CHAPTER XXI. THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER.
As Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal arranged their plans, and then separated in the hope of speedily meeting again, they little dreamt of the mine upon which they stood. The woman was as ignorant of the true state of Cawnpore as Walter himself. She had no idea that all was ready for the revolt, and that in a few hours all the horrors of the mutiny would be visited upon the devoted heads of the little handful of English in the city. But the ways of Providence are mysterious. From a human point of view, all things might have been ordered differently; but it was ordained otherwise—ordained for some special purpose that the cups of sorrow of some of the people in the city was to be filled to overflowing ere relief came; and to this Walter Gordon was to be no exception. When Zeemit had disappeared, he left the shed which had for the time given him shelter and security, and with heavy heart he set his face towards the British quarters. He had little difficulty in finding his way on to the high road. And though he was frequently accosted by the passing natives, he made motions to all that he was dumb; he was thus enabled to pass on unmolested; but as he went, he gathered scraps of information, which left him no doubt that the troops were on the eve of rising.
When he reached the outlying sentries of the British defences, he was stopped; but he speedily made known his nationality to the man who challenged him, and was allowed to pass on.
He lost no time in seeking out Sir Hugh Wheeler, and soon related his story to the General, who was no less pained than he was astonished.
“I think the old woman has counselled you well,” Sir Hugh remarked as Walter finished. “You could not hope to bring this English lady out of Delhi yourself, and Mehal may succeed. At any rate, it is your only chance. Last night a wounded officer and a native woman, who have escaped from the Imperial City, were brought in here. The officer, who is from Meerut, had been shot within a mile or two of this place.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Gordon, in astonishment, as the idea occurred to him that the English officer from Meerut could be no other than his friend Harper. “Do you know the officer’s name?”
“Harper, I believe; a lieutenant in the Queen’s —— regiment.”
“This is strange, indeed. The lieutenant is an old friend of mine, and with your permission I will see him immediately.”
“Do so by all means. I had an interview with him this morning, and though he is very ill, he was enabled to inform me that he had been sent to Delhi on special service, that he had there been made a prisoner, but effected his escape through the assistance rendered him by a Cashmere lady, who is here with him. I am anxious that he should be forwarded on to his regiment at Meerut without loss of time; but the doctor says it would be dangerous to move him for some days.”
In a few minutes Walter Gordon stood by the bedside of his friend Harper, who had fallen into a troubled sleep. At the head was seated the faithful Haidee, and she was applying iced water to the forehead of the patient.