The church-gong was chiming again, and again it was _Shub'rat_. Not
for the first time since Deen Mahomed had put little Rahmut's platter
of sweets among the Feast of the Dead, for the years had passed since
the child had sat in the sunlight planting gardens. How many the old
man did not consider; in point of fact it did not matter to his
patience. In the end God's club must fall on the unjust; so much was
sure to the eye of faith. Something more also, if the signs of the
times spoke true. When the bolt fell it would not be from the blue;
the mutterings of the storm were loud enough, surely, to be heard even
by those alien ears. And yet Deen Mahomed, fanatic and church-chimer,
standing on that hot summer evening beneath the _sirus_ blossoms
smiting the voice from the quavering disc of metal, knew no more than
this--that the time was at hand. Whether it was always so, or whether
the great Revolt was always pre-arranged, can scarcely at this
distance of time be determined. Certain it is that many, like old Deen
Mahomed, were simply waiting; waiting for the sign of God to slay and
spare not.
_Clang!_
The mellow note went out into the darkening heat; for the sun was
almost at its setting. St. John's-in-the-Wilderness showed all the
whiter against the deepening shadows of the sky.
_Clang!_
Out into the stillness, the silence, as it had gone all these
restless, waiting years.
_Clang!_
Yet again! How long, O Lord, how long?
* * * * *
God and his Prophet! what was that?
A clamour, and above it--familiar beyond mistake--one word, "_Deen!
Deen!_" ("The Faith! The Faith!")
Deen? Yes, Deen Mahomed!--A hot breath of wind from the east rustled
the dry pods and stirred the perfumed puff-blossoms--a scorching wind
from the east whirled the clamour and the cry into the old man's
ears--through his brain--through his heart.
"_Deen! Deen! Deen!_"
The disc of metal, unstruck, hung quivering; slower and slower,
fainter and fainter, till, like the breath of one who dies in his
sleep, the vibration ceased. But the note went alone into eternity,
seeking judgment; for the harmonium was mute.
"_Deen! Deen! Deen!_"
The cruellest cry that men have made for themselves!
* * * * *
It had been long dark ere the old man returned; to what he scarcely
knew. As he stumbled from sheer fatigue on the steps, and sat down to
rest a space, he remembered nothing save that the call had come and
that he had obeyed it. He had smitten more than metal, and had smitten
remorselessly. A terrible figure this; his old hands trembling with
their work; his fierce old eyes ablaze; his garments stained and
bloody. Beyond the white pile of the tomb the red flare of burning
roof trees told their tale, and every now and again an uproarious
outburst of horrid menace, and still more horrid laughter, came to
hint that the work was not all complete. Yet overhead the stars shone
peacefully as ever; and, above the city, the pale radiance of the
death-feasts showed serene.
The remembrance of the Festival and its duties came to the old man's
mind in a great pulse of satisfied revenge. The tomb was his again;
nay, not his, but the saints, of whose feet he was the dust; those
saints who would visit the world that night.
He sat for an instant staring over the way towards his own hovel, then
rose slowly, showing in every movement the fatigue of unusual
exertion. Well, he had done his part; he had slain, and spared not at
all. The others might linger for the sake of greed; as for him, his
work was done.
With a fierce sigh of relief he turned and limped towards the church.
It was darkness itself within the deep doorway; but the lamps were
there, and he had flint and steel. So one by one the lights shone out,
revealing the sacrilegious accessories of that past worship. And yet
it was not light enough for _Shub'rat_, not even when he had lit the
candles on the altar. Still, that was soon remedied. A journey or two
backwards and forwards to his own hovel, and a ring of flickering oil
cressets encircled the table where it was his turn, at last, to spread
the feast of the dead. So large a feast that there was not room enough
for all, and he had to set a square of lights round a white cloth laid
upon the floor.
"This to my grandson, Rahmut, on whom be peace for ever and ever."
That, once more, was the last offering; and as the old man's voice
merged into the sonorous Arabic formula of faith it trembled not at
all, but echoed up into the dome in savage, almost insane triumph and
satisfaction.
This was _Shub'rat_ indeed--a Night of Record. And there was room and
to spare beneath those architraves, which displayed the Great Name
again and again in every scrap of tracery, for all the saints in
heaven to stand and judge between him and his forefathers for the sin
that had been done, the blood that had been spilt--those forefathers
who had ridden through the land with that cry of "_Deen! Deen!_" on
their lips, and had conquered. As they, the descendants, would conquer
now! Yea! let them judge; even Huzrut Isa[1] himself and the blessed
Miriam his mother; for there were times when even motherhood must be
forgotten. His trembling old hands, strained under the task which will
not bear description, rested now on his bent knees; his head was
thrown backward against the lectern on which the Bible lay open at the
lesson for the day; his face, stern even in its satisfaction, gazed at
the twinkling death-lights, among which little Rahmut's platter of
sweets showed conspicuous. Yea! let them come and judge; let them
write his fate upon his forehead.
---------------------
[Footnote 1: Jesus.]
---------------------
Fatigue, content, the very religious exaltation raising him above the
actual reality of what was, and had been, all conspired to bring about
a sort of trance, a paralysis, not of action deferred, as in the past,
but of deeds accomplished. And so, after a time, with his head still
against the lectern, he slept the sleep of exhaustion. Yet, even in
his dreams the old familiar war cry fell more than once, like a sigh,
from his lips,
"_Deen! Deen!_"
A horrible scene, look at it how you will; but, even in its horror,
not altogether base.
From without came a faint recollection of the blood-red glare of fire
in the sky, a faint echo of the drunken shouts and beast-like cries of
those who had taken advantage of the times to return to their old evil
doings. Within, there was nothing save the pale radiance of the
twinkling lamps set round the Death-Feast, the old man asleep against
the lectern, and silence.
Until, with a whispering, kissing sound, a child's bare feet fell upon
the bare stones--a tiny child, still doubtful of its balance, with
golden hair shining in the light. A scarlet flush of sleep showed on
its cheeks, a stain of deeper scarlet showed on the little white
night-gown it wore. Perhaps it had slept through the horrors of the
night, perhaps slept on, even when snatched up by mother or nurse in
the last wild flight for safety towards a sanctuary. Who knows? Who
will ever know half the story of the great Mutiny? But there it was,
sleep still lingering in the wide blue eyes attracted by the
flickering lights. On and on, unsteadily, it came, past the old man
dreaming of _Jehad_, past the lights themselves--happily unhurt--to
stretch greedy little hands on Rahmut's sweeties. So, with a crow of
delight, playing, sucking, playing, in high havoc upon the fair white
cloth.
* * * * *
Was it the passing of the spirits coming to judgment which set the
candle flames on the altar a-swaying towards the cressets below them,
or was it only the rising breeze of midnight? Was it the Finger of
Fate, or only the fluttering marker hanging from the Bible above which
touched the old man's forehead?
Who knows? Who dares to hazard "Yea" or "Nay" before such a scene as
this? Surely, with that blood-red flare in the sky, those blood-red
stains on earth, the passion and the pity, the strain and stress of it
all need a more impartial judgment than the living can give. So let
the child and the old man remain among the lights flickering and
flaring before the unseen wind heralding a new day, or the unseen
Wisdom beginning a new Future.
* * * * *
Deen Mahomed woke suddenly, the beads of perspiration on his brow, and
looked round him fearfully as men do when roused, by God knows what,
from a strange dream. Then, to his bewilderment, came a child's laugh.
Saints in heaven and earth! Was that Rahmut? Had he come back for his
own in that guise? Did the _padre-sahibs_ speak true when they said
the angels had golden hair and pale faces? He crouched forward on his
hands like a wild beast about to spring, his eyes fixed in a stupid
stare. There, within the ring of holy lights, on the fair white cloth,
was a child with outstretched hands full of Rahmut's sweets and a
little gurgle of delight in the cry which echoed up into the dome.
"Nanna, _dekho!_ (see)--_dekho_, nanna."
It was calling to its nurse, not to the old man; yet, though he had
begun to grasp the truth, his heart thrilled strangely to the once
familiar sound.
_Nana!_[2] And it had chosen Rahmut's portion, had claimed the child's
place--the child's own place!
---------------------
[Footnote 2: Grandfather.]
---------------------
What was that? A step behind him--a half-drunken laugh--a dull red
flash of a sabre which had already done its work--Rujjub, with a
savage yell of satisfaction, steering straight as his legs would carry
him to a new victim. But he had reckoned without that unseen figure
crouching in the shadow by the lectern; reckoned without the confused
clashing and clamour of emotion vibrating in the old man's bosom
beneath the stroke of a strange chance; reckoned, it may be, without
the Fate written upon the high narrow forehead which held its beliefs
fast prisoners.
There was no time for aught save impulse. The devilish face, full of
the lust of blood, had passed already. Then came a cry, echoing up
into the dome:
"_Deen! Deen! Allah-i-hukk!_"
The old watchman stood, still with that stupid stare, gazing down at
the huddled figure on its face which lay before him, so close that the
warm blood gurgling from it horridly already touched his bare feet.
What had he done? Why had he done it? To save the child who had
claimed the child's place?--To be true?--Well, it was done! and those
were voices outside--men coming to pillage the church, no doubt--there
was silver in the chest, he knew--that, of course, had been Rujjub's
errand, and his comrades would not be far behind--they would find the
dying man, and then?--Yea! the die was cast, and, after all, it had
been Rahmut's platter! With these thoughts clashing and echoing
through heart and soul Deen Mahomed sprang forward, seized the child,
stifling its cries with his hand, and disappeared into the darkness.
None too soon, for the yell of rage greeting the discovery of the
murdered comrade reached him ere he had gained the shelter of the
trees. Whither now? Not to his house, for they would search there;
search everywhere for those survivors whose work remained as witness
to the existence of some foe. Alone he could have faced the pillagers,
secure in his past; but with the child--the child struggling so madly?
And the last time he had held one in his arms it had lain so still.
Oh, Rahmut! Rahmut! mercy of the Most High! Rahmut! Rahmut!
The words fell from his lips in a hoarse whisper as he ran, clinging
to the darkest places, conscious of nothing save the one fierce desire
to get away to some spot where the child's cries would not be
heard--where he would have time to think--some spot where the work had
been done already--where nothing remained for lustful hands!
The thought made him double back into the cool watered gardens about
the little group of houses beyond the church. The flames were almost
out now, and in one roof, only a few sparks lingered on the remaining
rafters. Here would be peace; besides, even if the cries were heard,
they might be set down to some wounded thing dreeing its deadly debt
of suffering. A minute afterwards he stood in a room, unroofed and
reeking yet with the smell of fire, but scarcely disturbed otherwise
in its peaceful, orderly arrangements--a room with pictures pasted to
the walls and faintly visible by the glare, with toys upon the floor,
and a swinging cot whence a child had been snatched. This child,
perhaps--who knows? Anyhow it cuddled down from Deen Mahomed's arms
into the pillows as if they were familiar.
"Nanna! Nanna!" it sobbed pitifully, "_Hil'ao, hil'ao, neendhi argia_"
(swing, swing, sleep has come).
"_So ja'o mera butchcha_" (sleep my child), replied the old man
quietly, as his blood-stained hand began its task. The wonder of such
task had passed utterly, and had any come to interrupt it he would
have given his life calmly for its fulfilment. Why, he did not know.
It was Fate. So the old voice, gasping still for breath, settled into
a time-honoured lullaby, which has soothed the cradle of most bairns
in India, no matter of what race or colour.
"Oh! crow! Go crow!
Ripe plums are so many.
Baby wants to sleep, you know.
They're two pounds for a penny."
So over and over in a low croon, mechanically he chanted, till the
child, losing its fear in the familiar darkness, fell asleep. And
then? In a sort of dull way the question had been in Deen Mahomed's
mind from the beginning without an answer, for he had gone so far
along the road, simply by following close on the Finger of Fate; and
now there was no possibility of turning back. For woe or weal he had
taken the child's part, he had accepted the responsibility for its
life, even to the length of death in others. Not that he cared much
for the consequences of the swinging blow he had dealt to Rujjub--he
was no true man.
What then? There was no chance of concealing the child. It slept now,
but ere long it would waken again, and cry for "Nanna, Nanna." That
must be prevented for a time at any rate. The chubby hands still
clasped one of Rahmut's sweeties, and the old man stooped to break off
a corner, crumble it up with something he took from an inner pocket,
and then place it gently within the child's moist, parted lips, which
closed upon it instinctively. He gave a sigh of relief. That was
better; that would settle the cries for some hours, and before then he
must have made over the child to other hands. Yes, that was it. He
must somehow run the gauntlet of his comrades, and reach the
entrenched position which the infidels--curse them!--had defended
against odds such as no man had dreamed of before. It was seven miles
to the north, that cantonment which would have been destroyed but for
those renegades from the Faith who had stood by their masters, and
that handful of British troops which had refused to accept defeat.
Seven miles of jungle and open country alive with armed and reckless
sepoys and sowars, to whom a man in mufti was fair game, no matter
what the colour of his race, lay between him and that goal, and Deen
Mahomed's grim face grew grimmer as he raised the sleeping child,
pillows and all, wrapped them in a quilt, and slung the bundle on his
back--slung it carefully so as to give air to the child and freedom to
his arms. He might need it if they tried to stop him. He gave a
questioning glance at the sky as he came out into the garden where the
scent of the orange-blossoms drifted with the lingering spirals of
smoke. Not more than an hour or two remained before the dawn would be
upon them. He must risk detection, then, by the short cut through the
bazaar; better that than the certainty of discovery later on in the
daylight by those ready for renewed assault upon the entrenchment.
"_Whok'umdar_," challenged the sentry ceremoniously set, as in
peaceful times, at the city gate.
"_Allah akbar wa Mahomed rusool_," replied the old man, without a
quiver. That was true; he was for God and his Prophet when all was
said and done. But this was little Rahmut's guest--_this_. He passed
his hand over his forehead in a dazed sort of way.
"_Ari_, look at his _loot_," hiccoughed one of a group in the street;
"before God he hath more than his share in the bundle. Stop, friend,
and pay toll."
"What my sword hath won my sword keeps," retorted Deen Mahomed
fiercely. "Better for thee in Paradise, Allah Buksh, if thou hadst
smitten more and drunk less."
"Let be; let be!" interrupted another. "'Tis Deen Mahomed, the crazy
watchman. I'll go bail, he hath no more than he deserves for this
day's work. And he is a devil with that sword of his when he is angry.
Lo! I saw him at the corner, mind you, where the _sahibs_----"
But Deen Mahomed had passed from earshot. Passed on and on, through
dark streets and light ones, challenged jestingly, or in earnest; and
through it all a growing doggedness, a growing determination came to
him to do this thing, yet still remain, as ever, a guardian of the
Faith. This for Rahmut's sake, the other for the sake of the Tomb,
because he was the dust of the footsteps of the saints in light.
Out in the open now, with the paling light of dawn behind him and a
drunken Hindu trooper riding at him with a cry of "_Ram! Ram!_" So
they dared to give an idolatrous cry, those Hindu dogs whose aid had
been sought to throw off the yoke--who would soon find it on their own
shoulders. A step back, a mighty slash as the horse sped by, maddened
by bit and spur, a stumble, a crash, and an old man, with a strange
bundle at his back, was hacking insanely at his prostrate foe. No
more, "_Ram, Ram_," for him; that last cry had served as the
death-farewell of his race and creed.
On again, with a fiercer fire in the eyes, through the great tufts of
tiger-grass isolating each poor square of God's earth from the next,
and making it impossible to see one's way. On and on swiftly, forcing
a path through the swaying stems, whose silvery tasselled spikes above
began to glitter in the level beams of the rising sun.
Then suddenly, without a word of warning, came an open sandy space, a
brief command.
"Halt!"
So soon! It was nearer by a mile than he had expected, and there was
no chance of flight; not unless you made that burden on your back a
target for pursuing bullets. A fair mark, in truth, for the half dozen
or more of rifles ready in the hands of the cursed infidels.
"Who goes there?" came the challenge in the cursed foreign tongue. He
gave one sharp glance towards the picket, and bitter hatred flared up
within him; for there was not even a _sahib_ there who might,
perchance, understand. Yet there was no doubt, no doubt at all, even
to his confused turmoil of feeling, as to "who came there." A foe! a
foe to the death when this was over! So with a shout came his creed:
"_Allah akbar wa Mahomed rusool_."
Then in a sort of gurgle, as he fell forward on his face, it finished
in "_Deen! Deen! Deen!_"
* * * * *
"Nicked 'im, by gum! Nicked the ole beast neat as a ninepin," said one
of the picket.
"Wonder wot he come on for like that?" said another.
"B----y ole Ghazi, that's wot he was," put in a third. "They gets the
drink aboard, an' don't care for nothing but religion--rummy start,
ain't it? Hello! wot's that?--a babby, by the Lord!"
For the shock of Deen Mahomed's fall had awakened the child.
As they drew it from the blanket, the sun tipped over the tiger-grass,
and fell on its golden curls.
_Shub'rat_ was over.
"I wonder wot 'e were a-goin' to do with it?" remarked the inquirer,
turning the dead body over with his foot, and looking thoughtfully at
the face, fierce even in death. But no one hazarded a theory, and the
Finger of Fate had left no mark on the high, narrow forehead. But the
Night of Record was over for it also.