A DUEL TO THE DEATH.
Behind them was Cawnpore, a city red with the blood of slaughtered innocence, a city filled with cowardly assassins, who, in their supposed triumph, made night hideous with their drunken shouts. Before them was Delhi and the unknown future. Walter Gordon and Haidee travelled along in silence; both were occupied with their own thoughts. He was racked with many conflicting emotions; hopes and fears struggled in his breast. One moment he was inclined to think that he was going upon a very wild goose chase, the next his steps could not move fast enough to satisfy his craving desire to be at the end of the journey. More than a month since Flora Meredith had been carried over that very road, a captive, to the city of the King. What had befallen her during that month? Was it possible for her sensitive nature to have borne up against the shocks and trials to which she had been exposed? Even if she lived and was still confined in Delhi, which was an immense place, how could he hope to find her? Would it not be very much like looking for the proverbial needle in the bottle of hay? But assuming that he should be fortunate enough to discover her whereabouts, would it be possible for him to rescue her? It was true that Zeemit Mehal had gone in search of her, and Zeemit was faithful, and a native; but she was also old and ill, and might have died long ago.
As he thus reasoned with himself, it seemed to him that his journey, after all, was a little Quixotic, and it might be better, now that he was free, to make his way to Meerut, and there endeavour to raise a little corps to proceed to the Imperial City, and attempt a rescue by force, should Flora still be living.
He suggested this to Haidee, and gave her his reasons for coming to that conclusion, but she only laughed, for to her the plan seemed so absurd.
“If I had no other thought but of myself,” she answered, “I should counsel you to speed at once to Meerut, for is it not to Meerut that Harper has gone? But even if you were to go there, what force that you could raise would be powerful enough to enter the walled city of the Mogul? Delhi is the great stronghold. It is to that place that the tide of revolution flows. And it will need all the power of your mighty nation to wrest it from the grasp of the insurgents. What we have to do, we must accomplish by stratagem and stealth. By these means we shall effect more than if we hammered at the Imperial doors with half-a-dozen regiments behind us to enforce our demands. I do not doubt but what we shall be able to get entrance into the city, and that being so, we shall have gained a most important step. Though I know that, by going back, I am walking into the very jaws of the lion, I have no fear, so that I can serve you, who are the friend of the man who is my life. Once in Delhi, we shall be comparatively safe; I have some country people there who heartily hate the King, and who will gladly give us shelter and concealment. The fact of an English lady having been brought in will be too notorious not to be widely known, and we shall speedily gain some information. For the rest, we must trust to chance.”
Gordon felt the full force of this woman’s reasoning. He derived hope and strength from her words. She appeared to him in the light of a good spirit, who was all powerful to lead him to success, and to guard him from danger.
There was something in her very presence that inspired him. Endurance, trust, unselfishness, devotion to the cause of others—these were the qualities that made her mind as beautiful as her face. And Gordon no longer wondered why his friend Harper should have felt an all-absorbing interest in her.
Many a man had sacrificed home, friends, interests, and honour for the sake of something far less ennobling than was presented in the mental and physical beauty of this woman. And yet she had all the elements of human weakness, though they were softened by those higher qualities of the mind which were so conspicuous.
“You are a wise counsellor, as you are a true friend, Haidee,” was Gordon’s answer; “and I cheerfully acknowledge the superiority of your reasoning as well as the clearness of your judgment.”
“You rate poor Haidee too high,” she murmured softly; “she only tries to humbly do her duty.”
Gordon made no further remark; he knew that no other words were needed, and so they walked on.
It was weary travelling along that dark and silent road—silent save for the myriad insects which in the Indian climate make night musical. For many hours the travellers kept their way, until, as the morning light stole upon the heavens, they halted, weary and worn, before a traveller’s rest.
It was a small, thatched bungalow, with the usual verandah running round it.
“This place invites us to recruit our strength with sleep,” Gordon said. “Do you think it will be safe to remain here, Haidee?”
“I think so; certainly safer than seeking rest in a jungle. There are signs, too, of intense heat and a coming storm. We shall be secure from it in this place, and we can remain until darkness again favours us.”
They entered the building.
There were two tolerably large rooms, which were bisected by a passage that ran right through to a small compound. This compound was fenced round, poultry having evidently been kept in it. On one side of the compound was the indispensable adjunct to all Indian buildings—namely, a cook-house. In India the food is almost invariably cooked over charcoal. The charcoal is burnt in a hole in the ground; and as there are no chimneys, the place in time becomes black and grimed with the smoke. The outbuilding, in this instance, was a very small erection composed of mud plastered over bamboo sticks. There was a door, and a small square hole for a window. On the other side of the compound, and directly opposite the cooking-place, was a little tank, and on the very edge grew three or four cocoa-nut trees.
The place was distant from Cawnpore only about ten miles, for the travellers had made but slow progress during the night.
When they had partaken of a frugal meal, it was arranged that one should keep watch while the other slept, and Gordon insisted that Haidee should be the first to seek repose. She protested at first, but he pressed her; for it was evident that she was fagged and worn-out, and only kept up by strength of will. She yielded to his entreaties, and very soon was locked in sound sleep.
As she had predicted, the day came in with a sultriness that was almost unbearable. The sun was obscured by heavy banks of cloud, but the dust-laden wind blew like the fiery blast from a furnace.
It was weary work enough watching, and Gordon had the utmost difficulty in preventing himself from being overcome by sleep, for nature was thoroughly exhausted; but he knew that danger menaced, and if he yielded to the desire for rest, he and his companion might both be murdered before they were able to utter a cry.
The day was growing old when Haidee awoke, thoroughly recruited by many hours of most refreshing slumber. The clouds in the sky were increasing, and it was evident a storm was brewing.
“I have slept long,” she said; “you should have aroused me before.”
“No,” he answered; “that would have been cruelty. I have yet several hours to rest before we can start upon our journey; for we must not leave this shelter until the storm has passed.”
He laid himself down, and in a very few minutes was sound asleep.
Haidee kept a faithful watch. Hour after hour passed. Darkness came on—darkness unrelieved by the glimmer of a single star. Presently heavy drops of rain commenced to patter down; then a blinding and jagged streak of blue lightning leapt across the black sky, and a deafening crash of thunder followed. Gordon woke with a start, alarmed for a moment, not realising what the noise was.
“Haidee, Haidee—where are you?” he called.
“Here,” she answered, as she groped her way to where he stood, and laid her hand upon him. “I saw that this storm was coming,” she continued, “but it is rather in our favour, for it will lay the dust and cool the air. Ah! What is that?” she suddenly exclaimed, as she grasped his hand. “Do you not hear something?”
“No, nothing but the rain.”
“There is something more than that—the sound of horse’s hoofs. Do you not hear it?”
He listened for a minute, and then answered—
“Yes.”
“Come to the door,” she said, still holding his hand.
He did as she desired, and they both listened.
“I hear wheels, too,” she whispered. “Somebody is driving along the road. We must conceal ourselves.”
“Where?” he asked.
She considered for a moment, and then answered—
“In the cook-house. You will be able to defend us there, with your revolver, against great odds. But if I mistake not, this is a buggy that is advancing, and so cannot contain more than two or three people. They are evidently making for this place to seek shelter from the storm. Come, let us go.”
They hurried to the cook-house. The door closed with a wooden latch, and Gordon managed to secure this from being opened from the outside by means of a piece of stick.
The sound of the wheels drew nearer and nearer, and in a few minutes the vehicle drew up at the door, and a man sprang to the ground.
“There is only one person,” Gordon whispered.
“There may be more behind,” she answered.
“We must not stir.”
They heard the man unharness the horse and lead it to the shelter of a small shed used as stable, at one end of the house. The storm now broke furiously. The lightning and the thunder were terrific, and the rain came down—as it does come down in India—in a perfect deluge. The man went into the bungalow, and for four hours Gordon and Haidee waited in terrible suspense for the coming day. Several times Gordon wanted to go out and face the stranger, but Haidee restrained him.
“Wait,” she said, “until you can see with whom you have to deal. There may possibly be more than one person, and they are sure to be armed. Besides, they, or he, will depart when day breaks.”
Gradually the storm died away. The lightning flashed less frequently, the thunder growled at long intervals, the rain became a pattering shower, then a drizzle, and at last ceased. Darkness fled before the dawn, and the soft light of a new day spread over the land. The air was delightfully cool, and the birds sang merrily, as if thankful for the health-giving storm.
The stranger, who had been sleeping in the room previously occupied by Gordon and Haidee, awoke with the break of day, and going to his buggy, he procured a small brass lotah and some food; then he crossed the compound to the cook-house and tried the door, but found it fastened. He tried it again; put his shoulder to it; still it did not yield.
“That is strange,” he muttered, in Hindoostanee. “It seems to be fastened on the inside.”
“By heavens—I have heard that voice before?” Gordon whispered excitedly to Haidee. “There is only one man, and, at all hazards, I will see who it is.”
He undid the fastening carefully, and opened the door, having first drawn his revolver. The stranger had crossed over to the tank, and was stooping down, filling his brass vessel with water. The door made a slight noise on being opened. The stranger, whose senses were quickened by being constantly on the alert for danger, sprang up, dropping his dish, which sank in the water, and with a rapid movement of his arm, he drew a revolver.
As Gordon saw who the man was, his surprise overcame his caution, and he exclaimed—
“I thought I was not mistaken, Haidee—it is the villain, Jewan Bukht!”
It was Jewan; he was on his way to Delhi, to seek reinforcements in the name of Nana Sahib. Master and servant had met. Master and servant were face to face, and one of them must die. Jewan recognised his old master’s voice in an instant, and, with the instinct of self-preservation, which is ever uppermost in the human mind, he sprang behind the cocoa-nut trees, and covered the door of the cook-house with his revolver.
In his uncontrollable excitement, consequent on this unexpected and strange meeting, Gordon exposed himself to the aim of his foe. Jewan fired, but his aim was high, and his bullet went crashing through the roof of the little building. Bukht was looking out to see if his shot had taken effect, when Gordon seized the opportunity, and fired; but the bullet only struck the tree.
It was certain that one of the men must fall, for neither could leave his shelter without exposing himself to the fire of the other.
“Walter Gordon, you shall not escape me!” Jewan cried tauntingly. “I have friends, who will be coming along the road soon, and they shall burn you out.”
“Villain and traitor!” Gordon answered; “you have professed Christianity, and worshipped in the Christian faith; and I tell you that that God, whose name you have often invoked, will guide my bullet, and recognise the justice of my cause.”
A part of Jewan’s shoulder was exposed, and Gordon fired again—but again missed—the bullet passing a little too high, and grazing the bark of the tree. He was ordinarily a good shot, but his nerves were unsteady now with excitement, and he could not take proper aim.
“Ah, ah, ah!” laughed Jewan as he returned the fire. “Your bullets need guiding, I think.”
Gordon was inclined to go out and openly attack his enemy, but Haidee would not permit it.
“That would be madness,” she said in alarm, “and a needless sacrifice of your life.”
“What, then, is to be done?” he asked. “If the fellow should be reinforced, we shall be doomed. Is it not better to make a bold stroke for our lives?”
“If the bold stroke is to expose yourself, I say no. The moment you go out, the man’s bullet will end your career. We must resort to a ruse to try and draw him from his cover.”
“That is a good idea; but what do you propose?”
Some pieces of bamboo were lying in the corner; she secured one of these, and then said—
“Give me your turban.”
He having done as she desired, she wound the muslin round the stick, so as to, in some measure, resemble Gordon’s head.
“Go to the window,” she said, “and fire a shot. This will attract Jewan’s attention to that spot, and while you get back to the door again I will show the turban.”
Gordon saw the plan was a good one. He crept to the window, and fired at Jewan’s tree, then ran back to the door, as Haidee raised the stick.
Bukht peeped cautiously from behind his shelter. He saw what he supposed was Gordon’s head, and, taking deliberate aim, fired. There were two simultaneous reports—two bullets sped past each other. One crashed harmlessly through the mud wall of the cook-house, the other crashed fearfully through the brain of Jewan Bukht, who, without a cry, without a moan, threw up his arms, and fell forward into the tank a corpse. It was a just retribution, and his career of crime was ended.
Gordon could not help drawing a sigh of pity as he saw his old servant fall, and yet he felt that the man’s fate was merited.
“We had better not remain here,” Haidee said, “for the firing may have reached other ears, and we shall have our foes down upon us in numbers. Let us conceal ourselves in the jungle until darkness again sets in.”
Gordon went out, untethered the horse, and set it free, so that it might forage for itself. He would have utilised it and the buggy, but he knew that that would be running unnecessary risk. He searched the vehicle, and found a large bag filled with rupees. These he appropriated as spoils of war, thinking they might be useful as bribes. There was also a quantity of provisions, which were very welcome. Having secured these things, and made a hearty meal, he and his companion struck into the jungle, there to wait until darkness should again befriend them.