“It’s a promotion in a way, I suppose,” said he, “but I’m not gazetted lieutenant yet.”
“You soon will be, though,” Colonel Woodburn assured him. “Your appointment is practically equal to promotion. Boldre is a good soldier. I wish I were equal to it.”
“Do you still suffer any pain from the wound, colonel?” Ted asked.
“Hardly now, Ted. Still, I’m not fit for active service, only for garrison and depot.”
“Tiffin is ready,” Mr. Moncrief announced. “Lead the way, Miss Woodburn.”
By seven o’clock Lieutenant Edward Russell, Risaldar[1] Govind Singh, Ressaidar Hira Singh, and Kasim Ali were on their way to Amritsar by the very road along which Ted had journeyed twenty-four hours ago. Jalandar was reached on the second day without mishap, and without any incident more exciting than a half-hour’s alarm occasioned by the approach of a body of Native Horse. They turned out to be a detachment of the force maintained by the Sikh Raja of Kapurthala, a loyal prince who, in response to John Lawrence’s invitation, had assisted the British at Delhi, and whose men were now engaged in keeping a portion of the great highway clear of budmashes and guerrilla mutineers.
[1] The cavalry ranks of Risaldar and Ressaidar correspond in some degree to the English Major and Captain. The senior native officers, however, rank below the Junior British officers.
Ted was hospitably received by Mr. Jackson, a civilian official of the Cis-Sutlej States, who had enlisted some forty or fifty horsemen—Sikhs from the Jalandar Doab and Dogras from Kangra. A few days were needed in order to give the levies a little polish and complete their equipment, and during this period Ted stayed with Mr. Jackson. Then they set out for Delhi, through Ludhiana and Amballa.
Five months before a certain ensign had ridden along that road with the Corps of Guides, a lad in the highest of spirits. “Glory of youth glowed in his soul”, as he rode by his brother’s side and surveyed that splendid regiment, the pride of the Punjab, and, engrossed in the splendour of the martial array, he had given little thought to the horrors.
Five months ago! At times it seemed as many years, and yet again, as they passed some landmark, and a vivid recollection of some chance remark flashed across his brain, at such a time it seemed but yesterday. His spirits were still high, but experience had somewhat sobered him. He thought of the great events of that fateful period, of the scenes of carnage, of the lost friends and comrades, of the great Nicholson, of the plucky little Gurkhas, and those days at the house of Hindu Rao. How many of those grand men of the Guides, with whom he had ridden across the Punjab, had gone back to their depot at Hoti Mardan? How many of the little Gurkhas, whose arrival in the British camp he had witnessed, had marched back to their station in the hills of Dehra Dun? What months those had been for India and for himself! Then the rebels were winning at every point, except in the Punjab. Now the Mogul capital was once more in the hands of the British, the emperor was a captive, and though much remained to be done, the end of the great mutiny was in sight.