Far Pavilions (124 page)

But for a zealous gunner in the right-hand fort, they would have done so, as by now the fugitives were riding through the gap between the hillside and the northern wall of the city, and were as yet barely level with the
Mori
Gate. Having not seen the signals, or realized that their escape had been discovered, they were not pressing their horses overmuch, for fields of grain and stubble, criss-crossed by irrigation channels, are hardly the safest places to take at a gallop. Besides, the valley with its hard, sun-baked ground lay ahead, and once there, with the city behind them, they would be able to go more quickly.

The sudden appearance of a party of yelling horsemen, who having left by the Elephant Gate were not only well ahead of them but riding at a tangent with the obvious intention of cutting them off before they could reach the valley, was a shattering blow; as was the simultaneous spatter of shots from somewhere away to the right. Yet even then, for a brief moment it seemed to all of them that they must be mistaken and that it was not possible that the shouting men could have any interest in them or the shots be aimed at them, for there had not been time… But the moment passed and suddenly they knew without a shadow of doubt – as the fox knows when he hears the hounds give tongue – that the hunt was up and that they were the quarry.

It was too late to turn back; and there was no point in doing so, since by now there would be other men on their heels striving to overtake them. There was nothing for it but to go forward, and reacting as one, they set spurs to their horses and made for the narrowing gap that the men from the city were racing to close.

Whether they would have reached it in time is doubtful. But it was at this point that Fate, in the form of a gunner in the fort, intervened on their behalf.

The garrison of the fort had seen the sun-signals, and had been manning the walls and excitedly watching the approach of the five fugitives and the progress of the pursuit. Their eyrie on the hilltop gave them an advantage that the five did not possess, because from here they could not only see the quarry, but the pursuers who galloped far behind them following their trail, as well as the handful of armed men who had suddenly debouched from the
Hathi Pol
and were now riding to head them off.

The latter had been visible to the garrison from the moment they left the city. But though the fort provided an excellent grandstand from which to view the drama, the antiquated matchlocks and jezails with which the garrisons opened fire on the fugitives were almost useless at that range, while the dust and the dancing, shimmering heat-haze did not make for good marksmanship. Their shots did not take effect, and looking down from the heights it seemed to them that the runaways were in danger of winning the race and breaking through into the valley.

The great bronze cannons had already been fired once that day, but as by tradition they would be fired again to welcome the new Rana back to his city, they were primed and ready. An eager gunner leapt to load one and busied himself lighting a taper while his crew, following his lead, helped to train the monster ahead of the galloping target. The port-fire was applied to the touch-hole and the flash and roar of the explosion was as impressive as ever. But in the excitement of the moment the speed of the riders below had been miscalculated, and the cannon ball missed the fugitives and landed full in the path of the on-coming soldiers from the city.

No one was seriously hurt, but the sudden and totally unexpected fountain of dust, dirt and debris that exploded a bare yard or two ahead, showering them with stones and clods of earth, panicked the already over-excited horses, who instantly reared and bolted. Several of the riders were thrown, and by the time the others had got their mounts under control the quarry had escaped through the gap and were riding like the wind down the long, straight stretch of the valley.

It had been an incredible ride. Terrifying, nerve-racking and at the same time so wildly exhilarating that, if it had not been for Juli, Ash would actually have enjoyed it. Sarji had certainly done so: he had laughed and sung and urged Moti Raj to greater efforts with cries of encouragement and extravagant endearments. Dagobaz too had been in his element, and had he been given his head he would have outdistanced his companions and left them far behind in the first half-mile. But there was Juli to be thought of, and Ash's hands were firm on the reins and he held back, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to see that she was safe.

The wind had whipped the folds of muslin away from her face and Ash saw that it was set and intent: a pale mask in which only the eyes were alive. She was handling her horse in a manner that would have done credit to her Cossack grandfather, and Ash felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards that old free-booter – and to her father, the old Rajah, who in the face of Janoo-Rani's opposition had insisted that his daughter Kairi-Bai should be taught to ride: ‘God bless him, wherever he has gone,’ thought Ash fervently.

Gobind too was a good horseman. But Manilal was no more than an adequate one, and the pace was clearly beginning to tell on him; yet he hung on grimly and had the sense to leave everything else to his horse. As for the pursuit, from what little they could see of it through the dust that fumed up in their own wake, it was still in a state of disarray and too far behind to pose a serious threat.

They had avoided the beaten track with its potholes and cart ruts, and kept well to one side of it – the left side, since it was on this side that the entrance to Bukta's road lay – and they had covered more than two thirds of the distance when Anjuli's horse put its foot in a rat hole and came down heavily, pitching her over its head to land spread-eagled in the dust.

The fall had knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, fighting for air, while her horse struggled to its feet and stood with drooping head and labouring sides. Manilal, who had been following behind, tugged wildly on his near rein to avoid riding over her, and missing her by inches, was carried helplessly onwards, completely out of control and reduced to clinging to the arch of his saddle. But the other three pulled up and circled back.

Ash flung himself off Dagobaz and snatched Juli into his arms; and for a dreadful, heart-stopping moment he thought that she was dead, because she did not move. But one look was enough to reassure him, and he whirled round, holding her, and saw that the hunters were still on their trail, and getting dangerously near.

Gobind too was looking back. He had not dismounted, but was holding Dagobaz's reins as well as Moti Raj's, while Sarji examined the injured horse, and he did not speak – there was no need to for they were all aware of the danger. Sarji said breathlessly: ‘The off-fore is badly strained. Dagobaz will have to carry two. Give me the Rani and get back in the saddle. Be quick.’

Ash obeyed, and though Juli was still dazed by her fall she was getting her breath back and she had not lost her wits. When Sarji tossed her up onto the crupper she put her arms about Ash's waist and held on, and they were away again, racing after Manilal who was by now far ahead of them; Gobind and Sarji a length behind to left and right, riding wide of them to avoid being choked by their dust.

The additional weight made no difference at all to Dagobaz, who swept on with the effortless speed of a hawk. But the delay had been fatal, for it had not only reduced their lead to a mere matter of a few hundred yards, but had served to break the headlong impetus of the other two horses, so that now Gobind must use both whip and spur while Sarji rode crouched like a jockey, far forward on Moti Raj's straining neck, and singing no more.

Ash heard the crack of a shot and saw the dust spurt as a musket-ball ploughed into the ground ahead and well to one side, and realized that one of the pursuers had fired at them, and that he should have foreseen this when he took Juli up behind him. He ought to have put her in front, so that his body would have protected her from any aspiring marksmen, but it was too late to do anything about it now; they could not stop, and in any case, the risk of a shot taking effect was minimal, for a muzzle-loading jezail is an unhandy weapon when fired from the back of a galloping horse – and impossible to reload under those conditions.

There was unlikely to be another shot, but that one, though well off target, showed that the pursuit must be gaining on them; and also reminded him that he carried a revolver. Knowing that Dagobaz would answer to the least pressure of his leg, he fumbled in the breast of his robes and guiding Dagobaz by knee, swerved to avoid the dust-cloud behind him, and telling Anjuli to hold close, turned in the saddle and fired at a man on a rangy, country-bred grey who was leading the field by several lengths.

There was no luck about the shot: Koda Dad Khan had been too good a teacher for that, and Ash did not watch to see if it took effect. He looked to his front again, hearing the fall and the hoarse yells of rage from behind, and Sarji's exultant shout as the riderless grey careered past them.

Ahead of them loomed the triple-fanged ridge with the wide, arrow-shaped fall of shale immediately below it: a pale landmark that pin-pointed the position of a tall grass-plumed, white-streaked rock near which – please God! Bukta the
shikari
would still be waiting for them. Bukta with a spare shot-gun and two boxes of cartridges, and another fifty rounds of rifle ammunition.

If only they could increase their lead and reach the passage through the rockfall with even a minute to spare, they would be able to hold off any number of pursuers, and inflict such damage in the process that by the time darkness fell the survivors would be unlikely to follow them into the hills. But the shouts and the thunder of pursuing hooves were becoming nearer and louder… and of a sudden, uncannily familiar, until with a violent sensation of shock and incredulity Ash realized that this was the dream…

It had all happened before. Many times. Only this time he was not dreaming. This time he was awake and it was real – the flat, stony plain, the low hills, the sound of pursuing hoof-beats on hard ground and the girl on the crupper who had once been Belinda – except that even then her hair had been black.

The nightmare had come true at last, and as if to prove it, Juli began urging him to go faster – faster. But when he turned, revolver in hand, he found that he could not fire, because she had lost her turban when she fell, and now her loosened hair streamed out behind her like a black silk flag on the wind and made it impossible for him to see the men who galloped behind him.

This was far worse than any of the dreams had been, because he knew that he would not awake from it to find himself sweating with fear, but safe. And he had no idea how it would end. He could only urge Dagobaz to greater speed and pray that they would reach the haven among the rocks in time.

The sun vanished with the abruptness of a snuffed candle as they rode into the shadow of the high ridges; and now they were nearing their goal. Half a mile to go… a quarter… four hundred yards… The white streaks of bird-droppings showed clearly against the purple hillside, and there was someone standing near the grass-crowned rock: a man with a rifle. Bukta, his dun-coloured
shikari's
clothing almost invisible among the shadows. So he had not gone. He had waited for them; and now he was here and sighting along the barrel of his beloved Lee-Enfield.

Ash had seen Bukta hit a tree-rat at fifty paces and bring down a galloping leopard at twice that range in thick grass; and with the light in his favour and the pursuing soldiery ignorant of his presence, he should be able to pick off at least one of them before they realized their danger, and thereby sow enough confusion among the rest to enable their quarry to reach cover.

There was barely two hundred yards to go now, and Ash found himself laughing exultantly as he waited for the flash: but it did not come – and suddenly he realized that it would not, because he and Sarji and Gobind were in the line of fire, and together they masked the enemy so effectively that the old
shikari
did not dare risk a shot.

They had all forgotten Manilal. The fat man had been carried past the rocks where Bukta waited, but his horse was tiring and he managed to turn it in a wide arc that brought him round facing the way they had come, though from much further out in the valley. Galloping back from this direction, Manilal was able to see what was happening and to size up the situation a good deal more clearly than any of the other actors in the drama.

The passage through the rock-fall had been described to him and, always a quick thinker, he realized that his companions would never reach it with enough time in hand, and that the
shikari
could not help them, for he must hold his fire until they were past him – by which time it would be too late. Manilal did not wear spurs, but he still had a whip that he had prudently carried on a loop round his wrist, and now he used it mercilessly, keeping his horse at full gallop and making not for the rocks, but for the bunched and yelling pack from the city.

Ash saw him sweep past and heard the crash and the confusion as he drove full tilt into the pursuers. But there was no time to turn round and see what had happened. There was only time to pull up and leap to the ground, to catch Anjuli as she tumbled off, and grasping her wrist, to pull Dagobaz after them while Sarji and Gobind flung themselves from their horses and followed, and Bukta fired and re-loaded and fired again…

The shadowed canyon behind the wall of rock and scree seemed a very peaceful spot after the heat and dust and frenzy of that wild ride. Bukta had been camping there for the past week, and his few belongings, together with the shot-gun and cartridges and the two boxes of ammunition, were neatly laid out on a ledge, and conveniently within reach. His pony, its forefeet hobbled, country-fashion, with a loop of cloth to prevent it straying, was placidly grazing on the dying grass, and the place looked curiously homelike. A haven of peace and safety enclosed by the cliffs of the steeply sloping hillsides, and only to be reached by a passage that was so narrow that a single man armed with a stout sword, let alone a revolver, could have held it against an army…