Chapter XLIX

‘To the breach! to the breach!’ was now the cry far and wide; those who loved the Sultaun hurried there to die, to stop with their bodies the ascent of the devoted English—a living wall in place of that which had been torn down.

It was a sight on which men looked with throbbing hearts and aching eyes from both sides—those in the English camp, and those in the Fort. There were but few cannon to stop the English; all upon the breach had been dismounted, and no one dared show himself upon the dismantled defences to plant others. But as the British advanced, a storm of shot and rockets met them, which was enough to have turned more daring men. Many went down before it, many writhed and struggled; the column was like a march of ants where a human foot has just trodden, some hurrying on, a few turning to carry away a wounded and disabled comrade.

‘They are drunk!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘the hogs—the kafirs—they have been plied with wine. Be firm, brothers, and fear not, though they are desperate. Be firm, ye with the long spears, and do ye of the Kureem Kutcheree regain your lost fame! Remember, we are present,—a hundred rupees for every Feringhee! Look to your aim—they cannot pass the ditch.’

Such broken sentences escaped him from time to time, as he fired upon the enemy with his own hand, often with deadly aim; but though the resistance made was desperate, what was able to withstand the hot ardour of this assault? Man after man went down before the strong arm of Baird, who toiled like a knight of old in the breach, cheering on his men with loud cries of revenge for the murdered. Kasim fought beside him, and equalled the deeds of the British leader.

‘They bear charmed lives!’ cried the Sultaun, dashing to the ground the gun he had just fired; ‘twice have I struck down the men close to them, but the balls harmed them not.’

‘Retire, I beseech you, O Prince!’ cried Rajah Khan and a hundred others around him; ‘this is no place for you; on our lives be it we drive them back.’

‘No; I will die here,’ said Tippoo doggedly; ‘they shall pass into the Fort over my body; but the ditch is yet before them—they cannot pass it unless it is filled as it was at— Bah! why should I have thought of that scene?’

This passed in a moment: the struggle on the breach was over—the defenders and their enemies lay there in heaps; still there was the ditch to cross, which was wide and deep; for an instant even Baird was staggered, and his men ran right and left seeking for a passage. Kasim Ali and he were close together; there was a scaffolding, and a plank over it leading to the rampart on the other side: it was enough, the way was found, and hundreds poured over it quicker than thought.

It was the last sight the Sultaun saw—everything else swam before his eyes; he looked stupefied, and said, hurriedly and gloomily, ‘It is finished—where are my bearers? take me to the palace—the women must die—every one: we would not have them defiled by the kafirs. Come! haste! or we are too late.’

They led him to his palankeen, mingling with the fugitives, who in the passage between the two walls were rushing on to the small postern where it had been left; men had been sent for it, but what bearers could struggle against that frantic crowd? As they hurried on, Rajah Khan vainly endeavoured to persuade him to fly by the river-gate; Poornea and his son were out, he said, and they might yet escape to the fastnesses of the west.

‘Peace! cried the Sultaun; ‘the women are sacred—they must die first; then we will throw ourselves upon the kafirs, cry Alla Yar, and die. May hell be their portion!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as he stumbled and fell. They raised him—a shot had struck him; he was sick to death, but they were strong men, and they urged him on, supporting him. Another cry he uttered—they saw blood pour from his back—he was wounded once more; but the gate was close at hand, and they strained every nerve to reach it. Hundreds were struggling there: the fierce English were behind, advancing with loud oaths and cheers, maddened by excited revenge, slaughter, lust, and hope of plunder. A fearful thing is a strife like that, when men become monsters, thirsting for blood.

They reached the palankeen, and laid the Sultaun in it. ‘Water! water!’ he gasped; ‘air! I am choking! take me out, take me out, I shall die here! Water! for the love of Alla, water! one drop! one drop!’

‘Remember the murdered, give no quarter,’ cried many whose bayonets were already reeking with blood. ‘Here is a gate, we shall be inside directly—hurrah!’

‘They come, Huzrut,’ said Rajah Khan, trying to rouse the dying man; ‘they come, they are near, let us tell them who thou art, they will spare thee.’

‘Spare me!’ he cried, rousing himself at the last words. ‘No! they burn for revenge, and I should be hung like a dog; no! I will die here.’ He was very faint, and spoke feebly.

‘Here is a prince—I’ll be the first!’ cried a soldier, dashing into the gateway and snatching rudely at the rosary which was around the Sultaun’s neck.

It rallied the expiring lamp of life. ‘Dog of a kafir! son of an unchaste mother!’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth as he seized a sword which lay by him, ‘get thee to hell!’ and he struck at him with all his might; it was the last effort of life, but it was not fatal.

‘Damnation!’ muttered the man, setting his teeth with the pain of the wound, as he raised his musket.

He fired, the ball pierced the skull, the Sultaun’s eyes glared for an instant, quivered in their sockets, then his head fell, and he was dead. The lion of the faith, the refuge of the world, had gone to his account!

‘Well met, noble Kasim,’ cried Philip Dalton, as heading his party he dashed down the cavalier which had first been gained, and was now in the body of the place; ‘keep with me; thou knowest the prisons?’

‘Every one, colonel; but haste! they may even now be destroying them.’

Philip shuddered, there was no time for thought. Many men were around him, and they rushed on, led by Kasim Ali, whose reddened sword, and armour sprinkled with blood, showed how he had been employed.

Eagerly, and with excitement which hardly admitted thought, so engrossing was it, did those two and Charles Hayward search every part of the Fort, and every place where it was possible that prisoners could have been concealed: they found none. And when the palace was opened they rushed into its most secret prisons and burst them open; they found traces of recent habitation by Englishmen; and while their fears were horribly confirmed, their last hopes for Herbert Compton departed.

‘Ah! could I but meet the villain Jaffar!’ cried Kasim, as they gave up further search, for it was now dark; ‘if indeed he be alive, then would we wring from him the fate of your poor friend. Inshalla! he may be found: I know his haunts, and will watch them all night; I will come to thee in the morning.’

‘I shall be here with my regiment,’ Dalton said sadly; ‘but I have no hope, for that cowardly villain will have fled long ere now with his ill-gotten wealth.’

The morning broke gloomily after that fearful day and night; for during the latter there had been appalling alarms, shots, screams from terrified, plundered, and often violated women; there were many dreadful excesses, but they were checked. As the day advanced, order was restored once more, and the moderation of the English in their victory, their justice, and protection of all, is yet sung and said through the country by wandering minstrels.

The Sultaun’s body had been discovered where he had fallen; his faithful attendant lay beside him, with others who had fought with him to the last. They were brought into the palace, and recognised by the women with unfeigned and bitter grief. Of all that host of secluded women, two only truly mourned his fate. The one was his mother, the other Fureeda, who could with difficulty be torn from his body, as they took it away for burial. Her love had grown with misfortune; for in her society he had found rest from care and from his own restless mind; of late he had visited no other, and, despite of his vices, she had felt security with him, whom no one else looked on without fear; and as his fate approached, she foresaw it, pitied, and loved him.

The last rites of the faith had been performed upon the body. The grave clothes, which, brought from Mekha, had been for years in his possession, were put on with the requisite ceremonies, ablutions, and fumigations; the sheet, filled with flowers, was laid over the body; the attendant Moolas chanted thrice those parts of the Koran, the ‘Soora e fateeha,’ and the ‘Qool hoo Alla!’ They were about to raise it, to place it in the coffin, when two women again rushed in; the one was old, wrinkled, and grey—it was his nurse; she beat her bare and withered breasts, and, kneeling beside the corpse, showed them to it with passionate exclamations. ‘Thou hast sucked them,’ she cried, ‘when I was young, and they were full of milk! Alas! alas! that I should have lived to say I bestow it on thee.’

The other was Fureeda; she spoke not, but sobbed bitterly, as she looked on the pinched and sharpened features, and livid face of him who had till the last clung to her with affection.

They were removed with difficulty, and the procession passed out slowly, the Moolas chanting the funeral service with slow and melancholy cadences. The conquerers of the dead awaited his coming, and, in silent homage to their illustrious enemy, lifted their plumed hats from their brows, as the body passed on to its last resting-place beside the noble Hyder. The troops, which had the day before been arrayed in arms against him, now paid the last honours to his death; and through a street of British soldiers, resting upon their firearms reversed, while their bands played the dead march in Saul, the procession wound its way. Without in the street were thousands of men, who, frantic in their grief, cried aloud to Alla; and women, who beat their breasts, and wailed, or else uttered piercing shrieks of woe, flung dust into the air, and, casting loose their hair, strove to prostrate themselves before the body of the dead. The solemn chant proceeded; each verse sung by the Moolas, who in their flowing robes preceded the coffin, was repeated by all around. The body was surrounded by all the officers of Tippoo’s late army who had survived, and those of the Nizam’s force, on foot; and there was one of his sons on horseback, who sat in a kind of stupor at the overwhelming affliction.

The day had been gloomy, and was close and hot; not a breath of wind stirred the trees, and heavy lurid masses of clouds hung over the city, from whence at times a low muttering growl of thunder would break, and seemingly rattle all over the heavens. Men felt heavily the weight of the atmosphere, and every now and then looked up at the threatening mass which hung above them.

Through the plain, which extends to the mausoleum of Hyder, the multitude poured; and as the procession gradually approached its goal, the frantic cries of the people increased, almost drowning the melancholy dead march and the chant which arose, now one, now the other, and sometimes both blended into a wild harmony upon the still air. Then there was a momentary silence, only to be succeeded by bursts of grief even more violent than before. The thunder appeared to increase in loudness every moment, while flashes of lightning darted across the heavens from side to side.

The procession reached the burial-place; the grenadiers formed a street, rested upon their firearms reversed, and the body passed on. The band now ceased, and the bier being laid down, the body was taken from it, preparatory to being laid in the grave. The Moola (for one alone now officiated) raised his voice in the chant of the first creed; it was a powerful one, but now sounded thin and small among that vast assembly; he had said only a few words, when a flash of lightning burst from above, nearly blinding them, and a peal of thunder followed, so crashing, so stunning, that the stoutest hearts quailed under it. It died away, and as it receded far into the east, the melancholy tone of the Moola’s voice, which had been drowned in it, again arose clear and distinct, like the distant wail of a trumpet.

The heavens were still for a while; but as the body was laid in its last narrow resting-place, its face to the west, and as the Moolas chanted out ‘Salāam wo Aliekoom wo Ruhmut Ullāāh!’[60] again a crashing peal burst forth, and their words were lost in the deafening roar. Now peal after peal rolled from the clouds. As yet there was no rain nor wind, and the black mass appeared almost to descend upon the tall palm-trees which waved above, and flashes of lightning so vivid that the heavens blazed under the light, darted from it, and played fearfully around. Men looked at each other in awe and wonder, and felt their own littleness, when the mighty lay cold in death before them, and the thunder of his Creator roared, seemingly as in deprecation of the deeds of his life.

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Footnote 60:

Peace and the grace of God be with you.

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The companies formed on each side of the grave to pay their last tribute of respect to a soldier’s memory, and the word was given—‘Fire!’ The rattle which followed seemed to be taken up by the sky; away rolled the awful echoes into the far west, and, lost for a moment among the huge crags and mountains of the Ghâts, seemed to return with double force to meet the peals of artillery and volleys of musketry which broke from the Fort and the British army. The bands struck up again, but they were dimly heard; and, as all returned to the sound of their merry music, it seemed a mockery amidst the din and turmoil of that tempest.

* * * * *

But we must carry our readers back to Herbert Compton, over whom years had passed, chequered by no events save the visits of Jaffar Sahib, to urge upon him compliance with the Sultaun’s demands for assistance, plans of fortifications, or military instructions. The Sultaun had from the first taken it into his head that Herbert was a man of education and skill beyond his fellows; and as every idea was esteemed a revelation from Providence, he had clung to this one with all the obstinacy of his nature, for he had a necessity for the aid Herbert might have given. Often he would forget him for months. Once or twice, provoked by his obstinate refusals, he had issued orders for his death, and revoked as fast as he had written them. Herbert had lingered on upon those mountains, the cold and mists of which, exaggerated to the Sultaun, made him suppose that the place was the one where hardship would be the greatest, and life the most difficult to bear. But he knew not of that glorious climate, of its cool, fresh, elastic, invigorating breezes; of its exquisite scenery; of the thousands of wild flowers, and green hills and hanging woods; deep wooded glens, in which brawled clear and sparkling rivers, now chafing over a pebbly bed, now creeping still under some golden mossy bank, covered with wild thyme and violets, from among which peered the modest primrose, the graceful cyclamen and tall fern, which nodded over the sparkling water. He knew not what ecstasy it was to Herbert to lie at length upon the soft sward, and to listen to the melody of the blackbird, which in the joy of its heart trilled its liquid song, and was answered joyously by its mate—or to see the lark, high in air, wheeling around in wide circles, till it was lost to sight, the same as he had used to listen to with Amy in the groves of Beechwood. Herbert’s thoughts were often carried back to the past, remembering with the minutest exactitude every tone, every word of their sweet converse.

It was an unreal life, with none of the world’s occurrences before him; from his high prison he looked forth over a wide country, but he could only speculate idly upon what was passing in the world. He had no hope of deliverance,—for ever since the first siege of the city, of which he heard after the English had departed, he had ceased to think of liberty except in death. He had no hope that his life, his intellect, which he felt to be strong and vigorous, would ever be called into the action they were fitted for;—nor his kind heart, his affectionate sympathies find again objects on which to fix. He had no companion but nature, upon whose varying face he could always look with delight, while he listened to the brawling streams, the murmurs of the waving woods—those sweet voices with which she peoples her solitudes.

Yet latterly he had found a companion. One of the guards brought a dog; Herbert attached it to himself, and the man gave it him when he went away. He could speak to it—he could speak English to it; and as they would sit upon a sunny bank together, he listening idly to the murmuring plash of waters, the hum of bees, watching the bright flies, as they sported in the sunbeams, or the butterflies flying from flower to flower—drinking in the loveliness of the prospects, whether over the vast blue plains and endless ranges of mountains, or inwards, among the quiet peaceful valleys and swelling hills—he would, after musing a while, speak to his favourite of her he loved, of his home, of his mother; and often, when tears started to his eyes, and his voice faltered, the dog would look at him wistfully, and whine gently as he scratched him with his paw; he seemed to know there was something wrong, and he thus expressed his sympathy; and when Herbert arose to go, he would run in wide circles upon the mountain-side, chasing the larks from their nests, tearing the grass with his teeth, and barking so joyfully that Herbert’s spirit would be gladdened too.

But who can tell his yearnings for home—for the sight of a face beside those of his guards—for one word from a countryman? If ever he should escape, what tidings might be in store for him—of the changes, the events of years? Escape! alas that was impossible. Everywhere the same rugged sides presented themselves, everywhere the same vast forests below, to enter which was death, and beyond them the territory of the Sultaun. He often longed to make a second attempt to be free, but his better thoughts proved its utter impracticability.

One day a few showers had fallen, and the air was soft and balmy; the dry winds of May had already abated, and the summer was beginning to burst forth. Herbert was lying upon the spot which we have once mentioned in Hulleekul Droog; his little garden was freshened by the late rain, and the odour of the flowers came to him gratefully, as he looked over the wide prospect, now so familiar, yet, for all that, presenting in colour, in effect, perpetually new features.

The Naik of his guard came to him. ‘Arise!’ he said, ‘I have news for thee.’

‘Speak!’ said Herbert—‘what news? is Jaffar coming again? is he arrived?’

‘Not so,’ said the man, ‘thou art to travel.’

Herbert’s heart sank within him.

‘To travel!’ he said anxiously; ‘has the Sultaun sent for me?’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘_he_ has not—he is dead. The English have taken the city, and the Sultaun is no more.’

‘Merciful Providence!’ cried Herbert aloud in his own tongue; ‘is this true, or is it a dream? _killed_, didst thou say?’

‘Ay, Sahib,’ said the man, dashing a tear from his eye; ‘he was a great man, and has died like a soldier! Wilt thou come? thy countrymen will look for thee now, and perhaps the act of taking thee to them will give me favour in their eyes. As to this post, it will be abandoned—no one will need it; and if we remain here, no one will remember us. What dost thou think?’

But he spoke to one who heeded not his words—they hardly fell upon his ear. Herbert had knelt down, and on the spot where his first vision of escape had come to him, where he now heard he was free, he poured forth thoughts that were too big for words—incoherently, perhaps—what matter? they rose out of a grateful, glowing heart, and ascended to the throne of Him who looked into it and saw the feelings there, while the words that expressed them passed away upon the sighing wind unheeded.

Herbert arose. ‘Art thou ready?’ he said.

‘To-morrow morning, Sahib; ere the dawn breaks—there is a moon—we will set out. In four days, if we travel fast, we shall be at the city.’

* * * * *

‘Have you seen the poor fellow who has been just brought into camp upon a cot, Dalton?’ said an officer of the staff, who lounged into Philip’s tent, about noon, some days after the above. ‘It seems he was confined in a hill-fort, and the garrison have brought him in. Poor fellow! he is in a high fever; for they rested by the way in the jungles, and there he took it. But —— is looking after him; they have taken him into the hospital.’

‘Some native, I suppose,’ said Philip, looking up; he was writing to his wife.

‘No—an Englishman; it was supposed there were none left, but—’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Philip, seizing his cap, and rushing precipitately from the tent. ‘If it should be he!—merciful Providence!—_if_—’

He flew across the camp; the officer looked after him in wonder. ‘What can he mean?’ he said aloud. He saw Philip run at full speed to the hospital tent, and he followed him there more leisurely and looked in. Philip was kneeling beside the bed of the sufferer, whose hands were clasped in his; the tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was striving to speak. The other’s eyes were upraised, while his lips moved as if in prayer, and a look of silent thankfulness, of joy, of perfect peace and happiness was upon his handsome features, which he could hardly have conceived expressible by any emotions. He looked for a few minutes, and then hurried away to hide his own. ‘It must be Captain Compton,’ he said, ‘so long missing; I will not disturb them.’

It was indeed. In that silent grasp of the hand,—in the long, earnest, loving embrace which had preceded it,—in the recognition at once of the friend, and even brother, of his early years, Herbert had already forgotten all his sufferings. He had caught a branch upon the shore he had so long floated past, and leaped upon it; and now secure, could even in that moment follow the frail raft which had so long borne his sad fortunes, and gradually lose sight of it in the visions which opened before him.

Not long did he remain on that humble pallet; removed to Philip’s tent, and in his company and that of Charles Hayward, he felt, as they told him of the events of the past, that it was like one of those blissful fancies which had cheated him so often. He fell asleep, and dreamed of joy and peace, vaguely and indefinitely, and awoke refreshed by rest, and the prescriptions of the surgeon who attended him; he gazed around, and his eyes met the happy faces and joyful looks of his friends,—then, then only, did he feel it all to be true.