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Updated: July 11, 2025
"We must make more speed, Fuzl Khan. Release the prisoners' hands; keep their feet tied, and place them among our party. Don't take an oar yourself: stand over them ready to strike down any man who mutinies." The Gujarati grunted and hurried away. Assisted by Surendra Nath, who, being his companion on the rowing bench, had perforce dropped his oar, he soon had the prisoners in position.
Before Desmond could recover his footing, Diggle shortened his arm and was about to drive his sword through the lad's heart. The Gujarati saw the movement. Springing in with uplifted knife, he attempted to turn the blade. He succeeded; he struck it upwards; but the force with which he had thrown himself between the two swordsmen was his undoing.
The pause was but for a moment. The plan of action had been thought out and discussed. On hands and knees the Gujarati crept up the steps; at his heels followed Desmond in equal stealth and silence. At the top, hardly distinguishable from the blackness of the sky, the sentinel was leaning against the parapet, looking out to sea.
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 insure 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.
To fasten the rope securely to the gun carriage was the work of a few instants; then the Gujarati mounted the parapet, and, swarming down the rope, sank into the darkness. One by one the men followed; it came to the Babu's turn. Trembling with excitement and fear he shrank back. "I am afraid, sahib," he said. Without hesitation Desmond drew up the rope and looped the end.
In August he visited Bombay to be examined in Gujarati; and having passed with distinction, he once more returned to Baroda just in time to join in the farewell revels of his regiment, which was ordered to Sind. Karachi. Love of Disguise.
No man is now so bold to discuss such matters." "Is that why we are all chained up at night?" "That, sir, is the case. It is since then our limbs are shackled." Desmond thought over this piece of information. He had noticed that the Gujarati was left much alone by the others.
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.
Desmond felt that if the Gujarati had indeed purchased his life by betraying his comrades, he had made a dear bargain. One night, when his eight companions were all asleep, and nothing could be heard but the regular calls of the sentries, the beating of tom toms in the town, and the howls of jackals prowling in the outskirts, Desmond gently woke the Babu.
Henry Fielding in particular. At this moment Desmond said no more, but in the dead of night, when all were asleep, he leaned over to the Babu's charpoy and gently nudged him. "Surendra Nath!" he whispered. "Who calls?" returned the Babu. "Listen. Have you yourself ever thought of escaping?" "Peace and quietness, sir. He will hear." "Who?" "The Gujarati, sir Fuzl Khan." "But he doesn't understand.
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