Behind them was Cawnpore, a city red with the blood of slaughtered innocence, a city filled with cowardly assassins, who, in their supposed triumph, made night hideous with their drunken shouts. Before them was Delhi and the unknown future. Walter Gordon and Haidee travelled along in silence; both were occupied with their own thoughts. He was racked with many conflicting emotions; hopes and fears struggled in his breast. One moment he was inclined to think that he was going upon a very wild goose chase, the next his steps could not move fast enough to satisfy his craving desire to be at the end of the journey. More than a month since Flora Meredith had been carried over that very road, a captive, to the city of the King. What had befallen her during that month? Was it possible for her sensitive nature to have borne up against the shocks and trials to which she had been exposed? Even if she lived and was still confined in Delhi, which was an immense place, how could he hope to find her? Would it not be very much like looking for the proverbial needle in the bottle of hay? But assuming that he should be fortunate enough to discover her whereabouts, would it be possible for him to rescue her? It was true that Zeemit Mehal had gone in search of her, and Zeemit was faithful, and a native; but she was also old and ill, and might have died long ago.
As he thus reasoned with himself, it seemed to him that his journey, after all, was a little Quixotic, and it might be better, now that he was free, to make his way to Meerut, and there endeavour to raise a little corps to proceed to the Imperial City, and attempt a rescue by force, should Flora still be living.
He suggested this to Haidee, and gave her his reasons for coming to that conclusion, but she only laughed, for to her the plan seemed so absurd.
“If I had no other thought but of myself,” she answered, “I should counsel you to speed at once to Meerut, for is it not to Meerut that Harper has gone? But even if you were to go there, what force that you could raise would be powerful enough to enter the walled city of the Mogul? Delhi is the great stronghold. It is to that place that the tide of revolution flows. And it will need all the power of your mighty nation to wrest it from the grasp of the insurgents. What we have to do, we must accomplish by stratagem and stealth. By these means we shall effect more than if we hammered at the Imperial doors with half-a-dozen regiments behind us to enforce our demands. I do not doubt but what we shall be able to get entrance into the city, and that being so, we shall have gained a most important step. Though I know that, by going back, I am walking into the very jaws of the lion, I have no fear, so that I can serve you, who are the friend of the man who is my life. Once in Delhi, we shall be comparatively safe; I have some country people there who heartily hate the King, and who will gladly give us shelter and concealment. The fact of an English lady having been brought in will be too notorious not to be widely known, and we shall speedily gain some information. For the rest, we must trust to chance.”
Gordon felt the full force of this woman’s reasoning. He derived hope and strength from her words. She appeared to him in the light of a good spirit, who was all powerful to lead him to success, and to guard him from danger.
There was something in her very presence that inspired him. Endurance, trust, unselfishness, devotion to the cause of others—these were the qualities that made her mind as beautiful as her face. And Gordon no longer wondered why his friend Harper should have felt an all-absorbing interest in her.
Many a man had sacrificed home, friends, interests, and honour for the sake of something far less ennobling than was presented in the mental and physical beauty of this woman. And yet she had all the elements of human weakness, though they were softened by those higher qualities of the mind which were so conspicuous.
“You are a wise counsellor, as you are a true friend, Haidee,” was Gordon’s answer; “and I cheerfully acknowledge the superiority of your reasoning as well as the clearness of your judgment.”
“You rate poor Haidee too high,” she murmured softly; “she only tries to humbly do her duty.”
Gordon made no further remark; he knew that no other words were needed, and so they walked on.
It was weary travelling along that dark and silent road—silent save for the myriad insects which in the Indian climate make night musical. For many hours the travellers kept their way, until, as the morning light stole upon the heavens, they halted, weary and worn, before a traveller’s rest.
It was a small, thatched bungalow, with the usual verandah running round it.
“This place invites us to recruit our strength with sleep,” Gordon said. “Do you think it will be safe to remain here, Haidee?”
“I think so; certainly safer than seeking rest in a jungle. There are signs, too, of intense heat and a coming storm. We shall be secure from it in this place, and we can remain until darkness again favours us.”
They entered the building.
There were two tolerably large rooms, which were bisected by a passage that ran right through to a small compound. This compound was fenced round, poultry having evidently been kept in it. On one side of the compound was the indispensable adjunct to all Indian buildings—namely, a cook-house. In India the food is almost invariably cooked over charcoal. The charcoal is burnt in a hole in the ground; and as there are no chimneys, the place in time becomes black and grimed with the smoke. The outbuilding, in this instance, was a very small erection composed of mud plastered over bamboo sticks. There was a door, and a small square hole for a window. On the other side of the compound, and directly opposite the cooking-place, was a little tank, and on the very edge grew three or four cocoa-nut trees.
The place was distant from Cawnpore only about ten miles, for the travellers had made but slow progress during the night.
When they had partaken of a frugal meal, it was arranged that one should keep watch while the other slept, and Gordon insisted that Haidee should be the first to seek repose. She protested at first, but he pressed her; for it was evident that she was fagged and worn-out, and only kept up by strength of will. She yielded to his entreaties, and very soon was locked in sound sleep.
As she had predicted, the day came in with a sultriness that was almost unbearable. The sun was obscured by heavy banks of cloud, but the dust-laden wind blew like the fiery blast from a furnace.
It was weary work enough watching, and Gordon had the utmost difficulty in preventing himself from being overcome by sleep, for nature was thoroughly exhausted; but he knew that danger menaced, and if he yielded to the desire for rest, he and his companion might both be murdered before they were able to utter a cry.
The day was growing old when Haidee awoke, thoroughly recruited by many hours of most refreshing slumber. The clouds in the sky were increasing, and it was evident a storm was brewing.
“I have slept long,” she said; “you should have aroused me before.”
“No,” he answered; “that would have been cruelty. I have yet several hours to rest before we can start upon our journey; for we must not leave this shelter until the storm has passed.”
He laid himself down, and in a very few minutes was sound asleep.
Haidee kept a faithful watch. Hour after hour passed. Darkness came on—darkness unrelieved by the glimmer of a single star. Presently heavy drops of rain commenced to patter down; then a blinding and jagged streak of blue lightning leapt across the black sky, and a deafening crash of thunder followed. Gordon woke with a start, alarmed for a moment, not realising what the noise was.
“Haidee, Haidee—where are you?” he called.
“Here,” she answered, as she groped her way to where he stood, and laid her hand upon him. “I saw that this storm was coming,” she continued, “but it is rather in our favour, for it will lay the dust and cool the air. Ah! What is that?” she suddenly exclaimed, as she grasped his hand. “Do you not hear something?”
“No, nothing but the rain.”
“There is something more than that—the sound of horse’s hoofs. Do you not hear it?”
He listened for a minute, and then answered—
“Yes.”
“Come to the door,” she said, still holding his hand.
He did as she desired, and they both listened.
“I hear wheels, too,” she whispered. “Somebody is driving along the road. We must conceal ourselves.”
“Where?” he asked.
She considered for a moment, and then answered—
“In the cook-house. You will be able to defend us there, with your revolver, against great odds. But if I mistake not, this is a buggy that is advancing, and so cannot contain more than two or three people. They are evidently making for this place to seek shelter from the storm. Come, let us go.”
They hurried to the cook-house. The door closed with a wooden latch, and Gordon managed to secure this from being opened from the outside by means of a piece of stick.
The sound of the wheels drew nearer and nearer, and in a few minutes the vehicle drew up at the door, and a man sprang to the ground.
“There is only one person,” Gordon whispered.
“There may be more behind,” she answered.
“We must not stir.”
They heard the man unharness the horse and lead it to the shelter of a small shed used as stable, at one end of the house. The storm now broke furiously. The lightning and the thunder were terrific, and the rain came down—as it does come down in India—in a perfect deluge. The man went into the bungalow, and for four hours Gordon and Haidee waited in terrible suspense for the coming day. Several times Gordon wanted to go out and face the stranger, but Haidee restrained him.
“Wait,” she said, “until you can see with whom you have to deal. There may possibly be more than one person, and they are sure to be armed. Besides, they, or he, will depart when day breaks.”
Gradually the storm died away. The lightning flashed less frequently, the thunder growled at long intervals, the rain became a pattering shower, then a drizzle, and at last ceased. Darkness fled before the dawn, and the soft light of a new day spread over the land. The air was delightfully cool, and the birds sang merrily, as if thankful for the health-giving storm.
The stranger, who had been sleeping in the room previously occupied by Gordon and Haidee, awoke with the break of day, and going to his buggy, he procured a small brass lotah and some food; then he crossed the compound to the cook-house and tried the door, but found it fastened. He tried it again; put his shoulder to it; still it did not yield.
“That is strange,” he muttered, in Hindoostanee. “It seems to be fastened on the inside.”
“By heavens—I have heard that voice before?” Gordon whispered excitedly to Haidee. “There is only one man, and, at all hazards, I will see who it is.”
He undid the fastening carefully, and opened the door, having first drawn his revolver. The stranger had crossed over to the tank, and was stooping down, filling his brass vessel with water. The door made a slight noise on being opened. The stranger, whose senses were quickened by being constantly on the alert for danger, sprang up, dropping his dish, which sank in the water, and with a rapid movement of his arm, he drew a revolver.
As Gordon saw who the man was, his surprise overcame his caution, and he exclaimed—
“I thought I was not mistaken, Haidee—it is the villain, Jewan Bukht!”
It was Jewan; he was on his way to Delhi, to seek reinforcements in the name of Nana Sahib. Master and servant had met. Master and servant were face to face, and one of them must die. Jewan recognised his old master’s voice in an instant, and, with the instinct of self-preservation, which is ever uppermost in the human mind, he sprang behind the cocoa-nut trees, and covered the door of the cook-house with his revolver.
In his uncontrollable excitement, consequent on this unexpected and strange meeting, Gordon exposed himself to the aim of his foe. Jewan fired, but his aim was high, and his bullet went crashing through the roof of the little building. Bukht was looking out to see if his shot had taken effect, when Gordon seized the opportunity, and fired; but the bullet only struck the tree.
It was certain that one of the men must fall, for neither could leave his shelter without exposing himself to the fire of the other.
“Walter Gordon, you shall not escape me!” Jewan cried tauntingly. “I have friends, who will be coming along the road soon, and they shall burn you out.”
“Villain and traitor!” Gordon answered; “you have professed Christianity, and worshipped in the Christian faith; and I tell you that that God, whose name you have often invoked, will guide my bullet, and recognise the justice of my cause.”
A part of Jewan’s shoulder was exposed, and Gordon fired again—but again missed—the bullet passing a little too high, and grazing the bark of the tree. He was ordinarily a good shot, but his nerves were unsteady now with excitement, and he could not take proper aim.
“Ah, ah, ah!” laughed Jewan as he returned the fire. “Your bullets need guiding, I think.”
Gordon was inclined to go out and openly attack his enemy, but Haidee would not permit it.
“That would be madness,” she said in alarm, “and a needless sacrifice of your life.”
“What, then, is to be done?” he asked. “If the fellow should be reinforced, we shall be doomed. Is it not better to make a bold stroke for our lives?”
“If the bold stroke is to expose yourself, I say no. The moment you go out, the man’s bullet will end your career. We must resort to a ruse to try and draw him from his cover.”
“That is a good idea; but what do you propose?”
Some pieces of bamboo were lying in the corner; she secured one of these, and then said—
“Give me your turban.”
He having done as she desired, she wound the muslin round the stick, so as to, in some measure, resemble Gordon’s head.
“Go to the window,” she said, “and fire a shot. This will attract Jewan’s attention to that spot, and while you get back to the door again I will show the turban.”
Gordon saw the plan was a good one. He crept to the window, and fired at Jewan’s tree, then ran back to the door, as Haidee raised the stick.
Bukht peeped cautiously from behind his shelter. He saw what he supposed was Gordon’s head, and, taking deliberate aim, fired. There were two simultaneous reports—two bullets sped past each other. One crashed harmlessly through the mud wall of the cook-house, the other crashed fearfully through the brain of Jewan Bukht, who, without a cry, without a moan, threw up his arms, and fell forward into the tank a corpse. It was a just retribution, and his career of crime was ended.
Gordon could not help drawing a sigh of pity as he saw his old servant fall, and yet he felt that the man’s fate was merited.
“We had better not remain here,” Haidee said, “for the firing may have reached other ears, and we shall have our foes down upon us in numbers. Let us conceal ourselves in the jungle until darkness again sets in.”
Gordon went out, untethered the horse, and set it free, so that it might forage for itself. He would have utilised it and the buggy, but he knew that that would be running unnecessary risk. He searched the vehicle, and found a large bag filled with rupees. These he appropriated as spoils of war, thinking they might be useful as bribes. There was also a quantity of provisions, which were very welcome. Having secured these things, and made a hearty meal, he and his companion struck into the jungle, there to wait until darkness should again befriend them.
Delhi, where centred all the hopes of the mutineers, was one of the largest and most beautiful cities in Upper India. If its walls had been properly guarded it would have been almost impregnable. One side of the city rested upon the Jumna, and the other side formed a mighty mass of fortifications. Stately mosques and minarets were everywhere to be seen. The Jumna Musjid, a triumph of Oriental architecture, and the magnificent pile of the Royal Palace, imparted to the place an aspect of regal splendour. It was here that for centuries a long line of kings had held arbitrary sway. Here, before the advent of Clive, the great Mogul rulers had dazzled the country with their pomp and splendour, and with irresistible might and power had awed their subjects into slavish subjection.
The city lay in a vast hollow, that was interjected and cut up by ravines and patches of jungle; while here and there, outside of the walls, stately mansions had been erected by Europeans. These houses glimmering whitely in the sun, and fringed with graceful palms, lent a charm to the landscape that could scarcely have been surpassed. Entrance to the city was gained by various gates, that were formidable in their strength, as well as noble and beautiful in their architecture.
It was to Delhi that the stream of rebels flowed almost unceasingly, until behind its frowning walls there was gathered a mighty Sepoy army, as well as a countless multitude of rascals from all parts. On the ridges on two sides, a mere handful of British had sat down waiting for reinforcements and a siege train to begin operations and attack the dastardly enemy in his stronghold. England’s security in India depended upon the fall of the Imperial City; and yet the available force arrayed against it was ridiculously small.
It was as if a pigmy had set itself up to conquer a stupendous giant; for truly Delhi was a giant at that time. From its walls countless heavy guns kept up an incessant fire of shot and shell on the besieging army, which could only feebly reply.
The saucy rebels laughed when they saw how feeble their enemy was. Sorties from the city were almost of hourly occurrence, and the English were harassed and taunted almost beyond endurance. But they waited, assuming the defensive at first, for they knew that their time would come.
Inside of the city it was little better than a pandemonium. The worst passions of humanity were running riot; the most savage and horrible instincts of the natives had been aroused, and they gave unchecked vent to their feelings; the beautiful Palace had become a barrack; the courtyards were turned into stables, and some of the noble apartments were occupied by the Sepoys, who gambled and drank, fought, quarrelled, and killed each other, and made the place hideous with their demoniacal revelry. The imbecile King, the grey-haired puppet, was powerless to stay this. He was like one who had invoked to his aid a terrible agency, that having once been set free, was beyond his control. But he believed himself mighty, and that belief gave him pleasure. He chuckled and grinned whenever accounts were brought to him, that so many English had been killed in the sorties.
“Make our guns speak! make our guns speak!” was his favourite expression to his creatures. “Send showers of shot and shell into the English positions. Give them no rest. Do not stop until you have blown these hated Feringhees from the face of the earth.”
But though the guns did indeed speak, though they sent forth their missions of death in thousands, there were still no signs of the “hated Feringhees” being blown from the face of the earth—on the contrary, they held their ground. They did more, they descended into the hollow, and attacked the enemy at his own gates, and often against fearful odds beat back the forces that came out against them. But these little successes gave the King no alarm.
He believed it was impossible for the foreigners to get inside the city, and so he gave himself up to indolence and luxury. He had one little trouble though—a trifling one perhaps, but it caused him to chafe. This was the obstinacy of two women—Englishwomen. One of these was Flora Meredith.
When Flora arrived in the city after being brought from Cawnpore by Moghul Singh, she was at once conveyed to the Palace, and confined in a small room. At first she gave herself up to almost maddening despair, and if the means had been at hand she might have been strongly tempted to put an end to her existence. A few days after arrival she was conducted to the presence of the King. He was alone in a luxuriously furnished ante-room that led from the “Hall of Audience.” Moghul Singh, who had been her guard, retired, and the King and Flora were face to face. She was the first to speak.
“Your Majesty has sent for me,” she said. “What are your wishes, and why am I detained here a prisoner?”
“I have sent for you that I may gaze upon your beauty,” he answered.
“Peace, old man!” she exclaimed with warmth. “With your grey hairs there should at least be wisdom. I am but a girl; and though you may hate my race, my youth and sex should protect me from insult, and insure me pity from you.”
“Tut, tut, child; you talk foolishly. It is your very youth that constitutes your charm. But it has ever been the fatal mistake of your countrywomen to despise us; because our skins are of a different colour. Times have changed. We are the conquerors now, and the erst-while slaves become the masters. Your proud race shall bend and bow to us now. We will set our feet upon your necks.”
“And is it to tell me this that you have sent for me?” asked Flora, in an impatient tone.
“No, no,” mumbled the King. “I said it was to gaze upon your beauty.”
“Shame upon you!” she cried. “If that is your only purpose, I command you to let me go.”
“Command, eh? Such a word becomes you not, my child. We do not allow ourselves to be commanded. Your life is in my power. If I but raise my finger, you would die. Have a care—have a care, girl.”
“If but the raising of your finger can do so much, I implore you, in the name of all you worship, to raise it and release me. Nay, doom me to the worst of deaths, so that you will only end my misery.”
“No; your time has not yet come. We will reserve you for another purpose.”
“Ah! what do you mean?” cried Flora, as she pressed her hand to her temples to still their throbbing.
The King smiled, and rubbed his palsied hands together.
“You may be useful,” he answered. “We will keep you as a hostage; and though our age precludes the likelihood of our gaining your favour, we have sons, and one of them shall try his hand at breaking your proud spirit. He has succeeded before now with your countrywomen, and I tell thee, girl, he will succeed with you.”
Flora shuddered. She inwardly prayed that she might be stricken with a merciful death upon the spot on which she stood, for she knew that she could expect no pity from her foes; and yet she cried—
“Oh, man, let your heart thrill with one touch of sympathy for me. I am a woman, helpless and alone; let that fact appeal to your manhood. Spare me. Let me go free. Do one good act, and rest assured it will bring its own reward.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the King angrily, “you people are too much given to preaching. But I am deaf to your appeals; I am steeled against your entreaties. I tell you my son shall make you his slave.”
“Never!” cried Flora, drawing herself up, while her face was scarlet with indignation. “I defy you. You can but kill me, and it were better to suffer death twenty times than become the plaything for you or yours.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” chuckled the King. “We have already one of your countrywomen here; she was more fiery than you at first, but we tamed her, and now she is as obedient as a well-trained dog. She is our tool—we use her. She shall take you in hand. Ho, Moghul!”
Moghul Singh appeared in obedience to the King’s call.
“Moghul, this woman is defiant.”
“Is she so, your Majesty?”
“Yes; and we must humble her. Where is Zula? Let her be conducted into our presence.”
Moghul bowed and withdrew.
“Zula is a name we have given to an Englishwoman who is in our care,” the King continued. “She was like you at first, but we soon cured her. She is useful now. She whiles away our idle hours with her songs and music; she sits at our feet, and we fondle her as we should our pet dog; but, like the dog, we make her know her place.”
Moghul Singh returned, and led into the room a young English girl. She was scarcely more than two-and-twenty, but her face bore traces of awful sorrow. A sweet face it was, but its beauty was marred with the expression of care and a look of premature age. She was attired in a long robe of light blue silk, embroidered with gold, and down her back fell a wealth of unfettered hair. She looked at Flora in astonishment as she entered, but turned instantly to the King, and making a low bow, said—
“What is your Majesty’s pleasure?”
“Here is a countrywoman of yours, Zula; she sets us at defiance. You must teach her to respect us, to yield to our will. She may listen to you, though she will not listen to us.”
“She is foolish, your Majesty, and her pride must be broken.”
“Well said, Zula. Her pride shall be broken,” remarked the King.
Flora turned with amazement to Zula. To hear one of her own race talk like that seemed almost too horrible to be real. She could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses; but she managed to find tongue at last.
“Are you mad, woman?” she asked, “or have you forgotten that you represent a great and honourable nation?”
“Neither,” was the scornful answer. “But however great our nation, his Majesty here represents a greater and a mightier still. The weak should yield to the strong. I yield, as you must.”
“Never!” was the passionate exclamation of Flora. “Rather than yield to such an imbecile dotard as that, I would suffer any torture that the ingenuity of man could invent.”
“Pshaw!—your words are idle,” answered Zula. “I once thought as you do, but I think differently now. I sympathise with his Majesty and his cause. He has been graciously pleased to smile upon me, and I thank him. Take my advice. Kiss the King’s hand, as a sign of your submission, and give yourself up to a life of luxury and ease.”
“To a life of infamy, you should say,” replied Flora. “But if you are dead to every sense of honour and right—if you are so abandoned as to have forgotten your womanhood, do not counsel me to follow in your footsteps. I repeat that I will die first.”
“I repeat that you won’t,” said Zula, with sarcasm. “If I have not lost my powers of persuasion, I will undertake to change your views in less than an hour.”
“Well said, Zula—well said,” cried the King. “You shall test your powers. Take this woman to your own apartment, and report in an hour’s time what progress you have made. Moghul, Zula will retire.”
Moghul Singh, who had been waiting outside of the door, entered. He understood the King.
“Come,” he said to Flora. “It is the King’s command.”
Anxious to get away from the hateful presence of the King, Flora allowed herself to be led out by Moghul, who was followed by Zula. He conducted her through a long corridor, until a room was reached. Then he turned to Zula.
“I give her into your charge,” he said. “Remember, you are responsible for her.”
“Never fear but what I will render a good account of her,” Zula answered laughingly. “Come, madam,” turning to Flora, “and let me see if I cannot alter some of your exalted notions. What I am you must be, either by force or persuasion; and, believe me, it will be far better for you to yield to the latter.”
It was a luxurious apartment. Splendid mirrors adorned the walls, and costly silken curtains hung at the windows. Marble statuary peeped from clusters of magnificent flowers and ferns, and some choice water-colour drawings by English artists were suspended on the walls by gold cords. A harp stood at one end of the room. There was also a grand-piano, while a guitar was lying on an ottoman. Tastefully arranged in various corners of the room were gilded stands, and on these stands were cages of gorgeously-plumaged birds, that made the air melodious with their songs.
“This is my prison,” said Zula, as Flora threw herself on to a couch, and burst into tears. “Here his Majesty visits me, and I am happy—oh, so happy. Tral, lal, la, la, la.”
She sat down at the piano, and with light and rapid fingers ran over the keys; and then, in a sweet, well-modulated voice, sang—
As she finished the last line, she jumped from her seat, and, throwing the music carelessly on one side, laughed loudly.
“Moghul, you need not remain,” she said, addressing Singh, who lingered in the doorway. “I have an hour in which to convert this weeping beauty—and I will convert her, never fear. Convey my respectful salaams to his Majesty, Moghul, and ask him if he will deign to honour me with his presence at the end of that time, to see what progress I have made.”
Moghul withdrew, and as he closed the door, he turned the key in the lock.
Flora was still sitting on the couch, with her face buried in her hands.
Zula sprang to the door, and listened for a minute; then she hurried across the room, and seized Flora’s wrist.
“Why do you weep, woman?” she asked, in a hurried and low tone.
Flora looked up in astonishment, struck with the sudden change in the manner of her companion.
“Who are you?” she asked, “and what are you doing here?”
“I am a wretched, miserable, broken-hearted woman,” answered Zula.
“Ah! is that so?” cried Flora; “then you do but act your part?”
“That is all. I arrived in Delhi but a few short months ago from Calcutta. I came with my husband, who was in business here. He had gone to Calcutta to make me his wife. We were married and happy, and came here. I saw that husband butchered before my eyes, when this awful mutiny broke out in Delhi. But I was spared and brought to the Palace. I made the King believe that he had won my love. It was in the hope that an opportunity would occur for me to avenge my husband’s cruel murder, and rid India of a monster. I have here a small stiletto, and I have made a vow to plunge it into the heart of the King. I have won his confidence; he believes me to be true to him. Hitherto, he has seldom been alone when he has visited me, but he is becoming less cautious, and I pray Heaven that I may have the strength and courage to execute my purpose.”
“Oh, my poor sister in misfortune!” cried Flora, as she threw her arms round Zula’s neck, “this is very, very terrible. No doubt this monster of iniquity is deserving of such a fate, but will it not be better to leave him to the retribution that will speedily overtake him, and let us try and effect our escape to the British lines?”
“Escape is impossible,” Zula answered; “our enemies have become too wary. I have given up every hope, except the one that I, a weak, dishonoured, miserable woman, may be able to strike the imbecile King down. If it had not been for this hope I would have ended my own life long ago. If the King were dead, his army would become demoralised, and Delhi would fall. But while he lives, I fear the city will never be reduced, and thousands of brave English soldiers must be sacrificed in the futile attempt to gain an entrance. Therefore, I feel that it is a duty I owe to my country!”
“Alas! Zula, you speak truly, however fearful it may be to have to cherish such a feeling; but the atrocities committed since the mutiny broke out have been enough to unsex us, and turn even our women’s hearts to steel.”
“You would say so, if you had seen the sights that I have seen. My blood curdles, and I shudder as I think of them!”
She paused, for the key was being turned in the lock.
Flora sank on to the couch again as the door opened. On the threshold appeared the King, Moghul Singh, and several Sepoys.
“So, you she-dog,” the King hissed, addressing Zula, “you would have my life, would you? Thanks to the fidelity of Moghul, who has overheard your plot, that trouble will be saved you. The Prophet is good, and watches over the faithful. I shall live, and you shall die.”
He made a motion with his hand, and four Sepoys entered and seized the unfortunate Zula. Flora screamed and fainted, but, beyond a deadly paleness, the doomed woman betrayed no signs of emotion.
“Treacherous wretch,” continued the King, “I little believed that you were playing a double part. I have been blinded by your deceitful ways.”
“Miserable dotard!” answered Zula scornfully; “if I had but seen you dead at my feet, I could have died happily.”
“Take her away, Moghul—instant death!”
The unhappy Zula was dragged out of the room, and the King, having glanced at Flora, locked the door, and, putting the key in his girdle, walked away.
When Flora found herself alone, she gave way to bitter despair. It seemed as if fate was mocking her. She was hopeless. No sooner had she found a friend in the unhappy Zula, than that friend was snatched away to suffer a cruel death.
“Why should she die, and I be spared?” the poor girl moaned, as she rocked herself backwards and forwards under the influence of the mental torture she was enduring. “Oh, that I could lie down here and end my wretched life! Why do I live? Why am I spared? It is not that I fear to meet death. Life has a thousand terrors for me, but death has none. Friends, home, happiness, all gone—all gone, and yet I am preserved, for what end, for what end? It is a mystery that I cannot hope to fathom. I will try to be patient—to have faith in the goodness of Heaven. But I am weak, and in my human blindness Heaven seems unjust, and the burden of my cross is more than I can bear.”
She sank down on her knees by the side of the couch, and, burying her face in her hands, wept and prayed. She was suffering the very extreme of mental torture. Not a ray of hope shone out of the gloom into which she was plunged.
“Oh, for a friendly hand and a soothing voice!” she murmured; but neither was there. She was alone, and however awful the sorrow might be, she must endure it.
There are times when it really seems as if Heaven was unmindful of our sufferings, and with only human hearts and brains to endure, we appear to have more than human sorrow thrust upon us. We cry aloud for help, but it comes not; we pray for death, but it is withheld; we totter beneath our burden, and yet it is not lightened.
Flora Meredith experienced something of this—whichever way she turned her eyes she saw no help, only darkness and sorrow, and she almost impiously believed that the Christian’s God had forsaken her. It was scarcely to be wondered at that she should feel like this; for she had been borne like a reed on the current of swift-flowing events, and though she had prayed for help, no help had come.
In a little while she rose from her kneeling position at the couch, and made an inspection of the apartment. She scarcely knew why, though perhaps in her breast was some half-formed hope that a way of escape might present itself. At one end of the room was a carved archway, and before this archway hung a massive velvet curtain. She drew this curtain on one side, and there was revealed a small and exquisitely furnished boudoir. A long window, before which was a half-drawn amber silk curtain, stood open, and a verandah was visible.
Flora could scarcely suppress a cry of joy as she noticed this, and, darting forward, she found that from the verandah a flight of steps led to a portion of the ramparts. It was a small, gravelled terrace, evidently used as a private walk. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she hurried down the steps. There was a refreshing breeze stirring, and it seemed to her that she was once more breathing the air of liberty.
She gazed over the fortified wall. There was a perpendicular depth of at least sixty feet, so that all chance of escape that way was shut off. She hurried along the terrace to an angle in the building, and then her heart sank, for she was confronted with a Sepoy, who was on guard.
The man, however, took no notice of her. She turned back to the other end of the terrace, and again stood face to face with a Sepoy sentry. She once more turned in despair. Escape that way was impossible. As she reached the centre of the terrace, she was startled to see the old King standing on the verandah, gazing at her. Seeing that she observed him, he descended the steps and approached her.
“We are glad to see you here,” he said, as he twisted his withered hands one about the other. “Too close confinement might cause your health to suffer. We allowed Zula to walk here, and we shall accord you the same privilege. It will be your private ground, and you need not fear intrusion. Our sentries are keen-eyed and vigilant. No one could pass them, and no one could come up that wall without the certainty of being mangled into an unrecognisable mass.” As he said this, his weazened face was puckered with a smile, and he fixed his bleared eyes upon the pale face of the trembling girl. “We know how to reward fidelity, and how to punish treachery,” he went on. “See,” pointing below, “see that group of men. They carry a burden. It is the body of Zula. I have ordered them to cast her carrion out on the plain, as food for the vultures and jackals.”
Flora shuddered as she turned her eyes to the spot indicated, and saw some men carrying a body. In a few minutes they threw it on the ground, and Flora could discern that one of the rascals caught hold of the long hair of the victim, and dragged the corpse by it for some distance. Then the body was left, and the men returned.
“This is a dastardly deed,” Flora exclaimed, as she turned fiercely upon the King, and feeling that, had she been possessed of a weapon, she could, without any compunction, have slain the grey-headed monster of iniquity, who stood before her smiling in triumph.
“Not a dastardly deed,” he answered, “but a summary act of justice. That woman confessed to you her intention to take my life, if opportunity presented itself; but, the Prophet be praised, we overheard the creature proclaim her purpose, and we were enabled to mete out a fitting punishment. Heaven is merciful. Glory be to the Prophet!”
Flora felt a thorough loathing for this imbecile hypocrite. But she realised that she was in his power, and that to set him at defiance could be productive of no good. Hard as it was to have to dissemble, it gave her the only hope of ultimate escape. And now that her first great outburst of grief had passed, there came back a desire for life.
“Your Majesty is severe,” she answered.
“It is necessary to be so when we are surrounded with enemies. It is hard to distinguish friends from foes now, and we must make our position secure. But say, are we to look upon you as an enemy or friend?”
“I am only a helpless, defenceless woman, and should make but a puny enemy, indeed, against your Majesty’s might and power.”
“That is true. You reason well. But you speak mere words. Your heart thinks otherwise. No matter. We confess our hatred for the whole Feringhee race, and yet we do not wish to war with women. You are a woman and a captive. Kings from time immemorial have turned their captive women to account; we will use you. You shall be numbered amongst our favourite slaves. You shall occasionally enliven our spare moments, and when you cease to charm me—Well, no matter; much depends upon yourself. If you are obedient, your life will be one of ease and luxury.”
“I understand your Majesty well,” Flora answered, her face reddening with indignation, and her heart almost bursting with grief, which she struggled to conceal. “I will endeavour to be obedient. Slaves have no choice. But am I to enjoy no more liberty than is afforded by these confined limits?”
“No. You have luxurious apartments, and you are free to exercise upon the terrace whenever you wish. That is all the liberty we can allow you.”
Flora sighed, but she saw that it was better to accept her fate with resignation, and wait patiently for what the future might bring.
“Your Majesty is in power,” she answered, “and I acknowledge your power—more I cannot do.”
The King smiled, and laid his emaciated hand on her head, but she instinctively shrank away.
“You are sensible,” he said. “We came here to know your mind, and we are glad to find you so submissive. For the present farewell. We shall visit you again by and by.”
He ascended the steps of the verandah, and as he did so, he mumbled—
“She-dog of a hated race, we have humbled you, and we will humble you still more, and then give your carrion to the birds of the air.”
Flora felt relieved when the King had disappeared. His presence was hateful to her. She knew he was the very embodiment of deceit and treachery; and all the loathing and contempt that an honourable woman could feel for such a being she felt for him.
The hours passed wearily enough. It was true her apartments were well stocked with a miscellaneous collection of books and music, but she could not concentrate her thoughts upon these things. Her eyes wandered longingly to the English positions, where she could just discern the white tents of her country’s soldiers; and she wondered whether the city would fall, and if it did, whether she would live to see it fall.
She was very lonely. She paced restlessly up and down the terrace, but when either end was reached, she was confronted with the grim sentry. She peered over the wall, and could see lying on the plain what appeared like a little mound, but which she knew was the dead body of the unfortunate Zula.
As she thought of the ghastly crime her blood almost curdled, and she prayed in her heart that Heaven would bring speedy retribution on those who had been guilty of the foul murder.
Perhaps the prayer was heard, for, some hours later, in the quiet hours of night, there crept down from the ridge a little body of English troops. They were on a reconnoitring expedition, and their object was to examine some of the gates of the city, with a view of reporting upon the practicability of blowing them open.
As these soldiers made their way cautiously along, one of the number suddenly stumbled over something—the something was Zula’s body. The poor face was horribly distorted, and round the neck, deeply imbedded in the flesh, was a portion of a silken cord, showing how her death had been accomplished.
“Comrades,” said the soldier, when he had recovered from his surprise, “here is the body of a murdered Englishwoman. The black demons have placed her outside here as if to mock us.”
As the men crowded round, they gave vent to muttered threats. The officer in charge of the company stepped forward, and said—
“Soldiers, ours is a war against men, not women. But these inhuman brutes slaughter our countrywomen in cold blood, and out of pure wantonness. Such deeds as these must be revenged.”
“Ay, and so they shall,” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Vows are scarcely needed,” continued the officer, “and yet let us make a vow to avenge this poor woman’s murder, stranger though she was to us.”
As he spoke, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and, stooping down, proceeded to sever the beautiful hair from the head of Zula. When he had finished his task, he held a heavy bunch of hair in his hand. This he separated into equal lots, and, giving a lot to each soldier, said—
“Men, take your caps off. Hold your portion of hair over the body, and say after me—‘By all that is sacred on earth, and by all that is holy in Heaven, I swear most solemnly, that if I live I will have as many lives for this woman’s murder as I now hold hairs in my hand; and I further swear to count every hair, and to preserve the lot until I have fulfilled my vow.’”
Each man repeated the oath with his teeth set, and with an earnestness that was startling. Then the tresses of hair were stowed carefully away, to be counted at leisure.
The body of Zula was lifted tenderly up and carried to a little clump of bushes, where a rough grave was hastily dug; and the murdered lady was laid to rest. Scarcely was the mournful duty completed, when the officer cried—
“On your guard, men—we are surprised!”
The movements of the Englishmen had been observed from the city, and a large number of Sepoys were instantly sent out to attack them. They came on at the “double quick.”
The Englishmen fixed their bayonets, and dropping on their knees behind the bushes, which afforded them excellent shelter, waited patiently.
When the enemy was within fifty yards, the British officer stood up, and, waving his sword, cried—
“Remember your oath, men—fire!”
For every bullet that went forth from the muzzles of those rifles a native tottered to the ground. The survivors staggered for a moment, but quickly recovering themselves, came on again. But the deadly Enfields were quickly loaded, as if they were all worked by one piece of intricate mechanism, and another volley strewed the ground with dead and dying Sepoys.
“Load quickly, men. Another volley, and then charge,” cried the officer.
The Sepoys, exasperated by the terrible effects of the fire from their hidden foe, were coming on with a rush, but again they reeled and staggered, as the rifles belched forth fire and lead from the bushes.
“Up and charge, men, and remember your oath,” cried the officer once more.
Each man sprang to his feet, and then, with a ringing cheer, the little body charged the enemy.
It was a short and desperate struggle. The Sepoys were completely surprised. They offered but a feeble resistance. The oath of the English soldiers was indeed remembered, and though the number of lives taken was not equal to the number of hairs, the retribution was terrible. The deadly bayonet did its work, until the few surviving Sepoys, stricken with fear, turned and fled back to the city. The English followed right up to the gate, bayoneting many of the cowards in the back as they ran.
“We can return now,” said the officer, as he collected his men, not one of whom was missing; “we have had a good night’s work.”
Flora Meredith witnessed the fight from the terrace. She could not make out things very distinctly, but she gathered that the Sepoys had been beaten, and had she known that the very men who had murdered Zula, by order of the King, were amongst the number who were lying out on the plain, pierced by English bayonets, she might have felt that her prayer to Heaven for retribution had, indeed, been heard.
For a few days Flora was kept in comparative solitude. She did not see the old King, and Moghul Singh only visited her once a day. She recognised that all chance of escape was hopeless, unless something little short of a miracle occurred to favour her. She could not lower herself over that perpendicular wall. She could not pass the vigilant sentries on the terrace, and the door of her chamber was kept constantly locked, so that she could not go out that way. But if either, or all of these impediments had not existed it would still have been next to impossible to have escaped from the city. As she thought of this she suffered agony of mind that cannot be described. To concentrate her thoughts upon any of the luxuries which surrounded her was out of the question. There was a rare and costly library of books in her room. There were a grand-piano, a harp, and other musical instruments. There were gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, but all these things palled upon her senses. How could she enjoy them? Shut off as she was from everything she held dear in the world, she pined until her cheeks grew pale and her eyes lost their brightness. This did not escape the notice of Singh, and he began to think that this Englishwoman, who had put him to so much trouble, was going to die.
“Why do you sit moping all day?” he said one morning, on taking her a basket of mangoes.
“Why, indeed!” she answered. “Could you expect me to be cheerful and gay when you have brought so much misery upon me? Besides, this captivity is unendurable.”
“I don’t know why it should be. But you belong to a dissatisfied race. Your people always want to be masters, and if they can’t get their wishes they commence to whine. The fact is, if you sit brooding in this way all day you will die.”
“I hope so,” she cried suddenly, and with an animation that slightly startled him. “I hope so,” she repeated. “I have prayed fervently to Heaven that I may die. If it will only quicken the coming of that event, I will bless you if you will curtail even the limits of the limited space I have. Confine me to the floor of my room. Shut out the light and air. Do what you like, so that you will but end my sufferings. I can assure you I am not afraid to meet death.”
But though Miss Meredith spoke the sentiments of her mind, those sentiments were not to be gratified. The King did not intend that she should be sacrificed yet. He had another object in view. So Moghul Singh answered—
“These views are morbid ones. You are melancholy. I will try and obtain you a little more freedom.”
“You need not; that would be but mockery,” she cried.
But Moghul only laughed as he withdrew. He at once sought the King his master, and represented that he was likely to lose his captive if he kept her in too close confinement.
“Then let her out a bit—let her out a bit,” mumbled the puppet monarch. “Let her have the freedom of our private garden. Her walk there will be circumscribed, and escape will be impossible, as the grounds are well guarded by our sentries. And stay, Moghul”—as the man was about to depart—“let it be distinctly understood, however, that should this Feringhee woman escape by any means from the grounds, every sentry then on duty shall suffer instant death.”
“Your Majesty’s orders shall be obeyed,” Moghul answered, as he bowed and withdrew.
When this concession on the part of the King was made known to Flora, she refused to avail herself of it, saying it would be but the torture of Tantalus. And she preferred to die quickly, to lingering long in hopeless agony. Moghul Singh, however, managed to overrule her objections after some difficulty, and Flora consented to walk in the garden.
Though this garden was comparatively small, being only about two acres in extent, the first hour spent there revived the drooping spirits of the poor girl. The ground had been planned, and laid out under the superintendence of an English landscape gardener. And with the aid of the tropical trees and plants which he found ready to his hand, he had turned the place into a perfect paradise. Palms and cocoas threw a grateful shade over almost every part. Gorgeous flower-beds, arranged in a novel style, and beautiful sweeps of emerald green sward, presented a magnificent picture, while the other senses were lulled by the delicious fragrance of the orange and citron trees, and the gem-like birds that flitted about in thousands and filled the air with melody. Flora very soon felt grateful for this increased freedom, and a desire for life came back. Day after day as she strolled about she endeavoured to find out if any means of escape presented themselves. But, alas! She was hemmed in on all sides. Steep banks, crowned with hedges, formed the boundary of the grounds, and at various points, on the summit of the banks, Sepoy sentries were stationed. These fellows often eyed the young Englishwoman with jealous and revengeful feelings, and they wondered amongst themselves why the King wished to keep such a “white-faced doll.” Not a few of them would have liked to turn their muskets on her and shoot her down.
But Flora knew nothing of the demoniacal feelings which stirred the breasts of these men. Her walks were always companionless, excepting when occasionally Moghul Singh forced his hateful presence upon her. This man grew more and more familiar in his conversation. And it was evident that it was not solely on the King’s account that he paid her so much attention, and guarded her so jealously. On the contrary, he looked with contemptuous pity on the imbecile representative of the House of Timour. But to him he owed his position, and to oppose his wishes was to court his own downfall. Yet, notwithstanding the risk, he daily allowed himself to be tempted from his allegiance by the pale, but beautiful, face of the Englishwoman. His passion got the better of his judgment, and he ventured at last to make advances to her on his own behalf.
“You look better since I obtained permission from his Majesty for you to use the garden,” he said one day as he conveyed some flowers to her room.
“I am better,” she answered. “Increased freedom has made my existence slightly less painful; but still life seems little better than a mockery.”
“That is because you are morbid. Life has plenty of enjoyment if you like to extract it.”
“How,” she cried, “how am I—a wretched prisoner in the hands of my country’s enemies, and separated from friends and relations—to extract enjoyment from such a miserable existence as mine?”
“Pshaw,” he answered. “You would sacrifice yourself to no purpose. Why not adapt yourself to circumstances? Your people are fond of talking about the ‘philosophy of resignation.’ Why don’t you act up to it now? You are a captive. You cannot alter that condition. You are reserved for the King’s plaything. That may not afford you much pleasure to contemplate. Moreover, I may tell you this—his Majesty intends in a few days to hand you over to one of his sons, and you will be conveyed away from here.”
Flora started with alarm as she heard this, and her face blanched.
“Never,” she cried; “I will throw myself over that parapet before I will suffer such an indignity.”
Moghul smiled.
“That would be madness indeed,” he said. “If the idea of becoming the property of the King’s son is so distasteful to your feelings, you may avoid it in a more pleasant way than by mangling that beautiful figure of yours by such a nasty fall.”
“How?” she queried eagerly.
“By escaping.”
“Escaping!” she echoed as she stared at the man in astonishment.
“Yes.”
“Are you mocking me? Or has your heart been softened by some pity for my miserable condition?”
“I am not mocking you.”
“Then do you offer me escape?”
“Yes.”
“On what conditions?” she asked, agitated with hopes and fears.
He smiled again, and drew closer to her.
“You are eager,” he replied. “The conditions are simple.”
“Name them then, if they are not dishonourable.”
“Bah! such a term is inadmissible to one in your position.”
“I think I gather something of your meaning,” she exclaimed, in alarm.
“My meaning should not be hard to understand. I offer you freedom if you will consent to go with me to my house, which is on the other side of the city.”
She recoiled from him with horror—with loathing. The blush of indignation dyed her face to the very roots of her hair.
“You are a villain,” she cried when she could speak, for the base proposal literally deprived her of breath. “A double-dyed, treacherous villain. I am an Englishwoman, and would suffer a thousand deaths sooner than yield to such an unmanly coward. Go away and leave me. Do not torture me with your loathsome presence any more. And I warn you that I will inform the King of your treachery.”
It was the man’s turn to be alarmed now. If she carried out her threat he knew what the consequences would be, for the King was merciless.
“You are a fool!” he said, with an attempt to seem indifferent; “I did but play with you. Were you to inform the King, your position would not improve. For if he believed you, which is doubtful, he would take you away instantly, and your next keeper might not be as lenient as I am.”
Flora saw the force of this argument, and thought it was better to endure what she was enduring than to take a leap in the dark and in all probability increase her woes.
“Although you deserve it, I have no desire to bring harm upon you,” she replied; “but relieve me of your presence. Go away, I beseech you.”
“I do as you request,” was his answer; “but the next time we meet you may be in a better frame of mind. Think over it. You would find me a better master than the King’s son.”
When Flora was alone she wept very bitterly. The trials she was going through almost threatened to affect her reason. Every channel of hope seemed shut against her. Day after day she heard with a sickening sensation at the heart the roar of the guns, as besieged and besiegers were struggling for the mastery. She knew that outside the English troops were making desperate efforts to reduce the city. But with such a full force it almost seemed like a waste of time. Her rooms and the terrace before them were situated in a part of the building not exposed to the besiegers’ fire, but she was often startled by the bursting of a shell in close proximity to her quarters, or the scream of a round shot as it hurtled through the air. She grew despondent when she saw how fruitless were the efforts of the troops outside, and how those inside laughed them to scorn.
When she had relieved her overburdened soul with a passionate outburst of grief she grew calmer. It was drawing towards the close of day, when, availing herself of her privilege, she sought the garden. She was faint and weak, and was glad of the fragrance and the cool air.
At the further end of the garden, away from the Palace, was a small summer-house, a sort of bower embosomed amongst some mango and orange trees, and covered all over with roses. It was quite sheltered from the heat of the sun, and formed a cool and quiet retreat. And here Flora had spent many hours, grateful for the undisturbed solitude. It was furnished with a couch, a few chairs and a table, some pictures and books.
Feeling unequal to walking about, she entered this place, and taking up a book, reclined on the couch and tried to read. But her mind was too confused to allow her to concentrate her thoughts. A mass of things rushed through her brain, until she became bewildered with the conflicting emotions which agitated her.
In a little while she realised that something was moving under the couch. Her first thought was that it was a snake, and she held her breath in alarm, but in a few moments she uttered a half-suppressed cry, as a voice close to her whispered—
“Hush! Silence, for your life.”