Chapter the Seventeenth A Cry in the Night
“What say you, friend?—how will this matter end?”
Chunda Beg seated himself on the wall, against which the havildar was leaning, peering out into the darkness. His rifle lay across his arms.
“Hai, Chunda, is that you?” replied Gur Buksh, in a low tone. “I thought you were snoring on your charpoy. ’Tis a chill night.”
“I slept indeed a little—forty winks, as the sahibs say; then I rose and came out to seek wisdom of thee, O experienced one. How will this matter end, I ask?”
“Who can tell!” said the havildar with a shrug. “The gods know; I know not.”
“You do not know; of course I did not suppose you a soothsayer, a man of double sight, though there are such; I have seen them, and heard them foretell things that most certainly came to pass. But they were fakirs, haggard of cheek and eye, and dirty—mashallah! how dirty! What I meant, friend, was that you, being a man of war, and wise in many things, should enlighten my simplicity, and say what is the blossom and fruit of your meditations on these strange happenings.”
Gur Buksh did not turn his head, but gazed steadily out across the stream. On each side one of his men was patrolling the wall; the rest of the Sikhs were sleeping under blankets on the ground a few yards away, ready to spring up at a whisper.
“The Bengali says we shall all be cut into little pieces,” Chunda Beg went on. “He will make good carving, being very plump.”
“The Bengali is the son and grandson of asses,” grunted Gur Buksh. “He reads books!”
“The sahibs read books too,” suggested the khansaman.
“That is different. They read the wisdom of their own people; the Bengali reads, and imagines he becomes one of them, and talks foolishness.”
“That is true. Yet in this case perhaps it is not foolishness. There are many hungry beasts lurking down the track yonder.”
“Hyenas!”
“Twenty thousand of them, says Fazl.”
“Flat-nosed Kafirs; what are they to us?”
“That is true; they are of very little account. Still, there is a great number of them, and—correct me if I am wrong, havildar—a hundred hyenas are perhaps a match for one lion.”
“Look you, khansaman, we have to make every man here believe that he is a lion. I do not deny that we are in a strait place, but what is that? I have been in strait places before. Hai! was I not one of the thirty with a young sahib in the hills, and did we not defend a post against a monstrous rabble of Khels, and drive them off, and strike such fear into the dogs that they slunk away and troubled us no more?”
The havildar’s eyes gleamed as he recalled that fight.
“And are our young sahibs even as that one?” said the khansaman. “The huzur—may he sleep well!—was a good man, but these two striplings are very young.”
“Hai! but they have red blood in their veins. They are of the race of the Sirkar: they will never yield. Think you of what they have done in these last days. Are they not quick and ready? Are not their eyes keen and their minds swift? They fear nothing, and overlook nothing. Fyz Ali told me how the chota sahib rode back to help him when he was alone and beset by the Kalmucks, and the chota sahib is no man of war. Of a truth, the sahibs know not what fear is. And Bob Sahib carried food to the Pathans up the river; he thinks of their welfare, and they love him. What is to come we know not, but be sure there will be very great doings here.”
“Hark, havildar! What is that?”
Chunda Beg sprang off the wall, and bent over it with the havildar, straining his eyes into the darkness. A faint cry reached them from the other side of the ravine. They listened in silence, waiting for a repetition of the sound. In a few seconds they heard it again.
“A trick of the Kalmucks maybe!” murmured Gur Buksh. “Get you swiftly to the house, khansaman, and rouse the sahib. Say nothing but that I wish to speak with him.”
The khansaman hurried away. Passing noiselessly into the boys’ bedroom, he touched Bob on the shoulder and gave his message. Bob was awake in an instant.
“Tell him I’m coming,” he said.
He slipped on his dressing-gown and boots quietly, so as not to disturb Lawrence, and followed the man across the compound. As he reached the havildar’s side, the cry was repeated again.
“What are the sahib’s orders?” said Gur Buksh.
“Did you hear what he said?” asked Bob.
“No, sahib; it was like the cry of a man for help.”
“Are the Kalmucks playing a trick on us? Have you heard anything of them?”
“Nothing, sahib.”
“Let down the bridge. We had better see.”
“The sahib will without doubt take lamps?”
“Yes, and your men.”
The Sikhs had already been awakened. In a few minutes four of them accompanied Bob across the bridge, the first carrying a candle lamp.
The far side of the bridge rested on a platform constructed on a rock in mid-stream. The rock was connected with the farther bank by a short bridge supported on timbers and resembling a rough wooden jetty. Gur Buksh had said that the cry seemed to have come from the end of the bridge, and Bob searched for some time up and down the track for a few yards in each direction, listening again for the sound. It was not repeated. He proceeded to range the space once occupied by the Pathans’ huts, but made no discovery. Puzzled, and still half suspecting that the cry had been a ruse to decoy him from the mine, he returned to the bridge, and was about to cross, when the man who held the lamp uttered a sudden exclamation.
“Behold, sahib; here he is!”
He pointed to a man lying across one of the girders sustaining the platform. Only his head could be seen. Bob knelt down and stooped over, asking the Sikh to lower the lamp. He saw a bearded, turbaned man in uniform, with arms and legs twined about the girder.
“He is unconscious,” he said. “Lift him up and bring him into the compound.”
The Sikhs had some difficulty in raising the man, who, in spite of his unconsciousness, clung tenaciously to the beam. But they got him up at last, and carried him across the bridge and up to the house. Bob waited to see the bridge lowered again, then hurried back.
“Cold water, khansaman,” he said as he entered.
The man brought a mug of water, which he set down on the table. Bob wondered why he did not himself hold it to the stranger’s lips, until he guessed that caste was probably the obstacle. He himself gave the man drink, and looked at him with curiosity, which became recognition as he opened his eyes. It was Ganda Singh, the dafadar of the sowars who had accompanied Major Endicott on his mission months before.
“Salaam, sahib,” said the man faintly, when he saw that Bob had recognized him.
“Feel better now?” said Bob.
Ganda Singh had closed his eyes again. Bob noticed that he was very pale and haggard, as one exhausted after a long march.
“Just get one of the Sikhs to prepare him some food, khansaman,” he said. “I suppose you won’t do it yourself?”
“He is a Sikh, sahib.”
“Well, cut away to one of his own race, then. He’s fit for nothing at present.”
He considered whether he should wake Lawrence, but decided to let him sleep on until the man was able to explain his presence. He himself was absolutely unconscious of any feeling of fatigue. Ganda Singh’s surprising appearance filled him with overmastering excitement.
Reviving after some hot lentil soup had been poured between his lips, the dafadar raised himself slightly from the couch on which he had been laid. Bob noticed a twinge of pain as he moved his arm.
“Wounded?” he said.
“A shot in the shoulder, sahib—very little.”
“As you came down the track?”
“No, sahib; before.”
He fumbled in his belt, and produced a small piece of paper, folded. This he handed to Bob, who opened it, and read, scrawled on a leaf torn from a pocket-book, the following lines—
“Get back to India at once. Whole country ablaze.—H. Endicott.”
“Where is Endicott Sahib?” he asked quickly.
“In the hills towards the Afghan country, sahib.”
“Near where we left him? He has not been there all this time?”
“No, sahib; Endicott Sahib went back to Rawal Pindi, and came again.”
“And he is well?”
“In body, sahib, wherein I rejoice; but very sick in mind.”
“Tell me all about it; slowly, don’t distress yourself. Here, let me strip off your coat, gently, and see what’s wrong. Wait a little, though; I must fetch Lawrence Sahib.”
Loth as he was to disturb his brother’s rest, he felt instinctively that the news brought by Ganda Singh was to affect their destinies vitally.
“Wake up, old chap,” he said to Lawrence, prodding him. “Slip on your dressing-gown and come into the dining-room.”
“Are they attacking?” asked Lawrence sleepily.
“No. Major Endicott has sent Ganda Singh with a message, telling us to clear out. I’m afraid things are looking very serious. Come on!”
Lawrence waited only to plunge his head into a basin of cold water, then followed his brother into the dining-room.
“Salaam, sahib,” said Ganda Singh with a smile of friendliness. Like everybody else he had a warm feeling towards the chota sahib.
“Now, dafadar, tell us all about it; take your time.”
He bathed and bound up the wounded arm while Ganda Singh talked.
The story told by him filled the boys’ cup of anxiety and dismay. He related how Major Endicott, after pacifying the unruly tribe to which Nagdu belonged, had returned slowly to headquarters, visiting on the way several other tribes within his allotted portion of the borderlands. But he had soon been called away again by news of another outbreak, among the very people whom he had just reduced to quietness. Once more he set off, attended as before by his official escort of twelve troopers. This time he had woefully failed to repress their turbulence, which, indeed, swelled into active hostility. One day, attacked by overwhelming numbers, he had been forced to flee for his life. Before the little party got away, it had lost several in killed and wounded, and the Major, refusing to leave the wounded to the tender mercies of the enemy, had lost his chance of making good his escape. He was headed off, and galloped for refuge to a half-ruined hill-tower some little distance west of his route, where he had been since besieged by the tribesmen.
On the second day of the investment he had scribbled the chit in his pocket-book, torn out the leaf, and given it to the dafadar with orders to leave the tower by night and make all speed to Mr. Appleton’s mine. Ganda Singh had crept out and stolen away to the rear, but his movements were detected, and he had run the gauntlet of a fusillade. One shot had taken effect, but the wound was slight, and he had pressed on, eluded the enemy’s pickets, and after a long round gained the road that led ultimately to the mine. He had carried very little food with him, and was almost exhausted, rather by fatigue than by loss of blood, when, about two miles from the mine, he stumbled upon a small bivouac of ten or a dozen men. Luckily he had heard their horses stamping and champing their bits while still at some distance from them, and was careful to approach them warily. Having no means of telling whether they were friends or foes, he decided to slip past them quietly in the darkness. He could barely drag himself over the last mile, and on reaching the platform, being thoroughly worn out, he stumbled, and only saved himself from falling into the river by clutching at the girder as he fell.
“How long have you been marching?” asked Bob.
“Three days, sahib.”
“And how far have you come?”
“Thirty kos,1 sahib. It was bad marching, but I came as fast as I could.”
“It was good of Endicott Sahib to send you, but why? We are far away from the disturbances on the Afghan border.”
“Ah yes, sahib, but there is talk of great doings towards the north-west. They say in the bazaars that the Mongols have made friends with the Afghans, and offered to share the plunder with them when they make their raid into the Punjab. It is foolishness, as Endicott Sahib said: but the badmashes will do much evil, and the sahib said that Appleton Sahib ought to know, so that he might escape to India while there is yet time.”
“And what about the sahib himself? He will break through, of course?”
“Hai! The sahib will not leave the wounded.”
“He can hold out?”
“Who shall say? The sahib has little food, and the water of the well in the tower is foul. The sahib will assuredly fight as long as he has one cartridge left in his revolver; then.... It is written, sahib; but the huzurs know how to die.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Lawrence. “Can’t he send for help?”
“The nearest post is a hundred miles away, sahib. There would not be time. In one day more, or perhaps two, all the food will be gone. No help could come to him for a week—no force strong enough to drive away the dogs that beset him.”
“Why did he think we could escape, then?”
“Because the road is still open, sahib. The tribes are not yet moving towards the frontier, and the hill-tower is far to the west of the road. If the sahibs start at once there is just a chance that they may save themselves—as one leaves a house before the flood comes up and washes it away.”
The boys felt overwhelmed by this climax to their embarrassments. There was no certainty that they could reach the nearest British post before the tide of invasion had begun to flow. The way might already be blocked by hordes of tribesmen gathering strength for their swoop upon the Punjab—an adventure which, utterly absurd as it seemed, and foredoomed to disaster, would work havoc on the frontier until it was crushed by the might of the Imperial power. They saw themselves shut up as in a trap between the 20,000 men on the north, and the innumerable host which the scent of plunder would attract to the Afghans’ banner.
“We shall have to stick it now, in any case,” said Bob to Lawrence. “Khansaman, take Ganda Singh to Gur Buksh: he will find him quarters. Then go to bed. I will ring for you if I want you.”
When the two men were gone, Bob threw himself into a chair.
“Light up,” he said. “There’ll be no more sleep for us to-night.”
“What a brick the Major is!” said Lawrence. “Poor old chap! He won’t cave in without giving those blackguards something to remember, but if things are as bad as Ganda Singh says it’s all up with him. Nothing on earth will induce him to leave his men, or he might make a bolt for it. I wonder if it was too late for him to send for help?”
“There’s not much doubt of it. A man couldn’t get away quietly enough on horseback with the tower surrounded, and it would take him four or five days to foot it. Then they’d have to get together an expeditionary force, and if they’ve got wind of what’s on, they would hesitate to send out a small light-marching force that might be smothered. These political officers are always taking their lives in their hands. The Major’s a good sort. I wish to goodness something could be done for him.”
“I say! I’ve a notion. What about the aeroplane?”
“How do you mean?”
“Fly to help him. A few of those bombs of yours would work wonders.”
“That’s all very well, I dare say a little dynamite would set the besiegers flying in panic; but to bring the Major away is quite another matter. He’s in a hill-tower, and if it’s like those we saw occasionally as we came north it’ll be perched in the worst possible place for the machine to alight.”
“We can find that out from Ganda Singh.”
“But there’s another thing. Suppose it is possible to come down, will there be time to get the Major out and take him on board before the enemy come back? Their panic won’t last long when they find they can only be hit from the air.”
“It will take some time to discover that, but I foresee the worst difficulty. That’s the sowars. As I said, he won’t leave them, especially as some are wounded. And the biggest cowards in creation—and the Afghans are not cowards—would recover their courage and their wits long before you could fly to and fro with the sowars as passengers.”
“And they’d smash the machine too. It would be an easy target most of the time. I’m afraid it’s no go.”
They smoked on in silence, gloomily watching the rings and clouds eddying out into the dark through the open window.
“Look here!” exclaimed Bob suddenly.
“I say!” cried Lawrence at the same moment.
“I’m going to try it,” Bob continued.
“That’s what I was going to say.”
“But——”
“Hold hard! Just listen while I put the case with my usual sweet reasonableness. You’re about fed up with patrolling the valley, I should think.”
“But——”
“Let me have my say out: your turn by and by. You’re a soldier; I’m not. You’re the chap to defend this place, and, as you said, we’ve got to defend it now. You’ve a head for strategy and all that sort of thing: I’m a fool at it. If one of us has got to go, I can be best spared.”
“You’re talking perfect——”
“I know, but I haven’t done yet. I haven’t had quite as much practice in the aeroplane as you, but I’ve had quite enough for this job. And as for shying dynamite bombs, any ass could do that.”
“I back you wouldn’t find it easy to hit a mark,” Bob got in.
“Perhaps not, but when the mark is a crowd of three or four hundred Afghans I ought to be kicked if I couldn’t score at least an outer. Seriously, old man, this is my job. I’m not such a fool as to think it’ll be pure fun; it’s a desperately tough proposition, as the Yanks say; and of course you’d do it better than I could; but we can’t both go, and I’m sure you’re the right man to stay here. Now have your fling.”
“Well, you’ve put me in a hole with your beastly logic,” grumbled Bob. “I can’t admit you’re right without sort of making myself out to be a sprouting commander-in-chief! My word! It would be a fine thing to get the Major here! He’d take command, and I’d play second fiddle with the greatest pleasure in life. All right: you go, then.”
“Thanks, old man. Just ring for Chunda, will you? I must have a talk with Ganda Singh.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll go straight back to bed. You’ll want all your nerve to-morrow, and after what you’ve gone through you’ll be a limp rag in the morning unless you sleep. Go to bed. I’ll arrange everything. You’ll find everything ready for you in the morning. I think you had better take Fazl with you: in fact, you must, for you’ll have quite enough to do with managing the machine without dropping bombs. Cut off!”
“All right. There’s only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I hope to goodness the wind won’t be blowing a hurricane in the morning.”
Notes
1 About forty-five miles.