The Flag of the Adventurer

by Sydney C. Grier

A roar of laughter went round the table, and if the General had wished to punish Colonel Welborne for his hesitancy in charging at Mahighar, he must have felt that he was avenged when he heard the jokes and quips levelled at the unfortunate man throughout the rest of the meal. Moreover, every man present would impart the jest to others, and the camp as well as the tent would quickly be ringing with the news of Welborne’s nervousness and the General’s drastic treatment of it. But though he laughed with the rest, he found a moment to growl to Eveleen under cover of the talk—

“By no means sure Welborne ain’t correct. But he had no business to tell Rickmer. I’m looking after him—watching Kamal-ud-din as a cat watches a mouse. What reason has he for funk? Long before the Arabits could walk over him I should be upon their rear.”

That he meant what he said was clear the next morning, when Captain Stewart rode out with a squadron of native cavalry, under orders to skirt round the enemy’s position and join Colonel Rickmer. If the enemy came out in force to prevent him, he was to send back a message at once, when the General would march to his assistance with horse, foot, and guns. In any case Colonel Rickmer was to be informed that Sir Henry would meet him on the morrow on the field of Mahighar—where nothing would induce the Arabits to tempt fortune a second time—and escort him into camp.

To every one’s astonishment this promise was kept to the letter, though—as Brian told his sister—the column commander had lost his head to such an extent that he might have been asking to be annihilated. Probably Colonel Welborne’s message persisted in recurring to his mind, despite the General’s cavalier comment, for his one idea seemed to be to get into safety with a run. He had brought with him from Sahar the women and children of his brigade, and a mass of baggage that would have made Sir Harry tear his hair, and how they had managed to get so far was a mystery.

“Stewart says the fellow might have intended all the time making a present of ’em to Kamal-ud-din,” said Brian—“like the Russian chap that dropped his children out of the sledge to divert the attention of the wolves from himself. There was the whole caravan strung out over the desert, straggling at its own sweet will, and Rickmer miles away in front, swearing at his drivers to hurry, for all the world as though he had been badly beat and was trying to get his guns off the field. Happily the enemy was a good match to him for foolishness, for one detachment only—just one—of Arabits turned up and began to be nasty when Stewart was trying to get the stragglers into line and protect their rear. When they opened a matchlock fire on the women and baggage, he thought it was getting beyond a joke, and sent an express to beg Rickmer to detach a troop for the rear. He had only six sowars with him—the rest were guarding the flanks,—but he charged with ’em and drove off the Arabits. Of course they came back when they saw they had him unsupported, and ’twas near an hour before the cavalry he had asked for turned up, bringing the cheerful news that Rickmer was still pushing hard for Qadirabad—he’d cot sight of the tower of the Fort, and it drew him like a magnet, you might say,—leaving the baggage and the non-combatants to look after themselves. Stewart’s blood was up—d’ye wonder?—and he told his horsemen to do their best while he went hell-for-leather after Rickmer, and found him uncommonly busy and excited getting his guns over a nullah. There was some plain speaking, I gather—I wonder now was there just a scrap or two of language unbecoming in a junior officer to his superior in rank?—and Stewart got two field-pieces, and galloped back with ’em helter-skelter. A few shots drove off the Arabits, and what was better, the sound reached the General and brought us all out to the rescue; we met Rickmer’s galloper on the way with the news he was attacked—but if Kamal-ud-din and his chiefs were not the most incapable set of muffs that ever had the cheek to stand up to a British army, Rickmer would be eternally disgraced—and rightly.”

Kamal-ud-din’s extraordinary failure to seize his opportunity was the talk of the camp that evening. The general opinion was that the young Khan shared the weakness of his elders for intoxicating drugs, and was incapable of giving orders at the moment, whilst his subordinates durst not act without them; but Sir Harry had found an explanation far more to his taste.

“It was chivalry—pure chivalry!” he told Eveleen, in all seriousness. “The spies tell me that as soon as he heard there were European women and children with the column he called off his troops and countermanded the attack which had been ordered. He said the Bahadar Jang had treated the Khans’ women with consideration, and he would treat the Feringhee women the same.”

“But sure he did attack,” objected Eveleen.

“That was a body of horse that had already started—not his fault. A fine fellow that—a young man after my own heart. It does one good to be able to respect one’s enemy—as we did in the Peninsula, where the British soldier thought far more of his French opponents than of his bloodthirsty and treacherous allies.”

“And did the Spaniards know what you thought of them?” It seemed to Eveleen that this attitude must have led to difficulties.