Pushing forward with all speed past Mainpuri and Bewar, Colonel Boldre arrived in the British camp on November 13th, shortly after Sir Colin Campbell had assumed command of the Relief Force. The column was encamped within and around the grounds of the Alambagh, a big mansion enclosed by a high wall, three or four miles south of Lucknow. Here they met many of their Delhi friends, who had come down with Colonel Hope Grant, and one of the first to greet them was Alec Paterson. There was plenty to say on both sides.
Ted found that Alec, who still limped a little in walking, had been appointed an extra aide-de-camp by the brigadier, who had noticed the lad’s great energy and thoroughness at Delhi. Alec told his chum how glad he was that his name had been cleared, and wanted to know all about the trial at once; but Ted was too anxious to look round the camp and find out the notables, so, observing that the story would keep, he asked Alec to act as guide. Paterson, by the way, did not mention the little fact that he had greatly distinguished himself under Greathed at Agra on the way down, and had been recommended for promotion. Ted found that out from another source.
“We advance to-morrow,” the aide-de-camp informed his chums, and broke off abruptly to call their attention to a big, square-shouldered man in blue tunic, white cords, and jack-boots. “Here, do you see that man with the reddish hairand beard? He’s a plucky chap. He’s a clerk, not a soldier, but he’s done a feat that any man might be proud of.”
“What’s he done?” asked Claude.
“Well, he don’t look much like a mild Hindu or any other sort of Asiatic, does he? But he volunteered to disguise himself and break through the rebel lines with a note from Outram and plans of the enemy’s weak points and advice for Sir Colin. And he did it. Fancy a man of his build and hair and features disguised as a native of Oudh! He must have a nerve. But he got through, and the general now has the plans; and if we succeed, Kavanagh will deserve a share of the credit. He’s in the Volunteer Cavalry now.”
“I want to see Sir Colin,” said Ted. “Is he likely to be about?”
“I’ll point him out if we see him. And who do you think is going to conduct the force to-morrow?”
“Who? How should I know?”
“Why, Lieutenant Roberts, the Artillery D.A.Q.M.G. at Delhi. That young man will be a major-general before any of us commands a battalion. He’s a wonderful fellow, but so modest that nobody is jealous.”
“Fine-looking lot those Highlanders!” Alec observed as they passed a group of men wearing the kilt and bonnet and white gaiters.
“They’re the 93rd, I suppose,” said Ted. “Hoot, mon, what for do ye no don the kilt yourself, Sandy?”
“I should like to,” Alec replied. “The 93rd’s a grand regiment, and I’m proud of being a countryman of theirs.”
“Hear, hear!” said Ted. “They look fit.”
The three friends entered the Alambagh enclosure.
“Who are those two?” asked Claude, nodding towards a couple of distinguished-looking officers who were walking about slowly, in earnest conversation.
“Ssh!—not so loud. Why, the older man is Sir Colin himself, and the taller one with glasses is General Mansfield, his chief of staff.”
“Oh!”
The boys looked with keen interest upon the commander-in-chief. They saw a spare man, with a slight stoop, but a soldier to the backbone—an elderly man with furrowed brows, bearing the marks of long and arduous service; but there was no sign of weakness about the firm mouth, or the eyes so clear and alert.
“Yes, that’s the commander-in-chief,” said Paterson again. “Now, Ted, I’ve shown you round, and it’s your turn to enlighten me now. I only know the bare facts that you have been cleared, and that Tynan is a howling cad.”
So Ted had once more to tell what had befallen Tynan and himself at Lahore, and when he had finished the narrative, Alec asked:
“And what became of Pir Baksh?”
“He was condemned to death and shot the day before I left Lahore. Colonel Woodburn and Munro were almost as pleased as I was when the truth came out, for I really think that they believed that I had been unjust to poor Tynan. But Ethel Woodburn had stuck up for me through thick and thin.”
“Miss Woodburn is the nicest, jolliest girl in India,” said Alec with conviction, “and your brother’s a jolly lucky fellow.”
“He is so. Yes, she’s all that and more, and she kept my spirits up when I was feeling jolly well down in the mouth. Wasn’t she glad when I was cleared! It was almost worth while having gone through it all. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see Tynan again. Poor beggar, I’m sorry for him, for I don’t think he ever meant to do it.”
“What became of those Rajputs he’d bribed?”
“They were dismissed from the service. Dwarika Rai begged my pardon before he went. He said that he hadn’t understood that his evidence might disgrace me until it was too late for him to draw back, and I believed him.”
“It was a funny business altogether,” was Claude’s opinion, given in a tone of unusual thoughtfulness. “The man must have been mad.”
“He was a born cad,” said Paterson, “and deserved the same fate as Pir Baksh.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Ted. “I think there’s some good in him.”
“Precious little. But I haven’t time to argue; I must make a strategical retirement. See you to-morrow.”
After Alec’s departure Claude and Ted found their way to the roof of the Alambagh, where were one or two officers whom they did not know. Over the expanse of wooded plain they caught glimpses of the mosques and minarets and gilded spires of Lucknow, rearing their heads above the abundant foliage of the parks and great gardens. The city seemed to stretch as far as the eye could reach, and they both experienced a curious thrill as they gazed thereat.
“And that’s where Sir Henry Lawrence died, and where Outram and Havelock are now,” observed Ted, almost in a whisper.
“Eighty-seven days they held out before Havelock got through,” Claude reflected aloud. “It was a grand defence. I wonder whereabouts the Residency is?”
“Over there, due north,” said a voice beside them.
“Thank you!” Claude replied; and they looked at the speaker, a clean-shaven man with hair inclined to wave, attired in a dress that seemed singularly out of place there, even among so great a variety of uniforms. He wore a bluefrock-coat, and his white trousers were unstrapped; there was a white cover to his cap, and hunting-spurs adorned his shoes.
“Where are you youngsters from?” he asked.
“Delhi,” Ted replied. “We’ve just arrived with some Irregular Horse.”
“Delhi! And you two had the luck to take part in the siege?”
“I served all through,” Ted answered with a little pride. “I went there with the Guides.”
“Lucky young cub! Wish I could have taken my boys there.”
“Rummy customer!” was Claude’s comment, as the stranger turned away. “Who is he?”
“I wonder. Looks more like a sailor than a soldier. But whoever he is, he’s accustomed to command; I could see that. But I fancy it’s time to find our way back to our own lines.”
At 9 a.m. next day the column moved off in high spirits, Lieutenant Roberts conducting the advance, with the aid of a native guide he had secured. The enemy had been led to believe that the movement would be made direct, by the northern route taken by Havelock two months previously. But from the Alambagh the column struck eastwards for the Dilkusha (Heart’s Delight) Palace. The ruse was successful. Having made their plans to meet the direct assault, the sepoys were not prepared for the flanking movement, and no time was given them to strengthen the defences of the positions now threatened. Outside the wall of the Dilkusha Park the column halted until a large enough breach had been made by the guns, and Ted watched the Highlanders of the 93rd pulling up carrots in a field, and, after a hurried scrape, munching them with great content.
The obstruction was short; a portion of the park wall was soon broken down, and in went the Highlanders, eager to close. But the rebels had fled. A staff-officer, short and slight, trotted past as Ted’s Arab was picking its way over the fallen masonry.
“There goes plucky wee Bobs!” he heard a sergeant of the 93rd remark to his mate; and Ted recognized the officer as Lieutenant Roberts. It was the first time he had heard the affectionate nickname bestowed upon the much-loved hero by the soldiers of forty-five years ago. Roberts, an artillery officer, had, of course, never served with the 93rd, but the “Scotties” had seen much of him lately, and even so early in his career he had won a place in their hearts rarely filled by any whose name is not prefixed by “Mac”. “Bobs” they had christened him, “Plucky wee Bobs”. To be known by such a name among these gallant fellows of the 93rd—the famous Thin Red Line of Balaclava—told of unusual coolness and daring.
Ted saw Lieutenant Roberts shoot ahead to reconnoitre, a native trooper following. The artillery officer halted, gazed in front, and signalled for the guns to advance. As he did so the roar of cannon thundered from behind the yellow palace. The rebels had opened point-blank upon the two solitary horsemen from a hidden battery, cutting the orderly’s horse in two, and the trooper fell beneath his dead steed. Roberts was seen coolly to dismount in the face of the guns, and a loud huzza rose from the throats of the Highlanders as he dragged the orderly from under the weight, though the grape whizzed about them.
Under his direction the guns advanced, and the mutineers did not stay to test the British marksmanship, but made off with all speed in the direction of the Martinière. Almost without a pause the cavalry cantered across the high swardsof the Dilkusha Park, the startled deer scudding away on all sides in vain endeavour to escape the noise.
As the Horse Artillery and cavalry drew nearer, the Martinière was quickly deserted, and Boldre’s Horse and a few squadrons of regulars and irregulars pursued the sepoys as far as the canal. There was no dressed line of thundering horses, for the troopers broke off in threes or fours, whenever they saw a chance of engaging the pandies; and Ted, spurring after Govind Singh, who, having the start of him, was hotly in pursuit of one body of rebels, suddenly saw his friend Boldre busily engaged with three faithless sowars and in sore plight. Turning to Claude’s aid, he drew off one, and, with a clever thrust, was able to disable the man’s sword-arm. Boldre, who was no swordsman, by good luck cut down a second, and the third fled as Ramzan Khan came up at a gallop.
“Thanks, Russell!” said Claude. “But look out! here are half a dozen more.”
Perceiving that the two Englishmen were separated from their comrades, a number of rebel troopers—men of the Irregular Cavalry who had deserted Henry Lawrence at Chinhut five months before—charged down upon the little group with sharp, angry cries. Before the lads had resolved how to withstand the shock, Ramzan Khan shot out to meet the pandies, and there was nothing for it but to back him up.
“Plucky beggar! He’ll be killed!” groaned Claude; but to their amazement the orderly showed himself a consummate wielder of the sword. He swerved aside as they bore down upon him, and slashed at the nearest rebel as he passed, the man tumbling like a sack of flour from his horse. Parrying a blow, he disarmed another by a turn of the wrist, and smote a third over the shoulder just as Ted arrived on the scene and made for the pandy on his orderly’s right. Ted swung his sword aloft—and then his head seemed to split, and he sawthe stars dancing in their courses. The sword fell from his grasp, but his knees instinctively retained their grip, and the blood streamed down his face.
“I’m not killed anyhow,” said he to himself, and began to look about him. Ramzan Khan was engaged with two at once, and the cruel-looking little pandy at whom he had ridden was clearly getting the better of Boldre. Ted urged his restive Arab alongside the sepoy’s horse, and, having no sword, clutched the man by his tunic collar and under his left arm, and putting forth all his strength, he swung him from the saddle. Before he could drop him, the sowar, turning half round in the air, got his knee on the neck of Ted’s horse and aimed a vicious cut at his captor. The blow would have done for Ted, had not Claude been able to strike up the sword and give the point, and the pandy sank at the horse’s feet. Ramzan Khan’s remaining opponents had fled.
“You’ve saved me twice to-day, Russell,” said Boldre quietly. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. Something struck me in the face, but I can’t imagine what it was. It seems as if my nose is bleeding.”
Claude roared most ungratefully.
“Why,” said he, “as you charged the pandy, he suddenly backed his horse away from Ramzan Khan, and your Arab cannoned into it, and, half-rearing, he threw up his head and caught you full on the nose as you were leaning forward. Then I drew the pandy’s attention from you.”
“Is that how it was? Where did my sword go?—— Ah! there it is; but what an ass I am!”
“Why particularly so?”
“I never had the sense to use my pistol.” He took out his Deane and Adams revolver and fingered it regretfully, adding to the orderly as they turned back towards the Martinière and again joined their comrades:
“We owe our lives to your courage and skill, Ramzan Khan. You are bleeding. Are you hurt?”
The Mohammedan grinned, showing his even teeth and the whites of his eyes.
“It is nothing. I owed you a debt, sahib, so let there be no talk of thanks. It was for this purpose that my father sent me to ride by your side.”
“I thank you no less,” Ted assured him; and added, “You can use your sword.”
“Ah! my father taught us. He is indeed a swordsman. He will be pleased that I have proved of service.”
As they drew near to the Martinière Claude exclaimed:
“Hullo, there’s our friend of yesterday! Why, of course it’s Peel! What duffers we were not to guess!”
Peel! Captain Peel of H.M.S.Shannon, commanding the famous Naval Brigade with the big guns from the man-of-war at Calcutta. Yes, he it was who had shown them the position of the Residency. Right glad were the troops in Ladysmith of the aid of the sailors and their splendid guns, and glad were the raisers of the Lucknow siege when Peel and his jolly tars came to bear a hand.
The sailors had unyoked the stolid bullocks—“cow-horses” they contemptuously termed them—and were hauling on the drag-ropes, drawing the mighty engines of destruction along as though they were but wooden toys, and the Punjabis of Boldre’s Horse gazed in bewilderment at this new species of Feringhi. Shorter men than themselves, but what giants in strength!
“Who are they, sahib?” asked Govind Singh. “Is it a new kind of soldier like those big warriors in petticoats we first saw yesterday?” And Ted tried hard to explain to the Sikhs how Britain’s chief strength lay, not in her comparatively small army, but in her glorious navy.
“But why are they doing coolie work? They are indeed strong as bullocks.”
“Do bullocks take a pride in their work, or can they do it half so well?” Ted replied. “These men love their guns, and they rejoice in their strength, and so they are invincible.”
In all probability Ramzan Khan had saved our hero’s life that November afternoon, but the same night he was fighting desperately against an equally remorseless foe, against whom his orderly’s swordmanship was of no avail. For he was again down with cholera, and this time a far worse attack than the slight one at Delhi, and when his chums left his bedside next morning they hardly dared hope to see him again. For days he lay between life and death, and then, thanks to a tough constitution and a healthy life, he rallied and began to pick up.
The Martinière, in which he lay, was a vast palace built by Claude Martin, a French adventurer who had amassed great wealth in Lucknow. It was a curious building, with statues placed wherever they would stand, in grotesque profusion. The Frenchman had hoped to sell the palace to his friend the King of Oudh, naming a price of one million sterling. But the monarch had laughed at the idea, informing old Monsieur Martin that by their law the property would belong to the sovereign on the death of the owner. So Martin determined to outwit the king, and prepared his own tomb within the building. In due course Claude Martin died and was buried therein, thus circumventing his royal master, for no Mussulman dare live in a building in which the body of an unbeliever has lain. Previous to the siege the Martinière had been used as a school for the children of soldiers.
As Ted lay in helpless pain the booming of the guns never seemed to cease. In spirit he was back again with the Gurkhas on the Ridge, watching Brind’s battery pounding atthe walls of Delhi. At last the thunder of the cannon ceased, and he fell asleep. When he woke up Alec Paterson was talking to the doctor, and he heard the latter say: “I think he’s all right now; he’s had a bad time, though.”
“Hullo, Alec! Has Brind breached the walls yet?”
“Brind? You’re wandering, old man; we’re just outside Lucknow.” And, faintly remembering, Ted began to collect his scattered wits.
“I’ve been dreaming,” said he. “I thought we were still on the Ridge. I remember now. Sir Colin is attacking to-day, isn’t he?”
“Not to-day; we’re retreating to-day.”
“What? D’you think you can pull my leg so easily?”
“It’s a fact. The force is retiring, and I’ve come on with instructions. Listen! Those are Blunt’s guns.”
“And do you mean to say that we’re leaving Lucknow to the rebels?”
“I do.”
“And Outram and Havelock, and the women and children?”
“No,” laughed his chum; “we’ve brought them away. I’ve just ridden from the Dilkusha, where preparations are being made to receive them. I’ve been ragging you. We have relieved Lucknow, but, not being strong enough to hold the town, Sir Colin is retiring on Cawnpore. He means to send the women to Allahabad and wait for reinforcements. You’ve missed a lot, old man. Your luck deserted you this time.”
“How did our fellows behave?”
“Boldre’s Horse? Hardly engaged. The brunt of the work fell on the 53rd, 93rd, and 4th Sikhs. It was fine to see the two last regiments storm the Sikanderbagh, the Sikhs going off with a rush and the Highlanders after them, racing like mad. A Highlander jumped first through the breach and was killed, then Sikhs and Pathans and Highlanders all mixed.It was fine! The Englishmen and Irishmen of the 53rd did some good work too.”
“Have you seen Havelock and Outram?”
“Rather! Saw the meeting between them and Sir Colin and Hope Grant. Havelock looks bad; I’m afraid he’s a dying man. I wouldn’t have missed these last few days for anything, Ted. Did you hear where I went the night you were taken bad?”
“No. Were you on adaur[1]?”
[1]A surprise expedition on a small scale.
[1]A surprise expedition on a small scale.
“Not exactly. We had run out of ammunition almost, and Sir Colin was mad with the responsible artillery officer. He sent for little Roberts, and asked if he could find his way back to the Alambagh in the dark with a mob of camels to bring back the ammunition before morning. It was a dangerous bit of night-work, but Roberts said he’d do it. So the chief told him to get one hundred and fifty camels and an escort from Grant, and also take back the wretched artillery officer and leave him at the Alambagh in disgrace. Roberts had left his native guide in charge of some Afghans, but the fellow had given his guard the slip, and he was floored. However, without letting on, he asked for an escort of native cavalry. Grant wished him to take English lancers, but Roberts said Englishmen were too noisy and jingly, and helpless if separated. In charge of the escort were Younghusband and Gough, and I begged leave at the last moment.
“Roberts was in a sweat. Before the previous day he’d never been over the ground, and the night was black, and we were liable to wander in any direction but the right one, and unless he got back with the ammunition within a few hours all the general’s plans would be upset. However, with his usual genius for doing the right thing, he landed us within a short distance of the Alambagh, and went on alone to explain, being afraid lest the garrison, mistaking us for rebels, shouldfire and stampede theoonts(camels), and then we should be left. He soon came back to say that they were getting the ammunition-boxes ready, so we quickly loaded the camels and got back in good time. Sir Colin was awfully pleased with him. It was rather exciting. If young Roberts lives long enough he’ll be a great man.”
“He’s a jolly decent fellow.”
“Yes, I saw him do another fine thing a day or two ago. We’d captured the mess-house close to the Residency, and Roberts planted the Union Jack on the top as a signal that we should soon rescue them. He was exposed to the rebel fire, and they soon bowled the flag over. Up he went again, and though they missed him they brought the staff down again. He set it up a third time, and for the third time they knocked it down. But he beat ’em in the end.”
“Good!”
“There was a drummer-boy named Ross,” Alec continued, “who did a similar thing. When the Shah Nujif, the highest mosque in Lucknow, was captured, he climbed like a monkey to the very top, and there he blew the 93rd’s bugle-call towards the Residency while the pandies were making a target of him. Only a kid of twelve too! But I must go now, old chap. Hope you’ll be all right for the final assault.”
A few days after the arrival of the rescued garrison of Lucknow at the Alambagh, Ted Russell was on his legs again, and the risaldar Govind Singh was describing the part Boldre’s Horse had played in the assault. The veteran’s deep-set eyes flashed as he spoke of deeds of daring, when suddenly he changed his tone and his countenance softened.
“He is indeed dead, sahib,” he said quietly. “I saw his grave, and they tell me that the English words on the tombstone mean that he tried to do his duty. The old Mohammedan was right.”
Ted understood that the grim Sikh was referring to his hero, Sir Henry Lawrence, and he asked Govind Singh to tell him more about the saintly warrior. They strolled into the grounds, and in the square their attention was attracted by a solemn group, who stood bareheaded and downcast. Ted approached, in time to see a coffin lowered.
“Who is dead?” he asked in a whisper of a sergeant of the 93rd, who stood by. The Highlander looked dourly at his questioner.
“Wha should it be but the best of a’?” said he.
“Not Havelock?”
The Highlander nodded, and continued to gaze into the grave. It was indeed the hero of the First Relief of Lucknow who had died, and disappointed the millions who had looked forward to welcoming the victorious soldier home to England.
Knowing that his present force would be lost in the mazes of Lucknow, Sir Colin awaited reinforcements. Jung Bahadur, the Gurkha prime minister and commander-in-chief, was marching down to his assistance with a strong column of the Nepal army, and Lord Canning, the governor-general, had advised Sir Colin to wait for the Gurkhas, as their general was keen on taking part in the siege, and Jung Bahadur would be annoyed if he had to return to Nepal without having had a share in any important fighting, and his friendship was worth something to the British. The troops were therefore employed in keeping open communications, and in small expeditions to Bithur, where Nana Sahib lived, and whithersoever the rebels were gathered in force.
Christmas came and went, and a new year opened, before Ted Russell took part in another fight. In the early days of January, 1858, the rebels were attacked at the village of Khuda-ganj, north-west of Cawnpore.
No sooner were the troops within range than the native gunners opened fire, and showed how excellent had been their training. The shells whizzed viciously overhead, and one burst with a crash between Ted and Ramzan Khan, who were within ten paces of each other, the fragments whirring about their ears without touching man or beast. Boldre’s Horse were ordered to retire out of range, and the Horse Artillery began to talk back, and Peel’s tars came running up, draggingtheir big guns along without apparent effort, and, wheeling them smartly into action, were soon pumping shot and shell into the rebel stronghold.
The rest of the troops were ordered to take cover and lie down until the cannon should have played havoc among the mutineers, and prepared the way for a bayonet charge. And now Ted and Claude, from behind the sand-hills, witnessed an unusual incident, no less than open defiance of the commander-in-chief himself, by an English regiment—flat mutiny in fact.
The men of the 53rd firmly believed that Sir Colin favoured the Highlanders unduly, and gave them more than their due. Having learned that he had selected the 93rd for the honour of leading the stormers, they quietly determined to baulk their rivals. The rebel fire was still unsilenced—indeed both Sir Colin and General Hope Grant had just been hit by spent bullets—when one of the 53rd rose and ran forward yelling. A howl of triumph and a cheer, and the regiment dashed after him.
Sir Colin was furious—but the 53rd must be supported, even though they had upset his plans. He gave the 93rd the order to back them up, and Hope Grant advanced his cavalry.
A thrill of delight passed through the nerves of our two lieutenants as the “Charge” was sounded, and the line of British Lancers and Sikh and Pathan Irregulars shot forward at a gallop, knee to knee as though on parade, the earth quivering beneath the hammering, the horses straining as if they entered into the feelings of their riders. It was a supreme moment, and Ted could tell that his good Arab was as excited as himself as the line thundered onwards. And then the regularity of the gallop was spoiled and the better-horsed shot ahead, for the lads of the 53rd had broken Jack Pandy’s heart, andhe was already scudding away with his guns. One party of rebels after another was overtaken and scattered, and on went the cavalry until all the guns were captured and hardly a rebel was left in sight. Then they turned and charged back upon those who had escaped the first shock.
“Hurt at all?” asked Ted as he came up with Claude Boldre.
Boldre pointed to his leg, from which the blood was welling. “Bit of a bayonet prick from a pandy who was down. I don’t think much of it.”
“Better have it bathed, though.—— By Jove, look there! Roberts is a dead man—no, he’s cut the sepoy down!”
The troop of native cavalry with which the future hero of Kandahar and Pretoria was riding had come across a body of mutineers, who, unable to escape, had turned and fired, mortally wounding Younghusband, the commandant. Roberts was hurrying to his friend’s aid, when he noticed a pandy in the act of slaying one of his troopers. He instantly engaged the rebel, and, cutting him down, saved the life of the Punjabi. Turning round Lieutenant Roberts perceived a couple of sepoys hurrying off with a standard, so he pursued and overtook them, and, seizing the standard with his left hand, he killed the bearer. As he did so the other sepoy let fly, his musket barely a foot away. Luckily for England it missed fire, and the second opponent was speedily disposed of, and Lieutenant Roberts bore away the standard and thereby gained the V.C.
“Well done, Roberts!” exclaimed Ted as they watched him ride away.
“Didn’t you shiver when you saw the pandy pull the trigger?”
“I went cold all over. I thought he was done for. But come along and bathe your cut if you don’t want to be laid up.”
“I don’t want that, thanks—not until we’ve driven the beggars out of Lucknow.
“I like that nag of yours better every time I see him,” observed Boldre, as his own horse stumbled towards camp, winded by the long gallop.
“Yes, he was a bargain. I should like to know who owned him originally. By the way, I wonder what Sir Colin will do to the 53rd. The chief can be a peppery old gentleman when he likes, and I expect there’ll be a row.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t care to be in their shoes.”
They were not present to witness the scene, but for once in his life Sir Colin was vanquished. Whenever he attempted to “dress down” the regiment, the “bhoys” of the 53rd, highly elated by the success of their trick, would interrupt with shouts of “Three cheers for the commander-in-chief, boys!” And so rapturously did they applaud and with such hearty good-temper that the old general was forced to laugh in spite of himself; and after that it was no use to pretend to be angry. He rode away amid a storm of cheers. The 53rd had won.
After a prolonged stay at Fatehghar, Boldre’s Horse returned to Cawnpore. Now for the first time Ted had leisure to look round this town, so sorrowfully interesting to the English race. Alec knew the place well, having stayed there before Ted came down from Lahore; so he took his chum to the ghaut where the massacre had begun, and then to that last sad scene of the murder.
There were gruesome sights still to be witnessed in Cawnpore, and, partially inured as the lads now were to the horrors of war, there was that in Cawnpore to make them shudder—bones bleaching on the many sand-banks of the broad river, and corpses floating down its sacred stream.
But the saddest sights of all were those which recalled thefoul treachery of the previous summer. Nowhere did the British soldiers so long to close with the sepoys, hand to hand and steel against steel, as at Cawnpore. Ill fared it, then, with any natives of that town whom the soldiers suspected of having helped, or even looked on, at that dire tragedy. It is to be feared that the innocent sometimes suffered for the sins of the guilty, for the soldiers were not in a mood to discriminate, and they did not know then that sepoys, even of the rebel regiments, had absolutely refused to obey the Nana, when he gave the order for the women and children to be murdered.
The Sikh and Pathan allies had old scores to pay off against the Oudh sepoys, and they were with difficulty restrained. More than one harmless Hindu, who had taken no part in the outrage—who had perhaps risked his life for his master—fell a victim to their vengeance.
Our two Aurungpore officers were gazing upon the waters of the Ganges, some distance east of the ghaut, silent and meditative. Ted was picturing the scene of the massacre, and the terrible agonies of the women as they saw their husbands being killed off by the concealed marksmen without a chance to retaliate; and the horror of all as the survivors were dragged to shore amid the gleeful shouts of the ruffians. Perhaps a pandy had been lying down there where he and Alec stood. His hand went to his sword-hilt at the thought.
Paterson on the other hand was trying to realize that this muddy stream was actually the great Ganges, the wonderful river of which he had heard and read so much in childhood—Mother Ganges, the deity of the Hindus.
A nearly-naked Hindu entered the sacred stream, a brass vessel in his hand. Wading until his knees were covered he dipped the loto in the filthy water and drank therefrom, or rather filled his mouth and let it trickle out again. Thenhe splashed his body from head to foot, and presently crouched down in the water and prayed to Mother Gunga.
“Well,” observed Ted with disgust, “if that chap ain’t poisoned he deserves to be purified. Ugh! drinking that filth!”
“He keeps looking at us,” said Alec. “I wonder what he wants.”
“No good, I’ll be bound. He’s praying now.”
The devotee came to the bank and began to smear himself with holy mud, facing in turn north, east, south, and west. A number of Hindus were now in the water, but none was so devout as he, whom the others watched in respectful admiration. Quite suddenly he raised his arm on high, and, fixing the two with his rolling eyes, he cursed them aloud. Pretending not to notice, the boys turned away, but theyogiran after them, the holy water dripping from his hair and body as he ran.
Calling them to halt, he fired off another volley of curses in a high shrill voice, greatly to the delight of his co-religionists. He called heaven to witness that he hated the unclean Feringhi, and vowed that destruction would come upon them suddenly unless they gave heed to him and returned to their own country.
By this time the yogi had approached within a pace or two of the lads, who were quickly walking away from the scene, and fifty yards to the rear followed admiring groups. The yogi leaned his head forward, spitting forth his curses, and then ostentatiously drew a knife from the folds of his loincloth, and changed his tone in a most unexpected manner.
“Take me prisoner! Quick, sahibs!” he hurriedly whispered. “I have news for you. Your pistols, quick!” and then he made pretence to strike at the nearer boy.
Alec was the quicker to act. He whipped out his revolver,and, springing towards the yogi, who had recoiled, placed the muzzle against his head. The group of Hindus howled with rage.
“Come along, you rebel dog!” Alec shouted in Urdu. “Well see how you like being shot out of a cannon.”
“That’s right,” whispered the yogi encouragingly, and aloud he shrieked appeals to his gods to destroy the Englishmen. Ted had now hold of one of the strange fellow’s arms, and together they dragged him along, he making pretence to resist.
“What do you want?” Alec whispered.
“I am loyal, but I am suspected, and there are spies perhaps watching even now. If I had come to the English camp with the news, or even spoken to you in a friendly manner, I might have lost my life. Three times have I performedpujahere in the hope of a chance of speaking to an English officer unsuspected. My news is that Dundu Pant of Bithur is at Pindijang. Now let me wrest myself free, and you must chase me.”
“How can we know that your news is true?” asked Ted dubiously.
“Ask Lawson Sahib if he will believe Pancham Tewari. He will know.”
An adroit twist and wrench and the yogi was free and running down the road. Ted fired—and missed—and Alec followed suit, both taking care not to hit the man. The onlookers howled with delight at the supposed discomfiture of the Feringhis, and the yogi turned and cursed them afresh, and the boys judged it best to retire when they saw the mob pick up stones and advance to protect the holy man.
“We’d better clear away,” said Alec. “I know Major Lawson; he’ll tell whether the man is genuine.”
“Hope his news is true. It’ll be a feather in our caps if we help to catch the Nana. Where is Pindijang?”
“No idea. It’s rather a fishy business altogether, and I’m afraid it’s a trap.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Ted replied. “I hope not, though, for it may be a great score for us if we help to catch the ruffian.”
They lost no time in reaching camp, and Alec led the way to Major Lawson’s quarters, where they told the story of the encounter with the mysterious yogi, and how they had been referred to him for a character.
“Pancham Tewari is to be trusted,” said the major. “He’s an old friend of mine, and he loves the Nana Sahib about as much as we do, for the scoundrel has dispossessed the Tewari family of their lands by fraud some time ago, and Pancham would do anything to get even with him. I’ll see this matter through. Not a word to a soul, mind.”
They kept their own counsel, and had heard no more about the matter when they turned in for the night. But Ted Russell felt sure that something was in the air, and could hardly sleep for excitement. He dreamt that he was engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with a yogi, who quite casually changed to the infamous Rajah of Bithur, and, emerging from the bed of the Ganges, chased him for many miles, finally tripping him up; whereupon Ted caught him by the throat, and the murderer began to groan. He awoke and listened. Surely someone was groaning close at hand! Alec had of late been sharing his tent, and he stretched out his hand and groped for his chum.
“What’s wrong?” came a growl.
“Listen!”
“It is only the silly camels warbling. Go to sleep.”
“So it is. You can whiff ’em, too! We get too much camel here. I wish the wind ’ud change.”
The camel, that useful but detested animal, grunts andgrumbles all night long, and the soldier blesses him in picturesque language. The fact that, moreover, “’e smells most awful vile” does not tend to increase his popularity.
“I wish you wouldn’t spoil my beauty-sleep whenever you have a nightmare,” Paterson sleepily grumbled, as he rolled over and became blissfully unconscious.
But Ted was restless and could not sleep. The camels kept up their serenade until he longed to sally forth with a whip. Presently a footstep was heard outside and the tent-flaps parted. Ted rose to a sitting posture and laid hold of his pistol.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“‘For Valour’!” came the cool reply. “Why, my V.C. winner, you’re as frightened as a babu! Get up! we’re going on a daur.”
It was Claude Boldre. Giving Alec a joyous kick, Ted hurriedly dressed and went out. The sun had not yet risen, but the camp was fitfully lighted by the wood-fires, around which half-clad native servants squatted and shivered. Others were running to and fro, aimlessly to all appearance, and the horses had begun to neigh. Away to the right he could make out against the walls of white canvas the dark forms of Govind Singh and Hira Singh superintending the preparations of their men.
“Come along, Ted, and have some breakfast,” said Claude, appearing from behind the tents. “Your horse is being looked after. We start in half an hour.”
Linking his arm in Ted’s he marched him into the colonel’s tent, calling to Paterson to follow. As they entered, Colonel Boldre looked up from his map, nodded, and motioned towards the breakfast-table. The coffee-pot was steaming thereon, and the boys did not hesitate. The tent was not more than a dozen feet square, and there wasonly one spare chair. Claude sat on the pallet-bed and Ted on a trunk.
“Are we going to Pindijang?” asked the latter, “and if so, where is it?”
“Why!” exclaimed the colonel in surprise, “how did you know?”
Ted and Alec laughed.
“This is our daur, colonel. Didn’t you know?”
“Your daur! What on earth do you mean?”
“We brought the news last night that the Nana was there,” Alec replied. “We had it from a spy.”
Colonel Boldre regarded them with interest.
“You never told me,” said Claude.
“We were told to keep it quiet,” said Ted.
“Quite right!” observed their commandant. “Pindijang is about nine miles away, and this is to be a cavalry affair. Our fellows are going, with a detachment of Hodson’s and Probyn’s, and a squadron of the 9th Lancers, and a troop of Horse Artillery.”
“The pater’s in command,” whispered Claude.
“I congratulate you, colonel,” said Alec promptly.
In came Major Lawson, and the boys cleared out. The wild-looking men of Boldre’s Horse had broken their fast and were eager for the fray, chattering in groups, discussing the probable destination, and hazarding all kinds of wild conjectures. A few moments later without any sound of bugles, the regiment was in the saddle and trotting away to the north-west.
Paterson sorrowfully watched them depart, for he had not obtained permission to accompany the force.
“Where are the others?” Ted enquired of Claude.
“Don’t know.... Who are these?—oh! the Flamingoes, and there are the Probyn ruffians. We’ve done it very quietly.”
A blurred mass appeared presently away to the right.
“Those will be the Lancers and the guns,” Ted hazarded his opinion. “Yes, there’s no mistaking that music. Good old Horse Artillery!”
With joined forces the little flying column pushed forward at a trot, the pleasant clatter of hoofs and jingle and rattle of the guns forming an accompaniment, inspiring with its martial noise.
A flash of yellow light gleamed far away on the eastern horizon, as the metal upon one of the tall minarets of Lucknow caught the first rays, and the sun had risen. There before them lay the fortified village of Pindijang in the dip hollowed out by the shallow tributary running south-east to join the Granges. The place was walled, and they could see the black muzzles of cannon peeping from the embrasures. The neighbourhood was well wooded, affording good cover for sharp-shooters.
Colonel Boldre grumbled at his hard luck. Half an hour earlier and he could have taken the village by surprise. The fault was not his, for the map showed Pindijang as nine miles from Cawnpore. It had proved not less than a dozen, and would have to be taken by hard fighting, not by acoup.
He sent the Lancers with two of the horse-guns away to the right to cut off retreat in the direction of Lucknow, the Irregular Horse remaining concealed by a wood until the flanking party should be ready to co-operate. Ted and Claude stood watching the Englishmen ride off, admiring the gallant bearing of the splendid Bengal Horse Artillery, a corps that has given so many famous men to India. The lances of the cavalry flashed and glittered as the steel points caught the sun, making, with the picturesque trappings of the Artillery and the fascination of their guns, one of the brightand beautiful scenes of war. The other side of the picture was presently to be seen.
“We’re quite on a hill here,” said Ted. “I should not have thought the ground dipped so much. They’re out of sight.”
“There will be a stream to cross down there.”
Presently a myriad flashing of tiny points of moving fire, like the facets of waves dancing in the sun, and the Lancers were seen emerging from the hollow and trotting up the slight incline. But the guns were not with them, for the wheels had sunk deep in the mud of the far bank. A score of the Lancers had remained to help, while the remainder trotted across the plateau to cut off the retreat.
Suddenly a bank of smoke obscured the trunks of the trees, and the ranks of the Lancers seemed to break up, as the crash and rattle of musketry rang in the ears of the distant onlookers. Then were seen gaps and empty saddles and maddened horses. The officer in command, himself wounded, could be seen steadying his men, and, resisting the temptation to charge in among the trees, he drew them off rapidly and in good order, and brought them under cover, where they dismounted, and their carbines began to seek out the hidden pandies.
Colonel Boldre was visibly agitated. The sepoys had seen their approach and laid a trap, and, should they be strong enough to overwhelm the cavalry, the stuck guns would be lost.
He was about to give the order to support the Lancers, when there was heard a clang and a clatter and a rattle, and a whirl of dust was seen rushing up the slope, as though wind-impelled.
“B. H. A. for ever!” Ted exclaimed. “By George! they are going!”
The sound of firing so close at hand had put double strength into the backs of the gunners, and they tugged and pushed, and the plucky horses also heard the sound, and out of the mud came the guns. Mounting rapidly, the drivers cracked their whips and urged forward their teams of six good horses. The dust rose and enveloped them as they bounded along; then they wheeled, stopped sharply, and unlimbered.
Colonel Boldre’s face relaxed, and he gave no command. The watchers saw the gunners busy as ants; then came a flash and a roar as a shell hurtled among the trees, and a second was in the air before the first had burst.
With hardly a pause a third and fourth shell exploded among the pandies, apparently with deadly effect. Their fire slackened, died down; they wavered, and another shell fell amongst them. Panic-stricken they streamed away towards the sheltering walls. The Lancers mounted their horses; the guns scattered another shell or two amid the fugitives, and, limbering up, rattled after them.
But the surprise had failed, and there was now little chance of capturing the arch-traitor. With poignant disappointment Colonel Boldre saw the troops pouring out of the village through the north-western gate, the exit farthest from them. He gave the word, and the Irregulars galloped away to their left front to cut them off.
Ted’s Arab was both fleet and great-hearted, and he and Govind Singh were soon to the front, half a length in advance of the ragged line. It was a race, not a charge, and Ted remembered with a smile how he had once guided “The Padre” to victory. The pace of the runaways was checked by the river which, bending from the north-east, looped round the western and southern sides of the village, leaving only the eastern side open, andtherewere the British Lancers, nowquite near to the walls. Close behind him Ted could hear the jingle of a gun and the mad galloping of its team, tearing the big weapon along with jolt and clatter. Few sights are there to surpass horse artillery galloping into action, and few sounds more musical; and the noble horses seem inspired thereby, and enter into the spirit of the movement with a zest as great as that of the men.
They were now level with the ghaut, or ford, and a few hundred yards to the west thereof. The guns unlimbered, and, after sending a couple of shells after the leading fugitives who had made good their escape, they opened on the ghaut and got range with the second shot. More than half the pandies were checked; on the one side were English cavalry and a couple of those deadly guns, on the other the only way of escape was a death-trap. Colonel Boldre despatched a body of Probyn’s Horse and of his own men under Claude to ride down to the ghaut and take charge of the prisoners. The rest continued in the track of the Nana.
Ted, Govind Singh, and a handful of the better-mounted men had kept on their way without a pause, and they quickly perceived that they were overhauling the sepoys, the hindmost of whom presently began to scatter across the fields and swampy ground, making for the woods and jungle. And after them went most of the pursuers.
But Ted and Govind Singh with some of their Jalandar men kept straight ahead. They had noticed that amongst the runagates who had stuck to the road were two or three men of consequence, to judge by their costumes and the caparisons of their steeds. And some instinct told our ensign that he in the middle of the group, decked out in a conspicuous saffron shawl, with a glittering turban, was none other than the Nana himself. Heedless of all other considerations he urged his handful onward, speeding farther andfarther away from the main body, intent only on slaying or capturing the Mahratta ruffian.
They were now within a hundred yards of their quarry, and almost up with the laggards, some of whom broke away into the paddy-fields, while those who were not quick enough received short shrift from Govind Singh’s compatriots. With hardly a pause the Punjabis again swept forward, their number reduced by one. As they lessened the distance separating them from the rear-guard a couple of pandies swiftly swerved aside, off the track, and fired as the Sikhs, unprepared for the manœuvre, flew past in a bunch. The sowar on the right of Govind Singh reeled in his saddle and then his horse shot to the front, relieved of its burden, and Ted noticed that a second of his men winced, let his carbine fall, and clapped a hand to his side.
“Forward!” shouted the young officer as the men began to pull on the reins. “Forward! Never mind those two; there’s a big reward for him who catches that saffron fellow in front!”
With much reluctance the Punjabis allowed the two pandies to continue their flight unmolested. The chieftain and his body-guard were within pistol-shot, and Ted fired twice, and unhorsed the sepoy who rode next to the leader, at whom he had aimed. And suddenly the rebels turned and with savage yells charged back upon their pursuers. Ted again aimed at the leader and again missed, and the Nana’s men were upon them, three to one.
With a yell as savage as theirs Govind Singh rose in his stirrups and felled his nearest opponent with one mighty blow, and, leaning forward, buried his tulwar in the shoulder of another. Before he could recover his blade a lance was thrust into his breast, and he dropped like a log. Ted saw the fall of his right-hand man, and was near enough to cut downthe striker just as another of the mutineers rode full tilt at him.
The lance-point grazed his tunic, and he caught the shaft under his arm-pit, gave the pandy his point, and went forward, straight for the man with the saffron shawl, who was keeping well in the background. He cut at the villain’s head, but a tulwar interposed, caught his blade, and snapped it off at the hilt. And at this moment, when the superior strength and size and courage of the Punjabis were barely enabling them to hold their own, the two pandies who had escaped had now wheeled round and charged to the aid of their comrades, taking Ted’s two or three unexpectedly in the rear and deciding the issue.
A tremor of cold fear ran through our hero’s frame as he found himself armed only with a useless sword-hilt wherewith to defend himself. The vile Mahratta raised his pistol, and, at a distance of three paces, fired point blank at the lad’s breast. Ted Russell’s career would have ended then and there had not his Arab, at the very moment that the trigger was pulled, trodden on the edge of a naked blade. The horse reared, received the bullet in its head, and rolled over dead, almost crushing its rider.
One Sikh and one only of the reckless few who had galloped in the wake of Ted and Govind Singh remained alive, and he was unhorsed and fighting valiantly on foot. He hacked his way to the rescue of his officer, and wounded the pandy who, having disarmed Ted, was about to deal a finishing blow. Then he in his turn was laid low. Ted still had his revolver; raising himself on his elbow he took aim at the Nana, who instantly set spurs to his horse, and his two surviving retainers followed his example. But Ted had the Mahratta rajah covered. Filled with exultation at the thought that the murderer was at last at his mercy he pulled the trigger.
There was no report, and he realized with a heavy heart that the weapon’s chambers were all empty, that the arch-traitor had escaped, and that he was helpless!
He rose and looked about him, and a reaction of thankfulness followed the bitter disappointment as the thought stole upon him that he had escaped with no injury more serious than a scratch or two. He perceived that it was lucky that his enemies, as well as he himself, had been under the impression that the revolver was still loaded. What would have been his fate had they known the truth?
He began to search for Govind Singh’s body. The veteran risaldar had ceased to breathe; he had died as he would have wished, fighting against odds. The boy had come to regard his grim old comrade with an affection that had been returned by the risaldar. The other Sikhs were also all dead, so fierce had been the hand-to-hand combat; and of the Nana’s following at least a dozen were slain or were dying. One of the latter, a youngster barely sixteen, was regarding the Feringhi with eyes in which hatred and a desire to propitiate struggled mutely for mastery. Ted divined the meaning of that look and hastened to hand his water-bottle to the sufferer, who greedily gulped the water down and regarded his benefactor with gratitude.
“Tell me,” said Ted, “who was he with the saffron shawl?”
“That was the Rajah of Bithur,” replied the wounded lad.
With a glance of regret towards the good Arab that had served him so well, Ted mounted Govind Singh’s horse, which was standing beside its dead master, and sped away to rejoin his comrades, some of whom could be seen in the distance returning from the chase. Colonel Boldre had many prisoners and several guns to show as the result of the daur, but the main object of the expedition had escaped.
“I was afraid you had been killed, Russell,” said he.
“I’ve lost Govind Singh, the risaldar, and a good many men, sir, and we just missed the Nana. He unhorsed me, and I should have shot him if I’d had the sense to reserve a bullet for him.”
“Unhorsed you? Dundu Pant himself?” exclaimed the commandant.
Ted reported the affair, and Colonel Boldre, uncertain whether to praise or blame, remained deep in thought.
“You had a narrow squeak,” said he at last.
Lieutenant Boldre lolled back in his camp-chair and smiled a superior smile, while Ted Russell scratched his head and gazed with puzzled expression at the carved pieces upon the chess-board.
It was undoubtedly checkmate, and he asked himself, almost angrily, how on earth he could have allowed himself to be outmanœuvred and surrounded, and his communications cut off, in so absurdly simple a manner. Now that it was too late to avert defeat, he could clearly see how his opponent’s attack could have been met and repulsed.
“You’ve licked me this time,” he acknowledged. “I’m playing like anoontthis morning.”
The tent was Claude’s, and it was pitched to the rear of the Dilkusha, or “Yellow Bungalow” as the soldiers called the palace. Ten days had passed since the raid on Pindijang, and many things had happened in the meanwhile.
Having received reinforcements, Sir Colin had once more occupied his old position a few miles south-east of Lucknow. He meant the final attack upon that city to be deliberate and scientific, not a wild rush, entailing perhaps the sacrifice of thousands of lives in the narrow, winding streets, where Englishmen would be at a disadvantage. There was plenty of time, therefore, for an occasional game of chess.
“Have your revenge?” asked Boldre confidently; and Ted replied that he was willing, when in stalked Paterson.
“Well, how’s the deputy-assistant, extra-honorary, supernumerary aide-de-camp? Is he acting as postman?” asked Ted, noticing that Alec had brought letters.
“The mail has just come in, so I picked yours out to save time. Catch!”
“Thanks, old man!” said Ted, as he picked up the scattered missives. “I’ll do as much for you some day, if everIbecome a great man. Here’s one for you, Boldre, from Simla.”
“That’s from the mater, and I owe her one or two already. It’s no end of a fag writing letters. Are yours from home?”
“One is,” Ted replied. “The other is from Aurungpore;” and silence prevailed for several minutes.
“Good news from home, Ted, I hope?” said Alec presently.
“Yes, they’re all well. The pater is wishing he was here with us. He’s been particularly interested in my last letters telling of our doings with the Sirmur Battalion, because he was taken prisoner by the Gurkhas in the Nepal war of 1815, and made friends with a lot of them. The mater is wishing I was back at home. Why do women cross their letters so much, Alec? It’s worse than a Chinese puzzle.”
“Nay, Ted, don’t ask me. I don’t get shoals of letters in feminine handwriting.”
Ted turned red, laughed, and changed the subject.
“This reads very funnily now. They write to say how glad they are that Delhi has fallen, and that Jim and I escaped without harm, and they suppose that by now the fighting will all be over.”
He opened the second envelope, and Alec winked at Claude, who raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
“Surely it ain’t?” said he, rising quickly to the joke; and Ted looked up in feigned bewilderment.
“Of course it is,” Alec answered. “Don’t he look rapturous?”
“And so young!” murmured Claude.
“Yes; he cut me out too. She preferred the colour of his hair, and fancied that she detected more signs of a moustache.”
Alec dodged, as Ted most irreverently threw a bishop at his head, and resumed:
“A nice little girl too, daughter of one of our officers. Does she send any message for me, Ted?”
Our hero was blushing violently. He sprang to his feet suddenly, caught his chum by the collar, and rolled both him and his seat over the floor of the tent, smashing the stool and damaging Claude’s bed. Then, feeling better, he resumed his seat, and Alec picked himself up, laughing.
“It’s a bad case, Claude,” said he. “What does she say, Ted?”
“Well, if you want to know, she asks if I still chum with that ass Paterson, or whether he’s been knocked on the head by a praiseworthy pandy, and a good job too!”
“That’s fiction,” commented Alec solemnly. “Go ahead.”
“She says that the weather is sometimes fine, though not so hot as it will be in June.”
“More fiction. Seems suspicious, Claude, that he should have to extemporize.”
Claude nodded acquiescence.
“He’s in a bad way, that’s plain,” said he. And Ted went on unheeding: “And that Colonel Woodburn is hardly inconvenienced by his wound; that she herself is very well, and has seen Jim several times lately; and that everything is quiet along the frontier; and that Jim is continually wishing that the Guides could have been spared for Lucknow; and that she’s heard of what you did at Agra.”
Here was Alec’s turn to blush.
“Never mind all that,” he interrupted hastily. “What we want to know is what she says about you.”
But Ted winked, and, pocketing the letter, once more assumed an aggressive demeanour.
“Pax!” said Alec, retreating. “I’m not going to fight a chap who’s in the habit of exploding gunpowder beneath his opponents. By the way, have you seen our allies?”
“Not yet. Shall we pay them a visit? Come along.”
Among the latest reinforcements were Brigadier Franks’ column and Jung Bahadur’s army from Nepal. Franks had been operating with great effect in Eastern Oudh, from the Nepal border, and his men were mostly Gurkhas, lent by the Nepal Government. They had done excellent service, and had won one or two quite remarkable victories. Jung Bahadur’s force, nearly ten thousand strong, had just come in, and as the army was aware that Sir Colin had been waiting for these Gurkhas, it was expected that the real struggle was about to begin.
The three lieutenants strolled down to the Gurkha camp to inspect the new-comers, and Ted thought of that day on the Ridge when Reid’s little Mongolians were indulging in horse-play with their comrades of the Rifles, and he remembered how one of the Gurkhas had foretold that Jung Bahadur would bring his troops to assist the British. He little thought then that he should be present to witness the arrival of the famousshikarri.
The Nepalese allies did not, in Ted’s opinion, look quite so tough or so soldierly as his friends of the Sirmur Battalion, and their officers compared unfavourably with Merban Sing and Goria Thapa. There was plenty of good material, but the average, though taller in stature, seemed less sturdy and considerably dirtier. These Nepalese were not all the true Magar and Gurung Gurkhas; there was a mixture of other clans and races, with a bigger proportion of Hindu blood. These were not quite so ugly as little “Johnny”, and they did not possessthe true military swagger and jolly recklessness. Approaching a group whose faces seemed to bear the right stamp, he addressed them in Magar-Kura, of which tongue Goria Thapa had taught him a smattering.
The Gurkhas were delighted at being spoken to in their own dialect, understood by so few foreigners, and they responded eagerly. He tried to explain how he had served with their brethren at Delhi, and it chanced that when he mentioned the name of his friend Goria Thapa, one of the new arrivals repeated the name, and it turned out that he knew the Sirmur officer, and Ted Russell at once became their blood-brother.
As they conversed, barely half understanding one another, the men round about sprang up to attention, and Alec Paterson nudged Ted in the ribs with his elbow. Turning to see what Alec wanted, he perceived Sir Colin, and by the general’s side rode a distinguished-looking, dark-skinned man, clad gorgeously, and ablaze with diamonds.
It was the Gurkha prince himself, one of the bravest of the brave, as Ted had heard, but by no means a merry, good-natured personage, such as his friends of the Ridge. Jung Bahadur motioned one of the Gurkhas to his side, and, looking suspiciously at Ted, he whispered to the man, who informed him in reply how it came about that this English youth had picked up enough of their language to converse with them.
Sir Colin beckoned Ted to approach, and asked questions similar to those being answered by Jung Bahadur’s informant.
“Went all through the siege of Delhi, eh?” said he, when his enquiries had been satisfied. “And your friend also? Acting as lieutenants of Boldre’s Horse now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you the fellows who got that information about the Nana a week or two ago?—— You were, eh? You seem toknow the natives well. Wish more of my officers did. I’ll see about—— Well, what does Mr. Jung want now?”
The Gurkha prince rode up and addressed Ted in Urdu.
“You were with my countrymen at Delhi?” said he. “How did they fight?”
“Like heroes,” Ted replied.
“Ah, that was a fight of giants!” exclaimed the Gurkha with animation. “Would I had been there! But I heard about it, and the death of Nikkulseyn.”
The generals rode on, the boys saluted, and Ted said ruefully:
“I believe he was going to say that he would see about confirming our appointments when old Jung interrupted.”
“Russell,” said Claude solemnly, “I’m going to kidnap that Gurkha chap some dark night with a few of our Sikhs. Did you notice his diamonds? He just dazzled. Hullo, who’s this?”
With a group of English officers who had witnessed the incident was a gentleman wearing an unmilitary frock-coat and Hessian boots, whom Ted had observed more than once in intimate conversation with the commander-in-chief. He now greeted the boys, and courteously asked what had interested the Maharaja so. Ted explained, and the stranger thanked him, and after a few moments’ conversation, in which he drew out the youngsters to speak of those things which interested them most, he rejoined his friends.
“Who’s that, Alec?” asked Ted. “He seems a clever chap. Decent too.”
“Don’t you know? It’s your namesake of theTimes.”
“What? Dr. Russell?—— Crimea Russell?”
“That’s the man. Sir Colin seems to think a lot of him, and trusts him absolutely with his plans.”
Next day began the movements on Lucknow. On themorning of March 6th, Outram, with Hope Grant as second in command, set out to make a flanking movement and co-operate with Sir Colin from the north bank of the Gumti. They were to work along the north-east and north of the city with a strong column, while the main force pushed forward from the east and south-east, the two armies being in touch and their artillery able to play upon the same positions from different sides. The rebel defences, it must be borne in mind, were vast and strong.