THE MYSTERY OF THE CHUPATTIES.
As sleep fell upon the northern quarter of Meerut on that Saturday
night, there was an unusual stir in the native part. In the lines of
the native soldiery, in the populous bazaars, and in the surrounding
villages, a fatal signal was passing. Five fleet-footed Indians were
speeding from place to place; and as they went, they put into the hands
of the principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty; and, like the
fiery cross, it was the signal of a general rising.
On the banks of the Goomtee there rose the lichen-covered wall of a
half-ruined temple. Hitherto, silence had reigned in its deserted
halls, and the lizard and the serpent had hunted undisturbed for prey
amongst the fallen shafts and broken capitals. But the grey ruin was
witness of a strange scene to-night. Hundreds of natives were pouring
in from all parts. At every entrance to the temple a guard was posted,
and admission could only be gained by giving a password. That was
“Chupatty.” But all comers knew the pass; none were turned away.
Rapidly the crowd swelled with soldiers and civilians, until every
available space was occupied. They perched on the broken walls, on the
fallen columns, on the moss-covered arches. Wherever a foot-hold could
be gained, there was a native. Here and there was suspended a native
lamp--a cotton-wick placed in cocoa-nut oil, contained in a cocoa-nut
shell. Seen in this dim light, the scene was striking and picturesque.
The dusky forms of the natives seemed to be everywhere--above, below,
around. The dark wall of the ruin appeared to be actually jewelled
with gleaming eyes, which, as they caught the fitful flare of the
lamp, flashed with hatred and revenge. A dull, confused sound only was
heard as the swarming natives conversed one with another in subdued
tones. Presently six distinct beats were given on a tom-tom. Then there
was a death-like silence, as there entered, by the main entrance, a
tall man, whose face was muffled with a puggeree. He was followed by
several other natives; and as they entered and took up their position
at one end of the ruins, salaams rose from a hundred throats. Then
the tall man threw back his puggeree, and exposed his features. They
were massive, firm, and of the true Mahratta cast. His skin was light
brown; his lips full and sensual, and his eyes small, restless, and
cunning. He was a powerfully-built man, with a full, flowing beard, his
age about thirty years. His bearing was proud and haughty; his dress
handsome, being that of a Mahratta prince. Round his neck was a massive
gold chain, and on his fingers sparkled numerous and costly jewels.
His head was encircled with a rich turban, ornamented in front with a
single large diamond. From a jewelled belt round his waist protruded
the inlaid handles of native pistols; and at his side was suspended
a tulwar. This was Dhoondu Pdnt, the Nana Sahib of Bhitoor. He was
attended by his war minister, Teeka Singh, and his confidential friend
and adviser, Azimoolah. The latter a short, slim man; but supple and
panther-like in his movements; his face had but one expression--that of
pitiless ferocity. In a few moments the Nana addressed the assembly.
“Countrymen, I have ventured here to-night that I may, by my presence,
inspire you with courage and hope. We stand on the eve of great
events, and no man has the cause more at heart than I. We wait but
for one signal now to decide us in the course of action we are to
take. That signal is to come from Delhi. Our agents have been hard
at work for some days, and if the regiments there will join us, and
give us shelter if needed, all will be well. Though I must hurry back
to Bhitoor to-night, that it may not be known, until the proper hour
arrives, that I have shaken off allegiance to the hated Feringhees, I
shall be with you in spirit; and, in the name of the Prophet, I invoke
success on your arms. When you strike, remember that you strike for
your freedom, for your religion. Let the House of Timour be restored,
and the Imperial Dynasty of Delhi be revived in all its ancient glory
and splendour. Let our race of mighty kings be perpetuated, and the
great white hand of the hateful British be crushed and trampled into
the dust. We are a great people. We have been enchained, enslaved, and
robbed of our birthrights. Let us rise now as one man, and strike for
those sacred rights of which we have been deprived. Steel your hearts
against every feeling of pity. Let not the pale faces of either their
women or children raise one sympathetic feeling in your breasts. When
the opportunity arrives I will perform deeds that shall not only be
an example to you, but that shall make my name known throughout the
world, and the name of Nana Sahib shall be in every man’s mouth. Let
Hindoos and Mahomedans alike be stirred but by one impulse to slaughter
the Feringhees, man, woman, and child. The English are _luchar_
(helpless). They sleep in fancied security, and dream not that their
doom is sealed. We have past injuries to avenge; we have future dangers
to guard against. Let our feelings declare themselves in characters of
fire. Let the firebrand tell these invaders of our soil that, from end
to end of India, we have common cause, and that we strike for liberty!”
The Nana ceased speaking, and a murmur of applause ran through the
assembled multitude.
“Jewan Bukht comes not, sahib,” said Azimoolah, after a pause. “I hope
his mission has not failed.”
“The Prophet forbid,” answered the Nana. “His mission was fraught with
danger, and he may have been unexpectedly detained. When he departed on
Wednesday he said he should be back to-night, to bring to this meeting
the answer of Delhi.”
“I hope he has not proved false?” Azimoolah remarked, his cold eyes
glittering like a snake’s.
“False! No,” exclaimed the Nana. “I’ll answer for him with my life. He
is a useful man; he knows the ways of the English well, having been
brought up in one of their schools. No, no; Jewan is not false. He has
personal motives for being true to us, and he has much to gain. Ah!
I hear the sounds of horse’s hoofs in the distance. Let the word be
passed to the guard to be on the alert.”
The ring of horse’s shoes could now be distinctly heard, as it
galloped furiously along the hard road. Nearer and nearer the sounds
came, and in a few minutes the tom-tom was beaten again as a signal
that someone of importance had arrived. Then in a little time a
man, hot and breathless, rushed into the presence of the Nana, and,
prostrating himself at his feet with a profound salaam, took from
his turban a small chupatty, and handed it to the Prince. On it was
inscribed, in Hindostanee characters, painted red, the following:--
“We fight for the King.
“We fight for the restoration of the Mogul throne.
“We fight for the Prophet.”
“Allah be praised!” exclaimed Dhoondu, as he took the cake, and a
smile of triumph lighted up his cruel face. “Success attends us,” he
continued, addressing the multitude; “and the Imperial City is true to
herself. We will plant the rebel standard on the Palace of the Mogul,
and the House of Timour shall flourish once more. Jewan Bukht, thou
art faithful, and hast performed a brave deed; the Prophet will look
favourably upon thee.”
Jewan was a young man with a singularly intelligent, and, for a native,
handsome face. He was a native of Meerut, and at an early age had been
left an orphan. An European lady had taken him under her care, and
sent him to an English school near Calcutta to be educated. When he
had reached the age of twenty his protectress died, and he returned
to Meerut a professing Christian, and speaking the English language
fluently. Since his return he had occupied the position of a head sicar
or clerk in Walter Gordon’s establishment. He had gained the esteem
and confidence of his master, and had, up to a quite recent period,
been in the habit of attending regularly the station church. But of
late his movements had become mysterious, and he had passed much of his
time in the native lines.
“I thank you, great Prince,” said Jewan, in answer to Dhoondu. “I have
had a perilous journey, but I left no quarter in Delhi unvisited. Young
and old there are panting for the hour to arrive when they can arise
from their bondage. There is but a very small European force in the
city. Delhi once secured, we can hold it against all comers.”
“And we will secure it,” added the Nana, significantly. “But come,
the night wears, and we must disperse; Teeka, and you, my faithful
Azimoolah, let us return with all speed to Bhitoor, and there await
for the signal. Cawnpore shall be ours, and we will there wipe out our
wrongs in English blood!”
He wrapped his scarf around him so as to hide his pistols and tulwar,
and drawing his puggeree over his face, he passed out, attended by his
followers. At a little distance a native carriage was waiting, and into
this they sprang, and Meerut was speedily far behind. Then the crowd
of natives quietly left the ruined temple, and soon the roofless halls
were silent and deserted, and the slimy things that had sought shelter
from the trampling feet, in the nooks and crannies, timidly came forth
now, in search of prey, upon which they might feed so that they might
live in accordance with the instinct planted by a Divine hand. But the
hundreds of human beings who a little while before had held possession
of the temple had also gone forth in search of prey, thirsting for
blood--blood of the innocent and guilty alike--not that they might live
thereby, but to gratify a burning feeling of hatred and revenge.
On the verandah of Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow stood Flora Meredith alone.
It was late, or rather early, for two o’clock had just sounded from the
neighbouring barracks. Flora had been vainly endeavouring to sleep, but
an undefined sense of dread had kept her awake, so that at last she
had risen from her couch and gone out on the verandah, glad to breathe
the cool morning air. Pensively she was gazing up to the stars, which
still shone clear and bright, although the first streaks of dawn were
struggling to the eastern sky.
She was dreaming of the man she loved, of the man who had her heart in
his keeping, whose wife she was to be. She had an intuitive perception
that there was danger coming--that, to use an expressive Hindostanee
phrase, “there was something in the air.” But what did that something
portend, and where did the danger menace? were questions she asked
herself as she stood there--a picture of loveliness--in her loose robe,
and her beautiful hair flowing freely about her white shoulders.
Unperceived by her, the figure of a dusky native was stealthily
stealing across the compound, keeping in the shadows of the trees and
shrubs, until he stood beneath the verandah. Then, with a noiseless
spring, he vaulted lightly over the railings, and stood beside the
dreaming girl.
With a cry of alarm, Flora started from her reverie, and, turning
quickly round, beheld Jewan Bukht.
“What do you do here?” she asked quickly, when she had recovered from
her surprise.
“Hush!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Your life depends
upon silence. I have something to say to you.”
She was a brave girl; but her heart sank now, for she knew that his
boldness arose from some terrible cause. Her presence of mind, however,
did not forsake her. To set this man at defiance would be to gain
nothing. She would endeavour to learn his motive for coming.
“What is the meaning of this unceremonious intrusion at such an hour?”
she asked, when her first feeling of alarm had passed.
“I came in the hope of seeing you as the day dawned,” he answered;
“but Fortune has favoured me, and, as if it were so decreed, you are
unexpectedly here alone, even while the night is young.”
“Well, and what of that?” she asked hastily, as the man paused.
“It is good,” he replied, “for I have much to say.”
“But this is neither the time nor the place to say it,” she answered,
making a movement as if she were about to turn into the bungalow.
Jewan caught her hand, and, with his glittering eyes fixed upon her
fair face, said--
“Miss Meredith, listen to me. But one thing could have induced me
to visit you, for if my countrymen knew it they might suspect me of
treachery, and slay me. But what will a man not do for love? Ah! do
not start; do not try to draw your hand away, as if I were something
loathsome. If my skin is dark, do not the same emotions and passions
stir my breast as those of the white man’s? Can my heart not throb with
feelings as tender as his who is your accepted husband? Miss Meredith,
I love you! In the name of all that is good, I ask you to become my
wife, according to the rights of your own Church. I will give you
devotion, I will be faithful to you, I will love you unto death. Could
a white man do more?”
“Jewan Bukht, are you mad? Do you know what it is you ask? Am I to give
you all that is dear to me--to sever every tie that binds me to my kith
and kin, in order to become your wife? Never!”
“Think well before you give a decisive answer,” he replied, still
retaining his hold of her hand.
“I have already thought. You have my answer. Nothing can alter my
decision. Go away for a little while, and, believe me, this silly
infatuation of yours will speedily wear off.”
“How little you know of the heart, to talk like that. Mine is no
infatuation, but a genuine love. Why should you despise it?”
“I do not despise it. But I tell you I cannot, nor will not be your
wife.”
“Again I ask you not to be rash in your answer. A great danger is
hovering over the station. In a little while a fire will be lighted
here that will extend throughout India. Your countrymen and women will
cry for pity to ears that will be deaf, and they will appeal to hearts
that will be as stone. I tell you, Miss Meredith, that ere the sun has
risen and set again, there shall be bloody deeds done in Meerut. Every
white person in this and in every city of India stands in deadly peril.
And when once the revolt has broken out, even the ‘Great White Hand,’
all-powerful as it is, will not be able to stop it. Ere it be too late,
say that you will be mine, and I will save you--more, I will save those
belonging to you!”
She looked at the kneeling man at her feet; her heart beat wildly, and
her breath came thick and fast. She knew that there was truth in what
he said, but how should she act?
She could not give this man her love--she shuddered, indeed, with a
feeling of loathing, as she contemplated him. She released her hand
from his, and drew herself up proudly, scornfully. And as the first
flush of dawn, which was spreading over the heavens, caught her face,
she looked inexpressibly beautiful.
“What you ask is impossible,” she said. “Love I could never give you,
and better to die than sacrifice myself. Your master, Mr. Walter
Gordon, is to be my husband. I will either be wedded to him or death.
This is my answer. It is unalterable. For the rest, I trust in that God
which you yourself have professed to worship.”
The man rose to his feet now--proud, defiant. His lips wreathed with
scorn--his eyes glistened with a strange light.
“I own no master,” he answered, “but the great Nana Sahib. I came here
as your friend; I leave as your enemy; you have treated me as you
would have done a dog; but let that pass. I offered you life, liberty,
security. You have scorned my offer. Let it be so. We shall meet again,
and, when next we meet, you will answer me differently. You shall
entreat where now you scorn. Farewell.”
She would have stopped him, for she regretted that she had spoken as
she had, and wounded the man’s feelings. But it was too late; he had
leaped over the railings into the compound, and was quickly out of
sight.
With a sigh, poor Flora turned from the verandah to seek her couch, for
she was weary and faint and sick with an instinctive feeling of some
coming calamity.