CHAPTER XIII. FOR LIBERTY AND LIFE.
The cry of alarm that startled the fugitives came from a powerful Sepoy, and it was his arms that encircled Harper.
“Traitorous wretch!” said the man, addressing Haidee; “you shall die for this. I saw you leave the Palace, and, suspecting treachery, followed you.” And again the man gave tongue, with a view of calling up his comrades.
He had evidently miscalculated the odds arrayed against him. Martin was a few yards in front, but realising the position in an instant, sprang back to the assistance of his companion. Then ensued a fierce struggle. The man was a herculean fellow, and retained his hold of Harper. Martin was also powerful, but he could not get a grip of the Sepoy, who rolled over and over with the officer, all the while giving vent to loud cries.
“We are lost, we are lost, unless that man’s cry is stopped!” Haidee moaned, wringing her hands distractedly; then getting near to Martin, she whispered—
“In your comrade’s belt is a dagger; get it—quick.”
The Sepoy heard these words, and tightened his grasp, if that were possible, on Harper’s arms, and rolled over and over with him, crying the while with a stentorian voice.
Not a moment was to be lost. There was no time for false sentiment or considerations of mercy. Martin, urged to desperation, flung himself on the struggling men, and getting his hand on the throat of the Sepoy, pressed his fingers into the windpipe, while with the other hand he sought for Harper’s belt. He felt the dagger. He drew it out with some difficulty. He got on his knees, his left hand on the fellow’s throat. As the three struggled, the Sepoy’s back came uppermost.
It was Martin’s chance. He raised his hand, the next moment the dagger was buried between the shoulders of the native, who, with a gurgling cry, released his grip, and Harper was free.
As he rose to his feet, breathless with the struggle, Haidee seized his hand, and kissing it with frantic delight, whispered—“The Houris are good. The light of my eyes is not darkened. You live. Life of my life. Come, we may yet escape.” She made known her thanks to Martin by a pressure of the hand.
Another brilliant flash of lightning showed them the stilled form of the Sepoy. A deafening crash of thunder followed, and the rain came down in a perfect deluge.
The storm was a friend indeed, and a friend in need. It no doubt prevented the cry of the now dead man from reaching those for whom it was intended, as, in such a downpour, no one would be from under a shelter who could avoid it.
The howling of the wind, and the heavy rattle of the rain, drowned the noise of their footsteps.
Drenched with the rain, her long hair streaming in the wind, Haidee sped along, followed by the two men. She led them down the avenue of banyans, and then turning off into a patch of jungle, struck into a narrow path. The lightning played about the trees—the rain rattled with a metallic sound on the foliage—heaven’s artillery thundered with deafening peals.
Presently she came to a small gateway. She had the key; the lock yielded.
“There is a guard stationed close to here,” she whispered: “we must be wary.”
They passed through the gateway. The gate was closed. They were in a large, open, treeless space. Across this they sped. The lightning was against them here, for it rendered them visible to any eyes that might be watching.
But the beating rain and the drifting wind befriended them. The open space was crossed in safety.
“We are clear of the Palace grounds,” Haidee said, as she led the way down a narrow passage; and in a few minutes they had gained the walls of the city.
“We must stop here,” whispered the guide, as she drew Harper and Martin into the shadow of a buttress. “A few yards farther on is a gate, but we can only hope to get through it by stratagem. I am unknown to the guard. This dress will not betray me. I will tell them that I live on the other side of the river, and that I have been detained in the city. I will beg of them to let me out. You must creep up in the shadow of this wall, ready to rush out in case I succeed. The signal for you to do so shall be a whistle.” She displayed a small silver whistle as she spoke, which hung around her neck by a gold chain.
She walked out boldly now, and was followed by the two men, who, however, crept along stealthily in the shadow of the wall. They stopped as they saw that she had reached the gate. They heard the challenge given, and answered by Haidee. In a few minutes a flash of lightning revealed the presence of two Sepoys only. Haidee was parleying with them. At first they did not seem inclined to let her go. They bandied coarse jokes with her, and one of them tried to kiss her. There was an inner and an outer gate. In the former was a door that was already opened. Through this the two soldiers and Haidee passed, and were lost sight of by the watchers, who waited in anxious suspense. Then they commenced to creep nearer to the gateway, until they stood in the very shadow of the arch; but they could hear nothing but the wind and rain, and the occasional thunder. The moments hung heavily now. Could Haidee have failed? they asked themselves. Scarcely so, for she would have re-appeared by this time. As the two men stood close together, each might have heard the beating of the other’s heart. It was a terrible moment. They knew that their lives hung upon a thread, and that if this devoted woman failed, nothing could save them. Still they did not lose hope, though the suspense was almost unendurable. Each grasped his pistol firmly, to be used as a club if occasion required. The termination of what had verily seemed an hour to them, but in reality only five minutes, brought the welcome signal—the whistle was blown.
“You first, Harper,” said Martin.
They darted from their hiding-place and rushed through the door; a Sepoy tried to bar the passage, but was felled by a blow from Harper’s pistol; in another moment they were outside the walls—Haidee was waiting for them.
“Speed!” she cried, leading the way.
The alarm was already being spread. A deep-toned gong, that could be heard even above the howling wind, was warning the sentries that something had happened.
From gate to gate, from guard to guard, the signal passed, and soon a hundred torches were flaring in the wind; there were confusion and commotion, and much rushing to and fro, but nobody exactly seemed to know what it was all about, only that someone had escaped. A few shots were fired—why, was a mystery—and even a big gun vomited forth a volume of flame and sent a round shot whizzing through space, only to fall harmlessly in a far-off paddy-field. In the meantime the fugitives, favoured by the darkness and the wind, sped along, keeping under the shadow of the wall, until the bridge of boats was passed.
“We cannot cross the bridge,” said Haidee, “for on the other side there is a piquet stationed.”
“How, then, shall we gain the opposite bank?” asked Harper.
“By swimming,” she answered.
When they had proceeded about a quarter of a mile farther, Haidee stopped.
“This is a good part; the river is narrow here, but the current is strong.”
“But will it not be dangerous for you to trust yourself to the stream?” Martin remarked, as he divested himself of his jacket.
“Dangerous? No,” she answered; “I am an excellent swimmer.”
She unwound a long silken sash from her waist, and, tying one end round her body and the other round Harper, she said—
“I am ready. Swim against the current as much as possible, and you will gain a bend almost opposite to us.”
Martin walked to the water’s edge, and, quietly slipping in, struck out boldly. Haidee and Harper followed, and as they floated out into the stream she whispered—
“We are bound together. Where you go I go; we cannot separate.”
It was hard work breasting that rapid current, but the swimmers swam well, and the bank was gained. Emerging, somewhat exhausted, and with the muddy waters of the Jumna dripping from them, they stood for some minutes to recover their breath.
Haidee was the first to speak.
“We are safe so far,” she said. “Before us lies the Meerut road. The way to Cawnpore is to the left.”
“Then I suppose we must part,” Martin observed.
“Yes,” she answered. “You have but thirty miles to go; travel as far as possible during the night, and in the morning you will be safe.”
Martin took her hand.
“You are as brave as beautiful, and I am too poor in words to thank you. But in my heart I have a silent gratitude that time can never wear away.”
“God speed you,” joined in Harper. “Tell my wife that you left me well and hopeful. Bid her wait patiently for my coming.”
“You may depend upon me.”
Martin shook the hands of his friends, and, turning away, was soon lost in the darkness.
When his retreating footsteps had died out, Haidee grasped Harper’s hand, for he stood musingly, his thoughts preceding his friend to Meerut; he felt not a little sad as he pictured his wife waiting and weeping for him, and he wondered if he would ever see her again.
“Come,” said Haidee softly. “Come,” she repeated, as he did not seem to notice her at first, “time flies, and we are surrounded with danger.”
He turned towards her with a sigh.
“Why do you sigh?” she asked.
“I scarcely know.”
“Is it for one who is absent?”
“Perhaps so.”
She sighed now, inaudibly, and she pressed her hand on her heart; but he did not notice the movement.
“Cawnpore is distant,” she said, in a low tone, “and the night is already far spent. Let us go.”
And so they went on, side by side, into the darkness, on to the unknown future. And the wind moaned around them like a warning voice, and beat in their faces as if it would drive them back.
CHAPTER XIV. THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE.[3]
For many years, up to eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, Cawnpore had been one of the greatest Indian military stations. In the palmy days of the Honourable East India Company all the officers invariably spent some period of their service there. As a consequence, there were wealth and beauty and fashion to be found in the British quarters; there were luxury and ease, and their concomitants, profligacy and vice—and yet withal it was perhaps neither better nor worse than all great military centres—while for rollicking gaiety and “life” it stood at the head, even Calcutta being behind it in this respect. But when the mutiny broke out, Cawnpore’s sun was declining,—not but what it was still a station of importance, but the coming end of the “Company’s” power had brought about many changes in this as well as in most other Indian cities.
It was an irregularly built place, some eight miles in extent. Squalor and wealth seemed to fraternise; for in many parts the lordly mansion raised its head beside some tumble-down, reeking native den. There was no pretension to anything like mathematical precision in the streets. They had been laid out in the most promiscuous manner. In fact, it might not inaptly be said that if you wanted to construct a Cawnpore such as it was at the time of our story, you must take a big plain with lots of cocoa-palms about, and a broad river running through it. Then get many hundreds of bamboo and mud huts; a few marble palaces, some temples with gilded minarets, a few big public buildings, a hospital or two, a gaol, and a quantity of miscellaneous structures, such as an arsenal, barracks, etc., shake them all up together, and toss them out on the plain, and there you have your Cawnpore.
To be accurate in the description, which is necessary to the better understanding and interest of this history, the city is built on the banks of the Ganges. The British lines were on the southern bank, and in the centre of the cantonment, and leading from a point opposite the city, was a bridge of boats to the Lucknow road on the other bank. Lying between the roads to Bhitoor and Delhi were many of the principal civilians’ houses. Beyond the lines were the gaol, the treasury, and churches; while squeezed up in the north-west corner was the magazine. In the centre, between the city and the river, were the assembly-rooms—made notorious by subsequent events—a theatre, a church, and the telegraph office. The place was well provided with entertainments. There were splendid shops, and they were well stocked with goods of every description, from almost every country in the world. Western civilisation and Indian primitiveness were linked.
In this terrible “57” Cawnpore was commanded by a General of Division, Sir Hugh Wheeler, who resided there with the Division staff. But although there was an immense strength of native soldiery, not a single European regiment was garrisoned in the place, the only white troops being about fifty men of her Majesty’s Eighty-fourth and a few Madras Fusiliers. Sir Hugh was a gallant officer, who had served the “Company” long and honourably, and was covered with scars and glory. But the sands of life were running low, for upwards of seventy summers and winters had passed over his head. A short time before, the only regiment that had been stationed in Cawnpore for a long time had been sent to Lucknow. This was the Thirty-second Queen’s. But they left behind them all the impedimenta, in the shape of wives, children, and invalids; and the awful responsibility of protecting these helpless beings devolved upon the time-worn veteran. Some little distance out on the Bhitoor road, there stood a magnificent dwelling, a veritable palace, with numberless outbuildings, courtyards, and retainers’ quarters. It was the home of the Rajah of Bhitoor, Dundoo Pant, otherwise Nana Sahib. His wealth at this time was almost boundless. He had troops of horses, and elephants, and quite a regiment of private soldiers. Many a time had his roof rang with the hearty laughter of English ladies and gentlemen. He was the trusted friend of the Feringhees, was this Mahratta prince. They loaded him with wealth, with favours, with honour, did all but one thing—recognise his right to succession. And their refusal to do this transformed the man, who, although a courteous gentleman outwardly, was a tyrant in his home life, and this failure to gratify his ambition turned his heart to flint, and developed in him the sanguinary nature of the tiger, without the tiger’s honesty. Well indeed had he concealed his disappointment since “52,” when Azimoolah, who had gone to England to plead the prince’s cause, returned to report his failure. To speak of Azimoolah as a tiger would be a libel on the so-called royal brute. He might fittingly be described as representing in disposition the fiends of the nether world, whose mission is to destroy all good, to develop all evil, to drag down the souls of human beings to perdition. He was the bad tool of a bad master, if he did not absolutely lead that master to some extent. Allied to the twain was Teeka Singh, soubahdar of the Second Cavalry. The trio were as cowardly a set of villains as ever made common cause in a bad case.
Between the King of Delhi and the Nana there had been numberless communications and frequent interviews, spreading over a period of some years. The imbecile puppet of Delhi fondly imagined that he could be a king in power as well as name, and he looked to Nana of Bhitoor as a man who could help him to gain this end. Actuated by similar motives, Nana Sahib fraternised with the King for the sake of the influence he would command. But between the two men there was an intense hatred and jealousy. Each hoped to make the other a tool. It was the old fable of the monkey and the cat realised over again. Both wanted the nuts, but each feared to burn his fingers. In one thing they were unanimous—they hated the English. They writhed under the power of the Great White Hand, and wished to subdue it. But although the King betrayed this so that he incurred the mistrust of the English, the Nana was a perfect master in the art of dissembling, and all that was passing in his mind was a sealed book to his white friends.
When the revolt broke out in Meerut, old Sir Hugh Wheeler fondly believed that the storm could not possibly spread to Cawnpore. But as the days wore on, signs were manifested that caused the General considerable uneasiness. Some of the native soldiers became insubordinate and insolent. Still he felt no great alarm, for in an emergency he had his trusted and respected friend the Rajah to fly to for assistance. The General, iron-willed and dauntless himself, showed no outward signs of mistrust. He had passed his life amongst the natives. He loved them with a love equalling a father’s. He respected their traditions, honoured their institutions, venerated their antiquity; and while the storm, distant as yet, was desolating other parts of the fair land, he betrayed no doubts about the fidelity of his troops. Morning after morning he rode fearlessly amongst them, his genial face and cheery voice being seen and heard in all quarters. But as the mutterings of the storm grew louder and more threatening, anxiety for the hundreds of helpless people on his hands filled him. He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was danger—a terrible danger—in the air. It was his duty to use every endeavour to guard against it, and he felt that the time had come to appeal to his friend the Rajah.
He rode over to the Bhitoor Palace, and was received by the Nana with studied courtesy and respect.
“I have come to solicit aid from your Highness,” the old General began, as he seated himself on a luxurious lounge in what was known as the “Room of Light,” so called from its princely magnificence. The roof was vaulted, and, in a cerulean ground, jewels, to represent stars, were inserted, and, by a peculiar arrangement, a soft, violet light was thrown over them, so that they scintillated with dazzling brightness. The walls were hung with the most gorgeous coloured and richest silks from Indian looms. The senses were gratified with mingled perfumes, which arose from dozens of hidden censers. The most exquisite marble statues were arranged about with the utmost taste. Mechanical birds poured forth melodious floods of song. The sound of splashing water, as it fell gently into basins of purest Carrara marble, rose dreamily on the air. Soft and plaintive music, from unseen sources, floated and flowed around. The floor was covered with cloth of spotless silver; a profusion of most costly and rare furs were scattered about. Articles of vertu, priceless china, gilded time-pieces, gorgeous flowers, and magnificent fruits were there to add to the bewilderment of richness and beauty. While over all, through delicately-tinted violet and crimson glass, there streamed a mellow light, the effect of which was the very acmé of perfection. It was verily a bower of dreams, a fairy boudoir. A confused medley of colour, of beauty, and sweet sounds, that was absolutely intoxicating and bewildering.[4]
It was here that the Rajah, attired in all the gorgeousness of a wealthy Mahratta prince, and attended by a brilliant suite, received Sir Hugh Wheeler.
“My services are at your command, General,” was the Nana’s soft answer. But his dusky cheeks burned with the joy that animated his cruel heart as he thought that his day-star was rising; that the stream of time was bringing him his revenge; that the great nation which had been the arbiter of others’ fate, had become a suppliant for its own. “In what way can I render you assistance?” he asked after a pause.
“Your Highness is aware,” the General answered, “that there rests upon my shoulders a very grave responsibility, and I may be pardoned if I confess to some anxiety for the safety of the large number of women and children who are under my care.”
“But what is the danger you apprehend, General?” and the Nana laughed loudly, coarsely, and it might have been gloatingly; for he stood there, in that paradise of beauty, a spirit of evil, and in his soul there was but one feeling—it was the feeling of revenge. His heart throbbed revenge; in his ears a voice cried revenge. It was his only music, night and day it went on ceaselessly; he listened to it; he bowed down and worshipped before the god of destruction and cruelty. For years he had prayed for the gratification of but one desire—the desire to have these Feringhees in his power; and the answer to that prayer was coming now. Neither wealth nor the luxury that wealth could purchase could give him one jot of the pleasure that he would experience in seeing the streets of Cawnpore knee-deep in English blood. He felt himself capable of performing deeds that a Robespierre, a Danton, a Marat, ay, even a Nero himself, would have shuddered at, for the barbarities of the Roman tyrant were the inventions of a brain that beyond doubt was deeply tainted with insanity. But no such excuse as this could ever be pleaded for the Rajah of Bhitoor. It would be impossible for the pen of fiction to make this man’s nature blacker than it was; he was a human problem, beyond the hope of human solution; one of those monstrosities that occasionally start up in the world of men to appal us with their awfulness, and seemingly to substantiate the old belief that in the garb of humanity fiends of darkness dwell upon the earth. And yet, with a wonderful power of self-control, he betrayed nothing of what he felt.
“Objectionable as it is for me to have to think so,” answered the General to the Nana’s question, “there is a fire smouldering in the breasts of the native regiments here stationed; they have caught the taint which is in the air, and a passing breath may fan the fire into a blaze, or the most trivial circumstance develop the disease. After what has been done at Meerut and Delhi, we know to what length the Demon of Discord can go when once it breaks loose!”
“I think you are alarming yourself unnecessarily, General; but, since you desire it, pray tell me in what way my services can be utilised?”
“Firstly, then, I must ask you to post a strong body of your retainers, with a couple of guns, at the Newab-gung. This place commands the treasury and the magazine, both exposed places, and the first places that will be attacked in case of a revolt.”
“You English look well after your money stores, Sir Hugh,” jocularly remarked Azimoolah, who had been examining a large portfolio of water-colour drawings of English “beauty spots.” And as he stepped forward a few paces, he rubbed his hands, and his face was contorted with a sardonic smile. I say contorted, for it was a singular characteristic of this man that he could not laugh; the hearty cachinnation of honest men became in this one a mere contortion of the facial muscles; and his eyes, cold and snake-like, glittered with a deadly light. “I noted, as the result of close observation when in England,” he continued, “that this same money was a very much worshipped god; and those who had it were flattered and fawned upon, and those who had it not were the despised and rejected.”
“But is that not a principle unfortunately common to every people?” Sir Hugh remarked.
“Possibly; but I think nowhere is it so conspicuous as in England. And, after all, I think that there is a good deal of emptiness in the boasted freedom of the English; for the poor are slaves in all but name, and the task-masters of Southern America are not more grinding or exacting than are your English lords and capitalists. The dogs and horses of your wealthy squires are housed and fed infinitely better than are your poor.”
“I think you are prejudiced against my nation,” said the General.
“Possibly so,” was the pointed answer, “and, perhaps, not without cause; for I found that the English are much given to preaching what they never think of practising; and the boasted liberality of John Bull is a pleasant fiction, like many more of the virtues of that much vaunted personage.”
“But to return to the subject of our conversation,” joined in the Nana, as if fearing that Azimoolah’s feelings would betray him into some indiscretion; and so he was anxious to put an end to the discussion. “You wish me to place a guard over your arsenal and treasury?”
“That is my desire,” said Wheeler.
“Good; orders shall at once be given for two hundred of my retainers to march to the Newab-gung. That point being settled satisfactorily, what is your next request, General?”
“That you will hold your troops in instant readiness to join my little body of men, and suppress the insurrection, should it unfortunately break out.”
“That also shall be complied with,” smiled the Nana. “Anything further to request?”
“I think not; but I cannot allow the opportunity to pass without thanking your Highness for your ready acquiescence to my wishes, and in the name of my country I further tender you thanks for your devotion and loyalty.”
The Nana smiled again and bowed, and Azimoolah adjusted his gold eye-glasses, and pretended to be busy in his examination of the portfolio; but into his face came back the expression of ferocious joy, and it was with difficulty he suppressed an audible chuckle.
The business upon which he had come being ended, the General took his departure.
“Inflated fool!” muttered the Rajah, when his guest had gone. “Loyalty and devotion forsooth! Umph! bitterness and hatred methinks.”
“The brow of your Highness is clouded,” said Azimoolah fawningly, as he closed the portfolio and came forward.
“Clouded?” laughed the Nana; “no, no, Azi, clouds sit not there. It is joy. Joy, my faithful. Ah, ah, ah, ah! Clouds, indeed! By our sacred writings, I should be unworthy of my sire if I allowed a cloud to darken the joy I feel. Ah, ah, ah! the confidence of these English is amazing. They think they can put their heads into the lion’s jaw with impunity. Well, well, let them do it. The lion knows when to close his jaws at the right moment.”
“Say rather, your Highness, that the tiger, having scented quarry, knows how to track it to the death with downy tread, and spring as light as air.”
“Aptly said, Azi, and so it shall be. They shall say I am the tiger before I’ve done. Come,” linking his arm in Azimoolah’s, “let us walk in the grounds. Order the dance for to-night, and let there be a display of fireworks. By the beard of Mahomet, we will make merry. ‘With downy tread, and spring as light as air.’ Ah, ah, ah! So it shall be.”
The mechanical birds were warbling sweetly, and unseen censers were making the air balmy with delicious perfume, the silken curtains rustled pleasantly, the falling water plashed musically. There was peace and beauty around, above, below; but in the hearts of these two men, as they went out, laughing sardonically, there was the deadly poison of human hatred, and no shadow of the Great White Hand disturbed them in the hour of their supposed triumph. Indeed the Nana believed that the power of the British in India was fast waning, never to be restored.