The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

The plan of defence prepared over night for Viradha’s assistance had come to naught. The two armies had fought their way, hand to hand, all down the rocky defile that led to the plateau; and they reached the causeway in an inseparable mass. It had taken the whole morning for the Moslems to force the defenders from the entrance of the pass, two miles above, to the bridge. The men of Mandu, knowing well the consequence of defeat, had fought as never men fought before; and now, on the threshold of their homes, they made the supreme effort. The retreat was over. The fight on the causeway was the death struggle. When it ended, there would be no more resistance to the followers of Mohammed.

Like others on that bridge, Oman too had gone mad. He did not think, he did not feel. He was a machine. His horse, trained to war, had plunged into the very thick of the battle. On every side men were fighting together: man to man, two to one, three to one, but always without concerted action, always as in a series of duels. Of those in the mêlée, Oman was the only one who wore no armor; and how, during the first ten minutes, he escaped with his life, it would be impossible to say. After that, his shield was omnipresent, his sword all-pervading. Man after man went down before him. Those of Mandu that saw him, marvelled. Their Saint had become inspired by a demon. The Mohammedans regarded him with suspicious fear. Was this an angel, a Jin, come from heaven to defend a chosen country? It seemed, for a few minutes, as if his appearance might turn the tide of battle. But victory was not for Mandu. Where the war-cry of the Prophet now rose in India, it was not to be stilled by any bravery, any heroism. Just now, no one looking at that close-writhing mass of combatants could have told which way the fight was going. But there was, for the Indians, a very sense of defeat, a gradually increasing fear, born of presentiment. Oman felt it with the rest; but still he fought, with the fierceness of despair.

Not yet, in the closely packed company, had he caught a glimpse of the young Rajah. Dealing out his blows and parries almost mechanically, Oman found time to wonder in which of the heaps of dead and dying piled against the high balustrades of the causeway, the son of Bhavani lay. But presently the horror of that thought was removed. Just before him, upreared on a bleeding horse, helmetless, blood-smeared, worn almost beyond recognition with the work of the last week, was Viradha, closely beset by a powerful Moslem, whose rich accoutrements and shining scimitar proclaimed him of rank. In a kind of maze, Oman watched the young man parry blow after blow, saw the terrible weapon finally plunged down with undefensible stroke, and, in the same instant, waking from his trance, flung himself forward across the young man’s body and lifted his face to that of the Mohammedan. There was a strange shock. The Moslem recoiled from the blow he had dealt, his eyes fixed in fascination on something that shone on Oman’s uplifted breast:—the Asra ruby, blazing in the sun.

Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body beneath him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his horse, limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians, those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury, and hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left, and Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders, and the soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the arms, lifted him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till he stood on his feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one of the empty watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him fast, hand and foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from their accoutrements, and then, with some words incomprehensible to him, they descended to the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his thoughts swam through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of passion setting in, he mercifully fainted.

He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again, there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many dead, not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the horde on the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight was pouring through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower. Oman looked into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he closed his eyes. He was in great pain; and half of him was numb with lying for so long in one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the battle, received one or two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the excitement, but which now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of his arms and ankles where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind of stupor of pain. He could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but he could not think of anything. Why should he? Everything was gone; and the mass of fact was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain, recently overactive, was as weary as his body. He was aware only of the lengthening afternoon, his own pain, and his rising thirst.

After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy. It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a little if he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving for water. To his dulled mind it made little difference, just now. Wondering, stupidly, he fell asleep.

Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after moonset, which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—soldiers—who, penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a torch, and addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown tongue. Oman, obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet, swayed and reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into sensibility by one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed. So, presently, the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side, descended the narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the causeway. Here was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan conqueror himself. All was deathly still, yet already men were working by the light of torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks of light and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge reeked and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies blocked the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand, were great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose; but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am I not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had seen Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that quarter had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even before this scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been ready to face the Unknown Beyond.

It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army had swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race long accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed the water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could say? Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they reached the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In the centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and weary soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking, shouting, laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman find a familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass and repass through this court by night and day? Where were the officials? Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought, Oman trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the square, and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed.

The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that threw a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu feast had been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-cellars found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the tenets of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10] fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the head of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the figure in the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on the step and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture of him there. The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair and beard framed a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his armor had been removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily embroidered and studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green; and in his belt was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with emeralds and blood-stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of that perishable race; and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet the deep-eyed gaze of him who wore the lost charm of the Asra.

[10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were notorious for debauchery.