The G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  “I know we have fought and won against greater odds, many times in the history of India; but our forces have always been well led, marched with the smallest amount of baggage possible, and made up for inferiority in numbers by speed, activity, and dash. Here, on the contrary, we have a force hampered to an unheard-of degree by baggage and camp followers; with an invalid at its head, controlled by two civilians; and moving at a rate which, in itself, testifies to divided councils and utter incompetency on the part of its commander. It is almost impossible even to hope for success, under such conditions.”

  “The lookout is certainly bad,” the younger officer agreed. “However, before now the fighting powers of the British soldier have made up for the blunders of his commanders; and we may hope that this will be the case, now.”

  “If a disaster happen,” the major said, “we shall have the Mahrattas down at the gates of Bombay; and as soon as I hear a rumour of it—and news travels wonderfully fast among the natives—I shall return to the city.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you need fear anything of that sort, Major! Besides, this is not on the direct line between the Ghauts and the city. And even if they find they cannot push on, I should say our force would be able to secure their retreat. The Mahratta horse will never be able to break our squares; but of course, in that case we should have to abandon all our baggage and baggage animals.”

  “I agree with you that the Mahrattas would doubtless hang on the skirts of our force, and follow them down the Bhore Ghaut, and so would not come anywhere near us; but they might detach flying parties to burn and plunder, as is their custom. Brave as they are, the Mahrattas do not fight for the love of fighting, but simply from the hope of plunder and of enlarging their territories.

  “Well, we may hope, in a day or two, to hear that a battle has been fought, and that a victory has been won. Not that one victory would settle the matter, for the Mahratta force consists almost entirely of cavalry and, as we have only a handful, they would, if beaten, simply ride off and be ready to fight again, another day. If we had pushed on and occupied Poona, directly we landed—which should have been easy enough, if the baggage train had been left behind, for it is but forty miles from Panwell to the Mahratta capital—the position would have been altogether different. The Mahrattas would not have had time to collect their forces, and we should probably have met with no opposition and, once in Poona, could have held it against the whole Mahratta force. Besides, it is certain that some of the chiefs, seeing that Rugoba was likely to be made Peishwa, would have come to the conclusion that it would be best for them to side with him.

  “Of course, the baggage should all have been left at Panwell and, in that case, the force could have entered Poona three days after landing, instead of delaying from the 25th of November until today, the 7th of January; and even now, at their present rate of advance, they may be another fortnight before they arrive at Poona. I don’t think there has been so disgraceful a business since we first put foot in India.

  “At any rate, I shall send Mary and the child down to Bombay, tomorrow. It is all very well to have her with me, when everything is peaceable; but although I do not think there is any actual risk, it is as well that, in turbulent times like these, with nothing but a force under such incompetent leading between us and a powerful and active enemy, she should be safe at Bombay.”

  Just before daybreak, next morning, there was a sudden shout from one of the sentries; who had for the first time been posted round the camp. The warning was followed by a fierce rush, and a large body of horse and foot charged into the camp. The escort were, for the most part, killed as they issued from their tents. The major and his friend were shot down as they sallied out, sword in hand. The same fate befell Mrs. Lindsay.

  Then the Mahrattas proceeded to loot the camp. The ayah had thrust the child underneath the wall of the tent, at the first alarm. A Mahratta seized her, and would have cut her down, had she not recognized him by the light of the lamp which hung from the tent ridge.

  “Why, cousin Sufder,” she exclaimed, “do you not know me?”

  He loosed his hold, and stood back and gazed at her.

  “Why, Soyera,” he exclaimed, “is it you? It is more than ten years since I saw you!

  “It is my cousin,” he said to some of his companions who were standing round, “my mother’s sister’s child.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he went on, to the woman, “no one will harm you. I am one of the captains of this party.”

  “I must speak to you alone, Sufder.”

  She went outside the tent with him.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said. “You shall go back with us to Jooneer. I have a house there, and you can stay with my wife. Besides, there are many of your people still alive.”

  “But that is not all, Sufder. I was ayah to the major and his wife—whom your people have just killed, and whom I loved dearly—and in my charge is their child. He is but a few months old, and I must take him with me.”

  “It is impossible,” Sufder replied. “No white man, woman, or child would be safe in the Deccan, at present.”

  “No one would see his face,” the woman said. “I would wrap him up, and will give out that he is my own child. As soon as we get up the Ghauts I would stain his face and skin, and no one would know that he was white. If you will not let me do it, tell your men to cut me down. I should not care to live, if the child were gone as well as his father and mother. You cannot tell how kind they were to me. You would not have me ungrateful, would you, Sufder?”

  “Well, well,” the man said good naturedly, though somewhat impatiently, “do as you like; but if any harm comes of it, mind it is not my fault.”

  Thankful for the permission, Soyera hurried round to the back of the tent, picked up the child and wrapped it in her robe; and then when, after firing the place, the Mahrattas retired, she fell in behind them, and followed them in the toilsome climb up the mountains, keeping so far behind that none questioned her. Once or twice Sufder dropped back to speak to her.

  “It is a foolish trick of yours,” he said, “and I fear that trouble will come of it.”

  “I don’t see why it should,” she replied. “The child will come to speak Mahratta and, when he is stained, none will guess that he is English. In time, I may be able to restore him to his own people.”

  The other shook his head.

  “That is not likely,” he said, “for before many weeks, we shall have driven them into the sea.”

  “Then he must remain a Mahratta,” she said, “until he is able to make his way to join the English in Madras or Calcutta.”

  “You are an obstinate woman, and always have been so; else you would not have left your people to go to be servant among the whites. However, I will do what I can for you, for the sake of my mother’s sister and of our kinship.”

  On the way up the hills Soyera stopped, several times, to pick berries. When they halted she went aside and pounded them, and then boiled them in some water in a lota—a copper vessel—Sufder lent her for the purpose, and dyed the child’s head and body with it, producing a colour corresponding to her own.

  The party, which was composed of men from several towns and villages, broke up the next morning.

  “Have you money?” Sufder asked her, as she was about to start alone on her journey.

  “Yes; my savings were all lodged for me, by Major Lindsay, with some merchants at Bombay; but I have twenty rupees sewn up in my garments.”

  “As to your savings, Soyera, you are not likely to see them again, for we shall make a clean sweep of Bombay. However, twenty rupees will be useful to you, and would keep you for three or four months, if you needed but, as you are going to my wife, you will not want them.

  “Take this dagger. When you show it to her, she will know that you come from me; but mind, she is, like most women, given to gossip; therefore I warn you not to let her into the secret of this child’s birth, for if you did so, half the town would know it in the
course of a day or two.

  “Now, I must go back with my men to join a party who are on their way to fight the English. I should have gone there direct, but met the others starting on this marauding expedition, which was so much to the taste of my men that I could not restrain them from joining. I shall see you at Jooneer, as soon as matters are finished with the English; then I shall, after staying a few days there, rejoin Scindia, in whose service I am.”

  Soyera started on her way. At the villages through which she passed, she was questioned as to where she came from; and replied that she had been living down near Bombay but, now that the English were going to fight the Mahrattas, she was coming home, having lost her husband a few months before.

  As the road to Jooneer diverged widely from that to Poona, she was asked no questions about the war. All were confident that the defeat of the English was certain, now that Scindia and Holkar and the government of the Peishwa had laid aside their mutual jealousies, and had joined for the purpose of crushing the whites.

  On arriving, after two days’ journey, at Jooneer, she went to the address that Sufder had given her; but was coldly received by his wife.

  “As it is Sufder’s order, of course I must take you in,” she said, “but when he returns, I shall tell him that I do not want another woman and child in the house. Why do you not go to your own people? As you are Sufder’s cousin, you must be the sister of Ramdass. Why should you not go to him?”

  “I will gladly do so, if you will tell me where he lives.”

  “He has a small farm. You must have passed it, as you came along. It is about a mile from here.”

  “I will go to him at once,” Soyera said.

  “No, no,” the woman exclaimed; “that will never do. You must stop a day or two here. Sufder would be angry, indeed, were he to find that you did not remain here; and would blame me for it. I should be willing enough for you to stay a week, or a month; that is a different thing from becoming an inmate of the house.”

  “I will wait till tomorrow, for I have made a long two days’ journey from the top of the Ghauts and, as I am not accustomed to walking, my feet are sore. In the morning I will go and see my brother. I did not so much as know that he was alive. I feel sure he will take me in, willingly; for he is but two years older than myself, and was always kind to me.”

  Accordingly the next morning she retraced her steps, and had no difficulty in finding the farm of Ramdass. Choosing the time when he would be likely to be in for his dinner, Soyera walked up to the door of the house, which was standing open.

  As she stood there, hesitating, Ramdass came out. He was a man of some forty years of age, with a pleasant and kindly face. He looked at her enquiringly.

  “Do you not know me, Ramdass?” she asked.

  “Why, ’tis Soyera!” he exclaimed. “And so you have come back, after all these years—thirteen, is it not, since you went away?

  “Welcome back, little sister!” and he raised his voice, and called, “Anundee!”

  A young woman, two or three and twenty years of age, came to the door.

  “Wife,” he said, “this is my sister Soyera, of whom you have often heard me speak.

  “Soyera, this is my wife. We have been married six years; but come in, and let us talk things over.

  “You have come home for good, I hope,” he said. “So you too have married and, as you come alone with your child, have, I suppose, had the misfortune to lose your husband?”

  “Yes, I was alone in the world, and came hither not knowing whether you were alive or dead; but feeling sure of a welcome, if I found you.”

  “And you were not mistaken,” he said heartily.

  “Anundee, you will, I am sure, join me in the welcome; and willingly give my sister and her child a place in our home?”

  “Assuredly. It will be pleasant for me, when you are in the fields, to have some one to talk to, and perhaps to help me about the house.”

  Soyera saw that she was speaking sincerely.

  “Thank you, Anundee; you may be sure that I shall not be idle. I have been accustomed to work, and can take much off your hands; and will look after your two children;” for two boys, three or four years old, were standing before her, staring at the newcomer.

  “That will be pleasant, Soyera; indeed, sometimes they hinder me much in my work.”

  “I am accustomed to children, Anundee, as I was for years nurse to English children, and know their ways.”

  “Well, now let us to dinner,” Ramdass broke in. “I am hungry, and want to be off again. There is much to do in the fields.”

  The woman took a pot off the embers of a wood fire, and poured its contents into a dish. The meal consisted of a species of pulse boiled with ghee, with peppers and other condiments added.

  “And how did you like being among the English, Soyera?”

  “I liked it very well,” the woman said. “They are very kind and considerate to nurses and, although they get angry when the gorrawallah or other men neglect their duty, they do not punish them as a Mahratta master would do. They are not double faced; when they say a thing they mean it, and their word can always be trusted. As a people, no doubt they are anxious to extend their dominion; but they do not wish to do so for personal gain. They are not like the princes here, who go to war to gain territory and revenue. It was reasonable that they should wish to increase their lands; for they are almost shut up in Bombay, with Salsette and the other islands occupied by us, who may, any day, be their enemies.”

  Her brother laughed.

  “It seems to me, Soyera, that you have come to prefer these English people to your own countrymen.”

  “I say not that, Ramdass. You asked me how I liked them, and I have told you. You yourself know how the tax collectors grind down the people; how Scindia and Holkar and the Peishwa are always fighting each other. Do you know that, in Bombay, the meanest man could not be put to death, unless fairly tried; while among the Mahrattas men are executed on the merest excuse or, if not executed, are murdered?”

  “That is true enough,” Ramdass said; “none of the three princes would hesitate to put to death anyone who stood in his way, and it seems strange to me that even the Brahmins, who would not take the life even of a troublesome insect, yet support the men who have killed scores of other people. But it is no use grumbling; the thing has always been, and I suppose always will be. It is not only so in the Deccan, but in the Nizam’s dominions, in Mysore and, so far as I know, in Oude and Delhi. It seems so natural to us that the powerful should oppress the weak, and that one prince should go to war with another, that we hardly give the matter a thought; but though, as you say, the English in Bombay may rule wisely, and dislike taking life, they are doing now just as our princes do—they are making war with us.”

  “That is true but, from what I have heard when the English sahibs were speaking together, it is everything to them that a prince favourable to them should rule at Poonah for, were Holkar and Scindia to become all powerful, and place one of their people on the seat of the Peishwa, the next step might be that a great Mahratta force would descend the Ghauts, capture Bombay, and slay every white man in it.”

  “But they are a mere handful,” Ramdass said. “How can they think of invading a nation like ours?”

  “Because they know, at least they believe, that Scindia, Holkar, and the Peishwa are all so jealous of each other that they will never act together. Then you see what they have done round Madras and Bengal and, few as they are, they have won battles against the great princes; and lastly, my mistress has told me that, although there are but few here, there are many at home; and they could, if they chose, send out twenty soldiers for every one there is here.

  “Besides, it is not these alone who fight. The natives enlist under them, and aid them in their conquests; and this shows, at least, that they are well treated, and have confidence in the good faith of the English.”

  “It is all very well, Soyera, to talk that way; but I would as willingly belie
ve that the stars will fall from the sky as that these Englishmen, who simply live in Bombay because we suffer them to do so, should ever conquer the Mahrattas, as they have subdued other portions of India where, as everyone knows, the people are not warlike, and have always been conquered without difficulty.

  “Look at our power! At Delhi the emperor is a puppet in our hands, and it is the same in all the districts on the plain of the great river. The Rajpoots fear us, and even the Pindaries would not dare carry their raids into our country. That a small body of merchants and soldiers should threaten us seems, to me, altogether absurd.”

  “Well, brother, we will not argue about it. Time will show. As a woman of the Mahrattas, I trust that day will never come; but as one who knows the English, I have my fears. Of one thing I am sure, that were they masters here, the cultivators would be vastly better off than they are at present.”

  Ramdass laughed.

  “What do you think of my sister’s opinions, Anundee?”

  “I do not know what to think,” the young woman said; “but Soyera has seen much, and is a wise woman, and what she says are no idle words. To us it seems impossible, when we know that the Mahrattas can place a hundred thousand horsemen in the field; but I own that, from what we know of the English, it might be better for people like us to have such masters.”

  “And now, Soyera,” Ramdass said, when he returned from his work in the evening, “tell us more about yourself. First, how did you learn where I was living?”

  “I learned it from the wife of our cousin Sufder.”

  “How did you fall in with him?”

  “Well, I must tell you something. I had meant to keep it entirely to myself, but I know that you and Anundee will keep my secret.”

  “Assuredly we will. I am not a man to talk of other people’s affairs and, as to Anundee, you can trust her with your life.”

  “Well, in the first place, I deceived you; or rather you deceived yourself, when you said, ‘I see that you have been married;’ but the children were here, and so I could not explain. The infant is not mine. It is the son of my dear master and mistress, both of whom were killed, three days ago, by bands—of which Sufder commanded one—who attacked them suddenly, by night.”