Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's Note: The following variant spellings used by the
author were retained as printed: Babar/Baber, Sultanum/Sultanam,
gray/grey, Allah/Alâh, meaowed/miaowed.]
THE ADVENTURES OF AKBAR
_Uniform with this Volume_
Price 6/-net each
THE SECRET GARDEN, by FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, author of "The Shuttle,"
etc., illustrated by CHARLES ROBINSON.
THE FOUR GARDENS, by "HANDASYDE," illustrated by CHARLES ROBINSON.
ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, by LEWIS CARROLL, illustrated by
ARTHUR RACKHAM.
ÆSOP'S FABLES, translated by V. S. VERNON JONES, with an introduction by
G. K. CHESTERTON, illustrated by ARTHUR RACKHAM.
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21, BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
[Illustration: _On a shelving bank of dry sand Baby Akbar sitting up and
rubbing his eyes._]
THE ADVENTURES OF AKBAR
by
FLORA ANNIE STEEL
ILLUSTRATED BY BYAM SHAW
LONDON · WILLIAM HEINEMANN · 1913
_All rights reserved_
A DEDICATION
Oft when the house lay silent in the heat
My thoughts would be so full of you, my sweet,
That dreaming half--I seemed to hear once more
Your little fingers fluttering at the door,
The pitter patter of your childish feet
In joyous rhythm cross the echoing floor.
Then small, soft hands would nestle into mine,
And warm soft arms around my neck would twine,
As soft and warm the dream child on my knees,
Cuddling so close in clear young voice would tease
And tease and tease in mimicked glad young whine
For "Just one little story if you please."
So half in jest and half in earnest, too,
Mostly I think to dream my dreaming true,
I'd conjure up long tales of lands afar
And days gone by that yet remembered are;
Shaping my stories with this end in view
To gain the verdict "Tell some more, Mamma."
For I was happy when I had beguiled
Into my life the spirit of a child.
Thus one by one the weary hours flew
And page by page a little volume grew,
So--that my dreams with truth be reconciled,
Take it, my darling, it was writ for you.
_April, 1875_
Long years have sped since that poor book was penned.
None read the pages. Therefore at the end
Of this world's life I dedicate to two
Small boys--her sons--whose question'ng eyes of blue
Tell me that dreams of childhood never end
_This_ book. So take it boys--'twas writ for you.
_1911_
PREFACE
This book is written for all little lads and lasses, but especially for
the former, since it is the true--_quite_ true--story of a little lad
who lived to be, perhaps, the greatest king this world has ever seen.
It is a strange, wild tale this of the adventures of Prince Akbar among
the snowy mountains between Kandahâr and Kâbul, and though the names may
be a bit of a puzzle at first, as they will have to be learned by and
bye in geography and history lessons, it might be as well to get
familiar with them in a story-book; though, indeed, as everybody in it
except Roy the Râjput, Meroo the cook boy; Tumbu, the dog; and Down, the
cat (and these four _may_ have been true, you know, though they have not
been remembered) really lived, I don't know whether this book oughtn't
to be considered real history, and therefore
A LESSON BOOK
Anyhow, I hope you won't find it dull.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
FAREWELL 1
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST VICTORY 11
CHAPTER III
THE ROYAL UMBRELLA 20
CHAPTER IV
TUMBU-DOWN 27
CHAPTER V
ON THE ROAD 39
CHAPTER VI
AT COURT 50
CHAPTER VII
WINTER 58
CHAPTER VIII
DOWN'S STRATAGEM 68
CHAPTER IX
SPRING 77
CHAPTER X
THE NIGHT OF RECORD 88
CHAPTER XI
A WINTER MARCH 100
CHAPTER XII
SNOW AND ICE 109
CHAPTER XIII
OVER THE PASS 119
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE VALLEY 128
CHAPTER XV
DEAREST-LADY 138
CHAPTER XVI
CRUEL BROTHER KUMRAN 147
CHAPTER XVII
IMPRISONMENT 159
CHAPTER XVIII
THE GARDEN OF GAMES 169
CHAPTER XIX
BETWIXT CUP AND LIP 178
CHAPTER XX
ESCAPED 187
CHAPTER XXI
DAWN 196
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ON A SHELVING BANK OF DRY SAND BABY AKBAR
SITTING UP AND RUBBING HIS EYES _Frontispiece_
_To face page_
PRINCE ASKURRY ... STRODE ... INTO THE TENT 16
THE CHILD HAD SLIPPED IT ONTO HIS LITTLE FOREFINGER 62
SO THEY BOTH TOUCHED THE COLD MARBLE FLOOR WITH THEIR
WARM LITTLE FOREHEADS 98
AHEAD OF THEM, A SHADOW SHOWED, A SHAMBLING SHADOW!
TUMBU ... WITH A BOUND WAS OFF FULL TILT AFTER IT 126
AND ONE DAY THE DOOR DID OPEN.... "MY SON--MY LITTLE SON!" 166
"LADIES! UNVEIL!" 176
"I STAY MY HAND WHILE I COUNT TEN--NO MORE" 198
CHAPTER I
FAREWELL
_Bismillah Al-la-hu Akbar!_
These queer-looking, queer-sounding words, which in Arabic mean "thanks
be to God," were shrilled out at the very top of Head-nurse's voice. Had
she been in a room they would have filled it and echoed back from the
walls; for she was a big, deep-chested woman. But she was only in a
tent; a small tent, which had been pitched in a hurry in an
out-of-the-way valley among the low hills that lead from the wide plains
of India to Afghanistan. For Head-nurse's master and mistress, King
Humâyon and Queen Humeeda, with their thirteen months' old little son,
Prince Akbar, were flying for their lives before their enemies. And
these enemies were led by Humâyon's own brothers, Prince Kumran, Askurry
and Hindal. It is a long story, and a sad story, too, how Humâyon, so
brave, so clever, so courteous, fell into misfortune by his own fault,
and had to fly from his beautiful palaces at Delhi and wander for years,
pursued like a hare, amid the sandy deserts and pathless plains of
Western India. And now, as a last resource, his followers dwindled to a
mere handful, he was making a desperate effort to escape over the
Persian border and claim protection at the hands of Persia's King.
So the poor tent was ragged and out at elbows, for all that it was made
of costly Kashmir shawls, and that its poles were silver-gilt.
But Head-nurse's "Thanks be to God!" came from a full heart.
"What is it? What _is_ it?" called an anxious voice from behind the
curtain which divided the tent in two.
"What?" echoed Head-nurse in high glee. "Only this: His Imperial
Highness, Prince Akbar, the Admired-of-the-World, the Source-of-Dignity,
the Most-Magnificent-Person-of-the-Period--" She went on, after her
wont, rolling out all the titles that belonged of right to the little
Prince, until the soft, anxious voice lost patience and called again,
"Have done--have done; what is it? Heaven save he hath not been in
danger."
Head-nurse, stopped in her flow of fine words, sniffed contemptuously.
"Danger! with me to guard him? No! 'Tis that the High-in-Pomp hath cut
his first real back tooth! He can eat meat! He has come to man's estate!
He is no longer dependent upon milk diet." Here she gave a withering
glance at the gentle looking woman who was Baby Akbar's wet-nurse, who,
truth to tell, was looking just a little sad at the thought that her
nursling would soon leave her consoling arms.
"Heavens!" exclaimed the voice from within, "say you so?" And the next
instant the curtain parted, and there was Queen Humeeda, Baby Akbar's
mother, all smiling and eager.
Now, if you want to know what she was like, you must just think of your
own dearest dear mummie. At least that was what she seemed to little
Prince Akbar, who, at the sight of her, held out his little fat arms and
crowed, "Amma! Amma!" Now, this, you will observe, is only English
"Ma-Ma" arranged differently; from which you may guess that English and
Indian children are really very much alike.
And Queen Humeeda took the child and kissed him and hugged him just as
any English mother would have done. Head-nurse, however, was not a bit
satisfied with this display of affection. That would have been the
portion of any ordinary child, and Baby Akbar was more than that: he was
the heir apparent to the throne of India! If he had only been in the
palaces that belonged to him, instead of in a miserable tent, there
would have been ceremonials and festivities and fireworks over this
cutting of a tooth! Aye! _Certainly_ fireworks. But how could one keep
up court etiquette when royalty was flying for its life? Impossible!
Why, even her determination that, come what might, a royal umbrella must
be held over the blessed infant during their perilous journeys had very
nearly led to his being captured!
Despite this recollection, as she listened impatiently to the cooings
and gurglings, she turned over in her mind what she could do to
commemorate the occasion. And when pretty Queen Humeeda (thinking of her
husband, the king, who, with his few followers, had ridden off to see if
a neighboring chief would help them) said, "This will be joyful news
wherewith to cheer my lord on his return," Head-nurse's irritation found
voice.
"That is all very well," she cried. "So it would be to any
common father of any common child, Your Royal Highness! This one
is the Admired-of-the-Whole-World, the Source-of-Dignity, the
Most-Magnificent-Person-of-the-Period----"
And she went on rolling out queer guttural Arabic titles till
Foster-mother implored her to be silent or she would frighten the child.
Could she not see the look on the darling's face?
For Baby Akbar was indeed listening to something with his little finger
up to command attention. But it was not to Head-nurse's thunderings, but
to the first long, low growl of a coming storm that outside the
miserable tent was turning the distant hills to purple and darkening the
fast-fading daylight.
"Frighten?" echoed Head-nurse in derision. "The son of Humâyon the
heroic, the grandson of Baber the brave could never be frightened at
anything!"
And in truth the little lad was not a bit afraid, even when a distant
flash of lightning glimmered through the dusk.
"Heavens!" cried gentle Queen Humeeda, "his Majesty will be drenched to
the skin ere he returns." She was a brave woman, but the long, long
strain of daily, hourly danger was beginning to tell on her health, and
the knowledge that even this coming storm was against them brought the
tears to her eyes.
"Nay! Nay! my royal mistress," fussed Head-nurse, who, in spite of her
love of pomp, was a kind-hearted, good woman, "this must not be on such
an auspicious day. It must be celebrated otherwise, and for all we are
so poor, we can yet have ceremonial. When the child was born were we not
in direst danger? Such danger that all his royal father could do in
honor of the glad event was to break a musk-bag before his faithful
followers as sign that the birth of an heir to empire would diffuse
itself like perfume through the whole world? Even so now, and if I
cannot devise some ceremony, then am I no Head-nurse!"
So saying she began to bustle around, and ere long even poor, unhappy
Queen Humeeda began to take an interest in the proceedings.
A mule trunk, after being ransacked for useful odds and ends, was put in
a corner and covered with a worn satin quilt. This must do for a throne.
And a strip of red muslin wound about the little gold-embroidered skull
cap Baby Akbar wore must, with the heron's plume from his father's
state turban, make a monarch of the child.
In truth he looked very dignified indeed, standing on the mule trunk,
his little legs very wide apart, his little crimson silk trousers very
baggy, his little green brocade waistcoat buttoned tight over his little
fat body, and, trailing from his shoulders in great stiff folds, his
father's state cloth-of-gold coatee embroidered with seed pearls.
So, as he always wore great gold bracelets on his little fat arms, and
great gold jingling anklets fringing his little fat feet, he looked very
royal indeed. Very royal and large and calm, for he was a grave baby
with big, dark, piercing eyes and a decided chin.
"He is as like his grandfather as two splits of a pea!" cried Head-nurse
in rapture, and then she went to the tent door and shrilled out:
"Slaves! Quick! Come and perform your lowly salute on the occasion of
the cutting of a back tooth belonging to the Heir-to-Empire, the
Most----"
She cut short her string of titles, for a crash of thunder overhead
warned her she had best be speedy before the rain soaked through the
worn tent.
"Quick, slaves!" she added; "keep us not waiting all day. Enter and
prostrate yourselves on the ground with due reverence! Quick! Quick!"
She need not have been in such a hurry, for it did not take long for the
"slaves," as she called them, to perform their lowly salaam by touching
the very ground with their foreheads. There were but three of them--Old
Faithful, the trooper; Roy, the Râjput boy; and Meroo, the scullion; the
rest were away with their master, King Humâyon.
Old Faithful, however, tall, lank, grey-bearded, brought enough devotion
for half a dozen followers. He had served with little Akbar's
grandfather, Babar the brave, and when he saw the child standing so fair
and square, he gave almost a sharp cry of remembrance and delight. And
when he stood up after his prostration, in soldier fashion he held out
the hilt of his old sword for the baby to touch in token that its
service was accepted. Queen Humeeda, who stood beside her little son,
guided his fat fingers to the sword; but at the very moment a vivid
flash of lightning made her give a shriek and cover her face with her
hands. But little Prince Akbar having got a hold of the hilt, would not
let go. And to Old Faithful's huge delight he pulled and pulled till the
sword came out of the scabbard.
"An omen! An omen!" cried the old man. "Like his grandfather, he will
fight battles ere he be twelve!"
Then there was Roy, the Râjput lad, whom the royal fugitives had found
half dead from sunstroke in the wide, sandy Râjputana deserts, and whom,
with their customary kindness, they had succoured and befriended,
putting him on as a sort of page boy to the little Heir-to-Empire. He
was a tall, slim lad for his twelve years, was Roy, with a small,
well-set head and a keen, well-cut face. And his eyes! They were like a
deer's--large, brown, soft, but with a flash in them at times.
For the sunstroke which had so nearly killed the lad had left his mind a
little confused. As yet he could remember nothing of what had happened
to him before it, and could not even recollect who he was, or anything
save that his name was Roy. But every now and again he would say
something or do something which would make those around him look
surprised, and wonder who he could have been to know such things and
have such manners.
After him came Meroo, the misshapen cook-boy. He was an odd fellow, all
long limbs and broad smiles, who, when his time arrived, shambled
forward, cast himself in lowliest reverence full length on the ground
and blubbered out his delight--now that the princely baby could really
eat--at being able to supply all sorts of toothsome stews full of onions
and green ginger, to say nothing of watermelons and sugar cane. These
things, strange to say, being to little Indian children very much what
chocolate creams and toffee are to English ones.
So far all had gone well, and now there only remained one more salute to
be made. But little Adam, who was Head-nurse's own son, and who had
hitherto been Baby Akbar's playmate, refused absolutely to do as he was
bid. He was a short, sturdy boy of five, and nothing would induce him to
go down on his knees and touch the ground with his forehead. In vain
Meroo, the cook-boy, promised him sweets if he would only obey orders;
in vain Old Faithful spoke of a ride on his old war-horse, and Roy, who
was a most wonderful story-teller, promised him the best of all,
Bopuluchi. In vain his mother, losing patience at such a terrible piece
of indecorum, rushed at him and cuffed him soundly. He only howled and
kicked.
And then suddenly Baby Akbar, who had been listening with a solemn face,
brought his little bare foot down on the mule trunk with such a stamp
that the golden anklets jingled and jangled, and his little forefinger
went up over his head in the real Eastern attitude of royal command.
"Salute, slave, salute," he said with a tremendous dignity. And there
was something so comical about the little mite of a child, something so
masterful in the tiny figure, something so commanding in the loud,
deep-toned baby voice, that every one laughed, and somehow or other Adam
forgot his obstinacy and made his obeisance like a good boy.
And then once more pretty Queen Humeeda hugged and kissed her little
son, and all the rest applauded him, and made so much of him that he
began to think he had done something very fine indeed, and crowed and
clapped his hands in delight.
But the merriment did not last long, for there was a clatter of horses
and swords outside the tent.
"My husband!" cried Queen Humeeda in a flutter. "What news does my lord
bring?"