A PERILOUS MISSION.
For many hours did Walter Gordon remain in his hiding-place behind the clump of trees, in company with the faithful ayah, Zeemit Mehal. He watched with sickened heart the flames wreathe themselves around the pretty bungalow, where he had known so many happy hours, until, in a little while, a heap of smouldering and blackened ruins was all that marked the spot where had once stood the peaceful home of his beloved. Many times did he narrowly escape being discovered by the howling demons, as they rushed about in frenzied excitement. His horse, used to scenes of commotion, remained quietly grazing where it had been tethered. Out on the compound, with the red flames flushing the white face, as if in mockery, was the dead body of Mrs. Meredith. It was an awful sight, and Walter would have jeopardised his life to have gone out and placed the body in some spot where it might remain until a chance of burial presented itself. But Mehal restrained him.
“To expose yourself is to court instant death,” she said. “Be quiet.”
Presently a gang of ruffians entered the compound, led by a well-known butcher of the town, named Mezza Korash. The man had long been notorious for his undisguised hatred for the British, and had on several occasions been imprisoned for robbery, and for offering insult to Her Majesty’s subjects. Their object was plunder, and some of the gang entered the smoking ruins of the bungalow in search of any valuables that might have escaped the flames.
As Mezza reached the spot where poor Mrs. Meredith was lying he suddenly stopped, and, spurning the corpse with his foot, burst into a coarse laugh.
“Ah, ah, comrades! look at this dog’s flesh,” he cried. “It was my hand that slew her. I was the first to fire a shot, and that shot was into the heart of this Feringhee woman. Glory to the Prophet, and death to the British!”
He hurried away, followed by his brutal companions, whose laughter made the night hideous.
As Gordon heard the words of the self-confessed murderer, his blood boiled; and if Zeemit had not forcibly held him back, he would have rushed out. But when the cowardly crew had gone away, he said—
“Zeemit, summary retribution must be meted out to that villain, and mine shall be the hand to strike him down. If he escapes me, I shall never be able to look Miss Meredith in the face again.”
“But what would you do?” asked the woman, in alarm.
“Drag him from his den, and shoot him like a dog.”
“But surely you will not throw your life away for a worthless purpose?”
“To bring down just punishment on the head of a double-dyed murderer is not a worthless purpose. I know the man well. His shop is in the bazaar, near the Nullah. At all hazards I go. If I return alive, I shall come back to Lieutenant Harper’s bungalow, in the lines. You hurry there without delay.”
As Mehal saw that further opposition to the will of the “fiery Englishman” would be useless, she allowed him to go forth. He loosed his horse from the tree, and sprang into the saddle; and, drawing his revolver, gripped it firmly in his hand. The city was comparatively quiet as he rode out of the compound. The lurid flames from the burning bungalows were paling before the dawning light of day. Dead bodies of natives were lying about the streets, where they had fallen before the resistless charge of the British soldiers, who, in obedience to the bugle-call, were straggling back to their barracks.
Gordon rode hurriedly forward, never drawing rein until he reached the bazaar. The ruffians of the gaols and the Goojur villages were slinking back to their homes with the coming of the morning light. The sudden presence of this dauntless white man appalled them; their cowardly natures caused them to crouch away like whipped curs, for it was only when banded together in large numbers that anything like courage animated their craven hearts.
With lips compressed, brows knit, and chest thrown back, Walter threaded his way through the tortuous streets of the bazaar until he reached the shop of the butcher, Mezza Korash, who, wearied with the night’s work, had thrown himself down on a matting before his door.
Without a moment’s hesitation Gordon jumped from his horse, and, seizing the murderer—who was a little thin man—in his powerful grip, he threw him, almost before he could realise his position, across his horse’s neck, and, springing up behind, galloped away amidst the shouts of the astonished natives, a few of whom sent random shots after the flying horseman, but without effect.
Mezza struggled frantically to free himself from his captor; but he was like a pigmy in the hands of a Goliath. Gordon had twisted his hand in the man’s body-cloth, and held him in a vice-like grasp. When he reached the Mall he met a body of artillerymen, who were returning from the Delhi road, after having chased the mutineers for some miles.
“I have captured a murderer,” cried Gordon, as he hurried up. “His hands are yet red with the blood of his victim. Shooting were too good for such a cur. A rope, men—a rope!”
When the cowardly Mezza heard this he whined for mercy, begging that he might be shot instead of hanged; for death by the rope precludes a Mohammedan from all hope of heaven. But his prayer was unheeded. A rope was speedily produced, and thrown over the limb of a banyan tree; a running noose was placed round the neck of the villain Mezza, who rent the air with his howls. A dozen hands grasped the slack of the rope, and instantly the coward’s body was dangling in the morning breeze. It was a summary act of vengeance, as daring as it was just.[2]
Walter rode back to the barracks in company with the men, who were enthusiastic in their praise of Gordon’s bold deed. When he reached Harper’s bungalow, he was shocked to hear that Mrs. Harper was very ill.
“If I fall, you will be a brother to my wife?” were the last words of his friend, as he parted from him the previous night on the Delhi road.
And, with these words ringing in his ears, he sought the presence of Mrs. Harper. She was deathly pale, and terribly ill, but she sprang towards him, and clutched his hand.
“God be praised, Walter, that you have come!” she cried. “But my husband, my sister, my mother—where are they?”
“You must not distress yourself like this,” he answered evasively, and trying to lead her back to the couch.
“Do not keep the news, however bad it is, from me. Better to know the worst at once, than suffer the nameless agony of suspense, when the fate of one’s dearest relatives is in question. My husband—what of him?”
“When I parted from him last night, I left him in perfect health. I have no doubt he would reach Delhi in safety.”
“Bless you for that news! And my sister—what of her?”
Gordon grew pale; strong man as he was, the tears gathered in his eyes, into his throat came a sensation as if a ball had suddenly been placed there, and was choking him; for his love for Flora Meredith was as strong as it was honourable.
And as he thought of what her fate might be, his emotion overpowered him.
“You do not answer,” cried Mrs. Harper, excitedly, as she noticed the red fade from his face, and a pallor spread over it. “Does she live? Speak, I conjure you.”
“She lives,” he answered, sorrowfully.
“Lives! and yet she is not with you!” Mrs. Harper almost shrieked, as a terrible thought flitted through her brain.
“Do not excite yourself, Emily, I beg, for you are endangering your life. Your sister lives, but has been abducted by Jewan Bukht.”
With a cry of despair, Mrs. Harper fell upon her knees on the floor. Gordon raised her gently, and carried her to the couch. He then procured smelling-salts and water.
“You are better now,” he remarked, as he saw the ashen paleness give place to a faint flush.
“Yes, yes. I can bear the worst. Go on; my, my poor mother—does she live?”
“Alas, no! A quick and merciful death has spared her all misery.”
Mrs. Harper bowed her head upon her hands and wept.
The weight of sorrow that had so suddenly fallen upon her young head was almost unbearable, and the frail thread of life threatened to snap.
She grew calmer presently. She brushed away her tears and stood up before him.
“At such an awful time as this,” she said, “the dead are to be envied. I cannot hope that my poor husband and I will ever meet again. He went to Delhi. He is a soldier—a brave one—and will do his duty. But behind him are the mutineers. When they reach the Imperial City, few, if any, white men will escape the carnage that will ensue after their arrival. But even if he should be fortunate enough to come safely through the chances of war, my end is near. I have not been well for a long time. The terribly hot season of this awful climate has fearfully enervated me; and it had been arranged between my husband and me that I was to return to Europe. But it is all over now. This shock is too much for an already shattered constitution to bear, and in a very short time my sorrows will end, and I shall join my mother. Give me your hands, Walter; the other one as well. Look into my eyes, brother—for so I may call you—and listen to my words, as the words of a dying woman. My sister is in robust health; she is young and beautiful. She is your betrothed. She would, in a short time, have been your wife. Her honour, which is dearer to her than life, is imperilled. Let your mission be to save her—if that is possible. With your eyes looking into mine—with both your hands placed in mine—promise me, I, who stand on the very verge of the grave, that you will rescue my sister, or perish in the attempt. Remember she is your affianced wife, and her honour is yours.”
“I need no such reminder,” he answered with closed teeth; “my course is clear—my mind made up. In a few hours, whatever the hazards—whatever the peril—I shall be on the road to Delhi, and I will save your sister, or perish in the attempt!”
“Some good angel will surely hear your words,” Emily replied, “and will write them in the book where the deeds of brave men are recorded, and a just Heaven will reward your efforts.”
She had spoken as if she had been inspired, but the great effort had exhausted her, and she sank back upon the couch, pallid and trembling.
And Gordon knew too well that in the Indian climate such extreme prostration was an almost certain sign of coming death.
A few hours had served to bring about terrible changes in each of their lives; and what the end might be, no man could tell. But he braced himself up to do his duty, and mentally vowed never to cease his search for the lost Flora while he had reason to believe that she lived, and while health and strength were his.
“You must remain very quiet now, and get rest,” he said, as he placed a pillow under the head of Mrs. Harper. “Your sister’s ayah, Zeemit Mehal, promised to meet me here; I must go and seek her, and arrange my plans with her; for she has promised to go with me.”
“That is good,” Emily murmured; “if this woman remains faithful, her services will be invaluable.”
“I will answer for her fidelity. She might have betrayed me into the hands of her savage countrymen, but she has been true.”
Walter soon found Zeemit. She was waiting for him in the verandah of the bungalow. She had brought with her some powder for staining the skin, and a native dress—that of a religious mendicant.
“With this disguise,” she said, “you may penetrate into any part of India, free from molestation. This staff, carried by none but religious pilgrims, will be a passport of safety.”
“This idea is excellent,” he answered; “but there is one great difficulty which seems to me to be insurmountable. I have but a very slight knowledge of the language of the country, and this will betray me.”
“Yes, it would, if you let it be known.”
“But how am I to avoid letting it be known?”
“You must be dumb.”
“Dumb?”
“Yes, loss of speech and hearing must be the afflictions under which you suffer. This will ensure you sympathy. I shall be your aged mother conducting you to our sacred shrines. So long as your disguise is not penetrated, no one will dare to offer us harm.”
“This arrangement is capital, Zeemit, and no reward will be too great for you to demand if my mission is successful.”
The powder was made into a paste, and with the assistance of Mehal, Gordon proceeded to stain the skin until it appeared of the dark copper colour peculiar to the Bengalees. His black hair and eyes were favourable to the disguise, and when he had donned the native cloth, and fastened on a pair of sandals, it would have been a keen penetration indeed that would have recognised the Englishman in the garb of the Hindoo pilgrim. To test the completeness of his disguise, he presented himself before Mrs. Harper, who immediately asked him in Hindoostanee what he meant by intruding on her privacy. And not until he spoke did she recognise him.
“This is a splendid device,” she said, when Walter had made known the old woman’s plan; “and if you are discreet you may yet save poor Flora. Let me see Zeemit and personally thank her.”
When the old ayah entered, Mrs. Harper took her hand and kissed her.
“You are a faithful creature, Zeemit, and my brave countryman shall reward you amply.”
“I need no reward, mem-sahib; I wish only to rescue missy, whom I love. For has she not always been good and kind to poor old Zeemit? And Zeemit is grateful, and will save her if she can.”
Mrs. Harper shook the woman’s hands heartily.
“There is no time to lose,” she said, addressing Gordon. “May Heaven watch over you. We shall never meet again. I feel sure of that, for I am so very, very ill. But if you see my husband, tell him that the last words the lips of his poor wife uttered were his name, and a prayer for his safety and happiness.”
As Gordon looked into the speaker’s face, he felt the full force of what she said, for death seemed to have already settled upon her; and the enervating nature of the climate precluded all hope when once the fearful prostration had seized one. He knew that, and yet it was very awful to think that he must speak the last words that ever he would have a chance of speaking to her in this world. But it was a time for action, not useless regret. However poignant the grief for the dying or the dead might be, the safety of the healthful and the living was a matter calling for the first consideration.
His parting with Mrs. Harper was affecting in the extreme, and he was glad to hurry away. When he had secured a pair of loaded revolvers beneath his clothes, he took his staff, and uttering a final adieu, left the apartment in company with Zeemit.
As the two walked through the city, and gained the great high-road, none of the many hundred natives they passed suspected they were anything but what they seemed to be—a decrepid old woman, and an afflicted, half-witted beggar son, hurrying away to pursue their calling in some more peaceful district. And not a few pice were tossed to them by those who had pity for the beggars, but none for the Christians.
The sun was pouring down his fiery beams; the Goomtee was rippling on like a stream of living fire; the air was heavy with dust, and all things were hushed to silence by the great heat, as Walter Gordon started upon his perilous mission, acting his part as if to the manner born, for a great purpose nerved him, and there is not much a true and brave man will not do for the woman he loves.