DELHI.
Delhi, where centred all the hopes of the mutineers, was one of the largest and most beautiful cities in Upper India. If its walls had been properly guarded it would have been almost impregnable. One side of the city rested upon the Jumna, and the other side formed a mighty mass of fortifications. Stately mosques and minarets were everywhere to be seen. The Jumna Musjid, a triumph of Oriental architecture, and the magnificent pile of the Royal Palace, imparted to the place an aspect of regal splendour. It was here that for centuries a long line of kings had held arbitrary sway. Here, before the advent of Clive, the great Mogul rulers had dazzled the country with their pomp and splendour, and with irresistible might and power had awed their subjects into slavish subjection.
The city lay in a vast hollow, that was interjected and cut up by ravines and patches of jungle; while here and there, outside of the walls, stately mansions had been erected by Europeans. These houses glimmering whitely in the sun, and fringed with graceful palms, lent a charm to the landscape that could scarcely have been surpassed. Entrance to the city was gained by various gates, that were formidable in their strength, as well as noble and beautiful in their architecture.
It was to Delhi that the stream of rebels flowed almost unceasingly, until behind its frowning walls there was gathered a mighty Sepoy army, as well as a countless multitude of rascals from all parts. On the ridges on two sides, a mere handful of British had sat down waiting for reinforcements and a siege train to begin operations and attack the dastardly enemy in his stronghold. England’s security in India depended upon the fall of the Imperial City; and yet the available force arrayed against it was ridiculously small.
It was as if a pigmy had set itself up to conquer a stupendous giant; for truly Delhi was a giant at that time. From its walls countless heavy guns kept up an incessant fire of shot and shell on the besieging army, which could only feebly reply.
The saucy rebels laughed when they saw how feeble their enemy was. Sorties from the city were almost of hourly occurrence, and the English were harassed and taunted almost beyond endurance. But they waited, assuming the defensive at first, for they knew that their time would come.
Inside of the city it was little better than a pandemonium. The worst passions of humanity were running riot; the most savage and horrible instincts of the natives had been aroused, and they gave unchecked vent to their feelings; the beautiful Palace had become a barrack; the courtyards were turned into stables, and some of the noble apartments were occupied by the Sepoys, who gambled and drank, fought, quarrelled, and killed each other, and made the place hideous with their demoniacal revelry. The imbecile King, the grey-haired puppet, was powerless to stay this. He was like one who had invoked to his aid a terrible agency, that having once been set free, was beyond his control. But he believed himself mighty, and that belief gave him pleasure. He chuckled and grinned whenever accounts were brought to him, that so many English had been killed in the sorties.
“Make our guns speak! make our guns speak!” was his favourite expression to his creatures. “Send showers of shot and shell into the English positions. Give them no rest. Do not stop until you have blown these hated Feringhees from the face of the earth.”
But though the guns did indeed speak, though they sent forth their missions of death in thousands, there were still no signs of the “hated Feringhees” being blown from the face of the earth—on the contrary, they held their ground. They did more, they descended into the hollow, and attacked the enemy at his own gates, and often against fearful odds beat back the forces that came out against them. But these little successes gave the King no alarm.
He believed it was impossible for the foreigners to get inside the city, and so he gave himself up to indolence and luxury. He had one little trouble though—a trifling one perhaps, but it caused him to chafe. This was the obstinacy of two women—Englishwomen. One of these was Flora Meredith.
When Flora arrived in the city after being brought from Cawnpore by Moghul Singh, she was at once conveyed to the Palace, and confined in a small room. At first she gave herself up to almost maddening despair, and if the means had been at hand she might have been strongly tempted to put an end to her existence. A few days after arrival she was conducted to the presence of the King. He was alone in a luxuriously furnished ante-room that led from the “Hall of Audience.” Moghul Singh, who had been her guard, retired, and the King and Flora were face to face. She was the first to speak.
“Your Majesty has sent for me,” she said. “What are your wishes, and why am I detained here a prisoner?”
“I have sent for you that I may gaze upon your beauty,” he answered.
“Peace, old man!” she exclaimed with warmth. “With your grey hairs there should at least be wisdom. I am but a girl; and though you may hate my race, my youth and sex should protect me from insult, and insure me pity from you.”
“Tut, tut, child; you talk foolishly. It is your very youth that constitutes your charm. But it has ever been the fatal mistake of your countrywomen to despise us; because our skins are of a different colour. Times have changed. We are the conquerors now, and the erst-while slaves become the masters. Your proud race shall bend and bow to us now. We will set our feet upon your necks.”
“And is it to tell me this that you have sent for me?” asked Flora, in an impatient tone.
“No, no,” mumbled the King. “I said it was to gaze upon your beauty.”
“Shame upon you!” she cried. “If that is your only purpose, I command you to let me go.”
“Command, eh? Such a word becomes you not, my child. We do not allow ourselves to be commanded. Your life is in my power. If I but raise my finger, you would die. Have a care—have a care, girl.”
“If but the raising of your finger can do so much, I implore you, in the name of all you worship, to raise it and release me. Nay, doom me to the worst of deaths, so that you will only end my misery.”
“No; your time has not yet come. We will reserve you for another purpose.”
“Ah! what do you mean?” cried Flora, as she pressed her hand to her temples to still their throbbing.
The King smiled, and rubbed his palsied hands together.
“You may be useful,” he answered. “We will keep you as a hostage; and though our age precludes the likelihood of our gaining your favour, we have sons, and one of them shall try his hand at breaking your proud spirit. He has succeeded before now with your countrywomen, and I tell thee, girl, he will succeed with you.”
Flora shuddered. She inwardly prayed that she might be stricken with a merciful death upon the spot on which she stood, for she knew that she could expect no pity from her foes; and yet she cried—
“Oh, man, let your heart thrill with one touch of sympathy for me. I am a woman, helpless and alone; let that fact appeal to your manhood. Spare me. Let me go free. Do one good act, and rest assured it will bring its own reward.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the King angrily, “you people are too much given to preaching. But I am deaf to your appeals; I am steeled against your entreaties. I tell you my son shall make you his slave.”
“Never!” cried Flora, drawing herself up, while her face was scarlet with indignation. “I defy you. You can but kill me, and it were better to suffer death twenty times than become the plaything for you or yours.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” chuckled the King. “We have already one of your countrywomen here; she was more fiery than you at first, but we tamed her, and now she is as obedient as a well-trained dog. She is our tool—we use her. She shall take you in hand. Ho, Moghul!”
Moghul Singh appeared in obedience to the King’s call.
“Moghul, this woman is defiant.”
“Is she so, your Majesty?”
“Yes; and we must humble her. Where is Zula? Let her be conducted into our presence.”
Moghul bowed and withdrew.
“Zula is a name we have given to an Englishwoman who is in our care,” the King continued. “She was like you at first, but we soon cured her. She is useful now. She whiles away our idle hours with her songs and music; she sits at our feet, and we fondle her as we should our pet dog; but, like the dog, we make her know her place.”
Moghul Singh returned, and led into the room a young English girl. She was scarcely more than two-and-twenty, but her face bore traces of awful sorrow. A sweet face it was, but its beauty was marred with the expression of care and a look of premature age. She was attired in a long robe of light blue silk, embroidered with gold, and down her back fell a wealth of unfettered hair. She looked at Flora in astonishment as she entered, but turned instantly to the King, and making a low bow, said—
“What is your Majesty’s pleasure?”
“Here is a countrywoman of yours, Zula; she sets us at defiance. You must teach her to respect us, to yield to our will. She may listen to you, though she will not listen to us.”
“She is foolish, your Majesty, and her pride must be broken.”
“Well said, Zula. Her pride shall be broken,” remarked the King.
Flora turned with amazement to Zula. To hear one of her own race talk like that seemed almost too horrible to be real. She could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses; but she managed to find tongue at last.
“Are you mad, woman?” she asked, “or have you forgotten that you represent a great and honourable nation?”
“Neither,” was the scornful answer. “But however great our nation, his Majesty here represents a greater and a mightier still. The weak should yield to the strong. I yield, as you must.”
“Never!” was the passionate exclamation of Flora. “Rather than yield to such an imbecile dotard as that, I would suffer any torture that the ingenuity of man could invent.”
“Pshaw!—your words are idle,” answered Zula. “I once thought as you do, but I think differently now. I sympathise with his Majesty and his cause. He has been graciously pleased to smile upon me, and I thank him. Take my advice. Kiss the King’s hand, as a sign of your submission, and give yourself up to a life of luxury and ease.”
“To a life of infamy, you should say,” replied Flora. “But if you are dead to every sense of honour and right—if you are so abandoned as to have forgotten your womanhood, do not counsel me to follow in your footsteps. I repeat that I will die first.”
“I repeat that you won’t,” said Zula, with sarcasm. “If I have not lost my powers of persuasion, I will undertake to change your views in less than an hour.”
“Well said, Zula—well said,” cried the King. “You shall test your powers. Take this woman to your own apartment, and report in an hour’s time what progress you have made. Moghul, Zula will retire.”
Moghul Singh, who had been waiting outside of the door, entered. He understood the King.
“Come,” he said to Flora. “It is the King’s command.”
Anxious to get away from the hateful presence of the King, Flora allowed herself to be led out by Moghul, who was followed by Zula. He conducted her through a long corridor, until a room was reached. Then he turned to Zula.
“I give her into your charge,” he said. “Remember, you are responsible for her.”
“Never fear but what I will render a good account of her,” Zula answered laughingly. “Come, madam,” turning to Flora, “and let me see if I cannot alter some of your exalted notions. What I am you must be, either by force or persuasion; and, believe me, it will be far better for you to yield to the latter.”
It was a luxurious apartment. Splendid mirrors adorned the walls, and costly silken curtains hung at the windows. Marble statuary peeped from clusters of magnificent flowers and ferns, and some choice water-colour drawings by English artists were suspended on the walls by gold cords. A harp stood at one end of the room. There was also a grand-piano, while a guitar was lying on an ottoman. Tastefully arranged in various corners of the room were gilded stands, and on these stands were cages of gorgeously-plumaged birds, that made the air melodious with their songs.
“This is my prison,” said Zula, as Flora threw herself on to a couch, and burst into tears. “Here his Majesty visits me, and I am happy—oh, so happy. Tral, lal, la, la, la.”
She sat down at the piano, and with light and rapid fingers ran over the keys; and then, in a sweet, well-modulated voice, sang—
“My heart was a garden
Where fresh leaves grew;
Flowers there were many,
And weeds a few;
Cold winds blew,
And the frosts came thither;
For flowers will wither,
And weeds renew!
“Whither, oh! whither
Have fled away
The dreams and hopes
Of my early day?
Ruined and grey
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded—
Ah! where are they?”
As she finished the last line, she jumped from her seat, and, throwing the music carelessly on one side, laughed loudly.
“Moghul, you need not remain,” she said, addressing Singh, who lingered in the doorway. “I have an hour in which to convert this weeping beauty—and I will convert her, never fear. Convey my respectful salaams to his Majesty, Moghul, and ask him if he will deign to honour me with his presence at the end of that time, to see what progress I have made.”
Moghul withdrew, and as he closed the door, he turned the key in the lock.
Flora was still sitting on the couch, with her face buried in her hands.
Zula sprang to the door, and listened for a minute; then she hurried across the room, and seized Flora’s wrist.
“Why do you weep, woman?” she asked, in a hurried and low tone.
Flora looked up in astonishment, struck with the sudden change in the manner of her companion.
“Who are you?” she asked, “and what are you doing here?”
“I am a wretched, miserable, broken-hearted woman,” answered Zula.
“Ah! is that so?” cried Flora; “then you do but act your part?”
“That is all. I arrived in Delhi but a few short months ago from Calcutta. I came with my husband, who was in business here. He had gone to Calcutta to make me his wife. We were married and happy, and came here. I saw that husband butchered before my eyes, when this awful mutiny broke out in Delhi. But I was spared and brought to the Palace. I made the King believe that he had won my love. It was in the hope that an opportunity would occur for me to avenge my husband’s cruel murder, and rid India of a monster. I have here a small stiletto, and I have made a vow to plunge it into the heart of the King. I have won his confidence; he believes me to be true to him. Hitherto, he has seldom been alone when he has visited me, but he is becoming less cautious, and I pray Heaven that I may have the strength and courage to execute my purpose.”
“Oh, my poor sister in misfortune!” cried Flora, as she threw her arms round Zula’s neck, “this is very, very terrible. No doubt this monster of iniquity is deserving of such a fate, but will it not be better to leave him to the retribution that will speedily overtake him, and let us try and effect our escape to the British lines?”
“Escape is impossible,” Zula answered; “our enemies have become too wary. I have given up every hope, except the one that I, a weak, dishonoured, miserable woman, may be able to strike the imbecile King down. If it had not been for this hope I would have ended my own life long ago. If the King were dead, his army would become demoralised, and Delhi would fall. But while he lives, I fear the city will never be reduced, and thousands of brave English soldiers must be sacrificed in the futile attempt to gain an entrance. Therefore, I feel that it is a duty I owe to my country!”
“Alas! Zula, you speak truly, however fearful it may be to have to cherish such a feeling; but the atrocities committed since the mutiny broke out have been enough to unsex us, and turn even our women’s hearts to steel.”
“You would say so, if you had seen the sights that I have seen. My blood curdles, and I shudder as I think of them!”
She paused, for the key was being turned in the lock.
Flora sank on to the couch again as the door opened. On the threshold appeared the King, Moghul Singh, and several Sepoys.
“So, you she-dog,” the King hissed, addressing Zula, “you would have my life, would you? Thanks to the fidelity of Moghul, who has overheard your plot, that trouble will be saved you. The Prophet is good, and watches over the faithful. I shall live, and you shall die.”
He made a motion with his hand, and four Sepoys entered and seized the unfortunate Zula. Flora screamed and fainted, but, beyond a deadly paleness, the doomed woman betrayed no signs of emotion.
“Treacherous wretch,” continued the King, “I little believed that you were playing a double part. I have been blinded by your deceitful ways.”
“Miserable dotard!” answered Zula scornfully; “if I had but seen you dead at my feet, I could have died happily.”
“Take her away, Moghul—instant death!”
The unhappy Zula was dragged out of the room, and the King, having glanced at Flora, locked the door, and, putting the key in his girdle, walked away.