A NARROW ESCAPE.
When Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal had got clear of Meerut, and fairly on the great highway, they turned into a paddy (rice) field, where there was a small bamboo hut. Into this they crept, for the heat of the sun was so terrific, and walking was almost impossible. Suffering from extreme fatigue, Walter threw himself into a heap of straw, and thought over the terrible events of the last two hours, and as he remembered that Flora Meredith was in the hands of the enemy, he felt distracted, and inclined to continue his journey without a moment’s delay. But, however strong his energy, his physical powers were not equal to it, for even the natives themselves felt prostrated by the intense heat of the Indian summer. And yet it was awful to have to remain there while she who was dearer to him than life itself was surrounded with deadly peril.
He wondered what had become of his friend Harper. Had he escaped death? and if so, would he be able to return to Meerut to comfort his dying wife? for Walter had no doubt in his own mind that Mrs. Harper was stricken down never more to rise. Even if he were fortunate enough to discover his friend and his affianced, he would have sorry news to convey to them. But it was the time of sorry news. Nay, it was but the very commencement of a long period, during which there would be no other news but that of suffering, of sorrow, and death. The storm had indeed burst, with a fury undreamt of—unparalleled; and through the darkness scarcely one gleam of hope shone. From mouth to mouth, amongst the natives, the terrible words had passed—“Death to the beef-devouring, swine-eating Feringhees!” They were truly awful words, well calculated to inflame the minds of the black races, who had for years been taught by their leaders and their priests to cherish in their hearts an undying hatred for the British; to look upon the Great White Hand as a hard and grinding one, that should be crushed into the dust, and its power for ever destroyed. The dogs of war had been slipped, and Havoc and Destruction stalked hand in hand through the land. And though the “lightning posts” might flash the news to the great towns, it was doubtful if succour could be sent in time to prevent the spread of the awful desolation.
As these and similar thoughts flitted through the restless brain of Walter Gordon, he realised that the position of himself and his friends called for the most decisive action. In a few brief hours his own little circle had been broken. His friend Harper had gone, and, in all probability, would be one of the early victims. That friend’s wife was drawing near the end of her earthly troubles. Mrs. Meredith was already dead, and what the fate of Flora might be he shuddered to contemplate. This latter thought distracted him, and he seemed to be suddenly endowed with superhuman strength.
“I must go!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Zeemit, Zeemit, do you hear?” for the old woman had fallen asleep. “Zeemit, I say, let us continue our journey. This inaction is maddening, and it were better to dare the sun’s rays than fall a victim to one’s own thoughts.”
Zeemit started from her slumber. His excited looks and tone for a moment bewildered her. But she speedily grasped the purport of his words.
“Sahib, sahib!” she cried, “you will betray yourself if you have not more discretion. Remember you are supposed to be dumb, and the moment you use your voice the very walls may have ears to catch your words.”
“But, Zeemit, I cannot endure to remain here, knowing the awful peril in which Miss Flora stands; and that the slightest delay on my part may be fatal to her.”
“If you would be of service, sahib, you must reserve your strength. To attempt to continue the journey under this noon-day heat, would be to court your own destruction. Rest and have patience.”
“You reason well, Zeemit, but how can I have patience under such circumstances? Succour must reach Miss Meredith immediately if she is to be saved.”
“But you cannot quicken the wind or chain the lightning, sahib, nor can you cool the sun’s rays. These things must be endured. When night closes in, and the fresh breezes blow, then is your time for action. But you must have caution. If you speak, let your words be uttered in whispers, for there is danger in the very air.”
Suddenly she uttered a suppressed cry of alarm. Her eyes had been fixed on a small window at the end of the hut, which was covered with a bamboo flap; but this flap had been broken away on one side, and through the opening a face was grinning. It was withdrawn the moment its owner was aware that it had been discovered.
“Sahib, we are betrayed!” she exclaimed, as she hurried to the door in time to see a Coolie moving quickly away.
Gordon followed her, and, drawing one of his revolvers, levelled it at the retreating figure of the native, and fired. But the shot missed its mark, and, with the fleetness of a deer, the man sped away, and was soon beyond range.
“This is unfortunate, Zeemit,” said Walter, as he restored the revolver to his belt.
“It is even as I say,” answered Mehal; “there is danger in the very air. That Coolie, no doubt, lives in this hut. He was returning here, when he heard your voice. He will quickly spread the news, and we shall be followed. There is no time to be lost. We stand in imminent danger; and, at all hazards now, must quit the place. Remember, from this moment, you are dumb.”
Gordon felt the full force of the old woman’s words, but he made no answer, though he mentally blamed himself for his indiscretion. But the mischief was done, and there was no helping it now.
He silently followed his companion, and they went out into the glare of the sun. The heat was still terrific, for it was only a little past mid-day. For a time, Walter kept bravely on, but his strength soon began to fail him.
Even old Indians never thought of walking at such times, and he, a new-comer, was not yet inured to the climate. A feeling of oppression seized him, and he could scarcely resist the desire to lie down by the road-side. But, encouraged by Mehal, and buoyed up with the thought that every mile brought him nearer to Delhi, where he hoped to meet the object of his search, he struggled bravely on. The dusty road, treeless and shelterless, seemed to quiver in the heat. His mouth was parched with thirst, and his limbs tottered beneath him. But, with the resolution of despair, he kept up for yet a little while longer.
“Zeemit,” he said at last, “I can go no farther; I am sinking.”
“No, no; you must not stop here, or you will die. See; look ahead! To the left there, there is a clump of jungle. In that jungle is a dawk-house, where the palanquin bearers rest when travelling backwards and forwards. It is but half-a-mile, and you will there find shelter, for it is almost sure to be deserted now. Come, sahib. Courage!”
Thus cheered by his faithful companion, he struggled on, his eyes almost blinded with the glare, his brain in a whirl, his limbs trembling as if he had been stricken with an ague. Had he not been a strong man, he would have fallen by the wayside, and then death must have speedily ensued. But he held up. The welcome goal was reached at last, and he tottered in.
The place was one of the small, square, flat-roofed, stuccoed bungalows to be found on the high roads in all parts of India at that period. They were generally erected at the Government expense, and were used as shelters for travellers, and as places where change of horses could be had for the mail-dawks. It was two storeys high, and contained four rooms, with a circular stairway at one corner leading to the upper storey and the roof. At the back of the bungalow was a compound and a stable, and beyond a patch of jungle. Round the building ran the indispensable verandah; and a small doorway, screened by a portico, gave entrance to the house.
Utterly exhausted, Gordon struggled into one of the lower rooms. It contained a cane-bottom lounge fixed to the wall; on to this he threw himself; and in a very few minutes nature succumbed, and he was asleep.
Zeemit did not follow him, for two Coolies were lying on a bamboo-matting in the verandah, and they rose up as the travellers reached the house.
“Peace be with you, countrymen,” said the old woman, addressing them. “Sorrow is mine, for my poor son is stricken with illness, and we have far to go.”
“Where are you journeying to, mother?” asked one of the men, when he had returned Zeemit’s greeting.
“Alas, my son, where should we journey to but to that great city where the King dwells, and where we hope to find rest and plenty.”
“Allah guide you!” the man answered. “The Moghul will be restored, the Feringhees will be exterminated, and our race will be raised to power again. But come you from Meerut?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know the latest news. Are the Europeans going to follow our friends to Delhi?”
“No. They have, to a man, returned to Meerut.”
“Allah be praised!” cried the Coolie, springing to his feet. “That is news indeed. I and my companion then will accompany you to Delhi, and we will serve these foreigners no more. Fearing that the Europeans would follow our friends out of Meerut, we have remained at our posts here, dreading to be overtaken. But the news you bring is good, and we will seek better fortune than is to be gained by attending to the Feringhee travellers who stop here.”
“When my son is refreshed, we will continue our journey in company,” answered Zeemit, as she passed into the house; and the two Coolies coiled themselves upon their matting again.
The unexpected meeting with these two men was a source of trouble to her; for if their suspicions should be aroused, the object of the journey might be frustrated. Moreover, she feared that the man she had seen at the hut in the paddy field would give pursuit as soon as he had armed himself, and got some of his comrades to join him; for he would know that the Englishman could not go very far, and could soon be overtaken. She looked at Gordon; he was steeped in a death-like sleep, and even if she had been inclined, she could not have aroused him until rest had somewhat restored him.
She made a survey of the house. The windows were only guarded with jalousies, which offered no protection; so that, if the place should be attacked, escape would be almost impossible.
Some hours passed, and nothing occurred to justify her suspicions. Many an anxious glance did she cast back to the white road along which they had travelled.
The cool breeze was commencing to blow, the sun was declining, and she began to hope that the danger she feared would be averted. With the departing heat of day the Coolies aroused themselves from their lethargy, and commenced to cook their evening meal of curry and rice. Zeemit also lit a fire of charcoal, and taking some rice from her waist-cloth, and begging a small fish from the Coolies, she made some supper in a lotah, or brass dish, and commenced to eat, having set aside a portion for Gordon, who still slept. As the shadows lengthened and the twilight came on, she was startled by seeing, far away down the road, in the direction from whence they had come, a cloud of dust arise. She knew in a moment that it was a signal of danger; that it was caused by a body of natives. In a few minutes this was confirmed. About two dozen men, as near as she could judge, were coming up, three or four of them being on horseback. They could have but one object, she thought, and that was pursuit of the Englishman, unless they were a band of fugitives flying to Delhi; but that did not seem probable, since, if it had been so, they would have been accompanied by women.
She hurried into the house. Gordon was still sleeping. She shook him; he turned over, and groaned. She shook him again, but he did not wake. There was not a moment to lose, for she could now hear faintly the ring of the advancing horses’ hoofs, as they rattled along the road. She grasped Gordon tightly in her arms, and, by a great effort of strength, dragged him off the lounge on to the floor. It had the desired effect, and he awoke. At this moment one of the Coolies entered. He had observed the advancing body, and exclaimed—
“We shall have goodly company on our way to Delhi.”
Gordon had raised himself on his elbow, and being dazed with the heavy sleep, and not realising his position, cried out in English—
“What does this mean? Who has thrown me down?”
The Coolie stood like one who had been suddenly transformed to stone. Then, with a cry, he bounded out of the room exclaiming—
“A Feringhee in disguise, and a treacherous country-woman. Death to them.”
“We are lost,” Zeemit murmured, still shaking Gordon.
But he needed no further shaking; that warning cry had aroused him into full activity again, and he sprang to his feet. And though he did not comprehend the full extent of the danger, he realised that his disguise had been penetrated.
The body of natives were quite close now. The Coolies were flying down the road to meet them; and Zeemit heard the foremost horseman ask if they had seen a Feringhee in disguise. Then the answer was given—“Yes, yes; he is here.”
She seized Gordon by the arm, and fairly dragged him towards the door.
“Come,” she said; “the roof is our only place of safety.”
They hurried out of the door and gained the small round tower, common to Indian bungalows, and which contained the winding flight of steps used by the Bheestee Wallas, or water-carriers. By these steps the roof was gained. The entrance from this tower on to the roof was by a very narrow doorway. The door was of stout teak. On the roof were some bamboo poles. He seized one of these, and used it as a lever to dislodge a portion of the brick parapet. The débris he piled up against the small door, thus forming a most effectual barricade. He had two breech-loading revolvers and ample ammunition, and he did not doubt he would be able to hold his own for a considerable time.
“Do you know how to load these pistols, Zeemit?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, with sadness in her tone, for she knew that they must be levelled at her own countrymen. But love for her English mistress was strong in her heart, and it overcame all scruples.
Gordon glanced over the parapet. The crowd, numbering eighteen or nineteen, and several of them armed with guns, were close now. He was determined not to be the first to fire.
“What do you seek?” he cried, as the natives swarmed into the verandah.
“Death to the Feringhee,” was the only answer; and with a wild cry they sought the tower and rushed up the stairs, but they were unable to force the door. Down they went again, yelling and howling like infuriated demons, and they fired a volley at the roof—the bullets sending the cement flying in all directions, but otherwise doing no harm. Gordon no longer hesitated in the course to pursue, but levelling his revolver, fired the six shots in rapid succession, and with such good aim that five men rolled over. It was an unexpected reception, and the survivors were furious—some firing wildly at the roof, and others rushing off in search of combustibles wherewith to burn down the house. Gordon had little chance of picking any of them off now, for, taking warning by the fate of their comrades, they sheltered under the portico and behind trees.
It was almost too dark to see; night was closing in fast. Gordon recognised that his position was critical in the extreme, and, unless he could escape, death was certain. He peered over the parapet on all sides. At the back were the stables, and the roof was about ten feet from the parapet. It was the only chance. A yell of delight at this moment greeted him, and he could discern some of the natives rushing towards the house with a long ladder, which they had discovered in the compound.
He hesitated for a moment. If he remained on the roof he could keep his assailants at bay as long as the ammunition held out; but if he should be discovered when on the ground, all hope would be gone. His mind, however, was soon made up, as he saw other natives bearing heaps of wood and undergrowth, with the intention of burning him out. There was no time to be lost. If once they lighted that fire, its glare would discover to them his whereabouts. He must take advantage of the darkness. He speedily made known his plan to Zeemit. She acquiesced immediately, and, getting over the parapet, dropped lightly on to the roof. Gordon followed, just as the ladder was reared against the other side of the house.
From the roof of the stable to the ground the descent was easy, and in a few minutes Gordon and his faithful companion had gained the jungle. As they did so, they heard the cry of rage which their foes gave vent to as they reached the roof and found that those whom they sought had flown.