Rujub, the Juggler

Some of the officers angrily protested, but Por Sing stood firm, and the other chiefs were equally determined. Seeing this, the officers consulted together, and the highest in rank then said to the Talookdars, “We protest against these conditions being given, but since you are resolved, we stand aside, and are ready to agree for ourselves and our men to what you may decide.”

“What pledges do you require?” Por Sing asked Bathurst.

“We are content, Rajah, with your personal oath that the lives of all within the house shall be respected, and your undertaking that they shall be allowed to go unharmed down the country. We have absolute faith in the honor of the nobles of Oude, and can desire no better guarantee.”

“I will give it,” Por Sing said, “and all my friends will join me in it. Tonight I will have boats collected on the river; I will furnish you with an escort of my troops, and will myself accompany you and see you safely on board. I will then not only give you a safe conduct, praying all to let you pass unharmed, but my son with ten men shall accompany you in the boats to inform all that my honor is concerned in your safety, and that I have given my personal pledge that no molestation shall be offered to you. I will take my oath, and my friends will do the same, and I doubt not that the commander of the Sepoy troops will join me in it.”

Bathurst translated what had been said to Captain Doolan.

“It is impossible for him to do more than that,” he concluded; “I do not think there is the least question as to his good faith.”

“He is a fine old heathen,” Captain Doolan said; “tell him that we accept his terms.”

Bathurst at once signified this, and the Rajah then took a solemn oath to fulfill the conditions of the agreement, the other Talookdars doing the same, and the commander of the Sepoys also doing so without hesitation. Por Sing then promised that some carts should be collected before morning, to carry the ladies, the sick and wounded, down to the river, which was eight miles distant.

“You can sleep in quiet tonight,” he added; “I will place a guard of my own men round the house, and see that none trouble you in any way.”

A few other points were settled, and then the party returned to the house, to which they were followed a few minutes later by the son of Por Sing and three lads, sons of other Zemindars. Bathurst went down to meet them when their approach was noticed by the lookout on the roof.

“We have come to place ourselves in your hands as hostages, sahib,” Por Sing’s son said. “My father thought it likely that the Sepoys or others might make trouble, and he said that if we were in your hands as hostages, all our people would see that the agreement must be kept, and would oppose themselves more vigorously to the Sepoys.”

“It was thoughtful and kind of your father,” Bathurst said. “As far as accommodation is concerned, we can do little to make you comfortable, but in other respects we are not badly provided.”

Some of the native servants were at once told off to erect an awning over a portion of the terrace. Tables and couches were placed here, and Bathurst undertook the work of entertaining the visitors.

He was glad of the precaution that had been taken in sending them, for with the glass he could make out that there was much disturbance in the Sepoy lines, men gathering in large groups, with much shouting and noise. Muskets were discharged in the direction of the house, and it was evident that the mutineers were very discontented with the decision that had been arrived at.

In a short time, however, a body, several hundred strong, of the Oude fighting men moved down and surrounded the house; and when a number of the Sepoys approached with excited and menacing gestures, one of the Zemindars went out to meet them, and Bathurst, watching the conference, could see by his pointing to the roof of the house that he was informing them that hostages had been given to the Europeans for the due observance of the treaty, and doubted not he was telling them that their lives would be endangered by any movement. Then he pointed to the batteries, as if threatening that if any attack was made the guns would be turned upon them. At any rate, after a time they moved away, and gradually the Sepoys could be seen returning to their lines.

There were but few preparations to be made by the garrison for their journey. It had been settled that they might take their personal effects with them, but it was at once agreed to take as little as possible, as there would probably be but little room in the boats, and the fewer things they carried the less there would be to tempt the cupidity of the natives.

“Well, Bathurst, what do you think of the outlook?” the Doctor asked, as late in the evening they sat together on some sandbags in a corner of the terrace.

“I think that if we get past Cawnpore in safety there is not much to fear. There is no other large place on the river, and the lower we get down the less likely the natives are to disturb us, knowing, as they are almost sure to do, that a force is gathering at Allahabad.”

“After what you heard of the massacre of the prisoners at Cawnpore, whom the Nana and his officers had all sworn to allow to depart in safety, there is little hope that this scoundrel will respect the arrangements made here.”

“We must pass the place at night, and trust to drifting down unobserved—the river is wide there—and keeping near the opposite shore, we may get past in the darkness without being perceived; and even if they do make us out, the chances are they will not hit us. There are so few of us that there is no reason why they should trouble greatly about us.”

“I am sorry to say, Bathurst, that I don’t like the appearance of the Major’s wound. Everything has been against him; the heat, the close air, and his anxiety of mind have all told on him, he seems very low, and I have great doubts whether he will ever see Allahabad.”

“I hope you are wrong, Doctor, but I thought myself there was a change for the worse when I saw him an hour ago; there was a drawn look about his face I did not like. He is a splendid fellow; nothing could have been kinder than he has been to me. I wish I could change places with him.”

The Doctor grunted. “Well, as none of us may see Allahabad, Bathurst, you need not trouble yourself on that score. I wonder what has become of your friend the conjurer. I thought he might have been in to see you this afternoon.”

“I did not expect him,” Bathurst said; “I expect he went as far as he dared in what he said at the Durbar today. Probably he is doing all he can to keep matters quiet. Of course he may have gone down to Cawnpore to see Nana Sahib, but I should think it more probable that he would remain here until he knows we are safe on board the boats.”

“Ah, here is Wilson,” said the Doctor; “he is a fine young fellow, and I am very glad he has gone through it safely.”

“So am I,” Bathurst said warmly; “here we are, Wilson.”

“I thought I would find you both smoking here,” Wilson said, as he seated himself; “it is awfully hot below, and the ladies are all at work picking out the things they are going to take with them and packing them, and as I could not be of any use at that, I thought I would come up for a little fresh air, if one can call it fresh; but, in fact, I would rather sit over an open drain, for the stench is horrible. How quiet everything seems tonight! After crouching here for the last three weeks listening to the boom of their cannon and the rush of their balls overhead, or the crash as they hit something, it seems quite unnatural; one can’t help thinking that something is going to happen. I don’t believe I shall be able to sleep a wink tonight; while generally, in spite of the row, it has been as much as I could do to keep my eyes open. I suppose I shall get accustomed to it in time. At present it seems too unnatural to enjoy it.”

“You had better get a good night’s sleep, if you can, Wilson,” the Doctor said. “There won’t be much sleep for us in the boats till we see the walls of Allahabad.”

“I suppose not, Doctor. I expect we shall be horribly cramped up. I long to be there. I hope to get attached to one of the regiments coming up, so as to help in giving the thrashing to these scoundrels that they deserve. I would give a year’s pay to get that villain, Nana Sahib, within reach of my sword. It is awful to think of the news you brought in, Bathurst, and that there are hundreds of women and children in his power now. What a day it will be when we march into Cawnpore!”

“Don’t count your chickens too soon, Wilson,” the Doctor said, “The time I am looking forward to is when we shall have safely passed Cawnpore on our way down; that is quite enough for me to hope for at present.”

“Yes, I was thinking of that myself,” Wilson replied. “If the Nana could not be bound by the oath he had taken himself, he is not likely to respect the agreement made here.”

“We must pass the place at night,” Bathurst said, “and trust to not being seen. Even if they do make us out, we shan’t be under fire long unless they follow us down the bank; but if the night is dark, they may not make us out at all. Fortunately there is no moon, and boats are not very large marks even by daylight, and at night it would only be a chance shot that would hit us.”

“Yes, we should be as difficult to hit as a tiger,” the Doctor put in.

Wilson laughed.

“I have gained a lot of experience since then, Doctor. What ages that seems back! Years almost.”

“It does indeed,” the Doctor agreed; “we count time by incidents and not by days. Well, I think I shall turn in.. Are you coming, Bathurst?”

“No, I could not sleep,” Bathurst said; “I shall watch till morning. I feel sure it is all safe, but the mutineers might attempt something.”

The night, however, passed off quietly, and soon after daybreak eight bullock carts were seen approaching, with a strong body of Oude men. Half an hour later the luggage was packed, and the sick and wounded laid on straw in the wagons. Several of the ladies took their places with them, but Mrs. Doolan, Isobel, and Mary Hunter said they would walk for a while. It had been arranged that the men might carry out their arms with them, and each of the ten able to walk took their rifles, while all, even the women, had pistols about them. Just as they were ready, Por Sing and several of the Zemindars rode up on horseback.

“We shall see you to the boats,” he said. “Have you taken provisions for your voyage? It would be better not to stop to buy anything on the way.”

This precaution had been taken, and as soon as all was ready they set out, guarded by four hundred Oude matchlock men. The Sepoys had gathered near the house, and as soon as they left it there was a rush made to secure the plunder.

“I should have liked to have emptied the contents of some of my bottles into the wine,” the Doctor growled; “it would not have been strictly professional, perhaps, but it would have been a good action.”

“I am sure you would not have given them poison, Doctor,” Wilson laughed; “but a reasonable dose of ipecacuanha might hardly have gone against your conscience.”

“My conscience has nothing to do with it,” the Doctor said. “These fellows came from Cawnpore, and I have no doubt took part in the massacre there. My conscience wouldn’t have troubled me if I could have poisoned the whole of the scoundrels, or put a slow match in the magazine and blown them all into the air, but under the present conditions it would hardly have been politic, as one couldn’t be sure of annihilating the whole of them. Well, Miss Hannay, what are you thinking of?”

“I am thinking that my uncle looks worse this morning, Doctor; does it not strike you so too?”

“We must hope that the fresh air will do him good. One could not expect anyone to get better in that place; it was enough to kill a healthy man, to say nothing of a sick one.”

Isobel was walking by the side of the cart in which her uncle was lying, and it was not long before she took her place beside him.

The Doctor shook his head.

“Can you do nothing, Doctor?” Bathurst said, in a low tone.

“Nothing; he is weaker this morning, still the change of air may help him, and he may have strength to fight through; the wound itself is a serious one, but he would under other circumstances have got over it. As it is, I think his chance a very poor one, though I would not say as much to her.”

After three hours’ travel they reached the river. Here two large native boats were lying by the bank. The baggage and sick were soon placed on board, and the Europeans with the native servants were then divided between them, and the Rajah’s son and six of the retainers took their places in one of the boats. The Doctor and Captain Doolan had settled how the party should be divided. The Major and the other sick men were all placed in one boat, and in this were the Doctor, Bathurst, and four civilians, with Isobel Hannay, Mrs. Hunter, and her daughter. Captain Doolan, his wife, Mrs. Rintoul, and the other three ladies, with the six children who had alone survived, and the rest of the party, were in the other boat.

Por Sing and his companions were thanked heartily for the protection they had given, and Bathurst handed them a document which had been signed by all the party, testifying to the service they had rendered.

“If we don’t get down to Allahabad,” Bathurst said, as he handed it to him, “this will insure you good treatment when the British troops come up. If we get there, we will represent your conduct in such a light that I think I can promise you that the part you took in the siege will be forgiven.”

Then the boats pushed off and started on their way down the stream.

The distance by water to Cawnpore was over forty miles. It was already eleven o’clock, and slow progress only could be made with the heavy boats, but it was thought that they would be able to pass the town before daylight began to break next morning, and they therefore pushed on as rapidly as they could, the boatmen being encouraged to use their utmost efforts by the promise of a large reward upon their arrival at Allahabad.

There was but little talk in the boats. Now that the strain was over, all felt its effects severely. The Doctor attended to his patients; Isobel sat by the side of her uncle, giving him some broth that they had brought with them, from time to time, or moistening his lips with weak brandy and water. He spoke only occasionally.

“I don’t much think I shall get down to Allahabad, Isobel,” he said. “If I don’t, go down to Calcutta, and go straight to Jamieson and Son; they are my agents, and they will supply you with money to take you home; they have a copy of my will; my agents in London have another copy. I had two made in case of accident.”

“Oh, uncle, you will get better now you are out of that terrible place.”

“I am afraid it is too late, my dear, though I should like to live for your sake. But I think I see happiness before you, if you choose to take it; he is a noble fellow, Isobel, in spite of that unfortunate weakness.”

Isobel made no answer, but a slight pressure of the hand she was holding showed that she understood what he meant. It was no use to tell her uncle that she felt that what might have been was over now. Bathurst had chatted with her several times the evening before and during the march that morning, but she felt the difference between his tone and that in which he had addressed her in the old times before the troubles began. It was a subtle difference that she could hardly have explained even to herself, but she knew that it was as a friend, and as a friend only, that he would treat her in the future, and that the past was a closed book, which he was determined not to reopen.

Bathurst talked to Mrs. Hunter and her daughter, both of whom were mere shadows, worn out with grief, anxiety, and watching. At times he went forward to talk to the young noble, who had taken his seat there. Both boats had been arched in with a canopy of boughs to serve alike as a protection from the sun and to screen those within from the sight of natives in boats or on the banks.

“You don’t look yourself, Bathurst,” the Doctor said to him late in the afternoon. “Everything seems going on well. No boats have passed us, and the boatmen all say that we shall pass Cawnpore about one o’clock, at the rate at which we are going.”

“I feel nervous, Doctor; more anxious than I have been ever since this began. There is an apprehension of danger weighing over me that I can’t account for. As you say, everything seems going on well, and yet I feel that it is not so. I am afraid I am getting superstitious, but I feel as if Rujub knows of some danger impending, and that he is somehow conveying that impression to me. I know that there is nothing to be done, and that we are doing the only thing that we can do, unless we were to land and try and make our way down on foot, which would be sheer madness. That the man can in some way impress my mind at a distance is evident from that summons he gave me to meet him at the ruins of my bungalow, but I do not feel the same clear distinct perception of his wishes now as I did then. Perhaps he himself is not aware of the particulars of the danger that threatens, or, knowing them, he can see no way of escape out of them. It may be that at night, when everything is quiet, one’s mind is more open to such impressions than it is when we are surrounded by other people and have other things to think of, but I feel an actual consciousness of danger.”

“I don’t think there can be any danger until we get down near Cawnpore. They may possibly be on the lookout for us there, and may even have boats out on the stream. It is possible that the Sepoys may have sent down word yesterday afternoon to Nana Sahib that we had surrendered, and should be starting by boat this morning, but I don’t think there can be any danger till we get there. Should we meet native boats and be stopped, Por Sing’s son will be able to induce them to let us pass. Certainly none of the villagers about here would be likely to disobey him. Once beyond Cawnpore, I believe that he would have sufficient influence, speaking, as he does, in the name, not only of his father, but of other powerful landowners, to induce any of these Oude people to let us pass. No, I regard Cawnpore as our one danger, and I believe it to be a very real one. I have been thinking, indeed, that it would be a good thing when we get within a couple of miles of the place for all who are able to walk, to land on the opposite bank, and make their way along past Cawnpore, and take to the boats again a mile below the town.”

“That would be an excellent plan, Doctor; but if the boats were stopped and they found the sick, they would kill them to a certainty. I don’t think we could leave them. I am quite sure Miss Hannay would not leave her uncle.”

“I think we might get over even that, Bathurst. There are only the Major and the other two men, and Mrs. Forsyth and three children, too ill to walk. There are eight of the native servants, ourselves, and the young Rajah’s retainers. We ought to have no difficulty in carrying the wounded. As to the luggage, that must be sacrificed, so that the boatmen can go down with empty benches. It must be pitched overboard. The loss would be of no real consequence; everyone could manage with what they have on until we get to Allahabad. There would be no difficulty in getting what we require there.”

“I think the plan is an excellent one, Doctor. I will ask the young chief if his men will help us to carry the sick. If he says yes, we will go alongside the other boat and explain our plan to Doolan.”

The young Rajah at once assented, and the boat being rowed up to the other, the plan was explained and approved of. No objection was raised by anyone, even to the proposal for getting rid of all the luggage; and as soon as the matter was arranged, a general disposition towards cheerfulness was manifested. Everyone had felt that the danger of passing Cawnpore would be immense, and this plan for avoiding it seemed to lift a load from their minds.

It was settled they should land at some spot where the river was bordered by bushes and young trees; that stout poles should be cut, and blankets fastened between them, so as to form stretchers on which the sick could be carried.

As far as possible the boats were kept on the left side of the river, but at times shallows rendered it necessary to keep over by the right bank. Whenever they were near the shore, silence was observed, lest the foreign tongue should be noticed by anyone near the bank.

Night fell, and they still continued their course. An hour after sunset they were rowing near the right bank—the Major had fallen into a sort of doze, and Isobel was sitting next to Bathurst, and they were talking in low tones together—when suddenly there was a hail from the shore, not fifty yards away.

“What boats are those?”

“Fishing boats going down the river,” one of the boatmen answered.

“Row alongside, we must examine you.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the Doctor said in the native language, “Row on, men,” and the oars of both boats again dipped into the water.

“We are pressed for time,” the young Zemindar shouted, and then, dropping his voice, urged the men to row at the top of their speed.

“Stop, or we fire,” came from the shore.

No answer was returned from the boats; they were now nearly opposite the speaker. Then came the word—“Fire.” Six cannon loaded with grape were discharged, and a crackle of musketry at the same moment broke out. The shot tore through the boats, killing and disabling many, and bringing down the arbor of boughs upon them.

A terrible cry arose, and all was confusion. Most of the rowers were killed, and the boats drifted helplessly amid the storm of rifle bullets.

As the cannon flashed out and the grape swept the boats Bathurst, with a sharp cry, sprang to his feet, and leaped overboard, as did several others from both boats. Diving, he kept under water for some distance, and then swam desperately till he reached shallow water on the other side of the river, and then fell head foremost on the sand. Eight or ten others also gained the shore in a body, and were running towards the bank, when the guns were again fired, and all but three were swept away by the iron hail. A few straggling musket shots were fired, then orders were shouted, and the splashing of an oar was heard, as one of the native boatmen rowed one of the two boats toward the shore. Bathurst rose to his feet and ran, stumbling like a drunken man, towards the bushes, and just as he reached them, fell heavily forward, and lay there insensible. Three men came out from the jungle and dragged him in. As they did so loud screams arose from the other bank, then half a dozen muskets were fired, and all was quiet.

It was not for a quarter of an hour that Bathurst was conscious of what was going on around him. Someone was rubbing his chest and hands.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Oh, it is you, Bathurst!” he heard Wilson’s voice exclaim. “I thought it was you, but it is so dark now we are off that white sand that I could not see. Where are you hit?”

“I don’t know,” Bathurst said. “I felt a sort of shock as I got out of the water, but I don’t know that I am hurt at all.”

“Oh, you must be hit somewhere. Try and move your arms and legs.”

Bathurst moved.

“No, I don’t think I am hit; if I am, it is on the head. I feel something warm round the back of my neck.”

“By Jove, yes!” Wilson said; “here is where it is; there is a cut all along the top of your head; the bullet seems to have hit you at the back, and gone right along over the top. It can’t have gone in, or else you would not be able to talk.”

“Help me up,” Bathurst said, and he was soon on his feet. He felt giddy and confused. “Who have you with you?” he asked.

“Two natives. I think one is the young chief, and the other is one of his followers.”

Bathurst spoke to them in their native language, and found that Wilson was not mistaken. As soon as he found that he was understood, the young chief poured out a volley of curses upon those who had attacked them.

Bathurst stopped him. “We shall have time for that afterwards, Murad,” he said; “the first thing is to see what had best be done. What has happened since I landed, Wilson?”

“Our boat was pretty nearly cut in two,” Wilson said, “and was sinking when I jumped over; the other boat has been rowed ashore.”