CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERY OF THE CHUPATTIES.
As sleep fell upon the northern quarter of Meerut on that Saturday night, there was an unusual stir in the native part. In the lines of the native soldiery, in the populous bazaars, and in the surrounding villages, a fatal signal was passing. Five fleet-footed Indians were speeding from place to place; and as they went, they put into the hands of the principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty; and, like the fiery cross, it was the signal of a general rising.
On the banks of the Goomtee there rose the lichen-covered wall of a half-ruined temple. Hitherto, silence had reigned in its deserted halls, and the lizard and the serpent had hunted undisturbed for prey amongst the fallen shafts and broken capitals. But the grey ruin was witness of a strange scene to-night. Hundreds of natives were pouring in from all parts. At every entrance to the temple a guard was posted, and admission could only be gained by giving a password. That was “Chupatty.” But all comers knew the pass; none were turned away. Rapidly the crowd swelled with soldiers and civilians, until every available space was occupied. They perched on the broken walls, on the fallen columns, on the moss-covered arches. Wherever a foot-hold could be gained, there was a native. Here and there was suspended a native lamp—a cotton-wick placed in cocoa-nut oil, contained in a cocoa-nut shell. Seen in this dim light, the scene was striking and picturesque. The dusky forms of the natives seemed to be everywhere—above, below, around. The dark wall of the ruin appeared to be actually jewelled with gleaming eyes, which, as they caught the fitful flare of the lamp, flashed with hatred and revenge. A dull, confused sound only was heard as the swarming natives conversed one with another in subdued tones. Presently six distinct beats were given on a tom-tom. Then there was a death-like silence, as there entered, by the main entrance, a tall man, whose face was muffled with a puggeree. He was followed by several other natives; and as they entered and took up their position at one end of the ruins, salaams rose from a hundred throats. Then the tall man threw back his puggeree, and exposed his features. They were massive, firm, and of the true Mahratta cast. His skin was light brown; his lips full and sensual, and his eyes small, restless, and cunning. He was a powerfully-built man, with a full, flowing beard, his age about thirty years. His bearing was proud and haughty; his dress handsome, being that of a Mahratta prince. Round his neck was a massive gold chain, and on his fingers sparkled numerous and costly jewels. His head was encircled with a rich turban, ornamented in front with a single large diamond. From a jewelled belt round his waist protruded the inlaid handles of native pistols; and at his side was suspended a tulwar. This was Dhoondu Pdnt, the Nana Sahib of Bhitoor. He was attended by his war minister, Teeka Singh, and his confidential friend and adviser, Azimoolah. The latter a short, slim man; but supple and panther-like in his movements; his face had but one expression—that of pitiless ferocity. In a few moments the Nana addressed the assembly.
“Countrymen, I have ventured here to-night that I may, by my presence, inspire you with courage and hope. We stand on the eve of great events, and no man has the cause more at heart than I. We wait but for one signal now to decide us in the course of action we are to take. That signal is to come from Delhi. Our agents have been hard at work for some days, and if the regiments there will join us, and give us shelter if needed, all will be well. Though I must hurry back to Bhitoor to-night, that it may not be known, until the proper hour arrives, that I have shaken off allegiance to the hated Feringhees, I shall be with you in spirit; and, in the name of the Prophet, I invoke success on your arms. When you strike, remember that you strike for your freedom, for your religion. Let the House of Timour be restored, and the Imperial Dynasty of Delhi be revived in all its ancient glory and splendour. Let our race of mighty kings be perpetuated, and the great white hand of the hateful British be crushed and trampled into the dust. We are a great people. We have been enchained, enslaved, and robbed of our birthrights. Let us rise now as one man, and strike for those sacred rights of which we have been deprived. Steel your hearts against every feeling of pity. Let not the pale faces of either their women or children raise one sympathetic feeling in your breasts. When the opportunity arrives I will perform deeds that shall not only be an example to you, but that shall make my name known throughout the world, and the name of Nana Sahib shall be in every man’s mouth. Let Hindoos and Mahomedans alike be stirred but by one impulse to slaughter the Feringhees, man, woman, and child. The English are luchar (helpless). They sleep in fancied security, and dream not that their doom is sealed. We have past injuries to avenge; we have future dangers to guard against. Let our feelings declare themselves in characters of fire. Let the firebrand tell these invaders of our soil that, from end to end of India, we have common cause, and that we strike for liberty!”
The Nana ceased speaking, and a murmur of applause ran through the assembled multitude.
“Jewan Bukht comes not, sahib,” said Azimoolah, after a pause. “I hope his mission has not failed.”
“The Prophet forbid,” answered the Nana. “His mission was fraught with danger, and he may have been unexpectedly detained. When he departed on Wednesday he said he should be back to-night, to bring to this meeting the answer of Delhi.”
“I hope he has not proved false?” Azimoolah remarked, his cold eyes glittering like a snake’s.
“False! No,” exclaimed the Nana. “I’ll answer for him with my life. He is a useful man; he knows the ways of the English well, having been brought up in one of their schools. No, no; Jewan is not false. He has personal motives for being true to us, and he has much to gain. Ah! I hear the sounds of horse’s hoofs in the distance. Let the word be passed to the guard to be on the alert.”
The ring of horse’s shoes could now be distinctly heard, as it galloped furiously along the hard road. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, and in a few minutes the tom-tom was beaten again as a signal that someone of importance had arrived. Then in a little time a man, hot and breathless, rushed into the presence of the Nana, and, prostrating himself at his feet with a profound salaam, took from his turban a small chupatty, and handed it to the Prince. On it was inscribed, in Hindostanee characters, painted red, the following:—