Dragged away by his relentless guards, Herbert Compton had no leisure
allowed him to speak with his companions; even the last miserable
gratification of a hurried farewell was denied him; and as he passed
them, a melancholy group, some standing or leaning against the building,
others sitting upon the grass in dejected attitudes, he strove to speak;
but every word was a signal for fresh insult, and he was pushed, struck
with shoes, spit upon by the rabble of the courtiers’ servants and
grooms, to whom the sufferings of a kafir Feringhee were the highest
sport that could be afforded.
A sad spectacle was Herbert’s renewed captivity, in insult and
suffering, to those of his fellow-countrymen who beheld it. They had
seen him and several others of their body brought from Bangalore in
decency, if not with honour; during their journey the utmost indulgence
had been shown them, and all their hearts had been buoyant with
excitement when Herbert alone had been sent for into the Durbar, for
they were well assured that upon his fate would turn the issue of their
life or death, continued captivity or release.
There had been many among them who had, in the buoyancy of hope
anticipated a release; before whose minds visions of home, of return to
those beloved, to those who had mourned them dead, had been rapidly and
vividly passing; who, when a ray of hope had darted in upon their
cheerless thoughts, had allowed it to illuminate and warm them till it
had induced even extravagances of behaviour. Some had exulted to their
more staid companions; others had sung or whistled joyfully; and the
mockery of their guards and of the bystanders only served to excite them
the more, and to cause them to anticipate their triumph by words and
gestures not to be misunderstood by those to whom they were addressed.
But when Herbert passed out, ruffled, insulted, dragged away without
being allowed to exchange a word with them—apparently led to death, and
followed by the jeers and scoffings of the crowd who thirsted for his
blood—then did hope forsake them, and the memory of the deaths of former
companions by poison, by torture, or by the executioner, came upon them
suddenly, and caused a revulsion of feeling which had an almost deadly
effect on the most sanguine. The more sober and less excited exchanged
glances and a few words with each other, expressive of their awful
situation, and that their last hope had fled.
They were, in bodies of three and four, led before the Sultaun in the
evening Durbar, and, like Herbert, offered the alternative of death, or
service and life. A few were found to prefer the latter, but by far the
greater part braved the tyrant’s wrath, and in despair chose to die.
That evening saw the return of a melancholy band to the fort of
Nundidroog, the rigours of the captivity of which had been known to them
before by report, as also the fate there of many a brave fellow European
and native, boasted to them by their guards in the various forts and
prisons in which they had been confined. Nor was it as if they had been
led to death at once; those who could speak a few words of the language
of the country had implored this of the Sultaun, but had been refused
with exultation; and they had to endure a long march of many days, with
every hardship and indignity which the unconcealed wrath and spite of
the Sultaun, descending almost in a redoubled degree to his subordinate
officers, could inflict upon them. Their food was of the coarsest
description; bad water, where it could be found, was given them to
drink; miserable doolies, in which it was impossible to lie at full
length, or even to sit, and open so that the sun beat in on them, were
given to some: they were carried too by the inhabitants of the villages,
who were pressed from stage to stage, in order that they might travel
with the utmost expedition; and as these men were unaccustomed to carry
loads in that way, the exhausted men they bore were jolted, until excess
of fatigue often caused faintness and even death. Blest were those who
died thus! they were spared the misery the survivors had to endure.
Nor was the person under whose charge they travelled, Jaffar Sahib, one
likely to make any amelioration in their condition; he had received his
last orders from Tippoo at the evening Durbar, relative to Herbert
Compton (in regard to whom his instructions were somewhat different to
those the Sultaun had given in the morning), and also to the rest of the
prisoners; and well mounted himself, and accompanied by an escort of his
own risala, the Jemadar hurried on, travelling the whole day, with but
short rests, when the exhaustion of some of the prisoners, or at times
the want of a relay of bearers, caused an unavoidable stoppage.
Everywhere it was made known that the Feringhees were going to death;
and while crowds from many of the villages and towns flocked to see them
as they passed by, they were everywhere met by bitter insults, abuse,
and derision.
It was a bitter cup to quaff for Herbert Compton, who, in spite of all,
was not cast down. His stout heart, on the contrary, prepared for death
by long suffering and abandonment of all hope, looked to the termination
of his journey with joyful feelings as the time when he should be
released from his earthly troubles. Indeed, since the capitulation of
Bednore, after they were all led away into captivity,—the frequent
disappearance of his comrades and brother officers telling their
untimely fates,—he had daily prepared himself for death, not knowing in
what hour or by what manner he should be summoned to it. This had lasted
so long, that the dim visions of hope which had now and then broken the
gloom in which his future was wrapped, so far as life was concerned,
were at an end; now a hope of death succeeded, which amounted to a
certainty, and was even pleasant in contemplation.
At first, how bitter, how agonising had been his thoughts of home, of
his parents—worst of all, of Amy, whom he could not help picturing to
himself as worn down by sorrow, broken in spirit, and mourning his
absence, most likely his death, in vain. His mother too, alas! what a
world of thought was there not in her name who had so loved him, and
whose tender nature could ill have borne so rude a shock as that of his
death, for he was sure they must long ago have abandoned all hope of his
being alive. And when at the peace some captives were given up, and it
was told that the others were dead, though it was well known in India
that there were many retained, yet they would be ignorant of this in
England, and would conclude he was dead also. Thus he looked to the
future, with a hope, a certainty of reunion in death with those he had
best loved on earth, and this made him cheerful and calm, when many
around him either held the stern silence of despair or mournfully
bewailed their fate.
As they passed Bangalore the governor visited them, by order of the
Sultaun; he had known Herbert, and supplied him with Hindostanee books,
which was done by Tippoo’s order, that he might in the solitude and
_ennui_ of prison-life learn the language of the country, which would
fit him for the duties for which he designed him. He was grieved to see
him, and advised him to comply with the Sultaun’s request, which Tippoo,
knowing that he had been kind to the young Englishman, and thinking he
might be able to turn him aside from his purpose, had advanced to him.
The brave soldier, who not long afterwards met a warrior’s death in
defence of the fortress, used his utmost persuasion to alter Herbert’s
resolution, but in vain,—it was deeply rooted; the alternative proposed
was too dishonourable in prospect, and the event so nigh at hand too
welcome, for his resolution to be shaken. He bade Herbert farewell, with
an expression of deep feeling and interest which gratified him, and
which his friend did not seek to disguise. With one or two of the
captives, however, the governor was more successful; the near approach
of death, and the inability to look on it continuously for many days,
was more than they could bear, and they yielded to solicitation which
they little hoped would have been used. There were still a few, however,
whom the example of Herbert, and their own strong and faithful hearts
kept steady to their purpose, men who preferred death to dishonour in
the service of their country’s foe.
The Killadar caused nearly two days to be spent in the negotiations with
the prisoners, in despite of the inquiry of Jaffar Sahib, who pretended
to be full of zeal in the execution of the Sultaun’s orders; but on the
third morning after their arrival, there was no longer pretence for
delay, and the party again set forward.
The day after Herbert knew they should arrive at the fort of Nundidroog,
and their place of execution was then but at a short distance. Another
day, thought he, and all will be over!
Already the dark grey mass of the fort appeared above the plain as they
approached it; its immense height and precipitous sides rose plainly
into view. That evening they passed over the large tank to the southward
of the fort on the Bangalore road; and as its huge bulk appeared to
sleep peacefully reflected on the waters, making its perpendicular sides
and immense height the more apparent, Herbert thought the death to which
he was doomed would be easy and sudden, and that it was a more merciful
one than that of Mathews, or the lingering torment or strangulation of
so many others.
Herbert observed during the journey that the officer who commanded the
large party which escorted them kept aloof from him in particular; he
had seen him address the others, and heard from them that he endeavoured
to reason them into acceptance of the Sultaun’s offers; to himself he
had never spoken, but concealed his face from him; he had, however, seen
it several times, and on each occasion was inclined to think that it was
familiar to him; but, on reflection, he could discover no clue to the
supposition in his mind, and he vainly strove to dismiss the idea from
his thoughts.
The town of Nundidroog was in sight; it was evening, the mountain flung
its broad shadow over the plain under the declining rays of the sun, and
the warm red light of an Indian sunset covered every object with
splendour. The herds of cattle, and of sheep and goats, were hastening
home from their pasture with loud lowings and bleatings, and the simple
melody of the shepherd’s pipe arose, now far away, now near, from the
various herds they passed. On their left towered the huge rock almost
above their heads; its fortifications, built on the giddy verge full
eight hundred feet above the brushwood and rocky declivity out of which
it rose naked, appeared ready to topple over the precipice. There was
one huge round bastion in particular, on the very edge of the steepest
and highest part, and Herbert speculated whether or no that was the
spot; he was looking so intently at it that he did not heed the approach
on his right hand of the leader of the party, who, speaking to him
suddenly, almost startled him by the familiar accent of his voice.
‘Dost thou see yonder bastion, Feringhee?’ said the officer, pointing to
it—‘yonder round one, from which the flag of the Sultaun floats proudly
upon the evening wind?’
‘I do,’ replied Herbert; ‘it is a giddy place.’
‘Many a kafir Feringhee,’ continued the man, ‘has been flung from
thence, while a prayer for mercy was on his lips, and his last shrieks
grew fainter and fainter as he descended to perdition: many an unworthy
Moslim and kafir Hindoo, taken in arms against the true believers, have
wished they had never been born, or had never seen your accursed race,
when he was taken to the edge and hurled over it.’
‘Death will be easy from thence,’ said Herbert calmly. ‘I can look on
it, and think on it with pleasure; is that the place where—’
‘No,’ cried the man exultingly interrupting him, ‘that is too good for
thee and thy obstinate companions. Dost thou see yonder lotos-shaped
hill?’ And he pointed to one around which the evening vapour was
wreathing itself in soft fleecy masses, while the red sunlight lighted
up its rugged sides and narrow top.
‘I see it,’ said Herbert.
‘Beneath it,’ continued the man, ‘there is a rock; thou wilt see it
to-morrow—till then farewell.’
‘Stay!’ cried Herbert, ‘tell me, if thou wilt—for it matters little to
one so near death—tell me who thou art; surely I have met thee ere now;
thy voice is familiar to my ears.’
‘Thou shalt know to-morrow,’ was the only reply the man gave, as he
touched the flanks of his horse and galloped to the head of the
detachment.
The wearied prisoners were glad when they reached the ancient Hindoo
cloisters, where we have before seen the Khan and Ameena with his risala
encamped; and though the evening wind, which had arisen sharply, blew
chill around them and whistled through the ruined arches and pillars,
they were glad to eat their humble meal of coarse flour cakes and a
little sour curds; and wrapping themselves in the horse-cloths which
were flung to them out of pity by the grooms, they lay down on the hard
ground, each with a stone for his pillow, and exhausted nature claiming
its repose, they slept soundly.
But Herbert only for a while; he had dreamed vividly and yet confusedly
of many things, and at last awoke, fevered and unrefreshed. A jar of
water was beside them; he arose, drank some, which revived him, and sat
down on a broken pillar, for he could not sleep again; thought was too
busy within him. There was no one stirring except the men on watch, who
lazily paced to and fro close to him, talking in short sentences: he
strove to listen to their conversation.
‘And do you think he knows where it is? they say the Feringhees buried
it when the place was taken,’ said one.
‘Willa Alum!’[34] said the other, ‘the Jemadar says he does, and that he
will make him tell where it is before—’
-----
Footnote 34:
‘God knows!’
-----
Here Herbert lost the rest, and they did not return to the subject
again, but wandered away to others which to him had no interest. The
night was very chill, and a keen wind blew, raising the fine dust which
had accumulated in the place, and blowing it sharply against his face;
there was something melancholy in the sound, as it whistled and moaned
through the ruins, and through the branches of an old blasted
peepul-tree which, blanched with age, stood out a ghastly object against
the dark sky. At length, after some time of weary watching, a cock in
the town crew; another answered his call; and as Herbert looked into the
east, the grey flush of dawn was apparent, and he was glad the day had
come, though it was to be, as he thought, his last.
The whole party were soon astir, the unhappy sleepers aroused, and, as
one by one they awoke to consciousness, with the light that greeted
them, miserable thoughts of death poured into their hearts, and occupied
them to the exclusion of every other idea. One sat motionless, and
apparently stupefied, as though he had eaten opium; another prayed aloud
wildly, yet fervently; others laughed and spoke with a feverish
excitement; and there were one or two who blasphemed and cursed, while
they bewailed their early and fearful fate.
For some hours they waited in the cloisters, and the sun was high and
bright, ere a body of men on foot, the soldiers of the country, armed
with sword and matchlock, marched into it. It was plain that their
escort was to be changed, and that the respectable men who had been with
them were no longer to accompany them, but had given place to some of
the lowest description of Tippoo’s troops, who were usually composed of
the unclean castes of the country. Their appearance was forbidding, and
in vain the prisoners looked for a glance of pity from the half-naked
and savage-looking band to whom they were given over; they appeared used
to the scenes which were to ensue, and regarded the miserable Englishmen
with a cold stare of indifferent curiosity.
But little communication passed between the prisoners; Herbert had for
some days spoken to them, and advised them to prepare for death by
prayer and penitent confession to God; he had reasoned with several, who
had from the first shown a foolhardy and light demeanour, on the madness
of attempting indifference to their fate; but as the time drew near, he
was too fully occupied with his own overpowering thoughts to attend to
the others, and he had withdrawn to as far a distance as possible from
them, where he sat moodily, and contemplated with bitter thoughts his
approaching death.
While he was thus occupied the Jemadar entered the court, and having
given some orders to the men who remained behind, he directed the legs
of the prisoners to be tied. This having been executed, they were placed
in the doolies, and the whole again proceeded.
Passing the outskirts of the town of Nundidroog, they travelled for two
or three miles through the avenues of mango-trees, which in parts line
the road: could they have had thought for anything around them, they
would have admired the varied prospect presented to them by the rugged
rocky hills, and their picturesque and ever-varying outlines: but one
idea absorbed all others, and they were borne along in a kind of
unconscious state; they could see nothing but death, even though the
bright sun was in their eyes, and the glad and joyful face of nature was
spread out before them.
At length the leading men turned off the road by a by-path towards a
huge pile of rocks in the plain, about half a mile distant, and the
others followed; it was plain to all that this was their destination.
Then it flashed across their minds that the rock was not high enough to
cause death instantaneously; and while some demanded in haughty words of
expostulation to be taken to the fort itself, or to the summit of the
conical mountain, which arose precipitously on the right hand,—others
besought the same with piteous and plaintive entreaty, in very
abjectness compared with their former conduct. They might as well have
spoken to the wind which blew over them in soft and cool breezes as if
to soothe their excited and fevered frames. Ignorant of the only
language of which the Europeans could speak a few words, the rude
soldiers listened with indifference, or replied with obscene jests and
mocking gestures and tones.
They reached the foot of the rocks; the bearers were directed to put
down the doolies, and the prisoners were dragged from them with
violence. A few clung with fearful cries to the wretched vehicle, which
had been their wearisome abode for so many days, and one or two
resisted, with frantic efforts, to the utmost of their power, the
endeavours of their guards to lead them up the narrow pathway; they were
even wounded in their struggles; but the men they had to deal with were
far stronger than the attenuated Europeans, and had been accustomed to
the work too long to heed cries or screams; they were the far-famed
guard of the rock, even now remembered, who had been selected for their
fierce behaviour, strength, and savage deportment, to carry into
execution the decrees of the Sultaun.
All the while they had been accompanied by the Jemadar, who, having
ridden in advance of the party, now awaited their coming at the top of
the rock. Herbert was the first who arrived there, led by the rope
which, tied to both his arms, was held by one of the guards, while
others with drawn swords walked on each side of and behind him. He had
been cast down in heart since the morning, and faint and sick at heart;
but now his spirit seemed nerved within him. One plunge, he thought, and
all would be over; then he should be released from this worse than
death. Prayer too was in his heart and on his lips, and his soul was
comforted, as he stepped firmly upon the level space above and looked
around him.
The Jemadar was there, and a few other soldiers; the terrace was a naked
rock, which was heated by the sun so that it scorched his bare feet.
There were a few bushes growing around it, and on one side were two mud
houses, the one close, the other open for the guard. Besides these,
there was a hut of reeds, which was used as a place for keeping water.
‘Thou art welcome, captain,’ said the Jemadar with mock politeness. ‘Art
thou ready to taste of the banquet of death?’
‘Lead on,’ said Herbert firmly, ‘and molest me not by thy words. I am
ready.’
‘Not so fast, sir; the Sultaun’s orders must first be obeyed. Say, art
thou ready to take his service, or dost thou refuse?’
‘I have already told him my determination, and will waste no words upon
such as thee,’ was Herbert’s reply.
‘It is well!’ said the Jemadar, ‘thou wilt learn ere long to speak
differently:’ and he turned away from him to where several of the others
were now standing. He regarded them for a few minutes steadily and
exultingly, as one by one the miserable beings were led up; and some,
unable from mental and bodily exhaustion to support themselves, sunk
down on the rock almost insensible.’
There was one youth, a noble and vigorous fellow. Herbert had remembered
him when he was first brought to Bangalore from some distant
fortress—high-spirited and full of fire, which even captivity had not
tamed. But the long and rapid journey, the bad food, the exposure to
scorching heat and chilling dew, had brought on dysentery, which had
exhausted him nigh to death. He was almost carried by the guards, and
set down apart from the rest. His languid and sunken eye and pallid
cheek told of his sickness; but there was a look of hope in the glance
which he cast upwards now and then, and a gentle movement of his lips,
which showed that his spirit was occupied in prayer.
The Jemadar’s eye rested on him. ‘Let him be the first—he will die
else!’ he cried to some of the guards, who, having divested themselves
of their arms, stood ready to do his bidding.
A cry of horror burst from the group of Englishmen. There were two or
three of the strong men who struggled firmly with their captors, as
their gallant hearts prompted them to strike a blow, for their suffering
comrade. But, bound and guarded, what could they do?
They saw the young man lifted up by two of the executioners, and borne
rapidly to the further edge of the rock, not twenty yards from them. He
uttered no cry; but looking towards them sadly, he bade them farewell
for ever, with a glance even more eloquent than words. Another instant,
and he was hurled from the brink by those who carried him.
Almost unconsciously each bent forward to catch even a passing sound,
should any arise; and there was a dead silence for a few moments, as the
men who had done their work leaned over the edge to see if it had been
surely effected. But none arose: the sufferer had been quickly released
from his earthly pain.
‘Dost thou see that, Captain Compton?’ said the Jemadar. ‘Thy turn will
come.’
‘Now,’ was the reply; ‘I am ready,’ And Herbert hoped that his turn
would be the next. His energies were knit, and his spirit prepared for
the change.
‘Not yet,’ said the Jemadar: ‘I would speak with thee first. Lead the
rest away into the house yonder,’ he continued to the guard, ‘loose
them, and lock the door.’ It was done, and Herbert alone remained
outside.
‘Listen!’ he said, addressing Herbert, ‘does thou remember me?’
‘I said before that I thought I knew thee; but what has that to do with
death?’ said Herbert. ‘I am ready to die; bid thy people do their
office.’
‘That will not be for many days,’ he replied; ‘I have a long reckoning
to settle with thee.’
‘For what? I have never harmed thee.’
‘When Mathews was in Bednore, and there was alarm of the Sultaun’s
coming, thou didst suspect me, thou and another. Thou didst insult and
threaten to hang me. We are even now,—dost thou understand?’
‘What! Jaffar Sahib, the guide, the man who betrayed the salt he ate?’
‘Even so. Ye were owls, fools, and fell into the snare laid for you.’
‘Has thy resentment slumbered so long then?’ said Herbert. ‘I pity thee:
thy own heart must be a hell to thee.’
‘Kafir! dare to speak so again, and I will spit on thee.’
‘It would befit thee to do so; but I am silent,’ was Herbert’s reply.
‘Where is the money that thou and that old fool, who is now in
perdition, buried in Bednore? Lead me to it, and I will save thy life.
The coast is near, and thou canst escape. Fear not to speak,—those
around do not understand us.’
‘Thy master has been told by me, by Mathews, who lost his life in that
cause, and by every one, that there was none but what he found. We hid
no money—thou well knowest this: why dost thou torment me?’
‘Thou wilt remember it in three or four days, perhaps,’ said the man;
‘till then I shall not ask thee again. Go to the company of thy people.’
Herbert’s mind had been strung up to its purpose, and he coveted death
at that moment as the dearest boon which could have been granted. But it
was denied him; and he could only gather from the leader of the party
that further suffering was in store for him. In spite of his utmost
exertions to repel the feeling, despondence came over him,—a sickening
and sinking of his heart, which his utmost exertion of mind could not
repel.
The day passed away, and the night fell. As the gloom spread over their
narrow chamber, the men, whom the light had kept silent or cheering each
other, now gave way to superstitious terrors; and, as they huddled
together in a group, some cried out that there were hideous spectres
about them; others prayed aloud; and those who were hard of heart
blasphemed, and made no repentance. As night advanced, some yelled in
mental agony and terror, and the thought of those who were to die on the
morrow appalled every heart. None slept.
Four days passed thus; on every morning a new victim was taken, while
the rest were forced to look on. Sometimes he went gladly and rejoicing,
sometimes he had to be torn from his companions, who in vain strove to
protect him: two suffered passively—two made desperate resistance, and
their parting shrieks long rang in the ears of the survivors. On the
fourth day the Jemadar arrived. ‘Come forth,’ he said to Herbert, ‘I
would speak to thee. Wilt thou be obdurate, O fool? wilt thou longer
refuse to tell of the money, and the Sultaun’s benevolence? Bethink
thee.’
‘Thou couldst not grant me a greater favour than death,’ said Herbert;
‘therefore why are these things urged? If there was money hidden thou
shouldst have it; I know it is thy god. But there is none, therefore let
me die. I tell thee once for all, I spurn thy master’s offers with
loathing.’
‘Dost thou know what this death is?’ said the Jemadar; ‘thou shalt see,’
And he called to several of the guards who stood around. Herbert
thought, as they led him to the brink, that his time was come. ‘I come,
I come, Amy!’ he cried aloud—‘at length I come! O God, be merciful to
me!’
They led him passively to the brink; the Jemadar stood there already; it
was a dizzy place, and Herbert’s eyes swam as he surveyed it.
‘Thou art not to die, Feringhee,’ said the Jemadar; ‘but look over.
Behold what will be thy fate!’
Herbert obeyed mechanically, and the men held him fast on the very
verge, or the temptation would have been strong to have ridden himself
of life. He looked down: the hot and glaring sunlight fell full on the
mangled remains of his comrades, which lay in a confused heap at the
bottom: a hundred vultures were scrambling over each other to get at
them, and the bodies were snatched to and fro by their united efforts.
The Jemadar heaved a fragment of rock over, which, rebounding from the
side, crashed among the brushwood and the obscene birds; they arose
screaming at being disturbed, and two or three jackals skulked away
through the brushwood. But Herbert saw not these; the first glance and
the putrid smell which came up had sickened him, weak and excited as he
was, and he fainted.
-------