Thus Kurban Sahib came to his own again, and I was his bearer, and
Sikander Khan was his cook. The law was strict that this was a Sahibs'
war, but there was no order that a bearer and a cook should not ride with
their Sahib--and we had naught to wear but our uniforms. We rode up and
down this accursed country, where there is no bazaar, no pulse, no flour,
no oil, no spice, no red pepper, no firewood; nothing but raw corn and a
little cattle. There were no great battles as I saw it, but a plenty of
gun-firing. When we were many, the Boer-log came out with coffee to greet
us, and to show us _purwanas_ (permits) from foolish English Generals who
had gone that way before, certifying they were peaceful and well-disposed.
When we were few, they hid behind stones and shot us. Now the order was
that they were Sahibs, and this was a Sahibs' war. Good! But, as I
understand it, when a Sahib goes to war, he puts on the cloth of war, and
only those who wear that cloth may take part in the war. Good! That also I
understand. But these people were as they were in Burma, or as the Afridis
are. They shot at their pleasure, and when pressed hid the gun and
exhibited _purwanas_, or lay in a house and said they were farmers. Even
such farmers as cut up the Madras troops at Hlinedatalone in Burma! Even
such farmers as slew Cavagnari Sahib and the Guides at Kabul! We schooled
_those_ men, to be sure--fifteen, aye, twenty of a morning pushed off the
verandah in front of the Bala Hissar.
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