_THE WHITE TURRET_
In the open space before the main entrance to the Rani's palace, a
crowd of nobles, soldiers, and sightseers had collected. High mettled
horses led by grooms, paced back and forth, while their owners in
dazzling groups discussed the news of the morning. Peddlars of trifles,
beggars, and ascetics, plied their various callings profitably in the
interval awaiting the Rani's departure for the White Turret.
Before the door a suite of officers and servants in gala liveries,
surrounded a royal elephant, gorgeously caparisoned with plumes, and
scarlet velvet cloths embroidered with gold thread. To its back was
strapped a canopied state _houdah_ for the use of the Rani.
Near by, a groom with difficulty controlled the impatient spirit of
a pure blue-black Arabian charger, the property of Ahmad Khan. The
Mohammedan noble had entered the palace to make his daily report to the
Rani.
Presently, without ceremony, the Rani came forth. A short period of
confusion ensued as the nobles hurriedly sought their horses, and the
soldiers pressed back the throng surging about the palace.
The Rani paused on the steps and gazed round as if she missed a
familiar object. In so doing her eyes chanced to rest approvingly upon
Ahmad's mount.
"Whose brave steed is that"? she asked of an attendant.
Ahmad strode forward and acknowledged himself as its owner.
"A gift from the Amir of Bukhara," he explained, "in recognition of a
slight military service rendered. I prize the beast more than all the
occupants of my stables together. No one hath ever crossed his back but
myself, and," he added, "I doubt if anyone would care to try."
"Ah," laughed the Rani. "Dost wager a challenge then on Akbar's behalf"?
"Not I, fair Rani," returned the Mohammedan, "for it might mean a
speedy death to one so venturesome."
Impulsively the Rani walked toward the beast. "Akbar," she cried, "Dost
recognize a friend with those clear eyes of thine"?
The animal started, arched its proud neck, and snorted defiantly.
"Come, good Akbar," exclaimed the Rani soothingly. "Come. Thou art too
noble a beast to display malice to a woman."
Fearlessly she raised her arm and affectionately stroked the glossy
neck, passing her hand gently downward across its face.
A tremor passed over the beast's frame. It stamped the ground and
whinnied as if half pleased with the caress, yet still uncertain in its
humor.
Ahmad hurried to the Rani's side, while others watched with expressions
of alarm.
"Noble Lady," he urged. "I pray thee touch not the beast. Its temper is
so uncertain that I cannot answer for your safety."
The Rani again laughed lightly, as she permitted the animal to sniff
her hair, her face, and hands.
"Akbar knoweth whom to trust," she cried. "See, he discerneth a true
Maratha, of whom it has been said, he is born in the saddle with a
sword in his hand. I vow, O Ahmad," she added, "this day I will ride
your Akbar, or go in no other manner to the White Turret."
Before Ahmad could interpose a further objection, she had gathered the
reins in her hand, placed her foot in the stirrup, and sprung lightly
on to the charger's back.
The horse swerved violently, then halted, with ears set back and form
rigid.
A moment of suspense for those watching followed.
"Come Akbar," urged the Rani firmly, while gently patting the beast's
neck. "Come, thou must curb thy temper for thou canst not throw a
daughter of the Marathas."
The beast pricked up its ears at her voice, and neighed its subjection.
"Ah, Ahmad," she cried with taunting pleasantry, "thou must seek
another mount. Why not ride in the _howdah_ of my elephant. How much
didst thou wager, friend"?
"Surely the devil is in the girl," he muttered in astonished accents.
"What will be her next performance"?
A servant approached the Rani deferentially.
"If my Lady Rani," said he, "elects to ride on horseback, will she let
her pleasure be known concerning the noble elephant"?
"Truly," she replied. "If Ahmad Khan likes not to go in so much state,
let my worthy secretary, Bipin Dat mount on high. From that exalted
perch, he can survey the heavens and the earth complacently, frown
majestically upon the populace, and imagine that he has at last become
a Maharaja."
The Rani shook the reins and curveted to the front of her nobles.
Gallantly she led the brilliant cavalcade through the bazaars and
streets to that part of the walls upon which the White Turret had been
specially erected to fly her banner.
Plaudits saluted her progress on all sides. The people were accustomed
to witness the exercise of greater personal freedom on the part of the
Maratha ladies, to what is usually accorded women of high rank in other
parts of India, but it was the first time they had beheld a princess of
such beauty and high spirit leading, instead of being surrounded by the
retinue of her court.
With admirable skill she controlled Ahmad's restive charger, until
shortly, as if proud of its lovely burden, the beast followed
obediently the guidance of her hand. At the bastion of the White Turret
she dismounted and approached the spot where a group of officers
awaited her arrival.
Her banner was already bent to the halliards, and held by a lieutenant
so that its silken folds might not be sullied by contact with the
ground. Near by, a soldier stood at a gun ready to ignite the powder of
a first salute as the flag rose upon its staff.
The nobles grouped themselves about the Rani. An officer holding the
halliards begged to know her command.
For a moment she hesitated. Then as if a sudden impulse had taken
possession of her mind, she took the ropes from his hand and turned
toward the nobles.
"My Lords," she cried. "The Rani will herself raise her banner on the
walls of Jhansi, aye, and defend it, against whatsoever enemy may come."
Slowly hand upon hand she pulled upon the rope. Slowly the banner,
embroidered with her device, rose upon the staff. It reached the top
and waved proudly in a gentle breeze against the pale blue morning
sky. A white cloud of smoke for an instant hung over the ditch below
the bastion, as the tongue of the cannon saluted her military rank.
Spontaneously swords flashed in the bright sunlight: spontaneously a
loud chorus rose, mingled with the repeated roar of the cannon, hailing
the fair defender of a throne.
"Lachmi Bai! Lachmi Bai! Rani of Jhansi," they cried.
She gazed round with joyful gratitude. A moment later, the same wistful
look that marked her countenance upon the palace steps, came back into
her eyes.
She beckoned Ahmad to her side.
"Where is the noble Prasad Singh"? she asked. "I have not seen him
since the _Darbar_ of yesterday."
An expression of regret settled upon Ahmad's face.
"Noble Rani," he explained. "Prasad Singh is sick."
His manner and intonation, whether intentional or otherwise, clearly
implied a desire to conceal another reason.
The Rani returned his gaze penetratingly.
"I would speak with thee upon our return to the palace," she enjoined.
Ahmad bowed his compliance to her wish.
The ceremony was over. The Rani thanked the nobles for their renewed
demonstration of affection. She again urged them to lose no time in
repairing the defenses of their fortresses, and in the arming and
drilling of fresh troops. She bade them farewell until she would again
summon them to _Darbar_.
So while the Rani's banner fluttered defiantly from the peak of the
White Turret, the procession retraced its way to the palace. Upon the
Rani's countenance happiness called forth by the enthusiastic greetings
of the people, was occasionally shaded by a look of disappointment.
Something evidently had been wanting to complete the gladness of the
hour.
On dismounting she summoned Ahmad to follow her into the interior.
"My Lord," she said, when they were alone, "thy reply concerning Prasad
Singh causeth me to suspect that something hath gone amiss with him.
Hath the foolish fellow taken umbrage at some new imaginary slight"?
Ahmad looked uneasy. He hesitated to reply, as if under the necessity
of exercising prudent dissimulation.
"Thou dost not answer me," resumed the Rani, in a tone of some
impatience. "Tell me, I command thee, why it was that Prasad Singh did
not comply with my invitation to be present at the ceremony of the
morning"?
"Fair Lady," Ahmad replied evasively, "surely the truth is, that the
noble Prasad Singh is sick. I doubt not he was unable to be present."
"Sick is he," the Rani echoed, "Aye, but thy manner leadeth me to
suspect another cause. I beg thee, good Ahmad, to tell me the nature of
his malady. Is it a distemper of the mind"?
"Noble Rani," returned Ahmad, "Prasad Singh is sick. I ask thee to urge
me to no further explanation."
"But I will urge thee," retorted the Rani imperiously. "I will have the
whole truth from thee ere thou dost leave the palace."
Ahmad Khan appeared a victim of deep confusion.
"Most gracious Rani," he besought her, "I trust thou wilt not visit
thy displeasure upon one who is my friend, my good comrade. Verily
do I love Prasad as a brother. Ill would it seem in me to expose the
pardonable follies of a gallant youth."
"Follies," exclaimed the Rani petulantly. "Speak! What follies hath
Prasad Singh committed"?
Ahmad assumed an apologetic mien.
"Merely, noble lady," he replied, "the usual overflow of spirit in one
of his high birth. He hath indulged too freely of the accursed spirits
of the Foreigners."
A look of disdain settled on the Rani's face.
"So," she cried. "Like too many others he forgets the precepts of his
caste. This, I did not think of Prasad. The spirits of the Foreigners!
Truly one of the many curses brought to India in their civilizing
wake." She concluded with intense bitterness in her voice.
"Noble Rani," continued Ahmad. "It was to draw him from the evil habit
that I took him to my house; but alas! by some means he procured the
_Giours'_ intoxicating drink, and--"
He checked himself suddenly as if he would draw back from disclosing a
moral precipice yawning beneath Prasad's life.
"And," caught up the Rani quickly. "And what more, good Ahmad Khan.
What more hast thou to tell of Prasad"?
"Noble Rani," he petitioned with apparent earnestness. "I implore thee
now to close my mouth."
"Nay, thou shalt open it the wider," she rejoined. "Speak, tell all
thou knowest, I command thee."
"Miserable, faithless friend, that I must appear," he exclaimed self
reproachfully.
"Thou wouldst be a disloyal servant if thou didst not obey thy Rani,"
she retorted. "Come! It is the Rani who commands thee."
He spoke in a tone of regretful emotion.
"Thou hast heard, noble Rani, of the charms of a certain _natch_ girl,
Ganga, by name"? he asked.
"Aye," she replied tersely.
"Alas! then," continued Ahmad. "The noble Prasad lyeth sick or drunk, I
know not which, of the Giours' spirits and the subtle influence of this
dancer of Kashmir."
For a moment even Ahmad quailed before the display of jealous anger on
the Rani's face. She raised her arm with a threatening gesture as if
about to give full play to her resentment; but as suddenly as the flame
of passion had been called forth, as quickly it yielded to her control
of temperament.
"Go," she commanded in a quiet voice, made more impressive by the
emotion with difficulty suppressed. "Go, tell Prasad Singh, the Rani
orders his presence hither immediately. If he delays, he may mount his
horse and ride forth from her state.
"I have spoken," she concluded, turning from the Mohammedan.
"Noble Lady," petitioned Ahmad, "thou dost not blame thy servant for
disclosing that which his conscience had enjoined him to conceal. Alas!
Prasad hath eaten of Ahmad's salt."
"Thou hast obeyed my command," she replied. "In so doing thou didst
well."
Ahmad bowed low and left the apartment.
The Rani turned again to watch his retreating form. When it had
disappeared from view, sorrowfully she unfettered her emotion.
"Oh! that Prasad--Prasad, whom as a woman I have loved, and as the Rani
I would honor, should appear in such a weak, a worthless light. Prasad,
my Prasad," she cried, "that thou of all men shouldst be the shadow to
darken my hour of happiness."
A sob broke from her lips. She covered her face with her hands.