Captain Desmond, V.C.
CHAPTER XV.
GOOD ENOUGH, ISN'T IT?
"One crowded hour of glorious life." --SCOTT.
The dusty parade-ground of Mian Mir, Lahore's military cantonment,vibrated from end to end with a rising tide of excitement.
On all sides of the huge square eight thousand spectators, of everyrank and race and colour, were wedged into a compact mass forty orfifty deep: while in the central space, eight ponies scampered,scuffled, and skidded in the wake of a bamboo-root polo-ball; theirshoofs rattling like hailstones on the hard ground.
And close about them--as close as boundary flags and distracted nativepolicemen would permit--pressed that solid wall of onlookers--soldiers,British and native, from thirty regiments at least; officers, inuniform and out of it; ponies and players of defeated teams, manfullyresigned to the "fortune o' war," and not forgetful of the obviousfluke by which their late opponents had scored the game; officialdignitaries, laying aside dignity for the occasion; drags, phaetons,landaus, and dog-carts, gay as a summer parterre in a wind, with therestless parasols and bonnets of half the women in the Punjab; scoresand scores of _saises_, betting freely on the match, arguing,shouting, or shampooing the legs of ponies, whose turn was yet tocome; and through all the confused hubbub of laughter, cheering, andmercifully incoherent profanity, a British infantry band hammering outwith insular assurance, "We'll fight and we'll conquer again andagain."
It was the last day of the old year--a brilliant Punjab Decemberday--and the last "chukker" of the final match for the Cup was in fullprogress. It lay between the Punjab Cavalry from Kohat and a crackHussar team, fresh from Home and Hurlingham, mounted on pricelessponies, six to each man, and upheld by an overweening confidence thatthey were bound to "sweep the board." They had swept it accordingly;and although anticipating "a tough tussle with those game 'Piffer'[25]chaps," were disposed to look upon the Punjab Cup as their ownproperty for at least a year to come.
[25] Abbreviation of Punjab Irregular Frontier Force.
Desmond and his men--Olliver and two native officers--knew all thiswell enough; knew also that money means pace, and weight, and aliberal supply of fresh mounts, and frankly recognised that the oddswere heavily against them. But there remained two points worthconsidering:--they had been trained to play in perfect unison, horseand man; and they were all in deadly earnest.
They had fought their way, inch by inch, through the tournament tothis final tie; and it had been a glorious fight so far. The Hussars,whose self-assurance had led them to underrate the strength of theenemy, were playing now like men possessed. The score stood at twogoals all, and electric shocks of excitement tingled through thecrowd.
Theo Desmond was playing "back," as a wise captain should, to guardthe goal and ensure the completest control over his team; and hismount was a chestnut Arab with three white stockings and a star uponhis forehead.
* * * * *
This unlooked-for circumstance requires explanation.
A week earlier, on returning from his morning ride to the bungalowwhere Paul and his own party were staying, Desmond had been confrontedby Diamond in a brand-new saddle-cloth marked with his initials; whileDiamond's _sais_, with a smile that displayed every tooth in his head,salaamed to the ground.
"Well, I'm shot!" he exclaimed. "Dunni,--what's the meaning of this?"
The man held out a note in Colonel Buchanan's handwriting. Desmonddismounted, flung an arm over the Arab's neck, and opened the notewith a strange quickening of his breath.
The Colonel stated, in a few friendly words, that as Diamond was toogood a pony to be allowed to go out of the Regiment, he and hisbrother officers had decided to buy him back for the Polo Club. MajorWilkinson of the Loyal Monmouth had been uncommonly decent over thewhole thing; and, as captain of the team, Desmond would naturally havethe use of Diamond during the tournament, and afterwards, except whenhe happened to be away on leave.
It took him several minutes to grasp those half dozen lines ofwriting; and if the letters grew indistinct as he read, he had smallcause to be ashamed of the fact.
On looking up, he found Paul watching him from the verandah; anddismissing the _sais_ he sprang up the steps at a bound.
"Paul,--was it your notion?"
But the other smiled and shook his head.
"Brilliant inspirations are not in my line, old chap. It was MrsOlliver. She and the Colonel did most of it between them, though we'reall implicated, of course; and I don't know when I've seen the Colonelso keen about anything in his life."
"God bless you all!" Desmond muttered under his breath. "I'm bound towin the Cup for you after this."
* * * * *
And now, as the final "chukker" of the tournament drew to a close, itdid indeed seem that the ambition of many years was on the eve offulfilment. Excitement rose higher every minute. Cheers rang out onthe smallest provocation. General sympathy was obviously with theFrontier team, and the suspense of the little contingent from Kohathad risen to a pitch beyond speech.
All the native officers and men who could get leave for the greatoccasion formed a picturesque group in the forefront of the crowd;Rajinder Singh towering in their midst, his face set like a mask; hiseyes fierce with the lust of victory. Evelyn Desmond, installed besideHonor in a friend's dog-cart, sat with her small hands clenched, herface flushed to the temples, disjointed murmurs breaking from her atintervals. Honor sat very still and silent, gripping the iron bar ofthe box-seat, her whole soul centred on the game. Paul Wyndham, whohad mounted the step on her side of the cart, and whose hand claspedthe bar within half an inch of hers, had not spoken since the ponieslast went out; and to all appearance his concentration equalled herown. But her nearness affected him as the proximity of iron affectsthe needle of a compass, deflecting his thoughts and eyes continuallyfrom the central point of interest.
And what of Frank Olliver?
Her effervescent spirit can only be likened to champagne just beforethe cork flies off. Perched upon the front seat of a drag, withColonel Buchanan, she noted every stroke and counter-stroke, everypoint gained and lost, with the practised knowledge of a man, and theone-sided ardour of a woman. She had already cheered herself hoarse;but still kept up a running fire of comment, emphasised by anoccasional pressure of the Colonel's coat-sleeve, to the acutediscomfiture of that self-contained Scot.
"We'll not be far off the winning post now," she assured him at thisjuncture. "Our ponies are playing with their heads entirely, and theothers are losing theirs because of the natives and the cheering.There goes the ball straight for the boundary again!--Well done,Geoff! But the long fellow's caught it--Saints alive! 'Twould havebeen a goal but for Theo. How's _that_ for a fine stroke, now?"
For Desmond, with a clean, splitting smack, had sent the ball flyingacross three-fourths of the ground.
"Mind the goal!" he shouted to his half-back, Alla Dad Khan, asDiamond headed after the ball like a lightning streak, with threeracers--maddened by whip and spur and their own deliriousexcitement--clattering upon his tail; and a fusilade of clapping,cheers, and yells broke out on all sides.
The ball, checked in mid career, came spinning back to them with theforce of a rifle-bullet. The speed had been terrific, and the wrenchof pulling up wrought dire confusion. Followed a sharp scrimmage, abewildering jumble of horses and men, rattling of sticks andunlimited breaking of the third commandment; till the ball shot outagain into the open, skimming, like a live thing, through a haze offine white dust, Desmond close upon it, as before; the Hussar"forwards" in hot pursuit.
But their "back" was ready to receive the ball, and Desmond along withit. Both players struck simultaneously. Their cane-handled sticks metwith a crack that was heard all over the ground. Then the ball leaptclean through the goal-posts, the head of Desmond's stick leapt afterit, and the crowd scattered right and left before a thundering onrushof ponies. Cheer upon cheer, yell upon yell, went up from eightthousand
throats at once. British soldiers flung their helmets in theair; the band lost its head and broke into a triumphant clash ofdiscord; while Colonel Buchanan, forgetful of his Scottish decorum,stood up in the drag and shouted like any subaltern.
He was down in the thick of the _melee_, ready to greet Desmond as herode off the battlefield, a breathless unsightly victor, covered withdust and glory.
"Stunningly played--the whole lot of you!"
"Thank you, sir. Good enough, isn't it?"
A vigorous handshake supplied the rest; and Desmond trotted forward tothe dog-cart, where Evelyn greeted him with a rush of congratulation.Honor had no word, but Desmond found her eyes and smile sufficientlyeloquent.
"Best fight, bar none, I ever had in my life!" he declared by way ofacknowledgment. "We're all off to the B.C. Mess as soon as the L.G.has presented the Cup, and we've got some of the dust out of ourthroats. Come along, Paul, old man."
And he went his way in such elation of spirits as a captain may justlyfeel whose team has carried off the Punjab Cup in the face ofoverwhelming odds.