A TERRIBLE VOW.
When Flora found herself alone, she gave way to bitter despair. It seemed as if fate was mocking her. She was hopeless. No sooner had she found a friend in the unhappy Zula, than that friend was snatched away to suffer a cruel death.
“Why should she die, and I be spared?” the poor girl moaned, as she rocked herself backwards and forwards under the influence of the mental torture she was enduring. “Oh, that I could lie down here and end my wretched life! Why do I live? Why am I spared? It is not that I fear to meet death. Life has a thousand terrors for me, but death has none. Friends, home, happiness, all gone—all gone, and yet I am preserved, for what end, for what end? It is a mystery that I cannot hope to fathom. I will try to be patient—to have faith in the goodness of Heaven. But I am weak, and in my human blindness Heaven seems unjust, and the burden of my cross is more than I can bear.”
She sank down on her knees by the side of the couch, and, burying her face in her hands, wept and prayed. She was suffering the very extreme of mental torture. Not a ray of hope shone out of the gloom into which she was plunged.
“Oh, for a friendly hand and a soothing voice!” she murmured; but neither was there. She was alone, and however awful the sorrow might be, she must endure it.
There are times when it really seems as if Heaven was unmindful of our sufferings, and with only human hearts and brains to endure, we appear to have more than human sorrow thrust upon us. We cry aloud for help, but it comes not; we pray for death, but it is withheld; we totter beneath our burden, and yet it is not lightened.
Flora Meredith experienced something of this—whichever way she turned her eyes she saw no help, only darkness and sorrow, and she almost impiously believed that the Christian’s God had forsaken her. It was scarcely to be wondered at that she should feel like this; for she had been borne like a reed on the current of swift-flowing events, and though she had prayed for help, no help had come.
In a little while she rose from her kneeling position at the couch, and made an inspection of the apartment. She scarcely knew why, though perhaps in her breast was some half-formed hope that a way of escape might present itself. At one end of the room was a carved archway, and before this archway hung a massive velvet curtain. She drew this curtain on one side, and there was revealed a small and exquisitely furnished boudoir. A long window, before which was a half-drawn amber silk curtain, stood open, and a verandah was visible.
Flora could scarcely suppress a cry of joy as she noticed this, and, darting forward, she found that from the verandah a flight of steps led to a portion of the ramparts. It was a small, gravelled terrace, evidently used as a private walk. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she hurried down the steps. There was a refreshing breeze stirring, and it seemed to her that she was once more breathing the air of liberty.
She gazed over the fortified wall. There was a perpendicular depth of at least sixty feet, so that all chance of escape that way was shut off. She hurried along the terrace to an angle in the building, and then her heart sank, for she was confronted with a Sepoy, who was on guard.
The man, however, took no notice of her. She turned back to the other end of the terrace, and again stood face to face with a Sepoy sentry. She once more turned in despair. Escape that way was impossible. As she reached the centre of the terrace, she was startled to see the old King standing on the verandah, gazing at her. Seeing that she observed him, he descended the steps and approached her.
“We are glad to see you here,” he said, as he twisted his withered hands one about the other. “Too close confinement might cause your health to suffer. We allowed Zula to walk here, and we shall accord you the same privilege. It will be your private ground, and you need not fear intrusion. Our sentries are keen-eyed and vigilant. No one could pass them, and no one could come up that wall without the certainty of being mangled into an unrecognisable mass.” As he said this, his weazened face was puckered with a smile, and he fixed his bleared eyes upon the pale face of the trembling girl. “We know how to reward fidelity, and how to punish treachery,” he went on. “See,” pointing below, “see that group of men. They carry a burden. It is the body of Zula. I have ordered them to cast her carrion out on the plain, as food for the vultures and jackals.”
Flora shuddered as she turned her eyes to the spot indicated, and saw some men carrying a body. In a few minutes they threw it on the ground, and Flora could discern that one of the rascals caught hold of the long hair of the victim, and dragged the corpse by it for some distance. Then the body was left, and the men returned.
“This is a dastardly deed,” Flora exclaimed, as she turned fiercely upon the King, and feeling that, had she been possessed of a weapon, she could, without any compunction, have slain the grey-headed monster of iniquity, who stood before her smiling in triumph.
“Not a dastardly deed,” he answered, “but a summary act of justice. That woman confessed to you her intention to take my life, if opportunity presented itself; but, the Prophet be praised, we overheard the creature proclaim her purpose, and we were enabled to mete out a fitting punishment. Heaven is merciful. Glory be to the Prophet!”
Flora felt a thorough loathing for this imbecile hypocrite. But she realised that she was in his power, and that to set him at defiance could be productive of no good. Hard as it was to have to dissemble, it gave her the only hope of ultimate escape. And now that her first great outburst of grief had passed, there came back a desire for life.
“Your Majesty is severe,” she answered.
“It is necessary to be so when we are surrounded with enemies. It is hard to distinguish friends from foes now, and we must make our position secure. But say, are we to look upon you as an enemy or friend?”
“I am only a helpless, defenceless woman, and should make but a puny enemy, indeed, against your Majesty’s might and power.”
“That is true. You reason well. But you speak mere words. Your heart thinks otherwise. No matter. We confess our hatred for the whole Feringhee race, and yet we do not wish to war with women. You are a woman and a captive. Kings from time immemorial have turned their captive women to account; we will use you. You shall be numbered amongst our favourite slaves. You shall occasionally enliven our spare moments, and when you cease to charm me—Well, no matter; much depends upon yourself. If you are obedient, your life will be one of ease and luxury.”
“I understand your Majesty well,” Flora answered, her face reddening with indignation, and her heart almost bursting with grief, which she struggled to conceal. “I will endeavour to be obedient. Slaves have no choice. But am I to enjoy no more liberty than is afforded by these confined limits?”
“No. You have luxurious apartments, and you are free to exercise upon the terrace whenever you wish. That is all the liberty we can allow you.”
Flora sighed, but she saw that it was better to accept her fate with resignation, and wait patiently for what the future might bring.
“Your Majesty is in power,” she answered, “and I acknowledge your power—more I cannot do.”
The King smiled, and laid his emaciated hand on her head, but she instinctively shrank away.
“You are sensible,” he said. “We came here to know your mind, and we are glad to find you so submissive. For the present farewell. We shall visit you again by and by.”
He ascended the steps of the verandah, and as he did so, he mumbled—
“She-dog of a hated race, we have humbled you, and we will humble you still more, and then give your carrion to the birds of the air.”
Flora felt relieved when the King had disappeared. His presence was hateful to her. She knew he was the very embodiment of deceit and treachery; and all the loathing and contempt that an honourable woman could feel for such a being she felt for him.
The hours passed wearily enough. It was true her apartments were well stocked with a miscellaneous collection of books and music, but she could not concentrate her thoughts upon these things. Her eyes wandered longingly to the English positions, where she could just discern the white tents of her country’s soldiers; and she wondered whether the city would fall, and if it did, whether she would live to see it fall.
She was very lonely. She paced restlessly up and down the terrace, but when either end was reached, she was confronted with the grim sentry. She peered over the wall, and could see lying on the plain what appeared like a little mound, but which she knew was the dead body of the unfortunate Zula.
As she thought of the ghastly crime her blood almost curdled, and she prayed in her heart that Heaven would bring speedy retribution on those who had been guilty of the foul murder.
Perhaps the prayer was heard, for, some hours later, in the quiet hours of night, there crept down from the ridge a little body of English troops. They were on a reconnoitring expedition, and their object was to examine some of the gates of the city, with a view of reporting upon the practicability of blowing them open.
As these soldiers made their way cautiously along, one of the number suddenly stumbled over something—the something was Zula’s body. The poor face was horribly distorted, and round the neck, deeply imbedded in the flesh, was a portion of a silken cord, showing how her death had been accomplished.
“Comrades,” said the soldier, when he had recovered from his surprise, “here is the body of a murdered Englishwoman. The black demons have placed her outside here as if to mock us.”
As the men crowded round, they gave vent to muttered threats. The officer in charge of the company stepped forward, and said—
“Soldiers, ours is a war against men, not women. But these inhuman brutes slaughter our countrywomen in cold blood, and out of pure wantonness. Such deeds as these must be revenged.”
“Ay, and so they shall,” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Vows are scarcely needed,” continued the officer, “and yet let us make a vow to avenge this poor woman’s murder, stranger though she was to us.”
As he spoke, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and, stooping down, proceeded to sever the beautiful hair from the head of Zula. When he had finished his task, he held a heavy bunch of hair in his hand. This he separated into equal lots, and, giving a lot to each soldier, said—
“Men, take your caps off. Hold your portion of hair over the body, and say after me—‘By all that is sacred on earth, and by all that is holy in Heaven, I swear most solemnly, that if I live I will have as many lives for this woman’s murder as I now hold hairs in my hand; and I further swear to count every hair, and to preserve the lot until I have fulfilled my vow.’”
Each man repeated the oath with his teeth set, and with an earnestness that was startling. Then the tresses of hair were stowed carefully away, to be counted at leisure.
The body of Zula was lifted tenderly up and carried to a little clump of bushes, where a rough grave was hastily dug; and the murdered lady was laid to rest. Scarcely was the mournful duty completed, when the officer cried—
“On your guard, men—we are surprised!”
The movements of the Englishmen had been observed from the city, and a large number of Sepoys were instantly sent out to attack them. They came on at the “double quick.”
The Englishmen fixed their bayonets, and dropping on their knees behind the bushes, which afforded them excellent shelter, waited patiently.
When the enemy was within fifty yards, the British officer stood up, and, waving his sword, cried—
“Remember your oath, men—fire!”
For every bullet that went forth from the muzzles of those rifles a native tottered to the ground. The survivors staggered for a moment, but quickly recovering themselves, came on again. But the deadly Enfields were quickly loaded, as if they were all worked by one piece of intricate mechanism, and another volley strewed the ground with dead and dying Sepoys.
“Load quickly, men. Another volley, and then charge,” cried the officer.
The Sepoys, exasperated by the terrible effects of the fire from their hidden foe, were coming on with a rush, but again they reeled and staggered, as the rifles belched forth fire and lead from the bushes.
“Up and charge, men, and remember your oath,” cried the officer once more.
Each man sprang to his feet, and then, with a ringing cheer, the little body charged the enemy.
It was a short and desperate struggle. The Sepoys were completely surprised. They offered but a feeble resistance. The oath of the English soldiers was indeed remembered, and though the number of lives taken was not equal to the number of hairs, the retribution was terrible. The deadly bayonet did its work, until the few surviving Sepoys, stricken with fear, turned and fled back to the city. The English followed right up to the gate, bayoneting many of the cowards in the back as they ran.
“We can return now,” said the officer, as he collected his men, not one of whom was missing; “we have had a good night’s work.”
Flora Meredith witnessed the fight from the terrace. She could not make out things very distinctly, but she gathered that the Sepoys had been beaten, and had she known that the very men who had murdered Zula, by order of the King, were amongst the number who were lying out on the plain, pierced by English bayonets, she might have felt that her prayer to Heaven for retribution had, indeed, been heard.