“Sergeant!”
“Sir!”
The close-cropped, pipe-clayed non-commissioned officer spurred his
horse into a canter until his scabbard clattered at young Bellairs'
boot. Nothing but the rattling and the jolting of the guns and
ammunition-wagon was audible, except just on ahead of them the
click-clack, click-click-clack of the advance-guard. To the right and
left of them the shadowy forms of giant banian-trees loomed and slid
past them as they had done for the past four hours, and for ten paces
ahead they could see the faintly outlined shape of the trunk road that
they followed. The rest was silence and a pall of blackness obscuring
everything. They had ridden along a valley, but they had emerged on
rising ground and there was one spot of color in the pall now, or else a
hole in it.
“What d'you suppose that is burning over there?”
“I couldn't say, sir.”
“How far away is it?”
“Very hard to tell on a night like this, sir. It might be ten miles
away and might be twenty. By my reckoning it's on our road, though, and
somewhere between here and Jundhra.”
“So it seems to me; our road swings round to the right presently,
doesn't it? That'll lead us right to it. That would make it Doonha more
or less. D'you suppose it's at Doonha?”
“I was thinking it might be, sir. If it's Doonha, it means that the
sepoy barracks and all the stores are burning--there's nothing else
there that would make all that flame!”
“There are two companies of the Thirty-third there, too.”
“Yes, sir, but they're under canvas; tents would blaze up, but they'd
die down again in a minute. That fire's steady and growing bigger!”
“It's the sepoy barracks, then!”
“Seems so to me, sir!”
“Halt!” roared Bellairs. The advance-guard kicked up a little shower
of sparks, trace-chains slacked with a jingle and the jolting ceased.
Bellairs rode up to the advance-guard.
“Now, Sergeant,” he ordered, “it looks as though that were the Doonha
barracks burning over yonder. There's no knowing, though, what it is.
Send four men on, two hundred yards ahead of you, and you and the rest
keep a good two hundred yards ahead of the guns. See that the men keep
on the alert, and mind that they spare their horses as much as possible.
If there's going to be trouble, we may just as well be ready for it!”
“Very good, sir!”
“Go ahead, then!”
At a word from the sergeant, four men clattered off and were swallowed
in the darkness. A minute later the advance-guard followed them and
then, after another minute's pause, young Bellairs' voice was raised
into a ringing shout again.
“Section, advance! Trot, march!”
The trace-chains tightened, and the clattering, bumping, jingling
procession began again, its rear brought up by the six-horse
ammunition-wagon. They rode speechless for the best part of an hour,
each man's eyes on the distant conflagration that had begun now to light
up the whole of the sky ahead of them. They still rode in darkness, but
they seemed to be approaching the red rim of the Pit. Huge, billowing
clouds of smoke, red-lit on the under side, belched upward to the
blackness overhead, and a something that was scarcely sound--for it was
yet too distant--warned them that it was no illusion they were riding
into. The conflagration grew. It seemed to be nearly white-hot down
below.
Bellairs wet his finger and held it extended upward.
“There's no wind that I can feel!” he muttered. “And yet, if that were
a grass-fire, there'd be game and rats and birds and things--some of 'em
would bolt this way. That's the Doonha barracks burning or I'm a black
man, which the Lord forbid!”
A minute later, every man in the section pricked up his ears. There
was no order given; but a sensation ran the whole length of it and a
movement from easy riding to tense rigidity that could be felt by some
sixth sense. Every man was listening, feeling, groping with his senses
for something he could neither hear as yet nor see, but that he knew was
there. And then, far-distant yet--not above, but under the jolting of
the gun-wheels and the rattle of the scabbards--they could hear the
clickety-clickety-clickety-click of a horse hard-ridden.
They had scarcely caught that sound, they had barely tightened up their
bridle-reins, when another sound, one just as unmistakable, burst out in
front of them. A ragged, ill-timed volley ripped out from somewhere
near the conflagration and was answered instantly by one that was
close-ripped like the fire of heavy ordnance. And then one of the
advance-guard wheeled his horse and drove his spurs home rowel-deep. He
came thundering back along the road with his scabbard out in the wind
behind him and reined up suddenly when his horse's forefeet were abreast
of the lieutenant.
“There's some one coming, sir, hard as he can gallop! He's one of our
men by the sound of him. His horse is shod--and I thought I saw steel
when the fire-light fell on him a minute ago!”
“Are you sure there's only one?”
“Sure, sir! You can hear him now!”
“All right! Fall in behind me!”
Bellairs felt his sword-hilt and cocked a pistol stealthily, but he gave
no orders to the section. This might be a native soldier run amuck, and
it might be a messenger; but in either case, friend or foe, if there was
only one man he could deal with him alone.
“Halt!” roared the advance-guard suddenly. But the horse's hoof-beats
never checked for a single instant.
“Halt, you! Who comes there?”
“Friend!” came the answer, in an accent that was unmistakable.
“What friend? Where are you going?”
One of the advance-guard reined his horse across the road. The others
followed suit and blocked the way effectually. “Halt!” they roared in
unison.
The main body of the advance came up with them.
“Who is he?” shouted the sergeant.
“We'll soon see! Here he comes!”
“Out of my way!” yelled a voice, as a foamed-flecked horse burst out of
the darkness like an apparition and bore straight down on them--his head
bored a little to one side, the red rims of his nostrils wide distended
and his whole sense and energy, and strength concentrated on pleasing
the speed-hungry Irishman who rode him. He flashed into them head-on,
like a devil from the outer darkness. His head touched a man's knee--and
he rose and tried to jump him! His breast crashed full into the
obstruction and horse and gunner crashed down to the road.
A dozen arms reached out--twelve horses surged in a clattering
melee--two hands gripped the reins and four arms seized the rider,
and in a second the panting charger was brought up all-standing. The
sergeant thrust his grim face closer and peered at their capture.
“Good--, if it ain't an officer!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon,
sir!”
And at that instant the section rattled, up behind them, with Bellairs
in the lead.
“Halt!” roared Bellairs. “What's this?”
“Bloody murder, arson, high treason, mutiny and death! Blood and onions,
man! Don't your men know an officer when they see one? Who are you? Are
you Bellairs? Then why in God's name didn't you say so sooner? What have
you waited for?
“How many hours is it since you got the message through from Jundhra?
Couldn't you see the barracks burning? Who am I--I'm Captain O'Rourke,
of the Thirty-third, sent to see what you're doing on the road, that's
who I am! A full-fledged; able-bodied captain wasted in a crisis, just
because you didn't choose to hurry! Poison take your confounded gunners,
sir! Have they nothing better to engage them than holding up officers on
the Queen's trunk road?”
“Supposing you tell me what's the matter?” suggested young Bellairs,
prompt as are most of his breed to appear casual the moment there was
cause to feel excited.
“Your gunners have taken all my breath, sir. I can't speak!”
“You shouldn't take chances with a section of artillery! They're not
like infantry--they don't sleep all the time--you can't ride through
them as a rule!”
“Don't sleep, don't they! Then what have you been doing on the road? And
what are you standing here for? Ride, man, ride! You're wanted!”
“Get out of the way, then!” suggested Bellairs, and Captain O'Rourke
legged his panting charger over to the roadside.
“Advance-guard, forward, trot!” commanded the lieutenant.
“Have you brought your wife with you?” demanded O'Rourke, peering into
the jingling blackness.
“No. Of course not. Why?”
“'Of course not! Why?' says the man! Hell and hot porridge! Why, the
whole of India's ablaze from end to end--the sepoys have mutinied to a
man, and the rest have joined them! There's bloody murder doing--they've
shot their officers--Hammond's dead and Carstairs and Welfleet and
heaven knows who else. They've burned their barracks and the stores and
they're trying to seize the magazine. If they get that, God help every
one. They're short of ammunition as it is, but two companies of the
Thirty-third can't hold out for long against that horde. You'll be in
the nick of time! Hurry, man! For the love of anything you like to name,
get a move on!”