“You shall have half a dozen troopers as escort,” he concluded. “The country will be quiet until you get near Delhi. No monkey tricks, mind, youngsters, and don’t stop to blow up any arsenals on the road!”
The boys and their six Pathan troopers hastily provisioned themselves, and, pricking their steeds, dashed joyously away. A ride of a hundred miles with no one to give them orders! They commanded the party, and the general himself was not half so proud of his command as our ensigns of foot were of their half-dozen huge, wild, black-bearded troopers. For a day and two nights they rode without incident, but on the morning of the third, as they drew near to Alipore, and saw the towers and minarets of Delhi glittering in the sun a dozen miles to the south-east, they heard the sound of firing. Proceeding cautiously, they presently perceived a number of rebel horsemen flying before a body of English dragoons, as the eight topped the crest of the slight incline which had hidden them from view. The Carabineers had already given up the pursuit, and were sending a few shots after the galloping rebels, who, seeing the dark-faced, turbaned horsemen, took them for men of the mutinous irregular cavalry, and raised a cheer.
Ted looked hopefully at Alec, who hesitated for an instant. He was as keen as Ted, but ought he to risk his men and the safety of the despatch?
“Now, sahibs!” whispered Nawab Khan, the Pathan duffadar (corporal).
That decided the young commandant.
“Charge, men!” Alec cried, and waved his sword. “Charge!”
Eight blades flashed in the sunlight, as with a wild yell the little band hurled themselves like a thunderbolt into the midst of the bewildered sepoys. Ted, Nawab Khan, and a trooper, their chargers straining to the utmost, rode side by side, the other five close behind, and the rebel rank broke at once. A dozen men of the 3rd Native Cavalry—the regiment that commenced the great mutiny—fell before that charge, the leader being unhorsed and severely wounded by Ted himself, and before they could recover from their confusion the Carabineers were on their heels. Without waiting to take revenge on the insolent handful, the rebel cavalry scattered and galloped away, the ensigns and the Pathans following hard. At Paterson’s command five men ceased their pursuit, but the duffadar, engaged in a running fight with two pandies at once, would not turn back. At length one sowar[1] dropped with cloven skull, and the other—a rebel captain—was being disposed of, when a dozen sepoys turned their horses round to help their officer. Quick as thought the Pathan seized the wounded subadar by the collar and jerked him out of the saddle; then, leaping from his own horse on to the rebel’s, he laughed at the sepoys, and quickly rejoined his comrades. “He had wounded my horse, sahib, and his was the finest steed I’ve seen, so I prevailed on the dog to exchange, ho! ho!” and Nawab Khan laughed. And well he might; the beast, a beautiful dark chestnut, was indeed a grand charger.
[1] A native trooper or horse-soldier.
“Well, of all the cool cheek!” exclaimed the officer of the 6th Dragoons (known as the “Carabineers”), laughing as he came up. “Anyone hurt?”
“None of us, sir,” replied Ted with a grin; “but I fancy some of the rebels are.”