Chapter IV
Early morning on the Khyber Hills. Not the autumn morning known to dwellers in rural England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of russet and gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but something far different from that. Here is no green of grass, no vitalising chill of morning air, but instead a dull burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony plain and glowing mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless blue.
In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British soldier stood watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki uniform creased and tumbled, and, though his rôle of sentry was no laborious one, already stained with dark patches of sweat. Around him for miles stretched the brown monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there by ragged-edged nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy beds of which a few withered shrubs and tussocks of grass clung hard to a miserable existence.
Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains barred the view, a rampart of earth and stone glaring red in the sunlight; sheer from the plain it rose, a forbidding barrier between India and Afghanistan, a barrier too with but few gateways, one of which, however—a dark rift in the hills—lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.
Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains, could be seen the mud walls and strong square towers of a Pathan village, apparently deserted save for the occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a few herds of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the hillside hard by. Far away behind him, the solid walls and ramparts of Fort Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh stronghold, and now the temporary abode of her Majesty’s 1st Regiment of Lancers.
Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke, through which now and again could be seen the faint twinkle of lance-point and sword-scabbard, and, the dust at times clearing, strings of mules and horses moving to and from a pond of muddy water. Over all was a pitiless brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its rays smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort Hussein into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.
Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too hot to hold, viewed all these things with aching eyes, and spat on the ground and swore. “An’ this is bein’ on active service,” he muttered, “this doin’ of guards and pickets more than wot a man ‘as in barriks, no fightin’, no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,’ an’ stinkin’ rations and ’ot beer when you git ’ome. Wot are we ’ere for, I’d like to know, wot for did they send the ridgmint up ’ere? Fed up, that’s wot I am, fair fed up.” He paused, took off his helmet and wiped his brow. He then replaced the headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins when out of sight of authority, and, taking from his breast-pocket a packet of “Swell” cigarettes, lit one and resumed his soliloquy.
“Wonder what ‘Ooky’s doin’ over there?” he murmured, gazing towards a hillock some two miles away to the front of him, where a small group of horses could be seen standing. “Fancy the bloke a-sendin’ ’im on detached post, ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all. ‘Ullo, they’re movin’, strike me, they’re gone, now what the ’ell does that mean?” He remained staring vacantly.
Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported, was nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view in the depths of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers were lying; to which force he was now acting as look-out man.
Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by the process known in the Service as “linking,” were the horses, black with sweat and restlessly kicking at the buzzing flies, while their riders, except the luckless Bates and a few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting in a circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation to which the British soldier is addicted. Some yards away Hector Graeme was lying on his back, his head resting on his helmet and a handkerchief spread over his face. For an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but, the flies and heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and was listening to the conversation of the men.
The detachment of which he was this morning in command, or rather one similar to it—for the duty devolved on each troop of the regiment in turn—was sent out daily from Fort Hussein to its present position, its mission being to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen from the direction of the Pass. For the better fulfilment of the task allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear of horseflesh, it was customary to push forward from the troop itself a detached post of six men under a non-commissioned officer. These were stationed on a small hillock about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their orders being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.
To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to a certain Sergeant Walker, familiarly known as “Hooky,” for, as every soldier is aware, in the Army all Walkers are “Hookies,” just as all Clarkes are “Nobbies.”
It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its hillock that had so excited the interest of Private Bates, and, curiously enough, at the same time, the conversation in the nullah had also turned on the subject of this particular non-commissioned officer.
“Think ‘Ooky’s caught the ‘Addy Mullah yet, Jim?” said a voice.
“Shouldn’t wonder at all, Spider,” was the answer, “got ’im tied by a neck-rope to ‘is ’orse and a-bringin’ of ’im up before the orfcer. Now then, ‘Addy, quick march, ’alt, saloot. Stand up straight, can’t yer? and stop fiddlin’ with yer ’ands. This ’ere ‘Addy, sir, ’as been givin’ a lot of trouble lately, creatin’ of disturbances in the Khyber Parse. Most troublesome man, sir, can’t do nothin’ with ’im. Sivin days to barriks? Very good, sir. Right turn, dismiss. Come back, d’ye ’ear, and saloot the orfcer properly.’”
“‘Ooky’s a bloke like a lot more we ’ave in the Army,” said another, Wilde by name, “always a-gettin’ of a man ’set’ and naggin’ at ’im. ’E makes crime, does Sergeant Walker.”
“That’s a fact, Oscar, and ’e ’imself ain’t no perticler class, neither. ‘E don’t know ’is ’orses and ’e don’t know ’is drill, but ’e’s got a kind o’ soapy way with ’im wot goes down with Rawson. Don’t get round ’im, though,” jerking his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to a cautious whisper.
“‘Oo, ’im? Why, Taylor, ’im as is waiter in the orfcer’s Mess, says as ’ow the other orfcers...” The rest of the sentence was inaudible.
“Orfcers, wot do they know? Why...” Mumble, mumble, and then, in the heat of controversy, a voice raised:
“’E ain’t a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the ’ole squadron knows that. Ferrers, ’oo’s Ferrers? Give me ‘Ector, and you can ’ave the rest, ole man and all.”
“Now then, stop that language,” came sharply from a recumbent figure with three gold stripes on his arm, surmounted by a crown. Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly become alive to the enormity of the present discussion, and hastened to intervene. At his voice a hush fell on the group till, authority once more slumbering, the conversation was resumed.
“Wot for then ’as ’e gone and put ‘Ooky on detached post, that’s what I want to know?” said a voice, echoing the same doubt that had arisen in Private Bates’s mind.
“Better arsk ’im, cully, not me. ’E knows ‘Ooky same as ’e knows every man in the squadron, and if so be as ’e’s put ‘Ooky to watch the Parse, ’e’s got ’is reasons for it, same like ’e always ’as.”
A somewhat curious smile played over Hector’s face as he listened, for the speaker was right in what he said. He did know his men. More, he had an intimate knowledge of their natures and capabilities, such as no other officer of the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he tried. However, the other officers had not tried, the study of character in no way being regarded as part of the training of an officer in the British Army. With Hector such knowledge was a natural gift, as well as a hobby, and possibly it was owing to this that he possessed his curious popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson, his squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.
And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately selected a non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be one of the most incompetent in the regiment, for the responsible position he now held. But again, as Private Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these would probably have much astonished that person, as well as anyone else to whom they had been divulged.
Briefly they were as follows. The present was the fourth occasion on which Graeme had been entrusted with this particular mission, and so far as had also happened to his brother officers, the proceedings had been of a singular tameness—no sign of an enemy having been seen and no shot fired. While they were content to grumble, Hector had determined to act and at all costs to have some little fighting to his credit, even if this should involve an attack on the Pass with his one troop.
On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the problem of how his object was to be attained, he had by chance overheard a conversation between the redoubtable Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as was his wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous companion that “give me but arf a chance, and I will show them I am afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass I mean to go sooner or later, orders or no orders.”
Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally, to the astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and told him he would be in command of the detached post that day. This information he supplemented with a few remarks on the necessity of daring and enterprise on the part of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote dealing with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting in defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown. Having thus fired an already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he despatched the man on his mission, observing with secret gratification his victim surreptitiously borrow the trumpeter’s revolver, and with this tucked away in his holster depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than was his wont.
Having then watched the party’s arrival at their destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah, occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing happened. By now he had abandoned hope, and was apathetically listening to his soldiers’ talk when there was a sudden general cry of “‘Ullo!” and removing the handkerchief from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging eyes staring at him from above. It was Bates the sentry, an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.
“Beggy pardon, sir,” he gasped, ‘“Ook... Sergeant Walker, sir, ’as left ’is ’ill, and there’s ’eavy firin’ goin’ on in the Parse, you can ’ear it quite plain from ’ere.”
A chorus of “Gawds,” a scuffle, a rush, and all were up the nullah’s side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed on the dark rift in the mountain wall. Yes, there it was, the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold thrill ran through him—that strange sensation, half awe, half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears the sound beats for the first time.
In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his part. He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few minutes hence be standing in Death’s presence, nay, might have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible as the stones on which he lay.
Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued, but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant and his party was there a trace. They were gone, apparently swallowed up in the mountains.
At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.
At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.
“Made a ’ash of it, same as I thought he would.”
“Been up the Parse, cont’r’y to orders.”
“An’ now ’ookin out of it, double quick?”
“’Ow many’s been shot, I wonder?”
“Mount,” from Graeme, and straightway there was a cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to, regardless of ownership. A blast of bad language rose up like smoke.
“Leave my ’orse alone, Ginger. Get on yer own ruddy ’orse.”
“Which of you blokes ’as pinched my lance?”
“Take yer ’orse’s foot off my carbine.”
“Forward, gallop, march” from the leader, and the troop were off, making for the road along which the horsemen were advancing—Graeme with his trumpeter some thirty yards ahead. As he rode, he thought hard, speculating as to what had happened, and wondering if it meant the chance for which he had been asking, till at length the road having been reached he halted, the troop drawn up in line across the way behind him, waiting for the fugitives, now barely a quarter of a mile distant, and still galloping hard towards him. On they came, nearer and nearer still, till their faces could be seen, and at the sight a simultaneous murmur of “Gawd” broke from the staring men.
“Halt!” shouted Graeme.
The horsemen paid no heed, but still came on, a wild-eyed rabble, their horses in a lather, with necks outstretched as they thundered along the dusty road.
“Halt!” he roared once more. “Halt!” echoed the Sergeant-Major.
“Christ, they’ll be into us,” from the troop, whereupon an ominous murmur and shuffling arose from the ranks.
“Damn it, my lot’ll be off in a moment,” muttered Graeme, and then, inspiration coming to him, “Engage!” he shouted.
Immediately, at the familiar word of command, the murmuring ceased, with a clatter of bamboo and steel down came the lances, and a row of glittering points barred the road; behind them sat a line of motionless figures, soldiers firm and steady once more, their momentary wavering gone.
At the sight the fugitives stopped, and a high-pitched chattering rose upon the air, each man telling his story, glancing the while with fearful eyes towards the mountains behind. Livid cheeks ran wet with tears, and little quavers of laughter, broken with sobs, broke from loose-lipped mouths, the loud gasping of the steaming horses drowning the pitiful outcry; but their comrades behind the lance-points answered nothing, only looked at them, their eyes cold and faces grown suddenly white and very serious.
“And these are British soldiers,” muttered Graeme, a feeling of disgust coming over him; “the others would have been the same too in another minute.” And then rage seized him, and riding up to Sergeant Walker, now a shivering jelly of a man, he began furiously to question him.
In vain, however; the creature was too far gone to answer, and could only babble incoherently, while he pointed with shaking finger to his horse, in whose side could be seen a small dark hole, from which at every laboured breath a thin stream of blood ran out, staining with dull crimson the white dust of the road. At length, patience deserting him, he seized the man by the collar and shook him. This method proved more effectual, and he succeeded in eliciting the fact that he had taken his party up the Pass in spite of orders, that they had been suddenly fired upon from all sides, and he couldn’t clearly remember what had happened then; but they had got out all right, all of them.
“Private Mortlock missing,” said the Sergeant-Major’s voice from the rear, and at the words a cry of exultation almost escaped Graeme, for his calculations had proved correct, and Sergeant Walker had provided him with the chance asked for. Remembering in time, however, he checked himself, and turning his back on the troop began rapidly to consider. The risks were obvious, also the futility of the proceeding on which he had already determined, but of these he thought not at all, for with him an idea once formed became an obsession. It had to be carried out, right or wrong, possible or to all seeming the reverse, for such was his nature. The “how” might require consideration—deep consideration too, as now—but the “whether” never. His course once decided on, doubts never assailed him, and in this he had the advantage over most; for feeling no doubt, and consequently no counter-emotion rising to cloud his brain, this was at his disposal, free to work undisturbed at the problem before it. So now, with all eyes fixed upon him, he sat debating and then the plan clear before him he turned and rode slowly back to the staring troop:
“Men,” he said, “I’m going back for Mortlock, I want four volunteers, who’s for it?” Silence for a good ten seconds, and then out from the rear rank rode a dirty-looking soldier, one Private Williams, reputed the worse character in the troop. Forward he came, and, halting behind Graeme, sheepishly grinned at his comrades.
“I’m wiv yer, Billy, strike me,” said a voice, and Private Rogers, his chum and constant associate in evil-doing, also rode forward and ranged himself alongside.
“I’ll come too, sir; it’s a Christian’s duty,” said another quietly, and Private Green, the religious man of the troop, and an ardent temperance advocate, joined the other two.
A pause followed, Graeme’s eye running down the line.
“I should like you, Haslopp,” he said at last, “to make up the party,” whereupon, without a word, a huge shoeing-smith, the regimental “strong man,” left the ranks, and the number required was complete. “Right,” said Hector, “four good men,” at which unwonted eulogy Rogers and Williams winked in unison. “Now, Sergeant-Major, you’ll be in charge of the troop till I return. Bring them on after me to that rise there, and open fire on the hills bordering the Pass. Don’t suppose you’ll see anything, or hit it if you do, but it will help to keep the enemy’s fire off me. As for them,” pointing to Sergeant Walker’s men, now very silent and subdued, “keep ’em well in front; run a lance into any man of them who tries to bolt. That’s all, I think. Now then, my heroes, forward on,” and, shaking up his horse, Graeme set off, followed closely by the quartette of volunteers.
“A nice selection,” he reflected as he rode, “two bad hats, one religious lunatic and a thick-headed shoeing-smith. Never mind, such as they are, they came at a word from me, and I love ’em for it. Gad, I do. Devilish quiet it all is,” as mile after mile was covered, and still the silence remained unbroken; “nearly there now, must be, and not a shot so far. Wonder whether they’ve cleared off and it’s going to be a walk-over after all. Ah, not it,” suddenly ducking his head, as something sighed through the air above him, followed by a deep bang, while a wailing cry of “Allah, Allah,” came faintly to his ears. “Stooks is at it too now,” he continued, as the rending shriek of cordite sounded from behind, and a flight of bullets whistled overhead. “Lord, we’re in for it.” He bent forward in his saddle and urged his horse forward at top speed, while the air was alive with winged death and the hills ahead echoed to the loud banging of Jezail and Snider. “It’s good though, all the same, worth living for;” and, a sudden feeling of exhilaration coming over him, he shouted aloud. Rogers and Williams screamed hoarsely in sympathy, till a loud thud followed by a ringing crash brought the concert to an abrupt termination. “Who is it?” shouted Graeme, pulling up and looking round.
“Rogers, sir,” came faintly from a dusty heap on the road, the said heap sitting up and looking around with dazed eyes. “Not ’urt, though, sir, it’s me ’orse ’e’s got ’it in the ’ead. ’Ere, Billy,” rising and walking unsteadily towards his chum, “gimme ’old of yer stirrup, I’ll foot it alongside.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” shouted Graeme, “go back to the troop at once, and take your sword and carbine with you.”
“Beggy pardon, sir, Williams and I...”
“Get back, damn you.”
“Beggy...”
“Oh, go to the devil. Come on, men. Let go of that stirrup, Rogers; hit him on the head, Haslopp, if he won’t,” and once more the party were off, leaving Rogers looking sullenly after them. For some minutes he stood there, and then, having addressed a few pungent remarks to his dead horse, unbuckled his sword and extricated his carbine from its bucket, and, one under each arm, trudged away to a rock hard by. Here he sat down, and, having lighted a cigarette, proceeded at his leisure to take pot-shots at the hills in front of him.
Meanwhile, the party, now reduced to four, were rapidly nearing the mouth of the Pass, but so far no sign of the missing man was to be seen. Faces began to look serious, and the sense of imminent peril to strike home, but still their leader held on, though with every yard covered the situation was becoming more desperate.
Suddenly there arose a cry of “Here he is, sir,” and Graeme, looking round, saw Green bending over a heap of khaki lying some distance from the road, the others with their officer having passed it by unseeing.
“Get up, Mortlock,” shouted Hector, galloping towards the prone figure.
“Look sharp, man, there’s no time to be lost. What’s the matter, Green, not dead, is he? Oh—” stopping short and looking curiously down at what had been a human face before Pathan knives had altered it. Much interested Graeme remained staring, till roused by a warning voice.
“Look out, sir, they’re comin’ down from the rocks; they’ll be on us in a minute. Better be off, sir; can’t do nuthink for ’im now.”
“Go to blazes. Haslopp, where the devil are you, Haslopp? Here, I’ll hold your horse; you get down and hand him up to me, put your back into it, man. Oh, for the Lord’s sake, look sharp.”
“It’s all right, sir, plenty of time. Christ, but ye’re ’eavy, ole man. ’Ere you are, sir, got ’im? Not that way, sir. Put yer arm round ’im, let ’is ’ead rest agin yer shoulder like.”
“Damn, he’s slipping; he’s slipped, Haslopp. Get your swords out, you two, look behind you,” to Green and Williams, whose faces were now ashen.
“Orl right now, sir. Gimme my ’orse, Williams. Blast ye, don’t let ’im go.”
“Are you up, Haslopp? The point, Green, mind, not the cut.”
“Not yet, sir, steady,” to his dancing horse; “orl right now, sir.”
“Come on then. Be off, you two, no good your waiting here. Gallop on and tell the troop I’m coming—you too, Haslopp.”
There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained where he was. Not so the other two; they were off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror. It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running alongside, proceeded on their way.
“Price of a pint out of this ’ere?” gasped the pedestrian.
“Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for ’Is mercy to us all this day,” said Green.
“So I will, matey, when I gits the pint. Think the bloke ’ll stand it, Billy?”
“Ruddy oceans, cully,” was the reassuring answer, “and a limon squash for the rivrend Grassey ’ere.”
Meanwhile, Graeme and Haslopp were struggling painfully on. More than once the burden slipped, and but for the “strong man’s” assistance would have rolled to the ground, while, to add to their difficulties, Hector’s horse had been shot through the neck and was trying his best to bolt. From a canter the pace had fallen to a trot, and finally a walk, bullets and chunks of telegraph-wire shaving them at every step. Fortunately, however, the enemy, the party having once moved off, made no further attempt at pursuit. Possibly they deemed it hopeless, more probably the sight of the troop in rear deterred them; but whatever the reason, they stopped where they were, contenting themselves with shooting at the retreating horsemen from behind their rocks. Still, it was a weary journey, and Graeme’s arms were numb with the strain and his brain reeling with the smell of sweat and blood, when at length the firing slackened and then, save for an occasional shot, ceased altogether. Now, but half conscious, yet clutching his burden the tighter, Graeme toiled on, till at last, mingling with the fast-increasing roar in his brain, the thud of galloping hoofs was heard approaching. Louder and louder it sounded, and then round a bend in the road ahead appeared the sturdy figure of Sergeant-Major Stocks, with the troop behind him.
Seemingly miles away, Graeme heard the shout of “’tion” followed by “Carry lance,” and then the white road seemed to rear up and smite him in the face. He reeled, fell forward on his horse’s neck, hung there for a moment, and then, still gripping the corpse, rolled over sideways, Haslopp supporting the double burden till help arrived, when he rode quietly back to his former place in the rear rank.
“Stand ’im on his ’ead, Major; always keep a bloke’s ’ead wot’s fainted lower than ’is ’eels.”
“Take yer ’orse, Cobble, and ’urry up the ambulance. Tell ’em the orfcer’s dead.”
“Do nothing of the kind, Cobble. I’m all right; fetch me a water-bottle.”
“Water-bottle, water-bottle,” from many voices, “’oo’s got a water-bottle? ’Ere y’are, sir.”
“Send the men away, Sergeant-Major, what the devil are they staring at?”
“No business to be ’ere at all, sir. Be off, all of you, at once; never seen an orfcer before? Get back to yer ’orses sharp.”
“Where’s Mortlock?”
“Lying over there, sir, where them men are. I’ve sent for the ambulance; it’s comin’ along the road now, sir. Cut about ’orrible is Mortlock, sir, ’is brains——”
“Oh, shut up, and give me a cigarette.”
“Cigarette, ’oo’s got a cigarette? The orfcer wants a cigarette. ’Ere y’are, sir.”
“Get the troop mounted now, and tell the trumpeter to bring my horse.”
“Better ride in the ambulance, sir, ye’re faint-like.”
“With Mortlock? No, thank you, Sergeant-Major. I’m all right, I tell you,” getting up and promptly sitting down again. “Wait a minute, now I’m ready,” and shaking off the Sergeant-Major’s arm he walked slowly back to the troop.
“Three cheers for the orfcer,” said a voice.
“Stop that and get mounted,” was the surly answer, “right about wheel, walk, march.”
The troop moved off, the ambulance following close in the rear, and in an hour’s time they were passing under the walls of Fort Hussein. These were lined with soldiers in every species of undress, for the messenger despatched for the ambulance had made good use of his time; and all were anxious to see the corpse, which, from Private Wainwright’s account, must be well worth inspection.
“The Colonel would like to see you in his quarters at once, Graeme,” said Ferrers, riding up; “the body is to be taken to the mortuary. I’ll arrange about that,” whereupon without further colloquy the adjutant rode away.
“Curious way to greet a fellow who’s just done what I have,” muttered Graeme, staring after him, “I suppose he’s sick he didn’t do it himself. Gad, what jealous beggars fellows are. Never mind, I’ve got the crow over them this time anyway,” and with a pleased smile on his lips Hector dismounted, and handing over his horse to a waiting orderly made his way to the Colonel’s quarters.
A cold summons to “Come in” answered his knock, and entering he found himself in the presence of two men, one his commanding officer, the other a thick-built individual, whose hair of bristling black stood up around his head like a brush, a round rosy face and staring black eyes completing the picture. This person was Colonel Quentin, generally known as Golliwog, a man who, despite his somewhat quaint appearance, was reputed to be one of the best staff officers in India. As Hector’s fate would have it, he had selected this day for a few hours’ inspection visit to Fort Hussein, which time he had spent on the top of the tower in company with a powerful telescope.
“You sent for me, sir?” said Graeme, addressing his Colonel and smiling as he spoke, the smile fading, however, as he noted the expression on the latter’s face, which, far from being congratulatory or even civil, was unpleasantly hostile.
“Yes, I sent for you,” he answered shortly, “but first let me introduce you to Colonel Quentin. This is Captain Graeme, sir, the officer in command this morning,” whereupon Golliwog rose from his chair and silently held out his hand. He then resumed his seat, his eyes fixing themselves upon Graeme in a hard, unwinking stare, maintained without intermission throughout the ensuing interview.
“It seems, Graeme,” resumed Schofield, “and I regret to say it’s not the first time, you’ve made a mess of things.”
“I, sir, how?” stammered Hector, utterly taken aback.
“By disobeying orders; you know perfectly well the strict injunctions not to enter the Pass, and yet in spite of them your patrol went up this morning, with the result that you lost a man most unnecessarily. Of course, my information may be incorrect, and, if so, I should be glad to hear it.”
For a moment Graeme was silent. This view of the matter was one altogether unexpected by him, and rendered his action the more impossible of explanation from the fact that it was true—though how true fortunately neither his Colonel nor anyone else knew.
“Sergeant Walker, sir, exceeded his instructions, I think, though, I’m hardly to blame for that.”
“Not to blame,” snapped Schofield, “who is then, I should like to know? If you’d given your instructions properly, it wouldn’t have happened. An officer’s not responsible for his troop, isn’t he? A nice theory to hold, I must say.”
“You recovered the man’s body, I believe, Captain Graeme?” said Golliwog gently.
“I did,” was the sullen answer.
“Was the firing heavy when you went back?”
“It was.”
“Hum,” and Quentin again relapsed into silence.
“It’s thanks to that, Graeme, your recovery of the body, I mean,” resumed Schofield in a quieter tone, “and the intercession of Colonel Quentin, who has promised to explain the affair to the General, that I do not intend to carry the matter further. I trust, however, it will be a lesson to you, and that in future you’ll be good enough to obey orders exactly and implicitly. That’s all, I think, unless, sir,” turning to Golliwog, “you’d care to say anything.”
“Of course, Graeme,” answered Quentin, “I’m quite in accord with your Colonel. An officer must stand or fall by what his command does. He has the training of them, he gives the orders, and if the latter are misunderstood he gets the blame; it’s really fair, for he also, and not the men, gets the credit if things go right. A very great many officers can do things themselves, Graeme, but to make others do them for you, you being the head and they the hands, wants a leader. All the same, as regards this morning, I think, and I am sure your Colonel agrees with me, that your personal share was creditable, most creditable.”
“Oh, most creditable,” snarled Schofield.
“That’s all I wish to say, Colonel,” continued Quentin. “Good-bye, Graeme, I hope to meet you again some time,” and the speaker’s teeth gleamed in a sudden smile, as he shook Graeme warmly by the hand.
“That’s a curious-looking officer, Schofield,” he resumed, the door having closed behind Hector. “Stuff in him, I should say, must be. How does he do his work?”
“Indifferently well, to be truthful, sir.”
“Hum, very likely. Three-cornered beggar I can see. Wouldn’t do for an A.B.C., you think? Belman wants one, I know, for this Tirah show, and if you recommend I could easily get him the job.”
“Couldn’t do it, sir, really; his General would starve in a week, and I should get the blame. As you told him yourself just now, sir, a man’s responsible for his subordinates.”
“Hum, in that case I suppose I mustn’t ask for him. Pity though, I should like to have done something for him. Good-bye, Colonel, I must get back to Saidabad. Not done much inspecting, thanks to Graeme. Good-bye.”
Meanwhile Hector, with wrath in his heart, was striding back to his quarters, passing, as he went, the officers’ Mess, a disused stable, where a crowd was assembled discussing lunch and the morning’s events.
“Hullo, there goes the hero,” said Kinley, seeing him pass. “Hi, Graeme, come here, tell us all about it,” vainly calling. “Lord, he looks sick; wonder what the old man’s been saying to him? Damned bad luck, really, to earn a V.C. and get a choking off.”
“V.C. be hanged,” said another, “damned disgraceful, the whole thing, I call it. Nice show up for the regiment, Golliwog looking on too.”
“Shut up, O’Hagan,” said Royle, one of the majors. “It was a devilish plucky thing to do, and I for one mean to tell Graeme so when I see him.”
“Oh, of course, Royle, I didn’t mean anything against Graeme personally. He did his best to save the situation, but, all the same, it’s not a nice thing for a fellow to have his men bolt, for bolt they did; you can’t get away from that. If I were he, I know I’d send in my papers and never be seen again, not a bad thing for the regiment, too, if he did. By-the-bye, I’m having a small gamble in my room to-night, hope you’ll come, Royle, and you too, Carson,” to another officer who had just entered. “We’ll have dinner sent over from the Mess.”
“Thank you, O’Hagan, I should like to,” answered Royle, but the other refused somewhat shortly.