by Talbot Mundy
Mahommed Gunga cursed, and cursed again as his own eyes confirmed what Alwa said.
“I tried him all the ways there are, except that one way!” he declared. “May Allah forgive my oversight! I should have got him well entangled with a woman before he reached Peshawur! He should have been heart-broken by this time — rightly, he should have been desperate with unrequited love! Byng-bahadur could have managed it! Byng-bahadur would have managed it, had I thought to advise him!”
He stood, looking over very gloomily at Cunningham, making a dozen wild plans for getting rid of Miss McClean — by no means forgetting poison — and the height of Alwa’s aerie from the plain below! He would have been considerably calmer, could he have heard what Cunningham and Miss McClean were saying.
The missionary was with her now — ill and exhausted from the combined effects of excitement, horror, and the unaccustomed ride across the desert — most anxious for his daughter — worried, to the verge of desperation, by the ghastly news of the rebellion.
“Mr. Cunningham, I hope you are the forerunner of a British force?” he hazarded.
But Cunningham was too intent on cross-examination to waste time on giving any information.
“I want you to tell me, quite quietly and without hurry, all you can about Howrah,” he said, sitting close to Miss McClean. “I want you to understand that I am the sole representative of my government in the whole district, and that whatever can be done depends very largely on what information I can get. I have been talking to the Alwa-sahib, but he seems too obsessed with his own predicament to be able to make things quite clear. Now, go ahead and tell me what you know about conditions in the city. Remember, you are under orders! Try and consider yourself a scout, reporting information to your officer. Tell me every single thing, however unimportant.”
On the far side of the courtyard Alwa and Mahommed Gunga had gone to lean over the parapet and watch something that seemed to interest both of them intently. There were twenty or more men, lined round the ramparts on the lookout, and they all too seemed spellbound, but Cunningham was too engrossed in Miss McClean’s story of the happenings in Howrah City to take notice. Now and then her father would help her out with an interjected comment; occasionally Cunningham would stop her with a question, or would ask her to repeat some item; but, for more than an hour she spun a clear-strung narrative that left very little to imagination and included practically all there was to know.
“Do you think,” asked Cunningham “that this brute Jaimihr really wants to make you Maharanee?”
“I couldn’t say,” she shuddered. “You know, there have been several instances of European women having practically sold themselves to native princes; there have been stories — I have heard them — of English women marrying Rajahs, and regretting it. There is no reason why he should not be in earnest, and he certainly seemed to be.”
“And this treasure? Of course, I have heard tales about it, but I thought they were just tales.”
“That treasure is really there, and its amount must be fabulous. I have been told that there are jewels there which would bring a Rajah’s ransom, and gold enough to offset the taxes of the whole of India for a year or two. I’ve no doubt the stories are exaggerated, but the treasure is real enough, and big enough to make the throne worth fighting for. Jaimihr counts on being able to break the power of the priests and broach the treasure.”
“And Jaimihr is — er — in love with you!”
“He tried very hard to prove it, in his own objectionable way!”
“And Jaimihr wants the throne — and Howrah wants to send a force against the British, but dare not move because of Jaimihr — I have Mahommed Gunga and five or six men to depend on — the Rangars are sitting on the fence — and the government has its hands full! The lookout’s bright! I think I see the way through!”
“You are forgetting me.” The missionary spread his broad stooped shoulders. “I am a missionary first, but next to that I have my country’s cause more at heart than anything. I place myself under your orders, Mr. Cunningham.”
“I too,” said Miss McClean. She was looking at him keenly as he gazed away into nothing through slightly narrowed eyes. Vaguely, his attitude reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Duke of Wellington; there was the same mastery, the same far vision, the same poise of self-contained power. His nose was not like the Iron Duke’s, for young Cunningham’s had rather more tolerance in its outline and less of Roman overbearing; but the eyes, and the mouth, and the angle of the jaw were so like Wellesley’s as to force a smile. “A woman isn’t likely to be much use in a case like this — but, one never knows. My country comes first.”
“Thanks,” he answered quietly. And as he turned his head to flash one glance at each of them, she recognized what Mahommed Gunga had gloated over from the first — the grim decision, that will sacrifice all — take full responsibility — and use all means available for the one unflinching purpose of the game in hand. She knew that minute, and her father knew, that if she could be used — in any way at all — he would make use of her.
“Go ahead!” she nodded. “I’ll obey!”
“And I will not prevent!” said Duncan McClean, smiling and straightening his spectacles.
Cunningham left them and walked over to the parapet, where the whole garrison was bending excitedly now above the battlement. There were more than forty men, most of them clustered near Alwa and Mahommed Gunga. Mahommed Gunga was busy counting.
“Eight hundred!” he exclaimed, as Cunningham drew near.
“Eight hundred what, Mahommed Gunga? Come and see, sahib.”
Cunningham leaned over, and beheld a mounted column, trailing along the desert road in wonderfully good formation.
“Where are they from?” he asked.
“Jaimihr’s men, from Howrah!”
“That means,” growled Alwa, “that the Hindoo pig Jaimihr has more than half the city at his back. He has left behind ten men for every one he brings with him — sufficient to hold Howrah in check. Otherwise he would never have dared come here. He hopes to settle his little private quarrel with me first, before dealing with his brother! Who told him, I wonder, that I was pledged to Howrah?”
“He reckons he has caught thee napping in this fort of thine!” laughed Mahommed Gunga. “He means to bottle up the Rangars’ leader, and so checkmate all of them!”
The eight hundred horsemen on the plain below rode carelessly through Alwa’s gardens, leaving trampled confusion in their wake, and lined up — with Jaimihr at their head — immediately before the great iron gate. A moment later four men rode closer and hammered on it with their lance-ends.
“Go down and speak to them!” commanded Alwa, and a man dropped down the zigzag roadway like a goat, taking short cuts from level to level, until he stood on a pinnacle of rock that overhung the gate. Ten minutes later he returned, breathing hard with the effort of his climb.
“Jaimihr demands the missionaries — particularly the Miss-sahib — also quarters and food!” he reported.
“Quarters and food he shall have!” swore Alwa, looking down at the Prince who sat his charger in the centre of the roadway. “Did he deign a threat?”
“He said that in fifteen minutes he will burst the gate in, unless he is first admitted!”
Duncan McClean walked over, limping painfully, and peered over the precipice.
“Unfriendly?” he asked, and Mahommed Gunga heard him.
“Thy friend Jaimihr, sahib! His teeth are all but visible from here!”
“And — ?”
“He demands admittance — also thee and thy daughter!”
“And — ?”
“Sahib — art thou a priest?”
“I am.”
“One, then, who prays?”
“Yes.”
“For dead men, ever? For the dying?”
“Certainly.”
“Aloud?”
“On occasion, yes.”
“Then pray now!
There will be many dead and dying on the plain below in less than fifteen minutes! Hindoos, for all I know, would benefit by prayer. They have too many gods, and their gods are too busy fighting for ascendancy to listen. Pray thou, a little!”
There came a long shout from the plain, and Alwa sent a man again to listen. He came back with a message that Jaimihr granted amnesty to all who would surrender, and that he would be pleased to accept Alwa’s allegiance if offered to him.
“I will offer the braggart something in the way of board and lodging that will astonish him!” growled Alwa. “Eight men to horse! The first eight! That will do! Back to the battlement, the rest of you!”
They had raced for the right to loose themselves against eight hundred!
CHAPTER XXV
OH, duck and run — the hornets come!
Oh, jungli! Clear the way!
The nest’s ahum — the hornets come!
The sharp-stinged, harp-winged hornets come!
Nay, jungli! When the hornets come,
It isn’t well to stay!
ALWA ordered ten men down into the bowels of the rock itself, where great wheels with a chain attached to them were forced round to lift the gate. Next he stationed a signaller with a cord in either hand, above the parapet, to notify the men below exactly when to set the simple machinery in motion. His eight clattered out from the stables on the far side of the rock, and his own charger was brought to him, saddled.
Then, in a second, it was evident why Raputs do not rule in Rajputana.
“I ride too with my men!” declared Mahommed Gunga.
“Nay! This is my affair — my private quarrel with Jaimihr!”
Mahommed Gunga turned to Ali Partab, who had been a shadow to him ever since he came.
“Turn out my five, and bring my charger!” he commanded.
“No, I say!” Alwa had his hand already on his sabre hilt. “There is room for eight and no more. Four following four abreast, and one ahead to lead them. I and my men know how to do this. I and my men have a personal dispute with Jaimihr. Stay thou here!”
Mahommed Gunga’s five and Ali Partab came clattering out so fast as to lead to the suspicion that their horses had been already saddled. Mahommed Gunga mounted.
“Lead on, cousin!” he exclaimed. “I will follow thy lead, but I come!”
Then Alwa did what a native nearly always will do. He turned to a man not of his own race, whom he believed he could trust to be impartial.
“Sahib — have I no rights in my own house?”
“Certainly you have,” said Cunningham, who was wondering more than anything what weird, wild trick these horsemen meant to play. No man in his senses would have dared to ride a horse at more than foot-pace down the path. Was there another path? he wondered. At least, if eight men were about to charge into eight hundred, it would be best to keep his good friend Mahommed Gunga out of it, he decided.
“Risaldar!” The veteran was always most amenable to reason when addressed by his military title. “Who of us two is senior — thou or I?”
“By Allah, not I, sahib! I am thy servant!”
“I accept your service, and I order you to stay with your men up here with me!”
Mahommed Gunga saluted and dismounted, and his six followed suit, looking as disappointed as children just deprived of a vacation. Alwa wheeled his horse in front of Cunningham and saluted too.
“For that service, sahib, I am thy friend!” he muttered. “That was right and reasonable, and a judgement quickly given! Thy friend, bahadur!” He spoke low on purpose, but Mahommed Gunga heard him, caught Cunningham’s eye, and grinned. He saw a way to save his face, at all events.
“That was a trick well turned, sahib!” he whispered, as Alwa moved away. “Alwa will listen in future when Cunnigan-bahadur speaks!”
“Go down and tell Jaimihr that I come in person!” ordered Alwa, and the man dropped down the cliff side for the third time; they could hear his voice, high-pitched, resounding off the rock, and they caught a faint murmur of the answer. Below, Jaimihr could be seen waiting patiently, checking his restive war-horse with a long-cheeked bit, and waiting, ready to ride under the gate the moment it was opened. Rosemary McClean came over; she and Cunningham and the missionary leaned together over the battlement and watched.
“We might do some execution with rifles from here,” Cunningham suggested; “I believe I’ll send for mine.” But Mahommed Gunga overheard him.
“Nay, sahib! No shooting will be necessary. Watch!”
There was a clatter of hoofs, and they all looked up in time to see the tails of the last four chargers disappearing round the corner, downward. They had gone — full pelt — down a path that a man might hesitate to take! From where they stood, there was an archer’s view of every inch of the only rock-hewn road that led from the gate to the summit of the cliff; an enemy who had burst the gate in would have had to climb in the teeth of a searching hail of missiles, with little chance of shooting back.
They could see the gate itself, and Jaimihr on the other side. And, swooping — shooting — sliding down the trail like a storm-loosed avalanche, they could see the nine go, led by Alwa. No living creature could have looked away!
Below, entirely unconscious of the coming shock, the mounted sepoys waited behind Jaimihr in four long, straight lines. Jaimihr himself, with a heavy-hilted cimeter held upward at the “carry,” was about four charger lengths beyond the iron screen, ready to spur through. Close by him were a dozen, waiting to ram a big beam in and hold up the gate when it had opened. And, full-tilt down the gorge, flash-tipped like a thunderbolt, gray-turbaned, reckless, whirling death ripped down on them.
They caught sound of the hammering hoofs too late. Two gongs boomed in the rock. The windlass creaked. Five seconds too late Jaimihr gathered up his reins, spurred, wheeled, and shouted to the men behind him. The great gate rose, like the jaws of a hungry monster, and the nine — streaking too fast down far too steep a slide to stop themselves — burst straight out under it and struck, as a wind blast smites a poppy-field.
Jaimihr was borne backward — carried off his horse. Alwa and the first four rode him down, and crashed through the four-deep line beyond; the second four pounced on him, gathered him, and followed. Before the lines could form again the whole nine wheeled — as a wind-eddy spins on its own axis — and burst through back again, the horses racing neck and neck, and the sabres cutting down a swath to screech and swear and gurgle in among the trampled garden stuff.
They came back in a line, all eight abreast, Alwa leading only by a length. At the opening, four horses — two on either side — slid, rump to the ground, until their noses touched the rock. Alwa and four dashed through and under; the rest recovered, spun on their haunches, and followed. The gongs boomed again down in the belly of the rock, and the gate clanged shut.
“That was good,” said Mahommed Gunga quietly. “Now, watch again!”
Almost before the words had left his lips, a hail of lead barked out from twenty vantage-points, and the smoke showed where some forty men were squinting down steel barrels, shooting as rapidly and as rottenly as natives of India usually do. They did little execution; but before Alwa and his eight had climbed up the steep track to the summit, patting their horses’ necks and reviling Jaimihr as they came, the cavalry below had scampered out of range, leaving their dead and wounded where they lay.
“How is that for a start, sahib?” demanded Mahommed Gunga exultantly, as two men deposited the dishevelled Jaimihr on his feet, and the Prince glared around him like a man awaking from a dream. “How is that for a beginning?”
“As bad as could be!” answered Cunningham. “It was well executed — bold — clever — anything you like, Mahommed Gunga, but — if I’d been asked I’d have sooner made the devil prisoner! Jaimihr is no use at all to us in here. Outside, he’d be veritable godsend!”
CHAPTER XXVI
There is war to the North should I risk and ride forth,
And a figh
t to the South, too, I’m thinking;
There is war in the East, and one battle at least
In the West between eating and drinking.
I’m allowed to rejoice in an excellent choice
Of plans for a soldier of mettle,
For all of them mean bloody war and rapine.
So — on which should a gentleman settle?
WITH his muscles strained and twisted (for his Rangar capturers had dragged him none too gently) and with his jewelled pugree all awry, Jaimihr did not lack dignity. He held his chin high, although he gazed at the bubbling spring thirstily; and, thirsty though he must have been, he asked no favors.
One of Alwa’s men brought him a brass dipper full of water, after washing it out first thoroughly and ostentatiously. But Jaimihr smiled. His caste forbade. He waved away the offering much as Caesar may have waved aside a crown, with an air of condescending mightiness too proud to know contempt.
“Go, help thyself!” growled Alwa; and Jaimihr walked to the spring without haste, knelt down, and dipped up water with his hand.
“Now to a cell with him!” commanded Alwa, before the Prince had time to slake a more than ordinary thirst. Jaimihr stood upright as four men closed in on him, and looked straight in the eyes of every one in turn. Rosemary McClean stepped back, to hide herself behind Cunningham’s broad shoulders, but Jaimihr saw her and his proud smile broadened to a laugh of sheer amusement. He let his captors wait for him while he stared straight at her, sparing her no fragment of embarrassment.
“I slew a man once to save thee, sahiba!” he mocked. “Why slink away? Have I ever been thy enemy?”
Then he folded his arms and walked off between his guards, without even an acknowledgment of Alwa’s or any other man’s existence on the earth.
Alwa spat as he wiped blood from his long sabre. He imagined he was doing the necessary dirty work out of Miss McClean’s sight; but, except hospital nurses, there are few women who can see dry blood removed from steel without a qualm; she had looked at Alwa to escape Jaimihr’s gaze; now she looked at Jaimihr’s back to avoid the sight of what Alwa was seeing fit to do. And with all the woman in her she pitied the prisoner, who had said no less than truth when he claimed to have killed a man for her.