King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of Adventure — John Shaqi
King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of AdventureMundy, Talbot
History
King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of Adventure
Mundy, Talbot
British -- India -- Fiction; Historical fiction; India -- History -- Sepoy Rebellion, 1857-1858 -- Fiction; Love stories; War stories
King, with his mouth full of curry did not answer, but his eyes smiled.
“It's astonishing to me,” said the major, “that a captain should leave
his company when war has begun! When I was captain I'd have been driven
out of the service if I'd asked for leave of absence at such a time!”
King made no comment, but his expression denoted belief.
“Are you bound for the front, sir?” he asked presently. But Hyde did not
answer. They finished the meal in silence.
After lunch he was closeted with the general again for twenty minutes.
Then one of the general's carriages took him to the station; and it did
not appear to trouble him at all that the other occupant of the carriage
was the self-same Major Hyde who had sat next him at lunch. In fact, he
smiled so pleasantly that Hyde grew exasperated. Neither of them spoke.
At the station Hyde lost his temper openly, and King left him abusing an
unhappy native servant.
The station was crammed to suffocation by a crowd that roared and
writhed and smelt to high heaven. At one end of the platform, in the
midst of a human eddy, a frenzied horse resisted with his teeth and all
four feet at once the efforts of six natives and a British sergeant to
force him into a loose-box. At the back of the same platform the little
dark-brown mules of a mountain battery twitched their flanks in line,
jingling chains and stamping when the flies bit home.
Flies buzzed everywhere. Fat native merchants vied with lean and timid
ones in noisy effort to secure accommodation on a train already crowded
to the limit. Twenty British officers hunted up and down for the places
supposed to have been reserved for them, and sweating servants hurried
after them with arms full of heterogeneous baggage, swearing at
the crowd that swore back ungrudgingly. But the general himself had
telephoned for King's reservation, so he took his time.
There were din and stink and dust beneath a savage sun, shaken into
reverberations by the scream of an engine's safety valve. It was India
in essence and awake!--India arising out of lethargy!--India as she is
more often nowadays--and it made King, for the time being of the Khyber
Rifles, happier than some other men can be in ballrooms.
Any one who watched him--and there was at least one man who did--must
have noticed his strange ability, almost like that of water, to reach
the point he aimed for, through, and not around, the crowd.
He neither shoved nor argued. Orders and blows would have been equally
useless, for had it tried the crowd could not have obeyed, and it was in
no mind to try. Without the least apparent effort he arrived--and
there is no other word that quite describes it--he arrived, through
the densest part of the sweating throng of humans, at the door of the
luggage office.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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