There are few on earth, who in the chequered track of their earthly
pilgrimage—often cheered by the glowing beams of a sunny mind, often
obscured by despondency, often hurried on by impatience and
querulousness, and yearning with vain desire to penetrate the veil of
the hidden future—who do not recall to memory some crisis when the
happiness they sought has been apparently within their reach—when the
hand, stretched forth to grasp the cup, has been dashed down by a rude
but irresistible force, which taught them in that moment how vain was
their power, how little their strivings to attain their end, when
compared with the Providence which held it in disposal. Providence,
fate, destiny, chance—call it what we will—there is an overruling power,
visible in the meanest events of our lives, which, if we follow it up to
its source in our own hearts, cannot fail to impress us with awe—with a
feeling of littleness, often mortifying, and hard for proud minds to
bear,—a feeling that there is a power guiding, and often suddenly and
rudely checking us, in the midst of a career which we have marked out
for good—certainly for gratification—but which may not be accordant with
the purposes of our being. Happy is the possessor of that temperament
who, even in the midst of disappointment—when a murmur at misfortune,
blighted hope, prolonged sickness, or blasted ambition rises to his
lips—can say, ‘It is for my good—it is the hand of Providence—I bow to
its correction in humility.’
But it was difficult for Herbert Compton to be reasonable under so
bitter a disappointment; wild with excitement, he roamed hither and
thither without fear, for in that moment he had no thought of danger.
The poor fellow who had perilled his all for him—the safety of his
parents, of his wife—who had so trusted him as to commit without
hesitation his future destiny into his hands—whose last act was one of
careful kindness and solicitude—was gone for ever! The happiness, the
exquisite enjoyment of a meeting with his countrymen, which he had
tasted in anticipation, had been dashed from his hand in one moment!
How often, while there was light, did he awake the echoes of the
mountains with the name of Ahmed! He roamed everywhere, tried to track
the animal who had carried off his poor friend by the trail of his body
through the fern, and succeeded for a short distance, but lost it again
irretrievably. He returned to the spot where they had first stopped; the
whole was a hideous dream, which in vain he tried to shut out from his
thoughts. Vain indeed was the effort! the tiger’s roar and Ahmed’s
piercing scream rang in his ears, and often he would start, as he
thought they were repeated, during the fearful hours which ensued. As
the night closed, the wind arose, and with it clouds came up out of the
west, filled with cold driving rain; the ledge he was under afforded but
slight protection, and yet it sheltered him enough to allow of a
smouldering fire, which after many efforts he kindled.
The storm increased; dark masses of clouds hurried past, apparently
close to his head, and the blast groaned and whistled through the
ravines and around the peaks and precipices. Of the mountains he could
see nothing, for the same black darkness which had surrounded
Hulleekul-droog the night before, now enveloped him; there was only the
little light of the fire, as the leaves and dead fern blazed up at times
under the effect of an eddy of wind, and then utter darkness fell again.
Hour after hour passed in deliberation as to his future conduct. Dare he
attempt the passage of those fearful jungles alone? Encounter wild
beasts, thread trackless forests, where there was no path, and which
were filled with rank grass and reeds, thorny rattans, matted creepers,
dank and noisome swamps, the abode of deadly pestilence? For the time he
was free; but even if he gained the plain, did not a more terrible
captivity await him perhaps in a hot and parching dungeon, where the
fresh air and the beauteous face of nature would never be felt or seen?
But he was not to be daunted; he thought he knew the direction,—his
countrymen were before him, and the path was distinct enough, he
supposed, for him to track it: this idea consoled him, and he fell
asleep for a while, till the morning broke.
He awakened only to endure fresh disappointment; he was surrounded by
dense mists, which, though sometimes they would partially clear away,
filled the space before him so completely that he could see nought but a
thick boiling mass, fearfully agitated by the wind, now rising up as
though to overwhelm him, now sinking and displaying for an instant the
bluff top of Hulleekul-droog or a part of its precipitous sides, or at
an immeasurable and giddy depth the bottom of the chasm, with the
Baraudee roaring and flashing among the darkness.
He was in despair, but he was calmer; even the utter hopelessness of
attempting to proceed down a precipitous mountain-side into a trackless
forest, enveloped in cloud, caused a revulsion of feeling, and a sense
that there was an unseen but sensibly-felt protection afforded him—that
the very obstacles in his path probably preserved him from following it
on to destruction.
There was no other course left but to return—perhaps to captivity, for
suspicion might be aroused against him,—to a life of wearisome
endurance, but still with beautiful nature for a companion, in whose
ever-varying and glorious features there was ever something new to
contemplate and to adore.
Ahmed’s sword, shield, and matchlock lay on the ground: he took them
with him, vowing they should never part from him; the latter was useless
for defence, for the charge was wet, and the powder-horn and
bullet-pouches had been around the waist of the dead. The flowers he had
gathered too lay beside them: they were faded now—fitting types of his
withered hope; that day he was to have rejoiced over them with his
countrymen! Alas! when would such an event now come; the future was a
dreary blank before him, where so lately all had been bright and sunny;
and with a sad heart, but with feelings subdued from the excitement of
the past evening, he began to retrace his steps. This was no easy task,
for the rain, which had cleared away for an hour or so after daylight,
now began again to pour in torrents, and he was chilled to the heart.
But the very difficulties before him caused him to summon all his
energies to meet them, and he strove manfully and conquered. His worst
suffering was faintness for want of food; for the cakes they had brought
with them Ahmed had tied in a handkerchief about his back, which he had
not removed.
As the night set in gloomily and dark, Herbert Compton, well nigh
exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and cold, toiled up the steep and rugged
path which led to the Fort from the stream below; and though often
missing the way, which in the darkness caused by the thick wood over his
head was almost undiscernible, he at last crossed the narrow neck
already mentioned, and soon after saw the welcome lights of the garrison
huts twinkling among the trees above him. This lent him fresh energy,
and in a few minutes he arrived before them. Hungry, wet and cold, he
did not consider for a moment the probable issue of his reception, and
entered that habitation where he had used to reside.
There was a group sitting smoking around a blazing fire, who started to
their feet suddenly, as he thus unceremoniously presented himself; and
after gazing earnestly at him for a moment, all simultaneously dashed
towards him and seized him. Herbert did not struggle in their hands, nor
could he answer the rapid and almost unintelligible inquiries for their
missing companion which were poured forth in a torrent. In a few moments
too they saw Ahmed’s sword and shield, and their dark frowns and
menacing looks were bent upon him, and the hand of more than one stole
to the weapon by his side as if to inflict summary revenge on him who
they might well suppose had destroyed their absent friend. Gradually,
however, Herbert’s calm and sorrowful manner impressed them with a sense
of his innocence; and as they became more reasonable in their behaviour,
he described as well as he was able, and mostly by signs, the event
which had happened, and pointed in the direction of the place.
Sorrow was on all their faces, and many wept, for Ahmed had been a
favourite among them; and while one of them set refreshment before the
weary Herbert, the rest conversed in groups upon the subject. Although
he could understand but little of what passed, he could see that it was
their intention to put his innocence to the proof, by conducting them to
the spot where the event had happened. He was right: they allowed him to
rest that night without molestation, but by daylight he was awakened,
and he found the majority of the little garrison, twelve or fourteen
men, equipped for the expedition, each with his match lighted; after a
hasty meal they proceeded.
The morning was clear and fine, and the air fresh and bracing: the
errand upon which he was going was a sad one to Herbert, and yet there
was a melancholy satisfaction in finding perhaps the body of the
unfortunate Ahmed, and at any rate the cheering excitement of vigorous
exercise, in a rapid walk over the beautiful hills. There were no traces
of the storm of the day before, except an increased freshness and odour
of the wild flowers: here and there vast masses of white vapour were
hanging softly upon the precipices of the droog, or resting in the
abysses at its foot. Herbert proceeded at a rapid pace before the rest.
There was evidently much surprise excited among them at the direction
which he took, and many significant glances were exchanged from time to
time; nor were these the less decided when they arrived at the rock and
little footpath: several appeared at once to conclude that escape had
been Ahmed’s object, and they pointed significantly to the plain and to
the path which led to it. Here was the place, however, and having
explained as well as he could their arrival, and Ahmed’s intention of
lighting a fire, Herbert led them to the long fern whither he had gone
for materials for the purpose.
They were all armed, and every man blew his match, and looked carefully
as he proceeded; it was evident now that they believed him. The chief
among them was in advance; he was a capital shot, and Herbert had often
seen him hit the smallest marks when they practised for their amusement
at the Fort. The trail of the body was quickly found, and these expert
hunters at once traced it, where Herbert could see no mark, much further
than he had any idea the tiger would have gone. Here and there, too, a
bit of rag fluttered upon a thorny bush, which was a plain indication
that they were right.
At last, as they proceeded more and more carefully, a crow suddenly
arose from among some tall fern with a hoarse and startling croak, and,
hovering over the spot, aroused many others; some vultures and kites,
too, flew up and wheeled around, screaming discordantly; and a jackal
skulked off into a near thicket, evidently disturbed from his repast.
‘He is there!’ said the leader of the party in a low tone; and a hasty
colloquy took place among them for a moment: all seemed brave fellows,
and again they advanced without hesitation.
They had scarcely gone many steps when some torn apparel met their eye,
and a few steps further, lying amongst the fern, were the mangled
remains of their poor comrade; his features were all gone, but the
powder-horn and bullet-pouches were around his waist, and to his back
was fastened the handkerchief, which still contained the cakes he had
tied up in it. With a passionate burst of grief most of them darted to
the spot, and looked on the sad spectacle—most sad to Herbert, who,
overcome by bitter thoughts, gave full vent to emotions he did not seek
to repress.
But they were not long inactive; a search for the tiger seemed
determined on, and they proceeded in a body round and round the place.
They had not gone far, however, when they heard a growl, a low harsh
growl, which made the blood run cold in Herbert’s veins; they stood for
a moment, and it was repeated. It appeared close to them, and one fired
in the direction. It was enough: with a roar which rent the air, the
noble brute bounded forth from his lair of fern, his yellow-streaked
sides shining in the bright sun: for an instant he regarded them with
glaring eyes,—then turned and fled.
There was a precipice a little beyond: he stopped at the edge and looked
over; it was evidently too high to leap, and as he hesitated on the
brink one man fired;—the shot was well aimed. The tiger turned again,
roared most fearfully, but immediately after staggered to the edge of
the cliff; his hind quarters appeared paralysed and fell over, but he
still held on by his claws, though they slipped every moment. The leader
saw his opportunity, raised his gun and fired. Herbert heard the ball
crash into the skull—saw the grim head quiver for a moment, the paws
relax their hold, and the whole frame slip. All darted forward and
looked over: it was a fearfully giddy place; the blue depth was filled
with boiling mist—the tiger’s body was descending rapidly, turning over
and over; at last it hit a projection and bounded away, till the mist
appeared to rise and hide it from their view.
‘Enough!’ cried the leader, ‘let us depart.’
They returned to the dead; it was impossible to remove the remains, they
were so mutilated; but they hastily dug a shallow place with their broad
hunting-knives and laid them in it, covering the spot with thorns and
large heavy stones. Then all lay down on the brow of the mountain and
rested for a while; and Herbert was glad when they set out on their
return homewards, for the spot was filled with too many bitter regrets
for the dead, and for the untoward accident that once more had thrown
him back into captivity, which now appeared endless; for as they passed
the rock and pathway, they pointed to it and to the plain, and shook
their heads—some laughing, others with frowns and threatening gestures,
which told him plainly that to attempt to escape would be death.
Henceforth his life became a blank.
* * * * *
It was not long after Philip Dalton and his wife reached India with
their companion young Hayward, that the aggressions of Tippoo Sultaun
upon the Rajah of Travancore, and his known detention of prisoners since
the peace of 1784, together with many insults upon the frontiers for
which no satisfaction was ever obtained, determined Lord Cornwallis to
declare war against him; and once this had been done in a formal manner,
every nerve was strained by the Government of India to meet the exigency
in a decisive and efficient manner.
It is foreign to our tale to describe every event of the war, which has
already been so much more efficiently done in the histories of the
period; besides we have a pleasant licence in such matters, without
which it would be impossible for us to conduct our readers to any
satisfactory conclusion of our history. We shall therefore only state
that, availing himself of the undefended state of the passes, and while
the Sultaun was occupied with his fruitless negotiations with the
French, Lord Cornwallis ascended into Mysore, and, ere he could be
opposed by any force, had advanced considerably towards the strong fort
of Bangalore. There were partial engagements for some days between the
Mysore cavalry, led often by the Sultaun in person, and the English; but
they were attended by no decisive result, and did not operate in any way
to check the invasion.
Bangalore fell: the siege and the heroic defence of its brave governor
are themes which are still sung in the country, and will never pass from
the memory of its inhabitants while there remains one of its itinerant
bards, who, with two brass wires stretched between two gourds at each
end of a stick, perambulate the towns and villages for a scanty and
hard-earned subsistence.
The Sultaun retreated upon his capital, and to capture that was the
object of the campaign; but ere the army could advance, it was thought
necessary to reduce some small forts in the neighbourhood, and to throw
into them garrisons of such Hindoo inhabitants of the country, who had
welcomed the English invasion and already assisted it against the
Sultaun, as would keep them from the occupation of the Sultaun’s troops.
From his interest with the higher ranks of the army, and his talent and
efficiency, Philip Dalton had, in the opening of the campaign, been
appointed to the general staff of the army, while Charles Hayward
remained with his regiment; they continued, however, together, both
inhabiting the same tent, and as their history was known to many, they
were objects of peculiar interest. Indeed poor Herbert’s fate was one in
which the sympathies of all were powerfully excited, and many were the
sincere aspirations that the issue of the war might restore him and
others, both English and native, to sorrowing and despairing relatives.
The reduction of the small forts we have alluded to was a service of no
great difficulty; and when the army lay encamped near Balapoor—one of
them—while arrangements were being made for its occupation, it was
common for the officers to examine such places or objects of interest as
the neighbourhood of their camp afforded. Pre-eminent among these was
the famous rock whence prisoners used to be flung, and of which mention
has already been made as connected with Herbert Compton.
No one, whether European or native, could approach this spot without
feelings of horror; for the lonely rock stood alone in the plain; and
the fearful use to which it had been devoted, both by Hyder and Tippoo,
was fresh in the memory of all. A few in the force had seen and examined
it, and Philip Dalton and Charles rode thither accompanied by a few
mounted orderlies on the very first opportunity of leisure.
A silent feeling of sickening apprehension grew upon them as they
approached it, and a thought would force itself upon Philip, despite of
his hopes and prayers to the contrary, that Herbert’s fate might have
been the dreadful one experienced by the hundreds whose whitened bones
and skulls lay around the foot of the rock; but he did not mention this
to his companion, and they rode on in silence. At length they reached
the rock, and, leaving their horses below, ascended to the top, where
still stood, though somewhat dilapidated, the small hut or house we have
once mentioned. But this did not attract their notice at first; the
fatal brink, which had witnessed the frantic death-struggles of so many,
was the spot to which they were led by the orderlies, who had a hundred
marvellous tales to tell of events that happened there, and of the
tremendous strength of those whose business it was to hurl the victims
from the precipice. They looked over, too, and saw the bones and skulls
scattered at the bottom, and shreds of white calico and red cloth
fluttering among the bushes—the sad evidence of the fate of brave
soldiers who had perished there. There was nothing there to induce them
to remain, and Philip and his young friend turned away sickened from the
spot.
‘And this is the place where the unfortunate persons were confined,’
said an orderly, who, pushing open a rude and half-broken door, ushered
them into a mean and dilapidated apartment.
‘Good God! it is covered with the names of poor fellows who have died
here,’ exclaimed Philip; ‘what if _his_ should be here? we must not
leave an inch unexamined, Charles.’
‘Why, do you think he was ever here?’ asked the young man in an agitated
tone.
‘God forbid! but it is our duty to look; we may possibly gain a clue.’
And they fell to examining the walls with careful scrutiny. It was a
painful task; there were many names; the hands which had written them
were now dry bones bleaching without, or had long ago mouldered into
dust; many were the humble prayers written there, and obscene words and
curses mingled with them in strange combination. Many a direction, too,
for parents and wives and children of those who were dead, in case
others might visit the spot, and bear them to the far west.
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed young Hayward suddenly; ‘Come here, Philip! quick!’
Dalton darted across the apartment, and Charles pointed to a small
writing scratched in the plaster with a pin or nail; it was plain even
to his swimming eyes and sickened heart.
‘Herbert Compton.
‘May 24, 17—. Many have been thrown from this abode of death; I have
waited my turn; it will come to-morrow; it will deliver me from a life
of misery and—’
There was no more—a stone flung against the wall had hit the rest and
obliterated it.
Philip sank down and groaned aloud. That there should be such an end to
his hopes, which this proved to have had foundation, was hard indeed to
bear. Awhile Charles strove to comfort him, but both their hearts were
sick, and they were poor comforters one to another.
‘There may be further trace of him,’ said Philip; ‘let us look around.’
They did so. For a while they found nothing, but at length a joyful cry
again broke forth from Charles. ‘God be praised!’ he said, ‘come here
and read, Philip.’
The writing on the wall was rough and misshapen, but they were
characters of blessed hope to both; the words were these:—
‘Captin Comtin was taking awey from this horible pleace verry ill, on
the day of—
‘John Simpson.’
‘God be praised for this!’ exclaimed Philip, as he fell on his knees and
blessed Him aloud; ‘there is yet hope, for assuredly he did not perish
here, Charles.’
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