полная версияПолная версия
A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport
Ma Mie laughed. "Yes," she said. "And see, I will add five hundred rupees to the government reward if you have him this time." She turned and was gone.
"Light of my eyes! thou art gone," said Serferez to himself. "Fool that I was not to recognise her! But, Allah! this is no time for words. Bullen! Bullen! thief from the Boab, saddle me the roan mare-and listen, on your head! Bear this telegram, and let it be despatched at once. I want the police steamer at Myo to-night; and you, sergeant, be ready with twenty picked men at the quay to-morrow morning at seven. Soh! Is the mare ready? On your heads, see that my orders are carried out to the letter." He swung himself into the saddle, and five minutes later was Debte riding at a breakneck pace to Jackson's camp.
CHAPTER XIV
PALLIDA MORS
Ah! woe is me! They brought him home,My winsome knight of Dee:On lances four my knight they bore,Who died for love and me.Old Ballad.Three men ride through the shivering moonlight-ride with teeth set hard and eyes that looked straight before them. Neck and neck they race across the open, and then the man on the left mutters a curse as they come to a stretch of rice fields. The long rice stalks seem planted in plate glass, but it is only water. Under the water lies three feet of mud, and beyond, like a huge dismasted hulk, rises the solid outline of the forest. The fields are divided by narrow embankments, and, as it is impossible to gallop through the quagmire, they resign themselves to circumstances, and pick their way slowly in Indian file across the narrow ridges that separate the sloppy water-logged fields. Yet they speak no word. After a time, short in itself, but which seems endless to the leader, they reached the end of the rice ground, and then the foremost horseman spoke.
"Good God! must we crawl through this as well?"
"By your favour, sahib, the road is to the right. Let me lead."
There is a scatter of dead leaves, and Serferez, galloping forward, plunged into the dark archway of foliage. Through its deep gloom they race, and the hoofs of the horses fall with a dead sound on the damp bed of leaves below them.
Shurr-r-r-sh! A sound of wild boar plunges into the thickets, with much grunting and hubbub over the strange sight that flashes past them. The old boar peers after the horsemen with his bloodshot eyes, the white foam hissing round his tushes, then with a peculiar long-drawn moan of anger he turns and shambles slowly after his tribe.
Light at last! – the fires of a native hamlet and the indescribable odours that always hang around it. They dash past. There is a yell of rage from the napless yellow pariah dog, roused from his sleep in the middle of the road. He was nearly killed, and he protests vigorously against such reckless riding. A chorus of his fellows take up his complaint, and the riders push on amid a storm of howls.
"Don't think this beast will hold out," said Phipson suddenly. The horse was almost staggering in its stride under him, and he knew by the ominous way in which the poor animal seized the bit between his teeth at intervals and flung forward his head that it could not keep up the pace for long.
No one answered, for at that time the loud, deep whistle of a steamer reached their ears, ringing through the woods with echo upon echo.
"Allah ho Akbar! 'Tis the steamer!" shouted Serferez.
"Thank God!" came in deeper tones from the very hearts of the two Englishmen. The horses themselves seemed to know it. Brave hearts! They had won a race for life, and ten minutes later kind hands were rubbing them down on the deck of the little Beeloo, and the old Panjabi was purring over the neck of his roan.
"There is none like thee in the land, my pearl," he said softly as he stroked her silver mane-"there is none like thee in the land. By the Prophet's head, I swear that for this night's work I will never forget thee-never!"
"What's the time, Phipson?"
"Two thirty," said Phipson, holding his watch out to the broad moonlight. "We reach Pazobin at seven to-morrow, pick up the men, and go straight on."
Peregrine made no answer, but his white face as it shone out of the moonlight almost scared Phipson, so fixed and rigid was its look.
"I say, Jackson!"
"What is it?"
"That was a devil of a ride. Think I'll turn in and take a nap, and you'd better do the same." This was the policeman's way of telling his friend he looked worn to death.
"No, thanks, Phipson, I can't sleep; I must see this thing through."
Phipson stretched himself out in a long cane chair and watched his friend as he paced slowly up and down the small quarterdeck. "He must be devilish keen," he murmured to himself, "or devilish hard hit."
And then all the starlight seemed to dim, and he was asleep. In the white mists of the morning they reached Pazobin, and, taking on board their men, started on at once. Phipson had persuaded Peregrine to rest. "Look here," he said, "this is all Tommy rot! You've got to rest. Have some grub first, throw away that infernal cheroot, and go and lie down. You've fighting to do this evening, and will want your head and your nerves in first-rate order."
There was no gainsaying this, and after lunch Jackson fell into a deep sleep. He was aroused by a scrunching noise, and woke with a start.
"What's the matter?"
"The matter is that it's half-past six, and that damned idiot of a serang has stuck us fast into a sandbank, and we can only get off with the next tide. There's only one thing to be done. Get the boats from Thomadine village and row for it."
Thomadine village was half a mile below, but a small boat had raced them as far as the scene of the disaster. Matters were rapidly explained to the occupants of the boat, the explanation was made clear by the line of shining barrels that was pointed toward them, and they pulled up alongside the Beeloo. Some of the crew were temporarily transferred to the steamer, three or four policemen took their places, and the long canoe danced back to the village. It was fully an hour before it returned, bringing with it two other canoes, and, leaving the police tug with strict orders to come on with the next tide, Jackson and his men embarked in the boats, and, hugging the bank, rowed for their lives. It was no time for words, no time for anything but to strain every muscle to reach their goal. Suddenly a broad sheet of flame lit the sky, and the reports of half a dozen matchlocks rang out in quick succession; then came the short, sharp crack of a Winchester, then another and another.
"By God, they've begun!" shouted Phipson. "Row on, you devils!"
"There's a short cut by the creek, sahib!" called out Serferez, and the snake head of the leading boat, steered by Jackson, turned promptly round, and with a little white sparkle of foam fizzing over her bows she shot into the creek, followed in quick succession by her fellows.
The sky was one sheet of light, for the village had been fired in several places, and the houses blazed up like touchwood. Long forks of flame from the mission school sprang up to the sky, and a dense cloud of smoke rolled westward with the breeze. Still the Winchester kept speaking, and every shot gave the rescue party hope, for they knew that Smalley was selling his life dearly.
"We divide here into two parties," said Phipson as they landed. "You, inspector, take six men with you, and make for the boats. We will drive on to you. By God," he added, pulling his revolver out, "I rather think we're only just in time!"
Serferez needed no second bidding, but was already off, and Jackson and his companion marched rapidly forward.
"We'll give them a volley from here," said Phipson as they reached the skirts of the clearing round the little mission school, about which the firing was concentrated. "By Jove! they're going to batter down the door. Steady, men! Fire!" The crackling of the volley was followed by a cheer, and in a moment the police had rushed forward and were engaged hand to hand with the dacoits. Some one sprang straight at Jackson, but his hand seemed to lift itself up of its own accord, and a second after a huddled mass lay before the smoking barrel of his revolver. The issue was not one moment in doubt, and in a few seconds the dacoits were heading straight for their boats. Here they were intercepted by Serferez and his party, who gave them a warm reception. Three or four of the dacoits, however, among whom was the Boh, secured a boat and rowed off for their lives.
"Follow them!" shouted Jackson, springing into the snake boat; "not a man must escape!" Phipson and a few others took another boat, and there was a hot pursuit. The dacoits realized, however, that it was no use, and, evidently resolving to die fighting, ran their boat ashore on a small island near the middle of the river and took to the thickets, from which they began a smart fire.
"Go behind, and take them on the rear," called out Jackson to his companion. Almost as the words were spoken Phipson's boat turned to the left and was round the head of the little island.
"Sit down, sahib; don't stand up-we are quite close to them now," said the naick of police, who was in Jackson's boat. Peregrine laughed, and the next moment the naick uttered a cry of horror, for a red tongue of flame shot out of the covert, and Jackson, flinging his hands up, fell forward on his face with a gasping sob.
With a yell of rage the police grounded their boat and rushed into the jungle. There was but half an acre of ground, and Bullen, son of Bishen, Sikh from the Doab, had gone Berseker.
As the men landed the dacoits made for the opposite side of the little island, but to their dismay found Phipson there. With a curse Bah Hmoay darted back into the cover, followed in hot haste by Phipson. And here in the uncertain light, where the jungle was so tangled that there was barely room to use a sword, there was a short but desperate fight. "Come on, Jackson, we have the lot here! Where on earth are you?" shouted Phipson as his revolver barked out like a snapping pup, and one of the dacoits fell dead, and another, staggering backward, was finished by a policeman with his dah. "Where are you, Jackson?" called out Phipson again.
"Jackson is in hell-where you will follow him!" and the Boh sprang at Phipson like a panther. A projecting branch saved him from the downward sweep of the long dah, the revolver snapped out again, and the next moment they had grappled each other by the throat.
"I'm afraid it's no use, Bah Hmoay," said Phipson as he shook off his assailant like a rat, and, throwing him heavily, placed the barrel of his revolver against his temple.
Click! click! The handcuffs were on him like a flash of lightning, and the Boh was surrounded by a group of men.
"This is Bah Hmoay himself," said one of the policemen as he held a rudely improvised torch at the face of the captive.
"There isn't another of them alive on the island," said Bishen. "Two were killed by your honour, two I have accounted for, and this is the last."
"Where is the sahib?"
"He awaits you in the boat," said Bishen, and a chill went through Phipson's heart.
"Why-what is the matter? Speak, can't you?"
"The doctor sahib will tell. Some one from the island fired, and the sahib, he was standing, fell back in the boat; but the doctor sahib's knowledge is great. He will live."
Bah Hmoay was subjected to the indignity of being frog-marched to the boat. He was flung in without much ceremony, and a loaded carbine held at his head. When Phipson reached his friend he found him unconscious, and sadly the two boats rowed back to the village. As they approached Phipson saw by the still burning town the tall figure of Serferez Ali talking to Smalley, and close by the white fluttering of a woman's dress.
"By God!" he groaned, "I don't think it was worth it, even for this. Jackson, old man, can't you speak?"
But there was no answer, and almost at this moment they reached the landing place. A cheer went up from those on shore, and Smalley came forward with outstretched hand. "I can't thank you enough. Come, let my wife thank you, too. Where is Jackson?"
Phipson shook hands with them both.
"Where is Mr. Jackson?" asked Ruys.
There was no help for it but to speak out at once before her. As the words left Phipson's lips Smalley was beside the boat, and they tenderly lifted out the wounded man and placed him on an improvised couch of greatcoats. They stood round him in a sad group while Smalley with gentle hands examined the wound, and the silence was only once broken when a great sob burst from honest Serferez Ali, and the old man turned away with his head hanging down. Ruys held a lantern for her husband, and Phipson noticed that there was not a quiver in her hand, although her lips were blue.
After a time Smalley rose to his feet and shook his head. "He can not even be moved from here," he whispered, "and all my appliances are under that blazing roof. God works very hardly sometimes." The dying man moaned feebly, and Ruys was on her knees beside him.
"What is it? Can't you speak? Oh, husband, can not you save him?"
"God knows that I would!" said Habakkuk sadly, and then his wife bent low to hide the tears that fell fast down her cheeks.
That strange power of hearing, that supreme strength which comes to persons at the last, came to Peregrine now.
"Die!" he said; "who says I am going to die? I am young yet; my work is not done. Mother," he cried, "I am coming!"
Ruys bent down and kissed the hot forehead softly. There was a shivering of the limbs, and the strong young spirit had passed.
CHAPTER XV
THE PASSING OF THE WOON
Pick up the threads, the web is spun;For weal or woe, the task is done.Maraffa."Good-bye, Phipson. We can never forget what we owe you-you and the poor boy who lies there. Come to us when you can. We will give you a warm welcome. It's a big country, and there's room for a young man with hands and feet. Good-bye again!"
Habakkuk shook hands cordially with Phipson, and passed up the gangway of the Woon to join his wife, who had already said farewell. The siren whistle screamed shrilly, and with much laughter and good-humoured hustling the crowd on board left the decks, the paddles drummed, and the Woon sidled back from the quay, and then, turning gracefully round, steamed down the river, followed by a multitude of boats whose gaily dressed occupants formed bright groups of gorgeous colour on the gleaming water. Phipson stood and watched, and answered the wave of the white handkerchief from the stern; stood and watched until the convoy of boats became but little black specks, and the Woon entered a curve of golden water that reflected back the glories of the sunset and was lost to view. In the fore part of the ship, beside his belongings, sat Serferez Ali, who had cut his name, and was going back to enjoy his well-earned pension in his home in the Salt Range of the Punjab. He was rich with this and the rewards he had gained, and if at times he had done things which our civilization does not approve of, that did not the less make him a gallant old specimen of his class. Occasionally he would rise, and, walking to the inclosed space reserved for horses, caress the soft muzzle of his roan, a round, black muzzle that thrust itself confidingly forward toward him.
"We are going back, Motee, my heart-going back out of this accursed land of swamps. Didst thou think, thou of the Waziri, that I would leave thee to die here? Nay, nay! We are going back to the land where women bring forth men. But we saw the assassin hang before we went-hang-like the dog he was; and Bullen, son of Bishen, thy old comrade, brave, but a fool, is now inspector in my place. But comfort thee, my pearl, we are going home!"
The mare whinnied back to her master, and the old man sought his seat again, keeping one eye on a heavy brass-bound box and the other on his favourite.
At intervals he watched the broad fan of the electric light throw its white radiance across the river, and murmured to himself as he inhaled the grateful fumes of the hubble-bubble:
"Prophet of God! But these English are a wonderful race! Nevertheless, except for their cursed engines, the khalsa would still have been. Ahi! those were the battles of giants!"
On the quarter deck Ruys, very pale and white, leaned back in a lounge chair, and Habakkuk stood beside her with a new light in his eyes. They watched the thin scimitar of the new moon gleam out of the sky, and the gray mists creep up the river and enfold the dim and now distant outlines of the forest. They were leaving the country, leaving the East for good. One felt that to other and stronger hands must be left the work so well begun by him; and as for the other, she had gone through the furnace and had come out pure gold. From his post by the man at the wheel Skipper Jack watched the pair. He was a man whom the ordinary cares of the world troubled not, but on the present occasion serious misfortune had assailed him, and he was out of temper. His tobacco had run out, and he had sunk to the degradation of filling his pipe with the half-burned stump of a cheroot. Skipper Jack stood, therefore, hard by the man at the wheel, and, while his keen eyes evermore watched the ship's course, his tongue murmured strange oaths under his beard. But what was that, seen through the gloom, that crinkled up the gnarled features of the skipper into a sour smile of amusement? He saw it again, and in his astonishment almost dropped his favourite clay.
"Bust me foolish!" he muttered to himself. "Blowed if the parson ain't a-spooning the missis! Gr-r-r! the old pipe is out!"
THE WIDOW LAMPORT
CHAPTER I
AT THE DOOR OF THE TABERNACLE
When Mrs. Lamport, the pretty widow, was observed standing outside the door of the Methodist meeting-house in Rigaum one Sabbath morning after service, the congregation began to wonder and cast little inquiring looks at each other.
They were serious folk, and it was clear to them that the proper course to pursue, after attending divine worship, was to make one's way soberly home, looking neither to the right nor to the left, lest the enemy of mankind should seize his opportunity to the ruin of a soul. Her presence excited curiosity the more as none of the worshippers had seen her in church that day. This absence disappointed the womankind, who were wont to take surreptitious notes of Halsa Lamport's dress, between their fingers, as they knelt apparently absorbed in prayer. Mrs. Lamport stood on the steps of the chapel entrance, leaning lightly on the end of her parasol, a neat figure dressed in white, with a coquettish knot of red ribbons in her high straw hat. The flash of these ribbons in the sunlight caught the eye of Elder Bullin as he stepped forth, smug and clean shaven, his two daughters following demurely in his footsteps. A scowl passed over the old man's features, and he muttered something under his breath about Rahab and the city wall. As the people filed out of church they stared at Mrs. Lamport. Most of the young men lifted their hats, but the greater portion of the women pursed up their lips and sniffed at the figure before them. There were two crimson spots on the widow's cheeks now; she had a temper, and it was evident that it was being put to trial. She rattled the plated end of her parasol on the stone steps, and made an impatient movement.
Let it be at once understood that, as far as the good people of the Rigaum tabernacle knew, there was no record against Mrs. Lamport, except the fact that she was a pure European, and they, for the most part, were of mixed descent. She had come suddenly into their midst about a year ago, and all that they knew of her was that she boarded with the Bunnys, and was supposed to be a distant connection of theirs. Her living with the Bunnys ensured her toleration, for Mr. Bunny was the registrar of a government office, and not a man to be offended with impunity.
Nevertheless the word was passed that friendly relations with the pretty widow were not to be cultivated. It was not to be denied that she was diligent in her attendance at chapel, that no word of hers had given offence-yet the women took alarm, the husbands yielded to their wives, and Mr. Bunny's influence alone preserved an armed neutrality.
As Mr. Bunny and his wife came out of church they stopped and looked inquiringly at the widow, for she had pleaded a headache as an excuse for not attending service with them.
"Come to meet us?" asked Mrs. Bunny with a smile.
"No," was the reply; "I have come to meet Mr. Galbraith."
Almost as the words were spoken the pastor appeared, and after a few moments' conversation he and Mrs. Lamport moved off slowly together, under the shadow of the palm trees, in the direction of Mr. Bunny's house. Mrs. Bunny discreetly induced her husband to take a longer road, and as for those of the congregation who overheard the words spoken, they remained almost struck dumb with astonishment. Mr. Sarkies, however, a semi-Armenian, and a member of the congregation, who was himself looked upon with suspicion as not having yet found Christ, made a little mistake at this moment.
"Well, I'm damned!" said he to himself as he struck his gray pantaloons with a thin cane smartly and looked after the retreating pair. Sarkies prided himself somewhat on being a lady-killer, and it had been his intention, as soon as he had straightened his collar sufficiently, to give the widow the pleasure of his company home.
It was unfortunate for him, however, that the bad word caught Elder Bullin's ear. The old man had stopped for a moment, much against his will, to reply to a remark made by a friend. He was about to rebuke the speaker for having his thoughts on earthly matters on the Lord's Day when the oath, softly spoken though it was, reached him. He turned sharply. "Young man," said he, "swear not at all. Behold!" he added, pointing with his stick at the shrinking figure before him, "here is one whose paths are in the Valley of Sin, and whose ways lead him to hell fire."
"Oh, paw!" exclaimed his eldest daughter deprecatingly.
"I-I beg pardon, Mr. Bullin," stammered Sarkies; "it slipped out."
"Never you come to my house again," continued the elder. "I will bring your scandalous conduct before the next meeting."
Sarkies tried vainly to smile and carry it off with a high hand, but the elder's words attracted a crowd, and their united attention was too much for him. He made an effort, however, to retreat with dignity.
"I don't want-come to y'r'ouse," he said with a sickly smile as he pushed his hat slightly on one side of his head and moved off with an air of apparent unconcern.
At this junction Miss Bullin burst into tears.
"Shame! shame! Lizzie!" exclaimed her sister Laura; but Lizzie was not to be appeased. She wore her heart upon her sleeve, after the manner of some women.
"Oh, my Jimmy!" she cried, and the elder was moved to uncontrollable wrath.
"G'home at once," he shouted, "or I'll Jimmy you-Jimmy, indeed. G'home, you-"
He checked himself, and followed his trembling daughters to his brownberry, for he was a "carriage man."
This unexpected scene withdrew all attention from the widow and her companion, and when, the principal actors in it had gone, all thought of Halsa Lamport, for the present, vanished from the minds of the church-goers, whose ways home were full of prophecies on the consequences of Mr. Sarkies's folly.
CHAPTER II
A CUP OF TEA
The Rigaum Methodist Tabernacle was in a suburb of Bombay called by that name. It was a small oblong building, washed a pale blue, and embedded in a nest of cocoa palms. To the right a Jain temple raised its gold-tipped cupola, and the chimes of the bell which called together the Christian worshippers of the chapel were often drowned in the discordant shriek of the conch horn, the shrill blast of trumpets, and the incessant beating of drums.
