THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE.[3]
For many years, up to eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, Cawnpore had
been one of the greatest Indian military stations. In the palmy days
of the Honourable East India Company all the officers invariably spent
some period of their service there. As a consequence, there were wealth
and beauty and fashion to be found in the British quarters; there were
luxury and ease, and their concomitants, profligacy and vice--and yet
withal it was perhaps neither better nor worse than all great military
centres--while for rollicking gaiety and “life” it stood at the head,
even Calcutta being behind it in this respect. But when the mutiny
broke out, Cawnpore’s sun was declining,--not but what it was still
a station of importance, but the coming end of the “Company’s” power
had brought about many changes in this as well as in most other Indian
cities.
It was an irregularly built place, some eight miles in extent. Squalor
and wealth seemed to fraternise; for in many parts the lordly mansion
raised its head beside some tumble-down, reeking native den. There was
no pretension to anything like mathematical precision in the streets.
They had been laid out in the most promiscuous manner. In fact, it
might not inaptly be said that if you wanted to construct a Cawnpore
such as it was at the time of our story, you must take a big plain with
lots of cocoa-palms about, and a broad river running through it. Then
get many hundreds of bamboo and mud huts; a few marble palaces, some
temples with gilded minarets, a few big public buildings, a hospital
or two, a gaol, and a quantity of miscellaneous structures, such as an
arsenal, barracks, etc., shake them all up together, and toss them out
on the plain, and there you have your Cawnpore.
To be accurate in the description, which is necessary to the better
understanding and interest of this history, the city is built on the
banks of the Ganges. The British lines were on the southern bank, and
in the centre of the cantonment, and leading from a point opposite
the city, was a bridge of boats to the Lucknow road on the other
bank. Lying between the roads to Bhitoor and Delhi were many of the
principal civilians’ houses. Beyond the lines were the gaol, the
treasury, and churches; while squeezed up in the north-west corner
was the magazine. In the centre, between the city and the river, were
the assembly-rooms--made notorious by subsequent events--a theatre,
a church, and the telegraph office. The place was well provided with
entertainments. There were splendid shops, and they were well stocked
with goods of every description, from almost every country in the
world. Western civilisation and Indian primitiveness were linked.
In this terrible “57” Cawnpore was commanded by a General of Division,
Sir Hugh Wheeler, who resided there with the Division staff. But
although there was an immense strength of native soldiery, not a
single European regiment was garrisoned in the place, the only white
troops being about fifty men of her Majesty’s Eighty-fourth and a
few Madras Fusiliers. Sir Hugh was a gallant officer, who had served
the “Company” long and honourably, and was covered with scars and
glory. But the sands of life were running low, for upwards of seventy
summers and winters had passed over his head. A short time before,
the only regiment that had been stationed in Cawnpore for a long time
had been sent to Lucknow. This was the Thirty-second Queen’s. But
they left behind them all the _impedimenta_, in the shape of wives,
children, and invalids; and the awful responsibility of protecting
these helpless beings devolved upon the time-worn veteran. Some
little distance out on the Bhitoor road, there stood a magnificent
dwelling, a veritable palace, with numberless outbuildings, courtyards,
and retainers’ quarters. It was the home of the Rajah of Bhitoor,
Dundoo Pant, otherwise Nana Sahib. His wealth at this time was almost
boundless. He had troops of horses, and elephants, and quite a regiment
of private soldiers. Many a time had his roof rang with the hearty
laughter of English ladies and gentlemen. He was the trusted friend
of the Feringhees, was this Mahratta prince. They loaded him with
wealth, with favours, with honour, did all but one thing--recognise
his right to succession. And their refusal to do this transformed the
man, who, although a courteous gentleman outwardly, was a tyrant in
his home life, and this failure to gratify his ambition turned his
heart to flint, and developed in him the sanguinary nature of the
tiger, without the tiger’s honesty. Well indeed had he concealed his
disappointment since “52,” when Azimoolah, who had gone to England to
plead the prince’s cause, returned to report his failure. To speak of
Azimoolah as a tiger would be a libel on the so-called royal brute. He
might fittingly be described as representing in disposition the fiends
of the nether world, whose mission is to destroy all good, to develop
all evil, to drag down the souls of human beings to perdition. He was
the bad tool of a bad master, if he did not absolutely lead that master
to some extent. Allied to the twain was Teeka Singh, soubahdar of the
Second Cavalry. The trio were as cowardly a set of villains as ever
made common cause in a bad case.
Between the King of Delhi and the Nana there had been numberless
communications and frequent interviews, spreading over a period of some
years. The imbecile puppet of Delhi fondly imagined that he could be a
king in power as well as name, and he looked to Nana of Bhitoor as a
man who could help him to gain this end. Actuated by similar motives,
Nana Sahib fraternised with the King for the sake of the influence he
would command. But between the two men there was an intense hatred and
jealousy. Each hoped to make the other a tool. It was the old fable of
the monkey and the cat realised over again. Both wanted the nuts, but
each feared to burn his fingers. In one thing they were unanimous--they
hated the English. They writhed under the power of the Great White
Hand, and wished to subdue it. But although the King betrayed this so
that he incurred the mistrust of the English, the Nana was a perfect
master in the art of dissembling, and all that was passing in his mind
was a sealed book to his white friends.
When the revolt broke out in Meerut, old Sir Hugh Wheeler fondly
believed that the storm could not possibly spread to Cawnpore.
But as the days wore on, signs were manifested that caused the
General considerable uneasiness. Some of the native soldiers became
insubordinate and insolent. Still he felt no great alarm, for in an
emergency he had his trusted and respected friend the Rajah to fly
to for assistance. The General, iron-willed and dauntless himself,
showed no outward signs of mistrust. He had passed his life amongst
the natives. He loved them with a love equalling a father’s. He
respected their traditions, honoured their institutions, venerated
their antiquity; and while the storm, distant as yet, was desolating
other parts of the fair land, he betrayed no doubts about the fidelity
of his troops. Morning after morning he rode fearlessly amongst them,
his genial face and cheery voice being seen and heard in all quarters.
But as the mutterings of the storm grew louder and more threatening,
anxiety for the hundreds of helpless people on his hands filled him.
He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was danger--a
terrible danger--in the air. It was his duty to use every endeavour to
guard against it, and he felt that the time had come to appeal to his
friend the Rajah.
He rode over to the Bhitoor Palace, and was received by the Nana with
studied courtesy and respect.
“I have come to solicit aid from your Highness,” the old General
began, as he seated himself on a luxurious lounge in what was known as
the “Room of Light,” so called from its princely magnificence. The roof
was vaulted, and, in a cerulean ground, jewels, to represent stars,
were inserted, and, by a peculiar arrangement, a soft, violet light was
thrown over them, so that they scintillated with dazzling brightness.
The walls were hung with the most gorgeous coloured and richest silks
from Indian looms. The senses were gratified with mingled perfumes,
which arose from dozens of hidden censers. The most exquisite marble
statues were arranged about with the utmost taste. Mechanical birds
poured forth melodious floods of song. The sound of splashing water,
as it fell gently into basins of purest Carrara marble, rose dreamily
on the air. Soft and plaintive music, from unseen sources, floated and
flowed around. The floor was covered with cloth of spotless silver; a
profusion of most costly and rare furs were scattered about. Articles
of vertu, priceless china, gilded time-pieces, gorgeous flowers, and
magnificent fruits were there to add to the bewilderment of richness
and beauty. While over all, through delicately-tinted violet and
crimson glass, there streamed a mellow light, the effect of which was
the very _acmé_ of perfection. It was verily a bower of dreams, a fairy
boudoir. A confused medley of colour, of beauty, and sweet sounds, that
was absolutely intoxicating and bewildering.[4]
It was here that the Rajah, attired in all the gorgeousness of a
wealthy Mahratta prince, and attended by a brilliant suite, received
Sir Hugh Wheeler.
“My services are at your command, General,” was the Nana’s soft answer.
But his dusky cheeks burned with the joy that animated his cruel heart
as he thought that his day-star was rising; that the stream of time
was bringing him his revenge; that the great nation which had been the
arbiter of others’ fate, had become a suppliant for its own. “In what
way can I render you assistance?” he asked after a pause.
“Your Highness is aware,” the General answered, “that there rests upon
my shoulders a very grave responsibility, and I may be pardoned if I
confess to some anxiety for the safety of the large number of women and
children who are under my care.”
“But what is the danger you apprehend, General?” and the Nana laughed
loudly, coarsely, and it might have been gloatingly; for he stood
there, in that paradise of beauty, a spirit of evil, and in his soul
there was but one feeling--it was the feeling of revenge. His heart
throbbed revenge; in his ears a voice cried revenge. It was his only
music, night and day it went on ceaselessly; he listened to it; he
bowed down and worshipped before the god of destruction and cruelty.
For years he had prayed for the gratification of but one desire--the
desire to have these Feringhees in his power; and the answer to that
prayer was coming now. Neither wealth nor the luxury that wealth
could purchase could give him one jot of the pleasure that he would
experience in seeing the streets of Cawnpore knee-deep in English
blood. He felt himself capable of performing deeds that a Robespierre,
a Danton, a Marat, ay, even a Nero himself, would have shuddered at,
for the barbarities of the Roman tyrant were the inventions of a brain
that beyond doubt was deeply tainted with insanity. But no such excuse
as this could ever be pleaded for the Rajah of Bhitoor. It would be
impossible for the pen of fiction to make this man’s nature blacker
than it was; he was a human problem, beyond the hope of human solution;
one of those monstrosities that occasionally start up in the world of
men to appal us with their awfulness, and seemingly to substantiate the
old belief that in the garb of humanity fiends of darkness dwell upon
the earth. And yet, with a wonderful power of self-control, he betrayed
nothing of what he felt.
“Objectionable as it is for me to have to think so,” answered the
General to the Nana’s question, “there is a fire smouldering in the
breasts of the native regiments here stationed; they have caught the
taint which is in the air, and a passing breath may fan the fire into a
blaze, or the most trivial circumstance develop the disease. After what
has been done at Meerut and Delhi, we know to what length the Demon of
Discord can go when once it breaks loose!”
“I think you are alarming yourself unnecessarily, General; but, since
you desire it, pray tell me in what way my services can be utilised?”
“Firstly, then, I must ask you to post a strong body of your retainers,
with a couple of guns, at the Newab-gung. This place commands the
treasury and the magazine, both exposed places, and the first places
that will be attacked in case of a revolt.”
“You English look well after your money stores, Sir Hugh,” jocularly
remarked Azimoolah, who had been examining a large portfolio of
water-colour drawings of English “beauty spots.” And as he stepped
forward a few paces, he rubbed his hands, and his face was contorted
with a sardonic smile. I say contorted, for it was a singular
characteristic of this man that he could not laugh; the hearty
cachinnation of honest men became in this one a mere contortion of
the facial muscles; and his eyes, cold and snake-like, glittered with
a deadly light. “I noted, as the result of close observation when
in England,” he continued, “that this same money was a very much
worshipped god; and those who had it were flattered and fawned upon,
and those who had it not were the despised and rejected.”
“But is that not a principle unfortunately common to every people?” Sir
Hugh remarked.
“Possibly; but I think nowhere is it so conspicuous as in England.
And, after all, I think that there is a good deal of emptiness in the
boasted freedom of the English; for the poor are slaves in all but
name, and the task-masters of Southern America are not more grinding
or exacting than are your English lords and capitalists. The dogs and
horses of your wealthy squires are housed and fed infinitely better
than are your poor.”
“I think you are prejudiced against my nation,” said the General.
“Possibly so,” was the pointed answer, “and, perhaps, not without
cause; for I found that the English are much given to preaching what
they never think of practising; and the boasted liberality of John
Bull is a pleasant fiction, like many more of the virtues of that much
vaunted personage.”
“But to return to the subject of our conversation,” joined in the Nana,
as if fearing that Azimoolah’s feelings would betray him into some
indiscretion; and so he was anxious to put an end to the discussion.
“You wish me to place a guard over your arsenal and treasury?”
“That is my desire,” said Wheeler.
“Good; orders shall at once be given for two hundred of my retainers to
march to the Newab-gung. That point being settled satisfactorily, what
is your next request, General?”
“That you will hold your troops in instant readiness to join my little
body of men, and suppress the insurrection, should it unfortunately
break out.”
“That also shall be complied with,” smiled the Nana. “Anything further
to request?”
“I think not; but I cannot allow the opportunity to pass without
thanking your Highness for your ready acquiescence to my wishes, and in
the name of my country I further tender you thanks for your devotion
and loyalty.”
The Nana smiled again and bowed, and Azimoolah adjusted his gold
eye-glasses, and pretended to be busy in his examination of the
portfolio; but into his face came back the expression of ferocious joy,
and it was with difficulty he suppressed an audible chuckle.
The business upon which he had come being ended, the General took his
departure.
“Inflated fool!” muttered the Rajah, when his guest had gone. “Loyalty
and devotion forsooth! Umph! bitterness and hatred methinks.”
“The brow of your Highness is clouded,” said Azimoolah fawningly, as
he closed the portfolio and came forward.
“Clouded?” laughed the Nana; “no, no, Azi, clouds sit not there. It is
joy. Joy, my faithful. Ah, ah, ah, ah! Clouds, indeed! By our sacred
writings, I should be unworthy of my sire if I allowed a cloud to
darken the joy I feel. Ah, ah, ah! the confidence of these English is
amazing. They think they can put their heads into the lion’s jaw with
impunity. Well, well, let them do it. The lion knows when to close his
jaws at the right moment.”
“Say rather, your Highness, that the tiger, having scented quarry,
knows how to track it to the death with downy tread, and spring as
light as air.”
“Aptly said, Azi, and so it shall be. They shall say I _am_ the tiger
before I’ve done. Come,” linking his arm in Azimoolah’s, “let us
walk in the grounds. Order the dance for to-night, and let there be
a display of fireworks. By the beard of Mahomet, we will make merry.
‘With downy tread, and spring as light as air.’ Ah, ah, ah! So it shall
be.”
The mechanical birds were warbling sweetly, and unseen censers were
making the air balmy with delicious perfume, the silken curtains
rustled pleasantly, the falling water plashed musically. There was
peace and beauty around, above, below; but in the hearts of these two
men, as they went out, laughing sardonically, there was the deadly
poison of human hatred, and no shadow of the Great White Hand disturbed
them in the hour of their supposed triumph. Indeed the Nana believed
that the power of the British in India was fast waning, never to be
restored.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Nana Sahib was first referred to as “The Tiger of Cawnpore” by the
_Times_.
[4] This is no exaggerated description. The room was exactly as
described.