A NIGHT IN MAY
Winifred, quite unconsciously, had stated the actual incident that led
to the outbreak of the Mutiny. The hot weather was so trying for the
white troops in Meerut, many of whom, under ordinary conditions, would
then have been in the hills, that the General had ordered a Church
Parade in the evening, and at an unusual hour.
All day long the troopers of the 3d Cavalry nursed their wrath at
the fate of their comrades who had refused to handle the suspected
cartridges. They had seen men whom they regarded as martyrs stripped
of their uniforms and riveted in chains in front of the whole garrison
on the morning of the 9th. Though fear of the British force in the
cantonment kept them quiet, Hindu vied with Mussalman in muttered
execrations of the dominant race. The fact that the day following the
punishment parade was a Sunday brought about a certain relaxation from
discipline. The men loafed in the bazaars, were taunted by courtesans
with lack of courage, and either drowned their troubles in strong drink
or drew together in knots to talk treason.
Suddenly a sepoy raced up to the cavalry lines with thrilling news.
"The Rifles and Artillery are coming to disarm all the native
regiments!" he shouted.
He had watched the 60th falling in for the Church Parade, and, in view
of the action taken at Barrackpore and Lucknow--sepoy battalions having
been disbanded in both stations for mutinous conduct--he instantly
jumped to the conclusion that the military authorities at Meerut meant
to steal a march on the disaffected troops. His warning cry was as a
torch laid to a gunpowder train.
The 3d Cavalry, Malcolm's own corps, swarmed out of bazaar and quarters
like angry wasps. Nearly half the regiment ran to secure their picketed
horses, armed themselves in hot haste, and galloped to the gaol.
Smashing open the door, they freed the imprisoned troopers, struck off
their fetters, and took no measures to prevent the escape of the general
horde of convicts. Yet, even in that moment of frenzy, some of the men
remained true to their colors. Captain Craigie and Lieutenant Melville
Clarke, hearing the uproar, mounted their chargers, rode to the lines,
and actually brought their troop to the parade ground in perfect
discipline. Meanwhile, the alarm had spread to the sepoys. No one knew
exactly what caused all the commotion. Wild rumors spread, but no man
could speak definitely. The British officers of the 11th and 20th
regiments were getting their men into something like order when a
sowar[2] clattered up, and yelled to the infantry that the European
troops were marching to disarm them.
[Footnote 2: It should be explained that a sepoy (properly "sipahi") is
an infantry soldier, and a sowar a mounted one. The English equivalents
are "private" and "trooper."]
At once, the 20th broke in confusion, seized their muskets, and procured
ammunition. The 11th wavered, and were listening to the appeal of their
beloved commanding officer, Colonel Finnis, when some of the 20th came
back and fired at him. He fell, pierced with many bullets, the first
victim of India's Red Year. His men hesitated no longer. Afire with
religious fanaticism, they, too, armed themselves, and dispersed in
search of loot and human prey. They acted on no preconcerted plan. The
trained troops simply formed the nucleus of an armed mob, its numbers
ever swelling as the convicts from the gaol, the bad characters from the
city, and even the native police, joined in the work of murder and
destruction. They had no leader. Each man emulated his neighbor in
ferocity. Like a pack of wolves on the trail, they followed the scent of
blood.
The rapid spread of the revolt was not a whit less marvelous than its
lack of method or cohesion. Many writers have put forward the theory
that, by accident, the mutiny broke out half an hour too soon, and that
the rebels meant to surprise the unarmed white garrison while in church.
In reality, nothing was further from their thoughts. If, in a nebulous
way, a date was fixed for a combined rising of the native army, it was
Sunday, May 31, three weeks later than the day of the outbreak. The
soldiers, helped by the scum of the bazaar, after indulging in an orgy
of bloodshed and plunder, dispersed and ran for their lives, fearing
that the avenging British were hot on their heels. And that was all.
There was no plan, no settled purpose. Hate and greed nerved men's
hands, but head there was none.
Malcolm's ride towards the center of the station gave proof in plenty
that the mutineers were a disorganized rabble, inspired only by
unreasoning rancor against all Europeans, and, like every mob, eager for
pillage. At first, he met but few native soldiers. The rioters were
budmashes, the predatory class which any city in the world can produce
in the twinkling of an eye when the strong arm of the law is paralyzed.
Armed with swords and clubs, gangs of men rushed from house to house,
murdering the helpless inmates, mostly women and children, seizing such
valuables as they could find, and setting the buildings on fire. These
ghouls practised the most unheard-of atrocities. They spared no one.
Finding a woman lying ill in bed, they poured oil over the bed clothes,
and thus started, with a human holocaust, the fire that destroyed the
bungalow.
They were rank cowards, too. Another Englishwoman, also an invalid, was
fortunate in possessing a devoted ayah. This faithful creature saved her
mistress by her quick-witted shriek that the mem-sahib must be avoided
at all costs, as she was suffering from smallpox! The destroyers fled in
terror, not waiting even to fire the house.
It was not until later days that Malcolm knew the real nature of the
scene through which he rode. He saw the flames, he heard the Mohammedan
yell of "Ali! Ali!" and the Hindu shriek of "Jai! Jai!" but the quick
fall of night, its growing dusk deepened by the spreading clouds of
smoke, and his own desperate haste to reach the cavalry lines, prevented
him from appreciating the full extent of the horrors surrounding his
path.
Arrived at the parade ground, he met Craigie and Melville Clarke, with
the one troop that remained of the regiment of which he was so proud.
There were no other officers to be seen, so these three held a
consultation. They were sure that the white troops would soon put an end
to the prevalent disorder, and they decided to do what they could,
within a limited area, to save life and property. Riding towards his own
bungalow to obtain a sword and a couple of revolvers, Malcolm came upon
a howling mob in the act of swarming into the compound of Craigie's
house. Some score of troopers heard his fierce cry for help, and fell
upon the would-be murderers, for Mrs. Craigie and her children were
alone in the bungalow. The riff-raff were soon driven off, and Malcolm,
not yet realizing the gravity of the _emeute_, told the men to safeguard
the mem-sahib until they received further orders, while he went to
rejoin his senior officer.
Incredible as it may seem, the tiny detachment obeyed him to the letter.
They held the compound against repeated assaults, and lost several men
in hand-to-hand fighting.
The history of that terrible hour is brightened by many such instances
of native fealty. The Treasury Guard, composed of men of the 8th
Irregular Cavalry, not only refused to join the rebels but defended
their charge boldly. A week later, of their own free will, they escorted
the treasure and records from Meerut to Agra, the transfer being made
for greater safety, and beat off several attacks by insurgents on the
way. They were well rewarded for their fidelity, yet, such was the power
of fanaticism, within less than two months they deserted to a man!
The acting Commissioner of Meerut, Mr. Greathed, whose residence was in
the center of the sacked area, took his wife to the flat roof of his
house when he found that escape was impossible. A gang of ruffians
ransacked every room, and, piling the furniture, set it alight, but a
trustworthy servant, named Golab Khan, told them that he would reveal
the hiding-place of the sahib and mem-sahib if they followed quickly. He
thus decoyed them away, and the fortunate couple were enabled to reach
the British lines under cover of the darkness.
And, while the sky flamed red over a thousand fires, and the blood of
unhappy Europeans, either civilian families or the wives and children of
military officers, was being spilt like water, where were the two
regiments of white troops who, by prompt action, could have saved Meerut
and prevented the siege of Delhi?
That obvious question must receive a strange answer. They were
bivouacked on their parade-ground, doing nothing. The General in command
of the station was a feeble old man, suffering from senile decay. His
Brigadier, Archdale Wilson, issued orders that were foolish. He sent the
Dragoons to guard the empty gaol! After a long delay in issuing
ammunition to the Rifles, he marched them and the gunners to the
deserted parade-ground of the native infantry. They found a few belated
sowars of the 3d Cavalry, who took refuge in a wood, and the artillery
opened fire at the trees! News came that the rebels were plundering the
British quarters, and the infantry went there in hot haste. And then
they halted, though the mutineers were crying, "Quick, brother, quick!
The white men are coming!" and the scared suggestion went round: "To
Delhi! That is our only chance!"
The moon rose on a terrified mob trudging or riding the forty miles of
road between Meerut and the Mogul capital. All night long they expected
to hear the roar of the pursuing guns, to find the sabers of the
Dragoons flashing over their heads. But they were quite safe. Archdale
Wilson had ordered his men to bivouac, and they obeyed, though it is
within the bounds of probability that had the rank and file known what
the morrow's sun would reveal, there might have been another Mutiny in
Meerut that night, a Mutiny of Revenge and Reprisal.
It was not that wise and courageous counsel was lacking. Captain Rosser
offered to cut off the flight of the rebels to Delhi if one squadron of
his dragoons and a few guns were given to him. Lieutenant Moeller, of the
11th Native Infantry, appealed to General Hewitt for permission to ride
alone to Delhi, and warn the authorities there of the outbreak.
Sanction was refused in both cases. The bivouac was evidently deemed a
masterpiece of strategy.
That Moeller would have saved Delhi cannot be doubted. Next day, finding
that the wife of a brother officer had been killed, he sought and
obtained evidence of the identity of the poor lady's murderer, traced
the man, followed him, arrested him single-handed, and brought him
before a drumhead court martial, by whose order he was hanged forthwith.
Craigie, Rosser, Moeller, and a few other brave spirits showed what could
have been done. But negligence and apathy were stronger that night than
courage or self-reliance. For good or ill, the torrent of rebellion was
suffered to break loose, and it soon engulfed a continent.
Malcolm failed to find Craigie, who had taken his troop in the direction
of some heavy firing. Passing a bungalow that was blazing furiously, he
saw in the compound the corpses of two women. A little farther on, he
discovered the bodies of a man and four children in the center of the
road, and he recognized, in the man, a well-known Scotch trader whose
shop was the largest and best in Meerut.
Then, for the first time, he understood what this appalling thing meant.
He thought of Winifred, and his blood went cold. She and her uncle were
alone in that remote house, far away on the Aligarh Road, and completely
cut off from the comparatively safe northerly side of the station.
Giving heed to nought save this new horror of his imagination, he
wheeled Nejdi, and rode at top speed towards Mr. Mayne's bungalow. As he
neared it, his worst fears were confirmed. One wing was on fire, but the
flames had almost burnt themselves out. Charred beams and blackened
walls showed stark and gaunt in the glow of a smoldering mass of
wreckage. Twice he rode round the ruined house, calling he knew not what
in his agony, and looking with the eyes of one on the verge of lunacy
for some dread token of the fate that had overtaken the inmates.
He came across several bodies. They were all natives. One or two were
servants, he fancied, but the rest were marauders from the city. Calming
himself, with the coolness of utter despair, he dismounted, and examined
the slain. Their injuries had been inflicted with some sharp, heavy
instrument. None of them bore gunshot wounds. That was strange. If there
was a fight, and Mayne, perhaps even Winifred, had taken part in the
defense, they must have used the sporting rifles in the house. And that
suggested an examination of the dark interior. He dreaded the task, but
it must not be shirked.
The porch was intact, and he hung Nejdi's bridle on the hook where he
had placed it little more than an hour ago. The spacious drawing-room
had been gutted. The doors (Indian bungalows have hardly any windows,
each door being half glass) were open front and back. The room was
empty, thank Heaven! He was about to enter and search the remaining
apartments which had escaped the fire when a curiously cracked voice
hailed him from the foot of the garden.
"Hallt! Who go dare?" it cried, in the queer jargon of the native
regiments.
Malcolm saw a man hurrying toward him. He recognized him as a pensioner
named Syed Mir Khan, an Afghan. The old man, a born fire-eater, insisted
on speaking English to the _sahib-log_, unless, by rare chance, he
encountered some person acquainted with Pushtu, his native language.
"I come quick, sahib," he shouted. "I know all things. I save sahib and
miss-sahib. Yes, by dam, I slewed the cut-heads."
As he came nearer, he brandished a huge tulwar, and the split skulls
and severed vertebrae of certain gentry lying in the garden became
explicable. Delighted in having a sahib to listen, he went on:
"The mob appearing, I attacked them with great ferocity--yes, like
terrible lion, by George. My fighting was immense. I had many actions
with the pigs."
At last, he quieted down sufficiently to tell Malcolm what had happened.
He, with others, thinking the miss-sahib had gone to church, was smoking
the hookah of gossip in a neighboring compound. It was an instance of
the amazing rapidity with which the rioters spread over the station that
a number of them reached the Maynes' bungalow five minutes after the
first alarm was given. It should be explained here that Mr. Mayne, being
a Commissioner of Oudh, was only visiting Meerut in order to learn the
details of a system of revenue collection which it was proposed to adopt
on the sequestered estates of the Oudh taluqdars. He had rented one of
the best houses in the place, the owner being in Simla, and Syed Mir
Khan held a position akin to that of caretaker in a British household.
The looters knew how valuable were the contents of such an important
residence, and the earliest contingent thought they would have matters
entirely their own way.
As soon as Malcolm left, however, Mr. Mayne loaded all his guns, while
Winifred made more successful search for some of the servants. The
Afghan was true to his salt, and their own retainers, who had come with
them from Lucknow, remained steadfast at this crisis. Hence, the mob
received a warm reception, but the fighting had taken place outside the
bungalow, the defenders lining a wall at the edge of the compound.
Indeed, a score of bodies lying there had not been seen by Malcolm
during his first frenzied examination of the house.
Then an official of the Salt Department, driving past with his wife and
child, shouted to Mr. Mayne that he must not lose an instant if he would
save his niece and himself.
"The sepoys have risen," was the horrifying message he brought. "They
have surprised and killed all the white troops. They are sacking the
whole station. You see the fires there? That is their work. This road is
clear, but the Delhi road is blocked."
Some distant yelling caused the man to flog his horse into a fast trot
again; and he and his weeping companions vanished into the gloom.
Mayne could not choose but believe. Indeed, many days elapsed before a
large part of India would credit the fact that the British regiments in
Meerut had not been massacred. A carriage and pair were harnessed.
Several servants were mounted on all the available horses and ponies,
and Mr. Mayne and Winifred had gone down the Grand Trunk Road towards
Bulandshahr and Aligarh.
"Going half an hour," said Syed Mir Khan, volubly. "I stand fast,
slaying budmashes. They make rush in thousands, and I retreat with great
glory. Then they put blazes in bungalow."
Now, Malcolm also might have accepted the sensational story of the Salt
Department inspector, if, at that instant, the boom of a heavy gun had
not come from the direction of the sepoy parade-ground. Another
followed, and another, in the steady sequence of a trained battery. As
he had just ridden from that very spot, which was then almost deserted,
he was sure that the British troops had come from their cantonment. The
discovery that Winifred was yet living, and in comparative safety,
cleared his brain as though he had partaken of some magic elixir. He
knew that Meerut itself was now the safest refuge within a hundred
miles. Probably the bulk of the mutineers would strive to reach Delhi,
and, of course, the dragoons and artillery would cut them off during the
night. But he had seen many squads of rebels, mounted and on foot,
hastening along the Grand Trunk Road, and it was no secret that
detachments of the 9th Native Infantry at Bulandshahr and Aligarh were
seething with Brahminical hatred of the abhorred cartridges.
Each second he became more convinced that Winifred and her uncle were
being carried into a peril far greater than that which they had escaped.
Decision and action were the same thing where he was concerned. Bidding
the Afghan endeavor to find Captain Craigie, who might be trusted to
send a portion of his troop to scour the road for some miles, and
assuring the man of a big reward for his services, Frank mounted and
galloped south. He counted on overtaking the fugitives in an hour, and
persuading them to return with him. He rode with drawn sword, lest he
might be attacked on the way, but it was a remarkable tribute to
Moeller's wisdom in offering to ride to Delhi that no man molested him,
and such sepoys as he passed skulked off into the fields where they saw
the glint of his saber and recognized him as a British officer. They had
no difficulty in that respect. A glorious full moon was flooding the
peaceful plain with light. The trunks of the tall trees lining the road
barred its white riband with black shadows, but Nejdi, good horse that
he was, felt that this was no time for skittishness, and repressed the
inclination to jump these impalpable obstacles.
And he made excellent progress. Eight miles from Meerut, in a tiny
village of mud hovels which horse and rider had every reason to
remember, they suddenly dashed into a large company of mounted men and
a motley collection of vehicles. There were voices raised, too, in
heated dispute, and a small crowd was gathered near a lumbering
carriage, whose tawdry trappings and display of gold work betokened the
state equipage of some native dignitary.
Drawn up by its side was a European traveling barouche, empty, but
Malcolm's keen eyes soon picked out the figures of Winifred and her
uncle, standing in the midst of an excited crowd of natives. So great
was the hubbub that he was not noticed until he pulled up.
"I have come to bring you back to Meerut, Mr. Mayne," he cried. "The
mutiny has been quelled. Our troops are in command of the station and of
all the main roads. You can return without the slightest risk, I assure
you."
He spoke clearly and slowly, well knowing that some among the natives
would understand him. His appearance, no less than his words, created a
rare stir. The clamor of tongues was stilled. Men looked at him as
though he had fallen from the sky. He could not be certain, but he
guessed, that he had arrived at a critical moment. Indeed, the lives of
his friends were actually in deadliest jeopardy, and there was no
knowing what turn the events of the next minute might have taken. But a
glance at Winifred's distraught face told him a good deal. He must be
bold, with the careless boldness of the man who has the means of making
his will respected.
"Stand aside, there!" he said in Hindustani. "And you had better clear
the roadway. A troop of cavalry is riding fast behind."
He dismounted, drew Nejdi's bridle over his left arm, and went towards
Winifred. The girl looked at him with a wistfulness that was pitiful.
Hope was struggling in her soul against the fear of grim death.
"Oh, Frank!" she sighed, holding out both her hands. "Oh, Frank, I am so
frightened. We had a dreadful time at the bungalow, and these men look
so fierce and cruel! Have you really brought help?"
"Yes," he said confidently. "You need have no further anxiety. Please
get into your carriage."
Mr. Mayne said something, but Malcolm never knew what it was, for
Winifred fainted, and would have fallen had he not caught her.
"This Feringhi has a loud voice," a man near him growled. "He talks of
cavalry. Where are they?"
"The Meerut road is empty," commented another.
"We have the Begum's order," said the first speaker, more loudly. "Let
us obey, or it may be an evil thing for us."
"One of the daughters of Bahadur Shah is here," murmured Mayne rapidly.
"She says we are to be taken to Delhi, and slain if we resist. Where are
your men? My poor niece! To think that I should have brought her from
England for this!"
Malcolm, still holding Winifred's unconscious form clasped to his
breast, laughed loudly.
"Mayne-sahib tells me that you have all gone mad," he shouted in the
vernacular. "Have you no ears? Did you not hear the British artillery
firing on the rebels a little time since? Ere day breaks the road to
Delhi will be held by the white troops. What foolish talk is this of
taking Mayne-sahib thither as a prisoner?"
The door of the bedizened traveling-coach was flung open, and the
Mohammedan lady who had befriended Frank when he fell into the moat
appeared. She alighted, and her aggressive servants drew away somewhat.
"It is my order," she said imperiously. "Who are you that you should
dispute it?"
"I regret the heat of my words, Princess," he replied, grasping the
frail chance that presented itself of wriggling out of a desperate
situation. "Nevertheless, it is true that the native regiments at Meerut
have been dispersed, and you yourself may have heard the guns as they
advanced along the Delhi road. Why should I be here otherwise? I came to
escort my friends back to Meerut."
The Princess came nearer. In the brilliant moonlight she had an
unearthly beauty--at once weird and Sybilline--but her animated features
were chilled with disdain, and she pointed to the girl whose pallid face
lay against Frank's shoulder.
"You are lying," she said. "You are not the first man who has lied for a
woman's sake. That is why you are here."
"Princess, I have spoken nothing but the truth," he answered. "If you
still doubt my word, let some of your men ride back with us. They will
soon convince you. Perchance, the information may not be without its
value to you also."
The thrust was daring, but she parried it adroitly.
"No matter what has happened in Meerut, the destined end is the same,"
she retorted. Then she fired into subdued passion. "The British
Raj is doomed," she muttered, lowering her voice, and bringing her
magnificent eyes close to his. "It is gone, like an evil dream. Listen,
Malcolm-sahib. You are a young man, and ambitious. They say you are a
good soldier. Come with me. I want some one I can trust. Though I am a
king's daughter, there are difficulties in my path that call for a sword
in the hands of a man not afraid to use it. Come! Let that weakling girl
go where she lists--I care not. I offer you life, and wealth, and a
career. She will lead you to death. What say you? Choose quickly. I am
now going to Delhi, and to-morrow's sun shall see my father a king in
reality as well as in name."
Malcolm's first impression was that the Princess had lost her senses. He
had yet to learn how completely the supporters of the Mogul dynasty were
convinced of the approaching downfall of British supremacy in India.
But his active brain fastened on to two considerations of exceeding
importance. By temporizing, by misleading this arrogant woman, if
necessary, he might not only secure freedom for Winifred and Mayne,
but gather most valuable information as to the immediate plans of the
rebels.
"Your words are tempting to a soldier of fortune, Princess," he said.
"Malcolm--" broke in Mayne, who, of course, understood all that passed.
"For Heaven's sake do not interfere," said Frank in English. "Suffer my
friends to depart, Princess," he went on in Persian. "It is better so.
Then I shall await your instructions."
"Ah, you agree, then? That is good hearing. Yes, your white doll can go,
and the gray-beard, too. Ere many days have passed there will be no
place for them in all India."
A commotion among the ring of soldiers and servants interrupted her. The
stout, important-looking man whom Malcolm had seen in the hunting lodge
on the occasion of his ducking, came towards them with hurried strides.
The Princess seemed to be disconcerted by his arrival. Her expressive
face betrayed her. Sullen anger, not unmixed with fear, robbed her of
her good looks. Her whole aspect changed. She had the cowed appearance
of one of her own serving-women.
"Remember!" she murmured. "You must obey me, none else. Come when I send
for you!"
The man, who now carried on his forehead the insignia of a Brahmin, had
no sooner reached the small space between the carriages than Mr. Mayne
cried delightedly to Malcolm:
"Why, if this is not Nana Sahib! Here is a piece of good luck! I know
him well. If he has any control over this mob, we are perfectly safe."
Nana Sahib acknowledged the Commissioner's greeting with smiling
politeness. But first he held a whispered colloquy with the Princess,
whom he entreated, or persuaded, to re-enter her gorgeous vehicle. She
drove away without another glance at Malcolm. Perhaps she did not dare
to show her favor in the newcomer's presence.
Then Nana Sahib turned to the Europeans.
"Let the miss-sahib be placed in her carriage," he said suavely. "She
will soon revive in the air, and we march at once for Aligarh. Will you
accept my escort thus far, Mayne-sahib, or farther south, if you wish
it? I think you will be safer with me than in taking the Meerut road
to-night."
Mayne agreed gladly. The commanding influence of this highly-placed
native nobleman, who, despite an adverse decision of the Government, was
regarded by every Mahratta as Peishwa, the ruler of a vast territory in
Western India, seemed to offer more stable support that night than the
broken reed of British authority in Meerut. Moreover, the Commissioner
wished to reach Lucknow without delay. If the country were in for a
period of disturbance, his duty lay there, and he was planning already
to send Winifred to Calcutta from Cawnpore, and thence to England until
the time of political trouble had passed.
"I am sure I am doing right," he said in answer to Frank's
remonstrances. "Don't you understand, a native in Nana Sahib's position
must be well informed as to the exact position of affairs. By helping
me he is safeguarding himself. I am only too thankful he was able to
subdue that fiery harpy, the Begum. She threatened me in the most
outrageous manner before you came. Of course, Winifred and I will be
ever-lastingly grateful to you for coming to our assistance. You are
alone, I suppose?"
"Yes, though some of our troopers may turn up any minute."
"I fear not," said the older man gravely. "This is a bad business,
Malcolm. The Begum said too much. There are worse times in store for
us. Do you really believe you can reach Meerut safely?"
"I rode here without hindrance."
"Let me advise you, then, to slip away before we start. That woman meant
mischief, or she would never have dared to suggest that a British
officer should throw in his lot with hers. Waste no time, and don't
spare that good horse of yours. Be sure I shall tell Winifred all you
have done for us. She is pulling round, I think, and it will be better
that she should not see you again. Besides, the Nana's escort are
preparing to march."
Frank's latest memory of the girl he loved was a sad one. Her white face
looked ethereal in the moonlight, and her bloodless lips were quivering
with returning life. It was hard to leave her in such a plight, but it
would only unnerve her again if he waited until she was conscious to bid
her farewell.
So he rode back to Meerut, a solitary European on the eight miles of
road, and no man challenged him till he reached the famous bivouac of
the white garrison, the bivouac that made the Mutiny an accomplished
fact.