The Hosts of the Lord Part 41

CHAPTER XXIV

BEYOND THE SHADOW

The fact that the quarrel had begun did not, however, have the same effect upon Roshan Khan.

In the first tempest of rage and hate which the sight of Laila and Vincent in the balcony had roused in him he had simply let himself go.

He had not thought at all. Had his revolver held other cartridges, he would have gone on shooting at Vincent, Pidar Narayan, at everybody, till he could shoot no more. He had run _a-mak_; that curious phase of the Oriental mind when once it oversteps the hard and fast lines of custom in which it moves and breathes and has its being.

The very fact that his revolver did not contain more possibilities for death, that he had no other weapon, emphasized his wild revolt.

He was helpless--impotent--before these strangers, who had stolen everything! Everything, save bare existence. This thought, as he burst into the open, into the lurid darkness of the new-come storm, had made him laugh bitterly; for it was only that bare existence which _he_ wished to steal! They might keep the rest; but _that_ he would claim from them somehow, in fair exchange.

The time was ripe for such exchange too,--for fair exchange. (The epithet "fair" haunted him, trying to still the keen remorse for that shot in the dark; for one part of him knew it to have been cowardly.) Yes! this useless plot, with foolish mischief hidden in its heart, to which he had just been listening with loyal intent to frustrate it, could be made to serve his purpose without delay. His men would follow him anywhere. He had but to say the word--the word so many of them wanted. Then, those thieves of all that made life worth living would learn a lesson. They would fight and win, of course; but the lesson that without such men as he--men whom they thwarted and repressed at every turn--they could not rely upon their regiments, would have to be learnt. And in the learning, one thief would learn something else.

So, without more thought than this desperate clas.h.i.+ng of jealousy and despair, he had dashed through the crowd of pilgrims who were waiting for the dawn, gone back to the Fort, and given the word.

In the excitement which followed, spreading swiftly from his own, he had not--and it was typical of the man that he did not--forget Lance Carlyon's friendliness; a more equal friendliness than that of most.

There was no need to drag him into the quarrel, the more so because the disloyalty of the Sikh pioneers was doubtful. They might complicate matters at the beginning. So he had locked and barred them into the inner courtyard, out of the way.

But Captain Dering, he knew, was outside! Let him be alone with his troopers, as he, Roshan would be alone with them! Let them both try their influence; let them try conclusions on these terms. That was but fair.

This first step, however, necessitated others. The original plot, with its waiting for the dawn, its c.u.mbrous mechanism of keys, and pilgrims, and G.o.d knows what, was not to his liking. He meant to fight. And if, as the conspirators had a.s.serted, some of the warders were friends hand and foot, his men could crack the nut of the gaol in half an hour. The sooner the better.

Pidar Narayan, he knew, had recognized him, and he was a fox for wiliness. Then, Captain Dering must be after him even now. And Dillon-_sahib_ might be on the alert any time. So the _coup de main_ must come at once. As to what might follow, that might be after the fas.h.i.+on of Meerut in '57, or not. Who could tell the end of anything?

The beginning would be an opportunity for fair fight between him and a thief. Once more the epithet "fair" scorched and shrivelled him with vague remorse, not for Laila--she was but a woman, a woman who had played him false and who deserved the worst--but for that shot in the dark.

For there were two Roshans, warring fiercely in heart and brain.

Then, after his mad, reckless ride to the gaol, the first realities had come to him in the sight of Dr. Dillon, standing with the light in his hand to welcome friends; and in the sound of those two snap-shots proclaiming foes.

Why? The question had come swiftly. What quarrel had he with Dr.

Dillon? Or with Eugene Smith, whose tall, gaunt figure showed behind the other? Eugene Smith, who must have brought his wife, his child, with him!

The horror, the terror of what might come, swept through the quondam prize pupil of a mission school; the horror, the terror, in the remembrance of the Great Mutiny, which is, alas! a legacy of wrong to young India. Which ties her hand and foot; which makes those who are worthy of the name shrink instinctively from anything which may rouse the underlying savagery--the unavoidable savagery--of their countrymen.

Could he hold his troopers? Could he be sure? He had come to curse. Was it too late to bless?

Then the memory of Laila--the whole hateful tale which was irrevocable--struck him hopeless. He was d.a.m.ned utterly; he could not escape.

He sat rigid as a statue on his horse for a second; then with a wild fury gave the orders for his troopers to dismount and force the gates.

"Your slaves, _Nawab-sahib!_" had come the answer, making him smile proudly. _That_, at any rate, could not be stolen from him _now_. _Now_ he could fight and die in what should have been his real position.

Yet, once more, when the search-light had come to throw that group of excited men hacking and hewing at doors closed by authority into significant black-and-white relief, that doubt had returned; that desire to be on the side, once more, of men like Dr. Dillon, whose bold resolve to be alone responsible for his gaol, which the warder's tale revealed, filled him with admiration.

But that sudden throwing up of a trooper's hands, that sidelong stumble into death, had left Roshan cruel as death itself; for the man thus killed had been to him as a brother.

So he had gone on with a fresh impulse towards revenge, and for a time found forgetfulness in the excitement, the action. For though the first gate, that one giving on the open sort of porch, had yielded, almost at once, to the troopers outside and the warders within, the second, barring the arched tunnel, was a tougher job. It was not until this had given way, and the attacking party were completely sheltered from the fire of the little garrison on the roof, that there was leisure for that thought to return: "What am I doing? Why am I doing it?"

No man, it may be said broadly, ever fights without feeling that the battle is an appeal to a tribunal beyond himself, and Roshan did not feel this. Then the remembrance of the woman, the child, upstairs came persistently, burdened by the weight of that past tragedy which, in India, it is impossible to forget. And this was a woman who had always been courteous to him, a child to whom he had given toys.

What was he doing?

The men were at work on the last, the strongest gate, with every tool they could find. Not many, for Dr. Dillon's forethought had left them before barred doors everywhere. The delay had already been great; would be greater. They must be close now on the lines of the original plot, at which Roshan had laughed, for the dawn was showing faintly--a mere promise of light to come--in the east. And the storm was pa.s.sing. The dull reverberations of faint thunder were lost now in the cries, the blows of those at work trying to batter down the iron bars.

A sudden distaste--more than regret or repentance--came to Roshan as he stood silent, watching blow after blow; a sudden doubt.

Which was the right? No man worth calling a man ever fights for anything else; every man worth calling one fights for that. But which was right? Those men, hacking and hewing, or the little garrison upstairs?

There were no such searchings of heart there, at any rate; no question as to what they were doing, though at that exact moment they were engaged in the trivial occupation of drinking tea.

Muriel Smith had made it, at Dr. Dillon's suggestion, against this very pause; this "_cease firing_" which he had foreseen. And in the making of it she had used a continental tea-basket which more than once had been her companion on the Brindisi _route_. Dr. Dillon had laid hands on it in his foraging, and as she had boiled the kettle, the rush and roar of a train racing through the peaceful French champaignes had seemed to be in her ears, instead of that rush and roar of blows and shouting which was now rising from every part of the gaol; though the prisoners were still helpless for evil in their sections.

So the three men, haggard, anxious, drank their tea in silence, hastily; yet with a curious insistence, as if the triviality gave them a hold on things familiar, things beyond this midsummer-night's dream of madness. But the child chattered as she munched a biscuit; chattered of the charms of this strange picnic on the "_woof, in the dark with oo's nighty an' s'ippers only_."

The unconscious little voice struck a chill to the men's hearts, but the woman smiled, as mothers can do when they wish to guard that blessed unconsciousness to the last; the unconsciousness of which they are guardians by right.

"We are doing as well as could be expected," remarked Dr. Dillon, suddenly, with a quaint professional reminiscence; then added, "I wish to G.o.d, though, I knew what my prisoners were up to--those solitary cellers are on my mind--I believe the convalescents could dig them out with the cook-room platters and ladles. I ought to have thought of that. But, as I say, we are doing very fairly well--your light, Dering, was a G.o.dsend."

Eugene Smith looked up sharply, almost as if he meant a disclaimer; then he gave a brief a.s.sent. "Yes! but _that_ will be more of a G.o.dsend still--it is the dawn!"

He pointed to that faint promise of light in the east, and Vincent Dering's eyes followed his hand with the doubtful look of one sick to death, as he watches the long weary night merge once more into another long weary day of certain pain. There was an utter hopelessness in it.

"Yes," he echoed slowly, "that is the dawn."

"Carlyon said the attack was planned for dawn, didn't he?" asked the doctor, deliberately helping himself to another lump of sugar, deliberately trying to keep the pulse beats of those around him as near normal as might be--and there had been something beyond it in Vincent's voice. "They must have meant to use the keys that brute Kishen Rao made off with. I wonder what it was that started the show prematurely?"

"Do you think it was premature? Why?" put in Eugene Smith.

"We should have had some of the townspeople, some of the pilgrims otherwise."

"Perhaps the storm"--began Vincent.

The doctor shook his head. "If they had meant to come they would have come. Of course now, with the wind blowing straight off us, they can't possibly hear."

He paused and listened, for a sudden silence had fallen on the turmoil beneath, and out of it came an all too familiar sound, the clank of leg irons. Some of the prisoners, therefore, had managed to break out of their dormitories; or were these the solitary cellers?

"I wish Carlyon would turn up," he muttered, almost petulantly, "it's our only chance--"

But there was to be another; for, from below, a voice rose loud and clear.

"Dr. Dillon! I have no desire to hurt you or yours, but I warn you that, if you persist, I am not responsible. Open the gates, and you shall have a safe conduct--for--for everybody."

George Dillon was on his feet at once, but Captain Dering stopped him; his eyes ablaze.

"What shall I tell him, Dillon?" he said sharply. "I'll take my orders from you--you're in charge; but that man is under mine. What shall I say?"