Months had passed, and Herbert Compton remained in the lonely fastness
to which he had been doomed. He had no hope of release—none of escape.
As he looked forth over the vast plain beneath his feet, he could see
the interminable forests spread out before him, through which he well
knew there was no path, or, if any, one known to the inhabitants only of
the hills—intricate, and utterly unattainable by himself. The Fort
itself occupied a round knoll on the very verge of the range, and jutted
out, a bold promontory, into the plain, forming evidently one of the
extreme angles of the chain of mountains upon which he was; its sides
were dizzy precipices of five thousand feet almost perpendicular to the
bottom, where they rested amidst forests, the waving even of which could
not be seen from the top. Looking eastward was the plain of Coimbatoor,
stretching away to a dim horizon, where, at the distance of a hundred
miles, were seen the rocky ranges of the Barah Mahal hills, broken at
first, but gradually appearing to unite and form a continuous chain away
to the left, till, increasing in height in the immense circle, they
joined the huge mass on part of which stood his prison.
Through this the Bhowanee, the Baraudee, and several other streams which
escaped from the mountains, wound their silent course, glistening in the
bright sun like silver threads, away to the broader Cavery, a faint
glimmer of which might now and then be seen, as the early rays of the
morning sun shone upon the plain. Away to the south and west the
mountains recommenced with the triangular peak of Dindigul, which could
sometimes be seen, and continued, range over range, of every form, of
every hue with which a brilliant sun, acting upon a dry, a damp, or a
hot atmosphere, could clothe them—hues of sombre grey, of violet, of
brilliant purple, till in the nearer range of the Animallee hills they
assumed more positive colours and forms.
To the west lay the broad valley, filled with wood, the only road to the
sea; and thence Herbert’s sad thoughts often wandered in vivid
remembrance of the past, to the land where those most dear to him on
earth mourned him as dead. He could not think that they could retain any
hope that he lived; years had fled since they had heard of him, and he
was become to them as one in the grave; one for whom—when any trivial
incident, a word, a look, a tone, recalls the dead to present
association—regrets, mingled with hopes for the future, are the
spontaneous expressions of undying affections, and a tear is silently
dropped, the overflow of some heart which clings to the memory of the
dead with fondness which even time does not impair.
To the north and west Herbert looked across the tremendous chasm through
which the military road now winds its gradual and easy ascent up to
Coonoor, upon the verdant and sunny hills beyond. It was clothed with
wood here and there, as though planted with the most consummate taste,
occupying now the side, now the gorge of a tiny valley, through which a
small stream leaped from rock to rock, till, joining some larger one, it
dashed down the precipitous sides of the chasm, into the foaming stream
of the Baraudee, the roar of which sometimes reached his ear. At times
he could distinguish noble herds of elk browsing upon the smooth,
verdant sides of the declivities, and would watch their motions for
hours with curious interest; or huge herds of buffalos, tended by a few
herdsmen, who appeared to be the only inhabitants of those lovely
regions, where the cool climate of his beloved country was joined to the
brightness and radiance of an eastern sun.
But though he lived amidst the most exquisite scenery that it is
possible to conceive, it was but a poor compensation for liberty; true,
under the rigour of a burning climate, captivity would have been more
difficult and painful of endurance than here, where he might almost
fancy himself in his own land; and could he have enjoyed the happiness
of wandering about as he listed over those beauteous hills, through the
valleys and beside their bounding streams, it would have sufficed to him
to have thus dreamed away his existence. Poor Herbert! his guards might
have set him free; for escape from those mountains, through untrodden
and pestilential jungles, into a country where death would await him if
he were discovered, was guarantee enough that he would have remained;
but they were answerable for him with their lives, and every kindness
consistent with his safety was shown him; and though their food was
coarse barley bread, rice, and the flesh of elk or wild hog, or jungle
game,—yet his health and strength seemed to increase, and he had never
felt greater vigour.
There were often changes in the little garrison: new comers brought such
spices and condiments as were needed, and among them at last arrived one
who spoke a few words of Hindostanee. That he should be able to speak
intelligibly with any one was a subject of inexpressible delight to
Herbert; but soon a new hope sprung up in his heart, which though slowly
admitted, yet was, or might be, practicable—escape. Without a guide it
was a useless risk of life to attempt it; with one who knew the country
and the roads, either to the coast or to Madras, it was a matter, he
thought, of difficult but not impossible attainment. Long he watched his
opportunity to converse with his friend, for the man, he thought, was
civil and obliging beyond his fellows; but he was evidently afraid to
speak before them, lest he should at once be suspected and dismissed;
but the time came at length.
Herbert, as was his wont, lay upon the green sward on the highest point
of the Fort, basking in the warm sun, watching the shadows which chased
each other over the beauteous and many-hued plain—now sailing over what
appeared endless forests—now dimming the sparkle of the Bhowanee for a
moment, which again glittered brightly as the shade passed away: again
they appeared to creep up the face of some precipitous hill, or hang
among its woods, while the sunlight toyed with the green slopes and
mossy banks. Sometimes he speculated idly upon the scene below, and
tried to make out the forms of villages among the groves which
everywhere appeared amidst the cultivated parts. All was quite still,
and not even a leaf rustled to disturb the silence; only the drowsy hum
of a bee was heard now and then, as one flew by to its nest under a
precipice, laden with sweets. Suddenly, as he listened, he thought he
heard the roll of musketry: it was very faint, but it came to a
soldier’s ear with distinctness enough to be heard. He started to his
feet, and listened with painful eagerness, while his eye travelled in
the direction of the sound. His whole action was so sudden, and his
attitude so wrapt, that his attendant, who had been basking beside him,
was thrown completely off his guard.
‘What dost thou hear, Sahib?’ he said eagerly in Hindostanee. ‘What dost
thou see?’
‘Hush!’ cried Herbert; ‘listen! there was a gun, and then musketry;
hark—a gun again! What can that mean?’
‘Alla knows!’ said the man; ‘but it is even so. Look! was that smoke? By
Alla, it is; at Coimbatoor too—thou canst see the minarets of the mosque
gleaming brightly.’
‘Thou speakest well in thy new tongue,’ said Herbert. ‘Why hast thou not
spoken to me before?’
‘I dared not: even now do not, for the sake of your faith and mine,
venture by word or sign to speak to me before the others, or it may cost
me my life.’
‘I will be discreet, and risk nothing; where are they?’
‘Some are hunting, some are at the house. Enough—listen!’ The sound came
again. ‘Dost thou not see the smoke?’ inquired he.
‘No, I see none,’ said Herbert, straining his eyes.
‘The Sultaun must be there, and they are firing,’ said the man. ‘It is
wonderful that sound should come thus far.’
For some time they continued to hear it; for Ahmed, Herbert’s
acquaintance, called his associates, and they all listened and
speculated, but could come to no conclusion; and then the wind arose,
and they heard no more. But they were evidently perplexed, and continued
to speak of it during the evening. At last one went out, and returned
with an expression of wonder upon his countenance: he spoke to his
companions, and some got up and followed him. Soon these sent for the
rest, and they took Herbert with them.
It was quite dark. Near them a few objects were distinguishable when the
eye became accustomed to the darkness, but overhead the sky was quite
overcast and black; and though there was no wind, yet the cold air of
night was chill and piercing at that height. They advanced to the place
where they had been in the morning; it was within a stone’s throw of the
brink of the precipice, which descended full four thousand feet before
it met even any of the projecting buttresses which appeared to support
the mighty fabric. With difficulty they could see to the edge; beyond
that all was black—a vast void, into the depths of which the eye strove
to penetrate, as the mind into illimitable space and eternity, and felt
as if it were thrust back and checked for its presumption by the awful
profundity. It seemed to Herbert as though the ground they trod had no
support, and was sinking into the gloomy abyss. There seemed to be no
horizon, no sky. Instinctively the group closed together, and seemingly
awe-stricken spoke hardly above their breath.
‘We saw it awhile ago,’ said one to another of those who had just
arrived with Herbert.
‘What did ye see?’
‘Lights,—sparks in that black darkness. Look carefully, ye may see them
again.’
‘There! there!’ cried several. ‘Look! what can they be?
Herbert saw where they pointed; in the direction where he had heard the
firing in the morning, and in the middle of the void before him, for an
instant or two were several bright flashes; he rubbed his eyes, which
ached from gazing, and from the effect even of those transient flashes.
Again he looked and listened; there was no sound except the sigh of the
night breeze in a tree near him; but again there were flashes in the
same place. And now, while they gazed, a light arose, soared in a little
circle into the air, and descended. Another and another. Herbert knew
what they were, and his heart bounded within him with a quickness of
pulsation it had not known for years. _If_ they should be his
countrymen!
His guards turned to one another, and spoke rapidly among themselves
with eager gestures. At last Ahmed addressed him.
‘They bid me ask you,’ he said, ‘what this is; you Europeans know all
things. Hath the sky such lights?’
‘No, it is a siege,’ said Herbert, ‘and the lights are shells and
cannon. Is the Sultaun at war?’
‘I know not, but will ask.’ And Herbert heard the word Feringhee in the
answer. He was sure that his countrymen were near, and his heart yearned
to them.
‘There have been rumours of war,’ said Ahmed, ‘and we heard that the
English were in the Barah Mahal; but they cannot have got so far, for
the Sultaun had marched in person with the whole of the army.’
Herbert thought otherwise. He could imagine nothing but victory for the
arms he had once borne, and for the cause in which he would gladly have
died. After watching long they withdrew from the spot chilled and
wearied, and all lay down to rest. But Herbert could not sleep; his
thoughts were too engrossing for sleep. Escape was now possible, and
long he deliberated whether it was not practicable alone. On the south,
east, and north sides of the Droog were huge precipices, as we have
already mentioned; the only access to it was from the west, by which he
had come. Even were he to escape from the fort, could he venture to
descend any of the passes to the plain? Narrow paths, which at the
bottom branched out into endless ramification, led he knew not whither
through dense forests that extended for miles and miles, the abode of
pestilence and of wild beasts innumerable. The thought was appalling;
and the more he weighed the risk in his mind, the less chance did there
appear of success. Could it be that Ahmed would assist him? the obstacle
of language had been broken through; and no sooner did his busy thoughts
suggest the idea, than his mind clung to it. Ahmed was poor, he could
not refuse money, and he would offer him anything he chose to
demand—thousands, for liberty! He waited till his watch came, and when
all were asleep and breathing heavily, he called him by name in a loud
whisper.
‘Ahmed! Ahmed!’
He was dozing even on his watch, and did not hear at first. Herbert was
in agony lest the others should awake.
Ahmed answered at last. ‘What dost thou require?’ he said.
‘Come here, I would speak to thee secretly.’ He arose and crossed the
hut; it was a good sign. He seated himself close to Herbert; perhaps he
had too been thinking of the escape.
‘Ahmed,’ said the young man, ‘thou hast been kind to me: I love thee,
for thou hast spoken to me: thou art my friend. Wilt thou then aid me?’
‘They say you English are deceitful and faithless,’ replied the man.
‘They wrong us—by thy head, they wrong us. Our enemies alone say so; we
are faithful even to death. Wilt thou trust one, and that one me?’
The man moved, but spoke not.
‘Wilt thou aid me?’ continued Herbert, for he perceived he was listened
to. ‘Behold, I trust thee in thus speaking to thee, and am utterly in
thy power; if it is thy will, thou canst denounce me to thine associates
even now. See how I trust thee—thou wilt not betray me. For years I have
languished in captivity. I have a father, mother, brethren, sisters—one
other, too, even dearer than they. They think me dead, and the old have
long mourned with bitter grief, even the grief of parents for a
firstborn and beloved. Hast thou no heart for this to plead for me
within thee?’
Again the man writhed, but spoke not.
‘Hast thou no tenderness, that I may appeal to it? Hast thou no
father—mother—wife—who, if thou wert dead, would mourn for thee, but
who, living, rejoice for thee?’
‘I have all,’ was the reply.
‘I have not the last,’ said Herbert sadly, ‘that was a pang spared me.
Yet there is one who in blighted hope, and crushed and withered
affection, mourns me as long since numbered with the dead. Thou canst
restore peace where there is sorrow, hope where there is despair.’
‘I cannot aid thee, Sahib.’
‘Thou canst! thou canst! My countrymen are yonder; I feel that they
are,—they must be victorious, else they had not penetrated so far. Guide
me to them, and thou wilt earn my gratitude, and with it a competence
for life. Thou knowest the passes; to me the attempt unaided would be
death.’
‘It would indeed: alone I would not attempt them for a kingdom, even
with my knowledge; but I feel for thee, Feringhee; thy looks are gentle,
thy speech is soft; thou art not as I have been told the English are: I
will believe thou art to be trusted.’
‘Oh believe it, believe it, Ahmed! my life will be in thy hands; thou
canst guide me to liberty or to death; I am ready to trust thee. Can I
say more?’
‘Enough, Sahib; I rely upon thee. I swear by Alla and the Prophet to
guide thee safely to Coimbatoor—if it be true that thy countrymen are
there: further than that, if they are not there, I should but lead thee
into death and fall a sacrifice myself. But listen, I risk much; my
parents live—they love me: I have too a wife and a child—they are
dependent upon me. If we are detected, the vengeance of the Sultaun will
fall on them, and that is fearful. Thou seest I have an equal risk with
thyself;—now wilt thou trust _me_?’
‘Thou hast, brave fellow! and I estimate thy generosity as that of a
brother; but we have spoken of no reward.’
‘Nor will I,’ said the man; ‘you are noble; your words—your appearance,
even in those rags, is noble. I trust to you.’
‘Gallant fellow! thy confidence shall be well repaid. If I live, thou
shalt know no poverty, but wealth to the end of thy life, and honourable
service, if thou choosest it. But enough—when shall we make the
attempt?’
‘The relief is expected to-morrow, or the day after; the men will bring
us news, and upon that we will arrange all.’
By evening the next day the expected relief came. The news was true: the
English besieged Coimbatoor, but with indifferent success; it was said
that the Sultaun was out, and victorious even to the gates of Madras;
the men were exulting over the discomfiture of the English.
‘Darest thou now attempt it?’ asked Ahmed that evening; ‘the news of thy
people is bad.’
‘I will, should I perish in the attempt.’
‘Then I will lead thee out to-morrow, on pretence of taking thee with me
to hunt. I have already said thou shouldst have recreation, and they
have agreed to allow it. Enough now; but gird up thy loins tightly and
be ready, for we shall have far to go, and to tarry by the way is
death.’
The morrow dawned,—a cloudy and damp day; the mighty mists lay still in
the hollows and ravines, obscuring everything. Ahmed was in despair.
‘Through those clouds,’ he said, ‘we can never penetrate, but should be
lost among the precipices.’ Long before noon, however, the wind arose,
and stirring the vast volumes of cloud from their repose, caused them to
boil up from the abysses around them, and gradually to melt into air.
‘Come!’ said Ahmed to Herbert, whose heart bounded, and his eye
sparkled, as he heard the summons,—‘Come, the men are about to return;
we will see them a little way, and then turn on ourselves. Come! they
are departing.’
He obeyed eagerly, and soon the Fort was left behind; and the narrow
neck which connects the place to the main body of the chain—an awful
precipice on each hand—was passed in safety. Soon they plunged deeper
and deeper into the woods by a narrow path, descending till they reached
one branch of the Baraudee, which, foaming and dashing amidst rocks,
brawled on its way to the plain. Here they divided; the party ascending
the green slope before them, and Herbert and his companion turning up
the stream, apparently in search of game.
‘Lie down! lie down!’ cried Ahmed; ‘Shookur Alla! they are gone, and
there is yet day enough for us. Ere evening we must be on the edge of
the range, and the morrow will see us far below it. Canst thou bear
fatigue?’
‘Any: look at me—I am stronger than thou art.’
The man regarded him earnestly, and read full well in the clear eye and
open brow, ruddy cheek, and firmly knit frame, a defiance of danger. ‘I
fear not for thee,’ he said; ‘Alla Akbar! the victory will be ours.’
A while they lay concealed among the long fern, and then rising up,
Ahmed looked carefully around him; the party was long out of sight, and
they proceeded with light hearts and buoyant steps.
Ahmed had not overrated his knowledge of the mountains; he led Herbert
along the edge of the stream for a while, and as they went along Herbert
pulled wild flowers,—the flowers of his own England. Woodbine and wild
rose, archis and wild hyacinth, and the graceful cyclamen, and fern and
violets; and the more familiar buttercup and wild anemone. ‘They know
not that such a paradise exists in this land,’ he said, ‘and these shall
be my tokens; even as the spies brought grapes and figs to the children
of Israel in the desert.’
Hardly now he heeded the lovely scenery that was around him everywhere,
among which the round top of his old prison occupied a conspicuous
place, clothed with wood to its very summit; and its precipitous sides
rising out of the huge chasm that now lay between him and it, at the
bottom of which roared the Baraudee, leaping from ledge to ledge in
foam, in an endless succession of cataracts. Now and then they would
catch glimpses of the blue plain beyond which melted into the horizon;
and the deep and gloomy ravine on their right hand presented an endless
variety of views, of such exquisite beauty, that Herbert would often
stop breathless to contemplate in admiration of their loveliness, for
which his companion appeared to have no eyes.
They had now travelled for some hours, and the road had been a toilsome
one, owing to the constantly recurring deep valleys which broke into the
ravine we have mentioned.
It was now evening; the sun was sinking into the west amidst clouds of
glory, and the huge shadows of the mountains were fast creeping over the
plain. The precipices of Hulleekul-droog shone like gold under the red
light, which, resting upon the vast forests and hanging woods, caused
them to glow with a thousand rich tints; and wherever a small oozing of
water spread itself down a naked rock, it glittered so that the eye
could hardly behold it.
‘Art thou fatigued, Sahib?’ asked Ahmed; ‘thou hast borne this well, and
like a man. By Alla! I had thought thy race were as soft as women.’
‘No! I can endure yet a good hour,’ said Herbert gaily.
‘’Tis well! then we will push on. Why hast thou burthened thyself with
those flowers? fling them away—thou wilt be the lighter.’
‘Not so, my friend; these are the flowers of my own land, and I take
them to my comrades; thou dost not know—thou canst not feel how dearly
such things are prized in a distant land—bringing with them, as they do,
remembrances of past time, and of those who shared it. On with thee!
behold I follow.’
Hardly a mile further, on the very summit of the mountain, ere it
declined into the plain, they reached a rock, beside which was a tiny
footpath, hardly perceptible. ‘This is our resting place for the night,’
said Ahmed; ‘many a time have I slept here, with a load of tobacco on my
shoulders for the mountaineers, who are a curious people.’
‘Ay, indeed!’
‘Yes, I will tell thee all about them: but lay thyself down beneath this
rock, and it will shelter thee from the cold wind. I will get some
sticks, and we will have a fire; I should like a smoke, too, after this
travel.’ And so saying, he disencumbered himself of his arms, and turned
off to a short distance.
Herbert lay for a while looking out on the glorious prospect, in a sense
of the most delicious security and enjoyment. What exquisite visions
were floating before his eyes, as, shutting them, he allowed the ideas
to crowd into his soul!—visions of home, of love, of Amy, of his
parents! Suddenly, however, there was a loud roar, the crash of which
seemed to paralyse his heart: it was followed by a scream so shrill and
piercing, that he never forgot it to his dying day. Hastily snatching up
the sword which lay before him, he drew it, and hurried to the spot from
whence it had proceeded—but his brave guide was gone for ever!
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