Peace with Honour

by Sydney C. Grier

No further command was needed. The servants obeyed the order zealously, bundling the unhappy country-people out neck and crop, and throwing their possessions after them. But before they could clear the courtyard of the bewildered and terrified crowd there was a fresh commotion at the gateway, and Fitz forced his way in, followed by Kustendjian, and rushed up to Sir Dugald.

“There’s a regular howling mob coming this way, sir!” he cried. “We saw old Fath-ud-Din’s steward, who goes to the Palace with him, and another man, stirring them up against us in the bazaar, and when we came away they followed us, and then chased us. They are saying that we have annexed the country, and that the flag is the sign of it. They mean to tear it down.”

“Ah!” said Sir Dugald, quietly, stepping down from the verandah. “Put your revolvers into your pockets, gentlemen; we won’t use them at present. Fetch your riding-whips, if you please, or a good strong lithe cane, if you have one, any of you. We will not shed blood unless we are driven to it.”

The young men rushed to their quarters for the required weapons, returning to find Sir Dugald standing beside the flagstaff with his revolver in his hand. The confusion at the gate had been increased by the arrival of the mob outside, for they found their entrance impeded not only by the servants who were doing their best to close the doors, but by the mixed multitude of their own people who were in process of being expelled. But the piles of merchandise thrown down or dropped in the gateway made it impossible for the doors to be shut, and Sir Dugald turned to Fitz.

“Go back to the verandah, Mr Anstruther, and blow your whistle to call the servants in. Concentrate them in the front rooms on that floor, and serve out the rifles and ammunition; but, remember, not a shot is to be fired so long as we are out here. It would be the death of all of us. If we are driven in we will bring the flag with us; but until we come, you fire at your peril.”

As Fitz obeyed, and the sound of his whistle rang out clear and shrill, penetrating even the hubbub at the gate, and causing the servants to abandon their futile efforts and turn to run to the house, Sir Dugald addressed his companions.

“Stratford, you are the tallest. Keep your revolver out, and stand by the flagstaff. Shoot down the first man that lays a hand on the halliards. No; on second thoughts I will take that post myself. It is possible that I am a little cooler in the head than you, and it is certain that you are a good deal stronger of arm than I am. Take your places in front of the flag, gentlemen; that’s it. Your business is to let no one pass you. This is not an armed mob; it is just Fath-ud-Din’s badmashes, and sticks and whips ought to keep them back. I needn’t tell you to lay it on well. Never mind how hard you hit.”

“Here they come!” said the doctor; and as the last servant broke out of the crowd by the gate and fled to the house the mob burst in with a roar. They made straight for the flag, but paused and recoiled at the sight of the three younger men with their whips, and Sir Dugald, revolver in hand, leaning idly against the flagstaff.

“Not much pluck in them!” muttered Dick, disgustedly; but as though they had understood the disparaging words, the mob gathered their courage together and came on again. In a moment the younger men found themselves engaged in a furious hand-to-hand encounter, in which fists and whips were opposed to the force of numbers. Fitz declared afterwards that he could hear over all the din of the struggle the sound of the blows as they fell, although the howling of those who received them ought to have drowned the noise. Once or twice Sir Dugald raised his revolver and let it drop again, for in the whole course of the short, sharp fight no one actually got within the ring of defenders, and presently Fitz, exceeding his orders, seized the psychological instant for a most opportune diversion. Besides rifles, he had provided the servants with all the sticks he could muster; and when he saw the mob begin to give way, he led forth half his force to clear the courtyard. Fear of the defenders plainly visible at the windows had hitherto kept the space between the flagstaff and the house free of intruders, and now the sturdy frontiersmen, covered by the rifles of their friends behind, advanced against the foe, laying about them as they came with hearty goodwill. Gradually the mob yielded their ground. Firing they might perhaps have faced, but this extremely unheroic method of fighting disgusted them with the sport. As the defenders closed their ranks and pressed the fugitives harder, the retreat became a rout, nay, a headlong race—an obstacle race—in which every man was eager to save his back from blows. The last remnants of the mob struggled through the gateway at last, and the courtyard was clear, and the honour of the flag maintained, without the shedding of a drop of blood.

“Clear that rubbish away and close the gates,” said Sir Dugald. “We will keep them shut in future, and the people must bring their things to sell in the street outside. That market of theirs nearly did for us to-day.”