DIEGO'S DEATH AND THE BISHOP'S EMBASSY.
They carried the wounded man gently in the blanket as he lay. It was
impossible to attempt a palanquin, as the motion would have caused him
additional agony. But he was now more sensible than at first. He had
drunk greedily from a cup of the Queen's own cool sherbet, which she
had kindly sent him; water had been plenteously sprinkled on his face
and hands by the Bishop; his pulse had somewhat rallied, and he was
even endeavouring to speak, but was forbidden. "Maria! forgive!" were
the only words he could utter. Thus they took him on, nor was it far
to the place. There were lamps lighted inside, and wounded men lying
on mattresses on the floor; and some, which were the worst cases, upon
small truckle beds; and on one of these they placed the dying man,
supporting him by pillows. There were several Portuguese soldiers there
also, who were tending wounded comrades, and all gathered round to
assist. Then they carefully unfastened the morion and steel corselet,
took off the heavy boots, and the coat of buff leather soaked in blood;
and the Bishop supplied some soft underlinen from his own stock with
which to dress the wounds. But this seemed hopeless, for several were
fatal in their nature, and the loss of blood had been enormous. Maria
had been busy at the other end of the wide, long room, and had not
seen the new comer; but her brother sent word to her not to come till
he sent for her, as the sight would be too shocking. All that she had
heard was that the sufferer was a Portuguese officer, and she knew
there were some such men in the Prince's army.
D'Almeida's cordial, which had been administered at once, had revived
the sinking man in some degree, and for the first time he opened his
eyes and stared vacantly about him. Some of the men were bathing his
wounds, and this, and the removal of his armour and heavy clothes,
had somewhat restored him. Francis d'Almeida was bandaging one of the
wounds, which was bleeding afresh, and Dom Diego recognised him, and,
with a wan smile, put away his hand and said faintly,--
"It is of no use, brother Francis, I bleed within me, and I am dying.
Hear my confession, which I will make to thee truly as long as I can
speak; and then let me die."
"It is, indeed, needful, my poor brother," said the Bishop, gently,
"for no man living could help thee now, and a brief time must close all
thy earthly sufferings. Take this cordial, and it will revive thee. Is
there aught that should be written?"
"Something," he said; "that my wealth may be secured to the Church.
But write quickly, or I faint. Can masses be said for my soul, that I
may be forgiven? The writing should be in Persian, for the banker at
Surat to read."
Who could write Persian there except himself? But the Bishop had seen
Zóra with his sister, and he sent word to her to come to him, but
not to bring Maria. And she came. A sheet had been spread over the
sufferer, and his ghastly wounds were not apparent.
Writing materials were at hand, and seating herself by the bed-side,
the girl looked up with a scared face, and asked what she was to write,
while Francis interpreted the words as they dropped slowly from his
patient's mouth.
"Write," he said, "to Hemchund Premchund, banker of Surat, 'I am dying,
my friend, and I will that all my effects in your charge be made over
to the illustrious Archbishop of Goa, or whoever he may depute to
receive them. Pedro di Diaz is dead, and all there is belongs to me.
The ship is to be sold, and the crew paid their wages. Five thousand
rupees are to be remitted to my brother, Francis d'Almeida, of this
place, for the use of his Church. I am in my full senses, and have
this written in Persian that thou mayest comprehend. Be faithful, and
discharge thy trust honestly.'"
Zóra's rapid pen soon traced these words, and it was put into Dom
Diego's hand by the Bishop. "It is complete," he said; "sign it."
For an instant the dying man rallied, passed his hands across his eyes,
and then, taking the pen, wrote in his bold hand,
"D. DIEGO DI FONSECA, S.J.
"My own writing.
"Written at Ahmednugger by Zóra, the wife of Abbas Khan.
"Witness, Francis d'Almeida, Bishop of Ahmednugger, &c.
Before us, 3rd Rujub, A.H. 1004, 22nd February, 1596."
"That will do, my brave child," said the Bishop, patting Zóra on the
head. "Go back to Maria, and tell her I will send for her soon." And
Zóra rose, ran quickly to Maria, and delivered her message.
"Who can he be?" she asked. "Didst thou see his face?"
"I dared not look," Zóra said; "he was too terrible to look on; and
thou wilt soon be told. But the Padré Sahib seemed to know him."
"Blessed Mother of God!" exclaimed Maria, sitting down hastily; "it
cannot be Diego. What could have brought him here?"
"Diego! Yes, that was the name thy brother called him. But why dost
thou ask?"
"He was my malignant enemy, sister."
"And Alla hath delivered thee from him. And thou wilt forgive him,
Maria, even as I forgave mine."
"Yes," she replied, slowly, "I will indeed forgive him. See, my brother
hath put on his vestment; he is holding up the cross, and the men
about are kneeling, and the dying man is confessing his sins. Look!"
It was as she said. And the ghostly confession was proceeding, one of
the men holding a cup of cordial to the sufferer's lips as he made
motions for it--a broken tale of sin and crime, which we dare not
attempt to record. Yet it came forth from the dry, parched lips hardly
without a break till its close. Francis d'Almeida had not missed a
word; though, from his extreme weakness, Dom Diego had sometimes spoken
in low, broken whispers, gasping for breath.
"There is no more to tell," he said, faintly, at its close. "As I shall
answer in the judgment, no more. I have hidden nothing; but, with the
absolution of the Church, I pray thee let thy sister say, while I can
hear and see, 'I forgive thee, Diego,' and I shall then die happy."
Then Francis sent for his sister, and whispered, "It is he. Dost thou
forgive him, Maria?"
"Freely and truly," she said, firmly, "as I may be forgiven."
Dom Diego could not speak now, but he could hear the words which fell
from the woman he had loved so madly and with so sinful a purpose. He
tried to raise his hands, but they fell back on the sheet helplessly
and his large bright eyes were glazing fast, and becoming dim. "Maria!
Maria! forgive--pardon!" they heard him say in a whisper scarcely
audible. And while the Bishop was holding up the cross before him, and
preparing to recite the _Beaticum_, she could not resist the impulse,
but took the cold hand of the dying man, and said, "I forgive; fear
not." Then a soft smile of peace and resignation seemed to pass over
his features. "Forgiven," he murmured; and as the words of "Depart,
Christian soul, in the name of God the Father Almighty who created
thee," were spoken, the spirit passed away with a slight shivering
convulsion, and the body lay still in death; and the Bishop and his
sister, their sweet voices mingling, chanted the Litany for the dead,
which seemed to linger amidst the small domes and grooves of the high
roof, echoed, as it were, by angels.
Zóra had stood by spellbound. She had never seen a Christian die; and
Maria, who had taught her many hymns, had never chanted to her the
Litany for the dead. "Come away," she whispered, when silence fell on
all; "come away, and weep in my arms as I have done in thine. Yea, art
thou not my sister? and he knew that he was forgiven, and died happy.
Surely it was the Lord's doing, and his fate brought him to thy feet.
Come away." And Maria, weeping passionately, suffered the girl to lead
her to the chamber she had fitted up, and saw her cast herself at the
foot of her cross and pray fervently.
Yes, it had been a vast relief to Zóra to go, as her husband and
the Queen told her to do, to Maria, and endeavour to keep out the
impression which the horrid sights she had seen and the fearful bridge
of human carcasses had caused. All day long the girl had never left
her Royal mistress's side, and the green dress of the Syud's child
had shared the honour of the day with the armour of the Queen and the
"standard of the veil." But she hardly in truth knew what she had done;
and when, after her prayer, Maria rose calm and at peace, and, taking
Zóra to her heart, told her what the wounded who were brought in said
of the slight lad who gave cups of water to wounded men, helped them
into litters, and still cried his boyish war cry, Zóra hid her blushing
face in her sister's breast, and said, "It was not I, Maria; some
other, perhaps." But Maria said she need not deny it, for that Abbas
Khan would tell her more, and be proud of her to the end of his life.
Then Maria bade her return to the Queen; and she departed, saying, "If
he will let me come to-morrow, and the Mother does not want me, I will
help thee to tend these poor fellows."
Zóra found the Queen where she had left her, but she was more at
rest. Her attendants had brought her a small carpet and a pillow,
but she had not laid aside her morion and shirt of mail, and she was
sitting close to the breach, where the relays of masons were working
by the now bright starlight; and the broken wall was rising rapidly
course by course. Fortunately the old wall had not been shaken to its
foundation, and on clearing away the rubbish the firm portion was soon
struck. All through the night the work proceeded steadily; and as
day broke about twelve feet in height of the wall had been filled in,
and the breach was secure against all chances of sudden attack and
surprise. The trenches were not even manned by the enemy; and as day
dawned messengers came from the Prince Moorad with a flag of truce,
congratulating the Queen on the heroic defence she had made, and
informing her that she would hereafter be addressed by the Emperor as
Chand Sooltana, the Queen Chand, instead of, as before, the Beebee,
or Lady Chand, and begging her permission for the dead to be removed
without molestation. And this was granted at once without hesitation.
It had, indeed, become necessary to do so, for a sickening stench
had already begun to arise from the festering mass, which would have
become insupportable had the operation been delayed. But it was a heavy
labour. Large gangs of men came by relays; and it was not till the day
after, though they worked unremittingly, that the ghastly contents of
the ditch were cleared away.
At last, as day was breaking, and a cold fresh wind arose refreshingly
from the north, the Queen was persuaded to retire and take rest.
What she had gone through, both in body and in mind, during the last
two days and nights of the siege and assault, was almost superhuman;
but the heroic spirit had never quailed, and she appeared to have no
sense of fatigue or want. There was no exultation in her manner, but
to Nihung Khan, to Abbas Khan, and the crowd of officers who poured
forth their congratulations, she simply said, "I thank the Lord, on
whom I depended, and who, by the bravery of ye all, has given us the
victory. Be ye as humbly grateful as I am." Zóra helped her to lay
aside her armour, bathed her, and clad her in cool garments, and led
her to her little King, who was awake, and asking for her. Then as the
boy stretched out his arms to her, and she took him, and he stroked her
face, with a child's compassionate fondness, the emotion which had been
so long pent up in her loving heart burst forth with a violence which
terrified those about her. But Zóra laid her down, and soothed her as
she would have done an ailing child, till she fell into a deep sleep.
There was no tumult of shouting, and cannon, and musketry to arouse
her, and peace seemed to have fallen gently upon all.
But for a while only, for the Queen was soon in her accustomed seat
in the hall of audience, doing her usual work; and she again wrote to
the Beejapoor commanders, informing them of the repulse of the attack,
the safety of the fort, and the perilous position of the Moghuls. She
urged and entreated her friends to advance at once, when she should
be able to make a sally to meet them; and she sent these letters by
bold, careful messengers, who, dropping from the fort wall, mingled
with the crowds who were removing the dead from the trench, and gained
the Moghul lines. Here, however, they were intercepted, and taken
to the Prince, who read the letters, adding what he had done on a
former occasion, and inviting the reinforcements to hasten to their
destination, as he was most anxious to meet them. "The sooner the
better." And they did march at last.
But so slowly. The impetuous Queen, who knew they were near enough
to be with them in three days at most, would fain have had them
arrive even sooner, and would have helped them to drive the enemy
ignominiously from their position. But they scarcely moved at all;
certainly not with the desire of crossing swords with their enemies,
and it still seemed as if they overrated the power of the Moghul
cavalry.
And perhaps they were right, for the cavalry much outnumbered the
whole of the Beejapoor forces in advance, and there had been few
casualties comparatively out of the thirty thousand horse with which
the Prince had left Guzerat. The effect of the nearer approach of the
southern forces told, however, seriously on the Moghul camp, which
was more straitened than ever for provisions. Prince Moorad would
have welcomed heartily any attack by the Beejapoor forces; he could
have beaten them easily in the field, and the scope of his action
would have been enlarged. He might have gained possession of the upper
valley of the Seena, now teeming with plenty--nay, he might have
pushed on to Purenda, and established an advanced post there; but it
is most probable that the Beejapoor commander had foreseen this, and
preferred guarding the approaches to a weak point, rather than obeying
the Queen's hasty summons to attack. The Mussulman historians of the
period blame the Beejapoor troops heavily for not attacking the Moghuls
the day after the assault, or during the assault itself; and their
sympathies are entirely with the Queen, who chafed sorely at their
delay. But the probability is that their officers were better generals
than the Queen, and could see where hidden danger existed clearly
enough to avoid it. When she wrote her despatches, however, the morning
after the assault, she was in the highest degree sanguine; and when she
received her officers at the afternoon durbar there was not a sign of
fatigue or care upon her cheerful countenance.
Among others was the Bishop, who, with Maria, had come up to see her
before the durbar should commence; and they told her of the death of
Dom Diego, in whose gallant advance she had been so deeply interested.
Of course the Queen remembered the tale, as she had heard it before
her friends went to Goa; but she could hardly be brought to believe
that the man who had been mortally wounded in the assault was the same
person, until the general outlines of his confession had been related
to her. Then, indeed, she took Maria into her arms and congratulated
her on her escape. Surely God had specially preserved Maria's honour
and her own, and Maria's gratitude had not been lack of expression.
"And now," said the Bishop, "I must acquit myself of my duty to the
dead and to the Church and State I serve. I cannot go to Surat myself;
but the Prince, who has the reputation of being frank and honourable,
may be induced to interest himself for my Government, with whom he
is on friendly terms, and receive my explanation of these affairs. I
would, therefore, solicit a note to him from your Majesty, and be the
bearer of it while the truce lasts."
"It is dangerous, Padré Sahib," returned the Queen, musing. "My own
opinion is that he would extort the money, which you say is very
considerable, from the banker, and appropriate it to his own use; or
that his people, who are notoriously corrupt, would make away with it.
But let not this rest on my opinion alone; let us send for Abbas Khan
and Nihung Khan, on whose ability and discretion you can depend, and
hear what they advise." And they were sent for. Both were hard by,
still working at the breach, and they came directly; and the Bishop
related to them the facts we already know.
They did not apprehend any personal danger to the Bishop in his
proposed visit to the Prince Moorad, but they were decidedly unanimous
in advising that he should not be told of Dom Diego's hoard of wealth.
The Imperial Government, they said, is, by long established law and
usage, heir to all the property of persons who die or are killed in
their service, particularly if they are foreigners; and the issue
would be that this treasure would be lost for the purpose for which it
is designed. There would be no hope of saving it.
"But suppose," said Nihung Khan, whose opinion, being the elder,
carried the most weight, "that you ask the Prince for the horses,
arms, and moneys of the deceased now in camp. That will only be a
fair demand. If granted, it may open your way to a disclosure of the
remainder at another audience. But you will see, Señor Padré," he
continued, laughing, "that that will be refused on the grounds I have
mentioned. And it is better you should be prepared for the truth,
though it may be told in fair words which will give you no offence."
"I dare say you are right, Khan," returned the Bishop. "Dom Diego was
buried early, with the rites of the Church, and I am at liberty. There
is no time to be lost; and if I go at all, I would beg that the flag of
truce be prepared, and that a palanquin be got ready for me."
Maria was very anxious, and now could not restrain her feelings. "Go
not, Francis," she cried; "go not among those savage men. Why not wait
a few days, and when they are gone thou canst write to the authorities
at Goa, and send the letter to King Ibrahim, who will forward it, when
the necessary steps can be taken, through the bankers of Goa, to obtain
the effects of brother Diego from Surat without giving any power to the
Moghul Government to interfere."
"Thou art the wisest counsellor among us, Maria," said the Queen,
smiling kindly on her, "and I will send thy brother's despatch to King
Ibrahim myself; there will be no doubt he will do what is needful.
Bankers are always true, and I see no difficulty whatever. Go, Padré
Sahib; my mirdhas shall attend thee with honour, and it may be that
the Prince will make political disclosures to thee which may be of
importance. Go, prepare thyself, and lose no time, for the day is yet
ample for thy purpose."
So the good Bishop set out. No armed men were sent with him, but only
four silver mace-bearers, as a sign that he was a Royal ambassador.
They were stopped at the first picket near the west end of the
trenches, and thence passed on cautiously through the busy camp to
Furhut Mahal, where the Prince had taken up his residence, to which a
bridge of rough pontoons, or boats, had been thrown across the moat.
He had to wait at the head of the bridge till permission was given to
advance, and, attended and preceded by the mirdhas, he was ushered
into the entrance hall, and thence, following the officer on duty, he
ascended the steps which led to the upper storey where, for the sake of
its coolness, the Prince had taken up his quarters.
The Prince Moorad, a fair young man of pleasing appearance, but plainly
dressed in white muslin, was seated on a pile of cushions, accompanied
by three elderly officers, who were evidently of high rank. He partly
rose as the Bishop bowed low before him, returned the salute, and
bidding him be seated, said, "You speak Persian, sir?"
"Imperfectly," was the reply; "but I am used to speak it to my Queen
and in the Court at Beejapoor. I can write it also as I speak it."
"Good," said the Prince; "then tell me why you have come. Are you the
ambassador of the Sultana?"
"I have the honour to bear a note from her," and he withdrew it from
the sash of his robe, "which will explain the object of my intrusion
upon your Highness. Will you be pleased to read it?"
The Prince took the envelope. After having examined the seal, he
carefully opened it and read the contents.
"This only states that thou art a Bishop of the Christian Church at
Goa; and, as such, thou art welcome. Wilt thou proceed to tell thy
business? Is it secret or political?"
"Neither, my Prince," was the reply; "but personal only as regards the
effects of one Dom Diego di Fonseca, who was a priest of the Christian
Church, and who died of wounds received in the assault yesterday."
"Dead!" cried those present. "Dead! and thou knowest this of a
certainty?"
"I dressed his wounds during the night, my lords; but it was hopeless;
and I buried him this morning before the sun rose.
"He was a gallant soldier, if a Nazarene priest," said one of the
elder officers. "Peace be with his memory, and the peace of God rest
upon him."
"Ameen!" murmured the others. "With a hundred like him we had won the
fort."
"And thy business, Señor Padré?" asked the Prince.
"The effects of the deceased; his horses, arms, pay. These are for
masses, which he willed should be said; and to give peace to his soul,
it is necessary they should be performed."
"Yes," said the Prince, smiling; "the Padrés do that at Agra, where the
Asylum of the World has built them a church. It is called mass. But
what effects had he, Señor Padré?"
"I know not, your Highness; but, he said, though only a humble priest,
he had attained rank. He had not speech to tell me what he had, and was
too weak to be questioned."
"It is against the law, your Highness," observed one of the secretaries
present, "to surrender the effects of one who has died in the State
service; but it is competent to you to give any gift in recognition of
his death as a gallant soldier, and that will be more acceptable to the
good Padré than horses, arms, tents, or elephants, all of which have
been appropriated to the Government use."
"I demand nothing," said the Bishop; "but whatever His Highness's
generosity may dictate I will take thankfully, be it the smallest sum."
"Nay! the son of Akbar Padshah knows how to be generous," said the man
who had just spoken. "Permit your slave to send for two hundred mohurs,
which will be equal to the value of the Christian's effects;" and,
writing a few lines on a slip of paper, the Prince's seal was affixed
to it, and calling an attendant it was sent to the treasury.
Most profuse were the Bishop's thanks for, in his estimation, the
princely liberality with which he had been treated; and for an instant
he thought he had better have brought Dom Diego's document; but the
other course, suggested by Maria, was most feasible, and freed him from
all responsibility.
"And now," said the Prince, "as thou art a discreet and well-spoken
person, and accustomed, no doubt, to the political affairs of Courts,
we have a proposition to send, through thee, to the heroic Chand
Sooltana, whose fame is spread over Hind, to which we invite her
serious consideration." Then he paused for awhile, and resumed--
"Although," he continued, "by the fortune of war we have suffered a
repulse from the fort with heavy loss, which has deprived us of many
brave comrades and soldiers, yet the might of this army is unimpaired;
and I am prepared to resume the siege as soon as the present truce is
expired. The Sooltana, we know, is relying upon succour from Beejapoor;
but we have read her letters, written only this morning, and forwarded
them to their destination. But she will see that it is impossible
for the friends she expects to arrive in time to save her. They do
not exceed six thousand horse, without artillery; and we have with
us thirty thousand of the Imperial cavalry. But we are without cause
of war with Beejapoor; and those who watch us we have respected, as
they have respected us. If we attack the fort again, which we have
determined to do if our proposal is refused, the consequences will be
deplorable; for our soldiers, remembering the events of yesterday, will
allow none to escape from it, and all must inevitably perish, including
the Queen herself and the boy King. The consequences, therefore, rest
with her alone; and as a humane and merciful woman she will not provoke
them by a false estimate of her own power.
"Listen, therefore, Señor Padré; and you, a man of God and of peace,
will not refuse to exert your powers of persuasion with her, too. My
generals and myself, that is the Khan Khanan and Khan Jehan Lody--and
he introduced them--have this morning, with the aid of my learned
secretary, drawn up the draft of a treaty between the kingdom of
Ahmednugger and the Imperial Government of Hind, which, if executed,
will not only perpetuate the mutual good will of both States, but
cement their attachment to each other as long as the Sun and Moon shall
endure. This is it," he continued, taking a roll of paper from the
secretary's hand; "and I will briefly explain its purport to you.
"We demand no expenses of the war. All the treasures and jewels of
Ahmednugger remain in the young King's possession.
"Our Royal army will quit its present position, and retire to its own
territories, on guarantee by the Queen of no molestation, and orders
for grain and forage to be paid for on delivery.
"In return we demand cession of the province of Berar, which
Ahmednugger cannot defend, and which is a scene of disorder and
rapine, and a cause of suffering to the country at large. It is not an
ancient possession of Ahmednugger, whose proper hereditary dominions
are guaranteed, it is a province retaken by treachery from Duria Imad
Shah, who asked for aid against an usurping Minister, was imprisoned,
and foully murdered. No one can deny this, Señor Padré, for it is as
notorious as the Sun at noonday, and has long cried for justice at the
hands of the Asylum of the World, my father.
"And now, Señor Padré, you have permission to depart. Take these in
memory of the son of Akbar Padshah, who presents them to you;" and,
taking a small rosary of pearls from his neck, he hung them round that
of the Bishop, while a mirdha in attendance threw a light Cashmere
shawl over his shoulders. "And my good wishes for your success with the
Sultana, to whom I forward by you my sincere admiration and respects.
The sum on account of the Christian cavalier you will find in your
palanquin."
Then the Bishop rose, and took leave. "I will do my best to stay
further carnage, O Prince," he said, "but the question must rest with
Her Majesty the Queen and her advisers." Then he was conducted to his
palanquin, and passed out of the camp as he had come.