When a man knows what is out against him, and from which direction he
may look to meet death, he only needs to be a very ordinary man to
make at least a gallant showing. Gallery or no gallery to watch, given
responsibility and trained men under hire, not one man in a thousand
will fail to face death with dignity.
But Brown knew practically nothing, and understood still less, of what
was happening. He had Juggut Khan's word for it that Jailpore was in
flames, and that all save four of its European population had been
killed. He believed that to be a probably exaggerated statement of
affairs, but he did not blink the fact that he might expect to be
overwhelmed almost without notice, and at any minute. That was a fact
which he accepted, for the sake of argument and as a working-basis on
which to build a plan of some kind--His orders were to hold that post,
and he would hold it until relieved by General Baines or death. But
there are several ways of holding a hot coal besides the rather obvious
one of sitting on it.
It would have been a fine chance to be theatrical, had play-acting been
in his line. Many and many a full-blown general has risen to authority
and fame by means of absolutely useless gallery-play. He believed that
he would presently be relieved by General Baines, who he felt sure would
march at once on Jailpore; and had he chosen to he could have addressed
the men, have set them to throwing up defenses and have made a nice
theatrical redoubt that he could have held quite easily with the help
of nine men for a day or two. And since the really worthwhile things go
often unrewarded, but the gallery-plays never, nobody would have blamed
him had he chosen some such course as that.
But Brown's idea of holding down a place was to make that place a thorn
in the side of the enemy. And since he did not know who was the enemy,
or where he was, nor why he was an enemy, nor when he would attack, he
proposed to find out these things for himself preparatory to making the
said enemy as uncomfortable as his meager resources would permit, when
eked out by an honest “dogged-does-it” brain.
He buried the three men whom Fate had seemed to value at the price of a
fakir's freedom. And, being a religious man, to whom religion was a fact
and the rest of the universe a theory, he was able to say a full funeral
service over them from memory. He said it at the grave-end, with a
lantern in his hand and one man facing him across the grave--as the
English used to drink when the Danes had landed, each watching for the
glint of steel beyond the other's shoulder.
And, four on each side of the trench that they had dug, the remainder
knelt and faced the night each way--partly from enforced piety, and
partly because eight men back to back, with their bayonets outward
and their butts against their knees, are an awkward proposition for an
enemy. They mumbled the responses because Brown made them do it, and
they kept their eyes skinned because the night seemed full of other
eyes, and sounds.
“And now, you men,” said Brown, changing his voice to suit the nature of
his task, “you can get your sleep by fours. I don't care which four of
you goes to sleep first, but there are only two watches of us left, and
there are about four hours left to sleep in, by my reckoning. That's two
hours' sleep for each man. And we'll keep clear of the guardroom. As
I understand my orders, the important point's the cross-roads. I'm
supposed to halt every one who comes, and to ask him his business. And
that'd be impossible to do from the guardroom here. Let this be a lesson
to you men, now. In interpretin' orders, when a point's in doubt, always
look for the meaning of the orders rather than the letter of them,
obeying the letter only when the meaning and the letter are the same
thing. The letter of our orders says the guardroom. The meaning's clear.
We're here to guard the cross-roads. We take the meaning, and let the
letter hang!
“Besides! The way it seems to me, if there's any more trouble cooking
in this neighborhood, it's going to cook pretty fast, and it's going
to boil around that guardroom; and if we're not in the guardroom, why,
that's point number one for us! Leave the guardroom lantern lighted, and
bring out nothing but your cartridge-pouches and the box of ammunition.
Leave everything else where it lies. Quick, now.”
They obeyed him on the run, afraid to be out of his sight for a moment
even, trusting him as little children trust a nurse, and ready to do
anything so long as he would only keep them up and doing, and not make
them stay by the scene of the murders. Brown knew their state of mind
as accurately as he knew the range of their service rifles, and he knew
just how he could best keep panic from them. He knew too, if not what
was best to do, at least what he intended doing, and he knew how he
could best get them in a state to do it.
Behind his own mind lay all the while a sense of loneliness and
hopelessness. He did not entertain the thought of failure to hold the
crossroads, and he was so certain that General Baines would come with
his division that he could almost see the advance-guard trotting toward
him down the trunk road. But there is no accounting for a soldier's
moods, and something told him--something deep down inside him that he
could neither name nor understand--that he was out now on the adventure
of a lifetime, and that the heart-cord which had held him tight to
England all these years had been cut. He felt gloomy and dispirited, but
not a man of the nine who followed him had the slightest inkling of it.
He halted them outside the guardroom, and bullydamned two of them
because some unimportant part of their accouterments was missing; and
he “'Tshuned” them, and stood them at ease, and “'Tshuned” them again,
until he had them jumping at the word. Then he marched them two abreast
in and out among the huts in search of any sign of native servants. They
found no sign of any one at all. Though in that black darkness it would
have been quite possible for half a hundred men to lie undetected. Brown
decided that the camp was empty. He thought it probable that any one
concealed there would have tried his luck on somebody at least, at close
range as he passed.
So he marched them back to the guard-room once again, and sent two
of them in to drag out the shivering Beluchi, who had taken cover
underneath a cot and refused to come out until he was dragged out by the
leg. The native's terror served to pull the men together quite a little,
for Tommy Atkins always does and always did behave himself with pride
when what he is pleased to consider his inferiors are anywhere about.
They showed that unfortunate Beluchi how white men marched into the
darkness--best foot foremost; without halt or hesitation, when ghosts or
murderers or unseen marksmen were close at hand.
The Beluchi let himself be dragged, trembling, between two of them. It
was he who first saw something move, or heard some one breathe. For he
was absolutely on edge, and had nothing to attend to but his own fear.
The others had to keep both eyes and ears lifting, to please Brown the
exacting. The Beluchi struggled and held back, almost breaking loose,
and actually tearing his loin-cloth.
“Sahib!” he whispered hoarsely. “Sahib!”
“What is it?” demanded Brown, scarcely waiting for an answer, though.
Something told him what it was that moved, and his own skin felt
goose-fleshy from neck to heel.
“The fakir, sahib!”
There was a murmur through the ranks, a sibilant indrawing of the
breath.
“Did I hear anybody swear?” asked Brown.
Nobody answered him. All nine men stood stock-still, leaning on their
rifles, their heads craned forward and their eyes strained in the
direction of the gloomy baobab.
“Form single rank!” commanded Brown.
There was no response. They stood there fixed like a row of chickens
staring at a snake!
“Form single rank!”
He leaped at them, and broke the first rule of the service--as a man may
when he is man enough, and the alternative would be black shame.
His fist was a hard one and heavy, and they felt the weight of it.
“Form single rank! Take one pace open order! Extend! Now, forward--by
the right! Right dress, there!”
He marched in front of them, and they followed him for very shame, now
that he had broken their paralysis.
“Halt! Port-arms! Charge bayonets!”
He was peering at something in the dark, something that chuckled and
smelled horrible, and sat unusually still for anything that lived.
“Numbers One, Two, Three--left wheel--forward! Halt! Numbers Seven,
Eight, Nine--right wheel--forward! Halt!”
They were standing now on three sides of a square. The fourth side
was the trunk of the baobab. Between them and the trunk, the streaming
tendrils swayed and swung, bats flitted and something still invisible
sat still and chuckled.
“One pace forward--march!”
They could see now. The fakir sat and stared at them and grinned. Brown
raised the lamp and let its rays fall on him. The light glinted off his
eyes, and off the only other part of him that shone--the long, curved,
ghastly fingernails that had grown through the palm of his upstretched
hand.
“How did you get here?” demanded Brown, not afraid to speak, for fear
that fright would take possession of himself as well as of his men, but
quite well aware that the fakir would not answer him. Then he remembered
the Beluchi.
“Ask him, you! Ask him how he came here.”
The Beluchi found his tongue, and stammered out a question. The fakir
chuckled, and following his chuckle let a guttural remark escape him.
“He says, sahib, that he flew!”
“Ask him, could he fly with nine fixed bayonets in him!”
There was a little laughter from the men at that sally. It takes
very little in the way of humor to dispel a sense of the uncanny or
mysterious.
“He answers, sahib, that you have seen what comes of striking him. He
asks how many dead there be.”
“Does he want me to hold him answerable for those men's lives?”
“He says he cares not, sahib! He says that he has promised what shall
befall you, sahib, before a day is past--you and one other!”
“Ask him, where is the Punjabi skin-buyer?”
The fakir chuckled at that question, and let out suddenly a long, low,
hollow-sounding howl, like a she-wolf's just at sundown. He was answered
by another howl from near the guardroom, and every soldier faced about
as though a wasp had stung him.
“Front!” commanded Brown. “Now, one of you, about turn! Keep watch that
way! Is that the Punjabi?--ask him.”
“He says 'Yes!' sahib. He and others!”
“Very well. Now tell him that unless he obeys my orders on the jump,
word for word as I give them, I'll hang him as high as Haman by
that withered arm of his, and have him beaten on the toenails with
a cleaning-rod before I fill him so full of bayonet-holes that the
vultures'll take him for a sponge! Say I'm a man of my word, and don't
exaggerate.”
The Beluchi translated.
“He says you dare not, sahib!”
“Advise him to talk sense.”
“He says, sahib, 'You have had one lesson!”'
“Now it's my turn to give him one. Men! We'll have to give up that
sleep I talked about. This limping dummy of a fakir thinks he's got us
frightened, and we've got to teach him different. There's some reason
why we're not being attacked as yet. There's something fishy going on,
and this swab's at the bottom of it! We want him, too, on a charge of
murder, or instigating murder, and the guardroom's the best place for
him. To the guardroom with him. He'll do for a hostage anyhow. And where
he is, I've a notion that the control of this treachery won't be
far away! Grab him below the arms and by the legs. One of you hold
a bayonet-point against his ribs. The rest, face each way on guard.
Now--all together, forward to the guardroom--march!”
The fakir howled. Ululating howls replied from the surrounding night,
and once a red light showed for a second and disappeared in front of
them. Then the fakir howled again.
“Look, sahib! See! The guardroom!”
It was the Beluchi who saw it first--the one who was most afraid of
things in general and the least afraid of Sergeant Brown. A little flame
had started in the thatch.
“Halt!” ordered Brown. “Two of you hold the fakir! The
remainder--volley-firing--kneeling--point-blank-range. Ready--as you
were--independent firing--ready! Now, wait till you see 'em in the
firelight, then blaze away all you like!”
His last words were cut off short by the sound of rifle-fire. Each rifle
in turn barked out, and three rifles answered from the night.
“Let that fakir feel a bayonet-point, somebody!”
The fakir cursed between his teeth, in proof of prompt obedience by one
of the men who held him.
“Tell him to order his crowd to cease fire!”
The Beluchi translated, and the fakir howled again. The flames leaped
through the thatch, and in a minute more the countryside was lit for
half a mile or more by the glare of the burning guardroom.
The flames betrayed more than a hundred turbaned men, who hugged the
shadows.
“Keep that bayonet-point against his ribs. See? That comes o' moving
instead o' sitting still! If we'd shut ourselves in the guardroom there,
we'd have been merrily roasting in there now! We stole a march on them.
Beauty here was sitting on his throne to see the fun. Didn't expect us.
Thought we'd be all hiding under the beds, like Sidiki here! Goes to
prove the worst thing that a soldier can do is to sit still when there's
trouble. We're better off than ever. We're free and they won't dare do
much to us as long as we've got Sacred-Smells-and-Stinks in charge. Form
up round him, men, and keep your eyes skinned till morning!”