AS WITH AN ENCHANTER’S WAND.
During the terrible night--a night full of hope for the starving,
miserable people in the Cawnpore entrenchments--the little garrison
were busy making preparation for their departure on the morrow.
That is, such preparations as they could make, which, for the most
part, consisted of gathering together the trifling remnants of their
treasures. Here, a treasured portrait was carefully stowed away; there,
a lock of hair cut by loving hands from the head of some dear one,
whose earthly troubles were ended, was wrapped up and placed between
the leaves of a well-worn Bible, so that it might serve in future time
as a sorrowful memento of that awful siege.
Through those dreary hours of darkness there was one who sat apart from
his companions; he was weary and jaded, but sleep refused to visit
him. This was Walter Gordon. As he sat there, with his head bowed on
his hands, it would have been almost impossible to have detected the
European in the guise of the native, for he still wore the costume in
which he had left Meerut. And the disguise was rendered more perfect by
long exposure of the sun, and by smoke and grime from the powder which
seemed to have literally been burnt into the skin.
An unutterable grief appeared to be pressing him down; for his thoughts
wandered to one whom he dare not hope could be alive and well. The plan
arranged by Zeemit Mehal for Miss Meredith’s rescue had, so far as he
was able to judge, resulted in nothing, because however successful she
might have been, the investing enemy had prevented any news reaching
him from the outside world; and even if Zeemit had been able to get
Flora free from Delhi, he knew that, without assistance, speedy
recapture must result.
During the long weeks that he had been shut up in the entrenchments,
the excitement of the siege had prevented his thoughts from dwelling
too closely upon his troubles. But now that that excitement was over,
and the reaction set in, he felt an anguish of mind and body that
almost threatened to upset his reason. The promise of the coming
release gave him no pleasurable feeling. His business was ruined; the
fate of the woman who was to have been his wife unknown; nearly all his
friends killed; and he, lonely and broken-hearted, a wreck compared to
what he was a few bright happy weeks ago. As the memory of that night
in Meerut, when Flora Meredith had warned him of the coming danger,
rose up before him, he felt that it would be a relief if any one of the
enemy’s shot would but come and cut his thread of life. He had allowed
her warning to pass unheeded; nay, had absolutely laughed it to scorn,
as the emanation of one who was morbid and out of sorts. He might have
saved her then, have saved his possessions, and all belonging to him
and her. But he remained inactive. He allowed the precious moments to
glide by, until the storm burst in all its fury, and escape from its
consequences was impossible.
He gave up all thoughts of ever seeing his friend Harper again. It was
true that sufficient time had not elapsed for the succour to arrive,
even if he had managed to live through the thousand dangers he would
have to face. But it was such a forlorn hope, that Gordon felt it was
a fallacy to cherish any expectation of again seeing him. Life, as
viewed through the medium which then presented itself, seemed to have
practically ended for him. If he reached Allahabad, it would be but
as a storm-tossed waif, thrown up, as it were, by a raging sea that
had washed away all that was dear and precious, leaving him lonely and
broken-hearted, to curse the unlucky chance that had saved him.
These were his melancholy reflections. After all he had endured, it was
scarcely matter for wonder that they should be gloomy and tinged with
morbidness.
There are moments sometimes in a person’s existence when life seems
full of nameless horrors--when death is viewed in the light of a loving
friend who brings peace and rest.
Such a moment as this was Walter’s experience. His cup of sorrow
was full; it was overflowing, but then, when the tide has reached
its highest flood, it commences to recede. Night was nearly passed.
The fairy-like glamour which precedes the coming dawn, especially
in India, was over the land. It was like a flush on the face of
nature--surrounding objects were commencing to assert their presence.
The outlines of trees and buildings could be faintly discerned,
standing out against the roseate-flushed sky.
With the departing darkness and coming light, a faint glimmer of hope
appeared upon the path of Walter Gordon; he began to think that things
might not be so bad after all; and then his senses were suddenly
and unexpectedly soothed by the melody of a bird. For weeks the roar
of the guns had scared all the feathered songsters away; but the
cessation of the din for the last twenty-four hours had induced a
stray bul-bul--that gem of the Indian feather tribe--to alight on the
branches of a blackened and shot-shattered tree which stood some little
distance away.
Perhaps the tiny singer had wandered from its tribe, and, missing the
rich foliage which the storm of fire had destroyed over an extensive
area, it was uttering a lament; for there was ruin, desolation, and
decaying mortality around--the work of man’s hand; and the song of the
bird might have been a song of sorrow. Who can tell? But as it sat
there a mere speck on the leafless and blackened tree, and trilled its
beautiful and mellow notes that sounded clear and soft on the still
morning air, the soul of Walter Gordon was touched.
The wand of the enchanter, in the shape of the piping bul-bul, had
changed the scene. From the fierce glare and the strife-torn land of
India, he was suddenly transported to his native shores. He saw the
peaceful valleys of smiling England--he heard the clanking of the
wheels of industry as they brought bread to toiling millions, and sent
forth their produce to all the corners of the earth. He saw the happy
homes where the laughter of merry children made light the hearts of
their parents. He saw that land with all its beauty--a land free from
the deadly strife of contending armies; and, as the vision passed
before him, hope sprang up again strong and bright with the dawning
day. The little bul-bul’s notes had been to him like a draught of an
elixir that can banish the sickness of the heart, and lift up the
human soul from darkness into light.
The bird’s notes ceased, but another sound fell upon his ear. It was
a long-drawn sigh of a woman. It was Haidee. She had been sleeping on
a sheepskin some few yards away from where Gordon was sitting. As he
turned his eyes to where her form reposed, he remembered the promise he
had made to Harper with reference to this woman. During the few days
that had elapsed since his friend’s departure, he had tended to Haidee
with the loving solicitude of a brother. He had told her of all his
troubles, and how by a most singular chance Flora had been separated
from him again, and conveyed back to Delhi.
And he felt now, as he turned to Haidee, that for his friend’s sake--a
friend he looked upon as dead--it was his sacred duty to protect her
until he could place her out of the reach of danger.
He knew but little about her, for Harper had volunteered no information
beyond the fact that she was from the King’s Palace, and to her he owed
his life. It was sufficient for him to know that this was the case--to
feel for her in Harper’s behalf all the anxiety and tenderness which
was due to her sex.
He had speedily discovered that she was possessed of a true woman’s
nature, and that she entertained a strong love for his friend. But he
looked upon it purely as a Platonic feeling, for he had too much faith
in Harper’s integrity to think that he would have encouraged any other.
“You have slept soundly, Haidee,” he remarked, as he observed that she
opened her eyes.
“I have had a dreamful sleep,” she made answer, as she sat up, and
pushed back her beautiful hair, tarnished somewhat, and tangled with
smoke and dust, but beautiful still. Her face, too, was a little worn,
and a look of anxious care sat upon it; but the shocks and jars of the
last few weeks had affected her much less than it had her companions in
sorrow.
“I trust that at least they have been pleasant dreams,” Gordon
answered, as he shook Haidee’s hand; for she had risen and moved to
where he was sitting.
“Alas, no! I dreamt that your friend Harper was lying cold and
dead--that he had died for the want of help and care, and I was not
there to administer comfort to him.”
“But you know, Haidee, we say that dreams always go by the contrary,”
Gordon answered, trying to force a smile; but it was but a melancholy
attempt, for he knew that his words belied the thoughts of his heart.
“Perhaps so,” she said, sighing heavily. “Fortune has favoured him so
far that she might still continue to smile upon him. But then he was
weak from his illness, and the risks he would have to run before he
could get clear of this city were numerous and great.”
“True; but we will not despair. We have all stood in deadly peril,
and yet we live; and this dawning day brings us relief from our
tribulation.”
“I am not so sure of that,” she answered, hurriedly.
“What do you mean, Haidee? Has not the Nana promised us safe escort to
Allahabad?”
“He has promised--yes.”
“Your words have a ring of doubt in them, as though you had no faith in
the Nana’s promise.”
“I have no faith. I fear treachery.”
“Your fear is surely a groundless one, then. The capitulation has been
put into black and white; and however bad the Nana Sahib may be, he is
bound to recognise those usages of war common to every civilisation.”
“I tell you I have strange forebodings of evil. I believe the man’s
nature to be cruel enough for anything.”
“Hush! Haidee! Do not let your words reach the ears of our
fellow-sufferers, or they will only cause unnecessary alarm.”
“I have no desire to be a prophet of evil, but I believe it would have
been better to have held out until every ounce of powder had gone
rather than have trusted to the mercy of the Nana Sahib. However, your
people shall go, and as they depart I will waft my good wishes after
them.”
“Waft your good wishes after them! Really, Haidee, you are talking
strangely, and as if you did not intend to go.”
“I do not intend to go.”
“Why?” he asked, quite unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Because for me to go would be to go to certain death. Even if I
escaped recognition by the Nana--which would be almost impossible, for
he knows me well, having often seen me at the Palace--my nationality
would condemn me; there would scarcely be a native whose arm would not
be raised to strike me down.”
“But the protection which Nana Sahib is bound to afford to us, in
accordance with the terms of treaty, must likewise be extended to you.”
“I tell you, you do not know these men. In my case they would be bound
by no terms. They would say that I had been treacherous to the King,
and, not being a British subject, my life was forfeited. Not that I
fear death. But for the sake of him who is dearer far to me than life,
I must try and live, that I may serve his friends--if that is possible.”
“But do you know, Haidee, that he placed you in my care; and if I allow
you to remain behind, I shall be guilty of breaking the promise I made
to him, that I would never lose sight of you as long as I lived.”
“My mind is made up, Mr. Gordon; I shall remain behind.”
“Then, at all hazards, I remain too.”
“I am glad of that.”
“But what do you propose doing?”
“Returning to Delhi.”
“Returning to Delhi?”
“Yes. You told me that the lady who was to be your wife had been
conveyed back to that city.”
“I did.”
“Then what I have done once I may be able to do again.”
Gordon’s heart quickened its beating. Haidee’s word opened out new
prospects that he had not before thought of. At any rate, however
slender might be the reed, he clutched at it with desperate energy.
What might not a determined woman and a man actuated by love
accomplish? Still, whatever her scheme might be, it was as yet to him
misty and undefined.
“My plan is this,” she continued, after a pause. “We must conceal
ourselves somewhere about the entrenchments until night falls again.
The disguise which has served you in such good stead so far will serve
you still further, if you are discreet, and do not use your voice.
Under cover of the darkness we can escape from this place, and retrace
our steps to Delhi. I do not think we shall experience any difficulty
in gaining entrance to the city. Once there, I have plenty of friends
who will give us aid and shelter so long as they do not penetrate your
disguise. We shall soon be able to learn news of Miss Meredith and
Zeemit Mehal, and if we cannot render them assistance at once, we can
wait near them, until an opportunity occurs.”
“I like your plan,” Gordon answered, thoughtfully. “It seems to me to
be full of promise. At any rate, if the scheme appeared more chimerical
than it really does, I should be inclined to follow it out, so long
as there was even a shadowy chance of succeeding in my mission. I owe
my presence here to a strange chance. Once released, and I am free to
follow her who has been so cruelly separated from me. In your hands,
then, I place myself, Haidee. And I am sure, for the sake of our mutual
friend, whether he be living or dead, that you will do all that a brave
and noble woman can do.”
“Living or dead,” she sighed, as if his words had sunk deep into her
soul. “Yes, living or dead, I devote my life to serving him, or those
belonging to him.”
“Our faiths may differ, Haidee,” Gordon answered; “but rest assured
there is an Almighty Power that will bless your efforts and reward your
devotion.”
She turned her large, truthful eyes full upon the speaker, and replied
in a low tone--
“Yes, the Christian’s God is good, and some day I will seek to know
more about Him.”
It soon spread through the little garrison that Gordon and Haidee
had determined to remain behind. No opposition was offered to this
determination. They both were free agents, and at liberty to act upon
their own responsibility; but not a few of the people looked upon it as
a foolhardy step, and thought that they were running unnecessary risk.
As the sun sprang up in the heavens--for in the Indian climate it
may truly be said to spring up--the sounds of a bugle broke upon the
morning air; it was the signal for the sentries to come in, and for
the garrison to arouse. The sounds of that bugle revivified the hopes
that had all but died in the poor crushed hearts. As the weary people
gathered themselves together, those notes were like the kindly voice
of a friend calling them to rest, and telling them that their trials
were over. Alas! they little dreamt that it sounded their death-knell.
If some pitying angel had but whispered to them never to stir beyond
the mud walls of their defences, what soul-wrung anguish they might
have been spared; but it is written that man shall suffer. The doom of
those poor creatures was not yet fulfilled, and they must go forth.
Again the bugle sounded; this time for the march. Then the barriers
were withdrawn, and forth from the defences they had so heroically held
went the people. A tattered and torn British ensign, nailed to a bamboo
staff, was carried at the head of the procession. The black demons,
who swarmed around in thousands, might insult that flag, they might
spit upon it, trample it into the dust, but they could never quell the
dauntless courage of the lion hearts who owned its sway. The ragged
flag flaunted proudly in the breeze, and the ragged crew, each of their
pouches filled with sixty rounds of ammunition, and bearing on their
shoulders their guns with fixed bayonets that flashed in the sunlight,
straggled on. Haidee and Gordon had concealed themselves in an
outbuilding--it was simply a heap of ruined brickwork, for it had been
battered to pieces with the enemy’s grape; but the fact of its being in
ruins was in their favour, as they were less likely to be discovered by
intruders. In about half an hour the last of the garrison had departed,
and the entrenchments were left to silence and the dead.