Mehal gave him some hurried directions as to the road to take to reach the English quarters, and then hastened away; and he was left standing alone, as the rising sun was commencing to throw down his fiery beams.
As Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal arranged their plans, and then separated in the hope of speedily meeting again, they little dreamt of the mine upon which they stood. The woman was as ignorant of the true state of Cawnpore as Walter himself. She had no idea that all was ready for the revolt, and that in a few hours all the horrors of the mutiny would be visited upon the devoted heads of the little handful of English in the city. But the ways of Providence are mysterious. From a human point of view, all things might have been ordered differently; but it was ordained otherwise—ordained for some special purpose that the cups of sorrow of some of the people in the city was to be filled to overflowing ere relief came; and to this Walter Gordon was to be no exception. When Zeemit had disappeared, he left the shed which had for the time given him shelter and security, and with heavy heart he set his face towards the British quarters. He had little difficulty in finding his way on to the high road. And though he was frequently accosted by the passing natives, he made motions to all that he was dumb; he was thus enabled to pass on unmolested; but as he went, he gathered scraps of information, which left him no doubt that the troops were on the eve of rising.
When he reached the outlying sentries of the British defences, he was stopped; but he speedily made known his nationality to the man who challenged him, and was allowed to pass on.
He lost no time in seeking out Sir Hugh Wheeler, and soon related his story to the General, who was no less pained than he was astonished.
“I think the old woman has counselled you well,” Sir Hugh remarked as Walter finished. “You could not hope to bring this English lady out of Delhi yourself, and Mehal may succeed. At any rate, it is your only chance. Last night a wounded officer and a native woman, who have escaped from the Imperial City, were brought in here. The officer, who is from Meerut, had been shot within a mile or two of this place.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Gordon, in astonishment, as the idea occurred to him that the English officer from Meerut could be no other than his friend Harper. “Do you know the officer’s name?”
“Harper, I believe; a lieutenant in the Queen’s —— regiment.”
“This is strange, indeed. The lieutenant is an old friend of mine, and with your permission I will see him immediately.”
“Do so by all means. I had an interview with him this morning, and though he is very ill, he was enabled to inform me that he had been sent to Delhi on special service, that he had there been made a prisoner, but effected his escape through the assistance rendered him by a Cashmere lady, who is here with him. I am anxious that he should be forwarded on to his regiment at Meerut without loss of time; but the doctor says it would be dangerous to move him for some days.”
In a few minutes Walter Gordon stood by the bedside of his friend Harper, who had fallen into a troubled sleep. At the head was seated the faithful Haidee, and she was applying iced water to the forehead of the patient.
Gordon soon made himself known to her, and she briefly told him the history of his friend since they had parted—a space of time brief enough in itself, but filled with suffering and sorrow for them all.
Harper was deathly pale, his eyes were sunken; he had been severely wounded. The ball had entered the left breast, glanced along one of the ribs, narrowly escaping the heart, and ultimately lodged beneath the shoulder-blade. No vital organ had been touched; but there was considerable inflammation, and the doctors were not without anxiety for the condition of their patient. They had not yet extracted the ball, owing to his weakened state.
Haidee watched every change of countenance, noted every beat of his pulse, for she scarcely ever moved her fingers from his wrist. It was certain that, if loving care could save him, his life would not be sacrificed.
Gordon was anxious to know who Haidee was; but he did not like to question her, and she did not volunteer the information. He was afraid to think evil of his friend, and yet he was at a loss to account for Haidee’s presence.
Presently Harper turned uneasily on the bed, then he opened his eyes and stared at Gordon, who put out his hand to shake that of his friend. But Harper only stared—there was no recognition—the light of reason was for a time out of his eyes, and he was delirious.
The little band of defenders were now thrown into commotion by the arrival of a messenger who brought word that the rising had commenced, that the gaol had been thrown open, and the treasury was being sacked.
The news was too true. The hour of the Nana’s triumph had arrived. He had given the word, and his followers at the Newab-gung had broken open the gaol and set the prisoners free. Then they cleared out the magazine, and a wealth of heavy artillery and ammunition fell into their hands.
The spoil from the treasury was heaped upon elephants and carts, and the infuriated soldiery, feeling themselves unfettered at last, cried—
“Forward to the Imperial City!”
They, like the Meerut mutineers, expected great things from the restored sovereignty; upon the restoration of the Mogul throne they placed all their hopes.
But this was not the case with Nana Sahib, nor the wily Azimoolah. The centralisation of the rebellion was to place the power in one pair of hands. The Nana craved for power, and he had no intention of recognising the authority of the King, to whom he would have to be subordinate. That, however, formed no part of his programme. But, for a time, the Sepoy leaders declared their intention of going to Delhi, and they made one short march on the road as far as a place called Kullianpore. Here, with all their elephants ladened with the English treasure, their artillery, and heaps of ammunition, they halted. The Nana had accompanied them thus far. He knew that by humouring their first impulse he might bend them to his will. His craft and cunning were truly remarkable.
“Comrades,” he cried, as he commenced to harangue them, “we make common cause. And I ask you, would you be slaves? If you go to Delhi your necks must bear the King’s yoke. Remember all that I have done—all that I have sacrificed to give you liberty. From these English I drew wealth, but I have forfeited all in order that you may be free. Why should you go to the Imperial City? If you concentrate yourselves at any given point, it is certain that the Feringhees will mass their forces against that point and crush you. It is by spreading ourselves over a large area that our hopes of success lie. The British have not troops enough to attack all our strongholds. Again I say, what can Delhi offer you more than I can? Have we not a fair city here?
“The power of the English in Europe is declining; they are weak in India; the vast breadth of country over which the faithful followers of the Prophet are asserting their independence is stripped of troops. What then have we to fear? Remain here and recognise my rule. Restore the Peishwahship, and I promise you wealth, freedom, honour and glory.”
The voice of the charmer prevailed. The leaders wavered in their determination. They conferred one with another, then up they spoke, almost as one man, and answered the Nana Sahib—
“We go back—we devote our lives to your service—we will do your bidding.”
The Mahratta smiled. He saw that the game was in his own hands, and that his ambition and malice might be gratified at one blow. Here were four disciplined native regiments—together with his Bhitoor retainers, who numbered alone nearly one thousand, and were all trained soldiers, some hundreds of guns, heaps of ammunition, and abundance of treasure. With such a force, what might he not do?
His familiar demon, Azimoolah, rubbed his hands with ferocious joy as he heard the answer of the men. Formerly a common servant in the house of an Englishman, Azimoolah had been raised to position by the Nana, to whom he had ever been a ready tool and a cringing slave. He had gone to England to plead his worthless master’s cause; he had made love to English ladies; he had been fêted and lionised by the hospitable English, who loaded him with favours and presents. But he returned to his country with a deadly hatred in his heart for those who had befriended him.
In addition to this astute Mahomedan and cunning devil, the Nana had in his company Tantia Topee, who had been his playfellow in former days, and was now his counsellor and guide.
There were also Bala Rao and Baba Bhut, his brothers; the Rao Sahib, his nephew, and Teeka Singh—a combination of cowardly and pitiless villains.
And so the elephants’ and horses’ heads were turned round again, the artillery trains were got in motion, and at the head of his powerful army the Nana Sahib—the ruthless Tiger of Cawnpore—marched back to the city. He felt that he was supreme master of the situation. He knew that opposed to him were a little handful of English only, that he could crush—or, at least, he believed so; but he did not consider the hearts of steel that beat in the breasts of those few British, who would have conquered even his legions of black demons if they had not been made the victims of a cruel plot.
With swelling pride the Nana rode into the town, his long lines of troops in the rear, his guns lumbering over the dusty roads, and singing a “song of death” with their trundling wheels. He dubbed his army at once the “Army of the Peishwah,” and commenced to make promotions, Teeka Singh being placed in command of the cavalry, with the rank of general. Azimoolah was war secretary and counsellor, and Tantia Topee became keeper of the treasure.
When this first business had been arranged to their own satisfaction, the army sat down close to the British defences. Long a subject of the English, Nana Sahib now felt that he was their master; and a pitiless, grinding, exacting, awful master he was to prove.
As he viewed the paltry fortifications which had been thrown up by General Wheeler, and then let his eyes wander to his own heavy guns, he smiled a grim smile of satisfaction.
“What think you of our chances of success, Azimoolah?”
“I have been examining the place through my telescope for the last half-hour,” answered Azimoolah. “I have some difficulty in discovering their works, even now. But I think that after two hours’ battering with our guns, I shall need a microscope to find them.”
“Sarcastic, as usual, Azi. But don’t you think that we had better let these miserable people go?”
“Go—go where?” cried the crafty knave, turning upon his master suddenly.
“Escape,” the Nana answered pointedly.
“Escape?” echoed the other, in astonishment. “Surely your Highness will not signal the commencement of your reign by an act of namby-pamby weakness. Escape, forsooth! Turn every gun you’ve got upon them, and blow them to that hell they are so fond of preaching about!”
“You do not gather my meaning, Azi,” the Nana replied, as he viewed the defences through a jewelled opera-glass. “I meant, let them escape from one trap, to fall into another. We could have them cut to pieces when they had got some miles from Cawnpore, and we should escape blame.”
“Oh, oh, your Highness—pardon my hastiness. You are an able prince. I could not imagine that you were going to spoil your nature by any stupid, sentimental notions; still, I do not approve of your Highness’s scheme. We should miss too much sport. And why need we concern ourselves about the blame? Let us commence the fun without further delay.”
The Nana laughed heartily, as he replied—
“You are somewhat hasty, my friend. Impetuosity is not good. There is refinement in killing, as in all other things. The acmé of torture is suspense. We will torture these British people, Azi. I shall send, however, a message to Wheeler, that I am going to attack his entrenchments.”
“But why should your Highness even take this trouble?”
“Because we will so far recognise the usages of war as to announce our intention to commence the siege.”
In accordance with this determination, a messenger was despatched to the aged General, who did everything that man could do to make the best of his position. Darkness had fallen. It gave the brave hearts behind those mud walls a short respite, but with the return of light the booming of a gun told that the enemy had commenced operations.
With the booming of that gun, as the terrible day dawned on Cawnpore, there commenced a siege that, for horror and misery, has never been exceeded in the history of the world.
It was the month of June. The heat was terrific. The cloudless sky was like a canopy of fire. What little wind there was came like the blast from a glowing furnace. The tubes of the guns grew so hot in the sun’s rays that it was impossible to touch them with the hand. Behind the entrenchments were a heroic band of men—a mere handful—and with them nearly two hundred women and children.
It was for the sake of these dear ones that every man braced himself up to fight against those fearful odds, until he fell dead at his post. Not a craven heart beat in any breast there. Every person knew that the case was hopeless—that to hold out was but to prolong the agony. But “surrender” was a word no one would breathe.
For days and days went on the awful siege. The defenders, weary, overworked and starving, laboured, with the might of giants, in the trenches. The clothes rotted from their backs, and the grime from the guns caked hard and black upon their faces and hands. But, with dauntless courage, they served the guns, and this always under a tremendous fire, from which they were barely screened.
Where all were heroes, comparisons would be invidious indeed, and yet there were some whose names are indelibly written upon the scroll of fame, for the conspicuous manner in which they displayed their heroism.
Captain Moore was one of these. He was wounded at the very commencement of the siege—his arm was broken. But it could not break his spirit! He went about with the fractured limb in a sling. No toil seemed to weary him—no danger could daunt him. Day and night he laboured; encouraging the women, cheering the children. Now serving a gun—now heading a desperate sortie against the enemy. As a companion with him was Captain Jenkins of the 2nd Cavalry. He held the outposts beyond the trenches. Over and over again did the enemy try to dislodge him, but failed each time. At length a treacherous Sepoy, who had been feigning death, raised his gun and fired. The jawbone of the brave Jenkins was smashed, and he died an agonising death.
One day a red-hot shot from the enemy’s battery blew up a tumbrel and set fire to the woodwork of the carriage. A large quantity of ammunition was stored close by. If this caught fire the whole place, and every soul in it, would meet with instant destruction. It seemed as if nothing but a miracle could save them, for there was no water—nothing to extinguish the flames. But the miracle suddenly appeared in the person of a young hero; his name was Delafosse. A deadly stream of eighteen-pound shot was poured upon the spot by the besiegers, but, unmoved by this, Delafosse flung himself upon the ground beneath the blazing wood, which he tore off with his hands, and then stifled out the fire with dry earth. Such a cheer rose from the throats of the British at this heroic deed, that it must have sent terror to the hearts of the cruel and cowardly enemy.
Then upon a projection of the barrack wall there was perched young Stirling, known as the “dead-shot,” from his unerring aim. Day after day he sat on his perch and picked off single Sepoys. And the list would be incomplete without mention of the brave Scotchman, Jervis; he was an engineer. He was out in the open compound one day, and with the indomitable pride of race, refused to run from a black fellow, so he fell shot through the heart.
If midst our tears we sing a pæan in honour of these hero-martyrs, the wives and daughters of the fighting men of Cawnpore must go down to posterity as an example of all that women should be—noble, patient, uncomplaining.
Poets have sung how the women of old turned their hair into bow-strings, that their men might fight the enemy. Those Cawnpore women would have done the same, if it had been needed. And they did do an equivalent. When the canister could not be rammed home, owing to the damage done to the guns by the enemy’s fire, these noble women took off their stockings. These were filled with the contents of the shot-cases, and it is probably the only time that such cartridges were used.
The days lengthened into weeks, but still these lion hearts could not be quelled. Sadly reduced were their ranks by death; for what the enemy’s fire failed to do, privations and sickness completed.
One of the greatest wants felt was that of water. The small quantity in store when the siege began was soon exhausted, and the only supply to be obtained was from a small well that stood in the open compound. The cruel enemy knew this, and they kept guns pointed, and special marksmen for that particular spot. To go for water was to go to almost certain death. And yet every morning men were found who volunteered for the awful work, until around the well there grew up a pile of dead, where they were obliged to be left, for there was nowhere to bury them.
At last came one of the heaviest blows that had fallen upon the garrison. The barrack with the thatched roof was burnt down; it had enjoyed an immunity from this long-expected disaster, but the fatal shot came one day that set it on fire. How the fiendish hearts of the coward mutineers beat with joy as they saw the flames leap into the air! It was a terrible disaster for the noble defenders, as many of the women and children had to lie upon the bare ground without any shelter from the dews by night or the sun by day.
Matters had grown desperate enough now. The food was all but done; the well was all but dry. The air was poisoned by the unburied dead. Sickness and disease were hourly thinning the number of the wretched people; and yet there was not a man there, not a woman, nay, not even a child, who would have consented to dishonourable surrender.
During the progress of the siege, there was one who was not able to render much, if any, assistance. This was Lieutenant Harper, who recovered but slowly from the effects of his wound; the want of proper nourishment and other necessaries retarded his progress to convalescence. Haidee watched over him, nursed him with untiring care, and gradually brought him from the very brink of the grave. When he gained strength, he felt that the time had come to render what poor assistance he could. How best could that be done? was a question he put to Haidee and Gordon, who had been amongst the most prominent defenders. After some reflection Haidee answered—
“If you could reach the outside world, and procure succour, we might all be saved.”
It was an unselfish suggestion. She knew that it was a forlorn hope; but it held out a faint hope for the little garrison. Harper jumped at it. It was desperate service indeed. To safely get beyond the lines of the investing army seemed almost out of the region of possibility; but there was yet a chance, however small, and if he could but reach Meerut, help might be procured, and the little remnant of the brave defenders saved.
It was agreed unanimously that he should go, and a dark night favoured his departure. Walter Gordon would readily have gone, but he felt that his strength could be utilised to better advantage in helping the besieged. He had suffered agonies of mind as he thought of what the fate of Flora Meredith might be. He hoped and prayed in his own mind that a merciful death had long since ended her sufferings.
The hour came for Harper to depart; it was a solemn moment. Each felt that as they grasped hands.
“Walter,” said Harper, “the last time we parted was at the very commencement of this horrible mutiny. I little thought then that we should meet again; but we part now, and the chances of our seeing each other any more on this earth are remote indeed. Though, if I should survive, and can render aid to Flora Meredith, if she lives, it shall be done. But before I go, I exact a solemn promise from you, that while life is in your body you will protect Haidee, and if you should both manage to escape, you will never lose sight of her.”
“I give the promise, old fellow. God bless you,” was Walter’s answer, in a voice that was choked with emotion.
Harper turned from his friend to bid farewell to Haidee. How can that parting be described? There was no passionate wailing—no useless tears. She was a true woman, and however powerful her love might be, she knew that it was a duty to sacrifice all personal feelings where so many lives were at stake. She hung around his neck for a few brief moments; she pressed a kiss of pure love upon his lips, and then released him. In both their hearts there was that nameless feeling of ineffable sorrow that has no interpretation.
“Light of my eyes, joy of my soul, go,” she said. “Into the dust Haidee will bow her head, for happiness can never more be hers.” One more pressure of the hand, one more meeting of the lips, and Harper crouched down, and was making his way across the compound.
It was midnight, and the night was dark. The enemy’s fire had almost ceased; and as the crouching form disappeared, many were the fervent prayers uttered on Harper’s behalf, that he would succeed in his mission.
The morning came, and then the night again, and the next morning, and so on for several mornings, the defenders holding out bravely. Meanwhile the Nana Sahib was chafing with rage. He had not counted upon such a stubborn resistance. The indomitable pluck of these English was something that passed his comprehension. It irritated him beyond measure. The city over which he wished to rule was in a state of turmoil through it. His army was being shattered. Some of his best Sepoy officers had been killed by the fire from the defences; and, to make matters worse, cholera had broken out amongst the troops, and raged violently. Driven to desperation, he held counsel with his staff.
“What can we do to subdue this people?” he asked of Azimoolah.
“Nothing to subdue them,” was the answer. And for the first time in his life, perhaps, Azimoolah spoke the truth.
“What shall we do to crush them, then?” the Nana went on; “I would hack them to mince-meat, if I could get near enough, but that seems impossible.”
“Scarcely so impossible as your Highness seems to imagine,” made answer Azimoolah, as his face glowed with the inhuman cruelty that stirred his heart.
“How shall we reach them?” was the angry question of his master.
“By stratagem.”
“Ah, that is good! But how?”
“These people are reduced to extremity. They have many women and children with them; for their sakes they will be glad to accept terms. Let us proclaim a truce, and offer, as a condition of their laying down their arms, to convey them by water to Allahabad.”
The Nana laughed as he observed—
“You are an excellent counsellor, Azi, and I like your scheme; but having got them out, what then?”
He asked this question with a great deal of significance; for although a diabolical thought was shaping itself in his brain, his recreant heart dare not give it words. And so he waited for his tool to make the suggestion.
“Having got them out, I think the rest is easy, your Highness.”
“Well, well,” the other cried, impatiently, as Azimoolah seemed to dwell too long upon his words.
“We will provide them with carriage down to the river. There we will have a fleet of large, thatched-roof boats. On board of these boats the English people, who have given you so much trouble, shall embark.”
“Well, go on—I follow,” said the Nana, as Azimoolah paused again. “Having got them on board, what then?”
“We will slaughter them, your Highness—man, woman, and child. Not one shall live to tell the tale. On each side of the river we will have heavy guns posted, and our troops shall line the banks. A mouse would not be able to escape.”
“Good! I leave all to you,” was the Nana’s only answer. But his tone of voice betrayed the joy he felt.
Azimoolah retired to his tent, and, calling for writing materials and pen, with his own hand he wrote the following missive in English:—
“To the subjects of Her Majesty Queen Victoria: All those who are in no way connected with the acts of Lord Dalhousie, and are willing to lay down their arms, shall receive a safe passage to Allahabad.”
The next morning an armistice was proclaimed, and Azimoolah, accompanied by two Sepoys, presented himself before the entrenchments.
This temporary cessation of hostilities was a great relief to the starving and worn-out garrison. They were prepared to listen to any terms that did not propose dishonourable surrender. General Wheeler called up two captains and the postmaster, and gave them full powers to go out and treat with the emissaries of the Nana.
Azimoolah proposed surrender, without the customary honours of war. But this the officers would not entertain for a single instant, and demanded that the British should march out with their arms and sixty rounds of ammunition in the pouch of every man. The Nana was to afford them safe escort to the river, provide carriages for the women and children, and provisions of flour, sheep, and goats for the voyage to Allahabad.
These proposals were written on a sheet of paper and given to Azimoolah, who returned to his lines; while the officers went back to their entrenchments.
As they made known the terms they had submitted, there was rejoicing in the little garrison. The women cheered up as they thought that an end was coming to their sufferings and sorrow.
So it was; but a different end to what they contemplated. It had been an awful time during the siege. Human comprehension can scarcely realise the full measure of the suffering endured by the devoted band. It possibly stands without a parallel in the world’s horrors begotten by war.
For some hours the people waited in anxious suspense; their hearts beat high, and the wan cheeks flushed as the sounds of a bugle fell upon their ears.
A horseman had arrived from the rebel camp, and brought word that the terms had been agreed to, and the garrison was to remove that night. But General Wheeler flatly refused to do this, saying that he could not get his people ready until morning.
“Let it be so,” said the Nana, when the message was brought; “we can afford to give them a few hours.”
In the rebel camp there was great rejoicing; quantities of drink were consumed; and there was gambling and singing throughout the long dark hours.
In the entrenchments there was peace; silence reigned, broken occasionally by the audible prayer from some grateful heart as it uttered its thanks to the Christian’s God for the relief He had brought them.
During the terrible night—a night full of hope for the starving, miserable people in the Cawnpore entrenchments—the little garrison were busy making preparation for their departure on the morrow. That is, such preparations as they could make, which, for the most part, consisted of gathering together the trifling remnants of their treasures. Here, a treasured portrait was carefully stowed away; there, a lock of hair cut by loving hands from the head of some dear one, whose earthly troubles were ended, was wrapped up and placed between the leaves of a well-worn Bible, so that it might serve in future time as a sorrowful memento of that awful siege.
Through those dreary hours of darkness there was one who sat apart from his companions; he was weary and jaded, but sleep refused to visit him. This was Walter Gordon. As he sat there, with his head bowed on his hands, it would have been almost impossible to have detected the European in the guise of the native, for he still wore the costume in which he had left Meerut. And the disguise was rendered more perfect by long exposure of the sun, and by smoke and grime from the powder which seemed to have literally been burnt into the skin.
An unutterable grief appeared to be pressing him down; for his thoughts wandered to one whom he dare not hope could be alive and well. The plan arranged by Zeemit Mehal for Miss Meredith’s rescue had, so far as he was able to judge, resulted in nothing, because however successful she might have been, the investing enemy had prevented any news reaching him from the outside world; and even if Zeemit had been able to get Flora free from Delhi, he knew that, without assistance, speedy recapture must result.
During the long weeks that he had been shut up in the entrenchments, the excitement of the siege had prevented his thoughts from dwelling too closely upon his troubles. But now that that excitement was over, and the reaction set in, he felt an anguish of mind and body that almost threatened to upset his reason. The promise of the coming release gave him no pleasurable feeling. His business was ruined; the fate of the woman who was to have been his wife unknown; nearly all his friends killed; and he, lonely and broken-hearted, a wreck compared to what he was a few bright happy weeks ago. As the memory of that night in Meerut, when Flora Meredith had warned him of the coming danger, rose up before him, he felt that it would be a relief if any one of the enemy’s shot would but come and cut his thread of life. He had allowed her warning to pass unheeded; nay, had absolutely laughed it to scorn, as the emanation of one who was morbid and out of sorts. He might have saved her then, have saved his possessions, and all belonging to him and her. But he remained inactive. He allowed the precious moments to glide by, until the storm burst in all its fury, and escape from its consequences was impossible.
He gave up all thoughts of ever seeing his friend Harper again. It was true that sufficient time had not elapsed for the succour to arrive, even if he had managed to live through the thousand dangers he would have to face. But it was such a forlorn hope, that Gordon felt it was a fallacy to cherish any expectation of again seeing him. Life, as viewed through the medium which then presented itself, seemed to have practically ended for him. If he reached Allahabad, it would be but as a storm-tossed waif, thrown up, as it were, by a raging sea that had washed away all that was dear and precious, leaving him lonely and broken-hearted, to curse the unlucky chance that had saved him.
These were his melancholy reflections. After all he had endured, it was scarcely matter for wonder that they should be gloomy and tinged with morbidness.
There are moments sometimes in a person’s existence when life seems full of nameless horrors—when death is viewed in the light of a loving friend who brings peace and rest.
Such a moment as this was Walter’s experience. His cup of sorrow was full; it was overflowing, but then, when the tide has reached its highest flood, it commences to recede. Night was nearly passed. The fairy-like glamour which precedes the coming dawn, especially in India, was over the land. It was like a flush on the face of nature—surrounding objects were commencing to assert their presence. The outlines of trees and buildings could be faintly discerned, standing out against the roseate-flushed sky.
With the departing darkness and coming light, a faint glimmer of hope appeared upon the path of Walter Gordon; he began to think that things might not be so bad after all; and then his senses were suddenly and unexpectedly soothed by the melody of a bird. For weeks the roar of the guns had scared all the feathered songsters away; but the cessation of the din for the last twenty-four hours had induced a stray bul-bul—that gem of the Indian feather tribe—to alight on the branches of a blackened and shot-shattered tree which stood some little distance away.
Perhaps the tiny singer had wandered from its tribe, and, missing the rich foliage which the storm of fire had destroyed over an extensive area, it was uttering a lament; for there was ruin, desolation, and decaying mortality around—the work of man’s hand; and the song of the bird might have been a song of sorrow. Who can tell? But as it sat there a mere speck on the leafless and blackened tree, and trilled its beautiful and mellow notes that sounded clear and soft on the still morning air, the soul of Walter Gordon was touched.
The wand of the enchanter, in the shape of the piping bul-bul, had changed the scene. From the fierce glare and the strife-torn land of India, he was suddenly transported to his native shores. He saw the peaceful valleys of smiling England—he heard the clanking of the wheels of industry as they brought bread to toiling millions, and sent forth their produce to all the corners of the earth. He saw the happy homes where the laughter of merry children made light the hearts of their parents. He saw that land with all its beauty—a land free from the deadly strife of contending armies; and, as the vision passed before him, hope sprang up again strong and bright with the dawning day. The little bul-bul’s notes had been to him like a draught of an elixir that can banish the sickness of the heart, and lift up the human soul from darkness into light.
The bird’s notes ceased, but another sound fell upon his ear. It was a long-drawn sigh of a woman. It was Haidee. She had been sleeping on a sheepskin some few yards away from where Gordon was sitting. As he turned his eyes to where her form reposed, he remembered the promise he had made to Harper with reference to this woman. During the few days that had elapsed since his friend’s departure, he had tended to Haidee with the loving solicitude of a brother. He had told her of all his troubles, and how by a most singular chance Flora had been separated from him again, and conveyed back to Delhi.
And he felt now, as he turned to Haidee, that for his friend’s sake—a friend he looked upon as dead—it was his sacred duty to protect her until he could place her out of the reach of danger.
He knew but little about her, for Harper had volunteered no information beyond the fact that she was from the King’s Palace, and to her he owed his life. It was sufficient for him to know that this was the case—to feel for her in Harper’s behalf all the anxiety and tenderness which was due to her sex.
He had speedily discovered that she was possessed of a true woman’s nature, and that she entertained a strong love for his friend. But he looked upon it purely as a Platonic feeling, for he had too much faith in Harper’s integrity to think that he would have encouraged any other.
“You have slept soundly, Haidee,” he remarked, as he observed that she opened her eyes.
“I have had a dreamful sleep,” she made answer, as she sat up, and pushed back her beautiful hair, tarnished somewhat, and tangled with smoke and dust, but beautiful still. Her face, too, was a little worn, and a look of anxious care sat upon it; but the shocks and jars of the last few weeks had affected her much less than it had her companions in sorrow.
“I trust that at least they have been pleasant dreams,” Gordon answered, as he shook Haidee’s hand; for she had risen and moved to where he was sitting.
“Alas, no! I dreamt that your friend Harper was lying cold and dead—that he had died for the want of help and care, and I was not there to administer comfort to him.”
“But you know, Haidee, we say that dreams always go by the contrary,” Gordon answered, trying to force a smile; but it was but a melancholy attempt, for he knew that his words belied the thoughts of his heart.
“Perhaps so,” she said, sighing heavily. “Fortune has favoured him so far that she might still continue to smile upon him. But then he was weak from his illness, and the risks he would have to run before he could get clear of this city were numerous and great.”
“True; but we will not despair. We have all stood in deadly peril, and yet we live; and this dawning day brings us relief from our tribulation.”
“I am not so sure of that,” she answered, hurriedly.
“What do you mean, Haidee? Has not the Nana promised us safe escort to Allahabad?”
“He has promised—yes.”
“Your words have a ring of doubt in them, as though you had no faith in the Nana’s promise.”
“I have no faith. I fear treachery.”
“Your fear is surely a groundless one, then. The capitulation has been put into black and white; and however bad the Nana Sahib may be, he is bound to recognise those usages of war common to every civilisation.”
“I tell you I have strange forebodings of evil. I believe the man’s nature to be cruel enough for anything.”
“Hush! Haidee! Do not let your words reach the ears of our fellow-sufferers, or they will only cause unnecessary alarm.”
“I have no desire to be a prophet of evil, but I believe it would have been better to have held out until every ounce of powder had gone rather than have trusted to the mercy of the Nana Sahib. However, your people shall go, and as they depart I will waft my good wishes after them.”
“Waft your good wishes after them! Really, Haidee, you are talking strangely, and as if you did not intend to go.”
“I do not intend to go.”
“Why?” he asked, quite unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Because for me to go would be to go to certain death. Even if I escaped recognition by the Nana—which would be almost impossible, for he knows me well, having often seen me at the Palace—my nationality would condemn me; there would scarcely be a native whose arm would not be raised to strike me down.”
“But the protection which Nana Sahib is bound to afford to us, in accordance with the terms of treaty, must likewise be extended to you.”
“I tell you, you do not know these men. In my case they would be bound by no terms. They would say that I had been treacherous to the King, and, not being a British subject, my life was forfeited. Not that I fear death. But for the sake of him who is dearer far to me than life, I must try and live, that I may serve his friends—if that is possible.”
“But do you know, Haidee, that he placed you in my care; and if I allow you to remain behind, I shall be guilty of breaking the promise I made to him, that I would never lose sight of you as long as I lived.”
“My mind is made up, Mr. Gordon; I shall remain behind.”
“Then, at all hazards, I remain too.”
“I am glad of that.”
“But what do you propose doing?”
“Returning to Delhi.”
“Returning to Delhi?”
“Yes. You told me that the lady who was to be your wife had been conveyed back to that city.”
“I did.”
“Then what I have done once I may be able to do again.”
Gordon’s heart quickened its beating. Haidee’s word opened out new prospects that he had not before thought of. At any rate, however slender might be the reed, he clutched at it with desperate energy. What might not a determined woman and a man actuated by love accomplish? Still, whatever her scheme might be, it was as yet to him misty and undefined.
“My plan is this,” she continued, after a pause. “We must conceal ourselves somewhere about the entrenchments until night falls again. The disguise which has served you in such good stead so far will serve you still further, if you are discreet, and do not use your voice. Under cover of the darkness we can escape from this place, and retrace our steps to Delhi. I do not think we shall experience any difficulty in gaining entrance to the city. Once there, I have plenty of friends who will give us aid and shelter so long as they do not penetrate your disguise. We shall soon be able to learn news of Miss Meredith and Zeemit Mehal, and if we cannot render them assistance at once, we can wait near them, until an opportunity occurs.”
“I like your plan,” Gordon answered, thoughtfully. “It seems to me to be full of promise. At any rate, if the scheme appeared more chimerical than it really does, I should be inclined to follow it out, so long as there was even a shadowy chance of succeeding in my mission. I owe my presence here to a strange chance. Once released, and I am free to follow her who has been so cruelly separated from me. In your hands, then, I place myself, Haidee. And I am sure, for the sake of our mutual friend, whether he be living or dead, that you will do all that a brave and noble woman can do.”
“Living or dead,” she sighed, as if his words had sunk deep into her soul. “Yes, living or dead, I devote my life to serving him, or those belonging to him.”
“Our faiths may differ, Haidee,” Gordon answered; “but rest assured there is an Almighty Power that will bless your efforts and reward your devotion.”
She turned her large, truthful eyes full upon the speaker, and replied in a low tone—
“Yes, the Christian’s God is good, and some day I will seek to know more about Him.”
It soon spread through the little garrison that Gordon and Haidee had determined to remain behind. No opposition was offered to this determination. They both were free agents, and at liberty to act upon their own responsibility; but not a few of the people looked upon it as a foolhardy step, and thought that they were running unnecessary risk.
As the sun sprang up in the heavens—for in the Indian climate it may truly be said to spring up—the sounds of a bugle broke upon the morning air; it was the signal for the sentries to come in, and for the garrison to arouse. The sounds of that bugle revivified the hopes that had all but died in the poor crushed hearts. As the weary people gathered themselves together, those notes were like the kindly voice of a friend calling them to rest, and telling them that their trials were over. Alas! they little dreamt that it sounded their death-knell. If some pitying angel had but whispered to them never to stir beyond the mud walls of their defences, what soul-wrung anguish they might have been spared; but it is written that man shall suffer. The doom of those poor creatures was not yet fulfilled, and they must go forth. Again the bugle sounded; this time for the march. Then the barriers were withdrawn, and forth from the defences they had so heroically held went the people. A tattered and torn British ensign, nailed to a bamboo staff, was carried at the head of the procession. The black demons, who swarmed around in thousands, might insult that flag, they might spit upon it, trample it into the dust, but they could never quell the dauntless courage of the lion hearts who owned its sway. The ragged flag flaunted proudly in the breeze, and the ragged crew, each of their pouches filled with sixty rounds of ammunition, and bearing on their shoulders their guns with fixed bayonets that flashed in the sunlight, straggled on. Haidee and Gordon had concealed themselves in an outbuilding—it was simply a heap of ruined brickwork, for it had been battered to pieces with the enemy’s grape; but the fact of its being in ruins was in their favour, as they were less likely to be discovered by intruders. In about half an hour the last of the garrison had departed, and the entrenchments were left to silence and the dead.
Close to the Suttee Choura Ghaut, the place at which the garrison were to embark, there rose a Hindoo temple; it was known as the Hurdes, or the Fisherman’s Temple. It stood upon the banks of the Ganges, and its shadows darkened the water. Many a religious festival had been held within its walls, and many a pious Hindoo fisherman had come from afar, that he might fall down before the god it enshrined, and invoke a blessing upon himself and his calling. But on the morning that the English people went forth from their defences, it was devoted to a far different purpose.
Enthroned on a “chaboutree,” or platform, of the temple, sat Tantia Topee. He had been commissioned by Nana Sahib to carry out the hellish work. Near him were Azimoolah, and Teeka Singh, and they were surrounded with numerous dependants. From their position, they were enabled to command an uninterrupted view of the river, through the open doors and windows. At the proper time the fatal signal was to be given in that temple by Tantia Topee. The signal was to be the blast of a bugle.
But all unmindful of the awful danger, the garrison went on—women, and children, and men, who had survived the horrors of those awful weeks—gaunt, and ghastly, their garments hanging in shreds, and scarcely covering their emaciated bodies, enfeebled by want, their bones almost protruding through their skins, some wounded, and bearing upon them the indelible marks of the battle.
In the hearts of most was a glimmering of a peaceful future.
Here a little child carried in its arms a broken and smoke-blackened doll; there a woman huddled to her breast some household treasure that had been saved from the great wreck; but they were a pitiable crowd. The beautiful had left their beauty; the young had left their youth in the battered barracks; and even the faces of the children were pinched and wizened, showing how fearful had been the suffering during those dark weeks.
The wounded were carried mostly in palkees (palanquins); the women and children were in rough native carts, a few rode on elephants; and the able-bodied men marched. But the attempt at martial array was but a mockery—they were soldiers only in spirit. Outwardly they were starving tatterdemalions.
The grim old warrior, General Wheeler, was accompanied by his wife and daughters. He was worn and broken spirited—for the capitulation had crushed his heart. In spite of the starvation which stared him in the face, in spite of the hordes of rebels arrayed against them, and in spite of the sickness and misery which were upon them, the poor old man was reluctant to surrender, for he still hoped for succour from outside. But his officers had forced it upon him, for the sake of the unhappy women and children.
It was but a mile down to the Ghaut, but it was a long, long weary journey. The place of embarkation was reached at last, and the weary eyes of the people saw the fleet of boats that they hoped were to convey them to safety. They were common country eight-oared boats, known as “budgerows.” They were unwieldy things, with heavy thatched roofs, so that they resembled, from a distance, stacks of hay. It was the close of an unusually dry season, and the water was at its shallowest—the mud and sand-banks being far above the water in many places. The banks of the river were lined with natives, who had turned out in thousands to see the humiliated English. There were thousands of soldiers there too—horse, foot, and artillery. The troopers sat with their horses’ heads turned towards the river, and seemed impatient for the sport to commence.
Such a deep-laid plot, such a diabolical act of treachery, the world had surely never known before. Not even the imagination of Danté could have conceived blacker-hearted demons to have peopled his “Inferno” with, than those surging crowds of natives. Those floating budgerows were not to be arks of safety, but human slaughter-houses.
Slowly the people embarked, and, as they did so, there floated out into the stream a small wooden idol: it represented the Hindoo god Shiva—Shiva the Destroyer. As it was pushed out into the stream, every native who saw it smiled, for he knew too well what it signified.
General Wheeler remained till the last. He had been riding in a palanquin, and as he put his head out, a scimitar flashed in the air, and the brave veteran rolled into the water a corpse. Almost at the same moment Tantia Topee raised his hand in the temple, and the notes of a bugle rose clear and distinct. Then the foul design became apparent, and the unhappy people knew that they had been lured into a death-trap. From every conceivable point on both sides of the river, there belched forth fire, and grape and musket balls were poured into the doomed passengers; in a little while the thatch of the budgerows burst into flame, for in every roof hot cinders had been previously inserted. Men leapt overboard, and strove to push the vessels out into the stream, but the majority of the boats remained immovable. The conflagration spread; the sick and wounded were burnt to death. The stronger women took to the water with their children in their arms, but they were shot down or sabred by the troopers, who rode in after them.
In a large and elegant tent on the cantonment plain, the fiend and tiger, Nana Sahib, paced uneasily. He heard the booming of the guns, the rattle of the musketry, and occasionally the dying shriek of an unhappy woman was borne upon his ear. He knew that Shiva the Destroyer was doing his hellish work. Perhaps as he paced up and down, there came into his black heart a pang of remorse, or, more probably, a thrill of fear; for in his solitude he might have seen a vision of the Great White Hand that was to smite him into the dust. Or perhaps there stole over him a sense that there was a destroyer mightier even than Shiva—even the Supreme God of the Christians, who would exact a terrible retribution for his unutterable crimes.
It is certain that as Dundoo Pant paced his tent, he was ill at ease. He was haunted by the ghosts of his victims, even as was that bloody tyrant of infamous memory, Richard the Third, the night before Bosworth.
“Ah! What do you want?” cried the guilty Nana, as a messenger suddenly entered the tent—so suddenly that the conscience of Dundoo caused his heart to leap into his mouth.
“The work speeds well, your Highness,” said the man, kneeling before his master; “but these Feringhees are fighting to the death.”
“Go back with all haste to Tantia Topee, and say that, as he values his own life, not another woman or child is to be slaughtered; but let every man with a white face be hacked to pieces. Mark me well. Not an Englishman is to be spared! Tell Azimoolah to see to all this.”
The messenger withdrew, and the tiger ground his teeth and resumed his walk.
Down at the Ghaut the work was truly speeding well, but when the Nana’s message arrived it stopped as far as the women were concerned; and about one hundred and thirty women and children—some fearfully wounded, others half drowned and dripping with the slime of the Ganges—were carried back in captivity to Cawnpore.
Thirty-nine boats had been destroyed; but there was one that got into the fairway of the stream, and down on the dark bosom of the waters it drifted, a lonely waif. There were no boatmen, there were no oars, there was no rudder, but there were hearts of steel on board; heroes who would die, ay, suffer death a hundred times before they would surrender. That solitary boat contained about eighty men—such men that, if they had had a fair chance, not all the legions of the accursed Nana could have conquered them. Slowly it drifted on between the banks. Hissing shot and burning arrows were discharged at it in showers, but it seemed almost as if it had been surrounded with a charm, for it drifted on unscathed. Next a blazing budgerow was sent after it, but that failed to harm it, and its occupants, slender as was the chance, began to think that they would escape. But as the sun commenced to decline, and burnish the river with his golden rays, a boat, filled with about sixty men, was sent in pursuit, with orders from Tantia Topee to slaughter every Englishman. The lonely boat grounded on a sand-bank. Hope sank again. On came the would-be destroyers, and their boat stuck on the same bank. Then occurred a last grand burst of courage—courage even in death, and which is always so conspicuous in British heroism. On the bows of the pursuer there stood up a tall, powerful Sepoy, and, in a loud voice, cried:
“In the name of the Nana Sahib, I call upon you to surrender.”
He might as well have called upon the winds to stay their course, or the tides to cease to flow. Surrender forsooth! And to the Nana Sahib, the insatiable Tiger of Cawnpore, whose name, and name of all his race, will descend to posterity covered with infamy, and who will be held up to execration and scorn until time shall be no more!
That call to surrender was answered in a manner that literally paralysed the pursuing sixty.
Forth from the Englishmen’s boat a little party of officers and men went. They were exhausted, famishing, sick, and wounded, but they would not wait to be attacked by such a demoniacal crew. Wading up to their knees in the water that covered the sand-bank, and all armed to the teeth, they made for the other boat, and fell upon the natives with such fury that not half-a-dozen escaped to tell the tale; and even those few only saved their lives by plunging into the deep water, and swimming ashore.
It was a glorious victory, but the last for the hero-martyrs of Cawnpore.
They got on board the enemy’s boat, and found it contained good stores of ammunition, which they conveyed to their own boat, but there was not a scrap of food. They lay down, utterly worn out; and, as darkness gathered, sleep fell upon them.
It was the last sleep for many. Some never woke again, but passed to eternity. Those who survived awoke with the first glimmer of morn. Then despair seized upon them. In the dark hours of night the rising waters had drifted their boat into a creek, where they were speedily discovered by the pitiless enemy.
It was a narrow creek running inland for about two hundred yards. On each side the natives gathered in hundreds, and they poured in a deadly shower of musket-balls.
Lying at the bottom of the boat was an officer who had hitherto been in command, but he was wounded unto death now. Both his arms were shattered; but, without betraying the slightest pain, he issued his orders.
“Comrades,” he cried, “we belong to a race that never waits to be smitten. Let these merciless bloodhounds see that even in death we know how to smite our enemies.”
No second bidding was needed. Fourteen men and officers—the only unwounded ones in the boat—sprang ashore, and, with a wild cheer, charged the surging multitude. The terrified crowd fell back. Such courage appalled them; they were unused to it; they could not comprehend it. The brave fourteen hacked out a path, then rushed back again. Alas! the boat had drifted out into the stream once more, and the fourteen were left upon the pitiless land, while their doomed comrades floated down the pitiless river.
At some little distance rose the towers of a Hindoo temple. The eyes of the leader of the fourteen saw this. He raised a cheer and rushed towards it, followed by his comrades. They gained the temple, pursued by a howling rabble; but with fixed bayonets they held the doorway. On poured the dusky wretches, but they could not break down that wall of steel. The black and bleeding corpses piled up and formed a rampart, and from behind this barricade of human flesh the little band delivered a galling fire. There was some putrid water in the temple, but this the people drank with avidity, for they were choking. It gave them new strength, and they loaded and fired without ceasing. Hundreds of the enemy fell, and back there sped a messenger to the Nana with word that the remnant of the broken army could not be conquered.
He raved when he heard the news. This defiance and gallantry galled him beyond measure; he felt that though he had “scotched the snake he had not killed it,” and he began to realise that, powerful as he was, he was still far from being powerful enough to crush his valiant foe.
“A thousand curses on them!” he cried, when his agent delivered the message. “Go back to your leader, and tell him to burn these Feringhees out, and for every white man that escapes I will have a hundred black ones executed.”
Back went the man, and soon around the walls of the temple there were piled heaps of dried leaves and faggots. The brand was applied. Up leapt the devouring flame; but there was a strong wind, and it blew the flames and smoke away. Then a new device was put in practice; the enemy filled bags with powder and threw them on the flames, until the building rocked and tottered. There was nothing left now for the brave fourteen but flight. Bracing themselves up, and shoulder to shoulder, they fired a volley into the astonished foe; then, with a cheer, they charged with the bayonet. It was a short, but awful struggle. One half their number went down, never to rise again; seven reached the river; there they plunged into the stream. As they came up after the dive, two of the number were shot through the head, and the water was dyed with their blood; a third made for a spit of land, but, as soon as he landed, he was clubbed to death with the butt ends of muskets. But four still survived. They were sturdy swimmers; they seemed to bear charmed lives; the bullets fell in showers around; the rabble on the shores yelled with disappointed rage. But the swimmers swam on—The rapid current was friendly to them. They were saved! “Honour the brave!”
When the roll of heroes is called, surely amongst those who have died in England’s cause, and for England’s honour, the names of those valiant fourteen should stand at the head of the list. Never since the days of old Rome, when “the bridge was kept by the gallant three,” have there been heroes more worthy of a nation’s honour than that little band of fighting men who held the temple on the banks of the Ganges, and cut their way through a pitiless multitude who were thirsting for their blood. No Englishman will ever be able to read the record without the profoundest emotions of pity and pride.
When the Nana heard of the escape of the four, he tore his hair in rage; but he could still have his revenge. For news arrived immediately after, that the boat which had drifted away had been recaptured. Ordering a horse to be saddled, he galloped down to the Ghaut, to join Azimoolah and Tantia Topee. And the three waited to gloat their eyes upon the wretched victims in the boat. There were a few women and children, and about a score of men; they were all sick and wounded, but they were driven ashore. The men were butchered on the spot; but the women and children were reserved for a second death.
As Dundoo Pant viewed these helpless people he laughed loudly. It was some satisfaction to feel that they were in his power, and that a word or a look from him would bring about their instant destruction. What the real desire of his own heart was at that moment can only be known to the Great Reader of human secrets. But at his elbow, his evil genius, his familiar fiend, stalked, and, with the characteristic grin, murmured—
“We are in luck’s way, your Highness; and these prizes will afford us further amusement.”
“In what way, Azi?”
“We can torture them.”
“Ah, ah, ah! You are a grim joker, Azi. I would torture them—I would burn them with hot iron—I would flay them, but these cursed English seem almost indifferent to physical pain. We must torture their minds, Azimoolah—break their hearts. We must invent some means of making them feel how thoroughly they are humbled.”
“The invention will not be difficult, your Highness. Set them to grind corn!”
“Ah! that is a good idea.”
“They will know well that it is a symbol of the uttermost degradation. In their own biblical records they will remember that it is stated that the sign of bondage in Eastern lands was for the women to be compelled to grind corn with the hand-mills.”
“It shall be as you suggest,” answered the Nana, thoughtfully.
“And when they have, through these means, been impressed with a sense of our power and their own thorough humiliation, then consummate your victory.”
“How, Azi?”
“By slaughtering them.”
“Hush, Azi—we will discuss that matter later on. For the present let them be conveyed to the Beebee-Ghur and carefully guarded.”
The Beebee-Ghur was a small house situated between the native city and the river. It had originally been built by a European for his native mistress, but for some years had been occupied by a humble native scrivener. It was a small, ill-ventilated place, with but wretched accommodation. The walls were blackened with smoke, and the furniture of the place consisted of a few rough deal chairs and tables. But into this place were crowded over two hundred women and children. Left there, without any certainty as to the fate for which they had been reserved, they felt all the agony of horrid suspense, and they shuddered as they thought what that fate might be. Madness seized some, and a merciful death speedily ended the sufferings of a few others.
When Nana Sahib and Azimoolah had seen their captives safely guarded, and some of the most delicate and refined ladies seated on the ground, grinding corn, they turned their horses’ heads towards the Bhitoor Palace.
“This has been an exciting day, your Highness,” Azimoolah remarked.
“Yes,” was the monosyllabic, and somewhat sullen answer.
“Why does your face wear a frown?” asked Azimoolah. “Your star has risen, and in its resplendent light you should be all smiles and mirth.”
“So I will try to be, Azi—so I will try to be,” and, laughing with a low hollow laugh, Nana Sahib put spurs to his horse, and sped towards his Palace, as if already he saw the brilliancy of that star darkening by a rising shadow—the shadow of a grim, retributive Nemesis.
Perhaps his mental ears did catch the sounds of the coming conqueror’s drums, and the roar of his guns; and his mental eyes see regiments of unconquerable British soldiers, exacting a terrible vengeance, and he himself, forsaken by his people, driven forth, a beggar outcast, wandering on and on, through trackless jungles, without a pillow for his head or roof to shelter him, and on his forehead a brand more terrible than that which ever branded the brow of Cain—flying forever from his pursuers; a guilty, conscience-stricken, blackened and despised wretch—too abject a coward to die, and yet suffering the agonies of a living death.
Whatever of these things he might have dreamed, he gave no utterance to his thoughts, but galloped on to his Palace, and issued orders that that night should be a night of revel.