Chapter THE TENTH: The Delhi Road (2)

Ahmed watched them for a long time. There was no sign of further movement among them. It looked as if they had settled down to doze through the hot hours of the day. The prospect of being kept at a standstill became more and more unendurable. To say nothing of the torture of remaining through the long hours of torrid heat without adequate protection or sufficient food, there was the danger that, if his journey could not be resumed until nightfall, he would reach the encampment of the Guides only to find them gone. Was it not possible, he wondered, in some way to get past or round the men who lay between him and safety? Obviously the whole party, with the palki, could not advance openly across the bare plain. Nor could he alone venture to go, in the tell-tale uniform of the Guides, to bring assistance to the missy sahib. If only he were clad in the costume of Shagpur he would have risked the attempt.

Suddenly a new idea crossed his mind. Was it possible to disguise himself? The palki-wallahs could not help him; they had little on but their loin-cloths. He wished he had stripped the zamindar whom he had left on the ground. There was not likely to be a spare dhoti in the palki. But he remembered the coloured hangings of that vehicle. If he tore those down and wound them over his khaki tunic, they might raise a question as to what his race and position were, but they would certainly never cause any one to suspect that he was one of the Guides.

Hitherto he had shrunk from leaving the missy sahib. But now the position was desperate. To die of fright, hunger, and exposure to the heat might be her fate; an accident might at any moment lead to her discovery; yet there was at least a chance that by carrying out the plan which had suggested itself to him he could secure her safety. The bearers had been cowed into submissiveness; the natives, for all their brave talk, were very amenable to stern and authoritative handling. Threats of grievous punishment on the one hand, and promises of liberal bakshish on the other, might at any rate keep their wills in a state of oscillation, so that they would not make up their minds to any positive course. And if only the missy sahib would summon up a little resolution, and show that she meant to use the knife he had given her if they attempted to betray her whereabouts, he would feel a certain confidence in leaving her for a time. He could at any rate fasten them more tightly together. There were creepers growing on the sides of the nullah, and strands of these would make very serviceable bonds.

His resolution fixed, he climbed down the tree and crept to the palki. It was difficult for him to explain his purpose to the girl without the assistance of the bearers, but he did not wish them to know too much. The missy sahib herself was so depressed from anxiety and want of sleep, as well as from the effects of the heat, that she was slower to apprehend than she might otherwise have been. But he succeeded after a time in making her understand that he was going to bring help from the sahibs, who were very near at hand, and that during his absence she was to strike without compunction any of the bearers who tried either to free himself or to give an alarm. Then he cut lengths of creeper sufficient for his purpose, and tied the men's arms and legs together so that they could not move. He did not gag them; they were in a state of abject submission; and when he told them that the missy sahib would certainly kill them if they uttered a word above a whisper, they declared that they had no tongues until he gave them leave. Then he wrenched the muslin curtains of the palki from their fastenings, and with the missy sahib's help his khaki was soon entirely concealed.

As she twisted the stuff around him she suddenly said--

"There is a little black hole in your pagri, and the cloth is scorched around it. Did you know that?"

He did not understand her until at her bidding he took the pagri from his head, and she pointed to the spot. Then he remembered that the zamindar had fired almost point-blank at him, and did not doubt that the bullet had gone through his head-dress. But he had no words to explain this to the girl, and would hardly have done so if he could. It had been a narrow escape: a Pathan took such incidents as a matter of course.

Having made his preparations, he repeated his orders to the men, and led his horse gently up the nullah towards the road. It was now midday; the sun burnt at its fiercest; not a living soul was passing along the road, and the horsemen at the plantation were without doubt in a state of somnolence. It was not at all improbable that he might mount and ride some paces before he was seen. He crept quietly along the nullah until he reached the end, then sprang lightly into the saddle, walked the horse the few yards to the road, and urged it to a mad gallop towards Delhi. Some few seconds passed before the clatter of the hoofs was heard by the men dozing in the plantation; then some of them rose lazily to their feet and gazed at this strange figure in yellow and red tearing along so furiously. As soon as he was within hailing distance Ahmed flung up his arms and shouted--

"The Feringhis! The sahibs! They are upon us! Fly for your lives!"

The effect was magical. The lethargic sowars were galvanized into activity. Those who were already upon their feet rushed to their horses, unloosed them, and in a few moments were galloping at a headlong speed in a direction at right angles to the road. Those who had as yet been too sleepy or too incurious to rise sprang up and followed their comrades' example. Soon the whole party was scattered, each man riding as his fear directed him, the dust of the plain flying up in clouds from the heels of their horses. And still Ahmed rode on, crying lustily, "The sahibs are upon us!"

He breasted the hillock, topped the crest, and gained the other side. Then he saw what had so much occupied the sowars earlier in the day. Some three miles ahead of him the white tents of the Guides gleamed in the sunlight. Between him and them there was a small mounted patrol of the same corps. He gave a joyful shout, and Ruksh flew down the gentle slope with responsive gaiety. The men of the patrol caught sight of him as soon as he of them, though in the distance it was impossible to distinguish what or who he was. On he rode, and as he drew nearer he began to tear off the coloured muslin that disguised him. The khaki was disclosed. Wondering, the sowars of the patrol watched as he approached, shading their eyes against the sunbeams. Presently one of them recognized the horse; there was no horse like Ruksh in the corps. Then another shouted, "'Tis Ahmed!" and cantered to meet him.

"What news?" he cried.

But Ahmed galloped past, throwing a mere word of greeting to his comrades. Nor did he draw rein until he reached the commandant's quarters. Then his story was quickly told. Five minutes afterwards a half-troop rode out under Lieutenant Hawes, Ahmed leading the way. When they reached the crest there was no sign of the mutineers. They had utterly vanished off the plain. Riding down to the nullah, they found the palki-wallahs lying fast asleep in the shade of the bushes where Ahmed had left them, and the missy sahib asleep in the palki, grasping the knife. Ahmed flung himself from his horse, kicked the bearers awake, and cut their bonds. Meanwhile Lieutenant Hawes was trying to awaken the girl, speaking to her quietly so as not to startle her. His low tones making no impression, he touched her lightly on the arm. She sprang up with a shriek, lifting the knife. Then, seeing an English face, and hearing an English voice, she flung down the weapon and, to Lieutenant Hawes' amazement, fairly flung herself into his arms.

"Poor child! You are safe now," he said. "Here, you," he cried sharply to the palki-wallahs, "get to your poles; quickly!"

The four men hastened to obey, and the party set off to return to the camp.

"Your nobility will remember the bakshish," said one of them to Ahmed as they started.

"Chup! Am I not one of Lumsden Sahib's Guides?" was the answer.

Later in the day, Ahmed told the whole story in detail to the group of officers. The missy sahib had already given them her version of it, and had indeed sung the praises of the young Guide, and asked Captain Daly to reward him handsomely. Daly, however, knew that the proud native of North-west Hindustan is a good deal more sensitive in matters of this kind than the average man of the plains, and while giving Ahmed unstinted praise, he refrained from offering any tangible recompense.

"I am proud to have you in the corps," he said. "The matter will not be forgotten, and when we have finished the march, and have a little time to rest, I will give you a sheep so that you may feast your friends."

Praise from the sahib was reward enough to the men of the Guides. And Sherdil, who had heard the story from Ahmed previously, was envious, and bemoaned his ill-luck in missing the opportunity which had fallen to his friend.

"May water never flow through that accursed nullah!" he cried. "None of us were able to leap it; it took me half-an-hour to get my horse out of it, and the others had to go a great way round about. And then we were recalled, but we returned later and sought you, and found, not you, but a dog of a Hindu lying with a cut in his shoulder, and we finished what you had left undone."

Savagery was in the blood of these men. The butchery of a wounded man gave them no compunction, and Ahmed, who had grown up among them, was as ignorant as they themselves of the chivalry which bids an Englishman spare his beaten foe.

When the evening cool descended, Captain Daly sent the missy sahib under escort to Karnal, where she would be safe under the protection of Mr. Le Bas.

It was the morning of the 9th of June when the Guides reached the camp on the Ridge, two miles north-west of Delhi. They marched in as firm and light as if they had come but a mile instead of thirty. News of their great achievement had been brought in by native couriers, and a vast crowd was assembled to meet these intrepid warriors who had covered five hundred and eighty miles in twenty-two days. As they reached the lines, Ahmed was amazed to see some of the infantry break their ranks and rush up to an English officer distinguished by his very fair hair. They clung to his stirrups, some kissed his hands, others his feet, pressing upon him with such excitement as to cause alarm to some of his fellow-officers.

"What is it?" asked Ahmed of Sherdil.

"'Tis that they are pleased to see Hodson Sahib. He was our commander when Lumsden Sahib went over the black water, and we love him. Wah! he is a fighter. See him with the sword: there is no match for him. It is good to see him again."

And then came an opportunity for these hardy warriors to show the stuff of which they were made. Even as they approached the Ridge a staff-officer galloped to meet them, and accosting Captain Daly asked how soon he could be ready for action.

"In half-an-hour," replied the gallant captain.

It happened that since early morning parties of horse and foot had sallied from Delhi to attack the advanced posts of the British. Since attack is ever the best defence, General Barnard ordered his men to move out and drive back the enemy. The Guides went forward at the trumpet call with irresistible dash, and were soon engaged hand to hand with the vastly superior numbers of the mutineers. They carried all before them, but at a heavy price. Lieutenant Battye was shot through the body, and died murmuring "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." Lieutenant Hawes was clipped across the face with a sword, Lieutenant Kennedy was wounded in the arm; and Captain Daly himself, after having his horse killed under him, was struck in the leg by a spent bullet. Many of the men were killed or wounded. But to be in the thick of a fight was as wine to the Guides. Every man burned to uphold the honour of the corps, and though they were saddened by the loss of so many officers and men before they had even pitched their tents, they were conscious of having borne themselves as their loved commander Lumsden Sahib would have wished them to do, and were content.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH

Some Lathi-wallahs and a Camel

One afternoon, about ten days after the arrival of the Guides, an orderly came to Captain Daly's tent, where the captain was sitting on a camp-stool at the door, drinking a cup of tea with Lieutenant Kennedy.

"The general's compliments, sir," said the orderly, saluting, "and will you kindly step over to his tent for a minute or two?"

"Immediately," said Captain Daly. "Orders for to-morrow, I suppose," he added to Kennedy, as he got up to go.

When he entered General Barnard's tent, the general handed him a letter, saying--

"What do you make of that, Daly?"

Daly took the letter, and read, in a sloping angular hand, as follows--

"DEAR GENERAL BARNARD--

"My father is safe. How thankful I am! And I know you will be glad
too. Yesterday I received the enclosed note from him; you see it is
written on the back of a torn label. He is in Delhi, but does not
say where; I suppose he was afraid to write too much in case the
chit fell into the hands of the mutineers. The man who brought it
knows nothing; perhaps it is that he knows but will not tell. Will
you try to find out where my dear father is? Some good friend must
be hiding him. I know you have spies in the city, and I should be
so happy if you could find out something more about him, and
whether he is well, and many, _many_ other things. Do help me,
there's a good friend.

"Yours sincerely,

"MARY CRADDOCK.

"P.S.--Perhaps that young Guide who saved me from the horrid men
would go into the city. He would do _anything_ for me, I know."

"Just like a girl," said Daly, handing the letter back.

"Now that's not fair," said the kindly old general. "Wait till you have daughters of your own, Daly. It is good news that Craddock is still alive; his wife, poor woman, was killed as she was escaping. He and I are old friends. D'you know him?"

"No. But the idea is impossible, of course. Without more information it would be like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. Besides, he's in hiding; no one would have the ghost of a chance of finding him."

"One of his servants may be faithful, and keeping him concealed."

"Yes, but better not set anybody inquiring too closely for Craddock's servants. If those fiends suspect one of them is hiding an Englishman it will be all up with him and his master too."

"Still, Craddock is my friend, and I stood godfather to his girl. Couldn't one of Hodson's spies help us? Or this Guide she mentions--what about him?"

"He's a clever young fellow, no doubt--showed pluck and resource in saving the girl; but I don't know that I should like to send him into that wasps' nest. One of Hodson's spies would run less risk."

"Well, we'll ask Hodson. Poor fellow! He is rather knocked up, I'm afraid."

The general sent an orderly to ask Lieutenant Hodson to visit him, and in a few minutes he appeared. The case was put to him, and he read Mary Craddock's letter.

"All my men are out," he said. "Let's have a look at this man of yours, Daly. Who is he?"

"A Pathan," replied Daly, and related how Ahmed had rescued the girl.

"A likely fellow. Have him up, general."

Ahmed, in company with Sherdil, was eating a mess of rice stewed in a soup of sheep's tail, when a naik of the corps came up and said that the general wished to see him.

"Hai!" said Sherdil, with a sigh. "Now it is coming, Ahmed-ji. Verily thou wilt be a dafadar, or maybe a jamadar, before Sherdil, son of Assad. What must be will be."

Ahmed wondered what the summons to the general's presence could mean. He had had a part in the brushes with the enemy, which had been of daily occurrence since the corps arrived; but he had done nothing to signalize himself. Hodson gave him a quick look as he came up and saluted.

"Your name?" he said in the Pashtu tongue.

"Ahmed, son of Rahmut Khan of Shagpur, sahib," said the boy.

"A good specimen of the breed," said Hodson to the others. "The general wants you to go into the city," he added, speaking again in Ahmed's own language. There was no officer in India more expert than Hodson in the speech of the natives.

"I am ready, sahib," said Ahmed at once.

"You'll have to pretend to be a mutineer, you know."

"With the hazur's pardon I will not do that. There is no need."

"Then how will you go? The khaki would betray you."

"I would go, sahib, as I went with Sherdil, son of Assad, to Mandan, the village of Minghal Khan."

"Ah! and how was that?"

Ahmed told how the company of Afghan traders had entered the village, and about the box containing porcelain from Delhi. He related the story simply, without any of the boastful garniture which comes so readily to an oriental's lips. The officers listened with interest, Hodson keeping his keen blue eyes fixed on the boy's face.

"This is the oddest Pathan I ever came across," he said in English when Ahmed had finished the story. To Ahmed he said, "Then you will go as an Afghan trader? How will you do that? Traders do not go alone."

"If I might have Sherdil, son of Assad, and Rasul Khan, and Dilawur----"

"No, no, that won't do.--He wants half your corps, Daly.--You must go alone."

"As the hazur pleases." He paused, and thought for a minute, the officers watching him. "I will go alone, sahib," he said. "The tale will be that I was one of many, travelling towards Delhi with Persian shawls for the princes' women. And we were set upon by a band of Gujars, and I alone escaped."

"But if you go alone the Gujars may catch you, for of course you cannot go to the city from the Ridge; you must approach as from a distant part."

"It is as the sahib says."

"You will take the risk?"

"If the captain sahib commands."

"Never met so direct a fellow," said Hodson to the others. "My spies have a good deal to say about bakshish, as a rule. Well," he went on in Pashtu, "what will you want?"

"Clothes, shawls, and a camel, sahib."

"And where will you get them?"

"In the bazar at Karnal, sahib."

"Steal them, eh?"

"Buy them with the hazur's rupees," said Ahmed, with a smile.

"And what are you going to do in Delhi?"

"I wait for commands, sahib."

"Can you write?"

"No, sahib."

"Of course not. Then you will be no good to me."

"But with rupees I can pay a munshi, sahib."

"He is our man," said Hodson in English. "He has an answer for everything, and judging by the way he told us his story just now we shan't have so much trouble in sifting his information as we have with Rajab Ali's friends."

Rajab Ali was a one-eyed maulavi, an old friend of Sir Henry Lawrence, whose many connections about the court of Delhi frequently sent Hodson news of what was going on in the city. These communications were sometimes made verbally by trusty messengers, sometimes in writing, on tiny scrolls of the finest paper, two and a quarter inches long by one and a half broad. The writing on them was so minute that the translation when written out filled more than two pages of large letter paper. But the actual information they contained was so scanty, and so much embellished in the manner no oriental can avoid, that the separation of the corn from the chaff gave Hodson a great deal of trouble. Moreover, being written by hangers-on of the court, they included a vast amount of unreliable gossip and hearsay. Hodson welcomed the opportunity of gaining news that might be gleaned among the people themselves. He had reason to believe that a great number of the more respectable inhabitants of Delhi, who had had experience of the benefits of orderly government, deplored the excesses of the sepoys and badmashes of the city, and the disorders that sprang from the weakness of the king. It would be a material gain to the besiegers to learn how far that feeling extended, and how far the normal population would support the hordes of rebels who were constantly pouring into the city.

"You will go among the people," said Hodson to Ahmed, "into the bazars, among the sepoys, and listen to their talk, and find out what they think and what their hearts are. You will learn who comes into the city, and how many they are, and what news they bring from other parts; and you will go to Fazl Hak, a maulavi to whom you will be recommended by Rajab Ali, and make him write all this down, saying no more than the truth, and these letters you will send to me, cunningly concealed, by messengers who will be appointed. Is it understood?"

"Hazur, it is understood."

"And there is something else, but always have in mind that the other comes first. The missy sahib whom you saved from the zamindar has a father in Delhi, but she knows not where. The General Sahib wishes you to learn, if you can, where he is. He is a hakim; Craddock Sahib is his name; and we think that he may have been hidden away by one of his servants. Remember, to ask openly for either the sahib or his servants may be death to them both. If you find the sahib, and see any way by which he may escape to us, well. But do not attempt to bring him away unless it can be done with little fear. He is the father of the missy sahib."

"Even as Rahmut Khan is my father," said Ahmed.

Hodson did not guess the thought that prompted this apparently inconsequent statement. He knew nothing, nor did the other officers, of Rahmut Khan's fate.

"And you must tell none of your comrades of this task we have given you--not even Sherdil, son of Assad, who appears to be your chief friend. I know that Sherdil, he has a moist tongue. Where pots are, there will be a clatter, as they say in your country. You will start----"

Here he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bugle. Immediately afterwards an officer galloped up.

"The Pandies are attacking our right rear with two thousand men and six guns, sir," he said.

"By George! that's a new move," said the General. "Off with you, Daly; Grant will want all the help he can get. Not you, Hodson; you're not fit to sit a horse yet. You had better take this young Pathan and settle things with him. I will see you again in the morning."

Thus it was that Ahmed had no part in the fight at Nawabganj--one of the most critical moments of the siege. Under cover of the gardens that dotted the broken ground on the right of the British rear a large body of all arms of the enemy had moved up, taking Sir Hope Grant, who was in command, completely by surprise. He had only the Guides cavalry, a portion of the 9th Lancers, and four guns to meet the attack. As soon as Captain Daly arrived on the scene, he was detached with two guns under Lieutenant Hills, a troop of Lancers, and the Guides, and found himself faced by a huge mass of infantry and cavalry, with six or eight guns, in his immediate front. There was nothing to fall back upon, so, leaving a handful of Guides to protect the guns, he detached the rest to clear the left flank, already threatened by the enemy's horse. Lieutenant Hills got his guns into action, and the little force was bravely holding its own when Major Tombs hurried up with the remainder of the guns. The mutineers pressed on in swarms, dodging among the trees, and when they observed the weakness of the force opposed to them, and the absence of infantry, they began to close in, until they could pick off Major Tombs' men as they served the guns. There was a danger that the defenders would be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

"I fear I must ask you to charge, to save my guns," said Major Tombs to Daly.

Daly was the only British officer with the cavalry. Waving his sword, he called on his Guides to charge. The little band dashed forward in the gathering mist, cut their way right through the crowd of infantry, and never checked until they reached the enemy's guns. The gunners fled, the infantry was thrown into disorder, and the bold and perilous movement had the effect of clearing the front and allowing time for reinforcements to come up.

A bullet struck Daly in the left shoulder, and he fell from his horse. In the excitement of the charge his plight was unnoticed. Search was made for him when the men were returning, and they could not find him in the dark, until one of the enemy, who had been a jamadar in the 1st Oudh Irregular Cavalry, pointed out his whereabouts. His wound proved so serious as to incapacitate him, and indeed he never recovered the full use of his left arm, so that when Lieutenant Hodson called on the General next day to report the arrangements he had made with Ahmed, he learnt that he was to command the Guides until Daly had recovered.

Next day Ahmed set off for Karnal with a returning convoy. Sherdil was anxious to know what had passed at his interview with the General, still more when he learnt that he was leaving for Karnal. But Ahmed told him nothing except that he had been entrusted with an errand, and might not see him again for some time.

On arriving at Karnal, Ahmed changed his uniform for the ordinary dress of an Afghan trader, and purchased with money given him by Hodson a number of shawls. He presented to Mr. Le Bas a letter from Hodson explaining his mission, and had an interview with Miss Craddock in that gentleman's house.

She told him no more than he already knew, and when he asked which of her father's servants was most likely to have befriended him she was puzzled to answer.

"We thought them all faithful," she said; "but whom can we trust in these times? They were all good servants; we thought a world of Kaluja Dass, our khansaman; and Sakun, one of our chaprasis, was always ready to run errands for me, even when his work for my father was done."

The girl was delighted that her suggestion to General Barnard had borne fruit, and promised Ahmed much bakshish if he could send her news of her father. And then, having disguised himself by means of a black beard and moustache, Ahmed set off in a day or two on his adventurous mission.

He rode out on a camel, reluctantly leaving his horse, Ruksh, behind. The shawls were strapped in packs before him, and he carried no visible arms except an Afghan knife; but he had a pistol in his outer garment, and a talwar was concealed between the packs on his camel's back. Until he came within twelve miles of Delhi he kept to the great trunk road, on which troops and armed convoys passed so frequently that it was fairly safe for travellers. More than once he was stopped and questioned by parties of soldiers, but the pass given him by Mr. Le Bas satisfied them, and he was allowed to proceed.

He had decided to approach Delhi from the south-west. He struck off, therefore, in the direction of Bahadurgurh, and was within seven miles of his destination when a heavy storm of rain came on, drenching him to the skin. The camel is a beast of most uncertain temper, and in the midst of the storm Ahmed's steed suddenly sank on its knees beneath a large banian-tree that stood solitary by the roadside, tucked its legs under it, and refused to budge. Ahmed was well acquainted with the ways of camels, and knew that no coercion would make the animal move until it pleased: all that he could do was to wait in patience for its sulky fit to pass. Fortunately it had chosen for its resting-place a spot where the banian-tree afforded some shelter from the rain, and from the sun when the rain ceased. Swampy paddy fields lay on both sides of the road, and muggy steam rose from the ground under the sun's heat, making Ahmed feel very uncomfortable. He tramped up and down for a time, hoping that the camel would rise; but as there was no sign of any change of mood in it, he by and by spread a mat by the animal's side, and squatted on it, leaning against the camel, prepared to make the best of the situation. He ate some of the food he had brought with him, and then, it being midday and hot, he fell asleep. A Pathan sleeps like a rabbit, with only one eye shut, and Ahmed would wake at the slightest sound. If a band of mutineers should come upon him he knew that there was no escape for him, so that whether awake or asleep he would be in the same predicament.

It was late in the afternoon when he awoke. Nothing had disturbed his rest; the animal had not moved. Ahmed got up to try the effect of a little coaxing; it was quite time the camel came to a reasonable frame of mind. As he moved towards the animal's head he noticed a man approaching across the fields. He carried a lathi, and in dress and appearance looked like a ryot. The man stopped short when he caught sight of Ahmed's turban. Apparently he had supposed that the camel lying in the road was untended. Ahmed looked at him and he looked at Ahmed. Then he drew a little nearer and shouted a salutation.

"Salaam, sarban, what is amiss?"

"Not a great matter, stranger," said Ahmed. "The camel does but take a rest."

"Thou hast without doubt come far?"

"That is possible."

"And is it far thou goest?"

"Even to the city of the king."

"Have a care lest thou fall among the Feringhis. What is the news whence thou comest?"

"Nay, thou wilt have news, being so near the city. What is said here, stranger?"

"Why, that Bakht Khan is on his way hither with 50,000 men, and the Shah of Persia has taken Lahore, and Jan Larrens was caught as he sought to escape on an elephant, and all men knew him by the wounds on his back. The accursed Feringhis will soon be altogether destroyed, that is certain."

"If it be Allah's will."

To this the ryot made no reply. He had stood at a distance during the conversation, every man being suspicious of every other in this time of unrest and upheaval. Paying him no further attention, Ahmed went to the camel's head and tried to induce the animal to get up. He did not relish the prospect of remaining all night in the open, liable to be drenched by another rain-storm. But the beast was obstinate. Even when Ahmed offered it the last of his chapatis, its only response was a savage bite at the hand which fed it, a vicious attack that Ahmed only escaped by a hair's breadth. The ryot stood for a few minutes watching these ineffectual attempts, then shouted a farewell and moved away.

Ahmed was annoyed. To an oriental time is nothing; but for the possible inconvenience of the situation he might have been content to wait the animal's pleasure. But he felt that the sooner he was in Delhi the better. And it suddenly occurred to him that his position might prove even more inconvenient than he had hitherto reckoned for. The ryot who had just disappeared had probably returned to his home in some not distant hamlet. He would almost certainly tell the people about the recalcitrant camel, and they might see a chance of helping themselves to its load. One solitary trader, even though an Afghan, would be no match, they would think, for a band of lathi-wallahs. Ahmed wished he had seized the man, and held him at least until the camel had recovered its temper. It was too late to think of that now; the ryot was quite out of sight, and Ahmed had perforce to return to his mat.

In the course of an hour he had reason to wish that the idea of arresting the man had occurred to him sooner. He saw in the distance a group of at least half-a-dozen men approaching, all carrying lathis except one, who had a matchlock. They might, of course, have been induced by mere curiosity to come and see the amusing spectacle of an Afghan baffled by a camel. But belonging himself to a robber tribe, Ahmed suspected that their motive was not so peaceable. Well, they should not despoil him without a fight. They would indeed hardly expect to do so, for, though a trader, he was an Afghan, and if they knew anything of Afghans they would know that he would not yield without offering resistance. But they were six to one!

Fortunately Ahmed had some little protection in the great bulk of the camel and in the banian-tree behind him. While they were still a great way off, he slipped his talwar from its covering, and laid it close to his hand, ready for emergencies. He had, besides, his pistol and his knife. But he felt that he was in an awkward predicament. The matchlock would carry further than his pistol; the man who bore it had only to keep out of range and "pot" him at his leisure. Even if the man missed him, he might hit the camel, and then the animal, if not mortally wounded, would probably rise quickly enough and bolt in an entirely wrong direction. There was just a chance that the man, not suspecting him to bear firearms, might come so near that he would be able to get first shot; that indeed seemed to be his only chance.

He stood behind the camel and watched them. While they were still too far away for the matchlock-bearer to fire with any certainty of hitting him, he shouted--

"Eo! eo! Who are you, and what do you want?"

Like all hill-men, he had a very clear, ringing voice, and the note of authority in his tone caused them to halt. Then one of them called back in answer--

"We have come to help you with your rogue of a camel."

"I want no help," he replied. "The camel will rise when Allah wills. I would not trouble you."

There was silence for a moment, then another voice cried--

"We know not who you are. We want no Afghans here. You must come with us to our village, and our headman shall hear who you are and say what shall be done. It may be that he will send you to the chief of Bahadurgurh."

"What talk is this?" cried Ahmed. "I am a trader, as you see, and I carry my wares to Delhi. What has the chief of Bahadurgurh to say to the king?"

"That we shall see," replied the man truculently, advancing. "It will be better for you to come with us quietly."

"You had better return to your dogs' kennels before you come to harm," cried Ahmed, flourishing his talwar. "As you perceive, I am armed, and I will send you back without arms and legs if you come within my reach."

The men laughed. What was a talwar against a matchlock? The man carrying the firearm came on ahead of the rest, and advancing to within a short distance of Ahmed he set the weapon to his shoulder and proceeded coolly to take aim. This was exactly what Ahmed had calculated upon. The firing of a matchlock was a somewhat lengthy operation, especially to a villager. Before the man had time to fire, Ahmed quickly changed the talwar from his right hand to his left, drew his pistol, and fired over the camel's back. The man dropped without a sound. At the same moment Ahmed flung down his pistol, and taking the sword again in his right hand, drew his knife, vaulted over the animal, and dashed straight at the knot of villagers.

Taken aback by this unexpected stroke from a man they supposed to be helpless, the villagers stood irresolute. Before they had recovered their wits, Ahmed was upon them. The sight of his sword flashing in the glow of the setting sun was too much for most of them; they took to their heels and fled in all haste across the fields. One or two, apparently so paralyzed with consternation that they could not even run, seized their lathis and made feeble attempts to parry the descending talwar. But with a couple of swift strokes Ahmed settled their account. Then, incensed at their unprovoked attack, he made off at full speed after the runaways. They were no match for him in fleetness, and, realizing this, they scattered, howling. Ahmed could not catch them all; he ran after the one whom he recognized as the man that had first discovered him. A pursuit of half-a-mile over the squelching soil brought him within arm's length, and the wretched man paid the penalty.

It would be dangerous to pursue the rest, loath as he was to let any of them go unpunished. And reflecting that as soon as they got back to their village they would without doubt bring others with firearms to deal with him, he saw that he must lose no time in making his escape. The camel must be compelled to move. But when he turned, he saw that the camel, probably startled by the shot, was already on its feet, and shambling along the road in the direction from which he had come. Sprinting after it, he lugged it round until its head was again turned towards Delhi, walked by its side until he picked up the pistol, then leapt to his seat, and set off, as quickly as the clumsy animal would move, towards his destination.

He had not ridden for more than half-a-minute when he reflected that he was not even yet out of danger. If the villagers pursued him, they could easily overtake him before he had gone many miles. Instantly he drove the camel off the road on to the field. When he had gone a hundred paces he stopped, slipped off, and with the quickness of a well-trained scout proceeded to obliterate the traces of the animal's feet back to the point at which it had started to go in the opposite direction, the camel meanwhile stopping to drink at a deep pool. In a few minutes he was back again, remounted, and continued his journey.

It was by this time nearly dark. After riding a few miles he saw, somewhat nearer the road, a small shrine amid trees, such as are to be found in countless numbers dotted over India. It struck him that, since the gates of Delhi must now be shut, he might well shelter for the night beneath the walls of the shrine. He halted, tethered the camel to one of the trees, and made himself as comfortable as he could.

An hour or two afterwards he heard the distant sounds of a body of men approaching. Were they fellow-villagers of the men he had punished, on the hunt for him? Devoutly he hoped that the camel would not betray him by a grunt. The sounds drew nearer--voices, the tramp of feet on the road. They passed. For the time he was safe. Tired as he was, he durst not now go to sleep. The men might return; an unlucky grunt might bring them upon him. In anxious suspense he waited. The hours are long to one who waits. At last he heard faint sounds from beyond him. Men were approaching him again. He stood, grasping his weapons. The sounds grew louder. The marching men were now abreast of him. If they had been his comrades of the Guides they would find the tracks of his camel even in the dark. But they passed; the sound of their marching grew fainter; and at last Ahmed's uneasiness left him, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay down to sleep.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

Kaluja Dass, Khansaman

On that evening, about the time when Ahmed had his little fight with the villagers, Kaluja Dass, an Oudh man of pleasant aspect and grave deportment, was preparing a meal for his master in a substantial house lying some little distance in the rear of the Chandni Chauk--Silver Street--the long straight thoroughfare leading from the Lahore gate to the king's palace in Delhi. His brows were drawn down, a deep vertical furrow divided his forehead; he wore a look of worry and embarrassment which accorded ill with his position as khansaman to a subahdar in the army of the king. But the subahdar had announced that he would bring guests home to sup with him, and Kaluja was at his wits' end to provide the meal. The subahdar commanded a regiment, but neither he nor his men had had any pay for weeks. In spite of his impecuniosity, the officer always expected his appetite to be appeased, and was wont to give the rein to a very abusive tongue if the bill of fare was not to his liking.

Kaluja Dass had done his best, but really, without money it was impossible to persuade the merchants in the bazar, however loyal they were, that an officer of the king must be suitably fed. The khansaman had done his best, but he had to confess to himself, as he viewed the dishes, that the supper was not worthy even of a jamadar.

The room in which the meal was set was a large one on the first floor of a house which had once belonged to a prince of the blood. But some years before, when the sahibs came to assist Bahadur Shah--who certainly needed assistance--in the government of his kingdom, the house had been purchased by one of them from its impoverished owner. Craddock Sahib was a hakim, and also, as it appeared, a man of war; in the English way of putting it, he was a surgeon attached to one of the foot regiments in the service of the Company. He had a wife, a son, and a daughter; so large a house was quite unnecessary, as Kaluja thought, for so small a family, especially when the son went away over the black water to his own country, to learn how to become a hakim like his father. But that was a characteristic of the sahibs: they loved spaciousness; and if Craddock Sahib's family was small, his household was correspondingly large; Kaluja Dass as khansaman ruled over quite a regiment of underlings.

Dr. Craddock had been in cantonments when the rising took place. As soon as news of it reached his ears he mounted his buggy and hastened back into the city, against the advice of all his friends. At the gate he was met by a sepoy, who presented a loaded pistol at his head; but quick as thought the doctor lashed him across the face with his whip, and the man slunk howling away. Seeing that the street was full of people, Dr. Craddock jumped from his buggy and made his way by side streets towards his house. He had almost reached it when he was set upon by a group of ruffians, who hacked at him with their knives and left him for dead on the ground.

It happened that next day the doctor's house was granted by the king to a Pathan adventurer named Minghal Khan, who had just entered the city. He had come with high recommendations from the Maulavi Ahmed Ullah. Had he not earned Paradise by going to and fro through the land in the guise of a fakir and preparing the minds of the faithful for the great deliverance at hand? So worthy a missionary deserved well at the hands of Bahadur Shah, and the doddering old king at once made him a subahdar and gave him for residence the house which had just been purged of the defiling presence of an infidel Feringhi.

The first thing Minghal Khan did was to fling out of the house some of the European furniture, treading under heel the many dainty nick-nacks which had stood for so much to the memsahib as mementoes of home. Among the larger articles of furniture which he allowed to remain was a lofty almirah, on the shelves of which stood long arrays of bottles large and small, containing liquids and powders of various colours. Minghal had no respect for the infidel hakim's drugs, but the bottles made a pretty show and pleased his eye.

Those who had known Kaluja Dass as the faithful servant of Craddock Sahib might have been surprised at his remaining in the same house as khansaman to Minghal Khan. No doubt they were somewhat astonished at the change that came over the man. He was never tired of abusing his late master and all the Feringhi race, and though, not being a man of war, he did not actually fight against them, no man in Delhi cursed them more heartily or uttered devouter wishes for their extermination. It was partly this violence of language that induced Minghal Khan to engage him. That important personage at first swore that he would have none to serve him who had served the Feringhis; he even accused Kaluja of favouring the accursed infidels, and only the most vehement protestations of hatred--spittings, revilings, maledictions on countless foregone generations of the sons of perdition--prevented the Pathan from dealing with Kaluja in his haste as too many loyal natives had been dealt with. And then, when the man offered to serve the hazur without pay--so greatly did he honour this doughty enemy of the sahibs--Minghal was satisfied. A man must live, to be sure, but a khansaman had opportunities of squeezing the means of livelihood out of the purveyors honoured with his master's custom; and Minghal, being as arrant a brigand as ever went raiding on the border, was content to accept the service of an experienced domestic on such easy terms.

But Kaluja's place was not an easy one, and became more difficult as money ran short. This evening he had spent his last rupee in buying sweetmeats as garnishment for the meal. The names he bestowed inwardly on his master did not savour of respect. And when by and by Minghal came in with two friends of his kidney, and saw the meagreness of the repast, he cursed Kaluja as a dog and the son of a dog, and bade him go into the bazar and buy something more suited to the dignity, as to the appetite, of a friend of Bahadur Shah.

"Hazur, thy servant has not a pice," faltered the khansaman.

"Pig, wouldst thou answer me? Go, get thee some of the Feringhi's lumber that remains, and sell it. Wouldst thou keep my guests waiting? Quick, or by my father's beard I will hamstring thee."

Kaluja hastened from the room. During his absence Minghal inveighed against the parsimony of the king, which kept his faithful servants in such straits.

"Where is justice?" he cried. "Did he not command two days ago that twelve rupees' worth of sweetmeats should be bestowed upon those seventy sowars who came in from Alipur, with a tale--lies, by my beard!--that they had slain a hundred Feringhis and pursued a host for three full koss? And yesterday did he not give large gifts to the Gujars who stole forty camels from the Feringhis' camp? He is lavish to them, and yet will not part with a rupee to one who has journeyed in the heat of the day and faced death a hundred times in conveying the Maulavi's chapatis to the faithful!"

"The king has no treasury: how can he pay you?" said one of his friends.

"Bah! Has he not untold wealth in that palace of his? And are not the queen's arms heavy with jewels? Verily he will not long be king when we have smitten these accursed Feringhis."

"And when will that be, friend? The smiting was the other way this morning."

"Hai! what is that? Do not our numbers grow day by day? What can the Feringhis do? Can they scale these walls? Have we not a hundred guns and more upon them? Within a little we shall issue forth like a swarm of locusts and devour them. The work grows apace. This day a kasid came with news that a regiment has risen at Jajjar; troops are coming to us from Kotwal; the Feringhis have been smitten at Lahore. What can this handful of white-faced dogs do against our great host?"

Further conversation was interrupted by the return of the khansaman laden with dainties from the bazar.

"Wah! Did I not say that there is abundance of good things in Delhi? But why, pig, hast thou not brought spirits? Wherewithal dost thou suppose we will comfort our hearts?"

"Hazur, the bottles are empty."

"Dog, thou liest! All the Feringhis lay in a plentiful store of the strong waters. Hast thou drunk them thyself, thou thief, and broke the Prophet's command? Verily I will myself come and see if thou art telling the truth."

"Hazur, I will look again," said the khansaman hastily, and with an anxious air. "Maybe I have overlooked a bottle or two that still remain. It is not meet that the noble hazur should have the great trouble of searching himself."

He went away, and soon returned with a full bottle of brandy. Forbidden though the drinking of intoxicating liquors was, many professed faithful followers of the Prophet paid scant heed to the prohibition. They drank if they could afford to buy. Minghal and his guests imbibed freely, diluting the liquor but little. The bottle was soon empty: the guests, less accustomed to the spirit than Minghal himself, were completely overcome; and Minghal, flushed and unsteady, called for more. Kaluja humbly declared that there was no more in the house; but Minghal, cursing him for a liar, cried that he would see for himself. He rose and staggered across the room. Catching sight of the row of bottles on the almirah, he gave a maudlin chuckle of delight and reached out his hand to take one down.

"Hazur, have a care!" cried the khansaman. "Those bottles contain not what thou desirest. They are the hakim's medicines; some cause the pains of hell, some kill."

"Thou liest in thy throat, dog. I will drink, I say."

He took down one of the bottles and carried it to the divan where he had been reclining. Then, removing the stopper, he poured a quantity of liquid into his cup and raised it to his lips. Before he could drink, however, he choked, caught his breath, and dropped the cup as if it stung him. The liquid fell upon his sandalled feet, and he sprang up with a yell of pain.

"I am burning!" he screamed, gasping with the ammonia fumes. "It is the fire of Tophet at my feet and nose."

"Hazur, did I not say to thee, 'Touch not'? But thou wouldst not hear."

"Dog, dost thou prate while I burn? The pain consumes me. Dost thou stand and look? Run for the hakim ere I perish."

The khansaman started, and threw a scared look over his shoulder. Then he appeared to recover himself.

"It needs not to call a hakim," he said. "I will myself ease the hazur's pain."