“I congratulate you, colonel,” said Alec promptly.
In came Major Lawson, and the boys cleared out. The wild-looking men of Boldre’s Horse had broken their fast and were eager for the fray, chattering in groups, discussing the probable destination, and hazarding all kinds of wild conjectures. A few moments later without any sound of bugles, the regiment was in the saddle and trotting away to the north-west.
Paterson sorrowfully watched them depart, for he had not obtained permission to accompany the force.
“Where are the others?” Ted enquired of Claude.
“Don’t know.... Who are these?—oh! the Flamingoes, and there are the Probyn ruffians. We’ve done it very quietly.”
A blurred mass appeared presently away to the right.
“Those will be the Lancers and the guns,” Ted hazarded his opinion. “Yes, there’s no mistaking that music. Good old Horse Artillery!”
With joined forces the little flying column pushed forward at a trot, the pleasant clatter of hoofs and jingle and rattle of the guns forming an accompaniment, inspiring with its martial noise.
A flash of yellow light gleamed far away on the eastern horizon, as the metal upon one of the tall minarets of Lucknow caught the first rays, and the sun had risen. There before them lay the fortified village of Pindijang in the dip hollowed out by the shallow tributary running south-east to join the Granges. The place was walled, and they could see the black muzzles of cannon peeping from the embrasures. The neighbourhood was well wooded, affording good cover for sharp-shooters.
Colonel Boldre grumbled at his hard luck. Half an hour earlier and he could have taken the village by surprise. The fault was not his, for the map showed Pindijang as nine miles from Cawnpore. It had proved not less than a dozen, and would have to be taken by hard fighting, not by a coup.