A LONG CHASE
It was not Lawrence's order but Malcolm's own suggestion that led to the
desperate task entrusted to the young aide by the Chief. While those few
heroic volunteer horsemen drove back the enemy's cavalry and held the
bridge over the Kokrail until the beaten army made good its retreat, Sir
Henry halted by the roadside and watched the passing of his exhausted
men. He had the aspect of one who hoped that some stray bullet would end
the torment of life. In that grief-stricken hour his indomitable spirit
seemed to falter. Ere night he was the Lawrence of old, but the
magnitude of the calamity that had befallen him was crushing and he
winced beneath it.
Out of three hundred and fifty white soldiers in the column he had lost
one hundred and nineteen. Every gun served by natives was captured by
the enemy. Worst of all, the moral effect of such a defeat outweighed a
dozen victories. It not only brought about the instant beginnings of the
siege, but its proportions were grossly exaggerated in the public eye.
For the first time in many a year the white soldiers had fled before a
strictly Indian force. They were outnumbered, which was nothing new in
the history of the country, but it must be confessed they were
out-generaled, too. Lawrence, never a believer in Gubbins's forward
policy, showed unwonted hesitancy even during the march to Chinhut: he
halted, advanced and counter-marched the troops in a way that was
foreign to a man of his decisive character. Where he was unaccountably
timid the enemy were unusually bold, and the outcome was disaster.
Yet in this moment of bitterest adversity he displayed that sympathy for
the sufferings of others that won him the esteem of all who came in
contact with him.
By some extraordinary blunder of the commissariat the 32d had set forth
that morning without breaking their fast. Now, after a weary march and a
protracted fight in the burning sun, some of the men deliberately lay
down to die.
"We can go no farther," they said. "We may as well meet death here as a
few yards away. And, when the sepoys overtake us, we shall at least have
breath enough left to die fighting."
Lawrence, when finally he turned his horse's head toward Lucknow, came
upon such a group. He shook his feet free of the stirrups.
"Now, my lads," he said quietly, "you have no cause to despair. Catch
hold of the leathers, two of you, and the horse will help you along. Mr.
Malcolm, you can assist in the same way. Another mile will bring us to
the city."
One of the men, finding it in his heart to pity his haggard-faced
general, thought to console him by saying:
"We'll try, if it's on'y to please you, your honor, but it's all up with
us, I'm afraid. If the end doesn't come to-day it will surely be with us
to-morrow."
"Why do you think that?" asked Lawrence. "We must hold the Residency
until the last man falls. What else can we do?"
"I know that, your honor, but we haven't got the ghost of a chance.
They're a hundred to one, and as well armed as we are. It 'ud be a
different thing if help could come, but it can't. If what people are
saying is true, sir, the nearest red-coats are at Allahabad, an' p'raps
they're hard pressed, too."
"That is not the way to look at a difficulty. In war it is the
unexpected that happens. Keep your spirits up and you may live to tell
your grandchildren how you fought the rebels at Lucknow. I want you and
every man in the ranks to know that my motto is 'No Surrender.' You have
heard what happened at Cawnpore. Here, in Lucknow, despite to-day's
disaster, we shall fight to a finish."
An English battery came thundering down the road to take up a fresh
position and assist in covering the retreat. The guns unlimbered near a
well.
"There!" said Lawrence, "you see how my words have come true. A minute
ago you were ready to fall before the first sowar who lifted his saber
over your head. Go now and help by drawing water for the gunners and
yourselves. Then you can ride back on the carriages when they limber
up."
Malcolm, to whom the soldier's words brought inspiration, spurred Nejdi
alongside his Chief.
"Will you permit me to ride to Allahabad, sir, and tell General Neill
how matters stand here?" he said.
Lawrence looked at him as though the request were so fantastic that he
had not fully grasped its meaning.
"To Allahabad?" he repeated, turning in the saddle to watch the effect
of the first shot fired by the battery.
"Yes, sir," cried Malcolm, eagerly. "I know the odds are against me, but
Hodson rode as far through the enemy's country only six weeks ago, and I
did something of the kind, though not so successfully, when I went from
Meerut to Agra and from Agra to Cawnpore."
"You had an escort, and I can spare not a man."
"I will go alone, sir."
"I would gladly avail myself of your offer, but the Residency will be
invested in less than an hour."
"Let me go now, sir. I am well mounted. In the confusion I may be able
to reach the open country without being noticed."
"Go, then, in God's name, and may your errand prosper, for you have many
precious lives in your keeping."
Lawrence held out his hand, and Malcolm clasped it.
"Tell Neill," said the Chief Commissioner in a low tone of intense
significance, "that we can hold out a fortnight, a month perhaps, or
even a few days longer if buoyed up with hope. That is all. If you
succeed, I shall not forget your services. The Viceroy has given me
plenary powers, and I shall place your name in orders to-night, Captain
Malcolm."
He kept his promise. When Lucknow was evacuated after the Second Relief,
the official gazettes recorded that Lieutenant Frank Malcolm of the 3d
Cavalry had been promoted to a captaincy, supernumerary on the staff,
for gallantry on the field on June 30, while a special minute provided
that he should attain the rank of major if he reached Allahabad on or
before July 4.
From the point on the road to Chinhut where Malcolm bade his Chief
farewell, he could see the tower of the Residency, gray among the white
domes and minarets that lined the south bank of the Goomtee. He had no
illusions now as to the course the mutineers would follow. Native rumors
had brought the news of the massacre at Cawnpore, though the ghastly
tragedy of the Well was yet to come. He knew that this elegant city,
resplendent and glorious in the sheen of the setting sun, would soon be
a living hell. A fearsome struggle would surge around that tower where
the British flag was flying. A few hundreds of Europeans would strive to
keep at bay tens of thousands of eager rebels. Would they succeed? Pray
Heaven for that while Winifred lived!
And in all human probability their fate rested with him. If he were able
to stir the British authorities in the south to almost superhuman
efforts, a relieving force might arrive before the end of July. It was
a great undertaking he had set himself. Yet he would have attempted it
for Winifred's sake alone, and the thought of her anguish, when she
should hear that he was gone, gave him a pang that was not solaced by
the dearest honor a soldier can attain--promotion on the field.
It was out of the question that he should return to the Residency before
he began his self-imposed mission. Already the enemy's cavalry were
swooping along both flanks of the routed troops. In a few minutes the
only available road, which crossed the Goomtee by a bridge of boats and
led through the suburbs by way of the Dilkusha, would be closed. As it
was he had to press Nejdi into a fast gallop before he could clear the
left wing of the advancing army. Then, easing the pace a little, he
swung off into a by-way, and ere long was cantering down the quiet road
that led to Rai Bareilly and thence to Allahabad.
At seven o'clock he was ten miles from Lucknow, at eight, nearly twenty.
The quick-falling shadows warned him that if he would procure food for
Nejdi and himself he must seize the next opportunity that presented
itself, while a rest of some sort was absolutely necessary if he meant
to spare his gallant Arab for the trial of endurance that still lay
ahead.
Though he had never before traveled that road he was acquainted with its
main features. Thirty miles from his present position was the small town
of Rai Bareilly. Fifty miles to the southeast was Partabgarh. Fifty
miles due south of Partabgarh lay Allahabad. The scheme roughly outlined
in his mind was, in the first place, to buy, borrow, or steal a native
pony which would carry him to the outskirts of Rai Bareilly before dawn.
Then remounting Nejdi he would either ride rapidly through the town, or
make a detour, whichever method seemed preferable after inquiry from
such peaceful natives as he met on the road. Four hours beyond Rai
Bareilly he would leave the main road, strike due south for the Ganges,
and follow the left bank of the river until he was opposite Allahabad.
He refused to ask himself what he would do if Allahabad were in the
hands of the rebels.
"I shall tackle that difficulty about this hour to-morrow," he communed,
with a laugh at his own expense. "Just now, when a hundred miles of
unknown territory face me, I have enough to contend with. So, steady is
the word! good horse! _Caesarem invehis et fortunas ejus!_"
Thus far the wayfarers encountered during his journey had treated him
civilly. The ryots, peasant proprietors of the soil, drew their rough
carts aside and salaamed as he passed. These men knew little or nothing,
as yet, of the great events that were taking place on the south and west
of the Ganges. A few educated bunniahs and zemindars,[11] who doubtless
had heard of wild doings in the cities, glanced at him curiously, and
would have asked for news if he had not invariably ridden by at a rapid
pace.
[Footnote 11: Bunniah, grain dealer; zemindar, land-owner.]
As it happened, the route he followed was far removed from the track
of murder and rapine that marked the early progress of the Mutiny, and
the mere sight of a British Officer, moving on with such speed and
confidence, must have set these worthy folk a-wondering. Between Rai
Bareilly and the Grand Trunk Road stood the wide barrier of the
sacred river, while the town itself must not be confused with
Bareilly--situated nearly a hundred miles north of Lucknow--which
became notorious as the headquarters of Khan Bahadur Khan, a pensioner
of the British Government, and a ruffian second only to Nana Sahib in
merciless cruelty.
All unknown to Malcolm, and indeed little recognized as yet in India
save by a few district officials, there was a man in Rai Bareilly that
night who was destined to test the chivalry of Britain on many a
hard-fought field. Ahmed Ullah, famous in history as the Moulvie of
Fyzabad, had crossed the young officer's path once already. When Malcolm
took his untrained charger for the first wild gallop out of Meerut--the
ride that ended ignominiously in the moat of the Kings' of Delhi hunting
lodge--he nearly rode over a Mohammedan priest, as he tore along the
Grand Trunk Road some five miles south of the station.
It would have been well for India if Nejdi's hoofs had then and there
struck the breath out of that ascetic frame. Of all the firebrands
raised by the Mutiny, the Moulvie of Fyzabad was the fiercest and most
dangerous. Early in the year he was imprisoned for preaching sedition.
Unhappily he was liberated too soon, and, his fanaticism only inflamed
the more by punishment, he went to the Punjab and sowed disaffection far
and wide by his burning zeal for the spread of Islam. By chance he
returned to Fyzabad before the outbreak at Meerut. The feeble loyalty
of the native regiments at Lucknow sufficed to keep all the borderland
of Nepaul quiet for nearly two months. But the reports brought by his
disciples warned the moulvie that the true believer's day of triumph was
approaching. Moreover, the Begum of Oudh, one of three women who were
worth as many army corps to the mutineers, was waiting for him at Rai
Bareilly, a placid eddy in the backwash of the torrents sweeping through
Upper India, and Ahmed Ullah had left Fyzabad on the evening of the 29th
to keep his tryst.
It was, therefore, a lively brood of scorpions that Malcolm proposed to
disturb when he dismounted from a wretched tat he had purchased at his
first halt, and fed and watered Nejdi again, just as a glimmer of dawn
appeared in the east. According to his calculations he was about a mile
from Rai Bareilly. The hour was the quietest and coolest of the hot
Indian night. Some pattering drops of rain and the appearance of heavy
clouds in the southwest gave premonitions of a fresh outburst of the
monsoon. He was glad of it. Rain would freshen himself and his horse. It
made the ground soft and would retard his speed once he quitted the high
road, but these drawbacks were more than balanced by the absence of the
terrific heat of the previous day. He unstrapped his cloak and flung it
loosely over his shoulders. Then he waited, until the growing light
brought forth the untiring tillers of the fields, and he was able to
glean some sort of information as to the position of affairs in the
town. If the place were occupied by a prowling gang of rebels he might
secure a guide by payment and avoid its narrow streets altogether. At
any rate, it would be a foolish thing to dash through blindly and trust
to luck. The issues at stake were too important for that sort of
imprudent valor. His object was to reach Allahabad that night--not to
hew his way through opposing hordes and risk being cut down in the
process.
The lowing of cattle and the soft stumbling tread of many unshod feet
told him that some one was approaching. A herd of buffaloes loomed out
of the half light. Their driver, an old man, was quite willing to talk.
"There are no sahib-log in the town," he said, for Malcolm deemed it
advisable to begin by a question on that score. "The collector-sahib had
a camp here three weeks ago, but he went away, and that was a
misfortune, because the budmashes from Fyzabad came, and honest people
were sore pressed."
"From Fyzabad, say'st thou? They must be cleared out. Where are they?"
"You are too late, huzoor. They went to Cawnpore, I have heard. Men talk
of much dacoity in that district. Is that true, sahib?"
"Yes, but fear not; it will be suppressed. I am going to Allahabad. Is
this the best road?"
"I have never been so far, sahib, but it lies that way."
"Is the bazaar quiet now?"
"I have seen none save our own people these two days, yet it was said in
the bazaar last night that a Begum tarried at the rest-house."
"A Begum. What Begum?"
"I know not her name, huzoor, but she is one of the daughters of the
King of Oudh."
Malcolm was relieved to hear this. The wild notion had seized him that
the Princess Roshinara, a stormy petrel of political affairs just then,
might have drifted to Rai Bareilly by some evil chance.
"You see this pony?" he said. "Take him. He is yours. I have no further
use for him. Are you sure that there are none to dispute my passage
through the town?"
The old peasant was so taken aback by the gift that he could scarce
speak intelligibly, but he assured the Presence that at such an hour
none would interfere with him.
Malcolm decided to risk it. He mounted and rode forward at a sharp trot.
Of course he had not been able to adopt any kind of disguise. While
doing duty at the Residency he had thrown aside the turban reft from
Abdul Huq and he now wore the peaked shako, with white puggaree,
affected by junior staff officers at that period. His long military
cloak, steel scabbard, sabertache and Wellington boots, proclaimed his
profession, while his blue riding-coat and cross-belts were visible in
front, as he meant to have his arms free in case the necessity arose to
use sword or pistol.
And he rode thus into Rai Bareilly, watchful, determined, ready for any
emergency. So boldly did he advance that he darted past half a dozen men
whose special duty it was to stop and question all travelers. They were
stationed on the flat roofs of two houses, one on each side of the way,
and a rope was stretched across the road in readiness to drop and hinder
the progress of any one who did not halt when summoned. It was a simple
device. It had not been seen by the man who drove the buffaloes, and by
reason of Malcolm's choice of the turf by the side of the road as the
best place for Nejdi, it chanced to dangle high enough to permit their
passing beneath.
The sentries, though caught napping, tried to make amends for their
carelessness. In the growing light one of them saw Malcolm's
accouterments and he yelled loudly:
"Ohe, bhai, look out for the Feringhi!"
Frank, unfortunately, had not noticed the rope. But he heard the cry and
understood that the "brother" to whom it was addressed would probably be
discovered at the end of the short street. He shook Nejdi into a canter,
drew his sword, and looked keenly ahead for the first sign of those who
would bar his path.
Dawn was peeping grayly over the horizon, and Ahmed Ullah, moulvie and
interpreter of the Koran, standing in an open courtyard, was engaged in
the third of the day's prayers, of which the first was intoned soon
after sunset the previous evening. He was going through the Reka with
military precision, and as luck would have it, the Kibleh, or direction
of Mecca, brought his fierce gaze to the road along which Malcolm was
galloping. Never did priest become warrior more speedily than Ahmed
Ullah when that warning shout rang out, and he discovered that a British
officer was riding at top speed through the quiet bazaar. Assuming that
this unexpected apparition betokened the arrival of a punitive
detachment, he uttered a loud cry, leaped to the gates of the courtyard
and closed them.
Malcolm, of course, saw him and regarded his action as that of a
frightened man, who would be only too glad when he could resume his
devotions in peace. Ahmed Ullah, soon to become a claimant of sovereign
power as "King of Hindustan," was not a likely person to let a prize
slip through his fingers thus easily. Keeping up an ululating clamor of
commands, he ran to the roof of the dwelling, snatched up a musket and
took steady aim. By this time Malcolm was beyond the gate and thought
himself safe. Then he saw a rope drawn breast-high across the narrow
street, and gesticulating natives, variously armed, leaning over the
parapets on either hand. He had to decide in the twinkling of an eye
whether to go on or turn back. Probably his retreat would be cut off by
some similar device, so the bolder expedient of an advance offered the
better chance. An incomparable horseman, mounted on an absolutely
trustworthy horse, he lay well forward on Nejdi's neck, resolving to try
and pick up the slack of the rope on his sword and lift it out of the
way. To endeavor to cut through such an obstacle would undoubtedly have
brought about a disaster. It would yield, and the keenest blade might
fail to sever it completely, while any slackening of pace would enable
the hostile guard to shoot him at point-blank range.
These considerations passed through his mind while Nejdi was covering
some fifty yards. To disconcert the enemy, who were not sepoys and
whose guns were mostly antiquated weapons of the match-lock type, he
pulled out a revolver and fired twice. Then he leaned forward, with
right arm thrown well in front and the point of his sword three feet
beyond Nejdi's head. At that instant, when Frank was unconsciously
offering a bad target, the moulvie fired. The bullet plowed through the
Englishman's right forearm, struck the hilt of the sword and knocked the
weapon out of his hand. Exactly what happened next he never knew. From
the nature of his own bruises afterwards and the manner in which he was
jerked backwards from the saddle, he believed that the rope missed Nejdi
altogether, but caught him by the left shoulder. The height of a horse
extended at the gallop is surprisingly low as compared with the height
of the same animal standing or walking. There was even a remote
possibility that the rope would strike the Arab's forehead and bound
clear of his rider. But that was not to be. Here was Frank hurled to the
roadway, and striving madly to resist the treble shock of his wound, of
the blow dealt by the rope, and of the fall, while Nejdi was tearing
away through Rai Bareilly as though all the djinns of his native desert
were pursuing him.
Though Malcolm's torn arm was bleeding copiously, and he was stunned by
being thrown so violently flat on his back, no bones were broken. His
rage at the trick fate had played him, the overwhelming bitterness of
another and most lamentable failure, enabled him to struggle to his feet
and empty at his assailants the remaining chambers of the revolver which
was still tightly clutched in his left hand. He missed, luckily, or they
would have butchered him forthwith. In another minute he was standing
before Moulvie Ahmed Ullah, and that earnest advocate of militant Islam
was plying him with mocking questions.
"Whither so fast, Feringhi? Dost thou run from death, or ride to seek
it? Mayhap thou comest from Lucknow. If so, what news? And where are the
papers thou art carrying?"
Frank's strength was failing him. To the weakness resulting from loss
of blood was added the knowledge that this time he was trapped without
hope of escape. The magnificent display of self-command entailed by the
effort to rise and face his foes in a last defiance could not endure
much longer. He knew it was near the end when he had difficulty in
finding the necessary words in Urdu. But he spoke, slowly and firmly,
compelling his unwilling brain to form the sentences.
"I have no papers, and if I had, who are you that demand them?" he said.
"I am an officer of the Company, and I call on all honest and loyal men
to help me in my duty. I promise--to those who assist me to reach
Allahabad--that they will be--pardoned for any past offenses--and well
rewarded...."
The room swam around him and the grim-visaged moullah became a grotesque
being, with dragon's eyes and a turban like a cloud. Yet he kept on,
hoping against imminent death itself that his words would reach some
willing ear.
"Any man--who tells General Neill-sahib--at Allahabad--that
help is wanted--at Lucknow--will be made rich.... Help--at
Lucknow--immediately.... I, Malcolm-sahib--of the 3d Cavalry--say...."
He collapsed in the grasp of the men who were holding him.
"Thou has said enough, dog of a Nazarene. Take him without and hang
him," growled Ahmed Ullah.
"Nay," cried a woman's voice from behind a straw portiere that closed
the arched veranda of the house. "Thou art too ready with thy sentences,
moulvie. Rather let us bind his wounds and give him food and drink. Then
he will recover, and tell us what we want to know."
"He hath told us already, Princess," said the other, his harsh accents
sounding more like the snarl of a wolf than a human voice. "He comes
from Lucknow and he seeks succor from Allahabad. That means--"
"It means that he can be hanged as easily at eventide as at daybreak,
and we shall surely learn the truth, as such men do not breathe lies."
"He will not speak, Princess."
"Leave that to me. If I fail, I hand him over to thee forthwith. Let him
be brought within and tended, and let some ride after his horse, as
there may be letters in the wallets. I have spoken, Ahmed Ullah. See
that I am obeyed."
The moulvie said no word. He went back to his praying mat and bent again
toward the west, where the Holy Kaaba enshrines the ruby sent down from
heaven. But though his lips muttered the rubric of the Koran, his heart
whispered other things, and chief among them was the vow that ere many
days be passed he would so contrive affairs that no woman's whim should
thwart his judgment.
So the clouded day broke sullenly, with gusts of warm rain and red
gleams of a sun striving to disperse the mists. And the earth soaked and
steamed and threw off fever-laden vapors as she nursed the grain to life
and bade the arid plain clothe itself in summer greenery. It was a bad
day to lie wounded and ill and a prisoner, and despite the cooling
showers, it was a hot day to ride far and fast.
Hence it was long past noon when a servant announced to the Begum that
the sahib--for thus the man described Malcolm until sharply admonished
to learn the new order of speech--the Nazarene, then, was somewhat
recovered from his faintness. And about the same hour, when a subadar of
the 7th Cavalry clattered into Rai Bareilly and was told that a certain
Feringhi whom he sought was safely laid by the heels there, so sultry
was the atmosphere that he seemed to be quite glad of the news.
"Shabash!" he cried, as he dismounted. "May I never drink at the White
Pond of the Prophet if that be not good hearing! So you have caught him,
brethren! Wao, wao! you have done a great thing. He is not killed?--No?
That is well, for he is sorely wanted at Lucknow. Tie him tightly,
though. He is a fox in guile, and might give me the slip again. May his
bones bleach in an infidel's grave!--I have hunted him fifty miles, yet
scarce a man I met had seen him!"