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THE GREAT MOGUL
by
LOUIS TRACY
Author of "The Wings of the Morning" and
"The Pillar of Light"
Illustrations by J. C. Chase
New York
Edward J. Clode
156 Fifth Avenue
1905
Copyright, 1905
By Edward J. Clode
The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass.
[Illustration: As it entered the gate the bar crashed across its knees.]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
As it entered the gate the bar crashed
across its knees _Frontispiece_
In a minute or less they were free 83
And that is the manner in which Nur Mahal,
on her wedding night, came back to the
Garden of Heart's Delight 135
"If we go to Burdwan, are you content to
remain there?" 207
"Out of my path, swine!" 284
Instantly the man was put to the test 294
_The Great Mogul_
CHAPTER I
"And is there care in Heaven?"
_Spenser's Faerie Queene._
"Allah remembers us not. It is the divine decree. We can but die with
His praises on our lips; perchance He may greet us at the gates of
Paradise!"
Overwhelmed with misery, the man drooped his head. The stout staff he
held fell to his feet. He lifted his hands to hide the anguish of eye
and lip, and the grief that mastered him caused long pent-up tears to
well forth.
His resigned words, uttered in the poetic tongue of Khorassan, might
have been a polished verse of Sa'adi were they not the outpouring of
a despairing heart. The woman raised her burning eyes from the infant
clinging to her exhausted breast.
"Father of my loved ones," she said, "let you and the two boys travel
on with the cow. If you reach succor, return for me and my daughter.
If not, it is the will of God, and who can gainsay it?"
The man stooped to pick up his staff. But his great powers of
endurance, suddenly enfeebled by the ordeal thrust upon him, yielded
utterly, and he sank helpless by the side of his wife.
"Nay, Mihr-ul-nisa, sun among women, I shall not leave thee," he cried
passionately. "We are fated to die; then be it so. I swear by the
Prophet naught save death shall part us, and that not for many hours."
So, to the mother, uselessly nursing her latest born, was left the woful
task of pronouncing the doom of those she held dear. For a little while
there was silence. The pitiless sun, rising over distant hills of purple
and amber, gave promise that this day of late July would witness no
relief of tortured earth by the long-deferred monsoon. All nature was
still. The air had the hush of the grave. The greenery of trees and
shrubs was blighted. The bare plain, the rocks, the boulder-strewed bed
of the parched river, each alike wore the dust-white shroud of death.
Far-off mountains shimmered in glorious tints which promised fertile
glades and sparkling rivulets. But the promise was a lie, the lie of the
mirage, of unfulfilled hope.
These two, with their offspring, had journeyed from the glistening
slopes on the northwest, now smiling with the colors of the rainbow
under the first kiss of the sun. They knew that the arid ravines and
bleak passes behind were even less hospitable than the lowlands in
front. Knowledge of what was past had murdered hope for the future. They
had almost ceased to struggle. True children of the East, they were
yielding to Kismet. Already a watchful vulture, skilled ghoul of desert
obsequies, was describing great circles in the molten sky.
The evils of the way were typical of their by-gone lives. Beginning in
pleasant places, they were driven into the wilderness. The Persian and
his wife, Usbeg Tartars of Teheran, nobly born and nurtured, were now
poverty-stricken and persecuted because one of the warring divisions
of Islam had risen to power in Ispahan. "It shall come to pass," said
Mahomet, "that my people shall be divided into three-and-seventy sects,
all of which, save only one, shall have their portion in the fire!"
Clearly, these wanderers found solace in the beliefs held by some of
the condemned seventy-two.
Striving to escape from a land of narrow-minded bigots to the realm of
the Great Mogul, the King of Kings, the renowned Emperor of India--whom
his contemporaries, fascinated by his gifts and dazzled by his
magnificence, had styled Akbar "the Great"--the forlorn couple, young in
years, endowed with remarkable physical charms and high intelligence,
blessed with two fine boys and the shapely infant now hugged by the
frantic mother, had been betrayed not alone by man but by nature
herself.
At this season, the great plain between Herat and Kandahar should be
all-sufficing to the needs of travelers. Watered by a noble river, the
Helmund, and traversed by innumerable streams, it was reputed the Garden
of Afghanistan. Pent in the bosom of earth, all manner of herbs and
fruits and wholesome seeds were ready to burst forth with utmost
prodigality when the rain-clouds gathered on the hills and discharged
their gracious showers over a soil athirst. But Allah, in His exceeding
wisdom, had seen fit to withhold the fertilizing monsoon, and the few
resources of the exiles had yielded to the strain. First their small
flock of goats, then their camel, had fallen or been slain. There was
left the cow, whose daily store of milk dwindled under the lack of food.
The patient animal, lean as the kine of the seven years of famine in
Joseph's dream, was yet fit to walk and carry the two boys, whose sturdy
limbs had shrunk and weakened until they could no longer be trusted to
toddle alone even on the level ground. She stood now, regarding her
companions in suffering with her big violet eyes and almost contentedly
chewing some wizened herbage gathered by the man overnight. Strange to
say, it was on the capabilities of the cow that rested the final issue
of life and death for one if not all. The cow had carried and sustained
the woman before and after the birth of the child. Last and most valued
of their possessions, she had become the arbiter of their fate.
The Persian, Mirza Ali Beg was his name, was assured that if they could
march a few more days they would reach the cultivated region dominated
by the city of Kandahar. There, even in this period of want, the
boundless charity of the East would save them from death by starvation.
But the infant was exhausting her mother. She demanded the whole meager
supply of the life-giving milk of the cow, and in Mirza Ali Beg's
tortured soul the husband wrought with the father.
That four might have a chance of living one should die! Such was the
dreadful edict he put forth tremblingly at last. And now, when the woman
saw the strong man in a palsy at her feet, her love for him vanquished
even the all-powerful instinct of maternity. She fiercely thrust the
child into his arms and murmured:--
"I yield, my husband. Take her, in God's name, and do with her as
seemeth best. Not for myself, but for thee and for our sons, do I
consent."
Thinking himself stronger and sterner than he was, Mirza Ali Beg rose to
his feet. But his heart was as lead and his hands shook as he fondled
the warm and almost plump body of the infant. Here was a man indeed
distraught. Between husband and wife, who shall say which had the more
grievous burden?
With a frenzied prayer to the Almighty for help, he wrapped a linen
cloth over the infant's face, placed the struggling little form among
the roots of a tall tree, and left it there. Bidding the two boys,
dark-eyed youngsters aged three and five, to cling tightly to the
pillion on the cow's back, he took the halter and the staff in his right
hand, passed his left arm around the emaciated frame of his wife, and,
in this wise, the small cavalcade resumed its journey.
Ever and anon the plaint of the abandoned infant reached their ears. The
two children, without special reason, began to cry. The mother, always
turning her head, wept with increasing violence. Even the poor cow,
wanting food and water, lowed her distress.
The man, striving to compress his tremulous lips, strode forward,
staring into vacancy. He dared not look behind. He knew that the feeble
cries of the baby girl would ring in his ears until they were closed to
all mortal sounds. He took no note of the rough caravan track they
followed, marked as it was by the ashes of camp fires and the whitened
bones of pack animals. With all the force of a masterful nature he tried
to stagger on, and on, until the tragedy was irrevocable.
But the woman, when they reached a point where the road curved round a
huge rock, realized that the next onward step would shut out forever
from her eyes the sight of that tiny bundle lying in the roots of the
tree. So she choked back her sobs, swept away her tears, gave one last
look at her infant, gasped a word of fond endearment, and fell fainting
in the dust.
Amidst the many troubles and anxieties of that four months' pilgrimage
she had never fainted before. Though she was a Persian lady of utmost
refinement and great accomplishments, she came of a hardy race, and her
final collapse imbued her husband with a stoicism hitherto lacking in
his despair.
"This, then, is the end," said he. "Be it so. I can strive against
destiny no further."
Tenderly he lifted his wife to a place where sand offered a softer couch
than the rocks on which she lay.
"I must bring the infant," he muttered aloud. "The touch of its hands
will revive her. Then I shall kill poor Deri (the cow), and we can feast
on her in the hope that some may pass this way. Walk, with three to
carry, we cannot."
This was indeed the counsel of desperation. The cow, living, provided
their sole link with the outer world. Dead, she maintained them a little
while. Soon the scanty meat she would yield would become uneatable and
they were lost beyond saving. Nevertheless, once the resolve was taken a
load was lifted from the man's breast. Bidding the elder boy hold Deri's
halter, he strode back towards the infant with eager haste.
As he drew near he thought he saw something black and glistening amidst
the soiled linen which enwrapped the little one. After another stride he
stood still. A fresh tribulation awaited him. Many times girdling the
child's limbs and body was a hideous snake, a monster whose powerful
coils could break the tiny bones as if they were straws.
The flat and ugly head was raised to look at him. The beady black eyes
seemed to emit sparks of venemous fire, and the forked tongue was
darting in and out of the fanged mouth as though the reptile was
anticipating the feast in store.
Mirza Ali Beg was no coward, but this new frenzy almost overcame him.
There was a chance, a slight one, that the serpent had not yet crushed
the life out of its prey. Using words which were no prayer, the father
uplifted the tough staff which he still carried. He rushed forward. The
snake elevated its head to take stock of this unexpected enemy, but the
stick dealt it a furious blow on the tail.
Instantly uncoiling itself, either to fight or escape, as seemed most
expedient, it received another blow which hurled it, with dislocated
vertebrae, far into the dust.
The man, with a great cry of joy, saw that the child was stretching
her limbs, now that the tight clutch of its terrible assailant was
withdrawn. He caught her up into his arms and, weak as he was, ran
back to his wife.
"Here is one who will restore the blood to thy cheeks, Mihr-ul-nisa,"
he cried. And truly the mother stirred again with the first satisfied
chuckle of the infant as it sought her breast.
The husband, heedless what befell for the hour, obtained from the cow
such slight store of milk as she possessed. He gave some to the two
boys, the greater portion to the baby, and was refuting his wife's
remonstrance that he had taken none himself as he pressed the remainder
on her, when the noise of a commotion at a distance caused them to look
in wonderment along the road they had recently traversed in such sorrow.
There, gathered around some object, were a number of men, some mounted
on Arab horses or riding camels, others on foot; behind this nearer
group they could distinguish a long _kafila_ of loaded beasts with armed
attendants.
"God be praised!" cried Mihr-ul-nisa, "we are saved!"
This was the caravan of a rich merchant, faring from Persia or Bokhara
to the court of the Great Mogul. The undulating plain, no less than
their own anguish of mind, had prevented the Persian and his wife from
noting the glittering spear points of the warrior merchant's retainers
as they rode forward in the morning sun. Surely such a host would spare
a little food and water for the starving family, and forage for Deri,
the cow!
"But what are they looking at?" cried the woman, of whom hope had made a
fresh being.
"They have found the snake."
"What snake?"
"It is matterless. As I returned for the child, when you fell in a
swoon, I met a snake and killed it."
A startled look came into her eyes.
"_Khodah hai_!"[A] she murmured; "it would have attacked my baby!"
[Footnote A: "There is indeed a God!"]
Two men, mounted on Turkoman horses, were now spurring towards them.
Mirza Ali Beg advanced a few paces to meet them.
One, an elderly man of grave appearance and richly attired, reined in
his horse at a little distance and cried to his companion:--
"By the tomb of Mahomet, Sher Khan, 'tis he of my dream!"
The other, a handsome and soldierly youth, came nearer and questioned
Ali Beg, mostly concerning the disabled and dying snake, found and
beaten into pulp by the foremost men of the caravan.
The Mirza told his tale with dignified eloquence; he ended with a
pathetic request for help for his exhausted wife and family.
This was forthcoming quickly, and, while he himself was refreshed with
good milk, and dates, and cakes of pounded wheat, Malik Masud, the elder
of the two horsemen and leader of the train, told how he dreamt the
previous night that during a wayside halt under a big tree he was
attacked by a poisonous snake, which was vanquishing him until a
stranger came to his aid.
The snake lying in the path of the _kafila_ was the exact counterpart of
that seen in his disturbing vision, but his amazement was complete when
he recognized in Ali Beg the stranger who had saved him.
So, in due course, Mihr-ul-nisa, with her baby girl, was mounted on a
camel, and her husband and two sons on another, and Deri, the cow,
before joining the train, was regaled with a copious draught of water
and an ample measure of grain.
Thus it came to pass that Mirza Ali Beg and his family were convoyed
through Kandahar and Kabul in comfort and safety. They rode through the
gaunt jaws of the Khaibar Pass, and emerged, after many days, into the
great plain of the Punjab, verdant with an abundant though deferred
harvest.
And no one imagined, least of all the baby girl herself, that the infant
crowing happily in the arms of Mihr-ul-nisa was destined to become a
beautiful, gracious and world-renowned princess, whose name and
love-story should endure through many a century.
* * * * *
In that same month of July, 1588, on the nineteenth day of the month, to
be exact, the blazoned sails of the Spanish Armada were sighted off the
Lizard. Sixty-five great war galleons, eight fleet galleasses, fifty-six
armed merchantmen and twenty pinnaces swept along the Channel in gallant
show. Spread out in a gigantic crescent, the Spanish ships were likened
by anxious watchers to a great bird of prey with outstretched wings. But
Lord Howard of Effingham led out of Plymouth a band of adventurers who
had hunted that bird many a time. Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and the
rest--they feared no Spaniard who sailed the seas.
Their little vessels, well handled, could sail two miles to the
Spaniards' one, and fire twice as many shots gun for gun. "One by one,"
said they, "we plucked the Don's feathers." Ship after ship was sunk,
captured, or driven on shore. A whole week the cannon roared from
Plymouth Sound to Calais, and there the last great fight took place in
which the Duke of Medina Sidonia yielded himself to agonized foreboding,
and Drake rightly believed that the Spanish grandee "would ere long wish
himself at St. Mary Port among his orange trees."
During one of the many fierce duels between the ponderous galleons and
the hawk-like British ships, the _Resolution_, hastily manned at Deal by
volunteers who rode from London, hung on to and finally captured the
_San Jose_.
It was no easy victory, for the Spaniards could acquit themselves as
men when seamanship and gunnery gave place to swords and pikes. Three
times did the assailants swarm up the lofty poop of the _San Jose_
before they made good their footing.
At last, the Spaniards gave way before the ardent onslaught led by a
gallant gentleman from Wensleydale in the North, Sir Robert Mowbray, to
wit, who, had he lived, was marked out for certain preferment at court.
Unhappily, in the moment of victory, a young, pale-faced monk, an
ascetic and visionary, maddened by the success of his country's
hereditary foe, sprang from the nook in which he lurked and struck
Mowbray a heavy blow with the large brass crucifix he carried.
The Englishman had doffed his hat and was courteously saluting the
Spanish captain, who was in the act of yielding up his sword. One
outstretched arm of the image of mercy penetrated his skull, and he
fell dead at the feet of his captive.
At once the conflict broke out anew. Nothing could restrain the crew
of the _Resolution_ when they noted the dastardly murder of their
chivalrous leader. The galleon became a slaughter-house. The monk,
frenzied as a beast in the shambles, sprang overboard and was carried
past another ship, the _Vera Cruz_, which rescued him. This vessel was
one of the few storm-wracked and fever-laden survivors of the Armada
which reached Corunna.
The Englishmen learnt from wounded Spaniards that the fanatical
ecclesiastic was a certain Fra Geronimo from the great Jesuit seminary
at Toledo. They remembered the name so that they might curse it. They
cried in their rage because Fra Geronimo had escaped them.
A black snake in the plain of Herat, a glittering crucifix on board the
_San Jose_ in the Channel off Gravelines--these were queer links,
savoring of necromancy, whereby the lives of gallant men and fair women
should be bound indissolubly. Yet it was so, as those who follow this
strange and true history shall learn, for many a blow was struck and
many a heart ached because Nur Mahal lived and Sir Robert Mowbray died
in that wonderful month of July, 1588.