They received private intelligence too. Strange and pathetic, as some of us will remember very well, were the letters exchanged between friends and relatives in those strange days. You would mourn a dear friend as dead, and then, all of a sudden, one wonderful morning you would see a letter in his well-known handwriting; and when, with beating heart, feeling as if a missive had come to you from the grave, you would tear it open, you would find that your friend had given up you as lost, and was writing to you joyfully as one brought back from the jaws of death. These were the bright spots—the red-letter days—in that time of anguish. Of those other letters which brought no joy, only a fearful confirmation of our worst fears—the letters which told us of the tender hunted to death—of the fair and fragile giving way under the awful strain of horror, and sleeping, as we fondly believed, in the bosom of their God—of the beautiful, the strong, the noble cut off in the flower of their youth and the plenitude of their service—yes, of these, too, we carry about with us memories, and the bitterness of those memories will never fade until we meet our beloved on the further shore. Of news such as these there is happily no question here. Mrs. Durant heard of her husband. He had escaped from Nowgong by the skin of his teeth, having been surrounded and actually imprisoned for a season by a body of his own men who, though pledged to the mutineers, were unwilling to injure him personally. Mrs. Lyster knew of her own the very worst. Little Dick's father had been summoned to Allahabad shortly before the outbreak at Nowgong, and joyful news it was to him that his wife and son were safe at loyal Gumilcund. Lucy was encouraged by letters from Meerut, and she sent back such encouragement as she could. Tom—they would know who Tom was—had left everything and run the risk of rebellion in his wonderful little State, which Lucy remarked parenthetically was like the Garden of Eden before the Fall, just to search for Grace and Kit. He had not come back; but he had been heard of, and it was the belief of everyone that he would succeed, so she begged her uncle, and aunt, and cousins to keep up their spirits and to hope for the best.
They smiled when they read the fly-away letter. It was like herself; but it was not very satisfactory to them. And indeed the family were in miserable case just then. General Elton, who had barely recovered from the effects of his wound, was about again; and it may be that the bolder counsels which began from this time to prevail in Meerut were due in large measure to his advice and assistance. But he himself was, if that were possible, a greater anxiety to his friends than when he had been lying at the point of death, for then they at least knew the worst. Now his restlessness and irritability were such that they could never for a single instant be sure of him.
Accustomed as he had been to take a large share in the conduct of affairs, his personal inactivity galled him. He had no civil authority, and the collapse of the magnificent army with which for so many years it had been his pride to be connected, had deprived him, at a stroke, of his military occupation. Meanwhile the state of anarchy, into which the province was falling, cut him to the soul, the more so that he felt convinced something might be done to check it.
With the Asiatic nothing goes so far as audacity, a quality which he cannot understand, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, does not believe in. Where he sees unflinching boldness, he suspects hidden strength, and as often as not he will throw down his arms rather than have them forced from him. So the General was never tired of preaching, but for some time no one would listen to him.
Then there came a change. From the hills, where, when the storm broke, he had been enjoying his well-earned holiday, the gallant collector, Dunlop, came down. He was armed with the authority of a magistrate over the districts surrounding Meerut, and, to the surprise of everyone, he asserted his determination of exercising it without delay. He would march out alone if no one cared to join him, and it was his belief that the terror of the English name, reinforced by the outcries of the unfortunate people, whose lands had been ravaged by a brutal soldiery, would carry him along.
Dunlop was one of those Englishmen who believed in audacity.
But if a few volunteers amongst those whom the breaking up of the old order had deprived of occupation would put themselves under his orders, there could be no doubt that the pacification of the country would be more easily and swiftly accomplished.
We may imagine, but it would be very difficult to describe, the effect of this announcement on the fiery soul of the old General. As a war-horse that scents the battle-field afar off; as a Moslem soldier, who sees the pearly gates of his Paradise slowly opening like a flower across the clouds and thunder of tumultuous war, so he felt when, to the deep dismay of his family, he went up to Dunlop and offered him his sword. Numbers followed his example, but of the brilliant and successful campaign in which they took part there is no need to write here. It has its place in history.
Twice the seasoned old soldier rode out with the gallant little corps, called the Khakee Ressalah, on account of its dust-coloured uniform, and twice he returned to his trembling wife and children, safe, but triumphant. As for Trixy, though no less anxious than her sisters, she did not once bid her father stay. I rather think she would have liked to march with them. 'One of us ought to have been a boy,' she said to her mother one day. 'Women have far the worst of it—sitting at home and watching and weeping—it is very hard work and rather humiliating.'
'Hush! Trixy; you don't know what you are saying,' said Lady Elton. And then the wild look that they all dreaded to see came over her face, and she cried out piteously, 'Yes, child, you are right. I have too many daughters, and the world is cruel to women. If a man dies, he dies fighting. If a woman dies——'