Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys
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"No, I have not observed it," said Paul; "on the contrary, I have thought that you, for your part, were somewhat indifferent to her, while she – but no, I will not say that which I have in my mind, for I know nothing but what you have told me."
"No, speak on. As for myself, I do not think I am in love, as it is called; maybe I am not yet old enough. But I have certainly thought that Vera has long regarded me differently from others. Now say what you were going to say."
"I confess, then, that I have wondered more than once whether our good Thirlstone has not anticipated us – I mean you – in the matter of Vera. She loves us as brothers, no doubt, but Thirlstone – "
"No, you are wrong," interrupted Peter; "for some while ago I accused her of this very thing, which she utterly denied. 'How should I have room in my heart for any besides father and you?' she said; and she added, 'Please, please, dear Peter, say nothing of what you have suspected either to my father or to the other.' She blushed very much, and was quite ashamed, I could see, that I should have connected her name with Thirlstone's. Well, since that she has been so gentle and so affectionate with me that I have quite made up my mind that she regards me, as I say, with particular favour. One day I shall be in love with her, I suppose."
"I see," said poor Paul. He said little more, and made no mention of the fact that he himself had regarded Vera with boyish admiration ever since he could remember, and had always looked upon her as his future bride, in the foolish, taken-for-granted way of persons of his age.
As a matter of fact, Vera had never looked upon either lad as anything more than familiar friends and playmates, and would have laughed with exquisite merriment had she overheard the conversation of the two boys, as recorded above. But, as small things ape the larger, both Peter and Paul were entirely in earnest, the one in his conviction that he owed special allegiance to this fair lady because, as he imagined, he had been chosen as the object of her special affection, and the other in his determination to sacrifice himself without a murmur in pure devotion to the idol his imagination had set up.
Neither of the brothers said much about the adventure with the bear. They brought the skin home and presented it to Vera, who thanked them both in her quiet, undemonstrative way, and asked who killed it.
"I speared her," said Peter, "but Paul finished her off with his dagger, so that we both had a hand in avenging you, Vera."
"Oh, I had not much to do with it," said Paul. "Thank Peter, not me, Vera."
"I thank both my knights," said Vera, offering her hand to each in turn to raise to his lips, Russian fashion.
It was but a few days after this adventure with the bear that the two lads were involved together in another and even more dangerous one, if that were possible.
It was the eve of the new year, and both were, of course, invited to see the year in at the Ootin mansion – a function which they had attended every thirty-first of December since they could remember.
Frank Thirlstone, the tutor, had driven over earlier in the day in order to sit with the general, with whom he was a favourite, and who was still more or less an invalid after his late "rough-and-tumble" with the since exterminated bear.
The young counts chose the forest road in preference to a shorter one through the open country, and they did so because the forest is always full of possibilities – such as hares, foxes, tree partridges, and even, on exceptionally lucky days, a stray wolf. They drove in a light sledge drawn by two wiry Finnish ponies, sitting together on the floor of the sledge, which was not only without a box seat, but also without further accommodation for passengers than that which was supplied by a bag of straw thrown into the loosely-constructed shell of the vehicle. Peter handled the reins, having his gun loaded with slugs at his feet, while Paul held his own in his hands.
The weather had been exceptionally cold for the last few days, and in view of this fact the brothers were not without hope of seeing a wolf or two. They had, indeed, brought with them what, in their part of the world, was frequently used as a lure for hungry wolves – namely, a young pig securely fastened in a sack, and carried in the bottom of the sledge at their feet. The unusual sensation of being shut up in a sack and of being jolted about as the sledge bumps its way over the uneven road causes the little creature to squeal almost without ceasing, and the noise is certain to attract any empty-stomached wolf within a mile or two.
This is especially the case when the weather has been very severe, and food scarce, under which circumstances a wolf becomes wondrously courageous and venturesome; and if the occupant of the sledge keeps his eyes open, he will be pretty sure to be rewarded with a sight of one or two of the grey fellows for whom he has prepared a special charge of large shot.
Both Paul and Peter were of the kind who keep their eyes very wide open indeed, especially in the forest. The moon was up, and the pines, covered with rime, like silver wire-work, made a fairyland of the scene as the two drove silently along the narrow road. They were silent of a set purpose, for wolves will not so readily make their appearance if the squealing of the pig is accompanied by the voices of human beings.
"Peter," whispered Paul suddenly, "move your head cautiously and look on your left, just behind the sledge, and forty paces away among the trees."
Peter turned his head round very gradually.
"Yes," he said; "all right; that's he. Keep quite quiet and he'll come much nearer."
A few moments later Paul whispered again, —
"There's another on the right – no, two more."
"Ha!" Peter whispered back, "that's good. This looks like business. We're in luck to-night."
"If one comes within twenty-five paces, I think you might shoot," Peter added presently; "only remember how slugs scatter."
"I see five now," said Paul. "Three on the left, and two on the right."
"And there are three more cantering along ahead of us on the left, and – yes, two nearer in on the right."
"That's ten then," said Paul. "If there are many more to come, Petka, it will amount to a pack, and that, they say, is dangerous."
Peter whipped up the horses, which had begun to lag, snorting and turning their ears backward and forward. They had become aware of the wolves, and were not altogether comfortable in their minds.
"I never saw a pack yet," said Peter. "I shall be glad if I do now. It is difficult for me to believe that a skulking beast like a wolf can be dangerous."
"Anyway we are all right with our guns and plenty of cartridges."
"I haven't many slugs though – six, I think; the rest of mine are smaller shot," said the elder brother.
Every moment one brother or the other reported more wolves in sight, and more again. Presently there were over twenty. Several were now much nearer than before, and somewhere in among the pines one wolf bayed. Instantly there was heard a babel of sounds. A score of wolf throats responded to the call, and there rose a perfect pandemonium in the forest – howls and bayings and snarlings sufficiently alarming to cause even the stoutest heart to beat a little quicker.
Peter laughed. "We are in for it, I verily believe, Paul," he said. "Shoot a couple of the rascals, and see whether they'll stop to pull them to pieces."
Paul fired both barrels, and in a moment a pair of gaunt, grey creatures were down and struggling in their death-throes. Two or three of their fellows stopped for a moment to snarl over and worry the flesh of their expiring comrades, but the squealing pig was too tantalizing to be allowed to die away in the distance and be lost, with all its luscious possibilities, and they left the cannibal feast and continued the chase.
Now they grew momentarily bolder. They ran in, baying and howling, and dared to approach quite close to the sledge.
"Shoot again, and keep shooting," said Peter. "This is grand."
Paul shot another, and missed one, and then killed two more; but the slaughter did not seem to thin the ranks. There appeared to be as many as ever when these had been left behind half eaten.
Now one rushed in and leaped up at the off pony, which shied and nearly upset the sledge. Paul promptly shot it. Another took its place, and Paul wounded this one also, its fellows quietly giving it the happy dispatch.
Peter began to look grave, and calculated the distance still to be traversed; it was about three miles.
"We are in danger, Paul; there isn't a doubt of it," he said.
"Keep shooting and give them no peace, especially any that attack the horses. That's the chief danger."
A few minutes later this danger had become acute and imperative.
The wolves were now attacking, not the horses only, but also the edges of the sledge, leaping up and evidently trying to get at the pig, whose squeals seemed to madden them with the desire to taste pork.
"Peter," said Paul suddenly. He had been silent for several minutes, and Peter had concluded with some displeasure and some scorn (for he loved and admired his brother) that he was frightened. Paul's speech soon disabused him of this erroneous idea. "Peter," he said, "I have just been thinking that it would be a better chance for both of us if one stopped here and kept the brutes at bay, and the other went on. Very likely only a few would follow the sledge. I choose staying here. I shall be all right with my gun. Yours is the more valuable life, you see; you know why – what you told me the other day. So drive on, dear brother, and if God wills it I shall join you later in the evening."
Before Peter had half taken in the meaning of this rigmarole, Paul, to his brother's infinite astonishment and horror, deliberately stepped out of the sledge. As Peter whirled away he saw his brother stumble, recover himself, walk to the nearest pine tree, and place his back to it. Nearly all the wolves had meanwhile stopped, and for the moment disappeared, after their own mysterious manner. Seeing that a succulent human being had remained behind for their delight, the great majority remained also, very few resuming the pursuit of the sledge.
In two minutes a second human being came running down the road and joined the first. The wolves were charmed. This was better luck than they had expected. The few which had continued the chase presently pulled up and consumed the two ponies. They also found the pig and ate him, sack and all.
"Paul, how could you?" cried Peter, embracing his brother in spite of all the wolves. "You are more to me than ten Veras. Did you think I should leave you to fight these fellows alone?"
Paul said nothing, but he returned his brother's embrace with interest.
"Place your back to mine, old Pavlushka," said Peter, "and shoot and shoot till we scare them. We shall be as safe as possible, now we are together."
And shoot they did. Never was such a fusillade heard in the peaceful forest as on that night. Never were wolves so disgusted, so disenchanted, as on that painful occasion. A dozen or so fell, never more to prowl and howl; the rest, after much baying and snarling from a safe distance, retired in order to go forth and tell all young wolves and strangers of the discovery they had made that night – namely, that it is better to follow a sledge and eat horses and young pig than to stay behind to feast upon human creatures who fall out, and would thus seem to be the easier prey. This has since become a maxim among wolves.
Then the brothers walked quietly home. They passed the broken sledge and the bones of the poor ponies. A wolf or two still lingered here, but they discreetly retired; they were well fed, now, and no longer courageous.
"Get into the sledge, Paul, and I'll drag you home," said Peter, "like the hero you have proved yourself."
"Nonsense," said Paul; "you mock me, brother."
"I mean it," said Peter, and would have insisted, but that the sledge was found to be too much damaged for use.
"I hope they are not anxious about us," said Peter, as the pair reached the Ootin mansion and passed upstairs. "We will pretend we walked for choice; no need to alarm them."
But no one was alarmed. The little party awaiting their arrival here had been too busy to have time for anxieties. It was Vera who told the news. She took a hand of Paul and a hand of Peter. "Dear brothers," she said, "you both love me so well, and I you, that no other lips but mine shall tell you of the happiness the new year has brought me. I am to be married to one who is dear, I know, to both of you – Mr. Thirlstone."
"It is strange," said Peter that night, as the brothers lay in bed and talked over the events of the day, "how little I seem to mind Vera being engaged to the Englishman. How could I have been such a fool as to think – you know – what I told you?"
"I expect we are both rather young for that kind of thing," said Paul, with a sigh. "I think hunting is more in our line, brother; we understand that better."
In spite of which wise and true remark, Paul cried himself to sleep that night, Peter being fast asleep long before, and quite unconscious that his younger brother was engaged in a second attempt to play the hero – an attempt which, this time, was partly a failure.
LOST IN THE SOUDAN
Bimbashi Jones, or, as he was called at the beginning of the story, Lieutenant Jones, did not know much. He only knew that England, or Egypt, or both together, were about to administer what he would have called "beans," or perhaps "toko," to a person called the Khalifa, who had merited chastisement by desiring to "boss it" at Khartoum, which city, Jones was assured, belonged by right, together with the rest of the Soudan, to Egypt, and therefore in a way (and not a bad way either, Jones used to add with a look of intelligence, when talking of these things with his peers) to England.
Jones had not read "With Kitchener to Khartoum," unfortunately for himself; but this was not his fault, because that excellent work was not yet before the public – indeed, it was not written.
But though the lieutenant did not know much of matters that happened so very far away as Khartoum and "the district," yet he had proved himself a capital officer during the four or five years he had served with his regiment, the King's Own Clodshire Rifles, and had contrived to make himself a general favourite both with officers and men; so that when Jones, having most unfortunately fallen desperately in love with a lady who was, as he found out too late, already engaged to be married to some one else, determined to volunteer for the Egyptian army, in order to get out of the country for a change of surroundings, the colonel and the rest of the mess, though recognizing the wisdom of the step, were sorry indeed to part with the young officer, and gave him a send-off from the barracks at Ballycurragh which went far to cause poor Jones to consider whether, after all, life might not still be worth living, in spite of all things tending to the opposite conclusion.
The actual campaign against the Khalifa and his city was about to commence at this time – nay, had commenced, after a fashion; for the active brain of the Sirdar had for years been engaged in preparing for it, and though the British troops chosen to take a hand in subduing the Dervishes were only now setting out upon their mission, the campaign was, intellectually considered, rather beginning to end than beginning to begin.
Jones had met with little difficulty in obtaining the commission he sought as an officer in the Egyptian army. His reputation in the regiment was so good, and the recommendation of his colonel so strongly worded, that his application was among those considered as "likely" from the first. He was able to reply to all the questions put to him quite satisfactorily; but one of these especially, when addressed to him by the officer empowered by the Sirdar to examine would-be members of the Egyptian force, he answered with so much vigour and emphasis as to draw a smile from the colonel's lips, and to cause that gallant individual to form certain conclusions with regard to the youngster which were not far from being very correct indeed.
This question was, "Are you married, or engaged, or likely to become so?" To which poor Jones had replied without hesitation and with absolute conviction, "Oh no, sir; I am neither married nor engaged, and I hope I never shall be."
"What! a woman-hater?" said the colonel with a twinkle in his eye; "the Sirdar would be none the less pleased – "
"Not exactly that, sir," faltered Jones; "but – "
"Oh, I see," said the colonel, smiling kindly. "Well, I think I may say, Mr. Jones, that the Sirdar will be glad to give you an appointment as bimbashi in one of the native regiments. You will sail – "
And so on; the upshot of the interview being a commission for young Alaric Jones – who was but twenty-three years of age – as bimbashi, which is, being interpreted, major in the Egyptian army.
Know him, then, in future, as Bimbashi Jones, a title which pleased him greatly, and puzzled his people quite as much until they realized that the word stood for major; and when they became aware of this the knowledge acted as a wonderful consolation to them for his departure, for it was clear that the lad was "getting on" in his profession, and that he was destined to do great things. A major at twenty-three! It was glorious – unprecedented.
But Bimbashi Jones had a piece of outrageously bad luck at Cairo. He fell ill of fever, and was delayed for months; first nearly dying, then partially recovering, then suffering a relapse, and then wearily picking up his strength from day to day and week to week, while more fortunate individuals started southwards for the front. And already reports came to hand – from Halfa, from Abu Hamed, from Berber – of troops, English and Egyptian, marching and massing; of the Khalifa's hordes, which were expected at any moment; of Osman Digna, of Mahmoud, lying in wait, Heaven knew where, ready to pounce upon the advancing army, or more likely, some feared, to remain safely in ambush, and pretend to know nothing about the proximity of the Sirdar and his men.
Bimbashi Jones prayed heartily that the enemy might for a while be too frightened to show itself – at any rate until he should be able to join his regiment. After that, let Mahmoud and all his emirs become possessed with a new spirit – that of the irresistible desire to fight.
It was very trying, nay, maddening, for him to be left behind at Cairo; only think of it —left behind, and his regiment, it might be, at any moment distinguishing itself, and reaping glories and honours in which he could have no share.
What a confession to make to his friends in England! There would be a big battle, and, of course, a great victory for the Sirdar, at Berber, some said, or at Fort Atbara. Perhaps the struggle was going on at this very minute, and he must pass the rest of his life explaining how it had happened that he was not present and did not possess this medal and that. Bah! it was too bad!
Still, he was well now, and getting stronger daily, and the doctor had promised him that by the last day of February he should set out for the front, unless anything happened to cause him to modify his permission.
From that hour Jones determined that he would fret no longer, but consent, like a reasonable being, to devote all his energies to quiet recuperation. Soon there was but a week longer of waiting, then three days, then a day. At last the hour of his departure arrived, and with much good advice from the doctor, more good wishes from many friends, and a great quantity of luggage, some of which he hoped to convey, somehow, to the front, Bimbashi Jones launched himself against the Khalifa and all the hosts of evil, as represented by the Dervish masters of the Soudan.
His journey as far as Berber was uneventful. The railway was by that time finished up to this point, or very near it, and there remained but a day or two of camel riding between him and the army at Fort Atbara.
But what with the weakness which was the legacy of fever, or the weariness of the long journey down from Cairo, poor Jones was by the time he reached the terminus of the railway the very wreck of a bimbashi. He ought to have rested a few days at Berber. He was advised to do so by the garrison doctor there, but he laughed the idea to scorn. He had rested long enough at Cairo, he declared; he must go on and join his regiment.
"But there's no hurry, bless the man!" said the garrison doctor; "they haven't found Mahmoud; Heaven knows where he is."
"Mahmoud may find them," said Jones; "and I should like to be on the spot when he does."
"No such luck!" laughed the other; "that's what we should all like, but Mahmoud knows better."
However, Jones would listen to no advice. He hired camels for himself and his servant, and started in the cool of the evening to cover as much of the thirty miles or so which lay between him and the haven of his desires as could be done before the heat of the morning, leaving his kit to follow as quickly as blacks and donkeys would condescend to bring it along.
But more misfortunes attended the bimbashi.
Jones was very weary and half torpid with the heat of the past days. He fell asleep on the top of his billowy, bumpy mount, and presently, sliding off into the sand, lay and snored, with the Soudan for a bed, unconscious as a log, and so remained for some hours. His servant, dozing also on the back of his beast, which followed a score of paces behind that of his master, saw nothing of the bimbashi's collapse into the sand, and jogged past the place in which he lay sleeping, entirely unconscious of the accident.
As for Jones's camel, that sagacious creature was far too clever to say anything about the circumstance. It was pleased to be rid of its load, though recognizing the fact that the journey must be continued without him. Perhaps it had friends or an important engagement at Fort Atbara. At any rate, it continued its journey not less rapidly than before, keeping well ahead of its travelling companion – perhaps anxious to be asked no questions as to the load it had shot into the sand, for fear of being reloaded.
The servant dozed and waked and dozed again till morning, never so soundly asleep as to fall off his beast, yet never wide enough awake to realize that the bimbashi was not on the top of the camel looming in front of him through the darkness. Only when morning light and the on-coming heat thoroughly roused him did he become aware that his master was gone. Then the man, who was an Egyptian soldier, and had been invalided, like Jones, in Cairo, where he came in handily enough to accompany the bimbashi as servant to the front – the man Ali did the wisest thing possible. After weeping copiously and swearing at Jones's camel until that shocked beast careered madly out of earshot, he covered the remainder of the journey to Fort Atbara as fast as his own animal could be induced to go; and, arrived there, he greeted the first English officer he met, weeping and explaining incomprehensibly.
"Stop blubbering, you pig," said the subaltern, "and say what you want."
"O thou effendim," cried Ali, drying his tears with marvellous suddenness, "I have lost my bimbashi – Bimbashi Jones!"
Explanations revealed that the man had, in truth, started from Berber in company with an English bimbashi, and that the bimbashi's camel had certainly arrived, but not the bimbashi.
A search-party was therefore sent back without delay, but unfortunately a high wind had risen during the morning, and a dust storm was now in full blast, so that though the party thoroughly searched the road on both sides as far as Berber, taking two or three days over the job, and duly execrating the object of their search for possibly losing them the chance of being present at the big event – namely, the battle with Mahmoud, now expected daily – they found no trace of poor Bimbashi Jones.
They returned, therefore, empty-handed, and returned, as it chanced, just in time to have a hand in certain great events which were about to take place on Atbara River.
Meanwhile Bimbashi Jones slept very soundly and dreamed very absurdly. He dreamed that he had arrived at Atbara in the nick of time. A terrific battle had raged for many hours, and the result up to the moment of his arrival had been most disastrous to the Anglo-Egyptian forces. The Khalifa himself and two of his emirs, hearing of the bimbashi's approach, had personally pursued the hero almost up to the muzzles of the British guns, in order to prevent the great disaster to their hosts which his arrival among the British and Egyptian forces would be sure to entail. He would lead them, the Khalifa knew, to victory, once he placed himself at their head, and triumph would at the last moment be snatched from his hand. For, indeed, every English officer from the Sirdar to the youngest subaltern of a British regiment was already either killed or incapacitated. Our troops were on the point of collapsing. Already the Soudanese and Egyptian regiments were throwing down their rifles and looking over their shoulders for the safest point of the compass, with an eye to successful flight. Far away on the left a long line of hussars disappeared in the dim distance, pursued by countless hosts of Bagghara horsemen, shouting "Allah," and shaking spears like leaves in the south-west wind. English sergeants went along the lines with tears in their eyes, crying like babies, entreating, imploring, threatening; the Sirdar sat with his back to a gun-carriage, badly wounded.