+-------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber’s note: |
| |
|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------+
THE GREAT WHITE HAND
OR
THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE
THE
GREAT WHITE HAND
OR
THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE
A Story of the Indian Mutiny
[Illustration: Text]
By
J. E. MUDDOCK
Author of
“_Maid Marian and Robin Hood_;” “_The Dead Man’s Secret_;” “_Stories
Weird and Wonderful_;” “_Stormlight_;” “_For God and the Czar_;”
“_Only a Woman’s Heart_;” “_From the Bosom of the Deep_;” “_Basile the
Jester_;” “_Stripped of the Tinsel_;” “_The Star of Fortune_;” _&c._
LONDON
Hutchinson _&_ Co.
34 Paternoster Row, E.C.
1896
_To the Memory of_
_MY FATHER_
_A true gentleman, brave, upright, faithful; who after many long years
of devotion to duty in India--and when on the eve of returning to his
native land--sank very suddenly to his eternal rest in March, 1861, and
sleeps “Till the day break,” in The Circular Road Cemetery, Calcutta, I
dedicate this book._
CONTENTS
Chap. Page
PREFACE ix
I. THE RISING OF THE STORM 1
II. THE MYSTERY OF THE CHUPATTIES 13
III. THE STORM BREAKS 23
IV. THE PALACE OF THE MOGUL 36
V. THE TREACHERY OF THE KING 48
VI. HEROIC DEFENCE OF THE MAGAZINE 56
VII. HAIDEE AND HER WRONGS 65
VIII. A PERILOUS MISSION 74
IX. HOPES AND FEARS 85
X. A NARROW ESCAPE 97
XI. STARTLING NEWS 108
XII. WAKING DREAMS 120
XIII. FOR LIBERTY AND LIFE 128
XIV. THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE 135
XV. AS ARMOUR IMPENETRABLE 146
XVI. A DEADLY STRIFE 156
XVII. FOR LIFE AND LOVE 164
XVIII. WITH A LOVE THAT PASSETH UNDERSTANDING 172
XIX. FROM CAPTIVITY TO CAPTIVITY 185
XX. AS A BIRD IS ENSNARED 196
XXI. THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER 205
XXII. THE LION HEARTS 214
XXIII. AS WITH AN ENCHANTER’S WAND 224
XXIV. “SHIVA THE DESTROYER” 235
XXV. THE LAST GRAND STRUGGLE 241
XXVI. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES SWINGS 248
XXVII. WITH SWIFT STRIDES NEMESIS MOVES ON 256
XXVIII. “THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE” 264
XXIX. RETRIBUTION 274
XXX. NEW HOPES 279
XXXI. A DUEL TO THE DEATH 286
XXXII. DELHI 297
XXXIII. A TERRIBLE VOW 309
XXXIV. A SURPRISE 318
XXXV. NEW HOPES OF LIBERTY 326
XXXVI. MOGHUL SINGH IS OUTWITTED 336
XXXVII. HAIDEE Ō STAR 342
XXXVIII. THE FALL OF DELHI 349
PREFACE
In the year 1894, I published in two volumes a romance of the Indian
Mutiny, under the title of “The Star of Fortune.” A short prefatory
note intimated that it was my lot to be in India during the terrible
time of the Sepoy Rebellion. From this it may be inferred that I
not only wrote with feeling, but with some personal knowledge of my
subject. “The Star of Fortune” was exceedingly well received by the
public, and last year a cheaper edition was called for. That edition
has been extensively circulated throughout India and the Colonies.
The book on the whole was well reviewed, while my critics were good
enough to accord me praise, by no means stinted, for the portions which
dealt with the Mutiny proper. One London paper said it was “a very
fine picture narrative,” another spoke of it as “a spirited piece of
writing,” a third declared it was “written with spirit and vivacity,”
a fourth as being “really breathless in interest.” I could go on
multiplying quotations similar to the foregoing, but those I have given
will serve the purpose I have in view.
On the other hand I was taken somewhat severely to task because the
opening portions of the tale dealt with Edinburgh, and about one-third
of the book was exhausted before India was reached. Whether or not
that was really a fault is not for me to say; it was certainly part
of my original plan, but I cannot be indifferent to the fact that a
consensus of opinion condemned it, and declared that the Mutiny was
far too interesting a subject to be mixed up with any love-making
scenes in Edinburgh or elsewhere other than in India. I was very
bluntly told that I ought to have plunged at once into _medias res_,
and that a story purporting to be a story of the Mutiny should deal
with the Mutiny only. The advice has not been lost upon me. I have
steadily kept it in view while writing the “Great White Hand,” and I
venture to express a hope that whatever shortcomings may be found in
the work, whatever sins of omission and commission I am guilty of, I
shall at least be credited with keeping strictly to the _locale_ and
incidents of the Great Rebellion, which, in my opinion, affords, and
will continue to afford for generations to come, a fund of the most
romantic material all ready to the novelist’s hand. If it should be
urged against me that the dramatic situations in which my characters
become involved are overstrained or improbable, I shall claim on the
authority of history that the thrilling times of the Revolt were rich
in situations so sensational, so dramatic, so tragic and pathetic,
that they put fiction into the shade. The bare ungarnished story of
the Rising is in itself one of the most sensational records the world
has ever known. Not even the Crusades, not even the wonderful defence
of Malta by the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, against the infidel
Turk, present us with a more thrilling, romantic, and stirring panorama
of battle scenes and incidents than the Indian Mutiny. It was not a
struggle of the Cross against the Crescent, but of the Cross against
Vishnu, against Shiva, against Brahma. The “Phantom” King of Delhi, and
the “Tiger of Cawnpore,” both believed that the doom of Christianity
in India had knelled. But they were undeceived, and all that was
best, bravest, and noble in British men and women was brought to the
surface. Of course, in a work of this kind, history must necessarily be
used simply as a means to an end; therefore, while it is not claimed
for the story that it is a piece of reliable history in the guise of
fiction, it may truthfully be said it records certain stirring events
and incidents which are known to have taken place. These incidents and
events have been coloured and set with a due regard for the brilliant
and picturesque Orient, which forms the stage on which the dramatic
action is worked out. Those who knew India as I knew it in those
lurid and exciting days, will probably admit that there is scarcely
an incident introduced into my book but what _might_ have happened
during the enactment of the great tragedy. An air of _vraisemblance_
represents true art in fiction, and when it becomes difficult for the
reader to tell where fiction begins and truth ends, it may be said
that the story-teller can go no further. If I should be fortunate in
establishing a claim to this praise, I shall be proud indeed; but
though I fail in that respect, I humbly venture to believe that “The
Great White Hand” will be found neither dull nor uninteresting.
THE AUTHOR.
LONDON, 1896.
THE GREAT WHITE HAND,[1]
OR,
THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE.
_A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY._
CHAPTER I.
THE RISING OF THE STORM.
It is the ninth of May, in the year one thousand eight hundred and
fifty-seven. The morning breaks lowering and stormy, a fitting prelude
to the great and tragic drama that is about to startle the world. It is
not yet four o’clock, and the sun is hardly above the horizon, but in
the fair Indian city of Meerut there is an unusual stir. The slanting
rays of the rising sun, as they fall through the rifts of hurrying
storm-clouds, gild the minarets and domes of the numerous mosques for
which the city is famed. The tall and graceful palms stand out in bold
relief against the sky, and from the cool greenery of their fan-like
leaves there issue the soft, peaceful notes of the ring-doves. Meerut,
at this time, is one of the most extensive military stations in our
Indian empire, and covers an area nearly five miles in circumference.
In the centre of the city is a great wall and esplanade, and along
this runs a deep nullah, which cuts the station into two separate
parallelograms; the one contains the European, and the other the Native
force. The European lines are in the northern quarter, the Artillery
barracks to the right, the Dragoons to the left, and the Rifles are
in the centre. Between the barracks of the two last rises, tall and
straight, the spire of the station church. It contrasts strangely
with the Oriental architecture which surrounds it. Farther northward
again stretches an extensive plain, which is used as a parade-ground.
Towards this plain, on the fateful ninth of May, eighteen hundred and
fifty-seven, streams of human beings are flowing. Crowds of natives,
from the low-caste Coolie to the pompous Baboo, hurry along, either on
foot or horseback.
Presently, far and near, the _reveille_ is heard, and, in a little
while, long lines of troops, mounted and on foot, march towards the
plain. Then the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of guns,
add to the general commotion, and soon the plain is swarming with armed
men. Heavily-shotted field-guns are placed in position, and the drawn
sabres of the Dragoons flash in the sun’s rays, while on three sides of
the plain are bodies of troops armed with the new Enfield rifles, that
are ready, on the word being given, to belch forth fire, and send their
rotary messengers of death into the crowds of natives if the necessity
should arise.
The cause of this great gathering is to see eighty-five native soldiers
converted into felons. On the 24th of April the 3rd Native Cavalry had
been drawn up for parade, and, when the order to load had been given,
these eighty-five had resolutely refused to bite their cartridges. For
this mutinous act they had been tried by a court-martial, composed of
English and native officers, and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment
with hard labour; and on this Saturday morning, the 9th of May, the
first part of the sentence--that of stripping them of their uniform in
the presence of all the regiments--is to take place.
At a given signal the doomed eighty-five are brought forward under a
strong guard of Rifles and Carabineers. They still wear their uniform
and have their accoutrements. Colonel Carmichael Smyth, the Colonel
of their Brigade, steps forth, and, in a loud, clear voice, reads the
sentence. That over, their accoutrements are taken from them, and their
uniforms are stripped from their backs. Then the armourers and smiths
step forth with their shackles and their tools, and, in the presence of
a great concourse of their old comrades, the “eighty-five” stand with
the outward symbols of their black disgrace fastened upon them.
With loud cries they lift up their arms, and implore the General to
have mercy upon them, and save them from ignominious doom. But the fiat
has gone forth, and they stand there manacled felons. Then, in the
agony of despair, they turn to their comrades and hurl reproaches at
them for quietly permitting such dire disgrace to fall upon them. There
is not a Sepoy or native civilian present but who gasps for breath as
he feels the rising indignation in his throat. But, in the presence of
the stern white soldiers, of the loaded guns, of the grooved rifles,
and the glittering sabres, they dare not strike. As the prisoners make
their appeal, there moves, swiftly, silently amongst the crowds of
natives, a tall, slim man--a Hindoo. His movements are snake-like; his
eyes glisten with a deadly fire. As he goes, he whispers--
“Courage, and wait!”
The crowds commence to disperse. The felon “eighty-five” are marched to
the gaol, two miles from the cantonment, with only a native guard over
them.
As the day wears on the storm passes away, and when the shades of
evening fall upon Meerut, all is quiet and peaceful. It is one of those
nights that may be described, but which few persons, who have never
been in hot countries, can realise. The air is stagnant. The stars seem
to quiver in a haze. Not a branch stirs, not a leaf rustles. Myriads
of fire-flies--Nature’s living jewels--dance about in bewildering
confusion. Occasionally the melancholy sounds of a tom-tom, varied
by the screech of a jackal, is heard. But with this exception, a
death-like silence seems to reign in the city.
Seated on the verandah of a pretty bungalow in the European quarter, is
a young man--a civilian. His physique is that of a trained athlete. He
is handsome, too, with a mass of black hair falling over a prominent
forehead. His name is Walter Gordon; he is the son of a wealthy
merchant of Meerut, who had died very suddenly, and Walter had but
recently come out from England to take charge of his father’s business.
He is not alone now. His companion is a lady slightly his junior. She
is very pretty. A pure English face, with tender brown eyes, and soft,
moist lips. A wealth of rich brown hair is negligently held together
by two large gold pins of native workmanship. This young lady is the
betrothed of Walter Gordon. Her father (Mr. Meredith) had held a Civil
Service appointment in Meerut, but had died some two years before the
opening events of this story, leaving a widow and two daughters, Flora
and Emily. Emily had been recently married to an officer of one of the
regiments stationed in the city. Lieutenant Harper and Walter Gordon
were very old friends. They had been school-mates together, and they
both laid siege at one time to the hearts of the Misses Meredith.
Harper had been successful, and carried his prize off to his quarters,
but Walter had delayed his marriage, pending the settlement of some
legal difficulty in connection with property to which he was entitled.
That difficulty was now removed, and Walter had gone on this evening to
Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow to arrange for his marriage with Flora.
“Flo, are you not glad that we are soon to be united?” he asks, as he
observes that she is silent, and makes no remark on the news he has
brought her.
“Yes, love. You say that you wish our marriage to take place in a
month’s time. Would that it were to-morrow; ay, even to-night!”
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Flo, what do you mean?”
“I mean that in a month’s time you and I may be separated.”
“Separated?” he repeated.
“Yes. Perhaps dead.”
“Dead!” he echoed--his astonishment increasing at the strangeness of
her manner.
“Ah, love,” she murmured, as she placed her arms around his neck, and
her head drooped upon his breast,--“strange as you are yet to the ways
of the country, you surely cannot be blind to signs which rise on every
side, that a storm is approaching.”
“A storm. To what do you allude?”
“To the discontented state of the natives, who are ripe for revolt. We
tremble upon the brink of a mine that may at any moment be sprung; and
what the consequences will be I shudder to think.”
“These are but morbid fears, Flo,” he answered, as he caressed her.
“Believe me that our power is too strong, and too much dreaded by the
natives to allow any serious outbreak. The example we made of the
‘ighty-five’ on the parade this morning will strike terror to the
hearts of those who might have contemplated any rashness.”
“There you are in error, Walter; what our troops did this morning has
only increased our danger manifold. There is not a Sepoy in all Meerut
to-night, but who is nursing in his breast feelings of the most deadly
hatred towards the English. The fire smoulders, and a breath will fan
it into flame. If the natives should rise, may God in His mercy pity
us.”
“Tut, tut, my girl; you are alarming yourself with foolish fears, and
there is nothing at all to justify your apprehensions. The soldiers
dare not revolt, and if they did, we have such an overwhelming force
of British in the cantonment, that all the native regiments would be
speedily cut to pieces.”
“The belief in our security is our danger,” she answered. “Remember I
know the country and the natives well. I have been in India from the
time I was a little child. Those who are in authority seem to me to
be wilfully blind to the signs which indicate coming mischief. For
some days past, a man, ostensibly a Fakeer, has been riding about the
city on an elephant, and visiting all the native quarters. I do not
believe that man to be what he professes to be. He is an agent moving
about from place to place, and stirring up the rankling hatred for the
British which is in the hearts of all his countrymen.”
“This is a strange statement; and you speak as though you had authority
for what you say.”
“I have authority.”
“Ah! what do you mean?” he cried in an excited tone.
“Oh, Walter, what I have to tell you I know will give you pain, but it
must be told. I have held it back until I feel that to keep it from you
longer would be unfair. You have in your service a sicar, a young man
who was brought up in an English school.”
“You refer to Jewan Bukht. Well, what of him?”
“He has confessed love for me!”
“Confessed love for you!” Walter cried angrily, as he ground his teeth,
and tightened his arm around the waist of his beloved. “By Heaven, I
will horsewhip the scoundrel. But come, Flo, you are joking, and do not
wish me to seriously believe anything so absurd.”
“Would that it were a joke! Jewan has been your trusted and
confidential clerk, and whenever you have had a message to send to me,
he has always brought it. Latterly he has grown unpleasantly familiar,
and on one occasion asked me to kiss him. On my showing anger at the
insult, he apologised, and promised not to offend again. A few days ago
he called, and appeared to me to be under the influence of _bang_. He
seized my hand, and fell upon his knees at my feet. He said that in a
little while the natives intended to rise in the name of the Prophet;
that every white person in Meerut would be massacred; but, if I would
consent to become his wife, he would save me and those belonging to me.
In disgust with the fellow for his impertinence, I called him a dog,
and threatened to inform you of his conduct. He became greatly enraged,
and said that I should be his by fair or foul means, and that you
should die by his hand.”
“Why did you not tell me this before, Flo?”
“Because I looked upon it at the time as the freak of a drunken man,
and I had no wish to give you unnecessary pain. But it was foolish of
me. I ought to have told you.”
“When did this scene take place?” Walter asked, thoughtfully.
“Three days ago. That is, last Wednesday.”
“This is very strange, Flora. On that day the rascal asked me for leave
of absence till Monday, as he wished to visit a sick relation.”
“Depend upon it, Walter, he will never return to you.”
“Never return! You are really talking in riddles. What do you mean?”
“I feel sure that there was truth in what the man told me, and his
leaving you on that day was part of the scheme. You may say I am
nervous, foolish, stupid, what you will, but I understand the natives
well. I know how treacherous they can be; and it is useless our trying
to cheat ourselves into a belief that they love us, because they don’t
do anything of the sort.”
Walter laughed, as he pressed a kiss on the lips of his companion.
“Look here, Flora, you are certainly low-spirited to-night, and have
got some strange fancies in your head. If you have any more of these
morbid imaginings, I shall have to place you under the care of Dr.
Macdonald. I have been very stupid to lend a serious hearing to your
fears for a single moment. I am sure you are wrong. Our power is too
great to be broken. The natives fear that power too much to do anything
rash. Ah! good-evening, Harper, old boy,” he exclaimed, springing from
his seat, as Lieutenant Harper and his wife entered the verandah. “I am
very glad you have come. Flo is suffering from a fit of nervousness,
and wants cheering up. Look here, Emily,” with a laugh, and turning to
Mrs. Harper, “just give your sister a shaking, and shake her into a
better frame of mind.”
“Surely you young people have not been quarrelling,” Harper remarked,
as he threw himself into a seat, and offered his friend a cigar.
“Oh dear no; but Flo has got an idea into her little head that the
natives are going to rise _en masse_, and massacre us all.”
“By Jove, they will have tough work, then,” laughs the lieutenant.
“They had an example this morning of what we can do. If there had been
the slightest sign of insubordination on the parade, we should have
mowed them down with grape and canister.”
“Don’t talk quite so loud, Master Charlie,” his wife remarked. “There
are two of the bearers at the end of the verandah, and they seem to be
listening.”
“All the better, my dear. Nothing like impressing these black wretches
with a sense of our superiority. What say you, Walter?”
“Well it depends a great deal upon what we consider ourselves superior
in.”
“Superior in!” exclaimed his friend. “Surely you are not going to
estimate your countrymen so low as to suppose for a moment that we
could be inferior to the natives in any one respect.”
“I am not quite clear on that point,” answered Gordon, thoughtfully.
“I think that the great error of the English has been in treating the
natives as if they were not possessed of common intelligence. Depend
upon it, it is a mistaken policy, which we shall some day rue.”
“Nonsense, old fellow. You are a greenhorn yet in the country, and in
a very short time these sentimental ideas will be knocked out of you.
There is no doubt that the _canaille_ of India is bitter against us,
but the upper classes are loyal to the backbone--take Dhoondu Pdnt as
an example.”
“You mean the man who is known as Nana Sahib of Bhitoor?”
“Yes; he is the adopted son of the Peishwah Bajee Rao. Now, if any man
has cause to be dissatisfied with our rule it is the Nana, inasmuch
as we have resolutely refused to recognise his right to succession.
Moreover, he is a Mahratta by race, and a Brahmin by caste. Now, it
is well-known that in the heart of every Mahratta there is an innate
and hereditary hatred for the English, while the Brahmin religion
teaches its votaries to look upon the Feringhees as dogs and infidels
that, in the name of the Prophet, should be exterminated. And yet his
highness--by courtesy--is as loyal to us as a man can possibly be.
His balls and dinners given to his friends, the English, in and about
Cawnpore, are things to be remembered.”
“But what proof have you that the Nana is not playing a well-studied
game; only biding his time to execute a well-planned _coup-d’état_, and
strike for his home and liberty?”
Harper laughed loudly as he looked at his friend’s serious face; and as
he offered him a cheroot, exclaimed--
“Bosh! Look here, old fellow, don’t get such ideas as those into your
head, or you will never succeed in India. Here, Khitmudgar, brandy
pawnee lao.” Turning to the ladies, he said, “Flo, I think you have
been putting some strange ideas into Walter’s head, and I shall have
to take you to task. Why, my dear fellow, there is no more chance of
the natives rising here, than there is of Her Majesty’s Life Guards
revolting in London at the present moment. Come, what do you say to a
hand at whist? Em and I have two hours on our hands before we return to
quarters.”
“Whist, by all means,” Walter answered. “Flo, will you order one of the
bearers to get the card-table ready in the drawing-room?”
In a few minutes the four Europeans were apparently so absorbed in the
game, that all thought of danger was banished. A sleepy Coolie sat on
one side of the room, and with monotonous regularity pulled the cord of
the punkah, that, moving gracefully backwards and forwards, made a cool
and refreshing draught. Without all was silent. Only the drowsy whir of
the insects, and the sweetly mellow notes of the bul-bul rose on the
stagnant air.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The Great White Hand (_Baṛā Safed Hāth_), a
saying current in India to describe the power of the English.