Rung Ho! A Novel by Talbot Mundy (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📗

“It is true, sahib! More than true! There is much more to be told!”

“Then, I can only accept his hospitality as the representative of my government! I stay here officially, or not at all. It is for him to answer!”

“Now, Allah be praised!” swore Mahommed Gunga. “I knew we had a man! That is well said, sahib!”

“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.”

“Horsed and armed?”

“And ready!”

“And you, Alwa-sahib—are you pledged to fight against the British?”

“Not in so many words. I swore to uphold Howrah on his throne. He is against the British.”

“You swore to help smash his brother, Jaimihr?”

“If I were needed.”

“And Jaimihr too is against the British?”

“Jaimihr is for Jaimihr, and has a personal affair with me!”

“I must think,” said Cunningham, getting up. “I can think better alone. D'you mind if I go outside for a while, and come back later to tell you what I think?”

Alwa arose and held the door open for him—stood and watched him cross the courtyard—then turned and laughed at Mahommed Gunga.

“Straight over to the woman!” he grinned. “This leader of thine seems in leading-strings himself already!”

Mahommed Gunga cursed, and cursed again as his own eyes confirmed what Alwa said.

“I tried him all the ways there are, except that one way!” he declared. “May Allah forgive my oversight! I should have got him well entangled with a woman before he reached Peshawur! He should have been heart-broken by this time—rightly, he should have been desperate with unrequited love! Byng-bahadur could have managed it! Byng-bahadur would have managed it, had I thought to advise him!”

He stood, looking over very gloomily at Cunningham, making a dozen wild plans for getting rid of Miss McClean—by no means forgetting poison—and the height of Alwa's aerie from the plain below! He would have been considerably calmer, could he have heard what Cunningham and Miss McClean were saying.

The missionary was with her now—ill and exhausted from the combined effects of excitement, horror, and the unaccustomed ride across the desert—most anxious for his daughter—worried, to the verge of desperation, by the ghastly news of the rebellion.

“Mr. Cunningham, I hope you are the forerunner of a British force?” he hazarded.

But Cunningham was too intent on cross-examination to waste time on giving any information.

“I want you to tell me, quite quietly and without hurry, all you can about Howrah,” he said, sitting close to Miss McClean. “I want you to understand that I am the sole representative of my government in the whole district, and that whatever can be done depends very largely on what information I can get. I have been talking to the Alwa-sahib, but he seems too obsessed with his own predicament to be able to make things quite clear. Now, go ahead and tell me what you know about conditions in the city. Remember, you are under orders! Try and consider yourself a scout, reporting information to your officer. Tell me every single thing, however unimportant.”

On the far side of the courtyard Alwa and Mahommed Gunga had gone to lean over the parapet and watch something that seemed to interest both of them intently. There were twenty or more men, lined round the ramparts on the lookout, and they all too seemed spellbound, but Cunningham was too engrossed in Miss McClean's story of the happenings in Howrah City to take notice. Now and then her father would help her out with an interjected comment; occasionally Cunningham would stop her with a question, or would ask her to repeat some item; but, for more than an hour she spun a clear-strung narrative that left very little to imagination and included practically all there was to know.

“Do you think,” asked Cunningham “that this brute Jaimihr really wants to make you Maharanee?”

“I couldn't say,” she shuddered. “You know, there have been several instances of European women having practically sold themselves to native princes; there have been stories—I have heard them—of English women marrying Rajahs, and regretting it. There is no reason why he should not be in earnest, and he certainly seemed to be.”

“And this treasure? Of course, I have heard tales about it, but I thought they were just tales.”

“That treasure is really there, and its amount must be fabulous. I have been told that there are jewels there which would bring a Rajah's ransom, and gold enough to offset the taxes of the whole of India for a year or two. I've no doubt the stories are exaggerated, but the treasure is real enough, and big enough to make the throne worth fighting for. Jaimihr counts on being able to break the power of the priests and broach the treasure.”