A CONTEST OF WITS.
/Public/ opinion at Sahar was divided on the subject of Sir Henry
Lennox. To the elegant he was a disreputable old figure of fun,
certain to bring irreparable disgrace upon British arms if he was so
foolish as to provoke a conflict with the Khans. Kinder-hearted people
referred hopefully to his Peninsular record, while admitting
mournfully that the Peninsula was a very long time back. Civilians
declared him a bloodthirsty soldier, out for loot; soldiers lamented
audibly that a fellow who had not the faintest notion of military
discipline or etiquette should have been shoved into a position where
the absence of these might, and almost certainly would, do untold
harm. The sepoys regarded him with distant respect, not unmixed with
dread, since the tempests of wrath they heard clattering on the heads
of their superiors might at any moment fall on their own. The British
private developed an unaccountable taste for turning out when the
General went by--because he had never seen a General looking like a
scarecrow before, said his officers bitterly--and greeting him with
broad smiles which impaired distressingly the martial woodenness of
the regulation salute. And the General pandered to this unmilitary
behaviour, stopping to talk to individual privates in a human--not to
say friendly--fashion, and actually invading the barrack-rooms when
these were not prepared for inspection. He might say that in this way
he found out that things were not as they should be: of course he did,
the officers retorted indignantly; what did he expect? He would have
found nothing wrong if he would only come at proper times.
But little by little an uneasy feeling was gripping the hearts of the
placid oligarchy which had ruled the Sahar Cantonments hitherto. The
old joker meant business; it was not all fuss and bluster when he
called together the officers of a regiment and addressed them in
language that lacked nothing in strength, if much in polish.
Responsibility was his text; he was mad on responsibility:
responsibility towards the men--that, at any rate, was universally
admitted in theory; towards other branches of the Service--even, if it
could be believed, towards the native regiments; and most incredible
of all, responsibility towards the “black” population. And it was not
possible to listen politely to his views and ignore them as an amiable
eccentricity, for he went so far as to promulgate them in General
Orders, and enforce them by penalty. Moreover, the orders were drawn
up so clearly that any one could understand them, and in such
improperly sarcastic language that it was plain the grinning privates
who heard and read them regarded them as an entertainment freely
provided for their delectation. The Army was certainly going to the
dogs, and that part of it which was quartered at Sahar would arrive
first, thanks to the Governor-General for sending this doddering old
lunatic to vex it. It was not Sir Harry’s age that was the chief count
against him--for in those days the nearer a man was to seventy, the
greater seemed his chances of high command--but his eccentricity. He
had somehow managed to pass through the Army mould without taking its
impression, and as a result, he spoke a language strange to Army men.
It was some consolation to the few Politicals left at Sahar that the
General was evidently as great a puzzle to the native rulers as to his
own subordinates. All his movements were watched and reported by a
horde of spies, and his utterances, which were numerous, often
lengthy, and frequently quite inconsistent with one another, noted
down with care and pains by hearers who only understood half of what
they heard, and by them translated into Persian for transmission to
the Khans. Of more value, perhaps, was the ocular demonstration of the
condition of his troops, whom he was training hard. The “trotting
about over the hills,” which he had promised himself to give the
Khans’ messengers in company with two or three thousand men of his
force, impressed them deeply, though the impression wore off a little
when it came out that the General had remarked artlessly that this and
the many similar field-days that followed it were intended to train
himself as much as his men.
These field-days were a continual delight to Eveleen. The Great Duke
had set the example of allowing ladies to ride with the staff on such
occasions, and take station at the saluting-point--judiciously to the
rear, of course--and Sir Harry would have regarded it as blasphemy to
seek to improve upon his master’s methods. He was careful to detail an
aide-de-camp to keep Mrs Ambrose from getting into danger or
obstructing the manœuvres, but those two conditions satisfied, she
might gallop where she liked. Sometimes, of course, she would arrive
at an awkward moment, when Sir Harry was on the point of telling a
unit candidly what he really thought of it, and then he would turn
upon her an awful glare. “Madam, be good enough to retire!” was the
formula barked at her from lips so clearly struggling to restrain a
pent-up flood of vitriolic language that even Eveleen never dared to
defy the mandate. From a safe distance she would hear the General’s
voice rising and falling in alternate denunciation and irony--the
words being happily undistinguishable--and discern through the
sand-clouds the wilting of the officers beneath the storm; and then
Sir Harry would ride after her refreshed and genial, the
gayest-mannered martinet that ever killed a regiment with his mouth.
He had a great fancy for her little horse Bajazet, but having learnt
his history, insisted on renaming him the Street Arab--the expression
was just coming into use,--since Bajazet was no name for an Arab, he
said, but mere romantic female foolishness.
Richard did not take part in these field-days. They afforded him a
much-needed opportunity for getting on with the work of the office,
unhindered by the incursions of his chief. The Khemistan Political
Establishment might have been excessive hitherto, but there was no
denying that its sudden reduction imposed an enormous quantity of work
on the few men who remained. Sir Harry himself was tireless, and
seemed to find no difficulty in working all night after riding all
day; but his inexperience added not a little to the labours of his
subordinates. He had a rooted distaste for the elaborate forms of
courtesy without which no Persian communication would be complete, and
lest he should be set down as a barbarian absolutely destitute of
breeding, Richard and the Munshi found it necessary to prepare two
copies of every letter and order that was to be sent out in his name.
One was in the plain blunt terms he himself favoured--he was very
proud of these, and often copied the English rendering into his diary,
presumably as a model of official correspondence for future
generations,--the other embellished with the polite circumlocutions
without which the recipient would have regarded it as a calculated
insult. In like manner all the letters he received had to be most
carefully scanned before being submitted to him, for in his impatience
of the involved compliments set forth at extreme length, he would
brush aside the whole document as of no importance, and thus fail to
reach the weighty meaning concealed amid the flowery verbiage. And
when, to accent these little peculiarities, Sir Harry was in the state
of mind known to all his subordinates as “kicking up a dust”--as
happened not infrequently,--the office heaved bitter sighs of longing
for the days of Colonel Bayard, now gone by for ever.
Eveleen rode round one evening when office hours were over to pick up
her husband, that they might take their ride by daylight. Here, with
the desert and its wild tribes so close at hand, it was not safe to
ride in the dark, so that during the sunset hour the roads in and
about the Cantonments were a scene of tumultuous activity, which
ceased, in Cinderella-fashion, the instant after gunfire. Eveleen
expected Richard to meet her, but his horse was still waiting in
charge of its syce, who said he had not seen his master, and she rode
on up to the verandah steps. Then he came out, looking worried, his
hands full of papers.
“Sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid you must excuse me this evening. It
has been impossible to get anything done, and these letters must be
put into shape before I leave. Your brother will escort you if he can
get away, and if”--with some bitterness--“you can induce the General
to go too, pray do. I shall be thankful not to hear his voice.”
“Ah, but can’t I help you?” she asked quickly. “It’s a headache you
have; I see that.”
“No, my dear, thank you. Go and enjoy your ride.”
Eveleen rode away, feeling rather desolate. Round the next corner she
just escaped running into Brian.
“Won’t you come and play with me? I have nobody to play with!” she was
quoting from the spelling-book in common use, from which she had
taught Brian to read, but he did not respond to the familiar tag.
“Have you not, indeed? The General sends his compliments, and may he
have the honour of attending you this evening? Take him along with
you, pray, and smooth him down a bit. We have had one earthquake after
another the whole long day.”
“How very interesting! What about?” she asked curiously.
“What about? _Everything_--every sole, single, individual thing that
has happened or not happened since the early morning. And don’t you
tell him things are ‘interesting,’ if you value your life. I believe
that was what helped to set him off--my telling him some order or
other had been ‘carried out’ instead of ‘executed.’ He’s been going on
about cant words, and the correct thing, and the cheese, at intervals
ever since. I tell y’ I don’t dare open my mouth!”
“New for you, Brian! But what if he’d snap at me? Are you going to
leave me to be eaten up entirely?”
“Oh, I’ll be there--but in my proper subordinate place behind. It’s
you will get the fireworks--riding with him.”
They were walking their horses into the main courtyard, and as he
spoke they came in sight of a very explosive-looking Sir Harry,
standing on the steps and criticising with freedom the appearance and
equipment of the escort. It was for once fortunate that he could not
speak Persian, for the precise nature of his remarks was lost on the
troopers, though his tone and gestures, and the face of the officer
who bore the brunt of his words, made the whole drift clear enough. As
was natural when he was already ruffled, some evil genius had allotted
him the fidgety Selima that evening, and when he saw Eveleen, and
politely determined not to keep a lady waiting, hastened to mount, the
mare kept him hopping on one leg for some minutes of greater energy
than dignity. It took all the little self-control Eveleen possessed
not to offer advice or assistance, but she knew that would be a crime
beyond forgiveness, and succeeded in keeping silence and a straight
face. At last he was in the saddle, and gathering up the reins in
stillness more eloquent than speech. With what she felt was supreme
tact, Eveleen ignored it all.
“And where will we go?” she asked, as they rode out of the gate.
“We will go,” returned Sir Harry, with concentrated venom, “straight
to the sandhills, and let this uneasy jade have her fill of dancing
and prancing.”
“Ah, that will be splendid!” cried Eveleen, forgetting tact, and
instantly reminded of it by the malevolent glance bent upon her.
“Yes, we shall have a _splendid_ ride, and my _lovely_ companion and
my _interesting_ aide will congratulate themselves on _carrying out_
their purpose of seeing the old man look a fool. That is _correct_
behaviour nowadays, I understand.”
So vehemently did he hiss out the fashionable catchwords which he
hated, that Eveleen was more taken aback than she had ever been in her
life. But she was not the woman to suffer meekly at Sir Harry’s hands
any more than at Richard’s. Withdrawing her gaze primly to her horse’s
ears, she remained stonily silent, taking no notice of her companion.
In this wise they rode through the part of the Cantonments which lay
between Government House and the desert, and the ladies they
met--after observing with disapproval that there was that Mrs Ambrose
riding with the General again--remarked with unction that it looked as
though Sir Henry was finding out at last what sort of temper Mrs
Ambrose possessed. As for Eveleen, she suspected irony in Richard’s
parting injunction--in which she probably did him injustice.
Possibly the air and exercise mollified Sir Harry’s chafed spirit, or
perhaps he realised that he had been rude, for instead of calling for
a gallop as soon as they were on the sand, he drew rein and said, in a
voice half surly, half apologetic--
“Not very much to say for yourself to-night--eh, ma’am?”
Eveleen turned innocent eyes upon him. “Sure I’m afraid to talk, Sir
Harry. I’m in a shocking bad temper this evening, and I’d maybe say
something I oughtn’t.”
“Meaning that I’m in a shocking bad temper, I suppose? My apologies,
ma’am--my most humble apologies. Not that I ever do lose my
temper--you’re wrong there.” Eveleen wished she had eyes in the back
of her head, to see Brian’s face when he heard this. “I’m apt to be
betrayed into using strong language occasionally--very wrong, I know,
and I try to break myself of the habit,--but I assure you I have the
sweetest temper in the world. All we Lennoxes have; we got it from our
parents before us.”
“But oughtn’t a person lose their temper sometimes?” enquired Eveleen
meekly. “When there’s good cause for it, I mean?”
The General’s face cleared wonderfully. “Why, so they ought! There are
times when no man who is a man ought to keep his temper. And I am
proud to say that on occasions like that I have never failed--yes, I
think I may say I have never failed--to lose mine.”
Eveleen fought with a wild desire to laugh. “True for you, I’m sure,
Sir Harry--most thoroughly. W-will we gallop now?” she welcomed almost
hysterically a broad stretch of smooth sand in front, for the General
had glanced round suspiciously, and she was afraid of disgracing
herself for ever. But when Bajazet broke into a canter, Selima was
naturally not disposed to be left behind, and they swept forward
grandly, with the escort clinking and clanking after. When they slowed
down a little, to mount the steep rise of a sandhill, which stretched
right and left, as far as eye could see, like the face of a breaking
wave, Eveleen glanced at Sir Harry. He was certainly more cheerful,
but not yet his benign self, and without allowing him a moment’s
breathing-space she urged another canter the instant they reached the
crest of the sand-wave, and never stopped till the ground began to
rise for the next. Then Sir Harry checked Selima and laughed.
“There, that will do! The seven devils are gone,” he chuckled, and
Eveleen, a little breathless, laughed back at him. Her eyes were
shining blue, her hair, crisped by the desert wind, stood out like
wires under the heavy gauze veil thrown back over her straw hat. She
looked about seventeen, and Sir Harry felt older than ever in
comparison with her. He spoke abruptly.
“And now, if you please, we’ll take things easy for a bit. What with
you young people egging the old fellow on, we seem to have got the
escort strung out over a mile or so of desert.”
“I wonder might I suggest we go back and pick ’em up, General?”
suggested Brian, rather anxiously. “If there were any of the Khans’
Arabits about here--or the wild tribes either--you would be something
like a prize for them--and with a lady in charge----”
“Quite so. Though I think you and I could put up a fairly good fight
while Mrs Ambrose got away. My little friend the Street Arab has a
pretty turn of speed. But it would be an ignominious ending to a fit
of--no, ma’am, _not_ temper--a fit of righteous indignation such as I
hope will ever seize me, or any of our family, at the sight of cruelty
or injustice.”
“And why wouldn’t it, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen boldly. “I’m sure that
same righteous indignation has got me into trouble often enough. Would
it be the way the people here treat the women made you angry?”
“No, ma’am. It was the way our own people treat their wounded. I rode
out this morning to meet the force coming--we mustn’t say
retreating--from Ethiopia. A part of the rearguard came into camp
while I was there, and I saw the poor fellows taken from their camels
and pitched down on the sand like dogs. I promise you the officers
concerned got a bit of my mind. Queen’s or Company’s, they are all the
same--shamefully negligent of their men. A bad set they are, a bad
set--and see if I don’t treat ’em badly in their turn!”
“Ah, but not all bad?” entreated Eveleen, as he laughed ferociously.
“And sure they’ll improve, now you have the teaching of them, Sir
Harry.”
“Will they, indeed? Then what d’ye say to what I found when I got
back? In spite of all my orders against reckless riding in the bazar,
a wretched half-caste clerk goes careering along, won’t pull up for
anybody, knocks down one of our own sepoys, a fine young fellow as
ever I saw--regularly rides over him. Poor chap goes to hospital, and
his murderer gets my sentiments--and something more.”
“The poor sepoy was really killed?” in horror.
“Not quite, but no thanks to the _cranny_. [_Krani_=writer.] And he
shall pay for it--needn’t think he’s going to get off. But this ain’t
ladies’ conversation, is it?” pulling himself up suddenly. “Fact is,
ma’am, this cantonment has to be got into order, and it don’t like it.
It ain’t altogether the officers’ fault--there are some magnificent
youngsters among ’em--but they have had no one to command ’em, simply
a lot of _suggestors_ suggesting that they should do this or that, and
it’s gone far to ruin ’em. There they go muddling themselves with beer
all day long, but when the private soldiers get drunk on country
spirits, it’s ‘Nasty drunken wretches! why can’t they keep sober?’ As
if there was a chance of their keeping sober in barrack-rooms not fit
for swine! How is a soldier to have confidence in his officer in war
if he has shown no concern for his welfare in peace? It’s the same all
round. There are the black artillery drivers with eight rupees a month
of pay, no lodging-money, and no warm clothing. Of course in Ethiopia
they deserted wholesale, and took their horses with ’em. But while I
command here we ain’t going to risk having our batteries crippled at
the critical moment just to save the Directors the price of a suit of
clothes. That matter’s set right, at any rate.”
“Sure you talk as though you expected war, Sir Harry.”
“Then I don’t, ma’am, but I mean to be prepared for it.”
“I wonder don’t you rather look forward to it really?”
“Look forward to it? Well, a man who has never commanded a brigade in
action may be excused for feeling some desire to know how he would
acquit himself at the head of an army. Not that I confess to much
doubt on the matter. One who has served under Wellington--you might
almost say under Napoleon, so closely have I studied him, though we
were on opposite sides, worse luck!--has little to do but put in
practice his master’s lessons. Yet I admit there’s an attraction in
the thought of handling in earnest a magnificent force such as I have
here, massing it against the foe, flinging it hither and thither,
leading it to victory---- Ah, but then! Heaven forgive me! do I desire
to appear before my Maker--as must happen before long--with my hands
imbrued in the blood of my kind, of those very troops whose proud
bearing and lofty confidence fills me with elation? No, a thousand
times no!”
He spoke aloud, but as though to himself, with eyes fixed on the
distant horizon, and Eveleen was awed. “But there won’t likely be war
at all?” she asked, almost timidly.
“How can I say? Is there any knowing what might suffice to stir to a
murderous resolution these poor foolish princes, who are drunk with
_bhang_ every day after three o’clock, and peevish all the morning
till they can get drunk again? They are at the mercy of a moment’s
impulse, if the heads of their army had the strength of mind to take a
decisive step when ordered, without waiting for the inevitable
reversal.”
“The younger Khans might do so, Ambrose thinks,” she
suggested--“especially Kamal-ud-din.”
“True, but would he find a sufficient following when old Gul Ali says
in open audience that if the British will only take money to go away
he’ll sell all his wives’ jewels to satisfy ’em? Then the next thing
one hears he and the rest have sent their women away into the desert,
and swear they will cut all their throats to prove to us they are in a
desperate determination to resist. Well, do it, my good princes, do
it! and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll cut yours, to the last man of
you! When it comes to throat-cutting, you’ll find me a good deal apter
than in chopping words with your Vakils.”
“Ambrose believes they intend fighting,” said Eveleen.
“I know he does, but the other Politicals assure me with one voice
that all this assemblage of troops is under taken solely with the
design to intimidate me--which design, by the way, is uncommonly
mistaken! Poor Bayard himself could hardly depart for assuring me that
his dear Khans hadn’t an ounce of vice in ’em--that it was their
nature to bluster and talk big, but if I took ’em at their word I
should be guilty of murder at the very least. So be it, says I to him,
if murder starts it won’t be because I begin it. If the princes will
keep the peace, peace they shall have; but if they fire a shot,
Khemistan shall be annexed to the British Empire, and good for
Khemistan it will be.”
“Bayard don’t think that,” said Eveleen slowly. “’Twould break his
heart, I believe.”
“Then he must get his friends to keep their treaties--and mind you,
the new one I am to make is a long way stiffer than the last. The
Khans are to pay in territory for all their dirty tricks--give back to
the Nawab of Habshiabad the districts they stole from him, and cede
Sahar and Bab-us-Sahel to us permanently.”
“They won’t like that either, will they?”
“That they won’t, and very naturally. In their place I should object
strongly myself. In fact, I object now, for what right have we here,
taking possession of towns that don’t belong to us? But the Khans
entered into the treaties, and they must keep ’em--or if they want to
break ’em, they must fight fair. Those letters now, with the doubtful
seals--you have heard of them?”
“I heard you speaking to Ambrose about them, but I don’t know what
they would be. He don’t tell me things.”
“Wise man! Well, ma’am, they were merely written at the time of our
Ethiopian disasters to incite Maharajah Ajit Singh of Ranjitgarh to
form a league against us, and to the chiefs of the wild tribes to get
’em to fall upon our retreating troops. They were sealed with a seal
closely resembling Gul Ali’s, but with some slight differences that
made me think a forgery had possibly been attempted. But then Munshi
puts me up to a nice little trick these fellows have of keeping two
seals--one just sufficiently different from the other to justify
doubts if there’s any wish to disavow a document,--and your good
husband not only identifies the seal as genuine, but swears to the
handwriting of the letters as being that of Gul Ali’s chief scribe. So
he at least--and his brother Khans are all tarred with the same
brush--stands convicted of a diabolical attempt to take advantage of
our calamities. He’ll deny it, of course, as he will the latest
evidence of his perfidy--a bond written in his own copy of the Koran,
and sealed by all the Khans but Shahbaz, pledging ’em to unite in
driving us from the country,--but I’ll bring him to book. What can you
do with a man whose word can’t be trusted and who’ll forge his own
seal? Nothing but bind him down so tight as to put it out of his power
to do mischief, says I. My friend Gul Ali is taking a little trip in
this direction, I hear, and when he and I meet to exchange
compliments, there will be something more than compliments in store
for him. I’ll wager he’ll be uncommonly taken aback when he finds I am
acquainted with the engagement he carries in his Koran.”
“But if he denies it? Why, he might even produce another Koran to show
you there was nothing in it at all.”
“To be sure he might--and most certainly will. And therefore my only
course is to make it impossible for the suggested combination to take
place. Believe me, ma’am, I have a rod in pickle for old Gul Ali. My
sole fear is that he mayn’t care to face me.”
“But sure that would be to admit his guilt?”
“True, but a tacit admission of guilt don’t do you much good when the
guilty person remains so discreetly at a distance that you can’t lay
hands on him.”
“The sun is getting precious low, General,” ventured the watchful
Brian, riding up level with Sir Harry.
“That’s true, and we seem to have collected the escort without the
loss of a man. Ma’am, I owe you an apology for trespassing on your
patience with these public affairs, thinking less of your
entertainment than of relieving my own mind. My comfort is that you’ll
forget ’em speedily.”
“True, Sir Harry. I’ll not remember anything but that you complimented
me by talking about them.”
“Delany,” said Sir Harry solemnly to Brian, “were there any fragments
of the Blarney Stone left behind when your sister quitted Ireland, or
was the whole of it concealed in her baggage?”
“Blarney Stone, indeed!” said Brian enthusiastically, when he looked
in on the Ambroses late that evening. “’Tis a harp y’ought be having,
Evie--like David with Saul,--and I’ll not say but the staff will be
getting up a subscription to present you with one. Think of the
convenience of being able to call you in to lay the dust as soon as
the old lad begins to kick it up!”
“Is it a harp, indeed! Much good that would be!” said Eveleen
scornfully. “Why, I’d never be able to resist trying it on Ambrose,
whom nothing on earth will move, and the General would soon find out
what a useless sort of thing it was.” She stopped suddenly, catching
on her husband’s face the uneasy look which showed that he could not
decide whether she was in earnest or not, and a disagreeable thought
struck her. Richard had said she was like the General. She had felt
embarrassed this evening when the General put into words his deepest
thoughts. Could it be that Richard also was embarrassed when she spoke
out her thoughts without considering whether they were likely to be
acceptable or not? She brushed the question aside quickly. “But I
assure you Sir Harry considers it right and proper to lose his temper
when the occasion calls for it,” she said.
“I believe you!” agreed Brian dolefully. “Ain’t it a pity, though,
that we can’t pull a string and make him lose it when _we_ think the
occasion calls for it? With the Khans, now! If they once saw him in
one of his rages, sure they’d be tumbling over one another to try and
appease him.”
“Ah, then, old Gul Ali will never dare to stand out against him when
he has once heard him talk seriously,” said Eveleen. “You don’t really
think they’ll fight, Ambrose?”
“They would not fight if they knew him as we know him,” said Richard
slowly. “But with these fellows, his violence and severity defeats its
own object. They are incapable of believing any one could take such a
tone seriously with persons of their importance. He must be
endeavouring to hide his weakness, they imagine.”
“Well, now!” said Brian. “And what can you do with people like that at
all?”
“Pray don’t ask me. If they can’t see the difference between him and
Bayard, how is it to be got into their heads? Bayard might employ
threats, but I can’t believe the utmost exigency would have driven him
actually to demand the annexation of the country. But this chap will
do it if they don’t behave themselves.”
“Well, our own people are learning to know him,” laughed Brian.
“Munshi was telling me to-day that they say he ain’t merely a
commander, but the Governor-General himself in a military disguise.
Some of ’em say he’s the Duke come back, but the old sepoys, who knew
the Duke forty years ago, won’t have that. But they all agreed he
might be an uncle or cousin of Her Majesty’s, sent out to cope with
the posture of things here.”
“Aye, they are beginning to call him the Padishah,” said Richard.
“Well, if the tales get to Gul Ali’s ears, so much the better, if they
make him disposed to submit. But he can’t sign a treaty by himself,
unfortunately, and by the time the rest are assembled, he will have
been in as many different minds as there are Khans.”
“I’d dearly like to see Sir Harry talk to him for his good,” said
Eveleen eagerly. “Where is it they’ll meet? Will we--ladies, I
mean--be allowed to be there?”
“Certainly not,” said Richard crushingly. “It will be across the
river--in that garden with the palm-trees just on the other side.”
“Sure you needn’t be so horrid about it! I dare say there won’t be
much to see after all--maybe nothing.”
As it happened, that was exactly what there was. Sir Harry and his
staff, all in full uniform, set out by boat, reached the meeting-place
in good time, and waited there--in vain, returning after an hour or so
in high dudgeon. Nor was their wrath mollified by a message from Gul
Ali, conveying a perfunctory apology for his non-appearance, and
appointing a meeting the next day in another garden, six miles down
the river. This time it was Sir Harry who did not keep the
appointment, returning the curt answer that he was not going to be
insulted. Colonel Bayard’s partisans went about with long faces all
day. Were the Khans to be defied on their own soil by this ignorant
stranger? But by the evening, when reports began to filter in, they
saw reason to change their tune. The messengers had found Gul Ali’s
son Karimdâd waiting half-way, nominally to receive the General with
honour, but actually--every one was sure of it--to note what troops he
brought with him, and send word to his father, who had six thousand
Arabits concealed in and about the garden, and reinforcements within
call. Sir Harry was too much gratified by this proof of his foresight
to exult unduly.
“I should have looked foolish--going into the middle of a body of
Arabits with only a few officers at my back,” he said. “Whether there
were six thousand or six hundred, they could have done for us pretty
thoroughly. Nice old chap, Gul Ali!”
“The messengers say he had heard a rumour that you intended seizing
him, General,” said Richard.
“That’s the Ethiopian affair rising up again to plague us! But I am
not going to have it perpetually thrown in my teeth. Write to the
fellow, Ambrose, that I am no traitor, as he evidently is, and that if
I wanted to seize him, I could and would come and pull him out of
Qadirabad itself. Send it at once.”
The effect of the message was instantaneous. Apparently Gul Ali felt
the garden where he was encamped less secure even than Qadirabad. He,
his son and his army, evacuated their camp during the night, and the
next day were out of reach in the desert.