"Well officer," the Rao Sahib asked. "Dost bring us a message from someone"?
The young officer laughed musically as he assumed a captivating pose.
"I bring you a message, noble Sahibs," he replied, "to say that the Raja of Jhansi is now present at the council."
"The Raja of Jhansi"? the Rao Sahib and Tantia Topi both echoed interrogatively, while Ahmad turned impulsively in his seat.
For a moment the Mohammedan scrutinized the young officer's features, then gave vent to an exclamation of surprise.
"By Allah"! he cried, "my Lords, it is the valiant Rani herself."
The nobles rose from their seats and welcomed her effusively. For a space the eyes of the Rao Sahib could discover no other object save her form to gaze upon.
She gracefully moved forward and took a seat at the board. The cloud of misfortune that had overshadowed their faces was lifted by her presence. As a ray of heaven's light to storm-beset travellers she came among them.
For a time the assembled nobles proceeded to discuss the events leading up to the numerous reverses they had recently suffered, those more directly implicated endeavoring by one plea and another to shirk individual responsibility. In this useless wrangle over past disasters the Rani's patience soon became exhausted. She perceived that unless brought to a speedy termination it might lead, by way of heated arguments, to the greater disaster of a feud among themselves. Already Ahmad Khan and Tantia Topi had exchanged angry words over the generalship displayed in the battle before Jhansi.
"My Lords," she at this point interposed. "All this seems to me to add little to the solution of our present difficulty, except in so far as we may have gathered experience to bring victory out of defeat. With deference to your greater knowledge of such matters, in my mind the most important question, is how to insure a speedy turn of the campaign in our favor."
"Truly, thou speakest to the point, O Rani," the Rao Sahib remarked approvingly. "Dost agree then with Tantia Topi, that we intrench ourselves here in Kalpi and await the coming of the Foreigners"?
The Rani rose to her feet with a gesture of impatience.
"Noble Rao," she returned vehemently. "That plan will never do. If it was impossible to hold Jhansi, a stronger position by a hundred fold than any that might be afforded by the defenses here, how do you suppose we could drive away the Foreigners from Kalpi? No," she urged, "while I agree that the Kalpi arsenal must be saved to us at all costs, I believe that the enemy must first be fought and beaten in the open, at a time and place the most advantageous to ourselves. To a spot of our own selection, I would move forward to encounter them on their way from Jhansi. There, with our troops well rested and theirs exhausted by a long march, the chance of victory will rest on our side. Aye, I would so arrange the hour of battle that we fight in the heat of noonday, when the sun will aid us as a powerful ally."
"Well spoken, brave Rani," Ahmad Khan applauded enthusiastically. "Hadst thou learned thy military lessons from the great Dost Mohammed, thou couldst not have counseled us more wisely."
"Nay, my lords," she protested, "it is after all but the opinion of a woman; but if any remain still in doubt as to the advisability of the plan, give into my hands the command of this affair and see what comes of it. If a leader's courage can drive these people back, I vow they shall never desecrate with their feet the eighty temples of Kalpi."
The Rao Sahib was enthralled by the beauty and enthusiasm of the Rani of Jhansi. He would willingly have granted her request, but that he was fearful of offending the susceptibilities of his generals. He pondered deeply before rendering a decision. At last he spoke authoritatively.
"In what the Rani says there is certainly displayed much good discernment of the situation. I agree with her that it is better to intercept the Foreigners' advance than await them here in Kalpi. So if she will accept the leadership of the cavalry under the supreme command of Tantia Topi, I believe Kalpi may be saved."
"Noble Rao Sahib," the Rani returned. "Most readily will I accept any office which you may be pleased to give into my hands. But I would urge that we set out forthwith, in order that we may have time to select a good position. Be assured the Foreigners will not rest while another prize remains to fall into their hands."
"Thou art right, noble Rani," the Rao Sahib acquiesced. Then turning to Tantia Topi he asked if any place suggested itself to his mind as the best vantage ground on which to meet the enemy.
Tantia Topi called for a map of the country, and for several minutes studied it carefully. At last he gave it as his opinion that at Kunch, forty miles distant, the nature of the country would afford the best strategic position for a decisive battle.
"It is a good place," he explained, "because lying half way on the road to Jhansi, if the rout of the Foreigners be complete, a flying column may push swiftly on to the Rani's capital, with a chance of surprising and capturing the weak garrison that the Foreign general can only afford to leave there."
"Good, most sagacious Tantia Topi," the Rani exclaimed approvingly. Then turning to the Rao Sahib she earnestly besought of him a favor.
"My Lord," she said, "thou wilt not deny me the command of any force detached for the recapture of my own city"?
The Rao Sahib replied with gallantry.
"Assuredly that thou shalt possess, fair cavalier. Tantia Topi now hath my orders to give that command to no one else."
"So to Kunch, my Lords," he added, "is our final decision."
"Aye and to victory, forget not that," the Rani cried enthusiastically.
The council then proceeded with a discussion of the details of the expedition, to rise, at last, confident that with the greater number of men and guns they could put into the field, together with natural advantages on their side, the result of the battle could not be otherwise than a victory for the Native arms.
Near the decaying town of Kunch the Native army had taken up a strong position. In the shelter of woods and gardens, interspersed here and there with temples, for the time being occupied as miniature forts, the whole was fronted by a high wall over which a row of cannon peered their sinister muzzles.
For several days the retainers of numerous petty rajas, driven back upon the main body by the advance of the enemy, had been arriving to reinforce those who confidently believed they were about to deliver a death blow to the Foreigners. The plan of battle had been skillfully arranged. Under the supreme direction of Tantia Topi, Ahmad Khan had been given the command of the artillery, the Rani of Jhansi the cavalry, and Parma Nand Rai Bahadur, the officer who had rescued the Rani from Jhansi, and who purposely or otherwise managed to keep personally out of view, the duty of remaining in touch with the vanguard of the foe. If the attack was made at daybreak, the order was to hold the enemy at bay until the sun had climbed high into the meridian, and then with the whole force deliver a counter assault that, in the terrific heat of noon, must take the enemy at the greatest disadvantage. It was with eager expectancy that both leaders and men of the Native army awaited the battle that was to crush the power of the Foreigners in the central provinces of India. All was in readiness; only one element of doubt as yet remained undetermined—that the Foreigners would fall in with the plans made for their destruction.
It was early on a May morning that scouts brought in the intelligence that the enemy was in sight of Kunch.
The various arms took up their positions immediately. On the right, a little in the rear of the infantry, the Rani of Jhansi galloped to the head of her command and addressed to her men a few well chosen words of encouragement.
In response they cheered lustily, as they waved their swords in the bright sunshine.
"We will follow thee to the death, O valiant Rani," they shouted enthusiastically.
Of a truth, in both armies, there was on that day no more gallant or inspiring figure than that of the girl in the scarlet uniform. From her white turban there rose and flashed a diamond aigrette, a parting gift of good fortune from the Rao Sahib, who had remained at Kalpi. He, too, now regarded himself as an aspirant to her tender favor.
Thus the men stood to their arms watching a running skirmish over the plain between their outposts and what was believed to be the vanguard of the enemy, when a terrible fusilade of musketry and artillery fire burst upon their unprotected left flank and rear.
The enemy had not fallen in with the plans for their destruction, but with Occidental perversity had consummated others of their own. The bulk of the Foreign army had, overnight, made a wide detour unobserved, and was now perilously threatening the Native force's line of retreat—a movement, that the Foreign general knew from experience, the Native commanders would be unable to view with any other feeling than dread. By this action the battle was won for the Foreigners before it had even commenced.
Tantia Topi cast a single terrified glance over the field and fled precipitately; but Ahmad Khan quickly grasped the situation, in so far as his own branch of the service was concerned. If he could only bring his guns to bear upon the force advancing from the unexpected direction, the Foreigners might be held in check until order was restored out of the panic that prevailed. The infantry deserted by their leader had become unmanageable, but the Rani of Jhansi still held the cavalry together awaiting orders. To her, Ahmad dispatched an urgent message begging her to cover his contemplated movement.
She was about to respond promptly, when, glancing backward she noticed a picket that had been driven in by the enemy engaged in a desperate encounter with a larger body of cavalry. In the centre, fighting for his life with no hope of escape, she beheld the form of the officer who had succeeded in effecting her deliverance from Jhansi. The mêlée was too far distant to discern his features, but intuitively, without a hesitating doubt, she knew that Parma Nand Rai Bahadur was one with Prasad Singh.
Ahmad's request, the peril of the Native army, both were swept from her mind in the face of her lover's danger. Without another thought than for his safety, she gave no order, but impulsively spurred her horse at a broken part of the intervening wall, and dashed to his rescue. Her command, not understanding what course to pursue, divided of their own volition into two parties, the Valaiti troopers following their mistress, the rest galloping after the infantry in retreat. Thus Ahmad Khan, muttering all the curses in his vocabulary, was left to extricate himself as best he could.
With uplifted sword the Rani came down upon the Foreign cavalry like an avenging spirit. At last she was hand to hand with them. Three Native troopers of the enemy she hurled groaning to the dust. Right and left she gallantly parried and delivered blows. Her Valaitis closed about her, as she cut her way toward her lover's side.
Prasad's horse had fallen. On foot he was fighting despairingly when her image rose before his eyes, superbly animated with the ardor of mortal combat.
"Prasad! Prasad!" she cried. "The Rani of Jhansi cometh to thee."
She raised her sword to parry a blow delivered at his head, but her hand dropped lifelessly to her side. The scene became a hazy blur in her vision, reeling in her saddle she lost consciousness. When she regained her senses she was far from the battlefield of Kunch.
The victory of the Foreigners had again been complete. The retreat of the Native army, at first conducted with order, finally developed into a rout, in which the Valaitis swiftly bore the Rani back to Kalpi. The Rao Sahib seized with the same panic that had carried Tantia Topi from the field to an unknown destination, quickly left Kalpi to its fate. In the city all was confusion. The infantry vowed they had been abandoned by the artillery; the artillery, through the mouth of Ahmad Khan, swore that the cavalry had deserted them at the critical moment and thereby lost the battle. Without a leader, the bulk of the troops were seeking individual safety in the jungles. They believed the enemy was upon their heels.
Such was the situation to which the Rani opened her eyes, on recovering from the glancing blow that had placed her temporarily hors de combat.
Her first thoughts were of Prasad. She inquired anxiously of those about her if any news of him had been obtained. The answer was in part satisfactory. He had been seen during the flight from Kunch, and was believed to have been ordered to escort Tantia Topi to a place of safety.
The Rani rose from her couch to view with silent contempt and outspoken denunciation the craven spirit that had captured all who remained in Kalpi.
"The Foreigners are upon us," they replied to her entreaties to make a last stand at Kalpi. "We cannot fight against them. They will kill all the prisoners. It is better to fly while there is time."
At this juncture news was brought to the Rani that the Nawab of Bandah had arrived before Kalpi with a considerable force. The Rani hastened to his presence, and besought him in fervent language to save the only arsenal in their hands. But the Nawab of Bandah had just suffered a defeat himself. He had trusted to share in the triumph of the Rao Sahib after Kunch. He certainly had no stomach to become the hero of a forlorn hope. Under the circumstances he was much more inclined to discuss the safest place of retreat.
In despair of being able to induce him to accede to her purpose, the Rani was forced to summon Ahmad Khan to her aid, at a moment when the Mohammedan's humor was deeply offended by her conduct at Kunch.
"Ah," he returned sarcastically. "The brave Rani is anxious enough to avail herself of Ahmad's services when it suits her convenience; but when he has fallen into a ditch, he might summon the moon to his relief with a surer hope of response."
"Nay, good Ahmad," the Rani replied winningly, "truly I did not realize thou wert in such distress. I only saw the desperate need of assistance in which Bai Bahadur was placed."
"To be sure," he answered tersely. "And who may be this Bai Bahadur"?
"Thou knowest as much of him as I," the Rani replied. "But, good Ahmad," she pleaded, "thou wilt, I know, support me with this Nawab"?
"Assuredly," he acquiesced in a yielding tone. "Thou hast a power with us, fair Rani, to gain an end possessed by no other. Verily, such an obedient hound am I at the sound of thy voice, that I believe if thou wert to order me to go forth as a yogi and sit at thy door for the rest of my days blinking at the sun, the eternal damnation of the Prophet would not stay my following thy command. What wouldst thou have me do with this Bandah Nawab"? he asked.
The Rani explained the Nawab's faintheartedness and suggested that Ahmad might use a little of the persuasion so effectual with Sadescheo.
"Aye," he replied twirling his moustaches fiercely. "But say the word, fair Lady, and for thy sake I will persuade my hand to cut his head off as the beginning of my argument."
"Let it be not quite so demonstrative," she enjoined. "But I would have thee be emphatic none the less."
"The battle yell of thy Valaitis will sound as a love ditty in his ears afterwards," he returned, and continued. "Thou art determined then to meet the Foreigners again"?
"Aye," she replied with spirit, "and to continue meeting them until I have won a victory or perished in the attempt."
The result of Ahmad Khan's conference with the Bandah Nawab was a prompt decision to make a last endeavor to save Kalpi. As a fortress to withstand a siege it was indefensible, but the ravines and ridges surrounding the city afforded the best field for intrenched positions. By day and night, under the supervision of the Rani and Ahmad Khan, men labored indefatigably upon these works, momentarily expecting the appearance of the enemy.
But the Foreigners were completely exhausted by the difficulties of the long march to Kunch, and the subsequent battle. It was impossible to follow up the retreat of the Native army and seize upon Kalpi before discipline could be restored in the defender's ranks. By short marches only could they advance further, to find that the girl whom they had come to regard as the soul of the rebellion in Central India, was ready to meet them in a more desperate resistance than ever. The Foreign general realized speedily that she had rendered her position well nigh impregnable.
The Rani was not of the temper to await an attack from behind earthworks, with ever one eye on her line of retreat. She took the supreme command into her own hands, and so harassed the Foreigners' advance with her cavalry, that when they beheld the labyrinth of defenses raised as if by magic, on the three vulnerable sides of the town, they did not contemplate a retrograde movement, but a victory seemed more than doubtful. For both sides the day of another decisive battle was at hand.
In the meantime the Rao Sahib had heard of the successful efforts of the Rani to bring order out of chaos in the demoralized condition of the Native army after Kunch. He returned to reap the reward of a more than probable victory, and as a consequence the supreme command again reverted to his hands. At a council of war before the battle he was not unmindful of escape in case of defeat.
"We can cross the river and plunge into the jungles in that event," he remarked. "The Foreigners will not follow us into those recesses."
Scorn, anger, in a sense despair, were mingled in the Rani's voice, as with burning cheeks and flashing eyes she retorted hotly.
"Escape, my lords," she cried, "if we only set as little store upon escape as do these Foreigners, not one of them would now remain in India."
She rose abruptly and strode without further utterance from the council.
"A beautiful woman, a wonderful woman, with an accursed Afghan lion in leash at her side," remarked the Nawab of Bandah; "but noble Rao Sahib, thou dost well nevertheless to look to it, that we are not caught here in a trap."
Unfortunately for the Native army that sentiment dominated all their actions. It was the weight that turned the scale of battle in favor of the Foreigners at Jhansi, at Kunch, and lastly at Kalpi.
When the first onslaught came, the Native army repulsed the Foreigners with desperate valor. The sun again aided their efforts and decimated the enemy's ranks as much with blasts of heat as did the storm of shot and shell, poured forth in a blaze of fire from every ridge upon which the attack was directed. The odds were too great against the Foreigners. They wavered.
In a ravine, the Rani held the cavalry in waiting for such a turning point of the battle. She quickly noticed the reaction, and with a cheer, caught up by the whole body of her command, dashed upon the dismayed Foreigners. For a moment the battle seemed to be won, but only for a moment.
While she was engaged driving back the frontal attack, with ruthless slaughter on both sides, the Foreign general had succeeded in again effecting a flank movement threatening his enemy's retreat.
The Rao Sahib and the Nawab of Bandah cast a despairing look across the river to the jungles beyond, hesitated when they should have led all their forces forward; a shell burst near them; they turned their horses' heads and fled.
Meanwhile the Rani, flushed with victory, was still driving her opposing force before her, when glancing backward she beheld with a sinking heart the Native army in full retreat. A cheer from the Foreigners announced too plainly that for her, the day was lost.
"The cowards," she muttered, as tears of passionate grief coursed down her cheeks. "Oh, the cowards! Will nothing stimulate their courage"?
With valor born of desperation she hurled herself upon the enemy still in front and cut her way between their ranks. Once more surrounded by her faithful Valaitis she was compelled to fly, on this occasion to the shelter of the jungle.
When the first messenger from Kunch rode into Kalpi, as if a thousand demons were in pursuit, shouting wildly that the day was lost; the worthy secretary, Bipin Dat, bitterly reproached himself for not having, at all hazards, continued his journey to the abode of his family. "Ah, hae, hae"! he groaned, "what God is unappeased by which a peaceful man is continually involved in these affairs of bloodshed. This all comes of not consulting an astrologer before setting out from Jhansi. He might have so arranged matters with the heavens, that a whirlwind would have scattered the Foreigners. Unfortunate is it, that the great Rani sets so little faith in the all powerful astrologers."
He quickly gathered a few trinkets together, carefully secreted them in the folds of his turban, and was among the earliest to plunge into the jungle.
There, for several days he wandered about in fear of wild beasts, of robbers, and of evil spirits. In what direction his footsteps were bent, he had but a faint idea; his sole aim being to place between himself and the scene of hostilities the greatest possible distance. An occasional hut afforded him a sleeping place, where, in the universal charity displayed to travellers, he was provided gratuitously with such meagre fare as could be offered.
How far he had wandered, Bipin could make no computation. The people of the jungle knew only of their immediate neighborhood. It seemed to him he must have travelled a great distance. In reality, like many under similar circumstances, he had been rambling in circles. At the end of two weeks he was still within thirty miles of the place he was eager to view from a distance of two hundred.
The day's tramp had been more than usually a toilsome one for Bipin. He had taken a narrow path that seemed to wander capriciously amid tangled underbrush with no particular destination. The sun had set without a village or habitation in sight, and the mysterious silence of the jungle, its ominous shadows, its majestic gloom, filled his soul with dread. He was reluctant to go forward, afraid to remain on the spot, and hesitated to turn back. His terrified fancy beheld the eyes of a panther or a tiger glaring out at him from behind every bush. The breaking of a twig, the sound of his own footsteps startled him nearly out of his senses. Thrice that day had a fox crossed his path, the worst possible omen. He beat his breast in his wretchedness. In turn, his fat cheeks and brow became flushed, and chill as the damp slab of a tomb.
"Oh, what a fool have I been," he groaned, "to mix my life up in the intrigues and ambitions of a court. How much better had I only remained in my humble condition with my good uncles. I would never have come to this unlucky pass."
Before him the path made a bend. Through the branches he thought he discerned a flickering light. It might come from a hut, or, he shivered, from the watch fire of a detachment of the Foreigners. In the morning he had heard that parties of them were beating the jungle for fugitives.
But in his deplorable situation, he reasoned, that it would be better to fall into their hands with the chance of being able to prove his innocence of rebellion, than remain where he was, a prey to some malign influence that, for all he knew to the contrary, might change him into a bat. He gathered his tattered garments about him, and moved cautiously toward the light. He had not taken many steps when a hand stretched out from the darkness laid a firm grasp upon his shoulder. At the same moment a voice in his own language gruffly called on him to halt.
"Who art thou, and whitherward"?
Bipin cast his arms above his head despairingly. His challenger might be a robber, or the Native sentry of a Foreign encampment.
"But a poor traveller—a devotee on his way to the holy river," he cried timorously, "a man of peace seeking a shelter for the night."
It was a fortunate inspiration that prompted him to pose as a pilgrim to the bank of the holy Ganges. The vilest malefactor would respect the sanctity of his person undergoing such a pious obligation. Had the idea only occurred to him before, it would have saved many qualms of nervous emotion. The accursed fox would have fled precipitately at the cry of "Ganga! Ganga"!
To Bipin's relief his captor replied in friendly accents:
"Why, surely, thy voice is not unknown to my ears. Art thou not one of the Rani of Jhansi's attendants"?
Bipin was about to vow by all his Gods that so far from being in any sympathy with the Native army, he detested their actions and loved the Foreigners as his uncles. For a moment he was tempted to declare, that never in his life had he beheld the face of the great Princess, and reassert more firmly his sacred mission; when it occurred to him that he might have stumbled upon a detachment of the fleeing Native army. He promptly decided to make sure of this point before committing himself to a confounding statement.
"And thy voice, too, I seem to know," he returned. "Art thou not also one of her followers"?
"A servant of the valiant Rani, herself," came the terse response.
"Blessed Devi," cried Bipin joyfully. "Am I not her worthy secretary, Bipin Dat. Tell me, good fellow, where I may discover her Highness, for whom I have been vainly searching in the jungle these many days past."
"That is easily done, holy pilgrim," replied the other, with a laugh, at the secretary's sudden change of garment. "She is encamped here with a body of her Valaitis, in retreat from Kalpi. Come, I will take thee to her presence."
The sentry led Bipin a short distance to an open space in which two or three hundred Valaitis were resting with their horses tethered at hand. Near a small camp fire the Rani was seated gazing pensively into the smouldering embers, kept purposely from rising into a blaze for fear of disclosing her place of concealment. She did not notice Bipin's approach until he had prostrated himself at her feet. Then she turned her eyes upon him without speaking.
"Great Rani," he at last exclaimed. "Behold thy worthy servant, Bipin Dat."
"Aye," she replied gravely but not unkindly. "Thou art a strange creature, appearing where least expected. Better would it have been for thee, good Bipin, if thou hadst taken another road than that which led to the Rani's camp. I would urge thee to seek speedily thy home, for with us henceforth there will be little use for thy pen."
A note of sadness in her voice appealed to a sympathetic chord even in the timorous nature of her secretary. It reproached him with cowardice and infidelity to his beautiful, heroic mistress.
"Lovely Rani," he cried penitently. "I vow hereafter I will never leave thy side, come good or evil fortune."
"Bipin," she replied with lighter spirit. "Though the present hour is dark enough, it may yet be that those who follow me shall bask in the brightest sunshine. If thou art determined to be among them, thou hadst better seek thy rest, for by daybreak we must be far hence."
A prudent man, the worthy secretary took a careful survey of the camp before deciding on his sleeping place. Not that there was much choice as regards a comfortable position. It was the bare ground for both the Rani and her attendants; but in his turban there were still hidden certain articles of value that might tempt the cupidity of the Valaiti troopers. If in guarding his sleep they despoiled him of his remaining possessions, he reasoned, that he would have paid overmuch for a night's security.
In this dilemma, his eyes chanced to observe the well spreading branches of a tree, under which the Rani had taken up a reclining position. They suggested to him a safe retreat. With some difficulty he climbed the lower trunk and discovered a spot that nature might have constructed to suit his present need. He curled himself up where two stout limbs branched off into space, and amid the shelter of the foliage was soon fast asleep.
The silence of midnight descended on the camp, the fire died low, an occasional grunt from the throat of a heavy sleeping trooper on the ground, and a sonorous gurgle from that of the secretary aloft, were the only noises distinguishable to the sentries.
Presently the worthy secretary began to dream of the peaceful abode of his uncles. It was a soothing picture to his troubled mind, but unfortunately, like the reality of life, it was not destined to last long without a counterpart of woe. In that absurdly impossible procedure of dreams, the accursed barber of Jhansi appeared on the scene, attired for all the world like a Foreign soldier—in fact, a horrible nightmare, dual personality, endeavoring to shave off Bipin's nose and ears with a two handed sword of immense proportions. In his sleep the secretary struggled and gasped, for it seemed that the barber-soldier had seized him by the throat and was endeavoring to choke the breath out of his lungs. Indeed, the choking sensation became so terribly realistic, that he awoke with a wail of anguish to find that it was no dream at all, but that some huge, black monster, manlike so far as he could discern its face in the darkness, had grasped him round the neck, probably with the object of murdering him for the treasures concealed in his turban.
"Thieves! Murder! The Foreigners"! shouted Bipin, as loudly as the little wind left in his chest would permit. He entwined his legs and arms about a furry body and commenced a struggle for his life.
At Bipin's cry of "The Foreigners," the camp was instantly aroused. Horses neighed and pawed the earth, the troopers sprang to their feet, the sentries rushed in and stood gazing up into the tree from which there came a medley of strange noises. From the tumult, and the shower of twigs and leaves that fell upon their upturned faces, it was evident a desperate conflict was proceeding.
"The Foreigners! Thieves! The accursed Foreigners. To the rescue, brave Rani; oh! to the rescue, good comrades," the voice of Bipin saluted their astonished ears. Then came screams and chattering in an unknown tongue, with a fiercer renewal of the unseen combat.
The Rani had been awakened with the rest. She was about to order some of the men to climb up into the tree and discover the nature of the disturbance, when, with a crashing of branches, a struggling black mass fell into their midst.
The troopers started back and then returned to separate the combatants that still writhed and fought upon the ground, when the form of Bipin struggled to his feet. He grasped a hairy baboon by the neck, and held him a captive before the Rani.
"Ah, what a ruffian," he panted, "to attempt to strangle me in my sleep. Without doubt he must embody the spirit of some wicked enemy."
In spite of her overshadowing misfortune, the Rani could not restrain a laugh at the humor of the situation.
"Thou art a brave fellow," she exclaimed, "and hast earned thy right to fight with a lance instead of a pen. Some day, perchance, thou wilt command a troop."
"Truly," reflected Bipin, "whether I like it or no, Fate will have it that I am to be mixed up continually in some accursed broil. If not with men, alas! it seems with the animals. Such is the inscrutable will of God."
The troopers' voices echoed the Rani's sally with laughter. They drove the baboon from the camp, peace was restored, slumber once more descended upon their heads. Before daybreak the party were speeding in a south-westerly direction toward a rendezvous of the Native chiefs at Gopalpur.
It was but a fragment of the army defeated at Kalpi that had gathered within the insecure walls of Gopalpur.
Of the leaders, the Rao Sahib and Ahmad Khan had preceded the Rani of Jhansi to that place. Tantia Topi and Rai Bahadur or Prasad Singh, were hourly expected. Upon their arrival a council was summoned to decide what was best to be done in the hopeless strait to which the Native cause was reduced. To the North, East, and South; in whichever direction their gaze turned, they beheld the victorious Foreign armies closing in upon them with relentless force.
It was one of those fearful days of heat preceding every rainy season. The Rao Sahib awaited his companions under an awning on the roof of his temporary residence, where any stray breath of wind, however sultry, would be welcome. The sun had not yet risen to dispel the haze that enveloped the surrounding jungle.
The Rani of Jhansi arrived first, quickly followed by Ahmad Khan and other chiefs. Lastly came Tantia Topi with Prasad Singh.
The nobles saluted the Rao Sahib gravely as they appeared upon the roof. Prasad's glance rested for a moment upon the Rani's form, but her gaze was concentrated upon a map of the country. She was apparently not aware of his presence. He took his seat the furthest from her position, after exchanging with Ahmad Khan a formal greeting.
Since his dismissal from Jhansi, Prasad had come to regard the Mohammedan's actions leading up to that event with suspicion. He had formed no definite charge to prefer against Ahmad, but if they should meet again he had determined not to place so much confidence in the other's protestations of friendship. He reasoned that they had not gone far to assist him in the past.
Toward the Rani, who appeared in his eyes more beautiful than before, neither time nor absence had diminished his affection. It was true that while he had come to regard the act for which his banishment had been pronounced as inexcusable; the severe, the unjust criticism upon his private life by one, who, if Ahmad's words were to be given credence, was herself not blameless, for long rankled in his breast.
But had Ahmad Khan spoken the truth concerning her? In the face of the universal praise bestowed upon her virtue and bravery, a doubt had risen in his mind of the Mohammedan's good faith. The doubt grew strong within him during the night ride from Kalpi, and stronger still after the manner in which she fought her way to his rescue at the battle of Kunch. If Ahmad had slandered the Rani's character, had acted as a traitor, he vowed he would slay him without mercy. But in the meantime she had closed his mouth indefinitely. She had laid an interdict upon any expression of his sentiment. He could not speak of these things again until such time as she would grant permission. All he could do was to prove the depth of his love by such actions as her rescue from Jhansi. For the rest, he could only hope that fortune would give him an opportunity to rend the veil of misfortune that had shrouded his life in Jhansi, and appear before her in his true character—a character much tempered by the trials and hardships he had since experienced.
When all were assembled there ensued a period of silence. No one among them seemed to find courage in his heart to speak. Indeed, what was there that could be said? Their fortresses and arsenals had all been captured; their armies vanquished and dispersed; the Foreigners everywhere triumphant. It seemed that only one topic remained for discussion—how to escape the vengeance that would surely fall upon their heads.
The Rani raised her eyes and glanced round upon their despondent countenances. Upon not one of them could she detect a spark of hope remaining. They were as cowed animals awaiting the lash of a master, for offenses which they knew to be unpardonable, in defeat.
"Well, my Lords," she spoke calmly, "I presume that being all gathered, our business is to discuss the next place to give the enemy a battle."
"Give the enemy a battle," Tantia Topi echoed in faint-hearted accents. "What force of men, what guns, what ammunition, do we now possess with which to give battle to the Foreigners. Where even can we fly, to gain any but a temporary refuge"?
"That," returned the Rani firmly, "may be the saving of our situation. We cannot fly, therefore we must fight."
"Fight," echoed Tantia Topi gloomily. "Have we not fought already, and what has been the result? Perhaps the noble Rani," he added, with a strain of sarcasm, "will instruct us how to wage a war without men or guns."
Tantia Topi had not escaped the feeling of jealousy among certain of the leaders, as a result of the praise lavished by the troops upon the personal valor of the Rani of Jhansi.
She retorted with rising temper.
"Ah"! she cried. "Have we not had some experience how fifteen hundred men well-led can give battle to, and defeat over twenty thousand? Now it is our turn to win a victory against overwhelming odds."
"Perhaps the valiant Rani will instruct us further," the Native general suggested, controlling his anger with difficulty, at the Rani's reference to his Jhansi defeat.
The Rao Sahib interposed, fearful of an altercation between his two most skillful commanders.
"Assuredly, fair Lady," he said, "any suggestion for a way to retrieve our disasters will be most welcome."
"Then, my Lords," she continued, as if suggesting a plan that presented little difficulty of accomplishment, "it is simply, that either by strategy, diplomacy, or assault, we do capture Gwalior."
"Gwalior! Gwalior"! passed from mouth to mouth, while looks of incredulous amazement broke upon all faces.
"Gwalior, noble Rani," repeated the Rao Sahib. "Surely thou must mean some other place, not Maharaja Sindhia's impregnable stronghold, garrisoned by twenty thousand Foreign drilled troops."
The Rani rose to her feet and spoke with gathering animation.
"Aye, noble Rao Sahib, I do mean Gwalior, Maharaja Sindhia's capital and no other. I beg your patience," she proceeded, "while I disclose my plan further. With us here, we have, or may gather together on the march, perhaps eight thousand troops—a force with which much may be accomplished, as Tantia Topi knows."
She glanced at the Native hero of numerous defeats with a slight expression of contempt about her lips, and continued:
"Good, then, with these I propose that we make forced marches immediately upon Gwalior, and arrive there before Sindhia has been warned of the coming of his guests. It is well known, my Lords, that Maharaja Sindhia is, at heart, in sympathy with our cause. It is also well known," she added with exquisite naïvete, "that he is a young man not insensible to the charms of a fair woman. To Sindhia, then, I purpose to dispatch a messenger beseeching him to grant me an interview. If he doth grant it, be assured there will be no battle before Gwalior. He will join us with all his forces. But if his crafty minister, Dinkar Rao, or his Foreign councilor, doth persuade him that the Rani of Jhansi's eyes will bewitch his reason to perdition, and he doth refuse my emissary; then we will take his capital whether he be disposed to yield or no. His people are our people; his troops our troops; discreet messengers may induce many to join us at the critical moment, if he elects to give us battle. Gwalior captured," she cried with flashing eyes, "and all Northern India lies at our feet. The Foreigners cannot march upon us immediately, for the rains will make the roads impassable. Thousands will rally to our side. Our swords will again flash across the heavens. Who knows not only Jhansi, but Delhi may be recaptured. Is not this a prize worth staking our frail lives upon? But even if defeat is again the will of God, if die we must; is it not better to perish as warriors should, in a feat of arms upon which the eyes of our enemies will gaze with marvel, than as wild beasts hunted through the jungle?
"Ah, my Lords," she appealed to them with superb emotional fervor. "Let not us cherish despair, but take to our hearts that invincible faith in ourselves, by which the seemingly impossible is often successfully accomplished. Now is the hour when the steel of our courage is forever determined. Let us at least drag from the unwilling tongues of these Foreigners the admission, that the glorious traditions of our race are not to be closed in the pages of history, without reference to a sublime, a mighty funeral."
The Rani's hearers gazed upon her in wonder. That the force of her argument; the fire of her words, swept toward them as a blast from a furnace of heroism, had kindled in their breasts a responsive flame of her own dauntless spirit, was evident: but they were appalled, dumbfounded at the audacity, the daring of her proposal.
To march upon Gwalior in the demoralized condition of their army, in their own sickening despair. Gwalior protected by the strongest fortress in all India, that was regarded, even by Sindhia's Foreign allies as impregnable. Gwalior the capital of the great Maharaja, containing the pick of the Native army and vast stores of munitions of war. No! It could not be done, they agreed mentally. The plan to their minds did not offer the single chance out of a thousand in a forlorn hope.
The Rao Sahib sighed deeply. He gravely shook his head from side to side.
"It is impossible, I fear, brave Rani," he replied. "It would be easier to recapture Delhi, than seize Gwalior from Sindhia's hands."
"Impossible! Impossible"! the others echoed sadly.
Even the fierce nature of Ahmad Khan for once failed to respond to an enterprise of such overpowering odds. But in his mind, the reappearance of his rival, had inflamed his jealousy and hatred to subvert all other feelings. His eyes, at intervals, had glanced suspiciously from the Rani to her lover. Though he had detected no signs of affectionate regard pass from one to the other, he knew that between himself and Prasad, her heart in its entirety, if not her favor, went forth to the noble of her own faith.
Despair, not of an ultimate triumph over the enemy, nor as the result of the blood-stained conscience which certain among the Foreigners asserted she possessed, but despair of her ability to move her companions to one of those splendid achievements of warfare, by which campaigns are turned suddenly in favor of the vanquished, seized upon her spirit. It stimulated all the heroism of her nature to an outburst of feeling. She could no longer withhold the whip of scorn to thrash their courage into action.
"Then stay, my Lords," she cried, "and rest yourselves in Gopalpur. The weather is hot and uncomfortable, for such work as this of Gwalior. But I—I with my Valaitis, even if not another one doth follow, will go to Sindhia's fortress, and either bid defiance to the Foreigners from its walls, or yield my life into the hands of God."
Ahmad's martial spirit was stung by the taunt. He would have risen to his feet in support of the heroic woman, had not a quicker action on Prasad's part restrained him, in sullen humor, to his seat.
The Rani had turned as if about to leave the council, when Prasad crossed over to her side. He drew his sword and laid it at her feet.
"If no other will follow," he cried, "I will go with thee to Gwalior, or to wherever thou dost lead."
The Rani rewarded him with a grateful look, in which he might have discerned the shade of a more tender feeling. She bent down, and taking his sword gave it back to him.
"Thou shalt go with me to Gwalior," she spoke gently.
The Rao Sahib had listened throughout the Rani's appeal with a growing appreciation of its truth. Some great, some telling stroke must be delivered in the emergency. It needed but an incident like Prasad's act to win him over to her side.
"Aye," he exclaimed. "Prasad Singh doth rightly. We will all go with thee, valiant Rani. The command, too, of this business shall be given to thy hands. If Gwalior is captured, the glory of it shall forever rest upon thy head."
The Rani was quick to encourage with praise the turn of opinion in her favor.
"Now do I know, as I had ever believed," she cried joyfully, "that thou art all brave men. Within a week, I vow the Peshwa shall be proclaimed in Sindhia's palace.
"And so," she added, "that we are no longer divided in this matter, I would select the one to go forward as my emissary to Sindhia. Ahmad's valor would entitle him to the dangerous mission, but that, without offense to any present, it would be better to dispatch a Hindu noble as an envoy to a Hindu prince. Otherwise the Maharaja may regard our aim as too much in the interest of the court of Delhi. Thus I would urge that Prasad Singh doth set forth immediately on this errand, while we close in upon his steps to-night."
"I have said thy will shall be the order of our march, brave Rani," returned the Rao Sahib. "Prasad Singh will go as thy messenger to the Maharaja forthwith."
The Rani turned toward her lover.
"Go then, good Prasad," she enjoined, "and in thy most skillful manner seek to obtain for me an audience with Sindhia, at some place without the walls of Gwalior secure from treachery. Go, and may God's blessing rest upon thy head.
"So, my Lords," she cried. "Let us to Gwalior with cautious speed, and good fortune smiling on our efforts."
The nobles rose spontaneously and shouted with rekindled spirits:
"To Gwalior! To Gwalior "!
The cry was caught up by the soldiers on guard in the compound:
"To Gwalior! To Gwalior! Death to the enemy. Victory for the Rani of Jhansi."
From remote ages Gwalior had been one of the chief cities of India, owing to the immense natural strength of its position. Many races, succeeding one another, had reared their dwellings about the foot of the huge pile of rock, rising in grim, deep shadowed precipices on all sides, two to three hundred feet from a broken plain, to a plateau crowned by the massive fortress, a mile and a half in length by three hundred yards wide. By a single narrow path alone could the summit be gained.
Numerous had been the splendid palaces, temples, and mausoleums erected in the vicinity by dynasties swept away, and ruins only of the Baradari, once the most superb hall of audience in the world, marks the site of the colossal residence of the Moguls.
In part skirting the suburbs of the city, the Morar river winds northward to its junction with the Chambal, thence its waters reach the Jumna, to mingle finally with those of the holy Granges. Beyond the Morar, at a considerable distance rocky hills bordering the plain, afford a first line of defense, the few defiles being easily rendered impassable by fortified works.
Such was the place the Rani of Jhansi's daring spirit had determined to seize. It was rich in long accumulated treasure to refill an empty purse, rich in the heirlooms of one of the greatest Native families, and in war material to arm new levies of troops, and thus prolong the strife to an indefinite period. As a prize to fall into her hands, there was scarcely its equal at the moment in India. The moral effect of the successful accomplishment of the act, upon both parties to the struggle, would almost equal that of the capture of Delhi at the commencement of hostilities.
On the morning of the Thirtieth of May, Maharaja Jaiaji Rao Sindhia, the ruling prince of the great Maratha house of Gwalior, had finished his devotions and was about to partake of his usual frugal early meal of milk, bread, and fruit, when a servant delivered a surprising, and, on the whole, an unwelcome piece of news.
An emissary of the Rani of Jhansi had arrived at the palace, and requested an immediate audience with his Highness.
During the year past, Sindhia had heard much of the redoutable Princess of Jhansi. He had been told of her beauty, her wisdom, and her valor. He had followed with sympathetic interest the capable administration of the government of her state, her defense of Jhansi, and latterly, with secret regret, the misfortunes which had descended on her head. So much for his private feeling toward the Rani.
But in public he had followed the advice of his astute minister, Dinkar Rao, who persuaded him to remain an ally of the Foreigners, against his natural impulse to cast in his lot with the Native cause. This, for a sufficient, if not a patriotic reason. While Sindhia bore no love for the Foreigners, he experienced less for the Peshwa as the supreme head of the Marathas, and less still, if not actual hatred, for the ruling Mohammedan family of Delhi.
"If," argued Dinkar Rao, "the Foreigners are driven out of India, who will grasp the great scepter? Surely either the Peshwa or the Emperor of Delhi. What then will become of Maharaja Sindhia? He will be, as of old, a feudatory of an avaricious Native monarch. Better is it to submit to the lesser evil, the comparatively light yoke of the Foreigners."
Maharaja Sindhia perceived the wisdom of his minister's argument, and in spite of the execrations of his troops and people, remained the Foreigners' faithful ally, when his influence cast into the scale on the other side, might have ended their rule in India.
His first thought on hearing of the arrival of the Rani's messenger, was that she was about to look to him for an asylum of refuge. Under the circumstances he devoutly wished she would seek the protection of some other prince. Her presence in Gwalior would surely again stir up his people, many of whom, without his permission, had joined the ranks of the Native army. Then if he were compelled to hand her over to the Foreigners, the act would be so unpopular, that it might be unsafe for him to remain in his own state. He reasoned thus, while he sent in haste for his minister to take advice before consenting to receive the Rani's envoy.
Dinkar Rao was as much perturbed as his master over the intelligence. He hastened to Sindhia, resolved to urge a refusal of the Rani's petition whatever might be its import. He, too, arrived at the hasty conclusion that she was desirous of seeking a refuge in Gwalior. It would, he reasoned with the unscrupulous nature of a born diplomat, have laid the Foreigners under a lasting debt of gratitude, if she could be tricked by fair promises to place herself in Sindhia's power, and then handed over to the mercy of her enemies. But he feared the vengeance of the people, who regarded her as the champion of a righteous cause. At all costs the Rani of Jhansi must be kept away from Gwalior.
These sentiments he strenuously urged upon Sindhia, before it was decided to accord the interview.
Prasad Singh entered Sindhia's presence as became the emissary of a great princess. He saluted the Maharaja with dignified respect, and then proceeded to unfold his mission.
The Rani of Jhansi, he announced, with other illustrious princes and generals, and an army of eight thousand men, were now encamped at Bahadurpur nine miles distant.
Both Sindhia and Dinkar Rao started. This was not the usual way a fugitive sought protection. They at once perceived a greater peril in the situation than they had imagined. Not that they feared for Gwalior itself as a fortress, but concerning the people. Could they depend upon the fidelity of their troops in such an emergency? Against any other leader, probably; but the name of the Rani of Jhansi made it more than doubtful. In the temples prayers were constantly rising for her safety.
Sindhia replied to the envoy, by asking the purpose of the Rani of Jhansi at the head of so large a force within his territory.
"Her Highness," Prasad returned evasively, "is but marching from Gopalpur to the north, and has halted to pay her respects to the great Maharaja of Gwalior. She is desirous of a personal interview with a prince of whom she has heard so many words of praise."
Sindhia's feelings were stirred conflictingly. He would have sacrificed much personally to behold the woman, of whom all men spoke in such enthusiastic terms. He would have been glad to receive her with the highest honors; but the shadows of the Peshwa, the Emperor, and the Foreigners haunted his mind.
"Doth the Rani then desire to enter Gwalior"? he asked anxiously.
"Such, my Lord Sindhia," Prasad replied, "is far from her Highness's present intention. She trusts to meet the great ruler of Gwalior merely in friendly intercourse at some point without the city. To this end only do my instructions extend."
Sindhia found himself in a dilemma. To refuse this apparently simple request might seem an ungracious act. Besides, he was anxious to judge of the beauty and charm of which others raved continually. Surely there could be little harm in extending to her this outward mark of his respect. If the Foreigners blamed him subsequently, he could plead the danger of the situation. He might even assert that his object was to urge upon her to surrender.
But Dinkar Rao was of a different mind. His master's zanana, tenanted by more than one beauty, was a conspicuous proof of the youthful Maharaja's susceptibility to the charms of fair women. Whatever covert object the Rani might have in view, and from her character he suspected an ulterior design cloaked by the harmless nature of her request, he feared that Sindhia would be carried away by her smile if not by her force of argument. So he took upon himself to reply by a pointed question.
"Thus far, well, my Lord Prasad Singh, but the Maharaja Sindhia should be informed first, how it comes about that the Rani of Jhansi prefers her request with an armed force so near to Gwalior, instead of sending forth her envoy from the boundary of the state, asking permission to approach the capital. To my mind it does not display great respect on her part for the authority of Maharaja Sindhia."
The concluding statement was directed as much to the sensibility of his master as it was by way of reply to the Rani's envoy. It had the designed effect. Sindhia's pride was nettled.
"Aye," he acquiesced. "My minister speaks wisely. Doth the Rani of Jhansi suppose my territory is to be invaded at the will of any neighboring ruler? That question must be answered to our satisfaction."
"My Lord Maharaja," Prasad replied. "I have no doubt the Rani will, herself, make her action excusable to your Highness. We live in times of strife when the customs of peace are swept aside out of necessity. Your Highness, as a great Indian prince, will surely not view with disfavor the Rani's conduct in defending her rights against the Foreigners."
The appeal touched Sindhia's heart. Before his mind rose the image of the valiant Princess, fighting for her throne, their united country and religion. He hesitated to return an answer. It was a critical moment for the fortunes of his house.
Dinkar Rao quickly perceived the effect of the sympathetic chord touched by the envoy. He seized the opportunity to impress upon his master's ears a discordant note.
"Of the misfortunes of the Rani of Jhansi," he said, "Maharaja Sindhia cannot be unmindful, but," he added with significance, "among her allies are representatives of the Peshwa and the Emperor. These are no friends of Sindhia. Rather are they more his enemies than the Foreigners. It is my advice that the Maharaja does not meet the Rani with these people. It is my advice that he doth require the Rani to immediately withdraw from his dominions."
"Aye, thou speakest well, Dinkar Rao," remarked Sindhia. "The Rao Sahib has no right to come with armed men into my territory."
Prasad was not prepared for this trend of argument. He again besought Sindhia to grant the Rani her request; but Dinkar Rao's policy prevailed. Sindhia would not receive her in such company as that of the Rao Sahib and Ahmad Khan. She must retreat beyond his borders forthwith, or abide the consequences. Such was his ultimate decision. He was probably glad to be afforded so plausible an excuse for refusing hospitality to the Foreigners' enemy.
Thus Prasad was reluctantly obliged to return to the Rani's camp with the information that his mission had failed.
"So Dinkar Rao," the Rani cried, "is fearful that I might win his master to our cause. We will then take his capital."
On the First of June the sun rose to discover the armies of the Rani of Jhansi and Maharaja Sindhia confronting each other on the plain of Gwalior. In the distance the great rock with its fortifications stood out defiantly against the sky.
Overnight, Sindhia had been informed that the Rani's forces, so far from obeying his injunction to retire from his state, were advancing upon the city. It left him no alternative but to give battle.
Sindhia had occupied a strategic position on rising ground, his flanks protected by squadrons of cavalry, his center formed by artillery. A splendid body of six hundred nobles and retainers guarded the person of the Maharaja.