“That of major, sir.”
“You are confirmed in the same rank here. I have no doubt your services will be further recognized at the close of the campaign.”
“If Havelock had the second thousand men he asked for he would now be marching here,” growled Nicholson.
No one spoke for a little while. The under meaning of the giant’s words was plain. Havelock had moved while they stood still. The criticism was a trifle unjust, perhaps, but men with Napoleonic ideas are impatient of the limitations that afflict their less powerful brethren. If India were governed exclusively by Nicholsons, Lawrences, Havelocks, Hodsons, and Neills, there would never have been a mutiny. It was Britain’s rare good fortune that they existed at all and came to the front when the fiery breath of war had scorched and shriveled the nonentities who held power and place at the outbreak of hostilities.
Then some one passed a remark on Frank’s appearance. He was bareheaded. The fair hair and blue eyes that had perplexed Chumru looked strangely out of keeping with his brown skin.
“How in the world did you manage to escape detection during your ride north?” he was asked.
He explained Chumru’s device, and they laughed. Like Havelock, Baird-Smith thought the Mohammedan would make a good soldier.
“With all his pluck, sir, he is absolutely afraid of using a pistol,” said Frank. “He was offered the highest rank as a native officer, but he refused it.”
“Then, by gad, we must make him a zemindar. Tell him I said so and that we all agree on that point.”
When Frank gave the message to Chumru it was received with a demoniac grin.