From One Generation to Another Part 9

"No," replied the Hill.

"Is the enemy in sight?"

"No," replied the Mountain, again, with a sharp click.

"Are you all well?" flashed from below.

"Yes," from above.

Then the "Good-bye," and the glimmer of the bayonets began again.

Two hours later Major Agar drew his absurd little force in line, and thus they received the relieving column, grimly conscious of dangers past but not forgotten.

At the head of the new-comers rode a little man with a prominent chin and a long drooping nose; such a remarkable-looking little man that the veriest tyro at physiognomy would have turned to look at him again. His black eyes, beaming with intelligence, moved so quickly beneath the steady lashes that it was next to an impossibility to state what he saw and what he failed to see.

He returned Agar's salute hurriedly, with a preoccupied air. He wore a quiet uniform tunic almost hidden by black braiding, a pith helmet which had seen brighter days and likewise fouler, and the leg that he threw over his horse's head was cased in riding trousers and a neat little top-boot of brown leather.

He slipped from the saddle with a litheness which contrasted strangely with his closely cropped grey hair and white moustache and Imperial. He walked towards Agar's tent after the manner of one who had sat in the saddle for many hours. His spurs clanked with a sharp, business-like ring, and his every movement had that neat finish which indicates the soldier born and bred.

Wheeling round he faced Agar, who had followed him with a more leisurely gait based on longer legs, looking up keenly into the quiet fair face.

Turning he shot his sword home into its scabbard with a click.

"Thank G.o.d," he said, "you're safe!"

Agar awaited for further observations. This was not the man whom he had expected, but another, far greater, far higher up in the military scale--a man whom he had only met once before, and that at an official reception.

Seeing that his guest was unbuckling his sword, he presumed that the task of continuing this conversation lay with himself.

"M' yes!" he replied, rubbing his pannikin out clean with the corner of a towel, and proceeding to mix some brandy and water; "why?"

"Why!" answered the little man scornfully, "WHY! d.a.m.n it, sir, Stevenor's command has been cut off by the enemy in force--ma.s.sacred to a man. That is why I say 'Thank G.o.d, you're safe!' It is more than I expected."

CHAPTER IX

RE-CAST

Our deeds still travel with us from afar, And what, we have been makes us what we are.

There was a momentary pause; then Major Agar spoke.

"In that case," he observed, "the British force occupying this country for the last week has consisted of myself and thirty Goorkhas."

"Precisely so! And it was by the merest chance that I found out that you were here. It was only guesswork at the best. A bazaar report reached me that poor old Stevenor had been cut to pieces. I hate blaming a dead man, but I really don't know what he can have been about. He made some hideous mistake somewhere. We buried him yesterday. On hearing the report, I thought it better to come up myself, having a little knowledge of the country. Brought two companies, and half a squadron to act as scouts. We reached Barkoola yesterday, and found the poor chaps as they had fallen.

And some of those carpet-warriors at home say that a black man can't fight! Can't he! Not so much brandy this time, please. Yes, fill it up."

Agar set the regulation water-bottle down on his gifted table.

"I have the Devil's own luck!" he murmured. "While they were burying I missed you from among the officers; and then it struck me that you might have got away before the disaster. We counted the men, and found thirty-four short, so we came on here. By G.o.d! what a chap Mistley was!

We came here without a check. His maps are perfect!"

"Yes," admitted Agar, "that man knew his business!"

There was something in his tone that might have been envy or perhaps mere admiration; for this man knew himself to be inferior in many ways to him who had first crossed the mountain pa.s.s on which he stood.

"The worst of it is," went on the great officer, "that you are telegraphed home as killed."

He paused on the last word, watching its effect. It would seem that, behind the busy black eyes, there was the beginning of a thought hatched within the grey close-cut head which, _en fait de tetes,_ was without its rival in the Empire.

"That is soon remedied," opined the Major with a cheerful laugh.

"Ye--es!"

The great man was thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the tips of the first and second fingers, drawing in his under lip at the same time, and apparently taking pleasure in the rasping sound caused by the friction over the shaven chin.

There is usually something written in the human countenance--some single virtue, vice, or quality which dominates all petty characteristics. Most faces express weakness--the faces that pa.s.s one in the streets. Some are the incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on sensuality.

The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed indomitable, invincible determination, and _nothing else_. It was the face of one who was ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single all-pervading purpose. In this respect he was a splendid commander, for he was as nearly heartless as men are made.

The big fair Englishman who had occupied Mistley's Plateau for a week, exactly one hundred and seventy miles from a.s.sistance of any description, and in the heart of the enemy's country, smiled down at his companion with a simple wonder.

"Got something up your sleeve, sir?" he inquired softly, for he knew somewhat of his superior officer's ways.

"Yes!" replied the other curtly. "A trump card!"

He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, as a jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat.

"It's like this," he said. "You're dead. I want you to stay dead for a little while--say six months to a year!"

Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under the weight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, he awaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence.

After a short pause the other proceeded to explain.

"You frontier men," he said, "are closely watched; we know that. There will be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishap to Stevenor, although, G.o.d knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not so dangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are out of the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months you will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when you were being watched by them."

"I see," answered Agar quietly. "Not dead, but gone--up country."

"Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you."

The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The great man was afraid that his tool would refuse to work under this exacting touch.

"But what about my people?" asked Agar.

"Oh, I will put that right. You see, they have got over the worst of it by this time. It is wonderful how soon people do get over it. They have known it for a week now, and have bought their mourning and all that."

There came a look into Agar's face which the little officer did not understand. We never do understand what we could not feel ourselves, and it is not a matter of wonder that the lesser intelligence should foil the greater in this instance. There was a depth in Jem Agar which was beyond the fathom of his keen-witted companion.