The Red Year: A Story of the Indian MutinyTracy, Louis
History
The Red Year: A Story of the Indian Mutiny
Tracy, Louis
India -- History -- Sepoy Rebellion, 1857-1858 -- Fiction
"Spare their holy places!" he said, yet Mohammedan and Hindu did not
scruple now to mask guns in the sacred enclosures and loop-hole the
hallowed walls for musketry. On the city side, narrow lanes, lofty
houses and strongly-built palaces offered secure protection to the
besiegers. The British position was girt with the thousand gleams of a
lightning more harmful than that devised by nature, for each spurt of
flame meant that field-piece or rifle was sending some messenger of
death into the tiny area over which floated the flag of England. Within
this outer circle of fire was a lesser one; the garrison made up for
lack of numbers by a fixed resolve to hold each post until every man
fell. To modern ideas, the distance between these opposing rings was
absurdly small. As the siege progressed besiegers and besieged actually
came to know each other by sight. Even from the first they were seldom
separated by more than the width of an ordinary street, and conversation
was always maintained, the threats of the mutineers being countered by
the scornful defiance of the defenders.
Nevertheless Chumru prevailed on Captain Weston to allow him to drop to
the ground outside the Bailey Guard. The Police Superintendent, a
commander who was now fighting his own corps, accepted the bearer's
promise that if he were not killed or captured he would make the best of
his way to Allahabad, and even if he did not find his master, tell the
British officer in charge there of the plight of Lucknow.
Chumru, who had no knowledge of warfare beyond his recent experiences,
was acquainted with the golden rule that the shorter the time spent as
an involuntary target the less chance is there of being hit. As soon as
he reached the earth from the top of the wall he took to his heels and
ran like a hare in the direction of some houses that stood near the
Clock Tower.
He was fired at, of course, but missed, and the sepoys soon ceased their
efforts to put a bullet through him because they fancied he was a
deserter.
As soon as they saw his face they had no doubts whatever on that score.
Indeed, were it his unhappy lot to fall in with the British patrols
already beginning to feel their way north from Bengal along the Grand
Trunk Road he would assuredly have been hanged at sight on his mere
appearance.
Chumru's answers to the questions showered on him were magnificently
untrue. According to him the Residency was already a ruin and its
precincts a shambles. The accursed Feringhis might hold out till the
morning, but he doubted it. Allah smite them!--that was why he chanced
being shot by his brethren rather than be slain by mistake next day when
the men of Oudh took vengeance on their oppressors. He could not get
away earlier because he was a prisoner, locked up by the huzoors,
forsooth, for a trifling matter of a few rupees left behind by one of
the white dogs who fell that day at Chinhut.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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