Chapter XXII

_VICTORY_

From remote ages Gwalior had been one of the chief cities of India, owing to the immense natural strength of its position. Many races, succeeding one another, had reared their dwellings about the foot of the huge pile of rock, rising in grim, deep shadowed precipices on all sides, two to three hundred feet from a broken plain, to a plateau crowned by the massive fortress, a mile and a half in length by three hundred yards wide. By a single narrow path alone could the summit be gained.

Numerous had been the splendid palaces, temples, and mausoleums erected in the vicinity by dynasties swept away, and ruins only of the Baradari, once the most superb hall of audience in the world, marks the site of the colossal residence of the Moguls.

In part skirting the suburbs of the city, the Morar river winds northward to its junction with the Chambal, thence its waters reach the Jumna, to mingle finally with those of the holy Granges. Beyond the Morar, at a considerable distance rocky hills bordering the plain, afford a first line of defense, the few defiles being easily rendered impassable by fortified works.

Such was the place the Rani of Jhansi's daring spirit had determined to seize. It was rich in long accumulated treasure to refill an empty purse, rich in the heirlooms of one of the greatest Native families, and in war material to arm new levies of troops, and thus prolong the strife to an indefinite period. As a prize to fall into her hands, there was scarcely its equal at the moment in India. The moral effect of the successful accomplishment of the act, upon both parties to the struggle, would almost equal that of the capture of Delhi at the commencement of hostilities.

On the morning of the Thirtieth of May, Maharaja Jaiaji Rao Sindhia, the ruling prince of the great Maratha house of Gwalior, had finished his devotions and was about to partake of his usual frugal early meal of milk, bread, and fruit, when a servant delivered a surprising, and, on the whole, an unwelcome piece of news.

An emissary of the Rani of Jhansi had arrived at the palace, and requested an immediate audience with his Highness.

During the year past, Sindhia had heard much of the redoutable Princess of Jhansi. He had been told of her beauty, her wisdom, and her valor. He had followed with sympathetic interest the capable administration of the government of her state, her defense of Jhansi, and latterly, with secret regret, the misfortunes which had descended on her head. So much for his private feeling toward the Rani.

But in public he had followed the advice of his astute minister, Dinkar Rao, who persuaded him to remain an ally of the Foreigners, against his natural impulse to cast in his lot with the Native cause. This, for a sufficient, if not a patriotic reason. While Sindhia bore no love for the Foreigners, he experienced less for the Peshwa as the supreme head of the Marathas, and less still, if not actual hatred, for the ruling Mohammedan family of Delhi.

"If," argued Dinkar Rao, "the Foreigners are driven out of India, who will grasp the great scepter? Surely either the Peshwa or the Emperor of Delhi. What then will become of Maharaja Sindhia? He will be, as of old, a feudatory of an avaricious Native monarch. Better is it to submit to the lesser evil, the comparatively light yoke of the Foreigners."

Maharaja Sindhia perceived the wisdom of his minister's argument, and in spite of the execrations of his troops and people, remained the Foreigners' faithful ally, when his influence cast into the scale on the other side, might have ended their rule in India.

His first thought on hearing of the arrival of the Rani's messenger, was that she was about to look to him for an asylum of refuge. Under the circumstances he devoutly wished she would seek the protection of some other prince. Her presence in Gwalior would surely again stir up his people, many of whom, without his permission, had joined the ranks of the Native army. Then if he were compelled to hand her over to the Foreigners, the act would be so unpopular, that it might be unsafe for him to remain in his own state. He reasoned thus, while he sent in haste for his minister to take advice before consenting to receive the Rani's envoy.

Dinkar Rao was as much perturbed as his master over the intelligence. He hastened to Sindhia, resolved to urge a refusal of the Rani's petition whatever might be its import. He, too, arrived at the hasty conclusion that she was desirous of seeking a refuge in Gwalior. It would, he reasoned with the unscrupulous nature of a born diplomat, have laid the Foreigners under a lasting debt of gratitude, if she could be tricked by fair promises to place herself in Sindhia's power, and then handed over to the mercy of her enemies. But he feared the vengeance of the people, who regarded her as the champion of a righteous cause. At all costs the Rani of Jhansi must be kept away from Gwalior.

These sentiments he strenuously urged upon Sindhia, before it was decided to accord the interview.

Prasad Singh entered Sindhia's presence as became the emissary of a great princess. He saluted the Maharaja with dignified respect, and then proceeded to unfold his mission.

The Rani of Jhansi, he announced, with other illustrious princes and generals, and an army of eight thousand men, were now encamped at Bahadurpur nine miles distant.

Both Sindhia and Dinkar Rao started. This was not the usual way a fugitive sought protection. They at once perceived a greater peril in the situation than they had imagined. Not that they feared for Gwalior itself as a fortress, but concerning the people. Could they depend upon the fidelity of their troops in such an emergency? Against any other leader, probably; but the name of the Rani of Jhansi made it more than doubtful. In the temples prayers were constantly rising for her safety.

Sindhia replied to the envoy, by asking the purpose of the Rani of Jhansi at the head of so large a force within his territory.

"Her Highness," Prasad returned evasively, "is but marching from Gopalpur to the north, and has halted to pay her respects to the great Maharaja of Gwalior. She is desirous of a personal interview with a prince of whom she has heard so many words of praise."

Sindhia's feelings were stirred conflictingly. He would have sacrificed much personally to behold the woman, of whom all men spoke in such enthusiastic terms. He would have been glad to receive her with the highest honors; but the shadows of the Peshwa, the Emperor, and the Foreigners haunted his mind.

"Doth the Rani then desire to enter Gwalior"? he asked anxiously.

"Such, my Lord Sindhia," Prasad replied, "is far from her Highness's present intention. She trusts to meet the great ruler of Gwalior merely in friendly intercourse at some point without the city. To this end only do my instructions extend."

Sindhia found himself in a dilemma. To refuse this apparently simple request might seem an ungracious act. Besides, he was anxious to judge of the beauty and charm of which others raved continually. Surely there could be little harm in extending to her this outward mark of his respect. If the Foreigners blamed him subsequently, he could plead the danger of the situation. He might even assert that his object was to urge upon her to surrender.

But Dinkar Rao was of a different mind. His master's _zanana_, tenanted by more than one beauty, was a conspicuous proof of the youthful Maharaja's susceptibility to the charms of fair women. Whatever covert object the Rani might have in view, and from her character he suspected an ulterior design cloaked by the harmless nature of her request, he feared that Sindhia would be carried away by her smile if not by her force of argument. So he took upon himself to reply by a pointed question.

"Thus far, well, my Lord Prasad Singh, but the Maharaja Sindhia should be informed first, how it comes about that the Rani of Jhansi prefers her request with an armed force so near to Gwalior, instead of sending forth her envoy from the boundary of the state, asking permission to approach the capital. To my mind it does not display great respect on her part for the authority of Maharaja Sindhia."

The concluding statement was directed as much to the sensibility of his master as it was by way of reply to the Rani's envoy. It had the designed effect. Sindhia's pride was nettled.

"Aye," he acquiesced. "My minister speaks wisely. Doth the Rani of Jhansi suppose my territory is to be invaded at the will of any neighboring ruler? That question must be answered to our satisfaction."

"My Lord Maharaja," Prasad replied. "I have no doubt the Rani will, herself, make her action excusable to your Highness. We live in times of strife when the customs of peace are swept aside out of necessity. Your Highness, as a great Indian prince, will surely not view with disfavor the Rani's conduct in defending her rights against the Foreigners."

The appeal touched Sindhia's heart. Before his mind rose the image of the valiant Princess, fighting for her throne, their united country and religion. He hesitated to return an answer. It was a critical moment for the fortunes of his house.

Dinkar Rao quickly perceived the effect of the sympathetic chord touched by the envoy. He seized the opportunity to impress upon his master's ears a discordant note.

"Of the misfortunes of the Rani of Jhansi," he said, "Maharaja Sindhia cannot be unmindful, but," he added with significance, "among her allies are representatives of the Peshwa and the Emperor. These are no friends of Sindhia. Rather are they more his enemies than the Foreigners. It is my advice that the Maharaja does not meet the Rani with these people. It is my advice that he doth require the Rani to immediately withdraw from his dominions."

"Aye, thou speakest well, Dinkar Rao," remarked Sindhia. "The Rao Sahib has no right to come with armed men into my territory."

Prasad was not prepared for this trend of argument. He again besought Sindhia to grant the Rani her request; but Dinkar Rao's policy prevailed. Sindhia would not receive her in such company as that of the Rao Sahib and Ahmad Khan. She must retreat beyond his borders forthwith, or abide the consequences. Such was his ultimate decision. He was probably glad to be afforded so plausible an excuse for refusing hospitality to the Foreigners' enemy.

Thus Prasad was reluctantly obliged to return to the Rani's camp with the information that his mission had failed.

"So Dinkar Rao," the Rani cried, "is fearful that I might win his master to our cause. We will then take his capital."

On the First of June the sun rose to discover the armies of the Rani of Jhansi and Maharaja Sindhia confronting each other on the plain of Gwalior. In the distance the great rock with its fortifications stood out defiantly against the sky.

Overnight, Sindhia had been informed that the Rani's forces, so far from obeying his injunction to retire from his state, were advancing upon the city. It left him no alternative but to give battle.

Sindhia had occupied a strategic position on rising ground, his flanks protected by squadrons of cavalry, his center formed by artillery. A splendid body of six hundred nobles and retainers guarded the person of the Maharaja.

Across the plain, the Rani had thrown out a light screening force of skirmishers. Behind these she had placed herself at the head of her Valaitis, with Prasad bearing her standard once more proudly aloft. Again in rear was her artillery and infantry, with the remainder of her cavalry under Ahmad Khan in reserve, either to support her in case of need, or to dash for Gwalior the moment the day was won.

The Rani wore on her head a Persian cap of steel, richly ornamented with figures of beaten gold, a spike of the same precious metal, and feathery aigrettes. Her hands and wrists were protected by gauntlets of metal scale work. It was evident she did not intend to direct the battle from a spot secure from the danger of shot or blows. Every inch did she appear as one of those intrepid Maratha warriors, who had defied the power of the great Mogul, in order to carve kingdoms and principalities for themselves out of his empire.

Presently Sindhia's guns opened on the advancing foe. They swept the open space between the two armies with devastating force, driving the Rani's skirmishers back upon the main body. For a few minutes the smoke hid the two forces from each other. It was the moment the Rani looked for to deliver a telling blow.

She turned in her saddle and raised her sword. A bugle rang out the clear notes of the charge. Her horse leaped forward straight for Sindhia's guns, with her troopers thundering in her wake. Onward she dashed heedless, and unharmed by the shot and shell, up to the wall of smoke, and through it to the belches of cannon flame. With a terrific yell her troopers came upon the gunners, driving them from their posts. Sindhia's first line broke and fled. The Rani had captured his guns.

Sindhia's glance swept over the field in alarm. He had ordered his infantry to support the artillery and they had refused to obey. If his ears did not deceive him, they were shouting the Rani of Jhansi's name. A decisive moment had come. Something must be done or the battle was lost. He ordered his bodyguard to charge before the Rani's troopers could reform or she could receive support.

The Rani accepted the challenge, rallied her troopers as best she could, and boldly fronted the oncoming force. The shock was terrific, the ensuing _mêlée_ of cursing, shouting, fighting horsemen, desperate. In the heart of it all the Rani's sword flashed above her head, delivering sweeping blows. Wherever her standard, slashed and pierced with sabre cuts and bullets, waved, there the fight seemed hottest. Her life appeared to be shielded by a charm. At one time she had cut her way near to Sindhia's person.

"Sindhia! Sindhia"! she cried. "Art thou as much afraid of the Rani's sword as thou art of her eyes. Stay but a moment, as I would exchange a few strokes with thee."

But Sindhia had seen enough of the day. The ferocious Valaitis were routing his bodyguard, his infantry had gone over to the enemy, the Rani's main force was advancing to cut off his retreat. In the distance he beheld the enemy's reserve cavalry sweeping across the plain to seize his capital. With a few horsemen, he turned and galloped from the field to his Foreign allies at Agra.

A great victory had at last crowned the Rani's arms, the battle of Bahadurpur was won; she had kept her promise, Gwalior lay at her feet.