Part 27 (1/2)

So the wave surged on, to what end it scarcely knew, leaving behind it groups of sullen, startled faces.

”Whose fault but their own?” muttered an old man fiercely; an old man whose son served beside him in the regiment, whose grandson was on the roster for future enlistment. ”Why were we left helpless as new-born babes?”

”Why?” echoed a scornful voice from the gathering cl.u.s.ters of undecided men, waiting, with growing fear, hope, despair, or triumph, for what was to come next: waiting, briefly, for the master to come, or not to come. ”Why? because they were afraid of us; because their time is past, baba jee. Let them go!”

Let them go. Incomprehensible suggestion to that brave worn stiff in the master's service; so, with a great numb ache in an old heart, an old body strode away, elbowing younger ones from its path savagely.

”Old Dhurma hath grown milksop,” jeered one spectator; ”that is with doing dry-nurse to his Captain's babies.”

The words caught the old man's ear and sent a quick decision to his dazed face. The baba logue! Yes; they must be safeguarded; for ominous smoke began to rise from neighboring roof-trees, and a strange note of sheer wild-beast ferocity grew to the confused roar of the drifting, s.h.i.+fting, still aimless crowd.

”Quick, brothers, quick! Kill, root and branch! Why dost linger? Art afraid? Afraid of cowards? Quick--kill everyone!”

The cry, boastful, jeering, came from a sepoy in the uniform of the 20th, who, with a face ablaze with mad exultation, forced his way forward. There was something in his tone which seemed to send a s.h.i.+ver of fresh excitement through his comrades, for they paused in their strange, aimless tumult, paused and listened to the jeers, the reproaches.

”What! art cowards too?” he went on. ”Then follow me. For I began it--I fired the first shot--I killed the first infidel. I----”

The boast never ended, for above it came a quicker cry: ”Kill, kill, kill the traitor! Kill the man who betrayed us.”

There was a rush onward toward the boastful, arrogant voice, the report of half a dozen muskets, and the crowd surged on to revolt over the body of the man who had fired the first shot of the mutiny.

For it was a strange crowd indeed; most of it powerless for good or ill, sheep without a shepherd, wandering after the rabble of escaped convicts and the refuse of bazaars as they plundered and fired the houses. Joining in in the license helplessly, drifting inevitably to violence, so that some looked on curiously, unconcernedly, while others, maddened by the smell of blood, the sounds of murder, dragged helpless Englishmen and Englishwomen from their carriages and did them to death savagely.

But there were more like Soma, who, as the darkness deepened and the glare and the dire confusion and dismay grew, stood aloof from it voluntarily, waiting, with a certain callousness, to see if the master would come, or if folk said true when they declared his time was past, his day done.

Where was he? He should have come hours ago, irresistible, overwhelming. But there was no sign. Not a hint of resistance, save every now and again a clatter of hoofs through the darkness, an alien voice calling ”Maro! Maro!” to those behind him, and a fierce howl of an echo, ”Maro! Maro! Ma-roh!” from the faithful troop. For Captain Craigie, finding none to help him, had changed his cry. It was ”kill, kill, kill” now. And the faithful troop obeyed orders.

Soma when he heard it gave a great sigh. If there had been more of that sort of thing he would dearly have loved to be in it; but the other was butchery. So he wandered alone, irresolute, drifting northward from the dire confusion and dismay, and crossing the Mall to question a sentry of his own regiment as to what had happened to the masters. But the man replied by eager questions as to what had happened to the servants. And they both agreed that if the two thousand could not quell a riot it would be idle to help them, the Lord's hand being so palpably against them.

Nevertheless, half an hour afterward the sentry still waited at his post, and the guard over the Treasury saluted as if nothing unusual was afoot to a group of Englishmen galloping past.

”Those men know nothing,” called Major Erlton to another man. ”It can't be so bad. Surely something can be done!”

”Something should have been done two hours ago,” came a sharp voice.

”However, the troops have started at last. If anyone----”

The remainder was lost in the clatter. But more than one man's voice had been lost in those two hours at Meerut on the 10th of May, 1857; indeed, everything seems to have been lost save--thank Heaven once more!--personal courage.

It was now near eight o'clock, and Soma, skulking by the Mall, midway between the masters and the men, still irresolute, still uncertain, heard the first cry of ”To Delhi! to Delhi!” which, as the night wore on, was to echo so often along that road. The cry which came unbidden as the astounding success of the revolt brought thoughts of greater success in the future.

The moon was now rising to silver the dense clouds of smoke which hung above the pillars of flame, and give an additional horror of light to the orgies going on unchecked. It showed him a group of 3d Cavalry troopers galloping madly down the Mall. It showed them the glitter of his buckles, making them shout again:

”To Delhi, brother, to Delhi!”

Not yet. He had not seen the upshot yet. He must go and see what was going on in the lines first. So he struck rapidly across the open as the quickest way. And then behind him, close upon him, came another clatter of hoofs, a very different cry.

”_Shah bas.h.!.+ bhaiyan. Maro! Maro!_”

Remembering the glitter of his buckles, he turned and ran for the nearest cover. None too soon, for a Mohammedan trooper was after him, shouting ”_Deen! Deen!_ Death to the Hindoo pig!” For any cry comes handy when the blood is up and there is a saber in the hand. Soma had to double like a hare, and even so, when he paused to get his breath in a tangle of lime-bushes there was a graze on his cheek. He had judged his distance in one of those doubles a hair's breadth too little. The faint trickle of blood sent a spasm of old inherited race hatred through him. The outcaste should know that the Hindoo pig shot straight. The means of showing this were not far to find in the track of the faithful troop. Five minutes after, Soma, with a musket dragged from beneath something which lay huddled up face down upon Mother Earth, was crouching in a belt of cover, waiting for the troop to come flas.h.i.+ng through the glare seeking more work. For there had been yells and screams enough round that bungalow to stop looting there. And as it came number seven bent lower to his saddle bow suddenly, then toppled over with a clang.

”Left wheel! clear those bushes!” came the order sharply. But Soma was too quick for that.

”Close up. Forward!” came the order again, as Captain Craigie's faithful troop went on, minus a man, and Soma, stumbling breathlessly in safety, knew that the die was cast. There was an answering quiver in his veins which comes when like blood has been spilled. He knew his foe now; he could go to Delhi now. And hark! There was a regular rattle of musketry, at last--not the dropping fire of mere butchery, but a regular volley. He gripped his musket tighter and listened: if the battle had begun he must be in it. The air was full of cracklings and hissings--an inarticulate background to murderous yells, terrified screams, horrors without end; but no more volleys came to tell of retribution.