One of the stories we thus heard fixed itself on my memory, and I will endeavour to reproduce it. The narrator, a fine sturdy old Sikh gentleman, had been persuaded to divulge the history of each of the honourable scars which adorned his body, with the exception of one which crossed the bridge of his nose, and rather spoiled its symmetry. On my asking him whether that wound also was a memento of war, he replied:—"Ah, Sahib! I cannot tell you that story. You would be angry with me." "Angry with you," I said, "why should I be angry if, as I suppose, you got the wound in honest fight against us? Even if you killed the man who inflicted it, that was his luck. What is it to me? Come! Tell us all about it." "Very well, Sahib, if you wish it and will promise not to think the worse of me, I will tell you. This is how it was. You have heard of the great battle at Chillianwalla, and you know how fierce it was, and how stoutly the Sikhs of the Khalsa fought that day. The Sirkar Angrez[6] claims the victory; but believe me, Sahib, we won that fight. Did not the Jungie Lat Sahib[7] retire from the field after the battle? Did not we capture four of your guns and the standards of three of your regiments? Did not our horsemen overthrow the Gora regiment and the Hindustani risala? Forgive me, Sahib; but that is true; and if Shere Singh had, next day, pushed his advantage, and had boldly attacked the shaken troops of the Sirkar, he must have driven them clean out of the Punjab. At that time I was—as I am now—a Sirdar; and commanded a tolee[8] of infantry of my own people. At a certain moment of the battle we found ourselves opposed at close quarters to a British battalion, which the fury of our fire had temporarily checked: but if they hesitated, so did we. In vain did I call on my men to throw away their muskets, and rush, sword in hand, to the attack. Neither line dared advance; and neither would retire; and there we knelt—for a dreadful minute or two—pouring a frightful hail of fire into each other at less than a hundred yards. Both sides were actually melting away under it. Such fearful stress could not possibly last. One or other line was certain to give way. Whichever had the courage to rush forward first was sure to win. Frantic were the efforts of the officers of the Gora logue to urge on their men; but in vain. Nothing could get them to move. Suddenly a young officer—so young—he was but a smoothfaced, rosy-cheeked 'butcha'[9]—got beside himself with excitement, and waving over his head his foolish little 'Regulation' blade, and shouting 'Hurrah!' 'Hurrah!' he sprang forward quite alone, and flew at me like a madman; and almost before I could see what he was doing, smote me across the face. Poor boy! What could I do! If I had not protected myself he would have run me through the body with his thin spit of a sword. So I had to smite with my keen tulwar, and smite hard. Next moment the Gora logue were upon us, roaring like tigers, and we were swept away before them. I remember the rush, the clash of steel, and then nothing more. I became behosh.[10] When I recovered my senses I found my head bleeding, and a great lump on the top of it; but no other wound except the cut on my nose. I suppose I must have been knocked down by a clubbed musket. Night had fallen, and the field was deserted except by the dead and dying, and by gangs of plunderers. I stumbled along for a kos or two, helped by some of our own people whom I met on the way; and then I found myself once more in safety in the camp of Shere Singh. You are not angry, Sahib! What could I do? That boy would have killed me. Every one must protect his own life."
Thus, with mingled grief and pride, did we listen to the story of how "somebody's darling" had died for his country's honour.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] English Government.
[7] Commander-in-Chief.
[8] Squad.
[9] Youngster.
[10] Senseless.