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Title: The Red Year: A Story of the Indian Mutiny

Author: Louis Tracy

Release date: June 20, 2011 [eBook #36478]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED YEAR: A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY ***




Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









 THE RED YEAR

 A STORY
 OF THE INDIAN MUTINY

 BY
 LOUIS TRACY

 AUTHOR OF
 "THE WINGS OF THE MORNING," "THE PILLAR OF
 LIGHT," "THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS,"
 ETC., ETC.

 NEW YORK
 GROSSET & DUNLAP
 PUBLISHERS




 COPYRIGHT, 1907
 BY EDWARD J. CLODE

 _Entered at Stationers' Hall_




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER I                                            PAGE
 THE MESHES OF THE NET                                  1

 CHAPTER II
 A NIGHT IN MAY                                        19

 CHAPTER III
 HOW BAHADUR SHAH PROCLAIMED HIS EMPIRE                39

 CHAPTER IV
 ON THE WAY TO CAWNPORE                                54

 CHAPTER V
 A WOMAN INTERVENES                                    72

 CHAPTER VI
 THE WELL                                              91

 CHAPTER VII
 TO LUCKNOW                                           110

 CHAPTER VIII
 WHEREIN A MOHAMMEDAN FRATERNIZES WITH A BRAHMIN      131

 CHAPTER IX
 A LONG CHASE                                         151

 CHAPTER X
 WHEREIN FATE PLAYS TRICKS WITH MALCOLM               169

 CHAPTER XI
 A DAY'S ADVENTURES                                   190

 CHAPTER XII
 THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM                            210

 CHAPTER XIII
 THE MEN WHO WORE SKIRTS                              227

 CHAPTER XIV
 WHY MALCOLM DID NOT WRITE                            247

 CHAPTER XV
 AT THE KING'S COURT                                  268

 CHAPTER XVI
 IN THE VORTEX                                        290

 CHAPTER XVII
 THE EXPIATION                                        309




_The Red Year_




CHAPTER I

THE MESHES OF THE NET


On a day in January, 1857, a sepoy was sitting by a well in the
cantonment of Dum-Dum, near Calcutta. Though he wore the uniform of John
Company, and his rank was the lowest in the native army, he carried on
his forehead the caste-marks of the Brahmin. In a word, he was more than
noble, being of sacred birth, and the Hindu officers of his regiment, if
they were not heaven-born Brahmins, would grovel before him in secret,
though he must obey their slightest order on parade or in the field.

To him approached a Lascar.

"Brother," said the newcomer, "lend me your brass pot, so that I may
drink, for I have walked far in the sun."

The sepoy started as though a snake had stung him. Lascars, the
sailor-men of India, were notoriously free-and-easy in their manners.
Yet how came it that even a low-caste mongrel of a Lascar should offer
such an overt insult to a Brahmin!

"Do you not know, swine-begotten, that your hog's lips would contaminate
my lotah?" asked he, putting the scorn of centuries into the words.

"Contaminate!" grinned the Lascar, neither frightened nor angered. "By
holy Ganga, it is your lips that are contaminated, not mine. Are not the
Government greasing your cartridges with cow's fat? And can you load
your rifle without biting the forbidden thing? Learn more about your own
caste, brother, before you talk so proudly to others."

Not a great matter, this squabble between a sepoy and a Lascar, yet it
lit such a flame in India that rivers of blood must be shed ere it was
quenched. The Brahmin's mind reeled under the shock of the retort. It
was true, then, what the agents of the dethroned King of Oudh were
saying in the bazaar. The Government were bent on the destruction of
Brahminical supremacy. He and his caste-fellows would lose all that made
life worth living. But they would exact a bitter price for their fall
from high estate.

"Kill!" he murmured in his frenzy, as he rushed away to tell his
comrades the lie that made the Indian Mutiny possible. "Slay and spare
not! Let us avenge our wrongs so fully that no accursed Feringhi shall
dare again to come hither across the Black Water!"

The lie and the message flew through India with the inconceivable speed
with which such ill tidings always travels in that country. Ever north
went the news that the British Raj was doomed. Hindu fakirs, aglow with
religious zeal, Mussalman zealots, as eager for dominance in this world
as for a houri-tenanted Paradise in the next, carried the fiery torch of
rebellion far and wide. And so the flame spread, and was fanned to red
fury, though the eyes of few Englishmen could see it, while native
intelligence was aghast at the supineness of their over-lords.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening in the month of April, a slim, straight-backed girl stood in
the veranda of a bungalow at Meerut. Her slender figure, garbed in white
muslin, was framed in a creeper-covered arch. The fierce ardor of an
Indian spring had already kissed into life a profusion of red flowers
amid the mass of greenery, and, if Winifred Mayne had sought an
effective setting for her own fair picture, she could not have found one
better fitted to its purpose.

But she was young enough and pretty enough to pay little heed to pose or
background. In fact, so much of her smooth brow as could be seen under a
broad-brimmed straw hat was wrinkled in a decided frown. Happily, her
bright brown eyes had a glint of humor in them, for Winifred's wrath was
an evanescent thing, a pallid sprite, rarely seen, and ever ready to be
banished by a smile.

"There!" she said, tugging at a refractory glove. "Did you hear it? It
actually shrieked as it split. And this is the second pair. I shall
never again believe a word Behari Lal says. Wait till I see him. I'll
give him such a talking to."

"Then I have it in my heart to envy Behari Lal," said her companion,
glancing up at her from the carriage-way that ran by the side of the few
steps leading down from the veranda.

"Indeed! May I ask why?" she demanded.

"Because you yield him a privilege you deny to me."

"I was not aware you meant to call to-day. As it is, I am paying a
strictly ceremonial visit. I wish I could speak Hindustani. Now, what
would you say to Behari Lal in such a case?"

"I hardly know. When I buy gloves, I buy them of sufficient size. Of
course, you have small hands--"

"Thank you. Please don't trouble to explain. And now, as you have been
rude to me, I shall not take you to see Mrs. Meredith."

"But that is a kindness."

"Then you shall come, and be miserable."

"For your sake, Miss Mayne, I would face Medusa, let alone the excellent
wife of our Commissary-General, but fate, in the shape of an uncommonly
headstrong Arab, forbids. I have just secured a new charger, and he and
I have to decide this evening whether I go where he wants to go, or he
goes where I want to go. I wheedled him into your compound by sheer
trickery. The really definite issue will be settled forthwith on the
Grand Trunk Road."

"I hope you are not running any undue risk," said the girl, with a
sudden note of anxiety in her voice that was sweetest music to Frank
Malcolm's ears. For an instant he had a mad impulse to ask if she cared,
but he crushed it ruthlessly, and his bantering reply gave no hint of
the tumult in his breast. Yet he feared to meet her eyes, and was glad
of a saluting sepoy who swaggered jauntily past the open gate.

"I don't expect to be deposited in the dust, if that is what you mean,"
he said. "But there is a fair chance that instead of carrying me back to
Meerut my friend Nejdi will take me to Aligarh. You see, he is an Arab
of mettle. If I am too rough with him, it will break his spirit; if too
gentle, he will break my neck. He needs the _main de fer sous le gant de
velours_. Please forgive me! I really didn't intend to mention gloves
again."

"Oh, go away, you and your Arab. You are both horrid. You dine here
to-morrow night, my uncle said?"

"Yes, if I don't send you a telegram from Aligarh. I may be brought
there, you know, against my will."

Lifting his hat, he walked towards a huge pipal tree in the compound.
Beneath its far-flung branches a syce was sitting in front of a
finely-proportioned and unusually big Arab horse. Both animal and man
seemed to be dozing, but they woke into activity when the sahib
approached. The Arab pricked his ears, swished his long and arched tail
viciously, and showed the whites of his eyes. A Bedouin of the desert, a
true scion of the incomparable breed of Nejd, he was suspicious of
civilization, and his new owner was a stranger, as yet.

"Ready for the fray, I see," murmured Malcolm with a smile. He wasted no
time over preliminaries. Bidding the syce place his thumbs in the steel
rings of the bridle, the young Englishman gathered the reins and a wisp
of gray mane in his left hand. Seizing a favorable moment, when the
struggling animal flinched from the touch of a low-lying branch on the
off side, he vaulted into the saddle. Chunga, the syce, held on until
his master's feet had found the stirrups. Then he was told to let go,
and Miss Winifred Mayne, niece of a Commissioner of Oudh, quite the most
eligible young lady the Meerut district could produce that year,
witnessed a display of cool, resourceful horsemanship as the enraged
Arab plunged and curvetted through the main gate.

It left her rather flushed and breathless.

"I like Mr. Malcolm," she confided to herself with a little laugh, "but
his manner with women is distinctly brusque! I wonder why!"

The Grand Trunk Road ran to left and right. To the left it led to the
bazaar, the cantonment, and the civil lines; to the right, after passing
a few houses tenanted by Europeans, it entered the open country on a
long stretch of over a thousand miles to Calcutta and the south. In 1857
no thoroughfare in the world equaled the Grand Trunk Road. Beginning at
Peshawur, in the extreme north of India, it traversed the Punjab for six
hundred miles as far as Aligarh. Here it broke into the Calcutta and
Bombay branches, each nearly a thousand miles in length. Wide and
straight, well made and tree-lined throughout, it supplied the two great
arteries of Indian life. Malcolm had selected it as a training-ground
that evening, because he meant to weary and subdue his too highly
spirited charger. Whether the pace was fast or slow, Nejdi would be
compelled to meet many varieties of traffic, from artillery elephants
and snarling camels down to the humble bullock-cart of the ryot.
Possibly, he would not shy at such monstrosities after twenty miles of a
lathering ride.

The mad pace set by the Arab when he heard the clatter of his feet on
the hard road chimed in with the turbulent mood of his rider. Frank
Malcolm was a soldier by choice and instinct. When he joined the Indian
army, and became a subaltern in a native cavalry regiment, he determined
to devote himself to his profession. He gave his whole thought to it and
to nothing else. His interests lay in his work. He regarded every
undertaking from the point of view of its influence on his military
education, so it may be conceded instantly that the arrival in Meerut of
an Oudh Commissioner's pretty niece should not have affected the peace
of mind of this budding Napoleon.

But a nice young woman can find joints in the armor of the
sternest-souled young man. Her attack is all the more deadly if
it be unpremeditated, and Frank Malcolm had already reached the
self-depreciatory stage wherein a comparatively impecunious subaltern
asks himself the sad question whether it be possible for such a one to
woo and wed a maid of high degree, or her Anglo-Indian equivalent, an
heiress of much prospective wealth and present social importance.

But money and rank are artificial, the mere varnish of life, and the hot
breath of reality can soon scorch them out of existence. Events were
then shaping themselves in India that were destined to sweep aside
convention for many a day. Had the young Englishman but known it, five
miles from Meerut his Arab's hoofs threw pebbles over a swarthy moullah,
lank and travel-stained, who was hastening towards the Punjab on a
dreadful errand. The man turned and cursed him as he passed, and vowed
with bitter venom that when the time of reckoning came there would not
be a Feringhi left in all the land. Malcolm, however, would have laughed
had he heard. Affairs of state did not concern him. His only trouble was
that Winifred Mayne stood on a pinnacle far removed from the beaten path
of a cavalry subaltern. So, being in a rare fret and fume, he let the
gray Arab gallop himself white, and, when the high-mettled Nejdi thought
of easing the pace somewhat, he was urged onward with the slight but
utterly unprecedented prick of a spur.

That was a degradation not to be borne. The Calcutta Brahmin did not
resent the Lascar's taunt more keenly. With a swerve that almost
unseated Malcolm, the Arab dashed in front of a bullock-cart, swept
between the trees on the west side of the road, leaped a broad ditch,
and crashed into a field of millet. Another ditch, another field, breast
high with tall castor-oil plants, a frantic race through a grove of
mangoes--when Malcolm had to lie flat on Nejdi's neck to avoid being
swept off by the low branches--and horse and man dived headlong into
deep water.

The splash, far more than the ducking, frightened the horse. Malcolm,
in that instant of prior warning which the possessor of steady nerves
learns to use so well, disengaged his feet from the stirrups. He was
thrown clear, and, when he came to the surface, he saw that the Arab
and himself were floundering in a moat. Not the pleasantest of
bathing-places anywhere, in India such a sheet of almost stagnant water
has excessive peculiarities. Among other items, it breeds fever and
harbors snakes, so Malcolm floundered rather than swam to the bank,
where he had the negative satisfaction of catching Nejdi's bridle when
that disconcerted steed scrambled out after him.

The two were coated with green slime. Being obviously unhurt, they
probably had a forlornly comic aspect. At any rate, a woman's musical
laugh came from the lofty wall which bounded the moat on the further
side, and a woman's clear voice said:

"A bold leap, sahib! Did you mean to scale the fort on horseback? And
why not have chosen a spot where the water was cleaner?"

Before he could see the speaker, so smothered was he in dripping
moss and weeds, Malcolm knew that some lady of rank had watched his
adventure. She used the pure Persian of the court, and her diction
was refined. Luckily, he had studied Persian as well as its Indian
off-shoot, Hindustani, and he understood the words. He pressed back his
dank hair, squeezed the water and slime off his face, and looked up.

To his exceeding wonder, his eyes met those of a young Mohammedan woman,
a woman richly garbed, and of remarkable appearance. She was unveiled,
an amazing fact in itself, and her creamy skin, arched eyebrows, regular
features, and raven-black hair proclaimed her aristocratic lineage. She
was leaning forward in an embrasure of the battlemented wall. Behind
her, two attendants, oval-faced, brown-skinned women of the people,
peered shyly at the Englishman. When he glanced their way, they
hurriedly adjusted their silk saris, or shawls, so as to hide their
faces. Their mistress used no such bashful subterfuge. She leaned
somewhat farther through the narrow embrasure, revealing by the action
her bejeweled and exquisitely molded arms.

"Perhaps you do not speak my language," she said in Urdu, the tongue
most frequently heard in Upper India. "If you will go round to the
gate--that way--" and she waved a graceful hand to the left left--"my
servants will render you some assistance."

By that time, Malcolm had regained his wits. A verse of a poem by Hafiz
occurred to him.

"Princess," he said, "the radiance of your presence is as the full moon
suddenly illumining the path of a weary traveler, who finds himself on
the edge of a morass."

A flash of surprise and pleasure lit the fine eyes of the haughty beauty
perched up there on the palace wall.

"'Tis well said," she vowed, smiling with all the rare effect of full
red lips and white even teeth. "Nevertheless, this is no time for
compliments. You need our help, and it shall be given willingly. Make
for the gate, I pray you."

She turned, and gave an order to one of the attendants. With another
encouraging smile to Malcolm, she disappeared.

Leading the Arab, who, with the fatalism of his race, was quiet as
a sheep now that he had found a master, the young officer took the
direction pointed out by the lady. Rounding an angle of the wall, he
came to a causeway spanned by a small bridge, which was guarded by the
machicolated towers of a strong gate. A ponderous door, studded with
great bosses of iron fashioned to represent elephants' heads, swung
open--half reluctantly it seemed--and he was admitted to a spacious
inner courtyard.

The number of armed retainers gathered there was unexpectedly large. He
was well acquainted with the Meerut district, yet he had no notion that
such a fortress existed within an hour's fast ride of the station. The
King of Delhi had a hunting-lodge somewhere in the locality, but he had
never seen the place. If this were it, why should it be crammed with
soldiers? Above all, why should they eye him with such ill-concealed
displeasure? Duty had brought him once to Delhi--it was barely forty
miles from Meerut--and the relations between the feeble old King,
Bahadur Shah, and the British authorities were then most friendly, while
the hangers-on at the Court mixed freely with the Europeans. His quick
intelligence caught at the belief that these men resented his presence
because he was brought among them by the command of the lady. He knew
now that he must have seen and spoken to one of the royal princesses.
None other would dare to show herself unveiled to a stranger, and a
white man at that. The manifest annoyance of her household was thus
easily accounted for, but he marveled at the strength of her bodyguard.

He was given little time for observation. A distinguished-looking man,
evidently vested with authority, bustled forward and addressed him,
civilly enough. Servants came with water and towels, and cleaned his
garments sufficiently to make him presentable, while other men groomed
his horse. He was wet through, of course, but that was not a serious
matter with the thermometer at seventy degrees in the shade, and,
despite the ordinance of the Prophet, a glass of excellent red wine
was handed to him.

But he saw no more of the Princess. He thought she would hardly dare to
receive him openly, and her deputy gave no sign of admitting him to the
interior of the palace, which loomed around the square of the courtyard
like some great prison.

A chaprassi recovered his hat, which he had left floating in the moat.
Nejdi allowed him to mount quietly; the stout door had closed on him,
and he was picking his way across the fields towards the Meerut road,
before he quite realized how curious were the circumstances which had
befallen him since he parted from Winifred Mayne in the porch of her
uncle's bungalow.

Then he bent forward in the saddle to stroke Nejdi's curved neck, and
laughed cheerfully.

"You are wiser than I, good horse," said he. "When the game is up, you
take things placidly. Here am I, your supposed superior in intellect, in
danger of being bewitched by a woman's eyes. Whether brown or black,
they play the deuce with a man if they shine in a woman's head. So ho,
then, boy, let us home and eat, and forget these fairies in muslin and
clinging silk."

Yet a month passed, and Frank Malcolm did not succeed in forgetting.
Like any moth hovering round a lamp, the more he was singed the closer
he fluttered, though the memory of the Indian princess's brilliant black
eyes was soon lost in the sparkle of Winifred's brown ones.

As it happened, the young soldier was a prime favorite with the
Commissioner, and it is possible that the course of true love might have
run most smoothly if the red torch of war had not flashed over the land
like the glare of some mighty volcano.

On Sunday evening, May 10th, Malcolm rode away from his own small
bungalow, and took the Aligarh road. As in all up-country stations, the
European residences in Meerut were scattered over an immense area. The
cantonment was split into two sections by an irregular ravine, or
nullah, running east and west. North of this ditch were many officers'
bungalows, and the barracks of the European troops, tenanted by a
regiment of dragoons, the 60th Rifles, and a strong force of artillery,
both horse and foot. Between the infantry and cavalry barracks stood
the soldiers' church. Fully two miles away, on the south side of the
ravine, were the sepoy lines, and another group of isolated bungalows.
The native town was in this quarter, while the space intervening between
the British and Indian troops was partly covered with rambling bazaars.

Malcolm had been detained nearly half an hour by some difficulty which a
subadar had experienced in arranging the details of the night's guard.
Several men were absent without leave, and he attributed this unusual
occurrence to the severe measures the colonel had taken when certain
troopers refused to use the cartridges supplied for the new Enfield
rifle. But, like every other officer in Meerut, he was confident that
the nearness of the strongest European force in the North-West Provinces
would certainly keep the malcontents quiet. Above all else, he was ready
to stake his life on the loyalty of the great majority of the men of his
own regiment, the 3d Native Cavalry.

In pushing Nejdi along at a fast canter, therefore, he had no weightier
matter on his mind than the fear that he might have kept Winifred
waiting. When he dashed into the compound, and saw that there was no
dog-cart standing in the porch, he imagined that the girl had gone
without him, or, horrible suspicion, with some other cavalier.

It was not so. Winifred herself appeared on the veranda as he
dismounted.

"You are a laggard," she said severely.

"I could not help it. I was busy in the orderly-room. But why lose more
time? If that fat pony of yours is rattled along we shall not be very
much behindhand."

"You must not speak disrespectfully of my pony. If he is fat, it is due
to content, not laziness. And you are evidently not aware that Evensong
is half an hour later to-day, owing to the heat. Of course, I expected
you earlier, and, if necessary, I would have gone alone, but--"

She hesitated, and looked over her shoulder into the immense
drawing-room that occupied the center of the bungalow from front to
rear.

"I don't mind admitting," she went on, laughing nervously, "that I am a
wee bit afraid these days--there is so much talk of a native rising.
Uncle gets so cross with me when I say anything of that kind that I keep
my opinions to myself."

"The country is unsettled," said Frank, "and it would be folly to deny
the fact. But, at any rate, you are safe enough in Meerut."

"Are you sure? Only yesterday morning eighty-five men of your own
regiment were sent to prison, were they not?"

"Yes, but they alone were disaffected. Every soldier knows he must obey,
and these fellows refused point-blank to use their cartridges, though
the Colonel said they might tear them instead of biting them. He could
go no further--I wonder he met their stupid whims even thus far."

"Well, perhaps you are right. Come in, for a minute or two. My uncle is
in a rare temper. You must help to talk him out of it. By the way, where
are all the servants? The dog-cart ought to be here. _Koi hai!_"[1]

[Footnote 1: The Anglo-Indian phrase for summoning a servant, meaning:
"Is there any one there?"]

No one came in response to her call. Thinking that a syce or chaprassi
would appear in a moment, Frank hung Nejdi's bridle on a lamp-hook in
the porch, and entered the bungalow.

He soon discovered that Mr. Mayne's wrath was due to a statement in a
Calcutta newspaper that a certain Colonel Wheler had been preaching to
his sepoys.

"What between a psalm-singing Viceroy and commanding officers who
hold conventicles, we are in for a nice hot weather," growled the
Commissioner, shoving a box of cheroots towards Malcolm when the latter
found him stretched in a long cane chair on the back veranda. "Here
is Lady Canning trying to convert native women, and a number of
missionaries publishing manifestoes about the influence of railways and
steamships in bringing about the spiritual union of the world! I tell
you, Malcolm, India won't stand it. We can do as we like with Hindu and
Mussalman so long as we leave their respective religions untouched. The
moment those are threatened we enter the danger zone. Confound it, why
can't we let the people worship God in their own way? If anything, they
are far more religiously inclined than we ourselves. Where is the
Englishman who will flop down in the middle of the road to say his
prayers at sunset, or measure his length along two thousand miles of a
river bank merely as a penance? Give me authority to pack a shipload of
busy-bodies home to England, and I'll soon have the country quiet
enough--"

An ominous sound interrupted the Commissioner's outburst. Both men heard
the crackle of distant musketry. At first, neither was willing to admit
its significance.

"Where is Winifred?" demanded Mr. Mayne, suddenly.

"She is looking for a servant, I fancy. There was none in the front of
the house, and I wanted a man to hold my horse."

A far-off volley rumbled over the plain, and a few birds stirred
uneasily among the trees.

"No servants to be seen--at this hour!"

They looked at each other in silence.

"We must find Winifred," said the older man, rising from his chair.

"And I must hurry back to my regiment," said Frank.

"You think, then, that there is trouble with the native troops?"

"With the sepoys, yes. I have been told that the 11th and 20th are not
wholly to be trusted. And those volleys are fired by infantry."

A rapid step and the rustle of a dress warned them that the girl was
approaching. She came, like a startled fawn.

"The servants' quarters are deserted," she cried. "Great columns of
smoke are rising over the trees, and you hear the shooting! Oh, what
does it mean?"

"It means, my dear, that the Dragoons and the 60th will have to teach
these impudent rebels a much-needed lesson," said her uncle. "There is
no cause for alarm. Must you really go, Malcolm?"

"Go!" broke in Winifred with the shrill accents of terror. "Where are
you going?"

"To my regiment, of course," said Frank, smiling at her fears. "Probably
we shall be able to put down this outbreak before the white troops
arrive. Good-by. I shall either return, or send a trustworthy messenger,
within an hour."

And so, confident and eager, he was gone, and the first moments of the
hour sped when, perhaps, a strong man in control at Meerut might have
saved India.




CHAPTER II

A NIGHT IN MAY


Winifred, quite unconsciously, had stated the actual incident that led
to the outbreak of the Mutiny. The hot weather was so trying for the
white troops in Meerut, many of whom, under ordinary conditions, would
then have been in the hills, that the General had ordered a Church
Parade in the evening, and at an unusual hour.

All day long the troopers of the 3d Cavalry nursed their wrath at
the fate of their comrades who had refused to handle the suspected
cartridges. They had seen men whom they regarded as martyrs stripped
of their uniforms and riveted in chains in front of the whole garrison
on the morning of the 9th. Though fear of the British force in the
cantonment kept them quiet, Hindu vied with Mussalman in muttered
execrations of the dominant race. The fact that the day following the
punishment parade was a Sunday brought about a certain relaxation from
discipline. The men loafed in the bazaars, were taunted by courtesans
with lack of courage, and either drowned their troubles in strong drink
or drew together in knots to talk treason.

Suddenly a sepoy raced up to the cavalry lines with thrilling news.

"The Rifles and Artillery are coming to disarm all the native
regiments!" he shouted.

He had watched the 60th falling in for the Church Parade, and, in view
of the action taken at Barrackpore and Lucknow--sepoy battalions having
been disbanded in both stations for mutinous conduct--he instantly
jumped to the conclusion that the military authorities at Meerut meant
to steal a march on the disaffected troops. His warning cry was as a
torch laid to a gunpowder train.

The 3d Cavalry, Malcolm's own corps, swarmed out of bazaar and quarters
like angry wasps. Nearly half the regiment ran to secure their picketed
horses, armed themselves in hot haste, and galloped to the gaol.
Smashing open the door, they freed the imprisoned troopers, struck off
their fetters, and took no measures to prevent the escape of the general
horde of convicts. Yet, even in that moment of frenzy, some of the men
remained true to their colors. Captain Craigie and Lieutenant Melville
Clarke, hearing the uproar, mounted their chargers, rode to the lines,
and actually brought their troop to the parade ground in perfect
discipline. Meanwhile, the alarm had spread to the sepoys. No one knew
exactly what caused all the commotion. Wild rumors spread, but no man
could speak definitely. The British officers of the 11th and 20th
regiments were getting their men into something like order when a
sowar[2] clattered up, and yelled to the infantry that the European
troops were marching to disarm them.

[Footnote 2: It should be explained that a sepoy (properly "sipahi") is
an infantry soldier, and a sowar a mounted one. The English equivalents
are "private" and "trooper."]

At once, the 20th broke in confusion, seized their muskets, and procured
ammunition. The 11th wavered, and were listening to the appeal of their
beloved commanding officer, Colonel Finnis, when some of the 20th came
back and fired at him. He fell, pierced with many bullets, the first
victim of India's Red Year. His men hesitated no longer. Afire with
religious fanaticism, they, too, armed themselves, and dispersed in
search of loot and human prey. They acted on no preconcerted plan. The
trained troops simply formed the nucleus of an armed mob, its numbers
ever swelling as the convicts from the gaol, the bad characters from the
city, and even the native police, joined in the work of murder and
destruction. They had no leader. Each man emulated his neighbor in
ferocity. Like a pack of wolves on the trail, they followed the scent of
blood.

The rapid spread of the revolt was not a whit less marvelous than its
lack of method or cohesion. Many writers have put forward the theory
that, by accident, the mutiny broke out half an hour too soon, and that
the rebels meant to surprise the unarmed white garrison while in church.

In reality, nothing was further from their thoughts. If, in a nebulous
way, a date was fixed for a combined rising of the native army, it was
Sunday, May 31, three weeks later than the day of the outbreak. The
soldiers, helped by the scum of the bazaar, after indulging in an orgy
of bloodshed and plunder, dispersed and ran for their lives, fearing
that the avenging British were hot on their heels. And that was all.
There was no plan, no settled purpose. Hate and greed nerved men's
hands, but head there was none.

Malcolm's ride towards the center of the station gave proof in plenty
that the mutineers were a disorganized rabble, inspired only by
unreasoning rancor against all Europeans, and, like every mob, eager for
pillage. At first, he met but few native soldiers. The rioters were
budmashes, the predatory class which any city in the world can produce
in the twinkling of an eye when the strong arm of the law is paralyzed.
Armed with swords and clubs, gangs of men rushed from house to house,
murdering the helpless inmates, mostly women and children, seizing such
valuables as they could find, and setting the buildings on fire. These
ghouls practised the most unheard-of atrocities. They spared no one.
Finding a woman lying ill in bed, they poured oil over the bed clothes,
and thus started, with a human holocaust, the fire that destroyed the
bungalow.

They were rank cowards, too. Another Englishwoman, also an invalid, was
fortunate in possessing a devoted ayah. This faithful creature saved her
mistress by her quick-witted shriek that the mem-sahib must be avoided
at all costs, as she was suffering from smallpox! The destroyers fled in
terror, not waiting even to fire the house.

It was not until later days that Malcolm knew the real nature of the
scene through which he rode. He saw the flames, he heard the Mohammedan
yell of "Ali! Ali!" and the Hindu shriek of "Jai! Jai!" but the quick
fall of night, its growing dusk deepened by the spreading clouds of
smoke, and his own desperate haste to reach the cavalry lines, prevented
him from appreciating the full extent of the horrors surrounding his
path.

Arrived at the parade ground, he met Craigie and Melville Clarke, with
the one troop that remained of the regiment of which he was so proud.
There were no other officers to be seen, so these three held a
consultation. They were sure that the white troops would soon put an end
to the prevalent disorder, and they decided to do what they could,
within a limited area, to save life and property. Riding towards his own
bungalow to obtain a sword and a couple of revolvers, Malcolm came upon
a howling mob in the act of swarming into the compound of Craigie's
house. Some score of troopers heard his fierce cry for help, and fell
upon the would-be murderers, for Mrs. Craigie and her children were
alone in the bungalow. The riff-raff were soon driven off, and Malcolm,
not yet realizing the gravity of the _émeute_, told the men to safeguard
the mem-sahib until they received further orders, while he went to
rejoin his senior officer.

Incredible as it may seem, the tiny detachment obeyed him to the letter.
They held the compound against repeated assaults, and lost several men
in hand-to-hand fighting.

The history of that terrible hour is brightened by many such instances
of native fealty. The Treasury Guard, composed of men of the 8th
Irregular Cavalry, not only refused to join the rebels but defended
their charge boldly. A week later, of their own free will, they escorted
the treasure and records from Meerut to Agra, the transfer being made
for greater safety, and beat off several attacks by insurgents on the
way. They were well rewarded for their fidelity, yet, such was the power
of fanaticism, within less than two months they deserted to a man!

The acting Commissioner of Meerut, Mr. Greathed, whose residence was in
the center of the sacked area, took his wife to the flat roof of his
house when he found that escape was impossible. A gang of ruffians
ransacked every room, and, piling the furniture, set it alight, but a
trustworthy servant, named Golab Khan, told them that he would reveal
the hiding-place of the sahib and mem-sahib if they followed quickly. He
thus decoyed them away, and the fortunate couple were enabled to reach
the British lines under cover of the darkness.

And, while the sky flamed red over a thousand fires, and the blood of
unhappy Europeans, either civilian families or the wives and children of
military officers, was being spilt like water, where were the two
regiments of white troops who, by prompt action, could have saved Meerut
and prevented the siege of Delhi?

That obvious question must receive a strange answer. They were
bivouacked on their parade-ground, doing nothing. The General in command
of the station was a feeble old man, suffering from senile decay. His
Brigadier, Archdale Wilson, issued orders that were foolish. He sent the
Dragoons to guard the empty gaol! After a long delay in issuing
ammunition to the Rifles, he marched them and the gunners to the
deserted parade-ground of the native infantry. They found a few belated
sowars of the 3d Cavalry, who took refuge in a wood, and the artillery
opened fire at the trees! News came that the rebels were plundering the
British quarters, and the infantry went there in hot haste. And then
they halted, though the mutineers were crying, "Quick, brother, quick!
The white men are coming!" and the scared suggestion went round: "To
Delhi! That is our only chance!"

The moon rose on a terrified mob trudging or riding the forty miles of
road between Meerut and the Mogul capital. All night long they expected
to hear the roar of the pursuing guns, to find the sabers of the
Dragoons flashing over their heads. But they were quite safe. Archdale
Wilson had ordered his men to bivouac, and they obeyed, though it is
within the bounds of probability that had the rank and file known what
the morrow's sun would reveal, there might have been another Mutiny in
Meerut that night, a Mutiny of Revenge and Reprisal.

It was not that wise and courageous counsel was lacking. Captain Rosser
offered to cut off the flight of the rebels to Delhi if one squadron of
his dragoons and a few guns were given to him. Lieutenant Möller, of the
11th Native Infantry, appealed to General Hewitt for permission to ride
alone to Delhi, and warn the authorities there of the outbreak.
Sanction was refused in both cases. The bivouac was evidently deemed a
masterpiece of strategy.

That Möller would have saved Delhi cannot be doubted. Next day, finding
that the wife of a brother officer had been killed, he sought and
obtained evidence of the identity of the poor lady's murderer, traced
the man, followed him, arrested him single-handed, and brought him
before a drumhead court martial, by whose order he was hanged forthwith.

Craigie, Rosser, Möller, and a few other brave spirits showed what could
have been done. But negligence and apathy were stronger that night than
courage or self-reliance. For good or ill, the torrent of rebellion was
suffered to break loose, and it soon engulfed a continent.

Malcolm failed to find Craigie, who had taken his troop in the direction
of some heavy firing. Passing a bungalow that was blazing furiously, he
saw in the compound the corpses of two women. A little farther on, he
discovered the bodies of a man and four children in the center of the
road, and he recognized, in the man, a well-known Scotch trader whose
shop was the largest and best in Meerut.

Then, for the first time, he understood what this appalling thing meant.
He thought of Winifred, and his blood went cold. She and her uncle were
alone in that remote house, far away on the Aligarh Road, and completely
cut off from the comparatively safe northerly side of the station.

Giving heed to nought save this new horror of his imagination, he
wheeled Nejdi, and rode at top speed towards Mr. Mayne's bungalow. As he
neared it, his worst fears were confirmed. One wing was on fire, but the
flames had almost burnt themselves out. Charred beams and blackened
walls showed stark and gaunt in the glow of a smoldering mass of
wreckage. Twice he rode round the ruined house, calling he knew not what
in his agony, and looking with the eyes of one on the verge of lunacy
for some dread token of the fate that had overtaken the inmates.

He came across several bodies. They were all natives. One or two were
servants, he fancied, but the rest were marauders from the city. Calming
himself, with the coolness of utter despair, he dismounted, and examined
the slain. Their injuries had been inflicted with some sharp, heavy
instrument. None of them bore gunshot wounds. That was strange. If there
was a fight, and Mayne, perhaps even Winifred, had taken part in the
defense, they must have used the sporting rifles in the house. And that
suggested an examination of the dark interior. He dreaded the task, but
it must not be shirked.

The porch was intact, and he hung Nejdi's bridle on the hook where he
had placed it little more than an hour ago. The spacious drawing-room
had been gutted. The doors (Indian bungalows have hardly any windows,
each door being half glass) were open front and back. The room was
empty, thank Heaven! He was about to enter and search the remaining
apartments which had escaped the fire when a curiously cracked voice
hailed him from the foot of the garden.

"Hallt! Who go dare?" it cried, in the queer jargon of the native
regiments.

Malcolm saw a man hurrying toward him. He recognized him as a pensioner
named Syed Mir Khan, an Afghan. The old man, a born fire-eater, insisted
on speaking English to the _sahib-log_, unless, by rare chance, he
encountered some person acquainted with Pushtu, his native language.

"I come quick, sahib," he shouted. "I know all things. I save sahib and
miss-sahib. Yes, by dam, I slewed the cut-heads."

As he came nearer, he brandished a huge tulwar, and the split skulls
and severed vertebræ of certain gentry lying in the garden became
explicable. Delighted in having a sahib to listen, he went on:

"The mob appearing, I attacked them with great ferocity--yes, like
terrible lion, by George. My fighting was immense. I had many actions
with the pigs."

At last, he quieted down sufficiently to tell Malcolm what had happened.
He, with others, thinking the miss-sahib had gone to church, was smoking
the hookah of gossip in a neighboring compound. It was an instance of
the amazing rapidity with which the rioters spread over the station that
a number of them reached the Maynes' bungalow five minutes after the
first alarm was given. It should be explained here that Mr. Mayne, being
a Commissioner of Oudh, was only visiting Meerut in order to learn the
details of a system of revenue collection which it was proposed to adopt
on the sequestered estates of the Oudh taluqdars. He had rented one of
the best houses in the place, the owner being in Simla, and Syed Mir
Khan held a position akin to that of caretaker in a British household.
The looters knew how valuable were the contents of such an important
residence, and the earliest contingent thought they would have matters
entirely their own way.

As soon as Malcolm left, however, Mr. Mayne loaded all his guns, while
Winifred made more successful search for some of the servants. The
Afghan was true to his salt, and their own retainers, who had come with
them from Lucknow, remained steadfast at this crisis. Hence, the mob
received a warm reception, but the fighting had taken place outside the
bungalow, the defenders lining a wall at the edge of the compound.
Indeed, a score of bodies lying there had not been seen by Malcolm
during his first frenzied examination of the house.

Then an official of the Salt Department, driving past with his wife and
child, shouted to Mr. Mayne that he must not lose an instant if he would
save his niece and himself.

"The sepoys have risen," was the horrifying message he brought. "They
have surprised and killed all the white troops. They are sacking the
whole station. You see the fires there? That is their work. This road is
clear, but the Delhi road is blocked."

Some distant yelling caused the man to flog his horse into a fast trot
again; and he and his weeping companions vanished into the gloom.

Mayne could not choose but believe. Indeed, many days elapsed before a
large part of India would credit the fact that the British regiments in
Meerut had not been massacred. A carriage and pair were harnessed.
Several servants were mounted on all the available horses and ponies,
and Mr. Mayne and Winifred had gone down the Grand Trunk Road towards
Bulandshahr and Aligarh.

"Going half an hour," said Syed Mir Khan, volubly. "I stand fast,
slaying budmashes. They make rush in thousands, and I retreat with great
glory. Then they put blazes in bungalow."

Now, Malcolm also might have accepted the sensational story of the Salt
Department inspector, if, at that instant, the boom of a heavy gun had
not come from the direction of the sepoy parade-ground. Another
followed, and another, in the steady sequence of a trained battery. As
he had just ridden from that very spot, which was then almost deserted,
he was sure that the British troops had come from their cantonment. The
discovery that Winifred was yet living, and in comparative safety,
cleared his brain as though he had partaken of some magic elixir. He
knew that Meerut itself was now the safest refuge within a hundred
miles. Probably the bulk of the mutineers would strive to reach Delhi,
and, of course, the dragoons and artillery would cut them off during the
night. But he had seen many squads of rebels, mounted and on foot,
hastening along the Grand Trunk Road, and it was no secret that
detachments of the 9th Native Infantry at Bulandshahr and Aligarh were
seething with Brahminical hatred of the abhorred cartridges.

Each second he became more convinced that Winifred and her uncle were
being carried into a peril far greater than that which they had escaped.
Decision and action were the same thing where he was concerned. Bidding
the Afghan endeavor to find Captain Craigie, who might be trusted to
send a portion of his troop to scour the road for some miles, and
assuring the man of a big reward for his services, Frank mounted and
galloped south. He counted on overtaking the fugitives in an hour, and
persuading them to return with him. He rode with drawn sword, lest he
might be attacked on the way, but it was a remarkable tribute to
Möller's wisdom in offering to ride to Delhi that no man molested him,
and such sepoys as he passed skulked off into the fields where they saw
the glint of his saber and recognized him as a British officer. They had
no difficulty in that respect. A glorious full moon was flooding the
peaceful plain with light. The trunks of the tall trees lining the road
barred its white riband with black shadows, but Nejdi, good horse that
he was, felt that this was no time for skittishness, and repressed the
inclination to jump these impalpable obstacles.

And he made excellent progress. Eight miles from Meerut, in a tiny
village of mud hovels which horse and rider had every reason to
remember, they suddenly dashed into a large company of mounted men and
a motley collection of vehicles. There were voices raised, too, in
heated dispute, and a small crowd was gathered near a lumbering
carriage, whose tawdry trappings and display of gold work betokened the
state equipage of some native dignitary.

Drawn up by its side was a European traveling barouche, empty, but
Malcolm's keen eyes soon picked out the figures of Winifred and her
uncle, standing in the midst of an excited crowd of natives. So great
was the hubbub that he was not noticed until he pulled up.

"I have come to bring you back to Meerut, Mr. Mayne," he cried. "The
mutiny has been quelled. Our troops are in command of the station and of
all the main roads. You can return without the slightest risk, I assure
you."

He spoke clearly and slowly, well knowing that some among the natives
would understand him. His appearance, no less than his words, created a
rare stir. The clamor of tongues was stilled. Men looked at him as
though he had fallen from the sky. He could not be certain, but he
guessed, that he had arrived at a critical moment. Indeed, the lives of
his friends were actually in deadliest jeopardy, and there was no
knowing what turn the events of the next minute might have taken. But a
glance at Winifred's distraught face told him a good deal. He must be
bold, with the careless boldness of the man who has the means of making
his will respected.

"Stand aside, there!" he said in Hindustani. "And you had better clear
the roadway. A troop of cavalry is riding fast behind."

He dismounted, drew Nejdi's bridle over his left arm, and went towards
Winifred. The girl looked at him with a wistfulness that was pitiful.
Hope was struggling in her soul against the fear of grim death.

"Oh, Frank!" she sighed, holding out both her hands. "Oh, Frank, I am so
frightened. We had a dreadful time at the bungalow, and these men look
so fierce and cruel! Have you really brought help?"

"Yes," he said confidently. "You need have no further anxiety. Please
get into your carriage."

Mr. Mayne said something, but Malcolm never knew what it was, for
Winifred fainted, and would have fallen had he not caught her.

"This Feringhi has a loud voice," a man near him growled. "He talks of
cavalry. Where are they?"

"The Meerut road is empty," commented another.

"We have the Begum's order," said the first speaker, more loudly. "Let
us obey, or it may be an evil thing for us."

"One of the daughters of Bahadur Shah is here," murmured Mayne rapidly.
"She says we are to be taken to Delhi, and slain if we resist. Where are
your men? My poor niece! To think that I should have brought her from
England for this!"

Malcolm, still holding Winifred's unconscious form clasped to his
breast, laughed loudly.

"Mayne-sahib tells me that you have all gone mad," he shouted in the
vernacular. "Have you no ears? Did you not hear the British artillery
firing on the rebels a little time since? Ere day breaks the road to
Delhi will be held by the white troops. What foolish talk is this of
taking Mayne-sahib thither as a prisoner?"

The door of the bedizened traveling-coach was flung open, and the
Mohammedan lady who had befriended Frank when he fell into the moat
appeared. She alighted, and her aggressive servants drew away somewhat.

"It is my order," she said imperiously. "Who are you that you should
dispute it?"

"I regret the heat of my words, Princess," he replied, grasping the
frail chance that presented itself of wriggling out of a desperate
situation. "Nevertheless, it is true that the native regiments at Meerut
have been dispersed, and you yourself may have heard the guns as they
advanced along the Delhi road. Why should I be here otherwise? I came to
escort my friends back to Meerut."

The Princess came nearer. In the brilliant moonlight she had an
unearthly beauty--at once weird and Sybilline--but her animated features
were chilled with disdain, and she pointed to the girl whose pallid face
lay against Frank's shoulder.

"You are lying," she said. "You are not the first man who has lied for a
woman's sake. That is why you are here."

"Princess, I have spoken nothing but the truth," he answered. "If you
still doubt my word, let some of your men ride back with us. They will
soon convince you. Perchance, the information may not be without its
value to you also."

The thrust was daring, but she parried it adroitly.

"No matter what has happened in Meerut, the destined end is the same,"
she retorted. Then she fired into subdued passion. "The British
Raj is doomed," she muttered, lowering her voice, and bringing her
magnificent eyes close to his. "It is gone, like an evil dream. Listen,
Malcolm-sahib. You are a young man, and ambitious. They say you are a
good soldier. Come with me. I want some one I can trust. Though I am a
king's daughter, there are difficulties in my path that call for a sword
in the hands of a man not afraid to use it. Come! Let that weakling girl
go where she lists--I care not. I offer you life, and wealth, and a
career. She will lead you to death. What say you? Choose quickly. I am
now going to Delhi, and to-morrow's sun shall see my father a king in
reality as well as in name."

Malcolm's first impression was that the Princess had lost her senses. He
had yet to learn how completely the supporters of the Mogul dynasty were
convinced of the approaching downfall of British supremacy in India.
But his active brain fastened on to two considerations of exceeding
importance. By temporizing, by misleading this arrogant woman, if
necessary, he might not only secure freedom for Winifred and Mayne,
but gather most valuable information as to the immediate plans of the
rebels.

"Your words are tempting to a soldier of fortune, Princess," he said.

"Malcolm--" broke in Mayne, who, of course, understood all that passed.

"For Heaven's sake do not interfere," said Frank in English. "Suffer my
friends to depart, Princess," he went on in Persian. "It is better so.
Then I shall await your instructions."

"Ah, you agree, then? That is good hearing. Yes, your white doll can go,
and the gray-beard, too. Ere many days have passed there will be no
place for them in all India."

A commotion among the ring of soldiers and servants interrupted her. The
stout, important-looking man whom Malcolm had seen in the hunting lodge
on the occasion of his ducking, came towards them with hurried strides.
The Princess seemed to be disconcerted by his arrival. Her expressive
face betrayed her. Sullen anger, not unmixed with fear, robbed her of
her good looks. Her whole aspect changed. She had the cowed appearance
of one of her own serving-women.

"Remember!" she murmured. "You must obey me, none else. Come when I send
for you!"

The man, who now carried on his forehead the insignia of a Brahmin, had
no sooner reached the small space between the carriages than Mr. Mayne
cried delightedly to Malcolm:

"Why, if this is not Nana Sahib! Here is a piece of good luck! I know
him well. If he has any control over this mob, we are perfectly safe."

Nana Sahib acknowledged the Commissioner's greeting with smiling
politeness. But first he held a whispered colloquy with the Princess,
whom he entreated, or persuaded, to re-enter her gorgeous vehicle. She
drove away without another glance at Malcolm. Perhaps she did not dare
to show her favor in the newcomer's presence.

Then Nana Sahib turned to the Europeans.

"Let the miss-sahib be placed in her carriage," he said suavely. "She
will soon revive in the air, and we march at once for Aligarh. Will you
accept my escort thus far, Mayne-sahib, or farther south, if you wish
it? I think you will be safer with me than in taking the Meerut road
to-night."

Mayne agreed gladly. The commanding influence of this highly-placed
native nobleman, who, despite an adverse decision of the Government, was
regarded by every Mahratta as Peishwa, the ruler of a vast territory in
Western India, seemed to offer more stable support that night than the
broken reed of British authority in Meerut. Moreover, the Commissioner
wished to reach Lucknow without delay. If the country were in for a
period of disturbance, his duty lay there, and he was planning already
to send Winifred to Calcutta from Cawnpore, and thence to England until
the time of political trouble had passed.

"I am sure I am doing right," he said in answer to Frank's
remonstrances. "Don't you understand, a native in Nana Sahib's position
must be well informed as to the exact position of affairs. By helping
me he is safeguarding himself. I am only too thankful he was able to
subdue that fiery harpy, the Begum. She threatened me in the most
outrageous manner before you came. Of course, Winifred and I will be
ever-lastingly grateful to you for coming to our assistance. You are
alone, I suppose?"

"Yes, though some of our troopers may turn up any minute."

"I fear not," said the older man gravely. "This is a bad business,
Malcolm. The Begum said too much. There are worse times in store for
us. Do you really believe you can reach Meerut safely?"

"I rode here without hindrance."

"Let me advise you, then, to slip away before we start. That woman meant
mischief, or she would never have dared to suggest that a British
officer should throw in his lot with hers. Waste no time, and don't
spare that good horse of yours. Be sure I shall tell Winifred all you
have done for us. She is pulling round, I think, and it will be better
that she should not see you again. Besides, the Nana's escort are
preparing to march."

Frank's latest memory of the girl he loved was a sad one. Her white face
looked ethereal in the moonlight, and her bloodless lips were quivering
with returning life. It was hard to leave her in such a plight, but it
would only unnerve her again if he waited until she was conscious to bid
her farewell.

So he rode back to Meerut, a solitary European on the eight miles of
road, and no man challenged him till he reached the famous bivouac of
the white garrison, the bivouac that made the Mutiny an accomplished
fact.




CHAPTER III

HOW BAHADUR SHAH PROCLAIMED HIS EMPIRE


On the morning of the 11th, the sun that laid bare the horrors of Meerut
shone brightly on the placid splendor of Delhi. This great city, the
Rome of Asia, was also the Metz of Upper India, its old-fashioned though
strong defenses having been modernized by the genius of a Napier.
Resting on the Jumna, it might best be described as of half-moon shape,
with the straight edge running north and south along the right bank of
the river.

In the center of the river line stood the imposing red sandstone palace
of Bahadur Shah, last of the Moguls. North of this citadel were the
magazine, the Church, some European houses, and the cutcherry, or group
of minor law courts, while the main thoroughfare leading in that
direction passed through the Kashmir Gate. Southward from the fort
stretched the European residential suburb known as Darya Gunj (or, as it
would be called in England, the "Riverside District") out of which the
Delhi Gate gave access to the open country and the road to Humayun's
Tomb. Another gate, the Raj Ghât, opened toward the river between the
palace and Darya Gunj. Thus, the walls of city and palace ran almost
straight for two miles from the Kashmir Gate on the north to the Delhi
Gate on the south, while the main road connecting the two passed the
fort on the landward side.

The Lahore Gate of the palace, a magnificent structure, commanded the
bazaar and its chief street, the superb Chandni Chowk, which extended
due west for nearly two miles to the Lahore Gate of the city itself.
Near the palace, in a very large garden, stood the spacious premises of
the Delhi Bank. A little farther on, but on the opposite side of the
Chowk, was the Kotwallee, or police station, and still farther,
practically in the center of the dense bazaar, two stone elephants
marked the entrance to the beautiful park now known as the Queen's
Gardens.

The remainder of the space within the walls was packed with the houses
and shops of well-to-do traders, and the lofty tenements or mud hovels
in which dwelt a population of artisans noted not only for their
artistic skill but for a spirit of lawlessness, a turbulent fanaticism,
that had led to many scenes of violence in the city's earlier history.

The whole of Delhi, as well as the palace--which had its own separate
fortifications--was surrounded by a wall seven miles long, twenty-four
feet in height, well supplied with bastions, and containing ten huge
gates, each a small fort in itself. The wall was protected by a dry
fosse, or ditch, twenty-five feet wide and about twenty feet deep; this,
in turn, was guarded by a counterscarp and glacis.

On the northwest side of Delhi, and about a mile distant from the river,
an irregular, rock-strewn spine of land, called the Ridge, rose above
the general level of the plain, and afforded a panoramic view of the
city and palace. The rising ground began about half a mile from the Mori
Gate--which was situated on what may be termed the landward side of the
Kashmir Gate. It followed a course parallel with the river for two
miles, and at its northerly extremity were situated the principal
European bungalows and the military cantonment.

Delhi was the center of Mohammedan hopes; its palace held the lineal
descendant of Aurangzebe, with his children and grandchildren; it
was stored to repletion with munitions of war; yet, such was the
inconceivable folly of the rulers of India at that time, the nearest
British regiments were stationed in Meerut, while the place swarmed
with native troops, horse, foot and artillery!

A May morning in the Punjab must not be confused with its prototype
in Britain. Undimmed by cloud, unchecked by cooling breeze, the sun
scorches the earth from the moment his glowing rays first peep over the
horizon. Thus men who value their health and have work to be done rise
at an hour when London's streets are emptiest. Merchants were busy in
the bazaar, soldiers were on parade, judges were sitting in the courts
of the cutcherry, and the European housewives of the station were making
their morning purchases of food for breakfast and dinner, when some of
the loungers on the river-side wall saw groups of horsemen raising the
dust on the Meerut road beyond the bridge of boats which spanned the
Jumna.

The word went round that something unusual had happened. Already the
idlers had noted the arrival of a dust-laden royal carriage, which
crossed the pontoons at breakneck speed and entered by the Calcutta
Gate. That incident, trivial in itself, became important when those
hard-riding horsemen came in sight. The political air was charged with
electricity. None knew whether it would end in summer lightning or in a
tornado, so there was much running to and fro, and gesticulations, and
excited whisperings among those watchers on the walls.

Vague murmurs of doubt and surprise reached the ears of two of the
British magistrates. They hurriedly adjourned the cases they were trying
and sent for their horses. One rode hard to the cantonment and told
Brigadier Graves what he had seen and heard; the other, knowing the
immense importance of the chief magazine, went there to warn Lieutenant
Willoughby, the officer in charge.

Here, then, in Delhi, were men of prompt decision, but the troops on
whom they could have depended were forty miles away in Meerut, in that
never-to-be-forgotten bivouac. Meanwhile, the vanguard of the Meerut
rebels had arrived. Mostly troopers of Malcolm's regiment, with some few
sepoys who had stolen ponies on the way, they crossed the Jumna, some
going straight to the palace by way of the bridge of boats, while others
forded the river to the south and made for the gaol, where, as usual,
they released the prisoners. This trick of emptying the penitentiaries
was more adroit than it seems at first sight. Not only were the
mutineers sure of obtaining hearty assistance in their campaign of
robbery and murder, but every gaol-bird headed direct for his native
town as soon as he was gorged with plunder. There was no better means of
disseminating the belief that the British power had crumbled to atoms.
The convicts boasted that they had been set free by the rebels; they
paraded their ill-gotten gains and incited ignorant villagers to emulate
the example of the towns. Thus a skilful and damaging blow was struck at
British prestige. Neither Mohammedan moullah nor Hindu fakir carried
such conviction to ill-informed minds as the appearance of some known
malefactor decked out in the jewels and trinkets of murdered
Englishwomen.

The foremost of the mutineers reined in their weary horses beneath a
balcony on which Bahadur Shah, a decrepit old man of eighty, awaited
them.

By his side stood his youngest daughter, the Roshinara Begum. Her eyes
were blazing with triumph, yet her lips curved with contempt at the
attitude of her trembling father.

"You see!" she cried. "Have I not spoken truly? These are the men who
sacked Meerut. Scarce a Feringhi lives there save those whom I have
saved to good purpose. Admit your troops! Proclaim yourself their ruler.
A moment's firmness will win back your empire."

The aged monarch, now that the hour was at hand that astrologers had
predicted and his courtiers had promised for many a year, faltered his
dread lest they were not all committing a great mistake.

"This is no woman's work," he protested. "Where are my sons? Where is
the Shahzada, Mirza Mogul?"

She knew. The heir apparent and his brothers were cowering in fear,
afraid to strike, yet hoping that others would strike for them. She
almost dragged her father to the front of the balcony. The troopers
recognized him with a fierce shout. A hundred sabers were waved
frantically.

"Help us, O King!" they cried. "We pray your help in our fight for the
faith!"

Captain Douglas, commandant of the palace guards, hearing the uproar ran
to the King. He did not notice the girl Roshinara, who stood there like
a caged tigress.

"How dare you intrude on the King's privacy?" he cried, striving to
overawe the rebels by his cool demeanor. "You must lay down your arms if
you wish His Majesty's clemency. He is here in person and that is his
command."

A yell of defiance greeted his bold words. The Begum made a signal with
her hand which was promptly understood. Away clattered the troopers
towards the Raj Ghât Gate. There they were admitted without parley. The
city hell hounds sprang to meet them and the slaughter of inoffensive
Europeans began in Darya Gunj.

It was soon in full swing. The vile deeds of the night at Meerut were
re-enacted in the vivid sunlight at Delhi. Leaving their willing allies
to carry sword and torch through the small community in that quarter the
sowars rode to the Lahore Gate of the palace. It was thrown open by the
King's guards and dependents. Captain Douglas, and the Commissioner,
Mr. Fraser, made vain appeals to men whose knees would have trembled
at their frown a few minutes earlier. Thinking to escape and summon
assistance from the cantonment, Douglas mounted the wall and leaped into
the moat. He broke one, if not both, of his legs. Some scared coolies
lifted him and carried him back to the interior of the palace. Fraser
tried to protect him while he was being taken to his apartments over the
Lahore Gate, but a jeweler from the bazaar stabbed the Commissioner and
he was killed by the guards. Then the mob rushed up-stairs and massacred
the collector, the chaplain, the chaplain's daughter, a lady who was
their guest, and the injured Douglas.

Another dreadful scene was enacted in the Delhi Bank. The manager and
his brave wife, assisted by a few friends who happened to be in the
building at the moment, made a stubborn resistance, but they were all
cut down. The masters in the Government colleges were surprised and
murdered in their class-rooms. The missionaries, whether European or
native, were slaughtered in their houses and schools. The editorial
staff and compositors of the _Delhi Gazette_, having just produced a
special edition of the paper announcing the crisis, were all stabbed or
bludgeoned to death. In the telegraph office a young signaler was
sending a thrilling message to Umballa, Lahore and the north.

"The sepoys have come in from Meerut," he announced with the slow tick
of the earliest form of apparatus. "They are burning everything. Mr.
Todd is dead, and, we hear, several Europeans. We must shut up."

That was his requiem. The startled operators at Umballa could obtain no
further intelligence and the boy was slain at his post.[3]

[Footnote 3: This statement is made on the authority of Holmes's
"History of the Indian Mutiny," Cave-Browne's "The Punjab & Delhi," and
"The Punjab Mutiny Report," though it is claimed that William Brendish,
who is still living, was on duty at the Delhi Telegraph Office
throughout the night of May 10th.]

The magistrate who galloped to the cantonment found no laggards there.
Brigadier Graves sent Colonel Ripley with part of the 54th Native
Infantry to occupy the Kashmir Gate. The remainder of the 54th escorted
two guns under Captain de Teissier.

Ripley reached the main guard, just within the gate, when some troopers
of the 3d rode up. The Colonel ordered his men to fire at them. The
sepoys refused to obey, and the sowars, drawing their pistols, shot dead
or severely wounded six British officers. Then the 54th bayoneted their
Colonel, but, hearing the rumble of de Teissier's guns, fled into the
city. The guard of the gate, composed of men of the 38th, went with
them, but their officer, Captain Wallace, had ridden, fortunately for
himself, to hurry the guns. He was sent on to the cantonment to ask for
re-enforcements. Not a man of the 38th would follow him, but the 74th
commanded by Major Abbott, proclaimed their loyalty and asked to be led
against the mutineers.

Perforce their commander trusted them. He brought them to the Kashmir
Gate with two more guns, while the Brigadier and his staff, wondering
why they heard nothing of the pursuing British from Meerut, thought it
advisable to gather the women and children and other helpless persons,
both European and native, in the Flagstaff Tower, a small building
situated on the northern extremity of the Ridge.

There for some hours a great company of frightened people endured all
the discomforts of terrific heat, hunger, and thirst, while wives and
mothers, striving to soothe their wailing little ones, were themselves
consumed with anxiety as to the fate of husbands and sons.

At the main guard there was a deadlock. Major Abbott and his brother
officers, trying to keep their men loyal, stood fast and listened to the
distant turmoil in the city. Like the soldiers in Meerut, they never
guessed a tithe of the horrors enacted there. They were sure that the
white troops in Meerut would soon arrive and put an end to the prevalent
anarchy. Yet the day sped and help came not.

Suddenly the sound of a tremendous explosion rent the air and a dense
cloud of white smoke, succeeded by a pall of dust, rose between the
gate and the palace. Willoughby had blown up the magazine! Why? Two
artillery subalterns who had fought their way through a mob stricken
with panic for the moment, soon arrived. Their story fills one of the
great pages of history.

Lieutenant Willoughby, a boyish-looking subaltern of artillery, whose
shy, refined manners hid a heroic soul, lost no time in making his
dispositions for the defense of the magazine when he knew that a mutiny
was imminent. He had with him eight Englishmen, Lieutenants Forrest and
Raynor, Conductors Buckley, Shaw and Scully, Sub-Conductor Crow, and
Sergeants Edwards and Stewart. The nine barricaded the outer gates and
placed in the best positions guns loaded with grape. They laid a train
from the powder store to a tree in the yard. Scully stood there. He
promised to fire the powder when his young commander gave the signal.

Then they waited. A stormy episode was taking place inside the fort.
Bahadur Shah held out against the vehement urging of his daughter aided
now by the counsel of her brothers. Ever and anon he went to the river
balcony which afforded a view of the Meerut road. At last he sent
mounted men across the river. When these scouts returned and he was
quite certain that none but rebel sepoys were streaming towards Delhi
from Meerut, he yielded.

The surrender of the magazine was demanded in his name. His adherents
tried to rush the gate and walls, and were shot down in scores. The
attack grew more furious and sustained. The white men served their
smoking cannon with a wild energy that, for a time, made the gallant
nine equal to a thousand. Of course such a struggle could have only one
end. Willoughby, in his turn, ran to the river bastion. Like the king,
he looked towards Meerut. Like the king, he saw none but mutineers.
Then, when the enemy were clambering over the walls and rushing into
the little fort from all directions, he raised his sword and looked at
Conductor Buckley. Buckley lifted his hat, the agreed signal, and Scully
fired the train. Hundreds of rebels were blown to pieces, as they
were already inside the magazine. Scully was killed where he stood.
Willoughby leaped from the walls, crossed the river, and met his
death while striving to reach Meerut. Lieutenants Forrest and Raynor,
Conductors Buckley and Shaw, and Sergeant Stewart escaped, and were
given the Victoria Cross.

Yet, so curiously constituted is the native mind, the blowing-up of the
magazine was the final tocsin of revolt. It seemed to place beyond doubt
that which all men were saying. The king was fighting the English. Islam
was in the field against the Nazarene. The Mogul Empire was born again
and the iron grip of British rule was relaxed. At once the sepoys at the
Kashmir Gate fired a volley at the nearest officers, of whom three fell
dead.

Two survivors rushed up the bastion and jumped into the ditch. Others,
hearing the shrieks of some women in the guard room, poor creatures who
had escaped from the city, ran through a hail of bullets and got them
out. Fastening belts and handkerchiefs together, the men lowered the
women into the fosse and, with extraordinary exertions, lifted them up
the opposite side.

At the Flagstaff Tower the 74th and the remainder of the 38th suddenly
told their officers that they would obey them no longer. When this last
shred of hope was gone, the Brigadier reluctantly gave the order to
retreat. The women and children were placed in carriages and a mournful
procession began to straggle through the deserted cantonment along the
Alipur Road.

Soon the fugitives saw their bungalows on fire. "Then," says that
accurate and impartial historian of the Mutiny, Mr. T. R. E. Holmes,
"began that piteous flight, the first of many such incidents which
hardened the hearts of the British to inflict a terrible revenge....
Driven to hide in jungles or morasses from despicable vagrants--robbed,
and scourged, and mocked by villagers who had entrapped them with
promises of help--scorched by the blazing sun, blistered by burning
winds, half-drowned in rivers which they had to ford or swim across,
naked, weary and starving, they wandered on; while some fell dead by the
wayside, and others, unable to move farther, were abandoned by their
sorrowing friends to die on the road."

In such wise did the British leave Imperial Delhi. They came back,
later, but many things had to happen meanwhile.

The volcanic outburst in the Delhi district might have been paralleled
farther north were not the Punjab fortunate in its rulers. Sir John
Lawrence was Chief Commissioner at Lahore. When that fateful telegram
from Delhi was received in the capital of the Punjab he was on his way
to Murree, a charming and secluded hill station, for the benefit of his
health. But, like most great men, Lawrence had the faculty of
surrounding himself with able lieutenants.

His deputy, Robert Montgomery, whose singularly benevolent aspect
concealed an iron will, saw at once that if the Punjab followed the lead
of Meerut and Delhi, India would be lost. Lahore had a mixed population
of a hundred thousand Sikhs and Mohammedans, born soldiers every man,
and ready to take any side that promised to settle disputes by cold
steel rather than legal codes. If these hot heads, with their millions
of co-religionists in the land of the Five Rivers, were allowed to gain
the upper hand, they would sweep through the country from the mountains
to the sea.

The troops, British and native, were stationed in the cantonment of
Mian-mir, some five miles from Lahore. There were one native cavalry
regiment and three native infantry battalions whose loyalty might
be measured by minutes as soon as they learnt that the standard of
Bahadur Shah was floating over the palace at Delhi. To quell them the
authorities had the 81st Foot and two batteries of horse artillery, or,
proportionately, far less a force than that at Meerut, the Britons being
outnumbered eight times by the natives.

Montgomery coolly drove to Mian-mir on the morning of the 12th, took
counsel with the Brigadier, Stuart Corbett, and made his plans. A ball
was fixed for that night. All society attended it, and men who knew that
the morrow's sun might set on a scene of bloodshed and desolation danced
gaily with the ladies of Lahore. Surely those few who were in the secret
of the scheme arranged by Montgomery and Corbett must have thought of a
more famous ball at Brussels on a June night in 1815.

Next morning the garrison fell in for a general parade of all arms. The
artillery and 81st were on the right of the line, the native infantry in
the center, and the sowars on the left. A proclamation by Government
announcing the disbandment of the 34th at Barrackpore was read, and may
have given some inkling of coming events to the more thoughtful among
the sepoys. But they had no time for secret murmurings. Maneuvers began
instantly. In a few minutes the native troops found themselves
confronted by the 81st and the two batteries of artillery.

Riding between the opposing lines, the Brigadier told the would-be
mutineers that he meant to save them from temptation by disarming them.

"Pile arms!" came the resolute command.

They hesitated. The intervening space was small. By sheer weight of
numbers they could have borne down the British.

"Eighty-first--load!" rang out the ominous order.

As the ears of the startled men caught the ring of the ramrods in the
Enfield rifles, their eyes saw the lighted port fires of the gunners.
They were trapped, and they knew it. They threw down their weapons with
sullen obedience and the first great step towards the re-conquest of
India was taken.

Inspired by Montgomery the district officers at Umritsar, Mooltan,
Phillour, and many another European center in the midst of warlike and
impetuous races, followed his example and precept. Brigadier Innes at
Ferozpore hesitated. He tried half measures. He separated his two native
regiments and thought to disarm them on the morrow. That night one of
them endeavored to storm the magazine, burnt and plundered the station,
and marched off towards Delhi. But Innes then made amends. He pursued
and dispersed them. Only scattered remnants of the corps reached the
Mogul capital.

Thus Robert Montgomery, the even-tempered, suave, smooth-spoken Deputy
Commissioner of Lahore! In the far north, at Peshawur, four other men
of action gathered in conclave. The gay, imaginative, earnest-minded
Herbert Edwardes, the hard-headed veteran, Sydney Cotton, the dashing
soldier, Neville Chamberlain, and the lustrous-eyed, black-bearded,
impetuous giant, John Nicholson--that genius who at thirty-five had
already been deified by a brotherhood of Indian fakirs and placed by
Mohammedans among the legendary heroes of their faith--these four sat
in council and asked, "How best shall we serve England?"

They answered that question with their swords.




CHAPTER IV

ON THE WAY TO CAWNPORE


In Meerut reigned that blessed thing, Pax Britannica, otherwise known as
the British bulldog. But the bulldog was kept on the chain and peace
obtained only within his kennel. Malcolm, deprived of his regiment,
gathered under his command a few young civilians who were eager to act
as volunteer cavalry, and was given a grudging permission to ride out to
the isolated bungalows of some indigo planters, on the chance that the
occupants might have defended themselves successfully against the
rioters.

In each case the tiny detachment discovered blackened walls and unburied
corpses. The Meerut district abounded with Goojers, the hereditary
thieves of India, and these untamed savages had lost none of their
wild-beast ferocity under fifty years of British rule. They killed and
robbed with an impartiality that was worthy of a better cause. When
Europeans, native travelers and mails were swept out of existence they
fought each other. Village boundaries which had been determined under
Wellesley's strong government at the beginning of the century were
re-arranged now with match-lock, spear and tulwar. Old feuds were
settled in the old way and six inches of steel were more potent than
the longest Order in Council. Yet these ghouls fled at the sight of the
smallest white force, and Malcolm and his irregulars rode unopposed
through a blood-stained and deserted land.

On the 21st of May, eleven days after the outbreak of the Mutiny, though
never a dragoon or horse gunner had left Meerut cantonment since they
marched back to their quarters from the ever-memorable bivouac, Malcolm
led his light horsemen north, along the Grand Trunk Road in the
direction of Mazuffernugger.

A native brought news that a collector and his wife were hiding in a
swamp near the road. Happily, in this instance, the two were rescued,
more dead than alive. The man, ruler of a territory as big as the North
Riding of Yorkshire, his wife, a young and well-born Englishwoman, were
in the last stage of misery. The unhappy lady, half demented, was
nursing a dead baby. When the child was taken from her she fell
unconscious and had to be carried to Meerut on a rough litter.

The little cavalcade was returning slowly to the station[4] when one of
the troopers caught the hoof beats of a galloping horse behind them.
Malcolm reined up, and soon a British officer appeared round a bend in
the road. Mounted on a hardy country-bred, and wearing the semi-native
uniform of the Company's regiments, the aspect of the stranger was
sufficiently remarkable to attract attention apart from the fact that he
came absolutely alone from a quarter where it was courting death to
travel without an escort. He was tall and spare of build, with reddish
brown hair and beard, blue eyes that gleamed with the cold fire of
steel, close-set lips, firm chin, and the slightly-hooked nose with thin
nostrils that seems to be one of nature's tokens of the man born to
command his fellows when the strong arm and clear brain are needed in
the battle-field.

[Footnote 4: In India the word "station" denotes any European settlement
outside the three Presidency towns. In 1857 there were few railways in
the country.]

He rode easily, with a loose rein, and he waved his disengaged hand the
instant he caught sight of the white faces.

"Are you from Meerut?" he asked, his voice and manner conveying a
curious blend of brusqueness and gentility, as his tired horse willingly
pulled up alongside Nejdi.

"Yes. And you?" said Malcolm, trying to conceal his amazement at this
apparition.

"I am Lieutenant Hodson of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers. I have ridden from
Kurnaul, where the Commander-in-Chief is waiting until communication is
opened with Meerut. Where is General Hewitt?"

"I will take you to him! From Kurnaul, did you say? When did you start?"

"About this hour yesterday."

Malcolm knew then that this curt-spoken cavalier had ridden nearly a
hundred miles through an enemy's country in twenty-four hours.

"Is your horse equal to another hour's canter?" he inquired.

"He ought to be. I took him from a bunniah when my own fell dead in a
village about ten miles in the rear."

Bidding a young bank manager take charge of the detachment, Frank led
the newcomer rapidly to headquarters. Hodson asked a few questions and
made his companion's blood boil by the unveiled contempt he displayed on
hearing of the inaction at Meerut.

"You want Nicholson here," said he, laughing with grim mirth. "By all
the gods, he would horse-whip your general into the saddle."

"Hewitt is an old man, and cautious, therefore," explained Frank, in
loyal defense of his chief. "Perhaps he deems it right to await the
orders you are now bringing."

"An old man! You mean an old woman, perhaps? I come from one. I had to
go on my knees almost before I could persuade Anson to let me start."

"Well, you must admit that you have made a daring and lucky ride?"

"Nonsense! Why is one a soldier! I would cross the infernal regions if
the need arose. If I had been in Meerut on that Sunday evening, no
general that ever lived could have kept me out of Delhi before daybreak.
The way to stop this mutiny was to capture that doddering old king and
hold him as a hostage, and twenty determined men could have done it
easily in the confusion."

That was William Hodson's way. Men who met him began by disliking his
hectoring, supercilious bearing. They soon learnt to forget his
gruffness and think only of his gallantry and good-comradeship.

At any rate his stirring advice and the dispatches he brought roused the
military authorities at Meerut into activity. Carrying with him a letter
to the Commander-in-Chief he quitted Meerut again that night, and
dismounted outside Anson's tent at Kurnaul at dawn on the second day!

On the 27th, Archdale Wilson led the garrison towards the rendezvous
fixed on by the force hurriedly collected in the Punjab for the relief
of Delhi. On the afternoon of the 30th, cavalry vedettes reported the
presence of a strong body of mutineers on the right bank of the river
Hindun, near the village of Ghazi-ud-din Nuggur and at a place where a
high ridge commanded an iron suspension bridge. It was found afterwards
that the rebels meant to fight the two British forces in detail before
they could effect a junction. The generalship of the idea was good, but
the sepoys did not count on the pent-up wrath of the British soldiers,
who were burning to avenge their murdered countrymen and dishonored
countrywomen, for it was now becoming known that many a fair English
lady had met a fate worse than death ere sword or bullet stilled her
anguish.

A company of the 60th Rifles dashed forward to seize the bridge,
Lieutenant Light and his men took up the enemy's challenge with their
heavy eighteen-pounders, and Colonel Mackenzie and Major Tombs, at the
head of two batteries of horse artillery, crossed the river and turned
the left flank of the sepoy force. Then the Rifles extended and charged,
the mutineers yielded, and Colonel Custance with his dragoons sabered
them mercilessly for some miles.

Next morning, Whit-Sunday, while the chaplains were conducting the
burial service over those who had fallen, the mutineers came out of
Delhi again. A severe action began instantly. Tombs had two horses shot
under him, and thirteen out of fifty men in his battery were killed or
wounded. But the issue was never in doubt. After three hours' hard
fighting the rebels broke and fled. So those men in Meerut could give a
good account of themselves when permitted! Actually, they won the two
first battles of the campaign.

Exhausted by two days' strenuous warfare in the burning sun, they could
not take up the pursuit. The men were resting on the field when a
battalion of Ghoorkahs, the little fighting men of Nepaul, arrived under
the command of Colonel Reid. They had marched by way of Bulandshahr, and
Malcolm heard to his dismay that the native infantry detachment
stationed there, aided by the whole population of the district, had
committed the wildest excesses.

Yet Winifred and her uncle had passed through that town on the road to
Cawnpore. Aligarh, too, was in flames, said Reid, and there was no
communication open with Agra, the seat of Government for the North-West
Provinces. There was a bare possibility that the Maynes might have
reached Agra, or that Nana Sahib had protected them for his own sake.
Such slender hopes brought no comfort. Black despair sat in Malcolm's
heart until the Brigadier sent for him and ordered him to take charge of
the guard that would escort the records and treasure from Meerut to
Agra. He hailed this dangerous mission with gloomy joy. Love had no
place in a soldier's life, he told himself. Henceforth he must remember
Winifred only when his sword was at the throat of some wretched mutineer
appealing for mercy.

He went to his tent to supervise the packing of his few belongings. His
bearer,[5] a Punjabi Mohammedan, who cursed the sepoys fluently for
disturbing the country during the hot weather, handed him a note which
had been brought by a camp follower.

[Footnote 5: A personal servant, often valet and waiter combined.]

It was written in Persi-Arabic script, a sort of Arabic shorthand that
demands the exercise of time and patience ere it can be deciphered by
one not thoroughly acquainted with it. Thinking it was a request for
employment which he could not offer, Malcolm stuffed it carelessly into
a pocket. He rode to Meerut, placed himself at the head of the 8th
Irregular Cavalry, a detachment whose extraordinary fidelity has already
been narrated, and set forth next morning with his train of bullock
carts and their escort.

He called the first halt in the village where he had parted from
Winifred. The headman professed himself unable to give any information,
but the application of a stirrup leather to his bare back while his
wrists were tied to a cart wheel soon loosened his tongue.

The king's hunting lodge was empty, he whined; and the Roshinara Begum
had gone to Delhi. Nana Sahib's cavalcade went south soon after the
Begum's departure, and a moullah had told him, the headman, that the
Nana had hastened through Aligarh on his way to Cawnpore, not turning
aside to visit Agra, which was fifty miles down the Bombay branch of the
Grand Trunk Road.

Malcolm drew a negative comfort from the moullah's tale. That night he
encamped near a fair-sized village which was ominously denuded of men.
Approaching a native hut to ask for a piece of charcoal wherewith to
light a cigar, he happened to look inside. To his very great surprise he
saw, standing in a corner, a complete suit of European armor, made of
tin, it is true, but a sufficiently bewildering "find" in a Goojer
hovel.

A woman came running from a neighbor's house. While giving him the
charcoal she hastily closed the rude door. She pretended not to
understand him when he sought an explanation of the armor, whereupon he
seized her, and led her, shrieking, among his own men. The commotion
brought other villagers on the scene, as he guessed it would. A few
fierce threats, backed by a liberal display of naked steel, quickly
evoked the curious fact that nearly all the able-bodied inhabitants "had
gone to see the sahib-log[6] dance."

[Footnote 6: A generic term for Europeans.]

Even Malcolm's native troops were puzzled by this story, but a further
string of terrifying words and more saber flourishing led to a direct
statement that the white people who were to "dance" had been captured
near the village quite a week earlier and imprisoned in a ruined tomb
about a mile from the road. It was risky work to leave the valuable
convoy for an instant, but Malcolm felt that he must probe this mystery.
Taking half a dozen men with him, and compelling the woman to act as
guide, he went to the tomb in the dark.

The building, a mosque-like structure of considerable size, was situated
in the midst of a grove of mango trees. A clear space in front of the
tomb was lighted with oil lamps and bonfires. It was packed with
uproarious natives, and Malcolm's astonished gaze rested on three
European acrobats doing some feat of balancing. A clown was cracking
jokes in French, some nuns were singing dolefully, and a trio of girls,
wearing the conventional gauze and spangles of circus riders, were
standing near a couple of piebald ponies.

He and his men dashed in among the audience and the Goojers ran for dear
life when they caught sight of a sahib at the head of an armed party.
The performers and the nuns nearly died of fright, believing that their
last hour had surely come. But they soon recovered from their fear only
to collapse more completely from joy. A French circus, it appeared, had
camped near a party of nuns in the village on the main road, and were
captured there when the news came that the English were swept out of
existence. Most fortunately for themselves the nuns were regarded as
part of the show, and the villagers, after robbing all of them, penned
them in the mosque and made them give a nightly performance. There were
five men and three women in the circus troupe, and among the four nuns
was the grave reverend mother of a convent.

Malcolm brought them to the village and caused it to be made known that
unless every article of value and every rupee in money stolen from these
unfortunate people, together with a heavy fine, were brought to him by
daybreak, he would not only fire each hut and destroy the standing
crops, but he would also hang every adult male belonging to the place he
could lay hands on.

These hereditary thieves could appreciate a man who spoke like that.
They met him fairly and paid in full. When the convoy moved off, even
that amazing suit of armor, which was used for the state entry of the
circus into a town, was strapped on to the back of a trick pony.

The nuns, he ascertained, were coming from Fategarh to Umballa and they
had met the great retinue of Nana Sahib below Aligarh. With him were two
Europeans, a young lady and an elderly gentleman, but they were
traveling so rapidly that it was impossible to learn who they were or
whither they were going.

Here, then, was really good news. Like every other Englishman in India
Malcolm believed that the Mutiny was confined to a very small area, of
which his own station was the center. He thought that if Winifred and
her uncle reached Cawnpore they would be quite safe.

He brightened up so thoroughly that he quite enjoyed a sharp fight next
day when the budmashes of Bulandshahr regarded the straggling convoy as
an easy prey.

There were three or four such affairs ere they reached Agra, and his
Frenchmen proved themselves to be soldiers as well as acrobats. On the
evening of the 2d of June he marched his cavalcade into the splendid
fortress immortalized by its marble memorials of the great days of the
Mogul empire.

The fact that a young subaltern had brought a convoy from Meerut was
seized on by the weak and amiable John Colvin, Lieutenant Governor of
the North-West Provinces, as a convincing proof of his theory that the
bulk of the native army might be trusted, and that order would soon be
restored. Each day he was sending serenely confident telegrams to
Calcutta and receiving equally reassuring ones from a fatuous Viceroy.
It was with the utmost difficulty that his wiser subordinates got him to
disarm the sepoy regiments in Agra itself. He vehemently assured the
Viceroy that the worst days of the outbreak were over and issued a
proclamation offering forgiveness to all mutineers who gave up their
arms, "except those who had instigated others to revolt, or taken part
in the murder of Europeans."

Such a man was sure to regard Malcolm's bold journey from the wrong
point of view. So delighted was he that he gave the sowars two months'
pay, lauded Malcolm in the _Gazette_, and forthwith despatched him on a
special mission to General Sir Hugh Wheeler at Cawnpore, to whom he
recommended Frank for promotion and appointment as aide-de-camp.

This curious sequence of events led to Malcolm's following Winifred
Mayne along the road she had taken exactly three weeks earlier. The
route to Cawnpore lay through Etawah, a place where revolt had already
broken out, but which had been evacuated by the mutineers, who, like
those at Aligarh, Bulandshahr, Mainpuri, Meerut, and a score of other
towns, ran off to Delhi after butchering all the Europeans within range.

With a small escort of six troopers, his servant, and two pack-horses,
he traveled fast. As night was falling on June 4th, he re-entered the
Grand Trunk Road some three miles north of Bithoor, where, all unknown
to him, Nana Sahib's splendid palace stood on the banks of the Ganges.

It was his prudent habit to halt in small villages only. Towns might be
traversed quickly without much risk, as even the tiniest display of
force insured safety, but it was wise not to permit the size of his
escort to be noted at leisure, when a surprise attack might be made in
the darkness.

Therefore, expecting to arrive at Cawnpore early next day, he elected
not to push on to Bithoor, and proposed to pass the night under the
branches of a great pipal tree. Chumru, his Mohammedan bearer, was a
good cook, in addition to his many other acquirements. Having
purchased, or made his master pay for, which is not always the same
thing in India, a small kid (by which please understand a young goat) in
the village, he lit a fire, slew the kid, to the accompaniment of an
appropriate verse from the Koran, and compounded an excellent stew.

A native woman brought some chupatties and milk, and Malcolm, being
sharp set with hunger, ate as a man can only eat when he is young, and
in splendid health, and has ridden hard all day.

He had a cigar left, too, and he was searching his pockets for a piece
of paper to light it when he brought forth that Persi-Arabic letter
which reached him at the close of the second battle of Ghazi-ud-din
Nuggur.

He was on the point of rolling it into a spill, but some subtle
influence stopped him. He rose, walked to Chumru's fire, and lit the
cigar with a burning stick. Then summoning a smart young jemadar with
whom he had talked a good deal during the journey, he asked him to read
the chit. The woman who supplied the chupatties fetched a tiny lamp. She
held it while the trooper bent over the strange scrawl, and ran his eyes
along it to learn the context.

And this is what he read:

     "To all whom it may concern--Be it known that Malcolm-sahib,
     late of the Company's 3d Regiment of Horse, is a friend of the
     heaven-born princess Roshinara Begum, and, provided he comes to
     the palace at Delhi within three days from the date hereof, he
     is to be given safe conduct by all who owe allegiance to the
     Light of the World, the renowned King of Kings and lord of all
     India, Bahadur Shah, Fuzl-Ilahi, Panah-i-din."

The trooper scowled. Those concluding words--"By the grace of God,
Defender of the Faith"--perhaps touched a sore place, for he, too, was a
true believer.

"You are a long way from Delhi, sahib, and the chit is a week old. I
suppose you did not pay the expected visit to her Highness the Begum?"
he said.

"If you are talking of the Begum Roshinara, daughter of the King of
Delhi," put in the woman, who was ready enough to indulge in a gossip
with these good-looking soldiers, "she passed through this place
to-day."

"Surely you are telling some idle tale of the bazaar," said Malcolm.

"No, sahib. My brother is a grass-cutter in the Nana's stables. While I
was at the well this morning a carriage came down the road. It was a
rajah's carriage, and there were men riding before and behind. I asked
my brother if he had seen it, and he said that it brought the Begum to
Bithoor, where she is to wed the Nana."

"What! A Mohammedan princess marry a Brahmin!"

"It may be so, sahib. They say these great people do not consider such
things when there is aught to be gained."

"But what good purpose can this marriage serve?"

The woman looked up at Malcolm under her long eyelashes.

"Where have you been, sahib, that you have not heard that the sepoys
have proclaimed the Nana as King?" she asked timidly.

"King! Is he going to fight the Begum's father?"

"I know not, sahib, but Delhi is far off, and Cawnpore is near.
Perchance they may both be kings."

A man's voice called from the darkness, and the woman hurried away.
Malcolm, of course, was in a position to appraise the accuracy of her
story. He knew that the Nana, a native dignitary with a grievance
against the Government, was a guest of Bahadur Shah a month before the
Mutiny broke out, and was at the Meerut hunting lodge on the very night
of its inception. Judging by Princess Roshinara's words, her relations
with the Brahmin leader were far from lover-like. What, then, did this
sudden journey to Cawnpore portend? Was Sir Hugh Wheeler aware of the
proposed marriage, with all the terrible consequences that it heralded?
At any rate, his line of action was clear.

"Get the men together, Akhab Khan," he said to the jemadar. "We march at
once."

Within five minutes they were on the road. There was no moon, and the
trees bordering both sides of the way made the darkness intense. The
still atmosphere, too, was almost overpowering. The dry earth, sun-baked
to a depth of many feet, was giving off its store of heat accumulated
during the day. The air seemed to be quivering as though it were laden
with the fumes of a furnace. It was a night when men might die or go mad
under the mere strain of existence. Its very languor was intoxicating.
Nature seemed to brood over some wild revel. A fearsome thunderstorm or
howling tornado of dust might reveal her fickleness of mood at any
moment.

It was man, not the elements, that was destined to war that night. The
small party of horsemen were riding through the scattered houses of
Bithoor, and had passed a brilliantly lighted palace which Malcolm took
to be the residence of Nana Sahib, when they were suddenly ordered to
halt. Some native soldiers, not wearing the Company's uniform, formed a
line across the road. Malcolm, drawing his sword, advanced towards them.

"Whose troops are you?" he shouted.

There was no direct answer, but a score of men, armed with muskets and
bayonets, and carrying a number of lanterns, came nearer. It must be
remembered that Malcolm, a subaltern of the 3d Cavalry, wore a turban
and sash. He spoke Urdu exceedingly well, and it was difficult in the
gloom to recognize him as a European.

"We have orders to stop and examine all wayfarers--" began some man in
authority; but a lifted lantern revealed Frank's white face; instantly
several guns were pointed at him.

"Follow me!" he cried to his escort.

A touch of the spurs sent Nejdi with a mighty bound into the midst of
the rabble who held the road. Malcolm bent low in the saddle and a
scattered volley revealed the tree-shrouded houses in a series of bright
flashes. Fortunately, under such conditions, there is more room to miss
than to hit. None of the bullets harmed horse or man, and the sowars
were not quite near enough to be in the line of fire. After a quick
sweep or two with his sword, Malcolm saw that his men were laying about
them heartily. A pack-horse, however, had stumbled, bringing down the
animal ridden by Chumru, the bearer. To save his faithful servant Frank
wheeled Nejdi, and cut down a native who was lunging at Chumru with a
bayonet.

More shots were fired and a sowar was wounded. He fell, shouting to his
comrades for help. A general mêlée ensued. The troopers slashed at the
men on foot and the sepoys fired indiscriminately at any one on
horseback. The uproar was so great and the fighting so strenuous that
Malcolm did not hear the approach of a body of cavalry until a loud
voice bawled:

"Why should brothers slay brothers? Cease your quarreling, in the name
of the faith! Are there not plenty of accursed Feringhis on whom to try
your blades?"

Then the young officer saw, too late, that he was surrounded by a ring
of steel. Yet he strove to rally his escort, got four of the men to obey
his command, and, placing himself in front, led them at the vague forms
that blocked the road to Cawnpore. In the confusion, he might have cut
his way through had not Nejdi unfortunately jumped over a wounded man at
the instant Frank was aiming a blow at a sowar. His sword swished
harmlessly in the air, and his adversary, hitting out wildly, struck
the Englishman's head with the forte of his saber. The violent shock
dazed Malcolm for a second, but all might yet have been well were it not
for an unavoidable accident. A sepoy's bayonet became entangled in the
reins. In the effort to free his weapon the man gave such a tug to the
bit on the near side that the Arab crossed his fore-legs and fell,
throwing his rider violently. Frank landed fairly on his head. His
turban saved his neck, but could not prevent a momentary concussion. For
a while he lay as one dead.

When he came to his senses he found that his arms were tied behind his
back, that he had been carried under a big tree, and that a tall native,
in the uniform of a subadar of the 2d Bengal Cavalry, was holding a
lantern close to his face.

"I am an officer of the 3d Cavalry," he said, trying to rise. "Why do
you, a man in my own service, suffer me to be bound?"

"You are no officer of mine, Feringhi," was the scornful reply. "You are
safely trussed because we thought it better sport to dangle you from a
bough than to stab you where you dropped. Quick, there, with that
heel-rope, Abdul Huq. We have occupation. Let us hang this crow here to
show other Nazarenes what they may expect. And we have no time to lose.
The Nana may appear at any moment."




CHAPTER V

A WOMAN INTERVENES


That ominous order filled Malcolm's soul with a fierce rage. He was not
afraid of death. The wine of life ran too strongly in his veins that
craven fear should so suddenly quell the excitement of the combat that
had ended thus disastrously. But his complete helplessness--the fact
that he was to be hanged like some wretched felon by men wearing the
uniform of which he had been so proud--these things stirred him to the
verge of frenzy.

Oddly enough, in that moment of anguish he thought of Hodson, the man
who rode alone from Kurnaul to Meerut. Why had Hodson succeeded? Would
Hodson, knowing the exceeding importance of his mission, have turned to
rescue a servant or raise a fallen horse? Would he not rather have
dashed on like a thunderbolt, trusting to the superior speed of his
charger to carry him clear of his assailants? And Nejdi! What had become
of that trusted friend? Never before, Arab though he was, had he been
guilty of a stumble. Perhaps he was shot, and sobbing out his gallant
life on the road, almost at the foot of the tree which would be his
master's gallows.

A doomed man indulges in strange reveries. Malcolm was almost as greatly
concerned with Nejdi's imagined fate as with his own desperate plight
when the trooper who answered to the name of Abdul Huq brought the
heel-rope that was to serve as a halter.

The man was a Pathan, swarthy, lean, and sinewy, with the nose and eyes
of a bird of prey. Though a hawk would show mercy to a fledgling sparrow
sooner than this cut-throat to a captive, the robber instinct in him
made him pause before he tied the fatal noose.

"Have you gone through the Nazarene's pockets, sirdar?" he asked.

"No," was the impatient answer. "Of what avail is it? These
chota-sahibs[7] have no money. And Cawnpore awaits us."

[Footnote 7: Junior Officers.]

"Nevertheless, every rupee counts. And he may be carrying letters of
value to the Maharajah. Once he is swinging up there he will be out of
reach, and our caste does not permit us to defile our hands by touching
a dead body."

While the callous ruffian was delivering himself of this curious blend
of cynicism and dogma, his skilled fingers were rifling Malcolm's
pockets. First he drew forth a sealed packet addressed to Sir Hugh
Wheeler. He recognized the government envelope and, though neither of
the pair could read English, Abdul Huq handed it to his leader with an
"I-told-you-so" air.

It was in Frank's mind to revile the men, but, most happily, he composed
himself sufficiently to resolve that he would die like an officer and a
gentleman, while the last words on his lips would be a prayer.

The next document produced was the Persi-Arabic scrawl which purported
to be a "safe-conduct" issued by Bahadur Shah, whom the rebels acclaimed
as their ruler. Until that instant, the Englishman had given no thought
to it. But when he saw the look of consternation that flitted across the
face of the subadar when his eyes took in the meaning of the writing,
despair yielded to hope, and he managed to say thickly:

"Perhaps you will understand now that you ought to have asked my
business ere you proposed to hang me off hand."

His active brain devised a dozen expedients to account for his presence
in Bithoor, but the native officer was far too shrewd to be beguiled
into setting his prisoner at liberty. After re-reading the pass, to make
sure of its significance, the rebel leader curtly told Abdul Huq and
another sowar to bring the Feringhi into the presence of the Maharajah,
by which title he evidently indicated Nana Sahib.

The order was, at least, a reprieve, and Malcolm breathed more easily.
He even asked confidently about his horse and the members of his escort.
He was given no reply save a muttered curse, a command to hold his
tongue, and an angry tug at his tied arms.

It is hard to picture the degradation of such treatment of a British
officer by a native trooper. The Calcutta Brahmin who was taunted by a
Lascar--a warrior-priest insulted by a social leper--scarce flinched
more keenly under the jibe than did Malcolm when he heard the tone of
his captors. Truly the flag of Britain was trailing in the mire, or
these men would not have dared to address him in that fashion. In that
bitter moment he felt for the first time that the Mutiny was a real
thing. Hitherto, in spite of the murders and incendiarism of Meerut, the
risings in other stations, the proclamation of Bahadur Shah as Emperor,
and the actual conflicts with the Mogul's armed retainers on the
battle-field of Ghazi-ud-din Nuggur, Malcolm was inclined to treat the
outburst as a mere blaze of local fanaticism, a blaze that would soon be
stamped under heel by the combined efforts of the East India Company's
troops and the Queen's Forces. Now, at last, he saw the depth of hate
with which British dominion was regarded in India. He heard Mohammedans
alluding to a Brahmin as a leader--so might a wolf and a snake make
common alliance against a watch dog. From that hour dated a new and
sterner conception of the task that lay before him and every other
Briton in the country. The Mutiny was no longer a welcome variant to the
tedium of the hot weather. It was a life-and-death struggle between West
and East, between civilization and barbarism, between the laws of
Christianity and the lawlessness of Mahomet, supported by the cruel,
inhuman, and nebulous doctrines of Hinduism.

Not that these thoughts took shape and coherence in Malcolm's brain as
he was being hurried to the house of Nana Sahib. A man may note the
deadly malice of a cobra's eye, but it is not when the poison fangs are
ready to strike that he stops to consider the philosophy underlying the
creature's malign hatred of mankind.

Events were in a rare fret and fume in the neighborhood of Cawnpore that
night. As a matter of historical fact, while Malcolm was hearing from
the villager that Roshinara Begum had come to Bithoor, the 1st Native
Infantry and 2d Cavalry had risen at Cawnpore.

Nana Sahib was deep in intrigue with all the sepoy regiments stationed
there, and his adherents ultimately managed to persuade these two corps
to throw off their allegiance to the British Raj. Following the
recognized routine they burst open the gaol, burnt the public offices,
robbed the Treasury, and secured possession of the Magazine. Then, while
the ever-swelling mob of criminals and loafers made pandemonium in the
bazaar, the saner spirits among the mutineers hurried to Bithoor to
ascertain the will of the man who, by common consent, was regarded as
their leader.

He was expecting them, eagerly perhaps, but with a certain quaking that
demanded the assistance of the "Raja's peg," a blend of champagne and
brandy that is calculated to fire heart and brain to madness more
speedily than any other intoxicant. He was conversing with his nephew,
Rao Sahib, and his chief lieutenants, Tantia Topi and a Mohammedan named
Azim-Ullah, when the native officers of the rebel regiments clattered
into his presence.

"Maharajah," said their chief, "a kingdom is yours if you join us, but
it is death if you side with the Nazarenes."

He laughed, with the fine air of one who sees approaching the fruition
of long-cherished plans. He advanced a pace, confidently.

"What have I to do with the British?" he asked. "Are they not my
enemies, too? I am altogether with you."

"Will you lead us to Delhi, Maharajah?"

"Why not? That is the natural rallying ground of all who wish the
downfall of the present Government."

"Then behold, O honored one, we offer you our fealty."

They pressed near him, tendering the hilts of their swords. He touched
each weapon, and placed his hands on the head of its owner, vowing that
he would keep his word and be faithful to the trust they reposed in him.

"Our brothers of the 53d and 56th have not joined us yet," said one.

"Then let us ride forth and win them to our side," said the Nana
grandiloquently. He went into the courtyard, mounted a gaily-caparisoned
horse, and, surrounded by the rebel cohort, cantered off towards
Cawnpore.

Thus it befell that the mob of horsemen pressed past Malcolm and his
guards as they entered the palace. The subadar tried in vain to attract
the Nana's attention. Fearing lest he might be forgotten if he were not
in the forefront of the conspiracy, this man bade his subordinates take
their prisoner before the Begum, and ran off to secure his horse and
race after the others. He counted on the despatches gaining him a
hearing.

Abdul Huq, more crafty than his chief, smiled.

"Better serve a king's daughter than these Shia dogs who are so ready to
fawn on a Brahmin," said he to his comrade, another Pathan, and a Sunni
like himself, for Islam, united against Christendom, is divided into
seventy-two warring sects. Hence the wavering loyalty of two sepoy
battalions in Cawnpore carried Malcolm out of the Nana's path, and led
him straight to the presence of Princess Roshinara.

The lapse of three weeks had paled that lady's glowing cheeks and
deepened the luster of her eyes. Not only was she worn by anxiety, in
addition to the physical fatigue of the long journey from Delhi, but the
day's happenings had not helped to lighten the load of care. Yet she was
genuinely amazed at seeing Malcolm.

"How come you to be here?" she cried instantly, addressing him before
Abdul Huq could open his mouth in explanation.

"As your Highness can see for yourself, I am brought hither forcibly by
these slaves," said Frank, thinking that now or never must he display a
bold front.

"How did you learn that I had left Delhi?"

"The journeyings of the Princess Roshinara are known to many."

"But you came not when I summoned you."

"Your Highness's letter did not reach me until after the affair on the
Hindun river."

"What is all this idle talk?" broke in Abdul Huq roughly. "This Feringhi
was carrying despatches--"

"Peace, dog!" cried the Begum. "Unfasten the Sahib's arms, and be gone.
What! Dost thou hesitate!"

She clapped her hands, and some members of her bodyguard ran forward.

"Throw these troopers into the courtyard," she commanded. "If they
resist--"

But the Pathans were too wise to refuse obedience. Not yet had the
rebels felt their true power. They sullenly untied Malcolm's bonds, and
disappeared. Using eyes and ears each moment to better advantage, Frank
was alive to the confusion that reigned in Nana Sahib's abode. Men ran
hither and thither in aimless disorder. The Brahmin's retainers were
like jackals who knew that the lion had killed and the feast was spread.
The only servants who preserved the least semblance of discipline were
those of the Princess Roshinara. It was an hour when the cool brain
might contrive its own ends.

"I am, indeed, much beholden to you, Princess," said Frank. "I pray you
extend your clemency to my men. I have an escort of six sowars, and a
servant. Some of them are wounded. My horse, too, which I value
highly--"

He paused. He saw quite clearly that she paid no heed to a word that he
was saying. Her black eyes were fixed intently on his face, but she was
thinking, weighing in her mind some suddenly-formed project. He was a
pawn in the game on the political chess-board, and some drastic move was
imminent.

Some part of his speech had reached her intelligence. She caught him by
the wrist and hurried him along a corridor into a garden, muttering as
she went:

"Allah hath sent thee, Malcolm-sahib. What matters thy men and a horse?
Yet will I see to their safety, if that be possible. Yes, yes, I must do
that. You will need them. And remember, I am trusting thee. Wilt thou
obey my behests?"

"I would be capable of little gratitude if I refused, Princess," said
he, wondering what new outlet the whirligig of events would provide.

Leading him past an astonished guardian of the zenana, who dared not
protest when this imperial lady thought fit to profane the sacred portal
by admitting an infidel, she brought Malcolm through a door into a
larger garden surrounded by a high wall. She pointed to a pavilion at
its farthest extremity.

"Wait there," she said. "When those come to you whom you will have faith
in, do that which he who brings them shall tell you. Fail not. Your own
life and the lives of your friends will hang on a thread, yet trust me
that it shall not be severed while you obey my commands."

With that cryptic message she ran back to the door, which was
immediately slammed behind her. Having just been snatched from the very
gate of eternity by the Begum's good offices, Malcolm determined to
fall in with her whims so long as they did not interfere with his duty.
Although Cawnpore was in the hands of the mutineers and he had lost his
despatches, he determined, at all costs, to reach Sir Hugh Wheeler if
that fine old commander were still living. Meanwhile, he hastened to the
baraduri, an elegant structure which was approached by a flight of steps
and stood in the angle of two high battlemented walls.

The place was empty and singularly peaceful after the uproar of the
village and of that portion of the palace which faced the Grand Trunk
Road.

Overhead the sky was clear and starlit, but beyond the walls stretched a
low, half luminous bank of mist, and he was peering that way fully a
minute before he ascertained that the garden stood on the right bank of
the Ganges. Almost at his feet, the great river was murmuring on its
quiet course to the sea, and the mist was due to the evaporation of its
waters, which were mainly composed of melted snow from the ice-capped
Himalayas.

When his eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings he made out the shape
of a native boat moored beneath the wall. It had evidently brought a
cargo of forage to Bithoor. So still was the air that the scent of the
hay lingered yet in the locality.

Between Bithoor and Cawnpore the Ganges takes a wide bend. At first
Malcolm scarce knew in which quarter to look for the city, but distant
reports and the glare of burning dwellings soon told him more than its
mere direction. So Cawnpore, in its turn, had yielded to the canker
that was gnawing the vitals of India! He wondered if Allahabad had
fallen. And Benares? And the populous towns of Bengal--perhaps even the
capital city itself? The Punjab was safe. Hodson told him that. But
would it remain safe? He had heard queer tales of the men who dwelt in
the bazaars of Lahore, Umritsar, Rawalpindi, and the rest. Nicholson and
John Lawrence were there; could they hold those warrior-tribes in
subjection, or, better still, in leash? He might not hazard an opinion.
His sky had fallen. This land of his adoption was his no longer. He was
an outlaw, hunted and despised, depending for his life on the caprice of
a fickle-minded woman. Then he thought of the way his comrades of the
60th, of the Dragoons and the Artillery, had chased the sepoys from the
Hindun, and his soul grew strong again. Led by British officers, the
native troops were excellent, but, deprived of the only leaders they
really respected, they became an armed mob, terrible to women and
children, but of slight account against British-born men.

His musings were disturbed by the sound of horses advancing quietly
across a paddy field which skirted that side of the wall running at a
right angle with the river. It was impossible to see far owing to the
mist that clung close to the ground, but he could not be mistaken as to
the presence of a small body of mounted men within a few yards. They had
halted, too, but his alert ears caught the occasional clink of
accouterments, and the pawing of a horse in the soft earth. He racked
his brain to try to discover some connection between this cavalry post
and the parting admonition given by the Begum Roshinara, and he might
have guessed the riddle in part had he not heard hurried footsteps in
the garden. They came, not from the door by which he was admitted, but
from the Palace itself. Whoever the newcomers were they made straight
for the pavilion, and, as he was unarmed, he did not hesitate to show
himself against the sky line. For ill or well, he wanted to know his
fate, and he determined to spring over the battlements in the hope of
reaching the river if he received the slightest warning of hostile
intent by those who sought him.

"Is that you, Malcolm?" said a low voice, and his heart leaped when he
recognized Mr. Mayne's accents.

"Yes. Can it be possible that you are here?"

He ran down the stone steps. On the level of the garden he could see
three figures, one a white-robed native, one a man in European garments,
and the third a woman wrapped in a dark cloak. A suppressed sob uttered
by the woman sent a gush of hot blood to his face. He sprang forward.
In another instant Winifred was in his arms. And that was their
unspoken declaration of love--in the garden of Nana Sahib's house at
Bithoor--while within hail were thousands who would gladly have torn
them limb from limb, and the southern horizon was aflame with the
light of their brethren's dwelling-places.

"Oh, Frank, dear," whispered the girl brokenly, "what evil fortune has
led you within these walls? Yet, I thank God for it. Promise you will
kill me ere they drag me from your side again."

"Hush, Winifred. For the sake of all of us calm yourself," said her
uncle. "This man says he has brought us here to help us to escape.
Surely you can find in Malcolm's presence some earnest of his good
faith."

The native now intervened. Speaking with a certain dignity and using the
language of the court, he said that they had not a moment to lose. They
must descend the wall by means of a rope, and in the field beyond they
would find three of the officer-sahib's men, with his horse and a couple
of spare animals. Keeping close to the river until they came to a
tree-lined nullah--a small ravine cut by a minor tributary of the
Ganges--they should follow this latter till they approached the
Grand Trunk Road, taking care not to be seen as they crossed that
thoroughfare. Then, making a détour, they must avoid the village, and
endeavor to strike the road again about two miles to the north of
Bithoor, thereafter traveling at top speed towards Meerut, but letting
it be known in the hamlets on the way that they came from Cawnpore.

This unlooked-for ally impressed the concluding stipulation strongly on
Malcolm, but, when asked for a reason, he said simply:

"It is the Princess's order. Come! There is no time for further speech.
Here is the rope."

He uncoiled a long cord from beneath his cummerbund, and, running up
the steps, adjusted it to a pillar of the baraduri with an ease and
quickness that showed familiarity with such means of exit from a
closely-guarded residence.

"Now, you first, sahib," said he to Malcolm. "Then we will lower the
miss-sahib, and the burra-sahib can follow."

There was nothing to be gained by questioning him, especially as Mayne
murmured that he could explain a good deal of the mystery underlying the
Begum's wish that they should go north. The exterior field was reached
without any difficulty. Within twenty yards they encountered a little
group of mounted men, and Malcolm found, to his great delight, that
Chumru, his bearer, was holding Nejdi's bridle, while his companions
were Akhab Khan and two troopers who had ridden from Agra. To make the
miracle more complete, Malcolm's sword was tied to the Arab's saddle and
his revolvers were still in the holsters.

Winifred, making the best of a man's saddle until they could improvise
a crutch at their first halt, would admit of no difficulty in that
respect. The fact that her lover was present had lightened her heart
of the terror which had possessed her during many days.

They were on the move, with the two sharp-eyed sowars leading, when the
noise made by a number of horsemen, coming toward them on the landward
side and in front, brought them to an abrupt halt.

"Spread out to the right until you reach the river," cried a rough
voice, which Malcolm was sure he identified as belonging to Abdul Huq.
"Then we cannot miss them. And remember, brothers, if we secure the
girl unharmed, we shall earn a rich reward from the Maharajah."

Winifred, shivering with fear again, knew not what the man said, but
she drew near to Malcolm and whispered:

"Not into their hands, Frank, for God's sake!"

The movement of her horse's feet had not passed unnoticed.

"Be sharp, there!" snarled the Pathan again. "They are not far off, and
only six of them. Shout, you on the right when you are on the bank."

"None can pass between me and the stream," replied a more distant voice.

"Forward, then! Keep line! Not too fast, you near the wall."

Frank loosened his sword from its fastenings and took a revolver in his
left hand, in which he also held the reins. He judged Abdul Huq to be
some fifty yards distant, and he was well aware that the fog became
thinner with each yard as he turned his back on the river.

"Take Winifred back to the angle of the wall," he whispered to Mayne.
"You will find a budgerow[8] there. Get your horses on board, if
possible, and I shall join you in a minute or less. If I manage to
scatter these devils, we shall outwit them yet."

[Footnote 8: A native boat.]

It was hopeless, he knew, to attempt to ride through the enemy's
cordon. There would be a running fight against superior numbers, and
Winifred's presence made that a last resource. The most fortunate
accident of the deserted craft being moored beneath the palace wall
offered a far more probable means of escape. What blunder or treachery
had led to this attack he could not imagine. Nor was he greatly troubled
with speculation on that point. Winifred must be saved, he had a sword
in his hand, and he was mounted on the best horse in India. What better
hap could a cavalry subaltern desire than such a fight under such
conditions?

In order not only to drown the girl's protest when her uncle turned her
horse's head, but also to deceive opponents, Frank thundered forth an
order that was familiar to their ears.

"The troop will advance! Draw swords! Walk--trot--charge!"

Chumru, though no fighting-man, realized that he was expected to make a
row and uttered a bloodcurdling yell. Inspired by their officer's
example the two sowars dashed after him with splendid courage. They were
on their startled pursuers so soon, the line having narrowed more
quickly than they expected, that they hurtled right through the opposing
force without a blow being struck or a shot fired. As it chanced, no
better maneuver could have been effected. When they wheeled and Frank
managed to shoot two men at close range, it seemed to the amazed rebels
that they were being attacked from the very quarter from which they had
advanced.

Under such conditions even the steadiest of troops will break, and at
least endeavor to reach a place where their adversaries are not shrouded
in a dense mist. And that was exactly what occurred in this instance.
Nearly all the mutineers swung round and galloped headlong for the
landward boundary of the paddy field. Shouting to his two plucky
assistants to come back, Frank called out to Chumru and bade him join
them. He was hurrying towards the corner of the palace grounds when a
shriek from Winifred set his teeth on edge.

"I am coming," he cried. "What has happened? Where are you, Mayne?"

"Here, close to the boat. Look out there! Two sowars are carrying off my
niece. For Heaven's sake, save her! I am wounded, but never mind me."

Malcolm had the hunter's lore, a species of Red Indian cunning in the
stalker's art. Instead of rushing blindly forward he halted his men
promptly and listened. Sure enough, he heard stumbling footsteps by the
water's edge. Leaping from Nejdi's back, he sprang down the crumbling
bank and came almost on top of Abdul Huq and his brother Pathan. Their
progress was hindered by Winifred's frantic struggles and their own
brutal efforts to stop her from screaming, and they were taken unaware
by Frank's unexpected leap.

A thrust that went home caused a vacancy in a border clan, but, before
the avenger could withdraw his weapon, Abdul Huq was swinging his
tulwar. He was no novice in the art, and Malcolm must have gone down
under the blow had not Winifred seen its murderous purpose and seized
the man's arm. That gave her lover the second he needed. He recovered
his sword, but was too near to stab or cut, so he met the case by
dealing the swarthy one a blow with the hilt between the eyes that would
have felled an ox. Never before had the Englishman hit any man with such
vigorous good will. This rascal was owed a debt for the indignity he had
offered the sahib in the village, and now he was paid in full.

He fell insensible, with part of his body resting in the water. It was a
queer moment for noting a trivial thing, yet Frank saw that the man's
turban did not fall off. He had lost his own turban during the mêlée on
the Grand Trunk Road, and, as it would soon be daylight, he stooped to
secure Abdul Huq's headgear. Oddly enough, it was fastened by a piece of
cord under the Pathan's chin--an almost unheard-of device this, to be
adopted by a native. With a sharp pull Frank broke the cord and jammed
the turban on his head. He was determined to have it, if only because no
greater insult can be inflicted on a Mohammedan than to bare his head.

The incident did not demand more than a few seconds for its transaction
and Winifred hardly noticed it, so unstrung was she. Without more ado
Malcolm took her in his arms and carried her up the bank. He told the
troopers and his servant to follow with the horses as quietly as
possible and led the way towards the budgerow.

Arrived at the boat, they found Mayne standing in the water and leaning
helplessly against the side of the craft. He had been struck down by one
of the precious pair who thought to carry off Winifred, but, luckily, it
was a glancing blow and not serious in its after effects.

With a rapidity that was almost magical the horses were put on board,
the boat shoved off, and the huge mat sail hoisted to get the benefit of
any breeze that might be found in mid-stream. The current carried them
away at a fair rate, and, as they passed the place where Abdul Huq had
fallen in the river Malcolm fancied he heard a splash and a gurgle, as
though a crocodile had found something of interest.




CHAPTER VI

THE WELL


Not until many months later did Malcolm learn the true cause of
Roshinara Begum's anxiety that he and his friends should hasten to
Meerut, and let it be known on the way that they came from Cawnpore. Yet
there were those in Bithoor that night who fully appreciated the
tremendous influence on the course of political events that the
direction of Winifred's flight might exercise. The girl herself little
dreamed she was such an important personage. But that is often the case
with those who are destined to make history. In this instance, the
balking of a Brahmin prince's passions was destined to change the whole
trend of affairs in northern India.

Nana Sahib escorted Mayne from Meerut to Cawnpore because the
safeguarding of the Judicial Commissioner of Oudh was a strong card to
play in that parlous game of empire. As he traveled south reports
reached him on every hand that nothing could now stop the spread of the
Mutiny, and, with greater certainty in his plans came a project that he
would not have dared to harbor even a week earlier.

Winifred, naturally a high-spirited and lively girl, soon recovered
from the fright of that fateful Sunday evening. She had seen little of
the tragedy enacted in Meerut; she knew less of its real horrors.
Notwithstanding the intense heat the open-air life of the march was
healthy, and, in many respects, agreeable. The Nana was a courteous and
considerate host. He took good care that his secret intelligence of
occurrences at Delhi and other stations should remain hidden from Mayne,
and, while his ambitions mounted each hour, he cast many a veiled glance
at the graceful beauty of the fair English girl who moved like a sylph
among the brown-skinned satyrs surrounding her.

Once the party had reached Bithoor the Nana's tone changed. Instead of
sending his European guests into Cawnpore, whence safe transit to
Calcutta was still practicable, he kept them in his palace, on the
pretext that the roads were disturbed. He contrived, at first, to
hoodwink Mr. Mayne by giving him genuine news of the wholesale outbreak
in the North-West, and by adding wholly false tidings of massacres at
Allahabad, Benares, and towns in Upper Bengal. At last, when Mayne
insisted on going into Cawnpore, the native threw aside pretense, said
he could not "allow" him to depart, and virtually made uncle and niece
prisoners.

But he treated them well. A clear-headed Brahmin, to whom intrigue was
the breath of life, was not likely to make the mistake of being too
precipitate in his actions. The wave of religious fanaticism sweeping
over the land might recede as rapidly as it had risen. Muslim and Hindu,
Pathan and Brahmin, hereditary foes who fraternized to-day, might be at
each other's throats to-morrow. So the Nana was a courteous jailer.
Beyond the loss of their liberty the captives had nothing to complain
of, and he met Mayne's vehement reproaches with unmoved good humor,
protesting all the while that he was acting for the best.

Winifred took fright, however. Her woman's intuition looked beneath the
mask. For her uncle's sake she kept her suspicions to herself, but she
suffered much in secret, and her distress might well have moved a man of
finer character to sympathy. Each time she met the Nana he treated her
with more apparent friendliness. She recoiled from his advances as she
might shrink from a venomous snake.

Fortunately there were others in Bithoor who understood the Brahmin's
motives, and saw therein the germ of failure for their own plans. Nana
Sahib was an exceedingly important factor in the success of the scheme
that meditated the re-establishment of the Mogul dynasty. Recognized by
the Mahrattas, the great warlike race of western India, as their leader,
looked on as the pivot of Hindu support to the Mohammedan monarchy, it
was absolutely essential that he should captain the rebel garrison of
Cawnpore in a triumphant march to Delhi. For that reason a marriage
distasteful to both had already been arranged between him and the
Roshinara Begum. For that reason he had traveled to many centers of
disaffection during the months of March and April, winning doubtful
Hindu princes to the side of Bahadur Shah, by his tact and ready
diplomacy. For that reason too, the native officers of the first
regiments in revolt at Cawnpore made him swear, even at the twelfth
hour, that he would lead them to Delhi.

His unforeseen infatuation for an Englishwoman might upset the
carefully-laid plot. Under other conditions a dose of poison would have
removed poor Winifred from the scene, but that simple expedient was not
to be thought of, as the Nana's vengeful disposition was sufficiently
well known to his associates to make them fear the outcome. Therefore
they left nothing to chance, and actually brought the Princess Roshinara
post haste from the north, believing that her presence would insure the
inconstant wooer's return with her at the right moment.

While the majority pulled in one way there was an active minority that
wished the Nana to set up an independent kingdom. His nephew and his
Mohammedan friend, Azim-ullah, were convinced that their faction would
lose all influence as soon as their chief was swallowed up in the
maelstrom of the imperial court. If Winifred supplied the spell that
kept the Nana at Bithoor, they were quite content that it should be
allowed to exercise its power.

Hence, Malcolm's arrival gave the Begum a chance that her quick wit
seized upon. Why not, she argued, connive at the Englishwoman's escape,
and let it become known that she had fled back to Meerut? When the Nana
returned from Cawnpore, flushed with wine and conquest, this should be
the first news that greeted him, and his amorous rage would go hand in
hand with the other considerations that urged his immediate departure
for the Mogul capital. That was not the device of a woman who loved--it
savored rather of the cool state-craft of a Lucrezia Borgia.

No more curious mixture of plot and counterplot than this minor chapter
of the Bithoor romance came to light during that disastrous upheaval in
India. Never did events of the utmost magnitude hinge on incidents so
trivial to the community at large. A truculent thief like Abdul Huq was
able to defeat the intent of a king's daughter, and a couple of alert
troopers, riding to a bluff overlooking the river, could report that
they saw the budgerow on which the sahib-log escaped drifting down
stream towards Cawnpore! Thus the intrigue miscarried twice. Winifred
was free; the clear inference to be drawn from the boat's course was
that her uncle and Malcolm would bring her straight to the protection of
their friends in the cantonment.

There was a scene of violence, nearly culminating in murder, when Nana
Sahib came to Bithoor at dawn. He met the scorn of Roshinara with a
furious insolence that stopped short of bloodshed only on account of the
prudence still governing most of his actions. Not yet was he drunk with
power. That madness was soon to obsess him. But he lent a willing ear to
the counsels of Rao Sahib and Azim-ullah. Soon after daybreak he
galloped to Kulianpur, on the road to Delhi, whither some thousands of
sepoys had already gone, and harangued them eloquently on the glory,
not to speak of the loot, they would acquire by attacking the accursed
English at Cawnpore.

They were easily swayed. Acclaiming the Nana as a prince worthy of
obedience they marched after him, and thus sealed the doom of many
hundreds of unhappy beings who thought until that moment they would be
spared the dreadful fate that had befallen other stations.

Oddly enough, the high-born Brahmin who now saw his hopes of regal power
in a fair way towards realization placed one act of soldierly courtesy
to his credit before he made his name a synonym for all that is base and
despicable in the conduct of warfare. He wrote a letter to Sir Hugh
Wheeler warning the gallant old general that he might expect to be
attacked forthwith. Perhaps it is straining a point to credit him with
any sense of fair play. The letter may have been a last flicker of
respect for the power of Britain, and inspired by a haunting fear of the
consequences if the Mutiny failed. It is probable he wished to provide
written proof of a plea that he was an unwilling agent in the clutch of
a mutinous army. However that may be, he wrote, and never did letter
carry more bitter disappointment to a Christian community.

Sir Hugh Wheeler having decided, most unfortunately as it happened,
against occupying the strongly-built magazine on the river bank as a
refuge, had constructed a flimsy entrenchment on a level plain close to
the native lines. He was sure the sepoys would revolt, but he believed
they would hurry off to Delhi, and he refused to give them an excuse for
rebellion by seizing the magazine. Towards the end of May he wrote to
Henry Lawrence at Lucknow for help, and Lawrence generously sent him
fifty men of the 32d and half a battery of guns, though even this small
force could ill be spared from the capital of Oudh. Sir Hugh made the
further mistake of crediting Nana Sahib's professions of loyalty. He
actually entrusted the Treasury to the protection of the Nana's
retainers, in spite of Lawrence's plainly-worded warning that the
Brahmin's recent movements placed him under grave suspicion.

Nevertheless, Wheeler acted with method. His judgment was clear, if
occasionally mistaken, and he had every reason to believe that the only
attacks he would be called on to repel would be made by the bazaar mob.

On the night of June 4th, the thousand men, women and children who had
gathered behind the four-foot mud wall that formed the entrenchment were
left unmolested by the mutineers. During the 5th they watched the
destruction of their bungalows, and knew that the rebels were plundering
the city, robbing rich native merchants quite as readily as they killed
any Europeans who were not under Wheeler's charge. Late that day came
Nana Sahib's letter. It was a bitter disappointment, but "the valiant
never taste death but once," and the Britons in Cawnpore resolved to
teach the mutineers that the men who had conquered them many times in
the field could repeat the lesson again and again.

About ten o'clock on the morning of the 6th, flames rising from houses
near at hand gave evidence of the approach of the rebels. Irregular
spurts of musketry heralded the appearance of confused masses of armed
men. A cannon-ball crashed through the mud wall and bounded across the
enclosure. A bugle sounded shrilly and the defenders ran to their posts.
The wailing of women and the cries of frightened children, helpless
creatures only half protected by two barracks situated in the southern
corner of the entrenchment, mingled with the din of the answering guns,
and in that fatal hour the siege of Cawnpore began.

In the tear-stained story of humanity there has never been aught to
surpass the thrilling record of Cawnpore. It contains every element of
heroism and tragedy. Four hundred English soldiers, seventy of whom were
invalids, with a few dozens of civilians and faithful sepoys--standing
behind a breast-high fortification that would not stop a bullet--exposed
to the fierce rays of an Indian sun--ill-fed, almost waterless, and
driven to numb despair by the sufferings of their loved ones--these men,
enduring all and daring all, held at bay four thousand well-armed,
well-housed, and well-fed troops for twenty-one days.

Not for a moment was the strain relaxed. Day and night the rebels poured
into the entrenchment a ceaseless hail of iron and lead. Cannon-balls,
solid and red-hot, shells with carefully arranged time fuses, and
bullets from those self-same cartridges that the superfine feelings of
Brahmin soldiers forbade them to touch, were hurled at the hapless
garrison from all quarters. In the first week every gunner in the place
was killed or wounded. Women and children were shot as though they were
in the front line of the defense. No corner was safe from the enemy's
fire. Every human being behind that absurdly inadequate wall was exposed
to constant and equal danger.

Here is an extract from Holmes's history:

     "A private was walking with his wife when a single bullet
     killed him, broke both her arms, and wounded an infant she was
     carrying. An officer was talking with a comrade at the main
     guard when a musket-ball struck him; and, as he was limping
     painfully to the barracks to have his wound dressed, Lieutenant
     Mowbray-Thomson of the 56th, who was supporting him, was struck
     also, and both fell helplessly to the ground. Presently as
     Thomson lay wofully sick of his wound, another officer came to
     condole with him, and he too received a wound from which he
     died before the end of the siege. Young Godfrey Wheeler, a son
     of the General, was lying wounded in one of the barracks when
     a round shot crashed through the walls of the room and carried
     off his head in the sight of his mother and sisters. Little
     children, straggling outside the wall, were deliberately shot
     down."

On the night of June the 11th a red-hot cannon-ball set fire to one of
the barracks which was used as a hospital. The flames inspired the
enemy's gunners to fresh efforts and provided them with an excellent
target, yet the garrison dared all perils of gun-fire and falling
rafters and masonry, while they rescued the inmates. It is on record
that the gallant men of the 32d, when the flames had subsided, though a
heavy fusillade was still kept up by the rebels, were seen raking the
ashes in order to find their lost medals, the medals they had won in the
deadly fighting that preceded the fall of Sevastopol.

On the next day the sepoy army, though so boastful and vainglorious,
dared to make their first attempt to carry the entrenchment by assault.
By one bold charge they must have crushed the defenders, if by sheer
weight of numbers alone. They advanced, with fiendish yells and much
seeming confidence. But they could not face those stern warriors who
lined the shattered wall. After a short but fierce struggle they fled,
leaving the plain littered with corpses.

So the safer bombardment was renewed, its fury envenomed by the
conscious disparity of the besiegers when they tried to press home the
attack. Each day the garrison dwindled; each day the rebels received
fresh accessions of strength. Of the few guns mounted in the British
position, one had lost its muzzle, another was thrown from its carriage
and two were so battered by the enemy's artillery that they could not be
used. The hospital fire had destroyed all the surgical instruments and
medical stores, so the wounded had to lie waiting for death, while those
who still bore arms eked out existence on a daily dole of a handful of
flour and a few ounces of split peas.

Yet the men of Cawnpore fought on, while their wives and sisters and
daughters helped uncomplainingly, making up packets of ammunition,
loading rifles for the men to fire, and even giving their stockings to
the gunners to provide cases for grape-shot.

There was only one well inside the entrenchment. Knowing its paramount
importance, the rebels mounted guns in such wise that a constant fire
could be kept up throughout the night on that special point. Yet there
never was lacking a volunteer, either man or woman, to go to that well
and obtain the precious water. It remains to this day a mournful relic
of the siege, with its broken gear and shattered circular wall, while
the indentations made by such of the cannon-balls as failed to dislodge
the masonry are plain to be seen.

The sepoys spared none. Tiny children, tottering to the well in broad
daylight, were pelted with musketry. Conceivably that might be war. When
beleaguered people will not yield humanity must stand aside and weep.
There was a deed to come that was not war, but the black horror of
abomination, worthy of the excesses of a man-eating tiger, though shorn
of the tiger's excuse that he kills in order that he may live. The well
in the entrenchment was the Well of Life. There was another well in
Cawnpore destined to be the Well of Death.

If proof were needed of the extraordinary condition of India during the
early period of the Mutiny, it was given by an incident that occurred
soon after the first assault was beaten off. In broad daylight, while
the garrison were maintaining the unceasing duel of cannon and small
arms, they were astounded by the spectacle of a British officer
galloping across the plain. He was fired at by the sepoys, of course,
but horse and man escaped untouched and the low barrier was leaped
without effort. The newcomer was Lieutenant Bolton of the 7th Cavalry.
Sent out from Lucknow on district duty he was suddenly deserted by his
men, and he rode alone towards Cawnpore, the nearest British station.
Unhappily the story of that adventurous ride is lost for ever. Poor
Bolton supplied Cawnpore's last re-enforcement.

Sir Hugh Wheeler, ably seconded in the defense by Captain Moore of the
32d, sent out emissaries, Eurasians and natives, to seek aid from
Lucknow and Allahabad, the one about thirty-five, the other a hundred
miles distant. Lawrence wrote "with a breaking heart" that he could
spare no troops from Lucknow. The messengers never even reached
Allahabad.

On June 23 the Nana's hosts again nerved themselves for a desperate
attack, and again were they flung off from that tumble-down wall. Then,
all their valor fled, they fell back on a foul device. A white woman,
Mrs. Henry Jacobi, who had been taken prisoner early in the month,
crossed the plain holding a white flag. Wheeler and Moore and other
senior officers went to meet her. She carried a letter from Nana Sahib,
offering safe conduct to Allahabad for all the garrison "except those
who were connected with the acts of Lord Dalhousie."

Now Dalhousie resigned the vice-royalty in February, 1856. It was he who
had refused to continue to Nana Sahib the Peishwa's pension; assuredly
there was none in Cawnpore responsible for the acts of a former viceroy.
At any rate, whatsoever that curious reservation meant, the majority of
the staff were opposed to surrender. Unfortunately Captain Moore, whose
bravery was in the mouths of all, who, though wounded and ill, had been
"the life and soul of the defense," persuaded Sir Hugh Wheeler and the
others that an honorable capitulation was their sole resource. Succor
could not arrive, he argued, and they were in duty bound to save the
surviving civilians and the women and children.

So an armistice was agreed to on June 26, and representatives of both
sides met to discuss terms. It was arranged that the garrison should
evacuate their position, surrender their guns and treasure, retain their
rifles and a quantity of ammunition, and be provided with river
transport to Allahabad.

The Nana asked that the defenders should march out that night. Wheeler
refused.

"I shall renew the bombardment, and put every one of you to death in a
few days," threatened the Brahmin.

"Try it," said the Englishman. "I still have enough powder left to blow
both armies into the air."

But the Nana meant to have no more fighting on equal terms. He signed
the treaty, the guns were given up, and, on the night of June 26th,
peace reigned within the ruined entrenchment.

Next morning that glorious garrison quitted the shot-torn plain they had
hallowed by their deeds. And even the rebels pitied them. "As the wan
and ragged column filed along the road, the women and children in
bullock-carriages or on elephants, the wounded in palanquins, the
fighting men on foot, sepoys came clustering round the officers they had
betrayed, and talked in wonder and admiration of the surpassing heroism
of the defense."

Those men of the rank and file at least were soldiers. They knew nothing
of the awful project concocted by the Nana and his chief associates, Rao
Sahib, Tantia Topi, and Azim-ullah.

The procession made its way slowly towards the river, three quarters of
a mile to the east. No doubt there were joyful hearts even in that
sorrow-laden band. Men and women must have thought of far-off homes in
England, and hoped that God would spare them to see their beloved
country once more. Even the children, wide-eyed innocents, could not
fail to be thankful that the noise of the guns had ceased, while the
wounded were cheered by the belief that food and stores in plenty would
soon be available.

At the foot of a tree-clad ravine leading to the Ganges were stationed a
number of heavy native boats, with thatched roofs to shield the
occupants from the sun. They were partly drawn up on the mud at the
water's edge to render easy the work of embarkation. Without hurry or
confusion, the wounded, and the women and children, were placed on
board.

Then some one noticed that the thatch on one of the boats was smoking,
and it was found that glowing charcoal had been thrust into the straw.
About the same time it was discovered that the boats had neither oars,
nor rudders, nor supplies of food. Before the dread significance of
these things became clear, a bugle-call rang out. At once, both banks of
the river became alive with armed sepoys, and a murderous rifle-fire was
opened on the crowded boats. Guns, hidden among the trees, belched
red-hot shot and grape at them, and the smoldering straw of the thatched
roofs burst into flames.

Awakened to the unspeakable treachery of their foe, officers and men
rushed into the water and strove with might and main to shove the boats
into deep water. They failed, for the unwieldy craft had been hauled
purposely too high.

Here Ashe and Moore, and Bolton, hero of that lonely ride through the
enemy's country, fell. Here, too, men shot their own wives and children
rather than permit them to fall into the hands of the fiends who had
planned the massacre. Savage troopers urged their horses into the water
and slashed cowering women with their sabers. Infants were torn from
their mothers' arms, and tossed by sepoys from bayonet to bayonet. The
sick and wounded, lying helpless in the burning craft, died in the agony
of fire, and the few bold spirits who even in that ghastly hour tried to
beat off their cowardly assailants were surrounded and shot down by
overwhelming numbers.

One heavily-laden boat was dragged into the stream, and a few officers
and men clambered on board. The voyage they made would supply material
for an epic. They were followed along the banks and pursued by armed
craft on the river. They fought all day and throughout the night, and,
when the ungoverned boat ran ashore during a wild squall of wind and
rain at daybreak, the surviving soldiers, a sergeant and eleven men,
headed by Mowbray-Thomson of the 56th, and Delafosse of the 53d, sprang
out and charged some hundreds of sepoys and hostile villagers who had
gathered on the bank.

The craven-hearted gang yielded before the Englishmen's fierce
onslaught. The tiny band turned to fight their way back, and found that
the boat had drifted off again! Then they seized a Hindu temple on the
bank and held it until the sepoys piled burning timber against the rear
walls and threw bags of powder on the fire!

Fixing bayonets and leaving the sergeant dead in the doorway, they
charged again into the mass of the enemy. Six fell. The remainder
reached the river, threw aside their guns, and plunged boldly in. Two
were shot while swimming, and one man, unable to swim any distance,
coolly made his way ashore again and faced his murderers until he sank
beneath their blows.

Mowbray-Thomson, Delafosse, and Privates Murphy and Sullivan, swam six
miles with the stream, and were finally rescued and helped by a friendly
native.

Those four were all who came alive out of the Inferno of Cawnpore. The
boat, after clearing the shoal, was captured by the mutineers. Major
Vibart of the 2d Cavalry, who was so severely wounded that he could not
join in the earlier fighting, and some eighty helpless souls under his
command, were brought back to the city of death. There, by orders of the
Nana, the men were slain forthwith and the women and children were taken
to a building in which they found one hundred and twenty-five others,
who had been spared for the Brahmin's own terrible purposes from the
butchery at Massacre Ghât on the 27th.

Returning to Bithoor the Nana was proclaimed Peishwa amid the booming of
cannon and the plaudits of his retainers. He passed a week in drunken
revels and debauchery, and when, in ignorance of its fate, a small
company of European fugitives from Fategarh sought refuge at Cawnpore,
he amused himself by having all the men but three killed in his
presence. These three and the women and children who accompanied them,
were sent to a small house known as the Bibigarh, in which the whole of
the captives, now numbering two hundred and eleven, were imprisoned.

Many died, and they were happiest. The survivors were subjected to every
indignity, given the coarsest food, and forced to grind corn for their
conqueror, who, early in July, took up his abode in a large building at
Cawnpore overlooking the house in which the unhappy people were penned.

But the period of their earthly sufferings was drawing to a close. An
avenging army was moving swiftly up the Grand Trunk Road from Allahabad.
The Nana's nephew and two of his lieutenants, leading a large force
against the British, were badly defeated. On the 15th of July came the
alarming tidings that the Feringhis were only a day's march from the
city.

The Furies must have chosen that date. The Nana, the man who thought
himself fit to be a king, decided that Havelock would turn back if there
were no more English left in Cawnpore! So as a preliminary to the
greater tragedy, five men who had escaped death thus far--no one knows
whence two of them came--were brought forth and slaughtered at the feet
of the renowned Peishwa. Then a squad of sepoys were told to "shoot all
the women and children in the Bibigarh through the windows of the
house."

Poor wretches--they were afraid to refuse, yet their gorge rose at the
deed, and they fired at the ceiling!

Such weakness was annoying to the puissant Brahmin. He selected two
Mohammedan butchers, an Afghan, and two out-caste Hindus, to do his
bidding. Armed with long knives these five fiends entered the shambles.
Alas, how can the scene that followed be described!

Yet, not even then was the sacrifice complete. Some who were wounded but
not killed, a few children who crept under the garments of their dead
mothers, lived until the morning. Not all the native soldiers were so
lost to human sympathies that they did not shudder at the groans and
muffled cries that came all night from the house of sorrow. Some of them
have left records of sights and sounds too horrible to translate from
their Eastern tongue.

But the rumble of distant guns told the destroyer that his short-lived
hour of triumph was nearly sped. In a paroxysm of rage and fear, he gave
the final order, and the Well of Cawnpore thereby attained its ghastly
immortality. By his command all that piteous company of women and
children, the living and the dead together, were thrown into a deep well
that stood in the garden of Bibigarh--the House of the Woman.

It was thus that Nana Sahib strove to cloak his crime. Yet never did
foul murderer flaunt deed more glaringly in the face of Heaven. Fifty
years have passed, myriads of human beings have lived and died since the
well swallowed the Nana's victims, but the memory of those gracious
women, of those golden-haired children, of those dear little infants
born while the guns thundered around the entrenchment, shall endure
forever. The Nana sought oblivion and forgetfulness for his sin. He
earned the anger of the gods and the malediction of the world, then and
for all time.




CHAPTER VII

TO LUCKNOW


The tragedy of Massacre Ghât, intensified by the crowning infamy of the
Well, brought a new element into the struggle. Hitherto not one European
in a hundred in India regarded the Mutiny as other than a local, though
serious, attempt to revive a fallen dynasty. The excesses at Meerut,
Delhi, and other towns were looked upon as the work of unbridled mobs.
Sepoys who revolted and shot their officers came under a different
category to the slayers of tender women and children. But the planned
and ordered treachery of Cawnpore changed all that. Thenceforth every
British-born man in the country not only realized that the government
had been forced into a Titanic contest, but he was also swayed by a
personal and absorbing lust for vengeance. Officers and men, regulars
and volunteers alike, took the field with the fixed intent of exacting
an expiatory life for each hair on the head of those unhappy victims.
And they kept the vow they made. To this day, though half a century has
passed, the fertile plain of the Doab--that great tract between the
Ganges and the Jumna--is dotted with the ruins of gutted towns and
depopulated villages. But that was not yet. India was fated to be
almost lost before it was won again.

On the night of June 4th, when the roomy budgerow carrying Winifred
Mayne and her escort drifted away from the walls of the Nana's palace at
Bithoor, there was not a breath of wind on the river. The mat sail was
useless, but a four-mile-an-hour current carried the unwieldy craft
slowly down stream, and there was not the slightest doubt in the minds
of either of the Englishmen on board as to their course of action.

Mr. Mayne was acquainted with Cawnpore and Sir Hugh Wheeler was an old
friend of his.

"Wheeler has no great force at his disposal," said he to Malcolm. "It is
evident that the native regiments have just broken out here, but, by
this time, our people in the cantonment must have heard of events
elsewhere, and they have surely seized the Magazine, which is well
fortified and stands on the river. If I can believe a word that the Nana
said, the sepoys will rush off to Delhi to-night, just as they did at
Meerut, Aligarh, and Etawah. I am convinced that our best plan is to hug
the right bank and disembark near the Magazine."

"Is it far?" asked Malcolm.

"About eight miles."

"I wonder why the Begum was so insistent that we should go back along
the Grand Trunk Road?"

Mayne hesitated. He knew that Winifred was listening.

"It is hard to account for the vagaries of a woman's mind, or, shall I
say, of the mind of such a woman," he answered lightly. "You will
remember that when you came to our assistance outside Meerut she was
determined to take us, willy-nilly, to Delhi."

Malcolm, who had heard Roshinara's impassioned speech and looked into
her blazing eyes, thought that her motives were stronger than mere
caprice. He never dreamed of the true reason, but he feared that she
knew Cawnpore had fallen and her curiously friendly regard for himself
might have inspired her advice. Here, again, Winifred's presence tied
his tongue.

"Well," he said, with a cheerless laugh, "I, at any rate, must endeavor
to reach Wheeler. I am supposed to be bearing despatches, but they were
taken from me when I was knocked off my horse in the village--"

"Were you attacked?" asked Winifred, and the quiet solicitude in her
voice was sweetest music in her lover's ears.

His brief recital of the night's adventures was followed by the story of
the others' journey and detention at Bithoor. It may be thought that Mr.
Mayne, with his long experience of India, should have read more clearly
the sinister lesson to be derived from the treatment meted out that
night to a British Officer by the detachment of sowars, amplified, as it
was, by their open references to the Nana as a Maharajah. But he was not
yet disillusioned. And, if his judgment were at fault, he erred in good
company, for Sir Henry Lawrence, Chief Commissioner at Lucknow, was
even then resisting the appeals, the almost insubordinate urging, of the
headstrong Martin Gubbins that the sepoys in the capital of Oudh should
be disarmed.

Meanwhile the boat lurched onward. Soon a red glow in the sky proclaimed
that they were nearing Cawnpore. Though well aware that the European
houses were on fire, they were confident that the Magazine would be
held. They helped Akhab Khan, Chumru, and the two troopers to rig a pair
of long sweeps, and prepared to guide the budgerow to the landing-place.

Winifred was stationed at the rudder. As it chanced the three sowars
took one oar and Chumru helped the sahibs with the other, and the two
sets of rowers were partly screened from each other by the horses.
Malcolm was saying something to Winifred when the native bent near him
and whispered:

"Talk on, sahib, but listen! Your men intend to jump ashore and leave
you. They have been bitten by the wolf. Don't try to stop them. Name of
Allah, let them go!"

Frank's heart throbbed under this dramatic development. He had no
reason to doubt his servant's statement. The faithful fellow had
nursed him through a fever with the devotion of a brother, and
Malcolm hadreciprocated this fidelity by refusing to part with him
when he, in turn, was stricken down by smallpox. In fact, Frank
was the only European in Meerut who would employ the man, whose
extraordinary appearance went against him. Cross-eyed, wide-mouthed,
and broken-nosed, with a straggling black beard that ill concealed the
tokens on his face of the dread disease from which he had suffered,
Chumru looked a cut-throat of the worst type, "a hungry, lean-fac'd
villain, a mere anatomy." Aware of his own ill repute, he made the most
of it. He tied his turban with an aggressive twist, and was wont to
scowl so vindictively at the mess khamsamah that his master, quite
unconsciously, always secured the wing of a chicken or the best cut of
the joint.

Yet this gnome-like creature was true to his salt at a time when he must
have felt that his sahib, together with every other sahib in India, was
doomed; his eyes now shot fiery, if oblique, shafts of indignation as he
muttered his thrilling news.

Malcolm did not attempt to question him. He glanced at the sowars, and
saw that their carbines were slung across their shoulders. Chumru
interpreted the look correctly.

"Akhab Khan prevented those Shia dogs from shooting you and
Mayne-sahib," went on the low murmur. "They said, huzoor, that the Nana
wanted the miss-sahib, and that they were fools to help you in taking
her away, but Akhab Khan swore he would fight on your honor's side if
they unslung their guns. They do not know I heard them as I was sitting
behind the mast, and I took care to creep off when their heads were
turned toward the shore."

"Here we are," cried Mayne, who little guessed what Chumru's mumbling
portended. "There is the ghât.[9] If it were not for the mist we could
see the Magazine just below, on the left."

[Footnote 9: In this instance, steps leading down to the river: also, a
mountain range.]

Assuredly, Frank Malcolm's human clay was being tested in the furnace
that night. He had to decide instantly what line to follow. In a minute
or less the boat would bump against the lowermost steps, and, if Akhab
Khan and his companions were, indeed, traitors, the others on board
were completely at their mercy. Mayne was unarmed, Chumru's fighting
equipment lay wholly in his aspect, while Malcolm's revolvers were in
the holsters, and his sword was tied to Nejdi's saddle, its scabbard
and belt having been thrown aside while Abdul Huq was robbing him.

The broad-beamed budgerow presented a strangely accurate microcosm of
India at that moment. The English people on her deck were numerically
inferior to the natives, and deprived by accident of the arms that might
have equalized matters. Their little army was breathing mutiny, but was
itself divided, if Chumru were not mistaken, seeing that all were for
revolt, but one held out that the Feringhis' lives should be spared.
And, even there, the cruel dilemma that offered itself to the ruler of
every European community in the country was not to be avoided, for, if
Malcolm tried to obtain his weapons his action might be the signal for a
murderous attack, while, if he made no move, he left it entirely at the
troopers' discretion whether or not he and Mayne should be shot down
without the power to strike a blow in self-defense.

Luckily he had the gift of prompt decision that is nine tenths of
generalship. Saying not a word to alarm Mayne, who was still weak from
the wound received an hour earlier, he crossed the deck, halting on the
way to rub Nejdi's black muzzle.

The sowars were watching him. With steady thrust of the port sweep they
were heading the budgerow toward the ghât.

He went nearer and caught the end of the heavy oar.

"Pull hard, now," he said encouragingly, "and we will be out of the
current."

He was facing the three men, and his order was a quite natural one under
the circumstances. Obviously, he meant to help. Stretching their arms
for a long and strong stroke, they laid on with a will. Instantly, he
pressed the oar downwards, thus forcing the blade out of the water, and
threw all his strength into its unexpected yielding. Before they could
so much as utter a yell, Akhab Khan and another were swept headlong into
the river, while the third man lay on his back on the deck with Frank on
top of him. The simplicity of the maneuver insured its success. Neither
Mayne nor Winifred understood what had happened until Malcolm had
disarmed the trooper, taken his cartridge pouch, and thrown him
overboard to sink or swim as fate might direct. He regretted the loss of
Akhab Khan, but he recalled the queer expression on the man's face when
he read Bahadur Shah's sonorous titles.

"Light of the World, Renowned King of Kings, Lord of all India,
Fuzl-Ilahi, Panah-i-din!"

That appeal to the faith was too powerful to be withstood. Yet Malcolm
was glad the man had been chivalrous in his fall, for he had taken a
liking to him.

Chumru, of course, after the first gasp of surprise, appreciated the
sahib's strategy.

"Shabash!" he cried, "Wao, wao, huzoor![10] May I never see the White
Pond of the Prophet if that was not well planned."

[Footnote 10: "Bravo! Well done, your honor!"]

"Oh, what is it?" came Winifred's startled exclamation. It was so dark,
and the horses, no less than the sail, so obscured her view of the fore
part of the boat, that she could only dimly make out Malcolm's figure,
though the sounds of the scuffle and splashing were unmistakable.

"We are disbanding our native forces--that is all," said Frank. "Press
the tiller more to the left, please. Yes, that is right. Now, keep it
there until we touch the steps."

The shimmering surface of the river near the boat was broken up into
ripples surrounding a black object. Malcolm heard the quick panting of
one in whose lungs water had mixed with air, and he hated to think of
even a rebel drowning before his eyes. Moved by pity, he swung the big
oar on its wooden rest until the blade touched the exhausted man, whose
hands shot out in the hope of succor. After some spluttering a broken
voice supplicated:

"Mercy, sahib! I saved you when you were in my power. Show pity now to
me."

"It is true, then, that you meant to desert, Akhab Khan?" said Frank
sternly.

"Yes, sahib. One cannot fight against one's brothers, but I swear by
the Prophet--"

"Nay, your oaths are not needed. You, at least, did not wish to commit
murder. Cling to that oar. The ghât is close at hand."

"Then, sahib, I can still show my gratitude. If you would save the
miss-sahib, do not land here. The Magazine has been taken. The cavalry
have looted the Treasury. All the sahib-log have fallen."

"Is this a true thing that thou sayest?"

"May I sink back into the pit if it be not the tale we heard at
Bithoor!"

By this time Mayne was at Frank's side.

"I fear we have dropped into a hornets' nest," said he. "There is
certainly an unusual turmoil in the bazaar, and houses are on fire in
all directions."

Even while they were listening to the fitful bellowing of a distant mob
bent on mad revel a crackle of musketry rang out, but died away as
quickly. The budgerow grounded lightly when her prow ran against the
stonework of the ghât. Again did Malcolm make up his mind on the spur
of the moment.

"I will spare your life on one condition, Akhab Khan," he said. "Go
ashore and learn what has taken place at the Magazine. Return here,
alone, within five minutes. Mark you, I say 'alone.' If I see more
than one who comes I shall shoot."

"Huzoor, I shall not betray you."

"Go, then."

He drew the man through the water until his feet touched the steps.
Climbing up unsteadily, Akhab Khan disappeared in the gloom. Then they
waited in silence. The heavy breath of the bazaar was pungent in their
nostrils, and, for a few seconds, they listened to the trooper's
retreating footsteps. Frank leaped ashore and pushed the boat off, while
Mayne held her by jamming the leeward oar into the mud. It was best to
make sure.

They did not speak. Their ears were strained as their tumultuous
thoughts. At last, some one came, a man, and his firm tread of boot-shod
feet betokened a soldier. It was the rebel who had become their scout.

"Sahib," said he, "it is even as I told you. Cawnpore is lost to you."

"And you, Akhab Khan, do you go or stay?"

There was another moment of tense silence.

"Would you have me draw sword against the men of my own faith?" was the
despairing answer.

"It would not be for the first time," said Malcolm coldly. "But I could
never trust thee again. Yet hast thou chosen wrongly, Akhab Khan. When
thy day of reckoning comes, may it be remembered in thy favor that thou
didst turn most unwillingly against thy masters!"

Akhab Khan raised his right hand in a military salute. Suddenly, his
erect form became indistinct, and faded out of sight. The boat was
traveling down stream once more. Around her the river lapped lazily,
and the solemn quietude of the mist-covered waters was accentuated
by the far-off turmoil in the city.

The huge sail thrust its yard high above the fog bank, and watchers on
the river side saw it. Some one hailed in the vernacular, and Chumru
replied that they came from Bithoor with hay. Prompted by Malcolm he
went on:

"How goes the good work, brother?"

"Rarely," came the voice. "I have already requited two bunniahs to whom
I owed money. Gold is to be had for the taking. Leave thy budgerow at
the bridge, friend, and join us."

The raucous, half-drunken accents substantiated Akhab Khan's story. The
unseen speaker was evidently himself a boatman. He was rejoicing in the
upheaval that permitted debts to be paid with a bludgeon and money to be
made without toil.

Mayne caught Frank by the arm.

"We are drifting towards the bridge of boats that carries the road to
Lucknow across the river," he said, in the hurried tone of a man who
sees a new and paralyzing danger. "There is a drawbridge for river
traffic, but how shall we find it, and, in any event, we must be seen."

"Are there many houses on the opposite bank?" asked Malcolm.

"Not many. They are mostly mud hovels. What is in your mind?"

"We might endeavor to cross the river before we reach the bridge. By
riding boldly along the Lucknow Road we shall place many miles between
ourselves and Cawnpore before day breaks."

"That certainly seems to offer our best chance. We have plenty of horses
and we ought to be in Lucknow soon after dawn."

"What if matters are as bad there?"

"Impossible! Lawrence has a whole regiment with him, the 32d, and plenty
of guns. Poor Wheeler, at Cawnpore, commanded a depôt, mostly officials
on the staff, and invalids. At any rate, Malcolm, we must have some
objective. Lucknow spells hope. Neither Meerut nor Allahabad is
attainable. And what will become of Winifred if we fail to reach some
station that still holds out?"

The girl herself now came to them.

"I refuse to remain alone any longer," she said. "I don't know a quarter
of what is going on. I have tied the tiller with a rope. Please tell me
what is happening and why a man shouted to Chumru from the bank."

She spoke calmly, with the pleasantly modulated voice of a well-bred
Englishwoman. If aught were wanted to enhance the contrast between the
peace of the river and the devildom of Cawnpore it was given in full
measure by her presence there. How little did she realize the long
drawn-out agony that was even then beginning for her sisters in that
ill-fated entrenchment! It was the idle whim of fortune that she was not
with them. And not one was destined to live--not one among hundreds!

But it was a time for action, not for speech. Malcolm asked her gently
to go back to the helm and keep it jammed hard-a-starboard until they
arrived at the left bank. Then he took an oar and Mayne and Chumru
tackled the other. The three men pulled manfully athwart the stream.
They could not tell what progress they were making, and the Ganges ran
swiftly in mid-channel, being five times as wide as the Thames at London
Bridge. Yet they toiled on with desperate energy. They had crossed the
swirl of deep water when a low, straight-edged barrier appeared on the
starboard side, and, before they could attempt to avert the calamity,
the budgerow crashed against a pontoon and drove its bows under the
superstructure. It was locked there so firmly that a score of men had to
labor for hours next day ere it could be cleared.

Nevertheless, that which they regarded as a misfortune was a blessing.
The shock of the collision alarmed the horses, and one of them climbed
like a cat on to the bridge. Frank sprang after him and caught the reins
before the startled creature could break away. And that which one horse
could do might be done by seven. Bidding Chumru arrange some planks to
give the others better foothold, he told Winifred and Mayne to join him
and help in holding the animals as they gained the roadway. A couple of
natives who ran up from the Lucknow side were peremptorily ordered to
stand. Indeed, they were harmless coolies and soon they offered to
assist, for the deadly work in Cawnpore that night was scarcely known to
them as yet. In a couple of minutes the fugitives were mounted, each of
the men leading a spare horse and advancing at a steady trot; though the
bridge swayed and creaked a good deal under this forbidden pace, they
soon found by the upward grade that they were crossing the sloping mud
bank leading to the actual highway.

Thirty-five miles of excellent road now separated them from Lucknow. The
hour was not late, about half past ten, so they had fully six hours of
starlit obscurity in which to travel, because, though the month was
June, India is not favored with the prolonged twilight of dawn and eve
familiar to other latitudes.

They clattered through the outlying bazaar without disturbing a soul.
Probably every man, woman and child able to walk was adding to the din
in the great city beyond the river. Pariah dogs yelped at them, some
heavy carts drawn across the road caused a momentary halt, and a herd of
untended buffaloes lying patiently near their byre told the story of the
excitement that had drawn their keeper across the bridge.

Soon they were in the open, and a fast canter became permissible. They
passed by many a temple devoted to Kali or elephant-headed Buddha, by
many a sacred mosque or tomb of Mohammedan saint, by many a holy tree
decorated with ribbons in honor of its tutelary deity. Now they were
flying between lanes of sugarcane or tall castor-oil plants, now
traversing arid spaces where _reh_, the efflorescent salt of the earth,
had killed all vegetation and reduced a once fertile land to a desert.

Five miles from Cawnpore they swept through the hamlet of Mungulwar.
They saw no one, and no one seemed to see them, though it is hard to say
in India what eyes may not be peering through wattle screen or heavy
barred door. In the larger village of Onao they met a group of
chowkidars, or watchmen, in the main street. These men salaamed to the
sahib-log, probably on account of the stir created by the horses.
Without drawing rein, they pushed on to Busseerutgunge, crossed the
river Sai and neared the village of Bunnee.

If only men could read the future, how Malcolm's soldier spirit would
have kindled as Mayne told him the names of those squalid communities!
Each yard of that road was destined to be sprinkled with British blood,
while its ditches would be choked with the bodies of mutineers. But
these things were behind the veil, and the one dominant thought
possessing Malcolm now was that unless Winifred and her uncle obtained
food of some sort they must fall from their saddles with sheer
exhaustion. He and his servant had made a substantial meal early in the
evening, but the others had eaten nothing owing to the alarm and
confusion that reigned at Bithoor.

Winifred, indeed, in response to a question, said faintly that she
thought she could keep going if she had a drink of milk. Such an
admission, coming from her brave lips, warned Frank that he must call a
halt regardless of loss of time. Assuredly, this was an occasion when
the sacrifice of a few minutes might avoid the grave risk of a breakdown
after daybreak. So when they entered Bunnee they pulled up, and
discussed ways and means of getting something to eat.

It was then that Malcolm gave evidence that his devotion to the
soldier's art had not been practised in vain. Mr. Mayne thought they
should rouse the household at the first reputable looking dwelling they
found.

"No," said Frank. "Mounted, and in motion, we have some chance of escape
unless we fall in with hostile cavalry. On foot, we are at the mercy of
any prowling rascals who may be on the warpath. Let us rather look out
for a place somewhat removed from the main road. There we do not court
observation, and we are sufficiently well armed to protect ourselves
from any hostile move on the part of those we summon."

The older man agreed. Rank and wealth count for little in the great
crises of life. Here was a Judicial Commissioner of Oudh a fugitive in
his own province, and ready to obey a subaltern's slightest wish!

Chumru quickly picked out the house of a zemindar, or land-owner, which
stood in its own walled enclosure behind a clump of trees. A rough track
led to the gate, and Frank knocked loudly on an iron-studded door.

He used the butt end of a revolver, so his rat-tat was imperative
enough, but the garden might have been a graveyard for all the notice
that was taken by the inhabitants. He knocked again, with equal
vehemence and with the same result. But he knew his zemindar, and after
waiting a reasonable interval he said clearly:

"Unless the door is opened at once it will be forced. I am an officer of
the Company, and I demand an entry."

"Coming, sahib," said an anxious voice. "We knew not who knocked, and
there are many budmashes about these nights."

The door yielded to the withdrawal of bolts, but it was still held on a
chain. A man peeped out, satisfied himself that there really were
sahib-log waiting at his gate, and then unfastened the chain, with
apologies for his forgetfulness. Three men servants, armed with lathis,
long sticks with heavy iron ferrules at both ends, stood behind him, and
they all appeared to be exceedingly relieved when they heard that their
midnight visitors only asked for water, milk, eggs, and chupatties, on
the score that they were belated and had no food.

The zemindar civilly invited them to enter, but Frank as civilly
declined, fearing that the smallness of their number, the absence of a
retinue, and the cavalry accouterments of the horses, might arouse
comment, if not suspicion.

Happily the owner of the house recognized Mr. Mayne, and then he
bestirred himself. All they sought for, and more, was brought. Chairs
were provided--rare luxuries in native dwellings at that date--and, this
being a Mohammedan family, some excellent cooked meat was added to the
feast. Before long Winifred was able to smile and say that she had not
been so disgracefully hungry since she left school.

The zemindar courteously insisted that they should taste some mangoes on
which he prided himself, and he also staged a quantity of _lichis_, a
delicious fruit, closely resembling a plover's egg in appearance,
peculiar to India. Nor were the horses forgotten. They were watered and
fed, and if by this time the nature of the cavalcade had been
recognized, there was no change in the man's hospitable demeanor.

Not for an instant did Frank's watchful attitude relax. While Mr. Mayne
and the zemindar discoursed on the disturbed state of the country he
snatched the opportunity to exchange a few tender words with Winifred.
But his eyes and ears were alert, and he was the first to hear the
advent of a large body of horses along the main road.

He stood up instantly, blew out a lantern which was placed on the ground
for the benefit of himself and the others, and said quietly:

"A regiment of cavalry is approaching. We do not wish to be seen by
them. Let no man stir or show a light until they have gone."

He had the military trick of putting an emphatic order in the fewest and
simplest words. A threat was out of the question, after the manner in
which the party had been received, but it is likely that each native
present felt that his life would not be of great value if he attempted
to draw the attention of the passers-by to the presence of Europeans at
the door of that secluded zemindari.

The tramp of horses' feet and the jingle of arms and trappings could now
be distinguished plainly. At first Winifred feared that they were troops
sent in pursuit of them by the Nana, and she whispered the question:

"Are they from Cawnpore, Frank?"

"No," he answered, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I cannot
see them, but their horses are walking, so they cannot have come our
way. They are cavalry advancing from the direction of Lucknow."

"Perhaps they are marching to the relief of Cawnpore?"

"Let us hope so. But we must not risk being seen."

"Your words are despondent, dear. Do you think the whole native army is
against us?"

"I scarcely know what to think, sweetheart. Things look black in so many
directions. Once we are in Lucknow, and able to hear what has really
happened elsewhere, we shall be better able to judge."

The ghostly squadrons clanked past, unseen and unseeing. When the road
was quiet again Winifred and her small bodyguard remounted. The zemindar
was not a man who would accept payment, so Mr. Mayne gave his servants
some money. It may be that this Mohammedan gentleman wondered if he had
acted rightly when the emissaries of the Nana scoured the country next
day for news of the miss-sahib and two sahibs who rode towards Lucknow
in the small hours of the morning. Being a wise man he held his peace.
He had cast his bread upon the waters, and did not regret it, though he
little reckoned on the return it would make after many days.

Reinvigorated by the excellent meal, the travelers found that their
horses had benefited as greatly as they themselves by the food and brief
rest.

They had no more adventures on the way. Winifred did not object to
riding astride while it was dark, but she did not like the experience in
broad daylight, and when they met a Eurasian in a tikka-gharry, or hired
conveyance, in the environs of Lucknow, she was almost as delighted to
secure the vehicle as to learn that the city, though disturbed, was
"quite safe from mutiny."

That was the man's phrase, and it was eloquent of faith in the genius of
Henry Lawrence.

"Quite safe!" he assured them, though they had only escaped capture by a
detachment of rebel cavalry by the merest fluke three hours earlier.

They were standing opposite the gate of a great walled enclosure known
as the Alumbagh, a summer retreat built by an old nawab for a favorite
wife. And that was in June! In six short months Havelock would be lying
there in his grave, and men would be talking from pole to pole of the
wondrous things done at Lucknow, both by those who held it and those
who twice relieved it.

"Quite safe!"

It was high time men ceased to use that phrase in India.




CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN A MOHAMMEDAN FRATERNIZES WITH A BRAHMIN


"We seem to be attracting a fair share of attention," said Malcolm, as
they crossed a bridge over the canal that bounded Lucknow on the south
and east.

"We look rather odd, don't we?" asked Winifred, cheerfully. "Three
mounted men leading four horses, and a disheveled lady in a ramshackle
vehicle like this, would draw the eyes of a mob anywhere. Thank
goodness, though, the people appear to be quite peaceably inclined."

"Y-yes."

"Why do you agree so grudgingly?"

"Well, I have not been here before--are the streets usually so crowded
at this hour?"

"Lucknow, like every other Indian city, is early astir. Perhaps they
have heard of the fall of Cawnpore. It is one of the marvels of India
how quickly news spreads. Isn't that so, uncle?"

"No man knows how rumor travels here," said Mr. Mayne. "It beats the
telegraph at times. But the probability is that Lucknow has surprises in
store for us. While we were bottled up in Bithoor things have been
happening elsewhere."

His guess was only too accurate. Not only had Nana Sahib long been in
treaty with the disaffected Oudh taluqdars, but Lucknow itself was
writhing in the first stages of rebellion. Although by popular reckoning
the mutiny broke out at Meerut on May 10, there was trouble in Lucknow
in April with the 48th Infantry, and again on May 3, when Lawrence's
firm measures alone prevented the 7th Oudh Irregulars from murdering
their officers. There was little reason to hope that this, the third
city in India, should not yield readily to sedition-mongers. The
dethroned King of Oudh, with his courtiers and ministers, still
maintained a sort of royal state in his residence at Calcutta, and his
emissaries were active in the greased cartridge propaganda, telling
Hindus that the paper wrappers were dipped in the fat of cows, while,
for the benefit of Mohammedans, a variant of the story was supplied by
the substitution of pig's lard.

It is believed too, that the passing of a chupatty, or flat cake, from
village to village in the Northwest Provinces early in January was
set on foot by one of these agitators as a token that the Government
was plotting to overthrow the religions of the people. The exact
significance of that mysterious symbol has never been ascertained. Like
the "snowball" petition of the West, once started, it soon lost its
first meaning. Many natives regarded it merely as the fulfilment of a
devotee's vow, but in the majority of instances it had an unsettling
effect on the simple folk who received it, and this was precisely what
its originator desired.

Lucknow was not only the natural pivot of a rich agricultural district,
but it hummed with prosperous trade. Every type of Indian humanity
gathered in its narrow streets and lofty houses, and excitement rose to
fever heat when the local trouble with the sepoys was given force to by
the isolation of the Meerut white garrison, the seizure of Delhi and the
sacking of many European stations in the Northwest. On May 30, the 71st
Native Infantry had the impudence to fire on the 32d Foot, and were
severely mauled for their pains. They ran off, but not until they had
murdered Brigadier-General Handscombe and Lieutenant Grant, one of their
own officers. The standard of the Prophet was raised in the bazaar and a
fanatical mob rallied round it. They killed a Mr. Menpes, who lived in
the city, and were then dispersed by the police.

Unfortunately the 7th Cavalry deserted when Lawrence marched to the
race-course next day to punish the mutinous sepoys who had gathered
there. But despite the lack of a mounted force, a number of prisoners
were taken and hanged in batches on a gallows erected on the Muchee
Bhowun, a fortress palace situated near the Residency.

Thus Lawrence had scotched the snake, but like Wheeler at Cawnpore and
many another in India at that time, he refused to kill it by disarming
the native regiments under his command. Nevertheless they feared him.
They dared not show their fangs in Lucknow. They stole away in companies
and squadrons, glutting their predatory instincts by slaughter and
pillage elsewhere before they headed for Delhi or joined one of the
numerous pretenders who sprang into being in emulation of Nana Sahib. It
was one of these rebel detachments that passed the four fugitives from
Cawnpore on the outskirts of Bunnee. Scattered throughout the province
they proved as merciless and terrible to wealthy natives as to the
Europeans whom they met in flight along the main roads.

The chaos into which the whole country fell with such extraordinary
swiftness is demonstrated by the varying treatment meted out to
different people. Winifred and her uncle, under Malcolm's bold
leadership, reached Lucknow with comparative ease. Poor little Sophy
Christian, aged three, having lost her mother in the massacre of
Sitapore, was taken off into the jungle by Sir Mountstuart Jackson, his
sister Madeline, a young officer named Burnes, and Surgeon-Major Morton.
They fell in with Captain and Mrs. Philip Orr and their child, refugees
from Aurungabad, and the whole party experienced almost incredible
sufferings _during nine months_. Mrs. Orr, her little girl and Miss
Jackson did not escape from their final prison at Lucknow until the end
of March, 1858. Sophy Christian, who was always asking pathetically "why
mummie didn't come," died of the hardships she had to endure, while the
men were shot in cold blood by the sepoys on November 16.

Yet in many instances the rebels either told their officers to go away
or escorted them to the nearest European station, while the villagers,
though usually hostile, sometimes treated the luckless sahib-log with
genuine kindness and sympathy.

Mr. Mayne of course had his own house in the cantonment, which was
situated north of the city, across the river Goomtee. Malcolm wished to
see uncle and niece safely established in their bungalow before he
reported himself at the Residency, but the older man thought they should
all go straight to the Chief Commissioner and tell him what had happened
at Cawnpore.

Threading the packed bazaar towards the Bailey Guard--that gate of the
Residency which was destined to become for ever famous--they encountered
Captain Gould Weston, the local Superintendent of Police, and his first
words undeceived them as to the true position of affairs.

"You left Cawnpore last night!" he cried. "Then you were amazingly
lucky. Wheeler has just telegraphed that he expects to be invested by
the rebels to-day. Not that you will be much better off here in some
respects, as we are all living in the Residency. I suppose you know your
house has gone, Mayne?"

"Gone! Do you mean that it is destroyed?"

"Burnt to the ground. There is hardly a building left in the
cantonment."

"But what were the troops doing? At any rate, you are not besieged here
yet."

"We are on the verge of it. Unfortunately the Chief won't bring himself
to disarm the sepoys, and the city is drifting into a worse condition
daily. Half of the native corps have bolted, and the rest are ripe
for trouble at the first opportunity. The fires are the work of
incendiaries. We have caught and hanged a few, but they are swarming
everywhere."

"You say Wheeler has been in communication with you this morning," said
the perplexed civilian. "Are you sure? It is true we escaped in the
first instance from Bithoor, but Cawnpore was in flames last night and
the Magazine in possession of the mutineers."

"Oh, yes. We know that. The one thing these black rascals don't
understand is the importance of cutting the telegraph wires. Wheeler has
thrown up an entrenchment in the middle of a _maidan_. I am afraid he is
in a tight place, as he is asking for help which we cannot send. Well,
good-by! Hope to see you at tiffin. Miss Mayne must make herself as
comfortable as she can in the women's quarters, and pray, like the rest
of us, that this storm may soon blow over."

He rode off, followed by an escort of mounted police. Malcolm, who had
taken no part in the conversation, listened to Weston's words with a
sinking heart. He had failed doubly, then, in the mission entrusted to
him by Colvin. Not only were his despatches lost, but he was mistaken
in believing that the Cawnpore garrison was overpowered. He had turned
back at a moment when he should have strained every nerve to reach
his destination. That was intolerable. The memory of the hawk-nosed,
steel-eyed officer who rode from Kurnaul to Meerut in twenty-four hours
smote him like a whip. Would Hodson--the man who was prepared to cross
the infernal regions if duty called--would _he_ have quitted Cawnpore
without making sure that Sir Hugh Wheeler was dead or a prisoner?

The answer to that unspoken question brought such a look of pain to
Frank's face that Winifred, watching him from the carriage window,
wondered what was wrong. She, too, had heard the policeman's statement
and was greatly relieved by it. Why should her lover be so perturbed,
she wondered? Was it not good news that the English in Cawnpore were at
least endeavoring to hold Nana Sahib at bay? It was on the tip of her
tongue to ask what sudden cloud had fallen on him when the carriage
swung through a gateway and she found herself inside the Residency. The
breathless greetings exchanged between herself and many of her friends
among the ladies of the garrison drove from her mind the misery she had
seen in Frank's stern-set features. But the thought recurred later and
she spoke of it.

Now Malcolm had already visited Sir Henry Lawrence and told him the
exact circumstances. The Chief Commissioner exonerated him from any
blame and, as a temporary matter, appointed him an extra A.D.C. on his
staff. But the sore rankled and it was destined in due time to affect
the young officer's fortunes in the most unexpected way.

Above all else he did not want Winifred to know that solicitude in her
behalf had drawn him from the path of duty. So he fenced with her
sympathetic inquiries, and she, womanlike, began to search for some
shortcoming on her own part to account for her lover's gloom. Thus, not
a rift, but an absence of full and complete understanding, existed
between them, and each was conscious of it, though Malcolm alone knew
its cause.

But that little cloud only darkened their own small world. Around them
was the clash of arms and the din of preparation for the "fortnight's
siege" which Lawrence thought the Residency might withstand if held
resolutely! In truth, there never was a fortification, with the
exception of that four-foot mud wall at Cawnpore, less calculated to
repel the assault of a determined foe than the ill-planned defenses
which provided the last English refuge in Oudh.

Winifred soon proved that she was of good metal. The alarms and
excursions of the past three weeks were naturally trying to a girl born
and bred in a quiet Devon village. But heredity, mostly blamed for the
transmission of bad qualities, supplies good ones, too, whether in man
or maid. Descended on her father's side from a race of soldiers and
diplomats, her mother was a Yorkshire Trenholme, and it is said on
Hambledon Moor that there were Trenholmes in Yorkshire before there was
a king in England. In spite of the terrific heat and the discomfort
of her new surroundings she made light of difficulties, found solace
herself by cheering others, and quickly attained a prominent place in
that small band of devoted women whose names will live until the story
of Lucknow is forgotten.

She met Frank only occasionally and by chance, their days being full of
work and striving. A smile, a few tender words, perhaps nothing more
than a hurried wave of the hand in passing, constituted their love
idyll, for Lawrence fell ill and his aides were kept busy, day and
night, in passing to and fro between the bedside of the stricken leader
and the many posts where his counsel was sought or the hasty provision
of defense lagged for his orders.

The Chief was so worn out with anxiety and sleepless labor that on
June 9 he delegated his authority to a provisional council. Then the
impetuous and chivalric Martin Gubbins, Financial Commissioner of Oudh,
saw a means of attaining by compromise that which he had vainly urged on
Lawrence--he persuaded the commanding officers of the native regiments
in Lucknow to tell their men to go home on furlough until November.

This was actually done, but Lawrence was so indignant when he heard of
it that he dissolved the council on June 12 and sent Malcolm and other
officers to recall the sepoys. Five hundred came back, vowing that they
would stand by "Lar-rence-sahib Bahadur" till the last. They kept their
word; they shared the danger and glory of the siege with the 32d and the
British Artillery.

Gubbins, a born firebrand, then pressed his superior to attack a rebel
force that had gathered at the village of Chinhut, ten miles northeast
of Lucknow. Unfortunately Lawrence yielded, marched out with seven
hundred men, half of whom were Europeans, and was badly defeated, owing
to the desertion of some native gunners at a critical moment.

A disastrous rout followed. Colonel Case of the 32d, trying vainly with
his men to stop the native runaways, was shot dead. For three miles the
enemy's horse artillery pelted the helpless troops with grape, and the
massacre of every man in the small column was prevented only by the
bravery of a tiny squadron of volunteer cavalry, which held a bridge
until the harassed infantry were able to cross.

Lawrence, when the day was lost, rode back to prepare the hapless
Europeans in the city for the hazard that now threatened. The investment
of the Residency could not be prevented. It was a question whether the
mutineers would not surge over it in triumph within the hour.

From the windows of the lofty building which gave its name to the
cluster of houses within the walls, the despairing women saw their
exhausted fellow-countrymen fighting a dogged rear-guard action against
twenty times as many rebels. Some poor creatures, straining their eyes
to find in the ranks of the survivors the husband they would never see
again, clasped their children to their breasts and shrieked in agony.
Others, like Lady Inglis, knelt and read the Litany. A few, and among
them was Winifred, ran out with vessels full of water and tended the
wants of the almost choking soldiers who were staggering to the shelter
of the veranda.

She had seen Lawrence gallop to his quarters, and his drawn, haggard
face told her the worst. He was accompanied by two staff officers, but
Malcolm was not with him. The pandemonium that reigned everywhere for
many minutes made it impossible that she should obtain any news of her
lover's fate. While the soldiers were flocking through the narrow
streets that flanked or enfiladed the walls, the native servants and
coolies engaged on the defenses deserted _en masse_. The rebel artillery
was beginning to batter the more exposed buildings; the British guns
already in position took up the challenge; sepoys seized the adjoining
houses and commenced a deadly musketry fire that was far more effective
than the terrifying cannonade; and the men of the garrison who had not
taken part in that fatal sortie rushed to their posts, determined to
stem at all costs the imminent assault of the victorious mutineers.

An officer seeing Winifred carrying water to some men who were lying in
a position that would soon be swept by two guns mounted near a bridge
across the Goomtee, known as the Iron Bridge, ordered the soldiers to
seek a safer refuge.

"And you, Miss Mayne, you must not remain here," he went on. "You will
only lose your life, and we want brave women like you to live."

Winifred recognized him though his face was blackened with powder and
grime. Her own wild imaginings made death seem preferable to the
anguish of her belief that Frank had fallen.

"Oh, Captain Fulton," she said, "can you tell me what has become of--of
Mr. Malcolm?"

"Yes," he said, summoning a gallant smile as an earnest of good news. "I
heard the Chief tell him to make the best of his way to Allahabad. That
is the only quarter from which help can be expected, and to-day's
disaster renders help imperative. Now, my dear child, don't take it to
heart in that way. Malcolm will win through, never fear! He is just the
man for such a task, and each mile he covers means--" he paused; a round
shot crashed against a gable and brought down a chimney with a loud
rattle of falling bricks--"means so many minutes less of this sort of
thing."

But Winifred neither saw nor heard. Her eyes were blinded with tears,
her brain dazed by the knowledge that her lover had undertaken alone a
journey declared impossible from the more favorably situated station of
Cawnpore many days earlier.

She managed somehow to find her uncle. Perhaps Fulton spared a moment to
take her to him. She never knew. When next her ordered mind appreciated
her environment that last day of June, 1857, was drawing to its close
and the glare of rebel watch fires, heightened by the constant flashes
of an unceasing bombardment, told her that the siege of Lucknow had
begun.

Then she remembered that Mr. Mayne had taken her to one of the cellars
in the Residency in which the women and children were secure from the
leaden hail that was beating on the walls. She had a vague notion that
he carried a gun and a cartridge belt, and a new panic seized her lest
the Moloch of war had devoured her only relative, for her father had
been killed at the battle of Alma, and her mother's death, three years
later, had led to her sailing for India to take charge of her uncle's
household.

The women near at hand were too sorrow-laden to give any real
information. They only knew that every man within the Residency walls,
even the one-armed, one-legged, decrepit pensioners who had lost limbs
or health in the service of the Company, were mustered behind the frail
defenses.

To a girl of her temperament inaction was the least endurable of evils.
Now that the shock of Malcolm's departure had passed she longed to seek
oblivion in work, while existence in that stifling underground
atmosphere, with its dense crowd of heart-broken women and complaining
children, was almost intolerable.

In defiance of orders--of which, however, she was then ignorant--she
went to the ground floor. Passing out into the darkness she crossed an
open space to the hospital, and it chanced that the first person she
encountered was Chumru, Malcolm's bearer.

The man's grim features changed their habitual scowl to a demoniac grin
when he saw her.

"Ohé, miss-sahib," he cried, "this meeting is my good fortune, for
surely you can tell me where my sahib is?"

Winifred was not yet well versed in Hindustani, but she caught some of
the words, and the contortions of Chumru's expressive countenance were
familiar to her, as she had laughed many a time at Malcolm's recitals of
his ill-favored servant's undeserved repute as a villain of parts.

"Your sahib is gone to Allahabad," she managed to say before the thought
came tardily that perhaps it was not wise to make known the Chief
Commissioner's behests in this manner.

"To Illah-hábàd! Shade of Mahomet, how can he go that far without me?"
exclaimed Chumru. "Who will cook his food and brush his clothes? Who
will see to it that he is not robbed on the road by every thief that
ever reared a chicken or milked a cow? I feared that some evil thing had
befallen him, but this is worse than aught that entered my head."

All this was lost on Winifred. She imagined that the native was
bewailing his master's certain death in striving to carry out a
desperate mission, whereas he was really thinking that the most
disturbing element about the sahib's journey was his own absence.

Seeing the distress in her face, Chumru was sure that she sympathized
with his views.

"Never mind, miss-sahib," said he confidentially, "I will slip away now,
steal a horse and follow him."

Without another word he hastened out of the building and left her
wondering what he meant. She repeated the brief phrases, as well as she
could recall them, to a Eurasian whom she found acting as a
water-carrier.

This man translated Chumru's parting statement quite accurately, and
when Mr. Mayne came at last from the Bailey Guard where he had been
stationed until relieved after nightfall, he horrified her by telling
her the truth--that it was a hundred chances to one against the
unfortunate bearer's escape if he did really endeavor to break through
the investing lines.

And indeed few men could have escaped from the entrenchment that night.
Any one who climbed to the third story of the Residency--itself the
highest building within the walls and standing on the most elevated
site--would soon be dispossessed of the fantastic notion that any corner
was left unguarded by the rebels. A few houses had been demolished by
Lawrence's orders, it is true, but his deep respect for native ideals
had left untouched the swarm of mosques and temples that stood between
the Residency and the river.

"Spare their holy places!" he said, yet Mohammedan and Hindu did not
scruple now to mask guns in the sacred enclosures and loop-hole the
hallowed walls for musketry. On the city side, narrow lanes, lofty
houses and strongly-built palaces offered secure protection to the
besiegers. The British position was girt with the thousand gleams of a
lightning more harmful than that devised by nature, for each spurt of
flame meant that field-piece or rifle was sending some messenger of
death into the tiny area over which floated the flag of England. Within
this outer circle of fire was a lesser one; the garrison made up for
lack of numbers by a fixed resolve to hold each post until every man
fell. To modern ideas, the distance between these opposing rings was
absurdly small. As the siege progressed besiegers and besieged actually
came to know each other by sight. Even from the first they were seldom
separated by more than the width of an ordinary street, and conversation
was always maintained, the threats of the mutineers being countered by
the scornful defiance of the defenders.

Nevertheless Chumru prevailed on Captain Weston to allow him to drop to
the ground outside the Bailey Guard. The Police Superintendent, a
commander who was now fighting his own corps, accepted the bearer's
promise that if he were not killed or captured he would make the best of
his way to Allahabad, and even if he did not find his master, tell the
British officer in charge there of the plight of Lucknow.

Chumru, who had no knowledge of warfare beyond his recent experiences,
was acquainted with the golden rule that the shorter the time spent as
an involuntary target the less chance is there of being hit. As soon as
he reached the earth from the top of the wall he took to his heels and
ran like a hare in the direction of some houses that stood near the
Clock Tower.

He was fired at, of course, but missed, and the sepoys soon ceased their
efforts to put a bullet through him because they fancied he was a
deserter.

As soon as they saw his face they had no doubts whatever on that score.
Indeed, were it his unhappy lot to fall in with the British patrols
already beginning to feel their way north from Bengal along the Grand
Trunk Road he would assuredly have been hanged at sight on his mere
appearance.

Chumru's answers to the questions showered on him were magnificently
untrue. According to him the Residency was already a ruin and its
precincts a shambles. The accursed Feringhis might hold out till the
morning, but he doubted it. Allah smite them!--that was why he chanced
being shot by his brethren rather than be slain by mistake next day when
the men of Oudh took vengeance on their oppressors. He could not get
away earlier because he was a prisoner, locked up by the huzoors,
forsooth, for a trifling matter of a few rupees left behind by one of
the white dogs who fell that day at Chinhut.

In brief, Chumru abused the English with such an air that he was
regarded by the rebels as quite an acquisition. They had not learned, as
yet, that it was better to shoot a dozen belated friends than permit one
spy to win his way through their lines.

Watching his opportunity, he slipped off into the bazaar. Now he was
quite safe, being one among two hundred thousand. But time was passing;
he wanted a horse, and might expect to find the canal bridge closely
guarded.

Having a true Eastern sense of humor behind that saturnine visage of
his, he hit on a plan of surmounting both difficulties with ease.

Singling out the first well-mounted and half-intoxicated native officer
he met--though, to his credit be it said, he chose a Brahmin subadar of
cavalry--he hailed him boldly.

"Brother," said he, "I would have speech with thee."

Now, Chumru took his life in his hands in this matter. For one wearing
the livery of servitude to address a high-caste Brahmin thus was
incurring the risk of being sabered then and there. In fact the subadar
was so amazed that he glared stupidly at the Mohammedan who greeted him
as "brother," and it may be that those fierce eyes looking at him from
different angles had a mesmeric effect.

"Thou?" he spluttered, reining in his horse, a hardy country-bred, good
for fifty miles without bait.

"Even I," said Chumru. "I have occupation, but I want help. One will
suffice, though there is gold enough for many."

"Gold, sayest thou?"

"Ay, gold in plenty. The dog of a Feringhi whom I served has had it
hidden these two months in the thatch of his house near the Alumbagh.
To-day he is safely bottled up there--" he jerked a thumb towards the
sullen thunder of the bombardment. "I am a poor man, and I may be
stopped if I try to leave the city. Take me up behind thee, brother, and
give me safe passage to the bungalow, and behold, we will share treasure
of a lakh or more!"

The Brahmin's brain was bemused with drink, but it took in two obvious
elements of the tale at once. Here was a fortune to be gained by merely
cutting a throat at the right moment.

"That is good talking," said he. "Mount, friend, and leave me to answer
questions."

Chumru saw that he had gaged his man rightly, and the evil glint in the
subadar's eyes told him the unspoken thought. He climbed up behind the
high-peaked saddle and, after the horse had showed his resentment of a
double burthen, was taken through the bazaar as rapidly as its thronged
streets permitted. Sure enough, the canal bridge was watched.

"Whither go ye?" demanded the officer in charge.

"To bring in a Feringhi who is in hiding," said the Brahmin.

"Shall I send a few men with you?"

"Nay, we two are plenty--" this with a laugh.

"Quite plenty," put in Chumru. The officer glanced at him and was
convinced. Being a Mohammedan, he took Chumru's word without question,
which showed the exceeding wisdom of Chumru in selecting a Brahmin for
the sacrifice; thus was he prepared to deal with either party in an
unholy alliance.

They jogged in silence past the Alumbagh. The Brahmin, on reflection,
decided that he would stab Chumru before the hoard was disturbed and he
could then devise another hiding-place at his leisure. Chumru had long
ago decided to send the Brahmin to the place where all unbelievers go,
at the first suitable opportunity. Hence the advantage lay with him,
because he held a strategic position and could choose his own time.

Beyond the Alumbagh there were few houses, and these of mean
description, and each moment the subadar's mind was growing clearer
under the prospect of great wealth to be won so easily.

"Where is this bungalow, friend?" said he at last, seeing nothing but a
straight road in front.

"Patience, brother. 'Tis now quite near. It lies behind that tope of
trees yonder."

The other half turned to ascertain in which direction his guide was
pointing.

"It is not on the main road, then?"

"No. A man who has gold worth the keeping loves not to dwell where all
men pass."

A little farther, and Chumru announced:

"We turn off here."

It was dark. He thought he had hit upon a by-way, but no sooner did the
horse quit the shadow of the trees by the roadside than he saw that he
had been misled by the wheel-tracks of a ryot's cart. The Brahmin
sniffed suspiciously.

"Is there no better way than this?" he cried, when his charger nearly
stumbled into a deep ditch.

"One only, but you may deem it too far," was the quiet answer, and
Chumru, placing his left hand on the Brahmin's mouth, plunged a long,
thin knife up to the hilt between his ribs.




CHAPTER IX

A LONG CHASE


It was not Lawrence's order but Malcolm's own suggestion that led to the
desperate task entrusted to the young aide by the Chief. While those few
heroic volunteer horsemen drove back the enemy's cavalry and held the
bridge over the Kokrail until the beaten army made good its retreat, Sir
Henry halted by the roadside and watched the passing of his exhausted
men. He had the aspect of one who hoped that some stray bullet would end
the torment of life. In that grief-stricken hour his indomitable spirit
seemed to falter. Ere night he was the Lawrence of old, but the
magnitude of the calamity that had befallen him was crushing and he
winced beneath it.

Out of three hundred and fifty white soldiers in the column he had lost
one hundred and nineteen. Every gun served by natives was captured by
the enemy. Worst of all, the moral effect of such a defeat outweighed a
dozen victories. It not only brought about the instant beginnings of the
siege, but its proportions were grossly exaggerated in the public eye.
For the first time in many a year the white soldiers had fled before a
strictly Indian force. They were outnumbered, which was nothing new in
the history of the country, but it must be confessed they were
out-generaled, too. Lawrence, never a believer in Gubbins's forward
policy, showed unwonted hesitancy even during the march to Chinhut: he
halted, advanced and counter-marched the troops in a way that was
foreign to a man of his decisive character. Where he was unaccountably
timid the enemy were unusually bold, and the outcome was disaster.

Yet in this moment of bitterest adversity he displayed that sympathy for
the sufferings of others that won him the esteem of all who came in
contact with him.

By some extraordinary blunder of the commissariat the 32d had set forth
that morning without breaking their fast. Now, after a weary march and a
protracted fight in the burning sun, some of the men deliberately lay
down to die.

"We can go no farther," they said. "We may as well meet death here as a
few yards away. And, when the sepoys overtake us, we shall at least have
breath enough left to die fighting."

Lawrence, when finally he turned his horse's head toward Lucknow, came
upon such a group. He shook his feet free of the stirrups.

"Now, my lads," he said quietly, "you have no cause to despair. Catch
hold of the leathers, two of you, and the horse will help you along. Mr.
Malcolm, you can assist in the same way. Another mile will bring us to
the city."

One of the men, finding it in his heart to pity his haggard-faced
general, thought to console him by saying:

"We'll try, if it's on'y to please you, your honor, but it's all up with
us, I'm afraid. If the end doesn't come to-day it will surely be with us
to-morrow."

"Why do you think that?" asked Lawrence. "We must hold the Residency
until the last man falls. What else can we do?"

"I know that, your honor, but we haven't got the ghost of a chance.
They're a hundred to one, and as well armed as we are. It 'ud be a
different thing if help could come, but it can't. If what people are
saying is true, sir, the nearest red-coats are at Allahabad, an' p'raps
they're hard pressed, too."

"That is not the way to look at a difficulty. In war it is the
unexpected that happens. Keep your spirits up and you may live to tell
your grandchildren how you fought the rebels at Lucknow. I want you and
every man in the ranks to know that my motto is 'No Surrender.' You have
heard what happened at Cawnpore. Here, in Lucknow, despite to-day's
disaster, we shall fight to a finish."

An English battery came thundering down the road to take up a fresh
position and assist in covering the retreat. The guns unlimbered near a
well.

"There!" said Lawrence, "you see how my words have come true. A minute
ago you were ready to fall before the first sowar who lifted his saber
over your head. Go now and help by drawing water for the gunners and
yourselves. Then you can ride back on the carriages when they limber
up."

Malcolm, to whom the soldier's words brought inspiration, spurred Nejdi
alongside his Chief.

"Will you permit me to ride to Allahabad, sir, and tell General Neill
how matters stand here?" he said.

Lawrence looked at him as though the request were so fantastic that he
had not fully grasped its meaning.

"To Allahabad?" he repeated, turning in the saddle to watch the effect
of the first shot fired by the battery.

"Yes, sir," cried Malcolm, eagerly. "I know the odds are against me, but
Hodson rode as far through the enemy's country only six weeks ago, and I
did something of the kind, though not so successfully, when I went from
Meerut to Agra and from Agra to Cawnpore."

"You had an escort, and I can spare not a man."

"I will go alone, sir."

"I would gladly avail myself of your offer, but the Residency will be
invested in less than an hour."

"Let me go now, sir. I am well mounted. In the confusion I may be able
to reach the open country without being noticed."

"Go, then, in God's name, and may your errand prosper, for you have many
precious lives in your keeping."

Lawrence held out his hand, and Malcolm clasped it.

"Tell Neill," said the Chief Commissioner in a low tone of intense
significance, "that we can hold out a fortnight, a month perhaps, or
even a few days longer if buoyed up with hope. That is all. If you
succeed, I shall not forget your services. The Viceroy has given me
plenary powers, and I shall place your name in orders to-night, Captain
Malcolm."

He kept his promise. When Lucknow was evacuated after the Second Relief,
the official gazettes recorded that Lieutenant Frank Malcolm of the 3d
Cavalry had been promoted to a captaincy, supernumerary on the staff,
for gallantry on the field on June 30, while a special minute provided
that he should attain the rank of major if he reached Allahabad on or
before July 4.

From the point on the road to Chinhut where Malcolm bade his Chief
farewell, he could see the tower of the Residency, gray among the white
domes and minarets that lined the south bank of the Goomtee. He had no
illusions now as to the course the mutineers would follow. Native rumors
had brought the news of the massacre at Cawnpore, though the ghastly
tragedy of the Well was yet to come. He knew that this elegant city,
resplendent and glorious in the sheen of the setting sun, would soon be
a living hell. A fearsome struggle would surge around that tower where
the British flag was flying. A few hundreds of Europeans would strive to
keep at bay tens of thousands of eager rebels. Would they succeed? Pray
Heaven for that while Winifred lived!

And in all human probability their fate rested with him. If he were able
to stir the British authorities in the south to almost superhuman
efforts, a relieving force might arrive before the end of July. It was
a great undertaking he had set himself. Yet he would have attempted it
for Winifred's sake alone, and the thought of her anguish, when she
should hear that he was gone, gave him a pang that was not solaced by
the dearest honor a soldier can attain--promotion on the field.

It was out of the question that he should return to the Residency before
he began his self-imposed mission. Already the enemy's cavalry were
swooping along both flanks of the routed troops. In a few minutes the
only available road, which crossed the Goomtee by a bridge of boats and
led through the suburbs by way of the Dilkusha, would be closed. As it
was he had to press Nejdi into a fast gallop before he could clear the
left wing of the advancing army. Then, easing the pace a little, he
swung off into a by-way, and ere long was cantering down the quiet road
that led to Rai Bareilly and thence to Allahabad.

At seven o'clock he was ten miles from Lucknow, at eight, nearly twenty.
The quick-falling shadows warned him that if he would procure food for
Nejdi and himself he must seize the next opportunity that presented
itself, while a rest of some sort was absolutely necessary if he meant
to spare his gallant Arab for the trial of endurance that still lay
ahead.

Though he had never before traveled that road he was acquainted with its
main features. Thirty miles from his present position was the small town
of Rai Bareilly. Fifty miles to the southeast was Partabgarh. Fifty
miles due south of Partabgarh lay Allahabad. The scheme roughly outlined
in his mind was, in the first place, to buy, borrow, or steal a native
pony which would carry him to the outskirts of Rai Bareilly before dawn.
Then remounting Nejdi he would either ride rapidly through the town, or
make a détour, whichever method seemed preferable after inquiry from
such peaceful natives as he met on the road. Four hours beyond Rai
Bareilly he would leave the main road, strike due south for the Ganges,
and follow the left bank of the river until he was opposite Allahabad.
He refused to ask himself what he would do if Allahabad were in the
hands of the rebels.

"I shall tackle that difficulty about this hour to-morrow," he communed,
with a laugh at his own expense. "Just now, when a hundred miles of
unknown territory face me, I have enough to contend with. So, steady is
the word! good horse! _Cæsarem invehis et fortunas ejus!_"

Thus far the wayfarers encountered during his journey had treated him
civilly. The ryots, peasant proprietors of the soil, drew their rough
carts aside and salaamed as he passed. These men knew little or nothing,
as yet, of the great events that were taking place on the south and west
of the Ganges. A few educated bunniahs and zemindars,[11] who doubtless
had heard of wild doings in the cities, glanced at him curiously, and
would have asked for news if he had not invariably ridden by at a rapid
pace.

[Footnote 11: Bunniah, grain dealer; zemindar, land-owner.]

As it happened, the route he followed was far removed from the track
of murder and rapine that marked the early progress of the Mutiny, and
the mere sight of a British Officer, moving on with such speed and
confidence, must have set these worthy folk a-wondering. Between Rai
Bareilly and the Grand Trunk Road stood the wide barrier of the
sacred river, while the town itself must not be confused with
Bareilly--situated nearly a hundred miles north of Lucknow--which
became notorious as the headquarters of Khan Bahadur Khan, a pensioner
of the British Government, and a ruffian second only to Nana Sahib in
merciless cruelty.

All unknown to Malcolm, and indeed little recognized as yet in India
save by a few district officials, there was a man in Rai Bareilly that
night who was destined to test the chivalry of Britain on many a
hard-fought field. Ahmed Ullah, famous in history as the Moulvie of
Fyzabad, had crossed the young officer's path once already. When Malcolm
took his untrained charger for the first wild gallop out of Meerut--the
ride that ended ignominiously in the moat of the Kings' of Delhi hunting
lodge--he nearly rode over a Mohammedan priest, as he tore along the
Grand Trunk Road some five miles south of the station.

It would have been well for India if Nejdi's hoofs had then and there
struck the breath out of that ascetic frame. Of all the firebrands
raised by the Mutiny, the Moulvie of Fyzabad was the fiercest and most
dangerous. Early in the year he was imprisoned for preaching sedition.
Unhappily he was liberated too soon, and, his fanaticism only inflamed
the more by punishment, he went to the Punjab and sowed disaffection far
and wide by his burning zeal for the spread of Islam. By chance he
returned to Fyzabad before the outbreak at Meerut. The feeble loyalty
of the native regiments at Lucknow sufficed to keep all the borderland
of Nepaul quiet for nearly two months. But the reports brought by his
disciples warned the moulvie that the true believer's day of triumph was
approaching. Moreover, the Begum of Oudh, one of three women who were
worth as many army corps to the mutineers, was waiting for him at Rai
Bareilly, a placid eddy in the backwash of the torrents sweeping through
Upper India, and Ahmed Ullah had left Fyzabad on the evening of the 29th
to keep his tryst.

It was, therefore, a lively brood of scorpions that Malcolm proposed to
disturb when he dismounted from a wretched tat he had purchased at his
first halt, and fed and watered Nejdi again, just as a glimmer of dawn
appeared in the east. According to his calculations he was about a mile
from Rai Bareilly. The hour was the quietest and coolest of the hot
Indian night. Some pattering drops of rain and the appearance of heavy
clouds in the southwest gave premonitions of a fresh outburst of the
monsoon. He was glad of it. Rain would freshen himself and his horse. It
made the ground soft and would retard his speed once he quitted the high
road, but these drawbacks were more than balanced by the absence of the
terrific heat of the previous day. He unstrapped his cloak and flung it
loosely over his shoulders. Then he waited, until the growing light
brought forth the untiring tillers of the fields, and he was able to
glean some sort of information as to the position of affairs in the
town. If the place were occupied by a prowling gang of rebels he might
secure a guide by payment and avoid its narrow streets altogether. At
any rate, it would be a foolish thing to dash through blindly and trust
to luck. The issues at stake were too important for that sort of
imprudent valor. His object was to reach Allahabad that night--not to
hew his way through opposing hordes and risk being cut down in the
process.

The lowing of cattle and the soft stumbling tread of many unshod feet
told him that some one was approaching. A herd of buffaloes loomed out
of the half light. Their driver, an old man, was quite willing to talk.

"There are no sahib-log in the town," he said, for Malcolm deemed it
advisable to begin by a question on that score. "The collector-sahib had
a camp here three weeks ago, but he went away, and that was a
misfortune, because the budmashes from Fyzabad came, and honest people
were sore pressed."

"From Fyzabad, say'st thou? They must be cleared out. Where are they?"

"You are too late, huzoor. They went to Cawnpore, I have heard. Men talk
of much dacoity in that district. Is that true, sahib?"

"Yes, but fear not; it will be suppressed. I am going to Allahabad. Is
this the best road?"

"I have never been so far, sahib, but it lies that way."

"Is the bazaar quiet now?"

"I have seen none save our own people these two days, yet it was said in
the bazaar last night that a Begum tarried at the rest-house."

"A Begum. What Begum?"

"I know not her name, huzoor, but she is one of the daughters of the
King of Oudh."

Malcolm was relieved to hear this. The wild notion had seized him that
the Princess Roshinara, a stormy petrel of political affairs just then,
might have drifted to Rai Bareilly by some evil chance.

"You see this pony?" he said. "Take him. He is yours. I have no further
use for him. Are you sure that there are none to dispute my passage
through the town?"

The old peasant was so taken aback by the gift that he could scarce
speak intelligibly, but he assured the Presence that at such an hour
none would interfere with him.

Malcolm decided to risk it. He mounted and rode forward at a sharp trot.
Of course he had not been able to adopt any kind of disguise. While
doing duty at the Residency he had thrown aside the turban reft from
Abdul Huq and he now wore the peaked shako, with white puggaree,
affected by junior staff officers at that period. His long military
cloak, steel scabbard, sabertache and Wellington boots, proclaimed his
profession, while his blue riding-coat and cross-belts were visible in
front, as he meant to have his arms free in case the necessity arose to
use sword or pistol.

And he rode thus into Rai Bareilly, watchful, determined, ready for any
emergency. So boldly did he advance that he darted past half a dozen men
whose special duty it was to stop and question all travelers. They were
stationed on the flat roofs of two houses, one on each side of the way,
and a rope was stretched across the road in readiness to drop and hinder
the progress of any one who did not halt when summoned. It was a simple
device. It had not been seen by the man who drove the buffaloes, and by
reason of Malcolm's choice of the turf by the side of the road as the
best place for Nejdi, it chanced to dangle high enough to permit their
passing beneath.

The sentries, though caught napping, tried to make amends for their
carelessness. In the growing light one of them saw Malcolm's
accouterments and he yelled loudly:

"Ohé, bhai, look out for the Feringhi!"

Frank, unfortunately, had not noticed the rope. But he heard the cry and
understood that the "brother" to whom it was addressed would probably be
discovered at the end of the short street. He shook Nejdi into a canter,
drew his sword, and looked keenly ahead for the first sign of those who
would bar his path.

Dawn was peeping grayly over the horizon, and Ahmed Ullah, moulvie and
interpreter of the Koran, standing in an open courtyard, was engaged in
the third of the day's prayers, of which the first was intoned soon
after sunset the previous evening. He was going through the Rêka with
military precision, and as luck would have it, the Kibleh, or direction
of Mecca, brought his fierce gaze to the road along which Malcolm was
galloping. Never did priest become warrior more speedily than Ahmed
Ullah when that warning shout rang out, and he discovered that a British
officer was riding at top speed through the quiet bazaar. Assuming that
this unexpected apparition betokened the arrival of a punitive
detachment, he uttered a loud cry, leaped to the gates of the courtyard
and closed them.

Malcolm, of course, saw him and regarded his action as that of a
frightened man, who would be only too glad when he could resume his
devotions in peace. Ahmed Ullah, soon to become a claimant of sovereign
power as "King of Hindustan," was not a likely person to let a prize
slip through his fingers thus easily. Keeping up an ululating clamor of
commands, he ran to the roof of the dwelling, snatched up a musket and
took steady aim. By this time Malcolm was beyond the gate and thought
himself safe. Then he saw a rope drawn breast-high across the narrow
street, and gesticulating natives, variously armed, leaning over the
parapets on either hand. He had to decide in the twinkling of an eye
whether to go on or turn back. Probably his retreat would be cut off by
some similar device, so the bolder expedient of an advance offered the
better chance. An incomparable horseman, mounted on an absolutely
trustworthy horse, he lay well forward on Nejdi's neck, resolving to try
and pick up the slack of the rope on his sword and lift it out of the
way. To endeavor to cut through such an obstacle would undoubtedly have
brought about a disaster. It would yield, and the keenest blade might
fail to sever it completely, while any slackening of pace would enable
the hostile guard to shoot him at point-blank range.

These considerations passed through his mind while Nejdi was covering
some fifty yards. To disconcert the enemy, who were not sepoys and
whose guns were mostly antiquated weapons of the match-lock type, he
pulled out a revolver and fired twice. Then he leaned forward, with
right arm thrown well in front and the point of his sword three feet
beyond Nejdi's head. At that instant, when Frank was unconsciously
offering a bad target, the moulvie fired. The bullet plowed through the
Englishman's right forearm, struck the hilt of the sword and knocked the
weapon out of his hand. Exactly what happened next he never knew. From
the nature of his own bruises afterwards and the manner in which he was
jerked backwards from the saddle, he believed that the rope missed Nejdi
altogether, but caught him by the left shoulder. The height of a horse
extended at the gallop is surprisingly low as compared with the height
of the same animal standing or walking. There was even a remote
possibility that the rope would strike the Arab's forehead and bound
clear of his rider. But that was not to be. Here was Frank hurled to the
roadway, and striving madly to resist the treble shock of his wound, of
the blow dealt by the rope, and of the fall, while Nejdi was tearing
away through Rai Bareilly as though all the djinns of his native desert
were pursuing him.

Though Malcolm's torn arm was bleeding copiously, and he was stunned by
being thrown so violently flat on his back, no bones were broken. His
rage at the trick fate had played him, the overwhelming bitterness of
another and most lamentable failure, enabled him to struggle to his feet
and empty at his assailants the remaining chambers of the revolver which
was still tightly clutched in his left hand. He missed, luckily, or they
would have butchered him forthwith. In another minute he was standing
before Moulvie Ahmed Ullah, and that earnest advocate of militant Islam
was plying him with mocking questions.

"Whither so fast, Feringhi? Dost thou run from death, or ride to seek
it? Mayhap thou comest from Lucknow. If so, what news? And where are the
papers thou art carrying?"

Frank's strength was failing him. To the weakness resulting from loss
of blood was added the knowledge that this time he was trapped without
hope of escape. The magnificent display of self-command entailed by the
effort to rise and face his foes in a last defiance could not endure
much longer. He knew it was near the end when he had difficulty in
finding the necessary words in Urdu. But he spoke, slowly and firmly,
compelling his unwilling brain to form the sentences.

"I have no papers, and if I had, who are you that demand them?" he said.
"I am an officer of the Company, and I call on all honest and loyal men
to help me in my duty. I promise--to those who assist me to reach
Allahabad--that they will be--pardoned for any past offenses--and well
rewarded...."

The room swam around him and the grim-visaged moullah became a grotesque
being, with dragon's eyes and a turban like a cloud. Yet he kept on,
hoping against imminent death itself that his words would reach some
willing ear.

"Any man--who tells General Neill-sahib--at Allahabad--that
help is wanted--at Lucknow--will be made rich.... Help--at
Lucknow--immediately.... I, Malcolm-sahib--of the 3d Cavalry--say...."

He collapsed in the grasp of the men who were holding him.

"Thou has said enough, dog of a Nazarene. Take him without and hang
him," growled Ahmed Ullah.

"Nay," cried a woman's voice from behind a straw portière that closed
the arched veranda of the house. "Thou art too ready with thy sentences,
moulvie. Rather let us bind his wounds and give him food and drink. Then
he will recover, and tell us what we want to know."

"He hath told us already, Princess," said the other, his harsh accents
sounding more like the snarl of a wolf than a human voice. "He comes
from Lucknow and he seeks succor from Allahabad. That means--"

"It means that he can be hanged as easily at eventide as at daybreak,
and we shall surely learn the truth, as such men do not breathe lies."

"He will not speak, Princess."

"Leave that to me. If I fail, I hand him over to thee forthwith. Let him
be brought within and tended, and let some ride after his horse, as
there may be letters in the wallets. I have spoken, Ahmed Ullah. See
that I am obeyed."

The moulvie said no word. He went back to his praying mat and bent again
toward the west, where the Holy Kaaba enshrines the ruby sent down from
heaven. But though his lips muttered the rubric of the Koran, his heart
whispered other things, and chief among them was the vow that ere many
days be passed he would so contrive affairs that no woman's whim should
thwart his judgment.

So the clouded day broke sullenly, with gusts of warm rain and red
gleams of a sun striving to disperse the mists. And the earth soaked and
steamed and threw off fever-laden vapors as she nursed the grain to life
and bade the arid plain clothe itself in summer greenery. It was a bad
day to lie wounded and ill and a prisoner, and despite the cooling
showers, it was a hot day to ride far and fast.

Hence it was long past noon when a servant announced to the Begum that
the sahib--for thus the man described Malcolm until sharply admonished
to learn the new order of speech--the Nazarene, then, was somewhat
recovered from his faintness. And about the same hour, when a subadar of
the 7th Cavalry clattered into Rai Bareilly and was told that a certain
Feringhi whom he sought was safely laid by the heels there, so sultry
was the atmosphere that he seemed to be quite glad of the news.

"Shabash!" he cried, as he dismounted. "May I never drink at the White
Pond of the Prophet if that be not good hearing! So you have caught him,
brethren! Wao, wao! you have done a great thing. He is not killed?--No?
That is well, for he is sorely wanted at Lucknow. Tie him tightly,
though. He is a fox in guile, and might give me the slip again. May his
bones bleach in an infidel's grave!--I have hunted him fifty miles, yet
scarce a man I met had seen him!"




CHAPTER X

WHEREIN FATE PLAYS TRICKS WITH MALCOLM


If it is difficult for the present generation to understand the manners
and ways of its immediate forbears, how much more difficult to ask it to
appreciate the extraordinary features of the siege of Lucknow! Let the
reader who knows London imagine some parish in the heart of the city
barricading itself behind a mud wall against its neighbors: let him
garrison this flimsy fortress with sixteen hundred and ninety-two
combatants, of whom a large number were men of an inferior race and of
doubtful loyalty to those for whom they were fighting, while scores of
the Europeans were infirm pensioners: let him cram the rest of the
available shelter with women and children: let him picture the network
of narrow streets, tall houses and a few open spaces--often separated
from the enemy only by the width of a lane--as being subjected to
interminable bombardment at point-blank range, and he will have a clear
notion of some, at least, of the conditions which obtained in Lucknow
when that gloomy July 1st carried on the murderous work begun on the
previous evening.

The Residency itself was the only strong building in an enclosure seven
hundred yards long and four hundred yards wide, though by no means
so large in area as these figures suggest. The whole position was
surrounded by an adobe wall and ditch, strengthened at intervals by a
gate or a stouter embrasure for a gun. The other structures, such as
the Banqueting Hall, which was converted into a hospital, the Treasury,
the Brigade Mess, the Begum Kotee, the Barracks, and a few nondescript
houses and offices, were utterly unsuited for defense against musketry
alone. As to their capacity to resist artillery fire, that was a grim
jest with the inmates, who dreaded the fallen masonry as much as the
rebel shells.

Even the Residency was forced to use its underground rooms for the
protection of the greater part of the women and children, while the
remaining buildings, except the Begum Kotee, which was comparatively
sheltered on all sides, were so exposed to the enemy's guns that when
some sort of clearance was made in October, four hundred and thirty-five
cannon-balls were taken out of the Brigade Mess alone.

Before the siege commenced the British also occupied a strong palace
called the Muchee Bhowun, standing outside the entrenchment and
commanding the stone bridge across the river Goomtee. A few hours'
experience revealed the deadly peril to which its small garrison was
exposed, and Lawrence decided at all costs to abandon it. A rude
semaphore was erected on the roof of the Residency, and on the first
morning of the siege, three officers signaled to the commandant of the
outlying fort, Colonel Palmer, that he was to spike his guns, blow up
the building and bring his men into the main position. The three did
their signaling under a heavy fire, but they were understood. Happily,
the prospect of loot in the city drew off thousands of the rebels after
sunset, and Colonel Palmer marched out quietly at midnight. A few
minutes later an appalling explosion shook every house in Lucknow. The
Muchee Bhowun, with its immense stores, had been blown to the sky.

That same day Lawrence received what the Celtic soldiers among the
garrison regarded as a warning of his approaching end. He was working in
his room with his secretary when a shell crashed through the wall and
burst at the feet of the two men. Neither was injured, but Captain
Wilson, one of his staff-officers, begged the Chief to remove his office
to a less exposed place.

"Nothing of the kind," said Sir Henry, cheerfully. "The sepoys don't
possess an artilleryman good enough to throw a second shell into the
same spot."

"It will please all of us if you give in on this point, sir," persisted
Wilson.

"Oh, well, if you put it that way, I will turn out to-morrow," was the
smiling answer.

Next morning at eight o'clock, after a round of inspection, the general,
worn out by anxiety and want of sleep, threw himself on a bed in a
corner of the room.

Wilson came in.

"Don't forget your promise, sir," he said.

"I have not forgotten, but I am too tired to move now. Give me another
hour or two."

Lawrence went on to explain some orders to his aide. While they were
talking another shell entered the small apartment, exploded, and filled
the air with dust and stifling fumes. Wilson's ears were stunned by the
noise, but he cried out twice:

"Sir Henry, are you hurt?"

Lawrence murmured something, and Wilson rushed to his side. The coverlet
of the bed was crimson with blood. Some men of the 32d ran in and
carried their beloved leader to another room. Then a surgeon came and
pronounced the wound to be mortal. On the morning of the 4th Lawrence
died. He was conscious to the last, and passed his final hours planning
and contriving and making arrangements for the continuance of the
defense.

"Never surrender!" was his dying injunction. Shot and shell battered
unceasingly against the walls of Dr. Fayrer's house in which he lay
dying, but their terrors never shook that stout heart, and he died as he
lived, a splendid example of an officer and a gentleman, a type of all
that is best and noblest in the British character.

And Death, who did not spare the Chief, sought lowlier victims. During
the first week of the siege the average number killed daily was twenty.
Even when the troops learnt to avoid the exposed places, and began to
practise the little tricks and artifices that tempt an enemy to reveal
his whereabouts to his own undoing, the daily death-roll was ten for
more than a month.

There was no real safety anywhere. Even in the Begum Kotee, where
Winifred and the other ladies of the garrison were lodged, some of them
were hit. Twice ere the end of July Winifred awoke in the morning to
find bullets on the floor and the mortar of the wall broken within a few
inches of her head. That she slept soundly under such conditions is a
remarkable tribute to human nature's knack of adapting itself to
circumstances. After a few days of excessive nervousness the most
timorous among the women were heard to complain of the monotony of
existence!

And two amazing facts stand out from the record of guard-mounting,
cartridge-making, cooking, cleaning, and the rest of the every-day
doings inseparable from life even in a siege. Although the rebels now
numbered at least twenty thousand men, including six thousand trained
soldiers, they were long in hardening their hearts to attempt that
escalade which, if undertaken on the last day of June, could scarcely
have failed to be successful. They were not cowards. They gave proof in
plenty of their courage and fighting stamina. Yet they cringed before
men whom they had learnt to regard as the dominant race. The other
equally surprising element in the situation was the readiness of the
garrison, doomed by all the laws of war to early extinction, to extract
humor out of its forlorn predicament.

The most dangerous post in the entrenchment was the Cawnpore Battery.
It was commanded by a building known as Johannes' House, whence an
African negro, christened "Bob the Nailer" by the wits of the 32d,
picked off dozens of the defenders during the opening days of the siege.
What quarrel this stranger in a strange land had with the English no one
knows, but the defenders were well aware of his identity, and annoyed
him by exhibiting a most unflattering effigy. Needless to say, the
whites of his eyes and his woolly hair were reproduced with marked
effect, and "Bob the Nailer" gave added testimony of his skill with a
rifle by shooting out both eyes in the dummy figure.

Winifred had heard of this man. Once she actually saw him while she was
peeping through a forbidden casement. Knowing the wholesale destruction
of her fellow-countrymen with which he was credited, she had it in her
heart to wish that she held a gun at that moment, and she would surely
have done her best to kill him.

He disappeared and she turned away with a sigh, to meet her uncle
hastening towards her.

"Ah, Winifred," he cried, "what were you doing there? Looking out, I am
certain. Have you forgotten the punishment inflicted on Lot's wife when
she would not obey orders?"

"I have just had a glimpse of that dreadful negro in Johannes' House,"
she said.

Mr. Mayne threw down a bundle of clothes he was carrying. He unslung his
rifle. His face, tanned by exposure to sun and rain, lost some of its
brick-red color.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, as if their voices might betray them. Like
every other man in the garrison he longed to check the career of "Bob
the Nailer."

"It is too late," said the girl. "He was visible only for an instant.
Look! I saw him at that window."

She partly opened the wooden shutter again and pointed to an upper story
of the opposite building. Almost instantly a bullet imbedded itself in
the solid planks. Some watcher had noted the opportunity and taken it.
Winifred coolly closed the casement and adjusted its cross-bar.

"Perhaps it is just as well you missed the chance," she said. "You might
have been shot yourself while you were taking aim."

"And what about you, my lady?"

"I sha'n't offend again, uncle, dear. I really could not tell you why I
looked out just now. Things were quiet, I suppose. And I forgot that the
opening of a window would attract attention. But why in the world are
you bringing me portions of Mr. Malcolm's uniform? That is what you have
in the bundle, is it not?"

"Yes. The three men who shared his room are dead, and the place is
wanted as an extra ward. I happened to hear of it, so I have rescued his
belongings."

"Do you--do you think he will ever claim them, or that we shall live to
safeguard them?"

"My dear one, that is as Providence directs. It is something to be
thankful for that we are alive and uninjured. And that reminds me. They
need a lot of bandages in the hospital. Will you tear Malcolm's linen
into strips? I will come for them after the last post."[12]

[Footnote 12: Non-military readers may need to be reminded that the
"last post" is a bugle-call which signifies the close of the day. It is
usually succeeded by "Lights out."]

He hurried away, leaving the odd collection of garments with her. The
clothes were her lover's parade uniform, which Malcolm had carried from
Meerut in a valise strapped behind the saddle. The other articles were
purchased in Lucknow and had never been worn. In comparison with the
smart full-dress kit of a cavalry officer and the spotless linen, a
soiled and mud-spattered turban looked singularly out of place. It was
as though some tatterdemalion had thrust himself into a gathering of
dandies.

Being a woman, Winifred gave no heed to the fact that the metal badge on
the crossed folds was not that worn by an officer, nor did she observe
that it carried the crest of the 2d Cavalry, whereas Malcolm's regiment
was the 3d. But, being also a very thrifty and industrious little
person, she decided to untie the turban, wash it, and use its many yards
of fine muslin for the manufacture of lint.

The folds of a turban are usually kept in position by pins, but when she
came to examine this one she discovered that it was tied with whip-cord.
Her knowledge of native headgear was not extensive, so this measure of
extra security did not surprise her. A pair of scissors soon overcame
the difficulty; she shook out the neat folds, and a pearl necklace and a
piece of paper fell to the floor.

She was alone in her room at the moment. No one heard her cry of
surprise, almost of terror. One glance at the glistening pearls told her
that they were of exceeding value. They ranged from the size of a small
pea to that of a large marble; their white sheen and velvet purity
bespoke rareness and skilled selection. The setting alone would vouch
for their quality. Each pearl was secured to its neighbor by clasps and
links of gold, while a brooch-like fastening in front was studded with
fine diamonds. Winifred sank to her knees. She picked up this remarkable
ornament as gingerly as if she were handling a dead snake. In the vivid
light the pearls shimmered with wonderful and ever-changing tints. They
seemed to whisper of love, and hate--of all the passions that stir heart
and brain into frenzy--and through a mist of fear and awed questioning
came a doubt, a suspicion, a searching of her soul as she recalled
certain things which the thrilling events of her recent life had dulled
almost to extinction.

Her uncle had told her of the Princess Roshinara's words to Malcolm on
that memorable night of May 10, when he rode out from Meerut to help
them. At the time, perhaps, a little pang of jealousy made its presence
felt, for no woman can bear to hear of another woman's overtures to her
lover. The meeting at Bithoor helped to dispel that half-formed
illusion, and she had not troubled since to ask herself why the Princess
Roshinara was so ready to help Malcolm to escape. She never dreamed that
she herself was a pawn in the game that was intended to bring Nana Sahib
to Delhi. But now, with this royal trinket glittering in her hands, she
could hardly fail to connect it with the only Indian princess of whom
she had any knowledge, and the torturing fact was seemingly undeniable
that Malcolm had this priceless necklace in his possession without
telling her of its existence. Certainly he had chosen a singular
hiding-place, and never did man treat such a treasure with such apparent
carelessness. But--there it was. The studied simplicity of its
concealment had been effective. She had heard, long since, how he parted
from Lawrence on the Chinhut road. Since that hour there was no possible
means of communicating with Lucknow, even though he had reached
Allahabad safely.

And he had never told her a word about it. It was that that rankled.
Poor Winifred rose from her knees in a mood perilously akin to her
hatred of the negro who dealt death or disablement to her friends of the
garrison, but, this time, it was a woman, not a man, whom she regarded
as the enemy.

Then, in a bitter temper, she stooped again to rescue the bit of
discolored paper that had fallen with the pearls. Her anger was not
lessened by finding that it was covered with Hindustani characters.
They, of course, offered her no clue to the solution of the mystery
that was wringing her heartstrings. If anything, the illegible scrawl
only added to her distress. The document was something unknown;
therefore, it lent itself to distrust.

At any rate, the turban was destined not to be shredded into lint that
day. She busied herself with tearing up the rest of the linen. When
night came, and Mr. Mayne could leave his post, she showed him the paper
and asked him to translate it.

He was a good Eastern scholar, but the dull rays of a small oil lamp
were not helpful in a task always difficult to English eyes. He bent his
brows over the script and began to decipher some of the words.

"'Malcolm-sahib ... the Company's 3d Regiment of Horse ... heaven-born
Princess Roshinara Begum....' Where in the world did you get this,
Winifred, and how did it come into your possession?" he said.

"It was in Mr. Malcolm's turban--the one you brought me to-day from his
quarters."

"In his turban? Do you mean that it was hidden there?"

"Yes, something of the kind."

Mayne examined the paper again.

"That is odd," he muttered after a pause.

"But what does the writing mean? You say it mentions his name and that
of the Princess Roshinara? Surely it has some definite significance?"

The Commissioner was so taken up with the effort to give each spidery
curve and series of distinguishing dots and vowel marks their proper
bearing in the text that he did not catch the note of disdain in his
niece's voice.

"I have it now," he said, peering at the document while he held it close
to the lamp. "It is a sort of pass. It declares that Mr. Malcolm is a
friend of the Begum and gives him safe conduct if he visits Delhi within
three days of the date named here, but I cannot tell when that would be,
until I consult a native calendar. It is signed by Bahadur Shah and is
altogether a somewhat curious thing to be in Malcolm's possession. Is
that all you know of it--merely that it was stuck in a fold of his
turban?"

"This accompanied it," said Winifred, with a restraint that might have
warned her hearer of the passion it strove to conceal. But Mayne was
deaf to Winifred's coldness. If he was startled before, he was
positively amazed when she produced the necklace.

He took it, appraised its value silently, and scrutinized the
workmanship in the gold links.

"Made in Delhi," he half whispered. "A wonderful thing, probably worth
two lakhs of rupees,[13] or even more. It is old, too. The craftsman who
fashioned this clasp is not to be found nowadays. Why, it may have been
worn by Nurmahal herself! Each of its fifty pearls could supply a
chapter of a romance. And you found it, together with this safe-conduct,
in Malcolm's turban?"

[Footnote 13: At that time, $100,000.]

"Yes, uncle. Do you think I would speak carelessly of such a precious
object? When one has discovered a treasure it is a trait of human nature
to note pretty closely the place where it came to light."

Mayne was yet too much taken up with puzzling side-issues to pay heed to
Winifred's demeanor. He remembered the extraordinary proposal made by
Roshinara to Malcolm ere she drove away to Delhi from her father's
hunting lodge. Could it be possible that his young friend had met the
princess on other occasions than that which Malcolm laughingly described
as the lunging of Nejdi and the plunging of his master? It occurred to
him now, with a certain chilling misgiving, that he had himself broken
in with a bewildered exclamation when Frank seemed to regard the
Princess's offer of employment in her service as worthy of serious
thought. There were other aspects of the affair, aspects so sinister
that he almost refused to harbor them. Rather to gain time than with any
definite motive, he stooped over the pass again, meaning to read it word
for word.

"Of course you have not forgotten, uncle, that Mr. Malcolm took us into
his confidence so far as to tell us of the curious letter that reached
him after the second battle outside Delhi?" said Winifred. "It saved him
at Bithoor when the men from Cawnpore meant to hang him, and, seeing
that he had the one article in his possession, it is passing strange
that he should have omitted to mention the other--to me."

Then the man knew what it all meant to the girl. He placed his arm
around her neck and drew her towards him.

"My poor Winifred!" he murmured, "you might at least have been spared
such a revelation at this moment."

His sympathy broke down her pride. She sobbed as though her heart would
yield beneath the strain. For a little while there was no sound in the
room but Winifred's plaints, while ever and anon the walls shook with
the crash of the cannonade and the bursting of shells.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ahmed Ullah, Moulvie of Fyzabad, had a quick ear for the arrival of the
native officer of cavalry from Lucknow.

"Peace be with thee, brother!" said he, after a shrewd glance at the
travel-worn and blood-stained man and horse. "Thou has ridden far and
fast. What news hast thou of the Jehad,[14] and how fares it at
Lucknow?"

[Footnote 14: "Religious war."]

"With thee be peace!" was the reply. "We fought the Nazarenes yesterday
at a place called Chinhut, and sent hundreds of the infidel dogs to the
fifth circle of Jehannum. The few who escaped our swords are penned up
in the Residency, and its walls are now crumbling before our guns. By
the tomb of Nizam-ud-din, the unbelievers must have fallen ere the
present hour."

The moulvie's wicked eyes sparkled.

"Praise be to Allah and his Prophet forever!" he cried. "How came this
thing to pass?"

"My regiment took the lead," said the rissaldar, proudly. "We had long
chafed under the commands of the huzoors. At last we rose and made short
work of our officers. You see here--" and he touched a rent in his right
side, "where one of them tried to stop the thrust that ended him. But I
clave him to the chin, the swine-eater, and when Larrence-sahib attacked
us at Chinhut we chased him over the Canal and through the streets."

"Wao! wao! This is good hearing! Wast thou sent by some of the faithful
to summon me, brother?"

"To summon thee and all true believers to the green standard. Yet had I
one other object in riding to Rai Bareilly. A certain Nazarene, Malcolm
by name, an officer of the 3d Cavalry, was bidden by Larrence to make
for Allahabad and seek help. The story runs that the Nazarenes are
mustering there for a last stand ere we drive them into the sea. This
Malcolm-sahib--"

"Enough!" said the moulvie, fiercely, for his self-love was wounded at
learning that the rebel messenger classed him with the mob. "We have him
here. He is in safe keeping when he is in the hands of Ahmed Ullah!"

"What!" exclaimed the newcomer with a mighty oath. "Are you the saintly
Moulvie of Fyzabad?"

"Whom else, then, did you expect to find?"

"You, indeed, O revered one. But not here. My orders were, once I had
secured the Nazarene, to send urgently to Fyzabad and bid you hurry to
Lucknow with all speed."

"Ha! Say'st thou, friend. Who gave thee this message?"

"One whom thou wilt surely listen to. Yet these things are not for every
man to hear. We must speak of them apart."

The moulvie was appeased. Nay, more, his ambition was fired.

"Come with me into the house. You are in need of food and rest. Come! We
can talk while you eat."

He drew nearer, but a woman's voice was raised from behind a screen in
one of the rooms.

"Tarry yet a minute, friend. I would learn more of events in Lucknow.
Tell us more fully what has taken place there."

"The Begum of Oudh must be obeyed," said Ahmed Ullah with a warning
glance at the other. He was met with a villainous and intriguing look
that would have satisfied Machiavelli, but the officer bowed low before
the screen.

"I am, indeed, honored to be the bearer of good tidings to royal ears,"
said he. "Doubtless I should have been entrusted with letters for your
highness were not the city in some confusion owing to the fighting."

"Who commands our troops?" came the sharp demand.

"At present, your highness, the Nawab of Rampur represents the King of
Oudh."

"The Nawab of Rampur! That cannot be tolerated. Ahmed Ullah!"

"I am here," growled the moulvie, smiling sourly.

"We must depart within the hour. Let my litter be prepared, and send men
on horseback to provide relays of carriers every ten miles. Delay not.
The matter presses."

There could be no mistaking the agitation of the hidden speaker. That
an admitted rival of her father's dynasty should be even the nominal
leader of the revolt was not to be endured. The mere suggestion of
such a thing was gall and wormwood. None realized better than this
arch-priestess of cabal that a predominating influence gained at the
outset of a new régime might never be weakened by those who were shut
out by circumstances from a share in the control of events. Even the
fanatical moulvie gasped at this intelligence, though his shrewd wit
taught him that the rissaldar had not exchanged glances with him
without good reason.

"Come, then," said he, "and eat. I have much occupation, and it will
free thy hands if I see to the hanging of the Feringhi forthwith."

"Nay, that cannot be," was the cool reply, as the two entered the
building. "I would not have ridden so hard through the night for the
mere stringing up of one Nazarene. By the holy Kaaba, we gave dozens
of them a speedier death yesterday."

"What other errand hast thou? The matter touches only the Nazarene's
attempt to reach Allahabad, I suppose?"

"That is a small thing. Our brothers at Cawnpore may have secured
Allahabad and other towns in the Doab long ere to-day. This Frank comes
back with me to Lucknow. If I bring him alive I earn a jaghir,[15] if
dead, only a few gold mohurs."

[Footnote 15: An estate.]

"Thy words are strange, brother."

"Not so strange as the need that this Feringhi should live till he
reaches Lucknow. He hath in his keeping certain papers that concern
the Roshinara Begum of Delhi, and he must be made to confess their
whereabouts. So far as that goes, what is the difference between a
tree in Rai Bareilly and a tree in Lucknow?"

"True, if the affair presses. Nevertheless, to those who follow me, I
may have the bestowing of many jaghirs."

"I will follow thee with all haste, O holy one," was the answer, "but
a field in a known village is larger than a township in an unknown
kingdom. Let me secure this jaghir first, O worthy of honor, and I shall
come quickly to thee for the others."

"How came it that Nawab of Rampur assumed the leadership?" inquired
Ahmed Ullah, his mind reverting to the graver topic of the rebellion.

The other scowled sarcastically.

"He is of no account," he muttered. "Was I mistaken in thinking that
thou didst not want all my budget opened for a woman? He who gave me a
message for thee was the moullah who dwells near the Imambara. Dost thou
not know him? Ghazi-ud-din. _He_ sent me. 'Tell the Moulvie of Fyzabad
that he is wanted--he will understand,' said he. And now, when I have
eaten, lead me to the Feringhi. Leave him to me. Within two days I shall
have more news for thee."

The name of Ghazi-ud-din, a firebrand of the front rank in Lucknow,
proved to Ahmed Ullah that his opportunity had come. He gave orders that
the wants of the cavalry officer and his horse were to be attended to,
while he himself bustled off to prepare for an immediate journey.

When the Begum and the moulvie departed for Lucknow they were
accompanied by nearly the whole of their retinue. Two men were left
to assist the rissaldar in taking care of the prisoner, and these two
vowed by the Prophet that they had never met such a swashbuckler as the
stranger, for he used strange oaths that delighted them and told stories
of the sacking of Lucknow that made them tingle with envy.

Oddly enough, he was very anxious that the Nazarene's horse should be
recovered, and was so pleased to hear that Nejdi was caught in a field
on the outskirts of the town and brought in during the afternoon that
he promised his assistants a handful of gold mohurs apiece--when they
reached Lucknow.

Once, ere sunset, he visited the prisoner and cursed him with a fluency
that caused all listeners to own that the warriors of the 7th Cavalry
must, indeed, be fine fellows.

At last, when Frank was led forth and helped into the saddle, his
guardian's flow of humorous invective reached heights that pleased the
villagers immensely. The Nazarene's hands were tied behind him, and the
gallant rissaldar, holding the Arab's reins, rode by his side. The
moulvie's men followed, and in this guise the quartette quitted Rai
Bareilly for the north.

They were about a mile on their way and the sun was nearing the horizon,
when the native officer bade his escort halt.

"Bones of Mahomet!" he cried, "what am I thinking of? My horse has done
fifty miles in twenty-four hours, and the Feringhi's probably more than
that. Hath not the moulvie friends in Rai Bareilly who will lend us a
spare pair?"

Ahmed Ullah's retainers hazarded the opinion that their master's
presence might be necessary ere friendship stood such a strain.

"Then why not make the Nazarene pay for his journey?" said the rissaldar
with grim humor.

He showed skill as a cut-purse in going straight to an inner pocket
where Malcolm carried some small store of money. Taking ten gold mohurs,
he told the men to hasten back to the village and purchase a couple of
strong ponies.

"Nay," said he, when they made to ride off. "You must go afoot, else I
may never again see you or the tats. I will abide here till you return.
See that you lose no time, but if darkness falls speedily I will await
you in the next village."

Not daring to argue with this truculent-looking bravo, the men obeyed.
Already it was dusk and daylight would soon fail. No sooner had they
disappeared round the first bend in the road than the rissaldar,
unfastening Malcolm's bonds the while, said with a strange humility:

"It was easier done than I expected, sahib, but I guessed that my story
about the Nawab of Rampur would send Moulvie and Begum packing. Now we
are free, and we have four horses. Whither shall we go? But, if it be
north, south, east, or west, let us leave the main road, for messengers
may meet the moulvie and that would make him suspicious."

"Thy counsel is better than mine, good friend," was Frank's answer. "I
am yet dazed with thy success, and my only word is--to Allahabad."




CHAPTER XI

A DAY'S ADVENTURES


Though his arm was stiff and painful, the rough bandaging it had
received and the coarse food given him in sufficient quantity at Rai
Bareilly, had partly restored Malcolm's strength. Nevertheless he
thought his mind was failing when, in the dim light of the inner room
in which he was confined, he saw Chumru standing before him.

His servant's warlike attire was sufficiently bewildering, and the
sonorous objurgations with which he was greeted were not calculated to
dispel the cloud over his wits, but a whispered sentence gave hope, and
hope is a wonderful restorative.

"Pretend not to know me, sahib, and all will be well," said his
unexpected ally, and, from that instant until they stood together on the
Lucknow road, Malcolm had guarded tongue and eye in the firm faith that
Chumru would save him.

He was not mistaken. The adroit Mohammedan knew better than to trust his
sahib and himself too long on the highway.

"They will surely make search for us, huzoor," he said as they headed
across country towards a distant ridge, thickly coated with trees. "The
Begum and Ahmed Ullah met here for a purpose, and their friends will not
fail to tell them of the trouble in Lucknow. I have been shaking in my
boots all day, for 'tis ill resting in the jungle when tigers are loose,
but I knew you could not ride in the sun, and I saw no other way of
getting rid of the moulvie's men than that of sending them back in the
dark."

"It seems to me," said Malcolm, with a weak laugh, "that you would not
have scrupled to knock both of them on the head if necessary."

"No, sahib, they are my kin. He who wore this uniform was a Brahmin, and
that makes all the difference. Brother does not slay brother unless
there be a woman in dispute."

"When did you leave the Residency?"

"About nine o'clock last night, sahib."

"Did you see the miss-sahib before you came away?"

"It was she who told me whither you had gone, sahib."

"Ah, she knew, then? Did she say aught--send any message?"

"Only that you would be certain to need my help, sahib."

That puzzled Frank. Winifred, of course, had said nothing of the kind,
but Chumru assumed that she understood him, so his misrepresentation was
quite honest.

A level path now enabled them to canter, and they reached the first belt
of trees ten minutes after the moulvie's men set out for Rai Bareilly.
Luck, which was befriending Chumru that day, must have made possible
that burst of speed at the right moment. They were discussing their
plans in the gloom of a grove of giant pipals when the clatter of horses
hard ridden came from the road they had just quitted.

There could be no doubting the errand that brought a cavalcade thus
furiously from the direction of Lucknow. It was so near a thing that for
a little while they could not be certain they had escaped unseen. But
the riders whirled along towards Rai Bareilly, and in another quarter of
an hour the night would be their best guardian.

"That settles it," said Malcolm, in whose veins the blood was now
coursing with its normal vitality, though, for the same reason, his
right forearm ached abominably. "It would be folly to attempt the road
again. Let us make for the river. We must find a boat there, and get men
to take us to Allahabad, either by hire or force."

"How far is it to the river, sahib?"

"About twenty-five miles."

"Praise be to Allah! That is better than seventy, for my feet are weary
of that accursed Brahmin's boots."

They stumbled on, leading the horses, until the first dark hour made
progress impossible. Then, when the evening mists melted and the stars
gave a faint light, they resumed the march, for every mile gained now
was worth five at dawn if perchance their hunters thought of making a
circular sweep of the country in the neighborhood of Rai Bareilly.

It was a glorious night. The rain of the preceding day had freshened the
air, and towards midnight the moon sailed into the blue arc overhead, so
they were able to mount again and travel at a faster pace. Twice they
were warned by the barking of dogs of the proximity of small villages.
They gave these places a wide berth, since there was no knowing what hap
might bring a ryot who had seen them into communication with the
moulvie's followers.

Each hamlet marked the center of a cultivated area. They could
distinguish the jungle from the arable land almost by the animals they
disturbed. A gray wolf, skulking through the sparsely wooded waste,
would be succeeded by a herd of timid deer. Then a sounder of pigs,
headed by a ten-inch tusker, would scamper out of the border crop, while
a pack of jackals, rending the calm night with their maniac yelping,
would start every dog within a mile into a frenzy of hoarse barking.
Sometimes a fox slunk across their path. Out of many a tuft they drove a
startled hare. In the dense undergrowth hummed and rustled a hidden life
of greater mystery.

Where water lodged after the rain there were countless millions of
frogs, croaking in harsh chorus, and being ceaselessly hunted by the
snakes which the monsoon had driven from their nooks and crannies in the
rocks. On such a night all India seems to be dead as a land but
tremendously alive as a storehouse of insects, animals, and reptiles.
Even the air has its strange denizens in the guise of huge beetles and
vampire-winged flying foxes. And that is why men call it the unchanging
East. Civilization has made but few marks on its far-flung plains. Its
peoples are either nomads or dwell in huts of mud and straw and scratch
the earth to grow their crops as their forbears have done since the dawn
of history.

When the amber and rose tints of dawn gave distance to the horizon the
fugitives estimated that they had traversed some fifteen miles. Malcolm
was ready to drop with fatigue. He was wounded; he had not slept during
two nights; he had fought in a lost battle and ridden sixty-five miles,
without counting his exertions before going to the field of Chinhut.
Nejdi and the horse which brought Chumru from Lucknow were nearly
exhausted. Even the hardy Mohammedan was haggard and spent, and his
oblique eyes glowed like the red embers of a dying fire.

"Sahib," he said, when they came upon a villager and his wife scraping
opium from unripe poppy-heads in a field, "unless we rest and eat we
shall find no boat on Ganga to-day."

This was so undeniable that Malcolm did not hesitate to ask the ryot for
milk and eggs. The man was civil. Indeed, he thought the Englishman was
some important official and took Chumru for his native deputy. He threw
down the scoop, handed to his wife an earthen vessel half full of the
milky sap gathered from the plants, and led the "huzoors" at once to his
shieling. Here he produced some ghee and chupatties, and half a dozen
raw eggs. The feast might not tempt an epicure, but its components were
excellent and Frank was well aware that the ghee was exceedingly
nutritious, though nauseating to European taste, being practically
rancid butter made from buffalo milk.

There was plenty of fodder for the horses, too, and they showed their
good condition by eating freely. The ryot eyed Chumru doubtingly when
Malcolm gave him five rupees. Under ordinary conditions, the sahib's
native assistant would demand the return of the money at the first
convenient moment, and, indeed, Chumru himself was in the habit of
exacting a stiff commission on his master's disbursements. Frank smiled
at the man's embarrassed air.

"The money is thine, friend," said he, quietly, "and there is more to be
earned if thou art so minded."

"I am but a poor man--" began the ryot.

"Just so. Not every day canst thou obtain good payment for a few hours'
work. Now, listen. How far is the Ganges from here?"

"Less than three hours, sahib."

"What, for horses?"

"Not so, sahib. A horse can cover the distance in an hour--if he be not
weary."

The peasant could use his eyes, it seemed, but Malcolm passed the phrase
without comment.

"We have lost our way," he said. "We want to reach the river and take
boat speedily to Allahabad. If one like thyself were willing to ride
with us to the nearest village on the bank where boats can be obtained,
we would give him ten rupees, and, moreover, let him keep the horse that
carried him."

The ryot was delighted with his good fortune.

"Blessed be Kali!" he cried. "I saw five female ghosts with goats' heads
in a tree last night, and my wife said it betokened a journey and
wealth. Not only can I bring you by the shortest road, huzoor, but my
brother has a budgerow moored at the ghât, meaning to carry my
castor-oil seeds to Mirzapur. I am not ready for him yet for three weeks
or more, and he will ask no better occupation than to drop down stream
with you and your camp."

"I have no camp," said Malcolm, "but I pay the same rates for the boat."

"The sahib means that his camp marches by road," put in Chumru,
severely. "Didst not hear him say that we have mislaid the track?"

The ryot apologized for his stupidity, and Frank recognized that his
retainer disapproved very strongly of such strict adherence to the
truth. On the plea that they must hasten if the midday heat were to be
avoided, they cut short the halt to less than an hour. When they came to
tighten the girths again they found that Chumru's horse had fallen lame.
As Nejdi, too, was showing signs of stiffness, Malcolm mounted one of
the spare animals and led the Arab. Chumru and the ryot bestrode the
third horse, and under the guidance of one who knew every path, they set
out for the Ganges.

There are few features of the landscape so complex in their windings as
the foot-paths of India. Owing to the immense distances between
towns--the fertile and densely populated Doab offers no standard of
comparison for the remainder of a vast continent--roads were scarce and
far between in Mutiny days. The Grand Trunk Road and the rivers Ganges
and Jumna were the main arteries of traffic. For the rest, men marched
across country, and the narrow ribands of field tracks meandered through
plowed land and jungle, traversed nullah and hill and wood, and
intersected each other in a tangle that was wholly inextricable unless
one traveled by the compass or by well-known landmarks, where such were
visible.

The ryot, of course, familiar with each yard of the route, practically
followed a straight line. After a steady jog of an hour and a half they
saw the silver thread of the Ganges from the crest of a small ridge that
ran north and south. The river was then about three miles distant, and
they were hurrying down the descent when they came upon an ekka, a
little native two-wheeled cart, without springs, and drawn by a
diminutive pony. Alone among wheeled conveyances, the ekka can leave the
main roads in fairly level country, and this one had evidently brought a
zemindar from a river-side village.

The man himself, a portly, full-bearded Mohammedan, was examining a
growing crop, and his behavior, no less than the furtive looks cast at
the newcomers by his driver, warned Malcolm that here, for a certainty,
the Mutiny was a known thing. The zemindar's face assumed a
bronze-green tint when he saw the European officer, and the
sulky-looking native perched behind the shafts of the ekka growled
something in the local patois that caused the ryot sitting behind Chumru
to squirm uneasily.

The other glanced hastily around, as though he hoped to find assistance
near, and Chumru muttered to his master:

"Have a care, sahib, else we may hop on to a limed twig."

The boldest course was the best one. Malcolm rode up to the zemindar,
who was separated some forty paces from the ekka.

"I come from Lucknow," he said. "What news is there from Fattehpore and
Allahabad?"

The man hesitated. He was so completely taken aback by the sight of an
armed officer riding towards him in broad daylight--for Malcolm having
lost his own sword had taken Chumru's--that he was hardly prepared to
meet the emergency.

"There is little news," he said, at last, and it was not lost on his
questioner that the customary phrases of respect were omitted, though he
spoke civilly enough.

"Nevertheless, what is it?" demanded Frank. "Has the Mutiny spread thus
far, or is it confined to Cawnpore?"

"I know not what you mean," was the self-contained answer. "In this
district we are peaceable people. We look after our crops, even as I am
engaged at this moment, and have no concern with what goes on
elsewhere."

"A most worthy and honorable sentiment, and I trust it will avail you
when we have hanged all these rebels and we come to inquire into the
conduct of your village. I want you to accompany me now and place my
orderly and myself on board a boat for Allahabad."

"That is impossible--sahib--" and the words came reluctantly--"there are
no boats on the river these days."

"Why not?"

"They are all away, carrying grain and hay."

"What then, are your crops so forward? This one will not be ready for
harvesting ere another month."

"You will not find a budgerow on this side. Perchance they will ferry
you across at the village in a small boat, and you will have better
accommodation at Fattehpore."

"Are we opposite Fattehpore?"

"Yes--sahib."

All the while the zemindar's eyes were looking furtively from Frank to
the lower ground. It was a puzzling situation. The man was not actively
hostile, yet his manner betrayed an undercurrent of fear and dislike
that could only be accounted for by the downfall of British power in the
locality. Thinking Chumru could deal better with his fellow-countryman,
Malcolm called him, breaking in on a lively conversation that was going
on between his servant and the ekka-wallah.

Chumru, who had told the ryot to dismount, came at once.

"Our friend here says that things are quiet on the river, but there are
no boats to be had," explained Malcolm. Chumru grinned, and the zemindar
regarded him with troubled eyes.

"Excellent," he said. "We shall go to his house and wait while his
servants look for a boat."

This suggestion seemed to please the other man.

"I will go on in front in the ekka," he agreed, "and lead you to my
dwelling speedily."

Chumru edged nearer his master while their new acquaintance walked
towards the ekka.

"Jump down and tie both when I give the word, sahib," he whispered.
"There has been murder done here."

Malcolm understood instantly that his native companion had found the
ekka-wallah more communicative. In fact, Chumru had fooled the man by
pretending a willingness to slay the Feringhi forthwith, and the
sheep-like ryot was now livid with terror at the prospect of witnessing
an immediate killing.

When the zemindar was close to the ekka, Chumru whipped out one of the
Brahmin's cavalry pistols.

"Now, sahib!" he cried. Malcolm drew his sword and sprang down. The
zemindar fell on his knees.

"Spare my life, huzoor, and I will tell thee everything," he roared.

Were he not so worn with fatigue, and were not the issues depending on
the man's revelations so important, Malcolm could have laughed at this
remarkable change of tone. The flabby, well-fed rascal squealed like a
pig when the point of the sword touched his skin, and the Englishman was
forced to scowl fiercely to hide a smile.

"Speak, _sug_,"[16] he said. "What of Fattehpore and Allahabad, and be
sure thou has spent thy last hour if thou liest."

[Footnote 16: A contemptuous use of the word "dog."]

"Sahib, God knoweth that I can tell thee naught of Allahabad, but the
budmashes at Fattehpore have risen, and Tucker-sahib is dead. They
killed him, I have heard, after a fight on the roof of the cutcherry."

Malcolm guessed rightly that Mr. Tucker was the judge at that station,
but he must not betray ignorance.

"And the others--they who fled? What of them?" he said, knowing that the
scenes enacted elsewhere must have had their counterpart at Fattehpore.

"Wow!" The kneeling man flinched as the sword pricked him again. "There
are two mems[17] in a house near the ghât. They alone remain of those
who crossed. And I saved them, sahib. I swear it, by the Kaaba, I saved
them."

[Footnote 17: Short for mem-sahibs; ladies.]

"They are young, doubtless, and good-looking?"

A new fear shone in the Mohammedan's eyes, and he did not answer.
Frank's gorge rose with a deadly disgust, and it is hard to say that his
sword would not have gone home in another instant had not Chumru
interfered:

"Kill him not yet, sahib. He may be useful. Bind him and the other slave
back to back. Then I shall help you to truss them properly."

Chumru soon showed that he meant business. When he was free to replace
the pistol in the holster, which he did all the more readily since he
had never used a firearm in his life, he gagged master and man with
skill, tied them to a tree, and then unfolded the plan which the
ekka-driver's story had suggested.

The fever of rebellion had spread along the whole of the left bank of
the Ganges as far as Allahabad. A party of fugitives from Fattehpore who
had taken to a boat were pursued, captured, and slain. Two girls who had
managed to cross the river unseen were now lodged in a go-down, or
warehouse, belonging to the very man whom chance had made Malcolm's
prisoner. He was keeping them to curry favor with a local rajah who
headed the outbreak at Fattehpore. It was true that there were no boats
left on this side of the river: they were all on the opposite bank,
being loaded with loot, and the two Englishwomen were merely awaiting
the return of the zemindar's budgerow to be sent to a fate worse than
death.

Chumru, a Mohammedan himself, was not greatly concerned about the
misfortunes of a couple of women, but he saw plainly that Malcolm could
no more hope to escape under the present conditions than the poor
creatures whose whereabouts had just become known. This was precisely
the blend of intrigue and adventure that appealed to his alert
intelligence. In wriggling through a mesh of difficulties he was lithe
as a snake, and the proposal he now made was certainly bold enough to
commend itself to the most daring.

He drew Malcolm and the trembling ryot apart.

"Listen, friend," said he to the latter. "Thou art, indeed, lost if that
fat hog sees thee again. He will harry thee and thy wife and all thy
family to death for having helped us, and it will be in vain to protest
that thou hadst no mind in the matter, for behold, thou didst not lift a
finger when I threatened him with the pistol."

"Protector of the poor, what was one to do?" whined the ryot.

"I am not thy protector. 'Tis the sahib here to whom thou must look for
counsel. Attend, now, and I will show thee a road to safety and riches.
Art thou known to either of those men?"

"I have not seen them before, for I come this way but seldom."

"'Tis well. The sahib shall sit in the ekka, with the curtains drawn,
while I give it out that I go with my wife to take the miss-sahibs
across the river, for which purpose the worthy zemindar will presently
hand us a written order, as he hath ink, paper, and pen in the ekka.
Thou shalt be driver and come with us on the boat, and when we are in
mid-stream, and the sahib appears at my signal, see that thou hast a
cudgel handy if it be needed. Then, when we reach Allahabad, God
willing, the sahib will give thee many rupees and none will be the
wiser. What say'st thou?"

"I am a poor man--"

"Ay, keep to that. 'Tis ever a safe answer. Do you like my notion,
sahib? Otherwise, we must take our chance and wander in the jungle."

The fact that Chumru's scheme included the rescue of the unhappy girls
imprisoned in the go-down caused Malcolm to approve it without reserve.
The zemindar's gag was removed and he was asked his name.

"Hossein Beg," said he.

"Be assured, then," said Malcolm, sternly, "that thy life depends on the
fulfilment of the instructions I now require of thee. See to it,
therefore, that they are written in such wise as to insure success, and
I, for my part, promise to send thee succor ere night falls. Write on
this tablet that the miss-sahibs are to be delivered to the charge of
Rissaldar Ali Khan and his wife, for conveyance to Fattehpore, and bid
thy servants help the rissaldar in every possible way. Believe me, if
aught miscarries in this matter, thou shalt rot to death in thy bonds."

"Let my servant go with your honor, so that all things may be done
according to your honor's wishes."

"What then? Wouldst thou juggle with the favor I have shown thee?"

This time the sword impinged on the Adam's apple in Hossein Beg's
throat, and he shrank as far as his bonds would permit.

"Say not so, Khudâwand,"[18] he gurgled. "I swear by my father's bones I
meant no ill."

[Footnote 18: Master.]

"Mayhap. Nevertheless, I shall take care thy intent is honest, Hossein
Beg. Write now and pay heed to thy words, else jackals shall rend thee
ere to-morrow's dawn."

By this time the man was reduced to a state of abject submission.
Possibly his offer of the ekka-wallah's services was made in good faith,
but Malcolm liked the looks of the man as little as he liked the looks
of his master, and he preferred to trust to Chumru's nimble wits rather
than the stupid contriving of a peasant, no matter how willing the
latter might be.

The zemindar, having written, was gagged again, and the pair were left
to that torture of silence and doubt they had not scrupled to inflict on
those who had done them no wrong. They were tied to a tree-trunk in the
heart of a clump, and a hundred men might pass in that lonely place
without discovering them, whereas Hossein Beg and his subordinate could
see easily enough through the leafy screen that enveloped their open-air
prison.

Half an hour later, Hossein Beg's ekka arrived on the open space that
adjoined the village ghât. At one end was a mosque--at the other a
temple. In the center, at a little distance from the bank, was a square
modern building, evidently the warehouse in which the English ladies
were pent.

With the ekka came a rissaldar of cavalry, riding one horse and leading
two others. When he dismounted a scabbard clattered at his heels, for
Malcolm now had the pistols between his knees as he sat behind the
tightly drawn curtains of the vehicle.

"Mohammed Rasul!" shouted the rissaldar, loudly. "Where is Mohammed
Rasul? I must discourse with him instantly."

A man came running.

"Ohé, sirdar," he cried. "Behold, I come!"

A note was thrust into the runner's hands.

"Read, and quickly," was the imperious order. "I have affairs at
Fattehpore and cannot wait here long. Is there a boat to be hired?"

"A budgerow is even now approaching, leader of the faithful."

"Good. There is some disposition to be made of two Feringhi women. Read
that which Hossein Beg hath written, and make haste, I pray thee,
brother."

Perhaps Mohammed Rasul wondered why his employer wrote in such imploring
strain that he was to obey the worshipful "Ali Khan's" slightest word,
and bestow him and his belongings, together with the two prisoners, on
board a boat for Fattehpore with the utmost speed. However that may be,
he lost no time. The budgerow was warped close to the ghât, her
contents, mostly European furniture, as Malcolm could see through a fold
in the curtain, were promptly unloaded, and preparations made for the
return journey. First, the horses were led on board and secured. Then
two pallid girls, only half clothed, their eyes red with weeping and
their cheeks haggard with misery, were led from the go-down.

"Ali Khan" was about to guide the ekka along the rough gangway when
Mohammed Rasul interfered.

"My master says naught concerning the ekka and pony," said he. "He hath
detained Gopi, and this driver is unknown to me. Who will bring them
back when they have served your needs, sirdar?"

"I will attend to that," replied Chumru, gruffly, and Hossein Beg's
factotum had perforce to be content with the undertaking.

But fate, which had certainly favored Malcolm and his native comrade
thus far, played them what looked like a jade's trick at the very moment
when success was within their grasp. The ekka pony, frightened by the
lap of the swift-flowing water against the steps beneath, shied, backed,
and strove to reach the shore. Not all Chumru's wiry strength, aided by
the alarmed ryot, could prevent the brute from turning. A wheel slipped
off the staging, the narrow vehicle toppled over, and the amazed
spectators saw a booted and spurred British officer of cavalry sprawling
on the ghât instead of the veiled Mohammedan woman who ought to have
made her appearance in this undignified manner.

Malcolm was on his feet in a second.

"Come on, Chumru!" he cried, as he leaped on board the budgerow. He saw
one of the crew take an extra turn of a rope round a cat-head, and fired
at him. Hit or miss, the fellow tumbled overboard, and his mates
followed. Chumru, assisted by the ryot, who elected at this twelfth hour
to throw in his lot with that of the sahib, began to cast off the
cables. Even the two dazed girls helped, once they knew that an
Englishman was fighting in their behalf.

To add to the excitement on shore Malcolm fired the second pistol at the
men nearest to the boat, which was already beginning to slip away with
the current. Then he rushed to the helm, unlashed it, and turned the
boat's head toward the channel, while Chumru and the ryot, helped by the
girls, hauled at the heavy mat sail.

Having lashed the helm again in order to keep the budgerow on the
starboard tack, Malcolm was about to lend a hand, despite his wound,
when a spurt of firing from the bank took him by surprise, because he
had seen neither gun nor pistol in the hands of the loungers on the
ghât, and the coolies were certainly unarmed.

Glancing back he saw a man whom he had last seen in the moulvie's
company at Rai Bareilly gesticulating fiercely as he directed the target
practise of a number of men. A group of lathered horses behind them
showed that they had ridden far and fast, so the accident, which nearly
led to his undoing, had really helped to save him and his companions,
else the fusillade to which they were now subjected must have taken
place while the boat was still tied to the wharf.

"Lie flat on the deck," he shouted in English, and repeated the words in
Hindustani. He flung himself down by Chumru's side.

"Haul away!" he gasped. "We will soon be out of range."

Thus while the cumbrous sail creaked and groaned as it slowly climbed
the mast, and bullets cut through the matting or were imbedded in the
stout woodwork, the latest argosy of Malcolm's fortunes thrust herself
with ever-increasing speed into the ample breast of Mother Ganga. Soon
the firing ceased. Malcolm raised his head. The excited mob on the shore
was already a horde of Lilliputians, and the placid swish of the river
around the roomy craft told him that he was actually free, and on the
way to Allahabad once more.




CHAPTER XII

THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM


Malcolm's first measured thought was an unpleasant one. It was his
intent to land one of the budgerow's crew at the earliest opportunity
with a written message, which the bearer would probably be unable to
read, addressed to Mohammed Rasul, bidding him go to the assistance of
the unlucky Hossein Beg. That plan was now impracticable. The crew had
bolted. He could neither send the ryot ashore nor trust to the help of
any neighboring village, since men were already galloping along the left
bank with obviously hostile designs.

As there was a favorable breeze and the current was swift and strong, he
wondered why these pursuers strove to keep the boat in sight. Then it
was borne in on him that they had a definite object. Could it be
possible that they knew of the presence of other craft, lower down the
river?--that he might be called on within the hour to make a last stand
against irresistible odds on the deck of the budgerow? Rather than meet
certain death in that way he would head boldly for the opposite shore,
and trust again to his tired horses for escape to the jungle and the
night. Yet, some plan must be devised to keep faith with that wretched
zemindar. The man would not die if left where he was for another
forty-eight hours, or even longer. But the word of a sahib was a sacred
thing. Whatever the difficulty of communicating with Mohammed Rasul, he
must overcome it somehow.

In his perplexity, his eyes fell on the two girls. Being ladies from
Fyzabad, they might be able to help him with some knowledge of the
locality. Summoning Chumru to take the helm he went forward and spoke to
them.

Now it is an enduring fact that a woman's regard for her personal
appearance will engross her mind when graver topics might well be to the
fore. No sooner did these sorrow-laden daughters of Eve realize that
they were in a position of comparative safety, and in the company of a
good-looking young man of their own race, than they attempted to effect
some change in their _toilette_. A handkerchief dipped in the river, a
few twists and coilings of refractory hair, a slight readjustment of
disordered bodices and crumpled skirts--above all, the gleam of the
magic lamp of hope that illumined an abyss of despair--and the amazing
result was that Malcolm found two pretty, shy, tremulous maidens
awaiting him, instead of the disheveled woe-begone women he had seen
pushed down the steps of the ghât.

He introduced himself with the well-mannered courtesy of the period, and
in response the elder of the pair raised her blue eyes to his and told
him that since the 16th of June until the previous day they had been
hiding in the hut of a native woman, mother of their ayah.

"My dear father was killed by Mr. Tucker's side," said she. "He was the
deputy commissioner of Fattehpore. Keene is our name--I am Harriet, this
is my sister Grace. We only came out from England last cold weather--"

A sudden recollection brought a cry of surprise from Frank.

"Why," he said, "you were fellow-passengers on the _Assaye_ with Miss
Winifred Mayne?"

"Yes, do you know her? What has become of her? We were told that
everyone at Meerut was killed."

"Thank Heaven, she was alive and well when I last saw her three days
ago."

"And her uncle? Is he living? She was very much attached to him. How did
she escape from Meerut?" broke in Grace, eagerly.

"I wish they had never left Meerut. The Mutiny at that station collapsed
in a couple of hours. Unfortunately they are now both penned up in the
Residency at Lucknow, which is surrounded by goodness only knows how
many thousands of rebels. But I must give you Winifred's recent
history at another time. I want you to tell me something about this
neighborhood. What is the nearest town on the river, and which bank
is it on?"

"Unfortunately, our acquaintance with this part of India is very
slight," said Miss Harriet Keene, sadly. "We remained at Calcutta four
months with our mother, who died there, without having seen our dear
father after a separation of five years. We came up country in March,
and were going to Naini Tal[19] when the Mutiny broke out. We only saw
the Ganges three or four times before our ayah brought us across on that
terrible night when father was murdered."

[Footnote 19: A hill station near Lucknow.]

Malcolm had heard many such tensely dramatic stories from fugitives who
had reached Lucknow during July. Phrases of pity or consolation were
powerless in face of these tragedies. But he could not forbear asking
one question:

"How did you come to fall into the hands of Hossein Beg?"

"We were betrayed by some children," was the simple answer. "They saw
our ayah's mother baking chupatties, day by day, sufficient for four
people. My sister and I lived nearly three weeks in a cow-byre, never
daring, of course, to approach even the door. The children made some
talk about the lavish food supply in the old woman's hut, and the story
reached the ears of their father. He, like all the other natives here,
seems to hate Europeans as though they were his deadliest enemies. He
spied on us, discovered our whereabouts, and yesterday morning we were
dragged forth, while the poor creatures to whom we owed our lives were
beaten to death with sticks before our very eyes."

The speaker was a fair English girl of twenty. Her sister was eighteen,
and their previous experience of the storm and fret of existence was
drawn from an uneventful childhood in India, four years in a Brighton
school, and a twelvemonth in a Brussels convent!

Malcolm choked back the hard words that rose to his lips, and sought
such local information as the ryot could give him. It was little. The
tiller of the Indian fields lives and dies in his village and has no
interests beyond the horizon. This man visited the Ganges once a year on
a religious feast, and perhaps twice in the same period in connection
with the shipping of grain on his brother's boat. To that extent, but
no further, did his store of general knowledge pass beyond the narrower
limits of those who dwelt far from a river highway.

Yet it was he who first espied a new and most active peril.

"Look, huzoor," he cried suddenly. "They have made signs to the
Fattehpore ghât. Two boats are following us."

And then Malcolm found that the real danger came from the opposite
shore. It was a case of falling on Scylla when trying to avoid
Charybdis. He learnt afterwards that the rebels had organized a code
of signals from bank to bank, owing to the number of the craft with
Europeans on board that sought safety in flight down the river. That
some device must have drawn pursuit from the right bank was obvious. A
couple of roomy budgerows with sails set were racing after him, and the
long sweeps on board each boat were being propelled by willing arms.

It must be confessed that a feeling of bitter resentment against this
last stroke of ill-luck rose in Malcolm's breast for an instant. He
conquered it. He recalled Lawrence's bold advice, "Never Surrender,"
and that inspiriting memory brought strength.

At that point the Ganges was about a mile and a quarter in width. The
budgerow was some six hundred yards distant from the left bank. Three
miles ahead the river curved to the left round a steep promontory. The
farther shore was marsh-land, so it might be assumed that a hidden
barrier of rock flung off the deep current there, while the one chance
of escape that presented itself was to steer for that very spot and
effect a landing before the enemy could head off the budgerow and force
it under the fire of the horsemen. The Fattehpore boats were a mile in
the rear, but that advantage would be greatly lessened if Malcolm
crossed the stream, and perhaps altogether effaced by the powerful
sweeps at their command.

However, to cross was the only way, and the only way is ever the best
way. Having once made up his mind Frank coolly reviewed the situation.
Food was the first essential. The boat itself, having been used for
carrying hay, contained sufficient sweepings to feed the horses, and he
set the ryot to work on gathering the odds and ends of forage. A brief
search brought to light a quantity of ghee, boiled rice and dried peas.
He divided the store into five portions, and set a good example to the
others by compelling himself to eat his share of the cooked food at
once, while the peas went into his pockets to be crushed or chewed at
leisure.

Chumru kept the budgerow steadily on her course, and ere many minutes
elapsed it was plain to be seen that the rebels were alive to the
tactics of their quarry. Fresh gangs manned the sweeps and the riders on
the eastern bank eased their pace to a walk. The space between pursuers
and pursued began to decrease. At the outset Frank thought that this was
the natural outcome of his plan, and gave no heed to it beyond the
ever-growing anxiety of the time problem. But at the end of the first
mile he was seriously concerned at finding that the mutineers were
gaining on him in an incomprehensible manner. The boat was then
seemingly in mid-stream, while the enemy kept close to the shore, and
they were certainly traveling half as fast again, a difference in speed
that the use of the oars hardly accounted for.

He kept on grimly, however, never deviating from his perspective, which
was the swampy ground on the outer curve of the bend. It was not until
nearly another mile was covered and the mutineers were almost abreast
in the true line of the river, that he knew why they were making such
heart-breaking progress as compared with his own craft. The Ganges,
after the vagrom fashion of all giant rivers, was cutting a new bed
through the sunken reefs towards the low-lying marsh. At the wide elbow
there were really two channels and he was now sailing along the
comparatively motionless water between them!

Side by side with this terrifying discovery was the certain fact that
his awkwardly built craft would gain little by maneuvering. There was a
new danger, too. At any instant she might run ashore on the shoal that
was surely forming in the center of the river. At all costs that must be
avoided.

With a smile and a few confident words to the girls, he went aft, took
the helm from Chumru and bade him help the ryot in putting out the port
sweep. The effect was quickly apparent. The budgerow ran into the second
channel, but she allowed her dangerous rivals to approach so close that
the natives opened fire with long range dropping shots.

It was now a matter of minutes ere the rebel marksmen would render the
deck uninhabitable. To beach the boat, land the horses, and get the
young ladies ashore in safety, had become an absolute impossibility.
Then it occurred to Frank that the Fattehpore men could not know for
certain that there were Englishwomen on board. They could see Chumru,
the ryot, the horses, and of course, the steersman, but the girls were
seated in the well amidships, these river craft being only partly decked
fore and aft.

A modification of his scheme flashed through his brain, and he decided
to adopt it forthwith. First asking Miss Keene and her sister not to
reveal their presence, no matter what happened, he told Chumru to stand
by the horses and help him to make them leap into the water when he gave
the order. With difficulty he induced the scared ryot to take the rudder
while he explained the new project. It had that element of daring in it
that is worthy of success, being nothing less than an attempt to draw
the rebels' attention entirely to himself and Chumru by making a dash
for the shore, while the ryot was to allow the boat to continue her
course down stream with, apparently, no other tenant than himself.

Malcolm's theory was that, if he and Chumru made good their landing,
they would hug the river until the budgerow was sufficiently ahead of
pursuit to permit of her being run ashore. Though the plan savored of
deserting the helpless girls, yet was he strong-minded enough to adopt
it. It substituted a forlorn hope for imminent and unavoidable death or
capture, and it gave one last avenue of achievement to the mission on
which he had come from Lucknow.

At the final moment he communicated it to the two sisters. They agreed
to abide by his decision, and the elder one said with a calm serenity
that lent to her words the symbolism of a prayer:

"We are all in God's hands, Mr. Malcolm. Whether we live or die we are
assured that you have done and will do all that lies in the power of a
Christian gentleman to save us."

"I don't like leaving you," he murmured, "but our only weapons are a
sword and a brace of empty pistols. If we run on another half mile we
shall be shot down where we stand without any means of defending
ourselves. On the other hand--"

Then the budgerow struck a submerged rock with a violence that must have
pitched him overboard were he not holding Nejdi's headstall at the
moment. She careened so badly that the girls shrieked and Malcolm
himself thought she would turn turtle. But she swung clear, righted
herself, and lay broadside on to the current. Another crash, less
violent but even more disastrous, tore away the rudder and wrenched the
spar pulley out of the top of the mast. The heavy sail fell of course,
but by some miracle left the occupants of the boat uninjured.

And now the maimed craft was carried along sluggishly, drifting back
towards the center of the river, while the men in the other boats set up
a fiendish yell of delight at the catastrophe that had overtaken the
doomed Feringhis. Their skilled boatmen evidently knew of this reef.
They stood away towards the shore, but the triumphant jeering that came
from the crowded decks showed that they meant to pass their dismantled
quarry and wait in safer waters until it lumbered down upon them.

Malcolm suddenly became aware of his wounded arm. With a curious
fatalism he began to dissect his emotions. He arrived at the conclusion
that the drop from the nervous tension of hope to the relaxation of
sheer despair had dulled his brain and weakened his physical powers.
This, then, was the end. There could be no doubt about it. He quieted
the startled horses with a word or two and spoke to the girls again.

"You may as well come on deck now," he said. "It is all up with us. If a
friendly bullet puts us out of our misery, so much the better. Otherwise
my advice to you both is to leap into the river rather than be
recaptured."

Grace was sobbing hysterically, but Harriet, clasping her fondly in her
arms, looked up at him.

"No," she said, "we must not do that. Our lives are not our own. The
Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

Frank winced in his anguish. To a puissant man there is nothing so
galling as helplessness; what a game of battledore and shuttlecock had
been played with him and those bound up with his fortunes since the
moulvie's man-trap brought him headlong to the earth in the main street
of Rai Bareilly!

"Huzoor!" yelled Chumru, excitedly. "Look! There below! A smoke ship!
And see! Those sons of pigs are making for the bank!"

Malcolm could scarce believe his eyes when they rested on a small
steamer with the British flag flying from the masthead, coming round the
bend. Yet there could be no mistake about it. British officers in white
uniforms were standing on her bridge, the muzzles of a couple of guns
showed black and business-like over her bows, while her forward deck was
packed with men in the uniform of the Madras Fusiliers. Her commander
seemed to take in the exact position of affairs at a glance, and,
indeed, the half-wrecked and almost empty boat in mid-stream, so eagerly
followed by two thickly crowded craft now close hauled and putting forth
desperate efforts to reach the bank, presented a riddle easy to read.

That twinge of pain quitted Frank's arm as speedily as it had made its
presence felt. He helped the girls to the raised deck, so that the
people on the steamer could see them. It was not necessary. An officer
waved a hand to them as the sturdy little vessel dashed past, raising a
mighty spume of white froth with her paddles, and soon her guns were
busy. There was no question of quarter. Captain Spurgin had been with
Neill at Allahabad. He knew the story of Massacre Ghât, of Delhi, of
Sitapore, Moradabad, Bareilly, and a score of other stations in Oudh and
the Northwest. His gunners pelted the unwieldy budgerows with round shot
until they began to sink. Then he used grape and rifle fire, until five
minutes after the _Warren Hastings_ came on the scene, there was nought
left of the Fattehpore navy save some shattered wreckage and a few
wretches who strove to swim amidst a hail of lead and in a river
infested with crocodiles.

When the steamer dropped down stream and picked up the fugitives,
Malcolm learnt that Spurgin was co-operating with Renaud. The one
cleared the river, the other was hanging men on nearly every tree that
lined the Grand Trunk Road. And Havelock, nobly aided by Neill, was
moving heaven and earth to equip a strong force at Allahabad to avenge
Cawnpore and raise the expected siege of Lucknow.

As Malcolm himself brought the earliest news of the investment, he and
Chumru were put ashore with a small escort, in order that they might
join Major Renaud's column, and hurry to Havelock with his thrilling
tidings. Spurgin promised to visit the village on the east bank, release
Hossein Beg, and make him a hostage for the ryot's welfare. As for
Harriet and Grace Keene, they would be sent south as soon as a carriage
could be procured.

The two girls bade Frank farewell with a gratitude which was
embarrassing, but Grace, more mercurial than Harriet, ventured to say:

"I suppose you are longing to see Winifred again, Mr. Malcolm?"

"Yes," he replied, well knowing the thought that lay behind the words.
"You are her friend, so there is no reason why I should not tell you
that she is my promised wife."

"Then you are both to be congratulated," put in the elder sister, "for
she is quite the most charming girl we know, and our opinion of you is
not likely to be a poor one after to-day's experiences."

"What? After an hour's acquaintance?"

"An hour! There are some hours that are half a lifetime. Good-by, may
Heaven guard and watch over you!"

Renaud despatched Lawrence's messenger to the south in a dâk-gharry, or
post-carriage. Chumru would have taken the servant's usual perch beside
the driver, but Malcolm would not hear of it. His faithful attendant was
almost as worn with fatigue as he himself; master and man shared the
comfort of the roomy vehicle; and slept for many hours while it rumbled
along the road.

At dawn on the 4th of July they entered Allahabad. But the driver had
his orders and did not stop in the city. They passed through a sullen
bazaar, and were gazed at by a mob that wore the aspect of a cageful of
tigers in which order has just been induced by the liberal use of
red-hot irons. The travelers were nodding asleep again when the sharp
summons of a British sentry gladdened Malcolm's ears.

"Who goes there?"

How alert it sounded! How reminiscent of the old days! How full of
promise of the days that were to come!

He leaned out and smiled as he told a stolid private of the 64th that he
was "a friend." His uniform acted as a passport, the dâk-gharry crossed
the drawbridge and crept through a narrow tunnel, and he found himself
standing in the great inner parade-ground of the fort. A young officer
approached.

"Do you wish to see the General? Whom shall I report?" he asked, eyeing
the worn appearance and torn and blood-stained uniforms of Englishman
and native.

"I am from Lucknow," said Frank. "Will you kindly tell General Havelock
that Captain Malcolm of the 3d Cavalry has brought him a message from
Sir Henry Lawrence?"

It was the first time he had described himself by his new rank. It sent
a pleasant tingle through his veins and made that injured arm of his
ache again. Lawrence had given him to the 4th, and here he was in
Allahabad on the very date of his Chief's reckoning, after having gone
through adventures that would have satiated Ulysses.

But the pardonable pride of a young and gallant soldier soon yielded an
inexplicable sensation of humility when he was brought before a small,
slender, erect man, gray-haired, eagle-nosed, with strangely bright and
piercing eyes, and a mouth habitually set in a thin, straight line. This
was Sir Henry Havelock, and Frank felt instantly that he was in the
presence of one who lived in a world apart from his fellows. And, in
truth, Havelock would have been better understood by Cromwell's
Ironsides than by his own generation. He was outside the ordinary run of
mankind. Though aware of a natural timidity, he fought with and
conquered it until his soldiers refused to believe that Havelock knew
what fear was. Conscious of his own military genius he had borne without
comment or complaint a constant supersession by inferiors, and in an age
when levity of thought and manners among officers was often looked upon
as the hall-mark of distinguished social position, he lost no
opportunity of giving his men religious instruction, while every act of
his life was governed by a stern sense of duty.

Such was the man who listened to Malcolm's account of the proceedings
which led up to the disastrous battle of Chinhut.

"You say you rode straight from the field on the evening of the 30th,"
said he, when Frank had delivered his message of Lucknow's plight. "How
did you travel, and in what state did you find the country you
traversed?"

Then Frank told him all that had taken place. More than once the young
officer would have cut short the recital, but this Havelock would not
permit. His son was present, that younger Havelock who lived for forty
years to keep ever in the public memory a glorious name, and often the
father would turn towards him and punctuate Malcolm's tale with a nod,
or a brief, "Do you hear that, Harry?"

At last, the stirring chronicle was ended.

"Do you wish to remain here and recuperate, or will you join my staff,
with the rank of Major?" asked Havelock.

Malcolm was hardly able to stammer his acceptance of the appointment
thus offered, but the General had no time for useless talk.

"About this servant of yours--he seems to have the making of a soldier
in him--will he care to retain the rank he has assumed so creditably?"
he went on.

Frank rather lost his breath at this suggestion, but he had the presence
of mind to refer the decision to Chumru himself.

"Kubbi nahin, general-sahib,"[20] was the Mohammedan's emphatic
disclaimer of the honor proposed to be conferred on him. "I am a good
bearer, huzoor, but I should prove a very bad rissaldar. I am not of a
fighting caste. I am a man of peace."

[Footnote 20: Literally: "Never no general!"]

"I think you are mistaken," said Havelock, quietly, "but by all means
continue to serve your master. I am sure he is worthy of your devotion.
And now, Major Malcolm, if you will report yourself to General Neill, he
will provide you with quarters and plenty of work."




CHAPTER XIII

THE MEN WHO WORE SKIRTS


That was what the rebels called the 78th,--"the men who wore skirts."

Now, Highland regiments had fought in India for many a year before the
Mutiny, and the kilt was no new thing in native eyes. The phrase,
therefore, is significant. It crystallizes the legend that went
round--that an army of savage English was marching from Allahabad, and
that its most ferocious corps was dressed in skirts, the men having
sworn never to assume male clothing until they had avenged their
murdered women-folk.

There could be no better proof that the sepoys and their helpers were
well aware that they had outraged all the laws of war and humanity by
their excesses, and there was a further reason why the garb of old Gaul
was more dreaded throughout India than any other British uniform during
the autumn and cold weather of 1857. Not many Europeans knew it until
long afterwards, but the natives knew, and told the story with bated
breath, and one British officer knew, for he was with the Seaforth
Highlanders in Cawnpore when they took dire vengeance for the Well.

It is a matter of history how Havelock marched his little army of twelve
hundred men along the Grand Trunk Road from Allahabad. He led a thousand
British soldiers, drawn from the 64th, 84th, and 78th Foot, and the 1st
Madras Fusiliers. Captain Brasyer brought 130 loyal Sikhs to the column:
there were six small guns, and eighteen volunteer cavalry.

These details should be appreciated before it is possible to understand
the supra-miraculous campaign Havelock conducted. For five days the
expedition tramped north in the rain and heat, through a land given over
to dead men, vultures and carnivorous animals. Renaud and Spurgin had
made no prisoners. They did not slay wantonly, but the slightest shadow
of suspicion falling on any man meant the short shrift of a rope and the
nearest tree.

At last, on the 12th of August, the main body overtook Renaud, whose
patrols were stopped by a large force of rebels entrenched in a village
four miles south of Fattehpore. The junction took place at one o'clock
in the morning. At daybreak, Havelock sent Colonel Tytler, with the
eighteen volunteer horse, to reconnoiter. The enemy's cavalry, thinking
they had only Renaud's tiny detachment to deal with, charged across the
plain, to find the whole twelve hundred drawn up to receive them. Struck
with a sudden fear, the white-coated troopers reined in their horses.
This was the first real check Nana Sahib had received. It was typical of
the new order. The flood-tide of mutiny had met its barrier rock.
Thenceforth, it ebbed, though it raged madly for a while in the effort
to sweep away the obstruction.

Without giving the enemy's cavalry time to recover from their surprise,
Havelock threw forward his infantry, Captain Maude, of the Royal
Artillery, rushed his six guns to a point-blank range, there was a short
and sharp fight, and the rebels broke. They were chased through and out
of the town of Fattehpore. All their guns and some valuable stores were
captured, and, greatest marvel in a day of marvels, not one British
soldier had fallen!

No wonder Havelock wrote to his wife: "One of the prayers oft repeated
since my school-days has been answered, and I have lived to command in a
successful action.... But away with vain glory! Thanks be to God who
gave me the victory."

That evening Malcolm witnessed the plundering of Fattehpore, which was
permitted in retribution for its recent rebellion. The town lay on the
main road, which, at this point, was removed from the river by many
miles, else he would have ridden to the ghât and sent a message to
Hossein Beg in order to make sure of the safety of the friendly ryot.

Owing to his knowledge of the vernacular, he managed to pick up a bit of
useful information while questioning a native on this matter. On the
battle-field he came across a state elephant which had been shot through
the body by one of Maude's nine-pounders. The manner of the beast's
death was remarkable--it is not often that an elephant is bowled over by
a cannon-ball like a rabbit by a bullet from a small caliber rifle--and
its trappings betokened that it had carried a person of importance.

Now he learned that Tantia Topi was the rider, and it was thus he
discovered that Nana Sahib was directing the operations from Cawnpore,
as Tantia Topi was his favorite lieutenant, whereas it was believed
previously that the Brahmin usurper would lead his hosts to take part in
the siege of Lucknow.

On the 15th a sharp fight gave the British possession of the village of
Aong. The position was dearly won, for the gallant Renaud fell there,
mortally wounded. The men were about to prepare their breakfast after
the battle when news came that the enemy, strongly reinforced from
Cawnpore, were preparing to blow up a bridge over the Pandoo Nuddee, an
unfordable tributary of the Ganges, six miles ahead. Havelock called for
a special effort, the troops responded without a murmur, and advanced
through dense groves of mango trees until they came under fire. For the
second time that day they hurled themselves on the rebels, drove them
headlong out of a well-chosen position, and saved the bridge.

Cawnpore was now only twenty-three miles distant. With the fickleness of
the rainy season the sky had cleared, and the sun beat down on the
British force with a fury that had not been experienced before that
year, though the hot weather of 1857 was noted for its exceedingly high
temperatures. The elements seemed to have joined with man to try and
stop the advance, but neither Indian sun nor Indian sepoy could
restrain that terrible host. Dogged and uncomplaining, animated rather
by the feelings of the infuriated tigress seeking reprisals for her
slain cubs than by the sentiments of soldiers engaged in an ordinary
campaign, they pressed on, until sixteen miles of that sun-scorched road
were covered.

Then Havelock commanded a halt in a grove of trees, and two level-headed
sepoys, deserters from Nana Sahib's army, came in and told the British
general that the Nana had brought five thousand men out of Cawnpore to
do battle for his tottering dynasty. It was in vain. Though he displayed
some tactical skill, placed his men well, and did not hesitate to come
under fire in person, he was out-generaled by a flank march and sent
flying to Bithoor, there to curse his fate, befuddle his wits with
brandy, and threaten to drown himself in the Ganges.

But the battle was not won until one of those strange incidents happened
that distinguish the Mutiny from all other wars. It must never be
forgotten that the sepoys had received their training from British
officers. Their words of command, methods of fighting, even their
uniforms, were based on European models.

They had regimental bands, too, and the tunes in their repertoire were
those in vogue in Britain, for native music does not lend itself to
military purposes. The musicians, of course, were profoundly ignorant of
the names or significance of the melodies they had been taught to play.

Hence, when Nana Sahib rallied his men in a village, Havelock called on
the Highlanders and 64th to take it, and the two regiments entered into
a gallant race for the position, while the Highland pipers struck up an
inspiring pibroch. Not to be outdone, a sepoy band responded with "The
Campbells are Coming!"

And this, of all airs, to the Mackenzies! It was chance, of course, but
it added gall to the venom of the 78th.

This fourth and greatest victory was a costly one to the British, but it
left their ardor undiminished, their reckless courage intensified. On
the next day they flung themselves against the remnant of the Nana's
army that still tried to bar the way into the city. Vague rumors had
reached the men of the dreadful tragedy enacted on the 15th. They
refused to credit them. None but maniacs would murder helpless women and
children in the belief that the crime would hinder the advance of their
rescuers. So they crushed, tore, beat a path through the suburbs, until
the leading company of Highlanders reached the Bibigarh, the House of
the Woman.

Malcolm was with them, and he saw a sergeant enter the blood-stained
dwelling, while the men lined up in front of the Well in an awed
silence. The sergeant returned. His brick-red face had paled to an ashen
tint. In his hand he carried the long, rich strands of a woman's hair,
strands that had been hacked off some unhappy Englishwoman's head by
Nana Sahib's butchers.

He removed his bonnet with the solemnity of a man who is in the presence
of God and death. Passing down the ranks he gave a lock of the hair to
each soldier.

"One life for every hair before the sun sets," he said quietly. And that
was all, but there are old men yet alive in Cawnpore who remember how
the Highlanders raged through the streets that evening like the wrath of
Heaven.

General Neill, who came later and assumed the rôle of magistrate, showed
neither pity nor mercy. Every man who fell into his hands, and who was
connected in the slightest degree with the infamy of the Well, was
hanged on a gallows erected in the compound, but not until he had
cleaned with his tongue the allotted square of blood-stained cement that
formed the floor of the house.

Cawnpore, on the 17th, was indeed a city of dreadful night. The fierce
exultation of successful warfare was gone. The streets were empty save
for prowling dogs, pigs, and venturesome wild beasts. No sound was heard
in the British encampment except the melancholy plaint of the pipes
mourning for the dead, during the interment of those who had fallen.
Even the unconquerable Havelock said to his son, as they and the
officers of the staff sat at dinner:

"If the worst comes to the worst we can but die with our swords in our
hands."

Next morning his splendid vitality reasserted itself. He advanced
towards Bithoor and took up a strong position in case Nana Sahib might
attempt to recover the city. But that arch-fiend had been deserted by
the majority of his followers, and he was babbling of suicide to his
fellow Brahmins.

Meanwhile Neill brought a few more troops from Allahabad, and Havelock
threw the greater portion of his army across the Ganges. Owing to the
difficulty of obtaining boats and skilled boatmen, this was a slow and
dangerous undertaking. It took five days to ferry nine hundred men to
the Oudh side, but Lawrence had said that the Residency could only hold
out fourteen days, and come what might the effort must be made to
relieve him.

On the 20th while Malcolm was occupied with some details of transport,
Chumru came to him. The bearer was no longer "Ali Khan," the
swashbuckler, but a white-robed domestic, though no change of attire
could rob him of the truculent aspect that was the gift of nature.

Beside Chumru stood another Mohammedan, an elderly man, who straightened
himself under the sahib's eye and brought up his right hand in a smart
military salute.

"Huzoor," said Chumru, "this is Ungud, Kumpani pinsin (a pensioner of
the Company), and he would have speech with the Presence."

"Speak, then, and quickly, for I have occupation," said Malcolm. But he
listened carefully enough to Ungud's words, for the man coolly proposed
to work his way to Lucknow and carry any message to Lawrence that the
General-sahib entrusted to him.

It was a desperate thing to suggest. The absence of native spies from
either Cawnpore or Lucknow proved that the rebels killed, and probably
tortured all who attempted to run the gauntlet of their investing lines.
Yet Ungud was firm in his offer, so Malcolm brought him to Havelock and
the general at once wrote and gave him a letter to Lawrence, the news of
the great Commissioner's death not having reached the relieving force.

Frank seized the opportunity to write a few lines to Winifred. He was
charged with the care of Ungud as far as the nearest river ghât, and he
scribbled the following as he rode thither:

                              BRITISH FIELD FORCE,
                                   CAWNPORE, July 20th, 1857.

     MY DEAREST WINIFRED:

     If this note is safely delivered, you will know that Sir Henry
     Havelock, at the head of a strong force, is on his way to
     relieve Lucknow. I am with him, as major on the staff.

     I reached Allahabad on the 4th, thanks wholly to your loving
     thought in sending Chumru after me, for I was a prisoner in the
     hands of a fanatical moulvie when Chumru came to my assistance.
     He saved my life there, and his quick-witted devotion was shown
     in many other instances during a most exciting journey. My
     thoughts are always with you, dear one, and I offer many a
     prayer to the Most High that you may retain your health and
     spirits amid the horrors that surround you. Be confident, dear
     heart, and bid your uncle tell his comrades of the garrison
     that we mean to cut our way to your rescue through all
     opposition.

     The bearer will endeavor to return with a reply to the general.
     Perhaps you may be able to send a line with him. In any event,
     I trust he will see you, and that will bring joy to my soul
     when I hear of it.

                              Ever your devoted
                                   FRANK.

By Havelock's order, a light, swift boat was placed at Ungud's disposal,
and Malcolm supplied him with plenty of money for horses and bribes on
the road, while, in the event of success, he would be liberally rewarded
afterwards.

Now it chanced that on the 20th, about the very hour Ungud set out on
his daring mission, the Moulvie of Fyzabad managed to goad his
co-religionists into a determined assault on the Residency.

At ten o'clock in the morning the bombardment suddenly ceased. The
garrison sentries noted an unusual gathering of the enemy's forces in
the streets and open spaces that confronted the Bailey Guard and the
other main posts on the city side.

They gave the alarm and every man rushed to the walls. Even the sick and
wounded left their beds. Men with the fire of fever in their eyes, men
with bandaged limbs and scarce able to crawl, asked for muskets and
lined up alongside their yet unscathed comrades.

They waited in grim silence, those war-worn soldiers of the Queen. The
signal for a furious struggle was given in dramatic fashion. A mine
exploded, a large section of the defending wall crumbled into ruins, a
hundred guns belched forth a perfect hail of round shot, sharpshooters
stationed in the neighboring houses fired their muskets as rapidly as
they could lift them from piles of loaded weapons at their command, and,
under cover of this fusillade, some three thousand rebels advanced to
the attack.

They came on with magnificent courage. They actually succeeded in
planting scaling-ladders across the breach, and their leader, a
fierce-looking cavalry rissaldar, leaped into the ditch and stood there,
right in front of the Cawnpore battery, waving a green standard to
encourage his followers.

He was shot by a man of the 32d, and his body formed the lowermost
layer of a causeway of corpses that soon choked the ditch. But the
concentrated fire of the defenders checked this most audacious of the
many assaults delivered during four hours' fighting. At two o'clock
the attack slackened and died away. The rebels had lost some hundreds,
while the British had only four men killed and twelve wounded.

There was much jubilation among the garrison at this outcome of the
long-expected and dreaded attack. It added to their spirit of
self-reliance, and it cast down the hopes of the mutineers to a
corresponding degree; because their moral inferiority was proved beyond
dispute. Like all Asiatics, they had not dared to press on in the face
of death. With one whole-hearted rush those three thousand fighters
could have swarmed into the Residency against all the efforts of the few
Europeans and natives who resisted them. But that rush was never made by
the assailants as a mass. Not once in the history of the Mutiny did the
sepoys adopt the "do or die" method that characterized the British
troops in nearly every action of the campaign.

When the moon rose on the night of the 21st a sharp-eyed sentry saw a
man creeping across the broken ground in front of the Bailey Guard.
He raised his rifle, but his orders were to challenge any one who
approached thus secretly, lest, perchance, a messenger from some
relieving force might be slain by error.

"Who goes there?" he cried.

"A friend," was the answer, but the rest of the stranger's words showed
that he was a native.

The sentry was no linguist.

"You _baito_[21] where you are," he commanded, bidding a comrade summon
an officer, "or somebody who can talk the lingo."

[Footnote 21: "Stop."]

Within a minute the newcomer was admitted. It was Ungud, who had run
the gauntlet of the enemy's pickets and who now triumphantly produced
Havelock's letter to "Larrence-sahib Bahadur." Alas, Henry Lawrence was
dead, but Brigadier Inglis, who succeeded him in the command, now learnt
that Havelock had defeated Nana Sahib, occupied Cawnpore, and was
advancing to the relief of Lucknow.

How the great news buzzed through the Residency! How men grasped each
other's hands in glee and exultation and sought leave to take the joyful
tidings to the hospital and the women's quarters!

Mayne aroused Winifred to tell her.

"Perhaps Malcolm was able to get through to Allahabad," he said. "When
you come to think of the difficulties in the way of our troops--this
man says they have fought three if not four pitched battles between
Fattehpore and Cawnpore--we have been unreasonable in looking for help
so soon."

"Mr. Malcolm would surely succeed if it were possible. He understands
the native character so well and is so proficient in their language,
that he was the best man who could be chosen for such a task."

And that was all that Winifred would say about "Mr. Malcolm," who would
have been the most miserable and the most astonished person in India
that night had he known how bitter was the girl's heart against him.

Though Winifred was not to blame, for the necklace and the pass offered
strong evidence of double-dealing on her lover's part, her unjust
suspicions were doomed to receive a severe shock.

In the morning she heard that Captain Fulton wished to see her. She left
her quarters by a covered way and waited outside the Begum Kotee until a
soldier found Fulton.

He came, bringing with him a native.

"This is the man who arrived from Cawnpore last night, Miss Mayne," he
said. "He has a letter for you, but he refuses to deliver it to any one
but yourself. I fancy," added the gallant engineer officer with a smile,
"that the sender impressed on him the importance of its reaching the
right hands."

Winifred caught a glimpse of Frank's handwriting. Her face grew scarlet.
For one delightful instant she forgot the harsh thoughts she had
harbored against him. Then the scourge of memory tortured her. Fulton's
kindly assumption that Malcolm was her fiancé must be dispelled and she
bit her lower lip in vexation at the tell-tale rush of color that had
mantled her cheeks when Ungud discharged his trust and gave her the
letter.

"It is from Captain Malcolm," she said coldly. "I suppose he wishes his
personal belongings to be safeguarded. I am surprised he did not write
to my uncle rather than to me."

Fulton was surprised, but he laughed lightly.

"Every one to his taste," he said; "but from what little I have seen of
Malcolm I should wager that nine out of ten letters addressed to the
Mayne family would be intended for you, Miss Winifred. By the way, a
word in your ear. General Inglis hopes to persuade our friend here to
try his luck on a return journey to-night. Perhaps you may have a note
to send on your own account. No one else must know. This is a special
favor, conferred because Malcolm himself procured Ungud's services, but
we cannot ask the man to act as general postman. Good-by."

He hurried away. Winifred, after the manner of woman, fingered the
unopened letter.

"Kuch joab hai, miss-sahib?" asked Ungud.

"There is no answer--yet. I will give you one later."

The girl's Hindustani went far enough to enable her to frame the reply
intelligibly. Ungud salaamed and left her, probably contrasting in his
own mind the lady's frigidity with the fervid instructions given him by
the officer-sahib.

Then Winifred went to her own room and opened her letter, and her
woman's heart gleaned the truth from its candor. Of course she cried.
What girl wouldn't? But she smiled through her tears and read the nice
bits over and over again. Not for twenty necklaces and a whole file of
hieroglyphic passes would she doubt Frank any more.

The reference to Chumru puzzled her and that was a gratifying thing in
itself, for if Frank could be mistaken about her share in Chumru's
departure from Lucknow, why should not she be wrong in her
interpretation of the mysterious presence of the necklace?

When her uncle came she wept again, being hysterical with the sheer joy
of watching his face while he perused Frank's note.

A man's bewilderment finds different expression to a woman's. A man
trusts his brain, a woman her heart.

"If there is one thing absolutely clear in this letter it is that Frank
knows nothing whatever about the pearls you produced from his turban,"
said Mr. Mayne, with the frown of a judge who is dealing with a knotty
point in equity.

"There are--several things--quite clear in it--to me," fluttered
Winifred.

"Ah, hum, yes. But I mean that it is ridiculous to suppose he would
knowingly leave such a valuable article exposed to the chances and
changes of barrack-room life in a siege. Whatever motive he may have had
in concealing the necklace earlier he would surely have said something
about it now, given some hint as to its value, asked you to take care of
his baggage, or something of the sort."

"In my heart of hearts I always felt that we were misjudging Frank,"
said she.

Mayne's eyebrows lifted a trifle, but he passed no comment.

"By the way," he said, "where is the necklace?"

"Here," she said, pulling a box out of a cupboard. The string of pearls
was coiled up in the midst of the roll of soiled muslin and the badge
was pinned to one of the folds.

"That is a very unsafe place," said Mayne. "If I were you I would wear
it beneath your bodice."

"Would you really?"

"Yes. I can think of no other explanation of the mystery now than that
Frank meant to surprise you with it. You may be sure he obtained it
honorably, so you will only be meeting his wishes by wearing it. At any
rate it will be safer in your possession than in that cupboard."

"Perhaps you are right," said she. And while she clasped the
diamond-studded brooch in front of her white throat she glanced round
the room for a mirror.

Her uncle smiled. He was glad that this little cloud had lifted off
Winifred's sky. The sufferings and positive dangers of the siege were
bad enough already without being added to by a private grief.

He stooped to pick up the turban and his eye fell on the regimental
device of the metal badge.

"This is not an officer's head-dress," he cried. "And Malcolm belongs to
the 3d Cavalry, whereas this badge was worn by a trooper in the 2d."

Winifred, who was turning her neck and shoulders this way and that to
get different angles of light, stopped admiring herself and ran to his
side.

"That is the turban Frank wore during our ride from Cawnpore," she
whispered breathlessly.

"It may be. But don't you remember that he was bareheaded when we met
him in Nana Sahib's garden? I was knocked almost insensible during the
fight for the boat so I am not sure what happened during the next few
minutes. Nevertheless, I can recall that prior fact beyond cavil. If it
were not for the safe-conduct you found at the same time as the pearls,
I would incline strongly to the belief that Frank obtained this turban
by accident, and is wholly ignorant of its extraordinary contents."

"I must write at once and tell him how sorry I am that I misjudged him."

"You dear little goose," cried her uncle amusedly, "Frank will begin to
wonder then what the judging was about. No. Wait until you meet. Write,
by all means, but leave problems for settlement during your first
tête-a-tête."

So Ungud carried in his turban a loving and sympathetic note, which
Winifred, with no small pride, addressed to "Major Frank Malcolm,
Headquarters Staff, British Field Force, Cawnpore," and she said inside,
among other things, that she hoped this would prove to be the first
letter he received with the inscription of his new rank.

Ungud also took confidential details from the Brigadier for Havelock's
information, and in three days, being as supple as an eel and cautious
as a leopard, he was back again with a reply from the general to the
effect that the relieving force would arrive in less than a week.

He brought another missive from Frank, cheery and optimistic in tone and
still blithely oblivious of the existence of such baubles as
hundred-thousand-dollar necklaces.

And that was all the news that either the garrison or Winifred received
for more than a month, when the intrepid Ungud again entered the lines
to bring Havelock's ominous advice: "Do not negotiate, but rather perish
sword in hand."

This time there was no letter from Frank, and the alarmed,
half-despairing girl could only learn that the major-sahib was not with
the column, which had been compelled to fall back on Cawnpore after some
heavy fighting in Oudh. Ungud did not think he was dead; but who could
tell? There were so many sahibs who fell, for out of his twelve hundred
Havelock had lost nearly half, and was now eating his heart out in a
weary wait for re-enforcements that were toiling up the thousand miles
of road and river from Calcutta.

So the blackness of disappointed hope fell on the Residency and its
inmates. Those few natives who had hitherto proved faithful began to
desert in scores. About a third of the European soldiers were dead.
Smallpox and cholera added their ravages to the enemy's unceasing fire
and occasional fierce assaults. Famine and tainted water, and lack of
hospital stores, and every evil device of malign fate that persecutes
people in such straits, were there to harass the unhappy defenders.
Officers and men swore that they would shoot their women-folk with their
own hands rather than permit them to fall into the rebels' clutches,
and, at times, when the siege slackened a little in its continuous
cannonade, the devoted community gave way to lethargy and despondency.

But let the enemy muster for an attack, these veteran soldiers faced
them with the dogged steadfastness that made them gods among the Asiatic
scum. The Brigadier, too, never allowed his splendid spirit to flag.
Though for three months he had not slept without being fully dressed,
though he worked harder than any other man in the garrison, he was the
life and soul of every outpost that he visited during the day or night.

Captain Fulton was another human dynamo in their midst. Finding plenty
of miners among the Cornishmen of the 32d, he sunk a countermine for
each mine burrowed by the enemy. His favorite amusement was to sit alone
for hours in a shaft, wait patiently until the rebels bored a way up to
him, and then shoot the foremost workers.

And in such fashion the siege went on, with houses collapsing, because
they were so riddled with cannon-balls that the walls gave way, and
ever-nearing sapping of the fortifications, and intolerable breaks in
the monsoon, when the heat became so overpowering that even the natives
yielded to the strain--and the days passed, and the weeks, and the
months, until, on September 16, Ungud, tempted by a bribe of five
thousand rupees, crept away for the last time with despatches for
Havelock.




CHAPTER XIV

WHY MALCOLM DID NOT WRITE


It was the saddest hour in Havelock's life when he decided that his
Invincibles must retreat. Yet, after another week's fighting, that
course was forced on him.

On July 25 he plunged fearlessly into Oudh, leaving a wide and rapid
river in his rear, with other rivers, canals, and fortified towns and
villages in front, on three sides swarms of determined enemies gathered
under the standards of Nana Sahib and the Oudh Taluqdars, and everywhere
a hostile if not actually mutinous peasantry.

With his usual daring, trusting to the unsurpassed élan of his troops,
he fought battles at Onao and Busseerutgunge. Then when the thunder of
the fighting was faintly heard by listeners in the Residency, Havelock
took thought and regretted that he had ventured to leave Cawnpore.

His force numbered about half the men who marched out of Allahabad on
the 7th. Cholera had broken out; stores were scanty; there was not a
single litter for another wounded man; and, worst of all, ammunition was
failing. To advance farther meant the total destruction of his little
army, the sure and instant fall of the Residency, and the disappearance
of the British flag from an enormous territory.

Yet he hesitated before he gave the final order. He fell back a couple
of marches and wrote to Neill on the 31st that he could "do nothing for
the relief of Lucknow," until he received a re-enforcement of a thousand
men and a new battery.

Neill, who was holding Cawnpore with three hundred rifles, returned the
most amazing reply that ever a subordinate officer addressed to his
chief.

"The natives don't believe you have won any real victories," he wrote,
in effect. "Your retreat has destroyed the prestige of England. While
you are waiting for re-enforcements that cannot arrive Lucknow will be
lost. You must advance again and not halt until you have rescued the
garrison. Then return here sharp, as there is much to be done between
this and Agra and Delhi."

Neill's zeal outran his discretion. Havelock told him in plain language
his opinion of this curious epistle.

"Your letter is the most extraordinary I have ever perused," he said....
"Consideration of the obstruction which would arise in the public
service alone prevents me from placing you under immediate arrest. You
now stand warned. Attempt no further dictation."

Yet Neill's advice rankled and there were men on Havelock's staff who
agreed with the outspoken Irishman. Neill, however, coolly bottled his
wrath and sent on a company of the 84th and three guns.

They brought despatches from Sir Patrick Grant, Commander-in-Chief at
Calcutta, telling Havelock that the troops sent from the capital had
been turned aside to deal with mutineers in Behar.

The gallant Crimean veteran therefore hardened his heart, set out once
more for Lucknow and fought another most successful battle at
Busseerutgunge. There could be no questioning either the victory or its
cost. Another such success and his column would not number a half
battalion.

That night he watched the weary soldiers digging graves for their fallen
comrades, and, while his brain was torn with conflicting problems, a spy
brought news that the powerful Gwalior Contingent was marching to seize
Cawnpore. He hesitated no longer. As a general he had no right to be
swayed by emotion. He must protect Cawnpore as a base and trust to the
fortune of war that Lucknow might keep the flag flying.

Malcolm was with him when he formed this resolution. Outwardly cold, Sir
Henry seemed to his youthful observer, who now knew him better, to
resemble a volcano coated with ice.

"Major," he said, "the column will retreat at daybreak. But I will get
my other aides to make arrangements. Are you quite recovered from your
wound? Are you capable of undergoing somewhat severe exertion, I mean?"

Frank answered modestly that he thought he had never been better in
health or strength, though he wondered inwardly what sort of exertion
could be more "severe" than his experiences of the preceding three
weeks.

But Havelock knew what he was talking about, as shall be seen.

"I want you to make the best of your way to Delhi," he said in his
unbending way. "I leave details to you, except that I would like you to
start to-night if possible. Of course any kind of escort that is
available would be fatal to your success, but, if I remember his record
rightly, that servant of yours may be useful. I do not propose to give
you any despatches. If you get through tell the Commander-in-Chief in
the Punjab exactly how we are situated here. Tell him Lucknow will not
be relieved for nearly two months, but that I will hold Cawnpore till
the last man falls. I hope and trust you may be spared to make the
journey in safety. If you succeed you will receive a gratuity and a step
in rank. Good-by!"

He held out his hand, and his calm eyes kindled for a moment. Then Frank
found himself walking to his tent and reviewing all that this meant to
Winifred and himself. He was none the less a brave man if his lips
trembled somewhat and there came a tightening of the throat that
suspiciously resembled a sob.

Two months! Could a delicate girl live so long in another such Inferno
at Lucknow as he had seen in Wheeler's abandoned entrenchment at
Cawnpore?

"God help us both!" he murmured bitterly, passing a hand involuntarily
over his misty eyes. With the action he brushed away doubt and fears. He
was a soldier again, one to whom hearing and obedience were identical.

"Chumru," he said, when he found his domestic scratching mud off a coat
with his nails for lack of a clothes-brush, "we set out for Delhi
to-night, you and I."

"All right, sahib," was the unexpected parry to this astounding thrust,
and Chumru kept on with his task.

"It is a true thing," said Malcolm, who knew full well that the
Mohammedan understood the extraordinary difficulty of such a mission.
"It is the General-sahib's order, and he wishes you to go with me. Will
you come?"

"Huzoor, have you ever gone anywhere without me since you came to my hut
that night when I was stricken with smallpox--"

"Only once, you rascal, and then you came after me to my great good
fortune. Very well, then; that is settled. Stop raising dust and listen.
We ride to-night. Let us discuss the manner of our traveling, for 'tis a
long road and full of mischief."

Chumru laid aside the garment and tickled his wiry hair underneath his
turban.

"By the Kaaba," he growled, "such roads lead to Jehannum more easily
than to Delhi. Do you go to the Princess Roshinara, sahib?"

Malcolm's overwrought feelings found vent in a hearty laugh.

"What fiend tempted thee to think of her, owl?" he cried.

"Nay, sahib, no fiend other than a woman. What else would bring your
honor to Delhi? Is there not occupation here in plenty?"

"I tell thee, image, that the General-sahib hath ordered it. And I am
making for the British camp on the Ridge, not for the city."

Chumru dismissed the point. He was a fatalist and he probably reserved
his opinion. Malcolm had beguiled the long night after they left Rai
Bareilly with the story of his strange meetings with the King's
daughter. To the Eastern mind there was Kismet in such happenings.

"I would you had not lost Bahadur Shah's pass, huzoor," he said. "That
would be worth a bagful of gold mohurs on the north road now. But, as
matters stand, we must fall back on walnut juice. You have blue eyes and
fair hair, alack, yet must we--"

"What! Wouldst thou make me a brother of thine?" demanded Malcolm,
understanding that the walnut juice was intended to darken his skin.

"There is no other way, huzoor. This is no ride of a night. We shall be
seven days, let us go at the best, and meeting budmashes at every mile.
If you did not talk Urdu like one of us, sahib, I should bid you die
here in peace rather than fall in the first village. Still, we may have
luck, and you can bandage your hair and forehead and swear that those
cursed Feringhis nearly cut your scalp off. But you must be rubbed all
over, sahib, until you are the color of brown leather, for we can have
no patches of white skin showing where, perchance, your garments are
rent."

Malcolm saw the wisdom of the suggestion and fell in with it. While
Chumru went to compound walnut juice in the nearest bazaar, he, in
pursuance of the plan they had concocted together, got a native writer
to compile a letter which purported to emanate from Nana Sahib, and was
addressed to Bahadur Shah. It was a very convincing document. Malcolm
contributed a garbled history of recent events, and one of the Brahmin's
seals, which came into Havelock's possession when Cawnpore was occupied,
lent verisimilitude to the script.

Then the Englishman covered himself with an oily compound that Chumru
assured him would darken his skin effectually before morning, though the
present effect was more obvious to the nose than to the eye. Chumru
donned his rissaldar Brahmin's uniform and Malcolm secured a similar
outfit from a native officer on the staff. Well-armed and well-mounted
the pair crossed the Ganges north of Bithoor, gained the Grand Trunk
Road and were far from the British column when they drew rein for their
first halt of more than an hour's duration.

They had adventures galore on the road to Delhi, but Chumru's repertory
of oaths anent the Nazarenes, and Malcolm's dignified hauteur as a
messenger of the man who ranked higher in the native world than the
octogenarian king, carried them through without grave risk. True, they
had a close shave or two.

Once a suspicious sepoy who knew every native officer in the 7th
Cavalry, to which corps "Rissaldar Ali Khan" was supposed to belong, had
to be quietly choked to death within earshot of a score of his own
comrades who were marching to the Mogul capital. On another occasion, a
moulvie, or Mohammedan priest, was nearly the cause of their undoing.
Malcolm was not sufficiently expert in the ritual of the Rêka and this
shortcoming aroused the devotee's ire, but he was calmed by Chumru's
assurance that his excellent friend, Laiq Ahmed, was still suffering
from the wound inflicted by the condemned Giaours, and the storm blew
over.

These incidents simply served to enliven a tedious journey. Its main
features were climatic discomfort and positive starvation. Rain storms,
hot winds, sweltering intervals of intolerable heat--these were vagaries
of nature and might be endured. But the absence of food was a more
serious matter. The passage to and fro of rebel detachments had
converted the Grand Trunk Road into a wilderness. The sepoys paid for
nothing and looted Mohammedans and Hindus alike. After two months of
constant pilfering the unhappy ryots had little left. For the most part
they deserted their hovels, gathered such few valuables as had escaped
the human locusts who devoured their substance, and either retreated to
remote villages or boldly sought a living in some other province.
Indeed, it may be said in all candor that the Mutiny caused far more
misery to the great mass of the people than to the foreign rulers
against whom it was supposed to be directed. The sufferings of the
English residents in India were terrible and the treatment meted out to
them was unspeakably vile, but for one English life sacrificed during
the country's red year there were five hundred natives killed by the
very men who professed to defend their interests.

Malcolm and Chumru were given proof in plenty of this fact as they rode
along. Generations of local feuds had taught the villagers to construct
their rude shanties in such wise that any place of fairly large
population formed a strong fort. Where the ryots were collected in
sufficient numbers to render such a proceeding possible, they armed
themselves not only against the British but against all the world.

Many times the travelers were fired at by men who took them for sepoys,
and they often found active hostilities in progress between a party of
desperate rebels who wanted food and a horde of sturdy villagers who
refused to treat with men in any sort of uniform.

Still, they managed to live. In the fields they found ripening grain and
an abundance of that small millet or pulse-pea known as gram, which is
the staple food of horses in India. Occasionally Malcolm shot a peacock,
but shooting birds with a revolver is a difficult sport and wasteful of
ammunition. Where hares were plentiful Chumru seldom failed to snare one
during the night. These were feast days. At other times they chewed
millet and were thankful for small mercies.

The journey occupied nearly twice the time of their original estimate.
Nejdi, good horse as he was, wanted a rest; Chumru's steed was liable to
break down any hour; and it was a sheer impossibility to obtain a
remount in that wasted tract.

All things considered it was a wonderful achievement when, on the
evening of the eleventh day, they began their last march.

They planned matters so that the Jumna lay between them and their goal.
When they left the tope of trees in which they had slept away the hot
hours their ostensible aim was the bridge of boats which carried the
Meerut road across the river into the imperial city.

That was their story if they fell in with company. In reality they meant
to leave the dangerous locality with the best speed their horses were
capable of. There could be no doubt that Delhi was the stronghold of the
mutineers. Even discounting by ninety per cent the grandiloquent stories
they heard, it was evident that the British still held the ridge, but
were rather besieged than besiegers. For the rest, the natives were
assured that the foreign rule had passed forever. Their version of the
position was that "great fighting took place daily and the Nazarenes
were being slaughtered in hundreds."

The one statement nullified the other. Malcolm reasoned, correctly
as it happened, that the British force was able to hold its own, but
not strong enough to take the city; that the Punjab was quiet and
that the general in command on the ridge was biding his time until
re-enforcements arrived. Therefore if Chumru and he could strike the
left bank of the Jumna, a few miles above Delhi, there should be no
difficulty in crossing the stream and reaching the British camp.

For once, a well-laid scheme did not reveal unforeseen pitfalls. He had
the good fortune to fall in with a corps of irregular horse scouting for
a half-expected flank attack by the rebels, in the gray dawn of the
morning of August 11. Chumru and he were nearly shot by mistake, but
that is ever the risk of those who wear an enemy's uniform, and by this
time, John Company's livery was quite discredited in the land which he,
in his corporate capacity, had opened up to Europeans.

Moreover, between dirt and walnut-stain Malcolm was like an animated
bronze statue, and it was good to see the incredulous expression on a
brother officer's face when he rode up with the cheery cry:

"By Jove, old fellow, I am glad to see you. I am Malcolm of the 3d
Cavalry, and I have brought news from General Havelock."

The leader of the scouting party, a stalwart subaltern of dragoons,
thought that it was a piece of impudence on the part of this "dark"
stranger to address him so familiarly.

"I happen to be acquainted with Mr. Malcolm--" he began.

"Not so well as I know him, Saumarez," said Frank, laughing. He had not
counted on his disguise being so complete. But the laugh proved his
identity, for there is more distinctive character in a man's mirth than
in any other inflection of the voice.

Saumarez testified to an amazed recognition in the approved manner of a
dragoon.

"Either you are Malcolm or I am bewitched," he cried. Then he looked at
Chumru.

"This gentleman, no doubt, is at least a brigadier," he went on. "But,
joking apart, have you really ridden from Allahabad?"

The question showed the lack of information of events farther south
that obtained in the Punjab. By this time the sepoys had torn down
the telegraph posts and cut the wires in all directions. Even between
Cawnpore and Calcutta, whenever they crossed the Grand Trunk Road they
destroyed the telegraph. As one of them said, looking up at a damaged
pole which was about to serve as his gallows:

"Ah, you are able to hang me now because that cursed wire strangled all
of us in our sleep."

His metaphor was correct enough. There is no telling what might have
been the course of history in India if the sepoys had stopped
telegraphic communication from the North to Calcutta early in May.

Malcolm gave Saumarez a summary of affairs in the Northwest Provinces
as they rode on ahead of the troop.

"And now," he said, "how do matters stand here?"

"You have used the right word," said the other. "Stand! That is just
what we are doing. We've had three commander-in-chiefs and each one is
more timid than his predecessor. Thank goodness Nicholson arrived four
days ago. Things will begin to move now."

"Is that the Peshawar Nicholson?" asked Frank, remembering that Hodson
had spoken of a man of that name, a man who would "horse-whip into the
saddle" a general who feared to assume responsibility.

"Yes. Haven't you seen him? By gad, he's a wonder. A giant of a fellow
with an eye like a hawk and a big black beard that seems, somehow, to
suggest a blacksmith. He turned up at our mess on the first evening he
was in camp. Everybody was laughing and joking as usual and he never
said a word. I didn't understand it at the time, but I noticed that
Nicholson just glowered at each man who told a funny story, and, by
degrees, we were all sitting like mutes at a funeral. Then he said, in a
deep voice that made us jump: 'When some of you gentlemen can spare me a
moment I shall be glad to hear what you have been doing here during the
last ten weeks.' There was no sneer in his words. We have had fighting
enough, Heaven knows, but we felt that by 'doing' he meant 'attacking,'
not 'defending.' Sure as death, he will create a stir. Indeed, the
leaven is working already. He sent me out here this morning, as he has
gone to meet the movable column from Lahore, and there was a rumor of a
sortie from Delhi to cut it off."

Malcolm fresh from association with Havelock realized that a grave and
serious-minded soldier could ill brook the jests and idle talk that
dominated the average military mess of the period.

"Nicholson sounds like the right man in the right place," he commented.

The dragoon vouched for it emphatically.

"He has put an end to pony-racing and quoits," said he, "and there is to
be no more fighting in our shirt sleeves. Bear in mind, we have had a
deuce of a time. I've been in twenty-one fights myself, and that is not
all. The sepoys usually swarm out hell-for-leather and we rush to meet
them. There is a scrimmage for an hour or so, we shove 'em back, Hodson
gets in a bit of saber-work, we pick up the wounded, tell off a burial
party, and start a cricket match or a gymkhana. Of course the fighting
is stiff while it lasts and my regiment has lost its two best bowlers, a
really sound bat and a crack rider in the pony heats. Still if we don't
lose any ground we gain none, and I can't help agreeing with Nicholson
that war isn't a picnic."

Frank managed not to smile at the naïveté of his companion. Though
Saumarez was nearly his own age he felt that their difference in rank
was not nearly so great as the divergence in their conception of the
magnitude of the task before Britain in India. Nevertheless Saumarez saw
that Nicholson was a force, and that was something.

"Is the Hodson you mention the same man who rode from Kurnaul to Meerut
before the affair of Ghazi-ud-din-Nuggur?" he asked.

"Yes, same chap. A regular firebrand and no mistake. He has gathered a
crowd of dare-devils known as Hodson's Horse, and they go into action
with a dash that I thought was only to be found in regular cavalry. But
here we are at our ghât. That is a weedy-looking Arab you are
riding--plenty of bone, though. Will he go aboard a budgerow without any
fuss?"

"Oh, yes. He will do most things," was the quiet reply.

Malcolm dismounted and fondled Nejdi's black muzzle. How little the
light-hearted dragoon guessed what those two had endured together! Nejdi
as a weed was a new rôle. For an instant Frank thought of making a match
with his friend's best charger after Nejdi had had a week's rest.

It was altogether a changed audience that Havelock's messenger secured
that evening when Nicholson rode to the ridge with the troops sent from
the north by Sir John Lawrence, Edwardes, and Montgomery, while the
generosity of Bartle Frere in sending from Scinde regiments he could ill
spare should be mentioned in the same breath.

Saumarez's "giant of a fellow" was there, and Archdale Wilson, the
commander-in-chief, and Neville Chamberlain, and Baird-Smith, and Hervey
Greathed. Inspired by the presence of such men Malcolm entered upon a
full account of occurrences at Lucknow, Cawnpore and elsewhere during
the preceding month. His hearers were aware of Henry Lawrence's death
and the beginning of the siege of Lucknow. They had heard of Massacre
Ghât, the Well, and Havelock's advance, but they were dependent on
native rumor and an occasional spy for their information, and Frank's
epic narrative was the first complete and true history that had been
given them.

He was seldom interrupted. Occasionally when he was tempted to slur over
some of the dangers he had overcome personally, a question from one or
other of the five would force him to be more explicit.

Naturally, he spoke freely of the magnificent exploits of Havelock's
column and he saw Nicholson ticking off each engagement, each tremendous
march, each fine display of strategic genius on the part of the general,
with an approving nod and shake of his great beard.

"You have done well, young man," said General Wilson when Frank's long
recital came to an end. "What rank did you hold on General Havelock's
staff?"

"That of major, sir."

"You are confirmed in the same rank here. I have no doubt your services
will be further recognized at the close of the campaign."

"If Havelock had the second thousand men he asked for he would now be
marching here," growled Nicholson.

No one spoke for a little while. The under meaning of the giant's words
was plain. Havelock had moved while they stood still. The criticism was
a trifle unjust, perhaps, but men with Napoleonic ideas are impatient
of the limitations that afflict their less powerful brethren. If India
were governed exclusively by Nicholsons, Lawrences, Havelocks, Hodsons,
and Neills, there would never have been a mutiny. It was Britain's rare
good fortune that they existed at all and came to the front when the
fiery breath of war had scorched and shriveled the nonentities who held
power and place at the outbreak of hostilities.

Then some one passed a remark on Frank's appearance. He was bareheaded.
The fair hair and blue eyes that had perplexed Chumru looked strangely
out of keeping with his brown skin.

"How in the world did you manage to escape detection during your ride
north?" he was asked.

He explained Chumru's device, and they laughed. Like Havelock,
Baird-Smith thought the Mohammedan would make a good soldier.

"With all his pluck, sir, he is absolutely afraid of using a pistol,"
said Frank. "He was offered the highest rank as a native officer, but he
refused it."

"Then, by gad, we must make him a zemindar. Tell him I said so and that
we all agree on that point."

When Frank gave the message to Chumru it was received with a demoniac
grin.

"By the Holy Kaaba," came the gleeful cry, "I told the Moulvie of
Fyzabad that I was in the way of earning a jaghir, and behold, it is
promised to me!"

Next day Malcolm, somewhat lighter in tint after a hot bath, made
himself acquainted with the camp. Seldom has war brought together such
a motley assemblage of races as gathered on the Ridge during the siege
of Delhi. The far-off isles of the sea were represented by men from
every shire, and Britain's mixed heritage in the East sent a bewildering
variety of types. Small, compactly built Ghoorkahs hobnobbed with
stalwart Highlanders; lively Irishmen made friends of gaunt, saturnine
Pathans; bearded Sikhs extended grave courtesies to pert-nosed Cockneys;
"gallant little Wales" might be seen tending the needs of wounded
Mohammedans from the Punjab. The language bar proved no obstacle to the
men of the rank and file. A British private would sit and smoke in
solemn and friendly silence with a hook-nosed Afghan, and the two would
rise cheerfully after an hour passed in that fashion with nothing in
common between them save the memory of some deadly thrust averted when
they fought one day in the hollow below Hindu Rao's house, or a draught
of water tendered when one or other lay gasping and almost done to death
in a struggle for the village of Subsee Mundee.

The British soldier, who has fought and bled in so many lands, showed
his remarkable adaptability to circumstances by the way in which he made
himself at home on the reverse slope of the Ridge. A compact town had
sprung up there with its orderly lines of huts and tents, its long rows
of picketed horses, commissariat bullocks and elephants, its churches,
hospitals, playgrounds, race-course and cemetery.

Malcolm took in the general scheme of things while he walked along the
Ridge towards the most advanced picket at Hindu Rao's House. On the left
front lay Delhi, beautiful as a dream in the brilliant sunshine. The
intervening valley was scarred and riven with water-courses, strewn with
rocks, covered with ruined mosques, temples, tombs, and houses, and
smothered in an overgrowth of trees, shrubs, and long grasses. Roads
were few, but tortuous paths ran everywhere, and it was easy to see how
the rebels could steal out unobserved during the night and creep close
up to the pickets before they revealed their whereabouts by a burst of
musketry. Happily they never learnt to reserve their fire. Every man
would blaze away at the first alarm, and then, of course, in those days
of muzzle-loaders, the more resolute British troops could get to close
quarters without serious loss. Still the men who held the Ridge had many
casualties, and until Nicholson came the rebel artillery was infinitely
more powerful than the British. Behind his movable column, however,
marched a strong siege train. When that arrived the gunners could make
their presence felt. Thus far not one of the enemy's guns had been
dismounted.

Frank had ocular proof of their strength in this arm before he
reached Hindu Rao's house. The Guides, picturesque in their loose,
gray-colored shirts and big turbans, sent one of their cavalry squadrons
over the Ridge on some errand. They moved at a sharp canter, but the
Delhi gunners had got the range and were ready, and half a dozen
eighteen-pound balls crashed into the trees and rocks almost in the
exact line of advance. A couple of guns on the British right took up the
challenge, and the duel went on long after the Guides were swallowed up
in the green depths of the valley.

At last Malcolm stood in the shelter-trench of the picket and gazed at
the city which was the hub of the Mutiny. Beyond the high, red-brick
walls he saw the graceful dome and minarets of the Jumma Musjid, while
to the left towered the frowning battlements of the King's palace. To
the left again, and nearer, was the small dome of St. James's Church
with its lead roof riddled then, as it remains to this day, with the
bullets fired by the rebels in the effort to dislodge the ball and cross
which surmounted it. For the rest his eyes wandered over a noble array
of mosques and temples, flat-roofed houses of nobles of the court and
residences of the wealthy merchants who dwelt in the imperial city.

The far-flung panorama behind the walls had a curiously peaceful aspect.
Even the puffs of white smoke from the guns, curling upwards like tiny
clouds in the lazy air, had no tremors until a heavy shot hurtled
overhead or struck a resounding blow at the already ruined walls of the
big house near the post.

The 61st were on picket that day and one of the men, speaking with a
strong Gloucestershire accent, said to Malcolm:

"Well, zur, they zay we'll be a-lootin' there zoon."

"I hope so," was the reply, but the phrase set him a-thinking.

Within that shining palace most probably was a woman to whom he owed his
life. In another palace, many a hundred miles away, was another woman
for whom he would willingly risk that life if only he could save her
from the fate that the private of the 61st was gloating over in
anticipation.

What a mad jumble of opposites was this useless and horrible war! At any
rate why could not women be kept out of it and let men adjust their
quarrel with the stern arbitrament of sword and gun!

Then he recalled Chumru's words anent the Princess Roshinara, and the
fancy seized him that if he were destined to enter Delhi with the
besiegers he would surely strive to repay the service she had rendered
Winifred and Mayne and himself at Bithoor.

That is the way man proposes and that is why the gods smile when they
dispose of man's affairs.




CHAPTER XV

AT THE KING'S COURT


Without guns to breach the walls, even the heroic Nicholson was
powerless against a strongly fortified city.

The siege train was toiling slowly across the Punjab, but the setting in
of the monsoon rendered the transit of heavy cannon a laborious task.

On the 24th of August an officer rode in from the town of Baghput,
twenty-five miles to the north, to report that the train was parked
there for the night.

"What sort of escort accompanies it?" asked Nicholson, when the news
reached him.

"Almost exclusively natives and few in numbers at that," he was told.

An hour later a native spy from Delhi came to the camp.

"The mutineers are mustering for a big march," he said. "They are
providing guns, litters, and commissariat camels, and the story goes
that they mean to fight the Feringhis at Bahadurgarh."

The place named was a large village, ten miles northwest of the ridge,
and Nicholson guessed instantly that the sepoys had planned the daring
coup of cutting off the siege train. With him, to hear was to act. He
formed a column of two thousand men and a battery of field artillery and
left the camp at dawn on the 25th. If a forced march could accomplish
it, he meant not only to frustrate the enemy's design but inflict a
serious defeat on them.

Malcolm went with him and never had he taken part in a harder day's
work. The road was a bullock track, a swamp of mud amid the larger swamp
of the ploughed land and jungle. Horses and men floundered through it as
best they might. The guns often sank almost to the trunnions; many a
time the infantry had to help elephants and bullocks to haul them out.

In seven hours the column only marched nine miles, and then came the
disheartening news that the spy's information was wrong. The rebels had,
indeed, sent out a strong force, but they were at Nujufgarh, miles away
to the right.

Officers and men ate a slight meal, growled a bit, and swung off in the
new direction. At four o'clock in the afternoon they found the sepoy
army drawn up behind a canal, with its right protected by another canal,
and the center and left posted in fortified villages. Evidently, too,
a stout serai, or inn, a square building surrounding a quadrangle set
apart for the lodgment of camels and merchandise was regarded as a
stronghold. Here were placed six guns and the walls were loopholed for
musketry.

In a word, had the mutineers been equal in courage and _morale_ to the
British troops, the resultant attack must have ended in disastrous
failure.

But Nicholson was a leader who took the measure of his adversaries.
Above all, he did not shirk a battle because it was risky.

The 61st made a flank march, forded the branch canal under fire and were
ordered to lie down. Nicholson rode up to them, a commanding figure on a
seventeen-hands English hunter.

"Now, 61st," he said, "I want you to take that serai and the guns. You
all know what Sir Colin Campbell told you at Chillianwallah, and you
have heard that he said the same thing at the battle of the Alma. 'Hold
your fire until you see the whites of their eyes,' he said, 'and then,
my boys, we will make short work of it.' Come on! Let us follow his
advice here!"

Swinging his horse around, he rode straight at serai and battery.
Grape-shot and bullets sang the death-song of many a brave fellow, but
Nicholson was untouched. The 61st leaped to their feet with a yell,
rushed after him, and did not fire a shot until they were within twenty
yards of the enemy. A volley and the bayonet did the rest. They captured
the guns, carried the serai, and pelted the flying rebels with their own
artillery. The 1st Punjabis had a stiff fight before they killed every
man in the village of Nujufgarh on the left, but the battle was won,
practically in defiance of every tenet of military tactics, when the
61st forced their way into the serai.

Utterly exhausted, the soldiers slept on the soddened ground. That
night, smoking a cigar with his staff, Nicholson commented on the skill
shown in the enemy's disposition.

"I asked a wounded havildar who it was that led the column, and he told
me the commander was a new arrival, a subadar of the 8th Irregular
Cavalry, named Akhab Khan," he said.

Malcolm started. Akhab Khan was the young sowar whose life he had spared
at Cawnpore when Winifred and her uncle and himself were escaping from
Bithoor.

"I knew him well, sir," he could not help saying. "He was not a subadar,
but a lance-corporal. He was one of a small escort that accompanied me
from Agra to the south, but he is a smart soldier, and not at all of the
cut-throat type."

Nicholson looked at him fixedly. He seemed to be considering some point
suggested by Malcolm's words.

"If men like him are obtaining commands in Delhi they will prove
awkward," was his brief comment, and Frank did not realize what his
chief was revolving in his mind until, three days later, the Brigadier
asked him to don his disguise again, ride to the southward, and endeavor
to fall in with a batch of mutineers on the way to Delhi. Then he could
enter the city, note the dispositions for the defense, and escape by
joining an attacking party during one of the many raids on the ridge.

"You will be rendering a national service by your deed," said Nicholson,
gazing into Frank's troubled eyes with that magnetic power that bent
all men to his will. "I know it is a distasteful business, but you are
able to carry it through, and five hours of your observation will be
worth five weeks of native reports. Will you do it?"

"Yes, sir," said Malcolm, choking back the protest on his lips. He could
not trust himself to say more. He refused even to allow his thoughts to
dwell on such a repellent subject. A spy! What soldier likes the office?
It stifles ambition. It robs war of its glamour. It may call for a
display of the utmost bravery--that calm courage of facing an ignoble
death alone, unheeded, forgotten, which is the finest test of chivalry,
but it can never commend itself to a high-spirited youth.

Frank had already won distinction in the field; it was hard to be chosen
now for such a doubtful enterprise.

His worst hour came when he sought Chumru's aid in the matter of
walnut-juice.

"What is toward, sahib?" asked the Mohammedan. "Have we not seen enough
of India that we must set forth once more?"

"This time I go alone," said Frank, sadly. "Perchance I shall not be
long absent. You will remain here in charge of my baggage and of certain
letters which I shall give you."

"Why am I cast aside, sahib?"

"Nay. Say not so. 'Tis a matter that I must deal with myself, and not
of my own wish, Chumru. I obey the general-sahib's order."

"Jan Nikkelsen-sahib Bahadur?"

"Yes. I would refuse any other. But haste thee, for time presses."

Chumru went off. He returned in half an hour, to find his master sealing
a letter addressed to "Miss Winifred Mayne, to be forwarded, if
possible, with the Lucknow Relief Force."

There were others to relatives in England, and Frank tied them in a
small packet.

"If I do not come back within a week--" he began.

"Nay, sahib, give not instructions to me in the matter. I go with you."

"It is impossible."

"Huzoor, it is the order of Jan Nikkelsen-sahib Bahadur. He says I will
be useful, and he hath promised me another jaghir."

The Mohammedan's statement was true enough. He had waylaid Nicholson and
obtained permission to accompany his master. Like a faithful dog he was
not to be shaken off, and, in his heart of hearts, Malcolm was glad of
it.

Their preparations were made with the utmost secrecy. The same men who
sold Bahadur Shah's cause to the British were also the professed spies
of the rebels. They were utterly unreliable, yet their tale-bearing in
Delhi might bring instant disaster to Malcolm and his native comrade.

Nejdi was in good condition again after the tremendous exertions
undergone since he carried his master from Lucknow. Malcolm was in two
minds whether to take him or not, but the chance that his life might
depend on a reliable horse, and, perhaps, a touch of the gambler's
belief in luck, swayed his judgment, and Nejdi was saddled. Chumru rode
a spare charger which Malcolm had purchased at the sale of a dead
officer's effects. Fully equipped in their character as rebel
non-commissioned officers, the two rode forth, crossed the Jumna,
reached the Meerut road unchallenged and turned their horses' heads
toward the bridge of boats that debouched beneath the walls of the
King's palace.

Provided they met some stragglers on the road they meant to enter the
city with the dawn. By skilful expenditure of money on Malcolm's part
and the exercise of Chumru's peculiar inventiveness in maintaining a
flow of lurid language, they counted on keeping their new-found comrades
in tow while they made the tour of the city. The curiosity of strangers
would be quite natural, and Malcolm hoped they might be able to slip out
again with some expedition planned for the night or the next morning.

Of course, having undertaken an unpleasant duty he intended to carry it
through. If he did not learn the nature and extent of the enemy's
batteries, the general dispositions for the defense and the state of
feeling among the different sections that composed the rebel garrison,
he must perforce remain longer. But that was in the lap of fate. At
present he could only plan and contrive to the best of his ability.

Fortune favored the adventurers at first. They encountered a score of
ruffians who had cut themselves adrift from the Gwalior contingent.
Among these strangers Chumru was quickly a hero. He beguiled the way
with tales of derring-do in Oudh and the Doab, and discussed the future
of all unbelievers with an amazing gusto. Malcolm, whose head was
shrouded in a gigantic and blood-stained turban, listened with interest
to his servant's account of the actions outside Cawnpore and on the road
to Lucknow. It was excellent fooling to hear Chumru detailing the
wholesale slaughter of the Nazarenes, while the victors, always the
sepoys, found it advisable to fall back on a strategic position many
miles in the rear after each desperate encounter.

In this hail-fellow-well-met manner the party crossed the bridge, were
interrogated by a guard at the Water Gate and admitted to the fortress.
It chanced that a first-rate feud was in progress, and the officer,
whose duty it was to question new arrivals, was taking part in it.

Money was short in the royal treasury. Many thousands of sepoys had
neither been paid nor fed; there was a quarrel between Mohammedans and
Hindoos, because the former insisted on slaughtering cattle; and the
more respectable citizens were clamoring for protection from the
rapacity, insolence and lust of the swaggering soldiers.

That very day matters had reached a climax. Malcolm found a brawling mob
in front of the Lahore gate of the palace. He caught Chumru's eye and
the latter appealed to a sepoy for information as to the cause of the
racket.

"The King of Kings hath a quarrel with his son, Mirza Moghul, who is not
over pleased with the recent division of the command," was the answer.

"What, then? Is there more than one chief?"

"To be sure. Is there not the Council of the Barah Topi? (Twelve Hats.)
Are not Bakht Khan and Akhab Khan in charge of brigades? Where hast thou
been, brother, that these things are not known to thee?"

"Be patient with me, I pray thee, friend. I and twenty more, whom thou
seest here, have ridden in within the hour. We come to join the Jehad,
and we are grieved to find a dispute toward when we expected to be led
against the infidels."

The sepoy laughed scornfully.

"You will see as many fights here as outside the walls," he muttered,
and moved off, for men were beginning to guard their tongues in Imperial
Delhi.

A rowdy gang of full five hundred armed mutineers marched up and hustled
the mob right and left as they forced a way to the gate. Their words and
attitude betokened trouble. The opportunity was too good to be lost.
Malcolm dismounted, gave the reins to Chumru, and told him to wait his
return under some trees, somewhat removed from the road, for Akhab Khan
had sharp eyes, and the Mohammedan's grotesque face was well known to
him. Chumru made a fearsome grimace, but Malcolm's order was peremptory.
Summoning a fruit-seller, the bearer led the Gwalior men to the
rendezvous named and distributed mangoes amongst them.

Frank joined the ruck of the demonstrators and passed through the
portals of the magnificent gate. A long, high-roofed arcade, spacious as
the nave of a cathedral, with raised marble platforms for merchants on
each side, gave access to a quadrangle. In the center stood a fountain,
and round about were grassy lawns and beds of flowers.

The sepoys tramped on, heedless of the destruction they caused in the
garden. They passed through the noble Nakar Khana, or music-room, and
entered another and larger square, at the further end of which stood the
Diwan-i-Am, or Hall of Public Audience.

Not even in Agra, and certainly not in gaudy Lucknow, had Malcolm seen
any structure of such striking architectural effect. The elegant roof
was supported on three rows of red sandstone pillars, adorned with
chaste gilding and stucco-work. Open on three sides, the audience
chamber was backed by a wall of white marble, from which a staircase led
to a throne raised about ten feet from the ground and covered with a
rarely beautiful marble canopy borne on four small pillars.

The throne was empty, but an attendant appeared through the door at the
foot of the stairs, and announced that the Light of the World would
receive his faithful soldiers in a few minutes.

The impatient warriors snorted their disapproval. They did not like to
be kept waiting, but carried their resentment no further, and Malcolm,
with alert eyes and ears, moved about among them, as by that means he
hoped to avoid attracting attention.

Even in that moment of deadly peril he could not help admiring the
exquisite skill with which the great marble wall was decorated with
mosaics and paintings of the fauna and flora of India. The mosaics were
wholly composed of precious stones, and the paintings were executed in
rich tints that told of a master hand. There was nothing bizarre or
crude in their conception. They might have adorned some Athenian temple
in the heyday of Greece, and were wholly free from the stiff drawing and
flamboyant coloring usually seen in the East. He did not then know that
a renegade Venetian artist, Austin de Bordeaux, had carried out this
work for Shah Jehan, that great patron of the arts, and in any event,
his appreciation of their excellence was spasmodic, for the broken words
he heard from the excited soldiery warned him that a crisis was imminent
in the fortunes of Delhi.

"Who is he, then, this havildar of gunners from Bareilly?" said one.

"And the other, Akhab Khan. They say he fought for the Nazarenes at
Meerut. Mohammed Latif swears he defended the treasury there," chimed in
another.

"As for me, I care not who leads. I want my pay."

"I, too. I have not eaten since sunrise yesterday."

"We shall get neither food nor money till some one clears those accursed
Feringhis off the hill," growled a deep voice close behind Malcolm.

There was something familiar in the tone. Frank edged away and glanced
at the speaker, whom he recognized instantly as a subadar in his own old
regiment.

But now a craning of necks and a sudden hush of the animated talk showed
that some development was toward. Servants entered with cushions, which
they disposed round the foot of the throne and at the base of its
canopy. A few nobles and court functionaries lounged in, two gorgeously
appareled guards came through the doorway, and behind them tottered a
feeble old man, robed in white, and wearing on his head an aigrette of
Bird of Paradise plumes, fastened with a gold clasp in which sparkled an
immense emerald.

Malcolm had seen Bahadur Shah only once before. He remembered how
decorous and dignified was the Mogul court when Britain paid honor to an
ancient dynasty. And now, what a change! The aged emperor had to lift a
trembling hand to obtain a hearing, while, ever and anon, even during
his short address, belated officers and troopers clattered in on
horseback, and did not dismount within the precincts of the sacred Hall
of Audience itself.

He began by explaining timorously that while affairs remained in their
present unsettled condition he could not arrange matters as he would
have wished. He knew that there were arrears of pay and that the food
supply was irregular.

"But you do not help me," he said, with some display of spirit.
"Respectable citizens tell me that you plunder their houses and debauch
their wives and daughters. I have issued repeated injunctions
prohibiting robbery and oppression in the city, but to no avail."

He was interrupted with loud murmurs.

"What matters it about the bazaar-folk, O King," yelled a sepoy. "We
want food, not a sermon."

The Emperor seemed to fire up with indignation at the taunt, but he sank
into the chair on the throne. He raised a hand twice to quiet the mob,
and at last they allowed him to continue.

"I am weary and helpless," he said faintly. "I have resolved to make a
vow to pass the remainder of my life in service acceptable to Allah. I
will relinquish my title and take the garb of a moullah. I am going to
the shrine of Khwaja Sahib, and thence to Mecca, where I hope to end my
sorrowful days."

This was not the sort of consolation that the mob expected or wanted. A
howl of execration burst forth, but it was stayed by the entrance of two
people from the private portion of the palace.

There was no need that Malcolm should ask who the pale, haughty,
beautiful woman was who came and stood by her father's side. Roshinara
Begum did not share the Emperor's dejection. She faced the rebels now
with the air of one who knew them for the _canaille_ they were. But that
was only for an instant. A consummate actress, she had a part to play,
and she bent and whispered something to Bahadur Shah with a great show
of pleased vivacity.

A man who accompanied her stepped to the front of the throne, and his
words soon revealed to Malcolm that he was listening to the Shahzada,
the heir apparent, Mirza Moghul.

"Why do you come hither to disturb the King's pious meditations?" he
cried angrily. "You were better employed at the batteries, where your
loyal comrades are now firing a salute of twenty-one guns to celebrate
the capture of Agra by the Neemuch Brigade."

He paused. His statement was news to all present, as, indeed, it well
might be, seeing that it was a lie. But his half petulant, half boastful
tone was convincing, and several voices were raised in a cry of
"Shabash! Good hearing!"

"This is no time to create mischief and disunion," he went on loudly.
"Help is coming from all quarters. Gwalior, Jhansi, Neemuch and Lucknow
are sending troops to aid us. In three or four days, if Allah be
willing, the Ridge will be taken, and every one of the base unbelievers
humbled and ruined and sent to the fifth circle of hell."

The man had the actor's trick of making his points. Waiting until an
exultant roar of applause had died away, he delivered his most effective
hit.

"At the very time you dared to burst in on the Emperor's privacy he was
arranging a loan with certain local bankers that will enable all arrears
of pay to be made up. To-day there will be a free issue of cattle, grain
and rice. Go, then! Tell these things to all men, and trust to the King
of Kings and his faithful advisers, of whom I am at once the nearest and
the most obedient, to lead you to victory against the Nazarenes."

For the hour these brave words sufficed. The sepoys trooped out and
Malcolm went with them. A backward glance revealed the princess and her
brother engaged in a conversation with Bahadur Shah and a courtier or
two. Their gestures and manner of argument did not bear out the joyful
tidings brought to the conclave by the Shahzada. Indeed, Frank guessed
that they were soundly rating the miserable monarch for having allowed
himself to speak so plainly to his beloved subjects.

Malcolm knew there was not a word of truth in Mirza Moghul's brief
speech. The Gwalior contingent had gone to Cawnpore. All the men
Bareilly had to send had already arrived with Bakht Khan, the "havildar
of artillery," who was now the King's right hand man. Jhansi, Neemuch
and Lucknow had enough troubles of their own without helping Delhi, and,
as for the bankers' aid, it was easy to guess the nature of the "loan"
that the Emperor hoped to extract from them.

Indeed, while Malcolm and Chumru and their new associates were wandering
through the streets and making the circuit of the western wall, there
was another incipient riot in the fort. Delay in issuing the promised
rations enraged the hungry troops. A number hurried again to the
Diwan-i-Am, clamored for the king's presence, and told him roundly that
he ought to imprison his sons, who, they said, had stolen their pay.

"If the Treasury does not find the money," was the threat, "we will kill
you and all your family, for we are masters."

This later incident came to Malcolm's ears while Chumru was persuading a
grain-dealer to admit that he had some corn hidden away. The sight of
money unlocked the man's lips.

"Would there were more like you in the King's service," he whined. "I
have not taken a rupee in the way of trade since the huzoors were driven
forth."

It was easy enough to interpret the unhappy tradesman's real wishes. He
was pining for the restoration of the British Raj. Every man in Delhi,
who had anything to lose, mourned the day that saw the downfall of the
Sirkar.[22]

[Footnote 22: The Government.]

"Affairs go badly, then," Malcolm put in. "Speak freely, friend. We are
strangers, and are minded to go back whence we came, for there is naught
but misrule in the city so far as we can see."

"What can you expect from an old man who writes verses when he should be
punishing malefactors?" said the grain-dealer, bitterly anxious to vent
his wrongs. "If you would act wisely, sirdar, leave this bewitched
place. It is given over to devils. I am a Hindu, as you know, but I am
worse treated by the Brahmins than by men of your faith."

"Mayhap you have quarreled with some of the sepoys and have a sore
feeling against them?"

"Think not so, sirdar. Who am I to make enemies of these lords? Every
merchant in the bazaar is of my mind, and I have suffered less than
many, for I am a poor man and have no family."

In response to Chumru's request the grain-dealer allowed the men to cook
their food in an inner courtyard. While Malcolm extracted additional
details as to the chaos that reigned in the city the newcomers from
Gwalior consulted among themselves. They had seen enough to be convinced
that there were parts of India much preferable to Delhi for residential
purposes.

"Behold, sirdar!" said one of them after they had eaten, "you led us in,
and now we pray you lead us out again. There are plenty here to fight
the Feringhis, and we may be more useful at Lucknow."

Malcolm could have laughed at the strangeness of his position, but he
saw in this request the nucleus of a new method of winning his way
beyond the walls.

"Bide here," he said gruffly, "until Ali Khan and I return, which we
will surely do ere night. Then we shall consider what steps to take. At
present, I am of the same mind as you."

He wanted to visit the Cashmere Gate and examine its defenses. Then, he
believed, he would have obtained all the information that Nicholson
required. He was certain that Delhi would fall if once the British
secured a footing inside the fortifications. The city was seething with
discontent. Even if left to its own devices it would speedily become
disrupted by the warring elements within its bounds.

Chumru and he rode first to the Mori Gate. Thence, by a side road, they
followed the wall to the Cashmere Gate. Traveling as rapidly as the
crowded state of the thoroughfare permitted and thus wearing the
semblance of being engaged on some urgent duty, they counted the guns
in each battery and noted their positions.

Arrived at the Cashmere Gate they loitered there a few minutes. This was
the key of Delhi. Once it was won, a broad road led straight to the
heart of the city, with the palace on one hand and the Chandni Chowk on
the other.

Malcolm saw with a feeling of unutterable loathing that the mutineers
had converted St. James's Church into a stable. Not so had the founder,
Colonel James Skinner, treated the religions of the people among whom he
lived. The legend goes that the gallant soldier, a veteran of the
Mahratta wars, had married three wives, an Englishwoman, a Mohammedan,
and a Hindu. His own religious views were of the nebulous order, but, so
says the story, being hard pressed once in a fight, he vowed to build a
church to his wife's memory if he escaped. His assailants were driven
off and the vow remained. When he came to give effect to it he was
puzzled to know which wife he should honor, so he built a church, a
mosque and a temple, each at a corner of the triangular space just
within the Cashmere Gate.

Whether the origin of the structures is correctly stated or not, they
stand to this day where Skinner's workmen placed them, and it was a
dastardly act on the part of men who worshiped in mosque and temple to
profane the hallowed shrine of another and far superior faith.

Malcolm was sitting motionless on Nejdi, looking at a squad of rebels
erecting fascines in front of a new battery on the river side of the
gate, when Chumru, whose twisted vision seemed to command all points of
the compass, saw that the commander of a cavalry guard stationed there
was regarding them curiously.

"Turn to the right, huzoor," he muttered.

Malcolm obeyed instantly. The warning note in Chumru's voice was not to
be denied. It would be folly to wait and question him.

"Now let us canter," said the other, as soon as the horses were fairly
in the main road.

"You did well, sahib, to move quickly. There was one in the guard yonder
whose eyes grew bigger each second that he looked at you."

They heard some shouting at the gate. A bend in the road near the ruined
offices of the _Delhi Gazette_ gave them a chance of increasing the pace
to a gallop. There was a long, straight stretch in front, leading past
the Telegraph Office, the dismantled magazine, and a small cemetery.
Then the road turned again, and by a sharp rise gained the elevated
plateau on which stood the fort.

Glancing over his shoulder at this point, Malcolm caught sight of a
dozen sowars riding furiously after them. To dissipate any hope that
they might not be in pursuit, he saw the leader point in his direction
and seemingly urge on his comrades. It was impossible to know for
certain what had roused this nest of hornets, though the presence of a
man of the 3d Cavalry in the palace that morning was a sinister fact
that led to only one conclusion. No matter what the motive, he felt that
Chumru and he were trapped. There was no avenue of escape. Whether they
went ahead or made a dash for the city, their pursuers could keep them
well in sight, as their tired horses were incapable of a sustained
effort at top speed after having been on the move nearly twenty hours.

He had to decide quickly, and his decision must be governed not by
personal considerations but by the needs of his country. If he had been
recognized, the enemy would follow him. Therefore, Chumru might outwit
them were he given a chance.

"Listen, good friend," he shouted as they clattered up the hill. "Thou
seest the tope of trees in front."

"Yes, sahib."

"This, then, is my last order, and it must be obeyed. When we reach
those trees we will bear off towards the palace. Pull up there and
dismount. Give me the reins of your horse, and hide yourself quickly
among the trees. I shall ride on, and you may be able to dodge into some
ditch or nullah till it is dark. Rejoin those men from Gwalior if
possible, and try to get away from the city. Tell the General-sahib what
you have seen and that I sent you. Do you understand?"

"Huzoor!--"

"Silence! Wouldst thou have me fail in my duty? It is my parting wish,
Chumru. There is no time for words. Do as I say, or we both die
uselessly."

There was no answer. The Mohammedan's eyes blazed with the frenzy of a
too complete comprehension of his master's intent. But now they were
behind the trees, and Malcolm was already checking Nejdi. Chumru flung
himself from the saddle and ran. Cowering amid some shrubs of dense
foliage, he watched Malcolm dashing along the road to the Lahore Gate of
the palace. A minute later the rebels thundered past, and they did not
seem to notice that one of the two horses disappearing in the curved
cutting that led to the drawbridge and side entrance of the gate was
riderless.

Chumru ought to have taken immediate measures to secure his own safety.
But he did nothing of the kind. He lay there, watching the hard-riding
horsemen, and striving most desperately to do them all the harm that the
worst sort of malign imprecations could effect. They, in turn, vanished
in the sunken approach to the fortress, and the unhappy bearer was
imagining the horrible fate that had befallen the master, whom he loved
more than kith or kin, when he saw the same men suddenly reappear and
gallop towards the Delhi Gate, which was situated at a considerable
distance.

Something had happened to disappoint and annoy them--that much he could
gather from their gestures and impassioned speech. Whatever it was,
Malcolm-sahib apparently was not dead yet, and while there is life there
is hope.

Chumru proceeded to disrobe. He kicked off his boots, untied his
putties, threw aside the frock-coat and breeches of a cavalry
rissaldar, and stood up in the ordinary white clothing of a native
servant.

"Shabash!" muttered he, as he unfastened the military badge in his
turban. "There is nothing like a change of clothing to alter a man. Now
I can follow my sahib and none be the wiser."

With that he walked coolly into the roadway and stepped out leisurely
towards the Lahore Gate. But he found the massive door closed and the
drawbridge raised, and a gruff voice bade him begone, as the gate would
not be opened until the King's orders were received.




CHAPTER XVI

IN THE VORTEX


Malcolm was not one to throw his life away without an effort to save it.
Once, during a visit to Delhi, Captain Douglas, the ill-fated commandant
of the Palace Guards, had taken him to his quarters for tiffin. As it
happened, the two entered by the Delhi Gate and walked through the
gardens and corridors to Douglas's rooms, which were situated over the
Lahore Gate. Thus he possessed a vague knowledge of the topography of
the citadel, and his visit that morning had refreshed his memory to a
slight extent. On that slender reed he based some hope of escape. In any
event he prayed that his ruse might better Chumru's chances, and he
promised himself a soldier's death if brought to bay inside the palace.

Crossing the drawbridge at a fast gallop, he saw a number of guards
looking at him wonderingly. It occurred to him that the exciting events
of the early hours might have led to orders being given on the question
of admitting sepoys in large numbers. If that were so, he might gain
time by a bit of sheer audacity. At any rate, there was no harm in
trying. As he clattered through the gateway he shouted excitedly:

"Close and bar the door! None must be admitted without the King's
special order!"

The spectacle of a well-mounted sepoy officer, blood-stained and
travel-worn, who arrived in such desperate haste and was evidently
pursued by a body of horse, so startled the attendants that they banged
and bolted the great door without further ado.

Already the story was going the rounds that the precious life of Bahadur
Shah had actually been threatened by the overbearing sepoys--what more
likely than that this hard-riding officer was coming to apprise his
majesty of a genuine plot, while the flying squadron in the rear was
striving to cut him down before the fateful message was delivered?

Not to create too great a stir, Malcolm pulled up both horses at the
entrance to the arcade.

He called a chaprassi and bade him hold Chumru's steed. Then, learning
from the uproar at the gate that the guards were obeying his
instructions literally, he went on at an easier pace.

The palace was humming with excitement. Its numerous buildings housed a
multitude of court nobles and other hangers-on to the court, and each of
these had his special coterie of attendants who helped to advance their
own fortunes by clinging to their master's skirts. The jealousies and
intrigues that surround a throne were never more in evidence than at
Delhi during the last hours of the Great Mogul. Already men were
preparing for the final catastrophe. While the ignorant mob was firm in
its belief that the rule of the sahib had passed forever, those few
clearer-headed persons who possessed any claim to the title of statesmen
were convinced that the Mutiny had failed.

Nearly four months were sped since that fatal Sunday when the rebellion
broke out at Meerut. And what had been achieved? Delhi, the pivot of
Mohammedan hopes, was crowded with a licentious soldiery, who obeyed
only those leaders that pandered to them, who fought only when some
perfervid moullah aroused their worst passions by his eloquence, and who
were terrible only to peaceful citizens. All public credit was
destroyed. The rule of the King, nominal within the walls of his own
palace, was laughed at in the city and ignored beyond its walls. The
provincial satraps and feudatory princes who should be striving to help
their sovereign were wholly devoted to the more congenial task of
carving out kingdoms for themselves.

Nana Sahib, rehabilitated in Oudh, was opposing Havelock's advance; Khan
Bahadur Khan, an ex-pensioner of the Company, had set up a barbarous
despotism at Bareilly; the Moulvie of Fyzabad, intent on the destruction
of the Residency, meant to establish himself there as "King of
Hindustan" if only that stubborn entrenchment could be carried; Mahudi
Husain, Gaffur Beg, Kunwer Singh, the Ranee of Jhansi, and a host of
other prominent rebels scattered throughout Oudh, Bengal, the Northwest
Provinces and Central India, cared less for Delhi than for their own
private affairs, and were consequently permitting the British to gather
forces by which they could be destroyed piecemeal.

From Nepaul, the great border state, lying behind the pestilential
jungle of the Terai, came an army of nine thousand Ghoorkahs to help the
British. At Hyderabad, the most powerful Mohammedan principality in
India, the Nizam and his famous minister, Sir Salar Jung, crushed a
Jehad with cannon and grape-shot. In a word, the orgy had ended, and the
day of reckoning was near.

Malcolm, therefore, was confronted with two separate and hostile sets of
conditions. On the one hand, he was threading his way through a maze of
conflicting interests, and this was a circumstance most favorable to his
chances of escape; on the other, every man regarded his neighbor with
distrust and a stranger with positive suspicion, while Malcolm's
distinguished appearance could not fail to draw many inquiring eyes.

He crossed the large garden beyond the arcade and was making for an arch
that gave access to the long covered passage leading to the Delhi Gate,
when he saw Akhab Khan standing there.

The rebel leader was deep in converse with a richly-attired personage
whom Frank discovered afterwards to be the Vizier. Near Akhab Khan an
escort of sowars stood by their horses, and Malcolm felt that the
instant the former lance-corporal set eyes on either Nejdi or himself
recognition would follow as surely as a vulture knows its prey.

He could neither dawdle nor hesitate. Wheeling Nejdi towards the nearest
arch on the left, he found himself in an open space between the walls of
the fortress and the outer line of buildings. Underneath the broad
terrace, from which troops could defend the battlements, stood a row of
storerooms and go-downs. At a little distance he could distinguish a
line of stables, and the mere sight sent the blood dancing through his
veins.

If only he could evade capture until nightfall he would no longer feel
that each moment might find him making a last fight against impossible
odds. Dismounting, he led Nejdi to an unoccupied stall. As there was
nothing to be gained by half measures he removed saddle and bridle, hung
them on a peg, put a halter on the Arab, adjusted the heel-ropes, and
hunted the adjoining stalls for forage.

He came upon some gram in a sack and a quantity of hay. All provender
was alike to Nejdi so long as it was toothsome. He was soon busily
engaged, and Malcolm resolved to avoid observation by grooming him when
any one passed whose gaze might be too inquisitive.

He took care that sword and revolvers were handy. It was hard to tell
what hue and cry might be raised by the troopers against whom the guards
had closed the Lahore Gate. Perhaps they were searching for two men and
the finding of one horse in charge of a chaprassi might suggest that the
rider of the other and his companion had dodged through the Delhi Gate.
Again, his pursuers might have galloped straight to the other exit and
thus made certain that he was still in the palace. If that were so and
they ferreted him out, as well die here as elsewhere. Meanwhile, he
chewed philosophically at a few grains of the gram and awaited the
outcome of events that were now beyond his control.

A wild swirl of wind and rain seemed to favor him. There was not much
traffic past his retreat, and that little ceased when a deluge lashed
the dry earth and clouds of vapor rose as though the water were beating
on an oven. Now and again a syce hurried past, with head and shoulders
enveloped in a sack. Once a party of sepoys trudged through the mud,
towards the water bastion of the palace, and the men whom they had
relieved came back the same way a few minutes later.

Nejdi had seldom been groomed so vigorously as during the passing of
these detachments, but no one gave the slightest heed to the cavalry
officer who was engaged on such an unusual task. If they noticed him at
all it was to wonder that he could be such a fool as to work when there
were hundreds of loafers in the city who could be kicked to the job.

The rain storm changed into a steady drizzle and the increasing gloom
promised complete darkness within half an hour. Malcolm was beginning to
plan his movements when he became aware of a man wrapped in a heavy
cloak who approached from the direction of the arcade and peered into
every nook and cranny.

"Now," thought Frank, "comes my first real difficulty. That man is
searching for some one. Whether or not he seeks me he is sure to speak,
and if my presence has been reported he will recognize both Nejdi and me
instantly. If so, I must strangle him with as little ceremony as
possible."

The newcomer came on. In the half light it was easy to see that he was
not a soldier but a court official. Indeed, before the searcher's glance
rested on the gray Arab, munching contentedly in his stall, or the tall
sowar who stood in obscurity near his head, Frank felt almost sure that
he was face to face with the trusted confidant who had carried out
Roshinara Begum's behests in the garden at Bithoor.

That fact saved the native's life. The Englishman would have killed him
without compunction were it not for the belief that the man was actually
looking for him and for none other, and with friendly intent, too, else
he would have brought a bodyguard.

Sure enough, the stranger's first words were of good import. He could
not see clearly into the dark stable and it was necessary to measure
one's utterances in Delhi just then.

"If you are one who rode into Delhi this morning I would have speech
with you," he muttered softly.

"Say on," said Malcolm, gripping his sword.

"Nay, one does not give the Princess Roshinara's instructions without
knowing that they reach the ears they are meant for."

The Englishman came out from the obscurity. He approached so quickly
that the native started back, being far from prepared for Frank's very
convincing resemblance to a rissaldar of cavalry.

"I look for one--" he began, but Frank had no mind to lose time.

"For Malcolm-sahib?" he demanded.

"It might be some such name," was the hesitating answer.

"I am he. I saw thee last at Bithoor, when I escaped with Mayne-sahib
and the missy-baba."[23]

[Footnote 23: The familiar native title for a European young lady.]

"By Mohammed! I would not have known you, sahib, though now I remember
your face. Come with me, and quickly. Each moment here means danger."

"Ay, for thee. I am not one to be tricked so easily."

"Huzoor, have I not sought you without arms or escort? I and another
have searched the palace these two hours. Leave your horse. I will have
him tended. Come, sahib, I pray you. The Begum awaits you, but there are
so many who know of your presence that I shall not be able to save you
if you fall into their hands."

These were fair-seeming words with the ring of truth about them. At any
rate Malcolm's whereabouts were no longer a secret, and it would not be
war but murder to offer violence to one who came with good intent on his
lips if not in his heart.

"Lead on," said Frank, sternly, "and remember that I shall not hesitate
to strike at the first sign of treachery."

"I shall not betray you, sahib, but you must converse with me as we walk
and not draw too many eyes by holding a naked sword."

This was so manifestly reasonable that Malcolm felt rather ashamed of
his doubts. Yet, he thought it best not to appear to relax his
precautions.

"I would not pass through the palace with a sword in my hand," he said
with a quiet laugh, "but I have a pistol in my belt, and that will
suffice for six men."

His guide set off at a rapid pace. When they were near the great arch
leading into the garden they halted in front of a small door in a
dimly-lighted building, and the native rapped twice with his knuckles on
three separate panels. Some bolts were drawn and the two were admitted,
the door being instantly barred behind them by an attendant. The
darkness in the passage was impenetrable. Frank held himself tensely,
but his companion's voice reached him from a little distance in front,
while he heard other bolts being drawn.

"You will see your way more clearly now," was the reassuring message,
and when the second door was opened the rays of a lamp lit the stone
walls and floor. They went on, through lofty corridors, across
sequestered gardens and by way of many a stately chamber until another
narrow passage terminated in a barred door, guarded by an armed native.
The man's shrill voice betokened his calling, and Frank knew that he was
standing at the entrance to the zenana.

"There is one other within," said the guard, leering at them.

"Who is it, slave?" asked Frank's guide scornfully, for he was annoyed
by the eunuch's familiar tone.

"Nay, I obey orders," was the tart response. "Enter, then, and may Allah
prosper you."

There was a hint of danger in the otherwise excellent wish, but the man
unlocked the door, and they passed within.

Frank's wondering eyes rested on a scene of fairy-like beauty, so
exquisite in its colorings and so unexpected withal, that not even his
desperate predicament could repress for an instant the feeling of
astonishment that overwhelmed him. He was standing in a white marble
chamber, pillared and roofed in the Byzantine style, while every shaft
and arch was chiseled into graceful lines and adorned with traceries or
carved festoons of fruit and flowers. The walls were brightened with
mosaics wrought in precious stones. Texts from the Koran in the flowing
Persi-Arabic script, ran above the arches. In the floor, composed of
colored tiles, was set a _pachisi_[24] board, as the wide entrance hall
to a European house might have a chess-board incorporated with the
design of the tiled floor.

[Footnote 24: A game of the draughts order, much played by native
ladies.]

Not a garish tint or inharmonious line interfered with the chaste
elegance of the white marble, and the whole apartment, which seemed to
be the ante-room of the ladies' quarters, was lighted with Moorish
lamps.

Malcolm took in some of these details in one amazed glance, but his
thoughts were recalled sternly to the affairs of the moment by hearing
the ring of spurred heels on the sharp-sounding pavement from behind a
curtained arch. There was no time to retreat nor cross towards an alcove
that promised some slight screen from the soft and penetrating light
that filled the room. He saw that his guide was perturbed, but he asked
no question. With the quick military tread came the frou-frou of silk
and the footfall of slippered feet. Then the curtain was drawn aside and
Akhab Khan entered, followed by the Princess Roshinara.

Malcolm had the advantage of a few seconds' warning. Even as Akhab Khan
placed his hand on the curtain the Englishman sprang forward, and the
astounded sowar, now a brigadier in the rebel forces, found himself
looking into the muzzle of a revolver.

"Do not move till I bid you, Akhab Khan," said Malcolm, in his
self-contained way. "I am summoned hither, so I come, but it may be
necessary to secure a hostage for my safe conduct outside the walls
again."

"You! Malcolm-sahib!" was Akhab Khan's involuntary outburst.

"Yes, even I. Have you not heard, then, that I rode into the palace
to-day?"

"There was a report that some Feringhis--some sahibs--were in the city
as spies--"

"Malcolm-sahib is here because I sent for him," broke in Roshinara.

"You--_sent_ for him!"

Akhab Khan's swarthy features paled, and his eyes sparkled wrathfully.
Heedless of Malcolm's implied threat, or perhaps ignoring it, he wheeled
round on the Princess, and his right hand crossed to his sword-hilt.

"If you so much as turn your head again or lift a hand without my order,
I blow your brains out," said Malcolm in the same unemotional tone.

"Nay, let him attack a woman if it pleaseth him," cried Roshinara, who
had not drawn back one inch from the place where she was standing when
Malcolm confronted Akhab Khan and herself. "That is what our troops,
officers and men alike, are best fitted for. They love to swagger in the
bazaar, but their valor flies when they see the Ridge."

Again quite indifferent to the fact that Malcolm's finger was on the
trigger, the rebel leader threw out his hands towards the Begum in a
gesture of agonized protest.

"Do you not trust me, my heart?" he murmured. "If you knew of this
Nazarene's presence why was I not told?"

"Because I wished to save you in spite of yourself. Because I would
mourn you if you fell in battle as befits a warrior and the man whom I
love, but I would not have you die on the scaffold, as most of the
others will die ere another month be sped. What hope have we of success?
If forty thousand sepoys cannot overcome the three thousand English on
the Ridge, how shall they prevail against the force that is now
preparing to storm Delhi? I sent for Malcolm-sahib that I might obtain
terms for my father and for thee, Akhab Khan. This man is now in our
power. Let us bargain with him. If he goes free to-day, let him promise
that we shall be spared when the gallows is busy in front of our
palace."

Each word of this impassioned speech was a revelation to Malcolm. Here
was the fiery beauty of the Mogul court pleading for the lives of her
father and lover, pleading to him, a solitary Briton in the midst of
thousands of mutineers, a prisoner in their stronghold, a spy whose life
was forfeit by the laws of war. Hardly less bewildering than this turn
of fortune's wheel was the whirligig that promoted a poor trooper of the
Company to the position of accepted suitor for the hand of a royal
maiden. Never could there be a more complete unveiling of the Eastern
mind, with all its fatalism, its strange weaknesses, its uncontrollable
passions.

Akhab Khan stretched out his arms again.

"Forgive me, my soul, if I did doubt thee," he almost sobbed.

The girl was the first to recover her self-control.

"Put away your pistol," she said, fixing her fine eyes on Malcolm, with
a softness in their limpid depths that he had never seen there before.
"If we can contrive, my plighted husband and I, you will not need it
to-night. I was rejoiced to hear that you were within our gates. We are
beaten. I know it. We have lost a kingdom, because wretches like Nana
Dundhu Punt of Bithoor, have forgotten their oaths and preferred
drunken revels to empire. Were they of my mind, were they as loyal and
honorable as the man I hope to marry, we would have driven you and yours
into the sea, Malcolm-sahib. But Allah willed otherwise and we can only
bow to his decree. It is Kismet. I am content. Say, then, if you are
sent in safety to your camp, do you in return guarantee the two lives I
ask of you?"

Malcolm could not help looking at Akhab Khan before he answered. The
handsome young soldier had folded his arms, and his eyes dwelt on
Roshinara's animated face with a sad fixity that bespoke at once his
love and his despair.

Then the Englishman placed the revolver in his belt and bowed low before
the woman who reposed such confidence in him.

"If the issue rested with me, Princess," he said, "you need have no fear
for the future. I am only a poor officer and I have small influence. Yet
I promise that such power as I possess shall be exerted in your behalf,
and I would remind you that we English neither make war on woman nor
treat honorable enemies as felons."

"My father is a feeble old man," she cried vehemently. "It was not by
his command that your people were slain. And Akhab Khan has never drawn
his sword save in fair fight."

"I can vouch for Akhab Khan's treatment of those who were at his mercy,"
said Malcolm, generously.

"Nay, sahib, you repaid me that night," said the other, not to be
outdone in this exchange of compliments. "But if I have the happiness to
find such favor with my lady that she plots to save me against my will I
cannot forget that I lead some thousands of sepoys who have faith in me.
You have been examining our defenses all day. Sooner would I fall on my
sword here and now than that I should connive at the giving of
information to an enemy which should lead to the destruction of my men."

Malcolm had foreseen this pitfall in the smooth road that was seemingly
opening before him.

"I would prefer to become the bearer of terms than of information," he
said.

"Terms? What terms? How many hands in this city are free of innocent
blood? Were I or any other to propose a surrender we should be torn limb
from limb."

"Then I must tell you that I cannot accept your help at the price of
silence. When I undertook this mission I knew its penalties. I am still
prepared to abide by them. Let me remind you that it is I, not you, who
can impose conditions within these four walls."

Akhab Khan paled again. His was the temperament that shows anger by the
token which reveals cowardice in some men; it is well to beware of him
who enters a fight with bloodless cheeks and gray lips. But Roshinara
sprang between them with an eager cry:

"What folly is this that exhausts itself on a point of honor? Does not
every spy who brings us details of each gun and picket on the Ridge tell
the sahib-log all that they wish to know of our strength and our
dissensions? Will not the man who warned us of the presence of an
officer-sahib in our midst to-day go back and sell the news of a sepoy
regiment's threat to murder the King? Have done with these idle
words--let us to acts! Nawab-ji!"

"Heaven-born!" Malcolm's guide advanced with a deep salaam.

"See to it that my orders are carried out. Mayhap thine own head may
rest easier on its shoulders if there is no mischance."

The nawab-ji bowed again, and assured the Presence that there would be
no lapse on his part. Akhab Khan had turned away. His attitude betokened
utter dejection, but the Princess, not the first of her sex to barter
ambition for love, was radiant with hope.

"Go, Malcolm-sahib," she whispered, "and may Allah guard you on the
way!"

"I have one favor to ask," he said. "My devoted servant, a man named
Chumru--"

She smiled with the air of a woman who breathes freely once more after
passing through some grave peril.

"How, then, do you think I found out the identity of the English officer
who had dared to enter Delhi?" she asked. "Your man came to me, not
without difficulty, and told me you were here. It was he who inspired me
with the thought that your presence might be turned to good account. But
go, and quickly. He is safe."

Frank hardly knew how to bid her farewell until he remembered that, if
of royal birth, Princess Roshinara was also a beautiful woman. He took
her hand and raised it to his lips, a most unusual proceeding in the
East, but the tribute of respect seemed to please her.

Following the nawab he traversed many corridors and chambers and
ultimately reached an apartment in which Chumru was seated. That
excellent bearer was smoking a hookah, with a couple of palace servants,
and doubtless exchanging spicy gossip with the freedom of Eastern
manners and conversation.

"Shabash!" he cried when his crooked gaze fell on Malcolm. "By the tomb
of Nizam-ud-din, there are times when women are useful."

They were let down from a window on the river face of the palace and
taken by a boat to the bank of the Jumna above Ludlow Castle, while the
nawab undertook to deliver their horses next day at the camp. He carried
out his promise to the letter, nor did he forget to put forth a plea in
his own behalf against the hour when British bayonets would be probing
the recesses of the fort and its occupants.

When Nicholson came out of the mess after supper he found Malcolm
waiting for an audience. Chumru, still wearing the servant's livery in
which the famous brigadier had last seen him, was squatting on the
ground near his master. The general was not apt to waste time in talk,
and he had a singular knack of reading men's thoughts by a look.

"Glad to see you back again, Major Malcolm," he cried. "I hope you were
successful?"

"It is for you to decide, sir, when you have heard my story," and
without further preamble Frank gave a clear narrative of his adventures
since dawn. Not a word did he say about the very things he had been sent
to report on, and Nicholson understood that a direct order alone would
unlock his lips. When Frank ended the general frowned and was silent. In
those days men did not hold honor lightly, and Nicholson was a fine type
of soldier and gentleman.

"Confound it!" he growled, "this is awkward, very awkward," and Malcolm
felt bitterly that the extraordinary turn taken by events in the palace
was in a fair way towards depriving his superiors of the facts they were
so anxious to learn. Suddenly the big man's deep eyes fell on Chumru.

"Here, you," he growled, "was aught said to thee whereby thou hast a
scruple to tell me how many guns defend the Cashmere Gate?"

"Huzoor," said Chumru, "there are but two things that concern me, my
master's safety and the size of that jaghir your honor promised me."

Nicholson laughed with an almost boyish mirth.

"By gad," he cried, "you are fortunate in your friends, Malcolm." Then
he turned to Chumru again. "The jaghir is of no mean size," he said,
"but I shall see to it that a field is added for every useful fact you
make known."

Frank listened to his servant's enumeration of the guns and troops at
the Lahore, Mori, and Cashmere Gates, and he was surprised at the
accuracy of Chumru's mental note-taking.

"I need not have gone at all, sir," he could not help commenting when
the bearer had answered Nicholson's final question. "I seem to have a
Napoleon for a valet."

The brigadier laid a kindly hand on Frank's shoulder.

"You forget that you have brought me the most important news of all," he
said. "The enemy is defeated before the first ladder is planted against
their walls. They know it, and, thanks to you, now we know it. My only
remaining difficulty is not to take Delhi, but to screw up our Chief to
make the effort."

Then his voice sank to a deep growl.

"But I'll bring him to reason, I will, by Heaven, even if I risk being
cashiered for insubordination!"




CHAPTER XVII

THE EXPIATION


Two hours after midnight--that is a time of rest and peace in most
lands. Men have either ceased or not yet begun their toil. Even
warfare, the deadliest task of all, slackens its energy, and the ghostly
reaper leans on his scythe while wearied soldiers sleep. Wellington
knew this when he said that the bravest man was he who possessed
"two-o'clock-in-the-morning" courage, for shadows then become real,
and dangers anticipated but unseen are magnified tenfold.

Yet, soon after two o'clock in the morning of September 14, 1857, four
thousand five hundred soldiers assembled behind the Ridge for the
greatest achievement that the Mutiny had demanded during the four months
of its wonderful history. They were divided into five columns, one being
a reserve, and the task before them was to carry by assault a strongly
fortified city, surrounded by seven miles of wall and ditch, held by
forty thousand trained soldiers and equipped with ample store of guns
and ammunition. Success meant the certain loss of one man among
four--failure would carry with it a rout and massacre unexampled in
modern war.

Men had fallen in greater numbers in the Crimea, it is true--a British
army had been swallowed alive in the wild Khyber Pass--but these were
only incidents in prolonged campaigns, whereas the collapse of the
assailants of Delhi would set free a torrent of murder, rapine and
pillage, such as the utmost triumph of the rebels had not yet produced.

The Punjab, the whole of the Northwest, Central India and Rajputana, all
northern Bengal and Bombay, must have been submerged in the flood if the
gates of Delhi were unbarred. It is not to be marveled at, therefore,
that General Wilson, the Commander-in-Chief, "looked nervous and
anxious" as he rode slowly along the front of the gathering columns, nor
that many of the British officers and men received the Holy Communion at
the hands of their chaplains, ere they mustered for what might prove to
be their last parade.

In some tents, of their own accord, the soldiers read the Old Testament
lesson of the day. With that extraordinary aptness which the chronicles
of the prophets often display in their relation to current events, the
chapter foretold the doom of Nineveh: "Woe to the bloody city! It is
full of lies and robbery ... draw the waters for the siege, fortify thy
strongholds ... then shall the fire devour thee; the sword shall cut
thee off; it shall eat thee up like the canker-worm."

How thrilling, how intensely personal and human, these words must have
sounded in their ears, for it should ever be borne in mind that the
Britons who recovered India in '57 were not only determined to avenge
the barbarities inflicted on unoffending women and children, but were
inspired by a religious enthusiasm that showed itself in almost every
diary kept and letter sent home during the war.

And now, while the brilliant stars were dimmed by bursting shells and
rockets hissing in glowing curves across the sky, the columns moved
forward.

English, Scotch, Irish and Welsh--swarthy Pathans, bearded Sikhs, dapper
little Ghoorkahs--marched side by side, from the first column on the
left, commanded by Nicholson, to the fourth, on the extreme right, led
by Reid.

The plan of attack was daring and soldier-like. John Nicholson, ever
claiming the post of utmost danger, elected to hurl his men across the
breach made by the big guns in the Cashmere Bastion, the strongest of
the many strong positions held by the enemy. The second column, under
Brigadier Jones, was to storm the second breach in the walls at the
Water Bastion. The third, headed by Colonel Campbell, was to pass
through the Cashmere Gate when the gallant six who had promised to blow
open the gate itself had accomplished their task, while the fourth
column, under Major Reid, undertook to clear the suburbs of Kishengunge
and Pahadunpore and force its way into the city by way of the Lahore
Gate.

Brigadier Longfield, commanding the reserve, had to follow and support
Nicholson. Generally speaking, if each separate attack made good its
objective, the different columns were to line up along the walls,
form posts, and combine for the bombardment and escalade of the
fortress-palace. Nicholson, who directed the assault, had not forgotten
the half-implied bargain made between Malcolm and the Princess
Roshinara. Strict orders were given that the King and members of the
royal family were to be taken prisoners if possible. As for Akhab Khan
and other leaders of rebel brigades, it was impossible to distinguish
them among so many. Not even Nicholson could ask his men to be generous
in giving quarter, when nine out of every ten mutineers they encountered
were less soldiers than slayers of women and children.

At last, in the darkness, the columns reached their allotted stations
and halted. The engineers, carrying ladders, crept to the front.

Nicholson placed a hand on Jones's shoulder.

"Are you ready?" he asked, with the quiet confidence in the success of
his self-imposed mission that caused all men to trust in him implicitly.

"Yes," answered Jones.

Nicholson turned to Malcolm and two others of his aides.

"Tell the gunners to cease fire," he said.

Left and right they hurried, stumbling over the broken ground to reach
the batteries, which were thundering at short range against the fast
crumbling walls. In No. 2, which Malcolm entered, he found a young
lieutenant of artillery, Frederick Sleigh Roberts, working a heavy gun
almost single-handed, so terribly had the Royal Regiment suffered in
the contest waged with the rebel gunners during seven days and nights.

Almost simultaneously the three batteries became silent. With a
heart-stirring cheer the Rifles dashed forward and fired a volley to
cover the advance of the ladder-men, and the first step was taken in the
actual capture of Delhi.

The loud yell of the Rifles served as a signal to the other columns.
The second, gallantly led by Jones, rushed up to the Water Bastion and
entered it, but not until twenty-nine out of thirty-nine men carrying
ladders were killed or wounded. On Jones's right, Nicholson, ever in the
van, seemed to lift his column by sheer strength of will through an
avalanche of musketry, heavy stones, grape-shot and bayonet thrusts,
while the rebels, swarming like wasps to the breach, inspired each other
by hurling threats and curses at the Nazarenes. But to stop Nicholson
and his host they must kill every man, and be killed themselves in the
killing, and, not having the stomach for that sort of fight, they ran.

Thus far a magnificent success had been achieved. It was carried
further, almost perfected, by the splendid self-sacrifice displayed
by the six who had promised to blow open the Cashmere Gate. To
this day their names are blazoned on a tablet between its two
arches--"Lieutenants Home and Salkeld of the Engineers, Bugler Hawthorne
of the 52d and Sergeants Carmichael, Smith and Burgess of the Bengal
Sappers." Smith and Hawthorne lived to wear the Victoria Crosses
awarded for their feat. The others, while death glazed their eyes and
dimmed their ears, may have known by the rush of men past where they lay
that their sacrifice had not been in vain. The stout timbers and iron
bands were rent by the powder-bags, and the third column fought a
passage through the double gateway into the tiny square in front of St.
James's Church.

Then, as if the story of Delhi were to serve as a microcosm of fortune's
smiles and frowns in human affairs, the victorious career of the British
columns received a serious, almost a mortal check. The mutineers were
in full retreat, terror-stricken and dismayed. Thousands were already
crossing the bridge of boats when the word went round that the Feringhis
were beaten.

They were not, but the over-caution against which Nicholson had railed
for months again betrayed itself in the failure of the second column
to capture the Lahore Gate when that vital position lay at its mercy.
Audacity, ever excellent in war, is sound as a proposition of Euclid in
operations against Asiatics.

Brigadier and men had done what they were asked to do--they ought to
have done more. Having penetrated beyond the Mori Bastion they fell
back and fortified themselves against counter assault, thus displaying
unimpeachable tactics, but bad generalship in view of the enemy's
demoralization. Instantly Akhab Khan, who commanded in that quarter of
the city, claimed a victory. The mutineers flocked back to their
deserted posts. While one section pressed Jones hard, another fell on
Reid's Ghoorkahs and the cavalry brigade. They actually pushed the
counter attack as far as Hindu Rao's house on the Ridge, until Hope
Grant's cavalry and Tomb's magnificent horse artillery tackled them. A
terrific _mêlée_ ensued. Twenty-five out of fifty gunners were killed or
wounded, the 9th Lancers suffered with equal severity, but the rebels
were held, punished, and defeated, after two hours of desperate
conflict.

The mischance at the Lahore Gate cost England a life she could ill
spare. When he heard what had happened, Nicholson ran to the Mori
Bastion, gathered men from both columns and tried to storm the Lahore
Bastion at all hazards. It was asking too much, but those gallant hearts
did not falter. They followed their beloved leader into a narrow lane,
the only way from the one point to the other. They fell in scores, but
Nicholson's giant figure still towered in front. With sword raised he
shouted to the survivors to come on. Then a bullet struck him in the
chest and he fell.

With him, for a time, drooped the flag of Britain. The utter confusion
which followed is shown by Lord Robert's statement in his Memoirs that
he found Nicholson lying in a dhooly near the Cashmere Gate, the native
carriers having fled. Although Baird Smith, a skilled engineer and
artillerist, had secured against a _coup de main_ that small portion
of the city occupied by the besiegers, General Wilson was minded to
withdraw the troops. Even now he considered the task of subduing Delhi
to be beyond their powers. Baird Smith insisted that he should hold on.
Nicholson sent a typical message from his deathbed on the Ridge that he
still had strength enough left to struggle to his feet and pistol the
first man who counseled retreat, and the harassed commander-in-chief
consented to the continuance of the fighting.

Although his judgment was mistaken he had good reasons for it. Akhab
Khan, on whom the real leadership devolved when it became known that the
King and his sons had fled from the palace, tried a ruse that might well
have proved fatal to his adversaries. Counting on the exhaustion of the
British and the privations they had endured during the long months on
the Ridge, he caused the deserted streets, between the Cashmere and Mori
Gates, to be strewed with bottles of wine, beer and spirits. To men
enfeebled by heat and want of food the liquor was more deadly than lead
or steel. Were it not that Akhab Khan himself was shot through the
forehead while trying to repel the advance of Taylor's engineers along
the main road to the palace from the Cashmere Gate, it was well within
the bounds of possibility that the afternoon of the 14th might have
witnessed a British _debacle_.

In one respect the sepoy commander's death was as serious to his cause
as the loss of Nicholson to the English. The rebels, fighting fiercely
enough in small detachments, but no longer controlled by a man who knew
how to use their vastly superior numbers, allowed themselves to be
dealt with in detail. Soon the British attack was properly organized,
and a six days' orgy of destruction began.

Although no Briton was seen to injure a woman or child in the streets or
houses of Delhi, the avenging army spared no man. Unhappily thousands of
harmless citizens were slaughtered side by side with the mutineers. The
British had received a great provocation and they exacted a terrible
payment. On the 20th the gates of the palace were battered in and the
British flag was hoisted from its topmost turret. Then, and not till
then, did Delhi fall. The last of the Moguls was driven from the halls
which had witnessed the grandeur and pomp of his imperial predecessors,
and the great city passed into the hands of the new race that had come
to leaven the decaying East. It was a dearly-bought triumph. On
September 14 the conquering army lost sixty-six officers and eleven
hundred and four men. Between May 30 and September 20 the total British
casualties were nearly four thousand.

Malcolm soon learnt that the Princess Roshinara had fled with her father
and brothers. Probably the death of Akhab Khan had unnerved her, and she
dared not trust to the mercy of the victors. Frank was among the first
to enter the palace. After a few fanatical ghazees were made an end of,
he hurried towards the zenana. It was empty. He searched its glittering
apartments with feverish anxiety, but he met no human being until some
men of the 75th entered and began to prise open boxes and cupboards in
the search for loot.

After that his duties took him to the Ridge, and it was not until all
was over that he heard how Hodson had captured the King and shot the
royal princes with his own hand. This tragedy took place on the road
from Humayun's Tomb, whither the wretched monarch retreated when it was
seen that Delhi must yield. Hodson claimed to be an executioner, not a
murderer. He held that he acted under the pressure of a mob, intent on
rescuing Mirza Moghul, the heir apparent, and his brother and son. That
all three were cowardly ruffians and merciless in their treatment of
the English captured in Delhi on May 11, cannot be denied, but Hodson's
action was condemned by many, and it was perhaps as well that he found a
soldier's grave during Colin Campbell's advance on Lucknow.

It was there that the fortune of war next brought Malcolm. Delhi had
scarce quieted down after the storm and fury of the week's street
fighting when Havelock, re-enforced by Outram, drove the relief force
through the insurgent ring around the Residency like some stout ship
forcing her way to port through a raging sea.

No sooner had he entered the entrenchment on the 25th of September than
the rebel waves surged together again in his rear, and on the 27th the
Residency was again invested almost as closely as ever. But the new
column infused vigor and hope in the hearts of a garrison that had
ceased even to despair. Apathy, a quiet waiting for death, was the
prevalent attitude in Lucknow until the Highland bonnets were seen
tossing above the last line of mutineers that tried to bar their passage
through the streets. At once the besieged took up the offensive. The
lines were greatly extended, the enemy's advanced posts were carried
with the bayonet, troublesome guns were seized and spiked and the rebel
mining operations summarily stopped.

Two days before Havelock's little army cut its way into Lucknow, Ungud,
the pensioner, crept in to the retrenchment and announced the coming
relief. He was not believed. Twice already had he brought that cheering
message and events had falsified his news.

Winifred, a worn and pallid Winifred by this time, sought him and asked
for tidings of Malcolm. He had none. There was a rumor that Delhi had
fallen, and an officer had told him that there was a Major Malcolm on
Nicholson's staff. That was all. Not a letter, not a sign, came to
reassure the heart-broken girl, so the joy of Havelock's arrival was
dimmed for her by the uncertainty that obtained in regard to her lover's
fate.

Then the dreadful waiting began again. After having endured a plague
of heat in the hot weather, the remnant of the original garrison was
subjected to the torment of cold in the months that followed. In Upper
India the change of temperature is so remarkably sudden that it is
incomprehensible to those who live in more favored climes. Early in
October the thermometer falls by many degrees each day. The reason is,
of course, that the diminishing power of the sun permits the earth to
throw off by night the heat, always intense, stored during the day.
Something in the nature of an atmospheric vacuum is thus created, and
the resultant cold continues until the opposite effect brings about the
lasting heat of the summer months, which begin about March 15 in that
part of India.

But scientific explanations of unpleasant phenomena are poor substitutes
for scanty clothing. In some respects the last position of the
beleaguered garrison was worse than the first, and the days wore on in
seemingly endless misery, until absolutely authentic intelligence
arrived on November 9, that Sir Colin Campbell was at Bunnee and would
march forthwith to relieve the Residency.

Then Outram, who had succeeded to the chief command as soon as Havelock
joined hands with Inglis, called for a volunteer who would act as Sir
Colin's guide through the network of canals, roads, and scattered
suburbs that added to the dangers of Lucknow's narrow streets, and a
man named Kavanagh, an uncovenanted civilian, offered his services.

It is not hard to picture Kavanagh's lot if he were captured by the
mutineers. His own views were definite on the point. Beneath his native
disguise he carried a pistol, not for use against an enemy, but to take
his own life if he failed to creep through the investing lines. But he
succeeded, and lived to be the only civilian hero ever awarded the
Victoria Cross.

Another incident of the march should be noted. Malcolm saw preparations
being made to hang a Mohammedan who was suspected of having ill-treated
Europeans. The man protested his innocence, but he was not listened to.
Then Frank, thinking he remembered his face, questioned him and found he
was the zemindar who helped Winifred, her uncle and himself during the
flight from Cawnpore.

Such testimony from an officer more than sufficed to outweigh the slight
evidence against the prisoner, who was set at liberty forthwith. During
the remainder of his life he had ample leisure to reflect on the good
fortune that led him to help the people who sought his assistance on
that June night. Were it not for Malcolm's interference he would have
been hanged without mercy, and possibly not without good cause.

On the afternoon of November 11, Sir Colin Campbell reviewed his little
army. It was drawn up in parade order, on a plain a few miles south
of the Dilkusha. Three thousand four hundred men faced him, and the
smallness of the number is eloquent of the magnitude of their task.
Indeed, that is one of the salient features of each main episode of
the Mutiny. Nicholson at Delhi, Havelock at Cawnpore and on the way to
Lucknow, Colin Campbell in the pending action, and Sir Hugh Rose in many
a hard fought battle in Central India, one and all were called on to
attack and defeat ten times the number of sepoys.

But what fine troops they were who met the commander-in-chief's gaze
as they stood marshaled there, on that dusty Indian _maidan_. Peel's
sailors, with eight heavy guns, artillerymen standing by the cannon that
had sounded the knell of Delhi from below the Ridge, the 9th Lancers,
who held the right flank when the capture of Hindu Rao's house would
have meant the collapse of the assault, the 8th and 75th Foot, the 2d
and 4th Punjabis--all these had followed the Lion of the Punjab when
he stormed the Cashmere Bastion. Sikh Cavalry, too, and Hodson's wild
horsemen, and many another gallant soldier, fresh from the immortal
siege, returned the General's quiet scrutiny, as he rode past, and
doubtless wondered how he would compare as a leader with the man whom
they had left in the little cemetery at the foot of the Ridge.

It is on record that from the end of the line came a yell of welcome and
recognition. The 93d Highlanders remembered what Campbell had done in
the Crimea, and their joyful slogan brought a flush to the bronzed face
of the old war dog when he learnt the significance of their greeting.

Next morning began a three day's battle. Perhaps there was never an
action so spectacular, so thrilling, so amazingly in earnest, as the
continuous fight which brought about the Second Relief of Lucknow. At
the Alumbagh, at the Dilkusha and La Martinière school, at the Secunder
Bagh and the Shah Nujeef, were fought fiercely-contested combats that in
other campaigns would have figured as independent battles, each highly
important in the history of the time.

The taking of the Shah Nujeef alone was worthy of Homeric praise. It was
a mosque that stood in a garden, bounded by a high and stout wall and
protected by jungle and mud hovels. Its peculiar position, joined to the
number of guns mounted on its walls and the thousands of sepoys who held
it, made it impossible for a devoted artillery to create an effective
breach. Yet, if the relieving force failed here, they failed altogether.
So Sir Colin asked his men for a supreme effort. Riding forward himself,
accompanied by his staff and Sir Adrian Hope, Colonel of the 93d, he
cheered on his loved Highlanders. Cannot one hear the skirl of the pipes
amid that din of cannon and musketry? Cannot one see the shot-torn
colors fluttering in the breeze, the plaids of the gallant Highland
gentlemen who led the 93d, vanishing in the smoke and dust? Middleton's
battery of the Royal Artillery came dashing up, "the drivers waving
their whips, the gunners their caps," unlimbered within forty yards of
the wall, and opened fire with grape. Men and horses fell in scores, but
somehow, anyhow, an entrance was gained and the Shah Nujeef was taken.
Feeble must be the pulse that does not beat faster, dim the eye that
does not kindle, as one hears how those Britons fought and died, but did
not die in vain.

Next day Captain Garnet Wolseley led a storming party against the Motee
Mahal, and the self-sacrificing heroism of the Shah Nujeef was displayed
again here and with the same result.

And so the wild fight went on, till Outram and Havelock, Napier, Eyre,
Havelock's son and four other officers ran from the Residency through a
tempest of lead showered on them from the Kaiser Bagh, and Hope Grant,
dashing forward from the van of Colin Campbell's force, shook hands with
the hero of the First Relief.

Half an hour later Malcolm entered the Residency. At first sight it was
an abode of sorrow. Death and ruin seemed to have combined there to
wreak their spite on mankind and his belongings. Even the men and women
whom he met were tear-laden, and it was not till he heard their happy
voices that he knew they were weeping because of the overwhelming joy in
their souls.

He hurried on, scanning each excited group for one face that he thought
he would recognize were it fifty years instead of five months since
their last meeting. He, of course, was even a finer-looking and better
set-up soldier now than when he galloped along the flame-lit roads of
Meerut on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday night in May, and it is not
to be wondered at if he failed to allow for the effect on Winifred of
the ordeal she had gone through.

Perhaps his keen eyes were covered with a mist, perhaps the growing fear
in his heart forbade his tongue to ask a question, because he dreaded
the answer. Perhaps sheer agitation may have rendered him incapable of
distinguishing one among so many. Howsoever that may be, he knew
nothing, saw no one, until a wan, slim-figured woman, a woman clothed in
tattered rags, down whose pallid cheeks streamed the divine tears of
happiness, touched his arm and sobbed:

"Are you looking for me--dear?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Mutiny was by no means ended with the fall of Delhi and the Second
Relief of Lucknow. North and south and east and west the rebels were
hunted with untiring zeal. Sometimes in scattered bands, less often in
formidable armies, they were pursued, encountered and annihilated.
Quickly degenerating into mere robber hordes, they became a pest to the
unhappy villagers in the remoter parts of the different provinces, and
it was long ere the last embers of the fire that had raged so fiercely
were stamped out. Nana Sahib perished miserably under the claws of a
tiger in the Nepaul jungle, the Moulvie of Fyzabad and the Ranei of
Jhansi fell in action, while Tantia Topi was hanged. But the end came,
and on November 1, 1858, amid salvoes of artillery and to the
accompaniment of festivities innumerable, Queen Victoria proclaimed the
abolition of the East India Company, and assumed the sovereignty of the
country. Her Majesty took no territory, confirmed all treaties, promised
religious toleration and civil equality to all her Indian subjects, and
gave full and complete pardon to every rebel who was not a murderer.

The Queen's gracious and peace-bringing words supplied a fitting close
to India's Red Year. Europeans and natives alike tried to forget both
the crime and its punishment. And that was a good thing in itself.

The great land of Hindustan has doubled its teeming population and
increased its prosperity out of all comparable reckoning during the
fifty years that have passed since the Mutiny. Many of the descendants
of men who fought against the British Raj are now its trusted servants,
and there is not in India to-day a native gentleman of any importance
who would not assist the Government with his life and fortune to save
his country from the lawless horrors of any similar outbreak.

But these are matters for the politician and the statesman. It is more
fitting that this story of the lives and fortunes of a few of the actors
in a great human drama should conclude with such particulars of their
subsequent history as have filtered through time's close-woven meshes of
half a century.

One day in February, not so long ago, a young officer of the Guides, who
had come to Lucknow for "Cup" week, was standing in the porch of the
Mohamed Bagh Club when he heard a young lady bewailing fate in the shape
of a tikka-gharry which had brought her there. Her "people" were at the
Chutter Munzil Club, miles away, for Lucknow is a big place, and she was
already late for tea.

Being a nice young man, the said officer of the Guides could not bear to
see a nice young woman in distress.

"My dog-cart is just coming up," he said, "and I am going to the Chutter
Munzil. Won't you let me drive you there?"

She blushed and hesitated and of course agreed.

On the way, to maintain a polite conversation, he pointed out several
historic buildings.

"You are stationed here, I suppose?" she said.

"No, indeed. My regiment is at Quetta, but I was reared on the records
of Lucknow. My grandmother went through the whole of the siege, and my
grandfather was with the Second Relief. It must have agreed with their
health, for they were both out here two years since, and I went over the
Mutiny ground with them."

"How interesting! Was that how they met?"

"No. They were engaged just before the Residency was invested. It is an
awfully interesting yarn, and I should like some day to have a chance of
telling it to you. There is a native princess in it, and a pearl
necklace, which is worth quite a lot of money, and is believed to have
been stolen by a sepoy before my grandfather obtained it, quite by
accident. And the old chap--he was quite a young chap then, you
know--had a remarkable native servant who did so well at the Mutiny that
he became a nawab or something of the sort. Really, the whole thing is
more like a book than a chapter of real life."

"I had a grandmother in the Mutiny," said the girl, "but she had such a
sad experience that she seldom mentioned it. Her maiden name was Keene,
and her father was killed at Fattehpore--"

"Keene! Did she ever speak of a man named Malcolm, who saved her and her
sister?"

"Oh, yes! You don't mean to say--"

"Yes, really, I'm his grandson. Now, isn't that the queerest thing? Just
imagine the odds against my meeting you here under such conditions?
Please tell me your name, and you'll let me call, won't you?"

The girl was somewhat breathless. Young Malcolm was looking at her as
though he felt that a special dispensation of Providence had brought
them together.

"I am sure my mother will be glad to meet you and hear all about those
old days at Lucknow," she said shyly.

So it may be that the gray ruins of the Residency, over which the flag
flies ever that was kept there so resolutely by the men and women in
'57, saw the beginning of another love idyll, destined to end as happily
as that which had its being amidst the terrors and fury of the Mutiny.

                              THE END




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