Читать книгу Hector Graeme - Evelyn Brentwood - Страница 4

[#] Information.

"Oh, please let's go, Sir Reginald," said Lucy. "It would be a day out whether we shot anything or not. Lady Wilford will come too, and we'll have a ripping time. I should love it."

The Resident hesitated. He knew perfectly well that what Graeme had said was true, and that no Kashmiri would have dared to bring him false information, but he had secret and most important reasons for not wishing to leave his post at the time. That morning's mail had brought in news of serious trouble on the North West Frontier, hinting, moreover, at the possibility of its being necessary to recall to their regiments all officers now on leave in Shiraz. This information, being confidential, could not be given as a reason for refusing Graeme and his wife. The latter continued to press the attack.

"I have never seen a bear except in the Zoo," she pleaded, "and I promise to be very good and quiet, and not get in the way. Oh, do go."

"I have never had a chance with that new .303 of mine," said Hector, "and I badly want to give that lazy devil of a shikari of mine something to do, and see if he's the wonder he makes himself out to be, simply eating and smoking his head off in idleness, the brute."

"My dear fellow, I should like it as much as you do, but we're rather busy in the office just now, and..."

"Why not go, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "It would be a day out, as Mrs. Graeme says, and anything urgent could be sent after you by a peon;[#] it's only twelve miles."

[#] Native Messenger.

The Resident capitulated straightway, as was his habit with his wife. After all, she was right, he thought, and most likely no letter of importance would come. If it did, well, his secretary could give out the necessary orders to the officers. He would chance it and go.

"Very well, my dear," he said, "if you're set upon it; only don't blame me if the bears fail to appear, that's all. I'll go now, and start off the servants with the tents, etc. You'd better go to bed at once, young lady," turning to Lucy; "we'll have to leave here by five at latest, you too, Graeme, you must be tired after your exertions to-day. By the way, Latimer," to his secretary, "you might give me a few minutes in my study, there are one or two things I want to see you about," and Sir Reginald went off to make his preparations for the morrow.

Graeme, having first inspected the aforementioned .303, proceeded to interview his shikari, to whom he imparted the unwelcome news of the forthcoming expedition. This done, he acted upon his host's advice, and, making his way to his room, was soon in bed and asleep.

CHAPTER III

Shortly after five the next morning, the party, mounted on ponies, left the lamp-lit Residency and started on their way to the village of Karin, in the vicinity of which the aforesaid bears were supposed to be awaiting them. The sun was not yet risen; the air was chill; and the sahibs sleepy and disinclined for conversation.

Close at their heels trudged the four saises, bearing their charges' blankets, while some distance in the rear stalked two dignified-looking natives, Gokal Singh, Sir Reginald's dogra orderly, and Ahmed Khan, Graeme's shikari. The latter, a man of gigantic stature and imposing appearance, was a typical specimen of the Kashmiri race.

On Graeme's arrival at Baramoula three weeks before, this worthy, recognising at a glance the green and inexperienced new-comer, had at once attached himself to Hector's retinue, and, heedless of rebuffs, had seized upon the sahib's gun-cases and started off with them in triumph to Shiraz. In vain did Graeme order him to put the guns down and be off; Ahmed Khan merely smiled and stuck sturdily to his booty.

Who did the sahib propose was to clean these weapons? he asked, marching on. Not the saises assuredly, nor the bhisti,[#] and certainly not the Presence's bearer. He appealed to the latter, who at once—satisfactory terms having been previously arranged—supported him. The Kashmiri's questions were reasonable, he declared, a shikari was a necessity to a sahib of importance; but first, why not see the man's chits,[#] for if an honest man he would doubtless have such on him, and thereupon he commanded Ahmed to produce what documents of the kind he had, and to beware of showing false ones, for, he assured his master, such things were done in Kashmir, and it behoved one to be wary.

[#] "Water-carrier.

[#] Written characters, mostly forged, from former employers.

A bundle of dirty papers was thereupon dragged to light, an examination of which proved to Hector that he had secured a treasure, for they one and all declared that, of all shikaris now in Kashmir, this one, for honesty, skill, and lion-hearted bravery, was incomparably the first. Graeme, impatient to be off, and by this time bored with the discussion, then gave in, and Ahmed secured a place, which suited him exactly. He smoked and slept all day, spent his nights in the bazaar, and left the cleaning of the guns to the sais, his sole self-imposed duty being to stand up and salute the sahib whenever he saw him, a performance which he religiously observed, and which irritated Graeme exceedingly. The present expedition, involving a departure from the daily routine, was by no means to his liking, and on receiving his orders the previous night he had at once raised objections. Right well he knew Karin, he declared, and its inhabitants, the headman especially, a liar, a very prince of liars, he was too, always deceiving sahibs by false tales of bears.

Afraid, did the Presence say, he, Ahmed Khan, afraid of a bear? How could that be, for was he not known throughout the country as a lion-hearted one, and the terror of all wild beasts? Let the Presence but deign to look at his chits once more, and forthwith his hand sought the folds of his dirty garments. The frequent production of these documents had by this time got on Graeme's nerves, and, advancing on the lion-hearted one with uplifted arm and dangerous eyes, he was about to make his meaning clearer, when Ahmed, recognising the inevitable, salaamed humbly, and with a meek "Taiyar, sahib, taiyar hojaega,"[#] proceeded, with wrath in his heart, to make preparations for the morrow. He was now morosely trudging along by the side of Gokal Singh, with whom as a Hindu dog he had nothing in common, but to whom as a soldier and man of violence he was invariably respectful.

[#] "I will be ready, sir."

For the first six or seven miles the journey lay through the dense fir and pine forest, the track winding its way along the mountain-side. Here and there the path was broken by noisy rivulets rushing down from above, nasty chasms being thus formed, bridged in the usual slack Kashmiri way by a few poles covered over with sods and brushwood. Dangerous places these for the rider, as when the brushwood rots holes are left, through which the crossing pony may chance to drop a leg. Soon, however, these and the gloomy forest were left behind and the party emerged on to an open plateau, where the full glory of a Kashmiri morning suddenly burst upon them.

Far below lay the valley, its green and gold gleaming through a veil of silver mist, which glittered and flashed like a diamond cobweb in the rays of the morning sun. To their right stretched an endless succession of mountains, the summits rising like islands through the vapour billows which swirled around them—a restless, tossing sea, now fast breaking up and melting into floating patches of white beneath the growing splendour of the sun. Far across the valley gleamed the great snow-wall of the Himalayas, now no longer spirit-haunted and visionary, but pink-flushed and radiant with the kisses of the dawn.

At the sight Lucy gave a cry of pleasure, and, moving instinctively closer to her husband, began to point out to him the various beauties thus unfolded. He was unresponsive, for once more there had stolen over him the faint melancholy of the previous night, and with it the desire for solitude and silence. He therefore assisted her to dismount—Sir Reginald had here called a halt—and muttering an excuse went to some distance, where he stood gazing towards the north.

Lucy, much hurt at his behaviour, remained for a moment looking after him, and then, with a sigh, walked slowly away to join Sir Reginald and his wife, whom she found tucked away behind a rock, whither they had betaken themselves for shelter from the breeze that blew cold and clear from the distant snows.

The Resident had not yet regained his wonted bonhomie, and was full of gloomy forebodings. He ought not to have left Shiraz, he declared; something would be certain to happen in his absence, and Latimer, though a good enough fellow in his way, was not the man to cope with unforeseen emergencies. The present expedition too was more likely than not to turn out a failure; a bear-shoot so often did. Possibly they might get a shot, but he doubted it, he very much doubted it. He only hoped there would be no mistake about breakfast. Samuel—his Madrasi butler—was not given to make a hash of things, but natives were so unreliable, and to-day somehow he had a presentiment he would. But they must be getting on, not waste time on this infernal hill, where he was rapidly freezing.

"Where's Graeme? Oh, looking at the snows, is he?—very fine, very fine indeed. Where's my sais? Abdul, you rascal, leave that stinking hubble-bubble at once, and bring my pony, the lady sahib's too. Why don't you roll karo[#] and keep them warm, instead of letting them stand in the cold while you're squatting on the ground like a damned fool? They'll get a chill now and die, and you'll be in jail khana. Serve you right. Hold his head, will you, how the devil can I get up with the brute twisting about like a top? My foot, curse it, right on my foot, you clumsy lout, and now I shan't be able to shoot. Oh, come on, come on, Sarah, you too, Mrs. Graeme, never mind about that husband of yours, he'll turn up at breakfast all right."

[#] "Walk them about."

Thus encouraged by the leader, the party, joined shortly after by Graeme, once more resumed their journey, and, the wind-swept plateau left far above and behind them, were soon winding their way through the crops and woodlands of the valley below. Gradually, as the warmth increased, Sir Reginald grew more amiable, till by the time the mud huts of Karin appeared in sight he had become his own genial self again, and was the first to point out the camp, a collection of large tents hard by the village, their white sides looking cool and inviting through the dark green of the trees.

At a respectable distance a crowd of natives were squatting, anxious for a sight of the great man and his guests. At their approach they stood up together, and a chorus arose of "Salaam, sahib, salaam," while turbaned heads bowed low in reverence. The headman came forward, and with many protestations of unworthiness proceeded to welcome the Protector of the Poor and the other Presences. Sir Reginald cut him short. Afterwards, he said, he would be pleased to see him, but not now, and thereupon he dismounted, and, followed by the others, entered the large marquee, where he stood, a smile appearing on his face as he viewed the result of Madrasi Samuel's efforts.

It was a cheering sight on which his eyes rested. On the snowy tablecloth, glittering with glass and silver and tastefully decked with flowers, stood crystal dishes piled high with peaches, nectarines, and pears, while on a trestle sideboard were displayed cold baked meats of many kinds, from the tiny but succulent quail, nestling in his bed of quivering jelly, to the lordly turkey, carefully browned and portly with chestnut stuffing. From buckets of ice, hock and soda-water bottles reared inquiring heads, while from the kitchen outside came the inspiring sizzle of bacon and chop, their fragrance mingling with that of the roasting coffee-berry.

The faces of the Resident and his wife beamed with pleasure at the sight. "Let come what might" now, the main object to them of the expedition was assured, and, no matter whether the bears were found or not, there was at any rate eating and drinking to fall back upon.

Promptly vetoing Hector's suggestion that before falling to they should make arrangements for the first drive in order to waste no time. Sir Reginald summoned the servants and the business of breakfast commenced, during which Graeme and Lucy mentally beheld the quarry, bored with waiting, stalk disgustedly away to their mountain fastnesses. At length the apparently interminable meal was ended, but not their trials, for Sir Reginald, drowsy with repletion, called for cheroots, and, having carefully selected a long and black weed from the box, notched the end neatly with a knife, and, lighting it, lay back in his chair and proceeded to abandon himself to dreamy reflection. This was too much for the now indignant pair, and goaded at length into action by their fidgeting Sir Reginald, with a sigh of regret, rose and accompanied them outside, where the headman and his retinue were still patiently squatting.

The story, as told by this worthy, was sufficiently thrilling. The country, it appeared, for miles round was alive with bears, black in hue, and of incredible size and ferocity, and though the number of those actually seen dwindled down to three under the close cross-questioning of the Resident, still three, one a man-slayer, was news enough to inspire any man, or woman either, and it was with a heart beating with excitement, not unmixed with fear, that Lucy accompanied her husband to the scene of the coming drama.

Hector was confident, as usual. His experience of big-game shooting was nil, but what of that? He was a crack performer with a shot-gun, and no doubt, should the occasion present itself, he would prove himself equally proficient with the rifle. His vanity also was stirred, for had not the headman besought him to deliver the village from the tyranny of these beasts, and, though he was addressing Sir Reginald at the time, his eyes had turned to him more than once; and naturally, for it was hardly likely that anyone so old and fat as the Resident could be relied on in an emergency like the present. No, it was to him they looked, and, by Jove! they should find their confidence was not misplaced. Ahmed Khan well knew how to foster these sentiments, for in them he saw lay profit to himself. Like most natives, he was an unconscious student of human nature; it is their stock-in-trade for the extracting of rupees, and, as he was aware from experience, the lordlier the sahib's frame of mind, the more noble the bakshish, as is befitting.

Edging up to his master, therefore, who on this occasion did not repulse him, he proceeded to launch forth into a panegyric of Graeme's virtues, expressing his conviction, that, of all the sahibs he had hitherto served, his sahib was incomparably the bravest and most expert with gun and rifle. And for this, he ejaculated fervently, Allah be praised, since no one less gifted could hope to emerge victorious from a contest with bears so ferocious as these undoubtedly were. Thereupon followed a stream of gruesome and imaginary anecdote illustrative of these animals' incredible daring and savagery; but, with a pleased glance at Lucy's white face, let not the memsahib be frightened, for he, Ahmed Khan, would be there to see that no harm came to her or the sahib. Only over his dead body should that happen, for he had no fear of the beasts, ferocious as they were. Let her but look, and here again his hand sought out the bundle of papers, till, suddenly catching the sahib's eye, he changed his mind, and lifting up a fold of his dingy garments blew his nose hastily with it.

At length, after an hour's walk, the scene of action was reached, this being a deeply-wooded ravine roughly triangular in shape and about half a mile in length. Lining the base could be seen the beaters awaiting the signal to advance, the guns being placed in position near the apex, one on either side.

Perched on a tree, overhanging the edge of the ravine and halfway between the beaters and guns, sat, in dignified eminence, the patriarch of the village. His duty it was to stimulate the exertions of his friends by much laudation of their efforts, and at the same time to excite their hatred of the quarry by bitter cursing and vituperation of the same. His further mission was to act as sentinel, and to give notice of the bear's approach to his lords and patrons at the other end.

Suddenly a long loud whistle broke the silence, and at the sound pandemonium broke loose in the ravine, each villager howled his loudest, while through the din was heard the dull monotonous throbbing of a tom-tom, lustily beaten by the village priest. The line of beaters crept on, but so far there was no sign of the enemy; the uproar gradually abated, and even the tom-tom had ceased to beat, when suddenly the figure in the tree began to show signs of agitation. He craned forward, his neck was thrust out like that of a vulture, and then with a wild shriek of "Balu! balu!"[#] he commenced to wave his arms and gesticulate with a frenzied energy, which threatened every minute to precipitate him from his perch into the abyss below.

[#] "The bear! the bear!"

Instantly the clamour was renewed, the thrumming of the tom-tom rose to a roar, while, faintly heard through the din, the thin screams of the patriarch in the tree smote upon the ear. He exhorted his brothers to advance and fear not, in the same breath cursing the bear and reviling its female ancestors with an intensity and bitter hatred, which that harmless mulberry-eater would hardly seem to have merited.

At the sportsmen's end of the ravine a tense silence reigned, all eyes being fixed on the undergrowth below, whence a faint rustling and clatter of loose stones were now coming, betokening something's approach. Lucy's face whitened, and she clutched her husband by the arm. Shaking her off, he grasped his rifle tighter; but, alas! the quarry was not for him, for suddenly the "old and fat" Sir Reginald was seen to raise his weapon, a dull boom echoed through the ravine, followed by a "Woof, woof," a commotion in the bushes, and then the silence of death. The bear was slain.

"Damn!" muttered Graeme, and was turning sharply away when a gasp from Lucy stopped him, and looking round he beheld another bear, which, having emerged unseen from below, was now hastily shuffling off. Graeme fired, but the bear paid no heed; again he fired, and still the target refused to stop, but to the accompaniment of a wail from Lucy and a curse from Ahmed Khan lumbered on to the shelter of some bushes and was lost to view.

A dreadful moment followed; not only had he, Hector Graeme, missed an easy shot in the eyes of the whole village, but, worse still, he had failed where another had succeeded, an altogether impossible situation, and one by no way improved by the well-meant, though perhaps tactless, condolences of his host, who now joined them. The thing was done, however, and the bear in safety miles away, so assuming what nonchalance he might, and avoiding the reproachful eyes of Lucy, who declined to look at Sir Reginald's bear, and the glum face of Ahmed Khan, whose hopes of bakshish had disappeared with the bear, he turned to his host, and jauntily inquired what the next move was to be. Sir Reginald without hesitation answered that that must undoubtedly be lunch, it being now past one, and the next beat more than a mile distant, whereupon, guided by a white-clad khitmagar, sent forward for the purpose by the thoughtful Samuel, the party returned to the marquee, where once more they found a repast awaiting them, more suggestive of Prince's or the Savoy than a picnic in the wilds of Kashmir.

At first Graeme's mood was not conversational, but gradually, under the influence of good cheer and much hock and soda, his mortification subsided, till at cigarette time he had recovered his wonted serenity, and even permitted himself to discuss the recent disaster.

"Curious thing," he observed, "my missing like that, wonder what happened. Don't often do it, rather good shot as a rule, ain't I, Lucy?"

"Indeed you are, Hector," answered the latter, looking indignantly at her host and refusing to respond to a wink. "My husband is considered one of the best shots in Hertfordshire, Sir Reginald, and how he came to miss the bear I can't imagine. I think there must be something wrong with that rifle, Hector, I really do."

"Wrong with the powder, I should say, Mrs. Graeme," said the Resident, in high good-humour, "wants straightening. Have to do better than that when you go to Tirah, why ... Try that Grand Marnier, Graeme, I can recommend it."

"Thanks, I will," said Graeme, filling his glass, "and about Tirah—going up, are we, when?"

"Surely, Sir Reginald, there's no chance of that?" said Lucy, with startled eyes.

"No chance whatever, Mrs. Graeme, no chance at all, I should say; foolish of me to have mentioned it, must have been dreaming. A native regiment or two may have to go, that is, if the Afridis really mean trouble, which I doubt, but hardly British cavalry. No, no, set your mind at rest."

"Native troops again," muttered Graeme discontentedly; "it's always the same story. They have all the fun, while we fool about in cantonments. Wish to Heaven I was in a black corps."

"You'd very soon wish yourself out again, my friend," said his host. "I know I'd give something to be back in the old 12th," his thoughts reverting as he spoke to the days when he was a subaltern in a fashionable Hussar regiment. "Gad, what times we used to have, and what an infernal young fool I was to come the mucker I did. Real life that was, not this tin-pot grandeur and importance."

Lady Wilford at once intervened. To her, a former Mussoori belle and daughter of a police official in that place, Sir Reginald's London reminiscences were always distasteful. India, not England, was her native country, and she was not going to hear the former or its dignity derided, certainly not in the presence of a mere soldier officer, who, as everyone knows, is in no way the equal of an Indian civilian.

"Of course, you don't mean that, Reginald," she observed with some asperity, "and I confess I'm rather surprised that you, in your position, should have made such a remark. You'll be giving our guests an altogether wrong impression, but," turning to Hector, "you mustn't take what my husband says seriously, Captain Graeme; he often jokes in this way."

"Mayfield's your cousin, ain't he, Sir Reginald?" said Hector, unheeding. "He and Lady Edith were staying with my governor last covert shooting."

"No; she is. Rockingham was my father's brother. Good old Uncle Jack, wonder when I'll see him again. Gad, I remember...."

"Won't you tell us about the frontier, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "You know, Captain Graeme, my husband's one of the great authorities on the subject; indeed, his Excellency, a great friend of ours, once told me he considered him the greatest. I'm sure you would like to hear about it, both of you."

"Very much," said Hector, lying back in his chair and lighting another cigarette.

"It's hardly the subject for a picnic lunch, my dear," said the Resident, rather annoyed at being shown off in this manner, "and I'm sure it wouldn't interest our guests."

"Indeed, Sir Reginald, it would," answered Lucy, dealing a surreptitious kick at her husband's foot, at which with a low growl he opened his closing eyes.

"Some mullah fellow been stirring 'em up, hasn't he, Sir Reginald?" he observed sleepily.

"The Hadda Mullah," said the Resident briefly, "trying to proclaim a religious war. Jehad, they call it. Don't think he will, all the same, for the Afridis have no religion to speak of. They'll be a hard nut to crack, if they do rise; but let's be off, it's time we were at those bears again. Wait a minute, though," he added, suddenly rising and hurrying out of the tent; "there's a man I want to see before we start. You stay here," looking hard at his wife, "amuse our guests till I return, Sarah. I won't be a minute."

"Now then, what is it?" he said sharply to a blue-clad native, with a leather belt round his waist, whose approach he had observed through the open door of the tent. "Letter for me? Hum, I was afraid of it, a wire too for Graeme sahib. Damn, but it's bad luck on her. All right, here's the sahib coming out now. You can give him the wire—not now, you fool, wait for three minutes."

"Oh, Mrs. Graeme, come over here and have a look at my bear, fine chap, isn't he? I'll have him skinned for you if you like; he'll make rather a good carriage-rug."

"It's awfully kind of you, Sir Reginald, but I couldn't think ... Why, what on earth's the matter with my husband? He seems very angry. Good—good heavens, what's that in his hand? It's, heavens, it's a telegram. Oh, Hector, what is it?"

"Only a recall, Lucy, that's all, an order to return, from that old fool Schofield. But I won't go. I'll see him damned first, by the Lord I will! I'm here on leave, and here I'll stay. You see now what comes of being in the Service, always at the beck and call of some jumpy idiot of a C.O."

"But—but why, Hector, what for?"

"I don't know; all it says is 'Return at once.' Some silly inspection, I suppose. But I ain't going. I'll wire to say 'Regret impossible.' Here, you fool with the belt, give me a form."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Graeme," said his host gravely.

"Can't I? I'll soon show you I can. Why ... what do you mean, do you know anything of this, Sir Reginald?"

"The 1st Lancers leave Riwala for the frontier to-night. The Afridis have risen, after all, and seized the Khyber forts. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Graeme, but I was afraid of it all along. That's why I didn't want to come to-day."

Lucy said nothing.

"What's all this?" said Lady Wilford, coming up. "Oh," on hearing the news, "I do call that a shame, my dear, I am so sorry."

Lucy again made no answer, but, turning, left the group and walked slowly away to her tent.

"Oh, but, Reginald," continued his wife, really distressed, "surely something can be done, these two poor creatures, why not send a wire to say Captain Graeme's sick and can't move? They'd believe you, though of course they wouldn't him."

"My dear, what you suggest is impossible."

"I should just think it is," said Graeme, the anger on whose face had now turned to joy. "What! me skulk up here while my regiment's fighting on the frontier, not much. Here, I must get back to Shiraz at once. Ahmed Khan, put my things together, ek dum.[#] And you," to the peon, "order me a tonga when you get back. Gad, but this is good business, Lucy. Now where's my wife got to?"

[#] Immediately.

The Resident looked at him curiously. He didn't much like his guest at that moment.

"I think," he said rather coldly, "she has gone away to her tent. It's a bit rough on her, Graeme, you know."

"By Jove, yes, of course it is. I must go and find her at once. When do you think we can start, Sir Reginald?"

"Time enough if you leave Baramoula to-morrow. You can't do it to-night; besides, if you're thinking of your brother officers, they'll have gone by now."

"I sincerely trust they have. I don't want their company, Porky in a tonga would be just about the limit, and I must go to-night. I shouldn't sleep a wink if I didn't. Oh, let's be off. You can give me a permit, I suppose, for the road?"[#]

[#] A permit from the Resident of Kashmir is required by those wishing to make the Tonga journey to the plains by night. This is on account of the dangerous nature of the road.

"Oh, as far as that goes, there'd be no difficulty, but..."

"That's settled then. I'll go and tell Lucy."

"Very well, if you insist, we'll be ready in half an hour from now. You can manage it, I suppose, Sarah?" to his wife, who was looking at Graeme with indignant eyes.

"Oh yes, but I really think..."

"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his mind. Rather a sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but the latter was already on his way to the tent, where he found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed, quietly sobbing.

At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector; tears were a rare occurrence with Lucy. He knelt down beside her and tried to take her hand.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid I've been beastly selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement I never thought of that. I can see now it's devilish hard on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't to go; but I must; you see that, don't you, dear?"

No answer but sobs.

Hector was nonplussed. He could make love as well as most men—perhaps even better—but in the capacity to feel the sorrows of others his nature was altogether lacking, and he knew no other way to dry a woman's tears save with kisses. Such grief merely bored and annoyed him, and, as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in spite of himself a faint feeling of grievance began to take possession of him.

"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could. "Pull yourself together, dear; after all, you are more to blame for this than me."

"I, Hector, oh, how?"

"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to. You see now what has come of it."

"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your sake, Hector."

"And that being so," continued Graeme, feeling his advantage, "it's hardly logical to complain. After all, fighting is what we're for, not loafing about barracks. Why, it was only last night that you were at me to take my profession seriously, and now, when I've got a chance at last, you grumble. It isn't fair, Lucy, it isn't really; makes the going ten times worse for me."

"I—I'm not grumbling, only—crying a little. I—I shouldn't be human if I didn't. Oh, Hector, are you made of stone?"

"Of course I'm not, only I've got more self-control. I feel it every bit as much as you do; it's the same for me, you know."

"It isn't, it isn't!" sobbed Lucy. "You've got the excitement, your brother officers and—and the rest. You're not left alone with nothing to do but think, as I shall be after to-morrow, for you must go then, I suppose. Oh, dearest, couldn't you wait for just one more day, for my sake, Hector?"

"I—I'm afraid I must go to-night, Lucy," stammered Hector.

The girl sat up, her eyes rather wild.

"To-night? Oh no, no, you can't; you mustn't go to-night. I—I couldn't bear it, Hector."

"I must, dear; if I didn't, they might put me under arrest for disobedience to orders. Think what might be said too, that brute O'Hagan, for instance."

"What does it matter about him? I come first. And you can't go to-night. The road's not safe. Those awful precipices."

"There's no danger, Lucy, and, believe me, I must." Hector's jaw set and his eyes hardened.

A long pause. Graeme looked at his watch. Quarter of an hour had already passed.

"Lucy, dear," he began again, "I don't wish to hurry you, but Sir Reginald told me to say that he would start in half an hour;" and Lucy at once rose, except for her pale face and red eyes, to all appearances calm once more.

"Very well, Hector," she said in a level voice, "I will be ready. Tell Sir Reginald I won't keep him waiting. I—I should like an hour or two at Shiraz, though, if you can wait so long. I want to see about your things."

"Oh, of course, dear, and, Lucy, you know, don't you, that it's not want of feeling on my part? I hate it as much as you do, probably more, only..."

"Yes, yes, but please leave me now, Hector, or I shan't—shan't. Oh, go—go."

She half pushed him out of the tent and closed the flap behind him.

* * * * *

"That fellow was right," muttered Hector, as some hours later he rode down the hill on his way to Baramoula, "who said soldiers ought not to be married. I wish to heaven I'd sent in my papers before I left England, as I wanted to; but she wouldn't have it, said she wanted me to make a name for myself, and now the time's come, it seems she doesn't want it at all. No more do I, much rather stay behind with her. God, how cursedly miserable I feel, so much for love for a woman stirring a man's ambition and making him keen to do things. It don't, it takes all the heart out of him. Hullo, there's Baramoula, now I wonder whether that fool ordered my tonga?" and shaking up his pony he rode on at a canter.

CHAPTER IV

Early morning on the Khyber Hills. Not the autumn morning known to dwellers in rural England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of russet and gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but something far different from that. Here is no green of grass, no vitalising chill of morning air, but instead a dull burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony plain and glowing mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless blue.

In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British soldier stood watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki uniform creased and tumbled, and, though his rôle of sentry was no laborious one, already stained with dark patches of sweat. Around him for miles stretched the brown monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there by ragged-edged nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy beds of which a few withered shrubs and tussocks of grass clung hard to a miserable existence.

Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains barred the view, a rampart of earth and stone glaring red in the sunlight; sheer from the plain it rose, a forbidding barrier between India and Afghanistan, a barrier too with but few gateways, one of which, however—a dark rift in the hills—lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.

Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains, could be seen the mud walls and strong square towers of a Pathan village, apparently deserted save for the occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a few herds of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the hillside hard by. Far away behind him, the solid walls and ramparts of Fort Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh stronghold, and now the temporary abode of her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers.

Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke, through which now and again could be seen the faint twinkle of lance-point and sword-scabbard, and, the dust at times clearing, strings of mules and horses moving to and from a pond of muddy water. Over all was a pitiless brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its rays smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort Hussein into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.

Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too hot to hold, viewed all these things with aching eyes, and spat on the ground and swore. "An' this is bein' on active service," he muttered, "this doin' of guards and pickets more than wot a man 'as in barriks, no fightin', no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,' an' stinkin' rations and 'ot beer when you git 'ome. Wot are we 'ere for, I'd like to know, wot for did they send the ridgmint up 'ere? Fed up, that's wot I am, fair fed up." He paused, took off his helmet and wiped his brow. He then replaced the headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins when out of sight of authority, and, taking from his breast-pocket a packet of "Swell" cigarettes, lit one and resumed his soliloquy.

"Wonder what 'Ooky's doin' over there?" he murmured, gazing towards a hillock some two miles away to the front of him, where a small group of horses could be seen standing. "Fancy the bloke a-sendin' 'im on detached post, ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all. 'Ullo, they're movin', strike me, they're gone, now what the 'ell does that mean?" He remained staring vacantly.

Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported, was nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view in the depths of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers were lying; to which force he was now acting as look-out man.

Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by the process known in the Service as "linking," were the horses, black with sweat and restlessly kicking at the buzzing flies, while their riders, except the luckless Bates and a few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting in a circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation to which the British soldier is addicted. Some yards away Hector Graeme was lying on his back, his head resting on his helmet and a handkerchief spread over his face. For an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but, the flies and heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and was listening to the conversation of the men.

The detachment of which he was this morning in command, or rather one similar to it—for the duty devolved on each troop of the regiment in turn—was sent out daily from Fort Hussein to its present position, its mission being to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen from the direction of the Pass. For the better fulfilment of the task allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear of horseflesh, it was customary to push forward from the troop itself a detached post of six men under a non-commissioned officer. These were stationed on a small hillock about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their orders being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.

To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to a certain Sergeant Walker, familiarly known as "Hooky," for, as every soldier is aware, in the Army all Walkers are "Hookies," just as all Clarkes are "Nobbies."

It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its hillock that had so excited the interest of Private Bates, and, curiously enough, at the same time, the conversation in the nullah had also turned on the subject of this particular non-commissioned officer.

"Think 'Ooky's caught the 'Addy Mullah yet, Jim?" said a voice.

"Shouldn't wonder at all, Spider," was the answer, "got 'im tied by a neck-rope to 'is 'orse and a-bringin' of 'im up before the orfcer. Now then, 'Addy, quick march, 'alt, saloot. Stand up straight, can't yer? and stop fiddlin' with yer 'ands. This 'ere 'Addy, sir, 'as been givin' a lot of trouble lately, creatin' of disturbances in the Khyber Parse. Most troublesome man, sir, can't do nothin' with 'im. Sivin days to barriks? Very good, sir. Right turn, dismiss. Come back, d'ye 'ear, and saloot the orfcer properly.'"

"'Ooky's a bloke like a lot more we 'ave in the Army," said another, Wilde by name, "always a-gettin' of a man 'set' and naggin' at 'im. 'E makes crime, does Sergeant Walker."

"That's a fact, Oscar, and 'e 'imself ain't no perticler class, neither. 'E don't know 'is 'orses and 'e don't know 'is drill, but 'e's got a kind o' soapy way with 'im wot goes down with Rawson. Don't get round 'im, though," jerking his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to a cautious whisper.

"'Oo, 'im? Why, Taylor, 'im as is waiter in the orfcer's Mess, says as 'ow the other orfcers..." The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

"Orfcers, wot do they know? Why..." Mumble, mumble, and then, in the heat of controversy, a voice raised:

"'E ain't a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the 'ole squadron knows that. Ferrers, 'oo's Ferrers? Give me 'Ector, and you can 'ave the rest, ole man and all."

"Now then, stop that language," came sharply from a recumbent figure with three gold stripes on his arm, surmounted by a crown. Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly become alive to the enormity of the present discussion, and hastened to intervene. At his voice a hush fell on the group till, authority once more slumbering, the conversation was resumed.

"Wot for then 'as 'e gone and put 'Ooky on detached post, that's what I want to know?" said a voice, echoing the same doubt that had arisen in Private Bates's mind.

"Better arsk 'im, cully, not me. 'E knows 'Ooky same as 'e knows every man in the squadron, and if so be as 'e's put 'Ooky to watch the Parse, 'e's got 'is reasons for it, same like 'e always 'as."

A somewhat curious smile played over Hector's face as he listened, for the speaker was right in what he said. He did know his men. More, he had an intimate knowledge of their natures and capabilities, such as no other officer of the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he tried. However, the other officers had not tried, the study of character in no way being regarded as part of the training of an officer in the British Army. With Hector such knowledge was a natural gift, as well as a hobby, and possibly it was owing to this that he possessed his curious popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson, his squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.

And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately selected a non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be one of the most incompetent in the regiment, for the responsible position he now held. But again, as Private Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these would probably have much astonished that person, as well as anyone else to whom they had been divulged.

Briefly they were as follows. The present was the fourth occasion on which Graeme had been entrusted with this particular mission, and so far as had also happened to his brother officers, the proceedings had been of a singular tameness—no sign of an enemy having been seen and no shot fired. While they were content to grumble, Hector had determined to act and at all costs to have some little fighting to his credit, even if this should involve an attack on the Pass with his one troop.

On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the problem of how his object was to be attained, he had by chance overheard a conversation between the redoubtable Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as was his wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous companion that "give me but arf a chance, and I will show them I am afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass I mean to go sooner or later, orders or no orders."

Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally, to the astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and told him he would be in command of the detached post that day. This information he supplemented with a few remarks on the necessity of daring and enterprise on the part of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote dealing with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting in defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown. Having thus fired an already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he despatched the man on his mission, observing with secret gratification his victim surreptitiously borrow the trumpeter's revolver, and with this tucked away in his holster depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than was his wont.

Having then watched the party's arrival at their destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah, occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing happened. By now he had abandoned hope, and was apathetically listening to his soldiers' talk when there was a sudden general cry of "'Ullo!" and removing the handkerchief from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging eyes staring at him from above. It was Bates the sentry, an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.

"Beggy pardon, sir," he gasped, '"Ook ... Sergeant Walker, sir, 'as left 'is 'ill, and there's 'eavy firin' goin' on in the Parse, you can 'ear it quite plain from 'ere."

A chorus of "Gawds," a scuffle, a rush, and all were up the nullah's side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed on the dark rift in the mountain wall. Yes, there it was, the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold thrill ran through him—that strange sensation, half awe, half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears the sound beats for the first time.

In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his part. He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few minutes hence be standing in Death's presence, nay, might have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible as the stones on which he lay.

Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued, but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant and his party was there a trace. They were gone, apparently swallowed up in the mountains.

At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.

At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.

"Made a 'ash of it, same as I thought he would."

"Been up the Parse, cont'r'y to orders."

"An' now 'ookin out of it, double quick?"

"'Ow many's been shot, I wonder?"

"Mount," from Graeme, and straightway there was a cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to, regardless of ownership. A blast of bad language rose up like smoke.

"Leave my 'orse alone, Ginger. Get on yer own ruddy 'orse."

"Which of you blokes 'as pinched my lance?"

"Take yer 'orse's foot off my carbine."

"Forward, gallop, march" from the leader, and the troop were off, making for the road along which the horsemen were advancing—Graeme with his trumpeter some thirty yards ahead. As he rode, he thought hard, speculating as to what had happened, and wondering if it meant the chance for which he had been asking, till at length the road having been reached he halted, the troop drawn up in line across the way behind him, waiting for the fugitives, now barely a quarter of a mile distant, and still galloping hard towards him. On they came, nearer and nearer still, till their faces could be seen, and at the sight a simultaneous murmur of "Gawd" broke from the staring men.

"Halt!" shouted Graeme.

The horsemen paid no heed, but still came on, a wild-eyed rabble, their horses in a lather, with necks outstretched as they thundered along the dusty road.

"Halt!" he roared once more. "Halt!" echoed the Sergeant-Major.

"Christ, they'll be into us," from the troop, whereupon an ominous murmur and shuffling arose from the ranks.

"Damn it, my lot'll be off in a moment," muttered Graeme, and then, inspiration coming to him, "Engage!" he shouted.

Immediately, at the familiar word of command, the murmuring ceased, with a clatter of bamboo and steel down came the lances, and a row of glittering points barred the road; behind them sat a line of motionless figures, soldiers firm and steady once more, their momentary wavering gone.

At the sight the fugitives stopped, and a high-pitched chattering rose upon the air, each man telling his story, glancing the while with fearful eyes towards the mountains behind. Livid cheeks ran wet with tears, and little quavers of laughter, broken with sobs, broke from loose-lipped mouths, the loud gasping of the steaming horses drowning the pitiful outcry; but their comrades behind the lance-points answered nothing, only looked at them, their eyes cold and faces grown suddenly white and very serious.

"And these are British soldiers," muttered Graeme, a feeling of disgust coming over him; "the others would have been the same too in another minute." And then rage seized him, and riding up to Sergeant Walker, now a shivering jelly of a man, he began furiously to question him.

In vain, however; the creature was too far gone to answer, and could only babble incoherently, while he pointed with shaking finger to his horse, in whose side could be seen a small dark hole, from which at every laboured breath a thin stream of blood ran out, staining with dull crimson the white dust of the road. At length, patience deserting him, he seized the man by the collar and shook him. This method proved more effectual, and he succeeded in eliciting the fact that he had taken his party up the Pass in spite of orders, that they had been suddenly fired upon from all sides, and he couldn't clearly remember what had happened then; but they had got out all right, all of them.

"Private Mortlock missing," said the Sergeant-Major's voice from the rear, and at the words a cry of exultation almost escaped Graeme, for his calculations had proved correct, and Sergeant Walker had provided him with the chance asked for. Remembering in time, however, he checked himself, and turning his back on the troop began rapidly to consider. The risks were obvious, also the futility of the proceeding on which he had already determined, but of these he thought not at all, for with him an idea once formed became an obsession. It had to be carried out, right or wrong, possible or to all seeming the reverse, for such was his nature. The "how" might require consideration—deep consideration too, as now—but the "whether" never. His course once decided on, doubts never assailed him, and in this he had the advantage over most; for feeling no doubt, and consequently no counter-emotion rising to cloud his brain, this was at his disposal, free to work undisturbed at the problem before it. So now, with all eyes fixed upon him, he sat debating and then the plan clear before him he turned and rode slowly back to the staring troop:

"Men," he said, "I'm going back for Mortlock, I want four volunteers, who's for it?" Silence for a good ten seconds, and then out from the rear rank rode a dirty-looking soldier, one Private Williams, reputed the worse character in the troop. Forward he came, and, halting behind Graeme, sheepishly grinned at his comrades.

"I'm wiv yer, Billy, strike me," said a voice, and Private Rogers, his chum and constant associate in evil-doing, also rode forward and ranged himself alongside.

"I'll come too, sir; it's a Christian's duty," said another quietly, and Private Green, the religious man of the troop, and an ardent temperance advocate, joined the other two.

A pause followed, Graeme's eye running down the line.

"I should like you, Haslopp," he said at last, "to make up the party," whereupon, without a word, a huge shoeing-smith, the regimental "strong man," left the ranks, and the number required was complete. "Right," said Hector, "four good men," at which unwonted eulogy Rogers and Williams winked in unison. "Now, Sergeant-Major, you'll be in charge of the troop till I return. Bring them on after me to that rise there, and open fire on the hills bordering the Pass. Don't suppose you'll see anything, or hit it if you do, but it will help to keep the enemy's fire off me. As for them," pointing to Sergeant Walker's men, now very silent and subdued, "keep 'em well in front; run a lance into any man of them who tries to bolt. That's all, I think. Now then, my heroes, forward on," and, shaking up his horse, Graeme set off, followed closely by the quartette of volunteers.

"A nice selection," he reflected as he rode, "two bad hats, one religious lunatic and a thick-headed shoeing-smith. Never mind, such as they are, they came at a word from me, and I love 'em for it. Gad, I do. Devilish quiet it all is," as mile after mile was covered, and still the silence remained unbroken; "nearly there now, must be, and not a shot so far. Wonder whether they've cleared off and it's going to be a walk-over after all. Ah, not it," suddenly ducking his head, as something sighed through the air above him, followed by a deep bang, while a wailing cry of "Allah, Allah," came faintly to his ears. "Stooks is at it too now," he continued, as the rending shriek of cordite sounded from behind, and a flight of bullets whistled overhead. "Lord, we're in for it." He bent forward in his saddle and urged his horse forward at top speed, while the air was alive with winged death and the hills ahead echoed to the loud banging of Jezail and Snider. "It's good though, all the same, worth living for;" and, a sudden feeling of exhilaration coming over him, he shouted aloud. Rogers and Williams screamed hoarsely in sympathy, till a loud thud followed by a ringing crash brought the concert to an abrupt termination. "Who is it?" shouted Graeme, pulling up and looking round.

"Rogers, sir," came faintly from a dusty heap on the road, the said heap sitting up and looking around with dazed eyes. "Not 'urt, though, sir, it's me 'orse 'e's got 'it in the 'ead. 'Ere, Billy," rising and walking unsteadily towards his chum, "gimme 'old of yer stirrup, I'll foot it alongside."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," shouted Graeme, "go back to the troop at once, and take your sword and carbine with you."

"Beggy pardon, sir, Williams and I..."

"Get back, damn you."

"Beggy..."

"Oh, go to the devil. Come on, men. Let go of that stirrup, Rogers; hit him on the head, Haslopp, if he won't," and once more the party were off, leaving Rogers looking sullenly after them. For some minutes he stood there, and then, having addressed a few pungent remarks to his dead horse, unbuckled his sword and extricated his carbine from its bucket, and, one under each arm, trudged away to a rock hard by. Here he sat down, and, having lighted a cigarette, proceeded at his leisure to take pot-shots at the hills in front of him.

Meanwhile, the party, now reduced to four, were rapidly nearing the mouth of the Pass, but so far no sign of the missing man was to be seen. Faces began to look serious, and the sense of imminent peril to strike home, but still their leader held on, though with every yard covered the situation was becoming more desperate.

Suddenly there arose a cry of "Here he is, sir," and Graeme, looking round, saw Green bending over a heap of khaki lying some distance from the road, the others with their officer having passed it by unseeing.

"Get up, Mortlock," shouted Hector, galloping towards the prone figure.

"Look sharp, man, there's no time to be lost. What's the matter, Green, not dead, is he? Oh—" stopping short and looking curiously down at what had been a human face before Pathan knives had altered it. Much interested Graeme remained staring, till roused by a warning voice.

"Look out, sir, they're comin' down from the rocks; they'll be on us in a minute. Better be off, sir; can't do nuthink for 'im now."

"Go to blazes. Haslopp, where the devil are you, Haslopp? Here, I'll hold your horse; you get down and hand him up to me, put your back into it, man. Oh, for the Lord's sake, look sharp."

"It's all right, sir, plenty of time. Christ, but ye're 'eavy, ole man. 'Ere you are, sir, got 'im? Not that way, sir. Put yer arm round 'im, let 'is 'ead rest agin yer shoulder like."

"Damn, he's slipping; he's slipped, Haslopp. Get your swords out, you two, look behind you," to Green and Williams, whose faces were now ashen.

"Orl right now, sir. Gimme my 'orse, Williams. Blast ye, don't let 'im go."

"Are you up, Haslopp? The point, Green, mind, not the cut."

"Not yet, sir, steady," to his dancing horse; "orl right now, sir."

"Come on then. Be off, you two, no good your waiting here. Gallop on and tell the troop I'm coming—you too, Haslopp."

There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained where he was. Not so the other two; they were off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror. It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running alongside, proceeded on their way.

"Price of a pint out of this 'ere?" gasped the pedestrian.

"Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for 'Is mercy to us all this day," said Green.

"So I will, matey, when I gits the pint. Think the bloke 'll stand it, Billy?"

"Ruddy oceans, cully," was the reassuring answer, "and a limon squash for the rivrend Grassey 'ere."

Meanwhile, Graeme and Haslopp were struggling painfully on. More than once the burden slipped, and but for the "strong man's" assistance would have rolled to the ground, while, to add to their difficulties, Hector's horse had been shot through the neck and was trying his best to bolt. From a canter the pace had fallen to a trot, and finally a walk, bullets and chunks of telegraph-wire shaving them at every step. Fortunately, however, the enemy, the party having once moved off, made no further attempt at pursuit. Possibly they deemed it hopeless, more probably the sight of the troop in rear deterred them; but whatever the reason, they stopped where they were, contenting themselves with shooting at the retreating horsemen from behind their rocks. Still, it was a weary journey, and Graeme's arms were numb with the strain and his brain reeling with the smell of sweat and blood, when at length the firing slackened and then, save for an occasional shot, ceased altogether. Now, but half conscious, yet clutching his burden the tighter, Graeme toiled on, till at last, mingling with the fast-increasing roar in his brain, the thud of galloping hoofs was heard approaching. Louder and louder it sounded, and then round a bend in the road ahead appeared the sturdy figure of Sergeant-Major Stocks, with the troop behind him.

Seemingly miles away, Graeme heard the shout of "'tion" followed by "Carry lance," and then the white road seemed to rear up and smite him in the face. He reeled, fell forward on his horse's neck, hung there for a moment, and then, still gripping the corpse, rolled over sideways, Haslopp supporting the double burden till help arrived, when he rode quietly back to his former place in the rear rank.