THE CHEAPER MAN.
"No proposition Euclid wrote,
No formulæ the text-books show,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow:
Strike hard, who cares--shoot straight, who can;
The odds are on the cheaper man!"
--RUDYARD KIPLING: _Arithmetic on the Frontier._
The second week in March found the little force from Kohat still
skirmishing energetically through a network of ravines, nullahs, and
jagged red hills; still dealing out rough justice to unrepentant
Afridis in accordance with instructions from headquarters; or as
nearly in accordance with them as Colonel Buchanan's pronounced views
on the ethics of warfare would permit. For Buchanan was a just man of
independent character, a type not ostentatiously beloved by heads of
departments. He had a reprehensible trick of thinking for himself and
acting accordingly--a habit liable to create havoc among the
card-houses of officialdom; and like all soldiers of the first grade,
he was resolute against the cowardly method of striking at the guilty
through the innocent; resolute in limiting the evils of war to its
authors and active abettors.
He had taken full advantage of his temporary rank to run the
expedition on his own lines; and although his instructions included
the burning of crops, he had kept rigid control over this part of the
programme; giving officers and men free scope for activity in the
demolishing of armed forts and towers, and in skirmishes with the
wild tribes who harried their transport trains, rushed their pickets,
sent playful bullets whizzing through the mess-tent at night, and
generally enjoyed themselves after the rough and ready fashion of the
hillsman across the Border.
The Afridis in truth were merely tired of behaving like good children.
The unstained knives at their belts cried shame on them for their
prolonged abstinence from the legitimate joys of manhood;--the music
of bullets whistling down a gorge, the yielding of an enemy's flesh
under the knife.
Therefore, when Colonel Buchanan and his little force started punitive
operations, they were met by a surprisingly concerted and spirited
resistance. The cunning tribesmen, having got what they wanted in the
shape of excitement, were determined to make the most of it. Thus, the
expedition had flared up into one of those minor guerilla campaigns
which have cost England more, in the lives of picked officers, than
she is ever likely to calculate; being, for the most part, careful and
troubled about weightier matters.
The sweeping movement, organised to include all villages implicated in
the raid, took longer than had been anticipated. The demolishing of
Afridi watch-towers, manned by the finest natural marksmen in the
world, and built on bases proof against everything but gunpowder, is
no child's play; and at almost every village on the line of route the
troops had found their work cut out for them. That they carried it out
gallantly and effectively need hardly be said, since we are dealing
with the pick of India's soldiers, the Punjab Frontier Force.
Their daily march led them along broken tracks or boulder-strewn beds
of torrents, winding through a land where "the face of God is a
rock";--a land feigning death, yet alive with hidden foes who
announced their presence from time to time by the snick of a
breech-bolt, the whing of a bullet, or a concerted rush upon the
rear-guard from some conveniently narrow ravine.
Little interruptions of this sort helped to keep all ranks on the
alert, and to make things cheerful generally; but they also took up
time. And although the middle of March found them back within
twenty-one miles of Kohat, there seemed little hope of quieting the
country under another week or two at least.
On the evening of the 16th, after two days of skirmishing and a broken
night under the stars, imperative need of water compelled them to
encamp at the open end of a valley whose enclosing heights narrowed
abruptly to the northward into an ugly-looking gorge.
Tents sprang up right and left; lines for horses and mules established
themselves in less time than it would take the uninitiated to see
where and how the thing could be done; and that eighth wonder of the
world, the native cook, achieved a four-course dinner with a mud oven,
army rations, a small supply of looted fowls, and a large supply of
ingenuity. A party of cavalry, having reconnoitred the ravines
branching off into higher hills, reported no signs of the enemy. A
cordon of sentries was told off for duty; and the posting of strong
pickets on the near hill-tops, and in the neighbourhood of the camp
itself, completed the night's arrangements. Clanking of accoutrements,
jangle of harness, and all the subdued hum of human life, died away
into stillness; lights dropped out one by one; and the valley was
given over to silence and a multitude of stars.
Touched into silver here and there by the ethereal radiance--for
starshine is a reality in India--the scene presented a Dantesque
mingling of beauty and terror,--the twin elements of life, which are
"only one, not two."
At a little distance behind the clustering tents the ground sloped
boldly upward to summits dark with patches of stunted forest; and
beyond these again the snow-peaks of the Safed Koh mountains stood
dreaming to the stars. Lower down, at rare intervals, dwarf oaks and
the "low lean thorn" of the desert stood out, black and spectral,
against the lesser darkness of rocks and stones. In the valley itself
the stones had it all their own way;--a ghostly company, rounded and
polished by the stream, which crept among them now a mere ribbon of
silver, but in four months' time would come thundering through the
gorge in a garment of foam, with the shout of a wild thing loosed from
bondage. The triumph of desolation was reached in the savage peaks
that almost fronted the camp and descended to the valley in a cataract
of crags. Here even the persevering thorn-bush could take no hold upon
a surface of bare rock, split up into clefts, and chiselled to such
fantastic shapes that the whole might have inspired Dante's conception
of the ravine by which he descended to the nether hell.
Absorbed in the requirements of earth, and untroubled by ghostly
imaginings, officers and men slept soundly, with one eye open, as
soldiers experienced in Frontier warfare learn to do; and when at last
the earth, turning in its sleep, swung round towards the sun and the
still air quivered with foreknowledge of morning, a sudden outcropping
of life, where no life should be, amply justified the need for
vigilance.
From the darkness of a ravine some distance above the camp, a shadowy
mass of figures poured hurriedly, stealthily, into the valley--men of
splendid physique, in loose dark draperies or sheepskin coats,
carrying leathern shields and the formidable Afridi knife,
bone-handled, with a two-foot blade that will halve a man's head as if
it were a lemon.
By a preconcerted arrangement they divided into two parties, and
keeping within the deepest patches of shadow, bore down upon the
nearest pickets with a fierce, soundless rush,--the most disconcerting
form of attack to sleepy sentries in the small hours, when life and
courage are at their lowest ebb. But the picket sentries happened to
be Sikhs; and they are ill men to tackle at close quarters or to
spring on unawares.
Close upon the first determined rush came a scuffle, a smothered
shout, the sharp crack of rifles in quick succession; and before the
hills had flung back the volley of sound, the whole camp hummed with
life from end to end, like a broken ant-heap.
A fusilade of shots rang out on all sides. Men hurried about among the
tents, concentrating at the two points of attack. Here and there, amid
the puffs of smoke that rose and vanished in the blue, a lifted sword
or sabre gleamed like a flash of light.
A number of Afridis forced their way into the camp, lunging at every
tent-rope within reach of their long knives, and in the dim light it
was not easy to distinguish friend from foe. But the first sharp shock
of encounter past, it became evident that the troops were getting the
best of the affair; and the Afridis, whose valour is not always
tempered with discretion, saw fit to beat a rapid retreat up the
valley, hoping to reach the ravine before the cavalry started in
pursuit.
The men in camp, meanwhile, had leisure to breathe freely, after their
rough awakening; to look about and recognise one another, and exchange
cheerful congratulations on the resolute stand made by the Sikhs.
"That you, Desmond?"
The Colonel's voice greeted Desmond as he emerged from his tent where
his servant had been pressing on him a half-cold cup of cocoa; and the
two men faced each other, bareheaded, in shirt and breeches,
unmistakable stains upon their naked blades.
"The Ressaldar's falling in your squadron," Buchanan said briskly.
"Lose no time, and follow 'em up like hell. They'll break away into
the hills, of course. But the chances are they'll concentrate again in
the gorge and try to catch the main body as it passes through. So if
they give you the slip now, ride straight on and secure the defile for
us. I'll send out a detachment of infantry at the double to crown the
heights; and I can safely leave all minor details to your discretion."
"Thank you, sir." And Desmond departed to carry out his orders with
high elation at his heart.
There is no compliment a soldier appreciates more keenly than one
which takes the practical form of leaving details to his own
discretion; and, coming from Buchanan, it was doubly acceptable. For,
in Desmond's opinion, there were few men in the world like the
Colonel, hard and uncommunicative as he was; and it never occurred to
him that his strong, unspoken admiration was returned with interest by
the reserve-ridden Scot.
During the next fifteen minutes he fully justified his sobriquet of
"_Bijli-wallah_ Sahib." Before the Afridis were out of sight a hundred
and sixty sabres, headed by himself and Denvil, dashed along the
rugged pathway in gallant style, the men leaning well forward, and
urging their horses to break-neck speed. But the enemy were well ahead
from the start, and in any case, they had the advantage on their own
rough soil. The squadron overtook them--breathless and eager--just as
the final stragglers plunged into a lateral cleft, which would hold
the darkness for another half-hour at least.
Further pursuit was out of the question; and, by way of consolation,
the foremost sowars were ordered to dismount and open rapid fire in
the direction of the fugitives. Groans, curses, and the thud of
falling bodies testified to its effect; and with laconic murmurs of
satisfaction the men remounted, and rode on up the rapidly narrowing
gorge.
By now, along the silver snows to eastward, the great change had
begun. The sky was blue above them; and the last of the stars had
melted in the onrushing tide of light, which had already awakened the
sandstone peaks to the warm hue of life.
The party mounted the ascent at a foot's pace to ease their horses;
and Desmond's eyes and mind, being as it were "off duty," turned
thoughtfully upon the Boy who rode at his side, a very incarnation of
good health and good spirits. It seemed that the outcome of his
critical inspection was approval, for it ended in a nod that confirmed
some pleasant inward assurance. During the past few weeks Denvil had
proved himself thoroughly "up to the mark";--hot-headed but reliable;
square and upright in mind as in body; a fine soldier in the making.
He had not yet arrived at the older man's keen mental interest in his
profession; but closer intimacy with Desmond had kindled in him an
answering spark of that idealism, that unswerving subordination of
self to duty which justifies and ennobles the great game of war. He
coveted action, risk, responsibility--three things which the Staff
Corps subaltern, especially on the Frontier, tastes earlier than most
men; and which go far to make him one of the straightest specimens of
manhood in the world. In Denvil's eyes the whole expedition was one
tremendous spree, which he was enjoying to the top of his bent; and
Desmond, remembering the good years of his own apprenticeship, could
gauge the measure of that enjoyment to the full. He felt justified in
expecting great things of the Boy, and decided to work him hard all
through the hot weather;--in his eyes the highest compliment a man
could pay to a promising junior.
"By the way, Harry," he said suddenly, as the defile, deep-sunken
between towering rock, loomed darkly into view, "I've got a word of
encouragement for you before we part company. You did an uncommonly
gallant bit of work in that skirmish yesterday. The Colonel spoke of
it; and congratulated me on having the smartest subaltern in the
regiment. Of course I've known it myself this long while; and I don't
think it will hurt you to know it too."
Denvil flushed hotly through his tan.
"I should be rather a poor sort of chap if I didn't manage to do
pretty well--under you," he said, with awkward bluntness, looking
straight between his charger's ears.
Desmond laughed. "Very neatly turned off, old chap. Now, I'm bound to
call a halt till the Sikhs come up with us. Hope to goodness they'll
be quick about it. Confounded nuisance having to wait."
Both men reined in their horses, and their consuming impatience. The
squadron followed suit; and in an amazingly short time the Sikhs came
into view, toiling lustily up the incline at their utmost speed.
Desmond turned in his saddle and raked the hillsides with his
field-glasses.
"Looks empty enough, in all conscience," he remarked.
The words were hardly spoken when a single shot startled the echoes of
the rocks, and instant alertness passed like an electric current
through the squadron. The advance guard, which had already entered the
defile, consisted of three promising young Pathans from Denvil's
troop; and anxiety for the fate of his favourites pricked the Boy to
keener impatience.
"I say, Desmond," he urged, "can't I take twenty men and push on to
find out what's up. They'll be taking pot-shots at my men, unless I
put a stop to it. For God's sake, let me go."
Desmond could not repress an approving smile at an impetuosity that
matched his own. He glanced down the valley at the advancing Sikhs,
and saw that he would not be long delayed in following on. Moreover,
he shared the Boy's anxiety for his three picked men; and a shot
fired, being tantamount to a declaration of hostilities, justified
immediate advance to the scene of action.
"Go ahead then," he said. "Advance warily; and good luck to you."
The Boy needed no second bidding. Eagerly, yet with all due
precautions, he went forward with his handful of Pathans; and was soon
lost to sight and sound in the darkness of the giant cleft.
Desmond, left alone, could hardly contain himself till the infantry
came up. Dividing into two flanking parties, they scrambled up the
steep slopes into the full radiance of dawn; while Desmond, with his
squadron ready drawn up, awaited the signal, "All's clear," before
entering the defile.
In due time it came; and they moved on between the frowning cliffs at
a pace as rapid as the exigencies of the situation would permit.
Here night fronted them, dank and chill. It was as if the clock had
been put back four hours. Only a jagged strip of sky, between
projecting crags, announced the advent of day. No living thing seemed
to inhabit this region of perpetual twilight. At intervals a gnarled
and twisted bush grew out of a cleft, lifting spectral foliage toward
where the sun should be, and was not. Silence pervaded the dusk like a
living presence; unseen, but so poignantly felt that the whisper of
the stream and the crunch of shingle under the horses' hoofs seemed an
affront to the ghostly spirit of the place; and the sowars, when
exchanging remarks among themselves, instinctively refrained from
raising their voices.
Desmond, closely followed by his trumpeter, rode ahead of the
troopers, chafing at their leaden-footed progress. A hand-gallop would
have been too slow for the speed of his thoughts, tormented as he was
by anxious wondering what had become of the Boy; while his ears were
strained to catch the first sounds of contest from the heights, which
were already widening out a little, and beginning to slope towards
lower ground.
Sounds came at length--harsh and startling;--the unmistakable note of
the jezail; answering shots from his own men;--proofs incontestable
that a sharp engagement was in progress up above.
"Ambuscaded,--by Heaven!" was Desmond's instant thought. Mercifully
the exit was already in sight; and flinging brisk instructions to the
Ressaldar to follow him closely with a hundred sowars, leaving the
remainder to take charge of the horses, and hold the opening till
further orders, Desmond made for it full tilt, spurring Badshah Pasand
as he had never been spurred in all his days. On dashing out into the
sunlight he was greeted by a rattle of musketry from behind a tumbled
mass of rock; and a dozen bullets buzzed about him like bees.
One riddled his helmet, stirring his hair as it passed. A second
struck his left shoulder, inflicting a flesh wound of which he was not
even conscious at the moment; for Badshah Pasand lunged ominously
forward; swayed, staggered; and with a sound between a cough and a
groan, fell headlong, flinging his rider clear on to the rough upward
slope.
Luckily for him, Desmond pitched on to his sound shoulder; and though
bruised and shaken, was none the worse for his fall. The foremost of
his men dismounted and opened fire upon the treacherous rock, without
eliciting response; and quick as lightning he sprang to his feet, mad
with rage and pain. A single glance showed him that his charger's
wounds were mortal. Two well-directed bullets had entered the chest;
and the great soft eyes were glazing fast.
With a swift contraction of the heart, Desmond turned away, and issued
hurried orders for a hundred men to dismount and take the hill at full
speed. Half a dozen of Denvil's Pathans--left in charge of the
discarded horses--gave information that the Sahib had taken his sowars
up some time before, commanding them to await his return.
Distracted by anxiety, Desmond awaited the dismounting of his
troopers, revolver in hand. The instant they were ready he bounded
over the broken ground, his trumpeter dogging him like a shadow, and a
self-imposed bodyguard of six sowars following close upon his heel.
Behind these again the mountain-side was alive with clambering men;
and the small party left below enviously watched their ascent.
Only by the impetus of his spirit did Desmond manage to keep ahead of
his men; for in general the native outstrips the Englishman in this
form of mountaineering. One thought hammering at his brain goaded him
to superhuman exertion: "Those devils shall not murder Harry before I
reach him."
Breathless and resolute, he hurried on, stumbling now and again from
sheer excess of haste, clenching his teeth to keep the curses back. A
dull stain spread slowly across his left shoulder, where the blood was
soaking through his khaki coat.
The slope ended in a twenty-foot wall of rocks, massed so as to form
huge irregular steps, that led to an abrupt bit of level, whereon the
fighting appeared to be taking place. Sounds came to him now that
lashed him to a frenzy; the clash of knives and sabres, the thud of
many feet; the fierce shouts without which it is impossible for
primitive man to slay or be slain.
Desmond never quite knew how he climbed those formidable steps; and as
he vaulted up the last of them, the whole dread scene sprang abruptly
into view.
Denvil and his fifteen Pathans had been ambuscaded and outnumbered;
and in the cramped space a sharp hand-to-hand encounter was in
progress. A small party of Sikhs had already come up with him; but
even so the odds were heavily on the wrong side. It was simply a case
of "dying game";--of adding one more to the list of "regrettable
incidents" which figure too frequently in the record of Border
warfare.
A new risen sun smiled serenely down upon it all; and the awakened
earth was frankly indifferent to the issue.
But amid the stirring confusion of a struggle at close quarters
Desmond saw one thing only; and the sight struck at his heart like a
sword-thrust.
Harry Denvil, hard pressed by four Afridis brandishing long knives and
leathern shields, stood with his back against a rock, fighting for
dear life.
Five of his men and several of the enemy lay dead or wounded around
him. His left arm was disabled; his helmet gone; his hair gleaming
red-gold in the sunlight; his young face, white and desperate,
disfigured by an ugly cut across the forehead and cheek-bone, from
which the blood trickled unheeded in a sluggish stream.
He had flung away his empty revolver; and was warding off blows right
and left, using his sword with a coolness and dexterity which would
have surprised him had he been aware of it. But he was aware of
nothing except a fierce desire not to die yet--not yet; and to get a
straight cut at one of the dark faces that pressed in upon him with
such pitiless persistence.
At sight of Desmond a great cry broke from him.
"Desmond!" he shouted; "Desmond--thank God!"
For answer Desmond ran blindly forward, sheer lust of slaughter in his
heart; trumpeter, bodyguard, and the foremost troopers following as
closely as their captain's ardour would permit.
But an unreasoning sense of safety put Harry momentarily off his
guard. He took a hasty step away from the rock, making it possible for
the first time to strike at him from behind: and, in the same instant,
Desmond fired. Before his bullet could reach its destination, the long
knife had descended, swift and certain. And even as the man who
wielded it dropped like a log, Harry Denvil stumbled forward; and,
with a thick sob, fell face downward at Desmond's feet.
There was no time to stoop and ascertain whether the knife had
completed its work. Striding across his subaltern's body, Desmond
turned upon his assailants, all the natural savage in him lashed to a
white heat of fury, and fired twice in quick succession, with deadly
effect. But the knife of a third man bit into his flesh like fire,
inflicting deep gashes on the left arm and hand, while another slipped
behind him, his uplifted blade glinting in the sunlight.
By this time Rajinder Singh was behind him also; and like a
lightning-streak, his tulwar whizzed through the air, cleaving the
man's head from his body at a blow.
Desmond swung sharply round to find his reinforcements swarming over
the plateau's edge.
"Well struck, Sirdar Sahib!----"
But the sentence was never finished. A puff of smoke from behind a
distant rock, the boom of a jezail, and Desmond fell beside the Boy,
stunned by a well-aimed shot on the edge of the cheek-bone, the slug
glancing off perilously close to the right eye.
A shout of rage went up from his men. "The Captain Sahib,--the Captain
Sahib!" But Rajinder Singh promptly assuming command, bade them turn
upon the Afridi devils and smite their souls to hell; and, forming a
protective ring about their fallen officers, they obeyed with right
goodwill.
The arrival of supports, however, made it clear to the enemy that they
themselves were now heavily outnumbered; and after a desultory
resistance they broke up and fled, the sowars zealously speeding their
departure.
The whole incident had passed in an incredibly short space of time;
and now, with a low cry, Rajinder Singh sank on his knees beside
Desmond, cold fear at his heart, his lean fingers trembling as they
pushed up the watch-strap and pressed the smooth tanned wrist.
"He lives!--_Parmeshwar_[27] be praised;--the Captain Sahib lives!"
the old man murmured ecstatically, shaking his head at the same time
over the wound in the cheek-bone, which had an ugly look.
[27] God.
In Denvil's wrist no flutter of life was left. The Boy's soul had
passed unstained to its account; and the Ressaldar's stern eyes
softened as they rested on the bright, blood-stained hair.
Very gently, as though Denvil were merely asleep, he turned him over
and closed the unseeing eyes. No shadow of pain marred the repose of
the lips. They looked as if they had just left off smiling and meant
very soon to smile again.
The Ressaldar sighed, and shook his head thoughtfully once again.
"Doubtless it was written, ... it was the will of God," he decided,
with the pious stoicism of the East; and thereupon issued immediate
orders to his signallers to open up communication with the main body
of troops in the valley, enumerating casualties, and adding an urgent
request for an ambulance party to be pushed forward at the utmost
speed.
* * * * *
A short stab of pain jerked Desmond back to consciousness with a curse
upon his lips. He found himself lying in a hospital doolie set in the
shade on a slab of rock. Both flaps had been flung up, and James
Mackay stood beside him, investigating the wound in his face with
conscientious thoroughness. It was not a pleasant proceeding. Hence
Desmond's protest, which brought a twinkle of satisfaction to the
doctor's eyes.
"Curse away, old man. It's a treat to hear you," he said heartily,
"Just take a drop of this now, to keep you all there," and he held a
glass of brandy and water to Desmond's lips. "They've given you a
nasty wound here. Wants looking to at once. I'm going to hurt you like
hell, I know; but you must put up with it. Swear at me as much as you
please, if it eases you at all."
He probed a peculiarly tender spot as he spoke. Desmond clenched his
teeth and "put up with it" in silence. Free permission to swear had
quenched the desire--a common trick of human perversity; and just as
he began to feel that one minute more of it would stretch endurance to
breaking-point--the thing was done. A sloping bandage encircled his
head, eclipsing his right eye; and he discovered that the Colonel was
standing by the doolie, tugging at his grey moustache--sure sign of
mental disturbance--and listening attentively to the wiry little
doctor, who spoke in an urgent undertone.
He turned when Mackay left off speaking.
"Bad business this, Desmond," he said laconically. "Thank God it was
no worse, though."
And Desmond had but two words for answer, sharp and anxious.
"The Boy?"
"We've lost Denvil," Buchanan growled between his teeth. "And we could
very ill spare him."
Desmond closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Speech was beyond him.
His mind, dizzy with pain and loss of blood, refused to grasp the
truth. Two hours ago the Boy had been radiantly, vigorously alive. It
was rank foolishness to expect a man to believe that he would never
hear him speak or laugh again.
He was roused by Buchanan's hand on his arm.
"Look here, Desmond," he said, "we must be moving again now. I merely
came to see how things were going with you before pushing on."
"Thank you, Colonel. I'm in the rear for the present, I suppose?" And
he tried to smile.
"Not exactly. As we are within two days' march of the station and
there's little left to do but sweep up the rubbish, I have told off a
strong escort to return to Kohat with the wounded men,--Denvil, and
yourself. You've been badly knocked about, and you need careful seeing
to at once."
"Won't you leave me out of the programme, sir? You know I'm hard as
nails; I'm sure I could manage to hang on to the saddle, and be fit
for light duty in a few days' time. Give me the chance, anyway. I'll
do my level best."
"Never knew you do anything else," Buchanan answered gruffly.
Then there was a short silence. Hard as he was, the man rebelled
against the thing he had to say; and Desmond's unconquerable spirit
put him in no better humour for his task.
"My dear fellow," he began, "I'm no hand at beating about the bush; I
can only tell you straight that for the present you must give up all
hope of getting back to duty, light or otherwise. Mackay is not
satisfied about that wound in your face. The slug went too close to
the eye, and may possibly--have injured the nerve."
Desmond started and clenched his hand.
"Good God, Colonel!" he broke out hoarsely. "D'you mean--blindness?"
The ring of open fear in a brave man's voice is not a pleasant thing
to hear. Buchanan felt he had been too blunt, and regretted not having
allowed Mackay to speak.
"Don't jump to hasty conclusions, man," he said quickly. "We have to
recognise the possibility in order to prevent it,--that's all. Mackay
returns with you. He'll get a second opinion, if necessary; and we've
signalled the news to Wyndham in full. All you've got to do now is to
knock under like a man, and give your eyes every possible chance; even
if it means lying in the dark for a week or two; you understand?"
"Yes--I understand."
There was bitterness in the studied resignation of his tone.
Colonel Buchanan put out his hand and kept firm hold of Desmond's arm
while he spoke.
"You'll be reasonable then, and--obey orders? You ought to find the
coast clear going back and have no trouble. Young Spence commands the
party, and Rajinder Singh takes thirty of your men. The old chap
begged for permission to accompany you. See you again in a fortnight,
if not sooner. Keep up a good heart; and take every possible
precaution, for your own sake and--for the sake of the Regiment."
The final injunctions, jerked out brusquely, were in the nature of an
achievement for this man of few words; and Desmond knew it. He wrung
the iron-hard hand that held his own with all the force still left in
him; and Colonel Buchanan returned to his waiting charger.
That afternoon, under a brilliant sky, the little ambulance party set
out for Kohat--thirty cavalry and twenty infantry, with six swaying
doolies in their midst. And among all the occupants of those
comfortless conveyances, Harry Denvil was the only one for whom that
journey was not a prolonged torment of pain and unrest.