PUBLIC opinion at Sahar was divided on the subject of Sir Henry Lennox. To the elegant he was a disreputable old figure of fun, certain to bring irreparable disgrace upon British arms if he was so foolish as to provoke a conflict with the Khans. Kinder-hearted people referred hopefully to his Peninsular record, while admitting mournfully that the Peninsula was a very long time back. Civilians declared him a bloodthirsty soldier, out for loot; soldiers lamented audibly that a fellow who had not the faintest notion of military discipline or etiquette should have been shoved into a position where the absence of these might, and almost certainly would, do untold harm. The sepoys regarded him with distant respect, not unmixed with dread, since the tempests of wrath they heard clattering on the heads of their superiors might at any moment fall on their own. The British private developed an unaccountable taste for turning out when the General went by—because he had never seen a General looking like a scarecrow before, said his officers bitterly—and greeting him with broad smiles which impaired distressingly the martial woodenness of the regulation salute. And the General pandered to this unmilitary behaviour, stopping to talk to individual privates in a human—not to say friendly—fashion, and actually invading the barrack-rooms when these were not prepared for inspection. He might say that in this way he found out that things were not as they should be: of course he did, the officers retorted indignantly; what did he expect? He would have found nothing wrong if he would only come at proper times.
But little by little an uneasy feeling was gripping the hearts of the placid oligarchy which had ruled the Sahar Cantonments hitherto. The old joker meant business; it was not all fuss and bluster when he called together the officers of a regiment and addressed them in language that lacked nothing in strength, if much in polish. Responsibility was his text; he was mad on responsibility: responsibility towards the men—that, at any rate, was universally admitted in theory; towards other branches of the Service—even, if it could be believed, towards the native regiments; and most incredible of all, responsibility towards the “black” population. And it was not possible to listen politely to his views and ignore them as an amiable eccentricity, for he went so far as to promulgate them in General Orders, and enforce them by penalty. Moreover, the orders were drawn up so clearly that any one could understand them, and in such improperly sarcastic language that it was plain the grinning privates who heard and read them regarded them as an entertainment freely provided for their delectation. The Army was certainly going to the dogs, and that part of it which was quartered at Sahar would arrive first, thanks to the Governor-General for sending this doddering old lunatic to vex it. It was not Sir Harry’s age that was the chief count against him—for in those days the nearer a man was to seventy, the greater seemed his chances of high command—but his eccentricity. He had somehow managed to pass through the Army mould without taking its impression, and as a result, he spoke a language strange to Army men.
It was some consolation to the few Politicals left at Sahar that the General was evidently as great a puzzle to the native rulers as to his own subordinates. All his movements were watched and reported by a horde of spies, and his utterances, which were numerous, often lengthy, and frequently quite inconsistent with one another, noted down with care and pains by hearers who only understood half of what they heard, and by them translated into Persian for transmission to the Khans. Of more value, perhaps, was the ocular demonstration of the condition of his troops, whom he was training hard. The “trotting about over the hills,” which he had promised himself to give the Khans’ messengers in company with two or three thousand men of his force, impressed them deeply, though the impression wore off a little when it came out that the General had remarked artlessly that this and the many similar field-days that followed it were intended to train himself as much as his men.
These field-days were a continual delight to Eveleen. The Great Duke had set the example of allowing ladies to ride with the staff on such occasions, and take station at the saluting-point—judiciously to the rear, of course—and Sir Harry would have regarded it as blasphemy to seek to improve upon his master’s methods. He was careful to detail an aide-de-camp to keep Mrs Ambrose from getting into danger or obstructing the manœuvres, but those two conditions satisfied, she might gallop where she liked. Sometimes, of course, she would arrive at an awkward moment, when Sir Harry was on the point of telling a unit candidly what he really thought of it, and then he would turn upon her an awful glare. “Madam, be good enough to retire!” was the formula barked at her from lips so clearly struggling to restrain a pent-up flood of vitriolic language that even Eveleen never dared to defy the mandate. From a safe distance she would hear the General’s voice rising and falling in alternate denunciation and irony—the words being happily undistinguishable—and discern through the sand-clouds the wilting of the officers beneath the storm; and then Sir Harry would ride after her refreshed and genial, the gayest-mannered martinet that ever killed a regiment with his mouth. He had a great fancy for her little horse Bajazet, but having learnt his history, insisted on renaming him the Street Arab—the expression was just coming into use,—since Bajazet was no name for an Arab, he said, but mere romantic female foolishness.
Richard did not take part in these field-days. They afforded him a much-needed opportunity for getting on with the work of the office, unhindered by the incursions of his chief. The Khemistan Political Establishment might have been excessive hitherto, but there was no denying that its sudden reduction imposed an enormous quantity of work on the few men who remained. Sir Harry himself was tireless, and seemed to find no difficulty in working all night after riding all day; but his inexperience added not a little to the labours of his subordinates. He had a rooted distaste for the elaborate forms of courtesy without which no Persian communication would be complete, and lest he should be set down as a barbarian absolutely destitute of breeding, Richard and the Munshi found it necessary to prepare two copies of every letter and order that was to be sent out in his name. One was in the plain blunt terms he himself favoured—he was very proud of these, and often copied the English rendering into his diary, presumably as a model of official correspondence for future generations,—the other embellished with the polite circumlocutions without which the recipient would have regarded it as a calculated insult. In like manner all the letters he received had to be most carefully scanned before being submitted to him, for in his impatience of the involved compliments set forth at extreme length, he would brush aside the whole document as of no importance, and thus fail to reach the weighty meaning concealed amid the flowery verbiage. And when, to accent these little peculiarities, Sir Harry was in the state of mind known to all his subordinates as “kicking up a dust”—as happened not infrequently,—the office heaved bitter sighs of longing for the days of Colonel Bayard, now gone by for ever.
Eveleen rode round one evening when office hours were over to pick up her husband, that they might take their ride by daylight. Here, with the desert and its wild tribes so close at hand, it was not safe to ride in the dark, so that during the sunset hour the roads in and about the Cantonments were a scene of tumultuous activity, which ceased, in Cinderella-fashion, the instant after gunfire. Eveleen expected Richard to meet her, but his horse was still waiting in charge of its syce, who said he had not seen his master, and she rode on up to the verandah steps. Then he came out, looking worried, his hands full of papers.
“Sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid you must excuse me this evening. It has been impossible to get anything done, and these letters must be put into shape before I leave. Your brother will escort you if he can get away, and if”—with some bitterness—“you can induce the General to go too, pray do. I shall be thankful not to hear his voice.”
“Ah, but can’t I help you?” she asked quickly. “It’s a headache you have; I see that.”
“No, my dear, thank you. Go and enjoy your ride.”
Eveleen rode away, feeling rather desolate. Round the next corner she just escaped running into Brian.
“Won’t you come and play with me? I have nobody to play with!” she was quoting from the spelling-book in common use, from which she had taught Brian to read, but he did not respond to the familiar tag.
“Have you not, indeed? The General sends his compliments, and may he have the honour of attending you this evening? Take him along with you, pray, and smooth him down a bit. We have had one earthquake after another the whole long day.”
“How very interesting! What about?” she asked curiously.
“What about? Everything—every sole, single, individual thing that has happened or not happened since the early morning. And don’t you tell him things are ‘interesting,’ if you value your life. I believe that was what helped to set him off—my telling him some order or other had been ‘carried out’ instead of ‘executed.’ He’s been going on about cant words, and the correct thing, and the cheese, at intervals ever since. I tell y’ I don’t dare open my mouth!”
“New for you, Brian! But what if he’d snap at me? Are you going to leave me to be eaten up entirely?”
“Oh, I’ll be there—but in my proper subordinate place behind. It’s you will get the fireworks—riding with him.”
They were walking their horses into the main courtyard, and as he spoke they came in sight of a very explosive-looking Sir Harry, standing on the steps and criticising with freedom the appearance and equipment of the escort. It was for once fortunate that he could not speak Persian, for the precise nature of his remarks was lost on the troopers, though his tone and gestures, and the face of the officer who bore the brunt of his words, made the whole drift clear enough. As was natural when he was already ruffled, some evil genius had allotted him the fidgety Selima that evening, and when he saw Eveleen, and politely determined not to keep a lady waiting, hastened to mount, the mare kept him hopping on one leg for some minutes of greater energy than dignity. It took all the little self-control Eveleen possessed not to offer advice or assistance, but she knew that would be a crime beyond forgiveness, and succeeded in keeping silence and a straight face. At last he was in the saddle, and gathering up the reins in stillness more eloquent than speech. With what she felt was supreme tact, Eveleen ignored it all.
“And where will we go?” she asked, as they rode out of the gate.
“We will go,” returned Sir Harry, with concentrated venom, “straight to the sandhills, and let this uneasy jade have her fill of dancing and prancing.”
“Ah, that will be splendid!” cried Eveleen, forgetting tact, and instantly reminded of it by the malevolent glance bent upon her.
“Yes, we shall have a splendid ride, and my lovely companion and my interesting aide will congratulate themselves on carrying out their purpose of seeing the old man look a fool. That is correct behaviour nowadays, I understand.”
So vehemently did he hiss out the fashionable catchwords which he hated, that Eveleen was more taken aback than she had ever been in her life. But she was not the woman to suffer meekly at Sir Harry’s hands any more than at Richard’s. Withdrawing her gaze primly to her horse’s ears, she remained stonily silent, taking no notice of her companion. In this wise they rode through the part of the Cantonments which lay between Government House and the desert, and the ladies they met—after observing with disapproval that there was that Mrs Ambrose riding with the General again—remarked with unction that it looked as though Sir Henry was finding out at last what sort of temper Mrs Ambrose possessed. As for Eveleen, she suspected irony in Richard’s parting injunction—in which she probably did him injustice.
Possibly the air and exercise mollified Sir Harry’s chafed spirit, or perhaps he realised that he had been rude, for instead of calling for a gallop as soon as they were on the sand, he drew rein and said, in a voice half surly, half apologetic—
“Not very much to say for yourself to-night—eh, ma’am?”
Eveleen turned innocent eyes upon him. “Sure I’m afraid to talk, Sir Harry. I’m in a shocking bad temper this evening, and I’d maybe say something I oughtn’t.”
“Meaning that I’m in a shocking bad temper, I suppose? My apologies, ma’am—my most humble apologies. Not that I ever do lose my temper—you’re wrong there.” Eveleen wished she had eyes in the back of her head, to see Brian’s face when he heard this. “I’m apt to be betrayed into using strong language occasionally—very wrong, I know, and I try to break myself of the habit,—but I assure you I have the sweetest temper in the world. All we Lennoxes have; we got it from our parents before us.”
“But oughtn’t a person lose their temper sometimes?” enquired Eveleen meekly. “When there’s good cause for it, I mean?”
The General’s face cleared wonderfully. “Why, so they ought! There are times when no man who is a man ought to keep his temper. And I am proud to say that on occasions like that I have never failed—yes, I think I may say I have never failed—to lose mine.”
Eveleen fought with a wild desire to laugh. “True for you, I’m sure, Sir Harry—most thoroughly. W-will we gallop now?” she welcomed almost hysterically a broad stretch of smooth sand in front, for the General had glanced round suspiciously, and she was afraid of disgracing herself for ever. But when Bajazet broke into a canter, Selima was naturally not disposed to be left behind, and they swept forward grandly, with the escort clinking and clanking after. When they slowed down a little, to mount the steep rise of a sandhill, which stretched right and left, as far as eye could see, like the face of a breaking wave, Eveleen glanced at Sir Harry. He was certainly more cheerful, but not yet his benign self, and without allowing him a moment’s breathing-space she urged another canter the instant they reached the crest of the sand-wave, and never stopped till the ground began to rise for the next. Then Sir Harry checked Selima and laughed.
“There, that will do! The seven devils are gone,” he chuckled, and Eveleen, a little breathless, laughed back at him. Her eyes were shining blue, her hair, crisped by the desert wind, stood out like wires under the heavy gauze veil thrown back over her straw hat. She looked about seventeen, and Sir Harry felt older than ever in comparison with her. He spoke abruptly.
“And now, if you please, we’ll take things easy for a bit. What with you young people egging the old fellow on, we seem to have got the escort strung out over a mile or so of desert.”
“I wonder might I suggest we go back and pick ’em up, General?” suggested Brian, rather anxiously. “If there were any of the Khans’ Arabits about here—or the wild tribes either—you would be something like a prize for them—and with a lady in charge——”
“Quite so. Though I think you and I could put up a fairly good fight while Mrs Ambrose got away. My little friend the Street Arab has a pretty turn of speed. But it would be an ignominious ending to a fit of—no, ma’am, not temper—a fit of righteous indignation such as I hope will ever seize me, or any of our family, at the sight of cruelty or injustice.”
“And why wouldn’t it, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen boldly. “I’m sure that same righteous indignation has got me into trouble often enough. Would it be the way the people here treat the women made you angry?”
“No, ma’am. It was the way our own people treat their wounded. I rode out this morning to meet the force coming—we mustn’t say retreating—from Ethiopia. A part of the rearguard came into camp while I was there, and I saw the poor fellows taken from their camels and pitched down on the sand like dogs. I promise you the officers concerned got a bit of my mind. Queen’s or Company’s, they are all the same—shamefully negligent of their men. A bad set they are, a bad set—and see if I don’t treat ’em badly in their turn!”
“Ah, but not all bad?” entreated Eveleen, as he laughed ferociously. “And sure they’ll improve, now you have the teaching of them, Sir Harry.”
“Will they, indeed? Then what d’ye say to what I found when I got back? In spite of all my orders against reckless riding in the bazar, a wretched half-caste clerk goes careering along, won’t pull up for anybody, knocks down one of our own sepoys, a fine young fellow as ever I saw—regularly rides over him. Poor chap goes to hospital, and his murderer gets my sentiments—and something more.”
“The poor sepoy was really killed?” in horror.
“Not quite, but no thanks to the cranny. [Krani=writer.] And he shall pay for it—needn’t think he’s going to get off. But this ain’t ladies’ conversation, is it?” pulling himself up suddenly. “Fact is, ma’am, this cantonment has to be got into order, and it don’t like it. It ain’t altogether the officers’ fault—there are some magnificent youngsters among ’em—but they have had no one to command ’em, simply a lot of suggestors suggesting that they should do this or that, and it’s gone far to ruin ’em. There they go muddling themselves with beer all day long, but when the private soldiers get drunk on country spirits, it’s ‘Nasty drunken wretches! why can’t they keep sober?’ As if there was a chance of their keeping sober in barrack-rooms not fit for swine! How is a soldier to have confidence in his officer in war if he has shown no concern for his welfare in peace? It’s the same all round. There are the black artillery drivers with eight rupees a month of pay, no lodging-money, and no warm clothing. Of course in Ethiopia they deserted wholesale, and took their horses with ’em. But while I command here we ain’t going to risk having our batteries crippled at the critical moment just to save the Directors the price of a suit of clothes. That matter’s set right, at any rate.”
“Sure you talk as though you expected war, Sir Harry.”
“Then I don’t, ma’am, but I mean to be prepared for it.”
“I wonder don’t you rather look forward to it really?”
“Look forward to it? Well, a man who has never commanded a brigade in action may be excused for feeling some desire to know how he would acquit himself at the head of an army. Not that I confess to much doubt on the matter. One who has served under Wellington—you might almost say under Napoleon, so closely have I studied him, though we were on opposite sides, worse luck!—has little to do but put in practice his master’s lessons. Yet I admit there’s an attraction in the thought of handling in earnest a magnificent force such as I have here, massing it against the foe, flinging it hither and thither, leading it to victory—— Ah, but then! Heaven forgive me! do I desire to appear before my Maker—as must happen before long—with my hands imbrued in the blood of my kind, of those very troops whose proud bearing and lofty confidence fills me with elation? No, a thousand times no!”
He spoke aloud, but as though to himself, with eyes fixed on the distant horizon, and Eveleen was awed. “But there won’t likely be war at all?” she asked, almost timidly.
“How can I say? Is there any knowing what might suffice to stir to a murderous resolution these poor foolish princes, who are drunk with bhang every day after three o’clock, and peevish all the morning till they can get drunk again? They are at the mercy of a moment’s impulse, if the heads of their army had the strength of mind to take a decisive step when ordered, without waiting for the inevitable reversal.”
“The younger Khans might do so, Ambrose thinks,” she suggested—“especially Kamal-ud-din.”
“True, but would he find a sufficient following when old Gul Ali says in open audience that if the British will only take money to go away he’ll sell all his wives’ jewels to satisfy ’em? Then the next thing one hears he and the rest have sent their women away into the desert, and swear they will cut all their throats to prove to us they are in a desperate determination to resist. Well, do it, my good princes, do it! and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll cut yours, to the last man of you! When it comes to throat-cutting, you’ll find me a good deal apter than in chopping words with your Vakils.”
“Ambrose believes they intend fighting,” said Eveleen.
“I know he does, but the other Politicals assure me with one voice that all this assemblage of troops is under taken solely with the design to intimidate me—which design, by the way, is uncommonly mistaken! Poor Bayard himself could hardly depart for assuring me that his dear Khans hadn’t an ounce of vice in ’em—that it was their nature to bluster and talk big, but if I took ’em at their word I should be guilty of murder at the very least. So be it, says I to him, if murder starts it won’t be because I begin it. If the princes will keep the peace, peace they shall have; but if they fire a shot, Khemistan shall be annexed to the British Empire, and good for Khemistan it will be.”
“Bayard don’t think that,” said Eveleen slowly. “’Twould break his heart, I believe.”
“Then he must get his friends to keep their treaties—and mind you, the new one I am to make is a long way stiffer than the last. The Khans are to pay in territory for all their dirty tricks—give back to the Nawab of Habshiabad the districts they stole from him, and cede Sahar and Bab-us-Sahel to us permanently.”
“They won’t like that either, will they?”
“That they won’t, and very naturally. In their place I should object strongly myself. In fact, I object now, for what right have we here, taking possession of towns that don’t belong to us? But the Khans entered into the treaties, and they must keep ’em—or if they want to break ’em, they must fight fair. Those letters now, with the doubtful seals—you have heard of them?”
“I heard you speaking to Ambrose about them, but I don’t know what they would be. He don’t tell me things.”
“Wise man! Well, ma’am, they were merely written at the time of our Ethiopian disasters to incite Maharajah Ajit Singh of Ranjitgarh to form a league against us, and to the chiefs of the wild tribes to get ’em to fall upon our retreating troops. They were sealed with a seal closely resembling Gul Ali’s, but with some slight differences that made me think a forgery had possibly been attempted. But then Munshi puts me up to a nice little trick these fellows have of keeping two seals—one just sufficiently different from the other to justify doubts if there’s any wish to disavow a document,—and your good husband not only identifies the seal as genuine, but swears to the handwriting of the letters as being that of Gul Ali’s chief scribe. So he at least—and his brother Khans are all tarred with the same brush—stands convicted of a diabolical attempt to take advantage of our calamities. He’ll deny it, of course, as he will the latest evidence of his perfidy—a bond written in his own copy of the Koran, and sealed by all the Khans but Shahbaz, pledging ’em to unite in driving us from the country,—but I’ll bring him to book. What can you do with a man whose word can’t be trusted and who’ll forge his own seal? Nothing but bind him down so tight as to put it out of his power to do mischief, says I. My friend Gul Ali is taking a little trip in this direction, I hear, and when he and I meet to exchange compliments, there will be something more than compliments in store for him. I’ll wager he’ll be uncommonly taken aback when he finds I am acquainted with the engagement he carries in his Koran.”
“But if he denies it? Why, he might even produce another Koran to show you there was nothing in it at all.”
“To be sure he might—and most certainly will. And therefore my only course is to make it impossible for the suggested combination to take place. Believe me, ma’am, I have a rod in pickle for old Gul Ali. My sole fear is that he mayn’t care to face me.”
“But sure that would be to admit his guilt?”
“True, but a tacit admission of guilt don’t do you much good when the guilty person remains so discreetly at a distance that you can’t lay hands on him.”
“The sun is getting precious low, General,” ventured the watchful Brian, riding up level with Sir Harry.
“That’s true, and we seem to have collected the escort without the loss of a man. Ma’am, I owe you an apology for trespassing on your patience with these public affairs, thinking less of your entertainment than of relieving my own mind. My comfort is that you’ll forget ’em speedily.”
“True, Sir Harry. I’ll not remember anything but that you complimented me by talking about them.”
“Delany,” said Sir Harry solemnly to Brian, “were there any fragments of the Blarney Stone left behind when your sister quitted Ireland, or was the whole of it concealed in her baggage?”
“Blarney Stone, indeed!” said Brian enthusiastically, when he looked in on the Ambroses late that evening. “’Tis a harp y’ought be having, Evie—like David with Saul,—and I’ll not say but the staff will be getting up a subscription to present you with one. Think of the convenience of being able to call you in to lay the dust as soon as the old lad begins to kick it up!”
“Is it a harp, indeed! Much good that would be!” said Eveleen scornfully. “Why, I’d never be able to resist trying it on Ambrose, whom nothing on earth will move, and the General would soon find out what a useless sort of thing it was.” She stopped suddenly, catching on her husband’s face the uneasy look which showed that he could not decide whether she was in earnest or not, and a disagreeable thought struck her. Richard had said she was like the General. She had felt embarrassed this evening when the General put into words his deepest thoughts. Could it be that Richard also was embarrassed when she spoke out her thoughts without considering whether they were likely to be acceptable or not? She brushed the question aside quickly. “But I assure you Sir Harry considers it right and proper to lose his temper when the occasion calls for it,” she said.
“I believe you!” agreed Brian dolefully. “Ain’t it a pity, though, that we can’t pull a string and make him lose it when we think the occasion calls for it? With the Khans, now! If they once saw him in one of his rages, sure they’d be tumbling over one another to try and appease him.”
“Ah, then, old Gul Ali will never dare to stand out against him when he has once heard him talk seriously,” said Eveleen. “You don’t really think they’ll fight, Ambrose?”
“They would not fight if they knew him as we know him,” said Richard slowly. “But with these fellows, his violence and severity defeats its own object. They are incapable of believing any one could take such a tone seriously with persons of their importance. He must be endeavouring to hide his weakness, they imagine.”
“Well, now!” said Brian. “And what can you do with people like that at all?”
“Pray don’t ask me. If they can’t see the difference between him and Bayard, how is it to be got into their heads? Bayard might employ threats, but I can’t believe the utmost exigency would have driven him actually to demand the annexation of the country. But this chap will do it if they don’t behave themselves.”
“Well, our own people are learning to know him,” laughed Brian. “Munshi was telling me to-day that they say he ain’t merely a commander, but the Governor-General himself in a military disguise. Some of ’em say he’s the Duke come back, but the old sepoys, who knew the Duke forty years ago, won’t have that. But they all agreed he might be an uncle or cousin of Her Majesty’s, sent out to cope with the posture of things here.”
“Aye, they are beginning to call him the Padishah,” said Richard. “Well, if the tales get to Gul Ali’s ears, so much the better, if they make him disposed to submit. But he can’t sign a treaty by himself, unfortunately, and by the time the rest are assembled, he will have been in as many different minds as there are Khans.”
“I’d dearly like to see Sir Harry talk to him for his good,” said Eveleen eagerly. “Where is it they’ll meet? Will we—ladies, I mean—be allowed to be there?”
“Certainly not,” said Richard crushingly. “It will be across the river—in that garden with the palm-trees just on the other side.”
“Sure you needn’t be so horrid about it! I dare say there won’t be much to see after all—maybe nothing.”
As it happened, that was exactly what there was. Sir Harry and his staff, all in full uniform, set out by boat, reached the meeting-place in good time, and waited there—in vain, returning after an hour or so in high dudgeon. Nor was their wrath mollified by a message from Gul Ali, conveying a perfunctory apology for his non-appearance, and appointing a meeting the next day in another garden, six miles down the river. This time it was Sir Harry who did not keep the appointment, returning the curt answer that he was not going to be insulted. Colonel Bayard’s partisans went about with long faces all day. Were the Khans to be defied on their own soil by this ignorant stranger? But by the evening, when reports began to filter in, they saw reason to change their tune. The messengers had found Gul Ali’s son Karimdâd waiting half-way, nominally to receive the General with honour, but actually—every one was sure of it—to note what troops he brought with him, and send word to his father, who had six thousand Arabits concealed in and about the garden, and reinforcements within call. Sir Harry was too much gratified by this proof of his foresight to exult unduly.
“I should have looked foolish—going into the middle of a body of Arabits with