‘Nay, cheer thee, beloved! thou must be now as thou wert ever wont to
be, stout of heart and fearless for the future,’ said Rhyman Khan to his
fair wife, as, on the evening of that day, he sat with her in their
quiet secluded apartments, with the moon’s broad light playing on the
slightly agitated fountain before them, and the cool wind rustling
amidst the leaves above their heads. ‘Thou must not fear; what is there
to dread? Hast thou not thine own nurse with thee, and my household, who
are devoted to thee? hast thou not these apartments, where no one dares
to intrude without thine especial leave, and a guard of my most faithful
men around thee? why shouldst thou fear?’
‘My lord,’ she said, looking up to him—and it was hard to resist those
pleading eyes—‘I know I am not worthy to share the fate of one who is
honoured in the councils of the Sultaun, and who is respected in the
assemblies of the great; yet, if thou art ill, who will tend thee like
Ameena? if thou art wounded, who will soothe thy pain? Thou wouldst have
no one to cheer thy dulness; even the Patél would fail thee—thou wouldst
think of Ameena!’
‘But the English, fairest—men affect to despise them, but the Sultaun
well knows their power, though he denies it to all, and scoffs at it (I
pray Alla, he may feel it not soon)—’tis the English I dread for thee.
Fighting with them is not like fighting with the infidel Hindoos, who
are slaughtered like sheep, but the war of men against men—the shock of
contending armies—the roar of artillery—the rattle of musketry; this thy
gentle heart cannot bear.’
‘Bid me go before thee into the battle—bid me attend thee as thy
servant—bind a turban on my brow and a sword to my waist, and see if
Ameena will not follow thee to the death!’ she cried, hastily rising.
‘If the Mahratta women have done this many a time, thinkest thou that a
Moghul of the old and proud blood of Delhi dares not?’
A sudden cry of admiration broke from the Khan. She had arisen from her
seat and advanced towards him; her always soft and loving eye was filled
with a daring and flashing light; her bosom heaved, and her slight and
beautiful form was drawn up to its full height, as she stood almost
panting, when she ceased to speak.
‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art fit to be a soldier’s wife!’ he
cried, starting to his feet; ‘one who feels so keenly a soldier’s honour
and his fame, ought to share it with him. I had not thought that this
spirit dwelt within thee. Come to me, girl—henceforth thou needst not
fear; come evil or good, thou shalt share it with Rhyman Khan. I swear
by thine eyes I will not leave thee; art thou content now?’
‘Thou art too kind!’ she murmured, as she bowed her head upon his
shoulder; ‘thou knowest I have none here but thyself, and my home is
afar off; thou art father, mother, husband—all to me. I bless thee that
thou hast heard my prayer, and that I am not to be left tormented by a
thousand fears for thee, and dreads (may they be visionary!) of coming
evil.’
‘Of evil, Ameena?’
‘Ay, my lord; hast thou not felt often, upon the eve of some event in
thy life, when, as yet, it had not burst from the womb of futurity, an
unknown, undefinable sense of dread which pervaded thy senses, causing
thought to be painfully acute, and to run into a thousand channels too
intricate to follow for a moment, till it was lost in vague, oppressive
conjecture leading to no end?’
‘Never, Ameena; I have never troubled myself to think much, but have
been content to take events as it pleased Alla to send them.’
‘I may be wrong then,’ she returned; ‘these may be the offsprings of my
own imagination only, and not common to others. It is well it is so;
they are not enviable.’
‘There will be danger, Ameena,’ said the Khan, who misapprehended her;
‘bethink thee again upon going with me into the rough camp; remember,
Kasim Ali will be here, and will protect thee, as he hath done before.’
‘Oh no! no! I would not stay—I would not stay with him, but go with
thee, my noble lord,’ she said, averting her burning face from him; ‘for
the sake of the Prophet do not mention that again; thou hast already
said thou wouldst let me accompany thee.’
‘Bismilla! then be it so; yet why turnest thou away? art thou angry that
I doubted thy firmness? I never doubted that, girl, since the night when
we looked from the tower upon the burning village and those fierce
Mahrattas; dost thou remember them?’
Alas! she remembered but too well; and even then the temptation had
arisen within her to remain where Kasim Ali was, to be left under his
care; but she had put it back with a struggle, and the Khan’s doubt of
her bravery had rallied her spirit, and with it her best feelings had
come to her aid.
‘I remember, Khan,’ she said carelessly; ‘but I would now prepare the
few things I shall require, and warn Meeran to accompany me.’
‘Go then; I had told the Patél he would have to look after thee, and,
strange enough, he thought thou wouldst be better with me as he was not
to go. Perhaps he may be in the Dewan Khana, I will go there and seek
him.’
Ameena was left alone; how strange it was, she thought, that Kasim
should have advised what she herself had suggested; perhaps his dread
had been the same as hers, and the very idea brought painful blushes to
her face, and led her into a reverie which well nigh upset her
resolutions; it would be so easy to change her determination, to confess
her fears, to have him near her, to rely on him in all dangers; this
would be happiness. But Ameena’s virtue was strong, far stronger than
her servant’s, who at first almost reproached her for the voluntary loss
of the opportunity, which, as she said, destiny had presented. Meeran’s
sophistry was unable, however, to contend with the honest purpose of her
youthful mistress, and she at length, but not without some difficulty,
yielded to her whim, of which she protested she would be tired enough
when the English cannon roared in her ears, and the balls whizzed
through the camp.
Ameena might not, perhaps, have held out long against the combined
effects of her own inclination and the terrible stories her nurse told
her of the furious English; but there was little time for
discussion—they were to move on the morrow; preparations for absence,
though small, had to be made that night, and long ere noon the following
day the army had left the city, for a longer absence than was at first
contemplated.
But it is beyond our province to follow with the minuteness essential to
history every event connected with the campaign, and we assume to
ourselves, upon the precedents of many veterans who have toiled before
us in the field of literary pursuit, the right of slightly sketching
those details of historical occurrence which, however necessary to the
historian, can be omitted, or merely glanced at, in a tale of the
present character.
The Sultaun, at the head of his noble army, proceeded down the
Guzulhuttee pass, the one in the angle formed where the grand range of
the Neelgherries joins the table-land of Mysore, and where a tributary
of the Bhowanee pours its rapid waters into the plain. On their right,
as we have described when we took Herbert Compton to his lonely prison
on the Neelgherries, rose their vast and blue chain, stretching far away
into the distance; on the left, the wide plain, and the table-land
breaking away into it in a series of giant ravines and gloomy depths.
But for these the monarch had no eyes; a gloomy presentiment of evil
appeared to possess him, and the constant succession of messengers with
bad tidings, of the news of fall after fall of strongholds, forts,
towns, and whole districts before the slight force of the English,
inspired him with a dread which the confidence of the officers around
him could not restore. Still if he could strike a decisive blow, he
thought all would yet be well; and the fame and terror of the lion of
Mysore, once more spread through the country, and reaching the ears of
the English and their confederates the Nizam and the Mahrattas, would
divert them from their alliance or convert them into positive friends.
The Bhowanee was full, but the army crossed in basket-boats, and, in the
action which followed, met their enemies in such force and spirit, that
the issue of the conflict compelled the English commander to draw off
his force during the night, and to retreat, in the hope of effecting a
junction with the commander-in-chief, whose force was daily expected.
His movement was aided, as if providentially, by a violent rain, which,
falling in the Sultaun’s camp, caused confusion not easily to be
remedied in the morning, when the escape of the English was known.
Frantic with rage, Tippoo ordered an immediate pursuit, which, though
gallantly performed by his troops, was ineffectual, as well from the
nature of the ground, and the protection afforded to the English by the
thick prickly pear-hedges, as from the resolute determination and
patience with which it was met. At the small village of Shawoor the
English commander determined to make a stand, for his men were worn out
by fatigue and excitement; and this place—where as memorable a display
of obstinate British valour against overwhelming odds as took place at
Korygaum or Seetabuldee might have occurred, was not fated to be so
distinguished. A false rumour arose of the advance of the main body of
the army under Meadows, which, while it gave new energy to the English,
inspired the Sultaun with dread; a vigorous charge by the English
cavalry determined the day and the campaign; and the Sultaun, dispirited
by this and by the death of a favourite and gallant officer of rank,
drew off his troops; he could not be persuaded to resume the attack, but
retreated southwards towards Errode, on the river Cavery.
Meanwhile the two English armies had united, and now advanced upon the
Sultaun, who again retreated towards Coimbatoor; but imagining danger in
that quarter, he turned again northwards, and falling upon the town of
Darapoor, in which were some English sick and details, he captured it,
and exacted a fearful revenge for his defeats and vexation. From hence,
hearing of the advance of the English in the direction of Salem, and
knowing the passes into Mysore in that direction to be easy and
unguarded—in fact, only a series of undulations—he hurried thither,
accompanied by all his cavalry, leaving a large body of his best
infantry to hold the English in check, and, if necessary, to occupy the
high and rugged passes that led directly to the capital.
The English armies were in possession of the country around the Tapoor
pass, which leads from the fine town of Salem and farther to the south
from Trichinopoly into Mysore; and it was evident to the Sultaun that
their territories to the south must be inefficiently protected,
considering the large amount of force which had been dispatched for the
invasion of his dominions. His whole mind was now bent upon striking a
blow in the rear of the advanced force, which should turn their
attention from their meditated object to the defence of positions and
districts; by this means time would be wasted, and the season for active
operation pass away. Acting, therefore, upon this suggestion, he
dexterously avoided the English army, though passing within sight of it;
and leaving the magnificent range of the Shevaroy mountains to the left,
he took the direct road through the beautiful valley in which Salem is
situated to Trichinopoly. It was on the noble temple of Seringham that
his fury first fell; and by the desecration of its sacred images, the
plunder and forcible conversion of its priests, and the uncontrolled
licence given to his bigoted soldiery to mutilate and destroy, a spirit
of revenge was actively aroused against him in the minds of his Hindoo
adherents, which had long been excited by his acts of horrible
oppression and cruelty to their unhappy brethren the Nairs.
From Seringham ruin and devastation was mercilessly carried through
Coromandel: each man had licence to plunder as he listed, and neither
youth nor age was spared; the savage Pindharees of later years were not
more destructive than the army of Islam, led on by its champion; and,
although repulsed from the fort of Tiagar by a mere handful of British
soldiers, yet that of Trinomallee was less fortunate in its defence, and
on its unhappy garrison and inhabitants were vented in cruelties and
tortures all the spleen that mortified vanity and ill success could
prompt.
Tippoo had hoped too to arouse the ancient animosity of the French
against the English, and to have involved them in the war; but his
overtures for assistance were rejected or evaded by the Governor of
Pondicherry, and his negotiations for an embassy to the Court of Louis
XVI met with no encouragement. Foiled in these attempts, he renewed his
correspondence with many English officers, in the same hollow strain of
attempted complaint and wonder at the commencement of hostilities that
had before proved unsuccessful. But he had more able diplomatists and
more wary commanders to deal with now than formerly; and having been
unable to put into execution his threat of burning Madras, he abandoned
the design, and hurried to meet the storm which now threatened to burst
forth from the Nizam and the Mahrattas on the north, and from the
English on the east; for Lord Cornwallis was already at Vellore, and the
army assembled there were prepared to advance. But the Sultaun, although
the force with him used the most strenuous exertions, failed to arrive
in time to occupy the passes, and the English ascended to the table-land
of Mysore without opposition.
During the period of our tale hitherto, the Sultaun had been separated
from the ladies of his harem, which had remained in Bangalore, nor had
he held much communication with them for some years. The places of his
lawful wives were supplied from time to time as caprice willed the
change, by numbers—some rudely torn from their families by his
agents—others captives taken from among the Nairs and Hindoos of the
coast, where his excesses had been most dreadful, to remain in favour
for a while, and to be flung aside when their novelty palled upon his
senses. But the mother of his children and his own mother remained dear
to him—dear as any could be to one of so cold and heartless a
temperament, which warmed only at the trumpet-call of bigotry, and felt
none of those endearments common to men of all ranks in the intercourse
of their families. His anxiety was excited upon their account from the
near approach of the English, which he was unable to check, though he
several times attempted it by distant cannonades and threatening
displays of large bodies of cavalry. It was therefore absolutely
necessary that they should be removed; and having sent orders for them
to prepare, the next day, at the head of his whole army, he escorted
them from the fort to his encampment, and preparation was made for
sending the harem on to the capital.
But while these stirring events proceeded in the camp, and men’s minds
were gradually filled with alarm at the progress of the English and the
formidable nature of their attack, events had occurred at the city which
demand that we should notice them.
The army had left some days, and all was quiet within the fort, which
but a short time before had resounded with the continuous beating of the
Sultaun’s kettle-drums, the exercise of the soldiery, and the bustle of
the thousands attendant upon the Sultaun. But the work of the arsenals
and foundries continued in full vigour, and it was plain to see that if
the worst was feared, there was at least preparation made to meet it. In
the midst of this, however, with which he had no concern, Kasim Ali,
formed for the active occupation of the camp, led a life of inaction,
from which he saw no hope of release until he should once more resume
his post near the Sultaun, and lead into battle against the English his
own gallant fellows, who had often sworn to follow him to the death.
There was one, however, to whom his every movement was an object of
intense interest, and who, tormented by a thousand contending passions,
now vowed revenge against him because her suit had been rejected, now
implored her attendant again and again to go to him. But after her first
refusal, Sozun had no mind to encounter the stern looks of the young
Patél, and as often as she was sent, she would return with a lie that he
had repulsed her.
It was night—quite dark, for the heavens were overcast with thick
clouds, and the wind sighed and moaned within the trees above the Khan’s
dwelling; every now and then a gust would whistle round the apartment
where the lady Kummoo sat, shaking the latticed windows and shutters
which were carefully closed. She was alone with Sozun, and the theme had
long been Kasim Ali and her wild, ungovernable passion for him.
‘I tell thee I will bear this no longer, Sozun,’ she said, as she arose,
and opening the shutter looked forth. ‘The night is dark—it is fit for
the venture; no one will see us, or if they do, we shall not be known.’
‘Holy Alla!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘thou wilt not go to him, Khanum?’
‘Ay will I, Sozun; my heart burns, my soul is on fire! can I bear this
for weeks and months? am I a stone? I tell thee nay; but a daring,
loving woman, whose thoughts, night and day, are fixed on one object; it
is now within my grasp, and the moment urges. Come, I am ready; take thy
sheet and wrap thyself—thou knowest the way.’
‘It is in vain for thee to go, Khanum; wilt thou eat shame? hast thou no
pride?—a woman to seek him who spurns her love!’
‘Peace, fool! he has not seen me yet. Come, and delay no longer. I
command thee; the way is short, and methinks I am already in his
embrace. Quick! see, I am ready.’
‘If thy absence should be discovered, lady?’
‘I care not; I will say boldly I go to my mother; come, why dost thou
delay?’
Sozun knew her mistress’s character too well to dare a refusal, and she
wrapped herself closely and preceded her. As they descended the stairs
they met a servant. ‘I go to my mother’s for a while—let no one follow
me,’ said the lady, and passed on. In a few moments they had quitted the
house and were in the open street.
‘Lend me thine arm, Sozun,’ said the lady in a whisper: ‘I tremble much,
and the night is dark, very dark; I did not think it would be so
fearful. Alla! how the clouds scurry along the heavens, and how the wind
moans and sighs.’
‘We had better return, Khanum.’
‘No, no, not for worlds! I must see him;—quick! give me thine arm and
lead on!’
Hastily traversing a few streets, Sozun stopped at a small door in a
wall. ‘This is the place,’ she whispered; and as she said it she felt
the arm within hers shake as if with ague.
‘For the sake of the Prophet, let us turn back—it is not too late—I have
not knocked—thou art not fit to meet him,’ said the woman in broken
sentences.
‘Peace, fool! in a few moments I shall see him; dare I not this? Knock,
and say he expects us.’
Thou art a bold woman, thought Sozun, and she knocked loudly. The door
was opened instantly; two men stood within.
‘We are expected,’ said Sozun, in a disguised voice, without waiting to
be questioned, and they proceeded.
‘The Patél hath good company,’ said one fellow.
‘I marvel at this,’ said the other; ‘I have served him long, and have
never known the like of this before.’
The women lost the rest as they passed hastily on. Kummoo’s knees could
hardly support her, but she followed Sozun mechanically, her heart
beating violently, and her thoughts striving to arrange a few sentences
for the interview; vain effort! they rose one upon another in wild
confusion, defying retention.
Sozun knew the way; she entered the open verandah and looked through the
door into the next apartment; Kasim was there, reading, as she had first
seen him. ‘That is he,’ she whispered gently; ‘enter!’
Kummoo was a bold and daring woman, but now her heart almost failed
her—for a moment only, however—and she entered and stood before him.
‘Who art thou?’ he cried; ‘and who has dared to admit thee?’
She could not reply; a few broken words escaped her; and unable any
longer to stand or to control herself, she fell at his feet, and
clasping his knees sobbed aloud.
‘Thou art fair—very beautiful,’ he said, as he raised her up and gazed
upon her features, for her veil had fallen; ‘who art thou?’
‘One who has loved thee long! I saw thee once—I have lived upon thy
look,’ she said confusedly.
‘Thou art not a tuwaif; thy speech is not like theirs.’
‘I am not.’
‘Thou art a wife then, or thou wouldst not wear that ring?’
‘Why should I tell a lie?—I am; my lord is old—he is absent—he loves me
not—he has neglected and thrown me aside for another. I have seen thee,
O Patél, and my liver is become water; I have come to thee—pity me and
love me, as I would love thee!’
Kasim was sorely tempted; her beauty, her large lustrous eyes sparkling
with passion, shone upon him; she hung on him; her hand, as it touched
his, was hot and trembling. He raised her up and caressed her, and she
threw herself upon his broad chest and again sobbed—it was with passion.
Then, even then, a thought flashed into his mind, quicker than light;
could she be the Khan’s wife; could he be the man, old, absent, who had
flung her aside for another? his heart felt as though it made a mighty
bound within his bosom. ‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘by your soul—say, for my
mind misgives me—tell me, art thou not the wife of Rhyman Khan?’
She could not reply—she burned—her mouth became parched and her eyes
swam.
‘Speak,’ he cried, ‘for the sake of Alla!’ But no reply came; confusion
was evident on her countenance; as he held her from him, suddenly her
head drooped, and her form relaxed within his grasp; had he not
supported her she would have fallen; for the sense of sudden detection
had overpowered her already too excited feelings, and she had fainted.
‘Holy Prophet! what is to be done?—she is insensible,’ exclaimed Kasim
aloud; he was heard by Sozun, who entered.
‘Tell me, by your soul, if she is the Khan’s wife?’ he cried in
agitation not to be repressed.
‘What matter if she is, Patél? she loves you, your destiny is bright;
shall I retire?’
‘It is as I thought then. Holy Alla! I bless thee that this was spared
me! See, she is recovering; yonder is water—take her hence speedily, her
secret will die with me; assure her of this, and tell her the Khan is my
friend and benefactor.’ And so saying, he opened a small door and
disappeared.
‘He is gone,’ said Sozun, as her lady recovered and looked wildly around
her: it was enough. They did not wait more than a few minutes; then
Kummoo returned to her distasteful home, filled with rage and shame, and
burning for revenge.
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