Gil the Gunner by George Manville Fenn (rainbow fish read aloud TXT) 📕

“No,” I said sadly; “it must be a surprise. We could do nothing even if our men were here.”

“Nothing,” he replied as the rattle and tramp grew fainter, and horse after horse that I recognised, from some peculiarity of colour or mark, became merged in the crowd. “There must be a road through the village and along by the river. Oh, Gil, if they had been going to stay there for the night, I should have risked a surprise. Yes. There they go. Well, we can see at last the direction they take, and if there is a road, we’ll risk a night’s march, and try to come up with them. Our horses—our guns—in the hands of that wretched crew! And look at the groom dressed out in all that finery—plunder, I suppose. But only wait.”

At that moment I clutched at Brace’s arm, and he gave quite a gasp of relief, for all at once we saw Ny Deen turn his horse, gallop to our left, and then pull up and face round while the troop wheeled to the left, trotted steadily along past the village, wheeled again, and then advanced parallel to the course we had seen them taking, but of course in the reverse direction, so that if they went on far enough, they would pass us about half a mile away.

“They’re drilling,” I whispered excitedly.

“Yes, drilling,” cried Brace, and turning as he spoke. “Gil, lad, they will halt here for the night.”

He caught my hand in a tremendous grip, and his face lit up and his eyes flashed with excitement as he uttered a curious laugh.

“Sit down, lad, and let’s watch them,” he cried mockingly. “We shall have some lessons on the management of a troop. By George, look at the dear old horses! They know the work so well that they are taking the men with them. Look, Gil, there’s poor Craig’s grey Arab. There they go. He wants to gallop, and that fellow has hard work to hold him in.”

The troop was kept at a steady trot, and as it reached the part of the plain facing us, we saw Ny Deen dash in front, wave his sword—a flashing curved tulwar—and the horses were reined in, halted, and then, after a minute’s interval, during which we could hear the voice of the leader giving orders, they advanced again, but this time at a walk, while Ny Deen galloped on in advance, as if to map out the course he meant the troop to take.

“The scoundrel rides well,” muttered Brace, as we saw Ny Deen rein up and throw his horse back almost on its haunches. “Pretty good that, for a syce.”

“It is the Maharajah of Ahdenpore, sahib,” said Dost, who had crouched behind us unnoticed, looking on and hearing every word we said.

“What!” cried Brace, harshly. “I can see. I know the man; Lieutenant Barton’s syce.”

“Yes, sahib; but it is the great Maharajah. He came and worked as a syce all that time, so that he might learn all about the drilling and training of the guns. It was a plot—a cunning plot, sahib, and he was waiting his time.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Brace. “Yes. Too clever for us; but we may have our day yet. Yes; they are drilling,” he continued, as the troop wheeled again, and began advancing toward the forest at whose edge we crouched in hiding; but when they were about half-way toward us from the spot where they had turned, there was another order, the troop wheeled into line, and the men sprang down, unlimbered, the guns were trained, and we saw slowly, but with fair regularity, the pieces brought into action, the white-robed gunners going through the loading and firing drill, ramming, sponging, firing, till about ten rounds had been discharged in blank, when the order rang out again, and the guns were limbered up, and retired three or four hundred yards before halt was again called, the same performance gone through and repeated then in the advance, as if they were sheltering the village, each halt being at the end of some three hundred yards.

In this way they passed us, not two hundred yards distant, and we had to lie close for fear of being seen.

Then a fresh movement was gone through, the troop was formed into column again, and as we watched, the men were halted just in front of the village, where they were dismissed, and the horses were trotted off to various parts where there were sheds beneath the trees, the guns being left in line, in front of the principal house of the place.

“They stay here for the night, Gil,” said Brace excitedly.

“Yes, sahib, and they slept here last night.”

“Ah,” cried Brace; “you know?”

“Yes, sahib, I have been right through the village where the people are staying. No one took me for a spy; it was there I learned that Ny Deen was the Rajah of Ahdenpore. He is going to stay here—it is one of his villages—and drill the men till they can gallop and fire quickly, then he is going to join Shah Rogan’s army, fifty miles to the north, and they are to sweep all the white sahibs out of our land.”

“L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose, Gil,” said Brace, quietly. “So we have run the rajah to earth, eh? Then the next best thing is to keep our men out of sight, Gil, eh?” he continued cheerily. “Dost, you will be faithful to us, I know. Perhaps we shall not all be swept out of the country. Now then, cautiously,” he said. “Hah, yes, they have sentries placed. Rajah Syce is no fool. It was a clever, well-contrived scheme, but he will have to work hard to keep those guns, Gil. Now, three hours for rest and food; we must get strength, if we are to succeed.”

“Have you a plan yet?” I said as we walked on in the shade of the trees.

“None as yet. The only thing I have been planning is to make sure those sepoy prisoners do not betray us. The rest will come.”

Half an hour later we were back in our little camp, where Haynes had sentries placed, and our evening meal ready.

“Any luck?” he said, in a tired voice.

“Yes,” said Brace; “we have been watching a review of our troop. We have run the enemy to his lair.”

“And what next?”

“Hah! we must settle that after a sleep,” said Brace, and I stared at him in astonishment, he seemed so cheerful and calm.