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

the palace. I had not been idle, though; for I had, while apparently sitting back listlessly, made myself thoroughly acquainted with the shape and position of the place, knowing now that one side was protected by a swiftly flowing river. It was only about a hundred and fifty feet across, but deep, and its waters looked suggestive of crocodiles, so that one thought of attempting to cross by swimming with a shudder.

I had by degrees pretty well got the plan of the place in my mind, but at the same time woke to the fact that the rajah’s was no empty boast, for the palace was surrounded by sentries, who were changed as regularly as in our service. Besides, I felt that every servant was a sentry over my actions, and that any attempt at evasion for some time to come was out of the question.

And so the days glided by with no news from outside, and for aught I knew, the war might be over, and the country entirely in the hands of the mutineers.

Once or twice I tried to get a little information from Salaman, but he either did not know or would not speak.

I tried him again and then again, and at last, in a fit of temper, I cried—

“You do know, and you will not speak.”

“I am to attend on my lord,” he said deprecatingly, “not to bear news. If I told my lord all I knew to-day, I should have no head to tell him anything to-morrow.”

I was in the territory of a rajah who did as he pleased with his people, and I did not wonder at Salaman’s obstinate silence any more.

So there I was with my plans almost in the same state as on my first day at the palace. There were the curtains waiting to be turned into ropes; there were the servants with their white garments; but I had no walnuts, and I knew of nothing that would stain my skin; and I was beginning to despair, when a trifling thing sent a flash of hope through me, and told me that I was not forsaken.

It was one hot day when everything was still but the flies, which were tormenting in the extreme; and, after trying first one room and then the other, I was about to go and lie down in the place set apart for my bath as being the coolest spot there was, when I heard a dull thud apparently in the next room where I had been sitting at the window, and I was about to go and see what it was, but stooped down first to pick up my handkerchief which had fallen.

I was in the act of recovering it, when I heard a faint rustling sound, and knew what that was directly—Salaman looking in from behind the curtain to see if anything was wrong.

Apparently satisfied, he drew back, and a splashing sound drew me to the window.

That sound was explained directly, for just below me a couple of bheesties, as they are called, were bending low beneath the great water-skins they carried upon their backs, while each held one of the legs of the animal’s skin, which had been formed into a huge water-bladder, and was directing from it a tiny spout which flashed in the sun as he gave it a circular motion by a turn of his wrist, and watered the heated marble floor of the court, forming a ring or chain-like pattern as he went on.

It was something to look at, and the smell of the water on the stones was pleasant; so I stayed there watching the two men, one of whom took the side of the court beyond the fountain, the other coming almost beneath my window.

The weight of the water-skin must have been great at first, but it grew lighter as the man went on; and one moment I was thinking of what strength there was in his thin sinewy legs and arms, the next of the clever way in which the pattern was formed upon the pavement, and lastly of what a clumsy mode it was of watering the place, and how much pleasanter it would be if there were greater power in the fountain, and it sent up a great spray to come curving over like the branches of a weeping-willow. And by that time the skin was empty, hanging flaccid and collapsed upon the bheestie’s back, as he went slowly out by the guarded gate, still bent down as if the load was heavy even yet. “What a life for a man!” I thought, as, yawning again—I yawned very much during those hot days—I went slowly into the next room and felt startled, for just in front of the window lay a little packet, one which had evidently been thrown in, and it was that which had made the noise when it fell.

It was hard work to refrain from stooping to pick up what I felt almost sure was a message of some kind, but I dared not for fear of being seen. There were curtains over every door, and I never knew but one of the native servants might be behind it; and after what Salaman had said about the safety of his head if he talked, I felt sure that the reason why the rajah’s servants were so watchful was that they feared danger to themselves if they were not careful of my safety.

However, there was the little packet waiting—just a little packet not much larger than a seidlitz-powder, tied up with grass; and, beginning to walk up and down the room, I contrived to give it a kick now and then, till at last I sent it right into the purdah which hung in front of my chamber.

This done, I went to the window, looked out, saw that the two bheesties were back watering the court again, the former sprinkling having nearly dried up; and then, turning, I walked right into my room, let the curtain fall back, to find, to my vexation, that the packet was still outside; but by kneeling down and passing my hand under, I was able to secure it, though I trembled all the while for fear my hand should have been seen.

For fear of this, I thrust the packet into my breast, and lay down on my couch, listening. All was still, so I took out the packet quickly, noting that it was slightly heavy, but I attributed this to a stone put in with a note to make it easy for throwing in at the window.

“Oh!” I ejaculated, as my trembling fingers undid the string, “if this is another of Dost’s letters!”

But it was not, and there was no scrap of writing inside the dirty piece of paper. Instead, there was another tiny packet, and something rolled in a scrap of paper.

I opened this first, and found a piece of steel about an inch and a half long, and after staring at it for a few moments, I thrust it into my pocket, and began to open the tiny packet which evidently contained some kind of seed.

“Not meant for me,” I said to myself, sadly, as I opened the stiff paper, and—

I lay there staring at the fine black seed, and ended by moistening a finger, and taking up a grain to apply to my tongue.

The result was unmistakable. I needed no teaching there, for I had had a long education in such matters.

It was gunpowder, and I laughed at myself for thinking that it was a kind of seed, though seed it really might be called—of destruction.

“Yes; it’s meant for some one else,” I thought, as I carefully refolded the black grains in their envelope, and took out the piece of steel again, to turn it over in my hands, and notice that one end was fairly sharp, while the other was broken, and showed the peculiar crystalline surface of a silvery grey peculiar to good steel.

“Why, it’s the point of a bayonet,” I said to myself; and then I sat thinking, regularly puzzled at the care taken to wrap up that bit of steel and the powder.

“What does it mean?” I said, or does it mean anything? “Some children playing at keeping shop, perhaps,” I said; “and when they were tired, they threw the packet in at the first window they saw. Just the things soldiers’ children would get hold of to play with.”

“But there are no children here,” I said to myself, as I began to grow more excited, and the more so I grew, the less able I was to make out that which later on appeared to be simplicity itself.

“The point of a bayonet in one, and some grains of powder in another,” I said to myself. “Oh, it must be the result of some children at play; they cannot possibly be meant for me;” and in disgust, I tossed the powder out of the window, and directly after, flung out the piece of steel with the result that, almost simultaneously, I heard what sounded like a grunt, and the jingling of the metal on the marble paving.

I ran to the window, and looked out from behind the hanging which I held before me, suspecting that I had inadvertently hit one of the bheesties. And so it proved, for I saw the man nearest to me stoop to pick up the piece of bayonet, and then nearly go down on his nose, for the water-skin shifted, and it was only by an effort that he recovered himself, and shook it back into its place on his loins.

Just then the other water-bearer came up to him, and said something in a low tone—I could not hear what, for he and his companion conversed almost in whispers, as if overawed by the sanctity of the place in which they stood. But it was all evident enough, as I could make out by their gestures: the second bheestie asked the first what was the matter, and this man told him that some one had taken aim with a piece of steel, which he passed on, and struck him on the back. The second man examined the piece, passed it back, and evidently said, “Some one is having a game with you,” for he laughed, and they both looked up at the windows, as if to see who threw the piece.

Just then I saw a fierce-looking man come from the gateway, sword in hand; the two bheesties went on with their watering, and I heard him speaking angrily, and he gave force to his abuse by striking each man sharply with the flat of his sword. But the blows were harmless, for they fell on the water-skins, and, as soon as he had marched off, I saw the men look at each other and grin.

I drew back, and began to pace my room like a wild beast in a cage, for the idea had come strongly upon me that, after all, those packets were meant for me, and the more I told myself that it was folly, the stronger the conviction grew, and I found myself muttering, “Powder and bayonet—powder and bayonet—what can it mean?”

“Declaration of war,” I said to myself at last; but I gave that idea up, for war had been declared long enough ago. No. It could not mean that. And yet it seemed as if it might be a symbolical message, such as these unseen people would send.

“A message—a message—a message,” I muttered; and then the light came, or what I thought was the light, and I exclaimed joyfully, “Then it was meant for me!” Yes; a symbolical message, because whoever sent it was afraid to write lest it should fall into other hands.

I was so excited by my next thought that I threw myself face downward on my couch, and laid my head on my folded arms for fear my face should be seen. For I had just been interpreting