On the Face of the Waters
BOOK IV
CHAPTER II
PEACE? PEACE?
Three weeks had passed, and still the dream of sovereignty went on
behind the closed gates, while all things shimmered and simmered in
the fierce blaze of summer sunlight. The city lay—a rose-red glare
dazzling to look at—beside the glittering curves of the river, and
the deserted Ridge, more like a lizard than ever, sweltered and slept
lazily, its tail in the cool blue water, its head upon the cool green
groves of the Subz-mundi. And over all lay a liquid yellow heat-haze
blurring every outline, till the whole seemed some vast mirage.
And still there were no tidings of the master, no cloud of dust upon
the Meerut road. None.
Amazing, incredible fact! Men whispered of it on the steps of the
Great Mosque when, the last Friday of the fast coming round, its
commination service brought many from behind closed doors to realize
that by such signs of kingship as beatings of drums, firing of
salutes, and levying of loans, Bahâdur Shâh really had filched the
throne of his ancestors from the finest fighters in the world. Filched
it without a blow, without a struggle, without even a threat, a
defiance.
So here they were in a new world without posts or telegraphs, laws or
order. Time itself turned back hundreds of years and all power of
progress vested absolutely in one old man, the Light of Religion, the
Defender of the Faith, the Great Moghul. If that were not a miracle it
came too perilously near to one for some folk's loyalty; and so they
drifted palaceward when prayers were over to swell the growing crowd
of courtiers about the Dream King. And even the learned and most loyal
lingered on the steps to whisper, and call obscure prophecies and
ingenious commentaries to mind, and admit that it was strange,
wondrous strange, that the numerical values of the year should yield
the anagram "Ungrez tubbah shood ba hur soorut," briefly "The
British shall be annihilated." For the Oriental mind loves such
trivialities.
And, to all intents and purposes, the English were annihilated, during
that short month of peace between the 11th of May and the 8th of June,
1857; for Delhi knew nothing of the vain striving, the ceaseless
efforts of the master to find tents and carriages, horses, ammunition,
medicine, everything once more, save, thank Heaven! courage, and the
determination to be master still.
Even Soma admitted the miracle grudgingly; for he had so far bolstered
up his disloyalty by thoughts of a fair fight. He had not, after all,
gone to Delhi direct, but had cut across country to his own village
near Hansi, and had waited there, hoping to hear of a regular outbreak
of hostilities before definitely choosing his side; and he was still
waiting when, after a fortnight, his greatest chum in the regiment had
turned up from Meerut. For Davee Singh had been one of the many sepoys
of the 11th who had gone back to the colors after that one brief night
of temptation was over. Soma had known this, and more than once as he
waited, the knowledge had been as a magnet drawing him back to the old
pole of thought; for that his chum should be led to victory and he be
among the defeated was probable enough to make Soma hate himself in
anticipation.
But here was Davee Singh, a deserter like he was, sulkily
uncommunicative to the village gossips, but to his fellow admitting
fiercely that the latter had been right. The Huzoors had forgotten how
to fight. Meerut was quiet as the grave; but there was no word of
Delhi, and folk said—what did they not say?
So these two, with a strange mixture of regret and relief in their
hearts, set out for Delhi to see what was happening there; not knowing
that many of their fellows were drifting from it, weary like
themselves of inaction.
They had arrived there, two swaggering Rajpoots, in the midst of the
thanksgivings and jollity of the Mohammedan Easter which followed on
the last Friday of Fast; and they had fallen foul of it frankly. As
frankly as the Mohammedans would have fallen foul of a Hindoo
Saturnalia, or both Mohammedans and Hindoos would have fallen foul of
the festivities in honor of the Queen's Birthday which, on this 25th
of May, 1857, were going on in every cantonment in India as if there
was no such thing as mutiny in the world. So, annoyed with what they
saw and heard, they joined themselves to other Rajpoot malcontents
promptly. They sneered at the old pantaloon's procession, which was in
truth a poor one, though half the tailors in Delhi had been impressed
to hurry up trappings and robes. Perhaps if Abool-Bukr had still been
in charge of squibs and such like, it would have been better; but he
was not. The order he had given to let the Princess Farkhoonda's
dhoolie pass out, before the gates were closed on that day of the
death-pledge, had been his last exercise of authority; for the next
Court Journal contained the announcement that he was dismissed from
his appointment. So he, hovering between the Thunbi Bazaar and the
Mufti's quarter, had nothing to do with the procession at which the
Rajpoots sneered, criticising Mirza Moghul, the Commander-in-Chief's
seat on a horse, and talking boastfully of Vicra-maditya and Pertap as
warlike Hindoos will. Until, about dusk, words came to blows amid a
tinkling of anklets and a terrible smell of musk; for valor drifted as
a matter of course to the wooden balconies of the Thunbi Bazaar during
the month of miracle. So that the inmates, coining money, called down
blessings on the new régime.
Soma, however, with a cut over one eye sorely in need of a stitch,
swore loudly when he could find none to patch him up save a doddering
old Hakeem, who proposed dosing him with paper pills inscribed with
the name of Providence; an incredible remedy to one accustomed to all
the appliances of hospitals and skilled surgery.
"Yea! no doubt he is a fool," assented the other sepoys in frank
commiseration, "yet he is the best you will get. For see you, brother,
the doctors belong to the Huzoors; so many a brave man must expect to
die needlessly, since those cursed dressers are not safe. There was
one took the bottles and things and swore he could use them as well as
any. And luck went with him until he gave five heroes who had been
drunk the night before somewhat to clear their heads. By all the gods
in Indra's heaven they were clear even of life in half an hour. So we
fell on the dresser and cleared him too. Yea! fool or no fool, paper
pills are safer!"
Jim Douglas, who, profiting by the dusk and confusion, had lingered by
the group after recognizing Soma's voice, turned away with a savage
chuckle; not that the tale amused him, but that he was glad to think
six of the devils had gone to their account. For those long days of
peace and enforced inaction had sunk him lower and lower into sheer
animal hatred of those he dare not rebuke. He knew it himself, he felt
that his very courage was becoming ferocity, and the thought that
others, biding their time as he was, must be sinking into it also,
filled him with fierce joy at the thought of future revenge. And yet,
so far as he personally was concerned, those long days had passed
quietly, securely, peacefully, and he could at any time climb out of
all sight and sound of turmoil to a slip of sunlit roof where a woman
waited for him with confidence and welcome in her eyes. With something
obtrusively English also for his refreshment, since tragedy, even the
fear of death, cannot claim a whole life, and Kate took to amusing
herself once more by making her corner of the East as much like the
West as she dare. That was not much, but Jim Douglas' eye noted the
indescribable difference which the position of a reed stool, the
presence of a poor bunch of flowers, the little row of books in a
niche, made in the familiar surroundings. For there were books and to
spare in Delhi; for the price of a few pennies Jim Douglas might have
brought her a cartload of such loot had he deemed it safe; but he did
not, and so the library consisted of grammars and vocabularies from
which Kate learned with a rapidity which surprised and interested her
teacher. In truth she had nothing else to do. Yet when he came, as he
often did, to find her absorbed in her work, her eyes dreamy with the
puzzle of tense, he resented it inwardly, telling himself once more
that women were trivial creatures, and life seemed trivial too, for in
truth his nerves were all jangled and out of tune with the desire to
get away from this strange shadow of a past idyll; to leave all
womanhood behind and fall to fighting manfully. So that often as he
sat beside her, patient outwardly, inwardly fretting to be gone even
in the nightmare of the city, his eye would fall on the circlet of
gold he had slipped, out of sheer arrogance and imperious temper,
round that slender wrist, and feel that somehow he had fettered
himself hopelessly when, more than a year past, he had given that
promise. His chance and hers! Was this all? One woman's safety. And
she, following his eyes to the bangle, would feel the thrill of its
first touch once more, and think how strange it was that his chance
and hers were so linked together. But, being a woman, her heart would
soften instinctively to the man who sat beside her, and whose face
grew sterner and more haggard day by day; while hers?—she could see
enough of it in the little looking-glass on her thumb to recognize
that she was positively getting fat! She tried to amuse him by telling
him so, by telling him many of the little humorous touches which come
even into tragic life, and he was quite ready to smile at them. But
only to please her. So day by day a silence grew between them as they
sat on the inner roof, while Tara spun outside, or watched them
furtively from some corner. And the flare of the sunset, unseen behind
the parapeted wall, would lie on the swelling dome and spiked minarets
of the mosque and make the paper kites, flown in this month of May by
half the town, look like drifting jewels; fit canopy for the City of
Dreams and for this strangest of dreams upon the housetop.
"Has—has anything gone wrong?" she asked in desperation one day, when
he had sat moodily silent for a longer time than usual. "I would
rather you told me, Mr. Greyman."
He looked at her, vaguely surprised at the name; for he had almost
forgotten it. Forgotten utterly that she could not know any other. And
why should she? He had made the promise under that name; let them
stick to it so long as Fate had linked their chances together.
"Nothing; not for us at least," he said, and then a sudden remorse at
his own unfriendliness came over him. "There was another poor chap
discovered to-day," he added in a softer tone. "I believe that you and
I, Mrs. Erlton, must be the only two left now."
"I dare say," she echoed a little wearily, "they—they killed him I
suppose."
He nodded. "I saw his body in the bazaar afterward. I used to know him
a bit—a clever sort——"
"Yes——"
"Mixed blood, of course, or he could not have passed muster so long as
a greengrocer's assistant."
"Well—I would rather hear if you don't mind."
His dark eyes met hers with a sudden eagerness, a sudden passion in
them.
"What a little thing life is after all! He only said one word—only
one. He was selling watermelons, and some brute tried to cheat him
first, and then cheeked him. And he forgot a moment and said:
Chup-raho,' (be silent)—only that!—'chup-raho'! They were
bragging of it—the devils. We knew he couldn't be a coolie, they
said, that is a master's word.' My God! What wouldn't I give to say it
sometimes! I could have shouted to them then, Chup-raho, you fools!
you cowards!' and some of them would have been silent enough——"
He broke off hurriedly, clenching his hands like a vise on each other,
as if to curb the tempest of words.
"I beg your pardon," he said after a pause, rising to walk away; "I—I
lose control——" He paused again and shook his head silently. Kate
followed him and laid her hand on his arm; the loose gold fetter
slipped to her wrist and touched him too.
"You think I don't understand," she said with a sudden sob in her
voice, "but I do—you must go away—it isn't worth it—no woman is
worth it."
He turned on her sharply. "Go? You know I can't. What is the use of
suggesting it? Mrs. Erlton! Tara is faithful; but she is faithful to
me—only to me—you must see that surely——"
"If you mean that she loves you—worships the very ground you tread
on," interrupted Kate sharply, "that is evident enough."
"Is that my fault?" he began angrily; "I happened——"
"Thank you, I have no wish to hear the story."
The commonplace, second-rate, mock-dignified phrase came to her lips
unsought, and she felt she could have cried in sheer vexation at
having used it there; in the very face of Death as it were. But Jim
Douglas laughed; laughed good-naturedly.
"I wonder how many years it is since I heard a woman say that? In
another world surely," he said with quite a confidential tone. "But
the fact remains that Tara protects you as my wife, and if I were to
go——"
Kate looked at him with a quick resentment flaming up in her face
beneath the stain.
"I think you are mistaken," she said slowly. "I believe Tara would be
better pleased if—if she knew the truth."
"You mean if I were to tell her you are not my wife?" he replied
quickly. "Why?"
"Because I should be less of a tie to you—because——" She paused,
then added sharply, "Mr. Greyman, I must ask you to tell her the
truth, please. I have a right to so much, surely. I have my reasons
for it, and if you do not, I shall."
Jim Douglas shrugged his shoulders. "In that case I had better tell
her myself; not that I think it matters much one way or another, so
long as I am here. And the whole thing from beginning to end is
chance, nothing but chance."
"Your chance and mine," she murmured half to herself. It was the first
time she had alluded openly to the strange linking of their fates, and
he looked at her almost impatiently.
"Yes! your chance and mine; and we must make the best of it. I'll tell
her as I go out."
But Tara interrupted him at the beginning.
"If the Huzoor means that he does not love the mem as he loved Zora,
that requires no telling, and for the rest what does it matter to this
slave?"
"And it matters nothing to me either," he retorted roughly, "but of
this be sure. Who kills the mem kills me, unless I kill first; and by
Krishnu, and Vishnu, and the lot, I'd as lief kill you, Tara, as
anyone else, if you get in my way."
A great broad flash of white teeth lit up her face as she salaamed,
remarking that the Huzoor's mother must have been as Kunti. And Jim
Douglas understanding the complimentary allusion to the God-visited
mother of the Lunar race, wished as he went downstairs, that he was
like the Five Heroes in one respect, at least, and that was in having
only a fifth part of a woman to look after, instead of two whole ones
who talked of love! So he passed out to listen, and watch, and wait,
while the fire-balloons went up into the velvety sky, replacing the
kites. For May is the month of marriages also, and night after night
these false stars floated out from the Dream-City to form new
constellations on the horizon for a few minutes and then disappear
with a flare into the darkness. Into the darkness whence the master
did not come. Yet, as the month ended, villagers passing in with grain
from Meerut averred that the masters were not all dead, or else God
gave their ghosts a like power in cursing and smiting—which was all
poor folk had to look for; since some had appeared and burned a
village.
Not all dead? The news drifted from market to market, but if it
penetrated through the Palace gates it did not filter through the new
curtains and hangings of the private apartments where the King took
perpetual cooling draughts and wrote perpetual appeals for more
etiquette and decorum. For nothing likely to disturb the unities of
dreams was allowed within the precincts, where every day the old King
sat on a mock peacock throne with a new cushion to it, and listened
for hours to the high-flown letters of congratulation which poured in,
each with its own little covering bag of brocade, from the neighboring
chiefs. And if any day there happened to be a paucity of real ones,
Hussan Askuri could supply them, like other dreams, at so much a
dozen; since nothing more costly than the brocade bag came with them.
So that the Mahboob's face, as Treasurer, grew longer and longer over
the dressmaker's and upholsterer's bills, and the Court Journal was
driven into recording the fact that someone actually presented a
bottle of Pandamus odoratissimus, whatever that may be. Some subtle
essence, mayhap, favorable to dreaminess; since, in the month of
peace, drugs were necessary to prevent awakening.
Especially when, on the 30th of May, a sound came over the distant
horizon; the sound of artillery.
At last! At last! Jim Douglas, who, in sheer dread of his own growing
despair, had taken to spending all the time he dared in moody silence
on that peaceful roof, started as if he had been shot, and was down
the stairs seeking news. The streets were full of a silent, restless
crowd, almost empty of soldiers. They had gone out during the night,
he learned, Meerutward; tidings of an army on the banks of the Hindu
river, seven or eight miles out, having been brought in by scouts.
At last! At last! He wandered through the bazaars scarcely able to
think, wondering only when the army could possibly arrive, feeling a
mad joy in the anxious faces around him, lingering by the groups of
men collected in every open space simply for the satisfaction of
hearing the wonder and alarm in the words: "So the master lives."
He lived indeed! Listen! That was his voice over the eastern horizon!
Kate, when he came back to the roof about noon, had never seen him in
this mood before, and wondered at his fire, his gayety, his youth. But
the recognition brought a dull pain with it, in the thought that this
was natural to the man; that gloomy moodiness the result of her
presence.
"You are not afraid, surely?" he said suddenly, breaking off in the
recital of some future event which seemed to him certain.
"No. I am only glad," she replied slowly. "It could not have lasted
much longer. It is a great relief."
"Relief," he echoed, "I wonder if you know the relief it is to me?"
And then he looked at her remorsefully. "I have been an awful brute,
Mrs. Erlton, but women can scarcely understand what inaction means to
a man."
Could they not? she wondered bitterly as he hastened off again,
leaving her to long weary hours of waiting; till the red flush of
sunset on the bubble dome of the mosque brought him back with a new
look on his face; a look of angry doubt.
"The sepoys are coming in again," he said; "they claim a victory—but
that, of course, is impossible. Still I don't understand, and it is so
difficult to get any reliable information."
"You should go out yourself—I believe it would be best for us both,"
replied Kate, "Tara——"
He shook his head impatiently. "Not now. What is the use of risking
all at the last. We can only have to wait till to-morrow. But I don't
understand it, all the same. The sepoys say they surprised the
camp—that the buglers were still calling to arms when their artillery
opened fire. But so far as I can make out they have lost five guns,
and from the amount of bhang they are drinking, I believe it was a
rout. However, if you don't mind, I'll be off again—and—and don't be
alarmed if I stay out."
"I'm not in the least alarmed," she replied. "As I have told you
before, I don't think it is necessary you should come here at all."
He paused at the door to glance back at her half-resentfully. To be
sure she did not know that he had slept on its threshold as a rule;
but anyhow, after eating your heart out over one woman's safety for
three weeks, it was hard to be told that you were not wanted. But,
thank Heaven! the end was at hand. And yet as he lingered round the
watch-fires he heard nothing but boasting, and in more than one of the
mosques thanksgivings were being offered up; while outside the walls
volunteers to complete the task so well begun were assembling to go
forth with the dawn and kill the few remaining infidels. Some drunk
with bhang, more intoxicated by the lust of blood which comes to
fighting races like the Rajpoot with the first blow. It had come to
Soma, as, with fierce face seamed with tears, he told the tale again
and again of his chum's gallant death. How Davee Singh, brother in
arms, his boyhood's playmate, seeing some cowards of artillerymen
abandoning a tumbril full of ammunition to the cursed Mlechchas, had
leaped to it like a black-buck, and with a cry to Kali, Mother of
Death, had fired his musket into it; so sending a dozen or more of the
hell-doomed to their place, and one more brave Rajpoot to Swarga.
"Jai! Jai! Kâli ma ki jai!"
An echo of the dead man's last cry came from many a living one, as
muskets were gripped tighter in the resolve to be no whit behind. A
few more such heroes and the Golden Age would come again; the age of
the blessed Pandâva, who forgot the cause in the quarrel.
And so for one day more Jim Douglas strained his ears for that distant
thunder on the horizon, while the people of the town, becoming more
accustomed to it, went about their business, vaguely relieved at
anything which should keep the sepoys' hands from mischief.
The red sunset glow was on the mosque again when he returned to the
little slip of roof to find Kate working away at her grammars calmly.
The best thing she could do, since every word she learned was an
additional safeguard; and yet the man could not help a scornful smile.
"It is a rout this time, I am sure," he said; "and yet there is no
sign of pursuit. I cannot understand it; there seems a Fate about it!"
"Is that anything new?" she asked wearily, as she laid down her book,
and with the certain precision which marked all her actions, saw that
the water was really boiling before she made the tea. It was made in a
lota, and drunk out of handleless basins, yet for all that it was
Western-made tea, strong and unspiced, with cream to put to it also,
which she skimmed from a dish set in cold water in the coolest,
darkest place she could find. Dreamlike indeed, and Jim Douglas,
drinking his tea, felt, that with his eyes shut, he might have dreamed
himself in an English drawing room.
"Nothing new," he retorted, "but it seems incomprehensible. Hark!
That is a salute; for the victory, I suppose. Upon my soul I feel as
if—as if I were a dream myself—as if I should go mad! Don't look
startled—I shan't. The whole thing is a sham—I can see that. But why
has no one the pluck to give the House-of-Cards a push and bring it
about their ears? And what has become of the army at the Hindun? It
took three days to march there from Meerut, I hear—not more than
twenty-four miles. No! I cannot understand it. No wonder the people
say we are all dead. I begin to believe it myself."
He heard the saying often enough certainly to bring relief during the
1st and 2d of June, when there was no more distant thunder on the
horizon, and the whole town, steeped and saturated with sunshine, lay
half-asleep, the soldiers drowsing off the effect of their drugs.
Dead? Yea! the masters were dead, and those who had escaped were in
full retreat up the river; so at least said villagers coming in with
supplies. But someone else who had come in with supplies also, sat
crouched up like a grasshopper on a great pile of wool-betasseled
sacks in the corn market and laughed creakily. "Dead! not they.
As the tanda passed Karnal four days agone the camping ground
was white as a poppy field with tents, and the soldiers like
the flies buzzing round them. And if folk want to hear more, I, Tiddu
Baharupa-Bunjârah, can tell tales beyond the Cashmere gate on the
river island where the bullocks graze."
The creaking voice rose unnecessarily loud, and a man in the dress of
an Afghan who had been listening, his back to the speaker, moved off
with a surprised smile. Tiddu had proved his vaunted superiority in
that instance; though by what arts he had penetrated the back of a
disguise, Jim Douglas could not imagine. Still here was news
indeed—news which explained some of the mystery, since the seeming
retreat up the river had been, no doubt, for the purpose of joining
forces. But it was something almost better than news—it was a chance
of giving them. He had not dared, for Kate's sake, to risk any
confederate as yet; but here was one ready to hand—a confederate,
too, who would do anything for money.
So that night he sat in tamarisk shadow on the river island talking in
whispers, while the monotonous clank of the bells hung on the
wandering bullocks sounded fitfully, the flicker of the watchfires
gleamed here and there on the half-dried pools of water, the fireflies
flashed among the bushes, and every now and again a rough, rude chant
rose on the still air.
"They have been there these ten days, Huzoor," came Tiddu's
indifferent voice. "They are waiting for the siege train. Nigh on
three thousand of them, and some black faces besides."
Jim Douglas gave an exclamation of sheer despair. To him, living in
the House-of-Cards, the Palace-of-Dreams, such caution seemed
unnecessary. Still, the past being irretrievable, the present remained
in which by hook or by crook to get the letter he had with him, ready
written, conveyed to the army at Kurnal. And Tiddu, with fifty rupees
stowed away in his waistband, being lavish of promise and confidence,
there was no more to be done save creep back to the city, feeling as
if the luck had turned at last.
But the next morning he found the Thunbi Bazaar in a turmoil of talk.
There were spies in the city. A letter had been found, written in the
Persian character, it is true but with the devilish knowledge of the
West in its details of likely spots for attack, the indecision of
certain quarters in the city, its general unpreparedness for anything
like resistance. Who had written it? As the day went on the camps were
in uproar, the Palace invaded, the dream disturbed by denouncings of
Ahsan-Oolah, the giver of composing draughts—Mahboob Ali, the checker
of the purse strings; even of Mirza Moghul, commander-in-chief
himself, who might well be eager to buy his recognition as heir by
treachery.
The net result of the letter being that, as Jim Douglas, with wrath in
his heart, crept out at dusk to the low levels by the Water Bastion,
intent on having it out with Tiddu, he could see gangs of sepoys still
at work by torchlight strengthening the bridge defense, and had to
dodge a measuring party of artillerymen busy range-finding. His
suggestions had been of use!
But the old Bunjârah took his fierce reproaches philosophically. "'Tis
the miscreant Bhungi," he assented mournfully. "He is not to be
trusted, but Jhungi having a tertian ague, I deemed a surer foot
advisable. Yet the Huzoor need not be afraid. Even the miscreant would
not betray his person; and for the rest, the Presence writes Persian
like any court moonshee."
The calm assumption that personal fear was at the bottom of his
reproaches, made Jim Douglas desire to throttle the old man, and only
the certainty that he dare not risk a row prevented him from going for
the ill-gotten rupees at any rate. His thought, however, seemed read
by the old rascal, for a lean protesting hand, holding a bag,
flourished out of the darkness, and the creaking voice said
magnificently:
"Before Murri-âm and the sacred neem, Huzoor, I have kept my bargain.
As for Jhungi or Bhungi, did I make them that I should know the evil
in them? But if the Huzoor suspects one who holds his tongue, let the
bargain between us end."
His hearer could not repress a smile at the consummate cunning of the
speech. "You can keep the money for the next job," he said briefly; "I
haven't done with you yet, you scoundrel."
A grim chuckle came out of the shadows as the hand went back into
them.
"The Huzoor need not fret himself, whatever happens. The end is nigh."
It seemed as if it must be with three thousand British soldiers within
sixty miles of Delhi; or less, since they might have marched during
those five days. They might be at Delhi any moment. Three thousand
men! Enough and to spare even though in the last few days a detachment
or two of fresh mutineers had arrived. Ah! if the blow had been struck
sooner. If—if——
Kate listened during those first days of June to many such wishes,
despairs, hopes, from one whose only solace lay in words; since with
relief staring him in the face, Jim Douglas crushed down his craving
for action. There was no real need for it, he told her; it must
involve risk, so they must wait—sleep and dream like the city!
For, lulled by the delay, stimulated to fresh fancy by the newcomers,
the townspeople went on their daily round monotonously; the sepoys
boasted and drank bhang. And in the Palace, the King, in new robes of
state sat on his new cushion and put the sign-manual to such trifles
as a concession to a home-born slave that he might "continue, as
heretofore, a-tinning the royal sauce-pans!" though Mahboob Ali's face
lengthened as he doled out something on account for faith and finery,
and suggested that the army might at least be employed in collecting
revenue somewhere. But the army grinned in the commander-in-chief's
face, scorned laborious days, and between the seductions of the Thunbi
Bazaar gave peaceful citizens what one petitioner against plunder
calls "a foretaste of the Day of Judgment."
But one soul in Delhi felt in every fiber of him that the Judgment had
come—that atonement must be made.
"Thou wilt kill thyself with prayers and fastings and seekings of
other folks' salvations, Moulvie-sahib," said Hâfzan almost petulantly
as, passing on her rounds, she saw Mohammed Ismail's anxious face,
seeking audience with everyone in authority, "Thou hast done thy best.
The rest is with God; and if these find death also, the blame will lie
elsewhere."
"But the blame of those, woman?" he asked fiercely, pointing with
trembling finger to the little cistern shaded by the peepul tree.
Hâfzan gave a shrill laugh as she passed on.
"Fear not that either, learned one! This world's atonement for that
will be sufficient for future pardon."
It might be so, Mohammed Ismail told himself as he hurried off
feverishly to another appeal. He had erred in ignorance there; but
what of the forty prisoners still at the Kotwâli—forty stubborn
Christians despite their dark skins? They were safe so far, but
if the city were assaulted?—if some of the fresh, fiery-faithed
newcomers—— The doubt left him no peace.
"If thou wilt swear, Moulvie-jee, on thine own eternal salvation that
they are Mohammedans, or stake thy soul on their conversion," jeered
those who held the keys. A heavy stake, that! A solemn oath with forty
stubborn Christians to deal with. No wonder Mohammed Ismail felt
judgment upon him already.
But the stake was staked, the oath spoken on the 6th of June. The
record of it is brief, but it stands as history in the evidence of one
of the forty. "We were released in consequence of a Moulvie of the
name of Mohammed Ismail giving evidence that we were all Mohammedan;
or that if any were Christian they would become Mohammedan."
And it was given none too soon. For on the 6th of June as the sun set,
a silhouette of a man on a horse stood clear against the red-gold in
the west, looking down from the Ridge on Delhi. Looking down on the
city bathed in the dreamy glamour of the slanting sunbeams; rose-red
and violet-shadowed, with the great white dome hovering above the
smoke wreaths, and a glitter of gold on the eastern wall, where,
backed by that arcaded view of the darkening Eastern plains, an old
man sat listening to sentiments of fidelity from a pile of little
brocaded bags.
It was Hodson of Hodson's Horse, reconnoitering ahead. So there was an
Englishman on the Ridge once more as the paper kites came down on the
6th of June. But the fire balloons did not go up; for the night set in
gusty and wet, giving no chance to new constellations.
Jim Douglas did not sleep at all that night, for Tiddu had brought
word that the English were at Alipore, ten miles out; and nothing but
the dread of needless risk kept him in Delhi. For any risk was
needless when to a certainty the English flag would be flying over the
city in a few hours.
And Hodson of Hodson's Horse back at Alipore slept late, for he
lingered, weary and wet after his long ride, to write to his wife ere
turning in, that "if he had had a hundred of the Guides he could have
gone right up to the city wall."
But Mohammed Ismail slept peacefully, his work being over, and dreamed
of Paradise.