Tales of terror
Blanche, who looked prettier than ever, and was radiant with a sense
of happiness that found no expression in words, but showed itself in
her beaming eyes and flushed cheeks. And the cause of this was a letter
from her lover in Delhi, brought to her that morning by a coolie. In it
Shelton expressed his joy that the great ‘disarming and felon-marking
act’ of the day before had passed off so quietly; and he expressed a
belief that the lesson thus taught to the natives would be lasting,
and there would be no more mutinous conduct. But what had excited in
Blanche such a sense of joy was this line: ‘And now, sweetest of women,
to-morrow I shall hold you in my arms again, for I have got two days’
leave, and am going to spend them in Meerut. You may look for me about
tiffin time.’
Full of the expectation that this great joy would be realised, how
eagerly did she look forward to the morrow. But, had she been gifted
with the power of prescience, and could have foreseen the events that
were to happen in a few hours, she would have shrunk with curdling
horror, and have cried aloud to God for protection.
Divine service ended, and homeward the people returned again, laughing
and chatting and hand-shaking as friends met friends. And tiffin was
partaken of, and the siesta indulged in without a single thought of
insecurity.
Alas, what fatal blindness! Was it not a cruel fate that dulled the
senses of every white man in the cantonment on that awful Sunday! Had
someone only suspected and been able to arouse the officers to a sense
of their danger, in all human probability history would never have
been called upon to record the ghastly horrors of the Indian Mutiny.
While the white people slept through the sweltering heat of that
May afternoon there was unusual stir in the native lines and in the
bazaars, and down the Ganges, as well as down the Jumna, a budgerow
slowly drifted, and at intervals of about five minutes on board of
that budgerow there were sounded three distinct and emphasised strokes
on a large tom-tom. That beating of the tom-tom was a signal to the
villagers and fishermen who dwelt on the banks of the rivers to repair
with all speed to the city in readiness for the great event.
Still the white men slept! A fatuous belief in their might had
lulled them to a fatal slumber. Shiva, the Destroyer--the God of the
natives--had spoken, but the God of the Christians gave no sign.
The white men slept!
The afternoon waned. The evening breeze set in, and the Christians
rose and prepared for evening worship; and as they wended their way
to church they saw for the first time sights and sounds that paled
the faces of the women, and begot anxiety in the men. Columns of
illuminated smoke were rising to the darkening sky; and from afar off
came the sound of bugles calling to arms, and mingling with it was the
roll of musketry. Service in the church did not take place, and the
scared people hurried back; for now from lip to lip flew the news--‘The
native soldiers have risen!’ It had a dreadful sound, for under any
circumstances it meant a tremendous struggle, and many a brave man
would bite the dust ere the insurrection was quelled.
That confusion ensued amongst the whites goes without saying, for
none knew exactly where the danger lay. Firm in his belief in his
dark-skinned comrades the white-haired colonel mounted his horse and
rode boldly into the midst of his regiment, which was assembled on the
plain. He tried to harangue the men, but ere he had spoken many words
there was a report, and a bullet shattered his arm. In a few seconds
he fell from his horse riddled with bullets. It was the first blood.
Then throwing off all reserve the black soldiers seemed to suddenly
transform themselves to fiends. With hideous cries and shouts, and
followed by a yelling rabble thirsting for the white men’s lives, they
rushed towards the town bent on slaughter.
And almost at the same moment a young and beautiful woman, mounted on a
magnificent horse, her form concealed by a military cloak, crossed the
plain, and, urging the animal to its wildest gallop, sped towards Delhi.
To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late,
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods.
When the eighty-five condemned men were consigned to the gaol they
were placed under the care of a native guard only, and the prisoners
exclaimed to their guard: ‘Are you countrymen of ours that you can
calmly see us thus treated and disgraced by these accursed Feringhees?’
And the taunt was taken up and carried from man to man, and it ran
like wildfire through the native regiments, and through the bazaars,
and through the villages. And it was borne down the rivers and up the
rivers, and over the dusty plain to Delhi men sped with the cry on
their lips. And when the sinking sun was reddening the rolling waters
of the Ganges, native eyes in Delhi were turning anxiously towards
Meerut for the flaming signal in the sky, that should announce to
them that fire and sword were doing their deadly work on the European
residents in the great cantonment.
While the white men were sleeping the natives were acting. They surged
to the prison, civilians and soldiers alike. Some of the latter were
in uniform, some in their stable dress. Some were fully accoutred, and
bestrode their chargers all ready for war. Others rode their steeds
with only watering-rein and horse-cloth; but every soldier was armed
with sabre and pistol, and hundreds of the rabble had pistols and guns
of some sort. They met with no opposition at the prison. If the guard
did not help they looked on passively. The cells were forced open,
the prisoners brought forth, and native smiths were at hand to strike
off the shackles. Then the erstwhile prisoners mounted behind their
comrades and rode to the lines for more horses and arms, and Hindoos
and Mohammedans, high caste and low caste, women and children, joined
in one mighty shout, ‘Death to the Feringhees!’--‘Deen, deen!’ which
means ‘Death’--and was to become their rallying cry throughout the
great struggle. Forth they rushed like a destroying whirlwind. Wherever
a white soldier was met he was mercilessly slaughtered. Such Europeans
as were driving or riding were shot down, men, women, and children,
without mercy, without pity. And from the dens of infamy, and the
slums, and the bazaars, poured a stream of human beings pitiless as
the fabled ghouls, and all bent on plundering and burning. As the moon
rose it looked on an appallingly weird scene of horror and cruelty.
The blazing bungalows of the English officers roared and hissed, and
English women and English children, gashed and mutilated out of all
recognition, lay dead in the streets. One of the first bungalows to
be attacked was that of the colonel as he rode out to harangue his
men. His wife fell, shot through the heart, as she tried to shield her
child. Faithful to her trust, the old ayah endeavoured to carry the
child off from its dead mother and place it in a place of safety, if
there was such a place. But she was cut down with a sabre, and she and
the sweet little girl were slashed to pieces. Then the house was looted
and given to the flames.
Blanche Merton would have fallen a victim at that first outbreak
of fury. But fearing the worst, she had not waited for the house
to be attacked. She was moved by an impulse to die with her lover
no less than to warn him and his comrades in Delhi, and, being a
superb horsewoman, she rushed to the stables, having first seized the
colonel’s military cloak, which was hanging in the hall. With her own
hands she saddled his favourite riding-horse, and, concealing her face
with a black veil, she rode towards the river undetected, and having
gained the highway beyond the Goomtee, she gave her horse the rein.
That night was a night of horror in Meerut, the parallel for which
could hardly be found in history. The whole town seemed to be a
swirling furnace of many-coloured flames. The air was sultry. There was
not a breath of wind, and the stupendous column of smoke spread itself
out over the doomed town like a funeral pall. The shrieks of horses and
cattle as they were burned in their stables mingled with the gloating
cries of the infuriated natives; while the roar of the musketry made
itself heard above all, and proclaimed the carnage that was going
on. Women and children and non-combatants cried to God for pity, and
endeavoured to find shelter in the gardens, outhouses, stables, under
the trees, but all without avail. The black demons searched them out,
and shot them or hacked them to pieces. The streets were deluged with
blood; the river ran red.
Many a heroic deed that has gone unrecorded was done that night by
white men; and many a half-maddened mother, with a prayer on her lips,
threw away her life in her fruitless endeavours to save the lives of
her little ones.
But the scene of the story must shift. When the hellish work in Meerut
had been finished the mutineers sped away to Delhi. But before they
reached it the brave Blanche Merton had arrived. At such a pace had she
ridden that her horse died soon after she had dismounted at Lieutenant
Shelton’s quarters, and she was so excited and so exhausted that she
could scarcely speak. As soon as she got her voice she told them that
mutiny had broken out in Meerut, and the English were being massacred.
There was corroboration of her report in the flame-coloured sky away
to the north-east where the bungalows were burning, but otherwise
Shelton was disposed to think that her fears had led her to exaggerate
the extent of the revolt. Glad he was to see her, and as he kissed her
fondly he said:
‘You are safe here, anyway, my darling, and I do not think there is any
danger of the tide of mutiny flowing thus far.’
He was hopeful and sanguine, but it was different with others to whom
the news was speedily communicated. They knew how weak the little force
was in Delhi, and that they could offer but small resistance if the
mutineers should get the upper hand in Meerut and attack Delhi.
The great magazine and fort, with its tremendous stores of war
material, was no great distance from the palace; that superb home of
the Moghul kings that lifted its proud domes and turrets above the
Jumna. The entire place was under the charge of Willoughby, and he
had with him two other lieutenants--officers of the Bengal Artillery,
and six European conductors and commissariat sergeants, one of them
being an Irishman named Scully. There were nine in all. Nine only to
defend their precious charge! To us now it seems inconceivable that
the authorities could have been so fatuous as to leave so important
a place as Delhi unguarded. But so it was, save by a mere handful of
men. Lieutenant Willoughby, however, was of the stuff that makes all
Englishmen proud. Calling his little band together, he told them the
news, and said that it was certain the mutineers would attempt a dash
for the magazine, for they could do little without ammunition. But he
added:
‘We will hold the place, boys, against a host. The black devils may
have a brief triumph in Meerut, and come here; but the garrison of
Meerut, which is a strong one, will soon recover, and will send us
succour; though, should the worst come to the worst, comrades, not a
shell, not a gun, nor an ounce of powder, if we can help it, shall fall
into the hands of the rebels, for we will blow the whole place into
ruins, and find our graves beneath them.’
A tremendous cheer was the answer he received, and then the gallant
band set to work to be prepared for whatever might happen. The outer
gate was closed, and strongly barricaded. Guns were brought out and