THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE.[3]
For many years, up to eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, Cawnpore had been one of the greatest Indian military stations. In the palmy days of the Honourable East India Company all the officers invariably spent some period of their service there. As a consequence, there were wealth and beauty and fashion to be found in the British quarters; there were luxury and ease, and their concomitants, profligacy and vice—and yet withal it was perhaps neither better nor worse than all great military centres—while for rollicking gaiety and “life” it stood at the head, even Calcutta being behind it in this respect. But when the mutiny broke out, Cawnpore’s sun was declining,—not but what it was still a station of importance, but the coming end of the “Company’s” power had brought about many changes in this as well as in most other Indian cities.
It was an irregularly built place, some eight miles in extent. Squalor and wealth seemed to fraternise; for in many parts the lordly mansion raised its head beside some tumble-down, reeking native den. There was no pretension to anything like mathematical precision in the streets. They had been laid out in the most promiscuous manner. In fact, it might not inaptly be said that if you wanted to construct a Cawnpore such as it was at the time of our story, you must take a big plain with lots of cocoa-palms about, and a broad river running through it. Then get many hundreds of bamboo and mud huts; a few marble palaces, some temples with gilded minarets, a few big public buildings, a hospital or two, a gaol, and a quantity of miscellaneous structures, such as an arsenal, barracks, etc., shake them all up together, and toss them out on the plain, and there you have your Cawnpore.
To be accurate in the description, which is necessary to the better understanding and interest of this history, the city is built on the banks of the Ganges. The British lines were on the southern bank, and in the centre of the cantonment, and leading from a point opposite the city, was a bridge of boats to the Lucknow road on the other bank. Lying between the roads to Bhitoor and Delhi were many of the principal civilians’ houses. Beyond the lines were the gaol, the treasury, and churches; while squeezed up in the north-west corner was the magazine. In the centre, between the city and the river, were the assembly-rooms—made notorious by subsequent events—a theatre, a church, and the telegraph office. The place was well provided with entertainments. There were splendid shops, and they were well stocked with goods of every description, from almost every country in the world. Western civilisation and Indian primitiveness were linked.
In this terrible “57” Cawnpore was commanded by a General of Division, Sir Hugh Wheeler, who resided there with the Division staff. But although there was an immense strength of native soldiery, not a single European regiment was garrisoned in the place, the only white troops being about fifty men of her Majesty’s Eighty-fourth and a few Madras Fusiliers. Sir Hugh was a gallant officer, who had served the “Company” long and honourably, and was covered with scars and glory. But the sands of life were running low, for upwards of seventy summers and winters had passed over his head. A short time before, the only regiment that had been stationed in Cawnpore for a long time had been sent to Lucknow. This was the Thirty-second Queen’s. But they left behind them all the impedimenta, in the shape of wives, children, and invalids; and the awful responsibility of protecting these helpless beings devolved upon the time-worn veteran. Some little distance out on the Bhitoor road, there stood a magnificent dwelling, a veritable palace, with numberless outbuildings, courtyards, and retainers’ quarters. It was the home of the Rajah of Bhitoor, Dundoo Pant, otherwise Nana Sahib. His wealth at this time was almost boundless. He had troops of horses, and elephants, and quite a regiment of private soldiers. Many a time had his roof rang with the hearty laughter of English ladies and gentlemen. He was the trusted friend of the Feringhees, was this Mahratta prince. They loaded him with wealth, with favours, with honour, did all but one thing—recognise his right to succession. And their refusal to do this transformed the man, who, although a courteous gentleman outwardly, was a tyrant in his home life, and this failure to gratify his ambition turned his heart to flint, and developed in him the sanguinary nature of the tiger, without the tiger’s honesty. Well indeed had he concealed his disappointment since “52,” when Azimoolah, who had gone to England to plead the prince’s cause, returned to report his failure. To speak of Azimoolah as a tiger would be a libel on the so-called royal brute. He might fittingly be described as representing in disposition the fiends of the nether world, whose mission is to destroy all good, to develop all evil, to drag down the souls of human beings to perdition. He was the bad tool of a bad master, if he did not absolutely lead that master to some extent. Allied to the twain was Teeka Singh, soubahdar of the Second Cavalry. The trio were as cowardly a set of villains as ever made common cause in a bad case.
Between the King of Delhi and the Nana there had been numberless communications and frequent interviews, spreading over a period of some years. The imbecile puppet of Delhi fondly imagined that he could be a king in power as well as name, and he looked to Nana of Bhitoor as a man who could help him to gain this end. Actuated by similar motives, Nana Sahib fraternised with the King for the sake of the influence he would command. But between the two men there was an intense hatred and jealousy. Each hoped to make the other a tool. It was the old fable of the monkey and the cat realised over again. Both wanted the nuts, but each feared to burn his fingers. In one thing they were unanimous—they hated the English. They writhed under the power of the Great White Hand, and wished to subdue it. But although the King betrayed this so that he incurred the mistrust of the English, the Nana was a perfect master in the art of dissembling, and all that was passing in his mind was a sealed book to his white friends.
When the revolt broke out in Meerut, old Sir Hugh Wheeler fondly believed that the storm could not possibly spread to Cawnpore. But as the days wore on, signs were manifested that caused the General considerable uneasiness. Some of the native soldiers became insubordinate and insolent. Still he felt no great alarm, for in an emergency he had his trusted and respected friend the Rajah to fly to for assistance. The General, iron-willed and dauntless himself, showed no outward signs of mistrust. He had passed his life amongst the natives. He loved them with a love equalling a father’s. He respected their traditions, honoured their institutions, venerated their antiquity; and while the storm, distant as yet, was desolating other parts of the fair land, he betrayed no doubts about the fidelity of his troops. Morning after morning he rode fearlessly amongst them, his genial face and cheery voice being seen and heard in all quarters. But as the mutterings of the storm grew louder and more threatening, anxiety for the hundreds of helpless people on his hands filled him. He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was danger—a terrible danger—in the air. It was his duty to use every endeavour to guard against it, and he felt that the time had come to appeal to his friend the Rajah.
He rode over to the Bhitoor Palace, and was received by the Nana with studied courtesy and respect.
“I have come to solicit aid from your Highness,” the old General began, as he seated himself on a luxurious lounge in what was known as the “Room of Light,” so called from its princely magnificence. The roof was vaulted, and, in a cerulean ground, jewels, to represent stars, were inserted, and, by a peculiar arrangement, a soft, violet light was thrown over them, so that they scintillated with dazzling brightness. The walls were hung with the most gorgeous coloured and richest silks from Indian looms. The senses were gratified with mingled perfumes, which arose from dozens of hidden censers. The most exquisite marble statues were arranged about with the utmost taste. Mechanical birds poured forth melodious floods of song. The sound of splashing water, as it fell gently into basins of purest Carrara marble, rose dreamily on the air. Soft and plaintive music, from unseen sources, floated and flowed around. The floor was covered with cloth of spotless silver; a profusion of most costly and rare furs were scattered about. Articles of vertu, priceless china, gilded time-pieces, gorgeous flowers, and magnificent fruits were there to add to the bewilderment of richness and beauty. While over all, through delicately-tinted violet and crimson glass, there streamed a mellow light, the effect of which was the very acmé of perfection. It was verily a bower of dreams, a fairy boudoir. A confused medley of colour, of beauty, and sweet sounds, that was absolutely intoxicating and bewildering.[4]
It was here that the Rajah, attired in all the gorgeousness of a wealthy Mahratta prince, and attended by a brilliant suite, received Sir Hugh Wheeler.
“My services are at your command, General,” was the Nana’s soft answer. But his dusky cheeks burned with the joy that animated his cruel heart as he thought that his day-star was rising; that the stream of time was bringing him his revenge; that the great nation which had been the arbiter of others’ fate, had become a suppliant for its own. “In what way can I render you assistance?” he asked after a pause.
“Your Highness is aware,” the General answered, “that there rests upon my shoulders a very grave responsibility, and I may be pardoned if I confess to some anxiety for the safety of the large number of women and children who are under my care.”
“But what is the danger you apprehend, General?” and the Nana laughed loudly, coarsely, and it might have been gloatingly; for he stood there, in that paradise of beauty, a spirit of evil, and in his soul there was but one feeling—it was the feeling of revenge. His heart throbbed revenge; in his ears a voice cried revenge. It was his only music, night and day it went on ceaselessly; he listened to it; he bowed down and worshipped before the god of destruction and cruelty. For years he had prayed for the gratification of but one desire—the desire to have these Feringhees in his power; and the answer to that prayer was coming now. Neither wealth nor the luxury that wealth could purchase could give him one jot of the pleasure that he would experience in seeing the streets of Cawnpore knee-deep in English blood. He felt himself capable of performing deeds that a Robespierre, a Danton, a Marat, ay, even a Nero himself, would have shuddered at, for the barbarities of the Roman tyrant were the inventions of a brain that beyond doubt was deeply tainted with insanity. But no such excuse as this could ever be pleaded for the Rajah of Bhitoor. It would be impossible for the pen of fiction to make this man’s nature blacker than it was; he was a human problem, beyond the hope of human solution; one of those monstrosities that occasionally start up in the world of men to appal us with their awfulness, and seemingly to substantiate the old belief that in the garb of humanity fiends of darkness dwell upon the earth. And yet, with a wonderful power of self-control, he betrayed nothing of what he felt.
“Objectionable as it is for me to have to think so,” answered the General to the Nana’s question, “there is a fire smouldering in the breasts of the native regiments here stationed; they have caught the taint which is in the air, and a passing breath may fan the fire into a blaze, or the most trivial circumstance develop the disease. After what has been done at Meerut and Delhi, we know to what length the Demon of Discord can go when once it breaks loose!”
“I think you are alarming yourself unnecessarily, General; but, since you desire it, pray tell me in what way my services can be utilised?”
“Firstly, then, I must ask you to post a strong body of your retainers, with a couple of guns, at the Newab-gung. This place commands the treasury and the magazine, both exposed places, and the first places that will be attacked in case of a revolt.”
“You English look well after your money stores, Sir Hugh,” jocularly remarked Azimoolah, who had been examining a large portfolio of water-colour drawings of English “beauty spots.” And as he stepped forward a few paces, he rubbed his hands, and his face was contorted with a sardonic smile. I say contorted, for it was a singular characteristic of this man that he could not laugh; the hearty cachinnation of honest men became in this one a mere contortion of the facial muscles; and his eyes, cold and snake-like, glittered with a deadly light. “I noted, as the result of close observation when in England,” he continued, “that this same money was a very much worshipped god; and those who had it were flattered and fawned upon, and those who had it not were the despised and rejected.”
“But is that not a principle unfortunately common to every people?” Sir Hugh remarked.
“Possibly; but I think nowhere is it so conspicuous as in England. And, after all, I think that there is a good deal of emptiness in the boasted freedom of the English; for the poor are slaves in all but name, and the task-masters of Southern America are not more grinding or exacting than are your English lords and capitalists. The dogs and horses of your wealthy squires are housed and fed infinitely better than are your poor.”
“I think you are prejudiced against my nation,” said the General.
“Possibly so,” was the pointed answer, “and, perhaps, not without cause; for I found that the English are much given to preaching what they never think of practising; and the boasted liberality of John Bull is a pleasant fiction, like many more of the virtues of that much vaunted personage.”
“But to return to the subject of our conversation,” joined in the Nana, as if fearing that Azimoolah’s feelings would betray him into some indiscretion; and so he was anxious to put an end to the discussion. “You wish me to place a guard over your arsenal and treasury?”
“That is my desire,” said Wheeler.
“Good; orders shall at once be given for two hundred of my retainers to march to the Newab-gung. That point being settled satisfactorily, what is your next request, General?”
“That you will hold your troops in instant readiness to join my little body of men, and suppress the insurrection, should it unfortunately break out.”
“That also shall be complied with,” smiled the Nana. “Anything further to request?”
“I think not; but I cannot allow the opportunity to pass without thanking your Highness for your ready acquiescence to my wishes, and in the name of my country I further tender you thanks for your devotion and loyalty.”
The Nana smiled again and bowed, and Azimoolah adjusted his gold eye-glasses, and pretended to be busy in his examination of the portfolio; but into his face came back the expression of ferocious joy, and it was with difficulty he suppressed an audible chuckle.
The business upon which he had come being ended, the General took his departure.
“Inflated fool!” muttered the Rajah, when his guest had gone. “Loyalty and devotion forsooth! Umph! bitterness and hatred methinks.”
“The brow of your Highness is clouded,” said Azimoolah fawningly, as he closed the portfolio and came forward.
“Clouded?” laughed the Nana; “no, no, Azi, clouds sit not there. It is joy. Joy, my faithful. Ah, ah, ah, ah! Clouds, indeed! By our sacred writings, I should be unworthy of my sire if I allowed a cloud to darken the joy I feel. Ah, ah, ah! the confidence of these English is amazing. They think they can put their heads into the lion’s jaw with impunity. Well, well, let them do it. The lion knows when to close his jaws at the right moment.”
“Say rather, your Highness, that the tiger, having scented quarry, knows how to track it to the death with downy tread, and spring as light as air.”
“Aptly said, Azi, and so it shall be. They shall say I am the tiger before I’ve done. Come,” linking his arm in Azimoolah’s, “let us walk in the grounds. Order the dance for to-night, and let there be a display of fireworks. By the beard of Mahomet, we will make merry. ‘With downy tread, and spring as light as air.’ Ah, ah, ah! So it shall be.”
The mechanical birds were warbling sweetly, and unseen censers were making the air balmy with delicious perfume, the silken curtains rustled pleasantly, the falling water plashed musically. There was peace and beauty around, above, below; but in the hearts of these two men, as they went out, laughing sardonically, there was the deadly poison of human hatred, and no shadow of the Great White Hand disturbed them in the hour of their supposed triumph. Indeed the Nana believed that the power of the British in India was fast waning, never to be restored.