to the palace at a fortunate hour,—fortunate for thee and me. That old rogue Asadullah forestalled me there, and the king had waxed hot against me, listening to his tale. He had that moment sent for me when I arrived. And though when I put the matter before him his anger was somewhat appeased, the issue would not have been so pleasing hadst thou not come to lend me the aid of thy persuasive voice. Wah! Did not the old rogue fume when the king turned to him and bade him cause no more trouble! Didst thou mark his flaming eye? Didst thou hear him mutter words of rage as he turned his back on the Pillar of State and strode from the presence? Wah! the king will favour him no more; never was his dignity so scantly regarded."
"But this booty of which thou speakest—how is one to obtain it? I have bled the shroffs; there will be a great wailing among them, and even I dare not do more for a while, lest the king, who is unstable as water, should again visit me with his displeasure."
"Listen, illustrious one; I know of a way. Asadullah has not yet proved himself. He has yet to go out and fight the Feringhis. Now, as thou knowest, I am a partaker in all Bakht Khan's counsels. We do little against the Feringhis at present, but to-morrow is Bakr-Id, and what more fitting than that we should mark the great day with a terrible onslaught against the infidels? Asadullah must then go forth to fight; Bakht Khan shall order it; and while he is absent with his band, what easier than to visit the serai where he lodges, and take the treasure that he conceals there?"
"But he will leave men to guard it."
"A handful only, and what will they avail against thy faithful ones? And, moreover, may it not come to pass that Asadullah will be slain in the fight? Then he will return not, and there will be none to say us nay. And if, perchance, he returns, can he gainsay what we have done for the holy cause? Here are thousands of faithful ones perishing for lack of their just pay; is it not justice that ill-got treasures should be taken from the few and divided among the many?"
"That is justice," said the prince. "It would be a good thing for the great number of the faithful that Asadullah should go forth to fight and not return. But how can we be sure that Bakht Khan will send him forth and set him in the forefront of the battle?"
"He will do so at thy persuasion, prince. As for me, it were best I held my peace, for the noise of this quarrel between the old rogue and me has gone abroad, and if I were to propose this thing Bakht Khan might suspect me of a desire to serve my own ends more than the interests of the state. But with thee it is otherwise, and Bakht Khan will assuredly pay heed to thee."
At this moment Bakht Khan was announced. After greetings, the prince cunningly led the conversation to the desired point. He suggested that this new-comer was not a fighting-man at all.
"He is a braggart," he said. "Lo, the father killed a tomtit, and the son, forsooth, is called a mighty archer! They talk much of this Asadullah's might in war, but what has he done?"
"I know a fighting-man when I see one, prince," said the sturdy general, "and if ever there was a fighting-man that so proved himself to me at the first look, this Pathan is the man."
"Bah!" sneered the prince. "A dog is a lion in his own lane. Dost thou judge of sweetmeat by the loftiness of the shop where it is bought?"
"Does the cat by the fire know the worth of a hunting-dog?" retorted Bakht Khan, bridling. "I am a fighter, and I know the marks of a fighter."
"Shoes are proved on the feet, not on the last," said the prince. "Is it not easy to prove the truth? Asadullah has not yet done battle with the English. Let him go forth and show himself a man of war. As for me, verily I believe that when the time comes he will be found wanting. Did not the fox say he would rather suffer a hundred hungers than behold one dog's face?"
The commander-in-chief fell into the trap. He vowed that Asadullah should indeed go forth and fight, and he was ready to wager that the Pathan would acquit himself well. A great sortie was planned for the following night—the night of Bakr-Id, the first of August—the day on which Abraham's sacrifice of Ishmael was commemorated by the slaying of a bull, a great day among good Mohammedans. Asadullah should be commanded to lead an attack on one part of the British lines, and by his conduct then should the dispute be decided. The three men sat long discussing the details of the proposed operations. It was late before the party broke up, and when the visitors had gone, and Minghal had retired to bed, the khansaman came in sleepily to clear away the remnants of their refreshments and put out the lamp. He carried the tray into the other room, listened, as if to make sure that all the household was in repose, then slid the panel of the almirah and disappeared in the hole in the wall, carrying his tray with him.
A moment later, a figure crept out from beneath a divan against the wall of the dining-room. He crossed the landing to the opposite room, went to the almirah, and slid back the panel. But then he was baulked—the wall appeared solid. There was no lock, no handle by which the door in it could be opened. Ahmed felt up and down, from right to left, and was almost in despair, when the wall opened slowly, as of itself. He started back, thinking the khansaman was returning; but finding that all was silent he approached again. Unknowing, he had pressed a little wooden button cunningly let into the stone, and released the spring that held the slab in place. He crept through, and took the precaution of pushing the stone back, then began to descend the steps of the narrow spiral staircase on which he found himself. He counted the steps—they were thirty; and then he came to a low passage, as narrow as the staircase, through which only one person could pass at a time. It was so low that he knocked his head against its roof in the darkness. But some few paces in front of him he saw a thin line of light across the floor. He stealthily approached; there was a door. He heard voices, but could not distinguish words. Was the door fastened? He pushed it gently—it yielded.
"If I could but be sure she was safe!" he heard a low voice say.
"Without doubt she is safe, sahib," was the reply. The voice was the khansaman's. Ahmed thrilled. The khansaman was faithful after all. He had his old master here in hiding. Who would have suspected so unlikely a place? And he was trying to cheer the doctor's despondency as to the fate of his daughter. Clearly he had not told him what Ahmed had said of the capture of the English girl by a zamindar.
"You have no news of her?" said the first voice.
"None, sahib; but that is not strange. The missy sahib would fear to send a messenger, lest he should betray your presence. And it is harder now than it was for folk to go in and out of the city. This very day the order has gone forth that none shall enter or depart without a written word. A man—his name is Gordohan Dass, and he lives at Lattu—was going out at the Delhi gate this morning in a shigram, and the guard stopped him and searched his cart, and there they found cartridges and bullets. They were but for his own protection, he declared. Nevertheless they beat him, and took his cart and all that was in it, and sent him to the Kotwali. There is little hope of news until the sahibs come and take the city."
"Will that ever be? What are they doing? Will they never begin the assault?"
"In Allah's good time, sahib. They are waiting on the Ridge; none can move them. Why they wait so long who can tell? The people say in the city that they are but five hundred now; that the colonels eat grain like their horses; that three generals have killed themselves before their troops for shame. But it cannot be true, sahib, for else why do the sepoys always come back discomfited? No; Allah is great, and the sahibs will yet come and punish the evil-doers, and then all will be well."
"But it is so long! How long is it since you found me in the street, and brought me here?"
"Two moons and more, sahib."
"Two months! And we have heard nothing all that time of Mary. I must go, Kaluja. In this dress none would recognize me; I can pass as one of their own hakims. You must help me to escape from the city."
"Nay, sahib; it is not safe. And besides, you are too weak—you would fall in the street."
"No, I am strong enough now. See, I can walk quite well."
There was a brief silence; then Ahmed heard a groan.
"Did I not say so, sahib? It would be folly; it would kill you. You must be patient."
"I could be patient if I were certain of Mary's safety. Did not your messenger return? Are you sure he has not returned?"
"I have neither seen nor heard of him, sahib."
"It is this anxiety that is sapping my strength. My wounds were healed long ago. Is there no one in this great city you can trust to go and come again?"
And then Ahmed pushed the door wide open, and entered the room.