Rung Ho! A Novel by Talbot Mundy (best black authors txt) đź“•
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- Author: Talbot Mundy
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“Thank you,” said Cunningham quite quietly. “And now, Alwa-sahib”—(he could strike while the iron glowed, could this son of Cunnigan!)—“for the plan. There is little time. Jaimihr must escape tonight!”
“Sahib, did I understand aright?”
Alwa's jaw had actually dropped. He looked as though he had been struck. Mahommed Gunga slammed his sabre ferule on the stone floor. He too, was hard put to it to believe his ears.
“Jaimihr is the key to the position. He is nothing but a nuisance where he is. Outside he can be made to help us.”
“Am I dreaming, or art thou, sahib?” Alwa stood with fists clinched on his hips and his legs apart—incredulous. “Jaimihr to go free? Why that Hindoo pig is the source of all the trouble in the district!”
“We are neither of us dreaming, Alwa-sahib. Jaimihr is the dreamer. Let him dream in Howrah City for a day or two, while we get ready. Let him lead his men away and leave the road clear for us to pass in and out.”
“But—”
“Oh, I know. He is your prisoner, and your honor is involved, and all that kind of thing. I'm offering you, to set off against that, a much greater honor than you ever experienced in your whole life yet, and I've put my order in the shape of a request for the sake of courtesy. I ask you again to let me arrange for Jaimihr to escape.”
“I was mad. But it seems that I have passed my word!” swore Alwa.
“I give you your word back again, then.”
“Bismillah! I refuse it!”
“Then I do with Jaimihr as I like?”
“I gave my word, sahib.”
“Thanks. You'll be glad before we've finished. Now I've left the raising of as many men as can be raised to you, Alwa-sahib. You will remember that you gave your promise on that count, too.”
“I will keep that promise, too, sahib.”
“Good. You shall have a road clear by tonight.”
He stepped back a pace, awaited their salute with the calm, assured authority of a general of division, returned it, and left the two Rajputs looking in each other's eyes.
“What is this, cousin, that thou hast brought me to?” demanded Alwa.
Mahommed Gunga laughed and shook his sabre, letting it rattle in its scabbard.
“This? This is the edge of the war that I promised thee a year ago! This is the service of which I spoke! This is the beginning of the blood-spilling! I have brought thee the leader of whom we spoke in Howrah City. Dost remember, cousin? I recall thy words!”
“Ay, I recall them. I said then that I would follow a second Cunnigan, could such be found.”
“And this is he!” vowed Mahommed Gunga.
“Ho! But we Rangars have a leader! A man of men!”
“But this plan of his? This loosing of the trapped wolf—what of that?”
“I neither know nor care, as yet! I trust him! I am his man, as I was his father's! I have seen him; I have heard him; I have felt his pulse in the welter of the wrath of God. I know him. Whatever plans he makes, whatever way he leads, those are my plans, my road! I serve the son of Cunnigan!”
CHAPTER XXIX Did he swear with his leg in a spring-steel trap And a tongue dry-cracked from thirst? Or down on his knees at his lady's lap With the lady's lips to his own, mayhap, And his head and his heart aburst? Nay! I have listened to vows enough And never the oath could bind Save that, that a free man chose to take For his own good reputation's sake! They're qualified—they're tricks—they break— They're words, the other kind!
MAHOMMED GUNGA had long ago determined to “go it blind” on Cunningham. He had known him longest and had the greatest right. Rosemary McClean, who knew him almost least of all, so far as length of time was concerned, was ready now to trust him as far as the Risaldar dared go; her limit was as long and as devil-daring as Mahommed Gunga's. Whatever Scots reserve and caution may have acted as a brake on Duncan McClean's enthusiasm were offset by the fact that his word was given; so far as he was concerned, he was now as much and as obedient a servant of the Company as either of the others. Nor was his attitude astonishing.
Alwa's was the point of view that was amazing, unexpected, brilliant, soldierly, unselfish—all the things, in fact, that no one had the least right to expect it to turn out to be. Two or three thousand men looked to him as their hereditary chieftain who alone could help them hold their chins high amid an overwhelming Hindoo population; his position was delicate, and he might have been excused for much hesitation, and even for a point-blank refusal to do what he might have preferred personally. He and his stood to lose all that they owned—their honor—and the honor of their wives and families, should they fight on the wrong side. Even as a soldier who had passed his word, he might have been excused for a lot of wordy questioning of orders, for he had enough at stake to make anybody cautious.
Yet, having said his say and sworn a dozen God-invoking Rangar oaths before he pledged his word, and then having pledged it, he threw Rajput tradition and the odds against him into one bottomless discard and proceeded to show Cunningham exactly what his fealty meant.
“By the boots and beard of Allah's Prophet!” he swore, growing freer-tongued now that his liberty of action had been limited. “Here we stand and talk like two old hags, Mahommed Gunga! My word is given. Let us find out now what this fledgling general of thine would have us do. If he is to release my prisoner, at least I would like to get amusement out of it!”
So he and Mahommed Gunga swaggered across the courtyard to where Cunningham had joined the McCleans again.
“We come with aid and not objections, sahib,” he assured him. “If we listen, it may save explanations afterward.”
So at a sign from Cunningham they enlarged the circle, and the East and West—bearded and clean-shaven, priest and soldiers, Christian and Mohammedan—stood in a ring, while almost the youngest of them—by far the youngest man of them—laid down the law for all. His eyes were all for Rosemary McClean, but his gestures included all of them, and they all answered him with nods or grunts as each saw fit.
“Send for the Sikh!” commanded Cunningham.
Five minutes later, with a lump of native bread still in his fist, Jaidev Singh walked up and saluted.
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