Told in the East by Talbot Mundy (ebook reader macos txt) 📗
- Author: Talbot Mundy
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“Of a truth, sahib, I believe that you are right. There can only be one end. This night is not more black, this horizon is no shorter, than the outlook!”
“Then, you mean—”
“I mean, sahib, that this uprising is more serious than you—or any other Englishman—is likely to believe. I believe that the side I fight for will be the losing side.”
“And yet, you stay loyal?”
“Why not?”
“All the same, Juggut Khan—I'm not emotional, or a man of many words. I don't trust Indians as a rule! I—but—here—will you shake hands?”
“Certainly, sahib!” said the Rajput. “We be two men, you and I! Why should the one be loyal and the other not?”
“When this is over,” said Brown, “if it ends the way we want, and we're both alive, I'd like to call myself your friend!”
“I have always been your friend, sahib, and you mine, since the day when you bandaged up a boy and gave him your own drinking-water and carried him in to Bholat on your shoulder, twenty miles or more.”
“Oh, as for that—any other man would have done the same thing. That was nothing!”
“Strange that when a white man does an honorable deed he lies about it!” said Juggut Khan. “That was not nothing, sahib, and you know it was not nothing! You know that from the heat and the exertion you were ill for more than a month afterward. And you know that there were others there, of my own people, who might have done what you did, and did not!”
“But, hang it all! Why drag up a little thing like this?”
“Because, sahib, I might have no other opportunity, and—”
“Well? And what?”
“And the Rajput boy whom you carried was my son!”
III.
The finding of a remount for Juggut Khan was not so troublesome as might have been supposed. The rumors and plans and whispered orders for the coming struggle had been passed around the countryside for months past, and every man who owned a horse had it stalled safely near him, for use when the hour should come.
There were country-ponies and Arabs and Kathiawaris and Khaubulis among which to pick, and though the average run of them was worse than merely bad, and though both best and worst were hidden away whenever possible, good horses were discoverable. Within an hour, Bill Brown; with the aid of his men, had routed out a Khaubuji stallion for Juggut Khan, one fit to carry him against time the whole of the way to Bholat.
The Rajput mounted him where Brown unearthed him, and watched the signing of a scribbled-out receipt with a cynical smile.
“If he comes to claim his money for the horse,” said Juggut Khan, “I—even I, who am penniless—will pay him. Good-by, Brown sahib!” He leaned over and grasped the sergeant by the hand. “Take my advice, now. I know what is happening and what has happened. Fall back on Bholat at once. Hurry! Seize horses or even asses for your men, and ride in hotfoot. Salaam!”
He drove his right spur in, wheeled the horse and started across country in the direction of Bholat at a hand-gallop, guiding himself solely by the soldier's sixth sense of direction, and leaving the problem of possible pitfalls to the horse.
“If what he says is true,” said Brown, as the clattering hoof-beats died away, “and I'm game to take my oath he wouldn't lie to me, I'd give more than a little to have him with me for the next few hours!”
The men came clustering round him now, anxious for an explanation. They had held their tongues while Juggut Khan was there, because they happened to know Brown too well to do otherwise. He would have snubbed any man who dared to question him before the Indian. But, now that the Indian was gone, curiosity could stay no longer within bounds.
“What is it, Sergeant? Anything been happening? What's the news? What's that I heard him say about rebellion? They're a rum lot, them Rajputs. D'you think he's square? Tell us, Sergeant!”
“Listen, then. Rebellion has broken out. The native barracks at Jailpore have been burned, and all the English officers are killed—or so says Juggut Khan. He's riding on, to carry the news to General Baines. He says that the mutineers are planning to come along this way some time within the next few hours!”
“What are we going to do, then?”
“That's my business! I'm in command here!”
“Yes, but, Sergeant—aren't you going back to Bholat? Aren't you going to follow him? Are you going to stay here and get cut up? We'll get caught here like rats in a trap!”
“Are you giving orders here?” asked Brown acidly. “Fall in! Come on, now! Hurry! 'Tshun—eyes right—ri'—dress. Eyes—front. Ri'—turn. By the left—quick—march! Silence, now! Left! Left! Left!”
He marched them back toward the crossroads without giving them any further opportunity to remonstrate or ask for information.
It was not until he reached the crossroads, without being challenged, that he showed any sign of being in any way disturbed.
“Sentry!” he shouted. “Sentry!”
But there was no answer.
“Halt!” he ordered, and he himself went forward to investigate. The blackness swallowed him, but the men could hear him move, and they heard him fall. They heard him muttering, too, within ten paces of them. Then they heard his order.
“Bring a light here, some one.”
One man produced a piece of candle, struck a match and lit it. A moment later they had all broken order, and were standing huddled up together like a frightened flock of sheep, peering through dancing, candle-lit shadows at something horrible that Brown was handling.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“What in hell's happened?”
“Who was that swearing?” inquired Brown, with a sudden look up across his shoulder. “You, Taylor? You again? Swearing in the presence of death? Talking of hell, with your two comrades lying dead at the crossroads, and you like to follow both o' them at any minute?”
Both of the guards lay dead. They lay quite neatly, side by side, without a sign about them to show that they had met with violence. Brown rolled one body over, though, and then the cause of death became more obvious. A stream of blood welled out of the man's back, from between the shoulder-blades—warm blood,
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