In answer to the Dewan's request Raja Karowlee sent a force of two
hundred Bagrees to Jean Baptiste's camp. Evidently the old Raja had
run the official comb through his territories, for the decoit force was
composed of a hundred men from Karowlee, under Ajeet Singh, and a
hundred from Alwar, led by Sookdee.
The two leaders were commanded to obey Sirdar Baptiste implicitly; and
Baptiste passed an order that they were to receive a thousand rupees a
day for their maintenance.
In addition there was a fourth officer, Hunsa, who was a jamadar, a
lieutenant, to Ajeet Singh. And if then and there the ugly head had
been cut from his body, the things that happened would not have
happened.
From the advent of the Bagrees, even on their way from Karowlee, Hunsa
had been plotting evil. He was a man who would have shrivelled up,
become atrophied, in an atmosphere of decency--he would have died.
Hunsa caused Sookdee to believe that he should have been the leader and
not Ajeet Singh.
A document was written out by Dewan Sewlal promising that in the event
of the decoits carrying out the mission they had come upon the estate
would be restored to Raja Karowlee, and that he would be compelled to
assign to the three decoit leaders villages within that territory in
rent free tenure. The Dewan, with wide precaution, took care that the
document was so worded that General Baptiste was the official promiser,
putting in a clause that he, Sewlal, the Minister, would see that the
General carried out these promises on behalf of Sindhia.
Baptiste set his lips in a sardonic smile when he read and signed the
paper. However, he cared very little; no concern of his whether
Karowlee attained to his lands or not--it would be a matter of the King
disposes. Even that the Dewan stood in Baptiste's shadow in the affair
was another something that only caused the Frenchman to remark
sardonically:
"Dewani, the English sahibs have a delectable game of cards named poker
in which there is an observance called passing the buck; when a player
wishes to avoid the responsibility of a bet he passes the buck to the
next man. Dewani, you have the subtlety of a good poker player and
have passed the buck to me."
The Brahmin looked hurt. "Sirdar," he said, "you are the commander of
matters of war, which this is. You stand here in the city of tents as
Sindhia; I am but the man of accounts; it is well as it is. And now
that we have signed the promise the decoits will also sign, then I will
make them take the oath according to their patron goddess, Bhowanee.
They are just without--I will have them in."
When the three jamadars had been summoned to the Dewan's presence, he
said: "Here is the paper of promise as to the reward from Sindhia for
the service you are to render. You will also sign here, making your
seal or thumb print; then it will be required that you take the oath of
service according to your own method and your gods."
Ajeet consulted a little apart with Sookdee and then coming forward
said: "We Bagrees are an ancient people descended from the Rajputs, and
we keep our word to our friends; therefore we will take the oath after
the manner of Bhowanee, beneath the pipal tree. If Your Honour will
give us but an hour we will take the oath."
A mile down the red road from the bungalow, looking like a huge beehive
with its heavy enveloping roof of thatch, that was Jean Baptiste's
head-quarters, was a particularly sacred pipal of huge growth. It was
an extraordinary octopus-like tree, and most sacred, for perched in the
embrace of its giant arms was a shrine that had been lifted from its
base in the centuries of the tree's growth.
And now, an hour later, the pipal was surrounded by thousands of
Mahratta sepoys, for word had gone forth,--the mysterious rumour of
India that is like a weird static whispering to the four corners of the
land a message,--had flashed through the tented city that the men from
Karowlee were to take the oath of allegiance to Sindhia.
The fat Dewan had come down in a _palki_ swung from the shoulders of
stout bearers, while Jean Baptiste had ridden a silver-grey Arab.
And then just as a bleating, mottled white-and-black goat was led by a
thong to the pipal, Nana Sahib came swirling down the road in a brake
drawn by a spanking pair of bay Arabs with black points. Beside him
sat the Resident's daughter, Elizabeth Hodson, and in the seat behind
was Captain Barlow.
At the pipal Nana Sahib reined in the bays sharply, saying, "Hello,
General, wanted to see you for a minute--called at the bungalow, and
your servant said you had gone down this way. What's up?" he
questioned after greetings had passed between Baptiste, Barlow and
Elizabeth Hodson.
"Just some new recruits, scouts, taking the oath of service," and
Baptiste closed an eye in a caution-giving wink.
A slight sneer curled the thin lips of Nana Sahib; he understood
perfectly what Baptiste meant by the wink--that the Englishman being
there, it would be as well to say little about the Bagrees. But the
Prince had no very high opinion of Captain Barlow's perceptions, of his
finer acuteness of mind; the thing would have to be very plainly
exposed for the Captain to discover it. He was a good soldier, Captain
Barlow--that happy mixture of brain and brawn and courage that had
coloured so much of the world's map red, British; he was the terrier
class--all pluck, with perhaps the pluck in excelsis--the brain-power
not preponderant.
"Who is the handsome native--he looks like a Rajput?" Elizabeth asked,
indicating the man who was evidently the leader among the others.
"That is Ajeet Singh, chief of these men," Baptiste answered.
"He is a handsome animal," Nana Sahib declared.
"He is like an Arab Apollo," Elizabeth commented; and her tone
suggested that it was a whip-cut at the Prince's half-sneer.
The girl's description of Ajeet was trite. The Chief's face was almost
perfect; the golden-bronze tint of the skin set forth in the enveloping
background of a turban of blue shot with gold-thread draped down to
cover a silky black beard that, parted at the chin, swept upward to
loop over the ears. The nose was straight and thin; there was a
predatory cast to it, perhaps suggested by the bold, black, almost
fierce eyes. He was clothed with the full, rich, swaggering adornment
of a Rajput; the splendid deep torso enclosed in a shirt-of-mail, its
steel mesh so fine that it rippled like silver cloth; a red velvet
vestment, negligently open, showed in the folds of a silk sash a
jewel-hilted knife; a _tulwar_ hung from his left shoulder. As he
moved here and there, there was a sinuous grace, panther-like, as if he
strode on soft pads. At rest his tall figure had the set-up of a
soldier.
As the three in the brake studied the handsome Ajeet, a girl stepped
forward and stood contemplating them.
"By Jove!" the exclamation had been Captain Barlow's; and Elizabeth,
with the devilish premonition of an acute woman knew that it was a
masculine's involuntary tribute to feminine attractivity.
She had turned to look at the Captain.
Nana Sahib, little less vibrant than a woman in his sensitive
organisation, showed his even, white teeth: "Don't blame you, old
chap," he said; "she's all that. I fancy that's the girl they call
Gulab Begum. Am I right, Sirdar?"
"Yes, Prince," Jean Baptiste answered. "The girl is a relative of the
handsome Ajeet."
"She's simply stunning!" Captain Barlow said, as it were, meditatively.
But Nana Sahib, knowing perfectly well what this observation would do
to the austere, exact, dominating daughter of a precise man, the
Resident, muttered to himself: "Colossal ass! an impressionable cuss
should have a _purdah_ hung over his soul--or be gagged."
"One of their _nautch_ girls, I suppose;" Elizabeth thus eased some of
the irritation over Barlow's admiration in a well-bred sneer.
"Yes," Baptiste declared; "it is said she dances wonderfully."
"You name her the Gulab Begum, General,--that is a Moslem title and,
from the turbans and caste-marks on the men, they seem to be Hindus; I
suppose Gulab Begum is her stage name, is it?"
Elizabeth was exhibiting unusual interest in a native--that is for
Elizabeth, and Nana Sahib chuckled softly as he answered: "Names mean
little in India; I know high-caste Brahmins who have given their
children low-caste names to make them less an object of temptation to
the gods of destruction. Also, the Gulab may have been stolen from the
harem of some Nawab by this bandit."
The Gulab suggested more a Rajput princess than a dancing girl. No
ring pierced the thin nostrils of her Grecian nose; neither from her
ears hung circles of gold or brass, or silver; and the slim ankles that
peeped from a rich skirt were guiltless of anklets. On the wrist of
one arm was a curious gold bangle that must have held a large ruby, for
at times the sun flicked from the moving wrist splashes of red wine.
Indeed the whole atmosphere of the girl was simplicity and beauty.
"No wonder they call her the Rose Queen," Barlow was communing with
himself. For the oval face with its olive skin, as fair as a Kashmiri
girl's, was certainly beautiful. The black hair was smoothed back from
a wide low forehead, after the habit of the Mahratti women; the prim
simplicity of this seeming to add to the girlish effect. A small
white-and-gold turban, even with its jauntiness, seemed just the very
thing to check the austere simplicity. The girl's eyes, like Ajeet's,
were the eyes of some one unafraid, of one born to a caste that felt
equality. When they turned to those who sat in the brake they were
calmly meditative; they were the eyes of a child, modest; but with the
unabashed confidence of youth.
Elizabeth, perhaps unreasonably, for the three of them sat so close
together in the brake, fancied that the Gulab's gaze constantly picked
out the handsome Captain Barlow.
An imp touched Nana Sahib, and he said: "I'd swear there was Rajput
blood in that girl. If I knew of some princess having been stolen I'd
say she stood yonder. The eyes are simply ripping; baby eyes, that,
when roused, assist in driving a knife under a man's fifth rib. I've
seen a sambhur doe with just such eyes cut into ribbons a Rampore hound
with her sharp hoofs."
"Well, Prince," Elizabeth said, "I suppose you know the women of this
land better than either Captain Barlow or myself, and you're probably
right, for I see in a belt at her waist the jewelled hilt of a dagger."
Nana Sahib laughed: "My dear Miss Hodson, I never play with edged
tools, and Captain--"
But Nana Sahib's raillery was cut short by a small turmoil as the
bleating goat of sacrifice was dragged forward to a stone daubed with
vermillion upon which rested a small black alabaster image of Kali;
while a _guru_, with sharpened knife, hung near like a falcon over a
quivering bird. Three times the goat's head was thrust downward in
obeisance to the black goddess; there was a flash of steel in the
sunlight, and hot blood gushed forth, to dye with its crimson flood the
base of the idol.
A Bagree darted forward and with a stroke of his _tulwar_ clipped the
neck from a pitcher and held it beneath the gurgling flood till it was
filled.
From where Elizabeth sat she looked across the shoulder of Nana Sahib
as they watched the sacrifice; she saw him quiver and lean forward, his
shoulders tip as though he would spring from the brake. His face had
drawn into hard lines, his lips were set tight in intensity across the
teeth so that they showed between in a thin line of white. The blood
seemed to have fascinated him; he was oblivious of her presence. She
heard him murmur, "Parvati, Parvati! There is blood, blood--wait,
thou, Parvati."
The bay Arabs--perhaps their sensitive nostrils drank in the smell of
fresh blood--sprang into their collars as if they would bolt in fright.
The two syces, squatting on their heels at the horses' heads, had
sprung to their feet, and now were caressing the necks of the Arabs as
they held them each with a hand by the bit.
There was a curious look in the Prince's eyes as he turned them on
Elizabeth; a mingling of questioning and defiance was in them.
Now the holder of the pitcher stood up and the _guru_ drew upon it four
red lines and dropped through its shattered mouth a woman's bracelet of
gold lacquer beads. Then the pitcher was placed upon the Kali shrine;
raw sugar was inclosed in a cloth and tied to a branch of the pipal.
The voice of the Bagree Chief, somewhat coarse in its fulness, its
independence, now was heard saying: "Sirdar Sahib, and Dewan Sahib, we
men of the nine castes of the Bagrees now make the sacred oath. Come
close that ye may observe."
Jean Baptiste edged his horse to the side of the road, and the Dewan,
heaving from the _palki_, stood upright.
Ajeet dipped a tapering finger in the pitcher of blood, touched the
swaying bag of sugar, and laying the hand against his forehead said, in
a loud voice:
"If I, Ajeet Singh, break faith with Maharaja Sindhia, may Bhowanee
punish me!"
Sookdee and Hunsa each in turn took the same solemn oath of allegiance.
As Hunsa turned from the ordeal and passed the Gulab Begum to where the
Bagrees stood in line, Nana Sahib said, "Do you know, General, what
that baboon-faced jamadar made oath to?"
"The last one, my Prince?"
"Yes, he of the splendid ugliness. He testified, 'If I fail to thrust
a knife between the shoulder-blades of Ajeet Singh may Bhowanee cast me
as a sacrifice.'"
"He is jamadar to the other, Prince--but why?"
"He looked upon the Rose Lady as he passed, and as the blooded finger
lay upon his forehead he looked upon Ajeet, and in his pig eyes was
unholiness."
The cold grey eyes of the Frenchman rested for a second upon the
burning black eyes of the speaker, and again he shivered. He knew that
the careless words meant that Hunsa was an instrument, if needs be.
But the Prince's teeth were gleaming in a smile. And he was saying:
"If the play is over, Sirdar, turn your mount over to the _syce_ and
pop up here beside Captain Barlow--I'll tool you home. The Captain
might like a peg."
The bay Arabs swirled the brake along the smooth roadway that lay like
a wide band of coral between giant green walls of gold-mohr and
tamarind; and sometimes a pipal, its white bole and branches gleaming
like the bones of a skeleton through leaves of the deepest emerald, and
its roots daubed with the red paint of devotion to the tree god. Here
and there a neem, its delicate branches dusted with tiny white star
blossoms, cast a sensuous elusive perfume to the vagrant breeze. Once
a gigantic jamon stretched its gnarled arms across the roadway as if a
devilfish held poised his tentacles to snatch from the brake its
occupants.
When they had swung in to the Sirdar's bungalow and clambered down from
the brake, Elizabeth said: "If you don't mind, General Baptiste, I'll
just drift around amongst these beautiful roses while you men have your
pegs. No, I don't care for tea," she said, in answer to his
suggestion. There was a mirthless smile on her lips as she added: "I'm
like Captain Barlow, I like the rose."
The three men sat on the verandah while a servant brought
brandy-and-soda, and Nana Sahib, with a restless perversity akin to the
torturing proclivity of a Hindu was quizzing the Frenchman about his
recruits.
"You'll find them no good," he assured Baptiste--"rebellious cusses,
worthless thieves. My Moslem friend, the King of Oudh, tried them out.
He got up a regiment of them--Budhuks, Bagrees--all sorts; it was named
the Wolf Regiment--that was the only clever thing about it, the name.
They stripped the uniforms from the backs of the officers sent to drill
them and kicked them out of camp; said the officers put on swank;
wouldn't clean their own horses and weapons, same as the other men."
Then he switched the torture--made it more acute; wanted to know what
Sirdar Baptiste had got them for.
The Frenchman fumed inwardly. Nana Sahib was at the bottom of the
whole murderous scheme, and here, like holding a match over a keg of
powder, he must talk about it in front of the Englishman.
When the brandy was brought Nana Sahib put hand over the top of his
glass.
"Not drinking, Prince?" Barlow asked.
"No," Nana Sahib answered, "a Brahmin must diet; holiness is fostered
by a shrivelled skin."
"But pardon me, Prince," Barlow said hesitatingly, "didn't going across
the black-water to England break your caste anyway--so why cut out the
peg?"
"Yes, Captain Sahib,"--the Prince's voice rasped with a peculiar harsh
gravity as though it were drawn over the jagged edge of intense
feeling,--"my caste _was_ broken, and to get it back I drank the dregs;
a cup of liquid from the cow, and not milk either!"
Baptiste coughed uneasily for he saw in the eyes of Nana Sahib
smouldering passion.
And Barlow's face was suffused with a sudden flush of embarrassment.
Perhaps it had been the sight of the blood sacrifice that had started
Nana Sahib on a line of bitter thought; had stirred the smothering hate
that was in his soul until frothing bubbles of it mounted to his lips.
"I was born in the shadow of Parvati," Nana Sahib said, "and when I
came back from England I found that still I was a Brahmin; that the
songs of the Bhagavad Gita and the philosophy of the Puranas was more
to me than what I had been taught at Oxford. So I took back the caste,
and under my shirt is the _junwa_ (sacred thread)."
A quick smile lighted his face, and he laid a hand on Barlow's arm,
saying in a new voice, a voice that was as if some one spoke through
his lips in ventriloquism: "And all this, Captain, is a good thing for
my friends the English. The Brahmins, as you know, sway the Mahrattas,
and if I am of them they will listen to me. The English boast--and
they have reason to--that they have made a friend of Nana Sahib. Here,
Baptiste, pour me a glass of plain soda, and we'll drink a toast to
Nana Sahib and the English."
"By Jove! splendid!" and Captain Barlow held out a hand.
But Baptiste, saying that he would find Miss Hodson, went out into the
sunshine cursing.
"Now we will go back," Nana Sahib was saying as the French General
brought Elizabeth from among the oleanders and crotons.