Part 37 (1/2)
”Why, the whole _sahib-log_ has turned out,” thought Rayner. ”I'll give the town as wide a berth as possible, and slink up by the back streets to the station.”
He walked on, congratulating himself that at least there was no risk of meeting any of the English contingent, seeing they had all gone townwards. Soon he came to the little English cantonment, as it was still called, though the military element had been withdrawn. It was not unknown to him. He had visited it and left cards on some of the residents in earlier days, before he began to intrigue with Zynool and became conscious that he was a suspected person. He liked to dwell on these days now.
”I was a fool ever to have leagued myself with a native,” he sighed.
”It's only brought me bad luck in the end.”
He remembered, too, a pleasant afternoon he had pa.s.sed as the recipient of little Mrs. Samptor's hospitality. He was trying to identify her bungalow when he heard voices. Two ladies stood talking at a gate. He was startled to recognise Mrs. Samptor's voice, but decided his best policy was to creep quietly past, sustaining his _role_ as an old ayah in every particular.
”Don't you fear, Mrs. Campbell, Samptor will make them scuttle like sheep!” remarked one of the ladies, and Rayner had no difficulty in recognising Mrs. Samptor's sharp tones. ”I say, whose ayah's that? Can't be Mrs. Goldring's--too tall! Is she yours, Mrs. Campbell?”
”No, mine went to eat rice; besides, she's quite short in comparison to that one.”
”She's not the Meakin's either. I know their one. Yes, she is tall--she doesn't look the right muster for an ayah somehow. I say, what if she's a Mahomedan in disguise come to murder us all when our men are away!”
Rayner had heard too much for his peace of mind. These were no safe quarters for him. He wheeled right about and began to walk hastily towards the town again.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
Driven from the precincts of the English quarter by Mrs. Samptor's remarks, Mr. Rayner resolved to lurk about the jungly scrub till his train was due; but finding this retreat increasingly dreary in the gathering darkness, he felt possessed with a desire to see a little of the possible happenings in the crowded streets of the native town.
”No danger of a respectable old amah like me being molested,” he a.s.sured himself. Besides, he was again feeling very hungry, and decided that he must try to secure an evening meal.
On emerging from the wood, he noticed with surprise that the darkening sky was becoming suffused by a reddish glow, and suddenly a tongue of flame shot up from the town.
”They're firing something! Surely it's not the mosque? The Mahomedans will be beside themselves with fury. By Jove! I only hope it's Zynool's house--and him in it!” muttered Rayner with a chuckle.
A wild chorus of shouts and shrieks was now borne on the still evening air, and more flames leapt up into the sky.
”I declare I'm tempted to creep a little nearer and see the fun! Not a soul will heed an old woman in the scrimmage!”
Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carry him. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found that all were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird though picturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes and turbans making a seething ma.s.s, lit up by many waving torches, jostling and pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of the Mahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who, with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make their way to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobie woman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every means in their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was not long in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no bounds when they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by the devouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon the combatants in their fierce conflict.
Rayner crept on to the outskirts of the struggling ma.s.s. Through the smoke and glare he presently caught sight of some figures on horseback, who seemed to be trying to stem the onset of the foes. The Jailer's square shoulders were visible as he moved hither and thither, seeking to inspire the craven native police with some zeal and courage in the performance of their duty. Then he obtained a glimpse of Mark Cheveril, on foot, in grips with an evil-looking Hindu, whom he had caught in the act of throwing a Mussulman child into the burning mosque, not the only one permitted to perish on that fearful night. This Hindu would commit no more murders that evening, for the Jailer was now superintending his being manacled and led off to custody. Then Rayner perceived the Collector in the thick of the fight. He was still on horseback, and at the moment was trying to stem the advance of a party of desperate Mahomedans, who were advancing with weapons of destruction on a surging ma.s.s of Hindus.
The Mahomedans came on with yells of ”Deen! Deen! They have defiled our holy house! They have burned our mosque! Our children have been flung to the flames! Deen! Deen!”
”Ha, Worsley's going to catch it at last!” muttered Rayner, in growing excitement. ”His Mussulman lambs will prove too much for him!”
The Collector was alternately addressing the crowd in fluent Hindustani and Tamil, his face transfigured by intense emotion, the whole spirit of the British Raj flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes. With one hand he restrained his restive mare, the other was raised as he called now in Tamil to the Hindus:
”Back, men, back! To your homes, every man of you!”
Then, turning to the a.s.saulting mob again, he called in their own tongue: ”Mussulmans, your wrongs will be righted. Rely on the sword of justice. Take not vengeance into your own hands. If one of you advance a step it will be through my body!”
A murmur of something like admiration and a.s.sent ran through the serried ma.s.s. The fierce, dark faces in the foremost ranks softened as they watched the intrepid figure, and listened to his ringing words; but others behind still pressed forward with cries of ”Deen! Deen!”
Rayner was surprised that at this critical juncture, when the surging crowd threatened to overpower him, the Collector found the presence of mind to look at his watch. He soon understood the reason. A great shout suddenly arose from the Hindus, who were swarming up from the river to the railway station, some having fled there in the hope of finding a refuge from the Mahomedan fury; and through the parting crowd he now descried ”the thin red line.” Yes, it was a detachment of British soldiers from Fort St. George that had been requisitioned by the Collector, mainly at Mark Cheveril's urgent representations. He was relieved now that he had permitted the telegraphic request to summon them, and had been consulting his watch to see if they were due.
On swept the gallant red-coats, greeted by cheers both from Mahomedans and Hindus, each claiming that they had come to be their defenders. Jubilant shouts rent the air, though by some they were undistinguishable from the resounding yells of the rioters. One of these with his party was now making his way up the street at the corner of which Alfred Rayner happened to be standing.