“It is those badmashes outside—we cannot control them. They are angry because the treaty is signed and my great-uncle’s wrongs have not been redressed, and they might show rudeness. Therefore we send an escort of our own to see you safely through the town. Would the Bahadar Jang be likely to shed the light of his radiant countenance upon us if he heard that his servants had eaten gali [abuse] in our streets?”
The reasoning was very clear, but it was abundantly obvious that the mob were prepared to use much more substantial weapons than abuse. All down the long Bazar from the gateway of the Fort to the city gate, the Mission had practically to fight its way. At Colonel Bayard’s earnest entreaty, his companions succeeded in getting through without drawing their swords, but in two or three ugly rushes they were forced to defend themselves by laying about them with the scabbards. The troopers of the Khemistan Horse were hard to restrain, but they found some alleviation of their discontent in backing their horses among the crowd, with a callous disregard of toes and shins. The Khans’ cavalry did more talking than anything else, but the only time Richard Ambrose had leisure to listen to them, what they said was significant—“Let them pass. These men are nothing. Wait till the Bahadar Jang comes!” Something suspiciously resembling a torrent of curses accompanied the name, but it might have been directed at the crowd, whose own language was blood-curdling. It was not until half the distance had been covered that stones began to fly—the partially demolished house of a man who had presumed to become unduly rich and had suffered for it affording a supply of missiles. Then indeed the riders had a hot time, for to the stones and iron-shod lathis in the street were added stones and curses from the roofs. Most of them received blows more or less severe, and Richard had his cap knocked off and got a nasty gash on the forehead. Happily Brian was in time to prevent his being knocked off his horse, for any man who went down in that yelling, swearing, spitting crowd would have small chance to rise again. But the gate was nearly reached, and the Arabit escort—with the first sign of common-sense that had distinguished them—made a semicircle and beat back the mob while their charges were filing through the narrow portal. Once safely outside, and dignity consulted by riding a short way as if nothing had happened, they pulled up beside a well to repair damages. One of the troopers of the escort had an arm broken, and while Colonel Bayard and the surgeon were looking to him, Richard submitted unwillingly to the ministrations of his brother-in-law, which were necessary because the blood running down his face prevented him from seeing.
“I cot your eye in the durbar just now,” said Brian hastily. “Would you say you thought what I did?”
“I think the General has saved all our lives without knowing it.”
“But you wouldn’t say he’d come here?”
“I should say the Khans will have to live a good bit longer before they catch that old weasel asleep.”
CHAPTER XIV.
OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN—
After that exciting ride home, profound peace reigned about the Residency for a whole day, as though the Khans wished to give time for the impression to sink in. Then their Vakils arrived again, in a high state of alarm, with which they were desperately anxious to infect the British. The Khans were absolutely powerless to restrain the Arabits, they said—as Colonel Bayard had had some slight proof already. Their feelings were outraged by the signing of the treaty, and they would only accept it on the condition that Gul Ali was at once acknowledged again as holder of the Turban, and that Sir Henry’s troops, which had advanced steadily down the river bank till they were now within a few marches of the capital, should be instantly withdrawn. Otherwise, the ambassador would do well to surrender the treaty and depart, for the Khans could not protect him. To the mingled wrath and despair of his officers, the threatened loss of the treaty—which had been so hard to win—induced Colonel Bayard to write urging Sir Harry not merely to come to Qadirabad and re-establish Gul Ali on the masnad, but to withdraw his army into the desert—as far as the remote fortress of Khangarh, near the British border,—that his peaceful intentions might be made thoroughly clear. He told the Vakils what he had written, pointing out that it would have no effect unless the Khans could keep the Arabits under control, and they accepted the warning and withdrew with all gravity, though their errand must have seemed to them successful to the point of absurdity.
The next day Eveleen was in the garden—in the uncomfortable state popularly described as finding herself at a loose end. She had tried to nurse Richard, but Richard as an invalid was neither grateful nor gracious. She wanted to fuss over him, and he ruthlessly declined to be fussed over. He did not wish to be read to—perhaps this was not surprising, since the only available reading consisted of back numbers of various Bombay papers, singing the praises of Colonel Bayard and patronising the General’s wisdom in perceiving in him the only man to deal with the situation,—he did not wish to be talked to or otherwise amused; all he asked was to be let alone and allowed to smoke in peace. Thereupon Eveleen naturally went off in a huff—thereby, as she realised presently with disgust, assuring him precisely the selfish tranquillity he craved—and established herself in a shady spot, where a masonry platform had been built under the shelter of two or three large trees, to recover her equanimity. It was unfortunate for this purpose that her position brought her in view of her old antagonist the gardener, who had cheerfully ascribed the lack of garden produce to the Beebee’s interference at the beginning of the cold weather. Nevertheless, after the manner of his kind, he was able to supply vegetables—at a price,—and Eveleen raged in vain when he exhibited blandly his empty garden-beds. She was quite sure that he had sold everything they contained, and was now suborning some other gardener to do the same, though it was not quite clear who in Qadirabad would be likely to have a taste for European vegetables. Perhaps it was Tom Carthew, she thought, and wondered idly how he was getting on in his uncomfortable, half-and-half, secretive life.
As so often happens, the thought was followed at no great distance by the appearance of its object, though Eveleen did not perceive this at first. What she saw from her point of vantage was an interested group of women and children near the stables, gathered round a man who seemed to be selling something. It was most probably sweets, she thought, and remembering that she had not yet given the people in the compound the treat which was their due after her long absence, she told Ketty to fetch the man. It was altogether beneath Ketty’s dignity to enter the domains of the syce-folk, but there was a servant close at hand, specially detailed by Colonel Bayard to watch over the safety of her Madam-sahib, and she despatched him on the errand. It was rather a disappointment to find that the pedlar was not selling sweets, but glass bangles—designed for what seemed impossibly slender wrists—strung on rods according to size. Still, these would please the women, at any rate, and she sent Ketty to the house for her purse while she made her selection. To her astonishment, the moment the ayah was out of hearing, the pedlar spoke in English—low and hastily.