The Red Year: A Story of the Indian Mutiny

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE VORTEX

Malcolm was not one to throw his life away without an effort to save it. Once, during a visit to Delhi, Captain Douglas, the ill-fated commandant of the Palace Guards, had taken him to his quarters for tiffin. As it happened, the two entered by the Delhi Gate and walked through the gardens and corridors to Douglas’s rooms, which were situated over the Lahore Gate. Thus he possessed a vague knowledge of the topography of the citadel, and his visit that morning had refreshed his memory to a slight extent. On that slender reed he based some hope of escape. In any event he prayed that his ruse might better Chumru’s chances, and he promised himself a soldier’s death if brought to bay inside the palace.

Crossing the drawbridge at a fast gallop, he saw a number of guards looking at him wonderingly. It occurred to him that the exciting events of the early hours might have led to orders being given on the question of admitting sepoys in large numbers. If that were so, he might gain time by a bit of sheer audacity. At any rate, there was no harm in trying. As he clattered through the gateway he shouted excitedly:

“Close and bar the door! None must be admitted without the King’s special order!”

The spectacle of a well-mounted sepoy officer, blood-stained and travel-worn, who arrived in such desperate haste and was evidently pursued by a body of horse, so startled the attendants that they banged and bolted the great door without further ado.

Already the story was going the rounds that the precious life of Bahadur Shah had actually been threatened by the overbearing sepoys – what more likely than that this hard-riding officer was coming to apprise his majesty of a genuine plot, while the flying squadron in the rear was striving to cut him down before the fateful message was delivered?

Not to create too great a stir, Malcolm pulled up both horses at the entrance to the arcade.

He called a chaprassi and bade him hold Chumru’s steed. Then, learning from the uproar at the gate that the guards were obeying his instructions literally, he went on at an easier pace.

The palace was humming with excitement. Its numerous buildings housed a multitude of court nobles and other hangers-on to the court, and each of these had his special coterie of attendants who helped to advance their own fortunes by clinging to their master’s skirts. The jealousies and intrigues that surround a throne were never more in evidence than at Delhi during the last hours of the Great Mogul. Already men were preparing for the final catastrophe. While the ignorant mob was firm in its belief that the rule of the sahib had passed forever, those few clearer-headed persons who possessed any claim to the title of statesmen were convinced that the Mutiny had failed.

Nearly four months were sped since that fatal Sunday when the rebellion broke out at Meerut. And what had been achieved? Delhi, the pivot of Mohammedan hopes, was crowded with a licentious soldiery, who obeyed only those leaders that pandered to them, who fought only when some perfervid moullah aroused their worst passions by his eloquence, and who were terrible only to peaceful citizens. All public credit was destroyed. The rule of the King, nominal within the walls of his own palace, was laughed at in the city and ignored beyond its walls. The provincial satraps and feudatory princes who should be striving to help their sovereign were wholly devoted to the more congenial task of carving out kingdoms for themselves.

Nana Sahib, rehabilitated in Oudh, was opposing Havelock’s advance; Khan Bahadur Khan, an ex-pensioner of the Company, had set up a barbarous despotism at Bareilly; the Moulvie of Fyzabad, intent on the destruction of the Residency, meant to establish himself there as “King of Hindustan” if only that stubborn entrenchment could be carried; Mahudi Husain, Gaffur Beg, Kunwer Singh, the Ranee of Jhansi, and a host of other prominent rebels scattered throughout Oudh, Bengal, the Northwest Provinces and Central India, cared less for Delhi than for their own private affairs, and were consequently permitting the British to gather forces by which they could be destroyed piecemeal.

From Nepaul, the great border state, lying behind the pestilential jungle of the Terai, came an army of nine thousand Ghoorkahs to help the British. At Hyderabad, the most powerful Mohammedan principality in India, the Nizam and his famous minister, Sir Salar Jung, crushed a Jehad with cannon and grape-shot. In a word, the orgy had ended, and the day of reckoning was near.

Malcolm, therefore, was confronted with two separate and hostile sets of conditions. On the one hand, he was threading his way through a maze of conflicting interests, and this was a circumstance most favorable to his chances of escape; on the other, every man regarded his neighbor with distrust and a stranger with positive suspicion, while Malcolm’s distinguished appearance could not fail to draw many inquiring eyes.

He crossed the large garden beyond the arcade and was making for an arch that gave access to the long covered passage leading to the Delhi Gate, when he saw Akhab Khan standing there.

The rebel leader was deep in converse with a richly-attired personage whom Frank discovered afterwards to be the Vizier. Near Akhab Khan an escort of sowars stood by their horses, and Malcolm felt that the instant the former lance-corporal set eyes on either Nejdi or himself recognition would follow as surely as a vulture knows its prey.

He could neither dawdle nor hesitate. Wheeling Nejdi towards the nearest arch on the left, he found himself in an open space between the walls of the fortress and the outer line of buildings. Underneath the broad terrace, from which troops could defend the battlements, stood a row of storerooms and go-downs. At a little distance he could distinguish a line of stables, and the mere sight sent the blood dancing through his veins.

If only he could evade capture until nightfall he would no longer feel that each moment might find him making a last fight against impossible odds. Dismounting, he led Nejdi to an unoccupied stall. As there was nothing to be gained by half measures he removed saddle and bridle, hung them on a peg, put a halter on the Arab, adjusted the heel-ropes, and hunted the adjoining stalls for forage.

He came upon some gram in a sack and a quantity of hay. All provender was alike to Nejdi so long as it was toothsome. He was soon busily engaged, and Malcolm resolved to avoid observation by grooming him when any one passed whose gaze might be too inquisitive.

He took care that sword and revolvers were handy. It was hard to tell what hue and cry might be raised by the troopers against whom the guards had closed the Lahore Gate. Perhaps they were searching for two men and the finding of one horse in charge of a chaprassi might suggest that the rider of the other and his companion had dodged through the Delhi Gate. Again, his pursuers might have galloped straight to the other exit and thus made certain that he was still in the palace. If that were so and they ferreted him out, as well die here as elsewhere. Meanwhile, he chewed philosophically at a few grains of the gram, and awaited the outcome of events that were now beyond his control.

A wild swirl of wind and rain seemed to favor him. There was not much traffic past his retreat, and that little ceased when a deluge lashed the dry earth and clouds of vapor rose as though the water were beating on an oven. Now and again a syce hurried past, with head and shoulders enveloped in a sack. Once a party of sepoys trudged through the mud, towards the water bastion of the palace, and the men whom they had relieved came back the same way a few minutes later.

Nejdi had seldom been groomed so vigorously as during the passing of these detachments, but no one gave the slightest heed to the cavalry officer who was engaged on such an unusual task. If they noticed him at all it was to wonder that he could be such a fool as to work when there were hundreds of loafers in the city who could be kicked to the job.

The rain storm changed into a steady drizzle and the increasing gloom promised complete darkness within half an hour. Malcolm was beginning to plan his movements when he became aware of a man wrapped in a heavy cloak who approached from the direction of the arcade and peered into every nook and cranny.

“Now,” thought Frank, “comes my first real difficulty. That man is searching for some one. Whether or not he seeks me he is sure to speak, and if my presence has been reported he will recognize both Nejdi and me instantly. If so, I must strangle him with as little ceremony as possible.”

The newcomer came on. In the half light it was easy to see that he was not a soldier but a court official. Indeed, before the searcher’s glance rested on the gray Arab, munching contentedly in his stall, or the tall sowar who stood in obscurity near his head, Frank felt almost sure that he was face to face with the trusted confidant who had carried out Roshinara Begum’s behests in the garden at Bithoor.

That fact saved the native’s life. The Englishman would have killed him without compunction were it not for the belief that the man was actually looking for him and for none other, and with friendly intent, too, else he would have brought a bodyguard.

Sure enough, the stranger’s first words were of good import. He could not see clearly into the dark stable and it was necessary to measure one’s utterances in Delhi just then.

“If you are one who rode into Delhi this morning I would have speech with you,” he muttered softly.

“Say on,” said Malcolm, gripping his sword.

“Nay, one does not give the Princess Roshinara’s instructions without knowing that they reach the ears they are meant for.”

The Englishman came out from the obscurity. He approached so quickly that the native started back, being far from prepared for Frank’s very convincing resemblance to a rissaldar of cavalry.

“I look for one – ” he began, but Frank had no mind to lose time.

“For Malcolm-sahib?” he demanded.

“It might be some such name,” was the hesitating answer.

“I am he. I saw thee last at Bithoor, when I escaped with Mayne-sahib and the missy-baba.”23

“By Mohammed! I would not have known you, sahib, though now I remember your face. Come with me, and quickly. Each moment here means danger.”

“Ay, for thee. I am not one to be tricked so easily.”

“Huzoor, have I not sought you without arms or escort? I and another have searched the palace these two hours. Leave your horse. I will have him tended. Come, sahib, I pray you. The Begum awaits you, but there are so many who know of your presence that I shall not be able to save you if you fall into their hands.”

These were fair-seeming words with the ring of truth about them. At any rate Malcolm’s whereabouts were no longer a secret, and it would not be war but murder to offer violence to one who came with good intent on his lips if not in his heart.

“Lead on,” said Frank, sternly, “and remember that I shall not hesitate to strike at the first sign of treachery.”

“I shall not betray you, sahib, but you must converse with me as we walk and not draw too many eyes by holding a naked sword.”

This was so manifestly reasonable that Malcolm felt rather ashamed of his doubts. Yet, he thought it best not to appear to relax his precautions.

“I would not pass through the palace with a sword in my hand,” he said with a quiet laugh, “but I have a pistol in my belt, and that will suffice for six men.”

His guide set off at a rapid pace. When they were near the great arch leading into the garden they halted in front of a small door in a dimly-lighted building, and the native rapped twice with his knuckles on three separate panels. Some bolts were drawn and the two were admitted, the door being instantly barred behind them by an attendant. The darkness in the passage was impenetrable. Frank held himself tensely, but his companion’s voice reached him from a little distance in front, while he heard other bolts being drawn.

“You will see your way more clearly now,” was the reassuring message, and when the second door was opened the rays of a lamp lit the stone walls and floor. They went on, through lofty corridors, across sequestered gardens and by way of many a stately chamber until another narrow passage terminated in a barred door, guarded by an armed native. The man’s shrill voice betokened his calling, and Frank knew that he was standing at the entrance to the zenana.

“There is one other within,” said the guard, leering at them.

“Who is it, slave?” asked Frank’s guide scornfully, for he was annoyed by the eunuch’s familiar tone.

“Nay, I obey orders,” was the tart response. “Enter, then, and may Allah prosper you.”

There was a hint of danger in the otherwise excellent wish, but the man unlocked the door, and they passed within.

Frank’s wondering eyes rested on a scene of fairy-like beauty, so exquisite in its colorings and so unexpected withal, that not even his desperate predicament could repress for an instant the feeling of astonishment that overwhelmed him. He was standing in a white marble chamber, pillared and roofed in the Byzantine style, while every shaft and arch was chiseled into graceful lines and adorned with traceries or carved festoons of fruit and flowers. The walls were brightened with mosaics wrought in precious stones. Texts from the Koran in the flowing Persi-Arabic script, ran above the arches. In the floor, composed of colored tiles, was set a pachisi24 board, as the wide entrance hall to a European house might have a chess-board incorporated with the design of the tiled floor.

Not a garish tint or inharmonious line interfered with the chaste elegance of the white marble, and the whole apartment, which seemed to be the ante-room of the ladies’ quarters, was lighted with Moorish lamps.

Malcolm took in some of these details in one amazed glance, but his thoughts were recalled sternly to the affairs of the moment by hearing the ring of spurred heels on the sharp-sounding pavement from behind a curtained arch. There was no time to retreat nor cross towards an alcove that promised some slight screen from the soft and penetrating light that filled the room. He saw that his guide was perturbed, but he asked no question. With the quick military tread came the frou-frou of silk and the footfall of slippered feet. Then the curtain was drawn aside and Akhab Khan entered, followed by the Princess Roshinara.

Malcolm had the advantage of a few seconds’ warning. Even as Akhab Khan placed his hand on the curtain the Englishman sprang forward, and the astounded sowar, now a brigadier in the rebel forces, found himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver.

“Do not move till I bid you, Akhab Khan,” said Malcolm, in his self-contained way. “I am summoned hither, so I come, but it may be necessary to secure a hostage for my safe conduct outside the walls again.”

“You! Malcolm-sahib!” was Akhab Khan’s involuntary outburst.

“Yes, even I. Have you not heard, then, that I rode into the palace to-day?”

“There was a report that some Feringhis – some sahibs – were in the city as spies – ”

“Malcolm-sahib is here because I sent for him,” broke in Roshinara.

“You —sent for him!”

Akhab Khan’s swarthy features paled, and his eyes sparkled wrathfully. Heedless of Malcolm’s implied threat, or perhaps ignoring it, he wheeled round on the Princess, and his right hand crossed to his sword-hilt.

“If you so much as turn your head again or lift a hand without my order, I blow your brains out,” said Malcolm in the same unemotional tone.

“Nay, let him attack a woman if it pleaseth him,” cried Roshinara, who had not drawn back one inch from the place where she was standing when Malcolm confronted Akhab Khan and herself. “That is what our troops, officers and men alike, are best fitted for. They love to swagger in the bazaar, but their valor flies when they see the Ridge.”

Again quite indifferent to the fact that Malcolm’s finger was on the trigger, the rebel leader threw out his hands towards the Begum in a gesture of agonized protest.

“Do you not trust me, my heart?” he murmured. “If you knew of this Nazarene’s presence why was I not told?”

“Because I wished to save you in spite of yourself. Because I would mourn you if you fell in battle as befits a warrior and the man whom I love, but I would not have you die on the scaffold, as most of the others will die ere another month be sped. What hope have we of success? If forty thousand sepoys cannot overcome the three thousand English on the Ridge, how shall they prevail against the force that is now preparing to storm Delhi? I sent for Malcolm-sahib that I might obtain terms for my father and for thee, Akhab Khan. This man is now in our power. Let us bargain with him. If he goes free to-day, let him promise that we shall be spared when the gallows is busy in front of our palace.”

Each word of this impassioned speech was a revelation to Malcolm. Here was the fiery beauty of the Mogul court pleading for the lives of her father and lover, pleading to him, a solitary Briton in the midst of thousands of mutineers, a prisoner in their stronghold, a spy whose life was forfeit by the laws of war. Hardly less bewildering than this turn of fortune’s wheel was the whirligig that promoted a poor trooper of the Company to the position of accepted suitor for the hand of a royal maiden. Never could there be a more complete unveiling of the Eastern mind, with all its fatalism, its strange weaknesses, its uncontrollable passions.

Akhab Khan stretched out his arms again.

“Forgive me, my soul, if I did doubt thee,” he almost sobbed.

The girl was the first to recover her self-control.

“Put away your pistol,” she said, fixing her fine eyes on Malcolm, with a softness in their limpid depths that he had never seen there before. “If we can contrive, my plighted husband and I, you will not need it to-night. I was rejoiced to hear that you were within our gates. We are beaten. I know it. We have lost a kingdom, because wretches like Nana Dundhu Punt of Bithoor, have forgotten their oaths and preferred drunken revels to empire. Were they of my mind, were they as loyal and honorable as the man I hope to marry, we would have driven you and yours into the sea, Malcolm-sahib. But Allah willed otherwise and we can only bow to his decree. It is Kismet. I am content. Say, then, if you are sent in safety to your camp, do you in return guarantee the two lives I ask of you?”

Malcolm could not help looking at Akhab Khan before he answered. The handsome young soldier had folded his arms, and his eyes dwelt on Roshinara’s animated face with a sad fixity that bespoke at once his love and his despair.

Then the Englishman placed the revolver in his belt and bowed low before the woman who reposed such confidence in him.

“If the issue rested with me, Princess,” he said, “you need have no fear for the future. I am only a poor officer and I have small influence. Yet I promise that such power as I possess shall be exerted in your behalf, and I would remind you that we English neither make war on woman nor treat honorable enemies as felons.”

“My father is a feeble old man,” she cried vehemently. “It was not by his command that your people were slain. And Akhab Khan has never drawn his sword save in fair fight.”