The multitudes of sepoys fought with courage and fierce determination, but were hurled back by the little army, which occupied position after position as the mutineers recoiled. At his cousin’s request Ted was allowed to act with the Sirmur Battalion until the arrival of the Guide Corps, whose absence the boy greatly regretted.

“How mad they will be to have missed this!” he whispered to Charlie as they led the Gurkhas at the double to the foot of the ridge, where they halted and attempted to dislodge the enemy by rifle-fire. The bullets whistled around, and many a gallant fellow fell, and it must be confessed that our ensign felt uncomfortable. He hoped that this waiting “would jolly soon be over”, but, with the eyes of the little Mongolians upon him, he scorned to show signs of flinching even when a bullet flattened on the stone beside him. The fire had little effect on the rebel regiments above; the swarthy faces seemed to glare down upon them in demoniacal fashion, defying their approach.

At length came the welcome order to storm the ridge. With a cheer Britons and Gurkhas rose and dashed up the slope, racing like school-boys for the top. The Gurkhas yelled and shrieked, challenging the 60th Rifles to the race; the English had no breath left for cheering, but they put in all they knew, not to be outdistanced by “them Gurky chaps”. The little mountaineers, however, had had far more practice in rapid climbing than their British comrades, and were soon well in front, with Major Reid and Lieutenant Dorricot at their head. Though Ted toiled manfully forward, he could only arrive at the top with the rear sections of his regiment, with whom were mixed the dark-coated English riflemen. The sepoys were standing no longer. Their ranks broken up by the furious charge from right and left, their guns taken and leaders slain, they dared no longer face the glistening bayonets and determined faces of vengeful Englishmen and furious Gurkhas, but broke and fled towards the city. After them ran the infantry, and in the plains below the cavalry charged and re-charged the flying mobs, scattering them again as they tried to reform. The battle of Badli-Ka-Serai was over.

CHAPTER XVI
The Post of Honour

A great victory had been won! The temper of the men had been tested and found true as steel; the only loyal dark-faced battalion had been tried and found worthy to rank side by side with the steadiest of English or Highland regiments. The praises of the Gurkhas were in every mouth.

Besides these tests two great material advantages had been gained. This was the first. Less than a mile from the walls the Aravelli range of hills ended, and underneath this ridge lay the place where the troops had dwelt before the mutiny. Had the enemy not been driven from the Ridge, the old cantonments and parade-ground could not have been occupied, as they would have been swept by the fire from above.

Now that the Ridge had been won, however, the army could safely rest below, protected by the high ground from the fire of the heavy guns on the Delhi bastions.

In the second place, the rebels had not only been disheartened by their first defeat, but the tidings would quickly spread all over India that the English were still strong enough to defeat thrice their number. This news would be worth a thousand men, for people were saying that Allah had deprived the Feringhis of their strength, that they were lachar (helpless), and could no longer fight.

The rebel stronghold lay before the victors, vast, powerful, and filled with myriads of brave and warlike men. Well might they be defiant, for what could that tiny army achieve against their great strength. For you must know that by all the rules of warfare an army attacking a strongly-fortified place should be much more numerous than the defending host, and have more powerful or quite as powerful artillery. The assailants should be able to surround the place to prevent the entrance of food or reinforcements. But the walls of Delhi measured seven miles in circumference; the army investing it could with difficulty guard its own quarters, and rebel reinforcements entered as they pleased. Though we were supposed to be engaged in an assault on Delhi, yet in reality, during that summer of 1857, we were on our defence—the defenders of the Ridge against countless rebel attacks.

At the southern extremity of the Ridge stood a large mansion, built many years ago by a Mahratta gentleman named Hindu Rao. This house, strong and well built, commanded a good view of Delhi, and all movements could be observed therefrom. No force could issue from the walls to surprise the camp or retake the Ridge without being noticed by the picket holding the position. So Hindu Rao’s house became the post of honour, and the post of honour is always the post of danger. Less than 1200 yards from the mansion the 24-pounders of the Mori bastion overlooked the Ridge, and the house presented an easy target for the shot and shell of the huge guns.

The little cannon of our soldiers were as pop-guns compared to these monsters, and not only was the advantage in size, but the sepoys possessed a dozen heavy guns for every light one of ours, besides vast stores of ammunition and material of war. The walls had been further strengthened not many years before by English engineer officers, who had made a glacis that protected all except the top ten feet of the walls from injury by shot or shell.

A glacis is a huge bank of earth sloping outwards from the walls, and not only does it shield the lower portions, but, should an enemy attempt to escalade the walls or carry the city by assault, they would first have to run up this glacis, and there they would present such a target that trained gunners could sweep the assailants away by hundreds. The engineers, who had so skilfully and carefully constructed these defences, little thought that their handiwork would merely serve to keep India in a ferment for many months. The batteries were manned by artillerymen who had learned their profession—and learned it, alas! too well—under the tuition of English officers. Within the walls were more than 20,000 trained and disciplined sepoys, men who had proved their valour on many a well-fought field, not to mention thousands on thousands of armed fanatics, warriors by birth and by tradition. All these fought under shelter, which our brave fellows lacked. But ours were British, “strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure”, save the one Gurkha battalion and the Guide Corps (now close at hand), and these were soon admitted as equals by the British soldiers.

The British army was small—very small—but the lack of powerful artillery was an even greater source of weakness. An army without artillery, matched against even an equal force well supplied with powerful guns, would have as much chance of success as a man armed with a light cane fighting another possessed of sword and revolver.

Thousands of people in England and in India, who eagerly devoured the news and anxiously awaited the fall of the capital, impatiently asked, “Why are they so long? Why don’t they take the city?” These worthy folks could not understand the difficulties; they could not realize that mere pluck and endurance avail nothing against stone walls and mighty cannon. As the weeks rolled by and Delhi was still untaken, other persons, still more ignorant, exclaimed, “Why don’t they leave Delhi if they can’t capture it, and go and help Sir Henry Lawrence at Lucknow?” They did not see that even if that small army appeared to be doing little, it still kept shut up in the city forty thousand armed rebels who might otherwise be spreading over the country conquering and slaying. Nor did they grasp the fact that had the English army left Delhi unconquered the warlike Punjab, and then all India, would have risen. To have left the Mogul capital would have been a confession of weakness; it would have been to say: “We are beaten, we can do nothing here”, and when once the English say that in India, their empire will collapse.

So, though Barnard’s handful was attacking Delhi contrary to all the rules of war, we must remember what Mr. Rudyard Kipling has pointed out, that had our British generals never acted against those rules the boundaries of the empire would have stayed at Brighton beach.

It will be readily understood, even by boys who have engaged in no battles save those in which snow-balls form the most dangerous missiles, that this ridge of elevated ground was of the highest importance. Had the rebels been able to retake it and plant guns thereon, the British camp would have been at their mercy, and the Punjab would have been ablaze. As the Ridge defended the British army, so Hindu Rao’s house defended the Ridge.

Let us rejoin the comrades we had left victorious after the battle of Badli-ka-Serai. The army now occupied its old parade-ground below the Ridge, and our friends, who had escaped uninjured, were awaiting further orders, when Major Reid, who had been conversing with the general, came towards them, his face aglow.

“Grand news, Dorricot!” he shouted. “The Sirmur Battalion is to defend that house,” pointing to the distant mansion of Hindu Rao.

“Score for our Gurkhas!” Dorricot shouted back.

“What do you think of that, youngsters?” he continued, turning to Ted and Alec. “I feel as though I’d been made a K.C.B. at least. We must fall the men in and be off.”

The Gurkha bugles sounded and the battalion fell in, whilst their commandant informed them that the general had paid them the great compliment of selecting them for the post of honour, and he had no doubt that they would show themselves in every way worthy to uphold the traditions of their race. The little men grinned, well pleased, as their officer went on to warn them that it would also be the post of danger; that upon the house of Hindu Rao would fall the brunt of all the rebel attacks, and that the building would be the main target for the Delhi artillery.

The little men huzzaed at the prospect. The fiercer the battle waging around them the better pleased would they be. They meant to hold their post tooth and nail.

“What plucky little fiends they are!” Alec whispered. “Danger evidently appeals to them as a most delightful prospect.”

When the news spread that the Gurkhas had been awarded the post of honour, the soldiers assembled to cheer their comrades from the mountains of Nepal as they marched away. Never did general make a wiser selection. Prominent amidst the glorious achievements during the siege of Delhi stands out the dogged pluck of the Gurkha picket, who successfully held the house of Hindu Rao during a hundred days of terrific fighting and bombardment, though only a handful escaped death or wounds.

Rooms were apportioned to the various ranks, and the Sirmur men were speedily settled in their new quarters. Ted and Charlie strolled round the mansion, and, gazing upon the Imperial City, entered into an argument respecting their distance from the big cannon of the Mori bastion.

They were still disputing, when a pleasant-looking, gentlemanly young Gurkha officer joined them, and, jerking our ensign round by his jacket collar to face the new-comer, Charlie observed:

“I ought to have introduced you two before. Goria Thapa, can you guess who the ensign sahib is? He is Ensign Russell, son of your father’s comrade, of whom you have often heard. Ted, this is Jemadar Goria Thapa, son of Jaspao Thapa, your guvnor’s great pal of 1815.”

Goria Thapa’s jolly countenance became wreathed in grins. He held out his hand, saying:

“I have heard much of thy father, Russell Sahib, who was my father’s brother. I am glad to fight side by side with thee as our fathers fought.”

Ted pressed the young jemadar’s hand. This was, then, the grandson of the famous Nepalese general, Amir Sing Thapa, who had kept our troops at bay for so long a period in the year of Waterloo. Ted had often heard the story, and was glad indeed to meet the hero’s grandson.

That night the troops slept soundly both on and below the Ridge. In the early morning the Gurkha picket heard the sound of cheering from the British camp, and the report ran round that the Guide Corps was marching in. Ted, Paterson, and their four Pathans—two had fallen on the previous day—went down to rejoin their regiment, which was being greeted with the same enthusiasm that had been accorded to the Sirmuris a few days before.

Though the Guides had taken no part in the battle they had already covered themselves with undying glory. Daly had promised that the seven hundred and fifty miles should be covered in a month, and he had done it in twenty-eight days. The stately height and military bearing of the frontiersmen and the perfect horsemanship of the cavalry took everyone by surprise, and such exclamations as “A splendid lot!” “Fighters every inch of them!” were heard on all sides. Though they had accomplished the magnificent march—a march that still holds the record—during the hottest season of the year, they came in, as an onlooker remarked, “as firm and light of step as if they had marched only a mile”.

The Guides had barely arrived before they contrived to give the Delhi rebels a taste of their temper. Large bodies of horse and foot had been sent out from the city to harass our advanced posts, and, full of a fierce joy, the Guides were ordered to the front.

Charlie was engaged in chaffing his cousin, Ted throwing in a word here and there, when Lieutenant Quintin Battye strolled up, a smile on his handsome face. He nodded towards the two ensigns.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you two,” he gaily remarked. “What do you mean by risking the lives of my best troopers by charging a regiment with half a dozen men? Throw your own lives away if you like, but remember that our sowars are of value to the state.”

Ted had a joke on the tip of his tongue before the slower Paterson had framed any suitable reply, when the order came for the Guides Cavalry to advance.

Battye rose in his stirrups, and, thundering forth the order to charge, dashed straight for the ranks of the mutinous 3rd Native Cavalry. The sabres of the loyal and disloyal crossed, and down went man and horse before that furious onslaught. Through the second ranks of the rebels crashed those Pathan and Sikh troopers, their steel flashing in the sunlight as the sabres rose and fell again, now tinged with red, in the fierce conflict. Ever in the forefront rode Quintin Battye. Captain Daly, with the infantry, looked on in admiration at his subaltern’s charge and could not contain himself.

“Gallant Battye! Well done, brave Battye!” he cried in his enthusiasm.

At that very moment a rebel turned round, and, riding straight for the English subaltern, discharged his piece into Battye’s body from a distance of twenty yards. The deed was avenged! Subadar Merban Sing, captain of the Gurkha company of the Guides, had dashed forward and cut down the sepoy as he fired, but too late to save that precious life. Battye was carried off the field, wounded mortally; and as he lay dying in terrible pain, he turned to the chaplain who attended him, and smiling said: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!”

Thus died a gallant officer and true gentleman. Since that date there has hardly been a campaign in which the Guides have not been officered by a Battye.

The Guides Infantry were now allotted a position on the Ridge, under the orders of Major Reid, who had been placed in command of the advanced posts. Two companies of the 60th Rifles also took up their quarters in Hindu Rao’s house, for it soon became evident that the Sirmur Battalion would have to bear the brunt of all attacks.

But the little Himalayans did not grumble at that.

On the very first opportunity that presented itself, our three friends foregathered to talk over the events of the past few years. The two seniors placidly smoked their pipes and congratulated themselves on belonging to regiments that had proved their loyalty.

Jim was forced to submit, with as much good-temper and cheerfulness as could have been expected under the circumstances, to his cousin’s quizzing enquiries and humorous comments in the matter of his love affair and engagement. Charlie simply wanted to know everything, and, with as good a grace as possible for a shy young man, Jim laughingly endeavoured to parry the embarrassing questions.

“Well, tell me what she’s like, man, can’t you? Teddy here can’t say anything concerning her appearance, except that he’s head over heels in love with her himself.—— And I’m sure that’s no recommendation for any girl!” Captain Dorricot added, as an afterthought.

Ted hereupon indulged in an exclamation and gesture expressive of dissent, and of the supreme contempt in which he held his cousin.

“What’s that, Ted? You never said anything of the sort? Why, you young bargee, of course you did!” went on the tormentor. “You talked of poisoning Jim’s grub, and what not.—— Well, Captain Russell, once more: Are her eyes black, blue, brown, purple, violet, green, yellow, red, or a mixture, or perchance, is she an albino?”

“Oh, I dunno! Something between green and blue, as you seem so anxious to know.”

“Peacock-blue, shall we say? That’s a pity! Violet is the favourite hue with lady novelists—either violet, or purple, or heliotrope. Did you ever see a woman with eyes of heliotrope hue, young ’un?”

“No, nor don’t want to.”

“That’s very decided. Now then, Jim, cut along! Eyes, peacock-blue; nose, Roman, Grecian, snub, or what? Grecian? Right. Jot it down. Size? Ted says she’s a dwarf. What? Ted a liar? Surely the boy has not been deceiving me who trusted in him?”

“I never said anything of the kind!” interrupted Ted indignantly. “Don’t believe a word he says, Jim.”

“Oh, Teddy, Teddy, this to your loving cousin? Now, you know that you said she was smaller than you!” Charlie asserted with a show of indignant surprise at the ensign’s perfidy.

“Well, we’re getting at it slowly,” Dorricot continued. “Nose Grecian; peacock-blue eyes; size five feet nothing; hair brown; rides well; shoots mullahs in the bazar for sport, failing partridges; loads rifles with considerable ease—for a woman; sings divinely—isn’t that the expression?—”

“Hold on, old man, that’s the whole catalogue!” interrupted Jim. “You’ll see her some day, I hope. Now what about this present business?”

Captain Russell then proceeded to give an account of their great march, and Dorricot told of the temptations placed before his men.

“As we halted one day on the march down to Meerut,” he informed the brothers, “a number of sappers who were on the point of mutiny approached our lads and began to talk earnestly to them. We pretended to take no notice, but when the sappers had left, Reid called a couple of the Gurkhas to him. The little men trotted up, quivering with anger and indignation.

“‘Well, what did those fellows want, my lads?’ he enquired.

“‘They asked us if we were going up to Meerut to eat the ottah (flour) sent up specially by government for the Gurkhas,’ one of them replied. ‘And they said that the ottah at Meerut was nothing but ground bullock bones, and that we should be defiled.’

“‘And what was your answer?’ asked Reid.

“The little beggars drew themselves up proudly.

“‘We said that we were going wherever we were ordered; that our regiment obeys the bugle-call!’”

“Good little men!” commented the captain of the Guides, as his cousin concluded. “Our own Gurkha company would be hard to beat. Look at Subadar Merban Sing! the man who tried to save poor Battye. His men simply adore him; they’d do anything for him, and go anywhere with him. But aren’t your ‘almond-eyed Tartars’ Hindus by religion? How did they take the greased-cartridge yarn?”

“They’re Hindus, right enough, but they are soldiers first. They don’t worship either Siva or Vishnu one-half so fervently as they adore their rifles and kukris. So they simply said that they would believe whatever Major Reid told them, and when he assured them that the cartridges and the cartridge-papers were free from offence, they replied, without a moment’s hesitation:

“‘Then serve them out to us! We’ll use them, and everyone may see!’”

CHAPTER XVII
With the Gurkha Picket

On the morning of the 12th of June our friends on the Ridge were out soon after dawn, visiting their respective pickets and receiving reports. All was quiet. They gazed with admiration on the wonderful panorama, at the stately mosques, minarets, and towers of the royal city, at the huge mass of walls bulking in threatening manner before them, at the king’s palace—a town in itself—that stood to the far side of the city, and at the blue waters of the Jumna glittering and sparkling in the sun, washing the opposite walls to those whose heavy guns had poured shot and shell at our men but a few hours ago. To the south of the Ridge lay the picturesque suburbs of the Kishengang and the Sabzi-mandi, with their magnificent buildings, walled gardens, and shady groves.

The peaceful scene was not of long duration. The guns of the Mori and Kashmir bastions presently belched forth a shower of shot and shell, and, under cover of the heavy fire, two large bodies of mutineers poured out to the attack, one charging the Gurkha picket, the other pushing its way through the gardens, sheltered by trees and walls. Those sepoy regiments attacking Hindu Rao’s mansion saw only dark faces between them and their desire.

“Come over to us!” the Brahmans shouted to the Gurkhas. “Come over, and we’ll reward you; you shall have treasure and honour. You are of our religion. Siva, the Destroyer, is fighting on our side. Join us in driving away the white men. Come!”

“Yes, we are coming! Wait for us!” shouted back the Nepalese. And they went, with bayonets fixed and kukris bared; but the rebels waited not. Terrified by the determined faces and gleaming steel, they turned and fled, pursued for some distance by the fierce little mountaineers. Thenceforward the Gurkhas were hated with a hatred as bitter as that accorded to the British.

“Those monkeys of Gurkhas are renegades to their faith!” declared the Brahman priests to those mutineers in Delhi who were of their persuasion. “They prefer to receive the Englishman’s pay rather than follow the dictates of their holy men. Let them be outcasts! Spare them not! When we have destroyed the white men, then shall we deal with them, if any have escaped by that time!”

The attack made at the same time on the troops stationed below the Ridge met with no better success. The British soldiers down there were no less eager than their comrades up above to give the foemen a taste of their quality. After some hours’ hard fighting, the rebels were repulsed with heavy loss, and our men began to feel happy, fondly imagining that the tide was already turning in their favour.

The unthinking ones and the least experienced talked confidently of entering Delhi in a few days, or a week or two at most. They underrated the strength of the enemy, and also the determination of the mutineers,—a mistake the British soldier is wont to make.

Undismayed by this reverse, the enemy came out to attack our posts every day between the 12th and 17th of June, and every day they were beaten back. Time after time they flung themselves in heavy masses against the small force defending the Ridge, only to be hurled back again and again by the Gurkhas, the Guides Infantry, and the Englishmen of the 60th Rifles, who all fought with equally unflinching gallantry.

But on the 17th of June, Major Reid, to his delight, was ordered to act on the offensive. The enemy had commenced to erect batteries outside the walls, in the Kishengang and Trevelyan-gang suburbs, commanding the British positions, and this could not be allowed. Reid’s men, with another column from the main force, sallied forth and stormed the positions, routed the foe, and destroyed the works. But not without loss was this accomplished. Our foemen were no cravens; they flung themselves not once but many times with desperate courage against their assailants, making little impression, however, on the stern warriors of England, Scotland, and Ireland, of the Punjab, and of Nepal.

When morning dawned next day the officers reminded the British soldiers that this was Waterloo-day, and the remembrance of that glorious victory, and of the valour of their fathers, roused a new enthusiasm. On this day the Guides Cavalry had their turn, and acquitted themselves like the heroes they were. But once more they paid a price for so distinguishing themselves, for Captain Daly, their gallant leader, was carried away severely wounded.

The knowledge that his men had proved themselves so worthy consoled Captain Daly in his pain. There were few soldiers in the force now who were not ready to admit, and to back their opinion with curious and unnecessary oaths, that these two native regiments were an invaluable acquisition to the force—that Guides and Gurkhas were worthy to uphold the reputation of the British army.

Little of importance happened during the next three or four days, though the batteries were continually playing on the Ridge. One round-shot came crashing through the portico of Hindu Rao’s house with terrible effect, killing an English officer and eight Gurkhas.

On June the 23rd the rebels made a vow. This day was the centenary of the battle of Plassy. For just one hundred years had the Feringhis’ dominion lasted, and now, according to the Moslem prophets, their time was come. So the sepoys, maddened by the resistance offered to their attacks, furious that these Gurkhas should persistently remain at their post, ever watchful and ever eager for the fray in spite of the incessant cannonade, vowed that on this day Hindu Rao’s house should be captured.

About mid-day the attack on the Ridge began, the insurgents swarming up on every side. Beaten back, but reinforced by fresh hordes, they again came to the attack with desperate valour, to be once more repulsed by the Gurkhas. Foiled but not done with, the enemy recommenced a brisk cannonade of the handful who opposed them. Under cover of this fire a fresh assault was made, and for a moment the post seemed lost. The dark uniforms of the English riflemen, the drab of the Guides, and the ugly dress of the Gurkhas, seemed lost amidst those swarming thousands. Somehow Ensign Russell found himself in the front with the Gurkha company of the Guides. Little Subadar Merban Sing, the captain of the company, stood at his elbow, as mild in appearance as usual, smiling pleasantly and serenely as he watched the straining and tugging bodies, the uplifted and downfalling arms, the musket flashes on every side, the thrusting of bayonets and slicing of kukris, and, as calmly as if on parade, he gave directions to his men.

Inspired by his companion’s coolness and absolute lack of fear, Ted fought manfully at his side. A Guide in front of him stumbled, badly wounded. It was Merban Sing’s brother. Quick as thought Ted dashed forward and stood over the body as half a dozen sepoys ran to thrust their bayonets into the helpless Gurkha. With his pistol Ted shot one, gave another the point of his sword, and Merban Sing, again at his side, struck down two more whose bayonet-points were almost plunged in the ensign’s breast. The Gurkha subadar, felled from behind, dropped over his wounded brother, who at the same time received his death-wound. A rush from behind brought a dozen more Guides around the lad, who saw steel flash in front of his face, and felt a burning sensation in his cheek; then his head seemed to split, and he remembered no more.

With yells of triumph the myriad enemy pushed forward, but not to victory. Major Reid’s voice rang out clear, keeping his men together, and with a cheer the gallant fellows responded. The riflemen closed up, shoulder to shoulder, and, first pouring a withering fire into the mass, dashed forward with the bayonet, followed by the Guides, who also used that best of weapons. The little Nepalese, throwing down musket and bayonet, drew their razor-edged kukris and plunged into the thick of their opponents, hewing them down and scattering them on every side by the fury of their charge. The foe gave ground and the crisis had passed. The officers cheered, the men responded, and again a bayonet and kukri charge drove the pandies farther back. Then the Rifles and Guides, kneeling down, sent volley after volley into the mass of wavering sepoys, and followed up their advantage by again charging home, and the danger was passed. But the enemy, though disheartened, were not routed; the conflict still raged fast and furious. The rebel guns, which had ceased firing during the hand-to-hand fighting, again gave tongue with deadly effect. Taking advantage of the diversion thus created, the plucky sepoys made a last desperate effort to fulfil their vow, only to receive further punishment. As the sun went down and the light faded, the rebels lost heart and retired, discouraged and cowed, to the shelter of their walls, hastened on the way by the bullets which dropped amongst them.

Everywhere had the attack failed, both on the Ridge and below. But though a severe blow had been dealt to the mutineers, too many of our own had been slain; for the sepoys in Delhi could better spare a thousand men than could the army before Delhi afford to lose fourscore. To resist an attack was one thing; to storm the city successfully would be quite another.

When Ensign Russell came to himself he was back in the Mahratta’s mansion, his brother and cousin by his side as the doctor examined him.

“Thank God that you’ve a thick head, young man,” observed that official; and turning to the others he added, “He’ll be all right in a few days.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the boy. His head was ringing and singing, and he felt sick.

“Crack on the head with the butt-end, Teddy,” answered Charlie. “It knocked you senseless, and Goria Thapia carried you out of danger. Good job you’ve got the Russell skull. I expect the musket was smashed to bits! Without joking, old boy, you’ve had a narrow escape.”

“What’s the matter with my cheek—it’s stinging frightfully?” asked Ted.

“Your cheek?” replied Jim, laughing. “Oh, nothing’s the matter with that! It’s as big and fine and well-developed as usual.” Jim then placed his hand on his brother’s brow. “A sword or bayonet has just grazed your cheek, Ted, old man, and taken the skin off. It will be painful, but you’ll hardly feel it in a week’s time. Now, go to sleep.”

“But how did the fight go after I was dropped, Jim? Was Merban Sing killed?”

Captain Russell related the stirring incidents of the day, and told how Merban Sing and two of his brothers had laid down their lives to defend their trust.

For some time after this determined assault the rebels became more cautious, whilst our men sat tight, waiting for reinforcements and for a siege-train with which to batter those heavy walls whereon our little guns made no impression.

When off duty, officers and men would stroll from one regiment’s lines to another, the chief meeting-place being the Flagstaff Tower on the north end of the Ridge, well out of range. Games at cricket and quoits, as well as polo-matches and races, were arranged. Numerous were the visitors to Hindu Rao’s house, as men from all the regiments came to see this important outpost, to note the damage done by shot and shell, and to scrutinize those wonderfully tough little Gurkhas who were the first line of defence, and who were enjoying themselves hugely.

But though Major Reid[1] had many visitors, he himself never once left his post during these months of bitter fighting. He was guardian of the Ridge, and cricket, quoits, and races appealed to him in vain.

The 60th Rifles and the Sirmuris had become the best of friends and closest of chums, and in the early days of the fighting, when tobacco was still to be obtained without difficulty, little Gurkhas and heavy Yorkshiremen or sprightly Cockneys might be seen sitting side by side, smoking their pipes contentedly, and offering one another tobacco by signs, being unable to exchange a word.

By the end of June the casualties among the Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas had been terrible, and the top room of the house had been turned into a Gurkha hospital, for the wounded Nepalese refused to leave their post. Their British comrades offered to carry them to the big hospital in the cantonments below, where comparative peace and quietness reigned, and where they might have the best medical aid, but the Gurkhas would have none of it. They preferred to stay by their comrades, to listen to the shot and shell whistling around, to hear the news each day—who had distinguished himself, and whether their beloved Major Reid and his officers were still unharmed. So Reid, with tears of pride in his eyes, yielded to the wish of his children, and there they stayed.

The troops had been reinforced, but no siege-train had arrived. At their various posts in the Punjab John Lawrence, Herbert Edwardes, and John Nicholson were recruiting the wild Sikhs and still wilder Pathans into regiments of irregular cavalry and infantry. Edwardes, Nicholson, and Brigadier Cotton, in command at Peshawur, the gate of India, had so impressed the tribes under their sway with the might of England, that these fierce men, though at first ready to join the rebels, had changed their tone, and now volunteered to fight against the sahibs’ enemy.

Old men, young men, and men of middle age brought their horses and weapons before these great Englishmen, and begged to be allowed to enlist. So week by week some Punjabi,[1] Sikh, or Pathan regiments of foot or horse would march proudly to the Delhi camp, sent down by command of John Lawrence, who himself could ill afford to spare them. The first reinforcements to arrive were the 1st and 2nd Punjab Infantry and the 4th Sikhs. The 1st P.N.I, were commanded by Major Coke, and were known as “Coke’s Rifles” or as “Cokeys”, and a gallant lot they proved, as did indeed their comrade corps.

CHAPTER XVIII
Ted’s Hopes are raised and dashed to the Ground

“Have you seen the new arrivals, Ted?” asked Jim, as he came back from a visit to cantonments one day.

“No, who are they?”

“Hodson’s Horse, the ‘Flamingoes’ as they’ve been nicknamed, from the colour of their sashes. Go down and look at them; they’re worth seeing, and so is Hodson, their commandant.”

“Is he the Lieutenant Hodson who once commanded our regiment?” asked Ted, who had heard of the famous freelance.

“That’s the man. He got into trouble with the Guides, and now he’s been allowed to raise this regiment of horse.”

So the two chums waited until both were free from duty, and went down to look at the stalwart Sikh and Pathan horsemen, who afterwards became known to fame as the 9th and 10th Bengal Lancers throughout Hindustan and its frontiers, and in China, Egypt, the Soudan, and Abyssinia. A crowd had gathered round the gaudily-attired “Flamingoes”, who sat their horses proudly, much gratified by the reception. They were about to exercise the horses.

“Not so bad,” said Ted approvingly; “but not quite up to our Guides—eh, Alec?”

“They look good soldiers,” Paterson replied. “Why,—well, I’m blowed! What’s Boldre doing there?”

“Who?”

“Claude Boldre! See, that kid on the rat-tailed dun, with a Flamingo sash. I left him at school, and didn’t even know he’d got a commission. His father’s the colonel of a regiment that mutinied recently, I heard. He’s a decent sort.”

Paterson walked behind his friend, who had not yet perceived them, and dealt him a sounding smack on the thigh.

“Come down off that horse, Boldre!” was his salutation. “Do you imagine yourself a Flamingo?”

“Who are—why, if it ain’t Alec Paterson, by all that’s wonderful! How did you come here?”

Alec explained briefly, and introduced Ted.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Russell,” said the horseman, “and I’m proud to meet you.”

“Well, explain what you are doing here in that uniform. Didn’t know they had ensigns in Hodson’s.”

“I’m a loot’nant,” laughed Boldre; “that is, temporary rank conferred by John Nicholson. I’ve no commission at all really, but I helped to raise a troop or two of these fellows by sheer good luck.”

“You helped to raise them?”

“Yes; I’ll tell you the story some other time. They had captured me, and were about to shoot me, when the news of Nicholson’s disarming the sepoys at Peshawur came to hand. Then they changed sides cheerfully, and wanted to enlist under Nicholson, and I brought them along to Peshawur. They are rummy beggars! It’s first-class being with them. Where are you now—upon the Ridge?”

Ted explained their position, and Boldre promised to look them up as soon as he could. Hodson then appeared on the scene, and the Flamingoes trotted away.

Early in July General Barnard died of cholera after a few hours’ illness. His successor, General Reed, had to relinquish the command through ill-health before the middle of the month, so Sir Archdale Wilson was appointed. He was the fourth general who had commanded the force within the space of ten weeks.

Now and again Ted was sent by Major Reid to bear his reports to the general in command. On one of these occasions he had no sooner entered the head-quarters tent than General Wilson greeted him with the amazing words:

“Ensign Russell! This is fortunate, for I was about to send for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Ted replied, and wondered what was coming.

“You distinguished yourself at Aurungpore, I understand?”

“I was at Aurungpore, sir.”

The general regarded him curiously for a moment before he resumed.

“Major Munro, who commanded your late regiment after the disablement of the colonel, has recommended you for the Victoria Cross. I have looked into the matter carefully, and cordially approve the recommendation, so there is little doubt that you will obtain the decoration. I congratulate you, Ensign Russell; you acted as an English lad should.”

Sir Archdale Wilson shook hands, and at the same time a man rose painfully from his chair by the general’s side—a man lame and feeble, worn out by disease; a man who should have been in hospital, had not his spirit been stronger than his body. He grasped the boy’s hand, and cordially exclaimed, “Well done, youngster! well done!”

That man was Colonel Baird Smith, the great engineer, the man in whose hands General Wilson had left all the operations for the capture of Delhi; the man who was even now forming his great plan and scheming his wonderful works for the assault.

Ted left the tent, walking as if in a dream, hardly knowing whether he stood on his head or his feet. The V.C.! He, Ted Russell, to have the V.C.!

He hurried back to consult with Alec, and it seemed as though every man, horse or foot, officer, private, or humble bhisti, was looking at him and discussing his good fortune. He started and came to himself as Claude Boldre touched him on the shoulder.

“How do you do, Mr. Russell?” he said. “If you are going up towards the Gurkha picket I should like to go with you. Alec Paterson used to be a great chum of mine at school. Oh! allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant Roberts of the Bengal Artillery.”

Ted nodded to Boldre’s companion, a young man, slight and short of stature, with a frank, open countenance that told of an active, intelligent brain, and a brave, true heart. He was attired in the handsome uniform of the dashing Artillery Corps, and Ted liked his new acquaintance at once.

“I’ve only just arrived,” said the gunner, “and I want to see everything. Tell me all about Hindu Rao’s house.”

Glad of the opportunity, the ensign told the story of the Ridge, and for a few moments forgot the V.C.

“You seem to have enjoyed yourself,” Boldre commented.

Ted blushed. “Well, it has been rather exciting, and you see I’ve not suffered. It’s different for those fellows who have.”

The artillery lieutenant smiled as he looked at the boy’s cheek.

“You seem to have had one cut at least,” he observed.

“Oh, that was nothing!” Ted replied.

They had approached the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as a hollow on the Ridge was called on account of its exposure to the rebel fire, when a shell burst not forty yards away. Ted noticed with admiration that though Boldre and he both started as if hit, the gunner officer never turned a hair, but calmly completed the remark he was making. The boy felt that he was in the presence of no ordinary man. Before taking his visitors into the house Ted pointed out the different gates and bastions of the city. As they were surveying these, Alec and Charlie came up. Lieutenant Roberts looked steadfastly at the latter and exclaimed:

“Hullo, ain’t you Lieutenant Dorricot?”

Charlie looked keenly at his questioner.

“That’s my name, but I don’t know you from the Grand Mogul.”

“That’s not strange; I was only thirteen and in the fourth form at Eton when you left. I’m Fred Roberts, and we were both under the same tutor, the Rev. Eyre Young. You were some years older than I, and I chiefly remember you because I admired the way you once gave a jolly good thrashing to a bully—I forget his name, but he was ill-treating a youngster.”

Charlie laughed and shook hands, saying, “Turkey Bletcher, you mean! So you remember that? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve just come. Been with the Movable Column, but applied to come here, and they gave me permission.”

“Are you on the staff?”

“Yes; I’ve just applied for the post of deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general for artillery, and I’ve been lucky enough to get it.”

“So you’re the D. A. Q. M. G., are you?” said Dorricot, with some respect that one so young should have obtained this important post.

They little thought that this slight and young lieutenant was destined to become one of Britain’s greatest and best-beloved soldiers, Field-marshal Earl Roberts of Kandahar and Pretoria, V.C.

“So you’ve been with Nicholson?” said Paterson, who was a great admirer of that frontier hero and demi-god. “He’s a wonderful leader, I suppose?”

“The finest soldier in the world!” Lieutenant Roberts quietly asserted.

“Rather!” chimed in Claude Boldre. “He’s a grand man. I’ve been lucky in experiencing what the Pathans along the frontier think of him. They consider him a sort of second Mahomet.”

“I suppose he’s performing miracles in the Punjab,” said Alec. “Is it really true that they worship him as a god?”

“Up in Hazara,” replied the artilleryman, “they’ve formed a sect called the Nikkulseyns, and though Nicholson only thrashed them when they worshipped him, they considered it an honour to be whipped by him, and those who didn’t get a licking envied their more fortunate neighbours. The fakir who founded the sect bothered Nikkulseyn to give him his old beaver hat, and as he received no encouragement, the wily old gentleman procured one like it. He then went the round of the shops at the busiest time of the day, and placed the hat in the doorway, so that none might leave or enter without removing or kicking it over. When customers were about to enter, the fakir called out, warning them not to desecrate the topi which had been worn by the great and mighty and holy Nikkulseyn. Nicholson was such a power in the land that none dared remove it, and at last the old fraud consented to take it away on being paid one rupee by the shopkeeper. He would thereupon proceed to another shop and repeat these tactics. When Nicholson heard of this he gave the fakir and his disciples a sound hiding all round, but they only sang hymns of praise to him.”

“He was worshipped in Bunnu almost as much as in Hazara, was he not?” enquired Paterson; and Claude Boldre replied:

“Yes, he was both worshipped and feared. Before he went there, an orphan boy had been cheated out of his land by his guardian uncle, named Allodad Khan. A few years later the young man went to law in order to recover his property, but Allodad Khan, who was a rich powerful man, had bribed and threatened all the village, and none would give evidence against him. Nicholson heard of this, and guessed how matters stood. One morning, just after dawn, a villager, going out early, was spell-bound at seeing Nicholson’s well-known white mare cropping the grass outside the village. He ran back and breathlessly told the news. All the inhabitants turned out to gaze, and someone quickly perceived Nicholson himself tied to a tree close by. Their first thought was to run away, but a few plucked up sufficient spirit to go tremblingly to the commissioner’s aid. In terrible wrath Nicholson asked who had dared to treat him like this. They bowed before him, but so terrified were they that no one could answer. ‘Whose land is this, then?’ he demanded. ‘The owner of the land is responsible.’ The villagers pointed to Allodad Khan, who fell on his knees, declaring, ‘No, no, sahib, the land is my nephew’s. He is responsible for the outrage.’ Nicholson sternly made him swear to this before the whole village, and then the ruffian saw that he’d been made a fool of. So the nephew got possession of the estate and money, and Allodad Khan, finding the village too warm for him, went on a pilgrimage to Mecca.”

“He must be a wonderful man,” Alec murmured half to himself. “I wish he’d come to Delhi.”

“He will,” said Claude Boldre. “He as good as told me so when he sent me off with the Flamingoes.”

Ted was all impatience to impart his great news, but modesty forbade him while the strangers were present. The two visitors having inspected the defences of the famous mansion, and criticised most favourably the appearance of the Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas, took their departure.

“The general’s told me that I’m to have the V.C., Alec,” Ted whispered.

“Honour bright?”

Our ensign nodded.

“Congratulations, old man,—and I think you deserved it. Ensign Russell, V.C.!... Splendid, Ted!”

“What’s that?” asked Jim, who had joined the group. “You’re to have the V.C., young’un?”

Ted then related what had passed, and Charlie Dorricot thumped him violently in the small of the back.

“Well done, Ted!” he shouted excitedly. “I am glad; you deserve it, you cheeky little beggar!”

Ted being called away for a moment, Jim gravely observed:

“Well, I’m not so sure that I’m glad. He’s having too much luck, and will be thinking no end of himself unless he’s careful. Of course I’m very proud of him, but I’d have preferred him to win it a few years later.”

“Oh, Ted’s all right!” Charlie assured him. “He won’t be spoiled. He’s a sterling sort of kid.”

At that moment the subject of the conversation returned, and a pause ensued before the elder brother spoke.

“Ted, I was just saying that I’m not quite sure whether I am very glad or not.”

The ensign’s face fell.

“You won’t misunderstand me, old chap, or think I’m jealous, but you’re very young, and too much luck is apt to turn our heads. I’m not saying that you didn’t deserve it, but don’t go about thinking that you’re a very wonderful youngster, for there’s many an ensign here would have done the same. If it makes you conceited, Ted, it will be a very bad thing for you ever to have won it. But if you’re a man, and if you don’t put on ‘side’, all of us will rejoice in your honours.”

Ted was silent for a few moments, then held out his hand to his brother.

“I understand, old man; I know there are many who’d have done it, and perhaps done it better. I’ll try to remember that.”

“Well done, Ted!” cried his cousin. “I think you’ll do, young ’un. Jim’s rather inclined to preach, but he’s all right.”

Ted and Alec repaired to the Flagstaff Tower, the meeting-place of the British camp, situated on the Ridge about a mile north of the Gurkha picket, overlooking the artillery lines and the head-quarters camp, the latter being about half a mile farther to the north-west. From the Flagstaff Tower the road ran straight to the Kashmir Gate, and as the ground was high and the place well out of range, it was a favourite spot whence to gaze at the rebel town.

Ted was very thoughtful, and Alec very silent. The former’s ardour had been damped by his brother’s speech, and he wondered whether Jim really was jealous of his good fortune. He dismissed the idea as unworthy of Jim, whose honour and grit he appreciated fully. Still, it was rather a damper, and he could not help wishing that his brother had been less candid.

It was at the Flagstaff Tower that our friends of the Gurkha picket were accustomed to hear the news of the camp. There they learned of many deeds of valour; of the wonderful daring of Tombs of the Artillery, how he had rescued his equally brave subaltern, Hills, from certain death, and how he had had five horses shot under him already. “One almost every time he goes out,” commented Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot. It was there they had heard of the arrival of Colonel Baird Smith, the chief engineer. “He’s the man who’ll take Delhi,” a youngster of the “Cokeys” had prophesied; and that lad was not far wrong.

But on this day the bearers of news from camp wore troubled looks. Some unwelcome tidings had evidently arrived since Ted’s visit below.

“Anything wrong to-day?” Alec anxiously enquired.

“Cawnpore has fallen, and the black fiends have murdered the whole garrison, women and children too—the hell-hounds!”

Ted shuddered as he listened to the details of that awful butchery.

Edward Russell was a lad who had faults enough, but he had never been cruel. He would not needlessly torture the humblest of God’s creatures, yet he felt, as he listened to the horrible tidings, that nothing would give him greater pleasure than the blowing up of Delhi and of every sepoy therein. Unhappily this red-hot indignation was nursed by many Englishmen until they forgot the traditions of their race.

The few hundred Englishmen in Cawnpore had been attacked by Dundu Pant, Rajah of Bithur, better known as the infamous Nana Sahib, a man who had posed as a civilized Asiatic, an imitator of the English. The garrison, composed of detachments of several regiments, of civilians, and of officers whose regiments had risen, was trapped in a position unsuited to a long defence. After a gallant stand, General Sir Hugh Wheeler was convinced that in another day or two all would be over, and for the sake of the women and children, who numbered more than three hundred, he agreed to make terms. Dundu Pant swore that if they would give up the entrenchment, the guns, and the treasure, he would have them all conveyed in boats down the Ganges to a place of safety. The black Mahratta’s promises and protestations deceived them all, and they embarked. The boats were taken out into mid-stream, when suddenly a bugle blew; the boatmen sprang into the river, and from both banks lines of hidden sepoy marksmen began to pick off the betrayed Feringhis. Four Europeans escaped to tell the tale. The lucky ones were those who were killed by the bullets. Many were taken alive from the water, and of these the men were murdered at once; the women and children were led away to endure a captivity of more than a fortnight’s duration. Hearing of Havelock’s approach, Dundu Pant then performed the second act of the ghastly tragedy which has made his name world-infamous. The poor captives, numbering perhaps two hundred, were hacked to death, and their bodies thrown down a well.

Small wonder that British blood should boil over when the story was told; small wonder that the men of the 60th Rifles should shake their fists as they looked from the Ridge into the rebel capital, towards the distant palace and home of vice, and should vow vengeance on every faithless sepoy, be he Mohammedan like the King of Delhi or Hindu like the Mahratta rajah.

And Cawnpore was not the only scene of murder and outrage. The army before Delhi was cut off from Calcutta and the Gangetic provinces, and news did not come every day. But with the tale of the vilest tragedy of all came also the bad tidings from Allahabad, where the poor ensigns were foully murdered, from Benares and Jhansi, from Fyzabad, Shahjehanpur, and Dinapur. Right along the Ganges the provinces and towns seethed with mutiny and murder, regiment after regiment having risen against the alien; and Oudh, the kingdom from which the Native Bengal Army was chiefly recruited, was ablaze from one end to another, the people joining hands with the rebels in their hatred of the foreigners who had dethroned their wicked king.

There was one patch of blue in the lowering sky. Lucknow, the capital of Oudh, was holding out bravely. There the best and greatest and most loved man in India was holding the rebel troops at bay with his handful of Englishmen and a number of loyal sepoys, who thereby won everlasting honour. This was Sir Henry Lawrence, the elder brother of John Lawrence. He it was who had pacified the Punjabis, and first taught the stout Sikhs and Pathans and Jats that Englishmen ruled for the benefit of the natives. He it was who gathered round him and trained that band of noble men who ruled the Punjab in such manner that Englishmen came to be respected and honoured and even loved by those who had hated the Feringhis most, a few years before. Men like his brother John, John Nicholson, Herbert Edwardes, and others who became famous as great soldiers and the best administrators the world has ever known—they were all proud to call themselves the disciples of Henry Lawrence. Henry Lawrence governed the Punjab as supreme ruler—as king, in fact, though not in name, when the Punjab was the most turbulent and unruly kingdom in Asia, and he had made it the best-governed. When he was called away his brother John had worthily filled his shoes, and but for the devotion and genius and goodness of heart of these two brothers, England might have lost India.

When the mutiny broke out, Henry Lawrence was Resident of Oudh. Had he been there a few years longer, the men of Oudh would not have entertained that hatred of the British which now filled their hearts, but his beneficent rule had hardly had time to make itself felt. He alone—though he sympathized with and loved the natives of India more than any other Englishman—had foreseen the possibility of the rising, and he had taken steps to meet it in Lucknow. Owing to his foresight and generalship the Residency had been fortified and provisioned, and when the rising took place all the Europeans were within the fort, and the mutineers raged furiously but in vain.

Our friends at Delhi learned that Havelock and Neill were leading a small column to the rescue of Lucknow, fighting every inch of the way. Neill had been hastily summoned from Madras with his gallant regiment, and had already done splendid work. Lord Canning, the viceroy, had risen to the occasion. Without hesitating he had brought back Outram’s Persia Expeditionary Force, and had courageously taken upon himself to stop at Colombo the ships which were taking troops to China, and divert them to Calcutta. China might wait, India could not.

In the Punjab the poorbeahs had shot their bolt and had missed. First Chamberlain and then Nicholson, with the movable column, were giving the rebels no rest, harrying them from one province to another, and punishing them severely.

It was not at the Flagstaff Tower, but at their own post that they heard the news that made each man feel as if he had lost a dear friend. Henry Lawrence was dead. Yes, one of the pillars of the empire had fallen, and even the roughest soldiers felt the shock.

“Ah, he was a man, he was!” murmured a rifleman. “We sha’n’t see another like him.”

A sergeant of the 60th gazed thoughtfully over the city.

“My two kids are in that asylum he built up at Sanawar,” said he. “He was the sojer’s friend. The kiddies ’ud have bin dead by now if it hadn’t bin for ’im.”

“You’re right there,” said another non-commissioned officer, shaking his head. “He’s done more for us than any man. Who cared what became of the poor little beggars, whether they died like flies or not, till he raised the money for the asylums?”

“What asylums are them?” asked a young private.

“Have ye no’ heard o’ the Lawrence Asylums?” demanded a man from Lanark. “They’re built on the hills, whaur the air is as guid as at Rothesay, an’ they’re for the soldiers’ bairns.”

“Aye!” said the sergeant; “and though he was only a poor man for one in his position, they said he spent nearly all his salary in charity.”

“Lucknow won’t be long now he’s dead,” muttered another. “They can’t hold out for ever, and the rebels are swarming round Havelock. He’s had to fall back.”

But Lucknow was not destined to fall.

“Well, I’m not a cruel man,” muttered the young private, “but I could kill a few o’ them sepoys with pleasure, the black-’earted villains!”

We may regret this longing for vengeance, but can we wonder at it? The men had heard of their comrades murdered in cold blood, of the women and children tortured and slain most barbarously, and their blood boiled at the outrages. Afterwards it was found that the tales of torture and cruelty had been exaggerated, and that the helpless women and children had been slain quickly and not after prolonged suffering. But even then matters were black enough to excuse the cries for vengeance. Many good and usually gentle men steeled their hearts at this time and gave no quarter to rebel soldiers, but let us thank God that there were many brave Englishmen—the Lawrences foremost among them—who forgave a great deal to the sepoys, and who took into account their temptations and their untamed nature, and who would much rather have won the rebels over by kindness than by slaughter had it been possible.

But that was not possible.

A number of the older soldiers of the Guides came up as the riflemen were still discussing the latest news. A veteran native officer, grief depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, addressed Captain Russell in tones of mingled sadness and anxiety.

“Is it true, Captain Sahib, that Henry Larens is dead? Tell us it is false.”

Jim’s voice faltered. Henry Lawrence had been the hero he had worshipped.

“It is true,” said he, simply.

“I would have given my life to save his, sahib,” said the old Sikh. “His was the brain that raised the Corps of Guides, and he it was who gave me my commission. Oh, my brothers, a great man is dead! Let us go and mourn for Larens Sahib.”

The veteran drew his sword and shook it at the sepoys on the walls.

“Wait a little while,” he added, “and there will be many mourners in that den of jackals.”

The heat was now terrible—a torture that could not be imagined by the people at home; that took the life and energy from the strongest, while as for the others—well, they must suffer the fate of the weak. In the daytime the pitiless Indian sun blazed down upon them, awful in its power and wrath, and at night they gasped for air, and choked, and cursed, or grimly joked, or called upon God, according to their nature.

Ted Russell, healthy and in good condition, with no superfluous flesh, suffered less than most. He had one slight attack of cholera in the early days of July. One day, having been on duty all night, he lay within the house, in little more than bathing-costume, vainly trying to snatch an hour’s sleep, for the Mori guns were hard at work. Overhead the sky was of a uniform deep-blue, broken only by the mass of fire almost directly above, and by the haze along the horizon.

As if by magic, the thundering of the guns from the Delhi bastions ceased, and the well-known strains of our National Anthem were wafted by the south wind from the Mogul city.

“‘God Save the Queen!’” gasped Ted. “What’s the meaning of that?”

All listened in bewilderment. What could it mean? Had the sepoys suddenly repented and become loyal again? As the band ceased, the big guns of the city thundered forth a royal salute, and then were silent as the band again played “God Save the Queen!”.

“What cheek! What awful cheek!” Alec indignantly exclaimed. “Well, that beats everything!”

“What is it?” asked Ted again. “What are they playing that tune for?”

“They are mocking us,” Claud Boldre angrily replied. “They have heard what we heard this morning. The curs have captured Agra town, and now I suppose they’re gloating over their victory and making fun of us.”

His guess was true; the sepoys had taken this strange method of celebrating their triumph. It shows they were not without some sense of humour.

Among the crowd attracted to the “Flagstaff” meeting-place by the unusual strains were many of our hero’s new chums. Both he and Alec had formed close friendships with a number of the junior officers from the camp below the Ridge, and Ted particularly had become very popular. He had both proved himself courageous and shown good commonsense, and he never once attempted to put on “side”. The terrible danger he had gone through at Aurungpore had steadied down his love of fun and joking, and made him realize his responsibilities. Had he come straight to Delhi without having undergone that trying experience in the arsenal, he would soon have found some mischief in which to entangle his Guides and Gurkhas. They would have been only too delighted to have joined in any fun, however rash and hazardous.

“I say, Russell,” observed Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot, “you’re a lucky beggar, you know. You’ve had your fair share of the fun.”

“Fair share!” growled Claud Boldre. “Why, in his twelve months’ service he’s had more than most colonels can boast of in as many years. First he goes exploding magazines up and down the country, and instead of being blown up he gets the V.C. Then he’s boxed up and besieged, and thrillingly rescued like a scene out of a melodrama; after that he’s lucky enough to take part in the grandest march on record; and now he’s on duty at Hindu Rao’s picket, where all the fighting is. Fair share, indeed! It ought to have been divided amongst half a dozen of us.”

“And it ain’t that he’s particularly handsome,” laughed Alec.

Ted grinned. He was too decent a fellow to become conceited, and he admitted that he had had more than his share of the luck.

They were still joking when something happened that tended to confirm their belief in our ensign’s luck. One of the general’s aides came up and told Ted that Sir Archdale wished to speak to him at once.

“You’ll come back a lieutenant at least, Ted,” was Alec’s unasked-for opinion.

“Lieutenant indeed!” laughed Collins. “I expect he’s going to order Russell to blow up Delhi à la Aurungpore.”

“Or else resign the command in Russell’s favour,” was Boldre’s suggestion.

Ted grinned back at them all, but his heart beat somewhat rapidly as he was ushered into the head-quarters tent, and it was to beat much more wildly before he left.

Sir Archdale looked up as the boy entered, and went on with his work for some moments, and Ted stood at attention and wondered what was going to happen. At length the general again glanced up from his papers. He was evidently very busy.

“You sent for me, sir?” Ted faltered.

“Yes. I am sorry that my duty is much less pleasant than on the previous occasion, when I prematurely raised your hopes of the V.C.”

Ted gasped.

“I hope it may still be all right,” General Wilson continued, “but this morning I received notice from Colonel Munro that there is another claimant to the honour of having exploded the magazine at Aurungpore.”

Ted was utterly bewildered. He could not find a word to say.

“It seems that another officer of yours—let me see,” the general took up a letter that lay on the table, and referred thereto. “Ah, Ensign Tynan!—was taken prisoner by the sepoys, but rescued; and his story is that he was in command of the party holding the fort, and that it was he who fired the train. His account is confirmed by a native officer who saved his life, and who was present.”

“Why, sir, there was no native officer in the party,” Ted exclaimed, “no one higher than a havildar, and he was with me all the time.—So Tynan is really alive, sir?”