“FOR THINE AND THEE.”
About a year after Colonel Keeling’s marriage, there came a time
when troubles crowded thick and fast upon the Alibad colony. An
earthquake did terrible damage to the great irrigation-works, which
were fast approaching completion; and when this was followed by
unusually heavy winter rains, the result was a disastrous inundation.
It was a new thing for Khemistan, and especially its northern portion,
to be afflicted with too much rain instead of too little; but the
change seemed to have the effect of making the climate even more
unhealthy than usual. The European officers who rode from village to
village distributing medicines and food, and encouraging the people to
rebuild their houses and cultivate their spoilt fields afresh, fell
ill one after the other; and there was almost as much sickness among
the troopers of the Khemistan Horse, most of whom came from another
part of India, and found the salt desert a land of exile. The alarm
caused by the Nalapuri invasion had at last drawn the attention of the
Government to Colonel Keeling’s reiterated requests for a larger
force; and he had been allowed to raise a second regiment, which he
was moulding vigorously into shape when the troubles began. It was
these new men and their unacclimatised officers who went down so
quickly, and must needs be invalided to the coast; and the Commandant
found himself left with little more than his original force and
European staff when the news came that Gobind Chand was threatening
the frontier anew. From Gobind Chand’s point of view the move was a
timely one, if not the only one possible to him, for the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal, at the head of the young Amir’s troops, was
shouldering him mercilessly out of Nalapur, quite content to leave to
Colonel Keeling the task of dealing with him finally. By dint of
avoiding a pitched battle, and presenting a resolute front to his
pursuers, the ex-Vizier had contrived to keep his force almost intact,
and a golden opportunity seemed to be presenting itself for dealing a
blow at one of his chief enemies while he was already in difficulties.
So black was the outlook that Colonel Keeling thought it would be well
to send the ladies down as far as the river, at any rate; but they
rebelled, pointing out that such a step would cause the natives to
despair of the British cause. Lady Haigh flatly refused to go;
Penelope said she would go if her husband wished it, but entreated so
piteously to be allowed to stay that he, dreading the journey for her,
and little able to spare an escort, consented on the condition that
she left off visiting the native town to take help to the sufferers
there. After all, it was Lady Haigh who was seized with fever and had
to be nursed by Penelope, and she was scarcely convalescent when the
two husbands were obliged to leave Alibad once more under the
protection of the ever-useful Fencibles, and march to the north-east
to repel Gobind Chand. The old Hindu had developed a remarkable power
of generalship at this stage in his career. He refused steadily to
come out on the plains, or even to show his full strength in the
hills. His plan was to lead the small British force a weary dance
through broken country, eluding capture when it seemed inevitable that
he must be caught, and watching for an opportunity of surprising the
weary and dispirited troops.
But it was such an emergency as this that brought out the strongest
points in Colonel Keeling’s character. To find in the ex-Vizier a
foeman worthy of his steel sent his spirits up with a rush; and, as he
had no intention of playing into Gobind Chand’s hands, a very short
experience determined him to strike out tactics of his own. Somehow or
other it became known in the British camp that Colonel Keeling felt
considerable anxiety as to the good faith of Nalapur, now that he was
so far from Alibad. What could be easier than for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal
to swoop down on the practically defenceless town and level it with
the ground? Hence it was very natural that the Commandant should
divide his force, sending back the larger portion, under Major Porter,
for the defence of the town, and retaining only one gun and a small
number of troops for the pursuit of Gobind Chand. Whether Colonel
Keeling had exercised his reputed powers, and actually detected spies
among his camp-followers, or was merely making a bold guess, certain
it is that two or three individuals who had attached themselves to the
British force in order to assure the Commandant that the number of
Gobind Chand’s adherents had been grossly exaggerated, contrived to
become separated from it in the darkness, and by inadvertence, no
doubt, to fall in with the enemy’s scouts, and relate what Kīlin
Sahib was doing. Therefore, as Porter marched away with his force, and
the dust of their passage was seen vanishing in the direction of
Alibad, Gobind Chand was able to concentrate his men round the hollow
in which the British camp lay. Incautious as Colonel Keeling might
have been, he was not the man to be taken by surprise, and he broke
camp in some haste, and effected a safe retreat. But this retreat was
in itself an encouragement to the enemy--especially since the British
force did not make for the plains, but seemed fated to wander farther
into the hills--and Gobind Chand followed close upon its heels. At
evening things looked very black for Colonel Keeling. He and his small
body of men were holding a low hill which was commanded on all sides
by higher hills. The valley surrounding it had only one opening, that
to the north, by which he had entered, and across which Gobind Chand
was now encamped, and it seemed quite clear that he had been caught in
a _cul-de-sac_. He was clearly determined to fight to the last,
however, for his men kept up a perfect pandemonium of noise at
intervals all night. They fired volleys at imaginary enemies,
performed trumpet fantasias at unseemly hours, and dragged their
solitary gun, with much difficulty and noise, from place to place on
the crest of the hill, apparently to find out where it would be of
most service. In the morning Colonel Keeling looked at Sir Dugald and
laughed.
“It’s Gobind Chand or me to-day,” he said. “If he doesn’t advance into
the valley in half an hour, we are done.”
Before the specified time had elapsed, however, the vanguard of Gobind
Chand’s force was pouring into the valley, the besieged keeping their
gun for use later. Taking advantage of the cover afforded by the rocks
with which the valley was strewn, the enemy, cautious in spite of
their superiority of numbers, settled down to “snipe” at the hill-top.
Colonel Keeling was radiant, and his men needed nothing to complete
their happiness when they heard him muttering concerning “stainless
Tunstall’s banner white,” “priests slain on the altar-stone,”
“Fontarabian echoes,” and other things outside their ken. Suddenly, as
he was making the round of the hill-top, and pushing his men down into
cover, for the twentieth time, he found himself confronted by one of
his own _chaprasis_ from Alibad, who, with a respectfully immobile
face, held forth a letter. The Commandant turned it over as if he was
afraid to open it.
“How did you get here, Rahim Khan?” he asked.
“By a rope from the top of the cliff, sahib.”
“Fool! could the enemy see you?”
“Nay, sahib; I was hidden by this hill as I crossed the valley.”
No further reason for delay offering itself, Colonel Keeling turned
his back upon the man and opened the letter. As he drew out the
enclosure his hands shook and his dark face was white. As if by main
force he unfolded the paper and held it before his eyes, which refused
at first to convey any meaning to his mind:--
“Alibad. 1 A.M.
“Daughter born shortly before midnight; fine healthy child. Mrs
Keeling doing well.
“J. Tarleton.”
An exclamation of thankfulness broke from the Commandant, and he
brushed something from his eyes before turning again to the
_chaprasi_.
“There will be a hundred rupees for you when I return, Rahim Khan. You
had no message but this?”
“One that the Memsahib’s ayah brought me, from her mistress’s own
lips, sahib. It was this: Say to the Sahib, ‘Is it well with thee, as
it is well with me?’”
“Then say this to the ayah: Tell the Memsahib, ‘It is well with me,
since it is well with thee.’ Stay,” he wrote hastily on the back of
the doctor’s note two or three lines from what Penelope always told
him was the only one of Tennyson’s poems he could appreciate:--
“‘Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands.’
...
‘Like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.’”
“If you deliver that safely, it will mean another hundred rupees,” he
said, giving the note to the _chaprasi_ with a smile. “You had better
be off at once. It will be pretty hot here presently.”
The man still lingered. “Is there going to be a battle, sahib?” he
asked.
“Doesn’t it look like it?” Bullets were flying round Colonel Keeling
as he spoke, and he laughed again.
“You are certain you are just going into battle, sahib?”
“Certain; but I am not asking you to go into it with me. Get out of
the way of the bullets as fast as you like.”
Rahim Khan retired, but with dragging steps, and made his way slowly
to Sir Dugald, who was in charge of the gun. To him he gave a second
note, which he took from his turban. Sir Dugald tore it open, and for
the moment his heart stood still, for he thought it referred to his
own wife; but on turning it over he saw that it also was addressed to
Colonel Keeling.
“2 A.M.
“Symptoms less satisfactory. If you could ride over, it might be as
well. I don’t say it is necessary, but it would please Mrs Keeling.
J. Tarleton.”
“How dare you give me this, when it is meant for the Colonel Sahib?”
demanded Sir Dugald.
“I must have given the wrong _chit_, sahib,” and a third note was
produced, this time addressed unmistakably to Sir Dugald.
“Dear Haigh,--I am not at all satisfied about Mrs Keeling, and she
knows it, but is most anxious that her husband’s mind should not be
disturbed. I have had to give her my word of honour that if a battle
is imminent he shall hear nothing until it is quite over, and the only
way of managing this that I can see is to ask you to take charge of
the second chit I have given Reheem Khaun, and hand it to Keeling at
the proper time. Lady Haigh has been my right hand, and has stood the
strain well. She is now resting for an hour or two.
J. Tarleton.”
“If the Karnal (Colonel) Sahib found that the dust of his feet had
hidden the _chit_ from him, he would be very angry,” murmured the
apologetic voice of Rahim Khan, “but seeing it is Haigh Sahib who does
it, his wrath will be appeased.”
“I see. You want to shift the responsibility from your shoulders to
mine. Well, be off!” said Sir Dugald, with an uneasy laugh. He could
scarcely meet Colonel Keeling’s eye when he hurried down to him a
minute or two later, brimful of his good news, and anxious to be
assured that Lady Haigh also was going on well; and he was grateful to
Gobind Chand for choosing this juncture to launch a detachment of his
men at the steepest, and therefore least defended, side of the hill.
“Now is our time!” cried Colonel Keeling, hurrying away. “You can fire
the signal-shot, Haigh.”
The gun boomed forth, and the shot fell in the very opening of the
valley, causing the rest of Gobind Chand’s men to rush forward, in the
belief that they would be safer within the range of fire than at its
limit, an idea which seemed to be justified by the fact that Sir
Dugald left the gun as it was, instead of depressing the muzzle to
cover the enemy actually in the valley. But as the besiegers, much
encouraged, rushed forward with shouts to scale the hill, there came a
sharp rattle of musketry from the cliffs which commanded it on both
sides. The dark uniform of the Khemistan Horse showed itself against
the grey and yellow of the rocks, and Porter on one side and Harris on
the other became clearly visible as they ran along the ranks pushing
down the muzzles of the carbines, and adjuring the men to fire low for
fear of hitting the Colonel’s party. Then also the defenders of the
hill, who had been lying hidden among the rocks, started up and poured
their fire into the disorderly ranks of the besiegers, so that only
one or two daring spirits survived to reach the summit and provoke a
hand-to-hand fight with tulwars. Outwitted, and conscious that they,
and not their opponents, were in a trap, Gobind Chand’s force
remembered only that there was still a way of escape; and the wave
which had surged three times halfway up the hill retreated sullenly,
then broke in wild confusion, and rushed for the opening of the
valley. But Sir Dugald was ready for them. His gun dropped shot after
shot in the narrowest part of the passage, until a barrier of dead and
dying barred those behind from attempting the deadly rush, and when
the boldest had been able to persuade their more timid comrades, who
stood huddled in a terrified mass, to make one last united effort to
burst through, they found themselves confronted by a force composed of
every alternate man of Porter and Harris’s commands. The heights were
still occupied, the defenders of the hill had deployed and were
advancing on them from behind, in front were stern faces and levelled
carbines. There were no Ghazis with Gobind Chand, and the bulk of his
followers were not particularly heroic by nature. They knew that their
leader was wounded, and they threw down their arms and yelled for
quarter. A narrow pathway was cleared beside the ghastly heap in the
entrance of the valley, and they were made to step out man by man, and
carefully searched, for notwithstanding their losses, they were still
more than thrice as numerous as Colonel Keeling’s force. There was no
question of letting them go, for this would have meant for them either
a slow death by hunger or a swift one at the hands of the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal; they were to be planted out, under strict
supervision, in small colonies in different parts of Upper Khemistan,
and they rather welcomed the prospect than otherwise.
It was long before the prisoners were all disarmed, their spoil
collected, a meal provided for them, and the different bands set on
the march, duly guarded, for their various destinations; and not until
then did Sir Dugald venture to give Colonel Keeling the letter which
was burning in his pocket. He saw the sudden fury in the Commandant’s
eyes as he realised the truth, and braced himself to meet it.
“You--you dared to keep this from me all these hours?”
“It was her wish. She made Tarleton promise.”
Colonel Keeling turned and shouted for his horse. “I will never
forgive you if anything goes wrong!” He flung the words at Sir Dugald
as he mounted, then clattered furiously down the rocky track, followed
by his orderlies. One of them fell from his saddle exhausted before
half the distance was covered, the horse of the other broke down when
Alibad was barely in sight; but about sunset a desperate man rode a
black horse white with foam at breakneck speed through the streets,
and reined up precipitately in the compound of Government House. The
servants, gathered in whispering groups, fell away from him as he
sprang up the steps, but the old _khansaman_ ventured to speak as he
saw his master pause to unbuckle the sword which clanked behind him.
“It is not necessary, sahib,” he murmured humbly; but Colonel Keeling
looked straight through him, laid the sword noiselessly on a chair,
and went on, to be met by Dr Tarleton, who caught him by the arm.
“Keeling, wait! There were bad symptoms, you know----”
His friend brushed him aside as if he had been a feather, stepped past
the weeping ayah, who threw herself on her knees before him and tried
to sob out something, swept back the curtain from the doorway and
crossed the room at a stride, then fell as one dead beside the dead
form of his wife, in whose hand was still clenched the note he had
scribbled on the battlefield.
There he remained for hours, his arms outstretched across the bed, no
one venturing to disturb him, until Lady Haigh, her eyes bright with
fever, tottered into the room, and laid a hot hand on his shoulder.
“Come!” she said. “Colonel Keeling, you must. She would have wished
it. You must change your clothes and have something to eat, and then
you must see the baby--Penelope’s baby.”
She could hardly bring her trembling lips to utter the name, but it
disarmed the angry protest she had read in his face. The child which
had cost Penelope’s life! how could he regard it with anything but
aversion? but how she had loved to think of it, planned for it, worked
for it! He turned to Lady Haigh.
“I will see the--the child at once, if you please, that you may feel
more at ease. Then Tarleton must take you in hand. Haigh must not be
left alone, as I am.”
The ayah stood in the doorway, with a curiously wrapped-up bundle in
her arms. Lady Haigh took it from her, and started in surprise, for on
the child’s forehead was a large black smudge, something in the shape
of a cross.
“Who did this?” she asked sharply. “Please take her, Colonel Keeling.
My arms are so weak.”
“My Memsahib did it herself,” whimpered the ayah sullenly, with a
frightened glance towards the bed.
“Nonsense, Dulya! Make her say what it is,” she appealed to Colonel
Keeling.
“Speak!” he said, in the tone which no native ever disobeyed.
“It was shortly before the--the end, sahib, and Haigh Sahib’s Mem had
swooned, so that the Doctor Sahib was busy with her, and my Memsahib,
who had the _baba_ lying beside her, asked me for water. Then I
brought it, and she made that mark which the Sahib sees, on the
_baba’s_ forehead, and uttered a spell in the language of the Sahibs,
saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ very loud. Then I saw that she was making a
charm to avert the evil eye from the _baba_, but that her soul was
even then departing, so that she used water instead of something that
could be seen. Therefore, when she was dead, I made the mark afresh
with lamp-black, saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ as my Memsahib had done,
that her wish might be fulfilled. But the English words I knew not.
Perhaps the Sahib can say them?” she added anxiously.
“What can it mean?” asked Lady Haigh, who had dropped into a chair.
“She was baptising her,” said Colonel Keeling simply. “Poor little
Georgia--Penelope’s baby!”
“Surely she must have meant Georgiana or Georgina?” suggested Lady
Haigh, delighted to see him interested in the child.
“No, it was a fancy of hers, she told me so once. She wanted to name
it after me, but she didn’t wish people to think my name was George.”
He spoke with a laugh which was more like a sob.
“I know. She had a dislike to the name.” Lady Haigh knew well why this
was. “She would never even call you St George, I noticed.”
He bent over the child to hide the working of his face, and kissed its
forehead. “It’s not even like her,” he said, as he gave it back to
Lady Haigh.
“No; she was so pleased it was like you. Colonel Keeling, don’t steel
your heart against the poor little thing! Think how Penelope loved it.
I know she hoped it would comfort you.”
“Nothing can comfort me,” he answered; then added quickly, “Lady
Haigh, do me one more kindness. Keep the servants, Tarleton, every
one--away from me to-night. They will want to take her away from me in
the morning, I know. I must stay beside her to-night.”
The strong man’s humble entreaty touched Lady Haigh inexpressibly. She
offered no further remonstrance, but signed to the ayah to depart, and
drawing the curtain behind her, left him alone with his dead. She gave
the servants their orders, which they obeyed thankfully enough,
induced even Dr Tarleton to retire, sorely against his will, to his
own quarters, and crept wearily into her _palki_ to go home. She had
risen from her sick-bed to return to the house of mourning, drawn
thither by a horrified whisper from her own ayah to the effect that
“the Karnal Sahib had fallen dead on beholding the body of the
Memsahib,” and she knew that she would pay dearly for the imprudence.
But unutterable pity for the desolate man and the motherless child
quenched all thought of self.
Silence reigned throughout the great house, whence the servants had
departed to their quarters. Even the watchman had been forbidden to
occupy his accustomed post on the verandah, and in the absence of the
regiment and the general disorganisation, no one had thought of
posting any sentries about the compound. The sounds in the town died
out by degrees, until only the occasional distant howl of a jackal
broke the stillness. Colonel Keeling did not hear it, any more than he
did a stealthy footfall which crossed the compound. The old
_khansaman_, crouching, contrary to orders, in a corner of the side
verandah, heard the step, and covered his head in an agony of terror.
Was not the Sahib seeking to recall the Memsahib’s soul to her body?
and was it not returning? But Colonel Keeling heard nothing, until the
curtain was drawn aside by a hasty hand, and a man stood in the
doorway looking at him, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
For a moment both men gazed at each other, then a change passed over
Colonel Keeling’s face which was terrible to see. Deliberately he drew
the sheet over his wife’s face, then crossed the room and hurled
himself upon the intruder.
“You--you!” he snarled, forcing him back into the hall. “Was there no
grave in Gamara deep enough to hide your shame that you must bring it
back here?”
The other man struggled in his grasp a moment, then, realising that
his adversary was endowed with a mad strength before which his efforts
were like those of a child, submitted to be forced down upon the
floor. Colonel Keeling stooped over him with murder in his eyes.
“What have you to say before I kill you as you deserve--traitor,
renegade, _Judas_?” he hissed.
“Nothing--except to thank you for saving me the job,” was the reply,
spoken with difficulty, for a hand was on the prostrate man’s throat.
The grip was loosed, and Colonel Keeling rose to his feet and stood
glaring at him, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re right. The job is not one I care for. You can go, and relieve
the earth of your presence yourself.”
“Don’t be afraid. Life is not so delightful as to make me cling to it.
Yes; I’m down. Kick me again if you like.”
“Go, while I can keep my hands off you, will you?”
“Tell me where to find Colin Ross, and I will. He’s not at his old
quarters, and I don’t think he would turn his back--even on me.”
“You miserable hypocrite! At his old quarters? when you stood by to
see him martyred in the palace square at Gamara! Don’t try to throw
dust in my eyes. I know the whole story.”
But the man sat up with a look of genuine horror. “On my honour,
Keeling--good God! what can I swear by to make you believe me?--I know
nothing of this. Tell me what you mean. When did it happen?”
“Less than a year after you disappeared. Colin went to find
you--rescue you----” In spite of himself, Colonel Keeling was moved by
the terror on the man’s face. “He was denounced by your friend Mirza
Fazl-ul-Hacq, imprisoned and tortured, then beheaded because he would
not turn Mussulman and enter the Khan’s army. You were present, in
command of the troops. You saw it all.”
“That was not Colin. That was Whybrow. Now I know what you mean.”
“Whybrow--whom you went to save?”
“And did not. Yes. But where is Colin?” he broke out fiercely. “You
say he arrived at Gamara, was imprisoned--you know this? It is not
merely a rumour of Whybrow’s fate? Then he must be there now--in the
dungeon where I saw Whybrow----” his voice fell.
“No, no, he could not have lived so long--if all they say is true.”
“How do you know what a man can bear and live? You despise me, and
abuse me, but you have never had the choice given you between Islam
and being eaten alive by rats in an infernal hole underground. That is
where Colin is--and that’s what Fazl-ul-Hacq meant when he was dying.
There was some order he wished to give, and did not want me to hear,
but he couldn’t get it out--curse him! If Colin had died or been
killed, I should have heard of it. And that is where I shall be if I
can live to get back there.”
“You mean to save him?” Colonel Keeling’s voice had taken a different
tone.
“There is no saving any one from the dungeons of Gamara. But I can die
with him. Was there no one”--with sudden fierceness--“who had common
humanity enough to put that fellow in irons, or send him home as a
lunatic, instead of letting him come after me? He was bound to be a
martyr, but to let him rush upon his death in that--that way!”
He stopped in shuddering disgust, then laughed wildly.
“And how has the world gone with you, Keeling? Got your promotion, I
see, but not exempt from trouble any more than the rest of us! But
what mild, milk-and-water, bread-and-butter lives you lead down here!
You should come to Gamara to see what primitive human passions are
like.”
“Will you go?” asked Colonel Keeling, putting a strong constraint upon
himself.
“You might let me have a word or two with the only Englishman I shall
see till Colin and I meet among the rats in the well! Any messages for
Colin? I suppose Penelope has forgotten us both long ago?”
“If you mention her name again I will kill you.” Colonel Keeling’s
grip was on his throat once more. “She is lying there dead--dead, do
you hear? and all the trouble in her life was due to you. Go!” and he
released him with a thrust which sent him reeling against one of the
pillars of the hall. But the shock seemed to have calmed him.
“Dead--just now? She married you, then? I found all the place
deserted--I didn’t know. Sometimes I think my mind is going. If you
knew what my life has been in that hell----! Forgive me, Keeling. I am
going. Wish me good luck!”
“God help you!” said Colonel Keeling fervently.