Barclay of the Guides

by Herbert Strang

"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell what would be best. My father and mother were killed in Delhi" (her speech was broken by sobs), "and many of my friends, and I do not know whether even one of them escaped. If you take me to the sahibs you shall have much bakshish."

"I am of the Guides of Lumsden Sahib," said Ahmed simply. And then he bade the men lift the palki with its fair burden and follow him. They left the zamindar where he lay.

He reached the nullah about half-an-hour after he had left it. To his surprise, Sherdil and his comrades had disappeared. Examining their tracks he saw that they must have gone back the way they had come. Why had they deserted him? He felt uneasy. It was already late in the afternoon; Karnal, so far as he could judge after his riding across country, was at least three koss distant; and no doubt between that town and the place where he now was there were scores of villagers whose homes had been burnt, but who had themselves been more lucky than the zamindar, and escaped.

He made for the shelter of an adjacent copse, so that the party might at least be safe from observation while he decided what to do. When they were among the trees, Ahmed ordered the men to squat down beside the palki and beware of his sword if they attempted to move. A sudden rush of four men upon one would have been dangerous; but these palki-wallahs were not enterprising, and Ahmed's bold and contemptuous attitude did not encourage them to run any risks. Keeping a wary eye on them, however, he went a little apart to consider.

It was drawing towards night, and he was, as he guessed, several koss from Karnal, the nearest place where he knew there were white men. He could not ride thither and bring help for fear of what might happen during his absence. If the party set off to walk, they might easily lose the way, and possibly encounter bands of hostile villagers or even roving mutineers. In a few hours the Guides would no doubt leave Karnal for their usual night march, and his duty was to rejoin them as soon as possible. It seemed on the whole best to remain in hiding until darkness fell, and then attempt to reach the Delhi road, so as either to intercept the Guides, or, if they had already passed, to follow in their tracks. Whether he could gain the road in the darkness would depend mainly on the knowledge of the palki-wallahs, for though his own sense of locality and direction was keen, as became one accustomed to wander among the hills of the Afghan border, his course had been so erratic since he left Karnal with the Guides in the morning that he was now quite at a loss.

There was one risk to be guarded against: the escape of any of the men in the darkness. If one of them should get away, he might bring the whole countryside down upon the party. A few minutes' thought sufficed to settle that problem. As a preliminary, Ahmed made the men hand over their knives to him; the rest of his device he would put in operation when the time for starting came.

The party was not unprovided with food. Ahmed had already seen the men eating chapatis, which they had taken from their wallets, and when he went up to the palki to acquaint the missy sahib with his purpose he found her eating some fruit. The zamindar had shown forethought in thus providing against a possibly prolonged march. Ahmed found it rather difficult to explain his design to the girl, whose stock of Urdu extended little further than the ordinary phrases used between masters and servants. The girl acquiesced in his plan; she was indeed too frightened, and too anxious to gain a shelter with white people, to be able to criticize or suggest.

Before it became completely dark, Ahmed collected some long strands of a creeping plant that grew plentifully in the copse. With these he tied the bearers two by two together, in such a way that while their movements in carrying the palki would not be sensibly impeded, any attempt to take flight would be hopeless. The legs of the two men who went in front were fastened to those of the two behind, so that when they set off they would have to keep step. He had never seen a three-legged race; but if they tried to run away the result would be not unlike that when two boys insufficiently practised in that sport attempt to run: one would trip the other. The ends of the strands were so firmly knotted that they could not be undone easily, and Ahmed would have plenty of time to catch the men if they were so ill-advised as to bolt. These preparations having been made—not without sundry complaints and protests on the part of the men—Ahmed asked them whether they could find their way to the Delhi road. They eagerly professed that they knew the way perfectly; they were, in fact, so desirous of getting rid of this masterful Pathan that they would have agreed to lead him anywhere. He made them understand that any attempt at treachery would be fatal to them, while, on the other hand, there would be much bakshish if the missy sahib was brought safely to her friends. Then, a little after darkness had fallen, he mounted his horse, which had meanwhile been quietly browsing, bade the men take their places at the poles, and gave the order to start.

They marched on steadily for an hour or more, then took a short rest and set off again. Ahmed was by no means easy in mind. While he felt pretty sure that there was no enemy in sufficient force across the Delhi road to interrupt communications, he suspected that the whole country was infested with disaffected persons, and that parties of rebels and robbers were roving about, ready to swoop down upon any one worth plundering. It would matter nothing whether such a person were well or ill affected to the sahibs: unless he were accompanied by an adequate escort he would stand small chance against the rebel troops and the lawless element of the population, who had taken advantage of the disturbances to plunder their own countrymen and the hated Feringhis impartially. As he rode, therefore, Ahmed was ever on the alert to catch the first sound of a body of men approaching, or anything that should indicate the neighbourhood of a village.

But nothing occurred to cause alarm. The party marched on, through fields, over slight nullahs and across small streams, until, some time after midnight, they struck into a broad dusty track which the men said was the high-road to Delhi. Here Ahmed called a halt, and sat his horse intently listening. Had the Guides passed? he wondered. For the moment he could not tell. He heard nothing but the faint barking of dogs in the distance. He asked the men the name of the village whence the sound came. It was Panipat, they told him, about six koss south of Karnal, and probably half-a-koss from where they were at that moment standing. He was in a quandary. If the Guides had not passed, it would be well to wait for them. On the other hand, if they had passed he stood a poor chance of overtaking them. Well he knew the rate at which they could march! The four bearers, encumbered with the palki, could not move at anything like the pace of the Guides. He dared not leave them; they could not be relied on, no matter what bakshish were promised, when it was a Feringhi lady who was concerned: they might get more bakshish by delivering her up. He thought for a moment of setting her behind him on his arab and making a dash for Karnal, where she would be safe with Le Bas Sahib; but Panipat was in the way: if it were not held by the sahibs the risk was too great. On the other hand, even if he knew that the Guides were now on the road south of him, he might not overtake them before daylight, and no doubt there were other villages to pass through. Were the girl seen by any passing native, he would soon have every freebooter of the countryside upon his tracks, for he knew the extraordinary speed with which the news of such a discovery would travel. Then, his horse bearing a double burden, he could scarcely hope to outride any pursuers.