THE BREAKING OF THE MONSOON
We return to Gumilcund, where Tom had been established several days. The warmth of the welcome he had received and the calmness and wisdom of Chunder Singh, his counsellor, had helped him to regain the balance of mind which he had nearly lost in the late expedition. It was perhaps fortunate for him that he had no time to brood over the terrors of the hour. There was much stir in the city, and so soon as it was known that the rajah had come back, nothing was done without consulting him. It gave him a sad sort of amusement to find that he was looked upon by many not as a sovereign alone but as a supernaturally gifted oracle. And, in fact, he was often surprised by his own insight. Stranger as he was, he seemed to see instinctively into the heart of difficulties that puzzled the wisest heads in the city, and to propose solutions which were only reached by other men after arduous and prolonged thought. No doubt this was due, in a great measure, to the study he had given to the politics of India, and especially to the constitution of his own state; but it would come to him sometimes, with curious force, that this was not all; but that another intelligence, higher and more original than his own, was working within him and producing ideas of which he, Tom Gregory, the English-bred youth, could never have dreamed in the days that had gone by.
His position was a critical one, for Gumilcund lay in the very centre of the seething mass of insurrection that was converting the fair region of Central India into a desert. Several of the smaller native states were looking anxiously towards her to see what she would do. Those who had already cast off their allegiance sent haughty messages, threatening untold horrors if she did not join in the Holy War. The English Resident, who had courageously forced his way back to his post on the first hint of danger, used his influence on the other side; but this, as we have seen, was not necessary. Gumilcund had already taken her part. In one particular Tom was more fortunate than his loyal neighbours, his army, owing to the wise provisions of former rulers, being recruited from the lower and not the higher castes. Although, therefore, as a body of men, they were less magnificent to look upon, they had in them a root of loyalty that was altogether lacking in the haughty Brahmins and proud Mohammedan warriors, who formed the bulk of the Company's native contingent.
It was now proposed by the Resident that a body of these faithful troops should be sent to Delhi to help in the siege. On consulting Chunder Singh and Vishnugupta, both of whom knew the minds of the people, Tom found that nothing would please them more than that the army should be employed in such service.
Being thus satisfied, he announced his wish, which was responded to joyfully. Throughout the city there ran a glad tumult of expectation. Hundreds of trained men offered themselves as volunteers; and, out of these, a picked body of horsemen and foot soldiers was chosen, the command being given to a young officer of the Kshatriya caste, who had been brought up in the household of the late rajah.
Tom was overwhelmed, in the meantime, with sorrows of his own. He thought of his friends—the stubborn old General, of whom he had heard as travelling through the disturbed districts with a weak escort—sweet Lady Elton and the girls—his companions of the tranquil voyage in the 'Patagonia,' which seemed so long ago; and all of them seemed to be crying out to him to help them.
One effort he had made, and this, as we have already heard, had been so far successful that his agent, the versatile Subdul Khan, who could be groom, snake-charmer, pedlar or holy man at pleasure, had forced his way into Meerut and delivered the two messages, for answers to which Tom was now impatiently waiting.
He had written hopefully; but he was far from feeling easy; and, in fact, as day after day went by, bringing no news of Hoosanee, an anxiety for which words have no name took possession of him.
During the day-time he managed to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness; but at night, when everyone was shut out, and that curious double consciousness which was at once a comfort and a bewilderment would retire into the background of his being, there would rise from his tortured spirit a great and bitter cry. Grace—his beautiful, tender darling—lovely as a vision, pure as a saint. Grace, whom he would willingly have shielded, if his own life were to be the forfeit—where was she? Then, with a groan, he would spring up and pace the marble floor of his chamber, and fling his arms about as if he were at war with demons, and cry out to the All Merciful to kill him, and to let his darling live out her sweet young life in peace.
It was one of these restless nights towards the middle of June. All day long he had been hard at work and almost unconscious of any special pain. It had been sultry exceedingly, the skies like molten-brass, save over the western horizon, where leaden-coloured clouds were gathering in battalions, and the touch of the earth like a thrice-heated furnace. Tom, who was so much exhausted that he thought he must sleep, visited the little Aglaia, as was his nightly custom, listened for a few moments to the prattle of her and her ayah, and then retired to his own apartment. It was in this room that the late rajah had breathed his last; on which account partly, and also for its space and coolness, and the beautiful view from its low latticed windows of the fantastic Indian garden, and the little azure blue lake, and the low green hills behind the city, Tom had chosen it for its own. When he went in that night he found it dimly lighted by heavy wax candles that stood in sconces against the wall; the water in the marble canal that intersected it and in the small fountain that sprang from a basin in a recess at its upper end murmured dreamily, and through one of the lattices there stole in the silver rays of a young moon. At first the space and silence had a soothing effect upon him. He flung off the sword which he had been carrying all day, drew his revolver out of his belt, and threw himself down, just as he was, on one of the thick padded mattresses that lay on the marble floor. But he could not sleep. The moment he laid his head down upon his pillow the torturing thoughts began again, and he was obliged at last to spring from his bed, and to court the physical weariness which might bring sleep by pacing his room rapidly. The heat was stifling, or was it the fever in his blood? He could not tell; but he thought that, with all his strange experiences, he had never felt so strange as now, and for a few moments he forgot everything, even to the horror that was continually haunting him, in watching his own sensations.
Flames! leaping flames! Every part of his body was enveloped in them. They rose above his head, filling his eyes with blood; they made the veins of his body their pathway; he saw them before him, lying in fiery pools on the marble pavement, so that his feet were rooted to the ground and he dared not stir. This for a few moments, during which he fought passionately to regain his self-possession. Then shutting his eyes, he made a dash for one of the marble lattices and laid his forehead against the hard, cold stone. It seemed to him presently that his senses were slipping away from him—that he was falling into a stupor or swoon; and he must actually have lost consciousness for a time; but how long it lasted he could not tell. A breath of cool air, soft and tremulous as the kiss of loving lips, aroused him; and, with a curious sense of refreshment at his heart, he looked out. At first he saw nothing. It was the hollow blackness of a moonless Indian night that smote upon his eyeballs. Then, gradually, he began to see dim ghostly shapes moving in slow procession across the face of the sky. He was aware too of a curious, subdued tumult, multitudinous whisperings, growing, now and then, into a low shriek or wail, and with them a rushing noise as if winged creatures innumerable were sweeping by. With a dreamy sense of relief, which was as incomprehensible to himself as everything else about him, he stood gazing and listening, and the tumult grew; shriller and more piercing were the voices of air and sky; the earth strained and groaned as if the invisible forces hidden within her bosom were struggling for freedom; a mighty wind, that swayed the pendent branches of the banyan-tree in the court below, and shook the withered pods of the acacias, till they rattled like dead men's bones, rushed through the garden.
Then, suddenly, everything went. The heavens vanished away in abysmal depths of blackness. The ghostly shapes in the middle air—the dim outline of the trees, the dusty whiteness of the earth—all these were gone. The monsoon had broken, and, in all the world, there was nothing else.
How they fall—those torrents, those sheets of water, rushing through the air, making the sun-baked earth hiss as they touch it—falling, with dull, delicious splash into the lake!
Tom has pressed his face close to the lattice, and put out his hands to catch the drops of water that are running from the eaves of his house.
'Now God grant there are no fugitives abroad to-night!' he says to himself.
The words have scarcely escaped his lips before a sound, more definite than those of the tempest, strikes upon his ear. Some one down below is knocking for admission. In the next instant, just as he is about to go out and see who it is, he hears a brief parley, followed by the opening and shutting of the door that leads to his private apartment. There follow a few moments of suspense, and then Ganesh, the chuprassie, who is one of the most trusted of his servants, stands before him. Ganesh carries a torch, by whose light Tom sees that there is a strange glitter in his eyes.
'What is it?' he says. 'Who came in just now?'
'Excellency,' answers Ganesh bowing low, 'Subdul Khan, his Honour's syce, has come back.'
'Subdul! Thank heaven! Show him in!' cries Tom, in great excitement.
'Excellency——'
'Do you hear me, Ganesh?'
'Yes, master, Ganesh hears.'
'Then why——'
'Let my master have patience! Ganesh would speak with him before he sees the Sahib?'
'A Sahib—an English Sahib?'
'Excellency, he is in the hands of Hoossein Buksh, who will give him all he needs. He was wet through with the rain, and stained with travel, and he asked for water and fresh clothes before presenting himself to your Highness.'
'Right! Quite right! You have done well, Ganesh. But where is Subdul?'
'He is close at hand, Excellency; but let him wait. Ganesh, too, has a message for your Highness.'
'From whom?' gasped Tom. 'Hoosanee?'
'No, Excellency; and yet it has to do with the errand on which Hoosanee was sent. Had his Highness been pleased to trust Ganesh with his confidence, he might—but'—dropping his voice to a still humbler tone—'I am delaying, and your Highness, I can see, is impatient. The message of which I have the honour to be the bearer is from the illustrious Dost Ali Khan.'
'A traitor and a rebel,' said Tom, sternly. 'Do you mean to tell me that one of my servants has been in communication with him?'
They were still close to the marble lattice. The storm had increased in violence, and so fearful was the tumult that they could scarcely hear one another's voices. Tom moved to the centre of the room, and, feeling almost too weak to stand, threw himself down on one of the mattresses.
'Explain yourself,' he said, as firmly as he could. 'I would not condemn you unheard.'
Ganesh had followed him; he stood at the foot of his couch, looking down upon him.
'Your Excellency,' he said, with that curious dignity which generally characterises an Indian who respects himself, 'I knew Dost Ali Khan in the days of his greatness. Was I to forsake him when he was poor and deserted?'
'Certainly not, Ganesh; but, if I am to believe what I hear, he is poor no longer.'
'If your Excellency means that Dost Ali Khan, the son of the late rajah's friend, has raised the standard of revolt, he is right. He has done it to recover his own. But to my master he means well. He has not forgotten Delhi, and his food and rest in my master's tent.'
'But the message,' said Tom impatiently.
Ganesh hesitated a few moments, then he opened his vest and drew out a small roll of paper, which he placed in his master's hand, adjusting the light so that he could read it.
'Is this from Dost Ali Khan?' said Tom.
'Let my master read what is written,' answered the chuprassie.
Tom read the message, and re-read it. Then he looked up with blazing eyes.
'Do you know what is in this, Ganesh?' he said.
'Would Ganesh read a letter that was written for the eyes of his master?' answered the man.
'That is an evasion; and I do not ask if you have read. I ask if you know.'
'Where could Ganesh have seen the illustrious Dost Ali Khan?'
'Another evasion. Will you—can you—answer me directly? Do you know, or have you any suspicion of, the contents of this letter?'
Thus directly appealed to, Ganesh hesitated. He was a good servant, but he shared the weakness of his countrymen, in that the answering of a question with straightforward directness was so difficult to him as almost to amount to a physical pain.
'If,' he murmured, 'Ganesh has his ideas, why should he speak of them? They may be wrong, and then——'
'Wrong or right, I should like to hear them. Come, Ganesh, if you love me, as I think you do, answer frankly. God knows that, for the dear sake of the woman I love, I would willingly encounter any danger; but if it were useless, if I were to thrust my feet into a cunningly laid trap without helping her, of what good would that be to any of us? Answer me, you who know the man who wrote this letter. Is it a trap?'
'Master,' cried Ganesh, forgetting his caution. 'I beseech you to take the word of your servant. It is no trap. If it had been, does his Excellency think that Ganesh would have brought the message hither? Dost Ali Khan has not forgotten my master's kindness to him in the hour of his need—how he saved his life, and fed him, and gave him shelter, and comfortable words. Of this I am certain. Further, I know not.'
'But if you know so much, you must know more.'
Still more deeply Ganesh bowed his head, but he did not speak.
'Do you mean to say more?' asked his master.
'Excellency——'
'The time is passing. I must see Subdul and the English Sahib before the morning. Do you, or do you not?'
'If my master will deign to tell his servant——'
'No, Ganesh, I will tell you nothing. You must be frank with me before I can be frank with you. This, besides, is sudden. I must think and take counsel. You cannot speak, then leave me. Call Subdul, and let Hoossein Buksh tell the Sahib that I am ready to speak with him.'
There was no disputing this command. With a lingering look of perplexity and disappointment Ganesh left the room. A few minutes later, while Tom was still puzzling over the strange script, and wondering if any dependence was to be placed upon it, Subdul Khan, dressed in his faquir's disguise, stood before him.
He sprang up. 'You have succeeded, then?' he said eagerly.
'Yes, Excellency,' said Subdul, whose dark face was glowing with pleasure. 'I gave up your Highness's letters; and the Sahib who has come back with me brings word from his lords. We carried no letters, for there were two of us, and the task was so much the greater. But the face of the Sahib will be known to his Excellency, and he will be able to trust his word.'
'I would trust no one more than you, Subdul,' said Tom affectionately. 'My own brother—the son of my mother—could not have stood by me more truly than you have done. What would you have to mark my gratitude—gold, jewels, a robe of honour?'
'I would have nothing, Excellency, until these troubles are over,' said Subdul. 'For my master to call me brother is more than sufficient reward. And here comes the Sahib. Shall Subdul leave?'
'No. Stay where you are. You have earned a right to our fullest confidence. Have you eaten?'
'Yes, Excellency. While my master was talking with Ganesh food was brought to me.'
'Then sit down and rest,' said Tom, pointing to a pile of cushions close by.
Subdul obeyed deprecatingly, though as a fact his limbs, which had been in strong exercise for many hours, were nearly giving way under him from fatigue. Then, once more, the purdah before the door was lifted, and Bertie Liston, shaved and washed, and dressed in the whitest of English linen, and the most artistically built of Tom's English suits, which fitted him almost to perfection, came in. The contrast between this trim English gentleman and his present surroundings was so fantastic a thing that, excited and unstrung as he was, Tom could scarcely help laughing. As for Bertie, he made no bones about it; he laughed outright. Poor fellow! he was to hear in a few moments what would make him feel, like Trixy, that he would never be able to laugh again. He apologised, in the meantime, in his airy and graceful fashion.
'Excuse me, Mr. Gregory; but really this is—well—like a chapter out of Haroun El Raschid, or the other fellow, don't you know. You are Mr. Gregory, I suppose. Couldn't that good fellow, Subdul, give us a little more light on the subject? Ah! thanks,' as a pair of heavy gold candlesticks were placed on the table at Tom's elbow. 'Now we can see one another, and I begin to recognise you. We met at Meerut, if you remember, in the spring. Capital dance you gave, by-the-bye. Different sort of meeting this.'
'But a good meeting all the same,' said Tom, wringing Bertie's hand. 'And you look just as you did then. Sit down. Have they given you supper?'
'Enough to go on upon,' answered Bertie, laughing. 'A magnificent meal of some kind is being prepared outside. You are a regular Monte Cristo, old fellow.'
'Then if you can wait, and are able to talk, tell me for heaven's sake how they all are—the dear old General and Lady Elton and the girls.'
'They are pretty well, thank you. It was hoped, when we left, that General Elton had taken a turn for the better.'
'Has he been ill, then?' asked Tom.
'Ill? He has been at death's door. Haven't you heard of what he did?'
'I heard that he was travelling through the country with a small escort.'
'Yes, actually, after the mutiny at Meerut, when the troops were going off, regiment after regiment, like so many fire-rockets. I should think such a feat was never done before—rode through the most disturbed districts with only about fifty men, and not a soul molested him until he was close to Meerut.'
Here Bertie gave a dramatic account of the ambush near Meerut, and of how, by his pluck and resource, the General had extricated himself from it.
'What a grand old fellow he is!' said Tom, who had been listening with the deepest interest. 'And he is better?'
'We hope so, physically at least; but his mind is, for the present, curiously astray. I am sometimes afraid that it is a case of heart-break. He can't get over the treachery of the troops, especially of his own pet regiment, and he can't forgive himself for bringing his people over. If he knew for certain that his eldest daughter was safe I think it would go far towards restoring him.'
'Ah!' groaned Tom, 'that is just it. If any of us knew!'
'I thought you wrote——'
'What I wrote was true then. I had reason to believe that I had a clue, but I lost it again. I should tell you that I have been in constant communication with Nowgong for some time. One of the most trusted of my servants went there several weeks ago. We were certain the detachment there would rise, and I offered an asylum to all the ladies. The officers refused, and we tried to persuade Miss Elton to come away with her cousin and another lady, but she declined. In all the station there was the most insane confidence in the native troops. Seeing I could do nothing personally, I sent my servant to watch, and stationed men of my own in the neighbouring villages. I started for Jhansi, hoping to gain the protection of the Ranee for our poor friends there. But I was taken by a troop of Dost Ali Khan's soldiers, and kept prisoner for three days. When I got away it was too late.'
'What?' gasped Bertie, who had not yet heard these awful news. 'You don't mean to say that they were——?' He could not finish.
'Massacred, every one of them, except a little child whom I saved and brought back with me,' said Tom very sadly.
Bertie groaned. 'I had friends there,' he faltered. 'Poor devils! Well——'
'It was a swift death,' said Tom. 'They gave themselves up, as they had no food, and they were brought out together. The horror was soon over. I saw them lying out under the stars.'
'For the vultures and jackals to feed upon! God! God! Do you think there is a God, for I don't. Could He—would He——?' The poor boy, for he was little more, sank down and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was ghastly pale. 'I had a sister there,' he whispered, 'lately married. She was—but what's the use of talking? A baby, too, a few months old. I went to see them in the winter, and the little rascal held out his fist for my sword. We said he was to be a soldier. Here'—leaping up—'let me go out of this. I can't stand it. I must punish the brutes, or——'
'You will, all in good time,' said Tom; 'but you must wait. We must all wait. Sit down and try to be reasonable. Remember the living.'
'Have we any right to be living—we men? Great heavens! The tender, the helpless, the innocent! No one to defend them. If I had only been there!'
'You could have done nothing,' said Tom sadly.
'Couldn't I? Who knows? At least I could have killed some of them. Oh God! Oh God! It will kill me.'
There was a pause. Bertie was sobbing like a child. Tom sat where he was, gazing out before him—his eyes hot and dry. He, too, would have wept, but he could not. The anguish of suspense, which is even more terrible than the horror of certainty, was working within him, and the solace of tears would not come.
After a few moments Bertie lifted his head. 'You will think me a poor weak fool,' he said feebly, 'but, by heaven, who could help it? I heard of them only a few weeks ago. They were pitying us, and feeling confident about themselves. The good Ranee would take care of them. Had she a hand in it?'
'I dare not say,' answered Tom. 'All I know is that she had herself proclaimed as an independent ruler, so she has at least consented to it. But why talk about what is over? We have something to do in the present, you and I. Here in Gumilcund we are staunch, thank God! and our object is one. We are weaving a net about the feet of these murderers of women and children, and you must help us. That was my reason for sending to Meerut. Now at last I hope the English Government will find out who its true friends are. In the meantime, Captain Liston, we must forget our private vengeance. It will be swallowed up in the larger. Are you listening to me?'
'Yes, yes. Only tell me what to do and I will do it.'
There followed a conversation, into the details of which it is not necessary to enter here, for the daring plans which it initiated, and which were afterwards adopted by the English rulers in this region of India, form part of the general history of the war.
When morning broke over the storm-swept country they left Tom's sleeping-room and went out into the banqueting-hall, where a fine repast had been spread out by the rajah's servants.
In the course of the morning they parted. Bertie, accompanied as before by Subdul Khan, went back to Meerut to lay Tom's sagacious proposals before the General in command there, while the rajah rode in state to the principal gate of the city to bid farewell to the gallant little army that was setting out for Delhi.