Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads Part 10

THE LAST SUTTEE

Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred.

But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl, pa.s.sed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was.

Udai Chand lay sick to death In his hold by Gungra hill.

All night we heard the death-gongs ring For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King, All night beat up from the women's wing A cry that we could not still.

All night the barons came and went, The lords of the outer guard: All night the cressets glimmered pale On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail, Mewar headstall and Marwar mail, That clinked in the palace yard.

In the Golden room on the palace roof All night he fought for air: And there was sobbing behind the screen, Rustle and whisper of women unseen, And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen On the death she might not share.

He pa.s.sed at dawn--the death-fire leaped From ridge to river-head, From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars: And wail upon wail went up to the stars Behind the grim zenana-bars, When they knew that the King was dead.

The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth And robe him for the pyre.

The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: "See, now, that we die as our mothers died In the bridal-bed by our master's side!

Out, women!--to the fire!"

We drove the great gates home apace: White hands were on the sill: But ere the rush of the unseen feet Had reached the turn to the open street, The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat-- We held the dovecot still.

A face looked down in the gathering day, And laughing spoke from the wall: "Ohe', they mourn here: let me by-- Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I!

When the house is rotten, the rats must fly, And I seek another thrall.

"For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen,-- Tonight the Queens rule me!

Guard them safely, but let me go, Or ever they pay the debt they owe In scourge and torture!" She leaped below, And the grim guard watched her flee.

They knew that the King had spent his soul On a North-bred dancing-girl: That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow G.o.d, And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, And doomed to death at her drunken nod, And swore by her lightest curl.

We bore the King to his fathers' place, Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: Where the gray apes swing, and the peac.o.c.ks preen On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen On the drift of the desert sand.

The herald read his t.i.tles forth, We set the logs aglow: "Friend of the English, free from fear, Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, King of the Jungle,--go!"

All night the red flame stabbed the sky With wavering wind-tossed spears: And out of a shattered temple crept A woman who veiled her head and wept, And called on the King--but the great King slept, And turned not for her tears.

Small thought had he to mark the strife-- Cold fear with hot desire-- When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, And thrice she beat her breast for shame, And thrice like a wounded dove she came And moaned about the fire.

One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, The silent streets between, Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, To blade in ambush or boar at bay, And he was a baron old and gray, And kin to the Boondi Queen.

He said: "O shameless, put aside The veil upon thy brow!

Who held the King and all his land To the wanton will of a harlot's hand!

Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?

Stoop down, and call him now!"

Then she: "By the faith of my tarnished soul, All things I did not well, I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, And lay me down by my master's side To rule in Heaven his only bride, While the others howl in h.e.l.l.

"But I have felt the fire's breath, And hard it is to die!

Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,"-- And the Thakur answered, "Ay."

He drew and struck: the straight blade drank The life beneath the breast.

"I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame-- Sister of mine, pa.s.s, free from shame, Pa.s.s with thy King to rest!"

The black log crashed above the white: The little flames and lean, Red as slaughter and blue as steel, That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, Leaped up anew, for they found their meal On the heart of--the Boondi Queen!

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.

His mercy fills the Khyber hills-- his grace is manifold; He has taken toll of the North and the South-- his glory reacheth far, And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.

Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet, The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street, And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife, Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.

There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai, Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die.

It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife; The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.

Then said the King: "Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard; Much honour shall be thine"; and called the Captain of the Guard, Yar Khan, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of the Blood, so city-babble saith, And he was honoured of the King--the which is salt to Death; And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains, And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins; And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor h.e.l.l nor Heaven could bind, The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.

"Strike!" said the King. "King's blood art thou--his death shall be his pride!"

Then louder, that the crowd might catch: "Fear not--his arms are tied!"

Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again.

"O man, thy will is done," quoth he; "a King this dog hath slain."

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.

The North and the South shall open their mouth to a Ghilzai flag unrolled, When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly: Ye have heard the song--How long? How long?

Wolves of the Abazai!

That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear, The Governor of Kabul spoke: "My King, hast thou no fear?

Thou knowest--thou hast heard,"--his speech died at his master's face.

And grimly said the Afghan King: "I rule the Afghan race.

My path is mine--see thou to thine--tonight upon thy bed Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head."

That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne, Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone.

Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night, Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white.

The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse's hoofs, The harlots of the town had hailed him "butcher!" from their roofs.

But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell, The King behind his shoulder spake: "Dead man, thou dost not well!

'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night; And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.