Across the plain, the Rani had thrown out a light screening force of skirmishers. Behind these she had placed herself at the head of her Valaitis, with Prasad bearing her standard once more proudly aloft. Again in rear was her artillery and infantry, with the remainder of her cavalry under Ahmad Khan in reserve, either to support her in case of need, or to dash for Gwalior the moment the day was won.
The Rani wore on her head a Persian cap of steel, richly ornamented with figures of beaten gold, a spike of the same precious metal, and feathery aigrettes. Her hands and wrists were protected by gauntlets of metal scale work. It was evident she did not intend to direct the battle from a spot secure from the danger of shot or blows. Every inch did she appear as one of those intrepid Maratha warriors, who had defied the power of the great Mogul, in order to carve kingdoms and principalities for themselves out of his empire.
Presently Sindhia's guns opened on the advancing foe. They swept the open space between the two armies with devastating force, driving the Rani's skirmishers back upon the main body. For a few minutes the smoke hid the two forces from each other. It was the moment the Rani looked for to deliver a telling blow.
She turned in her saddle and raised her sword. A bugle rang out the clear notes of the charge. Her horse leaped forward straight for Sindhia's guns, with her troopers thundering in her wake. Onward she dashed heedless, and unharmed by the shot and shell, up to the wall of smoke, and through it to the belches of cannon flame. With a terrific yell her troopers came upon the gunners, driving them from their posts. Sindhia's first line broke and fled. The Rani had captured his guns.
Sindhia's glance swept over the field in alarm. He had ordered his infantry to support the artillery and they had refused to obey. If his ears did not deceive him, they were shouting the Rani of Jhansi's name. A decisive moment had come. Something must be done or the battle was lost. He ordered his bodyguard to charge before the Rani's troopers could reform or she could receive support.
The Rani accepted the challenge, rallied her troopers as best she could, and boldly fronted the oncoming force. The shock was terrific, the ensuing mêlée of cursing, shouting, fighting horsemen, desperate. In the heart of it all the Rani's sword flashed above her head, delivering sweeping blows. Wherever her standard, slashed and pierced with sabre cuts and bullets, waved, there the fight seemed hottest. Her life appeared to be shielded by a charm. At one time she had cut her way near to Sindhia's person.
"Sindhia! Sindhia"! she cried. "Art thou as much afraid of the Rani's sword as thou art of her eyes. Stay but a moment, as I would exchange a few strokes with thee."
But Sindhia had seen enough of the day. The ferocious Valaitis were routing his bodyguard, his infantry had gone over to the enemy, the Rani's main force was advancing to cut off his retreat. In the distance he beheld the enemy's reserve cavalry sweeping across the plain to seize his capital. With a few horsemen, he turned and galloped from the field to his Foreign allies at Agra.
A great victory had at last crowned the Rani's arms, the battle of Bahadurpur was won; she had kept her promise, Gwalior lay at her feet.
Well might the Native leaders give themselves over to a transport of exultation. The victory had been so complete, Sindhia's flight so hasty, that not a rupee of vast treasure, not a gem of the hoard of a century, had been saved from their hands. Within an hour they found their condition changed from being little better than that of a routed mob, to the possessors of an impregnable stronghold, a splendid armament of modern guns, a new force of ten thousand well drilled troops, stores and munitions of war in abundance. More than this the people of Gwalior received them, not as conquerors, but as champions of their race.
Early in the afternoon the Rani of Jhansi rode into Gwalior on the right hand of the Rao Sahib. Thousands of people came forth to meet her, shouting her name in a frenzy of joy. As she approached the gates, a salute of artillery burst from the fortress, high above their heads. She gazed upward to behold her banner replacing Sindhia's on the loftiest pinnacle. It was the result of Prasad's first order, on taking possession of the fortress in the name of the Rani of Jhansi, as well as that of the Rao Sahib.
On the steps of the palace they were received by a group of liberated Maratha nobles, who had been imprisoned by Sindhia to please his Foreign allies. Their patriotism had so dominated their discretion that the last few months had been passed within the walls of the Gwalior fortress. They greeted their deliverers with effusions of welcome.
In Sindhia's palace confusion reigned. The chief ladies of the zanana, his wives and concubines, had heard from time to time of the exploits of the Rani of Jhansi, certainly with astonishment. But in the privacy of his family life, Sindhia had not been so fearful of expressing his admiration for the heroic woman. Consequently she found little favor in the minds of the voluptuous companions of his leisure hours. In the atmosphere of gossip and jealousy in which they existed, they were inclined to regard her as a bold creature of less than doubtful virtue, otherwise she could not consort so openly with men. Unlike the poor and humble of their sex, who beheld in her an incarnation of the glorious Uma, the Goddess of Light and all things beautiful, they ascribed her power to the influence of the sinister Durga, under whose protection they charitably asserted she was preserved from death. Thus she grew in their eyes to be a terrible, awe-inspiring figure, and they fled from Gwalior faster than their noble lord, the Maharaja, on the first news that she was about to enter the city——, white bundles of humanity, riding for life across the plain, with Ahmad Khan in vain pursuit. He was loath to be deprived of the fairest spoil of victory.
It was shortly decided that Sindhia's personal treasure was to be divided equally among the Native leaders, all the jewels, silks, and robes found in the zanana to become the property of the Rani of Jhansi as by natural right. From the state treasury a bountiful supply of largess was to be drawn to recompense both their own troops and those of Sindhia, who had joined them at the critical moment. A grand Darbar was summoned by the Rao Sahib to meet that evening in the great hall of Sindhia's palace, to proclaim the Peshwa supreme Lord of the Marathas, and to reward the leaders for their loyalty to the cause.
In the enthusiasm of the hour, all signs of past misfortunes, or of those which might yet descend, were swept from the exultant countenances of nobles and officers, congratulating each other upon the prize that had been won.
When darkness had fallen, the Darbar hall presented a scene of unsurpassed magnificence. From huge crystal chandeliers suspended from the roof, hundreds of candles illuminated the ornately carved pillars and capitals, the inlaid pavement, the walls, a blaze of light in the reflections of silver-framed mirrors. On either side of the throne gilded chairs of state had been placed, but it was upon the contents of sundry gold dishes, that the eyes of the gathering throng feasted.
They were piled high with ornaments scintillating sparks of colored fire from Sindhia's hoard of emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and sapphires.
Upon one tray reposed a single jeweled casket, evidently containing some priceless trinket. Several argued with each other over the question for whom it was destined as a reward.
Presently, the Rao Sahib entered the hall from a door near the throne. Toward the figure of the Rani of Jhansi at his side the attention of all was immediately drawn. Against her desire to appear in her uniform, she had been persuaded to attire herself in the state robes of the senior Rani of Gwalior, silks of many hues, stiff with pearl embroidery. A splendid crown of rubies and diamonds rose above her forehead, her girdle was heavy with precious stones.
The Rao Sahib conducted her to a seat immediately on the right of the throne, when as the Peshwa's representative he took a standing position directly in front of the vacant chair of royal authority. Behind them, and on either side, the nobles in their train grouped themselves effectively.
As they looked from the dais they beheld the great hall filled to its utmost capacity with eager upturned faces. Curtains screening the apertures had been withdrawn, disclosing crowded ante-chambers and passages. Could their gaze have penetrated further they would have seen a vast concourse surging about the entrance to the palace and in the courtyard beyond. These did not so much await the proclamation as another common object in mind.
The Rao Sahib moved to the edge of the dais, and read a brief declaration of the Peshwa's titles.
It was received with applause, though it was apparent their enthusiasm was restrained.
He then proceeded to distribute favors. Upon the shoulders of the nobles recently imprisoned for their sympathy with the Native cause, he placed robes of honor. To others were given important offices and commands.
The recipients were each cheered loudly, but soon looks of mute inquiry broke on many faces.
Was there then to be no reward for her who had won all this glory for their arms?
Thus, while Sindhia's jewels were being divided, in the background, several grew impatient. They began to call upon the Rani's name.
"Shame! Shame"! they murmured. "Is it not the Rani of Jhansi who should receive honor above all others"?
One taller than the rest silenced the complaint for the moment.
"The casket," said he, "yet remains. Hush! Perchance it contains the greatest treasure for the Queen."
The jewels were at last disposed of to the satisfaction of some and the disappointment of others. The Rao Sahib turned, and took the Rani lightly by the hand. He led her before the throne.
Then was it that the enthusiasm of every heart burst forth in a mighty cheer, that shook Sindhia's palace to its foundations. In the halls, courts, and corridors, it was tumultuously echoed; the throng without caught it up, and hurled it above the city to the black walls of the fortress, where a woman's banner was fluttering in a gentle current of air.
They knew their valiant Queen was about to receive her reward.
It was long impossible for the Rao Sahib to obtain a hearing. The Rani seemed to shrink from the storm of affectionate regard her rising had called forth. She realized that she had won a greater victory than Gwalior, the laurels of which no enemy could snatch from her brow. She had captured the hearts of the people.
Again and again the Rao Sahib endeavored to enjoin silence, but it was temporarily obtained in one part only to be lost afresh in half a dozen quarters. At last he addressed those nearest to the dais.
"My Lord Rajas," said he, "I need not present to you the great Lady who stands before the throne. To the noble Rani of Jhansi belongs all praise for the glory of this day. As imperishable as the fortress rock of Gwalior, her name will stand forth in the history of our race. By the will of the most illustrious Peshwa, I give to her the supreme command of the army of Gwalior, and for her adornment Sindhia's most cherished jewels. For the rest, is she not yours, to honor as you please"?
Prasad had left his place in the suite, and taken the casket in his hands. He raised the lid and approached the Rani. Silence fell upon the expectant throng.
With care he took from the casket rope after rope of matchless pearls. It was Sindhia's state necklace, once of the Imperial Regalia of Portugal.
He handed the casket to another, and then gently hung the treasure about the Rani's neck.
Swiftly he stepped back a pace or two. His sword flashed in mid-air as his voice resounded throughout the hall.
"Hail! Lachmi Bai, Rani of Jhansi. Hail! Victor of Gwalior, Princess of the Marathas."
His voice died away for a moment without response, then the storm of enthusiasm burst forth anew. It grew into a frenzy almost approaching madness. They shouted that she should be proclaimed Queen of Gwalior as well as Jhansi. The Rao Sahib became apprehensive that she might be swept on the wave of popular favor even to the dignity of the Peshwa's throne.
Without, the plaudits increased above the tumult in the hall. An officer with difficulty elbowed his way to the dais. He delivered a message to the Rao Sahib.
"The people," he cried, "would have the Rani of Jhansi come forth so that they may behold the light of her countenance."
The Rao Sahib glanced uneasily over the surging mass and protested.
"I fear for her person," he said. Then he asked. "Can they not be appeased in some other way? If thou wert to scatter money among them."
"Noble Rao Sahib," the officer replied. "A hail of gold mohrs would not satisfy their humor. They will see the great Rani, the Victor of Gwalior."
"Aye, my Lord," the Rani interposed. "Surely will I go to the steps of the palace. These poor people. Do I not love them? If it pleases them to see but a frail being like themselves, their desire is easily gratified."
She took the crown from her head and gave it to an attendant, replacing it with the folds of a shawl. Then she moved down amid the cheering soldiers thronging the hall and passages to the steps of the portico. There a vast multitude confronted her eyes. Torches flared upward to illumine exultant faces. Their plaudits were redoubled as they beheld her come forth attended by the other leaders of the cause. She moved a few paces in front of the pillars rising on either side, and stood gazing wistfully, wonderingly upon the scene. It was to her, and to her alone, that their admiration, their love went forth in a whirlwind of vociferous applause; but she failed to grasp its entire significance. She could have demanded the Peshwa's crown, and they would have set it on her head. She received the tribute only as a vindication of her actions in upholding her rights with the sword.
It was her hour of triumph.
The scene was less to the liking of the Rao Sahib even than that within the palace. The Rani of Jhansi had clearly become the fountain of honor and authority with the people. Had he understood her nature better he need not have harbored fear.
Presently those nearest to the portico would have it that they could gaze upon her face more clearly.
Obediently she threw back the folds of her shawl, disclosing all her features to their view—strength, determination, heroism, displayed in their classic outlines.
"Ah, dear Rani," a trooper cried. "Beautiful Queen of Jhansi. Behold how the people do love thee."
The words smote her heart, causing a spring of emotion to burst forth. On the instant she became the woman in place of the redoutable warrior. She turned as if seeking a place of retreat to hide her feelings.
Prasad in waiting near by, noticed her appeal, and strode to her side.
The Defender of Jhansi, the Victor of Gwalior, raised her hands to her face, laid her head on his shoulder, and wept.
Prasad gently led the Rani from the scene. He conducted her through a silent corridor to a door that opened into the palace gardens. Thence to a pavilion set apart for the use of the ladies of Sindhia's zanana. The noise and uproar died away, the stillness of night fell upon them, for long neither spoke.
At last the Rani broke the trend of a deep reverie.
"Prasad," she asked. "Art thou not going to the banquet? See, there are lights yonder in the windows of the great hall. Thou wilt miss the feast in honor of our victory."
"What care I for feasts, dear Lady," he returned, "so that I may stay with thee."
"Thou art changed then, Prasad"? she replied.
"How dost thou mean"? he questioned. "Changed in some manner I pray God I am; but never was there a time since I first set eyes upon thy graceful form, when I hungered for aught else, but thee, fair Rani."
"Ah! Prasad, surely thy memory is at fault," she retorted. "I no longer blame thee for it, if truly thou art changed, but there was a time when thou didst prefer to drink of Foreign spirits, and enjoy the charms of natch girls, rather than obey the summons of the Rani."
"Never," he cried vehemently. "I vow it is not so. Explain more of this I do beseech thee, so that I may perceive clearly the source of the untruth."
"I would not recall the matter, only to satisfy thee," she answered, "but when thou wert a guest of Ahmad Khan, dost not remember his enthralling dancer? Ah! fickle one," she rebuked him lightly. "Has Ganga's face, too, vanished from thy mind"?
"In truth," Prasad affirmed. "Her face never was in my mind to vanish from it. With thy dear face ever before my eyes, I beheld no other, not even as a passing fancy."
"Say you so"? she spoke quickly. "Yet Ahmad Khan vowed most reluctantly that thou wert so drunk with wine, so intoxicated with thy passion for the girl, that thou couldst not be brought to listen to my voice."
Prasad started, as the late suspicion of his friend's treachery began to receive confirmation.
"Tell me! Tell me"! he urged. "Did he convey my message to thee, that I was sick, that I yearned for a glance from thine eyes to heal my malady"?
"Truly he did not," the Rani answered. "No such message did he ever bring."
Prasad sprang to his feet impulsively.
"The lying, treacherous Moslem," he ejaculated fiercely. "Farewell for a little space, great Rani. For this he shall answer even at the banquet. I will slay him in his seat."
"Nay, stay, good Prasad," she enjoined.
"Aye, but thou dost not know all," he returned vehemently.
"But I would know all," she answered calmly, "before thou dost commit so rash an act."
"Dear Rani! Ah God, that there could be such vileness coiled like a serpent round any creature's heart. What wouldst thy order be, if I were to disclose to thee, that yonder villain, had sworn thy ears were too full of the love words of another Moslem to hear of my petition, that his name so hung upon thy lips as to stifle any message in return, thine eyes so captivated with his form that thou hadst yielded thy virtue to his passion as readily as a lotus bending its fair head before a storm? Such was thy case with Dost Ali; he swore upon his cursed Koran, and so he stirred my nature until I lost my reason. What now, great Rani, is thy pleasure, thy command"?
He waited, breathing heavily with emotion, for the order he anticipated would burst forth from the outraged woman's lips to exterminate the Mohammedan. But it did not come.
For a moment, and for a moment only, she was tempted thus to act. An angry glance swept to the lighted windows of the banquet hall. But she perceived the fatal consequences of a blood feud stirred up at that feast. It might be ruinous to the brightening prospects of the cause she cherished more than all else.
"Prasad," she replied deliberately. "It is a lie. We have both been wronged. But as God this day has answered my prayers, I doubt not he will judge between us and Ahmad."
"What! Shall I not then go hence and slay him"? Prasad demanded.
"Nay," she replied restrainingly. "Hast thou forgotten how we stood in Jhansi? So do we stand here in Gwalior. All is not yet gained. Be assured the Foreigners will return. We need Ahmad's sword, more than his dead body in revenge. Ah! my dear Lord," she exclaimed with rapture, "Let us forget his wickedness in this hour of joy—in this hour of our reconciliation," she added in a lower tone.
He knelt at her side, then took her yielding form in his arms. He drew her closer and closer to his breast.
"Prasad! Prasad! I do love thee," she whispered softly.
"To the end, dear one, to the end," he passionately returned.
From the banquet hall the sounds of high revelry came across the garden borne upon air laden with the perfume of flowers; but, in time, the lights were extinguished, and only the watchwords of the sentries on the citadel fell upon their ears. The veil of darkness hid their long embrace, until the bugles of the morn rang out the call to arms.
An hour of triumph and an hour of happiness was past; an hour greater than both was yet to come.
From the moment of Prasad's reappearance at Gopalpur Ahmad's jealousy was rekindled to greater force even than in Jhansi. He hated the Hindu noble with all the vindictiveness of his nature. Had stirring events not followed each other with such rapidity, he would have sought a pretext for an open quarrel, and once for all settled their rival claims to the Rani's affection. If he was chagrined at Prasad's selection to act as her envoy to the Maharaja Sindhia, the feeling was intensified on the other being chosen as her standard bearer at Bahadurpur, and by Prasad's telling stroke for her favor in saluting her as Princess of the Marathas at the grand Darbar.
At the subsequent banquet he sat in sullen, gloomy humor. He neither spoke nor feasted. At the call to drink of spirits and join in the carousal of the assembled nobles, he pleaded his religious principles as an excuse to withhold his lips from intoxicating liquors.
That the Rani was not present at the banquet was to be expected, but he marked Prasad's absence, and drew conclusions from a guilty conscience. They were together, he surmised. His duplicity was probably discovered. "What then"? he again and again asked himself.
For the vengeance of Prasad he did not fear. His arm was as strong as that of his rival. But he dreaded the form of retribution usually visited at Native courts by a powerful enraged woman. He conjectured that the Rani's resentment would not be displayed in a burst of anger, a dagger thrust openly at his breast; but in one of those covert ways, by which such offenders as himself were disposed of, to terrorize the stoutest heart. He might be invited to an entertainment that led to the dungeon of a fortress, there to die of cholera, so it would be affirmed. Obnoxious people often disappeared without an explanation. The blank of that unknown was fraught with the suggestion of torture, and a lingering death by slow poison.
As Ahmad glanced uneasily round the hall, every shadow seemed to warn him of impending danger. The palace was no safe place for him if the Rani and Prasad were together. He had better, indeed, gain the outside of the walls of Gwalior until he had made up his mind what course to adopt. He rose to carry this idea into immediate effect.
"What, art thou going"? his neighbor asked in a tone of friendly rebuke. "Thou, who art ever the first in war and the last to leave a banquet."
"To-morrow is a fast," Ahmad tersely rejoined. "I would be early at my devotions."
His neighbor laughed banteringly.
"Your devotions"! he exclaimed. "Ah, to be sure, and to a fair deity, I doubt not. It is ever the way with you Mohammedans. Your Prophet takes good care that his followers are provided with houris on earth as well as in heaven. But good luck to you. May she speedily reward your prayers."
"The fool," muttered Ahmad, as he passed from the hall by the nearest exit. "A very yielding deity is the one I have in mind."
With caution he made his way through dark passages and courts out from the palace. He strode rapidly into the narrow, squalid bazaars of Gwalior, directing his steps toward one of the city gates, heedless of the rejoicings of the people among whom he passed. He breathed the night air more freely when he had left the walls behind.
At the camp, which was his first destination, he found the soldiers drinking in celebration of the victory, and disposed to be quarrelsome. He approached his own quarters and sternly ordered a few men, upon whose temporary fidelity he could depend, to saddle their horses. Curses and blows soon brought them to their senses and obedience. In his tent, Ahmad quickly sorted and placed in security about his person, the lighter and more valuable of Sindhia's jewels that had fallen to his share. Then he came forth, mounted his horse, and led the way to a dwelling situated a few miles out from the city.
It was a house he had visited on a previous residence in Gwalior, secluded, and within easy reach of the hills in case of the necessity of flight. It was owned by a member of his religion, who received him with every outward sign of friendship.
There, he determined to remain for a day or two, and by means of spies watch the actions of the Rani and Prasad.
Such news as he did thus receive inflamed his jealousy still further, and confirmed the surmise of danger in his position.
The Rani, it appeared, had taken up her abode in the camp, to direct the maneuvering of troops and the erection of fortifications in the defiles of the hills against a possible return of the enemy. Prasad was observed constantly at her side. It was evident he had entirely regained her favor; it was almost certain the moving hand of the Jhansi intrigue had been detected.
Clearly, to Ahmad's mind, Gwalior was no safe place in which to remain. He had better away before the Rani's vengeance fell.
He argued further, that, for other reasons, a severance of his connection with the Native cause would now be a wise course. The jewels he had obtained from Sindhia's treasure were of considerable value. He had taken other booty, too, that could be turned into ready money through the agency of his Moslem host. With this, he might return to Afghanistan and placate the Amir, from whose anger he had fled, consequent upon the death of a relative of that monarch, charged to Ahmad's long account of such affairs. Besides, what business had he to fight in the Peshwa's name? Had the Emperor of Delhi been proclaimed at the Darbar, religious principles might have enjoined upon him the duty of remaining in the field, but he owed no allegiance to the Hindu king. As a fanatic, at heart, he detested the Hindu faith and its followers. His object had been to fight with them, first to vanquish the Foreigners, and then, in the name of the Mogul Emperor, subdue his allies. But that hour was now unlikely ever to come. The Emperor was a prisoner in the Foreigners' hands, and such power as was regained to the Native cause through the victory of the Rani of Jhansi, lay with the Peshwa. He despised and hated the Peshwa, so he decided to withdraw from Gwalior, though not alone. He purposed to carry the Rani with him by force, if such an act were possible. He thought out his plan deeply, for in it there was no little danger.
That night, he determined to ride into the camp and direct one of his followers to seize her from her tent, then away before an alarm could be given or a rescue effected. It was a bold project, but he was prepared to risk much in a last attempt to secure her embrace. If frustrated in the act, he could lie, fight, or fly as circumstances dictated. The chief difficulty lay in discovering her sleeping place, as it was reported she changed her tent nightly. Over this, he pondered, at length arriving at the decision to decoy the Rani's secretary to his house, and by threats compel him to disclose the secret, if it were preserved as such. He sent forth two of his men, discreet in such affairs, to lay hold of Bipin Dat.
As it happened this proved to be an easy matter.
Like the majority of the Rani's followers, Bipin had plunged into a demonstrative celebration of good fortune. With head held aloft and chest expanded, as he considered was the proper carriage for one who stood so near to the person of the Heroine of Gwalior, he had gone forth on the morrow of the victory to impress upon everyone he met the exalted nature of his office. He was thus received by all with protestations of friendship, given the best to eat, and unluckily more spirits to drink than it was prudent for him to imbibe. Alas! For two days the worthy secretary had been absent from his duties.
In sober intervals, marvelous were the stories he recounted of personal valor in battles fought side by side with his great mistress. His audiences gazed upon him with eyes wide open, as they listened with ears of deep attention. At the conclusion of each narrative the brave secretary must accept another cup of spirits. Of a truth the brave secretary seemed as great a drinker as he was a fighter. He always protested, but drank the spirits nevertheless. At last he stumbled across an accursed unbeliever in his prowess, one of those unpleasant people to be found among all nations, who will persist in placing a vocal mark of interrogation after every man's statement.
"At Bahadurpur," Bipin asserted, "six of the Foreigners I killed with this arm. Their Maharaja I would have captured, but that he plunged with his elephant into the jungle."
"How could that be"? asked the incredulous one, "since there were no Foreigners at Bahadurpur, their general does not ride on an elephant, and there is no jungle within leagues of the place. To be sure what thou sayest is doubtless true, honorable sir," he added apologetically, "but other accounts of the battle differ so much; and what am I, but a seeker after the exact truth"?
Bipin glared angrily upon the venturesome man, but his ideas were not in such order, just at the moment, to discover an answer on the tip of his tongue. Fortunately, two men who had sat attentively in a corner came to the relief of his confusion.
"Thou art a miserable fellow," interposed one, addressing the doubter. "If the great secretary says he killed six of the Foreigners at Bahadurpur, they must have been there to be slain. If he asserts the Foreign general escaped on an elephant, did he not possess eyes to note the difference between that beast and a camel. Wert thou at the battle"? he asked pointedly.
"Aye, wert thou at the battle"? echoed the companion, "otherwise thou art an ass to talk in such fashion."
The doubter was compelled to admit that he had not been within miles of the fight, when the secretary's confusion was transferred to his countenance.
Bipin effusively thanked his champions for their belief in his words. In turn they insisted upon drinking a cup of spirits with so great a man.
"Ah"! exclaimed the first who had spoken, "what would not my poor master give to hear such tales as flow from thy lips."
"Who is thy master"? asked Bipin, with a solemn period between each word.
"The Raja Krishna Singh, great sir," the other replied respectfully, "a Gwalior noble whose infirmities have for long held him to his couch, and prevented his attendance even at the grand Darbar. He would receive thee with all honor as the Rani's secretary, and reward thee handsomely if thou wouldst deign to tell all thou knowest of the glorious Queen of Jhansi. Her name is ever in his mind. My companion and myself would gladly lead the way to his house."
Bipin's pride was immensely flattered. His society was now being sought by a raja. Soon he would be a raja himself. With condescension he agreed to accept the invitation, after he had drank another cup of spirits to steady his feet.
"Is it far to thy master's house"? he asked.
"But a short distance beyond the walls, noble Secretary," his new friend replied.
"Wah! Then I will go with thee now," Bipin assented.
He endeavored to rise, but the additional cup of spirits had an effect contrary to what was intended. His limbs collapsed under him as if disjointed. He would have been obliged to remain on the spot but for his friends' assistance. They helped him to his feet and out into the bazaar, then with strong arms supporting him on either side, they hurried him to the gate.
For a time, Bipin chattered incoherently about battles, rajas, and palaces; when it began to dawn upon his obscure understanding that he was travelling a great distance. His feet dragged over the road as if weights of iron were chained to his ankles. He begged to be permitted to lie down and sleep. To his dismay his companions gruffly ordered him to move faster. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have been abducted by thieves.
He cried once for help, but a hand promptly laid over his mouth stifled the sound. In a firm grasp he was thrust unwillingly forward.
At last they came to the house occupied by Ahmad Khan, when Bipin was conducted out of the darkness immediately into the Mohammedan's presence.
For a moment the secretary stood blinking in the light with no idea of his surroundings. He had entirely forgotten the object with which he had been induced to set forth from the city; but Ahmad's countenance seemed familiar. Through a mental haze, the thought came to him that one of his uncles had heard of his good fortune, and had arrived to obtain a share of his money. This was a displeasing, if not an entirely unlooked for event, so he determined to disavow the relationship before the other had time to make himself known.
"Go away," he ejaculated, with his eyes fixed stupidly upon Ahmad. "Go away. Thou art a rogue, a lying fakir. I swear thou art no uncle of mine."
"What, thou drunken fool," shouted Ahmad in a voice of thunder. "I would as soon be uncle to a litter of swine."
He clutched Bipin by the throat, and held him until the secretary's eyes and tongue protruded. Ahmad hurled him into a corner.
"Get water," he cried, "and throw over the idiot. Then, perhaps he will come to his senses."
But Bipin had arrived at a realization of his position. He recognized Ahmad, and begged forgiveness for his mistake.
"To be sure," he returned feebly. "Thou art my good friend, Ahmad Khan, though a little rough and quick in resenting an error of sight on coming in out of the darkness. I beseech thee to say no more about the pitcher of water."
"That wilt depend how quickly thou canst gather thy wits," Ahmad sternly replied.
"Surely every one of them are now in my head," answered Bipin, frightened at Ahmad's manner. While he endeavored to recollect how it was he had been induced to come to the place, he began to change his previous good opinion of the Mohammedan.
"Then listen," enjoined Ahmad, "and speak truly or a torch applied to thy feet may quicken thy understanding. Dost know in which tent the Rani sleeps to-night"?
As Bipin had not been to the camp, he was not possessed of the information, but under the circumstances he thought it best to withhold his ignorance. In any case, he reasoned, it was probable Ahmad would not place credence on his denial, and might carry his threat of the torch into effect.
"Certainly, great sir," he replied. "If it be thy desire, I am ready to point out the Rani's tent."
"Where is it situated"? Ahmad asked.
This was a difficult question for Bipin to answer off-hand. He hesitated a moment before he replied.
"Where is her tent placed"? Ahmad again demanded.
"Great Lord," stammered Bipin, "near to,—I mean on the right of that occupied by her Valaiti guard."
"Thou art assured of this"?
"Noble sir, why should I tell a lie"? Bipin questioned in return.
"Good, then," Ahmad resumed, bending a stern look on the secretary. "In two hours we set forth from the camp. When we arrive there, thou wilt point out the Rani's tent to one of my men. If thou hast spoken the truth, then thou canst go to the devil for aught I care; but if a lie, the Rani will herself have thee well beaten. It is her order that thou dost obey me in this," he added, in response to a surprised look on the secretary's face, "as she awaits a secret message that must fall into no other hands."
Ahmad then withdrew to call down, as usual, the blessing of God on his evil intent; leaving Bipin in charge of an attendant.
An attempt on the secretary's part to discover Ahmad's object further, was met by a silent repulse.
Truly, the situation was not one to afford the secretary cheerful reflections. He knew no more than Ahmad of the position of the Rani's tent, but he trusted that in the scuffle likely to ensue, from an entry into a tent presumed to be that of the Rani, he could escape. He had told a lie in the first place, and was now afraid to disclose the truth. Whatever was the result, he vowed henceforth to transfer his watchful eye from Prasad to Ahmad, as it was evident the Mohammedan had a disagreeable, an unfriendly side to his nature.
"What a miserable existence is this," concluded Bipin. "We have no sooner climbed to a great height, than a rock slips from under our feet, and behold! we are again where we started. If I only get well out of this, no prospect shall tempt me to remain away from my family."
Presently the effect of the secretary's libations overcame his fears, and snores proclaimed unconsciousness.
Bipin had slept for about two hours, when he was awakened by a rough hand laid on his shoulder, while a voice commanded him to rise immediately.
He was led to the outer door of the house, where a group of horsemen, with Ahmad in their midst, were accoutred apparently for a long march. With considerable effort, emphasized by impatient oaths from Ahmad, the secretary was assisted on to the back of a spare charger. Ahmad gave an order, and the party set off at a brisk pace through the darkness of midnight toward the camp—silent, grim visaged figures, ready for any desperate act.
Ahmad approached the camp at a point where he was well known and would be permitted to pass unquestioned. He inquired his way to the headquarters and rode thither with caution. Then he ordered two of his followers to dismount and carry out his previous directions.
There were no lights, and for a space Bipin stumbled about among the tent ropes.
"Thou fool," muttered one of the men. "If thou dost make such a disturbance the whole camp will be awakened. Where is the tent? Point it out quickly and let us get the work over, or the master will slit thy windpipe."
Bipin had not the faintest idea of the Rani's sleeping place, but he indicated a tent at random.
"Siva protect me," he faltered. "What now will happen"?
One of the men approached the tent noiselessly and untied the fastenings. He listened for a moment, when being satisfied apparently that its occupant was still asleep, entered. His companion watched outside.
In a minute the man reappeared bearing a struggling woman's form in his arms, with one hand over her mouth to prevent an outcry. He hurried to the waiting troop and relinquished his burden to Ahmad. The two men then vaulted on to their horses, and the whole party were off without a cry, or a word exchanged.
Bipin remained for some moments a prey to fear and astonishment. Then it broke upon his mind that he had betrayed his mistress for some evil purpose.
"Ah, hae, hae"! he cried. "Oh, wretch that I am. Ah, the unluckiness of everything. Help! Help! good people. The Rani has been abducted."
In a few seconds guards ran with all haste to the spot; figures emerged from the tents, a babel of tongues rose above the wail of the secretary. Presently, to Bipin's surprise, the Rani herself appeared on the scene.
"What is all this"? she demanded. "Bipin art thou intoxicated, or has thy sleep been possessed by a nightmare"?
"Oh, great Lady," he cried. "Tell me, I implore thee, is it, in truth, thyself, who speakest"?
"To be sure," she replied. "Who else should it be. Thou art becoming a tiresome fellow," she added, "with thy midnight adventures. Disclose, what manner of creature hast thou been in combat with now"?
"Alas! great Rani," Bipin returned. "It was the terrible Ahmad Khan who compelled me to point out thy sleeping place, and he has gone off with I know not whom."
"Ahmad Khan"? the Rani exclaimed, as the truth of his design flashed upon her. "Now, by Heaven"! she cried angrily. "I will bear no more with him. Go," she commanded to the captain of her guard, "mount with a troop and follow swiftly. Thou art to bring him to me alive or dead. The beast hath gone mad and must be exterminated."
The officer obeyed her order with dispatch. He rode forth in the direction it was said Ahmad Khan had taken, but in the darkness soon lost the track. At daybreak he was forced to return with the intelligence that Ahmad had escaped.
Meanwhile Ahmad galloped northward with savage joy in his heart. He clasped the insensible captive form tightly in his arms.
"Now Allah be thanked," he muttered exultingly. "The fair Rani, the fickle beauty can escape me no longer."
He rode with all speed for a long distance in fear of pursuit, but at last he could restrain his impatient desire to gaze upon her face no longer.
The day was breaking as he halted his party. He moved a little apart, and uncovered the fold of linen over the woman's head. He directed his eyes with passionate rapture upon the unveiled face; then broke out into a volley of oaths.
"Hell's fiends," he shouted, as his astonished gaze beheld an old and wrinkled countenance. "What damnable trick of fortune is this? Am I bewitched"?
His arms mechanically released the figure of an aged servant of the Rani. She fell to the ground, and, recovering her senses, sat moaning pitifully.
For a time, Ahmad was too dumbfounded to take any other course than to explode curse after curse. Then his mortification and fury burst upon the heads of the two attendants, who had been chief parties to the misadventure. He rode at them with uplifted sword, but they warily parried his blows, to finally disarm their master.
"What will my Lord do now"? they asked significantly.
Truly, what would Ahmad Khan do now? was the question. To return to the Rani's camp was impossible. There was no choice but to go forward.
"Get thee home, hag," he addressed the terrified woman, "and bear Ahmad Khan's best salaams to thy noble mistress. Tell her, he hath grown weary of her court and her caprices."
With fury he drove his spurs into his horse's flanks. By night and day, with little rest, he rode for that lawless territory beyond the Afghan border. There, his own followers seized an opportunity to relieve him of his life and treasure.
In a barren, rocky pass, his body lay, pierced by a dozen wounds, exposed to the vulture and the lion; while his murderers, in retreat, quarrelled and fought over the price of their treachery.
It was a pitiless closing scene, in keeping with his nature.
Gwalior was captured by the Rani of Jhansi. Such was the astounding news carried swiftly from end to end of the Indian Peninsula. The Natives, for the greater part, hailed it either with secret or open joy, many nobles, with their retainers, hastening to join the standard of the redoutable Princess. To the Foreigners, it brought astonishment and perplexity, with fears that the whole rebellion would burst forth anew. They realized that a second Jeanne D'Arc, as valiant in battle, more subtle in council than the Maid of Orleans, moved by the same passionate love for her country, had cast in their teeth a wager of defiance, to stand until either they were driven from her state, or she had perished.
It was no hour for deliberation. Her coup de main had been so well timed, that unless Gwalior was immediately recaptured, the rains would descend, making the country impassable for military operations, and her position thus secure for months to come. The result was unpleasant to conjecture.
With all haste the army of Central India, that had retired to quarters for the approaching season of storm, was reorganized, and the general who had fought against the Rani at Jhansi, at Kunch, and at Kalpi, marched forth to another test of skill. In his long and honorable career he had never met an opposing leader more worthy of his steel.
In the meantime the Rani threw all the force of her character, all the energy of both her body and mind, into preparations for the struggle she quickly perceived was at hand. She fully appreciated the material advantage she had gained, she also understood the weaknesses of her comrades in arms—their tendency to prolong the festivities in celebration of their victory, their unconquerable disposition to retreat the moment the Foreigners closed in battle. But now that she was in supreme command, she determined that at Gwalior it would either be another victory, or death for herself and the majority of her companions.
"Canst thou not rest for a little, dear Rani"? Prasad asked, when after days of untiring energy she continued to bend her efforts to perfect the defenses. "If the Foreigners come, surely we are safe from them here."
"Nay Prasad," she returned. "No rest will I take while danger threatens, and this work remains uncompleted. But in a little there will come a long rest for me, either in thy arms, my love; or in those of God."
Prasad, the Rao Sahib, even Tantia Topi, through his jealousy, marvelled at the spirit of the woman. They curtailed their feasting, and zealously furthered her commands.
The general belief that the Foreigners would not march upon Gwalior before the rains was soon dispelled. From two directions, the East and South, it was learned, that the enemy was rapidly approaching. It was evident they regarded the recapture of Gwalior as of supreme importance.
It was impossible for the Rani to superintend in person the long line of defenses raised before Gwalior, so she delegated the command of those to the south to Tantia Topi, reserving for herself the less strongly fortified position amid the hills and ravines to the south-east of the city, lying between that place and the village of Kotah-ki-sari. There she awaited the army advancing from the east, impatiently for a few days; with still greater impatience on the Sixteenth of June, when the distant roar of cannon announced that Tantia Topi was engaged with the Foreigners at Morar, on her extreme right.
Throughout the day various reports reached her ears. At one time, it was claimed, that the Foreigners were successively repulsed, beaten, and in full retreat; later, that Tantia Topi was as usual practicing masterly tactics in a retrograde movement.
"Ah, now, may God curse his cowardice," she cried passionately, to the messenger. "Return with all speed and order him to stand wherever he may be; for if I find him in the Gwalior fortress, one of us shall die for it."
But Tantia was not of standing fibre before Foreign bayonets. If in little else, he was a genius in limbering up his guns and dragging them away from desperate positions. That night the Rani was informed that he had succeeded in executing a clever strategic act. He had held the Foreigners at bay until he was able to move back upon Gwalior in good order with his guns, abandoning Morar, a useless place, to the enemy. On the morrow he believed he would rout them utterly.
The Rani's anger, her contempt for such conduct of warfare, could scarcely find expression in words or action. She sat in her tent, sick at heart, pondering deeply over the situation.
"What can I do"? she murmured. "I cannot command at all points of this wide field at the same moment. Is there no one but me who hath the courage to dash forward? These Foreigners are only men like ourselves. They are not Gods. God knows, far from it. Have I not seen many of them perish at Jhansi, at Kunch, and at Kalpi"?
"Go," she commanded to an aid-de-camp. "Go to Tantia Topi, and say that if he doth make such another masterly retreat, the Rani of Jhansi will aid herself by attacking him in rear, and driving him on to the enemy's bayonets."
Then she retired to a temple and prayed long and fervently to the God of Battles, that on the morrow her troops might be endowed with invincible courage, that once more He would give her arms a victory.
The day broke with an atmosphere charged with sweltering heat. Soon the rocks and sand burned to the touch as if but a thin crust lay between their feet and a mighty furnace. If its oppressiveness was felt by the Rani's troops, it bore tenfold more heavily upon the Foreigners, fatigued by a long march.
The Rani had taken up a position with cavalry, artillery and infantry among the hills intervening between the enemy and the plain of Gwalior. Her plan was to draw the Foreigners into the ravines by a feint of retreat, holding them there in conflict with intrenched infantry and masked batteries, while she swept down with her cavalry through a flank defile upon their rear. She might thus capture their baggage and ammunition train, throwing their front into hopeless confusion.
At daybreak she beheld the enemy advance to the assault.
All through that day the battle was waged with desperate valor on both sides. Step by step the Foreigners fought their way into the ravines, driving the Native troops before them. At different stages the Rani rode into the thick of the combat to animate her followers, with Prasad bearing her standard. Her counter attack was delivered at an opportune moment, but was frustrated. Evening approached to find both armies exhausted, the Rani's first position captured, but her forces still held well together. A decisive victory could not as yet be claimed by either side; for the Rani had decided to continue the battle throughout the night.
It was in a moment of temporary rest, that the Foreign general ordered his cavalry to charge, with the object of driving the Rani's bodyguard out into the Gwalior plain. The movement took the latter by surprise, with a resulting panic.
The Rani bravely fronted the oncoming squadrons in an endeavor to rally her troopers, but in the tumult her horse took the bit in its teeth and carried her away in the rout. At their heels the Foreign horsemen were slashing and firing their pistols mercilessly. Again and again the Rani called on her troopers to halt, but they only rode for the camp the faster. She reined in her horse and turned, to find she was the last on that part of the field. A hussar was upon her with uplifted sword.
The blow fell but she parried it adroitly, and delivered another in return that slightly wounded her assailant. More hussars coming fast in their leader's wake, the odds were too uneven against her. She set her horse at a ditch a few yards in front, beyond which was safety. The brute urged by her voice leaped forward to the bank, then refused to jump, stumbled and fell with its rider. Before she could extricate herself, the hussar dashed upon her with fury nettled by the pain of his wound. As he swept by, he leveled his pistol and fired. The bullet lodged in her breast, her sword fell from her hand, she sank to the ground in unconsciousness to rise no more.
Over the ditch the hussar passed little thinking that he had dealt a mortal wound to the "bravest and best" of the Native leaders. In his eyes she had appeared only as one of their officers.
Soon the Foreigners' bugles sounded the recall, the Rani's bodyguard rallied and charged back over the field, but it was too late to save their mistress. They discovered her where she had fallen, and gently, sadly, bore her back to her tent.
There it was made apparent that her end was quickly approaching. Prasad, heartbroken, bitterly reproached himself that he had not remained at her side to protect her from harm. He had taken her lifeless form in his arms. About them were grouped men who had never before experienced a tender emotion. Tears coursed down their fierce, bronzed, visages.
Prasad's gentle caresses at last recalled the Rani to consciousness.
"Well Prasad," she asked in a faint voice. "How went the battle? All is not lost I hope, though I am wounded to the death."
"Ah, dear one," he sadly returned. "All is truly lost with thee."
"Do not speak thus," she replied, painfully exerting herself to a return of spirit. "While brave men live no cause is lost."
Then turning her gaze upon the grief stricken countenances of her troopers, she enjoined them not to weep for her.
"For thy tears will bring forth mine," she pleaded, "and the true soldier cries not on facing death."
With assistance, she then removed Sindhia's necklace from her breast. She directed the strings to be broken, and summoning her ever faithful Valaitis gave to each, in turn, a pearl in remembrance of their fair captain.
"Farewell," she said, as each saluted with uncontrolled grief. "Be brave and fight on until the end."
Soon Prasad remained with her alone.
For a time she rested her head upon his breast with her arms about him. Many loving, sorrowful words were exchanged, until she felt the moment of dissolution nigh.
"Prasad," she said. "Place thy hand within my jacket. Thou wilt find my parting gift to thee there."
He obeyed as she directed, and drew forth his dagger.
"Thy dagger, O Prasad," she exclaimed. "I have kept it to protect my honor. I give it back to thee to save thine own in case of need. And now, my dear Lord, one request have I to ask of thee before I say farewell. I beg thou wilt see to it, that no Foreign eye doth gaze upon my body after I am dead."
In a sorrowful whisper he promised to comply.
"Then farewell," she said. "Farewell Prasad, may God love thee as truly as I have done."
"Farewell"? he exclaimed interrogatively. "I will not leave thee yet alone."
"Prasad," she returned. "It is my will to be alone. Nay, I shall not be alone. Again I say, farewell to thee, for thine eyes must not behold my last moment."
He embraced her once more, laid her gently back amid the pillows, then rose obediently to her command. He paused on the threshold of the entrance to gaze for the last time upon her face. In its beautiful features there was discernible neither sign of weakness nor of fear—her spirit remained heroic to the end. He covered his eyes with his hands and passed forth.
Within the tent a profound, mysterious, silence fell, as the darkness of night descended on the land. The Rani clasped her hands upon her breast as her lips murmured a last prayer.
"Great God of Gods. O most holy, omnipotent One. If I have sinned against the laws of my caste, it was for the love of my country. Surely thou wilt forgive a woman who has tried to inspire others to be brave and just. O India," she cried, raising herself with difficulty upon her side and stretching forth her arms, "farewell. Farewell my people, my brave soldiers whom I have loved to lead in battle against the foe. Not forever shall their horsemen ride triumphantly through the land. A day will come when their law shall be no longer obeyed, and our temples and palaces rise anew from their ruins. Farewell! Farewell! O Gods of my fathers, be with me now."
She drew the folds of a shawl over her face to hide her death agony, and again lay down. The blackness of night grew deeper, the silence more intense. Presently, strange, warrior forms seemed to appear from the unknown and filled the Rani's tent. One supremely beautiful figure, in dazzling raiment, came forth to enfold the dying woman in her arms.
In a little, a wail of lamentation rose across the intervening space between the camps of the two armies. The Foreign soldiers asked its meaning of one another.
The answer might have been, that the spirit of the heroic Lachmi Bai had been gathered to the protecting arms of Param-eswara, the merciful, the just, the all supreme God, alike of the Hindu, the Mohammedan, and the Christian.
The Rani of Jhansi was dead.
Great was the pomp and solemn the ceremony with which they carried out her last desire, so that even her body might not fall into the hands of the enemy.
Before the day had come again, a long procession took its way from Sindhia's palace to a point on the bank of the Morar river, where a flower-decked funeral pyre had been erected.
In the van troopers marched with mournful step, followed by officers bearing torches. Then came Brahman priests, naked to the waist in performance of their sacred office. They chanted from the Vedas and scattered rice upon the way. These preceded the bier, upon which, under a canopy of cloth of gold, lay the body of the Rani, attired in royal robes, with the marks of her high caste set upon her forehead. Directly following, walked her aged guru, whose solemn duty it would be, in the absence of a relative, to ignite the funeral pyre. Lastly, Prasad with the Rao Sahib, attended by all the nobles of the court.
Beside the whole length of the route traversed by the procession, a multitude of people had gathered, whose lamentations rent the air.
The bier was carried slowly to its destination, and seven times round the funeral pyre. Then the Rani's body was lifted tenderly and placed upon its last bed of death, rice was scattered over all, and the dry brush, saturated with ghee, ignited.
The flames leaped high, illuminating many weeping faces, and throwing into relief the figures of Brahmans, nobles, and officers, grouped in a majestic scene. Quickly the tongues of fire reduced to ashes the Rani's mortal form. These, the priests reverentially collected, and, with prayers, cast them upon the waters of the river, to be carried into the bosom of holy Ganges.
"Farewell," cried Prasad, as he stood upon the bank. "Farewell, thou brave, dear Rani. I doubt not I shall be with thee soon."
That day the sun of India hid its face behind gathering clouds, the storm, the monsoon burst.