"We're ready, sir!" he reported at last to Kirby. "We're paraded and
waiting. Brammle's inspected 'em, and I've done ditto. There are only
thirteen thousand details left undone that I can't think of, and not
one of 'em's important enough to keep us waitin'!"
So Kirby rode out on parade and took the regiment's salute. There
was nobody to see them off. There were not even women to wail by the
barrack gate, for they marched away at dinner-time and official lies
had been distributed where they would do most good.
Englishman and Sikh alike rode untormented by the wails or waving
farewells of their kindred; and there was only a civilian on a white
pony, somewhere along ahead, who seemed to know that they were more
than just parading. He led them toward the Ajmere Gate, and by the
time that the regiment's luggage came along in wagons, with the
little rear-guard last of all, it was too late to run and warn
people. Outram's Own had gone at high noon, and nobody the wiser!
There was no music as they marched and no talking. Only the jingling
bits and rattling hoofs proclaimed that India's best were riding on a
sudden summons to fight for the "Salt." They marched in the direction
least expected of them, three-quarters of a day before their
scheduled time, and even "Guppy," the mess bull-terrier, who ran
under the wagon with the officers' luggage, behaved as if all ends of
the world were one to him.
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