In spite of our hero’s recent disgust he had quickly become reconciled to the sweet girl who was to be his brother’s wife. There was no resisting her charms. He found her as full of fun and as fond of adventure as any boy could wish, and he soon grew very anxious to win her good opinion, even attempting to show off occasionally for her benefit. Ethel had become no less attached to the honest, healthy-minded, plucky lad, and wrote warningly to Jim that she had fallen desperately in love with his jolly young brother.
A few weeks had elapsed since Captain Russell’s departure, when something happened to attach them still more closely. One beautiful winter day Ethel asked the ensign if he would care to stroll through the nativebazarwith her, and the lad willingly complied.
Not being of a very curious disposition, he had hitherto neglected this quarter of the town, and had spent most of his leisure time riding and shooting in the country beyond. But on this occasion the girl was able to make the visit much more interesting than he had anticipated. She knew the people and more than one of the many dialects fairly well, and she pointed out to her companion the men of various nationalities and religions who swarmed in the narrow streets. He noticed with amazement the difference between the strong fighting men of the North-west—the sturdy Jat and stalwartPathan—and the fat, mild, shrinking Babu from Bengal, or the slender and weaker Hindu from the South.
This part of the town was quite distinct from the quarter in which the Europeans lived, and was much more picturesque, if also more dirty. In the narrow streets all the goods of the small shops were exposed to the passer-by. Workmen could be seen plying their trade, undisturbed by the inquisitive glances of the lookers-on. And what clumsy tools they had! It would have been impossible for such delicate, exquisite work to have been turned out therewith, had not the artisans put their whole soul into the labour: for to do his work thoroughly and beautifully is a religious duty with the Hindu.
Passing the stalls of the money-changers, fruit-sellers, and dealers in native sweetmeats, their attention was attracted by certain curios in one of the queer shops, and our ensign looked about for something worth sending home. He fixed upon a queer silver bangle, set with turquoises. The setting was uncommon, but the stones were only poor. The turbaned, white-robed shopkeeper rose and came forward at once, salaaming profoundly, and putting on one side the hubble-bubble he was smoking. After a lengthy argument, in which Ted failed to understand the man’s rapid utterance, and his own Hindustani was beyond comprehension, Miss Woodburn came to the rescue, fixed the price, and concluded the business.
Attracted by the sahib’s curious rendering of their native tongue, a number of the many idlers around had drawn near. At a corner of the narrow street, not fifty paces distant, voices had been meanwhile raised in earnest and violent harangue. Having learned even during his short sojourn in the land how furious an altercation may arise over a matter of a couple of annas, Ted had not paid much attention to thenoise; but now the speakers rose and came towards them. Foremost was a tall, half-naked man, with long and flowing beard—a mass of dirt and evil smells; for with these strange people cleanliness is not on speaking terms with godliness, and the most holy men are the most filthy. His eyes were inflamed, and his looks and gestures wild. Ethel, from her longer experience, saw that the mullah had rendered himself mad with bhang, and that two of his companions were in a similar condition.
Pointing to the Feringhis, the mullah’s voice rose to a wild shriek.
“What do these offspring of the evil one here? O followers of the Prophet, how long will ye allow yourselves to be denied by these kafirs. The time is even now at hand when Allah shall no longer permit this: then shall his wrath fall upon them, and they shall be swept from the face of the earth. The hundred years of the white man’sraj[1]are fulfilled, and the curse shall be lifted from us!”
[1]dominion.
[1]dominion.
The fanatic’s voice rose to a wild shriek as he concluded the harangue. Ted could not follow the speech: he could only gather from the tone and gestures that he and his companion were the objects of abuse, and he guessed from the half-angry, half-cringing manner of the tradesman that something serious was being said. Ethel, however, understood every word, and was alarmed.
They tried to leave thebazar, but found their progress barred.
“Out of the way, there!” the ensign commanded, but no one moved.
“Kill the kafir pigs!—there is no one to see!” called out a voice from the rear.
“No, no!” objected others hastily. “What harm have theydone? And will not the vengeance of the Whites be upon us all? Make way there for the sahib-log!”
But another of the bhang-drugged fanatics, who had been swaying to and fro in his delirium, screamed:
“Aye! Why not kill now?” and he roughly seized the white-faced girl.
With a savage exclamation the English boy sprang forward and struck the speaker behind the ear with all his force. Not for nothing had Edward Russell been trained in gymnastics, in boxing and fencing—the fellow dropped like a log. But before Ted could turn or draw his sword the mullah had plucked a knife from beneath his scanty garment and plunged it in the lad’s side.
“Die, unbeliever!” he cried.
As the ensign pressed his hands to his side and dropped to the earth with a feeble moan, the screaming and jabbering of the by-standers ceased as if by magic. Even the mullah and his disciples drew back appalled at what they had done, while the more timid of the crowd fled to their homes in dread of the consequences and the sure wrath of the sahibs, fearing lest vengeance should fall on innocent and guilty alike for this murder of a white man. The merchants before whose shops the act had been committed wrung their hands in despair, shrieking imprecations down upon the heads of the fanatics, who stood gazing at their handiwork.
The mullah’s hesitation lasted but a second. He turned towards the trembling girl, and called to his abettors:
“Finish off the lad while I slay the woman!”
Ethel Woodburn was a soldier’s daughter: she had more than once looked danger in the face bravely and calmly. Had she been alone she might have hesitated, or had her companion been in a condition to protect her she might have relied on him. But, seeing the boy of whom she wasso fond stretched at her feet, cruelly wounded and helpless, and at the mercy of these madmen, her instinct prompted her to do the right thing without a moment’s hesitation, and she blessed the father who had taught her to carry and use a pistol.
The little weapon was hardly more than a toy, but it checked the assassins sufficiently to enable her to bend down swiftly and snatch Ted’s sword from its scabbard. The murderer was but a pace away when she pulled the trigger and stepped back. He fell, writhing, the bullet in his chest. The second received the point of the sword under his arm-pit as he raised his hand to strike. The third assailant, dazed by the blow from Ted’s fist, had now risen, and was hesitating as to his next step, when a couple of native police, attracted by the report and noise, ran up, and, being Sikhs, they had no hesitation in securing the uninjured Mohammedan, and they also prevented the crowd from carrying off the wounded Wahabis.[1]
[1]The most fanatical and implacable Moslem sect.
[1]The most fanatical and implacable Moslem sect.
Never losing her presence of mind, Ethel bound the unconscious lad’s wound to stop the bleeding, and ordered the by-standers to carry him to his quarters, where the regimental surgeon attended to the injury. The bangle had disappeared.
A few weeks later, when the injured persons had recovered, the three would-be assassins were tried on the charge of attempted murder, and were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment.
Some time elapsed before Ted was able to get about as usual. Had it not been for the bandage so promptly applied by Ethel he must have bled to death, so she had saved his life in two different ways. During his slow and painful recovery he was nursed untiringly by his new sister; and though she made light of her heroic deed, the girl’s courage and presenceof mind were the chief themes of conversation with the officers who frequently visited his bed-side, and the ensign’s lucky brother became more envied than ever. Ethel invariably checked his expressions of gratitude, and would not allow him to talk about the incident.
“Bosh, Ted!” she would say; “I was in such a state of abject fear that I didn’t know what I was doing. I only shot the man because my hand trembled so that the trigger went off, and he happened to be in front.”
“Certainly, Ethel, I quite understand. I’ll just read you a letter I had this morning from Jim. You’d p’r’aps like to hear his opinion?”
“Oh, that boy’s demented! I had a note also from him this morning. He’s quite wild.”
“Good chap Jim,—knows a thing or two!” said Ted, nodding his head sagely.
“This is the place where I was knifed, Paterson,” said Ted, “and there’s the old boy I had been bargaining with. Watch him eyeing me; he looks rather scared, don’t he?”
The wound was now quite healed, and impelled doubtless by a magnetic attraction, akin perhaps to that said to be exercised on murderers by the scenes of their crimes, our ensign had induced his chum Paterson to stroll with him through thebazarone evening after duty was over for the day.
While Ted had been down with his wound Alec Paterson had opened out in a remarkable manner and thrown down the last barriers of reserve. Ensign Paterson had only recently admitted Ted into close friendship. He was a Scottish lad, hailing from Lanarkshire, and no better choice of a friend could have been made. Physically he was tall and well-formed, intellectually he was ahead of most of his brother ensigns, and in moral character strong, upright, and healthy. He was very reserved, difficult to know, chary of his intimacy, and slow of speech. Tynan termed him a “saint”, and cordially disliked him; and in return Paterson disproved the accusation of saintliness by being obnoxiously polite and somewhat ponderously playful in his dealings with the regimentalbête noir.
“He does look scared,” Alec replied. “He must think you were killed, and that your ghost has come to jump down histhroat or ride on his back, or whatever it is that their evil spirits do. You had better speak and reassure him.”
As Ted approached the stall, the hand of the sleek Hindu shot forth across the boards on which his wares were displayed and snatched something from the front row. Not, however, before our hero had recognized the identical bangle that he had bought and paid for on the occasion of his previous visit. His face flushed.
“That is mine,” he asserted. “I bought and paid for it.”
Understanding that the bangle had been seen, and that denial was useless, the shopkeeper salaamed and unabashed replied: “Nay, sahib, the one you bought you took away, and I have never set eyes on it since.”
“But you told me it was unique—that there was not another like it in the country.”
“I am the sahib’s slave, and I spoke truth. There was not another like it in the Punjab. But since the Heaven-born’s visit a Kazilbash merchant from Kabul, with whom I deal in turquoises, has sold me this. It is indeed similar to the one I sold the sahib, but the turquoises are larger and better. Welcome is the sight of the Heaven-born in the eyes of his servant, who has suffered great anxiety.”
“What’s the row, Ted?” Paterson asked. And matters being explained, he at once enquired of the Hindu why he had been so anxious to prevent the bangle being seen if he had come by it honestly. But the “Aryan brown” was more than their match in guile.
“In truth I remembered how the former one had brought ill-luck to the young sahib, and I feared lest he might take a fancy to this one also. And I know that the sahibs are reckless in such matters, not believing in omens. Rather would I lose business than bring misfortune upon the head of the young sahib.”
Alec Paterson laughed.
“I’m afraid it’s no go, Russell,” he whispered. “The rascal is too deep for us, and we cannot prove that it really is the same article.”
“But it’s robbery pure and simple!” Ted indignantly declared. “I know it’s the same that I lost during the scuffle.”
The shopkeeper regarded them gravely and sadly, as though he felt deeply the doubts they had cast upon his honesty. He produced one article after another, tempting them in vain to buy. At length, guessing that the boy had set his heart upon the bangle, he offered him the pretty toy for thirty rupees, assuring him that he had given twice that sum to the Kazilbash.
“I’ll give you fifteen,” said Ted, “and not an anna more.”
The Hindu shook his head.
“I am poor man,” said he, “else would I gladly beg the sahib to accept it as a present.”
“Very well,” Ted firmly rejoined. “Come along, Alec.”
They turned to go, but the Hindu hastily recalled them.
“Nay,” said he, “I had forgotten that the sahib had to suffer the loss of the first one. For twenty rupees will I sell it, or, in truth, give it away, rather than that the Heaven-born should be disappointed.”
“Fifteen,” was all Ted’s answer; and once more the bangle changed hands, and the ensign left the shop. On the way to cantonments they overtook Harry Tynan, the object of their mutual dislike, and were about to pass with a nod as devoid of cordiality as decency would permit, when Tynan spoke, or rather sneered: “Why, Russell, I thought you always took a girl to protect you whenever you went into thebazar!”
“Did you really now?” asked Ted banteringly. “Wasn’t it an effort?”
“What do you mean? Was what an effort?”
“To think—so unusual, you know, for you.”
“Oh how clever you are! But how aren’t you keeping an eye on Brother Jim’s future wife, according to instructions? I saw her this evening flirting as usual with the Commissioner Sahib. You are not doing your duty. Captain Russell ’ud be angry if he knew.”
“Come along, Russell; what’s the use of talking to that cad?” whispered Paterson. “Contemptible toad!”
But his friend’s ire had been aroused by the last remark. He halted and faced Tynan.
“What d’you mean?” he demanded.
Tynan slowly drew a huge cheerot from his lips and attempted to blow rings of smoke before replying.
“You know well enough. Stunnin’ little flirt is Ethel—deuced stunnin’! Shouldn’t be surprised if she threw Brother Jim over!”
“What do you mean?” repeated Ted with still greater heat.
“Don’t be an ass, Ted. Leave the cad alone,” Paterson again whispered.
Tynan was Russell’s senior by nearly a couple of years, and he stood a clear three inches taller. Ted’s anger amused him.
“Why—don’t you know?” he innocently enquired. “You see, our little Ethel had been setting her cap at Sir Arthur Fletcher for months before she saw your brother. But Arthur knows what’s what, and the little darling has had to put up with a mere captain of the Guides. But she still hankers after the commissioner, and sighs for the handle to her name.”
“Ye leein’ hyæna!” Paterson burst out, his native dialect rising to the surface in his excitement. “Keep a ceevil tongue in your heid, or I’ll knock ye down!”
“No, you don’t, Paterson,” broke in Ted. “That’s my business. You cad, to lie like that about a girl you’re not fit to speak to! Take that!”
Our ensign struck his comrade across the face—a resounding smack with the open palm.
The fight was very short. Though tall enough, Tynan was weedy and unfit. For several years he had considered himself a man of the world, and one of the chief aims—if notthechief—of his life had been to convince his associates that he was well qualified for that dignified position, and the attainment of this object had, of course, necessitated abundant smoking and drinking. Wonderful to relate, no one had so far seemed greatly impressed!
Five minutes after the first blow, with bleeding nose and damaged eye, the contemptible fellow was sullenly admitting that he had had enough.
“Think it over the nicht,” Paterson suggested. “If ye hev not I’ll just gie ye seemilar satisfaction. And I’d hev ye obsairve it wad be safer to cam’ oot wi’ no mair lees o’ that sort. Cam’ awa’, Russell!”
“Wait a moment, I’ve not done yet,” said Ted. “Let me inform you now, you cad, what I would not waste my breath in telling you before—that Miss Woodburn had refused Sir Arthur Fletcher before she became engaged to my brother, and that he has congratulated my brother, and is a loyal, honourable gentleman, of whose friendship Miss Woodburn is proud; and don’t let me hear you speaking of her again as you did just now.”
The chums left the miserable being—neither man nor boy—to follow as he chose.
“What garred ye say that last, Russell?” asked the Scottish lad, who was still labouring under strong excitement, as soon as they had passed out of hearing.
“What? About Fletcher?”
“Yea You’d no right to drag his refusal into the affair!” Paterson dropped the tell-tale accent as he spoke more slowly.“That’s between him and Miss Woodburn, and he wouldn’t thank you if he knew, nor would she. It was perhaps very satisfying to you, but they don’t need to be defended from a fellow like our friend yonder.”
“I’m very sorry—I’m a fool! I was so angry I didn’t stop to think. Bah! he leaves a bad taste in the mouth, that fellow!”
“We should have passed him without taking any notice,” Paterson went on. “But it served him right!”
For the future Tynan gave his conqueror a wide berth, and Ted ignored his existence as far as their respective duties, would permit.
Returning from the officers’ mess that evening, Ted was accosted by Pir Baksh, the Mohammedan captain.
“I saw you fight with Ensign Tynan,” said he. “He is the kind of officer to ruin a regiment. Once he dared to call me asoor(pig) before my men, and I thank you, sahib, for teaching him a lesson.”
On the night of Monday, May 11, some weeks after Ted’s recovery, Ethel’s twenty-first birthday was celebrated, Colonel Woodburn entertaining the officers and British residents of Aurungpore. The season was too warm for more than occasional dancing, and conversation was the order of the night—conversation serious and frivolous, harmless flirtations between the younger members, and solemn interchange of views concerning the rumoured dissatisfaction prevailing amongst the native troops, a subject pooh-poohed by some and laughed at by others, but gravely regarded by a few—when an orderly entered and handed a missive to the colonel. As he opened it and read he gave a start, and his face paled for one brief second, but soon resumed its ordinary aspect as he slowly folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.
A few moments later he crossed over to Major Munro, who at once left the room after speaking to the adjutant and another officer. These two also took their departure before long, and one by one the remainder of the officers were spoken to and retired to their mess-room, where they were shortly joined by Colonel Woodburn.
“I have terrible news,” he informed them, “but we must try to avoid alarming either the ladies or the sepoys. The 3rd Native Cavalry and the 11th and 20th Native Infantry have broken into mutiny at Meerut, killed some of theirofficers, and, so the message runs, are sacking the town and murdering right and left.”
“At Meerut!” gasped Major Munro. “How at Meerut of all places? They couldn’t—it’s simply impossible!”
“It must be true,” declared the colonel, “though it certainly does seem impossible. One would think they would have broken out at Cawnpore, or Benares, or Allahabad, or here, or anywhere rather than Meerut. But this report must be exaggerated! How could they sack the town and murder in the face of those English regiments and the Artillery? It’s incomprehensible!”
Now even Ensign Russell, a mere griffin, knew that Meerut—a large station more than fifty miles north-east of Delhi—was considered a model cantonment, and contained the strongest British force in all India. Could a revolt seem more hopeless than at this station, where the three native corps were more than counterbalanced by a regiment of British dragoons, the 60th Rifles, and two batteries of the finest artillery in the world—a force sufficient to repress any rising within ten minutes—whereas throughout the seven hundred and fifty miles of territory along the Ganges, in the districts containing the large towns of Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Patna, there were only three weak British corps to oppose nearly a score of sepoy regiments and many thousands of armed rebels?
“There’s no saying how it will spread,” continued the colonel. “We must take all precautions, though I believe our men are perfectly trustworthy. There must be some mistake, and I’ve no doubt that we shall hear to-morrow that the rebels have been cut to pieces. I’m afraid the silly fellows will be slaughtered by hundreds.”
But the news of the morning and of the succeeding days was no less hard to understand. Eighty-five men of the 3rdNative Cavalry (a corps composed of Hindus and Mohammedans) had refused to use the cartridges served out, alleging that the fat of pigs and of cows had been employed in the manufacture.
As most readers will know, the pig is regarded as unclean by all Moslems, and the cow is holy to Hindus, so that to touch the fat of these animals would imperil their salvation and shut them out of Paradise. The mullahs and fakirs had been poisoning the minds of the soldiers by asserting that the government was taking this means of uprooting their religion and converting them to Christianity by destroying their chance of salvation as Moslems or Hindus. If they had no future to which to look forward as Mussulmans or Brahmans, they would be the more ready to listen to the Christian doctrine which might give them some hope.
Unfortunately there is reason to believe that some foundation for the rumour existed, owing to carelessness on the part of those responsible for the manufacture, and to senseless, most blamable, disregard of the sepoy’s religious susceptibilities. But these few unclean cartridges had been withdrawn, and those which the men were required to use contained no offensive grease, but merely oil and bees’-wax. The childish, credulous, superstitious sepoys were, however, only too ready to believe all idle tales: they accepted the statements of the fakirs, that by means of charms and witchcraft the English would transform them into animals; that their children would be born with tails like monkeys, and other stories equally absurd.
The sepoys were now in such a panic of fear lest their precious caste should be defiled, that they began to suspect some attempt to destroy this inheritance (without which life was not worth living) in everything prepared for them by the government. The new cartridge-paper had a glazed,greasy appearance. This was enough! Here was another subtle attempt to make them Christians! In this fashion they argued and persuaded one another like foolish children, though in reality the paper was entirely free from fat.
Many years before this a report had spread throughout Hindustan that the English rulers were collecting the salt (a very precious commodity in the East) into two heaps: over that intended for the use of the Mohammedans the blood of pigs was sprinkled, and over the other the blood of cows. This “salt” panic had occurred many years ago, but now in 1857 an equally incredible story was believed by hundreds of thousands, namely, that the government had caused the bones of bullocks and of pigs to be ground and mixed with the flour served out to the troops. For days following the rumour no flour was used, the sepoys preferring to starve rather than eat what they believed to be defiled food.
But these matters of the greased cartridges and bone-flour were by no means the only cause of the great mutiny: they were simply the pretexts for bringing matters to a head. The sepoys had been treated in widely different ways at various times, being now spoiled and petted, and now dealt with haughtily and occasionally unjustly. When first the native army was raised the men were allowed to dress after their own fashion, but early in the nineteenth century many changes had been initiated, and the soldiers began to be clothed and drilled according to the European model.
They were forbidden to wear the cherished caste-marks on their foreheads; the ear-rings to which they were fondly attached, and which the Moslems regarded as a charm against evil spirits, were no longer permitted; they were deprived of the beards of which they had been so proud, and were forced to shave their chins like the “unclean” Englishmen; and upon their head the national turban was replaced by a stiff roundcap. Now, not only are hats and caps the outward and visible signs of Christianity (for Christians are known astopi-wallahs, or hat-wearers), but this uniform cap contained leather made either from the hide of the abominable hog or from that of the sacred cow. Thus the new head-dress was an offence to Moslems and Hindus alike.
A further cause of discontent arose from the decline in the importance of the native officer. In the early years of the British-Indian army the native officer had been a great and important man, but at this period his standing had declined. The English officer of sixteen had authority over the grizzled Rajput captain who had served the Company for thirty years. The native officers were not saluted by British privates, and frequently when they visited the tents of their white brother-officers, the latter had not the courtesy to offer them chairs, regarding them, indeed, as in no way different from the common sepoy. The native officers grumbled to one another in indignant tones over these grievances.
“It is better,” they said, “to serve in the armies of the native states, where elephants and palanquins and sumptuous tents are provided for the officers, than in the army of ‘The Great Lord Company’, in which we are compelled to live with the common sepoy when on the line of march.”
Again, most of the Hindus had enlisted on the understanding that they were to serve in Hindustan only and not across the sea. Now to cross “The Black Water” is likewise a defilement forbidden to Brahmans, and great dissatisfaction had been caused a few years previously because certain regiments had been ordered to Burma; and during this campaign the Brahmans had been compelled to work as labourers in the construction of barracks. The British soldiers had fallen to with a will, as had the low-caste Madras sepoys, but the men from Bengal demanded to know whether Brahmansand Rajputs were mere coolies that they should so defile themselves.
In addition to the above causes of disquietude, the King of Delhi—a quiet old gentleman who dabbled in poetry—had been recently deprived of certain privileges. This monarch was the descendant of the great Mogul emperors, whose sway had been acknowledged by far more kings, princes, and nations than that of any European sovereign.
Yet the heir to this magnificence was now merely the pensioner of a company of merchants; though permitted to dwell in an enormous palace—almost a town in itself—with the empty title of king, he possessed no real power and no authority. This fact rankled in the minds of all Mohammedans. In one important respect, however, the Company had deferred to the king’s wishes. He had begged that none of their troops should be quartered in the imperial city, so that he might at least make pretence to be the real master thereof. The request was granted, and with the exception of a handful of men to guard the great Delhi arsenal, neither sepoys nor British soldiers were stationed in the town, but, instead, had their cantonments on the destined-to-be-famous ridge outside.
Then, again, the great province of Oudh had been recently annexed, and certain privileges had been taken not only from the king thereof, but from the large landholders; and though in the course of time these changes would undoubtedly work for the good of the majority, still they pressed heavily on a certain class; and the poorer people, for whose benefit the changes were made, could not understand, and therefore disliked them. The King of Oudh, like his master the Emperor of Delhi, was a Mohammedan.
There was also a Mahratta rajah, known as Nana Sahib, who had many grievances against the English. The Mahrattas were a powerful Hindu confederacy that had overawed eventhe Grand Moguls until Wellesley and Lake had broken their power.
Trouble had arisen in many corps over the question of pay. For services outside India the sepoys were paid more than in Hindustan itself. After the annexation of the Punjab in 1849 this extra pay was dropped for regiments serving in the province, and the sepoys could not understand how, if the Punjab was not in Hindustan when they entered, it could become part of Hindustan because the government chose to term it so. They argued that even if the Punjab had become merged in the Indian Empire, it was still a foreign country in their eyes; that they were still serving away from their native land, and were therefore entitled to extra pay. Some regiments had accordingly refused to obey orders.
The Brahman priests thereupon warned the Indian Government that if they (the priests) chose to forbid Hindus to enlist, the British would have to make shift without a sepoy army. This threat rather frightened “John Company”, but not Sir Charles Napier, the commander-in-chief at the period. He promptly took matters into his own hands, and disbanding the 66th Native Infantry, which had refused to obey orders, he gave their title and colours to the Nasiri Gurkha Battalion, who thereupon became the 66th Infantry of the Line.
This step scared the Brahmans, for they saw that if the government was minded to fill their places with Gurkhas, those intrepid little mountaineers would be only too delighted to enlist in the regular army instead of in irregular battalions with less pay, as at present. The occupation of the Brahman sepoys would then be gone, at least to a larger extent than they desired.
Now, in India the status of a soldier is a most honourable one, and the army is not mainly recruited from the lower classes, as in England, but from the most respectable nativesof the middle and higher ranks of life; and families consider it a great privilege to have a son in the army, even as a private. Judged by Indian standards the pay is very good, and the pension will keep a family in ease and comfort. The British soldier often enlists because he has no taste for settled employment, or because he has been tempted by coloured placards setting forth “the advantages of the army”, or has been attracted by the ribbons of the recruiting-sergeant. Perchance he has been jilted by his sweetheart, or done something of which he is ashamed, and so has run away from home. Often he has taken another name, and has lost sight and touch of the parents at home.
But the sepoy, as soon as his name is on the regimental roll, becomes the pride and prop of his house. He visits home regularly and is regarded as a great man in his village, and his family comes under the special protection of the state. Many families boasted that they had eaten the salt of “The Great Lord Company” from generation to generation. The sepoys usually had a real pride in their colours; they rejoiced in the honourable and well-paid service that was sought by the very flower of the people, by the highest castes in Bengal.
Napier’s prompt action checked the spread of revolt, but dissatisfaction still rankled in the sepoys’ breasts. In 1857 each injustice was recalled to mind, and thousands of the mutineers honestly believed that they had been very badly treated.
A further incitement to revolt was this. The Moslems cherished a prophecy that India would be ruled by the Feringhis for exactly one hundred years, after which the Mogul Empire would resume its sway. The year 1857 was just a century after Plassey.
The principal causes of the great mutiny having now been explained, let us go back to Meerut and its eighty-five mutineers. These men were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, and in the presence of the sepoy regiments the fetters were placed upon their limbs. The sight of the degradation angered and alarmed their comrades, and rumours spread through the town to the effect that all the black soldiers were to be disgraced in the same way, and at this date no report was too ridiculous for the sepoys.
On the Sunday evening, 10th May, the 60th Rifles assembled for church parade. At once the rumour flew round that the white soldiers were preparing to fall upon their brown comrades, and the absurd tale gained ready credence. The sepoys were taunted by the women of the town, were called cowards for permitting their comrades to suffer disgrace; and no sooner had the Rifles marched off to church than the native troops lost all control of themselves, broke open the jail, set their eighty-five comrades free, and, encouraged by the convicts, they began to fire on the white residents.
All thebudmashesof Meerut joining in, pandemonium ensued. Houses were broken into and set on fire; Englishmen and women were brutally murdered. Yet whilst this was going on in one part of the town, in another quarter the sepoys of the same regiments were saluting their officers and guarding the Treasury as usual.
Back came the 60th Rifles from church and quickly reassembled with arms and ammunition, but by this time the mutineers were on the road to Delhi. Though the British dragoons were at once ordered out, their commanding officer could not grasp the need for prompt punishment. He allowed the roll to be called in the ordinary way, wasting precious moments, whilst the rebel sepoys were hastening nearer and nearer to the imperial city.
Night fell quickly, and as the general commanding did not know which way the rebels had fled, he did not order pursuit, arguing that the troops must remain behind to protect the residents of Meerut from the thousands ofbudmashesand escaped jail-birds.
Had the dragoons at Meerut been ordered down the road to Delhi (for the general might easily have guessed that the rebels would take that direction), the 60th Rifles and the Artillery were strong enough to have swept all thebudmashesin Meerut out of existence; and the dragoons would certainly have overtaken and destroyed the two foot regiments, and might have come up with the 3rd Native Cavalry. In the face of the British horsemen the populace of Delhi would not have dared to sympathize with the mutineers; the revolt would perhaps have died out, and the terrible massacres of Delhi, Cawnpore, and other places might never have occurred. But it is easy to be wise after the event, and the general commanding at Meerut, though a brave man, was not a far-seeing one. He was content to save and defend his own station, failing to recognize that a spark kindled in Delhi, the real capital of India, would set the whole land ablaze. As it was, the mutineers, scared out of their wits by the fear of a terrible retribution, hearing in their frightened imaginations the thundering of the dragoons behind them, got safely into Delhi and attempted to rouse that cityagainst the Feringhis. But the people of Delhi said one to another:
“No! The English will be here presently with their terrible horsemen and still more terrible artillery. Let us take no part in this!”
But not a British soldier was in sight next day from the city walls, and the rumour soon gained ground that all the white troops in Meerut had been slain, and that Allah had taken from them their vigour and their courage. “The Feringhis arelachar[1]!” was the cry.
[1]helpless.
[1]helpless.
And the populace and the sepoys around Delhi joined their brethren from Meerut, proclaiming Bahadur Shah, the old gentleman poet, “Emperor of all India”; they massacred the fifty English men and women in the city, and before many days had passed most of the regiments throughout Bengal and the Punjab were on the brink of mutiny, hesitating to take the plunge. Had there been at Meerut on that fatal Sunday a Lawrence or an Edwardes, a Cotton, Nicholson, or Neill, the revolt might have been crushed with one decisive blow.
So the news brought to our friends at Aurungpore was too true. Through the whole land, from Peshawur to Calcutta, spread the black terror, and though most officers of sepoy regiments trusted their own particular corps, each feared lest other regiments should throw off their allegiance and murder without remorse not only the officers, but the Christian women and children of the towns.
The colonel and officers of the 193rd never doubted that their beloved regiment would prove true to its salt, for the most friendly feeling existed between officers and men. Some of the former had more than once risked their lives for their men, and in return several of the sepoys had rescued theirofficers from situations of great peril by their pluck and devotion.
Terrible as were many of the acts committed by the mutineers, we must not consider them as so many fiends in the shape of men, nor must we believe that their delight was to shed human blood. In 1857 the sepoy was a madman inflamed with rage and bitter hatred against those whom he mistakenly considered his oppressors; and many who suffered most from his fury were in truth his best friends and well-wishers.
Most inconsistent were his actions, and his character was a mass of contradictions. He was simple and credulous as a child, and at the same time crafty and designing; his cruelty was frequently evident, and never more so than in this terrible year, yet as a rule he was gentle and kindly. It was no uncommon sight for the hardened sepoy warrior to be found watching beside his English officer’s sick-bed, and no woman could be a more gentle nurse; he was devoted to his sahib’s children, and loved to make them happy. Generally he was languid and indolent, yet capable of being roused to passionate energy; at times light-hearted and cheerful, at times depressed and given to brooding over his wrongs, both real and fancied. Mutinies had not been unknown before the year 1857, but on previous occasions the outbreaks had resembled the naughtiness of a child, and like a child the sepoy usually injured himself more than others.
Though no condemnation of those who participated in the murdering of women and children can be too severe, yet we must not paint the sepoy in colours too black. Let us try to put ourselves in his place, and see what it meant. Suppose that he honestly believed that the English were seeking his destruction, can we not imagine his despair and panic? Many of the mutineers, however, believed the explanations of their English officers, and felt assured that the cartridge-paper contained no offensive matter, and these men tried to put everything right. And what was the result? Their comrades believed that these sensible sepoys had sold themselves to the Feringhis; they were taunted and jeered at as Christians; they became outcasts, and none would eat with them. Not only did their fellow-soldiers shun them, but also their parents and brethren and the people of the village who used to crowd round and bow before them when they visited their homes. They all refused friendship and connection with the outcasts; the letters written home were never answered, and no wonder that these well-meaning fellows were terror-stricken at the thought of their shameful position, and cursed the English and their unclean ways that had brought this to pass.
Three days after the Meerut revolt Colonel Woodburn addressed his men on the subject of the crisis. Assuring them of the mighty power of England, and of the terrible punishment that would be meted out to rebels, he reminded them of their glorious regimental history, and asked if they would willingly tarnish their good name. Ted’s heart glowed as he listened to the stirring speech, and the men broke into a shout of enthusiasm, cheered their colonel, and Pir Baksh, stepping forward, expressed their willingness to march against the mutineers. At mess the officers congratulated one another, overjoyed at the splendid spirit animating those under their command.
With renewed courage and in the highest spirits they buckled on their swords for the next morning’s parade.
“I hope we shall get orders to march against the mutineers,” Ted confided to Paterson as they walked towards the parade-ground in front of the arsenal.
“And what would happen to our countrymen and country-women at Aurungpore if the regiment left?” his chum asked with a laugh. “Would you make the rebels a gift of the fort and arsenal?”
Ted was crestfallen.
“Oh! I’d forgotten them,” he replied. “Still, half the regiment would be enough to defend the town. I’m jolly glad our men are showing such a good spirit, but I’m afraid for Jim and Spencer. I don’t suppose their Guides are likely to remain loyal very long.”
“I’ve been thinking of them all morning,” Alec observed musingly, “and of all Spencer was telling us the night he was here. I don’t think there’s much doubt but that those fellows will sell themselves to the highest bidder, and he will be the emperor at Delhi. They may pull through all right though, if they are within reach of Nicholson. He and Edwardes will be towers of strength along the frontier.”
“Don’t it make you mad to think of the way they bungled it at Meerut? Whoever was responsible for such a fiasco ought to be kicked out of the army.”
“Now, Ted Russell, you know nothing about it,” the cautious Scot reproachfully asserted. “It’s very easy to say afterwards what ought to have been done, but we don’t know all the circumstances. Here’s the colonel. He’s a fine-looking man, and no wonder the sepoys are proud of him.”
The companies were called to attention, numbered, and wheeled into line. Before the wheel was completed a sepoy suddenly levelled his musket and pulled the trigger. Two officers at once rushed towards the would-be assassin, but were met by the fire of some twenty men of the same company, and fell riddled with bullets.
One-half of the sepoys stood irresolute—some fingering their triggers menacingly; others, taken by surprise, screamed, “No, no, we must not slay our officers!”
“Nay, slay them all!” roared a subadar, “whether we love them or not! If we do not kill them they will persuade us against our will!”
And a shrill clamour approved the advice.
Still five hundred men hesitated. Some of the waverers shouted to the Englishmen, urging them to run. It was as though they had been bitten by a mad dog, and, while yet sane, knowing that the poison was working in their veins, they wished to save bloodshed before the madness should overpower them and render them pitiless.
Almost broken-hearted by this proof that his trusted regiment had mutined, Colonel Woodburn lifted up his voice in a last appeal to their loyalty. Before he had spoken a dozen words, Pir Baksh—dreading lest the colonel’s influence should wreck his plans, even when success seemed assured—stepped behind a crowd of gesticulating sepoys and took deliberate aim.
Colonel Woodburn fell from his horse grievously wounded, and Ted and one of the subalterns dashed forward to convey him to a place of safety. Captain Markham placed himself at the head of his own hundred men and appealed to them, for the sake of all they had gone through together, to remain loyal and true. His company, composed of Hindustanis—mostly Rajputs—stood silent and puzzled, undecided how to act, when shots from some Mohammedans of the flank company answered his appeal, and the well-loved captain fell.
There was no longer any indecision among Markham’s Rajputs. Pity for the murdered officer who had done so much for them, anger that he should be shot by the Moslems whom they did not love, these feelings turned the scale. Hastily closing round their captain they guarded his body and menaced the mutineers. The remaining officers, seeing one faithful company, placed themselves at its head, and calledon the other Hindus to remain loyal and fight the Mussulmans. But the madness had worked by now: all the rest cast in their lot with the murderers, and, firing a few shots at Englishmen and faithful sepoys, whom they dared not charge, so great was still the influence of the officers, they rushed off to loot the town and shops.
Including Markham, three officers were killed and two badly wounded, two of the slain being brother ensigns of Ted—poor little “griffins”, who had been out but a few months.
Then swift as lightning came the thought, “What of the women and children and civilians?” The appearance of the revolted sepoys would be the signal for all thebudmashesof thebazarto join in the rioting and murder.
A noise of firing and a babel of fiendish yells from the English quarter of the town, in close proximity to the fort, told their own tale. The white residents were being attacked!
“Lieutenant Lowthian,” commanded the major, “remain here with Ensigns Tynan and Russell and about twenty men! We’ll take our wounded with us, the women will attend to them; and when we’ve cleared the streets we’ll bring the civilians into the fort.”
Exhorting the faithful Rajputs to remain true to their salt and so win eternal fame, the major ordered bayonets to be fixed, and headed the charge down the street, the wounded with their guard bringing up the rear.
A disorderly crowd of sepoys and riff-raff of the town had assembled in front of the large house of Sir Arthur Fletcher, the Commissioner of the district. The windows were being fired into and the doors battered down, in spite of a determined resistance from the inmates. Into the crowd charged the loyal sepoys. Firing a single volley at close quarters they at oncelet the rioters taste cold steel, and beneath the gallant major’s sword fell more than one of the ringleaders.
Major Munro was known as one of the strongest officers and best swordsmen in the army, and the mob gave back before his flashing steel and the glistening bayonets of his followers. But as the sepoys recoiled, a number of Wahabis, showering curses upon the faint-hearted, poured with knives and swords down upon the little band. The leader was all but lost. Separating him from his men, half a dozen fanatics set on him at once, yelling triumphantly. But the two who first came within reach of that mighty arm quickly lay in the dust; the third received the point in his heart, and a fourth was cloven almost in twain.
Aghast at the fate of their comrades the others faltered. But Munro did not wait to be attacked; stepping over the prostrate bodies he followed up the advantage gained, and the pandies shrank from that fatal sword. Joining forces once more, the sturdy band reached the house, and, standing with backs to the wall, they poured volley after volley—irregularly, but coolly and rapidly—into the dense, disorganized rabble, until at length the barricades were taken from the door, and one by one they were admitted.
“They are having a hard fight for it,” Ted observed to Lieutenant Lowthian. They stood on the walls that surrounded the courtyard of the fort, watching the progress of their comrades through the crowded streets. Lowthian nodded, but, absorbed by the struggle, made no reply.
“Yes, and they’ve left us here to be killed like rabbits,” muttered Tynan.
“Shut up! Don’t whine!” Lowthian scornfully exhorted him.
Ted’s anxiety had so far been largely centred in the safety of Ethel Woodburn, the charge placed under his protection; and having rightly guessed that the Commissioner’s house, surrounded by the clamouring mob, through whose masses Munro was breaking his way, contained the Europeans of Aurungpore, a load was lifted from his mind. The rebels had quitted the immediate vicinity of the fort, and the comparative tranquillity close at hand had made him forget his own danger. Tynan’s remark and Lowthian’s curtness startled him.
“They won’t be long in escorting the women here,” he cheerfully opined. “And a hundred of us ought to hold this place easily.”
“Yes, but twenty cannot,” Tynan sneered. “If it’s as much as Munro can do to force his way through now, how’s he going to manage it with a crowd of women to protect?”
Tynan had gauged the situation more correctly than Ted. Reckoning overmuch on the prestige of British arms, Munro had calculated that the removal of the civilians to the fort would be an easy matter. Most of the disloyal sepoys had disappeared, having scattered in order to loot the shops and the European bungalows. They were now returning by twos and threes, some laden with plunder, others savage and sullen through disappointment, having found the bungalows deserted and the coveted jewels and money saved from their clutches.
“Here comes that scoundrel Pir Baksh,” said Lowthian as the Moslem subadar appeared on the scene. He began to shout some commands unintelligible to the watchers on the walls, and soon succeeded in forming the scattered groups into a dense throng.
“I always detested that fellow,” Lowthian continued, “and I believe he’s at the bottom of this dastardly business.”
“He’s got Miss Woodburn’s horse too!” Ted cried in an excited voice, as he recognized the bay. “Look! he’s pointing towards the fort It’s our turn now!”
Pir Baksh was haranguing the sepoys, gesticulating wildly, first towards the strong white building in which the Europeans had taken shelter, and then in the direction of the frowning fortress whose guns commanded Aurungpore, and the air was filled with shouts of “Din, Din, Allah Akbar!”[1]