THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER.
As Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal arranged their plans, and then separated in the hope of speedily meeting again, they little dreamt of the mine upon which they stood. The woman was as ignorant of the true state of Cawnpore as Walter himself. She had no idea that all was ready for the revolt, and that in a few hours all the horrors of the mutiny would be visited upon the devoted heads of the little handful of English in the city. But the ways of Providence are mysterious. From a human point of view, all things might have been ordered differently; but it was ordained otherwise—ordained for some special purpose that the cups of sorrow of some of the people in the city was to be filled to overflowing ere relief came; and to this Walter Gordon was to be no exception. When Zeemit had disappeared, he left the shed which had for the time given him shelter and security, and with heavy heart he set his face towards the British quarters. He had little difficulty in finding his way on to the high road. And though he was frequently accosted by the passing natives, he made motions to all that he was dumb; he was thus enabled to pass on unmolested; but as he went, he gathered scraps of information, which left him no doubt that the troops were on the eve of rising.
When he reached the outlying sentries of the British defences, he was stopped; but he speedily made known his nationality to the man who challenged him, and was allowed to pass on.
He lost no time in seeking out Sir Hugh Wheeler, and soon related his story to the General, who was no less pained than he was astonished.
“I think the old woman has counselled you well,” Sir Hugh remarked as Walter finished. “You could not hope to bring this English lady out of Delhi yourself, and Mehal may succeed. At any rate, it is your only chance. Last night a wounded officer and a native woman, who have escaped from the Imperial City, were brought in here. The officer, who is from Meerut, had been shot within a mile or two of this place.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Gordon, in astonishment, as the idea occurred to him that the English officer from Meerut could be no other than his friend Harper. “Do you know the officer’s name?”
“Harper, I believe; a lieutenant in the Queen’s —— regiment.”
“This is strange, indeed. The lieutenant is an old friend of mine, and with your permission I will see him immediately.”
“Do so by all means. I had an interview with him this morning, and though he is very ill, he was enabled to inform me that he had been sent to Delhi on special service, that he had there been made a prisoner, but effected his escape through the assistance rendered him by a Cashmere lady, who is here with him. I am anxious that he should be forwarded on to his regiment at Meerut without loss of time; but the doctor says it would be dangerous to move him for some days.”
In a few minutes Walter Gordon stood by the bedside of his friend Harper, who had fallen into a troubled sleep. At the head was seated the faithful Haidee, and she was applying iced water to the forehead of the patient.
Gordon soon made himself known to her, and she briefly told him the history of his friend since they had parted—a space of time brief enough in itself, but filled with suffering and sorrow for them all.
Harper was deathly pale, his eyes were sunken; he had been severely wounded. The ball had entered the left breast, glanced along one of the ribs, narrowly escaping the heart, and ultimately lodged beneath the shoulder-blade. No vital organ had been touched; but there was considerable inflammation, and the doctors were not without anxiety for the condition of their patient. They had not yet extracted the ball, owing to his weakened state.
Haidee watched every change of countenance, noted every beat of his pulse, for she scarcely ever moved her fingers from his wrist. It was certain that, if loving care could save him, his life would not be sacrificed.
Gordon was anxious to know who Haidee was; but he did not like to question her, and she did not volunteer the information. He was afraid to think evil of his friend, and yet he was at a loss to account for Haidee’s presence.
Presently Harper turned uneasily on the bed, then he opened his eyes and stared at Gordon, who put out his hand to shake that of his friend. But Harper only stared—there was no recognition—the light of reason was for a time out of his eyes, and he was delirious.
The little band of defenders were now thrown into commotion by the arrival of a messenger who brought word that the rising had commenced, that the gaol had been thrown open, and the treasury was being sacked.
The news was too true. The hour of the Nana’s triumph had arrived. He had given the word, and his followers at the Newab-gung had broken open the gaol and set the prisoners free. Then they cleared out the magazine, and a wealth of heavy artillery and ammunition fell into their hands.
The spoil from the treasury was heaped upon elephants and carts, and the infuriated soldiery, feeling themselves unfettered at last, cried—
“Forward to the Imperial City!”
They, like the Meerut mutineers, expected great things from the restored sovereignty; upon the restoration of the Mogul throne they placed all their hopes.
But this was not the case with Nana Sahib, nor the wily Azimoolah. The centralisation of the rebellion was to place the power in one pair of hands. The Nana craved for power, and he had no intention of recognising the authority of the King, to whom he would have to be subordinate. That, however, formed no part of his programme. But, for a time, the Sepoy leaders declared their intention of going to Delhi, and they made one short march on the road as far as a place called Kullianpore. Here, with all their elephants ladened with the English treasure, their artillery, and heaps of ammunition, they halted. The Nana had accompanied them thus far. He knew that by humouring their first impulse he might bend them to his will. His craft and cunning were truly remarkable.
“Comrades,” he cried, as he commenced to harangue them, “we make common cause. And I ask you, would you be slaves? If you go to Delhi your necks must bear the King’s yoke. Remember all that I have done—all that I have sacrificed to give you liberty. From these English I drew wealth, but I have forfeited all in order that you may be free. Why should you go to the Imperial City? If you concentrate yourselves at any given point, it is certain that the Feringhees will mass their forces against that point and crush you. It is by spreading ourselves over a large area that our hopes of success lie. The British have not troops enough to attack all our strongholds. Again I say, what can Delhi offer you more than I can? Have we not a fair city here?
“The power of the English in Europe is declining; they are weak in India; the vast breadth of country over which the faithful followers of the Prophet are asserting their independence is stripped of troops. What then have we to fear? Remain here and recognise my rule. Restore the Peishwahship, and I promise you wealth, freedom, honour and glory.”
The voice of the charmer prevailed. The leaders wavered in their determination. They conferred one with another, then up they spoke, almost as one man, and answered the Nana Sahib—
“We go back—we devote our lives to your service—we will do your bidding.”
The Mahratta smiled. He saw that the game was in his own hands, and that his ambition and malice might be gratified at one blow. Here were four disciplined native regiments—together with his Bhitoor retainers, who numbered alone nearly one thousand, and were all trained soldiers, some hundreds of guns, heaps of ammunition, and abundance of treasure. With such a force, what might he not do?
His familiar demon, Azimoolah, rubbed his hands with ferocious joy as he heard the answer of the men. Formerly a common servant in the house of an Englishman, Azimoolah had been raised to position by the Nana, to whom he had ever been a ready tool and a cringing slave. He had gone to England to plead his worthless master’s cause; he had made love to English ladies; he had been fêted and lionised by the hospitable English, who loaded him with favours and presents. But he returned to his country with a deadly hatred in his heart for those who had befriended him.
In addition to this astute Mahomedan and cunning devil, the Nana had in his company Tantia Topee, who had been his playfellow in former days, and was now his counsellor and guide.
There were also Bala Rao and Baba Bhut, his brothers; the Rao Sahib, his nephew, and Teeka Singh—a combination of cowardly and pitiless villains.
And so the elephants’ and horses’ heads were turned round again, the artillery trains were got in motion, and at the head of his powerful army the Nana Sahib—the ruthless Tiger of Cawnpore—marched back to the city. He felt that he was supreme master of the situation. He knew that opposed to him were a little handful of English only, that he could crush—or, at least, he believed so; but he did not consider the hearts of steel that beat in the breasts of those few British, who would have conquered even his legions of black demons if they had not been made the victims of a cruel plot.
With swelling pride the Nana rode into the town, his long lines of troops in the rear, his guns lumbering over the dusty roads, and singing a “song of death” with their trundling wheels. He dubbed his army at once the “Army of the Peishwah,” and commenced to make promotions, Teeka Singh being placed in command of the cavalry, with the rank of general. Azimoolah was war secretary and counsellor, and Tantia Topee became keeper of the treasure.
When this first business had been arranged to their own satisfaction, the army sat down close to the British defences. Long a subject of the English, Nana Sahib now felt that he was their master; and a pitiless, grinding, exacting, awful master he was to prove.
As he viewed the paltry fortifications which had been thrown up by General Wheeler, and then let his eyes wander to his own heavy guns, he smiled a grim smile of satisfaction.
“What think you of our chances of success, Azimoolah?”
“I have been examining the place through my telescope for the last half-hour,” answered Azimoolah. “I have some difficulty in discovering their works, even now. But I think that after two hours’ battering with our guns, I shall need a microscope to find them.”
“Sarcastic, as usual, Azi. But don’t you think that we had better let these miserable people go?”
“Go—go where?” cried the crafty knave, turning upon his master suddenly.
“Escape,” the Nana answered pointedly.
“Escape?” echoed the other, in astonishment. “Surely your Highness will not signal the commencement of your reign by an act of namby-pamby weakness. Escape, forsooth! Turn every gun you’ve got upon them, and blow them to that hell they are so fond of preaching about!”
“You do not gather my meaning, Azi,” the Nana replied, as he viewed the defences through a jewelled opera-glass. “I meant, let them escape from one trap, to fall into another. We could have them cut to pieces when they had got some miles from Cawnpore, and we should escape blame.”
“Oh, oh, your Highness—pardon my hastiness. You are an able prince. I could not imagine that you were going to spoil your nature by any stupid, sentimental notions; still, I do not approve of your Highness’s scheme. We should miss too much sport. And why need we concern ourselves about the blame? Let us commence the fun without further delay.”
The Nana laughed heartily, as he replied—
“You are somewhat hasty, my friend. Impetuosity is not good. There is refinement in killing, as in all other things. The acmé of torture is suspense. We will torture these British people, Azi. I shall send, however, a message to Wheeler, that I am going to attack his entrenchments.”
“But why should your Highness even take this trouble?”
“Because we will so far recognise the usages of war as to announce our intention to commence the siege.”
In accordance with this determination, a messenger was despatched to the aged General, who did everything that man could do to make the best of his position. Darkness had fallen. It gave the brave hearts behind those mud walls a short respite, but with the return of light the booming of a gun told that the enemy had commenced operations.