A WOMAN INTERVENES
That ominous order filled Malcolm's soul with a fierce rage. He was not
afraid of death. The wine of life ran too strongly in his veins that
craven fear should so suddenly quell the excitement of the combat that
had ended thus disastrously. But his complete helplessness--the fact
that he was to be hanged like some wretched felon by men wearing the
uniform of which he had been so proud--these things stirred him to the
verge of frenzy.
Oddly enough, in that moment of anguish he thought of Hodson, the man
who rode alone from Kurnaul to Meerut. Why had Hodson succeeded? Would
Hodson, knowing the exceeding importance of his mission, have turned to
rescue a servant or raise a fallen horse? Would he not rather have
dashed on like a thunderbolt, trusting to the superior speed of his
charger to carry him clear of his assailants? And Nejdi! What had become
of that trusted friend? Never before, Arab though he was, had he been
guilty of a stumble. Perhaps he was shot, and sobbing out his gallant
life on the road, almost at the foot of the tree which would be his
master's gallows.
A doomed man indulges in strange reveries. Malcolm was almost as greatly
concerned with Nejdi's imagined fate as with his own desperate plight
when the trooper who answered to the name of Abdul Huq brought the
heel-rope that was to serve as a halter.
The man was a Pathan, swarthy, lean, and sinewy, with the nose and eyes
of a bird of prey. Though a hawk would show mercy to a fledgling sparrow
sooner than this cut-throat to a captive, the robber instinct in him
made him pause before he tied the fatal noose.
"Have you gone through the Nazarene's pockets, sirdar?" he asked.
"No," was the impatient answer. "Of what avail is it? These
chota-sahibs[7] have no money. And Cawnpore awaits us."
[Footnote 7: Junior Officers.]
"Nevertheless, every rupee counts. And he may be carrying letters of
value to the Maharajah. Once he is swinging up there he will be out of
reach, and our caste does not permit us to defile our hands by touching
a dead body."
While the callous ruffian was delivering himself of this curious blend
of cynicism and dogma, his skilled fingers were rifling Malcolm's
pockets. First he drew forth a sealed packet addressed to Sir Hugh
Wheeler. He recognized the government envelope and, though neither of
the pair could read English, Abdul Huq handed it to his leader with an
"I-told-you-so" air.
It was in Frank's mind to revile the men, but, most happily, he composed
himself sufficiently to resolve that he would die like an officer and a
gentleman, while the last words on his lips would be a prayer.
The next document produced was the Persi-Arabic scrawl which purported
to be a "safe-conduct" issued by Bahadur Shah, whom the rebels acclaimed
as their ruler. Until that instant, the Englishman had given no thought
to it. But when he saw the look of consternation that flitted across the
face of the subadar when his eyes took in the meaning of the writing,
despair yielded to hope, and he managed to say thickly:
"Perhaps you will understand now that you ought to have asked my
business ere you proposed to hang me off hand."
His active brain devised a dozen expedients to account for his presence
in Bithoor, but the native officer was far too shrewd to be beguiled
into setting his prisoner at liberty. After re-reading the pass, to make
sure of its significance, the rebel leader curtly told Abdul Huq and
another sowar to bring the Feringhi into the presence of the Maharajah,
by which title he evidently indicated Nana Sahib.
The order was, at least, a reprieve, and Malcolm breathed more easily.
He even asked confidently about his horse and the members of his escort.
He was given no reply save a muttered curse, a command to hold his
tongue, and an angry tug at his tied arms.
It is hard to picture the degradation of such treatment of a British
officer by a native trooper. The Calcutta Brahmin who was taunted by a
Lascar--a warrior-priest insulted by a social leper--scarce flinched
more keenly under the jibe than did Malcolm when he heard the tone of
his captors. Truly the flag of Britain was trailing in the mire, or
these men would not have dared to address him in that fashion. In that
bitter moment he felt for the first time that the Mutiny was a real
thing. Hitherto, in spite of the murders and incendiarism of Meerut, the
risings in other stations, the proclamation of Bahadur Shah as Emperor,
and the actual conflicts with the Mogul's armed retainers on the
battle-field of Ghazi-ud-din Nuggur, Malcolm was inclined to treat the
outburst as a mere blaze of local fanaticism, a blaze that would soon be
stamped under heel by the combined efforts of the East India Company's
troops and the Queen's Forces. Now, at last, he saw the depth of hate
with which British dominion was regarded in India. He heard Mohammedans
alluding to a Brahmin as a leader--so might a wolf and a snake make
common alliance against a watch dog. From that hour dated a new and
sterner conception of the task that lay before him and every other
Briton in the country. The Mutiny was no longer a welcome variant to the
tedium of the hot weather. It was a life-and-death struggle between West
and East, between civilization and barbarism, between the laws of
Christianity and the lawlessness of Mahomet, supported by the cruel,
inhuman, and nebulous doctrines of Hinduism.
Not that these thoughts took shape and coherence in Malcolm's brain as
he was being hurried to the house of Nana Sahib. A man may note the
deadly malice of a cobra's eye, but it is not when the poison fangs are
ready to strike that he stops to consider the philosophy underlying the
creature's malign hatred of mankind.
Events were in a rare fret and fume in the neighborhood of Cawnpore that
night. As a matter of historical fact, while Malcolm was hearing from
the villager that Roshinara Begum had come to Bithoor, the 1st Native
Infantry and 2d Cavalry had risen at Cawnpore.
Nana Sahib was deep in intrigue with all the sepoy regiments stationed
there, and his adherents ultimately managed to persuade these two corps
to throw off their allegiance to the British Raj. Following the
recognized routine they burst open the gaol, burnt the public offices,
robbed the Treasury, and secured possession of the Magazine. Then, while
the ever-swelling mob of criminals and loafers made pandemonium in the
bazaar, the saner spirits among the mutineers hurried to Bithoor to
ascertain the will of the man who, by common consent, was regarded as
their leader.
He was expecting them, eagerly perhaps, but with a certain quaking that
demanded the assistance of the "Raja's peg," a blend of champagne and
brandy that is calculated to fire heart and brain to madness more
speedily than any other intoxicant. He was conversing with his nephew,
Rao Sahib, and his chief lieutenants, Tantia Topi and a Mohammedan named
Azim-Ullah, when the native officers of the rebel regiments clattered
into his presence.
"Maharajah," said their chief, "a kingdom is yours if you join us, but
it is death if you side with the Nazarenes."
He laughed, with the fine air of one who sees approaching the fruition
of long-cherished plans. He advanced a pace, confidently.
"What have I to do with the British?" he asked. "Are they not my
enemies, too? I am altogether with you."
"Will you lead us to Delhi, Maharajah?"
"Why not? That is the natural rallying ground of all who wish the
downfall of the present Government."
"Then behold, O honored one, we offer you our fealty."
They pressed near him, tendering the hilts of their swords. He touched
each weapon, and placed his hands on the head of its owner, vowing that
he would keep his word and be faithful to the trust they reposed in him.
"Our brothers of the 53d and 56th have not joined us yet," said one.
"Then let us ride forth and win them to our side," said the Nana
grandiloquently. He went into the courtyard, mounted a gaily-caparisoned
horse, and, surrounded by the rebel cohort, cantered off towards
Cawnpore.
Thus it befell that the mob of horsemen pressed past Malcolm and his
guards as they entered the palace. The subadar tried in vain to attract
the Nana's attention. Fearing lest he might be forgotten if he were not
in the forefront of the conspiracy, this man bade his subordinates take
their prisoner before the Begum, and ran off to secure his horse and
race after the others. He counted on the despatches gaining him a
hearing.
Abdul Huq, more crafty than his chief, smiled.
"Better serve a king's daughter than these Shia dogs who are so ready to
fawn on a Brahmin," said he to his comrade, another Pathan, and a Sunni
like himself, for Islam, united against Christendom, is divided into
seventy-two warring sects. Hence the wavering loyalty of two sepoy
battalions in Cawnpore carried Malcolm out of the Nana's path, and led
him straight to the presence of Princess Roshinara.
The lapse of three weeks had paled that lady's glowing cheeks and
deepened the luster of her eyes. Not only was she worn by anxiety, in
addition to the physical fatigue of the long journey from Delhi, but the
day's happenings had not helped to lighten the load of care. Yet she was
genuinely amazed at seeing Malcolm.
"How come you to be here?" she cried instantly, addressing him before
Abdul Huq could open his mouth in explanation.
"As your Highness can see for yourself, I am brought hither forcibly by
these slaves," said Frank, thinking that now or never must he display a
bold front.
"How did you learn that I had left Delhi?"
"The journeyings of the Princess Roshinara are known to many."
"But you came not when I summoned you."
"Your Highness's letter did not reach me until after the affair on the
Hindun river."
"What is all this idle talk?" broke in Abdul Huq roughly. "This Feringhi
was carrying despatches--"
"Peace, dog!" cried the Begum. "Unfasten the Sahib's arms, and be gone.
What! Dost thou hesitate!"
She clapped her hands, and some members of her bodyguard ran forward.
"Throw these troopers into the courtyard," she commanded. "If they
resist--"
But the Pathans were too wise to refuse obedience. Not yet had the
rebels felt their true power. They sullenly untied Malcolm's bonds, and
disappeared. Using eyes and ears each moment to better advantage, Frank
was alive to the confusion that reigned in Nana Sahib's abode. Men ran
hither and thither in aimless disorder. The Brahmin's retainers were
like jackals who knew that the lion had killed and the feast was spread.
The only servants who preserved the least semblance of discipline were
those of the Princess Roshinara. It was an hour when the cool brain
might contrive its own ends.
"I am, indeed, much beholden to you, Princess," said Frank. "I pray you
extend your clemency to my men. I have an escort of six sowars, and a
servant. Some of them are wounded. My horse, too, which I value
highly--"
He paused. He saw quite clearly that she paid no heed to a word that he
was saying. Her black eyes were fixed intently on his face, but she was
thinking, weighing in her mind some suddenly-formed project. He was a
pawn in the game on the political chess-board, and some drastic move was
imminent.
Some part of his speech had reached her intelligence. She caught him by
the wrist and hurried him along a corridor into a garden, muttering as
she went:
"Allah hath sent thee, Malcolm-sahib. What matters thy men and a horse?
Yet will I see to their safety, if that be possible. Yes, yes, I must do
that. You will need them. And remember, I am trusting thee. Wilt thou
obey my behests?"
"I would be capable of little gratitude if I refused, Princess," said
he, wondering what new outlet the whirligig of events would provide.
Leading him past an astonished guardian of the zenana, who dared not
protest when this imperial lady thought fit to profane the sacred portal
by admitting an infidel, she brought Malcolm through a door into a
larger garden surrounded by a high wall. She pointed to a pavilion at
its farthest extremity.
"Wait there," she said. "When those come to you whom you will have faith
in, do that which he who brings them shall tell you. Fail not. Your own
life and the lives of your friends will hang on a thread, yet trust me
that it shall not be severed while you obey my commands."
With that cryptic message she ran back to the door, which was
immediately slammed behind her. Having just been snatched from the very
gate of eternity by the Begum's good offices, Malcolm determined to
fall in with her whims so long as they did not interfere with his duty.
Although Cawnpore was in the hands of the mutineers and he had lost his
despatches, he determined, at all costs, to reach Sir Hugh Wheeler if
that fine old commander were still living. Meanwhile, he hastened to the
baraduri, an elegant structure which was approached by a flight of steps
and stood in the angle of two high battlemented walls.
The place was empty and singularly peaceful after the uproar of the
village and of that portion of the palace which faced the Grand Trunk
Road.
Overhead the sky was clear and starlit, but beyond the walls stretched a
low, half luminous bank of mist, and he was peering that way fully a
minute before he ascertained that the garden stood on the right bank of
the Ganges. Almost at his feet, the great river was murmuring on its
quiet course to the sea, and the mist was due to the evaporation of its
waters, which were mainly composed of melted snow from the ice-capped
Himalayas.
When his eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings he made out the shape
of a native boat moored beneath the wall. It had evidently brought a
cargo of forage to Bithoor. So still was the air that the scent of the
hay lingered yet in the locality.
Between Bithoor and Cawnpore the Ganges takes a wide bend. At first
Malcolm scarce knew in which quarter to look for the city, but distant
reports and the glare of burning dwellings soon told him more than its
mere direction. So Cawnpore, in its turn, had yielded to the canker
that was gnawing the vitals of India! He wondered if Allahabad had
fallen. And Benares? And the populous towns of Bengal--perhaps even the
capital city itself? The Punjab was safe. Hodson told him that. But
would it remain safe? He had heard queer tales of the men who dwelt in
the bazaars of Lahore, Umritsar, Rawalpindi, and the rest. Nicholson and
John Lawrence were there; could they hold those warrior-tribes in
subjection, or, better still, in leash? He might not hazard an opinion.
His sky had fallen. This land of his adoption was his no longer. He was
an outlaw, hunted and despised, depending for his life on the caprice of
a fickle-minded woman. Then he thought of the way his comrades of the
60th, of the Dragoons and the Artillery, had chased the sepoys from the
Hindun, and his soul grew strong again. Led by British officers, the
native troops were excellent, but, deprived of the only leaders they
really respected, they became an armed mob, terrible to women and
children, but of slight account against British-born men.
His musings were disturbed by the sound of horses advancing quietly
across a paddy field which skirted that side of the wall running at a
right angle with the river. It was impossible to see far owing to the
mist that clung close to the ground, but he could not be mistaken as to
the presence of a small body of mounted men within a few yards. They had
halted, too, but his alert ears caught the occasional clink of
accouterments, and the pawing of a horse in the soft earth. He racked
his brain to try to discover some connection between this cavalry post
and the parting admonition given by the Begum Roshinara, and he might
have guessed the riddle in part had he not heard hurried footsteps in
the garden. They came, not from the door by which he was admitted, but
from the Palace itself. Whoever the newcomers were they made straight
for the pavilion, and, as he was unarmed, he did not hesitate to show
himself against the sky line. For ill or well, he wanted to know his
fate, and he determined to spring over the battlements in the hope of
reaching the river if he received the slightest warning of hostile
intent by those who sought him.
"Is that you, Malcolm?" said a low voice, and his heart leaped when he
recognized Mr. Mayne's accents.
"Yes. Can it be possible that you are here?"
He ran down the stone steps. On the level of the garden he could see
three figures, one a white-robed native, one a man in European garments,
and the third a woman wrapped in a dark cloak. A suppressed sob uttered
by the woman sent a gush of hot blood to his face. He sprang forward.
In another instant Winifred was in his arms. And that was their
unspoken declaration of love--in the garden of Nana Sahib's house at
Bithoor--while within hail were thousands who would gladly have torn
them limb from limb, and the southern horizon was aflame with the
light of their brethren's dwelling-places.
"Oh, Frank, dear," whispered the girl brokenly, "what evil fortune has
led you within these walls? Yet, I thank God for it. Promise you will
kill me ere they drag me from your side again."
"Hush, Winifred. For the sake of all of us calm yourself," said her
uncle. "This man says he has brought us here to help us to escape.
Surely you can find in Malcolm's presence some earnest of his good
faith."
The native now intervened. Speaking with a certain dignity and using the
language of the court, he said that they had not a moment to lose. They
must descend the wall by means of a rope, and in the field beyond they
would find three of the officer-sahib's men, with his horse and a couple
of spare animals. Keeping close to the river until they came to a
tree-lined nullah--a small ravine cut by a minor tributary of the
Ganges--they should follow this latter till they approached the
Grand Trunk Road, taking care not to be seen as they crossed that
thoroughfare. Then, making a detour, they must avoid the village, and
endeavor to strike the road again about two miles to the north of
Bithoor, thereafter traveling at top speed towards Meerut, but letting
it be known in the hamlets on the way that they came from Cawnpore.
This unlooked-for ally impressed the concluding stipulation strongly on
Malcolm, but, when asked for a reason, he said simply:
"It is the Princess's order. Come! There is no time for further speech.
Here is the rope."
He uncoiled a long cord from beneath his cummerbund, and, running up
the steps, adjusted it to a pillar of the baraduri with an ease and
quickness that showed familiarity with such means of exit from a
closely-guarded residence.
"Now, you first, sahib," said he to Malcolm. "Then we will lower the
miss-sahib, and the burra-sahib can follow."
There was nothing to be gained by questioning him, especially as Mayne
murmured that he could explain a good deal of the mystery underlying the
Begum's wish that they should go north. The exterior field was reached
without any difficulty. Within twenty yards they encountered a little
group of mounted men, and Malcolm found, to his great delight, that
Chumru, his bearer, was holding Nejdi's bridle, while his companions
were Akhab Khan and two troopers who had ridden from Agra. To make the
miracle more complete, Malcolm's sword was tied to the Arab's saddle and
his revolvers were still in the holsters.
Winifred, making the best of a man's saddle until they could improvise
a crutch at their first halt, would admit of no difficulty in that
respect. The fact that her lover was present had lightened her heart
of the terror which had possessed her during many days.
They were on the move, with the two sharp-eyed sowars leading, when the
noise made by a number of horsemen, coming toward them on the landward
side and in front, brought them to an abrupt halt.
"Spread out to the right until you reach the river," cried a rough
voice, which Malcolm was sure he identified as belonging to Abdul Huq.
"Then we cannot miss them. And remember, brothers, if we secure the
girl unharmed, we shall earn a rich reward from the Maharajah."
Winifred, shivering with fear again, knew not what the man said, but
she drew near to Malcolm and whispered:
"Not into their hands, Frank, for God's sake!"
The movement of her horse's feet had not passed unnoticed.
"Be sharp, there!" snarled the Pathan again. "They are not far off, and
only six of them. Shout, you on the right when you are on the bank."
"None can pass between me and the stream," replied a more distant voice.
"Forward, then! Keep line! Not too fast, you near the wall."
Frank loosened his sword from its fastenings and took a revolver in his
left hand, in which he also held the reins. He judged Abdul Huq to be
some fifty yards distant, and he was well aware that the fog became
thinner with each yard as he turned his back on the river.
"Take Winifred back to the angle of the wall," he whispered to Mayne.
"You will find a budgerow[8] there. Get your horses on board, if
possible, and I shall join you in a minute or less. If I manage to
scatter these devils, we shall outwit them yet."
[Footnote 8: A native boat.]
It was hopeless, he knew, to attempt to ride through the enemy's
cordon. There would be a running fight against superior numbers, and
Winifred's presence made that a last resource. The most fortunate
accident of the deserted craft being moored beneath the palace wall
offered a far more probable means of escape. What blunder or treachery
had led to this attack he could not imagine. Nor was he greatly troubled
with speculation on that point. Winifred must be saved, he had a sword
in his hand, and he was mounted on the best horse in India. What better
hap could a cavalry subaltern desire than such a fight under such
conditions?
In order not only to drown the girl's protest when her uncle turned her
horse's head, but also to deceive opponents, Frank thundered forth an
order that was familiar to their ears.
"The troop will advance! Draw swords! Walk--trot--charge!"
Chumru, though no fighting-man, realized that he was expected to make a
row and uttered a bloodcurdling yell. Inspired by their officer's
example the two sowars dashed after him with splendid courage. They were
on their startled pursuers so soon, the line having narrowed more
quickly than they expected, that they hurtled right through the opposing
force without a blow being struck or a shot fired. As it chanced, no
better maneuver could have been effected. When they wheeled and Frank
managed to shoot two men at close range, it seemed to the amazed rebels
that they were being attacked from the very quarter from which they had
advanced.
Under such conditions even the steadiest of troops will break, and at
least endeavor to reach a place where their adversaries are not shrouded
in a dense mist. And that was exactly what occurred in this instance.
Nearly all the mutineers swung round and galloped headlong for the
landward boundary of the paddy field. Shouting to his two plucky
assistants to come back, Frank called out to Chumru and bade him join
them. He was hurrying towards the corner of the palace grounds when a
shriek from Winifred set his teeth on edge.
"I am coming," he cried. "What has happened? Where are you, Mayne?"
"Here, close to the boat. Look out there! Two sowars are carrying off my
niece. For Heaven's sake, save her! I am wounded, but never mind me."
Malcolm had the hunter's lore, a species of Red Indian cunning in the
stalker's art. Instead of rushing blindly forward he halted his men
promptly and listened. Sure enough, he heard stumbling footsteps by the
water's edge. Leaping from Nejdi's back, he sprang down the crumbling
bank and came almost on top of Abdul Huq and his brother Pathan. Their
progress was hindered by Winifred's frantic struggles and their own
brutal efforts to stop her from screaming, and they were taken unaware
by Frank's unexpected leap.
A thrust that went home caused a vacancy in a border clan, but, before
the avenger could withdraw his weapon, Abdul Huq was swinging his
tulwar. He was no novice in the art, and Malcolm must have gone down
under the blow had not Winifred seen its murderous purpose and seized
the man's arm. That gave her lover the second he needed. He recovered
his sword, but was too near to stab or cut, so he met the case by
dealing the swarthy one a blow with the hilt between the eyes that would
have felled an ox. Never before had the Englishman hit any man with such
vigorous good will. This rascal was owed a debt for the indignity he had
offered the sahib in the village, and now he was paid in full.
He fell insensible, with part of his body resting in the water. It was a
queer moment for noting a trivial thing, yet Frank saw that the man's
turban did not fall off. He had lost his own turban during the melee on
the Grand Trunk Road, and, as it would soon be daylight, he stooped to
secure Abdul Huq's headgear. Oddly enough, it was fastened by a piece of
cord under the Pathan's chin--an almost unheard-of device this, to be
adopted by a native. With a sharp pull Frank broke the cord and jammed
the turban on his head. He was determined to have it, if only because no
greater insult can be inflicted on a Mohammedan than to bare his head.
The incident did not demand more than a few seconds for its transaction
and Winifred hardly noticed it, so unstrung was she. Without more ado
Malcolm took her in his arms and carried her up the bank. He told the
troopers and his servant to follow with the horses as quietly as
possible and led the way towards the budgerow.
Arrived at the boat, they found Mayne standing in the water and leaning
helplessly against the side of the craft. He had been struck down by one
of the precious pair who thought to carry off Winifred, but, luckily, it
was a glancing blow and not serious in its after effects.
With a rapidity that was almost magical the horses were put on board,
the boat shoved off, and the huge mat sail hoisted to get the benefit of
any breeze that might be found in mid-stream. The current carried them
away at a fair rate, and, as they passed the place where Abdul Huq had
fallen in the river Malcolm fancied he heard a splash and a gurgle, as
though a crocodile had found something of interest.