‘These are too precious to remain here, Charles,’ said Philip; ‘we must
remove them.’ It was easily done: with their pen-knives they carefully
cut round the plaster of each inscription, and then separated it from
the wall without difficulty; they were precious relics, and the young
men long gazed on them, with that depth of feeling which such memorials
were well calculated to excite. ‘Ah! Philip, if we could only trace him
further,’ said Charles.
‘We thought not of this when we came hither,’ he replied, ‘and we should
be thankful; it is just possible that some one in the town may have
heard tidings of him if he were really ill, and we will go thither and
inquire.’
They did not tarry on the rock for an instant; their horses awaited them
at the bottom, and the distance between the rock and the small town
being quickly traversed, they arrived in the bazaar. Philip directly
made for the Chouree, where the former Kotwal and others sat engaged in
their functions of superintending the market, and directing the issues
of grain and forage to the followers of the British army.
They were received courteously by the functionary, who was all civility
to his late conquerors: Philip at once opened the cause of his visit,
and expressed his anxiety for intelligence, however vague, of his lost
friend.
The Kotwal racked his brains, or appeared to do so; he could remember
nothing about the rock or its victims, being fearful lest he should
compromise himself by some unlucky remark or confession. ‘So many had
perished there,’ he said; ‘it was the Sultaun’s order, and in Balapoor
they never knew anything about them.’
‘But was no one ever brought here?’ asked Philip.
‘Really he could not remember, so many went and came; how could he, the
Kotwal, who saw a thousand new faces every day, retain a recollection of
any? Prisoners too in hundreds passed by—sometimes remaining there for a
day, but he never saw them; he had no curiosity, he had other business;
he was in fact the Kotwal, upon whom rested all the affairs of the
town.’
Philip was in despair. ‘Can you get me no information?’ he said; ‘I do
not speak the native language, and to me inquiry is useless.’
‘Of course, if my lord wished it,’ he would make every inquiry; and in
truth he began in earnest with those about him; none, however, could
remember anything but vague descriptions of prisoners passing and
repassing; and Philip, after a long and patient investigation which led
to no result, was about to depart, disappointed and vexed, when a man
entered who had been absent on some message; he was one of the
labourers, or scouts of the village, and the Kotwal immediately said to
Philip, ‘If any one can give you the information you seek, it is this
man, for it was his business to attend upon the Sultaun’s people who
came hither with prisoners.’
He was immediately questioned, and gave ready answers; he perfectly
remembered a Feringhee who was brought ill, and long remained at the
Fakeer’s Tukea,[54] beyond the town, lying upon the Chubootra;[55] they
were told he was an officer, and an order came to him from the Sultaun
himself, brought by Jaffar Sahib Jemadar.
-----
Footnote 54:
_Lit._ Pillow, the abode of a Fakeer.
Footnote 55:
Elevated seat or terrace.
-----
‘Surely, surely!’ cried the Kotwal, whose memory appeared wonderfully
refreshed; ‘’tis strange I should have forgotten him, seeing that he was
often fed from my house; women you know, Sahib, have tender hearts, even
for those of a different faith, and we knew nothing of the brave English
then.’
‘Canst thou guide me to this Fakeer?’ said Philip to the man, who could
speak indifferent Hindostanee.
‘Certainly,’ he replied; ‘’tis but a short distance.’ And so saying he
took up his long staff. Philip rose to depart.
‘I will accompany you, sir,’ said the Kotwal; ‘the old Sein[56] is very
curious in his behaviour to strangers, and may not be civil; besides he
hath been ill of late.’
-----
Footnote 56:
Respectful appellation of a Mahomedan Fakeer.
-----
‘I thank you,’ returned Philip, ‘but I would prefer going alone. I have
no doubt the old man will be reasonable, even to a Feringhee. Salaam!’
Guided by the scout, who ran before their horses, they were quickly at
the garden we have before mentioned. It had been respected by all; the
little mosque was as purely clean, the space around it as neatly swept
as ever: the flowers bloomed around the tiny fountain, and the noble
trees overshadowed all as closely as when, sick and exhausted, Herbert
Compton lay beneath their shade, and blessed God that he had found such
a refuge and such a friend as the old Fakeer.
The venerable old man sat in his usual spot under the tamarind-tree;
before him was his Koran, which he read in a monotonous tone; his face
was very thin, and he looked weak and attenuated by sickness.
‘Salaam, Baba!’ said Philip advancing, ‘we are English officers, who
would speak to thee.’
‘Salaam Aliekoom!’ returned the old man benignantly, ‘ye are welcome;
the turn of destiny hath allowed us to say that to those whom we have
called kafirs; but ye _are_ welcome to the old Fakeer—all are welcome
who come in peace and good will. What seek ye?’
‘Father,’ said Philip, much touched by the benevolence of his tone and
appearance, ‘thou art no bigot, and wilt aid us if thou canst. I seek a
lost friend, as dear to me as a brother; I know not if it be the same,
but I have heard that one of my race was tended by thee, and remained
ill with thee for long; it may be he; didst thou know his name?’
‘Holy Alla!’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘art thou aught to him who loved
me as a son?’
‘Alas! I know not his name, father.’
‘His name! it was—’ and he fell to musing, his forefinger between his
teeth. ‘I cannot remember it now,’ he said, ‘though it is daily on my
lips. Ka— Ka—’
‘Compton?’ said Philip.
‘The same! the same!’ cried the old man; ‘the same—Compton—Captain
Compton; the name is music to me, Sahib; I loved that youth, for he was
gentle, and often told me of your cool and beautiful land in the distant
west, where the sun goes down in glory; and he taught me to love the
race I heard reviled and persecuted.’
‘Alla will reward thee!’ said Philip; ‘but canst thou tell me anything
respecting his fate?’
‘Alas! nothing; for a month he was with me, ill, very ill—we thought he
would die; but the prayers of the old Fakeer were heard, and the
medicines of his hand were blessed; and once more he spoke with reason
and grew calm, and the fever left him; then, when his strength returned,
an order from the Sultaun arrived, and it was a bold bad man that
brought it, and he was taken away from me, and never since that have I
gained any tidings of him. May his destiny have been good! my prayers
have been night and day for him to that being who is your God and mine.’
Philip was much touched, and poured out his thanks to the old man most
sincerely and with a full heart. ‘Alas! I fear all trace of him is
lost,’ he said.
‘Say not so, my son; I dread—but I hope. The Sultaun is not always
cruel—he is just; his death was never intended—his life was too valuable
for that; he is most likely at Seringapatam, whither ye are proceeding
they say—I would not despair. And now listen: Alla hath sent thee
hither, thou who wast his friend; he gave me a letter, a packet which he
wrote here in secret; I would ere this have delivered it in thy camp,
but I am grown very feeble and infirm of late, the effect of illness,
and I could not walk so far, wilt thou receive it? to me it has been a
memorial of the young man, and I have looked on it often, and remembered
his beautiful features, and his gratitude when I risked this my little
possession, which to me is a paradise, in taking it from him.’
Eagerly, most eagerly Philip implored to see it, and the Fakeer rising
attempted to walk to his humble residence, but with difficulty. Philip
and Charles flew to his aid, and leaning on them, as he glanced from one
to the other with evident pleasure, the old man reached the door.
‘Remain here,’ he said, ‘the dwelling is low—ye are better here. I will
return to you.’ He did so in a few minutes, bearing the packet.
Philip took it with a delight he had no words to express, and was well
nigh overpowered by his emotion as the familiar handwriting met his eye.
‘There can be no doubt,’ he said, ‘that it was he—I would swear to his
handwriting among a thousand.’
‘Do not open it here,’ said the Fakeer; ‘but sit and speak to me of him
and his parents, and his beloved, for I heard all,’ continued the old
man with a sigh, ‘and pitied his sad fate.’
Philip told him all, and they talked for hours over the lost one; he
told him how he had gone to England and married his sister; how the
youth beside them was her brother of whom he had heard; and then the old
man blessed the youth. ‘Thou wilt not be the worse that I have done so,’
he said; while a tear filled his eye—rested there for a while—then
welling over, trickled down his furrowed cheek and was lost in his white
beard.
Long, long they talked together, and the day was fast declining ere they
left him, promising to return whenever they could; they took away the
precious packet with them, to pore over its contents together in
Philip’s tent.
They opened it with eager anxiety; it was addressed ‘To any English
officer.’ There were a few lines from Herbert, informing whomsoever
should receive it that he was alive, and imploring him to forward it to
the Government; and a few more descriptive of his captivity, of his
escape from the rock, and his uncertainty for the future.
There were letters too to be forwarded, one to his father, one to Amy;
another for Philip himself, which he opened impatiently. It was short—he
said he dared not write much. He described his various trials and
sufferings, and the kindness of the old Fakeer, without whose aid he
must have perished: he besought him not to despair of finding him alive,
even though years should intervene between that time and when the letter
should reach him.
‘Nor will I despair, dear Herbert,’ cried Philip; ‘never, never! The
hand of Providence is clearly discernible through all this chain of
events; it will lead us, Charles, to the close. Yet we must be secret:
these letters must not be delivered, nor must our present success be
known in England till we can confirm the glad tidings, or for ever
despair.’
There was not a day while the army remained there that the friends did
not visit the old Fakeer. They could not prevail on him to accept money;
but there were articles which were of use to him—cloth, and blankets,
and other trivial things, which he received gladly. They left him with
sorrow, and with little hope that they should ever renew their
intercourse with him. Yet they met again.
The progress of the army was slow; for the forage, except in a few
places, had been destroyed, and the draught and carriage bullocks died
by hundreds. The Nizam’s force, too, had joined the British army, and it
presented a most gorgeous Eastern display, far more imposing than any
Philip had yet seen. Men of all nations of the East, and tribes of
India, the courtly Persian, the reckless Afghan, the wild Beloche, the
sturdy Pathan, the more slender and effeminate Dukhanee, the chivalrous
Rajpoot and hardy Mahrattas, all were mingled in a wild confusion—men
hardly belonging to any corps, and clustered round every leader’s
standard, apparently as fancy, or caprice, or hope of plunder dictated.
The force was utterly inefficient, however, for the purposes of the war,
for the leader had no control over it, nor could he supply it with food;
and his fidelity to the English cause, if not the Nizam’s also, was
questionable.
At every day’s march the distress of the army increased. Men were upon
the lowest rations; the cavalry were almost inefficient from the
starvation and weakness of their horses, and the active and irregular
cloud of the Nizam’s horse consumed what little forage was left in the
country, long ere it could be collected by the English. The leaves of
mango and other trees, where they could be procured, were even gladly
devoured by the starved cattle in lieu of other food. Nevertheless, in
spite of these discouraging prospects, the army advanced by slow
marches; and as the heat was moderate—for the height of the table-land
of Mysore, from three to four thousand feet, gives it a temperate
climate at all seasons of the year—the troops, long accustomed only to
the enervating climate of Coromandel, gained fresh vigour and health as
they proceeded.
Meanwhile the advance of the English, though he often affected to
despise it, was a source of the greatest alarm to the Sultaun. In vain
had he consulted the stars, in vain tried magical arts. They still
proceeded, and drew nearer to his capital daily. Nevertheless he heard
accounts of the distress and famine prevalent in the English camp; and
could he only gain time, even by negotiation or by retreat, he might
protract the campaign so that the English would be obliged to retreat,
and he would then pour upon them his whole force and annihilate them for
ever. Night after night was occupied in discussions with his chief
advisers, Meer Sadik, Kishun Rao and Purnea, but their counsel was
hardly listened to in the wild schemes which were revolving in his mind.
‘Our government is the gift of God!’ he would cry. ‘Are kafirs who heap
abuse on the name of Mohamed his apostle to subdue it? Are we not
blessed with holy dreams, with visions of conquest, and of possessing
the five kingdoms of Hind? Are all these for naught? I tell ye nay, but
true and holy revelations, even such as were made to Mohamed, whose
shadow upon earth we are. Here we have daily written them—records of our
thoughts—prophecies of our greatness, which as they become fulfilled we
will read to ye. Ah, ye sceptics! Let the kafirs advance—they come into
the snare. Ha, ha! their cattle are dying. How, Jaffar Sahib?’—he was
present—‘thou didst see them.’
‘Peer-o-Moroshid! they are,’ replied Jaffar Sahib; ‘they can hardly drag
the guns: even the men are harnessed, and work like beasts.’
‘They will get tired of that, perhaps, soon. Let them come on, I say,
even to the gates of the town. I fear not—why should I fear? my destiny
is bright.’
‘But why not give up the prisoners, Asylum of the Earth? May your
generosity increase!’ said Meer Sadik, whose dauntless spirit spoke out
before the Sultaun. ‘Dost thou not break faith in keeping them?’
‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art bold to say that, Meer Sadik. No!
never shall they be wrested from me: rather would I kill them with my
own hand. Have they not broken faith, to make war on us without a
cause—to destroy our country, to enter into a league against us? We
swear before ye, sirs, not one shall return alive.’
Tippoo retained Jaffar always about his person. He was spy, plotter,
adviser, executioner, by turns. That night—shortly before the action
which followed at Arikéra—they were alone in the Sultaun’s tent. All had
left him, and he was uneasy and fretful. No wonder, for his thoughts at
night were terrible, and he could not bear to be alone. He had summoned
one of his favourite ladies from the city, and sought in her society a
respite from his thoughts. All was in vain: he could not shut out from
himself his danger, though he scoffed at it openly.
‘And thou hast seen him, Jaffar, and spoken with him?’
‘I have: he is a conceited, arrogant Dukhanee—a man to be despised—a man
whose rapacity is not to be satisfied.’
‘And what said he?’
‘He was haughty at first, and it was hard to hear how he spoke of thee,
O Sultaun!’
The monarch gnashed his teeth. ‘Ya Alla! grant me power to chastise
those who mock thy favourite,’ he cried, looking up devoutly. ‘But thou
gavest the letter?’
‘I did.’
‘And the bills for money?’
‘Yes; he said he would forward that to the Prince at Hyderabad.’
‘And will he fight against me? will he not come over at once and desert
them?’
‘He dare not; but he will be neutral, I think. But he is well where he
is: his presence is a burthen to the kafir Feringhees; they wish
him—anywhere. His men devour the forage, and they starve. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Good, Jaffar. Now listen; those prisoners, Jaffar—the boys—the cursed
Feringhees know of them and the others.’
‘Let them not trouble you, Light of the Earth! Your poor slave has,
Inshalla! done some service.’
‘How! wouldst thou return them?’
‘Return them! no, by your head and eyes, no! What, eat so much
abomination! Darest thou trust me? I am your slave, there can be no
fear. I have eaten your salt, I am the child of your house; command me,
and I will do thine orders.’
‘What dost thou advise?’
‘For the boys? they are young, they are but women—nay worse. Why
shouldst thou hesitate?’
‘Speak thy mind fully, Jaffar.’
‘Death!’ said the other in a hollow tone, as if he feared the very echo
of the words.
‘Good,’ said the Sultaun, but his lip quivered as he spoke; ‘thou wilt
require a warrant. Write one, I will seal it.’
‘I cannot write, O Sultaun.’
‘Pah! why are men such fools? Give me the inkstand. There, go now—even
now. Let it be done silently, the people must not know of it. One by
one—thou knowest, and spill no blood. Enough, begone! thou must return
to-morrow by this time, I have more work for thee.’
‘On my head and eyes be it,’ he said, and departed from the tent.
The Sultaun could not bear to be alone; he arose and entered the inner
apartments. The lady was alone; she was very beautiful and very fair for
her country. Her soft melting eye spoke of other love than that of the
cold Sultaun’s, and its expression was much heightened by the deep black
tinge she had given to her eyelids. Her dress was the purest white
muslin woven with silver flowers, which she had thrown over her
gracefully, and which partially covered a petticoat of most gorgeous
cloth-of-gold. The floor of the tent was covered with fine white calico,
and on one side was a low couch, on the other a crimson satin mattress,
which formed a dais, furnished with pillows of blue velvet. She arose
and made a graceful salutation, but did not speak; for his brow was knit
into a frown which she feared, and he was not safe when he looked so.
He threw himself upon the dais, and buried his face in his hands. He was
long silent, but she dared not address him.
He spoke at last to himself, and she could hear every word in the still
silence.
‘It is my destiny,’ he said gloomily—‘the destiny of my house. The
Brahmin who warned me—he who spoke out against me fearless of death, and
now lives in the dungeon yonder, he told me of the Feringhees. Whence is
their mighty power? They roll on, a fierce tide against me. Is there no
hope? Ah, for one hour of his presence who was ever victorious over
them—my father! but he is gone for ever, and I am alone—ay, alone.’
The girl was touched; she drew nearer to him.
‘Men of Islam!’ he resumed, after a pause, ‘will ye not fight for me?
Why should I fear? Alla Akbar! Assud Ali is false; he has taken the
money and the letter. Pah! I have humbled myself to that proud Nizam
Ali—to him who trampled on me and scorned my alliance. But no matter, we
may be even with him yet. Assud Ali is false to his cause, and will aid
mine. Ya Alla kureem, that he may! Then the Mahrattas will follow: they
are wily—they keep aloof—they will see how the game goes, and join the
winners. Why should I fear? Zeman Shah in the north with the Afghans;
then the men of Delhi and the Rohillas, the hill tribes. The French are
now wary and cool, but they will rise: one action over, and all is safe.
Then conquest comes, and these hateful sons of Satan are driven away for
ever.’
At last he was silent. There were visions of gorgeous triumphs passing
through his heart, which defied words to express them.
He looked up, and his eyes met those of the lady. ‘Come hither,’ he
said, ‘and sit by me. Thine eyes are full of love; they are not like
those of men abroad. When I look into theirs, I read distrust,
faithlessness; I doubt them all, Fureeda. They know of many things
which, were they to tell the Feringhees—But no: they dare not. What
thinkest thou, child—how goes the game?’
‘I am your slave,’ she said, ‘but I will tell the truth. Men say thou
dost not fight, and they are gloomy. Why are not the troops of the
Sircar led on against the kafirs? Why are they kept in idleness,
retreating day by day? Where are thy valiant cushoons—all thy
artillery—all thy invincible and thundering cavalry? Arouse thee, O my
lord! Let even a slave’s voice aid that of thy mother—thy wife—those who
would fain see the glory of the Faith exalted, and the tiger of Mysore
rend to pieces the kafir English. Art thou a man and a soldier to bear
this? By Alla! were I one, and in thy place,’ she said, her eye
flashing, ‘I would mount my horse and cry Bismilla! as I led my warriors
to victory. Art thou a coward?’
‘Coward! sayest thou this to me?’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth,
as his small dagger flashed from its scabbard in his girdle, and was
upraised to strike.
The lady trembled, but bowed low before him. ‘Strike!’ she said; ‘I can
die at thy feet. The lonely Fureeda will not be missed upon the earth;
all who loved me are dead, thou well knowest, and my spirit yearns to be
with theirs. Strike! I am ready.’
‘And dost thou think me a coward, Fureeda?’ he exclaimed, as his hand
dropped.
‘Alla and the Prophet forbid! I know thou art brave, but men complain.
They tell thee not of it, but they complain that the old fire is
quenched within thee. I, who fear not, tell thee this truth.’
‘It is not, by Alla! I will show them it is not. We will see what the
morrow brings. The night is gloomy and hot; there may be rain—in that
they will be helpless; then we will set on them, and cry Alla Yar! Now
get thee to thy bed. The night advances and we would be alone, for
visions press on us which we would record for those destined to follow
our steps.’
She left him, and lay down on the bed, but could not sleep. The night
was oppressive, and she watched him. He wrote awhile; then she saw him
put aside his paper and lie down—sleep had come to him. She arose, took
a light shawl and threw it over him gently. Then she sat down and
watched him. Presently the thunder muttered in the distance, and flash
after flash of blue lightning penetrated through the tent, dimming the
light of the lamp which burned beside him. The thunder came nearer and
nearer, and the loud patter of heavy rain upon the canvas of the tent
she thought would have awakened him; but he slept on. She was naturally
terrified at thunder, but she did not relinquish her watch, for he was
restless and disturbed in his sleep. Now and then he muttered names, and
she could hear him when the roar of the thunder ceased for an instant or
two. Soon his dreams were more distinct, and she shuddered as she
listened.
‘Jaffar!’ he said, ‘Jaffar! away with them to the rock—No, not yet!—do
not kill them yet; there are two I love—spare them! do not spill
blood—remember I told thee not. Kafirs, sons of defiled mothers, we will
set on them to-morrow, Inshalla! Inshalla!—Coward! we are no coward.’
Then after awhile his sleep was more uneasy, she saw his brows knit and
his hands clench fast. ‘Do not approach! Alla, Alla! they come. Aid
me—holy Prophet, aid me, all ye saints!—Mathews! away, old man! I did
not kill thee—it was not my orders. Away, or by Alla I will strike— Your
faces are cold and blue; are the English so in death? Go, go, ye are
devils from hell. Go! I will not come;—by Alla, I will not! Go! my
destiny is yet bright and clear.’
Then he was quiet for a while, but big drops of sweat stood on his brow.
She would have given worlds to wake him; she wondered the thunder did
not, for peal after peal crashed overhead.
Once more he spoke: it was very hurried and low, and she could hear a
word only now and then. ‘Again, Mathews? kafir Feringhee! I tell thee it
was not my order—the poison was not for thee. I will not come—there are
devils with thee—hundreds! Why didst thou bring them from the rock? Why
do ye look on me with your dead eyes? Away—I will strike!—old man, come
no nearer! Ha! thy lips move, thou—’
There was a crash of thunder which seemed to rend the earth—a flash of
lightning which almost blinded her. Fureeda cowered to the ground as the
Sultaun started up, his eyes glaring, and his hands clenched and thrust
out before him, as he looked wildly around.
‘They are gone,’ he said. ‘Holy Alla, what thunder! that is better than
their voices. What! thou here, Fureeda? Did I speak, girl?’
‘My lord was restless in his sleep, but I heard no words.’ She dared not
tell the truth.
‘Enough—it is well. Alla aids us with this rain and storm; they will be
in confusion, and we will set on them early. As the day dawns thou shalt
see, girl, that we are no coward.’
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