THE TREACHERY OF THE KING.
When the mutineers had got clear of Meerut, they straggled along the great highway towards the Imperial City. They were a broken horde now; some of them were mounted, some on foot, while the scum and villainy of the bazaars followed in their wake. A mile or two in advance of them was Jewan Bukht, with the captive Flora Meredith, who had remained in a state of insensibility in the bottom of the buggy from the time of leaving the bungalow. As his horse tore along, he occasionally glanced backward, and smiled with satisfaction as he saw the flames of the burning city leaping high in the air. The rays of the rising sun were burnishing the domes and minarets of the Imperial City as he arrived on the banks of the Jumna, which looked like liquid gold in the morning light.
He hurried across the bridge of boats to the Calcutta Gate, where a few hours before Lieutenant Harper had entered. He was well known to the guard at the gate, who greeted him with laughter and cheers. Flora had recovered her senses, but was weary and ill; but as the horse’s hoofs clattered on the stone pavement, she raised her head, and looked out. When the Sepoys at the gate saw her, they set up a loud laugh, and exclaimed, “Oh, oh, Jewan, thou hast done well!”
Jewan did not answer, but drove straight on, until, crossing a broad courtyard, he alighted at the door of a pile of buildings in the rear of the Palace. He lifted Flora out, for she was too weak to rise. He carried her into a luxurious apartment, and placed her upon a couch. Scarcely had he done so than Moghul Singh, the orderly of the guard, entered hurriedly.
“Good greetings, Jewan,” he exclaimed. Then, noticing the pale form of Miss Meredith, he laughed slyly, and added, “So, so; you have caught a bird! By the Prophet, but she is a bonny one too!”
Flora seemed to be quite unconscious of what was passing around her. She had let her head fall upon the arms of the couch, and had buried her face in her hands.
“But what do you want here?” the orderly continued. “Know you not that your presence is urgently required in Cawnpore?”
“No, I did not know that,” Jewan answered, as a look of annoyance crossed his face. “But whence got you this information?”
“From Teeka Singh. He was here yesterday, and said you were to lose no time in hurrying to the Nana. Nay, he expects you this very day.”
“That is unfortunate,” Jewan remarked, biting his lips with vexation.
Moghul laughed, and, pointing to Flora, said—
“You must choose between pleasure and duty.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Jewan, angrily.
“Mean,” retorted the other; “why, I mean that you must give up your mistress to serve your master.”
“No; I can retain the one and do the other. From the Nana I shall derive wealth, greatness, position. It is worth some sacrifice to gain them. But I have risked too much for this white-faced woman to let her go now. I will take her to Cawnpore.”
With a scream, Flora—who, though apparently unconscious, had heard the conversation between the two men—flung herself at the feet of Jewan, and, catching his hand between her own, cried—
“Oh, man, if you are not something less than human, do not take me away. Do not take me to Cawnpore. Let me remain here. Nay, kill me, rather than separate me for ever from those who are dear to me.”
She crouched at his feet; she held his hand tightly, and looked up into his face with such a look of sorrow, that it should have moved even a savage animal. But the man only laughed coarsely, and, with a sneer on his lips, said—
“Our power is returning. The white woman crouches at the feet of the despised Indian.”
“No, no; do not say despised,” she answered, her voice broken with sobs. “You have ever experienced the greatest kindness from my countrymen. Has not Mr. Gordon been a friend to you? Were you not nursed and tended with love and gentleness by white friends? Let some remembrance of all that has been done for you move your heart to pity me; and, rather than take me away, strike me dead now at your feet, and with my last breath I will bless you.”
“Why do you remind me that I have been a slave?” he answered, his eyes glowing with hatred. “Why do you utter a name in my ear that only serves to turn my heart to stone. Walter Gordon is your lover. I offer all that he can—love and faithfulness. You spurn me, and choose him. I hate him. Do you hear? And do you think that, after having risked so much to secure you, I shall let you escape? No; I’m for Cawnpore, and you go with me.”
She threw up her arms, and, with a pitiful cry, fell upon her face on the floor.
“The right stuff is in your nature, Jewan,” remarked the orderly, as he assisted his comrade to lift the insensible Flora to the couch.
“I am steel and iron,” was the answer; “that is, so far as these Feringhees are concerned.”
“That is good,” the other replied. “We must not know pity—we must be deaf to all supplications. I have a prisoner. The King gave him into my charge, and he shall die by my hand the moment the first batch of our comrades enters Delhi from Meerut.”
“Ah! is he an important one?”
“He is an English officer!”
“An English officer?”
“Yes; from Meerut.”
“Indeed. What is his name?”
“Harper; and he wears the uniform of a lieutenant.”
“Fate assists us,” Jewan answered. “I know the man. He is a friend of Walter Gordon’s, and once counselled him to discharge me. Kill him, kill him, Moghul! Or let me do it for you,” and, as the man spoke, a demoniacal expression passed over his face.
The devil, that had so long been kept down by the bonds of civilisation, was rising now, and the ferocity of his nature was asserting itself. All the examples that had been set him, all the kindness that had been shown to him, and all the prayers of Christianity that had been breathed into his ear, were blown to the winds, and he was simply the Hindoo, burning with hatred for the white man, and thirsting for his blood.
“I can do all the killing that is to be done, myself,” Moghul answered. “I am no chicken-heart. Besides, the King offers fifty rupees to every one who shall slay a British officer. Hark!” he suddenly cried, as the beat of a drum and the blast of a bugle were heard; “that is the signal that our comrades have come.”
He was about to hurry away, when Jewan stopped him.
“Stay a minute,” he said, “I must leave for Cawnpore immediately, or the road may be stopped by the English. Where shall I get a good horse and conveyance?”
“Go round to the Palace stables, and take your pick. But you must away at once, or every gate will be closed, and you will be unable to pass out. Farewell, the Prophet smile on you!”
Moghul Singh hurried away, and Jewan was alone with the still insensible girl. He looked at her with admiration, as she lay there, ghastly pale and ill, but still beautiful.
He bent over her, and, pressing his hot lips on her cold forehead, he murmured—
“You are mine; and I thank the fate that placed you in my power! This is a moment to have lived for.”
He hurried away, having first taken the precaution to lock the door and take the key with him. And, as he crossed the courtyard to the stables, the boom of a heavy gun sounded, dull and ominous, on the morning air.
The Meerut mutineers had reached the Jumna. They were swarming over the bridge of boats, and clamouring beneath the windows of the Palace.
Captain Douglas, who was then the Commandant of the Palace Guard, instantly ordered the Calcutta Gate to be closed.
This was done, and he sought the presence of the King, who, supporting his tottering limbs with a staff, met him in the Hall of Audience.
“Your Majesty,” cried Douglas, in an excited tone, “the Sepoys have revolted!”
“Have they so?” the King answered, with a cunning leer, his palsied limbs shaking with joy that caused his heart to quicken its pulsations.
“Have they so!” Douglas echoed, in astonishment. “Is that the only answer your Majesty has to make?”
“The only answer, Douglas. What can we do?”
“Do!—blow them to pieces with our guns!” was the reply of the brave Englishman.
Through the open windows of the Palace came the cry of the insurgents—
“We have killed the English in Meerut. Long live the King of Delhi. We have come to restore the Dynasty, to raise the House of Timour, to fight for the Faith!”
The King smiled with satisfaction, and Douglas, seeing the treachery of the King, hurried away to join the other Europeans of the guard.
The mutineers, finding the Calcutta Gate closed, rushed along the road that runs between the Palace walls and the river, until they reached the Ragghat Gate, which was instantly opened to them by the Mohammedans, and the murderous crew clattered into the town, shouting as they went—
“Glory to the Padishah, and death to the Feringhees!”
Then ensued a scene that can scarcely be described. They murdered every European they met; they set fire to every house, and then doubled back to the Calcutta Gate. Here Captain Douglas, Commissioner Fraser, and several other Englishmen, had stationed themselves. And, as the troopers galloped up, Fraser seized a musket, and shot the foremost one dead.
A buggy, with a horse attached, was standing by, for Commissioner Fraser had just driven up. He sprang into the vehicle, and, lashing the horse into a gallop, made for the Lahore Gate, whilst Douglas jumped into the ditch of the fort.
He was severely injured by the fall, but he was sheltered from the enemy’s fire. In a little while he was discovered by a soldier of his guard, whom he had once befriended. This man lifted him on his back, and carried him into the Palace, to a room where the English chaplain and his two daughters were listening to the horrible tumult below.
But soon it became known that the Europeans were there. Then a demoniacal crew rushed up the stairs, and, breaking into the room, massacred the little party with exultant ferocity.
It was a brief and bloody murder, as horrible as any that stained the walls of the Delhi Palace.
Next the courtyards were turned into stables, the Hall of Audience into a barrack-room; and the human fiends, tired with their long ride and their murderous work, strewed straw on the marble floors, and lay down to rest.
When the first excitement had passed, Jewan Bukht prepared to take his departure. He had secured one of the best horses and a light vehicle.
When he returned to the room where he had left Flora, he found that she had partly recovered, but was still dazed and bewildered.
He had procured some food and wine, and these he offered to her. The poor girl, faint from long fasting, ate a mouthful of the food. Then Jewan poured out some wine, which she took almost mechanically. She drained the glass.
Jewan watched her eagerly, as she laid her head wearily back on the couch. The wine was drugged. It soon took effect; and, in a few moments, poor Flora was once more insensible. Then the wretch wrapped her in a large cloak, and, lifting her in his arms, carried her to the buggy.
Just as he was about to apply the whip to the horse, Moghul Singh rushed up, and, in an excited tone, cried—
“There is treachery somewhere. My bird has flown!”
“What!—Harper?” Jewan asked.
“Yes. He has escaped from the stone room, the strongest in the Palace. But how he has got away is a mystery. Both doors were locked and bolted. He has been liberated by some of our own people. But he shall not escape me, for he cannot get outside of the Palace. Farewell; glory to the Prophet!” the man cried, as he rushed away again.
Jewan whipped his horse, and, waving his hand to several Sepoys who were standing about, he quitted the Palace by the Calcutta Gate, and, crossing the Jumna, reached the road that led to Lucknow, and giving his horse the reins, Delhi was soon left far behind.