"
"Your knowledge of affairs is great, Chief," Barlow commented, for most
of this was new to him.
"Yes, Captain Sahib, we Pindaris ride north, and east, and south, and
west; we are almost as free as the eagles of the air, claiming that our
home is where our cooking-pots are. We do not trust to ramparts such
as Fort Chitor where we may be cooped up and slain--such as the Rajputs
have been three times in the three famed sacks of Chitor--but also,
Sahib, this is all wrong."
The Chief halted and swept an arm in an encompassing embrace of the
tent-studded plain.
"We are not a nation to muster an army because now the cannon that
belch forth a shower of death mow horsemen down like ripened grain. It
was the dead Chief's ambition, but it is wrong."
Barlow was struck with the wise logic of this tall wide-browed warrior,
it _was_ wrong. Massed together Pindaris and _Bundoolas_ assailed by
the trained hordes of Mahrattas, with their French and Portuguese
gunners and officers, would be slaughtered like sheep. And against the
war-trained Line Regiments of the British foot soldiers they would meet
the same fate.
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