WHEREIN FATE PLAYS TRICKS WITH MALCOLM
If it is difficult for the present generation to understand the manners
and ways of its immediate forbears, how much more difficult to ask it to
appreciate the extraordinary features of the siege of Lucknow! Let the
reader who knows London imagine some parish in the heart of the city
barricading itself behind a mud wall against its neighbors: let him
garrison this flimsy fortress with sixteen hundred and ninety-two
combatants, of whom a large number were men of an inferior race and of
doubtful loyalty to those for whom they were fighting, while scores of
the Europeans were infirm pensioners: let him cram the rest of the
available shelter with women and children: let him picture the network
of narrow streets, tall houses and a few open spaces--often separated
from the enemy only by the width of a lane--as being subjected to
interminable bombardment at point-blank range, and he will have a clear
notion of some, at least, of the conditions which obtained in Lucknow
when that gloomy July 1st carried on the murderous work begun on the
previous evening.
The Residency itself was the only strong building in an enclosure seven
hundred yards long and four hundred yards wide, though by no means
so large in area as these figures suggest. The whole position was
surrounded by an adobe wall and ditch, strengthened at intervals by a
gate or a stouter embrasure for a gun. The other structures, such as
the Banqueting Hall, which was converted into a hospital, the Treasury,
the Brigade Mess, the Begum Kotee, the Barracks, and a few nondescript
houses and offices, were utterly unsuited for defense against musketry
alone. As to their capacity to resist artillery fire, that was a grim
jest with the inmates, who dreaded the fallen masonry as much as the
rebel shells.
Even the Residency was forced to use its underground rooms for the
protection of the greater part of the women and children, while the
remaining buildings, except the Begum Kotee, which was comparatively
sheltered on all sides, were so exposed to the enemy's guns that when
some sort of clearance was made in October, four hundred and thirty-five
cannon-balls were taken out of the Brigade Mess alone.
Before the siege commenced the British also occupied a strong palace
called the Muchee Bhowun, standing outside the entrenchment and
commanding the stone bridge across the river Goomtee. A few hours'
experience revealed the deadly peril to which its small garrison was
exposed, and Lawrence decided at all costs to abandon it. A rude
semaphore was erected on the roof of the Residency, and on the first
morning of the siege, three officers signaled to the commandant of the
outlying fort, Colonel Palmer, that he was to spike his guns, blow up
the building and bring his men into the main position. The three did
their signaling under a heavy fire, but they were understood. Happily,
the prospect of loot in the city drew off thousands of the rebels after
sunset, and Colonel Palmer marched out quietly at midnight. A few
minutes later an appalling explosion shook every house in Lucknow. The
Muchee Bhowun, with its immense stores, had been blown to the sky.
That same day Lawrence received what the Celtic soldiers among the
garrison regarded as a warning of his approaching end. He was working in
his room with his secretary when a shell crashed through the wall and
burst at the feet of the two men. Neither was injured, but Captain
Wilson, one of his staff-officers, begged the Chief to remove his office
to a less exposed place.
"Nothing of the kind," said Sir Henry, cheerfully. "The sepoys don't
possess an artilleryman good enough to throw a second shell into the
same spot."
"It will please all of us if you give in on this point, sir," persisted
Wilson.
"Oh, well, if you put it that way, I will turn out to-morrow," was the
smiling answer.
Next morning at eight o'clock, after a round of inspection, the general,
worn out by anxiety and want of sleep, threw himself on a bed in a
corner of the room.
Wilson came in.
"Don't forget your promise, sir," he said.
"I have not forgotten, but I am too tired to move now. Give me another
hour or two."
Lawrence went on to explain some orders to his aide. While they were
talking another shell entered the small apartment, exploded, and filled
the air with dust and stifling fumes. Wilson's ears were stunned by the
noise, but he cried out twice:
"Sir Henry, are you hurt?"
Lawrence murmured something, and Wilson rushed to his side. The coverlet
of the bed was crimson with blood. Some men of the 32d ran in and
carried their beloved leader to another room. Then a surgeon came and
pronounced the wound to be mortal. On the morning of the 4th Lawrence
died. He was conscious to the last, and passed his final hours planning
and contriving and making arrangements for the continuance of the
defense.
"Never surrender!" was his dying injunction. Shot and shell battered
unceasingly against the walls of Dr. Fayrer's house in which he lay
dying, but their terrors never shook that stout heart, and he died as he
lived, a splendid example of an officer and a gentleman, a type of all
that is best and noblest in the British character.
And Death, who did not spare the Chief, sought lowlier victims. During
the first week of the siege the average number killed daily was twenty.
Even when the troops learnt to avoid the exposed places, and began to
practise the little tricks and artifices that tempt an enemy to reveal
his whereabouts to his own undoing, the daily death-roll was ten for
more than a month.
There was no real safety anywhere. Even in the Begum Kotee, where
Winifred and the other ladies of the garrison were lodged, some of them
were hit. Twice ere the end of July Winifred awoke in the morning to
find bullets on the floor and the mortar of the wall broken within a few
inches of her head. That she slept soundly under such conditions is a
remarkable tribute to human nature's knack of adapting itself to
circumstances. After a few days of excessive nervousness the most
timorous among the women were heard to complain of the monotony of
existence!
And two amazing facts stand out from the record of guard-mounting,
cartridge-making, cooking, cleaning, and the rest of the every-day
doings inseparable from life even in a siege. Although the rebels now
numbered at least twenty thousand men, including six thousand trained
soldiers, they were long in hardening their hearts to attempt that
escalade which, if undertaken on the last day of June, could scarcely
have failed to be successful. They were not cowards. They gave proof in
plenty of their courage and fighting stamina. Yet they cringed before
men whom they had learnt to regard as the dominant race. The other
equally surprising element in the situation was the readiness of the
garrison, doomed by all the laws of war to early extinction, to extract
humor out of its forlorn predicament.
The most dangerous post in the entrenchment was the Cawnpore Battery.
It was commanded by a building known as Johannes' House, whence an
African negro, christened "Bob the Nailer" by the wits of the 32d,
picked off dozens of the defenders during the opening days of the siege.
What quarrel this stranger in a strange land had with the English no one
knows, but the defenders were well aware of his identity, and annoyed
him by exhibiting a most unflattering effigy. Needless to say, the
whites of his eyes and his woolly hair were reproduced with marked
effect, and "Bob the Nailer" gave added testimony of his skill with a
rifle by shooting out both eyes in the dummy figure.
Winifred had heard of this man. Once she actually saw him while she was
peeping through a forbidden casement. Knowing the wholesale destruction
of her fellow-countrymen with which he was credited, she had it in her
heart to wish that she held a gun at that moment, and she would surely
have done her best to kill him.
He disappeared and she turned away with a sigh, to meet her uncle
hastening towards her.
"Ah, Winifred," he cried, "what were you doing there? Looking out, I am
certain. Have you forgotten the punishment inflicted on Lot's wife when
she would not obey orders?"
"I have just had a glimpse of that dreadful negro in Johannes' House,"
she said.
Mr. Mayne threw down a bundle of clothes he was carrying. He unslung his
rifle. His face, tanned by exposure to sun and rain, lost some of its
brick-red color.
"Are you sure?" he whispered, as if their voices might betray them. Like
every other man in the garrison he longed to check the career of "Bob
the Nailer."
"It is too late," said the girl. "He was visible only for an instant.
Look! I saw him at that window."
She partly opened the wooden shutter again and pointed to an upper story
of the opposite building. Almost instantly a bullet imbedded itself in
the solid planks. Some watcher had noted the opportunity and taken it.
Winifred coolly closed the casement and adjusted its cross-bar.
"Perhaps it is just as well you missed the chance," she said. "You might
have been shot yourself while you were taking aim."
"And what about you, my lady?"
"I sha'n't offend again, uncle, dear. I really could not tell you why I
looked out just now. Things were quiet, I suppose. And I forgot that the
opening of a window would attract attention. But why in the world are
you bringing me portions of Mr. Malcolm's uniform? That is what you have
in the bundle, is it not?"
"Yes. The three men who shared his room are dead, and the place is
wanted as an extra ward. I happened to hear of it, so I have rescued his
belongings."
"Do you--do you think he will ever claim them, or that we shall live to
safeguard them?"
"My dear one, that is as Providence directs. It is something to be
thankful for that we are alive and uninjured. And that reminds me. They
need a lot of bandages in the hospital. Will you tear Malcolm's linen
into strips? I will come for them after the last post."[12]
[Footnote 12: Non-military readers may need to be reminded that the
"last post" is a bugle-call which signifies the close of the day. It is
usually succeeded by "Lights out."]
He hurried away, leaving the odd collection of garments with her. The
clothes were her lover's parade uniform, which Malcolm had carried from
Meerut in a valise strapped behind the saddle. The other articles were
purchased in Lucknow and had never been worn. In comparison with the
smart full-dress kit of a cavalry officer and the spotless linen, a
soiled and mud-spattered turban looked singularly out of place. It was
as though some tatterdemalion had thrust himself into a gathering of
dandies.
Being a woman, Winifred gave no heed to the fact that the metal badge on
the crossed folds was not that worn by an officer, nor did she observe
that it carried the crest of the 2d Cavalry, whereas Malcolm's regiment
was the 3d. But, being also a very thrifty and industrious little
person, she decided to untie the turban, wash it, and use its many yards
of fine muslin for the manufacture of lint.
The folds of a turban are usually kept in position by pins, but when she
came to examine this one she discovered that it was tied with whip-cord.
Her knowledge of native headgear was not extensive, so this measure of
extra security did not surprise her. A pair of scissors soon overcame
the difficulty; she shook out the neat folds, and a pearl necklace and a
piece of paper fell to the floor.
She was alone in her room at the moment. No one heard her cry of
surprise, almost of terror. One glance at the glistening pearls told her
that they were of exceeding value. They ranged from the size of a small
pea to that of a large marble; their white sheen and velvet purity
bespoke rareness and skilled selection. The setting alone would vouch
for their quality. Each pearl was secured to its neighbor by clasps and
links of gold, while a brooch-like fastening in front was studded with
fine diamonds. Winifred sank to her knees. She picked up this remarkable
ornament as gingerly as if she were handling a dead snake. In the vivid
light the pearls shimmered with wonderful and ever-changing tints. They
seemed to whisper of love, and hate--of all the passions that stir heart
and brain into frenzy--and through a mist of fear and awed questioning
came a doubt, a suspicion, a searching of her soul as she recalled
certain things which the thrilling events of her recent life had dulled
almost to extinction.
Her uncle had told her of the Princess Roshinara's words to Malcolm on
that memorable night of May 10, when he rode out from Meerut to help
them. At the time, perhaps, a little pang of jealousy made its presence
felt, for no woman can bear to hear of another woman's overtures to her
lover. The meeting at Bithoor helped to dispel that half-formed
illusion, and she had not troubled since to ask herself why the Princess
Roshinara was so ready to help Malcolm to escape. She never dreamed that
she herself was a pawn in the game that was intended to bring Nana Sahib
to Delhi. But now, with this royal trinket glittering in her hands, she
could hardly fail to connect it with the only Indian princess of whom
she had any knowledge, and the torturing fact was seemingly undeniable
that Malcolm had this priceless necklace in his possession without
telling her of its existence. Certainly he had chosen a singular
hiding-place, and never did man treat such a treasure with such apparent
carelessness. But--there it was. The studied simplicity of its
concealment had been effective. She had heard, long since, how he parted
from Lawrence on the Chinhut road. Since that hour there was no possible
means of communicating with Lucknow, even though he had reached
Allahabad safely.
And he had never told her a word about it. It was that that rankled.
Poor Winifred rose from her knees in a mood perilously akin to her
hatred of the negro who dealt death or disablement to her friends of the
garrison, but, this time, it was a woman, not a man, whom she regarded
as the enemy.
Then, in a bitter temper, she stooped again to rescue the bit of
discolored paper that had fallen with the pearls. Her anger was not
lessened by finding that it was covered with Hindustani characters.
They, of course, offered her no clue to the solution of the mystery
that was wringing her heartstrings. If anything, the illegible scrawl
only added to her distress. The document was something unknown;
therefore, it lent itself to distrust.
At any rate, the turban was destined not to be shredded into lint that
day. She busied herself with tearing up the rest of the linen. When
night came, and Mr. Mayne could leave his post, she showed him the paper
and asked him to translate it.
He was a good Eastern scholar, but the dull rays of a small oil lamp
were not helpful in a task always difficult to English eyes. He bent his
brows over the script and began to decipher some of the words.
"'Malcolm-sahib ... the Company's 3d Regiment of Horse ... heaven-born
Princess Roshinara Begum....' Where in the world did you get this,
Winifred, and how did it come into your possession?" he said.
"It was in Mr. Malcolm's turban--the one you brought me to-day from his
quarters."
"In his turban? Do you mean that it was hidden there?"
"Yes, something of the kind."
Mayne examined the paper again.
"That is odd," he muttered after a pause.
"But what does the writing mean? You say it mentions his name and that
of the Princess Roshinara? Surely it has some definite significance?"
The Commissioner was so taken up with the effort to give each spidery
curve and series of distinguishing dots and vowel marks their proper
bearing in the text that he did not catch the note of disdain in his
niece's voice.
"I have it now," he said, peering at the document while he held it close
to the lamp. "It is a sort of pass. It declares that Mr. Malcolm is a
friend of the Begum and gives him safe conduct if he visits Delhi within
three days of the date named here, but I cannot tell when that would be,
until I consult a native calendar. It is signed by Bahadur Shah and is
altogether a somewhat curious thing to be in Malcolm's possession. Is
that all you know of it--merely that it was stuck in a fold of his
turban?"
"This accompanied it," said Winifred, with a restraint that might have
warned her hearer of the passion it strove to conceal. But Mayne was
deaf to Winifred's coldness. If he was startled before, he was
positively amazed when she produced the necklace.
He took it, appraised its value silently, and scrutinized the
workmanship in the gold links.
"Made in Delhi," he half whispered. "A wonderful thing, probably worth
two lakhs of rupees,[13] or even more. It is old, too. The craftsman who
fashioned this clasp is not to be found nowadays. Why, it may have been
worn by Nurmahal herself! Each of its fifty pearls could supply a
chapter of a romance. And you found it, together with this safe-conduct,
in Malcolm's turban?"
[Footnote 13: At that time, $100,000.]
"Yes, uncle. Do you think I would speak carelessly of such a precious
object? When one has discovered a treasure it is a trait of human nature
to note pretty closely the place where it came to light."
Mayne was yet too much taken up with puzzling side-issues to pay heed to
Winifred's demeanor. He remembered the extraordinary proposal made by
Roshinara to Malcolm ere she drove away to Delhi from her father's
hunting lodge. Could it be possible that his young friend had met the
princess on other occasions than that which Malcolm laughingly described
as the lunging of Nejdi and the plunging of his master? It occurred to
him now, with a certain chilling misgiving, that he had himself broken
in with a bewildered exclamation when Frank seemed to regard the
Princess's offer of employment in her service as worthy of serious
thought. There were other aspects of the affair, aspects so sinister
that he almost refused to harbor them. Rather to gain time than with any
definite motive, he stooped over the pass again, meaning to read it word
for word.
"Of course you have not forgotten, uncle, that Mr. Malcolm took us into
his confidence so far as to tell us of the curious letter that reached
him after the second battle outside Delhi?" said Winifred. "It saved him
at Bithoor when the men from Cawnpore meant to hang him, and, seeing
that he had the one article in his possession, it is passing strange
that he should have omitted to mention the other--to me."
Then the man knew what it all meant to the girl. He placed his arm
around her neck and drew her towards him.
"My poor Winifred!" he murmured, "you might at least have been spared
such a revelation at this moment."
His sympathy broke down her pride. She sobbed as though her heart would
yield beneath the strain. For a little while there was no sound in the
room but Winifred's plaints, while ever and anon the walls shook with
the crash of the cannonade and the bursting of shells.
* * * * *
Ahmed Ullah, Moulvie of Fyzabad, had a quick ear for the arrival of the
native officer of cavalry from Lucknow.
"Peace be with thee, brother!" said he, after a shrewd glance at the
travel-worn and blood-stained man and horse. "Thou has ridden far and
fast. What news hast thou of the Jehad,[14] and how fares it at
Lucknow?"
[Footnote 14: "Religious war."]
"With thee be peace!" was the reply. "We fought the Nazarenes yesterday
at a place called Chinhut, and sent hundreds of the infidel dogs to the
fifth circle of Jehannum. The few who escaped our swords are penned up
in the Residency, and its walls are now crumbling before our guns. By
the tomb of Nizam-ud-din, the unbelievers must have fallen ere the
present hour."
The moulvie's wicked eyes sparkled.
"Praise be to Allah and his Prophet forever!" he cried. "How came this
thing to pass?"
"My regiment took the lead," said the rissaldar, proudly. "We had long
chafed under the commands of the huzoors. At last we rose and made short
work of our officers. You see here--" and he touched a rent in his right
side, "where one of them tried to stop the thrust that ended him. But I
clave him to the chin, the swine-eater, and when Larrence-sahib attacked
us at Chinhut we chased him over the Canal and through the streets."
"Wao! wao! This is good hearing! Wast thou sent by some of the faithful
to summon me, brother?"
"To summon thee and all true believers to the green standard. Yet had I
one other object in riding to Rai Bareilly. A certain Nazarene, Malcolm
by name, an officer of the 3d Cavalry, was bidden by Larrence to make
for Allahabad and seek help. The story runs that the Nazarenes are
mustering there for a last stand ere we drive them into the sea. This
Malcolm-sahib--"
"Enough!" said the moulvie, fiercely, for his self-love was wounded at
learning that the rebel messenger classed him with the mob. "We have him
here. He is in safe keeping when he is in the hands of Ahmed Ullah!"
"What!" exclaimed the newcomer with a mighty oath. "Are you the saintly
Moulvie of Fyzabad?"
"Whom else, then, did you expect to find?"
"You, indeed, O revered one. But not here. My orders were, once I had
secured the Nazarene, to send urgently to Fyzabad and bid you hurry to
Lucknow with all speed."
"Ha! Say'st thou, friend. Who gave thee this message?"
"One whom thou wilt surely listen to. Yet these things are not for every
man to hear. We must speak of them apart."
The moulvie was appeased. Nay, more, his ambition was fired.
"Come with me into the house. You are in need of food and rest. Come! We
can talk while you eat."
He drew nearer, but a woman's voice was raised from behind a screen in
one of the rooms.
"Tarry yet a minute, friend. I would learn more of events in Lucknow.
Tell us more fully what has taken place there."
"The Begum of Oudh must be obeyed," said Ahmed Ullah with a warning
glance at the other. He was met with a villainous and intriguing look
that would have satisfied Machiavelli, but the officer bowed low before
the screen.
"I am, indeed, honored to be the bearer of good tidings to royal ears,"
said he. "Doubtless I should have been entrusted with letters for your
highness were not the city in some confusion owing to the fighting."
"Who commands our troops?" came the sharp demand.
"At present, your highness, the Nawab of Rampur represents the King of
Oudh."
"The Nawab of Rampur! That cannot be tolerated. Ahmed Ullah!"
"I am here," growled the moulvie, smiling sourly.
"We must depart within the hour. Let my litter be prepared, and send men
on horseback to provide relays of carriers every ten miles. Delay not.
The matter presses."
There could be no mistaking the agitation of the hidden speaker. That
an admitted rival of her father's dynasty should be even the nominal
leader of the revolt was not to be endured. The mere suggestion of
such a thing was gall and wormwood. None realized better than this
arch-priestess of cabal that a predominating influence gained at the
outset of a new regime might never be weakened by those who were shut
out by circumstances from a share in the control of events. Even the
fanatical moulvie gasped at this intelligence, though his shrewd wit
taught him that the rissaldar had not exchanged glances with him
without good reason.
"Come, then," said he, "and eat. I have much occupation, and it will
free thy hands if I see to the hanging of the Feringhi forthwith."
"Nay, that cannot be," was the cool reply, as the two entered the
building. "I would not have ridden so hard through the night for the
mere stringing up of one Nazarene. By the holy Kaaba, we gave dozens
of them a speedier death yesterday."
"What other errand hast thou? The matter touches only the Nazarene's
attempt to reach Allahabad, I suppose?"
"That is a small thing. Our brothers at Cawnpore may have secured
Allahabad and other towns in the Doab long ere to-day. This Frank comes
back with me to Lucknow. If I bring him alive I earn a jaghir,[15] if
dead, only a few gold mohurs."
[Footnote 15: An estate.]
"Thy words are strange, brother."
"Not so strange as the need that this Feringhi should live till he
reaches Lucknow. He hath in his keeping certain papers that concern
the Roshinara Begum of Delhi, and he must be made to confess their
whereabouts. So far as that goes, what is the difference between a
tree in Rai Bareilly and a tree in Lucknow?"
"True, if the affair presses. Nevertheless, to those who follow me, I
may have the bestowing of many jaghirs."
"I will follow thee with all haste, O holy one," was the answer, "but
a field in a known village is larger than a township in an unknown
kingdom. Let me secure this jaghir first, O worthy of honor, and I shall
come quickly to thee for the others."
"How came it that Nawab of Rampur assumed the leadership?" inquired
Ahmed Ullah, his mind reverting to the graver topic of the rebellion.
The other scowled sarcastically.
"He is of no account," he muttered. "Was I mistaken in thinking that
thou didst not want all my budget opened for a woman? He who gave me a
message for thee was the moullah who dwells near the Imambara. Dost thou
not know him? Ghazi-ud-din. _He_ sent me. 'Tell the Moulvie of Fyzabad
that he is wanted--he will understand,' said he. And now, when I have
eaten, lead me to the Feringhi. Leave him to me. Within two days I shall
have more news for thee."
The name of Ghazi-ud-din, a firebrand of the front rank in Lucknow,
proved to Ahmed Ullah that his opportunity had come. He gave orders that
the wants of the cavalry officer and his horse were to be attended to,
while he himself bustled off to prepare for an immediate journey.
When the Begum and the moulvie departed for Lucknow they were
accompanied by nearly the whole of their retinue. Two men were left
to assist the rissaldar in taking care of the prisoner, and these two
vowed by the Prophet that they had never met such a swashbuckler as the
stranger, for he used strange oaths that delighted them and told stories
of the sacking of Lucknow that made them tingle with envy.
Oddly enough, he was very anxious that the Nazarene's horse should be
recovered, and was so pleased to hear that Nejdi was caught in a field
on the outskirts of the town and brought in during the afternoon that
he promised his assistants a handful of gold mohurs apiece--when they
reached Lucknow.
Once, ere sunset, he visited the prisoner and cursed him with a fluency
that caused all listeners to own that the warriors of the 7th Cavalry
must, indeed, be fine fellows.
At last, when Frank was led forth and helped into the saddle, his
guardian's flow of humorous invective reached heights that pleased the
villagers immensely. The Nazarene's hands were tied behind him, and the
gallant rissaldar, holding the Arab's reins, rode by his side. The
moulvie's men followed, and in this guise the quartette quitted Rai
Bareilly for the north.
They were about a mile on their way and the sun was nearing the horizon,
when the native officer bade his escort halt.
"Bones of Mahomet!" he cried, "what am I thinking of? My horse has done
fifty miles in twenty-four hours, and the Feringhi's probably more than
that. Hath not the moulvie friends in Rai Bareilly who will lend us a
spare pair?"
Ahmed Ullah's retainers hazarded the opinion that their master's
presence might be necessary ere friendship stood such a strain.
"Then why not make the Nazarene pay for his journey?" said the rissaldar
with grim humor.
He showed skill as a cut-purse in going straight to an inner pocket
where Malcolm carried some small store of money. Taking ten gold mohurs,
he told the men to hasten back to the village and purchase a couple of
strong ponies.
"Nay," said he, when they made to ride off. "You must go afoot, else I
may never again see you or the tats. I will abide here till you return.
See that you lose no time, but if darkness falls speedily I will await
you in the next village."
Not daring to argue with this truculent-looking bravo, the men obeyed.
Already it was dusk and daylight would soon fail. No sooner had they
disappeared round the first bend in the road than the rissaldar,
unfastening Malcolm's bonds the while, said with a strange humility:
"It was easier done than I expected, sahib, but I guessed that my story
about the Nawab of Rampur would send Moulvie and Begum packing. Now we
are free, and we have four horses. Whither shall we go? But, if it be
north, south, east, or west, let us leave the main road, for messengers
may meet the moulvie and that would make him suspicious."
"Thy counsel is better than mine, good friend," was Frank's answer. "I
am yet dazed with thy success, and my only word is--to Allahabad."