NEW HOPES OF LIBERTY.
The cry that Flora Meredith half gave vent to was not a cry of alarm,
but joy; for a head had gradually protruded from under the couch, until
the face was revealed--and the face was Zeemit Mehal’s.
“Hush, for your life!” the old woman repeated, as she revealed her
presence to the astonished girl.
But, in spite of the warning, Flora seized the hands of the faithful
Zeemit, and, as her heart beat violently, she whispered--
“God bless you, Zeemit. Your presence is new life to me.”
The woman rose very cautiously, and peered through the jalousies. Then
she listened intently for a few moments--they almost seemed like hours
to Flora, for she was burning with impatience for an explanation.
“My presence here, should it be discovered, would be death to us both,”
Zeemit whispered at last.
“But what is your object?” was Flora’s anxious query.
“To try and save you.”
“God be thanked.”
“The difficulties are so great, though, that I am afraid to hold out
much hope. I have been in the city for some days, and have made various
attempts to get into the Palace, but failed. By mingling with the
soldiers in the courtyards, however, I learnt that you were in the
habit of walking here. I determined at all hazards to try and reach
you. I succeeded last night in escaping the vigilance of the sentries
and getting into the grounds. Here I have remained since, until my old
bones are sore, and I faint for the want of food.”
“You are a faithful, noble, generous creature,” was Flora’s answer.
“The only reward I can give you now is my grateful thanks. But tell me,
Zeemit, what are your plans?”
“Alas, I have none. I am like a fly that has got into a spider’s web.
I don’t see how I am to get out. I was determined to come if that were
possible, and here I am. But the way I came, you could never go back. I
had to mount stone walls, and scramble over high hedges.”
“Oh, I would do all that,” said Flora anxiously. “Only lead the way,
and I will follow.”
“That will never do, baba. You would be missed, and before we could get
outside of the Palace grounds, re-captured, and then death would be
certain.”
“Alas, what shall become of us, then?” moaned poor Flora. “I have
suffered so terribly that I feel I cannot endure it much longer.”
She then recounted to Zeemit all that had passed since they parted, and
concluded with informing her of Moghul Singh’s proposal.
“Ah! that is good,” answered Zeemit, as she heard this.
“How is it good?” asked the astonished Flora.
“Because it presents a way of escape. Once clear of the Palace, and
there is hope. There is none while you remain here. At any moment the
King, exasperated by the desperate fighting of the English outside,
might take it into his head to order you instant death. You must go
with Moghul Singh.”
“Go with Moghul Singh!”
“Yes.”
“You do not make yourself very clear, Zeemit. Where is the advantage to
be gained by running from one danger into another?”
“You go from a greater to a lesser danger.”
“But you would not counsel me to sell myself to this man?”
“By the ‘Sacred River,’ no.”
“What is your scheme, then?”
Zeemit pondered for a little while before she answered.
“I know Moghul Singh’s house. He keeps three or four of his mistresses
there. Escape from the place would be comparatively easy.”
“Yes, yes; go on,” said Flora excitedly, as Zeemit paused again.
“If he conveyed you there these women would favour your escape, because
they would be very jealous of you. And if they let you go, they would
think that, as a Feringhee woman, you would soon be slaughtered in the
city. I could take you from there, and conceal you somewhere until a
chance presented itself to get outside.”
“Your plan seems a good one, Zeemit; and a new hope springs up. But
tell me, before you left Cawnpore, did you see Mr. Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“And what became of him?”
“I advised him to go into the defences, and promised to communicate
with him in the event of being able to set you free. But communication
is impracticable now. We must wait.”
“And do you think he still lives, Zeemit?”
“At a time like this it is hard to answer such a question. A thousand
dangers beset us all.”
“But he was alive and well when you left him?” Flora asked with a sigh.
“Yes, and hopeful.”
“Now tell me, Zeemit, what do you propose that I should do?”
“Tell Moghul Singh that you have reconsidered your decision, and that
you will go with him.”
“Yes, yes, and what then?”
“I will be near Singh’s house. I do not anticipate any difficulty in
your being able to escape from there, and we can fly together.”
“I will do it,” was Flora’s answer.
“And I give you this caution: you must do everything you possibly can
to lead Moghul to believe that you are sincere, or he might suspect
something.”
“It shall be as you suggest, Zeemit, however repulsive the task may be.”
“The only thing repulsive about it is that you will have to practise
a little deception. That cannot be avoided if you wish to save your
life. But it is time that you went away now, for it is growing dark.
Farewell, missy baba. If our plans do not miscarry, we shall meet again
soon.”
Flora pressed the hand of the faithful old ayah, and with hope once
more strong in her breast, she hurried to the Palace, while Zeemit
crept under the couch again to wait until darkness would enable her to
retrace her steps.
The following day dawned; but Moghul Singh did not appear. Another day
and another night passed, and yet Moghul did not come. Flora began to
despair again. He had never kept away before. She had fears now that
the man, dreading that she would carry out her threat of informing the
King, had fled from the Palace. And if so, her very last hope would
be gone. The suspense was awful. The only attendant she had had since
she had been confined in the Palace was an old woman who was dumb, or
professed to be. At any rate, no word ever escaped her lips in Flora’s
presence. She performed her duty sullenly, and with manifest disdain
for the Feringhee woman, so that no information could be expected from
her.
Thus a week passed--a week of most awful, agonising suspense. The guns
roared with increased vigour. In fact, they were scarcely ever silent
now, for desultory firing was kept up during the night. The siege was
being prosecuted with energy, as the English siege-train had arrived.
Flora was enabled to see from her promenade on the terrace that the
defenders were concentrating their guns at those points which commanded
the English positions. She saw also that great damage had been done
to various parts of the building, and one of the gates, of which she
had a full view, was very much battered, and was being barricaded with
massive beams of wood and heaps of gravel.
She feared from these signs that Zeemit’s fears might be realised with
reference to the King, and she was in momentary dread of seeing him or
some of his myrmidons enter her rooms to drag her out to the slaughter.
However, for several days she enjoyed a total immunity from any
intrusion, with the exception of her sullen attendant, from whom she
could derive no spark of information.
At length one morning her suspense was ended, for Moghul Singh himself
reappeared. She almost welcomed him with a cry of joy, for in him her
hopes of ultimate escape now centred.
“You have been long absent,” she said, in a tone that surprised him.
“Yes, I have been upon a journey. But if that absence had been
prolonged, it would have pleased you better, no doubt.”
“No, it would not,” she answered truthfully.
“Ah! What mean you?”
“I mean that I have missed you,” she replied, with equal truth.
“Missed me! Why so?” he cried, unable to conceal his astonishment.
“Because I have been very lonely without you. You were kind and
thoughtful.”
“And yet the last time I was here you repulsed me.”
“I did.”
“And yet you seem to welcome me now.”
“I do.”
“Explain yourself, for this is a mystery.”
“I was hasty the last time you were here. I have regretted that
hastiness since. I have been so lonely, so miserable.”
A smile of satisfaction stole over Moghul’s face as he replied,
“I thought you would come to your senses. You Englishwomen are as
fickle-minded as the wind is restless. But why have you regretted it?”
“You made me an offer when you were here before.”
“I did.”
“Does that offer still hold good?”
“Oh, oh--there is something in the air. What does this mean?”
“It means that if you are still of the same mind, I will accept your
offer and will go with you.”
“So you have thought better of your decision, then. But why this
change?”
“That question is scarcely needed. I am very wretched. I prefer to
place myself under your care than to remain longer a prisoner here; and
if you will take me away I will go with you.”
The man smiled inwardly with satisfaction. It was a triumph he had
not calculated upon, and he was surprised and gratified. No suspicion
crossed his mind, because he considered it would be impossible for a
white person to escape from the city. Whatever control was exercised
over the troops and other people about the Palace, the mobs in the
city were lawless and revengeful, and to be an European was, in their
eyes, a crime punishable with instant and cruel death. He, therefore,
felt that when once he had got her outside of the Palace she would be
thoroughly in his power, and to return to the Palace would be a feat
no less difficult of accomplishment than to get outside of the walls.
He fairly chuckled as he thought of this, and his coarse features
displayed the satisfaction he felt.
The loathing that Flora had for him was so great that it was only with
great difficulty she could prevent herself from showing it. But she
knew that in him lay her last hope, and if he failed, then all was lost
indeed.
“You have more sense than I thought you had,” he answered. “Come, give
me your hand;”--she did as he desired;--“it is a nice soft hand, and
looks very white in my black one, doesn’t it? You have fully made up
your mind to go with me, then?”
“Yes.”
“That is good. Your flight must be provided for. The King must think
you have escaped by yourself.”
“How will you manage that?”
“That is easy. Let me see now, what is the best plan? I have it. I will
procure a rope, and make one end fast to the verandah, and let the
other fall over the parapet of the terrace.”
“That is a good idea,” she answered.
“Yes, it will avert all suspicion from me.”
“When will you take me?”
“To-night.”
“At what time?”
“Late. I hold the keys of certain doors and gates, and I shall have the
passwords, so that we shall not have much difficulty in getting out.
Once clear of the Palace, a buggy shall be in waiting, and all will be
well.”
“I shall be ready for you,” she answered, as she withdrew her hand.
She felt thankful when she was alone again, for the part she had played
had taxed all her faculties to keep up. But the hours passed wearily
enough now. She alternated between hope and fear. Every sound startled
her. She watched the hands of the clock with feverish eyes. The hours
seemed to go by leaden-footed. Ten, eleven, twelve struck, still Moghul
had not come. She almost despaired. But the hour of one had barely
chimed when the key was turned in the lock of the door. The door
opened, and Moghul Singh appeared. In his hand he carried a coil of
rope and a large dark-coloured shawl.
“I am true to my promise, you see,” he said, as he handed her the
shawl. “You must conceal yourself in this as much as possible.”
She took the shawl and enveloped herself in it, while Moghul went out
on to the terrace, and having made one end of the rope fast to the
railings of the verandah, he lowered the other over.
“The sentries will have to answer for that,” he remarked, with a grin,
as he returned to the room. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come then.”
With palpitating heart and trembling limbs she followed him. He led the
way down silent corridors and dark passages, past sleeping Sepoys and
drunken servants, he moving quickly and noiselessly, she following like
a shadow, but feeling sick and ill, and with a terrible sense of fear
pressing upon her.
The open air was reached at last; the night breeze blew refreshingly
cool upon her fevered face.
“We must be cautious here,” he whispered.
It was a large courtyard they had to cross, but nothing seemed to be
stirring but themselves. He opened a gate with a key which he took from
his pocket, and then they stood in a private road. Down this road he
led her for some distance till a small strip of jungle was reached.
Here in the shadow of the trees a buggy and horse were standing. A
native boy was holding the horse’s head. Moghul helped Flora into the
vehicle; when she was seated he drew his tulwar, and approaching the
boy, who still held the reins, he almost severed his head from his
body; then, springing into the buggy, he cried--“Dead men tell no
tales.”
The deed was so sudden, that there was scarcely time for reflection,
but Flora almost fainted with horror as she witnessed it.
Moghul whipped the horse. It started off at a gallop, and very soon the
Palace was left far in the rear.