One of Clive's Heroes: A Story of the Fight for IndiaStrang, Herbert
History
One of Clive's Heroes: A Story of the Fight for India
Strang, Herbert
Adventure stories; British -- India -- Juvenile fiction; India -- History -- 18th century -- Juvenile fiction
He stepped back again into complete darkness. The Gujarati was at his
elbow.
"Wait, Fuzl Khan," said Desmond in the lowest of whispers. "I must go
in and see where the man is and how the cabin is arranged."
The Gujarati crouched in the shadow of the bulwarks. Desmond, dropping
on hands and knees, crawled slowly forward into the cabin towards the
light. It was slightly above him, probably on a raised divan,--the most
likely place for the serang to choose as his bed. In a few moments
Desmond’s outstretched fingers touched the edge of the little platform;
the light was still nearly two yards away. Still he was unable to see
the sleeper, though by the sound of his breathing he must be very near.
Desmond feared that every movement might bring him into contact with the
man. Whatever the risk, it was necessary to obtain a little more light.
Slightly raising himself he found that, without actually mounting the
platform, he could just reach the lamp with outstretched fingers. Very
slowly he pushed it round, so that the light fell more directly into the
room. Then he was able to see, about four feet away, curled up on the
divan, with his arms under his head, the form of a man. There was no
other in the cabin. Having discovered all that he wished to know,
Desmond crawled backward as carefully as he had come.
At the moment of the discovery he had felt the eager boy’s impulse to
spring upon the sleeper at once, but although his muscles had been
hardened by a year of toil he doubted whether he had sufficient physical
strength to make absolutely sure of his man; a single cry, the sound of
a scuffle, might be fatal. The Gujarati, on the other hand, a man of
great bulk, could be trusted to overpower the victim by sheer weight,
and with his iron clutch to ensure that no sound came from him.
Desmond’s only fear indeed was that the man, as in the case of the
sentinel on the bastion, might overdo his part and give him all too
thorough a quietus.
He came to the entrance of the cabin. His appearance brought the
Gujarati to his side.
"Remember, Fuzl Khan," he whispered, "we must keep the serang alive; not
even stun him. You understand?"
"I know, sahib."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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