CHAPTER V.
Shah Jehan was alarmed at the successful resistance which Chan Lody had made against his armies; but, being determined to crush him, he despatched for this purpose an exterminating force under Eradit, a commander of reputation. The talents of the imperial general, however, could not for a moment stand in competition with those of his adversary. In his flight from Malwa, with a few brave adherents, who continued attached to his fortunes, Lody foiled all the attempts of the Mogul troops, which pursued him to the number of twelve thousand. He harassed them by night attacks—cut off their supplies—fortified himself in the passes of the hills—until the enemy, wearied by long and difficult marches, roads almost impracticable, and constant watching to escape the assaults of a vigilant enemy, at length gave up the pursuit, and allowed the rebel, as they styled him, to continue his journey unmolested; after which he passed into Golconda, and presented himself before the Nizam at Dowlatabad.
The Nizam granted him protection, which was a source of extreme mortification to the Emperor, who, knowing the abilities of Lody, was fearful that he might offer a successful resistance to the imperial arms with the resources which his powerful ally would place at his disposal. He saw that there was no time to be lost, as delay would only enable his foe to unite the jarring interests of the Deccan princes, who were all avowed enemies to the house of Timour. He determined, therefore, to follow Eradit in person, with a numerous reinforcement. The Emperor’s arrival in the Deccan had a sinister influence upon the cause of the magnanimous Lody. The refractory princes knew their sovereign’s abilities, and dreaded his power. As they saw a storm impending, each fearing that it might fall upon himself, withdrew his aid from him to whom they had promised assistance, and all returned to their allegiance.
Shah Jehan, enraged with the Nizam for having received his enemy, determined to humble that haughty prince. He therefore despatched three armies against Dowlatabad: one under Eradit, amounting to twenty-five thousand men, and two others, of the same strength, under the separate commands of Raja Gop Singh and Shaista Chan.
For some time, through the talents of Chan Lody, the Nizam’s troops baffled every attempt against his capital. According to his former policy, Lody had secured the passes of the mountains, and upon one occasion, rushing down upon Eradit, at the head of twelve thousand men, he defeated him with great slaughter, and obliged him to retire out of the province. This so exasperated Shah Jehan, that he suspended Eradit from the command, and put the army under that of his Vizier, whose reputation as a general considerably damped the ardour of the Nizam’s forces. Lody still retained possession of the passes, from which every effort hitherto made to dislodge him had proved ineffectual.
Prince Morad accompanied the Vizier. His love for the heroic daughter of the refractory Omrah had not abated. Her beauty had at first forged a fetter round his heart, and her heroism riveted the chain.
One night, after a day of severe skirmishing with the enemy, Jahanira, who always followed her father to the field, had quitted her tent to breathe the fresh air of heaven. The night dews fell upon her burning brow and cooled her brain, which ached with the concurring excitement of bodily exertion and mental anxiety.
She saw that the arm of destiny was raised to smite. She wept. Her father’s wrongs were not yet half avenged. That very day the Nizam had withdrawn his forces, and abandoned his brave ally, with whom there remained only a few hundred followers, to contend with an army of above eighty thousand men. The Nizam had submitted to the Vizier, and Lody was left without a single friend. Jahanira perceiving that his determination to die in arms was shortly to be realised, resolved to go with him to the peace of a less distracted world.
Absorbed in the intensity of these reflections, she had wandered beyond the boundary of the camp. The night was still and balmy; fresh dews descended from the hills, and moistened her blanched cheek, which was fanned by the passing breeze. The distant cries of jackals interrupted at intervals the repose of this solemn scene; and the lulling gush of a stream, which flowed through a neighbouring ravine, suited the melancholy temper of her spirit at this hour of darkness and of silence. She strolled onward thoughtfully. Raising her eyes to the side of a hill, where a narrow path diverged from the main road, she saw a figure emerge from a clump of trees, and stand in complete relief against the sky. She drew her dagger, and, approaching cautiously, cried, “Who’s there?” at the same moment springing forward, and standing with her drawn crease within a few yards of the intruder.
“Jahanira!” exclaimed a voice, which she instantly recognised to be that of Morad.
“Why this intrusion, prince? Are you come a spy upon our path? Can the foe so fear to approach the bayed lion, that he is obliged to resort to stratagem? Locusts, prince, will desolate a country by the mere force of numbers: your armies may likewise overwhelm Chan Lody, but you will not subdue him.”
“I come not as a spy, lady,” replied Morad earnestly, “but torenew my vows of eternal attachment to the noblest woman in the universe. If the lovely Jahanira will accept an alliance with the family of Timour, and become the wife of Morad, her father may be restored to his honours and influence in the state. All that is past will be forgotten.”
“Nay, prince, what is past can never be forgotten. The death of Azmut, and the degradation of my parent, are scored with a fiery brand upon my heart, and cannot be erased. I have seen my brother slain—I have seen my father wronged. In this world, but one object remains to me and mine—revenge! We are a doomed family, Prince Morad; we shall perish together. There is no alternative between that and yielding our allegiance to a tyrant. The latter we shall never do; the former must be our destiny. We are prepared; but they who die desperately, with weapons in their hands, are to be dreaded. Let the oppressor tremble.”
“Jahanira! why should this be? I come to offer you freedom—to raise you to a dignity which you were born to adorn.”
“Freedom! Prince Morad? I have been free—I am free—I will be free—and there is no dignity higher than being the daughter of Chan Lody. Retire! this secret communication neither befits you to make, nor me to encourage. Why skulk under the cover of night to an enemy’s tents? Leave me, or I shall be compelled to treat you as a foe.”
“I came under the cover of night to avoid suspicion of treachery in the imperial camp. I have incurred some hazard, lady, in coming hither to declare myself, to release you and your family from certain death, and to offer you the heart of an Emperor’s son.”
“Which I reject, prince; for however I might respect the son of a tyrant, I never could wed him. My resolve is immutable. To-morrow, in the battle, remember that the daughter of Chan Lody has dared to reject the son of Shah Jehan!”
Morad was in the act of speaking, when she turned from him, waved her hand with an air of haughty courtesy, and ascended the hill towards her tent. Upon reaching it, she threw herself onher couch, agitated by a tumult of conflicting feelings. Prince Morad’s affection for her was not to be thought of without emotion; she had rejected him—even with bitterness, yet he had twice saved her life; but every other feeling was merged in her filial obligations.
“He is the son of my parent’s worst foe,” she said mentally; “I am therefore bound to withhold all feelings towards him but those of enmity.”
Morad was deeply mortified at the issue of his adventure. He had run the risk of incurring a base suspicion from his own party, and of being seized as a spy by the enemy, only to meet a cold and bitter repulse. He could not, however, withhold his admiration from the woman whose affections he sought to win, though she had met his advances with uniform haughtiness. He saw that hers was, in truth, as she had characterized it, a doomed family, and it grieved him that he could not rescue them from destruction.
Chan Lody’s followers were reduced to a mere troop; and, however strong his position, it was evident that he must eventually yield to such an immense majority of numbers. Morad dreaded the approaching onslaught. By daybreak the pass was to be stormed by the imperial army, and there could be no doubt of the issue. He would have laid down his life to rescue Jahanira from the impending doom, but this could not be.
Day dawned: the pass was attacked, and the imperialists were repulsed with great slaughter. Jahanira appeared among the combatants, fighting with a hero’s energy. The pass was again attacked; repulse followed as before, with immense loss on the side of the assailants. Lody’s small band, however, was diminished by every fresh attack, and he was at length obliged to abandon the pass, with only a few followers. Descending into the plain on the other side of the mountain, he resolved there to await the coming of the foe, and fulfil his resolution of dying in arms. He was not allowed long to pause after he had quitted the hills. The imperial troops appeared in sight, and he prepared himself for the sacrifice.
Summoning his brave adherents, now amounting only to thirty-two, in which number was included his son Hussein and his daughter Jahanira, he addressed them with much earnestness, suggesting that they would seek their own safety in flight, and leave him to die alone by the hand of an implacable enemy. When he had concluded his pathetic address, there was a general murmur of sorrow. Not a man would stir. All expressed their determination to die in arms with their beloved leader. “Then be it so,” said Lody; “our enemies shall still find that a few valiant men are formidable even to the last, and their destruction a dear-bought triumph.”
The imperialists advanced in a large body towards the devoted band, who suffered them to approach within a hundred paces, when they discharged their matchlocks, which, being directed with deadly aim, did signal execution. The moment after the discharge, veiled for a moment by the smoke, Jahanira spurred her horse towards the advancing host. As she rode, she fixed an arrow in the string of her bow, and discharged it at the officer who led the detachment. It struck upon a small conical buckler with which he was armed, and the reed quivered as the head of the shaft pierced the tough buffalo hide that covered it. At this moment a ball from a matchlock entered the heroine’s breast. She fell from her horse. The blood trickled from the wound. Morad rushed forward to raise her. She opened her languid eyes as he lifted her to his knee, fixed them on him with a look of stern despair, heaved a deep-felt sigh, and fell upon his shoulder—dead.
Chan Lody saw what passed. He gave the word to advance. His followers spurred their horses onward, and in a few moments came in contact with their foes. The onset was short but desperate. Hussein was struck to the earth by a stroke from Morad’s sword, who felt no tender mercy for the brother of her whom he would have saved at the sacrifice of his own life. Her death had roused the fiercer energies of his spirit. Hussein fell beneath his arm.
The valour of Chan Lody’s followers astonished their enemies.They scattered death and dismay around them. Chan Lody slew no less than six officers with his own hand. He was at length disabled by a sabre-cut on the shoulder; he dropped his sword, and was instantly surrounded and slain. He died with his eyes fixed upon the broad heavens—a smile was on his lips—the left arm grasped a dagger. His adherents fought to the last man—not one survived; but the victors purchased a dear victory—the death of Chan Lody was signally avenged.