Gil the Gunner - George Manville Fenn (people reading books .TXT) 📗

The place did not seem so desolate and horrible in the bright morning light; and after we had bathed our faces in water brought for us by our host, who also produced some homely cakes, and the lotah full of clear water for us to drink, I felt refreshed and bright, and so, I thought, did Brace; but the stern, hard look came into his face again as soon as he had recompensed our host and we stood outside the house, seeing above the mist the tops of the trees of the tope where our men lay, and as I saw them standing up apparently so near, I wondered how we could have had so much difficulty in finding our way, and said so.

“No cause for wonder, Gil,” said Brace, quietly. “Once you go astray in the dark or in a mist, every struggle makes you more confused. Why, Gil, lad, I once got out of bed in the dark, and lost myself in my own room.”

I looked at him wonderingly, for his face once more looked pleasant and smiling, but it was dark the moment after, as we crossed the track of the guns, and, trying to make out our past night’s course, started at once for the tope.

“They will think us prisoners or dead, Gil. Let’s get back.”

“And what next?” I said.

He turned and pointed to the deep marks made by our horses and guns, and I had no occasion to ask more.

We both agreed that it was no wonder that we had lost our way in the black darkness of the night, and been wandering about in the most erratic manner, for it was difficult enough to keep in a straight line for the tope where the mist was most dense in the lower ground.

But we reached our temporary shelter at last, were challenged by the sentries, and before we had gone many steps among the trees, the doctor rushed at us, closely followed by Dost.

“My dear Brace!” he cried; “my dear boy!” and he wrung our hands warmly. “I thought—oh, I don’t know what I did not think.”

“Why, doctor,” said Brace, warmly, “I did not think we were of so much consequence to you.”

“Of course not; and I’m a donkey to make so much fuss over you,” said the doctor, changing his manner directly, and speaking in his customary snappish, decisive manner. “But I object to anybody else killing you both. That’s my business. Am I not your surgeon?”

Dost said nothing; but I saw the tears in his eyes as he followed close behind me and took hold of the lapel of my jacket as he whispered softly—

“Oh, sahib!”

“Well,” cried Brace, after a few explanations, “how is the major? how did you get on?”

“Our friend Dost took me safely there, and I stayed with the poor fellow for hours. He is terribly cut about, but far better than I expected, and I believe that those women will nurse him round.”

“Thank God!” said Brace, earnestly; “and I hope we shall be able to give him comfort before long by our news.”

“I hope so,” said the doctor, bluntly. “You are not upset, then, by your night’s experience? You mean to go on?”

“I mean to go on. Yes, doctor, at once. But about you and the major?”

“I am sorry to say that the poor fellow must take his chance now. Dost was of opinion that we could not get in and out again safely, and I did not need to be told. We had a very narrow escape of being made prisoners.”

“But, Lacey, the nursing?”

“He has that, and there is no disease, my dear boy. Those two women will do all that I could. It is only a question of seeing to his bandages, and cleanliness. I could say I’ll go and stay with him; but if I did, the chances are that I should not get there; and if I did, I make the risk of his being murdered ten times greater. On the other hand, you and the lads here will want my help. My duty is with you.”

Dost was consulted, and said warmly that it was impossible to get back into the city, and that two foot regiments and one of cavalry had marched into and occupied the place.

“And their English officers?” said Brace, excitedly.

“Don’t ask me, sahib,” said Dost, sadly. “It is too terrible; the people have gone mad against our masters, and the fire is spreading through the land.”

The peculiarly stern look in Brace’s countenance deepened as my Hindu servant went on.

“If the doctor sahib tried to get into the city again, he would be taken, and the budmashes of the bazaar would murder him. Lacey sahib will be quite safe and get well. We must not go again; it means death.”

“There,” said the doctor, “and I’m too busy to die yet, Brace; but pray go on eating and drinking, my dear boys; you must both be horridly faint. I prescribe food and rest.”

“Right, doctor; we’ll take your first remedy. But there is no rest. We start in an hour or less. We must make a short march before the sun gets too hot.”

“You mean to keep to that mad idea of yours, then, about recapturing the guns?”

“Yes, mad as it is.”

“Better try and join some of our men, where they are holding out, my dear boy. This is going to be a terrible business, and we must all row together and help one another.”

“Yes,” said Brace, “I am going to help; but I must have my guns first, and remount my men.”

Then hastily finishing his rough breakfast, he rose and went off to give orders for an immediate start.

“Vincent, my lad,” said the doctor, “we shall all be cut to pieces, I’m afraid.”

“Our chances look very bad, I’m afraid,” I replied.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” cried the doctor. “You are not afraid of anything. I said I was, but I’m not a fighting man. We’re in for it, and are going to do our duty. My great trouble is about poor Craig. That man’s a gentleman.”

“Hist!” came from close by among the trees.

“Eh? who was that?”

“Only me, doctor—Craig.”

“Bah! I had forgotten him. You heard?”

“Yes, sir,” said the wounded sergeant faintly, as we went to his side, and he smiled up at me. “I heard you blacking my character behind my back. Never mind about the past. What about Sergeant Craig?”

“Well, what about him, sir? He’s going to get better.”

“Afraid not, doctor. I heard the captain say that we march directly. I couldn’t even ride if I had a horse. Hadn’t you better put me out of my misery at once?”

“If you talk nonsense like that to me, sir,” cried the doctor, “I’ll give you the nastiest dose you ever had in your life.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Of course not; but there are plenty of good men and true to carry you, so hold your tongue, and get better as fast as you can.”

“But—”

“Silence, sir! or I’ll put a bandage on your mouth, as well as on your arm.”

Poor Craig smiled at me, and closed his eyes.

Half an hour after our men were found all refreshed and rested, and looking ready to do any deed of valour, or follow their leader to the death. The order was given, and in the lightest of light marching-order, save that there was the litter to carry, on which poor Craig had been laid, when one of the sentries still on guard, but with orders to fall in on the rear when we marched, reported the approach of a party of the people of the city.

Brace ordered the men to lie down while he focussed his glass, and examined the men from the edge of the tope, afterwards handing the glass to me as I watched the white-clothed party about a quarter of a mile away, evidently making straight for the wood.

“What do you make of them, Gil?”

“Sepoys,” I said; “nine of them, all with muskets and bayonets, evidently coming to occupy this place.”

“Yes,” he said; “we must repulse them. Gil, this is a godsend. I want every man I have to fight. These are scoundrels from one of the revolted regiments.”

“And this is to be a bit of practice for our men?”

“No, boy; we can trap the dogs without fighting. Can’t you see what I want?”

“No.”

“Bearers for poor Craig’s dhooly. Here they are—two sets; one for relief.”

I uttered a cry of delight, and then after making sure by which track the sepoys would come up to the tope, a dozen men were placed in ambush with orders not to move till the native soldiers had passed them, and then to cut off their retreat when they found enemies in front.

The arrangements were cleverly made, our men lying down among the bushes; and, in perfect ignorance of the reception awaiting them, the sepoys came on with their muskets shouldered; and in a careless, easy-going way, as they came on talking loudly, they drew and fixed bayonets.

“They think some poor creatures have taken refuge here,” whispered Brace. “The bloodhounds!”

I lay there with my sword drawn, and the knot tight about my wrist, my heart beating, and a curious sensation of dread troubling me, for I was going to face armed men for the first time in my life.

But I had no time for thinking; the sepoys were close at hand, and as they reached the edge of the tope, one, who seemed to be their leader, gave the order, and the men lowered their bayonets, and were about to open out to search the tope, when Brace sprang up right in their way.

What followed did not take a minute. The first movement of the mutineers was to turn and flee, but their leader yelled at them savagely, and dashed at us with his levelled bayonet, when a shot from Brace’s pistol rang out, and the man threw up his piece, bent back, fell, and clutched at the broken twigs upon which he had fallen, while, uttering a fierce yell of rage, the others came on.

But Brace was equal to the occasion. He shouted an order to our lads, and then one in Hindustani to the sepoys, who, on seeing a party of our men spring up behind us, stopped short, and then turned to flee, but only to find themselves face to face with the dozen men