Jones of the 64th: A Tale of the Battles of Assaye and Laswaree

"I do not greatly fear trouble," he said shortly, so that they alone could hear. "But these fellows may wish to take us prisoners. In that case you will charge, and divide when you are through them. Then you will return and repeat the charge. It would never do to flee, for we should all be cut down for a certainty."

For five minutes the two bodies faced one another, Owen's troopers staring back at the Mahrattas with a calmness which was wonderful. And as they looked they edged their horses into line and selected a likely place for their charge.

To Owen the minutes went like hours, for he had a mission to carry out, and to come to blows with Holkar's men thus early was hardly conducting his task in a successful manner. To oppose these men was madness, and yet if he submitted to be taken a prisoner into Indore he knew very well that he would in all probability be thrown into a cell and there left, without opportunity of seeing Holkar. His hand went to his sabre, and he drew it, resting the blade against his shoulder. And while he and his men made their preparations, the native officer consulted with some of his men. Noisy shouts broke from their midst, and weapons were flourished. However, the threat of retaliation to which Owen had given vent evidently had its effect, for presently the officer advanced and called to our hero.

"Holkar shall decide," he said haughtily. "We might eat you up here, but there may be information to be obtained. We will escort you into the city."

"To the palace?" demanded Owen.

"To the palace. There you shall be seen by His Highness."

A few minutes later the whole cavalcade was in motion, Owen and his men riding in a compact body, while the Mahratta horse, still divided, marched in front and in rear, completely enclosing them. And in this order they came to the city of Indore, the capital of Holkar, and passed through the streets to the palace. Arrived there, Owen and his men dismounted in the courtyard.

"I like not the arrangement, sahib," whispered Mulha. "They have us in the hollow of their hands, for how can we escape from this city? See the guards which they have set."

"We are virtually prisoners, but I have no fears for the future, Mulha. This fellow, Holkar, must respect the General's messenger and the escort sent with him. I know he has none too good a name, but then he would hardly dare to offer violence to us. In any case, we are here, and can take no more precautions than we have done. But keep a careful watch and be alert, whatever happens."

A moment or two later the officer who had escorted Owen into the city emerged from the palace with a gleam of malice on his face, and beckoned to him.

"Follow me," he said curtly. "His Highness will see you. Take care that you salaam to him."

"And see that you look to your own affairs, my friend," answered Owen. "Now lead the way."

They traversed a number of passages and sumptuous apartments, and finally came to one which was gorgeously decorated. And here, surrounded by servants, pillowed in the lap of luxury, and reclining upon a divan, was Holkar, showing upon his scarred and seamed face the effects of the changing fortunes which had been his. He had but one eye, but that served him to some purpose, for he fixed it upon his visitor and gave him the benefit of a piercing gaze. Owen bowed, and at once handed the despatch he had brought.

"From His Excellency General Wellesley, in command of the army in the field," he said. "He begs me to give you his greetings, and to convey to you this despatch."

Holkar acknowledged his bow coldly, and then tore open the despatch, which was written in Mahratti. Owen saw him give a violent start of surprise as he read of the victory of Assaye. He looked up sharply, pondered for a minute, and then smiled scornfully.

"This great victory your general writes of," he said at length, when the despatch was ended, "these were Scindia's troops who were beaten, cowards whom I have swept from before my path on many an occasion. Had they been the men whom I command there would have been a different tale. What does your general desire? Why does he trouble me by sending an envoy?"

Owen noted his haughty tones, and felt even more apprehension. But he had had very complete instructions, and he endeavoured to carry them out, showing that the victory had been indeed a very real one, and that General Wellesley was anxious to assure a friendship with Holkar. It was a case for diplomacy, and Owen did his utmost. But though this powerful chieftain answered politely, his tones were of the haughtiest, and as Owen withdrew he felt sure that the friendship then existing between Holkar and the British was but a thing of straw, and that this chieftain only awaited a favourable day for breaking it. A few minutes later he was equally certain of another matter. As he came to the door of the palace Mulha met him, with consternation written on his face.

"It is as I said, sahib," he cried. "No sooner had you passed in when a force of foot-soldiers marched into this square, and when they parted there were guns fully loaded and trained on the troopers. They were forced to dismount, their horses were led away, and they themselves were disarmed and marched out of the courtyard by the soldiers."

Owen was flabbergasted. He had hardly expected such high-handed action, though every minute had increased his anxiety as to the safety of his little command. He swung round without a word, with the intention of forcing his way to Holkar's presence. But as he did so some thirty soldiers issued from a door close at hand and rushed at him. Resistance was useless, and folding his arms he allowed the men to take him. Ten minutes later he was thrust into a cell high up in one of the wings of the palace, and heard the bolts shot to after him. He was a prisoner. Holkar, the treacherous and cruel chieftain, had him in his power, and with an involuntary shudder our hero realised the gravity of his position.

CHAPTER XVI

A Dangerous Frenchman

"One hundred and forty steps up," thought Owen, as the door banged to after him, and he listened to the grating of the bolts, and then to the steps of the men who had conducted him to his prison now growing faint in the distance. He could hear the shuffle of Eastern sandals as they slid down the stone stairs, the metallic ring of a tulwar striking the wall, and then silence – silence save for the medley of sound, dulled by distance, coming to him from the outside world.

"Four stone walls and a flat ceiling," he said as he surveyed the apartment. "I fancy I must be in the highest apartment in one of the flanking towers. Then the roof is just overhead, and if – "

He broke off suddenly and stamped his foot with vexation.

"What use is it to think of the roof!" he exclaimed angrily. "It is altogether out of my reach, and the ground below as well. The door is the only means of exit."

But he was not the lad to give up hope without proper investigation, and for an hour he busied himself with inspecting every corner of his prison. He went to the window, which was at a convenient level, and craned his head through it, for it was unglazed, and wide enough to admit a man of far larger proportions than his. Below, at a distance which made him feel dizzy, was the courtyard, and outside that the street, buzzing with Eastern life. He watched the thousands of the city of Indore passing, and noted the martial appearance of almost all. There were the usual artisans, the pedlars, the bullock-drivers with their quaint carts, and the bheesties. But amongst them all, passing to and fro with an arrogant swagger which matched their fine appearance well, were hundreds of foot and horse soldiers, armed to the teeth, fierce-looking and pugnacious.

"Holkar is evidently well prepared for a war with any one," thought Owen. "There are his guns, too, and a fine collection he has. If we come to blows with him we shall have to be very wary, for they say that he has even better-trained troops than Scindia has. I heard that he had one or more Englishmen in his employ, and there are certainly Frenchmen. Well, it's no good breaking my neck with craning it out of this window, for escape is out of the question either way, to the roof above or to the ground beneath. But I am armed, and if the worst comes I could throw myself upon the jailer. We'll see. Perhaps Holkar will repent of his action, for surely it is scandalous."

There could be no doubt of that fact, and yet the history of the Mahrattas shows that on more than one occasion the powerful chieftains did not hesitate to stoop to the most odious acts of treachery. And Holkar's name figured in those acts prominently. As he sat on his divan below, his single eye passing from one to another of his servitors and causing them to cringe, his best and most enthusiastic friend could not but admit that this powerful Mahratta chieftain looked capable of any villainy.

"This victory," he said, turning to a man beside him, by colour a European, but dressed as a Mahratta, "do you think that the details are true? Or has the tale been sent to us by this youth to induce us to hold our hands? I would that I knew, for if in truth this general, known as Wellesley, has conquered Scindia with but a handful, what would be our fortune were we to commence a war with the English?"

He fixed the white man with his eye and waited eagerly for his answer.

"Come, Colonel Sahib," he said. "You who love not the English, but who have every interest in my affairs and prosperity, what prospect have I if I go to war? You know my wishes. I would sweep these arrogant whites from the land, and then – "

"Scindia and his power would be crushed to the very earth, my lord," was the answer, given in Mahratti, but with an accent which was undoubtedly French. "Why believe all that one hears, and particularly of these British? This Scindia, what is he compared with you?"

The French colonel in the employ of Holkar swung round with flashing eye and stared at his chieftain. "He is but as the wolf compared with the tiger. Time and again he has conciliated you when trouble between you threatened, and we know – he knows that your troops could eat him and his up without trouble. He is defeated by a handful. What of that? His men fled, so we are told, ere the bayonets had crossed. Would that be the case with our troops? They would hold their ground, for they pride themselves upon being invincible. Ask this white officer more questions as to the battle. He will tell you that Scindia's men ran like sheep."

He finished with a scornful toss of his head, and it was abundantly clear that he had the utmost faith in the men under the command of Holkar, and more than that, that his aim was to bring about hostilities with the British.

"Send for this youth again," he cried, "and we will gather all the facts; and remember this, my lord – for the man who dares much there is much reward. Holkar is now a powerful chieftain, and the Peishwa and Scindia tremble when his name is breathed. But what if Holkar conquered the white invaders?"

Holkar's one eye gleamed with enthusiasm, while his hand went involuntarily to his tulwar.

"There indeed would be power," he exclaimed. "It shall be. I will not be frightened by this despatch, by the tales brought by a boy, and by a victory won after an action which was never severely contested. Send for this prisoner. I will interrogate him, and then he shall go."

"Go! My lord, think what cause there is here for war. Keep him. Hang him if you will, and then throw yourself upon the British. They are scattered at this moment, while their hands are full to overflowing. Now is the time to strike. Send your troops against them while they are divided, and annihilate each one of the scattered divisions. Strike now, and let this youth be the cause of war."

The Frenchman's eyes blazed with excitement, while he rose from the seat he had been occupying and stalked up and down in front of his chief. And there was no denying that this officer was as fine a specimen of humanity as one could well meet with. Tall, and handsome to a certain degree, he bore himself proudly. His moustaches bristled, while his whole mien betokened the utmost confidence in himself and in the wisdom of the course he advocated. True, there was a certain air of treachery about the man, and despite his fine appearance he was hardly the one to attract the confidence or friendship of a stranger. One would have thought him cruel and unscrupulous perhaps, and certainly the advice he had just given led one to believe that he was.

"Send for this white officer," he said. "Let me see him and question him. Then deal with him in the manner I have advised."

Holkar clapped his hands, and having attracted the attention of one of his native officers, ordered him to send for the prisoner. That done, he continued to converse with the French colonel in confidential whispers. There was not the smallest doubt this white officer had the command of the troops under the Mahratta chieftain and was a power in the land. Also he was deeply antagonistic to the British, for the simple reason that he was a Frenchman, and perhaps for some other reason. For those who knew him could tell the tale that the name of an Englishman was hateful to this white officer, and that whenever he mentioned those of that nationality his lip curled, while his teeth showed as if he were about to snarl. Indeed, there were some who said that Colonel Le Pourton had some particular cause for hatred – a cause which he kept very closely to himself.

Ten minutes later Owen was ushered into the room.

"A bold dog," said the Colonel, beneath his breath, as our hero entered, his head in air and a look of indignation on his face. "He must have known the danger of coming to the capital of Holkar, and yet he means now to beard the chieftain. Truly these British are impossible!"

A moment later, as he obtained a full view of Owen's face, he started and changed colour.

"Mon dieu! How like!" he exclaimed, while his colour went and he became deathly pale. "If it could be – "

"Who are you? Your name?" he demanded fiercely in Mahratti.

"Owen Jones, Cornet in His Majesty's 7th native cavalry. And you?"

The Colonel gave a gasp of relief.

"How like to him!" he murmured again. "If it were not for the name I could have thought that it was his son. Pshaw! How could it be? He is lost. Lost for ever!"

He ground his teeth and snarled at Owen, who returned his glances boldly and advanced to within a couple of yards of the Mahratta chieftain, his eyes blazing, ready to denounce him for his act of treachery. For, though young as yet, Owen had learned many things since he joined the army. And one was that humility before a chieftain of Holkar's class was not profitable. Underneath all the arrogance of these native princes there lurked a wholesome dread of the British, and Owen knew that mild remonstrance would be of little service to him. He must let this chieftain know that his act would not go unpunished, and that if he continued his violence all his troops would be insufficient to protect him. He was in the very act of launching forth when Colonel Le Pourton again interrupted him.

"You say that you are Cornet Owen Jones," he said in breathless and excited tones. "Tell us where you come from in England. Speak, and let it be the truth."

"The truth!" Owen swung round upon him, his face flushing. "Please remember that an Englishman boasts that he always tells the truth. Who are you who ask these questions?"

For a moment the Colonel was staggered by his boldness, while the single eye of Holkar flashed ominously and he was in the act of speaking when the Colonel held up his hand to arrest the words.

"My lord," he said, "let me deal with this youth. I have grave cause to ask these questions, for years ago – but that is a story which could not interest you. My name? Colonel Le Pourton, in command of some portion of Holkar's forces. Your answer."

Owen thought for a moment before replying. There was something about this Frenchman which repelled him, while the sneer on his face when he spoke told at once that here was a man who was hardly likely to befriend him. What object could he have in asking this question?

"From Winchester," he said at length. "That is my native city."

"And you were born there? Your parents lived there?"

The Frenchman sprang to his feet and strode up and down again in extraordinary excitement while he waited breathlessly for the answer. As for Owen, he was amazed at the questions and hardly knew whether to reply or not. He could see no reason for not gratifying what would seem to be idle curiosity on the part of this white officer, and yet there was something forbidding about the Frenchman, something which warned him to hold his tongue. If only he had known how eagerly the Colonel awaited his information! If only he could have guessed what that information would lead to!

"Ah well, I don't see why he should not know," he said to himself. "Unless – "

Suddenly the thought came to him that this man might in some extraordinary manner be connected with his earlier history – might even have known his parents. Like a flash the idea swept across his mind, and with it the determination to tell all that he knew.

"I was not born in Winchester," he answered. "I believe I was born in India, and sailed for England when I was some four or five years of age. After that I can only say that it would appear as if I had been stolen and then deserted. I was brought up at the poorhouse, and finally entered the army, when – "

He came to a sudden stop, for Colonel Le Pourton had collapsed into his seat, where he lay rather than sat, a huddled heap, his face the colour of crimson, his eyes bloodshot and staring, and his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was evidently ill, and at the sight Owen looked at him in amazement, while Holkar leaped to his feet with an oath. A minute later, however, the Colonel recovered and sat upright, his baneful eyes fixed on our hero.

"Let us talk with him another time, my lord," he said feebly. "Take him away. See that he is secured. Put chains upon him if necessary. Warn the jailer that he will be executed if this officer contrives to escape. Do you hear? Take him away!"

His voice rose as he went on till it became almost a scream, while he pointed a finger at Owen. His eyes flashed and blazed like those of a maniac, he frothed at the mouth, while the lips and moustaches curled back from the teeth in a hideous snarl, which was more than disconcerting. Owen recoiled from the man and backed into the centre of the room, while his hand went to the hilt of his sabre. Then the guard which had escorted him to the presence of the Mahratta chief surrounded him and hastened him away into the corridor, up the endless flight of steps, and then into the large bare cell again. There was a crash as the door swung to, the rasping of bolts and rusty bars, and the slither of departing sandals, the slip, slip, slip of men descending the stairs, the metallic clink of a striking weapon, now so wonderfully familiar, for such small sounds seize upon the attention of a prisoner, and then silence again – silence and the busy hum of the Oriental city, the call of the bullock-drovers, the cry of the mendicant, and the sharp, arrogant shout of the soldiers to clear a passage for them.

"The man is mad! He must be! What on earth can my history be to him – to a Frenchman out here in India!"

Owen passed his fingers through his hair and then mopped his forehead, for the scene which had just passed was amazing. It was filled with the most astonishing incidents – incidents which defied his powers to decipher.

And yet, was the Frenchman mad? Was there an undercurrent of meaning? Surely there must have been reasons for his questions; and his illness, the sudden collapse as the information was given him, were convincing arguments that Colonel Le Pourton had reasons for asking his questions, and that the answers, simple as they undoubtedly were, had brought some dread to his mind which was sufficiently great to upset him. But though Owen pondered on the matter for many hours he arrived at no solution, and finally was compelled to give the mystery up as unfathomable. Of this, however, he was certain: whatever interest the Frenchman might have in him, it was not a friendly one. Something told him that the Colonel was a bitter enemy, and that he would do well to escape from his power as rapidly as possible. Had he had any doubts on this matter they were set at rest that very night.

As the sun was sinking the door of his prison was thrown open. "You will eat in a room along this passage. There are other prisoners." The Mahratta jailer motioned to him to pass along the corridor, and ushered him into a room in which there was a small table with three chairs set to it. On these were seated three British officers, evidently in the service of Holkar, for they wore Mahratta uniforms. They rose as he entered and welcomed him as only Britishers can welcome their own countrymen abroad.

"Here is another chair. Sit down, please," said one, a pleasant-looking fellow. "Now, it is hardly worth asking what you will have, seeing that very little is allowed. But make the most of the time, for they give us only a few minutes. That's it. Now you have something, and we can talk. We know all about you, and how you were taken. This Holkar is a treacherous fellow, and his French adviser does not help matters. We are in the same box, for we have been serving in his army for some time, and should be now, we fancy, but for the Colonel. He has become very powerful, and, being a Frenchman, hates all English officers. Holkar is about to quarrel with the British, and as we could not possibly fight against our own people we asked to leave him. That is why we are here, and – but there, we won't think of the future."

"We'll make the most of our time," burst in another; "but there's no denying the fact that things are ugly. This Holkar is capable of murdering us."

There was a nod from the third, while Owen stared at his new acquaintances in astonishment. Later he learned their names. They were Captains Vickers, Todd, and Ryan, all three in the service of Holkar, as many other British officers were in that of other chieftains; and these unfortunate and gallant men, because they refused to fight their own kith and kin, were prisoners. It was another illustration of the treachery of Holkar.

But however hard the fortune which had come to the prisoners, for this brief half-hour, when they were allowed to be together, they banished care and became happy in one another's company. In a very little while Owen learned all about them, while he rapidly told his own history and all about the campaign which had been waged. A little later the door was thrown open and the jailer ordered them back to their cells.

"Good-bye till to-morrow, Owen," said one of the officers, "and take my advice. Beware of that fellow Le Pourton. We are not such close prisoners here that our servants cannot bring us news, and we have learned enough already to know that the Frenchman will have you killed if possible. Look out. The jailer may have picked up a little of our language."

"Then I must get away, whatever the difficulty," thought our hero as the door of his cell was slammed to again and he found himself alone. "Even if there were only the chief to be considered, I should go, for I could not trust my life to him for an instant. And now that this Frenchman has appeared upon the scene it becomes doubly necessary. But how?"

When night had fallen and the stars had come out in their myriads, shining down upon the city of Indore, Owen stared up at them from the window, puzzling how to make good his escape. Down below he could hear the drowsy chant of some religious enthusiasts, while ever and anon the flash of the fire which burned in a stove before them came to his eyes, some one in the circle of natives about it having changed his position. All manner of strange cries came up to him from the streets of this Eastern city – the neighing of horses, the clatter of human beings, and the bellow of oxen. But as the night passed on all these ceased, and save for the bark of an occasional cur there was not a sound. In the corridor outside, and in other parts of the tower in which he was a prisoner, there was not so much as a murmur. He was alone, helpless, a prisoner in the hands of two men as ruthless and as cruel as could well be found.