The cry that Flora Meredith half gave vent to was not a cry of alarm, but joy; for a head had gradually protruded from under the couch, until the face was revealed—and the face was Zeemit Mehal’s.
“Hush, for your life!” the old woman repeated, as she revealed her presence to the astonished girl.
But, in spite of the warning, Flora seized the hands of the faithful Zeemit, and, as her heart beat violently, she whispered—
“God bless you, Zeemit. Your presence is new life to me.”
The woman rose very cautiously, and peered through the jalousies. Then she listened intently for a few moments—they almost seemed like hours to Flora, for she was burning with impatience for an explanation.
“My presence here, should it be discovered, would be death to us both,” Zeemit whispered at last.
“But what is your object?” was Flora’s anxious query.
“To try and save you.”
“God be thanked.”
“The difficulties are so great, though, that I am afraid to hold out much hope. I have been in the city for some days, and have made various attempts to get into the Palace, but failed. By mingling with the soldiers in the courtyards, however, I learnt that you were in the habit of walking here. I determined at all hazards to try and reach you. I succeeded last night in escaping the vigilance of the sentries and getting into the grounds. Here I have remained since, until my old bones are sore, and I faint for the want of food.”
“You are a faithful, noble, generous creature,” was Flora’s answer. “The only reward I can give you now is my grateful thanks. But tell me, Zeemit, what are your plans?”
“Alas, I have none. I am like a fly that has got into a spider’s web. I don’t see how I am to get out. I was determined to come if that were possible, and here I am. But the way I came, you could never go back. I had to mount stone walls, and scramble over high hedges.”
“Oh, I would do all that,” said Flora anxiously. “Only lead the way, and I will follow.”
“That will never do, baba. You would be missed, and before we could get outside of the Palace grounds, re-captured, and then death would be certain.”
“Alas, what shall become of us, then?” moaned poor Flora. “I have suffered so terribly that I feel I cannot endure it much longer.”
She then recounted to Zeemit all that had passed since they parted, and concluded with informing her of Moghul Singh’s proposal.
“Ah! that is good,” answered Zeemit, as she heard this.
“How is it good?” asked the astonished Flora.
“Because it presents a way of escape. Once clear of the Palace, and there is hope. There is none while you remain here. At any moment the King, exasperated by the desperate fighting of the English outside, might take it into his head to order you instant death. You must go with Moghul Singh.”
“Go with Moghul Singh!”
“Yes.”
“You do not make yourself very clear, Zeemit. Where is the advantage to be gained by running from one danger into another?”
“You go from a greater to a lesser danger.”
“But you would not counsel me to sell myself to this man?”
“By the ‘Sacred River,’ no.”
“What is your scheme, then?”
Zeemit pondered for a little while before she answered.
“I know Moghul Singh’s house. He keeps three or four of his mistresses there. Escape from the place would be comparatively easy.”
“Yes, yes; go on,” said Flora excitedly, as Zeemit paused again.
“If he conveyed you there these women would favour your escape, because they would be very jealous of you. And if they let you go, they would think that, as a Feringhee woman, you would soon be slaughtered in the city. I could take you from there, and conceal you somewhere until a chance presented itself to get outside.”
“Your plan seems a good one, Zeemit; and a new hope springs up. But tell me, before you left Cawnpore, did you see Mr. Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“And what became of him?”
“I advised him to go into the defences, and promised to communicate with him in the event of being able to set you free. But communication is impracticable now. We must wait.”
“And do you think he still lives, Zeemit?”
“At a time like this it is hard to answer such a question. A thousand dangers beset us all.”
“But he was alive and well when you left him?” Flora asked with a sigh.
“Yes, and hopeful.”
“Now tell me, Zeemit, what do you propose that I should do?”
“Tell Moghul Singh that you have reconsidered your decision, and that you will go with him.”
“Yes, yes, and what then?”
“I will be near Singh’s house. I do not anticipate any difficulty in your being able to escape from there, and we can fly together.”
“I will do it,” was Flora’s answer.
“And I give you this caution: you must do everything you possibly can to lead Moghul to believe that you are sincere, or he might suspect something.”
“It shall be as you suggest, Zeemit, however repulsive the task may be.”
“The only thing repulsive about it is that you will have to practise a little deception. That cannot be avoided if you wish to save your life. But it is time that you went away now, for it is growing dark. Farewell, missy baba. If our plans do not miscarry, we shall meet again soon.”
Flora pressed the hand of the faithful old ayah, and with hope once more strong in her breast, she hurried to the Palace, while Zeemit crept under the couch again to wait until darkness would enable her to retrace her steps.
The following day dawned; but Moghul Singh did not appear. Another day and another night passed, and yet Moghul did not come. Flora began to despair again. He had never kept away before. She had fears now that the man, dreading that she would carry out her threat of informing the King, had fled from the Palace. And if so, her very last hope would be gone. The suspense was awful. The only attendant she had had since she had been confined in the Palace was an old woman who was dumb, or professed to be. At any rate, no word ever escaped her lips in Flora’s presence. She performed her duty sullenly, and with manifest disdain for the Feringhee woman, so that no information could be expected from her.
Thus a week passed—a week of most awful, agonising suspense. The guns roared with increased vigour. In fact, they were scarcely ever silent now, for desultory firing was kept up during the night. The siege was being prosecuted with energy, as the English siege-train had arrived. Flora was enabled to see from her promenade on the terrace that the defenders were concentrating their guns at those points which commanded the English positions. She saw also that great damage had been done to various parts of the building, and one of the gates, of which she had a full view, was very much battered, and was being barricaded with massive beams of wood and heaps of gravel.
She feared from these signs that Zeemit’s fears might be realised with reference to the King, and she was in momentary dread of seeing him or some of his myrmidons enter her rooms to drag her out to the slaughter. However, for several days she enjoyed a total immunity from any intrusion, with the exception of her sullen attendant, from whom she could derive no spark of information.
At length one morning her suspense was ended, for Moghul Singh himself reappeared. She almost welcomed him with a cry of joy, for in him her hopes of ultimate escape now centred.
“You have been long absent,” she said, in a tone that surprised him.
“Yes, I have been upon a journey. But if that absence had been prolonged, it would have pleased you better, no doubt.”
“No, it would not,” she answered truthfully.
“Ah! What mean you?”
“I mean that I have missed you,” she replied, with equal truth.
“Missed me! Why so?” he cried, unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Because I have been very lonely without you. You were kind and thoughtful.”
“And yet the last time I was here you repulsed me.”
“I did.”
“And yet you seem to welcome me now.”
“I do.”
“Explain yourself, for this is a mystery.”
“I was hasty the last time you were here. I have regretted that hastiness since. I have been so lonely, so miserable.”
A smile of satisfaction stole over Moghul’s face as he replied,
“I thought you would come to your senses. You Englishwomen are as fickle-minded as the wind is restless. But why have you regretted it?”
“You made me an offer when you were here before.”
“I did.”
“Does that offer still hold good?”
“Oh, oh—there is something in the air. What does this mean?”
“It means that if you are still of the same mind, I will accept your offer and will go with you.”
“So you have thought better of your decision, then. But why this change?”
“That question is scarcely needed. I am very wretched. I prefer to place myself under your care than to remain longer a prisoner here; and if you will take me away I will go with you.”
The man smiled inwardly with satisfaction. It was a triumph he had not calculated upon, and he was surprised and gratified. No suspicion crossed his mind, because he considered it would be impossible for a white person to escape from the city. Whatever control was exercised over the troops and other people about the Palace, the mobs in the city were lawless and revengeful, and to be an European was, in their eyes, a crime punishable with instant and cruel death. He, therefore, felt that when once he had got her outside of the Palace she would be thoroughly in his power, and to return to the Palace would be a feat no less difficult of accomplishment than to get outside of the walls. He fairly chuckled as he thought of this, and his coarse features displayed the satisfaction he felt.
The loathing that Flora had for him was so great that it was only with great difficulty she could prevent herself from showing it. But she knew that in him lay her last hope, and if he failed, then all was lost indeed.
“You have more sense than I thought you had,” he answered. “Come, give me your hand;”—she did as he desired;—“it is a nice soft hand, and looks very white in my black one, doesn’t it? You have fully made up your mind to go with me, then?”
“Yes.”
“That is good. Your flight must be provided for. The King must think you have escaped by yourself.”
“How will you manage that?”
“That is easy. Let me see now, what is the best plan? I have it. I will procure a rope, and make one end fast to the verandah, and let the other fall over the parapet of the terrace.”
“That is a good idea,” she answered.
“Yes, it will avert all suspicion from me.”
“When will you take me?”
“To-night.”
“At what time?”
“Late. I hold the keys of certain doors and gates, and I shall have the passwords, so that we shall not have much difficulty in getting out. Once clear of the Palace, a buggy shall be in waiting, and all will be well.”
“I shall be ready for you,” she answered, as she withdrew her hand.
She felt thankful when she was alone again, for the part she had played had taxed all her faculties to keep up. But the hours passed wearily enough now. She alternated between hope and fear. Every sound startled her. She watched the hands of the clock with feverish eyes. The hours seemed to go by leaden-footed. Ten, eleven, twelve struck, still Moghul had not come. She almost despaired. But the hour of one had barely chimed when the key was turned in the lock of the door. The door opened, and Moghul Singh appeared. In his hand he carried a coil of rope and a large dark-coloured shawl.
“I am true to my promise, you see,” he said, as he handed her the shawl. “You must conceal yourself in this as much as possible.”
She took the shawl and enveloped herself in it, while Moghul went out on to the terrace, and having made one end of the rope fast to the railings of the verandah, he lowered the other over.
“The sentries will have to answer for that,” he remarked, with a grin, as he returned to the room. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come then.”
With palpitating heart and trembling limbs she followed him. He led the way down silent corridors and dark passages, past sleeping Sepoys and drunken servants, he moving quickly and noiselessly, she following like a shadow, but feeling sick and ill, and with a terrible sense of fear pressing upon her.
The open air was reached at last; the night breeze blew refreshingly cool upon her fevered face.
“We must be cautious here,” he whispered.
It was a large courtyard they had to cross, but nothing seemed to be stirring but themselves. He opened a gate with a key which he took from his pocket, and then they stood in a private road. Down this road he led her for some distance till a small strip of jungle was reached. Here in the shadow of the trees a buggy and horse were standing. A native boy was holding the horse’s head. Moghul helped Flora into the vehicle; when she was seated he drew his tulwar, and approaching the boy, who still held the reins, he almost severed his head from his body; then, springing into the buggy, he cried—“Dead men tell no tales.”
The deed was so sudden, that there was scarcely time for reflection, but Flora almost fainted with horror as she witnessed it.
Moghul whipped the horse. It started off at a gallop, and very soon the Palace was left far in the rear.
The house to which Moghul Singh took Flora Meredith was about four miles from the Palace, and on the opposite side of Delhi. It was simply an ordinary bungalow, built for the most part of bamboo. It was in a dilapidated condition, and situated in the native quarter. At this place Moghul had three or four of his native mistresses. It was quite a common thing in India for men in Singh’s position to keep up such establishments. In fact it was looked upon rather as a social distinction.
The place wore a most melancholy aspect when Flora arrived. The indispensable cocoa-nut lamp gave forth a faint glimmer that enabled a person, when the eyes became accustomed to it, to distinguish the squalor and filth; for the native dwellings, as a rule, were but one remove from pig-sties. In this room were ranged wooden benches, and on the benches were stretched the forms of several Hindoo women.
The air was fœtid with the smell of chunam and the opium and common tobacco smoked by the natives of both sexes, in the hubble-bubble, or hookah, of the country.
Flora experienced an indescribable feeling of alarm, while despair seized her again. In the Palace she certainly had comfort. There was none here. Moreover, she saw that she was thoroughly in Singh’s power. In her anxiety to escape she had not thought of that; but now that the danger stared her in the face, she shrank with horror. She yearned for Zeemit. Where was she now? If she failed, everything was lost. Not that Flora doubted her. The old woman had proved her devotion in a hundred ways. But then the difficulties and dangers were so numerous. Besides, many days had elapsed since Zeemit had parted from her in the Palace garden, and during that time she might have thought that the scheme had failed, and had given up watching at the bungalow. As Moghul Singh handed his captive down from the buggy, she cast anxious glances about. But there were only darkness and silence around; nothing could be heard, nothing seen, only the dark mass of building, and the melancholy light of the lamp.
As she mounted the two or three steps that led to the verandah, and stood upon the threshold of the doorway, she tottered with the sense of horror with which she contemplated the consequences of remaining. She felt that she dare not enter, that she would sooner rush to certain death in the open city, than pass one hour beneath the roof of that tomb-like place.
“What is the matter?” the man asked sharply as he saw that she faltered.
“I am faint,” she answered. “The heat has overcome me.”
“Oh, nonsense,” was his surly reply. “Come, follow me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she held it back. She felt such an unutterable loathing for the villain that it was almost impossible to avoid showing it. The cold-blooded deed that he had been guilty of in decapitating the boy made her shudder.
It was true she had seen horrors enough during the mutiny to have hardened her senses to some extent. But this tragedy had been committed in such a diabolical manner, and before her eyes, that it sickened her; and yet she had ridden side by side with the guilty miscreant for some miles. She had had an impression, although it had not been so understood, that on the moment of her arrival she would find Zeemit Mehal waiting, and that the woman would have matured some plan that would have enabled them to effect an immediate escape. But Zeemit was not to be seen. It was an awful moment for Flora. Words would fail to depict the agony of mind and body she endured. She reproached herself for leaving the Palace. She felt that if she had been in possession of a weapon, she could without the slightest compunction have slain the villain who stood beside her. She was suffering the extreme of despair—passing through that stage when all faith even in Heaven is for the time lost. Misfortune had come upon her so suddenly, and pursued her so relentlessly since, that she mentally asked herself why she and her people should have been made the subjects of so much persecution.
Moghul Singh grew impatient when he saw that Flora did not comply with his demand and follow him.
“Why don’t you come?” he exclaimed angrily. “The time is passing quickly, and I must return to the Palace before daylight.”
“I cannot,” she answered. “The atmosphere is stifling, and I am ill.”
The man scowled. He felt that he was thwarted, and it irritated him. He seized her hand roughly and would have dragged her in, but she remonstrated.
“Why are you so cruel?” she asked. “Did I not come with you of my own free will? Surely you are not so dead to every feeling of pity, but what you can have some consideration for me now that I am ill?”
Her argument was effective. He released her hand, and drew back apace.
“What do you wish me to do?” he demanded.
“Procure me a chair, and let me remain outside on the verandah a little while. The cool air will no doubt revive me.”
With a gruff assent to her request, he turned into the bungalow, to procure the seat, and Flora stood alone. In those few moments a dozen things suggested themselves to her. She would rush wildly away. By that course she would probably be shot down, or, escaping that risk, she might be able to reach the river, or canal, and there she would end her misery, for she seemed to be abandoned by all. But great as had been her experience of Zeemit’s fidelity, she did not know what a depth of devotion there was in the old woman’s nature. For days she had loitered about the bungalow, waiting patiently and anxiously for the Feringhee lady, to whose cause she had devoted herself, in spite of the many temptations that were offered to a native to fling off all restraint for a time, and live a brief, riotous, and idle life. She had watched the bungalow with ceaseless watching, creeping at night into the shadow of the verandah, where she would lie coiled up, snatching a few hours of rest, but always ready to start up on the alert at the sound of wheels. She herself had almost given up all hope of Flora’s escape. She had begun to think that the plan had miscarried, and was resolving upon a scheme to pay another visit to the imprisoned lady in the Palace. But her vigilance and patience were rewarded at last. She heard the approach of the buggy, she saw Flora arrive, she heard the conversation that passed, so that, when Miss Meredith had sunk to the lowest depth of despair, when all seemed dark and hopeless, and she felt inclined to doubt the goodness of Heaven, succour was at hand.
As she stood alone in the brief space that elapsed during Moghul’s absence, Zeemit was by her side. Flora was used to surprises now; but as she heard the familiar voice, although it was but the faintest whisper, of her faithful ayah, she could scarcely refrain from uttering a cry. But the feeling of thankfulness that filled her heart found expression in a silent “Thank God!” uttered under her breath.
There was no time for words. Action was needed. Zeemit was equal to the occasion. The buggy and horse still stood before the door. She seized Flora’s hand, and rushed to the vehicle. Terror lent them both strength and quickness. In an instant they had sprung to the seat. Zeemit caught up the reins, and bringing the whip down upon the horse’s neck, started the animal into a furious gallop, just as Moghul came from the house with a chair in his hand. The whole affair took place in absolutely less time than it has taken to pen these lines.
Moghul realised at once that his bird had flown, and as he dropped the chair with an imprecation, he hastily drew a revolver, and fired it after the retreating vehicle. But the bullet sped harmlessly away, though the report broke upon the stillness with startling distinctness, and in a few minutes, dozens of natives had rushed from their huts to discover the cause of alarm.
“A horse—a horse,” cried Moghul. “A hundred rupees for a horse. There is a Feringhee woman escaping from the city in yonder buggy.”
A horse was speedily produced. Moghul sprang on to its back, and, followed by a yelling pack of demons, set off in pursuit of the escaped prisoner. But a good start had been given to the fugitives. The sounds of the rattling wheels and the horse’s hoofs did not reach the ears of the pursuers, who tore madly along, while Zeemit, who was well acquainted with the city and its suburbs, guided the animal down a by-road that led through a jungle. After travelling for some miles, she pulled up.
“We must alight here,” she said, “and abandon the horse and buggy, or we shall be traced.”
Flora sprang from the ground, and the two women hurried along on foot. Zeemit led the way. She knew every inch of the ground. She kept her companion up by holding out hopes of ultimate safety.
As daylight was struggling in, a muddy creek was reached. It was a lonely spot—overgrown with tall reeds and rank grass, and the haunt of numberless reptiles. Half-hidden amongst the rushes was a large, broken, and decaying budgerow, lying high and dry on a mud-bank.
“This place offers us safety and shelter for a time,” Zeemit observed. “I discovered it after leaving the Palace grounds.”
She assisted Flora to get into the old boat. She collected a quantity of rushes and dried grass to form a bed. These she spread upon the floor of the budgerow, and then the two women, thoroughly exhausted, threw themselves down, and fell into a sound sleep. At the same moment Moghul Singh was returning to the Palace after his fruitless search, vowing vengeance against Flora, and determining to send out men to recapture her, on the pain of death if they failed.
We must for the time being leave the fortunes of Flora Meredith and Zeemit to follow those of some of the other characters who have figured prominently in this story.
When Haidee and Walter Gordon left the traveller’s rest, where the duel had taken place, they pursued their journey without further adventure, until they reached the neighbourhood of Delhi. Here the greatest caution had to be exercised, for thousands of natives, flushed with success and maddened with drink, were prowling about, committing the most diabolical outrages on every one they met.
Three or four attempts were made by Haidee and her companion to gain entrance to the city, but each attempt failed. On the last occasion success was nearly achieved, when a Sepoy, who had been in the King’s service for some years, recognised Haidee. An alarm was instantly raised, and Gordon had to defend himself and companion against fearful odds. He was fortunate enough to secure a sword from the body of a man whom he had shot, and with this weapon—in the use of which he was well skilled—he was enabled to cut his way out.
After this encounter it was evident that any further attempt to enter the city would only result in disaster; and so the travellers determined to make their way over to the British lines. Here they were well received, and the history of their adventures listened to with intense interest.
Gordon’s failure to get into the city caused him much sorrow. He remembered the promise he had made to Mrs. Harper that he would either rescue her sister or perish in the attempt.
Although he had repeatedly been near doing the latter, the former seemed very far from being accomplished.
He made the most desperate efforts to obtain some information of her—he sought, but always without success; and at length he began to despair of ever meeting her again.
He grew desperate. He joined his countrymen in night attacks; he went down with little bands of men to examine the gates and walls of the city; and, although he saw hundreds of his comrades fall around him, he lived. He appeared almost to bear a charmed life—neither sword nor bullet reached him; and his splendid constitution enabled him to withstand the deadly heat—and the still more deadly malaria, which committed fearful havoc amongst the British.
The siege promised to be a protracted one. The English were few in number; their guns were small, their ammunition limited; and yet, with these drawbacks to contend against, there were some most brilliant passages of arms and deeds of daring performed before Delhi, deeds that, although they have never been chronicled, entitle the actors in them to be placed on England’s grand list of heroes.
Weeks wore on. The force of the besiegers was getting weaker, and their ammunition was all but expended. Reinforcements and a powerful siege-train were daily expected, but still they came not. There was much sickness in the camp, and the whole energies of the healthy were taxed to the utmost to minister to the wants of and amuse the sick.
In this duty there was one who stood out with individual distinctness. This was Haidee, whose exertions on behalf of those who were not able to help themselves were extraordinary. She flitted through the hospital at all hours. She comforted the sick; she soothed the dying; she helped the strong. No wonder that she won the love and good wishes of everyone. The heart of many a man in the camp fluttered when in her presence; and officers and men vied with each other in paying her the greatest attention. Her beauty—her romantic history—her devotion, won upon all. More than one officer, whose heart and hand were free, ventured to woo her; but she turned a deaf ear to everybody.
There was one for whom she pined—where was he? Night and day she thought of him. He was, indeed, her star—her only light. She was silent and patient; she uttered no complaint. She was content to wait for what the future might bring. That future seemed at present dark and uncertain, but she did not mourn. She wasted no time in useless repining; she was hopeful. Her reward came at last.
One morning the camp heard with unspeakable joy notes of music. They were the welcome strains of a soul-inspiriting march played by an English band. The reinforcements had arrived. Coming up from the Grand Trunk Road the long lines could be seen. The white helmets and flashing bayonets of British troops marching to the assistance of their comrades, and pledged to reduce the stronghold of the saucy enemy.
As the fresh troops marched in, the reception accorded them was enthusiastic in the extreme. The excitement was immense. Such cheering, such shaking of hands, such greetings.
As the newly-arrived officers were moving towards the quarters assigned to them, a man suddenly rushed out of a tent, and seizing the hands of one of the officers, exclaimed, in an excited tone—
“God bless you, old fellow! This is an unexpected pleasure.”
The man was Walter Gordon, the officer was Lieutenant Harper. The friends had met once again—met upon the battlefield.
Their last meeting had been sad, their last parting still more sad. But, as they greeted each other now, each had an instinctive feeling that, after having escaped so many dangers, they met now only to part again when happier times had dawned.
When Gordon could drag his friend away, he commenced to ply him with questions; but Harper interrupted him with an impatient gesture, and unable longer to restrain his feeling, exclaimed—
“Before I answer a single question, tell me if Haidee lives?”
Walter smiled at his friend’s eagerness as he answered—
“Haidee lives.”
“And is she well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“This is joyful news.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, Harper.”
“Why?”
“Because she is one of the most faithful and best of women. She has a small tent to herself, for she is the idol of the camp. Come, follow me.”
Gordon pointed out Haidee’s dwelling to his friend, and then he left him; for he did not consider that he had any right to intrude himself upon their meeting.
Harper advanced cautiously to the door of the tent. Haidee was reclining on an Indian mat; her eyes were closed, but she was not sleeping. She was dreaming a day-dream, in which Harper figured.
“Haidee,” he called softly. “Haidee,” he repeated.
She started to her feet like a startled fawn. She recognised the voice. With a cry of joy she sprang forward—her arms closed around his neck; and, as her head was pillowed on his breast, she murmured—
“Your slave is thankful and happy.”
“Not slave, Haidee,” he answered, as he pushed back the beautiful hair and kissed her forehead, “but wife.”
“Ah! what do you mean? Is this a dream—or am I awake?”
“You are awake, Haidee; and I repeat the words—you shall be my wife.”
“But where is she of whom you spoke before—your—your other wife?”
“She is dead, Haidee,” Harper answered sorrowfully.
“Poor thing,” Haidee murmured, in a tone of such genuine sympathy that Harper felt that she was one of the best and most perfect of women.
“Yes, she is dead,” Harper continued. “When I left Cawnpore, I managed to get clear of the place without any adventure. I made my way direct to Meerut. I found my poor wife at the very point of death. She was only just able to recognise me before she died. I was bowed down with sorrow then. I heard of the massacre of Cawnpore, and concluded that you would share the fate of the other unhappy ladies. When my regiment was ordered to join the reinforcements for Delhi I was delighted; for active service, with the risk of ending a life that had been darkened with sorrow, was what I craved for. Little did I dream of meeting you. Fate has been kind to us. To you I owe my life; and, if I am still preserved till the end of this war, I may honourably ask you to be my wife—for I am yours.”
“Ah, what happiness,” she sighed, as she clung closer to him.
* * * * * * *
The siege was now prosecuted with increased vigour. The British became exasperated at the stubborn defence of the enemy, and the most desperate efforts were made to reduce the city. Day and night a ceaseless stream of shot and shell was poured in, until breaches in the walls gaped, and many of the gates were battered. But as fast as these breaches were made, they were repaired again by the defenders, and it became evident that the place could only be reduced by storming. Every one was anxious for this; the patience of the troops had been sorely tried, and men burned to wreak vengeance on the recreant cowards who had sought shelter behind the walls, and now held out with desperate energy, knowing it was the last frail chance they had to preserve their miserable lives. But though the order to storm was so ardently desired, it seemed to be unnecessarily delayed, and the patience of both men and officers was taxed to the utmost.
But the order came at last. It was issued at night. It was a bright starlight night, but moonless. The firing was kept up incessantly. The roar of the batteries, the clear abrupt reports of the shells, the flashes of the rockets and fireballs, made up a striking and impressive scene. But as ten o’clock was announced, every battery ceased by preconcerted signal, and the order flew through the camp that the assault was to take place at three in the morning. Then a solemn and ominous silence fell upon the camp. Worn and weary men threw themselves down to snatch a brief rest; but many were the anxious eyes that were turned to the doomed city with its white mosques and prominent buildings sharply defined against the purple night-sky. For months it had defied the power of the Great White Hand; but the hour had come, unless the Hand had lost its power and cunning, when the rebellious city was at last to be humbled and crushed into the dust.
As the batteries ceased, the stillness that fell upon the camp was startling by comparison. It made men’s hearts beat faster, for they knew what it presaged; and though many would be cold in death before the sun rose again, everyone was cheerful and eager.
The whole force of the camp was divided into four assaulting columns and a reserve. The first was to storm a breach that had been made at the Cashmere bastion; the second, a breach in the water bastion; the third was to blow open the Cashmere Gate; and the fourth was to enter by the Lahore Gate, while the reserve was to follow up in the wake of the first three columns, and throw in supports when necessary.
As the hour of three approached, there was great activity in the camp. The men were overjoyed at the long-hoped-for chance of being able to smite the enemy behind his own walls.
There was one in the camp, however, whose heart was sad. This was Haidee. Harper had crept over to her tent, to say a few parting words, and the two stood together at the doorway, with the light of a watch-fire gleaming redly upon them. Each felt that the probabilities were they were parting for ever. Harper was bound upon “desperate service,” and the dangers were so many and great that the chances of escape from them were remote. But in spite of this, he tried to be cheerful. Duty called him, and he obeyed the call as a soldier should. His regrets were for this woman, to whom he owed his life, who had “made him her star, which was her only light,” and if the star should be extinguished in the “sea of blood” that was shortly to flow, her lifetime henceforth would be one long night. For she stood alone, as it were, in the world. Friends, kindred, home, all gone; and if he fell, who would protect her? As Harper thought of these things, he could not help a feeling of grief that for a time unmanned him. Haidee noticed this, and said—
“Why are you downcast this morning? It is sad to part, when that parting may be for ever; but go to your duty cheerfully, and have good hopes for the future.”
“It is not of myself I think, Haidee, but of you. If I fall, what will become of you?”
“Ah! if you fall, poor Haidee will be bowed into the dust. I have been so happy since you have been here. To be near you, to see your face, compensates me for the many years of bitterness I have known.” Then, after a pause, “But come; these repinings are foolish. We are not going out to meet our troubles; let them come to us. It is a soldier’s duty to fight for his country when called upon, and he should not be unmanned by a woman’s useless wailing. Your heart is bold, and your arm is strong. Glory and victory will be yours.”
“God bless you, Haidee! You give me the inspiration of courage and hope. You are a noble woman, and your devotion is worthy of the highest honours that could be bestowed upon you. You liberated me from the city we are now going to attack; and when I was wounded and senseless outside Cawnpore, your arms, strengthened by love, bore me to a place of safety. Twice, then, have you saved my life; and, if it is preserved through the conflict that is now about to commence, I will henceforth devote it to you. But in the event of my falling, I have taken steps that will ensure your heroic deeds being known to my country, and you will meet with a well-merited reward.”
“Talk not of reward from your country. The only reward I ask for is yourself—if one so humble as I dare ask for so much; and if I get not that, I am content to sink into oblivion, and wait for the end.”
“You are not humble, Haidee. You are noble, generous, true, and devoted; and if I am spared, I shall feel proud of the honour of being able to call you wife.”
“Wife,” she murmured, “wife to you; ah! what happiness!”
Shrilly on the morning air rose the bugle call. Its warning notes told the lovers that they must speak their last words of farewell.
“That is the signal for me to go,” Harper said, as he drew the beautiful form of Haidee to his breast. “On your lips I seal my respect, my thanks, my love. In the struggle my arm will be strengthened as I think of you; my eye will be quickened as it remembers your beautiful face, and let us hope that our love will be a charm to shield me from the enemy’s bullets.”
“Take this,” she answered, as she handed him a little packet, which, on opening, he found contained a card, upon which was worked, in her own hair, a beautiful device; it was a true lover’s knot, surrounded with a laurel wreath, and underneath were the words, “Duty, Honour, Love.” “Let that be your charm, my well beloved, for in those three words there is magic to a good soldier.”
A warm embrace, a passionate kiss, a faltering adieu, and the lovers parted. In a few minutes Harper had placed himself at the head of his company, amongst whom was his friend Walter Gordon, who had volunteered for the day.
The watch-fires were burning low. It was the dark hour before the dawn, and the sky was inky black. Softly the bugles sounded. How many a soul did they call to death! But no one thought of that. There was the hurrying tread of thousands of feet. There was the rumbling of guns as they were moved down into position to cover the advance of the troops. There were the clanking of arms and the fervently uttered “God speeds!” by those who, through sickness or other cause, were unable to leave.
Again the bugles sounded the advance. Soon the camp was silent, and the little army was winding down the valley. And as daylight spread over the face of heaven, the storming commenced. Undeterred by the deadly streams of bullets and shot that were poured out, heroic bands of men advanced to the gates, each man carrying in his arms a bag of powder, which was laid down at the gates, with the coolness and intrepidity which so astonished the natives during the mutiny. From this duty few of the dauntless soldiers escaped alive. But nothing could deter the hearts of steel that, in the face of death and slaughter, piled the bags against the massive gates.
Presently, even above the roar of the artillery, was heard the sound of the awful explosions that announced the successful accomplishment of the hazardous task. Before the clouds had cleared away, the bugles sounded the advance, and through the shattered gateways the victorious army poured, and soon the tread of the English troops resounded in the deserted halls and corridors of the palace of the Mogul.
We must draw a veil over the awful carnage, fierce reprisals, and almost unparalleled slaughter that ensued. The British had to fight their way into the city inch by inch, and several days elapsed before they had entirely defeated the enemy. The grey-haired miscreant, who had thought himself a king, was made a prisoner. His infamous sons were shot like dogs, and their bodies cast into the river.[7]
The “Great White Hand” was triumphant; it had crushed the “House of Timour” into the dust; it had broken and destroyed the power of England’s enemies, and had vindicated the outraged honour of the British nation. Animo non astutiâ.
* * * * * * *
Amongst the English officers who were wounded during the assault was Lieutenant Harper. He received a terrible sword cut on his left arm from a Sepoy who was feigning death. He slew his enemy, and then binding up his gashed arm in his scarf, he continued to courageously lead his men, until, through loss of blood, he fainted. He was then placed in the ambulance and carried back to the English camp on the Ridge. When the wound had been dressed, and he recovered consciousness, almost the first face his eyes met was Haidee’s. His life had been spared, and her thankfulness found vent in an eloquent silence, passing the eloquence of words.
* * * * * * *
When the heat of the struggle was over, and the British were complete masters of the city, Walter Gordon, who had fought with the courage of a lion, and escaped without a scratch, commenced his search for her for whom he had endured so much. His inquiries failed to elicit any further information than that an English lady had been held captive in the Palace, and that she had escaped. When he heard the news he despaired of ever seeing her again. But one night, while sitting sorrowfully in his quarters at the Palace, he was informed that a native woman wished to see him.
The woman was Zeemit Mehal.
“What of Miss Meredith?” he cried, as soon as he recognised his visitor.
“She is well, and waits for you,” was the answer. “Follow me and you shall see her.”
“Thank God!” Walter murmured, as he rose and followed his guide.
“You had better procure a conveyance,” she said, when they reached the courtyard.
There was no difficulty in this. Buggies and horses were numerous, and in a few minutes Gordon was driving along rapidly under the guidance of the faithful Mehal, who directed him to the lonely creek where she and Miss Meredith had lived for weeks on board of the wrecked budgerow.
Why describe the meeting of Walter and Flora? It was of that kind that words would fail to do justice to it. Each felt that, in a large measure, the joy of those blissful moments compensated for all the months of toil, the agony of mind, bodily suffering, and the cruel separation that had been endured. The awful trials they had gone through had left their mark upon the faces of each. But they were fervently thankful for the mercy of Heaven which had spared their lives, and as Walter pressed Flora to his breast he felt that he had kept his vow to her sister, who had been spared all those months of agony and suffering during which so many bright hopes had been shattered for ever, and so many hearts broken.
* * * * * * *
About a week after the fall of Delhi, Lieutenant Harper was informed that he had been mentioned in despatches, and recommended for promotion. He had sufficiently recovered to be able to walk about. Haidee had been his untiring nurse. Her loving hands ministered to his every want. She had watched over him, and nursed him back to life. One morning, as day was breaking, he said—
“Haidee, I want you to come with me for a short drive; there is a tragedy to be enacted.”
She obeyed him without question, and he drove her to a plain about three miles off. There was a great gathering of English troops, who were drawn up in a square of three sides. In the centre of the square were ten guns, their muzzles pointing to the blank side. Lashed with their backs to the guns were ten men—rebels, traitors, murderers. Harper led Haidee along the square until they were almost before the guns.
“See,” he said, “do you know that man?”
The one he pointed to was the first in the row. He was a tall, powerful fellow. His teeth were set, and his face wore a defiant look.
“Yes,” she answered firmly.
As she spoke, the man’s eyes met hers. He recognised her, and an expression of ferocious hatred crossed his face. The man was Moghul Singh.
“Will you remain here and see justice done, and your vengeance satisfied?” Harper asked of her.
“No,” she replied.
He led her away, but they had not got very far before the earth trembled with a violent shock. They both turned. The drums were beating, the British flags were waving, the air was filled with smoke and riven limbs.
“You are revenged, Haidee,” Harper whispered.
“Yes,” she answered. “Let us go.”
* * * * * * *
In one of the most beautiful of Devonshire villages, Lieutenant-Colonel Harper, now retired from the service, dwells with his wife and family. The beautiful Haidee, thoroughly Anglicised, in the character of Mrs. Harper, is the pride of the county for miles around. She is loved, respected, and honoured.
Gordon and his wife still reside in India; he is one of the wealthiest merchants in Calcutta. Their faithful and honoured servant, Zeemit Mehal, after some years of ease and comfort in the service of the master and mistress she had served so well, passed away. She died in the Christian faith, and was buried at Chowringhee, where a handsome marble monument records her virtues and services.
[7] The story of how Hodson shot the King’s sons is too well known to need repetition here. The act has been condemned, but those who are acquainted with the facts know that if the sons had not been shot the mob would have rescued them.
THE END.
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