Being safely over, Ahmed pulled up his horse and called down to Sherdil to hear if he was hurt.
"A sprained ankle, no more, Allah be praised," his friend replied.
"And the horse?"
"I am feeling his joints. Do not wait, Ahmed-ji; ride after the sons of perdition. Hai! It will not be I that am made a dafadar, but you a naik. It is fate. Go on; we will follow."
Ahmed at once set his horse to a gallop. The palki-wallahs were out of sight now, hidden by a slight wooded undulation of the ground. Eager that they should not escape him, and fired with the excitement of the chase, Ahmed did not wait to see how the rest of his comrades fared, but pressed on as fast as he could. He glanced round once and saw that the troopers had halted on the further side of the nullah; but he had no doubt that they would soon find a means of crossing or skirting it and follow at his heels.
As he reached the crest of the rising ground, he saw the fugitives hurrying across the plain not more than half-a-mile distant. Apparently they were aware of the chase, for they were straining every effort, and the horsemen every now and then plied the flats of their swords vigorously on the bearers' backs to encourage them. Again they disappeared from Ahmed's view, entering a small copse. He gave Ruksh a touch of the spur, followed the party through the copse, and caught sight of them again, now no more than two hundred yards away.
The two horsemen were at some little distance apart. They were both somewhat corpulent, and there was no look of the warrior about them. One of them turned, and, catching sight of the figure in khaki coming at speed, he shouted to his companion and then dug his spurs into his horse and rode with all haste towards a patch of woodland beyond. Ahmed set him down as a cowardly Hindu, yet felt some surprise at his flight. Surely six men might have the courage to try conclusions with a single horseman. If he had had time to think he might have concluded that the runaway was not aware that his pursuer was for the moment alone; but having previously seen the whole party of Guides, feared that they were close behind. Whatever his thoughts may have been, his companion was made of sterner stuff. He disregarded the other's warning shout; at the very instant when his companion fled, he wheeled his horse and stood to face the attack.
Ahmed now saw that the man had a pistol in one hand and a talwar in the other. But it was clear that he was not a practised combatant. Had he taken aim without flurry he could have shot Ahmed with ease, for the lad's carbine was empty, all his powder and shot having been used up during the recent fight. The horseman took a hurried snap-shot at him, and missed. At the moment when the man fired Ahmed was approaching him from the near side. By a slight touch on the flank of his horse—a touch so slight that an ordinary horse in full gallop would have been quite unaffected by it—he changed the direction of the arab and came up on the off-side of his adversary. The man seemed bewildered by the sudden change in the point of attack. Before he could swing round to parry the stroke, Ahmed's sword caught him at the shoulder; he toppled sideways from his saddle to the ground; and his horse bolted.
During this little encounter the bearers had done what might have been expected of men of their class. They had set the palki down, and stared in open-mouthed confusion, irresolutely watching the course of events. When Ahmed had disposed of his opponent, who lay groaning on the ground, they laid hands on the poles as if to make an attempt to escape with their burden. But Ahmed called to them to stand fast. He used words of Urdu, the common language of Hindustan, though to him it was a foreign tongue. The Guides, being drawn from many different races of the north-west, had developed a patois of their own—a strange compound of hill dialects with Urdu and even English. Ahmed in his early childhood had learnt to prattle in Urdu with his ayah and the other servants, and in Hoti-Mardan he had quickly picked up more than he had known before, so that his cry was quite intelligible to the bearers. But even if they had not understood his words, they could have been under no misapprehension of the meaning of his tone. They let the palki fall again, and stood trembling.
"What have you got in the palki?" asked Ahmed sharply.
The men remained silent, looking one at another: it was as though none cared to accept the responsibility of being spokesman. Ahmed had contemptuously sheathed his sword after the fall of his adversary, the cringing bearers being of no account to a Pathan. But now he made a movement as if to draw it again. It was enough. The four men made haste to speak at once, and in faltering tones confessed that there was a person in the palki.
"The headman?" cried Ahmed quickly.
"Not so. It is not a man."
"One of his wives, then?"
"Not so, O strong one: verily it is a person of the Feringhis; a missy sahib."
A missy sahib! This was strange news. Ahmed scarcely knew what to make of it.
"How comes the missy sahib here?" he asked.
"Thy servants tell the truth," said one of the men. "The missy sahib was taken this very morning by the master that now lies on the ground."
"Taken? Where from? What means this? Speak the truth, and quickly, or verily, thou son of a dog, my sword will taste somewhat of thy jellied flesh."
"This is the truth," said the man. "The missy sahib was in the city of the king, but she escaped the killing by the aid of an ayah and a khitmutgar, who took her to the housetop of a man that was friendly to the sahibs. But there were some that suspected he was not faithful to the true king Bahadur Shah——"
"Dog, remember that I serve the sahibs, and name not that master of cut-throats to me."
"Have mercy, O right-hand of the sahibs, we are but poor men. It was as thy servant said: some suspected him of favouring the sahibs, and the housetop was no longer a safe place for the missy sahib. So the ayah clad her as our women are clothed, and put ornaments about her arms and feet, and a veil over her face, and by ill-luck they passed through the gates——"
"By ill-luck, thou dog! 'Twas by the favour of Heaven."
"How should our humbleness know? They came through the gates—by the favour of Heaven—the missy sahib being called the new wife of one of the princes. We were even on our way—the missy sahib, and the ayah, and the khitmutgar, and we hired bearers also—to Karnal, when behold we were met by a zamindar of the village which your mightiness has laid waste this day. To him—it is even he that lieth now at the point of death—the khitmutgar said even as I have told, that in the palki sat the new wife of one of the princes of Delhi, supposing that he would salaam and pass on with reverence. But he saw through their pretence, and demanded that the cover should be lifted that he might see the noble lady with his own eyes. And behold, the missy sahib, being hot and in a great fear, had taken the veil from her face, and sat even as the shameless women of the Feringhis——"
"Son and grandson of dogs," cried Ahmed, "tell thy tale without this insolence, or verily I will slice thee and leave thee for carrion."
"I but repeat the words of the zamindar, O merciful. He cried out with great laughter when he saw the white face of the missy sahib, and bade us carry the palki to his village. And but a little after we had entered came one running, to say that your mightinesses were riding fast upon the place. The zamindar is not a man of war, and he lay for a time in his house, hoping that if his face was not seen by the Feringhis he would escape the edge of the sword. But when it was told him that the men of Lumsden Sahib had entered and were burning, he stowed some jewels in his pockets, and placed more in the palki—they are even beneath the cushion whereon the missy sahib sits—and he bade us hasten out of the gate with the palki, purposing to reach Gungah, ten koss to the north-east, and there dwell with his brother. And then thou didst come upon us like a swift breath, and the zamindar hath not escaped the edge of the sword. It is fate: who can strive against it? I have spoken the truth."
"Well for thee!" cried Ahmed. "And what became of the ayah and the khitmutgar?"
"Truly we left them in the house, and without doubt they are burnt up in the flames kindled by the Feringhis' servants."
Ahmed was nonplussed. He looked round for Sherdil and his party; there was no sign of them. The sooner he rejoined them the better. Suddenly he heard a voice from the interior of the palki; it was thrown open, and turning, he saw the face of a young English girl.
"You are a friend of the sahibs?" she said in faltering Urdu.
"Truly," said Ahmed, and then stood speechless. Into his mind came a dim recollection of having seen ladies such as this long years before, when he was a tiny child, before that terrible day when his father had been killed in his tent. The girl's voice recalled other voices; he seemed to hear them speaking to him, and to see tall ladies with unveiled faces bending over him, and—yes, surely one of them had given him the wooden sword which had so much amused Rahmut Khan when he had first seen him, and another had given him a little horse, on which his ayah used to draw him about the room.
"You will help me?" said the girl again in the native speech.
"Yes!" Ahmed was on the point of telling the girl that he was English like herself; she would then have greater confidence in him. But he checked himself; it was not time for that, especially with Hindus in hearing and possible danger all around. "I will help the missy sahib," he said. "What would the missy sahib wish me to do?"
"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell what would be best. My father and mother were killed in Delhi" (her speech was broken by sobs), "and many of my friends, and I do not know whether even one of them escaped. If you take me to the sahibs you shall have much bakshish."
"I am of the Guides of Lumsden Sahib," said Ahmed simply. And then he bade the men lift the palki with its fair burden and follow him. They left the zamindar where he lay.
He reached the nullah about half-an-hour after he had left it. To his surprise, Sherdil and his comrades had disappeared. Examining their tracks he saw that they must have gone back the way they had come. Why had they deserted him? He felt uneasy. It was already late in the afternoon; Karnal, so far as he could judge after his riding across country, was at least three koss distant; and no doubt between that town and the place where he now was there were scores of villagers whose homes had been burnt, but who had themselves been more lucky than the zamindar, and escaped.
He made for the shelter of an adjacent copse, so that the party might at least be safe from observation while he decided what to do. When they were among the trees, Ahmed ordered the men to squat down beside the palki and beware of his sword if they attempted to move. A sudden rush of four men upon one would have been dangerous; but these palki-wallahs were not enterprising, and Ahmed's bold and contemptuous attitude did not encourage them to run any risks. Keeping a wary eye on them, however, he went a little apart to consider.
It was drawing towards night, and he was, as he guessed, several koss from Karnal, the nearest place where he knew there were white men. He could not ride thither and bring help for fear of what might happen during his absence. If the party set off to walk, they might easily lose the way, and possibly encounter bands of hostile villagers or even roving mutineers. In a few hours the Guides would no doubt leave Karnal for their usual night march, and his duty was to rejoin them as soon as possible. It seemed on the whole best to remain in hiding until darkness fell, and then attempt to reach the Delhi road, so as either to intercept the Guides, or, if they had already passed, to follow in their tracks. Whether he could gain the road in the darkness would depend mainly on the knowledge of the palki-wallahs, for though his own sense of locality and direction was keen, as became one accustomed to wander among the hills of the Afghan border, his course had been so erratic since he left Karnal with the Guides in the morning that he was now quite at a loss.
There was one risk to be guarded against: the escape of any of the men in the darkness. If one of them should get away, he might bring the whole countryside down upon the party. A few minutes' thought sufficed to settle that problem. As a preliminary, Ahmed made the men hand over their knives to him; the rest of his device he would put in operation when the time for starting came.
The party was not unprovided with food. Ahmed had already seen the men eating chapatis, which they had taken from their wallets, and when he went up to the palki to acquaint the missy sahib with his purpose he found her eating some fruit. The zamindar had shown forethought in thus providing against a possibly prolonged march. Ahmed found it rather difficult to explain his design to the girl, whose stock of Urdu extended little further than the ordinary phrases used between masters and servants. The girl acquiesced in his plan; she was indeed too frightened, and too anxious to gain a shelter with white people, to be able to criticize or suggest.
Before it became completely dark, Ahmed collected some long strands of a creeping plant that grew plentifully in the copse. With these he tied the bearers two by two together, in such a way that while their movements in carrying the palki would not be sensibly impeded, any attempt to take flight would be hopeless. The legs of the two men who went in front were fastened to those of the two behind, so that when they set off they would have to keep step. He had never seen a three-legged race; but if they tried to run away the result would be not unlike that when two boys insufficiently practised in that sport attempt to run: one would trip the other. The ends of the strands were so firmly knotted that they could not be undone easily, and Ahmed would have plenty of time to catch the men if they were so ill-advised as to bolt. These preparations having been made—not without sundry complaints and protests on the part of the men—Ahmed asked them whether they could find their way to the Delhi road. They eagerly professed that they knew the way perfectly; they were, in fact, so desirous of getting rid of this masterful Pathan that they would have agreed to lead him anywhere. He made them understand that any attempt at treachery would be fatal to them, while, on the other hand, there would be much bakshish if the missy sahib was brought safely to her friends. Then, a little after darkness had fallen, he mounted his horse, which had meanwhile been quietly browsing, bade the men take their places at the poles, and gave the order to start.
They marched on steadily for an hour or more, then took a short rest and set off again. Ahmed was by no means easy in mind. While he felt pretty sure that there was no enemy in sufficient force across the Delhi road to interrupt communications, he suspected that the whole country was infested with disaffected persons, and that parties of rebels and robbers were roving about, ready to swoop down upon any one worth plundering. It would matter nothing whether such a person were well or ill affected to the sahibs: unless he were accompanied by an adequate escort he would stand small chance against the rebel troops and the lawless element of the population, who had taken advantage of the disturbances to plunder their own countrymen and the hated Feringhis impartially. As he rode, therefore, Ahmed was ever on the alert to catch the first sound of a body of men approaching, or anything that should indicate the neighbourhood of a village.
But nothing occurred to cause alarm. The party marched on, through fields, over slight nullahs and across small streams, until, some time after midnight, they struck into a broad dusty track which the men said was the high-road to Delhi. Here Ahmed called a halt, and sat his horse intently listening. Had the Guides passed? he wondered. For the moment he could not tell. He heard nothing but the faint barking of dogs in the distance. He asked the men the name of the village whence the sound came. It was Panipat, they told him, about six koss south of Karnal, and probably half-a-koss from where they were at that moment standing. He was in a quandary. If the Guides had not passed, it would be well to wait for them. On the other hand, if they had passed he stood a poor chance of overtaking them. Well he knew the rate at which they could march! The four bearers, encumbered with the palki, could not move at anything like the pace of the Guides. He dared not leave them; they could not be relied on, no matter what bakshish were promised, when it was a Feringhi lady who was concerned: they might get more bakshish by delivering her up. He thought for a moment of setting her behind him on his arab and making a dash for Karnal, where she would be safe with Le Bas Sahib; but Panipat was in the way: if it were not held by the sahibs the risk was too great. On the other hand, even if he knew that the Guides were now on the road south of him, he might not overtake them before daylight, and no doubt there were other villages to pass through. Were the girl seen by any passing native, he would soon have every freebooter of the countryside upon his tracks, for he knew the extraordinary speed with which the news of such a discovery would travel. Then, his horse bearing a double burden, he could scarcely hope to outride any pursuers.
But, since delay was dangerous, it was necessary for him to make up his mind to some course, and he thought it best to push along the highway southward, keeping a sharp look-out for hostile parties. No doubt he would have sufficient warning of their presence to give him time to find some temporary hiding-place by the roadside. The absence of any sound from the north persuaded him that the Guides had already passed, and then he bethought himself that he might possibly prove it by examining the dust of the road. Dismounting, he struck a light with flint and steel, ignited his tinder, and, shielding it with his pagri, blew up a sufficient glow to throw a faint light on the road. The dust was marked with a great number of foot-prints, both of men and of horses, many of them so blurred as to be indistinguishable. But after a little Ahmed's trained eye noticed several which were clearer than the rest; without doubt they were made by the horses coming at the end of a troop. He easily distinguished the four hoof-marks of a single horse: the mark of the hind-foot coming close behind that of the fore-foot: and by the distance between the successive impressions he knew that the horse had been going at a walking pace. The print was very like that which would be made by the shoe of one of the horses of the Guides; and the evidence was so clear that a considerable troop had passed along the road not many hours before that he felt sure his comrades were ahead of him.
He wondered whether there was any chance of catching them up. It occurred to him that he might quicken the pace of the party by relieving the palki-wallahs of their burden for a time, so he asked the missy sahib, through one of the men, to alight and mount his horse while he led the animal. Tired as she was of her cramped position in the palki, and not a little discommoded by the jolting movements of the vehicle as the men trudged over the rough ground, the girl consented with alacrity. Thus lightened, the men stepped forward at a good pace—probably as fast as the Guides, whose progress was of course limited by the marching power of the infantry portion of the corps.
The march continued for several hours at a brisk rate. They skirted one village by making a detour into the fields beside the road. When they returned to the highway Ahmed noticed that the men were flagging; the palki, even without its occupant, was no light weight to bearers who had already carried it for many hours; and one of the men plucked up courage to tell their hard taskmaster that his strength was failing. But Ahmed could not venture to delay. In a fierce whisper he bade the man, who had dropped his pole, bringing the party momentarily to a halt, to push on, if he valued his life. The man obeyed with a groan, but the party had not gone much further when the girl, who had hitherto endured the fatigues and anxieties of the journey without a murmur, suddenly broke down. She would have fallen from the horse but for Ahmed's arm, and when he had carried her back to the palki he found that she had fainted. He was utterly ignorant of what to do to restore her; nothing of the kind had ever come within his experience before. But one of the men explained that she must have water, and volunteered to go and find a brook; he had a small lotah with him. Ahmed dared not trust him; the reasons for not leaving the party himself were as cogent as ever; there was nothing for it but that the whole party should leave the road and search for a stream.
The girl recovered from her swoon before their search was rewarded. Then she broke into a fit of weeping, which to Ahmed was almost as alarming. But a draught from a brook they by and by discovered revived her, and they returned to the road. The delay had cost them a good hour.
It was nearing daybreak when Ahmed heard the sound of trotting horses on the road behind. He instantly ordered the bearers to make for a patch of woodland bordering the roadside. He hoped that the horses might prove to be those of the Guides, but it was necessary to prepare for the worst. It was useless to attempt any deception in case the horsemen turned out to be enemies and discovered him: his khaki uniform would betray him. If he should pretend to have deserted from the Guides and joined the mutineers, a word from one of the palki-wallahs would be his undoing. The only chance was to remain in hiding in the copse and trust that the riders would pass by. He wondered whether any of the bearers would have sufficient courage to cry out, and so disclose their hiding-place. Dismounting from his horse, he handed the girl his knife, and stood over the four men with his sword drawn, bidding them not to make a sound if they valued their lives.
They had been but a minute or two in their place of concealment when the horsemen came up at a trot. It was still very dark, but Ahmed, peering out from among the trees, was able to see them dimly, and thought from their general appearance, and the sounds made by the horses' furnishings as they trotted past, that they were sowars. If that were the case, it was almost certain that they were mutineers; he knew that they were not Guides because they were riding in one compact troop, without an advance guard. As nearly as he could guess, they numbered about fifty.
They passed by; the immediate danger was over. But it was disconcerting to find a body of the enemy now between him and the Guides. He wondered for a moment whether the Guides were after all behind them, but dismissed that idea when he remembered the leisurely pace of the horsemen who had just gone by; they would have made greater speed had they feared pursuit. There was clearly need for redoubled carefulness. Ahmed waited a full quarter of an hour after the troop had ridden by before he gave the word to proceed. Then he went after them slowly, listening more intently than ever, both for sounds from ahead, in case they should return, and for sounds from behind, in case others were following. But after a time the tramping of the receding horses faded quite away; he heard nothing from the opposite direction, and hoped that with the morning light he would reach the bivouac of the Guides.
Before morning broke, however, it was clear that the march must be intermitted. The girl was in no condition to walk, nor could she sit the horse; and the palki-wallahs, men of no great stamina or muscular development, were worn out. Bitterly as he deplored the necessity, Ahmed saw that further progress was impossible for the present, and promised the men that if they would hold out until the dawn, which must be at hand, he would let them have a long rest. He was still hoping that daylight would reveal the encampment of the Guides.
Very soon afterwards the sky lightened, and he saw nothing but the long dusty road and the wide plain on either side. It would clearly be unsafe to continue the journey now that they could be seen, so a hiding-place must be found where they might lie up in comparative comfort during the day. The men were so exhausted that he ventured now for the first time to leave them, to search for a hiding-place himself. At a little distance from the road he discovered a nullah, and, scrambling up the bed of the watercourse, now nearly dry, he came upon a spot overgrown with thorn and brambles, which would shelter the whole party, save, perhaps, the horse. He retraced his steps, explained to the girl what he proposed to do, and led the horse in advance of the party to the place of concealment. When they were settled there, he found, a little higher up, a tall bush standing almost as high as the horse's head, and there he left the animal, speaking to him, and knowing that the faithful beast would not move from the spot until his master called him.
The bed of the watercourse was fairly steep. Two or three tall trees overhung it. Ahmed thought by climbing one of these he might get a view of the surrounding country. He managed to make the girl understand that he wished her to watch the bearers, and use the knife upon any of them who should attempt to escape or call out. Even if she had not the nerve for such action, he thought that the men, having heard what he said, might shrink from putting the matter to the test.
Then he scrambled up the side of the nullah and nimbly climbed the tallest tree. What he saw from his perch was not reassuring. A little to the right of the road, perhaps a koss distant, a troop of horsemen, dismounted, were resting at the edge of a small plantation, which concealed them from any one passing along the highway. Beyond them the ground rose slightly, scarcely enough to be called a hill, and yet sufficiently to cut off any more extended view southward. Far away on all sides stretched open country, with little vegetation except patches of scrub. Many miles to the left he fancied he descried the white roofs of a village, but in front the road ran between almost bare plains.
Ahmed guessed that the plantation at which the men were resting surrounded a tank where they had watered their horses. He had no doubt that they were those who had passed in the night. Yet he wondered why they had halted at that particular spot, for if it was a tank, there was in all probability a village on the other side of the rising ground. He watched them for a time, and presently saw a man riding towards them from round the shoulder of the hillock. As he reached them, some of the dismounted men crowded about him; in the distance they looked to Ahmed like flies clustering. After a time two of them mounted their horses, and accompanied the new-comer along the high-road in the direction of Delhi. When they came near the crest of the rising ground they halted and dismounted. One of the men held the horses in the middle of the road, while the others went on foot to the top, and gradually disappeared as they descended on the further side. The third man remained motionless with the horses in the road.
Ahmed felt interested. What were they about? What lay beyond the hillock?
After a while he saw two figures reappear on the skyline. They were no doubt the same two, for they walked down to the man with the horses, mounted, and trotted back to the main body. A few minutes afterwards two other men left the plantation and rode up the acclivity as the others had done, dismounting also before they reached the top. While one held the horses the other ascended the slope, with a slowness that spoke of caution, and went out of sight as the others had done before him. Ahmed looked for him to return after an interval, but minute after minute slipped away and still he did not reappear. Had he gone on some scouting errand, or perhaps to take post as sentry? It was clear that on the further side of the hillock something was going on in which the horsemen on this side were keenly interested.
All at once the explanation occurred to Ahmed. The Guides were without doubt encamped beyond the hillock. It had been their practice all through the march from Mardan to halt in the early morning. The horsemen at the plantation were probably a roving band of mutinous sowars from Delhi, who had been raiding, and now found the Guides between them and the city. To obtain confirmation of his conclusions, Ahmed slipped down from the tree and asked one of the men whether there was a village beyond the hillock.
"Truly there is," said the man, "and it is some seventeen koss from Karnal."
This was the distance the Guides might be expected to march during the night.
"And how far is it from us?" he asked.
"Thy servant knows not with any certainty, but maybe it is two koss."
It was a tantalizing situation to be in. Ahmed felt sure that his comrades were encamped within an hour's march of him and yet he could not reach them. Why had the sowars halted at the plantation instead of returning to Delhi by some roundabout route? And yet, he reflected, even if they were not there, he could hardly dare to move on in the broad daylight. There were the same dangers to be feared as had determined his previous conduct.
The position was delicate enough. The sowars might take alarm. In that case they would probably retreat to find some shelter, and might easily come upon the very nullah in which the little party was concealed. The Guides would no doubt remain in their encampment for the greater part of the day, moving on again when night fell. Even if the rebel horsemen should not be scared by any action of the Guides, it was always possible that some of them should take it into their heads to go a-roving. At any moment, too, a villager, a wandering mendicant, a kasid from one village to another, might cross the plain and get sight of the fugitives. There were signs of footpaths, and passers-by would not need to come right up to the nullah before suspecting the presence of the hidden party, for Ruksh was but imperfectly concealed by the bush.
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.
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,manyother 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 doanythingfor me, I know."
"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,manyother 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 doanythingfor 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."
"And there is something else, but always have in mind that the other comes first. The missy sahib whom you saved from the zamindar has a father in Delhi, but she knows not where. The General Sahib wishes you to learn, if you can, where he is. He is a hakim; Craddock Sahib is his name; and we think that he may have been hidden away by one of his servants. Remember, to ask openly for either the sahib or his servants may be death to them both. If you find the sahib, and see any way by which he may escape to us, well. But do not attempt to bring him away unless it can be done with little fear. He is the father of the missy sahib."
"Even as Rahmut Khan is my father," said Ahmed.
Hodson did not guess the thought that prompted this apparently inconsequent statement. He knew nothing, nor did the other officers, of Rahmut Khan's fate.
"And you must tell none of your comrades of this task we have given you—not even Sherdil, son of Assad, who appears to be your chief friend. I know that Sherdil, he has a moist tongue. Where pots are, there will be a clatter, as they say in your country. You will start——"
Here he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bugle. Immediately afterwards an officer galloped up.
"The Pandies are attacking our right rear with two thousand men and six guns, sir," he said.
"By George! that's a new move," said the General. "Off with you, Daly; Grant will want all the help he can get. Not you, Hodson; you're not fit to sit a horse yet. You had better take this young Pathan and settle things with him. I will see you again in the morning."
Thus it was that Ahmed had no part in the fight at Nawabganj—one of the most critical moments of the siege. Under cover of the gardens that dotted the broken ground on the right of the British rear a large body of all arms of the enemy had moved up, taking Sir Hope Grant, who was in command, completely by surprise. He had only the Guides cavalry, a portion of the 9th Lancers, and four guns to meet the attack. As soon as Captain Daly arrived on the scene, he was detached with two guns under Lieutenant Hills, a troop of Lancers, and the Guides, and found himself faced by a huge mass of infantry and cavalry, with six or eight guns, in his immediate front. There was nothing to fall back upon, so, leaving a handful of Guides to protect the guns, he detached the rest to clear the left flank, already threatened by the enemy's horse. Lieutenant Hills got his guns into action, and the little force was bravely holding its own when Major Tombs hurried up with the remainder of the guns. The mutineers pressed on in swarms, dodging among the trees, and when they observed the weakness of the force opposed to them, and the absence of infantry, they began to close in, until they could pick off Major Tombs' men as they served the guns. There was a danger that the defenders would be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.
"I fear I must ask you to charge, to save my guns," said Major Tombs to Daly.
Daly was the only British officer with the cavalry. Waving his sword, he called on his Guides to charge. The little band dashed forward in the gathering mist, cut their way right through the crowd of infantry, and never checked until they reached the enemy's guns. The gunners fled, the infantry was thrown into disorder, and the bold and perilous movement had the effect of clearing the front and allowing time for reinforcements to come up.
A bullet struck Daly in the left shoulder, and he fell from his horse. In the excitement of the charge his plight was unnoticed. Search was made for him when the men were returning, and they could not find him in the dark, until one of the enemy, who had been a jamadar in the 1st Oudh Irregular Cavalry, pointed out his whereabouts. His wound proved so serious as to incapacitate him, and indeed he never recovered the full use of his left arm, so that when Lieutenant Hodson called on the General next day to report the arrangements he had made with Ahmed, he learnt that he was to command the Guides until Daly had recovered.
Next day Ahmed set off for Karnal with a returning convoy. Sherdil was anxious to know what had passed at his interview with the General, still more when he learnt that he was leaving for Karnal. But Ahmed told him nothing except that he had been entrusted with an errand, and might not see him again for some time.
On arriving at Karnal, Ahmed changed his uniform for the ordinary dress of an Afghan trader, and purchased with money given him by Hodson a number of shawls. He presented to Mr. Le Bas a letter from Hodson explaining his mission, and had an interview with Miss Craddock in that gentleman's house.
She told him no more than he already knew, and when he asked which of her father's servants was most likely to have befriended him she was puzzled to answer.
"We thought them all faithful," she said; "but whom can we trust in these times? They were all good servants; we thought a world of Kaluja Dass, our khansaman; and Sakun, one of our chaprasis, was always ready to run errands for me, even when his work for my father was done."
The girl was delighted that her suggestion to General Barnard had borne fruit, and promised Ahmed much bakshish if he could send her news of her father. And then, having disguised himself by means of a black beard and moustache, Ahmed set off in a day or two on his adventurous mission.
He rode out on a camel, reluctantly leaving his horse, Ruksh, behind. The shawls were strapped in packs before him, and he carried no visible arms except an Afghan knife; but he had a pistol in his outer garment, and a talwar was concealed between the packs on his camel's back. Until he came within twelve miles of Delhi he kept to the great trunk road, on which troops and armed convoys passed so frequently that it was fairly safe for travellers. More than once he was stopped and questioned by parties of soldiers, but the pass given him by Mr. Le Bas satisfied them, and he was allowed to proceed.
He had decided to approach Delhi from the south-west. He struck off, therefore, in the direction of Bahadurgurh, and was within seven miles of his destination when a heavy storm of rain came on, drenching him to the skin. The camel is a beast of most uncertain temper, and in the midst of the storm Ahmed's steed suddenly sank on its knees beneath a large banian-tree that stood solitary by the roadside, tucked its legs under it, and refused to budge. Ahmed was well acquainted with the ways of camels, and knew that no coercion would make the animal move until it pleased: all that he could do was to wait in patience for its sulky fit to pass. Fortunately it had chosen for its resting-place a spot where the banian-tree afforded some shelter from the rain, and from the sun when the rain ceased. Swampy paddy fields lay on both sides of the road, and muggy steam rose from the ground under the sun's heat, making Ahmed feel very uncomfortable. He tramped up and down for a time, hoping that the camel would rise; but as there was no sign of any change of mood in it, he by and by spread a mat by the animal's side, and squatted on it, leaning against the camel, prepared to make the best of the situation. He ate some of the food he had brought with him, and then, it being midday and hot, he fell asleep. A Pathan sleeps like a rabbit, with only one eye shut, and Ahmed would wake at the slightest sound. If a band of mutineers should come upon him he knew that there was no escape for him, so that whether awake or asleep he would be in the same predicament.
It was late in the afternoon when he awoke. Nothing had disturbed his rest; the animal had not moved. Ahmed got up to try the effect of a little coaxing; it was quite time the camel came to a reasonable frame of mind. As he moved towards the animal's head he noticed a man approaching across the fields. He carried a lathi, and in dress and appearance looked like a ryot. The man stopped short when he caught sight of Ahmed's turban. Apparently he had supposed that the camel lying in the road was untended. Ahmed looked at him and he looked at Ahmed. Then he drew a little nearer and shouted a salutation.
"Salaam, sarban, what is amiss?"
"Not a great matter, stranger," said Ahmed. "The camel does but take a rest."
"Thou hast without doubt come far?"
"That is possible."
"And is it far thou goest?"
"Even to the city of the king."
"Have a care lest thou fall among the Feringhis. What is the news whence thou comest?"
"Nay, thou wilt have news, being so near the city. What is said here, stranger?"
"Why, that Bakht Khan is on his way hither with 50,000 men, and the Shah of Persia has taken Lahore, and Jan Larrens was caught as he sought to escape on an elephant, and all men knew him by the wounds on his back. The accursed Feringhis will soon be altogether destroyed, that is certain."
"If it be Allah's will."
To this the ryot made no reply. He had stood at a distance during the conversation, every man being suspicious of every other in this time of unrest and upheaval. Paying him no further attention, Ahmed went to the camel's head and tried to induce the animal to get up. He did not relish the prospect of remaining all night in the open, liable to be drenched by another rain-storm. But the beast was obstinate. Even when Ahmed offered it the last of his chapatis, its only response was a savage bite at the hand which fed it, a vicious attack that Ahmed only escaped by a hair's breadth. The ryot stood for a few minutes watching these ineffectual attempts, then shouted a farewell and moved away.
Ahmed was annoyed. To an oriental time is nothing; but for the possible inconvenience of the situation he might have been content to wait the animal's pleasure. But he felt that the sooner he was in Delhi the better. And it suddenly occurred to him that his position might prove even more inconvenient than he had hitherto reckoned for. The ryot who had just disappeared had probably returned to his home in some not distant hamlet. He would almost certainly tell the people about the recalcitrant camel, and they might see a chance of helping themselves to its load. One solitary trader, even though an Afghan, would be no match, they would think, for a band of lathi-wallahs. Ahmed wished he had seized the man, and held him at least until the camel had recovered its temper. It was too late to think of that now; the ryot was quite out of sight, and Ahmed had perforce to return to his mat.
In the course of an hour he had reason to wish that the idea of arresting the man had occurred to him sooner. He saw in the distance a group of at least half-a-dozen men approaching, all carrying lathis except one, who had a matchlock. They might, of course, have been induced by mere curiosity to come and see the amusing spectacle of an Afghan baffled by a camel. But belonging himself to a robber tribe, Ahmed suspected that their motive was not so peaceable. Well, they should not despoil him without a fight. They would indeed hardly expect to do so, for, though a trader, he was an Afghan, and if they knew anything of Afghans they would know that he would not yield without offering resistance. But they were six to one!
Fortunately Ahmed had some little protection in the great bulk of the camel and in the banian-tree behind him. While they were still a great way off, he slipped his talwar from its covering, and laid it close to his hand, ready for emergencies. He had, besides, his pistol and his knife. But he felt that he was in an awkward predicament. The matchlock would carry further than his pistol; the man who bore it had only to keep out of range and "pot" him at his leisure. Even if the man missed him, he might hit the camel, and then the animal, if not mortally wounded, would probably rise quickly enough and bolt in an entirely wrong direction. There was just a chance that the man, not suspecting him to bear firearms, might come so near that he would be able to get first shot; that indeed seemed to be his only chance.
He stood behind the camel and watched them. While they were still too far away for the matchlock-bearer to fire with any certainty of hitting him, he shouted—
"Eo! eo! Who are you, and what do you want?"
Like all hill-men, he had a very clear, ringing voice, and the note of authority in his tone caused them to halt. Then one of them called back in answer—
"We have come to help you with your rogue of a camel."
"I want no help," he replied. "The camel will rise when Allah wills. I would not trouble you."
There was silence for a moment, then another voice cried—
"We know not who you are. We want no Afghans here. You must come with us to our village, and our headman shall hear who you are and say what shall be done. It may be that he will send you to the chief of Bahadurgurh."
"What talk is this?" cried Ahmed. "I am a trader, as you see, and I carry my wares to Delhi. What has the chief of Bahadurgurh to say to the king?"
"That we shall see," replied the man truculently, advancing. "It will be better for you to come with us quietly."
"You had better return to your dogs' kennels before you come to harm," cried Ahmed, flourishing his talwar. "As you perceive, I am armed, and I will send you back without arms and legs if you come within my reach."
The men laughed. What was a talwar against a matchlock? The man carrying the firearm came on ahead of the rest, and advancing to within a short distance of Ahmed he set the weapon to his shoulder and proceeded coolly to take aim. This was exactly what Ahmed had calculated upon. The firing of a matchlock was a somewhat lengthy operation, especially to a villager. Before the man had time to fire, Ahmed quickly changed the talwar from his right hand to his left, drew his pistol, and fired over the camel's back. The man dropped without a sound. At the same moment Ahmed flung down his pistol, and taking the sword again in his right hand, drew his knife, vaulted over the animal, and dashed straight at the knot of villagers.
Taken aback by this unexpected stroke from a man they supposed to be helpless, the villagers stood irresolute. Before they had recovered their wits, Ahmed was upon them. The sight of his sword flashing in the glow of the setting sun was too much for most of them; they took to their heels and fled in all haste across the fields. One or two, apparently so paralyzed with consternation that they could not even run, seized their lathis and made feeble attempts to parry the descending talwar. But with a couple of swift strokes Ahmed settled their account. Then, incensed at their unprovoked attack, he made off at full speed after the runaways. They were no match for him in fleetness, and, realizing this, they scattered, howling. Ahmed could not catch them all; he ran after the one whom he recognized as the man that had first discovered him. A pursuit of half-a-mile over the squelching soil brought him within arm's length, and the wretched man paid the penalty.
It would be dangerous to pursue the rest, loath as he was to let any of them go unpunished. And reflecting that as soon as they got back to their village they would without doubt bring others with firearms to deal with him, he saw that he must lose no time in making his escape. The camel must be compelled to move. But when he turned, he saw that the camel, probably startled by the shot, was already on its feet, and shambling along the road in the direction from which he had come. Sprinting after it, he lugged it round until its head was again turned towards Delhi, walked by its side until he picked up the pistol, then leapt to his seat, and set off, as quickly as the clumsy animal would move, towards his destination.
He had not ridden for more than half-a-minute when he reflected that he was not even yet out of danger. If the villagers pursued him, they could easily overtake him before he had gone many miles. Instantly he drove the camel off the road on to the field. When he had gone a hundred paces he stopped, slipped off, and with the quickness of a well-trained scout proceeded to obliterate the traces of the animal's feet back to the point at which it had started to go in the opposite direction, the camel meanwhile stopping to drink at a deep pool. In a few minutes he was back again, remounted, and continued his journey.
It was by this time nearly dark. After riding a few miles he saw, somewhat nearer the road, a small shrine amid trees, such as are to be found in countless numbers dotted over India. It struck him that, since the gates of Delhi must now be shut, he might well shelter for the night beneath the walls of the shrine. He halted, tethered the camel to one of the trees, and made himself as comfortable as he could.
An hour or two afterwards he heard the distant sounds of a body of men approaching. Were they fellow-villagers of the men he had punished, on the hunt for him? Devoutly he hoped that the camel would not betray him by a grunt. The sounds drew nearer—voices, the tramp of feet on the road. They passed. For the time he was safe. Tired as he was, he durst not now go to sleep. The men might return; an unlucky grunt might bring them upon him. In anxious suspense he waited. The hours are long to one who waits. At last he heard faint sounds from beyond him. Men were approaching him again. He stood, grasping his weapons. The sounds grew louder. The marching men were now abreast of him. If they had been his comrades of the Guides they would find the tracks of his camel even in the dark. But they passed; the sound of their marching grew fainter; and at last Ahmed's uneasiness left him, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay down to sleep.