"I do not set my life at a pin's fee."
_Hamlet_, Act I.
Mortal fear has caused many a man to run who thought himself unable to
walk. It now gave a tonic to an inebriate king. Jahangir, struggling to
his feet, obtained a fleeting glimpse of Roger Sainton's amazing
achievement. He heard more definitely the crashing fall of the great
stone into the arena, and his first emotion was one of profound
thankfulness that he and several of his boon companions had not gone
with it.
But instantly there came the knowledge that he had been treated with
contumely before all his court. So his face, already pallid with terror,
became even more white with anger, and words trembled on his lips which,
if uttered, would have been the irrevocable signal for a wild tumult.
Yet, hidden away in the brain of this headstrong debauchee there was a
latent sense of king-craft which taught him caution, and deep down in
his soul was a certain nobility of character which age and the cares of
a ruler developed in later years. His quick eyes discovered what Roger
had truly divined. There was many a powerful noble there ready to
espouse the cause of Sher Afghan, whilst, such was the awe inspired by
Sainton's almost supernatural feat, it was more than likely the giant's
onslaught would create a mad stampede. Moreover, Jahangir himself was as
conscious as any present that he had witnessed a deed whose memory would
endure through the ages, and the warring influences in his breast
sobered him for the moment.
With a self-control that was wholly creditable, he held up an
authoritative hand.
"Who dares to strike ere the Emperor commands?" he cried, and his strong
voice stilled the rising waves of agitation as oil beats down the crests
of troubled waters.
Heedless, or perhaps unknowing, that his turban was awry, he walked to
the edge of the parapet and looked over. There lay the fine marble slab,
broken in two as it remains to this day, though it was quickly restored
to its old-time site. Bound to it were the silken cords which fastened
the imperial chair, the seat itself having been crushed into a thousand
splinters underneath.
He turned towards Roger; though a cruel despot, Jahangir was a
sportsman:--
"Did it fall on the tiger?" he asked.
The big man pretended to scan the arena.
"As the beast is nowhere else to be seen I doubt not he is on the right
side of the stone, your Majesty," he answered.
"Why did you not warn me of your intent? I would have given a lakh of
rupees to have seen this thing."
Roger was far too quick-witted not to accept the cue thus thrown to him.
"There was scant time for words, your Majesty," he said. "In another
instant your devoted servant, Sher Afghan, would have been in the
pit with the snarling brute. For sure you meant but to try him.
Nevertheless, I made bold to interfere, as there is many a tiger, but
only one such man among your vassals."
The big man's humor was mordant, but the excited throng chose to ignore
the implied disparagement, and a murmur of applause told the Emperor
that in curbing his wrath he had acted with exceeding wisdom.
"You are right," he said slowly. "I am much beholden to you, and that
is more than some kings would say who had been flung headlong to the
ground. But see," he added, making a brave show of nonchalance as he
faced the crowd and waved a haughty hand toward the west, "the hour of
evening prayer approaches. Let us to the mosque!"
"Now look you," murmured Sainton to Walter, who stood watchful, with
sword-arm ready, during these thrilling moments, "there goes a man with
murder in his heart, yet will he turn his jowl to Mecca and chant verses
from the Koran with the best of them."
"I fear he only bides his time. But what good fairy prompted you to act
in such a way? I knew not what to do. I felt that any moment we might be
fighting for our lives, yet I saw no loophole of escape."
"Ecod, I remembered my mother telling me that a white sheet makes nine
parts of a ghost on a dark night. I reckoned to scare 'em with a bogie,
and succeeded."
In company with Sher Afghan, they quitted the palace fortress without
let or hindrance. The gallant Persian, after thanking Roger for his aid,
explained his motive in returning to Agra. He had reached the Garden of
Heart's Delight only an hour after they quitted it that morning. Hence,
Jahangir was evidently quite well informed as to his movements, and had
planned the escapade with the tiger as a means of requiting one, at
least, of his avowed enemies. Indeed, they learned later that, in the
event of Sher Afghan's death, the spear-men were ordered to close round
Sainton and Mowbray and bear them down by sheer force of numbers if they
strove to assist their friend. Roger had defeated the scheme only by
taking advantage of a prior moment of intense excitement.
When Sher Afghan told them that Nur Mahal and he, with their retinue,
had taken up their residence in the Diwan's house, the Englishmen wished
to return forthwith to the caravansary. But this the Persian would in no
wise permit. He sat late with them that evening, and, from words which
fell now and then in the talk, they gathered that while he was even more
enamored than ever of his wife the haughty beauty herself was far from
being content with her lot.
"She intended to be a queen," he sighed once, "and, alas, my kingdom is
too small and rude to suit her tastes."
"Why, then, did you not send her to Burdwan, and come here alone in
deference to the king's command?" asked Walter.
"Because there she would pine in solitude. Here, I have good hopes that
Jahangir's profligacy will disgust her. Already I have heard grave
rumors of court dissensions. Saw you not to-day how ready were many to
oppose him?"
"Thank Heaven it was so, else naught could have saved us. But what of
the morrow? You will incur constant danger. As for us, we have well nigh
abandoned all hope of gaining the reward of our venture. Were it not for
my stout-hearted friend we had endeavored long ere this to leave our
fortunes a sunken ship in Agra."
"Say not so. The shame of foregoing Akbar's obligations would travel
far, and the King cannot afford to lose his good name with traders. Bide
on in content. His mood changes each hour, and surely the day will come
when he shall treat you royally. I have good cause to hate Jahangir, yet
I would never say of him that he is wholly ignoble."
Their conversation was interrupted by a servant, who announced that a
store of wine had been sent from the palace for the Feringhis.
"Gad!" cried Roger, "that cat-footed servitor hath not forgotten my
request. And it is good liquor, too."
Sher Afghan was very suspicious of the gift until they apprised him of
all that had happened. Though he would not drink he smelt and tasted
samples of the wine, which, apparently, had not been tampered with in
any way. His brow cleared when he convinced himself that no trick was
intended.
"I told you," he said, "that Jahangir's nature owed something to his
lineage. May Allah grant him wit enough to win me and others to his side
by reason of his forebearance!"
With this magnanimous wish on his lips he quitted them. They were fated
soon to recall his words in bitterness and despair. Jahangir, sunk in
renewed orgy, and twitted by his evil associates with the failure of the
afternoon's device, was even then devoting himself, with an almost
diabolical ingenuity, to a fresh plot for their undoing.
He limned the project fully, but declared with scorn that it needed a
man of courage to carry it out, and there was not one such in his court.
Whereupon, Kutub-ud-din, his foster-brother, who was noted chiefly for
the girth of his paunch, but who, nevertheless, had some reputation for
personal bravery, sprang up from the cushions on which he reposed and
cried:--
"Give me the vice-royalty of Bengal and I swear, by the beard of the
Prophet, to bring you news of Sher Afghan's death ere day dawns."
The Emperor paused. It was a high price, but the memory of Nur Mahal's
beauty rushed on him like a flood, and he said:--
"Keep thy vow and I shall keep my bond."
The conspirators knew nothing of Roger's pact with the chamberlain, else
their task were made more easy. But there is in India a poisonous herb
called _dhatura_, the presence of which cannot be detected in food or
drink. Taken in any considerable quantity, it conveys sure death, quick
and painless as the venom of a cobra; in less degree it induces
lethargy, followed by heavy sleep.
Now, Sher Afghan's doubts of the Emperor's wine were justified to this
extent, that it had been slightly tinctured with _dhatura_, in the
belief that Mowbray and Sainton would drink heavily during the midday
meal, and thus be rendered slow of thought and sluggish in action when
put to the test by the Persian's encounter with the tiger. Such drugs,
thwarted by the unforeseen, oft have exactly the opposite effects to
those intended. Their state of rude health, and the exciting scenes
which took place before the Emperor played his ultimate card and failed,
caused the poison to stimulate rather than retard their faculties.
With night came reaction and weariness. Nevertheless, they did not
retire to rest until nearly an hour after Sher Afghan left them. They
drank a little more of the wine, discussed their doubtful position for
the hundredth time, and thus unconsciously spun another strand in the
spider's web of fate, for Jahangir, whom fortune so aided, might have
spent his life in vain conjecture ere he guessed the circumstance which
in part defeated his malice.
While the two talked the glorious moon of India, late risen, sailed
slowly across the blue arc of the heavens, and garbed all things in
silver and black. The air was chill, but these hardy Britons were warmly
clad, and they preferred the cold majesty of nature's own lamp to the
evil-smelling oil and smoky wicks which, at that period, were the only
means of lighting Indian houses.
When, at last, they stretched themselves on the charpoys which, for
greater safety, they placed side by side in a spacious chamber of the
suite they occupied, they did not undress, but threw off their heavy
riding-boots, unfastened their coats, and arranged their swords so as to
be ready to hand at a moment's notice. They knew that Sher Afghan's
trusty retainers guarded the gate and slept in each veranda. There was
little fear of being taken by surprise in the unlikely event of an armed
attack being made during the night, yet they neglected no precautions.
"Sleep well, Roger, and may the Lord keep thee!" was Walter's parting
word; and Sainton answered drowsily, for something more potent than the
day's emotions had wearied him:--
"An He fail either of us, lad, naught else shall avail."
The bright moon circled in the sky. Her beams, low now on the horizon,
penetrated to the recesses of the room and fell on the low trestle-beds
on which they reposed in deep slumber. It was a small matter, this
nightly course of the luminary, yet, perchance, in those still hours,
the direction of a stray shaft of light made history in India.
About two o'clock, when the tall cypress trees of the Garden of Heart's
Delight threw black shadows toward the house, a small, naked man,
smeared with oil lest anyone should seize him, and covered again with
dust to render him almost invisible, crawled along the dark pathway of
the shadow and crossed the veranda outside the Englishmen's room. He
moved with the deathly silence of a snake, passing between two sleeping
Rajputs, so quickly and noiselessly that one who saw him would most
likely have rubbed his eyes and deemed the flitting vision a mere
figment of the imagination.
Once inside the house he crouched in the shade of a pillar, and waited
until another ghoul joined him in the same manner. These two were Thugs,
murderers by caste, who worshiped the pickaxes with which they buried
their victims. Had Milton or Dante ever heard of such the abode of
harpy-footed furies and the lowest circle of Inferno would alike have
been rendered more horrific by a new demoniac imagery. No man was safe
from them, none could withstand their devilish art. Sainton, whom not a
score of Thugs could have pulled down in the open, was a mere babe in
their clutch when he knew not of their presence.
For these fiends never failed. They were professional stranglers, with
sufficient knowledge of anatomy to dislocate the neck of him whom they
had marked down as their prey. Never a cry, scarce a movement, would
betray a strong man's death. Of them it might indeed be truly said:--
Their fatal hands
No second stroke intend.
Creeping stealthily, they reached the two charpoys, and each squatted at
the back of his intended victim. Sainton slept nearer the veranda, and
his wide-brimmed hat was lying on the floor. Throughout his wanderings
he ever sported a plume of cock's feathers and he still retained the
curious ornament which served as a brooch. It was lit up now by a
moonbeam, and the Thug, whose watchful eyes regarded all things, saw
what he took to be a headless snake, coiled in glistening folds and
surrounded by a ring of gold. The wretch, in whose dull brain glimmered
some dim conception of a deity, drew back appalled. Here was one guarded
by his tutelary god, the snake, a snake, too, of uncanny semblance,
reposing in a precious shrine. He had never before encountered the like.
Weird legends, whispered at night in trackless forests, where he and his
associates had their lair, trooped in on him. He quaked, and shrank yet
further away, a fierce savage tamed by a mere fossil.
The sibilant chirp of a grasshopper brought his fellow Thug to his side.
Glaring eyes and chin thrown forward sufficed to indicate the cause of
this danger signal. No words were needed. With one accord they
retreated. Squirming across the veranda and along the path of the
lengthening shadows they regained the shelter of the cypresses.
"Brother," whispered one, "they have a jadu!"[H]
[Footnote H: An amulet.]
"Who shall dare to strike where the jungle-god reposes!" was the
rejoinder.
"A snake without a head, ringed and shining! Saw one ever the like?"
"Let us escape, else we shall be slain."
The trees swallowed them, and, although sought vengefully, they were
never seen again by those whose behests they had not fulfilled....
Minutes passed, until the stout Kutub-ud-din, hiding near the gate with
a horde of hirelings, grew impatient that his vice-regal throne in
Bengal was not assured. So he growled an order and strode openly to the
gate, where, in the Emperor's name, he demanded of a wakeful sentry
audience of Sher Afghan.
"My master sleeps," was the answer. "The matter must wait."
"It cannot wait. It concerns thy master's safety. Here is Pir Muhammed
Khan, Kotwal[I] of Agra, who says that two Thugs are within. We have
come in all haste to warn Sher Afghan to search for the evil-doers."
[Footnote I: A functionary akin to a chief of police.]
Now, the mere name of the dreaded clan was enough to alarm his hearer,
who well knew that none could guard against a Thug's deadly intent.
Warning his comrades he unbound the door, but showed discretion in
sending messengers to arouse Sher Afghan. Kutub-ud-din, thinking the
Persian and the Englishmen had been killed half an hour earlier,
deceived the guard still further by his earnestness. Giving directions
that some should watch the walls without, while others searched every
inch of the gardens, he, followed by a strong posse, went rapidly
towards the house. Almost the first person he encountered was Sher
Afghan himself. The young nobleman, awakened from sound sleep by
strange tidings, no sooner recognized his visitor than his brow seamed
with anger.
"What folly is this?" he cried. "Why hast thou dared to come hither with
a rabble at such an hour, Kutub-ud-din?"
Surprise, disappointment, envious rage, combined to choke the would-be
viceroy, but he answered, boldly enough:--
"You should not requite with hasty words one who thought to do thee a
service."
"I am better without any service thou canst render. Be off, dog, and
tell thy tales to some old woman who fears them."
Beside himself with anger and humiliation, Kutub-ud-din raised his sword
threateningly. It was enough. Sher Afghan, seeing naught but some new
palace treachery in this untimely visit, drew a dagger and sprang at his
unwieldy opponent with the tiger-like ferocity for which he was famous.
Kutub-ud-din endeavored to strike, but, ere his blow fell, he was ripped
so terribly that his bowels gushed forth. Here was no vice-royalty for
him, only the barren kingdom of the grave.
"Avenge me!" he yelled, as he fell in agony, for your would-be slayer is
ever resentful of his own weapons being turned against him.
Pir Muhammed Khan, an astute Kashmiri, seeing his own advancement made
all the more certain by reason of the failure of the Emperor's
foster-brother--thinking, too, that Sher Afghan might be taken at a
disadvantage whilst he looked down on his prostrate foe--leaped forward
and dealt the Persian a heavy stroke on the head with a scimitar. Sher
Afghan turned and killed him on the spot.
It chanced, unhappily, that among those in the immediate vicinity of
this sudden quarrel the Kotwal's retainers far outnumbered the followers
of Sher Afghan, many of whose men were yet asleep, while others were
scouring the gardens. The native of India may always be trusted to
avenge his master's death, so a certain dog-like fidelity impelled a
score or more to attack the Persian simultaneously. Realizing his danger
he possessed himself of the fallen Kotwal's sword and fought furiously,
crying loudly for help. Oh, for a few lightning sweeps of the good
straight blades reposing peacefully in their scabbards by the beds of
his English allies! How they would have equalized the odds in that
supreme moment! How Roger would have shorn the heads and Walter slit the
yelling throats of the jackals who yelped around the undaunted but
over-powered Persian!
For the blood from the Kotwal's blow poured into his eyes, and he struck
blindly if fiercely. Closer pressed the gang, and, at last, he fell to
his knees, struck down by a matchlock bullet. He must have felt that his
last hour had come. Struggling round in order to face towards Mecca, he
used his waning strength to pick up some dust from the garden path. He
poured it over his head by way of ablution, strove to rise and renew the
unequal fight, and sank back feebly. A spear thrust brought the end, and
the man who had dared to rival a prince's love died in the garden to
which the presence of Nur Mahal had lent romance and passion.
Roger, whom the clash of steel might have roused from the tomb, stirred
uneasily in his sleep when the first sounds of the fight smote his
unconscious ears. The shot waked him, though not to thorough
comprehension, so utterly possessed was he with drowsiness.
Then a light flashed in the room, and he saw a beautiful woman standing
in an inner doorway, a woman whose exquisite face was white and tense as
she held aloft a lamp and cried:--
"Why do ye tarry here when my husband is fighting for his life and for
yours?"
Now he was wide awake. It was Nur Mahal, unveiled and robed all in
white, who stood there and spoke so vehemently.
Up he sprang, and roused Mowbray with his mighty grip. The new conflict
raging over Sher Afghan's body was music in his ears, for several
Rajputs had come, too late, to their master's assistance.
"God in heaven, lad!" he roared, "here's a fray in full blast and we
snoring. Have at them, Walter! The pack is on us!"
His words, no less than a vigorous shaking, awoke his companion.
"Oh, come speedily!" wailed Nur Mahal again. "I know not what is
happening, but I heard my husband's voice calling for aid."
They needed no further bidding, though their eyes were strangely heavy
and their bodies relaxed. Once they were out in the night air and
running toward the din of voices the stupor passed. Yet, when they
reached the main alley, where Sher Afghan lay dead, they knew not whom
to strike nor whom to spare, so intermixed were the combatants and so
confused the riot of ringing simitars, of hoarse shouts, of agonized
appeals for mercy.
But Nur Mahal, quicker than they to distinguish between native and
native, cried as she ran with them:--
"My husband's men wear white turbans. All the others are strangers."
They needed no further instruction. When they saw a bare poll, a skull
cap, or a dark turban, they hit it, and the battle, equal before, soon
became one sided. The presence of Roger alone determined the fight
instantly. Kutub-ud-din and the Kotwal had assured their supporters that
the Feringhis were dead, and hinted, in vague terms, that the looting of
the Diwan's house would not be too strictly inquired into if the
"search" for the Thugs were resisted.
But here was the terrific mass of the giant looming through the night,
and here was his sword sweeping a six-foot swath in front of him. No man
who saw him waited for closer proof of his existence. Soon the Garden of
Heart's Delight was emptied of the gang save those who were dead or too
badly injured to crawl. Then lights were brought.
Nur Mahal was the first to find her husband's body. She threw herself by
his side in a gust of tears.
"Alas!" she sobbed, "they have slain him! It is my fault, O prince of
men! What evil fate made thee wed me, Sher Afghan? I vow to Allah,
though I could not love thee living, I shall mourn thee dead. Jahangir,
if thou hast done this thing, bitterly shalt thou rue it! Oh, my
husband, my husband, thou art fallen because of an unworthy woman!"
It was with difficulty that Walter could persuade her to leave the
corpse of the dead hero. Tears choked her voice, and her self-reproach
was heartrending, inasmuch as it was quite undeserved. The distraught
girl could not be blamed because a marriage planned for state reasons
had not prospered, and even Mowbray, who was prejudiced against her,
knew quite well that she was no party to this night attack against her
father's house.
Finally, he led her to the trembling serving-women who cowered within,
and then addressed himself to an inquiry into all that had taken place.
Piece by piece, the tangle resolved itself. At first, the references of
the watchman at the gate, supported by certain wounded prisoners who
gave testimony to the presence of Thugs in the garden, were puzzling.
But a Rajput, who knew the ways of these human gnomes, found a smear of
oil and dust against the wall of the sahibs' bedroom, and even traced
their tracks, to some extent, by similar marks on the floor. None could
guess the reason of the Thugs' failure, which was unprecedented, but the
remainder of the sordid story was legible enough.
Two hours before dawn, Walter sent word to Nur Mahal that he wished to
consult her. She came instantly, and he noted, to his surprise, that she
was garbed as for a journey.
He began to tell her what he had discovered, but soon she interrupted
him.
"I know all that, and more," she said. "I can even tell you what will be
done to-morrow. Jahangir will repudiate the deed, and execute those
concerned in it whom he can lay hands on. But you and I are doomed. With
Sher Afghan dead, who shall uphold us? We have but one course open. We
must fly, if we would save our lives. Let us go now, ere daybreak, and
ride to Burdwan. Once there, I can frame plans for vengeance, whilst you
shall go to Calcutta, not unrewarded."
The firmness of her tone astounded Mowbray as greatly as the nature of
her proposal. When he came to seek Roger's advice he found that his
friend had swung round to the view that it was hopeless now to seek
redress from the Emperor. The number and valor of Sher Afghan's
retainers gave some promise of security, and, once away from the
capital, there was a chance of escape.
So Nur Mahal was told that they would adopt her counsel, and it was
wonderful to see how a woman, in that hour of distress and danger,
imposed her will on every man she encountered.
It was Nur Mahal who instructed certain servants of her father's to see
to the embalming of her husband's body and its safe conveyance to
Burdwan. It was she who sent couriers to start the caravan of the
Feringhis on a false trail back to Delhi. It was she who arranged the
details of the first march, forgetting nothing, but correcting even the
most experienced of Sher Afghan's lieutenants when he declared
impossible that which she said was possible.
And finally, it was Nur Mahal who, after a last look at the face of him
whom she revered more in death than in life, rode out again into the
darkness, from the Garden of Heart's Delight. But, this time, Walter
Mowbray and Roger Sainton rode with her, and those three, as it
happened, held the future of India in the hollows of their hands.