We fear we can hardly convey to our readers any adequate sense of the
terror with which, as she arose in the morning, and opening the door,
essayed to go forth to her ablutions for morning prayer, Ameena regarded
the fatal sign which lay before her; a faint cry which she had uttered
roused the Khan, who darting to her side, beheld with equal or indeed
greater dismay than hers, the dreadful sight.
A matter so trifling and absurd would even, to the most uneducated
person in this enlightened land, only furnish matter for ridicule; but
to Ameena and her husband, who with their countrymen generally were
deeply imbued with the belief of jins, fairies, spirits of the air, and
other supernatural agents and devils, supposed to be at the command of
any who choose by study or penance to qualify themselves for the
exercise of power over them, the sight was one of horror: the thought
that their deaths were desired, the death of both, or certainly of one,
first struck upon their hearts; a dull but a deadly blow it was to
Ameena, to whom the first sight of the awful spectacle gave a terrible
earnest that she was the person for whom it was intended.
The Khan could give her no comfort. She had no friend but her old nurse
Meeran, who, even more superstitious than Ameena, and herself mistress
as she thought of many potent charms, well knew the power which had
directed such an one as that before them.
I would not assert that men of station, respectability, and education in
India, among the Mahomedans, are not many of them free from the debasing
belief in charms and witchcraft, even though their existence is allowed
by the Koran; but no one will be hardy enough to deny that by far the
greater part dare not disbelieve it; that many practise it in secret, if
not themselves, at least by aid of Fakeers and old women; and that in
their harems, among their ladies, to doubt the existence of it would be
as sinful as to doubt that of the Prophet himself. But it must be
remembered that the Khan was a man born in the lower grade of society,
that he had been a reckless soldier of fortune, was ignorant, and,
though he had risen to high rank and wealth, was far from having shaken
off the superstitions with which he had begun life.
All that day dismay was in the household; all seemed equally struck with
consternation; and the authors of the evil gave to Ameena their most
hearty sympathy, while they exulted over the deed, and saw that the
arrow drove home to her very heart. In the general consultation which
ensued, they gave it as their opinion that it could have been intended
for no other than Ameena, and that her evil destiny had led her to look
upon it.
Kasim Ali was sent for by the Khan, and with better sense than the rest,
tried to argue him out of a belief that there was any danger, to assure
him that no one could have ill-will to one so pure, so innocent, and so
unknown as his wife. But his heart misgave him as to the author of the
evil; he dared not, however, mention this, and there was no cause for
suspicion except in his own thoughts.
Devoted to the Khan, and more than ever anxious for Ameena, of whose
declining health, under the horrible ideas that she was possessed by
devils, which preyed on her, he constantly heard through the faithful
Zoolfoo from Meeran, Kasim Ali spared no pains to give such ease as he
could impart by the performance and directions of those ceremonies which
were prescribed to be used in such cases. The most holy Fakeers were
consulted; they made expeditions and offered Fateehas[57] at all the
saints’ and martyrs’ tombs within reach, in her name. Puleetas or
lamp-charms were burned in her name, and she was fumigated with the
smoke. Charmed words were written by holy Fakeers and Moolas, which she
sometimes ate among her food; at others they were washed off the paper
into water which she drank.
-----
Footnote 57:
Offerings for the remission of sins and favour of Heaven.
-----
Many of these ceremonies were so curious that we are almost tempted to
describe them minutely; but as they would occupy much space (and, alas!
we are restricted to pages and lines), we are compelled to abandon them
to imagination; in truth they are so ridiculous and puerile, that
perhaps they might only provoke risibility, especially in our fair
readers, if we should relate them very gravely, and almost insist on
their belief in their efficacy.
But all these efforts brought no relief to poor Ameena; sometimes she
would rally awhile, and might be seen tending her few flowers, feeding
her birds or her pigeons; and though with wasted and pallid features,
and a hollow short cough, from which she could obtain no respite, she
tried to throw off the dreadful weight at her heart, and would sometimes
partially succeed, it would again return with redoubled force, and
prostrating her strength reduce her, by the slow fever which came with
it, to a state of weakness which prevented all motion. The poor girl
would lie for hours in her open verandah, gazing up into the depths of
the clear sky above her, in no pain, but with an intense yearning to be
at rest for ever, to join the society of the angels and Peris, whom she
fancied hovered there ready to receive her. How often she pined for
home—to lie on her honoured mother’s breast, and breathe away her life
in happy repose; and often she implored the Khan to send her thither.
‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘to travel; the English hold the frontiers,
the fierce marauding Mahrattas and the Nizam’s forces occupy the roads,
and it would be madness to attempt so hazardous an undertaking.’
No! she was to hope; such illnesses were long, but, Inshalla! there was
hope. Inshalla! the charms, the spells, the exorcisms would take effect,
and she would rise again to be his own Ameena.
But, alas! we grieve to write it, that in one who possessed so many
noble qualities, courage, frankness, honesty, sincerity, there should be
one terrible failing—a vice rather—which, though not openly discernible,
lurked at his heart, and ere long broke forth to the peril of poor
Ameena.
Her wasted cheek, the hollow dull eye, though sometimes the large and
expressive orbs flashed with a light almost painful to look on, and
which to those around her was an earnest that the malignant spirits
lurked still within her, caused gradually in the Khan an absence of
affection, of solicitude—nay, of that love which he had once delighted
to show. He was a sensualist; and in Ameena’s faded beauty—for like a
withered flower there were only the lineaments traceable of what existed
in the full vigour of health; and in her wasted and enfeebled form,
there was no enjoyment, no attraction. His change to her was gradual,
very gradual, but it was perceptible. It would have been merciful,
perhaps, had it come at once; it would have prevented days and nights of
wretchedness which had no power of alleviation; and with the horrible
thoughts and ideas which haunted her, the miserable one of being
gradually deserted came upon her slowly, but too surely.
While she lay burned by consuming fever, pallid, exhausted, reduced
almost to a skeleton, with parched lips and mouth, there moved around
her bedside, ministering to her trifling wants with a mock gratification
and assiduity, the work of a fiend glutting over the ruin she had
caused, the noble form of Kummoo, her features full of beauty, her eyes
flashing with love, her every motion one of grace and dignity. She
always dressed with the most scrupulous care, generally in the purest
white muslin, which, transparent as it was, when she wound it about the
upper part of her perfect form, disclosed enough to attract notice, if
not desire. She would study the times when the Khan was likely to arrive
in his zenana, and, always contriving to be there before him, would rise
to depart when he entered.
For a long time he permitted this, only returning the distant salutation
she gave him; but gradually he spoke to her, asked after her health,
then bade her remain, and so it continued from time to time, until they
conversed gaily together.
And at first poor Ameena was glad that they were friends, and that there
was a chance that the harmony of intercourse might be restored which
once must have existed between them; but she never heard that he visited
Kummoo in her own apartments, or that they met elsewhere than before
her; she could not have objected had he done so, for Kummoo was his wife
as well as she; but she often sighed for the past, and that her lot had
not been cast with one, who with her and her alone would have gone
through the pilgrimage allotted them upon earth, and in whose love she
could have been blest.
Her trial came at last; she heard from Meeran, who had long discerned
the approaching intimacy, and detected its gradual development, than the
Khan had visited Kummoo in her apartments, that he had dined with her,
and spent the evening in her company. She was glad at first, a feeling
she had been trying to reason herself into by degrees; but Meeran in her
zeal and love was indignant, and sought, but happily with no effect, to
inflame her mistress’s jealousy. Poor Ameena! jealousy she never
felt—that pang was in mercy spared her; she smiled at her nurse’s fears,
told her that she looked to greater happiness from this—to sweeter
intercourse with her sister-wife, and to a friendship which the Khan
would share with both. Alas! these were dreams which cheated her pure
and sunny mind, where no evil thought ever intruded—which was full of
love and innocence.
But when neglect came—when a day passed and the Khan did not visit
her—when she heard that he was constantly in Kummoo’s society—when
messages came from the lady to inquire after her health, and stated that
because the Khan was with her she could not attend her; when day after
day elapsed and she saw him not—and when he came his stay was short, his
questions hurried and abrupt; and though in her meek and gentle nature
she never complained, yet his demeanour would show that he was conscious
of having wronged her, and he would be formal, and she fancied even
cold—_then_ the arrow which had been shot to her very heart of hearts
rankled deeply, and, in the utter prostration of her intellect before
the misery she suffered, she prayed earnestly for death, in the hope
that ere many weeks or days she would be numbered with the dead, and her
place among the children of earth become vacant for ever!
How Kummoo exulted in the success of her scheme! she heaped presents
upon the old woman by whose aid she had effected it; she gave her jewels
from her own stores, clothes of costly price, which the hag treasured
up, though the grave was yawning to receive her, and which she vowed to
expend in distributions to Fakeers and holy saints for the repose of
Kummoo’s soul, and her acceptation with Alla. Day after day brought
confirmations of the evil work: the bolt had struck—the barb rankled,
and could not be withdrawn: Ameena was ill—she wasted away—she burned
with fever.
‘Ha! ha!’ cried the hag, ‘did I not say, when your hand trembled at the
sacrifice (it was well ye did it and the blood poured forth freely),
that it was accepted—that they drank it? Ha! ye slaves to my will,
Iblees and his legions, ye Musoo and Shekh Suddoo, and ye legions of
Chooraeel! and ye nine sons of Satan! I thank ye all: abide within her;
ye are not to come forth till the exorcism of a more powerful than I am
is performed—and where will they find that one, my pearl and my ruby?’
And then by her counsel Kummoo had put herself in the way of the Khan;
and as she bade her to wait patiently the working of the spell, so did
she; not taking offence at fancied slights, but adorning herself with
jewels, and disclosing her beauteous face to him from time to time. And
when there was appearance that he relented, the old woman bade her
prepare a feast for him, and gave her a powder to mingle with his food—a
charm which should turn his heart, were it of stone, and cause it to
become as wax in the hand of the moulder. A spell she had prepared in
secret, the ingredients of which were only known to those students of
her mystic art who had devoted years to its accomplishment.
She was successful: all went right. The Khan partook of her food; she
sang and played to him, and displayed the witchery of her charms. He had
never thought her so lovely; she was his wife, his own Kummoo, once more
such as she had been when he took her from her home to his; and a bright
field of enjoyment was spread out before them, wherein were flowers
blooming, and no shadow to dim their brilliancy. Then came new clothes
and jewels, and money and rich gifts, and the old woman partook of all,
and laughed in her heart that she, and she alone, knew the depths of the
human mind, whose own passions and not her demons were working the issue
which she contemplated.
When is it, however, that guilt is satisfied by one step to gain an end
desired? The very progress, the watching the slow process of the
machinery of the plot, only causes insatiate desires to accelerate its
motion, endless yearnings after the end; fears and doubts of success
alternate with guilty terrors, which turn back again and meet the
desires for completion. Now that Kummoo had gained her purpose, that the
Khan was her daily companion, that Ameena, sick to death, neglected and
thrown aside, mourned over her lost happiness, and was regarded as one
in whom even devils abode, one whose fate it was to linger for a while,
and then to pass away from the memories of men, even now Kummoo longed
for her death, and looked to it impatiently. Once the devil within her
had suggested poison, but she put that back with a strenuous effort. ‘It
cannot last long,’ she thought; but it did, for Ameena lingered.
The thought constantly arose that Ameena would recover, that again she
would see her in her hated beauty: the power she had gained over the
Khan would then melt away, and her former state of degradation would be
renewed. She held long conversations with Sozun, who, bad as she was,
dared not even follow her mistress’s thoughts of crime. Hoormut had
gained nothing by the spell, for she was still neglected, and the
wretched state of Ameena stung her conscience bitterly: often she longed
to disclose all; but the dread of the shame and punishment which would
have followed, and the vengeance of the reckless woman who had led her
on, deterred her. It was enough for her that the mischief which was fast
progressing had been done; she would aid its fulfilment no further.
Kasim Ali had been unavoidably absent for some time; the Sultaun’s
possessions in the Barah Mahal had gradually fallen before the forces of
the English under Maxwell and Floyd, and one by one the strongholds had
been reduced. Kistna Gherry still held out, and had earnestly applied
for succours of money and men. The young and daring Kasim was the man on
whom the Sultaun’s eye rested for the performance of this feat—for it
was one—to conduct a large force through the ground occupied by a
powerful enemy. Kasim burned for distinction, and he fulfilled his trust
manfully; for though pursued hard both by Maxwell and Floyd, at the head
of the English cavalry, he eluded them, and, having attained his object,
returned into Mysore with but little loss.
It was during his absence that the Khan’s change towards Ameena had
become visible; and on his return, in reply to his anxious queries as to
whether she lived, he was told of her still precarious state, and her
fresh cause for misery. Alas! Kasim Ali could not aid her, except by
constant messages of kindness through Zoolficar, and proffers of
service, even to death, should she require or command them. How often
did he long to remonstrate with the Khan upon his behaviour, to implore
him to allow her to depart to her own home, but he dared not; that would
have been impossible.
* * * * *
Months had passed: the English army, recruited and invigorated by the
fine climate and the luxurious forage of Mysore, and, joined by the
Nizam’s troops under a new and more honest commander, and also by the
Mahrattas, once more advanced upon the capital, in a far different
condition to that in which they had before essayed its capture, and
fought a battle within sight of their destination. As they proceeded,
fort after fort fell before them. The impregnable Nundidroog, commanded
by as brave an officer as the Sultaun possessed, Lutf Ali Beg, fell, and
few of the garrison escaped. It would have taken the Sultaun months to
reduce it with his whole army—which a single detachment of the English
effected. Savundroog—‘the abode of death’—where the Sultaun exulted that
the English went, for he knew its impregnable strength and the deadly
jungles by which it was surrounded,—that too fell by a _coup de main_.
He could not credit it; he raved like a wild beast when the news was
brought; but that did not alter the loss, and it was followed by other
reverses day after day. It was true that the success of his son Futteh
Hyder against Gurrumcoondah, which had been taken by the Nizam’s troops,
and which contained the family of his relation, Meer Sahib, revived him
for a while; but the resolute and rapid approach of the English army
upon his capital was not to be disguised, and their unvaried success
smote hard at his heart, and daunted his army. But there were other
causes for dismay on both sides.
Men had begun to ask among themselves, soon after the battle of
Arikhéra, as day after day they attended the Durbar, and the band of
beautiful English boys, upon whose dancing their eyes had rested in
admiration, and to whose delicious voices they had used to listen, did
not appear—what had become of them? The many others, too, who had long
languished in confinement, and whom they had used to mock and
deride—where were they? And then speculation and conjecture arose, and
would not be still, for there went suspicion abroad that they had been
destroyed, and it was right. Despite of the Sultaun’s care, there were
those who told openly in their drunkenness that they had strangled them,
and that Jaffar Sahib Jemadar had looked on, and while he mocked their
cries, had encouraged their destroyers: many others too had been
secretly murdered in the lonely hill-forts, where they were confined,
and even in the secret prisons and apartments of the palace.
Men openly talked of the butchery; and though they hated the English,
yet they were men and soldiers, and abhorred the secret murders and the
concealment; and all pitied and mourned over the fate of the poor boys,
dreading the vengeance of the English when the reckoning should come,
and there should be few to meet it. Discontent openly showed itself
everywhere: there was a feverish excitement among the troops, a restless
desire that the English should arrive, and their suspense be dispelled
either by victory or defeat.
The twenty-fifth day of January 1792 was one long remembered by those
who witnessed it. The English army, led by its noble commander, now more
like a triumphal procession than a slow invasion, had arrived on the
distant heights, and were rapidly pouring from them upon the plain which
led to the city; and the Sultaun, dreading an immediate attack, had
ordered out the whole of his force, which in glittering array lined the
fort-walls, the esplanade before it, the banks of the river, and the
redoubts and batteries beyond. It was a gorgeous spectacle: that English
host in long narrow and compact columns, their bayonets glancing in the
sun, as they moved with measured tread to the sound of their martial
music. Everywhere around in wild disorder were crowds of the Nizam’s and
the Mahratta horse, accompanied by numbers of elephants, many of the men
in bright armour, with gay scarfs wound round their steel caps; others
in coats-of-mail, or thickly-quilted satin tunics; many in gorgeous
cloth of gold or silver, their horses’ trappings of velvet or fine
cloth; most in white, with gay scarfs and turbans—the whole everywhere
restless, clamorous—thousands careering about, firing matchlocks as they
advanced; now dashing out to the front and brandishing their spears,
without any order, discipline or command, and crying shouts of abuse, or
the various war cries of their respective faiths.
Under the walls was the Sultaun’s army—a vast concourse, arrayed in
their regiments, and in fair order at their various posts. Everywhere
among them moved richly caparisoned elephants and horses, whose riders
were as gaily dressed as those of the advancing army. The walls of the
fort, the minarets of the mosque, the terraced houses, the trees, every
rising ground, were covered with the inhabitants of the fort and the
city, looking at the advancing stream of their enemies, which appeared
to flow on without resistance. Above all glowed a sun dazzlingly bright,
but now declining fast, whose slanting beams lighted up the scene,
catching the various objects, and causing them to glitter even more than
if they had come from above. The waters of the river—the plain covered
with burning villages—whereon one army was in motion, the other waiting
to receive them—the fort, the batteries, the mosque and temples, glowed
with a brilliance and exciting effect, which the circumstances of the
thousands present were not likely to efface from their remembrance.
-------