TO LUCKNOW
The tragedy of Massacre Ghat, intensified by the crowning infamy of the
Well, brought a new element into the struggle. Hitherto not one European
in a hundred in India regarded the Mutiny as other than a local, though
serious, attempt to revive a fallen dynasty. The excesses at Meerut,
Delhi, and other towns were looked upon as the work of unbridled mobs.
Sepoys who revolted and shot their officers came under a different
category to the slayers of tender women and children. But the planned
and ordered treachery of Cawnpore changed all that. Thenceforth every
British-born man in the country not only realized that the government
had been forced into a Titanic contest, but he was also swayed by a
personal and absorbing lust for vengeance. Officers and men, regulars
and volunteers alike, took the field with the fixed intent of exacting
an expiatory life for each hair on the head of those unhappy victims.
And they kept the vow they made. To this day, though half a century has
passed, the fertile plain of the Doab--that great tract between the
Ganges and the Jumna--is dotted with the ruins of gutted towns and
depopulated villages. But that was not yet. India was fated to be
almost lost before it was won again.
On the night of June 4th, when the roomy budgerow carrying Winifred
Mayne and her escort drifted away from the walls of the Nana's palace at
Bithoor, there was not a breath of wind on the river. The mat sail was
useless, but a four-mile-an-hour current carried the unwieldy craft
slowly down stream, and there was not the slightest doubt in the minds
of either of the Englishmen on board as to their course of action.
Mr. Mayne was acquainted with Cawnpore and Sir Hugh Wheeler was an old
friend of his.
"Wheeler has no great force at his disposal," said he to Malcolm. "It is
evident that the native regiments have just broken out here, but, by
this time, our people in the cantonment must have heard of events
elsewhere, and they have surely seized the Magazine, which is well
fortified and stands on the river. If I can believe a word that the Nana
said, the sepoys will rush off to Delhi to-night, just as they did at
Meerut, Aligarh, and Etawah. I am convinced that our best plan is to hug
the right bank and disembark near the Magazine."
"Is it far?" asked Malcolm.
"About eight miles."
"I wonder why the Begum was so insistent that we should go back along
the Grand Trunk Road?"
Mayne hesitated. He knew that Winifred was listening.
"It is hard to account for the vagaries of a woman's mind, or, shall I
say, of the mind of such a woman," he answered lightly. "You will
remember that when you came to our assistance outside Meerut she was
determined to take us, willy-nilly, to Delhi."
Malcolm, who had heard Roshinara's impassioned speech and looked into
her blazing eyes, thought that her motives were stronger than mere
caprice. He never dreamed of the true reason, but he feared that she
knew Cawnpore had fallen and her curiously friendly regard for himself
might have inspired her advice. Here, again, Winifred's presence tied
his tongue.
"Well," he said, with a cheerless laugh, "I, at any rate, must endeavor
to reach Wheeler. I am supposed to be bearing despatches, but they were
taken from me when I was knocked off my horse in the village--"
"Were you attacked?" asked Winifred, and the quiet solicitude in her
voice was sweetest music in her lover's ears.
His brief recital of the night's adventures was followed by the story of
the others' journey and detention at Bithoor. It may be thought that Mr.
Mayne, with his long experience of India, should have read more clearly
the sinister lesson to be derived from the treatment meted out that
night to a British Officer by the detachment of sowars, amplified, as it
was, by their open references to the Nana as a Maharajah. But he was not
yet disillusioned. And, if his judgment were at fault, he erred in good
company, for Sir Henry Lawrence, Chief Commissioner at Lucknow, was
even then resisting the appeals, the almost insubordinate urging, of the
headstrong Martin Gubbins that the sepoys in the capital of Oudh should
be disarmed.
Meanwhile the boat lurched onward. Soon a red glow in the sky proclaimed
that they were nearing Cawnpore. Though well aware that the European
houses were on fire, they were confident that the Magazine would be
held. They helped Akhab Khan, Chumru, and the two troopers to rig a pair
of long sweeps, and prepared to guide the budgerow to the landing-place.
Winifred was stationed at the rudder. As it chanced the three sowars
took one oar and Chumru helped the sahibs with the other, and the two
sets of rowers were partly screened from each other by the horses.
Malcolm was saying something to Winifred when the native bent near him
and whispered:
"Talk on, sahib, but listen! Your men intend to jump ashore and leave
you. They have been bitten by the wolf. Don't try to stop them. Name of
Allah, let them go!"
Frank's heart throbbed under this dramatic development. He had no
reason to doubt his servant's statement. The faithful fellow had
nursed him through a fever with the devotion of a brother, and
Malcolm hadreciprocated this fidelity by refusing to part with him
when he, in turn, was stricken down by smallpox. In fact, Frank
was the only European in Meerut who would employ the man, whose
extraordinary appearance went against him. Cross-eyed, wide-mouthed,
and broken-nosed, with a straggling black beard that ill concealed the
tokens on his face of the dread disease from which he had suffered,
Chumru looked a cut-throat of the worst type, "a hungry, lean-fac'd
villain, a mere anatomy." Aware of his own ill repute, he made the most
of it. He tied his turban with an aggressive twist, and was wont to
scowl so vindictively at the mess khamsamah that his master, quite
unconsciously, always secured the wing of a chicken or the best cut of
the joint.
Yet this gnome-like creature was true to his salt at a time when he must
have felt that his sahib, together with every other sahib in India, was
doomed; his eyes now shot fiery, if oblique, shafts of indignation as he
muttered his thrilling news.
Malcolm did not attempt to question him. He glanced at the sowars, and
saw that their carbines were slung across their shoulders. Chumru
interpreted the look correctly.
"Akhab Khan prevented those Shia dogs from shooting you and
Mayne-sahib," went on the low murmur. "They said, huzoor, that the Nana
wanted the miss-sahib, and that they were fools to help you in taking
her away, but Akhab Khan swore he would fight on your honor's side if
they unslung their guns. They do not know I heard them as I was sitting
behind the mast, and I took care to creep off when their heads were
turned toward the shore."
"Here we are," cried Mayne, who little guessed what Chumru's mumbling
portended. "There is the ghat.[9] If it were not for the mist we could
see the Magazine just below, on the left."
[Footnote 9: In this instance, steps leading down to the river: also, a
mountain range.]
Assuredly, Frank Malcolm's human clay was being tested in the furnace
that night. He had to decide instantly what line to follow. In a minute
or less the boat would bump against the lowermost steps, and, if Akhab
Khan and his companions were, indeed, traitors, the others on board
were completely at their mercy. Mayne was unarmed, Chumru's fighting
equipment lay wholly in his aspect, while Malcolm's revolvers were in
the holsters, and his sword was tied to Nejdi's saddle, its scabbard
and belt having been thrown aside while Abdul Huq was robbing him.
The broad-beamed budgerow presented a strangely accurate microcosm of
India at that moment. The English people on her deck were numerically
inferior to the natives, and deprived by accident of the arms that might
have equalized matters. Their little army was breathing mutiny, but was
itself divided, if Chumru were not mistaken, seeing that all were for
revolt, but one held out that the Feringhis' lives should be spared.
And, even there, the cruel dilemma that offered itself to the ruler of
every European community in the country was not to be avoided, for, if
Malcolm tried to obtain his weapons his action might be the signal for a
murderous attack, while, if he made no move, he left it entirely at the
troopers' discretion whether or not he and Mayne should be shot down
without the power to strike a blow in self-defense.
Luckily he had the gift of prompt decision that is nine tenths of
generalship. Saying not a word to alarm Mayne, who was still weak from
the wound received an hour earlier, he crossed the deck, halting on the
way to rub Nejdi's black muzzle.
The sowars were watching him. With steady thrust of the port sweep they
were heading the budgerow toward the ghat.
He went nearer and caught the end of the heavy oar.
"Pull hard, now," he said encouragingly, "and we will be out of the
current."
He was facing the three men, and his order was a quite natural one under
the circumstances. Obviously, he meant to help. Stretching their arms
for a long and strong stroke, they laid on with a will. Instantly, he
pressed the oar downwards, thus forcing the blade out of the water, and
threw all his strength into its unexpected yielding. Before they could
so much as utter a yell, Akhab Khan and another were swept headlong into
the river, while the third man lay on his back on the deck with Frank on
top of him. The simplicity of the maneuver insured its success. Neither
Mayne nor Winifred understood what had happened until Malcolm had
disarmed the trooper, taken his cartridge pouch, and thrown him
overboard to sink or swim as fate might direct. He regretted the loss of
Akhab Khan, but he recalled the queer expression on the man's face when
he read Bahadur Shah's sonorous titles.
"Light of the World, Renowned King of Kings, Lord of all India,
Fuzl-Ilahi, Panah-i-din!"
That appeal to the faith was too powerful to be withstood. Yet Malcolm
was glad the man had been chivalrous in his fall, for he had taken a
liking to him.
Chumru, of course, after the first gasp of surprise, appreciated the
sahib's strategy.
"Shabash!" he cried, "Wao, wao, huzoor![10] May I never see the White
Pond of the Prophet if that was not well planned."
[Footnote 10: "Bravo! Well done, your honor!"]
"Oh, what is it?" came Winifred's startled exclamation. It was so dark,
and the horses, no less than the sail, so obscured her view of the fore
part of the boat, that she could only dimly make out Malcolm's figure,
though the sounds of the scuffle and splashing were unmistakable.
"We are disbanding our native forces--that is all," said Frank. "Press
the tiller more to the left, please. Yes, that is right. Now, keep it
there until we touch the steps."
The shimmering surface of the river near the boat was broken up into
ripples surrounding a black object. Malcolm heard the quick panting of
one in whose lungs water had mixed with air, and he hated to think of
even a rebel drowning before his eyes. Moved by pity, he swung the big
oar on its wooden rest until the blade touched the exhausted man, whose
hands shot out in the hope of succor. After some spluttering a broken
voice supplicated:
"Mercy, sahib! I saved you when you were in my power. Show pity now to
me."
"It is true, then, that you meant to desert, Akhab Khan?" said Frank
sternly.
"Yes, sahib. One cannot fight against one's brothers, but I swear by
the Prophet--"
"Nay, your oaths are not needed. You, at least, did not wish to commit
murder. Cling to that oar. The ghat is close at hand."
"Then, sahib, I can still show my gratitude. If you would save the
miss-sahib, do not land here. The Magazine has been taken. The cavalry
have looted the Treasury. All the sahib-log have fallen."
"Is this a true thing that thou sayest?"
"May I sink back into the pit if it be not the tale we heard at
Bithoor!"
By this time Mayne was at Frank's side.
"I fear we have dropped into a hornets' nest," said he. "There is
certainly an unusual turmoil in the bazaar, and houses are on fire in
all directions."
Even while they were listening to the fitful bellowing of a distant mob
bent on mad revel a crackle of musketry rang out, but died away as
quickly. The budgerow grounded lightly when her prow ran against the
stonework of the ghat. Again did Malcolm make up his mind on the spur
of the moment.
"I will spare your life on one condition, Akhab Khan," he said. "Go
ashore and learn what has taken place at the Magazine. Return here,
alone, within five minutes. Mark you, I say 'alone.' If I see more
than one who comes I shall shoot."
"Huzoor, I shall not betray you."
"Go, then."
He drew the man through the water until his feet touched the steps.
Climbing up unsteadily, Akhab Khan disappeared in the gloom. Then they
waited in silence. The heavy breath of the bazaar was pungent in their
nostrils, and, for a few seconds, they listened to the trooper's
retreating footsteps. Frank leaped ashore and pushed the boat off, while
Mayne held her by jamming the leeward oar into the mud. It was best to
make sure.
They did not speak. Their ears were strained as their tumultuous
thoughts. At last, some one came, a man, and his firm tread of boot-shod
feet betokened a soldier. It was the rebel who had become their scout.
"Sahib," said he, "it is even as I told you. Cawnpore is lost to you."
"And you, Akhab Khan, do you go or stay?"
There was another moment of tense silence.
"Would you have me draw sword against the men of my own faith?" was the
despairing answer.
"It would not be for the first time," said Malcolm coldly. "But I could
never trust thee again. Yet hast thou chosen wrongly, Akhab Khan. When
thy day of reckoning comes, may it be remembered in thy favor that thou
didst turn most unwillingly against thy masters!"
Akhab Khan raised his right hand in a military salute. Suddenly, his
erect form became indistinct, and faded out of sight. The boat was
traveling down stream once more. Around her the river lapped lazily,
and the solemn quietude of the mist-covered waters was accentuated
by the far-off turmoil in the city.
The huge sail thrust its yard high above the fog bank, and watchers on
the river side saw it. Some one hailed in the vernacular, and Chumru
replied that they came from Bithoor with hay. Prompted by Malcolm he
went on:
"How goes the good work, brother?"
"Rarely," came the voice. "I have already requited two bunniahs to whom
I owed money. Gold is to be had for the taking. Leave thy budgerow at
the bridge, friend, and join us."
The raucous, half-drunken accents substantiated Akhab Khan's story. The
unseen speaker was evidently himself a boatman. He was rejoicing in the
upheaval that permitted debts to be paid with a bludgeon and money to be
made without toil.
Mayne caught Frank by the arm.
"We are drifting towards the bridge of boats that carries the road to
Lucknow across the river," he said, in the hurried tone of a man who
sees a new and paralyzing danger. "There is a drawbridge for river
traffic, but how shall we find it, and, in any event, we must be seen."
"Are there many houses on the opposite bank?" asked Malcolm.
"Not many. They are mostly mud hovels. What is in your mind?"
"We might endeavor to cross the river before we reach the bridge. By
riding boldly along the Lucknow Road we shall place many miles between
ourselves and Cawnpore before day breaks."
"That certainly seems to offer our best chance. We have plenty of horses
and we ought to be in Lucknow soon after dawn."
"What if matters are as bad there?"
"Impossible! Lawrence has a whole regiment with him, the 32d, and plenty
of guns. Poor Wheeler, at Cawnpore, commanded a depot, mostly officials
on the staff, and invalids. At any rate, Malcolm, we must have some
objective. Lucknow spells hope. Neither Meerut nor Allahabad is
attainable. And what will become of Winifred if we fail to reach some
station that still holds out?"
The girl herself now came to them.
"I refuse to remain alone any longer," she said. "I don't know a quarter
of what is going on. I have tied the tiller with a rope. Please tell me
what is happening and why a man shouted to Chumru from the bank."
She spoke calmly, with the pleasantly modulated voice of a well-bred
Englishwoman. If aught were wanted to enhance the contrast between the
peace of the river and the devildom of Cawnpore it was given in full
measure by her presence there. How little did she realize the long
drawn-out agony that was even then beginning for her sisters in that
ill-fated entrenchment! It was the idle whim of fortune that she was not
with them. And not one was destined to live--not one among hundreds!
But it was a time for action, not for speech. Malcolm asked her gently
to go back to the helm and keep it jammed hard-a-starboard until they
arrived at the left bank. Then he took an oar and Mayne and Chumru
tackled the other. The three men pulled manfully athwart the stream.
They could not tell what progress they were making, and the Ganges ran
swiftly in mid-channel, being five times as wide as the Thames at London
Bridge. Yet they toiled on with desperate energy. They had crossed the
swirl of deep water when a low, straight-edged barrier appeared on the
starboard side, and, before they could attempt to avert the calamity,
the budgerow crashed against a pontoon and drove its bows under the
superstructure. It was locked there so firmly that a score of men had to
labor for hours next day ere it could be cleared.
Nevertheless, that which they regarded as a misfortune was a blessing.
The shock of the collision alarmed the horses, and one of them climbed
like a cat on to the bridge. Frank sprang after him and caught the reins
before the startled creature could break away. And that which one horse
could do might be done by seven. Bidding Chumru arrange some planks to
give the others better foothold, he told Winifred and Mayne to join him
and help in holding the animals as they gained the roadway. A couple of
natives who ran up from the Lucknow side were peremptorily ordered to
stand. Indeed, they were harmless coolies and soon they offered to
assist, for the deadly work in Cawnpore that night was scarcely known to
them as yet. In a couple of minutes the fugitives were mounted, each of
the men leading a spare horse and advancing at a steady trot; though the
bridge swayed and creaked a good deal under this forbidden pace, they
soon found by the upward grade that they were crossing the sloping mud
bank leading to the actual highway.
Thirty-five miles of excellent road now separated them from Lucknow. The
hour was not late, about half past ten, so they had fully six hours of
starlit obscurity in which to travel, because, though the month was
June, India is not favored with the prolonged twilight of dawn and eve
familiar to other latitudes.
They clattered through the outlying bazaar without disturbing a soul.
Probably every man, woman and child able to walk was adding to the din
in the great city beyond the river. Pariah dogs yelped at them, some
heavy carts drawn across the road caused a momentary halt, and a herd of
untended buffaloes lying patiently near their byre told the story of the
excitement that had drawn their keeper across the bridge.
Soon they were in the open, and a fast canter became permissible. They
passed by many a temple devoted to Kali or elephant-headed Buddha, by
many a sacred mosque or tomb of Mohammedan saint, by many a holy tree
decorated with ribbons in honor of its tutelary deity. Now they were
flying between lanes of sugarcane or tall castor-oil plants, now
traversing arid spaces where _reh_, the efflorescent salt of the earth,
had killed all vegetation and reduced a once fertile land to a desert.
Five miles from Cawnpore they swept through the hamlet of Mungulwar.
They saw no one, and no one seemed to see them, though it is hard to say
in India what eyes may not be peering through wattle screen or heavy
barred door. In the larger village of Onao they met a group of
chowkidars, or watchmen, in the main street. These men salaamed to the
sahib-log, probably on account of the stir created by the horses.
Without drawing rein, they pushed on to Busseerutgunge, crossed the
river Sai and neared the village of Bunnee.
If only men could read the future, how Malcolm's soldier spirit would
have kindled as Mayne told him the names of those squalid communities!
Each yard of that road was destined to be sprinkled with British blood,
while its ditches would be choked with the bodies of mutineers. But
these things were behind the veil, and the one dominant thought
possessing Malcolm now was that unless Winifred and her uncle obtained
food of some sort they must fall from their saddles with sheer
exhaustion. He and his servant had made a substantial meal early in the
evening, but the others had eaten nothing owing to the alarm and
confusion that reigned at Bithoor.
Winifred, indeed, in response to a question, said faintly that she
thought she could keep going if she had a drink of milk. Such an
admission, coming from her brave lips, warned Frank that he must call a
halt regardless of loss of time. Assuredly, this was an occasion when
the sacrifice of a few minutes might avoid the grave risk of a breakdown
after daybreak. So when they entered Bunnee they pulled up, and
discussed ways and means of getting something to eat.
It was then that Malcolm gave evidence that his devotion to the
soldier's art had not been practised in vain. Mr. Mayne thought they
should rouse the household at the first reputable looking dwelling they
found.
"No," said Frank. "Mounted, and in motion, we have some chance of escape
unless we fall in with hostile cavalry. On foot, we are at the mercy of
any prowling rascals who may be on the warpath. Let us rather look out
for a place somewhat removed from the main road. There we do not court
observation, and we are sufficiently well armed to protect ourselves
from any hostile move on the part of those we summon."
The older man agreed. Rank and wealth count for little in the great
crises of life. Here was a Judicial Commissioner of Oudh a fugitive in
his own province, and ready to obey a subaltern's slightest wish!
Chumru quickly picked out the house of a zemindar, or land-owner, which
stood in its own walled enclosure behind a clump of trees. A rough track
led to the gate, and Frank knocked loudly on an iron-studded door.
He used the butt end of a revolver, so his rat-tat was imperative
enough, but the garden might have been a graveyard for all the notice
that was taken by the inhabitants. He knocked again, with equal
vehemence and with the same result. But he knew his zemindar, and after
waiting a reasonable interval he said clearly:
"Unless the door is opened at once it will be forced. I am an officer of
the Company, and I demand an entry."
"Coming, sahib," said an anxious voice. "We knew not who knocked, and
there are many budmashes about these nights."
The door yielded to the withdrawal of bolts, but it was still held on a
chain. A man peeped out, satisfied himself that there really were
sahib-log waiting at his gate, and then unfastened the chain, with
apologies for his forgetfulness. Three men servants, armed with lathis,
long sticks with heavy iron ferrules at both ends, stood behind him, and
they all appeared to be exceedingly relieved when they heard that their
midnight visitors only asked for water, milk, eggs, and chupatties, on
the score that they were belated and had no food.
The zemindar civilly invited them to enter, but Frank as civilly
declined, fearing that the smallness of their number, the absence of a
retinue, and the cavalry accouterments of the horses, might arouse
comment, if not suspicion.
Happily the owner of the house recognized Mr. Mayne, and then he
bestirred himself. All they sought for, and more, was brought. Chairs
were provided--rare luxuries in native dwellings at that date--and, this
being a Mohammedan family, some excellent cooked meat was added to the
feast. Before long Winifred was able to smile and say that she had not
been so disgracefully hungry since she left school.
The zemindar courteously insisted that they should taste some mangoes on
which he prided himself, and he also staged a quantity of _lichis_, a
delicious fruit, closely resembling a plover's egg in appearance,
peculiar to India. Nor were the horses forgotten. They were watered and
fed, and if by this time the nature of the cavalcade had been
recognized, there was no change in the man's hospitable demeanor.
Not for an instant did Frank's watchful attitude relax. While Mr. Mayne
and the zemindar discoursed on the disturbed state of the country he
snatched the opportunity to exchange a few tender words with Winifred.
But his eyes and ears were alert, and he was the first to hear the
advent of a large body of horses along the main road.
He stood up instantly, blew out a lantern which was placed on the ground
for the benefit of himself and the others, and said quietly:
"A regiment of cavalry is approaching. We do not wish to be seen by
them. Let no man stir or show a light until they have gone."
He had the military trick of putting an emphatic order in the fewest and
simplest words. A threat was out of the question, after the manner in
which the party had been received, but it is likely that each native
present felt that his life would not be of great value if he attempted
to draw the attention of the passers-by to the presence of Europeans at
the door of that secluded zemindari.
The tramp of horses' feet and the jingle of arms and trappings could now
be distinguished plainly. At first Winifred feared that they were troops
sent in pursuit of them by the Nana, and she whispered the question:
"Are they from Cawnpore, Frank?"
"No," he answered, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I cannot
see them, but their horses are walking, so they cannot have come our
way. They are cavalry advancing from the direction of Lucknow."
"Perhaps they are marching to the relief of Cawnpore?"
"Let us hope so. But we must not risk being seen."
"Your words are despondent, dear. Do you think the whole native army is
against us?"
"I scarcely know what to think, sweetheart. Things look black in so many
directions. Once we are in Lucknow, and able to hear what has really
happened elsewhere, we shall be better able to judge."
The ghostly squadrons clanked past, unseen and unseeing. When the road
was quiet again Winifred and her small bodyguard remounted. The zemindar
was not a man who would accept payment, so Mr. Mayne gave his servants
some money. It may be that this Mohammedan gentleman wondered if he had
acted rightly when the emissaries of the Nana scoured the country next
day for news of the miss-sahib and two sahibs who rode towards Lucknow
in the small hours of the morning. Being a wise man he held his peace.
He had cast his bread upon the waters, and did not regret it, though he
little reckoned on the return it would make after many days.
Reinvigorated by the excellent meal, the travelers found that their
horses had benefited as greatly as they themselves by the food and brief
rest.
They had no more adventures on the way. Winifred did not object to
riding astride while it was dark, but she did not like the experience in
broad daylight, and when they met a Eurasian in a tikka-gharry, or hired
conveyance, in the environs of Lucknow, she was almost as delighted to
secure the vehicle as to learn that the city, though disturbed, was
"quite safe from mutiny."
That was the man's phrase, and it was eloquent of faith in the genius of
Henry Lawrence.
"Quite safe!" he assured them, though they had only escaped capture by a
detachment of rebel cavalry by the merest fluke three hours earlier.
They were standing opposite the gate of a great walled enclosure known
as the Alumbagh, a summer retreat built by an old nawab for a favorite
wife. And that was in June! In six short months Havelock would be lying
there in his grave, and men would be talking from pole to pole of the
wondrous things done at Lucknow, both by those who held it and those
who twice relieved it.
"Quite safe!"
It was high time men ceased to use that phrase in India.