by Talbot Mundy
III.
“Sergeant!”
“Sir!”
The close-cropped, pipe-clayed non-commissioned officer spurred his horse into a canter until his scabbard clattered at young Bellairs’ boot. Nothing but the rattling and the jolting of the guns and ammunition-wagon was audible, except just on ahead of them the click-clack, click-click-clack of the advance-guard. To the right and left of them the shadowy forms of giant banian-trees loomed and slid past them as they had done for the past four hours, and for ten paces ahead they could see the faintly outlined shape of the trunk road that they followed. The rest was silence and a pall of blackness obscuring everything. They had ridden along a valley, but they had emerged on rising ground and there was one spot of color in the pall now, or else a hole in it.
“What d’you suppose that is burning over there?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“How far away is it?”
“Very hard to tell on a night like this, sir. It might be ten miles away and might be twenty. By my reckoning it’s on our road, though, and somewhere between here and Jundhra.”
“So it seems to me; our road swings round to the right presently, doesn’t it? That’ll lead us right to it. That would make it Doonha more or less. D’you suppose it’s at Doonha?”
“I was thinking it might be, sir. If it’s Doonha, it means that the sepoy barracks and all the stores are burning — there’s nothing else there that would make all that flame!”
“There are two companies of the Thirty-third there, too.”
“Yes, sir, but they’re under canvas; tents would blaze up, but they’d die down again in a minute. That fire’s steady and growing bigger!”
“It’s the sepoy barracks, then!”
“Seems so to me, sir!”
“Halt!” roared Bellairs. The advance-guard kicked up a little shower of sparks, trace-chains slacked with a jingle and the jolting ceased. Bellairs rode up to the advance-guard.
“Now, Sergeant,” he ordered, “it looks as though that were the Doonha barracks burning over yonder. There’s no knowing, though, what it is. Send four men on, two hundred yards ahead of you, and you and the rest keep a good two hundred yards ahead of the guns. See that the men keep on the alert, and mind that they spare their horses as much as possible. If there’s going to be trouble, we may just as well be ready for it!”
“Very good, sir!”
“Go ahead, then!”
At a word from the sergeant, four men clattered off and were swallowed in the darkness. A minute later the advance-guard followed them and then, after another minute’s pause, young Bellairs’ voice was raised into a ringing shout again.
“Section, advance! Trot, march!”
The trace-chains tightened, and the clattering, bumping, jingling procession began again, its rear brought up by the six-horse ammunition-wagon. They rode speechless for the best part of an hour, each man’s eyes on the distant conflagration that had begun now to light up the whole of the sky ahead of them. They still rode in darkness, but they seemed to be approaching the red rim of the Pit. Huge, billowing clouds of smoke, red-lit on the under side, belched upward to the blackness overhead, and a something that was scarcely sound — for it was yet too distant — warned them that it was no illusion they were riding into. The conflagration grew. It seemed to be nearly white-hot down below.
Bellairs wet his finger and held it extended upward.
“There’s no wind that I can feel!” he muttered. “And yet, if that were a grass-fire, there’d be game and rats and birds and things — some of ’em would bolt this way. That’s the Doonha barracks burning or I’m a black man, which the Lord forbid!”
A minute later, every man in the section pricked up his ears. There was no order given; but a sensation ran the whole length of it and a movement from easy riding to tense rigidity that could be felt by some sixth sense. Every man was listening, feeling, groping with his senses for something he could neither hear as yet nor see, but that he knew was there. And then, far-distant yet — not above, but under the jolting of the gun-wheels and the rattle of the scabbards — they could hear the clickety-clickety-clickety-click of a horse hard-ridden.
They had scarcely caught that sound, they had barely tightened up their bridle-reins, when another sound, one just as unmistakable, burst out in front of them. A ragged, ill-timed volley ripped out from somewhere near the conflagration and was answered instantly by one that was close-ripped like the fire of heavy ordnance. And then one of the advance-guard wheeled his horse and drove his spurs home rowel-deep. He came thundering back along the road with his scabbard out in the wind behind him and reined up suddenly when his horse’s forefeet were abreast of the lieutenant.
“There’s some one coming, sir, hard as he can gallop! He’s one of our men by the sound of him. His horse is shod — and I thought I saw steel when the fire-light fell on him a minute ago!”
“Are you sure there’s only one?”
“Sure, sir! You can hear him now!”
“All right! Fall in behind me!”
Bellairs felt his sword-hilt and cocked a pistol stealthily, but he gave no orders to the section. This might be a native soldier run amuck, and it might be a messenger; but in either case, friend or foe, if there was only one man he could deal with him alone.
“Halt!” roared the advance-guard suddenly. But the horse’s hoof-beats never checked for a single instant.
“Halt, you! Who comes there?”
“Friend!” came the answer, in an accent that was unmistakable.
“What friend? Where are you going?”
One of the advance-guard reined his horse across the road. The others followed suit and blocked the way effectually. “Halt!” they roared in unison.
The main body of the advance came up with them.
“Who is he?” shouted the sergeant.
“We’ll soon see! Here he comes!”
“Out of my way!” yelled a voice, as a foamed-flecked horse burst out of the darkness like an apparition and bore straight down on them — his head bored a little to one side, the red rims of his nostrils wide distended and his whole sense and energy, and strength concentrated on pleasing the speed-hungry Irishman who rode him. He flashed into them head-on, like a devil from the outer darkness. His head touched a man’s knee — and he rose and tried to jump him! His breast crashed full into the obstruction and horse and gunner crashed down to the road.
A dozen arms reached out — twelve horses surged in a clattering melee — two hands gripped the reins and four arms seized the rider, and in a second the panting charger was brought up all-standing. The sergeant thrust his grim face closer and peered at their capture.
“Good — , if it ain’t an officer!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, sir!”
And at that instant the section rattled, up behind them, with Bellairs in the lead.
“Halt!” roared Bellairs. “What’s this?”
“Bloody murder, arson, high treason, mutiny and death! Blood and onions, man! Don’t your men know an officer when they see one? Who are you? Are you Bellairs? Then why in God’s name didn’t you say so sooner? What have you waited for?
“How many hours is it since you got the message through from Jundhra? Couldn’t you see the barracks burning? Who am I — I’m Captain O’Rourke, of the Thirty-third, sent to see what you’re doing on the road, that’s who I am! A full-fledged; able-bodied captain wasted in a crisis, just because you didn’t choose to hurry! Poison take your confounded gunners, sir! Have they nothing better to engage them than holding up officers on the Queen’s trunk road?”
“Supposing you tell me what’s the matter?” suggested young Bellairs, prompt as are most of his breed to appear casual the moment there was cause to feel excited.
“Your gunners have taken all my breath, sir. I can’t speak!”
“You shouldn’t take chances with a section of artillery! They’re not like infantry — they don’t sleep all the time — you can
’t ride through them as a rule!”
“Don’t sleep, don’t they! Then what have you been doing on the road? And what are you standing here for? Ride, man, ride! You’re wanted!”
“Get out of the way, then!” suggested Bellairs, and Captain O’Rourke legged his panting charger over to the roadside.
“Advance-guard, forward, trot!” commanded the lieutenant.
“Have you brought your wife with you?” demanded O’Rourke, peering into the jingling blackness.
“No. Of course not. Why?”
“‘Of course not! Why?’ says the man! Hell and hot porridge! Why, the whole of India’s ablaze from end to end — the sepoys have mutinied to a man, and the rest have joined them! There’s bloody murder doing — they’ve shot their officers — Hammond’s dead and Carstairs and Welfleet and heaven knows who else. They’ve burned their barracks and the stores and they’re trying to seize the magazine. If they get that, God help every one. They’re short of ammunition as it is, but two companies of the Thirty-third can’t hold out for long against that horde. You’ll be in the nick of time! Hurry, man! For the love of anything you like to name, get a move on!”
IV.
“Trot, march!
“Canter!”
Bellairs was thinking of his wife, alone in Hanadra, unprotected except by a sixty-year-old Risaldar and a half-brother who was a civilian and an unknown quantity. There were cold chills running down his spine and a sickening sensation in his stomach. He rode ahead of the guns, with O’Rourke keeping pace beside him. He felt that he hated O’Rourke, hated everything, hated the Service, and the country — and the guns, that could put him into such a fiendish predicament.
O’Rourke broke silence first.
“Who is with your wife?” he demanded suddenly.
“Heaven knows! I left her under the protection of Risaldar Mahommed Khan, but he was to ride off for an escort for her.”
“Not your father’s old Risaldar?” asked O’Rourke.
“The same.”
“Then thank God! I’d sooner trust him than I would a regiment. He’ll bring her in alive or slit the throats of half Asia — maybe ‘he’ll do both! Come, that’s off our minds! She’s safer with him than she would be here. Have you lots of ammunition?”
“I brought all I had with me at Hanadra.”
“Good! What you’ll need tonight is grape!”
“I’ve lots of it. It’s nearly all grape.”
“Hurrah! Then we’ll treat those dirty mutineers to a dose or two of pills they won’t fancy! Come on, man — set the pace a little faster!”
“Why didn’t my orders say anything about a mutiny or bringing in my wife?”
“Dunno! I didn’t write ’em. I can guess, though. There’d be something like nine reasons. For one thing, they’d credit you with sense enough to bring her in without being told. For another, the messenger who took the note might have got captured on the way — they wouldn’t want to tell the sepoys more than they could help. Then there’d be something like a hurry. They’re attacked there too — can’t even send us assistance. Told us to waylay you and make use of you. Maybe they forgot your wife — maybe they didn’t. It’s a devil of a business anyhow!”
It was difficult to talk at the speed that they were making, with their own horses breathing heavily, O’Rourke’s especially; the guns thundering along behind them and the advance-guard clattering in front, and their attention distracted every other minute by the noise of volleys on ahead and the occasional staccato rattle of independent firing. The whole sky was now alight with the reflection of the burning barracks and they could see the ragged outlines of the cracking walls silhouetted against the blazing red within. One mile or less from the burning buildings they could see, too, the occasional flash of rifles where the two companies of the Thirty-third, Honorable East India Company’s Light Infantry, held out against the mutineers.
“Why did they mutiny?” asked Bellairs.
“God knows! Nobody knows! Nobody knows anything! I’m thinking—”
“Thinking what?”
“Forrester-Carter is commanding. We’ll settle this business pretty quickly, now you’ve come. Then — Steady, boy! Steady! Hold up! This poor horse of mine is just about foundered, by the feel of him. He’ll reach Doonha, though. Then we’ll ask Carter to make a dash on Hanadra and bring Mrs. Bellairs — maybe we’ll meet her and the Risaldar half-way — who knows? The sepoys wouldn’t expect that, either. The move’d puzzle ’em — it’d be a good move, to my way of thinking.”
“Let’s hope Carter will consent!” prayed Bellairs fervently. “Now, what’s the lay of things?”
“Couldn’t tell you! When I left, our men were surrounded. I had to burst through the enemy to get away. Ours are all around the magazine and the sepoys are on every side of them. You’ll have to use diagonal fire unless you want to hurt some of our chaps — sweep ’em cornerwise. There’s high ground over to the right there, within four hundred yards of the position. Maybe they’re holding it, though — there’s no knowing!”
They could hear the roar of the flames now, and could see the figures of sepoys running here and there. The rattle of musketry was incessant. They could hear howls and yells and bugle-calls blown at random by the sepoys, and once, in answer as it seemed to a more than usually savage chorus from the enemy — a chorus that was punctuated by a raging din of intermittent rifle-fire — a ringing cheer.
“They must be in a tight hole!” muttered Bellairs. “Answer that, men! All together, now! Let ’em know we’re coming.”
The men rose in their stirrups all together, and sent roaring through the blackness the deep-throated “Hip-hip-hur-r-a-a-a-a-a!” that has gladdened more than one beleaguered British force in the course of history. It is quite different from the “Hur-o-a-o-a-u-r-rh” of a forlorn hope, or the high-pitched note of pleasure that signals the end of a review. It means “Hold on, till we get there, boys!” and it carries its meaning, clear and crisp and unmistakable, in its note.
The two beleaguered companies heard it and answered promptly with another cheer.
“By gad, they must be in a hole!” remarked Bellairs.
British soldiers do not cheer like that, all together, unless there is very good reason to feel cheerless. They fight, each man according to his temperament, swearing or laughing, sobbing or singing comic songs, until the case looks grim. Then, though, the same thrill runs through the whole of them, the same fire blazes in their eyes, and the last ditch that they line has been known to be a grave for the enemy.
“Trumpeter! Sound close-order!”
The trumpet rang. The advance-guard drew rein for the section to catch up. The guns drew abreast of one another and the mounted gunners formed in a line, two deep, in front of them. The ammunition-wagon trailed like a tail behind.
“That high ground over there, I think!” suggested O’Rourke.
“Thank you, sir. Section, right! Trot, march! Canter!”
Crash went the guns and the following wagon across the roadside ditch. The tired horses came up to the collar as service-horses always will, generous to the last ounce of strength they have in them.
“Gallop!”
The limbers bumped and jolted and the short-handled whips cracked like the sound of pistol-practise. Blind, unreconnoitered, grim — like a black thunderbolt loosed into the blackness — the two guns shot along a hollow, thundered up a ridge and burst into the fire-light up above the mutineers, in the last place where any one expected them. A howl came from the road that they had left, a hundred sepoys had rushed down to block their passage the moment that their cheer had rung above the noise of battle.
“Action — front!” roared young Bellairs, and the muzzles swung round at the gallop, jerked into position by the wheeling teams.
“With case, at four hundred!”
The orders were given and obeyed almost before the guns had lost their motion. The charges had been rammed into the greedy muzzles before the horses w
ere away, almost — and that takes but a second — the horses vanish like blown smoke when the game begins. A howl from the mutineers told that they were seen; a volley from the British infantry announced that they were yet in time; and “boom-boom!” went both guns together.
The grapeshot whined and shrieked, and the ranks of the sepoys wilted, mown down as though a scythe had swept them. Once, and once only, they gathered for a charge on the two guns; but they were met half-way up the rise by a shrieking blast of grape that ripped through them and took the heart out of them; and the grape was followed by well-aimed volleys from behind. Then they drew off to sulk and make fresh plans at a distance, and Bellairs took his section unmolested into the Thirty-third-lined rampart round the magazine.
“What kept you, sir?” demanded Colonel Forrester-Carter, nodding to him in answer to his salute and holding out his right arm while a sergeant bandaged it.
“My wife, sir — I—”
“Where is she? Didn’t you bring her?”
“No, sir — I—”
“Where is she?”
“Still at Hanadra, sir — I—”
“Let the men fall in! Call the roll at once!”
“There was nothing in my orders, sir, about—” But Colonel Carter cut him short with a motion and turned his back on him.
“Much obliged, Sergeant,” he said, slipping his wounded arm into an improvised sling. “How many wagons have we here?”
“Four, sir.”
“And horses?”
“All shot dead except your charger, sir.”
“Oh! Ask Captain Trevor to come here.”
The sergeant disappeared into the shadows, and a moment later Captain Trevor came running up and saluted.
“There are seven wounded, sir, and nineteen dead,” he reported.
“Better than I had hoped, Trevor! Will you set a train to that magazine, please, and blow it up the moment we are at a safe distance?”
Trevor seemed surprised, but he saluted and said nothing.
“O’Rourke! Please see about burying the dead at once. Mr. Bellairs, let me have two horses, please, and their drivers, from each gun. Sergeant! See about putting the wounded into the lightest of the wagons and harness in four gun-horses the best way you can manage.”