LITMIR.BIZ

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      For Name and Fame; Or, Through Afghan Passes

      Preface

      In following the hero of this story through the last Afghan war, you will be improving your acquaintance with a country which is of supreme importance to the British Empire and, at the same time, be able to trace the operations by which Lord Roberts made his great reputation as a general, and a leader of men. Afghanistan stands as a line between the two great empires of England and Russia; and is likely, sooner or later, to become the scene of a tremendous struggle between these nations. Happily, at the present time the Afghans are on our side. It is true that we have warred with, and beaten them; but our retirement, after victory, has at least shown them that we have no desire to take their country while, on the other hand, they know that for those races upon whom Russia has once laid her hand there is no escape.

      In these pages you will see the strength and the weakness of these wild people of the mountains; their strength lying in their personal bravery, their determination to preserve their freedom at all costs, and the nature of their country. Their weakness consists in their want of organization, their tribal jealousies, and their impatience of regular habits and of the restraint necessary to render them good soldiers. But, when led and organized by English officers, there are no better soldiers in the world; as is proved by the splendid services which have been rendered by the frontier force, which is composed almost entirely of Afghan tribesmen.

      Their history shows that defeat has little moral effect upon them. Crushed one day, they will rise again the next; scattered–it would seem hopelessly–they are ready to reassemble, and renew the conflict, at the first summons of their chiefs. Guided by British advice, led by British officers and, it may be, paid by British gold, Afghanistan is likely to prove an invaluable ally to us, when the day comes that Russia believes herself strong enough to move forward towards the goal of all her hopes and efforts, for the last fifty years–the conquest of India.

      G. A. Henty.

      Chapter 1: The Lost Child

      "My poor pets!" a lady exclaimed, sorrowfully; "it is too bad. They all knew me so well; and ran to meet me, when they saw me coming; and seemed really pleased to see me, even when I had no food to give them."

      "Which was not often, my dear," Captain Ripon–her husband–said. "However it is, as you say, too bad; and I will bring the fellow to justice, if I can. There are twelve prize fowls–worth a couple of guineas apiece, not to mention the fact of their being pets of yours–stolen, probably by tramps; who will eat them, and for whom the commonest barn-door chickens would have done as well. There are marks of blood in two or three places, so they have evidently been killed for food. The house was locked up last night, all right; for you see they got in by breaking in a panel of the door.

      "Robson, run down to the village, at once, and tell the policeman to come up here; and ask if any gypsies, or tramps, have been seen in the neighborhood."

      The village lay at the gate of Captain Ripon's park, and the gardener soon returned with the policeman.

      "I've heard say there are some gypsies camped on Netherwood Common, four miles away," that functionary said, in answer to Captain Ripon.

      "Put the gray mare in the dog cart, Sam. We will drive over at once. They will hardly expect us so soon. We will pick up another policeman, at Netherwood. They may show fight, if we are not in strength."

      Five minutes later, Captain Ripon was traveling along the road at the rate of twelve miles an hour; with Sam by his side, and the policeman sitting behind. At Netherwood they took up another policeman and, a few minutes later, drove up to the gypsy encampment.

      There was a slight stir when they were seen approaching; and then the gypsies went on with their usual work, the women weaving baskets from osiers, the men cutting up gorse into skewers. There were four low tents, and a wagon stood near; a bony horse grazing on the common.

      "Now," Captain Ripon said, "I am a magistrate, and I daresay you know what I have come for. My fowl house has been broken open, and some valuable fowls stolen.

      "Now, policeman, look about, and see if you can find any traces of them."

      The gypsies rose to their feet, with angry gestures.

      "Why do you come to us?" one of the men said. "When a fowl is stolen you always suspect us, as if there were no other thieves in the world."

      "There are plenty of other thieves, my friend; and we shall not interfere with you, if we find nothing suspicious."

      "There have been some fowls plucked, here," one of the policemen said. "Here is a little feather–" and he showed one, of only half an inch in length "–and there is another, on that woman's hair. They have cleaned them up nicely enough, but it ain't easy to pick up every feather. I'll be bound we find a fowl, in the pot."

      Two of the gypsies leaped forward, stick in hand; but the oldest man present said a word or two to them, in their own dialect.

      "You may look in the pot," he said, turning to Captain Ripon, "and maybe you will find a fowl there, with other things. We bought 'em at the market at Hunston, yesterday."

      The policeman lifted the lid off the great pot, which was hanging over the fire, and stirred up the contents with a stick.

      "There's rabbits here–two or three of them, I should say–and a fowl, perhaps two, but they are cut up."

      "I cannot swear to that," Captain Ripon said, examining the portions of fowl, "though the plumpness of the breasts, and the size, show that they are not ordinary fowls."

      He looked round again at the tents.

      "But I can pretty well swear to this," he said, as he stooped and picked up a feather which lay, half concealed, between the edge of one of the tents and the grass. "This is a breast feather of a Spangled Dorking. These are not birds which would be sold for eating in Hunston market, and it will be for these men to show where they got it from."

      A smothered oath broke from one or two of the men. The elder signed to them to be quiet.

      "That's not proof," he said, insolently. "You can't convict five men, because the feather of a fowl which you cannot swear to is found in their camp."

      "No," Captain Ripon said, quietly. "I do not want to convict anyone but the thief; but the proof is sufficient for taking you in custody, and we shall find out which was the guilty man, afterwards.

      "Now, lads, it will be worse for you, if you make trouble.

      "Constables, take them up to Mr. Bailey. He lives half a mile away. Fortunately, we have means of proving which is the fellow concerned.

      "Now, Sam, you and I will go up with the Netherwood constable to Mr. Bailey.

      "And do you," he said, to the other policeman, "keep a sharp watch over these women. You say you can find nothing in the tents; but it is likely the other fowls are hid, not far off, and I will put all the boys of the village to search, when I come back."

      The gypsies, with sullen faces, accompanied Captain Ripon and the policeman to the magistrate's.

      "Is that feather the only proof you have, Ripon?" Mr. Bailey asked, when he had given his evidence. "I do not think that it will be enough to convict, if unsupported; besides, you cannot bring it home to any one of them. But it is sufficient for me to have them locked up for twenty-four hours and, in the meantime, you may find the other fowls."

      "But I have means of identification," Captain Ripon said. "There is a footmark in some earth, at the fowl house door. It is made by a boot which has got hobnails and a horseshoe heel, and a piece of that heel has been broken off.

      "Now, which of these men has got such a boot on? Whichever has, he is the man."

      There was a sudden movement among the accused.

      "It's of no use," one of them said, when the policeman approached to examine their boots. "I'm the man, I'll admit it. I can't get over the boot," and he held up his right foot.

      "That is the boot, sir," the constable exclaimed. "I can swear that it will fit the impression, exactly."

      "Very well," the magistrate

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