RELIEVED
Well waited is well done.
“Here--hi!”
This time some one heard him, and that small, silent man, Ben Abdi, stood
in the doorway of the tent at attention.
“Are you keeping a good look-out down the valley?” asked Major Agar.
“Ee yess, sar.”
“No signs of any one?”
“No, sar.”
Agar shut up the diary, which book Ben Abdi had been taught to regard as
strictly official, laid it aside, and passed out of the tent, the little
Goorkha following close upon his heels with a quick intelligent interest
in his every movement which somehow suggested a dusky and faithful little
dog.
For some moments they stood thus on the edge of the small plateau, the
big man in front, the little one behind--alert, with twinkling, beady
eyes. Behind them towered a bleak grey slope of bare rock, like a cliff
set back at a slight angle, so treeless, so smooth was the face of it. In
front the great blue-shadowed valley lay beneath them, stretching away to
the south, until in a distant haze the sharp hills seemed to close in and
cut it short.
Perched thus, as it were, upon the roof of the world, these two men
looked down upon it all with a calm sense of possession, and to him of
the dominant race standing there some thousands of miles from his native
land--alone--master of this great stretch of an alien shore, there must
have come some passing thought of the strangeness of it all.
There was something wrong--he knew that. His orders had been to press
forward and occupy this little ridge, which was vaguely marked on the
service maps as Mistley's Plateau, named after an adventurous soul, its
discoverer. He had been instructed to hold this against all comers, and
if possible to prevent communication between the two valleys, connected
only by this narrow pass. All this Agar had carried out to the letter;
but some one else had failed somewhere.
“It will be three days at the most,” his chief had said, “and the main
body of the advance guard will join you!”
Jem Agar had been in occupation a week, and it seemed that he and his
little band of men were forgotten of the world. Still this soldier held
on, saying nothing to his men, writing his intensely practical diary, and
trusting as a soldier should to the _Deus ex machina_ who finally allows
discipline to triumph. He looked down into the valley, piercing the
shimmer of its hazes with his gentle blue eyes, looking to his chief, who
had said, “In three days I will join you.”
It was not the first time that Agar and the little non-commissioned
native officer, Ben Abdi, had stood thus together. They had taken their
stand in this same spot in the keen air of the early morning, with the
white frost crystallising the stones around them; in the glow of midday;
and when the moon, hanging over the sharp-pointed hills, cast the valley
into an opaque shade dark and fathomless as the valley of death.
Scanning the distant hills, Agar presently raised his eyes, noting the
position of the sun in the heavens.
“Have you tried the heliograph a second time this morning?” he asked
without looking round, which informality of manner warmed the little
soldier's heart.
“Yes, sar. Three times since breakfast.”
It was the first time that Ben Abdi had found himself in a position of
some responsibility, in immediate touch with one of the white-skinned
warriors from over seas whose methods of making war had for him all the
mystery and the infinite possibilities of a religion. This silent looking
out for relief partook in some small degree of the nature of a council of
war. Jem Sahib and himself were undoubtedly the chiefs of this
expeditionary force, and to whom else than himself, Ben Abdi, should the
Major turn for counsel and assistance? The little Goorkha preferred,
however, that it should be thus; that Agar Sahib should say nothing,
merely allowing him to stand silent three paces behind. He was a modest
little man, this Goorkha, and knew the limit of his own capabilities,
which knowledge, by the way, is not always to be found in the hearts of
some of us boasting a fairer skin. He knew that for hard fighting, snugly
concealed behind a rock at two hundred yards, or in the open, with
cunning bayonet or swinging kookery, he was as good as his fellows; but
for strategy, for the larger responsibilities of warfare, he was well
pleased that his superior officer should manage these affairs in his
quiet way unaided.
During a luncheon more remarkable for heartiness of despatch than
delicacy of viand, James Edward Makerstone Agar devoted much thought to
the affairs of Her Imperial Majesty the Empress of India. After luncheon
he lighted a cheroot, threw himself on his bed, and there reflected
further. Then he called to him Ben Abdi.
“No more promiscuous shooting,” he said to him. “No more volley firing
at a single Ghilzai or a stray Bhutari. It seems that they do not
know we are here, as we are left undisturbed. I do not want them to
know--understand? If you see any one going along the valley, send two men
after him; no shooting, Ben Abdi.”
And he pointed with his cheroot towards the evil-looking curved knife
which hung at the Goorkha's side.
Ben Abdi grinned. He understood that sort of business thoroughly.
Then followed many technical instructions--not only technical in good
honest English, but interlarded with words from a language which cannot
be written with our alphabet for the benefit of such as love details of a
realistic nature.
The result of this council was that sundry little dusky warriors were
busy clambering about the rocky slope all that day and well into the
short hill-country evening, working in twos and threes with the
_alacrity_ of ants.
Jem Agar, in his own good time, was proceeding to further fortify, as
well as circumstances allowed, the position he had been told to hold
until relief should come. In addition to the magic of the master's eye he
lent the assistance of his strong right arm, laying his lithe weight
against many a rock which his men could not move unaided. By the evening
the position was in a fairly fortified state, and, after a copious dinner
in the chill breeze that rushed from the mountain down to the valley
after sunset, he walked placidly up and down at the edge of the plateau,
watching, ever watching, but with calmness and no sign of anxiety.
Such it is to be an Englishman--the product of an English public
school and country life. Thick-limbed, very quiet; thick-headed if you
will!--that is as may be--but with a nerve of iron, ready to face the
last foe of all--Death, without so much as a wink.
To his ear came at times the low cautious cry of some night-bird sailing
with heavy wing down to the haunt of mouse or mole; otherwise the night
was still as only mountain night-seasons are. Far down below him, the
jungle and forest were rustling with game and beasts of prey seeking
their meat from God, but the larger beasts of India, unlike their African
brethren, move in silence, stealthy yet courageous; and the distance was
too great for the quickly stifled cry of the victim of panther or tiger
to reach him.
When the moon rose he made the round of his pickets--a matter of ten
minutes--and then to bed.
On the morning of the ninth day he thought he detected signs of
uneasiness in the faces of the men. He found their keen little visages
ever turned towards him, watching his every movement, noting the play of
every feature. So in his simplicity he practised a simple diplomacy. He
hummed to himself as he went his rounds and while he sat over his diary.
He only knew one song--“A Warrior Bold”--which every mess in India
associated with old Jem Agar, for no evening was considered complete
without the Major's one ditty if he were present. He had stood up and
roared it in many strange places, quite without sentiment, without
self-consciousness, without afterthought. He never thought it a matter of
apology that he should have failed to learn another song. The smile with
which many ladies of his acquaintance sat down to play the accompaniment
_by heart_ conveyed nothing to him. He did not pretend to be a singer--he
knew that one song, and if they liked it he would sing it. Moreover, they
did like it, and that was why they asked for it. It did some of them good
to see honest Jem get on his legs and shout out, in a very musical voice,
with perfect truth to air, what seemed to be a plain statement of his
creed of life.
So, far up on Mistley Plateau, nine thousand feet above the level of the
sea, Jem Agar advised his little dark-visaged fighters, _sotto voce_,
while he puzzled over his diary, that his love had golden hair, with eyes
so blue and heart so true, that none with her compared; moreover, that he
didn't care if death were nigh, because he had fought for love, and for
love would die.
It was not very deep or very subtle, but it served the purpose. It kept
up the hearts of his handful of warriors, who, in common with their
chief, had something child-like and simple in their honest, sporting
souls.
Shortly after tiffin Ben Abdi came to the Major's tent, speaking
hurriedly in his own tongue.
One of the men had seen the sunlight gleam on white steel far down in the
valley. He had seen it several times--a long spiral flash, such as the
sun would make on a fixed bayonet carried over the shoulder. Such a flash
as this will carry twenty miles through a clear atmosphere; the spot
pointed out by the sharp-eyed Goorkha was not more than ten miles
distant. They stood in a group, this isolated little band, and gazed down
into the depth below them. They gazed in vain for some time, then a
little murmur of excitement told that the sun had glinted again on
burnished steel. This time there were several flashes close together.
These were men marching with fixed bayonets through an enemy's country.
“Heliograph,” said Agar quietly, without taking his eyes from the spot
far down in the valley; and soon the little mirror was flashing out its
question over the vale. After a few anxious moments the answering gleam
sprang to life among the trees far below. Agar gave a quick little sigh
of relief--that was all.
Then followed a short conversation flickered over ten miles of space.
“Are you beset?” asked the Valley,
“No,” replied the Hill.
“Is the enemy in sight?”
“No,” replied the Mountain, again, with a sharp click.
“Are you all well?” flashed from below.
“Yes,” from above.
Then the “Good-bye,” and the glimmer of the bayonets began again.
Two hours later Major Agar drew his absurd little force in line, and thus
they received the relieving column, grimly conscious of dangers past but
not forgotten.
At the head of the new-comers rode a little man with a prominent chin and
a long drooping nose; such a remarkable-looking little man that the
veriest tyro at physiognomy would have turned to look at him again. His
black eyes, beaming with intelligence, moved so quickly beneath the
steady lashes that it was next to an impossibility to state what he saw
and what he failed to see.
He returned Agar's salute hurriedly, with a preoccupied air. He wore a
quiet uniform tunic almost hidden by black braiding, a pith helmet which
had seen brighter days and likewise fouler, and the leg that he threw
over his horse's head was cased in riding trousers and a neat little
top-boot of brown leather.
He slipped from the saddle with a litheness which contrasted strangely
with his closely cropped grey hair and white moustache and Imperial. He
walked towards Agar's tent after the manner of one who had sat in the
saddle for many hours. His spurs clanked with a sharp, business-like
ring, and his every movement had that neat finish which indicates the
soldier born and bred.
Wheeling round he faced Agar, who had followed him with a more leisurely
gait based on longer legs, looking up keenly into the quiet fair face.
Turning he shot his sword home into its scabbard with a click.
“Thank God,” he said, “you're safe!”
Agar awaited for further observations. This was not the man whom he
had expected, but another, far greater, far higher up in the military
scale--a man whom he had only met once before, and that at an official
reception.
Seeing that his guest was unbuckling his sword, he presumed that the task
of continuing this conversation lay with himself.
“M' yes!” he replied, rubbing his pannikin out clean with the corner of a
towel, and proceeding to mix some brandy and water; “why?”
“Why!” answered the little man scornfully, “WHY! damn it, sir, Stevenor's
command has been cut off by the enemy in force--massacred to a man. That
is why I say 'Thank God, you're safe!' It is more than I expected.”