THE MYSTERY OF THE CHUPATTIES.
As sleep fell upon the northern quarter of Meerut on that Saturday night, there was an unusual stir in the native part. In the lines of the native soldiery, in the populous bazaars, and in the surrounding villages, a fatal signal was passing. Five fleet-footed Indians were speeding from place to place; and as they went, they put into the hands of the principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty; and, like the fiery cross, it was the signal of a general rising.
On the banks of the Goomtee there rose the lichen-covered wall of a half-ruined temple. Hitherto, silence had reigned in its deserted halls, and the lizard and the serpent had hunted undisturbed for prey amongst the fallen shafts and broken capitals. But the grey ruin was witness of a strange scene to-night. Hundreds of natives were pouring in from all parts. At every entrance to the temple a guard was posted, and admission could only be gained by giving a password. That was “Chupatty.” But all comers knew the pass; none were turned away. Rapidly the crowd swelled with soldiers and civilians, until every available space was occupied. They perched on the broken walls, on the fallen columns, on the moss-covered arches. Wherever a foot-hold could be gained, there was a native. Here and there was suspended a native lamp—a cotton-wick placed in cocoa-nut oil, contained in a cocoa-nut shell. Seen in this dim light, the scene was striking and picturesque. The dusky forms of the natives seemed to be everywhere—above, below, around. The dark wall of the ruin appeared to be actually jewelled with gleaming eyes, which, as they caught the fitful flare of the lamp, flashed with hatred and revenge. A dull, confused sound only was heard as the swarming natives conversed one with another in subdued tones. Presently six distinct beats were given on a tom-tom. Then there was a death-like silence, as there entered, by the main entrance, a tall man, whose face was muffled with a puggeree. He was followed by several other natives; and as they entered and took up their position at one end of the ruins, salaams rose from a hundred throats. Then the tall man threw back his puggeree, and exposed his features. They were massive, firm, and of the true Mahratta cast. His skin was light brown; his lips full and sensual, and his eyes small, restless, and cunning. He was a powerfully-built man, with a full, flowing beard, his age about thirty years. His bearing was proud and haughty; his dress handsome, being that of a Mahratta prince. Round his neck was a massive gold chain, and on his fingers sparkled numerous and costly jewels. His head was encircled with a rich turban, ornamented in front with a single large diamond. From a jewelled belt round his waist protruded the inlaid handles of native pistols; and at his side was suspended a tulwar. This was Dhoondu Pdnt, the Nana Sahib of Bhitoor. He was attended by his war minister, Teeka Singh, and his confidential friend and adviser, Azimoolah. The latter a short, slim man; but supple and panther-like in his movements; his face had but one expression—that of pitiless ferocity. In a few moments the Nana addressed the assembly.
“Countrymen, I have ventured here to-night that I may, by my presence, inspire you with courage and hope. We stand on the eve of great events, and no man has the cause more at heart than I. We wait but for one signal now to decide us in the course of action we are to take. That signal is to come from Delhi. Our agents have been hard at work for some days, and if the regiments there will join us, and give us shelter if needed, all will be well. Though I must hurry back to Bhitoor to-night, that it may not be known, until the proper hour arrives, that I have shaken off allegiance to the hated Feringhees, I shall be with you in spirit; and, in the name of the Prophet, I invoke success on your arms. When you strike, remember that you strike for your freedom, for your religion. Let the House of Timour be restored, and the Imperial Dynasty of Delhi be revived in all its ancient glory and splendour. Let our race of mighty kings be perpetuated, and the great white hand of the hateful British be crushed and trampled into the dust. We are a great people. We have been enchained, enslaved, and robbed of our birthrights. Let us rise now as one man, and strike for those sacred rights of which we have been deprived. Steel your hearts against every feeling of pity. Let not the pale faces of either their women or children raise one sympathetic feeling in your breasts. When the opportunity arrives I will perform deeds that shall not only be an example to you, but that shall make my name known throughout the world, and the name of Nana Sahib shall be in every man’s mouth. Let Hindoos and Mahomedans alike be stirred but by one impulse to slaughter the Feringhees, man, woman, and child. The English are luchar (helpless). They sleep in fancied security, and dream not that their doom is sealed. We have past injuries to avenge; we have future dangers to guard against. Let our feelings declare themselves in characters of fire. Let the firebrand tell these invaders of our soil that, from end to end of India, we have common cause, and that we strike for liberty!”
The Nana ceased speaking, and a murmur of applause ran through the assembled multitude.
“Jewan Bukht comes not, sahib,” said Azimoolah, after a pause. “I hope his mission has not failed.”
“The Prophet forbid,” answered the Nana. “His mission was fraught with danger, and he may have been unexpectedly detained. When he departed on Wednesday he said he should be back to-night, to bring to this meeting the answer of Delhi.”
“I hope he has not proved false?” Azimoolah remarked, his cold eyes glittering like a snake’s.
“False! No,” exclaimed the Nana. “I’ll answer for him with my life. He is a useful man; he knows the ways of the English well, having been brought up in one of their schools. No, no; Jewan is not false. He has personal motives for being true to us, and he has much to gain. Ah! I hear the sounds of horse’s hoofs in the distance. Let the word be passed to the guard to be on the alert.”
The ring of horse’s shoes could now be distinctly heard, as it galloped furiously along the hard road. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, and in a few minutes the tom-tom was beaten again as a signal that someone of importance had arrived. Then in a little time a man, hot and breathless, rushed into the presence of the Nana, and, prostrating himself at his feet with a profound salaam, took from his turban a small chupatty, and handed it to the Prince. On it was inscribed, in Hindostanee characters, painted red, the following:—
“We fight for the King.
“We fight for the restoration of the Mogul throne.
“We fight for the Prophet.”
“Allah be praised!” exclaimed Dhoondu, as he took the cake, and a smile of triumph lighted up his cruel face. “Success attends us,” he continued, addressing the multitude; “and the Imperial City is true to herself. We will plant the rebel standard on the Palace of the Mogul, and the House of Timour shall flourish once more. Jewan Bukht, thou art faithful, and hast performed a brave deed; the Prophet will look favourably upon thee.”
Jewan was a young man with a singularly intelligent, and, for a native, handsome face. He was a native of Meerut, and at an early age had been left an orphan. An European lady had taken him under her care, and sent him to an English school near Calcutta to be educated. When he had reached the age of twenty his protectress died, and he returned to Meerut a professing Christian, and speaking the English language fluently. Since his return he had occupied the position of a head sicar or clerk in Walter Gordon’s establishment. He had gained the esteem and confidence of his master, and had, up to a quite recent period, been in the habit of attending regularly the station church. But of late his movements had become mysterious, and he had passed much of his time in the native lines.
“I thank you, great Prince,” said Jewan, in answer to Dhoondu. “I have had a perilous journey, but I left no quarter in Delhi unvisited. Young and old there are panting for the hour to arrive when they can arise from their bondage. There is but a very small European force in the city. Delhi once secured, we can hold it against all comers.”
“And we will secure it,” added the Nana, significantly. “But come, the night wears, and we must disperse; Teeka, and you, my faithful Azimoolah, let us return with all speed to Bhitoor, and there await for the signal. Cawnpore shall be ours, and we will there wipe out our wrongs in English blood!”
He wrapped his scarf around him so as to hide his pistols and tulwar, and drawing his puggeree over his face, he passed out, attended by his followers. At a little distance a native carriage was waiting, and into this they sprang, and Meerut was speedily far behind. Then the crowd of natives quietly left the ruined temple, and soon the roofless halls were silent and deserted, and the slimy things that had sought shelter from the trampling feet, in the nooks and crannies, timidly came forth now, in search of prey, upon which they might feed so that they might live in accordance with the instinct planted by a Divine hand. But the hundreds of human beings who a little while before had held possession of the temple had also gone forth in search of prey, thirsting for blood—blood of the innocent and guilty alike—not that they might live thereby, but to gratify a burning feeling of hatred and revenge.
On the verandah of Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow stood Flora Meredith alone. It was late, or rather early, for two o’clock had just sounded from the neighbouring barracks. Flora had been vainly endeavouring to sleep, but an undefined sense of dread had kept her awake, so that at last she had risen from her couch and gone out on the verandah, glad to breathe the cool morning air. Pensively she was gazing up to the stars, which still shone clear and bright, although the first streaks of dawn were struggling to the eastern sky.
She was dreaming of the man she loved, of the man who had her heart in his keeping, whose wife she was to be. She had an intuitive perception that there was danger coming—that, to use an expressive Hindostanee phrase, “there was something in the air.” But what did that something portend, and where did the danger menace? were questions she asked herself as she stood there—a picture of loveliness—in her loose robe, and her beautiful hair flowing freely about her white shoulders.
Unperceived by her, the figure of a dusky native was stealthily stealing across the compound, keeping in the shadows of the trees and shrubs, until he stood beneath the verandah. Then, with a noiseless spring, he vaulted lightly over the railings, and stood beside the dreaming girl.
With a cry of alarm, Flora started from her reverie, and, turning quickly round, beheld Jewan Bukht.
“What do you do here?” she asked quickly, when she had recovered from her surprise.
“Hush!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Your life depends upon silence. I have something to say to you.”
She was a brave girl; but her heart sank now, for she knew that his boldness arose from some terrible cause. Her presence of mind, however, did not forsake her. To set this man at defiance would be to gain nothing. She would endeavour to learn his motive for coming.
“What is the meaning of this unceremonious intrusion at such an hour?” she asked, when her first feeling of alarm had passed.
“I came in the hope of seeing you as the day dawned,” he answered; “but Fortune has favoured me, and, as if it were so decreed, you are unexpectedly here alone, even while the night is young.”
“Well, and what of that?” she asked hastily, as the man paused.
“It is good,” he replied, “for I have much to say.”
“But this is neither the time nor the place to say it,” she answered, making a movement as if she were about to turn into the bungalow.
Jewan caught her hand, and, with his glittering eyes fixed upon her fair face, said—
“Miss Meredith, listen to me. But one thing could have induced me to visit you, for if my countrymen knew it they might suspect me of treachery, and slay me. But what will a man not do for love? Ah! do not start; do not try to draw your hand away, as if I were something loathsome. If my skin is dark, do not the same emotions and passions stir my breast as those of the white man’s? Can my heart not throb with feelings as tender as his who is your accepted husband? Miss Meredith, I love you! In the name of all that is good, I ask you to become my wife, according to the rights of your own Church. I will give you devotion, I will be faithful to you, I will love you unto death. Could a white man do more?”
“Jewan Bukht, are you mad? Do you know what it is you ask? Am I to give you all that is dear to me—to sever every tie that binds me to my kith and kin, in order to become your wife? Never!”
“Think well before you give a decisive answer,” he replied, still retaining his hold of her hand.
“I have already thought. You have my answer. Nothing can alter my decision. Go away for a little while, and, believe me, this silly infatuation of yours will speedily wear off.”
“How little you know of the heart, to talk like that. Mine is no infatuation, but a genuine love. Why should you despise it?”
“I do not despise it. But I tell you I cannot, nor will not be your wife.”
“Again I ask you not to be rash in your answer. A great danger is hovering over the station. In a little while a fire will be lighted here that will extend throughout India. Your countrymen and women will cry for pity to ears that will be deaf, and they will appeal to hearts that will be as stone. I tell you, Miss Meredith, that ere the sun has risen and set again, there shall be bloody deeds done in Meerut. Every white person in this and in every city of India stands in deadly peril. And when once the revolt has broken out, even the ‘Great White Hand,’ all-powerful as it is, will not be able to stop it. Ere it be too late, say that you will be mine, and I will save you—more, I will save those belonging to you!”
She looked at the kneeling man at her feet; her heart beat wildly, and her breath came thick and fast. She knew that there was truth in what he said, but how should she act?
She could not give this man her love—she shuddered, indeed, with a feeling of loathing, as she contemplated him. She released her hand from his, and drew herself up proudly, scornfully. And as the first flush of dawn, which was spreading over the heavens, caught her face, she looked inexpressibly beautiful.
“What you ask is impossible,” she said. “Love I could never give you, and better to die than sacrifice myself. Your master, Mr. Walter Gordon, is to be my husband. I will either be wedded to him or death. This is my answer. It is unalterable. For the rest, I trust in that God which you yourself have professed to worship.”
The man rose to his feet now—proud, defiant. His lips wreathed with scorn—his eyes glistened with a strange light.
“I own no master,” he answered, “but the great Nana Sahib. I came here as your friend; I leave as your enemy; you have treated me as you would have done a dog; but let that pass. I offered you life, liberty, security. You have scorned my offer. Let it be so. We shall meet again, and, when next we meet, you will answer me differently. You shall entreat where now you scorn. Farewell.”
She would have stopped him, for she regretted that she had spoken as she had, and wounded the man’s feelings. But it was too late; he had leaped over the railings into the compound, and was quickly out of sight.
With a sigh, poor Flora turned from the verandah to seek her couch, for she was weary and faint and sick with an instinctive feeling of some coming calamity.