“Karbir, cut that man loose!”

The little man promptly drew his kukri and cut the thongs. One of the Panjabis stepped forward and laid his hand on the naik to prevent him. Karbir turned on him like a tiger, with kukri uplifted, and the Punjabi jumped back. The major could no longer restrain his anger. He stepped up to Ted and struck him across the mouth with clenched fist, loosening a couple of teeth and felling the lad to the ground. Quick as thought Karbir dashed at the Englishman, but Ted, from the ground, shrieked out just in time:

“Back, Karbir, you must not touch him!” and the little man reluctantly obeyed. Ted rose, now as white as he had before been red. The major laughed.

“Consider yourself fortunate, young man, if I take no further notice of your insolence. Do you know that you have been guilty of mutiny—rank mutiny—and that I could have you dismissed from the service? Now, you may go, and explain the loss of your teeth as you best please. No—stay! I’ve not done with you yet. I’ll teach you the difference in our rank. Order that corporal of yours to tie up that beast again, and then command each of your men to give him half a dozen strokes.”

Ensign Edward Russell cared a deal for his commission, and had no wish to be broken for disobedience, but this order he would not obey. His eyes gleamed as he scornfully cried:

“You great detestable brute! Break me if you can! I’d rather lose my commission as an officer than forget my duty as a gentleman!”

“Did you hear my command?” the major repeated.

Ted was silent. He glanced around, and beheld a tall, bearded man, whom he had never seen before—a man with stern and forbidding look, in untidy civilian attire. The major’s glance followed, and an expression of annoyance came into his face as he noticed the stranger.

“Well, my good fellow, what do you want here?” he exclaimed.

“I? Oh, I’m just looking round.”

“Oh! Then you’d better get back to whatever your business may be.”

The man was silent for a moment.

“Won’t that lad obey you?” he asked presently.

“No, that I shall not,” Ted asserted firmly, though feeling very miserable.

“What right have you, lad,” continued the stranger sternly, “to question your superior officer’s commands? Your business is to obey.”

“And obey he will,” the major declared with an oath, “or I’ll know the reason why!”

“That’s right, sir,” agreed the tall man. “Always insist on obedience from your juniors.”

Ted was becoming nervous and feeling very lonely. Though assured he was in the right, the boy could not but feel unhappy.

The batteries of the Mori Bastion once more commenced their horrible work. Round-shot and grape whistled overhead.

“What does it matter to you, young man, whether you obey the command or not?” asked the tall man harshly. “That bhisti will be flogged just the same; he won’t benefit by your refusal.”

“No, that he most certainly won’t!” asserted the major with a repulsive laugh. “Nor will he thank you for your interference.”

“I’m an officer, not a hangman,” said Ted stoutly.

“Well, you will not be an officer long,” declared the major.

The stranger had approached, and now stood by their side.

“If you won’t obey him,” he said in tones of authority, “you must obey me! I order you to place that man under arrest,” pointing to the major. “Do you hear me, boy?” as Ted hesitated in his bewilderment.

The major swore furiously. “Who on earth may you be? What do you mean by this impertinence, you drunken civilian?”

The tall man took not the slightest notice. He looked at the boy with stern set face, and there was something in his look that enforced obedience. Still doubtful, but unable to resist the tone of authority, Ensign Russell stepped towards the bully, saying:

“You must consider yourself under arrest, sir.”

Naik Karbir understood some English, and was attentively following the course of events. He whispered to his men, and a couple at once placed themselves, with bayonets fixed, on either side of the Englishman. The prisoner foamed at the mouth.

“What do you mean by this outrage, you young whipper-snapper? Take your men away! You’ll repent this, you impertinent hound!”

Our hero looked towards the stranger, who fixed his eyes on the boy, but took no further notice. Then the major appealed to his men.

“My lads, drive these Gurkhas away, and take that English cub prisoner. Kill those little fiends if they resist!”

Nothing loth, ten men of the 15th Derajats sprang forward, and the Gurkhas closed round their officer. The stranger raised his hand imperiously.

“Stop, my children! Come back!” cried a shrill voice, that quavered with fear; and the Punjabis pulled up short and regarded the speaker with amazement as profound as that of Ted. His new ally was the native officer of the party, a grizzled Waziri from the Bannu district.

“It is an order, my children; we must obey,” the old man continued to the wondering sepoys.

Their own subadar and chieftain on the side of the Gurkhas and of that infidel dog of a bhisti! What could it mean? But most astounded of all were the major and the ensign.

“What! Ahmed Khan!” exclaimed the bully. “Wilt thou suffer me to be insulted in this way?”

“What can I do, sahib? It is an order,” the Waziri answered in troubled tones.

Then the stranger spoke again.

“Ensign, you are on duty here, and here you had better remain. I relieve you of the prisoner.” Turning to the Waziri subadar he continued: “Ahmed Khan is thy name?”

The subadar fell on his knees. “It is thy servant’s name, O Hakim[1]!”

“Ahmed Khan, I see that thou dost know me, and therefore thou wilt obey. I charge thee to escort this officer—thine officer no longer, whose commands thou must not obey—to the tent of General Wilson, and there say who sent thee. Also, see that this bhisti is carried gently to the hospital, and treat him well. It is my command.”

The Waziri salaamed.

A shell whistled overhead and burst some way in front. A second quickly followed, and splinters flew around.

“This is becoming warm, youngster,” remarked the tall man, smiling. “Ahmed Khan, begone quickly!”

The subadar whispered to his men, who thereupon glanced hurriedly, with awe-stricken eyes, at the bearded Englishman, placed two on each side of the prisoner, with bayonets fixed, and gave the word to march. The escort moved rapidly away, the major too dazed and cowed to attempt resistance.

The stranger advanced and placed a hand on Ted’s shoulder. His face was no longer stern and forbidding; it was the face of a great and good man.

“My lad,” he said kindly, “let this be the last time you disobey your senior officer. On this occasion you were right No gentleman, no Christian, could have obeyed his brutal order. But such a case rarely happens, and you must beware lest you take too much upon yourself.”

Ted bowed his head. He knew already that he was in the presence of the greatest and noblest man he had ever seen.

The stranger continued:

“I see you are with the Sirmur Battalion. I have heard of their glorious deeds.”

Ted, full of the subject, and more at his ease now, poured forth for five minutes an account of the valour displayed by Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas, then stopped, ashamed at having spoken so much. But, moved thereto by the kind expression of interest in the man’s face, he added:

“When are we to make the assault, sir?”

The stranger’s countenance lighted up.

“It will not be very long now, lad; the time is at hand. Well, I have much to do; good-bye, ensign!”

The man held out his hand, adding, “Remain a true, God-fearing gentleman, of whom your country may be proud, as it is not of that man who has just left us.”

“Good-bye, sir!—— But would you tell me your name?”

“I am Brigadier Nicholson,” was the simple reply.

Ted’s heart glowed with pride and pleasure. He had shaken hands with this famous man; he had actually enjoyed ten minutes’ private talk with him—a thing half the officers in the camp would have given much for. The name of the young general was on everyone’s lips. Over the heads of his seniors in rank John Nicholson had been given the command of the Punjab Movable Column, and wherever that column had marched victory had crowned its arms, no matter what the odds. Along the frontier of the Indus, amidst the wild robber clans of Bannu, he was worshipped as a deity; and Ted now understood what had been incomprehensible before, namely, the strange behaviour of the subadar, and the sudden awe that had fallen upon the Pathans as soon as Ahmed Khan had whispered the magic words “Jan Nikkulseyn”.

CHAPTER XXI
“Wombwell’s Menagerie”

On his return in the early morning of the following day, Ted related his adventures to brother and cousin, and told of his interview with the hero of the Punjab.

“Yes,” replied Jim, “Nicholson has been here inspecting our defences and examining our men. He’s left his column behind and galloped on to confer with our general. Lucky for you, young ’un, that he happened to be present. But, then, you are such a lucky beggar!”

“I wonder what they’ll do to your friend the major?” observed Charlie, whose splendid constitution was doing wonders for him.

“Ask him to resign, I expect,” Jim opined.

But that officer of the 15th Derajats had already resigned. Before he and his escort had left the Ridge a shell from one of the Mori 24-pounders exploded in their midst, killing the major and one sepoy and wounding four others. Ted, however, did not learn this until the following day, and at the same time he heard that Nicholson had left the camp and ridden out to bring in his column, which was now close at hand.

“Before I forget, here’s something for you, Ted,” Jim exclaimed, after the three had discussed the ensign’s adventures at some length. “The mail came while you were away, and I had a letter from Ethel enclosing this for you.”

Jim handed his brother a note, which Ted promptly opened and read.

“It’s very jolly of her! The colonel has nearly completely recovered, she says, and they are quite safe. Will you swop letters, Jim?”

“Wouldn’t you like to? Cheeky young cub!”

Charlie laughed.

“I’ve already offered him half my daily pay for a sight of the precious document, and he’s waiting for me to raise the bid. He’s been looking so radiantly absurd, young ’un, since he received it, that I’ve been longing to throw my boots at him, but unfortunately I can’t get at them.”

Jim winked solemnly at his cousin, and appeared far too happy to be abashed by the satire of his facetious relatives.

Before long news reached the Ridge that the Punjab Movable Column was coming in. The whole camp turned out to meet Jan Nikkulseyn’s ever-victorious men. Brigadier Nicholson was, of course, under General Sir Archdale Wilson, yet the whole army looked upon him as the man destined to lead them to victory. All felt that a great soldier was in their midst—nor were they disappointed. Hardly had he arrived before he led them out to attack the foe at Nujufgurh, where a splendid success was won, and the enthusiasm of the wearied troops was aroused.

On the 4th September the last reinforcements came in. The remainder of the 60th Rifles arrived from Meerut to join their brethren, the comrades of the little Gurkhas at the house of Hindu Rao, as well as a contingent from the Dogra ruler of Jummu and Kashmir. But the whole camp turned out to cheer a still more welcome reinforcement which accompanied these.

Escorted by the Rifles came the guns—the big guns, the siege guns, the real guns at last! With slow and stately tread, as though conscious of their importance and of the impression they were making, the massive elephants—two harnessed to each gun—appeared in sight, hauling the ponderous cannon to the place that needed them so much. With what delight the long-looked-for guns were greeted may well be imagined. The fortunate soldiers of 1857 had never heard the classic phrases “Now we sha’n’t be long!” and “Let ’em all come!”, but if they had, they would certainly have used them.

In the thick of the crowd was Ted, who had got leave of absence from the Ridge, and as Alec could not accompany him, he looked out for any other chums who might be there, and soon caught sight of the khaki and blazing scarlet of Claude Boldre, gay with the colours of the “Flamingoes”. They greeted Lieutenant Roberts, who was busy with his multifarious duties as D. A. Q. M. G., but cheerful and brisk as ever, and stood behind a group of hilarious Tommies.

“Here come the guns at last!” cried a carabineer in an ecstacy of enthusiasm.

“Git away wid ye, it’s Wombwell’s menagerie comin’ to give us an entertainment!” declared an Irish private.

“Nice little ponies them are, drorin’ them!” was another comment.

“What—the uttees? Three cheers for the bloomin’ uttees!”[1]

“What’ll we do wiv the huttees when we’ve got the guns fixed hup? They’ll heat their ’eads hoff ’ere. There won’t be none of hus left for fightin’; we shall hall ’ave to go hout foragin’ for food for the helephints hall day,” observed a soldier of Cockney extraction.

“Ay,” a friend replied, “and they’ll want exercising. Bill, you’ll ’ave to go and take ’arf a dozen helephints for a run every mornin’ before breakfast, same as you used to do them fox-terriers you used to have.”

Bill was wont to boast of the ratting qualities of his dogs at home.

“Ay, Bill,” chaffed another. “Go an’ take ’em rattin’ along the banks of the Jumner; they’re beggars for rats are uttees.”

Bill was equal to the occasion, however, and readily replied:

“Nothin’ of the sort! General told me has the helephints was comin’ to-day, an’ ’e says to me, ‘Bill,’ sez ’e, ‘wot are we to do with them uttees when they come?’ ‘General,’ sez hi, ‘why not mount the Gurkeys on ’em an’ make ’em into light horsemen?—there’s nobody else’s legs ’ud go round a huttee.’ ‘Bill,’ sez ’e, ‘you’re a genius!’”

The laugh that followed showed that Bill had scored, and a group of officers standing by, who had up to this point tried to preserve a sedate demeanour, joined in the merriment at the thought of a little Gurkha perched astride one of the monsters. Regardless of the jests at their expense, the huge pachyderms came steadily on through the clustered ranks of interested and gaping spectators.

“By gum, boys, them are guns! We’ll soon be in Delhi now!”

“Three cheers for the Bengal Artillery! and three more for John Lawrence who sent them!”

The cheers were lustily given, for hopes ran high.

“They ought to make short work of the walls,” said Claude. “I think we’re going to have a look in at last.”

“Yes; we’re all getting a bit sick of waiting. Hope we can get a good place in the stalls when the theatre doors open,” Ted replied.

“And I hope Nicholson leads us. By the way, I suppose you’ve heard nothing fresh from Aurungpore?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s rough on you. It must be horribly upsetting to have the matter hanging over so long.”

“It is. I’m glad we’re kept so busy, though, as I haven’t much time to think of it.”

“Never say die! Truth will out, you know, and you’ll be all right. Alec Paterson told me the whole story. That chap Tynan must be a pretty average cad. More guns coming!”

“’Ullo!” exclaimed our friend Bill as the end of the procession came into sight, “where’s the rest of the show? There’s nothing but huttees!”

“No more there isn’t. This is a bloomin’ fine circus, this is!”

“Here, you!” shouted a dragoon to a dignified mahout, “where’s yer giraffes, an’ ’ippopotamusses, an’ ricoconoseroses, an’ kangeroos? Why, there ain’t no clowns nor hacrobats!—this is a fraud! Gimme me money back, I can see a better menagerie than this in Hengland!”

“Ay, give us our money back!” chimed in the others in tones of simulated indignation; and roars of laughter went up, to the astonishment of the staid Sikhs and Punjabis, and to the delight of the jolly little Gurkhas.

But though the whole camp was in such high spirits, the more knowing ones understood that Delhi had not fallen yet, and that these cannon were no bigger, and were greatly inferior in number to those mounted on the city walls. Also that the mutineers’ guns, being sheltered by the solid masonry, were twice as effective as their own unprotected armament.

During the next few days the whole camp helped the Engineers to put into execution the plan of attack which Colonel Baird Smith’s masterly brain had planned. At dead of night the soldiers constructed batteries and shelter-trenches between the English camp and the walls, in positions where it would have meant death to have worked by daylight. Before long thousands of gabions[1] and acres of fascines[2] had been made for the protection of gunners.

On the eventful morning of 8th September, 1857, Major Brind of the Artillery—a man concerning whom an officer present observed: “Talk about the V.C., why, Brind should be covered with them from head to foot!”—is given the honour of commencing the bombardment from No. 1 Battery, only seven hundred and fifty yards from the walls. In spite of all Brind’s labours of the night, the sun rises before his battery is ready for action, and the mutineers at once perceive his designs. Pitiless showers of well-directed grape plunge in and around the battery. Though but half-sheltered from this terrible fire, Brind’s gunners, assisted by a detachment of the Gurkhas of the Kumaon Battalion, go on with the rapid completion of the work. At length a single howitzer is dragged into position, and the first shot of the real bombardment is fired. It is but a feeble retort to the thundering giants of the Mori and Kashmir bastions, and the foemen laugh as they continue to pound the gallant little band with round-shot, grape, and shell. Ted from his post on the Ridge looks on with disappointed eyes.

But before long a second gun is on its platform, and then a third, and the rebels laugh no longer. And soon the battery is complete; five 18-pounders and four 24-pounders, magnificently aimed and served, are replying in earnest, as though the very cannon knew how long the army had been waiting for them, and had resolved to do their duty and show that the waiting had not been in vain. With high hopes and expectations thousands of British, Gurkha, Pathan, Sikh, and Dogra soldiers look on at the awful duel. Idle spectators are they, unable to assist, and safe from the venomous fire of the rebel cannon which are now all directed to the destruction of this impertinent No. 1 Battery. The insurgents stand manfully to their guns, but the finest artillerymen in the world are serving under Brind, and at length, to the delight and amid the resounding cheers and hurrahs of the spectators, the massive masonry of the Mori Bastion, that looked but yesterday strong enough to defy an earthquake, begins to crumble away. The answering fire slackens and dwindles down.

By this time No. 2 Battery (Campbell’s) is ready, but is directed to wait until No. 3 can also be prepared, in order that the enemy’s surprise may be the greater. With No. 2 is a party of the Jummu contingent, who are at first unwilling to ply spades and shovels or pile sand-bags, murmuring that they are come to fight, not to do coolie work. As the mutineers blaze away, these Dogra Rajputs, throwing down shovels, seize their muskets and fire harmlessly at the stone walls, to the great danger of the artillerymen. They are at once told by Major Campbell that they are there to work and not to play at fighting, and they manfully settle down to the uncongenial task.

The attention of the foe having been purposely attracted by No. 1 Battery, No. 3 (Scott’s)—partially prepared during the night, and concealed by grass and branches of trees—has been secretly at work, and is ready on the morning of the 12th. Dangerously near to the rebel cannon is No. 3; less than two hundred yards separate the British gunners from their antagonists. Almost at the same moment No. 4 Battery (Major Tombs’) prepares for action. To achieve the secret completion of these batteries has been the brilliant work of Colonel Baird Smith and of his worthy second in command, Engineer-Captain Alexander Taylor.

For three days Brind’s guns have been reducing the gigantic and formidable Mori Bastion to powder, whilst the other three batteries have been preparing to lend him a hand.

“Not much left of our old friend!” observes Major Reid cheerfully to a small group of his officers, who stand gazing upon the work of destruction on the evening of September the 11th.

As Reid speaks, another shell strikes their ancient antagonist, the Mori Bastion, towards which he is pointing.

“They’re defending it well, though, sir,” replies Captain Russell, as gun after gun is brought forward by the rebels, who are making praiseworthy efforts to silence Brind. “We’ve got so used to the old bastion that one feels almost sorry to see him going to the dogs in this way.”

“He’s losing flesh rapidly,” Ted joins in, as yet another of Brind’s kind regards is sent crashing against the once rock-like wall and a fresh shower of dust is thrown up.

“I can’t say that I feel much pity for him,” Reid grimly declared. “He has too many of my brave lads’ lives to answer for,” the commandant added with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“Well, the rest will be merely child’s play, I fancy,” conjectured a young lieutenant standing by.

Major Reid solemnly regarded the author of this remark for a few seconds before replying.

“You think so, young man?” he asked. “Better keep the playing until it is over. The hard work is yet to come.”

Whilst the bombardment proceeds, the Ridge is tolerably safe, for the Delhi guns are too much occupied with Brind’s pestilent battery to pay much heed to any other place. The duel continues, waxing hotter and still more hot.

“Splendid practice our fellows are making!” says Jim presently.

“They’re a long time with those other batteries,” our ensign hazards. “I wish to goodness they’d hurry them up, and then for storming the place!”

“Don’t be impatient, youngster,” Reid replies. “If we play our part as well as the Artillery and Engineers are doing theirs, our country will have precious little cause for complaint. They are doing their work magnificently; they’ve already accomplished wonders, and it’s a lot more easy to talk about it and to criticise them, than to get guns into position in the face of those bastions.”

Feeling somewhat abashed by his chief’s rebuke, as he doubtless deserved to be, Ted discreetly remains silent.

Darkness closing in brings the artillery duel to an end, and the troops lie down for the night.

Not all, however.

Under cover of the night the sappers and miners and gunners are hard at work completing the preparations for batteries Nos. 3 and 4. Our fellows work like true Britons, for their hearts are in their labour. Encouraged by Captain Taylor, who superintends the work, and by their other officers, all of whom lend a hand like the meanest private, they toil on with steadfast, energetic purpose, and daylight finds them prepared.

Word has mysteriously reached the Ridge that to-morrow’s sun will see a bombardment the like of which has never before been known in the East, and our friends are stirring soon after sunrise, waiting in exultant anticipation.

“Is it true, sir,” asks Ted, “that all four batteries will be playing on the town this morning?”

“I’m hoping so, but I can’t say how far they got last night.”

At length the longed-for moment arrives. At eight o’clock on the morning of the 12th nine 24-pounders of No. 2 Battery open fire simultaneously on the Kashmir Bastion. Ringing cheers of triumph greet this, the greatest salvo of the whole war, for, as the smoke clears away and the deafening thunder and reverberating echoes die down, our friends and their fellow-spectators see that this very first discharge is bringing down huge masses of masonry.

A moment of profound silence follows: then a mighty cry of exultation bursts forth.

“Ah! Well done! Well aimed, Campbell!” scream the enthusiastic onlookers.

But the insurgent guns hotly and strenuously reply, and Campbell’s battery seem likely to suffer severely, for the rebel fire is not only hot, but is also exceedingly well directed.

“They’re keeping their tails up pluckily enough. Villains though they are, they’re not cowards,” murmurs one.

“That’s true! Seems to me that No. 2’s in a tight place enough. I only hope—”

What that officer hoped will never be known.

A deafening roar from another direction interrupts his expression of opinion and announces that Major Tombs’ Battery (No. 4) is dealing with the rebel guns.

“Hurrah! Tombs is givin’ it ’em ’ot! Tombs ’e’s a-silencin’ of ’em!” shout the riflemen.

“Ulu-ulu-ulu!” scream the delighted Gurkhas.

“Ah!” gasp the astounded Sikhs and Pathans, who have never before seen cannonade like this.

Whilst the British riflemen estimate and argue the distance of the battery from the walls and the probable duration of the bombardment, the Guides and Gurkhas chatter and scream with excitement. Many of these allies of ours have been somewhat prone to consider themselves quite as good soldiers as their employers, but now they are beginning to understand a little more clearly the extent of the British power and resources. And such consideration is good for them.

Again Tombs’s gunners fling their iron hail against the Delhi cannon, putting them out of action one by one.

“Why, Tombs has got within two hundred yards!” a spectator guesses.

“No, hardly so close as that,” declares a second.

“Well, he ain’t much farther away,” another joins in. And exclamations of “Well done, Tombs!” “Well aimed, sir!” ring out from the Ridge unheeded, because unheard by the gunners steadily plying their grim trade. For Major Tombs is a general favourite; stories of his prowess and dare-devilry have spread throughout the British camp, and the approving cheers are echoed from scores of throats.

“Might this be a cricket match?” suavely enquires a captain of the 60th Rifles as he smiles at the enthusiasm.

The mutineers are aghast! How have those batteries been brought there and concealed and protected? And then, only one hundred and sixty yards from the Water Bastion, No. 3 unmasks. But, alas! the work has necessarily been done at night, and in the darkness a serious mistake has been made. The big piles of covered sand-bags, which had been placed to hide the guns from the watchful enemy, as well as to protect our gunners from their fire when the moment should come for unmasking, are found to have been carefully piled in a wrong position, so as to obstruct the aim of our guns. For men to go outside the shelter in order to remove the obstruction will not only take a long time, but will expose to almost certain death any brave enough to venture out. So thinks the heroic commandant of the battery, who fears nothing for himself, but hesitates to order his men to be shot down one by one, for so close are they under the walls that the rebel gunners can hardly miss them. But while he pauses in doubt, a Sikh sapper calmly springs outside and commences to throw down the pile before his own gun. With one accord the other sappers and gunners follow the noble example, and the clearance is effected with such rapidity that the guns are ready to open fire before the sepoys have grasped the fact of the battery’s presence.

Then is hurled forth such a shower of shell and heavy shot from that short distance that the traitors are filled with dismay. The iron hurricane teaches them at last what English artillery can do even in the face of such tremendous odds. This salvo of heavy guns heralds the turning-point of the Sepoy war, and determines the fate of the Indian empire. As the huge Water Bastion crumbles into a shapeless mass of masonry and is crushed into atoms by these 18-and 24-pounders, so the great mutiny is crushed and crumbled at the same time. The last hope of the mutineers is quenched; they may fight on, they may inflict great damage on the Feringhi, they may still accomplish further murders and massacres in various places throughout the land, but all hope of final triumph, all chance of overthrowing the British raj is gone for ever, destroyed by the fire of this magnificent artillery.

In Hindustan news travels from mouth to mouth over hundreds of miles almost as quickly as by telegraph; so north and south, east and west, flew the tidings that the walls and gates of Delhi were being battered down, that in the course of a few days the great city would be in the hands of the sahibs and the Mogul emperor a captive. Amongst the Pathan tribes along the Punjab frontier, in Afghanistan, Beluchistan, Waziristan, Kashmir, the Black Mountain country, and in Nepal, the news was told, and Afghan, Beluchi, Waziri, Afridi, Mohmand, Bunerwal, Swati, Yusufzai, Mamund, and Punjabi, who would most eagerly have helped to rout and destroy the British had our army retired beaten from Delhi, now scornfully turned a deaf ear to all appeals of the mutineers to come over and help them. For the Pathan worships success and despises the fallen.

“Nay,” said they, “if you with forty thousand men and nearly two hundred cannon, entrenched behind strong walls and with every advantage, if you could be held in check for weeks by two or three thousand British and five hundred Gurkha monkey-men, and a few hundred more of our brethren of the Guides whom ye could not defeat, and then suffered your walls to be battered down as soon as this small army had been reinforced by more of our countrymen and neighbours, what chance will ye have now, driven out of your stronghold? And are not fresh red-coated regiments and corps of fierce, tall men in women clothes even now arriving from beyond the seas? Nay, we will not join you; rather will we fight on the side of the kafirs,[1] together with the Gurkha pigs and vile Sikh infidels.”

So the tribesmen now offered their services in such numbers that they had to be refused. They brought wild horses that would not suffer any man to mount them, and they came with ancient, worn-out steeds, blind, lame, and weak at the knees, swearing and protesting that these were all splendid chargers, perfectly trained and in superb condition. With these they would fight the mutineers, if only the great sahibs, Edwardes and Jan Larens, would give them a soldier’s pay. So John Lawrence, Commissioner of the Punjab, was enabled to send down more than fifty thousand men to uphold the British raj.

Day and night throughout the 12th and 13th of September the breaching operations continued, fifty guns grinding mercilessly at the rock-like walls. Though defeat stared them in the face the sepoys showed a courageous front to the end, and as their cannon were one by one knocked out of action, they brought fresh guns up and returned a rapid and well-aimed fire. Their sharp-shooters were told off to pick out the English gunners, and no easy task had those gallant fellows. To our hero and to the hundreds of onlookers the bombardment formed a grand but awful spectacle. Fascinated by the sight, they watched the salvoes of artillery directed at the bastions, every shot striking home, sending up clouds of dust, and followed often enough by a fall of masonry. The rebel shots whistled and rattled in the air, guns flashed and shells exploded both over their own men and over the doomed city. From the highest to the lowest, from the general in command to the youngest drummer-boy, all knew that this was the crowning work of anxious months of toil. Proud men were the engineer officers, Baird Smith and Taylor, one the brain, the other the hand that had thought out and directed this supreme finish. Proud also were Brind, Tombs, and the other artillerymen, for without their magnificent heroism and skill the plans of the engineers would have come to naught.

One building there was in Delhi close to the Kashmir Gate and the Water Bastion, which the Sikhs and Pathans and Gurkhas, and the rebel sepoys themselves, began to regard with awe—a white-domed edifice not unlike a mosque, save for the cross surmounting its cupola. It was the English church; and though shot and shell had crashed around and over it, the cross remained untouched.

On the 13th of September Captain Taylor declared that the breaches in the walls were large enough to admit of a successful assault, so Baird Smith, ill and harassed, weak and lame as he was, mapped out precise directions for five columns to attack the city at various points. Nicholson was appointed to the first column, and when the others should join him in the city he was to take command of the whole force.

CHAPTER XXII
Ted Distinguishes Himself

Our friends were with the 4th Column. This force, of which Reid (though but a major) was made commandant in consideration of the splendid way in which he had held the Ridge, consisted of detachments of European regiments, the Sirmur Battalion, the Guides Infantry, and the Rajah of Jummu’s contingent. Its duty was to sweep through the suburbs of Paharunpur and Kishengang, clearing these of the enemy, and then enter the city by the Lahore Gate. Major Reid gathered his officers together to give them final instructions, and then, accompanied by Ensign Russell, entered the Gurkha hospital, where he told his wounded heroes the plans for the morrow. The scene was one that cut Ted to the heart. Of those five hundred men, whose proud arrival he had witnessed three months ago, only five score remained fit for duty, and many even of this hundred had been wounded or were now suffering from injuries which the tough and indomitable little fellows did not consider sufficiently severe to keep them from their work. On the floor (for there were no cots) lay one hundred and fifty badly-wounded and maimed Gurkhas—the remainder had lost their lives guarding their trust. The hearts of the officers could not but be greatly touched by the sight of such suffering so nobly borne, but Reid’s sadness was mingled with pride that he commanded so gallant a regiment. The Gurkhas glanced up at their officer with dog-like looks of affection, and right proud they were too of such a commandant. Sorrowfully he told the men lying there, listening, regardless of their pain, that only one hundred of his own plucky lads would be able to follow him to the assault. As though the word of command had been given, every little Gurkha in that room sprang up or painfully rose to his knees and vowed to follow the chief, even if he had to crawl or limp to the attack. Tears came to the eyes of both Englishmen at the sight of such loyal devotion, and they endeavoured to dissuade, but the little hillmen insisted. Of those hundred and fifty men who had been reported by the doctor as unfit for service, ninety-five were allowed to go,[1] and we can guess what torture from unhealed wounds and from sickness they must have cheerfully undergone. But go they would, for the honour of the Sirmur Battalion, and Reid’s heart was cheered by the thought that he had now two hundred of his own mountaineers at his back.

Next morning an order was given; the roar of the heavy guns ceased as if by magic; and Nicholson’s column, springing up with a shout, rushed to the assault in the teeth of a tremendous and deadly fire. Up the slope of the glacis they rushed and on they surged, fired at by musketry and grape, thrust at by bayonet and spear, with showers of bricks and stones from the crumbling walls hurled down on their heads. At the other gates the 2nd and 3rd Columns behaved with equal gallantry, and the small force left to guard the ridge and camp watched their progress with interest and anxiety. Up the glacis and through the breach of the Kashmir Bastion they rushed, appearing at that distance like a swarm of bees clustering on the slope, then, reaching the top, they disappeared into the town.

But the adventures of these columns, stirring though they were, cannot be related here; we must return to Reid’s force, where our friends are. Through no fault of their plucky leader, the 4th Column was soon in difficulties. It should have been supplied with artillery to clear the suburbs, but though three guns were lent to them, no gunners were present. Now, special training is required for the working of artillery, and guns are useless without trained gunners, so Major Reid sought high and low for men to work the guns, but none could be found, and reluctantly, as though giving up hope of real success, he left the cannon behind. They had not proceeded far before they found barricades and breast-works erected in the way, and, sheltered by these, thousands of rebels poured forth a heavy fire from every side. The Gurkhas and Guides, dashing forward at the double, quickly dislodged the sepoys, put them to rout, and cleared the way; but farther on they found the foe in much greater force. Had Reid possessed gunners the barricades would soon have been cleared, but nothing less than a cannonade would now dislodge them, for more than ten thousand men opposed him. Unfortunately the Jummu contingent formed the larger part of his force, and though Dogras make gallant and loyal soldiers, these men had not had the benefit of British training, so they became confused, and fell back in disorder. Britons, Guides, and Gurkhas fought magnificently to retrieve the day, but what could they do against such odds? Their progress was stayed, and worse was to follow. The gallant Reid was struck in the head by a bullet, and fell unconscious. Forty of the few Gurkhas were slain and scores wounded, the Rifles and Guides were also losing heavily, though without flinching, and the Rajah of Jummu’s troops were doing more harm than good. Major Reid’s successor reluctantly gave the order to retire, and, followed by thousands of the triumphant foe, the 4th Column fell back in good order, fighting to the last.

The pressure became more and more severe, and the men of the Jummu contingent were fast getting out of hand. Large bodies of the mutineers pushed forward on both flanks, forming a semicircle that threatened to envelop our men. Several parties from the stauncher battalions were detailed to delay these flanking movements, and of one of these, composed of about thirty picked shots of the Gurkhas, Ted was placed in charge, with Goria Thapa as second in command. He was sent some distance to the left, with instructions to roll back the right flank of the enemy for as long a time as possible. A stone breastwork, abandoned by the sepoys earlier in the day, was pointed out to him, and he had orders to rejoin the main body with all haste as soon as his position should become really dangerous.

Ted’s command, bending low, scurried to the breastwork, and found not only good shelter, but a favourable position commanding the enemy’s advance on this flank. Their muskets began to speak, and the discourse seemed persuasive. Throughout the whole length of the horse-shoe the action was resolving itself into a series of detached and separate engagements. Ted’s gallant fellows broke up one party after another of the pandies, aiming with such cool accuracy that every bullet seemed to find its billet. But while the enemy’s right was held at bay, their centre and left swarmed forward, and our hero, holding on too long, presently found himself in danger of being cut off.

Meanwhile the main body continued its retirement, the Rifles now forming the centre of the rear-guard. The British soldiers soon began to find the ground unfavourable, and the enemy pressed the more eagerly.

Inspired to greater audacity by their success, a large body of mutineers made a plucky dash forward, and surrounded a half-company of riflemen and a few Guides in a deep nullah, from which they were in the act of retiring. These men of the Rifles had been fighting gloriously, and had spent their last cartridge before they grasped the fact that they were unsupported and the sepoys were upon them. Hidden from view of their comrades by the high sloping banks that enclosed the broad river-bed, now almost dry, they fought for their lives with the overwhelming foe, and prepared to die like the heroes they were.

The wild charge of the pandies was checked half a dozen paces from those lines of quivering steel. The hesitation was but momentary. With yells of triumph the sepoys rushed upon the bayonets, only to be hurled back. They recoiled, and those in the rear lay down and fired from between their comrades’ legs, and man after man of the Rifles dropped. The lieutenant gave the order to charge, and back they crashed over the stony bed; and the pandies gave way, separated, and fired again and again as they kept clear of the bayonets. It seemed only a question of moments before the detachment should be exterminated. Already the young Englishman in charge of the half-dozen Guides was down, when a score of Gurkhas, led by Ensign Russell, suddenly topped the bank of the nullah, and tumbled in upon the rebels. In a moment all was confusion. Unprepared, the sepoys turned upon their new assailants, and the kukris were keen. Huddled together as the rebels were, the bullets went through more than one body.

Twenty men were all that Ted had left, but so sudden and unexpected was their descent upon the scene that the charge was equal to that of a whole company. How many were following, the sepoys did not know, and a panic set in. The riflemen rose to the occasion, and before the mutineers could rally, or realize how insignificant was the reinforcement, British bayonets were hustling them to and fro, and their leaders had fallen. The spurt of pluck—of their old courage that had stood England in good stead on many a hard-won field—had died away; they had no British officers to inspire and lead them, and a blind panic set in. Each flashing bayonet, each shimmering kukri seemed multiplied twenty-fold to the eyes and senses of the terror-stricken rebels.

Ted was hotly engaging a lean pandy subadar, a typical Oudh Mohammedan. The man was slowly giving way as Ted pressed upon him with rapid thrusts, when the subadar snatched off his turban and caught Ted’s blade upon it. Before the boy could divine his intention he was at the rebel’s mercy.

Not quite, though. The subadar stumbled awkwardly, let go turban and sword, and Ted took the opportunity to run him through before he understood what had happened. Stretched on the ground behind the subadar lay Alec Paterson, the wounded officer of the Guides. Summoning all his remaining strength, he seized the sepoy’s foot as he was in the act of slicing at his chum, and so upset his balance. The dead man fell across Alec’s chest, and he fainted away.

Within three minutes from Ted Russell’s arrival not a pandy remained in the hollow who was able to leave it. The lieutenant called his men together, nodded approvingly towards Ted, and gave the order to continue the retirement. They joined the main body without encountering any dangerous opposition.

“Well, you are cool customers, you and your Gurkhas!” remarked the subaltern in command of the 60th’s detachment, as soon as he could find time to make comments. “Pluckiest thing I’ve ever seen, to storm a position like that with such a handful.”

“It was nothing,” Ted muttered, turning away.

“It probably saved us a few lives, young man, and I’ll take care that it is reported.”

As he spoke, the officer who had succeeded to the command of the column when Major Reid fell hastened to the spot, and hurriedly enquired:

“What happened just now? I was looking on, unable to send you help, when I saw some Gurkhas come up from behind and drive the pandies from that nullah.”

“He was in command,” the subaltern replied, nodding towards the ensign. “Had about twenty men with him. I never saw such a thing, and how he managed to escape unhurt I can’t understand.”

The enemy again began to press, though not so dangerously. Yet every yard had to be contested, and the odds against our fellows were enormous.

Of all those gallant officers and men none fought more pluckily than Captain Russell of the Guides; animating and encouraging his splendid fellows, he was ever nearest to the foe, as many a mutineer found to his cost. Inspired by the example, Ted emulated his brother’s courage, and with the Gurkhas did his best to retrieve the day, and always by his side fought the young officer Jemadar Goria Thapa, son of his father’s friend. As they retired towards the Ridge the boy was more than once engaged in single combat. Two assailants he had placed hors de combat with sword or pistol, when he perceived that his brother was struck, though Jim, stifling his pain, continued to fight and to inspire the men. Ted, gazing anxiously at his brother, forgot for a moment his own dangerous position, when Goria Thapa knocked him roughly on one side. Just in time! A bullet flew through the air where Ted’s head had been, and his career would have been ended there and then had not the young Gurkha officer been on the alert. At the same moment two sepoys, one being the fellow who had fired the shot, rushed at the boy, who vainly strove to fend their bayonets with his sword. One of the mutineers soon broke down his guard and lunged. The steel passed through the fleshy part of Ted’s arm, and the sepoy fell at his feet, slain by the sword of Goria Thapa. The second pandy turned to flee, but a Gurkha standing near bowled him over also, and again the little force fell slowly back, the pandies snarling just out of musket-shot, waiting for a leader brave enough to inspire them.

Our ensign’s wound was extremely painful He tied a handkerchief round the arm, and remembering his brother’s example, gave no sign. As they drew nearer to camp, two hundred men of the 9th Lancers and four hundred Sikh horse poured out to their support, charging like a thunderbolt into the enemy’s masses, whilst the few Guides and Kumaon Gurkhas, who had been left to protect the Ridge, also came out to check the rush of victorious sepoys. At that moment Jemadar Goria Thapa sank to the ground with a bullet in his thigh. Here was Ted’s chance to repay his debts! Forgetting his wounds, he dashed at the three men who were rushing to polish off the Gurkha, and again his life hung by a thread.

But a couple of his Sirmur men had sprung after him, and with their kukris they quickly despatched two of the pandies. Then with Ted’s assistance the wounded man was hurriedly carried away into the midst of their Kumaon countrymen, and safety was reached.

When Major Reid recovered consciousness, he found himself on the back of one of his faithful Gurkhas, who had carried him out of the fight. The wound, though severe, was happily not mortal. The Nepalese crowded around, their eyes plainly expressing both alarm and grief, and the man who had had the good fortune to carry their beloved chief to safety became an object of envy to his comrades.

“What a lucky fellow,” thought they, “to have had the glorious privilege of saving the life of our wounded leader!”

When Reid became aware of all that had happened since his fall, his disappointment was intense, and the bitter sorrow occasioned by his failure to assist the other columns aggravated the pain of his wound. No less bitterly mortified were all his comrades, the surviving officers and men of the 4th Column, both British and Asiatic, the reflection that without artillery to aid, their attempt was doomed to failure, consoling them but little. Their defeat was the more grievous because of the high hopes and anticipations engendered by the striking success of the bombardment. It was generally thought that this would have filled the rebels with terror, and that the opposition offered to an assault would have been much less sturdy.

“Are you badly hurt, Jim?” asked Ted, as they looked on while the surgeon dressed the wounds of their much-injured chief.

“No, not badly. No bone touched. You’re not hit, are you?”

“Sword-cut here, but it’s only a scratch. It hasn’t bled much. Will he do well, doctor?”

“Sure to. Now I’ll have a look at your scratches! Oh, you’re right for once, youngster. It is only a flesh wound, though I guess it hurts.”

He pronounced Jim’s injury rather worse than Ted’s, and ordered him to take things quietly for some days. Ted accompanied his brother to the Guides’ post to see how Alec was getting on.

“I wonder what’s happened to the other columns?” said Ted as they left their wounded commandant. Jim grunted, and vouchsafed no reply. He was in a sullen mood, defeat being particularly bitter after such high hopes.

“Dare say they met with no better success,” hazarded the ensign. “What the dickens were they doing to send us out without guns?—the idiots! It’s a badly managed business anyway!”

“Oh, don’t talk so much,” Jim replied. “We’ll know about the other columns soon enough—they’re all right! And don’t be so ready with your ‘idiots’. A man directing operations on this large scale has a lot more to think about than an ensign has, you know; though perhaps he don’t know quite as much as some, to hear you youngsters talk! Do your work, and don’t growl!”

Ted shut up. He would have dearly liked to say something cutting, but could not think of any suitable retort on the spot. And by the time a brilliant repartee had come to him, he had perceived that his brother was at least as much upset as himself. Thereupon he remained discreetly silent.

“There’s Alec lying over there. He looks bad.”

“Well, Alec, old chap, not very bad, I hope?”

“Not dead yet! They’ve got the bullet out all right, and I’ll soon be about again. By Jove, Ted, you’re a wonder! It was a mad thing to do, but rather a good job for all of us.”

“What was that?” asked Jim in great surprise. He had not yet heard of Ted’s great feat.

“Nothing; it’s all bosh,” interrupted Ted, colouring and looking somewhat sheepish.

“What! Do you mean that you haven’t heard?” Paterson demanded, and proceeded to relate the story of their rescue by the Gurkhas. “It was one of the pluckiest things I’ve heard of,” he concluded, “to charge a couple of hundred with twenty. You’ve saved fifty lives, and ought to be sure of the V.C. now, in spite of Tynan.”

Jim rose from his seat, and solemnly shook hands with his brother. “Ted,” said he, “I’m sorry I was such a beast just now.”

Ted turned very red, and his hand remained limp as Jim shook it. His chum’s very evident admiration did not seem to give him any pleasure.

“I s’pose you’ve not heard anything of the other columns yet?” asked the invalid.

“Not yet.... I’m afraid we shall hear soon enough.”

On the following day, news of the achievements of the other columns arrived; good news mixed with bad, for Nicholson lay dying, shot through the body as he headed the charge and led his men to victory.

Soon came also tidings of the glorious acts of the heroes of the 3rd Column, of Lieutenants Home and Salkeld, of Sergeants Burgess, Carmichael, and Smith, and of Bugler Hawthorne—the heroes who had taken their lives in their hands and had blown up the Kashmir Gate, after overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles, a deed with which all England rang. Of these six men, four were subsequently awarded the Victoria Cross; and the other two, Burgess and Carmichael, would have been honoured in the same way had they survived.

Truly, even in this year of heroes and heroic deeds, the story of these glorious men and of their act of devotion stands out clear to dazzle our imaginations, to lead us to thank God that they were of our breed, to make us wonder what we of the same blood would have done had we been in their place. Then let us hope we become more humble in our pride.

By the 18th of September the Lahore Gate and Bastion were also captured, and on the 20th the whole of Delhi was in our hands.

The Palace taken and the king a prisoner, the Indian Mutiny had lost its sting.

Yet, in spite of victory, gloom was over the camp, for a hero lay dying, and there was no hope of saving his life. John Nicholson’s wound had proved mortal: a life that had promised to be of unusual brilliance would soon be cut short, even before its work was more than half done—but that half had been done well. The career of this dying leader of men had been unique, even in the annals of British rule in India, whose pages teem with the deeds and lives of heroes in the noblest sense of that word—men worthy of all admiration, men whose lives inspire others to follow the gleam.

CHAPTER XXIII
Ted Extinguishes Himself

“Where shall I find Ensign Russell?” enquired a messenger from head-quarters as he approached the outpost. Ted was quickly found, and his agitation may be imagined when he learned that General Nicholson had sent for him. Nervously, reverently, and full of sorrow, he entered the tent. The somewhat stern and haughty look, so well known to all evil-doers who had chanced to cross his path, had vanished from the great man’s countenance as he greeted the boy.

“So, young man, you’ve escaped unwounded?”

“Yes, sir, ... at least only very slightly.”

“Ah, your arm, I see!” began the general. “Perhaps you can guess why I sent for you? Somehow I took a strange liking to you that day I arrived on the Ridge, ... though I ought not to approve of disobedience,” continued the wounded man, smiling.

Ted bent his head and was silent.

“You are the son of Major-general Russell, I hear? I knew your father well. I served with him in Afghanistan, and he will be a proud man when he hears that by an act of conspicuous bravery you perhaps averted a disaster to a whole column.”

John Nicholson was silent for a few moments before resuming:

“I have since heard how you distinguished yourself when your regiment mutinied. You have begun well, keep on in the same way. Put duty first, and your country may one day be proud of you, as she is to-day of Tombs and Brind and Reid.”

Here the wounded general was interrupted by the entrance of Sir Archdale Wilson, who, with grave and anxious face, had come to enquire as to the condition of his second in command.

Nicholson turned to him.

“This is the lad, Wilson, of whom we were speaking yesterday. You received a report from the officer commanding the 4th Column, stating how Ensign Russell had helped to bring it safely in.”

Ted stood by with downcast eyes, and as he fumbled nervously with his sword-hilt he looked anything but a hero. Once or twice he opened his mouth as though he wished to speak, but could not overcome his nervousness.

General Wilson spoke cordially and kindly to him.

“So you are Ensign Russell? I must tell you that your storming of that nullah was worthy of the best traditions of our young officers. I am proud of commanding an army in which deeds of heroism are of daily occurrence, and young as you are, on General Nicholson’s advice, I intend to mark my appreciation by recommending you for promotion. Whilst awaiting formal confirmation, I take upon myself to raise you to subaltern rank. Good-day, Lieutenant Russell!”

“Good-bye, lad!” echoed Nicholson.

“Thank you, sir!” Ted mumbled and moved away, then stopped in some confusion, and again made as if to speak, but the eyes of the two generals were turned away.

Anticipating some such reward for his brother’s display of courage and resource, Jim had accompanied him to the camp, and was now walking up and down at some distance from the general’s tent.

“Well, what is it, old boy?” he asked excitedly, for Jim was feeling proud of his younger brother’s distinction.

For a few paces the boy walked on without replying. Then he said quietly and wearily:

“They complimented me about something or other. I’m sick of it.”

“What’s the matter, young ’un, you look miserable? Is your cut smarting, or had you set your heart on promotion and feel disappointed? It’s a shame! I think you ought to be promoted!”

“No, it isn’t,” Ted contradicted testily.

“Ted, whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, I’m not well, Jim! I’m sorry I’m such a brute.”

“You look bad, young ’un; you must have that cut seen to. I thought you were queer as we came along.”

Ted turned on his heel.

“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered, and retraced his steps towards the tent he had just quitted, leaving Jim staring in bewilderment. Recognizing the ensign, the sentry gave admittance without question. General Wilson was still with his junior, and both turned their heads as he entered.

“Well, Russell, what is it?” General Wilson asked with surprise.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” faltered Ted, “I’ve been deceiving you.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“I never meant to attack that nullah or rescue the fellows in it,” the boy replied, now speaking eagerly and hurriedly. “I never knew there was such a place. I had lost a lot of my men, sir, and as the enemy were being reinforced in front, I ordered the men to double back to where I thought our supports were. The ditch was hidden from us by an embankment, and we stumbled into the midst of the rebels, and if it hadn’t been that the Gurkhas are so sharp and never get flurried, we’d all have been cut up, sir. As it happened, the pandies were more surprised than we were, and they thought, I suppose, that we were in force, and so they cut away. And everyone thought I had done it on purpose, and they didn’t give me a chance to explain. And then, as everyone has been congratulating me, and I hadn’t denied it at once, I found it still harder to explain afterwards. And—well, sir, after what you and General Nicholson said just now, I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I’m very sorry, sir.”

General Wilson glanced at General Nicholson, who laughed The former laid his hand on Ted’s shoulder.

“Don’t be alarmed, youngster,” he said; “I think I see how it was. Of course I can’t send in the recommendation now. You understand that, of course?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Come here, Ensign Russell,” said John Nicholson.

Ted approached.

“I like to shake hands with an honest man. Oblige me by taking my hand—I can’t take yours very well.”

Gently and reverently Ted pressed the hero’s hand, then silently turned and left the tent, lighter at heart than when he had entered it.

Almost boisterously he greeted his brother, who had anxiously retraced his steps, and was now awaiting him.

“I’m all right now, Jim!” he cried, and proceeded to relate the whole story, concluding:

“You’ll explain to Charlie and the others, won’t you? I don’t like to. There’s a good fellow!”

“I’m rather glad it’s turned out this way, young ’un,” said the elder. “I knew you were plucky enough before, now I know you’re something better.”

“I say, Jim,” Ted blurted out after a few moments’ silence, “suppose Tynan’s been done the same way?”

“Done? What way?” asked the slower Jim.

“I mean that perhaps someone began praising him for something he’d never done, and didn’t give him a chance to put it right at once, and then he stuck to it for fear that people would blame him for not denying it straight off. If it has happened that way I’m sorry for him, for he’ll be jolly miserable.”

“It’s hardly likely,” said Jim.

Outside the dying man’s tent a few fierce tribesmen from Hazara and wild cut-throats from Bannu (in these two provinces Nicholson had been commissioner) had collected from the various Punjab regiments, and were loudly lamenting the supposed death of their idol.

“Jan Nikkulseyn is dead! The great sahib is no more!” they wailed, as Ensign Russell appeared before them.

“Tell us, huzoor[1]” a veteran native officer eagerly demanded, “is he indeed dead?”