Rung Ho! A Novel by Talbot Mundy (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📗
- Author: Talbot Mundy
Book online «Rung Ho! A Novel by Talbot Mundy (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📗». Author Talbot Mundy
“I'm Miss McClean. My father was a missionary in Howrah.”
She nodded to a chair beside her, and Cunningham took it, feeling awkward, as men of his type usually do when they meet a woman in a strange place.
“How in the world did you get in?” she asked him. “It's two days now since the Alwa-sahib told us that the whole country is in rebellion. How is it that you managed to reach here? According to Alwa, no white man's life is safe in the open, and he only told me today that he wouldn't let me go away even if I were well enough to ride.”
“First I've heard of rebellion!” said Cunningham aghast at the notion of hearing news like that a second hand, and from a woman.
“Hasn't Alwa told you?”
“He hasn't had time to, yet.”
“Then, you'd better ask him. If what he say is true—and I think he tells the truth—the natives mean to kill us all, or drive us out of India. Of course they can't do it, but they mean to try. He has been more than kind—more than hospitable—more than chivalrous. Just because he gave his word to another Rangar, he risked his life about a dozen times to get my father and me and Ali Partab out of Howrah. But, I don't think he quite liked doing it—and—this is in confidence—if I were asked—and speaking just from intuition—I should say he is in sympathy with the rebellion!”
“How long have you been here?” asked Cunningham.
“Several days—ten, I think. It seemed strange at first and rather awful to be lodged on a rock like this in a section of a Rangar's harem! Yes, there are several women here behind the scenes, but I only see the waiting-women. I've forgotten time; the news about rebellion seems too awful to leave room for any other thought.”
“Who was the Rangar to whom Aliva gave his word? Not Mahommed Gunga, by any chance?”
“Yes, Mahommed Gunga.”
“Well, I'm—!” Cunningham clipped off the participle just in time. “There is something, then, in the talk about rebellion! That man's been talking in riddles to me ever since I came to India, and it looks as though he knew long in advance.”
He was about to cross-examine Miss McClean rigorously, even at the risk of seeming either rude or else frightened; but before his lips could frame another question he caught sight of Mahommed Gunga making signals to him. He affected to ignore the signals. He objected to being kept in the dark so utterly, and wished to find out a little for himself before listening to what the Rangars had to say. But Mahommed Gunga started over to him.
He could not hear the remark Mahommed Gunga made to Alwa over his shoulder as he came.
“Had I remembered there was a woman of his own race here, I would have plunged him straight into the fighting! Now there will be the devil first to pay!”
“He has decision in at least one thing!” grinned Alwa.
“Something that I think thou lackest, cousin!” came the hot retort.
Alwa turned his back with a shake of his head and a thin-lipped smile—then disappeared through a green door in the side of what seemed like solid rock. A moment later Mahommed Gunga stood near Cunningham, saluting.
“We ask the favor of a consultation, sahib.”
Cunningham rose, a shade regretfully, and followed into the rock-walled cavern into which Alwa had preceded them. It was nearly square—a hollow bubble in the age-old lava—axe-trimmed many hundred years ago. What light there was came in through three long slits that gave an archer's view of the plain and of the zigzag roadway from the iron gate below. It was cool, for the rock roof was fifty or more feet thick, and the silence of it seemed like the nestling-place of peace.
They sat down on wooden benches round the walls, with their soldier legs stretched out in front of them. Alwa broke silence first, and it was of anything but peace he spoke.
“Now—now, let us see whose throats we are to slit!” he started cheerfully.
CHAPTER XXIV Achilles had a tender spot That even guarding gods forgot, When clothing him in armor; And I have proved this charge o' mine For fear, and sloth, and vice, and wine, But clear forgot the charmer!
THE Alwa-sahib knew more English than he was willing to admit. In the first place, he had the perfectly natural dislike of committing his thoughts to any language other than his own when anything serious was the subject of discussion; in the second place, he had little of Mahommed Gunga's last-ditch loyalty. Not that Alwa could be disloyal; he had not got it in him; but as yet he had seen no good reason for pledging himself and his to the British cause.
So for more than ten minutes he chose to sit in apparent dudgeon, his hands folded in front of him on the hilt of his tremendous sabre, growling out a monologue in his own language for Mahommed Gunga's benefit. Then Mahommed Gunga silenced him with an uplifted hand, and turned to translate to Cunningham.
“It would seem, sahib, that even while we rode to Abu the rebellion was already raging! It burst suddenly. They have mutinied at Berhampur, and slain their officers. Likewise at Meerut, and at all the places in between. At Kohat, in this province they have slain every white man, woman, and child, and also at Arjpur and Sohlat. The rebels are hurrying to Delhi, where they have proclaimed new rule, under the descendants of the old-time kings. Word of all this came before dawn today, by a messenger from Maharajah Howrah to my cousin here. My cousin stands pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne; Howrah is against the British; Jaimihr, his brother, is in arms against Howrah.”
“Why did the Alwa-sahib pledge himself to Howrah's cause?”
Mahommed Gunga—who knew quite well—saw fit to translate the question. With a little sign of irritation Alwa growled his answer.
“He says, sahib, that for the safety of two Christian missionaries, for whom he has no esteem at all, he was forced to swear allegiance to a Hindoo whom he esteems even less. He says that his word is given!”
“Does he mean that he would like me and the missionaries to leave his home at once—do we embarrass him?”
Again Mahommed Gunga—this time with a grin—saw fit to ask before he answered.
“He says, 'God forbid,' sahib; 'a guest is guest!'”
Cunningham reflected for a moment, then leaned forward.
“Tell him this!” he said slowly. “I am glad to be his guest, but, if this story of rebellion is true—”
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