“But I cannot wait for you; even our own lives are in danger by remaining here,” observed Jewan angrily.
“There is no occasion to wait,” was the answer. “When I have seen my father I will hurry after you. I am an old woman, and no one will molest me; I shall find means to reach Delhi almost as soon as you. Come, my baby, put on your things,” she added, addressing Flora, who followed the old woman into the bungalow.
When Flora had secured a few relics and articles of value, and had arrayed herself in a shawl and hat, she returned to the verandah.
“You will come,” she whispered to the old woman; “and save him if possible. Should I not see you in three days, and if this man insults me, I will die by my own hand.”
“I will save him and you if he lives,” was the answer. “Go.”
Then the poor girl, bewildered by the rapid course of events, and half-dazed by the danger that surrounded her, and scarcely able to realise the fact that a few yards off her mother was lying stark and white, mounted to the buggy, and sank down overpowered upon the cushions.
Jewan sprang up beside her, and, covering her up with a dark horse-cloth, he lashed his horse into a gallop, and was soon speeding out of Meerut. As the buggy reached the great Mall, it was passed by a horse that was tearing along at a great pace. It carried a rider, an Englishman. His head was bare, his hair was streaming in the wind, his teeth were set, and in his hand he firmly held a revolver. He bent low, until his face almost touched the neck of his horse, for now and again shots were sent after him; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and never slackened pace for an instant, and soon he and the buggy were far apart.
The flying horseman was Walter Gordon. Breathless and begrimed, he rushed into the compound of the Meredith bungalow, just in time to see flames issuing from the windows. It had been fired by the incendiaries. He would have entered the burning building, but a hand firmly grasped his arm, and a voice whispered in his ear—
“Be silent as you value your life.”
It was Zeemit Mehal.
“Where is Miss Meredith?” he cried, in spite of the old woman’s warning.
“She lives,” was the answer. “On your prudence depends her safety and your own. Be guided by me, and wait. Tether your horse to yonder tree, and follow me.”
He did as she desired, for there was something in the woman’s tone that gave him hope and confidence. Then at her bidding he crouched down beneath a clump of bushes, and waited.
As that awful night of the 11th of May wore on, a drama was enacted in the fair city of Meerut, that the most graphic pen would fail to do justice to. For a time the mutineers held their own. They burned and pillaged, they massacred and drank. In their mad fury nothing was held sacred. Even their own temples and mosques fell a prey to the incendiary firebrands. Innocent children were ruthlessly slaughtered; helpless women were dismembered, and many a gallant officer rolled in the dust without being able to fire a shot at his unseen and cowardly foe.
But soon the tide turned. The panic, which for a short time seemed to have paralysed those in command, gave place to reaction. The Rifles and the Dragoons were let loose. Desperate and terrible was the conflict, but the “Great White Hand” was too powerful to be crushed by a howling rabble. The gallant English soldiers warmed to their work. Their blood fired as they thought of their cruelly-murdered wives and daughters, and country-women. And so, with carbines and sabres they cut lines for themselves through the crowded streets, until from thousands of throats went up the warning cry—
“Gora-logue, aya” (the Europeans have come). Then out of the city of Meerut, and on to the great high road that led to Delhi, went the cowardly mutineers—a disorderly, beggarly, undisciplined rabble now. The Dragoons followed some little distance, and made terrible havoc among the flying crowds. But suddenly, and for some inexplicable reason, the English soldiers were ordered to return. They did reluctantly—sorrowfully. Nay, they were half-inclined to disobey that order, for their blood was up, and they knew that they could have cut that flying horde to pieces. Somebody had blundered again! But who? And to the present day echo answers, Who?
The men returned to their lines, and the rebels straggled on. Before them was the Imperial City, with its gorgeous Palace, its stupendous magazine and arsenal, its countless treasures, its almost impregnable defences. It was a goal worth pressing forward to. Behind them was a town of smouldering and blackened ruins, of slaughtered women and children, and dauntless British soldiers burning to revenge the foul murders, but who were held in check by the marvellous stupidity of those in office.
The Palace of the Mogul, in Delhi, was one that might have vied with any similar building in the whole of India; it was a majestic pile, worthy of the traditions that surrounded it, and the noble line of kings who had dwelt beneath its roof, but who were now but a name, for their ancient splendour had set never to rise again.
In one of the stateliest rooms in the stately Palace sat the aged King—a man upon whose brow the years had gathered thickly and set their stamp. A long beard, white as the driven snow, reached to his waist; his face was wrinkled and puckered, and his eyes dull and bleared, but they were restless, and plainly told that within the spirit was chafing. Around him was a brilliant retinue, and on each side of the marble hall stood an armed guard.
The King was seated on a raised dais, and was holding counsel with some of his ministers.
“Things work well,” he replied, in a low voice, to some remark that had just been made by one of his courtiers. “Our sun is rising, and power is coming back to us; we shall yet live to enjoy some of the glory which made the reign of our predecessors so conspicuous before these cursed Feringhees came and trampled on our power. Death to them!”
He ground his teeth and clenched his emaciated hand, and his eyes sparkled for a moment with a burning feeling of hatred.
“Do not distress yourself, great lord,” said a tall and handsome woman, whose massive bangles, flashing diamonds, and gold chain, bespoke her one of the King’s favourites. “The power of these foreigners is great, and better to submit to it than to rise only to fall again and be crushed.”
The King turned upon her, his whole frame quivering with wrath.
“Peace, fool—beast!” he cried; “thy sympathies have ever been with the hated race. Beneath thy breast there beats a traitorous heart. Have a care. Bridle thy tongue, or thy head may pay the forfeit.”
“I own no traitor’s heart, my lord and king,” the woman answered, as she drew herself up proudly.
“Peace, Haidee, I tell thee!” cried the monarch, in a voice husky with passion; “we brook no insolence, and no answer. Thou art a slave. Know thy place.”
The eyes of Haidee burned and her lips quivered, while her bosom heaved with suppressed emotion.
“Take my life if it so pleases you, my lord, but to your face I say I am no slave,” she answered.
Haidee was as yet but in the first flush of womanhood; she had not numbered more than two-and-twenty years. She was a native of Cashmere, and of the true Cashmere type of beauty. Her form was perfect in symmetry; her face a study. Her eyes were large and liquid, and fringed with long silken lashes; her skin a delicate brown, almost cream colour, and the cheeks tinged with pink, while down her back, reaching below the knees, fell a wealth of the dark auburn hair peculiar to her countrywomen; it was kept from her face by a small tiara studded with diamonds, the points being many butterflies, composed of rubies and pearls; her arms, beautifully proportioned and rounded, were bare to the shoulders; and on the right arm up to the elbow were massive gold jewelled bands. She was arrayed in all the gorgeousness of Eastern costume—flowing silk studded with pearls, and looped up with massive gold knots, was suspended from her shoulders; trousers of light blue silk, and slippers of the same material, ornamented with small gold fire-flies, completed a costume that was at once picturesque and beautiful. Nature and art had combined to make Haidee a picture of perfect beauty.
Angered almost beyond control by her last remark, the King raised his hand as a sign to one of the guards, to whom he was going to issue orders to have her taken away; but, before he could speak, a messenger entered hurriedly, and prostrating himself before the dais, waited for the King’s pleasure.
“What hast thou to communicate?” asked the monarch, as he resumed his seat with difficulty.
“An English officer, the bearer of despatches from Meerut, seeks audience with your Majesty,” was the answer.
“Ah!” exclaimed the King, as he nervously clutched the arms of the chair with his withered hands. “An English officer, eh?—an English dog, thou shouldst have said. Let him wait our pleasure then,” he added angrily.
“He is importunate, your Majesty, and says his business permits of no delay.”
“A palsy seize him, and the whole of his race!” answered the King. “But we must not be premature. It were better, perhaps, to admit him.”
With a low bow the man withdrew, returning in a short time in company with Lieutenant Harper, whose ride from Meerut had been performed in an incredibly short space of time, and on whose face the perspiration was still wet, while his uniform was white with dust.
“Your Majesty will pardon me for dispensing with all ceremony,” he said, as he made a respectful salute to the King. “I have the honour to be the bearer of most important despatches from the Commandant of Meerut. Their contents are private, and intended for no other eyes but yours.”
As Harper spoke he handed a package of official documents to the King, who in turn was about to hand them to his secretary, as he remarked—
“We will have them read to us at our leisure.”
“Pardon me, but they must not leave your Majesty’s hands,” Harper said, hurriedly.
“Must not!” the King echoed, sternly. Then checking himself, he said—“Well, well, you English are an impetuous race! We will comply with your request. My spectacles, Zula. Let us see what these important documents contain.”
A native boy stepped forward, and presented to the King his spectacles on a gold plate.
Then, with nervous, trembling hands, he broke the seals of the packet, and unfolding the long blue sheets of paper, he slowly perused them. As he did so, there flitted across his face an almost perceptible smile of triumph, and over the gold rims of his spectacles he darted a look full of meaning to a powerful Sepoy who stood near.
This man was an orderly of the guard, and his name Moghul Singh. He was evidently in the King’s secret, for he seemed to understand the look, and made a sign, with his right hand, to his comrades.
Quickly as this was done, it did not escape the notice of Haidee, who shifted her position, ostensibly to converse with a group of ladies, but in reality to place herself nearer Harper.
During the time that the King had spent in reading the documents, Harper’s gaze had frequently wandered to the lovely form of Haidee, and their eyes met, until every nerve in his body thrilled with the electrical fire of her wondrous eyes.
When the King had finished reading, he removed his spectacles and handed them back to the bearer. And as he slowly folded up the paper he remarked with an ill-concealed look of scorn—
“Your commandant fears that there is a conspiracy between the Meerut troops and those of Delhi. It may be so, but we know nothing of it. We have ever been faithful in our allegiance to your sovereign, and these suspicions are unjust. But our agents shall lose no time in ascertaining to what extent dissatisfaction exists in this our Imperial City, and steps shall be taken to give the mutineers of Meerut, should they come here, a warm reception. Moghul Singh,” he added, turning to the orderly, “see this officer comfortably quartered until to-morrow, when we will receive him again, and give him safe escort back, should he desire it.”
Harper made a salute, and prepared to go. The orderly also, in acknowledgment of his commands, saluted, but in obedience to a sign from the King he approached the dais, and the King, bending slightly forward, whispered—
“The stone room, Singh.”
Harper’s movement had brought him close to Haidee—so close that the skirts of her garments touched him.
He looked up. His eyes met hers; and in accents that were scarcely audible, but which reached his ears, as they were intended to do, she whispered—
“On your guard! Danger!”
For a moment he was startled, but only for a moment. He comprehended in an instant that he was in peril, and that this beautiful woman, for some unknown reason, had given him friendly warning.
As Harper followed his guide from the audience chamber he began to suspect treachery; and knowing that the Commandant of the Palace Guard was a Scotchman, by name Douglas, and also that there were an English chaplain and several ladies in the Palace, he made a request to the orderly that he might be conducted to the presence of his countrymen and women.
“The sahib’s wishes shall be obeyed,” the orderly answered, with a military salute. But there was something in the man’s tone and manner which caused Harper to mistrust him, and the young officer instinctively moved his hand to the sword which hung at his side, and which was clanking ominously on the marble pavement.
Down long corridors, along numerous passages, through stately apartments, Harper went, led by his guide. At length an open court-yard was reached. On one side was a guard-room, at the door of which several Sepoys were lounging. The orderly led the Englishman close to the door, and as he did so he raised his hand and muttered something in Hindoostanee. Then, quick as thought, two tall, powerful Sepoys sprang upon Harper, and seized him in a grip of iron.
“Scum, cowards,” he cried, as he realised in an instant that he was the victim of a plot, and making a desperate struggle to free his hand and draw his sword. But other Sepoys came to the assistance of their comrades; the sword was taken away, his accoutrements and jacket were torn from him; then he was raised up, carried for some little distance, and forcibly thrown into a large apartment. Bewildered by the suddenness of the movement, and half-stunned by the fall—for his head had come in violent contact with the floor—Harper lay for some time unable to move.
When his senses fully returned, he stood up to examine the place in which he had been suddenly imprisoned. It was a large, square apartment, with walls of solid masonry, and a massive iron door, that seemed to render all chance of escape hopeless. The only light came from a narrow slit on one side of the room, near the roof. When his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he made a more minute inspection of the place. It was evidently a dungeon, for the walls were damp and slimy, and the most repulsive reptiles were crawling about the floor; while in the corners, and on every projecting angle, huge tarantula spiders sat waiting for prey.
In one corner of the room Harper noticed that there was a recess, and in this recess was a small arched doorway. He tried the door. It was made of iron, and as firm as the solid masonry in which it seemed to be built.
He was a brave man. He could have faced death unflinchingly in open fight, but he sank into the apathy of despair as he realised that he had been trapped into this place, from which escape seemed impossible, to be murdered in cold blood when the rising took place; for he had no doubt now that the appearance of the Meerut mutineers would be the signal for a revolt in Delhi, and that when the time arrived every European would be ruthlessly butchered. As he remembered the words Haidee had uttered as he left the audience chamber, he reproached himself for not having been more on the alert.
“Fool that I was,” he cried, “to be thus taken off my guard! That woman gave me warning, and yet I have failed to profit by it.”
There was a small stone bench near where he was standing, and on to this he sank, and pressing his hands to his head, he murmured—
“My poor wife, God bless her; we shall never meet again.”
In a little time he grew calmer, and, rising from his seat, he once more made an inspection of his prison. But the slimy stone walls and the solid iron door seemed to mock all thought of escape, as they certainly shut out every sound—at least no sound reached his ear. The silence of death was around him. The awful suspense was almost unendurable. He felt as if he should go mad, and he was half-tempted, in those first moments of despair and chagrin, to dash his brains out against the dripping wall. He paced the chamber in the agony of despair. He threw himself on the stone seat again. And as the thought of those he loved, and that he might never see them any more, flashed through his brain, he felt as if he were really going mad.
Suddenly, out of his confused ideas, out of the mental chaos to which he had been well-nigh reduced, a question suggested itself to him, and an image rose up before his view.
It was the image of Haidee. The light of her eyes seemed to shine upon him from out of the thick darkness. He saw the beauty of her form, veiled in her costly, jewelled drapery, and her magnificent hair floating around her.
“Who is that strange beautiful woman?” was the question he asked, as in his imagination he saw her stand before him.
Then he followed it by another.
“Why did she interest herself in me? I must surely be totally unknown to her?”
But the questions were more easily asked than answered. It was a mystery of which he could scarcely hope at that moment to find the solution.
Exhausted with his long ride, and the great excitement under which he had laboured, he sank into an uneasy doze. How long he had remained thus he had no means of knowing; but he was suddenly startled by the boom of a heavy gun, that seemed to shake his dungeon, solid as it was.
He sprang to his feet. He thought he would hear wild shouts and the clashing of arms.
Boom!
Again a gun gave tongue. It appeared to be directly overhead.
Another and another quickly followed. His heart beat violently; a clammy perspiration stood upon his brow; not from any craven fear, but from the awful thought that murder and rapine were broken loose, and he, young and active, with an arm powerful to wield a sword, was imprisoned there, and utterly helpless as if he had been bound in iron gyves.
“Heaven above,” he cried, “is there no hope for me?”
Scarcely had the words left his lips than he was made aware that a key was being inserted in the lock of the small iron door in the recess. He would have given much at that moment for a weapon. Even a stick he would have been grateful for. But his arms were yet free. He had the power of youth in them, and he was determined to make a bold effort, to let at least one life go out with his own, and he resolved that the first man who entered he would endeavour to strangle.
He stood up in the recess, ready to spring forward. The key grated harshly; the lock had evidently not been used for some time. Then there was the sound of bolts being worked in their sockets. It was a moment of awful suspense. Nay, it seemed an age to him, as he stood there panting and waiting, with rapidly beating heart, for what might be revealed.
Presently the bolts yielded. The key was turned, and a long strip of light illuminated the recess.
“Hush, silence, for your life!” a soft voice whispered; and to his astonished gaze there appeared the form of Haidee, who bore in her hand a small lamp, and whose figure was clothed in the ordinary muslin garments worn by the native peasant women.
When the mutineers had got clear of Meerut, they straggled along the great highway towards the Imperial City. They were a broken horde now; some of them were mounted, some on foot, while the scum and villainy of the bazaars followed in their wake. A mile or two in advance of them was Jewan Bukht, with the captive Flora Meredith, who had remained in a state of insensibility in the bottom of the buggy from the time of leaving the bungalow. As his horse tore along, he occasionally glanced backward, and smiled with satisfaction as he saw the flames of the burning city leaping high in the air. The rays of the rising sun were burnishing the domes and minarets of the Imperial City as he arrived on the banks of the Jumna, which looked like liquid gold in the morning light.
He hurried across the bridge of boats to the Calcutta Gate, where a few hours before Lieutenant Harper had entered. He was well known to the guard at the gate, who greeted him with laughter and cheers. Flora had recovered her senses, but was weary and ill; but as the horse’s hoofs clattered on the stone pavement, she raised her head, and looked out. When the Sepoys at the gate saw her, they set up a loud laugh, and exclaimed, “Oh, oh, Jewan, thou hast done well!”
Jewan did not answer, but drove straight on, until, crossing a broad courtyard, he alighted at the door of a pile of buildings in the rear of the Palace. He lifted Flora out, for she was too weak to rise. He carried her into a luxurious apartment, and placed her upon a couch. Scarcely had he done so than Moghul Singh, the orderly of the guard, entered hurriedly.
“Good greetings, Jewan,” he exclaimed. Then, noticing the pale form of Miss Meredith, he laughed slyly, and added, “So, so; you have caught a bird! By the Prophet, but she is a bonny one too!”
Flora seemed to be quite unconscious of what was passing around her. She had let her head fall upon the arms of the couch, and had buried her face in her hands.
“But what do you want here?” the orderly continued. “Know you not that your presence is urgently required in Cawnpore?”
“No, I did not know that,” Jewan answered, as a look of annoyance crossed his face. “But whence got you this information?”
“From Teeka Singh. He was here yesterday, and said you were to lose no time in hurrying to the Nana. Nay, he expects you this very day.”
“That is unfortunate,” Jewan remarked, biting his lips with vexation.
Moghul laughed, and, pointing to Flora, said—
“You must choose between pleasure and duty.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Jewan, angrily.
“Mean,” retorted the other; “why, I mean that you must give up your mistress to serve your master.”
“No; I can retain the one and do the other. From the Nana I shall derive wealth, greatness, position. It is worth some sacrifice to gain them. But I have risked too much for this white-faced woman to let her go now. I will take her to Cawnpore.”
With a scream, Flora—who, though apparently unconscious, had heard the conversation between the two men—flung herself at the feet of Jewan, and, catching his hand between her own, cried—
“Oh, man, if you are not something less than human, do not take me away. Do not take me to Cawnpore. Let me remain here. Nay, kill me, rather than separate me for ever from those who are dear to me.”
She crouched at his feet; she held his hand tightly, and looked up into his face with such a look of sorrow, that it should have moved even a savage animal. But the man only laughed coarsely, and, with a sneer on his lips, said—
“Our power is returning. The white woman crouches at the feet of the despised Indian.”
“No, no; do not say despised,” she answered, her voice broken with sobs. “You have ever experienced the greatest kindness from my countrymen. Has not Mr. Gordon been a friend to you? Were you not nursed and tended with love and gentleness by white friends? Let some remembrance of all that has been done for you move your heart to pity me; and, rather than take me away, strike me dead now at your feet, and with my last breath I will bless you.”
“Why do you remind me that I have been a slave?” he answered, his eyes glowing with hatred. “Why do you utter a name in my ear that only serves to turn my heart to stone. Walter Gordon is your lover. I offer all that he can—love and faithfulness. You spurn me, and choose him. I hate him. Do you hear? And do you think that, after having risked so much to secure you, I shall let you escape? No; I’m for Cawnpore, and you go with me.”
She threw up her arms, and, with a pitiful cry, fell upon her face on the floor.
“The right stuff is in your nature, Jewan,” remarked the orderly, as he assisted his comrade to lift the insensible Flora to the couch.
“I am steel and iron,” was the answer; “that is, so far as these Feringhees are concerned.”
“That is good,” the other replied. “We must not know pity—we must be deaf to all supplications. I have a prisoner. The King gave him into my charge, and he shall die by my hand the moment the first batch of our comrades enters Delhi from Meerut.”
“Ah! is he an important one?”
“He is an English officer!”
“An English officer?”
“Yes; from Meerut.”
“Indeed. What is his name?”
“Harper; and he wears the uniform of a lieutenant.”
“Fate assists us,” Jewan answered. “I know the man. He is a friend of Walter Gordon’s, and once counselled him to discharge me. Kill him, kill him, Moghul! Or let me do it for you,” and, as the man spoke, a demoniacal expression passed over his face.
The devil, that had so long been kept down by the bonds of civilisation, was rising now, and the ferocity of his nature was asserting itself. All the examples that had been set him, all the kindness that had been shown to him, and all the prayers of Christianity that had been breathed into his ear, were blown to the winds, and he was simply the Hindoo, burning with hatred for the white man, and thirsting for his blood.
“I can do all the killing that is to be done, myself,” Moghul answered. “I am no chicken-heart. Besides, the King offers fifty rupees to every one who shall slay a British officer. Hark!” he suddenly cried, as the beat of a drum and the blast of a bugle were heard; “that is the signal that our comrades have come.”
He was about to hurry away, when Jewan stopped him.
“Stay a minute,” he said, “I must leave for Cawnpore immediately, or the road may be stopped by the English. Where shall I get a good horse and conveyance?”
“Go round to the Palace stables, and take your pick. But you must away at once, or every gate will be closed, and you will be unable to pass out. Farewell, the Prophet smile on you!”
Moghul Singh hurried away, and Jewan was alone with the still insensible girl. He looked at her with admiration, as she lay there, ghastly pale and ill, but still beautiful.
He bent over her, and, pressing his hot lips on her cold forehead, he murmured—
“You are mine; and I thank the fate that placed you in my power! This is a moment to have lived for.”
He hurried away, having first taken the precaution to lock the door and take the key with him. And, as he crossed the courtyard to the stables, the boom of a heavy gun sounded, dull and ominous, on the morning air.
The Meerut mutineers had reached the Jumna. They were swarming over the bridge of boats, and clamouring beneath the windows of the Palace.
Captain Douglas, who was then the Commandant of the Palace Guard, instantly ordered the Calcutta Gate to be closed.
This was done, and he sought the presence of the King, who, supporting his tottering limbs with a staff, met him in the Hall of Audience.
“Your Majesty,” cried Douglas, in an excited tone, “the Sepoys have revolted!”
“Have they so?” the King answered, with a cunning leer, his palsied limbs shaking with joy that caused his heart to quicken its pulsations.
“Have they so!” Douglas echoed, in astonishment. “Is that the only answer your Majesty has to make?”
“The only answer, Douglas. What can we do?”
“Do!—blow them to pieces with our guns!” was the reply of the brave Englishman.
Through the open windows of the Palace came the cry of the insurgents—
“We have killed the English in Meerut. Long live the King of Delhi. We have come to restore the Dynasty, to raise the House of Timour, to fight for the Faith!”
The King smiled with satisfaction, and Douglas, seeing the treachery of the King, hurried away to join the other Europeans of the guard.
The mutineers, finding the Calcutta Gate closed, rushed along the road that runs between the Palace walls and the river, until they reached the Ragghat Gate, which was instantly opened to them by the Mohammedans, and the murderous crew clattered into the town, shouting as they went—
“Glory to the Padishah, and death to the Feringhees!”
Then ensued a scene that can scarcely be described. They murdered every European they met; they set fire to every house, and then doubled back to the Calcutta Gate. Here Captain Douglas, Commissioner Fraser, and several other Englishmen, had stationed themselves. And, as the troopers galloped up, Fraser seized a musket, and shot the foremost one dead.
A buggy, with a horse attached, was standing by, for Commissioner Fraser had just driven up. He sprang into the vehicle, and, lashing the horse into a gallop, made for the Lahore Gate, whilst Douglas jumped into the ditch of the fort.
He was severely injured by the fall, but he was sheltered from the enemy’s fire. In a little while he was discovered by a soldier of his guard, whom he had once befriended. This man lifted him on his back, and carried him into the Palace, to a room where the English chaplain and his two daughters were listening to the horrible tumult below.
But soon it became known that the Europeans were there. Then a demoniacal crew rushed up the stairs, and, breaking into the room, massacred the little party with exultant ferocity.
It was a brief and bloody murder, as horrible as any that stained the walls of the Delhi Palace.
Next the courtyards were turned into stables, the Hall of Audience into a barrack-room; and the human fiends, tired with their long ride and their murderous work, strewed straw on the marble floors, and lay down to rest.
When the first excitement had passed, Jewan Bukht prepared to take his departure. He had secured one of the best horses and a light vehicle.
When he returned to the room where he had left Flora, he found that she had partly recovered, but was still dazed and bewildered.
He had procured some food and wine, and these he offered to her. The poor girl, faint from long fasting, ate a mouthful of the food. Then Jewan poured out some wine, which she took almost mechanically. She drained the glass.
Jewan watched her eagerly, as she laid her head wearily back on the couch. The wine was drugged. It soon took effect; and, in a few moments, poor Flora was once more insensible. Then the wretch wrapped her in a large cloak, and, lifting her in his arms, carried her to the buggy.
Just as he was about to apply the whip to the horse, Moghul Singh rushed up, and, in an excited tone, cried—
“There is treachery somewhere. My bird has flown!”
“What!—Harper?” Jewan asked.
“Yes. He has escaped from the stone room, the strongest in the Palace. But how he has got away is a mystery. Both doors were locked and bolted. He has been liberated by some of our own people. But he shall not escape me, for he cannot get outside of the Palace. Farewell; glory to the Prophet!” the man cried, as he rushed away again.
Jewan whipped his horse, and, waving his hand to several Sepoys who were standing about, he quitted the Palace by the Calcutta Gate, and, crossing the Jumna, reached the road that led to Lucknow, and giving his horse the reins, Delhi was soon left far behind.
The great magazine of Delhi, with all its vast supplies of munitions of war, was in the city, not far distant from the Palace. It was one of the most important stores in Upper India.
It was in charge of Lieutenant George Willoughby, of the Ordnance Commissariat Department—a man whose dauntless bravery it would almost be impossible to surpass. He had with him as comrades, Lieutenants Forrest and Raynor, officers of the Bengal Artillery, and six other Europeans.
When the warning went forth that the mutineers were swarming into the town, this little band of resolute Englishmen braced themselves to face the tremendous odds which threatened them.
“Comrades,” said Willoughby, as, mounting a gun, he addressed his force, “this is an awful time, and an awful responsibility rests upon our shoulders, for this great arsenal, with its enormous stores, will be the first point made for by the mutineers. Shall we yield it to them without a struggle?”
“No, no!” was the united cry.
“Good. Shall we defend it with our lives?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Good again. The odds pitted against us are incalculable. But we are Englishmen. Duty and honour demand that these villains shall only reach the stores over our dead bodies.”
“Bravo! We will fight to the death!”
“Nobly said. Not only will we fight to the death, but nothing that this store-house contains shall fall into the hands of the cowardly assassins.”
“Hurrah!” was the answer.
“From the magazine,” Willoughby continued, “we will lay a train of powder, to that tree there in the compound. You, Scully, my brave fellow, shall stand at the tree with a lighted port-fire in your hand, and, when further defence is useless, you shall receive a signal from me to fire the train, and then, ho! for death and glory. Let all the outer gates be closed and barricaded. Load the six-pounder guns with double charges of grape, and while we can move an arm let the cowardly enemy be met with a reception that shall at least cause them to have some respect for British pluck.”
The answer from his comrades was a wild, ringing cheer, and each man hurried to his task. The gates were closed and hasty barricades improvised. The guns were dragged out and placed in position, and into them grape and canister was crammed to the very muzzles. Then the door of the powder-room was opened and the heads were knocked out of several barrels, and the powder scattered about. From this a thick train was laid to the withered trunk of an old mango-tree. Here Conductor Scully, a young man, little more than a youth, but dauntless as a lion, was stationed, port-fire in hand. And the brave Willoughby placed himself in a conspicuous position, to issue orders, and assist in serving the guns. It was a heroic deed—history has scarcely a parallel. Those nine men, all in the flush of youth, setting themselves to oppose the advance of a countless multitude, and vowing that sooner than yield one grain of powder, or one pound of shot, they would bury themselves in the ruins.
When the preparations were complete, the brave band sat down to wait. But they had not to wait long. The shrill sound of a bugle was heard, together with a hammering at the principal gate. Willoughby sprang on the wall. Below was Moghul Singh, accompanied by a number of troopers.
“It is the King’s commands,” cried Moghul, when he saw the Englishman, “that you surrender this magazine and all its stores into his keeping. And, on condition of your so doing, he promises that your lives shall be spared, and that you shall have safe escort out of the city.”
“This is our answer,” exclaimed the noble Willoughby, his face beaming with indignation. “If your vile and treacherous King desires this arsenal he shall have it, but we will surrender it to him a heap of smouldering ruins, together with our blackened bodies.”
“That is an insolent reply,” Moghul remarked; “and I should advise you to reconsider it.”
“There can be no reconsideration. Our decision is unalterable. We can die, but never surrender.”
“But the King commands you.”
“If the King were here in person to make the command, we would answer him with a round of grape. But you are only a myrmidon of his, and so we treat you with contempt.”
“By the Prophet’s beard,” cried Moghul, shaking with rage, “if I were near you I would make you eat your words, dog of an Englishman! But since you do not recognise the authority of his Majesty, whose power is now supreme, we will teach you a lesson. The reign of the cursed Feringhees is at an end, and the Mussulman’s time has come!”
The man turned his horse’s head and rode away, and Willoughby descended from the wall.
“Comrades!” he cried, “we have not a moment to lose. These black devils will be down upon us directly in countless thousands. But they shall only reach the top of our wall over the heaps of their own slain. We are but nine, but for each one of our lives there shall fall hundreds of these wretches, who are little less than demons.”
Then, with an energy begotten by the nature of the situation, they dragged out a number of guns, and placed them in a line so as to command the gateway and the front wall. Scarcely was this arrangement completed than the air was rent with the yells of the mutineers and the rabble, as they swarmed down to the arsenal. They were met with a terrific fire from the walls, delivered with all the coolness and steadiness of a practice parade. And as the guns belched forth their awful grape, scores of the on-coming horde bit the dust.
This unexpected reception caused a momentary check to the advance of the rabble. But it was but momentary, for the gaps were instantly filled, and on the infuriated mob rushed again. Once more they reeled and staggered, as from the walls came the messengers of death. Quickly recovering, and infuriated beyond control with their unseen foe, they raised a rallying cry—
“For the Prophet and the Faith! For the King and Liberty!”
And then they came down like an impetuous torrent, leaving in their wake a track of dead and dying, for round after round was delivered from the arsenal with terrible effect. But the enemy was legion. As thousands fell, there were thousands instantly to take their place, and thousands more again to fill up every gap.
Onward they pressed, yelling with fury, maddened with rage. Inside the walls, the noble and devoted band stood unflinchingly at their post. Grimed and blackened with smoke and powder, the brave Willoughby worked with almost superhuman strength, carrying heavy cases of grape and bags of powder; now serving this gun, now that; encouraging his comrades with cheery words, and hurrahing as he saw how their well-directed fire told upon the swarming enemy.
At the foot of the blasted mango-tree stood the heroic Scully. His arms were bare to the shoulders; his keen eyes were fixed upon his chief, from whom they never shifted; his teeth were set, his lips compressed. In his hand was a blazing port-fire, at his feet a heap of powder. But for the flush upon his face, and the heaving of his massive chest, he might have been taken for a stone statue representing the God of Vengeance about to inflict a terrible retribution.
It was an awful moment. It is hard to die at any time, but harder still when in the full vigour of health and strength. A slight movement of Scully’s arm, and the fire and powder would come in contact, and in an instant there would be an awful ruin. But not a muscle of the man’s frame quivered. He stood as firm and motionless as a rock.
The sun was shining brilliantly on the gorgeous domes and minarets of the great city. The great marble temple, the Jumna Musjid, which was devoted to Mohammedan worship, and was one of the wonders of India, gleamed grandly white in the shimmering light. But it was deserted now. Not a soul trod its sacred precincts. The followers of Mahomet had forgotten their religion, and, like starving tigers, were panting for blood.
Hour after hour passed, and still the noble “nine” kept the horde in check, nerved by the hope that succour would come from Meerut.
“Half the large number of troops in Meerut will be despatched after the mutineers,” said Willoughby; “and they must be very near now.”
Many an anxious glance did he cast towards the great high road, but no troops gladdened his sight. The expected succour did not come. Five hundred British soldiers at that moment could have cut the howling rabble to pieces, and in all human probability have prevented the further spread of the mutiny. And that number could easily have been spared from Meerut; but they were not sent out. Why, has never been known; but it was a fatal and cruel mistake; it is recorded in characters of fire on the pages of history, to the eternal disgrace of those who were responsible for the blunder.
The defence of the magazine was stubborn. The mutineers were mad with rage. They rallied to their war-cry of “Deen! Deen!” They pressed forward like a resistless tide. They rent the air with their howling. They discharged showers of musket-balls at the walls, which every moment gave tongue, and sent forth volumes of death-dealing grape and canister. But presently the fire began to slacken. The ammunition of the besieged was getting short, and none of them could leave their posts to descend into the magazine to get up fresh supplies. The sea of human beings without poured on. They gained courage as the discharge of the guns from the arsenal became less frequent. They pressed forward yard by yard. They gained the walls, against which scores of scaling-ladders were placed. Then the enemy streamed over, but the brave defenders had backed to their line of guns, and for a time kept the foe at bay, until even, as Willoughby had said it should be, the mutineers were almost able to mount to the parapets by the piled-up bodies of their slain.
Still they poured on, in their mad confusion, shooting down their comrades. The ammunition of the defenders was all expended now. The lion-hearted Willoughby rushed to the bastion on the river face. One more look—a long, anxious look—towards Meerut, but not a sign of coming succour. Meerut had failed them!
Willoughby returned to his guns. Half-a-dozen of them were still loaded; but he saw that all hope had passed. Further defence was useless.
“Comrades,” he said, “you have fought nobly, and England shall ring with your praises. We have defended our charge until defence is no longer possible. We are beaten by multitudes, but we are not conquered, and we do not know the meaning of the word surrender. When in happier days peace shall once more dawn over this fair land of India, when men shall recount the deeds done during this cruel day, may it be said that we did our duty as soldiers, and that we died like brave men.”
The natives were swarming down the walls now. They were inside the arsenal.
Willoughby and his friends discharged their last round, and dozens of the enemy fell. Then the noble Commandant held up both his hands. It was the signal agreed upon. Scully shifted his eyes from his leader; then he cast one look around at the living mass that covered the walls and bastions. He bent his arm; the port-fire and the powder came together. Up leapt a great white flame. With a terrible hiss it rushed along the ground, through a dark archway, where it was lost sight of until it reached the open powder. Then there was a terrific shock. The whole building seemed to be blown into the air. The very earth shook with the awful convulsion. The air was filled with bright, lurid flame. Dense volumes of smoke obscured the sun, and for miles around the report was heard.
The destruction was almost beyond comprehension, for there were thousands of tons of powder stored in the magazine. Huge masses of masonry were hurled high into the air. Ponderous guns were tossed away as if they had been toys caught by a strong wind. The massive walls rocked, tottered, and fell, burying hundreds of natives, while hundreds more were blown through the air like wisps of straw. Death was scattered through the ranks of the mutineers until they fell back appalled. It was such a daring deed, so unexpected, so fearful in its effects, so incalculably destructive, that it struck a nameless terror to their recreant hearts; and, with the bodies of their comrades falling in showers around them, they stood spellbound.
Four of the little band of defenders escaped alive. One of these four was a man named James Martin—a determined, fearless fellow, who, during the five long hours of the defence, had worked like one endowed with superhuman strength. When he saw Scully apply the torch to the train, he sprang on to one of the bastions, and, dropping a distance of nearly twenty feet, lay still until the awful blast of fire had passed over. Then he crept along until he reached a heap of masonry that had been blown down, and had fallen in such a way as to leave a large hollow, a kind of cavern. Into this Martin crept, and worn out with fatigue and excitement, he fell asleep.
It is necessary here to go back to the moment when, to the astonished gaze of Harper, the beautiful Haidee appeared in the cell in which the lieutenant had been incarcerated.
It seemed to him as if his senses were playing him false, and instead of a living, breathing woman, he was looking at a vision—at an angel of goodness—who had come to give him hope. But suddenly his thoughts changed, as he beheld, by the light of her lamp, that in her girdle she carried a long gleaming dagger, and her white fingers firmly grasped the handle. Assassination, then, was her object? So he thought, but dismissed the idea as soon as formed; for the face was too beautiful, too soft, too womanly for a nature that could do murder.
She stood for some moments in the doorway, in an attitude of listening, as if she feared that she had been followed; and Harper noticed that a small flight of stone steps led upward until they were lost in darkness.
Presently she stepped into the cell, and gently closed the door. Then, holding the light above her head, she surveyed the young officer.
“I will not ask if you come here as a friend,” said Harper; “your movements proclaim that, but I may, at least, ask why you come, and why I, a stranger, should have aroused an interest in you?”
“I come to save you,” she answered, in a voice that was clear and soft, but bore traces of inward emotion. “In the Hall of Audience I tried to warn you that you were in danger. I would have told you that they intended to kill you if I had had the chance. They would have slain you then, but they had been waiting for the appearance of the soldiers from Meerut, for, until they came, it was not known whether the rising there had succeeded or not. You were to fall with the rest of your countrymen; but, at the risk of my own life, I come to save you.”
“And why?” he asked, drawing nearer to her.
“I am a woman,” she answered, while a deep flush spread over her face, and her bosom heaved as if with some suppressed passion.
He waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.
“You are a woman, fair and beautiful,” he said; “and I am sure your heart is kind and good.”
“Heart!” she cried. “Ah! would that it had turned to stone. But it throbs with passionate delight, and your words reach it until its pulsations quicken, and I know, alas, that I am a woman!”
She drooped her head, and Harper fancied that the long lashes of her eyes were moist with tears.
“You speak in sorrow as you speak in riddles,” he said. “If I can soothe away the one, how gladly will I do so; but I must also ask you to explain the other. You are an utter stranger to me, and I do not even know your name.”
“I have but one name; it is Haidee. Sorrow I have known; it has crushed me. Why should my words be riddles to you? You are a man; I am a woman. I have looked into your eyes, and I become your slave.”
As she spoke she knelt at his feet, and bowed her head upon his hand. He raised her gently. Her hair had fallen over her face; he brushed it back. He took her hand—soft and warm—in his own, and said, gently—
“Haidee, you speak strangely, and I do not understand you.”
“You do not understand!” she repeated. “Ah, your race is cold-blooded, and stand on ceremony. In my country we are quick, impulsive, warm. It is customary there for a maiden to go forth, when she has seen the man she would love, and, laying her hand in his, say—‘Thou hast taken captive my heart; at thy feet I lay it. Like the timid dove to its mate, I come to thee. On thy breast I lay my head; thou shalt shield me from the storm—thou shalt guard me from danger. Thy life shall be my life—thy death my death; and for all time I will be thy faithful and willing slave.’ Then will the man reply—‘If thou art true, I will love thee; if thou art honest, I will keep thee; if thou hast wrongs, I will redress them.’ And if she has wrongs, she will make answer and say—‘I am true as thou art true; I am honest as thou art honest; and thy slave’s wrongs need redressing.’”
Harper was astonished, though he knew that she spoke in the innocence of her heart and in all sincerity; and, however strange her confession might seem to English ears, she was an Oriental, and but following a custom of her country.
As she stood before him with flashing eyes and heaving breast, he could not help feeling impressed with her beauty and grace.
“Grieved indeed should I be if I have inspired you with aught but friendship,” he answered. “I dare not give you love; though I would, if it were possible, redress your wrongs; but, alas, I am a prisoner!”
“Dare not!” she echoed, turning her flashing eyes full upon him. “What do I give you in return? Life. If I save you from death, have I not a right to claim you? If you are a prisoner, I shall make you free; so that you can avenge my wrongs.”
“Haidee,” he cried, “you know not what you ask. Your beauty thrills me, but I dare not own its sway. I burn to be your champion, but that must not be at the expense of my honour.”
“It is you who speak in riddles now,” she retorted, her voice quivering with emotion. “If you remain here, in a very short time they will kill you, for your enemies are thirsting for your blood. I save you and you become mine, and have I not a right to claim your love?”
“If the only conditions upon which you will set me free are that I should give you my love, it were better that you left me here to die.”
“No; it is not so. If you die, I will die with you. But why do you spurn me? It is said that I am beautiful. Poets have sung of my beauty, and kings have acknowledged it.”
“I do not spurn you, Haidee. I feel the power of your beauty; the light of your eyes thrills me, but my love is already given. I have a wife; by all that is honourable and true I am bound to her, and therefore could not love another.”
Haidee uttered a cry of pain, and pressed her hand to her heart.
“Alas! how my dreams fade,” she murmured, “and how wretched is my life.”
“Say not so,” he answered, as he once more took her hand, and looked into the beautiful eyes that were now flooded with tears. “Say not so. You have youth, and happiness may yet come. Let me be your friend—you shall be my sister. I will shield your life with mine, protect and respect your honour, and endeavour to right you if you have been wronged.”
Again she fell at his feet, and, seizing his hand, smothered it with kisses.
“Light of my soul,” she murmured; “even as you say, so shall it be; and though I may not own your love, I will be your willing and faithful slave.”
He raised her up, and said—
“Not slave, Haidee. In my country we have no slaves. But you shall be my sister.”
“Sister, then,” she answered sorrowfully. “I will lead you forth from this prison that would have been your tomb. The stairs by which I descended lead to a secret passage in connection with the upper apartments of the Palace. I will guide you to a place of safety in an outer building near the magazine, where you can remain for a time. And I will inveigle one there whom you shall slay in the name of your sister Haidee. Then we will escape from the city together, and I will follow you until you are safe from all harm, and that being so, I will die. I would slay this man myself, but if the hand of a Cashmere woman spills blood, all her hopes of Paradise have gone, and the Houris would curse her.”
“But who is this man, and what wrong has he done you, Haidee?”
“He is a creature of the King. His name is Moghul Singh, the man who brought you here, who was to have accomplished your death; and the wrong he has done me is irreparable. Four years ago I was the happiest maiden in all Cashmere. In my father’s home peace reigned. He was but a peasant, but was happy and contented. A brother and two daughters, myself included, were his family. Proud and brave was my brother; and, though but a peasant’s son, he was noble and free, scorning all that was base, and loving honour better than his life. My sister had nothing to recommend her beyond gentleness of manners. She had no beauty—I had; that was my misfortune. But I knew it not then. I had given my love to a youth whose race was noble. Others had sought me, princes had knelt at my feet, but I rejected them all. Then this Moghul Singh came to our valley. He was an agent of the King of Delhi, and his mission was to take back the most beautiful maidens, that they might become the King’s mistresses. He heard of me. The fame of my face had reached him. Alas, that it should have been so! He sought me out; he tried to dazzle me with tempting offers of gold and jewels. But these things possessed no charms for me. He said that I should rank as a princess in the King’s harem. But I turned a deaf ear. Then he tried to win me for himself. I spurned him, spat at him, and called him dog. He swore by his faith he would carry me away. I told my brother and my lover, and they vowed to defend me. But Moghul Singh had powerful retainers. They came in the dead of night, armed to the teeth, to my father’s house. With the courage of lions did my brother and my lover fight. But, overpowered by numbers, I saw them both go down, weltering in their blood. At the feet of this Moghul Singh my sister then threw herself. She prayed for pity. She implored him not to take me, the light of the house, away. But the demon was pitiless. He drove a dagger into her heart because she clung to him and impeded his way, and, with a laugh of triumph, he bore me off, while my wretched father, overcome by the terrible misfortune, sank down in raving madness. Into my heart there came but one wish, one hope, one prayer. It was for vengeance. My own hand could not strike the blow, for if it did, my hopes of Paradise would for ever have gone. But I schooled myself to patience; to wait until chance raised up a deliverer. I hate Moghul Singh with a hatred that has no words. I loathe the King as a foul and loathsome thing. But I showed nothing of this outwardly. I knew that there was more to be gained by patience. I have been a witness to the plans that have been in preparation for months for this mutiny. The Nana Sahib of Cawnpore and the King of Delhi have frequently met in secret, and their agents have been sent to every town and village in India. And on the Koran they have sworn that the blood of the Feringhees should flow like water. I have waited patiently through all this plotting, for I said to myself, ‘Out of this a deliverer and avenger will come for me.’ My prayer was heard at last, and you came. Just before your arrival the King had been holding a counsel, in which the ‘rising’ was the chief topic. It was my good fortune to be present. When I looked upon you I said, in my heart, this shall be the righter of my wrongs. I knew that the moment you entered your fate was sealed, unless you were saved by a miracle. But I determined that I would save you. I heard the King give an order to Moghul Singh to consign you to the ‘stone room.’ It is the private prison of the Palace, and only those are brought here who are cast for immediate death. But I knew the secret passage leading to it. By the gift of a large amount of jewels to one of Moghul’s men, I procured a key of the door, and I am here to open it to you and set you free. In the garb of a peasant I am safe from molestation. I know the Palace and the city well, and I will save you. But in return, I must exact a promise that you will avenge me. And though you may not love poor Haidee, she will command your respect and friendship by her patience and fidelity.”
She ceased speaking, and waited in breathless anxiety for his answer. More than once during her recital had her eyes been suffused with tears, her lip had quivered with emotion; and he had caught the spirit which had moved her, until he felt her wrongs to be his wrongs, and that it was his duty to avenge them. He laid both his hands upon her shoulders and looked full into her beautiful face—his own aglow, his eyes flashing, his nerves thrilling.
“Haidee, you have made me your slave. I will avenge you.”
Boom!
The report of a heavy gun seemed to shake the building.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, “we have no time to lose. The gun announces that the mutineers are in sight. When the hoofs of the foremost trooper’s horse ring upon the bridge across the Jumna, the death-knell of the British in Delhi will be sounded.” She drew the dagger from her girdle and handed it to him. “Take this weapon. It will do until you get a better. The blade is poisoned, and if you but scratch the skin with it, death will speedily ensue. Come, quick; a key grates in the other door.”
He seized the dagger and thrust it into his belt, for the sounds of a key being inserted in the lock told that the enemy was at hand. Haidee blew out the light and seized his hand, leading him through the doorway. Scarcely had they got on to the steps, and closed and locked the door, than the other one was opened. Then they heard the voice of Moghul Singh cry, “Death to the Feringhee, in the name of the Prophet!” In a moment his voice changed, and he uttered an imprecation as he discovered that the man he had come to slay was no longer there, but had escaped.