EPILOGUE
It is a bleak, raw day in November, 1863. A field force of all arms,under Sir Neville Chamberlain, is encamped in the rocky country ofUmbeyla; their duty is to punish the tribesmen who, led by a fierce andfanatical mullah, have long been giving trouble. Above their camp towersan abrupt and precipitous rock, known as the Crag, and its summit isheld by a picket of the 1st Panjab Infantry, a hundred and twentystrong. Twice already has the enemy, creeping up in thousands on theother side from the lower hills, driven the picket from its post, andtwice has the position been recaptured at the point of the bayonet. Andon this 13th of November the wild tribesmen have for the third timeswarmed up to the attack, in such overwhelming force that the Crag'shandful of defenders is driven back, and comes in full flight down thenarrow rocky path that leads to the encampment below.
A panic seizes the camp-followers; they run hither and thither, cryingthat all is lost. But detachments of the Guides and the 1st PanjabInfantry gallantly climb the steep ascent, and press doggedly up and upin face of a murderous fire from the summit. They have nearly reachedthe top; but what can a few hundreds, even of British troops, do againstthe horde of fierce warriors above them? They halt; their leader sendsdown word that he can barely hold his own, much less retake the Crag,and asks for supports. He is almost giving way when up comes Major Rosswith more Guides and more Panjabis, who scale the precipitous bluff andalmost gain the crest. They, too, are checked; the dauntless fanaticsabove will not yield; their numbers are continually increased, and withfurious and exultant cries they withstand every assault upon theirvantage ground.
From the camp below Sir Neville Chamberlain watches the fight. Themoment is critical; if the enemy maintain their hold on the Crag he willhave to retire. It must be retaken at all costs. He orders the 101stRoyal Bengal Fusiliers to the front, and more companies of the Guides;and since this is no ground for cavalry work, let the troopersdismounted share in the assault. The gallant fellows are nothing loath.Up they go, lightly as only hill-men can. Heedless of the bullets thatshower among them, they force their way steadily to the crest, and thenthe word is given to charge.
The line sweeps forward with a cheer--the infantry with fixed bayonets,the troopers with lance and sword. They dash full into the midst of thebrave enemy; there is a shock, a slight check, and then the tribesmenfalter, give back, and are driven down the slope.
The victors press on in pursuit. Some fleet-footed fellows outstrip therest. Look at that black-bearded Guide running to overtake with hislance one of the fleeing men! Ah! he stumbles over a rock, staggers,falls at full length; and the fugitive, but a yard or two ahead, turnsto cleave him as he lies. Two or three join him; he has his sworduplifted to strike, when a British lieutenant runs up and fells him witha pistol-shot. His comrades close round and beset the Englishman, fourto one. Dafadar Sherdil Khan attempts to rise, but one of the enemydeals him a blow that disables him. The officer flings his pistol at thehead of one man, then with his sword wards off the desperate thrusts ofthe others. If he stands merely on the defensive he will be overborne bynumbers: there is no help at hand. Gathering his strength he rushes intothe midst of the group. It breaks apart; in an instant he springs to theman on the right and cuts him down. Then he turns to deal with the rest.One is running again to the prostrate dafadar. With great leaps thelieutenant makes after him, and reaches him just in time to prevent thefatal blow. And then, as the Englishman turns once more to face theodds, a handful of the Royal Bengals come up at the double, and sweepupon the hapless tribesmen; not one of them escapes.
* * * * *
James Barclay had returned to his corps. Many of his old friends weregone, but Sherdil remained, and none was more delighted than he towelcome Ahmed Khan, after his five years' absence, as a British officer.And when, at Hoti-Mardan, some months after the fight at the Crag, itbecame known that Lieutenant Barclay of the Guides had been awarded thelittle bronze cross "For Valour," it was Sherdil, whose life he hadsaved, that led the troopers in their round of cheers.
Lieutenant Barclay did not forget to visit his adoptive father. OldAhsan, bent, and very frail, knew him before he reached the gate, andhis withered face beamed as he saluted him: "Salaam, hazur: truly Allahis great!"
Rahmut Khan gave him a royal welcome.
"Still art thou my son!" he cried, "and the sight of thee is very good."
He had loyally held to his compact with Jan Larrens, and the British rajhad no warmer friend on the frontiers than he. Age had laid its icyfinger on him; the tale of his years was well-nigh told. Only one thingtroubled his peace of mind: neither Dilasah nor Minghal Khan had tastedhis vengeance. Dilasah had fled from the village at the first news thatthe chief was returning home; and of Minghal, though he had soughtdiligently, he had discovered no trace.
Barclay wondered whether the two men, like Nana Sahib and Bakht Khan andother figures in the great rebellion, had disappeared for ever. But ayear or so later, when he was being shown over the jail at Agra by thegovernor, he was taken to see two notorious ruffians who were serving aterm of fifteen years' imprisonment for highway robbery with violence.And remembering that Rahmut Khan had been imprisoned in that very jail,he thought it a just retribution when he recognized, in the two fetteredprisoners tramping round and round at the pole of the oil-mill, Dilasahand Minghal Khan. He sent word of his discovery to the old chief, and indue time received an answer written by the village scribe, Dinga Ghosh.
"The house of the wicked shall not prosper. I would I had slain them;but what must be, will be. Allah be with thee!"