THE LAST GRAND STRUGGLE.
That call to surrender was answered in a manner that literally paralysed the pursuing sixty.
Forth from the Englishmen’s boat a little party of officers and men went. They were exhausted, famishing, sick, and wounded, but they would not wait to be attacked by such a demoniacal crew. Wading up to their knees in the water that covered the sand-bank, and all armed to the teeth, they made for the other boat, and fell upon the natives with such fury that not half-a-dozen escaped to tell the tale; and even those few only saved their lives by plunging into the deep water, and swimming ashore.
It was a glorious victory, but the last for the hero-martyrs of Cawnpore.
They got on board the enemy’s boat, and found it contained good stores of ammunition, which they conveyed to their own boat, but there was not a scrap of food. They lay down, utterly worn out; and, as darkness gathered, sleep fell upon them.
It was the last sleep for many. Some never woke again, but passed to eternity. Those who survived awoke with the first glimmer of morn. Then despair seized upon them. In the dark hours of night the rising waters had drifted their boat into a creek, where they were speedily discovered by the pitiless enemy.
It was a narrow creek running inland for about two hundred yards. On each side the natives gathered in hundreds, and they poured in a deadly shower of musket-balls.
Lying at the bottom of the boat was an officer who had hitherto been in command, but he was wounded unto death now. Both his arms were shattered; but, without betraying the slightest pain, he issued his orders.
“Comrades,” he cried, “we belong to a race that never waits to be smitten. Let these merciless bloodhounds see that even in death we know how to smite our enemies.”
No second bidding was needed. Fourteen men and officers—the only unwounded ones in the boat—sprang ashore, and, with a wild cheer, charged the surging multitude. The terrified crowd fell back. Such courage appalled them; they were unused to it; they could not comprehend it. The brave fourteen hacked out a path, then rushed back again. Alas! the boat had drifted out into the stream once more, and the fourteen were left upon the pitiless land, while their doomed comrades floated down the pitiless river.
At some little distance rose the towers of a Hindoo temple. The eyes of the leader of the fourteen saw this. He raised a cheer and rushed towards it, followed by his comrades. They gained the temple, pursued by a howling rabble; but with fixed bayonets they held the doorway. On poured the dusky wretches, but they could not break down that wall of steel. The black and bleeding corpses piled up and formed a rampart, and from behind this barricade of human flesh the little band delivered a galling fire. There was some putrid water in the temple, but this the people drank with avidity, for they were choking. It gave them new strength, and they loaded and fired without ceasing. Hundreds of the enemy fell, and back there sped a messenger to the Nana with word that the remnant of the broken army could not be conquered.
He raved when he heard the news. This defiance and gallantry galled him beyond measure; he felt that though he had “scotched the snake he had not killed it,” and he began to realise that, powerful as he was, he was still far from being powerful enough to crush his valiant foe.
“A thousand curses on them!” he cried, when his agent delivered the message. “Go back to your leader, and tell him to burn these Feringhees out, and for every white man that escapes I will have a hundred black ones executed.”
Back went the man, and soon around the walls of the temple there were piled heaps of dried leaves and faggots. The brand was applied. Up leapt the devouring flame; but there was a strong wind, and it blew the flames and smoke away. Then a new device was put in practice; the enemy filled bags with powder and threw them on the flames, until the building rocked and tottered. There was nothing left now for the brave fourteen but flight. Bracing themselves up, and shoulder to shoulder, they fired a volley into the astonished foe; then, with a cheer, they charged with the bayonet. It was a short, but awful struggle. One half their number went down, never to rise again; seven reached the river; there they plunged into the stream. As they came up after the dive, two of the number were shot through the head, and the water was dyed with their blood; a third made for a spit of land, but, as soon as he landed, he was clubbed to death with the butt ends of muskets. But four still survived. They were sturdy swimmers; they seemed to bear charmed lives; the bullets fell in showers around; the rabble on the shores yelled with disappointed rage. But the swimmers swam on—The rapid current was friendly to them. They were saved! “Honour the brave!”
When the roll of heroes is called, surely amongst those who have died in England’s cause, and for England’s honour, the names of those valiant fourteen should stand at the head of the list. Never since the days of old Rome, when “the bridge was kept by the gallant three,” have there been heroes more worthy of a nation’s honour than that little band of fighting men who held the temple on the banks of the Ganges, and cut their way through a pitiless multitude who were thirsting for their blood. No Englishman will ever be able to read the record without the profoundest emotions of pity and pride.
When the Nana heard of the escape of the four, he tore his hair in rage; but he could still have his revenge. For news arrived immediately after, that the boat which had drifted away had been recaptured. Ordering a horse to be saddled, he galloped down to the Ghaut, to join Azimoolah and Tantia Topee. And the three waited to gloat their eyes upon the wretched victims in the boat. There were a few women and children, and about a score of men; they were all sick and wounded, but they were driven ashore. The men were butchered on the spot; but the women and children were reserved for a second death.
As Dundoo Pant viewed these helpless people he laughed loudly. It was some satisfaction to feel that they were in his power, and that a word or a look from him would bring about their instant destruction. What the real desire of his own heart was at that moment can only be known to the Great Reader of human secrets. But at his elbow, his evil genius, his familiar fiend, stalked, and, with the characteristic grin, murmured—
“We are in luck’s way, your Highness; and these prizes will afford us further amusement.”
“In what way, Azi?”
“We can torture them.”
“Ah, ah, ah! You are a grim joker, Azi. I would torture them—I would burn them with hot iron—I would flay them, but these cursed English seem almost indifferent to physical pain. We must torture their minds, Azimoolah—break their hearts. We must invent some means of making them feel how thoroughly they are humbled.”
“The invention will not be difficult, your Highness. Set them to grind corn!”
“Ah! that is a good idea.”
“They will know well that it is a symbol of the uttermost degradation. In their own biblical records they will remember that it is stated that the sign of bondage in Eastern lands was for the women to be compelled to grind corn with the hand-mills.”
“It shall be as you suggest,” answered the Nana, thoughtfully.
“And when they have, through these means, been impressed with a sense of our power and their own thorough humiliation, then consummate your victory.”
“How, Azi?”
“By slaughtering them.”
“Hush, Azi—we will discuss that matter later on. For the present let them be conveyed to the Beebee-Ghur and carefully guarded.”
The Beebee-Ghur was a small house situated between the native city and the river. It had originally been built by a European for his native mistress, but for some years had been occupied by a humble native scrivener. It was a small, ill-ventilated place, with but wretched accommodation. The walls were blackened with smoke, and the furniture of the place consisted of a few rough deal chairs and tables. But into this place were crowded over two hundred women and children. Left there, without any certainty as to the fate for which they had been reserved, they felt all the agony of horrid suspense, and they shuddered as they thought what that fate might be. Madness seized some, and a merciful death speedily ended the sufferings of a few others.
When Nana Sahib and Azimoolah had seen their captives safely guarded, and some of the most delicate and refined ladies seated on the ground, grinding corn, they turned their horses’ heads towards the Bhitoor Palace.
“This has been an exciting day, your Highness,” Azimoolah remarked.
“Yes,” was the monosyllabic, and somewhat sullen answer.
“Why does your face wear a frown?” asked Azimoolah. “Your star has risen, and in its resplendent light you should be all smiles and mirth.”
“So I will try to be, Azi—so I will try to be,” and, laughing with a low hollow laugh, Nana Sahib put spurs to his horse, and sped towards his Palace, as if already he saw the brilliancy of that star darkening by a rising shadow—the shadow of a grim, retributive Nemesis.
Perhaps his mental ears did catch the sounds of the coming conqueror’s drums, and the roar of his guns; and his mental eyes see regiments of unconquerable British soldiers, exacting a terrible vengeance, and he himself, forsaken by his people, driven forth, a beggar outcast, wandering on and on, through trackless jungles, without a pillow for his head or roof to shelter him, and on his forehead a brand more terrible than that which ever branded the brow of Cain—flying forever from his pursuers; a guilty, conscience-stricken, blackened and despised wretch—too abject a coward to die, and yet suffering the agonies of a living death.
Whatever of these things he might have dreamed, he gave no utterance to his thoughts, but galloped on to his Palace, and issued orders that that night should be a night of revel.