As they closed, Hervey flattened, and screwed up his face waiting for the passing cut. The three Jhauts lost nerve, however, opened too far to let him through, and the nearest misjudged the timing of the backwards cut.
Missed by a mile, thought Hervey. Would his luck hold?
There were four now, barring his way. Another hundred yards – what would they do? Then he saw their pistols rise as one.
At a dozen lengths they volleyed. He felt the ball strike. The stallion squealed but hardly checked before Hervey himself reined him in. He couldn't afford to stumble at that speed.
Two tulwars met him, fearsome-looking blades and wielded skilfully, the other two fallen back in echelon behind. These were men who could fight as a team. Hervey knew he had but an instant to judge his manoeuvre.
He put the stallion in a line for the further two, to pass just right of the nearer pair – a desperate evasion, since they would be on him at once from the rear as the second pair engaged him. But a few strides short he pulled the reins up and left, but loose, across the stallion's neck, in the Rajpoot manner, and pressed his right leg as firmly as he could behind the girth. The native saddle, with neither tree nor flaps, gave him more leg than usual, in closer contact with the horse's flank as if riding bareback, and the stallion responded at once, passaging left extravagantly to career into the closer Jhaut's nearside.
The tulwar came too late into the guard, and instead the man took the point of Hervey's blade in the shoulder. The Jhaut's horse turned on its quarters in response to the unintentional rein and collided with the second horse, giving Hervey precious seconds to deal with the other pair.
He loosed the reins and squeezed with his legs, and the stallion leapt forward like a cat to meet the first opponent on the nearside again, the other man masked on the off. The Jhaut, surprised by the length and direction of the leap, failed to get his guard in place quickly enough, and 'Cut One' all but severed his bridle arm.
Hervey pressed the stallion on, but the horse faltered, then stumbled, throwing him forward. He swung his sabre left and rear instinctively to 'Bridle Arm Protect'. The Jhaut cut too soon, and the tulwar struck the sabre with only a few inches of blade; but his horse had more impulsion, and the tulwar carried down from the sabre onto Hervey's shoulder. He felt the blow, but the mail stopped the blade, and he was able to slice the back of the Jhaut's neck with Cut Two as the man overran.
Then his stallion stumbled a second time, the forelegs folding, and fell dead, throwing him hard to the ground, but clear. He heard a shot -Armstrong serving notice with his pistol at a hundred yards – and scrambled for the protection of his downed horse.
He searched the distance for his real quarry, and cursed: now Durjan Sal would make good his escape. Where was the cavalry cordon?
Armstrong and Wainwright were at last bearing down. One of the Jhauts had already made off, the two wounded had fallen from the saddle, and the fourth now threw down his tulwar. Corporal Wainwright, pulling up hard, undipped his carbine and began reloading calmly. Eight seconds – no more – and he raised it to the aim. The Jhaut was a hundred yards away, but the ball struck him square in the back and he fell dead before his horse could cover another ten. Hervey smiled grimly.
But it made no difference, Durjan Sal would give them the slip and-
'Why ay, sir, look at that!' called Armstrong suddenly, pointing. 'I thought those black buggers must be in their charpoys still. Why weren't they standing this side of the cover?'
Hervey all but gasped. He could even see who they were – the 8th Light Cavalry; the blue and the white of their Company uniforms could have been the Sixth's own. More and more of them appeared from the dhak, extending line so rapidly that it was impossible to evade them.
Durjan Sal saw it was thus, too. In a minute more the usurper of Bhurtpore, his most favoured wife and jewels, and his worst henchmen, would be prisoners.
Hervey wished he had his telescope to see the moment. Durjan Sal was as good as bagged, though – that was what mattered.
But Durjan Sal would not be put in a bag by brown faces from Calcutta! He was a Jhaut. He did not submit to effete Bengalis. He turned back and began trotting instead towards the King's men, sword held high in both hands as a gesture of submission.
Hervey took the reins of the loose horse which Armstrong now led up, sheathed his sabre and sprang into the saddle. He would receive Durjan Sal's sword with proper ceremony. But he could not trust him, even now – even with two hundred of the Company's best cavalry trotting up fast behind. Wainwright took post left and rear, his carbine cradled, loaded ready. Armstrong drew and sloped his sabre, taking post on the right. Durjan Sal, his tulwar now sheathed, and those of his followers, brought his horse to the walk and then to a halt in front of them. He bowed his head – not submissively, but in acknowledgement that he was beaten – drew his sword again and held it out in both palms. Wainwright brought his carbine to the port, lest the usurper have second thoughts. Armstrong took the tulwar – a fine, jewelled piece -and handed it to Hervey. The two dozen followers could wait for the Eighth to close.
Hervey looked Durjan Sal in the eye, searching for a clue. He saw only a mean-featured man, who could not hold a candle to those who had fought so senselessly for him on the maidan just now -and who were dying still, no doubt, in the citadel. He looked at his charger, a sleek Marwari stallion, blood about its mouth and flanks from its rider's hard hands and ruthless spurs. He would have this horse, in the old fashion. He would ride it, as victorious generals had their adversaries', and show the usurper what it was to defy the King's authority. He looked at the favourite wife, a beauty by more even than Jhaut measures. There was a time when she would have been his too, to submit like the charger to the victor's will. He had the urge to revive the custom now. He had the greatest urge to revive it.
'Take the lady Durjan Sal into protection, Serjeant-Major,' he said. 'Corporal Wainwright, have the prisoner ride another, and take possession of his mount!'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Three days later
D
espite the laurels that had daily come the regiment's way since the fall of the fortress, there was a distinct air of discouragement about the Sixth. The death of Sir Ivo Lankester had gone hard with all ranks. Not surprisingly though, for despite his absence of a year and more, and his return only very lately, there had been something about Sir Ivo that seemed to win the absolute trust of a subordinate. It was perhaps the same easy, patrician manner with which he went about his command – nothing in the least dilatory, yet breathing a calm assurance that said all would be well. Hervey thought him superior even to his brother, and Sir Edward Lankester had been a paragon. Sir Ivo, though he had come late to the regiment – direct to the lieutenant-colonelcy, indeed – had been an officer in the true Sixth mould nevertheless: he did not flog, he spent his money generously but unostentatiously, and he gave his time as unstintingly. He did not have to come to India in the first place. He was rich enough to have sold out and bought command of another regiment more agreeably posted, as many did. And he had died because he felt he had not shared enough of his regiment's perils.
And to all this was added a curious and entirely illogical sense of failure: the regiment had lost its commanding officer – by some dereliction it had brought about his death. Even Joynson, who of all men knew the circumstances of Sir Ivo's being in the trenches, could not escape the mood.
With Hervey discouragement was made worse by apprehensiveness. It was uncertain what the succession of command would be, and it seemed only yesterday, still, that the regiment was made unhappy by the imposition of an unworthy lieutenant-colonel. Combermere had been quick to give Joynson a brevet, but that would not do with the Horse Guards for long. But for now there was little business to be about but that of a garrison – and little enough of that, since the occupation was the business of the infantry.
'I wish that budgerow could have been but half a mile faster in the hour,' said Eyre Somervile, picking his way
