LUCHMAN.
A few days later, Dr. Baird Avery found himself nearing the great
city of Delhi, led by an attraction like that of the lodestone for
the steel. It was there that the missionary, Reverend Francis
Hildreth, lived with his family, consisting of his wife and daughter
Marian; and twice during the past three years had the young surgeon
gained a leave of absence, extended enough to allow him to spend
several weeks in the society of the delightful old gentleman and wife
and still more delightful daughter.
He had formed the acquaintance of the family on the steamer
Marlborough, of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, while making the
passage from England to India. The voyage up the Mediterranean,
sometimes so monotonous, was charming in this instance, and the
mutual interest of the surgeon and daughter deepened until with the
consent of the parents, Marian became the betrothed of Dr. Avery,
though the circumstances were such that the date of their marriage
hovered uncertainly in the future.
In pushing toward Delhi, the palanquin bearers had been changed
several times. Luchman was what is known as a bearer, that is a sort
of valet or body escort who had accompanied Avery all the way from
Calcutta, whither he was sent by the missionary, Mr. Hildreth, for
that purpose.
It was this fact which led the occupant of the palanquin to look upon
the native with special liking, though he could not free himself of a
certain distrust, when the serpent-like eyes of Luchman that were
fixed upon him, darted aside with lightning quickness as the sahib
turned toward him. What strange thoughts were stirring within that
bronzed skull were known only to the sepoy, who took care that they
should be known to no one else.
Luchman had been a high caste Hindoo, who, converted through the
labors of the missionary, prayed the latter to take him into his
service. He was tall, thin to emaciation, very dark, with a long
curved mustache, which, like his eyes, was of intense blackness. He
was muscular and agile, and it seemed to Avery was inclined to be
moody and sullen.
The dress of Luchman was of a mongrel character. He wore the dhotee,
consisting of a single breadth of muslin, folded in heavy pleats
around the loins, and descending gracefully to the ankles. The upper
part of the body was almost entirely covered with a coat of muslin.
Despite the blistering sun of India, many of the Bengalis go bare
headed, but Luchman was never without his turban, gathered and folded
with a skill scarcely admitting of description.
In obedience to a feeling that this converted Hindoo was to play an
important part in near events, Dr. Avery tried hard to gain his
confidence. He was a master of the English tongue, and the surgeon
offered him a liberal sum to instruct him in Hindustani. The proud
fellow refused the proposition with something like scorn, and was so
sparing of his words that the Englishman learned more from the other
natives than from him.
It would have been better for the surgeon's peace of mind had he been
entirely ignorant of the Hindustani language, for now and then he
caught an expression among the palanquin bearers which bore some
relation to the coming trouble in India, but it was impossible to
hear or rather to understand enough to discover what was meant. Had
he known more he would have learned something definite; had he known
less, he would not have been alarmed; as it was, he was exasperated
because of his helplessness.
The sun still flamed with unbearable splendor, when early in the
morning the palanquin was set down at the side of the highway leading
to Delhi, it being the purpose of Dr. Avery to follow his usual
custom of resuming his journey in the evening. Not unnaturally, the
nearer he approached the home of his betrothed the greater became his
haste. He made his way into the bungalow or rest house furnished by
the government for travelers, and enjoyed a refreshing bath.
Breakfast was furnished by the khansaman, who, on observing the
palanquin in the distance, had hurriedly seized two of the fowls that
were dozing contentedly in the shade of the veranda, wrung their
necks, plunged them into a pot of boiling water, and by the time the
sahib was ready, placed them before him in a most savory dish.
Avery now reclined lazily in a long wicker chair, on the veranda,
from which the scorching wind was shut out by heavy grass tatties,
completely inclosing the three sides and softening the glare in a way
that was conducive to a siesta. He was sinking in that state of
delicious languor in which he cared little for what was going on
around him, and yet all his senses were at an unusual tension. In
the dim twilight by which he was infolded, he became aware that
another person was on the veranda, and standing within a few paces of
him. He had not heard him approach, though he was sure he would have
detected the gliding of a serpent over the parched grass outside.
In the same second that the figure of a man took shape in the faint
light before him, Avery became as wide awake as when hunting tigers
in the jungle. He saw that the intruder was Luchman, who was
standing motionless and looking intently at him. Without opening his
eyes any wider and without any start or sign of fright, the surgeon
moved his hand in a lazy accidental way to his side, until it rested
on the handle of his revolver at his hip. Then he felt safe.
The native might leap upon him with the quickness of a serpent, but
Avery would meet him half way with a bullet from his pistol. No
untamed cowboy from the plains of Texas could "get the drop" on an
antagonist more promptly than could the surgeon.
"Well, Luchman, what is it?" asked Avery, slowly opening his eyes and
yawning as if annoyed that he should be disturbed.
"Sahib, is the daughter of the missionary in Delhi to be your wife?"
This question was the amazing answer to the query of Dr. Avery, who
however showed no surprise, as he said:
"Since you seem interested, I am proud to declare that with the
approval of Heaven she shall be my wife: have you any objections to
offer?"
The Sepoy was as impervious to a sense of humor as was Osceola, the
Seminole, when he drove his hunting knife with such force into the
paper containing the hated treaty that the implement went through the
table also. Luchman was never seen to smile. He continued to look
sharply into the face of the surgeon, who had come to distrust him so
thoroughly that the latter straightened up in his seat and still kept
his hand on his pistol.
"He is a scoundrel;" was his thought; "he was standing there and
considering the best way of killing me, when he discovered that I was
not asleep. I don't see why he should hesitate. He carries a knife
as sharp as the sword of Saladin, and one sweep with that would have
been enough. He needn't have any fear of the khansaman and the
others are in with him."
Dr. Avery with his senses still strung to the keenest point, became
aware of a peculiarity in the action of Luchman that was significant.
While staring so fixedly at the surgeon, he occasionally darted a
quick glance to the left, as though he was looking and listening for
the approach of some one.
"He is waiting for the rest," was the conclusion of Avery, "because
he hasn't enough courage to attack me alone. Well, both my revolvers
are loaded, and if they want to make things lively, I think I can
give them a little help."
Luchman stepped into the door of one of the rooms opening on the
veranda, and still looking at Dr. Avery, silently beckoned with his
finger for him to follow. The surgeon did so without hesitation,
half suspecting that the palanquin bearers were crouching within and
awaiting the chance to spring upon him, but the certainty of his two
loaded revolvers being within instant call was a great solace. He
was an expert pistol shot, and he did not mean to be taken unprepared.
"Where are the palanquin bearers?" asked Avery, as he reached the
open door and saw Luchman in the faint light standing in the middle
of the room, a sweeping glance having satisfied him that no one else
was in the apartment.
"They have gone, sahib," was the answer of Luchman. "If they come
back it will be to kill you. They hate you. They hate all the
Inglese. They would try to kill me if they knew I was your friend.
But I have something else to tell you."
"I am listening."
"Sahib, the daughter of the missionary will never be your wife."
"Why not?"
"You, sahib, will never see her again."
Dr. Avery flushed. All disposition to jest was gone, and he was
indignant that this native dare utter an expression that sounded very
like a threat.
"How dare you show such insolence to me? Do you imagine that you and
all your brother scoundrels are strong enough to turn me back?
Naught but the will of Heaven itself shall keep me from entering
Delhi tomorrow, and seeing my intended wife face to face."
But the young surgeon was in error. Luchman did not mean to
threaten, but to warn him of a danger which as yet was only dimly
suspected.
"This is the month of May, sahib," said the native, looking him
quietly in the face and paying no heed to his angry words, "and on
the last day there will be a rising of the Mussulmans and Hindoos of
India. All the regiments will turn on their English officers and
kill them, their wives and children. The Mogul Empire will be
proclaimed, and the Raj of the English will be rooted out of
Hindostan."
These were fearful words, and the native was sincere, though why he
should have taken this means of making known, or why he should have
made known the impending revolt at all, was more than Dr. Avery could
understand.
"Why did you not tell me this before?" he asked.
"I did not know the date fixed for the rising until last night, when
by chance I overheard some words between the palanquin wallahs. It
is their wish to kill you tonight."
"I don't doubt it. How do you feel on that question?"
"Sahib, I am the friend of the missionary and his family; you are
their friend."
This was Luchman's way of expressing his good will toward the
Englishman, who, it cannot be said, was strongly impressed by his
words.
"What are your intentions?" asked the latter.
"Sahib, I shall go to Delhi and give up my life in the hope that I
may save the missionary and his family."
"And what do you expect me to do?"
The brown face of the native was eclipsed by what seemed a passing
cloud of regret, as he answered:
"You must turn back, sahib. At the cantonment of Lucknow, or
Cawnpore, or Allahabad you will find friends; you can die with them."
It was clear that Luchman looked upon the other as doomed beyond all
hope, and he was in earnest in urging him to withdraw to one of the
points named, where he could perish in the company of his countrymen.
"Why, then, shall I not go to Delhi, now so near at hand, and share
the lot of my friends there?"
"Because your going there will make their danger greater; they may be
saved if you keep away, but if you go they cannot."
This struck Dr. Avery as a heartless view of the situation, but he
saw its meaning. Luchman so loved the missionary and his family that
he was willing to give up his life for them. While he may have
wished the young surgeon well, he was not concerned to an extent that
would lead him to neglect those in Delhi; and looking upon him as the
sailor whose additional weight is sure to sink the overladen craft,
he wished to throw him overboard so as to save the rest.
Dr. Avery saw that his presence in Delhi might complicate matters and
add to the peril of that loved family. If by withdrawing and taking
to the _mofussil_, or interior of the country, he could improve their
chance of escape, it was clearly his duty to do so.
But what true lover can be persuaded that his absence from his
sweetheart is better than his presence with her? Avery did not
believe the native was honest in what he had said.
"God speed you in your effort to befriend them! I am sure they need
all that you can do; make haste, therefore, and never leave them till
they are safe beyond the reach of those who clamor for their lives."
"What will you, sahib, do?"
"I will do the best to take care of myself. If I am doomed to die,
it may be some consolation to have company. Will you take a letter
for me to the daughter of the missionary?"
"It shall be done."
Tearing several leaves from his note book, Dr. Avery wrote the
particulars of the interview between himself and the native, and
added:
Despite his prohibition, I shall do my best to reach your city and
hope to be on the heels of him who delivers this to you. I cannot
believe it is better to be away from you. I credit Luchman's words
when he says the whole sepoy force intends to rise, which renders it
the more necessary that friends should unite for protection. If I
fail to reach you it will be because my utmost efforts were useless;
and whether failure or success awaits me, be assured, my dearest
Marian, that my last thoughts were of you. Though separated here,
God will unite us in the great hereafter. BAIRD.
While writing this note, the surgeon had stepped back on the veranda,
because he needed more light than was in the dim room. He now
advanced to where Luchman had awaited him, as immovable as a stone
image, and asked:
"Why did you bring me in here, Luchman?"
"The palanquin wallahs, sahib, might have crept up and heard what we
said, or the khansaman might have passed near."
"Well, here is my letter; will you hand it to the daughter of the
missionary?"
"Be shaqq." (Without doubt.)
With a few graceful turns the voluminous turban about Luchman's head
was unwound and from the interior he drew a small package done around
with heavy but soft paper.
"Sahib, this is a nazr (present) for her, and since she will value
your letter more than the other I will put them together."
"What have you there?" asked the astonished surgeon.
"I will show you, sahib: it is the STAR OF INDIA."
"And what the mischief is that?"
"Dekhna!" (Behold!)
As the native spoke, the envelope of paper dropped off and he threw
up his hand until it was on a level with his own eyes. Between the
thumb and forefinger, the others elevated so as to be out of the way,
he held poised the most marvelous diamond that Baird had ever looked
upon.
The wonderful gem was cut in rose form, and could not have weighed
less than fifty carats, almost one half of the famous Koh-i-noor,
while its brilliancy was like that of the great Pitt diamond.
Luchman caused his hand, while apparently immovable, to tremble
slightly so that it glowed and scintillated under the eye of the
spectator as if it were luminous.
A ray of light, straggling through a crack in the tattie screen,
struck the diamond, and Avery, changing his own position so as to
relieve his vision, saw all the colors of the rainbow shooting forth
and radiating from the dazzling gem. Some of the rays were short,
while others darted outward for several feet. At times it was as if
the native was holding an electric burner between his thumb and
finger, and then the whole gem glowed with the intense brightness of
a star.
"Well! well! where in the name of the seven wonders did you get
that?" asked the astounded spectator; "it surpasses any gem I ever
saw; it ranks among the great diamonds of the world; it is worth four
lacs of rupees."
"Sahib, it is not mine," replied Luchman, as he began wrapping the
paper around that and the missive.
More than once, Avery was on the point of asking the privilege of
holding the diamond for a moment in his palm, but doubtful whether
such permission would be given, he silently watched the native who
folded his turban and its precious contents on his head.
This done, Luchman paused long enough to advise the doctor as to the
best course to take to avoid his enemies, after which he bade him
good by and started toward Delhi, in the hope of befriending those
who were in sore need of help.