Part 41 (1/2)
As for Jhungi or Bhungi, did I make them that I should know the evil in them? But if the Huzoor suspects one who holds his tongue, let the bargain between us end.”
His hearer could not repress a smile at the consummate cunning of the speech. ”You can keep the money for the next job,” he said briefly; ”I haven't done with you yet, you scoundrel.”
A grim chuckle came out of the shadows as the hand went back into them.
”The Huzoor need not fret himself, whatever happens. The end is nigh.”
It seemed as if it must be with three thousand British soldiers within sixty miles of Delhi; or less, since they might have marched during those five days. They might be at Delhi any moment. Three thousand men! Enough and to spare even though in the last few days a detachment or two of fresh mutineers had arrived. Ah! if the blow had been struck sooner. If--if----
Kate listened during those first days of June to many such wishes, despairs, hopes, from one whose only solace lay in words; since with relief staring him in the face, Jim Douglas crushed down his craving for action. There was no real need for it, he told her; it must involve risk, so they must wait--sleep and dream like the city!
For, lulled by the delay, stimulated to fresh fancy by the newcomers, the townspeople went on their daily round monotonously; the sepoys boasted and drank bhang. And in the Palace, the King, in new robes of state sat on his new cus.h.i.+on and put the sign-manual to such trifles as a concession to a home-born slave that he might ”continue, as heretofore, a-tinning the royal sauce-pans!” though Mahb.o.o.b Ali's face lengthened as he doled out something on account for faith and finery, and suggested that the army might at least be employed in collecting revenue somewhere. But the army grinned in the commander-in-chief's face, scorned laborious days, and between the seductions of the Thunbi Bazaar gave peaceful citizens what one pet.i.tioner against plunder calls ”a foretaste of the Day of Judgment.”
But one soul in Delhi felt in every fiber of him that the Judgment had come--that atonement must be made.
”Thou wilt kill thyself with prayers and fastings and seekings of other folks' salvations, Moulvie-sahib,” said Hafzan almost petulantly as, pa.s.sing on her rounds, she saw Mohammed Ismail's anxious face, seeking audience with everyone in authority, ”Thou hast done thy best.
The rest is with G.o.d; and if these find death also, the blame will lie elsewhere.”
”But the blame of those, woman?” he asked fiercely, pointing with trembling finger to the little cistern shaded by the peepul tree.
Hafzan gave a shrill laugh as she pa.s.sed on.
”Fear not that either, learned one! This world's atonement for that will be sufficient for future pardon.”
It might be so, Mohammed Ismail told himself as he hurried off feverishly to another appeal. He had erred in ignorance there; but what of the forty prisoners still at the Kotwali--forty stubborn Christians despite their dark skins? They were safe so far, but if the city were a.s.saulted?--if some of the fresh, fiery-faithed newcomers---- The doubt left him no peace.
”If thou wilt swear, Moulvie-jee, on thine own eternal salvation that they are Mohammedans, or stake thy soul on their conversion,” jeered those who held the keys. A heavy stake, that! A solemn oath with forty stubborn Christians to deal with. No wonder Mohammed Ismail felt judgment upon him already.
But the stake was staked, the oath spoken on the 6th of June. The record of it is brief, but it stands as history in the evidence of one of the forty. ”We were released in consequence of a Moulvie of the name of Mohammed Ismail giving evidence that we were all Mohammedan; or that if any were Christian they would become Mohammedan.”
And it was given none too soon. For on the 6th of June as the sun set, a silhouette of a man on a horse stood clear against the red-gold in the west, looking down from the Ridge on Delhi. Looking down on the city bathed in the dreamy glamour of the slanting sunbeams; rose-red and violet-shadowed, with the great white dome hovering above the smoke wreaths, and a glitter of gold on the eastern wall, where, backed by that arcaded view of the darkening Eastern plains, an old man sat listening to sentiments of fidelity from a pile of little brocaded bags.
It was Hodson of Hodson's Horse, reconnoitering ahead. So there was an Englishman on the Ridge once more as the paper kites came down on the 6th of June. But the fire balloons did not go up; for the night set in gusty and wet, giving no chance to new constellations.
Jim Douglas did not sleep at all that night, for Tiddu had brought word that the English were at Alipore, ten miles out; and nothing but the dread of needless risk kept him in Delhi. For any risk was needless when to a certainty the English flag would be flying over the city in a few hours.
And Hodson of Hodson's Horse back at Alipore slept late, for he lingered, weary and wet after his long ride, to write to his wife ere turning in, that ”if he had had a hundred of the Guides he could have gone right up to the city wall.”
But Mohammed Ismail slept peacefully, his work being over, and dreamed of Paradise.
CHAPTER III.
THE CHALLENGE.
”For Gawd's sake, sir! don't say I'm unfit for dooty, sir,” pleaded a lad, who, as he stood to attention, tried hard to keep the sharp s.h.i.+vers of coming ague from the doctor's keen eyes. ”I'm all right, aint I, mates? It aint a bad sort o' fever at worst, as I oughter know, havin' it constant. It's go ter h.e.l.l, an' lick the blood up fust as I'm fit for with Jack Pandy. That's all the matter--you see if it aint, sir!”
He threw his fair curly head back, his blue eyes blazed with the coming fever light, but the bearded man next to him murmured, ”'Ee's all right, sir. 'Ee'll 'old 'is musket straight, never fear,” and the Doctor walked on with a nod.