So they buried General Baines some eighty-and-twenty miles from
Harumpore, and shot the cook. And, according to the easy Indian
theology, the cook was wafted off to paradise, while General Baines
betook himself to hell, or was betaken. But the column, three thousand
perspiring Britons strong, continued marching, loaded down with
haversacks and ammunition and resolve.
It was met, long before the jackals had dug down to General Baines'
remains, by the advance-guard of Colonel Kendrick's column, which
was coming out of Harumpore because things were not brisk enough in
that place to keep it busy. Kendrick himself was riding with the
cavalry detachment that led the way southward.
"Who's in command now?" he asked, for they had told him of General
Baines' death by poison.
"I am," said a gray-haired officer who rode up at that moment.
"I'm your senior, sir, by two years," answered Kendrick.
"Then you command, sir."
"Very good. Enough time's been wasted. The column can wait here
until my main body reaches us. Then we'll march at once on Jailpore.
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