Rung Ho! A Novel by Talbot Mundy (best black authors txt) 📕

the owner of the rock, recognizing a warrior by his trademarks, but in no way moderating the natural gruffness of his voice. Alwa considered that his inviolable hospitality should be too well known and understood to call for any explanation or expression; he would have considered it an insult to the Sikh's intelligence to have mouthed a welcome; he let it go for granted.

“Jaidev Singh—galloper to Byng-bahadur. I bring a letter for the Risaldar Mahommed Gunga, or for Cunnigan-sahib, whichever I can find first.”

“They are both here.”

“Then my letter is for both of them.”

Cunningham and Mahommed Gunga each took one step forward, and the Sikh gave Cunningham a tiny, folded piece of paper, stuck together along one edge with native gum. He tore it open, read it in the light of a trooper's lantern, and then read it again aloud to Mahommed Gunga, pitching his voice high enough for Alwa to listen if he chose.

“What are you two men doing?” ran the note. “The very worst has happened. We all need men immediately, and I particularly need them. One hundred troopers now would be better than a thousand men a month from now. Hurry, and send word by bearer. S. F. BYNG.”

“How soon can you start back?” asked Cunningham.

“The minute I am provided with a horse, sahib.”

Cunningham turned to Alwa.

“Will you be kind enough to feed him, Alwa-sahib?”

Alwa resented the imputation against his hospitality instantly.

“Nay, I was waiting for his money in advance!” he laughed. “Food waits, thou. Thou art a Sikh—thou eatest meat—meat, then, is ready.”

The Sikh, or at least the true Sikh, is not hampered by a list of caste restrictions. All of his precepts, taken singly or collectively, bid him be nothing but a man, and no law forbids him accept the hospitality of soldiers of another creed. So Jaidev Singh walked off to feed on curried beef that would have made a Hindoo know himself for damned. Cunningham then turned on Alwa.

“Now is the time, Alwa-sahib,” he said in a level voice. “My party can start off with this man and our answer, if your answer is no. If your answer is yes, then the Sikh can bear that answer for us.”

“You would none of you ride half a mile alive!” laughed Alwa.

“I none the less require an answer, Alwa-sahib.”

Alwa stared hard at him. That was the kind of talk that went straight to his soldier heart. He loved a man who held to his point in the teeth of odds. The odds, it seemed to him, were awfully against Cunningham.

“So was thy father,” he said slowly. “My cousin said thou wast thy father's son!”

“I require an answer by the time that the Sikh has finished eating,” said Cunningham. “Otherwise, Alwa-sabib, I shall regret the necessity of foregoing further hospitality at your hands.”

“Bismillah! Am I servant here or master?” wondered Alwa, loud enough for all his men to hear. Then he thought better of his dignity. “Sahib,” he insisted, “I will not talk here before my men. We will have another conference.”

“I concede you ten minutes,” said Cunningham, preparing to follow him, and followed in turn by Mohammed Gunga.

“Now, swore the Risaldar into his beard, we shall see the reaching of decisions! Now, by the curse of the sack of Chitor we shall know who is on whose side, or I am no Rangar, nor the son of one!”

“I have a suggestion to make, sahib,” smiled Alwa, closing the door of the rock-hewn chamber on the three of them.

“Hear mine first!” said Cunningham, with a hint of iron in his voice.

“Ay! Hear his first! Hear Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!” echoed Mahommed Gunga. “Let us hear a plan worth hearing!” And Alwa looked into a pair of steady eyes that seemed to see through him—past him—to the finished work beyond.

“Speak, sahib.”

“You are pledged to uphold Howrah on his throne?”

“Ha, sahib.”

“Then, I guarantee you shall! You shall not go to the Company's aid until you have satisfactory guarantees that your homes and friends will not be assailed behind your backs.”

“Guarantees to whose satisfaction, sahib?”

“Yours!”

“But with whom am I dealing?” Alwa seemed actually staggered. “Who makes these promises? The Company?”

“I give you my solemn word of honor on it!”

“It is at least a man who speaks!” swore Alwa.

“It is the son of Cunnigan-bahadur!” growled Mahommed Gunga, standing chin erect. He seemed in no doubt now of the outcome. He was merely waiting for it with soldierly and ill-concealed impatience.

“But, sahib—”

“Alwa-sahib, we have no time for argument. It is yes or no. I must send an answer back by that Sikh. He must—he shall take my answer! Either you are loyal to our cause or you are not. Are you?”

“By the breath of God, sahib, I am thinking you leave me little choice!”

“I still await an answer. I am calling on you for as many men as you can raise, and I have made you specific promises. Choose, Alwa-sahib. Yes or no?”

“The answer is yes—but—”

“Then I understand that you undertake to obey my orders without question until such time as a senior to me can be found to take over the command.”

“That is contingent on the agreement,” hesitated Alwa.

“I would like your word of honor, Alwa-sahib.”

“I pledge that not lightly, sahib.”

“For that very good reason I am asking for it. I shall know how far to trust when I have your word of honor!”

“I knew thy father! Thou art his son! I trusted him for good reason and with good result. I will trust thee also. My word is given, on thy conditions, sahib. First, the guarantees before we ride to the British aid!”

And you obey my orders?

“Yes. My word is given, sahib. The oath of a Rajput, of a Rangar, of a soldier, of a zemindar of the House of Kachwaha; the oath of a man to a man, sahib; the promise of thy father's friend to thy father's son! Bahadur”—he drew himself to his full height, and clicked his spurs together—“I am thy servant!”

Cunningham saluted. All three men looked in each other's eyes and a bond was sealed between them that nothing less than death could sever.