CHAPTER XXIII.
BRIAN TO THE RESCUE.
VISITING his various friends, and hearing all that had happened since the battle and his wound, Brian passed a pleasant three days at Khanpur. Nor was his enjoyment sensibly mitigated by the thunderstorm on his third night there—when he should have been returning to Qadirabad,—which kept him a prisoner for twenty-four hours more. In fact, he assured himself comfortably that ’twas a good thing entirely it had come, since it would show Evie the absurdity of her plan of getting down to Bab-us-Sahel before the floods began. Another pleasant idle day, rejoicing in the temporary coolness of the air after the rain, and he started back with a column returning for supplies and bringing a few sick to the base hospital. Great was his astonishment, when he rode up to the Residency in the morning, to find the servants smoking on the verandah in an undress which made it plain that no master was at hand. Their astonishment equalled his own, but they were past-masters in the art of keeping up appearances, and in an incredibly short space of time hookahs had been huddled out of sight, pagris donned or properly twisted, and the garments of office hurried on. The butler, as became his importance, was the first who was in a position to greet the young Sahib. “Sahib and Beebee done gone,” was the burden of his reply to every question asked him, and at last Brian gave up the attempt to obtain further information; and bidding his own servant get his things in, and see after breakfast and a bath, rode round to the hospital to question the surgeon. The surgeon received him with ill-timed jocularity.
“Ha, ha! so your sister has stole a march on you, young man—eh? No nice lazy time for you this morning—find a boat and set off after her; that’s about the ticket, ain’t it?”
“If the river is low enough. How in the world would she contrive to start yesterday?”
“Man alive, not yesterday! They went three evenings ago—two days after you left.”
“Three evenings ago? But that was before the storm! Will you tell me, was she mad enough to start down the river with that coming on?”
“They would take shelter somewhere. They would have got a good way, and it may not have been as bad lower down as it was here.” But the doctor’s startled face belied his comforting words. “Upon my soul, Delany, I hope they didn’t come in for it on the open river. The rain was enough to swamp any boat.”
“And how would it be better if they were cot in a narrow channel—with the water sweeping over banks and islands and everything? ’Twas a great storm, I tell you. We have had to go miles and miles round coming back here—with lakes and rivers where there was dry land on our way out.”
“Well, don’t I know it was a great storm—with three of the hospital tents blown away bodily, and the whole staff working all night in the wet to get the sick under cover? You can see for yourself how the river has risen—look at the trees there, standing in the water.” Suddenly realising that he was not very consoling, he changed his tone. “But it don’t follow it was as bad where they were. They had good boats and strong crews, and an armed guard, so there were plenty of hands if help was needed. Old Firozji from the Bazar was going down, and offered them to share his boat, but they had one to themselves after all.”
“That’s how my sister managed it, then. I wondered who had I to thank for helping her play the fool in this style. I wouldn’t envy the feelings of any man that helped her get away—now.”
“’Suppose you are alluding to me,” said the surgeon gruffly. “Well, you know your sister as well as I do, and you can tell whether she’s much inclined to listen to advice that don’t fall in with her wishes. She was determined to get off, thinking you’d be following immediately. And I confess, the weather had been so sultry for two or three days, I never thought of a storm except as a relief—quickly come and quickly gone, you know. But this one took a whole day to come up, and lasted proportionately. But then, as I say, it may not have been as bad where they were. At any rate, we have heard nothing of any disaster, and you know how quickly the natives get wind of that sort of thing.”
“But sure they must have been miles and miles away by that time! Suppose they were wrecked on an uninhabited part of the shore, or one of those desolate islands in the middle of the river—how would the news possibly get about? Well, you were right when you said ’twas a fast boat and an early start for me, for I must be off after ’em at once. Think of it! Ambrose helpless, and my sister alone with those blackguards of boatmen—for the old Parsee would be no good,—not to mention the Codgers on one bank, and Kamal-ud-din’s people anywhere on t’other.”
“I thought Kamal-ud-din was penned in at Umarganj?”
“Penned in he may have been, but he’s got out of the pen—broke back somehow to the river again. The General was very anxious about it—and he would be worse if he knew this. I was greatly displeased when he bid me escort my sister to Bab-us-Sahel—unless she gave up the thought of the journey of her own free will—before going back to duty, but I’m thankful now! Not that the old lad would have been hard on me for going off after her, but I wouldn’t like to have exceeded my leave. Can you coax the right boat out of any one for me? If only there’d be a steamer in just now!”
“Wait a minute. You can’t go rushing off like this. I’ll send a chit to the Marine Superintendent to tell him what you want, and say we’ll both be round there after breakfast. But before you start off, we’ll call upon old Firozji’s brothers in the Bazar. They may have had news from him, and then we shall know it’s all right. Your quad. is tired—eh? I can lend you a tat—or there’s that little Arab of your sister’s, just come down by boat from Sahar. Do him good to stretch his legs gently a bit. She must have forgot the General said he might come down with the cavalry horses when she went off in such a hurry.”
“We might find out something, I suppose,” said Brian wretchedly, “but I don’t like losing a moment.”
“Of course we may. And what’s the good of going off without getting hold of all the information you can? If I thought it was any good, I should say stay and eat your breakfast quietly, and let me go to the Bazar, but I know it wouldn’t be.”
“Not a scrap!” agreed Brian, and would barely consent to snatch a mouthful of breakfast while Bajazet was being saddled and brought round. As they rode to the Bazar, the surgeon was full of cheerful anticipations. Of course Mr Firozji would have sent word to his partners of his safety—he was a fool not to have thought of it before—the Parsees were well known for their family affection. But when Mr Firozji’s brother appeared, with many bows and smiles, to enquire the pleasure of the honourable gentlemen, he had nothing to tell. Certainly he had not expected any messenger—the boats would have been far beyond the limits within which the storm was likely to be dangerous. He was quite sure his brother was safe and well. Had it been otherwise he would have felt it here, in the heart—slapping an organ which was well protected by many layers of adipose tissue. He did not look to hear anything until his brother had reached Bab-us-Sahel—why should he? And the young Sahib was alarmed about his sister—feared she might have been wrecked? That was natural, but—if he might be pardoned the word—foolish. How could she possibly have journeyed in greater safety than under the care of his brother and the protection of his guard?
“Would it be a military guard?” asked Brian.
The Parsee was voluble in his disclaimer. No, no; the merchandise on board the boats was immensely valuable to the poor merchants whose means of livelihood it was, but of no importance to the Government, so that a guard could not be asked for. Mr Firozji had hired a dozen—er—respectable men, well known to him for their courage and fidelity, and armed them with swords and shields for the journey.
“Not much good against the Codgers’ matchlocks,” remarked Brian, when they had taken their leave. The surgeon was meditating, and did not respond for a moment.
“Did it strike you there was anything queer about the business?” he burst out suddenly. “Think!”
“It struck me the ‘er—respectable men’ would probably be some of our late opponents. That was all.”
“Then you missed something far more fishy. Why was there no military guard? It might not have been granted simply to protect Parsee merchandise, but for an officer and his wife it would have been forthcoming in a moment. The General would break any man that refused it. Then why wasn’t it asked for?”
“How would I know? Because my sister refused to wait while the application was made possibly.”
“Possibly, but why should old Fatty there not have said so? Of course old Firozji may have thought his kind of guard would come cheaper, and that Ambrose and his wife would be such valuable prizes for the Codgers that he himself could slip away unnoticed if there was a scrimmage. But this is all nonsense. It’s most unlikely there has been any scrimmage at all.”
“Of course; why would there be?” asked Brian dreamily. “No doubt the old sinner is sailing happily down the river, congratulating himself on the money he’s saved. But all the same,” inconsequently, “I’m certain something has happened. I have a feeling——”
“So have all of us when we are anxious, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred it all ends in smoke, and we are precious proud afterwards to think we never had a second’s doubt all along. But tell you what. You take one of the General’s spies with you—to look out for things generally and cross-question anybody you may meet. If old Puggy ain’t out on duty, he’s the man you want. A bullet chipped a bit off his heel at Mahighar—he was not on the field in the way of business, but just looking on at the show—and he’s been laid up since. But I know he is out again, and he’s an uncommonly downy old bird. I’ll hunt him up while you get your traps together.”
The search was successful, and when Brian and his bearer arrived at the boat the doctor was there in triumph with an undersized elderly native of indeterminate features and an expression of guileless simplicity. It was almost impossible to believe that this was one of the General’s famous secret agents, of whom he boasted that several were in each camp of his enemies, and not a few in their very households, but there was his name to prove it. He possessed a complicated and sonorous name of his own, but Sir Harry had a short way with such luxuries. He dubbed the man Puggy [Pagi, tracker] as his tracker par excellence, and from such august lips the undignified appellation was accepted as an honour and flaunted with pride. Colonel Welborne, whose permission had to be obtained for him to accompany Brian, was interested in the young man’s journey, and came down to see them off.
“Hope you’ll find everything all right,” he said, “but in case of accidents I have given you a sergeant’s guard of sepoys in Hindustani dress, [mufti] so that you won’t attract undue attention. If the Codgers take you by surprise, they may come in useful. But look you here: no fighting—unless you have to extricate yourself from an ambuscade, that is. If you find your sister is in the hands of the Codgers—even if she is in the camp which you are outside of, don’t try to rescue her on your own account. You can’t do it, and it will only lead to her being killed or carried off into the hills. And if you get yourself killed, how are we ever to know what has happened to her? Just let Puggy do the talking and manage things his own way. If she is in the camp he will find out without their knowing it, and he’ll bring you off peacefully to go back and rescue her another day. D’ye understand me?”
“I do,” said Brian reluctantly; “and I’m greatly obliged to you for sparing him, sir. But listen, now: if I find her marooned on an island, it’s myself will take the business in hand, and Puggy may go hang!”
No degree of anxiety could depress Brian’s tongue, though his heart might be heavy, and the little group of friends on the landing-stage—at the very foot of the cliff now—praised his cheerfulness to one another as they sped him on his way with good wishes. After all, nothing untoward might have happened; he would catch up his sister and go down with her to Bab-us-Sahel, then return by land with his guard—since by that time the river was fairly certain to be impossible for small boats.
The first day and a half of the voyage was unimportant, as was only natural, since whatever had happened must presumably have happened lower down. After that, when they had arrived at the stretch of river which the boats might be supposed to have reached on the night of the storm, a close watch was kept on the right-hand bank—the scene of the activities of the Kajias. Boats going down the river would be inclined to keep more or less to this side, and there was no apparent reason for crossing to the other, though it also must be searched in the course of the return voyage if no traces had been found earlier. A forlorn cluster of shrubs and low trees, rising again out of the water which had almost submerged them, could tell no tale, for the floods had washed away all signs of the boatmen’s evening meal on the island in the shelter of which the boats had been moored. A day after it had been passed, when Brian was beginning to fear that the whole flotilla had been swamped without leaving a trace, a trace appeared at last, though not a cheering one. On a sandy beach, below the flood-mark, half in and half out of the water, lay a battered boat, its mast and its cabin gone. Brian saw it first, and his inarticulate shout summoned the tracker and the soldiers to his side. It seemed to him ages before his boatmen, poling carefully, brought their craft as near as it was safe to go, and he could let himself overboard and swim to the derelict. He did not notice that Puggy lingered to say something to the havildar in charge of the sepoys before joining him. There was nothing to show whether the boat was that they sought, save that it had evidently been fitted up for European use; but though supports and hooks remained, all the fittings were gone. It might be that the water had swept it nearly bare, or it might have been systematically gutted—there was nothing to show which, save a large dark stain on the deck. Brian bent down to look at this, touched it, and turned mutely to the tracker for his opinion. As he lifted his head a slight movement among the bushes fringing the beach attracted his attention, and he realised that he and his companion were the target for a dozen or more matchlocks with fierce faces behind them. He was thunder-struck, but Puggy smiled triumphantly, and Brian saw why. The seeming peaceful passengers in their own boat had suddenly produced muskets, and were lining the gunwale in warlike guise. It struck Brian that if shooting began, they two were infallibly doomed, but the tracker was so proud of his precaution that he had not the heart to spoil his pleasure. The moral effect was certainly all that could be desired, for a wild-looking elderly man, with a red-dyed beard, stood up in the bushes, and demanded with righteous indignation—
“Why does the Sahib seek to steal what Allah and the river have given us?”
“Suffer me to answer, Sahib,” said the tracker hurriedly; then to the chief, “The Sahib seeks news of his sister, who embarked with her husband before the storm in such a boat as this. Is there word of her?”
“Nay,” was the reply. “The boat drifted ashore as ye see it—broken and empty. Of any Sahib or Beebee we know nothing.”
“Nor of whose blood this is on the deck?”
“Nothing. How should we? Water has washed it, sun has dried it, maybe many times over. There was no dead body on board—that at least we know.”
“Here is a bullet sticking in the woodwork and another stain of blood. Are any of your men wounded?”
“Have I not said there was no one on board, dead or alive?” The chief’s tone betrayed his contempt for the very palpable trap set for him. “How then could they fire on my men?”
“Yet this bullet belongs to a Farangi pistol, and the Sahib’s guns are all gone. Here is the rack in which they were placed, ready to his hand if he desired to shoot at a pelican or a crocodile, after the manner of sahibs; but it is empty. The guns could not be washed away and the rack left.”
“Nay, but”—triumphantly—“this Sahib was sick, and his guns were not set out in the rack. They were——” sudden confusion as he realised how hopelessly he had given himself away, then a show of violent indignation to cover it. “They were washed away, I say. Who are you, O base-born one, to cast doubt upon my words?”
With extraordinary self-command for a native, Puggy ignored the attempt to lead him aside into personalities—ignored also the chief’s self-betrayal, and spoke sadly and meekly. “Truly I am nothing—the meanest of the attendants on the great and rich Sahib here, who seeks news of his sister. So much wealth would he pour out on any camp that had received her and shown her kindness that the poorest man in it would wear silk and kincob thereafter.”
The chief was interested—dangerously interested. His eyes wandered to the line of sepoys, then to his own men, very visible now in the bushes in the excitement of listening to what was going on. Clearly he was calculating whether the greater numbers on his side would counterbalance the weight of the soldiers’ superior weapons if he made a sudden dash. The matter was difficult to decide. “I perceive that this Sahib is one of the Bahadar Jang’s young men—so handsome and noble of aspect is he,” he temporised. “Is it true that he is also rich?”
“He could take up the riches of Delhi in one hand,” was the boastful answer. “And to his wealth he adds a yet more admirable prudence. All his possessions he confided, before starting on this journey, to a virtuous friend of his father’s, who has sworn upon the Gospel not to part with so much as an anna unless the Sahib presents himself to ask for it in person.”
“There are messages to be sent—letters.”
“The friend is pledged to pay no attention to them. After the lapse of a certain time, he will employ the riches in building tombs—greater and more magnificent than the wonder of Agra—to the memory of the Sahib and his sister, where women desiring sons may come and entreat the lady’s favour.”
“To my mind it is better to enrich the living than build tombs for the dead,” said the baffled chief sourly.
“It is the Sahib’s pleasure, and who shall gainsay it? But far more gladly would he bestow of his wealth on any who could restore to him his sister living, or even tell him where she may be found.”
“The rain of riches passes over the field of the poverty-stricken, and leaves on it not a single drop. Since we have nothing to sell that you and your Sahib desire to buy, leave us our poor wreck that the waters have brought us, and go your way—unless,” with a fresh gleam of hope and covetousness, “the wealthy and high-born Sahib will deign to visit our tents?”
“Nay, he is bent on an errand of life and death. He has no time to pass the coolness of sherbet over his tongue, nor to exchange sweet phrases with a host,” was the answer, much to Brian’s disappointment. He remonstrated vigorously with the tracker when they had left the derelict—which was far too much damaged for them to think of salving it—and returned to their own boat. It was quite certain that this little knot of Kajias knew more than they would tell; what was more likely than that the passengers from the stranded boat were at hand in their very camp? Puggy answered patiently and reprovingly.
“Surely the eyes of the presence are blinded by his grief, or he would see that the Beebee cannot be in this camp. For see the chief, that son of Iblis with whom we have just spoken—whose meat is covetousness and his drink extortion—did he not desire to bring the presence thither, in the hope of falling treacherously upon him and holding him to ransom? And if the Beebee were there already, would the chief not show, for a lure to the presence, some writing from her hand, were it but a scrawl with a blackened stick upon a broken board from the boat?—or if she were dead, then some jewel from her body, or even a tress of her hair, that the presence might recognise his truth? But he brings forward nothing; therefore it is certain she is not there. Yet he knows more than he pretends, as the presence says.”
“That he does! ’Twas a bad slip when he admitted he knew the Major Sahib was sick.”
“Was that all the presence noticed? Nay,” as Brian turned and looked at him, “did he not note the kurti [long coat] worn by the chief, that it was of rich silk such as the Parsees wear, and that it had been washed? Or that one of the men who stood up in the bushes had in his girdle such a knife as the Farangis use at table, with a haft of ivory nearly as long as the blade? There was more in the boat when it came ashore than there is now.”
“Then what do you make out?”
“Nay, Sahib, how can I speak with certainty? All I can say is that if the Beebee was on board, and was saved when the boat ran aground, she must have been carried away quickly to the hills. But it is not clear to my mind that she was there at all. It is possible, but I have seen nothing to prove it.”
“But if not,” cried Brian quickly, “she must have been washed overboard before the boat came ashore—and that I won’t believe. No; they have carried her off into the hills, and Heaven only knows what has happened the poor Major. Sick and helpless—I fear the unfortunate fellow must have been drowned, and she would be left without a defender. Good heavens!”
“Let not the presence grieve so sadly. If he will, let him put this humble one ashore a day’s journey up the river, and he will make his way in disguise into the hills, to the dwellings of the Kajias, and sojourn among them until he has made certain either that the Beebee is there or that she has never been there. Then he will bring word to the presence.”
“And what will I be doing all that time?” cried Brian. “And what will be happening her if she has been carried some other way? No, we’ll make all speed back to Qadirabad, and I’ll get the General to give me a column strong enough to overawe the Kajias and force the truth out of ’em. Then we’ll know what we’re doing.”
“As the presence pleases,” said Puggy politely, but offering no opinion as to the wisdom of Brian’s plan. While they were talking the boatmen had been poling their vessel out into the stream again, and now Brian called for the headman, and promised lavish rewards for every hour gained on the time usually taken up-stream. The men did their best, but the current was strong and the wind generally in the wrong direction, and Brian chafed grievously at the slow progress made. But at last the round tower of Qadirabad came in sight again, and to his great joy he learned from the first officer he met that the General had returned from Khanpur and taken up his quarters in the Fort, Lord Maryport having now definitely appointed him Governor of Khemistan. But the General, when Brian presented himself, was worried, even testy.
“You should have let Puggy do as he proposed,” he said sharply. “Send a column to stir up that wasps’ nest in the hills? Not a bit of it! No man esteems and admires your sister more than I do, but I can’t sacrifice the army to her. Here is Kamal-ud-din playing about in every direction, just beyond my reach. Now he has started a brother—only just out of the nursery, they say,—and the two young rascals are kicking up a fine dust between them. All the bad elements in the country are rallying to ’em, of course—whether they have submitted to us or not. The thing is beginning to spread to this side of the river, too—there’s a very pretty plot brewing in Qadirabad itself. I have my spies, happily, and can stamp it out when I want to, so as long as we are on the watch, the disaffected may as well be plotting as anything else—keep ’em out of mischief. But I give you the credit of being able to see for yourself that this ain’t a time for detaching columns on private adventures.”
“If you could extend my leave, sir—let me go with Puggy and do what I could, I mean?”
“And be recognised in no time, and give me another set of murderers to hunt up and hang? No, my good fellow; when you joined the army it was to serve her Majesty—not to go off on wild-goose chases after your own female relatives,—and while I am above ground you’ll do it. It may not be long. Over and over again of late I have thought I was on the march. I can walk again now—but still groggy on my pins, as you see. Incessant labour in this heat is killing to sixty and over, and no doubt Welborne will give you all the leave you want.”
He turned abruptly to his papers again in a spasm of self-pity, and Brian could not but capitulate unconditionally. “Don’t, General—don’t, for Heaven’s sake, be talking like that! What in the world would we all do without you? Sure Khemistan would be lost, and the army with it.”
“It’s that already, according to the Bombay papers,” gruffly. “Now that Bayard’s experienced wisdom is withdrawn, the army is as good as sacrificed to the incapable old ruffian at its head. Believe me if you can, Delany, those fellows are making pets of the Khans—calling ’em ‘fallen Princes’ and setting ’em up as saints—and blackguarding me and my glorious soldiers high and low. Bayard is in it, of course—not behind it, for he’s a decent chap, though weak, weak as water—but when the journalistic gentlemen get round him and play upon his vanity he’ll say anything, and end by believing it himself. The fellows are positively gloating over Kamal-ud-din and his proceedings, I tell you. They butter him up as a heaven-taught commander, adored by his people, the inspirer of a sacred war to expel the invaders, who have the misfortune to be led by a disreputable old lunatic who threw away his last chance of success when jealousy induced him to rid himself of his good genius, Colonel Bayard! They recount my dispositions and suggest how he ought to meet ’em, and all their articles are translated and sent up here for the edification of Kamal-ud-din and his fellow-plotters. But I’ll knock the chap out yet, no matter who his treacherous backers may be, if only this old carcase of mine will hold out for one more month!”
“Of course it will, General, and for many years to come! You have shown me where my duty lies—though it breaks my heart to leave my sister to all the trouble she may be in. I cannot forget”—half apologetically—“what she’d be to me as a little child. No mother could have been more tender—and she only a bit of a girl herself.”
“That only shows you never knew what it means to have a mother. No tenderness can replace hers, though I am sure your sister did her best.”
“She did, indeed. And do you tell me now I must leave her out of my mind entirely? Ah, General, y’have a better heart than that!”
“Who talked about putting her out of your mind, pray? Because I decline to hand over my troops to you to fritter away on this bank when every man is wanted on t’other, is there any need to talk like a fool? Puggy shall go after her, with a free hand and as much cash as he wants at call. If he finds her he may be able to negotiate for her ransom, or even help her to escape. That—what-d’ye-call-it?—sheet with a grating in it—which these women wear”—“burqa,” murmured Brian apologetically—“would disguise anybody first-rate—hide those tell-tale eyes, and we may find her waiting for us when we get back. Master Kamal-ud-din thinks he’s going to surround me, but it’s t’other way about. I am going to surround him, and we march out to-morrow to do it.”
“March out? Ah, General, not you! To take the field in this heat! We can’t afford to lose you.”
“Precious little loss, according to the Bombay fellows. Yes, I am going myself; it is necessary. Why, if they give us the slip now, it means a ruinous delay, for the river will rise and cut us off from Qadirabad till the cold weather. Provisions for five months! how could we carry ’em? and yet without ’em we must perish. This inundation is the most plaguy unaccountable thing! the old officers here tell me they have known it complete six weeks before this; when the river rose after that storm, everybody assured me it was here, yet the water has gone down again, and I mean to take advantage of it. We have to march against the enemy from all sides, and then strike hard, and you know as well as I do that if I ain’t there my concentration will fail, and some soft-hearted or white-livered chap will let the game out of the net.”
Brian was to remember the prophecy a week later, when he rode one morning into the desert camp where the General’s force was sweltering in such heat as even the natives had rarely known, and the Europeans had never even dreamt of. He had ridden all night on a self-imposed mission, and after his strenuous forty miles dropped limply from his horse more dead than alive. He had accompanied, as the General’s representative, one of the other columns—that which was detailed to prevent Kamal-ud-din from breaking away southwards between Umarganj and the river, and getting down into the Delta, where he might evade pursuit indefinitely. Colonel Bleackley was one of those officers whose moral support and aim in life is exact obedience to orders, and when news came that the river was rising again, his first impulse was to remember that he had been told on no account to let himself be cut off by the floods, but to retire upon the main body, and this he prepared to do. Brian opposed his decision with might and main. The column marching down from Sahar had turned back Kamal-ud-din’s brother, Jamal-ud-din, and driven him towards the General, who had dispersed his force and taken him prisoner. Kamal-ud-din himself, who had been hurrying to the boy’s support, quailed under the unexpected blow, and turned back into the desert. By advancing upon Umarganj, Colonel Bleackley would catch the Khan in a trap, since the only wells adequate to the needs of a mounted force were on the route he was following. To retire now would be to destroy the General’s hopes, and leave Kamal-ud-din free to be a thorn in his side for the future. After