Peace with Honour

by Sydney C. Grier

“Only this—and this.” Khadija’s bony finger pointed first to a spot some distance in advance of the little British column, where the track wound through rocky ground, with sand-cliffs of some height rising on either side—the dry bed of a winter torrent, probably—then to the force as it marched. “All the men of Bir-ul-Malikat in ambush there, O doctor lady, and here the English riding into the ambuscade without knowing of it.”

“But why have you brought me here?” asked Georgia.

Khadija understood the tone of the question, though not its words.

“To see what happens, O doctor lady. Not to warn thy friends—oh no! One cry—one sign of warning—and thou diest. Thou seest these men here. Their daggers are ready, and they fear not to use them.”

Georgia stood looking over the parapet, with both hands gripping its rough edge. The situation was quite clear to her without the aid of Khadija’s words, which she understood only partially, and there was no doubt in her mind as to the course to be taken. Behind were the daggers of the fanatics, who were Khadija’s willing tools—in front, Dick and his comrades, riding unconscious to their doom. Of course she would warn them. They were almost abreast of the tower now, as she stood with beating heart making her hurried calculation. The warning must necessarily be the work of a moment, for there would be no more time allowed her. One moment to tear off her burka and wave it wildly as a signal, and to shriek “Dick! ambush!” using her hands as a speaking-trumpet. She knew the extraordinary distance to which voices are carried by the dry desert air, and she had no fear as to his hearing her.

But as she stood waiting for the critical moment, with her hands already raised to fling off the burka, a sudden disturbing thought came to her. Why had Khadija brought her to that spot at that moment, when she must know her well enough by this time to be sure that she would at least make an attempt to warn the column of its danger? Was it not possible that for some reason or other she wished her to give the alarm? It was an awful moment, but Georgia’s whole training had been such as to inculcate presence of mind and prompt decision in emergencies. Just as the British force reached the point at which she had determined that her warning should be given, she turned her back deliberately on the desert, and, sitting down on the parapet, buried her face in her hands.

“Ah, the doctor lady is prudent!” said Khadija, in a low snarl of intense rage. But Georgia scarcely heard her. She was praying as she had never prayed before, and at the same time listening intently for any sound of conflict. For, after all, she might have decided wrongly. At last she could bear the uncertainty no longer, and looked round. The dreaded nullah had been reached, and the troops were passing through it without opposition, two or three dismounted men scrambling along the brink on either side as scouts. There was no ambuscade there, at all events. Almost before she had had time to realise the full significance of this, the gleam of a weapon in the courtyard below her caught her attention, and she became aware that the outbuildings around it were filled with armed men crouching low, while the gate was standing partially open. There had been a trap laid here, that was evident, for a low growl of concentrated anger rose to her ears, as the liers-in-wait began to perceive that the prey had escaped them. Then the sound was echoed by the men on the tower, as they drew their daggers and turned towards Georgia with words and looks which intimated that in her they had, at any rate, a scapegoat for their disappointment. With a calmness which surprised herself, she did not even spring to her feet, but remarked quietly to Khadija—

“Zeynab is not yet recovered, and Yakub is still at Bir-ul-Malik.”

With a muttered curse the old woman pushed her way through the group and ordered the men back. They obeyed sulkily, and Georgia, struck by the irony of the situation and the utter discomfiture of her enemies, began to laugh. She laughed until the tears came into her eyes, and the men looked at one another and muttered, “She is certainly mad,” while Khadija, with disappointed hate depicted on her face, motioned to her to return to the house. Still laughing weakly, Georgia obeyed, and found her way back to Rahah, to whom she recounted what had happened during the last half-hour. Deeply interested, the girl promised to do her best to unravel the mystery, and when evening came she returned to her mistress overflowing with news.

“O my lady, I have found it all out. I have seen Ibrahim. He is set free now, but they had shut him up in a dungeon, that he should not warn the Major Sahib, because he had discovered their plans, and he says that all the men are cursing you. The messenger from Fath-ud-Din yesterday brought orders that on no account were his servants to attack the English, for that then his life would be forfeited; but Khadija could not bear to lose her revenge when she had so nearly obtained it, and she thought it would be all right if she could make the English attack first. She wanted you to cry out, O my lady, because she thought that the Major Sahib would know your voice, and thinking you were a prisoner and in danger, would rush to save you. The men in the courtyard were told to shut the gate when as many as possible of the English had come in, and to kill them if they resisted—as naturally they would. Then she could not be held to blame if the servants killed the English, who had forced their way into the place and provoked a fight, or if you were found to have fallen from the tower in trying to reach the Major Sahib. But you have brought all her plans to nothing, and the Major Sahib ought to be proud that he will have such a wife.”