BEYOND THE SHADOW
The fact that the quarrel had begun did not, however, have the same
effect upon Roshan Khan.
In the first tempest of rage and hate which the sight of Laila and
Vincent in the balcony had roused in him he had simply let himself go.
He had not thought at all. Had his revolver held other cartridges, he
would have gone on shooting at Vincent, Pidar Narayan, at everybody,
till he could shoot no more. He had run _a-mak_; that curious phase of
the Oriental mind when once it oversteps the hard and fast lines of
custom in which it moves and breathes and has its being.
The very fact that his revolver did not contain more possibilities for
death, that he had no other weapon, emphasized his wild revolt.
He was helpless--impotent--before these strangers, who had stolen
everything! Everything, save bare existence. This thought, as he burst
into the open, into the lurid darkness of the new-come storm, had made
him laugh bitterly; for it was only that bare existence which _he_
wished to steal! They might keep the rest; but _that_ he would claim
from them somehow, in fair exchange.
The time was ripe for such exchange too,--for fair exchange. (The
epithet "fair" haunted him, trying to still the keen remorse for that
shot in the dark; for one part of him knew it to have been cowardly.)
Yes! this useless plot, with foolish mischief hidden in its heart, to
which he had just been listening with loyal intent to frustrate it,
could be made to serve his purpose without delay. His men would follow
him anywhere. He had but to say the word--the word so many of them
wanted. Then, those thieves of all that made life worth living would
learn a lesson. They would fight and win, of course; but the lesson
that without such men as he--men whom they thwarted and repressed at
every turn--they could not rely upon their regiments, would have to be
learnt. And in the learning, one thief would learn something else.
So, without more thought than this desperate clashing of jealousy and
despair, he had dashed through the crowd of pilgrims who were waiting
for the dawn, gone back to the Fort, and given the word.
In the excitement which followed, spreading swiftly from his own, he
had not--and it was typical of the man that he did not--forget Lance
Carlyon's friendliness; a more equal friendliness than that of most.
There was no need to drag him into the quarrel, the more so because the
disloyalty of the Sikh pioneers was doubtful. They might complicate
matters at the beginning. So he had locked and barred them into the
inner courtyard, out of the way.
But Captain Dering, he knew, was outside! Let him be alone with his
troopers, as he, Roshan would be alone with them! Let them both try
their influence; let them try conclusions on these terms. That was but
fair.
This first step, however, necessitated others. The original plot, with
its waiting for the dawn, its cumbrous mechanism of keys, and pilgrims,
and God knows what, was not to his liking. He meant to fight. And if,
as the conspirators had asserted, some of the warders were friends hand
and foot, his men could crack the nut of the gaol in half an hour. The
sooner the better.
Pidar Narayan, he knew, had recognized him, and he was a fox for
wiliness. Then, Captain Dering must be after him even now. And
Dillon-_sahib_ might be on the alert any time. So the _coup de main_
must come at once. As to what might follow, that might be after the
fashion of Meerut in '57, or not. Who could tell the end of anything?
The beginning would be an opportunity for fair fight between him and a
thief. Once more the epithet "fair" scorched and shrivelled him with
vague remorse, not for Laila--she was but a woman, a woman who had
played him false and who deserved the worst--but for that shot in the
dark.
For there were two Roshans, warring fiercely in heart and brain.
Then, after his mad, reckless ride to the gaol, the first realities had
come to him in the sight of Dr. Dillon, standing with the light in his
hand to welcome friends; and in the sound of those two snap-shots
proclaiming foes.
Why? The question had come swiftly. What quarrel had he with Dr.
Dillon? Or with Eugene Smith, whose tall, gaunt figure showed behind
the other? Eugene Smith, who must have brought his wife, his child,
with him!
The horror, the terror of what might come, swept through the quondam
prize pupil of a mission school; the horror, the terror, in the
remembrance of the Great Mutiny, which is, alas! a legacy of wrong to
young India. Which ties her hand and foot; which makes those who are
worthy of the name shrink instinctively from anything which may rouse
the underlying savagery--the unavoidable savagery--of their countrymen.
Could he hold his troopers? Could he be sure? He had come to curse. Was
it too late to bless?
Then the memory of Laila--the whole hateful tale which was
irrevocable--struck him hopeless. He was damned utterly; he could not
escape.
He sat rigid as a statue on his horse for a second; then with a wild
fury gave the orders for his troopers to dismount and force the gates.
"Your slaves, _Nawab-sahib!_" had come the answer, making him smile
proudly. _That_, at any rate, could not be stolen from him _now_. _Now_
he could fight and die in what should have been his real position.
Yet, once more, when the search-light had come to throw that group of
excited men hacking and hewing at doors closed by authority into
significant black-and-white relief, that doubt had returned; that
desire to be on the side, once more, of men like Dr. Dillon, whose bold
resolve to be alone responsible for his gaol, which the warder's tale
revealed, filled him with admiration.
But that sudden throwing up of a trooper's hands, that sidelong stumble
into death, had left Roshan cruel as death itself; for the man thus
killed had been to him as a brother.
So he had gone on with a fresh impulse towards revenge, and for a time
found forgetfulness in the excitement, the action. For though the first
gate, that one giving on the open sort of porch, had yielded, almost at
once, to the troopers outside and the warders within, the second,
barring the arched tunnel, was a tougher job. It was not until this had
given way, and the attacking party were completely sheltered from the
fire of the little garrison on the roof, that there was leisure for
that thought to return: "What am I doing? Why am I doing it?"
No man, it may be said broadly, ever fights without feeling that the
battle is an appeal to a tribunal beyond himself, and Roshan did not
feel this. Then the remembrance of the woman, the child, upstairs came
persistently, burdened by the weight of that past tragedy which, in
India, it is impossible to forget. And this was a woman who had always
been courteous to him, a child to whom he had given toys.
What was he doing?
The men were at work on the last, the strongest gate, with every tool
they could find. Not many, for Dr. Dillon's forethought had left them
before barred doors everywhere. The delay had already been great; would
be greater. They must be close now on the lines of the original plot,
at which Roshan had laughed, for the dawn was showing faintly--a mere
promise of light to come--in the east. And the storm was passing. The
dull reverberations of faint thunder were lost now in the cries, the
blows of those at work trying to batter down the iron bars.
A sudden distaste--more than regret or repentance--came to Roshan as he
stood silent, watching blow after blow; a sudden doubt.
Which was the right? No man worth calling a man ever fights for
anything else; every man worth calling one fights for that. But which
was right? Those men, hacking and hewing, or the little garrison
upstairs?
There were no such searchings of heart there, at any rate; no question
as to what they were doing, though at that exact moment they were
engaged in the trivial occupation of drinking tea.
Muriel Smith had made it, at Dr. Dillon's suggestion, against this very
pause; this "_cease firing_" which he had foreseen. And in the making
of it she had used a continental tea-basket which more than once had
been her companion on the Brindisi _route_. Dr. Dillon had laid hands
on it in his foraging, and as she had boiled the kettle, the rush and
roar of a train racing through the peaceful French champaignes had
seemed to be in her ears, instead of that rush and roar of blows and
shouting which was now rising from every part of the gaol; though the
prisoners were still helpless for evil in their sections.
So the three men, haggard, anxious, drank their tea in silence,
hastily; yet with a curious insistence, as if the triviality gave them
a hold on things familiar, things beyond this midsummer-night's dream
of madness. But the child chattered as she munched a biscuit; chattered
of the charms of this strange picnic on the "_woof, in the dark with
oo's nighty an' s'ippers only_."
The unconscious little voice struck a chill to the men's hearts, but
the woman smiled, as mothers can do when they wish to guard that
blessed unconsciousness to the last; the unconsciousness of which they
are guardians by right.
"We are doing as well as could be expected," remarked Dr. Dillon,
suddenly, with a quaint professional reminiscence; then added, "I wish
to God, though, I knew what my prisoners were up to--those solitary
cellers are on my mind--I believe the convalescents could dig them out
with the cook-room platters and ladles. I ought to have thought of
that. But, as I say, we are doing very fairly well--your light, Dering,
was a godsend."
Eugene Smith looked up sharply, almost as if he meant a disclaimer;
then he gave a brief assent. "Yes! but _that_ will be more of a godsend
still--it is the dawn!"
He pointed to that faint promise of light in the east, and Vincent
Dering's eyes followed his hand with the doubtful look of one sick to
death, as he watches the long weary night merge once more into another
long weary day of certain pain. There was an utter hopelessness in it.
"Yes," he echoed slowly, "that is the dawn."
"Carlyon said the attack was planned for dawn, didn't he?" asked the
doctor, deliberately helping himself to another lump of sugar,
deliberately trying to keep the pulse beats of those around him as near
normal as might be--and there had been something beyond it in Vincent's
voice. "They must have meant to use the keys that brute Kishen Rao made
off with. I wonder what it was that started the show prematurely?"
"Do you think it was premature? Why?" put in Eugene Smith.
"We should have had some of the townspeople, some of the pilgrims
otherwise."
"Perhaps the storm"--began Vincent.
The doctor shook his head. "If they had meant to come they would have
come. Of course now, with the wind blowing straight off us, they can't
possibly hear."
He paused and listened, for a sudden silence had fallen on the turmoil
beneath, and out of it came an all too familiar sound, the clank of leg
irons. Some of the prisoners, therefore, had managed to break out of
their dormitories; or were these the solitary cellers?
"I wish Carlyon would turn up," he muttered, almost petulantly, "it's
our only chance--"
But there was to be another; for, from below, a voice rose loud and
clear.
"Dr. Dillon! I have no desire to hurt you or yours, but I warn you
that, if you persist, I am not responsible. Open the gates, and you
shall have a safe conduct--for--for everybody."
George Dillon was on his feet at once, but Captain Dering stopped him;
his eyes ablaze.
"What shall I tell him, Dillon?" he said sharply. "I'll take my orders
from you--you're in charge; but that man is under mine. What shall I
say?"
Dr. Dillon gave one glance at the woman and the child. "Tell him to be
universally damned," he answered; and Eugene Smith, husband and father,
nodded acquiescence.
Roshan Khan was standing in full view as Vincent Dering stepped up to
the parapet. His face was raised; there was almost an appeal in it. But
every atom of that, every atom almost of humanity, vanished as he
recognized his captain. His hand went instinctively to his revolver.
Then a thought seemed to come to him. He drew himself up proudly, and
waited for the answer.
It came, keen as a knife.
"_Risaldar!_ draw off your men and return to barracks, or I'll shoot
you as a mutineer."
There was half a second's silence; then a wild laugh: "Close up, men,
rush that gate--forward!"
The words and the crack of Vincent's revolver--the bullet of which,
aimed too high, passed through Roshan's turban-were almost lost in the
answering yell. But the _risaldar_ stood his ground for a second, then
coolly sought shelter.
That was over! They were quits now for the fair fight. And fate had
been kind. He had unwittingly offered this man--his greatest enemy--a
safe conduct; and it had been refused, luckily. Well! let Vincent
Dering take the whole consequences. The blood of one woman was already
on his head; so would be the blood spilt here. He, Roshan, would need
have no further scruples.
So, as if it had gained strength from the brief respite, the turmoil
recommenced; and now Roshan Khan's voice could be heard urging the men
on. And there were answering shouts from different parts of the gaol.
George Dillon frowned. "They mean business now. And I fancy I hear
pounding at the left section door. If so we shall have the solitary
cell men--my worst lot, of course--out in the courtyard before long.
Dering--can you hear anything?--there's such a confounded noise--"
Vincent, who was standing at the top of the stairs which led to the
ten-feet drop, ran down a few steps and listened. Then he looked up
quickly and nodded.
"They are there. The door's shaking. How many of them are there?"
"Two dozen or thereabouts; and the convalescents, of course. That's
nothing--if they haven't got their leg irons off! We ought to settle
most of them before they can help with the door. Still, I wish Carlyon
would turn up."
A sudden hurry and urgency had come to the struggle, and Dr. Dillon
passed restlessly to the other side of the roof. The sky was lightening
faintly. More because the dust had sought dust again, the earth earth,
than from any increase of light; and so the broad ray of the
search-light, widening as it went, lost itself in the distant darkness,
and there was nothing to be seen riverwards. But close at hand two
men--one in a warder's uniform--were running towards the gaol,
shouting.
The doctor was back to the inner parapet in a second. "Look out!
they've got the keys now--not of this door, but some of the
sections--and the alley. The game's up unless Carlyon--Mrs. Smith,
please--you had better go into the turret--we shall be shooting free--"
Eugene, who had been standing beside her, laid his hand on her
shoulder. "Yes, dear!" he said gently; "go inside--it will be better
for Gladys--and for me--"
Muriel turned white, but stood quite firm, quite calm. "Come, little
girlie," she said, holding out her hand to the child. "You've had your
tea--it's bedtime--I can't have you sitting up all--" she broke down a
little, partly because she was passing Vincent, and he, busy loading
various rifles and revolvers, kept his eyes studiously from her. But
Gladys did not choose to pass her friend in this fashion. She paused, a
dainty little figure in a blue dressing-gown, like her mother, and with
the same fluffy golden curls about her coaxing, delicate little child's
face.
"Dood-night, Derin' darlin'," she said. "I'm so glad 'oo's here, an'
so's--"
Something that was not all desire to check that formula made the man
pause, too, to lift her gently, and kiss her.
"Good-night, Gladys. You mustn't be frightened at anything, you know.
You've got to be a brave girl--haven't you?" The coaxing face was close
to the haggard, haunted-looking one.
"If 'oo's goin' to be brave, Derin' darlin', I'll be brave too. Is 'oo,
dearest?"
The haggardness vanished.
"I think so, little one. Good-night." He put the child down hastily, at
a crash. The moment for courage had come.
"Shoot as straight as you can!" shouted the doctor. "The section door's
gone. Let 'em have it!"
The door had gone, indeed; and in a second the courtyard beneath them
was half full of naked, desperate men; the worst characters in the
gaol.
"Pick off the ones nearest the gate--don't let 'em touch the
bolts--it's good for another ten minutes if we can keep them from it,"
came the doctor's voice in jerks, as he leant over the parapet just
above the centre of the door below, and carried out his own orders with
deadly effect; though his heart sank when he saw that some of the
prisoners were unironed--or rather unironed on one leg, and that they
were armed with the other iron; a deadly enough weapon at close
quarters. Besides, it meant more treachery. It meant a previous filing
of the ankle-fetters; and if others in the remaining sections were as
free--
He shot quicker, steadier, while Eugene Smith and Vincent, one above
the other on the top of the stair, did the same, taking the intruders
on the flank. It was growing lighter every instant, the air was
clearer, the breeze of dawn was sweeping the smoke of the rifles
riverwards, the great white wheel of the gaol was growing broader in
its outlines, the shadows were shrinking. But the storm seemed still
there, in the ceaseless reverberations.
"They're up to something in the far corner!" called Eugene. "What is
it, Dillon? You can see better."
The doctor ceased firing for a second, and ran farther down the
parapet.
"The keys! the keys!" he shouted back. "They are trying to pass in the
keys! Shoot the devils--those in the corner! Don't let 'em--or the gaol
is gone!"
So, for the next minute, it was deadly work down in that corner by the
crevice through which some unseen hand was thrusting something. Three
times a man, clutching at the prize, fell in a heap ere he touched it.
Then a fourth pitched forward against the doors with the keys in his
hand, and a fifth, groping for them, rolled over on his side with them
hidden under his dead body. And from outside the gate came rendings,
and crashings, and yells; from above, that call, "Shoot straight, or
the gaol's gone!"
Muriel crept out from shelter, possessed once more by that frantic
desire to see to the very end, and stood looking down on those two on
the stairs. She gave a faint cry when Vincent flung his rifle away, and
ran down to that ten-foot drop for revolver practice. At the sound, her
husband gave one quick look up, and followed suit.
But their own success was against them. The growing pile of the wounded
formed a barricade, behind which a man, squirming with covetous hands
among the dead and dying, found what he sought.
"He's got them! Stop him! stop him!"
There was a fusillade, the man dropped; but the keys were in another
hand--another--another--passing outwards from the crush--outwards
towards that low door at the end of the narrow alley.
Without a word, Vincent, revolver in hand, let himself drop on the
heads below.
"Oh, don't, Vincent, don't!" came a woman's voice; and at the sound,
another man gave that swift look up once more, and followed suit.
"Let them be!" said Dr. Dillon, sharply. "Let them do what they can; it
is about the only chance." And still, as he spoke, he kept singling out
a foe and firing.
The chance, even with his help, was a poor one in that crowd, where
there was always another dark hand to snatch at the prize, and pass it
nearer to the door--that door which was the key to so much!
Yet, the crush through which they fought lessening, those two
Englishmen found themselves with the straight alley before them for a
race. A race against three men, without arms, but without irons; and
with a fair start. While close behind was the crush--the crowd!
It was nothing but a race, now, since the revolvers had done their
worst, had fired their last shot; a race with the hope--if Vincent
could come up with those three--of using a Goorkha _kukri_, which he
had thrust into the yellow silk sash he wore instead of a waistcoat
beneath his red jacket--thrust it therewith an ugly frown as a last
argument for his foes, when he had seen it lying among the pile of
miscellaneous weapons Dr. Dillon had foraged from the Smiths' house. It
had a dainty ivory handle--Vincent had given it to Mrs. Smith himself,
and its last use had been to cut the pages of a fashion paper--
It had a sterner job now.
But Vincent was behind; a yard or two--no more. He had fired one more
shot before beginning the race, and Eugene's legs were longer. Yet the
yard meant all things, and he knew it; so as he ran, his hand sought
the knife.
"Look out, Smith! look out!" he called. "I'll chuck you my _kukri_; get
on and job them; I'll keep the others back--a bit."
As he spoke, a glittering curve sped from his hand to the other man's
feet.
Then he pulled up and faced the crowd behind with his clubbed revolver.
The lane was very narrow. Three men could barely breast it shoulder to
shoulder. Surely one could bar it by swift blows and slow retreat! For
a time, at any rate--time for the opening and shutting of a door! He
could but try.
"Oh! what is he going to do?" gasped the woman who was watching.
"I appose he's going to be brave, mum," said the child, who clutched at
her hand, watching, too, with great, wide, uncomprehending eyes.
But the man beside them held his breath.
So retreating, step by step, Vincent Dering kept the crowd back, lured
the crowd on, safe--so far! For these, the first, the swiftest, were
naturally the unironed, therefore, the unarmed. But there were others,
forcing their way to the front, who would be harder to deal with.
Vincent threw his head back and wondered how Eugene was faring; for he
dared not turn his face from his task even for a second.
Had those three been caught up? Had the _kukri_ helped?
It had. And one of those three had fallen before a flash, as of light.
And another!
But the third had the key in the door; had turned it, when Eugene
struck him from behind. With a wild yell he flung his full weight on
the door; it burst open, and the two fell headlong into the tower
beyond.
But only for a second. Eugene Smith was up again, had the key out, and
in on the further side.
"All right!" he shouted; "make a rush for it! I'm ready!"
Vincent Dering gave one sharp look round. The door was not four yards
from him, but the crowd was not one. There was no time. "Shut it," he
called, "I'm all right."
Eugene Smith stood uncertain; the door ajar.
The keys! ah! what could he do with the keys if he went back to
help--and if not--
"Oh! please shut it, Smith! there's a good fellow; please."
The four yards were two now, were one. Then slowly the door closed, and
Vincent had his back against it.
"Oh, Vincent! Vincent!"
The agonized cry echoed above all other cries, but only for an instant;
the next, George Dillon's hand was gagging the lips which uttered it.
"Hush!" he said fiercely. "Can't you let him forget for these last few
minutes that there is such a thing as a woman in the world. Hush! I
say."
And a great hush came. The sound of blows, of iron clashing on iron,
and falling with a dull thud on something softer, seemed to fill the
world and leave room for nothing else.
Nothing except a softer sound still. A shuddering moan, as a woman
slipped to her knees, and covered her face with her hands; then slipped
lower still to the ground, in a heap.
But the child looked at her mother, surprised.
"Doesn't 'oo like Derin' darlin' to be brave, dearest?" she asked, in a
concerned little voice.