by Talbot Mundy
“Do any watch?”
“Not one! The priests are in the temple; all who are not priests man the walls or rush here and there making ready.”
“And the priestling?”
“Is where I left him.”
“Where? — I said.”
“In the niche underneath the arch, where I trapped the High Priest!”
“Are the horses fed and watered?”
“Ha, sahib!”
“Good! How is the niche opened where the priestling lies?”
“There is the trunk of an elephant, carved where the largest stone of all begins to curve outward, on the side of the stone as you go outward from the courtyard.”
“On which side of the archway, then?”
“On the left side, sahib. Press on the trunk downward and then pull; the stone swings outward. There are steps then — ten steps downward to the stone floor where the priestling lies.”
“Good! I can find him. Now pick up the heavenborn yonder in those great arms of thine, and bear her gently! Gently, I said! So! Have a care, now, that she is not injured against the corners. My honor, aye, my honor and yours and all our duty to the Raj you bear and — and have a care of the corners?”
“Aye,” answered the half-brother, stolidly, holding Ruth as though she had been a little bag of rice.
Again the Risaldar turned to the High Priest, and eyed him through eyes that glittered.
“We are ready!” he growled. “Lead on to thy hiding-place!”
VIII.
The guns rode first from Doonha, for the guns take precedence. The section ground-scouts were acting scouts for the division, two hundred yards ahead of every one. Behind the guns rode Colonel Forrester-Carter, followed by the wagon with the wounded; and last of all the two companies of the Thirty-third trudged through the stifling heat.
But, though the guns were ahead of every one, they had to suit their pace to that of the men who marched. For one thing, there might be an attack at any minute, and guns that are caught at close quarters at a distance from their escort are apt to be astonishingly helpless. They can act in unison with infantry; but alone, on bad ground, in the darkness, and with their horses nearly too tired to drag them, a leash of ten puppies in a crowd would be an easier thing to hurry with.
Young Bellairs had his men dismounted and walking by their mounts. Even the drivers led their horses, for two had been taken from each gun to drag the wounded, and the guns are calculated as a load for six, not four.
As he trudged through the blood-hot dust in clumsy riding-boots and led his charger on the left flank of the guns, Harry Bellairs fumed and fretted in a way to make no man envy him. The gloomy, ghost-like trees, that had flitted past him on the road to Doonha, crawled past him now — slowly and more slowly as his tired feet blistered in his boots. He could not mount and ride, though, for very shame, while his men were marching, and he dared not let them ride, for fear the horses might give in. He could just trudge and trudge, and hate himself and every one, and wonder.
What had the Risaldar contrived to do? Why hadn’t he packed up his wife’s effects the moment that his orders came and ridden off with her and the section at once, instead of waiting three hours or more for an escort for her? Why hadn’t he realized at once that orders that came in a hurry that way, in the night-time, were not only urgent but ominous as well? What chance had the Risaldar — an old man, however willing he might be — to ride through a swarming countryside for thirty miles or more and bring back an escort? Why, even supposing Mohammed Khan had ridden off at once, he could scarcely be back again before the section! And what would have happened in the meantime?
Supposing the Risaldar’s sons and grandsons refused to obey him? Stranger things than that had been known to happen! Suppose they were disloyal? And then — blacker though than any yet! — suppose — suppose — Why had Mahommed Khan, the hard-bitten, wise old war-dog, advised him to leave his wife behind? Did that seem like honest advice, on second thought? Mohammedans had joined in this outbreak as well as Hindus. The sepoys at Doonha were Mohammedans! Why had Mahommed Khan seemed so anxious to send him on his way? As though an extra five minutes would have mattered! Why had he objected to a last good-by to Mrs. Bellairs?... And then — he had shown a certain knowledge of the uprising; where had he obtained it? If he were loyal, who then had told him of it? Natives who are disloyal don’t brag of their plans beforehand to men who are on the other side! And if he had known of it, and was still loyal, how was it that he had not divulged his information before the outbreak came? Would a loyal man hold his tongue until the last minute? Scarcely!
He halted, pulled his horse to the middle of the road and waited for Colonel Carter to overtake him.
“Well? What is it?” asked the colonel sharply.
“Can I ride on ahead, sir? My horse is good for it and I’m in agonies of apprehension about my wife!”
“No! Certainly not! You are needed to command your section!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve a sergeant who can take command. He’s a first-class man and perfectly dependable.”
“You could do no good, even if you did ride on,” said the colonel, not unkindly.
“I’m thinking, sir, that Mahommed Khan—”
“Risaldar Mahommed Khan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of the Rajput Horse?”
“Yes, sir. My father’s Risaldar.”
“You left your wife in his charge, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m thinking that — that perhaps the Risaldar — I mean — there seem to be Mohammedans at the bottom of this business, as well as Hindus. Perhaps—”
“Bellairs! Now hear me once and for all. You thank your God that the Risaldar turned up to guard her! Thank God that your father was man enough for Mahommed Khan to love and that you are your father’s son! And listen! Don’t let me hear you, ever, under any circumstances, breathe a word of doubt as to that man’s loyalty! D’you understand me, sir? You, a mere subaltern, a puppy just out of his ‘teens, an insignificant jackanapes with two twelve-pounders in your charge, daring to impute disloyalty to Mahommed Khan! — your impudence! Remember this! That old Risaldar is the man who rode with your father through the guns at Dera! He’s a pauper without a pension, for all his loyalty, but he went down the length of India to meet you, at his own expense, when you landed raw-green from England! And what d’you know of war, I’d like to know, that you didn’t learn from him? Thank your God, sir, that there’s some one there who’ll kill your wife before she falls into the Hindus’ hands!”
“But he was going to ride away, sir, to bring an escort!”
“Not before he’d made absolutely certain of her safety!” swore the colonel with conviction. “Join your section, sir!”
So Harry Bellairs joined his section and trudged along sore-footed at its side — sore-hearted, too. He wondered whether any one would ever say as much for him as Colonel Carter had chosen to say for Mahommed Khan, or whether any one would have the right to say it! He was ashamed of having left his wife behind and tortured with anxiety — and smarting from the snub — a medley of sensations that were more likely to make a man of him, if he had known it, than the whole experience of a year’s campaign! But in the dust and darkness, with the blisters on his heels, and fifty men, who had overheard the colonel, looking sidewise at him, his plight was pitiable.
They trudged until the dawn began to rise, bright yellow below the drooping banian trees; only Colonel Carter and the advance-guard riding. Then, when they stopped at a stream to water horses and let them graze a bit and give the men a sorely needed rest, one of the ring of outposts loosed off his rifle and shouted an alarm. They had formed square in an instant, with the guns on one side and the men on three, and the colonel and the wounded in the middle. A thousand or more of the mutineers leaned on their rifles on the shoulder of a hill and looked them over, a thousand yards away.
“Send them an invitation!” commanded Colonel Cart
er, and the left-hand gun barked out an overture, killing one sepoy. The rest made off in the direction of Hanadra.
“We’re likely to have a hot reception when we reach there!” said Colonel Carter cheerily. “Well, we’ll rest here for thirty minutes and give them a chance to get ready for us. I’m sorry there’s no breakfast, men, but the sepoys will have dinner ready by the time we get there — we’ll eat theirs!”
The chorus of ready laughter had scarcely died away when a horse’s hoof-beats clattered in the distance from the direction of Doonha and a native cavalryman galloped into view, low-bent above his horse’s neck. The foam from his horse was spattered over him and his lance swung pointing upward from the sling. On his left side the polished scabbard rose and fell in time to his horse’s movement. He was urging his weary horse to put out every ounce he had in him. He drew rein, though, when he reached a turning in the road and saw the resting division in front of him, and walked his horse forward, patting his sweat-wet neck and easing him. But as he leaned to finger with the girths an ambushed sepoy fired at him, and he rammed in his spurs again and rode like a man possessed.
“This’ll be another untrustworthy Mohammedan!” said Colonel Carter in a pointed undertone, and Bellairs blushed crimson underneath the tan. “He’s ridden through from Jundhra, with torture waiting for him if he happened to get caught, and no possible reward beyond his pay. Look out he doesn’t spike your guns!”
The trooper rode straight up to Colonel Carter and saluted. He removed a tiny package from his cheek, where he had carried it so that he might swallow it at once in case of accident, tore the oil-silk cover from it and handed it to him without a word, saluting again and leading his horse away. Colonel Carter unfolded the half-sheet of foreign notepaper and read:
Dear Colonel Carter:
Your letter just received in which you say that you have blown
up the magazine at Doonha and are marching to Hanadra with a
view to the rescue of Mrs. Bellairs. This is in no sense
intended as a criticism of your action or of your plan, but
circumstances have made it seem advisable for me to transfer
my own headquarters to Hanadra and I am just starting. I must
ask you, please, to wait for me — at a spot as near to where
this overtakes you as can be managed. If Mrs. Bellairs, or
anybody else of ours, is in Hanadra, she — or they — are either
dead by now or else prisoners. And if they are to be rescued
by force, the larger the force employed the better. If you
were to attack with your two companies before I reached you,
you probably would be repulsed, and would, I think, endanger
the lives of any prisoners that the enemy may hold. I am
coming with my whole command as fast as possible.
Your Obedient Servant,
A. E. Turner
Genl. Officer Commanding
“Men!” said Colonel Carter, in a ringing voice that gave not the slightest indication of his feelings, “we’re to wait here for a while until the whole division overtakes us. The general has vacated Jundhra. Lie down and get all the rest you can!”
The murmur from the ranks was as difficult to read as Colonel Carter’s voice had been. It might have meant pleasure at the thought of rest, or anger, or contempt, or almost anything. It was undefined and indefinable.
But there was no doubt at all as to how young Bellairs felt. He was sitting on a trunnion, sobbing, with his head bent low between his hands.
IX.
“Come, then!” said the High Priest.
Mahommed Khan threw open the outer door and bowed sardonically. “Precedence for priests!” he sneered, tapping at his sword-hilt. “Thou goest first! Next come I, and last Suliman with the memsahib! Thus can I reach thee with my sword, O priest, and also protect her if need be!”
“Thou art trusting as a little child!” exclaimed the priest, passing out ahead of him.
“A priest and a liar and a thief — all three are one!” hummed the Risaldar. “Bear her gently, Suliman! Have a care, now, as you turn on the winding stairs!”
“Ha, sahib!” said the half-brother, carrying Ruth as easily as though she had been a little child.
At the foot of the stairway, in the blackness that seemed alive with phantom shadows, the High Priest paused and listened, stretching out his left hand against the wall to keep the other two behind him. From somewhere beyond the courtyard came the din of hurrying sandaled feet, scudding over cobblestones in one direction. The noise was incessant and not unlike the murmur of a rapid stream. Occasionally a voice was raised in some command or other, but the stream of sound continued, hurrying, hurrying, shuffling along to the southward.
“This way and watch a while,” whispered the priest.
“I have heard rats run that way!” growled the Risaldar.
They climbed up a narrow stairway leading to a sort of battlement and peered over the top, Suliman laying Ruth Bellairs down in the darkest shadow he could find. She was beginning to recover consciousness, and apparently Mahommed Khan judged it best to take no notice of her.
Down below them they could see the city gate, wide open, with a blazing torch on either side of it, and through the gate, swarming like ants before the rains, there poured an endless stream of humans that marched — and marched — and marched; four, ten, fifteen abreast; all heights and sizes, jumbled in and out among one another, anyhow, without formation, but armed, every one of them, and all intent on marching to the southward, where Jundhra and Doonha lay. Some muttered to one another and some laughed, but the greater number marched in silence.
“That for thy English!” grinned the priest. “Can the English troops overcome that horde?”
“Hey-ee! For a troop or two of Rajputs!” sighed the Risaldar. “Or English Lancers! They would ride through that as an ax does through the brush-wood!”
“Bah!” said the priest. “All soldiers boast! There will be a houghing shortly after dawn. The days of thy English are now numbered.”
“By those — there?”
“Ay, by those, there! Come!”
They climbed down the steps again, the Rajput humming to himself and smiling grimly into his mustache.
“Ay! There will be a houghing shortly after dawn!” he muttered. “Would only that I were there to see!... Where are the sepoys?” he demanded.
“I know not. How should I know, who have been thy guest these hours past? This march is none of my ordering.”
The priest pressed hard on a stone knob that seemed to be part of the carving on a wall, then he leaned his weight against the wall and a huge stone swung inward, while a fetid breath of air wafted outward in their faces.
“None know this road but I!” exclaimed the priest.
“None need to!” said the Risaldar. “Pass on, snake, into thy hole. We follow.”
“Steps!” said the priest, and began descending.
“Curses!” said the Risaldar, stumbling and falling down on top of him. “Have a care, Suliman! The stone is wet and slippery.”
Down, down they climbed, one behind the other, Suliman grunting beneath his burden and the Risaldar keeping up a running fire of oaths. Each time that he slipped, and that was often, he cursed the priest and cautioned Suliman. But the priest only laughed, and apparently Suliman was sure-footed, for he never stumbled once. They seemed to be diving down into the bowels of the earth. They were in pitch-black darkness, for the stone had swung to behind them of its own accord. The wall on either side of them was wet with slime and the stink of decaying ages rose and almost stifled them. But the priest kept on descending, so fast that the other two had trouble to keep up with him, and he hummed to himself as though he knew the road and liked it.
“The bottom!” he called back suddenly. “From now the going is easy, until we rise again. We pass now under the city-wall.”
But they could see nothing and hear nothing ex
cept their own footfalls swishing in the ooze beneath them. Even the priest’s words seemed to be lost at once, as though he spoke into a blanket, for the air they breathed was thicker than a mist and just as damp. They walked on, along a level, wet, stone passage for at least five minutes, feeling their way with one band on the wall.
“Steps, now!” said the priest. “Have a care, now, for the lower ones are slippery.”
Ruth was regaining consciousness. She began to move and tried once or twice to speak.
“Here, thou!” growled the Risaldar. “Thou art a younger man than I — come back here. Help with the memsahib.”
The priest came back a step or two, but Suliman declined his aid, snarling vile insults at him.
“I can manage!” he growled. “Get thou behind me, Mahommed Khan, in case I slip!”
So Mahommed Khan came last, and they slipped and grunted upward, round and round a spiral staircase that was hewn out of solid rock. No light came through from anywhere to help them, but the priest climbed on, as though he were accustomed to the stair and knew the way from constant use. After five minutes of steady climbing the stone grew gradually dry. The steps became smaller, too, and deeper, and not so hard to climb. Suddenly the priest reached out his arm and pulled at something or other that hung down in the darkness. A stone in the wall rolled open. A flood of light burst in and nearly blinded them.
“We are below Kharvani’s temple!” announced the priest. He led them through the opening into a four-square room hewn from the rock below the foundations of the temple some time in the dawn of history. The light that had blinded them when they first emerged proved to be nothing but the flicker of two small oil lamps that hung suspended by brass chains from the painted ceiling. The only furniture was mats spread on the cut-stone floor.
“By which way did we come?” asked the Risaldar, staring in amazement round the walls. There was not a door nor crack, nor any sign of one, except that a wooden ladder in one corner led to a trapdoor overhead, and they had certainly not entered by the ladder.
“Nay! That is a secret!” grinned the priest. “He who can may find the opening! Here can the woman and her servant stay until we need them.”