On the Face of the Waters Part 46

"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.

But many hundreds of women never saw their Shum-sha-deens again, or if they saw them, only saw something to weep over and bind in white swaddling clothes and gold thread.

So by dark on the 2d of August the sound of wailing women rose from every alley, and the men, wandering restlessly about the bazaars, listened to the sound of tattoo from the Ridge and looked at each other almost startled.

"Go-to-bed-Tom! Go-to-bed-Tom! Drunk-or-sober-go-to-bed-Tom!"

The Day of Sacrifice was over, and Tom was going to bed quietly as if nothing had happened! They did not know that three-quarters of the Toms had been in bed the night before, undisturbed by the martyrs'

supreme effort. If they had, they might have wondered still more persistently what Providence was about.

But in the big mosque, among the great white bars of moonlight slanting beneath the dome, one man knew. He stood, a tall white figure beneath a furled green banner, his arms outspread, his voice rising in fierce denunciation.

"Cursed[5] be they who did the deed, who killed jehad! Lo! I told you in my dream in the past and ye would not believe. I tell it again that ye may know. It was dawn. And the Lord Christ and the Lord Mohammed sat over the World striving each for His own according to the Will of the Most High who sets men's quarrels before the Saints in Heaven with a commander to each. And I saw the Lord Christ weep, knowing that justice was on our side. So the fiat for victory went forth, and I slept. But I dreamed again and lo! it was eve with a blood-red sunsetting westward. And the Lord Christ wept still, but the Lord Mohammed's voice rang loud and stern. 'Reverse the fiat. Give the victory to the women and the children.' So I woke. And it is true! is true! Cursed be they who killed jehad!"

The voice died away among the arches where, in delicate tracery, the attributes of the Great Creator were cut into changeless marble.

Truth, Justice, Mercy, all the virtues from which all religions make their G.o.d.

"He is mad," said some; but for the most part men were silent as they drifted down the great Flights-of-Steps to the city, leaving Mohammed Ismail alone under the dome.

"Didst expect otherwise, my Queen?" said Bukht Khan hardily. "So did not I! But the end is gained. Delhi was not ours in heart and soul before. It is now. When the a.s.sault comes those who fought for faith will fight for their skins. And at the worst there is Lucknow for good Sheeahs like the Queen and her slave. We have no tie here among these Sunnies who think only of their h.o.a.rds."

Zeenut Maihl shrank from him with her first touch of fear, for she had eight or nine lakhs of rupees hidden in that very house. This man whom she had summoned to her aid bid fair to make flight necessary even for a woman. Had she ventured too much? Was there yet time to throw him over, throw everyone over and make her peace? She turned instinctively in her thoughts to one who loved money also, who also had h.o.a.rds to save. And so, within half an hour of Bukht Khan's departure, Ahsan-Oolah was closeted with the Queen, who after the excitement of the day needed a cooling draught.

Most people in the Palace needed one that night, for by this time almost all the possible permutations of confederacy had come about, with the result that--each combination's intrigue being known to the next--a general distrust had fallen upon all. In addition, there was now a fourth Commander-in-Chief; one Ghaus Khan, from Neemuch, who declared the rest were fools.

In truth the Dream was wearing thin indeed within the Palace.

But on that peaceful little housetop in the Mufti's quarter it seemed more profound than ever; it seemed as if Fate was determined to leave nothing wanting to the strange unreal life that was being lived in the very heart of the city. Jim Douglas was almost himself again. A little lame, a little uncertain still of his own strength; and so, remembering a piece of advice given him by the old Baharupa never to attempt using the Gift when he was not strong enough for it to be strong, he had been patient beyond Kate's hopes. But on this 2d of August, after lying awake all night listening to the roar and the din, he had insisted on going out when Soma did not turn up as usual to bring the news. He would not be long, he said, not more than an hour or two, and the attempt must be made some time. At no better one than now, perchance, since folk would be occupied in their own affairs.

"Besides," he added with a smile, "I'm ready to allow the convalescent home its due. While I've been kept quiet the very thought of concealed Europeans has died out."

"I don't know!" she interrupted quickly. "It isn't long since Prince Abool-Bukr chased that blue-eyed boy of the Mufti's over the roofs thinking he was one--don't you remember I was so afraid he might climb up here?"

"That's the advantage of being up-top," he replied lightly. "Now, if anything were to happen, you could scramble down. But the Prince was drunk, and I won't go near his haunts--there isn't any danger--really there isn't!"

"I shall have to get accustomed to it even if there is," she replied in the same tone.

Jim Douglas paused at the door irresolutely. "Shall I wait till Tara returns?"

"No, please don't. She is not coming back till late. She grows restless if she does not go--and I am all right."

In truth Tara had been growing restless of late. Kate, looking up from the game of chess--at which her convalescent gave her half the pieces on the board and then beat her easily--used to find those dark eyes watching them furtively. Zora Begum had never played shatrnj with the master, had never read with him from books, had never treated him as an equal. And, strangely enough, the familiar companionship--inevitable under the circ.u.mstances--roused her jealousy more than the love-making on that other terraced roof had done. _That_ she understood. _That_ she could crush with her cry of suttee. But _this_--this which to her real devotion seemed so utterly desirable; what did it mean? So she crept away, when she could, to take up the saintly role as the only certain solace she knew for the ache in her heart.

Therefore Kate sat alone, darning Jim Douglas' white socks--which as a better-cla.s.s Afghan he was bound to wear--and thinking as she did so how incredibly domestic a task it was! Still socks had to be darned, and with Tara at hand to buy odds and ends, and Soma with his knowledge of the Huzoor's life ready to bring chessboards, and soap, and even a book or two, it seemed as if the roof would soon be a very fair imitation of home. So she sat peacefully till, about dusk, hearing a footfall on the stairs halting with long pauses between the steps; her vexation at her patient's evident fatigue overcame her usual caution; and without waiting for his signal knock she set the door wide and stepped out on to the stairs to give him a hand if need be. And then out of the shadow of the narrow brick ladder came a strange voice panting breathlessly:

"Salaam! mem-sahib." She started back, but not in time to prevent a bent figure with a bundle on its back from stumbling past her on to the roof; where, as if exhausted, it leaned against the wall before slipping the bundle to the floor. It was an ordinary brown blanket bundle full of uncarded cotton, and the old woman who carried it was ragged and feeble. Emaciated too beyond belief, as if cotton-spinning had not been able to keep soul and body comfortably together. Not a very formidable foe this--if foe it was. Why! surely she knew the face.

"I have brought Sonny back, Huzoor," came the breathless voice.