It was truly an awful night; the wind howled in fierce blasts over the
plain, driving with it cold and piercing rain, which benumbed men who
had only been accustomed to the heat of the Carnatic and the coast; the
bullocks and horses of the cavalry, exhausted by dearth of food, could
no longer struggle through the mud, and fell in great numbers to rise no
more. Then men applied their shoulders to the wheels, and laid hold of
the drag-ropes of the guns with wild energy, and urged them on with loud
shouts and cries. Everywhere the most appalling confusion existed, for
the enemy was in front, at a short distance, and, with their knowledge
of the ground and of the country, what might not be effected during such
a night?
But it was too wild even for the enemy to venture forth to an attack,
which might after all be doubtful. The thunder roared and crashed
overhead in stunning peals; men shouted, but were not heard; there was
no road to be discovered, and infantry and cavalry, often mingled
together, floundered on in the inky darkness.
Amongst the rest the commander vainly strove to track the road, but soon
lost it, and with his staff wandered they knew not whither, while
parties of the enemies’ horse were everywhere abroad. It was a fearful
risk for one on whom so much depended. They halted, at length, upon a
rising ground, but could distinguish only wild groups of struggling
figures, as the vivid lightning disclosed them for instants only at a
time everywhere around them. Sometimes it appeared as if the enemy were
surrounding them, for the deep booming sound of their kettle-drums and
the wild shrill neighing of horses came clearly upon the blast at
intervals; and in the distance they often thought they could see masses
of troops marshalled in array, and the lightning flashing from the
points of spears and bayonets.
Their situation was very precarious, and Philip and some others essayed
to find the way back to the point from which they had set out, and after
much difficulty they succeeded. Plunging through a ploughed field alone,
he found a road beyond, and venturing slowly and cautiously, heard,
through the din of thunder and roar of the wind, the welcome sound of
English voices. It was enough, he retraced his steps to the place where
he had left his general, by the glare of the lightning, and gave him the
welcome news; he was eagerly followed, and once more the commander was
placed in safety.
The wind and the rain ceased; gradually the storm passed onwards, and a
few stars shone out here and there, gradually heralding the brilliant
dawn. It broke at length to the expectant eyes of that wearied army, and
in a short time the confusion of the night before was restored; men
repaired to their proper standards, and discipline was once more
restored.
With the earliest dawn the Sultaun had been astir, and, calling to him
the leaders upon whom he most depended, he gave orders for an assault
upon the exhausted English. ‘They will be our prey,’ he said; ‘let them
come on, let them fall into the trap which destiny has marked out for
them. Shookr Alla! they have come so far that to retreat is
impossible—they must advance into our hands. Go, in the name of the Most
Mighty, go and conquer! your destiny is bright; this day will be a fair
one for the honour of Islam, a day which men shall record in history,
and the nations of the West tremble at when they hear it.’
The leaders wondered what had so suddenly changed his resolution of not
giving battle, for the day before he had been obstinately bent upon
retreat into the city; but they were glad, for the troops were loud in
their murmurs, and retreat day after day before a weakened enemy was
fast undermining any notions of discipline or subordination which still
remained. They obeyed his various orders with alacrity; and as the light
became broader and clearer, and the English army could be descried, a
shower of rockets was directed against it, which, although annoying, was
of little effect.
The Sultaun looked on from a rising ground; before him the two armies
were spread out, his own cushoons in large masses, for the while
inactive, with the long lines and columns of the English opposed to
them, and the artillery vainly endeavouring to get the guns into
position; the cattle were exhausted, and could hardly move. He saw the
annoyance the rockets caused, and exulted.
‘Shabash! Shabash! give them more; ride, Khan Sahib,’ he said to an
officer near him, ‘and tell them not to spare the rockets and the shot.
Mashalla! they fall into the midst of the kafirs and kill many; tell
them they shall be rewarded well. Ha! they are about to charge. Holy
Alla! look at the miserable horses, tottering as they move; _they_ think
to overwhelm the true believers—Ha! ha! ha! See, they advance—Dogs,
kafirs, come on, ye defiled, to your destruction! Now, Rhyman Khan, upon
them and annihilate them! Oh for Kasim Ali Patél! he would have led the
charge. Ha! there is no need—they turn! they turn! the cowards—the less
than men—the faint-hearted!’
But his exultation was soon checked, for when the lines of redcoats
advanced he saw his own cushoons retire, and one fell into confusion.
Assud Ali and his cloud of cavalry were close upon them—the Sultaun was
in agony. ‘If he is true to me he will not charge,’ he cried. ‘Alla!
Alla! turn his heart; holy saints and martyrs, let him not destroy them!
I vow coverings to your tombs and offerings. He will charge now—he
moves; Alla Kereen, I cannot look at it.’
‘He is steady,’ exclaimed one near him; ‘he stirs not.’
‘Enough, enough! the bait has taken, and we are safe. Ha, ha, ha!
Inshalla! there is no mind like ours, for, with the blessing of Alla, it
is all-powerful over our enemies. Assud Ali will earn this day a hopeful
reputation—may Alla give him a good digestion of it! And now, since the
crisis is past, give orders to retire. We have checked the Feringhees,
we have turned their boasted cavalry. Ye saw, sirs, they dared not
attack; Alla Akbar! we will retire into the city; let them come on, we
shall be ready to meet them.’
And he retreated that day to his fortified position under the guns of
the fort; the English took up his late position upon the field, and
advanced even beyond it; but the distress in the army was frightful, and
there was no prospect of relief. Abercromby, who, it had been hoped,
would have joined it, was not to be heard of, nor were the Mahrattas;
there was no forage—every blade of grass, even the trees, had been
destroyed; most of the wells and tanks were poisoned by branches of
Euphorbium thrown into them; the cattle grew weaker and weaker, and died
by hundreds. No man had hope that, before the efficient army of the
Sultaun, and against a strong fort, there could be any possible hope of
victory, and all looked anxiously for the decision of him who led them
on.
It was on the evening of that day that Philip Dalton and Charles Hayward
ascended a small hill near the camp, and looked forth over the glorious
view which was spread out before them. A few miles distant was the city,
the tall minarets of the mosque in the fort, and here and there a small
dome, with clusters of white-terraced houses, sparkling among the thick
groves which surrounded them; the long lines of the regular walls of the
fort, and their tall cavaliers, could be seen; and in the plain before
them redoubts were everywhere thrown up, between which the gay tents of
the huge army glittered in the evening sun; for a flood of golden light
poured upon the city and the camp from the declining sun; and as the
light evening clouds sailed slowly on, the view was chequered by soft
shadows, which added to the beauty of the scene. The broad Cavery
glittered where waters stood deep in pools, and its broad and rocky bed
could be seen around the fort and town, and stretching far away to the
western hills; there was no bridge across the river, but with his
telescope Philip could make out the ruins of that which had been
destroyed. In all directions columns of white smoke were ascending,
straight into the air, from the burning villages, which had been fired,
lest they should afford protection or shelter to the enemy.
Both were long silent, as they sat looking upon the prospect, for their
thoughts were sad; and the hope which had filled their hearts when they
had left Bangalore victorious, trusting soon to be before Seringapatam
and to see the Sultaun humbled, and the captives of years brought forth
in triumph, had now given place to despair; for the delay even of a day
was perilous to the whole army, and already the determination had been
made of destroying the battering train, and retreating until a better
system of supply for the army could be organised, and the strength of
the exhausted cattle restored.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Philip—he was thinking of Herbert Compton as the
city lay before him; ‘if he be immured in a dungeon yonder, he will have
heard our firing, he will have known of our advance, and we cannot
conceive the state of anxiety and suspense he must be in, and how
dreadful will be his disappointment.’
‘Are we then to retreat, Philip?’
‘I believe it is so determined,’ he replied. ‘For the public cause it is
good, for we shall have gained experience; but we shall return soon, I
trust, Charles. I hope and trust in a short time, when forage is more
plentiful; and for you, proud Sultaun,’ he said, looking towards the
city, ‘there is a severe reckoning in store. Oh, my poor Herbert! if
thou art there, may God preserve you to a deliverance at our hands!’
But now the evening was fast closing in, and the fires of the Sultaun’s
army were sparkling in the dusky plain; gradually but quickly the city
was fading before their sight, and the quiet pools of the Cavery,
wherein the deep yellow and orange of the sky was reflected, shone more
brightly amidst the gloom around them: there was no use in staying
longer, and they arose and returned to the camp. In a few days, having
destroyed the noble battering-train, the army retreated towards
Bangalore.
The Sultaun sat on the high cavalier which stands at the southeast angle
of the fort, surrounded by his officers; the busy camp of the English
was within sight, in which it was plain that there was a movement; he
was gloomy and dispirited, in spite of the force around him, which was
ostentatiously displayed; there was a secret misgiving in his heart, a
dread of private treachery, of the unfaithfulness of the army, though
one and all had sworn to defend their trust; the men around him hardly
spoke but in whispers.
‘They will be upon us soon,’ said the Khan to Kasim, who stood by him,
‘and the thunder of the English cannon will be heard for the first time
at Seringapatam. Ya Alla avert it! for their destiny is great.’
‘Shame on thee, Khan!’ cried the young man; ‘let them come—I for one
will welcome a stroke against the kafirs: I have not drawn a sword for
months, and am tired of this inactivity.’
‘Thou art not strong yet, Kasim.’
‘As I ever was, Khan; feel my arm, its sinews are as firmly knit as
ever; let them come, I say, and Alla defend the right! are we not the
children of the faith, and they are infidels?’
‘Kasim Ali! where is Kasim Ali?’ cried the voice of the Sultaun. He
answered and stepped forward.
‘Look through this,’ continued the monarch, handing his telescope to the
young man; ‘tell me what thou seest, for by Alla, I cannot believe mine
own eyes.’
‘Cowards!’ cried the young man after a moment; ‘they retreat; their
backs are towards us.’
‘Alla Hu Akbar! Ya Alla kureem!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘then our prayers
have been listened to. Ha! ha! ha! they turn—the cowards—the kafir dogs!
They are gone—away, after them, my friends—dog their steps to the very
gates of Madras. Inshalla! our hunt will be Cornwallis! A jaghire to him
who brings us his head! Now are our dreams come true; our visions
wherein we have trusted. Be not deceived, my friends; behold the proofs
that I am the favoured of the Prophet, and that though sometimes the
power of prophecy is withdrawn from us, yet the light which is within us
burns still and will never be extinguished. Away, ye of the household
cavalry! Kasim Ali, Rhyman Khan, away after them!—yet stay—go not too
far; prudence and wariness have won us this victory; we must not abuse
it. Ye must return in three days, when we will determine upon future
operations. Begone!’
But as they prepared hastily for the service, the movement was
countermanded, to the bitter disappointment of Kasim Ali; for the
Sultaun feared risking his best horse against the combined forces of the
English and the Nizam’s cavalry, and ordered them to remain; nor was
there for a considerable period any movement of interest. Strange it was
that he made no attack upon the retiring English, nor any effort to
retake Bangalore, his once favourite fortress; but the danger for the
moment had passed away, and, though the thunder growled and the
lightning flashed in the far distance, there appeared no immediate risk
of the approach of the tempest.
The campaign had been an arduous one for poor Ameena, who had far
overrated her strength; indeed the rapid marches made by the Sultaun,
whose personal activity was wonderful, had sorely tried the Khan
himself; and he had been selected for the duty of escorting the ladies
of the harem from Bangalore to the capital. He had therefore had no part
in the late movements of the campaign, but remained at his post without
the city, accompanied by the young Patél, who was sufficiently recovered
to bear once more his active share in the command of the body of horse
to which he had been appointed.
But as soon as the immediate alarm of the British advance and siege of
the fort was over, they returned to their old ways of life; the Khan to
the enjoyment of the repose of his zenana, and to the society of Ameena,
whose health, owing to fatigue and over-exertion, had been indifferent;
and Kasim to his daily attendance at the Sultaun’s Durbar, where he soon
grew to be familiar with the strange and perplexing character he served.
So long as the hurry and bustle of the arriving and departing troops,
the preparations for siege, and the constant alarms of the English
continued, the minds of all were filled with speculations as to the
issue of the war—some swayed by hope, some by fear. Kummoo was like the
rest, and because the objects of her hate were absent, she was
powerless; but when once more all was fairly tranquil, her thoughts
returned rapidly into their old channels; and as the Khan never now
visited her, but, contented with Ameena, merely sent cold inquiries as
to the state of her health, she detested her sister-wife more than ever,
and perhaps with better cause than at first, since the effect was more
lasting.
From time to time she had urged her mother and her old servant to aid
her in preparing the charms and spells which were to work Ameena’s ruin;
and after long delays, caused partly by the timidity of the old woman to
begin, her deferred selection of lucky and unlucky days, and often by
her scruples of conscience—for she believed firmly in her own power—a
night was determined on when they were to attend and assist in the
ceremony.
Meanwhile, and especially as the day drew near, the attention of the two
wives was more and more turned upon Ameena. Gradually they had removed
from her the thought that they were inimical to her, and at the time we
speak of she could not have supposed that they, whose professions of
friendship and acts of kindness were constant, harboured any thought of
ill towards her. If the old woman herself had seen the innocent and
beautiful being against whom she was plotting, it is probable her heart
would have relented towards one whose thoughts were purity and
innocence, and whose only sin was often an indulgence in thoughts of
one—more tender than befitted her condition—whom she had loved from the
first. And yet there was every excuse for her; the Khan was old, and
weak in many points; and, though a brave soldier, so superstitious that
the merest trifles affected him powerfully, and much of his time was
spent in averting by ceremonies (for which he had to pay heavily)
glances of the evil eye which he fancied had been cast on him when any
pain or ache affected a frame already shaken by the wars of years.
Ameena could not love him, though he was kind and indulgent to her; she
honoured, tended, respected him, as a child would do a father; but love,
such as the young feel for each other in that clime, she felt not for
him, and she had much ado to repress the feelings which her own heart,
aided by her fond old nurse Meeran, constantly prompted for Kasim. Poor
Ameena! she tried to be happy and cheerful; but she was like a fair bird
in a gilded cage, which, though it often pours forth its songs in
seeming joyousness still pines for liberty and the free company of its
mates.
It was with mingled feelings of awe and superstitious terror that the
Khan’s two wives betook themselves to the house of Kummoo’s mother, on
the day assigned for the incantation. As their food had been cooked by
their own women in their own private apartments, they had been able to
practise the requisite abstinence from the various spices, condiments,
and particular descriptions of food which had been interdicted by the
old woman. They had bathed as often as had been directed, and observed
all the injunctions to perfect purity of body that had been laid upon
them. The night was dark and gloomy, and was well suited for their walk
to and from the house unobserved. They hardly spoke, as, closely veiled,
and under the guidance of Sozun, they entered the house and at once
passed on to the inner apartments.
‘Do not delay,’ said Kummoo’s mother; ‘I am unclean; ye will be defiled
if ye stay here; she is within, in the chamber.’ They obeyed her, and
entered it. It was a small square room; the floor was of beaten clay,
and had been most carefully swept; the walls and roof were quite bare,
and there was nothing whatever in the apartment. The old woman sat at
the head of a square figure, divided into many compartments, traced on
the floor, in which were written many Arabic characters and ciphers; the
figure was a rude imitation of a man, in square lines and crosses; and
the silence, the dim light of a miserable lamp, and the crouching figure
of the old crone, who was mumbling some words as her beads passed
rapidly through her fingers, inspired them with dread.
‘Soh! ye are come at last, children,’ she said, in answer to their
benediction; ‘are ye pure from all taint? In the name of Soleemān! of
Pharoon! of Shudad! of Israeel! of Ulleekun and Mulleeckun! I conjure ye
to say the truth. If ye are not, beware! for the evil of this will fall
upon ye.’
‘We are pure, O mother! we have eaten only what thou hast directed, and
bathed as it was necessary.’
‘Good! Now attend: here is a knife, and I have here a white fowl; one of
you must behead it and scatter the blood over the charm.’
Both hesitated and trembled.
‘Shame on ye, cowards!’ cried the crone. ‘Shame! without this the charm
is vain—the offering is vain! Without this, do ye think they will attend
to hear your commands?’
‘Who, mother?’
‘Who?—Muleeka, Hamoos, Mublut, Yoosuf, the deputies of the Shitan,
Mullik Yeitshan, Shekh Suddoo, the Father of Mischief. Obey! I tell ye
the time passes, and your livers will dry up instead of hers, if ye
refuse to do this.’
Both again hesitated, but Kummoo was daring; she at last seized the
knife and the fowl, and, in very desperation, at one stroke severed the
head from the body.
‘Hold it fast! hold it fast!’ cried the crone, for its convulsive
motions could hardly be restrained; ‘it bleeds well—that is a good sign;
so now hold it there: let the blood sprinkle over all. They are present
now; I feel they drink the blood.’ And she continued her incantation in
a low tone, while her hearers were paralysed with fear.
At length she broke out aloud, and desired them to repeat the words, ‘Ai
Boodboo! Ai Shekh Suddoo! Ai Nursoo! Ai Numrood! Ai Murdood! and ye who
are present, having drunk blood, enter into her—into Ameena—and possess
her! Let her have no rest by night or by day! As in each of your names I
pierce this lime with five needles, so may your sharp stings pierce her
heart! as they rot by the acid, so may her liver consume within her!
Ameen! Ameen! Ameen! Ameen! Ameen!’ And as she pronounced each Ameen!
she stuck a needle through the green lime she held in her hand.
‘Enough!’ she cried; ‘it is done! Leave this at her door, or at her
bedside, that she may see it when she rises in the morning. You will
soon hear of her, Inshalla!’
They were glad to escape from the place, for guilt was in their hearts,
and terror of the demons whom they believed to have been present. They
did not even stay with the old lady, but hurried home as fast as was
possible in the darkness. When all were asleep, Kummoo stole softly into
the outer apartment of that where Ameena was, and deposited the charmed
lime at the threshold of the door, surrounding it with a circle of red
powder, as she had been directed: the door opened inwards, so there was
no fear that it would be displaced.
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