arresting the man had occurred to him sooner. He saw in the distance a
group of at least half-a-dozen men approaching, all carrying lathis
except one, who had a matchlock. They might, of course, have been
induced by mere curiosity to come and see the amusing spectacle of an
Afghan baffled by a camel. But belonging himself to a robber tribe,
Ahmed suspected that their motive was not so peaceable. Well, they
should not despoil him without a fight. They would indeed hardly expect
to do so, for, though a trader, he was an Afghan, and if they knew
anything of Afghans they would know that he would not yield without
offering resistance. But they were six to one!
Fortunately Ahmed had some little protection in the great bulk of the
camel and in the banian-tree behind him. While they were still a great
way off, he slipped his talwar from its covering, and laid it close to
his hand, ready for emergencies. He had, besides, his pistol and his
knife. But he felt that he was in an awkward predicament. The matchlock
would carry further than his pistol; the man who bore it had only to
keep out of range and "pot" him at his leisure. Even if the man missed
him, he might hit the camel, and then the animal, if not mortally
wounded, would probably rise quickly enough and bolt in an entirely
wrong direction. There was just a chance that the man, not suspecting
him to bear firearms, might come so near that he would be able to get
first shot; that indeed seemed to be his only chance.
He stood behind the camel and watched them. While they were still too
far away for the matchlock-bearer to fire with any certainty of hitting
him, he shouted--
"Eo! eo! Who are you, and what do you want?"
Like all hill-men, he had a very clear, ringing voice, and the note of
authority in his tone caused them to halt. Then one of them called back
in answer--
"We have come to help you with your rogue of a camel."
"I want no help," he replied. "The camel will rise when Allah wills. I
would not trouble you."
There was silence for a moment, then another voice cried--
"We know not who you are. We want no Afghans here. You must come with us
to our village, and our headman shall hear who you are and say what
shall be done. It may be that he will send you to the chief of
Bahadurgurh."
"What talk is this?" cried Ahmed. "I am a trader, as you see, and I
carry my wares to Delhi. What has the chief of Bahadurgurh to say to the
king?"
"That we shall see," replied the man truculently, advancing. "It will be
better for you to come with us quietly."
"You had better return to your dogs' kennels before you come to harm,"
cried Ahmed, flourishing his talwar. "As you perceive, I am armed, and I
will send you back without arms and legs if you come within my reach."
The men laughed. What was a talwar against a matchlock? The man carrying
the firearm came on ahead of the rest, and advancing to within a short
distance of Ahmed he set the weapon to his shoulder and proceeded coolly
to take aim. This was exactly what Ahmed had calculated upon. The firing
of a matchlock was a somewhat lengthy operation, especially to a
villager. Before the man had time to fire, Ahmed quickly changed the
talwar from his right hand to his left, drew his pistol, and fired over
the camel's back. The man dropped without a sound. At the same moment
Ahmed flung down his pistol, and taking the sword again in his right
hand, drew his knife, vaulted over the animal, and dashed straight at
the knot of villagers.
Taken aback by this unexpected stroke from a man they supposed to be
helpless, the villagers stood irresolute. Before they had recovered
their wits, Ahmed was upon them. The sight of his sword flashing in the
glow of the setting sun was too much for most of them; they took to
their heels and fled in all haste across the fields. One or two,
apparently so paralyzed with consternation that they could not even run,
seized their lathis and made feeble attempts to parry the descending
talwar. But with a couple of swift strokes Ahmed settled their account.
Then, incensed at their unprovoked attack, he made off at full speed
after the runaways. They were no match for him in fleetness, and,
realizing this, they scattered, howling. Ahmed could not catch them all;
he ran after the one whom he recognized as the man that had first
discovered him. A pursuit of half-a-mile over the squelching soil
brought him within arm's length, and the wretched man paid the penalty.
It would be dangerous to pursue the rest, loath as he was to let any of
them go unpunished. And reflecting that as soon as they got back to
their village they would without doubt bring others with firearms to
deal with him, he saw that he must lose no time in making his escape.
The camel must be compelled to move. But when he turned, he saw that the
camel, probably startled by the shot, was already on its feet, and
shambling along the road in the direction from which he had come.
Sprinting after it, he lugged it round until its head was again turned
towards Delhi, walked by its side until he picked up the pistol, then
leapt to his seat, and set off, as quickly as the clumsy animal would
move, towards his destination.
He had not ridden for more than half-a-minute when he reflected that he
was not even yet out of danger. If the villagers pursued him, they could
easily overtake him before he had gone many miles. Instantly he drove
the camel off the road on to the field. When he had gone a hundred paces
he stopped, slipped off, and with the quickness of a well-trained scout
proceeded to obliterate the traces of the animal's feet back to the
point at which it had started to go in the opposite direction, the camel
meanwhile stopping to drink at a deep pool. In a few minutes he was back
again, remounted, and continued his journey.
It was by this time nearly dark. After riding a few miles he saw,
somewhat nearer the road, a small shrine amid trees, such as are to be
found in countless numbers dotted over India. It struck him that, since
the gates of Delhi must now be shut, he might well shelter for the night
beneath the walls of the shrine. He halted, tethered the camel to one of
the trees, and made himself as comfortable as he could.
An hour or two afterwards he heard the distant sounds of a body of men
approaching. Were they fellow-villagers of the men he had punished, on
the hunt for him? Devoutly he hoped that the camel would not betray him
by a grunt. The sounds drew nearer--voices, the tramp of feet on the
road. They passed. For the time he was safe. Tired as he was, he durst
not now go to sleep. The men might return; an unlucky grunt might bring
them upon him. In anxious suspense he waited. The hours are long to one
who waits. At last he heard faint sounds from beyond him. Men were
approaching him again. He stood, grasping his weapons. The sounds grew
louder. The marching men were now abreast of him. If they had been his
comrades of the Guides they would find the tracks of his camel even in
the dark. But they passed; the sound of their marching grew fainter; and
at last Ahmed's uneasiness left him, and, wrapping himself in his cloak,
he lay down to sleep.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
Kaluja Dass, Khansaman
On that evening, about the time when Ahmed had his little fight with the
villagers, Kaluja Dass, an Oudh man of pleasant aspect and grave
deportment, was preparing a meal for his master in a substantial house
lying some little distance in the rear of the Chandni Chauk--Silver
Street--the long straight thoroughfare leading from the Lahore gate to
the king's palace in Delhi. His brows were drawn down, a deep vertical
furrow divided his forehead; he wore a look of worry and embarrassment
which accorded ill with his position as khansaman to a subahdar in the
army of the king. But the subahdar had announced that he would bring
guests home to sup with him, and Kaluja was at his wits' end to provide
the meal. The subahdar commanded a regiment, but neither he nor his men
had had any pay for weeks. In spite of his impecuniosity, the officer
always expected his appetite to be appeased, and was wont to give the
rein to a very abusive tongue if the bill of fare was not to his liking.
Kaluja Dass had done his best, but really, without money it was
impossible to persuade the merchants in the bazar, however loyal they
were, that an officer of the king must be suitably fed. The khansaman
had done his best, but he had to confess to himself, as he viewed the
dishes, that the supper was not worthy even of a jamadar.
The room in which the meal was set was a large one on the first floor of
a house which had once belonged to a prince of the blood. But some years
before, when the sahibs came to assist Bahadur Shah--who certainly
needed assistance--in the government of his kingdom, the house had been
purchased by one of them from its impoverished owner. Craddock Sahib was
a hakim, and also, as it appeared, a man of war; in the English way of
putting it, he was a surgeon attached to one of the foot regiments in
the service of the Company. He had a wife, a son, and a daughter; so
large a house was quite unnecessary, as Kaluja thought, for so small a
family, especially when the son went away over the black water to his
own country, to learn how to become a hakim like his father. But that
was a characteristic of the sahibs: they loved spaciousness; and if
Craddock Sahib's family was small, his household was correspondingly
large; Kaluja Dass as khansaman ruled over quite a regiment of
underlings.
Dr. Craddock had been in cantonments when the rising took place. As soon
as news of it reached his ears he mounted his buggy and hastened back
into the city, against the advice of all his friends. At the gate he was
met by a sepoy, who presented a loaded pistol at his head; but quick as
thought the doctor lashed him across the face with his whip, and the man
slunk howling away. Seeing that the street was full of people, Dr.
Craddock jumped from his buggy and made his way by side streets towards
his house. He had almost reached it when he was set upon by a group of
ruffians, who hacked at him with their knives and left him for dead on
the ground.
It happened that next day the doctor's house was granted by the king to
a Pathan adventurer named Minghal Khan, who had just entered the city.
He had come with high recommendations from the Maulavi Ahmed Ullah. Had
he not earned Paradise by going to and fro through the land in the guise
of a fakir and preparing the minds of the faithful for the great
deliverance at hand? So worthy a missionary deserved well at the hands
of Bahadur Shah, and the doddering old king at once made him a subahdar
and gave him for residence the house which had just been purged of the
defiling presence of an infidel Feringhi.
The first thing Minghal Khan did was to fling out of the house some of
the European furniture, treading under heel the many dainty nick-nacks
which had stood for so much to the memsahib as mementoes of home. Among
the larger articles of furniture which he allowed to remain was a lofty
almirah, on the shelves of which stood long arrays of bottles large and
small, containing liquids and powders of various colours. Minghal had no
respect for the infidel hakim's drugs, but the bottles made a pretty
show and pleased his eye.
Those who had known Kaluja Dass as the faithful servant of Craddock
Sahib might have been surprised at his remaining in the same house as
khansaman to Minghal Khan. No doubt they were somewhat astonished at the
change that came over the man. He was never tired of abusing his late
master and all the Feringhi race, and though, not being a man of war, he
did not actually fight against them, no man in Delhi cursed them more
heartily or uttered devouter wishes for their extermination. It was
partly this violence of language that induced Minghal Khan to engage
him. That important personage at first swore that he would have none to
serve him who had served the Feringhis; he even accused Kaluja of
favouring the accursed infidels, and only the most vehement
protestations of hatred--spittings, revilings, maledictions on countless
foregone generations of the sons of perdition--prevented the Pathan from
dealing with Kaluja in his haste as too many loyal natives had been
dealt with. And then, when the man offered to serve the hazur without
pay--so greatly did he honour this doughty enemy of the sahibs--Minghal
was satisfied. A man must live, to be sure, but a khansaman had
opportunities of squeezing the means of livelihood out of the purveyors
honoured with his master's custom; and Minghal, being as arrant a
brigand as ever went raiding on the border, was content to accept the
service of an experienced domestic on such easy terms.
But Kaluja's place was not an easy one, and became more difficult as
money ran short. This evening he had spent his last rupee in buying
sweetmeats as garnishment for the meal. The names he bestowed inwardly
on his master did not savour of respect. And when by and by Minghal came
in with two friends of his kidney, and saw the meagreness of the repast,
he cursed Kaluja as a dog and the son of a dog, and bade him go into the
bazar and buy something more suited to the dignity, as to the appetite,
of a friend of Bahadur Shah.
"Hazur, thy servant has not a pice," faltered the khansaman.
"Pig, wouldst thou answer me? Go, get thee some of the Feringhi's lumber
that remains, and sell it. Wouldst thou keep my guests waiting? Quick,
or by my father's beard I will hamstring thee."
Kaluja hastened from the room. During his absence Minghal inveighed
against the parsimony of the king, which kept his faithful servants in
such straits.
"Where is justice?" he cried. "Did he not command two days ago that
twelve rupees' worth of sweetmeats should be bestowed upon those seventy
sowars who came in from Alipur, with a tale--lies, by my beard!--that
they had slain a hundred Feringhis and pursued a host for three full
koss? And yesterday did he not give large gifts to the Gujars who stole
forty camels from the Feringhis' camp? He is lavish to them, and yet
will not part with a rupee to one who has journeyed in the heat of the
day and faced death a hundred times in conveying the Maulavi's chapatis
to the faithful!"
"The king has no treasury: how can he pay you?" said one of his friends.
"Bah! Has he not untold wealth in that palace of his? And are not the
queen's arms heavy with jewels? Verily he will not long be king when we
have smitten these accursed Feringhis."
"And when will that be, friend? The smiting was the other way this
morning."
"Hai! what is that? Do not our numbers grow day by day? What can the
Feringhis do? Can they scale these walls? Have we not a hundred guns and
more upon them? Within a little we shall issue forth like a swarm of
locusts and devour them. The work grows apace. This day a kasid came
with news that a regiment has risen at Jajjar; troops are coming to us
from Kotwal; the Feringhis have been smitten at Lahore. What can this
handful of white-faced dogs do against our great host?"
Further conversation was interrupted by the return of the khansaman
laden with dainties from the bazar.
"Wah! Did I not say that there is abundance of good things in Delhi? But
why, pig, hast thou not brought spirits? Wherewithal dost thou suppose
we will comfort our hearts?"
"Hazur, the bottles are empty."
"Dog, thou liest! All the Feringhis lay in a plentiful store of the
strong waters. Hast thou drunk them thyself, thou thief, and broke the
Prophet's command? Verily I will myself come and see if thou art telling
the truth."
"Hazur, I will look again," said the khansaman hastily, and with an
anxious air. "Maybe I have overlooked a bottle or two that still remain.
It is not meet that the noble hazur should have the great trouble of
searching himself."
He went away, and soon returned with a full bottle of brandy. Forbidden
though the drinking of intoxicating liquors was, many professed faithful
followers of the Prophet paid scant heed to the prohibition. They drank
if they could afford to buy. Minghal and his guests imbibed freely,
diluting the liquor but little. The bottle was soon empty: the guests,
less accustomed to the spirit than Minghal himself, were completely
overcome; and Minghal, flushed and unsteady, called for more. Kaluja
humbly declared that there was no more in the house; but Minghal,
cursing him for a liar, cried that he would see for himself. He rose and
staggered across the room. Catching sight of the row of bottles on the
almirah, he gave a maudlin chuckle of delight and reached out his hand
to take one down.
"Hazur, have a care!" cried the khansaman. "Those bottles contain not
what thou desirest. They are the hakim's medicines; some cause the pains
of hell, some kill."
"Thou liest in thy throat, dog. I will drink, I say."
He took down one of the bottles and carried it to the divan where he had
been reclining. Then, removing the stopper, he poured a quantity of
liquid into his cup and raised it to his lips. Before he could drink,
however, he choked, caught his breath, and dropped the cup as if it
stung him. The liquid fell upon his sandalled feet, and he sprang up
with a yell of pain.
"I am burning!" he screamed, gasping with the ammonia fumes. "It is the
fire of Tophet at my feet and nose."
"Hazur, did I not say to thee, 'Touch not'? But thou wouldst not hear."
"Dog, dost thou prate while I burn? The pain consumes me. Dost thou
stand and look? Run for the hakim ere I perish."
The khansaman started, and threw a scared look over his shoulder. Then
he appeared to recover himself.
"It needs not to call a hakim," he said. "I will myself ease the hazur's
pain."
He took some ghi from a dish, and smeared it quickly on the tortured
feet. The grease gave instant relief. Minghal was effectually sobered
now, but his temper must needs find a vent. His rolling eyes lighted on
his two guests, who had lain undisturbed in a drunken stupor.
"Carry me those swine to the street!" he cried furiously. "Will they
remain here and bring down the wrath of Allah upon me? Fling them out, I
say."
Kaluja having reasons of his own for clearing the apartment, caught the
men by the heels and dragged them unceremoniously to the door. Then he
suggested that the hazur would be the better for a long night's sleep,
and assisted his master to his bedroom. When he returned to the other
room, he secured both the inner and the outer doors; then, furtively as
a thief might move, he went to the almirah. Looking round as if to make
sure even now that no one was observing him, he slid a portion of the
back of the almirah aside, disclosing the stone wall of the room. He put
his hand on one of the slabs of stone: it yielded to his touch, and
opened slowly inwards. He stepped in, drew back the panel of the almirah
to its former place, and disappeared.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
Within the Gates
It was still early morning when Ahmed rode up to the red walls of Delhi;
but in spite of the hour there was already much traffic through the
Ajmir gate. A long line of bullock-carts was filing along the Jaipur
road past the garden suburb of Paharganj, conveying country produce into
the city. A regiment of sepoys was marching out of the gate towards the
encampment lying across the road. To the left of the gate rose the tomb
of Ghazi Khan, and in the centre of the city towered the dome and
minarets of the Jama Masjid--the splendid mosque which is the Mecca of
Mohammedan India. Ahmed was amazed at the vastness of this city of the
Moguls. He felt as a Highland lad might feel if suddenly transplanted
from his little village among the lochs and mountains to the turmoil of
London.
Delhi had none of the aspects of a beleaguered city; indeed, it was
never in the military sense besieged. The British force was far too
small to attempt a strict investment of the great city. Men might go in
and out as they pleased. The holders of the Ridge were far more closely
beset. Save that his communications were open in the rear, General
Barnard might himself have been considered to be in a state of siege. He
was holding his ground, waiting for the opportunity to strike a blow.
Ahmed followed at the tail end of the procession of carts. As he
approached the gate he observed a strong guard of armed sepoys there,
and wondered whether he would have any difficulty in passing. He felt a
little timid now that he was actually drawing near to the heart and
focus of the great rebellion, but he crushed down the feeling, and
assuming a bold front accosted one of the guard and began in his
imperfect Urdu to pour out his tale of tribulation.
"Salaam, jamadar!" he said, giving the man a sausage by way of
ingratiation a title at least two grades above his proper rank, and
raising his right hand to his brow in due Moslem salutation; "thou dost
behold one who is very thankful to Allah this day."
"Salaam, banijara," said the man. "What is this thou tellest me?"
"Thou beholdest one, a peaceable trader, as thou seest, who has escaped
the very jaws of death. I was one of a small caravan bringing rich
merchandise for the subahdars of the army of the faithful; nay, maybe
for the most noble shadow of Allah the king himself. And lo! we were set
upon in the twinkling of an eye by a troop of vile Gujars, sons of
perdition, and though we fought like lions--was not Sherdil, the son of
Assad, among us?--what could we do? We are not men of the sword, like
thee."
"True; the camel is but as a leaf when the tiger springs upon him. Go on
with thy tale."
"We were like leaves, as thou sayest, when the wind blows. We were
scattered, and I in my haste quitted the road, and by the grace of Allah
got myself away among trees and bushes, and so escaped. And I wandered
long, and by great good fortune found myself at length upon this very
road. 'Twas good fortune indeed, for had we not been molested we might
verily have blundered upon the camp of the Feringhis, and then my goods
would have come to the hands of vile kafirs instead of true believers.
And now that I have found the city of peace, I would fain know of some
good serai where men of my folk are wont to resort, so that I may rest
somewhat from my journey before I carry my goods to the subahdars and
have some recompense for my toils and perils."
He slipped a coin into the man's hand; bakshish would always smooth the
way.
"In very truth thou hast been fortunate," said the sepoy; "yet not
wholly, for it is no good time for buying and selling in Delhi. We
soldiers--even the subahdars, save some few who made great plunder at
the first rising--cry out for money, and there is none that hears. Yet
thou mayst find some of the princes who will look at thy wares: go in
peace."
And he gave Ahmed the names of two or three serais frequented by traders
of his nation. Ahmed went on his way rejoicing. He had asked for the
Afghan serais merely to avoid them; his imposture might be discovered if
he came among genuine merchants. After a little trouble and discreet
inquiries he found a humble inn at the corner of the Moti Bazar, near
the centre of the city and not far from the Kotwali--the head-quarters
of the city police--and having left his wares and his camel in the
charge of the bhatiyara, he sallied out into the thronging streets, to
learn somewhat of the immense city in which, as he supposed, his lot was
for some time to be cast.
He made his way first to the Chandni Chauk, and was amazed at the shops
which lined that thoroughfare. He had seen shops in Peshawar, but none
like these. The street was thronged, and the people were talking
excitedly in groups. Hovering on the outskirts of one of these he heard
the name of Bakht Khan frequently mentioned, and by and by made out that
this rebel artillery officer was expected to arrive shortly with a vast
host which would sweep all the Feringhis before it. He went on until he
reached the palace, and stood for some time watching the streams of
people coming and going--officers, court officials, scribes,
bankers--all showing signs of the same excitement. Then he passed on by
the palace wall until he reached the Calcutta gate, and saw the fort of
Selimgarh stretching out into the river, and learnt from a bystander
whom he ventured to address that it was by this very route that the
first mutineers had ridden in from Meerut; and there, a little to the
left, was the Magazine, the scene of Lieutenant Willoughby's great
exploit, when, after defending his post with nine companions against a
horde of assailants, he at last blew it up rather than let it fall into
the hands of the rebels.