On the Face of the Waters

BOOK V
CHAPTER I

FORWARD.

"Are you here on duty, sir?" asked a brief, imperious voice. Major Erlton, startled from a half dream as he sat listlessly watching the target practice from the Crow's Nest, rose and saluted. His height almost matched the speaker's, but he looked small in comparison with the indescribable air of dominant power and almost arrogant strength in the other figure. It seemed to impress him, for he pulled himself together smartly with a certain confidence, and looked, in truth, every inch a soldier.

"No, sir," he replied as briefly, "on pleasure."

A distinct twinkle showed for a second in General Nicholson's deep-set hazel eyes. "Then go to your bed, sir, and sleep. You look as if you wanted some." He spoke almost rudely; but as he turned on his heel he added in a louder voice than was necessary had he meant the remark for his companion's ear only, "I shall want good fighting men before long, I expect."

If he did, he might reckon on one. Herbert Erlton was not good at formulating his feelings into definite thoughts, but as he went back to the peaceful side of the Ridge he told himself vaguely that he was glad Nicholson had come. He was the sort of a man a fellow would be glad to follow, especially when he was dead-sick and weary of waiting and doing nothing save get killed! Yes! he was a real good sort, and as even the Chaplain had said at mess, they hadn't felt quite so besieged on the Ridge these last two days since he came. And, by George! he had hit the right nail on the head. A man wasn't much good without sleep.

So, with a certain pride in following the advice, Major Erlton flung himself on his cot and promptly dozed off. In truth he needed rest. Sonny Seymour's safe arrival in camp two nights before, in charge of a Bunjârah, from whom even Hodson had been unable to extract anything—save that the Agha-sahib had forgotten a letter in his hurry, and that the mem was safe, or had been safe—had sent Major Erlton to watch those devilish walls more feverishly than ever. Not that it really mattered whether Kate was alive or dead, he told himself. No! he did not mean that, quite. He would be awfully glad—God! how glad! to know her safe. But it wouldn't alter other things, would not even alter them in regard to her. So, once more he waited for the further news promised him, with a strange indifference, save to the thought that, alive or dead, Kate was within the walls—like another woman—like many women.

And now he was dreaming that he was inside them also, sword in hand.

There seemed some chance of it indeed, men were saying to each other, as they looked after John Nicholson's tall figure as it wandered into every post and picket; asking brief questions, pleased with brief replies. Every now and again pausing, as it were, to come out of his absorption and take a sudden, keen interest in something beyond the great question. As when, passing the tents of the only lady in camp, he saw Sonny, who had been made over to her till he could be sent back to his mother, who had escaped to Meerut, during which brief time he was the plaything of a parcel of subalterns who delighted in him, tinsel cap, anklets, and all. Major Erlton had at first rather monopolized the child, trying to find out something definite from him; but as he insisted that "Miffis Erlton lived up in the 'ky wif a man wif a gween face, and a white face, and a lot of fwowers, and a bit of tring," and spoke familiarly of Tiddu, and Tara, and Soma, without being able to say who they were, the Major had given it up as a bad job, and gone back to the walls. So the subalterns had the child to themselves, and were playing pranks with him as the General passed by.

"Fine little fellow!" he said suddenly. "I like to see children's legs and arms. Up in Bunnoo the babies were just like that young monkey. Real corn-color. I got quite smitten with them and sent for a lot of toys from Lahore. Only I had to bar Lawrence from peg-tops, for I knew I should have got peg-topping with the boys, and that would have been fatal to my dignity as D. C. That is the worst of high estates. You daren't make friends, and you have to make enemies."

The smile which had made him look years younger faded, and he was back in the great problem of his life: how to keep pace with his yoke-fellows, how to scorn consequences and steer straight to independent action, without spoiling himself by setting his seniors and superiors in arms against him. He had never solved it yet. His career had been one long race with the curb on. A year before he had thrown up the game in disgust, and begged to be transferred from the Punjab while he could go with honor, and even his triumphant march Delhi-ward—in which he found disaffection, disobedience, and doubt, and left fear, trembling, and peace—had been marred by much rebuking. So that once, nothing but the inner sense that pin-points ought not to let out the heart's blood, kept him at his post; and but two days before, on the very eve of that hundred-and-twenty mile rush to Delhi, he had written claiming definitely the right of an officer in his position to quarrel with anybody's opinion, and asserting his duty of speaking out, no matter at what risk of giving offense.

And now, a man years younger than those in nominal command,—he was but six-and-thirty,—and holding views diametrically opposed to theirs, he had been sent here, virtually, to take Delhi because those others could not. No wonder, then, that the question how to avoid collision puzzled him. Not because he knew that his appointment was in itself an offense, that some people affected to speak of him still as Mr. Nicholson—that being his real rank; but because he knew in his heart of hearts that at any moment he might do something appalling. Move troops under someone else's command, without a reference, as he had done before, during his career! Then, naturally, there must be ructions. He had a smile for the thought himself. Still, for the present, concord was assured; since until his column arrived, the repose of the lion crouching for a spring was manifestly the only policy; though it might be necessary to wag the tail a bit—to do more than merely forbid sorties and buglings. The fools, for instance, who harrassed the Metcalfe House picket might be shown their mistake and made to understand that, if the Ridge called "time!" for a little decent rest before the final round, it meant to have it. So he passed on his errand to inculcate Headquarters with his decision, leaving Sonny playing with the boys.

Meanwhile one of the garrison, at least, had found the benefit of his keen judgment. Herbert Erlton had passed from dreams of conflict to the real rest of unconscious sleep, oblivious of everything, even those rose-red walls.

But within them another man, haggard and anxious as he had been, was still allowing himself none in his search for Kate Erlton. Tara, as much at a loss as he, helping him; for though at first she had been relieved at the idea of the mem's disappearance, she had soon realized that the master ran more risk than ever in his reckless determination to find some trace of the missing woman. And Tiddu, who had returned, helped also. The mem, he said, must have found friends; must be alive. Such a piece of gossip as the discovery and death of an English woman could not have been kept from the Thunbi Bazaar. Then those who had passed from the roof had been calm enough to hasp the door behind them; that did not look like violence. If the Huzoor would only be patient and wait, something would turn up. There were other kindly folk in the city besides himself! But, in the meantime, he would do well to allow Soma to slip into the sulky indifference he seemed to prefer, and take no notice of it. It only meant that he, and half the good soldiers in Delhi, were mad with themselves for having chosen the losing side. For with Nikalseyn on the Ridge, what chance had Delhi?

This was rather an exaggerated picture; still it was a fairly faithful presentment of the inward thoughts of many, who, long before this, had begun to ask themselves what the devil they were doing in that galley? Yet there they were, and there they must fight. Soma, however, was doubtful even of that. His heart positively ached as he listened to the tales told in the very heart of Delhi of the man whom other men worshiped—the man who took forts single-handed, and said that, given the powers of a provost-marshal, he would control a disobedient army in two days! The man who yoked bribe-taking tahseeldars into the village well-wheel to draw water for the robbed ryots, and set women of loose virtue, who came into his camp, to cool in muddy tanks. The man who flung every law-book on his office table at his clerks' heads, and then—with a kindly apologetic smile—paused while they replaced them for future use. The man who gave toys to children, and remorselessly hung two abettors of a vile murder, when he could not lay hands on the principal. The man, finally, who flogged those who worshiped him into promising adoration for the future to a very ordinary mortal of his acquaintance! Briefly the hero, the demi-god, who perhaps was neither, but, as Tiddu declared, had simply the greatest gift of all—the gift of making men what he wished them to be. Either way it was gall and wormwood to Soma—hero-worshiper by birth—that his side should have no such colossal figure to follow. So, sulky and sore, he held aloof from both sides, doing his bounden duty to both, and no more. Keeping guards when his fellows took bribes to fight, and agreeing with Tiddu, that since some other besides themselves knew of the roof, it was safer for the master to lock it up, and live for a time elsewhere.

So, all unwittingly, the only chance of finding Kate was lost. For what had happened was briefly this: Five minutes after Jim Douglas had left her, Prince Abool-Bukr, who had kept this renseignement—given him by a Bunjârah, who had promised to be in waiting and was not—to the last, because it was close to the haven where he would be, had come roystering up the stairs followed by his unwilling retainers, suggesting that the Most Illustrious had really better desist from violating seclusion since they were all black and blue already. But, from sheer devilry and desire to outrage the quarter, which by its complaints had already brought him into trouble, the Prince had begun battering at the door. Kate, running to bar it more securely, saw that the hasp, carelessly hitched over the staple, was slipping—had slipped; and had barely time to dash into the inner roof ere the Prince, unexpectant of the sudden giving way, tumbled headlong into the outer one. The fall gave her an instant more, but made him angry; and the end would have been certain, if Kate, seeing the new-made gap in the wall before her, had not availed herself of it. There was a roof not far below she knew; the débris would be on a slope perhaps—the blue-eyed boy had escaped by the roofs. All this flashed through her, as by the aid of a stool, which she kicked over in her scramble, she gained the top of the gap and peered over. The next instant she had dropped herself down some four feet, finding a precarious foothold on a sliding slope of rubble, and still clinging to the wall with her hands. If no one looked over, she thought breathlessly, she was safe! And no one did. The general air of decent privacy alarmed the retainers into remembering that two of their number had found death their reward for their master's last escapade in that quarter; so, after one glance round, they swore the place was empty, and dragged him off, feebly protesting that it was his last chance, and he had not bagged a single Christian.

Kate heard the door closed, heard the voices retreat downstairs, and then set herself to get back over the gap. It did not seem a difficult task. The slope on which she hung gave fair foothold, and by getting a good grip on the brickwork, and perhaps displacing a brick or two in the crack lower down, as a step, she ought to get up easily. It was lucky the crack was there, she thought. In one way, not in another, for, as in her effort she necessarily threw all her weight on the wall, another bit of it gave way, she fell backward, and so, half covered with bricks and mud, rolled to the roof below, which was luckily not more than eight or nine feet down. It was far enough, however, for the fall to have killed her; but, though she lay quite unconscious, she was not dead, only stunned, shaken, confused, unable absolutely to think. It was almost dawn, indeed, before she realized that her only chance of getting up again was in calling for help, and by that time the door of the roof above had been locked, and there was no one to hear her. The few square yards of roof on to which she had rolled belonged to one of those box-like buildings, half-turrets, half-summer houses, which natives build here, there, and everywhere at all sorts of elevations, until the view of a town from a topmost roof resembles nothing so much as the piles of luggage awaiting the tidal train at Victoria.

This particular square of roof belonged to a tiny outhouse, which stood on a long narrow roof belonging in its turn to an arcaded slip of summer-house standing on a square, set round by high parapet walls. Quite a staircase of roofs. Her one had had a thatch set against the wall, but it had fallen in with the weight of bricks and mortar. Still she might be able to creep between it and the wall for shelter. And on the slip of roof below, Indian corn was drying, during this break in the rains. Rains which had filled a row of water-pots quite full. Since she could not make those above her hear, she thought it might be as well to secure herself from absolute starvation, before broad daylight brought life to the wilderness of roofs around her. So she scrambled down a rough ladder of bamboo tied with string, and, after a brief look into the square below, came back with some parched grain she had found in a basket, and a pot of water. She would not starve for that day. By this time it was dawn, and she crept into her shelter, listening all the while for a sound from above; every now and again venturing on a call. But there was no answer, and by degrees it came to her that she must rely on herself only for safety. She was not likely to be disturbed that day where she was, unless people came to repair the thatch. And under cover of night she might surely creep from roof to roof down to some alley. What alley? True, her goal now lay behind her, but these roofs, set at every angle, might lead her far from it. And how was she to know her own stair, her own house, from the outside? She had passed into it in darkness and never left it again. Then what sort of people lived in these houses through which she must creep like a thief? Murderers, perhaps. Still it was her only chance; and all that burning, blistering day, as she crouched between the thatch and the wall, she was bolstering up her courage for the effort. She could see the Ridge clearly from her hiding place. Ah! if she had only the wings of the doves—those purple pigeons which, circling from the great dome of the mosque, came to feast unchecked on the Indian corn. The people below, then, must be pious folk.

It was past midnight and the silence of sleep had settled over the city before she nerved herself to the chance and crept down among the corn. No difficulty in that; but to her surprise, a cresset was still burning in the arcaded veranda below, sending three bars of light across the square through which she must pass. It would be better to wait a while; but an hour slipped by and still the light gleamed into the silence. Perhaps it had been forgotten. The possibility made her creep down the brick ladder, prepared to creep up again if the silence proved deceptive. But what she saw made her pause, hesitating. It was a woman reading from a large book held in a book-rest. The Koran, of course. Kate recognized it at once, for just such another had been part of the necessary furniture of her roof. And what a beautiful face! Tender, refined, charming. Not the face of a murderess, surely? Surely it might be trusted? Those three months behind the veil had made Kate realize the emotionality of the East; its instinctive sympathy with the dramatic element in life. She remembered her sudden impulse in regard to the knife and its effect on Tiddu; she felt a similar impulse toward confidence here. And then she knew that the doors might be locked below, and that her best chance might be to throw herself on the mercy of this woman.

The next moment she was standing full in the light close to the student, who started to her feet with a faint cry, gazing almost incredulously at the figure so like her own, save for the jewels gleaming among the white draperies.

"Bibi," she faltered.

"I am no bibi," interrupted Kate hurriedly in Hindustani. "I am a Christian—but a woman like yourself—a mother. For the sake of yours—or the sake of your sons, if you are a mother too—for the sake of what you love best—save me."

"A Christian! a mem!" In the pause of sheer astonishment the two women stood facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. Prince Abool-Bukr had been right when he said that Kate Erlton reminded him of the Princess Farkhoonda da Zamâni. Standing so, they showed strangely alike indeed, not in feature, but in type; in the soul which looked out of the soft dark, and the clear gray eyes.

"Save you!" The faint echo was lost in a new sound, close at hand. A careless voice humming a song; a step coming up the dark stair.

"O mistress rare, divine!"

God and His Prophet! Abool himself! Newâsi flung her hands up in sheer horror. Abool! and this Christian here! The next instant with a fierce "Keep still," she had thrust Kate into the deepest shadow and was out to bar the brick ladder with her tall white grace. She had no time for thought. One sentence beat on her brain—"for the sake of what you love best, save me!" Yea! for his sake this strange woman must not be seen—he must not, should not guess she was there!

"Stand back, kind one, and let me pass," came the gay voice carelessly. It made Kate shudder back into further shadow, for she knew now where she was; and but that she would have to pass those bars of light would have essayed escape to the roofs again.

But Newâsi stood still as stone on the first step of the stairs.

"Pass!" she repeated clearly, coldly. "Art mad, Abool? that thou comest hither with no excuse of drunkenness and alone, at this hour of the night. For shame!"

Why, indeed, she asked herself wildly, had he come? He was not used to do so. Could he have heard? Had he come on purpose? There was a sound as if he retreated a step, and from the dark his voice came with a wonder in it.

"What ails thee, Newâsi?"

"What ails me!" she echoed, "what I have lacked too long. Just anger at thy thoughtless ways. Go——"

"But I have that to tell thee of serious import that none but thou must hear. That which will please thee. That which needs thy kind wise eyes upon it."

"Then let them see it by daylight, not now. I will not, Abool. Stand back, or I will call for help."

The sound of retreat was louder this time, and a muttered curse came with it; but the voice had a trace of anxiety in it now—anxiety and anger.

"Thou dost not mean it, kind one; thou canst not! When have I done that which would make thee need help? Newâsi! be not a fool. Remember it is I, Abool; Abool-Bukr, who has a devil in him at times!"

Did she not know it by this time? Was not that the reason why he must not find this Christian? Why she must refuse him hearing? Though it was true that he had a right to be trusted; in all those long years, when had he failed to treat her tenderly, respectfully? As she stood barring his way, where he had never before been denied entrance, she felt as if she herself could have killed that strange woman for being there, for coming between them.

"Listen, Abool!" she said, stretching out her hands to find his in the dark. "I mean naught, dear, that is unkind. How could it be so between me and thee? But 'tis not wise." She paused, catching her breath in a faint sob. He could not see her face, perhaps if he had, he would have been less relentless.

"Wherefore? Canst not trust thy nephew, fair aunt?" The sarcasm bit deep.

"Nephew! A truce, Abool, to this foolish tale," she began hotly, when he interrupted her.

"Of a surety, if the Princess Farkhoonda desires it! Yet would Mirza Abool-Bukr still like to know wherefore he is not received?"

His tone sent a thrill of terror through her, his use of the name he hated warned her that his temper was rising—the devil awakening.

"Canst not see, dear," she pleaded, trying to keep the hands he would have drawn from hers—"folk have evil minds."

He gave an ugly laugh. "Since when hast thou begun to think of thy good name, like other women, Newâsi? But if it be so, if all my virtue—and God knows 'tis ill-got—is to go for naught, let it end."

She heard him, felt him turn, and a wild despair surged up in her. Which was worst? To let him go in anger beyond the reach of her controlling hand mayhap—go to unknown evils—or chance this one? Since—since at the worst death might be concealed. God and His Prophet! What a thought! No! she would plead again—she would stoop—she would keep him at any price.

"Listen!" she whispered passionately, leaning toward him in the dark, "dost ask since when I have feared for my good name? Canst not guess?—Abool! what—what does a woman, as I am, fear—save herself—save her own love——"

There was an instant's silence, and then his reckless jeering laugh jarred loud.

"So it has come at last! and there is another woman for kisses. That is an end indeed! Did I not tell thee we should quarrel over it some day? Well, be it so, Princess! I will take my virtue elsewhere."

She stood as if turned to stone, listening to his retreating steps, listening to his nonchalant humming of the old refrain as he passed through the courtyard into the alley. Then, without a word, but quivering with passion, she turned to where Kate cowered, and dragged her by main force to the stairs where, a minute before; she had sacrificed everything for her. No! not for her, for him!

"Go," she said bitterly. "Go! and my curse go with you."

Kate fled before the anger she saw but did not understand. Yet as she flew down the steep stairs she paused involuntarily to listen to the sound—a sound which needed no interpreter as the liquid Persian had done—of a woman sobbing as if her heart would break.

She had no time, however, even for wonder, and the next instant she was out in the alley, turning to the right. For the knowledge that it was the Princess Farkhoonda who had helped her, gave the clew to her position. But the house, the stair? How could she know it? She must try them one after another; since she would know the landing, the door she had so often opened and shut. Still it was perilously near dawn ere she found what she was sure was the right one; but it was padlocked.

They must have gone; gone and left her alone!

For the first time, ghastly, unreasoning fear seized on her; she could have beaten at the door and screamed her claim to be let in. And even when, the rush of terror passed, she sat stupidly on the step, not even wondering what to do next, till suddenly she remembered that she had keys in her pocket. That of the inner padlock, certainly; perhaps of the outer one, also, since Tara had given up using her duplicate altogether.

She had; and five minutes after, having satisfied herself that the roof remained as it was—that it was merely empty for a time—she tried to feel grateful. But the loneliness, the dimness, were too much for her fatigue, her excitement. So once more the sound which needs no interpreter rose on the warm soft night.

It was two days after this that Tiddu held a secret consultation with Soma and Tara. The Agha-sahib, he said, was getting desperate. He was losing his head, as the Huzoors did over women-folk, and he must be got out of the city. It was not as if he did any good by staying in it. The mem was either dead, or safely concealed. There was no alternative, unless, indeed, she had already been passed out to the Ridge. There was talk of that sort among Hodson's spies, and he was going to utilize the fact and persuade the Huzoor to creep out to the camp and see. Soma could pass him out, and would not pass him in again; which was fortunate. Since folk in addition to protecting masters had to make money, when every other corn-carrier in the place was coining it by smuggling gold and silver out of the city for the rich merchants. Tara, with a sudden fierce exultation in her somber eyes, agreed. Let the Huzoor go back to his own life, she said; let him go to safety, and leave her free. As for the mem, the master had done enough for her. And Soma, sulky and lowering with the dull glow of opium in his brain—for the drug was his only solace now—swore that Tiddu was right. Delhi was no place for the master. And once out of it, the fighting would keep him: he knew him of old. As for the mem, he would not harm her, as Tara had once suggested he should. That dream was over. The Huzoors were the true masters; they had men who could lead men. Not Princes in Cashmere shawls who couldn't understand a word of what you said, and mere soubadars cocked up, but real Colonels and Generâls.

The result of this being that on the night of the 11th, between midnight and dawn, Jim Douglas, with that elation which came to him always at the prospect of action, prepared to slip out of the sally-port by the Magazine, disguised as a sepoy. This was to please Soma. To please Tiddu, however, he wore underneath this disguise the old staff uniform from the theatrical properties. It reminded him of Alice Gissing, making him whisper another "bravo" to the memory of the woman whom he had buried under the orange-trees in the crimson-netted shroud made of an officer's scarf.

But Tiddu's remark, that an English uniform would be the safest, once he was beyond the city, sent sadness flying, in its frank admission that the tide had turned.

Turned, indeed! The certainty came with a great throb of fierce joy as, half an hour afterward, slipping past the gardens of Ludlow Castle, he found himself in the thick of English bayonets, and felt grateful for the foresight of the old staff uniform. They were on their way to surprise and take the picket; not to defend but to attack.

The opportunity was too good to be lost. There was no hurry. He had arranged to remain three days on the Ridge—he might not have another opportunity of a free fair fight.

He had forgotten every woman in the world, everything save the welcome silence before him as he turned and stole through the trees also, sword in hand.

By all that was lucky and well-planned! the picket must be asleep! Not a sound save the faint crackle of stealthy feet almost lost in the insistent quiver of the cicalas. No! there was a challenge at last within a foot or two.

"Who—kum—dar?"

And swift as an echo a young voice beside him came jibingly:

"It's me, Pandy! Take that."

It's me! Just so; me with a vengeance. For the right attack and the left were both well up. There was a short, sharp volley; then the welcome familiar order. A cheer, a clatter, a rush and clashing with the bayonets. It seemed but half a minute before Jim Douglas found himself among the guns slashing at a dazed artilleryman who had a port-fire in his hand. So the artillery on either side never had a chance, and Major Erlton, riding up with the 9th Lancers as the central attack, found that bit of the fighting over. The picket was taken, the mutineers had fled cityward leaving four guns behind them. And against one of these, as the Major rode close to gloat over it, leaned a man whom he recognized at once.

"My God! Douglas," he said, "where—where's Kate?—where's my wife?"

It was rather an abrupt transition of thought, and Jim Douglas, who was feeling rather queer from something, he scarcely knew what, looked up at the speaker doubtfully.

"Oh, it is you, Major Erlton," he said slowly. "I thought—I mean I hoped she was here—if she isn't—why, I suppose I'd better go back."

He took his arm off the gun and half-stumbled forward, when Major Erlton flung himself from his horse and laid hold of him.

"You're hit, man—the blood's pouring from your sleeve. Here, off with your coat, sharp!"

"I can't think why it bleeds so?" said Jim Douglas feebly, looking down at a clean cut at the inside of the elbow from which the blood was literally spouting. "It is nothing—nothing at all."

The Major gave a short laugh. "Take the go out of you a bit, though. I'll get a tourniquet on sharp, and send you up in a dhooli."

"What an unlucky devil I am!" muttered Jim Douglas to himself, and the Major did not deny it: he was in a hurry to be off again with the party told to clear the Koodsia Gardens. Which they did successfully before sunrise, when the expedition returned to camp cheering like demons and dragging in the captured guns, on which some of the wounded men sat triumphantly. It was their first real success since Budli-ke-serai, two months before; and they were in wild spirits.

Even the Doctor, fresh from shaking his head over many a form lifted helplessly from the dhoolis, was jubilant as he sorted Jim Douglas' arm.

"Keep you here ten days or so I should say. There's always a chance of its breaking out again till the wound is quite healed. Never mind! You can go into Delhi with the rest of us, before then."

"Yoicks forward!" cried a wounded lad in the cot close by. The Doctor turned sharply.

"If you don't keep quiet, Jones, I'll send you back to Meerut. And you too, Maloney. I've told you to lie still a dozen times."

"Sure, Docther dear, ye couldn't be so cruel," said a big Irishman sitting at the foot of his bed so as to get nearer to a new arrival who was telling the tale of the fight. "And me able-bodied and spoiling to be at me wurrk this three days."

"It's a curious fact," remarked the Doctor to Jim Douglas as he finished bandaging him, "the hospital has been twice as insubordinate since Nicholson came in. The men seem to think we are to assault Delhi tomorrow. But we can't till the siege train comes, of course. So you may be in at the death!"

Jim Douglas felt glad and sorry in a breath.

Finally he told himself he could let decision stand over for a day or two. He must see Hodson first, and find out if the letter he had had from his spies about an Englishwoman, concealed in Delhi, referred to Kate Erlton.

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