Tales of terror
endeavour to loot the magazine to obtain the vast supplies of the
munitions of war that we’ve got there.’
‘It would be a terrible thing if they should succeed in doing that,’
put in the colonel’s wife, and shuddering as she spoke.
‘It would,’ answered Willoughby, quietly.
‘And there are such a few of you to guard the magazine,’ added the lady.
‘Very few,’ said Willoughby in the same quiet way. Then, after a pause,
he continued with a significant emphasis, ‘But, nevertheless, I don’t
think if all the regiments here and in Delhi were to mutiny they would
obtain possession of the magazine while I am in charge.’
‘Why not?’ asked the colonel’s wife.
‘Because I would blow it up if I found that I couldn’t hold the place,’
was the quiet but impressively emphatic answer.
‘Well, well,’ said the colonel, wishing to change the subject, for he
saw that it was affecting the ladies, ‘it won’t come to that. We may
have a little trouble, but we shall get over it. Any mutinous spirit
will be put down with an iron hand. Besides, I really don’t think the
natives generally have any bad feeling for us.’
Backwards and forwards along the road went a continuous stream of
natives--Hindoos and Brahmins, high caste and low caste--mingling
freely with the Europeans. And could the colonel at that moment have
read the hearts that beat beneath those dusky skins he would have seen
how grievously in error he was, for the hatred and loathing for the
Feringhees were all but universal. And, though ‘white-robed peace’
seemed to smile on all that fair scene, there was beneath a seething
mass of discontent, only wanting a tiny vent as a beginning, when the
whole mine might explode and spread desolation and ruin throughout
India. But little did any of those ladies and gentlemen sitting on that
verandah that hot May night dream of the volcano beneath their feet,
and least of all did Shelton and Blanche trouble themselves with the
portents in the air. These two young people, so full of life and health
and hope, were building castles in the air and dreaming of the day that
should see them united.
There was a considerable pause again in the conversation, and then
Willoughby, in that quiet, emphatic way of his which was well
calculated to carry conviction, remarked in answer to what the colonel
had just said:
‘I don’t altogether agree with you, colonel. My impression is the
natives hate us heartily, and if they can but get the chance will sweep
us out of the land.’
‘Ah, yes, if they can but get the chance,’ replied his host. ‘But
there’s the point. They will not get the chance.’
In a few minutes a khitmurgar came to announce that tea was served,
and the ladies and gentlemen went into the house, but the child
still played about, and the ayah remained. She was squatted down in
one corner of the verandah enjoying a few draws of a hubble-bubble.
The khitmurgars who had been waiting on the colonel and his party
commenced to clear the tables of the glasses and bottles; and one of
the men, a stern, sullen-looking fellow, said to the other:
‘Heard you, Jewan, what these Feringhee dogs said?’
‘Some of it, Meerza,’ returned the man addressed. ‘But I understand not
so much of their hateful language as you.’
‘Well, the colonel sahib says we don’t hate his countrymen.’
Here the two men broke into a scornful laugh, and Jewan remarked:
‘Poor fool. Ere the moon has waned he may have learnt differently. If
all goes well, the blood of all the white devils in Meerut shall dye
the streets, and even the Gunga over there shall run red with it. Shiva
the Destroyer has willed it, and it will be as I say.’
‘What is that you say, Jewan?’ asked the little girl, who had been
arrested in her play by the words that fell from the man’s lips. Her
question caused him to turn upon her with a look so wild and so full of
fierce hatred that she screamed and rushed towards her nurse. The ayah
sprang up and caught her in her arms, saying soothingly:
‘What is it, Missy Baba? What has frightened the pet lamb?’
‘Oh! ayah, Jewan looks so dreadful he has frightened me.’
Alarmed by the scream of the child the colonel ran from the house,
asking excitedly what was the matter.
‘Oh, papa, papa!’ exclaimed his daughter, as she flew to him, ‘I heard
Jewan say such dreadful things; and when I asked him what it was he had
said, he frightened me by the way he glared at me.’
‘What does this mean, you rascal?’ demanded the colonel, angrily, and
speaking in Hindostanee. ‘I am tempted to horsewhip your hide, you
black dog.’
The man drew himself up to every inch of his height. He was a tall,
commanding-looking man with a mobile face, and eyes that seemed to burn
like glowing coals.
‘Sahib,’ he said, proudly and scornfully, ‘I am no dog.’
Then, without another word, he marched down the steps of the verandah
into the garden and disappeared into the darkness.
The colonel was much distressed. It was another sign of the times. A
few months before no servant would have dared to have answered his
master in such a way.
The other ladies and gentlemen had by this time appeared on the scene,
and many were the anxious inquiries as to the cause of the disturbance.
But for the sake of the ladies the colonel gave an evasive answer, and,
re-entering the house, leading his daughter by the hand, the others
followed all but two--Shelton and Blanche. They lingered. With the
artfulness of a lover he detained her by saying, ‘Oh, I say, Blanche,
isn’t this a splendid night? How brilliant the moon is.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, linking her hands in his arm, and turning her own
beautiful face up to his. ‘But I wish, dear, we were under an English
sky instead of this Indian one.’
‘Why?’
‘I--I hardly know. I don’t like this country. If the fears that I have
heard expressed that the natives may rise are realised how dreadful it
will be.’
‘Tut--little woman,’ answered the brave lad cheerily. ‘Don’t let any
gloomy forebodings trouble you. There is discontent, it is true, but we
shall calm it down.’
‘I hope so--I hope so,’ said Blanche, with an unusually thoughtful air.
‘It will be so, my pet. But come, let us go in, for I heard the colonel
suggest cards.’
‘But shall I not have you to myself for a few minutes again this
evening? Remember that as you leave so early in the morning I shall not
see you before you go.’
‘Of course, darling, we shall have another spoon to-night,’ he said in
his hearty manner, and letting his lips come into contact with hers,
to which she made no objection. ‘You see Willoughby and I must report
ourselves in Delhi by eight o’clock, but I intend to come over next
Sunday and see you.’
‘Oh, you love,’ she murmured, allowing him to embrace her still more
closely, until they were suddenly startled by the voice of the colonel,
who, coming on to the verandah, said:
‘I say, you young people, we want you, you know. You can surely manage
to tear yourselves from each other’s arms for a little while.’
‘Certainly, certainly, colonel,’ answered Shelton in an embarrassed
way. ‘But I was just drawing Blanche’s attention to that group of
stars, and----’
‘Ah, how very funny,’ interrupted the colonel with a laugh. ‘It seemed
to me you were trying to smother her, and I wasn’t sure which was your
head and which was hers. But come now, get in. We want to make up some
whist parties.’
A little later on Blanche did manage to get another few minutes alone
with her lover, and with many warm embraces they separated--not for
ever, for they were to meet again, but under circumstances that neither
dreamed of then. His promise to see her again on the Sunday remained
unfulfilled. Not from any fault of his, but for reasons that were not
explained an order was issued of a peremptory character which prevented
any officer or private going outside of Delhi.
On the following Saturday, that is on May 9, there was enacted in
Meerut an extraordinarily dramatic scene, that was the prelude, though
the white people knew it not, of a ghastly drama such as India had
never before witnessed during the rule of the British.
In the interval between the 1st and the 9th the mutineers had been
tried by a court-martial composed of native and British officers,
and sentenced to ten years’ hard labour. The first part of the
sentence--that of stripping them of their uniform in the presence of
all the regiment--was to be carried out, and on that eventful Saturday
morning, under a strong guard of rifles and carabineers, the disgraced
eighty-five were marched to the parade-ground to be still further
disgraced.
It was a stirring scene, for when the _reveille_ had sounded long lines
of troops, mounted and on foot, marched towards the plain that for ever
afterwards was to be historic ground. The clattering of horses’ hoofs
and the rumbling of artillery added to the general commotion, and soon
the plain was swarming with armed men. It was no dress or drill parade,
but a terribly stern display of authority and power, that it was firmly
believed would overawe the mutinous spirit. Heavily shotted field guns
were placed in position, while the drawn sabres of the dragoons flashed
blindingly in the blazing sunlight. On three sides of the plain were
bodies of troops armed with the new grooved rifle, and were ready,
should the signal be given, to belch forth fire and send their rotary
messengers of death into the surging masses of natives.
The mutineers belonged to the 3rd Native Cavalry, and their commanding
officer was Colonel Carmichael Smyth. All being ready, he stepped
forward, and in a loud, clear voice, that was not altogether free from
emotion, however, he read the sentence of the court-martial. That
formality ended, the accoutrements were taken from the mutineers, and
their uniforms stripped from their backs. Then came the armourers and
smiths with their shackles and tools, and, in the presence of that
great concourse of spectators, civilian and military, the disgraced
men were made to wear the chains of felons. They raised their arms
and cried aloud to their general to save them from such ignominy, but
the fiat had gone forth. They were doomed. There was not a Sepoy or
native civilian present but gasped for breath as he felt the rising
indignation in his throat. But what could they do in the presence of
those stern white soldiers, those shotted guns, those grooved rifles,
and the drawn sabres? Yes, they could do something--they could endure
and wait.
When, after some hours, the ceremony was completed, the manacled felons
were consigned to the gaol, and over them was placed a native guard
only. Oh, fatuous act of folly! Who was responsible for it? History is
silent, and he or they who made the blunder have long since mouldered
to the dust from whence they sprang.
The anxious and eventful day ended. The Europeans took their airing as
usual, and met each other at the dinner tables hopeful and cheerful.
They had struck such terror into the hearts of the natives, by the
stern and terrible act, that all fear of a rising had passed. Such was
the general feeling amongst the whites, but during the hours of the
short Indian night there was an unusual movement amongst the natives.
In the lines of the native soldiery, through the surrounding villages
and amongst the crowded bazaars, a fatal sign was passing. Fleet-footed
natives sped from place to place and put into the hands of the
principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty, and by prearrangement
was the signal for a rising. The broiling sun rose on the Sunday
morning, and the Europeans, having no thought of coming danger, wended
their way to the station church. Amongst them were the colonel and his
family, including his sweet little daughter and her pretty governess