“Evidently. Of course, I am in no position to judge between you, and I know nothing beyond the bald facts just related. If you dispute his statements an enquiry will have to be held later.”

“His statements!” said Ted indignantly. “Why, sir, he implored me to surrender, and not to fire the train, and Ambar Singh, the havildar, will bear me out. Thinking he was dead, I never told that to a soul, sir; but if he has lied in this way, he deserves to be shown up.”

“I trust that no British officer would act as you allege, Ensign Russell,” said the general coldly. “At present I can say nothing more, and I am very busy. Rest assured that justice will be done.”

Ted saluted stiffly, and walked out. If he had felt dazed on the previous occasion, what were his feelings now? Full of indignation against his dishonourable messmate, and of intense disappointment because of the probable loss of the coveted honour, he strode back to the Gurkha picket, and told Jim and Paterson what had happened.

They could hardly credit the story. They both knew Tynan’s character, and Alec had heard Ambar Singh’s free version of the incident, and they felt no doubt regarding the result of any enquiry.

“Don’t be downcast, Ted, old boy,” said Jim affectionately. “It will soon be all right.”

“But who can the native officer be?” Alec wondered. “It’s a mystery.”

“I can’t make it out,” Ted replied. “Anyway Ambar Singh and Dwarika Rai will give evidence, and then where will Master Tynan be?”

“But look here, Ted,” said his brother in an agitated voice. “Where are those two? They may have been drafted into some other regiment and sent a thousand miles away, or both may be killed. Or they may have been allowed to return home, and have left no trace. In that case it would be your word against Tynan’s, and though no one who knows you both could have any doubt, yet his word will be as good as yours at the enquiry. I do hope it will come out all right, old boy.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Alec. “Cheer up, Ted!”

More easily said than done, and our ensign went about his work with a heavy and angry heart. Fortunately for his peace of mind, when the news spread, Boldre, Collins, and all his chums rallied round him, and voted the absent Tynan a beast and a liar.

CHAPTER XIX
Ted’s Friends are Bewildered

The 4th Sikhs had left Aurungpore for Delhi, and the fort was garrisoned by a corps of the newly-recruited Punjab Irregulars, of whom Major Munro was in command, with Leigh as his second in command. Colonel Woodburn was now able to hobble about, helped by a stick and his daughter’s arm. Sir Arthur Fletcher had resumed the administration of justice, the shops were open once more, and the town had settled down almost to its normal state.

One day late in June Ethel and her father were seated in the officers’ quarters of the fort, whither the colonel was wont to resort daily to talk over the latest rumours and reports. Munro and Leigh were lamenting their fate, tied down to police and depot duty, when they wanted to be up and doing before Delhi.

“I am sending a draft to Delhi to-morrow,” said the major, “and there’s a new batch of recruits due to-day—raw peasants, who must be polished up.”

“It is rough on us being shut up here,” said Leigh, “drilling and training the raw material, and as soon as they are soldiers, comes an order from John Lawrence saying, ‘How many can you send to Delhi?’ Still, if we were not here, there’d soon be a rumpus again.”

“How many do you send off to-morrow?” the colonel asked.

“A hundred; all Sikhs, and fine men too. They go to Lahore first to be inspected by Sir John, and then they join other detachments going to Delhi.—— Well, what is it?”

An orderly had entered.

“The draft has arrived, sahib.”

“Very good. Send the officer in charge to me.”

Who should enter the room but Ensign Tynan? The four occupants started to their feet. They had not heard of his escape from death, and firmly believed he had been blown to pieces, his body never having been found, for the best of reasons. Tynan was white, and looked ill both in body and mind, and he trembled from head to foot.

“Tynan! Can it be possible, my lad?” cried Colonel Woodburn, holding out his hand. “I never thought to see you again.”

Tynan saluted his colonel, and bowed to Ethel. He hesitated, however, and his face flushed as she stepped forward with outstretched hand to greet him. Stammering some more or less appropriate reply, he sat down in a palpable and inexplicable state of nervousness.

In reply to the shower of questions, he told the story of his rescue. Not the true story, but one he had had plenty of time to fabricate, and had repeated over and over again to himself in readiness for the dread moment. He was committed now to the statements contained in that detestable document—the trap set for him by the unscrupulous Pir Baksh. The paper had passed from hand to hand, from one officer to another, and he would have to attest its truth before Colonel Woodburn and Major Munro. No wonder he was agitated. Before strangers he had repeated the lie with comparative calmness and confidence, but the officers of the 193rd knew both Russell and himself too well, and he had little doubt whom they would be most ready to believe.

He had only recently heard that Ted and the two sepoys had also been saved from destruction, and he did not know what account of the incident Ted had given to the world, neither was he aware that his cowardice had been reported by Ambar Singh.

He told the story of his escape with unusual caution and deliberation, and painted in more glowing colours the services rendered by Pir Baksh, to whom he gave credit for risking his life in order to save Tynan’s. His audience opened their eyes, and Munro interposed:

“But Russell distinctly stated that Pir Baksh was one of the ringleaders.”

“So he appeared to be, sir, but he was forced to play that rôle. He tried to save us in the fort, but Russell would not trust him. I felt sure that he was genuine, and was doing his best to hold the others back.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the major drily; “yet Russell informed us that you told him and Lowthian that you saw Pir Baksh shoot the colonel.”

“Russell told you that, sir!” Tynan replied with an air of great surprise. “He must have misunderstood me completely.”

Tynan had forgotten his unlucky remark, and bitterly he repented the cowardice that had landed him in this net. It was the old story of the first easy lie that had to be supported and buttressed by innumerable untruths.

“Not Pir Baksh, sir,” he continued hastily. “It was Abdul Din who shot Colonel Woodburn. I think I see how it was. When they were attacking us, Abdul Din stood by the side of Pir Baksh, and when I pointed, saying, ‘That’s the fellow who fired the shot!’ they must have thought I meant Pir Baksh.”

“Oh!”

His hearers hardly knew what to think. Tynan’s tale was plausible enough, and Ted might easily have been mistaken. Perhaps after all Pir Baksh had been judged too hastily, and had been less of a scoundrel than they had imagined. He had always seemed a friendly fellow, apparently proud of his regiment.

“And after your rescue by the Gurkhas?” asked Colonel Woodburn.

“I had the fever for at least a fortnight, sir. My first thought when I heard that Aurungpore was saved was to report myself, and I received orders from Colonel Bratherton at Jehanabad to take Pir Baksh with me, as an investigation of his conduct must be held by his C.O. We were to have accompanied the 49th Punjabis, but at the last moment they were ordered to Delhi, so I was told to wait for this draft and bring them here.”

“I suppose,” asked Colonel Woodburn “that some enquiry was held, considering the suspicious conduct of Pir Baksh at the moment of your rescue?”

“Yes, sir;” and Tynan’s agitation increased. “I have to hand you the statement signed by the officer whose men rescued me, and of course the subadar’s character must be cleared.”

He handed various documents to the major, and broke into a perspiration as he anticipated the coming amazement, incredulity, and growing suspicion. He hated Ethel Woodburn for being there, and would have given anything to have induced her to leave.

It was surely by the irony of fate that Tynan, being in command of the draft, was also responsible for the safe custody of Pir Baksh, whose final disappearance he longed and prayed for. The Moslem had tried hard to find some excuse for slipping away, but Captain Hornby had kept him under arrest, and so had Colonel Bratherton, both having their own opinion of the fellow’s loyalty. Pir Baksh was no more anxious to be off than was Tynan to rid himself of his “old man of the sea”.

In fact the subadar of the 193rd was having a less anxious time than his accomplice, for he still hoped, by force of lying, to pull through the enquiry. He reflected that in all probability he had not been recognized by anyone except Russell, who was at Delhi, having been more concerned with the attacks on the fort than with those on the house, and neither he nor Tynan were aware that Ambar Singh and Dwarika Rai had been saved. Of course the budmashes of Aurungpore would know the part he had played, but they would say nothing for fear of incriminating themselves.

Major Munro first read through Colonel Bratherton’s covering letter and looked hard at Tynan, who was sitting in profound contemplation of his boots, and boorishly repelling the friendly advances made by Ethel. Munro then read Hornby’s report of the rescue, and finally the remarkable papers signed by Tynan and Pir Baksh. Colonel Woodburn, watching him narrowly, saw that the major was striving hard to overcome some strong emotion. The contents mastered, he handed the documents to his former colonel without a word.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the latter, throwing the papers on the table.

Tynan flushed.

“My word should be as good as Russell’s,” he muttered; “but he was always in favour, and you were always down on me.”

“It has been your fault, Tynan,” said the major mildly, “if we have had a higher opinion of Russell than of you. Russell said nothing about this affair, and gave you as much credit as himself, until Ambar Singh told us the whole story.”

This was another blow for Tynan, for he had not heard that Ambar Singh was to be reckoned with. He was becoming more and more entangled in the meshes.

“Ambar Singh?” said he after a moment’s hesitation. “I expect he did it to curry favour by praising Russell.”

It was now Ethel’s turn to flush. She was on the point of expressing a very decided opinion, when a look from her father checked the words. It was no business of hers at present.

“That is not very likely, Tynan,” the major replied. “To speak plainly, this won’t wash with us, though it may do for strangers who know nothing about the matter. You’ve had fever, and you’ve imagined all this and forgotten what really happened.”

Tynan heartily wished that this had been the case, and the colonel pointed out that the document was signed before the fever, not after.

“But I expect the poor fellow was raving,” said Munro, “after the shock and the blow on his head.”

“It’s perfectly true,” Tynan vehemently asserted as the major’s words gave him an idea. Dull though he was, like many foolish people he had a certain amount of cunning.

“Why should it not be true?” he continued. “I don’t wish to say anything against Ted Russell, but I don’t see why he should have the credit that’s due to me.”

“Tell us, then,” suggested Colonel Woodburn, “what really did happen in the fort, and when the idea of blowing up the magazine first occurred to you.”

“As soon as we got inside,” Tynan doggedly answered, “I whispered to Russell that perhaps we should be reduced to that. I whispered, because I did not wish the Rajputs to suspect. Then during one of the quiet intervals I slipped away and laid a trail of powder from the magazine to the door of the room we were holding. I didn’t carry it farther, for the same reason—fear of our sepoys’ terror.”

Tynan had now completely abandoned himself to the father of lies, and he went on recklessly.

“When Pir Baksh offered to save our lives I felt convinced that he really wished to help us. Russell and I quarrelled because he would not trust him.”

“Then you admit that you would have surrendered the stores and munitions had it not been for Russell?” the colonel coldly remarked.

“No, sir, I would not. I should first have made conditions that before we marched out the sepoys must clear away and leave the streets clear for us, and I believe Pir Baksh could have induced them to agree, and I should have lighted a slow match as we left the place and run for it. But Russell would not give me the chance of explaining, and he influenced the sepoys against me and closed the negotiations before I’d any chance of showing what I meant.”

“Well, go on,” said the colonel more kindly.

“Well, sir, I will say this for Russell, that he was very plucky, and at the end, when all was hopeless, he finished the powder-trail. Until then Ambar Singh and the others had not dreamt of my plans.”

He broke off abruptly, and, as though suddenly enlightened, continued:

“I see it now! I dare say that Ambar Singh really did think that Russell alone was responsible. When it came to firing the powder I claimed the right to do it, but he had hold of the candle, and said he had taken over the command, that he’d deposed me, and he would do it. We had a bit of a scuffle, and he threatened me with a pistol. So he set the powder alight. But I claim that I was in command; it was my suggestion, and I laid most of the train, and therefore I should have the credit. I will say for Russell that he backed me up well, and was plucky. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Woodburn and Munro were silent for some time. Tynan’s tale was certainly plausible enough, and it seemed as if there might have been misunderstanding. Perhaps Ted had been too hasty in thinking that Tynan was willing to surrender unconditionally. Still, it was very strange that he had never mentioned that Tynan had first suggested the explosion, and that he had laid the train. Though, now they came to think of it, Ted had at first said “we”. They had put it down to modesty, yet the words might have been correct. Could it be that when Ambar Singh had given his version, the temptation to take the credit to himself, now that he believed Tynan dead, had been too strong for the boy?

This was not like Ted, but in justice to Tynan they must admit that it was possible.

“We must consider your report, Tynan,” said the major. “If any wrong has been done to you, we will try our best to get at the truth without any favouritism. Go and see to your men now. We dine in an hour.”

“Well, Woodburn, what do you make of it?” he continued, when the ensign had departed.

“I can’t make head or tail of it. There is evidently room for doubt, and it may have been as he says.”

“I’m afraid I was hasty in sending off that recommendation for the V.C.,” said Munro, “because if Tynan’s tale is true, Ted will not be entitled to it.”

“You’d better put that right at once,” advised the colonel. “Write and explain that there is some doubt.”

“I will at once. I hope the letter may be received before anything has been said to Ted. It would be cruel to raise the lad’s hopes.”

“I don’t believe a word of what Tynan has said,” Ethel declared. “I’m sure he was lying. I was watching his eyes all the time, and there was no truth in them.”

“It may be so, but I must write,” said Munro.

For a long time the major wrestled with pen and paper before he composed a letter to his satisfaction. The contents we already know, and how they dashed Ted’s hopes to the ground. The missive sealed, the colonel observed:

“I suppose we can trace Havildar Ambar Singh? His evidence will be wanted.”

Ambar Singh had returned to his home in Merwar. The 193rd had been disbanded, and the few who remained loyal had been drafted into the newly-raised corps. But the havildar was not in a fit condition to endure the strain of a campaign, so he had gone home to recruit his health. However, they thought they knew where to find him.

“We can hold no enquiry,” said the major, “until Delhi has fallen and Ted is free again, and the case ought certainly to be tried before officers other than those of the 193rd. We are hardly impartial, our sympathies being with Ted. Luckily Dwarika Rai is still here, and he may throw some light on the subject.”

For Dwarika Rai, the fourth survivor of Lowthian’s handful, had been promoted to the rank of havildar, and was now employed in drilling the raw material and teaching them the beauties of the goose-step.

“I’ll drive Ethel home,” said the colonel, “and come back presently with Sir Arthur, and we’ll examine Dwarika Rai.”

When the Woodburns had gone, Tynan returned to dine with Munro and Leigh. The colonel and the deputy-commissioner entered as the officers were smoking after their meal, and Dwarika Rai was sent for.

The Rajput entered the room, and in the act of saluting started back on beholding Tynan, who also gave a start and rose to his feet.

“Why!” he gasped, for no warning had been given him, “what is he doing here? I thought only Russell and I and Ambar Singh were saved.”

Dwarika Rai still stood open-mouthed as though he had seen a ghost.

“He also was saved,” explained the major. “Dwarika Rai, it is indeed Tynan Sahib.”

“I am rejoiced to see him, for I thought he was dead,” said the soldier simply.

“We wish to recall to your memory some of the events that took place in the fortress when you were attacked,” Munro began. “Didst thou notice the part taken by Pir Baksh during the fighting? Was he a ringleader?”

“Indeed, sahib, I’m not sure. Russell Sahib and Ambar Singh considered him so, but I could not help thinking that he wished us well. He seemed to fire without aiming, and never hit anyone, and I verily believe that he wished to save our lives. But the others would not trust him, and perhaps they were right.”

Munro and the colonel looked at one another.

“Your opinion, then, was that he had been forced to rebel?”

“I thought it might be so, Colonel Sahib; in fact, once after the firing had been hot, Bisesar Singh whispered to me that the heart of Pir Baksh was not in the affair. When I asked him why, he replied that the subadar had covered him with his musket, and then winked at him and fired high. Yet sometimes he appeared to lead the dogs; but perhaps that was to divert suspicion, perhaps he had to feign to be as faithless as themselves whenever they were watching him.”

“That is probable enough,” Sir Arthur whispered to his colleagues. “Under the circumstances I can quite understand a man doing that.”

“Yes, so can I,” the colonel agreed. “Ted and Ambar Singh might easily have been mistaken, and have misjudged him.”

When Leigh had finished recording the evidence, Major Munro asked Tynan to retire for a few moments. He then questioned Dwarika Rai as to who laid the powder train.

“Russell Sahib, I think,” was the reply.

“Did you notice Tynan Sahib enter the magazine?”

“Yes, sahib, before they battered the door in. He was away some time, and I wondered why.”

The major turned to his colleagues and observed in English:

“Tynan’s tale is true so far;” and the others nodded assent.

“Tell us, then,” asked Leigh, “is it true that Tynan Sahib tried to prevent Russell Sahib firing the train?”

“In short,” said the deputy-commissioner, “did Ensign Tynan act as an officer or as a coward?”

“Nay,” the man earnestly replied, “I do not like Tynan Sahib overmuch, greatly preferring Russell Sahib, but he was not a coward. He was very much excited, as we all were, and he tried to snatch the candle from his comrade’s hand. But I thought they were contesting who should light the train, as if it matters who did it. The important thing is that it was done.”

The Englishmen whispered together, and presently Munro said: “You may go, Dwarika Rai.”

“I must say,” began Colonel Woodburn, “his evidence confirms Tynan’s in every important respect. I’m afraid we’ve done the lad a serious injustice.”

“Yet his account differs from Russell’s in point of actual fact, not merely in the interpretation put upon facts,” the deputy-commissioner argued.

“Ted was probably excited, and the shock may have temporarily affected his memory,” Leigh suggested.

“Ted is certainly to blame,” said Munro. “He may easily have mistaken Tynan’s excitement for terror.”

Said Leigh:

“We forget. Ted Russell never accused Tynan of cowardice. That was Ambar Singh.”

“But Ted did not deny it,” said Munro, “and he ought to have done so. But when asked, he did state implicitly that the suggestion was wholly his. Either he or Tynan is lying. We must have a full enquiry, and meanwhile Tynan must be treated as ‘not guilty’ of cowardice.”

“My humble opinion,” said Leigh thoughtfully, “is that I’d believe Ted Russell’s word against Tynan’s oath. I don’t understand it.”

Had he seen Dwarika Rai’s cheerful nod, as, returning to the men’s quarters, he passed Ensign Tynan, he might have understood it better.

The havildar was a brave and loyal fellow, but he was a Hindu with a Hindu’s respect for truth. Tynan, returning after the first interview with his superior officers, had almost run into Dwarika Rai as he entered the men’s quarters. The surprise was great on both sides.

“I’m done for,” was the first thought of our unscrupulous ensign. “This fellow will knock my tale on the head.” His next was: “Why not bribe him to confirm what I have said?”

No one was looking on; he drew the Rajput aside into the orderly-room from which he had just emerged, and offered him a big bribe to bear false witness. The sepoy was greatly in want of money. In common with so many others of his class, the fields owned and tilled by many generations of his forbears were hopelessly mortgaged to the money-lending parasites, the curse of Hindustan. Here a sum was offered that might redeem them, and save his family from disgrace and ruin.

He hesitated. Would his evidence injure Russell Sahib? Tynan assured him it would not, he simply wanted a share of the credit for himself; and the Rajput consented. Tynan warned him what questions would be asked, and coached him to give suitable replies. He cunningly advised him not to appear too eager, and not to pretend to know too much, the chief points being that Pir Baksh was to be absolved, and that he, Tynan, was to have a share of the credit attached to the destruction of the magazine. The sharp-witted Hindu quickly understood his part, and improved upon his teacher’s suggestions.

“It will do Russell Sahib no harm,” he reflected.

Tynan then warned him that when they should meet in the room they were both to express the utmost amazement, and Dwarika Rai nodded in acquiescence.

He thoroughly earned his pay, as Tynan discovered when he rejoined his comrades.

CHAPTER XX
An Adventure on the Ridge

The attacks on the Ridge outposts had become less frequent and less dangerous, though the cannonade was as brisk as ever.

Early on the morning following the receipt of the amazing news from Aurungpore, Ted Russell of the Hindu Rao picket was roughly aroused from slumber. All was hurry and scurry as company after company of the Guides and Rifles ran to the assistance of the Gurkhas, who were bearing the brunt of a cleverly-designed attack by ten times their number. Jim, Alec, and Ted raced to the scene of action, arriving just in time to pursue the already defeated foe.

“Charlie means to have that rag,” Ted panted to his chum, as they raced side by side.

Shouting, “Follow me, lads!” Dorricot had made a dash for the colours of a rebel regiment, and was rapidly overhauling the flying standard-bearer, a score of mixed-up Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas following as best they could. The fight and pursuit were being carried on over a great extent of ground, and only the few in Dorricot’s immediate neighbourhood knew what was taking place. Seeing that the pursuers were so few in number, a large body of the enemy interposed between the officer and his followers, barring their progress. Charles Dorricot broke through, cut down the colour-bearer, grasped the standard, beat back his assailants, and for a few moments cleared a space around him. But what could one man do against so many? Before help could come Dorricot was beaten to his knees, sorely wounded, though still attempting to defend himself.

He collapsed, a sword-thrust through his breast, just as Corporal Thompson, a huge rifleman, forced his way through the mob by sheer strength and weight and judicious use of the butt-end. In the wake of the corporal came Motiram Rana, a Gurkha, and Hassan Din of the Guides, but, as they got through, the rebels closed up again behind them, baffling the efforts of Ted and his men to follow. Whether their officer was dead or wounded the three knew not; they meant to guard his body with their own. At bay they stood back to back—representatives of the three regiments that had held the Ridge—and, facing them, the rebels snarled like a pack of wolves around a wounded lion. Those behind pressed on those in front, and sepoy after sepoy fell before the weapons of the dauntless three, the Englishman trusting to the butt, the Pathan to the bayonet, and Motiram Rana, of course, to his patron saint, the kukri. The rifle in the Gurkha’s left hand was still loaded. Using the weapon as a pistol, the little man pulled the trigger, and the bullet passed through two pandies at least. Having now more room, the gigantic Thompson swung his rifle round and round and up and down like a flail, and cleared a breathing space. The stock broke into splinters, but before the mutineers could get in he snatched a musket, cracked the owner’s head, and the pandies again recoiled.

“He’s down!” Ted gasped. “At ’em, Guides!”

He and Alec with their Guides around them were pushing and thrusting and smiting their way through the opposing crowd, the pandies on this portion of the sloping ground having rallied round their standard. Suddenly the mob bulged in close by where they fought, as a pricked tennis-ball when squeezed; and amid a babel of shrill yells and jabberings in an unknown tongue, a lane was opened up. A Gurkha corporal had passed the word that Dorricot was down, and, collecting a couple of dozen furious men, had charged at their head. The vicious kukris flashed and flickered and bit deep, and the sepoys fell to right and left of that living wedge of Himalayans. Behind them Ted and Alec, Guides and Riflemen, found their way, and the sepoys broke and fled.

Ted was quickly beside his fallen cousin, and gave a little cry of joy on finding that Charlie still breathed. The cry was echoed by the Gurkhas, who started in pursuit now they were assured of their officer’s safety, but Ted restrained them. Dorricot’s hand still grasped the colours for whose capture he had risked so much, for which he might yet have to pay with his life.

Ted signed to the Gurkhas to help him carry back their wounded officer. Motiram Rana proffered his aid, but Thompson motioned him back, saying:

“Tha needs carryin’ thysen, Johnny; tha’rt bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

Up came Major Reid, bringing his men forward at the double from another part of the battle-field where the enemy’s rout had been complete. His face fell as he caught sight of his sorely-stricken comrade.

“The rash fellow!” exclaimed the commandant. “He had no right to push the pursuit so far with such a handful. I cannot spare Dorricot. Carry him gently; and you, Paterson, run and bring a doctor to the house.”

Right glad was Ted, and hardly less glad were the Gurkhas, when the doctor promised hope in spite of no fewer than four sword or bayonet wounds.

“I have not an unwounded officer left, youngster!” exclaimed Major Reid dolefully. “Would you care to serve with me again?”

“There’s nothing I should like better, sir.” And then the boy paused. “Except that I should be sorry to leave the Guides.”

“Well, go to Daly; he’s better off for officers than I am, and ask if he’ll transfer you for a few days.”

Ted obeyed. Permission was granted, and he again found himself with the Sirmuris.

There were scenes in camp of a less tragic nature witnessed daily by our two ensigns from Aurungpore. The peculiar methods of fraternizing adopted by the British riflemen and the Asiatics of the Guide Corps and Sirmur Battalion provided plenty of amusement for the onlookers. The Gurkhas soon picked up a smattering of English, and a few began to speak the language fairly well, whilst on the other hand the English riflemen gave vent to their feelings in words which they imagined were Hindustani. “Good-morning!” the little men would say with a cheerful grin; and the riflemen, not to be outdone, would reply: “Ram Ram, Johnny Gurkha! Ram Ram!”

Mixed groups would gather after any severe fighting to discuss the conflict and the conduct of the various regiments engaged, amid roars of laughter at the interpreter’s attempts to translate the remarks. They were, indeed, the best of comrades; for brave men, of whatever race or creed, cannot but admire one another.

One evening in early August, Ted and Alec, after a long visit to poor Dorricot, joined their good friend Jemadar Goria Thapa, who was sitting on the shady side of the house-fortress watching the men larking. He gave the new-comers a welcoming grin.

“Good little man is Goria,” whispered Ted. “We may as well sit by him. Those chaps are enjoying themselves, ain’t they? Ram Ram, Jemadar Sahib!”

Goria Thapa returned the greeting, and enquired after the health of his wounded officer and friend.

“He’s doing splendidly, thanks! He must be as strong as a horse and as fit as a—what’s the native for fiddle, Alec?”

“Dunno; call it a tom-tom. Are you having a good time, Jemadar Sahib, or do you wish you were back in Nepal?”

Goria Thapa grinned broadly.

“I like it,” said he simply.

“Hullo, Paterson!” broke in Claude Boldre, who had just strolled up. “How’s your cousin, Russell? I came to ask after him.”

“Doing finely considering, thanks! Look at these chaps. They’re as fond of horse-play as a lot of kids.”

It was certainly an amusing scene, and though the merest clowning, even this kind of fooling serves to keep men in good spirits and temper.

The corporal, Thompson, who had carried the wounded Dorricot out of the fight, stood 6 feet 4½ inches in his stockings, and was perhaps the biggest man in the Delhi force. The men were sitting about in groups playing practical jokes, and Thompson caught hold of Karbir Burathoki, the smallest Gurkha there, a lad under five feet high, and led him to an open space within sight of the others. He there offered to teach the Gurkha how to box, and Karbir quickly entered into the joke. Both pulled off their jackets, and the Gurkha’s face was entirely hidden by his grin. The difference in build between the two men was too much for the spectators, who shouted and yelled—“Go it, little ’un!” “Jump up and ’it ’im in the face!” “Fetch a step-ladder!” “Now, corpril, go on your knees and give ’im a chanst!”

After a lot of preliminary feinting and puffing and blowing and striking high above the Gurkha’s head, the giant began to retire backwards, Karbir following amidst roars of laughter, the Nepalese spectators being quite as delighted as their English comrades.

At length Thompson caught hold of the little man and held him in the air, kicking and shrieking in pretended wrath. As the corporal put the little Himalayan down, he laughingly remarked: “Na, Johnny, tha con haud me up like if tha wants thee revenge.”

The Gurkha examined him from head to foot.

“Hould the spalpeen up, Johnny, ye scutt!” advised an Irish corporal. To the astonishment of all, the little man calmly proceeded to place the giant on his back like a sack of potatoes. Thompson offered no objection, and Karbir was soon staggering from one group of laughing spectators to another. Suddenly upsetting the rifleman full length on the ground, he sat on his chest and proceeded to light his pipe, whereupon the onlookers shrieked. Thompson arose, tossing the Gurkha from his perch, and the two strolled back arm in arm, attempting to keep step, and quarrelling every few yards as to whose pace was at fault.

Reid had come behind the ensign, and was looking on with twinkling eyes. Noting that Ted appeared astonished at Karbir’s strength, he observed: “They’re terribly strong are Gurkhas in the back, loins, and legs.”

When they had settled down again one of the Nepalese observed:

“This war will soon be over. Jung Bahadur is going to march down to Lucknow with his army.”

“An’ ’oo the dickens is young Bardoor?” asked a rifleman.

“He is our prime minister and commander-in-chief in Nepal. He offered to bring an army down to help you English two months ago, and now the government has accepted his offer.”

“An’ so ’e’s goin’ to wipe out the rebels, eh, all hon ’is own ’ook?”

The Gurkha did not understand all this.

“What chance will those dogs have,” said he, “against ten thousand Gurkhas? Truly, he will slay them all!”

“Bedad, then,” interrupted an Irishman, “tell him, will ye, wid me compliments—Privut O’Brien’s compliments—to lave a few fer us. Sure, we’re wishful to git hould av some av thim Cawnpore and Lucknow haythen. Tell him to bear that in moind.”

Then the Gurkhas began to speak of their own beloved country of Nepal, by the mighty snow-clad Himalayas, of its wonderful beauty, and of its unequalled sport and wealth of animal life; and the Englishmen tried to explain the extent of their empire and the wonders of London, and told of their mighty ships of war and great sea-borne commerce. They also related the histories of their regimental colours, of the recent Crimean War, and of the fights between Wellington and the French. The Nepalese were very much interested in all the tales of war, for they also had tattered regimental colours of which they were very proud, and which had cost them many lives.[1]

By this time the Gurkha hospital was very full. More than half of those five hundred men had been stricken down, and the Guides had also suffered severely. And the great city still defied the British power.

A few more reinforcements were coming in, but no heavy guns had yet arrived. One or two new Sikh and Mohammedan cavalry corps and Punjab infantry regiments, recruited from the Sikhs, Punjabi Mohammedans, Jats, Pathans, and Dogras, as well as the Kumaon Gurkha Battalion (now the 3rd Gurkhas), were fighting on our side. The big Sikh horsemen, who were proud of their new uniform and despised the rebel cavalry, quickly snatched at opportunities to cover themselves with glory. The “Flamingoes”, as Hodson’s Horse were called, had not been in camp many days before they were in action, distinguishing themselves in a way that none but the very best of troops dare attempt. Faced by a greatly superior force, Hodson, with supreme confidence in the steadiness and valour of his men, feigned a retreat, and when he had drawn the enemy into the open by this manœuvre, the Flamingoes turned round at his command and charged into the black mass. The foemen hesitated, confused and bewildered; they glanced at the steady line of stalwart, bearded cavaliers, heard the thunder of the galloping horses almost upon them, and were routed, broken and scattered before the oncoming of those determined Sikhs and Pathans.

Though daily witnessing such instances of dash and courage, Ted Russell marvelled less thereat than at the quiet indifference to peril displayed by the native servants. These men were not of the fighting castes: a dozen of them would have fled cringing from the anger of a single Englishman, Pathan, Sikh, or Gurkha. Yet, in such different ways is courage shown, they performed without flinching duties which most Britons would have shrunk from. They would sit at their work or at their meals in the most exposed places, with bullets flicking up the dust all round, no more concerned than a bullock would have been.

To bring meals and provisions to Hindu Rao’s house they were forced to cross the dangerous “Valley of the Shadow of Death”. Any soldier who might have to pass this spot would await the opportunity to dart across; but these mild non-combatants would calmly walk over, and should any of their number be struck down, would stop to shed a few tears over the corpse and then resume the even tenour of their way.

The army before Delhi was absolutely dependent on these servitors. In that terrible heat the English could not have existed without them; and yet, it must be sorrowfully confessed, they were occasionally ill-treated by some of the more churlish and lawless of those to whose wants they ministered. The boy who bullies at school remains often enough a bully when he has grown up. Bullies are generally stupid fellows, and in the eyes of such men one “nigger” was much the same as another, and the faithful brown servants had to suffer for the sins of the Cawnpore murderers. There was one man in particular, a major of the 15th Derajat Infantry, whose bullying propensities had more than once aroused indignation in the breasts of Ted’s friends. Fortunately there were not many Englishmen of his stamp.

One day Ted was told off for picket duty with half a dozen men some distance from the “Sammy” House. When close to his lonely post his attention was attracted by the strange demeanour of a group of wild-looking frontiersmen, assembled in a sheltered hollow. He drew nearer, and perceived to his disgust that a miserable native servant had been tied up and was being flogged with bamboo rods, while a white officer looked on approvingly. Ted recognized the man, and his blood boiled. Taking no account of the difference in rank, he hastened to the spot, and hotly demanded what the poor fellow had been doing to deserve such treatment. The major of the Derajats—for he it was—opened his eyes in amazement, and his face became convulsed with anger. Controlling his rage he contemptuously asked:

“And who are you, little boy?”

Thereat one or two of the Punjabis laughed.

“I’m in command of this picket, sir, and I can’t allow this where I’m responsible. Look! the poor beggar is fainting!”

The officer looked round—first at the miserable Hindu, whose back was a mass of bleeding weals, and then continued to gaze about him as though in search of someone.

“Where is she?” he asked at length. “I can’t see her.”

“Whom do you mean, sir?” asked Ted in bewilderment.

“Why, your nurse, of course; she’ll be looking for you everywhere.”

Our ensign’s face flushed, and his temper rose at the insult. He turned to the Gurkha naik[1].