“The son of Cunnigan-bahadur is welcome here on any terms at all!” growled Alwa when Mahommed Gunga had translated. “All the rebels in all India, all trying at once, would fail to take this fort of mine, had I a larger garrison. But what Rangar on this countryside will risk his life and estates on behalf of a cause that is already lost? If they come to hold my fort for me, the rebels will burn their houses. The British Raj is doomed. We Rangars have to play for our own stake!”
Then Mahommed Gunga rose and paced the floor like a man in armor, tugging at his beard and kicking at his scabbard each time that he turned at either end.
“What Rangar in this province would have had one yard of land to his name but for this man's father?” he demanded. “In his day we fought, all of us, for what was right! We threw our weight behind him when he led, letting everything except obedience go where the devil wanted it! What came of that? Good tithes, good report, good feeling, peace!”
“And then, the zemindary laws!” growled Alwa. “Then the laws that took away from us full two-thirds of our revenue!”
“We had had no revenue, except for Cunnigan-bahadur!”
It dawned on Cunningham exactly why and how he came to be there! He understood now that Mahommed Gunga had told nothing less than truth when he declared it had been through his scheming, and no other man's, that he—Cunningham—whose sole thought was to be a soldier, had been relegated to oblivion and politics! He understood why Byng had signed the transfer, and he knew—knew—knew—deep down inside him that his chance had come!
“It seems that another Cunningham is to have the honor of preserving Rangars' titles for them,” he smiled. “How many horsemen could the Alwa-sahib raise?”
“That would depend!” Alwa was in no mood to commit himself.
“At the most—at a pinch—in case of direst need, and for a cause that all agreed on?”
“Two thousand.”