Chapter THE TENTH: The Delhi Road (4)

He was evidently in very ill-humour at having to turn out. It was raining; he growled again as he went out into the street, glancing in at his shed as he passed to see whether his visitor was gone. Ahmed heard the khansaman close the door, and then pass by into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Instantly he slipped out, and ran lightly up the staircase to the first floor. The wide landing was lit by two lamps hanging from the ceiling. Right and left were two doors, the one on the right slightly ajar, the one on the left wide open. Looking through this latter, Ahmed saw the medicine-room of which the darwan had spoken; the bottles stood in array on the shelves of a large almirah. From the other door came the sound of voices: it was here that Minghal Khan and his guest were conversing. Ahmed was resolved to learn the subject of their discourse. It was probably of importance; almost certainly it was concerned with military affairs, for the darwan had gone to summon the adjutant-general. To learn the matter of their deliberations might be of vital moment to the English. Yet how was he to do so? He could not listen at the door; the servants might pass at any moment. Even as he stood in a tremor of excitement, he heard the clinking of drinking-vessels from below; the khansaman was returning. To hide from him was his first concern. At the other end of the landing was a passage; he might take refuge there. Yet, ignorant of that part of the house, he might only run into greater danger. There was no time for calculation. In another moment he would be seen, and then his fate was sealed. He slipped into the surgery, and stood behind the door, hoping that the khansaman, after carrying the drinks to his master, would not enter the room opposite. If he did--Ahmed fingered his knife: a Pathan has a short way with his enemies.

He heard the khansaman go into the dining-room with his clinking vessels. Voices; then silence; then the shuffling feet of the khansaman as he went downstairs again. Had he shut the door behind him? If he had, all hope of hearing the conversation in that room was gone. Ahmed peeped out. The door was fast closed. He slipped out stealthily, crossed the landing, and put his ear against the door. The sound of talking came to him muffled and indistinct. But it seemed to be approaching: were the great men coming from the room? He heard a laugh, and in Minghal's loud tones the word "almirah." Instantly it occurred to him that the bringing of the liquors had reminded Minghal of his mishap, and he was about to show his guest the room in which it had happened, and the almirah from which he had taken the fatal bottle. In a flash Ahmed saw a chance of taking advantage of their temporary absence from the dining-room. No longer hesitating, he ran to the dark passage at the end of the landing, and shrank into a corner until the two men had crossed from room to room. Then he stole back on tiptoe, and peeped round the door of the surgery to make sure that he could not be seen as he entered the room opposite. The men had their backs to him; Minghal was pointing out the bottle which had all but killed him. Ahmed slipped into the dining-room, and looked around for some means of concealment. He had but a moment; if he did not discover a suitable hiding-place he must get back to the dark passage before Minghal Khan returned.

The eyes of the Guides were trained to observe quickly. This is what he saw in an instant of time: at one end of the room, a pianoforte--he had seen such in the officers' quarters at Hoti-Mardan; in one corner a number of European chairs pushed back out of the way; in the centre, four cushioned seats grouped about a little foot-table on which were cups and bottles and the remains of a meal; along the wall at right-angles to the door, a wide low divan, with flounces touching the floor. In a moment he made his deductions and took his resolution. Two of the four cushioned seats had been occupied by Minghal Khan and the general; the other two were for the officers whom the darwan and the khitmutgar had gone to summon. The divan probably would not be used; beneath it, screened by the flounce, he might lie and hear all that was said. If other officers came, and the divan were required, it would be pulled out and rolled across the floor. In that case he must crawl with it. The chances of discovery by the officers were slight; there was greater risk of discovery by the servants when the meeting broke up; but the Guides were accustomed to take risks.

These considerations passed through Ahmed's mind in a flash. A few seconds after he entered the room he was under the divan, with the flounce pulled down, not a movement of it to betray that anything had happened during the men's absence. He wondered whether the beating of his heart could be heard; it was thumping much more violently now than when he was deciding what to do. The officers stayed in the surgery some time; Ahmed heard Minghal Khan talking and laughing; and by the time they came back his pulse had quietened.

They returned to their seats, and drank, and talked--of the weaknesses of the king, the vices of the princes, the temper of the queen, the desperate straits of the English at Lucknow, the glorious future before them when the English had been annihilated. Ahmed wondered whether all the risks he had dared were to be rewarded with no better pribble-prabble than this. But by and by the Mirza Mogul was announced, and a few minutes after him Khuda Baksh Khan, one of the chief sirdars of the rebel forces, and then the conversation took a turn which engaged the listener's attention to the uttermost.

At first he had difficulty in making it out. The speakers referred to matters which had previously been discussed at the king's palace. But gradually he was able to piece things together; allusions became clear; he grasped the whole. That very night, a brigade of four thousand men, horse, foot and artillery, was to march out secretly, slip by the right of the British position, and move on to the village of Alipur, several miles in the rear. The villagers had proved loyal to the British; they constantly supplied the camp with provisions; and General Barnard had recently established there a small post of some sixty Sikhs. The first object of the proposed night attack was to destroy the village with its guard, and carry off a great amount of stores which was believed to be there.

But it had a second object. While the attention of the British was diverted to this movement, twenty thousand men were to parade under arms at dawn near the mosque, in readiness for a sortie. Bakht Khan meant to signalize his elevation to the post of commander-in-chief by a tremendous stroke against the besiegers. The men would issue in two great columns from the Kashmir and Lahore gates. Outnumbering their enemy by nearly four to one, they would overwhelm them.

This was the general scheme. About the details the officers proceeded to wrangle. Mirza Mogul resented the promotion of a mere artillery officer to the chief command, and had innumerable objections to urge against the views of Bakht Khan. Minghal sided with his superior; Khuda Baksh with the prince. Ahmed could not forbear smiling as he listened. What would all their boasts of a glorious victory come to, if they were thus disunited? He felt a certain respect for Bakht Khan, the sturdy plain-spoken warrior who believed in drill; for the prince, who had bragged for a month of what he meant to do, and had done nothing, he had only contempt. But the important matter was, how to convey information of these designs to Hodson Sahib? The gates of the city had long been shut; to pass out by one of them would be impossible. Should he go to Fazl Hak and ask his advice? He dismissed that idea at once; he would do without Fazl Hak; the maulavi should learn that he was not indispensable. He must trust to his own wits. First of all he had to get safely from the house, and that might prove difficult and dangerous enough. He was a prisoner under the divan until the meeting broke up; when the visitors had gone the door would be bolted; Ahmed began to feel alarmed lest he should have to remain all night in the house, and be prevented from giving the sahibs warning.

Some time elapsed before the three officers rose to depart. Minghal Khan accompanied them to the door; Ahmed heard the bolts shot, the voice of Minghal giving the servants orders for the morning, then the shuffling of his feet as he ascended the staircase and passed along the passage to his bedroom. Presently the khansaman came in, lifted the remains of the repast from the table, put out the light, and went away. Ahmed lifted the edge of the flounce to watch him. From his position he could see across the landing, through the door which the khansaman had left open, into the opposite room, where a lamp still burned. He saw the khansaman cross the room with the tray in his hand and set it down on one of the shelves of the almirah. Then a strange thing happened. The khansaman pushed aside a panel in the back of the almirah where there were no shelves, and the wall behind opened inwards, as of itself. He went into the hole, turned round and replaced the panel, and was shut from view.

What did this mean? What was the explanation of the stealthy, furtive manner in which the khansaman had acted? Ahmed would have liked to follow him; it crossed his mind that the man might have a secret hoard of valuables belonging to his late master; but the urgency of his duty to Hodson Sahib forbade any delay. He was in a quandary. How was he to get out of the house? He had heard the bolt of the front door shot; it was too much to hope that he could descend the stairs, draw back the bolt, and open the door without attracting the attention of the darwan, whose shed was close by, and who might not yet be asleep. There was no doubt a back entrance; could he discover that without making a noise? This seemed the only course.

He crept from his hiding-place, stole to the door, listened: all was silent. Then he tiptoed along the landing until he came to the dark passage at the end. It ran across the breadth of the house. He went along it, past a closed door which might be the door of Minghal Khan's bedroom, and reached a staircase. Without doubt this would bring him to the back door. He went down, passed the kitchens, which were in darkness, and came to a door which a rapid inspection assured him was neither bolted nor locked. Opening it just enough to allow him to squeeze through, he gently closed it behind him, and found himself in a walled-in garden, with a circular fountain in the middle. A colonnade ran along three sides of it, supported on slender pillars. There was a door on the fourth side, but this he soon proved to be securely locked. It was an easy matter to swarm up one of the pillars, climb the roof of the colonnade, and from that gain the top of the wall a little below. Then dropping on the outer side he alighted in a narrow lane. It was pitch dark; he could not see his way, and knew not whether to turn to the right hand or to the left; but choosing the left at random, he groped his way along, through puddles and heaps of ill-smelling refuse, following the erratic windings of the lane until he came, as he had hoped, to the street in which the house was situated. Here he got a little light from a few smoky oil-lamps that hung at irregular intervals from brackets on the walls. From the sounds he heard before him he guessed that the street led into the Chandni Chauk, and in less than a minute he came to that thoroughfare. There were many people about; though the gates of the city were shut, the hour was not yet late; and he judged from the laughter proceeding from many half-open doors that some of Bakht Khan's soldiers were being entertained by the residents.

He walked slowly, and no one paid him any attention. Should he go at once to the walls, he asked himself, and try to find some way of quitting the city? He bethought himself of his goods in the serai. If he left them, without any word of explanation, the bhatiyara might become suspicious. Even if that gave rise to no immediate danger, he thought it unwise to make any difficulties for himself when he should return to the city, as no doubt he would do. So he went back to the serai, and told the keeper that he had met an old acquaintance (which happened to be literally true), and proposed to spend the night with him at the other end of the city. But it would be a pity to disturb his bales at this time of night; he might safely leave them in his friend the bhatiyara's care.

"It is understood that you will make some little charge for the storage," he said, "and I know I leave them with an honest man."

"True, O banijara: I will gladly keep them for you: and as to a charge for storage, I can without doubt trust to your sense of justice."

In reality the honest innkeeper reflected that in these troublous times there was always a chance that a stray bullet, or a round shot from the Feringhis' batteries, might end his customer's career--an unfortunate matter for the customer, but likely to be very profitable to himself, with the goods left on his hands. This being satisfactorily arranged, Ahmed dismissed his coolie, ordered a meal, and while he ate it pondered the difficult problem--his escape from the city.

There were batteries at intervals along the wall, from the Water bastion on the extreme north to the Ajmir gate at the south-west corner of the city. These would be fully manned during the night. The wall would be watched along its whole circumference; more loosely on the south side, no doubt, than on the north or west, for in that quarter the city had not even remotely been threatened by the besiegers. On the other hand, the sentries there being in no danger of shot or shell, would have nothing to do but watch, whereas on the west and north, and particularly on the latter, they would be in some degree concerned in keeping under cover. Further, if he left the city on the south side he would have a very long way to go before he could arrive at the Ridge, or at any of the British outposts, and there was also a chance that he might fall into the hands of the rebels as he passed through the populous suburbs. These were strongly held by the mutineers, especially Kishenganj, which would be directly in his path.

On the whole he decided that it would be best to make an attempt at the north side, somewhere between the Shah bastion and the Kashmir gate. He would have to let himself down over the wall, twenty-four feet deep, into the ditch, ascend the scarp on the opposite side, and gain the glacis; then there would be nothing but a stretch of jungly country between himself and the Ridge.

The first requisite was a rope. He had this ready in the cords by which he bound his merchandise to the camel. But to what could he attach the rope if he gained the wall safely? At any spot sufficiently quiet and secluded for him to make the attempt there was scarcely likely to be anything in the way of a staple or ring. Clearly he must provide himself with something that would serve his purpose in case of necessity. Taking advantage of his nightly visit to the stable to look after his camel, he got a stout lathi and sharpened the end of it into the form of a stake. Then he prepared a slip-knot at the end of the rope, wound the rope about his body under his outer garment, and, returning to the inn, gave his host a courteous "salaam aleikam!" and set off in the direction of the Kashmir gate.

He passed through the Koriapul bazar, which was filled with a motley throng of people of the trading classes, eagerly discussing the events of the day and the strong measures likely to follow upon the arrival of Bakht Khan. Ahmed ventured to delay for a few minutes in order to get an inkling of the general feeling of the people. Many were as confident of the ultimate success of the rebels as the sepoys themselves; but some of the older men, while as fervently desiring the crushing of the English as the rest, quietly dropped in words of caution and doubt. One of them said that he had heard from a servant of Ahsanullah, the king's physician, that that crafty old fox had foretold the doom of the city, and was suspected to be making provision for that fatal day.

Ahmed passed on. But instead of striking into the Nasirganj Road, which would bring him direct to the Kashmir gate and the main guard, he made his way by quiet and tortuous lanes, among the gardens of some of the principal residents, towards a point about half-way between the Kashmir gate and the Mori bastion. He was aware that, besides the heavy guns at the bastions, there were light guns along the whole of this part of the wall; but these could only be effectively used if the besiegers approached the city, and were, perhaps, hardly likely to be manned in force now. But when he came near enough to see them, he saw also that the gunners were on duty beside the guns, huddled together--the night was damp and chilly--and most of them, to all appearance, asleep. Now and then, however, he heard voices from these little knots of men; it behoved him to go warily. He passed along, keeping in shadow, until he reached a part of the wall where all was quiet. There was no firing either from the British lines or from the defences of the city, and the night was so still, with the brooding stillness of an imminent storm, that the slightest sound in his vicinity would have reached his ear. Pausing for a few moments for reassurance, he at length ventured to creep to the foot of the wall, and grope his way up the steps leading to the battlements, eight feet below the parapet. Half-way up he heard a faint call somewhere to his left, but it was not answered, and he went on till he gained the top.

Stealing along the battlements, he sought for some fissure in which he might plant his lathi. But he found none, and the masonry of the wall was far too hard to allow him to bore a hole in it without making a noise that was bound to attract attention. He wished he could have gone to one of the embrasures and tied his rope to the gun itself; but even if the gunners were asleep, it involved a risk he dared not run. He was at his wit's end to know what to do. Flat on his belly, to lessen the chances of being seen, he crawled along, seeking for a hole, and becoming more and more anxious as the moments fled. What if his warning should reach Hodson Sahib too late? The parapet was loopholed for musketry, but the loopholes afforded him no assistance. At length, when almost in despair, he came to a spot where a shot from one of the British guns had made a jagged rent in the parapet. Here, surely, at this fortuitous embrasure, he could put his fortune to the test. Gently unwinding the rope from about his body, he fixed the slip-knot on the lathi, and having laid this transversely across the gap, he paid out the rope until he felt it touch bottom.

Now came the critical moment. He knew that as soon as he attempted to cross the parapet there was a danger that, dark as the night was, his form might be seen. There was a gun with its group of gunners not many yards to his right. If one of the men should chance to look in his direction he could hardly escape discovery. He was thankful that the sky was overcast; indeed, his journey promised to be an uncomfortable one, for big spots of rain were falling. Perhaps these heralds of a storm might cause the gunners to huddle themselves more closely in their cloaks. But it was vain to delay; the sooner he made the attempt the better; so, one hand holding the rope, with the other he got a grip of the top of the parapet. Then he gave a sudden spring, gained the top, and grasping the rope with both hands, let himself swing free.

As he did so, there came a shout, followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps. His knuckles scraped against the wall; to protect his hands he pushed against the wall with his feet, but the result of this was to throw all his weight on his hands, and his palms were skinned as he slid rapidly down. The descent was only twenty-four feet. He touched the ground. Letting the rope go, he plunged down the scarp into the ditch, rushed across, up the counter-scarp and the glacis, and reached level ground on the other side. Then a shot flew over his head; he had been seen. Upright he would form a target, however indistinct, for the sepoys on the wall, and some of them were no mean marksmen. He dropped on hands and toes, and thus crawled as fast as he could over the soppy ground. Shots flew around him, but he escaped them all, and hurrying along until he judged that he could no longer be seen, he rose to his feet and ran at full speed across the Circular Road that encompasses the city, over a stretch of open ground, until he reached the Kudsia Road, and did not check his pace until he had got half-a-mile from the wall. And then the rain came down in a blinding torrent, and in five minutes he was drenched to the skin.

The rain favoured him in one respect--that it would keep people under cover. On the other hand, it added to the difficulties of his journey. Even on a clear night he would have found it by no means easy to find his way. He had nearly two miles to go before he could reach the British lines, and the ground was dotted with scrub and trees, and with houses and enclosures, some isolated, some clustered together. Some of the houses had been occupied before the rising by British officers and civil servants; they were now, he did not doubt, in the hands of the rebels. But his only course was to hurry forward, trusting to the good fortune that had hitherto befriended him.

For half-a-mile he went on across the swampy ground, then found himself among the walled enclosures. The best way to avoid observation was to find a lane, such as commonly divided one enclosure from another, and proceed along that. This he did, and for perhaps another quarter of a mile trudged on between high walls, the lane winding this way and that, but leading always, so far as he could judge, in the direction he wished to go. At length he found himself on open ground again, and now had some inkling of his locality. The building he had just passed was a large one, which he had seen, as he thought, often from the Ridge. He would very soon find himself on the gentle slope leading up to the British lines, and his journey would be ended.

He had not gone very far, however, when, even in the darkness, he thought he saw the forms of a number of men recumbent on the ground a little in front of him. He halted and crouched down. They might be the bodies of men killed in some outpost skirmish, but it was well to make sure. A moment later he heard whispers. The men were certainly alive. Were they rebels or a reconnoitring party from the British lines? There were adventurous sahibs, he knew, who would take advantage of just such a night as this to examine the outposts of the enemy. He listened intently, but for some time could not form any conclusion--the voices were too low. At length, however, he saw one of the men rise, and at the same time heard a voice uttering execrations on the accursed mlechas. Beyond doubt the men were rebels. He must make a circuit, and try to pass them on their flank; then, having got in front of them, trust to his heels.

It was clear from their low tones that they were in some fear of being discovered. A British outpost could not be far distant. He glanced to right and left, then, with the instinct of a scout, backwards along the path by which he had come. And now he received a sudden shock, for, scarcely more than fifty yards from him, there were five or six dark forms creeping towards him. In a moment he realized the situation. Without doubt these men formed part of a rebel outpost stationed in the building he had just passed. They had seen him pass, and with native quickness had recognized that his turban, the most conspicuous part of his dress, was not that of a sepoy. The presence of any other man at that place and hour was suspicious; he might be a spy returning to the British lines. The slow movements of the men indicated that they thought to take him by surprise, without alarming the British outpost by the sounds of a struggle.

They had seen him halt, and would know that he had caught sight of their comrades in advance. At any moment they might rush upon him. He felt that he was in a very tight place. Before and behind were enemies; and these latter, seeming to have anticipated his meditated flank movement, were spreading out as if to envelop him. What could he do? To attempt a dash through the men in front, who had clearly not yet seen him, would be too risky. There were more than a dozen men in the two parties, and he could not hope to escape all their shots if they fired. He had but a moment to decide, and in that moment he remembered the trick by which he had escaped a somewhat similar peril when he was escorting the missy sahib. With a quick movement he divested himself of the turban and the chogah which betrayed him as a trader; then, bending low and crouching forward, he gave a slight cry to attract the attention of the men in front. Before they were all on their feet he was in their midst, and murmuring "Feringhis!" pointed to the party stalking him behind, then sank to the ground as if wounded or exhausted.

His ruse had the effect he had calculated upon. Many a time in the course of the great struggle the mere hint that the sahibs were upon them sufficed to throw panic into the mutineers' hearts. A moment's reflection would have shown these men that they could scarcely have been taken in reverse unwarned by their comrades in the house. But the suddenness of the stranger's arrival, the darkness, the silence of the approaching forms, combined to banish reason: without a moment's hesitation they took to their heels, and scampered for safety away to the left in the direction of Sabzi Mandi. Instantly Ahmed jumped to his feet and set off at a headlong run towards the British lines. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he toppled over the edge of a nullah and went souse into the muddy pool at the bottom. As he ran, he heard sounds of conflict behind him. Apparently the men he had startled had dashed heedlessly into those of their comrades who were stealing round on the left. But the noise was almost immediately hushed: the mistake had no doubt been discovered, and the rebels did not wish to bring the Feringhis down upon them.

Dripping wet, bruised, and shaken, Ahmed groped his way along the nullah for some distance, then scrambled up the bank. But in his relief at escaping from the enemy he forgot his usual caution, and did not wait to prospect the ground before leaving the nullah. He had gone but a few paces, still running, when he heard a cry, "Who goes there?" Next moment he tumbled over a man, fell with a thud against another, and while struggling with rough hands laid upon him, realized that he had fallen plump into a British outpost.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

The Spoilers Spoiled

"Give the word, you heathen son of a washer-woman," said a rough English voice, the owner of which had his hands on Ahmed's throat. "Give the word; jaldi karo."

"What have you got there, Tom?" said another voice.

"Blowed if it ain't a Pandy or some other drowned rat by the feel of him. What do you mean, you suar ka bachcha, by treading on the toes of a British rifleman? Hilo mat, you bloomin' reptile, or I'll stick my bay'net in your gala."

"Take me to Hodson Sahib," said Ahmed in halting English, as soon as he got his breath.

"Hodson Sahib be jiggered! We ain't khaki, as you might see with your cat's eyes; we're green, we are. You've come to the wrong shop for those everlasting Guides, if that's what you want. You've got gentlemen of the 60th Royal Rifles to deal with, let me tell you. He ain't got no rifle, mates, so there ain't no harm in him. What are you a-doing of here, and what was that there noise we heard just now?"

"Take me to Hodson Sahib," Ahmed repeated.

"Perhaps he's one of Hodson's spies, Tom," said a third man. "Better send him along to the Colonel."

"We can't send him, not having no conveniences for such. He'll just have to wait until we're relieved."

"But s'pose he's got news of an attack? There'd be a bit of a dust-up if the General didn't get warning in time."

"And there'd be another dust-up if an inspection-officer come along and found me absent from my juty. Rum thing, juty, you nigger; and the sooner you learn it the better. My juty says one thing, your juty,--if so be you _are_ one of Hodson's spies--says another. If two juties pulls in hopposite directions, the thing that wants doing don't get done, and the consekinces is accordin'."

"Y' ought to bin a parson, Tom. Blest if ever I knowed such a chap for argyfying."

"Argyfy! I never do it. I only talk sense. That's what my mother used to say to the old man when they was talkin' over some little bit o' difference between 'em. 'Woman,' says he, 'your argyment's ridik'lous. Women ain't got no power of reasonin'.' 'And a good thing for you, Jimmy,' say she. 'Women ha' got sense.' And then they'd begin over again, and me eatin' bread and butter listenin' to 'em. 'The amount o' rubbidge that there poor boy do have to listen to from one as ought to bring him up proper!' says my father. 'True,' says she, 'and if he didn't take after me 'twould turn his little stomick, poor lamb!' And then he'd argyfy that too much butter warn't good for a boy's innards, and she'd listen and say nothing till the next slice was cut, and blest if he didn't lay it on thicker than her. Argyfyin' ain't in it against sense."

Ahmed was growing impatient under the rifleman's garrulity, though he took a certain pleasure in hearing his mother tongue again. The name "Jimmy" had caught his ear, and he remembered that he had himself been called by that name in those distant years of childhood that seemed like existence in another world. But meanwhile the night was passing; his news was yet untold; and he was meditating a flight from these English soldiers when he heard the tread of men marching, and in a few moments there came up a lieutenant going the rounds with a squad to see that the men of the outposts and pickets were attending to their duty.

"Who's this, sergeant?" said the lieutenant, observing Ahmed. "You know the rules: no visitors allowed?"

"Yes, sir, and he ain't exactly a visitor, that is we didn't invite him and didn't know he was coming; in fact, he came on us all of a heap like, and nearly knocked the breath out o' my body by falling right on top of me, sir. He asked for Hodson Sahib, sir, and I was just explaining that he'd come to the wrong shop."

"Brought khabar, eh?" said the lieutenant. "Take him to Mr. Hodson," he added, turning to one of his men, and Ahmed was forthwith conveyed along the Ridge until he reached his commander's tent. Hodson was in bed, but on hearing that a native had asked for him, he had Ahmed brought into the tent.

"Who are you?" he said, not recognizing his trooper in the bearded man before him.

"I am Ahmed Khan, sahib, and I come from Delhi with news."

"By Jove!" cried Hodson, "your get-up is first-rate." Then he laughed. "You are no doubt the man Fazl Hak wrote about; a simple trader, he said, who was no good at all for our job. Well, what have you got to say?"

He listened attentively as Ahmed told his story.

As his manner was, he questioned and cross-questioned him searchingly; it was no easy matter, as a rule, to sift out the bare truth from the natives' reports; but Ahmed's account was so simple and direct that he was speedily satisfied, and then he got up, and flinging on a long military cloak, went off to tell General Barnard in person what he had learnt.

"You are wet through," he said before he went, noticing Ahmed's bedraggled appearance. "My servant will give you some dry things. Go and get some sleep, and come to me in the morning."

"If there is to be fighting, and the hazur pleases," said Ahmed, "I should like to go with the Guides."

"Very well," said Hodson, giving him a keen look; "but don't put on the uniform. You are going to be useful, I think, and the secret had better be kept a little longer."

It was half-past two in the morning when a little force, consisting of three hundred and fifty men of the 61st Regiment, Hodson with the cavalry of the Guides, and Major Coke with some batteries of horse artillery, left camp to do battle with the mutineers and prevent if possible the attack on Alipur; if not, to intercept the rebels on their return. The force was under the command of Coke, of the Panjab Irregular Cavalry, who had arrived on the Ridge a few days before. He was a gallant officer, with a great reputation for his achievements in border warfare; no better man could have been chosen for the work in hand.

Alipur was eight miles distant on the Karnal Road. While Lieutenant Frederick Roberts with the infantry felt for the enemy along the road, Hodson with the Guides and Coke with the guns marched along the right bank of the Jumna Canal. Fortunately the rain had ceased, but the ground had been turned into a quagmire; the horses trod over their fetlocks in mud, and the progress of the column was slow. It was soon clear that all hope must be abandoned of saving the village and the little Sikh post guarding it. Still, the rebels must return to Delhi, and it was possible to relieve them of any plunder they had gained and to teach them a lesson.

The Guides marched on in the darkness. Ahmed had as yet attracted no attention among the troopers. Hodson's servant had rummaged out an old scarf which rolled up into a quite respectable turban, and a discarded great-coat which was not unlike the chogah he had left on the ground when escaping from the rebels. It was impossible to distinguish his dress in the night, and if anything strange had been noticed about his appearance, the fact that many had had to change their drenched garments might have sufficiently explained it. He took care to keep out of Sherdil's way; Sherdil was the most likely man to see through his disguise, and while his mission in Delhi was yet unfulfilled in its entirety, it was advisable to keep the secret.

Soon after daybreak the patrols came in sight of the enemy returning in triumph from Alipur. They had fallen on the village, slain the Sikhs to a man, burnt the place to the ground, and carried off a quantity of plunder, including an ammunition wagon and several camel-loads of small-arm cartridges.

At the sight of the rebel infantry in their red coats, Major Coke unlimbered the guns and brought them into action. They were only light field-pieces, and did little execution among the enemy, who, instead of standing their ground and making use of their overwhelming numbers, fell into a panic when the guns came within six hundred yards of them, and bolted, flinging away their shoes, belts and other impedimenta, in their mad haste to get away.

Then Hodson gave his eager men the word to charge. They swept down upon the disordered ranks of the rebels, and were soon engaged hand to hand with their cavalry. Shouting their war-cry "Wah-hah!" the Guides cut their way through them, smiting right and left with their swords.

Hodson himself was in the thick of the fray, and escaped hurt as by a miracle. His gallant horse, Feroza, was slashed with sabre cuts; his bridle was severed, and a piece of his glove was shorn off. The men were no whit behind their leader. Ahmed unhorsed one man with his lance, and recovered from the stroke just in time to ward off a desperate thrust from a sabre. The trooper at his side fell from his horse with a mortal wound in his neck; several of the horses were so badly wounded that they had to be killed. But the enemy would not stand, and the Guides' losses were only the one man killed and six wounded.

So desperate was the rebels' flight that they left behind them all their baggage and the spoil of their night's work at Alipur. Hodson would fain have pursued them to the very walls of Delhi, but the horses were so fatigued by their march over the heavy ground that they were incapable of further efforts. Major Coke's guns, moreover, sank so deep into the mud that they could scarcely be moved. The rebels were on higher ground, and the Guides howled with disappointment when they saw them drawing their guns away in safety. They came up with the tail-end of the infantry ere the morning was past, and inflicted heavy loss upon them, so that Bakht Khan, who had led the column in person, had little satisfaction in his night's adventure. All that his five thousand men had accomplished was the destruction of a small village, and the capture of plunder which they were now forced to leave behind them on the field.

The encounter with the enemy having taken place between the road and the canal, the British infantry could not come up in time to take part in it. But they were so much exhausted by the scorching heat of the day, following their march over the swamps, that many of the 61st sank down beneath trees as they returned to camp, and remained there until elephants were sent to bring them in.

As the Guides marched back to camp, Ahmed became the object of much curious speculation on the part of his comrades. Many had noticed the doughty way in which he had conducted himself during the brief encounter, and wondered who this bearded warrior was who fought among them in a garb so strange. He rode on gravely, not turning his head, nor taking part in the talk of the others. They questioned one another in low tones about him.

"Who is this stranger, and when did he come among us?" asked Rasul Khan, of Sherdil, son of Assad, as they rode a little behind him.

"Allah knows," replied Sherdil. "I know him not. I spoke of him to Hodson Sahib, and the sahib glared at me out of his blue eyes--eyes like a hawk's, Rasul--and asked me whether he was not a good fighter and worthy of the Guides. 'Verily he is, sahib,' I said, 'but we know him not.' '_I_ know him, is not that enough?' says the sahib. Peradventure he is a new recruit, Rasul, or a candidate, and there being no time for the tests the sahib bade him come with us and show what he could do. I care not, so that he does not become a dafadar before me."

"I will even ask his name," returned Rasul, riding his horse beside Ahmed's. "Thou of the black beard, what is thy name?"

"I am of the Guides," said Ahmed simply. "If thou desirest to know more, ask of the sahib."

Whereupon Rasul fell back and told Sherdil that the black-bearded one was either a very surly fellow or one of the sahibs in disguise. "For he spake to me in the tone the sahibs have when they bid us do things and we obey even as children. Of a truth he is a sahib, or at the very least a sowar from one of the English regiments. That is it, he is an English sowar, one of Blunt Sahib's men, perhaps, and his own clothes being wet he put on those of a banijara. If that be not the truth, Sherdil, we shall without doubt learn the truth when we come to camp. He is a good fighter, that is sure."

That evening Hodson sent for Ahmed, who in common with all the members of Coke's wearied force had slept through the day, and kept him for a long time. Ahmed felt afterwards as if he had been turned inside out. He related all that had happened to him since his departure from the Ridge; his fight with the lathi-wallahs, his interview with Fazl Hak (at which Hodson chuckled), his eavesdropping in Minghal Khan's house, the failure of all his attempts hitherto to discover anything about Dr. Craddock. He mentioned casually how he had seen the khansaman disappear through a hole in the wall.

"The rascal!" said Hodson. "Without doubt he has some little hoard of his own by which he sleeps. And you say that he talks foully about the sahibs?"

"True, hazur."

"I hope the villain will get his deserts some day. Craddock Sahib will without doubt be found--if he is yet alive--in some quiet garden or on some roof-top. You will go back into the city. I am pleased with you. You will find out all you can that will help us when the assault comes--the numbers of rebels at the various gates, the haunts of the ringleaders, the secret ways by which they may try to escape. And if you can discover anything of their plans again, as you have done, you must let me know. Have you money?"

"Enough, sahib, and I have still some goods to sell."

"Ah, I had forgotten your goods. I doubt whether you will find them as you left them."

"Then the bhatiyara will suffer many pangs," said Ahmed simply, and Hodson laughed.

It was many days, however, before Ahmed returned to Delhi. His exposure on the night of his escape, followed by the march and fighting, and the fatigues of returning in the heat, had brought on a slight fever. He lay up in the quarters of the camp-followers, trusting to Nature for his cure. And during these days he heard much talk of the incidents of the camp. Cholera had broken out; General Barnard himself died of it after a few hours' illness on the day after the sortie to Alipur. His successor, General Reed, was in ill-health, and officers and men were discussing who would really lead them. Many of the natives complained bitterly of their treatment by the British soldiers. The cook-boys, who carried their food, often had to dodge round shot from the city, and had become expert at it, dropping down on their knees when they saw the shot coming. And when they rose and went on with their pots and tins the men would jeer at them, and curse them for being late with the food. Ahmed, as he heard things like this, wondered whether all the sahibs had such contempt for their poor native servants.

Between nine and ten one morning the bugles sounded the alarm, and Ahmed, having recovered sufficiently to leave his charpoy, went out to see what was happening. He had heard the sounds of firing so often while lying sick that he would hardly have noticed it now but that it seemed so much nearer than ever before.

In the drizzling rain a party of cavalry was seen approaching a battery near the churchyard. One of the gunners had a portfire lighted in readiness for firing his gun, but Lieutenant Hills ordered him to refrain, judging from the horsemen's movements that they were a picket of the 9th Irregular Native Cavalry. All at once, however, it struck him that the picket was unusually large, and being now a little suspicious, he ordered his men to unlimber and open upon the horsemen. Before this could be done some fifteen or twenty of the enemy dashed over the canal bridge into the camp and rode straight for the guns.

Lieutenant Hills--he was a second lieutenant and a little fellow--saw that time must be gained for his men if the guns were to be saved. Without a moment's hesitation he charged the rebels single-handed, cut down the first man he met, and had just flung his pistol at a second when two sowars dashed upon him. Their horses collided with his in a terrific shock; the horse was rolled over, and Hills sent flying to the ground, thus escaping the swords of the enemy, one of which, however, shore a slice off his jacket. Half stunned, he lay still, and the rebel sowars left him for dead.

But Hills was not dead; in a minute or two he rose to his feet and looked about for his sword. There it was, on the ground about ten yards away. No sooner was it in his hand than three of the enemy returned--two on horseback, the third on foot. One of the horsemen charged him, but he leapt aside and dealt the man a blow that toppled him wounded from the saddle. The second man made full at him with his lance. Hills parried the thrust with a quick movement, and wounded the sowar in the head. Then up came the third man--a young, limber fellow. Hills was panting for breath after the violence of his exertions. In his fierce and rapid movements his cloak had in some way wound itself about his throat, so that he was almost suffocated. But after dealing with the horseman he stood to meet the last of his opponents, and as he came within reach aimed a shrewd blow at him with his sword. The new-comer was fresh and unwearied. He turned the stroke, seized Hills' sword by the hilt and wrenched it from his grasp. Thus left weaponless, a man might not be blamed if he took to flight. Not so Hills. He had neither sword nor pistol, but he had his fists, and he set upon the rebel with ardour, punching his head and face with such swift and vigorous blows that the man was quite unable to use his sword, and gave back. Unluckily, Hills slipped over his cloak on the sodden ground and fell flat. The rebel had just lifted his sword to cleave the fallen man's skull, when up galloped Major Tombs, his troop-captain, who had heard of the rebels' attack from a trooper of the Irregular Cavalry. In an instant he saw Hills' danger. He was still some thirty paces away, and before he could reach the spot the fatal blow would have been struck. Checking his horse, he rested his revolver on his left arm and took aim at the mutineer, shooting him through the body.

Major Tombs and the Lieutenant returned to their men, who had chased the rebels some little distance past the guns. Coming back by and by to secure the unlimbered gun, they saw another mutineer coolly walking off with the pistol which Hills had hurled at a rebel's head early in the fight. Hills closed with him: the man was a clever swordsman, and for a time it was a fencing-match between them. Then Hills rushed in with a thrust; the rebel jumped aside and dealt Hills a cut on the head that stretched him on the ground. Once more Major Tombs came to the rescue, and ended the matter with his sword.

This incident was the talk of the camp, and Ahmed, who had seen it all, learnt by and by that the officers were to be recommended for the Victoria Cross. He had never heard of this, and inquired what it was.

"Oh," said the bhisti to whom he put the question, "'tis a little brown cross that the great Memsahib over the black water pins to the dhoti of a soldier who is very brave."

"And is it given only to the sahibs, or to us folks of the country as well?"

"That I know not. I never heard of any one but a Feringhi getting it. But why dost ask! Dost think that thou, who art but a banijara, art brave enough to please the great Memsahib?"

"What I think matters nothing, O bhisti. But there are brave men everywhere, even among bhistis."

And Ahmed had now a new goal at which to aim.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

Asadullah

Bahadur Shah, King of Delhi, was holding darbar in his private hall of audience--the Diwan-i-khas. It was an imposing scene: the pure white marble of the walls, ornamented with delicate inlaid work; the rich decorations and gorgeous colour of the ceiling; the arches with mosaic traceries, giving views of beautiful gardens: all this would have made a fit setting for a mighty monarch's court. The old king, tremulous with age and anxieties, sat in the centre on a dais of white marble, and no doubt deplored at times the cupidity of his predecessor Nadir Shah, who had turned into money, a hundred years before, the wondrous peacock throne, in which the spread tails of the birds were encrusted with sapphires and rubies and diamonds and other precious stones, cunningly arranged in imitation of the natural colours. But his monarchy was sadly diminished in wealth and dignity. Successive invaders had all taken something for themselves; and though he was in courtesy styled king, and received royal salutes from the guards at his doors, his territory had been confined, since the British imposed their rule upon him, to his palace; and instead of the untold wealth that had once been his, he had been granted the mere pittance of L120,000 a year. And now it seemed that he would lose even this, for the British still held the Ridge; his generals and their forty thousand men had as yet made good none of their confident boasts of sweeping the handful of Feringhis away, and the old king wished with all his heart that the mutineers had let well alone. He was depressed, wretched; what a mockery seemed that gilt scroll of Persian on the arches above his head--

"If on earth is a bower of bliss,
It is this, it is this, it is this."