CAPTAIN BERTIE'S FAQUIR
In Meerut those days had been days of trouble. On the 24th of May, the
day following General Elton's arrival in the city, a strong detachment
had marched out to join the troops that were fighting their way to
Delhi. Many of the residents were of opinion that this decrease in
their defensive force would seriously affect their safety; and night
after night there were panics. But nothing happened. The rebels, who
were daily and hourly being recruited by fresh regiments, had higher
game to fly at, and it would not have suited their purpose to sit down
before a strong and well-provisioned place like Meerut and wait for its
surrender. This the principal men of the station began to realise at
last, so that there was a greater sense of security.
In the tent where the Eltons lived there was deep distress and sorrow,
for the General was dangerously ill. Fatigue, exposure, and mental
anguish, aggravated by the pain of his wound, which proved more serious
than they had at first imagined, had done their work. So long as the
strain was upon him he kept up. When it was relaxed he fell. But for
the perfection of his health and the iron strength of his will, he must
have died that night. For himself, it may have been fortunate that his
senses soon deserted him; but piteous it was to the poor women who
loved and honoured him to hear the wild ravings of those awful days
and nights. It was all about his soldiers. They were his children, his
little ones. He believed in them, as he believed in himself. Springing
up in bed, he would call the bystanders to witness how brave and true
they were. He would challenge an imaginary adversary to question their
faithfulness, asserting his own intimate knowledge of their character.
Again and again he would recite the brilliant deeds of arms to which he
had led them, and relate how they had delivered him from a cruel death.
His gentle wife, waiting patiently by his bedside, wept bitterly as she
listened. With all her dread of the future, and passionate sorrow and
pity, she feared his returning to himself. If he was to be taken away,
would it not be better for his sake that he should go now, before his
heart was pierced by the dread knowledge of the truth? And as day after
day went by, bringing little or no change in his condition, they began
to fear that so it would be.
There was another anxiety pressing upon them. Through all these days no
word had been heard of Grace. Whether the troops at Nowgong had been
faithful, or whether they had risen, no one at Meerut knew. To poor
Lady Elton, watching by her husband, and looking at the pale faces of
her girls, as they came and went sorrowfully, doing what they could to
help her, it would seem sometimes as if Grace was the dearest of all.
She was her first-born. It was her little plaintive voice, and the
touch of her baby-hands, that had awakened in her heart the rapturous
joys of motherhood. From beautiful girlhood she had blossomed under her
eyes into a womanhood that was no less lovely. Always gentle, always
good--too good, the mother said to herself now, with a contraction of
heart that almost made her swoon. And it was not only the dread of
losing her. If she had lain where her father lay, if they had known
that in a short time she would breathe her sweet life away, bitter
as the pang would have been, she might have borne it. It was this
horror worse than death--this uncertainty--that slew her. It numbed her
senses, till she wondered at her own indifference. It shattered her
faith, so that, forgetting the others--the young creatures who depended
upon her--she cried out piteously to a cruel God to slay her, and then
wept and bemoaned herself over her own wickedness and hardness of heart.
Sometimes those about her saw a wild look in her eyes, as if she would
do some desperate deed. Yaseen Khan, the faithful bearer, who could
read her face as if it were an open book, saw it, and, late one night,
when he and she were alone watching, he crept to Trixy's bedside and
awoke her. 'Mem Sahib is ill,' he said, brokenly. 'Let Missy Sahib come
and see.'
In a moment Trixy was on her feet. They all slept in those days so as
to be ready for any alarm. 'What is it, Yaseen?' she said.
He led the way to the General's bedside, and Trixy saw her mother, whom
she had left sitting beside him quietly in dressing-gown and slippers,
putting on her boots and throwing a shawl about her shoulders. She
looked up when the girl approached her. 'I am glad you have come,
dear,' she said very quietly. 'Father is asleep; I think he will do
now, so I am going to look for Grace. You will help Yaseen to take
care of him while I am away.'
'But, darling,' said Trixy, flinging her strong young arms about her
mother, and making her sit down, 'you can't now. It is the middle of
the night.'
'That is why,' whispered poor Lady Elton; 'don't you see, you little
goose, that they won't let me go in the day-time? Now, like a good
child, loose me. There will be plenty of time for kisses when Grace
comes back.'
'Mother darling, you are dreaming. Will you leave us all, father and
the rest of us? And you couldn't find her alone. Mother, listen to me.
God help us!' cried the poor child, 'she doesn't understand. Yaseen,
help me! She will die if she goes out.'
'She will die! she will die!' echoed the poor fellow. 'Missy Sahib, it
is of no use.'
'It is of use, and she shall not die. Yaseen, you are an idiot,' cried
Trixy. 'Call Maud Sahib, and run as fast as you can for the doctor.'
The interruption, meanwhile, had confused the unhappy mother, and she
was looking before her in bewilderment.
'He left the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness,' she murmured, 'and
went after the one that was lost. Why did it come into my head? I
can't remember. And lost! Who is lost? Not Grace, you silly child! She
has been sitting beside me all night. I thought she was being hurt, but
it was all imagination. No one could hurt Grace.'
'No, no one;' echoed Trixy, whose eyes were full of tears.
'There; I was sure of it. But your father has been going on so
strangely.'
'Father is asleep,' said Trixy. 'He will see things more clearly when
he awakes. You ought to sleep, too, mother, and then you will be ready
to talk to him.'
'Sleep; yes, I should like to sleep, but I can't. There is something
strange in my head and it keeps me awake. What is that? What is that?'
'Only the doctor,' said Trixy, springing to the curtain before the door
of the tent. 'And--and--Bertie.'
Maud had joined them in the meantime.
She had more power over her mother than Trixy, and between her and the
doctor Lady Elton was persuaded to take a composing draught and to lie
down. Trixy in the meantime drew her friend Bertie aside. 'Something
must be done,' she said, 'or my poor mother will go mad. Can't you help
us?'
'God knows,' he answered earnestly, 'that I would if I could. I
asked to be allowed to take out cavalry and scour the country. I
feel certain that I should have brought back news at least. But I am
forbidden. Lives, they say, are too precious to be wasted in profitless
enterprises. If I had no command I would go out alone.'
'That would be much too dangerous,' said Trixy, shuddering. 'We must
think of something else. How would it do for one of us to go out
disguised?'
'One of _you_!' said Bertie with a sad smile.
'Well, _me_, if you will have it. I could dress up as a native woman,
and I know their way of talking. Listen while I mimic ayah.'
'But, my dear girl, don't you know that the poor native servants are
as much hated as ourselves? Numbers of them have been killed already.
Besides, what would you do?'
'I might at least find out where Grace is, and then, perhaps, you would
take out soldiers to rescue her.'
'An impossible plan,' said the young fellow. 'But----'
'Well, Bertie, go on for heaven's sake! Have you thought of anything?'
'I have made no plan, if that is what you mean. I was only
thinking--have you heard, by the bye, where the young fellow is who
visited you here two months ago? You called him Tom.'
'Curiously enough I was just thinking of him,' said Trixy. 'He has
large estates somewhere in Central India, left him by a cousin or some
one of that sort, who was an Indian rajah. Maud and I felt sure that he
would become an Indian too. He was very much changed when we saw him.
In England long ago he used to be fond of Grace. What made you think of
him now?'
'I have just had rather a curious piece of news. I meant to find out
all I could about it, and tell you later. They say that a new sort of
character has sprung up in these parts--an English rajah. The story is
so romantic that I can scarcely believe it. The state he has come over
to govern is an ideal place, a kind of little Paradise, so at least
they tell me, where for the last two or three generations the most
admirable laws have been in force. The late rajah seems to have been
half a philosopher and half a saint. He bequeathed his rule to a young
man brought up in England, recommending him to his people by a curious
fiction. He said, it appears, that in the person of this young man, who
seems to be strikingly like him, he would himself return to the earth.
If it was a stroke of policy, it was clever and bold, for his people
believed him. The story goes that they received their new rajah with
acclamations.'
'It is Tom! I am sure it is Tom,' interrupted Trixy, breathlessly. 'I
heard the beginning of the story at Surbiton. Father knows it all; and
they said then that he had seen visions. Oh, how strange! how strange
everything is! Can't we send to him?'
'Wait a moment,' said Bertie. 'I have more to tell you. The young
rajah, who, of course, is on our side in this struggle, has spies
everywhere, and he has managed to send one of them into Meerut. I saw
the man just now. He looks like a faquir. They took him at the outposts
an hour or so ago, and he has been with the General ever since. I heard
from Hitchin, who was in the General's quarters, that he was from
Gumilcund. I thought of waylaying him presently, and trying to send a
message to his master.'
'You think of everything! What should we do without you?' said Trixy,
her eyes glistening.
She lifted the curtain of the tent and looked out.
'I should like to go too,' she said. 'It would be so delightful to
bring good news to dearest mother. But I suppose----'
'No, no; it would never do. You must wait patiently a few minutes. I
will come back as soon as ever I can,' said Bertie.
* * * * *
In the silence of the tent, with only sleepers about her, Trixy
waited. She would tell no one of the great hope that had sprung up in
her heart, for fear it might be delusive; but she did not think it
would be, and rosy visions floated before her as she sat watching.
The darkness waned, and the light came pouring in, and, remembering
suddenly her dishevelled condition, she ran back to her own compartment
of the tent, and made herself trim and neat. Then she looked in upon
her father and mother, who were, both of them, asleep. The doctor had
been with them since Yaseen Khan brought him back. He smiled at the
bright little maiden, and told her that if she would have a cup of
coffee made for him he would remain with her parents until they awoke.
'They are both better,' he said; 'but I rather dread their coming to
themselves.'
'Oh!' said Trixy, with a radiant smile. 'I think I shall have good news
for them.'
By this time the three other girls were stirring, and Trixy, who wished
to be the first to hear the good news, went out into the compound.
It was scarcely day, for the sun had not leapt above the hard rim of
the horizon; but there was a bright diffused light in the sky, and
the night-breeze was sinking to rest. This was the hour when, in the
dear old days of peace and freedom, they used to return from their
morning ride, she and Bertie, as often as not, riding together, and
Maud and Lucy, each with her own attendant, laughing and talking in
front of them. They never talked seriously. That was not their way.
Grace was the only serious one of the family. Banter, and chaff, and
jokes, whose very feebleness made them laugh, formed the staple of
their talk. Then would come the gay little breakfast in their lovely
verandah, crimson and purple and azure-blue flowers peeping in at them
between the pillars, and the foliage of their glorious fig-tree making
a screen against the sun. As in a dream Trixy saw it all--her gentle
mother and Mildred, who was too timid to ride, waiting for them, and
the guests who would drop in--the gallant young colonel of General
Elton's favourite regiment, who had paid with his life for his reckless
confidence in his men, and the judge of the High Court, with his
delightful inimitable stories of Hindu and Eurasian pleaders: he had
gone too, dying at his post like a gallant gentleman: and his daughter,
pretty Ellice Meredith, whom they all loved, although she could not do
much more than quote 'papa'; Ellice, who had died of fright and anguish
when she heard the awful news--these and many others, some with them,
and some taken away; but all changed. 'I wonder,' said poor little
Trixy to herself, 'if we shall ever, ever have the heart to laugh
again.'
She did not feel much like laughing then; but, in the next moment, to
her own great surprise, she found herself laughing heartily. The figure
which provoked this explosion--it was that of a tall man wrapped in a
white garment, having his forehead streaked with red and white clay,
and carrying a staff in his hand--joined in her laugh, and then said,
with some touch of disappointment, 'I didn't think you would know me at
once.'
'Didn't you, Bertie?' cried the girl. 'Well, I'm sorry I disappointed
you; but I'm ridiculously keen-sighted everyone says, and then I know
you so well. Try some one else.'
'I have tried the General. He was quite at sea; thought I had come in
with some wicked intention.'
'But what is it for?' asked Trixy.
'I am going out with the faquir.'
'Oh!' she gasped. 'Why?'
'Didn't we agree that some one ought to go?' he said.
'Yes; but----' She paused to check down her tears.
Bertie was looking at her strangely. He would think her a coward, a
goose. And so she was, but she could not help herself.
'Go away!' she said, in a stifled voice.
'Go away, Trixy!'
'No; don't. I--I am a fool. Tell me----'
And here, to her own consternation and wrath, she broke down
completely, and began to sob and cry like a child.
Bertie went closer to her. His heart, too, was curiously soft. To see
this wild, glorious, high-spirited little creature, whose courage and
audacity he had so often admired, sobbing with childish abandonment,
was almost more than he could bear. 'You are generally so brave,' he
said, in a choked voice. 'Why----'
'Oh; don't ask me!' she sobbed. 'Everything has been so strange;
and I was thinking of the old days. What fun we used to have.
And--and--Bertie, you will take care of yourself?'
'Darling, I will try.'
The endearing word had sprung from him unwittingly; but, having
escaped, it could not stand alone. He paused for a few moments to
collect himself, and then went on gravely, 'You will say that this is
no time to speak of ourselves. I think so too; and yet, for one moment,
just for one moment--Trixy, give me that little hand; let me hold it
while I tell you what you are to me, you bright, beautiful, brave
little creature!'
'Hush, Bertie! hush!' she interrupted brokenly. 'You mustn't; you don't
know me in the least. It is you who--but I shall make you conceited if
I say any more. And,' with a rainbow-like smile, 'we always tabooed
tu-quoques in our nursery. Come back safely, and we shall see.'
'See what, Trixy?'
'That is for you to say, not me,' she said, dropping a little curtsey.
'But I am better now; and so, I hope, are you. Tell me about Tom. Does
the faquir come from him?'
'I think so. The man brought a letter for your father or mother. It is
only a scrap of paper. He carried it in a quill, which he says he could
have swallowed if he had been searched. Will you take it in?'
'They were both asleep when I came out,' said Trixy, 'so I think I may
venture to read it.'
She opened the little roll, read the words it contained, and gave a
joyful exclamation. They were as follows:--
'I have just come back from Jhansi, with fugitives. Nowgong has risen,
but there has been no violence; and my men are on the track of your
daughter Grace. I hope she will be brought in to-morrow.
'THOMAS GREGORY,
'Rajah of Gumilcund.'
'There was another letter for our General,' said Bertie, when Trixy
had read these words to him. 'It contained an urgent request that some
trustworthy and intelligent person should be sent to him. He suggested
this disguise, and I got myself up in it with the help of the faquir.'
'When will you start?' said Trixy, who was trying to speak firmly.
'The faquir thinks we had better wait until dusk. After we are outside
it will be all right, for our supposed sacred character will ensure us
respect. But no one must see us leaving the station.'
'Then come in and breakfast with us, and we shall see if the others
recognise you.'
* * * * *
The experiment was perfectly successful; for when, preceding Trixy, the
strange figure of the priest appeared suddenly in the compartment of
the tent where the girls were at breakfast, they flew away with stifled
cries, and Trixy had some little difficulty in persuading them that he
was a friend in disguise.
When they were all certain of one another it was decided that neither
of their invalids should hear of the dangerous experiment until it was
over.
To Trixy fell the joyful task of taking in the precious letter to her
parents. She found them better. Lady Elton had forgotten her painful
dream of the night before, and the General was returning slowly to
consciousness. In the midst of the deep depression that weighed him
down, as the reality of what had for so many days seemed like a vision
forced itself upon his heart, this news of Grace came like a single
ray of sunshine.
'If I bring you all safe out of it,' he said to his wife, 'I shall
perhaps be able to forgive myself.'
Through the melancholy days which followed Bertie's departure, this
was the burden of his cry--could he forgive himself? His wife and the
girls reasoned with him. He had not, they said, been more deceived
than others. That these Indians were inscrutable beings the curious
inconsistency of their actions showed. One and another came in from
outside to sit with him, and they spoke in a similar strain; but his
answer was always the same: 'If I didn't know, I should have known.
I am not fit for my post. I will lay it down.' Still more pitiful
were his outbursts of wrath against himself for what he called his
light-hearted folly, in taking his wife and five daughters from their
quiet home, and exposing them to the danger and horror of this terrible
time. 'I am a fool, an idiot,' he said to one of his friends one day.
'Think of it! Those six innocent creatures--so innocent and helpless,
that they don't know the full horror of their situation--suffering for
me, because I was a blind, credulous fool. God in heaven! It is almost
more than a man can bear!'
This from the stern, self-contained man who, only a few weeks before,
had ridden boldly through a hostile country, commanding the respect
of the fiercest enemies of his race, by his magnificent audacity, was
infinitely pitiful.
And meanwhile Trixy's brave little heart fell, for there came no news
from Bertie. During the latter days of June they heard little news of
any kind at Meerut. The surrounding country had fallen back into the
state of anarchy from which the strong hand of the British Government
had redeemed it. In all the towns where there had been risings, the
gates of the gaols had been thrown open, and convicts, released from
their fetters, joined themselves to men of their caste--robber tribes,
who had of late years been compelled to earn their bread by honest
toil, but who had never lost their longing for the dear old days of
rapine. These roamed through the country, committing deeds of violence
everywhere. Turbulent spirits--dispossessed landowners in many cases
and adopted sons of dead rajahs--went, with their followers, from
village to village, raising forced contributions for the Holy War. With
them came men of professed sanctity, Indian faquirs and Mohammedan
moulvies, who carried firmans from the emperor, enthroned, as they
asserted, in Delhi, and distributed, in his name, high-sounding
titles and robes of honour. There were, indeed, moments of uneasiness
amongst them. The battle of Ghazee-ood-deen-Nugger, between Delhi and
Meerut, on the 31st of May, and the still more notable victory at
Budlee-Ka-Serai, only five miles from the Imperial city, showed them
that the race they were defying had life in it still. But what they
lacked in audacity they gained in numbers. The English victories,
moreover, decisive as they were for the moment, had little permanent
effect. The army was like a swimmer in a stormy sea. As, with force
and skill, they clove one wave of humanity, others surged up behind
them innumerable, and not the wisest could say whereto this thing would
reach. The people were encouraged to think that it would have no end;
that from north to south, and from east to west, the whole of the land
would rise in insurrection.
It is difficult, however, to make any adequate picture of what the
state of India actually was in that disastrous year. We who were in
the midst of it have forgotten, our impressions have grown dim. Those
who were not lack the sense which would enable them to grasp it. For
security is the watchword of our modern life. To be robbed of this--to
live consciously, day and night, on the brink of an abyss--to see the
earth open, and the subversive forces which are for ever underlying
it, break upwards in ravage and desolating fury--to have all our
softnesses and superiorities swept away, and, in their place, terror,
nakedness and an aching sense of our own insignificance--who of us all
can fitly image it? I cannot, I know, although I took part in it all
long ago. Yet sometimes, even now, a nightmare vision will flash it
all back again. I will hide, breathless, in the jungle; I will listen
to the shouts of infuriated mobs that seem to be always at my heels; I
will plunge into a river, and strike out for dear life; I will crawl
on shore at dead of night to rest my aching limbs, and measure sadly
the distance that divides me from my friends; I will listen to tales
that make the hair of my flesh stand up with horror, and try feebly
to understand that they were our very own--the dear women and fair
children that made the rapture of our lives--who have been hacked and
hewn, and torn limb from limb, by fiends in human form. I will feel the
blood in my body like fire, and the strength of a hundred will rush
into my limbs, and I will grasp my weapon and slay--slay--till my heart
is sick and my head faint; and still there will be the same awful,
insatiable thirst that nothing can slake. And then, trembling, I will
awake, and fall down on my knees and thank the Father of Mercies that
the terror is over, and that the greater number of those who took part
in it--Indians as well as English--are at rest.