A Galahad Of The Creeks; The Widow Lamport Part 10

"There is none like thee in the land, my pearl," he said softly as he stroked her silver mane--"there is none like thee in the land. By the Prophet's head, I swear that for this night's work I will never forget thee--never!"

"What's the time, Phipson?"

"Two thirty," said Phipson, holding his watch out to the broad moonlight. "We reach Pazobin at seven to-morrow, pick up the men, and go straight on."

Peregrine made no answer, but his white face as it shone out of the moonlight almost scared Phipson, so fixed and rigid was its look.

"I say, Jackson!"

"What is it?"

"That was a devil of a ride. Think I'll turn in and take a nap, and you'd better do the same." This was the policeman's way of telling his friend he looked worn to death.

"No, thanks, Phipson, I can't sleep; I must see this thing through."

Phipson stretched himself out in a long cane chair and watched his friend as he paced slowly up and down the small quarterdeck. "He must be devilish keen," he murmured to himself, "or devilish hard hit."

And then all the starlight seemed to dim, and he was asleep. In the white mists of the morning they reached Pazobin, and, taking on board their men, started on at once. Phipson had persuaded Peregrine to rest. "Look here," he said, "this is all Tommy rot! You've got to rest. Have some grub first, throw away that infernal cheroot, and go and lie down. You've _fighting_ to do this evening, and will want your head and your nerves in first-rate order."

There was no gainsaying this, and after lunch Jackson fell into a deep sleep. He was aroused by a scrunching noise, and woke with a start.

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is that it's half-past six, and that d.a.m.ned idiot of a _serang_ has stuck us fast into a sandbank, and we can only get off with the next tide. There's only one thing to be done. Get the boats from Thomadine village and row for it."

Thomadine village was half a mile below, but a small boat had raced them as far as the scene of the disaster. Matters were rapidly explained to the occupants of the boat, the explanation was made clear by the line of s.h.i.+ning barrels that was pointed toward them, and they pulled up alongside the Beeloo. Some of the crew were temporarily transferred to the steamer, three or four policemen took their places, and the long canoe danced back to the village. It was fully an hour before it returned, bringing with it two other canoes, and, leaving the police tug with strict orders to come on with the next tide, Jackson and his men embarked in the boats, and, hugging the bank, rowed for their lives. It was no time for words, no time for anything but to strain every muscle to reach their goal. Suddenly a broad sheet of flame lit the sky, and the reports of half a dozen matchlocks rang out in quick succession; then came the short, sharp crack of a Winchester, then another and another.

"By G.o.d, they've begun!" shouted Phipson. "Row on, you devils!"

"There's a short cut by the creek, sahib!" called out Serferez, and the snake head of the leading boat, steered by Jackson, turned promptly round, and with a little white sparkle of foam fizzing over her bows she shot into the creek, followed in quick succession by her fellows.

The sky was one sheet of light, for the village had been fired in several places, and the houses blazed up like touchwood. Long forks of flame from the mission school sprang up to the sky, and a dense cloud of smoke rolled westward with the breeze. Still the Winchester kept speaking, and every shot gave the rescue party hope, for they knew that Smalley was selling his life dearly.

"We divide here into two parties," said Phipson as they landed. "You, inspector, take six men with you, and make for the boats. We will drive on to you. By G.o.d," he added, pulling his revolver out, "I rather think we're only just in time!"

Serferez needed no second bidding, but was already off, and Jackson and his companion marched rapidly forward.

"We'll give them a volley from here," said Phipson as they reached the skirts of the clearing round the little mission school, about which the firing was concentrated. "By Jove! they're going to batter down the door. Steady, men! Fire!" The crackling of the volley was followed by a cheer, and in a moment the police had rushed forward and were engaged hand to hand with the dacoits. Some one sprang straight at Jackson, but his hand seemed to lift itself up of its own accord, and a second after a huddled ma.s.s lay before the smoking barrel of his revolver. The issue was not one moment in doubt, and in a few seconds the dacoits were heading straight for their boats. Here they were intercepted by Serferez and his party, who gave them a warm reception.

Three or four of the dacoits, however, among whom was the Boh, secured a boat and rowed off for their lives.

"Follow them!" shouted Jackson, springing into the snake boat; "not a man must escape!" Phipson and a few others took another boat, and there was a hot pursuit. The dacoits realized, however, that it was no use, and, evidently resolving to die fighting, ran their boat ash.o.r.e on a small island near the middle of the river and took to the thickets, from which they began a smart fire.

"Go behind, and take them on the rear," called out Jackson to his companion. Almost as the words were spoken Phipson's boat turned to the left and was round the head of the little island.

"Sit down, sahib; don't stand up--we are quite close to them now,"

said the _naick_ of police, who was in Jackson's boat. Peregrine laughed, and the next moment the _naick_ uttered a cry of horror, for a red tongue of flame shot out of the covert, and Jackson, flinging his hands up, fell forward on his face with a gasping sob.

With a yell of rage the police grounded their boat and rushed into the jungle. There was but half an acre of ground, and Bullen, son of Bishen, Sikh from the Doab, had gone Berseker.

As the men landed the dacoits made for the opposite side of the little island, but to their dismay found Phipson there. With a curse Bah Hmoay darted back into the cover, followed in hot haste by Phipson.

And here in the uncertain light, where the jungle was so tangled that there was barely room to use a sword, there was a short but desperate fight. "Come on, Jackson, we have the lot here! Where on earth are you?" shouted Phipson as his revolver barked out like a snapping pup, and one of the dacoits fell dead, and another, staggering backward, was finished by a policeman with his _dah_. "Where are you, Jackson?"

called out Phipson again.

"Jackson is in h.e.l.l--where you will follow him!" and the Boh sprang at Phipson like a panther. A projecting branch saved him from the downward sweep of the long _dah_, the revolver snapped out again, and the next moment they had grappled each other by the throat.

"I'm afraid it's no use, Bah Hmoay," said Phipson as he shook off his a.s.sailant like a rat, and, throwing him heavily, placed the barrel of his revolver against his temple.

Click! click! The handcuffs were on him like a flash of lightning, and the Boh was surrounded by a group of men.

"This is Bah Hmoay himself," said one of the policemen as he held a rudely improvised torch at the face of the captive.

"There isn't another of them alive on the island," said Bishen. "Two were killed by your honour, two I have accounted for, and this is the last."

"Where is the sahib?"

"He awaits you in the boat," said Bishen, and a chill went through Phipson's heart.

"Why--what is the matter? Speak, can't you?"

"The doctor sahib will tell. Some one from the island fired, and the sahib, he was standing, fell back in the boat; but the doctor sahib's knowledge is great. He will live."

Bah Hmoay was subjected to the indignity of being frog-marched to the boat. He was flung in without much ceremony, and a loaded carbine held at his head. When Phipson reached his friend he found him unconscious, and sadly the two boats rowed back to the village. As they approached Phipson saw by the still burning town the tall figure of Serferez Ali talking to Smalley, and close by the white fluttering of a woman's dress.

"By G.o.d!" he groaned, "I don't think it was worth it, even for this.

Jackson, old man, can't you speak?"

But there was no answer, and almost at this moment they reached the landing place. A cheer went up from those on sh.o.r.e, and Smalley came forward with outstretched hand. "I can't thank you enough. Come, let my wife thank you, too. Where is Jackson?"

Phipson shook hands with them both.

"Where is Mr. Jackson?" asked Ruys.

There was no help for it but to speak out at once before her. As the words left Phipson's lips Smalley was beside the boat, and they tenderly lifted out the wounded man and placed him on an improvised couch of greatcoats. They stood round him in a sad group while Smalley with gentle hands examined the wound, and the silence was only once broken when a great sob burst from honest Serferez Ali, and the old man turned away with his head hanging down. Ruys held a lantern for her husband, and Phipson noticed that there was not a quiver in her hand, although her lips were blue.

After a time Smalley rose to his feet and shook his head. "He can not even be moved from here," he whispered, "and all my appliances are under that blazing roof. G.o.d works very hardly sometimes." The dying man moaned feebly, and Ruys was on her knees beside him.

"What is it? Can't you speak? Oh, husband, can not you save him?"

"G.o.d knows that I would!" said Habakkuk sadly, and then his wife bent low to hide the tears that fell fast down her cheeks.

That strange power of hearing, that supreme strength which comes to persons at the last, came to Peregrine now.

"Die!" he said; "who says I am going to die? I am young yet; my work is not done. Mother," he cried, "I am coming!"

Ruys bent down and kissed the hot forehead softly. There was a s.h.i.+vering of the limbs, and the strong young spirit had pa.s.sed.