It was but a mile down to the Ghaut, but it was a long, long weary journey. The place of embarkation was reached at last, and the weary eyes of the people saw the fleet of boats that they hoped were to convey them to safety. They were common country eight-oared boats, known as “budgerows.” They were unwieldy things, with heavy thatched roofs, so that they resembled, from a distance, stacks of hay. It was the close of an unusually dry season, and the water was at its shallowest—the mud and sand-banks being far above the water in many places. The banks of the river were lined with natives, who had turned out in thousands to see the humiliated English. There were thousands of soldiers there too—horse, foot, and artillery. The troopers sat with their horses’ heads turned towards the river, and seemed impatient for the sport to commence.
Such a deep-laid plot, such a diabolical act of treachery, the world had surely never known before. Not even the imagination of Danté could have conceived blacker-hearted demons to have peopled his “Inferno” with, than those surging crowds of natives. Those floating budgerows were not to be arks of safety, but human slaughter-houses.
Slowly the people embarked, and, as they did so, there floated out into the stream a small wooden idol: it represented the Hindoo god Shiva—Shiva the Destroyer. As it was pushed out into the stream, every native who saw it smiled, for he knew too well what it signified.
General Wheeler remained till the last. He had been riding in a palanquin, and as he put his head out, a scimitar flashed in the air, and the brave veteran rolled into the water a corpse. Almost at the same moment Tantia Topee raised his hand in the temple, and the notes of a bugle rose clear and distinct. Then the foul design became apparent, and the unhappy people knew that they had been lured into a death-trap. From every conceivable point on both sides of the river, there belched forth fire, and grape and musket balls were poured into the doomed passengers; in a little while the thatch of the budgerows burst into flame, for in every roof hot cinders had been previously inserted. Men leapt overboard, and strove to push the vessels out into the stream, but the majority of the boats remained immovable. The conflagration spread; the sick and wounded were burnt to death. The stronger women took to the water with their children in their arms, but they were shot down or sabred by the troopers, who rode in after them.
In a large and elegant tent on the cantonment plain, the fiend and tiger, Nana Sahib, paced uneasily. He heard the booming of the guns, the rattle of the musketry, and occasionally the dying shriek of an unhappy woman was borne upon his ear. He knew that Shiva the Destroyer was doing his hellish work. Perhaps as he paced up and down, there came into his black heart a pang of remorse, or, more probably, a thrill of fear; for in his solitude he might have seen a vision of the Great White Hand that was to smite him into the dust. Or perhaps there stole over him a sense that there was a destroyer mightier even than Shiva—even the Supreme God of the Christians, who would exact a terrible retribution for his unutterable crimes.
It is certain that as Dundoo Pant paced his tent, he was ill at ease. He was haunted by the ghosts of his victims, even as was that bloody tyrant of infamous memory, Richard the Third, the night before Bosworth.
“Ah! What do you want?” cried the guilty Nana, as a messenger suddenly entered the tent—so suddenly that the conscience of Dundoo caused his heart to leap into his mouth.
“The work speeds well, your Highness,” said the man, kneeling before his master; “but these Feringhees are fighting to the death.”
“Go back with all haste to Tantia Topee, and say that, as he values his own life, not another woman or child is to be slaughtered; but let every man with a white face be hacked to pieces. Mark me well. Not an Englishman is to be spared! Tell Azimoolah to see to all this.”
The messenger withdrew, and the tiger ground his teeth and resumed his walk.