Ye may go and lay your praiseAt a shrine of other daysBy the tomb of him who gat, and her who bore me;My plan is good—my way—The sons of kings obey—But, I'm reaping where another sowed before me.
JAIDEV SINGH was a five-K man, with the hair, breeches, bangle, comb, and dagger that betoken him who has sworn the vow of Khanda ka Pahul. Every item of the Sikh ritual was devised with no other motive than to preserve the fighting character of the organization. The very name Singh means lion. The Sikh's long hair with the iron ring hidden underneath is meant as a protection against sword-cuts. And because their faith is rather spiritual than fanatical—based rather on the cause of things than on material effect—men of that creed take first rank among fighting men.
Jaidev Singh arrived soon after the moon had risen. The notice of his coming was the steady drumming footfall of his horse, that slowed occasionally, and responded to the spur again immediately.
Close to the big iron gate below Alwa's eyrie there were some of Jaimihr's cavalry nosing about among the trampled gardens for the dead and wounded they had left there earlier in the afternoon. They ceased searching, and formed up to intercept whoever it might be who rode in such a hurry. Above them, on the overhanging ramparts, there was quick discussion, and one man left his post hurriedly.
“A horseman from the West!” he announced, breaking in on Alwa's privacy without ceremony.
“One?”
“One only.”
“For us or them?”
“I know not, sahib.”
Alwa—glad enough of the relief from puzzling his brain—ran to the rampart and looked long at the moving dot that was coming noisily toward his fastness but that gave no sign of its identity or purpose.
“Whoever he is can see them,” he vowed. “The moon shines full on them. Either he is a man of theirs or else a madman!”
He watched for five more minutes without speaking. Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga, coming out at last in search of him, saw the strained figures of the garrison peering downward through the yellow moon rays, and took stand on either side of him to gaze, too, in spellbound silence.
“If he is their man,” said Alwa presently, “he will turn now. He will change direction and ride for the main body of them yonder. He can see them now easily. Yes. See. He is their man!”
On a horse that staggered gamely—silhouetted and beginning to show detail in the yellow light—a man whose nationality or caste could not be recognized rode straight for the bivouacking cavalry, and a swarm of them rode out at a walk to meet him.
The tension on the ramparts was relaxed then. As a friend in direst need the man would have been welcome. As one of enemy, with a message for them, however urgent, he was no more than an incident.
“By Allah!” roared Alwa suddenly. “That is no man of theirs! Quick! To the wheels! Man the wheels! Eight men to horse!”
He took the cord himself, to send the necessary signal down into the belly of the rock. From his stables, where men and horses seemed to stand ready day and night, ten troopers cantered out, scattering the sparks, the whites of their horses' eyes and their drawn blades gleaming; without another order they dipped down the breakneck gorge, to wait below. The oncoming rider had wheeled again; he had caught the cavalry, that rode to meet him, unawares. They were not yet certain whether he was friend or foe, and they were milling in a bunch, shouting orders to one another. He, spurring like a maniac, was heading straight for the searching party, who had formed to cut him off. He seemed to have thrown his heart over Alwa's iron gate and to be thundering on hell's own horse in quest of it again.
Alwa's eight slipped down the defile as quickly as phantoms would have dared in that tricky moon-light. One of them shouted from below. Alwa jerked the cord, and the great gate yawned, well-oiled and silent. The oncomer raced straight for the middle of the intercepting line of horsemen; they—knowing him by this time for no friend—started to meet him; and Alwa's eight, unannounced and unexpected, whirled into them from the rear.
In a second there was shouting, blind confusion—eddying and trying to reform. The lone galloper pulled clear, and Alwa's men drove his opponents, crupper over headstall, into a body of the main contingent who had raced up in pursuit. They rammed the charge home, and reeled through both detachments—then wheeled at the spur and cut their way back again, catching up their man at the moment that his horse dropped dead beneath him. They seized him beneath the arms and bore him through as the great gate dropped and cut his horse in halves. Then one man took the galloper up behind his saddle, and bore him up the hill unquestioned until he could dismount in front of Alwa.
“Who art thou?” demanded the owner of the rock, recognizing a warrior by his trademarks, but in no way moderating the natural gruffness of his voice. Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh's intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted.
“Jaidev Singh—galloper to Byng-bahadur. I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first.”
“They are both here.”
“Then my letter is for both of them.”
Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga each took one step forward, and the Sikh gave Cunningham a tiny, folded piece of paper, stuck together along one edge with native gum. He tore it open, read it in the light of a trooper's lantern, and then read it again aloud to Mahommed Gunga, pitching his voice high enough for Alwa to listen if he chose.
“What are you two men doing?” ran the note. “The very worst has happened. We all need men immediately, and I particularly need them. One hundred troopers now would be better than a thousand men a month from now. Hurry, and send word by bearer. S. F. BYNG.”
“How soon can you start back?” asked Cunningham.
“The minute I am provided with a horse, sahib.”
Cunningham turned to Alwa.
“Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”
Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.
“Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed. “Food waits, thou. Thou art a Sikh—thou eatest meat—meat, then, is ready.”
The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions. All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed. So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned. Cunningham then turned on Alwa.
“Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice. “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no. If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”
“You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.
“I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”
Alwa stared hard at him. That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart. He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds. The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.
“So was thy father,” he said slowly. “My cousin said thou wast thy father's son!”
“I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham. “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”
“Bismillah! Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear. Then he thought better of his dignity. “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men. We will have another conference.”
“I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.
“Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions! Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”
“I have a suggestion to make, sahib,” smiled Alwa, closing the door of the rock-hewn chamber on the three of them.
“Hear mine first!” said Cunningham, with a hint of iron in his voice.
“Ay! Hear his first! Hear Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!” echoed Mahommed Gunga. “Let us hear a plan worth hearing!” And Alwa looked into a pair of steady eyes that seemed to see through him—past him—to the finished work beyond.
“Speak, sahib.”
“You are pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne?”
“Ha, sahib.”
“Then, I guarantee you shall! You shall not go to the Company's aid until you have satisfactory guarantees that your homes and friends will not be assailed behind your backs.”
“Guarantees to whose satisfaction, sahib?”
“Yours!”
“But with whom am I dealing?” Alwa seemed actually staggered. “Who makes these promises? The Company?”
“I give you my solemn word of honor on it!”
“It is at least a man who speaks!” swore Alwa.
“It is the son of Cunnigan-bahadur!” growled Mahommed Gunga, standing chin erect. He seemed in no doubt now of the outcome. He was merely waiting for it with soldierly and ill-concealed impatience.
“But, sahib—”
“Alwa-sahib, we have no time for argument. It is yes or no. I must send an answer back by that Sikh. He must—he shall take my answer! Either you are loyal to our cause or you are not. Are you?”
“By the breath of God, sahib, I am thinking you leave me little choice!”
“I still await an answer. I am calling on you for as many men as you can raise, and I have made you specific promises. Choose, Alwa-sahib. Yes or no?”
“The answer is yes—but—”
“Then I understand that you undertake to obey my orders without question until such time as a senior to me can be found to take over the command.”
“That is contingent on the agreement,” hesitated Alwa.
“I would like your word of honor, Alwa-sahib.”
“I pledge that not lightly, sahib.”
“For that very good reason I am asking for it. I shall know how far to trust when I have your word of honor!”
“I knew thy father! Thou art his son! I trusted him for good reason and with good result. I will trust thee also. My word is given, on thy conditions, sahib. First, the guarantees before we ride to the British aid!”
And you obey my orders?
“Yes. My word is given, sahib. The oath of a Rajput, of a Rangar, of a soldier, of a zemindar of the House of Kachwaha; the oath of a man to a man, sahib; the promise of thy father's friend to thy father's son! Bahadur”—he drew himself to his full height, and clicked his spurs together—“I am thy servant!”
Cunningham saluted. All three men looked in each other's eyes and a bond was sealed between them that nothing less than death could sever.
“Thank you,” said Cunningham quite quietly. “And now, Alwa-sahib”—(he could strike while the iron glowed, could this son of Cunnigan!)—“for the plan. There is little time. Jaimihr must escape tonight!”
“Sahib, did I understand aright?”
Alwa's jaw had actually dropped. He looked as though he had been struck. Mahommed Gunga slammed his sabre ferule on the stone floor. He too, was hard put to it to believe his ears.
“Jaimihr is the key to the position. He is nothing but a nuisance where he is. Outside he can be made to help us.”
“Am I dreaming, or art thou, sahib?” Alwa stood with fists clinched on his hips and his legs apart—incredulous. “Jaimihr to go free? Why that Hindoo pig is the source of all the trouble in the district!”
“We are neither of us dreaming, Alwa-sahib. Jaimihr is the dreamer. Let him dream in Howrah City for a day or two, while we get ready. Let him lead his men away and leave the road clear for us to pass in and out.”
“But—”
“Oh, I know. He is your prisoner, and your honor is involved, and all that kind of thing. I'm offering you, to set off against that, a much greater honor than you ever experienced in your whole life yet, and I've put my order in the shape of a request for the sake of courtesy. I ask you again to let me arrange for Jaimihr to escape.”
“I was mad. But it seems that I have passed my word!” swore Alwa.
“I give you your word back again, then.”
“Bismillah! I refuse it!”
“Then I do with Jaimihr as I like?”
“I gave my word, sahib.”
“Thanks. You'll be glad before we've finished. Now I've left the raising of as many men as can be raised to you, Alwa-sahib. You will remember that you gave your promise on that count, too.”
“I will keep that promise, too, sahib.”
“Good. You shall have a road clear by tonight.”
He stepped back a pace, awaited their salute with the calm, assured authority of a general of division, returned it, and left the two Rajputs looking in each other's eyes.
“What is this, cousin, that thou hast brought me to?” demanded Alwa.
Mahommed Gunga laughed and shook his sabre, letting it rattle in its scabbard.
“This? This is the edge of the war that I promised thee a year ago! This is the service of which I spoke! This is the beginning of the blood-spilling! I have brought thee the leader of whom we spoke in Howrah City. Dost remember, cousin? I recall thy words!”
“Ay, I recall them. I said then that I would follow a second Cunnigan, could such be found.”
“And this is he!” vowed Mahommed Gunga.
“Ho! But we Rangars have a leader! A man of men!”
“But this plan of his? This loosing of the trapped wolf—what of that?”
“I neither know nor care, as yet! I trust him! I am his man, as I was his father's! I have seen him; I have heard him; I have felt his pulse in the welter of the wrath of God. I know him. Whatever plans he makes, whatever way he leads, those are my plans, my road! I serve the son of Cunnigan!”
Did he swear with his leg in a spring-steel trapAnd a tongue dry-cracked from thirst?Or down on his knees at his lady's lapWith the lady's lips to his own, mayhap,And his head and his heart aburst?Nay! I have listened to vows enoughAnd never the oath could bindSave that, that a free man chose to takeFor his own good reputation's sake!They're qualified—they're tricks—they break—They're words, the other kind!
MAHOMMED GUNGA had long ago determined to “go it blind” on Cunningham. He had known him longest and had the greatest right. Rosemary McClean, who knew him almost least of all, so far as length of time was concerned, was ready now to trust him as far as the Risaldar dared go; her limit was as long and as devil-daring as Mahommed Gunga's. Whatever Scots reserve and caution may have acted as a brake on Duncan McClean's enthusiasm were offset by the fact that his word was given; so far as he was concerned, he was now as much and as obedient a servant of the Company as either of the others. Nor was his attitude astonishing.
Alwa's was the point of view that was amazing, unexpected, brilliant, soldierly, unselfish—all the things, in fact, that no one had the least right to expect it to turn out to be. Two or three thousand men looked to him as their hereditary chieftain who alone could help them hold their chins high amid an overwhelming Hindoo population; his position was delicate, and he might have been excused for much hesitation, and even for a point-blank refusal to do what he might have preferred personally. He and his stood to lose all that they owned—their honor—and the honor of their wives and families, should they fight on the wrong side. Even as a soldier who had passed his word, he might have been excused for a lot of wordy questioning of orders, for he had enough at stake to make anybody cautious.
Yet, having said his say and sworn a dozen God-invoking Rangar oaths before he pledged his word, and then having pledged it, he threw Rajput tradition and the odds against him into one bottomless discard and proceeded to show Cunningham exactly what his fealty meant.
“By the boots and beard of Allah's Prophet!” he swore, growing freer-tongued now that his liberty of action had been limited. “Here we stand and talk like two old hags, Mahommed Gunga! My word is given. Let us find out now what this fledgling general of thine would have us do. If he is to release my prisoner, at least I would like to get amusement out of it!”
So he and Mahommed Gunga swaggered across the courtyard to where Cunningham had joined the McCleans again.
“We come with aid and not objections, sahib,” he assured him. “If we listen, it may save explanations afterward.”
So at a sign from Cunningham they enlarged the circle, and the East and West—bearded and clean-shaven, priest and soldiers, Christian and Mohammedan—stood in a ring, while almost the youngest of them—by far the youngest man of them—laid down the law for all. His eyes were all for Rosemary McClean, but his gestures included all of them, and they all answered him with nods or grunts as each saw fit.
“Send for the Sikh!” commanded Cunningham.
Five minutes later, with a lump of native bread still in his fist, Jaidev Singh walked up and saluted.
“Where is Byng-bahadur now?” asked Cunningham.
“At Deeseera, sahib—not shut in altogether, but hard pressed. There came cholera, and Byng-bahadur camped outside the town. He has been striking, sahib, striking hard with all too few to help him. His irregulars, sahib, were disbanded at some one's orders just before this outbreak, but some of them came back at word from him. And there were some of us Sikhs who knew him, and who would rather serve him and die than fight against him and live. He has now two British regiments with him, sadly thinned—some of my people, some Goorkhas, some men from the North—not very many more than two thousand men all told, having lost heavily in action and by disease. But word is going round from mouth to mouth that many sahibs have been superseded, and that only real sahibs such as Byng-bahadur have commands in this hour. Byng-bahadur is a man of men. We who are with him begin to have courage in our bones again. Is the answer ready? Yet a little while? It is well, sahib, I will rest. Salaam!”
“You see,” said Cunningham, “the situation's desperate. We've got to act. Alwa here stands pledged to protect Howrah and you have promised to aid Jaimihr. Somebody's word has got to break, and you may take it from me that it will be the word of the weakest man! I think that that man is Jaimihr, but I can't be sure in advance, and we've got to accept his promise to begin with. Go to him, Miss McClean, and make a very careful bargain with him along the line I mapped out for you. Alwa-sahib, I want witnesses, or rather overhearers. I want you and Mahommed Gunga to place yourselves near Jaimihr's cell so that you can hear what he says. There won't be any doubt then about who has broken promises. Are you ready, Miss McClean?”
She was trembling, but from excitement and not fear. Both Rajputs saluted her as she started back for the cell, and whatever their Mohammedan ideas on women may have been, they chose to honor this one, who was so evidently one of them in the hour of danger. Duncan McClean seemed to be praying softly, for his lips moved.
When the cell-door creaked open, Alwa and Mahommed Gunga were crouched one on either side, listening with the ears of soldiers that do not let many sounds or words escape them.
“Jaimihr-sahib!” she whispered. “Jaimihr-sahib!”
“Ha! Sahiba!” Then he called her by half a dozen names that made the listening Rangars grin into their beards.
“Jaimihr-sahib”—she raised her voice a little now—“if I help you to escape, will you promise me my safety under all conditions?”
“Surely, sahiba!”
“Do you swear to protect every living person on this hill, including the Alwa-sahib and Cunningham-sahib?”
“Surely, sahiba.”
“You swear it?”
“I swear it on my honor. There is no more sacred oath.”
“Then, listen. I can help you to escape now. I have a rope that is long enough to lower you over the parapet. I am prepared to risk the consequences, but I want to bargain with you for aid for my Countrymen.”
Jaimihr did not answer.
“The Alwa-sahib and his Rangars stand pledged to help your brother!”
“I guessed at least that much,” laughed Jaimihr.
“They would not help you against him under any circumstances. But they want to ride to the Company's aid, and they might be prepared to protect you against him. They might guarantee the safety of your palace and your men's homes. They might exact a guarantee from Howrah.”
Jaimihr laughed aloud, careless of the risk of being overheard, and Rosemary knew that Cunningham's little plan was useless even before it had been quite expounded. She felt herself trembling for the consequences.
“Sahiba, there is only one condition that would make me ride to the British aid with all my men.”
“Name it!”
“Thou art it!”
“I don't understand you, Jaimihr-sahib,” she whispered, understanding all too well.
“Follow me. Come to me in Howrah. Then whatever these fool Rangars choose to do, I swear by Siva and the Rites of Siva that I will hurry to the Company's aid!”
Rosemary McClean shuddered, and he knew it. But that fact rather added to his pleasure. The wolf prefers a cowering, frightened prey even though he dare fight on occasion. She was thinking against time. Through that one small, overburdened head, besides a splitting headache, there was flashing the ghastly thought of what was happening to her countrymen and women—of what would happen unless she hurried to do something for their aid. All the burden of all warring India seemed to be resting on her shoulders, in a stifling cell; and Jaimihr seemed to be the only help in sight.
“How many men could you summon to the Company's aid?” she asked him.
He laughed. “Ten thousand!” he boasted.
“Armed and drilled men—soldiers fit to fight?”
“Surely.”
“I think that is a lie, Jaimihr-sahib. There is not time enough to waste on lies. Tell me the exact truth, please.”
He contrived to save his face, or, rather, he contrived to make himself believe he did.
“I would need some to guard my rear,” he answered. “I could lead five thousand to the British aid.”
“Is that the truth?”
“On my honor, sahiba.”
“And you wish to marry me?”
“Sahiba—I—I have no other wish!”
“I agree to marry you provided you will lead five thousand men to the Company's aid, but not until you have done so.”
“You will come to Howrah?”
She could feel his excitement. The cell walls seemed to throb.
“Yes; but I shall come accompanied by my father, and Mr. Cunningham, and all the Rangars he can raise. And I shall hold you to your bargain. You must help the Company first. FIRST—d'you understand?”
“I understand.”
It was Jaimihr's turn now to lay the law down. She had let him see her eagerness to gain his aid for the Company, and he saw the weakness of her case in an instant. He knew very well, too, that no woman of her breed would have thought of consenting to marry him unless her hand was forced. He decided immediately to force it further.
“I understand, sahiba. I, too, will hold thee to thy promise! Thou wilt come with an escort, as befits a prince's wife! But how should I know that the Rangars would prove friends of mine? How should I know that it is not all a trap?”
“You will have my promise to depend on.”
“Truly! And there will be how many hundred men to override the promise of one woman? Nay! My word is good; my promise holds; but on my own conditions! Help me to escape. Then follow me to Howrah City. Come in advance of thy Rangar escort. By that I will know that the Rangars and this Cunningham are my friends—otherwise they would not let thee come. The Rangars are to exact guarantees from my brother? How should I know that they do not come to help my brother crush me out of existence? With thee in my camp as hostage I would risk agreement with them, but not otherwise. Escape with me now, or follow. But bring no Rangars, sahiba! Come alone!”
“I will not. I would not dare trust you.”
Jaimihr laughed. “I have been reckoning, sahiba, how many hours will pass before my army comes to rip this nest of Alwa's from its roots, and defile the whole of it! If I am to spare the people on this rock, then I must hurry! Should my men come here to carry me away, they will be less merciful than I! Choose, sahiba! Let me go, and I will spare these Rangars until such time as they earn punishment anew. Or let me go, and follow me. Then fight with the Rangars and for the Company, with thee as the price of my alliance. Or leave me in this cell until my men come to rescue me. The last would be the simplest way! Or it would be enough to help me escape and wait until I have done my share at conquering the British. Then I could come and claim thee! Choose, sahiba; there are many ways, though they all end in one goal.”
“If I am the price of your allegiance,” said Rosemary, “then I will pay the price. Five thousand men for the British cause are dearer to me than my own happiness. I promise, Jaimihr-sahib, that I will come to you in Howrah. I shall come accompanied by one servant, named Joanna, and—I think—by my father; and the Rangars and Mr. Cunningham shall be at least a day's ride behind me. I give my word on that. But—I can promise you, on Mr. Cunningham's behalf, and on the Alwa-sahib's, and Mahommed Gunga's, that should you have made any attempt against my liberty—should you have offered me any insult or indignity—before they come—should you have tried to anticipate the terms of your agreement—then—then—there would be an end of bargaining and promises, Jaimihr-sahib, and your life would be surely forfeit! Do you understand?”
“Surely, sahiba!”
“Do you agree?”
“I already have agreed. They are my terms. I named them!”
“I would like to hear you promise, on your honor.”
“I swear by all my gods and by my honor. I swear by my love, that is dearer to me than a throne, and by the name and the honor of a Rajput!”
“Be ready, then. I am going now to hide the rope in the shadow of the wall. It will take perhaps fifteen minutes. Be ready.”
He made a quick movement to embrace her, but she slipped out and escaped him; and he thought better of his sudden plan to follow her, remembering that her word was likely to be good, whatever his might be. He elected to wait inside until she returned for him. He little knew that he missed the downward swing of Alwa's sabre, that was waiting, poised and balanced for him, in the darkness by the door.
“Bismillah! I would have had a right to kill him had he followed her and broken faith so early in the business!” Alwa swore, excusing his impatience to Mahommed Gunga. “Have no fear, sahib!” he counselled Cunningham a moment later, laying a heavy hand on the boy's arm. “Let her keep her promises. That Hindoo pig will not keep his! We will be after her, and surely—surely we will find good cause for some throat-slitting as well as the cancelling of marriage promises!”
“Do you understand, Alwa-sahib, that—if Jaimihr keeps his promise to her, she must keep hers to him? Do you realize that?”
“Allah! Listen to him! Yes, sahib. Truly, bahadur, I appreciate! I also know that I have given certain promises which I, too, must fulfil! She is not the only bargainer! I am worrying more about those guarantees that Howrah was to give—I am anxious to see how, with fifteen hundred, we are to get the better of a Rajah and his brother and their total of ten thousand! I want to see those promises performed! Ay! The Miss-sahib has done well. She has done her share. Let her continue. And do thou thy share, bahadur! I am at thy back with my men, but give us action!”
Cunningham held up a lantern, and looked straight at Duncan McClean. The missionary had held his daughter's hand while she recounted what had happened in the cell. Whatever he may have thought, he had uttered no word of remonstrance.
“Of course, we go to Howrah ahead of you,” he answered to Cunningham's unspoken question.
Cunningham held out his right hand, and the missionary shook it.
“Hold the lamp, please,” said Cunningham, and Mahommed Gunga seized it. Then Cunningham took paper and a pencil and read aloud the answer that he wrote to Byng-bahadur. He wrote it in Greek characters for fear lest it might fall into the enemy's hands and be too well understood.
“I can be with you in one week, sir, and perhaps sooner. Unless we are all killed in the meantime we should number more than fifteen hundred when we come. Expect either all or none of us. The situation here is critical, but our course seems clear, and we ought to pull through. Mahommed Gunga sends salaams. Your obedient servant,
“RALPH CUNNINGHAM.”
“Would God I could see the clear course!” laughed Alwa.
“Call the Sikh, please.”
The Sikh came running, and Cunningham gave him the folded note.
“Have you a horse for him, Alwa-sahib?”
“That has been attended to, sahib,” the Sikh answered. “The Alwa-sahib has given me a wonder of a horse.”
“Very well, then, Jaidev Singh. Watch your chance. Go to the parapet, and when you see by their lanterns that the cavalry below have ridden off, then race for all you're worth with that news for Byng-bahadur!”
“Salaam, sahib!” said the Sikh.
“Salaam, Jaidev Singh. And now hide, every-body! Don't let Jaimihr get the impression that we're playing with him.”
A little later Miss McClean led Jaimihr through a passage in the rock, off which axe-hewn cells led on either side, to the far side of the summit, where the parapet was higher but the wall was very much less sheer. The Prince's arms were still too sore from the wrenching he received when they took him prisoner for him to dare trust himself hand over hand on a rope; she had to make the rope fast beneath his armpits, and then lower him slowly, taking two turns with the rope round the waist of a brass cannon. The Prince fended himself off the ragged wall with hands and feet, and called up instructions to her as loudly as he dared.
It was a tremendous drop. For the last fifty or more feet the wall rose straight, overhung by a ridge that rasped the rope. And the rope proved fifteen feet or more too short. Rosemary paid out as much of it as she dared, and then made the end fast round the cannon, leaning over to see whether Jaimihr would have sense enough or skill enough to cut himself free and fall. But he hung where he was and spun, and it was five minutes before Rosemary remembered that his weapons had all been taken from him! It was scarcely likely that he could bite the thick rope through with his teeth!
She stood then for two or three more minutes wondering what to do, for she had no knife of her own, and she had made the rope fast—woman-wise—with a true landlubber's knot that tightened from the strain until her struggling fingers could not make the least impression on it. But Alwa walked up openly—drew his heavy sabre—and saved the situation for her.
“That may help to jog his recollection of the bargain!” he laughed, severing the rope with a swinging cut and peering over to see, if he could, how Jaimihr landed. By a miracle the Prince landed on his feet. He sat down for a moment to recover from the shock, and then walked off awkwardly to where his cavalry were sleeping by their horses.
He had some trouble in persuading the outposts who he really was, and there was an argument that could be quite distinctly heard from the summit of the rock, and made Alwa roar with laughter before, finally, the whole contingent formed and wheeled and moved away, ambling toward Howrah City at a pace that betokened no unwillingness.
Five minutes later the Sikh's horse thundered out across the plain from under Alwa's iron gate, and the news, such as it was, was on its way to Byng-bahadur.
“A clear road at the price of a horse-hide rope!” laughed Alwa. “Now for some real man's work!”
Rosemary stole off to argue with her father and her conscience, but Alwa went to his troopers' quarters and told off ten good men for the task of manning the fortress in his absence. They were ten unwilling men; it needed all his gruff authority, and now and then a threat, to make them stay behind.
“I must leave ten men behind,” he insisted. “It takes four men, even at a pinch, to lift the gate. And who shall guard my women? Nay, I should leave twenty, and I must leave ten. Therefore I leave the ten best men I have, and they who stay behind may know by that that I consider them the best!”
The remainder of his troopers he sent out one by one in different directions, with orders to rally every Rangar they could find, and at a certain point he named. Then he and Mahommed Gunga said good-by to Cunningham and took a trail that led in the direction where most of the doubtfuls lived—the men who might need personal convincing—rousing—awakening from lethargy.
“You think I ought to stay behind?” asked Cunningham, who had already made his mind up but chose to consult Alwa.
“Surely, sahib. If for no other reason, then to make sure that that priest of thine and his daughter make tracks for Howrah City! While he is here he is a priest, and we Rangars have our own ideas on what they are good for! When he is there he will be a man maneuvering to save his own life and his daughter's reputation! See that he starts, sahib!”
He rode off then. But before Mahommed Gunga saw fit to follow him he legged his charger close to Cunningham for a final word or two.
“Have no fear now, bahadur—no anxiety! Three days hence there will be a finer regiment to lead than ever thundered in thy father's wake—a regiment of men, sahib, for a man to lead and love!—a regiment that will trust thee, sahib! See thou to the guarantees! Rung Ho, bahadur!”
“Rung Ho! See you again, Mahommed Gunga!”
Sabres and spurs and jingling bits—(Ho! But the food to feed them!)Sinews and eyes and ears and wits—(Hey! But the troopers need them!)Sahib, mount! Thy chargers flingFoam to the night—thy trumpets sing—Thy lance-butts on the stirrups ring—Mount, sahib! Blood them! Lead them!
IT was arranged that the McCleans, with old Joanna, should start at dawn for Howrah City, and they were, both of them, too overcome with mingled dread and excitement to even try to sleep. Joanna, very much as usual, snoozed comfortably, curled in a blanket in a corner.
They would run about a hundred different risks, not least of which was the chance of falling in with a party of Howrah's men. In fact, if they should encounter anybody before bringing up at Jaimihr's palace it was likely that the whole plan would fizzle into nothing.
Cunningham, after fossicking for a long time in Aliva's armory—that contained, besides weapons of the date, a motley assortment of the tools of war that would have done great credit to a museum of antiquities—produced two pistols. He handed, one to the missionary and one to Miss McClean, advising her to hide hers underneath her clothing. “You know what they're for?” he asked. “No. You'd gain nothing by putting up a fight. They're loaded. All you've got to do is jerk the hammer back and pull the trigger, and the best way not to miss is to hold the muzzle underneath your chin—this way—keeping the butt well out from you. You make sure when you do that. The only satisfaction you'll have, if it comes to suicide as a last resource, will be that you've tried to do your duty and the knowledge that you'll be avenged. I promise that. But I don't think you'll have any need to do it—if I did think it I'd have thought twice before sending you.”
“How does such a very young man as you come to have all this responsibility?” asked Rosemary, taking the pistol without a shudder. She laughed then as she noticed Cunningham's discomfort and recognized the decency that hates to talk about itself.
“I suppose I know my own mind,” he answered. “These other awfully decent fellows don't, that's all—if you except Mahommed Gunga. That chap's a wonder. 'Pon my soul, it seems he knew this was coming and picked me from the start to take charge over here. Seems, owing to my dad's reputation, these Rangars think me a sort of reincarnation of efficiency. I've got to try and live up to it, you know—same old game of reaping what you didn't sow and hoping it'll all be over before you wake up! Won't you try and get some sleep before morning? No? Come and sit over by the parapet with me, then.”
He carried chairs for both of them to a point whence he could sit and watch the track that led to Howrah and so help out the very meagre garrison. There, until the waning moon dipped down below the sky-line, they talked together—first about the task ahead of each of them; then about the sudden ghastliness of the rebellion, whose extent not one of them could really grasp as yet; last, and much longest, as familiarity gradually grew between them, of youthful reminiscences and home—of Eton and the Isle of Skye.
In the darkness and the comparative coolness that came between the setting of the moon and dawn Rosemary fell asleep, her head pillowed in her father's lap. For a while, then, seeing her only dimly through the night, but conscious, as he could not help being, of her youth and charm and of the act of self-sacrifice that she had undertaken without remonstrance, he felt ashamed. He began to wonder whether there might not have been some other way—whether he had any right, even for his country's sake, to send a girl on such a mission. Misgiving began to sap his optimism, and there was no Mahommed Gunga to stir the soldier in him and encourage iron-willed pursuance of the game. He began to doubt; and doubt bred silence.
He was wakened from a revery by Duncan McClean, who raised his daughter tenderly and got up on his feet.
“The dawn will be here soon, Mr. Cunningham. We had better get ready. Well—in case we never meet again—I'm glad I met you.”
“Better start before the sun gets up,” he answered, gripping the missionary's hand. He was a soldier again. He had had the answer to his thoughts! If the man who was to sacrifice his daughter—or risk her sacrifice—was pleased to have met him, there was not much sense in harboring self-criticism! He shook it off, and squared his shoulders, beginning again to think of all that lay ahead.
“Trust to the old woman to guide you and show you a place to rest at, if you must rest. You ought to reach Howrah at dusk tomorrow, for you'll find it quite impossible to travel fast—you're both of you too stiff, for one thing. Lie up somewhere—Joanna will know of a place—until the old woman has taken in a message to Jaimihr, and wait until he sends you some men to escort you through the outskirts of the city. I've got disguises ready for you—a pugree for you, Mr. McClean, and a purdah for your daughter—you'll travel as a Hindoo merchant and his wife. If you get stopped, say very little, but show this.”
He produced the letter written once by Maharajah Howrah to the Alwa-sahib and sent by galloper with the present of a horse. It was signed, and at the bottom of it was the huge red royal seal. “Now go and put the disguise on, while I see to the horses; I'm going to pick out quiet ones, if possible, though I warn you they're rare in these parts.”
Some twenty minutes later he led their horses for them gingerly down the slippery rock gorge, and waited at the bottom while six men wound the gate up slowly. Rosemary McClean was quite unrecognizable, draped from head to foot in a travelling veil that might have been Mohammedan or Hindoo, and gave no outward sign as to her caste, or rank. McClean, in the full attire of a fairly prosperous Hindoo, but with no other mark about him to betoken that he might be worth robbing, rode in front of her, high-perched on a native saddle. In front, on a desert pony, rode Joanna, garbed as a man.
“She ought to be travelling in a carriage of some kind,” admitted Cunningham, “but we haven't got a single wheeled thing here. If any one asks pertinent questions on the road, you'd better say that she had an ekka, but that some Rangars took it from you. D'you think you know the language well enough to pass muster?”
“It's a little late to ask me that!” laughed McClean. “Yes—I'm positive I do. Good-by.”
They shook hands again and the three rode off, cantering presently, to make the most of the coolness before the sun got up. Cunningham climbed slowly up the hill and then watched them from the parapet—wondering, wondering again—whether he was justified. As he put it to himself, it was “the hell of a position for a man to find himself in!” He caught himself wondering whether his thoughts would have been the same, and whether his conscience would have racked him quite as much, had Rosemary McClean been older, and less lovely, and a little more sour-tongued.
He had to laugh presently at the absurdity of that notion, for Jaimihr would never have bargained for possession of a sour-faced, elderly woman. He came to the conclusion that the only thing he could do was to congratulate the Raj because, at the right minute, the right good-looking woman had been on the spot! But he did not like the circumstances any better; and before two hours had passed the loneliness began to eat into his soul.
Like any other man whose race and breed and training make him self-dependent, he could be alone for weeks on end and scarcely be aware that he had nobody to talk to. But his training had never yet included sending women off on dangerous missions any more than it had taught him to resist woman's attraction—the charm of a woman's voice, the lure of a woman's eyes. He did not know what was the matter with him, but supposed that his liver must be out of order or else that the sun had touched him.
Taking a chance on the liver diagnosis, he had out the attenuated garrison, and drilled it, both mounted and dismounted, first on the hilltop—where they made the walls re-echo to the clang of grounded butts—and then on the plain below, with the gate wide open in their rear and one man watching from the height above. When he had tired them thoroughly, and himself as well, he set two men on the lookout and retired to sleep; nor did the droning and the wailing music of some women in the harem trouble him.
They called him regularly when the guard was changed, but he slept the greater part of that day and stood watch all night. The next day, and the third day, he drilled the garrison again, growing horribly impatient and hourly more worried as to what Byng-bahadur might be doing, and thinking of him.
It was evening of the fourth day when a Rangar woke him, squeezing at his foot and standing silent by the cot.
“Huzoor—Mahommed Gunga comes!”
“Thank God!”
He ran to the parapet and watched in the fading light a little dust cloud that followed no visible track but headed straight toward them over desert.
“How d'you know that's Mahommed Gunga?” he demanded.
“Who else, huzoor? Who else would ride from that direction all alone and straight for this nest of wasps? Who else but Alwa or Mahommed Gunga? Alwa said he would not come, but would wait yonder.”
“It might be one of Alwa's men.”
“We have many good men, sahib—and many good horses—but no man or horse who could come at that pace after traversing those leagues of desert! That is Mahommed Gunga, unless a new fire-eater has been found. And what new man would know the way?”
Soon—staccato, like a drum-beat in the silence—came the welcome, thrilling cadence of the horse's hoofs—the steady thunder of a horse hard-ridden but not foundered. The sun went down and blackness supervened, but the sound increased, as one lone rider raced with the evening wind, head on.
It seemed like an hour before the lookout challenged from the crag that overhung the gate—before the would-be English words rang out; and all Asia and its jackals seemed to wait in silence for the answer.
“Howt-uh! Hukkums-thar!”
“Ma—hommed—Gunga—hai!”
“Hurrah!”
The cheer broke bonds from the depth of Cunningham's being, and Mahommed Gunga heard it on the plain below. There was a rush to man the wheels and sweat the gate up, and Cunningham started to run down the zigzag pathway. He thought better of it, though, and waited where the path gave out onto the courtyard, giving the signal with the cords for the gate to lower away again.
“Evening, Mahommed Gunga!” he said, almost casually, as the weary charger's nose appeared above the rise.
“Salaam, bahadur!”
He dismounted and saluted and then leaned against his horse.
“I wonder, sahib, whether the horse or I be weariest! Of your favor, water, sahib!”
Cunningham brought him water in a dipper, and the Rajput washed his horse's mouth out, then held out the dipper again to Cunningham for fresh charge for himself.
“I would not ask the service, sahib, but for the moment my head reels. I must rest before I ride again.”
“Is all well, Mahommed Gunga?”
“Ay, sahib! More than well!”
“The men are ready?”
“Horsed, armed, and waiting, they keep coming—there were many when I left—there will be three squadrons worthy of the name by the time we get there! Is all well at your end, sahib?”
“Yes, all's well.”
“Did the padre people go to Howrah?”
“They started and they have not returned.”
“Then, Allah be praised! Inshallah, I will grip that spectacled old woman of a priest by the hand before I die. He has a spark of manhood in him! Send me this good horse to the stables, sahib; I am overweary. Have him watered when the heat has left him, and then fed. Let them blanket him lightly. And, sahib, have his legs rubbed—that horse ever loved to have his legs rubbed. Allah! I must sleep four hours before I ride! And the Miss-sahib—went she bravely?”
“Went as a woman of her race ought to go, Mahommed Gunga.”
“Ha! She met a man first of her own race, and he made her go! Would she have gone if a coward asked her, think you? Sahib—women are good—at the other end of things! We will ride and fetch her. Ha! I saw! My eyes are old, but they bear witness yet!—Now, food, sahib—for the love of Allah, food, before my belt-plate and my backbone touch!”
“I wonder what the damned old infidel is dreaming of!” swore Cunningham, as Mahommed Gunga staggered to the chamber in the rock where a serving-man was already heaping victuals for him.
“Have me called in four hours, sahib! In four hours I will be a man again!”