FROM CAPTIVITY TO CAPTIVITY.
In one of the outbuildings attached to the Rajah of Bhitoor’s dwelling, four natives are seated. It is night. From a smoke-blackened beam, a long, rusty chain swings. Attached to this is one of the primitive cocoa-nut lamps, the sickly light from which scarcely does more than make the darkness visible. At one end of the apartment is a charcoal fire, on which a brass lotah, filled with boiling rice, hisses. The men are sitting, Indian fashion, upon their haunches; they smoke in turns a hubble-bubble, which they pass from one to another.
It is a weirdly picturesque scene. The blackened mud walls of the building have a funereal aspect, heightened by the swinging lamp as at the door of a tomb.
But the four dusky figures seated round the fire, and reddened by the glow from the charcoal, slightly relieve the sombreness. They would not inaptly represent spirits of evil, holding counsel at the entrance to Tartarus. Their eyes are bleared by the opium they smoke, and, as they converse, the shifting expression of their faces betrays that there is joy at their hearts. But it is not a good joy. It is rather a gloating as they think of the sorrow and suffering of those whom they are pleased to consider their enemies. They are—or so they like to believe—self-constituted avengers of their country’s wrongs, and they would, if it were in their power, write “Death” across the “Book of Life” of every one indiscriminately, whose misfortune it was to have a white skin.
To destroy the power of the Great White Hand—in other words, to exterminate the British—is the souls’ desire of these men, as it is possibly of every, or nearly every, native in India on this eventful night.
As it is given to man to love, so it is given to man to hate, and the hate of the human heart is beyond human understanding; it has no parallel in anything that draws the breath of life. The savage animals of the forest may rend and tear, but in their nature there can be none of the deadly poison of resentment and hatred which a man can cherish.
But in the hearts of these four men there is that which predominates even over the hatred. There is lust, there is the greed of gain, and the cringing, fawning servility which ignoble natures ever display towards those higher in the social scale than themselves, and upon whom the goddess of wealth has showered her favours lavishly. Two of the men we have seen before—they are Moghul Singh and Jewan Bukht. The other two are retainers of the King of Delhi. An hour ago, when Jewan had come down from Miss Meredith’s chamber up in the tower, he was surprised, not to say annoyed, to find Moghul Singh waiting for him.
When the first greetings were passed, Jewan invited his visitor to this place, although he did not know the errand upon which he had come. But there was that in Singh’s manner and laugh which told Jewan that Flora Meredith was in some way, if not the sole cause of Moghul’s visit to Cawnpore. And this idea was very soon to be confirmed; for as the men gathered round the fire, and the hubble-bubble had been filled and passed, Jewan ventured to inquire the nature of his visitor’s business.
Singh laughed, or rather grinned, and his eyes sparkled maliciously as the question was put.
“To take back the Feringhee woman of yours, Jewan,” was the answer, an unpleasant one enough to Jewan; for, apart from the risks he had run on her account, he bore some sort of feeling for her; certainly not love, because that is a holy passion, and so, for the want of a better word, it must be called an infatuation. Well, bearing this feeling, being dazed by her beauty, and above all, having a strong desire to subdue her will, he could not reconcile himself to the thought of parting with her, nor was he altogether prepared to do so.
“If that is the only object that has brought you here, methinks you will go back again empty handed,” he replied.
Moghul grinned again—grinned with the self-assurance of a man who knows that he holds the winning trump card, that he can play at any moment to the discomfiture of his opponent.
“I think not so, Jewan, my faithful one. Come, fill the pipe again; it need not be put out, even if you do not like my errand. Ah, ah, ah! By my faith, one would think by the look on your face that you had been called upon to disgorge a lac of rupees, instead of to give up possession of a woman that can only cause you a world of trouble.”
“I am not so sure of that. At any rate, having caged the bird, I mean to keep her. She shall pipe for me alone.”
“Oh, oh!—ah, ah! Pass the pipe; this smoke is comforting. You mean to keep her, eh? By the Prophet’s beard, Master Jewan, they are big words. Blow the charcoal, Hadjee,” turning to one of his companions, “that rice does not boil fast enough, and it is not good to laugh much on an empty stomach. You mean to keep her? Ah, ah! That is a good joke. Methinks you will need a strong cage then, and a good keeper.”
“I have both.”
“Have you so? But you forget, my friend, that bars may be broken and keepers bribed.”
“Neither of which you will dare to do.”
“And why, my faithful Jewan?”
“For two reasons.”
“And they are—”
“That I would denounce you sooner than you should have her, and kill you if you attempted to take her.”
“Oh, oh! Jewan Bukht, the good days that are coming for us are making you bold indeed. Have a care, my youth. I have performed some deeds of daring in my time, and brook not insolence from one who has passed his days in scribbling for the English dogs.”
“You will find that I can wield something more formidable than a pen if you taunt me,” returned Jewan, the passion glow rising in his dusky face.
“May be so,” answered Moghul sarcastically; “but in spite of your threats I tell you I shall take this woman back.”
“You speak authoritatively. By what right will you take her back?”
“By the King’s command. Ah, ah, ah!—oh, oh! There I have you, Jewan.”
Jewan’s brows contracted, for he felt that he was beaten, and dare not disobey that command.
“Come, come,” continued the other; “don’t look as if a jungle cat had bitten you. After all, you are not called upon to give up much, and you cannot afford to quarrel with the King. He heard of this woman almost directly after you left, and he despatched me instantly to bring her back. So give me the key of your cage, and let me get the work done, for I don’t like these jobs. Besides, I am anxious to get back to Delhi, for there are rare times there now, and rupees are plentiful.”
“Well, as there is no help for it,” said Jewan, “I suppose I must. But I should like to have broken this woman’s spirit, for she has defied me.”
“Pshaw! there is higher game to fly at than that. Besides, there are good times dawning for Cawnpore, and you will come in for a share of the spoil. But let us have our supper, for I am hungered.”
Hadjee had already turned the rice on to a large brass dish, and added to it the indispensable mess of curry, and having procured some water from a neighbouring well, the four men seated themselves round the rice, and commenced to eat.
When the meal was ended, Moghul rose.
At the same moment, a tall, powerful, and savage-looking man entered; his name was Haffe Beg, and he was employed by Jewan Bukht, on behalf of Nana Sahib, as a spy.
Jewan rose as the man entered.
“Ah, Haffe! what news? You have been absent for some days.”
“Yes,” answered the man gruffly; “I have had business.”
“Important, I suppose, since it has detained you?” said Jewan.
“Yes; word was brought to me a few days ago that a woman and an Englishman were travelling from Delhi towards Cawnpore.”
“Indeed!” cried Moghul Singh; “who were they?”
“I don’t know; but evidently fugitives, and of importance. The woman came from the Palace; she was a Cashmere woman, I believe. The man was an English officer.”
Moghul Singh’s brow contracted, and he bit his lip. “My prisoner Harper, by the beard of Allah!” he exclaimed, wrathfully, “and the woman Haidee, or may my eyes never see daylight again. I have long suspected her of treachery. But they do not live now!” he added, significantly.
The man grinned as he replied—
“I am not certain.”
“Not certain!” repeated Bukht, angrily. “By the Prophet! rupee of thy master’s shall never again find its way to thy pouch if you failed.”
“You do not mean to say they escaped?” added Moghul menacingly.
“Keep your threats for your slaves,” answered Beg, with a defiant air. “As soon as I heard that these people were on the road, I set out to meet them; but they evidently did not follow the main road. I learned that they had entered the city. I returned. They made for the English quarters, and from there to the defences at the barracks. No opportunity presented itself until they were near the English guard; for the night was dark. But, as soon as I could, I sent two bullets after them, with as true an aim as was possible under the circumstances.”
“And you hit your mark, of course?” chimed in Moghul and Bukht together.
“One, at least, fell,” answered Beg; “but afraid that the report of the gun had alarmed the sentries, I retired. Later on I sought the spot; the bodies were not there, but there was a pool of blood. Whether the English, guided by the report, had come out and carried the bodies away, or whether only one of the two fell and the survivor carried the other off, I don’t know; but I believe one of my bullets for certain found the woman’s heart.”
“If that is so, I can forgive you for your bungling,” Moghul remarked between his set teeth. “I would not let her escape for a lac of rupees.”
“I think you may console yourself, then,” said Beg. “I was guided by her white dress, and I feel sure she fell.”
“So far that is satisfactory, but take further steps to learn,” replied Moghul. Then, turning to Bukht, he said—
“I cannot waste more time—I must go.”
“How do you travel?” asked Bukht, moving towards the door.
“By gharry. It stands there in the compound, and I have a pair of splendid horses, provided for the return journey by the Nana’s head syce (groom).”
Bukht led the way, followed by Moghul and the other men. The building in which they had been sitting was about a hundred yards from the tower. As Jewan reached the foot of the tower he stumbled over something. It was a woman. He stooped down and looked in her face, then uttered a cry of surprise. The face was Wanna Ranu’s. But the woman was stone dead, and there was scarcely a whole bone in her emaciated body.
“This smacks of treason!” Jewan exclaimed, as he hurried to the door of the tower.
He had soon gained the top storey. He had a key of the door of the room in which he had imprisoned Flora. As he entered he gave vent to an imprecation, for she whom he sought was not there. He hurried to the balcony. The broken railings told the tale.
“There has been foul play!” he said, as he turned hurriedly to Moghul, who stood with a look of consternation on his face; for he could not hope to make the King believe that the girl had escaped, and, if he returned without her, he knew he would fall into disgrace.
At this moment there came up a cry from Zeemit Mehal—purposely uttered, for she had heard Jewan’s voice.
“That cry comes from Mehal,” he said, “or I am much mistaken. We shall soon know how the girl has escaped.”
He hurried down, followed by the others.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, as he bent over the wounded Zeemit.
“Alas! it means that I have well-nigh lost my life in your cause. But Wanna, where is she?” she suddenly exclaimed, for she was anxious to know whether her foe lived, and had told Jewan anything.
“The hag is dead,” he answered; “she lies almost pounded to a jelly at the foot of the tower.”
“That is good,” Zeemit cried, with unfeigned joy. “She deserved it—she deserved it. Tempted by a heavy bribe offered by the girl, she was going to set her free; but I interfered to prevent it. We struggled, and both fell over.”
“But the girl—where is she?”
“Alas, she must have escaped! but I have no recollection of anything after I fell.”
Jewan bit his lip. He felt that he was foiled, and it galled him almost beyond endurance.
“How long is it since you saw her?” asked Moghul of Jewan.
“Scarcely two hours.”
“Then she cannot be far off; and we will find her if she has not got to the English quarters.”
“Thou art a faithful servant,” said Jewan to Zeemit; “and shall have attention and ample reward. But you must wait until I return, for we shall have to recapture this woman.”
As they went away Mehal smiled with satisfaction, in spite of the pain she was enduring; for she scarcely doubted that Flora had by this time discovered Walter Gordon, and the two were safe within the British lines. But fate had willed it otherwise. The men scarcely reached the compound, when the first thing that met their gaze was the bewildered Flora, flying unconsciously from the devoted lover who had perilled his life to save her.
A stranger to the place, and almost blinded with terror, she was rushing frantically about to endeavour to find a way out of the grounds into the city. But her chance had passed. With a diabolical cry of glee, Jewan rushed forward, followed by Singh.
Miss Meredith knew that she was pursued, though she was too confused to tell by whom. She darted away in the direction of some buildings that seemed to offer her a chance of hiding; but she was deceived. On she sped again, followed closely by the cowardly ruffians. She knew not where she was going to, she scarcely cared, so long as she could escape them. She would have thrown herself into a well, or dashed her brains out against a wall, if either had been at hand.
The grounds were extensive, and, to an uninitiated person, little better than a maze. The farther she went, the more hopelessly confused she became. Now darting here, now there, until with a wail of pain she fell upon the grass in a swoon. Nature was merciful, and came to her relief.
It might have seemed better had she fallen dead. But, in the mysterious workings of Providence, it was not so ordained. Her destiny was not fulfilled—her book of life not yet completed, so that the Angel of Death could write “Finis” on the last page. She must live to the end, whatever of sorrow, whatever of agony was in reserve for her.
“We’ve run the cat down,” said Moghul, as, breathless, he stooped over the prostrate girl, and lifted her in his strong arms.
Jewan laughed—laughed joyously, ferociously; he would gladly yield her up to the King twenty times over, rather than she should escape. In a few minutes they had placed her in the gharry, which was driven through a private entrance, and was soon on the other side of the Ganges, and speeding along the road to Delhi.
Within a hundred yards of where the unfortunate Flora had fallen, Walter Gordon slept soundly, and when the sound of the wheels of the departing vehicle had died out, the silence of the night remained unbroken.