Chapter THE TENTH: The Delhi Road (1)

"Just overhaul him, doctor," said Lumsden, when he reached his quarters with Ahmed. "He has had a narrow squeak."

"Hair singed, eyes a trifle inflamed; nothing else wrong," said the doctor, after a rapid examination. "Who tied you up, youngster?"

"Let us begin at the beginning," Lumsden interposed. "What were you doing in that hut?"

Ahmed told his story in as few words as possible. The officers did not interrupt him until he began to relate what he had heard the pretended fakir say about the Maulavi. Then Lumsden brought his fist down heavily on the table before him and said--

"That's the rascal I saw at Lahore a few months ago, without a doubt--a tall, lean, lantern-jawed fellow with a beak like the old Duke's. They told me he seemed to be very busy, though no one knew what his business was. Now, Ahmed, could you judge by what you heard whether this fakir had spoken to any other men in the corps?"

"I do not think he had, sahib. He was persuading these men to speak to the others."

"Very well. Go on with your story."

Ahmed repeated, as nearly as he could remember them, the actual words used by the fakir, and then described how he had been seized and carried, bound, into the tent, and lay gagged while his captors discussed how they should dispose of him. When he had related the manner in which he had set the hut on fire, Lumsden looked pleased.

"It was a good thought, and cleverly done, my lad. That's the kind of thing I like to see in my Guides--quickness, decision, willingness to take risks. I shall keep my eye on you. But now, you fellows," he added in English, the other officers having entered the room, "what are we to do about an explanation? The men will be desperately excited, you may be sure; those three scoundrels must be marked off as deserters, and Ahmed must have some tale for the rest of the men."

"Say they were in a funk at burning down the hut," suggested Lieutenant Battye.

"Won't wash, Quintin. The punishment would only be stopping of leave or something of that kind: none of the men would run away from that."

"Ask the youngster," said the adjutant. "These Pathans are good at fairy tales."

The question was put to Ahmed.

"It might be done thus, sahib," said the boy. "The fakir was not a true fakir. He is one Minghal, once chief of Mandan, and we blew up his tower and captured his village."

"I remember. Sherdil told me of that little piece of trickery--a box of porcelain from Delhi, eh? Well?"

"He is my enemy, sahib. We could say that he came to kill me, and indeed he tried to stick his knife into me just before Hawes Sahib came, but I kicked him down. The rest might be told even as it happened, except for what the fakir said."

"Very good. An excellent notion: you others agree? You shall tell them that. Now get to your hut: you have done very well."

Ahmed saluted and went away. He found Sherdil awaiting him in great excitement. The story he told seemed perfectly convincing. The conduct of Minghal was just what might have been expected of him, and the three Guides who abetted him clearly had no other course than to take flight. And the explanation spread through the whole corps next day, and was accepted with equal belief.

When Ahmed had gone, the officers sat up far into the night discussing the incident. It indicated the possibility of grave disorders arising. They were all aware of an undercurrent of disaffection in many regiments of the native army. Apart from the fears aroused by the threatened introduction of the new cartridge, there were other causes of discontent and suspicion, both among the sepoys and the native population generally. The native officers did not take kindly to the system of promotion by seniority instead of by merit. Slight instances of insubordination had been too leniently dealt with by the officers, and the men had begun to regard themselves as of vast importance. Tales had been spread of the difficulties of the British army in the Crimea; many of the sepoys believed that it had been almost entirely destroyed, and the British prestige had fallen in consequence. They had a grievance, too, in the matter of foreign service. When they were enlisted they were expressly guaranteed against service over sea. But the Government, with reprehensible disregard of this engagement, ordered some native regiments to sail across the dreaded kala pani, and when they refused, neither enforced the order nor punished the refusal as mutiny. Since then a law had been passed withdrawing the reservation in the case of new recruits, and the older men believed that the guarantee was to be no longer observed in their case.

Attempts to graft Western ideas and customs on an Oriental people had embittered the populace generally. Changes in the land system which had prevailed from time immemorial had exasperated the zamindars. Interference with the native customs in regard to succession had enraged the princes, and the recent annexation of the province of Oudh had alienated an immense population from which the native regiments were largely recruited.

These and other matters bred a spirit of unrest and distrust, and made the minds of the sepoys fit soil for the seeds of disaffection which religious fanatics were beginning to sow among them.

The possibility of a general rising caused grave disquiet to a few of the more thoughtful of the British authorities--those who knew the natives best, and were aware of the lengths to which superstition might drive them. But the great majority were blind to what was passing under their eyes, and disregarded the warnings of the keener-sighted. Even when, on February 27, the 19th Native Infantry at Barhampur rose in mutiny, impelled by a panic fear that the greased cartridges were to be forced on them at the muzzles of our guns, the incident was regarded as an isolated eruption instead of a symptom of general uneasiness, and a strange lack of firmness was shown in dealing with it. "A little fire is quickly trodden out which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench."

Major Lumsden felt that he could trust the Guides. They were not affected by many of the matters that agitated the other native regiments. Their officers had shown such tact and wisdom in respecting their religious scruples that the men had no fears of enforced conversion to the Christian faith. Peculiar ties of personal loyalty and devotion bound officers and men together; the latter had "eaten the sahibs' salt," and had developed a singular pride in the honour of the corps. They had, further, a vast contempt for the sepoys of the native regiments of the line. The latter assumed insufferable airs of superiority towards the Sikhs, Panjabis, and hill-men, from whom the Guides were mainly recruited, and turned the cold shoulder on such of them as enlisted in their own regiments. But though Lumsden had this confidence in his men's loyalty, he was not blind to the necessity of watchfulness. At the first hint of trouble he gave orders that any wandering fakir who might be discovered in the neighbourhood of the fort should be intercepted and severely dealt with.

A few weeks after news arrived of the rising at Barhampur, Lumsden left Hoti-Mardan at the head of his mission to Kabul. Among the officers who accompanied him was Dr. Bellew. The command of the Guides during his absence was given by Sir John Lawrence to Captain Daly, commander of the 1st Panjab Cavalry. The Guides awaited with considerable curiosity the arrival of their new commander. He reached Hoti-Mardan at sunset on the 28th of April, and the genial manner of his address to the men on the parade-ground next day, coupled with his reputation as a gallant soldier, won their instant confidence.

"Daly Sahib is a good man," said Sherdil to Ahmed, "though in truth he has not so much hair as Lumsden Sahib."

Thus he alluded to his new commander's premature baldness. Sherdil was rejoicing in the rank of naik, to which Lumsden had promoted him before leaving the fort. The good fellow was perfectly convinced that he owed his new dignity not merely to his merits, but to the broad hint he had given his commander, and suggested that Ahmed should look out for an opportunity to make a similar suggestion to Daly Sahib.

"I must wait until I have been in the corps as long as you," replied Ahmed, with a laugh.

Daly had been but a fortnight in his command when he received grave news in a letter from Colonel Edwardes at Peshawar. Edwardes had heard by telegraph that on Sunday, the 10th of May, the sepoys at Meerut had mutinied. Five days before, when cartridges were served out to the men of the 3rd Native Light Cavalry for the parade ordered for the next morning, eighty-five troopers refused to receive them. They were tried for this breach of discipline by a court-martial of native officers, and condemned to various terms of imprisonment. On the evening of the following Sunday, when the bells were tolling for church, the sepoys of the 11th and 20th line regiments and the 3rd Cavalry broke out of their lines, and while some set fire to the bungalows of the Europeans, others hastened to the prison, loosened the gratings of the cells, and dragged out their manacled comrades. Their fetters were struck off; then the mutineers set off on a mad riot of destruction, burning houses, smashing furniture, massacring every white man and woman whom they met.

General Hewitt had with him at Meerut a regiment of cavalry, the 60th Rifles, and a large force of artillery. With incredible lack of enterprise he kept them at bivouac during the night, allowing the mutinous sepoys to set off unmolested on the thirty-six miles' march to Delhi. Horse and foot made all haste through the darkness, reached the Jumna at sunrise, crossed by the bridge of boats, and entered the gates of Delhi exultant. Their arrival was the signal for a general rising. They massacred without mercy all the English people upon whom they could lay hands, men, women and children, and the streets of the ancient city were a scene of plunder and butchery.

With this terrible news Daly received orders to march for Delhi with the Guides. The men had been fasting all day: it was Ramzan, the Mohammedan Lent; but at six o'clock the same evening they set off, five hundred strong, a hundred and fifty being cavalry, on their long march of five hundred and eighty miles. At midnight they reached Nowshera, the first stage of their journey, and were up again at daybreak. It was the hottest season of the year; the sun beat mercilessly down upon them; and the burning march to Attock, the next stage, taxed their endurance to the uttermost. But not a man fell out, and after resting until two o'clock next morning they were on foot again, springing up with cheerful alacrity at the sound of the bugle. A dust-storm swept upon them as they started; they plodded steadily through it, marched for thirty-two miles with only the briefest halts, rested during the day at Boran, and were off again soon after midnight on the next stage of thirty-two miles to Jani-ki-sang.

Another night march brought them to Rawal Pindi. There they heard how the mutiny was spreading--a terrible tale of rapine, incendiarism and massacre; and--a little light amid the darkness--how native princes in various parts were showing a noble loyalty, and placing their swords at the service of the British. There, too, Sir John Lawrence reviewed the corps, gave the men unstinted praise for their patience and endurance under fatigue, and did all he could for their comfort. He spoke to many men personally as he passed down the lines, and, halting before Ahmed, said in his gruff voice--

"Where did I see you last, young man?"

"At Peshawar, sahib, when I spoke to your honour about my father, Rahmut Khan."

"Ah yes, I remember. I am glad to see you in such good company."

And he passed on, leaving Ahmed in a glow of pleasure.

Night after night the march continued. Sometimes the troopers dozed on their horses and had to dismount and go on foot in order to keep themselves awake. Even that remedy failed, and once Ahmed slept as he walked, and still trudged on when the rest halted, until Sherdil took him by the shoulder and shook him into wakefulness.

Early in the morning of June 6, when the corps had been marching for more than three weeks, they arrived at Karnal, about three days' march from Delhi, their goal. They had scarcely halted when Mr. Le Bas, the magistrate, came to Captain Daly with a request that he would destroy two or three villages in the neighbourhood whose inhabitants had proved very troublesome and were threatening the lines of communication. Daly was loath to delay; there was sterner work before him than the operations of a police officer; but the magistrate being very pressing, he at last consented to devote a day to the work required. After a few hours' rest a portion of the Guides marched out to the villages in question, forced their way into them with the loss of one man killed and three wounded, and set fire to the houses.

A party of about a dozen Guides, Ahmed among them, with Sherdil at their head, set off to ride down a body of armed villagers mounted on hardy country-bred ponies. The Guides' horses were feeling the strain of the previous three weeks' marching, while the villagers' mounts were fresh; but it was a point of honour with the Guides never to let their enemy escape, and Sherdil pushed on for mile after mile, gradually overhauling the fugitives. Captain Daly's orders were that no prisoners were to be taken; not one of the hapless villagers escaped.

As the little party was returning at a foot pace to rejoin their comrades, they caught sight of a group of bearers carrying a palki, and escorted by a couple of horsemen. Thinking it probable that the palki contained a village headman endeavouring to escape in a vehicle ordinarily used only by native ladies, Sherdil decided to give chase; it would be a notable feather in his cap if he could march into Karnal and hand over to Captain Daly the ringleader in the recent troubles.

"Daly Sahib will make me a dafadar at once," he said, with a chuckle, to Ahmed. "True, the palki may hold no person at all, but only treasure; I know their ways. But we shall have something for our pains, Ahmed-ji."

The men carrying the palki could not go quickly, but they were more than a mile distant, and the Guides' horses were so done up that they were incapable of more than a canter. Still, unless the quarry should be able to hide, they might be overtaken in the course of a quarter of an hour. Sherdil led the way, the sowars following in a scattered line. They had scarcely ridden three or four hundred yards when they came suddenly to a deep nullah. Sherdil attempted to leap his horse over it, but the animal was too wearied for the effort; it failed to clear the gully, and fell with its rider. The trooper next behind his leader met with the same mishap. Then came Ahmed. Being a little in the rear of the others, he had had time to prepare for the leap, and his horse Ruksh, besides being superior to the rest, was less fatigued through having had to carry a lighter weight. He took the leap gamely and landed safely on the other side, although with only an inch or two to spare.

Being safely over, Ahmed pulled up his horse and called down to Sherdil to hear if he was hurt.

"A sprained ankle, no more, Allah be praised," his friend replied.

"And the horse?"

"I am feeling his joints. Do not wait, Ahmed-ji; ride after the sons of perdition. Hai! It will not be I that am made a dafadar, but you a naik. It is fate. Go on; we will follow."

Ahmed at once set his horse to a gallop. The palki-wallahs were out of sight now, hidden by a slight wooded undulation of the ground. Eager that they should not escape him, and fired with the excitement of the chase, Ahmed did not wait to see how the rest of his comrades fared, but pressed on as fast as he could. He glanced round once and saw that the troopers had halted on the further side of the nullah; but he had no doubt that they would soon find a means of crossing or skirting it and follow at his heels.

As he reached the crest of the rising ground, he saw the fugitives hurrying across the plain not more than half-a-mile distant. Apparently they were aware of the chase, for they were straining every effort, and the horsemen every now and then plied the flats of their swords vigorously on the bearers' backs to encourage them. Again they disappeared from Ahmed's view, entering a small copse. He gave Ruksh a touch of the spur, followed the party through the copse, and caught sight of them again, now no more than two hundred yards away.

The two horsemen were at some little distance apart. They were both somewhat corpulent, and there was no look of the warrior about them. One of them turned, and, catching sight of the figure in khaki coming at speed, he shouted to his companion and then dug his spurs into his horse and rode with all haste towards a patch of woodland beyond. Ahmed set him down as a cowardly Hindu, yet felt some surprise at his flight. Surely six men might have the courage to try conclusions with a single horseman. If he had had time to think he might have concluded that the runaway was not aware that his pursuer was for the moment alone; but having previously seen the whole party of Guides, feared that they were close behind. Whatever his thoughts may have been, his companion was made of sterner stuff. He disregarded the other's warning shout; at the very instant when his companion fled, he wheeled his horse and stood to face the attack.

Ahmed now saw that the man had a pistol in one hand and a talwar in the other. But it was clear that he was not a practised combatant. Had he taken aim without flurry he could have shot Ahmed with ease, for the lad's carbine was empty, all his powder and shot having been used up during the recent fight. The horseman took a hurried snap-shot at him, and missed. At the moment when the man fired Ahmed was approaching him from the near side. By a slight touch on the flank of his horse--a touch so slight that an ordinary horse in full gallop would have been quite unaffected by it--he changed the direction of the arab and came up on the off-side of his adversary. The man seemed bewildered by the sudden change in the point of attack. Before he could swing round to parry the stroke, Ahmed's sword caught him at the shoulder; he toppled sideways from his saddle to the ground; and his horse bolted.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

The Missy Sahib

During this little encounter the bearers had done what might have been expected of men of their class. They had set the palki down, and stared in open-mouthed confusion, irresolutely watching the course of events. When Ahmed had disposed of his opponent, who lay groaning on the ground, they laid hands on the poles as if to make an attempt to escape with their burden. But Ahmed called to them to stand fast. He used words of Urdu, the common language of Hindustan, though to him it was a foreign tongue. The Guides, being drawn from many different races of the north-west, had developed a patois of their own--a strange compound of hill dialects with Urdu and even English. Ahmed in his early childhood had learnt to prattle in Urdu with his ayah and the other servants, and in Hoti-Mardan he had quickly picked up more than he had known before, so that his cry was quite intelligible to the bearers. But even if they had not understood his words, they could have been under no misapprehension of the meaning of his tone. They let the palki fall again, and stood trembling.

"What have you got in the palki?" asked Ahmed sharply.

The men remained silent, looking one at another: it was as though none cared to accept the responsibility of being spokesman. Ahmed had contemptuously sheathed his sword after the fall of his adversary, the cringing bearers being of no account to a Pathan. But now he made a movement as if to draw it again. It was enough. The four men made haste to speak at once, and in faltering tones confessed that there was a person in the palki.

"The headman?" cried Ahmed quickly.

"Not so. It is not a man."

"One of his wives, then?"

"Not so, O strong one: verily it is a person of the Feringhis; a missy sahib."

A missy sahib! This was strange news. Ahmed scarcely knew what to make of it.

"How comes the missy sahib here?" he asked.

"Thy servants tell the truth," said one of the men. "The missy sahib was taken this very morning by the master that now lies on the ground."

"Taken? Where from? What means this? Speak the truth, and quickly, or verily, thou son of a dog, my sword will taste somewhat of thy jellied flesh."

"This is the truth," said the man. "The missy sahib was in the city of the king, but she escaped the killing by the aid of an ayah and a khitmutgar, who took her to the housetop of a man that was friendly to the sahibs. But there were some that suspected he was not faithful to the true king Bahadur Shah----"

"Dog, remember that I serve the sahibs, and name not that master of cut-throats to me."

"Have mercy, O right-hand of the sahibs, we are but poor men. It was as thy servant said: some suspected him of favouring the sahibs, and the housetop was no longer a safe place for the missy sahib. So the ayah clad her as our women are clothed, and put ornaments about her arms and feet, and a veil over her face, and by ill-luck they passed through the gates----"

"By ill-luck, thou dog! 'Twas by the favour of Heaven."

"How should our humbleness know? They came through the gates--by the favour of Heaven--the missy sahib being called the new wife of one of the princes. We were even on our way--the missy sahib, and the ayah, and the khitmutgar, and we hired bearers also--to Karnal, when behold we were met by a zamindar of the village which your mightiness has laid waste this day. To him--it is even he that lieth now at the point of death--the khitmutgar said even as I have told, that in the palki sat the new wife of one of the princes of Delhi, supposing that he would salaam and pass on with reverence. But he saw through their pretence, and demanded that the cover should be lifted that he might see the noble lady with his own eyes. And behold, the missy sahib, being hot and in a great fear, had taken the veil from her face, and sat even as the shameless women of the Feringhis----"

"Son and grandson of dogs," cried Ahmed, "tell thy tale without this insolence, or verily I will slice thee and leave thee for carrion."

"I but repeat the words of the zamindar, O merciful. He cried out with great laughter when he saw the white face of the missy sahib, and bade us carry the palki to his village. And but a little after we had entered came one running, to say that your mightinesses were riding fast upon the place. The zamindar is not a man of war, and he lay for a time in his house, hoping that if his face was not seen by the Feringhis he would escape the edge of the sword. But when it was told him that the men of Lumsden Sahib had entered and were burning, he stowed some jewels in his pockets, and placed more in the palki--they are even beneath the cushion whereon the missy sahib sits--and he bade us hasten out of the gate with the palki, purposing to reach Gungah, ten koss to the north-east, and there dwell with his brother. And then thou didst come upon us like a swift breath, and the zamindar hath not escaped the edge of the sword. It is fate: who can strive against it? I have spoken the truth."

"Well for thee!" cried Ahmed. "And what became of the ayah and the khitmutgar?"

"Truly we left them in the house, and without doubt they are burnt up in the flames kindled by the Feringhis' servants."

Ahmed was nonplussed. He looked round for Sherdil and his party; there was no sign of them. The sooner he rejoined them the better. Suddenly he heard a voice from the interior of the palki; it was thrown open, and turning, he saw the face of a young English girl.

"You are a friend of the sahibs?" she said in faltering Urdu.

"Truly," said Ahmed, and then stood speechless. Into his mind came a dim recollection of having seen ladies such as this long years before, when he was a tiny child, before that terrible day when his father had been killed in his tent. The girl's voice recalled other voices; he seemed to hear them speaking to him, and to see tall ladies with unveiled faces bending over him, and--yes, surely one of them had given him the wooden sword which had so much amused Rahmut Khan when he had first seen him, and another had given him a little horse, on which his ayah used to draw him about the room.

"You will help me?" said the girl again in the native speech.

"Yes!" Ahmed was on the point of telling the girl that he was English like herself; she would then have greater confidence in him. But he checked himself; it was not time for that, especially with Hindus in hearing and possible danger all around. "I will help the missy sahib," he said. "What would the missy sahib wish me to do?"

"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell what would be best. My father and mother were killed in Delhi" (her speech was broken by sobs), "and many of my friends, and I do not know whether even one of them escaped. If you take me to the sahibs you shall have much bakshish."

"I am of the Guides of Lumsden Sahib," said Ahmed simply. And then he bade the men lift the palki with its fair burden and follow him. They left the zamindar where he lay.

He reached the nullah about half-an-hour after he had left it. To his surprise, Sherdil and his comrades had disappeared. Examining their tracks he saw that they must have gone back the way they had come. Why had they deserted him? He felt uneasy. It was already late in the afternoon; Karnal, so far as he could judge after his riding across country, was at least three koss distant; and no doubt between that town and the place where he now was there were scores of villagers whose homes had been burnt, but who had themselves been more lucky than the zamindar, and escaped.

He made for the shelter of an adjacent copse, so that the party might at least be safe from observation while he decided what to do. When they were among the trees, Ahmed ordered the men to squat down beside the palki and beware of his sword if they attempted to move. A sudden rush of four men upon one would have been dangerous; but these palki-wallahs were not enterprising, and Ahmed's bold and contemptuous attitude did not encourage them to run any risks. Keeping a wary eye on them, however, he went a little apart to consider.

It was drawing towards night, and he was, as he guessed, several koss from Karnal, the nearest place where he knew there were white men. He could not ride thither and bring help for fear of what might happen during his absence. If the party set off to walk, they might easily lose the way, and possibly encounter bands of hostile villagers or even roving mutineers. In a few hours the Guides would no doubt leave Karnal for their usual night march, and his duty was to rejoin them as soon as possible. It seemed on the whole best to remain in hiding until darkness fell, and then attempt to reach the Delhi road, so as either to intercept the Guides, or, if they had already passed, to follow in their tracks. Whether he could gain the road in the darkness would depend mainly on the knowledge of the palki-wallahs, for though his own sense of locality and direction was keen, as became one accustomed to wander among the hills of the Afghan border, his course had been so erratic since he left Karnal with the Guides in the morning that he was now quite at a loss.

There was one risk to be guarded against: the escape of any of the men in the darkness. If one of them should get away, he might bring the whole countryside down upon the party. A few minutes' thought sufficed to settle that problem. As a preliminary, Ahmed made the men hand over their knives to him; the rest of his device he would put in operation when the time for starting came.

The party was not unprovided with food. Ahmed had already seen the men eating chapatis, which they had taken from their wallets, and when he went up to the palki to acquaint the missy sahib with his purpose he found her eating some fruit. The zamindar had shown forethought in thus providing against a possibly prolonged march. Ahmed found it rather difficult to explain his design to the girl, whose stock of Urdu extended little further than the ordinary phrases used between masters and servants. The girl acquiesced in his plan; she was indeed too frightened, and too anxious to gain a shelter with white people, to be able to criticize or suggest.

Before it became completely dark, Ahmed collected some long strands of a creeping plant that grew plentifully in the copse. With these he tied the bearers two by two together, in such a way that while their movements in carrying the palki would not be sensibly impeded, any attempt to take flight would be hopeless. The legs of the two men who went in front were fastened to those of the two behind, so that when they set off they would have to keep step. He had never seen a three-legged race; but if they tried to run away the result would be not unlike that when two boys insufficiently practised in that sport attempt to run: one would trip the other. The ends of the strands were so firmly knotted that they could not be undone easily, and Ahmed would have plenty of time to catch the men if they were so ill-advised as to bolt. These preparations having been made--not without sundry complaints and protests on the part of the men--Ahmed asked them whether they could find their way to the Delhi road. They eagerly professed that they knew the way perfectly; they were, in fact, so desirous of getting rid of this masterful Pathan that they would have agreed to lead him anywhere. He made them understand that any attempt at treachery would be fatal to them, while, on the other hand, there would be much bakshish if the missy sahib was brought safely to her friends. Then, a little after darkness had fallen, he mounted his horse, which had meanwhile been quietly browsing, bade the men take their places at the poles, and gave the order to start.

They marched on steadily for an hour or more, then took a short rest and set off again. Ahmed was by no means easy in mind. While he felt pretty sure that there was no enemy in sufficient force across the Delhi road to interrupt communications, he suspected that the whole country was infested with disaffected persons, and that parties of rebels and robbers were roving about, ready to swoop down upon any one worth plundering. It would matter nothing whether such a person were well or ill affected to the sahibs: unless he were accompanied by an adequate escort he would stand small chance against the rebel troops and the lawless element of the population, who had taken advantage of the disturbances to plunder their own countrymen and the hated Feringhis impartially. As he rode, therefore, Ahmed was ever on the alert to catch the first sound of a body of men approaching, or anything that should indicate the neighbourhood of a village.

But nothing occurred to cause alarm. The party marched on, through fields, over slight nullahs and across small streams, until, some time after midnight, they struck into a broad dusty track which the men said was the high-road to Delhi. Here Ahmed called a halt, and sat his horse intently listening. Had the Guides passed? he wondered. For the moment he could not tell. He heard nothing but the faint barking of dogs in the distance. He asked the men the name of the village whence the sound came. It was Panipat, they told him, about six koss south of Karnal, and probably half-a-koss from where they were at that moment standing. He was in a quandary. If the Guides had not passed, it would be well to wait for them. On the other hand, if they had passed he stood a poor chance of overtaking them. Well he knew the rate at which they could march! The four bearers, encumbered with the palki, could not move at anything like the pace of the Guides. He dared not leave them; they could not be relied on, no matter what bakshish were promised, when it was a Feringhi lady who was concerned: they might get more bakshish by delivering her up. He thought for a moment of setting her behind him on his arab and making a dash for Karnal, where she would be safe with Le Bas Sahib; but Panipat was in the way: if it were not held by the sahibs the risk was too great. On the other hand, even if he knew that the Guides were now on the road south of him, he might not overtake them before daylight, and no doubt there were other villages to pass through. Were the girl seen by any passing native, he would soon have every freebooter of the countryside upon his tracks, for he knew the extraordinary speed with which the news of such a discovery would travel. Then, his horse bearing a double burden, he could scarcely hope to outride any pursuers.

But, since delay was dangerous, it was necessary for him to make up his mind to some course, and he thought it best to push along the highway southward, keeping a sharp look-out for hostile parties. No doubt he would have sufficient warning of their presence to give him time to find some temporary hiding-place by the roadside. The absence of any sound from the north persuaded him that the Guides had already passed, and then he bethought himself that he might possibly prove it by examining the dust of the road. Dismounting, he struck a light with flint and steel, ignited his tinder, and, shielding it with his pagri, blew up a sufficient glow to throw a faint light on the road. The dust was marked with a great number of foot-prints, both of men and of horses, many of them so blurred as to be indistinguishable. But after a little Ahmed's trained eye noticed several which were clearer than the rest; without doubt they were made by the horses coming at the end of a troop. He easily distinguished the four hoof-marks of a single horse: the mark of the hind-foot coming close behind that of the fore-foot: and by the distance between the successive impressions he knew that the horse had been going at a walking pace. The print was very like that which would be made by the shoe of one of the horses of the Guides; and the evidence was so clear that a considerable troop had passed along the road not many hours before that he felt sure his comrades were ahead of him.

He wondered whether there was any chance of catching them up. It occurred to him that he might quicken the pace of the party by relieving the palki-wallahs of their burden for a time, so he asked the missy sahib, through one of the men, to alight and mount his horse while he led the animal. Tired as she was of her cramped position in the palki, and not a little discommoded by the jolting movements of the vehicle as the men trudged over the rough ground, the girl consented with alacrity. Thus lightened, the men stepped forward at a good pace--probably as fast as the Guides, whose progress was of course limited by the marching power of the infantry portion of the corps.

The march continued for several hours at a brisk rate. They skirted one village by making a detour into the fields beside the road. When they returned to the highway Ahmed noticed that the men were flagging; the palki, even without its occupant, was no light weight to bearers who had already carried it for many hours; and one of the men plucked up courage to tell their hard taskmaster that his strength was failing. But Ahmed could not venture to delay. In a fierce whisper he bade the man, who had dropped his pole, bringing the party momentarily to a halt, to push on, if he valued his life. The man obeyed with a groan, but the party had not gone much further when the girl, who had hitherto endured the fatigues and anxieties of the journey without a murmur, suddenly broke down. She would have fallen from the horse but for Ahmed's arm, and when he had carried her back to the palki he found that she had fainted. He was utterly ignorant of what to do to restore her; nothing of the kind had ever come within his experience before. But one of the men explained that she must have water, and volunteered to go and find a brook; he had a small lotah with him. Ahmed dared not trust him; the reasons for not leaving the party himself were as cogent as ever; there was nothing for it but that the whole party should leave the road and search for a stream.

The girl recovered from her swoon before their search was rewarded. Then she broke into a fit of weeping, which to Ahmed was almost as alarming. But a draught from a brook they by and by discovered revived her, and they returned to the road. The delay had cost them a good hour.

It was nearing daybreak when Ahmed heard the sound of trotting horses on the road behind. He instantly ordered the bearers to make for a patch of woodland bordering the roadside. He hoped that the horses might prove to be those of the Guides, but it was necessary to prepare for the worst. It was useless to attempt any deception in case the horsemen turned out to be enemies and discovered him: his khaki uniform would betray him. If he should pretend to have deserted from the Guides and joined the mutineers, a word from one of the palki-wallahs would be his undoing. The only chance was to remain in hiding in the copse and trust that the riders would pass by. He wondered whether any of the bearers would have sufficient courage to cry out, and so disclose their hiding-place. Dismounting from his horse, he handed the girl his knife, and stood over the four men with his sword drawn, bidding them not to make a sound if they valued their lives.

They had been but a minute or two in their place of concealment when the horsemen came up at a trot. It was still very dark, but Ahmed, peering out from among the trees, was able to see them dimly, and thought from their general appearance, and the sounds made by the horses' furnishings as they trotted past, that they were sowars. If that were the case, it was almost certain that they were mutineers; he knew that they were not Guides because they were riding in one compact troop, without an advance guard. As nearly as he could guess, they numbered about fifty.

They passed by; the immediate danger was over. But it was disconcerting to find a body of the enemy now between him and the Guides. He wondered for a moment whether the Guides were after all behind them, but dismissed that idea when he remembered the leisurely pace of the horsemen who had just gone by; they would have made greater speed had they feared pursuit. There was clearly need for redoubled carefulness. Ahmed waited a full quarter of an hour after the troop had ridden by before he gave the word to proceed. Then he went after them slowly, listening more intently than ever, both for sounds from ahead, in case they should return, and for sounds from behind, in case others were following. But after a time the tramping of the receding horses faded quite away; he heard nothing from the opposite direction, and hoped that with the morning light he would reach the bivouac of the Guides.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH

Bluff

Before morning broke, however, it was clear that the march must be intermitted. The girl was in no condition to walk, nor could she sit the horse; and the palki-wallahs, men of no great stamina or muscular development, were worn out. Bitterly as he deplored the necessity, Ahmed saw that further progress was impossible for the present, and promised the men that if they would hold out until the dawn, which must be at hand, he would let them have a long rest. He was still hoping that daylight would reveal the encampment of the Guides.

Very soon afterwards the sky lightened, and he saw nothing but the long dusty road and the wide plain on either side. It would clearly be unsafe to continue the journey now that they could be seen, so a hiding-place must be found where they might lie up in comparative comfort during the day. The men were so exhausted that he ventured now for the first time to leave them, to search for a hiding-place himself. At a little distance from the road he discovered a nullah, and, scrambling up the bed of the watercourse, now nearly dry, he came upon a spot overgrown with thorn and brambles, which would shelter the whole party, save, perhaps, the horse. He retraced his steps, explained to the girl what he proposed to do, and led the horse in advance of the party to the place of concealment. When they were settled there, he found, a little higher up, a tall bush standing almost as high as the horse's head, and there he left the animal, speaking to him, and knowing that the faithful beast would not move from the spot until his master called him.

The bed of the watercourse was fairly steep. Two or three tall trees overhung it. Ahmed thought by climbing one of these he might get a view of the surrounding country. He managed to make the girl understand that he wished her to watch the bearers, and use the knife upon any of them who should attempt to escape or call out. Even if she had not the nerve for such action, he thought that the men, having heard what he said, might shrink from putting the matter to the test.

Then he scrambled up the side of the nullah and nimbly climbed the tallest tree. What he saw from his perch was not reassuring. A little to the right of the road, perhaps a koss distant, a troop of horsemen, dismounted, were resting at the edge of a small plantation, which concealed them from any one passing along the highway. Beyond them the ground rose slightly, scarcely enough to be called a hill, and yet sufficiently to cut off any more extended view southward. Far away on all sides stretched open country, with little vegetation except patches of scrub. Many miles to the left he fancied he descried the white roofs of a village, but in front the road ran between almost bare plains.

Ahmed guessed that the plantation at which the men were resting surrounded a tank where they had watered their horses. He had no doubt that they were those who had passed in the night. Yet he wondered why they had halted at that particular spot, for if it was a tank, there was in all probability a village on the other side of the rising ground. He watched them for a time, and presently saw a man riding towards them from round the shoulder of the hillock. As he reached them, some of the dismounted men crowded about him; in the distance they looked to Ahmed like flies clustering. After a time two of them mounted their horses, and accompanied the new-comer along the high-road in the direction of Delhi. When they came near the crest of the rising ground they halted and dismounted. One of the men held the horses in the middle of the road, while the others went on foot to the top, and gradually disappeared as they descended on the further side. The third man remained motionless with the horses in the road.

Ahmed felt interested. What were they about? What lay beyond the hillock?

After a while he saw two figures reappear on the skyline. They were no doubt the same two, for they walked down to the man with the horses, mounted, and trotted back to the main body. A few minutes afterwards two other men left the plantation and rode up the acclivity as the others had done, dismounting also before they reached the top. While one held the horses the other ascended the slope, with a slowness that spoke of caution, and went out of sight as the others had done before him. Ahmed looked for him to return after an interval, but minute after minute slipped away and still he did not reappear. Had he gone on some scouting errand, or perhaps to take post as sentry? It was clear that on the further side of the hillock something was going on in which the horsemen on this side were keenly interested.

All at once the explanation occurred to Ahmed. The Guides were without doubt encamped beyond the hillock. It had been their practice all through the march from Mardan to halt in the early morning. The horsemen at the plantation were probably a roving band of mutinous sowars from Delhi, who had been raiding, and now found the Guides between them and the city. To obtain confirmation of his conclusions, Ahmed slipped down from the tree and asked one of the men whether there was a village beyond the hillock.

"Truly there is," said the man, "and it is some seventeen koss from Karnal."

This was the distance the Guides might be expected to march during the night.

"And how far is it from us?" he asked.

"Thy servant knows not with any certainty, but maybe it is two koss."

It was a tantalizing situation to be in. Ahmed felt sure that his comrades were encamped within an hour's march of him and yet he could not reach them. Why had the sowars halted at the plantation instead of returning to Delhi by some roundabout route? And yet, he reflected, even if they were not there, he could hardly dare to move on in the broad daylight. There were the same dangers to be feared as had determined his previous conduct.

The position was delicate enough. The sowars might take alarm. In that case they would probably retreat to find some shelter, and might easily come upon the very nullah in which the little party was concealed. The Guides would no doubt remain in their encampment for the greater part of the day, moving on again when night fell. Even if the rebel horsemen should not be scared by any action of the Guides, it was always possible that some of them should take it into their heads to go a-roving. At any moment, too, a villager, a wandering mendicant, a kasid from one village to another, might cross the plain and get sight of the fugitives. There were signs of footpaths, and passers-by would not need to come right up to the nullah before suspecting the presence of the hidden party, for Ruksh was but imperfectly concealed by the bush.

Moreover, the party would soon be in want of food. The bearers had with them provisions for only one day, and though Ahmed did not know how much food was in the palki, he suspected that it was very little: the zamindar would hardly have foreseen the possibility of so long a delay in reaching his brother's house. Ruksh could find some little sustenance in the leaves of the shrubs around him, but he would soon strip them bare. There was water in the bed of the nullah, and the bearers had already given the girl some in the lotah she had used before; they themselves of course, being Hindus, would not drink from the vessel which her lips had contaminated, but stooped and lapped up the running water. But none of the party was in a condition to wait through the long hours of an Indian day in the hottest season of the year, and then to undertake a night march, without more refreshment than it seemed possible for them to obtain. Ahmed thought over the situation with no little anxiety. To move away might be immediately fatal; the only alternative was to remain hidden on the chance of the sowars by and by moving off.

Once more Ahmed climbed the tree to keep watch. The sun rose higher and higher, and yet there was no sign of a movement among the party. But after some time he noticed the man who had gone over the brow of the hill returning. He came much faster than he had gone. Rejoining his waiting comrade, he mounted his horse, and the two galloped down to the rest. Instantly the whole party sprang to their feet, loosened their horses, and sprang into the saddle. A few even started to ride across the plain in a straight line for the nullah, and Ahmed feared that in a few minutes the fugitives would be discovered. He knew that if they were seen there was no help for them; with his single hand he could do nothing against a troop of horse. The sowars came on until they were within a hundred yards of the nullah, and Ahmed shrank back among the leaves, fearing lest he might be seen and so draw the men on. But they suddenly wheeled half round and cantered to the road, where they halted.

Their comrades meanwhile, though they had mounted their horses, had not left the plantation. Apparently they were waiting to see if the report brought to them by their scout was correct. After some time they appeared to decide that it was a false alarm, for half-a-dozen now left the main body and rode up the hillock, dismounting as the others had done previously, and skirmishing forward over the crest. In a few minutes they returned and trotted back again. The smaller body who had taken panic returned slowly to rejoin their comrades. They all dismounted, tethered their horses, and once more stretched themselves at ease under the shade of the plantation.