Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 August 1890 — SAVED BY STRATEGY. [ARTICLE]

SAVED BY STRATEGY.

BY ROBERT LINGLEY.

Dinner was over at last, and Mr. Walter Currey, English commissioner at the up-country station of Hutta-bagh, in Northern India had gone out upon the veranda with his wife and his two guests —Col. Ayres and Major Armstrong of the —th infantry. While the party were quietly conversing, a sudden clamor of angry voices from the road below drew them all to the front of the veranda. The cause of the disturbance was visible at once. Two half-drunken English soldiers swaggering along the road had come into violent contact with a native boy who was running past; one of them, enraged at the collision had felled the poor lad to the ground and was unclasping his own belt with the evident intention of beating him unmercifully. “Served the young whelp right,” shouted the Colonel, rubbing his hands; “that’s just what they all -want.” The other Major Armstrong —popularly p\’ led Major Strongarm —was a huge, brawny silent man, whose forte lay in acting rather than talking. To leap to the ground, twelve fee‘t below, to dart across the garden, to vault over the .high stockade beyond, was the work of a moment for the athletic niajor; and in another instant he had raised the fallen boy tenderly from the ground, while saying to the foremost soldier in the low, compressed tope of a man who means whist he says,— “Be off with you!” “And who are you, shovin’ ycr nose in where ver ain’t wanted?” roared the infuriated ruffian, to whose eyes the major’s plain eveniug dress bore no token of his being an officer. “Just you ” The sentence was never finished. At the sound of the last insolent defiance Armstrong’s patience gave way altogether, and the strong right hand, which had hewn its way through a whole squadron of Sikh cavalry, fell like a sledge-hammer upon his opponent’s face, dashing him to the ground as if he had been blown from the mouth of a gun. “Well done, major!” shouted Mr. Currie, from above. “You deserve your name, no mistake.” At the name of “major” the other soldier took to his heels, and Armstrong, without even looking at his prostrate antagonist, proceeded to examine the injuries of the boy. The latter was sorely bruised in many places, and the blood was trickling freely over his swarthy face, but the little hero still did his best to stand erect and to kee down every signd of the pain he was enduring. “You’re a brave lad, and you’ll make a soldier some day,” said the major to. him, in Hindustanee. “Come with me, I’ll see that no one molests you again.”

Six months have come and gone, and Mr. Currie’s hospitable house presents a very different spectacle. The pretty garden is trampled into dust and mire, and the bodies of men and horses are lying thick among the fragments of the half destroyed stockade. The windows of the house are blocked up, and through the loopholed walls peer the muzzles of ready rifles, showing how steady the besieged garrison stands at bay against countless enemies, whose dark, flerce faces and glittering weapons are visible through the half-ruined building and matted thickets all around, she Sepoy mutiny of 1857 is blazing sky high over Northern India, and Colonel Ayres is blockaded in Hutta-bagh, with a certainty of a hideous death for himself and every man of the few who are still true to him, unless help comes speedily. Day was just breaking when two men held whispered councils in one of the upper rooms. “No fear of the water running short,” said Major Armstrong; “but even on half rations our food will be out in four days more.” “And then we’ll just go right at them, and cut our way through or die for it,” growled the colonel, with a grim smile on his-iron face, for with all his harshness and injustice. Colonel Ayres was “grit” to the backbone. “We mustn’t say anything to them about it, though, ” added he, with a side glance at Mr. Currie, who. standing at the farther corner, •was anxiously watching the thin, worn face of his sleeping wife. At that moment a loud cheer from below startled them both, and the next momeutflsmail (the major’s boy, as evelw one now called him) burst into the room', with a glow of unwonted excitement on his dark face. “Sahib!” cried he, “there is hope for us yet! A detachment of English are coming up the other bank of the river; if "we can send word to them as they pass, we are saved.” ' “How do yoa .now?” asked the major, eagerly. “I heard the Sepoys say so, while I was lying hid among'fhe bushes yonder,” answered the lad. “But if the troops are beyond the river, how can we communicate with them?” asked Mrs. Currie, who, awakened by the shouting, had arisen and joined the group. “They may not pass near enough to hear the flring, and we have no means of sending them word.” “Fear nothing for that, mem sahib” (madam), said the Hindoo boy, quietly. “I will .carry them word myself.” “But how can you possibly do it?” cried Mr. Currie, thunderstruck by the confident tone in which this mere child spoke of a task from which the hardest vbteraa might well have shrunk. “Listen, Sahib,” answered Ismail.

«I will slip out of the house and make a dasL into the enemy’s lines, as if I was deserting from you to them; and you caa tell your people to fire a shot or two after me with a blank cartridge as I go. Then the Sepoys will receive me kindly, and m tell them that you are all dying of thirst and that they need only wait a day more to be sure of you, so that they won’t come to make another attack. Then, when' they have no suspicion, and think I’m one of themselves, I’ll steal away and slip across the river.” “ But are you quite sure the Sepoys will believe you?” asked Major Armstrong, doubtfully. “They'll believe this, anyhow.” replied the boy, deliberately making a dtep gash in his bare shoulder, and staining his white frock with blood as he glided from the room, followed by the major. The plan was soon explained to the men below, and a moment later Ismail’s dark figure was seen darting like an arrow across the open space in front of the building, followed by a quick discharge of blank from the marksmen at the loopholes. The sound of firing drew the attention of the Sepoys, several of whom ran forward to meet him. In auother instant he was in the midst of them. “lean scarcely see for those bushes,” saiff colonel Ayres, “but he seems ty) be showing them the wound on his shoulder and telling them it was our doing.” At that moment an exultant yell from the enemy came pealing through the still air. 1 ‘That’s the story of our being short of water, for a guinea!” said the major; “it was a very good idea of his. If it only delays their attack two days longer there may be time for help to arrive yet.” Slowly and wearily the long hours of that fearful day wore on. The heat was so terrific that even the native soldiers of the garrison could barely hold their own against it, and the handful of Englishmen were almost helpless. Had the Sepoys attacked them then all would have been over at one blow, but hour passed after hour and there was no sign of an assault. At length, as afternoon gave place to evening, a movement began to show itself in the enemy’s lines. Their curls of smoke, arising above the trees, showed that the evening meal was in preparation, and several figures with pitchers in their hands weie seen going toward the river, among whom the colonel's keen eye soon detected Ismail. * ‘By George!” cried the old soldier, slapping his knee exultinglv, “that lad’s worth his weight in gold! There’s his way down to the river open to him, without the least chance of suspicion. Why, he’s a born general—nothing less.” Every eye within the wall was now turned anxiously upon the distant group, fearing to sec at any moment some movement which would show that the trick was detected. Suddenly, as Ismail stooped to plunge his light wooden dipper into the water, it slipped from his hands and went floating away down the Stream. A cry of dismay, a loud laugh from the Sepoys, and then the boy was seen running frantically along the bank and trying in vain to clutch the vessel as it floated past.

“What on earth’s he up to?” grunted the colonel, completely mystified.

“I see!” said Major Armstrong, triumphantly; “there’s a boat yonder among the reeds, and he’s making right for it. Well done, my brave boy.” But at that moment a yell of rage from the Sepoys told that the trick was discovered. Luckily those on the bank had left their pieces behind, or poor Ismail would soon have been disposed of; but the alarm instantly brought up a crowd of their armed comrades, whose bullets fell like hail around the boat and its gallant little pilot. “Let us fire a volley and make a show of sallying out, v said the colonel; “It'll take their attention from him.” But in this he was mistaken. The first rattle of musketry did recall most of Ismail's assailants, but at least a dozen were left, who kept up an i»creasing fire, striking the boat again and again. All at 6nce the colonel dashed his glass to the floor with a fierce imprecation. Between two gusts of smoke he had seen the boat turn suddenly. over, and go whirling away down the dark river, keel upward.

“There’san end of the poor lad,” muttered the veteran brokenly. “God bless him for a brave little fellow. And now, old friends, we must die hard, for there’s no hope left.” The first few hours of the night passed quietly, and the exhausted defenders, utterly worn out, slept as if drugged with opium. But a little after midnight the ifcyick ears of the two veteran officers —the only watchers in the whole garrison except the sentries themselves—caught a faint stirring in the surrounding thickets, which seemed to augur some movement on the part of the enemy. Listening intently for a few moments, they felt certain that they were right, and lost no time in awakening their men. The scanty stores of food were opened once more, and, crouching together in the darkness, the doomed men took what they fully believed to be their last meal on earth. coming, ” said Major Armstrong. straining his eyes into the gloom through a loophole. “I hear them creeping forward, though I can’t yet see them. ” “What was that?” exclaimed the colonel suddenly. “It looked like a fiery arrow flying past. ” “It’s worse than that,” said the major, in a low voice. ‘ ‘The rascals are shooting lighted chips of bamboo into the,roof to set it on fire. Send the women up with buckets to flood the thatch—there’s not a moment to lose!” “I’ll go and see to it myself,” cried Mrs. Currie, hastening out of the room. But the power of this new weapon had already been fatally manifest. The house was an old one, dry as tinder from the prolonged heat, and as fast as the flames were quenched in one place they broke out in another: When day dawned, the fire had already got hold of one corner of the building, and a crushing discharge was poured upon all who attempted to extinguish it, whilst the triumphant yells of the human tigers below told that they felt svlre of their prey.“It’s all over with us, old fellow,” said the colonel, giasping his companion’s hand; “at least we shall have done oui* duty." “Give me one of your pistols,” whispered Mm, Currie to her husband, in a

voic* that was not her own. “I must aot fall into their hands alive.” At that moment Major Armstrong was seen to start and bend forward as if listening intently, for he thought—although ho could scarcely believe his ears—that he had suddenly caught a faint sound of distant tiring. In another instant he heard it again, and this time there could be no doubt, for several of the others had caught it likewise, and a gleaih of hope once more lighted up their haggard faces and bloodshot eyes. Louder and nearer came the welcome sound, while the sudden terror and confusion visible among the enemy showed that they, too, were at no loss to gain its meaning. Then high above the diu rose the well-known “Hurrah,” and through the smoke clouds broke a charging line of glittering bayonets and ruddy English faces, sweeping away the cowardly murderers ns the sun chases the morning mist. “That boy is worth his weight in gold,” said Ayres, as, a few hours later hellstened to Ismail’s account of how he had dived under the boat and kept it between him and the Sepoys, that they might think him drowned.— 1 Yankee Blade.