On the Face of the Waters: A Tale of the Mutiny

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

There was a rush onward toward the boastful, arrogant voice, the report of half a dozen muskets, and the crowd surged on to revolt over the body of the man who had fired the first shot of the mutiny.

For it was a strange crowd indeed; most of it powerless for good or ill, sheep without a shepherd, wandering after the rabble of escaped convicts and the refuse of bazaars as they plundered and fired the houses. Joining in in the license helplessly, drifting inevitably to violence, so that some looked on curiously, unconcernedly, while others, maddened by the smell of blood, the sounds of murder, dragged helpless Englishmen and Englishwomen from their carriages and did them to death savagely.

But there were more like Soma, who, as the darkness deepened and the glare and the dire confusion and dismay grew, stood aloof from it voluntarily, waiting, with a certain callousness, to see if the master would come, or if folk said true when they declared his time was past, his day done.

Where was he? He should have come hours ago, irresistible, overwhelming. But there was no sign. Not a hint of resistance, save every now and again a clatter of hoofs through the darkness, an alien voice calling "Mâro! Mâro!" to those behind him, and a fierce howl of an echo, "Mâro! Mâro! Mâ-roh!" from the faithful troop. For Captain Craigie, finding none to help him, had changed his cry. It was "kill, kill, kill" now. And the faithful troop obeyed orders.

Soma when he heard it gave a great sigh. If there had been more of that sort of thing he would dearly have loved to be in it; but the other was butchery. So he wandered alone, irresolute, drifting northward from the dire confusion and dismay, and crossing the Mall to question a sentry of his own regiment as to what had happened to the masters. But the man replied by eager questions as to what had happened to the servants. And they both agreed that if the two thousand could not quell a riot it would be idle to help them, the Lord's hand being so palpably against them.

Nevertheless, half an hour afterward the sentry still waited at his post, and the guard over the Treasury saluted as if nothing unusual was afoot to a group of Englishmen galloping past.

"Those men know nothing," called Major Erlton to another man. "It can't be so bad. Surely something can be done!"

"Something should have been done two hours ago," came a sharp voice. "However, the troops have started at last. If anyone----"

The remainder was lost in the clatter. But more than one man's voice had been lost in those two hours at Meerut on the 10th of May, 1857; indeed, everything seems to have been lost save--thank Heaven once more!--personal courage.

It was now near eight o'clock, and Soma, skulking by the Mall, midway between the masters and the men, still irresolute, still uncertain, heard the first cry of "To Delhi! to Delhi!" which, as the night wore on, was to echo so often along that road. The cry which came unbidden as the astounding success of the revolt brought thoughts of greater success in the future.