The Great White Hand; Or, the Tiger of Cawnpore: A story of the Indian MutinyMuddock, J. E. (Joyce Emmerson)
History
The Great White Hand; Or, the Tiger of Cawnpore: A story of the Indian Mutiny
Muddock, J. E. (Joyce Emmerson)
Anglo-Indian fiction; India -- History -- Sepoy Rebellion, 1857-1858 -- Fiction; Kanpur (India) -- Fiction
“If I had no other thought but of myself,” she answered, “I should
counsel you to speed at once to Meerut, for is it not to Meerut that
Harper has gone? But even if you were to go there, what force that
you could raise would be powerful enough to enter the walled city of
the Mogul? Delhi is the great stronghold. It is to that place that
the tide of revolution flows. And it will need all the power of your
mighty nation to wrest it from the grasp of the insurgents. What we
have to do, we must accomplish by stratagem and stealth. By these means
we shall effect more than if we hammered at the Imperial doors with
half-a-dozen regiments behind us to enforce our demands. I do not doubt
but what we shall be able to get entrance into the city, and that being
so, we shall have gained a most important step. Though I know that,
by going back, I am walking into the very jaws of the lion, I have no
fear, so that I can serve you, who are the friend of the man who is
my life. Once in Delhi, we shall be comparatively safe; I have some
country people there who heartily hate the King, and who will gladly
give us shelter and concealment. The fact of an English lady having
been brought in will be too notorious not to be widely known, and we
shall speedily gain some information. For the rest, we must trust to
chance.”
Gordon felt the full force of this woman’s reasoning. He derived hope
and strength from her words. She appeared to him in the light of a good
spirit, who was all powerful to lead him to success, and to guard him
from danger.
There was something in her very presence that inspired him. Endurance,
trust, unselfishness, devotion to the cause of others--these were the
qualities that made her mind as beautiful as her face. And Gordon no
longer wondered why his friend Harper should have felt an all-absorbing
interest in her.
Many a man had sacrificed home, friends, interests, and honour for the
sake of something far less ennobling than was presented in the mental
and physical beauty of this woman. And yet she had all the elements of
human weakness, though they were softened by those higher qualities of
the mind which were so conspicuous.
“You are a wise counsellor, as you are a true friend, Haidee,” was
Gordon’s answer; “and I cheerfully acknowledge the superiority of your
reasoning as well as the clearness of your judgment.”
“You rate poor Haidee too high,” she murmured softly; “she only tries
to humbly do her duty.”
Gordon made no further remark; he knew that no other words were needed,
and so they walked on.
It was weary travelling along that dark and silent road--silent save
for the myriad insects which in the Indian climate make night musical.
For many hours the travellers kept their way, until, as the morning
light stole upon the heavens, they halted, weary and worn, before a
traveller’s rest.
It was a small, thatched bungalow, with the usual verandah running
round it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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