natives--Hindoos and Brahmins, high caste and low caste--mingling
freely with the Europeans. And could the colonel at that moment have
read the hearts that beat beneath those dusky skins he would have seen
how grievously in error he was, for the hatred and loathing for the
Feringhees were all but universal. And, though ‘white-robed peace’
seemed to smile on all that fair scene, there was beneath a seething
mass of discontent, only wanting a tiny vent as a beginning, when the
whole mine might explode and spread desolation and ruin throughout
India. But little did any of those ladies and gentlemen sitting on that
verandah that hot May night dream of the volcano beneath their feet,
and least of all did Shelton and Blanche trouble themselves with the
portents in the air. These two young people, so full of life and health
and hope, were building castles in the air and dreaming of the day that
should see them united.
There was a considerable pause again in the conversation, and then
Willoughby, in that quiet, emphatic way of his which was well
calculated to carry conviction, remarked in answer to what the colonel
had just said:
‘I don’t altogether agree with you, colonel. My impression is the
natives hate us heartily, and if they can but get the chance will sweep
us out of the land.’
‘Ah, yes, if they can but get the chance,’ replied his host. ‘But
there’s the point. They will not get the chance.’
In a few minutes a khitmurgar came to announce that tea was served,
and the ladies and gentlemen went into the house, but the child
still played about, and the ayah remained. She was squatted down in
one corner of the verandah enjoying a few draws of a hubble-bubble.
The khitmurgars who had been waiting on the colonel and his party
commenced to clear the tables of the glasses and bottles; and one of
the men, a stern, sullen-looking fellow, said to the other:
‘Heard you, Jewan, what these Feringhee dogs said?’
‘Some of it, Meerza,’ returned the man addressed. ‘But I understand not
so much of their hateful language as you.’
‘Well, the colonel sahib says we don’t hate his countrymen.’
Here the two men broke into a scornful laugh, and Jewan remarked:
‘Poor fool. Ere the moon has waned he may have learnt differently. If
all goes well, the blood of all the white devils in Meerut shall dye
the streets, and even the Gunga over there shall run red with it. Shiva
the Destroyer has willed it, and it will be as I say.’
‘What is that you say, Jewan?’ asked the little girl, who had been
arrested in her play by the words that fell from the man’s lips. Her
question caused him to turn upon her with a look so wild and so full of
fierce hatred that she screamed and rushed towards her nurse. The ayah
sprang up and caught her in her arms, saying soothingly:
‘What is it, Missy Baba? What has frightened the pet lamb?’
‘Oh! ayah, Jewan looks so dreadful he has frightened me.’
Alarmed by the scream of the child the colonel ran from the house,
asking excitedly what was the matter.
‘Oh, papa, papa!’ exclaimed his daughter, as she flew to him, ‘I heard
Jewan say such dreadful things; and when I asked him what it was he had
said, he frightened me by the way he glared at me.’
‘What does this mean, you rascal?’ demanded the colonel, angrily, and
speaking in Hindostanee. ‘I am tempted to horsewhip your hide, you
black dog.’
The man drew himself up to every inch of his height. He was a tall,
commanding-looking man with a mobile face, and eyes that seemed to burn
like glowing coals.
‘Sahib,’ he said, proudly and scornfully, ‘I am no dog.’
Then, without another word, he marched down the steps of the verandah
into the garden and disappeared into the darkness.
The colonel was much distressed. It was another sign of the times. A
few months before no servant would have dared to have answered his
master in such a way.
The other ladies and gentlemen had by this time appeared on the scene,
and many were the anxious inquiries as to the cause of the disturbance.
But for the sake of the ladies the colonel gave an evasive answer, and,
re-entering the house, leading his daughter by the hand, the others
followed all but two--Shelton and Blanche. They lingered. With the
artfulness of a lover he detained her by saying, ‘Oh, I say, Blanche,
isn’t this a splendid night? How brilliant the moon is.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, linking her hands in his arm, and turning her own
beautiful face up to his. ‘But I wish, dear, we were under an English
sky instead of this Indian one.’
‘Why?’
‘I--I hardly know. I don’t like this country. If the fears that I have
heard expressed that the natives may rise are realised how dreadful it
will be.’
‘Tut--little woman,’ answered the brave lad cheerily. ‘Don’t let any
gloomy forebodings trouble you. There is discontent, it is true, but we
shall calm it down.’
‘I hope so--I hope so,’ said Blanche, with an unusually thoughtful air.
‘It will be so, my pet. But come, let us go in, for I heard the colonel
suggest cards.’
‘But shall I not have you to myself for a few minutes again this
evening? Remember that as you leave so early in the morning I shall not
see you before you go.’
‘Of course, darling, we shall have another spoon to-night,’ he said in
his hearty manner, and letting his lips come into contact with hers,
to which she made no objection. ‘You see Willoughby and I must report
ourselves in Delhi by eight o’clock, but I intend to come over next
Sunday and see you.’
‘Oh, you love,’ she murmured, allowing him to embrace her still more
closely, until they were suddenly startled by the voice of the colonel,
who, coming on to the verandah, said:
‘I say, you young people, we want you, you know. You can surely manage
to tear yourselves from each other’s arms for a little while.’
‘Certainly, certainly, colonel,’ answered Shelton in an embarrassed
way. ‘But I was just drawing Blanche’s attention to that group of
stars, and----’
‘Ah, how very funny,’ interrupted the colonel with a laugh. ‘It seemed
to me you were trying to smother her, and I wasn’t sure which was your
head and which was hers. But come now, get in. We want to make up some
whist parties.’
A little later on Blanche did manage to get another few minutes alone
with her lover, and with many warm embraces they separated--not for
ever, for they were to meet again, but under circumstances that neither
dreamed of then. His promise to see her again on the Sunday remained
unfulfilled. Not from any fault of his, but for reasons that were not
explained an order was issued of a peremptory character which prevented
any officer or private going outside of Delhi.
On the following Saturday, that is on May 9, there was enacted in
Meerut an extraordinarily dramatic scene, that was the prelude, though
the white people knew it not, of a ghastly drama such as India had
never before witnessed during the rule of the British.
In the interval between the 1st and the 9th the mutineers had been
tried by a court-martial composed of native and British officers,
and sentenced to ten years’ hard labour. The first part of the
sentence--that of stripping them of their uniform in the presence of
all the regiment--was to be carried out, and on that eventful Saturday
morning, under a strong guard of rifles and carabineers, the disgraced
eighty-five were marched to the parade-ground to be still further
disgraced.
It was a stirring scene, for when the _reveille_ had sounded long lines
of troops, mounted and on foot, marched towards the plain that for ever
afterwards was to be historic ground. The clattering of horses’ hoofs
and the rumbling of artillery added to the general commotion, and soon
the plain was swarming with armed men. It was no dress or drill parade,
but a terribly stern display of authority and power, that it was firmly
believed would overawe the mutinous spirit. Heavily shotted field guns
were placed in position, while the drawn sabres of the dragoons flashed
blindingly in the blazing sunlight. On three sides of the plain were
bodies of troops armed with the new grooved rifle, and were ready,
should the signal be given, to belch forth fire and send their rotary
messengers of death into the surging masses of natives.
The mutineers belonged to the 3rd Native Cavalry, and their commanding
officer was Colonel Carmichael Smyth. All being ready, he stepped
forward, and in a loud, clear voice, that was not altogether free from
emotion, however, he read the sentence of the court-martial. That
formality ended, the accoutrements were taken from the mutineers, and
their uniforms stripped from their backs. Then came the armourers and
smiths with their shackles and tools, and, in the presence of that
great concourse of spectators, civilian and military, the disgraced
men were made to wear the chains of felons. They raised their arms
and cried aloud to their general to save them from such ignominy, but
the fiat had gone forth. They were doomed. There was not a Sepoy or
native civilian present but gasped for breath as he felt the rising
indignation in his throat. But what could they do in the presence of
those stern white soldiers, those shotted guns, those grooved rifles,
and the drawn sabres? Yes, they could do something--they could endure
and wait.
When, after some hours, the ceremony was completed, the manacled felons
were consigned to the gaol, and over them was placed a native guard
only. Oh, fatuous act of folly! Who was responsible for it? History is
silent, and he or they who made the blunder have long since mouldered
to the dust from whence they sprang.
The anxious and eventful day ended. The Europeans took their airing as
usual, and met each other at the dinner tables hopeful and cheerful.
They had struck such terror into the hearts of the natives, by the
stern and terrible act, that all fear of a rising had passed. Such was
the general feeling amongst the whites, but during the hours of the
short Indian night there was an unusual movement amongst the natives.
In the lines of the native soldiery, through the surrounding villages
and amongst the crowded bazaars, a fatal sign was passing. Fleet-footed
natives sped from place to place and put into the hands of the
principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty, and by prearrangement
was the signal for a rising. The broiling sun rose on the Sunday
morning, and the Europeans, having no thought of coming danger, wended
their way to the station church. Amongst them were the colonel and his
family, including his sweet little daughter and her pretty governess
Blanche, who looked prettier than ever, and was radiant with a sense
of happiness that found no expression in words, but showed itself in
her beaming eyes and flushed cheeks. And the cause of this was a letter
from her lover in Delhi, brought to her that morning by a coolie. In it
Shelton expressed his joy that the great ‘disarming and felon-marking
act’ of the day before had passed off so quietly; and he expressed a
belief that the lesson thus taught to the natives would be lasting,
and there would be no more mutinous conduct. But what had excited in
Blanche such a sense of joy was this line: ‘And now, sweetest of women,
to-morrow I shall hold you in my arms again, for I have got two days’
leave, and am going to spend them in Meerut. You may look for me about
tiffin time.’
Full of the expectation that this great joy would be realised, how
eagerly did she look forward to the morrow. But, had she been gifted
with the power of prescience, and could have foreseen the events that
were to happen in a few hours, she would have shrunk with curdling
horror, and have cried aloud to God for protection.
Divine service ended, and homeward the people returned again, laughing
and chatting and hand-shaking as friends met friends. And tiffin was
partaken of, and the siesta indulged in without a single thought of
insecurity.
Alas, what fatal blindness! Was it not a cruel fate that dulled the
senses of every white man in the cantonment on that awful Sunday! Had
someone only suspected and been able to arouse the officers to a sense
of their danger, in all human probability history would never have
been called upon to record the ghastly horrors of the Indian Mutiny.
While the white people slept through the sweltering heat of that
May afternoon there was unusual stir in the native lines and in the
bazaars, and down the Ganges, as well as down the Jumna, a budgerow
slowly drifted, and at intervals of about five minutes on board of
that budgerow there were sounded three distinct and emphasised strokes
on a large tom-tom. That beating of the tom-tom was a signal to the
villagers and fishermen who dwelt on the banks of the rivers to repair
with all speed to the city in readiness for the great event.
Still the white men slept! A fatuous belief in their might had
lulled them to a fatal slumber. Shiva, the Destroyer--the God of the
natives--had spoken, but the God of the Christians gave no sign.
The white men slept!
The afternoon waned. The evening breeze set in, and the Christians
rose and prepared for evening worship; and as they wended their way
to church they saw for the first time sights and sounds that paled
the faces of the women, and begot anxiety in the men. Columns of
illuminated smoke were rising to the darkening sky; and from afar off
came the sound of bugles calling to arms, and mingling with it was the
roll of musketry. Service in the church did not take place, and the
scared people hurried back; for now from lip to lip flew the news--‘The
native soldiers have risen!’ It had a dreadful sound, for under any
circumstances it meant a tremendous struggle, and many a brave man
would bite the dust ere the insurrection was quelled.
That confusion ensued amongst the whites goes without saying, for
none knew exactly where the danger lay. Firm in his belief in his
dark-skinned comrades the white-haired colonel mounted his horse and
rode boldly into the midst of his regiment, which was assembled on the
plain. He tried to harangue the men, but ere he had spoken many words
there was a report, and a bullet shattered his arm. In a few seconds
he fell from his horse riddled with bullets. It was the first blood.
Then throwing off all reserve the black soldiers seemed to suddenly
transform themselves to fiends. With hideous cries and shouts, and
followed by a yelling rabble thirsting for the white men’s lives, they
rushed towards the town bent on slaughter.
And almost at the same moment a young and beautiful woman, mounted on a
magnificent horse, her form concealed by a military cloak, crossed the
plain, and, urging the animal to its wildest gallop, sped towards Delhi.
To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late,
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods.
When the eighty-five condemned men were consigned to the gaol they
were placed under the care of a native guard only, and the prisoners
exclaimed to their guard: ‘Are you countrymen of ours that you can
calmly see us thus treated and disgraced by these accursed Feringhees?’
And the taunt was taken up and carried from man to man, and it ran
like wildfire through the native regiments, and through the bazaars,
and through the villages. And it was borne down the rivers and up the
rivers, and over the dusty plain to Delhi men sped with the cry on
their lips. And when the sinking sun was reddening the rolling waters
of the Ganges, native eyes in Delhi were turning anxiously towards
Meerut for the flaming signal in the sky, that should announce to
them that fire and sword were doing their deadly work on the European
residents in the great cantonment.
While the white men were sleeping the natives were acting. They surged
to the prison, civilians and soldiers alike. Some of the latter were
in uniform, some in their stable dress. Some were fully accoutred, and
bestrode their chargers all ready for war. Others rode their steeds
with only watering-rein and horse-cloth; but every soldier was armed
with sabre and pistol, and hundreds of the rabble had pistols and guns
of some sort. They met with no opposition at the prison. If the guard
did not help they looked on passively. The cells were forced open,
the prisoners brought forth, and native smiths were at hand to strike
off the shackles. Then the erstwhile prisoners mounted behind their
comrades and rode to the lines for more horses and arms, and Hindoos
and Mohammedans, high caste and low caste, women and children, joined
in one mighty shout, ‘Death to the Feringhees!’--‘Deen, deen!’ which
means ‘Death’--and was to become their rallying cry throughout the
great struggle. Forth they rushed like a destroying whirlwind. Wherever
a white soldier was met he was mercilessly slaughtered. Such Europeans
as were driving or riding were shot down, men, women, and children,
without mercy, without pity. And from the dens of infamy, and the
slums, and the bazaars, poured a stream of human beings pitiless as
the fabled ghouls, and all bent on plundering and burning. As the moon
rose it looked on an appallingly weird scene of horror and cruelty.
The blazing bungalows of the English officers roared and hissed, and
English women and English children, gashed and mutilated out of all
recognition, lay dead in the streets. One of the first bungalows to
be attacked was that of the colonel as he rode out to harangue his
men. His wife fell, shot through the heart, as she tried to shield her
child. Faithful to her trust, the old ayah endeavoured to carry the
child off from its dead mother and place it in a place of safety, if
there was such a place. But she was cut down with a sabre, and she and
the sweet little girl were slashed to pieces. Then the house was looted
and given to the flames.
Blanche Merton would have fallen a victim at that first outbreak
of fury. But fearing the worst, she had not waited for the house
to be attacked. She was moved by an impulse to die with her lover
no less than to warn him and his comrades in Delhi, and, being a
superb horsewoman, she rushed to the stables, having first seized the
colonel’s military cloak, which was hanging in the hall. With her own
hands she saddled his favourite riding-horse, and, concealing her face
with a black veil, she rode towards the river undetected, and having
gained the highway beyond the Goomtee, she gave her horse the rein.
That night was a night of horror in Meerut, the parallel for which
could hardly be found in history. The whole town seemed to be a
swirling furnace of many-coloured flames. The air was sultry. There was
not a breath of wind, and the stupendous column of smoke spread itself
out over the doomed town like a funeral pall. The shrieks of horses and
cattle as they were burned in their stables mingled with the gloating
cries of the infuriated natives; while the roar of the musketry made
itself heard above all, and proclaimed the carnage that was going
on. Women and children and non-combatants cried to God for pity, and
endeavoured to find shelter in the gardens, outhouses, stables, under
the trees, but all without avail. The black demons searched them out,
and shot them or hacked them to pieces. The streets were deluged with
blood; the river ran red.
Many a heroic deed that has gone unrecorded was done that night by
white men; and many a half-maddened mother, with a prayer on her lips,
threw away her life in her fruitless endeavours to save the lives of
her little ones.
But the scene of the story must shift. When the hellish work in Meerut
had been finished the mutineers sped away to Delhi. But before they
reached it the brave Blanche Merton had arrived. At such a pace had she
ridden that her horse died soon after she had dismounted at Lieutenant
Shelton’s quarters, and she was so excited and so exhausted that she
could scarcely speak. As soon as she got her voice she told them that
mutiny had broken out in Meerut, and the English were being massacred.
There was corroboration of her report in the flame-coloured sky away
to the north-east where the bungalows were burning, but otherwise
Shelton was disposed to think that her fears had led her to exaggerate
the extent of the revolt. Glad he was to see her, and as he kissed her
fondly he said:
‘You are safe here, anyway, my darling, and I do not think there is any
danger of the tide of mutiny flowing thus far.’
He was hopeful and sanguine, but it was different with others to whom
the news was speedily communicated. They knew how weak the little force
was in Delhi, and that they could offer but small resistance if the
mutineers should get the upper hand in Meerut and attack Delhi.
The great magazine and fort, with its tremendous stores of war
material, was no great distance from the palace; that superb home of
the Moghul kings that lifted its proud domes and turrets above the
Jumna. The entire place was under the charge of Willoughby, and he
had with him two other lieutenants--officers of the Bengal Artillery,
and six European conductors and commissariat sergeants, one of them
being an Irishman named Scully. There were nine in all. Nine only to
defend their precious charge! To us now it seems inconceivable that
the authorities could have been so fatuous as to leave so important
a place as Delhi unguarded. But so it was, save by a mere handful of
men. Lieutenant Willoughby, however, was of the stuff that makes all
Englishmen proud. Calling his little band together, he told them the
news, and said that it was certain the mutineers would attempt a dash
for the magazine, for they could do little without ammunition. But he
added:
‘We will hold the place, boys, against a host. The black devils may
have a brief triumph in Meerut, and come here; but the garrison of
Meerut, which is a strong one, will soon recover, and will send us
succour; though, should the worst come to the worst, comrades, not a
shell, not a gun, nor an ounce of powder, if we can help it, shall fall
into the hands of the rebels, for we will blow the whole place into
ruins, and find our graves beneath them.’
A tremendous cheer was the answer he received, and then the gallant
band set to work to be prepared for whatever might happen. The outer
gate was closed, and strongly barricaded. Guns were brought out and
loaded with double charges of grape and canister, and placed in such a
position that they commanded the approaches.
While these preparations were developing Shelton received orders to do
all in his power to hold a house which had been used as a Government
depôt, and contained accoutrements and other stores, besides a number
of rifles. He procured an ample supply of ammunition from the magazine,
and he had with him a sergeant and a corporal. Blanche would have
refused to have left him, even supposing he had wished it, but he
knew there was nowhere he could send her to where she was likely to
be safer than there. And so she insisted on being furnished with a
revolver--which she had learned to use since her arrival in India--and
she vowed that she would stand by his side to the death.
The morning sun was rising in a glory of crimson splendour when
the mutineers, stained with blood and dust and grimed with powder,
swarmed over the Jumna and clattered into Delhi. Under the windows of
the palace they surged, and called for the king--that white-haired,
treacherous old villain, who believed that his hour of triumph had
struck, and that the house of Moghul would be restored to its ancient
splendour. The rebels were admitted by the Mohammedan guard, and then
they almost shook the wall with a thunderous shout of ‘Glory to the
Padishah and death to the Feringhees!’
Swelled now by their comrades of the palace they swarmed into the town,
cutting down every European they met, and a detachment rushed for the
house held by Shelton and his sweetheart and his two other companions.
The lower doors and windows had been barricaded; and from the upper
windows a well-delivered fire checked for a moment the onrush of the
mutineers. But it was only for a moment. Some of their number had gone
down into the dust, but that only served to still further madden the
survivors, who stormed the house, to be beaten back, however, once more
by the defenders’ fire. Recovering themselves, they fired a volley at
the windows, and one of the bullets struck the corporal dead.
Shelton saw now that it would be impossible to hold the place for many
minutes, and he turned with anxious gaze to the beloved woman at his
side. Her face was pale as death, but she was calm, and in her hand she
still grasped the smoking revolver. Every barrel was empty, and she had
sent at least four of the rabble to their account.
‘My beloved,’ he exclaimed in a tone of despair, ‘I fear that hope of
saving you has passed.’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, quietly. ‘Hope for us in this world has gone;
but we shall be united in the next. Load the revolver again.’