Two more weary days passed inside the fortified house. Numerous attacks had been made, and though they had invariably failed, some damage had been inflicted on the besieged. As the assailants were retiring in disorder after one of these futile attempts, a big, light-featured man in scanty costume sidled up to the house, waving a sealed letter.
“Quick! let me in!” he shouted. “I’m a sepoy of the Guide Corps!”
The door was hurriedly thrown open, but not before the besiegers had divined the man’s intentions, and bullets whizzed perilously near his head before he was safe inside. Espying our hero, the Guide handed him the letter, and Ted recognized the fellow as Faiz Talab, his brother’s orderly.
He opened the note, and his face glowed. He whistled, then shouted in great excitement, “Hurrah! the Guides are coming!”
“The Guides!” echoed Sir Arthur, and a joyful light came into Ethel’s eyes. Faiz Talab, the Pathan, grinned gleefully.
The letter, dated from Manghur, thirty-two miles away, ran as follows:—
“We were starting for Delhi when the Aurungpore news arrived, and as we pass so close I obtained permission to detach 120 men to your aid. A greater number cannot be spared, as Delhi is all-important. So, old man, tell Ethel I’ll soon be with her.”
The great news quickly spread from one end of the big house to the other. Food was prepared for the bearer of good tidings, and Faiz Talab, Yusufzai, was fêted as he had never been before. He described the route by which the Guides would come, and stated when they might be expected.
“Russell Sahib will be here to-morrow, and by the beard of the Prophet, we shall teach these curs a lesson!” he concluded.
“You seem to know this district well,” said the Commissioner. “You have been here before,” and the man grinned slyly.
“I was a youngster, sahib, when first I saw Aurungpore. We Yusufzais came down at night and lifted the cattle and raided the villages, and we laughed at Ranjit Singh’s army that followed, for we knew that we had a good start, and the Sikhs would not venture into the hills. Ah, those were the good old days! Yet people say they have come again, and that Delhi is a richer town to loot than Aurungpore.”
The Yusufzai smacked his lips at the prospect. Here, thought Ted, was another sample of the robbers that apparently formed the backbone of the Guide Corps. The brightness of the prospect revealed by Faiz Talab’s message was fast fading away, and as the garrison had time to think it over there came a diminution of enthusiasm. Ted voiced the general opinion when he abruptly asked:
“But of what use is a single company against such swarms of rebels and budmashes, even if they are to be trusted?”
“But we are the Guides, sahib,” said Faiz Talab proudly.
That self-same day came tidings that more than destroyed the hopes raised by Jim’s letter. Into Aurungpore marched the 138th Bengal Native Infantry, rebels and murderers, flushed with success. They had shot down their officers and looted the treasury, to guard which had been their duty. Dire was the consternation caused by the arrival of the new contingent, and great was the dismay.
But when, next morning, our friends noticed that the six 9-pounders of the fort were being moved by certain of the new-comers into a position whence their place of refuge could be bombarded, dismay gave place to utter despair. The sepoys of the 193rd did not understand the handling of these guns, and had regarded them with some awe as fearsome weapons that might turn against themselves. But the 138th counted a couple of hundred Sikhs amongst their number.
Now the Sikh maharaja, Ranjit Singh, had maintained a splendid force of artillery, and many of the Sikh sepoys, who had enlisted under British colours, had previously been gunners in the army of the Khalsa,[1] and they saw at once how the little garrison might be speedily destroyed. A few hours’ search brought to light a quantity of material that had not been demolished in the explosion. All day long the exploration went on, and plenty of ammunition to feed the guns was soon stored close at hand.
[1] The title of the Sikh Confederacy.
The time of the expected arrival of the Guides drew nigh.
“Better that they should not come,” Major Munro wearily opined. “They would only share our fate. What chance would they have against 1500 trained soldiers?”
“Do you think they will turn back, sir, when they hear of the arrival of this fresh lot?” Ted enquired in an anxious tone.
“I certainly do. It would be foolish—idiotic—to attempt a rescue in the face of such odds. Were I in your brother’s place I should feel it my duty to government, as well as to my men, not to throw them away on so helpless an undertaking. It will be very hard for him to leave his affianced wife in such dreadful peril, but that is one of a soldier’s risks. His men belong to the government, not to him, and he has no right to risk them where there is no chance. We are short enough of men as it is.”
Ethel, standing by, grew pale as she thought of the danger to her beloved. Her own peril, and even her father’s, were forgotten for the moment.
“Oh, Major Munro,” she exclaimed, “let us hope that they will turn back! They cannot do us good by throwing their own lives away!”
And this was the opinion of all.
The devoted Rajputs of Captain Markham’s company never for a moment wavered in their allegiance. They fought and took their turn on guard, and fought again as staunchly as the white men, and many were the acts of heroism they displayed. Twice was the staff of the Union Jack, that still floated above the house, broken by missiles, and on each occasion some of the intrepid Hindus volunteered to splice the wood. In full sight of the enemy, who fired wildly at them, they achieved this, and again the silken folds waved freely in the breeze.
Again and again the mutineers advanced on every side, with great noise and waving of weapons. Again and again they approached more peaceably, shouting to the Hindus that they should come out and join their comrades, promising them gold and silver in abundance should they deliver the white men into their hands.
Each attack was met with steadfast courage; the noisy firing was answered by a steadier rattle of musketry, and the rebels dropped fast; unwavering fidelity rejected both bribes and friendly advances; and on more than one occasion a determined, vigorous sortie was the only reply vouchsafed by these gallant dark-faces.
Slowly and anxiously the day wore on. Care-worn faces wistfully regarded the threatening nine-pounders that would soon begin to pour destruction upon them. For a moment the attacks ceased as the rebels crowded round the guns that were placed upon an open eminence overlooking the house.
Fascinated by the sight, the whole garrison gathered before the windows, powerless to avert their gaze from the instruments of destruction.
But what means that sudden commotion—that loud shrill cheering? The mob is seen to part right and left, the rebel sepoys fling their caps in the air and wave their muskets excitedly as a body of fine, well-set-up men, fierce of aspect, turbaned, and clad in drab uniforms, marches into the courtyard of the fort. Though no word of command is given, the fresh arrivals there halt, fall out, and at once begin to fraternize with the mutineers. Behind the tall men appear a score of much smaller figures, clothed in the same uniform, and these shout and gesticulate more wildly than any.
“The Guides!” gasps Lieutenant Leigh.
“Traitors, by George!” thunders Major Munro, with intense and vehement bitterness. “Traitors!”
A long pause followed. The Britons gazed upon one another with blank, haggard faces. The whole Indian Empire was tumbling down, and none was loyal! Until this moment not a man amongst them but had known some ray of hope, however feeble.
“Are they truly the Guides?” asked one. “Who, then, are the little beggars?” pointing to the rearmost.
“Gurkhas of the Guide Corps,” answered Leigh, no less bitterly. “And their officers have always maintained that Gurkhas can be trusted when all others fail. Well, we live and learn.”
“Aye, we learn,—but not the other,” was Munro’s grim aside.
Momentarily forgetting their predicament, Ted stared with great interest at the short figures and Tartar laces that grinned in fiendish anticipation; for his father had often spoken in terms of the highest praise of these reputedly fearless Himalayan mountaineers, against whom he had fought, and whom he had afterwards led.
“Well, if those are Gurkhas, I don’t think much of ’em,” said the ensign, his critical spirit asserting itself even at this crisis. “Our seventy Rajputs could tackle a hundred of them.”
As for Faiz Talab, his eyes seemed to be starting from his head.
“The pigs! the curs!” he gasped at length. “What can it mean?”
As the Yusufzai spoke he grasped an Enfield rifle, brought it to his shoulder, and fired at the mass of drab uniforms, then fell to cursing his comrades afresh for the shame they had brought upon their corps. The onlookers could distinguish their own disloyal men pointing out the British stronghold to the Guides, who seemed to be examining the situation with keen interest. The siege was temporarily raised, whilst a general confabulation took place among the rebel leaders.
“Faiz Talab, what have they done to my brother?” asked Ted.
The Yusufzai shook his head. “I know not,” said he.
“Hadst thou no word or hint of this intended treachery?”
“Neither word nor hint, sahib. Surely I must be dreaming, for yesterday we were all loyal to the backbone, and we loved thy brother greatly. I do not understand it.”
“Yesterday,” interposed Lieutenant Leigh, “they had not heard of the mutiny and entry of the 138th. Perhaps that decided the rascals to throw over the British raj.”
“It must indeed be so, yet it does not seem possible.”
“Think you they have allowed the Captain Sahib to escape?” asked Alec Paterson, guessing that Ted could not bring himself to ask this question for fear of the reply.
“Nay, that could hardly be. If they have been so base as to prove untrue to the salt they have eaten, they would not hesitate to kill their officer.”
“Though you pretend that they loved him?” Ted bitterly demanded.
“The better reason for slaying him. They would kill him first of all, because they loved and honoured him, so that he might never know their shame. Yet I cannot believe it. May my father’s grave be defiled if I do not kill some of the traitors before I die!”
Ted walked to the window and gazed forth upon the distant hubbub. Paterson followed, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of his chum.
“It will be worse for the poor lassie, I’m thinking, Ted,” he said.
Our hero nodded, but could not trust himself to speak.
“We must keep the news from her as long as we can,” Alec continued. “She is with her father now, and has not heard. The others will not tell her.”
Three hours after Ensign Russell and Havildar Ambar Singh had entered the besieged house, a swarthy man in the uniform of a native officer picked himself tenderly up from the ground, and wondered to find himself still alive. It was Pir Baksh the subadar. For hours he had lain unconscious, deaf to the moans of the maimed and dying men who lay stretched on every side amid the chaos of shattered timber and masonry.
His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to rise he called loudly for help.
But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It was a corpse—no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge again and again into the unconscious body.
But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.
Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great caution, for day had not yet come.
“Who is there?” they called.
“It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!—bring me water if ye are followers of the Prophet!”
The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the injured officer.
“All my bones are broken, I think,” said he. “Ye have been long in coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him; he shall die more slowly.”
He drank the water feverishly.
“Now, carry us to my brother’s house, and do not let all the people know that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently.”
As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan—for he, of course, was the Englishman—was still unconscious, and before the light that precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of the town.
The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing in his ears, and he still shivered with fright.
For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread.
During one of these intervals the door opened, and a Mohammedan sepoy entered bearing a little bread and a brass vessel containing water. Tynan devoured these to the last drop and crumb.
“Who are you?” he asked the man. “Tell me, where am I?”
The sepoy answered not a word and left the room. The food and drink had done the ensign good, brain and body becoming more brisk. He rose groaning from the bed and tried the door. It was locked, and he understood at last that he was a prisoner. A tremor ran down his back, and he felt cold, though the room was like a hothouse. A captive among the mutineers! Horrible prospect! But why should they have brought him here? he asked himself. Why not have straightway killed him? Could it be that they meant to torture him? The wretched boy groaned aloud, and in a frenzy of rage and despair kicked and beat the door, though every blow was anguish.
He had not long to wait. Muhammed Baksh, his host, called angrily to Ghulam Beg, the silent waiter, and together they entered the room and began to belabour the unlucky ensign with long bamboo canes.
Tynan fiercely sprang at his assailants, but being in no condition to do battle, he was soon driven ignominiously into a corner, where he cowered and shrieked for mercy. One of his tormentors pointed to the bed; Tynan crawled upon it, and without having spoken a word the two quitted the room.
Again the boy rose and dragged himself towards the window, where his last spark of hope died out. The shutters were clamped down, and even had he been fit and strong he could not have removed them without the aid of tools. He sank down upon the charpoy, a prey to the most realistic horrors that could be conjured up by a dull imagination. How long he lay there, miserable in mind and aching all over, he knew not. It seemed that whole days must have passed before the silent Ghulam Beg brought in a meagre supper. Worn-out nature then reasserted itself; as he lay on the bed his aching head seemed to grow larger and larger, filling all the room, and soon he was lost to consciousness.
Aroused by the entrance of his breakfast of chupattis and water, he implored the sepoy to speak to him and let him know his fate. But the man might have been a mute. Without a word, or gesture, or sign of comprehension Ghulam Beg left the prison-chamber, and another day of horror was passed, and a night in which blessed sleep almost forsook the captive boy.
The sound of a key creaking in the rusty lock aroused him, and he rose to his feet as the sepoy attendant brought in the unappetizing fare. Behind him Pir Baksh stalked in, his arm in a sling, his cruel eyes leering horribly as he gazed upon his victim.
“I trust, Ensign Sahib,” said he with much politeness, “that my servant has been courteous and attentive, and has not disturbed your repose by chattering too much. I am greatly honoured that the heaven-born should deign to share our humble roof, and I trust that our guest has been comfortable.”
The unceasing pain and the solitude had taken most of the spirit out of poor Tynan. Instead of resenting this insolence he implored the brute to tell him what his fate was to be.
“Ungrateful Feringhi!” exclaimed the subadar indignantly. “Not a word of thanks for my hospitality! Art thou aware that I have saved thy life?”
“Indeed, subadar, I thank you,” said Tynan humbly.
“And I thank thee,” said Pir Baksh, pointing to his injured arm, and continuing:
“Yea, I thank thee for this, and for many an hour of pain. ’Twas a clever trick to blow up the arsenal, but thou didst little think, infidel dog, that there would be a heavy price to pay. Thou didst reject my offer of terms, and all that I have suffered since, aye, and double and treble that, thou shalt know before death shall mercifully release thee.”
Tynan trembled in every limb, and weakly replied:
“It was not I who blew up the magazine. I was against the deed. And dost thou not remember, subadar, that I would have surrendered to thee had not the other prevented me?”
“Well, he is dead, and thou shalt pay for the sins of thy brother.”
“Nay, spare me, and my father will pay thee well.”
A sudden thought seemed to strike the subadar. He reflected for a few moments before answering the appeal.
“Wilt thou swear thou hadst no hand in the explosion?” ha asked, after a pause.
“I will—indeed, I swear it.”
“I must needs think it over,” said Pir Baksh musingly. He quitted the room, leaving the boy torn by conflicting emotions. The consciousness that he had not played a manly part, the conviction that his rival Ted Russell would never have been so weak, gave a sharper point to his fears and troubles. On the other hand, had he not been given a faint hope of escape? Do not judge the lad too harshly. It was not death alone, but the prospect of torture that had unnerved him; and remember that the pain of his injuries and the workings of his imagination during the past two days of solitary confinement were calculated to break the spirit of any man above the average, and poor Tynan had hardly the makings of a hero in his character. His case was one for pity rather than contempt. Only those who would have withstood the temptation have the right to despise him utterly, and they would be the last to do so.
His hopes of mercy were misplaced. The amount of that quality nourished in the breast of Pir Baksh would have shamed a famished wolf. The rascal had changed his tone because he recollected that the greater his victim’s hopes, the more poignant would his suffering be on finding himself deceived. Next evening he again visited the prisoner, and brought paper, pen, and ink.
“What was that sound of cheering an hour or two ago?” asked Tynan. He had heard the acclamations that had greeted the arrival of the mutinous Guides, and wondered if help had come.
“It means that we have had reinforcements, and that within twelve hours not one of your friends will be alive.”
Tynan looked keenly at the speaker as he continued.
“Perhaps there may be one Feringhi left alive in Aurungpore; it depends on thee. I have been thinking it over, and am inclined to save thy life. We both hate Russell Sahib, and we may prove useful one to another.”
The prisoner’s heart began to beat more hopefully, and he expressed his thanks towards the callous brute.
“But on conditions,” resumed Pir Baksh. “First, I must have five thousand rupees—a promise in writing for that amount.”
“You shall have it,” said Tynan eagerly. “My father will not grudge it.”
The subadar nodded his head solemnly and went on:
“Secondly, thou must write me a chit in English and Urdu, acknowledging that thou dost owe thy life to my mercy and loyalty.”
“I will do that, and never shall I forget thy goodness.”
“Thou shalt also write that I, Pir Baksh, was loyal to the Kumpani Bahadur, though forced to appear disloyal. That I tried to restrain the sepoys during the attack on the fortress, and to save the lives of the English officers, but was prevented by the rebels, who threatened to kill me as a traitor ... What! Thou dost hesitate?”
Tynan had turned pale. Could he sign that lying document and be himself a traitor? Had not Pir Baksh shot the colonel?
“No, subadar, I cannot do that,” he said, with hesitation, not decision.
“Very good, sahib.”
The fierce light that came into the eyes of Pir Baksh sent a thrill of despair through Tynan’s breast. He began to find excuses. He told himself that the proposed statement would be partly true, for Pir Baksh had offered to spare their lives. He caught at that weak saving-clause, and enlarged upon it until he had almost persuaded himself that he could only be blamed for exaggeration, not for downright lying. Then he remembered how Pir Baksh, by shooting the colonel, had brought the mutiny to pass, and was guilty of all the bloodshed.
The subadar noted his indecision, and said:
“There will be none to contradict, your countrymen are as good as dead.”
“I will write as you say,” said Tynan slowly, “if you will swear to save my life.”
He had decided. He was ready to sign a paper absolving this villain from the reward of his treachery and blood-guiltiness. And the final inducement had been the assurance that the traitor’s plot would be crowned with such success that all Tynan’s compatriots would be slain. And this was the man he was ready to hold up as a loyal subject fit to be rewarded for his fidelity!
“By the Prophet’s beard I will do my best to save thee,” the subadar declared. “We must escape from the town, or I too shall suffer the penalty.”
Seizing pen and ink in feverish haste to get it over, Tynan wrote as the Mohammedan directed him. First, the promise to pay five thousand rupees on one sheet of paper, and then a document that might save Pir Baksh from all consequences of mutiny and murder in the event of his capture by the British. When he had finished, his gaoler took the pen and wrote in Urdu at the foot:—
“I, Pir Baksh, subadar of the 193rd B.N.I., do solemnly promise, on my oath as a Moslem, to do my best to effect the escape of Ensign Tynan of the same regiment, a prisoner among the rebels in Aurungpore. Filled with admiration of his courage in risking his life in the execution of his duty by planning and carrying out the blowing up of the magazine, I also risk my life to save his.”
“But I’ve already told you I didn’t do that,” the ensign protested, as he read the added words. “It was Russell’s doing altogether.”
“No need to say so, sahib,” said Pir Baksh. “He is dead, and so indeed will all the Feringhis be to-morrow, and no one can claim the credit. Russell Sahib I hate, for do I not owe him this broken arm and bloody head? And if I mistake not, he is no friend of thine, so why not take the credit of the deed and be promoted and raised to honour? Help me, sahib, and I will help thee.”
Tynan found nothing to say in reply. He remembered the many injuries he fancied he had received at Russell’s hands—the thrashing of a week or two ago, the contempt with which he had been treated in the fort when his junior took the command from him and threatened him in front of the men. Why not pay him out? After all, what did it matter now? It could be put right if necessary when he should have reached a place of safety. The first consideration was to save his own life.
“We shall slip away to-morrow,” said the subadar. “I will go and make all arrangements now. Remember that my life also is sacrificed if we are discovered.”
So saying the double traitor took his leave. Outside the door he chuckled grimly and proceeded to tear up the “promise to pay” the five thousand rupees. For a very good reason he had no intention of claiming that, but the other papers he carefully preserved. After the boy had been murdered, he could easily make up some story and fabricate some evidence to show that they had been followed and attacked, and that he escaped by the skin of his teeth, more alive than dead, and never saw the ensign again. Pir Baksh meant to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds so long as the British held their own.
But most of all he meant to kill Harry Tynan.
Left to himself Ensign Tynan sat down upon the string bed, and leant forward to think it all over, elbows on knees and his chin resting in the palm of his right hand. As a rule he was not a very thoughtful person, but the nightmare of the past few days might well effect a change. Of habit, not of character though! Peril, suffering, and anxiety may develop the good or bad that is there already, but will hardly transform a weak character into a strong one.
For a long time the boy sat motionless, wondering what Pir Baksh really meant. Was he genuine? Did he mean to save him? Tynan did not trust the man, yet he assured himself again and again that the Mohammedan must be intending to try, or why should he have demanded the promise of a reward—a document useless unless he was actually saved. And what about that other paper? Ted Russell would never have signed it, conscience whispered.
“I only wish Russell was here instead of me,” he muttered, and gave the bedstead a vicious kick.
“But he’s dead,” came a reminder from his better self, and there followed a recollection of the statement added by the subadar, the lie that robbed the dead of the credit of a glorious deed.
“Everything seems to go wrong with me,” he sullenly muttered. “I’ve no luck like other people. Never mind, it’s not of much consequence. What I’ve got to think about is how to get out of this hole. I believe after all that that black brute means to murder me. Well, I’ll try to sleep on it.”
He lay down, and an idea occurred to him. Rising to his feet he knelt down in the attitude of prayer. Hardly ever since he had left home for school had he so much as made believe to pray for help and guidance, but now he wondered he had not thought of it before. Had he lived two or three hundred years ago he would have vowed invaluable offerings to the shrine of his patron saint, and, the danger over, would as promptly have forgotten to fulfil the vow.
Parrot-like, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer without considering in the least its meaning, and then he prayed wildly to be saved from death. But not once did he dream of asking earnestly for forgiveness, not once did he seriously repent his foolish, harmful life, nor did he make the least resolve to cancel in the morning the lies to which he had signed his name that night.
He rose from his knees and once more lay down.
The shadows were slowly lengthening, and the whistling of the kites that circled overhead, waiting until the groups of sepoys should disperse, was being supplemented by the querulous howls of the equally impatient jackals. Yet no fresh attack had been made upon the English post, though more than an hour had passed since the Guides had joined forces with the mutineers. That they had not been idle, however, was testified by the stack of round-shot and grape rescued from the fort and piled ready to hand behind each cannon.
A guard had been mounted over the guns and ammunition to check any desperate sortie that might be made by the besieged, and the town gradually became less riotous. This restoration of order only intensified the despair of the Europeans, who drew the conclusion that the rebels were now being controlled by men more able—and therefore more dangerous—than their late leaders. The more capable their enemies, the more perilous the situation of the garrison.
That is, if anything more perilous could be imagined.
Just after sunset, and before darkness had set in, a Hindu sepoy was observed creeping stealthily towards the house, apparently anxious to attract the attention of the inmates, and equally bent on avoiding observation from outside. As the man drew near, Ambar Singh and Ted both recognized him as Dwarika Rai, one of their comrades in the arsenal. He was quickly smuggled inside, and told the story of his escape from death and concealment up to the present, when duty had urged him at all risks to inform his comrades and the Englishmen of the changed situation.
He explained that the detachment of the Guides had mutinied as soon as they heard of the arrival of the 138th; they had murdered the only white officer with them, and had appointed Ressaidar Bahram Khan as commandant. The announcement was not unexpected, yet up to this moment Ted had hoped against hope that Jim had escaped.
“Art thou certain, Dwarika Rai, that they have slain my brother?” he asked after a painful pause.
“Quite, sahib; they make boast of it. And look, their leader is wearing his uniform.”
Ethel Woodburn had entered the room unobserved, and, standing behind them, had overheard. She grasped a chair to steady herself, and shook her head as Ted besought her to retire to the ladies’ room. There was a long silence.
“Bahram Khan?” enquired the major presently, hardly knowing what to say. “Is that he, then, in the English officer’s uniform and wearing his medals?” pointing to a muscular man who could be made out in the distance apparently ordering the sepoys about.
“That is the hound, sahib,” replied Dwarika Rai. “He has sworn to exterminate you all before noon to-morrow. He has taken command of all the treacherous curs.”
Ethel, half-stunned by the terrible tidings, was now seated, and Ted leaned against the girl’s chair, gently stroking her hand,—dimly recognizing that her sorrow was even greater than his own. The shock of Captain Russell’s murder was too sudden for her to realize fully, and the rest of the news seemed dwarfed to mere insignificance. The poor girl attempted to pull herself together by thinking how greatly her helpless father stood in need of her.
“Bahram Khan!” said Ted bitterly. “Why, he is the cur who was present at the steeple-chase,—a robber and outlaw! However could such a crew have been trusted?”
“It was Sir Henry Lawrence’s doing,” said Leigh. “It’s rare for him to make a mistake, but here is the result of his great ‘Guides’ scheme. Evidently they don’t mean to make the grand assault until to-morrow.”
“I wish they would,” said Ted with feeling; “and end it, to-night.”
To give the boy credit, he was thinking more of the hours of bitter grief Ethel Woodburn was doomed to endure than of himself.
It may be readily surmised that very few of the garrison contrived to sleep that night. Soon after sunrise all—women, civilians, black soldiers, and white officers—were gathered together to watch the mutineers assemble for the final assault. Of its issue there could be no doubt. As they stood there awaiting their fate Ethel Woodburn could not remain insensible, even at so trying a moment, to the beauty of the early Indian morning. The slanting rays of the Eastern sun were gilding the mosques and minarets of the town and lighting up with lurid glow the reddish buildings behind the fort, and the thought of Nature’s beauty added to her sorrow. But the greater number of those doomed people had weightier matters to occupy their thoughts.
In and around the courtyard of the fort itself all was bustle and confusion; some could be both seen and heard giving commands, and others obeying the same, though the vast majority of the assembled hundreds appeared to display a total lack of discipline. Inside the commissioner’s house the feeling of helplessness and suspense was horrible. The wisdom of a sortie, a mad rush on the guns,—to die fighting rather than cooped up and made a target of,—was debated, and not a man there but would have preferred the chance of striking back. There were women, however, to be considered, and to leave them was out of the question.
“Whilst there’s life there’s hope,” declared the Commissioner, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “The house is not destroyed yet.”
He barely succeeded, however, in convincing even himself that there was the faintest glimmer of hope. No British troops were within three days’ journey. The handful of unfortunates bade good-bye to one another, shook hands all round, and prepared to meet their death with a smile upon their faces, without flinching or showing the least sign of weakness before the eyes of their gallant and devoted Rajputs. Nor were the women behind the men in respect of courage.
Major Munro, after consulting his officers, had advised the faithful sepoys to save their lives as best they could, either by cutting their way through at night, or by pretending to desert and to fall in with the views of their rebel comrades.
To give them this chance was only fair, thought the major; the Rajputs, having done their duty, deserved consideration, and though the Englishmen could not leave the wounded and the women, yet the dark-faces, now that resistance was hopeless, should be allowed to save their lives. To Munro’s delight, however, the gallant fellows announced a firm resolve to stand by their duty to the last. They took their places shoulder to shoulder with the pale-faces, grimly waiting and watching now that the last glimmer of hope had died out.
For in the great square of the fort more than two thousand men were under arms; and in another moment the nine-pounders were charged with grape, under the supervision of Bahram Khan and a score of picked Sikhs and Pathans of the Guide Corps—men who had served in the old Khalsa Artillery and who thoroughly understood their work.
Behind the guns and flanking them the remaining hundred men of the Guides, conspicuous by their powerful and soldierly bearing, maintained some appearance of discipline, whereas the majority of the sepoys and of armed fanatics and budmashes were acting as seemed best in their own eyes.
Ressaidar Bahram Khan, however, insisted with many threats and much strong language on some kind of order being maintained. He placed the 193rd Sepoys in one position, the poorbeahs[1] of the 138th in another, and the Sikhs of the latter corps to the right front of the guns.
[1] A name given to the Oudh sepoys.
“When the guns have battered down the walls,” thundered the rebel commandant, “then must ye take the house by storm. The Feringhi dogs prevail against us because they trust to the bayonet, instead of staying to fire as ye do, for the bayonet is more certain than the bullet. We must learn from them and attack as they would, for our aim must be to destroy utterly the hated tyrants; not one must escape our vengeance.”
The mob applauded, shouting “Din! din! Death to the Feringhis!” And the ressaidar went on:
“Take, then, the charges from your muskets, lest ye be tempted to stop and fire, for if ye do that doubtless many of the dogs may escape our wrath. Trust to the bayonet! Kill the infidels with the steel! Now, unload!”
The charges were withdrawn.
“That dacoit fellow has some idea of discipline; he seems to know what he’s about,—though he’s placing some of his men in queer positions, to be sure!” commented Major Munro stoutly, bent on showing an undaunted front to the end.
“Oh for a good, wholesome, red-coated regiment,” sighed Lieutenant Leigh, “to wipe these fiends off the earth! Watch that treacherous, murdering Pathan! What’s he up to now?”
“Trusting to the bayonet!” exclaimed Munro in astonishment. “That’s not like an Asiatic, but he’s right.”
They heard but could not distinguish Bahram Khan’s commands, and saw the sepoys empty their muskets and begin to fix bayonets. Their hearts were beating wildly, and small shame to them, for they were helpless and could not strike back—as helpless as condemned criminals bound and gagged. Would the word never be given to fire? What was the matter now?
Waiting in silent agony for the fatal word, they perceived the Pathan commandant turn hastily to his gunners, who stood port-fire in hand.
Quick as thought, before rebels or onlookers could realize what was taking place, the muzzles of the guns were turned slightly to the right and lowered, and ere the assemblage had time to wonder, a shower of grape was belched forth into the clustered ranks of the faithless Sikhs of the 138th. At the very same instant, before sepoys or besieged were able to take in what had happened, the hundred men of the Guides—or as many of them as were not helping their gunner comrades—brought their rifles (for theirs were still loaded) to the shoulder, and blazed away into the helpless mass of brown humanity. The rebels fell in scores, mown down by the heavy discharge. One or two of the native officers attempted to rally them, but the cannon, well and promptly served by the Guides, cut lanes through the mob; and the well-aimed, disciplined volley-firing of the Pathans and Gurkhas augmented the confusion.
For some seconds open-mouthed wonder kept all our friends silent. The whole world seemed topsy-turvy.
Then one man grasped the situation.
“Oh, splendid!... Well played, Guides, well played!” shouted Leigh; and the garrison screamed and danced in a delirium of enthusiasm as their senses came back to them, and they understood.
“What is it? What does it mean?” demanded Ethel breathlessly and the sick from the hospital-room echoed the cry.
“It’s the Guides!” was shouted back. “The Guides have been shamming mutiny. They’ve got possession of the guns, and have turned them on the traitors!”
Thrice did the mutineers attempt a rally, but the Sikhs—the staunchest of the rebels—had been almost blown away by the discharge of grape, and the poorbeahs dared not face that terrible fire—those spurts of flame that blazed forth, section by section, without hurry and without confusion, from the steady, levelled rifles.
In the Commissioner’s house the Pathan messenger howled and shrieked in his excitement, then, snatching up rifle and sword, he darted from the sheltering walls and cut his way through the terrified rebels to the side of his comrades.
“Look!” cried Lieutenant Leigh. “Bahram Khan has given aver the command—to a private soldier, too!”
He pointed towards a dark-visaged man, of middle height and sturdy build, in the uniform of a sepoy of the Guide Corps, who was now directing the sectional volley-firing. At the same moment the mutineers broke away in all directions—two thousand men cowed by six score!
“Why, that’s Jim!—that’s my brother!” screamed our ensign joyfully. Ethel gave one look, recognized the long scar that showed on the stained face, and sank down, and to Ted’s bewilderment burst into tears.
“Well, that’s a rummy go!” he murmured under his breath. “What on earth should she blub for now that she knows he’s safe?”
As the flying, panic-stricken mutineers approached the beleaguered house, they received a fresh and hardly less deadly fusillade from the jubilant garrison. They scattered in all directions, staggering in blind terror. Through the narrow streets ran and stumbled the defeated sepoys, and after them rushed fifty of the terrible men in drab, the active little Gurkhas being ever to the front. So thorough was the panic evoked by the surprise, that here and there a dozen or even a score of the rebels might be seen running with terrified eyes and panting breath from a single fierce Afridi or Yusufzai of the hills, or still fiercer Gurkha from the Himalayan snows; and Ted acknowledged his error of judgment as he saw one of these little Nepalese Highlanders charge single-handed a group of ten or a dozen Wahabi fanatics who were attempting a rally. Cutting down four in rapid succession with his kukri, heeding the long knives no more than cardboard, the fearless little fellow scattered the remainder like sheep, and chased them until their long legs carried them far out of his reach.
Up flew the Union Jack to the top of the fort flagstaff, and Captain Russell, recalling his pursuing men, posted guards around the place. The loyal Rajputs, rejoicing now that they had not accepted Major Munro’s permission to desert, had not dared join in the fray except by their fire from windows and roof, for had they shown themselves outside they would undoubtedly have been slain by the rescuers.
But now the little garrison marched out in safety, carrying the wounded in their midst, for not a rebel was to be seen. Never had surprise been more complete! At the same moment Captain Russell issued forth at the head of half his men to escort the survivors inside the wing of the fort that had not been demolished.
There was no time for more than a hasty grip of the hand and a look exchanged between two pairs of eyes, telling more eloquently than any speech of the lips its tale of love, anxiety, and deep, grateful joy. Ethel had thought her lover dead; Jim had hardly dared to hope that both sweetheart and brother had survived the massacre. We can imagine the unspoken joy. Leaving Leigh and Ted with a strong guard within the fort, Munro, Captain Russell, and Paterson sallied forth at the head of one hundred and fifty Guides and no less eager Rajputs, and chased the panic-filled pandies from street to street to prevent them from reassembling. Long before mid-day the rebels had streamed out of the town in all directions, a wholesome fear planted deep within their breasts.
One room had been apportioned to the ladies, and others to officers and sepoys, but all the Europeans came together to cheer their rescuers. Colonel Woodburn was now well enough to greet his future son-in-law, whose exciting story all gathered round to hear. Jim told it simply.
“Well, for a gang of double-dyed traitors commend me to the Guides and their English and native officers!” exclaimed Munro, his eyes twinkling with delight at the thought of the trick.
“All Bahram Khan’s idea,” laughed Jim. “We’d sent scouts ahead, and yesterday we heard of the arrival of the 138th and learned that they possessed artillery. I felt that I’d no right to risk my handful against such overwhelming odds, so I consulted the ressaidar[1]. That gentlemen also thought the task hopeless at first, then he suddenly burst out into a demoniacal laugh.