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-sahibs7 have no money. And Cawnpore awaits us.”
“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 budgerow8 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.”
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.