Gil the Gunner: The Youngest Officer in the EastFenn, George Manville
General
Gil the Gunner: The Youngest Officer in the East
Fenn, George Manville
Great Britain. Army -- Colonial forces -- India -- Juvenile fiction; Young men -- Juvenile fiction
"He had to flee," I said to myself; and that means that he had escaped
uninjured from a desperate encounter. There was something consoling in
that; and I wanted to ask a score of questions about Haynes and the
infantry officers, but I could not. For one thing, I felt that it would
be like writing a long account of a list of disasters; for another, I
was not sure that I could trust an enemy's account of the engagement.
So I remained silent, and the rajah asked me a few questions about my
symptoms, and whether there was anything he could get for me.
I shook my head, for, though gratified by the warm liking and esteem he
had displayed, my spirits had sunk very low indeed, and I wanted to be
alone to think.
Seeing that I was weak and troubled, the rajah soon after rose, and
moved to the doorway of the tent, where he summoned one of the
attendants, and uttered a few words, the result being that a few minutes
after the tall, grave, eastern physician appeared at the doorway, and
salaamed in the most lowly way before his prince.
"Go to him," said the rajah in their own tongue, and the doctor came
across to me and began examining my injuries, while the rajah stood
looking on, watching everything attentively.
I could not help noticing how nervous and troubled the doctor seemed,
performing his task with trembling hands, as if in great awe of the
chief his master. He ended by rising and salaaming again.
"Well?" said the rajah quickly; and I knew enough Hindustani now to be
able to snatch at the meaning of their words. "You must make him well
quickly."
"I will try, your highness."
"No, sir; you will do," said the rajah, sternly.
"He must be made strong and well soon. I want him; he is my friend."
He turned from the doctor, who took this as his dismissal, and bowed and
left the tent, while the rajah seated himself on the carpet by his
sword, and stayed there in one position as if deep in thought, making
probably more plans.
I lay watching him wonderingly, asking myself whether he had ever
grasped the fact of how much I had had to do with the recovery of the
guns, and if he did not, what would be his feelings toward one who had
utterly baulked him, and robbed him of the prize he went through so much
to win.
I certainly did not feel disposed to enlighten him, but by watching his
troubled face, and thinking of how valuable, if he had succeeded in well
training his men, a troop of horse artillery would be, and how different
our position would have been during that encounter if he had had half a
dozen six-pounders well-served.
"But he has no guns," I ended by saying to myself; "and we--I mean our
people--have, and I cannot believe in our--I mean their--being swept
away, so long as they hold such a supremacy as the guns afford to them."
I was stopped short by the rajah re-buckling his sword-belt, and a
minute later he was bending over me.
"Make haste," he said in Hindustani. "I shall not be at peace till you
are well once more."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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