A LITTLE BAND OF FUGITIVES
We must now turn aside for a few moments to relate as nearly as we can
the experiences of a little band of fugitives who, late that evening,
crossed the boundaries of Gumilcund. It was pitifully small, consisting
of three ladies and one little child. For ten long days and nights
these had been upon the road. Through the day they had lived huddled
together in filthy huts and cattle byres, doing nothing, trembling at
every sound, and passionately wishing the long hours away. At night,
when the sun had gone down, and the brief twilight of the Indian
evening had faded, the mysterious native guide, who from the beginning
had stood by them, nobly risking his own life more than once in their
defence, would come and lead them out to where an ekka or native cart
drawn by two small bullocks would be in waiting, and while darkness
lasted they would toil on.
It was a dreary journey, full of hardships and sickening anxiety,
but, for the most part, uneventful; and as day followed day and night
night, bringing no change, some of the poor creatures began to feel as
if there was to be no end, as if they were destined so to go on for
ever. Had they known what others were going through at that very time
they might have been more reconciled to their own hard lot. For their
strange guide was curiously regardful of their comfort. Every day and
every night he brought them as good food as he could procure, with
fresh warm water to wash in, and such fruit as could be found in the
markets, neither asking nor accepting payment, while in every possible
way he consulted their convenience. What his motive could be it was
difficult to imagine. One of the ladies may have had some idea, but she
chose to be mysterious. Nevertheless her confidence, which was apparent
from the first, gave confidence to the others, all of whom had followed
her lead when they decided to trust this man. They were beginning,
in fact, to live down their fears, and to believe that he did really
mean well towards them, when their confidence was shaken by the awful
occurrence which I must relate.
They had been travelling for nine days, and they were now only one
day's journey from their place of rest. This their guide, whose face
became more radiant as they advanced, assured them one morning. A day
of confinement, a night's jolting over the rough country ways, and
their trials would be over.
On the night that followed this announcement they set forth upon their
journey with lighter hearts than usual. The guide pressed their pace.
For two days past storms had been threatening, and he was anxious to
get in before the breaking of the monsoon season. He was not, however,
very uneasy, for there were now no formidable streams between them and
their goal, and the stout covering of the cart would protect the ladies
from the worst of the rain.
The awful blackness, which precedes a storm in India, fell upon the
little party two or three hours after they had started. There were then
in the ekka four ladies and two children. The guide, who was walking
at the bullocks' heads, stopped them for a moment to draw down the
curtains of the cart, when one of the ladies said she would faint if
she were kept so close, and another begged to be allowed to get down
and walk beside the bullocks. The guide demurred; but the darkness
was so great, and the place seemed so solitary, that he was easily
persuaded to give way to her wish. She alighted, and the elder of the
two children, in spite of the earnest entreaties of his mother, not,
however, reinforced by the other ladies, who were rather glad to be rid
of him for a few moments, followed her.
This change gave a little comfort in the cart, which went on quietly
for some time, the lady outside holding the guide's girdle to help
herself along, and the little boy clinging to her skirts.
The road along which they were moving was bounded by woods that made
walls of blackness on the right hand and on the left. The sky was
entirely covered. There was not a ray of light anywhere; but the
guide, who knew the road well, had not the least fear. He was, in
fact, congratulating himself on the darkness, which made a refuge for
them, when suddenly his heart was paralysed by a sound of terrible
significance. Even the poor beasts shivered as it rang through the
woods. 'Deen! Deen!' It came from the right hand and from the left,
filling the black spaces with its echoes. 'Deen! Deen!' It was the
Mussulman battle-cry, and it was coming nearer--nearer, enveloping
them, floating towards them on the wind.
A stifled scream came from those within the ekka. 'Silence, in
heaven's name!' hissed the guide. 'The darkness is our only hope.'
Then to the lady, who stood erect by his side: 'Missy Grace, it is all
over with them. The sepoys have lights. They will see the cart. But for
you and the child there is yet a chance. Stand where you are!'
She obeyed him without a sound. He felt about on hands and knees and
then came back to her. 'There is a nullah close by,' he whispered;
'hide!'
Scarcely knowing what she did, but hoping against hope that she might
save her darling Kit, Grace, following the directions of the guide,
leapt into a shallow ditch, and drew the long grass over herself and
the child. 'If they let me live, I will come back to you,' he
whispered; 'if not, go on straight to the next village and say that
Hoosanee, the servant of the Rajah of Gumilcund, has sent you to his
father. He will guard you till you reach the city. Farewell, noble
lady!' And he returned to the cart. In the next moment Grace saw the
flashing of torches and heard the trampling of armed men in the woods.
Kit began to whimper. She breathed in his ear that, if he wished to see
his mother again, he must be brave and good, and pressed him close
against her breast to stifle his sobs. Then, with a strange composure at
her heart, a feeling that the worst--the awful thing to which they had
been looking forward so long--had come, she lifted herself up on hands
and knees and looked out over the edge of the nullah.
* * * * *
Armed to the teeth, some of them riding, and others on foot carrying
torches, the sepoys came pouring out of the wood. The light fell on the
cart, and, with cries like those of wild creatures scenting their prey,
they gathered round it. A man taller and better dressed than the others
imposed silence by an authoritative word, and with a sweep of his naked
tulwar thrust them back, so that they made a wide circle, having the
cart in the midst of them.
The curtains were down, not a sound proceeded from within them, and the
gallant guide kept his place at the bullocks' heads.
Her heart throbbing with admiration and terror, Grace watched him
from her hiding-place. She heard his voice, clear and strong, as he
addressed the leader: 'We are peaceful travellers. What do you want
with us?'
'Draw open the curtains of that cart,' was the brutal answer. 'You have
Feringhees there.'
'_You_ may sin, for you have the power,' said the guide boldly. '_I_
dare not.'
'Do you deny that they are Feringhees?'
'They are holy women, bound under a vow to travel by night to the
sacred river. Touch them and you incur the guilt of sacrilege!'
The leader laughed out loudly. 'Tell a better tale next time, son of an
ass,' he said scornfully. 'We will run the risk and see the colour of
their faces for ourselves!'
Upon this the unhappy guide began to dance wildly round the cart. 'Let
my lord have pity!' he cried out. 'Feringhees or not, they are women
and children who have done no wrong----'
He was not allowed to finish. The leader pushed him aside, and, amid
the jeers of his men, began to feel along the sides of the cart. At his
touch the ladies screamed, sprang out, and fell on their knees.
How the poor girl in the nullah preserved her senses, how she kept back
the scream that was clutching at her throat, she never knew. Grace,
palpitating with horror, grasping with her one hand at the sides of the
nullah, and with the other pressing Kit's face to her bosom, so that he
could neither cry out nor see, she stood, yet never for one moment did
she lose her presence of mind.
Her friends rose, ran a few paces, saw by the flare of the torches that
they were surrounded, and then knelt again, and implored piteously for
mercy. For a few moments no one stirred. Then the voice of the leader
broke the silence. 'I want one of you. The rest may go on their way in
peace.'
Here the guide interposed with a shrill cry: 'What my lord wishes is
impossible. We go on together or not at all.'
'Be silent! Who spoke to you?' said the leader.
'Excellency, for the love of the Prophet--by your hopes of Paradise,
listen to me!'
'Do you hear?' roared the leader, making a dash at the poor man with
his sword. 'Silence! I have to put a question to these mem-sahibs. If
they answer it truly they are free. The daughter of that son of Satan,
who calls himself the General Elton, is here. I am sent to take her
prisoner. Let her give herself up and the rest are free!'
In the little group of trembling women there was neither sound nor
stir; but their guide sprang forward.
'She is not here,' he cried.
'You lie, infidel!'
'Nay, by the Prophet's beard. I speak the truth! To satisfy you, I will
give you the names of those here. Let them go on in peace, and----'
The leader broke in with an awful imprecation.
'That is enough,' he cried. 'If she has escaped me, all these shall
die.'
He advanced threateningly. Even as he did so there came from close at
hand a voice, so clear and still that it seemed to be ringing down from
the upper air. 'They shall not die,' it said, 'I am here.'
* * * * *
It was like a vision. Hoosanee told his master so, when, sobbing like a
child, he gave him an account of his stewardship. Pale as death; but,
moving proudly like a queen, her head thrown back, her eyes burning
under their lids; she stood suddenly amongst them--the young English
girl who knew how to die.
'I am here,' she said firmly. 'Let me speak a word to the kind friend
who has helped me so far, and then, if you have really any pity, kill
me.'
A moment of silence followed her bold words. No one cried out. No
hand was raised to touch her. Her heroism, it would almost seem, had
touched some chord of gentleness even in these wild hearts.
She moved forward quietly towards her terror-stricken countrywomen, and
whispered in English that they should get into the cart again. 'Kit
is close by,' she said. 'You will find him when these men have gone.
I have persuaded him to keep quiet.' Then, in a lower tone, 'I will
tell you for your comfort what I was afraid to tell you before. You are
going to an Englishman--a dear friend of mine. Give him my love, and
tell him that I thank him for what he has done, and that I thought of
him even to the last. Get in, dears. Cover yourselves up. Now kiss me,
and good-bye.'
'Oh, Grace! Grace! Why did you do it?' sobbed one. 'We can't go on
without you, and we could all have died.'
'Yes,' said the girl, with strange solemnity, 'we can all die. Thank
God for that! Lucy, you know what I have here--something swift and
sudden. Tell them at home and give them my dear love.'
'But we can't leave you so,' sobbed Lucy.
'You must! Get in, Lucy. Yes, if you love me. Would you kill all of
them?'
In the meantime the unhappy Hoosanee had prostrated himself at the feet
of the leader, and was pouring out entreaties and denials. 'She lies,
Excellency. Do not listen to her. It is to save the others that she has
spoken. She is not the child of the General. She is the sister of my
master, the Rajah of Gumilcund, whose servant I am. Let her go on with
us, and we will bless you all the days of our life.'
So and with many more words he pleaded, but they took no more notice of
his entreaties than of the blowing of the wind among the trees.
Then Grace, who had bade good-bye to her people, came forward again,
and touched him on the arm.
'It is useless, my poor Hoosanee,' she said. 'They are stronger than
we are. I must go with them, and you will, for my sake, take my poor
friends on. Remember Kit.'
At this moment there was a wild shriek, which made Grace wring her
hands and weep. 'Oh, God! have pity!' she moaned. 'Is it not enough?
That is his voice; I left him insensible.'
Maddened with terror at finding himself alone, the poor child had
sprung out of the nullah, and made blindly for where the torches were
shining. A sepoy seized him. Grace cried out frantically and covered
her face with her hands. The poor women in the cart, who thought that
it was her death-cry, gave a piteous wail. Hoosanee dashed forward
and seized the barbarian's arm. 'Shame! shame!' he cried, 'it is a
girl-child; give it to me!'
The light of the torches flashed on poor little Kit's long golden
curls and delicate face, and there was a murmur of pity. The child was
released, and he dashed headlong into Grace's arms. 'Go to Hoosanee,
darling!' she whispered. 'He will take you to your mother.'
'No, no, no. I'll go with you. Take me! take me!' sobbed poor little
Kit, the strain of his arms tightening.
'No, Kit, no; I can't. Oh God! It will kill me! Hoosanee, take him.
Take him by force if you must. There! there!'
'Enough! Take them both,' cried the leader. A litter had been brought
out. It was put down, and Grace was ordered to get into it. She made
one last effort to send away Kit; but he clung to her more convulsively
than ever. They got in together; the curtains were lowered; four stout
coolies lifted the pole to their shoulders; a body of torch-bearers
ranged themselves on either side; the horsemen and foot soldiers made a
compact mass round them; and, in a few moments, they were being swung
along at a swift pace--going they knew not whither.
Then Grace burst into tears, and Kit loosened his frantic grasp of her
neck. 'Why did you come, child?' she said. 'You would have been safe
with them. To-morrow they will be in Gumilcund.'
'But I'd much rather be with you,' said Kit, 'and it would be beastly
cowardly to let you go alone. Don't cry, Grace. I'll take care of you
now.'