accompanied them to the door; Ahmed heard the bolts shot, the voice of
Minghal giving the servants orders for the morning, then the shuffling
of his feet as he ascended the staircase and passed along the passage to
his bedroom. Presently the khansaman came in, lifted the remains of the
repast from the table, put out the light, and went away. Ahmed lifted
the edge of the flounce to watch him. From his position he could see
across the landing, through the door which the khansaman had left open,
into the opposite room, where a lamp still burned. He saw the khansaman
cross the room with the tray in his hand and set it down on one of the
shelves of the almirah. Then a strange thing happened. The khansaman
pushed aside a panel in the back of the almirah where there were no
shelves, and the wall behind opened inwards, as of itself. He went into
the hole, turned round and replaced the panel, and was shut from view.
What did this mean? What was the explanation of the stealthy, furtive
manner in which the khansaman had acted? Ahmed would have liked to
follow him; it crossed his mind that the man might have a secret hoard
of valuables belonging to his late master; but the urgency of his duty
to Hodson Sahib forbade any delay. He was in a quandary. How was he to
get out of the house? He had heard the bolt of the front door shot; it
was too much to hope that he could descend the stairs, draw back the
bolt, and open the door without attracting the attention of the darwan,
whose shed was close by, and who might not yet be asleep. There was no
doubt a back entrance; could he discover that without making a noise?
This seemed the only course.
He crept from his hiding-place, stole to the door, listened: all was
silent. Then he tiptoed along the landing until he came to the dark
passage at the end. It ran across the breadth of the house. He went
along it, past a closed door which might be the door of Minghal Khan's
bedroom, and reached a staircase. Without doubt this would bring him to
the back door. He went down, passed the kitchens, which were in
darkness, and came to a door which a rapid inspection assured him was
neither bolted nor locked. Opening it just enough to allow him to
squeeze through, he gently closed it behind him, and found himself in a
walled-in garden, with a circular fountain in the middle. A colonnade
ran along three sides of it, supported on slender pillars. There was a
door on the fourth side, but this he soon proved to be securely locked.
It was an easy matter to swarm up one of the pillars, climb the roof of
the colonnade, and from that gain the top of the wall a little below.
Then dropping on the outer side he alighted in a narrow lane. It was
pitch dark; he could not see his way, and knew not whether to turn to
the right hand or to the left; but choosing the left at random, he
groped his way along, through puddles and heaps of ill-smelling refuse,
following the erratic windings of the lane until he came, as he had
hoped, to the street in which the house was situated. Here he got a
little light from a few smoky oil-lamps that hung at irregular intervals
from brackets on the walls. From the sounds he heard before him he
guessed that the street led into the Chandni Chauk, and in less than a
minute he came to that thoroughfare. There were many people about;
though the gates of the city were shut, the hour was not yet late; and
he judged from the laughter proceeding from many half-open doors that
some of Bakht Khan's soldiers were being entertained by the residents.
He walked slowly, and no one paid him any attention. Should he go at
once to the walls, he asked himself, and try to find some way of
quitting the city? He bethought himself of his goods in the serai. If he
left them, without any word of explanation, the bhatiyara might become
suspicious. Even if that gave rise to no immediate danger, he thought it
unwise to make any difficulties for himself when he should return to the
city, as no doubt he would do. So he went back to the serai, and told
the keeper that he had met an old acquaintance (which happened to be
literally true), and proposed to spend the night with him at the other
end of the city. But it would be a pity to disturb his bales at this
time of night; he might safely leave them in his friend the bhatiyara's
care.
"It is understood that you will make some little charge for the
storage," he said, "and I know I leave them with an honest man."
"True, O banijara: I will gladly keep them for you: and as to a charge
for storage, I can without doubt trust to your sense of justice."
In reality the honest innkeeper reflected that in these troublous times
there was always a chance that a stray bullet, or a round shot from the
Feringhis' batteries, might end his customer's career--an unfortunate
matter for the customer, but likely to be very profitable to himself,
with the goods left on his hands. This being satisfactorily arranged,
Ahmed dismissed his coolie, ordered a meal, and while he ate it pondered
the difficult problem--his escape from the city.
There were batteries at intervals along the wall, from the Water bastion
on the extreme north to the Ajmir gate at the south-west corner of the
city. These would be fully manned during the night. The wall would be
watched along its whole circumference; more loosely on the south side,
no doubt, than on the north or west, for in that quarter the city had
not even remotely been threatened by the besiegers. On the other hand,
the sentries there being in no danger of shot or shell, would have
nothing to do but watch, whereas on the west and north, and particularly
on the latter, they would be in some degree concerned in keeping under
cover. Further, if he left the city on the south side he would have a
very long way to go before he could arrive at the Ridge, or at any of
the British outposts, and there was also a chance that he might fall
into the hands of the rebels as he passed through the populous suburbs.
These were strongly held by the mutineers, especially Kishenganj, which
would be directly in his path.
On the whole he decided that it would be best to make an attempt at the
north side, somewhere between the Shah bastion and the Kashmir gate. He
would have to let himself down over the wall, twenty-four feet deep,
into the ditch, ascend the scarp on the opposite side, and gain the
glacis; then there would be nothing but a stretch of jungly country
between himself and the Ridge.
The first requisite was a rope. He had this ready in the cords by which
he bound his merchandise to the camel. But to what could he attach the
rope if he gained the wall safely? At any spot sufficiently quiet and
secluded for him to make the attempt there was scarcely likely to be
anything in the way of a staple or ring. Clearly he must provide himself
with something that would serve his purpose in case of necessity. Taking
advantage of his nightly visit to the stable to look after his camel, he
got a stout lathi and sharpened the end of it into the form of a stake.
Then he prepared a slip-knot at the end of the rope, wound the rope
about his body under his outer garment, and, returning to the inn, gave
his host a courteous "salaam aleikam!" and set off in the direction of
the Kashmir gate.
He passed through the Koriapul bazar, which was filled with a motley
throng of people of the trading classes, eagerly discussing the events
of the day and the strong measures likely to follow upon the arrival of
Bakht Khan. Ahmed ventured to delay for a few minutes in order to get an
inkling of the general feeling of the people. Many were as confident of
the ultimate success of the rebels as the sepoys themselves; but some of
the older men, while as fervently desiring the crushing of the English
as the rest, quietly dropped in words of caution and doubt. One of them
said that he had heard from a servant of Ahsanullah, the king's
physician, that that crafty old fox had foretold the doom of the city,
and was suspected to be making provision for that fatal day.
Ahmed passed on. But instead of striking into the Nasirganj Road, which
would bring him direct to the Kashmir gate and the main guard, he made
his way by quiet and tortuous lanes, among the gardens of some of the
principal residents, towards a point about half-way between the Kashmir
gate and the Mori bastion. He was aware that, besides the heavy guns at
the bastions, there were light guns along the whole of this part of the
wall; but these could only be effectively used if the besiegers
approached the city, and were, perhaps, hardly likely to be manned in
force now. But when he came near enough to see them, he saw also that
the gunners were on duty beside the guns, huddled together--the night
was damp and chilly--and most of them, to all appearance, asleep. Now
and then, however, he heard voices from these little knots of men; it
behoved him to go warily. He passed along, keeping in shadow, until he
reached a part of the wall where all was quiet. There was no firing
either from the British lines or from the defences of the city, and the
night was so still, with the brooding stillness of an imminent storm,
that the slightest sound in his vicinity would have reached his ear.
Pausing for a few moments for reassurance, he at length ventured to
creep to the foot of the wall, and grope his way up the steps leading to
the battlements, eight feet below the parapet. Half-way up he heard a
faint call somewhere to his left, but it was not answered, and he went
on till he gained the top.
Stealing along the battlements, he sought for some fissure in which he
might plant his lathi. But he found none, and the masonry of the wall
was far too hard to allow him to bore a hole in it without making a
noise that was bound to attract attention. He wished he could have gone
to one of the embrasures and tied his rope to the gun itself; but even
if the gunners were asleep, it involved a risk he dared not run. He was
at his wit's end to know what to do. Flat on his belly, to lessen the
chances of being seen, he crawled along, seeking for a hole, and
becoming more and more anxious as the moments fled. What if his warning
should reach Hodson Sahib too late? The parapet was loopholed for
musketry, but the loopholes afforded him no assistance. At length, when
almost in despair, he came to a spot where a shot from one of the
British guns had made a jagged rent in the parapet. Here, surely, at
this fortuitous embrasure, he could put his fortune to the test. Gently
unwinding the rope from about his body, he fixed the slip-knot on the
lathi, and having laid this transversely across the gap, he paid out the
rope until he felt it touch bottom.
Now came the critical moment. He knew that as soon as he attempted to
cross the parapet there was a danger that, dark as the night was, his
form might be seen. There was a gun with its group of gunners not many
yards to his right. If one of the men should chance to look in his
direction he could hardly escape discovery. He was thankful that the sky
was overcast; indeed, his journey promised to be an uncomfortable one,
for big spots of rain were falling. Perhaps these heralds of a storm
might cause the gunners to huddle themselves more closely in their
cloaks. But it was vain to delay; the sooner he made the attempt the
better; so, one hand holding the rope, with the other he got a grip of
the top of the parapet. Then he gave a sudden spring, gained the top,
and grasping the rope with both hands, let himself swing free.
As he did so, there came a shout, followed by the sound of scurrying
footsteps. His knuckles scraped against the wall; to protect his hands
he pushed against the wall with his feet, but the result of this was to
throw all his weight on his hands, and his palms were skinned as he slid
rapidly down. The descent was only twenty-four feet. He touched the
ground. Letting the rope go, he plunged down the scarp into the ditch,
rushed across, up the counter-scarp and the glacis, and reached level
ground on the other side. Then a shot flew over his head; he had been
seen. Upright he would form a target, however indistinct, for the sepoys
on the wall, and some of them were no mean marksmen. He dropped on hands
and toes, and thus crawled as fast as he could over the soppy ground.
Shots flew around him, but he escaped them all, and hurrying along until
he judged that he could no longer be seen, he rose to his feet and ran
at full speed across the Circular Road that encompasses the city, over a
stretch of open ground, until he reached the Kudsia Road, and did not
check his pace until he had got half-a-mile from the wall. And then the
rain came down in a blinding torrent, and in five minutes he was
drenched to the skin.
The rain favoured him in one respect--that it would keep people under
cover. On the other hand, it added to the difficulties of his journey.
Even on a clear night he would have found it by no means easy to find
his way. He had nearly two miles to go before he could reach the British
lines, and the ground was dotted with scrub and trees, and with houses
and enclosures, some isolated, some clustered together. Some of the
houses had been occupied before the rising by British officers and civil
servants; they were now, he did not doubt, in the hands of the rebels.
But his only course was to hurry forward, trusting to the good fortune
that had hitherto befriended him.
For half-a-mile he went on across the swampy ground, then found himself
among the walled enclosures. The best way to avoid observation was to
find a lane, such as commonly divided one enclosure from another, and
proceed along that. This he did, and for perhaps another quarter of a
mile trudged on between high walls, the lane winding this way and that,
but leading always, so far as he could judge, in the direction he wished
to go. At length he found himself on open ground again, and now had some
inkling of his locality. The building he had just passed was a large
one, which he had seen, as he thought, often from the Ridge. He would
very soon find himself on the gentle slope leading up to the British
lines, and his journey would be ended.
He had not gone very far, however, when, even in the darkness, he
thought he saw the forms of a number of men recumbent on the ground a
little in front of him. He halted and crouched down. They might be the
bodies of men killed in some outpost skirmish, but it was well to make
sure. A moment later he heard whispers. The men were certainly alive.
Were they rebels or a reconnoitring party from the British lines? There
were adventurous sahibs, he knew, who would take advantage of just such
a night as this to examine the outposts of the enemy. He listened
intently, but for some time could not form any conclusion--the voices
were too low. At length, however, he saw one of the men rise, and at the
same time heard a voice uttering execrations on the accursed mlechas.
Beyond doubt the men were rebels. He must make a circuit, and try to
pass them on their flank; then, having got in front of them, trust to
his heels.
It was clear from their low tones that they were in some fear of being
discovered. A British outpost could not be far distant. He glanced to
right and left, then, with the instinct of a scout, backwards along the
path by which he had come. And now he received a sudden shock, for,
scarcely more than fifty yards from him, there were five or six dark
forms creeping towards him. In a moment he realized the situation.
Without doubt these men formed part of a rebel outpost stationed in the
building he had just passed. They had seen him pass, and with native
quickness had recognized that his turban, the most conspicuous part of
his dress, was not that of a sepoy. The presence of any other man at
that place and hour was suspicious; he might be a spy returning to the
British lines. The slow movements of the men indicated that they thought
to take him by surprise, without alarming the British outpost by the
sounds of a struggle.
They had seen him halt, and would know that he had caught sight of their
comrades in advance. At any moment they might rush upon him. He felt
that he was in a very tight place. Before and behind were enemies; and
these latter, seeming to have anticipated his meditated flank movement,
were spreading out as if to envelop him. What could he do? To attempt a
dash through the men in front, who had clearly not yet seen him, would
be too risky. There were more than a dozen men in the two parties, and
he could not hope to escape all their shots if they fired. He had but a
moment to decide, and in that moment he remembered the trick by which he
had escaped a somewhat similar peril when he was escorting the missy
sahib. With a quick movement he divested himself of the turban and the
chogah which betrayed him as a trader; then, bending low and crouching
forward, he gave a slight cry to attract the attention of the men in
front. Before they were all on their feet he was in their midst, and
murmuring "Feringhis!" pointed to the party stalking him behind, then
sank to the ground as if wounded or exhausted.
His ruse had the effect he had calculated upon. Many a time in the
course of the great struggle the mere hint that the sahibs were upon
them sufficed to throw panic into the mutineers' hearts. A moment's
reflection would have shown these men that they could scarcely have been
taken in reverse unwarned by their comrades in the house. But the
suddenness of the stranger's arrival, the darkness, the silence of the
approaching forms, combined to banish reason: without a moment's
hesitation they took to their heels, and scampered for safety away to
the left in the direction of Sabzi Mandi. Instantly Ahmed jumped to his
feet and set off at a headlong run towards the British lines. He had not
gone more than a hundred yards when he toppled over the edge of a nullah
and went souse into the muddy pool at the bottom. As he ran, he heard
sounds of conflict behind him. Apparently the men he had startled had
dashed heedlessly into those of their comrades who were stealing round
on the left. But the noise was almost immediately hushed: the mistake
had no doubt been discovered, and the rebels did not wish to bring the
Feringhis down upon them.
Dripping wet, bruised, and shaken, Ahmed groped his way along the nullah
for some distance, then scrambled up the bank. But in his relief at
escaping from the enemy he forgot his usual caution, and did not wait to
prospect the ground before leaving the nullah. He had gone but a few
paces, still running, when he heard a cry, "Who goes there?" Next moment
he tumbled over a man, fell with a thud against another, and while
struggling with rough hands laid upon him, realized that he had fallen
plump into a British outpost.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
The Spoilers Spoiled
"Give the word, you heathen son of a washer-woman," said a rough English
voice, the owner of which had his hands on Ahmed's throat. "Give the
word; jaldi karo."
"What have you got there, Tom?" said another voice.
"Blowed if it ain't a Pandy or some other drowned rat by the feel of
him. What do you mean, you suar ka bachcha, by treading on the toes of a
British rifleman? Hilo mat, you bloomin' reptile, or I'll stick my
bay'net in your gala."
"Take me to Hodson Sahib," said Ahmed in halting English, as soon as he
got his breath.
"Hodson Sahib be jiggered! We ain't khaki, as you might see with your
cat's eyes; we're green, we are. You've come to the wrong shop for those
everlasting Guides, if that's what you want. You've got gentlemen of the
60th Royal Rifles to deal with, let me tell you. He ain't got no rifle,
mates, so there ain't no harm in him. What are you a-doing of here, and
what was that there noise we heard just now?"
"Take me to Hodson Sahib," Ahmed repeated.
"Perhaps he's one of Hodson's spies, Tom," said a third man. "Better
send him along to the Colonel."
"We can't send him, not having no conveniences for such. He'll just have
to wait until we're relieved."
"But s'pose he's got news of an attack? There'd be a bit of a dust-up if
the General didn't get warning in time."
"And there'd be another dust-up if an inspection-officer come along and
found me absent from my juty. Rum thing, juty, you nigger; and the
sooner you learn it the better. My juty says one thing, your juty,--if
so be you _are_ one of Hodson's spies--says another. If two juties pulls
in hopposite directions, the thing that wants doing don't get done, and
the consekinces is accordin'."
"Y' ought to bin a parson, Tom. Blest if ever I knowed such a chap for
argyfying."
"Argyfy! I never do it. I only talk sense. That's what my mother used to
say to the old man when they was talkin' over some little bit o'
difference between 'em. 'Woman,' says he, 'your argyment's ridik'lous.
Women ain't got no power of reasonin'.' 'And a good thing for you,
Jimmy,' say she. 'Women ha' got sense.' And then they'd begin over
again, and me eatin' bread and butter listenin' to 'em. 'The amount o'
rubbidge that there poor boy do have to listen to from one as ought to
bring him up proper!' says my father. 'True,' says she, 'and if he
didn't take after me 'twould turn his little stomick, poor lamb!' And
then he'd argyfy that too much butter warn't good for a boy's innards,
and she'd listen and say nothing till the next slice was cut, and blest
if he didn't lay it on thicker than her. Argyfyin' ain't in it against
sense."
Ahmed was growing impatient under the rifleman's garrulity, though he
took a certain pleasure in hearing his mother tongue again. The name
"Jimmy" had caught his ear, and he remembered that he had himself been
called by that name in those distant years of childhood that seemed like
existence in another world. But meanwhile the night was passing; his
news was yet untold; and he was meditating a flight from these English
soldiers when he heard the tread of men marching, and in a few moments
there came up a lieutenant going the rounds with a squad to see that the
men of the outposts and pickets were attending to their duty.
"Who's this, sergeant?" said the lieutenant, observing Ahmed. "You know
the rules: no visitors allowed?"
"Yes, sir, and he ain't exactly a visitor, that is we didn't invite him
and didn't know he was coming; in fact, he came on us all of a heap
like, and nearly knocked the breath out o' my body by falling right on
top of me, sir. He asked for Hodson Sahib, sir, and I was just
explaining that he'd come to the wrong shop."
"Brought khabar, eh?" said the lieutenant. "Take him to Mr. Hodson," he
added, turning to one of his men, and Ahmed was forthwith conveyed along
the Ridge until he reached his commander's tent. Hodson was in bed, but
on hearing that a native had asked for him, he had Ahmed brought into
the tent.
"Who are you?" he said, not recognizing his trooper in the bearded man
before him.
"I am Ahmed Khan, sahib, and I come from Delhi with news."
"By Jove!" cried Hodson, "your get-up is first-rate." Then he laughed.
"You are no doubt the man Fazl Hak wrote about; a simple trader, he
said, who was no good at all for our job. Well, what have you got to
say?"
He listened attentively as Ahmed told his story.
As his manner was, he questioned and cross-questioned him searchingly;
it was no easy matter, as a rule, to sift out the bare truth from the
natives' reports; but Ahmed's account was so simple and direct that he
was speedily satisfied, and then he got up, and flinging on a long
military cloak, went off to tell General Barnard in person what he had
learnt.
"You are wet through," he said before he went, noticing Ahmed's
bedraggled appearance. "My servant will give you some dry things. Go and
get some sleep, and come to me in the morning."
"If there is to be fighting, and the hazur pleases," said Ahmed, "I
should like to go with the Guides."
"Very well," said Hodson, giving him a keen look; "but don't put on the
uniform. You are going to be useful, I think, and the secret had better
be kept a little longer."
It was half-past two in the morning when a little force, consisting of
three hundred and fifty men of the 61st Regiment, Hodson with the
cavalry of the Guides, and Major Coke with some batteries of horse
artillery, left camp to do battle with the mutineers and prevent if
possible the attack on Alipur; if not, to intercept the rebels on their
return. The force was under the command of Coke, of the Panjab Irregular
Cavalry, who had arrived on the Ridge a few days before. He was a
gallant officer, with a great reputation for his achievements in border
warfare; no better man could have been chosen for the work in hand.