The Great White Hand; Or, the Tiger of Cawnpore: A story of the Indian Mutiny

by J. E. Muddock

She pressed her moist lips to his hand, and with a light step, hurried away.

It was a strange position for Harper to be placed in, but he was as powerless as a reed that is swayed in the storm-wind. His breath came thick and fast, and his heart beat violently as he watched the heaving sea of black humanity surge against the walls of the magazine, only to be driven back again by the storm of fire. He knew that the defenders were few, for it had long been a standing complaint that the great and valuable arsenal of Delhi had such a weak European guard. But he little dreamt that the number was as low as nine. He panted to be behind those walls, to exert the strength of his youth and the energy of his nature in helping to defend the treasures of his country and the lives of his countrymen who were battling so heroically against such tremendous odds. But he could only wait and watch. To have gone forth into that savage crowd would have been like casting a boat into a maelström; he would have been torn to pieces.

The roar of the guns, as they belched forth their iron hail, was deafening, while the disappointed cry of the insurgents rose like the howling of a hurricane. Hour after hour he watched there, but the time seemed short, for he was fascinated. Now his hopes rose high, and he felt as if it was almost impossible to suppress a cheer as he saw the craven multitude beaten back before the fire of the defenders. Then his hopes would sink again as the walls were reached by the raging sea. Presently his heart almost stood still, as the guns of the magazine were silenced, and he saw the natives swarm over the walls.

“They have conquered,” he thought.

But the thought was scarcely formed, when the air became darkened. Even at the distance he was, it seemed as if a mighty whirlwind was sweeping over. He saw the stupendous sheet of fire leap into the air, and he knew that the arsenal had been blown up. The terrific shock shook the ground, and some of the crumbling masonry of his retreat tottered and fell with a crash. He buried his face in his hands to hide the awfulness of the scene, and an unutterable sorrow took possession of him, for he could not hope that any one of the noble defenders could escape from that fiery storm.

Slowly the time passed now, as he sat on a fallen stone and thought over the fortunes of war, and of the strange chance that had placed him in the position to be a witness of that terrible drama. Soldier he was, it was true, and though he yearned to be up and doing, how could he hope to prevail against a multitude? He felt that he was a victim to circumstances which it would be as useless for him to try and control as it would be to attempt to stay the wind. If he wished to live he must yield himself unconditionally to his fate. Those were the only terms, for what others could he make?

Two faces came before him.

They were those of Haidee and his wife. He could not serve them both. He must be false to one and true to the other. Haidee meant life; his wife—death. For without Haidee’s assistance he felt convinced that there was not the remotest possibility of escape. But would it not be better to die, conscious of having done his duty, rather than live to dishonour?

He grew bewildered with the conflicting emotions that tortured him, and, overcome with weariness, slept. When he awoke the day was declining. Down sank the sun, and night closed in quickly on the short Indian twilight. Alas! he thought how many a blackened corpse, a few hours before full of hope and energy—how many an agonised heart, that had beaten that morning with happiness and joy, did the curtain of the night cover?

Slowly and wearily the time passed, and Haidee came not. From all parts of the city lurid flames from incendiary fires were reddening the sky, and sounds of musketry and drums reached him. The unequal fight was still being carried on somewhere. Could he, bird-like, have hovered o’er the city, he would have seen sights that would have appalled the stoutest heart. In one of the strongest houses the Europeans and Eurasians from the Daraogung, or English quarter, had barricaded themselves—a little band selling their lives as dearly as possible. But all was fruitless. The barricades were carried and the people slaughtered. In the Flag-Staff Tower, on the Delhi Ridge, the women and children were gathered for protection, while a few officers and men, from the cantonment, were trying to keep off the black demons, in the hope that succour would come from Meerut, but it never came. Later on these helpless women and children were to escape, but only to meet with subsequent massacre at the hands of the brutal mutineers. Again a little body of white people, women and children, a few soldiers, officers and men, were gathered at the main guard of the Palace, holding their ground for a little while, with the fierceness of lions at bay. The European troops stationed in the cantonment when the mutiny broke out in Delhi, could have been counted by dozens, and these few dozens were scattered on this awful night. There was an embrasure in the bastion that skirted the court-yard of the main guard. Through the embrasure egress was obtained. Beneath, at a distance of thirty feet, was a dry ditch. By dropping into this ditch, crossing over, and descending the opposite scarp, the slope and the glacis could be mounted. Beyond was some jungle that offered cover to the fugitives. When defence was no longer possible, these brave officers and men made ropes of their clothing and lowered the women and children into the ditch, dropping themselves afterwards—many falling never to rise again, killed and maimed by the tremendous drop. And those who did escape dragged the weak ones up the slopes, and into the jungle. But it was only a prolongation of the agony, for the murderers reached them ultimately. All these things, and others that pen can never write, nor tongue tell, would Harper have seen, had he been, as I say, suspended, bird-like, in the air.