CHAPTER III.
The inhabitants of Chittore now gave themselves up to despair. Their governor was dead, a great number of the garrison had been slain in the late sally, and no hope of rescue appeared. The effect was dreadful. The fear of falling into the enemy’s hands drove many to deeds of desperation only heard of among those whose minds have been obfuscated by the gloom of that superstition of which idolatry is the monstrous parent. Whole families destroyed themselves, dying in each other’s arms, and with their expiring breaths cursing those who had induced them to embrace such a dreadful alternative. There was scarcely a house that was not filled with the dying and the dead. The groans of death within mingled with the clamours of war without, and the great conqueror of nature was about to reap a full harvest of triumph.
Day after day passed, and these scenes were repeated. Corpses lay in the streets, and “there was none to bury them;” so that the steams of pestilence began to rise and load the air with the elements of destruction. For two or three days the heroic widow of Jugmul, who now directed the defence of Chittore, was confined to her couch; but the moment she was able to rise, she quitted her house and repaired to the ramparts. The despair of the citizens had reached her ears; she heard it in moody silence, but calmly gave her orders, and, summoning her chief officers, among whom was Peirup Singh, she said—
“The enemy are invincible, and we have nothing now but toprepare for our final change. I need not tell you how the Rajpoot comports himself at this hour of extremity.”
“Nay, why this despair?” asked Peirup Singh. “We are not yet vanquished. The garrison is still numerous, our soldiers are brave, and our enemies enfeebled by the late conflict.”
“They are mighty in their strength; we are only mighty in our weakness—they to vanquish, but we to perish. I need not bid you prepare, because I know none of our blood can be backward to meet death as becomes the brave.”
Peirup Singh, though a courageous man, was by no means prepared for such an issue as the Rajpootni’s widow seemed to contemplate. He loved her daughter, and, with the prospect of enjoyment before him, did not precisely see the necessity of that desperate alternative to which the late governor’s relict alluded. Even should they be obliged to capitulate, the magnanimity of Akbar was too well known to warrant the supposition that he would treat the vanquished with tyranny; the Rajpoot therefore thought that a capitulation in time to so generous an enemy would be their safest policy.
When he expressed these sentiments to her, who directed the movements of the besieged, she said, with an indignant glance at the proposer of so degrading an act of pusillanimity—
“What! does the suitor of my daughter make a proposal so unworthy of his race? It is enough; henceforward you are a stranger to my home.”
She turned from him, and would not hear his reply. Having given her orders in case an assault should be made by the foe, she visited the houses of those whom despair had urged to fatal extremities. The sad sight only nerved her heart to fiercer resolution. She looked upon the dead without a sigh. She conversed with the dying as if they were about to be hushed in a joyous sleep, and there was neither regret nor anguish in their expiring groans. The dead bodies scattered about the streets, and exhaling the elements of death, moved her not to an emotion. Her soul was passion-cased—it was absorbed by one intense feeling. Upon entering her home she was met by her elder daughter.
“Kherla,” she said calmly, “death has been doing much unsightly work among us. The conquerors will not find their garland of victory a beautiful wreath. The foul steams of decaying mortality will hang upon and blight it. My child, we must go to another change. Are you prepared to quit a base world for a brighter? Agni[32]must be our guide to the mutation which awaits us when these poor bodies shall have become ashes.”
“My mother, I am ready to perform the conditions of my destiny. I desire not to exist longer than I can live in the freedom to which I was born; and, rather than become the captive of the Moslem, I am willing to encounter the flames which shall give me a release from those bonds the foe are preparing to cast upon us.”
The mother embraced her child. The younger girl had overheard this conversation, and her heart palpitated. She had hitherto found life an acceptable and sweet possession. She, therefore, felt no desire to embrace the faggot, and have her spirit dismissed from her body on wings of flame. She was full of youth and health, highly susceptible of enjoyment, with a fine flow of animal spirits; and to her, therefore, death was at once a terror and an evil. She was summoned into the presence of her parent, who said with a calm but stern voice,
“Girl, you must prepare for your last hour. The summons of Yama has reached us, and we have no choice. When he calls, obedience is our duty, and the performance of our duty cannot but be a blessing. We must perish, my child.”
The poor girl shuddered but did not utter a word, knowing how ill the stern temper of her only surviving parent could brook resistance. She bent acquiescently, but the tear started into her eye as she turned from the bold mother to conceal her emotions. Having dismissed her children, the heroic matron began to prepare her mind for the approaching sacrifice.
The rite of the Johur was now determined on. The wholegarrison, amounting to five thousand, three having already perished, were assembled. The governor’s widow told them that the last effort was to be made. Nothing remained between subjugation and death. They heard her without a murmur, but with that profound silence which, in a multitude, betokens an inviolable unity of purpose, and began to assume the saffron robe. They were soon prepared to sally from the gate. Peirup Singh was among them. He looked defiance but spoke not. Their swords gleamed in the sun. The stern Rajpootni gazed with a glancing eye of pride, as she beheld the brave band going forth to the sacrifice, knowing that their swords would be steeped in the blood of their foes. She waved her hand when all were ready; the gates were thrown open and they marched forth to the fatal conflict. Their shouts were deafening as they pushed forward like a living deluge. The Moguls knew what they had to expect from the desperate valour of these devoted soldiers. The onset was terrific. Death followed everywhere in the track of those unshrinking assaulters. There was no quarter accepted. The moment a Rajpoot was taken prisoner he fell upon his own sword. The carnage among the Mahomedans was dreadful. They fell by hundreds before the swords of those infuriated men who had devoted themselves to destruction. The Hindoos fought against an enemy more than five times their number with a determination that spread consternation through the Mahomedan ranks. Even Akbar was amazed. He appeared in person in the thickest of that awful struggle, and was twice wounded by a Rajpoot sabre: but his armour protected his life, and the half naked bodies of his foes exposed them to the invincible force of his sword.
For several hours the sanguinary strife continued, until almost every Rajpoot was slain. Upwards of two thousand Mahomedans were left dead upon the field, and full twice that number wounded. The brave Hindoos had raised a memorable trophy round their bodies never to be forgotten. Akbar visited the field of carnage. He was astonished at the impetuous and unflinching valour displayed by the foe. He dropped a tear as his eye glanced over the field covered with slain. He had obtained a dearlybought victory. It was evident that had the enemy met him upon equal terms, with them would have remained the honours of triumph. The sacrifice had indeed been great, but the victory was complete. As soon as the wasted energies of his troops should be recruited he determined to make an assault upon the town if the terms which he was disposed to offer were rejected.
Among the few Rajpoots who had survived the carnage of that sanguinary day was Peirup Singh. He sought the lovely Kherla Nuny, hoping that she would fly with him from peril to happiness, but it was evident he knew her not.
“Kherla,” said he, “all is lost. We have done everything that brave men could do, and Chittore is at the foe’s mercy. Let us fly, my bride, while the means of escape remain to us. I can take you to a place of safety.”
“Who are you?” calmly asked the noble girl.
“Is it possible you can ask such a question of Peirup Singh, your accepted bridegroom, who is prepared to convey you from this scene of carnage to a home where happiness awaits you?”
“Peirup Singh, the bridegroom of Kherla Nuny, would not dishonour his kindred. The daughter of Jugmul can never unite herself with one who, after having assumed the saffron robe, has run from the foe and hid his recreant head behind stone walls. Dost thou fear to die, Peirup Singh?”
“No; but I deem life a gift not to be rashly thrown away when it may be appreciated and enjoyed. If good can be purchased by the sacrifice it is our duty to yield it up, otherwise such a sacrifice becomes a foolish and culpable suicide.”
“Is not the avoidance of disgrace a good? Is escape from death, with the brand of infamy upon a man’s brow, no evil? He who would hesitate between life and disgrace, has a petty soul; but he that would accept the one with the polluted inheritance of the other is the worst of recreants. We never can be united, Peirup Singh.”
The rejected Rajpoot was deeply mortified—she would not listen to his expostulations; but quitting his presence, turned upon him a look of withering scorn. He was confounded. Betweenshame and passion he stood aghast. He remained for some time irresolute, when on a sudden the apartment was filled with a thick curling smoke. He rushed into a court towards a passage whence the stifling vapour proceeded. The awful truth at once burst upon his sight. The funereal fire had been kindled in a large subterranean chamber, in which all the members of the family, except the late governors widow and her younger daughter, had assembled, to the number of a hundred and forty-seven. Peirup Singh looked into the opening, and beheld the beautiful Kherla waving a torch with which she had just ignited the combustibles strewed over the apartment. In a few moments the smoke shut out all from his sight, and the crackling flames prevented his ear from catching the groans of the dying. The forked fires rose to the skies with a horrid hissing, as if of demons triumphing in the frightful consummation of death. Both the sight and the sound were horrible. There was no rescuing the infatuated girl from that destruction upon which she had voluntarily rushed. She had already become the virgin bride of death. Young and numerous were the bridesmaids of that fiery marriage. Peirup Singh quitted the scene of horror with a deeply smitten heart.
FOOTNOTES:[32]The God of Fire.
[32]The God of Fire.
[32]The God of Fire.