On the Face of the Waters

BOOK V
CHAPTER IV

AT LAST.

No fuss indeed! Kate, as she sat in her husband's little tent waiting for him to come to her, felt that so far she might have arrived from a very ordinary journey. The bearer, it is true, who had been the Major's valet for years, had salaamed more profoundly than usual, had even put up a pious prayer, and expressed himself pleased; but he had immediately gone off to fetch hot water, and returning with it and clean towels, had suggested mildly that the mem might like to wash her face and hands. Kate, with a faint smile, felt there was no reason why she should not. She need not look worse than necessary. But she paused almost with a gasp at the familiar half-forgotten luxuries. Scented soap! a sponge—and there on the camp table a looking-glass! She glanced down with a start at the little round one in the ring she wore; then went over to the other. A toilet cover, brushes, and combs, her husband's razors, gold studs in a box; and there, her own photograph in a frame, a Bible, and a prayer book, the latter things bringing her no surprise, no emotion of any kind. For they had always been fixtures on Major Erlton's dressing-table, mute evidences to no sentiment on his part, but simply to the bearer's knowledge of the proprieties and the ways of real sahibs. But the other things she saw made her heart grow soft. The little camp bed, the simplicity and hardness of all in comparison with what her husband had been wont to demand of life; for he had always been a real prince, feeling the rose-leaf beneath the feather bed, and never stinting himself in comfort. Then the swords, and belts, and Heaven knows what panoply of war—not spick-and-span decorations as they used to be in the old days, but worn and used—gave her a pang. Well! he had always been a good soldier, they said.

And then, interrupting her thoughts, the old khânsaman had come in, having taken time to array himself gorgeously in livery. The Father of the fatherless and orphan, he said, whimperingly, alluding to the fact that he had lost both parents—which, considering he was past sixty, was only to be expected—had heard his prayer. The mem was spared to Freddy-baba. And would she please to order dinner. As the Major-sahib dined at mess, her slave was unprepared with a roast. Fish also would partake of tyranny; but he could open a tin of Europe soup, and with a chicken cutlet—Kate cut him short with a request for tea; by and by, when—when the Major-sahib should have come. And when she was alone again, she shivered and rested her head on her crossed arms upon the table beside which she sat, with a sort of sob. This—Yes!—this of all she had come through was the hardest to bear. This surge of pity, of tenderness, of unavailing regret for the past, the present, the future. What?—What could she say to him, or he to her, that would make remembrance easier, anticipation happier?

Hark! there was his step! His voice saying goodnight to Captain Morecombe.

"I hope she will be none the worse," came the reply. "Good-night, Erlton—I'm—I'm awfully glad, old fellow."

"Thanks!"

She stood up with a sickening throb at her heart. Oh! she was glad too! So glad to see him and tell him to——

How tall he was, she thought, with a swift recognition of his good looks, as he came in, stooping to pass under the low entrance. Very tall, and thin. Much thinner, and—and—different somehow.

"Kate!" He paused half a second, looking at her curiously—"Kate! I'm—I'm awfully glad." He was beside her now, his big hands holding hers; but she felt that she was further away from him than she had been in that brief pause when she had half-expected, half-wished him to take her in his arms and kiss her as if nothing had happened, as if life were to begin again. It would have been so much easier; they might have forgotten then, both of them. But now, what came, must come without that chrism of impulse; must come in remembrance and regret. Awfully glad! That was what Captain Morecombe had said. Was there no more between them than that? No more between her and this man, who was the father of her child. The sting of the thought made her draw him closer, and with a sob rest her head on his shoulder. Then he stooped and kissed her. "I—I didn't know. I wasn't sure if you'd like it," he said, "but I'm awfully glad, old girl, upon my life I am. You must have had a terrible time."

She looked up with a hopeless pain in her eyes. He was gone from her again; gone utterly. "It was not so bad as you might think," she answered, trying to smile. "Mr. Greyman did so much——"

"Greyman! You mean Douglas, I suppose?"

She stared for a second. "Douglas? I don't know. I mean——" Then she paused. How could she say, "The man you rode against at Lucknow," when she wanted to forget all that; forget everything? And then a sudden fear made her add hastily, "He is here, surely—he came long ago."

Major Erlton nodded. "I know; but his real name is Douglas; at least he says so. Do you mean to say you haven't seen him? That he didn't help you to get out?"

"You mean that—that he has gone back?" asked Kate faintly.

Her husband gave a low whistle. "What a queer start; a sort of Box and Cox. He went back to find you yesterday."

Kate's hand went up to her forehead almost wildly. Then Tara must have known. But why had she not mentioned it? Still, in a way, it was best as it was; since once he heard she, Kate, had gone, he would return. For Tara would tell him, of course.

These thoughts claimed her for the moment, and when she looked up, she found her husband watching her curiously.

"He must have done an awful lot for you, of course," he said shortly; "but I'd rather it had been anyone else, and that's a fact. However, it can't be helped. Hullo! here's the khânsaman with some tea. Thoughtful of the old scoundrel, isn't it?"

"I—I ordered it," put in Kate, feeling glad of the diversion.

Major Erlton laughed kindly. "What, begun already? The old sinner's had a precious easy time of it; but now——" He pulled himself up awkwardly, and, as if to cover his hesitation, walked over to a box, and after rummaging in it, brought out a packet of letters. "Freddy's," he said cheerfully. "He's all right. Jolly as a sandboy. I kept them—in—in case——"

A great gratitude made the past dim for a moment. He seemed nearer to her again. "I can't look at them to-night, Herbert," she said softly, laying her hand beside his upon them. "I'm—I'm too tired."

"No wonder. You must have your tea and go to bed," he replied. Then he looked round the tent. "It isn't a bad little place, you'll find—I'm on duty tonight—so—so you'll manage, I dare say."

"On duty?" she echoed, pouring herself out a cup of tea rather hastily. "Where?"

"Oh! at the front. There is never anything worth going for now. We are both waiting for the assault; that's the fact. But I shan't be back till dawn, so——"

He was standing looking at her, tall, handsome, full of vitality; and suddenly he lifted a fold of her tinsel-set veil and smiled.

"Jolly dress that for a fancy ball, and what a jolly scent it's got. It is that flower, isn't it? You look awfully well in it, Kate! In fact, you look wonderfully fit all round."

"So do you!" she said hurriedly, her hand going up to the henna blossom. There was a sudden quiver in her voice, a sudden fierce pain in her heart. "You—you look——"

"Oh! I," he replied carelessly, still with admiring eyes, "I'm as fit as a fiddle. I say! where did you get all those jewels? What a lot you have! They're awfully becoming."

"They are Mr. Greyman's," she said; "they belonged to his—to——" then she paused. But the contemptuously comprehending smile on her husband's face made her add quietly, "to a woman—a woman he loved very dearly, Herbert."

There was a moment or two of silence, and then Major Erlton went to the entrance, raised the curtain, and looked out. A flood of moonlight streamed into the tent.

"It's about time I was off," he said after a bit, and there was a queer constraint in his voice. Then he came over and stood by Kate again.

"It isn't any use talking over—over things to-night, Kate," he said quietly. "There's a lot to think of and I haven't thought of it at all. I never knew, you see—if this would happen. But I dare say you have; you were always a oner at thinking. So—so you had better do it for both of us. I don't care, now. It will be what you wish, of course."

"We will talk it over to-morrow," she said in a low voice. She would not look in his face. She knew she would find it soft with the memory held in that one word—now. Ah! how much easier it would have been if she had never come back! And yet she shrank from the same thought on his lips.

"There was always the chance of my getting potted," he said almost apologetically. "But I'm not. So—well! let's leave it for to-morrow."

"Yes," she replied steadily, "for to-morrow."

He gathered some of his things together, and then held out his hand. "Good-night, Kate. I wouldn't lie awake thinking, if I were you. What's the good if it? We will just have to make the best of it for the boy. But I'd like you to know two things——"

"Yes——"

"That I couldn't forget, of course; and that——" he paused. "Well! that doesn't matter; it's only about myself and it doesn't mean much after all. So, good-night."

As she moved to the door also, forced into following him by the ache in her heart for him, more than for herself, the jingle of her anklets made him turn with an easy laugh.

"It doesn't sound respectable," he said; then, with a sudden compunction, added: "But the dress is much prettier than those dancing girls', and—by Heaven, Kate! you've always been miles too good for me; and that's the fact. Well I—let us leave it for to-morrow."

Yes! for to-morrow, she told herself, with a determination not to think as, dressed as she was, she nestled down into the strange softness of the camp bed, too weary of the pain and pity of this coming back even for tears. Yet she thought of one thing; not that she was safe, not that she would see the boy again. Only of the thing he had been going to tell her about himself. What was it? She wanted to know; she wanted to know all—everything. "Herbert!" she whispered to the pillow, "I wish you had told me—I want to know—I want to make it easier for—for us all."

And so, not even grateful for her escape, she fell asleep dreamlessly.

It was dawn when she woke with the sound of someone talking outside. He had come back. No! that was not his voice. She sat up listening.

"The servants say she is asleep. Someone had better go in and wake her. The Doctor——"

"He's behind with the dhooli. Ah! there's Morecombe; he knows her."

But there was no need to call her. Kate was already at the door, her eyes wide with the certainty of evil. There was no need even to tell her what had happened; for in the first rays of the rising sun, seen almost starlike behind a dip in the rocky ridge, she saw a little procession making for the tent.

"He—he is dead," she said quietly. There was hardly a question in her tone. She knew it must be so. Had he not begged her to leave it till to-morrow? and this was to-morrow. Were not her eyes full of its rising sun, and what its beams held in their bright clasp?

"It seems impossible," said someone in a low voice, breaking in on the pitiful silence. "He always seemed to have a charmed life, and then, in an instant, when nothing was going on, the chance bullet."

It did not seem impossible to her.

"Please don't make a fuss about me, Doctor," she pleaded in a tone which went to his heart when he proposed the conventional solaces. "Remember I have been through so—so much already. I can bear it. I can, indeed, if I'm left alone with him—while it is possible. Yes! I know there is another lady, but I only want to be alone, with him."

So they left her there beside the little camp-bed with its new burden. There was no sign of strife upon him. Only that blue mark behind his ear among his hair, and his face showed no pain. Kate covered it with a little fine handkerchief she found folded away in a scented case she had made for him before they were married. It had Alice Gissing's monogram on it. It was better so, she told herself; he would have liked it. She had no flowers except the faded henna blossom, but it smelled sweet as she tucked it under the hand which she had left half clasped upon his sword. She might at least tell him so, she thought half bitterly, that the lesson was learned, that he might go in peace.

Then she sat down at the table and looked over their boy's letters mechanically; for there was nothing to think of now. The morrow had settled the problem. Captain Morecombe came in once or twice to say a word or two, or bring in other men, who saluted briefly to her as they passed to stand beside the dead man for a second, and then go out again. She was glad they cared to come; had begged that any might come who chose, as if she were not there. But at one visitor she looked curiously, for he came in alone. A tall man—as tall as Herbert, she thought—with a dark beard and keen, kindly eyes. She saw them, for he turned to her with the air of one who has a right to speak, and she stood up involuntarily.

"His name was up for the Victoria Cross, madam," said a clear, resonant voice, "as you may know; but that is nothing. He was a fine soldier—a soldier such as I—I am John Nicholson, madam—can ill spare. For the rest—he leaves a good name to his son."

The sunlight streamed in for an instant on to the little bed and its burden as he passed out, and glittered on the sword and tassels. Kate knelt down beside it and kissed the dead hand.

"That was what you meant, wasn't it, Herbert?" she whispered. "I wish you had told it me yourself, dear."

She wished it often. Thinking over it all in the long days that followed, it came to be almost her only regret. If he had told her, if he had heard her say how glad she was, she felt that she would have asked no more. And so, as she went down every evening to lay the white rosebuds the gardener brought her on his grave she used to repeat, as if he could hear them, his own words: "It is the finish that is the win or the lose of a race."

That was what many a man was saying to himself upon the Ridge in the first week of September. For the siege train had come at last. The winning post lay close ahead, they must ride all they knew. But those in command said it anxiously; for day by day the hospitals became more crowded, and cholera, reappearing, helped to swell the rear-guard of graves, when the time had come for vanguards only.

But some men—among them Baird Smith and John Nicholson—took no heed of sickness or death. And these two, especially, looked into each other's eyes and said, "When you are ready I'm ready." Their seniors might say that an assault would be thrown on the hazard of a die. What of that; if men are prepared to throw sixes, as these two were? They had to be thrown, if India was to be kept, if this bubble of sovereignty was to be pricked, the gas let out.

In the city and the Palace also, men, feeling the struggle close, put hand and foot to whip and spur. But there was no one within the walls who had the seeing single eye, quick to seize the salient point of a position. Baird Smith saw it fast enough. Saw the thickets and walls of the Koodsia Gardens in front of him, the river guarding his left, a sinuous ravine—cleaving the hillside into cover creeping down from the Ridge on his right to within two hundred yards of the city wall. And that bit of the wall, between the Moree gate and the Water Bastion, was its weakest portion. The curtain walls long, mere parapets, only wide enough for defense by muskets. So said the spies, though it seemed almost incredible to English engineers that the defense had not been strengthened by pulling down the adjacent houses and building a rampart for guns.

In truth there was no one to suggest it, and if it had been suggested there was no one to carry it out, for even now, at the last, the Palace seethed with dissension and intrigue. Yet still the sham went on inconceivably. Jim Douglas, indeed, walking through the bazaars in his Afghan dress, very nearly met his fate through it. For he was seized incontinently and made to figure as one of the retinue of the Amir of Cabul's ambassador, who, about the beginning of September, was introduced to the private Hall of Audience as a sedative to doubtful dreamers, and a tonic to brocaded bags. Luckily for him, however, the men called upon to play the other part in the farce—chiefly cloth-merchants from Peshawur and elsewhere, whom Jim Douglas had dodged successfully so far—had been in such abject fear of being discovered themselves that they had no thought of discovering others. For Bahâdur Shâh had the dust and ashes of a Moghul in him still. Jim Douglas recognized the fact in the very obstinacy of delusion in the wax-like, haggard old face looking with glazed, tremulous-lidded eyes at the mock mission; and in the faded voice, accepting his vassal of Cabul's promise of help. It was an almost incredible scene, Jim Douglas thought. Given it, there was no limit to possibilities in this phantasmagoria of kingship. The white shadows of the marble arches with their tale of boundless power and wealth in the past, the wide plains beyond, the embroidered curtain of the sunlit garden, the curves of courtiers, most of them in the secret, no doubt; and below the throne these tag-rag and bob-tail of the bazaars, one of them at least a hell-doomed infidel, figuring away in borrowed finery! All this was as unreal as a magic lantern picture, and like it was followed hap-hazard, without rhyme or reason, by the next on the slide; for, as he passed out of the Presence he heard the question of appointing a Governor to Bombay brought up and discussed gravely; that province being reported to have sent in its allegiance en bloc to the Great Moghul. The slides, however, were not always so dignified, so decorous. One came, a day or two afterward, showing a miserable old pantaloon driven to despair because six hundred hungry sepoys would not behave according to strict etiquette, but, invading his privacy with threats, reduced him to taking his beautiful new cushion from the Peacock Throne and casting it among them.

"Take it," he cried passionately, "it is all I have left. Take it, and let me go in peace!"

But the lesson was not learned by him as yet; so he had to remain; for once more the sepoys sent out word that there was to be no skulking. To do the Royal family justice, however, they seem by this time to have given up the idea of flight. To be sure they had no place to which they could fly, since the dream required that background of rose-red wall and marble arches. So even Abool-Bukr, forsaking drunkenness as well as that kind, detaining hand, clung to his kinsfolk bravely, behaving in all ways as a newly married young prince should who looked toward filling the throne itself at some future time.^[8]

The sepoys themselves had given up blustering, and many, like Soma, had taken to bhang instead; drugging themselves deliberately into indifference. The latter had recovered from the blow on the back of his head, which, however, as is so often the case, had for the time at any rate deprived him of all recollection of the events immediately preceding it. So, as Tara had restored his uniform before he was able to miss it, he treated her as if nothing had occurred; greatly to her relief. The fact had its disadvantages, however, by depriving her of all corroborative evidence of the mem having really left the city. Thus Jim Douglas, warned by past experience, and made doubtful by Tara's strange reticences, refused to believe it. Her whole story, indeed, marred, as it was, by the endless reserves and exaggerations, seemed incredible; the more so because Tiddu—who lied wildly as to his constant sojourn in Delhi—professed utter disbelief in it. So, after a few days' unavailing attempt to get at the truth, Jim Douglas sent the old man off with a letter of inquiry to the Ridge, and waited for the answer.

Waited, like all Delhi, under the shadow of the lifted sword which hung above the city. A sword, held behind a simulacrum of many, by one arm, sent for that purpose; for John Lawrence, being wise, knew that the shadow of that arm meant more even than the sword it held to the wildest half of the province under his control, a province trembling in the balance between allegiance and revolt; a province ready to catch fire if the extinguisher were not put upon the beacon light. And all India waited too. Waited to see that sword fall.

But a hatchet fell first. Fell in the lemon thickets and pomegranates of the walled old gardens, so that men who worked at the batteries still remember the sweet smell that went up from the crushed leaves. A welcome change; for the Ridge, crowded now with eleven thousand troops, was not a pleasant abode. It was on Sunday, the 6th of September, that the final reinforcements came in, and on the 7th the men, reading General Wilson's order for the appointing of prize agents in each corps, and his assurance that all plunder would be divided fairly, felt as if they were already within the walls. The hospitals, too, were giving up their sick; those who could not be of use going to the rear, Meerut-ward, those fit for work to the front. And that night the first siege battery was traced and almost finished below the Sammy-House, while, under cover of this distraction on the right, the Koodsia Gardens and Ludlow Castle on the left were occupied by strong pickets.

But that first battery—only seven hundred yards from the Moree Bastion—had a struggle for dear life. The dawn showed but one gun in position against all the concentrated fire of the bastion which, during the night, had been lured into a useless duel with the old defense batteries above. Only one gun at dawn; but by noon—despite assault and battery—there were five, answering roar for roar. Then for the first time began that welcome echo: the sound of crumbling walls, the grumbling roll of falling stones and mortar. By sunset the gradually diminishing fire from the bastion had ceased, and the bastion itself was a heap of ruins. By this time the four guns in the left section of the battery were keeping down the fire from the Cashmere gate, and so protecting the real advance through the gardens. That was the first day of the siege, and Kate Erlton, sitting in her little tent, which had been moved into a quiet spot, as she had begged to be allowed to stay on the Ridge until some news came of the man to whom she owed so much, thought with a shudder she could not help, of what it must mean to many an innocent soul shut up within those walls. It was bad enough here, where the very tent seemed to shake. It must be terrible down there beside the heating guns, in the roar and the rattle, the grime and the ache and strain of muscle. But in the city—even in Sri Anunda's garden——!

So, naturally enough, she wondered once more what could have become of the man who had gone back to find her nearly ten days before.

"May I come in? John Nicholson."

She would have recognized the voice even without the name, for it was not one to be forgotten. Nor was the owner, as he stood before her, a letter in his hand.

"I have heard from Mr. Douglas, Mrs. Erlton," he said. "It is in the Persian character, so I presume it is no use showing it to you. But it concerns you chiefly. He wants to know if you are safe. I have to answer it immediately. Have you any message you would like to send?"

"Any message?" she echoed. "Only that he must come back at once, of course."

John Nicholson looked at her calmly.

"I shall say nothing of the kind," he replied. "It is best for a man to decide such matters for himself."

She flushed up hotly. "I had not the slightest intention of dictating to Mr.—Mr. Douglas, General Nicholson; but considering how much he has already sacrificed for my sake——"

"You had better let him do as he likes, my dear madam," interrupted the General, with a sudden kindly smile, which, however, faded as quickly as it came, leaving his face stern. "He, like many another man, has sacrificed too much for women, Mrs. Erlton; so if ever you can make up to him for some of the pain, do so—he is worth it. Good-by. I'll tell him that you are safe; but that in spite of that, he has my permission to go ahead and kill—the more the better."

She had not the faintest idea why he made this last remark; but it did not puzzle her, for she was occupied with his previous one. Sacrificed too much! That was true. He carried the scars of the knife upon him clearly. And the man who had just left her presence, who, for all his courtesy, had treated her so cavalierly? She was rather vexed with herself for feeling it, but a sudden sense of being a poor creature came over her. It flashed upon her that she could imagine a world without women—she was in one, almost, at that very moment—but not a world without men. Yet that ceaseless roar filling the air had more to do with women than men; it went more as a challenge of revenge than a stern recall to duty.

It was true. The men, working night and day in the batteries, thought little of men's rights, only of women's wrongs. Even General Wilson in his order had appealed to those under him on that ground only, urging them to spend life and strength freely in vengeance on murderers.

And they did. Down in the scented Koodsia Gardens the men never seemed to tire, never to shrink, though the shot from the city—not two hundred and fifty yards away—flew pinging through the trees above them. But the high wall gave cover, and so those off duty slept peacefully in the cool shade, or sat smoking on the river-terrace.

Thus, while the first battery, pounding away from the right at the Moree and Cashmere bastions, diverted attention, and the enemy, deceived by the feint, lavished a dogged courage in trying to keep up some kind of reply, a second siege battery in two sections was traced and made in front of Ludlow Castle, five hundred yards from the Cashmere gate. By dawn on the 11th both sections were at work destroying the defenses of the gate, and pounding away to breach the curtain wall beside it. So the roar was doubled, and the vibrations of the air began to quiver on the wearied ear almost painfully. Yet they were soon trebled, quadrupled. Trebled by a party of wide-mouthed mortars in the garden itself. Quadrupled by a wicked, dare-devil, impertinent little company of six eighteen-pounders and twelve small mortars, which, with Medley of the Engineers as a guide, took advantage of a half ruined house to creep within a hundred and sixty yards of the doomed walls despite the shower of shell and bullets from it. For by this time the murderers in the city had found out that the men were at work at something in the scented thickets to the left. Not that the discovery hindered the work. The native pioneers, who bore the brunt of it, digging and piling for the wicked little intruder, were working with the master, working with volunteers—officers and men alike—from the 9th Lancers and the Carabineers. So, when one of their number toppled over, they looked to see if he were dead or alive in order to sort him out properly. And if he was dead they would weep a few tears as they laid him in the row beside the others of his kind, before they went on with their work quietly; for, having to decide whether a comrade belonged to the dead or the living thirty-nine times one night, they began to get expert at it. So by the 12th, fifty guns and mortars flashed and roared, and the rumble of falling stones became almost continuous. Sometimes a shell would just crest the parapet, burst, and bring away yards of it at a time.

Up on the Ridge behind the siege batteries, when the cool of the evening came on, every post was filled with sightseers watching the salvos, watching the game. And one, at least, going back to get ready for mess, wrote and told his wife at Meerut, that if she were at the top of Flagstaff Tower, she would remain there till the siege was over—it was so fascinating. But they were merry on the Ridge in these days, and the messes were so full that guests had to be limited at one, till they got a new leaf in the table! Yet on the other slope of the Ridge, men were tumbling over like the stones in the walls. Tumbling over one after another in the batteries, all through the night of the 12th, and the day of the 13th.

Then at ten o'clock in the evening, men, sitting in the mess-tents, looked at each other joyfully, yet with a thrill in their veins, as the firing ceased suddenly. For they knew what that meant; they knew that down under the very walls of the city, friends and comrades were creeping, sword in one hand, their lives in the other, through the starlight, to see if the breaches were practicable.

But the city knew them to be so; and already the last order sent by the Palace to Delhi was being proclaimed by beat of drum through the streets.

So, monotonously, the cry rang from alley to alley.

"Intelligence having just been brought that the infidels intend an assault to-night, it is incumbent on all, Hindoo and Mohammedan, from due regard to their faith, to assemble directly by the Cashmere gate, bringing iron picks and shovels with them. This order is imperative."

Newâsi Begum, among others, heard it as she sat reading. She stood up suddenly, overturning the book-rest and the Holy Word in her haste; for she felt that the crisis was at hand. She had never seen Abool-Bukr since the night, now a whole month past, when he had taunted her with being one more woman ready for kisses. Her pride had kept her from seeking him, and he had not returned. But now her resentment gave way before her fears. She must see him—since God only knew what might be going to happen!

True in a way. But up on the Ridge one man felt certain of one thing. John Nicholson, with the order for an assault at dawn safe in his hand, knew that he would be in Delhi on the 14th of September—a day earlier than he had expected.

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