“‘Why, Captain Sahib,’ said he,’why shouldn’t we mutiny? We could kill you and make friends with the poorbeahs. Then I’d take command of the rebels—the curs will only be too glad to have me—and I could get possession of the guns and post the men as I choose. With our men at the guns and behind the guns, we can sweep the poorbeahs from off the earth!’

“It was a glorious idea; we explained it to the men, who took it in like so many school-boys. Those little Gurkha fiends turned somersault as they thought of the pandies[1] being taken in; and they laughed till the tears rolled down their smooth cheeks. I stained my face and put on one of the men’s uniforms, whilst Bahram Khan squeezed himself into mine, and everything worked beautifully.”

“And did no one suspect?” asked the major.

“Not a soul! You see, there never were such rabid haters of the British as we have been for the past twenty-four hours! We were quite willing to eat you all, either cooked or raw; no half-measures with the Guides!”

“You disgustin’ treacherous brutes!” chirped our ensign, who was in a state of wild and gleeful excitement.

Bahram Khan stood by, grinning, well pleased with his handiwork, as were all these stalwart soldiers of the Guide Corps. Jim Russell’s story ended, the deputy-commissioner passed his arm through Munro’s, and, announcing that he wished to consult him with respect to granting a reward to the loyal Rajputs, he led the major from the room. The remark was accompanied by a significant look, and, taking the hint, the remaining officers made some excuse to leave.

The ladies saw and understood, and in a few moments Jim and Ethel were left alone. They were grateful, yet for some moments not a word was uttered by either. The precious time was not exactly wasted, though.

“My poor girl, what you must have suffered!” Jim murmured as he held her hands within his own and fondled them.

“Are you really here, Jim, or am I dreaming? It seems too good to be true.”

“I think I really am here,” was the reply, and Jim set to work to convince her.

“You have heard how poor Markham was killed, and Tynan and Lewis and Arden?”

Jim nodded and tightened his grip of the hands until she winced.

“What a brute I am!” he penitently exclaimed, covering the little hands with kisses.

“I—I liked it, Jim.—— But you know you oughtn’t to reward yourself for being a brute.”

There was another interval of silence.

“And so the young ’un has behaved like a brick!” said Jim at length. “I’m proud of the kid.”

“I should just think he has. I really believe I shall have to marry you, Captain Russell, if only to have Ted for a brother. I think he likes me now.”

“I’ll punch the young ’un’s head if he doesn’t,” declared the brutal Jim. “It’s very decent of the others to give us this good time, little woman.”

“It is, indeed. Oh, Jim, are you sure we’re not dreaming? Can you stay here with your men?”

The captain shook his head sadly.

“I don’t know what to do until I have consulted Munro and Fletcher and your father. We must follow the rest of the corps as quickly as possible, and I think the best plan will be for you all to come with us, if we can obtain horses and ekkas for the wounded and the ladies, until we can drop you at the first safe place.”

“Cannot Sir Arthur, as head of the district, countermand your orders to join the Guide Corps at once? If he says that you are needed here, I should think he has authority to detain you. Besides, you and your men are now under father, or rather under Major Munro, whilst you remain here, and you will have to do as they order.”

Jim laughed.

“I wish it were so; but it happens to be John Lawrence himself who has sent us to Delhi, and he said he wanted us to get there quickly. And when Jan Larens says ‘do this’ you’ve got to do it, and do it smartly. The major is a brave man, and so is Fletcher, but I shall be very much surprised if either of them dare trifle with Jan.”

Major Munro had assembled the loyal Rajputs and thanked them in a straight soldierly speech that touched their faithful hearts and brought a glow of pride to their eyes. The Commissioner, moreover, deemed it well to let congratulations take a more substantial form. He therefore distributed the sum of five thousand rupees amongst the seventy survivors—a welcome reward for their loyalty and courage.

On the following morning Jim’s anxiety and hesitation were removed, as a detachment of the 4th Sikhs—a glorious, loyal regiment—marched in and maintained order in the town.

Miss Woodburn’s safety being thus assured, Captain Russell at once set out to rejoin his comrades in their seven hundred and fifty miles’ march to the Mogul capital, and, to the delight of Ted and Paterson, the colonel allowed the boys to accompany the gallant corps.

We shall hear later on of that memorable march of the Corps of Guides to Delhi—the finest march in Indian history, if not indeed in the records of any army—as well as of their doings during the famous siege.

CHAPTER XIII
Tynan makes his Choice

The door of Tynan’s prison opened and the captive’s heart beat wildly. Was it life or death? Only Ghulam Beg bringing his chupatties and water.

“Where is Pir Baksh?” he enquired. “I want to see him.”

“The Subadar Sahib has gone out,” replied the sepoy, leaving the room before any other questions could be asked. Tynan turned to his humble fare and regarded it with disgust. He felt wronged that he should be fed so meanly by the man he was to reward so handsomely. It was all there was, however, and hard bread was better than nothing, so he devoured it to the last crumb.

What was that? The loud booming of cannon roused him to his feet, an Englishman again, and he made desperate attempts to force open the shutters. The sharper crack and rattle of musketry—volley upon volley—followed the booming of the guns; then the cannon spoke again, and loud cries of alarm, exhortation, and triumph filled the air.

Surely it must be a rescue! He stamped up and down the narrow chamber like a caged wild beast, fuming and raging. Still no one came; he shrieked and stormed in vain.

His suspense was not for long. The door was flung open, and Pir Baksh, followed by his brother, Muhammad Baksh, Ghulam Beg, and another sepoy, rushed into the room. Tynan assumed an attitude of defence.

“Fool!” cried the subadar, anger and impatience in his voice. “I am come to save you. Quick! put on these clothes.”

He flung down the garments of a sepoy, and Tynan hesitated. Why was Pir Baksh so excited? There was fear also in his eyes.

“What mean the noise of cannon, Pir Baksh?” he demanded.

“Quick, on with the uniform or we shall all be slain!” the Moslem angrily replied. “The rebels are mad, and they suspect that I have saved a Feringhi, and will soon be here, though I know not who has told them. The noise thou didst hear was the cannon with which they have utterly destroyed the house of the Commissioner Sahib, and they have killed every man, woman, and child therein. Hasten! Hasten! In the name of the Prophet, hasten or thou art lost, and I too for being so foolish as to help thee!”

Another bitter disappointment for the lad. Hurriedly doffing the uniform of his rank and donning the disguising raiment, he followed his four warders outside, and away from the town—and from safety—the wild yells becoming fainter and fainter.

Presently the subadar turned into a road that led northeastwards, and slackened the pace to a walk, neither he nor his prisoner being in fit condition to run far. They walked on and on at a quick swinging stride, every step causing intense pain. Though Tynan begged them to rest awhile, Pir Baksh refused. His limbs and body had been rubbed and anointed; his bruises were nearly healed, and the rate of marching did not affect his broken arm. The lad’s anguish was pitiful to see.

“Have we not gone far enough?” whispered one of the sepoys at last. “Let us halt here and put the cub to death. There is no one to interrupt.”

The subadar was not so sure. The fact that he, Pir Baksh, had contrived to get hold of one of the Feringhi officers was not such a secret as he had led Tynan to believe, and he knew that some of his neighbours, in order to curry favour with the winning side, would probably impart the news to the Commissioner Sahib. Being an arrant coward he feared lest a rescue party should be following on his trail, and he knew what trackers the Gurkhas were. Until his anxiety on this head should be lifted, he did not mean to rid himself of his hostage.

He pressed the party forward until close upon sunset, when Tynan was absolutely incapable of another step. The heat had told upon his wasted strength, and he was on the point of fainting. Nothing save the hope of escape could have kept him up so long. They halted in a small clearing among the trees.

“For heaven’s sake, subadar, let me have something to eat!”

“I think the place will suit our purpose,” Pir Baksh observed, calmly ignoring the boy’s request.

The words and tone struck Tynan as a whip-lash across the face. He looked round for a way of escape, and his arms were seized from behind.

Unnecessary precaution! He was much too weak to resist, and Ghulam Beg threw him roughly to the ground. Pir Baksh contemptuously kicked his fallen enemy.

“Fool!” he snarled. “Didst thou think to escape my vengeance so easily?”

The wretched boy saw the look of hatred in the brute’s eyes, and felt that he was doomed. There was no hope of mercy there. He knew at last that the blackguard’s object had been to increase his misery by raising his hopes, and the vile scheme had succeeded.

“Remember your oath,” the ensign gasped. “Remember the reward, Pir Baksh.”

“And dost thou think,” the traitor retorted with an air of virtue that sat badly upon his vicious face, “dog of an unbeliever, that we of the Faith would sell our souls for money?”

Again he kicked the prostrate Tynan.

“In what manner shall we slay him?” asked Muhammad Baksh.

“Bury him alive,” suggested Ghulam Beg.

“With our bayonets?” sneered the third sepoy. “Let us talk sense.”

“Tie him to yonder tree, then,” said Tynan’s late attendant, “and make a target of him. Fire first at hands and feet and legs and arms.”

“Aye, and make a noise that may be heard for miles?” the leader angrily retorted.

Pir Baksh had his reasons for wishing to put his victim away more quietly. In a state of abject terror Tynan listened to the horrible suggestions. The nightmare of suspense and despair experienced in his prison chamber was as nothing to this.

“I have a better plan,” said the subadar quietly. “Ye will tie him hand and foot to yonder tree, gag his mouth, and leave him there. There will be little left of him in the morning except bare bones, and clever as the Feringhis are, they will find no mark of knife or bullet should they chance to come across what is left. Ye have the cords. Tie him up.”

Tynan shouted for help until a cloth was bound over his mouth. Then the frenzy of despair lent him strength, but the struggle was short, and he was quickly pushed and pulled towards the tree indicated by Pir Baksh.

Something moved in the undergrowth behind, and a squat little man stepped into the light. A musket was in his hand, and a grin upon his hairless face. In an unknown tongue he addressed a question to the men who held the struggling Tynan, and being regarded with a stare of mingled amazement and terror, he peered into the face of the captive. Then the grin died out of his face, for he saw the white skin of an Englishman and understood.

Again he jabbered in the strange language, then quick as thought he drew from its scabbard a curved knife, whose keen broad blade flashed thrice like a heliograph as it caught the slanting rays of the disappearing sun. The sepoys had let go their hold of Tynan, and had raised their muskets, but before the triggers could be pulled the vicious kukri blade had descended twice, and the traitors sank on the sward, cut through the shoulder.

Crack went the musket of Muhammad Baksh, and a bullet skimmed over the cap of the ugly little stranger. Before the echo had died away an answering report rang out, and as Muhammad Baksh paid the penalty of his treachery, a second Gurkha stepped from behind a tree-trunk within fifteen paces of Pir Baksh. The subadar turned and ran.

“Shoot, brother!” sang out the Gurkha, whose musket was empty.

The first-comer’s weapon was already covering the runagate. He pulled the trigger, and when the smoke had rolled away, there lay the arch-traitor writhing upon the ground, alternately calling down curses upon the little mountain demons who had frustrated him, and calling upon the Englishman for mercy. Evidently he was not very badly wounded, or he could not have made so much noise.

The Gurkhas trotted towards him with bared knives, and though the Mohammedan still held his loaded musket the little hillmen never hesitated. Pir Baksh was consistent in his cowardice. Dropping the weapon he held up his hands in token of surrender, and called upon Tynan Sahib to save him from the fiends.

Harry Tynan had barely realized what had happened, and what a very narrow squeak he had had.

“Do not kill him!” he shouted in Urdu, as he limped towards the wounded savage. He wanted to see what Pir Baksh would have to say for himself before he handed him over to be hanged or blown away. The fact must be admitted that Tynan meant to gloat over the failure of the subadar’s vile plans.

The Gurkhas did not understand the words, but they divined his meaning.

“Sahib,” implored the subadar, “save me from these demons. I spared your life, so do not leave me to be murdered.”

“You spared my life!” Tynan indignantly repeated. “You mean you brought me here to torture me.”

“Sahib, you wrong me. I did but pretend. I had no influence over those three curs who lie dead—praised be Allah!—and they insisted on slaying you. They would have murdered me had I not feigned to fall in with their plans, and we must all safeguard our own lives first. But I meant to save you, and that is why I rejected their proposals as to the manner of death. I would have tied you to the tree, and, after giving them the slip in the darkness, would have returned to set you free.”

“But you kicked me and spat upon me.”

“That was to remove their suspicions. The more I seemed to hate you the more easy would it be to help you.”

Not being a particularly intelligent youth, Tynan began to think there might be something in what the subadar said.

“Well, thou art my prisoner now, and for the present I will save thy life. Where is thy wound?”

“Indeed, sahib, I fear they have slain me.”

Pir Baksh placed his hand to his leg and indicated the nature of the wound. One of the Gurkhas bent down, sliced off some of the cloth with his kukri, and burst out laughing.

“The kafar (coward)!” he cried to his companions.

The bullet had grazed the rebel’s thigh, tearing off a little strip of skin. Feeling the sharp sting, Pir Baksh had clapped his hand to the spot and drawn it away covered with blood. Concluding that he was done for, he had tumbled over and howled.

“Get up!” said Tynan brusquely. “You’re not hurt.”

Turning to the Gurkhas he motioned them to lead the way. Picking up the four muskets, the party set forth, the prisoner in the midst rendered very unhappy by the knowledge that a loaded musket was within a few inches of his backbone, and he dreaded carelessness on the part of the Gurkha. The precaution was unnecessary, for the roaring lion of half an hour ago was now as harmless as a dove.

An hour’s walk brought them within sight of camp fires, and before long they had passed the sentries, and Tynan was in the commandant’s tent. He was a small wiry man of about twenty-five, tough as whip-cord.

“Hullo!” he cried, holding a lantern above his head so that the light fell full upon Tynan’s face. “Who are you?”

“Ensign Tynan of the 193rd. I’ve just been rescued from a gang of cut-throats by these two men of yours. They tackled four and killed three.”

“Take the prisoner to the guard-tent.”

The Gurkha saluted and retired, and the officer continued: “Now, Mr. Tynan, you’ll be hungry, so just fall to. If you’d come half an hour ago there would have been a better spread.”

“I’m very hungry, thanks. What force is yours?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I’m Captain Hornby of the Kumaon Gurkha Battalion. I’ve a hundred men here, and we are en route for Sadalpur. We are expecting orders from John Lawrence—for Delhi, I hope. I won’t listen to your tale until you’ve finished.”

The meal over, the fugitive narrated his adventures since the outbreak of the mutiny until the moment of his rescue. When he came to the account of the explosion he hesitated, and finally said: “We decided to blow it up rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the rebels.”

Ted Russell had also used the word “we”, but from what different motives!

“You were senior officer?” questioned the captain.

“Yes.”

“Good!” Hornby held out his hand. “I’m proud to shake hands with you. I heard a rumour yesterday that the Aurungpore arsenal had been blown up.”

Harry Tynan felt ready to sink into the ground with shame. His hand fell limp from the grasp, and he hastily resumed his story.

“I can’t make up my mind about Pir Baksh,” he said. “He may have been only pretending to fall in with the views of the majority, but if so, he was a very good actor.”

“You’ve had a rough time, youngster, so just lie down and sleep as well as you can. There’s my mattress, and I’ll get another. Good-night! I’m going the rounds.”

The camp was astir soon after sunrise. Hornby asked how the ensign had slept, and explained that the two rescuers had informed him how they had tracked the party and followed them for nearly a mile, but had not been able to fathom their proceedings until they had seen the white skin. Pir Baksh was conducted before Captain Hornby to be examined with regard to his share in the mutiny. Before any questions could be asked, the traitor drew forth the documents signed by Tynan, and handed them to the Gurkha officer.

“There, sahib, they will prove I am a true man. Tynan Sahib has reason, I admit, to doubt me, and I should have whispered my intentions to him as we ran away, had not my comrades kept close at hand all the time, being suspicious.”

Captain Hornby read the papers, and regarded the ensign with a puzzled expression.

“This is your signature?” he asked; and Tynan, who was nervously toying with his sword-hilt, stammered an admission of the fact.

“H’m! It certainly seems that the fellow’s story is true, though I don’t like his looks. However, if he tried to save your lives and to restrain his comrades, it looks as if he really meant to be loyal, does it not?”

Tynan agreed that it did, and as he recollected how the treacherous subadar, now bowing and salaaming with an ingratiating smile, had shot down his colonel and helped to murder Lowthian, he cursed the lies he had signed. Yet he had not the moral courage to disavow them, and so lay himself open to the charge of cowardice.

“And of course,” went on the captain, “of course he treated you badly in the house in order to allay the suspicions of his men, who might otherwise have murdered you. It was rough on you, but probably for the best.”

Tynan acquiesced with a nod, and felt very uncomfortable. Hornby read for a second time the note added by Pir Baksh, and said:

“I see why you hesitated when you were speaking of the explosion, and I respect your modesty. So it was your plan to blow up the magazine, and no wonder he admired you for it. The other ensign was killed, I suppose?”

“Yes; I think I am the only one saved.”

“Poor beggar! Well, you must stop with us until I can hand you and the prisoner to Colonel Bratherton at Jehanabad. These papers should certainly save him from death, and I should say that he deserves a reward.”

Tynan looked utterly miserable, and there is no reason to doubt that he was. How he wished he had never signed that fatal paper! How he wished he had had the pluck to tell the whole story to Hornby last night, admitting that he was half-mad with pain and fear when he signed the statement! But no; he had lied to Hornby then, and had backed up the lie in the morning through cowardice, and the wretched boy now resolved that the easier course would be to stick to the lie. No one could contradict him now, except the subadar. As the thought occurred to him that Pir Baksh knew the truth, and that unless he, Tynan, was prepared to state on oath at the trial that was bound to take place, that the subadar had saved his life and attempted to save them all—unless he did that, the prisoner could and would ruin him, he groaned to himself and kicked viciously at the nearest object. One lie had led to another and yet another, and he had made a net for himself, from whose entanglement he saw no way of escape.

Yet, bad as the prospect seemed to him, he little guessed the real state of affairs.

And Pir Baksh understood as well as he. As this hopeful gentleman had been led back to the guard-tent he had winked slyly at the ensign, clearly intimating that they would stand or fall together. It was a sickening thought. Having had time to think it over, Tynan felt sure that Pir Baksh had meant to murder him, and he bitterly regretted having moved a finger to save him from the Gurkhas. He had not even the consolation of thinking that he had shown mercy to an enemy, for he had only saved him then in order to have him hanged.

Ten minutes later camp was struck, and they moved off towards Jehanabad.

CHAPTER XIV
The March of the Guide Corps

Four days after Jim and Ted Russell and Alec Paterson had set out from Aurungpore with the detachment of the Guides, they overtook the head-quarters of their regiment. The rapid rate of marching, the excitement of recent events, and the prospect of taking part in the assault on the capital of Hindustan and in the crushing of the mutiny, had proved sufficiently exhilarating to keep up the spirits and health of the boys in spite of the great heat.

Both Ted and Alec had been provided with horses before leaving Aurungpore, “Tommy Dodd” having been stolen by some budmashes; and they found the march enjoyable at times, especially in the cool of the morning before the sun had mounted high, and on moonlight evenings. Of course their detachment was lightly equipped, and had little impedimenta to carry, whereas the rest of the corps had to drag along and guard their tents, commissariat, baggage, and ammunition, otherwise they would never have been overtaken.

Right across the vast Punjab swept the famous corps of Guides, through shady groves of peach and apricot trees, and over dusty plains destitute of shelter; across the five rivers to which the land owes its name,[1] each day bringing the stalwart frontiersmen nearer to the goal of their desire. Every man in that band was eager for the fray.

Afridis, Afghans, and the various Pathan tribesmen of the corps looked forward to the sacking of the wealthy city. For centuries past their forefathers had marched down at frequent intervals to plunder the rich plains of Hindustan, and, as children, they had listened to glowing accounts of the vast wealth of the Mogul capital. The Sikhs of the corps were equally ready to loot, for the Sikh is nearly as rapacious as the Pathan, and much more miserly. They remembered also the bitter enmity between their ancestors and the Mohammedan rulers of Delhi, and their persecution at the hands of the Moslems. The single company of little Gurkhas, though by no means grasping like their comrades, were no less eager to come in contact with the mutinous hordes. The “Irishmen of Asia” these short-legged warriors might be called, from their readiness for battle and love of a fight at all times and seasons.

The Guide Corps consisted of three troops of cavalry and six companies of infantry, about eight hundred men in all, under the command of Captain Daly. The greater part of both infantry and cavalry were Pathans, and they were the best irregular horsemen in the world. The troopers supplied their own horses, and were men of some wealth and standing in their own country. As the fierce borderers rode and marched along, laughing as they spoke of the fun they would have at Delhi, Bahram Khan grimly told of the punishment meted out to the rebels of Aurungpore, and boasted of having played the most important rôle in the hoax.

“Truly it was all my idea, not Russell Sahib’s,” he repeated. “But for me all the Sahib-Logue would have been dead ere this.”

“Tell us, how did it all happen, cousin?” enquired a duffadar, a relation of the ressaidar’s, Nawab Khan by name.

“When Ishar Das brought the news that another rebel regiment had marched into Aurungpore,” began the quondam bandit, gratified by the opportunity thus afforded of displaying his triumph, “assuredly we knew not what to do. Russell Sahib called a halt, and there we consulted together. Truly brothers, for a moment even I thought we must give up the attempt. But what is impossible to the true believer? and the idea came into my mind, placed there doubtless by the Prophet. Thereupon I advised our officer to call the men together, that we might instruct them secretly to prepare for mutiny. Then with many oaths we slew Russell Sahib and threw his body into the ditch”—(here the Pathan chieftain chuckled gleefully and his comrades laughed out loudly)—“then we dressed him up as a sepoy, and darkened his face, whilst I robbed him of his watch and his sword and took the command, and we marched along swiftly in great disorder, proclaiming that Bahadur Shah was king in Delhi, and that not a Feringhi should escape our swords. Truly, my brothers, we were fiercer and more bloodthirsty than any of the real rebels. The mutinous dogs, as they heard of our approach, sent out men to meet us, and we rejoiced with them, though we should have greatly loved to slay them. As we entered the courtyard at Aurungpore they greeted us with cheers and great praise, and I spoke scornfully of their methods of fighting. Yea, I laughed in the face of their commandant, for he had no authority, and told him, so that all might hear, that he would never exterminate the infidels. Therefore they placed me in command, as I intended they should, and because I treated them as little better than curs, they became my dogs, and allowed me—the fools!—to place my men, with Sultan Jan and Dayal Singh the Sikh in command, in charge of the guns.

“They watched over them all night, and when morning came—ho! ho!—I made the madmen—surely the Prophet had smitten them all with madness—I made them, I say, empty all their firearms in the air, pretending that we must trust in the bayonet as soon as the cannon had done their work.

“‘Aye,’ said I, ‘if your muskets are still loaded ye will lie down and fire as they escape. Ye must surround them with a ring of steel,’ I said. So the madmen delivered themselves into my hands! Then I gave the order, and Sultan Jan of Kohat and Dayal Singh the Sikh cried out, and we let fly into their midst, first destroying the Sikhs, for they are true soldiers, though unbelieving dogs, and the others were but children. Yea, by the beard of the Prophet we destroyed them! Aye, we swept them away, mown down like the yellow corn in the Tirah before the strokes of the sickle.

“So they ran, and we followed; through the streets they ran screaming and throwing down their weapons, and we slew them by scores and by hundreds. But ’twas I, Bahram Khan, who saved Aurungpore. By the Prophet’s beard, ’twas I!”

Loudly the Afghan horsemen applauded the strategy of the ressaidar. They laughed and shouted with glee as they listened, and greatly they regretted that they had not been present to participate therein.

Bahram Khan also told his countrymen how the boy-officer riding beside them—younger than any of their own officers, for the Guides required strong men to handle them—had blown up the magazine and miraculously escaped death; and the stern warriors looked approvingly at our hero, and one remarked in English, “Truly, we shall make a Guide of you, sahib!” Officers as well as men treated him as an equal, because of the experience he had gained, and the way in which he had looked death in the face.

For Captain Daly, Ted soon felt an ardent admiration. Said this gallant soldier to the lad on the day that the main body of the regiment was rejoined, “Well, youngster, do you know that you’re taking part in what is going to be the best march in Indian history?”

“I’m glad I’m here, sir,” replied Ted; and indeed he looked content.

“Yes,” continued the commanding officer; “seven hundred and fifty miles is the distance from Murdan to Delhi, and I’ll do it in thirty days. We shall probably be the only native regiment that can be trusted to take part in the siege.”

Ted had looked in vain for his brother’s friend Spencer, until Jim explained that this unlucky officer had been shooting in Kashmir when the outbreak occurred, and so had not yet been able to rejoin his regiment. Ted admired Spencer greatly, and was very sorry to miss him. He was soon attracted, however, by a new acquaintance, Quintin Battye, the noble and well-loved lieutenant of the Guides, whose name was soon to gain such tragic fame.

Through Attock and Rawal Pindi along the frontier, through the large Sikh capitals of Ludhiana, Amballa, and Kurnaul, had marched the famous corps, and wherever they went the Sikh and Punjabi inhabitants looked on in wonderment. As the great troopers in khaki (for the Guides were the first to wear that uniform), sitting their horses as though born in the saddle, rode haughtily past the gaping countrymen, at whom they hardly deigned to look, or as with firm step the six hundred infantry marched easily through the villages, the knots of men gathered under the shade of the banyan-tree discussing the fall of the English raj,[1] would quickly disperse to their houses, and from that shelter watch the regiment swing past.

“Ah! did I not tell thee, Maun Singh, that the English had not all been swept away?” one would say.

“True, brother. Let us mind our own business and look after our fields, it is not safe to meddle with the Feringhis,” would be the reply.

“Who were they, Father?” a youngster would ask. “Were not our countrymen amongst them? But many were Afghan dogs!”

“Those are the Guides, my son. They have told us lies who said the English had lost their power. Consider, my brothers. How could the Guides be spared from the frontier unless the Sikhs and the Pathans, the Afghans and the Afridis, were on the side of our white rulers? Let our village have no part in this rebellion, else shall we all suffer.”

So province after province was passed, and the people, noticing how proud and confident the Guides looked, thought, “Surely the English are still masters of India.”

And old Sikh and Jat soldiers of “John Company”,[1] men who had been hesitating, who had been offered bribes to fight against the Feringhi, and who had been told that the whites were all being swept into the sea, hesitated no longer. They cleaned their swords, harnessed their horses, and veterans brought their sons, requesting permission to enlist in the new Punjab regiments which John Lawrence, the mighty commissioner of the Punjab, was raising for the reinforcement of the army before Delhi.

“The Punjab,” said the leader of the Guide Corps, “is paying back India all she has cost her, by sending troops stout and firm to her aid.”

While still more than a hundred miles from Delhi, the Guides were required to quell a disturbance in a neighbouring district. Captain Daly, impatient at the delay, desired to forward despatches to General Anson, whose army lay some miles to the north of the great city. He consulted Captain Russell.

“Your brother is a plucky youngster,” he remarked, “but what is his friend like? He hasn’t much to say for himself, but I think he’s to be trusted.”

“Paterson seems one of the quiet sort you can depend on,” Jim replied. “If you are thinking of sending them on to the commander-in-chief, I think they’d enjoy the job and would carry it through. I suppose you would give them an escort?”

Daly beckoned the two ensigns, and handing the papers to Paterson, he explained the mission, and advised them to ride as much as possible at night.

“You shall have half a dozen troopers as escort,” he concluded. “The country will be quiet until you get near Delhi. No monkey tricks, mind, youngsters, and don’t stop to blow up any arsenals on the road!”

The boys and their six Pathan troopers hastily provisioned themselves, and, pricking their steeds, dashed joyously away. A ride of a hundred miles with no one to give them orders! They commanded the party, and the general himself was not half so proud of his command as our ensigns of foot were of their half-dozen huge, wild, black-bearded troopers. For a day and two nights they rode without incident, but on the morning of the third, as they drew near to Alipore, and saw the towers and minarets of Delhi glittering in the sun a dozen miles to the south-east, they heard the sound of firing. Proceeding cautiously, they presently perceived a number of rebel horsemen flying before a body of English dragoons, as the eight topped the crest of the slight incline which had hidden them from view. The Carabineers had already given up the pursuit, and were sending a few shots after the galloping rebels, who, seeing the dark-faced, turbaned horsemen, took them for men of the mutinous irregular cavalry, and raised a cheer.

Ted looked hopefully at Alec, who hesitated for an instant. He was as keen as Ted, but ought he to risk his men and the safety of the despatch?

“Now, sahibs!” whispered Nawab Khan, the Pathan duffadar (corporal).

That decided the young commandant.

“Charge, men!” Alec cried, and waved his sword. “Charge!”

Eight blades flashed in the sunlight, as with a wild yell the little band hurled themselves like a thunderbolt into the midst of the bewildered sepoys. Ted, Nawab Khan, and a trooper, their chargers straining to the utmost, rode side by side, the other five close behind, and the rebel rank broke at once. A dozen men of the 3rd Native Cavalry—the regiment that commenced the great mutiny—fell before that charge, the leader being unhorsed and severely wounded by Ted himself, and before they could recover from their confusion the Carabineers were on their heels. Without waiting to take revenge on the insolent handful, the rebel cavalry scattered and galloped away, the ensigns and the Pathans following hard. At Paterson’s command five men ceased their pursuit, but the duffadar, engaged in a running fight with two pandies at once, would not turn back. At length one sowar[1] dropped with cloven skull, and the other—a rebel captain—was being disposed of, when a dozen sepoys turned their horses round to help their officer. Quick as thought the Pathan seized the wounded subadar by the collar and jerked him out of the saddle; then, leaping from his own horse on to the rebel’s, he laughed at the sepoys, and quickly rejoined his comrades. “He had wounded my horse, sahib, and his was the finest steed I’ve seen, so I prevailed on the dog to exchange, ho! ho!” and Nawab Khan laughed. And well he might; the beast, a beautiful dark chestnut, was indeed a grand charger.

“Well, of all the cool cheek!” exclaimed the officer of the 6th Dragoons (known as the “Carabineers”), laughing as he came up. “Anyone hurt?”

“None of us, sir,” replied Ted with a grin; “but I fancy some of the rebels are.”

“And who on earth are you?” was the next question.

“Guides, sir,” was Paterson’s laconic but very proud answer.

“Guides! Is this all the regiment?”

“I should think not!” exclaimed Ted indignantly, and Paterson proceeded to explain his errand.

“Well, are the rest like these?” asked the astonished captain, who was but newly from England.

“Quite as good. You’ll soon see, sir,” Ted confidently assured him, whilst the Pathans slowly looked the Carabineers over from head to foot, and evidently approved of the inspection—a compliment returned by the British troopers. Together they entered the camp.

CHAPTER XV
Ted’s First Battle

General Anson, Commander-in-chief in India, had died a few days previously; his successor, General Barnard, received and read the despatch in silence.

He then looked up with stern face, but twinkling eyes. “Do you think, young gentlemen, that it shows good judgment to charge seventy horsemen with only six?” for the captain of the Carabineers had reported the incident to his chief.

Ted stammered out, “We didn’t think, sir.”

“Think! I should imagine not. You must learn caution, if ever you hope to get on in your profession.”

The boys saluted and turned to go, when the general continued:

“Let me see; which of you was it who blew up the magazine at Aurungpore?”

Ted blushed as Alec replied. The general rose from his chair, shook hands solemnly as with an equal, and the ensign departed, his heart nearly bursting with pride. No amount of praise could have pleased him so much as did this simple act.

The dragoon captain found sleeping quarters for them and for their men, and they made a tour of the encampment. In the camp the British soldiers (for their six men were the only dark-skins), horse and foot, were gathered in groups talking over the strange changes that had occurred, and eagerly discussing the latest tidings. The slaughter of the helpless ladies and children in the city before them had maddened the men, and all vowed vengeance on the cruel foe.

“There’s not a black regiment to be trusted, I don’t care who they are,” declared one.

“Oh, there may be some who are all right! we mustn’t condemn the lot,” replied another.

“Indeed! Who are your precious heroes, then?” sneered a third.

“Well, I don’t know,” the more hopeful red-coat replied; “but they say that the Guides and the Sirmur Battalion of Gurkhas are coming to help us.”

“Guides and Gurkies be blowed! You’ll just see; the niggers’ll come as far as it suits them, then they’ll kill their officers and march into Delhi. They ought to have been disarmed, Guides and Gurkies and everyone else, straight away.”

“Hear, hear!” joined in the others. “We don’t want no niggers helpin’ us.”

“They don’t know much about the Guides, do they, Ted?” Alec whispered.

“They don’t. But they spoke of the Sirmur Gurkhas. I wonder whether they are coming here? My cousin Charlie Dorricot is with them, so I hope they are. He’s a jolly beggar is Charlie.”

“They say Gurkhas are always to be trusted,” Alec replied; “and from what these fellows say, it’s evident they haven’t mutinied so far.... Hullo! what’s up now? The ‘Alarm’! By Jove, the pandies are attacking us!”

A bugle had sounded the ‘Alarm’; the men sprang to their feet, rushed for their arms, and prepared to fall in. In an instant the whole camp was alive.

“What is it? Who are they?”

“Over there! Look! It’s an attack on our rear.”

The bugle blew again, and the alarm gradually subsided. All eyes were directed towards a body of men marching wearily, but with correct, well-drilled step, along the road leading towards the British camp. They seemed dark, very short of stature, and curiously attired, and that was all that could be made out. Though not Europeans, they were evidently friends, because the “Alarm” sounded by the first bugle had been contradicted by the second call.

And now that the sepoy regiments were proving false right and left, what Asiatic corps except the Guides could be trusted so near the head-quarters of the rebels? John Lawrence would take good care that no doubtful regiments should be sent to Delhi, and that no Mussulman nor Brahman of the Bengal army should be given such an excellent chance of turning traitor at the critical moment.

The strangers drew nearer, and the camp turned out to meet them. Then the word passed from lip to lip that these were the Gurkhas—Reid’s Gurkhas.

“It’s the Sirmur Battalion, Alec,” said Ted; and he executed a little pas seul to proclaim his delight.

“Who are they?” asked some of the Tommies. “Where ’ave they come from? Can they fight?”

“Fight? Can’t they just!” replied one of the knowing ones, a sergeant with a dozen years’ Indian experience. “They come from Dehra Dun, up in the hills.”

“I wouldn’t give a dog-biscuit for all the native regiments in India,” a young private declared. “They’re all rotten with treachery.”

“You’ll never be commander-in-chief, Sammy,” the sergeant retorted. “You know a dashed sight too much, and yet not ’arf enough. If you wasn’t so ignorant you’d know that these Gurkies ain’t natives but furriners in Injia same as us, livin’ in a furrin country called Nepal, up amongst the Himalayas, which you’ve never ’eard on, I dare say. And the Gurky king ain’t a subject of the queen, like the Injian rajahs and nawabs and nizams and such, but free and independent, like voters at an election. I’ve fought side by side with ’em, Sammy, and they’re as good pals on a battle-field as any chaps from Battersea.”

Ted and Alec laughed at the sergeant’s harangue, and strolled down the road to meet the reinforcements. The short-legged, tough, little Gurkhas were almost dropping from fatigue and heat. They had marched many, many miles that day under the scorching Indian sun, and they were no more accustomed to the heat of the plains than were their British comrades.

“Hurrah for the Gurkies! Three cheers for the little ’uns!”

The cry was taken up by hundreds of the red-coats, who were now lining both sides of the road, cheering again and again as the weary Mongolians marched sturdily through their ranks with soldierly swagger. The little fellows grinned and tried to cheer and joke in return, but, being dead beat and almost famishing, the attempt was a failure. Many British soldiers ran out to help their new allies along, by lending the support of an arm or shoulder.

“That’s him, Alec!” Ted, regardless of grammar, informed his chum.

He made straight for a lieutenant of the Gurkhas, a tall, jolly-looking man of about five-and-twenty, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Please, sir,” said the ensign, with great deference and as vacant an expression as possible, “is there an officer of this regiment of pandies named Dorricot, because he’s wanted in camp.”

“Pandies! you impudent puppy!” the enraged lieutenant replied. “Pandies! I like your cheek! My name’s Dorricot. Who wants me?”

“Please, sir, I think it’s a tailor with a lot of unpaid bills—”

The lieutenant opened his mouth, and, gripping Ted’s wrist, looked him squarely in the face. He burst into a laugh.

“Ted Russell! What on earth are you doing here, you cheeky chimpanzee?”

He wrung Ted’s hand heartily, and was unceremoniously introduced to Paterson.

“What are you doing here, Ted?” Dorricot repeated. “Your regiment has mutinied, has it not?”

“Yes. Seeing we were at liberty, the general sent for Paterson and me to come and give him a lift. We’re his military advisers, ain’t we, Alec?”

“Oh, Ted’s altogether too modest,” said Paterson. “In reality he’s the actual commander here, and General Barnard takes orders from him.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Dorricot replied. “Well, look here, come to my tent as soon as we’ve settled down. I want to have a talk with you.”

The Sirmur Battalion passed within the lines, and General Barnard himself came out to welcome them.

“Get something to eat sharp!” he exhorted Major Reid. “Sorry you’re dead beat, but we may have to turn out at any moment.”

Luckily this was not necessary, as the expected attack did not come off, and the tired Gurkhas were granted a few hours’ well-earned rest. Soon after they had settled down our two ensigns paid the promised visit to Lieutenant Dorricot, and fought their battles over again, talking and laughing over their several adventures, interrupting, contradicting, and agreeing with one another as they discussed the situation and the causes that had combined to bring it about.

The elder cousin was full of a natural curiosity concerning Jim’s engagement, soon persuading the ensign—and in truth it was no difficult matter—to give his opinion of Miss Woodburn, her accomplishments and attractions.

“Hullo!” interrupted Charlie, as the boy waxed particularly eloquent on the subject. “You’re sure it’s Russell Major who’s in love, and not Russell Minimus.”

Ted blushed, laughed outright, and sought to change the subject; but Charlie was determined to extract further information relating to his cousin’s love affairs—a matter on which he was conventionally facetious.

“So you really think that old Jim’s done well—eh, young Solomon?” Dorricot resumed after a few moments’ reflection.

“I tell you he’s a jolly lucky chap!” declared the ensign emphatically. “Jolly lucky, I should say. You should just have seen her when she whipped her pistol out as soon as that beggar had knifed me in the bazar!”

“What was that, Teddy? You never told me about that.”

So our ensign related the incident with great gusto, and the elder cousin whistled as he heard of the girl’s coolness.

“She’s the right sort for Jim,” he agreed, as Ted concluded the narration. “But I must be toddling off to bed now, I’m badly in need of some sleep. By-bye, young ’un!”

“Good-night, Charlie! It’s just stunning to see you again. Jim’ll be downright glad when he comes; he’s bound to be here in a day or two now.”

“His men must be rattling good marchers if he is! I hardly think it possible.”

With a hearty handshake the cousins separated, the ensigns returning to their own quarters in the highest possible spirits, looking forward with great eagerness to the coming struggle.

A few days later General Barnard advanced and gave battle to the enemy at Badli-Ka-Serai, six miles from the city. Not a soldier there but was burning to meet the traitors, but none was more keen than the little Gurkhas, who, to the delight of the amused Tommies, turned somersaults and played leap-frog when they heard that an attack was to be made.