CHAPTER XXVI. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES SWINGS.
The day following the slaughter at the Ghaut was a great day for Nana Sahib, for he was to be publicly proclaimed Peishwah, and his power in that part of the country was to be acknowledged supreme. The dream of years was fulfilled at last. He stood at the foot of the throne; he had but to mount the steps, and men would bow down before him as their ruler. Power, greatness, wealth—all were in his grasp. His foe lay crushed in the dust—his ambition and revenge were gratified; and in the pomp and glitter of the gorgeous pageant of that day, the voice of conscience was perhaps for a time stilled.
And truly the pageant was a gorgeous one—a spectacle that even, in their wildest imaginings, the authors of the “Arabian Nights” could not have dreamed of. Scarcely had the sun fully risen before the Palace at Bhitoor was in a state of commotion. All night long, thousands of hands had been at work preparing for the great show, and nothing was wanting to render it complete.
At a given signal the procession, which was to march through the town, and some of the outlying villages, commenced to form. First came five hundred stalwart natives, walking six abreast. On their heads were turbans of cloth of gold, and on their breasts were glittering vests of steel. Every man carried on his shoulder a drawn sabre, that flashed in the sun’s rays. The front row carried the Nana’s standard, which was trimmed with real and massive gold fringe. These men were followed by five hundred boys, dressed in white muslin. Each boy carried a pair of silver-plated cymbals, and the very air was rent with the clashing. Then came a body of singers, singing a song of triumph, each singer being dressed in a costly robe. They were followed by two hundred camels, their necks hung with silver bells, while their trappings were cloth of gold. On the back of each camel sat a boy dressed in raiment of pure white, and carrying in his hands a small disc of highly polished steel, which was turned so as to catch the sun’s rays and throw the light far ahead—on tree, and road, and building. This was to symbolise the Nana’s power.
Next in order was a body-guard of the Nana’s retainers, numbering altogether a thousand men, clad in burnished armour, and carrying in their hands long spears, decorated with golden tassels. Following this guard came a band of musicians with brass instruments, and playing a martial air which they had learnt under English tutors. Then there were fifty elephants, three abreast. The forehead of each beast was decorated with a large jewelled star composed of pure silver: their bodies were covered with cloth of gold, fringed with massive bullion lace. On the head of each elephant sat a gaudily-dressed native driver: each man held a long polished brass trumpet, and every now and then, on a given signal, the trumpets were blown in unison.
After these men was another body of armour-clad men, who formed a hollow square, two deep. In the centre of the square walked, with majestic step, a huge, spotless white elephant: its breast was guarded with a massive shield of pure gold, and on its forehead was a large star of brilliants; on its back it bore a costly houdah, made of blue satin, supported by golden rods, the satin being trimmed with gold and jewels. Beneath this houdah was seated Dundoo Pant, the Nana Sahib. His head was bare, for the ceremony of marking him with the mark of sovereignty in accordance with Eastern custom, and known as the “sacrament of the forehead mark,” had yet to be performed. He was clad in a robe of pure gold cloth, ornamented with rubies and sapphires. Round his neck he wore a massive collar composed of diamonds.
Over the elephant’s back was thrown a rich scarlet cloak, with gold tassels; and on its tusks were many gold rings. The Nana was seated cross-legged. In front of him was a superb coronet of gold, studded with diamonds: this, with a jewelled sword, rested on a scarlet cushion.
Behind this elephant, and in the centre of another square of armour-clad men, were fifty high Brahmin priests, clad in white and with their faces painted, and between them was a small and beautiful Brahmin bull. Its hoofs were encased in gold, and its body was literally covered with jewels.
Next came two hundred Nautch girls, dressed in scarlet garments. Each girl bore a small palm leaf, and these leaves were waved backwards and forwards with rhythmical regularity. Next to these was another elephant, gaudily trapped and decorated; and beneath a magnificent houdah of silk were seated some of the principal females of Dundoo’s household.
Following in order was another band of music. Then came Teeka Singh, Azimoolah, Tantia Topee, Bala Rao, and other members of the suite. They were all mounted on handsome charges, and bore at their sides jewelled swords, while fixed to their heels were golden spurs. They were escorted by a strong body-guard of picked troops. These were succeeded by files of men carrying silken banners. Then a hundred boys, bearing long poles, attached to which were silver bells, and five hundred girls clad in garments of cloth of gold. Every girl carried before her a jewelled vase, that was filled with the most exquisite flowers. Behind the girls were two thousand troopers—the flower of Dundoo’s army—and all mounted on superb horses; and last of all was a grand display of artillery. There were guns of every description, which had been plundered from the English arsenal.
It was, in truth, a gorgeous show, well calculated to daze the hordes of illiterate natives who crowded every thoroughfare, with its pomp and importance. Dundoo and his wily admirers had learnt the secret of the importance of outward show, if the masses are to be impressed, and they used their knowledge to advantage. The procession moved slowly forward—a long array of glitter and glare, of noise and bewildering richness.
Literally hundreds of thousands of natives had gathered; they swarmed on every conceivable spot from whence a view could be obtained. On the housetops, in the trees, on the walls, the huts—every place where a foothold offered itself were Nana’s future subjects to be seen. They rent the air with their cries of welcome; they sang songs of victory, and howled out execrations against the Feringhees.
Through every street and road where it was possible for the procession to pass, it went. The white elephant, with its costly silken houdah, beneath which was the Tiger of Cawnpore, towered above all—a conspicuous and central figure.
Soon after mid-day the show returned to the Bhitoor Palace, where preparations had been made on a grand scale for the ceremony of the forehead mark, or the crowning of the Peishwah. In one of the largest halls a stately throne had been erected, and on this Nana Sahib took his seat.
Then there was borne into the hall, on men’s shoulders, a platform covered with cloth of gold. The platform was railed round with golden railings, and in the centre stood a Brahmin bull, covered with jewels and held by gold chains. Following the bull came a large number of priests, carrying small brass idols, and chafing-dishes containing fire. The bull was placed in the centre of the hall, and the chafing-dishes and idols ranged round it. An aged priest stepped up to the head of the animal, and, after making many mystic symbols, he held up a gigantic sword, and cried out in a loud voice—
“The enemies of Brahma shall be smitten to the death.”
Then a gong was sounded, and the whole of the vast assemblage fell upon their knees, and bowing their heads to the ground, worshipped the bull. This ceremony being ended, the chief priest advanced to the Nana, bearing in his hand a dish of pure gold. From this dish he took a small wafer, and while his colleagues muttered a low, monotonous chant, and a hundred tom-toms were beaten, he pressed the wafer on the forehead of the Nana, reciting a Brahmin prayer the while. He next took a chaplet of gold, and placed it on Dundoo’s head.
Then the Palace seemed to be shaken to its foundation as the artillery thundered out its recognition of the new ruler.
The imposing ceremony being ended, and Dundoo having been duly proclaimed Peishwah, the courtiers and servile cringers crowded round the throne to congratulate their chief. Conspicuous amongst these were Azimoolah, Tantia Topee, Teeka Singh, and the brothers of the Nana.
It was a proud moment for Azimoolah. He had played a deep and skilful game, and won. The stakes were large, but not all the newly-acquired power of the Nana Sahib would be sufficient to keep them from the destroying Nemesis who was coming on with gigantic strides.
Until far into the morning the festivities were kept up. There were torch-light processions, there were grand illuminations, and tremendous bursts of fireworks, accompanied by the hoarse roar of artillery. But all things come to an end, and the enthusiasm of Dundoo Pant’s new subjects, like their fireworks, soon burnt itself out, and there was silence, save for the croaking frogs, the shrill piping cicala, and the under-hum of tens of thousands of insects.
In a small room of the Palace, Nana Sahib had sought his couch, after the exciting day’s work. He was weary and worn, and there was a troubled look in his face. His newly-acquired crown did not seem to sit easily. It was stained too indelibly with English blood. Long he tossed about before he sank into an uneasy doze; then in a little while great beads of perspiration stood upon his face. His chest heaved, he clawed the air with his hands, he bit his lip until the blood flowed. The Nana Sahib was dreaming a dream; and this was his dream.
He saw a hand—a white hand—small at first, but it gradually grew, and grew, and grew, until it assumed gigantic proportions. It stretched out its massive and claw-like fingers towards Dundoo, who fled in terror away. But that awful hand followed. In every finger were set hundreds of glittering eyes; they glared at him until they burned into his very soul. He still fled, but the hand grew larger, until it gradually bent its fingers, and tore out his heart. And yet he lived, and the shadow of the phantom hand was over him. It tortured him with unutterable torture. It dragged him away from all kith and kin. Then it opened a massive curtain, and showed him far, far down the Stream of Time. On its ever-flowing tide he saw himself, a battered wreck, drifting to the regions of immortal torture; and millions of scraggy fingers pointed at him in derision, and millions of voices cursed his name.
He awoke from this horrid dream—awoke with his heart almost standing still, and a cold and clammy perspiration bedewing his body. He sprang up with a cry of alarm, for everything in the vision had seemed so real. But when he had gathered his scattered senses, he smiled sardonically and muttered—
“Pshaw! What a fool I am to let a dream so alarm me. Am I not rich, powerful, invincible? What, then, is there to fear? These Feringhees are crushed—crushed beyond all power to rise again. I am supreme; who is there dare dispute my will?”
A man suddenly entered the chamber. In the light of the breaking day, the Nana saw that it was Azimoolah.
“What is the meaning of this, Azi?” he asked hurriedly. “Has anything occurred to alarm you, for there is a look of fear upon your face?”
“I might make a similar remark with a good deal of truth, your Highness,” answered the other with a forced laugh.
“Do not waste time in foolish recrimination, Azimoolah. What brings you here?”
“Bad news.”
“Ah! Is that so?”
“Yes. Some of our spies have just come in, and brought word that General Havelock is marching on Cawnpore.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed the Nana, with a laugh. “Your news is not so gloomy as I anticipated. We are powerful in troops and guns; we will wipe these saucy foreigners off the face of the earth. Await my coming below, Azi.”
Azimoolah made a slight inclination of the head, and retired towards the door.
“Azi,” the Nana called, busying himself in adjusting some costly rings that sparkled on his fat fingers. His familiar turned back. “Azimoolah, are the—dear me! There is a diamond gone out of that ring. Where can I have lost it, I wonder? Let me see, what was I going to observe? Oh—are the women and children at the Beebee-Ghur safely guarded?”
“I selected the guard myself, your Highness! so that I will vouch for its efficiency.”
“That is good. I will join you shortly, Azi. You may retire.”
CHAPTER XXVII. WITH SWIFT STRIDES NEMESIS MOVES ON.
In spite of the indifference which Nana Sahib assumed to the news brought him by Azimoolah, he felt considerable alarm. He had heard of the powers of General Havelock. He knew that he was a dauntless and war-worn soldier, who did not understand the meaning of the word “defeat!” But he derived some consolation from the knowledge he possessed that the numerical strength of the English could be but as one to twenty against his own troops.
As he descended to hold audience with his staff, he smiled bitterly, and muttered—
“I am immensely strong in troops, I have powerful artillery, and if these fail to check the advance of these cursed English, I have yet one more card to fall back upon. I can still have revenge upon their women and children; and if the white soldiers should reach Cawnpore, they shall find the city a ruin, and its streets running with English blood. Shiva the Destroyer guides me, and victory shall yet be mine.”
On reaching his counsel-hall he found his officers were excited and alarmed. Fresh spies had come in with the confirmation of the first report: that Havelock was making desperate efforts by means of forced marches to reach Cawnpore. The Nana held hurried conversation with his advisers. His hopes of a few minutes before gave place to despair as he thought of the possibility of his newly-acquired power being wrested from him, and as the remembrance of the dream he had dreamed during the night flashed through his brain, he trembled, and his trepidation was noticed by his staff.
“Your Highness is not well this morning,” observed Azimoolah; “yesterday’s excitement has disturbed you?”
“I am well enough,” the Nana answered sharply; “but it seems as if I was to have no freedom from the annoyance of these English. I was in hopes that we had set our foot firmly down upon them—that they were hopelessly crushed. But it seems now that, Hydra-like, no sooner is one head destroyed than another springs up.”
“Then we must keep on destroying them until they are all exterminated. Even the heads of the fabled monster were limited; and by constantly destroying the English their power must come to an end.”
“You do not counsel well!” cried the Nana irritably. “The power of the English, it appears to me, is like the ocean, which you might go on draining, drop by drop, until the end of time, and then there would be no appreciable diminution.”
Azimoolah smiled scornfully, and in his secret heart he felt some contempt for his master.
“Your notions are exaggerated,” he answered coolly, “and your fears with respect to the unlimited power of these British groundless. They are headstrong—impetuous—rash. They are rushing blindly on to their fate. My spies inform me that they are weak both in guns and men. We can bring an overwhelming force against them, and literally annihilate them. Meanwhile, the revolt spreads well; every city in India is asserting its independence of these foreigners, and so mighty shall we become that if every man in England were sent against us, we could defy them. I tell you the power of England is waning, if not already destroyed. The White Hand stiffens in the coldness of death.”
A thoughtful expression spread itself over the Nana’s face. Azimoolah’s words sank deep. Whenever he faltered and doubted himself this familiar was at hand to give him new hope. Bloodthirsty and revengeful as he was, he was, after all, but a puppet, and would have been powerless to have moved if others had not pulled the strings.
“I think you are right—I think you are right,” he said, “and we will contest the advance of these Feringhees. Let no time be lost in getting our troops in motion; and let it be proclaimed far and near that a lac of rupees shall be the reward to him who first captures Havelock, and brings him in living or dead.”
“The rupees were better in our treasury, your Highness,” answered Azimoolah. “Havelock shall fall without any such rash expenditure. His miserable force will be cut to pieces in the first encounter with our troops!”
In a little while Cawnpore was once more in a wild state of commotion. Far and near was heard the sound of the bugle as it called to arms. The artillery rumbled along, and thousands of trained troops were sent out to oppose the advance of the English. Bala Rao, the Nana’s brother, was placed in command of one division, and he was the first to march.
As the afternoon wore on, a messenger, breathless and travel-stained, arrived at the Palace, and sought an interview with the Nana. This was no other than Jewan Bukht. He had been out for some days, by command of his master, visiting all the villages within twenty miles of Cawnpore, proclaiming the power of Dundoo, and inciting the natives to rise and massacre the Europeans. It was evident Jewan Bukht brought news of importance, for his face bore a look of anxiety, if not alarm.
Jewan had to wait some time before the Nana consented to see him; for the monster was passing his time with the females of his household, and trying to still the voice of conscience by draughts of strong drink. When he did present himself before his agent he was flushed and excited, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“How now, Jewan?” he cried. “Why do you come at such an inopportune moment to disturb my peace?”
“I bring bad news, your Highness.”
“Curses on the bad news!” Dundoo thundered, as he turned furiously and faced Bukht, who started away in alarm. “Twice to-day have those words sounded in my ears. Am I never to know security? am I never to have peace?”
He paced up and down, fretting with rage. His arms were behind his back, and he played nervously with the jewellery on his fat fingers.
Jewan waited for some minutes before he spoke. He knew it was better to let the Nana’s temper cool, for it was evident that he was excited with drink, and at such times his savage nature was capable of any atrocity.
“I regret, your Highness,” Jewan said at last, “that I, your servant, should be so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure for having faithfully performed my duty.”
“There, there, excuse me,” answered Dundoo, as he stopped in his walk. “I am irritable, and allowance must be made for me. Things do not work as smoothly as they ought, and it appears to me that every one who seeks me has bad news to tell.”
“That is rather their misfortune than their fault,” was the answer.
“Yes, yes; you are right. I will try in future to be less hasty. But now tell me what is the news you bring.”
“General Havelock is making rapid marches upon Cawnpore.”
“Pshaw! That is old news. Have you none other but that?”
“Yes. A body of troops, under Major Renaud, is making desperate efforts to effect a junction with Havelock.”
“Ah! That is bad. What is Havelock’s strength?”
“I do not know exactly. His army is small, but is composed of some of the best of English troops; and he has a regiment of bare-legged soldiers.”
“You mean Highlanders!” exclaimed the Nana, as he ground his teeth. “May the Prophet confound them, for they are invincible. They seem to draw fresh life from every blast of their unearthly pipes, and they fight like devils.”
“Still they may be conquered by numbers; and we have numbers, your Highness.”
“True, true; and we will send legions against them to stop their advance. But how about Renaud? What is his strength?”
“He is at the head of the Madras Fusiliers, but their number is not great.”
“The Madras Fusiliers!” echoed the Nana, while a look of fear passed across his face, for he knew that this regiment was celebrated throughout India. It was evident that some of the best troops were coming against him. His own troops only mustered about ten thousand strong, horse and foot, and when he had spoken of hurling legions against the advancing foe his mind was running upon the hundreds of thousands of natives who peopled the city and the villages. But what could the untrained hordes do against the very flower of England’s Indian army? It seemed to him now as if the dream was to be realised, and that the meshes were tightening around him. He paced up and down again, his eyes bent upon the ground.
“Your Highness is troubled,” Jewan observed.
“I am troubled, for I see that unless the march of these British is checked they will very soon be in our city.”
“But we must check them.”
“Must, forsooth, is easily said. But how are we to check them?”
“We have troops and guns. Our troops can fight, and our guns can speak.”
“And yet I do not feel secure, Jewan. We are not strong enough. But go now; I will confer with my officers. See me again. In the meantime stir up the people; let them go out in their thousands and harass the English.”
Jewan bowed, and had retired to the door when the Nana called him back.
“Stay, Jewan; a thought strikes me. Delhi is full of Sepoys.”
“It is, your Highness,” was the answer, as a new hope sprang to life in Jewan’s breast.
“Do you think the King would lend me aid?”
“I think it is to his interest to do so.”
“You are right. You shall go to Delhi, Jewan.”
Jewan’s heart beat wildly. He had longed to return to Delhi in the hope that he might again be able to secure Flora Meredith. Delhi was suggestive to him of luxury, of wealth, of idleness. He, in common with all his countrymen, turned his eyes to the Imperial City as the central pivot of the rebellion. Its strength was so enormous that it might defy the united power of England’s army. The desire to once more have Flora in his possession was so strong that he had often been strongly tempted to renounce allegiance to the Nana and fly to Delhi, but he had resisted the temptation, for he dreaded the power of Dundoo, whose confidential agent he had been, and he knew that if he incurred the displeasure of the revengeful Mahratta his life would never be safe from the Nana’s spies, who were everywhere. But now the very thing he had yearned for was likely to come to pass. From his knowledge of the King, he did not believe in his heart that the required aid would be given; but it was no business of his—at least, so he thought—to tell Nana Sahib this. Moreover, there was another reason which made him anxious to get away, and if his feelings had been truly analysed it might have been found that this reason was the stronger of the two—it was one of personal safety. He believed—though he did not from motives of policy express the belief—that the advancing English would soon cut their way into Cawnpore, and if that should be the case, and Nana’s power overthrown, his subjects would have to take care of themselves. There was an uneasy feeling in Jewan’s throat as he pictured himself swinging at the end of a rope from a banyan-tree.
“And what will be the purport of my errand, your Highness?” he asked, scarcely able to conceal his delight.
“You shall hasten to Delhi with all speed, and convey to his Majesty a true statement of the danger that threatens me. You can tell him—and you know what an admirable diplomatist you are—you can tell him that my strength does not exceed five thousand, and that the English are coming down with a force double that strength. Solicit, in my name, one or two regiments. Let every available vehicle and horse be pressed into service, and let these reinforcements be sent on with all possible speed, to join my troops, and beat back Havelock. If the King will do this, my position will be secured.”
“I think we need not have a doubt about it, your Highness. His Majesty will do it.”
“I hope so, Jewan—I hope so. Lose no time, but depart at once.”
Jewan did not require a second bidding. He could ill conceal the smile of joy that played around his lips, as he took his leave to make preparations for his journey.
Having provided himself with a horse and buggy, and armed himself with a revolver, he drove out of Cawnpore as the shades of night were gathering.
CHAPTER XXVIII. “THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE.”
While Nana Sahib was thus neglecting no plan that could, as he thought, add to his security, the Nemesis was coming on.
It was well known to the English that Lucknow and Cawnpore were in imminent peril; and knowing, further, that General Wheeler was hampered with a large number of women and children, it was determined to make the most strenuous efforts to relieve Cawnpore.
With this object in view, General Havelock placed himself at the head of a body of gallant troops, including a regiment of Highlanders. With his little army he marched out of Allahabad. He knew how desperate were the odds against him—he knew that every mile of ground would have to be contested; but the grand old soldier was also aware that, if his troops were few, their hearts were brave, and he had perfect faith in his own ability to lead them to victory.
At the same time, Major Renaud, in command of the Madras Fusiliers, who had performed prodigies of valour, was pushing up the river with the view of effecting a junction with Havelock. By forced marches the General made rapid progress, not a day passing but what he had a skirmish with the enemy. These skirmishes were not worthy the name of battle, since they were waged mostly by the native rabble; but they served to harass and annoy the British.
In a little while he fell in with Renaud, and the reinforcement was doubly welcome; for many of his own troops had fallen sick through the intense heat and the heavy marches, but there was no rest to be had. The brave old warrior knew that every hour delayed served but to increase the awful peril of those whom he was hastening to relieve.
Futtehpore was reached, and here a desperate battle was fought between Havelock and the Nana’s troops, who had been sent out to meet him.
Confident of victory, the Sepoys had taken their stand at this place, and, with taunts and bragging, presented a most powerful front to the jaded and worn British soldiers. But Havelock knew his men; he knew his strength. He let loose his little army. The fight was long and bloody, but it ended in unmistakable victory for the General. It was the first decisive blow that had been struck at the enemy in that part of the country. Little time could be devoted to rest after the battle. Every man burned to be on the road again. They were warming to their work. Long forced marches were made, until a small river, called the Pandoo-Muddee, was reached. This river was some little distance to the south of Cawnpore, and here Bala Rao was stationed with a number of Sepoys to oppose the English crossing the bridge.
Havelock’s soldiers were worn out. The men were staggering beneath their load. Some of them slept as they stood, others dropped by the wayside. But if any incentive were wanted, it came now in the shape of the news that Cawnpore had capitulated, and the brave garrison had been foully slaughtered.
The news was brought by the General's spies; and as he made it known, in a few sorrowful words, to his troops, want of rest was no more thought of. The strong sprang to their feet, and breathed silent vows of vengeance, while the sick and the weak wept because they were not able to join their comrades in wreaking retribution on the cruel enemy.
The bridge across the river was a small and narrow one. Bala Rao had arrived too late to destroy it, but he had got his guns into position to sweep it, so that it seemed impossible that a passage could be made across it. He stood, with his cowardly followers, taunting the fagged white men to cross. He dared them to come. He called them dogs.
“Soldiers and comrades,” cried Havelock, “we must cross that bridge.”
Shrill and clear rang out the bugle notes as they sounded the advance. They must have struck terror to the black foe. With lips compressed, with bayonets down at the charge, shoulder to shoulder, went the dauntless few under a merciless storm of iron hail. The passage was short, but many a brave fellow fell never to rise again. The Cawnpore side of the river was gained; and then with a ringing cheer the British “went at it.” What could stand against such a charge? The enemy was scattered; he fled in wild disorder, leaving his guns behind him.
The fight over, men fell down on the spot where they stood, and went to sleep, too tired and jaded even to think of the evening meal.
A few hours afterwards, Nana Sahib, anxious and restless, was pacing his hall; he was waiting for news of “the battle of the bridge.” Though Havelock had succeeded in reaching that point, he could not conceive it possible that he could cross. He had ordered Bala to blow up the bridge, and to make a firm stand. He was waiting now to hear that this had been accomplished, when Bala Rao staggered in. He was covered with blood, which had flowed from a terrible wound in the shoulder.
“They have crossed the bridge, and we are defeated,” he gasped, as he fell fainting into a chair.
Nana Sahib literally foamed with rage when he heard these ominous words. The dream was being realised, and the mighty fingers of the White Hand were closing upon him.
“Ten thousand curses upon them!” he muttered. “But I yet hold a card, and will play it.”
He rang a bell violently; a servant appeared.
“Send Tantia Topee and Azimoolah here.”
In a few minutes these two persons stood in his presence.
“I want the Beebee-Ghur cleared of every woman and child. And stay—there is a well close by—it has long been useless—let it be filled up with rubbish. Do not mistake my orders. Every woman and every child must leave.”
“I understand, your Highness,” answered Azimoolah, with a hideous smile. “Your tenants are not profitable, and you have use for the house. The women and children shall all be sent home.”
* * * * * * *
In a few hours’ time the Beebee-Ghur was deserted and silent, and the useless well had indeed been filled up.
Then, placing himself at the head of five thousand troops, Nana Sahib marched forth to oppose the further advance of Havelock.
“We shall conquer yet,” he murmured, as, armed to the teeth, he rode side by side with his counsellors.
They succeeded in reaching a village close to where Havelock was resting; it was naturally a strong position. Here they posted a number of very heavy guns, and the most experienced and ablest gunners were selected to serve them.
They opened fire with deadly effect upon the worn British soldiers.
“Comrades, those guns must be charged,” were Havelock’s words. “Who will take the post of honour?”
In answer to the question, the Highlanders, under the command of Colonel Hamilton, rushed to the front. There was not a single man who was not eager to play his part in the deadly work; but the Highlanders were the first to answer, and they claimed precedent. They were to lead the charge. Setting aside for a moment all discipline, a stalwart fellow stepped from the ranks, and holding up a card on which a thistle was worked in a woman’s hair, while around it was a true lover’s knot, he shouted in a stentorian voice—
“For ‘Auld Reekie,’ boys, and the bonnie lasses we’ve left behind.”
He was answered with a wild cheer, and cries of “Well done, Sandy!”
Every heart of those kilted soldiers thrilled as the shrill sounds of the pibroch arose from the bagpipes in the rear. Each man felt that he had a personal wrong to wipe out, the death of a murdered friend to revenge.
Every man set his teeth, and clutched his rifle, as he held it at the charge, with a grip of nervous desperation.
The guns of the enemy were still roaring fierce defiance, and hurling death right and left.
Forward went the brave Highlanders with a ringing cheer, their bayonets flashing in the sunlight; and, though the enemy were strongly posted behind those awful guns, they were appalled as they beheld the bare-legged soldiers rushing on like an impetuous torrent. The bayonet charge of British troops was what no Sepoy had ever yet been able to stand. The rebels wavered, then gave way, and fled. The guns were in the hands of the Highlanders. “Auld Reekie” had been well remembered, but poor Sandy was lying with his dead eyes staring up to the quivering sky, and the little love-token lying over his stilled heart.
The troops fell back in orderly array. But at the same moment a howitzer, that had hitherto been masked, opened fire with fearful effect. This gun was posted in a hollow—a sort of natural trench—on some rising ground. Had it been served by any other than Sepoys, it might have kept half-a-dozen regiments at bay.
“Soldiers,” cried General Havelock again, “we must silence that noisy gun. Its impudent tongue disturbs the neighbourhood!”
Forth bounded the Highlanders again. An inspiriting cheer, a resistless rush, the gun was captured; and, as the foe fled, the howitzer was turned upon them.
But the battle was not yet ended. The rebels, in great force still, held the village, and new batteries were brought into action, and poured a murderous fire upon the British lines. A little body of volunteer cavalry, that had been held in reserve, now came forward. It was composed entirely of British officers, and their number was only eighteen. Eighteen against thousands of the enemy, who were sheltered behind walls and trees!
As these heroes were preparing to go into action, there was one of their comrades who, stricken with deadly cholera, was lying in the ambulance. This was Captain Beatson. He cried out that he would not be left behind, but that he would go into the heat of the battle with his brothers. He could not sit his horse, for he was dying fast. But no persuasion could induce him to miss the chance of taking part in the act of retribution. Go he would; so a tumbrel was procured, and he was carried into action, clutching his sword with his enfeebled hands.
The signal was given. Away went the dauntless few. Shot and shell poured around them, but could not stay their impetuous rush. Right into the very midst of the enemy they rode. They did terrible execution; and in a very short time had cleared the village.
As the noble Beatson was brought in, he heard the cries of victory; and, as his life was passing away, he raised his sword, gave a faint cheer, and, with a smile upon his face, fell back dead.
Baffled and beaten, the Sepoys fled. They appeared to be in full retreat upon Cawnpore. To the Peishwah all seemed lost. It was the crisis of his fate, and he was determined to make one desperate effort more to turn the tide.
He was arrayed in the most costly and imposing garments. He wore a robe of cloth of gold, and his waist was encircled with a zone of pure gold, set with brilliants. Pendant from this was a massive tulwar, also jewelled, and round his head was an embroidered turban, that was literally ablaze with diamonds.
He knew the effect of gaud and glitter upon the native mind, and so, putting spurs to his charger, he got ahead of his troops, and then faced them, and bade them halt.
“Why do you fly?” he cried, flashing his tulwar in the sun. “Are you not men, and your pursuers dogs? Do men fly from dogs? Shame on you! Remember our cause, and for what we fight—Liberty! Will you throw this away, and become slaves again? Turn, and face the enemy, who is weak and worn. We can hold this road to the cantonment. Let a battery of guns be planted. The enemy must not, and shall not, enter Cawnpore. An hour ago, I despatched messengers back to the city, and reinforcements are already coming up.”
“We will stand!” was the answer from hundreds of throats.
The battery was planted right on the road that led into the cantonment, and in about half an hour fresh troops came pouring out. They came down with a terrible clatter, and amid the clashing of cymbals and the roll of drums. As they got into position, Nana Sahib rode along the lines.
“Taunt them, boys—taunt them! Dare them from their shelter, and then blow them to atoms!”
And, in response to this, the native band ironically struck up “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.”
It was a taunt of the right sort. It reached the ears of the English; and, tired and worn out as they were, it gave them fresh vigour.
The grey-haired veteran, Havelock, rode forth before his troops.
“Soldiers,” he cried, “the enemy is bearding us; let us teach them a lasting lesson!”
The infantry rushed into line; their impatience could scarcely be restrained. The noble Highlanders, looking fresh and inspirited, as if they had only just come into action, again struggled to take the lead.
It was an awful moment, for they must ride right upon the death-dealing battery, which was planted in the centre of the road, and was belching forth storms of grape and twenty-four pounders with astonishing rapidity. But not a man quailed.
“Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” still sounded in their ears, when the word of command was given to “charge.” Away they went with that mad rush which nothing could withstand. Right on to the muzzles of the guns they sped, the General’s aide-de-camp, his noble son, Harry, leading the way. The battery was carried; the enemy was shattered, and fled in confusion; and as their own guns were turned upon them, and a terrific fire opened, the English band struck up “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.”
Night fell—the British bivouacked two miles from Cawnpore. They were too weary to need a pillow, and their throats were so parched that they were glad to drink some putrid water from a neighbouring ditch.
On the following morning, as they were getting under arms, some of the General’s spies came in. They brought an awful tale—it ran like a shudder along the lines. Strong men bowed their heads and wept. And they knew now that, in spite of their forced marches, in spite of the terrible battles they had fought, in spite of their grand heroism, they knew they were too late to save—they could only avenge. And there was not a man there who did not make a mental vow to have a terrible vengeance.
When the first burst of grief was over, the troops moved forward to occupy the cantonment. As they neared it they saw an immense, balloon-shaped cloud arise, and then the earth was shaken with a fearful explosion. The retreating enemy had blown up the magazine.
Soon the British flag was once more floating over the blood-stained city; the bagpipes and the bands filled the air with pæans of victory; the sword of Damocles had fallen. The Great White Hand had gripped the fiendish heart of the Nana, and his power was no more.
CHAPTER XXIX. RETRIBUTION.
After that great battle of Cawnpore, the baffled Nana fled. He understood that his dream had come true, and his very hair stood erect with fear. But he was a coward—a treacherous, sneaking cur, who feared to die; and he dare not seek the common native mode of avoiding disgrace, and kill himself. He fled towards Bhitoor, attended by half a dozen of his guards.
As he galloped through the streets of Cawnpore, his horse flecked with foam, and he himself stained with perspiration and dust, he was met by a band of criers, who were clashing cymbals, and proclaiming, by order of Azimoolah, that the Feringhees had been exterminated.
As Dundoo heard this, it sounded like a horrid mockery, for he knew how false it was. He knew now that if all the hosts of swarming India had been gathered in one mighty army, they would still have been powerless to exterminate the Feringhees.
He felt that his power was destroyed. Failure, defeat, ruin, had followed with rapid strides on the glittering pageant which had marked his restoration to the Peishwahship. Deserted by his followers, his wealth gone, he was but a flying outcast. His one thought was to get away from the pursuing Englishmen. His terror-stricken mind pictured a vast band of avengers on his track.
He reached his Palace. Its splendour had gone, his very menials reproached him for his failure. As he entered the magnificent “Room of Light,” he was met by Azimoolah.
The Sybaritic knave had been luxuriating amidst all the wealth and splendour of this gorgeous apartment, while the Nana’s army was being hacked to pieces by the avenging Feringhees.
As the fear-stricken fugitive entered, the mechanical birds were warbling their cheerful notes, and a large Swiss musical-box was playing, with the accompaniment of drums and bells, “See the Conquering Hero comes.” It was the very irony of fate. It seemed as if it had been done purposely to mock him.
He strode over to the magnificently carved table upon which the box stood, and, drawing his tulwar, dealt the instrument a terrific blow, that almost severed it in halves; then he sank on to a couch, and burying his face in his hands, rocked himself, and moaned.
“Your Highness is troubled,” Azimoolah remarked softly, his composure not in the least disturbed by the Nana’s display of fury. “Why should you give way like this?” he continued, as he received no reply to his first remark. “Despair is unworthy of a prince. All is not yet lost. Rouse yourself, show a dauntless mien, and we will yet beat these English back.”
The Nana started from the couch, his face livid with passion, so that Azimoolah shrank back in alarm, for cruel natures are always cowardly, and it was coward matched to coward.
“Curse you for mocking me!” the Nana cried, raising both his hands above his head. “Curse you for luring me to destruction! May you rot living! May you wander a nameless outcast—without shelter, without home, fearing every bush, trembling at every rustle of a leaf, and with every man’s hand against your life. If I had not listened to you I should not have fallen. Curse you again! May every hope of Paradise be shut out for you.”
He fell into his seat again, overpowered by the exertion this outburst had caused him.
Azimoolah was a little disconcerted, but he tried not to show it. With one hand on the handle of a jewelled dagger, that was hidden in the folds of his dress, and his other hand playing with a lace handkerchief, he crossed quietly to where the Nana was seated, and said with withering sarcasm—
“Your Highness is a little out of sorts, and my presence is not required; but I may be permitted to remind your Highness that ‘curses, like chickens, return to roost.’”
With a smile of scorn upon his lips he passed out of the room, and the fallen Mahratta was alone.
In a little time, instincts of self-preservation caused the Nana to start up, and resolve upon some plan of escape. He knew what would be expected from him by his people. Having been defeated, he must retrieve his honour by dying; but, as before stated, he was too great a coward for that. He was wily enough, however, to see that it offered him means of escape. There were two or three of his followers that he could yet depend upon, and these he summoned to his presence, and made known a plan that suggested itself to him.
This plan was, that it was to be given out that he was preparing himself for self-immolation. He was to consign himself to the sacred waters of the Ganges. There was to be a signal displayed in the darkness of the night, at the precise moment when he took his suicidal immersion. This signal was to be a red light hoisted at a given spot.
Soon the news was spread far and wide, taken up by thousands of tongues, and carried through the bazaars and the city, for miles around, that Nana Sahib was going to kill himself; and some of the Brahmin priests, who were still true to his cause, went through religious ceremonies, in which they prayed for the immortal welfare of the erstwhile Prince.
But he had no thought of dying. As darkness closed in he gathered the women of his household together, and hurried to the Ganges. There a small boat was waiting him. In this he embarked, and ascended towards Futtehgurh, and at a favourable spot emerged on the Oude side of the river and fled; perhaps with the voice of the Furies—who are said to avenge foul crimes—ringing in his ears.
At the moment that he disembarked, the red light was hoisted. Thousands of eyes had been watching for it; but no prayer floated upward for the man who was supposed to have drowned himself. Those eyes had been watching for another purpose, and when the red light appeared, a howling crew rushed towards the Bhitoor Palace. In a little time its magnificent halls and rooms were swarming with the rabble, who fought and killed each other for possession of the valuables. Everything was plundered. Not a yard of carpet, not a single curtain was left; even the marble pavement was torn up. And when the morning came, the Bhitoor Palace was a wreck inside.
As the sun rose, a large number of English soldiers were sent down from the cantonment to Bhitoor to search for the Nana. But they were too late—the bird had fled. They found nothing but the bare building. Some guns were brought up, and the muzzles turned towards the walls. The building was battered down. The Palace was entirely destroyed, and ere the sun set again, the last home of the Peishwah was a ruin.[6]
FOOTNOTE:
[6] It is needless perhaps to remind the reader that Nana Sahib, the Tiger of Cawnpore, was never captured, nor is it known how he met his end. It is supposed that he fled into the vast and miasmatic jungle, known as the Terai, where, deserted by his followers, broken-hearted and despised, he died a miserable death.
CHAPTER XXX. NEW HOPES.
To follow the fortune of two of the characters who have played conspicuous parts in this history, it is necessary to go back to the night of the day upon which General Wheeler vacated the Cawnpore entrenchments.
Walter Gordon and Haidee, as previously stated, sought concealment in the ruins of an outbuilding that had been battered to pieces by the enemy’s shot. Here they managed to escape the vigilance of the marauders who swarmed in the defences after the English had gone. It was true that there was nothing worth plundering, but all that was movable in the shape of old iron and ammunition was carried off.
Soon after the departure of the defenders, Haidee and Gordon were startled by the booming of a gun, and almost before the echo had died away, another followed, and another, until the firing became general. Walter’s heart almost stood still, for the sound told but too plainly that Haidee’s fears had been realised.
As she heard the guns, she looked at her companion, and as her eyes filled with tears, she murmured—
“Your poor country people are being slaughtered.”
“Alas! I am afraid it is so,” he answered; “may God pity them.”
After a time the firing grew desultory, but it continued for hours, until Gordon became sick, as in his mind’s eye he pictured the awful work that was being carried on. And as he remembered by what a strange chance he had been prevented from accompanying the unfortunate people, he could not help thinking that a kind destiny had preserved him, and that happiness might come. And yet to think of happiness then seemed almost as great a mockery to him as the mirage of a beautiful lake does to the travellers dying of thirst in the arid desert.
How could he hope for happiness? Deadly peril yet surrounded him. If his hiding-place should be discovered he and his companion would immediately fall a sacrifice to the yelling demons who were prowling about thirsting for blood. And even if he escaped from them, how could the hundred dangers that would encompass him be avoided? No wonder that as he reflected upon these things, he sank almost into the very apathy of despair. Haidee noticed the look of gloom that had settled on him.
“Why are you so downcast?” she asked in a whisper.
“I cannot help being so, Haidee. Our prospects seem so hopeless. And, after all, our preservation may only be a prolongation of our agony.”
“You should not speak like that. We live, and with life there is always hope.”
“True; but the hope cherished in extremity is more often than not a delusion.”
“It may be so, but it is better not to think so, for our prospects are gloomy enough, truly so for me, for I am but a wanderer, without either home or friends.”
“Not without friends, Haidee, while I and Lieutenant Harper live.”
At the name of Harper, she averted her face, that the speaker might not see the emotion his words caused her.
“But the fate of your friend is uncertain,” she said, after some little silence. “He may be dead, and if so, life has no charm for me.”
“He may be dead, as you say, and he may not. There were chances in his favour; but even supposing that he escaped, he would lose no time in making his way to Meerut, and there he would join his wife.”
Gordon hazarded this remark, and as he did so, he watched his companion’s face. He could scarcely help making it, for he longed to know if Haidee was aware that Harper was married. But he did not like to ask the question plainly. She hung her head and sighed, but made no answer.
Gordon was disappointed. He waited for some minutes, then felt that he was justified in putting an end to all doubt upon the subject. For while he would not believe that his friend had wilfully deceived Haidee, he thought it probable that Harper might have deemed it advisable to withhold the information, as his life had entirely depended on this woman. And yet he was reluctant to believe that, for it seemed to suggest that Harper in that case would have been guilty of deceiving her, and he was not sure that even in such extremity the end would justify the means—where the means meant the breaking of a woman’s heart. And that woman, too, the very perfection of womanhood.
“Did you know that Lieutenant Harper was married?” he asked kindly, watching her closely as he spoke.
But the only indication she gave that she felt the force of his question was an almost imperceptible trembling of the lips. She turned her eyes upon him as she answered—
“I am aware of it. Your friend is too honourable to deceive me;”—Gordon breathed freely again;—“but though I knew this, and know that the laws of your country allow a man to have but one wife, there are no laws in any country which prevent a man having any number of friends. I would have been a friend to him, to his wife, to his friends, so that I might sometimes have looked upon his face, and have listened to his voice. Alas! if he is dead, will not my sun have gone down, and only the gloom of night will remain for me.”
“Let me cheer you now, Haidee, for it is you who are downcast and despairing. Take comfort. Harper may still be living, and the future may have boundless happiness in store for you.”
“Forgive me for this momentary weakness,” she replied. “I do not despair. While you live I have much to live for, for you are his friend, and if I can succeed in restoring to you your lost love, shall I not have much cause for rejoicing?”
“You are a noble, self-sacrificing woman, Haidee, and your reward will come.”
“I hope so; but let us turn our attention to effecting an escape from this place. Why did you not try to secure a weapon, for you may have to defend your life?”
“And yours,” he added quickly, for she never seemed to think of herself.
Her words reminded him for the first time that he was totally unarmed, and carrying their lives in their hands as they did he knew that a weapon was indispensable. He reproached himself for having been so forgetful as not to have secured one before the garrison had marched out; but reproaches were useless; that he knew, and he thought it possible the error might yet be repaired.
“Perhaps it is not yet too late to get one,” he said.
“We will try,” she answered. “I will go and search amongst the defences; we may find something that will be of service.”
“No, you must not go. Let that job be mine.”
“We can both go,” she replied. “Four eyes are better than two, for one pair can watch for danger, while the other searches.”
“Thoughtful again, Haidee. We will both go; but first let me reconnoitre, to see if the coast is clear.”
Cramped and stiffened by the crouching posture he had been compelled to sustain, he crept from his hiding-place, so as to command a view of the ground. He could see nobody. He listened, but no sounds broke the stillness, excepting now and again the exultant yelling of the natives, as it was borne to his ears by a light breeze.
The firing had ceased, for the deadly work at the Ghaut was completed, and the day was declining.
“I think we may venture forth, Haidee,” he said, after having assured himself as far as possible that there was nobody in sight.
They both went out from the place of concealment, and, while Haidee took up a position behind a large gun from which she could command an extensive view, and give timely warning of the approach of any of the enemy, Gordon commenced to search amongst the heaps of old rubbish that were scattered around.
It was a melancholy task, for at every step there were ghastly evidences of the fearful nature of the struggle that had been carried on so heroically by the defenders. Here was a fragment of an exploded shell, there an officer’s epaulette; a portion of a sword blade red with blood, a baby’s shoe also ensanguined, a bent bayonet, a woman’s dress, colourless and ragged, and what was more ghastly and horrible still, there was the corpse of a little baby. It had died that morning; its mother had been dead some days. In its dead hands it still held a broken doll, and on its pretty dead face a smile still lingered. Gordon picked up the ragged dress, and reverently laid it over the little sleeper.
Continuing his search, he came upon a canvas bag. It contained some salt beef and some biscuits. They had evidently been put up by one of the garrison for the journey, but in the hurry of departure had been forgotten. It was a very welcome find to Gordon, for the pangs of hunger were making themselves painfully unpleasant both in him and his companion. The bag had a string or lanyard attached to it, so that he was enabled to sling it round his shoulder.
He next entered the portion of the barrack that had been occupied by the men. Here there seemed to be nothing but ruin and rubbish. Worn-out blankets, a few old beds, some broken cups, and various other articles were strewn about. Amongst these he searched, and in one corner of the room, hidden beneath a straw mattress, he found a case containing an American revolver, and with it a leather bag filled with cartridges. He could scarcely repress a cry of joy as he made this discovery; it was the very weapon of all others likely to be most useful. The revolver was in good order, and he proceeded to load it, and, this completed, he hurried to Haidee. She was, of course, delighted with his good fortune. As it was yet too early to leave, they went back to their hiding-place and partook of some of the biscuits and beef.
About two hours afterwards they crept from the ruins. The night was quite dark. Tom-toms were being beaten in all directions, and fireworks were constantly ascending. The natives were making merry and holding high revel in honour of the victory—that is, massacre—for this was the only victory they had ever gained. Haidee and Gordon made their way stealthily along, avoiding the huts and houses, and keeping in the shadow of the trees. They reached the bridge without molestation, but as they crossed the river they were frequently eyed with suspicion by the natives who were lounging about, several of whom addressed Haidee, but she replying in their language, and saying that her companion was dumb, the Delhi road was reached, and so far they were safe.