Penelope coloured. “I daresay it’s silly,” she said; “but that is how I feel.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
“FOR THINE AND THEE.”
About a year after Colonel Keeling’s marriage, there came a time when troubles crowded thick and fast upon the Alibad colony. An earthquake did terrible damage to the great irrigation-works, which were fast approaching completion; and when this was followed by unusually heavy winter rains, the result was a disastrous inundation. It was a new thing for Khemistan, and especially its northern portion, to be afflicted with too much rain instead of too little; but the change seemed to have the effect of making the climate even more unhealthy than usual. The European officers who rode from village to village distributing medicines and food, and encouraging the people to rebuild their houses and cultivate their spoilt fields afresh, fell ill one after the other; and there was almost as much sickness among the troopers of the Khemistan Horse, most of whom came from another part of India, and found the salt desert a land of exile. The alarm caused by the Nalapuri invasion had at last drawn the attention of the Government to Colonel Keeling’s reiterated requests for a larger force; and he had been allowed to raise a second regiment, which he was moulding vigorously into shape when the troubles began. It was these new men and their unacclimatised officers who went down so quickly, and must needs be invalided to the coast; and the Commandant found himself left with little more than his original force and European staff when the news came that Gobind Chand was threatening the frontier anew. From Gobind Chand’s point of view the move was a timely one, if not the only one possible to him, for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, at the head of the young Amir’s troops, was shouldering him mercilessly out of Nalapur, quite content to leave to Colonel Keeling the task of dealing with him finally. By dint of avoiding a pitched battle, and presenting a resolute front to his pursuers, the ex-Vizier had contrived to keep his force almost intact, and a golden opportunity seemed to be presenting itself for dealing a blow at one of his chief enemies while he was already in difficulties.
So black was the outlook that Colonel Keeling thought it would be well to send the ladies down as far as the river, at any rate; but they rebelled, pointing out that such a step would cause the natives to despair of the British cause. Lady Haigh flatly refused to go; Penelope said she would go if her husband wished it, but entreated so piteously to be allowed to stay that he, dreading the journey for her, and little able to spare an escort, consented on the condition that she left off visiting the native town to take help to the sufferers there. After all, it was Lady Haigh who was seized with fever and had to be nursed by Penelope, and she was scarcely convalescent when the two husbands were obliged to leave Alibad once more under the protection of the ever-useful Fencibles, and march to the north-east to repel Gobind Chand. The old Hindu had developed a remarkable power of generalship at this stage in his career. He refused steadily to come out on the plains, or even to show his full strength in the hills. His plan was to lead the small British force a weary dance through broken country, eluding capture when it seemed inevitable that he must be caught, and watching for an opportunity of surprising the weary and dispirited troops.
But it was such an emergency as this that brought out the strongest points in Colonel Keeling’s character. To find in the ex-Vizier a foeman worthy of his steel sent his spirits up with a rush; and, as he had no intention of playing into Gobind Chand’s hands, a very short experience determined him to strike out tactics of his own. Somehow or other it became known in the British camp that Colonel Keeling felt considerable anxiety as to the good faith of Nalapur, now that he was so far from Alibad. What could be easier than for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal to swoop down on the practically defenceless town and level it with the ground? Hence it was very natural that the Commandant should divide his force, sending back the larger portion, under Major Porter, for the defence of the town, and retaining only one gun and a small number of troops for the pursuit of Gobind Chand. Whether Colonel Keeling had exercised his reputed powers, and actually detected spies among his camp-followers, or was merely making a bold guess, certain it is that two or three individuals who had attached themselves to the British force in order to assure the Commandant that the number of Gobind Chand’s adherents had been grossly exaggerated, contrived to become separated from it in the darkness, and by inadvertence, no doubt, to fall in with the enemy’s scouts, and relate what Kīlin Sahib was doing. Therefore, as Porter marched away with his force, and the dust of their passage was seen vanishing in the direction of Alibad, Gobind Chand was able to concentrate his men round the hollow in which the British camp lay. Incautious as Colonel Keeling might have been, he was not the man to be taken by surprise, and he broke camp in some haste, and effected a safe retreat. But this retreat was in itself an encouragement to the enemy—especially since the British force did not make for the plains, but seemed fated to wander farther into the hills—and Gobind Chand followed close upon its heels. At evening things looked very black for Colonel Keeling. He and his small body of men were holding a low hill which was commanded on all sides by higher hills. The valley surrounding it had only one opening, that to the north, by which he had entered, and across which Gobind Chand was now encamped, and it seemed quite clear that he had been caught in a cul-de-sac. He was clearly determined to fight to the last, however, for his men kept up a perfect pandemonium of noise at intervals all night. They fired volleys at imaginary enemies, performed trumpet fantasias at unseemly hours, and dragged their solitary gun, with much difficulty and noise, from place to place on the crest of the hill, apparently to find out where it would be of most service. In the morning Colonel Keeling looked at Sir Dugald and laughed.
“It’s Gobind Chand or me to-day,” he said. “If he doesn’t advance into the valley in half an hour, we are done.”
Before the specified time had elapsed, however, the vanguard of Gobind Chand’s force was pouring into the valley, the besieged keeping their gun for use later. Taking advantage of the cover afforded by the rocks with which the valley was strewn, the enemy, cautious in spite of their superiority of numbers, settled down to “snipe” at the hill-top. Colonel Keeling was radiant, and his men needed nothing to complete their happiness when they heard him muttering concerning “stainless Tunstall’s banner white,” “priests slain on the altar-stone,” “Fontarabian echoes,” and other things outside their ken. Suddenly, as he was making the round of the hill-top, and pushing his men down into cover, for the twentieth time, he found himself confronted by one of his own chaprasis from Alibad, who, with a respectfully immobile face, held forth a letter. The Commandant turned it over as if he was afraid to open it.
“How did you get here, Rahim Khan?” he asked.
“By a rope from the top of the cliff, sahib.”
“Fool! could the enemy see you?”