CHAPTER IV.
BUGLES AND FIFES.
There was a blessed coolness in the air, for the rains had broken, themolten heats of June had passed. And still that handful of obstinatealiens clung like barnacles to the bare red rocks of the Ridge. Clungall the closer because in one corner of it, beside the canal, they hadbecome part of the soil itself in rows on rows of new-made graves. Astrong rear-guard this, what with disease and exposure superadded toskirmishes and target-practice. Yet, though not a gun in the city hadbeen silenced, not a battery advanced a yard, the living garrison dayafter day dug these earthworks for the dead one, firm as it, in silentresolve to yield no inch of foot-hold on those rocks till the JudgmentDay, when Men and Murderers should pass together to the greatsettlement of this world's quarrels.
And yet those in command began to look at each other, and ask what theend was to be, for though, despite the daily drain, the Widow's Crusegrew in numbers as time went on, the city grew also, portentously.
Still the men were cheerful, the Ridge strangely unlike a war-camp insome ways; for the country to the rear was peaceful, posts came everyday, and there was no lack even of luxuries. Grain merchants desertingtheir city shops set up amid the surer payments of the cantonmentbazaar, and the greed for gain brought hawkers of fruit, milk, andvegetables to run the gauntlet of the guns, while some poor folkliving on their wits, when there was not a rag or a patch or a bit ofwood left to be looted in the deserted bungalows, took to earningpennies by tracking the big shot as they trundled in the ravines, andbringing them to the masters, who needed them.
Between the rain-showers too, men, after the manner of Englishmen,began to talk of football matches, sky races, and bewail the fact ofthe racket court being within range of the walls. But some, like MajorReid, who never left his post at Hindoo Rao's house for three months,preferred to face the city always. To watch it as a cat watches amouse to which she means to deal death by and by. Herbert Erlton wasone of these, and so his old khansaman, with whom Kate used to quarrelover his terribly Oriental ideas of Irish stew and such like--wouldbring him his lunch, sometimes his dinner, to the pickets. It wasquite a dignified procession, with a cook-boy carrying a brazier, sothat the Huzoor's food should be hot, and the bhisti carrying a porouspot of water holding bottles, so that the Huzoor's drink might becool. The khansaman, a wizened figure with many yards of waistbandswathed round his middle, leading the way with the mint sauce for thelamb, or the mustard for the beefsteak. He used at first to mumblecharms and vows for safe passage as he crossed the valley of theshadow; as a dip where round shot loved to dance was nicknamed by themen. But so many others of his trade were bringing food to the masterthat he soon grew callous to the danger, and grinned like the restwhen a wild caper to dodge a trundling, thundering ball made afair-haired laddie remark sardonically to the caperer, "It's well foryou, my boy, that you haven't spilled my dinner."
Perhaps it was, considering the temper of the times. Herbert Erlton,eating his lunch, sheltered from the pelting rain behind the low scarpwhich by this time scored the summit of the Ridge, smiled also. He wasall grimed and smirched with helping young Light--the gayest dancer inUpper India--with his guns. He helped wherever he could in his sparetime, for a great restlessness came over him when out of sight ofthose rose-red walls. They had a fascination for him since JimDouglas' failure to return had left him uncertain what they held. So,when the day's work slackened, as it always did toward sunset, and therain clearing, he had drifted back to his tent for a bath and achange, he drifted out again along the central road, where those offduty were lounging, and the sick had their beds set out for the sakeof company and cooler air. It was a quieter company than usual, forsome two days before the General himself had joined the rear-guard bythe canal; struck down by cholera, and dying with the half-conscious,wholly pathetic words on his lips, "strengthen the right."
And that very day the auctions of his and other dead comrades' effectshad been held; so that more than one usually thoughtless youngsterlooked down, maybe, on a pair of shoes into which he had stepped overa grave.
Still it was an eager company, as it discussed Lieutenant Hills'exploit of the morning, and asked for the latest bulletin of thatreckless young fighter with fists against the swords.
"How was it?" asked the Major, "I only heard the row. The beggars musthave got clean into camp."
"Right up to the artillery lines. You see it was so beastly misty andrainy, and they were dressed like the native vidette. So Hills,thinking them friends, let them pass his two guns, until they begancharging the Carabineers; and then it was too late to stop 'em."
"Why?"
"Carabineers--didn't stand, somehow, except their officer. So Hillscharged instead. By George! I'd have given a fiver to see him do it.You know what a little chap he is--a boy to look at. And then----"
"And then," interrupted the Doctor, who had been giving a glance at aticklish bandage as he passed the bed round which the speakers weregathered, "I think I can tell you in his own words; for he was quitecool and collected when they brought him in--said it was from bleedingso much about the head----"
A ripple of mirth ran through the listeners, but Major Erlton did notsmile this time; the laugh was too tender.
"He said he thought if he charged it would be a diversion, and givetime to load up. So he rode--Yes! I should like to have seen ittoo!--slap at the front rank, cut down the first fellow, slashed thenext over the face. Then the two following crashed into him, and downhe went at such a pace that he only got a slice to his jacket andlay snug till the troop--a hundred and fifty or so--rode over him.Then--ha--ha! he got up and looked for his sword! Had just found itten yards off, when three of them turned back for him. He dropped onefrom his horse, dodged the other, who had a lance, and finally gashedhim over the head. Number three was on foot--the man he'd dropped, hethinks, at first--and they had a regular set to. Then Hills' cloak,soaked with rain, got round his throat and half choked him, and thebrute managed to disarm him. So he had to go for him with his fists,and by punching merrily at his head managed all right till he trippedover his cloak and fell----"
"And then," put in another voice eagerly, "Tombs, his Major, who hadbeen running from his tent through the thick of those charging devilson foot to see what was up that the Carabineers should be retiring,saw him lying on the ground, took a pot shot at thirty paces--anddropped his man!"
"By George, what luck!" commented someone; "he must have been blown!"
"Accustomed to turnips, I should say," remarked another, with acuriously even voice; the voice of one with a lump in his throat, anda slight difficulty in keeping steady.
"Did they kill the lot?" asked Major Erlton quickly.
"Bungled it rather, but it was all right in the end. They were aplucky set, though; charged to the very middle of the camp, shoutingto the black artillery to join them, to come back with them to Delhi."
"But they met with a pluckier lot!" interrupted the man who hadsuggested turnips. "The black company wasn't ready for action. Thewhite one behind it was; unlimbered, loaded. And the blackies knew it.So they called out to fire--fire at once--fire sharp--fire throughthem--Well! d----n it all, black or white, I don't care, it's asplucky a thing as has been done yet." He moved away, his hands in hispockets, attempting a whistle; perhaps to hide his trembling lips.
"I agree," said the Doctor gravely, "though it wasn't necessary totake them at their word. But somehow it makes that mistake afterwardall the worse."
"How many of the poor beggars were killed, Doctor," asked an uneasyvoice in the pause which followed.
"Twenty or so. Grass-cutters and such like. They were hiding in thecemetery from the troopers, who were slashing at everyone, and our menpursuing the party which escaped over the canal bridge--made--made amistake. And--I'm sorry to say there was a woman----"
"There have been too many mistakes of that sort," said an older voice,breaking the silence. "I wish to God some of us would
think a bit.What would our lives be without our servants, who, let us remember,outnumber us by ten to one? If they weren't faithful----"
"Not quite so many, Colonel," remarked the Doctor with a nod ofapproval. "Twenty families came to the Brigade-major to-day with theirbundles, and told him they preferred the quiet of home to thedistraction of camp. I don't wonder."
"It is all their own fault," broke in an angry young voice, "why didthey----"
And so began one of the arguments, so common in camp, as to the rightof revenge pure and simple. Arguments fostered by the newspapers,where, every day, letters appeared from "Spartacus," or "FiatJustitia," or some such _nom de plume_. Letters all alike in onething, that they quoted texts of Scripture. Notably one about adaughter of Babylon and the blessedness of throwing children onstones.
But Major Erlton did not stop to listen to it. The ethics of thequestion did not interest him, and in truth mere revenge was lost inhim in the desire, not so much to kill, as to fight. To go on hackingand hewing for ever and ever. As he drifted on smoking his cigar hethought quite kindly of the poor devils of grass-cutters who reallyworked uncommonly well; just, in fact, as if nothing had happened. Sodid the old khansaman, and the sweeper who had come back to him on hisreturn to the Ridge, saying that the Huzoor would find the tale ofchickens complete. And the garden of the ruined house near theFlagstaff Tower whither his feet led him unconsciously, as they oftendid of an evening, was kept tidy; the gardener--when he saw the tallfigure approaching--going over to a rose-bush, which, now that therain had fallen, was new budding with white buds, and picking him abuttonhole. He sat down on the plinth of the veranda twiddling it idlyin his fingers as he looked out over the panorama of the easternplains, the curving river, and the city with the white dome of themosque hanging unsupported above the smoke and mist wreaths. For now,at sunsetting, the sky was a mass of rose-red and violet cloud and awhite steam rose from the dripping trees and the moist ground. It wasa perfect picture. But he only saw the city. That, to him, was India.That filled his eye. The wide plains east and west, north and south,where the recent rain had driven every thought save one of a harvestto come, from the minds of millions, where the master meant simply theclaimer of revenue, might have been non-existent so far as he, and hislike, were concerned.
Yet even for the city he had no definite conception. He merely lookedat it idly, then at the rosebud he held. And that reminding him of acertain white marble cross with "Thy will be done" on it, he rosesuddenly, almost impatiently. But there was no resignation in _his_face, as he wandered toward the batteries again with the white flowerof a blameless life stuck in his old flannel coat and a strangeconglomerate of pity and passion in his heart, while the city--as thelight faded--grew more and more like the clouds above it, rose-red andpurple; until, in the distance, it seemed a city of dreams.
In truth it was so still, despite the clangor of bugles and fifeswhich Bukht Khan brought with him when, on the 1st of July, hecrossed the swollen river in boats with five thousand mutineers. Asquare-shouldered man was Bukht Khan, with a broad face and massivebeard; a massive sonorous voice to match. A man of the Cromwell type,of the church militant, disciplinarian to the back-bone, believing indrill, yet with an eye to a Providence above platoon exercise. Andthere was no lack of soldiers to drill in Delhi by this time. Theycame in squads and battalions, to jostle each other in the streets andoverflow into the camp on the southern side of the city; that furthestfrom the obstinate colony on the Ridge. But first they flungthemselves against it in all the ardor of new brooms, and failing tosweep the barnacles away, subsided into the general state ofdreaminess and drugs. For the bugles and fifes could always bedisobeyed on the plea that they were not sounded by the rightCommander-in-Chief. There were three of them now. Bukht Khan theQueen's nominee, Mirza Moghul, and another son of the King's, KhairSultan. So that Abool-Bukr's maudlin regrets for possible officebecame acute, and Newasi's despairing hold on his hand had to gainstrength from every influence she could bring to bear upon it. Evendrunkenness and debauchery were safer than intrigue, to that vision ofretribution which seemed to have left him, and taken to haunting herday and night. So she held him fast, and when he was not there weptand prayed, and listened hollow-eyed to a Moulvie who preached at theneighboring mosque; a man who preached a judgment.
"Thou art losing thy looks, mine Aunt," said the Prince to her oneday. Not unkindly; on the contrary, almost tenderly. "Dost know,Newasi, thou art more woman than most, for thou dost brave all things,even loss of good name--for I swear even these Mufti folk complain ofthee--for nothing. None other I know would do it, so I would not haveit--for something. Yet some day we shall quarrel over it; some day thypatience will go; some day thou wilt be as others, thinking ofthyself; and then----"
"And then, nephew?" she asked coldly.
He laughed, mimicking her tone. "And then I shall grow tired and gomine own way to mine own end."
In the meantime, however, the thrummings and drummings went on untilKate Erlton, watching a sick bed hard by, felt as if she must sendround and beg for quiet. It seemed quite natural she should do so, forshe was completely absorbed over that patient of hers, who, withoutbeing seriously ill, would not get better. Who passed from one relapseof fever to another with a listless impatience, and now, nearly amonth after he had stumbled over the threshold, lay barelyconvalescent. It had been a strange month. Stranger even than theprevious one, when she had dragged through the lonely days as best shecould, and he had wandered in and out restlessly, full of strain andstress. If even that had been a curious linking of their fates, whatwas this when she tended him day and night, when the weeks slipped bysecurely, almost ignorantly? For though Soma came every day to inquireafter the master, standing at the door to salute to her, spick andspan in full uniform, he brought no disturbing news.
It seemed to her, now, that she had known Jim Douglas all his life.And in truth she had learned something of the real man during the fewdays of delirium consequent on the violent inflammation which set inon the injured ankle. But for the most part he had muttered and moanedin liquid Persian. He had always spoken it with Zora, who had beentaught it as part of her attractions, and no doubt it was the jingleof the jewels as Kate tended him, which reminded him of thatparticular part of his life.
By the time he came to himself, however, she had removed all thefineries, finding them in the way; save the heavy gold bangle whichwould not come off--at least not without help. He used to watch ithalf confusedly at first as it slipped up and down her arm, andwondered why she had not asked Tara to take it off for her; but hegrew rather to like the look of it; to fancy that she had kept it onon purpose, to be glad that she had; though it was distinctly hardwhen she raised him up on his pillows! For, after all, fate linkedthem strangely, and he was grateful to her--very grateful.
"You are laughing at me," she said one morning as she came up to hisbed, with a tray improvised out of a brass platter, and found himsmiling.
"I have been laughing at you all the morning, when I haven't beengrumbling," he replied, "at you and the chicken tea, and that littlefringed business, to do duty as a napkin, I suppose, and thefly-paper--which isn't the least use, by the way, and I'm sure I couldmake a better one--and the mosquito net to give additional protectionto my beauty when I fall asleep. Who could help laughing at it?"
She looked at him reproachfully. "But it makes you more comfortable,surely?"
"Comfortable," he echoed, "my dear lady! It is a perfect convalescenthome!"
But in the silence which followed his right hand clenched itself overa fold in the quilt unmistakably.
"If you will take your chicken tea," she replied cheer-fully, despitea faint tremble in her voice, "you will soon get out of it. Andreally, Mr. Greyman, you don't seem to have lost any chance. Soma isnot very communicative, but everything seems as it was. I never keepback anything from you. But, indeed, the chief thing in the city seemsthat there is no money to pay the soldiers. Do you know, I'm afraidSoma must loot the shops like the
others. He seems to get things fornothing; though of course they are extraordinarily cheap. When I was amem I used to pay twice as much for eggs."
He interrupted her with a laugh that had a tinge of bitterness in it."Do you happen to know the story of the Jew who was eating ham duringa thunderstorm, Mrs. Erlton?"
She shook her head, smiling, being accustomed by this time to hisunsparing, rather reckless ridicule.
"He looked up and said, 'All this fuss about a little bit of pork.' Soall this fuss has taught you the price of eggs. Upon my word! it isworse than the convalescent home!" He lay back upon his pillows with ahalf-irritated weariness.
"I have learned more than that, surely----" she began.
"Learned!" he echoed sharply. "You've learned everything, my dearlady, necessary to salvation. That's the worst of it! Your chatter toTara--I hear when you think I am asleep. You draw your veil over yourface when the water-carrier comes to fill the pots as if you had beenborn on a housetop. You--Mrs. Erlton! If I were not a helpless idiot Icould pass you out of the city to-morrow, I believe. It isn't yourfault any longer. It's mine, and Heaven only knows how long. Oh!confound that thrumming and drumming. It gets on my nerves--mynerves!--pshaw!"
It was then that Kate declared that she would really send Tara----
"Mrs. Erlton presents her compliments to the Princess FarkhoondaZamani, and will be obliged," jested Jim Douglas; then paused, intruth more irritated than amused, despite the humor on his face. Andsuddenly he appealed to her almost pitifully, "Mrs. Erlton! if anyonehad told you it would be like this--your chance and mine--when theworld outside us was alive--was struggling for life--would you--wouldyou have believed it?"
She bent to push the chicken tea to a securer position. "No," she saidsoftly; then to change the subject, added, "How white your hands aregetting again! I must put some more stain on them, I suppose." Shespoke regretfully, though she did not mind putting it on her own. Buthe looked at the whiteness with distinct distaste.
"It is with doing nothing and lying like a log. Well! I suppose Ishall wake from the dream some day, and then the moment I canwalk----"
"There will be an end of peace," she interrupted, quite resolutely. "Iknow it is very hard for you to lie still, but really you must see howmuch safer and smoother life has been since you were forced to give into Fate."
"And Kate," he muttered crossly under his breath. But she heard it,and bit her lip to prevent a tender smile as she went off to give anorder to Tara. For the vein of almost boyish mischief and lightheartedrecklessness which showed in him at times always made her think howcharming he must have been before the cloud shadowed his life.
"The master is much better to-day, Tara," she said cheerfully. "Ireally think the fever has gone for good."
"Then he will soon be able to take the mem away," replied the womanquickly.
"Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?" asked Kate with a smile,for she had grown fond of the tall, stately creature, with her solemnairs of duty, and absolute disregard of anything which came in itsway. The intensity of the emotion which swept over the face, which wasusually calm as a bronze statue, startled Kate.
"Of a truth I shall be glad to go back. The Huzoors' life is not mylife, their death not my death."
It was as if the woman's whole nature had recoiled, as one mightrecoil from a snake in the path, and a chill struck Kate Erlton'sheart, as she realized on how frail a foundation peace and securityrested. A look, a word, might bring death. It seemed to her incrediblethat she should have forgotten this, but she had. She had almostforgotten that they were living in a beleagured city, though thereverberating roll of artillery, the rush and roar of shells, and thecrackle of musketry never ceased for more than a few hours at a time.
She was not alone, however, in her forgetfulness. Half Delhi hadbecome accustomed to cannon, to bugles and fifes, and went on itsdaily round indifferently. But in the Palace the dream grew ominouslythin once or twice. For not a fraction remained in the Treasury, noeffort to collect revenue had been made anywhere, and fat Mahboob, theonly man who knew how to screw money out of a stone, lay dying ofdropsy. And as he lay, the mists of personal interest in the futuredispersing, he told his old master, the King, some home truthsprivately, while Ahsan-Oolah, the physician, administering coolingdraughts as usual, added his wisdom to the eunuch's. There was no hopewhere there was no money. Life was not worth living without a regularpension. Let the King secure his and secure pardon while there wasyet time, by sending a letter to the General on the Ridge, andoffering to let the English in by Selimgarh and betray the city. Whenall was said and done, others had betrayed _him_, had forced _his_hand; so let him save himself if he could, quietly, without a word toany but Ahsan-Oolah. Above all, not one word to Zeenut Maihl, HussanAskuri, and Bukht Khan--that Trinity of Dreams!
With which words of wisdom mayhap lightening his load of sins, the fateunuch left the court once and for all. So the old King, as he satlistening to the quarrels of his Commander-in-Chief, had otherconsolation besides couplets; and when he wrote
"No peace, no rest, since armies round me riot, Life lingers yet, but ere long I shall die o't,"
he knew--though his yellow, wax-like mask hid the knowledge fromall--that a chance of escape remained.
The old King's letter reached the Ridge easily. There was nodifficulty in communication now. Spies were plentiful, and if JimDouglas had been able to get about, he could have set Major Erlton'smind at rest without delay. But Soma positively refused to be ago-between; to do anything, in short, save secure the master's safety.And the offer of betrayal arrived when the man who held command of theRidge felt uncertain of the future; all the more so because of thetelegrams, the letters--almost the orders--which came pouring in totake Delhi--to take it at once! Early in the month, the gamester'sthrow of assault had been revived with the arrival of reinforcements,only to be abandoned once more, within an hour of the appointedtime, in favor of the grip-of-death. But now, though the whisper hadgone no further than the General's tent, a third possibility wasallowed--retreat. The six thousand were dwindling day by day, the menwere half dead with picket duty, wearied out with needless skirmishes,crushed by the tyranny of bugles and fifes.
If this then could be? There was no lack of desire to believe itpossible; but Greathed of the politicals, and Sir Theophilus Metcalfeshook their heads doubtfully. Hodson, they said, had better beconsulted. So the tall man with the blue hawk's eyes, who had lost histemper many times since that dawn of the 12th of June, when the firstassault had hung fire, was asked for his opinion.
"We had a chance at the beginning," he said. "We could have a chancenow, if there was someone--but that is beside the question. As forthis, it is not worth the paper it is written on. The King has nopower to fulfill his promise. He is virtually a prisoner himself. Thatis the truth. But don't send an answer. Refer it, and keep him quiet."
"And retreat?"
"Retreat is impossible, sir. It would lose us India."
"Any news, Hodson?" asked Major Erlton, meeting the free-lance as herode back to his tent after his fashion, with loose rein and looseseat, unkempt, undeviating, with an eye for any and every advantage.
"None."
"Any chance of--of anything?"
"None with our present chiefs. If we had Sir Henry Lawrence here itwould be different."
But Sir Henry Lawrence, having done his duty to the uttermost, alreadylay dead in the residency at Lucknow, though the tidings had notreached the Ridge. And yet more direful tidings were on their way tobring July, that month of clouds and cholera, of flies and funerals,of endless buglings and fifings, to a close.
It came to the city first. Came one afternoon when the King sat in theprivate Hall of Audience, his back toward the arcaded view of theeastern plains, ablaze with sunlight, his face toward the garden,which, through the marble-mosaic traced arches, showed like anembroidered curtain of green set with jeweled flowers. Above him, onthe roof, circled the boastful legend:
"If earth holds a haven of bliss It is this--it is this--it is this!"
And all around him, in due order of precedence, according to thelatest army lists procurable in Delhi, were ranged the mutinous nativeofficers; for half the King's sovereignty showed itself in punctiliousetiquette. At his feet, below the peacock throne, stood a gilded cagecontaining a cockatoo. For Hafzan had been so far right in herestimate of Hussan Askuri's wonders that poor little Sonny's pet, dulycaught, and with its crest dyed an orthodox green, had been used--likethe stuffed lizard--to play on the old man's love of the marvelous.So, for the time being, the bird followed him in his brief journeyingsfrom Audience Hall to balcony, from balcony to bed.
The usual pile of brocaded bags lay below that again, upon the marblefloor, where a reader crouched, sampling the most loyal to be used asa sedative. One would be needed ere long, for the Commanders-in-Chiefwere at war; Bukht Khan, backed by Hussan Askuri, with his long blackrobe, his white beard, and the wild eyes beneath his bushy brows, andby all the puritans and fanatics of the city; Mirza Moghul by hisbrother, Khair Sultan, and most of the Northern Indian rebels whorefused a mere ex-soubadar's right to be better than they.
"Let the Light-of-the-World choose between us," came the sonorousvoice almost indifferently; in truth those secret counsels of BukhtKhan with the Queen, of which the Palace was big with gossip, heldsmall place, allowed small consideration for the puppet King.
"Yea! let the Pillar-of-State choose," bawled the shrill voice of theMoghul, whose yellow, small-featured face was ablaze with passion."Choose between his son and heir and this low-born upstart, thissoubadar of artillery, this puritan by profession, this debaucher ofKing's----"
He paused, for Bukht Khan's hand was on his sword, and there was anominous stir behind Hussan Askuri. Ahsan-Oolah, a discreet figure inblack standing by the side of the throne, craned his long neckforward, and his crafty face wore an amused smile.
Bukht Khan laughed disdainfully at the Mirza's full stop. "What I am,sire, matters little if I can lead armies to victory. The Mirza hathnot led his, _as yet_."
"Not led them?" interrupted an officious peace-bringer. "Lo! thehell-doomed are reduced to five hundred; the colonels are eating theirhorses' grain, the captains are starving, and our shells cause terroras they cry, 'Coffin! Coffin! (_boccus! boccus!_)----'"
"The Mirza could do as well as thou," put in a partisan, heedless ofthe tales to which the King, however, had been nodding his head, "if,as thou hast, he had money to pay his troops. The Begum Zeenut Maihl'shoards----"
The sword and the hand kept company again significantly. "I pay my menby the hoard I took from the infidel, Meean-jee," retorted the loud,indifferent voice. "And when it is done I can get more. The Palace isnot sucked dry yet, nor Delhi either."
The Meean, well known to have feathered his nest bravely, mutteredsomething inaudible, but a stout, white-robed gentleman bleatedhastily:
"There is no more money to be loaned in Delhi, be the interest ever sohigh."
The broad face broadened with a sardonic smile. "I borrow, banker-jee,according to the tenets of the faith, without interest! For the rest,five minutes in thy house with a spade and a string bed to hang theeon head down, and I pay every fighter for the faith in Delhi hisarrears."
"_Wah! Wah!_" A fierce murmur of approval ran round the audience, forall liked that way of dealing with folk who kept their money tothemselves.
"But, Khan-jee! there is no such hurry," protested the keeper ofpeace, the promoter of dreams. "The hell-doomed are at the last gasp.Have not two Commanders-in-Chief had to commit suicide before theirtroops? And was not the third allowed by special favor of the Queen togo away and do it privately? This one will have to do it also, andthen----"
"And a letter has but this day come in," said a grave, clever-lookingman, interrupting the tale once more, "offering ten lakhs; but as thewriter makes stipulations, we are asking what treasury he means toloot, or if it is hidden hoards."
Bukht Khan shrugged his shoulders. "The Meean's or the banker's hoardsare nearer," he said brutally, "and money we must have, if we are tofight as soldiers. Otherwise----" He paused. There was a stir at theentrance, where a news-runner had unceremoniously pushed his way in toflourish a letter in a long envelope, and pant with vehement show ofbreathlessness. "In haste! In haste! and buksheesh for the bringer."
The King, who had been listening wearily to the dispute, thinkingpossibly that the paucity of commanders on the Ridge was preferable tothe plethora of them at court, looked up indifferently. They came sooften, these bearers of wonderful news. Not so often as the littlebrocaded bags; but they had no more effect.
"Reward him, Keeper-of-the-Purse," he said punctiliously, "and read,slave. It is some victory to our troops, no doubt."
There was a pause, during which people waited indifferently,wondering, some of them, if it was bogus news that was to come or not.
Then the court moonshee stood up with a doubtful face. "'Tis fromCawnpore," he murmured, forgetting decorum and etiquette; forgettingeverything save the news that the Nana of Bithoor had killed the twohundred women and children he had pledged himself to save.
Bukht Khan's hand went to his sword once more, as he listened, and heturned hastily to Hussan Askuri. "That settles it as _thou_ wouldsthave it," he whispered. "It is Holy War indeed, or defeat."
But Mirza Moghul shrank as a man shrinks from the scaffold.
The old King stood up quickly; stood up between the lights looking outon the curtain of flowers. "Whatever happens," he said tremulously,"happens by the will of God."
His sanctimoniousness never failed him.
So on the night of the 23d of August there was an unwonted stillnessin the city, and the coming of day did not break it. The rain, it istrue, fell in torrents, but many an attack had been made in rainbefore. There was none now. The bugles and fifes had ended, and folkwere waiting for the drum ecclesiastic to begin. What they thoughtmeanwhile, who knows? Delhi held a hundred and fifty thousand souls,swelled to nigh two hundred thousand by soldiers. Only this,therefore, is certain, the thoughts must have been diverse.
But on the Ridge, when, after a few days, the tidings reached it withcertainty, there was but one. It found expression in a letter whichthe General wrote on the last day of July. "It is my firm intention tohold my present position and resist attack to the last. The enemy arevery numerous, and may possibly break through our intrenchments andoverwhelm us, but the force will die at its post."
No talk of retirement now! The millions of peasants plowing their landpeaceably in firm faith of a just master who would take no more thanhis due, the thousands even in the bloody city itself waiting for thistyranny to pass, were not to be deserted. The fight would go on. Thefight for law and order.
So the sanctimonious old King had said sooth, "Whatever happens,happens by the will of God."
Those two hundred had not died in vain.