THE RANEE OF JHANSI
Amongst the introductions which Tom took with him to India was one to Dinkur Rao, Dewan or Prime Minister at the Court of the Mahratta Prince, Sindia, Maharaja of Gwalior. The Dewan was one of those remarkable men who, at critical times, stand out boldly from their fellows. Subtle of mind and sagacious, and possessing to a degree which, in a full Asiatic, is unusual, the executive talent through which great theories can be brought out in action, he had already steered the State, to the government of which he had been summoned when the youthful Maharaja attained his majority, through more than one dangerous crisis. Like Jung Bahadoor, he had fully realised the importance to his country of British over-lordship in the peninsula; and, unlike the Nana, Kunwer Singh, and the host of fanatic priests and prophets, who thought that to exhaust England and to drain her of her population would be an easy task, he held firmly to his belief in the strength, no less than the beneficence, of the Paramount Power.
As regarded his policy, both internal and external, Dinkur Rao might almost be said to have been the pupil of the late Rajah of Gumilcund; and although, being hampered by obstacles from which that enlightened ruler was free, such as an intriguing court, and a young sovereign of unstable mind, who had on one occasion at least deliberately reversed the wise measures of the Dewan and shut him out from his counsels, he could not give to his own people such happiness and security as was enjoyed by the people of Gumilcund, he was able, through the superior position of Gwalior and her larger resources, to exercise a more commanding influence on the policy of the nations of Central India than Gumilcund could have done, even if her wise ruler had lived to tide her through this dangerous crisis. The Dewan had heard of the probable arrival at Gumilcund of the rajah's heir. A certain amount of mystery surrounded him; but he believed him to be, like his predecessors, of mixed blood, and was not, indeed, altogether indisposed to suspect that he was actually the son of the late rajah by an English mother. As he had loved the father, he was ready and anxious to make the acquaintance of the son. When, therefore, having passed through the cantonments and pitched his camp on an open space outside the native city and fort of Gwalior, Tom sent in a messenger with his letter of introduction and a note from himself requesting permission to pay his respects to the Maharaja and the Dewan, Dinkur Rao started off, attended by a guard of honour, to meet and welcome him. Then, having received him with Eastern ceremony, he escorted him back to the city, and introduced him to the Maharaja, who set apart rooms in the palace for his use.
Tom spent three days enjoying the hospitality of Gwalior. Before the end of that time, he and the Dewan had become firm friends. In the long nights that they spent together on one of the palace balconies, while the Dewan smoked his hookah and looked up meditatively into the starlit sky, Tom unburdened himself of some of the thoughts and feelings that had possessed him since he entered upon his new life.
He was troubled by his inability to lay out the future. 'I make plans one day,' he said, 'and I change them the next, and I find no firm standing-ground anywhere.' He was troubled still more by the dual impulses that governed him, and by the way in which startlingly new thoughts and unbidden imaginations forced themselves upon his mind. 'I thought I knew myself,' he said sadly; 'but I find that my very will is not my own.'
The Dewan consoled him. 'It is a time of transition with you,' he said. 'The new has not yet accommodated itself with the old. Western ideas, and, if I may venture to say so, Western prejudices, are warring in your mind with the Orientalism which is its true element. You will settle down in time and then you will take the best out of both. Who knows that the Great Spirit may not have decreed that you shall be one of the reconcilers for whom the world is waiting? Your father, the great Byrajee Pirtha Raj, of blessed memory, believed that such would be, and that only then, when the East learned from the West and the West from the East, as now they interchange terrestrial products, would the earth and her long-troubled children enter upon the holy path that leads to spiritual freedom.'
'And do you think this time is near?' said Tom, trembling.
'Nay,' answered the Dewan, smiling. 'I am no prophet. The future is with the gods.'
'But you think that England does well to maintain her power in India?'
'I know that in England is our only hope. They are preaching independence to the people,' cried the Dewan, his excitement rising as he spoke. 'Govern yourselves, they say. Be free men! Throw the invaders from the West into the sea! The fools! Do they know what they mean? Are we then one nation in India? Can we be governed by ourselves? They know very well that we cannot. There is not one preacher of sedition at this moment who is not well aware that the retreat of the English would introduce a period of anarchy such as even our unhappy country has never known. And how could it be otherwise? Moslems, Hindustanis, Bengalis, Mahrattas, Sikhs, Punjaubis, Ghoorkas, hill tribes of the north, and hill tribes of the south—we are far more foreigners to one another than French and English, Spaniards and Germans. Which of all these, I ask you, shall govern the others? Who are to be the free and independent men, and who are to be the slaves?'
'The strongest would come to the front,' said Tom.
'The strongest, yes; and think of the sea of bloodshed and misery through which we should have to wade before that was proved. They know it very well, these preachers. I caught one, a Moulvie of great sanctity, preaching rebellion to my soldiers. Before I sent him to Yama I asked him this question: who is to govern us all, I said, when the English have gone? I asked it in the presence of the poor fools he had been trying to delude. If he could answer me I said I would spare him. There were three different religions amongst them, and he knew that if he pronounced for one the votaries of the other would tear him to pieces. So he stood dumb and was led away to death. No,' said the Dewan, 'however it may be in the future, those amongst us who are wise know that for the present the Paramount Power is needed. We may regret the necessity; but we should feel gratitude rather than aversion towards the strong hand that, by compelling our mutual animosities to be still, gives us time for such internal development as can alone make us great and prosperous. That at least is our attitude, and my master will maintain it—of this I am certain. Yes, even if his own soldiers desert him.'
In after days, when Sindia and his State were put to the test, Tom remembered those brave words well.
He paid one more important visit before going on to Gumilcund. It was to Jhansi, a little state and town lying to the south of Gwalior, which was one of the kingdoms, tributary now to the English, formed out of the ruins of the Peishwa's dominion after the Mahratta War. The late rajah was the last representative of the reigning family. His widow survived him. She was beautiful, talented, and strong. Her energy and ambition, held all her life long in reserve, were ready to leap forth when the moment for their exercise should come. She would govern the state—she a woman, and govern it as none of the voluptuaries who preceded her had done!
Her dream was destined to disappointment. The petition which she presented to the Paramount Power praying for the succession, first to herself and after her to her adopted son, was rejected. But the Government of India would not be unjust. A pension should be allotted to the widow of the rajah, and she should be permitted to reside in her own palace at Jhansi.
The Ranee gnashed her teeth. Had Jhansi been strong and rich she would have flung the Governor-General's pension in his face, and dared him to do his worst. As it was she bided her time. Yearning for vengeance with the fierce, concentrated passion of the strong in mind and helpless in body, she sat at home, brooding over her wrongs, but doing nothing. Her guaranteed income, so petty to her magnificence, was, in the course of time, reduced. The late rajah had left debts. The present governor refused to settle them. The Ranee stated, mildly enough, her inability to pay, and the governor of the province decreed that her pension should be mulcted of a certain yearly sum until the amount due from the late rajah's estate had been paid. And still the Ranee said nothing. Being too weak to rebel, she was too proud to murmur. But the sore in her spirit grew. Sitting with bowed head in the retirement of her palace, she heard of the worship in Hindoo temples being stopped for lack of funds, of priests and Brahmins wandering homeless through the land, and of kine being slaughtered in the very heart of the stainless city; but still she made no sign. Then, at last, the year of prophecy, with its strange portents, dawned. Flat cakes, the sacrament of union in life and in death, were carried from village to village. From one to another, through the crowded bazaars and markets, and into the temples defrauded of their gains, there flew a mysterious whisper of impending change. It penetrated to the palace where the Ranee sat, nursing her vengeance, and with a rapture, such as she had never hoped to know, her darkened spirit leapt to meet it. Destruction—death—torrents of blood—a great dominion established on strength and cemented by terror, passing away for ever. What could it mean but that the hour for which she had so long and so hopelessly craved had come? And now the Ranee put on a smiling face. She welcomed the English to her palace, and entertained them royally. 'We must bow to the will of the Supreme,' she said, when one and another expressed surprise at her changed attitude. She would even confer gravely with the English authorities on the emergencies of the time, and recommend measures for their security. But all the time she was adding to her bodyguard, and secretly drawing the discontented about her, and exercising her magnetic power of fascination on the troops.
Such was the state of Jhansi when the rajah's heir came knocking at the Ranee's door.
She had heard of his probable accession, and of his progress through Central India, and she was exceedingly anxious to see him; as soon, therefore, as he gave in his name he was admitted.
It was evening, the Ranee's reception-hour. This the captain of her lately enrolled bodyguard, a man of splendid stature and dull, forbidding face, told the visitor. Following him, he wound his way through some narrow passages, until a heavy curtain before a closed door pulled them up. The captain threw the curtain aside and opened the door, and a curious spectacle presented itself to Tom. He was in a large hall, paved and lined with marble, and lighted by beautiful perforated windows, through which streamed softly the golden light of evening. It fell on a motley crowd, barefooted and dressed in every variety of Eastern costume.
To Tom's eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, there seemed to be nothing but a confusion of swaying forms and faded colours. Halting for a moment to recover himself, he saw that the crowd which was spread thinly over the hall concentrated at its upper end. Thither his conductor led him, the throng parting right and left to allow him free passage. In front of him was a marble daïs, raised a few steps above the level of the hall. To this he lifted his eyes and found himself in the immediate presence of a woman of queenly figure. It was the Ranee. He thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen a finer sight. None, indeed, knew better than the Ranee of Jhansi the effect of the senses upon the imagination; no one has ever been more skilful in use of the arts by which such influence as she desired was won.
That evening she was dressed in a robe of curiously figured satin and woven gold; a gauze veil, which softened, but did not hide her proud and beautiful face, was thrown over her, and her seat was a finely carved and gilded chair.
For an instant the English youth was bewildered; in the next he remembered the part he had to play; while the Captain was recounting his name and titles, he prostrated himself reverently. When he lifted his head, he saw that she was standing—a noble figure in her splendid raiment—and making signs to him to approach nearer to her. He mounted the daïs, the lady encouraging him by a smile. An attendant, in the meantime, brought forward a low chair, upon which, in obedience to the Ranee's invitation, he seated himself.
What was to come next? The experience being totally novel, he thought his most prudent course would be to wait. He sat silent, therefore, feeling conscious in every nerve of the keen and fervent gaze which, from under that silvery veil, was enveloping him.
'Are you one of us, my lord?' said the Ranee at length.
'I am the slave of her Excellency,' he answered, bending low.
'I have many slaves in name,' returned the Ranee, a proud and bitter smile playing about her lips.
'Surely her Excellency is unjust to her servants,' said Tom.
'You are right, Sir Stranger,' said one who stood by—a ponderous and unwieldy figure of a man, clad in white muslin tunic and crimson sash.
'Is he, Nawab?' said the Ranee, a flash of what looked like irony darting from her eyes. 'Then, let me beseech you, who have repeatedly called yourself my slave, to dismiss our friends, and to retire yourself. I would confer with this youth alone.'
For an instant the Nawab's eyes gleamed ominously, and his fingers played with the hilt of his sword; but the Ranee's gaze was upon him, and he recovered himself. 'Your Excellency's orders shall be obeyed,' he said.
He went down into the hall to make her wishes known, whereupon one after another made their salaams; so that in a few moments the hall was cleared. Our hero, as we shall imagine, was feeling anything but easy. What could the Ranee wish to discuss with him secretly? Had she any dangerous designs to communicate, and, if so, how could he—a man in disguise—receive such confidences?
The Ranee was too keen not to read the perturbation of his mind; but not keen enough, fortunately for him, to trace it to its true source. He was impressed, she believed, by her beauty and dignity. This was no new thing to a woman accustomed to homage; but the youth, fair looks, and ingenuousness of her new acquaintance made the incense of his adoration peculiarly sweet. She was unscrupulous, as we know; where she had wrongs to avenge she could be cruel; yet she was not without the generosity, which is the redeeming virtue of strong characters. Looking at Tom she formed a hasty resolution. He should not be drawn into the plot they were framing. She would prevent it. He had nothing to avenge. If he threw himself into the quarrel it would be for her sake; and, in the event of failure, he would lose not his raj only, but his life; while the fearful rapture of gratified hatred to which she looked forward as the sweetener of her fall would not exist for him. And so, to Tom's surprise, for the Dewan had begged him to listen with caution to anything the Ranee might have to say, she gave him prudent counsels.
'You have come to us at an uneasy moment,' she said. 'The hearts of the people are hot within them, and none of us knows what may happen. Had I been continued in the government of my state, I could have led it safely through this difficult time. But it was not to be. The English are wise, and they have dispossessed me.' Into her dark eyes there came a gleam of anger, and her brows knit themselves fiercely together; but in a moment she recovered herself. 'What is all that to you?' she said. 'You are a stranger. Take the advice of one who wishes you well, and wait and watch. Your state is small. Nothing will be asked of you by the English. Agitators will be afraid to trouble you. Until you know what turn things will take, you can keep quiet; and, if you lose your raj, you will preserve your life.'
Tom was deeply touched by the care for a stranger's safety which these words implied; but they unloosened his tongue, so that he said unthinkingly, 'You see danger of a rising?'
For fully a minute the Ranee looked at him. She seemed to be searching him through and through. Then her words dropped out slowly, as if hissed through her teeth, 'There will be a rising; I am certain of it.'
Everything—her beauty, her kindness, her solitary position, a woman alone among all these men, and the fearful nature of the crisis to which she looked forward—seemed to rush together to Tom's brain in one overwhelming tempest cloud of thought. Wild with pity and terror, he flung himself at her feet. 'Gracious lady,' he cried, 'can you do nothing? Think, in heaven's name! Do not be angry with me, I beseech you! It is stronger than I am. I must speak. I have seen your face; I have listened to your voice with its words of good counsel, and I know its power. Speak you to the madmen who are stirring up strife. They will—they must listen to you!'
'You magnify my ability, Sir Rajah,' said the Ranee. 'I am only a poor pensioner of the English.'
'You are a queen,' said the boy chokingly. But he rose to his feet.
'I thank you for your good words,' said the Ranee gently. 'They are pleasant to me, and I shall not forget them. But say I did speak, and say my people listened to me, what then? Will the English give me back the power of which they have robbed me? Will they atone for the insults offered in their name to our families and our faith? Will they give us men of our own blood to be our rulers? I know they will not, and I, who, if they had been true to me, would have thrown the whole weight of my influence into their cause, I wipe my hands of them. If those who were once my people revolt—they revolt—what is that to me? I would not lift up my little finger to prevent them.'
'But,' said Tom chokingly, being moved to the heart, 'you will at least——'
'I will listen to you no longer, lest you make me angry. I have warned you, and that is enough. And now tell me about England. I have seen the name of the Island written on one of our maps. It is a small place, but the people must be restless and clever. I hear that they have dominions in other parts of the world, in America and the islands of the sea. How do they defend themselves when their soldiers are scattered?'
'Your Excellency,' said Tom, smiling, 'can have no idea of the power and resources of England. I have lived there since I was a child, so I ought to know. She has cities of vast size and overflowing with people. She has armies to which those you see here are but a handful ready at a moment's notice to be sent to the ends of the earth at her pleasure. She has great Generals—men of nerve and power and endurance—in her service. She has cities of workmen, who are forging every day the munitions of war; and she has fleets in constant readiness to transport her soldiers across the sea. You in India, who have never been over the black water, can have no idea of what England is.'
'Jung Bahadoor told me something of this, but I believed that he spoke largely for his own purposes,' said the Ranee. 'He has always cultivated the friendship of the English. You assure me that it is true!'
'How could I dream such wonders? It is true, every word of it,' said Tom, 'and I could tell you more.'
'Nay,' said the Ranee with a smile, 'you have told me enough. To know that they are strong will not make me love them more. Tell me of yourself. You are going on at once to Gumilcund?'
'With your Excellency's permission, I will start between night and morning.'
'Stay one more day, and look round you.'
'I thank your Excellency humbly.'
'That is well. Then I shall see you again at this hour to-morrow.'
He rose and bowed low, and having called some of the servants who were hanging about the ante-rooms, she committed him to their care; but Tom, acting on Hoosanee's advice, preferred sleeping in camp to sharing the noisy hospitality of the Palace.
Had Hoosanee had his will, they would have started that night, but Tom felt bound to visit the Ranee again. Never before had he met a woman of her type. She fascinated his imagination, so that he could scarcely sleep for thinking of her, and it was after a vivid dream in which the Ranee figured as a new Joan of Arc, leading her troops to victory, that he opened his eyes the next morning.
Hoosanee was standing over him with a cup of coffee. 'If my lord wishes to see anything of Jhansi, this is the time,' he said.
'All right, Hoosanee. Have Snow-queen saddled,' said Tom.
Snow-queen was an Arab mare of the highest lineage, which Tom had brought up with him from Bombay. She was full of spirit, could race like the wind, showed no signs of flagging until she was completely dead-beat, and was as gentle as a well-trained child in the hands of those who used her kindly. No one but her master and the syce, Subdul Khan, who had been with her since she was a foal, ever touched Snow-queen. To him, as to Tom, she was more like a human being than a beast of burden.
A few minutes after Hoosanee had given the order, Subdul Khan, who had already groomed and fed the beautiful white mare, was leading her gently up and down in front of their master's tent. A second syce led a horse for Hoosanee. Dressed in the half-Oriental, half-European style, which is the out-of-doors costume of many an Indian gentleman, Tom came out. His face, which had been pale and sad that morning, brightened when he saw his favourite, and he gave a low whistle, to which she responded by arching her neck, and pawing the ground.
'The White Ranee is impatient,' he said smilingly to Subdul Khan, as he gathered up the reins and vaulted on to her back.
'She will go like the wind, your Excellency. The day's rest has done her good,' said the groom, looking, with pride in his dark face, at his young master and the snow-white steed.
'Then let her go,' said Tom.
'One word, sahib,' said Subdul Khan, whose hand was still on Snow-queen's bridle. He spoke low and mysteriously, and Tom, fearing that he had made some uncomfortable discovery about his mare's soundness, stooped down to listen. But all Subdul Khan said was, 'Let me entreat my master to be careful. There are traitors in this place.' Before Tom could ask him to explain, Snow-queen, free at last, had set off, with her long, easy stride, tossing her mane and snorting joyously. The rapid movement was exhilarating. Tom's spirits rose till he felt ready to defy the universe.
'What do we care for traitors?' he said to his horse in English. 'We could escape, you and I together, if we were put to it, old friend! I can see you dashing through a crowd of them like a whirlwind. There! gently! gently!' Snow-queen, excited by her master's voice, and in mere wantonness of heart, had tossed up her heels and redoubled her pace. 'We are coming into civilised quarters, Snow-queen, and we must behave like civilised beings.'
They had crossed the Maidan, a wilderness of burnt-up grass, where the native troops, whose huts could be seen as a low, white line in the distance, were drilled and trained under their European officers. They were coming now upon a road, on either side of which the bungalows of the English military and civil officers, with the humbler dwelling-places of Eurasian and European clerks and mechanics, were scattered.
Here Tom drew up and waited for Hoosanee, who was some distance behind him. The gallop over the Maidan had satisfied Snow-queen for the moment, and she stood perfectly still, while her master, stroking her glossy neck caressingly, looked out before him.
It was very early indeed. The sun had not yet leapt over the rim of the vast plain; but the eastern heavens were glowing like a furnace, and from the dreadful zenith star after star was fading out. Beneath the sky the plain, with its villages and groves and burnt-up fields, and multitudes of freshly-kindled morning fires, round which, like busy ants, the people clustered, lay outstretched mysteriously. Not the Elysian fields themselves could have been more peaceful than this early morning scene.
Hoosanee came up, and they cantered quietly along the pleasantly shaded road that led through the European quarter. Early as it was there were many stirring. Slender, pale-faced English children, dressed in white blouses, were mounted on ponies led by dignified Indian servants. Several ladies were riding and driving, and from the bungalow-gardens came sounds of laughter and chattering, as little groups gathered round spread tables under the trees to enjoy the freshness of the morning.
Tom was looking out on this absently, his heart full of the wistful longing, which always possessed him when he saw English faces and heard the English speech, to mix with his compatriots as one of themselves, when a small face, which had been for some moments looking up into his face with questioning eagerness, detached itself from the multitude of confused impressions about him. He looked down and saw as quaint and pretty a group as it would be possible to imagine. The child, who had been looking up at him—a little girl dressed like a fairy in blue and silver—formed the centre of the group. A ridiculously small pony, decked out in gay trappings, and led by a smart little Indian groom, carried the child, and an ayah, swathed in spotless white, walked beside her.
'Why,' said Tom, pulling up, 'it is Aglaia!'
At the sound of his voice, the child, whose little face had been looking troubled, clapped her hands and laughed; and Tom, feeling quite unable to preserve his character of Oriental passivity, leapt to the ground, and caught her in his arms.
The ayah, who had taken him for an Indian of rank, looked at him in the utmost bewilderment; but her attention was happily diverted, for Hoosanee, too, had leapt from his horse and he was looking at her with a curious fixity. No sooner had she seen him fully than she broke into a little cry of 'Hoosanee! How did you come here?'
Tom looked back. 'Your Excellency,' said the man, his dark face glowing, 'the young woman is my sister Sumbaten!'
'Why,' said Tom, 'this is quite a romance. And where do you and Sumbaten live, Aglaia?' The child pointed with her small forefinger to a small building on the outskirt of the Maidan, which looked more like a tomb than a house. She was clamorous that Tom should go home with her at once. 'I've such lots of things to show you,' she said. 'Three new dollies, and a tea-set, and a sweet little bird. Then there's my dada—you haven't seen my dada yet, have you?'
'No,' said Tom gravely. 'Is he nice?'
'He's lovely,' said the child. 'Come and see him now!'
'I am afraid I can't, Aglaia.'
'Why can't you, Tom?'
'I am going on to another place, where I have a beautiful house with all sorts of lovely things in it. You and your mother and father must come and stay with me there some day.'
'But you're quite close to my house,' persisted Aglaia. 'Do come!'
Here Hoosanee stepped forward. 'His Excellency is being observed,' he said in a low voice. 'He would do well to mount and ride on.'
Two of the Ranee's body-guard, dressed in gaudy but ragged clothes, were strolling down the road, their swords clanking behind them. Hoosanee had been right in his surmise. Their master, the Nawab, had pointed Tom out to them the previous evening as a person to be suspected, and they had come out with the object of spying his movements. Had they heard him speak to the English child in English, his fate would have probably been sealed, for these men, who had served in British armies, knew the sound of an English voice. But Hoosanee's watchfulness had, for the moment, forestalled theirs. When they came up, Tom, who looked all the Oriental, was mounted and giving directions in Hindustani to Aglaia's servants. With reverent salaams the men passed on, and Hoosanee whispered to his sister that she should take the child away.
'Sahib, it is for their sakes,' he explained hurriedly to his master. 'We should draw suspicion upon them. The budmashes respect nothing. They only wait for an opportunity to do wickedness.'
Aglaia was resisting the efforts of her ayah to draw her away. Her sweet violet eyes were full of tears, she could not understand the change in her friend Tom, or why he should look at her so solemnly, when she was so glad to see him. 'Won't you come?' she sobbed. 'I want you to see my dada.'
'Yes, yes,' said Tom low and hoarsely. 'Go home and I will come some day. Perhaps when you want me the most.'
'I want you now,' said Aglaia.
'Missy come away; come quick!' urged the poor little ayah whom Hoosanee's frantic signs were goading into desperation. 'The sun it is coming and mem sahib she scold poor Sumbaten.'
'Go on dear,' said Tom, lingering and feeling half disposed to follow her, while Hoosanee was writhing over his young master's folly and at his own inability to make him do what was wise, and then Snow-queen, the wisest of them all, as Subdul Khan said later, settled the question for them. She was impatient of standing, and Tom touched her inadvertently, and all in a moment she bounded away. She was seen darting like a flash of light across the Maidan and into the wilderness beyond. It was a wonderful sight, so said the few Europeans who witnessed it, marvelling at the daring and perfect horsemanship of a native. Later it was said that there was something uncanny in the business, for the beautiful white horse and its rider, though looked for diligently by one or two, were not seen again in Jhansi.
When Aglaia had finished her usual prayer that evening, she stopped. 'Mother,' she said, 'may I say something from myself?'
'Certainly you may, darling,' said Mrs. White.
Then Aglaia shut her eyes up tightly and clasped her hands. 'Oh! God!' she said. 'Thank you for sending Tom. Please may he come back soon!'
After that she lay down contentedly. 'I was going to cry,' she said. 'But I won't now. He's sure to come, isn't he, mother?'
Before her mother could answer she was asleep, and every night, up to a certain night that I shall have to tell of presently, she insisted upon adding this petition to her prayers.