WATER! WATER!
KRIPÁ DÉ, in the hands of his enemies, at first struggling madly, then
yielding to a force which he had no power to resist, was dragged away
toward the fort. As the shorter route through the town was taken, the
crowd of excited Hindus around him grew larger as the party hurried on
with their prey. Wild cries and howlings resounded on every side. Now
and then a blow was given to the helpless captive, which made him feel
sensibly how utterly he was at the mercy of superstitious fanatics, to
whom breaking of caste, especially by a Brahmin, appeared a horrible
crime. Kripá Dé had become an object of contempt to those who, a day
before, might have fallen prostrate at his feet. The persecuted youth
made no attempt to address the crowd—his voice would have been lost in
the uproar; but he lifted up his heart in silent prayer. It was less a
prayer for deliverance than for strength to keep faithful unto death.
Kripá Dé knew that a terrible ordeal might be before him—that, once
within the walls of the fort, he might have to suffer what nature shrank
from, and he mistrusted his own power to endure; but the poor lad in his
misery cast himself on a power greater than his own. “O Lord, let me not
deny Thee! let me rather die than deny Thee!” was the converts silent
but fervent supplication. It was at once the cry of fear and the prayer
of faith.
Not all of the excited crowd were permitted to enter the court-yard of
the fort; and of those who pressed in, but few were suffered to pass the
second door, which led to the women’s apartments, which formed the most
private part of the building. To this part Thákar Dás resolved to take
his prisoner, woman’s entreaties, reproaches, and curses being, he
thought, more likely to be effectual in shaking the convert’s resolution
than the threats and even the violence of man.
Kripá Dé, after being rudely pushed up the steep dark stair, had on the
upper platform to face the anger and the insults of the women, as well
as to answer the stern interrogations of the chief of the fort.
“Where have you been since you left us on pretence of making a
pilgrimage?”
“With friends,” replied Kripá Dé, as soon as he was able to speak.
“Friends! beef-eaters! slayers of the sacred cow! Hast thou eaten with
them, vile wretch? Hast thou blackened the faces of thy family, hast
thou disgraced thy dead mother, and cast dust on the grave of thy
father, by eating with the impure?”
Kripá Dé did not deny the charge, and his silence brought on him a
furious volley of abuse from Darobti and the other women, who assailed
the convert with epithets too vile for repetition here. At a pause,
however, Thákar Dás commanded silence by a wave of his hand. The chief
had loved and been proud of the beautiful boy whom his wife had adopted,
and the Hindu had not given up all hope of winning Kripá Dé back to the
faith of his fathers. The path of return is not so much blocked up now
as it was once against the return of those who have forsaken the Hindu
religion.
“Hear me, O son of Shiv Prasád!” exclaimed Thákar Dás. “Thou hast been
bewitched by English sorceries, and hast cast away like a madman the
privileges of thy high birth. But the gods may yet be propitiated and
the Brahmins appeased. The holy waters of the Ganges, the swallowing the
five sacred products of the cow, with large offerings which I will make
for thee at many temples, thine own pilgrimages, fastings, and
ablutions, may yet restore thee to the high position from which thou
hast fallen, if thou swear by the holy gods to abjure the faith of the
Christians.”
“I would rather part with my life than my faith!” cried the young
Kashmiri, his fair cheek flushing and his lip quivering as he made the
reply.
This declaration renewed the pelting of the pitiless storm of abuse and
invectives. Darobti pulled off her slipper, and with it struck the youth
on the face.
“Why do you treat me thus?” exclaimed Kripá Dé. “I have done wrong to no
man, I have injured none, I am of an age to choose my own religion. The
English Sircar [Government] will protect me.”
“You are a child; you are under fourteen,” cried Chand Kor, with the
unblushing effrontery often shown in such cases. “I can swear that ten
years ago thou wert an infant in arms.”
“We can bring a dozen witnesses!” exclaimed Thákar Dás. “We will do so
if the case be brought into court.”
“The Sahib has my janam-patri,” said the young Brahmin.
This renewed the tempest of abuse.
“Has the Sahib your sacred thread also?” almost shrieked out the aunt of
the convert.
Kripá Dé was about to say “No;” for to have given his thread to an eater
of beef would have been in the eyes of the family a crime like parricide
in enormity. But the lad remembered what Robin had said about falsehood;
so he pressed his lips together to keep in the word, and by silence
signified assent. Again Darobti struck him on the face, and Jai Dé spat
at the Brahmin.
About an hour passed thus, a terrible hour, during which Kripá Dé was
the butt of the coarsest abuse. Then Thákar Dás and his few attendants
withdrew from the women’s part of the building, carefully fastening
behind them the door on the upper part of the stair—the door of
communication between the zenana and the lower part of the fort, and the
two courts which have been repeatedly mentioned. The weather being warm,
most of the women then went by an outer stair to the upper terrace,
which was also comprised in their allotted quarters. There, sitting in
the sunshine, the bibis span at their wheels, or prepared vegetables for
the evening meal, which they had not yet begun to cook. Chand Kor alone
remained near Kripá Dé, big tears of mingled anger and sorrow now and
then dropping from her eyes, and such words as these from her
mouth:—“Hac! hac! would that thou hadst died ere thy lips could speak!
would that the destroyer had strangled thee in thy infancy! Thou art
dead now, cut off! Thou art like a dead dog, a crushed worm; thou art
lower than the dust of the earth!”
“O my Lord, Thou didst bear shame and reproach for me!” thought the poor
convert; “shall the disciple not suffer like the Master?”
Hours passed, miserable hours; the heat was oppressive; Kripá Dé’s mouth
was parched with feverish excitement, and he longed intensely to quench
his thirst. The youth moved towards a brass vessel which he knew
contained water, and was about to pour some into his hand, when Chand
Kor, starting up angrily, overturned the vessel and emptied it of its
contents.
“Who would drink anything out of a vessel polluted by thy vile touch?”
she exclaimed.
“O mother, mother! have you no compassion?” exclaimed Kripá Dé,
addressing Chand Kor by that most tender of names, in order to touch her
heart. “Do you mean to let the only child of the sister whom you loved
die of thirst in the midst of abundance?”[8] Kripá knew that the time
for the evening meal had arrived.
Chand Kor looked at her nephew sternly and steadily for some moments,
and then said: “No! Mihtab Kor’s son shall not die of hunger or thirst.
I will send thee food and water, but by the hand of a mitráni [sweeper,
one of very low caste]. Eat, drink, and be doubly defiled!”
“Not by the hand of a mitráni!” exclaimed the Brahmin, as his aunt went
away to mount the stair to the upper gallery, from which a savoury scent
of curry was now proceeding.
“By a mitráni,” repeated Chand Kor, turning round to give a look of
contempt. “Thou art only fit to herd with mihtars.”
The English reader will hardly understand the utter disgust with which
the high-caste Hindu looks down on the mihtar. Forced to make use of his
services—for the mihtar is the scavenger of the house—he is deemed
unclean like the vulture. Food touched by the mihtar would be thrown
away; some Brahmins would rather die than eat it. Kripá Dé had not yet
lost all the prejudices of his caste; like some native Christians even
of some standing in the Church, he shrank with repulsion from any
contact with one of the mihtar class.
Footnote 8:
It was believed that a convert who _disappeared_ had been quietly
starved to death in his home.
“But is it Christ-like to despise any human being whom God has made?”
reflected Kripá Dé when left alone. “Did not the Sahib tell me that
Peter was forbidden to call any one common or unclean? Is it not true
that the Lord died for mihtars as well as for Brahmins? It cannot really
pollute me to take water from a mitráni when I am dying of thirst. I
will drink it, and thank God for the draught.”
It seemed to poor Kripá Dé that the longed-for water never would come,
he had to wait so long, whilst eating and drinking were going on above;
and now and then women and girls looked down on the prisoner, and
laughingly asked him if he were ready for food.
The sun had by this time set, and one faint little star after another
appeared in the sky. Then a low-caste woman, as Chand Kor had
threatened, holding in one dirty hand a chapattie (unleavened cake), and
in the other an earthen vessel, came down the outer steps, and without
speaking put down what she had brought, then instantly quitted the spot.
The mitráni was never suffered to sleep in the town, far less in the
fort; but Thákar Dás having shut up the only door of communication with
the lower stair, the sweeper had been thus accidentally detained a kind
of prisoner in a place where she would not be allowed to cook her food,
far less to eat it.
“I could not touch that chapattie—I am too miserable to be hungry,”
thought Kripá Dé; “but, oh, the water! the water!”
The thirsty captive eagerly caught up the earthen vessel, and was about
to drain it, when he caught sight of a face, pale with terror, the eyes
dilated with fear, on the terrace above him, and heard a voice, the
voice of Premi, exclaiming in a loud warning tone, “Do not drink! the
water is poisoned!”
Kripá Dé sprang to his feet, and flung the vessel and its contents over
the low parapet beside him into the court below. He did not doubt for an
instant the truth of the warning; the playmate of his childhood would
never deceive him, and it was only too probable that his family would
prevent the disgrace of his baptism by a deed of secret murder.[9] But
how was Kripá Dé to escape the double danger of dying of thirst or by
poison? The poor youth rushed to the door at the head of the inner
stairs, with a wild hope to find it unfastened, or to break it open by a
desperate effort. Alas! it was fast shut, and its strength defied any
human effort to force it. Only one desperate course remained, and the
convert took it. He sprang over the parapet down into the court—a
formidable leap, which no one had calculated on his attempting. It
seemed to Kripá Dé that it was by miracle that he alighted on the ground
unhurt, but he had not a moment for reflection. In an instant he dashed
into the outer court. He made no attempt to open the door which led out
of the fort; young, active, and desperate, Kripá Dé took a shorter way
of escape by springing over the wall. He knew well that he would be
pursued; he could hear the shrill call of the women on the roof who had
seen his escape, and who gave an instant alarm. From the part of the
building where men were eating and smoking rushed forth fierce pursuers.
But Kripá Dé was fleeing for his life, terror lent him speed, and,
unlike Alicia, the convert knew well the way to the mission bungalow; he
could have reached it blindfold.
Footnote 9:
The authoress has had personal acquaintance with three natives on whom
(two of them after recent baptism) such attempts have been made to
destroy intellect, if not life.
The family in the bungalow, tired out by a day of such unusual
excitement, Robin feverish from his wound, and Alicia from the fatigue
and exposure which she had so lately undergone had resolved to retire
very early to rest. Previous to so doing, they met to unite in evening
devotions.
“We will not forget to pray for our poor Kripá Dé,” said Robin, as he
was about to kneel down. The name was yet on his lips when the convert
himself, pale and panting, rushed into the room and sank down at his
feet.
“Lock the door! bar it! he is sure to be pursued!” exclaimed Mr.
Hartley; and in two seconds Harold had closed the door and locked it.
“Water!” cried the convert faintly. The hand of Alicia quickly supplied
the fugitive’s need.
“They are after me!” cried Kripá Dé, when he had drained the glass.
“They tried to poison me; Premi saved me. I fear that she will have to
pay dear for giving me warning.”
“She will not be long in the enemy’s hands, I trust,” said Harold.
As he spoke, loud angry voices from without and violent shaking of the
door, followed by furious blows, showed that the pursuers had arrived.
“The door is not strong enough to stand much of this!” cried Robin; and
snatching up a stick which was at hand, he looked ready for another
battle with the foe.
Harold went up to the closed door, and his voice rang out in clear
tones, which were heard above the battering and the furious demands for
admittance.
“Back with you all!” he cried.—“Thákar Dás, it is no light matter to
break into an Englishman’s home!”
“Give up Kripá Dé! give up the wretch, the apostate!” yelled the Hindus.
Then a brief lull of silence ensued, that the reply might be heard.
“We will never give him up but with our lives,” said Harold firmly. “If
you think that you have a right to imprison and poison him, bring your
case into court; we expect the commissioner here to-morrow.”
This announcement was startling to the Hindus, who had a wholesome dread
of bringing on themselves the wrath of the Sircar. Thákar Dás and his
followers knew that the two attacks on the dwelling of one of the ruling
race would be likely to expose them to serious consequences, which they
had no wish to meet. Heartily glad were the Hartleys that the letter to
Mr. Thole had been so promptly penned, so quickly despatched.
“Will you not tell them, my Harold,” said Alicia, “that we have proofs
that Premi is of English birth?”
“No!” cried both the brothers almost in a breath; and the elder added:
“If the Hindus knew that this second charge—that of imprisoning our
countrywoman—could be brought against them, poor Premi would be only too
likely to disappear mysteriously before we could claim her.”
“Can the Hindus have gone away?” cried Alicia; “a wonderful stillness
has succeeded to that terrible noise.”
“They are going away like baffled hounds,” said Robin, who was making a
survey.
“We were about to kneel down to pray,” observed Mr. Hartley; “let us do
so now, and join our praises to our prayers. This has been a day of
wonderful mercies.”
Very fervent were the thanksgivings which rose from the missionaries’
home.
After all had risen from their knees, Robin observed, “I will sit up
to-night; these jackals may return for their prey.”
“_You_ sit up, looking like a ghost as you do!” exclaimed Harold. “You
have played your part bravely to-day, old boy, and have left your elder
brother nothing but the office of a chankidar [watchman]. We must all
remain in the house to-night; but to prevent semi-suffocation the doors
must be open. I give you my word that I will not sleep on my post.”
Harold kept his word, watching till morning; but the attack on the
bungalow was not repeated.
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