Murghub Ahmad, with nothing on but a waistcloth, his high narrow
forehead bedewed with the sweat which ran down his hollow cheeks like
teardrops, was fanning the flame of his own virtue with windy words in
the dark outhouse which he designated the editor's room. Four square
yards of court beyond constituted the printing office of the _Jehâd_,
a bi-weekly paper of extreme views on every topic under the sun. For
the proprietors of _The Light of Islâm_ having a wholesome regard to
the expense of libels, had dispensed with the young man's eloquence as
being too fervid for safety. So, Heaven knows by what pinching and
paring, by what starvation-point of self-denial, the boy had saved and
scraped enough to buy a wretched, rotten handpress, and two used up
lithographic stones. With these implements, and a heart and brain full
of the fierce fire of his conquering race, he set to work with the
utmost simplicity to regenerate mankind in general, and the Government
of India in particular, by disseminating the smudged results of his
labours on the poor old press among his fellow-subjects; for the most
part, it is to be feared, free, gratis, and for nothing. Poor old
press! No wonder it creaked and groaned under Murghub Ahmad's thin
straining arms; for it had grown old in the service of Government, and
on the side of law and order. Generation after generation of prisoners
in the district jail had found a certain grim satisfaction and
amusement in producing by its help endless thousands of the forms
necessary for the due capture and punishments of criminals yet to
come. Reams and reams of paper had they turned out as writs of arrest,
warrants for committal, charge-sheets, orders for jail discipline, or,
joyful thought, memos of discharge. And now order and discipline were
unknown quantities in its life. Perhaps the change was too much for
its constitution; certain it is that it became daily more and more
unsatisfactory in regard to the complicated Arabic words with which
its present owner loved to besprinkle his text. Then the damp,
overworked stones refused to dry, even under the boy's hot feverish
hands; and he lost half his precious time in chasing the shifting
sunlight round and round the narrow courtyard in order to set the ink.
Something there was infinitely pathetic about it all; especially on
the days when, with the look of a St. Sebastian in his young face, the
lad could stay his hard labour for a while, and rest himself by
folding the flimsy sheets within the orthodox green wrapper where a
remarkably crooked crescent was depicted as surrounded by the beams of
the rising sun. False astronomy, but excellent sentiment! Then there
was the addressing for the post. Most of the packets bore the
inscription _bearing_; but one, chosen with care, and cunningly
corrected with a deft pen, never failed to carry the requisite stamp
above the quaint address: _To my respectable and respected father,
Khân Mahommed Lateef Khân, in the house of the Khân of Khurtpore, Sudr
Bazaar, Faizapore_. Which is much as though one should address a
Prince of the Blood to Tottenham Court Road.
Then, with the precious parcels in his arms, and one copy in his
bosom, he would joyfully lock the door above which "Press of the Jehâd
Newspaper" was emblazoned in English, and make his way to some cheap
cook-house, where, in honour of the occasion, he would purchase a
farthing's worth of fried stuff to eat with his dry dough cakes.
Thereafter he would repair to the steps of a mosque, or to one of the
shady wells which still linger in the heart of cities in India, in
order to discuss his own views and writings with a group of young men
of his own age. For in that large town, with its strange undercurrents
of new thoughts and aims underlying the steady stream of humanity
towards the old beliefs, Murghub Ahmad was not without his audience,
nor even his following. He had the sometimes fatal gift, greater than
mere eloquence, of leading the minds of his hearers blindfold by some
strange charm of voice and personality; and when, as often happened,
discussion took the form of harangue, the slow-gathering, stolid crowd
used to wake up into muttered approbation as the familiar watchwords
of their faith were presented to them in new and bewildering forms.
It was the eve of Mohurrim, the great feast and fast of orthodox and
unorthodox Mahomedans; an occasion which claimed more zeal than usual
from the young reformer. On the morrow the paper shrines of the dead
Hussan and Hussain, which were now being prepared in many a quiet
courtyard, would be borne through the streets in triumph, followed by
excited crowds of the faithful. And, as sometimes happens, it was
Dussarah-tide also, and the Hindus held high festival as well as the
Mahomedans. A simple thing enough to Western minds, accustomed to the
idea of wide thoroughfares and religious toleration; a very different
affair in the tortuous byeways of a native town, and among the ancient
antagonisms. It was critical at the best of times, and this year
doubly, trebly so, for with the newly-granted franchise of municipal
government, the richer Hindus out-numbered the Mahomedans in the
committee which had power to direct the route open to each procession.
So the cry of favouritism went forth, and as the gaudy paper streamers
were being gummed to the frail bamboo frames, many a dark face grew
darker with determination to carry the sacred symbol where he chose;
yea, even into the midst of the cursed idol-worshipping crew, despite
all the municipal committees and fat, bribing usurers in the world.
The _Jehâd_ was full of sublime wrath and valiant appeals for justice
to high Heaven, because a certain connecting alley between two of the
big bazaars had been closed to the Mahomedans and given to the Hindus.
True, another, and equally convenient, connection, had been allowed
the former; but for many years past the procession of _tâzzias_ had
struggled through that particular alley, and the innovation was
resented as an insult. East and west, mankind is made the same way. It
was astonishing how many imperious demands on the resources of
Providence this trivial change aroused in Murghub Ahmad. He called for
justice, mercy, and religious freedom, for the stars as witness, for
the days of Akbar. On the other hand, a rival print with an
unpronounceable title, clamoured for Bikramâjeet, the hero-king of
old, for Hindu independence and the sword. Either faction, it may be
observed, asked for those things in others of which they had least
themselves, after the way of factions all over the world.
Thus many a quarterstaff was being diligently whittled that evening,
and down in the butchers' quarter even deadlier weapons were being
talked of openly by its inhabitants, the most truculent of all the
mixed races and trades with which rulers have to deal. John Raby,
doing his judicial work in the big court-house outside the town, felt,
with that sharp, half-cunning perception of concealed things which he
possessed so pre-eminently, that there was mischief brewing, and drove
round by the executive official's house in order to tell him so. The
latter assured him that the newly-elected municipal committee were
fully alive to the necessity for precautions; whereat the young man
shrugged his shoulders and said he was glad to hear it. He mentioned
it casually to Belle with a sneer, which he did not allow himself in
public, at the crass stupidity of needlessly setting race against race
by premature haste to confer the blessings of vestrydom on India. And
Belle agreed, since, even with the limited experience of the past
year, she had learnt a sort of reverence for the old ways, which seem
so irredeemably bad to the unsympathetic philanthropy of the West.
For a whole year had passed since the fateful letter announcing the
legacy had come to disturb the foundations of her world. It had had
surprisingly little effect on her, chiefly because she was determined
that her life must run in one ordered groove. There must be no mistake
or fiasco, nothing but what she considered decent, orderly, virtuous.
Uninteresting, no doubt; but it is nevertheless true that a very large
number of women are born into the world with an unhesitating
preference for behaving nicely; women who can no more help being
longsuffering, cheerful, and self-forgetful, than they can help being
the children of their parents. Her husband's clear sight had early
seen the expediency of concealing from her the radical difference
between her view of life and his own. He even felt pleased she should
think as she did; it was so much safer, and more ladylike. In his way
he grew to be very fond of her, and there was scarcely any friction
between them, since, moved by a certain gratitude for the change her
money had wrought in his prospects, he gave her free play in
everything that did not interfere with his settled plans. Half the
said money was already invested in Shunker Dâs's indigo concern, and
John Raby was only awaiting its assured success to throw up his
appointment and go openly into trade; but of this Belle knew nothing.
She had money enough and to spare for all her wishes, and that was
sufficient for her; indeed, on the whole, she was happy in the larger
interests of her new life. The tragic, poverty-stricken, yet contented
lives of the poor around her had a strange fascination for the girl,
and the desire to see and understand all that went to make up the
pitiful sum-total of their pleasures, led her often, on her solitary
morning rides (for John was an incurable sluggard) through the alleys
and bazaars of the great city. In the latter, the people knowing in a
dim way that she was the judge _sahib's_ wife, would _salaam_
artificially, but in the back streets both women and children smile on
her, much to her unreasoning content.
So the morning after her husband's sarcasm over the mistakes of his
seniors, she determined, in the confidence of ignorance, to see
something of the processions; and with this intention found herself,
about seven o'clock, in the outskirts of the town. Here the deserted
appearance of the streets beguiled her into pushing on and on, until
close to the big mosque a blare of conches, and the throbbing of
ceaseless drums mingled with cries, warned her of an advancing
procession. Wishing to watch it unobserved, she turned her horse into
a side alley and waited.
As in all countries, a rabble of boys, sprung Heaven knows whence,
formed the advance guard. Behind them came an older, yet more
mischievous crowd of men flourishing quarterstaves and shouting
"Hussan! Hussain!" Next emerged into the square, a swaying, top-heavy
_tazzia_, looking every instant as though it must shake to pieces, and
behind it more quarterstaves and more _tazzias_, more shouts, and more
dark faces streaming on and on to overflow into the square, until the
procession formed a part only of the great crowd. So absorbed was she
in watching the swooping out of each successive _tazzia_, like some
gay-plumaged bird from the intricate windings of the way beyond, that
she failed to notice the current settling towards her until the
vanguard of urchins was almost at her horse's hoofs. Then she
recognised the disconcerting fact that she had taken refuge in the
very path of the procession. Turning to escape by retreat, she saw the
further end of the alley blocked by a similar crowd; only that here
the shouts of "_Dhurm! Dhurm! Durga dei! Gunga_ (the faith, the faith!
the goddess Durga! Ganges!)" told of Hindu fanaticism.
She was, in fact, in the very alley which both sides claimed as their
own. Bewildered, yet not alarmed, for her ignorance of religious
ecstasy made her presuppose deference, she turned her horse once more,
and rode towards the advancing _tazzias_ at a foot's-pace. The look of
the crowd as she neared it was startling, but the cry of "_Jehâd!
Jehâd!_ Death to the infidel!" seemed too incredible for fear; and ere
the latter came with the conviction that not even for a judge _sahib's
mem_ would the stream slacken, a young man, his gaunt face encircled
by a high green turban, rushed to the front and seized her horse by
the bridle.
"No words! Dismount yourself from steed and follow your preserver. We
war not with women." The effect of these stilted words uttered in
tones of intense excitement was somehow ludicrous. "Smile not! Be
nimble, I entreat. Unhorse yourself, and follow, follow me."
The vision of a hideous leering face leading the quarterstaves decided
her on complying. The next instant she felt herself thrust into a dark
entry, and ere the door closed, heard a scream of terrified rage from
her horse, as some one cut it over the flank with his staff. The
outrage made her temper leap up fiercely, and she felt inclined to
confront the offender; but before she could reach the door it was shut
and hasped in her face.
Then the desire to escape from darkness and see--see something, no
matter what--possessed her, and she groped round for some means of
exit. Ah! a flight of steep steps, black as pitch, narrow, broken; she
climbed up, and up, till a grating in the wall shed a glimmer of light
on the winding stair; up further, till she emerged on a balcony
overlooking the street, whence she could see far into the alley on one
side and into the square on the other. Beneath her feet lay a small
empty space edged by the opposing factions hurrying into collision.
"Give way! Give way, idolaters! Hussan! Hussain! _Futeh Mahommed_
(Victory of Mahomed)," yelled the _tazzia_-bearers.
"_Jai, Jai, Durga Devi, de-jai!_ Give way, killers of kine," shouted
the Hindus.
For an instant or two Belle's horse, hemmed in by the advancing
crowds, kept the peace by clearing a space between them with head and
heels; then, choosing the least alarming procession, it charged the
Hindus, breaking their ranks as, maddened by terror it plunged and
bit. Only for a moment, however, for the packed mass of humanity
closing in round it, held it harmless as in a vice.
"The charger of Pertâp!"[4] cried a huge rice-husker with ready wit,
as he leapt to the saddle, and coming rather to grief over the
crutches, raised a roar of derision from the other side. He scowled
dangerously. "Come on, brothers!" he cried, digging his heels
viciously into the trembling, snorting beast. "Down with the cursed
slayers of kine. This is Durga-ji's road,--_Dhurm! Dhurm!_"
"Hussan,--Hussain!"
Then the dull thud of heavy blows seemed to dominate the war of words,
and business began in earnest as a Mahomedan, caught behind the ear,
fell in his tracks. It was not much of a fight as yet, for in that
narrow street the vast majority of the crowd could do nothing but
press forward and thus jam activity into still smaller space, until
the useless sticks were thrown aside, and the combatants went at each
other tooth and nail, but unarmed. So they might have fought out the
wild-beast instinct of fighting, but for the fact that the Hindus,
with commendable foresight, had headed their procession by athletes,
the Mahomedans by enthusiast. So, inch by inch, surging and swaying,
yelling, cursing, yet doing comparatively little harm, the combatants
drifted towards the square until the wider outlet allowed a larger
number of the Mahomedans to come into play, and thus reverse the order
of affairs. Once more the _tazzias_, surrounded by their supporters,
carried the lane, and swept back the red-splashed figure of Durga
amidst yells of religious fury. So the battle raged more in words than
blows. Belle, indeed, had begun to feel her bounding pulses steady
with the recognition that, beyond a few black eyes and broken heads,
no harm had been done, when a trivial incident changed the complexion
of affairs in an instant.
The foremost _tazzia_, which had borne the brunt of conflict and come
up smiling after many a repulse, lost balance, toppled over, and went
to pieces, most likely from the inherent weakness of its architecture.
The result was startling. A sudden wave of passion swept along the
Mahomedan line, and as a young man sprang to the pilaster of the
mosque steps and harangued the crowd, every face settled into a deadly
desire for revenge.
"Kill! Kill! Kill the idolaters--_Jehâd! Jehâd!_"--the cry of
religious warfare rang in an instant from lip to lip. And now from
behind came a fresh burst of enthusiasm, as a body of men naked to the
waist pushed their way towards the front with ominous glint of
sunlight on steel as they fought fiercely for place.
"Room! Room for the butchers! Kill! Kill! Let them bleed! let them
bleed!"
The shout overbore the high ringing voice of the preacher, but Belle,
watching with held breath, saw him wave his hand towards the lane.
Slowly, unwillingly at first, the crowd gave way; then more rapidly
until a roar of assent rose up. "The butchers, the butchers! Kill!
Kill!"
Belle gasped and held tight to the railing, seeing nothing more but
the tide of strife beneath her very feet. Red knives, gleaming no
longer, straining hands, and every now and again a gurgle and a human
head disappearing to be trodden under foot. Heaven knows how weapons
come in such scenes as these,--from the houses,--passed to the front
by willing hands--snatched from unwilling foes who fall. In a second
it was knife against knife, murder against murder. "_Durga! Durga
devi!_ Destroy! Destroy!" "Hussan! Hussain! Kill! Kill!" Then
suddenly, a rattle of musketry at the far end of the square, where,
cut off from the actual conflict by an impenetrable crowd, a strange
scene had been going on unobserved. Two or three mounted Englishmen
unarmed, but sitting cool and square on their horse sat the head of a
company of Mahomedan and Hindu sepoys who stood cheek by jowl, calm,
apparently indifferent, their carbines still smoking from the recent
discharge. About them was a curious stillness, broken only by the
sound of more disciplined feet coming along at the double. A glint of
red coats appears behind, and then a police-officer, the sunlight
gleaming on his silver buckles, gallops along the edge of the rapidly
clearing space, laying about him with the flat of his sword, while
yellow-trousered constables, emerging Heaven knows from what safe
shelter, dive in among the people, whacking vigorously with the
traditional truncheon of the West. A rapid order to the sepoys, an
instant of marking time as the company forms, then quick march through
an unresisting crowd. As they near the combatants a few brickbats are
thrown: there is one free fight over the preacher: and then the great
mass of mankind falls once more into atoms, each animated by the
instinct of self-preservation. Five minutes more, and the processions
have gone on their appointed ways with the loss of some chosen
spirits, while the ghastly results are being hurried away by
fatigue-parties recruited from the bystanders.
"Only one round of blank cartridge," remarked John Raby, as the Deputy
Commissioner rode forward ruefully to inspect the damage. "Ten minutes
more, and it wouldn't have been so easy, for the fighting would have
reached the square, and once a man begins--Great God! what's that?"
He was out of the saddle staring at a horse that was trying to stagger
from the gutter to its feet. Perhaps in all his life he had never felt
such genuine passion as then; certainly Belle herself was never so
near to loving her husband as when she saw the awful fear come into
his face at the sight of the riderless steed. She had been waiting for
him to come nearer before calling for assistance, and now the thought
of her past danger and its meaning almost choked her voice. "I'm not
hurt! Oh, John! I'm not hurt," she cried, stretching her hands towards
him.
He looked up to see her on the balcony, and his relief, as it often
does, brought a momentary resentment. "Belle! What the devil--I mean,
why are you here?"
Now that it was all over, she felt disagreeably inclined to cry; but
something in his voice roused her pride and urged her to make light of
what had happened, and so avoid being still more conspicuous. "I'll
come down and explain," she replied with an effort.
"Wait! I'll be with you in a moment. Which is the door?" As he paused
to kiss her before helping her down the dark stair, Belle passed the
happiest moment of her married life. Physically and morally she felt
crushed by the scenes she had witnessed, and his calm, half-callous
strength seemed a refuge indeed.
"Not across the square," whispered the police-officer as he was about
to take her the shortest route. "That poor brute must be shot."
John Raby raised his eyebrows a little, but took the hint. Women were
kittle cattle to deal with; even the best of them like Belle. Who, for
instance, would have thought of any one with a grain of sense getting
into such a position? Underneath all his kindness lay a certain
irritation at the whole business, which he could not conceal.