“I have heard much of thy father, Russell Sahib, who was my father’s brother. I am glad to fight side by side with thee as our fathers fought.”
Ted pressed the young jemadar’s hand. This was, then, the grandson of the famous Nepalese general, Amir Sing Thapa, who had kept our troops at bay for so long a period in the year of Waterloo. Ted had often heard the story, and was glad indeed to meet the hero’s grandson.
That night the troops slept soundly both on and below the Ridge. In the early morning the Gurkha picket heard the sound of cheering from the British camp, and the report ran round that the Guide Corps was marching in. Ted, Paterson, and their four Pathans—two had fallen on the previous day—went down to rejoin their regiment, which was being greeted with the same enthusiasm that had been accorded to the Sirmuris a few days before.
Though the Guides had taken no part in the battle they had already covered themselves with undying glory. Daly had promised that the seven hundred and fifty miles should be covered in a month, and he had done it in twenty-eight days. The stately height and military bearing of the frontiersmen and the perfect horsemanship of the cavalry took everyone by surprise, and such exclamations as “A splendid lot!” “Fighters every inch of them!” were heard on all sides. Though they had accomplished the magnificent march—a march that still holds the record—during the hottest season of the year, they came in, as an onlooker remarked, “as firm and light of step as if they had marched only a mile”.
The Guides had barely arrived before they contrived to give the Delhi rebels a taste of their temper. Large bodies of horse and foot had been sent out from the city to harass our advanced posts, and, full of a fierce joy, the Guides were ordered to the front.
Charlie was engaged in chaffing his cousin, Ted throwing in a word here and there, when Lieutenant Quintin Battye strolled up, a smile on his handsome face. He nodded towards the two ensigns.
“I’ve a bone to pick with you two,” he gaily remarked. “What do you mean by risking the lives of my best troopers by charging a regiment with half a dozen men? Throw your own lives away if you like, but remember that our sowars are of value to the state.”
Ted had a joke on the tip of his tongue before the slower Paterson had framed any suitable reply, when the order came for the Guides Cavalry to advance.
Battye rose in his stirrups, and, thundering forth the order to charge, dashed straight for the ranks of the mutinous 3rd Native Cavalry. The sabres of the loyal and disloyal crossed, and down went man and horse before that furious onslaught. Through the second ranks of the rebels crashed those Pathan and Sikh troopers, their steel flashing in the sunlight as the sabres rose and fell again, now tinged with red, in the fierce conflict. Ever in the forefront rode Quintin Battye. Captain Daly, with the infantry, looked on in admiration at his subaltern’s charge and could not contain himself.
“Gallant Battye! Well done, brave Battye!” he cried in his enthusiasm.