WITHIN DELHI.
Imperial Delhi contains nearly a quarter of a million of people, and
the modern city is all of seven miles in circumference. There was a
time when its population was tenfold greater. It was captured and
plundered in 1011 by Mahmond; in 1398 by Tamerlane; in 1525 by Baber,
who overthrew the Patan dynasty and inaugurated that of the Moguls;
in 1739 it was pillaged by Nadir Shah, who sat in the mosque of
Boshun ud Dowlah (near the Jumma Musjeed, the most magnificent place
of Mussulman worship in India), and saw a hundred thousand of the
inhabitants massacred.
Delhi is surrounded by an embattled wall with numerous bastions and
intervening martello towers, faced along the entire extent with
massive masonry, which many years ago was strengthened by the
addition of a moat and glacis.
Within this city at the date of the sepoy mutiny dwelt Mohammed
Suraj-oo-deen Shah Gezee, the Great Mogul of India. His claim to
succeed his father was sustained by the East India Company against a
conspiracy to place a younger brother on the throne, and he was in
the receipt of nearly a million dollars annually from that colossal
corporation. Yet he had no political power, and made no pretense to
the least authority outside his palaces, whose bounds embraced twelve
thousand subjects, while the royal family itself numbered about one
eighth as many.
Beyond the limits of the narrow streets, where the bazars and native
houses crowd together, yet close enough for easy access to the
mission church, stood the home of the Hildreths. It was set back
from a road in the middle of a garden or open space, which is so
necessary to European life in this climate. A hedge partly hid the
house, and there were several trees in the garden, kept alive by the
persistent attentions of the malee, who drew water morning and
evening from a well, and filled the trenches around the parched roots.
The home of the missionary showed the plainness that is a feature of
the Anglo Indian architecture. It was made of sun dried bricks,
plastered and whitewashed. Like the bungalow where Dr. Avery held
his parting interview with Luchman, it was surrounded by wide
verandas, shaded by grass tatties.
During the fiery heat of the day the structure was kept tightly
closed against the hot wind which was like a furnace blast. Late in
the afternoon, the family ventured to emerge from the interior to the
veranda, where the tatties had been sprinkled with water, with a view
of wooing something in the nature of coolness from the scorching air
that stole through them.
This veranda, on the afternoon of May 10, 1857, therefore, contained
the missionary, idly reclining on his long cane settee, with his
daughter sitting more erect in a chair at his elbow, while the wife
rested in her lounging chair at the other end of the veranda.
Marian held a book in her hand, which she was dreamily reading by the
dim light that stole through the tattie, the enervating heat driving
away all disposition to talk. The burning sun of India had added
depth to the loveliness of the young lady, whose dark eyes and clear
brunette complexion were softened by the climate so often fatal to
foreigners. Bending over her volume, her figure showed a grace of
outline and form, not surpassed even in Persia, the land of beauty.
The sound of a footfall caused her to look up. Some one had entered
the compound from the street, and was approaching at a rapid pace. A
few seconds later, the tattie was lifted, and the gaunt face and form
of Luchman stepped upon the veranda, and respectfully saluted them
all.
"Have you just arrived?" asked Marian.
"I have not tarried, Miss sahib, an hour by the way. I came straight
from the gates to your house."
"But where is he--Dr. Avery?"
"I have a letter from him to you," answered the native, groping with
his fingers among the folds of his turban.
"Jalde! jalde!" (Quick! quick!) exclaimed the lady, impatient at the
deliberation of Luchman; "tell me--has anything happened to him?"
"No; but, Miss sahib, here is his letter."
Her hands trembled as she took it, and she did not catch the flash of
the diamond, when its envelope was disturbed by the fingers of the
native, who instantly replaced it.
Mr. Hildreth roused from the long cane settee on which he was
stretched and looked inquiringly at his daughter. He had overheard
the conversation between Marian and Luchman, and he spoke to her,
after waiting until she had time to finish the letter:
"What does he say for himself? Why did he not come with Luchman
instead of sending him forward alone?"
Marian stepped hastily to the side of her parent and read the letter
in a low voice to him.
"I don't understand it," he said in the same guarded undertone. "He
says the date of the sepoy rising is close at hand. Today is the
10th; he speaks as though there is not the slightest doubt of the
revolt."
At this moment, the wife, seeing that something important was on the
minds of her husband and daughter, rose quickly from her chair and
joined them.
"You seem alarmed about something."
By way of reply, Marian handed her the letter from Dr. Avery, the
others in the meantime holding their peace.
Luchman was standing just where he halted when he passed the letter
to the young lady, and there he remained motionless, his arms folded,
while he looked expectantly at the little group. The missionary
raised his finger and beckoned him to approach.
"Luchman, tell us about this," said Mr. Hildreth, as the native drew
nigh.
He gave the dreaded information asked for. There could be no doubt
that a general revolt of the sepoys through India had been fixed for
the latter part of the month. Emissaries had been engaged for months
in inflaming the minds of Hindoo and Mussulman alike, until the
fanatical population were like so many cobras bursting with venom.
The majority believed that the English were determined to break their
caste and convert them to Christianity by means of the defiling
cartridges. The war, therefore, would be a religious one, which is
another way of saying that the strife would be the most cruel on
which the sun ever shines.
Luchman had learned that the mutiny was fixed for the last day of
May, and he believed that it would come with the certainty of the
rising of the sun. There had been a revolt at Berhampore on the 25th
of the preceding February, but it was so slight and was so easily
suppressed that all misgiving quickly passed.
"There is another great danger," remarked Luchman.
"What is that?" asked the missionary.
"Many of the sepoys are too impatient to wait for the day fixed."
"How will it be in Delhi?"
The native shook his head.
"They will wait, sahib; but they are ready _now_."
"And what will be done here?"
Luchman seemed surprised at the question.
"Was not Delhi the capital of the Mogul Empire? Does not the emperor
live with his family in the palaces yonder?"
These queries fully answered the questions of the missionary. Delhi
was to be the capital of the restored empire, and probably in all
India there was not a more unsafe place for a European to dwell.
When they had talked awhile longer, Luchman, declining the invitation
to eat and rest himself, said he would go forth to learn some things
he was anxious to know. If he found the danger immediate he would
return without delay; otherwise he might be gone until morning.
The native then lifted the tattie and quickly passed out of the
compound upon the street, while the little group left to themselves
talked in low tones of the dreadful news. They felt that the shadow
of death was over them all, and there was no saying that one dear to
each had not already given up his life.
"He speaks hopefully," said Marian, unfolding the letter again.
Before she could do more than glance at the first lines, the father
exclaimed:
"Luchman is returning! He brings important news!"
"It is Baird!" whispered Marian, leaping up and into the arms of the
young surgeon, who, at that moment, lifted the tattie and bounded
among the party like a burst of fresh mountain air.