‘To the breach! to the breach!’ was now the cry far and wide; those who
loved the Sultaun hurried there to die, to stop with their bodies the
ascent of the devoted English—a living wall in place of that which had
been torn down.
It was a sight on which men looked with throbbing hearts and aching eyes
from both sides—those in the English camp, and those in the Fort. There
were but few cannon to stop the English; all upon the breach had been
dismounted, and no one dared show himself upon the dismantled defences
to plant others. But as the British advanced, a storm of shot and
rockets met them, which was enough to have turned more daring men. Many
went down before it, many writhed and struggled; the column was like a
march of ants where a human foot has just trodden, some hurrying on, a
few turning to carry away a wounded and disabled comrade.
‘They are drunk!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘the hogs—the kafirs—they have been
plied with wine. Be firm, brothers, and fear not, though they are
desperate. Be firm, ye with the long spears, and do ye of the Kureem
Kutcheree regain your lost fame! Remember, we are present,—a hundred
rupees for every Feringhee! Look to your aim—they cannot pass the
ditch.’
Such broken sentences escaped him from time to time, as he fired upon
the enemy with his own hand, often with deadly aim; but though the
resistance made was desperate, what was able to withstand the hot ardour
of this assault? Man after man went down before the strong arm of Baird,
who toiled like a knight of old in the breach, cheering on his men with
loud cries of revenge for the murdered. Kasim fought beside him, and
equalled the deeds of the British leader.
‘They bear charmed lives!’ cried the Sultaun, dashing to the ground the
gun he had just fired; ‘twice have I struck down the men close to them,
but the balls harmed them not.’
‘Retire, I beseech you, O Prince!’ cried Rajah Khan and a hundred others
around him; ‘this is no place for you; on our lives be it we drive them
back.’
‘No; I will die here,’ said Tippoo doggedly; ‘they shall pass into the
Fort over my body; but the ditch is yet before them—they cannot pass it
unless it is filled as it was at— Bah! why should I have thought of that
scene?’
This passed in a moment: the struggle on the breach was over—the
defenders and their enemies lay there in heaps; still there was the
ditch to cross, which was wide and deep; for an instant even Baird was
staggered, and his men ran right and left seeking for a passage. Kasim
Ali and he were close together; there was a scaffolding, and a plank
over it leading to the rampart on the other side: it was enough, the way
was found, and hundreds poured over it quicker than thought.
It was the last sight the Sultaun saw—everything else swam before his
eyes; he looked stupefied, and said, hurriedly and gloomily, ‘It is
finished—where are my bearers? take me to the palace—the women must
die—every one: we would not have them defiled by the kafirs. Come!
haste! or we are too late.’
They led him to his palankeen, mingling with the fugitives, who in the
passage between the two walls were rushing on to the small postern where
it had been left; men had been sent for it, but what bearers could
struggle against that frantic crowd? As they hurried on, Rajah Khan
vainly endeavoured to persuade him to fly by the river-gate; Poornea and
his son were out, he said, and they might yet escape to the fastnesses
of the west.
‘Peace! cried the Sultaun; ‘the women are sacred—they must die first;
then we will throw ourselves upon the kafirs, cry Alla Yar, and die. May
hell be their portion!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as he stumbled and fell.
They raised him—a shot had struck him; he was sick to death, but they
were strong men, and they urged him on, supporting him. Another cry he
uttered—they saw blood pour from his back—he was wounded once more; but
the gate was close at hand, and they strained every nerve to reach it.
Hundreds were struggling there: the fierce English were behind,
advancing with loud oaths and cheers, maddened by excited revenge,
slaughter, lust, and hope of plunder. A fearful thing is a strife like
that, when men become monsters, thirsting for blood.
They reached the palankeen, and laid the Sultaun in it. ‘Water! water!’
he gasped; ‘air! I am choking! take me out, take me out, I shall die
here! Water! for the love of Alla, water! one drop! one drop!’
‘Remember the murdered, give no quarter,’ cried many whose bayonets were
already reeking with blood. ‘Here is a gate, we shall be inside
directly—hurrah!’
‘They come, Huzrut,’ said Rajah Khan, trying to rouse the dying man;
‘they come, they are near, let us tell them who thou art, they will
spare thee.’
‘Spare me!’ he cried, rousing himself at the last words. ‘No! they burn
for revenge, and I should be hung like a dog; no! I will die here.’ He
was very faint, and spoke feebly.
‘Here is a prince—I’ll be the first!’ cried a soldier, dashing into the
gateway and snatching rudely at the rosary which was around the
Sultaun’s neck.
It rallied the expiring lamp of life. ‘Dog of a kafir! son of an
unchaste mother!’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth as he seized a
sword which lay by him, ‘get thee to hell!’ and he struck at him with
all his might; it was the last effort of life, but it was not fatal.
‘Damnation!’ muttered the man, setting his teeth with the pain of the
wound, as he raised his musket.
He fired, the ball pierced the skull, the Sultaun’s eyes glared for an
instant, quivered in their sockets, then his head fell, and he was dead.
The lion of the faith, the refuge of the world, had gone to his account!
‘Well met, noble Kasim,’ cried Philip Dalton, as heading his party he
dashed down the cavalier which had first been gained, and was now in the
body of the place; ‘keep with me; thou knowest the prisons?’
‘Every one, colonel; but haste! they may even now be destroying them.’
Philip shuddered, there was no time for thought. Many men were around
him, and they rushed on, led by Kasim Ali, whose reddened sword, and
armour sprinkled with blood, showed how he had been employed.
Eagerly, and with excitement which hardly admitted thought, so
engrossing was it, did those two and Charles Hayward search every part
of the Fort, and every place where it was possible that prisoners could
have been concealed: they found none. And when the palace was opened
they rushed into its most secret prisons and burst them open; they found
traces of recent habitation by Englishmen; and while their fears were
horribly confirmed, their last hopes for Herbert Compton departed.
‘Ah! could I but meet the villain Jaffar!’ cried Kasim, as they gave up
further search, for it was now dark; ‘if indeed he be alive, then would
we wring from him the fate of your poor friend. Inshalla! he may be
found: I know his haunts, and will watch them all night; I will come to
thee in the morning.’
‘I shall be here with my regiment,’ Dalton said sadly; ‘but I have no
hope, for that cowardly villain will have fled long ere now with his
ill-gotten wealth.’
The morning broke gloomily after that fearful day and night; for during
the latter there had been appalling alarms, shots, screams from
terrified, plundered, and often violated women; there were many dreadful
excesses, but they were checked. As the day advanced, order was restored
once more, and the moderation of the English in their victory, their
justice, and protection of all, is yet sung and said through the country
by wandering minstrels.
The Sultaun’s body had been discovered where he had fallen; his faithful
attendant lay beside him, with others who had fought with him to the
last. They were brought into the palace, and recognised by the women
with unfeigned and bitter grief. Of all that host of secluded women, two
only truly mourned his fate. The one was his mother, the other Fureeda,
who could with difficulty be torn from his body, as they took it away
for burial. Her love had grown with misfortune; for in her society he
had found rest from care and from his own restless mind; of late he had
visited no other, and, despite of his vices, she had felt security with
him, whom no one else looked on without fear; and as his fate
approached, she foresaw it, pitied, and loved him.
The last rites of the faith had been performed upon the body. The grave
clothes, which, brought from Mekha, had been for years in his
possession, were put on with the requisite ceremonies, ablutions, and
fumigations; the sheet, filled with flowers, was laid over the body; the
attendant Moolas chanted thrice those parts of the Koran, the ‘Soora e
fateeha,’ and the ‘Qool hoo Alla!’ They were about to raise it, to place
it in the coffin, when two women again rushed in; the one was old,
wrinkled, and grey—it was his nurse; she beat her bare and withered
breasts, and, kneeling beside the corpse, showed them to it with
passionate exclamations. ‘Thou hast sucked them,’ she cried, ‘when I was
young, and they were full of milk! Alas! alas! that I should have lived
to say I bestow it on thee.’
The other was Fureeda; she spoke not, but sobbed bitterly, as she looked
on the pinched and sharpened features, and livid face of him who had
till the last clung to her with affection.
They were removed with difficulty, and the procession passed out slowly,
the Moolas chanting the funeral service with slow and melancholy
cadences. The conquerers of the dead awaited his coming, and, in silent
homage to their illustrious enemy, lifted their plumed hats from their
brows, as the body passed on to its last resting-place beside the noble
Hyder. The troops, which had the day before been arrayed in arms against
him, now paid the last honours to his death; and through a street of
British soldiers, resting upon their firearms reversed, while their
bands played the dead march in Saul, the procession wound its way.
Without in the street were thousands of men, who, frantic in their
grief, cried aloud to Alla; and women, who beat their breasts, and
wailed, or else uttered piercing shrieks of woe, flung dust into the
air, and, casting loose their hair, strove to prostrate themselves
before the body of the dead. The solemn chant proceeded; each verse sung
by the Moolas, who in their flowing robes preceded the coffin, was
repeated by all around. The body was surrounded by all the officers of
Tippoo’s late army who had survived, and those of the Nizam’s force, on
foot; and there was one of his sons on horseback, who sat in a kind of
stupor at the overwhelming affliction.
The day had been gloomy, and was close and hot; not a breath of wind
stirred the trees, and heavy lurid masses of clouds hung over the city,
from whence at times a low muttering growl of thunder would break, and
seemingly rattle all over the heavens. Men felt heavily the weight of
the atmosphere, and every now and then looked up at the threatening mass
which hung above them.
Through the plain, which extends to the mausoleum of Hyder, the
multitude poured; and as the procession gradually approached its goal,
the frantic cries of the people increased, almost drowning the
melancholy dead march and the chant which arose, now one, now the other,
and sometimes both blended into a wild harmony upon the still air. Then
there was a momentary silence, only to be succeeded by bursts of grief
even more violent than before. The thunder appeared to increase in
loudness every moment, while flashes of lightning darted across the
heavens from side to side.
The procession reached the burial-place; the grenadiers formed a street,
rested upon their firearms reversed, and the body passed on. The band
now ceased, and the bier being laid down, the body was taken from it,
preparatory to being laid in the grave. The Moola (for one alone now
officiated) raised his voice in the chant of the first creed; it was a
powerful one, but now sounded thin and small among that vast assembly;
he had said only a few words, when a flash of lightning burst from
above, nearly blinding them, and a peal of thunder followed, so
crashing, so stunning, that the stoutest hearts quailed under it. It
died away, and as it receded far into the east, the melancholy tone of
the Moola’s voice, which had been drowned in it, again arose clear and
distinct, like the distant wail of a trumpet.
The heavens were still for a while; but as the body was laid in its last
narrow resting-place, its face to the west, and as the Moolas chanted
out ‘Salāam wo Aliekoom wo Ruhmut Ullāāh!’[60] again a crashing peal
burst forth, and their words were lost in the deafening roar. Now peal
after peal rolled from the clouds. As yet there was no rain nor wind,
and the black mass appeared almost to descend upon the tall palm-trees
which waved above, and flashes of lightning so vivid that the heavens
blazed under the light, darted from it, and played fearfully around. Men
looked at each other in awe and wonder, and felt their own littleness,
when the mighty lay cold in death before them, and the thunder of his
Creator roared, seemingly as in deprecation of the deeds of his life.
-----
Footnote 60:
Peace and the grace of God be with you.
-----
The companies formed on each side of the grave to pay their last tribute
of respect to a soldier’s memory, and the word was given—‘Fire!’ The
rattle which followed seemed to be taken up by the sky; away rolled the
awful echoes into the far west, and, lost for a moment among the huge
crags and mountains of the Ghâts, seemed to return with double force to
meet the peals of artillery and volleys of musketry which broke from the
Fort and the British army. The bands struck up again, but they were
dimly heard; and, as all returned to the sound of their merry music, it
seemed a mockery amidst the din and turmoil of that tempest.
* * * * *
But we must carry our readers back to Herbert Compton, over whom years
had passed, chequered by no events save the visits of Jaffar Sahib, to
urge upon him compliance with the Sultaun’s demands for assistance,
plans of fortifications, or military instructions. The Sultaun had from
the first taken it into his head that Herbert was a man of education and
skill beyond his fellows; and as every idea was esteemed a revelation
from Providence, he had clung to this one with all the obstinacy of his
nature, for he had a necessity for the aid Herbert might have given.
Often he would forget him for months. Once or twice, provoked by his
obstinate refusals, he had issued orders for his death, and revoked as
fast as he had written them. Herbert had lingered on upon those
mountains, the cold and mists of which, exaggerated to the Sultaun, made
him suppose that the place was the one where hardship would be the
greatest, and life the most difficult to bear. But he knew not of that
glorious climate, of its cool, fresh, elastic, invigorating breezes; of
its exquisite scenery; of the thousands of wild flowers, and green hills
and hanging woods; deep wooded glens, in which brawled clear and
sparkling rivers, now chafing over a pebbly bed, now creeping still
under some golden mossy bank, covered with wild thyme and violets, from
among which peered the modest primrose, the graceful cyclamen and tall
fern, which nodded over the sparkling water. He knew not what ecstasy it
was to Herbert to lie at length upon the soft sward, and to listen to
the melody of the blackbird, which in the joy of its heart trilled its
liquid song, and was answered joyously by its mate—or to see the lark,
high in air, wheeling around in wide circles, till it was lost to sight,
the same as he had used to listen to with Amy in the groves of
Beechwood. Herbert’s thoughts were often carried back to the past,
remembering with the minutest exactitude every tone, every word of their
sweet converse.
It was an unreal life, with none of the world’s occurrences before him;
from his high prison he looked forth over a wide country, but he could
only speculate idly upon what was passing in the world. He had no hope
of deliverance,—for ever since the first siege of the city, of which he
heard after the English had departed, he had ceased to think of liberty
except in death. He had no hope that his life, his intellect, which he
felt to be strong and vigorous, would ever be called into the action
they were fitted for;—nor his kind heart, his affectionate sympathies
find again objects on which to fix. He had no companion but nature, upon
whose varying face he could always look with delight, while he listened
to the brawling streams, the murmurs of the waving woods—those sweet
voices with which she peoples her solitudes.
Yet latterly he had found a companion. One of the guards brought a dog;
Herbert attached it to himself, and the man gave it him when he went
away. He could speak to it—he could speak English to it; and as they
would sit upon a sunny bank together, he listening idly to the murmuring
plash of waters, the hum of bees, watching the bright flies, as they
sported in the sunbeams, or the butterflies flying from flower to
flower—drinking in the loveliness of the prospects, whether over the
vast blue plains and endless ranges of mountains, or inwards, among the
quiet peaceful valleys and swelling hills—he would, after musing a
while, speak to his favourite of her he loved, of his home, of his
mother; and often, when tears started to his eyes, and his voice
faltered, the dog would look at him wistfully, and whine gently as he
scratched him with his paw; he seemed to know there was something wrong,
and he thus expressed his sympathy; and when Herbert arose to go, he
would run in wide circles upon the mountain-side, chasing the larks from
their nests, tearing the grass with his teeth, and barking so joyfully
that Herbert’s spirit would be gladdened too.
But who can tell his yearnings for home—for the sight of a face beside
those of his guards—for one word from a countryman? If ever he should
escape, what tidings might be in store for him—of the changes, the
events of years? Escape! alas that was impossible. Everywhere the same
rugged sides presented themselves, everywhere the same vast forests
below, to enter which was death, and beyond them the territory of the
Sultaun. He often longed to make a second attempt to be free, but his
better thoughts proved its utter impracticability.
One day a few showers had fallen, and the air was soft and balmy; the
dry winds of May had already abated, and the summer was beginning to
burst forth. Herbert was lying upon the spot which we have once
mentioned in Hulleekul Droog; his little garden was freshened by the
late rain, and the odour of the flowers came to him gratefully, as he
looked over the wide prospect, now so familiar, yet, for all that,
presenting in colour, in effect, perpetually new features.
The Naik of his guard came to him. ‘Arise!’ he said, ‘I have news for
thee.’
‘Speak!’ said Herbert—‘what news? is Jaffar coming again? is he
arrived?’
‘Not so,’ said the man, ‘thou art to travel.’
Herbert’s heart sank within him.
‘To travel!’ he said anxiously; ‘has the Sultaun sent for me?’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘_he_ has not—he is dead. The English have taken the
city, and the Sultaun is no more.’
‘Merciful Providence!’ cried Herbert aloud in his own tongue; ‘is this
true, or is it a dream? _killed_, didst thou say?’
‘Ay, Sahib,’ said the man, dashing a tear from his eye; ‘he was a great
man, and has died like a soldier! Wilt thou come? thy countrymen will
look for thee now, and perhaps the act of taking thee to them will give
me favour in their eyes. As to this post, it will be abandoned—no one
will need it; and if we remain here, no one will remember us. What dost
thou think?’
But he spoke to one who heeded not his words—they hardly fell upon his
ear. Herbert had knelt down, and on the spot where his first vision of
escape had come to him, where he now heard he was free, he poured forth
thoughts that were too big for words—incoherently, perhaps—what matter?
they rose out of a grateful, glowing heart, and ascended to the throne
of Him who looked into it and saw the feelings there, while the words
that expressed them passed away upon the sighing wind unheeded.
Herbert arose. ‘Art thou ready?’ he said.
‘To-morrow morning, Sahib; ere the dawn breaks—there is a moon—we will
set out. In four days, if we travel fast, we shall be at the city.’
* * * * *
‘Have you seen the poor fellow who has been just brought into camp upon
a cot, Dalton?’ said an officer of the staff, who lounged into Philip’s
tent, about noon, some days after the above. ‘It seems he was confined
in a hill-fort, and the garrison have brought him in. Poor fellow! he is
in a high fever; for they rested by the way in the jungles, and there he
took it. But —— is looking after him; they have taken him into the
hospital.’
‘Some native, I suppose,’ said Philip, looking up; he was writing to his
wife.
‘No—an Englishman; it was supposed there were none left, but—’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Philip, seizing his cap, and rushing precipitately
from the tent. ‘If it should be he!—merciful Providence!—_if_—’
He flew across the camp; the officer looked after him in wonder. ‘What
can he mean?’ he said aloud. He saw Philip run at full speed to the
hospital tent, and he followed him there more leisurely and looked in.
Philip was kneeling beside the bed of the sufferer, whose hands were
clasped in his; the tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was
striving to speak. The other’s eyes were upraised, while his lips moved
as if in prayer, and a look of silent thankfulness, of joy, of perfect
peace and happiness was upon his handsome features, which he could
hardly have conceived expressible by any emotions. He looked for a few
minutes, and then hurried away to hide his own. ‘It must be Captain
Compton,’ he said, ‘so long missing; I will not disturb them.’
It was indeed. In that silent grasp of the hand,—in the long, earnest,
loving embrace which had preceded it,—in the recognition at once of the
friend, and even brother, of his early years, Herbert had already
forgotten all his sufferings. He had caught a branch upon the shore he
had so long floated past, and leaped upon it; and now secure, could even
in that moment follow the frail raft which had so long borne his sad
fortunes, and gradually lose sight of it in the visions which opened
before him.
Not long did he remain on that humble pallet; removed to Philip’s tent,
and in his company and that of Charles Hayward, he felt, as they told
him of the events of the past, that it was like one of those blissful
fancies which had cheated him so often. He fell asleep, and dreamed of
joy and peace, vaguely and indefinitely, and awoke refreshed by rest,
and the prescriptions of the surgeon who attended him; he gazed around,
and his eyes met the happy faces and joyful looks of his friends,—then,
then only, did he feel it all to be true.
CONCLUSION.
Day by day Herbert made progress towards recovery, and with peace of
mind returned strength and vigour. He had been ill for nearly a
fortnight before the time we speak of, and had been tended with that
constant and unremitting solicitude by his dear friends and brothers,
which can easily be imagined, but not easily described. There was
another too, the brave Kasim Ali, who had been quickly summoned to
Philip’s tent after the arrival of the lost one, and who had rejoiced in
his recovery with joy as genuine as the others.
‘How often I told you to hope, Sahib,’ he would exclaim, as he looked on
the joy of the friends, and their love for each other. ‘How often I said
he was not dead; that the Sultaun (may his sepulchre be honoured!) would
not destroy him.’
And then they would shake their heads, and think that if the Sultaun had
been alive, how little would have been the chance of their ever meeting
again upon earth.
‘You appear to cling to his memory with fondness,’ said Dalton, in reply
to a burst of praise which Kasim had uttered; ‘yet he used you ill, and
would have killed you.’
‘I do,’ he replied; ‘he was a great man—such an one as Hind will never
see again. He had great ambition, wonderful ability, perseverance, and
the art of leading men’s hearts more than they were aware of, or cared
to acknowledge; he had patient application, and nothing was done without
his sanction, even to the meanest affairs, and the business of his
dominions was vast. You will allow he was brave, and died like a
soldier. He was kind and considerate to his servants, and a steady
friend to those he loved. Mashalla! he was a great man.’
‘Yet he was treacherous to you, Meer Sahib,’ said Philip.
‘Ay, and had he not been so, ye might now have been far from hence. Ye
see, sirs, the power of destiny, which, working even by such mean
instruments as myself and Jaffar, has wrought great ends.’
‘What treachery?’ said Herbert. ‘I have wondered to see thee here in the
English camp, but thought thou mightest have been admitted to protection
like the rest of the Sultaun’s officers.’
‘It is a long tale,’ said Kasim, ‘but your brother, the colonel, knows
much of it already, and he will tell it to you.’
‘Not so,’ said Philip, ‘tell it yourself, I should only blunder in the
narration;’ and he added, ‘since we have been together, I have never
asked after the lady you loved, Meer Sahib; it is a painful question,
perhaps, and may awaken thoughts and feelings long since dead. You
smile—I rejoice to see it.’
‘You know, Sahib, we Moslems are not given to speaking of our wives or
families,’ said Kasim, ‘and therefore I have never mentioned her; but
she lives, I rejoice to say, and is as beautiful to my eyes as ever.’
‘Come!’ said Herbert, ‘if it be a tale of love, let me hear it; I have
talked long enough, and can listen patiently.’
Kasim then related his adventures, from the time he had appeared a youth
in Tippoo’s Durbar, to that in which, wearied by his cruelties and
uneven temper, he had left him, and had so narrowly escaped
assassination.
‘I reached my village,’ he continued, ‘and long remained in secrecy,
enjoying the quiet of my own home. I read my favourite poets, wrote
verses, and a history of my own adventures, to pass the time; but in
truth, after so much excitement, I at length grew tired of the dull
life, and looked around me for employment. The administration of the
affairs and collection of the revenue of my district happened then to be
vacated by the person who had held the offices, and, as I understood the
duties perfectly, I solicited and obtained the situation by help of a
douceur to the minister: in its duties, and in the suppression of the
disorders of the country, I found ample employment. Still I had never
visited the city of Hyderabad, and as I had need to go there to arrange
some matters with the minister regarding the revenue collections, I
determined upon a short visit, and was courteously received both by him
and by the Prince, who spoke much to me of the Sultaun’s character, and
the wild schemes of conquest which he meditated.
‘I was delighted with the city, and the polite and courtly character of
its nobles, and I remained longer than I had intended. One day I was
riding towards the minister’s house, in order to take my leave of him,
previously to my departure, when a woman, rather old, but decently
dressed as a servant, whose features at first sight appeared familiar to
me, ran towards me in the open street, and catching hold of the rein of
my horse uttered a loud cry of joy. The horse was a spirited one, and
began to curvet and bound, and she dared not approach me. I saw her
speak to my groom; and when she had learned where I lived, she told him
she would come in the evening, waved her hand to me, and darted down a
narrow street. All that day I wondered much who she could be; I could
not by any effort recall her name to my memory, and though I had an
engagement with a friend, I waited at home till late.
‘About dark a woman came, closely veiled, leading another. Both, as they
entered, threw themselves at my feet, and kissed them repeatedly,
uttering expressions of joy; they could not speak intelligibly for some
time, nor would they unveil, though I could hear from their voices that
they were aged. At length one playfully pulled the veil from the other’s
head, and to my joy and surprise I beheld Meeran. I recognised her
instantly, and, raising her up, embraced her cordially. Sahib, the other
was Sozun.
‘I was, as you may suppose, breathless to know Ameena’s fate. Was she
alive? or did that hated place I remembered hold her mortal remains?
“Speak, I conjure you,” I cried, “for I burn with impatience.”
‘“She lives, Meer Sahib,” said Meeran; “she lives, blessed be Alla and
Moula Ali, and the Apostle and the Lady Muriam! to whom we have offered
up Fateehas for her recovery on every anniversary of that event. Ah,
Meer Sahib, it is before me now!”
‘“Alive!” I cried; "but perhaps she is another’s; some nobleman hath
heard of her beauty, and hath sought her in second marriage?"
‘“No, by your soul!” cried Sozun; “she lives, and thinks but of you. She
is as beautiful as a houri; the years that have passed now seem but as
hours; her skin is as fair, her eye as bright, her form as round and
perfect as ever.”
‘“And the wound?” I asked.
‘“Ah! it was a horrible gash,” said Meeran, shuddering, ‘and it was long
before it healed; she will show you the place if—if—"
‘“Come,” said I, “come! I burn to see her. I am not married; I never
should have married, perhaps. Come! it is my destiny. Ya Alla kureem,
how it hath been worked out!”
‘They led the way joyfully: her mother had been advised of my presence
in the city by Meeran in the morning, and, closely veiled, she sat in
her private apartment, awaiting me. Her husband was absent on some
military duty, so I had to arrange all with her.
‘How my heart beat as I entered the house! To be once more under the
same roof with her who had loved me so long and so truly—to be there in
the hope that ere many hours should elapse she would be mine—mine for
ever! Sahib, I had fought and bled on a battle-field, yet I never felt
so agitated as I did at that moment.
‘A cry of joy from the old lady welcomed me. “Blessed be Alla!” she
said, as she embraced me like a son; “blessed be his name, that thou art
here! Oh that my lord were here, to welcome thee, and greet thee as a
son!”
‘“And Ameena,” I said, “tell me, by your soul, how is she? Doth she
still remember Kasim Ali? I am rich, I am high in rank; I have left the
Sultaun’s service, and am now in that of your own Government. What delay
need there be? Let me, I beseech you, speak to her, and send for the
Moola to read the Nika.”
‘“Fie!” said the old lady, “that would be indecent haste.”
‘“What, after years of absence, mother? nay, say not so, but tell her I
am here.”
‘“Wait,” she said; “I will return immediately.”
‘I arose and walked about, burning with love, with hope, with joy. The
passion which for years had been smothered within me broke out as
freshly, as strongly as when I had first seen her. The memory of that
kiss was as if it still lingered on my lips. I heard a movement, a sort
of hesitation at the door; I thought the old lady would come in. A
figure entered, veiled from head to foot; it was a useless precaution—my
heart told me that it was Ameena. I rushed towards her, caught her
tottering form in my arms, removed the veil from her lovely features,
and in a moment more strained her to my heart in an embrace which she
did not resist; and in a kiss which united our souls once more, I
pledged to her my faith and love for ever.
‘Yes, she was as fair as ever; even more beautiful in the mature charms
of womanhood, than had been the girl I bore from the dreadful waters, or
preserved from the maddened elephant. There was more fulness in her
form, more fire in the large and soft eye, which, filled with tears,
rested on me. She clung to me as though I should never part from her
again, and her hand trembled in mine.
‘I understood her. “I will not go from thee, fairest! most beloved!” I
cried; “more even than the bulbul to the rose! more than Mejnoon to
Leila will I be to thee!”
‘Her mother entered soon after; she saw Ameena unveiled and in my arms.
She gently chid her, but she did so no longer when the fair and gentle
creature bent on her an imploring look, and nestled closer to my bosom.
‘The next evening the Moola came: all had been prepared in the
meanwhile, and such a marriage as mine wanted no long ceremony—it was
that only of the Koran. Some friends were sent for: in their presence I
wrote a settlement upon Ameena, and received an assignment of all her
property; it was little needed, for henceforth our lot was to be
together for good or for evil. There was a screen put up in the
apartment; the ladies came behind it; I heard the rustle of their
garments, and the tinkling of their anklets—it was like delicious music.
The few prayers were quickly read, the witnesses signed and sealed the
papers, and they left me. I heard the old lady bless her daughter, and
the servants join in a fervent Ameen! In a few moments the screen was
withdrawn, and I was alone with Ameena. Sirs, the true believer when he
enters Paradise, and is welcomed by the beauteous houris that await his
coming, is not more blessed than I was then. Hours flew, and still we
talked over the past, and the miseries and sufferings of that dreadful
time.
‘“Tell me,” I said, “how you escaped, and show me the place—the wound.”
‘She bared her beauteous neck, modestly and shrinkingly. I looked on the
wound and kissed it; it was on her shoulder, and had reached the back of
her neck. A heavy gold necklace and chain, she said, had saved her life;
but for that she must have been killed.
‘“But,” she continued, “I knew nothing until I found myself in a small
hut; Sozun was there, and Meeran. I shrank from Sozun, for I knew her to
have been an evil woman; but she was vehement in her protestations of
affection, and I believed her. I knew not till long after how nearly she
had been connected with my fate; but she has been faithful, and that is
long since forgiven and forgotten in her constancy. The house belonged
to her daughter, and her husband was a foot-soldier in the army; they
were kind and good to me, and the faithful Zoolfoo bound up my wound;
indeed he sewed it up, which gave me great pain; but I was soon strong
again, and I inquired for the Khan and for you; they said you had both
fallen, and I mourned you as dead. Afterwards when the Sultaun
capitulated, and there was peace, I followed my protector as a humble
woman, and attended by Meeran and Sozun, under pretence of making
offerings at a shrine, we escaped from the Fort, and entered that of the
troops of the Dekhan: although my father had not accompanied them, yet I
found his intimate friend Sikundur Beg, with whose daughters I had been
a playmate. He was a father to me, gave me his palankeen to travel
hither, and in my own home I speedily recovered.”
‘I should weary you, sirs,’ continued Kasim after a pause, ‘were I to
tell you of her daily increasing love, and the joy I felt in her
society. I wrote word to my mother that I had met her and was married;
and the old lady, transported with joy, actually travelled up to the
city to greet her daughter. I was fortunate in meeting with a good
deputy in the person of my excellent uncle, and I remained at the city
with Ameena’s family. Her father arrived in due time from his post, and
there never was a happier circle united on this earth than ours. I
became known in the city: there was talk of a war with the Sultaun, and
I was offered the command of a risala of horse, and received a title
from the Government; they are common, but I was honoured. “Distinguish
thyself,” said the minister, “thou shalt have a jaghire[61] for life.”
Sirs, ye know the rest. He has given me two villages near my own, the
revenue of which, with my patrimony, and the command of five hundred
horse, most of which are my own, makes me easy for life. My mother (she
has old-fashioned notions) sometimes hints that the marriage was not
regular, that I should even now ask the young daughter of a nobleman of
high rank, and go through all the forms with her; but I am content,
sirs, with one wife, and I wish to Alla that all my countrymen were so
too; for I am well assured that to one alone can a man give all his
love, and that where more than one is, there ensue those jealousies,
envies, wild passions, evil, and sin, which were well-nigh fatal to my
Ameena.’
-----
Footnote 61:
Estate.
-----
‘Thou art a noble fellow!’ exclaimed both; and Charles Hayward too—for
he also had been a listener—added his praise; ‘and believe me,’ added
Dalton, ‘thou wilt often be remembered, and thy wife too, when we are
far away in our own land. If it be not beyond the bounds of politeness,
carry her our affections and warmest wishes for years of happiness with
thee. I would that my wife could have known her! she must have loved one
so sorely tried, yet so pure in heart. Thou wilt see her at Bangalore,
Meer Sahib, and will tell thy wife of her.’
The tears started to Kasim Air’s eyes: he brushed them away hastily. ‘I
am a fool,’ said he; ‘but if any one, when I served him who ruled
yonder, had told me that I should have loved Englishmen, I would have
quarrelled with him even to bloodshed; and now I should be unhappy
indeed if I carried not away your esteem. I thank you for your interest
in Ameena. I will tell her much of you and your fortunes; and when you
are in your own green and beautiful land, and you wander beneath cool
shady groves and beside murmuring rivers, or when you are in the
peaceful society of your own homes, something will whisper in your
hearts that Kasim Ali and Ameena speak of you with love. I pray you then
remember us kindly, and now bid me depart to-day,’ he said—but his voice
trembled. ‘I have spoken long, and the Captain is weary.’
Dalton’s regiment moved soon after, and Kasim and his risala accompanied
it; they marched by easy stages, and soon the invalid was able once more
to mount a horse, and to enjoy a gallop with the dashing Risaldar, whose
horsemanship was beyond all praise. At Bangalore they halted some time,
it was to be a station for the Mysore field-force, and Dalton’s regiment
was to belong to it. His wife had arrived from Madras, and the deeply
attached brother and sister were once more united after so long and
painful an absence. Kasim saw her there; and though he thought it
profanation to gaze on one so fair, yet he often paid his respectful
homage to her while he stayed, and told the wondering Ameena, and in
after days his children, of the fair skin, golden hair, and deep blue
eyes of the English lady; and as he would dwell in rapture upon the
theme, they thought that the angels of Paradise could not be fairer.
When Kasim Ali could stay no longer, he came to take his leave. ‘I shall
pass the old Fakeer,’ he said; ‘have you any message for him? the old
man still lives, and prays for you.’
‘We will go to him,’ said Philip; ‘’tis but a day’s ride.’ Herbert
agreed readily, and they set out that day.
The old man’s joy at seeing them cannot be told; the certainty that his
poor efforts were estimated with gratitude, were to him more than gold
or precious stones; but his declining years were made happy by an
annuity, which was regularly paid, and he wanted no more the casual
charity of passing travellers.
And there, beneath those beauteous trees, which even now remain, and
which no one can pass without admiration, the friends parted, with
sincere regret, and a regard which never diminished, though they never
met again. The martial and picturesque companions of the Risaldar
awaited him; Philip and Herbert watched him as he bounded into his
saddle, and soon the gay and glittering group was lost behind the trees
at a little distance.
About three weeks after the Fort had fallen, two men, one driving a
heavily-laden pony, passed out of the gate of the Fort, and took their
way towards the river; the rain had fallen much during that and the
previous day, but there was as yet no more water than usual in the
river.
‘Come on, Madar!’ said one whom our readers will easily recognise; ‘that
beast goes as slow as if he had an elephant’s load; come on! we are
lucky to get across, for there is no water in the river.’
‘I tell thee the brute will never travel, Jaffar; the load is too heavy.
Why wouldst thou not buy the other?’
‘I could not afford it,’ he said; ‘one is enough; come on!’
The pony was laden with gold and silver bars and heavy stuffs, cloth of
gold and silver, the plunder of years, and more especially of that night
when the Sultaun was killed, for Jaffar knew the places where the silver
and gold utensils were kept, and he had laden himself with the spoil.
‘He! he! he!’ said he chuckling, ‘we will go to Madras and live with the
kafir Feringhees; no one will know us there, and we can trade with this
money.’
‘Good!’ said Madar, ‘it is a wise thought; may your prosperity
increase!’
They were now on the edge of the river. Opposite the Fort it is broad,
and the bed, one sheet of rock, has been worn into thousands of deep
holes and gulleys by the impetuous stream. It was no easy matter to get
the over-laden beast across these, and he often stumbled and fell
against the sharp rocks.
‘The curses of the Shitan light on thee!’ cried Jaffar to the animal, as
it lay down at last, groaning heavily, and he screwed its tail
desperately to urge it on. ‘Wilt thou not get up? Help me, Madar, to
raise it.’
They did so by their united strength, but ere it had gone a few paces it
fell again. Jaffar was in despair. There was no resource but to unload
it, and carry the burden piece by piece to the bank. They were doing
this when a loud roaring was heard.
‘What was that?’ said Madar.
‘Nothing, fool,’ said the other; ‘the wind, I dare say,’
It was not—it was the roaring of the mighty river, as it poured down
beyond the sharp turn above the Fort—a wall of water three feet
high—foaming, boiling, roaring, dashing high into the air—a vast brown,
thick, muddy mass, overwhelming everything in its course. Madar fled at
once to the bank.
Jaffar cursed aloud; the bundles had been tied up with scrupulous care,
lest the money should fall out, and it was hard to lose all after years
of toil. He tugged desperately at the knots—they would not come untied;
he drew his sword and cut fiercely at them, bars of gold fell out; he
seized as much as he could hold in his hands, and turned to fly. Some
men were on the shore with Madar hallooing to him; he could not hear
their words, but he thought they pointed to a rock higher than the rest;
he got upon it, or in another instant the roaring flood would have
overwhelmed him. He was safe for a minute; the waters were rising
gradually but fearfully fast; he clutched the rock, he screamed, he
prayed wildly; the rush of the boiling waters appeared to increase; his
brain grew dizzy; then he tried to scramble up higher—to stand upright.
In attempting this his foot slipped; those on the bank saw him toss his
arms wildly into the air, and the next instant he was gone! The fearful
tide rolled on in its majesty, but there was no sign of a living thing
upon its turbid waters.
Herbert did not long wait at Bangalore. Letters to England had now
preceded him more than a month; they had gone in a ship of war, which
was some guarantee for their safe arrival. There was danger on the seas,
but he thought not of that. Home—Amy was before him, more vividly than
it is possible for us to paint; the days seemed to pass as weeks, as the
gallant fleet sailed along, for home bounded their prospect; ere five
months had passed they anchored at the Nore. Philip Dalton and Charles
were soon to follow.
It was on a bright warm day, early in December, that a travelling
carriage, with four horses, was seen driving at desperate speed into the
town of——; it stopped at the inn.
‘Horses on to my father’s—to Alston,’ cried a gentleman within; ‘quick,
quick!’ The landlord looked at him for a moment; it was not Mr.
Compton’s son, the clergyman; no, this was a darker, taller, handsomer
person than him; he looked again, and then exclaimed, ‘It cannot
be!—surely it cannot be Captain Compton?’
‘Yes, I am he,’ was the reply; ‘but pray be quick!’
‘Hurrah!’ cried the jolly landlord, throwing up his cap into the air;
‘hurrah for the Captain! three cheers for Captain Compton, and God bless
him! You shall have a barrel of ale, my lads, to-day, for this joy. I
little thought to have ever seen you alive again, sir.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Herbert; ‘I will come soon and see you; now
drive on, boys, at full speed;’ and away they dashed.
An anxious party was assembled that day at the old Rectory; in trembling
expectation of the sound of wheels, all felt nervous and agitated, and
some laughed and cried by turns.
Poor Amy! it is difficult to describe her feelings of joy, of silent
thankfulness. Her beauty was more radiant than ever; the purity of her
complexion, with the exquisite expression of her eyes, was more
striking, far more, than that of the lively and joyous girl of six years
ago.
There was one who heard the sound of wheels long before the rest—it was
Amy; the others watched her; her face, which had been flushed and deadly
pale by turns, was lighted up on a sudden with a joy so intense that
they almost feared for the consequences. On a sudden she appeared to
listen more earnestly, then she arose, but no one followed her; she went
to the door, passed into the hall, seemed to gaze vacantly around,
returned, sank into a chair, and pressing her hand to her heart, panted
for breath. Soon after a carriage at full speed dashed past the house; a
man opened the door—jumped out almost ere it had stopped—hurried with
breathless haste into the hall—passed a crowd of servants who were
sobbing with joy, and in another instant he was in the room. Amy sprang
to meet him with outstretched arms, and uttering a low cry of joy threw
herself into his embrace, and was strained to his heart in silent
rapture. Others hung round him, sobbing too, but their tears were those
of joy and gratitude; the past was even then forgotten, for they beheld
their long-lost Herbert safe, and knew, as he pressed to his the
faithful heart which had so long loved him, that their past sorrow would
soon be turned into rejoicing.
THE END.
------------------------------------
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Transcriber’s Note
Errors in the text have been corrected where they are reasonably
attributable to the printer or editor, or where the same word appears as
expected elsewhere. Where the issue can be attributed to the
idiosynchronies of the author or the era, the text as printed has been
retained. Punctuation is frequently missing at the end of sentences and
especially paragraphs, and has been supplied here. The use of quotation
marks is also erratic at times, and where the voices can be followed,
they have been disambiguated.
The details of each correction are noted below.
p. 34 Khan Sa[b/h]ib Corrected.
p. 36 anxiety.[’] Removed.
[‘]They will Removed
p. 37 [‘]he will kill Removed.
p. 41 cooked for his zenana[,/,] Corrected.
p. 44 rushed forth in a tumult[u]ous manner Added.
p. 47 we can fight as well as sleep.[’] Added.
p. 61 Nor was Mrs. Compton su[r]prised> to Added.
hear
other tha[t/n] the ordinary dangers of Corrected.
life.
p. 71 have such an opportunity[’]. Added.
p. 73 [‘]what can be done? Added.
p. 80 but daily records of hi[s] thoughts, Added.
p. 88 ‘Then we shall have a deligh[t]ful Added.
evening,
p. 100 or at any[ ]rate hard words. Added.
‘And what wouldst thou know about me, O Added.
base-born![’]
p. 101 of villa[i]ny often successful, Added.
p. 131 at any[ ]rate, you Added.
p. 136 their ensuing service[.] Added.
p. 138 [‘]I will not disturb you, Added.
p. 149 [“\‘]Wait for the word—Fire! Corrected.
p. 165 as let it go to the enemy.[”/’] Corrected.
p. 170 my horses’ expenditure! what—[”/’] Corrected
p. 171 so that the i[m/n]mates could look out Corrected.
p. 185 his admiration at the [r]are skill Added.
p. 197 ‘Kasim Ali[./,]’ said the Sultaun[./,] Corrected.
‘had one of these
p. 214 striving to recal[l] the past Added.
genuflexions prescribed by their Added.
belief[.]
p. 218 is thy doom[,/.] Choose then—in this Added.
may meet again[,/.] Corrected.
p. 221 in the Beechwood groves and round the Corrected.
Hermitage[,/.] He
p. 228 a field with a few single t[er/re]es, Transposed
p. 244 The S[a/u]ltaun’s message Corrected.
p. 249 distance could be seen Transposed.
disti[cn/nc]tly—in some places
p. 274 and the whole body hurried on[./,] Corrected.
p. 276 of a battalion of infant[r]y Added.
p. 285 [th ers/others] wheeled and screamed Corrected.
[oth/the] obscene birds, Corrected.
p. 301 ‘I will, Khanum, I will,’ cried the Added.
woman; [‘]I will
p. 305 was before him[.] Added.
p. 307 he revelled in all the opportun[it]ies> Added.
p. 311 and he passed on to the [appartment] of _Sic._
those
p. 312 ‘[’]Tis the worse for thee, Added.
and no one else dares to—[”/’] Corrected.
p. 315 sharply for our att[t]ack upon Added.
Travancore;
p. 320 despoiled me of money—[villified] my _Sic._
character;
forgott[o/e]n me then, Jaffar?’ Corrected.
the light [boddice] which enclosed it, _Sic._
p. 341 got up and followed him[,/.] Soon these Corrected.
sent
p. 356 said Philip; [‘]we must remove them.’ Added.
p. 359 [‘]but sit and speak to me Added.
p. 360 the distress of the army increased[.] Added.
p. 389 that she hath not seen this,[’] she Added.
said;
p. 405 A surgeon, a friend of the officer, was Removed.
sent for[,]; Kasim’s leg was
p. 407 Could this be thy brother?[’] Added.
‘It is! it is![’] cried Philip, Added.
p. 408 it may not be your friend.[’] Added.
p. 421 having ar[r]ived at Mangalore, Added.
p. 428 would inspire with a compas[s]ion Added.
p. 437 [‘]we have hope Added.
p. 440 ‘Stay![’] he cried, Added.