pockets, rather than do honest service according to their salt. They will live like the bandits they were before the Sirkar enlisted them in an evil hour, and when they have ravaged and raped their fill they will be off north to the frontier again. They have not even the stomach to be honest mutineers!' And he spat and stamped, raging.
'Never trust an Afridi,' says Tamwar philosophically. 'I knew Shadman was a badmash the day he joined. At least they have left us our horses.'
That was little consolation to me as we saddled up; with eleven hardy riders round me I'd felt fairly secure, but now that they were reduced to three — and only one of those really trustworthy — I fairly had the shakes again.
However, having come this far there was nothing for it but to push on; we weren't more than a day's ride from Cawnpore by my reckoning, and once we were behind Wheeler's lines we would be safe enough. My chief anxiety was that the closer we got, the more likely we would be to find mutineers in strength, and this was confirmed when, a few hours after sun-up, we heard, very faint in the distance, the dull thump of gunfire. We had stopped to water our beasts at a tank beside the road, which at that point was enclosed by fairly thick forest either side; Ilderim's head came up sharp at the sound.
'Cawnpore!' says he. 'Now what shall that shooting mean? Can Wheeler sahib be under siege? Surely -
Before I could reply there was a sudden drumming of hooves, and round a bend in the road not two hundred yards ahead came three horsemen, going like hell's delight; I barely had time to identify them as native cavalrymen of some sort, and therefore probably mutineers, when into view came their pursuers — and I let out a yell of delight, for out in the van was an undoubted white officer, with his sabre out and view-hallooing like a good 'un. At his heels came a motley gang of riders, but I hadn't time to examine them — I was crouched down at the roadside with my Colt out, drawing a bead on the foremost fugitive. I let blaze, and his horse gave a gigantic bound and crashed down, thrashing in the dust; his two companions swung off to take to the woods, but one of the mounts stumbled and threw its rider, and only the other won to the safety of the trees, with a group of the pursuers crashing after him.
The others pounced on the two who'd come to grief, while I ran towards them, yelling:
'Hurrah! Bravo, you fellows! It's me, Flashman! Don't shoot!'
I could see now that they were Sikh cavalry, mostly, although there were at least half a dozen white faces among them, staring at me as I came running up; suddenly one of dooce are you going about dressed as a nigger for?'
'You say you're Flashman?' says another — he was wearing a pith helmet and spectacles, and what looked like old cricket flannels tucked into his top-boots. 'Well, if you are an' I must say you don't look a bit like him — you ought to know me. Because Harry Flashman stood godfather to my boy at Lahore in '42 — what's my name, eh?'
I had to close my eyes and think — it had been on my triumphal progress south after the Jalallabad business. An Irish name — yes, by God, it was unforgettable.
'O'Toole!' says I. 'You did me the honour of having your youngster christened Flashman O'Toole — I trust he's well?'
'By God I did!' says he, staring. 'It must be him, Cheeseman! Here, where's Colonel Rowbotham?'
I confess I was curious myself — Rowbotham's Moss-troopers was a new one on me, and if their commander was anything like his followers he must be a remarkable chap. There was a great rumpus going on in the road behind the group who surrounded me, and I saw that one of the fugitives was being dragged up between two of the Sikhs, and thrown forward in the dust before one of the riders, who was leaning down from his saddle looking at the still form of the fellow whose horse I'd shot.
'Why, this one's dead!' he exclaimed, peevishly. 'Of all the confounded bad luck! Hold on to that other scoundrel, there! Here, Cheeseman, what have you got — is it some more of the villains?'
He rode over the dead man, glaring at me, and I don't think I've ever seen an angrier-looking man in my life. Everything about him was raging — his round red face, his tufty brindle eyebrows, his bristling sandy whiskers, even the way he clenched his crop, and when he spoke his harsh, squeaky voice seemed to shake with suppressed wrath. He was short and stout, and sat his pony like a hog on a hurdle; his pith helmet was wrapped in a long puggaree, and he wore a most peculiar loose cape, like an American poncho, clasped round with a snake-clasp belt. Altogether a most ridiculous sight, but there was nothing funny about the pale, staring eyes, or the way his mouth worked as he considered me.
'Who's this?' he barked, and when Cheeseman told him, and O'Toole, who had been eyeing me closely, said he believed I was Flashman after all, he growled suspiciously and demanded to know why I was skulking about dressed as a native, and where had I come from. So I told him, briefly, that I was a political, lately from Jhansi, where I and my three followers had escaped the massacre.
'What's that you say?' cries he. 'Massacre — at Jhansi?' And the others crowded their horses round, staring and exclaiming, while I reported what had happened to Skene and the rest — even as I told it, I was uncomfortably aware of something not quite canny in the way they listened: it was a shocking story enough, but there was an excitement about them, in the haggard faces and the bright eyes, as though they had some fever, that I couldn't account for. Usually, when Englishmen listen to a dreadful tale, they do it silently, at most with signs of disgust or disbelief, but this crowd stirred restlessly in their saddles, muttering and exclaiming, and when I'd finished the little chap burst into tears, gritting his teeth and shaking his crop.
'God in Heaven!' cries he. 'Will it never cease? How many innocents — twenty children, you say? And all the women? My God!' He rocked in his saddle, dashing the tears away, while his companions groaned and shook their fists — it was an astonishing sight, those dozen scarecrows who looked as though they'd fought a long campaign in fancy-dress costume, swearing and addressing heaven; it occurred to me that they weren't quite right in the head. Presently the little chap regained his composure, and turned to me.
'Your pardon, colonel,' says he, and if his voice was low it was shaking with emotion. 'This grievous news — this shocking intelligence — it makes me forget myself. Rowbotham, James Kane Rowbotham, at your service; these are my mosstroopers — my column of volunteer horse, sir, banded after the rebellion at Delhi, and myself commissioned by Governor Colvin at Agra.'
'Commissioned … by a civilian?' It sounded deuced odd, but then he and his gang looked odd. 'I gather, sir, that you ain't … er, Army?'
He flew up at that. 'We are soldiers, sir, as much as you! A month ago I was a doctor, at Delhi …' His mouth worked again, and his tongue seemed to be impeding his speech. 'My … my wife and son, sir … lost in the uprising … murdered. These gentlemen … volunteers, sir, from Agra and Delhi … merchants, lawyers, officials, people of all classes. Now we act as a mobile column, because there are no regular cavalry to be spared from the garrisons; we strive to keep the road open between Agra and Cawnpore, but since the mutineers are now before Cawnpore in force, we scour the country for news of their movements and fall on them when we can. Vermin!' He choked, glaring round, and his eye fell on the prisoner, prone in the dust with a Sikh keeping a foot on his neck. 'Yes!' cries he, 'we may not be soldiers, sir, in your eyes, but we have done some service in putting down this abomination! Oh, yes! You'll see — you'll see for yourself! Cheeseman! How many have we now?'
'Seven, sir, counting this one.' Cheeseman nodded at the prisoner. 'Here comes Fields with the others now.'
What I took to be the rest of Rowbotham's remarkable regiment was approaching down the road at a brisk trot, a dozen Sikhs and two Englishmen in the same kind of outlandish rig as the others. Running or staggering behind, their wrists tied to the Sikhs' stirrup-leathers, were half a dozen niggers in the last stages of exhaustion; three or four of them were plainly native infantry-men, from their coats and breeches.
'Bring them up here!' cries Rowbotham violently, and when they had been untied and ranged in a straggled line in front of him, he pointed to the trees behind them. 'Those will do excellently — get the ropes, Cheeseman! Untie their hands, and put them under the branches.' He was bouncing about in his saddle in excitement, and there were little flecks of spittle among the stubble of his chin. 'You'll see, sir,' says he to me. 'You'll see how we deal with these filthy butchers of women and children! It has been our custom to hang them in groups of thirteen, as an appropriate warning — but this news of Jhansi which you bring — this new horror — makes it necessary … makes it necessary …' He broke off incoherently, twisting the reins in his hands. 'We must make an immediate example, sir! This cancer of mutiny … what? Let these serve as a sacrifice to those dead innocent spirits so cruelly released at Jhansi!'
He wasn't mad, I'd decided; he was just an ordinary little man suddenly at war. I've seen it scores of times.
