Ted's Hopes are raised and dashed to the Ground
"Have you seen the new arrivals, Ted?" asked Jim, as he came back from a
visit to cantonments one day.
"No, who are they?"
"Hodson's Horse, the 'Flamingoes' as they've been nicknamed, from the
colour of their sashes. Go down and look at them; they're worth seeing,
and so is Hodson, their commandant."
"Is he the Lieutenant Hodson who once commanded our regiment?" asked
Ted, who had heard of the famous freelance.
"That's the man. He got into trouble with the Guides, and now he's been
allowed to raise this regiment of horse."
So the two chums waited until both were free from duty, and went down to
look at the stalwart Sikh and Pathan horsemen, who afterwards became
known to fame as the 9th and 10th Bengal Lancers throughout Hindustan
and its frontiers, and in China, Egypt, the Soudan, and Abyssinia. A
crowd had gathered round the gaudily-attired "Flamingoes", who sat their
horses proudly, much gratified by the reception. They were about to
exercise the horses.
"Not so bad," said Ted approvingly; "but not quite up to our Guides--eh,
Alec?"
"They look good soldiers," Paterson replied. "Why,--well, I'm blowed!
What's Boldre doing there?"
"Who?"
"Claude Boldre! See, that kid on the rat-tailed dun, with a Flamingo
sash. I left him at school, and didn't even know he'd got a commission.
His father's the colonel of a regiment that mutinied recently, I heard.
He's a decent sort."
Paterson walked behind his friend, who had not yet perceived them, and
dealt him a sounding smack on the thigh.
"Come down off that horse, Boldre!" was his salutation. "Do you imagine
yourself a Flamingo?"
"Who are--why, if it ain't Alec Paterson, by all that's wonderful! How
did you come here?"
Alec explained briefly, and introduced Ted.
"Oh, I've heard of you, Mr. Russell," said the horseman, "and I'm proud
to meet you."
"Well, explain what you are doing here in that uniform. Didn't know they
had ensigns in Hodson's."
"I'm a loot'nant," laughed Boldre; "that is, temporary rank conferred by
John Nicholson. I've no commission at all really, but I helped to raise
a troop or two of these fellows by sheer good luck."
"You helped to raise them?"
"Yes; I'll tell you the story some other time. They had captured me, and
were about to shoot me, when the news of Nicholson's disarming the
sepoys at Peshawur came to hand. Then they changed sides cheerfully, and
wanted to enlist under Nicholson, and I brought them along to Peshawur.
They are rummy beggars! It's first-class being with them. Where are you
now--upon the Ridge?"
Ted explained their position, and Boldre promised to look them up as
soon as he could. Hodson then appeared on the scene, and the Flamingoes
trotted away.
Early in July General Barnard died of cholera after a few hours'
illness. His successor, General Reed, had to relinquish the command
through ill-health before the middle of the month, so Sir Archdale
Wilson was appointed. He was the fourth general who had commanded the
force within the space of ten weeks.
Now and again Ted was sent by Major Reid to bear his reports to the
general in command. On one of these occasions he had no sooner entered
the head-quarters tent than General Wilson greeted him with the amazing
words:
"Ensign Russell! This is fortunate, for I was about to send for you."
"Yes, sir," Ted replied, and wondered what was coming.
"You distinguished yourself at Aurungpore, I understand?"
"I was at Aurungpore, sir."
The general regarded him curiously for a moment before he resumed.
"Major Munro, who commanded your late regiment after the disablement of
the colonel, has recommended you for the Victoria Cross. I have looked
into the matter carefully, and cordially approve the recommendation, so
there is little doubt that you will obtain the decoration. I
congratulate you, Ensign Russell; you acted as an English lad should."
Sir Archdale Wilson shook hands, and at the same time a man rose
painfully from his chair by the general's side--a man lame and feeble,
worn out by disease; a man who should have been in hospital, had not his
spirit been stronger than his body. He grasped the boy's hand, and
cordially exclaimed, "Well done, youngster! well done!"
That man was Colonel Baird Smith, the great engineer, the man in whose
hands General Wilson had left all the operations for the capture of
Delhi; the man who was even now forming his great plan and scheming his
wonderful works for the assault.
Ted left the tent, walking as if in a dream, hardly knowing whether he
stood on his head or his feet. The V.C.! He, Ted Russell, to have the
V.C.!
He hurried back to consult with Alec, and it seemed as though every man,
horse or foot, officer, private, or humble bhisti, was looking at him
and discussing his good fortune. He started and came to himself as
Claude Boldre touched him on the shoulder.
"How do you do, Mr. Russell?" he said. "If you are going up towards the
Gurkha picket I should like to go with you. Alec Paterson used to be a
great chum of mine at school. Oh! allow me to introduce you to
Lieutenant Roberts of the Bengal Artillery."
Ted nodded to Boldre's companion, a young man, slight and short of
stature, with a frank, open countenance that told of an active,
intelligent brain, and a brave, true heart. He was attired in the
handsome uniform of the dashing Artillery Corps, and Ted liked his new
acquaintance at once.
"I've only just arrived," said the gunner, "and I want to see
everything. Tell me all about Hindu Rao's house."
Glad of the opportunity, the ensign told the story of the Ridge, and for
a few moments forgot the V.C.
"You seem to have enjoyed yourself," Boldre commented.
Ted blushed. "Well, it has been rather exciting, and you see I've not
suffered. It's different for those fellows who have."
The artillery lieutenant smiled as he looked at the boy's cheek.
"You seem to have had one cut at least," he observed.
"Oh, that was nothing!" Ted replied.
They had approached the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as a hollow on
the Ridge was called on account of its exposure to the rebel fire, when
a shell burst not forty yards away. Ted noticed with admiration that
though Boldre and he both started as if hit, the gunner officer never
turned a hair, but calmly completed the remark he was making. The boy
felt that he was in the presence of no ordinary man. Before taking his
visitors into the house Ted pointed out the different gates and bastions
of the city. As they were surveying these, Alec and Charlie came up.
Lieutenant Roberts looked steadfastly at the latter and exclaimed:
"Hullo, ain't you Lieutenant Dorricot?"
Charlie looked keenly at his questioner.
"That's my name, but I don't know you from the Grand Mogul."
"That's not strange; I was only thirteen and in the fourth form at Eton
when you left. I'm Fred Roberts, and we were both under the same tutor,
the Rev. Eyre Young. You were some years older than I, and I chiefly
remember you because I admired the way you once gave a jolly good
thrashing to a bully--I forget his name, but he was ill-treating a
youngster."
Charlie laughed and shook hands, saying, "Turkey Bletcher, you mean! So
you remember that? What are you doing here?"
"I've just come. Been with the Movable Column, but applied to come here,
and they gave me permission."
"Are you on the staff?"
"Yes; I've just applied for the post of
deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general for artillery, and I've been
lucky enough to get it."
"So you're the D. A. Q. M. G., are you?" said Dorricot, with some
respect that one so young should have obtained this important post.
They little thought that this slight and young lieutenant was destined
to become one of Britain's greatest and best-beloved soldiers,
Field-marshal Earl Roberts of Kandahar and Pretoria, V.C.
"So you've been with Nicholson?" said Paterson, who was a great admirer
of that frontier hero and demi-god. "He's a wonderful leader, I
suppose?"
"The finest soldier in the world!" Lieutenant Roberts quietly asserted.
"Rather!" chimed in Claude Boldre. "He's a grand man. I've been lucky in
experiencing what the Pathans along the frontier think of him. They
consider him a sort of second Mahomet."
"I suppose he's performing miracles in the Punjab," said Alec. "Is it
really true that they worship him as a god?"
"Up in Hazara," replied the artilleryman, "they've formed a sect called
the Nikkulseyns, and though Nicholson only thrashed them when they
worshipped him, they considered it an honour to be whipped by him, and
those who didn't get a licking envied their more fortunate neighbours.
The fakir who founded the sect bothered Nikkulseyn to give him his old
beaver hat, and as he received no encouragement, the wily old gentleman
procured one like it. He then went the round of the shops at the busiest
time of the day, and placed the hat in the doorway, so that none might
leave or enter without removing or kicking it over. When customers were
about to enter, the fakir called out, warning them not to desecrate the
topi which had been worn by the great and mighty and holy Nikkulseyn.
Nicholson was such a power in the land that none dared remove it, and at
last the old fraud consented to take it away on being paid one rupee by
the shopkeeper. He would thereupon proceed to another shop and repeat
these tactics. When Nicholson heard of this he gave the fakir and his
disciples a sound hiding all round, but they only sang hymns of praise
to him."
"He was worshipped in Bunnu almost as much as in Hazara, was he not?"
enquired Paterson; and Claude Boldre replied:
"Yes, he was both worshipped and feared. Before he went there, an orphan
boy had been cheated out of his land by his guardian uncle, named
Allodad Khan. A few years later the young man went to law in order to
recover his property, but Allodad Khan, who was a rich powerful man, had
bribed and threatened all the village, and none would give evidence
against him. Nicholson heard of this, and guessed how matters stood. One
morning, just after dawn, a villager, going out early, was spell-bound
at seeing Nicholson's well-known white mare cropping the grass outside
the village. He ran back and breathlessly told the news. All the
inhabitants turned out to gaze, and someone quickly perceived Nicholson
himself tied to a tree close by. Their first thought was to run away,
but a few plucked up sufficient spirit to go tremblingly to the
commissioner's aid. In terrible wrath Nicholson asked who had dared to
treat him like this. They bowed before him, but so terrified were they
that no one could answer. 'Whose land is this, then?' he demanded. 'The
owner of the land is responsible.' The villagers pointed to Allodad
Khan, who fell on his knees, declaring, 'No, no, sahib, the land is my
nephew's. He is responsible for the outrage.' Nicholson sternly made him
swear to this before the whole village, and then the ruffian saw that
he'd been made a fool of. So the nephew got possession of the estate and
money, and Allodad Khan, finding the village too warm for him, went on a
pilgrimage to Mecca."
"He must be a wonderful man," Alec murmured half to himself. "I wish
he'd come to Delhi."
"He will," said Claude Boldre. "He as good as told me so when he sent me
off with the Flamingoes."
Ted was all impatience to impart his great news, but modesty forbade him
while the strangers were present. The two visitors having inspected the
defences of the famous mansion, and criticised most favourably the
appearance of the Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas, took their departure.
"The general's told me that I'm to have the V.C., Alec," Ted whispered.
"Honour bright?"
Our ensign nodded.
"Congratulations, old man,--and I think you deserved it. Ensign Russell,
V.C.!... Splendid, Ted!"
"What's that?" asked Jim, who had joined the group. "You're to have the
V.C., young'un?"
Ted then related what had passed, and Charlie Dorricot thumped him
violently in the small of the back.
"Well done, Ted!" he shouted excitedly. "I am glad; you deserve it, you
cheeky little beggar!"
Ted being called away for a moment, Jim gravely observed:
"Well, I'm not so sure that I'm glad. He's having too much luck, and
will be thinking no end of himself unless he's careful. Of course I'm
very proud of him, but I'd have preferred him to win it a few years
later."
"Oh, Ted's all right!" Charlie assured him. "He won't be spoiled. He's a
sterling sort of kid."
At that moment the subject of the conversation returned, and a pause
ensued before the elder brother spoke.
"Ted, I was just saying that I'm not quite sure whether I am very glad
or not."
The ensign's face fell.
"You won't misunderstand me, old chap, or think I'm jealous, but you're
very young, and too much luck is apt to turn our heads. I'm not saying
that you didn't deserve it, but don't go about thinking that you're a
very wonderful youngster, for there's many an ensign here would have
done the same. If it makes you conceited, Ted, it will be a very bad
thing for you ever to have won it. But if you're a man, and if you don't
put on 'side', all of us will rejoice in your honours."
Ted was silent for a few moments, then held out his hand to his brother.
"I understand, old man; I know there are many who'd have done it, and
perhaps done it better. I'll try to remember that."
"Well done, Ted!" cried his cousin. "I think you'll do, young 'un. Jim's
rather inclined to preach, but he's all right."
Ted and Alec repaired to the Flagstaff Tower, the meeting-place of the
British camp, situated on the Ridge about a mile north of the Gurkha
picket, overlooking the artillery lines and the head-quarters camp, the
latter being about half a mile farther to the north-west. From the
Flagstaff Tower the road ran straight to the Kashmir Gate, and as the
ground was high and the place well out of range, it was a favourite spot
whence to gaze at the rebel town.
Ted was very thoughtful, and Alec very silent. The former's ardour had
been damped by his brother's speech, and he wondered whether Jim really
was jealous of his good fortune. He dismissed the idea as unworthy of
Jim, whose honour and grit he appreciated fully. Still, it was rather a
damper, and he could not help wishing that his brother had been less
candid.
It was at the Flagstaff Tower that our friends of the Gurkha picket were
accustomed to hear the news of the camp. There they learned of many
deeds of valour; of the wonderful daring of Tombs of the Artillery, how
he had rescued his equally brave subaltern, Hills, from certain death,
and how he had had five horses shot under him already. "One almost every
time he goes out," commented Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot. It was
there they had heard of the arrival of Colonel Baird Smith, the chief
engineer. "He's the man who'll take Delhi," a youngster of the "Cokeys"
had prophesied; and that lad was not far wrong.
But on this day the bearers of news from camp wore troubled looks. Some
unwelcome tidings had evidently arrived since Ted's visit below.
"Anything wrong to-day?" Alec anxiously enquired.
"Cawnpore has fallen, and the black fiends have murdered the whole
garrison, women and children too--the hell-hounds!"
Ted shuddered as he listened to the details of that awful butchery.
Edward Russell was a lad who had faults enough, but he had never been
cruel. He would not needlessly torture the humblest of God's creatures,
yet he felt, as he listened to the horrible tidings, that nothing would
give him greater pleasure than the blowing up of Delhi and of every
sepoy therein. Unhappily this red-hot indignation was nursed by many
Englishmen until they forgot the traditions of their race.
The few hundred Englishmen in Cawnpore had been attacked by Dundu Pant,
Rajah of Bithur, better known as the infamous Nana Sahib, a man who had
posed as a civilized Asiatic, an imitator of the English. The garrison,
composed of detachments of several regiments, of civilians, and of
officers whose regiments had risen, was trapped in a position unsuited
to a long defence. After a gallant stand, General Sir Hugh Wheeler was
convinced that in another day or two all would be over, and for the sake
of the women and children, who numbered more than three hundred, he
agreed to make terms. Dundu Pant swore that if they would give up the
entrenchment, the guns, and the treasure, he would have them all
conveyed in boats down the Ganges to a place of safety. The black
Mahratta's promises and protestations deceived them all, and they
embarked. The boats were taken out into mid-stream, when suddenly a
bugle blew; the boatmen sprang into the river, and from both banks lines
of hidden sepoy marksmen began to pick off the betrayed Feringhis. Four
Europeans escaped to tell the tale. The lucky ones were those who were
killed by the bullets. Many were taken alive from the water, and of
these the men were murdered at once; the women and children were led
away to endure a captivity of more than a fortnight's duration. Hearing
of Havelock's approach, Dundu Pant then performed the second act of the
ghastly tragedy which has made his name world-infamous. The poor
captives, numbering perhaps two hundred, were hacked to death, and their
bodies thrown down a well.
Small wonder that British blood should boil over when the story was
told; small wonder that the men of the 60th Rifles should shake their
fists as they looked from the Ridge into the rebel capital, towards the
distant palace and home of vice, and should vow vengeance on every
faithless sepoy, be he Mohammedan like the King of Delhi or Hindu like
the Mahratta rajah.
And Cawnpore was not the only scene of murder and outrage. The army
before Delhi was cut off from Calcutta and the Gangetic provinces, and
news did not come every day. But with the tale of the vilest tragedy of
all came also the bad tidings from Allahabad, where the poor ensigns
were foully murdered, from Benares and Jhansi, from Fyzabad,
Shahjehanpur, and Dinapur. Right along the Ganges the provinces and
towns seethed with mutiny and murder, regiment after regiment having
risen against the alien; and Oudh, the kingdom from which the Native
Bengal Army was chiefly recruited, was ablaze from one end to another,
the people joining hands with the rebels in their hatred of the
foreigners who had dethroned their wicked king.
There was one patch of blue in the lowering sky. Lucknow, the capital of
Oudh, was holding out bravely. There the best and greatest and most
loved man in India was holding the rebel troops at bay with his handful
of Englishmen and a number of loyal sepoys, who thereby won everlasting
honour. This was Sir Henry Lawrence, the elder brother of John Lawrence.
He it was who had pacified the Punjabis, and first taught the stout
Sikhs and Pathans and Jats that Englishmen ruled for the benefit of the
natives. He it was who gathered round him and trained that band of noble
men who ruled the Punjab in such manner that Englishmen came to be
respected and honoured and even loved by those who had hated the
Feringhis most, a few years before. Men like his brother John, John
Nicholson, Herbert Edwardes, and others who became famous as great
soldiers and the best administrators the world has ever known--they were
all proud to call themselves the disciples of Henry Lawrence. Henry
Lawrence governed the Punjab as supreme ruler--as king, in fact, though
not in name, when the Punjab was the most turbulent and unruly kingdom
in Asia, and he had made it the best-governed. When he was called away
his brother John had worthily filled his shoes, and but for the devotion
and genius and goodness of heart of these two brothers, England might
have lost India.
When the mutiny broke out, Henry Lawrence was Resident of Oudh. Had he
been there a few years longer, the men of Oudh would not have
entertained that hatred of the British which now filled their hearts,
but his beneficent rule had hardly had time to make itself felt. He
alone--though he sympathized with and loved the natives of India more
than any other Englishman--had foreseen the possibility of the rising,
and he had taken steps to meet it in Lucknow. Owing to his foresight and
generalship the Residency had been fortified and provisioned, and when
the rising took place all the Europeans were within the fort, and the
mutineers raged furiously but in vain.
Our friends at Delhi learned that Havelock and Neill were leading a
small column to the rescue of Lucknow, fighting every inch of the way.
Neill had been hastily summoned from Madras with his gallant regiment,
and had already done splendid work. Lord Canning, the viceroy, had risen
to the occasion. Without hesitating he had brought back Outram's Persia
Expeditionary Force, and had courageously taken upon himself to stop at
Colombo the ships which were taking troops to China, and divert them to
Calcutta. China might wait, India could not.
In the Punjab the poorbeahs had shot their bolt and had missed. First
Chamberlain and then Nicholson, with the movable column, were giving the
rebels no rest, harrying them from one province to another, and
punishing them severely.
It was not at the Flagstaff Tower, but at their own post that they heard
the news that made each man feel as if he had lost a dear friend. Henry
Lawrence was dead. Yes, one of the pillars of the empire had fallen, and
even the roughest soldiers felt the shock.
"Ah, he was a man, he was!" murmured a rifleman. "We sha'n't see another
like him."
A sergeant of the 60th gazed thoughtfully over the city.
"My two kids are in that asylum he built up at Sanawar," said he. "He
was the sojer's friend. The kiddies 'ud have bin dead by now if it
hadn't bin for 'im."
"You're right there," said another non-commissioned officer, shaking
his head. "He's done more for us than any man. Who cared what became of
the poor little beggars, whether they died like flies or not, till he
raised the money for the asylums?"
"What asylums are them?" asked a young private.
"Have ye no' heard o' the Lawrence Asylums?" demanded a man from Lanark.
"They're built on the hills, whaur the air is as guid as at Rothesay,
an' they're for the soldiers' bairns."
"Aye!" said the sergeant; "and though he was only a poor man for one in
his position, they said he spent nearly all his salary in charity."
"Lucknow won't be long now he's dead," muttered another. "They can't
hold out for ever, and the rebels are swarming round Havelock. He's had
to fall back."
But Lucknow was not destined to fall.
"Well, I'm not a cruel man," muttered the young private, "but I could
kill a few o' them sepoys with pleasure, the black-'earted villains!"
We may regret this longing for vengeance, but can we wonder at it? The
men had heard of their comrades murdered in cold blood, of the women and
children tortured and slain most barbarously, and their blood boiled at
the outrages. Afterwards it was found that the tales of torture and
cruelty had been exaggerated, and that the helpless women and children
had been slain quickly and not after prolonged suffering. But even then
matters were black enough to excuse the cries for vengeance. Many good
and usually gentle men steeled their hearts at this time and gave no
quarter to rebel soldiers, but let us thank God that there were many
brave Englishmen--the Lawrences foremost among them--who forgave a great
deal to the sepoys, and who took into account their temptations and
their untamed nature, and who would much rather have won the rebels
over by kindness than by slaughter had it been possible.
But that was not possible.
A number of the older soldiers of the Guides came up as the riflemen
were still discussing the latest news. A veteran native officer, grief
depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, addressed Captain Russell in
tones of mingled sadness and anxiety.
"Is it true, Captain Sahib, that Henry Larens is dead? Tell us it is
false."
Jim's voice faltered. Henry Lawrence had been the hero he had
worshipped.
"It is true," said he, simply.
"I would have given my life to save his, sahib," said the old Sikh. "His
was the brain that raised the Corps of Guides, and he it was who gave me
my commission. Oh, my brothers, a great man is dead! Let us go and mourn
for Larens Sahib."
The veteran drew his sword and shook it at the sepoys on the walls.
"Wait a little while," he added, "and there will be many mourners in
that den of jackals."
The heat was now terrible--a torture that could not be imagined by the
people at home; that took the life and energy from the strongest, while
as for the others--well, they must suffer the fate of the weak. In the
daytime the pitiless Indian sun blazed down upon them, awful in its
power and wrath, and at night they gasped for air, and choked, and
cursed, or grimly joked, or called upon God, according to their nature.
Ted Russell, healthy and in good condition, with no superfluous flesh,
suffered less than most. He had one slight attack of cholera in the
early days of July. One day, having been on duty all night, he lay
within the house, in little more than bathing-costume, vainly trying to
snatch an hour's sleep, for the Mori guns were hard at work. Overhead
the sky was of a uniform deep-blue, broken only by the mass of fire
almost directly above, and by the haze along the horizon.
As if by magic, the thundering of the guns from the Delhi bastions
ceased, and the well-known strains of our National Anthem were wafted by
the south wind from the Mogul city.
"'God Save the Queen!'" gasped Ted. "What's the meaning of that?"
All listened in bewilderment. What could it mean? Had the sepoys
suddenly repented and become loyal again? As the band ceased, the big
guns of the city thundered forth a royal salute, and then were silent as
the band again played "God Save the Queen!".
"What cheek! What awful cheek!" Alec indignantly exclaimed. "Well, that
beats everything!"
"What is it?" asked Ted again. "What are they playing that tune for?"
"They are mocking us," Claud Boldre angrily replied. "They have heard
what we heard this morning. The curs have captured Agra town, and now I
suppose they're gloating over their victory and making fun of us."
His guess was true; the sepoys had taken this strange method of
celebrating their triumph. It shows they were not without some sense of
humour.
Among the crowd attracted to the "Flagstaff" meeting-place by the
unusual strains were many of our hero's new chums. Both he and Alec had
formed close friendships with a number of the junior officers from the
camp below the Ridge, and Ted particularly had become very popular. He
had both proved himself courageous and shown good commonsense, and he
never once attempted to put on "side". The terrible danger he had gone
through at Aurungpore had steadied down his love of fun and joking, and
made him realize his responsibilities. Had he come straight to Delhi
without having undergone that trying experience in the arsenal, he would
soon have found some mischief in which to entangle his Guides and
Gurkhas. They would have been only too delighted to have joined in any
fun, however rash and hazardous.
"I say, Russell," observed Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot, "you're a
lucky beggar, you know. You've had your fair share of the fun."
"Fair share!" growled Claud Boldre. "Why, in his twelve months' service
he's had more than most colonels can boast of in as many years. First he
goes exploding magazines up and down the country, and instead of being
blown up he gets the V.C. Then he's boxed up and besieged, and
thrillingly rescued like a scene out of a melodrama; after that he's
lucky enough to take part in the grandest march on record; and now he's
on duty at Hindu Rao's picket, where all the fighting is. Fair share,
indeed! It ought to have been divided amongst half a dozen of us."
"And it ain't that he's particularly handsome," laughed Alec.
Ted grinned. He was too decent a fellow to become conceited, and he
admitted that he had had more than his share of the luck.
They were still joking when something happened that tended to confirm
their belief in our ensign's luck. One of the general's aides came up
and told Ted that Sir Archdale wished to speak to him at once.
"You'll come back a lieutenant at least, Ted," was Alec's unasked-for
opinion.
"Lieutenant indeed!" laughed Collins. "I expect he's going to order
Russell to blow up Delhi _à la_ Aurungpore."
"Or else resign the command in Russell's favour," was Boldre's
suggestion.
Ted grinned back at them all, but his heart beat somewhat rapidly as he
was ushered into the head-quarters tent, and it was to beat much more
wildly before he left.
Sir Archdale looked up as the boy entered, and went on with his work for
some moments, and Ted stood at attention and wondered what was going to
happen. At length the general again glanced up from his papers. He was
evidently very busy.
"You sent for me, sir?" Ted faltered.
"Yes. I am sorry that my duty is much less pleasant than on the previous
occasion, when I prematurely raised your hopes of the V.C."
Ted gasped.
"I hope it may still be all right," General Wilson continued, "but this
morning I received notice from Colonel Munro that there is another
claimant to the honour of having exploded the magazine at Aurungpore."
Ted was utterly bewildered. He could not find a word to say.
"It seems that another officer of yours--let me see," the general took
up a letter that lay on the table, and referred thereto. "Ah, Ensign
Tynan!--was taken prisoner by the sepoys, but rescued; and his story is
that he was in command of the party holding the fort, and that it was he
who fired the train. His account is confirmed by a native officer who
saved his life, and who was present."
"Why, sir, there was no native officer in the party," Ted exclaimed, "no
one higher than a havildar, and he was with me all the time.--So Tynan
is really alive, sir?"
"Evidently. Of course, I am in no position to judge between you, and I
know nothing beyond the bald facts just related. If you dispute his
statements an enquiry will have to be held later."
"His statements!" said Ted indignantly. "Why, sir, he implored me to
surrender, and not to fire the train, and Ambar Singh, the havildar,
will bear me out. Thinking he was dead, I never told that to a soul,
sir; but if he has lied in this way, he deserves to be shown up."
"I trust that no British officer would act as you allege, Ensign
Russell," said the general coldly. "At present I can say nothing more,
and I am very busy. Rest assured that justice will be done."
Ted saluted stiffly, and walked out. If he had felt dazed on the
previous occasion, what were his feelings now? Full of indignation
against his dishonourable messmate, and of intense disappointment
because of the probable loss of the coveted honour, he strode back to
the Gurkha picket, and told Jim and Paterson what had happened.
They could hardly credit the story. They both knew Tynan's character,
and Alec had heard Ambar Singh's free version of the incident, and they
felt no doubt regarding the result of any enquiry.
"Don't be downcast, Ted, old boy," said Jim affectionately. "It will
soon be all right."
"But who can the native officer be?" Alec wondered. "It's a mystery."
"I can't make it out," Ted replied. "Anyway Ambar Singh and Dwarika Rai
will give evidence, and then where will Master Tynan be?"
"But look here, Ted," said his brother in an agitated voice. "Where are
those two? They may have been drafted into some other regiment and sent
a thousand miles away, or both may be killed. Or they may have been
allowed to return home, and have left no trace. In that case it would be
your word against Tynan's, and though no one who knows you both could
have any doubt, yet his word will be as good as yours at the enquiry. I
do hope it will come out all right, old boy."
"I'm sure it will," said Alec. "Cheer up, Ted!"
More easily said than done, and our ensign went about his work with a
heavy and angry heart. Fortunately for his peace of mind, when the news
spread, Boldre, Collins, and all his chums rallied round him, and voted
the absent Tynan a beast and a liar.