The Rescue.Isabel, recovered from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen, on seeing all at once the quiet of the night turned into a scene of murder and of bloodshed, had taken refuge in the cabin. She paid no attention to what was going on around her, but sat on a pile of sails, rocking herself to and fro, and moaning as she did so. Several balls passed through the canvas screen, but she paid no attention to them. She had seen her husband, the last friend left her, stabbed as she believed to the heart, and thrown into the sea. What was the result of the fight now to her, and yet, as she saw even in her misery the helpless body drawn from the ocean, and cast on to the raft, she rose, and threw herself beside it, sobbing bitterly in her anguish of heart.A few minutes’ pause had ensued after the fearful death scream of the mutineer, Smith, had rung forth on the night air, for the seamen consulted together, and the result was soon seen.On they came with a fierce shout, but this time, taught by experience, they divided into two parties; one, attacking the captain and his men in front, received their fire and were soon beaten back, losing one of their number, the uncertain light alone saving them. The second, under cover of the diversion, dashed into the cabin, and rifled the arm-chest, which they broke open.“Now, my lads, it’s our turn,” shouted one of the men as he loaded and fired, hitting the carpenter Morris, who fell uttering a deep groan.Three of Captain Weber’s small party werehors de combat. The carpenter was fast bleeding to death. Hughes was lying senseless on the planking of the raft, while Adams, whose wound had broken out again, was in a helpless condition. The ultimate result of the struggle seemed no longer doubtful.“It’s but a question of time, Lowe,” said the captain. “I’ve always been kind to the lubbers. Let the scoundrels have the gold—I’ll tell them so.”“Let me go among them, sir.”“No; it is my duty, and Andrew Weber is not the man to shirk it.”Holding up his hand, and putting down the revolver he had in his grasp, he walked quietly towards the end of the raft where the men were gathered together.He saw at once what he had not known before, namely, that through some negligence they had got at the cases of spirit, and had been drinking heavily, and he felt all hope was gone. Had they been sober an appeal to their better sense might have availed—as it was he knew it to be useless; still there was no other chance left.“My lads, we’ve been too long together to be murdering each other this way. I’ve never done you wrong. Tell me what ye want,” he said.“We want the gold, you old porpoise, and we’ll have it; and we want the raft, and we will have that, too,” was the reply.“I don’t care about the gold, Phillips,” replied the old seaman. “It’s all that remains to me, and I had hoped to fit out another craft with it; but the moan’s soon made. Take it.”“Too late! Too late, damn ye!” howled the drunken seaman. “Back to your quarter-deck, or take the consequences. I say, aft there, look out for squalls!”“Phillips, do you remember when I took you on board at Saint Helena? You were half starved, and in rags. If I go back, we will fight it out to the last man. All you can get is the gold, and I say ye may have it.”“Your quarter-deck speeches won’t do here, my hearty. Back to your people, I say!” The man’s eyes were blazing with drink and fury.Captain Weber was turning away. “Phillips,” he said, as he did so, “you have a wife and children over yonder—what do you think they will say when they hear of your being hung as a mutineer?”The taunt was too much for him. With a howl of rage, the drunken sailor raised his pistol, and the muzzle was within a foot of the old seaman’s head, as he pulled the trigger. Standing tall and erect, with a smile of withering scorn on his features as the report rang out, Captain Weber seemed for a moment unhurt; then, with a reel like that of a drunken man, he fell, close to the spot where Hughes lay, Isabel kneeling beside him. The ball had struck him on the temple, and he was dead before he touched the planks, his head hanging over the side, and his long white hair washing to and fro in the sea as the raft rose on the swell.Uttering a wild savage shout, the drunken sailor sprang over the corpse, followed by his comrades in crime. The rubicon of blood was indeed past. Another instant, and the scanty band, now greatly reduced in numbers, would be swept from the raft. The shouts and execrations of the seamen, maddened as they were with fiery spirit, rang over the calm, quiet sea, as, swinging his clubbed musket round his head, Mr Lowe, now the senior officer present, met the mutineers half way. Phillips, with a deep oath, again fired, as the mate struck the ruffian with all the power rage could give to a muscular arm, knocking him off the raft with the force of the blow. Once more the swish of the water was heard, as the sea around boiled into foam. The senseless body was tossed to and fro like a cork, half a dozen huge fins appearing above the water. Suddenly it was drawn down, reappeared, and then the wave was red with blood, as the sharks tore their prey piecemeal.“Come on, ye ruffians, and meet your doom!” yelled the triumphant mate; but hardly had the words passed his lips when a dull heavy report came booming over the ocean.A deep dead silence ensued, then a wild cheer burst from the mate’s breast.“Hurrah!” he shouted. “We are saved, my lads,—saved at last!” as he drew back from his exposed situation, and joined the rest.A distant flash was now seen, and then once more the boom of the gun came over the ocean, this time replied to by the successive reports of the guns and pistols of the mate’s little party, fired one after another into the air, sending each a spirt of flame into the darkness of the night, while far away a small fiery star rose and fell to the motion of the waves, the same which had so engaged Hughes’s attention at the moment he received the treacherous blow from the mutineer Gough. It was a whaler’s light.The men, now frightened and partially sobered, attempted no further violence. They seemed thoroughly cowed, saying not a word, even when the mate walked unarmed among them, and commenced throwing overboard deliberately, one after another, bottle after bottle of the fiery spirit they had stolen, and which had caused all the mischief. Without it, the pernicious counsels of the man Gough, and his almost as black hearted ally, Phillips, had never been listened to.“I say, Mr Lowe, you’ll let us poor beggars down mild, won’t you? It was that damned rum did it all,” said one of the now humbled seamen.The mate spoke never a word, but pointed silently to the body of the captain, as it lay on the planking, the long white hair moving in the wash of the sea, and the blood slowly welling from the shattered forehead. It was a ghastly sight, as the faint starlight revealed it to the sobered crew.“It was that lubber Gough,” muttered the man; “Phillips and he have gone to Davy Jones. I say, Mr Lowe, you’ll log it down to them, not to us; we were all three sheets in the wind.”“It’s not for me to decide,” replied the mate; “you’ll all have justice, and that looks to me like a rope rove through a block at the fore-yard arm. What had he done to you that he should lie there, you damned mutinous scoundrels?”“I say, my lads,” replied the still half-drunken man, “what’s the use of this kind of thing? If as how we are to blame for the skipper’s death, when we was as drunk as lords—if so be as we are to be yard-armed for what Gough and Phillips did, why let’s go overboard, says I.”“I say, Mr Lowe,” humbly interposed another and more sober man, “we had nothing to do with this here matter. Them two bloody-minded villains promised us rum and gold. We deserve all we’ll get, but you’ll not be down on us too hard, will ye?”“No, I’ll not,” replied the officer. “Collect the arms, Forest, and return them to the chest.”“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the man, obeying at once.Every half-hour a gun from the whaler boomed over the sea, telling of her presence; but it was evident that not understanding the firing, her crew thought it safer to wait for daylight.Isabel seemed stupefied with grief. Her senses were stunned by this last crowning misfortune. The missionary had now joined her, and by the feeble light had soon found that life was not quite extinct in his friend’s battered frame.With the help of two of the mutineers, Hughes had been carried into the cabin, and laid on the spare sails; some weak brandy-and-water had been given him, and the blood washed from the pale face and clotted hair.“It comes too late,” muttered Isabel, as she bent over her husband’s body. “It comes too late. What to me is yonder ship? Father and husband, father and husband gone!” she moaned.“Hush!” said the missionary, as he sponged away the blood with a handkerchief; “hush! he is not dead, only half drowned, and stunned.”The sailor Gough had, in his drunken fury, beaten his antagonist’s head against the jagged ends of the spars. The yielding water had softened the shock, but as the two leaned over him, and the grey dawn stole across the ocean, his head presented a terrible spectacle. They poured more spirit and water down his throat, and gradually the colour came back to his face. He opened his eyes, looking wildly around, and as he did so, the light of returning consciousness came back to them.At this moment, the boom of the whaler’s forecastle gun was again heard, as her men, who had in the darkness of the night seen only the flash of the pistols, now caught sight of the raft, her head yards being at once braced round, and her bows brought as near the wind as possible. The sound struck the injured man’s ear.“It is help, it is safety,” whispered Isabel. “Enrico, it is a ship!”The soldier’s eyes closed, his lips moved, and the blood mounted slowly to his cheeks. “My Isabel, my beloved!” he murmured. A flood of tears poured from Isabel’s eyes as she threw herself into his arms; and the missionary left the cabin, drawing down the sail as he did so over the opening.The raft did not show such proofs of the deadly fight which had taken place on board of her as might have been imagined. The dead body of the old captain was carefully placed amidships, near his boxes of gold dust; that of the carpenter, Morris, beside it, for he too was dead. Adams, whose splinter wound had broken out once more with the excitement of the fray, was looked to. The mutineers who had fallen had been disposed of by the sharks, whose large fins could yet be seen from, time to time, as they moved slowly round and round the raft, seeking for more prey.“We might have knowed what ’ud come on it,” said one of the now humble seamen, as he dashed a bucket of water over a large red patch of blood; “I never seed them chaps, but I knowed as Davy Jones a wanted some on us.”And so the morning dawned over the ocean, and the diminished crew on board the raft; the wind still light from the westward, and the sail yet dragging her almost imperceptibly through the water. Slowly the first streaks of light spread over the waste of ocean, as the haggard, worn-out men, pale from excitement and from the effects of drink, looked out eagerly for the ship, which they knew was near them.“There she is, right to leeward,” said one of the seamen; and as the light every moment became more intense, there she lay sure enough.“A full-rigged ship hove-to under two topsails, fore-topmast-staysail, and driver,” said Mr Lowe.“Look, she sees us,” cried Wyzinski, as the main-topsail yard was rounded in, the sail filled, and the ship gathered way—the Union Jack being run up to the gaff, and a white puff of smoke from her bows preceding the thud of the gun.The studding sail was gently raised, and Hughes, leaning on Isabel’s arm, joined the group. A few buckets of cold sea water had done wonders for him, though his head was still swollen and contused, and as he sat down on the spot where his tale had been so terribly broken off, the sun’s higher limb emerged from the waste of waters to the eastward, and tipped the waves of the Indian Ocean with its rays.“There is hope dawning on us at last, Isabel,” said he, pointing first to the rising sun, then to the white canvas of the ship, as the first beams shone on it.“There goes her foresail and mainsail. By Jove!” exclaimed Mr Lowe, “she must be strong handed, for they’re away aloft.”Sail after sail was shown on board the ship until she was standing on close hauled, with everything set to her royals.“There’s down with the helm!” muttered one of the men, as the ship’s bows came sweeping up to the wind, her canvas shivering, then filling once more as her yards swung round, and she stood on the other tack.“Ay, ay,” replied the man Forest, “she’ll work dead to windward, and then bear down on us. Why the devil didn’t she find herself here away yesterday?”“What a store of memories the last few weeks have given us, Enrico,” remarked Isabel, as she tore a strip of canvas to make a sling for the wounded arm, which was becoming painful.“So it ever is with our lives,” answered Hughes, as the arm was made as comfortable as possible. “Shadowy memories of sunshine and storm, ever driving over the mirror in which we see the past; but the future, dearest,” and he pointed towards the pyramid of white canvas, “the future will be our own.”“May God grant it, for we have been cruelly tried,” answered Isabel.Slipping slowly through the water, the whaler did exactly as the man Forest predicted.She was a dull sailer, and the time seemed long and weary to those who watched her on board the raft with intense anxiety. So precarious had been their late position, so changeable the events of their life, that they could not believe in safety until they should actually feel its existence.The whaler was now dead to windward, and the raft still going slowly through the water before the breeze. The two bodies, namely, those of Captain Weber and the carpenter Morris, lay side by side amidships.“Take the sail off her, my lads,” said the mate, and he was obeyed with ready alacrity, the canvas being stripped from the stump of a mast, and thrown over the two corpses.Paying round, the whaler wore, and slowly handling her loftier canvas, her huge hull came rolling along, heading straight for the raft, her crew shortening sail as they came on.Slowly she neared it, and a score or more of men might be seen clustering in her rigging, or gazing over her bulwarks at the strange sight presented by the spars drifting along on the waves of the ocean.“Raft, ahoy!” shouted a man, who was holding on in the mizen rigging of the ship, “what raft is that?”“The wreck of the brig ‘Halcyon,’ lost in the late gale,” replied the mate, using his two hands as a trumpet.“What was the meaning of the firing?” again shouted Captain Hawkins, master of the whaler the “Dolphin,” still misdoubting, for in those days pirates were not unknown off the coast of Madagascar.“Mutiny and murder,” returned the mate, at the top of his voice, for all reply.“Avast, there! Mr Lowe,” grumbled Forest. “Remember what ye promised us, sir.”“I’ll heave-to and send a boat,” was the shout that came across the waters, and the next moment the necessary orders were given, and so close were the ship and raft, that the words of command were heard distinctly on board the latter, as the “Dolphin” came to the wind, and under her two topsails, jib, and spanker, lay hove-to. A boat was lowered, and half an hour later the mate of the “Halcyon” was telling his sad tale in the cabin of the “Dolphin.” Her late crew were in irons forward, her passengers cared for, the ship working her way for Port Natal, and the deserted raft, stripped to the spars themselves, floating miles astern.The evil time at last seemed to have ended, for that afternoon the westerly breeze died away, and the “Dolphin,” with a fair wind, lay her course, dropping her anchor in the almost land-locked harbour, without an accident, landing her passengers and prisoners, and sailing again on her whaling voyage.Six weeks had elapsed since her departure. The Bishop of Cape Town, who had chanced to be at Durban at the time, had, at the missionary’s request, again performed the marriage ceremony, which had so hastily been solemnised on board the sinking brig. The remains of the tough British seaman, Captain Weber, had been buried with all honour in the cemetery of the town, and the same slab covered him, his carpenter Morris, and old Adams. Mr Lowe, in charge of the gold dust, had left for England, as second officer of the barque “The Flying Fish,” which had put into Port Natal disabled by the gale which had so ill-treated the unfortunate “Halcyon.”One afternoon, about six weeks after the sailing of the “Dolphin,” a small party of three stood on the beach at Port Natal.A large steamer, with the blue peter flying at the fore, the union jack at her mizen peak, and a cloud of dense black smoke rising from her funnel, could be seen off the bar, while a boat, manned by four powerful men, rose and fell on the rollers close by the beach.“Even at this last moment, Wyzinski, it is not too late. There are plenty of empty berths on board the ‘Saxon.’”Hughes seemed greatly moved, and the missionary’s usually impassive face showed signs of deep emotion, which, it was evident, he suppressed with difficulty.“No, old friend. No, it must not be,” he replied, his thin lips quivering as he spoke. “The work we have begun together, I will finish if I live. The ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land’ exist, and the dangers we have gone through have but opened out the way. Noti’s life lost on the banks of the Golden River, Luji’s sacrificed to save ours on the plains of Manica, must not have been given in vain.”A deep silence ensued as Isabel, leaning on her husband’s arm, looked pensively over the sea. The sound of the steam-whistle was heard, warning the loiterers on the beach that their time was short.“I go from this to depose on oath as to our discoveries,” continued the enthusiastic speaker. “I am sure of a welcome at Chantilly, and that shall be my starting point.”“Well, well,” returned Hughes, sorrowfully, “you won’t forget the presents for Masheesh. How he wanted to come with us, poor fellow.”“There goes a gun from the ‘Saxon,’ sir,” said the coxswain in charge of the boat, as the report of a light piece came to their ears, and a wisp of white smoke rose curling over the point.“Good-bye, Wyzinski, good-bye,” said Hughes, as he grasped the other’s hand. “May God bless you! And remember, while we have a home it’s yours. You must eventually tire of your wanderings.”“Shall I?” returned the other, as a slight smile curled his lip, though the unbidden tears were standing in his eyes, kept back only by his iron will “Hark my words: you will tire first of a life of inaction.” And the missionary touched Isabel’s cheek with his lips as he handed her into the boat.One more grasp of the hand as the two men stood looking into each other’s eyes; one more deep “good-bye!” and Hughes sat by her side.“Give way, my lads! give way, with a will!” exclaimed the coxswain, as the sound of a second gun came booming over the point.“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes,” shouted the missionary, as the boat shot away from land, “and when you do so, think of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, and your old comrade working alone.”A wave of the hand came back for all reply, as Hughes passed his arm round Isabel’s slender waist.With the calm serenity which so characterised the man, the missionary turned, and, instead of remaining to watch the boat, walked firmly though slowly away, never once faltering. The tears were still standing in his eyes, but no one marked them, as he moved with his firm springy step through the busy streets of Durban. The smoke of the mail steamer “Saxon” was yet to be seen, a black inky spot on the horizon, as he took his way from the town, bound for the banks of the Nonoti. He reached Chantilly in safety, and passed on thence, after a short halt, to the station at Santa Lucia Bay, there to organise a party destined to win once more from the forest growth the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land.
Isabel, recovered from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen, on seeing all at once the quiet of the night turned into a scene of murder and of bloodshed, had taken refuge in the cabin. She paid no attention to what was going on around her, but sat on a pile of sails, rocking herself to and fro, and moaning as she did so. Several balls passed through the canvas screen, but she paid no attention to them. She had seen her husband, the last friend left her, stabbed as she believed to the heart, and thrown into the sea. What was the result of the fight now to her, and yet, as she saw even in her misery the helpless body drawn from the ocean, and cast on to the raft, she rose, and threw herself beside it, sobbing bitterly in her anguish of heart.
A few minutes’ pause had ensued after the fearful death scream of the mutineer, Smith, had rung forth on the night air, for the seamen consulted together, and the result was soon seen.
On they came with a fierce shout, but this time, taught by experience, they divided into two parties; one, attacking the captain and his men in front, received their fire and were soon beaten back, losing one of their number, the uncertain light alone saving them. The second, under cover of the diversion, dashed into the cabin, and rifled the arm-chest, which they broke open.
“Now, my lads, it’s our turn,” shouted one of the men as he loaded and fired, hitting the carpenter Morris, who fell uttering a deep groan.
Three of Captain Weber’s small party werehors de combat. The carpenter was fast bleeding to death. Hughes was lying senseless on the planking of the raft, while Adams, whose wound had broken out again, was in a helpless condition. The ultimate result of the struggle seemed no longer doubtful.
“It’s but a question of time, Lowe,” said the captain. “I’ve always been kind to the lubbers. Let the scoundrels have the gold—I’ll tell them so.”
“Let me go among them, sir.”
“No; it is my duty, and Andrew Weber is not the man to shirk it.”
Holding up his hand, and putting down the revolver he had in his grasp, he walked quietly towards the end of the raft where the men were gathered together.
He saw at once what he had not known before, namely, that through some negligence they had got at the cases of spirit, and had been drinking heavily, and he felt all hope was gone. Had they been sober an appeal to their better sense might have availed—as it was he knew it to be useless; still there was no other chance left.
“My lads, we’ve been too long together to be murdering each other this way. I’ve never done you wrong. Tell me what ye want,” he said.
“We want the gold, you old porpoise, and we’ll have it; and we want the raft, and we will have that, too,” was the reply.
“I don’t care about the gold, Phillips,” replied the old seaman. “It’s all that remains to me, and I had hoped to fit out another craft with it; but the moan’s soon made. Take it.”
“Too late! Too late, damn ye!” howled the drunken seaman. “Back to your quarter-deck, or take the consequences. I say, aft there, look out for squalls!”
“Phillips, do you remember when I took you on board at Saint Helena? You were half starved, and in rags. If I go back, we will fight it out to the last man. All you can get is the gold, and I say ye may have it.”
“Your quarter-deck speeches won’t do here, my hearty. Back to your people, I say!” The man’s eyes were blazing with drink and fury.
Captain Weber was turning away. “Phillips,” he said, as he did so, “you have a wife and children over yonder—what do you think they will say when they hear of your being hung as a mutineer?”
The taunt was too much for him. With a howl of rage, the drunken sailor raised his pistol, and the muzzle was within a foot of the old seaman’s head, as he pulled the trigger. Standing tall and erect, with a smile of withering scorn on his features as the report rang out, Captain Weber seemed for a moment unhurt; then, with a reel like that of a drunken man, he fell, close to the spot where Hughes lay, Isabel kneeling beside him. The ball had struck him on the temple, and he was dead before he touched the planks, his head hanging over the side, and his long white hair washing to and fro in the sea as the raft rose on the swell.
Uttering a wild savage shout, the drunken sailor sprang over the corpse, followed by his comrades in crime. The rubicon of blood was indeed past. Another instant, and the scanty band, now greatly reduced in numbers, would be swept from the raft. The shouts and execrations of the seamen, maddened as they were with fiery spirit, rang over the calm, quiet sea, as, swinging his clubbed musket round his head, Mr Lowe, now the senior officer present, met the mutineers half way. Phillips, with a deep oath, again fired, as the mate struck the ruffian with all the power rage could give to a muscular arm, knocking him off the raft with the force of the blow. Once more the swish of the water was heard, as the sea around boiled into foam. The senseless body was tossed to and fro like a cork, half a dozen huge fins appearing above the water. Suddenly it was drawn down, reappeared, and then the wave was red with blood, as the sharks tore their prey piecemeal.
“Come on, ye ruffians, and meet your doom!” yelled the triumphant mate; but hardly had the words passed his lips when a dull heavy report came booming over the ocean.
A deep dead silence ensued, then a wild cheer burst from the mate’s breast.
“Hurrah!” he shouted. “We are saved, my lads,—saved at last!” as he drew back from his exposed situation, and joined the rest.
A distant flash was now seen, and then once more the boom of the gun came over the ocean, this time replied to by the successive reports of the guns and pistols of the mate’s little party, fired one after another into the air, sending each a spirt of flame into the darkness of the night, while far away a small fiery star rose and fell to the motion of the waves, the same which had so engaged Hughes’s attention at the moment he received the treacherous blow from the mutineer Gough. It was a whaler’s light.
The men, now frightened and partially sobered, attempted no further violence. They seemed thoroughly cowed, saying not a word, even when the mate walked unarmed among them, and commenced throwing overboard deliberately, one after another, bottle after bottle of the fiery spirit they had stolen, and which had caused all the mischief. Without it, the pernicious counsels of the man Gough, and his almost as black hearted ally, Phillips, had never been listened to.
“I say, Mr Lowe, you’ll let us poor beggars down mild, won’t you? It was that damned rum did it all,” said one of the now humbled seamen.
The mate spoke never a word, but pointed silently to the body of the captain, as it lay on the planking, the long white hair moving in the wash of the sea, and the blood slowly welling from the shattered forehead. It was a ghastly sight, as the faint starlight revealed it to the sobered crew.
“It was that lubber Gough,” muttered the man; “Phillips and he have gone to Davy Jones. I say, Mr Lowe, you’ll log it down to them, not to us; we were all three sheets in the wind.”
“It’s not for me to decide,” replied the mate; “you’ll all have justice, and that looks to me like a rope rove through a block at the fore-yard arm. What had he done to you that he should lie there, you damned mutinous scoundrels?”
“I say, my lads,” replied the still half-drunken man, “what’s the use of this kind of thing? If as how we are to blame for the skipper’s death, when we was as drunk as lords—if so be as we are to be yard-armed for what Gough and Phillips did, why let’s go overboard, says I.”
“I say, Mr Lowe,” humbly interposed another and more sober man, “we had nothing to do with this here matter. Them two bloody-minded villains promised us rum and gold. We deserve all we’ll get, but you’ll not be down on us too hard, will ye?”
“No, I’ll not,” replied the officer. “Collect the arms, Forest, and return them to the chest.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the man, obeying at once.
Every half-hour a gun from the whaler boomed over the sea, telling of her presence; but it was evident that not understanding the firing, her crew thought it safer to wait for daylight.
Isabel seemed stupefied with grief. Her senses were stunned by this last crowning misfortune. The missionary had now joined her, and by the feeble light had soon found that life was not quite extinct in his friend’s battered frame.
With the help of two of the mutineers, Hughes had been carried into the cabin, and laid on the spare sails; some weak brandy-and-water had been given him, and the blood washed from the pale face and clotted hair.
“It comes too late,” muttered Isabel, as she bent over her husband’s body. “It comes too late. What to me is yonder ship? Father and husband, father and husband gone!” she moaned.
“Hush!” said the missionary, as he sponged away the blood with a handkerchief; “hush! he is not dead, only half drowned, and stunned.”
The sailor Gough had, in his drunken fury, beaten his antagonist’s head against the jagged ends of the spars. The yielding water had softened the shock, but as the two leaned over him, and the grey dawn stole across the ocean, his head presented a terrible spectacle. They poured more spirit and water down his throat, and gradually the colour came back to his face. He opened his eyes, looking wildly around, and as he did so, the light of returning consciousness came back to them.
At this moment, the boom of the whaler’s forecastle gun was again heard, as her men, who had in the darkness of the night seen only the flash of the pistols, now caught sight of the raft, her head yards being at once braced round, and her bows brought as near the wind as possible. The sound struck the injured man’s ear.
“It is help, it is safety,” whispered Isabel. “Enrico, it is a ship!”
The soldier’s eyes closed, his lips moved, and the blood mounted slowly to his cheeks. “My Isabel, my beloved!” he murmured. A flood of tears poured from Isabel’s eyes as she threw herself into his arms; and the missionary left the cabin, drawing down the sail as he did so over the opening.
The raft did not show such proofs of the deadly fight which had taken place on board of her as might have been imagined. The dead body of the old captain was carefully placed amidships, near his boxes of gold dust; that of the carpenter, Morris, beside it, for he too was dead. Adams, whose splinter wound had broken out once more with the excitement of the fray, was looked to. The mutineers who had fallen had been disposed of by the sharks, whose large fins could yet be seen from, time to time, as they moved slowly round and round the raft, seeking for more prey.
“We might have knowed what ’ud come on it,” said one of the now humble seamen, as he dashed a bucket of water over a large red patch of blood; “I never seed them chaps, but I knowed as Davy Jones a wanted some on us.”
And so the morning dawned over the ocean, and the diminished crew on board the raft; the wind still light from the westward, and the sail yet dragging her almost imperceptibly through the water. Slowly the first streaks of light spread over the waste of ocean, as the haggard, worn-out men, pale from excitement and from the effects of drink, looked out eagerly for the ship, which they knew was near them.
“There she is, right to leeward,” said one of the seamen; and as the light every moment became more intense, there she lay sure enough.
“A full-rigged ship hove-to under two topsails, fore-topmast-staysail, and driver,” said Mr Lowe.
“Look, she sees us,” cried Wyzinski, as the main-topsail yard was rounded in, the sail filled, and the ship gathered way—the Union Jack being run up to the gaff, and a white puff of smoke from her bows preceding the thud of the gun.
The studding sail was gently raised, and Hughes, leaning on Isabel’s arm, joined the group. A few buckets of cold sea water had done wonders for him, though his head was still swollen and contused, and as he sat down on the spot where his tale had been so terribly broken off, the sun’s higher limb emerged from the waste of waters to the eastward, and tipped the waves of the Indian Ocean with its rays.
“There is hope dawning on us at last, Isabel,” said he, pointing first to the rising sun, then to the white canvas of the ship, as the first beams shone on it.
“There goes her foresail and mainsail. By Jove!” exclaimed Mr Lowe, “she must be strong handed, for they’re away aloft.”
Sail after sail was shown on board the ship until she was standing on close hauled, with everything set to her royals.
“There’s down with the helm!” muttered one of the men, as the ship’s bows came sweeping up to the wind, her canvas shivering, then filling once more as her yards swung round, and she stood on the other tack.
“Ay, ay,” replied the man Forest, “she’ll work dead to windward, and then bear down on us. Why the devil didn’t she find herself here away yesterday?”
“What a store of memories the last few weeks have given us, Enrico,” remarked Isabel, as she tore a strip of canvas to make a sling for the wounded arm, which was becoming painful.
“So it ever is with our lives,” answered Hughes, as the arm was made as comfortable as possible. “Shadowy memories of sunshine and storm, ever driving over the mirror in which we see the past; but the future, dearest,” and he pointed towards the pyramid of white canvas, “the future will be our own.”
“May God grant it, for we have been cruelly tried,” answered Isabel.
Slipping slowly through the water, the whaler did exactly as the man Forest predicted.
She was a dull sailer, and the time seemed long and weary to those who watched her on board the raft with intense anxiety. So precarious had been their late position, so changeable the events of their life, that they could not believe in safety until they should actually feel its existence.
The whaler was now dead to windward, and the raft still going slowly through the water before the breeze. The two bodies, namely, those of Captain Weber and the carpenter Morris, lay side by side amidships.
“Take the sail off her, my lads,” said the mate, and he was obeyed with ready alacrity, the canvas being stripped from the stump of a mast, and thrown over the two corpses.
Paying round, the whaler wore, and slowly handling her loftier canvas, her huge hull came rolling along, heading straight for the raft, her crew shortening sail as they came on.
Slowly she neared it, and a score or more of men might be seen clustering in her rigging, or gazing over her bulwarks at the strange sight presented by the spars drifting along on the waves of the ocean.
“Raft, ahoy!” shouted a man, who was holding on in the mizen rigging of the ship, “what raft is that?”
“The wreck of the brig ‘Halcyon,’ lost in the late gale,” replied the mate, using his two hands as a trumpet.
“What was the meaning of the firing?” again shouted Captain Hawkins, master of the whaler the “Dolphin,” still misdoubting, for in those days pirates were not unknown off the coast of Madagascar.
“Mutiny and murder,” returned the mate, at the top of his voice, for all reply.
“Avast, there! Mr Lowe,” grumbled Forest. “Remember what ye promised us, sir.”
“I’ll heave-to and send a boat,” was the shout that came across the waters, and the next moment the necessary orders were given, and so close were the ship and raft, that the words of command were heard distinctly on board the latter, as the “Dolphin” came to the wind, and under her two topsails, jib, and spanker, lay hove-to. A boat was lowered, and half an hour later the mate of the “Halcyon” was telling his sad tale in the cabin of the “Dolphin.” Her late crew were in irons forward, her passengers cared for, the ship working her way for Port Natal, and the deserted raft, stripped to the spars themselves, floating miles astern.
The evil time at last seemed to have ended, for that afternoon the westerly breeze died away, and the “Dolphin,” with a fair wind, lay her course, dropping her anchor in the almost land-locked harbour, without an accident, landing her passengers and prisoners, and sailing again on her whaling voyage.
Six weeks had elapsed since her departure. The Bishop of Cape Town, who had chanced to be at Durban at the time, had, at the missionary’s request, again performed the marriage ceremony, which had so hastily been solemnised on board the sinking brig. The remains of the tough British seaman, Captain Weber, had been buried with all honour in the cemetery of the town, and the same slab covered him, his carpenter Morris, and old Adams. Mr Lowe, in charge of the gold dust, had left for England, as second officer of the barque “The Flying Fish,” which had put into Port Natal disabled by the gale which had so ill-treated the unfortunate “Halcyon.”
One afternoon, about six weeks after the sailing of the “Dolphin,” a small party of three stood on the beach at Port Natal.
A large steamer, with the blue peter flying at the fore, the union jack at her mizen peak, and a cloud of dense black smoke rising from her funnel, could be seen off the bar, while a boat, manned by four powerful men, rose and fell on the rollers close by the beach.
“Even at this last moment, Wyzinski, it is not too late. There are plenty of empty berths on board the ‘Saxon.’”
Hughes seemed greatly moved, and the missionary’s usually impassive face showed signs of deep emotion, which, it was evident, he suppressed with difficulty.
“No, old friend. No, it must not be,” he replied, his thin lips quivering as he spoke. “The work we have begun together, I will finish if I live. The ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land’ exist, and the dangers we have gone through have but opened out the way. Noti’s life lost on the banks of the Golden River, Luji’s sacrificed to save ours on the plains of Manica, must not have been given in vain.”
A deep silence ensued as Isabel, leaning on her husband’s arm, looked pensively over the sea. The sound of the steam-whistle was heard, warning the loiterers on the beach that their time was short.
“I go from this to depose on oath as to our discoveries,” continued the enthusiastic speaker. “I am sure of a welcome at Chantilly, and that shall be my starting point.”
“Well, well,” returned Hughes, sorrowfully, “you won’t forget the presents for Masheesh. How he wanted to come with us, poor fellow.”
“There goes a gun from the ‘Saxon,’ sir,” said the coxswain in charge of the boat, as the report of a light piece came to their ears, and a wisp of white smoke rose curling over the point.
“Good-bye, Wyzinski, good-bye,” said Hughes, as he grasped the other’s hand. “May God bless you! And remember, while we have a home it’s yours. You must eventually tire of your wanderings.”
“Shall I?” returned the other, as a slight smile curled his lip, though the unbidden tears were standing in his eyes, kept back only by his iron will “Hark my words: you will tire first of a life of inaction.” And the missionary touched Isabel’s cheek with his lips as he handed her into the boat.
One more grasp of the hand as the two men stood looking into each other’s eyes; one more deep “good-bye!” and Hughes sat by her side.
“Give way, my lads! give way, with a will!” exclaimed the coxswain, as the sound of a second gun came booming over the point.
“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes,” shouted the missionary, as the boat shot away from land, “and when you do so, think of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, and your old comrade working alone.”
A wave of the hand came back for all reply, as Hughes passed his arm round Isabel’s slender waist.
With the calm serenity which so characterised the man, the missionary turned, and, instead of remaining to watch the boat, walked firmly though slowly away, never once faltering. The tears were still standing in his eyes, but no one marked them, as he moved with his firm springy step through the busy streets of Durban. The smoke of the mail steamer “Saxon” was yet to be seen, a black inky spot on the horizon, as he took his way from the town, bound for the banks of the Nonoti. He reached Chantilly in safety, and passed on thence, after a short halt, to the station at Santa Lucia Bay, there to organise a party destined to win once more from the forest growth the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land.
The Massacres of Cawnpore.Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the Lion’s Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as the ship stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering, rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done by the passenger is to leave the ship to pitch and roll at her anchors until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse, as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful. Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views; others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half way, and where the click of the billiard balls never seems to cease night or day.Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pass on his left hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds, sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white façade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly hidden by the clustering creepers and vines.Bright flowers and green plots of grass, carefully mowed and watered, speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester, who, being absent in England was glad to let it.It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.“Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?” asked Isabel, who, seated on a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes lying on the grass at her feet, an open book near.“Well, no,” answered he, yawning; “but I don’t see why we should wait the reply to all that mass of papers sent to Portugal.”“I don’t speak English well enough yet,” said Isabel, laughing; but this was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three months’ residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was fully evident.“We had trouble enough with that box of papers,” said Hughes, musing; “and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father’s property at stake, I suppose we must submit.”“Submit,” replied Isabel, brightly; “it’s no very hard task, methinks. Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?”“Not the ride, certainly; I’m not equal to the exertion,” replied the soldier.Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary’s parting words came back to him.“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,’ and your old comrade working alone.”The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.“Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees.”“I don’t exactly remember where I left off, Isabel,” replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. “A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I’ll try. Lend me that cushion.”Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.“Well, Enrico,—and my tale?” asked Isabel, looking up.“Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it happened there what always happens. They melted away like snow before the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the house—chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.“Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.“Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith.”“And Lucy?” asked Isabel; “your tale is worth nothing without her.”“Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn, inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they passed to us.”“And the old priest—what was Father Guy’s fate, Enrico? Do you know?”“Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen’s huts of St Tudno’s time; but few who go there now either know of or care for the curious deeds of the past.“The ‘Wyvern,’ the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.“It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there, so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A mass of rock has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.“Days passed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of Creuddyn.”“You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?”“And so I do,” replied Hughes, warmly. “I was born among its fine old mountains, and I love its old-fashioned, brave, honest-hearted race; but to continue. Days had passed when some fishermen at sea noticed a spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.“They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale, but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the flanks of the mountain, long the abode of the foxes.“They searched, and found a narrow, dangerous path, which yet exists. The Gloddaeth keepers know it, and know too where to track Reynard when their game disappears. The priest was found half starved, and fast asleep there.“The news spread, the fanatic population was soon roused. The country people flocked from far and near.“‘Let the idolater see his chapel,’ they roared, as the emaciated, careworn man was dragged into the centre of the green field, stretching before the house of Penrhyn to the sea. The aged priest was weak with hunger, and worn with suffering. Before him seethed a rude mob of infuriated peasants, and death was certain. This moved him not, but the chapel, despoiled, ruined, and half burned, caused the tears to roll down his thin cheeks.“‘Ha!’ shouted a thick-set peasant, ‘ye doomed us all to death, let us see how ye meet your own;’ and he hurled a sharp stone at the feeble old man.“‘I condemned ye not, children of darkness,’ said the priest, wiping away the blood from his eyes, and raising his tall, fine figure to its utmost height, his grey hair streaming on the wind. ‘I would have saved ye from the evil one, whose prey ye are. Ye cannot harm me,’ and a smile of withering scorn settled down upon his lips.“From the skirts of the crowd to its centre, the whole became one seething, boiling mass. Knives gleamed in the sunshine. One moment Father Guy stood there, firm and erect, a smile of quiet scorn on his lips, and the fresh, breeze from the sea playing through his scanty grey hair and over his shaven crown; the next his body was whirling above men’s heads, it was pulled to and fro, torn here and there, until at length it was rived, piecemeal, by the infuriated crowd, and the Roman Catholic faith died out with the House of Penrhyn in Creuddyn.”The tale was told, the speaker ceased, and for a moment all was silence, for the story had been a melancholy one.The sharp angry bark of a dog was heard, then a step crushing the gravel as some one advanced.“The postman, Isabel,” exclaimed Hughes, springing to his feet with renewed energy; “now for news!”But there was only a paper and one letter, and both bore the Calcutta postmark.“I know not a soul in the Presidency,” said Hughes, as he turned the letter, which was a very bulky one, listlessly in his hand. “I dare say it will keep.”“Well, if you find it so fatiguing to read your own letters, at least read me the paper.”The soldier tore the band and flung it from him, shaking out the sheet, and then threw himself on the ground in the same indolent attitude.“What news will interest you, Isabel?” he asked; but before the reply could be given, his eye fell on the column headed “Latest Intelligence,” and all traces of apathy disappeared as if by magic, the words “Massacre at Cawnpore,” “Atrocities committed by Nana Sahib,” meeting his eye.“Why, what is the matter, Enrico?” asked Isabel, laying down her work in alarm, for his eyes literally blazed with fury, as he snatched up the despised letter, and tore it open, reading therein the details of the terrible massacre of Cawnpore.“And where is Cawnpore?” asked Isabel.“It is a large station on the right bank of the Ganges, where a European force is generally quartered, and in whose neighbourhood a large number of my countrymen live. The native troops have revolted, murdered their English officers, while the trusted friend of the British, Nana Sahib, has seized the treasury, joined the rebels, and the revolt spreading, India has thrown off our rule, while the handful of English are being murdered piecemeal.”“Surely, you mean killed in open warfare, Enrico? In our days people are not murdered wholesale,” said Isabel, opening her eyes widely with horror and astonishment.“Listen to my letter, Isabel. It is from an old friend and officer of my own regiment, and after telling me that the corps has been ordered to join Sir Henry Havelock’s force, it says:—“‘The proceedings at Cawnpore are a blot on humanity. The women, children, and sick were placed in barracks, which it was thought the enemy would respect. Their guns thundered night and day on Wheeler’s entrenchments, held only by a handful of men against the rebel army; but, not content with this, they threw carcasses filled with powder on to the thatched roof which they knew covered the defenceless women, burned it and them, shouting and laughing when they saw the flames.’”“How horrible!” ejaculated Isabel.“Ay: but this is not all,” continued Hughes, reading on. “‘Without water, without provisions, the cruel Nana offered terms, offered life and liberty. They were accepted, and then, in detail, the soldiers having laid down their arms, were murdered.’”Hughes put down the letter, and a sorrowful silence ensued. He was thinking of his late months of idleness, while such events had been passing around him, and thinking of them, too, with regret.Isabel was meditating also, but her thoughts were turned on the future, and on her husband’s duty.Hughes again took up the letter. “‘They who met death,’” he continued reading, “‘were happy; but the prisoners suffered far worse. General Havelock, to join whom we are marching up-country, has beaten the rebels everywhere in detail, and as the news of his victories reached Cawnpore, the European prisoners were led out in small batches, the men were murdered, with every refinement of cruelty possible; the children were killed, their brains dashed out before their parents’ eyes, while wives and daughters were given up to the savage lust of the sepoys, only to meet death at a later period.’”Isabel started from her seat, her eyes were bright as she walked to and fro, and she pushed her hair back from her forehead with both hands as she spoke.“Have you done, Enrico?” she asked, her breath seeming to come fast and thick.“All, except smaller matters of personal detail,” he replied.“Read on to the last letter,” she said; and he obeyed.“‘You are promoted to a Majority, as you will see by the enclosed Gazette. Colonel Desmond obtained leave, and started for England a few days before the explosion of the mutiny. Lieutenant-Colonel Sedley is sick, and will be sent down to Calcutta, his old wound having broken out. Could you not—’”And Hughes paused, looking sadly at Isabel.The latter stopped in her walk, bent down, and took up the letter which had fallen to the ground.“Do you think so meanly of me? Do you believe me to be so unworthy of you?” she said, turning her eyes full upon him, and placing the document once more in his hands. “Read on, Enrico.”“‘Could you not join at once on receipt of this? Don’t bring the Kaffir Bride, we have impediments enough already. You will have command of the old regiment, and we will gloriously revenge on these foul murderers the butchery of our women and children. Don’t hesitate an hour when this reaches you.’“‘Ever sincerely yours,’“‘Frederick Curtis.’”“Always the same,” exclaimed Hughes. “He would have the command and sure promotion, but he thinks of me rather than himself.”“And you will not hesitate a minute—no, not a second,” cried Isabel, the hot blood rushing to her face.“Isabel!” said the soldier, in a voice which, despite all he could do, trembled.“You will avenge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you stay?”He held her out at arm’s length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with pride and indignation.“Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come back to me covered with glory, as you will come.”“And if I return no more, Isabel?”“Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray. Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me, or,”—and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice trembled—“or,” she continued, “Enrico mio, I will come to you;” and, bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier’s breast, as he clasped her fervently in his arms.
Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the Lion’s Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as the ship stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering, rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done by the passenger is to leave the ship to pitch and roll at her anchors until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse, as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.
Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful. Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views; others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half way, and where the click of the billiard balls never seems to cease night or day.
Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pass on his left hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds, sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white façade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly hidden by the clustering creepers and vines.
Bright flowers and green plots of grass, carefully mowed and watered, speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester, who, being absent in England was glad to let it.
It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.
“Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?” asked Isabel, who, seated on a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes lying on the grass at her feet, an open book near.
“Well, no,” answered he, yawning; “but I don’t see why we should wait the reply to all that mass of papers sent to Portugal.”
“I don’t speak English well enough yet,” said Isabel, laughing; but this was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three months’ residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was fully evident.
“We had trouble enough with that box of papers,” said Hughes, musing; “and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father’s property at stake, I suppose we must submit.”
“Submit,” replied Isabel, brightly; “it’s no very hard task, methinks. Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?”
“Not the ride, certainly; I’m not equal to the exertion,” replied the soldier.
Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary’s parting words came back to him.
“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,’ and your old comrade working alone.”
The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.
“Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees.”
“I don’t exactly remember where I left off, Isabel,” replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. “A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I’ll try. Lend me that cushion.”
Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.
“Well, Enrico,—and my tale?” asked Isabel, looking up.
“Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it happened there what always happens. They melted away like snow before the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the house—chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.
“Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.
“Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith.”
“And Lucy?” asked Isabel; “your tale is worth nothing without her.”
“Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn, inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they passed to us.”
“And the old priest—what was Father Guy’s fate, Enrico? Do you know?”
“Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen’s huts of St Tudno’s time; but few who go there now either know of or care for the curious deeds of the past.
“The ‘Wyvern,’ the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.
“It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there, so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A mass of rock has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.
“Days passed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of Creuddyn.”
“You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?”
“And so I do,” replied Hughes, warmly. “I was born among its fine old mountains, and I love its old-fashioned, brave, honest-hearted race; but to continue. Days had passed when some fishermen at sea noticed a spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.
“They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale, but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the flanks of the mountain, long the abode of the foxes.
“They searched, and found a narrow, dangerous path, which yet exists. The Gloddaeth keepers know it, and know too where to track Reynard when their game disappears. The priest was found half starved, and fast asleep there.
“The news spread, the fanatic population was soon roused. The country people flocked from far and near.
“‘Let the idolater see his chapel,’ they roared, as the emaciated, careworn man was dragged into the centre of the green field, stretching before the house of Penrhyn to the sea. The aged priest was weak with hunger, and worn with suffering. Before him seethed a rude mob of infuriated peasants, and death was certain. This moved him not, but the chapel, despoiled, ruined, and half burned, caused the tears to roll down his thin cheeks.
“‘Ha!’ shouted a thick-set peasant, ‘ye doomed us all to death, let us see how ye meet your own;’ and he hurled a sharp stone at the feeble old man.
“‘I condemned ye not, children of darkness,’ said the priest, wiping away the blood from his eyes, and raising his tall, fine figure to its utmost height, his grey hair streaming on the wind. ‘I would have saved ye from the evil one, whose prey ye are. Ye cannot harm me,’ and a smile of withering scorn settled down upon his lips.
“From the skirts of the crowd to its centre, the whole became one seething, boiling mass. Knives gleamed in the sunshine. One moment Father Guy stood there, firm and erect, a smile of quiet scorn on his lips, and the fresh, breeze from the sea playing through his scanty grey hair and over his shaven crown; the next his body was whirling above men’s heads, it was pulled to and fro, torn here and there, until at length it was rived, piecemeal, by the infuriated crowd, and the Roman Catholic faith died out with the House of Penrhyn in Creuddyn.”
The tale was told, the speaker ceased, and for a moment all was silence, for the story had been a melancholy one.
The sharp angry bark of a dog was heard, then a step crushing the gravel as some one advanced.
“The postman, Isabel,” exclaimed Hughes, springing to his feet with renewed energy; “now for news!”
But there was only a paper and one letter, and both bore the Calcutta postmark.
“I know not a soul in the Presidency,” said Hughes, as he turned the letter, which was a very bulky one, listlessly in his hand. “I dare say it will keep.”
“Well, if you find it so fatiguing to read your own letters, at least read me the paper.”
The soldier tore the band and flung it from him, shaking out the sheet, and then threw himself on the ground in the same indolent attitude.
“What news will interest you, Isabel?” he asked; but before the reply could be given, his eye fell on the column headed “Latest Intelligence,” and all traces of apathy disappeared as if by magic, the words “Massacre at Cawnpore,” “Atrocities committed by Nana Sahib,” meeting his eye.
“Why, what is the matter, Enrico?” asked Isabel, laying down her work in alarm, for his eyes literally blazed with fury, as he snatched up the despised letter, and tore it open, reading therein the details of the terrible massacre of Cawnpore.
“And where is Cawnpore?” asked Isabel.
“It is a large station on the right bank of the Ganges, where a European force is generally quartered, and in whose neighbourhood a large number of my countrymen live. The native troops have revolted, murdered their English officers, while the trusted friend of the British, Nana Sahib, has seized the treasury, joined the rebels, and the revolt spreading, India has thrown off our rule, while the handful of English are being murdered piecemeal.”
“Surely, you mean killed in open warfare, Enrico? In our days people are not murdered wholesale,” said Isabel, opening her eyes widely with horror and astonishment.
“Listen to my letter, Isabel. It is from an old friend and officer of my own regiment, and after telling me that the corps has been ordered to join Sir Henry Havelock’s force, it says:—
“‘The proceedings at Cawnpore are a blot on humanity. The women, children, and sick were placed in barracks, which it was thought the enemy would respect. Their guns thundered night and day on Wheeler’s entrenchments, held only by a handful of men against the rebel army; but, not content with this, they threw carcasses filled with powder on to the thatched roof which they knew covered the defenceless women, burned it and them, shouting and laughing when they saw the flames.’”
“How horrible!” ejaculated Isabel.
“Ay: but this is not all,” continued Hughes, reading on. “‘Without water, without provisions, the cruel Nana offered terms, offered life and liberty. They were accepted, and then, in detail, the soldiers having laid down their arms, were murdered.’”
Hughes put down the letter, and a sorrowful silence ensued. He was thinking of his late months of idleness, while such events had been passing around him, and thinking of them, too, with regret.
Isabel was meditating also, but her thoughts were turned on the future, and on her husband’s duty.
Hughes again took up the letter. “‘They who met death,’” he continued reading, “‘were happy; but the prisoners suffered far worse. General Havelock, to join whom we are marching up-country, has beaten the rebels everywhere in detail, and as the news of his victories reached Cawnpore, the European prisoners were led out in small batches, the men were murdered, with every refinement of cruelty possible; the children were killed, their brains dashed out before their parents’ eyes, while wives and daughters were given up to the savage lust of the sepoys, only to meet death at a later period.’”
Isabel started from her seat, her eyes were bright as she walked to and fro, and she pushed her hair back from her forehead with both hands as she spoke.
“Have you done, Enrico?” she asked, her breath seeming to come fast and thick.
“All, except smaller matters of personal detail,” he replied.
“Read on to the last letter,” she said; and he obeyed.
“‘You are promoted to a Majority, as you will see by the enclosed Gazette. Colonel Desmond obtained leave, and started for England a few days before the explosion of the mutiny. Lieutenant-Colonel Sedley is sick, and will be sent down to Calcutta, his old wound having broken out. Could you not—’”
And Hughes paused, looking sadly at Isabel.
The latter stopped in her walk, bent down, and took up the letter which had fallen to the ground.
“Do you think so meanly of me? Do you believe me to be so unworthy of you?” she said, turning her eyes full upon him, and placing the document once more in his hands. “Read on, Enrico.”
“‘Could you not join at once on receipt of this? Don’t bring the Kaffir Bride, we have impediments enough already. You will have command of the old regiment, and we will gloriously revenge on these foul murderers the butchery of our women and children. Don’t hesitate an hour when this reaches you.’
“‘Ever sincerely yours,’
“‘Frederick Curtis.’”
“Always the same,” exclaimed Hughes. “He would have the command and sure promotion, but he thinks of me rather than himself.”
“And you will not hesitate a minute—no, not a second,” cried Isabel, the hot blood rushing to her face.
“Isabel!” said the soldier, in a voice which, despite all he could do, trembled.
“You will avenge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you stay?”
He held her out at arm’s length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with pride and indignation.
“Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come back to me covered with glory, as you will come.”
“And if I return no more, Isabel?”
“Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray. Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me, or,”—and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice trembled—“or,” she continued, “Enrico mio, I will come to you;” and, bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier’s breast, as he clasped her fervently in his arms.
The Relief of Cawnpore.The news of the fearful outbreak in India had taken the English by surprise. The dreadful atrocities of Cawnpore, the massacres perpetrated by Nana Sahib, who had ever been looked upon as the Englishman’s friend, had carried a sense of woe and desolation to the heart of the land, but the first numbing sense of sorrow had passed, and many a gallant fellow was on his way to India to wipe out the stain, which the revolt of her Sepoy army had cast upon the time-honoured banner of England.“Lucknow has fallen!” were the words which met Major Hughes as he hurried on to the front one bright November morning in the memorable year of 1857. Then came reports of the demise of Sir John Lawrence, and at last, when within a few hours’ march of the place itself, a rumour soon changed into a certainty, spread far and wide, announcing the death of the gallant Havelock. For a time the horizon of the Indian world seemed again clouded over by an event which was wholly unexpected. Lucknow had fallen before a small force, whose determined gallantry had carried all before it, but the man whose masterly brain had planned, and whose daring gallantry had carried out the advance through a country literally swarming with enemies, the soldier under whose direct superintendence the Secunderabagh had been stormed, and who had spared neither health, constitution, nor blood in the cause of his country, had consummated the sacrifice with his life. The gallant Havelock was no more. His body lay in a small grave in the Alumbagh. The flag of England was thrown over him in his death, and his country, though mourning her loss, found another, second perhaps to none, to step into the gap.“You will take the command of your regiment this day, Major Hughes,” said Sir Colin Campbell, as that officer reported himself on the morning of the 26th November, 1857. “You will find the 150th attached to General Outram’s brigade, holding the Bunnee Bridge. Report yourself at once, and take your command,” he continued, rising as he spoke.This order was given in the sharp tones of one who had not a moment to lose; and Hughes, saluting his superior, turned to carry it out, without a word.The general’s tent was pitched in the Dil Kooshah Park, and the scene of confusion through which he picked his way was enough to confuse anyone. Regiment after regiment passed him. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery, all moving in one direction towards the Alumbagh, and it became evident that some great movement was going on. Ladies were to be seen wandering hopelessly about with children poorly provided for, only lately rescued from imminent peril. Guns lay here and there, which not being worth taking away, had been burst. Camp followers were shouting and quarrelling, and a scene of more inextricable confusion could hardly be imagined. Moving along with the crowd, Major Hughes found his way to the Martiniere, where lay Brigadier Little and a cavalry brigade. On the banks of the canal the 63rd Regiment and the 4th Sikh infantry were bivouacked, and soon he stumbled on the lines of the 93rd Highlanders, and of Captain Peel’s gallant Naval Brigade. The heavy dome of the Shah Nujeef mosque lay before him, its walls pierced for musketry, and breached by the fire of the British guns; and there stood the Secunderabagh itself, with its yawning breaches and shattered walls. The gardens of the doomed city had been destroyed, the mosques, houses, even to the European mess-house, had been in detail carried by storm. In one spot alone, the bodies of three thousand mutineers had been found, every corpse showing that death had been caused by the deadly bayonet. Major Hughes had proceeded thus far, and was just asking his way from a captain of the Royal Artillery, when down a roughly cut road, his horse white with foam, came an officer of the 9th Lancers.Pulling up with a sharp jerk, which brought the tired animal on his haunches, and sent the light gravel flying in the air—“You are Major Hughes, commanding the 150th?” he asked.“I am; on my way to report myself as having joined.”“You will find the chief in the Martiniere compound. Officers commanding regiments are directed to join him there. Evil tidings have arrived.”Touching his horse with the spur the officer dashed on.“Who is that?” inquired Hughes from his companion; “I saw him with Sir Colin.”“Captain Ogilvie, of the 9th Lancers, aide-de-camp to Sir Colin Campbell,” was the reply; “and I’d advise you to be jogging. He himself must be yonder where you see the group of men.”Retracing his steps, Major Hughes soon stood in the Martiniere compound. A group of officers of all arms surrounded Sir Colin. Colonel Hay, 93rd Regiment, was speaking as Hughes strode up, and just outside the group an officer dismounted, but holding his horse by the bridle, stood listening. The poor fellow’s uniform was torn and dirty, the horse, whose colour had once been grey, was now of a blue black with sweat and foam, his head was hanging down, and it was evident that steed and rider were dropping with fatigue.A twisted scrap of paper was between Sir Colin’s fingers, his brows were knit, and the forage-cap he wore was pushed from his forehead.“Bad news from Cawnpore,” whispered an officer of Hussars, as Major Hughes joined the group.“What has gone wrong?” asked the latter.“The Gwalior Contingent have attacked the city, and poor Edwardes yonder has managed to get through their lines, the bearer of urgent requests for help.”“Silence, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin. “There is not an hour to be lost. The troops will break ground immediately, falling back from their position of Dil Kooshah and the Martiniere. Commanding officers of corps will at once make their preparations, and will move at daybreak, taking up their several positions on the plain below the city, exactly where each corps bivouacked before the attack. Good morning, gentlemen. Captain Gough, send the Quartermaster-General to me. Major Hughes, give this to General Outram,” he continued, handing him a note. The little crowd of officers melted away, and borrowing a horse from a captain of Lancers, Major Hughes rode through the confusion, towards the Bunnee camp, the position occupied by General Outram.It was past midnight when he reached the lines, and was challenged by the outlying pickets, yet he found the General awake and watchful, for every now and then a heavy prolonged thud shook the air, telling of the firing of great guns, and though Cawnpore was forty miles away yet every man of the little army knew that the Gwalior mutineers, with a force far exceeding any which Sir Colin Campbell could bring against them, were pressing hard upon the handful of men who garrisoned the entrenchments.Major Hughes delivered his letter. It contained an enclosure from Brigadier Carthew, telling a sad tale. One after another the different outposts had been taken, and given to the flames. The enormous force opposed to them was literally crushing out the handful of the defenders of Cawnpore, and unless immediate help came all were lost. Such were the details, of which he was the bearer, and they were disastrous enough. The note itself directed Brigadier Outram to move forward one portion of the force early the next morning, Sir Colin Campbell proposing to join the advanced guard.“Major Hughes, you will be under arms by daybreak.” “Good night” were the only words which greeted him, as General Outram turned to his aide-de-camp and summoned his staff round him to make his arrangements for the advance.“Take this to Brigadier Greathead. The 8th, the 2nd Punjaub Infantry, with the 150th Regiment will form the advance,” were the last words which reached his ears as he stepped forth into the night, to find his corps as best he might. A sentry, who had held his horse, pointed out the lines of the 150th, and taking his way to a large tent which he rightly conjectured to be the mess tent, the officers were soon roused, and flocking around him.“Do you remember I said you were a lucky fellow, Major,” said Harris, as he shook his commanding officer warmly by the hand, “that night when we shot the tiger at Bellary?”“I think you were the lucky fellow, then,” replied Major Hughes, laughing.“Yes, but only fancy Colonel Desmond being sent home on sick leave. Colonel Sedley invalided from the effects of that ball through the lungs at Quatre Bras, and you joining just in time to take the command.”“Well, it was lucky, I must own. And what has become of Major Ashley?”“Hit in the neck at the storming of the Dilkhoosha House,”—replied Harris, now Lieutenant of the Light Company; “but here’s Curtis.”“How are you, Curtis?”“Glad to see you once more among us,” was the reply, as that officer, now the senior captain of the regiment, shook hands with him, “and where’s the Kaffir bride you promised to bring back?” he added, laughing.And one after another flocked in, roused out of their well-earned slumbers by the hasty summons, glad to welcome an old comrade, and pleased to hear of the advance.“I say, Biddulph, won’t we trounce those Gwalior chaps? They’d have done better to have stayed at Calpee, and they’ll know it when old Colin gets at them.”“There goes the réveillé,” replied Biddulph, as the quivering notes of the bugle rose on the air, the morning light just breaking grey over the plain, showing the tents of the little force lying here and there.“The 150th Regiment will fall in at once, and move off on the Cawnpore road, as soon as ready,” shouted a mounted orderly officer as he rode up.“Major Hughes, the Brigadier desires you will cover your advance with the Light Company, and move on slowly, the sooner the better.”Saluting as he spoke with his sword, the officer rode away to deliver his orders, and the work of inspecting their several companies went on rapidly by the regimental officers of the corps destined to lead the advance.For the first time Major Hughes, as he sat on his borrowed horse in the grey dawn, found himself in command of the regiment he had entered as an ensign, and that too with an enemy of overpowering strength in his front. He thought of Isabel, his wife, “where was she now?” and then the memories of the past thronged quickly upon him; the elephant hunt on the Shire river, the “Halcyon,” the death of the old noble; and he had left that brave wife, who had herself been the first to bid him go alone, without a protector. What if he fell in the unequal fight which was to take place? and then on the sharp morning air came the subdued but heavy thud, which told him of his countrymen and countrywomen in dire peril, with the soldiers of the treacherous Nana gathering closely around them. The Adjutant rode up, giving in his report. Was there a quiver in the voice which gave the order, “With ball cartridge. Load?”The regiment stood in column of companies, bayonets fixed and shouldered, the Grenadier company leading.“By double files from the centre rear wing to the front. Two centre sections outwards wheel,” were the words of command, hoarsely shouted. “Quick march.”By this manoeuvre, the two centre sections of each company opening out, permitted that immediately in their rear to pass through their ranks. Thus the Light Company, from being in rear of all, now became the leading one, advancing through the opened sections four deep at the double, each company closing its ranks, and following in its turn, the Grenadiers forming the rear guard.“Captain Curtis, throw out the light bobs as skirmishers, and advance cautiously,” said Hughes, the men having cleared the Grenadiers, and again formed up as a company.The notes of the bugle sounding the Light Infantry call to extend from the centre, floated on the air; the light company obeyed it, spreading across the country, their right flank resting on the left of the skirmishers of the Punjaub Infantry, their own left on the right of the Light Bobs of H.M.’s 8th Foot, the whole regiment moving off along the Cawnpore road just as the bugles of the different brigades rang out on the plain, and the guns of Colonel Bourchier’s battery of Horse Artillery came jingling along in rear.“How slowly we move on, with the halt sounding every moment, Curtis!” said Major Hughes, as he sat on his horse at the head of the regiment, speaking to his senior captain, towards midday of the 27th of November.“Slowly indeed, and our force is weak, in artillery particularly. Two troops of Horse Artillery, the Naval Brigade, one heavy field battery, and three light ones, with the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and a handful of cavalry, seem a small force.”“The more the honour for us; they shall hear of us with pride in the old land,” answered Hughes. “If ever we meet those scoundrels of Nana’s with the bayonet, we will teach them a lesson.”The regiment was halted near the village of Onao, on a slight eminence, and the two officers looking back could see the long tortuous march of the little army, while far away, far as the eye could reach, the plain was covered with the vast horde of camp followers, which is the great pest of a march in India, mixed with camels and baggage waggons.The jingling of accoutrements was now heard, as, at a sharp trot, a splendid regiment of English cavalry moved to the front.“Look out, 150th, there’ll be sharp work for you soon!” shouted the officer commanding, as he rode past, his words replied to by a cheer from the men.“Major Hughes, call in your light company!” shouted an orderly officer, as he dashed on, not checking his horse. “The Lancers will act as videttes.”Almost at the same moment, the bugles of the 8th Regiment on the left, and the Punjaub Infantry on the right, were heard, sounding the recall, as an officer of Hodgson’s Horse came up at a hard gallop from the front.“Bad news from Cawnpore!” he shouted. “Wyndham’s hard pressed; all his outposts driven in, and hardly able to hold his entrenchments!”“Steady, men, steady!” called Hughes, as a thrill of excitement ran through the corps.“Orders for the 150th to press to the front!” shouted another orderly officer, as he galloped past.“One Hundred and Fiftieth, attention! Shoulder arms! Slope arms! By your right! Quick, march! Steady, men! Officers commanding companies, look to your distance!” were the words of command, as the whole force moved on leaving Onao after a couple of hours’ halt, and still following the Cawnpore road.Sir Hope Grant now rode with the advance, and the cavalry videttes on the flanks had an idle time of it, for not the trace of an enemy was to be seen, while every hour caused the heavy cannonade in front to be heard louder and louder.The morning of the 28th dawned, and Sir Colin Campbell’s force encamped on the banks of the Ganges, with the city of Cawnpore in its front. A bridge of boats had been thrown across the river, as it afterwards appeared, and this bridge had, by some unaccountable oversight, been overlooked by the mutineers.“Where are Major Hughes’s quarters?” asked a mounted dragoon of Hodgson’s Horse, before daylight, on the morning of the 29th, making the inquiry of an out-picket of the corps.“Yonder,” replies the man, pointing to a tent, whose single pole was surmounted with a small fluttering flag.The man rode on. Before the tent door lay several servants fast asleep. The one nearest the trooper, as he checked his horse near the tent pegs, was lying on his face. The dragoon, leaning from his saddle, pricked the sleeper gently in the bareback with the point of his sword, intending to rouse him; but, thus rudely woke from deep sleep, the man thought at once that a snake had bitten him, commencing a series of howlings, which at once effectually roused the occupants of the tent.“What on earth is the matter?” asked Hughes and the adjutant of the regiment, who had both thrown themselves down on the ground to sleep, dressed as they were.“Just stop that fellow’s bellowing, Reynolds, will you?” said Hughes, as he advanced to the mounted orderly, who, saluting, handed him a written note.“Brigadier Hope’s Brigade will hold itself in readiness to carry the bridge at eight o’clock a.m., on the morning of the 29th.”Here followed details as to the formation of the various corps.“Let the orderly sergeants fall in, Reynolds,” said Major Hughes, as he handed the trooper a receipt, and half an hour after, the 150th broke ground at the quick step, but in perfect silence, moving across the flat plain towards the Ganges, here spanned by a bridge of boats, the approach to which was covered by the guns of the Naval Brigade.“There’s Remington’s Horse Artillery,” said Reynolds, pointing to a battery; “and there are the dragoons.”“Commanding officers of regiments to the front!” was the order now given.“You will content yourselves, gentlemen, with your assigned positions; your orders are first to gain then to hold your ground, and act purely on the defensive. The 150th will have the honour of carrying the bridge,” said Sir Hope Grant.“At this moment a heavy gun was fired from the camp, when, and, as if in answer to it, Peel’s Naval Battery opened fire, and shortly after, Wyndham’s from the entrenchments, replied to by the artillery of the Gwalior rebels.“You will push your pickets on to the banks of the Ganges Canal. And now, Major Hughes, show us the way.”The next instant Hughes was at the head of his regiment, and dashing over the bridge at the double. The fierce cannonade still continued; but whether from apathy or want of forethought, the English column was not meddled with, but quietly allowed to pass the bridge, and establish itself in the buildings called the Dragoon Barracks, and those adjoining it. This at once opened a communication with Wyndham’s force, and left the road to Allahabad free, enabling Sir Colin Campbell to send away his enormous train of women, children, wounded, and non-combatants, over the bridge of boats thus secured by the gallantry of Major Hughes and his regiment. The object was gained, as hour after hour, and day after day, passed the long files of those who had been the little army’s greatest encumbrances, the helpless women and children.It was early morning, and singularly enough a heavy fog had settled down on the banks of the Ganges, while a cool breeze was driving it along in densely packed masses, sometimes lifting a little, but only to settle down more heavily than ever on the domes and minarets of Cawnpore. It rolled among the long lines of white tents, and along the canal banks, while a heavy dull explosion, coming from the town, seemed to shake the dense vapour from time to time, and show a lurid patch near the guns. Then came the crashing sound of splintering wood, and tumbling bricks, telling that the mutineers of Oude had found out their mistake, and were cannonading the Dragoon Barracks, where the 150th Regiment had entrenched themselves. In the English camp all was quiet. The possession of the bridge of boats, and of the line of the canal, had given Sir Colin what he wanted, communication with Wyndham’s entrenchments, and also with Allahabad, and so enabled him to rid himself of the most fearful accumulation of non-combatants an army was ever called upon to encumber itself with.“I feel uneasy, I know not why,” said Major Hughes to his adjutant, Lieutenant Reynolds, as they stood within a roughly constructed barricade, near the race stand, his regiment supplying the main picket, posted close to the Trunk Road, leading to Allahabad.“Who holds Saint Salvador House?”“A strong detachment of our 53rd, Major,” was the reply.“It’s a nasty morning, Reynolds, just visit the outlying pickets, and tell Biddulph to keep a sharp look-out.”The adjutant wrapped himself in his cloak, and went out into the rolling fog, and his superior officer, leaning against an upright post, his drawn sword in his hand, listened eagerly for any passing noise.He began speculating as to the chance of an attack on the important post he held, covering the road by which the wounded, the ladies and children were making their weary way towards safety. Isabel was safe in her little home looking over the Indian Ocean, but there were many Isabels among that sad column, equally dear to others, and whose safety was in his hands.“Captain Robertson,” he said, speaking to one of a group of officers, who were laughing and chatting near, with their swords drawn, “get the men under arms at once. Pandy will never miss such a chance of surprise as this fog gives him.”The picket, consisting of about two hundred rank and file, were soon under arms, and the grey dawn was just breaking through the mist, when suddenly the explosion of a single musket was heard, followed by several others, then a heavy volley from the front.“I thought so!” exclaimed Hughes, with a sigh, as though his breast was relieved of a great weight.Firing as they were driven in, the officers and men of the outlying picket were now to be seen through the dense mist as clearing away from the front of the line; the well-trained fugitives dashed round the flanks and re-formed under cover of the race stand.“Steady, my lads, aim low!” shouted the major, as a dark, dense mass of men loomed through the fog, and from the race stand and the stockade near, came the quick, sharp fire of the English musketry, poured at twenty paces distant into the serried ranks of the mutineers.Staggered by the volley, the attacking party for an instant fell back, the sharp cry of pain, mixing with the yell for revenge, as confident in their numbers, they poured in volley upon volley, and again advanced, literally swarming round the English outposts.The guns of Wyndham’s entrenchment were now heard, replied to hot and fast by those of the Gwalior mutineers, while their Artillery from the town opened a heavy fire on the Dragoon Barracks. Fearfully overmatched, the 150th fought on, the bayonet doing its deadly work, while the clubbed muskets came crashing down on the heads of the assailants as they appeared above the stockade, the deep oath, the loud shout of triumph, the yell of pain, and the scream of agony, mixed with the rattle of the deadly volley poured into the dense files of the rebel force.“Remember, my lads,” shouted Hughes, “the safety of the women and children are in our hands,” as his sword descended on the dark shako of a man who had just gained the race stand, and was firing his pistol into the ranks of the 150th. “Ye fight for your wives and your children,” he shouted, as the man, with a deep groan, fell back, impaled on the clustering bayonets of his friends below.A loud cheer answered his words, taken up by the defenders of the stockade, but now a second column of the enemy, nearly a thousand strong, came dashing along. They were fresh men, and pouring in a volley as they came, they took the little force in flank, seeming to bury it under their heavy mass, as they dashed on. The fight became ameléenow.Major Hughes had received a ball in the shoulder. His adjutant lay on the planking of the stand, with a bullet through his forehead, his fair hair bedabbled in a stream of blood, the groans of the wounded, the sad, pitiful cries for water, rang around him, while the heavy guns from the town and entrenchment, combined with the rattling volleys of musketry, to make a fiendish uproar, such as few had ever heard.There was no time for thought, it was a hand-to-hand struggle now, but still the loud cry, “Ye fight for your wives and children, men!” rang out, answered by a feeble cheer, from race stand and stockade, and a storm of yells from the swaying, panting crowd of assailants below.The day was dawning clear now, but the cheers from the stockade became more and more feeble, as man after man went down. No time to load, but the bayonet and clubbed musket are doing their work, doggedly, desperately, and in silence. The British force is melting away, when hark! the feeble cheers from the battered race stand are at last answered, as a long line of tall shakoes and red uniforms comes into view in rear. It was his regiment, the 150th, commanded by its senior captain, Curtis.“Hurrah, my lads, we are safe now!” shouted Hughes, as he swung himself from the rear of the stand, a desperate leap; and the next moment, without his forage-cap, his face streaked with blood, and begrimed with smoke, stood among his men. “Halt!” shouted his powerful voice, as he waved his sword in his right hand, his left hanging powerless.“Men of the 150th, prepare to charge!”The muskets came down with a clang, as of one man.“Charge;” shouted Major Hughes, and round the stockade, round the stand, with a loud howl for vengeance, came the British line. The shock was tremendous, for the men fought like fiends, while from the two positions which had been so hotly contested, the bright flashes of musketry came thick and fast, mingling their reports with the roar of the heavy guns from town and entrenchment.The men of the Gwalior Contingent were literally borne back by that terrible bayonet charge, then the whole mass became mixed, the scene more resembling an Irish row than a fight among disciplined men.Pandies and English were jumbled together, fighting for life, and for revenge more than for victory, the red glare of the guns seen through the rising mist, the shouts and cheers of the men in the race stand, maddening still further the already savage combatants below.“Clear the way, my hearties,” shouted a hoarse voice, as with a loud cheer, the men of Peel’s Naval Brigade came laughing and shouting along, after forming behind the grand stand, dragging along a 24-pounder. “Starboard, you may. Heave ahead with the gun.”“Who is commanding officer?” asked Captain Peel. “Here, bugler, sound the recall. Now, my lads, give them Number one broadside, ram in grape!” and as the notes of the bugle sounded in the morning air, the discipline momentarily lost, again regained its hold; and the 150th came streaming back, re-forming behind the gun, Major Hughes grasping the gallant sailor’s hand as he passed him.Staggered by the bayonet charge, the mutineers paused. A man, evidently an officer of high standing, could be seen encouraging them, and urging them on. At length, with a savage yell, the massive column wavered to and fro, the officer, grasping a green flag, dashed forward, full twenty paces in front of his men.“File firing from the right of companies,” shouted Hughes, as the regiment, re-formed, once again, stood in line.“Take that, you landlubber,” shouted a sailor, hitting the mutineer officer over the head with his short cutlass, as the brave fellow dashed at the gun, and cutting it literally in two, the 24-pounder, with its terrible fire of grape, sweeping right through the advancing column.The mutineers wavered, stopped dead, while with a cheer the gallant tars loaded the gun.Over the din, came the well-known shout, “Men of the 150th prepare to charge.”“Charge!”And once more the indomitable British line hurled itself on the foe, who broke and fled just as the tramp of cavalry was heard, and three troops of the Lancers, among whom could be seen the brilliant uniforms of Brigadier Hope Grant’s staff, came sweeping over the plain.The fight had lasted two hours, and was the only attack made on the British picket. The punishment inflicted by the Lancers was severe, and the 24-pounder took an active part in the pursuit.
The news of the fearful outbreak in India had taken the English by surprise. The dreadful atrocities of Cawnpore, the massacres perpetrated by Nana Sahib, who had ever been looked upon as the Englishman’s friend, had carried a sense of woe and desolation to the heart of the land, but the first numbing sense of sorrow had passed, and many a gallant fellow was on his way to India to wipe out the stain, which the revolt of her Sepoy army had cast upon the time-honoured banner of England.
“Lucknow has fallen!” were the words which met Major Hughes as he hurried on to the front one bright November morning in the memorable year of 1857. Then came reports of the demise of Sir John Lawrence, and at last, when within a few hours’ march of the place itself, a rumour soon changed into a certainty, spread far and wide, announcing the death of the gallant Havelock. For a time the horizon of the Indian world seemed again clouded over by an event which was wholly unexpected. Lucknow had fallen before a small force, whose determined gallantry had carried all before it, but the man whose masterly brain had planned, and whose daring gallantry had carried out the advance through a country literally swarming with enemies, the soldier under whose direct superintendence the Secunderabagh had been stormed, and who had spared neither health, constitution, nor blood in the cause of his country, had consummated the sacrifice with his life. The gallant Havelock was no more. His body lay in a small grave in the Alumbagh. The flag of England was thrown over him in his death, and his country, though mourning her loss, found another, second perhaps to none, to step into the gap.
“You will take the command of your regiment this day, Major Hughes,” said Sir Colin Campbell, as that officer reported himself on the morning of the 26th November, 1857. “You will find the 150th attached to General Outram’s brigade, holding the Bunnee Bridge. Report yourself at once, and take your command,” he continued, rising as he spoke.
This order was given in the sharp tones of one who had not a moment to lose; and Hughes, saluting his superior, turned to carry it out, without a word.
The general’s tent was pitched in the Dil Kooshah Park, and the scene of confusion through which he picked his way was enough to confuse anyone. Regiment after regiment passed him. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery, all moving in one direction towards the Alumbagh, and it became evident that some great movement was going on. Ladies were to be seen wandering hopelessly about with children poorly provided for, only lately rescued from imminent peril. Guns lay here and there, which not being worth taking away, had been burst. Camp followers were shouting and quarrelling, and a scene of more inextricable confusion could hardly be imagined. Moving along with the crowd, Major Hughes found his way to the Martiniere, where lay Brigadier Little and a cavalry brigade. On the banks of the canal the 63rd Regiment and the 4th Sikh infantry were bivouacked, and soon he stumbled on the lines of the 93rd Highlanders, and of Captain Peel’s gallant Naval Brigade. The heavy dome of the Shah Nujeef mosque lay before him, its walls pierced for musketry, and breached by the fire of the British guns; and there stood the Secunderabagh itself, with its yawning breaches and shattered walls. The gardens of the doomed city had been destroyed, the mosques, houses, even to the European mess-house, had been in detail carried by storm. In one spot alone, the bodies of three thousand mutineers had been found, every corpse showing that death had been caused by the deadly bayonet. Major Hughes had proceeded thus far, and was just asking his way from a captain of the Royal Artillery, when down a roughly cut road, his horse white with foam, came an officer of the 9th Lancers.
Pulling up with a sharp jerk, which brought the tired animal on his haunches, and sent the light gravel flying in the air—
“You are Major Hughes, commanding the 150th?” he asked.
“I am; on my way to report myself as having joined.”
“You will find the chief in the Martiniere compound. Officers commanding regiments are directed to join him there. Evil tidings have arrived.”
Touching his horse with the spur the officer dashed on.
“Who is that?” inquired Hughes from his companion; “I saw him with Sir Colin.”
“Captain Ogilvie, of the 9th Lancers, aide-de-camp to Sir Colin Campbell,” was the reply; “and I’d advise you to be jogging. He himself must be yonder where you see the group of men.”
Retracing his steps, Major Hughes soon stood in the Martiniere compound. A group of officers of all arms surrounded Sir Colin. Colonel Hay, 93rd Regiment, was speaking as Hughes strode up, and just outside the group an officer dismounted, but holding his horse by the bridle, stood listening. The poor fellow’s uniform was torn and dirty, the horse, whose colour had once been grey, was now of a blue black with sweat and foam, his head was hanging down, and it was evident that steed and rider were dropping with fatigue.
A twisted scrap of paper was between Sir Colin’s fingers, his brows were knit, and the forage-cap he wore was pushed from his forehead.
“Bad news from Cawnpore,” whispered an officer of Hussars, as Major Hughes joined the group.
“What has gone wrong?” asked the latter.
“The Gwalior Contingent have attacked the city, and poor Edwardes yonder has managed to get through their lines, the bearer of urgent requests for help.”
“Silence, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin. “There is not an hour to be lost. The troops will break ground immediately, falling back from their position of Dil Kooshah and the Martiniere. Commanding officers of corps will at once make their preparations, and will move at daybreak, taking up their several positions on the plain below the city, exactly where each corps bivouacked before the attack. Good morning, gentlemen. Captain Gough, send the Quartermaster-General to me. Major Hughes, give this to General Outram,” he continued, handing him a note. The little crowd of officers melted away, and borrowing a horse from a captain of Lancers, Major Hughes rode through the confusion, towards the Bunnee camp, the position occupied by General Outram.
It was past midnight when he reached the lines, and was challenged by the outlying pickets, yet he found the General awake and watchful, for every now and then a heavy prolonged thud shook the air, telling of the firing of great guns, and though Cawnpore was forty miles away yet every man of the little army knew that the Gwalior mutineers, with a force far exceeding any which Sir Colin Campbell could bring against them, were pressing hard upon the handful of men who garrisoned the entrenchments.
Major Hughes delivered his letter. It contained an enclosure from Brigadier Carthew, telling a sad tale. One after another the different outposts had been taken, and given to the flames. The enormous force opposed to them was literally crushing out the handful of the defenders of Cawnpore, and unless immediate help came all were lost. Such were the details, of which he was the bearer, and they were disastrous enough. The note itself directed Brigadier Outram to move forward one portion of the force early the next morning, Sir Colin Campbell proposing to join the advanced guard.
“Major Hughes, you will be under arms by daybreak.” “Good night” were the only words which greeted him, as General Outram turned to his aide-de-camp and summoned his staff round him to make his arrangements for the advance.
“Take this to Brigadier Greathead. The 8th, the 2nd Punjaub Infantry, with the 150th Regiment will form the advance,” were the last words which reached his ears as he stepped forth into the night, to find his corps as best he might. A sentry, who had held his horse, pointed out the lines of the 150th, and taking his way to a large tent which he rightly conjectured to be the mess tent, the officers were soon roused, and flocking around him.
“Do you remember I said you were a lucky fellow, Major,” said Harris, as he shook his commanding officer warmly by the hand, “that night when we shot the tiger at Bellary?”
“I think you were the lucky fellow, then,” replied Major Hughes, laughing.
“Yes, but only fancy Colonel Desmond being sent home on sick leave. Colonel Sedley invalided from the effects of that ball through the lungs at Quatre Bras, and you joining just in time to take the command.”
“Well, it was lucky, I must own. And what has become of Major Ashley?”
“Hit in the neck at the storming of the Dilkhoosha House,”—replied Harris, now Lieutenant of the Light Company; “but here’s Curtis.”
“How are you, Curtis?”
“Glad to see you once more among us,” was the reply, as that officer, now the senior captain of the regiment, shook hands with him, “and where’s the Kaffir bride you promised to bring back?” he added, laughing.
And one after another flocked in, roused out of their well-earned slumbers by the hasty summons, glad to welcome an old comrade, and pleased to hear of the advance.
“I say, Biddulph, won’t we trounce those Gwalior chaps? They’d have done better to have stayed at Calpee, and they’ll know it when old Colin gets at them.”
“There goes the réveillé,” replied Biddulph, as the quivering notes of the bugle rose on the air, the morning light just breaking grey over the plain, showing the tents of the little force lying here and there.
“The 150th Regiment will fall in at once, and move off on the Cawnpore road, as soon as ready,” shouted a mounted orderly officer as he rode up.
“Major Hughes, the Brigadier desires you will cover your advance with the Light Company, and move on slowly, the sooner the better.”
Saluting as he spoke with his sword, the officer rode away to deliver his orders, and the work of inspecting their several companies went on rapidly by the regimental officers of the corps destined to lead the advance.
For the first time Major Hughes, as he sat on his borrowed horse in the grey dawn, found himself in command of the regiment he had entered as an ensign, and that too with an enemy of overpowering strength in his front. He thought of Isabel, his wife, “where was she now?” and then the memories of the past thronged quickly upon him; the elephant hunt on the Shire river, the “Halcyon,” the death of the old noble; and he had left that brave wife, who had herself been the first to bid him go alone, without a protector. What if he fell in the unequal fight which was to take place? and then on the sharp morning air came the subdued but heavy thud, which told him of his countrymen and countrywomen in dire peril, with the soldiers of the treacherous Nana gathering closely around them. The Adjutant rode up, giving in his report. Was there a quiver in the voice which gave the order, “With ball cartridge. Load?”
The regiment stood in column of companies, bayonets fixed and shouldered, the Grenadier company leading.
“By double files from the centre rear wing to the front. Two centre sections outwards wheel,” were the words of command, hoarsely shouted. “Quick march.”
By this manoeuvre, the two centre sections of each company opening out, permitted that immediately in their rear to pass through their ranks. Thus the Light Company, from being in rear of all, now became the leading one, advancing through the opened sections four deep at the double, each company closing its ranks, and following in its turn, the Grenadiers forming the rear guard.
“Captain Curtis, throw out the light bobs as skirmishers, and advance cautiously,” said Hughes, the men having cleared the Grenadiers, and again formed up as a company.
The notes of the bugle sounding the Light Infantry call to extend from the centre, floated on the air; the light company obeyed it, spreading across the country, their right flank resting on the left of the skirmishers of the Punjaub Infantry, their own left on the right of the Light Bobs of H.M.’s 8th Foot, the whole regiment moving off along the Cawnpore road just as the bugles of the different brigades rang out on the plain, and the guns of Colonel Bourchier’s battery of Horse Artillery came jingling along in rear.
“How slowly we move on, with the halt sounding every moment, Curtis!” said Major Hughes, as he sat on his horse at the head of the regiment, speaking to his senior captain, towards midday of the 27th of November.
“Slowly indeed, and our force is weak, in artillery particularly. Two troops of Horse Artillery, the Naval Brigade, one heavy field battery, and three light ones, with the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and a handful of cavalry, seem a small force.”
“The more the honour for us; they shall hear of us with pride in the old land,” answered Hughes. “If ever we meet those scoundrels of Nana’s with the bayonet, we will teach them a lesson.”
The regiment was halted near the village of Onao, on a slight eminence, and the two officers looking back could see the long tortuous march of the little army, while far away, far as the eye could reach, the plain was covered with the vast horde of camp followers, which is the great pest of a march in India, mixed with camels and baggage waggons.
The jingling of accoutrements was now heard, as, at a sharp trot, a splendid regiment of English cavalry moved to the front.
“Look out, 150th, there’ll be sharp work for you soon!” shouted the officer commanding, as he rode past, his words replied to by a cheer from the men.
“Major Hughes, call in your light company!” shouted an orderly officer, as he dashed on, not checking his horse. “The Lancers will act as videttes.”
Almost at the same moment, the bugles of the 8th Regiment on the left, and the Punjaub Infantry on the right, were heard, sounding the recall, as an officer of Hodgson’s Horse came up at a hard gallop from the front.
“Bad news from Cawnpore!” he shouted. “Wyndham’s hard pressed; all his outposts driven in, and hardly able to hold his entrenchments!”
“Steady, men, steady!” called Hughes, as a thrill of excitement ran through the corps.
“Orders for the 150th to press to the front!” shouted another orderly officer, as he galloped past.
“One Hundred and Fiftieth, attention! Shoulder arms! Slope arms! By your right! Quick, march! Steady, men! Officers commanding companies, look to your distance!” were the words of command, as the whole force moved on leaving Onao after a couple of hours’ halt, and still following the Cawnpore road.
Sir Hope Grant now rode with the advance, and the cavalry videttes on the flanks had an idle time of it, for not the trace of an enemy was to be seen, while every hour caused the heavy cannonade in front to be heard louder and louder.
The morning of the 28th dawned, and Sir Colin Campbell’s force encamped on the banks of the Ganges, with the city of Cawnpore in its front. A bridge of boats had been thrown across the river, as it afterwards appeared, and this bridge had, by some unaccountable oversight, been overlooked by the mutineers.
“Where are Major Hughes’s quarters?” asked a mounted dragoon of Hodgson’s Horse, before daylight, on the morning of the 29th, making the inquiry of an out-picket of the corps.
“Yonder,” replies the man, pointing to a tent, whose single pole was surmounted with a small fluttering flag.
The man rode on. Before the tent door lay several servants fast asleep. The one nearest the trooper, as he checked his horse near the tent pegs, was lying on his face. The dragoon, leaning from his saddle, pricked the sleeper gently in the bareback with the point of his sword, intending to rouse him; but, thus rudely woke from deep sleep, the man thought at once that a snake had bitten him, commencing a series of howlings, which at once effectually roused the occupants of the tent.
“What on earth is the matter?” asked Hughes and the adjutant of the regiment, who had both thrown themselves down on the ground to sleep, dressed as they were.
“Just stop that fellow’s bellowing, Reynolds, will you?” said Hughes, as he advanced to the mounted orderly, who, saluting, handed him a written note.
“Brigadier Hope’s Brigade will hold itself in readiness to carry the bridge at eight o’clock a.m., on the morning of the 29th.”
Here followed details as to the formation of the various corps.
“Let the orderly sergeants fall in, Reynolds,” said Major Hughes, as he handed the trooper a receipt, and half an hour after, the 150th broke ground at the quick step, but in perfect silence, moving across the flat plain towards the Ganges, here spanned by a bridge of boats, the approach to which was covered by the guns of the Naval Brigade.
“There’s Remington’s Horse Artillery,” said Reynolds, pointing to a battery; “and there are the dragoons.”
“Commanding officers of regiments to the front!” was the order now given.
“You will content yourselves, gentlemen, with your assigned positions; your orders are first to gain then to hold your ground, and act purely on the defensive. The 150th will have the honour of carrying the bridge,” said Sir Hope Grant.
“At this moment a heavy gun was fired from the camp, when, and, as if in answer to it, Peel’s Naval Battery opened fire, and shortly after, Wyndham’s from the entrenchments, replied to by the artillery of the Gwalior rebels.
“You will push your pickets on to the banks of the Ganges Canal. And now, Major Hughes, show us the way.”
The next instant Hughes was at the head of his regiment, and dashing over the bridge at the double. The fierce cannonade still continued; but whether from apathy or want of forethought, the English column was not meddled with, but quietly allowed to pass the bridge, and establish itself in the buildings called the Dragoon Barracks, and those adjoining it. This at once opened a communication with Wyndham’s force, and left the road to Allahabad free, enabling Sir Colin Campbell to send away his enormous train of women, children, wounded, and non-combatants, over the bridge of boats thus secured by the gallantry of Major Hughes and his regiment. The object was gained, as hour after hour, and day after day, passed the long files of those who had been the little army’s greatest encumbrances, the helpless women and children.
It was early morning, and singularly enough a heavy fog had settled down on the banks of the Ganges, while a cool breeze was driving it along in densely packed masses, sometimes lifting a little, but only to settle down more heavily than ever on the domes and minarets of Cawnpore. It rolled among the long lines of white tents, and along the canal banks, while a heavy dull explosion, coming from the town, seemed to shake the dense vapour from time to time, and show a lurid patch near the guns. Then came the crashing sound of splintering wood, and tumbling bricks, telling that the mutineers of Oude had found out their mistake, and were cannonading the Dragoon Barracks, where the 150th Regiment had entrenched themselves. In the English camp all was quiet. The possession of the bridge of boats, and of the line of the canal, had given Sir Colin what he wanted, communication with Wyndham’s entrenchments, and also with Allahabad, and so enabled him to rid himself of the most fearful accumulation of non-combatants an army was ever called upon to encumber itself with.
“I feel uneasy, I know not why,” said Major Hughes to his adjutant, Lieutenant Reynolds, as they stood within a roughly constructed barricade, near the race stand, his regiment supplying the main picket, posted close to the Trunk Road, leading to Allahabad.
“Who holds Saint Salvador House?”
“A strong detachment of our 53rd, Major,” was the reply.
“It’s a nasty morning, Reynolds, just visit the outlying pickets, and tell Biddulph to keep a sharp look-out.”
The adjutant wrapped himself in his cloak, and went out into the rolling fog, and his superior officer, leaning against an upright post, his drawn sword in his hand, listened eagerly for any passing noise.
He began speculating as to the chance of an attack on the important post he held, covering the road by which the wounded, the ladies and children were making their weary way towards safety. Isabel was safe in her little home looking over the Indian Ocean, but there were many Isabels among that sad column, equally dear to others, and whose safety was in his hands.
“Captain Robertson,” he said, speaking to one of a group of officers, who were laughing and chatting near, with their swords drawn, “get the men under arms at once. Pandy will never miss such a chance of surprise as this fog gives him.”
The picket, consisting of about two hundred rank and file, were soon under arms, and the grey dawn was just breaking through the mist, when suddenly the explosion of a single musket was heard, followed by several others, then a heavy volley from the front.
“I thought so!” exclaimed Hughes, with a sigh, as though his breast was relieved of a great weight.
Firing as they were driven in, the officers and men of the outlying picket were now to be seen through the dense mist as clearing away from the front of the line; the well-trained fugitives dashed round the flanks and re-formed under cover of the race stand.
“Steady, my lads, aim low!” shouted the major, as a dark, dense mass of men loomed through the fog, and from the race stand and the stockade near, came the quick, sharp fire of the English musketry, poured at twenty paces distant into the serried ranks of the mutineers.
Staggered by the volley, the attacking party for an instant fell back, the sharp cry of pain, mixing with the yell for revenge, as confident in their numbers, they poured in volley upon volley, and again advanced, literally swarming round the English outposts.
The guns of Wyndham’s entrenchment were now heard, replied to hot and fast by those of the Gwalior mutineers, while their Artillery from the town opened a heavy fire on the Dragoon Barracks. Fearfully overmatched, the 150th fought on, the bayonet doing its deadly work, while the clubbed muskets came crashing down on the heads of the assailants as they appeared above the stockade, the deep oath, the loud shout of triumph, the yell of pain, and the scream of agony, mixed with the rattle of the deadly volley poured into the dense files of the rebel force.
“Remember, my lads,” shouted Hughes, “the safety of the women and children are in our hands,” as his sword descended on the dark shako of a man who had just gained the race stand, and was firing his pistol into the ranks of the 150th. “Ye fight for your wives and your children,” he shouted, as the man, with a deep groan, fell back, impaled on the clustering bayonets of his friends below.
A loud cheer answered his words, taken up by the defenders of the stockade, but now a second column of the enemy, nearly a thousand strong, came dashing along. They were fresh men, and pouring in a volley as they came, they took the little force in flank, seeming to bury it under their heavy mass, as they dashed on. The fight became ameléenow.
Major Hughes had received a ball in the shoulder. His adjutant lay on the planking of the stand, with a bullet through his forehead, his fair hair bedabbled in a stream of blood, the groans of the wounded, the sad, pitiful cries for water, rang around him, while the heavy guns from the town and entrenchment, combined with the rattling volleys of musketry, to make a fiendish uproar, such as few had ever heard.
There was no time for thought, it was a hand-to-hand struggle now, but still the loud cry, “Ye fight for your wives and children, men!” rang out, answered by a feeble cheer, from race stand and stockade, and a storm of yells from the swaying, panting crowd of assailants below.
The day was dawning clear now, but the cheers from the stockade became more and more feeble, as man after man went down. No time to load, but the bayonet and clubbed musket are doing their work, doggedly, desperately, and in silence. The British force is melting away, when hark! the feeble cheers from the battered race stand are at last answered, as a long line of tall shakoes and red uniforms comes into view in rear. It was his regiment, the 150th, commanded by its senior captain, Curtis.
“Hurrah, my lads, we are safe now!” shouted Hughes, as he swung himself from the rear of the stand, a desperate leap; and the next moment, without his forage-cap, his face streaked with blood, and begrimed with smoke, stood among his men. “Halt!” shouted his powerful voice, as he waved his sword in his right hand, his left hanging powerless.
“Men of the 150th, prepare to charge!”
The muskets came down with a clang, as of one man.
“Charge;” shouted Major Hughes, and round the stockade, round the stand, with a loud howl for vengeance, came the British line. The shock was tremendous, for the men fought like fiends, while from the two positions which had been so hotly contested, the bright flashes of musketry came thick and fast, mingling their reports with the roar of the heavy guns from town and entrenchment.
The men of the Gwalior Contingent were literally borne back by that terrible bayonet charge, then the whole mass became mixed, the scene more resembling an Irish row than a fight among disciplined men.
Pandies and English were jumbled together, fighting for life, and for revenge more than for victory, the red glare of the guns seen through the rising mist, the shouts and cheers of the men in the race stand, maddening still further the already savage combatants below.
“Clear the way, my hearties,” shouted a hoarse voice, as with a loud cheer, the men of Peel’s Naval Brigade came laughing and shouting along, after forming behind the grand stand, dragging along a 24-pounder. “Starboard, you may. Heave ahead with the gun.”
“Who is commanding officer?” asked Captain Peel. “Here, bugler, sound the recall. Now, my lads, give them Number one broadside, ram in grape!” and as the notes of the bugle sounded in the morning air, the discipline momentarily lost, again regained its hold; and the 150th came streaming back, re-forming behind the gun, Major Hughes grasping the gallant sailor’s hand as he passed him.
Staggered by the bayonet charge, the mutineers paused. A man, evidently an officer of high standing, could be seen encouraging them, and urging them on. At length, with a savage yell, the massive column wavered to and fro, the officer, grasping a green flag, dashed forward, full twenty paces in front of his men.
“File firing from the right of companies,” shouted Hughes, as the regiment, re-formed, once again, stood in line.
“Take that, you landlubber,” shouted a sailor, hitting the mutineer officer over the head with his short cutlass, as the brave fellow dashed at the gun, and cutting it literally in two, the 24-pounder, with its terrible fire of grape, sweeping right through the advancing column.
The mutineers wavered, stopped dead, while with a cheer the gallant tars loaded the gun.
Over the din, came the well-known shout, “Men of the 150th prepare to charge.”
“Charge!”
And once more the indomitable British line hurled itself on the foe, who broke and fled just as the tramp of cavalry was heard, and three troops of the Lancers, among whom could be seen the brilliant uniforms of Brigadier Hope Grant’s staff, came sweeping over the plain.
The fight had lasted two hours, and was the only attack made on the British picket. The punishment inflicted by the Lancers was severe, and the 24-pounder took an active part in the pursuit.