IN THE AFGHAN FORT.
"So, Polwhele, I find by the Order Book, that you are detailed for
the party against the plundering Ghazeeas?" said Waller.
"Yes; I shall have the pleasure of scouring all the Siah Sung after
these wretched fanatics to-morrow."
"What force goes with you?"
"Thirty rank and file of ours, with Sergeant Treherne."
"Son of old Mike, the miner, at Porthellick?"
"Yes; and forty of the thirty-seventh Native Infantry under Burgoyne."
"But I believe you are to tiff, with us at the Trecarrels in the
afternoon," observed Denzil. "The General's Chuprassey, a half-naked
fellow with a brass badge, brought Waller and me pink notes of
invitation, and I saw there was one for you."
"I shall be duly there if a ball from a juzail, or a slash from an
Afghan knife don't put me on the sick list, or give you a chance of a
lieutenancy," replied Polwhele, twirling his thick black moustache.
"It is wretched work we are condemned to, at times, here."
"Yes," rejoined Polwhele, "and I fear that my little affair with the
Ghazeeas is but the forerunner of some greater disturbance."
"However, to-morrow or the day after, the Envoy is to have a solemn
conference with the ferocious Ackbar Khan."
"I don't think much will come of that," continued Polwhele. "It is
to the memories of Plassey, Assaye, and a hundred glorious battles,
rather than to our present numerical force, that we Britons owe our
_prestige_ in the East; but here in Cabul, beyond the Indus, it has
not yet been felt, thanks to parsimony and utter mismanagement, civil
and military."
"Don't take to grumbling, Jack, but pass the brandy bottle, old
fellow. I hope we shall keep Shah Sujah on his throne despite Ackbar
Khan and all the rebellious rabble in Afghanistan. What was up in
your quarter yesterday? You were on guard near the old tomb and
temple westward of the Cantonments."
"Up--how?"
"I heard a sound of musketry near it."
"One discharge?"
"Yes."
"Oh--you remember that odd-looking fellow who appeared at the
band-stand and cut such strange capers when the musicians of the 37th
were playing an air from Rossini. Well, he proved to be a Thug, and
all the implements of Thugee--the holy pick-axe, the handkerchief and
cord for strangulation, were found upon him."
"Not in his clothes," said Denzil, "for he had none, so the orderlies
switched him away from the vicinity of the Trecarrels' carriage."
"I saw those wags of girls in fits of laughter at him. No, the
implements were not found in his clothes, certainly, but in his hair,
which hung below his waist, plaited like ropes. Many murders--he had
strangled Christians and Hindoos with perfect impartiality--were
fully proved against him by the Provost-Marshal, so he was shot,
off-hand, to save all further trouble."
"So those Thugs are a sect?" said Denzil.
"Yes; and a vast community of secret assassins, too. As for sects,
you will find as many here as in England, but calling themselves by
different names, Mahommedans, Soonies, Ismaelites, Parsees, Hindoos,
Bheels, Khonds, and worshippers of Mumbo Jumbo, et cetera, all hating
each other most cordially; and by Jove, amid them, we may say as the
knight of La Mancha said to his squire, 'Here, brother Sancho, we can
put our hands up to the elbows in what are called adventures.'"
"Who are to be at the Trecarrels' to-morrow?" asked Waller,
manipulating a fresh cigar.
"Ask Devereaux," replied Polwhele, sending some spiral circles
towards him, and laughing the while.
"Why me?" asked Denzil, with a little annoyance of tone.
"How amusingly pink you become, my boy, whenever their names are
mentioned," said Polwhele; "doubtless you will be 'doing' our old
Cornwall all over again with Rose, though it is evident your heart is
not _there_."
"Where, then?"
"In Cabul, and nearer Kohistan than the Well of St. Keyne," replied
Polwhele, who, as his name imports, was a Cornishman; and he added,
laughingly. "What says Southey?--
But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!
* * * * * *
I hastened as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;
But i'faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.
Ah, well do I remember that old spring so famed for its virtues,
arched over by old masonry, above which grow five ancient trees, the
Cornish oak, the elm, and three ashes, their roots entwined like a
network in the turf and moss! But to return to the Trecarrels and
their tiffin to-morrow, if I escape the Ghazeeas, who are we likely
to meet?"
"Well, I have heard that Lady Sale--"
"The wife of 'Fighting Bob' of the 13th Light Infantry!"
"--Is to be there; the General Commanding too, if his health will
permit it, and most likely her Majesty's Envoy to the Shah,"
continued Denzil, still colouring plainly and deeply.
"I knew that you could tell us all about it; for, of course, the fair
Rose employed you to write all the little pink notes on the perfumed
paper. You seem very soft in that quarter, Denzil; but one might as
well attempt to catch a meteor, my friend, as that girl's heart."
"Don't say so, Jack," urged Denzil, so earnestly that both Waller and
Polwhele laughed immoderately.
"You will be like the little boy who wept for the moon," said the
former, curling and caressing his long fair whiskers complacently.
"And be assured, she has a soul far above Ensigns," added his other
tormentor, for unluckily for his own peace of mind, Denzil had fallen
a tender victim to the flirting Rose; "yet, I must admit, that the
girl--the second Trecarrel I mean--is charming; almost handsome."
"Nay, more than handsome!" added Waller emphatically, "and I must
sympathize with Denzil, as I rather affect _la belle_ Mab myself."
"But the old General has little more than his pay, or he would never
have brought the girls so far up country else; at least, the
good-natured Cantonment folks who indulge in _gup_ say so," remarked
Polwhele, using the native word for "gossip." "And now I must go,
for Burgoyne and I mean to study the geography of yonder confounded
hills which we have to scour to-morrow; and we move off from the
Cantonments in the dark--an hour before daybreak."
"One glass more ere you go, Jack."
"Thanks," replied Polwhele, and then he added with mock gravity; "two
of the golden rules of my simple domestic economy are, a cheroot and
glass of stiff brandy-pawnee before switching the mosquito curtains
and turning in; and a cup of cold tea, with a wet towel about my
temples before morning parade; or at least, such used to be my
custom, before we came to this Arctic and Afghan, rather than Orient
region."
"And considering late hours immoral, you always come into quarters
_early_ in the morning."
"A third golden rule--precisely so, old fellow," replied the other as
he assumed his sword and forage-cap. He was about to go, when
Waller's servant, a soldier in livery, appeared to announce that a
native wished "to speak with the Sahibs Waller and Polwhele on
particular business."
"Now, what can the nigger want?" asked Polwhele; "a Parsee
money-lender perhaps--have you been flying kites, Bob?"
"Show him in, Brooklands," said Waller; "he is no less a personage
than Taj Mohammed Khan. He expressed a wish to see us yesterday,
when I met him near the gate of the Shah Bagh;* so remain for a few
minutes, Jack."
* Royal Garden.
"Khan--is he a chief?" asked Denzil.
"Not at all," replied Waller; "it is used as Esquire with us--a title
given in England to every fellow who wears a black coat; so everybody
is a Khan (_i.e._ noble) in Cabul. The world of snobbery reproduces
itself everywhere; and here he comes stroking his long beard with an
air of solemn satisfaction," he added, as an Afghan gentleman of tall
and imposing appearance, was ushered into the apartment, making low
salams as he advanced.