HOW THE VOW WAS RENEWED
A few days later startling news came to the garrison of Huttee-Ghur (Elephant's Home).
An armed escort on its way down the valley from the fort to the town of Kalipur, with some empty store-waggons (taking Bob Burton with them as a prisoner), had been attacked on the march, just as evening was closing in, by a large body of native soldiers, or of native robbers (which meant very much the same thing), who were not beaten off without a sharp fight, in which the English lost several men, including Bob Burton himself, as well as Sam Black and Tom Tuffen.
Nor was this all. Several of the native drivers were nowhere to be found after the fighting was done, and were believed to have gone over to the enemy in the confusion. Moreover, three or four of the soldiers stoutly declared that the leader of their assailants was the famous robber-chief Kala-Bagh (Black Tiger), the terror of the whole district, and further, that he was no other than the pretended juggler whose tricks had amused their barrack-square only a week before!
This would have been unwelcome news at any time; but it was doubly ominous just then.
The great war that had been threatening so long had fairly broken out at last. The Mahratta hosts were sweeping over the great central plain, the English troops advancing to meet them; and all Northern India was holding its breath, as it were, to see which would win. A single disaster to the British arms, and all the subject provinces would blaze at once into open insurrection; and the unheard-of boldness of these native banditti in daring to attack British soldiers in open daylight, plainly showed which of the two parties they thought more likely to get the best of it.
But the English officers at Huttee-Ghur hailed this prospect of open war as a positive relief from the nightmare feeling that had haunted them for weeks and months past, of being dogged at every step by secret treachery and sleepless murder, and slowly but surely entangled in an ever-tightening net of silent, viewless, implacable hatred.
In truth, there is no sorer trial of nerve on the face of the earth than to know, and never for a moment forget that you know, that the meek little water-carrier who fills your bath is probably in a plot to take your life—that the cook who dresses your dinner so well may have sprinkled poison on it—that the smart groom who obeys so promptly and intelligently your orders about your favourite horse, is calculating all the while how much he can get for it after he has cut your throat—and that the humble peasants who crouch in the dust at your feet, hailing you as "protector of the poor," and whiningly calling you "their father and their mother," are just preparing to fire your house over your head, and burn or murder all within. Let any man be compelled to live for a time in a spot where the whole air is heavy with yellow fever or cholera, and where, whenever two men meet, each looks nervously in the other's face for the first signs of the fell destroyer—and he will know how it feels to be quartered in the midst of a disaffected Eastern population.
Not a word said Colonel Hardman when this attack, and the juggler's identity with the bandit chief who had led it, were reported to him. But the best of his native scouts, a jungle veteran, who had slain as many tigers as he had seen birthdays, knew enough of his master's ways to remark shrewdly to his comrades that evening—
"Brothers, there is evil in store for these Dacoits (robbers), whoever they be. When the Colonel Sahib looks fierce, and speaks angry words, it is as a strong wind that sweeps by and is gone; but when he says nothing, it is the hush before the thunderstorm."
In fact, the colonel (who, like Lord Goring, "always kept his temper when he was really angry"), had fully made up his mind that the "rabble of black thieves" who had dared to molest Englishmen should pay dearly for their insolence; and the means were ready to his hand, for the garrison had just been strongly reinforced, it being of the last importance, in the disturbed state of the whole country, to secure so important a post as Huttee-Ghur, which, so long as the English held it, would be an effectual curb on the surrounding population.
The old soldier's eye sparkled with stern approval as he saw filing into the fort three or four squadrons of Rajput horse (than whom there were no better riders or harder fighters in all India), and several companies of Rohilla foot—men whom their greatest leader had rightly declared to be "the best of all Sepoys at the cold steel."
With such men at his back, the colonel would have faced a whole native army; and he lost no time in scouring the jungle in quest of his skulking foes.
His style of campaigning would have sorely displeased those learned gentlemen who, sitting at home in England over their books and diagrams, lay down the law about "throwing out flankers," and performing this or that manœuvre amid thickets as dense as themselves, through which you may struggle for hours without sight or sound of an enemy, while passing again and again so close to the hidden foe whom you are hunting, that he could touch you with his spear if he chose. (A fact.) But, unscientific as it might be, the colonel's mode of fighting was eminently successful, as the jackals and vultures of the jungle could have told for many a day.
The savage chief himself, indeed, managed to escape; but he was almost the only survivor of his band, and there was no more trouble with the Dacoits that season.
But hardly was the work done when a wild legend began to creep abroad, that the three slain British soldiers, Bob Burton, Sam Black, and Tom Tuffen had come to life again, and had been seen fighting in the ranks of the brigands! Several of Colonel Hardman's native followers had recognised them, and all told the same story.
But when the English Grenadiers heard the tale, they laughed it to scorn.
"Rubbish!" growled a hard-faced old fellow, whose scarred visage looked like an ill-drawn railway map. "Rise from the dead, indeed! if I was once dead, I'd never be sitch a fool as to git up and 'ave it all over agin, I knows that! They've jist desarted, and j'ined Kala Bagh. I remember now as I see'd him, when he was made-up as a juggler, say some'at to Tom, and to Sam Black too. They've desarted, that's wot they've done; and if it warn't for the shame of herdin' with sitch scum as them coffee-coloured thieves yonder, I'm blowed if I wouldn't desart too."
"And so would I," muttered more than one of his hearers.
The story at last reached the ears of Colonel Hardman, who, at any other time, would have been goaded to frenzy by the very thought of any of his men deserting, and, worse still, deserting to join a gang of Hindu robbers. But he soon had something else to think of; for as the summer was drawing to a close, his little Freddy fell suddenly ill.
Then was seen a change such as the fort had never known since British redcoats first garrisoned it. No more songs and laughter, no more coarse jokes or boisterous oaths. The rough soldiers went to and fro as silently as shadows—the officers sat over their evening cigars without uttering a word; and no man who crossed the barrack square after dark ever failed to look up instinctively at the light that burned in an upper room of the colonel's quarters, showing where life and death were contending for the bright-eyed boy whom they all knew and loved.
But, as if to sweep away their last hope, the heat of that memorable summer endured longer than the oldest man could recollect. Even the nights were as sultry as the days, and, slowly but surely, the poor little life withered away, though the kind-hearted doctor (who had always been a special friend of their little favourite) wore himself to a shadow in striving to save him, and the stern father never quitted for an instant, save when his duty called him, the sick-bed on which lay all that he had left to love.
"As if there warn't men enough 'ere to die, and plenty as could be better spared!" growled a big soldier one evening; "and then to go and pick out 'im!"
"Hold yer jaw, can't yer?" broke in a second man savagely; "he shan't die, not if Death was to come for to fetch him hisself, with a full-strength battalion o' devils to back him!"
"I wish I knowed how to pray, so as I could pray for 'im!" muttered a third—one of the wildest and worst men in the whole regiment.
"Well, look 'ere, boys!" cried a fourth; "s'pose we all volunteer to be put down on God's black list instead, mayhap He'll let the little 'un off for this once; for, whoever He is, He surely wouldn't be too hard on a sweet little chap like that!"
And then, doffing his cap as if in the presence of a superior, the rough fellow said, in a voice that he vainly tried to steady—
"O God, jist let 'im off this once, and do what you like with all of us. Amen."
"Amen!" echoed all his comrades with one voice; and, having offered up that strange supplication, the poor fellows actually felt somewhat less despondent, without knowing why.
Just then Colonel Hardman's tall form was seen to issue from the door of his quarters, and come straight toward them.
"'Ere he comes!" said one of the men eagerly; "I'll go and ax how the little 'un is."
"Are you crazy, Jim?" cried the man beside him, catching him by the arm. "Don't be a fool, lad; if he's worse'n a tiger in the or'nary way, what d'ye s'pose he'll be now?"
"I don't care," said Jim Barlow desperately; "here goes."
And stepping right up to the dreaded commandant, he saluted, and said huskily—
"Beg pardon, sir—is he any better?"
The white, rigid face looked vacantly at him for a moment, like one just aroused from sleep, and hardly understanding yet what was said to him; and then the grim man replied, in a low, weak voice—
"Thank you, my man, for asking. No, he is no better."
And Jim went back to his comrades in the lowest stage of depression.
"I'm afeared it's all up, boys," said he, "or Old Blue-Beard 'ud never have spoke to me so civil."
In truth, during those last few days, the stricken father's misery was such that even those who hated him most deeply might well have pitied him; for no torture on earth can compare with the unendurable torment of being forced to witness the sufferings of a helpless child, when powerless to alleviate them in any way. I have seen strong men die in agony, with none to help them; but they, at least, knew what was in store for them, and faced it like men, neither pitying themselves nor asking pity from others. But a child cannot tell why it suffers, or why its suffering cannot be removed; and it looks instinctively to you for relief, unable to conceive that you are not powerful enough to help it. I have seen such a sight only too often; I pray God I may never see the like again.
And now—as if this iron man were doomed to feel, in his turn, the full bitterness of the pain that his merciless harshness had so often inflicted upon others—the poor little sufferer's ceaseless cry was for "dear old Bob Burton," the very man whom his listening father's ill-judged severity had driven forth into the jungle to herd with thieves and murderers, and perhaps to die like the beasts that perish.
"O Bob, dear Bob, do put your hand on my head and cool it; it does burn so!"
"Doctor, can't you do anything?" said the colonel in a fierce whisper, seizing the other's wrist in a convulsive clutch that made the very joint crackle. "He was always fond of you—can't you help him somehow?"
"God knows I would if I could!" replied the doctor despairingly; "but this is beyond me. There is only one man in all India who could deal with such a case, and I don't even know where he is just now."
Another night and another day went by, and brought the end nearer still. The overwrought doctor (who was on the point of breaking down himself) crept out about nightfall for a breath of the fresh air that he so much needed.
But ere he had been gone five minutes, he came hurrying back, with a face so startlingly changed that the colonel sprang up from his place by the sick-bed and caught him by both hands, though the question that he would have asked died upon his lips.
"God be thanked!" said the doctor, "there is a chance for us yet. I've just got word that my friend Skilman (whom I spoke of yesterday as the only man here that could deal with this case) has suddenly arrived at Kalipur. We must send off a swift messenger for him at once."
"I'll go myself," said Hardman, stepping towards the door.
"But—" began the dismayed doctor, through whose mind flashed instantly all the possible consequences of the commandant's absence from his post just when it might be attacked at any moment.
The colonel put aside the strong man like an infant, and said, in a tone which, though barely above a whisper, was terribly distinct—
"Don't talk to me—I'm going."
And, a few minutes later, he rode out of the fort into the deepening darkness, attended only by a Rajput trooper and his veteran scout, Lal Singh (Red Lion).
When the two Hindus saw their leader turn off from the high-road into the native path that led through the jungle to Kalipur, both knew well that although this way would save fully half the distance, they carried their lives in their hands by taking it, it being perilous not only from wild beasts and snakes, but from worse things still—for the robbers were said to be astir again at the far end of the valley.
But, trained to exact obedience, there was no thought in their gallant hearts of wavering or hanging back. Had the whole Mahratta army barred their path, they would have simply repeated their usual formula, "Jo hookum" (it is an order), and gone without a murmur to certain death.
From first to last, that match against time with death was like one of those wild and feverish dreams, in which you are for ever rushing at full speed over a boundless waste, without advancing a single foot nearer to the goal. On, on, mile after mile—passing with bewildering suddenness from darkness to moonlight, and from moonlight into darkness again—now splashing through a swollen stream, now plunging down into a gloomy hollow, now bursting with a crash through a mass of tangled creepers, now checking their horses, barely in time, on the brink of a yawning chasm.
Once, the lights waved by the Hindus made a kind of broken rainbow on the scaly bulk of a monstrous snake, which, coiled round a tree above them, thrust out its huge flat head with an angry hiss, only to draw it back in affright at the sudden glare. Farther on, two flaming eyes broke the gloom for an instant, and then a long, gaunt, striped body vanished ghost-like into the surrounding blackness, with a snarl of mingled terror and rage; and, a few minutes later, a pack of prowling jackals, scared by the hoof-tramp and the lights, flitted spectrally away into the thickets, whimpering like frightened children.
But all this passed unheeded by Colonel Hardman. In place of the moonlit forest and the threatening monsters, his eyes saw only a sick-room that lay already miles behind him, where a tiny golden head was tossing in weary pain upon its restless pillow; and he clenched his teeth in desperation at the thought that the aid which he was perilling his life to bring might come too late after all.
But now they were more than half-way to Kalipur—and now but a quarter of the distance was left—and now, as they drew nearer and nearer to the goal, the father's heavy heart began to wax lighter with an ever-growing hope.
Ha! what was that red fire-glow that broke suddenly upon them from an open space just ahead? and what were these wild forms that sprang up around it, like spectres starting from their graves?
"Sahib," said Lal Singh as coolly as ever, "there are robbers in our path."
"Thank God," said the colonel.
So tremendous was the suppressed emotion that quivered through those half-whispered words, so ghastly this sudden revelation of that inward torment which could hail as a positive relief the prospect of blood and wounds, and death itself, that even the iron-nerved Hindu felt awed. But there was no time to think of it. Fixing themselves firmly in their saddles, the three men rushed upon the nineteen as tigers spring upon a herd of deer.[4]
Like a stone through a pane of glass, they broke through the straggling line of their enemies. Crushed beneath the horse-hoofs fell grim Ali Shere; Mulhar Rao's strong right hand spun six feet from his body, hewn off like a twig; gasping on the ground lay fierce Haji Ismail, cloven through neck and shoulder; and by him, with his whole side laid open, writhed his brother Abd'-Allah.
Lal Singh and the Rajput had each killed his man; and the three, slashing right and left like giants, were already almost clear of their foes, when there came a sudden crackle of shots from the rear, and Lal Singh dropped dead without a cry, while the Rajput's horse sank under him, mortally wounded!
Quick as thought, Colonel Hardman turned in his saddle, and, seizing his trusty follower's arm, dragged him up on to his own horse.
A tall bandit sprang at them both with uplifted weapon, only to fall dead instantly, cut down through cap and skull to the very teeth; but Hardman's sword snapped with the force of the blow, and the robber-chief himself, the terrible "Black Tiger," thinking him disarmed and at his mercy, flew at the Englishman's throat with a laugh of savage joy.
The two men met like conflicting whirlwinds. A flash of steel—a whiz—a red stain on the colonel's white sleeve—a dull thud—a crunch like the breaking of a snow-crust—and Kala Bagh, the most dreaded bandit of the district, lay dead on the trampled earth, with his skull smashed in like an egg-shell, while over his corpse the colonel's horse and its double burden dashed away into the deeper shadows beyond.
"The two men met like conflicting whirlwinds."
For many a day after, the superstitious Mussulmans of Kalipur told to their friends, with bated breath and looks of awe, how, in the first grey of dawn, the Angel of Death had come rushing through their town in the likeness of an English warrior—stained with blood, and with a dead man behind him on his black horse—and had carried away the Hakeem Ingrez (English doctor) along with him. But, in the end, their angel of death proved to be an angel of life; for the new doctor did his work well, and the sick boy was saved!
The robbers, cowed by their formidable leader's fall, made no attempt at pursuit, and, in truth, there were but few of them left to pursue; for, out of nineteen men, six had been slain outright, and four more desperately wounded.
But, over and above the nineteen who had taken so active a part in the fray, there were three more of the gang who had been strangely backward from first to last. All three were in Eastern dress, and almost as dark as their dusky comrades; but, had they been black as negroes, their speech would have told at once what they really were.
"Well done the old regiment!" cried the tallest of the three, with a look of savage and reluctant admiration after the vanishing form of the colonel. "It's hard to beat yet—ain't it, Tom?"
"Right you are, Sam," replied Tom Tuffen; "and the old country's 'ard to beat, too! One true Englishman agin a dozen o' these coffee-coloured thieves, any day!"
"I believe you, my boy," said Sam Black. "Did yer see that last blow o' his'n? how he did up Kala Bagh hisself with one lick of his sword-handle, arter the blade was broke! That's wot I calls fightin'!"
"Same here!" cried Tom. "Don't I remember how Kala Bagh said to me, when he fust axed me to jine his gang (that time he comed among us as a juggler, ye know), 'If thou fearest the colonel sahib,' he says to me, 'thou shalt see, when he and I meet in fight, that I am the stronger,' says he. Blow his Hindu impudence! he's found out by this time, I take it, whether Old Blue-Beard's stronger than 'im or not!"
Then the third man spoke for the first time, breaking at length, with a visible effort, the moody silence in which he had seemed to be sunk while his two comrades were talking.
"Look 'ere, Tom," said he, "why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?"
"Well, if it comes to that, Bob, why didn't you"? cried the other. "You've swore to do it, once and agin—I've heerd yer myself!"
Bob Burton made no answer for a moment, and his hard face worked convulsively. Then he looked up, and said fiercely, as if the words were wrung from him by a sudden spasm of pain—
"I couldn't!"
"No more couldn't I neither," said Tom Tuffen, visibly relieved by this frank admission on the part of his comrade. "I tell yer, boys, when he came chargin' in among us like that, and knockin' over them niggers like nine-pins, by Jingo, I almost forgot to hate him!"
"Aye, that's jist 'ow I felt too," put in Sam Black gruffly. "I had my gun all ready to let fly at him, but when I see'd him a-fightin' the whole lot of 'em like a hero—and lickin' 'em too—why, I felt as if, s'pose I was to pull trigger on him then, the very bullet 'ud turn round and hit me instead!"
"You're right, Sam," said Bob Burton with grim emphasis. "He's a thunderin' old tyrant, he is, and I hate him worse than Old Nick—and when I git another chance to pay him out, I won't let it slip so easy—but, curse him, he's a man every inch of him!"
Note.—This supposed desertion of British soldiers to join the ranks of Eastern marauders has, unhappily (as I have already shown in "The Boy Slave in Bokhara") only too much foundation in fact. During my first journey through Central Asia, not so many years ago, I was told of several Englishmen (my informants said seven) who were then serving in the so-called "army" of the Khan of Kokan; and all of these were deserters from British India.—D. K.
CHAPTER III