Chapter Sixteen.
A Brush near Kandahar.
While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter. He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor. If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject. So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself. The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand.
The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud.
“‘October 4’—three months ago or more!—before she heard of this business. ‘You poor dull darling’—nice names to call one’s father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla—‘I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can’t worry you.’ Hum! Picture of a soldier’s life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all.”
Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather-beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes.
“Bless the child!” he murmured; “she doesn’t forget her old father! ‘How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing. If you are, I shall be foolish, of course, and imagine all sorts of horrors whenever I see a letter.’ That’s the way girls back their fathers up! ‘Oh, why couldn’t I be a soldier too, and ride behind you into action, instead of dawdling here doing no good to anybody, and living like a fine young lady instead of a simple soldier’s daughter?’ Whew! what a fine little colour-sergeant she’d make! Wouldn’t Mrs Grundy sit up if she read that?
“Hum!” he went on, after reading a little further. “‘I oughtn’t to grumble. Uncle Rimbolt is the kindest of protectors, and lets me have far too many nice things. Aunt has a far better idea of what a captain’s daughter should be. She doesn’t spoil me. She’s like a sort of animated extinguisher, and whenever I flicker up a bit she’s down on me. I enjoy it, and I think she is far better pleased that I give her something to do than if I was awfully meek. It all helps to pass the time till my dear old captain comes home.’ Heigho! that means she’s miserable, and I’m not to guess it! I had my doubts of Charlotte Rimbolt when I let her go to Wildtree. Poor little Raby! she’s no match for an animated extinguisher!
“‘Percy,’ continued the letter, ‘is as lively and full of “dodges” as ever. He soon got over his kidnapping adventure. Indeed, the only difference it has made is that we have now one, or rather two, new inmates at Wildtree, for Uncle Rimbolt has employed Percy’s rescuer as his librarian, and the dog has, of course, taken up his abode here too. He is a perfect darling! so handsome and clever! He took to me the first moment I saw him, and he would do anything for me.’ Really!” said the father; “that’s coming it rather strong, isn’t it, with the new librar— Oh, perhaps she means the dog! Ha, ha! ‘Aunt Rimbolt gets some fine extinguisher practice with this newcomer, against whom she has a most unaccountable prejudice. He is very shy and gentlemanly, but I am sure Percy never had a better friend. He has become ever so much steadier.’ Did you ever know such letter-writers as these girls are? Which newcomer does she mean, the fellow who’s a perfect darling, or the fellow who’s shy and gentlemanly? and which, in the name of wonder, is the man and which the dog? Upon my word, something awful might be going on, and I should be none the wiser! ‘Julius nearly always escorts me in my walks. He is such a dear friendly fellow, and always carries my bag or parasol. Aunt, of course, doesn’t approve of our being so devoted to one another, for she looks upon Julius as an interloper; but it doesn’t matter much to us. Percy often comes with us, but Julius rather resents a third person. He thinks—so do I, much as I like Percy—that two are company and three are none.’”
Major Atherton—for the soldier was no other—leaned back in his chair, and fanned himself with the letter.
“How on earth am I to know who or what she is talking about? If it’s not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt— It can’t be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn’t the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that!
“‘Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his new protégé. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I’m sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.’”
“My patience! That’s a mild way of putting it!” exclaimed the major; “the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!”
“What’s that you’re saying about Kandahar, old man?” said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton’s age.
“That you, Forrester? Come in. I’ve just had a letter from my little girl.”
A shade crossed Captain Forrester’s cheery face.
“Your luck, my dear boy. I haven’t had a line.”
“Perhaps there’s a letter for you at head-quarters.”
“I doubt it. But don’t talk about it. How’s your girl flourishing?”
“Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing,” said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. “You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet.”
Captain Forrester took the letter, and read the part indicated carefully.
The major watched him anxiously till he had done.
“Well?” he asked, as his comrade handed it back.
“It seems to be a case,” said the latter.
“That’s what I thought. I don’t like that carrying her parasol, and telling the boy that two are company—”
Captain Forrester burst into a loud laugh.
“Why, you glorious old donkey, that’s the dog!”
“Nonsense; she’d never say a dog was shy and gentlemanly, and looked as if he’d had a lot of trouble.”
“No,” said the captain holding his sides, “that’s the librarian.”
“Who—the fellow Julius she talks about?” asked the major, beginning to feel very warm.
“The fellow Julius! Why, Julius is the dog!”
The major rose from his seat in agitation, and stood before his friend.
“Forrester,” said he solemnly, “as soon as I see the joke I’ll laugh. Meanwhile tell me this. Who in the name of mystery is it who feels his anomalous position at Wildtree, the man or the dog?”
Captain Forrester held gallantly on to his chair to prevent falling off; and the native without, hearing his shouts, looked in at the door to see what the sahib wanted.
“My dear fellow,” said he at last, “I begin to think I know more than you. Can’t you see this daughter of yours is decidedly interested in this young protégé of her uncle?”
“Most decidedly I see that.”
“And that in order to throw dust in your fatherly old eyes, she makes a great gush about the dog Julius, and says hardly a word about the master, whose name does not appear.”
Major Atherton took up the letter again and glanced through it, and a light began to break on his puzzled countenance.
“Then,” said he, “the fellow who’s handsome and clever and a perfect darling is—”
“Is the bow-wow. And the fellow who’s hunted-looking and not allowed in the drawing-room is his master.”
Major Atherton resumed his chair, and once more planted his feet on the table.
“That is a way of putting it, certainly. If so, it’s a relief.”
“My dear boy, keep your eye on that librarian, or he may change places with his dog in double-quick time.”
The major laughed, and a pause ensued. Then Forrester said—
“Two or three days more, and we ought to be in Kandahar.”
“We are to have a stiff brush or two before we get there,” said the major; “any hour now may bring us to close quarters.”
There was another pause. Captain Forrester fidgeted about uneasily, and presently said—
“It’s possible, old man, only one of us may get through. If I am the one who is left behind, will you promise me something?”
“You know I will.”
“That boy of mine, Atherton, is somewhere, I’m as sure of it as that I’m sitting here. He’s vanished. My letters to Grangerham cannot all have miscarried, and they certainly have none of them been answered. My mother-in-law, as I told you, died in the south of England. The boy may have been with her, or left behind in Grangerham, or he may be anywhere. I told you of the letter I had from the school?”
“Yes; he had had an accident and gone home damaged—crippled, in fact.”
“Yes,” said Captain Forrester, with a groan, “crippled—and perhaps left without a friend.”
“You want me to promise to find him if you are not there to do it, and be a father to him. You needn’t ask it, old man, for I promise.”
“I’ve nothing to leave him,” said Captain Forrester, “except my sword and this watch—”
“And the good name of a gallant soldier. I will, if it is left to me to do it, take the boy all three.”
“Thanks, Atherton. You know that I would do the same by you, old fellow.”
“You may have the chance. That girl of mine, you know,” added the major, with a tremble in his voice, “would have what little I have saved, which is not much. She’s a good girl, but she would need a protector if I was not there.”
“She shall have it,” said his friend.
“I’m not sure that she’s happy at Wildtree,” continued the father, with a smile, “despite the dog and his master. Rimbolt’s a bookworm, and doesn’t see what goes on under his nose, and her aunt, as she says, is an animated extinguisher. It always puzzled me how Rimbolt came to marry Charlotte Halgrove.”
“Halgrove? Was she the sister of your old college friend?”
“Yes. Rimbolt, Halgrove, and I were inseparable when we were at Oxford. Did I ever tell you of our walking tour in the Lakes? We ruled a bee-line across the map with a ruler and walked along it, neck or nothing. Of course you know about it. We’ve sobered down since then. Rimbolt married Halgrove’s sister, and I married Rimbolt’s. I had no sister, so Halgrove remained a bachelor.”
“What became of him?”
“I fancy he made a mess of it, poor fellow. He went in for finance, and it was too much for him. Not that he lost his money; but he became a little too smart. He dropped a hundred or two of mine, and a good deal more of Rimbolt’s—but he could spare it. The last I heard of him was about twelve years ago. He had a partner called Jeffreys; a stupid honest sort of fellow who believed in him. I had a newspaper sent me with an account of an inquest on poor Jeffreys, who had gone out of his mind after some heavy losses. There was no special reason to connect Halgrove with the losses, except that Jeffreys would never have dreamed of speculating if he hadn’t been led on. And it’s only fair to Halgrove to say that after the event he offered to take charge of Jeffreys’ boy, at that time eight years old. That shows there was some good in him.”
“Unless,” suggested Captain Forrester, “there was some money along with the boy.”
“Well, I dare say if he’s alive still, Rimbolt will know something of him; so I may come across him yet,” said the major; and there the conversation ended.
Major Atherton’s prophecy of a brush with the enemy was not long in being fulfilled.
Early next day the expeditionary force was ordered forward, the cavalry regiment in which the two friends were officers being sent ahead to reconnoitre and clear the passes.
The march lay for some distance along a rocky valley, almost desolate of habitations, and at parts so cumbered with rocks and stones as to be scarcely passable by the horses, still less by the artillery, which struggled forward in front of the main body. The rocks on the right bank towered to a vast height, breaking here and there into a gorge which admitted some mountain stream down into the river below, and less frequently falling back to make way for a wild saddle-back pass into the plains above.
Along such a course every step was perilous, for the enemy had already been reported as hovering at the back of these ugly rocks, and might show their teeth at any moment.
For an hour or two, however, the march continued uninterrupted. The few scattered Afghans who had appeared for a moment on the heights above had fallen back after exchanging shots, with no attempt at serious resistance. The main body had been halted in the valley, awaiting the return of the scouts. The horses had been unharnessed from the guns, and the officers were snatching a hurried meal, when Captain Forrester at the head of a few troopers scampered into the lines. The news instantly spread that the enemy had been seen ahead, and was even then being chased by the cavalry up one of the defiles to the right.
Instantly, and without even waiting for the word of command, every man was in his place ready to go on. The guns, with Captain Forrester’s troop as escort, dashed forward to hold the defile; while the main body, divided into two divisions—one to follow the guns, the other to reach the plain above by a nearer pass—started forward into action.
The cavalry, meanwhile, with Major Atherton at their head, were already engaged in a hot scrimmage.
Following their usual tactics, the Afghans, after exchanging shots at the entrance of the pass, had turned tail and dashed through the defile, with the English at their heels. Then, suddenly turning as they reached the plain beyond, they faced round on their pursuers, not yet clear of the rocky gorge. In the present instance, however, when within about a hundred yards of the head of the column, they wheeled round again, and once more bolted into the open.
A stern chase ensued over the rough broken ground, the enemy now and then making a show of halting, but as often giving way and tempting the cavalry farther out into the plain.
The Afghans numbered only about two hundred horsemen, but it was quite evident from their tactics that they had a much larger body in reserve, and Major Atherton was decidedly perplexed as to what he should do. For if he pursued them too far, he might be cut off from his own men; if, on the other hand, he made a dash and rode them down before they could get clear, he might cut them off from their main body, and so clip the enemy’s wings.
The enemy settled the question for him. Just as he was looking round for the first sign of Forrester and the guns in the pass, the plain suddenly swarmed with Afghans. From every quarter they bore down on him, horse and foot, and even guns, seeming almost to spring, like the teeth of Cadmus, from the earth.
It was no time for hesitation or doubt. Retreat was out of the question. Equally hopeless was it to warn the troops who were coming up. There was nothing for it but to stand at bay till the main body came up, and then, if they were left to do it, fight their way out and join forces.
The major therefore brought his men to a corner of the rocks, where on two sides, at any rate, attack would be difficult; and there, ordering them to dismount and form square, stood grimly.
A cruel half-hour followed. Man after man of that little band went down before the dropping fire of the enemy. Had the guns been able to command the position, they would have fallen by tens and scores. Major Atherton, in the middle of the square, had his horse shot under him before five minutes were past. Alas! there was no lack of empty saddles to supply the loss, for before a quarter of an hour had gone by, out of a dozen officers scarcely half remained.
Still they stood, waiting for the first boom of the guns at the head of the pass, and often tempted to break away from their posts and die fighting. For of all a soldier’s duties, that of standing still under fire is the hardest.
Captain Forrester, dashing up the defile at the head of the artillery, had been prepared to find a lively skirmish in progress between his own comrades and the handful of Afghans who were luring them on. But when, on emerging on to the plain, he found himself and the guns more than half surrounded by the enemy, and no sign anywhere of Atherton, he felt that the “brush” was likely to be a very stiff one.
The Afghans had set their hearts on those guns; that was evident by the wild triumphant yell with which they charged down on them. Forrester had barely time to order a halt and swing the foremost gun into action when a pell-mell scrimmage was going on in the very midst of the gunners. The first shot fired wildly did little or no execution, but it warned Atherton that his time was come, and signalled to the troops still toiling up the pass what to expect when they got through.
That fight round the guns was the most desperate of the day. The Afghans knew that to capture them as they stood, meant the certain annihilation of the British troops as they defiled into the plain. Forrester knew it, too.
Unlike Atherton, he had no protected sides. The enemy was all round him. The little troop at his command was barely able to cover one side of the square; and the gunners, obliged to fight hand to hand where they stood, were powerless to advance a step. Every moment was golden. Already a distant bugle-note announced that Atherton’s horse had broken loose, and were somewhere within reach—probably cutting their way through the guns. And within a few minutes the head of the column ascending the defile would also come upon the scene. Hold the guns till then, and all might yet be safe.
So decided Captain Forrester, as with a cheery smile on his handsome face he shouted to his men to hold out, and fought like a lion beside the foremost gun.
The Afghans, baffled by the stubborn resistance, and aware of the danger of delay, hurled themselves upon that devoted little bond with a fury before which nothing could stand. Man after man dropped across his gun; but still Forrester shouted to his men and swung his sabre. It was no time for counting heads. He hardly knew whether, when he shouted, thirty, or twenty, or only ten shouted back. All he knew was the enemy had not got the guns yet, and that was sufficient!
A bugle! Five minutes more, and they might still laugh at the foe. The bugle-note came from Atherton’s men, who at the first sound of the gun had vaulted with a cheer to their horses and dashed towards the sound. Many a brave comrade they left behind them, and many more dropped right and left as they cut their way forward. Atherton, at their head, peered eagerly through the dust and smoke. All he could see was a surging mass of human beings, in the midst of which it was impossible to discern anything but the flash of sabres, and at one spot a few British helmets among the turbans of the enemy. That was enough for Major Atherton. Towards that spot he waved on his men, and ordered his bugler to sound a rousing signal. The bugler obeyed, and fell at the major’s side before the note had well ceased! The struggle round the guns increased and blackened. One after another the British helmets went down, and the wild shouts of the Afghans rose triumphantly above them.
At length Atherton saw a tall figure, bareheaded and black with smoke, spring upon a gun-carriage, and with the butt end of a carbine fell two or three of the enemy who scrambled up to dislodge him.
Atherton knew that form among a thousand, and he knew too that Forrester was making his last stand.
“Cheer, men, and come on!” cried he to his men, rising in his stirrups and leading the shout.
The head of the column, just then emerging from the gorge, heard that shout, and answered it with a bugle flourish, as they fixed bayonets and rushed forward to charge. At the same moment, a cheer and the boom of a gun on the left proclaimed that the other half of the column had at that moment reached the plain, and were also bearing down on the enemy’s flank.
But Atherton saw and heeded nothing but that tall heroic figure on the carriage. At the first sound of the troopers’ shout Forrester had turned his head, smiling, and raised his carbine aloft, as though to wave answer to the cheer. So he stood for a moment. Then he reeled and fell back upon the gun he had saved.