WITH SWIFT STRIDES NEMESIS MOVES ON.
In spite of the indifference which Nana Sahib assumed to the news brought him by Azimoolah, he felt considerable alarm. He had heard of the powers of General Havelock. He knew that he was a dauntless and war-worn soldier, who did not understand the meaning of the word “defeat!” But he derived some consolation from the knowledge he possessed that the numerical strength of the English could be but as one to twenty against his own troops.
As he descended to hold audience with his staff, he smiled bitterly, and muttered—
“I am immensely strong in troops, I have powerful artillery, and if these fail to check the advance of these cursed English, I have yet one more card to fall back upon. I can still have revenge upon their women and children; and if the white soldiers should reach Cawnpore, they shall find the city a ruin, and its streets running with English blood. Shiva the Destroyer guides me, and victory shall yet be mine.”
On reaching his counsel-hall he found his officers were excited and alarmed. Fresh spies had come in with the confirmation of the first report: that Havelock was making desperate efforts by means of forced marches to reach Cawnpore. The Nana held hurried conversation with his advisers. His hopes of a few minutes before gave place to despair as he thought of the possibility of his newly-acquired power being wrested from him, and as the remembrance of the dream he had dreamed during the night flashed through his brain, he trembled, and his trepidation was noticed by his staff.
“Your Highness is not well this morning,” observed Azimoolah; “yesterday’s excitement has disturbed you?”
“I am well enough,” the Nana answered sharply; “but it seems as if I was to have no freedom from the annoyance of these English. I was in hopes that we had set our foot firmly down upon them—that they were hopelessly crushed. But it seems now that, Hydra-like, no sooner is one head destroyed than another springs up.”
“Then we must keep on destroying them until they are all exterminated. Even the heads of the fabled monster were limited; and by constantly destroying the English their power must come to an end.”
“You do not counsel well!” cried the Nana irritably. “The power of the English, it appears to me, is like the ocean, which you might go on draining, drop by drop, until the end of time, and then there would be no appreciable diminution.”
Azimoolah smiled scornfully, and in his secret heart he felt some contempt for his master.
“Your notions are exaggerated,” he answered coolly, “and your fears with respect to the unlimited power of these British groundless. They are headstrong—impetuous—rash. They are rushing blindly on to their fate. My spies inform me that they are weak both in guns and men. We can bring an overwhelming force against them, and literally annihilate them. Meanwhile, the revolt spreads well; every city in India is asserting its independence of these foreigners, and so mighty shall we become that if every man in England were sent against us, we could defy them. I tell you the power of England is waning, if not already destroyed. The White Hand stiffens in the coldness of death.”
A thoughtful expression spread itself over the Nana’s face. Azimoolah’s words sank deep. Whenever he faltered and doubted himself this familiar was at hand to give him new hope. Bloodthirsty and revengeful as he was, he was, after all, but a puppet, and would have been powerless to have moved if others had not pulled the strings.
“I think you are right—I think you are right,” he said, “and we will contest the advance of these Feringhees. Let no time be lost in getting our troops in motion; and let it be proclaimed far and near that a lac of rupees shall be the reward to him who first captures Havelock, and brings him in living or dead.”
“The rupees were better in our treasury, your Highness,” answered Azimoolah. “Havelock shall fall without any such rash expenditure. His miserable force will be cut to pieces in the first encounter with our troops!”
In a little while Cawnpore was once more in a wild state of commotion. Far and near was heard the sound of the bugle as it called to arms. The artillery rumbled along, and thousands of trained troops were sent out to oppose the advance of the English. Bala Rao, the Nana’s brother, was placed in command of one division, and he was the first to march.
As the afternoon wore on, a messenger, breathless and travel-stained, arrived at the Palace, and sought an interview with the Nana. This was no other than Jewan Bukht. He had been out for some days, by command of his master, visiting all the villages within twenty miles of Cawnpore, proclaiming the power of Dundoo, and inciting the natives to rise and massacre the Europeans. It was evident Jewan Bukht brought news of importance, for his face bore a look of anxiety, if not alarm.
Jewan had to wait some time before the Nana consented to see him; for the monster was passing his time with the females of his household, and trying to still the voice of conscience by draughts of strong drink. When he did present himself before his agent he was flushed and excited, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“How now, Jewan?” he cried. “Why do you come at such an inopportune moment to disturb my peace?”
“I bring bad news, your Highness.”
“Curses on the bad news!” Dundoo thundered, as he turned furiously and faced Bukht, who started away in alarm. “Twice to-day have those words sounded in my ears. Am I never to know security? am I never to have peace?”
He paced up and down, fretting with rage. His arms were behind his back, and he played nervously with the jewellery on his fat fingers.
Jewan waited for some minutes before he spoke. He knew it was better to let the Nana’s temper cool, for it was evident that he was excited with drink, and at such times his savage nature was capable of any atrocity.
“I regret, your Highness,” Jewan said at last, “that I, your servant, should be so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure for having faithfully performed my duty.”
“There, there, excuse me,” answered Dundoo, as he stopped in his walk. “I am irritable, and allowance must be made for me. Things do not work as smoothly as they ought, and it appears to me that every one who seeks me has bad news to tell.”
“That is rather their misfortune than their fault,” was the answer.
“Yes, yes; you are right. I will try in future to be less hasty. But now tell me what is the news you bring.”
“General Havelock is making rapid marches upon Cawnpore.”
“Pshaw! That is old news. Have you none other but that?”
“Yes. A body of troops, under Major Renaud, is making desperate efforts to effect a junction with Havelock.”
“Ah! That is bad. What is Havelock’s strength?”
“I do not know exactly. His army is small, but is composed of some of the best of English troops; and he has a regiment of bare-legged soldiers.”
“You mean Highlanders!” exclaimed the Nana, as he ground his teeth. “May the Prophet confound them, for they are invincible. They seem to draw fresh life from every blast of their unearthly pipes, and they fight like devils.”
“Still they may be conquered by numbers; and we have numbers, your Highness.”
“True, true; and we will send legions against them to stop their advance. But how about Renaud? What is his strength?”
“He is at the head of the Madras Fusiliers, but their number is not great.”
“The Madras Fusiliers!” echoed the Nana, while a look of fear passed across his face, for he knew that this regiment was celebrated throughout India. It was evident that some of the best troops were coming against him. His own troops only mustered about ten thousand strong, horse and foot, and when he had spoken of hurling legions against the advancing foe his mind was running upon the hundreds of thousands of natives who peopled the city and the villages. But what could the untrained hordes do against the very flower of England’s Indian army? It seemed to him now as if the dream was to be realised, and that the meshes were tightening around him. He paced up and down again, his eyes bent upon the ground.
“Your Highness is troubled,” Jewan observed.
“I am troubled, for I see that unless the march of these British is checked they will very soon be in our city.”
“But we must check them.”
“Must, forsooth, is easily said. But how are we to check them?”
“We have troops and guns. Our troops can fight, and our guns can speak.”
“And yet I do not feel secure, Jewan. We are not strong enough. But go now; I will confer with my officers. See me again. In the meantime stir up the people; let them go out in their thousands and harass the English.”
Jewan bowed, and had retired to the door when the Nana called him back.
“Stay, Jewan; a thought strikes me. Delhi is full of Sepoys.”
“It is, your Highness,” was the answer, as a new hope sprang to life in Jewan’s breast.
“Do you think the King would lend me aid?”
“I think it is to his interest to do so.”
“You are right. You shall go to Delhi, Jewan.”
Jewan’s heart beat wildly. He had longed to return to Delhi in the hope that he might again be able to secure Flora Meredith. Delhi was suggestive to him of luxury, of wealth, of idleness. He, in common with all his countrymen, turned his eyes to the Imperial City as the central pivot of the rebellion. Its strength was so enormous that it might defy the united power of England’s army. The desire to once more have Flora in his possession was so strong that he had often been strongly tempted to renounce allegiance to the Nana and fly to Delhi, but he had resisted the temptation, for he dreaded the power of Dundoo, whose confidential agent he had been, and he knew that if he incurred the displeasure of the revengeful Mahratta his life would never be safe from the Nana’s spies, who were everywhere. But now the very thing he had yearned for was likely to come to pass. From his knowledge of the King, he did not believe in his heart that the required aid would be given; but it was no business of his—at least, so he thought—to tell Nana Sahib this. Moreover, there was another reason which made him anxious to get away, and if his feelings had been truly analysed it might have been found that this reason was the stronger of the two—it was one of personal safety. He believed—though he did not from motives of policy express the belief—that the advancing English would soon cut their way into Cawnpore, and if that should be the case, and Nana’s power overthrown, his subjects would have to take care of themselves. There was an uneasy feeling in Jewan’s throat as he pictured himself swinging at the end of a rope from a banyan-tree.
“And what will be the purport of my errand, your Highness?” he asked, scarcely able to conceal his delight.
“You shall hasten to Delhi with all speed, and convey to his Majesty a true statement of the danger that threatens me. You can tell him—and you know what an admirable diplomatist you are—you can tell him that my strength does not exceed five thousand, and that the English are coming down with a force double that strength. Solicit, in my name, one or two regiments. Let every available vehicle and horse be pressed into service, and let these reinforcements be sent on with all possible speed, to join my troops, and beat back Havelock. If the King will do this, my position will be secured.”
“I think we need not have a doubt about it, your Highness. His Majesty will do it.”
“I hope so, Jewan—I hope so. Lose no time, but depart at once.”
Jewan did not require a second bidding. He could ill conceal the smile of joy that played around his lips, as he took his leave to make preparations for his journey.
Having provided himself with a horse and buggy, and armed himself with a revolver, he drove out of Cawnpore as the shades of night were gathering.