On that evening, about the time when Ahmed had his little fight with the villagers, Kaluja Dass, an Oudh man of pleasant aspect and grave deportment, was preparing a meal for his master in a substantial house lying some little distance in the rear of the Chandni Chauk—Silver Street—the long straight thoroughfare leading from the Lahore gate to the king's palace in Delhi. His brows were drawn down, a deep vertical furrow divided his forehead; he wore a look of worry and embarrassment which accorded ill with his position as khansaman to a subahdar in the army of the king. But the subahdar had announced that he would bring guests home to sup with him, and Kaluja was at his wits' end to provide the meal. The subahdar commanded a regiment, but neither he nor his men had had any pay for weeks. In spite of his impecuniosity, the officer always expected his appetite to be appeased, and was wont to give the rein to a very abusive tongue if the bill of fare was not to his liking.
Kaluja Dass had done his best, but really, without money it was impossible to persuade the merchants in the bazar, however loyal they were, that an officer of the king must be suitably fed. The khansaman had done his best, but he had to confess to himself, as he viewed the dishes, that the supper was not worthy even of a jamadar.
The room in which the meal was set was a large one on the first floor of a house which had once belonged to a prince of the blood. But some years before, when the sahibs came to assist Bahadur Shah—who certainly needed assistance—in the government of his kingdom, the house had been purchased by one of them from its impoverished owner. Craddock Sahib was a hakim, and also, as it appeared, a man of war; in the English way of putting it, he was a surgeon attached to one of the foot regiments in the service of the Company. He had a wife, a son, and a daughter; so large a house was quite unnecessary, as Kaluja thought, for so small a family, especially when the son went away over the black water to his own country, to learn how to become a hakim like his father. But that was a characteristic of the sahibs: they loved spaciousness; and if Craddock Sahib's family was small, his household was correspondingly large; Kaluja Dass as khansaman ruled over quite a regiment of underlings.
Dr. Craddock had been in cantonments when the rising took place. As soon as news of it reached his ears he mounted his buggy and hastened back into the city, against the advice of all his friends. At the gate he was met by a sepoy, who presented a loaded pistol at his head; but quick as thought the doctor lashed him across the face with his whip, and the man slunk howling away. Seeing that the street was full of people, Dr. Craddock jumped from his buggy and made his way by side streets towards his house. He had almost reached it when he was set upon by a group of ruffians, who hacked at him with their knives and left him for dead on the ground.
It happened that next day the doctor's house was granted by the king to a Pathan adventurer named Minghal Khan, who had just entered the city. He had come with high recommendations from the Maulavi Ahmed Ullah. Had he not earned Paradise by going to and fro through the land in the guise of a fakir and preparing the minds of the faithful for the great deliverance at hand? So worthy a missionary deserved well at the hands of Bahadur Shah, and the doddering old king at once made him a subahdar and gave him for residence the house which had just been purged of the defiling presence of an infidel Feringhi.
The first thing Minghal Khan did was to fling out of the house some of the European furniture, treading under heel the many dainty nick-nacks which had stood for so much to the memsahib as mementoes of home. Among the larger articles of furniture which he allowed to remain was a lofty almirah, on the shelves of which stood long arrays of bottles large and small, containing liquids and powders of various colours. Minghal had no respect for the infidel hakim's drugs, but the bottles made a pretty show and pleased his eye.
Those who had known Kaluja Dass as the faithful servant of Craddock Sahib might have been surprised at his remaining in the same house as khansaman to Minghal Khan. No doubt they were somewhat astonished at the change that came over the man. He was never tired of abusing his late master and all the Feringhi race, and though, not being a man of war, he did not actually fight against them, no man in Delhi cursed them more heartily or uttered devouter wishes for their extermination. It was partly this violence of language that induced Minghal Khan to engage him. That important personage at first swore that he would have none to serve him who had served the Feringhis; he even accused Kaluja of favouring the accursed infidels, and only the most vehement protestations of hatred—spittings, revilings, maledictions on countless foregone generations of the sons of perdition—prevented the Pathan from dealing with Kaluja in his haste as too many loyal natives had been dealt with. And then, when the man offered to serve the hazur without pay—so greatly did he honour this doughty enemy of the sahibs—Minghal was satisfied. A man must live, to be sure, but a khansaman had opportunities of squeezing the means of livelihood out of the purveyors honoured with his master's custom; and Minghal, being as arrant a brigand as ever went raiding on the border, was content to accept the service of an experienced domestic on such easy terms.
But Kaluja's place was not an easy one, and became more difficult as money ran short. This evening he had spent his last rupee in buying sweetmeats as garnishment for the meal. The names he bestowed inwardly on his master did not savour of respect. And when by and by Minghal came in with two friends of his kidney, and saw the meagreness of the repast, he cursed Kaluja as a dog and the son of a dog, and bade him go into the bazar and buy something more suited to the dignity, as to the appetite, of a friend of Bahadur Shah.
"Hazur, thy servant has not a pice," faltered the khansaman.
"Pig, wouldst thou answer me? Go, get thee some of the Feringhi's lumber that remains, and sell it. Wouldst thou keep my guests waiting? Quick, or by my father's beard I will hamstring thee."
Kaluja hastened from the room. During his absence Minghal inveighed against the parsimony of the king, which kept his faithful servants in such straits.
"Where is justice?" he cried. "Did he not command two days ago that twelve rupees' worth of sweetmeats should be bestowed upon those seventy sowars who came in from Alipur, with a tale—lies, by my beard!—that they had slain a hundred Feringhis and pursued a host for three full koss? And yesterday did he not give large gifts to the Gujars who stole forty camels from the Feringhis' camp? He is lavish to them, and yet will not part with a rupee to one who has journeyed in the heat of the day and faced death a hundred times in conveying the Maulavi's chapatis to the faithful!"
"The king has no treasury: how can he pay you?" said one of his friends.
"Bah! Has he not untold wealth in that palace of his? And are not the queen's arms heavy with jewels? Verily he will not long be king when we have smitten these accursed Feringhis."
"And when will that be, friend? The smiting was the other way this morning."
"Hai! what is that? Do not our numbers grow day by day? What can the Feringhis do? Can they scale these walls? Have we not a hundred guns and more upon them? Within a little we shall issue forth like a swarm of locusts and devour them. The work grows apace. This day a kasid came with news that a regiment has risen at Jajjar; troops are coming to us from Kotwal; the Feringhis have been smitten at Lahore. What can this handful of white-faced dogs do against our great host?"
Further conversation was interrupted by the return of the khansaman laden with dainties from the bazar.
"Wah! Did I not say that there is abundance of good things in Delhi? But why, pig, hast thou not brought spirits? Wherewithal dost thou suppose we will comfort our hearts?"
"Hazur, the bottles are empty."
"Dog, thou liest! All the Feringhis lay in a plentiful store of the strong waters. Hast thou drunk them thyself, thou thief, and broke the Prophet's command? Verily I will myself come and see if thou art telling the truth."
"Hazur, I will look again," said the khansaman hastily, and with an anxious air. "Maybe I have overlooked a bottle or two that still remain. It is not meet that the noble hazur should have the great trouble of searching himself."
He went away, and soon returned with a full bottle of brandy. Forbidden though the drinking of intoxicating liquors was, many professed faithful followers of the Prophet paid scant heed to the prohibition. They drank if they could afford to buy. Minghal and his guests imbibed freely, diluting the liquor but little. The bottle was soon empty: the guests, less accustomed to the spirit than Minghal himself, were completely overcome; and Minghal, flushed and unsteady, called for more. Kaluja humbly declared that there was no more in the house; but Minghal, cursing him for a liar, cried that he would see for himself. He rose and staggered across the room. Catching sight of the row of bottles on the almirah, he gave a maudlin chuckle of delight and reached out his hand to take one down.
"Hazur, have a care!" cried the khansaman. "Those bottles contain not what thou desirest. They are the hakim's medicines; some cause the pains of hell, some kill."
"Thou liest in thy throat, dog. I will drink, I say."
He took down one of the bottles and carried it to the divan where he had been reclining. Then, removing the stopper, he poured a quantity of liquid into his cup and raised it to his lips. Before he could drink, however, he choked, caught his breath, and dropped the cup as if it stung him. The liquid fell upon his sandalled feet, and he sprang up with a yell of pain.
"I am burning!" he screamed, gasping with the ammonia fumes. "It is the fire of Tophet at my feet and nose."
"Hazur, did I not say to thee, 'Touch not'? But thou wouldst not hear."
"Dog, dost thou prate while I burn? The pain consumes me. Dost thou stand and look? Run for the hakim ere I perish."
The khansaman started, and threw a scared look over his shoulder. Then he appeared to recover himself.
"It needs not to call a hakim," he said. "I will myself ease the hazur's pain."
He took some ghi from a dish, and smeared it quickly on the tortured feet. The grease gave instant relief. Minghal was effectually sobered now, but his temper must needs find a vent. His rolling eyes lighted on his two guests, who had lain undisturbed in a drunken stupor.
"Carry me those swine to the street!" he cried furiously. "Will they remain here and bring down the wrath of Allah upon me? Fling them out, I say."
Kaluja having reasons of his own for clearing the apartment, caught the men by the heels and dragged them unceremoniously to the door. Then he suggested that the hazur would be the better for a long night's sleep, and assisted his master to his bedroom. When he returned to the other room, he secured both the inner and the outer doors; then, furtively as a thief might move, he went to the almirah. Looking round as if to make sure even now that no one was observing him, he slid a portion of the back of the almirah aside, disclosing the stone wall of the room. He put his hand on one of the slabs of stone: it yielded to his touch, and opened slowly inwards. He stepped in, drew back the panel of the almirah to its former place, and disappeared.
It was still early morning when Ahmed rode up to the red walls of Delhi; but in spite of the hour there was already much traffic through the Ajmir gate. A long line of bullock-carts was filing along the Jaipur road past the garden suburb of Paharganj, conveying country produce into the city. A regiment of sepoys was marching out of the gate towards the encampment lying across the road. To the left of the gate rose the tomb of Ghazi Khan, and in the centre of the city towered the dome and minarets of the Jama Masjid—the splendid mosque which is the Mecca of Mohammedan India. Ahmed was amazed at the vastness of this city of the Moguls. He felt as a Highland lad might feel if suddenly transplanted from his little village among the lochs and mountains to the turmoil of London.
Delhi had none of the aspects of a beleaguered city; indeed, it was never in the military sense besieged. The British force was far too small to attempt a strict investment of the great city. Men might go in and out as they pleased. The holders of the Ridge were far more closely beset. Save that his communications were open in the rear, General Barnard might himself have been considered to be in a state of siege. He was holding his ground, waiting for the opportunity to strike a blow.
Ahmed followed at the tail end of the procession of carts. As he approached the gate he observed a strong guard of armed sepoys there, and wondered whether he would have any difficulty in passing. He felt a little timid now that he was actually drawing near to the heart and focus of the great rebellion, but he crushed down the feeling, and assuming a bold front accosted one of the guard and began in his imperfect Urdu to pour out his tale of tribulation.
"Salaam, jamadar!" he said, giving the man a sausage by way of ingratiation a title at least two grades above his proper rank, and raising his right hand to his brow in due Moslem salutation; "thou dost behold one who is very thankful to Allah this day."
"Salaam, banijara," said the man. "What is this thou tellest me?"
"Thou beholdest one, a peaceable trader, as thou seest, who has escaped the very jaws of death. I was one of a small caravan bringing rich merchandise for the subahdars of the army of the faithful; nay, maybe for the most noble shadow of Allah the king himself. And lo! we were set upon in the twinkling of an eye by a troop of vile Gujars, sons of perdition, and though we fought like lions—was not Sherdil, the son of Assad, among us?—what could we do? We are not men of the sword, like thee."
"True; the camel is but as a leaf when the tiger springs upon him. Go on with thy tale."
"We were like leaves, as thou sayest, when the wind blows. We were scattered, and I in my haste quitted the road, and by the grace of Allah got myself away among trees and bushes, and so escaped. And I wandered long, and by great good fortune found myself at length upon this very road. 'Twas good fortune indeed, for had we not been molested we might verily have blundered upon the camp of the Feringhis, and then my goods would have come to the hands of vile kafirs instead of true believers. And now that I have found the city of peace, I would fain know of some good serai where men of my folk are wont to resort, so that I may rest somewhat from my journey before I carry my goods to the subahdars and have some recompense for my toils and perils."
He slipped a coin into the man's hand; bakshish would always smooth the way.
"In very truth thou hast been fortunate," said the sepoy; "yet not wholly, for it is no good time for buying and selling in Delhi. We soldiers—even the subahdars, save some few who made great plunder at the first rising—cry out for money, and there is none that hears. Yet thou mayst find some of the princes who will look at thy wares: go in peace."
And he gave Ahmed the names of two or three serais frequented by traders of his nation. Ahmed went on his way rejoicing. He had asked for the Afghan serais merely to avoid them; his imposture might be discovered if he came among genuine merchants. After a little trouble and discreet inquiries he found a humble inn at the corner of the Moti Bazar, near the centre of the city and not far from the Kotwali—the head-quarters of the city police—and having left his wares and his camel in the charge of the bhatiyara, he sallied out into the thronging streets, to learn somewhat of the immense city in which, as he supposed, his lot was for some time to be cast.
He made his way first to the Chandni Chauk, and was amazed at the shops which lined that thoroughfare. He had seen shops in Peshawar, but none like these. The street was thronged, and the people were talking excitedly in groups. Hovering on the outskirts of one of these he heard the name of Bakht Khan frequently mentioned, and by and by made out that this rebel artillery officer was expected to arrive shortly with a vast host which would sweep all the Feringhis before it. He went on until he reached the palace, and stood for some time watching the streams of people coming and going—officers, court officials, scribes, bankers—all showing signs of the same excitement. Then he passed on by the palace wall until he reached the Calcutta gate, and saw the fort of Selimgarh stretching out into the river, and learnt from a bystander whom he ventured to address that it was by this very route that the first mutineers had ridden in from Meerut; and there, a little to the left, was the Magazine, the scene of Lieutenant Willoughby's great exploit, when, after defending his post with nine companions against a horde of assailants, he at last blew it up rather than let it fall into the hands of the rebels.
When midday came he was tired and hungry, and returned to the serai for a meal. Later in the day, when the heat was past, he unloaded his bales, hired a coolie, and set forth to offer his wares to the Prince Mirza Mogul, subahdar of the volunteer regiment of native infantry, who seemed to be one of the most important persons in the city. But on arriving at the head-quarters of the regiment he found that the prince had gone to attend a darbar at the palace. Some of the subordinate officers, however, were curious to see the contents of the bale he had brought, and he displayed before them the fabrics he had purchased in Karnal with money given him by Hodson Sahib. Many of the officers, in spite of their having received little or no pay from the King of Delhi, were rich with the spoils of looted provincial treasuries, and were quite ready to bargain for the many-coloured shawls whose merits Ahmed extolled with oriental extravagance.
It takes a long time to conclude a bargain in the East, and Ahmed knew enough of the part he was to play to make no attempt to shorten the business. After haggling for an hour or two he allowed the purchasers to buy some of his goods at what they considered very low prices, not forgetting to assure them that he was being absolutely ruined, and but for the disturbance of trade, due to the upheaval, he would not dream of parting with his wares at such low figures. And he told over again the story of his providential escape from the Gujars, and made himself so pleasant that the officers gossiped freely with him about things that were happening—of the regiments that were expected to arrive in the city, the confiscation of the property of Beg Begam Shamen, the shooting of four spies who had been captured in the English camp. Above all, they complained of the stinginess of the miserable old king, who would neither pay them their arrears nor allow them to obtain their just dues by exerting pressure on the shroffs. They talked in very large terms of the wealth they would secure when the Feringhis were finally defeated, and Ahmed went away feeling that at present they had absolute confidence in their ultimate success.
Next day he heard sounds of firing, and learnt by and by that an engagement had taken place with the English at Sabzi Mandi, a suburb at the southern end of the Ridge. Presently a great mob of yelling fanatics rushed into the city with an elephant they had captured from the English, and they led it in triumph to the palace as a present for the king. Ahmed followed in their wake, accompanied by his coolie with a bale. He had learnt that a regiment of sepoys was quartered in temporary barracks close to the palace, and it seemed likely that the officers might be in the mood to become purchasers. On reaching the barracks he found that they had gone to the palace to join in acclaiming the leaders of the force which had that day, according to their own account, done prodigious execution among the enemy. Ahmed was not sorry; while waiting for the return of the officers he would have an opportunity of gleaning a little information from the men. And so, after a little exchange of courtesies, he said—
"Without doubt such fine men as you must have a famous warrior as leader."
"Without doubt, though we know him little yet," was the reply. "He is, at any rate, a fellow-countryman of yours, O banijara, and a very devout man."
"What! Has he not led you against the Feringhis? Surely in no better way could he prove his devoutness."
"That is very true, and he will lead us when the time comes. There is no doubt of our bravery; we came from Nimuch, and were not admitted to the city until we had covered ourselves with glory in a fight with the English. But our subadhar has only of late been appointed to command us, and since then we have not been outside the walls. We lost very heavily at Badli-ki-serai, the day before those Guides—accursed traitors—came into the English camp. We killed thousands and thousands of the English, but could not utterly defeat them for want of ammunition. And our subahdar was killed. Though our new subahdar has not fought with us yet, he must be a very brave man, or our king would not have appointed him over the heads of other officers who led us."
"It is well you have a subahdar so much to your mind," said Ahmed.
"He is indeed a good man," said another sepoy. "These are hard times, and the great one knows how unjust it is to forbid us to take what we can. He shuts one eye, and if that eye is turned to us when we are taking a little loot—why, Allah is good. In truth"—and here the man dropped his voice—"a part of our loot is set aside, and if it does not find its way to the subahdar, I know not where it goes. 'Twas only yesterday we roasted a rascally shroff until he showed us where his money-bags were hidden. That is as it should be, for the shroffs being vile Hindus, it is not meet that the faithful should want while the unbelievers are waxing fat with great gain. In truth, good banijara, Minghal Khan is a noble officer, and if you do but wait a little, maybe he will buy somewhat of you, seeing that you are of his race."
Ahmed wondered whether he had concealed the start of surprise he felt he had involuntarily given when the name of Minghal Khan was mentioned. That wily enemy of his father was here in Delhi, then, playing a new part. His impulse was to depart at once, lest Minghal should return and discover him. His disguise, to be sure, was good: it was hardly likely that any one who knew Ahmed the boy would recognize him in the bearded trader—and Ahmed found the beard, fixed on with a kind of glue, decidedly uncomfortable. But Minghal was an adept at disguises himself, as his appearance at Mardan as a fakir proved; and if he heard this supposed trader's voice, Ahmed feared that he was lost.
As ill-luck would have it, before he could decently break off his conversation and take his departure, a jamadar of the regiment returned, and, seeing the bundle, demanded that it should be opened. There was no help for it; Ahmed had to display his wares, and was immediately engaged in a haggling bout. Being thoroughly uneasy, he determined to cut the business short, and indeed concluded a bargain with a rapidity and at a sacrifice that evidently surprised his customer. Ahmed hastened to assure him that at an ordinary time he would rather starve than accept such a price, but what was a poor trader to do in these times of trouble? He must take what he could get and be thankful.
The natural result of this was that the customer hesitated. Perhaps if he haggled a little longer he would get the article—a fine embroidered shawl—still cheaper. But Ahmed now spoke up resolutely.
"No, I must make sacrifices; it is fate; but I will not give my goods away. Here, Ali, the hazur does not want the shawl. Roll it up in the bundle; we will be gone."
And then the jamadar, fearing he might lose his bargain after all, closed with the offer, and paid the price.
It was only just in time. The coolie was actually rolling up the bundle when Minghal Khan himself, accompanied by two or three subordinate officers, turned the corner, and approached the door of the barracks at which the chaffering had been going on. Ahmed instinctively bent down, in spite of his disguise, to avoid recognition, and helped the man to tie up the bundle. One of the sepoys with whom he had been in conversation nudged him.
"That is our noble subahdar," he said in a whisper.
Ahmed made but a slight sign that he heard. He did not venture to look up until Minghal Khan had passed by. Then he said—
"Without doubt he is a very devout man, but does he seem fit to command such fine warriors as you? Truly he has not the figure of a great commander. Nevertheless the king knows best."
"And will you not show him your goods?"
"Another time. The great man talked very earnestly with his friends. It is certain he is occupied with weighty matters. It would not beseem my insignificance to intrude upon him now. Salaam!"
He went back to the serai and dismissed the coolie. He had had enough of playing the trader for that time. The rest of the day he spent in wandering about the city, haunting the gates, noting the strength of the sepoys at the bastions, and picking up what scraps of information he could.
That night, under cover of the darkness, he sought out the house of the Maulavi Fazl Hak, who, while in high favour with the king, was secretly in the confidence of Rajab Ali Khan, the organizer of Hodson's spies. It was to him that Ahmed was to make his reports, and by him that the means of conveying his information to the British lines would be arranged. He was admitted to the presence of the maulavi, a man of dignified aspect, with eyes of particular brilliance. Fazl Hak was convinced from the first that the cause of the mutineers was hopeless, and advised the king many times during the siege to make his peace with the sahibs before it was too late.
"I am Ahmed Khan," said the visitor, after salutations had been exchanged, "and I bring greeting from the Maulavi Rajab Ali."
"Yes. You came in yesterday by the Ajmir gate."
"True," said Ahmed, somewhat surprised.
"And you took up your abode in the serai of Gopal Ali by the Moti Bazar."
"It is so," said Ahmed, wondering more and more.
"And you have sold goods to officers of the regiments of the Prince Mirza Mogul and Minghal Khan."
"All this is true," said Ahmed, feeling strangely uncomfortable; "and yet I know not how it reached your ears."
"That is no matter. It is my business to know things. And now, what can I do for you?"
"I would send a message to Hodson Sahib."
"Well, I have been asked to assist an Afghan trader named Ahmed Khan. That was Rajab Ali's word. I will do all I can. Say on. What is the message?"
"I must say it to a munshi, who will write with a pen what I speak with my lips."
"I will write. Speak."
Then Ahmed began, in the grave and earnest manner of one engaged in an important transaction, to describe what he had seen, and relate what he had heard. For some little while Fazl Hak wrote with the finest of pens, in diminutive characters, on paper so thin that Ahmed marvelled it was not pierced. The maulavi's grave face expressed nothing of what he thought; perhaps one who knew him better might have detected a slight twinkle beneath his veiling eyelids, and the play of his lips behind their curtain of beard. All at once he stopped writing, and looking up at Ahmed, said—
"Does a man cook eggs that are already eaten? This that you say, Ahmed Khan, is a twice-told tale. The oldest of your news went to the English three days ago; the newest, a little ere the gates were shut."
Ahmed flushed, and looked exceedingly abashed. He was chagrined at his failure, and annoyed that Fazl Hak had let him go on even so long dictating his stale news. Something in the maulavi's manner suggested that he was not wholly pleased at Ahmed's presence in Delhi. Perhaps he thought that his friend Rajab Ali might have consulted him before sending a new and untried spy into the city. And if this was indeed his feeling, how well, thought Ahmed, was it justified? Was this man omniscient, that nothing could escape him? Ahmed felt thoroughly disheartened. What could he do? He would only make himself foolish in the eyes of the sahibs if he sent them old news, even as he had already made himself foolish in the eyes of Fazl Hak.
"Go on," said the maulavi. "Let me write some new news."
"Of what use, O wise one? It were but waste of breath."
"Yet go on. Who can tell but that the wind may have carried one little seed to your ear?"
"A man was hanged to-day on a tree before the Kotwali, it being supposed he was concerned in the making of a mine that was discovered by the Kashmir gate."
"And a man in the garb of a fakir," said the maulavi, as if in continuance of the report, "was seized at the Ajmir gate, and it being suspected that he was a spy, he was killed. Go on."
"Bakht Khan with his force from Bareilly has halted at the tomb of Safdar Jang."
"That was yesterday. He is now at Ghaziabad. Go on."
"I will even go to my place, and trouble you no more until I have learnt somewhat that no one else can know. Is it not vain to pour water into a vessel that is already full?"
And then Fazl Hak laid down his pen and smiled. It was as though he was satisfied with having impressed Ahmed with a sense of his knowledge and of his own insignificance.
"Come, let us talk as friends," he said. "You are but a youth in these things, in spite of your beard." ("He does not know of my disguise, then," thought Ahmed; this was a little cheering.) "And for one who is but beginning you have not done amiss. I perceive that you have a quick eye and a ready ear, and if, when these troubles are over, you care to enter my service, without doubt you will in due time become the possessor of many rupees."
"I thank you," said Ahmed, the sting of his humiliation somewhat mollified; "but when I have found the hakim I shall return to my own place."
"The hakim! What is this about a hakim?"
The maulavi's evident surprise pleased Ahmed: here was something else that he did not know.
"I came not only to learn things about the rebels," he said, "but to discover the whereabouts of an English hakim who is concealed somewhere in the city—Craddock Sahib; maybe you know somewhat of him?"
"It was told me that he was slain. How know you that he is yet alive?"
"A chit was carried from him to his daughter in Karnal; therefore am I here."
"I knew it not, and it is good knowledge, for Craddock Sahib is a good hakim, and cured me of a fever."
"Then you will help me to find him?"
"That I cannot do; I have too much to do otherwise, and further, it might bring me into great peril. Already I run great risks. Is it not known who carried the chit?"
"A man who would say nothing, if indeed he knew anything. The missy sahib thought that her father might have been saved by one of his servants: the khansaman, Kaluja Dass, seemed to be a true servant. Know you aught of him?"
"No. I know much, as you have perceived, but I do not know the whereabouts of every khansaman who served the English before the troubles. But I can soon discover."
He clapped his hands, and a chaprasi appeared. The maulavi gave him a few instructions in a low tone, and the man went out again.
"He will assuredly learn what we desire to know. Until he returns refresh yourself. There are sherbets at your service, also a hookah."
Ahmed took the sherbets, but declined the hookah. In the course of an hour the man came back, and spoke apart with his master. Then he disappeared.
"It is vain," said Fazl Hak. "The khansaman has become a rebel. He serves Minghal Khan, who now occupies Craddock Sahib's house. The khansaman, Kaluja Dass, is heard daily cursing the sahibs whom formerly he served, and verily he hates them above measure, or he would not have taken service with Minghal Khan. You must seek elsewhere for the preserver of the hakim. And if you find him, let me know; I would do somewhat for Craddock Sahib."
Ahmed left the house doubly disappointed—at his failure to supply any information worth carrying to the Ridge, and at the bad news concerning the khansaman. He had been full of confidence when he entered Fazl Hak's presence. His confidence had been rudely shaken, and further, he had now a certain feeling of personal insecurity which he had not before. Not that he had been unaware of the risks that he was running. If his disguise were penetrated, if his connection with the English was so much as suspected, he would be hanged or shot without mercy. But his peril had not come home to him as it did now, when he found that, so far from being unknown in Delhi, his every movement had been watched. If he was thus known to the maulavi, was it not possible that he was also being spied upon by agents of the mutineers? Might they not be giving him the rope by which to hang himself? As he passed through the streets on the way back to his serai he felt that he was slinking along like a criminal. He seemed to see an enemy in every passer-by.
But before he reached the serai he had partially got the better of this feeling. After all, Fazl Hak himself appeared to have no idea that the bearded Afghan who had stood before him was a youth in disguise. It was a pleasure to find a gap in that wise person's knowledge, and as for the mutineers, the summary manner in which they had disposed of the man caught at the Kashmir gate, and the disguised fakir at the Ajmir gate, disposed him to believe that if he were suspected he would not now be alive.
Though thus gaining reassurance as to his safety, he had to confess that the discovery of Craddock Sahib seemed as far off as ever. He had counted much on the khansaman, and to find that the man was not only disloyal, but had actually taken service with one of the most malignant of the enemies of the sahibs, was much more than a disappointment. Since it appeared clear that the khansaman could have had no hand in the concealment of the doctor, he had no clue to follow, and to seek a hidden man without a clue in this immense city, with its labyrinths of streets and lanes, was a task that staggered him by its hopelessness.
After a night's rest, however, his fit of black despair had passed. He awoke with a settled determination to do his utmost, not merely to find the hakim, but to prove to Fazl Hak and to Hodson Sahib that he was worthy of the mission entrusted to him. In his interview with the maulavi his self-esteem had received a wound—not a very serious one, as his good sense informed him, but still one that could only be healed by accomplishment. The question was, how to achieve his end? Obviously he could not force things; it seemed as though the most he could do was to be alert and vigilant, trusting that chance would throw an opportunity in his way.
It occurred to him that a visit to Minghal Khan's house might help him a little. It would at least enable him to learn for himself, perhaps, whether the chaprasi's report about the khansaman was justified. He still felt a lingering hope that the informant was mistaken. The missy sahib had much knowledge of the man, and it seemed incredible to Ahmed, with his experience of the loyalty of his comrades in the Guides to their salt, that a man who had served the sahib faithfully for years should be so utterly perverted as the chaprasi had reported. Had he not heard stories in camp of the heroic devotion shown by native servants in rescuing and giving asylum to the families whose salt they had eaten? Had he not, indeed, seen with his own eyes in the camp on the Ridge Metcalfe Sahib, who had been saved, not even by a servant, but by a police officer, one Mainudin Hassan Khan, who at the risk of his life had conveyed the sahib to Jajjar? If a police officer would do this, might not a khansaman or some other servant, bound to his master by personal ties far closer, have done as much for Craddock Sahib?
From his experiences on the previous day, he guessed that in all probability Minghal Khan would leave his house early to attend the usual morning darbar at the palace. His absence would furnish a good opportunity of calling without risk. Accordingly, he summoned his coolie, and, while the man was preparing a bale of goods, he inquired of the innkeeper the way to the great man's house. It was not far off, being on the opposite side of the Chandni Chauk towards the Delhi Bank. He set off with his goods, found the house without difficulty, and rang the bell.
"Salaam, darwan," he said to the servant who opened the door. "You behold a trader from Afghanistan, who comes with some beautiful fabrics of exquisite workmanship to lay before the great subahdar, Minghal Khan."
"Away, banijara!" replied the man. "The great one is not at home; he is gone to the king's palace. And even were he within, dost think he would deign to look at the filthy rags a man like thee would bring? Away, and take thy shadow from his door."
Ahmed, who knew very well what this meant, slipped a few annas into the darwan's hand.
"I know I am unworthy that the light of the great man's countenance should fall upon my goods," he said. "Yet in his merciful kindness he may deign to purchase some small thing, and then, O darwan, there will assuredly be dasturi for hands that so well deserve it."
The preliminary "tip," and the promise of a commission on the goods sold, had the expected effect.
"The great one is from home," said the man. "If you will come again, I will do my poor best to persuade him to look upon you."
"It is a favour. How lucky art thou, O darwan, to be doorkeeper to the exalted one! By what great merits didst thou arrive at so high a station?"
The darwan's vanity was flattered. He bridled.
"Wah! It is as thou sayest, banijara. And 'tis more merit than luck, be sure. I have served the great man but two days, and live in the sunlight of his good favour. I have served other great men in my time. Even but now I came from the Maulavi Ahmed Ullah himself. Being ignorant, thou mayst not know that the Maulavi and my present master are as brothers, and two days ago I came from the Maulavi with news of the great doings at Cawnpore. And being the first—for those twenty sowars who brought the news were laggards compared with me—and sent by the Maulavi to Minghal Khan, the great man was able to acquaint the king before the sowars came, and for that he received a present of royal sweetmeats, and made me his darwan."
"Truly it was great merit. And that matter of the doings at Cawnpore—I have heard some whispers of it, but not as thou couldst tell it. I pray thee, darwan, say on."
"It was a glorious matter. The Feringhis were shut up there, and Dhundu Pant, whom men commonly call Nana Sahib, took a full revenge for his grievances. Thou must know he was adopted son of that Baji Rao whom the accursed Feringhis put down from being peshwa, and tried to soothe with a pension of eight lakhs of rupees. And when he died, they would not pay the pension to his son, though Baji Rao left a host of dependants for Nana Sahib to support. And when Nana made complaint of this injustice to the Kumpani, they gave him a rough answer: what did it matter to the Kumpani if Baji Rao's people starved? And when the rising came, the men of those parts made Nana Sahib their leader, and he caused entrenchments to be thrown up before Cawnpore, and mounted great guns to destroy the Feringhis. They had done well to yield, but they are even as pigs, and endured great tribulations from shot and shell and the want of food, and Nana Sahib was wroth, because the men clamoured to be led to Delhi. Nana Sahib is a very great man. He sent a letter to the Feringhis, in which he promised, if they would lay down their arms, to let them go safely to Allahabad. Wah! They are stupid as camels. They sent men to meet Azimullah, Nana Sahib's munshi, and he promised to have forty boats stored with food ready for them at the Satia Chama ghat, and it was written down, and when one of the Feringhis came to see Nana Sahib put his name to the paper, the Nana shed tears of sorrow at what their women and children had suffered. Truly he is a very great man."
"As a serpent in cunning. Go on with thy tale, darwan."
"The Feringhis came out, and laughed with joy when they saw the boats moored, even as it had been written. They got into the boats, and some two or three began to move on the stream, when at the sound of a bugle the boatmen leapt overboard, and the sepoys on the banks fired at those laughing fools, and all the men were killed; it was a great killing; and the women were dragged ashore and pent up in a little house, and there they are to this day, and when the Feringhis are all destroyed, then there will be white-faced wives for any who like to take them. It was a great day—and for me too. I shall by and by be rich as a shroff, that is sure. I got much plunder when we entered Cawnpore after the Feringhis were slain; and in very truth—but tell no man of this, banijara—it would not surprise me if I were at this moment richer than my exalted master himself. There is great honour in serving the King of Delhi, but hitherto little profit. That is only until the Feringhis are utterly destroyed. Then all faithful servants of the king will become great subahdars, and Minghal Khan is very high in his favour. But now there is little money; indeed, our khansaman had yesterday none wherewith to buy food for the great one, until he had sold some of the things in the house that belonged to the dog of an English hakim who used to live here. He is a good man, the khansaman, and it would do your ears good to hear him curse the vile Feringhis."
"The great one has many servants, no doubt?" said Ahmed.
"Nay, it is not so. Besides me and Kaluja Dass, the khansaman, there is but one khitmutgar,—a household by no means worthy of so great a man as Minghal Khan. But what must be will be. When there is little money, even the greatest must go short. Here is the khansaman himself, going to market in the bazar."
He stood aside to let the upper servant pass. Ahmed looked at the man keenly. He saw an elderly man, with a grave and somewhat anxious countenance. The khansaman glanced at him as he passed.
"A banijara from Afghanistan, khansaman," said the darwan. "Think you the exalted one will be in the mind to purchase somewhat of him?"
"In the mind, but not the pocket, until the thrice-accursed sons of perdition are sent to the lowest pit," replied the khansaman, and passed on.
"Thou hearest?" said the darwan. "Without doubt he is a good man, and when Minghal Khan is exalted, Kaluja Dass will be exalted too. He hates the Feringhis with a terrible hatred, and that is easy to understand, seeing that it was his kismet to serve them for so many years."
"It is as thou sayest, good darwan. But it seems 'tis an ill time to bring my wares. Yet I would fain show them to the exalted one at a convenient season. I will come again, and if it should not please the great man to see me, I should have some consolation in another talk with thee. 'Tis not often a poor trader like me meets a man who has seen such great deeds."
"And done them, banijara. Was I not among those who shot the fools of Feringhis at the ghat? Wah! One boat that had left the ghat was rowed to the other side—the pigs of English believed they might yet escape. But I was there, with my musket, and I fired, and my shot kindled the thatch that covered the boat, and it burnt with a great blaze. And the boat grounded in the mud, and I ran down and pulled out of it one of the English by the hair of his head, and drove my knife into him many times, and he died, pig that he was—though he did not squeal like a pig; the English, curse them, never squeal."
Ahmed's blood was boiling. It was one of his own race whom this braggart menial had killed. He would have liked to end the man's account then and there, but the coolie was at hand, squatting beside the bale of goods. For the sake of his mission he could not afford to give rein to his anger.
"It is an honour to meet one who has done such brave deeds," he said. "Thou wert better among the soldiers, surely, than at the door of a house. It is men like thee who are wanted to fight the Feringhis, not those miserable dogs who went out but lately, horse and foot and guns, and returned saying that they had not fought because the air did not agree with them. The king did right to drive them from the city. I will come again, good darwan, at night-time perhaps, when the work is done; far be it from me to interfere with thy important duties, and maybe if I bring some sweetmeats or preserves—delicate things for the palate—thou wilt deign to partake with me, while thou cheerest me with thy pleasant talk."
"Gladly will I meet thee," said the darwan, greatly pleased with this flattery. "Never have I seen so excellent a banijara. Salaam!"
Ahmed departed with his coolie. When they reached the Chandni Chauk it was instantly apparent that something had happened which stirred public excitement. Crowds were pouring towards the palace, Hindus and Mohammedans together, their faces lit with joy. One man jostled the coolie, and his burden was thrown to the ground.
"Pig of a Purbiya!" cried Ahmed, seizing the man—a Pathan could not overlook such an insult—"what meanest thou to damage thus the goods of thy betters?"
"How shall I answer?" replied the man. "Knowest thou not that Bakht Khan with his troops is now on the river-bank yonder, and but waits for the repairing of the bridge to cross? And the king has ordered four hundred men to do that work, and I am even now hastening to do his bidding. Overlook my fault for this time, I pray thee."
Ahmed gave him a kick and released him. Clearly there was little chance of doing business on such a great day. He took his wares back to the serai, and then set off to the Calcutta gate to see what might be seen. As he went he heard the concussion of artillery fire, and men soon came running in the direction of the palace with news that the English were bombarding the battery north of the Kashmir gate, commanded by Kuli Khan. Cries arose that a general assault was being prepared against the city, and by and by thousands of red-coated sepoys, with lumbering gun-carriages, marched through the streets towards the Kabul gate, to take up their position at Idgah and Dam-damma, facing the southern end of the Ridge. Meanwhile the bridge of boats, which had broken down in a heavy wind-storm on the previous day, was being hastily repaired by a host of coolies with two companies of sappers and miners, and across the river, two or three miles away, lay the long-expected force of Mohammed Bakht Khan, from whose arrival the rebels hoped so much. All day the city was in a ferment. Heavy guns were mounted on the batteries; some attempt was made to reply to the English fire; and great was the jubilation when it was reported that shells from the city had fallen in the midst of the English camp, killing hundreds of the accursed Feringhis.
Amid the excitements of the day Ahmed had no leisure to prosecute his direct inquiries. He was satisfied with having made a friend of Minghal Khan's doorkeeper, whom he intended to cultivate. What the darwan had said of Kaluja Dass, and the words he had himself heard fall from the khansaman's lips, confirmed the report of Fazl Hak's emissary, and Ahmed now felt sure that Craddock Sahib, wherever he was, owed nothing to his former servant. He could not conceive what his next move should be, and if great fighting was to ensue upon Bakht Khan's arrival, it would seem that nothing but mere accident could put him on the traces of the sahib. Meanwhile he went to Fazl Hak with the news of the treachery at Cawnpore; the particulars he had learnt from the darwan were new to the maulavi.
Next day the whole city flocked to see the entrance of the Bareilly force over the renovated bridge. Ahmed stood among the crowd as the troops filed by, headed by Bakht Khan, who rode among a group of all the chief officers in the city, sent to meet him by the king. There were four regiments of foot, seven hundred cavalry, six horse artillery guns, three field-pieces, three hundred spare horses, and fourteen elephants laden with treasure worth, as rumour said, four lakhs of rupees. Ahmed followed the troops to the great square before the mosque, and listened to the extravagant speeches made there in welcome of the arrivals. Bakht Khan himself was a bluff, blunt soldier, who had learnt something of English reticence during his long and brilliant service with the sahibs. His battery of artillery had received a mural crown as honorary decoration for its guns in reward for its good work at Jalalabad in the first Afghan war. He said little in reply to the flowery compliments showered upon him by the king's officers, and Minghal Khan, who was present with the rest, appeared to think the new-comer's speech deficient in encouragement. It was too good an opportunity to be lost. Minghal raised his voice and poured out streams of fiery eloquence, denouncing the Feringhis, and boasting of what should be done to them now that more active measures were about to be taken. The excited mob yelled applause, even those who failed to understand his speech, which was delivered in the vile jargon of a hill-man; and Ahmed, taking note of all, saw that his old enemy had beyond doubt the ear of the rebels.
The sepoys stood to their arms while Bakht Khan and the other chief officers went to the palace to see the king. Ahmed waited patiently amid the throng until the great man returned. All voices were hushed as Bakht Khan announced that the king had grasped his hands and appointed him commander-in-chief of the forces.
"The king commands that the English shall cease to exist," said the general. "He has given me a shield and a sword, and shed the light of his countenance upon me. He has appointed the Kalla Mahall as the quarters for my troops from Bareilly, and ordered four thousand rupees to be distributed among you for a merry-making. And now I give orders that no soldier shall plunder or harm any man whatsoever in this city. If any soldier is caught plundering, his arm shall be severed from his body. Thus the king commands. We can do nothing without order, such order as the Feringhis have; and there is no order where every man seeks to enrich himself. I said to the king that were I to catch even a prince of blood in the act of plunder, I would straightway cut off his nose and ears. And the king made answer: 'Do whatsoever seemeth good unto thee.' Wherefore I say to the kotwal of this city: if there is any more plundering he shall be hanged. And let a drummer go forth and proclaim that all shopkeepers arm themselves, and if any have no arms, they shall be furnished him. These things I say, and let all men know that I am the general of Bahadur Shah, and my word is as his word."
There was a soldierly directness and a grim determination about the man that impressed the people. Ahmed recognized the fruits of English training in the general, but as he looked round among the sepoys and the populace, and realized what discordant elements were mingled there, he knew that one man, even such a one as Bakht Khan, could never discipline them into the cohesion which alone could command success.
When the assembly dispersed and the troops went to their quarters, Ahmed still kept track of the movements of the general. He followed him when he visited Prince Mirza Mogul, the former commander-in-chief, sulking at his reduction to the post of adjutant-general, and when he inspected the magazine, and waited for hours at the general's door when he held his levée of the officers, taking note of those who entered, and those who remained longest. Minghal Khan was among these last, and since it was clear that he and the commander-in-chief were on especially good terms, Ahmed decided that it would certainly be worth while to pay another visit to the darwan. As yet he had learnt little that all the world did not know; but it was possible that the men of Minghal Khan's own household might have information of a more private nature. It was now drawing towards evening; the business of the day would soon cease, and the darwan would be at leisure. In preparation for the visit Ahmed bought a quantity of delectables in the bazar, and as soon as it was dark, and the streets, which had been thronged all day, became a little clearer, he set off with his parcel of dainties for Minghal Khan's house.
"Salaam, darwan," said Ahmed, as the man opened the gate in answer to his ring. "Thou beholdest me, even as I said, and I have with me some few choice things to eat. Peradventure thy duties are done, and thou wilt have leisure to enliven my ears with more tales of brave doings."
"Woe is me, banijara! I would fain talk to thee and eat thy dainties, but I fear me 'tis an ill season. My exalted master is even at this moment above-stairs in council with Bakht Khan himself, and he may call for me at any moment."
"That is ill news for me, good darwan. I must needs go back and come another day. And yet it is pity, for these dainties of mine are fresh. Hai! what must be will be."
"'Tis pity, as thou sayest; but the exalted one might be displeased."
The darwan was clearly vexed at the prospect of losing a feast. Ahmed, on his part, was the more desirous of gaining admittance to the house now that he knew what was going on there. Perhaps this was the very opportunity he had been seeking, of learning something about the rebels' plans that should escape even Fazl Hak. So he took quick advantage of the darwan's hesitation.
"Maybe I might come in for a short time," he said. "Never would I interfere with thy duties, and if thou art summoned I can take up my shoes and depart quietly. And I mind me of a saying of my country: 'Better sheep's trotters now than a leg of mutton a year hence.'"
"A true saying, and a wise. Well, come in, banijara. Allah is good!"
Ahmed entered, and the darwan led him to his own little shed in the compound; and, making themselves as comfortable as the bare chamber admitted, they began to talk in low tones, and to dispose of the eatables which Ahmed had brought. If the darwan had been observant, he would have noticed that his companion was scarcely so attentive to his conversation as he had been on the previous day. Indeed, Ahmed's imagination was busy all the time with the meeting upstairs. What was being discussed between the commander-in-chief and Minghal Khan? How would he find out? He wished that the darwan would be called away, so that he might make an attempt to look in upon them and, if possible, to hear something of what they were saying. In view of the possibility, he got from the darwan by discreet questions a description of the apartments.
"The great ones are in the room where the English hakim—may his father's grave be defiled!—took his meals. Opposite is the room where he kept his medicines. And the khitmutgar told me of a strange happening. A little while ago the exalted one, being athirst—he had drunk of the Feringhi's strong liquor, but that must not be told—being athirst, I say, he took one of the hakim's bottles, thinking it contained a grateful draught. But lo! when he lifted the stopper, straightway he was bitten by terrible devils that caught him by the nose and throat, and some of the liquor was spilt upon his foot and smote him with very lively pains. And now he goes but rarely into that room, and he sniffs even at milk before he tastes it."
Time passed; the materials of the feast had disappeared; and the darwan, at length becoming alive to the apparent tedium of his guest, heartily wished that he would go. He threw out hints—the hour was getting late; the early sleep was best. Ahmed feigned obtuseness; he was determined not to go while there was any chance of gaining his end. But he had almost given up hope when the darwan was at last summoned to attend his master. Ahmed at once rose.
"It would be ill to stay longer, good darwan," he said. "I will even let myself out and close the door behind me when I know that the way is clear."
"Do as thou sayest, and God be with thee," replied the darwan, hastening away. Ahmed at once slipped out and opened the gate a little way, to give the impression that he had gone and forgotten in his haste to close it behind him. Then he ran into the house, and had just hidden behind a long curtain in the hall when he heard the darwan's voice addressing some one as he descended the stairs.
"The exalted one calleth for drinks, khansaman," he said. "He bade me tell thee as I passed, for he sends me an errand, and the khitmutgar also. What an evil is the lack of money! Here am I, a darwan, bid to do chaprasis' work! Well, thou, khansaman, must turn darwan while we are gone. I go to summon the illustrious prince, Mirza Mogul, to attend the general. Have good care of the door."
He was evidently in very ill-humour at having to turn out. It was raining; he growled again as he went out into the street, glancing in at his shed as he passed to see whether his visitor was gone. Ahmed heard the khansaman close the door, and then pass by into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Instantly he slipped out, and ran lightly up the staircase to the first floor. The wide landing was lit by two lamps hanging from the ceiling. Right and left were two doors, the one on the right slightly ajar, the one on the left wide open. Looking through this latter, Ahmed saw the medicine-room of which the darwan had spoken; the bottles stood in array on the shelves of a large almirah. From the other door came the sound of voices: it was here that Minghal Khan and his guest were conversing. Ahmed was resolved to learn the subject of their discourse. It was probably of importance; almost certainly it was concerned with military affairs, for the darwan had gone to summon the adjutant-general. To learn the matter of their deliberations might be of vital moment to the English. Yet how was he to do so? He could not listen at the door; the servants might pass at any moment. Even as he stood in a tremor of excitement, he heard the clinking of drinking-vessels from below; the khansaman was returning. To hide from him was his first concern. At the other end of the landing was a passage; he might take refuge there. Yet, ignorant of that part of the house, he might only run into greater danger. There was no time for calculation. In another moment he would be seen, and then his fate was sealed. He slipped into the surgery, and stood behind the door, hoping that the khansaman, after carrying the drinks to his master, would not enter the room opposite. If he did—Ahmed fingered his knife: a Pathan has a short way with his enemies.
He heard the khansaman go into the dining-room with his clinking vessels. Voices; then silence; then the shuffling feet of the khansaman as he went downstairs again. Had he shut the door behind him? If he had, all hope of hearing the conversation in that room was gone. Ahmed peeped out. The door was fast closed. He slipped out stealthily, crossed the landing, and put his ear against the door. The sound of talking came to him muffled and indistinct. But it seemed to be approaching: were the great men coming from the room? He heard a laugh, and in Minghal's loud tones the word "almirah." Instantly it occurred to him that the bringing of the liquors had reminded Minghal of his mishap, and he was about to show his guest the room in which it had happened, and the almirah from which he had taken the fatal bottle. In a flash Ahmed saw a chance of taking advantage of their temporary absence from the dining-room. No longer hesitating, he ran to the dark passage at the end of the landing, and shrank into a corner until the two men had crossed from room to room. Then he stole back on tiptoe, and peeped round the door of the surgery to make sure that he could not be seen as he entered the room opposite. The men had their backs to him; Minghal was pointing out the bottle which had all but killed him. Ahmed slipped into the dining-room, and looked around for some means of concealment. He had but a moment; if he did not discover a suitable hiding-place he must get back to the dark passage before Minghal Khan returned.
The eyes of the Guides were trained to observe quickly. This is what he saw in an instant of time: at one end of the room, a pianoforte—he had seen such in the officers' quarters at Hoti-Mardan; in one corner a number of European chairs pushed back out of the way; in the centre, four cushioned seats grouped about a little foot-table on which were cups and bottles and the remains of a meal; along the wall at right-angles to the door, a wide low divan, with flounces touching the floor. In a moment he made his deductions and took his resolution. Two of the four cushioned seats had been occupied by Minghal Khan and the general; the other two were for the officers whom the darwan and the khitmutgar had gone to summon. The divan probably would not be used; beneath it, screened by the flounce, he might lie and hear all that was said. If other officers came, and the divan were required, it would be pulled out and rolled across the floor. In that case he must crawl with it. The chances of discovery by the officers were slight; there was greater risk of discovery by the servants when the meeting broke up; but the Guides were accustomed to take risks.
These considerations passed through Ahmed's mind in a flash. A few seconds after he entered the room he was under the divan, with the flounce pulled down, not a movement of it to betray that anything had happened during the men's absence. He wondered whether the beating of his heart could be heard; it was thumping much more violently now than when he was deciding what to do. The officers stayed in the surgery some time; Ahmed heard Minghal Khan talking and laughing; and by the time they came back his pulse had quietened.
They returned to their seats, and drank, and talked—of the weaknesses of the king, the vices of the princes, the temper of the queen, the desperate straits of the English at Lucknow, the glorious future before them when the English had been annihilated. Ahmed wondered whether all the risks he had dared were to be rewarded with no better pribble-prabble than this. But by and by the Mirza Mogul was announced, and a few minutes after him Khuda Baksh Khan, one of the chief sirdars of the rebel forces, and then the conversation took a turn which engaged the listener's attention to the uttermost.
At first he had difficulty in making it out. The speakers referred to matters which had previously been discussed at the king's palace. But gradually he was able to piece things together; allusions became clear; he grasped the whole. That very night, a brigade of four thousand men, horse, foot and artillery, was to march out secretly, slip by the right of the British position, and move on to the village of Alipur, several miles in the rear. The villagers had proved loyal to the British; they constantly supplied the camp with provisions; and General Barnard had recently established there a small post of some sixty Sikhs. The first object of the proposed night attack was to destroy the village with its guard, and carry off a great amount of stores which was believed to be there.
But it had a second object. While the attention of the British was diverted to this movement, twenty thousand men were to parade under arms at dawn near the mosque, in readiness for a sortie. Bakht Khan meant to signalize his elevation to the post of commander-in-chief by a tremendous stroke against the besiegers. The men would issue in two great columns from the Kashmir and Lahore gates. Outnumbering their enemy by nearly four to one, they would overwhelm them.
This was the general scheme. About the details the officers proceeded to wrangle. Mirza Mogul resented the promotion of a mere artillery officer to the chief command, and had innumerable objections to urge against the views of Bakht Khan. Minghal sided with his superior; Khuda Baksh with the prince. Ahmed could not forbear smiling as he listened. What would all their boasts of a glorious victory come to, if they were thus disunited? He felt a certain respect for Bakht Khan, the sturdy plain-spoken warrior who believed in drill; for the prince, who had bragged for a month of what he meant to do, and had done nothing, he had only contempt. But the important matter was, how to convey information of these designs to Hodson Sahib? The gates of the city had long been shut; to pass out by one of them would be impossible. Should he go to Fazl Hak and ask his advice? He dismissed that idea at once; he would do without Fazl Hak; the maulavi should learn that he was not indispensable. He must trust to his own wits. First of all he had to get safely from the house, and that might prove difficult and dangerous enough. He was a prisoner under the divan until the meeting broke up; when the visitors had gone the door would be bolted; Ahmed began to feel alarmed lest he should have to remain all night in the house, and be prevented from giving the sahibs warning.
Some time elapsed before the three officers rose to depart. Minghal Khan accompanied them to the door; Ahmed heard the bolts shot, the voice of Minghal giving the servants orders for the morning, then the shuffling of his feet as he ascended the staircase and passed along the passage to his bedroom. Presently the khansaman came in, lifted the remains of the repast from the table, put out the light, and went away. Ahmed lifted the edge of the flounce to watch him. From his position he could see across the landing, through the door which the khansaman had left open, into the opposite room, where a lamp still burned. He saw the khansaman cross the room with the tray in his hand and set it down on one of the shelves of the almirah. Then a strange thing happened. The khansaman pushed aside a panel in the back of the almirah where there were no shelves, and the wall behind opened inwards, as of itself. He went into the hole, turned round and replaced the panel, and was shut from view.
What did this mean? What was the explanation of the stealthy, furtive manner in which the khansaman had acted? Ahmed would have liked to follow him; it crossed his mind that the man might have a secret hoard of valuables belonging to his late master; but the urgency of his duty to Hodson Sahib forbade any delay. He was in a quandary. How was he to get out of the house? He had heard the bolt of the front door shot; it was too much to hope that he could descend the stairs, draw back the bolt, and open the door without attracting the attention of the darwan, whose shed was close by, and who might not yet be asleep. There was no doubt a back entrance; could he discover that without making a noise? This seemed the only course.
He crept from his hiding-place, stole to the door, listened: all was silent. Then he tiptoed along the landing until he came to the dark passage at the end. It ran across the breadth of the house. He went along it, past a closed door which might be the door of Minghal Khan's bedroom, and reached a staircase. Without doubt this would bring him to the back door. He went down, passed the kitchens, which were in darkness, and came to a door which a rapid inspection assured him was neither bolted nor locked. Opening it just enough to allow him to squeeze through, he gently closed it behind him, and found himself in a walled-in garden, with a circular fountain in the middle. A colonnade ran along three sides of it, supported on slender pillars. There was a door on the fourth side, but this he soon proved to be securely locked. It was an easy matter to swarm up one of the pillars, climb the roof of the colonnade, and from that gain the top of the wall a little below. Then dropping on the outer side he alighted in a narrow lane. It was pitch dark; he could not see his way, and knew not whether to turn to the right hand or to the left; but choosing the left at random, he groped his way along, through puddles and heaps of ill-smelling refuse, following the erratic windings of the lane until he came, as he had hoped, to the street in which the house was situated. Here he got a little light from a few smoky oil-lamps that hung at irregular intervals from brackets on the walls. From the sounds he heard before him he guessed that the street led into the Chandni Chauk, and in less than a minute he came to that thoroughfare. There were many people about; though the gates of the city were shut, the hour was not yet late; and he judged from the laughter proceeding from many half-open doors that some of Bakht Khan's soldiers were being entertained by the residents.
He walked slowly, and no one paid him any attention. Should he go at once to the walls, he asked himself, and try to find some way of quitting the city? He bethought himself of his goods in the serai. If he left them, without any word of explanation, the bhatiyara might become suspicious. Even if that gave rise to no immediate danger, he thought it unwise to make any difficulties for himself when he should return to the city, as no doubt he would do. So he went back to the serai, and told the keeper that he had met an old acquaintance (which happened to be literally true), and proposed to spend the night with him at the other end of the city. But it would be a pity to disturb his bales at this time of night; he might safely leave them in his friend the bhatiyara's care.
"It is understood that you will make some little charge for the storage," he said, "and I know I leave them with an honest man."
"True, O banijara: I will gladly keep them for you: and as to a charge for storage, I can without doubt trust to your sense of justice."
In reality the honest innkeeper reflected that in these troublous times there was always a chance that a stray bullet, or a round shot from the Feringhis' batteries, might end his customer's career—an unfortunate matter for the customer, but likely to be very profitable to himself, with the goods left on his hands. This being satisfactorily arranged, Ahmed dismissed his coolie, ordered a meal, and while he ate it pondered the difficult problem—his escape from the city.
There were batteries at intervals along the wall, from the Water bastion on the extreme north to the Ajmir gate at the south-west corner of the city. These would be fully manned during the night. The wall would be watched along its whole circumference; more loosely on the south side, no doubt, than on the north or west, for in that quarter the city had not even remotely been threatened by the besiegers. On the other hand, the sentries there being in no danger of shot or shell, would have nothing to do but watch, whereas on the west and north, and particularly on the latter, they would be in some degree concerned in keeping under cover. Further, if he left the city on the south side he would have a very long way to go before he could arrive at the Ridge, or at any of the British outposts, and there was also a chance that he might fall into the hands of the rebels as he passed through the populous suburbs. These were strongly held by the mutineers, especially Kishenganj, which would be directly in his path.
On the whole he decided that it would be best to make an attempt at the north side, somewhere between the Shah bastion and the Kashmir gate. He would have to let himself down over the wall, twenty-four feet deep, into the ditch, ascend the scarp on the opposite side, and gain the glacis; then there would be nothing but a stretch of jungly country between himself and the Ridge.
The first requisite was a rope. He had this ready in the cords by which he bound his merchandise to the camel. But to what could he attach the rope if he gained the wall safely? At any spot sufficiently quiet and secluded for him to make the attempt there was scarcely likely to be anything in the way of a staple or ring. Clearly he must provide himself with something that would serve his purpose in case of necessity. Taking advantage of his nightly visit to the stable to look after his camel, he got a stout lathi and sharpened the end of it into the form of a stake. Then he prepared a slip-knot at the end of the rope, wound the rope about his body under his outer garment, and, returning to the inn, gave his host a courteous "salaam aleikam!" and set off in the direction of the Kashmir gate.