WITH A LOVE THAT PASSETH UNDERSTANDING.
The signs of dissatisfaction which had alarmed General Wheeler for the safety of his community gradually increased. The smothered fire was gaining strength. It muttered and rumbled, and gave evidence that a tremendous outbreak was imminent.
Sir Hugh was loath to believe in the infidelity of his troops, and hesitated about taking steps for self-protection. But there were those about him who had less of the optimist in their natures than he, and who were loud in their condemnation of his supineness. They urged him in every possible manner to take instant steps to place the cantonments in a state of defence, until he could no longer turn a deaf ear to their entreaties.
But though he had been slow to take this step, it must not be assumed that Sir Hugh Wheeler was unmindful of the awful responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. His was as brave a heart as ever beat in human breast, but out of his very bravery arose the danger to those under his charge.
He knew the character of the natives well. He knew that they writhed under a sense of supposed wrong, and that the slightest touch will cause an open wound to smart. He was, therefore, fearful of letting them see that the English mistrusted them. He acted upon the old principle that confidence begets confidence. Moreover, he had firm faith in Nana Sahib. He knew that as a native the Rajah had infinitely greater power over the native mind than an European could possibly have had.
Sir Hugh’s confidence, too, seemed fully justified, for the Nana had readily complied with the request made to him, and had posted two hundred of his troops at the Newab-gung. This was a slightly elevated position, and fully commanded the arsenal and treasury.
A couple of guns on the spot, served by determined and faithful soldiers, could have kept a regiment at bay; but the fact of the Nana’s assassins—for no other term is applicable to them—being placed there was the very irony of fate. Into their hands had been given a wealthy treasury, and a well-stocked arsenal. All they had to do when the right moment came was to walk into these places, and slay the English with their own weapons.
Listening at last—though reluctantly—to the entreaties of his people General Wheeler looked about for the best means of securing his position; and it occurred to him, in the emergency, that the only way of defending the precious lives of the Christians was by throwing up some defensive works, within which he might gather his people, so that with their guns they could keep the enemy at bay.
He selected a spot for this purpose about six miles down the river to the south-east, not far from the Sepoys’ huts, and about a mile from the banks of the river. He was guided in this choice, to a great extent, by the fact that on the spot were two long hospital barracks that would make good quarters for the people. One of the buildings was a substantial structure built wholly of masonry; but the other had a heavy thatched roof.
Here, again, the cruel hand of Fate seemed to be, for a time, against the English, for to the circumstance of the thatched roof some of the most awful suffering endured by the besieged was due, as will be hereafter shown. Both buildings were single-storied, and verandahs ran all round them; they stood in an open and perfectly flat compound. In the centre of the compound was a well, the only place from which supplies of water could be drawn; and as will be disclosed in the subsequent unfoldings of the story, this well was the scene of almost unparalleled heroic deeds.
Having selected his place, Sir Hugh began to entrench it, and supply it with a stock of provisions capable of feeding his people for several weeks.
The so-called fortifications were paltry in the extreme, for the means were not at hand to render them worthy the name. The earth-works were only four feet high, and were not even proof against bullets at the crest. The apertures for the artillery exposed both guns and gunners; whilst, on all sides, adjacent buildings offered splendid cover for the enemy. The excessive heat and dryness of the weather had rendered the ground so hard that it could only be turned with the greatest amount of difficulty, and by patient labour; and when it was dug it was so friable that the cohesion necessary for solidity could not be attained.
The month of May wore on; the expected mutiny did not occur. June came in, and Sir Hugh then felt confident that all danger had passed; and Lucknow being threatened, the General sent to the relief of the neighbouring station a portion of his own little company of soldiers.
As these white troops crossed the bridge of boats, and set their faces towards Lucknow, the natives fairly shook with suppressed laughter as they thought what fools the English were. And at this very time, Jewan Bukht and other agents of the Nana were visiting the bazaars and the native lines, and fanning the smouldering fire to flame.
Towards the latter end of May, there entered Cawnpore by the pontoon bridge, two strangers. It was the close of a more than usually sultry day, and the travellers, who were on foot, were dust-stained and worn.
These travellers were Lieutenant Harper and Haidee. They had come from Delhi—a long weary march; and along their line of route they had experienced the greatest difficulty in procuring necessary food and rest.
Nerved by the one all-powerful motive, Haidee had kept up, and exhibited extraordinary powers of endurance. When her companion sank exhausted from heat and thirst, this brave and beautiful woman watched over him, encouraged him, and gave him hope. Her gentle hand wiped his brow, her soft bosom pillowed his head. Her love for him grew stronger each day. To lie at his feet, to pillow his head, to watch him when he slept, was joy inexpressible to her. And yet during this journey she never by a single word betrayed aught of the strong passion which filled her heart; but every action, every deed proclaimed it.
On his part he tried to think of her only as one who had befriended him, and to whom it was his duty to offer such protection as lay in his power. But on the road from Delhi he proved the weaker vessel of the two, for the awful heat, aided by the want of proper rest and sustenance, sorely tired him. She, on the other hand, inured from birth to the heat, and strengthened by her great love for him, kept up when he faltered, and exhibited, comparatively speaking, but little weariness.
Hers was the devotion of a true woman; it was self-sacrificing, all-absorbing, undying. Truly she had made him her star that gave her only light. She had no selfish thought, except such selfishness as is begotten by true love—for all love is selfish; it is its very nature to be so. And yet this faithfulness made the man sad. He felt that he could not return her love, however much he might admire her. However much he might feel grateful, however great his worship for her nobleness of nature might be, he must shut his eyes to her charms, close his senses to her silent outpourings of love, for he was another’s, and to that one he must be true, or feel that for evermore the honour which was so very dear to him was sullied, and time could never wipe out the stain again.
Often as he dragged his weary steps along, with the loving Haidee by his side, he mentally asked himself if he was not pursuing a phantom that was luring him to unknown danger. Had he done right in setting his face towards Cawnpore, and could he justify the course he had taken by any amount of logical reasoning? He was striving to do his duty. If he failed, it would be through error of judgment, and not through want of heart.
As the two travellers stood upon the Cawnpore bank of the river Ganges, Harper gave vent to a sigh of relief. But Haidee seemed to be pressed with a weight of sorrow.
“You do not seem well, Haidee,” Harper remarked casually, as he observed the depressed look of his companion. “Your eyes are dull, and your cheek is pale. What is the cause?”
She looked at him almost reproachfully, and her only answer was a long-drawn sigh.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked again, with a good deal of indifference in his tone; for, to confess the truth, his thoughts were far away. He was racked with doubts and fears, and half-regretted that he had yielded consent to come to Cawnpore, instead of returning to his quarters at Meerut.
Her eyes glowed, and her face and neck crimsoned, as she struggled to conceal the emotion which almost choked her, and which his words had caused. Her sensitive nature was wounded by his indifference, and she shrank away, as it were, like a startled fawn.
“Why do you sting me?” she exclaimed, when she could speak.
“Sting you, Haidee! What do you mean?” as he turned upon her quickly, and coming back again to a sense of his true position.
“Why do you ask me what is the matter, in a tone that betrays too plainly that you take no interest in the question?”
“Nay, Haidee, there you wrong me.”
“Sooner would I wrong myself than you; but your words remain with Haidee while your heart is far away.”
“My heart is divided, Haidee, and I give you all of it that I dare. You are my friend. Every sacrifice I can make I will make for you, if it is necessary. I will protect you with my life. I cannot do more.”
“Ah!” she sighed; “and yet you can ask me what it is that makes me sad? There is sorrow at my heart; sorrow at the thought our journey is ended, and you and I must probably part never to meet again. That is what is the matter with me.”
“Forgive me, Haidee, if I have hurt you by my seeming thoughtlessness. I assure you I had no intention of doing so. And though our journey is for the present ended, do not say we shall part for ever. You have grown precious to me as a noble, generous, devoted woman; and I vow, by all that I hold sacred, that I will endeavour never to lose sight of you as long as I live.”
She trembled with a nameless, pleasurable emotion; her nerves vibrated like unto the strings of a harp that are swept with a strong wind; for this man’s words were music to her. “I will endeavour not to lose sight of you as long as I live.” Had he not spoken them? And they sank to the deeper depths of her nature. They were like an elixir of life, given to one whose strength was ebbing away. She yearned for sympathy, and this man gave it to her. Her soul cried out for kindredship, and it found it in him. What wonder then that she should be taken captive?—that beat for beat her heart should answer his? It is given to human beings to feel the burning rapture of love, but not to solve its mystery; for it is a mystery as strange as the Sphinx of old; as unsolvable as the cosmical problems which have puzzled philosophers of all ages.
She loved him. Every look, every action, every tone betrayed that she loved him with a true woman’s pure love. If it had sprung up suddenly, it was none the less genuine or strong. She would have been content to follow him, even if he, like the fabled “Wandering Jew,” had been doomed to go on and on, restlessly and for evermore. Still would she have followed, living in his shadow, drawing her very life from his look and voice, sorrowing when he sorrowed, laughing when he laughed. Nay, more; she would have taken upon herself all the pains, however fearful, he might have had to endure. She would have rendered that last and greatest sacrifice that one human being can make for another—she would have laid down her life to save his.
It was a grand love, this love of hers—not the sickly sentiment of a wayward girl, but the strong, powerful, absorbing passion of a woman; a love as heroic as any that Homer ever sang of, or that moved the Roman women of old to follow the youths to the battle-fields, and die when they died.
Harper was a stranger in Cawnpore, but he knew that the numerical strength of the garrison was ridiculously low, and, knowing this, his heart sank as he observed unmistakable signs of coming mischief. During the journey he had been astonished at the large number of mounted natives he had met speeding along to and from Delhi, and he had no doubt that these men were spies and agents, passing backwards and forwards with news; so that he was not surprised when he found that information of his coming had preceded him to Cawnpore; and as he passed through the streets he was frequently met with the ironical question, put by some insolent native, “Holloa! how fares it with the English in Delhi?”
His companion, too, was also subjected to considerable attention. Her appearance belied the idea that she belonged to the lower order, although she was dressed in the commonest of native dresses; but there was an air of refinement and bearing about her totally out of keeping with her costume. This did not escape the keen scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, and many were the ominous whispers that fell upon the ears of Harper, and he frequently detected the words—“She is from the Palace. She is one of the King’s slaves.”
He lost no time in proceeding to the English quarters; he found them deserted; and he soon ascertained that the Europeans were congregated with General Wheeler behind the earth-works. This place was some distance from where he then was, and both he and Haidee were greatly exhausted. But food and shelter were not to be had, so he set his face boldly towards the fortifications.
It was quite dark now; even the stars were obscured. The travellers held on their way; no words passed between them, for each was occupied with his and her thoughts. They drew near to their destination; they could see the lights in the barrack windows, but they had yet about a quarter of a mile to go. The road was through some clustering trees, and past a number of straggling native huts; these places all seemed deserted—at least, none of the natives showed themselves. In a little while Harper stopped suddenly, and drawing Haidee to him, whispered—“I believe that we are being followed. I am certain that I have discerned figures moving quickly about, as if dodging us. Do not be alarmed,” as he passed his arm round her and drew his pistol. “We have not far to go, and if we can reach the barracks we shall be safe. See,” he exclaimed, in a low tone, and pointing to a small mound upon which grew two or three palms, “I am convinced that there are some men there moving about suspiciously. Do you not see them?”
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, clinging to him—not from fear for herself, but rather as a mother would cling to her child when she knows that danger threatened it. “Let us proceed cautiously.”
They went on for a few yards, until they were nearly abreast of the mound; then Harper stopped again, and he placed himself before Haidee, for a sound had come to him that was terribly ominous. He had heard the sharp “click, click,” of a rifle. His soldier’s ear detected it in a moment.
“Crouch down, Haidee. Crouch down. They are going to fire,” he said, quickly.
But the words had scarcely left his lips when there rang out on the still night air a startling report, and a tongue of fire darted from the clump of trees. Then instantly another report, and another tongue. It was certain that two rifles had been fired, and one of the bullets had found its billet. Harper tossed up his arms, and, with a gurgling gasp, sank to the ground. With a shrill scream Haidee threw herself beside him. She passed her arm round his neck; she bent over and kissed him frantically.
“Oh, my beloved!” she moaned, “speak to me. Do not die! Do not leave Haidee alone in the world! Oh, ye Houris of goodness!” she prayed, as she turned her eyes up to heaven, “ye who observe human sorrow from the gates of Paradise, pity me, and spare this mortal.”
Perhaps her prayer was heard—perhaps some pitying angel did carry it up, and lay it before the throne of mercy.
The wounded man heard it, and he managed to clutch her hand, and press it to the left side of his breast. The blood was gushing out—his warm blood—and it flowed over her hand and arm. In an instant she had bared his breast; and, tearing off her muslin skirt, she stanched the wound. He could not speak, but a faint pressure of the hand gave her hope.
“My beloved, live—live!” she murmured. “Oh, for some assistance! But you must not lie here; it were death to do so. Oh, that I had a man’s strength but for a brief half-hour.”
She had passed her arm still further under his neck, and, getting a firm hold with her other hand round the lower part of his body, she raised him up. She staggered beneath the load for a moment, but planting her feet firmly, and drawing a deep breath, she started forward, bearing the almost lifeless body of the man for whom she had risked so much. Her burden called for the utmost physical strength to support; but what will love not do? She struggled along, resting now and again, but never putting down her precious load, never for a moment shifting his position, and trying to avoid the slightest jerk, for she was fearful of the wound bursting out afresh, and she knew that to let that precious life-current flow was to let the life, so dear to her, drift away.
Harper was quite unconscious now. His arms hung down powerless. It almost seemed to her that he was already dead; and she grew cold with fear as she thought every moment she would find the beloved form stiffening in her arms.
Word-painting would fail to adequately depict the woman’s feelings as she staggered along in the darkness. The welcome lights were before her eyes—would she reach them? Even if the life was not already gone out of the body she bore so tenderly in her arms, a few minutes’ delay might prove fatal. Never did shipwrecked mariner, floating on a solitary plank in the midst of a wild ocean, turn his eyes more eagerly, imploringly, prayerfully, to the distant sail, as she turned hers towards those lights. Her heart throbbed wildly, her brain burned, her muscles quivered with the great exertion; but she would not be conquered. Love was her motive-power; it kept her up, it lent her strength, it braced her nerves. And she would have defended the helpless being in her arms, even as a tigress would defend its wounded young.
On—step after step—yard after yard—nearer and nearer the goal.
“Who goes there? Stand and answer.”
It was the challenge of an outlying English sentry.
She uttered a cry of joy, for the man was within a few paces of her.
Never did words sound more welcome in human ear than did that challenge to the devoted Haidee.
“A friend,” she answered quickly, in English. “Help me!—quick—I bear a wounded officer in my arms.”
The man gave vent to an expression of profound surprise as he hurried forward to meet her. In a moment he had raised the alarm. The signal flew from post to post. A few minutes only passed, but it seemed an age. Then she saw a body of men advancing with lanterns. Gently and tenderly they took the insensible form of Harper from Haidee. She walked beside him, or rather staggered, for nature was thoroughly exhausted, and only strength of will kept her up.
The guard was passed, and the barrack was reached. Harper was laid upon a mattress on the floor, and two doctors were speedily bending over him; and while one administered a powerful stimulant, the other made a critical examination of the wound.
Haidee’s eyes wandered from the one face to the other. She noted every expression, she tried to read the thoughts of the doctors, but she did not worry them with useless questioning. But when the examination was completed and lint had been applied to the wound, she grasped the arm of the nearest medical man, and whispered—
“Tell me truly—will he live?”
“It is possible,” the doctor answered tenderly.
Hope shone again, and, with the words still ringing in her ears, she sank down beside the wounded man, and in an instant was steeped in a death-like sleep.
Then loving hands—women’s hands—raised her tenderly and bore her to a couch, and the doctors proceeded to make a more minute examination of their patient’s condition.