Sir Harry came to a threatening stop just behind him. “Well, sir, what’s wrong? What d’ye mean, sir?”
“In this country it ain’t considered particularly healthy for an aged relative to entrust his safety to his next heir, General.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Sir Harry laughed loudly. “If he chooses to resign the Turban to Shahbaz, so much the better. If Shahbaz thinks fit to exercise a little persuasion, I’m sure I have no objection. I have done with the canting old dog. Now let his brother deal with him, as I have no doubt he knows how. Then I’ll make short work of the rebellious young cubs.”
The letter written by Richard, if less peremptory in its terms than Sir Harry would have wished, produced the desired effect. Gul Ali made no further attempt to take refuge with the British, but turned aside meekly to the camp of his brother, while the unfilial Karimdâd, from whose violence he asserted that he had fled, took possession of his fortresses, and announced loudly that he would hold them against the man who called himself the Bahadar Jang or any other Farangi in creation. Sir Harry chuckled, and completed his consolidation at Bori, but it was not his measures that alarmed Karimdâd. From Shahbaz Khan’s fortress of Bidi came the news Richard had expected. Gul Ali had resigned the Turban—of his own free will, it was carefully added—in favour of his brother. The result was electrical. Karimdâd and his cousins lost no time in quitting the strongholds they had seized, and fled to Sultankot, far in the desert—a fortress which was declared and believed by all Khemistan to be not only impregnable but unreachable for an enemy, owing to the difficulties of the route and the lack of water. Sir Harry chuckled again, and with a calmness that staggered his own troops as much as his opponents, announced that he was going to take Sultankot. It might be a hundred miles in the desert, but if the Arabit bands could make the journey, so could trained troops. The fortress might be impregnable to a native army, but not to Europeans provided with artillery. Parts of the way might be impassable for heavy guns, but he would rely on his field-pieces. The wells might be destroyed or poisoned, vegetation might be lacking, but he would carry water and forage with him. The route might be unknown, but he would get guides from Shahbaz Khan, and in case the opportunity might be too tempting, Shahbaz Khan himself should come too. No smoothing-out of complications at one blow by allowing the British force to be overwhelmed in the desert, leaving him undisputed master of Khemistan! Shahbaz Khan professed unbounded delight in the honour conferred upon him, but begged the General politely not to impose upon himself the labour of such a march. He himself would undertake to reduce Sultankot with his own troops, and bring the rebellious princelings to heel. But Sir Harry refused to be spared, and gave his reason openly, though happily not to his prospective ally. It was just as well that Shahbaz Khan should be convinced of the ability of British troops to reach and capture any objective whatever—no matter how distant and difficult,—as a gentle hint that when he was placed in power he also would find no place of refuge if he chose to misbehave. The British force, fretting at the leash which held it inactive after its hard training, was ready to go anywhere and fight anything, and moved out joyfully from Bori into the desert, to the number—after the manner of Anglo-Indian armies—of three thousand fighting men and twenty thousand camp-followers.
Eveleen being what she was, it was natural—though Richard did not think so—that the prospect of actual fighting should excite her nearly as much as it did the soldiers. Returning one evening from a visit to the camp at Bori under Brian’s escort, she burst into her husband’s dressing-room, where he was trying hard to decide which of his indispensable campaigning requisites were absolutely indispensable, and which only relatively so.
“It’s a great sight!” she cried, without troubling to specify what the sight was—“but terrible, too. I wonder does Sir Harry feel himself a murderer when he thinks how few of those splendid horses and men may come back?”
Richard’s lips twitched. Eveleen made it a grievance against him that he had no sense of humour, but it sometimes seemed to him—as to other married people with Irish partners—that the accusation might as fitly apply to the accuser. “You are uncommonly cheering in your view of our prospects, my dear,” he said.
“But what d’ye think yourself? Is there a chance of success? Truly, now?”
“Under any other commander, not the faintest chance. Under Sir Henry—well, he has such a turn for performing the impossible when he’s said he will, that there may be a hope. But mind you, the enterprise will either be the most horrible disaster in history, or the maddest success.”
“And which would you say ’twill be?”