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The Disputed V.C.: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny

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Title: The Disputed V.C.: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny

Author: Frederick P. Gibbon

Illustrator: Stanley L. Wood


        
Release date: December 10, 2012 [eBook #41594]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DISPUTED V.C.: A TALE OF THE INDIAN MUTINY ***

THE DISPUTED V.C.




  BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
  50 Old Bailey, LONDON
  17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW

  BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
  Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY

  BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
  1118 Bay Street, TORONTO




  [Illustration: HE DROPPED THE LIGHTED CANDLE ON THE THIN TRAIL
  OF POWDER               _Page 88_              _Frontispiece_]




THE DISPUTED V.C.


A Tale of the Indian Mutiny


BY

FREDERICK P. GIBBON


_Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood_


BLACKIE & SON LIMITED

LONDON AND GLASGOW




Zenith Library

  _BOYS_
    =The Disputed V.C.= Frederick P. Gibbon.
    =The First Mate.= Harry Collingwood.
    =The Boy Castaways.= H. Taprell Dorling.
    ="Quills".= Walter C. Rhoades.

  _GIRLS_
    =The Youngest Sister.= Bessie Marchant.
    =A Princess of Servia.= Bessie Marchant.
    =A True Cornish Maid.= G. Norway.
    =Meriel's Career.= Mary B. Whiting.


_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_




CONTENTS


    CHAP.                                                       Page
       I. TED DISAPPROVES                                          9
      II. AN EXCITING DAY                                         22
     III. TED DOES NOT THINK MUCH OF THE GUIDES                   29
      IV. THE FANATICS                                            40
       V. THE CAD OF THE REGIMENT                                 46
      VI. THE OUTBREAK OF THE MUTINY                              52
     VII. WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE                                  60
    VIII. THE FIGHT IN THE ARSENAL                                69
      IX. DEFENCE OF THE COMMISSIONER'S HOUSE                     89
       X. HOPE AND DESPAIR                                       104
      XI. IN THE CLUTCHES OF PIR BAKSH                           111
     XII. THE TREACHERY OF THE GUIDES                            122
    XIII. TYNAN MAKES HIS CHOICE                                 134
     XIV. THE MARCH OF THE GUIDE CORPS                           145
      XV. TED'S FIRST BATTLE                                     154
     XVI. THE POST OF HONOUR                                     162
    XVII. WITH THE GURKHA PICKET                                 173
   XVIII. TED'S HOPES ARE RAISED AND DASHED TO THE GROUND        181
     XIX. TED'S FRIENDS ARE BEWILDERED                           201
      XX. AN ADVENTURE ON THE RIDGE                              214
     XXI. WOMBWELL'S MENAGERIE                                   229
    XXII. TED DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF                              243
   XXIII. TED EXTINGUISHES HIMSELF                               255
    XXIV. PIR BAKSH RENDERS TYNAN A SERVICE                      266
     XXV. TO THE RESCUE                                          282
    XXVI. LUCKNOW RELIEVED                                       298
   XXVII. AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE NANA SAHIB                       312
  XXVIII. THE FINAL SCENE AT LUCKNOW                             330
    XXIX. JIM DISPOSED OF                                        342




Illustrations


                                                         Facing Page
  HE DROPPED THE LIGHTED CANDLE ON THE THIN TRAIL
    OF POWDER                                         _Frontispiece_

  BATTYE ROSE IN HIS STIRRUPS AND THUNDERED FORTH
    THE ORDER TO CHARGE                                          160

  THE REBEL REELED AGAINST THE WALL                              336




CHAPTER I

Ted Disapproves


Ted Russell, ensign of the 193rd Bengal Native Infantry, stationed at
Aurungpore, in the Punjab, was disgusted and irritable on this first day
of the never-to-be-forgotten year of 1857--a year destined to bring
untold misery to thousands of homes and families, and to many a race and
creed throughout Hindustan and the British Isles; a year that would
henceforward lie as a dark stain across the page of history.

But our young friend's ill-humour could be traced to a much simpler
cause than a mere prophetic dread of the future. Ensign Russell had not
been in India many months, and during the whole of that short period he
had looked forward with lively and pleasant anticipation to a visit from
his brother Jim, whom he had seen but twice in the past ten years, and
who was quite a veteran warrior in Ted's admiring eyes. For Captain
Russell had been engaged in the Sikh war as well as in several affrays
with the border Pathans; he was the proud possessor of more than one
medal, and had quite a prominent scar across his face--the mark of a
Khyber knife. For the past twelve months he had held the rank of captain
in the ten-year-old corps of Guides, stationed near Peshawur across the
Indus, the town that guards the Khyber Pass--the gate of India.

At length this hero-brother had obtained leave of absence to visit
Aurungpore, and great was the delight of both.

Now, here is what had disgusted the ensign. Before the stalwart captain,
who had successfully held his own against Sikhs and Afghans, had been
with Ted a couple of days, he had actually suffered defeat at the hands
of a slip of a girl of twenty-one--a girl about five feet in height, the
daughter of Ted's colonel! Jim, who of all men should have been proof
against such silly nonsense--such idiocy!--had succumbed at first sight,
and instead of spinning yarns about his campaigns and his defence of
Chiras Fort, he was mooning about all day long in the wake of this Ethel
Woodburn.

Ensign Russell quickly found that, whatever plans he might make for the
day, his brother would be sure to demur, unless the programme provided
some chance of their meeting or seeing Miss Woodburn. He would plead
fatigue or lack of interest, and then propose as an alternative
something either much more fatiguing, or--in the boy's eyes--much less
interesting. The paltry excuses he made for altering the plans! Poor
fellow, he thought that the "kid" would not see through his transparent
subterfuges; but that sharp-witted youngster was not so easily befooled,
and he voted the proceedings slow, and did not fail to express the
opinion that his brother was no better than a milksop.

"You say you don't 'feel inclined' to ride to Khasmi to-day," exclaimed
Ted in disgust, "because your horse is not quite fit! Bosh! Nimrod never
was better in his life, and he's just eating his head off. I was looking
at him this morning; he's in the pink of condition, and he simply begged
me to take him out. Would he be in any better condition, I wonder, if
Ethel Woodburn was likely to be there?"

Jim turned red, and sharply asked: "What had Miss Woodburn to do with
it?"

"That's what I should like to know!" Ted retorted. He then looked up at
the ceiling, placed his hands in his pockets, and calmly observed:
"You've no chance there, Jim, she's hooked already."

"What d'you say?" exclaimed the excited captain. "It's not true. What
d'you mean?" he repeated. "You don't say that Miss Woodburn is engaged?"

"Oh, never mind Miss Woodburn!" drawled Ted in his most exasperating
manner. "What's she got to do with it? The question is whether we ride
to Khasmi or not."

"Tell me what you mean, you little beggar," Jim went on, half angry, yet
laughing in spite of himself.

Ted crossed his legs, and, still gazing at the ceiling, drawled: "Why,
be calm, Russell Major. You just asked what she had to do with the
matter of our ride to Khasmi. Why this sudden interest?"

Captain Russell kept his temper and laughed.

"Don't try to be too smart, young 'un," he advised. "But it isn't true
that she's engaged to be married, is it?"

"Well--p'r'aps not exactly that she's engaged," Ted admitted.

There was a tone of pompous condescension in his voice as he went on:
"But I hear that Sir Arthur Fletcher, the commissioner here, you know,
is gone on her, and, of course, as he's a splendid catch, the 'old man'
will want her to marry him, and I don't suppose she'll need much
pressing, for he's a jolly decent fellow. And besides him, half of our
fellows are in love with her, though I don't know why. I don't see much
in her myself; she seems a very ordinary sort of girl to me. And she's
such a little thing, you know!"

"You conceited young booby!" Jim laughed. "I shall have to take the
bounce out of you, young man."

Captain Russell began to hate the Commissioner of the Aurungpore
district very cordially, as well as all the unmarried officers of the
193rd--half of them for daring to aspire to the hand of his charmer, and
the other half for being such soulless clods as to refrain from
kneeling before the shrine at which he worshipped. Needless to add,
then, that he spent a most unhappy day and sleepless night.

Jim was the eldest son, and Ted the third, of Major-General Russell, a
soldier who had distinguished himself as a youngster in the Gurkha war
of 1815, and later in the Afghan and Sikh campaigns. Jim had been ten
years in India, and had fought against the Sikhs and helped to conquer
their country, the Punjab, before he had been out many months. A year or
two later he and his cousin, Charlie Dorricot, had been shut up in the
small fort of Chiras, with a mere handful of sepoys, and they had come
through the siege with credit. Dorricot was now a lieutenant in the
Sirmur Battalion, stationed in the Dehra Dun, near Simla.

The evening following the above conversation, Jim burst into Ted's
quarters. His face was flushed but beaming, and his eyes seemed to dance
through sheer happiness. By way of brotherly greeting he struck the
ensign in the chest.

"Well, young 'un," he cheerfully exclaimed, "you may congratulate me!"

"I'll--I'll knock you down!" answered Ted, staggering from the blow.
"You bully, why am I to be permitted to congratulate you?"

By way of reply, Jim took hold of his scandalized brother and whirled
him round the room.

"Because I'm engaged to be married, Ted, to the dearest, sweetest, best
girl in the world!"

"Oh!" gasped Ted. He had divined the cause of Jim's excitement, but the
opportunity for making fun of his senior was too good to be thrown away.
"And what's the dearest, sweetest, best, loveliest, most adorable girl
in the world thinking of to have you? Besides, what about Miss Woodburn?
I thought you were sweet on her, you know."

Captain Russell was a sterling good fellow, but his nature was somewhat
slower than that of his brother. He stared at the cheeky youngster for a
moment before he grasped the meaning of the sarcasm. He recollected that
these events formed privileged occasions for youthful wit, and grinned
affably; having gained his heart's desire he could afford to be
easy-tempered and tolerant of satire.

"You young cub," he laughed, "you're too facetious for a small boy. It's
Ethel Woodburn I'm engaged to, as you know very well."

"Oh!" said Ted slowly. "I didn't recognize her from that glowing
description."

Russell Minor dodged out of reach, keeping the table between them.

"Pax, old man, I'll apologize; I s'pose she's not a bad sort--for a
girl. So I congratulate you--that is, if you _had_ to go and get hooked
I don't know that you could have done better. Have you written home
yet?"

"Do be sensible. How could I? Only settled it a couple of hours ago, and
I'm going to write now. Wonder what the mater'll think!"

Captain Russell sat down and took out a pen and some writing-paper. He
shortly rose, however, and pushed the paper from him.

"No, I'll wait till to-morrow," he muttered. "I'm not quite sure that
I'm not dreaming now, so I'll go and walk it off."

This was going from bad to worse, thought Ted, as two more days passed
and his brother was spending all his precious leave walking or riding
about with the girl, who seemed just as stupidly happy as he. Though Ted
believed (in spite of his chaff) that no one could help liking and
admiring his brother, he could not see the sense of this falling in
love. Why on earth was this foolish Ethel Woodburn continually casting
hurried glances across the room at Jim? Still more incomprehensible was
the look of gloom that settled on his brother's face whenever Ethel
quitted the room for however short a period, or the sudden access of joy
when she returned.

"Thank goodness, I shall never make such a fool of myself!" he
reflected; but even this thought did not console him for the loss of his
brother's society. True, both Jim and Ethel frequently asked him to join
in their rides and walks, but, recognizing the truth of the old saying
that "two's company, three's none", he decided not to become a nuisance
to the lovers. He was far from satisfied with the new conditions,
however, and considered himself ill-used.

"Why should Ethel Woodburn come between us in this way," he grumbled to
himself, "when I'd been looking forward to such a good time with old
Jim? I wish she'd stayed in England."

He became morose and irritable, answering curtly when Jim spoke to him,
and keeping out of Miss Woodburn's way as much as possible. Captain
Russell was too happy to take much notice of the change in the "young
'un's" manner, but Ethel observed it with pain. She liked Ted, and had
always considered him the nicest boy in the regiment, and her love and
admiration for Jim and the pleasure she found in being with him made her
see more clearly how the ensign felt the loss of his brother's society.
She hated the idea of causing a coolness between them, and determined to
do her utmost to gain Ted's friendship and reconcile him to the
inevitable.

She therefore took the first opportunity to speak to him when Jim was
not present.

"Ted," she began, "won't you come a ride with us to-morrow? I wish you
would."

"Oh, you won't want me!" the ensign ungraciously replied. "I shall only
be in the way."

"But we do want you, really. Jim came here to see you, and it seems
horrid of me to monopolize him as I have been doing, when you ought to
have the first claim. You know," she continued with a sparkle of fun in
her eyes, "that one can't help falling in love, so you must not be too
hard on us. You and I are to be brother and sister, and I do want us to
be good friends, and I wish to know you better, Ted. Do join us
to-morrow!"

"Would you really like me to?"

"I should, honestly. You'll come, won't you?"

"Thank you very much, Ethel,--only I don't want to be a nuisance."

"And I don't wish you to think me a nuisance. Thank you, Ted; it's very
decent of you to come."

When she had gone, Ted was undecided whether to be pleased or not. In
common with many others he found a certain unhealthy enjoyment in
cherishing a grievance. Our hero was a good specimen of the type of boy
from whose ranks the British ensign was recruited. Rather tall for his
age, he was well built and proportioned, not weedy; fairly good-looking,
though by no means handsome, with honest eyes that could look one
straight in the face. A good athlete and gymnast, he had been regarded
as the strongest forward in the school fifteen. He was also a good
bowler, and the best outfield in the school, though he did not shine
with the bat. His intellectual attainments had perhaps been less
striking, though no one had ever classed him as a "duffer". Many a
scrape had he been in, and many a punishment had he received, and he had
never tried to clear himself by means of a lie.

Being therefore a healthy-minded boy, he saw clearly, when Miss Woodburn
had left him, that his fit of sulks and jealousy had been rather
foolish, and that his grievances against her were imaginary. No one
likes to appear a fool even to one's self, so, not unnaturally, false
pride set to work to seek excuses for his conduct, and when the time
came to join them, he was still undecided, and almost ready to take the
first opportunity to desert them.

They trotted away from cantonments, past the tank, and along a road that
led between stretches of level fields green with the young corn. The
faint breeze brought with it the clean smell of damp earth, recalling to
Ted's mind many a ride at home when the wind blew from the south-west.
Ethel and Jim were in the highest of spirits, and they chaffed one
another freely, greatly to the edification of the ensign, who had
anticipated unlimited "spooning"--a state of mind he loathed. He quickly
made the discovery that his future sister-in-law was by no means bad
fun, and when he and Jim entered into a dispute respecting the merits of
the Guides as compared with the 193rd, Ethel took his side against her
lover, wittily supporting the ensign's arguments and making fun of the
Guides. Strange to say, Captain Russell appealed to like and admire the
raillery of the girl he worshipped.

Ethel Woodburn was not merely a good-looking, dainty, and sweet-tempered
girl--she was good throughout; and as she was not above taking pains to
gain the approval of her lover's brother, she rapidly won a place in
that youth's by no means too susceptible heart.

Ethel was a graceful horsewoman, and this accomplishment told in Ted's
eyes, for he himself was an uncommonly good rider to hounds. Accustomed
to horses from his earliest childhood, he loved and understood the noble
creatures. When home from school in the winter he had rarely missed a
meet of the Cheshire hounds, and had more than once been in at the
death. So fond was he of horses that he had set his heart upon joining a
cavalry regiment, but Major-General Russell had decided against that
expensive luxury.

He therefore approved cordially, and with open admiration, of Ethel's
fearless riding and firm seat, and, muttering to himself "She'll do!" he
began to acquiesce more willingly in the new order of things.

Ted's horse--"Tommy Dodd"--a powerful roan purchased quite recently, was
young and foolish, and started violently on the slightest provocation,
swerving from one side of the road to the other, or prancing on
hind-legs with frightened eyes and twitching ears. But the boy kept his
seat with unperturbed face, soothing the steed until Tommy had recovered
from his alarm. Ethel, for her part, watched his perfect mastery of the
animal with undisguised admiration.

"You're fond of horses, Ted; ain't they glorious?" she asked, stroking
her chestnut affectionately. "I'm glad we have tastes in common."

"Yes. I think I like riding better than anything else," the ensign
replied with enthusiasm.

"Ted's a good rider!" Jim observed approvingly; "a good deal better than
I am. He took to it like a duck to water."

"By the way, Jim, you're staying over the races, ain't you?" the younger
brother enquired.

"Let me see, when do they come off? To-day week?"

"Yes, you _must_ stay!" declared Ethel.

"I think I can manage it, but I must certainly leave on the following
day."

"Shall we carry off the cup, Ted?" the girl went on, appealing to the
ensign's _esprit de corps_ with a smile that went to his heart. The
Aurungpore cup was now in the mess-room of the 193rd, and strenuous
efforts were to be made to wrest it from the regiment.

"I don't think anything is likely to beat 'The Padre' if Markham's knee
will only get better."

"Is the regiment putting its trust in Captain Markham's mount, then?"
asked Jim.

"Yes," replied the girl. "We have two other horses entered, but they say
that neither of them will have a chance against Lieutenant Harrington's
of the Ahmednuggur Irregulars, or Mr. Vernon's 'Flying Fox'."

"Who's he?"

"Mr. Vernon? Oh, he's a civilian--a 'duck'."

"Madame!" exclaimed Jim, pretending to appear shocked beyond measure.

"Yes, sir; a duck!" Ethel repeated, unabashed.

"Please understand, madame, that you must henceforward apply that
endearing epithet to no one save your affianced husband," Jim
peremptorily ordered.

"I shall certainly not apply it to you, Jim," replied the laughing girl.
"I do respect you a little, you know."

"That's so," interposed Ted. "Old Jim's a good bit of an ass, you know,
but he's not quite idiotic or depraved enough to be likened to a duck.
Is Mr. Vernon a fool that you call him that?"

"By no means; he's a most charming man. I simply intimated that until
recently he has been employed in the Company's service in the Bombay
Presidency. Haven't you learned that slang yet, Ted?"

"No! What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, if a man serves in Bengal he's a _Qui hy_; in Bombay he becomes a
_duck_, and in Madras he's _benighted_. You know that you're a
_griffin_,[1] I suppose?"

  [1] A new-comer--equivalent to the American "tenderfoot".

"Oh, yes! I know that much."

"In reply to your question, then, Jim, Mr. Vernon has not been here
long; he owns a good horse, and he's a first-rate rider. One of your
Guide officers is in too, is he not?"

"Spencer means to have a try, and he'll take a lot of beating. The men
of the Guides cavalry can ride, understand, and you ought to feel
honoured that one is going to take the trouble to patronize your races."

"Ah, well! the 193rd don't fear any officers of the Guides; do we, Ted?"

"Not a bit! The Guides are only a lot of brigands!" he made answer.

"Exactly. I keep telling your brother that it will go against the grain
to marry a man in such a disreputable corps."

Jim grinned. "Then give me back my freedom," said he.

"I don't know what we shall do," continued the girl, treating this
remark with the contempt it deserved, "if Captain Markham's knee refuses
to get right. He's a perfect steeple-chaser, and it's as much through
his handling as the merits of his horse that we hope to win the day.
'The Padre' is a most lovable animal, but this is his first
steeple-chase."

"Can no one take Markham's place, then, if he should be unable to ride?"

"I'm afraid not. You see, none of our officers is first-class at the
sport, and the two best are already engaged to ride their own mounts. So
if 'The Padre's' owner doesn't ride--why, we shall lose the cup."

Suddenly a bright and joyful idea seized upon the girl.

"Why, Ted," she exclaimed, "I believe you could ride him!"

"Oh, no! I don't know the horse, and I've never ridden in a flat race,
much less a steeple-chase."

"You'd do it very well," affirmed the elder brother, and praise from Jim
was praise indeed. It was the first compliment he had paid the "young
'un" during the visit.

"I'm sure you would, Ted," the girl affirmed. "Do--for the honour of the
193rd!"

Flushed with excitement and with the glow of perfect health, Ethel
Woodburn looked charming that winter morning. Needless to say that one
man in the world thought so. Ted blushed at the compliment to his
riding.

"But what about Markham?" he objected. "I suppose you'll consult him
first? It's hardly likely that he'd trust me on 'The Padre'."

"That will be all right. I can manage Captain Markham."

"Oh indeed, madame!" observed Jim. "Another wretched victim of your
wiles, I suppose?"

"Exactly so, sir. I trust this will show you the necessity for good
behaviour if you wish to remain honoured by my favour."

Ensign Russell was beginning to think that after all engaged couples did
not of necessity behave in quite so silly a fashion as he had imagined.
Certainly these two seemed to enjoy poking fun at one another, and
showed no signs of "spooning", each treating the other as the best of
friends. Ethel was undoubtedly an uncommonly jolly girl, quite without
"side", and the boy was enjoying the ride immensely. How they behaved
when he was not present he had no means of judging. Possibly he would
have changed his opinion had he known.

By this time the three had returned close to the regimental
parade-ground, and, obedient to the pressure of Ted's right leg, "Tommy
Dodd" wheeled and trotted towards his stable.

Captain Markham was only too glad to learn from Miss Woodburn of our
hero's riding capabilities and willingness to mount "The Padre". The
owner explained to Ted that he had bestowed this name on the animal on
account of its wonderful good temper and gentle nature.

"If ever there was a genial horse it's 'The Padre'. Whatever happens,
you feel that you simply can't lose your temper whilst you're riding
him, he would be so shocked and hurt."

"You should mount Tynan on him, then," suggested Ted, in allusion to a
brother ensign, a lad of seventeen, who rarely omitted to include a few
blackguardly oaths in his conversation.

"That little wretch! I wouldn't allow him to touch 'The Padre', even
with his gloves on. I shall be kicking that sweet youth one of these
days--hard! I wish he would see the advisability of exchanging into some
other regiment."

"The Padre" was a gray four-year-old thoroughbred; a compact horse, to
whose bold, friendly, wide-apart eyes Ted at once took a liking. His
long lean head and well-shaped neck, firmly set on good sloping
shoulders, augured a first-class chaser, as did also his powerful back
and loins, strong quarters, and short flat feet. Ted looked him over,
and knew enough to appreciate these points, and was also glad to notice
that there was plenty of length from hip to hock.

"The last half-mile of the course is downhill," Markham informed him,
"and that is where 'The Padre's' shoulders will come in."

Ted mounted the gray, and almost before his knees had gripped the saddle
he felt that he had never been on so noble a beast before. He trotted
and cantered up and down the parade-ground before giving the horse his
head, and then returned to the owner flushed and joyful.

The captain's eyes twinkled.

"You'll do, I think, Russell; I can easily see that you like one
another."

"He's just grand!" was the boy's enthusiastic comment.




CHAPTER II

An Exciting Day


Every morning saw the boy thoroughly practising his mount, encouraged by
the owner, and at length the eventful day arrived.

A large and gay crowd had gathered about the course, and included every
white man and woman in the station, not to speak of the thousands of
Sikhs, Punjabis, Afghans, and Hindus who had assembled to witness the
Englishman's sport. The 193rd Native Infantry had turned out in
hundreds, keen on the victory of Markham Sahib's horse, and ready to
applaud until their voices gave out. There were officers in uniform and
officers without uniform; many coming from distant stations to witness
the race, which was the most important in that part of the Punjab.
Several of the British, and one or two of the native officers of the
Ahmednuggur Irregular Cavalry, had travelled down to back Lieutenant
Harrington. A wild-looking native officer of the Guides, who had come to
watch Spencer Sahib win the cup, was pointed out by Jim as a celebrated
robber and cut-throat, Bahram Khan by name.

"Rummy beggar is Bahram Khan!" declared the captain. "Dick Turpin was an
infant to him. Look how the Punjabis and Hindus are gazing at him, and
how he grins back--and then they begin to shiver."

"Why? Are they afraid of him?"

"Rather. I'll tell you who he is afterwards."

"A pleasant type of man to have in one's regiment, Ted," was Ethel's
comment in a stage aside.

"Disgusting!" was the laconic response.

On the outskirts of the crowd several Pathan dealers were taking
advantage of the presence of so many lovers of horses to sell their
ponies and country-bred steeds to the unwary. Nor were the inevitable
jugglers and snake-charmers wanting. The fences were stiff, even to the
lad who had hunted over the best country in Cheshire, and the
water-jumps were big, though no wider than some he had taken "The Padre"
over during the past few days. The course was rather more than three
miles, the last six hundred yards being a straight run to the
winning-post.

A native officer came out of the throng and caressed "The Padre".

"Mind you win, Ensign Sahib," laughed Subadar Pir Baksh, "for the honour
of the corps."

"I will try my best, Subadar," Ted assured him; and Pir Baksh showed his
even white teeth as he playfully threatened the ensign should he lose.

"Now, old boy," was Ethel's greeting, "never speak to me again if our
'Padre' loses--he's the horse of the regiment, you must remember.
Whatever you do don't let that horrid Guide man win. An upstart corps
like that, recruited from Thugs and Dacoits, must never get the better
of the old-established 193rd."

"'Horrid Guide man' indeed!" laughed Jim. "Spencer's one of the best men
I know; and remember, my lady, that you will be a Guide woman very
soon."

Changing the subject he added: "You're only fifth favourite, Ted."

"Didn't know I was so high as that. Who's favourite?"

"The 'horrible Guide' horse and the 'Duck's' mount, 'Flying Fox', are
equal, the Ahmednuggur comes next, and you are fifth."

"Never mind, Ted," said Ethel encouragingly. "'The Padre' was second
favourite when it was thought that Markham would be up, and you're
lighter than he."

"But that won't make any difference; I shall have to carry the extra
weight."

"Oh, will you? That's not fair!"

Jim laughed. "Go and talk to the handicapper, Ethel; use your wiles on
the innocent man and explain the unfairness! I intended to put a couple
of rupees, young 'un, on Spencer's 'Cabul' for the sake of the corps,
but this tyrant has forbidden the transaction. Never get engaged, lad;
you see what it's brought me to--I have to obey. She says that she
objects to betting, but in reality she objects to my sticking up for my
own regiment."

"I'm ashamed of your relative, Ted," the girl asserted. "He's no
brotherly feeling. Fancy wanting to bet against your mount!"

"It's just like him!" the ensign feelingly declared. "I don't understand
how anyone so dainty as you, Ethel, could stoop to such an Orson."

Ethel blushed and Jim exploded.

"Here, drop that, young 'un; you mustn't trespass on my preserves. Fancy
the kid paying a compliment of that kind! Why, little woman, he told me
about ten days ago that you were 'a very ordinary sort of girl', and
that 'he didn't see much in you'."

"Well, he's made up for it now. It was a very pretty compliment, Ted,
and I thank you.... I often wonder myself."

After the preliminary canter Ted brought his horse to the starting-post,
where seven other competitors had already assembled. "The Padre" was not
the technical favourite, yet he was decidedly the most popular horse
there, for Captain Markham was better liked by the sepoys of the 193rd
than any of the officers, although Colonel Woodburn and several of the
others were highly popular with the men. The sepoys quite drowned all
the other noises of the crowd by their vociferous acclamations, and the
young rider was the recipient of numerous encouraging remarks and hearty
good-wishes from his brother officers and from the ladies of the
Aurungpore station.

Lieutenant Spencer's black horse "Cabul" had now advanced to the
position of first favourite. "Cabul" was easily the best-looking horse
present, as his rider was the most handsome and perfect horseman. The
officer of the Guides Cavalry sat like a centaur, and our hero saw at a
glance that he could not hope to compete in "noble horsemanship" with
his brother's comrade. The black, however, seemed nervous and fretful,
and his shoulders were lightly flecked with foam. Bahram Khan, the
famous brigand chief, sat by Spencer's side before they prepared for the
start, soothing and caressing the noble beast as he talked earnestly to
its rider.

"He's a good horse," observed Markham, "but he's not perfect; his
shoulders can't compare with 'The Padre's', and I doubt whether he's
quite so game, for mine enjoys it, and that's not common in
steeple-chasing. You should beat him down the hill."

Mr. Vernon's light chestnut was also a handsome animal, far more so than
the lean gray of the Ahmednuggur Irregulars.

The ensign's nerve was largely affected by the unwonted excitement as he
reined his mount alongside the others; an indistinguishable mass of
white and brown humanity appeared to float before his eyes; and all he
heard of the shouts and comments was a confused and distant murmuring,
or rather buzzing. Mechanically he prepared for the start.

The flag dropped, and the starter scurried to one side; "The Padre"
leapt from under him and plunged away, the spectators seeming to swim
past. He shook off the trance and partially recovered his
self-possession. In front were Mr. Vernon's "Flying Fox", and another
and darker chestnut. Aligned with him were the Ahmednuggur gray and a
bay; the remaining three were slightly to the rear, for the pace was one
that would soon tell.

Miss Woodburn watched with much anxiety as they came to the first fence,
and began to regret that she was responsible for inducing the boy to
take part in the dangerous pastime. But "The Padre" went over like a
bird, and no one came to grief. The second and third obstacles were well
taken by the whole field, but the leading chestnut (the horse of a
comrade) fell at the fourth and was out of it. At the next--a
water-jump--the Ahmednuggur gray swerved and lost ground, and a moment
later the bay, who had got in front, carried away one of the
hurdles--the easiest obstacle of the course. Ted was now calm enough to
take all this in, and he became aware that he had only two horses to
fear, "Cabul" and "Flying Fox". The black was now about a length behind,
whilst the chestnut was almost as much in front of him.

More than two miles had been covered before "Cabul" began to forge
slowly ahead of "The Padre", and to gain gradually on "Flying Fox", who,
by his tail's convulsive twitching and his heaving flanks, was beginning
to throw out signals of distress.

Even at that exciting moment the boy could not but admire the strong
seat, light firm hands, and splendid horsemanship of Lieutenant Spencer.
They had approached a hedge side by side, and though "The Padre" was
going quite as well as, if not even better than "Cabul", the latter
seemed to glide over the obstacle and was away on the other side a good
yard in front. The boy knew that the time was lost in collecting his
horse for the jump, and after landing on the other side, and as he felt
convinced that his mount was speedier and quicker on his legs than
Spencer's, and had better shoulders for landing, he could not understand
how his rival managed to fly the fences with so little decrease in his
speed and collect himself and get away on the other side without a
pause. And it seemed no effort!

The last jump was taken by the black a length in front of the gray, who
in his turn had beaten the chestnut by nearly as much. No other horse
was within thirty yards of the leader. But whereas Spencer had driven
his steed speedily at this wide water-jump, and had cleared it in
gallant style, "The Padre" jumped slightly short, and though he quickly
pulled himself together, he was now nearly two lengths behind. Still he
was going merrily and gamely, with any amount of spring and stay, and
the ensign recognized despairingly that he bestrode the swifter and more
clever horse, and was being beaten by his rival's horsemanship and
superior judgment.

And it is now a straight run to the judge's stand. Ted fancies to his
delight that "Cabul" appears somewhat done, and his rider is undoubtedly
having to urge him along for the first time. But with Spencer--in
striking contrast to the rider of the bay who came to grief at the
solitary line of hurdles--there is no flourishing of the whip, no
nervous jerking of the reins: the officer of the Guides preserves his
calm and impassive demeanour, for he understands his mount. In his
excitement the boy speaks to "The Padre", and that willing beast seems
to comprehend and gallantly responds.

From her horse's back, on a little mound near the judge's box, Ethel
Woodburn cranes forward eagerly. Yes, down the hill the gray is slowly
gaining on the black!

One hundred and fifty yards away and "The Padre's" head is level with
"Cabul's" tail. They see Ted for the first time touch the horse lightly
with his heels, the spur pricking a handsbreadth behind the girths; a
couple of quick strokes with the whip and the clever gray knows that the
time has come, and they see him bound forward. Eighty yards away and
Ted's knee is in line with "Cabul's" tail. The black is labouring hard,
and under an ordinary rider would have given in, but Lieutenant Spencer
is no ordinary rider.

Two more strides and the riders are level, and amid a roar which breaks
out on every side, and which the boy only hears as a distant murmur,
"The Padre" wins by a neck.




CHAPTER III

Ted does not think much of the Guides


Quite dazed and half-unconscious Ted was lifted from the saddle. As in a
dream he heard the prolonged applause of his mess-mates and the shrill
yells of delight raised by the swarthy men of the 193rd. Lieutenant
Spencer held out his hand to the victor and looked him approvingly in
the face.

"You young scoundrel!" he cheerfully exclaimed, "I congratulate you. You
deserved to win."

Ted heartily returned the handshake of his brother's friend, and
muttered something to the effect that the horse should be given all the
credit, not the rider. So great a triumph he had never before known, yet
he bore his honours modestly. Colonel Woodburn, Major Munro, Captain
Markham, and other mess-mates were quickly on the spot, patting and
praising both horse and rider. The thumps on the back given to Ted were
rather more vigorous than those awarded to "The Padre", and the ensign
had little breath wherewith to make suitable reply to the shower of
congratulations. Pir Baksh, the subadar, waved his sword wildly and led
the sepoys in their volleys of deafening applause.

There was one jarring note. A brother ensign who was strolling moodily
past the group moved a step nearer to Ted and snarled in an undertone:

"I've dropped two hundred rupees to-day, thanks to you."

It was Harry Tynan--a tall, handsome lad with dark hair inclined to
curl, and big brown eyes; the type of boy who from childhood is petted
and spoilt by mothers and aunts. Unless such an one possesses an
exceptionally strong character the result is fatal, and Tynan showed a
weak mouth and chin.

"The Padre's" owner caught the whisper.

"More fool you, you young idiot!" Markham genially observed, as the
silly youngster turned away with a muttered curse.

Miss Woodburn's congratulations were even more welcome than the praises
of his comrades.

"I'm proud of my future brother," she said. "You rode just splendidly.
Oh, it was exciting! I gave up all hope at the last water-jump.... And
then when you began to overhaul him down the incline! Didn't the
shouting affect your nerves?"

Ted shook his head. "I don't remember hearing anything. For all I knew
there might not have been a single person within miles except me and
Spencer--I mean Spencer and I--Spencer and myself, I should say."

"I could hardly hold myself in," went on Ethel. "I was dancing up and
down--screaming, I'm afraid."

"You were indeed, madame," interposed Jim. "You were making a most
discreditable exhibition."

"Ted," exclaimed the girl, "will you marry me? I'm tired of your
brother."

"That I will!" replied Ted. "To-morrow if you like. I never could
imagine what you could see in that chap, you know."

"Very well, I'll abandon him to his fate. He was actually cheering on
that Guide fellow during the last hundred yards."

"The brute!"

"Isn't he?"

"Who--the Guide fellow?"

With this embarrassing query Lieutenant Spencer joined the party. Ethel
blushed crimson, and for once in her life was at a loss for a remark.
Jim chuckled away to himself at his sweetheart's discomfiture in most
brutal fashion.

"That's right, Spencer," said he. "Come and back me up, I'm in a
minority here."

Miss Woodburn recovered from her confusion. She had already been
introduced by Jim to "that Guide fellow".

"I really beg your pardon, Lieutenant Spencer. We were indulging in a
little inter-regimental chaff and abuse. Captain Russell had dared to
applaud you rather than his brother at the final burst. And you don't
understand how fond we all are of 'The Padre'. He's the regimental
horse."

"Please don't apologize," Miss Woodburn. "I quite understand and
sympathize with you. Indeed, I'm glad you're scorching him, for he needs
it. And so he was cheering me in preference to your favourite? He must
have most execrable taste."

"Thank you, Spencer!" Jim hurriedly and joyfully broke in. "Thanks!...
Be grateful, Ethel. Don't you see how very complimentary to you that
remark is?"

For a few moments Miss Woodburn struggled with her amusement, but
laughter mastered her, and she could not speak before Spencer had
partially recovered his senses and recognized what a left-handed
compliment he had paid her. The Guides lieutenant was far more confused
and nervous now than at any time during the steeple-chase.

With crimson face he offered reparation.

"It's my turn to apologize now, Miss Woodburn. I think you'll forgive
me, though. It's my misfortune that I'm not very intelligent."

"I couldn't dream of doing so, Lieutenant Spencer," Ethel asserted,
still laughing. "You paid me out nicely, and I'm sure you did it
wilfully; it was far too smart to be unintentional."

"'Pon my honour, I didn't. I'm not half sharp enough to say anything of
that kind except by accident. One can't be perfect, you know, and we
must take into account that Russell did show poor taste in applauding
the inferior horse and rider--especially going against your opinion,
though we must acknowledge his perfect taste in at least one respect."

"I must forgive you after that, Mr. Spencer, though it was rather
crude," said the girl, shaking her head.

"And I say, Spencer," Jim interposed, "don't talk about 'inferior
rider'. We all know, and Ted knows, that you are a far better horseman
than he."

"Of course I do," the ensign heartily agreed.

"Too much praise isn't good for a youngster," the elder brother
sagaciously opined.

Spencer placed a hand on Ted's shoulder.

"All the same, young 'un, you won the Aurungpore Cup, and you deserved
to win."

The party of four came to a halt opposite Colonel Woodburn's bungalow.

"What time shall we start back for Murdan to-morrow?" asked the
lieutenant.

"We must leave early," Jim replied. "Will eight o'clock suit?"

"Very good," Spencer assented; "the young 'un and I will leave you
here."

"But you must not think of leaving us yet, Mr. Spencer. Won't you come
in? My father would be delighted to know you."

"Couldn't dream of it, Miss Woodburn, delighted though I should be to
make the colonel's acquaintance. It will be some time before Russell
gets leave again, and your last evening shall be sacred. Good-bye, Miss
Woodburn! I'm very glad to have met you. And may I congratulate you
both? I've known Russell well for some years, and I can congratulate
you, and--forgive me for saying it--I've known you for a couple of days,
and I do most sincerely congratulate him."

Ethel pressed the "horrid Guide man's" hand, and when he and Ted had
departed, observed:

"Whilst congratulations are passing round, Jim, I congratulate you on
your friend."

Ted shared a small, one-story residence just outside the town with his
chum Ensign Paterson. His bedroom was only just large enough to allow
sleeping-room for Jim, but hearing that Captain Russell's comrade of the
Guides was coming to Aurungpore, Paterson had placed his equally limited
accommodation at Spencer's disposal. Arrived at home, Ted doffed the
pigskin and discussed horses and riding with his guest until the time
came for them to sally forth once more. A dinner was to be given by the
officers of the 193rd in honour of the triumph of their regiment. For
the third time in succession they had won the Aurungpore Cup, and Ted
was the hero of the hour. He enjoyed the rôle until, his health having
been drunk with acclamation, he was called upon for a speech.

Such an ordeal had never been contemplated, and he had to be dragged to
his feet, a victim of nervous funk. As he faced his quizzing comrades
his mind was a blank; he stammered a few incoherent sentences intended
for thanks, and abruptly sat down again, feeling convinced that he had
qualified for a place in any home for the feeble-minded. Yet the older
officers liked him better for this lack of self-confidence than had he
shown no sign of confusion. In reply to the toast, "Our Guests",
Lieutenant Spencer made a neat and witty speech that set everyone at his
ease.

The ordeal over, Spencer, Paterson, and Ted returned to the little
bungalow, and settled down to await Jim's arrival. Lieutenant Spencer
filled his pipe and lay back in the one chair that the apartment
boasted, Paterson sat straddle-legged across a camp-stool, and Ted
squatted on a box with his back to the wall and his legs dangling. The
room was lighted by a candle stuck in a bottle, for were they not in the
"Gorgeous East" where luxury and splendour reign supreme?

"So you fellows of the 193rd are proud of your regiment!" the Guides'
officer observed.

"It's a first-class corps," Ted replied. "They fought like good 'uns
throughout both Sikh wars. You see, we've Bhurtpore as well as Sobraon,
Moodkee, and Gujerat on the colours; and the colonel says he'd lead 'em
anywhere--they'd follow their officers to the death. Markham's the
favourite with the men, though they're very fond of the 'old man' and
Major Munro."

"Yours is a queer corps, is it not, Lieutenant Spencer?" Paterson asked.

Spencer chuckled.

"It is! But I'm proud of being in the Guides."

"They say," continued the Scotch boy, "that you have all the frontier
races in the corps--Afridis, Afghans, and other Pathan tribes, Sikhs and
Gurkhas--and that some of them have been robbers and outlaws, and
murderers even. Is that true?"

Spencer chuckled still more.

"Quite true. We have all sorts--men with the best of characters, men
with the worst, and men with no characters at all. We've outlaws and
dacoits, thieves and murderers--though they don't call themselves
murderers; they resemble the border raiders of Scotland of some hundreds
of years ago. But every man who joins the Guides has to be strong,
healthy, active, brave as a lion, able to track like a Red Indian,
climb mountains, and think for himself. Lumsden gets hold of the most
daring men on the border, such as Dilawur Khan and Futteh Khan and
Bahram Khan, and makes Guides of them. They don't get coddled; and I
guess we shall have more work to do in the future than any regiment in
India. We've men of all races and creeds and men of no race or
creed--mostly big truculent Pathans, and nearly a hundred jolly little
Gurkhas sent us by the King of Nepal at Sir Henry Lawrence's request.
Oh, it's a grand corps! and we can get as many men as we like--scores
apply for every vacancy. Why, there are dozens of fellows learning the
drill at their own expense, both cavalry and infantry, waiting for an
opportunity to join us. There's no other regiment in India or England
can say the same."

"Well, I'd rather serve in the 193rd B.N.I.," Ted declared. "I shouldn't
care to trust your Guides very far. Why, many of your Sikhs must have
fought against us eight years ago; and as for the Afridis and Yusufzais,
they're always raiding British territory and killing our men, whilst the
sepoys of the 193rd have fought under British colours for half a
century."

"That's right, young 'un; stick up for your regiment."

"Jim was going to tell me," Ted remarked, "something about that Pathan
officer who was speaking to you this morning. Who is he?"

"Bahram Khan, do you mean?"

"Yes, that's the man. We noticed the natives shrinking from him when he
looked at them. Why was that?"

The lieutenant lay back in his chair and smiled.

"His is a queer story and typical of the Guides," he replied. "A few
years ago he was a well-known outlaw and brigand chief, who raided and
burnt villages and robbed right and left. We could never catch him, so
Lumsden, our colonel, offered to make him an officer if he'd join the
Guides, and he consented and brought his brigands with him."

Paterson regarded the speaker curiously.

"Is that a fact?" he asked.

"It is an absolute fact."

"We'd keep that sort of ruffian out of the 193rd, wouldn't we,
Paterson?" Ted asserted. "Aren't you afraid that you'll wake up some
morning with all your throats cut?"

"Not in the least. I'd rather be with the Guides than any corps. With
all respect to your sepoys of the 193rd, they've neither the stamina nor
the resource of our fellows."

"H'm! you're welcome to them. Eh, Paterson?"

"I agree with you, Ted. Have you ever seen Colonel Nicholson, Lieutenant
Spencer?"

"Jan Nikkulseyn? Rather. I sha'n't forget the first time I met him. It
was south of Peshawur, close to the border, where a gang of Afghan
labourers were making a road, protected by a half-company of sepoys
under an English subaltern, for it was in a wild district. It was just
after the rains, and a bullock-cart had stuck fast in the deep mud; and
the bullocks, not having the grit of a horse, wouldn't make any efforts.
I happened to be riding past with a couple of troopers. A big fellow
standing by in civilian dress had taken his coat off and put his
shoulder to the wheel, but they couldn't move it. This civilian, whom I
took to be the man in charge of the work, then asked the lieutenant and
the sepoys to lend a hand. But the sepoys coolly informed him that they
had enlisted to fight, not to do menial work, and the officer said:

"'It's no business of mine. I'm here to protect the road-makers, not to
do their work.'

"I dismounted, and so did one of my two men. The other, Hafiz Khan, bent
down and whispered:

"'I go to get help, Lieutenant Sahib'; and before I could stop him he
was galloping away. Well, we two turned the scale--though the big
civilian was worth us both--and at last we got the cart out and trotted
away. A mile or two farther on we saw Hafiz Khan waiting for us, and
when I slanged him for not staying to help us, he replied:

"'But he once threatened to hang me, Lieutenant Sahib, and Jan
Nikkulseyn never breaks his word'.

"'Who?' I asked, quite taken aback.

"'Jan Nikkulseyn. I am not afraid of a little pushing and pulling, but
of Jan Nikkulseyn are we all afraid.'

"The civilian was Colonel Nicholson. Hafiz Khan had been engaged in two
or three raids before he had enlisted, and, bold as they are, there's
not a Pathan along the border dare look Nicholson between the eyes."

"And what became of the lieutenant?" asked Ted.

"He applied for an important appointment at Peshawur a month later. He
found out his mistake then, and felt sorry he'd ever been born."

A clatter of hoofs interrupted their talk, and Ted ran to the outer door
to admit his brother. Captain Russell was quiet and grave, for his happy
days had come to an end, and to-morrow the dull routine of regimental
work would begin again. He was evidently little inclined for
conversation, and before long the four officers passed off into the
adjoining bedrooms.

Captain Russell was well liked by about one-half of his acquaintances,
and disliked by a good proportion of the remainder. His friends knew him
for a brave, good-hearted, conscientious man, and his detractors termed
him a prig. The fault was in his manner, at times heavy, awkward, and
solemn, largely the result of shyness, for with intimate friends he
could be lively and full of fun.

Serious thoughts occupied his mind as he undressed. Ought not he, the
elder brother and man of experience, to give the youngster a few words
of advice, before leaving him, on some subjects more serious than
steeple-chasing? But how to begin? Jim Russell knew his own failings,
and dreaded lest Ted should sneer at him as a prig; and he envied his
chum, Spencer, who, he felt sure, could have given the lad sound advice
and warning without the least suspicion of preaching. However, Jim was
conscientious, and he resolved to take the risk.

The ensign's evident _esprit de corps_ and delight in his regiment
furnished an admirable opening, and sitting on the low bed
half-undressed, the elder brother spoke like a father to the younger
concerning his duty to the regiment.

Then, as the captain was an enthusiastic admirer of the great brothers
Henry and John Lawrence, and of their band of devoted followers, the
first topic naturally led to a eulogy of the Punjab leaders; and Jim
explained to the ensign how Henry Lawrence had begun, and how John
Lawrence was now carrying on the work of showing to the wild Sikhs,
Jats, and Mohammedans of the Punjab the highest ideal of British justice
and uprightness.

Ted listened attentively, but said nothing. He too was already filled
with admiration for those Christian soldiers and statesmen who were soon
to save India.

"Not that I want you to be an objectionable young prig," the captain
went on; "there's a big difference between that and the genuine article.
You know what I mean?"

The ensign nodded, and Jim continued:

"I like your chum--Paterson; he seems a very decent lad. And I noticed
on one occasion that he showed he was not ashamed of his religion. Why
should we so-called Christians be so afraid of acting up to what we
profess to believe? Look at the Lawrences and Herbert Edwardes, three of
the greatest men in India! They are true Christians, and where could
you find finer soldiers and braver men? It's a poor soldier who's
ashamed of his colours."

Ted nodded assent, and, feeling that he had done his duty, Jim bade him
good-night and blew out the candle.

An early breakfast next morning, and our ensign and his two visitors
were in the saddle by seven o'clock. Ten minutes later Ethel Woodburn
cantered up, attended by a sais, and Spencer and Ted ambled along,
keeping well ahead of the lovers.

"I suppose that's the fort over there?" Spencer asked, and pointed to an
ugly square building of dark sandstone that dominated the town.

"Yes, it's an arsenal too. There'd be a big smash in Aurungpore if it
was to blow up," said Ted, who little thought of the influence that
forbidding fortress would exert upon his career.

"It has half-ruined the town already by its ugliness," Spencer mused.
"That mosque on the left is a little gem, and that dome is perfect, but
the arsenal spoils them as completely as a factory chimney spoils a view
at home. The Moslems beat us at architecture."

"I think I must be turning back now," Ted presently observed, "I have
plenty to do before parade."

They came to a halt and awaited the arrival of the others. The lovers
parted, Ted shook hands with Jim and Spencer, and nodded in response to
his brother's parting injunction to take care of Ethel. Miss Woodburn
stayed, waving her handkerchief, until a bend of the road hid her
betrothed from view. Joining Ted, she touched her bay lightly with the
whip, and they trotted home without exchanging a word.




CHAPTER IV

The Fanatics


In spite of our hero's recent disgust he had quickly become reconciled
to the sweet girl who was to be his brother's wife. There was no
resisting her charms. He found her as full of fun and as fond of
adventure as any boy could wish, and he soon grew very anxious to win
her good opinion, even attempting to show off occasionally for her
benefit. Ethel had become no less attached to the honest,
healthy-minded, plucky lad, and wrote warningly to Jim that she had
fallen desperately in love with his jolly young brother.

A few weeks had elapsed since Captain Russell's departure, when
something happened to attach them still more closely. One beautiful
winter day Ethel asked the ensign if he would care to stroll through the
native _bazar_ with her, and the lad willingly complied.

Not being of a very curious disposition, he had hitherto neglected this
quarter of the town, and had spent most of his leisure time riding and
shooting in the country beyond. But on this occasion the girl was able
to make the visit much more interesting than he had anticipated. She
knew the people and more than one of the many dialects fairly well, and
she pointed out to her companion the men of various nationalities and
religions who swarmed in the narrow streets. He noticed with amazement
the difference between the strong fighting men of the North-west--the
sturdy Jat and stalwart Pathan--and the fat, mild, shrinking Babu from
Bengal, or the slender and weaker Hindu from the South.

This part of the town was quite distinct from the quarter in which the
Europeans lived, and was much more picturesque, if also more dirty. In
the narrow streets all the goods of the small shops were exposed to the
passer-by. Workmen could be seen plying their trade, undisturbed by the
inquisitive glances of the lookers-on. And what clumsy tools they had!
It would have been impossible for such delicate, exquisite work to have
been turned out therewith, had not the artisans put their whole soul
into the labour: for to do his work thoroughly and beautifully is a
religious duty with the Hindu.

Passing the stalls of the money-changers, fruit-sellers, and dealers in
native sweetmeats, their attention was attracted by certain curios in
one of the queer shops, and our ensign looked about for something worth
sending home. He fixed upon a queer silver bangle, set with turquoises.
The setting was uncommon, but the stones were only poor. The turbaned,
white-robed shopkeeper rose and came forward at once, salaaming
profoundly, and putting on one side the hubble-bubble he was smoking.
After a lengthy argument, in which Ted failed to understand the man's
rapid utterance, and his own Hindustani was beyond comprehension, Miss
Woodburn came to the rescue, fixed the price, and concluded the
business.

Attracted by the sahib's curious rendering of their native tongue, a
number of the many idlers around had drawn near. At a corner of the
narrow street, not fifty paces distant, voices had been meanwhile raised
in earnest and violent harangue. Having learned even during his short
sojourn in the land how furious an altercation may arise over a matter
of a couple of annas, Ted had not paid much attention to the noise; but
now the speakers rose and came towards them. Foremost was a tall,
half-naked man, with long and flowing beard--a mass of dirt and evil
smells; for with these strange people cleanliness is not on speaking
terms with godliness, and the most holy men are the most filthy. His
eyes were inflamed, and his looks and gestures wild. Ethel, from her
longer experience, saw that the mullah had rendered himself mad with
bhang, and that two of his companions were in a similar condition.

Pointing to the Feringhis, the mullah's voice rose to a wild shriek.

"What do these offspring of the evil one here? O followers of the
Prophet, how long will ye allow yourselves to be denied by these kafirs.
The time is even now at hand when Allah shall no longer permit this:
then shall his wrath fall upon them, and they shall be swept from the
face of the earth. The hundred years of the white man's _raj_[2] are
fulfilled, and the curse shall be lifted from us!"

  [2] dominion.

The fanatic's voice rose to a wild shriek as he concluded the harangue.
Ted could not follow the speech: he could only gather from the tone and
gestures that he and his companion were the objects of abuse, and he
guessed from the half-angry, half-cringing manner of the tradesman that
something serious was being said. Ethel, however, understood every word,
and was alarmed.

They tried to leave the _bazar_, but found their progress barred.

"Out of the way, there!" the ensign commanded, but no one moved.

"Kill the kafir pigs!--there is no one to see!" called out a voice from
the rear.

"No, no!" objected others hastily. "What harm have they done? And will
not the vengeance of the Whites be upon us all? Make way there for the
sahib-log!"

But another of the bhang-drugged fanatics, who had been swaying to and
fro in his delirium, screamed:

"Aye! Why not kill now?" and he roughly seized the white-faced girl.

With a savage exclamation the English boy sprang forward and struck the
speaker behind the ear with all his force. Not for nothing had Edward
Russell been trained in gymnastics, in boxing and fencing--the fellow
dropped like a log. But before Ted could turn or draw his sword the
mullah had plucked a knife from beneath his scanty garment and plunged
it in the lad's side.

"Die, unbeliever!" he cried.

As the ensign pressed his hands to his side and dropped to the earth
with a feeble moan, the screaming and jabbering of the by-standers
ceased as if by magic. Even the mullah and his disciples drew back
appalled at what they had done, while the more timid of the crowd fled
to their homes in dread of the consequences and the sure wrath of the
sahibs, fearing lest vengeance should fall on innocent and guilty alike
for this murder of a white man. The merchants before whose shops the act
had been committed wrung their hands in despair, shrieking imprecations
down upon the heads of the fanatics, who stood gazing at their
handiwork.

The mullah's hesitation lasted but a second. He turned towards the
trembling girl, and called to his abettors:

"Finish off the lad while I slay the woman!"

Ethel Woodburn was a soldier's daughter: she had more than once looked
danger in the face bravely and calmly. Had she been alone she might have
hesitated, or had her companion been in a condition to protect her she
might have relied on him. But, seeing the boy of whom she was so fond
stretched at her feet, cruelly wounded and helpless, and at the mercy of
these madmen, her instinct prompted her to do the right thing without a
moment's hesitation, and she blessed the father who had taught her to
carry and use a pistol.

The little weapon was hardly more than a toy, but it checked the
assassins sufficiently to enable her to bend down swiftly and snatch
Ted's sword from its scabbard. The murderer was but a pace away when she
pulled the trigger and stepped back. He fell, writhing, the bullet in
his chest. The second received the point of the sword under his arm-pit
as he raised his hand to strike. The third assailant, dazed by the blow
from Ted's fist, had now risen, and was hesitating as to his next step,
when a couple of native police, attracted by the report and noise, ran
up, and, being Sikhs, they had no hesitation in securing the uninjured
Mohammedan, and they also prevented the crowd from carrying off the
wounded Wahabis.[3]

  [3] The most fanatical and implacable Moslem sect.

Never losing her presence of mind, Ethel bound the unconscious lad's
wound to stop the bleeding, and ordered the by-standers to carry him to
his quarters, where the regimental surgeon attended to the injury. The
bangle had disappeared.

A few weeks later, when the injured persons had recovered, the three
would-be assassins were tried on the charge of attempted murder, and
were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment.

Some time elapsed before Ted was able to get about as usual. Had it not
been for the bandage so promptly applied by Ethel he must have bled to
death, so she had saved his life in two different ways. During his slow
and painful recovery he was nursed untiringly by his new sister; and
though she made light of her heroic deed, the girl's courage and
presence of mind were the chief themes of conversation with the
officers who frequently visited his bed-side, and the ensign's lucky
brother became more envied than ever. Ethel invariably checked his
expressions of gratitude, and would not allow him to talk about the
incident.

"Bosh, Ted!" she would say; "I was in such a state of abject fear that I
didn't know what I was doing. I only shot the man because my hand
trembled so that the trigger went off, and he happened to be in front."

"Certainly, Ethel, I quite understand. I'll just read you a letter I had
this morning from Jim. You'd p'r'aps like to hear his opinion?"

"Oh, that boy's demented! I had a note also from him this morning. He's
quite wild."

"Good chap Jim,--knows a thing or two!" said Ted, nodding his head
sagely.




CHAPTER V

The Cad of the Regiment


"This is the place where I was knifed, Paterson," said Ted, "and there's
the old boy I had been bargaining with. Watch him eyeing me; he looks
rather scared, don't he?"

The wound was now quite healed, and impelled doubtless by a magnetic
attraction, akin perhaps to that said to be exercised on murderers by
the scenes of their crimes, our ensign had induced his chum Paterson to
stroll with him through the _bazar_ one evening after duty was over for
the day.

While Ted had been down with his wound Alec Paterson had opened out in a
remarkable manner and thrown down the last barriers of reserve. Ensign
Paterson had only recently admitted Ted into close friendship. He was a
Scottish lad, hailing from Lanarkshire, and no better choice of a friend
could have been made. Physically he was tall and well-formed,
intellectually he was ahead of most of his brother ensigns, and in moral
character strong, upright, and healthy. He was very reserved, difficult
to know, chary of his intimacy, and slow of speech. Tynan termed him a
"saint", and cordially disliked him; and in return Paterson disproved
the accusation of saintliness by being obnoxiously polite and somewhat
ponderously playful in his dealings with the regimental _bête noir_.

"He does look scared," Alec replied. "He must think you were killed, and
that your ghost has come to jump down his throat or ride on his back,
or whatever it is that their evil spirits do. You had better speak and
reassure him."

As Ted approached the stall, the hand of the sleek Hindu shot forth
across the boards on which his wares were displayed and snatched
something from the front row. Not, however, before our hero had
recognized the identical bangle that he had bought and paid for on the
occasion of his previous visit. His face flushed.

"That is mine," he asserted. "I bought and paid for it."

Understanding that the bangle had been seen, and that denial was
useless, the shopkeeper salaamed and unabashed replied: "Nay, sahib, the
one you bought you took away, and I have never set eyes on it since."

"But you told me it was unique--that there was not another like it in
the country."

"I am the sahib's slave, and I spoke truth. There was not another like
it in the Punjab. But since the Heaven-born's visit a Kazilbash merchant
from Kabul, with whom I deal in turquoises, has sold me this. It is
indeed similar to the one I sold the sahib, but the turquoises are
larger and better. Welcome is the sight of the Heaven-born in the eyes
of his servant, who has suffered great anxiety."

"What's the row, Ted?" Paterson asked. And matters being explained, he
at once enquired of the Hindu why he had been so anxious to prevent the
bangle being seen if he had come by it honestly. But the "Aryan brown"
was more than their match in guile.

"In truth I remembered how the former one had brought ill-luck to the
young sahib, and I feared lest he might take a fancy to this one also.
And I know that the sahibs are reckless in such matters, not believing
in omens. Rather would I lose business than bring misfortune upon the
head of the young sahib."

Alec Paterson laughed.

"I'm afraid it's no go, Russell," he whispered. "The rascal is too deep
for us, and we cannot prove that it really is the same article."

"But it's robbery pure and simple!" Ted indignantly declared. "I know
it's the same that I lost during the scuffle."

The shopkeeper regarded them gravely and sadly, as though he felt deeply
the doubts they had cast upon his honesty. He produced one article after
another, tempting them in vain to buy. At length, guessing that the boy
had set his heart upon the bangle, he offered him the pretty toy for
thirty rupees, assuring him that he had given twice that sum to the
Kazilbash.

"I'll give you fifteen," said Ted, "and not an anna more."

The Hindu shook his head.

"I am poor man," said he, "else would I gladly beg the sahib to accept
it as a present."

"Very well," Ted firmly rejoined. "Come along, Alec."

They turned to go, but the Hindu hastily recalled them.

"Nay," said he, "I had forgotten that the sahib had to suffer the loss
of the first one. For twenty rupees will I sell it, or, in truth, give
it away, rather than that the Heaven-born should be disappointed."

"Fifteen," was all Ted's answer; and once more the bangle changed hands,
and the ensign left the shop. On the way to cantonments they overtook
Harry Tynan, the object of their mutual dislike, and were about to pass
with a nod as devoid of cordiality as decency would permit, when Tynan
spoke, or rather sneered: "Why, Russell, I thought you always took a
girl to protect you whenever you went into the _bazar_!"

"Did you really now?" asked Ted banteringly. "Wasn't it an effort?"

"What do you mean? Was what an effort?"

"To think--so unusual, you know, for you."

"Oh how clever you are! But how aren't you keeping an eye on Brother
Jim's future wife, according to instructions? I saw her this evening
flirting as usual with the Commissioner Sahib. You are not doing your
duty. Captain Russell 'ud be angry if he knew."

"Come along, Russell; what's the use of talking to that cad?" whispered
Paterson. "Contemptible toad!"

But his friend's ire had been aroused by the last remark. He halted and
faced Tynan.

"What d'you mean?" he demanded.

Tynan slowly drew a huge cheerot from his lips and attempted to blow
rings of smoke before replying.

"You know well enough. Stunnin' little flirt is Ethel--deuced stunnin'!
Shouldn't be surprised if she threw Brother Jim over!"

"What do you mean?" repeated Ted with still greater heat.

"Don't be an ass, Ted. Leave the cad alone," Paterson again whispered.

Tynan was Russell's senior by nearly a couple of years, and he stood a
clear three inches taller. Ted's anger amused him.

"Why--don't you know?" he innocently enquired. "You see, our little
Ethel had been setting her cap at Sir Arthur Fletcher for months before
she saw your brother. But Arthur knows what's what, and the little
darling has had to put up with a mere captain of the Guides. But she
still hankers after the commissioner, and sighs for the handle to her
name."

"Ye leein' hyæna!" Paterson burst out, his native dialect rising to the
surface in his excitement. "Keep a ceevil tongue in your heid, or I'll
knock ye down!"

"No, you don't, Paterson," broke in Ted. "That's my business. You cad,
to lie like that about a girl you're not fit to speak to! Take that!"

Our ensign struck his comrade across the face--a resounding smack with
the open palm.

The fight was very short. Though tall enough, Tynan was weedy and unfit.
For several years he had considered himself a man of the world, and one
of the chief aims--if not _the_ chief--of his life had been to convince
his associates that he was well qualified for that dignified position,
and the attainment of this object had, of course, necessitated abundant
smoking and drinking. Wonderful to relate, no one had so far seemed
greatly impressed!

Five minutes after the first blow, with bleeding nose and damaged eye,
the contemptible fellow was sullenly admitting that he had had enough.

"Think it over the nicht," Paterson suggested. "If ye hev not I'll just
gie ye seemilar satisfaction. And I'd hev ye obsairve it wad be safer to
cam' oot wi' no mair lees o' that sort. Cam' awa', Russell!"

"Wait a moment, I've not done yet," said Ted. "Let me inform you now,
you cad, what I would not waste my breath in telling you before--that
Miss Woodburn had refused Sir Arthur Fletcher before she became engaged
to my brother, and that he has congratulated my brother, and is a loyal,
honourable gentleman, of whose friendship Miss Woodburn is proud; and
don't let me hear you speaking of her again as you did just now."

The chums left the miserable being--neither man nor boy--to follow as he
chose.

"What garred ye say that last, Russell?" asked the Scottish lad, who was
still labouring under strong excitement, as soon as they had passed out
of hearing.

"What? About Fletcher?"

"Yea You'd no right to drag his refusal into the affair!" Paterson
dropped the tell-tale accent as he spoke more slowly. "That's between
him and Miss Woodburn, and he wouldn't thank you if he knew, nor would
she. It was perhaps very satisfying to you, but they don't need to be
defended from a fellow like our friend yonder."

"I'm very sorry--I'm a fool! I was so angry I didn't stop to think. Bah!
he leaves a bad taste in the mouth, that fellow!"

"We should have passed him without taking any notice," Paterson went on.
"But it served him right!"

For the future Tynan gave his conqueror a wide berth, and Ted ignored
his existence as far as their respective duties, would permit.

Returning from the officers' mess that evening, Ted was accosted by Pir
Baksh, the Mohammedan captain.

"I saw you fight with Ensign Tynan," said he. "He is the kind of officer
to ruin a regiment. Once he dared to call me a _soor_ (pig) before my
men, and I thank you, sahib, for teaching him a lesson."




CHAPTER VI

The Outbreak of the Mutiny


On the night of Monday, May 11, some weeks after Ted's recovery, Ethel's
twenty-first birthday was celebrated, Colonel Woodburn entertaining the
officers and British residents of Aurungpore. The season was too warm
for more than occasional dancing, and conversation was the order of the
night--conversation serious and frivolous, harmless flirtations between
the younger members, and solemn interchange of views concerning the
rumoured dissatisfaction prevailing amongst the native troops, a subject
pooh-poohed by some and laughed at by others, but gravely regarded by a
few--when an orderly entered and handed a missive to the colonel. As he
opened it and read he gave a start, and his face paled for one brief
second, but soon resumed its ordinary aspect as he slowly folded the
paper and placed it in his pocket.

A few moments later he crossed over to Major Munro, who at once left the
room after speaking to the adjutant and another officer. These two also
took their departure before long, and one by one the remainder of the
officers were spoken to and retired to their mess-room, where they were
shortly joined by Colonel Woodburn.

"I have terrible news," he informed them, "but we must try to avoid
alarming either the ladies or the sepoys. The 3rd Native Cavalry and the
11th and 20th Native Infantry have broken into mutiny at Meerut, killed
some of their officers, and, so the message runs, are sacking the town
and murdering right and left."

"At Meerut!" gasped Major Munro. "How at Meerut of all places? They
couldn't--it's simply impossible!"

"It must be true," declared the colonel, "though it certainly does seem
impossible. One would think they would have broken out at Cawnpore, or
Benares, or Allahabad, or here, or anywhere rather than Meerut. But this
report must be exaggerated! How could they sack the town and murder in
the face of those English regiments and the Artillery? It's
incomprehensible!"

Now even Ensign Russell, a mere griffin, knew that Meerut--a large
station more than fifty miles north-east of Delhi--was considered a
model cantonment, and contained the strongest British force in all
India. Could a revolt seem more hopeless than at this station, where the
three native corps were more than counterbalanced by a regiment of
British dragoons, the 60th Rifles, and two batteries of the finest
artillery in the world--a force sufficient to repress any rising within
ten minutes--whereas throughout the seven hundred and fifty miles of
territory along the Ganges, in the districts containing the large towns
of Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Patna, there were
only three weak British corps to oppose nearly a score of sepoy
regiments and many thousands of armed rebels?

"There's no saying how it will spread," continued the colonel. "We must
take all precautions, though I believe our men are perfectly
trustworthy. There must be some mistake, and I've no doubt that we shall
hear to-morrow that the rebels have been cut to pieces. I'm afraid the
silly fellows will be slaughtered by hundreds."

But the news of the morning and of the succeeding days was no less hard
to understand. Eighty-five men of the 3rd Native Cavalry (a corps
composed of Hindus and Mohammedans) had refused to use the cartridges
served out, alleging that the fat of pigs and of cows had been employed
in the manufacture.

As most readers will know, the pig is regarded as unclean by all
Moslems, and the cow is holy to Hindus, so that to touch the fat of
these animals would imperil their salvation and shut them out of
Paradise. The mullahs and fakirs had been poisoning the minds of the
soldiers by asserting that the government was taking this means of
uprooting their religion and converting them to Christianity by
destroying their chance of salvation as Moslems or Hindus. If they had
no future to which to look forward as Mussulmans or Brahmans, they would
be the more ready to listen to the Christian doctrine which might give
them some hope.

Unfortunately there is reason to believe that some foundation for the
rumour existed, owing to carelessness on the part of those responsible
for the manufacture, and to senseless, most blamable, disregard of the
sepoy's religious susceptibilities. But these few unclean cartridges had
been withdrawn, and those which the men were required to use contained
no offensive grease, but merely oil and bees'-wax. The childish,
credulous, superstitious sepoys were, however, only too ready to believe
all idle tales: they accepted the statements of the fakirs, that by
means of charms and witchcraft the English would transform them into
animals; that their children would be born with tails like monkeys, and
other stories equally absurd.

The sepoys were now in such a panic of fear lest their precious caste
should be defiled, that they began to suspect some attempt to destroy
this inheritance (without which life was not worth living) in everything
prepared for them by the government. The new cartridge-paper had a
glazed, greasy appearance. This was enough! Here was another subtle
attempt to make them Christians! In this fashion they argued and
persuaded one another like foolish children, though in reality the paper
was entirely free from fat.

Many years before this a report had spread throughout Hindustan that the
English rulers were collecting the salt (a very precious commodity in
the East) into two heaps: over that intended for the use of the
Mohammedans the blood of pigs was sprinkled, and over the other the
blood of cows. This "salt" panic had occurred many years ago, but now in
1857 an equally incredible story was believed by hundreds of thousands,
namely, that the government had caused the bones of bullocks and of pigs
to be ground and mixed with the flour served out to the troops. For days
following the rumour no flour was used, the sepoys preferring to starve
rather than eat what they believed to be defiled food.

But these matters of the greased cartridges and bone-flour were by no
means the only cause of the great mutiny: they were simply the pretexts
for bringing matters to a head. The sepoys had been treated in widely
different ways at various times, being now spoiled and petted, and now
dealt with haughtily and occasionally unjustly. When first the native
army was raised the men were allowed to dress after their own fashion,
but early in the nineteenth century many changes had been initiated, and
the soldiers began to be clothed and drilled according to the European
model.

They were forbidden to wear the cherished caste-marks on their
foreheads; the ear-rings to which they were fondly attached, and which
the Moslems regarded as a charm against evil spirits, were no longer
permitted; they were deprived of the beards of which they had been so
proud, and were forced to shave their chins like the "unclean"
Englishmen; and upon their head the national turban was replaced by a
stiff round cap. Now, not only are hats and caps the outward and
visible signs of Christianity (for Christians are known as
_topi-wallahs_, or hat-wearers), but this uniform cap contained leather
made either from the hide of the abominable hog or from that of the
sacred cow. Thus the new head-dress was an offence to Moslems and Hindus
alike.

A further cause of discontent arose from the decline in the importance
of the native officer. In the early years of the British-Indian army the
native officer had been a great and important man, but at this period
his standing had declined. The English officer of sixteen had authority
over the grizzled Rajput captain who had served the Company for thirty
years. The native officers were not saluted by British privates, and
frequently when they visited the tents of their white brother-officers,
the latter had not the courtesy to offer them chairs, regarding them,
indeed, as in no way different from the common sepoy. The native
officers grumbled to one another in indignant tones over these
grievances.

"It is better," they said, "to serve in the armies of the native states,
where elephants and palanquins and sumptuous tents are provided for the
officers, than in the army of 'The Great Lord Company', in which we are
compelled to live with the common sepoy when on the line of march."

Again, most of the Hindus had enlisted on the understanding that they
were to serve in Hindustan only and not across the sea. Now to cross
"The Black Water" is likewise a defilement forbidden to Brahmans, and
great dissatisfaction had been caused a few years previously because
certain regiments had been ordered to Burma; and during this campaign
the Brahmans had been compelled to work as labourers in the construction
of barracks. The British soldiers had fallen to with a will, as had the
low-caste Madras sepoys, but the men from Bengal demanded to know
whether Brahmans and Rajputs were mere coolies that they should so
defile themselves.

In addition to the above causes of disquietude, the King of Delhi--a
quiet old gentleman who dabbled in poetry--had been recently deprived of
certain privileges. This monarch was the descendant of the great Mogul
emperors, whose sway had been acknowledged by far more kings, princes,
and nations than that of any European sovereign.

Yet the heir to this magnificence was now merely the pensioner of a
company of merchants; though permitted to dwell in an enormous
palace--almost a town in itself--with the empty title of king, he
possessed no real power and no authority. This fact rankled in the minds
of all Mohammedans. In one important respect, however, the Company had
deferred to the king's wishes. He had begged that none of their troops
should be quartered in the imperial city, so that he might at least make
pretence to be the real master thereof. The request was granted, and
with the exception of a handful of men to guard the great Delhi arsenal,
neither sepoys nor British soldiers were stationed in the town, but,
instead, had their cantonments on the destined-to-be-famous ridge
outside.

Then, again, the great province of Oudh had been recently annexed, and
certain privileges had been taken not only from the king thereof, but
from the large landholders; and though in the course of time these
changes would undoubtedly work for the good of the majority, still they
pressed heavily on a certain class; and the poorer people, for whose
benefit the changes were made, could not understand, and therefore
disliked them. The King of Oudh, like his master the Emperor of Delhi,
was a Mohammedan.

There was also a Mahratta rajah, known as Nana Sahib, who had many
grievances against the English. The Mahrattas were a powerful Hindu
confederacy that had overawed even the Grand Moguls until Wellesley and
Lake had broken their power.

Trouble had arisen in many corps over the question of pay. For services
outside India the sepoys were paid more than in Hindustan itself. After
the annexation of the Punjab in 1849 this extra pay was dropped for
regiments serving in the province, and the sepoys could not understand
how, if the Punjab was not in Hindustan when they entered, it could
become part of Hindustan because the government chose to term it so.
They argued that even if the Punjab had become merged in the Indian
Empire, it was still a foreign country in their eyes; that they were
still serving away from their native land, and were therefore entitled
to extra pay. Some regiments had accordingly refused to obey orders.

The Brahman priests thereupon warned the Indian Government that if they
(the priests) chose to forbid Hindus to enlist, the British would have
to make shift without a sepoy army. This threat rather frightened "John
Company", but not Sir Charles Napier, the commander-in-chief at the
period. He promptly took matters into his own hands, and disbanding the
66th Native Infantry, which had refused to obey orders, he gave their
title and colours to the Nasiri Gurkha Battalion, who thereupon became
the 66th Infantry of the Line.

This step scared the Brahmans, for they saw that if the government was
minded to fill their places with Gurkhas, those intrepid little
mountaineers would be only too delighted to enlist in the regular army
instead of in irregular battalions with less pay, as at present. The
occupation of the Brahman sepoys would then be gone, at least to a
larger extent than they desired.

Now, in India the status of a soldier is a most honourable one, and the
army is not mainly recruited from the lower classes, as in England, but
from the most respectable natives of the middle and higher ranks of
life; and families consider it a great privilege to have a son in the
army, even as a private. Judged by Indian standards the pay is very
good, and the pension will keep a family in ease and comfort. The
British soldier often enlists because he has no taste for settled
employment, or because he has been tempted by coloured placards setting
forth "the advantages of the army", or has been attracted by the ribbons
of the recruiting-sergeant. Perchance he has been jilted by his
sweetheart, or done something of which he is ashamed, and so has run
away from home. Often he has taken another name, and has lost sight and
touch of the parents at home.

But the sepoy, as soon as his name is on the regimental roll, becomes
the pride and prop of his house. He visits home regularly and is
regarded as a great man in his village, and his family comes under the
special protection of the state. Many families boasted that they had
eaten the salt of "The Great Lord Company" from generation to
generation. The sepoys usually had a real pride in their colours; they
rejoiced in the honourable and well-paid service that was sought by the
very flower of the people, by the highest castes in Bengal.

Napier's prompt action checked the spread of revolt, but dissatisfaction
still rankled in the sepoys' breasts. In 1857 each injustice was
recalled to mind, and thousands of the mutineers honestly believed that
they had been very badly treated.

A further incitement to revolt was this. The Moslems cherished a
prophecy that India would be ruled by the Feringhis for exactly one
hundred years, after which the Mogul Empire would resume its sway. The
year 1857 was just a century after Plassey.




CHAPTER VII

Weighed in the Balance


The principal causes of the great mutiny having now been explained, let
us go back to Meerut and its eighty-five mutineers. These men were
sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, and in the presence of the
sepoy regiments the fetters were placed upon their limbs. The sight of
the degradation angered and alarmed their comrades, and rumours spread
through the town to the effect that all the black soldiers were to be
disgraced in the same way, and at this date no report was too ridiculous
for the sepoys.

On the Sunday evening, 10th May, the 60th Rifles assembled for church
parade. At once the rumour flew round that the white soldiers were
preparing to fall upon their brown comrades, and the absurd tale gained
ready credence. The sepoys were taunted by the women of the town, were
called cowards for permitting their comrades to suffer disgrace; and no
sooner had the Rifles marched off to church than the native troops lost
all control of themselves, broke open the jail, set their eighty-five
comrades free, and, encouraged by the convicts, they began to fire on
the white residents.

All the _budmashes_ of Meerut joining in, pandemonium ensued. Houses
were broken into and set on fire; Englishmen and women were brutally
murdered. Yet whilst this was going on in one part of the town, in
another quarter the sepoys of the same regiments were saluting their
officers and guarding the Treasury as usual.

Back came the 60th Rifles from church and quickly reassembled with arms
and ammunition, but by this time the mutineers were on the road to
Delhi. Though the British dragoons were at once ordered out, their
commanding officer could not grasp the need for prompt punishment. He
allowed the roll to be called in the ordinary way, wasting precious
moments, whilst the rebel sepoys were hastening nearer and nearer to the
imperial city.

Night fell quickly, and as the general commanding did not know which way
the rebels had fled, he did not order pursuit, arguing that the troops
must remain behind to protect the residents of Meerut from the thousands
of _budmashes_ and escaped jail-birds.

Had the dragoons at Meerut been ordered down the road to Delhi (for the
general might easily have guessed that the rebels would take that
direction), the 60th Rifles and the Artillery were strong enough to have
swept all the _budmashes_ in Meerut out of existence; and the dragoons
would certainly have overtaken and destroyed the two foot regiments, and
might have come up with the 3rd Native Cavalry. In the face of the
British horsemen the populace of Delhi would not have dared to
sympathize with the mutineers; the revolt would perhaps have died out,
and the terrible massacres of Delhi, Cawnpore, and other places might
never have occurred. But it is easy to be wise after the event, and the
general commanding at Meerut, though a brave man, was not a far-seeing
one. He was content to save and defend his own station, failing to
recognize that a spark kindled in Delhi, the real capital of India,
would set the whole land ablaze. As it was, the mutineers, scared out of
their wits by the fear of a terrible retribution, hearing in their
frightened imaginations the thundering of the dragoons behind them, got
safely into Delhi and attempted to rouse that city against the
Feringhis. But the people of Delhi said one to another:

"No! The English will be here presently with their terrible horsemen and
still more terrible artillery. Let us take no part in this!"

But not a British soldier was in sight next day from the city walls, and
the rumour soon gained ground that all the white troops in Meerut had
been slain, and that Allah had taken from them their vigour and their
courage. "The Feringhis are _lachar_[4]!" was the cry.

  [4] helpless.

And the populace and the sepoys around Delhi joined their brethren from
Meerut, proclaiming Bahadur Shah, the old gentleman poet, "Emperor of
all India"; they massacred the fifty English men and women in the city,
and before many days had passed most of the regiments throughout Bengal
and the Punjab were on the brink of mutiny, hesitating to take the
plunge. Had there been at Meerut on that fatal Sunday a Lawrence or an
Edwardes, a Cotton, Nicholson, or Neill, the revolt might have been
crushed with one decisive blow.

So the news brought to our friends at Aurungpore was too true. Through
the whole land, from Peshawur to Calcutta, spread the black terror, and
though most officers of sepoy regiments trusted their own particular
corps, each feared lest other regiments should throw off their
allegiance and murder without remorse not only the officers, but the
Christian women and children of the towns.

The colonel and officers of the 193rd never doubted that their beloved
regiment would prove true to its salt, for the most friendly feeling
existed between officers and men. Some of the former had more than once
risked their lives for their men, and in return several of the sepoys
had rescued their officers from situations of great peril by their
pluck and devotion.

Terrible as were many of the acts committed by the mutineers, we must
not consider them as so many fiends in the shape of men, nor must we
believe that their delight was to shed human blood. In 1857 the sepoy
was a madman inflamed with rage and bitter hatred against those whom he
mistakenly considered his oppressors; and many who suffered most from
his fury were in truth his best friends and well-wishers.

Most inconsistent were his actions, and his character was a mass of
contradictions. He was simple and credulous as a child, and at the same
time crafty and designing; his cruelty was frequently evident, and never
more so than in this terrible year, yet as a rule he was gentle and
kindly. It was no uncommon sight for the hardened sepoy warrior to be
found watching beside his English officer's sick-bed, and no woman could
be a more gentle nurse; he was devoted to his sahib's children, and
loved to make them happy. Generally he was languid and indolent, yet
capable of being roused to passionate energy; at times light-hearted and
cheerful, at times depressed and given to brooding over his wrongs, both
real and fancied. Mutinies had not been unknown before the year 1857,
but on previous occasions the outbreaks had resembled the naughtiness of
a child, and like a child the sepoy usually injured himself more than
others.

Though no condemnation of those who participated in the murdering of
women and children can be too severe, yet we must not paint the sepoy in
colours too black. Let us try to put ourselves in his place, and see
what it meant. Suppose that he honestly believed that the English were
seeking his destruction, can we not imagine his despair and panic? Many
of the mutineers, however, believed the explanations of their English
officers, and felt assured that the cartridge-paper contained no
offensive matter, and these men tried to put everything right. And what
was the result? Their comrades believed that these sensible sepoys had
sold themselves to the Feringhis; they were taunted and jeered at as
Christians; they became outcasts, and none would eat with them. Not only
did their fellow-soldiers shun them, but also their parents and brethren
and the people of the village who used to crowd round and bow before
them when they visited their homes. They all refused friendship and
connection with the outcasts; the letters written home were never
answered, and no wonder that these well-meaning fellows were
terror-stricken at the thought of their shameful position, and cursed
the English and their unclean ways that had brought this to pass.

Three days after the Meerut revolt Colonel Woodburn addressed his men on
the subject of the crisis. Assuring them of the mighty power of England,
and of the terrible punishment that would be meted out to rebels, he
reminded them of their glorious regimental history, and asked if they
would willingly tarnish their good name. Ted's heart glowed as he
listened to the stirring speech, and the men broke into a shout of
enthusiasm, cheered their colonel, and Pir Baksh, stepping forward,
expressed their willingness to march against the mutineers. At mess the
officers congratulated one another, overjoyed at the splendid spirit
animating those under their command.

With renewed courage and in the highest spirits they buckled on their
swords for the next morning's parade.

"I hope we shall get orders to march against the mutineers," Ted
confided to Paterson as they walked towards the parade-ground in front
of the arsenal.

"And what would happen to our countrymen and country-women at
Aurungpore if the regiment left?" his chum asked with a laugh. "Would
you make the rebels a gift of the fort and arsenal?"

Ted was crestfallen.

"Oh! I'd forgotten them," he replied. "Still, half the regiment would be
enough to defend the town. I'm jolly glad our men are showing such a
good spirit, but I'm afraid for Jim and Spencer. I don't suppose their
Guides are likely to remain loyal very long."

"I've been thinking of them all morning," Alec observed musingly, "and
of all Spencer was telling us the night he was here. I don't think
there's much doubt but that those fellows will sell themselves to the
highest bidder, and he will be the emperor at Delhi. They may pull
through all right though, if they are within reach of Nicholson. He and
Edwardes will be towers of strength along the frontier."

"Don't it make you mad to think of the way they bungled it at Meerut?
Whoever was responsible for such a fiasco ought to be kicked out of the
army."

"Now, Ted Russell, you know nothing about it," the cautious Scot
reproachfully asserted. "It's very easy to say afterwards what ought to
have been done, but we don't know all the circumstances. Here's the
colonel. He's a fine-looking man, and no wonder the sepoys are proud of
him."

The companies were called to attention, numbered, and wheeled into line.
Before the wheel was completed a sepoy suddenly levelled his musket and
pulled the trigger. Two officers at once rushed towards the would-be
assassin, but were met by the fire of some twenty men of the same
company, and fell riddled with bullets.

One-half of the sepoys stood irresolute--some fingering their triggers
menacingly; others, taken by surprise, screamed, "No, no, we must not
slay our officers!"

"Nay, slay them all!" roared a subadar, "whether we love them or not! If
we do not kill them they will persuade us against our will!"

And a shrill clamour approved the advice.

Still five hundred men hesitated. Some of the waverers shouted to the
Englishmen, urging them to run. It was as though they had been bitten by
a mad dog, and, while yet sane, knowing that the poison was working in
their veins, they wished to save bloodshed before the madness should
overpower them and render them pitiless.

Almost broken-hearted by this proof that his trusted regiment had
mutined, Colonel Woodburn lifted up his voice in a last appeal to their
loyalty. Before he had spoken a dozen words, Pir Baksh--dreading lest
the colonel's influence should wreck his plans, even when success seemed
assured--stepped behind a crowd of gesticulating sepoys and took
deliberate aim.

Colonel Woodburn fell from his horse grievously wounded, and Ted and one
of the subalterns dashed forward to convey him to a place of safety.
Captain Markham placed himself at the head of his own hundred men and
appealed to them, for the sake of all they had gone through together, to
remain loyal and true. His company, composed of Hindustanis--mostly
Rajputs--stood silent and puzzled, undecided how to act, when shots from
some Mohammedans of the flank company answered his appeal, and the
well-loved captain fell.

There was no longer any indecision among Markham's Rajputs. Pity for the
murdered officer who had done so much for them, anger that he should be
shot by the Moslems whom they did not love, these feelings turned the
scale. Hastily closing round their captain they guarded his body and
menaced the mutineers. The remaining officers, seeing one faithful
company, placed themselves at its head, and called on the other Hindus
to remain loyal and fight the Mussulmans. But the madness had worked by
now: all the rest cast in their lot with the murderers, and, firing a
few shots at Englishmen and faithful sepoys, whom they dared not charge,
so great was still the influence of the officers, they rushed off to
loot the town and shops.

Including Markham, three officers were killed and two badly wounded, two
of the slain being brother ensigns of Ted--poor little "griffins", who
had been out but a few months.

Then swift as lightning came the thought, "What of the women and
children and civilians?" The appearance of the revolted sepoys would be
the signal for all the _budmashes_ of the _bazar_ to join in the rioting
and murder.

A noise of firing and a babel of fiendish yells from the English quarter
of the town, in close proximity to the fort, told their own tale. The
white residents were being attacked!

"Lieutenant Lowthian," commanded the major, "remain here with Ensigns
Tynan and Russell and about twenty men! We'll take our wounded with us,
the women will attend to them; and when we've cleared the streets we'll
bring the civilians into the fort."

Exhorting the faithful Rajputs to remain true to their salt and so win
eternal fame, the major ordered bayonets to be fixed, and headed the
charge down the street, the wounded with their guard bringing up the
rear.

A disorderly crowd of sepoys and riff-raff of the town had assembled in
front of the large house of Sir Arthur Fletcher, the Commissioner of the
district. The windows were being fired into and the doors battered down,
in spite of a determined resistance from the inmates. Into the crowd
charged the loyal sepoys. Firing a single volley at close quarters they
at once let the rioters taste cold steel, and beneath the gallant
major's sword fell more than one of the ringleaders.

Major Munro was known as one of the strongest officers and best
swordsmen in the army, and the mob gave back before his flashing steel
and the glistening bayonets of his followers. But as the sepoys
recoiled, a number of Wahabis, showering curses upon the faint-hearted,
poured with knives and swords down upon the little band. The leader was
all but lost. Separating him from his men, half a dozen fanatics set on
him at once, yelling triumphantly. But the two who first came within
reach of that mighty arm quickly lay in the dust; the third received the
point in his heart, and a fourth was cloven almost in twain.

Aghast at the fate of their comrades the others faltered. But Munro did
not wait to be attacked; stepping over the prostrate bodies he followed
up the advantage gained, and the pandies shrank from that fatal sword.
Joining forces once more, the sturdy band reached the house, and,
standing with backs to the wall, they poured volley after
volley--irregularly, but coolly and rapidly--into the dense,
disorganized rabble, until at length the barricades were taken from the
door, and one by one they were admitted.




CHAPTER VIII

The Fight in the Arsenal


"They are having a hard fight for it," Ted observed to Lieutenant
Lowthian. They stood on the walls that surrounded the courtyard of the
fort, watching the progress of their comrades through the crowded
streets. Lowthian nodded, but, absorbed by the struggle, made no reply.

"Yes, and they've left us here to be killed like rabbits," muttered
Tynan.

"Shut up! Don't whine!" Lowthian scornfully exhorted him.

Ted's anxiety had so far been largely centred in the safety of Ethel
Woodburn, the charge placed under his protection; and having rightly
guessed that the Commissioner's house, surrounded by the clamouring mob,
through whose masses Munro was breaking his way, contained the Europeans
of Aurungpore, a load was lifted from his mind. The rebels had quitted
the immediate vicinity of the fort, and the comparative tranquillity
close at hand had made him forget his own danger. Tynan's remark and
Lowthian's curtness startled him.

"They won't be long in escorting the women here," he cheerfully opined.
"And a hundred of us ought to hold this place easily."

"Yes, but twenty cannot," Tynan sneered. "If it's as much as Munro can
do to force his way through now, how's he going to manage it with a
crowd of women to protect?"

Tynan had gauged the situation more correctly than Ted. Reckoning
overmuch on the prestige of British arms, Munro had calculated that the
removal of the civilians to the fort would be an easy matter. Most of
the disloyal sepoys had disappeared, having scattered in order to loot
the shops and the European bungalows. They were now returning by twos
and threes, some laden with plunder, others savage and sullen through
disappointment, having found the bungalows deserted and the coveted
jewels and money saved from their clutches.

"Here comes that scoundrel Pir Baksh," said Lowthian as the Moslem
subadar appeared on the scene. He began to shout some commands
unintelligible to the watchers on the walls, and soon succeeded in
forming the scattered groups into a dense throng.

"I always detested that fellow," Lowthian continued, "and I believe he's
at the bottom of this dastardly business."

"He's got Miss Woodburn's horse too!" Ted cried in an excited voice, as
he recognized the bay. "Look! he's pointing towards the fort It's our
turn now!"

Pir Baksh was haranguing the sepoys, gesticulating wildly, first towards
the strong white building in which the Europeans had taken shelter, and
then in the direction of the frowning fortress whose guns commanded
Aurungpore, and the air was filled with shouts of "Din, Din, Allah
Akbar!"[5]

  [5] "The Faith," or "For our Faith, God is Great."

"They're coming at us," Tynan whispered. There was no need to whisper,
for the fact was only too evident. The impressive nature of the peril
had made him unconsciously lower his voice.

"Are the guns loaded?" he added, nodding towards the half-dozen cannon,
whose grim black muzzles stared through the embrasures.

"No, and it would take us an hour to load them," Lowthian replied.

As a measure of precaution, all munitions for the cannon had been stored
within the arsenal.

The Rajputs on the bastions that flanked the main gate began to fire
wildly as the rebels approached within range.

"Steady, men, steady!" the commandant ordered. "Each cover his man
before he fires! That's the way! Well aimed, Ambar Singh!"

The loyal sepoys had pulled themselves together, and there was no
further waste of ammunition. Rebel after rebel rolled over in the dust
or limped into cover, and the rush was checked. The assailants slowly
backed away from the walls, each man trying to dodge behind his
neighbour to keep a shield before him as he took aim. Ted looked for Pir
Baksh, but that astute pandy, having no intention of exposing himself so
prominently on horseback, had dismounted, and was lost amid the mob.

At last the ensign marked his quarry. For a second's space the
ringleader had come into view to urge his reluctant hordes to the
assault. Hastily covering him, Ted pulled the trigger. A rebel fell, but
it was not Pir Baksh. Like the coward he was, he had skipped into safety
behind a group of sepoys, and now the front ranks of the mutineers had
pressed back upon the rearmost until all were beyond effective range.
Brown Bess could not be trusted to carry far.

"If there is one of the curs I should like to kill it's that traitor Pir
Baksh!" Tynan declared with an oath. "I hope I'll live to see him
hanged! It was he who shot the colonel; I saw him."

"Are you sure of that?" Lowthian and Ted both asked.

"As sure as that I am here.----What are they up to now?"

Baffled for a moment, the subadar had abandoned the idea of a direct
assault, and was seen to be exhorting the men to some new method of
attack, for the pandies presently dispersed right and left. A hot fire
was still kept up through the windows of Fletcher's house. Lowthian
quietly gave an order.

"Tynan, take eight men to the southern bastion, and don't show
yourselves until you can strike home. Dal Singh, you keep watch from the
north-west tower, and give the alarm if they gather in that direction."

A number of the sepoys were reassembling at the top of the main street
where it debouched into the open space facing the main gate. Ted and
Lowthian exchanged a meaning look as they perceived that some had
brought short ladders and were busily lashing them together.

"If they've any grit they'll soon be over the walls," the senior
whispered. "Ha! they mean to attack Tynan's post first."

Under the impression that the garrison was too weak to be distributed,
some hundred rebels with a ladder made a dash for the southern wall of
the courtyard, keeping out of range from the main gate as they ran. They
were within twenty paces when Tynan opened fire. Still they kept on, and
planted the ladder against the wall. A second volley rang out, and the
pandies hesitated, for the fire had been concentrated on the
ladder-bearers, and those who were nearest to them edged farther away,
pressing against the walls. They reasoned that it was death to touch the
ladder, and many of their comrades were already dead. But by now another
rush had been made for the main gate, and though a dozen fell in the
assault, the sepoys were more in earnest and they thirsted for revenge.
Two of the Rajputs were knocked over, and Pir Baksh yelled gleefully as
he planted a bullet in Lowthian's shoulder.

Still the fort was not yet won. Encouraged by the resolute bearing of
their officers, the loyal men continued to fire coolly and rapidly; and
the mutineers lacked the inspiration of a leader ready to sacrifice
himself for their cause. They again retired out of range, and the cheer
raised by the Rajputs at the main gate was echoed back by Tynan's men.

That cheer was ill-timed. Hardly had it died away before an answering
yell from the north, savage as a war-whoop, chilled the blood in their
veins, for it came from inside the courtyard! A scaling-party had made
the circuit, and were already beneath the north-western bastion when Dal
Singh reached his post. He looked forth, and before he could give the
alarm a bullet struck him in the forehead, the single distant report
passing unnoticed amid the noise of battle.

"Inside the fort, lads!" Lowthian shouted. "All together!"

The garrison hastily descended, and, joining forces, charged across the
courtyard to escape being cut off. But the rebels were the nearer, and
should even one or two of them enter first and bar the door, the
garrison was lost. In ten minutes there would be a couple of hundred
sepoys inside the courtyard.

One rebel was almost in. Ted stopped, flung his musket to his shoulder,
and the man toppled over. Four more pandies were close upon his heels.
As the leader fell, the hindmost of these, dreading the same fate,
looked back over his shoulder. A trifling incident, yet that glance cost
him dear, and was worth untold gold to the white-faces in Aurungpore.
For as the fellow turned he unconsciously checked his pace, and a lean
Rajput, straining every nerve, closed with the faint-hearted traitor
before the entrance could be gained. A bayonet-thrust, a scream, and the
wretch staggered forward and fell upon his face.

But the other three were inside, and so was Karan Singh the Rajput,
alone with his back to the door, cut off from his comrades. A barrier of
some thirty exultant rebels had thrust themselves in front, and ladders
were even now being set up against the walls by the main gate. If the
thirty pandies could keep the loyalists at bay for another five minutes
they would all be butchered like goats at the Dashera Festival. Then
came the clang of steel, as bayonet crossed bayonet; the three officers
emptied and reloaded their pistols, and a yard or two was gained.

Suddenly Ted dodged to the right, and darted at full speed round the
pack of sepoys, as a three-quarter back, smartly fed by the half who has
picked up the ball from beneath the feet of the scrummagers, circles
round his opponents before they know what has happened. He had caught a
glimpse of the plucky Karan Singh maintaining the unequal combat, and
the Rajput was sore wounded though one of the pandies had fallen to his
bayonet.

While still a few strides from the doorway, Ted Russell witnessed the
death of the Hindu hero. As one sepoy kept Karan Singh at bay the other
managed to reload and let fly, the muzzle barely a foot from the
Rajput's breast. The brave man dropped like a log, and his body fell
across the threshold. Though they hastily thrust the corpse aside, Ted
was upon them before the heavy door could be closed.

The enemy had not dared to pursue the ensign, fearing to turn their
backs lest the British should be let in. His pistol was empty and his
musket had been cast aside. One of the sepoys lunged. Ted skipped aside,
and, turning on his heel, struck wildly at the other's bayonet that was
darting towards his chest. The weapon was turned aside, but though his
tunic alone was ripped and he himself was untouched, his cherished sword
had broken off at the hilt, and he was disarmed.

For the fraction of a second he stood helpless. So lightning-like is
thought, that he had time to long for a kick at the slovenly workman who
had turned out a weapon as untrustworthy as himself.

"Quick! Close the door, Bakir Khan, while I slay the whelp!"

Ted swerved, grasped the speaker's musket-barrel with his left, and with
his right hammered the face of the bewildered sepoy, who howled, but
held on to the weapon. The iron-clamped door slammed and the heavy bolts
groaned as Bakir Khan shot them home and turned to assist his comrade.
Ted tugged at the musket with all his strength, and suddenly saw at his
feet the firearm of the dead pandy. He swooped down, seized the weapon,
and jumped backwards just in time, as the bayonet-point flashed
harmlessly in front.

A loud pounding of musket-stocks upon the door announced that Lowthian's
handful had broken through, or else had all been slain. For an instant
the sound stayed the fight inside. Was he alone left after all? Or did
it mean that, could he open the door before numbers overwhelmed them,
they might all be saved? Hope lent him strength. There was no bayonet to
his new weapon, so he gripped it by the muzzle, and, swinging it above
his head, he knocked the Brown Bess out of Bakir Khan's hand as that
false sepoy made a second lunge. Again he brought the butt-end down,
this time with a thud upon the head of Bakir Khan. The second pandy
recoiled, still half-dazed by the blows from Ted's sword-hilt. There was
no way of escape for him, however, and he sprang like a tiger-cat at the
ensign. A third time the musket was swung aloft, and the sepoy reeled
and toppled over, stunned.

Ted sprang to the door, and had drawn one of the bolts when a wild fear
took hold of him. Who were on the other side? In all probability they
were rebels thirsting for English blood, and why should he let them in?
Through the thick door he seemed to see them, pitiless as famished
wolves. Why not hide in the vast arsenal and slip out at night?

In less than a second such thoughts had flashed through his mind before
he recollected that duty bade him take the risk. The last bolt was shot
back; he sprang aside, ready for a charge as the door swung back, and
gave a gasp of relief as Tynan and his Rajputs dashed inside.

At their heels came the rebels, and a few got through before Ted and
Ambar Singh could close and bar the door. The fight inside the passage
was soon over, and the Rajputs sank upon the floor and gasped for
breath.

Barely five minutes had sped since Karan Singh's body had fallen across
the threshold, yet it seemed many hours. Ted could hardly realize that
the main body of assailants under Pir Baksh had only just succeeded in
storming the walls (for they had hesitated, fearing a trap) as he
cracked the skull of Bakir Khan. Had that fourth sepoy not looked back
the arsenal would have been lost.

"Lowthian's done for, I'm afraid!" panted Tynan.

Following his gaze, Ted saw that the Rajputs had brought their
commandant in. He knelt down by the side of his friend and found Tynan's
surmise only too true, for Lieutenant Lowthian had already breathed his
last.

"Shot just as we reached the doorway," Tynan explained; "and half a
dozen men killed or badly wounded. What must we do, Russell? They can't
get in except through that door, can they?"

"It won't take long to batter the door down if they shape," Ted replied.
"Luckily we've heaps of ammunition here, and any number of muskets.
Look, this room off the passage commands the door, so set two or three
men to bring up firearms and we'll load a few dozen."

Before Ted had finished speaking, the spirited Rajputs were emptying
their muskets through the narrow slits that loop-holed the thick walls,
and the rebels who had been clustering round the door, vainly attempting
to batter it down, left the spot in a hurry--at least all did who were
able. Ted then posted a couple of men to watch the north-western face of
the building and give the alarm if necessary. Blood had been flowing
freely down the ensign's face, and he now found time to staunch it. He
was not sure when he had received the wound, but at some time or other
during the struggle in the passage a bayonet-point had torn the skin
from mouth to ear.

The lull in the storm lasted for nearly an hour. Many of the pandies
contemptuously flouted the commands of their officers, and, giving up
the attack on the fort, began to seek fresh plunder in the town, or
joined in the half-hearted attempts to render the English house
untenable. The remainder of the force, gathered together by Pir Baksh,
kept up a long-range fire through the loopholes, in the hope that some
bullets might find their billets.

"Why don't Munro come to the rescue?" Harry Tynan bitterly demanded.
"With eighty men he could break through this gang of cowards, if only he
had the pluck to try."

"He can't," Ted retorted; "they're penned in there like sheep. And how
could he break through with nearly a dozen women and kids to protect?
Would you have him leave them to their fate?"

"Half his men could do it."

"Not they--nor twice his whole force. It's a soldier's risk that we
bargained for when we took our commissions. We may win through yet; and
if not, we must just stick to it as long as we can. Well, what's the
matter now, havildar?"

Ambar Singh had left his post.

"The dogs are about to make a rush, Ensign Sahib. They Have brought logs
and beams and mean to batter down the door. Listen! They are
volley-firing to keep us from the loopholes."

The fusillade had suddenly redoubled--steady volleys this time--and a
hail of lead pattered against the walls, and a few bullets smacked
against the sides of the slits and cannoned shapeless into the room.

"Quick, upstairs, you three!" Ted cried. "Take as many muskets as you
can carry and fire rapidly!"

Three sepoys nodded significantly and ran up the stairs. In another
moment a succession of reports from above announced that they understood
their business. As our hero had intended, the rebels jumped at the
conclusion that their fire having become too hot, the garrison had
shifted, so they changed their aim.

Instantly the abandoned loopholes were occupied, just as two parties,
each of six or eight men bearing improvised battering-rams, charged the
door at full speed. Crack went eight muskets together, and half a dozen
fell. Fresh firearms were handed to the marksmen, and the logs were
dropped as the few survivors scuttled away. For a third time the reports
rang out, and only one of the log-carriers rejoined his comrades.

"Down, men!" Ted gave warning, as the rebels savagely changed their aim
once more and swept the lower embrasures with their fire. One poor
fellow was not quite quick enough. Before he could duck a bullet had
entered his forehead. Setting aside the two Rajputs who were dangerously
wounded, there were now twelve sepoys and two English lads to defend the
place, and of these fourteen five were wounded.

"Curse the bloodthirsty ruffians!" Tynan hissed.

His blood was up. Springing to a loophole he fired twice, bringing down
a man each time.

"Be careful," Ted cautioned him. "That won't pay."

"The sooner it's over the better," Tynan replied, but took the advice
all the same.

The hostile fire gradually slackened, and the garrison were shortly
enabled to watch the proceedings of their adversaries. They could see
Pir Baksh vainly exhorting the mutineers to make a second attempt. But
the sepoys shook their heads. The danger was too great, or why did not
Pir Baksh himself lead them, they asked. Their English officers were
wont to share the danger with the sepoys, but he, Pir Baksh, was careful
to keep out of range whenever he sent them forward. No, they preferred
to wait for night, when the risk would be small.

Judging that they would be safe for another hour at least, the two
Englishmen ordered food to be prepared. They anticipated that the crisis
would come with the sunset, and strength must be kept up.

"What are you grinning at?" asked Tynan, as they sat cross-legged over
the meal.

"I was thinking what a rummy go it is," Ted replied, "that we two of all
the officers should be here together. We haven't been friends, Tynan,
but if ever we get out of this hole I hope we will be. And if we don't
get out, I trust we can die without any bad feeling between us. Shake
hands on it, old chap."

Tynan leant forward to meet the proffered hand.

"All right, Russell! I'm agreeable. It ain't my fault that we've not
been friends."

This was not a very gracious speech, and Ted's ardour was damped. He
shook hands, however, saying:

"We must back one another up to-day."

"Right! But look here, you mustn't forget that I'm senior officer here.
You've been giving orders pretty freely."

"Because you didn't seem ready with any suggestions."

"It's my turn now, remember," Tynan asserted in an aggrieved tone; and
Ted felt sorry he had spoken, as the other seemed incapable of sinking
his personal feelings even at such a time. Unless his senior officer
showed more sign of rising to the occasion, he determined to continue to
issue orders.

Though the magazine at Aurungpore was not a large one, its capture would
prove an enormous boon to the rebel cause, for therein was stored a
quantity of ammunition and material of war. Armed therewith, all the
rabble of the town would soon be equipped as soldiers, and our ensign
understood what would then become of his friends and comrades, and above
all of his brother's sweetheart. A shiver ran down his spine as he
remembered Jim's parting whisper, and there rose before him the picture
of the girl who had saved his life and whom he secretly adored. He vowed
to do his duty manfully, and never to despair while there remained the
least hope of preventing the ravening wolves outside from gaining access
to the stores.

"What the deuce are you up to now?" Tynan broke in.

The senior ensign had been regarding the junior's meditations with
considerable curiosity, wondering how he could become so absorbed at so
critical a time. His query had been called forth by a sudden change of
expression that had overspread his comrade's features. Ted's eyes had
opened wide, and he had given an almost imperceptible gasp, sure signs
that some startling idea had come upon him unawares.

"What is it, Russell?" Tynan repeated.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" Ted hastily assured him. "I was just thinking
what an awful business this is."

"Has that only just occurred to you?" his comrade sullenly inquired,
convinced that Ted was keeping something back.

And so he was. Not that he wished to mislead his brother officer but
rather because the idea that had so unceremoniously thrust itself in
front of him, suggested an action so appalling as almost to stupefy him.
He must think, think, think. Could he bring himself to do it? Ought he
to do it?

Hardly the place or time this for quiet meditation, for the weighing of
pros and cons. One of the watchers signalled that the pandies had again
lost patience, and to confirm his words the heavy fusillade recommenced,
and the ensign ceased to ponder and began to act. The rebels had now got
the range with deadly accuracy, and unless he courted death, none of the
garrison dared return the fire.

Our hero did make one such attempt, and reduced the number of one of the
battering-crews. But before he could get in a second shot the muzzle of
his musket was struck and dented, and a bullet whistled through his
hair, grazing the skin. He crouched down and put his hand to his head,
fearing he was done for. A soft thud and rattle beside him announced the
fall of a sepoy who had followed the rash example with fatal courage.
Forgetting his own wound the ensign knelt beside the Rajput and raised
his head. The poor fellow still breathed but was going fast, and a
shudder ran through the boy as the man died in his arms, true to the
end.

"Are you hurt?" Tynan asked.

"I'm not quite sure. I don't think so."

"Let me see. Oh, it's only a scratch."

The sepoys in the room above, less hampered by the rebel fire, were
answering back to some purpose until they too were silenced, one of
their number being mortally wounded. A crash against the stout door
seemed to shake the house, and before the vibration ceased another bang
was heard. Englishmen and Rajputs were firing hastily whenever an
opportunity occurred, but the pandies now held the upper hand. A
splintering noise followed the next crash.

"What can we do, Russell? What can we do?" Tynan cried. "They'll be in
in a moment!"

Backed by the strength of half a dozen men the logs crashed once more
against the barrier, and the hearts of the garrison were heavy as lead.

"We're not done for yet," Ted stoutly replied. "We must wait for them in
the passage. We may yet hold the passage, Ambar Singh; and should we
die, men will speak of your deeds from generation to generation."

"We can hold them back for a time, sahib. Come, my children, and thou,
Bisesar Rai, and thou, Dwarika Rai, load and pass us the muskets as we
lie in the doorway."

Of the twenty-two Rajputs ten were still able to fight, and three others
remained alive though sorely wounded. They were now all together, and
Ted, Ambar Singh the havildar, and as many others as could crowd in,
were lying full length before the wide-arched entrance to the room. From
the slowly-yielding door the passage ran straight for a few paces before
curving to the right, and an enemy coming round the bend would be at a
great disadvantage, for the best marksmen of the garrison waited with
ready muskets, their elbows on the threshold, their bodies within the
room. Behind them two comrades stood, a loaded musket in each hand, to
exchange for the emptied weapons, and beside them knelt Bisesar Rai and
Dwarika Rai busily loading the firearms. The pandies could not take aim
without coming into full view, but the defenders could fire with a
minimum of exposure, and could draw back their heads into safety
whenever they saw a musket-barrel pointing at random towards them.

A louder crash, a shrill yell, and a mob of maddened sepoys swept inside
and round the bend. Six muskets cracked at once, and the yells changed
to howls of dismay. A second volley--not in unison this time, but no
less effective--and the sepoys turned and fled. The victory was not to
be so easy as they had imagined. Had the garrison been armed as were
they, with one Brown Bess apiece and a limited supply of ammunition, it
would all have been over long ago they told themselves, but when volley
followed volley with such rapidity, it was like facing a regiment. The
sepoys were not cowards as a rule, but they knew they were playing a
traitor's part. In a good cause, well led, they would have risked the
danger, even as the handful of loyal Rajputs were devoting their lives
to their duty.

A nerve-ruining silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded who lay
on the floor, followed the shrill outcries. The rebels were baffled but
not defeated. Slowly, painfully the minutes dragged, then two black
heads showed round the bend, and two spurts of flame flashed out. Before
the reports had reached them, Ted and Ambar Singh had pressed their
fingers, and two sepoys fell forward on their faces. The defenders were
untouched, the rebels having fired at random, and for a while none dared
follow their example.

In despair several of the raging mob pushed their musket-barrels round
the bend and let fly, in the hope that an occasional bullet out of many
might reduce the number of their dogged antagonists. But Ted drew his
men back from the doorway until the sepoys were tired of this amusement.

Each rebel urged his neighbour to face the fire of those death-dealing
muskets; each man knew that the end was at hand, and preferred to hold
himself back that he might share in the plunder. Now that they were no
longer a glorious regiment but a mere mob of rebels, none was ready to
give his life for the cause. The garrison also knew that the end was
drawing near, and were in no way deceived by the momentary calm.

"Hullo!" Ted cried, and stared open-mouthed. "What's that for?"

A white cloth tied round the barrel of a musket had been poked round the
corner.

"A truce, sahibs!" a voice called in Urdu. "We wish to treat with you
and save your lives. May I step forward in safety?"

"One man may," Tynan replied, "but he will be a dead man should there be
any sign of treachery."

"Sahib, there will be none; I give my word of honour."

So saying, Pir Baksh stepped round the bend, armed only with a smile
that he doubtless intended to be ingratiating.

"Ye are gallant warriors," he began, when Ted, interrupting the flow of
words, ordered the rascal to speak in English, not Urdu. The subadar
showed the whites of his eyes as he smiled, and grimly shook his head.
For the benefit of the Rajputs he resumed in the vernacular:

"Ye cannot hope to hold out much longer, so let there be no further
bloodshed. Surrender the fort and we will spare your lives."

"What do you think, Russell?" Tynan hurriedly whispered. "Do you believe
they mean it?"

"Not they!" was Ted's scornful reply.

"Perhaps they do, though. I'll ask him what they intend to do with us."

"Why, you can't mean to give up the magazine under any conditions?" our
astonished ensign demanded, his eyes contracting as he stared at his
senior officer.

"They'll have it all the same if they kill us, though," Tynan muttered,
lowering his eyes, unable to meet his comrade's gaze. "So what's the
odds. May as well save our lives while there's a chance."

He thereupon made answer to the jemadar.

"If we surrender, what will you do with us?"

"We will keep you captive, but promise you your lives," came the prompt
reply.

"Will you allow us to join our friends over yonder? If not, we shall
still fight, and we are not so helpless as you think." Tynan was not
quite a coward, and he used the threat with some show of spirit.

"I cannot promise that without consulting my friends."

So saying, the subadar retired for further instructions. Ted had had
time for reflection.

"Tynan," he announced, "I sha'n't agree to surrender. We've no right to
do it! Look what a lift it would give them if they could get all these
arms and ammunition."

Our ensign had quite made up his mind what to do. If his death would
make more secure the position of his comrades in the town he was
prepared to die. There was satisfaction in the reflection that Ethel
Woodburn would know that he had been staunch to the last. Poor Tynan had
no friends among the officers of his corps, and consequently there was
nothing to uplift his soul above the fear of death, and he had clutched
eagerly at the straw of hope held out by Pir Baksh.

"Well, they'll get it all the same after they've done for us," he
bitterly replied. "May as well live to fight another day. I was a fool
ever to come to this accursed land. What right had Munro to leave us
here?"

Before Ted could reply the white flag was thrust round the corner and
the subadar returned.

"We agree to what you ask," said he. "We will permit you to rejoin your
friends in safety."

"I tell you I shall not agree to surrender," the junior ensign angrily
declared.

"You fool! What's the good of holding out any longer? Well, I shall
surrender, and I'm chief here."

"You're not! You're under Munro's orders, and those were to hold the
fort until he sends help. If you attempt to surrender you're a
traitor."

Ted turned to Ambar Singh and the sepoys.

"Do not listen to the dogs," said he. "Let us fight to the end, as your
forefathers did against the Moguls. They are not to be trusted; they
will assuredly slay us if we yield."

The sepoys stoutly assented. They had little faith in the Mohammedans,
who were seeking their lives,--the men who had murdered Markham Sahib.

"You are right, sahib," said the havildar, "and we will fight by your
side. That low-caste hound," pointing to Pir Baksh, "is afraid of us,
and wishes to disarm us with soft words, but we know him."

Tynan saw his authority taken from him, the sepoys understanding and
looking to Ted as their leader.

"How dare you?" he hotly demanded.

"Oh, go away! You've nothing to do with this business." Ted sneered, not
too generously, for Tynan had disgusted him. With the same breath he
ordered Pir Baksh to clear away, and the firing recommenced.

The time had come for him to act upon the resolve he had made, a resolve
to sacrifice himself and his already-doomed handful, rather than allow
the capture of the stores to endanger the safety of his countrymen. The
idea of blowing up the magazine had come upon him suddenly as he
remembered the news that had arrived yesterday from Delhi,--how
Lieutenant Willoughby and his nine heroes had blown up the immense
arsenal there and destroyed hundreds of rebels.

The entrance to the magazine was through the room in which they lay. The
rebels were quiet, plotting some new move, no doubt, so, leaving the
trusty Ambar Singh in charge, Ted proceeded to the spot and began to lay
a train of powder to connect the barrels with their post. Before the
others had guessed his intention he had brought the train within the
room, and the white-faced senior ensign, who had lost by now the last
remnant of his pluck, jabbered incoherently and attempted to interfere,
until Ted roughly threatened to blow his brains out. Dazed and trembling
the wretched boy shifted as far as he could from the black trail. The
Rajputs looked on with frightened eyes, half-paralysed by the shock of
this new terror; and Dwarika Rai fell on his knees and begged the ensign
to have mercy, for such a fate meant more than death to these Hindus.

For a moment the boy's heart failed him; the thought was too awful. To
be blown into a hundred pieces, how terrible it seemed! And what right
had he to condemn these faithful men to such a death?

Then out spake the havildar.

"If we have to die, let us die like men. Fire the train, sahib!"

"Nay, not yet. Our duty is to stand by our post until the last. No man
must leave the room, though."

He lighted a candle and placed it within easy reach, that the flame
might be ready on the shortest notice.

"Ha!" whispered Ambar Singh, and there was a reckless note in his voice.
"The jackals are cunning. See!"

Round the bend was pushed forward a large sack full of sand, then
another; and soon a third filled up the space. As the last was clumsily
poked into its place between the others it tottered and overbalanced,
and a couple of pandies leant forward to lift it up. Two muskets spat
forth flame and the rebels rolled over in a heap, upsetting another
sack. Quick as thought, as the sepoys were engaged in pulling their
wounded comrades back, Ted ran with light steps down the passage,
keeping close to the farther wall, and seizing a sack with either hand,
dragged them away before the amazed mutineers had time to fire.

To make doubly sure of his safety Ambar Singh and his men let fly, and
the bullets, sweeping across the bend, covered the lad's return. Amid
the cheers of the loyalists the bags were propped in the doorway to
serve as a rampart for them, and they began to mock the traitors.

But this triumph could merely put off the evil moment. In another
half-hour fresh sand-bags had been brought in, and before long the
pandies were in a position to command the doorway. As the news spread
that the end was near the mob of sepoys increased, and Ted smiled to
himself. He addressed the Rajputs:

"You have done your duty in a manner worthy of your ancestors, and I am
going to do mine. Run for your lives!"

"No, Russell, you sha'n't!" cried Tynan, whose nerve had completely
broken down. "I surrender,--Pir Baksh, I surrender!" He tried to snatch
the light from his comrade's hand. Ted covered him with his pistol, and,
pointing across the passage, said simply:

"Run for your life!"

Hot all over, his fingers tingling and his head ringing--partly dread of
the horror and partly a glorious exultation--the boy dropped the lighted
candle on the thin trail of powder, and darted from the room as a horde
of sepoys rushed in.




CHAPTER IX

Defence of the Commissioner's House


When Major Munro's eighty officers and men arrived inside the house of
refuge, they found that the few civilians, ladies, and children of
Aurungpore had all escaped thereto, having been warned in time. At the
first sign of outbreak they had found access to the fort impossible, and
had taken refuge in the Commissioner's house, the largest and strongest
in the town, situated within easy reach of all the European bungalows,
and close to the fort itself. They were in sore plight when the soldiers
forced their way in--another half-hour would have been too late.

From roof, loophole, and sheltered parapet blazed the muskets of the
Rajputs, lending their aid to the rifles of the English gentlemen, and
the mob drew back, raging furiously, but afraid to strike at close
quarters. The sad story was told; dry-eyed but heavy-hearted the
residents heard of the murder of their friends. The wounded men were
speedily given every possible assistance, and the ladies left nothing
undone to alleviate their pain. To tend the sufferers was their first
care, but the great-hearted Englishwomen insisted on taking their share
in the defence, refusing to leave the posts of danger for the
comparative safety of the inner rooms whilst there were rifles and
muskets to load and hand to the marksmen.

Greatly to his dismay Munro found it quite impossible to send aid to the
little garrison of the fort, the route being blocked by hundreds of
fanatical savages. If he should despatch even half his command to break
their way through they would be destroyed, and the remaining half would
fall an easy prey to the triumphant rebels.

The continued fusillade from the direction of the fort told him that the
handful of defenders he had left behind was being hotly assailed, and he
sadly feared that he had left them there to die. Bitterly the major
regretted his error. Such concentrated fury on the part of the
inhabitants had never been anticipated; he had felt sure of clearing the
street and bringing the party safely back, and he had made a mistake.

Colonel Woodburn's wound, though serious, was not dangerous, and before
long Ethel was able to leave him for a short time. Whilst the soldiers
were breaking their way through the crowd, she had seen her father
carried in their midst, and had eyes for none but him. Now she looked
around for Ted and could not see him.

"Where is Ted Russell, Major Munro? He's not--surely he has not been
murdered!"

Munro was agitated, and showed it.

"He's in the fort, Ethel; I left Lowthian, Tynan, and Russell with a few
sepoys to guard it, and they're being attacked. Listen! I ought not to
have left 'em. Leigh," he exclaimed, turning to an officer beside him,
"is there nothing to be done? Can we leave those fellows to die? And if
the fort is captured there is no escape for us!"

Lieutenant Leigh shook his head.

"We are helpless, sir. If we make a sortie not one of us would reach the
fort, and the women would be left without protectors."

Still the rattle of musketry kept up, and the inmates listened with
troubled hearts for the firing to cease--the signal of the capture of
the fort and the death of its garrison.

"It's stopped!" groaned Sir Arthur Fletcher, and a shudder ran through
the house.

Ethel Woodburn turned pale, shuddered, and gripped the table for
support. Ted Russell murdered by those savages! She recalled the
ensign's merry looks and honest nature, and realized what a place the
boy had won in her heart. Could it be possible that she would never see
him again? How terribly cut up Jim would be!

Jim! Aye, what of him? If her own trusted, well-tried regiment could so
suddenly transform itself into a horde of fiends, what might not have
happened to the Guides, that collection of outlaws and robbers? In all
probability her lover had already been murdered. Her grief for Ted gave
way to a greater anxiety regarding the fate of her betrothed. She walked
aimlessly towards the window and looked out upon the distant mob, her
thoughts far away from Aurungpore.

"Miss Woodburn, for heaven's sake come away from the window!" Sir Arthur
Fletcher almost shrieked as he planted himself in front of the girl.
"They are not firing now, but--"

A bullet crashed through the shattered window, and passing within an
inch of the Commissioner's head, flattened itself against the far wall.
Ethel awoke and skipped aside, and, seeing that she was safe, Sir Arthur
followed suit. She had forgotten her own danger; she had not reflected
that, even had the Guides proved true to their salt, nothing seemed less
likely than that Jim Russell would ever see her again. She thanked Sir
Arthur mechanically, and began to wonder how poor Jim would bear the
news of her death. Having no doubt of his great love for her, her grief
was more for him than for herself, horrible as the outlook was.

Led by Major Munro, the men grimly went on with their work of
strengthening the defences of the house, whilst their picked shots
replied to the random firing.

Suddenly another volley rang out from the direction of the fort; then a
second; then the loud irregular firing of the pandies.

"They're not done for yet!" Munro cried. "Thank God, there is still a
chance!"

For half an hour the distant firing was heard, and intense anxiety
prevailed as it gradually died away. The tension was nerve-shattering;
so much so, that a half-hearted attack upon the house came almost as a
relief from the suspense. Strong in their defences, they once more beat
the rebels back with heavy loss, and another weary period of waiting
ensued.

Volley after volley, regular and disciplined as though with blank
cartridge on parade, caused their hearts to beat more wildly. What could
it mean? The volley was too heavy to have been the work of the little
garrison, and so far the traitors had fired independently, as each man
thought best, without regard to any word of command. Could help have
come?

They looked out towards the parade-ground, and the unconcerned
appearance of the groups that moved restlessly up and down destroyed
this wild hope. Besides, who could possibly have come to the rescue?
They had heard the cracks of the volleys that covered the first rush of
the battering crews. Unable to fathom its meaning, they rejoiced therein
as a proof that their comrades still held out.

Again a lull, and again an assault upon their own stronghold, directed
this time against the rear of the house. For a space they had no time to
think of the fort, so hotly were they engaged; but the rabble lacked
resolute leaders, and the budmashes would obey no commands. Thirty of
their bravest were slain, and the others sneaked away like a pack of
wolves, beaten and cowed. So far the garrison had lost only two men
killed and one badly wounded.

The sun was wheeling slowly downwards beyond the fort, and for a time no
sound had been heard save the yells of the excited mob ebbing and
flowing through the streets.

"It seems wicked to stay here in safety, Major," Ethel whispered, "and
to think of our plucky fellows at the mercy of those fiends."

The major made no reply. For hours that same thought had made him
wretched, but he knew better than she how helpless was their own
position.

"Could we not make a sortie?" the girl continued. "Might it not be
possible, as soon as darkness comes, for us all to make a rush for the
fort? We might take them completely by surprise, and once inside, a
hundred could hold it for weeks. If only we could get the guns!"

Munro shook his head sadly.

"A hundred to one that we should find the rebels in possession, Ethel,"
he made answer, "and then all would indeed be lost. But we should never
get so far. Here we may hold our own for days--unless indeed the pandies
take the fort and are able to load the guns--but not for half an hour in
the street with women to protect and wounded men to carry. No, it is not
possible; would it were! Believe me, Ethel, there is not a man here but
would gladly take the risk if we had only ourselves to think of."

"I know it well," she admitted, "and I know you are right; but it is
horrible, horrible to think of, and it is our fault. If we were not here
you men could rescue them. That seems so hard."

"Listen!" said Leigh. "I think I hear the sound of firing again. It is
very faint."

Everyone listened intently, and Ethel could hear the ticking of her
watch. She was the first to break the silence.

"I think I hear it. The sound comes from inside the fort."

She had hardly spoken the words when the roar of a tremendous explosion
filled their ears and almost deafened them. The house shook, and a
column of dense smoke rose where the fort had been. They looked at one
another with blanched faces and then at the ruin in front. That portion
of the fort which contained the magazine was demolished, and some
buildings that had partially obstructed their view were dismantled or
levelled with the ground. Streams of natives rushed to and fro in wild
confusion, shrieking with pain and fear. Masses of timber and masonry
fell around, killing numbers in the closely-packed streets, and the
scene was one of destruction and desolation.

Major Munro clapped his hand to his thigh; his face glowed with
admiration and enthusiasm.

"Lowthian's done that!" he exclaimed. "He's saved the arsenal from their
clutches.----Gallant fellows!"

"But what of Ted Russell?" Ethel breathlessly asked. "And of Lieutenant
Lowthian and the others?" she added as an afterthought.

Munro hesitated before replying.

"I'm afraid there's little hope for them, my dear Ethel; though they do
say that those nearest sometimes escape better than others farther
away." This was also an afterthought, added from a weak desire to cheer.

The girl turned away her head to hide her emotion and returned to her
father's room. In awed whispers the men discussed the glorious act, and
various conjectures were hazarded as to the manner of its doing and the
possibility of their comrades' escape.

Away in the west the sun had just vanished below the horizon and
darkness set in swiftly. The vicinity of the Commissioner's house seemed
deserted, and no fresh attack was made that night. Evidently that
bloodthirsty crew was awed and its ardour damped by the appalling
vengeance taken by the unbeaten handful. Scores had been killed, and yet
more injured, by the force of the explosion.

They had been taught the lesson that it does not pay to push white men
too far, and Munro felt assured that for that night at least the house
was safe. Yet he neglected no precaution, and guards were set on every
side, whilst the remainder of the garrison were ordered to rest whether
they wished to or not. Few could sleep, try as they would, and a loud
challenge by one of the sentries at the rear brought men and women
flocking to the scene, ready for the fray.

Ethel hastened to the spot, in time to see the door thrown open, and two
ragged figures, black with smoke and grime, enter the house. A loud
cheer was raised as the door was shut and barricaded.

"Ted!" she joyfully cried. "You, Ted?"

To our hero's embarrassment she stepped forward and kissed his
smoke-begrimed countenance.

Yes, Ensign Russell had escaped! Strange to say, he and Havildar Ambar
Singh, the other survivor, had been the nearest to the magazine when the
explosion occurred, and yet they had escaped its worst effects. The
havildar had pluckily waited for the ensign when the others ran for
safety, and, as they dashed out of the room, they crashed into the thick
of the triumphant pandies.

But no attempt was made to kill them. The rebels had pulled up short as
they saw and heard the spluttering powder, wild terror in their eyes;
and the foremost tried to back away from the spot. The crush was too
great, however, though Ted and Ambar Singh had time to bore their way
into the crowd. They remembered no more. When they came to themselves it
was dark, and they were lying amid a heap of killed and injured men,
with stones and bricks scattered all around. They were both cut and
badly bruised, and Ambar Singh's foot was crushed. In the darkness they
had been able to steal away, stumbling over dead bodies and wrecked
masonry, until they found themselves in the open. So great was the awe
that had come upon the rebels that the neighbourhood was deserted, so
they crept stealthily through the streets, the havildar nearly dead with
pain. Accosted once or twice, Ambar Singh had answered, passing himself
and his companion off as rebels.

As Ted was speaking the plucky Rajput sergeant fainted away, and was
carried to the hospital-room. Munro interrupted the congratulations and
showers of questions by ordering everyone to lie down again, except the
guards. Ted at least was not sorry to obey the command.

Next day he told the tale of the defence of the fort, of the death of
Lowthian, and of the heroism of Ambar Singh and his Rajputs. Men and
women forgot their own danger for a space, and crowded round to listen
to the ensign's story. No need to say that he was silent respecting
Tynan's willingness to surrender to Pir Baksh. He used the word "we",
not "I", throughout.

"But who first thought of destroying the magazine?" asked the
commandant. "You say 'we' decided to do it. The thought would not occur
to both Tynan and yourself at once."

Ted admitted that the plan was his; also, in reply to the next question,
that it was he who had fired the train.

"But it was Tynan's job as senior officer to do that."

"Well, you see, sir, I was the one to--to suggest it; so it was only
fair that I should carry it out."

"Humph!" said the major, who had his own opinion about the affair.

"You're a plucky fellow, Russell, and it's possible that you've saved us
all. The pandies seem thoroughly disheartened to-day."

Paterson passed his arm through Ted's and whispered:

"Well done, old man! I--I can't say what I think about it;" and as he
caught Ethel's glance of admiration, approval, and affection there was
no prouder officer in all India than Ensign Russell.

"I hope that rascal Pir Baksh has been killed," he said presently. "Did
you know, Major, that it was he who shot the colonel?"

"No. Are you sure, Ted? He always seemed such a plausible fellow."

"I didn't see him myself, but Tynan told us that he saw the deed.
Certainly Pir Baksh seemed to be the leader in the attack on the fort."

"Pir Baksh!" said Havildar Ambar Singh as he limped into the room. "The
hound is surely dead. Major Sahib, I have written down the names of all
my men who perished in the fort yesterday, so that their families may
get the pension if you English win, and that their names may be recorded
as true to their salt."

"Thank you, Havildar! It's a good officer who thinks first of his men.
How is your foot to-day?"

"Better, sahib; better, thanks! I do not grudge the injury if that son
of a hyena, Pir Baksh, has been killed. If the young sahib here had not
been resolute and taken over the command, he would have deceived Tynan
Sahib, and we should have been delivered into their hands to be
murdered."

"Ah!" said Munro, pricking his ears; "so Russell Sahib had to take over
the command? How was that?"

"The other was scared, Major Sahib. True, he was but a lad, and it is
hardly to be wondered at. But Russell Sahib refused to surrender, and
appealed to us, and we put aside the other and looked to this one as our
leader. Ha! Russell Sahib played the man, for he threatened to shoot his
comrade when the other objected to being blown up. He will make a
general, will the Ensign Sahib."

"Is this story true, Russell?" demanded Munro.

"It's true, sir; but you oughtn't to be hard on Tynan. He was plucky
enough most of the time."

"John Lawrence shall know about this if I live," said the major with
unwonted emphasis. "All England shall know about it."

"But you won't say anything about Tynan, sir?" Ted asked.

"No, that wouldn't do. We must treat him as dead--ignore his presence in
the fort altogether."

Colonel Woodburn's condition was hopeful. The bullet had been
successfully extracted, and he was doing well. He sent for Ted, and made
him tell the story from beginning to end. Our hero was getting rather
tired of it, and Ethel was merciless. She would not allow him to cut out
the least incident. The colonel was mightily pleased.

"Do you know," the ensign observed as they quitted the invalid's room,
"in the midst of the crowd I noticed the three fanatics who set on us in
the bazaar. I expect the poor beggars are blown to bits by now."

"I suppose there is no chance," Miss Woodburn asked, "that that poor boy
Tynan has survived?"

"I'm afraid not. I think the havildar and I are the only survivors, but
of course there was no time to make certain."

"Poor Tynan!" she murmured, more to herself than to her companion. "I
have always felt so sorry for the boy since he joined us."

"Have you? Why? Don't think me a brute, Ethel, if I say that since that
event most of our fellows seem to have pitied the regiment most."

"You have no right to say that, Ted," Ethel declared, her clear,
steadfast eyes regarding the ensign reproachfully. "Tynan has lost his
life, we believe, and you know the Latin tag about speaking good or
nothing at all of the dead."

Ted was rather surprised. A few moments ago he had tried to omit all
mention of Tynan's cowardice, but she had insisted on the whole truth.
He recollected having read that even the most charming members of the
sex were changeable and unaccountable.

"I'm sorry," said he. "I won't say anything harsh about Tynan; but why
were you so sorry for him all along?"

"Because it struck me as so pitiable that he made no real friends, and I
never once noticed him looking downright happy. The most he seemed to
get out of life was a miserable pretence of enjoyment--a mere attempt to
persuade himself that he was having a good time. His has been such a
wasted life, Ted. I have thought a great deal about it this morning and
last night, and it has seemed so very sad. None of the healthy pleasures
and pursuits that have meant so much to you and Paterson appealed to him
in the least."

"What have Russell and I been doing now, Miss Ethel?" a well-known voice
broke in, and Paterson joined them.

Miss Woodburn hesitated and turned red. To speak freely with her future
brother-in-law was one thing, to discuss serious subjects with a couple
of light-hearted ensigns at once was quite another. Ted came to the
rescue.

"Miss Woodburn was saying how sorry she has always been for poor Tynan,"
he explained.

"So have I," said Alec slowly; "at least at times, when he was not in
the way, but I'm sorry to say I couldn't stand him when he was close at
hand. I wish now that I hadn't tried so hard to be sarcastic."

"You would have risked your lives to save him from death or danger,"
said Ethel, "but it was harder to try and save him from himself. At
least I found it so, for more than once I resolved to try to gain his
confidence and interest him in more sensible pursuits, but being too
cowardly and selfish, I was too easily discouraged."

"He was hardly the sort one could make a friend of," Paterson mused
aloud. "You're right though, Miss Ethel, it was just selfishness and
conceit on our part to regard ourselves as superior beings just because
we didn't happen to like the sort of things he cared about."

"We looked at everything from a different point of view," Ethel resumed
after a pause, "and got more enjoyment out of life."

"I never saw it in that light before," said Ted, "but I think I know
what you mean. For instance, when we were all so excited over the race,
he had no sympathy whatever with the horses or riders, but just regarded
the affair as so much money to be won or lost."

"Yes, but don't be scornful, Ted. Think of all he has lost during his
short lifetime by not having a healthy mind. Think of all the happiness
you have enjoyed from your love of sports and games, through your
friendships and your admiration for what is good and right. But you are
rather young quite to grasp what I mean."

Ethel Woodburn, aged twenty-one, spoke as though she felt the wisdom of
ages within her, and the boys could not help glancing at one another.
She caught the glance, and her eyes twinkled as she continued:

"One could easily see that Tynan was a spoiled child, cursed with
foolish parents. I think, Ted, that of all selfish people, those parents
who are too generous to deny their children anything, or too
tender-hearted to punish them, are the most criminally selfish. And
that's what made me so sorry for the boy. Once or twice I was on the
point of asking you to give him a bit of your friendship, but somehow I
didn't quite like to do it."

"Well," said Ted, "I'm sorry for my share in any rows we had, and I
forgive him his share."

"Rather easy for us to forgive one who is dead, is it not, Ted? Can we
forgive now, at this moment, those rebels who want to kill us?"

"I suppose that you forgive 'em, Ethel, but I can't say that I do."

"But I didn't forgive Tynan, Ted. I heard of that fight you had; in
fact, I met Tynan just afterwards, and very tactlessly asked him what
had happened, supposing he had met with an accident. Unluckily he had
not had time to cool down, and--well, he laughed in my face and forgot
himself. You see, his people are wealthy, but not quite--you know what I
mean?--he's not a gentleman, and he hinted at the cause of your fight."

"The cad!" said Ted.

"Steady, old boy! I felt as if I could never forgive him, so please
don't imagine I'm making myself out better than you. I feel bad about it
now, and if by any chance he should escape I should find it easy to
forgive him, though there's little credit in that."

"I didn't think he could have done such a thing," said Ted. "I forgive
that mullah and his friends who knifed me, so long as I think they've
both been killed, but if I should see 'em to-morrow I'm afraid I should
still remember that I owe 'em one."

"Yet, as I said before, you'd risk your life willingly enough to save
theirs, just as they do in the story-books." Miss Woodburn laughed as
she went on: "I must say that it annoys me to read those tales entitled
_A Noble Revenge_ or _Coals of Fire_, or something of the kind, where
someone who has been greatly injured takes his revenge by saving his
enemy from drowning, or climbs to the top story of a burning house and
rescues the evil-doer, who promptly repents. It's all very noble, of
course; but it's such a thorough vindication, and such glory for the
rescuer, that a more complete triumph over one's enemy couldn't be
wished for. What could one desire better than to make your enemy feel
small, and acknowledge how much nobler you are than he?"

"I should like," said Ted, with feeling, "to make these beggars outside
feel small. We've drifted into a curious talk, considering our
situation."

"Not a bit of it," said Alec. "I quite agree with you, Miss Ethel. I
must go and relieve Leigh now, and you relieve me in a couple of hours,
Ted. Miss Woodburn, I'm glad we've had this talk, and I sha'n't forget
it."

"And I must go back to father now," said Ethel, whereupon Ted turned to
accompany her.

The colonel was fast asleep, breathing easily.

"Good-bye for a few hours, Ethel!" said the ensign; and added in a low,
hesitating tone, "You're a saint."

"I! Oh, Ted, you little know me--you and Jim. It's easy to forgive one
who can no longer injure you, but it's hard to live your ordinary life
with a person who wishes to injure you, or who has done so, and who
hates and despises you. What a terrible prig you must think me, Ted! I
know I can't feel like that myself. I only wish I could."

Ted glanced guiltily round. There was no one in the room save Colonel
Woodburn, and he was sleeping, undisturbed by their whispering. Seizing
the girl's hand he kissed it, awkwardly and nervously, then hastily
dropping it blushed furiously.

"There!" exclaimed the ensign jerkily. "I knew I should do it some day.
I'm sure Jim never did that."

"Oh--?"

Ethel's face was also flushed, and she looked radiantly charming as she
gave utterance to the long-drawn, quizzing exclamation, and a new light
broke in upon Ted.

"What! Old Jim?" he asked. "Well, who'd have thought it? Lucky beggar!
It's a dainty little hand."

"Silence, sir! I must ask you to leave the room."

"Good-bye, then, little sister!"




CHAPTER X

Hope and Despair


Two more weary days passed inside the fortified house. Numerous attacks
had been made, and though they had invariably failed, some damage had
been inflicted on the besieged. As the assailants were retiring in
disorder after one of these futile attempts, a big, light-featured man
in scanty costume sidled up to the house, waving a sealed letter.

"Quick! let me in!" he shouted. "I'm a sepoy of the Guide Corps!"

The door was hurriedly thrown open, but not before the besiegers had
divined the man's intentions, and bullets whizzed perilously near his
head before he was safe inside. Espying our hero, the Guide handed him
the letter, and Ted recognized the fellow as Faiz Talab, his brother's
orderly.

He opened the note, and his face glowed. He whistled, then shouted in
great excitement, "Hurrah! the Guides are coming!"

"The Guides!" echoed Sir Arthur, and a joyful light came into Ethel's
eyes. Faiz Talab, the Pathan, grinned gleefully.

The letter, dated from Manghur, thirty-two miles away, ran as follows:--

"We were starting for Delhi when the Aurungpore news arrived, and as we
pass so close I obtained permission to detach 120 men to your aid. A
greater number cannot be spared, as Delhi is all-important. So, old man,
tell Ethel I'll soon be with her."

The great news quickly spread from one end of the big house to the
other. Food was prepared for the bearer of good tidings, and Faiz Talab,
Yusufzai, was fêted as he had never been before. He described the route
by which the Guides would come, and stated when they might be expected.

"Russell Sahib will be here to-morrow, and by the beard of the Prophet,
we shall teach these curs a lesson!" he concluded.

"You seem to know this district well," said the Commissioner. "You have
been here before," and the man grinned slyly.

"I was a youngster, sahib, when first I saw Aurungpore. We Yusufzais
came down at night and lifted the cattle and raided the villages, and we
laughed at Ranjit Singh's army that followed, for we knew that we had a
good start, and the Sikhs would not venture into the hills. Ah, those
were the good old days! Yet people say they have come again, and that
Delhi is a richer town to loot than Aurungpore."

The Yusufzai smacked his lips at the prospect. Here, thought Ted, was
another sample of the robbers that apparently formed the backbone of the
Guide Corps. The brightness of the prospect revealed by Faiz Talab's
message was fast fading away, and as the garrison had time to think it
over there came a diminution of enthusiasm. Ted voiced the general
opinion when he abruptly asked:

"But of what use is a single company against such swarms of rebels and
budmashes, even if they are to be trusted?"

"But we are the Guides, sahib," said Faiz Talab proudly.

That self-same day came tidings that more than destroyed the hopes
raised by Jim's letter. Into Aurungpore marched the 138th Bengal Native
Infantry, rebels and murderers, flushed with success. They had shot down
their officers and looted the treasury, to guard which had been their
duty. Dire was the consternation caused by the arrival of the new
contingent, and great was the dismay.

But when, next morning, our friends noticed that the six 9-pounders of
the fort were being moved by certain of the new-comers into a position
whence their place of refuge could be bombarded, dismay gave place to
utter despair. The sepoys of the 193rd did not understand the handling
of these guns, and had regarded them with some awe as fearsome weapons
that might turn against themselves. But the 138th counted a couple of
hundred Sikhs amongst their number.

Now the Sikh maharaja, Ranjit Singh, had maintained a splendid force of
artillery, and many of the Sikh sepoys, who had enlisted under British
colours, had previously been gunners in the army of the Khalsa,[6] and
they saw at once how the little garrison might be speedily destroyed. A
few hours' search brought to light a quantity of material that had not
been demolished in the explosion. All day long the exploration went on,
and plenty of ammunition to feed the guns was soon stored close at hand.

  [6] The title of the Sikh Confederacy.

The time of the expected arrival of the Guides drew nigh.

"Better that they should not come," Major Munro wearily opined. "They
would only share our fate. What chance would they have against 1500
trained soldiers?"

"Do you think they will turn back, sir, when they hear of the arrival of
this fresh lot?" Ted enquired in an anxious tone.

"I certainly do. It would be foolish--idiotic--to attempt a rescue in
the face of such odds. Were I in your brother's place I should feel it
my duty to government, as well as to my men, not to throw them away on
so helpless an undertaking. It will be very hard for him to leave his
affianced wife in such dreadful peril, but that is one of a soldier's
risks. His men belong to the government, not to him, and he has no
right to risk them where there is no chance. We are short enough of men
as it is."

Ethel, standing by, grew pale as she thought of the danger to her
beloved. Her own peril, and even her father's, were forgotten for the
moment.

"Oh, Major Munro," she exclaimed, "let us hope that they will turn back!
They cannot do us good by throwing their own lives away!"

And this was the opinion of all.

The devoted Rajputs of Captain Markham's company never for a moment
wavered in their allegiance. They fought and took their turn on guard,
and fought again as staunchly as the white men, and many were the acts
of heroism they displayed. Twice was the staff of the Union Jack, that
still floated above the house, broken by missiles, and on each occasion
some of the intrepid Hindus volunteered to splice the wood. In full
sight of the enemy, who fired wildly at them, they achieved this, and
again the silken folds waved freely in the breeze.

Again and again the mutineers advanced on every side, with great noise
and waving of weapons. Again and again they approached more peaceably,
shouting to the Hindus that they should come out and join their
comrades, promising them gold and silver in abundance should they
deliver the white men into their hands.

Each attack was met with steadfast courage; the noisy firing was
answered by a steadier rattle of musketry, and the rebels dropped fast;
unwavering fidelity rejected both bribes and friendly advances; and on
more than one occasion a determined, vigorous sortie was the only reply
vouchsafed by these gallant dark-faces.

Slowly and anxiously the day wore on. Care-worn faces wistfully regarded
the threatening nine-pounders that would soon begin to pour destruction
upon them. For a moment the attacks ceased as the rebels crowded round
the guns that were placed upon an open eminence overlooking the house.

Fascinated by the sight, the whole garrison gathered before the windows,
powerless to avert their gaze from the instruments of destruction.

But what means that sudden commotion--that loud shrill cheering? The mob
is seen to part right and left, the rebel sepoys fling their caps in the
air and wave their muskets excitedly as a body of fine, well-set-up men,
fierce of aspect, turbaned, and clad in drab uniforms, marches into the
courtyard of the fort. Though no word of command is given, the fresh
arrivals there halt, fall out, and at once begin to fraternize with the
mutineers. Behind the tall men appear a score of much smaller figures,
clothed in the same uniform, and these shout and gesticulate more wildly
than any.

"The Guides!" gasps Lieutenant Leigh.

"Traitors, by George!" thunders Major Munro, with intense and vehement
bitterness. "Traitors!"

A long pause followed. The Britons gazed upon one another with blank,
haggard faces. The whole Indian Empire was tumbling down, and none was
loyal! Until this moment not a man amongst them but had known some ray
of hope, however feeble.

"Are they truly the Guides?" asked one. "Who, then, are the little
beggars?" pointing to the rearmost.

"Gurkhas of the Guide Corps," answered Leigh, no less bitterly. "And
their officers have always maintained that Gurkhas can be trusted when
all others fail. Well, we live and learn."

"Aye, we learn,--but not the other," was Munro's grim aside.

Momentarily forgetting their predicament, Ted stared with great
interest at the short figures and Tartar laces that grinned in fiendish
anticipation; for his father had often spoken in terms of the highest
praise of these reputedly fearless Himalayan mountaineers, against whom
he had fought, and whom he had afterwards led.

"Well, if those are Gurkhas, I don't think much of 'em," said the
ensign, his critical spirit asserting itself even at this crisis. "Our
seventy Rajputs could tackle a hundred of them."

As for Faiz Talab, his eyes seemed to be starting from his head.

"The pigs! the curs!" he gasped at length. "What can it mean?"

As the Yusufzai spoke he grasped an Enfield rifle, brought it to his
shoulder, and fired at the mass of drab uniforms, then fell to cursing
his comrades afresh for the shame they had brought upon their corps. The
onlookers could distinguish their own disloyal men pointing out the
British stronghold to the Guides, who seemed to be examining the
situation with keen interest. The siege was temporarily raised, whilst a
general confabulation took place among the rebel leaders.

"Faiz Talab, what have they done to my brother?" asked Ted.

The Yusufzai shook his head. "I know not," said he.

"Hadst thou no word or hint of this intended treachery?"

"Neither word nor hint, sahib. Surely I must be dreaming, for yesterday
we were all loyal to the backbone, and we loved thy brother greatly. I
do not understand it."

"Yesterday," interposed Lieutenant Leigh, "they had not heard of the
mutiny and entry of the 138th. Perhaps that decided the rascals to throw
over the British raj."

"It must indeed be so, yet it does not seem possible."

"Think you they have allowed the Captain Sahib to escape?" asked Alec
Paterson, guessing that Ted could not bring himself to ask this question
for fear of the reply.

"Nay, that could hardly be. If they have been so base as to prove untrue
to the salt they have eaten, they would not hesitate to kill their
officer."

"Though you pretend that they loved him?" Ted bitterly demanded.

"The better reason for slaying him. They would kill him first of all,
because they loved and honoured him, so that he might never know their
shame. Yet I cannot believe it. May my father's grave be defiled if I do
not kill some of the traitors before I die!"

Ted walked to the window and gazed forth upon the distant hubbub.
Paterson followed, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of his chum.

"It will be worse for the poor lassie, I'm thinking, Ted," he said.

Our hero nodded, but could not trust himself to speak.

"We must keep the news from her as long as we can," Alec continued. "She
is with her father now, and has not heard. The others will not tell
her."




CHAPTER XI

In the Clutches of Pir Baksh


Three hours after Ensign Russell and Havildar Ambar Singh had entered
the besieged house, a swarthy man in the uniform of a native officer
picked himself tenderly up from the ground, and wondered to find himself
still alive. It was Pir Baksh the subadar. For hours he had lain
unconscious, deaf to the moans of the maimed and dying men who lay
stretched on every side amid the chaos of shattered timber and masonry.

His right arm was broken, his head bleeding, and the fallen beam that
had caused the fracture had lain all night across his body, bruising him
sorely. He wriggled from underneath, and finding himself too weak to
rise he called loudly for help.

But what was this thing so soft below him, that had served as a pillow
for his head all night? He passed his hand lightly over the object. It
was a corpse--no, the flesh was warm! He placed his hand on the mouth
and nostrils, and found that there was still breath in the body. His
hand passed higher up until he touched the hair, and Pir Baksh gave a
start. It was one of the two accursed Feringhis to whom he owed the
agony he was now enduring. He sought for a knife, a bayonet, to plunge
again and again into the unconscious body.

But Pir Baksh changed his mind. No, he would wait until the Englishman
could feel and taste the bitterness of death. Revenge would be as
nothing unless the victim could feel pain as great as his own. He there
and then resolved to save the life of his enemy until he could plan and
carry out his vengeance, for Pir Baksh had less pity than a tiger.

Again and again he called for help in the name of Allah, and at length
his cries were heard. A few sepoys of his company approached with great
caution, for day had not yet come.

"Who is there?" they called.

"It is I, Pir Baksh. Water!--bring me water if ye are followers of the
Prophet!"

The cry for water from one Mussulman to another cannot be neglected, and
a sepoy ran for a water-skin, while the rest made their way to the
injured officer.

"All my bones are broken, I think," said he. "Ye have been long in
coming. Look! here is a Feringhi boy still alive. Nay, do not kill him;
he shall die more slowly."

He drank the water feverishly.

"Now, carry us to my brother's house, and do not let all the people know
that we have a prisoner, lest in their rage they should straightway kill
him, for I mean to torture him by raising hopes. Bear me gently."

As they raised him the subadar fainted away. Tynan--for he, of course,
was the Englishman--was still unconscious, and before the light that
precedes the dawn had shown across the sky, the pair had been safely and
secretly conveyed into the house of Muhammed Baksh on the outskirts of
the town.

The sun had risen and was high in the heavens before Ensign Tynan
recovered consciousness. He raised himself painfully in the creaking
string bed, and gazed in a bewildered manner, like an owl in the
sunshine, around the small unfurnished room in which he lay. The
shutters were closed, darkening the chamber, and, unable to make out
his surroundings, and too weary to attempt to solve the mystery, he
sank down again with a smothered groan. His head was badly cut; he had
lost a lot of blood; and, though no bones were broken, he had hardly a
sound, unbruised spot on his body. The roar of the explosion was ringing
in his ears, and he still shivered with fright.

For a long time he could not sleep, though, after what seemed to him an
eternity of suffering, he at length fell into a fitful slumber, waking
up between his nightmares in a cold perspiration of dread.

During one of these intervals the door opened, and a Mohammedan sepoy
entered bearing a little bread and a brass vessel containing water.
Tynan devoured these to the last drop and crumb.

"Who are you?" he asked the man. "Tell me, where am I?"

The sepoy answered not a word and left the room. The food and drink had
done the ensign good, brain and body becoming more brisk. He rose
groaning from the bed and tried the door. It was locked, and he
understood at last that he was a prisoner. A tremor ran down his back,
and he felt cold, though the room was like a hothouse. A captive among
the mutineers! Horrible prospect! But why should they have brought him
here? he asked himself. Why not have straightway killed him? Could it be
that they meant to torture him? The wretched boy groaned aloud, and in a
frenzy of rage and despair kicked and beat the door, though every blow
was anguish.

He had not long to wait. Muhammed Baksh, his host, called angrily to
Ghulam Beg, the silent waiter, and together they entered the room and
began to belabour the unlucky ensign with long bamboo canes.

Tynan fiercely sprang at his assailants, but being in no condition to
do battle, he was soon driven ignominiously into a corner, where he
cowered and shrieked for mercy. One of his tormentors pointed to the
bed; Tynan crawled upon it, and without having spoken a word the two
quitted the room.

Again the boy rose and dragged himself towards the window, where his
last spark of hope died out. The shutters were clamped down, and even
had he been fit and strong he could not have removed them without the
aid of tools. He sank down upon the charpoy, a prey to the most
realistic horrors that could be conjured up by a dull imagination. How
long he lay there, miserable in mind and aching all over, he knew not.
It seemed that whole days must have passed before the silent Ghulam Beg
brought in a meagre supper. Worn-out nature then reasserted itself; as
he lay on the bed his aching head seemed to grow larger and larger,
filling all the room, and soon he was lost to consciousness.

Aroused by the entrance of his breakfast of chupattis and water, he
implored the sepoy to speak to him and let him know his fate. But the
man might have been a mute. Without a word, or gesture, or sign of
comprehension Ghulam Beg left the prison-chamber, and another day of
horror was passed, and a night in which blessed sleep almost forsook the
captive boy.

The sound of a key creaking in the rusty lock aroused him, and he rose
to his feet as the sepoy attendant brought in the unappetizing fare.
Behind him Pir Baksh stalked in, his arm in a sling, his cruel eyes
leering horribly as he gazed upon his victim.

"I trust, Ensign Sahib," said he with much politeness, "that my servant
has been courteous and attentive, and has not disturbed your repose by
chattering too much. I am greatly honoured that the heaven-born should
deign to share our humble roof, and I trust that our guest has been
comfortable."

The unceasing pain and the solitude had taken most of the spirit out of
poor Tynan. Instead of resenting this insolence he implored the brute to
tell him what his fate was to be.

"Ungrateful Feringhi!" exclaimed the subadar indignantly. "Not a word of
thanks for my hospitality! Art thou aware that I have saved thy life?"

"Indeed, subadar, I thank you," said Tynan humbly.

"And I thank thee," said Pir Baksh, pointing to his injured arm, and
continuing:

"Yea, I thank thee for this, and for many an hour of pain. 'Twas a
clever trick to blow up the arsenal, but thou didst little think,
infidel dog, that there would be a heavy price to pay. Thou didst reject
my offer of terms, and all that I have suffered since, aye, and double
and treble that, thou shalt know before death shall mercifully release
thee."

Tynan trembled in every limb, and weakly replied:

"It was not I who blew up the magazine. I was against the deed. And dost
thou not remember, subadar, that I would have surrendered to thee had
not the other prevented me?"

"Well, he is dead, and thou shalt pay for the sins of thy brother."

"Nay, spare me, and my father will pay thee well."

A sudden thought seemed to strike the subadar. He reflected for a few
moments before answering the appeal.

"Wilt thou swear thou hadst no hand in the explosion?" ha asked, after a
pause.

"I will--indeed, I swear it."

"I must needs think it over," said Pir Baksh musingly. He quitted the
room, leaving the boy torn by conflicting emotions. The consciousness
that he had not played a manly part, the conviction that his rival Ted
Russell would never have been so weak, gave a sharper point to his fears
and troubles. On the other hand, had he not been given a faint hope of
escape? Do not judge the lad too harshly. It was not death alone, but
the prospect of torture that had unnerved him; and remember that the
pain of his injuries and the workings of his imagination during the past
two days of solitary confinement were calculated to break the spirit of
any man above the average, and poor Tynan had hardly the makings of a
hero in his character. His case was one for pity rather than contempt.
Only those who would have withstood the temptation have the right to
despise him utterly, and they would be the last to do so.

His hopes of mercy were misplaced. The amount of that quality nourished
in the breast of Pir Baksh would have shamed a famished wolf. The rascal
had changed his tone because he recollected that the greater his
victim's hopes, the more poignant would his suffering be on finding
himself deceived. Next evening he again visited the prisoner, and
brought paper, pen, and ink.

"What was that sound of cheering an hour or two ago?" asked Tynan. He
had heard the acclamations that had greeted the arrival of the mutinous
Guides, and wondered if help had come.

"It means that we have had reinforcements, and that within twelve hours
not one of your friends will be alive."

Tynan looked keenly at the speaker as he continued.

"Perhaps there may be one Feringhi left alive in Aurungpore; it depends
on thee. I have been thinking it over, and am inclined to save thy life.
We both hate Russell Sahib, and we may prove useful one to another."

The prisoner's heart began to beat more hopefully, and he expressed his
thanks towards the callous brute.

"But on conditions," resumed Pir Baksh. "First, I must have five
thousand rupees--a promise in writing for that amount."

"You shall have it," said Tynan eagerly. "My father will not grudge it."

The subadar nodded his head solemnly and went on:

"Secondly, thou must write me a _chit_ in English and Urdu,
acknowledging that thou dost owe thy life to my mercy and loyalty."

"I will do that, and never shall I forget thy goodness."

"Thou shalt also write that I, Pir Baksh, was loyal to the Kumpani
Bahadur, though forced to appear disloyal. That I tried to restrain the
sepoys during the attack on the fortress, and to save the lives of the
English officers, but was prevented by the rebels, who threatened to
kill me as a traitor ... What! Thou dost hesitate?"

Tynan had turned pale. Could he sign that lying document and be himself
a traitor? Had not Pir Baksh shot the colonel?

"No, subadar, I cannot do that," he said, with hesitation, not decision.

"Very good, sahib."

The fierce light that came into the eyes of Pir Baksh sent a thrill of
despair through Tynan's breast. He began to find excuses. He told
himself that the proposed statement would be partly true, for Pir Baksh
had offered to spare their lives. He caught at that weak saving-clause,
and enlarged upon it until he had almost persuaded himself that he could
only be blamed for exaggeration, not for downright lying. Then he
remembered how Pir Baksh, by shooting the colonel, had brought the
mutiny to pass, and was guilty of all the bloodshed.

The subadar noted his indecision, and said:

"There will be none to contradict, your countrymen are as good as dead."

"I will write as you say," said Tynan slowly, "if you will swear to save
my life."

He had decided. He was ready to sign a paper absolving this villain from
the reward of his treachery and blood-guiltiness. And the final
inducement had been the assurance that the traitor's plot would be
crowned with such success that all Tynan's compatriots would be slain.
And this was the man he was ready to hold up as a loyal subject fit to
be rewarded for his fidelity!

"By the Prophet's beard I will do my best to save thee," the subadar
declared. "We must escape from the town, or I too shall suffer the
penalty."

Seizing pen and ink in feverish haste to get it over, Tynan wrote as the
Mohammedan directed him. First, the promise to pay five thousand rupees
on one sheet of paper, and then a document that might save Pir Baksh
from all consequences of mutiny and murder in the event of his capture
by the British. When he had finished, his gaoler took the pen and wrote
in Urdu at the foot:--

"I, Pir Baksh, subadar of the 193rd B.N.I., do solemnly promise, on my
oath as a Moslem, to do my best to effect the escape of Ensign Tynan of
the same regiment, a prisoner among the rebels in Aurungpore. Filled
with admiration of his courage in risking his life in the execution of
his duty by planning and carrying out the blowing up of the magazine, I
also risk my life to save his."

"But I've already told you I didn't do that," the ensign protested, as
he read the added words. "It was Russell's doing altogether."

"No need to say so, sahib," said Pir Baksh. "He is dead, and so indeed
will all the Feringhis be to-morrow, and no one can claim the credit.
Russell Sahib I hate, for do I not owe him this broken arm and bloody
head? And if I mistake not, he is no friend of thine, so why not take
the credit of the deed and be promoted and raised to honour? Help me,
sahib, and I will help thee."

Tynan found nothing to say in reply. He remembered the many injuries he
fancied he had received at Russell's hands--the thrashing of a week or
two ago, the contempt with which he had been treated in the fort when
his junior took the command from him and threatened him in front of the
men. Why not pay him out? After all, what did it matter now? It could be
put right if necessary when he should have reached a place of safety.
The first consideration was to save his own life.

"We shall slip away to-morrow," said the subadar. "I will go and make
all arrangements now. Remember that my life also is sacrificed if we are
discovered."

So saying the double traitor took his leave. Outside the door he
chuckled grimly and proceeded to tear up the "promise to pay" the five
thousand rupees. For a very good reason he had no intention of claiming
that, but the other papers he carefully preserved. After the boy had
been murdered, he could easily make up some story and fabricate some
evidence to show that they had been followed and attacked, and that he
escaped by the skin of his teeth, more alive than dead, and never saw
the ensign again. Pir Baksh meant to run with the hare and hunt with the
hounds so long as the British held their own.

But most of all he meant to kill Harry Tynan.

Left to himself Ensign Tynan sat down upon the string bed, and leant
forward to think it all over, elbows on knees and his chin resting in
the palm of his right hand. As a rule he was not a very thoughtful
person, but the nightmare of the past few days might well effect a
change. Of habit, not of character though! Peril, suffering, and anxiety
may develop the good or bad that is there already, but will hardly
transform a weak character into a strong one.

For a long time the boy sat motionless, wondering what Pir Baksh really
meant. Was he genuine? Did he mean to save him? Tynan did not trust the
man, yet he assured himself again and again that the Mohammedan must be
intending to try, or why should he have demanded the promise of a
reward--a document useless unless he was actually saved. And what about
that other paper? Ted Russell would never have signed it, conscience
whispered.

"I only wish Russell was here instead of me," he muttered, and gave the
bedstead a vicious kick.

"But he's dead," came a reminder from his better self, and there
followed a recollection of the statement added by the subadar, the lie
that robbed the dead of the credit of a glorious deed.

"Everything seems to go wrong with me," he sullenly muttered. "I've no
luck like other people. Never mind, it's not of much consequence. What
I've got to think about is how to get out of this hole. I believe after
all that that black brute means to murder me. Well, I'll try to sleep on
it."

He lay down, and an idea occurred to him. Rising to his feet he knelt
down in the attitude of prayer. Hardly ever since he had left home for
school had he so much as made believe to pray for help and guidance, but
now he wondered he had not thought of it before. Had he lived two or
three hundred years ago he would have vowed invaluable offerings to the
shrine of his patron saint, and, the danger over, would as promptly have
forgotten to fulfil the vow.

Parrot-like, he repeated the Lord's Prayer without considering in the
least its meaning, and then he prayed wildly to be saved from death. But
not once did he dream of asking earnestly for forgiveness, not once did
he seriously repent his foolish, harmful life, nor did he make the least
resolve to cancel in the morning the lies to which he had signed his
name that night.

He rose from his knees and once more lay down.




CHAPTER XII

The Treachery of the Guides


The shadows were slowly lengthening, and the whistling of the kites that
circled overhead, waiting until the groups of sepoys should disperse,
was being supplemented by the querulous howls of the equally impatient
jackals. Yet no fresh attack had been made upon the English post, though
more than an hour had passed since the Guides had joined forces with the
mutineers. That they had not been idle, however, was testified by the
stack of round-shot and grape rescued from the fort and piled ready to
hand behind each cannon.

A guard had been mounted over the guns and ammunition to check any
desperate sortie that might be made by the besieged, and the town
gradually became less riotous. This restoration of order only
intensified the despair of the Europeans, who drew the conclusion that
the rebels were now being controlled by men more able--and therefore
more dangerous--than their late leaders. The more capable their enemies,
the more perilous the situation of the garrison.

That is, if anything more perilous could be imagined.

Just after sunset, and before darkness had set in, a Hindu sepoy was
observed creeping stealthily towards the house, apparently anxious to
attract the attention of the inmates, and equally bent on avoiding
observation from outside. As the man drew near, Ambar Singh and Ted both
recognized him as Dwarika Rai, one of their comrades in the arsenal. He
was quickly smuggled inside, and told the story of his escape from
death and concealment up to the present, when duty had urged him at all
risks to inform his comrades and the Englishmen of the changed
situation.

He explained that the detachment of the Guides had mutinied as soon as
they heard of the arrival of the 138th; they had murdered the only white
officer with them, and had appointed Ressaidar Bahram Khan as
commandant. The announcement was not unexpected, yet up to this moment
Ted had hoped against hope that Jim had escaped.

"Art thou certain, Dwarika Rai, that they have slain my brother?" he
asked after a painful pause.

"Quite, sahib; they make boast of it. And look, their leader is wearing
his uniform."

Ethel Woodburn had entered the room unobserved, and, standing behind
them, had overheard. She grasped a chair to steady herself, and shook
her head as Ted besought her to retire to the ladies' room. There was a
long silence.

"Bahram Khan?" enquired the major presently, hardly knowing what to say.
"Is that he, then, in the English officer's uniform and wearing his
medals?" pointing to a muscular man who could be made out in the
distance apparently ordering the sepoys about.

"That is the hound, sahib," replied Dwarika Rai. "He has sworn to
exterminate you all before noon to-morrow. He has taken command of all
the treacherous curs."

Ethel, half-stunned by the terrible tidings, was now seated, and Ted
leaned against the girl's chair, gently stroking her hand,--dimly
recognizing that her sorrow was even greater than his own. The shock of
Captain Russell's murder was too sudden for her to realize fully, and
the rest of the news seemed dwarfed to mere insignificance. The poor
girl attempted to pull herself together by thinking how greatly her
helpless father stood in need of her.

"Bahram Khan!" said Ted bitterly. "Why, he is the cur who was present at
the steeple-chase,--a robber and outlaw! However could such a crew have
been trusted?"

"It was Sir Henry Lawrence's doing," said Leigh. "It's rare for him to
make a mistake, but here is the result of his great 'Guides' scheme.
Evidently they don't mean to make the grand assault until to-morrow."

"I wish they would," said Ted with feeling; "and end it, to-night."

To give the boy credit, he was thinking more of the hours of bitter
grief Ethel Woodburn was doomed to endure than of himself.

It may be readily surmised that very few of the garrison contrived to
sleep that night. Soon after sunrise all--women, civilians, black
soldiers, and white officers--were gathered together to watch the
mutineers assemble for the final assault. Of its issue there could be no
doubt. As they stood there awaiting their fate Ethel Woodburn could not
remain insensible, even at so trying a moment, to the beauty of the
early Indian morning. The slanting rays of the Eastern sun were gilding
the mosques and minarets of the town and lighting up with lurid glow the
reddish buildings behind the fort, and the thought of Nature's beauty
added to her sorrow. But the greater number of those doomed people had
weightier matters to occupy their thoughts.

In and around the courtyard of the fort itself all was bustle and
confusion; some could be both seen and heard giving commands, and others
obeying the same, though the vast majority of the assembled hundreds
appeared to display a total lack of discipline. Inside the
commissioner's house the feeling of helplessness and suspense was
horrible. The wisdom of a sortie, a mad rush on the guns,--to die
fighting rather than cooped up and made a target of,--was debated, and
not a man there but would have preferred the chance of striking back.
There were women, however, to be considered, and to leave them was out
of the question.

"Whilst there's life there's hope," declared the Commissioner, with an
attempt at cheerfulness. "The house is not destroyed yet."

He barely succeeded, however, in convincing even himself that there was
the faintest glimmer of hope. No British troops were within three days'
journey. The handful of unfortunates bade good-bye to one another, shook
hands all round, and prepared to meet their death with a smile upon
their faces, without flinching or showing the least sign of weakness
before the eyes of their gallant and devoted Rajputs. Nor were the women
behind the men in respect of courage.

Major Munro, after consulting his officers, had advised the faithful
sepoys to save their lives as best they could, either by cutting their
way through at night, or by pretending to desert and to fall in with the
views of their rebel comrades.

To give them this chance was only fair, thought the major; the Rajputs,
having done their duty, deserved consideration, and though the
Englishmen could not leave the wounded and the women, yet the
dark-faces, now that resistance was hopeless, should be allowed to save
their lives. To Munro's delight, however, the gallant fellows announced
a firm resolve to stand by their duty to the last. They took their
places shoulder to shoulder with the pale-faces, grimly waiting and
watching now that the last glimmer of hope had died out.

For in the great square of the fort more than two thousand men were
under arms; and in another moment the nine-pounders were charged with
grape, under the supervision of Bahram Khan and a score of picked Sikhs
and Pathans of the Guide Corps--men who had served in the old Khalsa
Artillery and who thoroughly understood their work.

Behind the guns and flanking them the remaining hundred men of the
Guides, conspicuous by their powerful and soldierly bearing, maintained
some appearance of discipline, whereas the majority of the sepoys and of
armed fanatics and budmashes were acting as seemed best in their own
eyes.

Ressaidar Bahram Khan, however, insisted with many threats and much
strong language on some kind of order being maintained. He placed the
193rd Sepoys in one position, the poorbeahs[7] of the 138th in another,
and the Sikhs of the latter corps to the right front of the guns.

  [7] A name given to the Oudh sepoys.

"When the guns have battered down the walls," thundered the rebel
commandant, "then must ye take the house by storm. The Feringhi dogs
prevail against us because they trust to the bayonet, instead of staying
to fire as ye do, for the bayonet is more certain than the bullet. We
must learn from them and attack as they would, for our aim must be to
destroy utterly the hated tyrants; not one must escape our vengeance."

The mob applauded, shouting "Din! din! Death to the Feringhis!" And the
ressaidar went on:

"Take, then, the charges from your muskets, lest ye be tempted to stop
and fire, for if ye do that doubtless many of the dogs may escape our
wrath. Trust to the bayonet! Kill the infidels with the steel! Now,
unload!"

The charges were withdrawn.

"That dacoit fellow has some idea of discipline; he seems to know what
he's about,--though he's placing some of his men in queer positions, to
be sure!" commented Major Munro stoutly, bent on showing an undaunted
front to the end.

"Oh for a good, wholesome, red-coated regiment," sighed Lieutenant
Leigh, "to wipe these fiends off the earth! Watch that treacherous,
murdering Pathan! What's he up to now?"

"Trusting to the bayonet!" exclaimed Munro in astonishment. "That's not
like an Asiatic, but he's right."

They heard but could not distinguish Bahram Khan's commands, and saw the
sepoys empty their muskets and begin to fix bayonets. Their hearts were
beating wildly, and small shame to them, for they were helpless and
could not strike back--as helpless as condemned criminals bound and
gagged. Would the word never be given to fire? What was the matter now?

Waiting in silent agony for the fatal word, they perceived the Pathan
commandant turn hastily to his gunners, who stood port-fire in hand.

Quick as thought, before rebels or onlookers could realize what was
taking place, the muzzles of the guns were turned slightly to the right
and lowered, and ere the assemblage had time to wonder, a shower of
grape was belched forth into the clustered ranks of the faithless Sikhs
of the 138th. At the very same instant, before sepoys or besieged were
able to take in what had happened, the hundred men of the Guides--or as
many of them as were not helping their gunner comrades--brought their
rifles (for theirs were still loaded) to the shoulder, and blazed away
into the helpless mass of brown humanity. The rebels fell in scores,
mown down by t

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