AN AWFUL RIDE AND A RESCUE
Hurry on, brave men! let the wind be your messenger; stop neither to eat nor drink; through the long sultry day and at nightfall, when the awful eye of day is closed and the stars come out pale and languid overhead, even until morning dawns and the terrible round of sweltering heat and blinding dust begins again—hurry on! By narrow and unfrequented ways, through villages whose favour has been bought, under the shade of trees, and across tracts of jungle, where you are obliged to go at a foot-pace, giving breathing time to the gallant beasts that have carried you so bravely—on and ever on, for two dreadful days and nights, that to one of you seem ever afterwards like an awful dream. And yet, you are too late. And well it may be for yourselves that you did not arrive earlier. For the storm has broken. In fire, and blood, and fever it is spreading from city to city, and Jhansi, the home and citadel of a woman scorned, has caught the dread contagion.
Up to June 1 they were at peace. The Ranee still sat smiling in her palace, and still she added to her body-guard persons of proved loyalty, and still the English believed her promises, and still the troops within the city proclaimed their faithfulness loudly. And why did the English need to fear? Meerut had not moved them. Delhi had not moved them. The native states, Gwalior and Gumilcund, and Rewah and Banda, were holding their hands. Nay, it was known that some of them had offered help to the Paramount Power in the re-establishment of order; and even if they had feared, what could they do? To show mistrust at this eleventh hour would be to undo all that had gone before, and to ruin everything.
On June 3 mysterious fires broke out; but even these did not unduly alarm them. They were attributed to accident. It was not until the 4th that their eyes were opened. Then the soldiers on parade, breaking away suddenly and causelessly as it appeared to those who had not heard of the secret messages that had been passing between the palace and the native lines, shot down their sergeant and seized the artillery, and with it made their way to the fort within the native city.
The Ranee still sat smiling in her palace; but when the news came to her she ordered the palace gates to be opened, mounted her horse and cantered over to the lines with her own faithful body-guard, who in her name had seized upon the treasury, behind her.
Some of the English officers had been hurrying to her palace. They were told on the way that she was in the hands of the mutineers, and instantly the full magnitude of what had happened darted upon them. They dashed back to the cantonments, calling as they went on the English and Eurasians to follow them into the Star Fort, the only building belonging to them now that was capable of defence. It all happened in a moment. Some of them had not even heard of the disturbance on parade. In the little house, once a tomb on the maidan, something had been seen; but no one clearly understood what had happened. 'Father will be in presently, and then we shall hear,' said Mrs. White to her little Aglaia, as she tried to soothe her off to sleep. But then the ayah rushed in like a wild creature, and with a cry of 'They are coming; hide!' tore the child out of her arms. She knew little more. Some one came and dragged her out of the house, and she was mounted on a horse, to which, crying out for her child, she clung because she could not help herself, and there was a mad, sick flight across the blaze of the maidan, with yells at her heels, which seemed to recede as she flew on, and then all at once she was in the Fort amongst a circle of frightened women, and her husband, who had not come for her himself, having work to do, was with the men, but her child—her little darling—was nowhere to be seen. She made a wild rush for the door. Even amongst the rebels there must be some one who would have mercy upon her. When they held her back by force her shrieks and cries were piteous to hear.
But all were not so helpless. In the little spell of time given them by the rebels who were quarrelling over the booty, the men looked up the stores of ammunition, and barricaded doors and windows, and allotted to every combatant his post, and to every non-combatant his duty; and the women gathered together the food which the more provident had brought in, soothed the children, and made arrangements for the night.
No one, meanwhile, could tell poor Mrs. White anything of her child. It was known, however, that some of the little English community had yet to come in, and the sanguine hoped that Aglaia, who was a general favourite, might be amongst them. Others feared that the ayah, seized by panic, or deliberately treacherous, had given her up.
Late that afternoon, when those in the Fort had made all their dispositions, the mutineers came clustering round, crying out that they should surrender. They were received by a strong and well-directed fire, which laid many of them low. This was not what they had bargained for, so they retreated in some confusion to deliberate.
Slowly and awfully the first night in the Fort passed by. The women slept, or tried to sleep. The men, fearing surprise, were on the watch. Early in the morning such food as they had was distributed with a little water and wine. Then two bold fellows—Eurasians—undertook to go out in disguise and try to bring relief from the nearest European station. Hopeless task! They were cut down before they were well clear of the cantonments. Those inside, meanwhile, heard guns being dragged into position to batter them to pieces. This attempt was soon given up, for the defenders of the Fort, several of whom were dead shots, peppered the artillery-men so freely, that after a score or so had been shot down, no one could be found to undertake the duty. If only there had been water and food in the Fort the defence might have been heard of with that of Arah. But hunger and thirst are to besieged men the deadliest of foes. No one could believe, moreover, that the good Ranee, though misguided by evil counsellors, could actually permit the slaughter of her English friends. After a little discussion it was decided that three officers, each of whom was well known to her, should go out as envoys, and treat with her for the surrender of the Fort. They went out gaily, but they never returned. 'What have I to do with English swine?' said the Ranee, when they were brought before her. The haughty words were their sentence. At her palace gates they were cut down; and the story of their fate was shouted derisively under the windows of the Fort.
Another council was held. The provisions, it was found, would, with economy, last another three days. It was hoped that, in the meantime, their desperate situation might be heard of, and a relief attempted. For another dreadful day and night they held out.
The morning of the third day dawned. The watchers were half dead with fatigue and anxiety; the children were crying out piteously for water; the women were faint, weary, and disheartened. When the sun rose the rebels made an attack in force; but they were driven back, and there were two or three hours of rest.
Then the Ranee sent the besieged a message. All she wanted was the Fort. Let those within surrender it, and they would be allowed to go in peace whither they desired.
Upon this another council was held. The boldest were for holding out. There was, indeed, little or no hope of successful resistance; but, if they must die, it would be better to die at their posts, fighting, like brave men, than to fall into the hands of their cruel and treacherous enemies. Had they been all men and combatants, this is the course they would have taken. Unhappily the larger number of the fifty and odd souls who were clustered together in the Fort were women and little children and men of peace. To them, as others urged, this offer of the Ranee gave the one and only loophole of escape that they could hope for, and so, with heavy hearts and ominous forebodings of evil, the brave men, who had counselled resistance, laid down their arms, the gates of the Fort were thrown open, and the Ranee's bodyguard marched in.
On the afternoon which witnessed the surrender of the English into the hands of the Ranee, two horsemen crossed the boundaries of the state, and stopped at a small village where one of them had friends. These advised them strongly to go no further, alleging that something extraordinary had been happening in the city. The two men refreshed themselves and their horses, and galloped on to a grove, which lay off the road, at a little distance from the village. Here, their horses being completely spent, they dismounted and let them rest. As they stood, with their hands on their bridle-reins, ready to mount and gallop at the least alarm, there came to their ears a rumbling noise as of distant thunder, and one of them—the master—said, 'We are too late. It has begun.'
'We are too late, Excellency. There is nothing for us to do now but to return whence we came,' answered the man.
'Go back you, Subdul! I must enter Jhansi, and see with my own eyes what is going on.'
'My master is not wise. He will not be able to help, and he will risk his own life, which is dear to his people.'
'Listen, Subdul!' said the young rajah, impressively. 'I have a friend in that city—a little child. She loves me and believes in me. All night long, while we were riding and resting, she has been beside me. I tell you it is no dream; it is a reality. She is calling me, and I must go. I must save my poor little Aglaia, or perish in the attempt. But you have no such call; and why should two of us risk our lives? Stay here, where you are known, or go back to Gumilcund.'
'Does his Excellency think that I would desert him?' said Subdul Khan, sorrowfully. 'He has seen what I can do. Let him give himself into my hands, and I will take him safely into Jhansi.'
'Make your own arrangements, Subdul; but remember that life or death may hang on the next few moments.'
'I will use every diligence,' said Subdul, and he mounted his horse and rode off, leaving Tom alone in the wood.
For more than an hour he waited patiently, and then, just as dusk was beginning to fall, Subdul came back. He had changed his dress and the accoutrements of his horse, so that at first his master failed to recognise him; but, just as he was grasping his weapon to defend himself, he heard his servant's voice.
'Does not my master know me?'
'Scarcely. What have you done to yourself?'
'I am in the dress of the Ranee's body-guard, Excellency. I met one of them. He was drunk with bhang, and red with the slaughter of your Excellency's countrymen. I drew him into a solitary place, slew him, and took his garments.'
Tom gave an involuntary shudder, for he was new to this kind of thing; but he made no remark. Mounting his horse, he followed Subdul out of the wood. They avoided the high road, and, the dimness of the light favouring them, crept along under the shadow of trees and walls until they reached the outskirts of the city. The open maidan lay now between them and the Star Fort.
'Stop,' whispered Subdul, as his master was about to gallop across it. 'Let his Excellency stay here for a few minutes! I will go forward and see what has happened, and come back to him. In this dress I can mix amongst them, and they will suppose me one of themselves.'
'Go,' said Tom; 'but come back quickly, or I shall not be able to bear it.'
They were close to a mass of ruined masonry, which rose between them and the town. Sheltering himself behind it, Tom looked and listened. From the city came a tumult of fierce cries and trampling feet; here and there clouds of smoke darkened the sky, and tongues of lurid flame darting from their midst would, for a few moments, light up the scene of ruin.
Tom's heart sank, and his breath came and went pantingly. He knew that Subdul was right, that for him to rush into the pandemonium before him would be ruin to himself and useless for others, and yet it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could preserve his patience.
Subdul, meantime, was pricking across the maidan. In the place where the cantonments had been, but which was now a shapeless mass of ruins, he met a body of sepoys. They had lanterns in their hands, and they were looking about for the gold and jewels which the Feringhees had left behind them. He pulled up, told them he had lost his way in the darkness, and asked where his comrades—the Ranee's bodyguard—were. 'Guarding the Feringhees' treasure,' said one of the men. 'The Ranee has taken it, but we mean to have our share.'
'Tell her so,' cried another, with a rude jest.
'What is that to me?' said Subdul. 'I obey orders. The Feringhees are slain?'
'Every man, woman, and child,' answered the soldier, savagely.
'How was it?' said Subdul. 'I have come in from the country, where I have been visiting my father, and I know nothing.'
The party of sepoys, most of whom were intoxicated, for they had ransacked the officers' wine-stores, broke into a loud laugh.
'By Allah!' cried one, 'I never thought to see such a sight. The infidels were in the Fort, pouring out blasphemies, and shooting down the sons of the Prophet like sheep. The evil one helped them, for they were few in number. It was hot work, brother: and who cares to die in the moment of victory? Our mother, the Ranee, who is a true daughter of the Prophet, saw how it was with us, and promised them their lives if they would give her up the Fort. They believed her word, and came out. Then we bound them and carried them to the yokan Bagh, where we fell upon them with the sword. There were fifty in all; men, women, and children. The women cried for mercy, and some of us delayed to smite, that we might hear them. But the orders were to be swift, so we finished them; and there they lie, unburied, for the vultures and jackals to feed upon. So may all enemies of the Prophet perish!'
He was answered by a shout that rang through the ruins. Subdul's fingers were playing with his sword; but he restrained himself, and said mildly, 'My brother is a man of war, and his deeds will win for him a place in Paradise! Will he tell me where this garden is? I have an enemy amongst the slain Feringhees, and I would fain see him with my own eyes.'
The sepoy, to whom this was a most natural request, pointed with his finger to the opposite side of the maidan. 'There is a ruined mosque close by,' he said. 'The fathers of the devils we have slain desecrated it, and it has never been rebuilt since.'
'I know the place,' answered Subdul. Sweeping round, he left them to their devices, and, after a few minutes of rapid riding, rejoined his master.
'What news?' said Tom.
'The worst!' answered Subdul; and he repeated what he had heard, adding that the garden where the dreadful deed had been done was close by the spot where they were standing.
For a few moments Tom was paralysed. This was worse—far worse—than he had dreamed.
'Women and children!' he groaned.
'Every one of them, Excellency.'
'The brutes! The devils! Subdul, if we had only a score of our Gumilcund men at our back——'
'We could do nothing, Excellency. There are hundreds in the city.'
'Cowards! every mother's son of them. I should have come with an army; but it is too late now. Let us look for the child.'
'Have I not told your Excellency that all were slain?'
'Aglaia is not dead! I am certain of it. Are you afraid to come into the garden where they lie, Subdul?'
'I will lead the way!' answered the man.
It was within a stone's-throw of the ruined mosque where they had been hiding—an enclosed space surrounded with walls, and set out with grim old trees, plots of yellow marigold, and shrubberies where roses, Cape jessamine, the champa, and the asoka grew. Once it had been a haunt and favourite pleasure-ground of the Ranee, who, in the days of her power, had built a pavilion in its centre. Now it was seldom used.
The two men found the gates open and the place deserted. Not a single soldier was left on guard. The murderers had done their foul work, and had gone away to their triumph and plunder, leaving the speechless witnesses of their treachery behind them. As, putting his horse to a foot-pace, Tom groped his way through the darkness, his heart contracted and his limbs trembled under him. Rather a thousand times would he have met a hundred foes in fair fight than this. Eagerly, meanwhile, he looked and listened, hoping against hope, that some might have escaped. Nothing was to be seen but the heavy foliage of the trees that blotted out the moonlight. Nothing was to be heard but the night-breeze as it played with their branches.
Suddenly a shriek, penetrating and prolonged, broke upon the silence. Another and another followed. They came up from the distance, and swept towards the riders, nearer and nearer, until, with a rush like a blast of wind in a narrow place, they passed them by. Sick with horror, Tom pulled up. Subdul struck a match, set fire to a torch of brushwood which he had been making as they went along, and swung it round his head, upon which there was another wild flight, and another prolonged shriek, which went on for a few moments and then died away in the distance.
'The wild creatures have scented the deed of blood,' said Subdul. 'These are jackals! And see, my master, see!'
As he spoke they came into an open space and Subdul waved his torch again. On the instant there was an awful, indescribable tumult, and in the next the heavens were darkened by the wings of gigantic birds. For a few moments they hovered overhead, casting their dread shadows on the moonlit earth, and then sailed slowly away to the grove which the riders had left.
'Does my master wish to see more?' said Subdul. 'They are there.' He pointed to a group of trees near the centre of the garden, under which they could faintly distinguish a mass of something dark.
'Subdul! Subdul!' cried the young fellow, piteously. 'I cannot bear it.'
'There is no need. I told my master that he could do nothing. Let us consider our own safety and go back,' said Subdul.
'But if any of them should be alive.'
'It is impossible. The fiends have done their work too well.'
'I must look for the child, Subdul. If she is there—but she cannot be; she cannot.'
'Listen,' said Subdul. 'What is that?'
They stopped. A low piping, sweet and clear, like the voice of an English song-bird in the fresh dawn of the summer morning, fell upon their ears. It came from a rose thicket, which lay to the right of the path. In a second Tom was on his feet and had thrown his reins to Subdul Khan. He stood for a moment listening, moving softly in the direction whence the sounds had come, and then stood again. He could now hear a little flutter, as of frightened breathing, and could dimly discern a white figure moving amongst the bushes.
With a beating heart he went nearer. A fugitive, probably a native servant, who would be able to tell him what he desired to know. He was almost afraid of moving, lest he should startle her, and was pondering how he could make known that he was a friend, when the piping bird-like voice, which he had first heard, began again:
There is a happy land, Far, far away,
Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day.
Sweetly the baby-voice lisped the sweet words. He could scarcely restrain himself. He made an involuntary movement, and the voice of the woman, faint with terror, came towards him: 'Hushee! Hushee! Missy Sahib. Some one is near.'
'God is near,' piped the sweet little voice. 'I saw His wings. They were so big, so big! I want Him to carry us away. I am so tired, and I don't like hiding all this time. Do you think He will?'
'Missy! Missy!' cried the poor creature. 'Get up; come away. They have seen us.'
'Tom said he'd come,' murmured the child.
The poor woman seized the child in her arms, but before she could run, a hand was laid on her garments, and a voice, which, paralysed as she was with terror, she recognised as the voice of a friend, called her by her name.
In the next moment, Aglaia had leapt from her arms, and was lying in the close embrace of her friend. He could not speak. Man as he was, his eyes were full of tears and his voice was choked with sobs. Holding the child to his breast, he guided the frightened ayah gently over the broken ground. Then, as he recovered, he began to murmur broken words of thanksgiving and endearment. 'My little darling! My treasure! You are safe! They may tear me limb from limb, but they shall not hurt you. Oh! thank God, thank God! that I have found you.'
As for the child, she said not a word. She clung to his neck. And so, coming back softly they found Subdul and the horses, and set off together—the child in Tom's arms, and the ayah riding behind Subdul—for the village where they had friends.
They went slowly, keeping close under the shelter of trees and houses. No one molested them. Fortunately for themselves they were in the outskirts of the city and cantonments, and throughout that dreadful night the revolted sepoys and the Ranee's body-guard were too busy setting fire to the Europeans' dwellings, and raking the ashes for treasure, to pay any heed to stragglers. In a short time they were out in the open country, and now they rode on more securely.
Aglaia was fast asleep in Tom's arms. The ayah had regained her powers of speech, and she poured out her history of all that had happened. The sahibs had gone into the Fort. She would not take the child in, for she knew what the soldiers were and she did not trust them. She flew by a secret way to the garden, and there they hid, she feeding the child on what she could find.
Did little Missy ask for her mother? Oh! yes, again and again; but she (ayah) told the child that the Feringhees' God had taken her away to stay in Paradise with Him, and she was satisfied. They were in the garden when the English were brought in, all of them bound with cords. It had been a long and sultry day, and the little one was asleep. Sumbaten heard, she dared not look. There were cries, but they were soon over, and then the soldiers went away, and everything was still. 'Missy was dreaming of you, Sahib,' she said to Tom, 'to-day and the day before. She began to sing when she awoke, and she said you were coming. Did your God tell her?'
He did not answer, but he pressed the child closer to his heart.
Of their further journey there is no space here to tell in any detail, nor do I know much concerning its incidents. In my friend's diary it is only briefly mentioned, and he suffers from a curious confusion of ideas whenever he thinks of it. It was due, doubtless, in a great measure to the admirable arrangements which Tom and his servants had made beforehand that they were able to carry it through successfully, for in every village on the route there were those who knew the Rajah of Gumilcund, and were ready to serve him. Once he was obliged to fall back on the pass given to him by Dost Ali Khan, who, as he presently found, was becoming a power in the land. What he most dreaded was an encounter with the White Ranee, but, being careful to travel by night and along the unfrequented routes, all of which were well-known to Subdul, he succeeded in avoiding her. He heard, however, that she continued to haunt the district, and that her armed train was constantly recruited by the soldiers whom Dost Ali Khan seduced.
After that first night, Aglaia and the ayah travelled in a litter, as ladies of high rank. The child's skin was stained, so that she might pass for an Indian, and Subdul, whose resources were boundless, managed to get a suitable dress for the ayah. As a general rule they camped out in the open, when Aglaia would amuse them with her quaint ways and sayings. Some days she would be as happy as if nothing had happened. At other times she cried piteously for her mother and father, and it was only when the ayah, who had a vivid imagination, assured her that she had seen God carrying them away to heaven that she would be pacified. 'Why didn't He take me too?' she would sometimes ask, a question which none of them found it easy to answer.
Happily for herself she had not, like other little ones, seen the horror that would ever after haunt them like a nightmare; and, day by day, as new scenes passed before her eyes, and fresh experiences greeted her, the memory of her nurse's frenzied flight, and of the two days in the garden, grew fainter. She still thought of her parents, but it was reproachfully, rather than sadly. They might have taken her with them when they went up to God. But this, after all, was ayah's fault, rather than theirs. Ayah had taken her away and hidden her. Tom said she had hidden her for him, which to Aglaia, who was now as deeply devoted to him as she had been on board the 'Patagonia,' was a sufficient explanation.
So, after several days and nights of travelling, they reached the borders of Gumilcund.
What an entry it was! Stranger even and more memorable than the young rajah's first arrival in the city that he was called upon to govern.
Runners had been sent out in every direction to seek for him, and when, late in the afternoon of a sultry June day, one of these came back with the joyful news that their rajah, bringing fugitives with him, was actually within the boundaries of the state, the enthusiasm of the people could no longer be suppressed. They poured out in their hundreds, armed men accompanying them, while in front of them rode Chunder Singh, the minister, and Vishnugupta, the priest, and when they saw the little group—the litter and its bearers, and the two horsemen riding beside it—joyous acclamations and shouts of welcome, and ejaculations of praise and thanksgiving, rent the air.