A Bottle in the Smoke Part 37

"Why, the whole _sahib-log_ has turned out," thought Rayner. "I'll give the town as wide a berth as possible, and slink up by the back streets to the station."

He walked on, congratulating himself that at least there was no risk of meeting any of the English contingent, seeing they had all gone townwards. Soon he came to the little English cantonment, as it was still called, though the military element had been withdrawn. It was not unknown to him. He had visited it and left cards on some of the residents in earlier days, before he began to intrigue with Zynool and became conscious that he was a suspected person. He liked to dwell on these days now.

"I was a fool ever to have leagued myself with a native," he sighed.

"It's only brought me bad luck in the end."

He remembered, too, a pleasant afternoon he had pa.s.sed as the recipient of little Mrs. Samptor's hospitality. He was trying to identify her bungalow when he heard voices. Two ladies stood talking at a gate. He was startled to recognise Mrs. Samptor's voice, but decided his best policy was to creep quietly past, sustaining his _role_ as an old ayah in every particular.

"Don't you fear, Mrs. Campbell, Samptor will make them scuttle like sheep!" remarked one of the ladies, and Rayner had no difficulty in recognising Mrs. Samptor's sharp tones. "I say, whose ayah's that? Can't be Mrs. Goldring's--too tall! Is she yours, Mrs. Campbell?"

"No, mine went to eat rice; besides, she's quite short in comparison to that one."

"She's not the Meakin's either. I know their one. Yes, she is tall--she doesn't look the right muster for an ayah somehow. I say, what if she's a Mahomedan in disguise come to murder us all when our men are away!"

Rayner had heard too much for his peace of mind. These were no safe quarters for him. He wheeled right about and began to walk hastily towards the town again.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

Driven from the precincts of the English quarter by Mrs. Samptor's remarks, Mr. Rayner resolved to lurk about the jungly scrub till his train was due; but finding this retreat increasingly dreary in the gathering darkness, he felt possessed with a desire to see a little of the possible happenings in the crowded streets of the native town.

"No danger of a respectable old amah like me being molested," he a.s.sured himself. Besides, he was again feeling very hungry, and decided that he must try to secure an evening meal.

On emerging from the wood, he noticed with surprise that the darkening sky was becoming suffused by a reddish glow, and suddenly a tongue of flame shot up from the town.

"They're firing something! Surely it's not the mosque? The Mahomedans will be beside themselves with fury. By Jove! I only hope it's Zynool's house--and him in it!" muttered Rayner with a chuckle.

A wild chorus of shouts and shrieks was now borne on the still evening air, and more flames leapt up into the sky.

"I declare I'm tempted to creep a little nearer and see the fun! Not a soul will heed an old woman in the scrimmage!"

Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carry him. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found that all were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird though picturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes and turbans making a seething ma.s.s, lit up by many waving torches, jostling and pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of the Mahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who, with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make their way to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobie woman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every means in their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was not long in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no bounds when they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by the devouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon the combatants in their fierce conflict.

Rayner crept on to the outskirts of the struggling ma.s.s. Through the smoke and glare he presently caught sight of some figures on horseback, who seemed to be trying to stem the onset of the foes. The Jailer's square shoulders were visible as he moved hither and thither, seeking to inspire the craven native police with some zeal and courage in the performance of their duty. Then he obtained a glimpse of Mark Cheveril, on foot, in grips with an evil-looking Hindu, whom he had caught in the act of throwing a Mussulman child into the burning mosque, not the only one permitted to perish on that fearful night. This Hindu would commit no more murders that evening, for the Jailer was now superintending his being manacled and led off to custody. Then Rayner perceived the Collector in the thick of the fight. He was still on horseback, and at the moment was trying to stem the advance of a party of desperate Mahomedans, who were advancing with weapons of destruction on a surging ma.s.s of Hindus.

The Mahomedans came on with yells of "Deen! Deen! They have defiled our holy house! They have burned our mosque! Our children have been flung to the flames! Deen! Deen!"

"Ha, Worsley's going to catch it at last!" muttered Rayner, in growing excitement. "His Mussulman lambs will prove too much for him!"

The Collector was alternately addressing the crowd in fluent Hindustani and Tamil, his face transfigured by intense emotion, the whole spirit of the British Raj flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes. With one hand he restrained his restive mare, the other was raised as he called now in Tamil to the Hindus:

"Back, men, back! To your homes, every man of you!"

Then, turning to the a.s.saulting mob again, he called in their own tongue: "Mussulmans, your wrongs will be righted. Rely on the sword of justice. Take not vengeance into your own hands. If one of you advance a step it will be through my body!"

A murmur of something like admiration and a.s.sent ran through the serried ma.s.s. The fierce, dark faces in the foremost ranks softened as they watched the intrepid figure, and listened to his ringing words; but others behind still pressed forward with cries of "Deen! Deen!"

Rayner was surprised that at this critical juncture, when the surging crowd threatened to overpower him, the Collector found the presence of mind to look at his watch. He soon understood the reason. A great shout suddenly arose from the Hindus, who were swarming up from the river to the railway station, some having fled there in the hope of finding a refuge from the Mahomedan fury; and through the parting crowd he now descried "the thin red line." Yes, it was a detachment of British soldiers from Fort St. George that had been requisitioned by the Collector, mainly at Mark Cheveril's urgent representations. He was relieved now that he had permitted the telegraphic request to summon them, and had been consulting his watch to see if they were due.

On swept the gallant red-coats, greeted by cheers both from Mahomedans and Hindus, each claiming that they had come to be their defenders. Jubilant shouts rent the air, though by some they were undistinguishable from the resounding yells of the rioters. One of these with his party was now making his way up the street at the corner of which Alfred Rayner happened to be standing.

"Ha!" he laughed. "Here comes Zynool. He's not going to be cowed by the Collector. Now we shall have some fun!"

The Mahomedan was mounted on a huge horse, which Rayner at once recognised as one of his own Australians. It was a powerful animal and stood higher than the Collector's Arab, and was evidently too fresh from want of exercise. It champed at its foam-bespattered bit, and tossed its head, seeming to resent Zynool's tight rein.

"Didn't think a native could have managed Abdul so well!" thought Rayner, as he looked with admiration on the portentous rider, who was made more colossal in size by reason of the padded green coat he had donned in spite of the heat.

He was flanked by a following of his own people. Someone behind him rode the other Australian, and it was evident that neither Zynool nor his party were in a mood to receive any check from the Collector.

Owing to the pressure in front, the riders were forced back, so that quite unexpectedly Rayner found himself in closer proximity to his enemy than he quite relished. He began to push back, trying to disappear round the corner into the street at right angles to the one in which he stood, when a terrified Hindu, seeking to clear a pa.s.sage for himself, all at once thrust him forward, till he almost fell against the Australian horse and its rider.

"Out of my way, you old Hindu sow," growled Zynool, kicking the supposed ayah.

"Have a care, sahib," said a more kindly bystander, "she's only an old ayah. Go home, old woman, this is no place for you!"

Zynool cast a glance on the cowering form, thinking he had done it more injury than he had meant. The light from one of the oil-lamps fell sheer on Rayner's face. In a moment the plethoric voice of the Mahomedan changed to a low, hissing sound.

"Thou! Thou! Trapped, by Allah! This is a prize better than any Hindu!"

For an instant, Rayner gazed on the man he had wronged with terror-stricken eyes, then he made a desperate plunge to strike away.

Zynool saw the movement, and determining his prey should not escape, he urged his horse forward and deliberately set it to trample down his enemy, who fell before the onset and made no attempt to rise.

"Seize him! Seize him!" cried Zynool to the men on foot behind him, though indeed he had already made sure his enemy could not escape. "It's no ayah, 'tis mine enemy, La'yer Rayner!"

In spite of his disguise, the face of the fugitive was not difficult to recognise, for the heat of the day had partially erased the stain which Hester's fingers had so cleverly applied.

There was, however, one witness of the scene unsuspected by Zynool. The a.s.sistant-Collector's eye had been upon the Mahomedan ever since he appeared in the fray, knowing him to be one of the most dangerous of the agitators, and fearing lest he should approach the Collector. His attention had been attracted some minutes previously by the old ayah in the red saree standing at the street corner; he wondered what she did there at such a time. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw the Mahomedan on his great horse deliberately charge her, knock her down, and ruthlessly trample on her prostrate form.

He did not hesitate a moment. Forcing his way through, he seized the horse's bridle.

"Zynool Sahib, dismount," he commanded, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. "I am witness to your felling down that old woman. I put you under arrest.

Dismount, I say."

To his surprise, Zynool meekly prepared to obey, and with the a.s.sistance of one of his party reached the ground. The man who had been ordered to drag away the unconscious form of the ayah stood riveted to the spot on the appearance of the English sahib.

"I would speak one word," said Zynool, coming close to Mark Cheveril's ear. "'Tis no ayah, 'tis La'yer Rayner, a forger, flying from justice in a woman's petticoats. See, sahib, if I speak not the truth!"

Mark felt impelled to draw a step nearer the prostrate form while Zynool stood watching his every movement with a sardonic expression. He bent over the huddled heap in the red saree, and recognised the face of Hester's husband. Almost at the same moment, one of the natives caught sight of the white knees under the disordered draperies and burst into a loud laugh.

"A _feringhi_, by the holy Prophet! Not an ayah at all!"

A dozen voices around echoed in amazement, "A _feringhi_?" Zynool looked on with silent contempt.

It was a terrible moment for Mark Cheveril, but his presence of mind did not forsake him. He felt the call to be paramount even when so much else was at stake. He raised his voice and shouted: "Samptor!"

The Jailer heard the call above the discordant yells around him. Fearing that the a.s.sistant was in danger, he forced his way to him, his stalwart limbs standing him in good stead.