A VISIT TO JUNG BAHADOOR
At Katmandu, the capital of Nepaul, Tom spent several days pleasantly. He was delighted with the city, the quaintness of whose architecture and the gay costumes and kindly ways of whose people gave him many new and agreeable sensations; while the reception accorded to him, both at the Residency and at the palace, which was presided over by that great and enlightened prime minister, Jung Bahadoor, left him nothing to desire.
Ever since he left Bareilly he had been thirsting for news; but news travelled slowly in the days before the Mutiny, and no one in the valleys had heard of the occurrence, which was looked upon by the enlightened as the breaking of the storm. On February 28, when Tom, with a light heart, was setting out to visit the English Resident at the Court of' the King of Nepaul, the 19th Native Infantry, standing trembling in their lines at Berhampore, were listening with dull hearts to the harangue of their irritated colonel, and refusing point-blank to receive the percussion-caps handed out to them.
From the wise and wily Jung Bahadoor Tom learned much concerning the true state of Indian affairs. He was relieved to find that in spite of the faults of the British raj—faults which this sagacious person was not slow to criticise—he had a profound belief not only in its general justice and beneficence, but that it was the only power which could for the present guarantee the land against anarchy. As such he and his people would support it.
At other times he spoke of the late rajah of Gumilcund, who had been one of his most intimate friends, giving the young heir much valuable information with regard to his character and aims. One evening, which Tom remembered long afterwards, on account of the influence it was destined to have upon his life, Jung Bahadoor invited him to a pavilion in the palace where he often spent his evenings. To the young heir their conversation was peculiarly interesting, although he did very little of the talking. Over his long hookah, which induced a meditative vein, the great minister recalled scene after scene out of the past—a past in which the late rajah of Gumilcund's name often figured. Tom heard of his cousin's wealth and magnificence, of his fine personality, of the adoration felt for him by his people. 'I believe,' said Jung Bahadoor, 'that they refuse to believe in his death.'
As he spoke he was looking at Tom absently. All at once his expression became tense and significant. 'What is the exact relationship between you and the late rajah?' he said.
Before that question could be answered Gambier Singh, captain of the king's bodyguard, who was frequently the bearer of messages from the court to the chief minister, and had the privilege of entering unannounced, came out on the pavilion. Seeing the minister engaged in conversation, he was about to deliver his missive and retire when, catching a full view of Tom's face, he pulled up short.
'What ails my friend Gambier Singh?' said Jung Bahadoor.
Recovering his presence of mind in a moment the young Ghoorka captain turned to Jung Bahadoor's guest, and saluted him reverently.
'The sahib must forgive the mistake of his servant,' he said; 'but by my head it is a wonderful likeness. I thought the dead had come to life.'
'My guest is the heir of our friend the good rajah of Gumilcund,' said Jung Bahadoor. 'I was myself struck with the likeness, though, strange to say'—turning to Tom—'I did not observe it till this moment.'
'The rajah was my friend and father. I salute his successor,' said Gambier Singh, making another deep salaam as he withdrew.
But his curiosity and interest were too strongly aroused to be thus easily satisfied. Late that evening, when Tom was resting in his tent, he introduced himself, making many apologies for the intrusion. A long conversation, of the deepest interest to them both, followed, and when they parted, somewhere about the small hours of the morning, they shook hands after the kindly English fashion, and exchanged promises of undying friendship.
Tom spent a week in and about Katmandu, enjoying Gambier Singh's friendship and the hospitality of the palace. Then he began to think that he ought to be on the move. He was actually making arrangements for a start, writing letters and studying maps by the light of a lantern which swung from the pole of his tent, when one evening Gambier Singh, whose invitation to an evening of revels he had just declined, strode in. The flash in his eyes and the abruptness of his movements showed that he was labouring under strong excitement. 'Have you heard the news?' he said, before Tom could speak.
'No; I have heard nothing. What has happened?'
Gambier Singh answered with a question. 'I am told,' he said, 'that you are leaving us?'
'Have I not told you so myself?' said Tom. 'I must go soon, or I shall be tempted to stay with you for ever.'
The young Captain bowed himself and pressed his palms together. 'Sahib, my friend and brother,' he said, 'if you are happy with us, as you say, let me beseech you to remain. We are peaceful, and the Ghoorka soldier, if savage to his foes, will be true to his salt. Over there,' and he pointed across the mountains, 'there will be wild work soon.'
'What do you mean? What has happened?' cried Tom, springing to his feet.
'I mean, my brother, that the revolt has begun.'
'Revolt! When? Where? Speak to me plainly I entreat of you.'
He was pale to the very lips. In that instant of time, while the dim mountain range which a few days before he had crossed so joyfully, frowned down upon him like a fortress, a hundred torturing images pressed upon his brain. The family-circle at Meerut, the General who would trust his soldiers to the death, gentle Lady Elton and the girls, Grace, wandering Heaven only knew where, reckless Vivien flinging her defiance at the crowd of Asiatics, his friends of the voyage, Mrs. Lyster, tender little Aglaia—what would become of them all if this dreadful thing were true? Oh! for wings to carry him over the mountains, that he might see with his own eyes what was going on! In the meantime, Gambier Singh's voice, which was much calmer than it had been, came to him as if from a great distance.
'Let my brother compose himself. It has only begun. The North and North-West are at peace.'
'Thank God!'
'But,' went on the young Captain, 'it is a hollow peace. Of this my master is assured. If your rulers are prompt, if they crush out the insurrection with an iron hand, there may still be peace, for the loyal will be strengthened, and the discontented will fear to rise. If not, the torch of rebellion will flame out fiercely. From province to province it will be carried, and the wild heart of the Asiatic, which discipline has kept down but not subdued, will take fire and leap out in rapine and murder.' Then, in a few words, he told the story of the mutiny of Berhampore. It was ominous, but not nearly so dreadful as Tom had imagined. He began to breathe more freely. 'Are you sure there is nothing more?' he said. 'You are not keeping anything from me?'
'No, by my master's head! But is it not bad enough?'
'Yes, it is bad. Still it is a warning. The evil cannot have gone very deeply yet. We have time before us.'
'Who knows?' said Gambier Singh, shaking his head; and he added, 'My brother will stay with us till the storm blows over!'
Tom paused for a moment, then turned his face, which was as white as death, to his companion. 'I cannot,' he said, 'a fire is consuming me. What it is, or whence it comes, I cannot tell, but I know that it will not let me rest. See, do not hold me back! I must recross the mountains. I must know what is happening. I must see the terror with my own eyes.' His voice sank, and then, in a moment, rose again, shrill and penetrating, 'I must save my people,' he cried, and fell back fainting into the arms of his friend.