Part 46 (1/2)

”What matters it, woman?” he replied sternly, but with an odd quaver in his voice. ”There is a greater sacrifice than the blood of bulls and goats, and that I may yet offer this blessed Eed.”

”And mayhap, mother,” suggested the widowed, childless daughter-in-law, ”a goat will serve our turn better than a stirk this year: there will be enough for offering, and belike there may be no feasting.”

The old lady, high-featured, high-tempered, wept profusely between her railings at the ill-omened suggestion; but the old Turk admitted the possibility with a strained wondering look in the eyes which had lost their keenness with graving texts. So, as the day pa.s.sed the women helped him faithfully in his bath of purification, and the daughter-in-law, having the steadiest hand, put the antimony into the old man's eyes as he squatted on a clean white cloth stretched in the center of the odd little courtyard. She used the stylus she had brought with her to the house as a bride, and it woke past memories in the old brain, making the black-edged old eyes look at the wife of his youth with a wistful tenderness. For it was years since a woman had performed the kindly office; not since the finery and folly of life had pa.s.sed into the next generation's hands. But old Fatma thought he still looked as handsome as any as he finally stepped into the streets in his baggy trousers with one green shawl twisted into a voluminous waistband, another into a turban, his flaming red beard flowing over his white tunic, and a curved scimitar--it was rather difficult to get out of its scabbard by reason of rust--at his side.

”Lo here comes old Fatma's Shumsha-deen,” whispered other women, peeping through other c.h.i.n.ks. ”He looks well for sure; better by far than Murri-am's Faiz-Ahmud for all his new gold shoes!”

And those two, daughter and mother-in-law, huddled in unaccustomed embrace to see the last of their martyr through the only convenient crack, felt a glow of pitiful pride before they fell a-weeping and a-praying the old pitiful prayer of quarrelers that G.o.d would be good to His own.

There were thousands in Delhi about sunsetting on the 1st of August praying that prayer, though there were hundreds who held aloof, talking learnedly of the House of Protection as distinguished from the House of the Enemy, as they listened to the evening call to prayer.

How could there be Holy War, when that had echoed freely during the British rule? And Mohammed Ismail, listening to their arguments feverishly, knew in his heart that they were right.

But the old Shumsha-deens did not split hairs. So as the sun set they went forth in thousands and the gates were closed behind them; for they were to conquer or die. They were to hurl themselves recklessly on the low breastworks which now furrowed the long line of hill. Above all, on that which had crept down its side to a ruined temple within seven hundred yards of the Moree Bastion.

So, about the rising of the moon, two days from full, began such a cannonading and fusillading as was not surpa.s.sed even on that final day when the Ridge, taking similar heart of grace, was to fling itself against the city.

Major Erlton, off duty but on pleasure in the Saming-House breastwork, said to his neighbor that they must be mad, as a confused wild rush burst from the Moree gate. Six thousand or so of soldiers and Shumsha-deens with elephants, camels, field-pieces, distinct in the moonlight. And behind them came a hail of sh.e.l.l and shot, with them a rain of grape and musket-b.a.l.l.s. But above all the din and rattle could be heard two things: The cries of the muezzins from the minarets, chanting to the four corners of Earth and Sky that ”Glory is for all and Heaven for those who bleed,” and an incessant bugling.

”It's that man in front,” remarked Major Erlton. ”Do you think we shall manage, Reid? There's an awful lot of them.”

Major Reid looked round on his little garrison of dark faces; for there was not an Englishman in the post; only a hundred quaint squat Ghoorkas, and fifty tall fair Guides from the Western frontier.

”We'll do for just now, and I can send for the Rifles by and by.

There's to be no pursuit, you know. The order's out. Ought to have been out long ago. Reserve your fire, men, till they come close up.”

And come close they did, while Walidad Khan, fierce fanatic from Peshawur, and Gorakh-nath, fiercer Bhuddist from Nepal, with fingers on trigger, called on them jibingly to come closer still; though twenty yards from a breastwork bristling with rifles was surely close enough for anyone? But it was not for the bugler who led the van, sounding a.s.semblies, advances, doubles; anything which might stir the hearts behind.

”He has got a magnificent pair of bellows,” remarked an officer, who, after a time, came down with a hundred and fifty of the Rifles to aid that hundred and fifty natives in holding the post against six thousand and more of their countrymen.

”Splendid! he has been at it this hour or more,” said Major Erlton. ”I really think they are mad. They don't seem to aim or to care. There they are again!”

It was darker now, and Walidad Khan from Peshawur and Gorakh-nath from Nepal, and Bill Atkins from Lambeth had to listen for that tootling of a.s.semblies and advances to tell them when to fire blindly from the embrazures into the smoke and the roar and the rattle. So they fell to wondering among themselves if they had nicked him that time. Once or twice the silence seemed to say they had; but after a bit the tootling began again, and a disappointed pair of eyes peeping curiously, recklessly, would see a dim figure running madly to the a.s.sault again.

”Plucky devil!” muttered Major Erlton as with the loan of a rifle he had his try. There was a look of hope on dark faces and white alike as they cuddled down to the rifle stocks and came up to listen. It was like shooting into a herd of does for the one royal head; and some of the sportsmen had tempers.

”_Shaitan-ke-butcha!_” (Child of the devil), muttered Walidad Khan, whereat Gorakh-nath grinned from ear to ear.

”Wot cher laughin' at?” asked Bill Atkins, who had been indulging in language of his own. ”A feller can't 'it ghosts. An' e's the piper as played afore Moses; that's what 'ee is.”

”Look sharp, men!” came the officer's warning. ”There's a new lot coming on. Wait and let them have it.”

They did. The din was terrific. The incessant flashes lighting up the city, showed its roofs crowded with the families of absent Shumsha-deens. So High Heaven must have been a.s.sailed, indeed, that night.

And even when dawn came it brought no Sabbath calm. Only a fresh batch of martyrs. But they had no bugler; for with the dawn some fierce frontiersman, jesting c.o.c.kney, or grinning Ghoorkha may have risked his life for a fair shot in daylight at the piper who played before Moses. Anyhow, he played no more. Perhaps the lack of him, perhaps the torrents of rain which began to fall as the sun rose, quenched the fires of faith. Anyhow, by nine o'clock the din was over, the drum ecclesiastic ceased to beat, and the English going out to count the dead found the bugler lying close to the breastwork, his bugle still in his hand; a nameless hero save for that pa.s.sing jest.

But someone in the city no doubt mourned the piper who played before Moses, as they mourned other martyrs. More than a thousand of them.

Yet the Ridge, despite the faith, and fury, and fusillading, had only to dig one grave; for fourteen hours of what the records call ”unusual intrepidity”--contemptuously cool equivalent for all that faith and fury--had only killed one infidel.

Shumsha-deen's Fatma, however, was as proud as if he had killed a hundred; for he had bled profusely for the faith, having been at the very outset of it all kicked by a camel and sent flying on to a rock to dream confused dreams of valor till the bleeding from his nose relieved the slight concussion of his brain, and enabled him to go home, much shaken, but none the worse.