_BIPIN TAKES A PRISONER_
When the first messenger from Kunch rode into Kalpi, as if a thousand
demons were in pursuit, shouting wildly that the day was lost; the
worthy secretary, Bipin Dat, bitterly reproached himself for not
having, at all hazards, continued his journey to the abode of his
family. "_Ah, hae, hae_"! he groaned, "what God is unappeased by which
a peaceful man is continually involved in these affairs of bloodshed.
This all comes of not consulting an astrologer before setting out from
Jhansi. He might have so arranged matters with the heavens, that a
whirlwind would have scattered the Foreigners. Unfortunate is it, that
the great Rani sets so little faith in the all powerful astrologers."
He quickly gathered a few trinkets together, carefully secreted them in
the folds of his turban, and was among the earliest to plunge into the
jungle.
There, for several days he wandered about in fear of wild beasts, of
robbers, and of evil spirits. In what direction his footsteps were
bent, he had but a faint idea; his sole aim being to place between
himself and the scene of hostilities the greatest possible distance. An
occasional hut afforded him a sleeping place, where, in the universal
charity displayed to travellers, he was provided gratuitously with such
meagre fare as could be offered.
How far he had wandered, Bipin could make no computation. The people of
the jungle knew only of their immediate neighborhood. It seemed to him
he must have travelled a great distance. In reality, like many under
similar circumstances, he had been rambling in circles. At the end of
two weeks he was still within thirty miles of the place he was eager to
view from a distance of two hundred.
The day's tramp had been more than usually a toilsome one for Bipin.
He had taken a narrow path that seemed to wander capriciously amid
tangled underbrush with no particular destination. The sun had set
without a village or habitation in sight, and the mysterious silence of
the jungle, its ominous shadows, its majestic gloom, filled his soul
with dread. He was reluctant to go forward, afraid to remain on the
spot, and hesitated to turn back. His terrified fancy beheld the eyes
of a panther or a tiger glaring out at him from behind every bush. The
breaking of a twig, the sound of his own footsteps startled him nearly
out of his senses. Thrice that day had a fox crossed his path, the
worst possible omen. He beat his breast in his wretchedness. In turn,
his fat cheeks and brow became flushed, and chill as the damp slab of a
tomb.
"Oh, what a fool have I been," he groaned, "to mix my life up in the
intrigues and ambitions of a court. How much better had I only remained
in my humble condition with my good uncles. I would never have come to
this unlucky pass."
Before him the path made a bend. Through the branches he thought
he discerned a flickering light. It might come from a hut, or, he
shivered, from the watch fire of a detachment of the Foreigners. In the
morning he had heard that parties of them were beating the jungle for
fugitives.
But in his deplorable situation, he reasoned, that it would be better
to fall into their hands with the chance of being able to prove his
innocence of rebellion, than remain where he was, a prey to some
malign influence that, for all he knew to the contrary, might change
him into a bat. He gathered his tattered garments about him, and moved
cautiously toward the light. He had not taken many steps when a hand
stretched out from the darkness laid a firm grasp upon his shoulder. At
the same moment a voice in his own language gruffly called on him to
halt.
"Who art thou, and whitherward"?
Bipin cast his arms above his head despairingly. His challenger might
be a robber, or the Native sentry of a Foreign encampment.
"But a poor traveller--a devotee on his way to the holy river," he
cried timorously, "a man of peace seeking a shelter for the night."
It was a fortunate inspiration that prompted him to pose as a pilgrim
to the bank of the holy Ganges. The vilest malefactor would respect
the sanctity of his person undergoing such a pious obligation. Had the
idea only occurred to him before, it would have saved many qualms of
nervous emotion. The accursed fox would have fled precipitately at the
cry of "_Ganga! Ganga_"!
To Bipin's relief his captor replied in friendly accents:
"Why, surely, thy voice is not unknown to my ears. Art thou not one of
the Rani of Jhansi's attendants"?
Bipin was about to vow by all his Gods that so far from being in any
sympathy with the Native army, he detested their actions and loved the
Foreigners as his uncles. For a moment he was tempted to declare, that
never in his life had he beheld the face of the great Princess, and
reassert more firmly his sacred mission; when it occurred to him that
he might have stumbled upon a detachment of the fleeing Native army. He
promptly decided to make sure of this point before committing himself
to a confounding statement.
"And thy voice, too, I seem to know," he returned. "Art thou not also
one of her followers"?
"A servant of the valiant Rani, herself," came the terse response.
"Blessed Devi," cried Bipin joyfully. "Am I not her worthy secretary,
Bipin Dat. Tell me, good fellow, where I may discover her Highness, for
whom I have been vainly searching in the jungle these many days past."
"That is easily done, holy pilgrim," replied the other, with a laugh,
at the secretary's sudden change of garment. "She is encamped here with
a body of her Valaitis, in retreat from Kalpi. Come, I will take thee
to her presence."
The sentry led Bipin a short distance to an open space in which two
or three hundred Valaitis were resting with their horses tethered at
hand. Near a small camp fire the Rani was seated gazing pensively into
the smouldering embers, kept purposely from rising into a blaze for
fear of disclosing her place of concealment. She did not notice Bipin's
approach until he had prostrated himself at her feet. Then she turned
her eyes upon him without speaking.
"Great Rani," he at last exclaimed. "Behold thy worthy servant, Bipin
Dat."
"Aye," she replied gravely but not unkindly. "Thou art a strange
creature, appearing where least expected. Better would it have been for
thee, good Bipin, if thou hadst taken another road than that which led
to the Rani's camp. I would urge thee to seek speedily thy home, for
with us henceforth there will be little use for thy pen."
A note of sadness in her voice appealed to a sympathetic chord even in
the timorous nature of her secretary. It reproached him with cowardice
and infidelity to his beautiful, heroic mistress.
"Lovely Rani," he cried penitently. "I vow hereafter I will never leave
thy side, come good or evil fortune."
"Bipin," she replied with lighter spirit. "Though the present hour is
dark enough, it may yet be that those who follow me shall bask in the
brightest sunshine. If thou art determined to be among them, thou hadst
better seek thy rest, for by daybreak we must be far hence."
A prudent man, the worthy secretary took a careful survey of the camp
before deciding on his sleeping place. Not that there was much choice
as regards a comfortable position. It was the bare ground for both the
Rani and her attendants; but in his turban there were still hidden
certain articles of value that might tempt the cupidity of the Valaiti
troopers. If in guarding his sleep they despoiled him of his remaining
possessions, he reasoned, that he would have paid overmuch for a
night's security.
In this dilemma, his eyes chanced to observe the well spreading
branches of a tree, under which the Rani had taken up a reclining
position. They suggested to him a safe retreat. With some difficulty
he climbed the lower trunk and discovered a spot that nature might
have constructed to suit his present need. He curled himself up where
two stout limbs branched off into space, and amid the shelter of the
foliage was soon fast asleep.
The silence of midnight descended on the camp, the fire died low, an
occasional grunt from the throat of a heavy sleeping trooper on the
ground, and a sonorous gurgle from that of the secretary aloft, were
the only noises distinguishable to the sentries.
Presently the worthy secretary began to dream of the peaceful abode
of his uncles. It was a soothing picture to his troubled mind, but
unfortunately, like the reality of life, it was not destined to
last long without a counterpart of woe. In that absurdly impossible
procedure of dreams, the accursed barber of Jhansi appeared on the
scene, attired for all the world like a Foreign soldier--in fact, a
horrible nightmare, dual personality, endeavoring to shave off Bipin's
nose and ears with a two handed sword of immense proportions. In his
sleep the secretary struggled and gasped, for it seemed that the
barber-soldier had seized him by the throat and was endeavoring to
choke the breath out of his lungs. Indeed, the choking sensation became
so terribly realistic, that he awoke with a wail of anguish to find
that it was no dream at all, but that some huge, black monster, manlike
so far as he could discern its face in the darkness, had grasped him
round the neck, probably with the object of murdering him for the
treasures concealed in his turban.
"Thieves! Murder! The Foreigners"! shouted Bipin, as loudly as the
little wind left in his chest would permit. He entwined his legs and
arms about a furry body and commenced a struggle for his life.
At Bipin's cry of "The Foreigners," the camp was instantly aroused.
Horses neighed and pawed the earth, the troopers sprang to their feet,
the sentries rushed in and stood gazing up into the tree from which
there came a medley of strange noises. From the tumult, and the shower
of twigs and leaves that fell upon their upturned faces, it was evident
a desperate conflict was proceeding.
"The Foreigners! Thieves! The accursed Foreigners. To the rescue, brave
Rani; oh! to the rescue, good comrades," the voice of Bipin saluted
their astonished ears. Then came screams and chattering in an unknown
tongue, with a fiercer renewal of the unseen combat.
The Rani had been awakened with the rest. She was about to order some
of the men to climb up into the tree and discover the nature of the
disturbance, when, with a crashing of branches, a struggling black mass
fell into their midst.
The troopers started back and then returned to separate the combatants
that still writhed and fought upon the ground, when the form of Bipin
struggled to his feet. He grasped a hairy baboon by the neck, and held
him a captive before the Rani.
"Ah, what a ruffian," he panted, "to attempt to strangle me in my
sleep. Without doubt he must embody the spirit of some wicked enemy."
In spite of her overshadowing misfortune, the Rani could not restrain a
laugh at the humor of the situation.
"Thou art a brave fellow," she exclaimed, "and hast earned thy right
to fight with a lance instead of a pen. Some day, perchance, thou wilt
command a troop."
"Truly," reflected Bipin, "whether I like it or no, Fate will have it
that I am to be mixed up continually in some accursed broil. If not
with men, alas! it seems with the animals. Such is the inscrutable will
of God."
The troopers' voices echoed the Rani's sally with laughter. They
drove the baboon from the camp, peace was restored, slumber once more
descended upon their heads. Before daybreak the party were speeding in
a south-westerly direction toward a rendezvous of the Native chiefs at
Gopalpur.