The fierce light that came into the eyes of Pir Baksh sent a thrill of despair through Tynan’s breast. He began to find excuses. He told himself that the proposed statement would be partly true, for Pir Baksh had offered to spare their lives. He caught at that weak saving-clause, and enlarged upon it until he had almost persuaded himself that he could only be blamed for exaggeration, not for downright lying. Then he remembered how Pir Baksh, by shooting the colonel, had brought the mutiny to pass, and was guilty of all the bloodshed.
The subadar noted his indecision, and said:
“There will be none to contradict, your countrymen are as good as dead.”
“I will write as you say,” said Tynan slowly, “if you will swear to save my life.”
He had decided. He was ready to sign a paper absolving this villain from the reward of his treachery and blood-guiltiness. And the final inducement had been the assurance that the traitor’s plot would be crowned with such success that all Tynan’s compatriots would be slain. And this was the man he was ready to hold up as a loyal subject fit to be rewarded for his fidelity!
“By the Prophet’s beard I will do my best to save thee,” the subadar declared. “We must escape from the town, or I too shall suffer the penalty.”
Seizing pen and ink in feverish haste to get it over, Tynan wrote as the Mohammedan directed him. First, the promise to pay five thousand rupees on one sheet of paper, and then a document that might save Pir Baksh from all consequences of mutiny and murder in the event of his capture by the British. When he had finished, his gaoler took the pen and wrote in Urdu at the foot:—
“I, Pir Baksh, subadar of the 193rd B.N.I., do solemnly promise, on my oath as a Moslem, to do my best to effect the escape of Ensign Tynan of the same regiment, a prisoner among the rebels in Aurungpore. Filled with admiration of his courage in risking his life in the execution of his duty by planning and carrying out the blowing up of the magazine, I also risk my life to save his.”
“But I’ve already told you I didn’t do that,” the ensign protested, as he read the added words. “It was Russell’s doing altogether.”
“No need to say so, sahib,” said Pir Baksh. “He is dead, and so indeed will all the Feringhis be to-morrow, and no one can claim the credit. Russell Sahib I hate, for do I not owe him this broken arm and bloody head? And if I mistake not, he is no friend of thine, so why not take the credit of the deed and be promoted and raised to honour? Help me, sahib, and I will help thee.”