THE STORM BREAKS.
The 10th of May was Sunday. It came in with fiery heat and glare, and
arid, dust-charged winds. The bells of the church pealed forth, as they
called the Christians to worship.
“You do not seem well this morning, Flo,” said Walter Gordon, as he
assisted Miss Meredith into his buggy, with the intention of driving
her to the station church.
“I am not at all well, Walter,” was her answer. “I have been restless
all night, and have slept but little.”
“That is bad news, Flo. Suppose we have a drive out of Meerut, instead
of going to church?”
“No, no. I prefer to attend the service this morning. I shall be better
by-and-bye.”
As they drove along he noticed that she was nervous and agitated, and
he questioned her as to the cause; but, though she longed to tell
him all, her courage failed her, as she did not wish to give him
unnecessary alarm. Besides, after all, what Jewan had said might have
been but the boastful threat of a disappointed man--perhaps all would
be well. She consoled herself with this thought, and determined to tell
her lover at a later period.
In the European barracks and in the various bungalows there was on this
particular morning a general desertion of native servants; but this
circumstance, strange to say, excited no suspicions, and so the day was
got through as usual.
The afternoon drew to a close. The sun declined on the opposite bank
of the Goomtee, burnishing the stream with gold, and throwing into
dark relief the heavy masses of native boats. The great Mall was a
scene of gaiety, for the white glare of the day had departed, and the
dust-laden atmosphere was tempered with a refreshing breeze. The whole
European population seemed to be taking an airing. Strings of vehicles,
crowds of horsemen, gaily-dressed ladies, numberless natives, together
with the glowing river, the waving palms, the tall cocoa trees, and
the gilded domes of the numerous mosques, which rose grandly in the
background, made up a scene which for picturesqueness and beauty
could scarcely have been surpassed. It was a fair and smiling scene;
“white-robed peace seemed to have settled there, and spread her downy
wings.”
Backwards and forwards went the natives. Hindoos and Brahmins,
high-caste and low-caste, mingling now indiscriminately. Could each of
the hearts that beat beneath those dusky skins have been read, could it
have been known how they were burning with hatred and loathing for the
Feringhees, many a white man would have shuddered, and, as he tightened
his grip on revolver or sword, he would have drawn the loved ones to
his breast, there to shield them with his life.
Walter Gordon and Miss Meredith sat alone in the verandah, for Flora
had complained of feeling very unwell, and Walter decided that,
instead of going for the usual afternoon drive, it would be better to
remain quietly at home.
They were suddenly surprised by observing a horseman come galloping
down the road. He drew rein opposite the compound, and, springing from
his saddle, hurried to the verandah. It was Lieutenant Harper.
“Walter, a word with you,” he cried. “Do not be alarmed, Flo,” he
added, quickly, as he observed her cheeks blanch.
She sprang to her feet quickly, and grasped his arm.
“Tell me,” she cried, “what is the matter. I see by your manner that
there is danger. Where does it threaten?”
“Do not be alarmed,” he repeated; “there is danger, but we may avert
it. I must not stay, though. I am bound on secret service to Delhi, and
I must reach that city before the day breaks. I am guilty of a great
dereliction of duty in calling here; but I could not leave without
seeing you. Walter, order your horse to be saddled, and accompany me as
far as the Delhi road. I want to talk to you.”
“But Flora--how can I leave her?” Walter asked, in agitation.
“Never mind me,” she answered. “Go; it may be to our benefit.”
“Yes; it will be. I have some plans to arrange,” said Harper.
In a few minutes Walter’s horse stood in the compound.
“You have a case of revolvers?” Walter said to Flora.
“Yes.”
“Let me have one--quick.” He hurried in, and speedily loaded the
chambers of a Colt’s. Then thrusting the weapon into his belt, and
buttoning over his coat, he kissed Flora, and pressing her to his
heart, said--“Good-bye, darling, I shall not be long away. I know that
Harper has something of the utmost importance to say, or he would not
ask me to go.”
“God protect you!” she murmured. “Until you return, my heart will be
full of fear.”
In another moment the two men were galloping down the Mall, towards the
great road which led to Delhi, that city being forty miles from Meerut.
“Walter,” said Harper, when they had got some distance away, “I did not
wish to alarm Flo, but there is an awful time coming for us. It is not
clear, yet, from what quarter the danger will arise. The Commandant
has, this afternoon, received some information, whether trustworthy
or not is not very clear. At anyrate, he attaches more than ordinary
importance to it, and I am the bearer of dispatches to Delhi. My
mission is one fraught with the greatest amount of personal danger,
and I may never return alive. But I am a soldier, and must do my duty.
To your care I consign my wife. When you get back, take Flo and her
mother up to my bungalow. You will be company for Emily, and be under
the protection of the troops in the barracks. If nothing serious occurs
to-night, the danger may be averted. I regret now that we treated
Flora’s fears with so much disregard. With a woman’s keener sense of
penetration, she saw farther ahead than we did.”
“What, then, is the nature of the danger anticipated?” Walter asked.
“A general revolt of the native soldiery, and a wholesale massacre,”
was the answer.
“Great Heavens! Is that so?” exclaimed the other, as his heart almost
stood still at the bare thought of the horrors the words suggested.
Then for some little time the horsemen galloped along without
exchanging a word. Each was busy with his own thoughts, which possibly
flew far away to peaceful England, whose Queen little dreamed that her
great Indian possessions were about to be all but wrested from her. The
great Delhi road was reached at last, and along this Walter accompanied
his friend for some miles. The slant shadows thrown by the evening sun
were slowly fading, and darkness was creeping up. The men drew rein at
last.
“I will return now,” said Walter.
“Do,” was the other’s answer. “Walter, give me your hand, old fellow.
Perhaps in this world we may never meet again. If I fall, be a brother
to my poor wife. If I should return, and you fall, Flo shall find a
brother in me. We all carry our lives in our hands. Let us sell them as
dearly as possible; and for every white man that falls let twenty black
ones bite the dust.”
A sharp report rang out on the still air, and a bullet whizzed between
the men.
“Great God!” cried Harper; “the storm has burst at last. Farewell.”
He grasped his friend’s hand, and in another moment was speeding away
in the darkness.
Walter glanced about to see from which point the danger threatened him.
Then he drew his revolver, and grasping it with the determination of an
Englishman who would only sell his life at a great cost, he set his
horse’s head back to Meerut.
To return to Miss Meredith. Scarcely had Walter and her brother-in-law
gone than she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears.
“What for missy weeping?” said a voice behind her.
On looking up, she beheld an old and faithful ayah, named Zeemit Mehal,
who had been in her mother’s service for some time.
“Ah, Zeemit,” she murmured, “I am so glad you are here. Mr. Gordon has
gone out with Lieutenant Harper, and I am very lonely and nervous. I
think I shall go up and see my sister; she will be dull now her husband
is away.”
“No, missy, you must not go,” answered Zeemit firmly.
“And why must I not, Zeemit?”
“Because there is great danger coming to your countrymen and women; and
my love for you prompts me to save you.”
She caught the old ayah by her skinny arm, and, in a voice choked with
emotion, said--
“What do you mean, Mehal? If there is danger, does it not threaten my
mamma and sister as well as me?”
“Yes, but there is greater safety indoors; for every white man who
shows himself, there are a hundred bullets waiting to pierce his heart.”
Flora uttered a scream, and she clutched the skinny arm tighter, as if
in that weak old woman she saw her only refuge.
“Oh, Zeemit,” she cried, “if this is true, what will become of Walter?”
“He is a brave man, miss, and may be able to get back here in safety.
At any rate, do not alarm yourself unnecessarily. I will not desert
you, and while I have life I will defend you. But in all things, miss,
be guided by me.”
The alarm that an outbreak was expected had spread now throughout the
station, and it was determined not to hold service in the church,
although the congregation had gathered. And so the clergyman,
commending them to the care of Heaven, dismissed them with a blessing.
As the people returned to their homes, there was a look of unwonted
anxiety on the pale, scared faces. Sounds and sights greeted them on
their way back that could not be misinterpreted. The unwonted rattling
of musketry on the Sabbath evening; the sound of the bugles from all
quarters, as they called to assembly; the hurrying to and fro of men
armed to the teeth, and the panic-struck looks of the unarmed, all told
of coming disaster. Presently columns of smoke rose up against the fast
darkening sky, then blood-red flames leapt into the air, and the lurid
glare soon spread the awful news, far and wide, that the native troops
in Meerut had revolted.
The Third Bengal Artillery, whose comrades were languishing in gaol,
rushed from their lines towards the hospital, which had been turned
into a temporary prison for the “eighty-five,” whose only guard was
a small body of natives. This was one of the most inconceivable acts
of stupidity that occurred during the whole of the frightful mutiny.
And when it was too late, it became painfully evident that someone had
blundered. Who was responsible for the error? men asked of one another
as they hurried about in the first panic of alarm. But no one answered
the question, and through the weakness of the administration at that
critical period, hundreds of innocent lives paid the penalty.
On went the half-maddened men of the Third, their cry now being “To the
rescue!” Some were in uniform, man and horse fully accoutred, some in
their stable dress, with only watering rein and horse cloth on their
chargers, but all armed to the teeth, and on the faces of all a grim,
resolute expression of ferocity. They reached the walls of the gaol;
not the slightest opposition was offered; the rescue began. Down they
tore the masonry around the cells; iron bars were wrenched away, and
used to batter in the gates. Then forth came the “eighty-five”; their
manacles were struck off, and the erst-while felons stood free men,
with the light of the incendiary fires beating upon their dusky faces.
Up behind their deliverers they mounted, and rode back to the lines,
their hearts thirsting for revenge.
When they got to their quarters they were joined by the Eleventh Native
Regiment. Colonel Finnis, who commanded the Eleventh, strong in his
belief of the loyalty of his regiment, rode in amongst them.
“Men of the Eleventh!” he cried, “be true to your Queen, and do not
disgrace your profession of arms by acts of violence and mutiny.
Whatever wrongs you have I pledge you, in the name of the Queen, that
they shall be redressed. Remember that we have helpless women and
children amongst us who look to you for protection. You are human, and
in your human hearts let the voice of pity obliterate your feelings of
bitterness. I, your colonel, command you to return peaceably to your
barracks, and I will protect you from all consequences of this act.”
The answer was a report, and the colonel’s horse staggered and fell
beneath its rider. Another shot was fired; it went clean through the
colonel’s body. A volley followed--and Colonel Finnis fell dead,
completely riddled with bullets.
Then, from every quarter of Meerut, rose heavy columns of smoke, that
were illuminated with many coloured flames. The sight was awful; the
rolling of the musketry, the crackling of the fires, the crashing
of falling timbers, the shrieks of the dying and the wounded, the
cry of defenceless women, the piteous neighing of the horses as they
were scorched to death in their stables, the yells, and shouts of the
rabble, made up a night of horrors, such as, in the history of the
world, has rarely been recorded.
From every street, and corner, and hole, and alley--from the bazaars
and villages--poured forth streams of maddened natives, bent upon
murder and plunder. And “death to the Feringhees!” was the one cry
heard above all others. Like wild beasts from their lairs, seeking
whom they might devour, came the hordes; and as the European officers
rushed from their bungalows, they were shot down, and fell riddled with
bullets.
Flora Meredith stood in the verandah of her bungalow like one turned to
stone. She was horror-stricken, and could not move. At the first alarm
her mother, maddened with despair, had rushed out into the compound,
and was shot through the heart; and there she lay now, her dead eyes
staring blankly up to the red sky.
A man hurriedly crossed the compound. He sprang into the verandah, he
stood beside Flora, he passed his arm around her waist. It aroused
her to a sense of her awful position. She turned and confronted the
intruder. Her eyes fell upon Jewan Bukht.
“You brute!” she cried, “how dare you take such a liberty?”
He laughed, and tightened his hold, as she struggled to free herself.
“I told you we should meet again,” he said, with withering irony. “It
is not yet too late; I can yet save you. Say you will marry me.”
By a desperate effort she freed herself from his grasp, and, recoiling
away, exclaimed:
“Never! I would rather die a hundred deaths.”
He laughed again--a bitter, cunning laugh--and made a movement as if to
seize her.
“Then you shall die,” he exclaimed, unsheathing a long, glittering
native dagger.
He was intercepted by a woman--a native. It was Zeemit Mehal.
“Stay, Jewan!” said Zeemit. “If you are rough with this pretty prize,
she may injure herself. She is a bonny bird, and should not ruffle her
plumage. She shall be yours. I give her to you.”
“May God in heaven protect me!” murmured Flora, as, sinking on her
knees, she buried her face in her hands.
“Hush!” whispered Zeemit, as she bent down, unperceived by Jewan,
“obey me in all things, and I will save you.”
“Come, my pretty dove,” said Zeemit, aloud, as she took the hands of
Flora, and raised her to her feet, “life is sweet, and Jewan will be
good to you. Besides, our time has come. The Feringhees have ruled
us long enough. We triumph now, and resistance on your part will be
useless. You must go with Jewan.”
“That is well said, Zeemit,” cried the man; “and I will give you jewels
enough to make you as rich as a Ranee for your service. I shall take
this white-faced woman to the Palace of the Mogul in Delhi.”
“But you must not leave me behind!” exclaimed Zeemit in well-feigned
alarm.
“Leave you behind--certainly not!” answered Jewan, with a laugh. “You
shall go and be keeper to my bird, and clip her wings if she wants to
fly. I have a buggy close at hand; we will go together. Stay here until
I bring it up.”
He went out into the compound, and when he had gone Flora flung herself
at the feet of Zeemit.
“Oh, Zeemit!” she cried, “by all that you hold dear--if you have
sister, mother, father, brother, nay, more, if you have a child--I
appeal to you, in their names, to save me!”
“I will,” was the answer. “But you must go with this man; for to remain
here is certain death. If your lover has escaped, and he may have done
so, he will assuredly return. I will remain behind and wait, so that
if he comes I can warn him and apprise him of your whereabouts. Hush!
Jewan returns.”
Flora was utterly bewildered. She could neither think nor act, only
yield herself blindly to the counselling of this old woman.
The man had driven into the compound in a buggy. He sprang to the
ground.
“Quick,” he cried, “there is no time to be lost.”
“I have an old father, who lives on the other side of the nullah,” said
Zeemit; “I must visit him before I go.”
“But I cannot wait for you; even our own lives are in danger by
remaining here,” observed Jewan angrily.
“There is no occasion to wait,” was the answer. “When I have seen my
father I will hurry after you. I am an old woman, and no one will
molest me; I shall find means to reach Delhi almost as soon as you.
Come, my baby, put on your things,” she added, addressing Flora, who
followed the old woman into the bungalow.
When Flora had secured a few relics and articles of value, and had
arrayed herself in a shawl and hat, she returned to the verandah.
“You will come,” she whispered to the old woman; “and save him if
possible. Should I not see you in three days, and if this man insults
me, I will die by my own hand.”
“I will save him and you if he lives,” was the answer. “Go.”
Then the poor girl, bewildered by the rapid course of events, and
half-dazed by the danger that surrounded her, and scarcely able to
realise the fact that a few yards off her mother was lying stark
and white, mounted to the buggy, and sank down overpowered upon the
cushions.
Jewan sprang up beside her, and, covering her up with a dark
horse-cloth, he lashed his horse into a gallop, and was soon speeding
out of Meerut. As the buggy reached the great Mall, it was passed by a
horse that was tearing along at a great pace. It carried a rider, an
Englishman. His head was bare, his hair was streaming in the wind, his
teeth were set, and in his hand he firmly held a revolver. He bent low,
until his face almost touched the neck of his horse, for now and again
shots were sent after him; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and
never slackened pace for an instant, and soon he and the buggy were far
apart.
The flying horseman was Walter Gordon. Breathless and begrimed, he
rushed into the compound of the Meredith bungalow, just in time to see
flames issuing from the windows. It had been fired by the incendiaries.
He would have entered the burning building, but a hand firmly grasped
his arm, and a voice whispered in his ear--
“Be silent as you value your life.”
It was Zeemit Mehal.
“Where is Miss Meredith?” he cried, in spite of the old woman’s warning.
“She lives,” was the answer. “On your prudence depends her safety and
your own. Be guided by me, and wait. Tether your horse to yonder tree,
and follow me.”
He did as she desired, for there was something in the woman’s tone that
gave him hope and confidence. Then at her bidding he crouched down
beneath a clump of bushes, and waited.