Sikh-wise, he
loved all things that expressed in any way his own unconquerable
fire. Most of all, however, he loved the squadron; there was no
woman, nor anything between him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.
Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the
British colonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy
beneath hand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosed
Hell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as
he mastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort. Fight how he
would, heel, tooth and eye all flashing, Bagh was forced to hold his
rightful place in front of the squadron, precisely the right distance
behind the last supernumerary of the squadron next in front.
Line after rippling line, all Sikhs of the true Sikh baptism except
for the eight of their officers who were European, Outram's Own swept
down a living avenue of British troops; and neither gunners nor
infantry could see one flaw in them, although picking flaws in native
regiments is almost part of the British army officer's religion.
To the blare of military music, through a bog of their own mixing,
the Sikhs trotted for a mile, then drew into a walk, to bring the
horses into barracks cool enough for watering.
They reached stables as the sun dipped under the near-by acacia
trees, and while the black-bearded troopers scraped and rubbed the
mud from weary horses, Banjoor Singh went through a task whose form
at least was part of his very life.
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