Volume 2, Chapter XI.

THE MASSACRES OF CAWNPORE.

Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the Lion's Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as the ship stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering, rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done by the passenger is to leave the ship to pitch and roll at her anchors until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse, as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.

Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful. Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views; others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half way, and where the click of the billiard balls never seems to cease night or day.

Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pass on his left hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds, sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white facade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly hidden by the clustering creepers and vines.

Bright flowers and green plots of grass, carefully mowed and watered, speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester, who, being absent in England was glad to let it.

It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.

"Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?" asked Isabel, who, seated on a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes lying on the grass at her feet, an open book near.

"Well, no," answered he, yawning; "but I don't see why we should wait the reply to all that mass of papers sent to Portugal."

"I don't speak English well enough yet," said Isabel, laughing; but this was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three months' residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was fully evident.

"We had trouble enough with that box of papers," said Hughes, musing; "and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father's property at stake, I suppose we must submit."

"Submit," replied Isabel, brightly; "it's no very hard task, methinks. Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?"

"Not the ride, certainly; I'm not equal to the exertion," replied the soldier.

Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary's parting words came back to him.

"You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the `Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,' and your old comrade working alone."

The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.

"Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees."

"I don't exactly remember where I left off, Isabel," replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. "A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I'll try. Lend me that cushion."

Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.

"Well, Enrico,--and my tale?" asked Isabel, looking up.

"Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it happened there what always happens. They melted away like snow before the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the house--chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.

"Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.

"Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith."

"And Lucy?" asked Isabel; "your tale is worth nothing without her."

"Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn, inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they passed to us."

"And the old priest--what was Father Guy's fate, Enrico? Do you know?"

"Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen's huts of St Tudno's time; but few who go there now either know of or care for the curious deeds of the past.

"The `Wyvern,' the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.

"It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there, so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A mass of rock has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.

"Days passed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of Creuddyn."

"You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?"

"And so I do," replied Hughes, warmly. "I was born among its fine old mountains, and I love its old-fashioned, brave, honest-hearted race; but to continue. Days had passed when some fishermen at sea noticed a spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.

"They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale, but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the flanks of the mountain, long the abode of the foxes.

"They searched, and found a narrow, dangerous path, which yet exists. The Gloddaeth keepers know it, and know too where to track Reynard when their game disappears. The priest was found half starved, and fast asleep there.

"The news spread, the fanatic population was soon roused. The country people flocked from far and near.

"`Let the idolater see his chapel,' they roared, as the emaciated, careworn man was dragged into the centre of the green field, stretching before the house of Penrhyn to the sea. The aged priest was weak with hunger, and worn with suffering. Before him seethed a rude mob of infuriated peasants, and death was certain. This moved him not, but the chapel, despoiled, ruined, and half burned, caused the tears to roll down his thin cheeks.

"`Ha!' shouted a thick-set peasant, `ye doomed us all to death, let us see how ye meet your own;' and he hurled a sharp stone at the feeble old man.

"`I condemned ye not, children of darkness,' said the priest, wiping away the blood from his eyes, and raising his tall, fine figure to its utmost height, his grey hair streaming on the wind. `I would have saved ye from the evil one, whose prey ye are. Ye cannot harm me,' and a smile of withering scorn settled down upon his lips.

"From the skirts of the crowd to its centre, the whole became one seething, boiling mass. Knives gleamed in the sunshine. One moment Father Guy stood there, firm and erect, a smile of quiet scorn on his lips, and the fresh, breeze from the sea playing through his scanty grey hair and over his shaven crown; the next his body was whirling above men's heads, it was pulled to and fro, torn here and there, until at length it was rived, piecemeal, by the infuriated crowd, and the Roman Catholic faith died out with the House of Penrhyn in Creuddyn."

The tale was told, the speaker ceased, and for a moment all was silence, for the story had been a melancholy one.

The sharp angry bark of a dog was heard, then a step crushing the gravel as some one advanced.

"The postman, Isabel," exclaimed Hughes, springing to his feet with renewed energy; "now for news!"

But there was only a paper and one letter, and both bore the Calcutta postmark.

"I know not a soul in the Presidency," said Hughes, as he turned the letter, which was a very bulky one, listlessly in his hand. "I dare say it will keep."

"Well, if you find it so fatiguing to read your own letters, at least read me the paper."

The soldier tore the band and flung it from him, shaking out the sheet, and then threw himself on the ground in the same indolent attitude.

"What news will interest you, Isabel?" he asked; but before the reply could be given, his eye fell on the column headed "Latest Intelligence," and all traces of apathy disappeared as if by magic, the words "Massacre at Cawnpore," "Atrocities committed by Nana Sahib," meeting his eye.

"Why, what is the matter, Enrico?" asked Isabel, laying down her work in alarm, for his eyes literally blazed with fury, as he snatched up the despised letter, and tore it open, reading therein the details of the terrible massacre of Cawnpore.

"And where is Cawnpore?" asked Isabel.

"It is a large station on the right bank of the Ganges, where a European force is generally quartered, and in whose neighbourhood a large number of my countrymen live. The native troops have revolted, murdered their English officers, while the trusted friend of the British, Nana Sahib, has seized the treasury, joined the rebels, and the revolt spreading, India has thrown off our rule, while the handful of English are being murdered piecemeal."

"Surely, you mean killed in open warfare, Enrico? In our days people are not murdered wholesale," said Isabel, opening her eyes widely with horror and astonishment.

"Listen to my letter, Isabel. It is from an old friend and officer of my own regiment, and after telling me that the corps has been ordered to join Sir Henry Havelock's force, it says:--

"`The proceedings at Cawnpore are a blot on humanity. The women, children, and sick were placed in barracks, which it was thought the enemy would respect. Their guns thundered night and day on Wheeler's entrenchments, held only by a handful of men against the rebel army; but, not content with this, they threw carcasses filled with powder on to the thatched roof which they knew covered the defenceless women, burned it and them, shouting and laughing when they saw the flames.'"

"How horrible!" ejaculated Isabel.

"Ay: but this is not all," continued Hughes, reading on. "`Without water, without provisions, the cruel Nana offered terms, offered life and liberty. They were accepted, and then, in detail, the soldiers having laid down their arms, were murdered.'"

Hughes put down the letter, and a sorrowful silence ensued. He was thinking of his late months of idleness, while such events had been passing around him, and thinking of them, too, with regret.

Isabel was meditating also, but her thoughts were turned on the future, and on her husband's duty.

Hughes again took up the letter. "`They who met death,'" he continued reading, "`were happy; but the prisoners suffered far worse. General Havelock, to join whom we are marching up-country, has beaten the rebels everywhere in detail, and as the news of his victories reached Cawnpore, the European prisoners were led out in small batches, the men were murdered, with every refinement of cruelty possible; the children were killed, their brains dashed out before their parents' eyes, while wives and daughters were given up to the savage lust of the sepoys, only to meet death at a later period.'"

Isabel started from her seat, her eyes were bright as she walked to and fro, and she pushed her hair back from her forehead with both hands as she spoke.

"Have you done, Enrico?" she asked, her breath seeming to come fast and thick.

"All, except smaller matters of personal detail," he replied.

"Read on to the last letter," she said; and he obeyed.

"`You are promoted to a Majority, as you will see by the enclosed Gazette. Colonel Desmond obtained leave, and started for England a few days before the explosion of the mutiny. Lieutenant-Colonel Sedley is sick, and will be sent down to Calcutta, his old wound having broken out. Could you not--'"

And Hughes paused, looking sadly at Isabel.

The latter stopped in her walk, bent down, and took up the letter which had fallen to the ground.

"Do you think so meanly of me? Do you believe me to be so unworthy of you?" she said, turning her eyes full upon him, and placing the document once more in his hands. "Read on, Enrico."

"`Could you not join at once on receipt of this? Don't bring the Kaffir Bride, we have impediments enough already. You will have command of the old regiment, and we will gloriously revenge on these foul murderers the butchery of our women and children. Don't hesitate an hour when this reaches you.'

"`Ever sincerely yours,'

"`Frederick Curtis.'"

"Always the same," exclaimed Hughes. "He would have the command and sure promotion, but he thinks of me rather than himself."

"And you will not hesitate a minute--no, not a second," cried Isabel, the hot blood rushing to her face.

"Isabel!" said the soldier, in a voice which, despite all he could do, trembled.

"You will avenge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you stay?"

He held her out at arm's length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with pride and indignation.

"Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come back to me covered with glory, as you will come."

"And if I return no more, Isabel?"

"Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray. Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me, or,"--and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice trembled--"or," she continued, "Enrico mio, I will come to you;" and, bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier's breast, as he clasped her fervently in his arms.