THE FALL OF DELHI.
As the batteries ceased, the stillness that fell upon the camp was startling by comparison. It made men’s hearts beat faster, for they knew what it presaged; and though many would be cold in death before the sun rose again, everyone was cheerful and eager.
The whole force of the camp was divided into four assaulting columns and a reserve. The first was to storm a breach that had been made at the Cashmere bastion; the second, a breach in the water bastion; the third was to blow open the Cashmere Gate; and the fourth was to enter by the Lahore Gate, while the reserve was to follow up in the wake of the first three columns, and throw in supports when necessary.
As the hour of three approached, there was great activity in the camp. The men were overjoyed at the long-hoped-for chance of being able to smite the enemy behind his own walls.
There was one in the camp, however, whose heart was sad. This was Haidee. Harper had crept over to her tent, to say a few parting words, and the two stood together at the doorway, with the light of a watch-fire gleaming redly upon them. Each felt that the probabilities were they were parting for ever. Harper was bound upon “desperate service,” and the dangers were so many and great that the chances of escape from them were remote. But in spite of this, he tried to be cheerful. Duty called him, and he obeyed the call as a soldier should. His regrets were for this woman, to whom he owed his life, who had “made him her star, which was her only light,” and if the star should be extinguished in the “sea of blood” that was shortly to flow, her lifetime henceforth would be one long night. For she stood alone, as it were, in the world. Friends, kindred, home, all gone; and if he fell, who would protect her? As Harper thought of these things, he could not help a feeling of grief that for a time unmanned him. Haidee noticed this, and said—
“Why are you downcast this morning? It is sad to part, when that parting may be for ever; but go to your duty cheerfully, and have good hopes for the future.”
“It is not of myself I think, Haidee, but of you. If I fall, what will become of you?”
“Ah! if you fall, poor Haidee will be bowed into the dust. I have been so happy since you have been here. To be near you, to see your face, compensates me for the many years of bitterness I have known.” Then, after a pause, “But come; these repinings are foolish. We are not going out to meet our troubles; let them come to us. It is a soldier’s duty to fight for his country when called upon, and he should not be unmanned by a woman’s useless wailing. Your heart is bold, and your arm is strong. Glory and victory will be yours.”
“God bless you, Haidee! You give me the inspiration of courage and hope. You are a noble woman, and your devotion is worthy of the highest honours that could be bestowed upon you. You liberated me from the city we are now going to attack; and when I was wounded and senseless outside Cawnpore, your arms, strengthened by love, bore me to a place of safety. Twice, then, have you saved my life; and, if it is preserved through the conflict that is now about to commence, I will henceforth devote it to you. But in the event of my falling, I have taken steps that will ensure your heroic deeds being known to my country, and you will meet with a well-merited reward.”
“Talk not of reward from your country. The only reward I ask for is yourself—if one so humble as I dare ask for so much; and if I get not that, I am content to sink into oblivion, and wait for the end.”
“You are not humble, Haidee. You are noble, generous, true, and devoted; and if I am spared, I shall feel proud of the honour of being able to call you wife.”
“Wife,” she murmured, “wife to you; ah! what happiness!”
Shrilly on the morning air rose the bugle call. Its warning notes told the lovers that they must speak their last words of farewell.
“That is the signal for me to go,” Harper said, as he drew the beautiful form of Haidee to his breast. “On your lips I seal my respect, my thanks, my love. In the struggle my arm will be strengthened as I think of you; my eye will be quickened as it remembers your beautiful face, and let us hope that our love will be a charm to shield me from the enemy’s bullets.”
“Take this,” she answered, as she handed him a little packet, which, on opening, he found contained a card, upon which was worked, in her own hair, a beautiful device; it was a true lover’s knot, surrounded with a laurel wreath, and underneath were the words, “Duty, Honour, Love.” “Let that be your charm, my well beloved, for in those three words there is magic to a good soldier.”
A warm embrace, a passionate kiss, a faltering adieu, and the lovers parted. In a few minutes Harper had placed himself at the head of his company, amongst whom was his friend Walter Gordon, who had volunteered for the day.
The watch-fires were burning low. It was the dark hour before the dawn, and the sky was inky black. Softly the bugles sounded. How many a soul did they call to death! But no one thought of that. There was the hurrying tread of thousands of feet. There was the rumbling of guns as they were moved down into position to cover the advance of the troops. There were the clanking of arms and the fervently uttered “God speeds!” by those who, through sickness or other cause, were unable to leave.
Again the bugles sounded the advance. Soon the camp was silent, and the little army was winding down the valley. And as daylight spread over the face of heaven, the storming commenced. Undeterred by the deadly streams of bullets and shot that were poured out, heroic bands of men advanced to the gates, each man carrying in his arms a bag of powder, which was laid down at the gates, with the coolness and intrepidity which so astonished the natives during the mutiny. From this duty few of the dauntless soldiers escaped alive. But nothing could deter the hearts of steel that, in the face of death and slaughter, piled the bags against the massive gates.
Presently, even above the roar of the artillery, was heard the sound of the awful explosions that announced the successful accomplishment of the hazardous task. Before the clouds had cleared away, the bugles sounded the advance, and through the shattered gateways the victorious army poured, and soon the tread of the English troops resounded in the deserted halls and corridors of the palace of the Mogul.
We must draw a veil over the awful carnage, fierce reprisals, and almost unparalleled slaughter that ensued. The British had to fight their way into the city inch by inch, and several days elapsed before they had entirely defeated the enemy. The grey-haired miscreant, who had thought himself a king, was made a prisoner. His infamous sons were shot like dogs, and their bodies cast into the river.[7]
The “Great White Hand” was triumphant; it had crushed the “House of Timour” into the dust; it had broken and destroyed the power of England’s enemies, and had vindicated the outraged honour of the British nation. Animo non astutiâ.
* * * * * * *
Amongst the English officers who were wounded during the assault was Lieutenant Harper. He received a terrible sword cut on his left arm from a Sepoy who was feigning death. He slew his enemy, and then binding up his gashed arm in his scarf, he continued to courageously lead his men, until, through loss of blood, he fainted. He was then placed in the ambulance and carried back to the English camp on the Ridge. When the wound had been dressed, and he recovered consciousness, almost the first face his eyes met was Haidee’s. His life had been spared, and her thankfulness found vent in an eloquent silence, passing the eloquence of words.
* * * * * * *
When the heat of the struggle was over, and the British were complete masters of the city, Walter Gordon, who had fought with the courage of a lion, and escaped without a scratch, commenced his search for her for whom he had endured so much. His inquiries failed to elicit any further information than that an English lady had been held captive in the Palace, and that she had escaped. When he heard the news he despaired of ever seeing her again. But one night, while sitting sorrowfully in his quarters at the Palace, he was informed that a native woman wished to see him.
The woman was Zeemit Mehal.
“What of Miss Meredith?” he cried, as soon as he recognised his visitor.
“She is well, and waits for you,” was the answer. “Follow me and you shall see her.”
“Thank God!” Walter murmured, as he rose and followed his guide.
“You had better procure a conveyance,” she said, when they reached the courtyard.
There was no difficulty in this. Buggies and horses were numerous, and in a few minutes Gordon was driving along rapidly under the guidance of the faithful Mehal, who directed him to the lonely creek where she and Miss Meredith had lived for weeks on board of the wrecked budgerow.
Why describe the meeting of Walter and Flora? It was of that kind that words would fail to do justice to it. Each felt that, in a large measure, the joy of those blissful moments compensated for all the months of toil, the agony of mind, bodily suffering, and the cruel separation that had been endured. The awful trials they had gone through had left their mark upon the faces of each. But they were fervently thankful for the mercy of Heaven which had spared their lives, and as Walter pressed Flora to his breast he felt that he had kept his vow to her sister, who had been spared all those months of agony and suffering during which so many bright hopes had been shattered for ever, and so many hearts broken.
* * * * * * *
About a week after the fall of Delhi, Lieutenant Harper was informed that he had been mentioned in despatches, and recommended for promotion. He had sufficiently recovered to be able to walk about. Haidee had been his untiring nurse. Her loving hands ministered to his every want. She had watched over him, and nursed him back to life. One morning, as day was breaking, he said—
“Haidee, I want you to come with me for a short drive; there is a tragedy to be enacted.”
She obeyed him without question, and he drove her to a plain about three miles off. There was a great gathering of English troops, who were drawn up in a square of three sides. In the centre of the square were ten guns, their muzzles pointing to the blank side. Lashed with their backs to the guns were ten men—rebels, traitors, murderers. Harper led Haidee along the square until they were almost before the guns.
“See,” he said, “do you know that man?”
The one he pointed to was the first in the row. He was a tall, powerful fellow. His teeth were set, and his face wore a defiant look.
“Yes,” she answered firmly.
As she spoke, the man’s eyes met hers. He recognised her, and an expression of ferocious hatred crossed his face. The man was Moghul Singh.
“Will you remain here and see justice done, and your vengeance satisfied?” Harper asked of her.
“No,” she replied.
He led her away, but they had not got very far before the earth trembled with a violent shock. They both turned. The drums were beating, the British flags were waving, the air was filled with smoke and riven limbs.
“You are revenged, Haidee,” Harper whispered.
“Yes,” she answered. “Let us go.”
* * * * * * *
In one of the most beautiful of Devonshire villages, Lieutenant-Colonel Harper, now retired from the service, dwells with his wife and family. The beautiful Haidee, thoroughly Anglicised, in the character of Mrs. Harper, is the pride of the county for miles around. She is loved, respected, and honoured.
Gordon and his wife still reside in India; he is one of the wealthiest merchants in Calcutta. Their faithful and honoured servant, Zeemit Mehal, after some years of ease and comfort in the service of the master and mistress she had served so well, passed away. She died in the Christian faith, and was buried at Chowringhee, where a handsome marble monument records her virtues and services.
THE END.