A Bottle in the Smoke: A Tale of Anglo-Indian Life

by Janet Milne Rae

  CHAPTER XXXV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carryhim. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found thatall were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird thoughpicturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes andturbans making a seething mass, lit up by many waving torches, jostlingand pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of theMahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who,with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make theirway to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobiewoman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every meansin their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was notlong in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no boundswhen they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by thedevouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon thecombatants in their fierce conflict.

  Rayner crept on to the outskirts of the struggling mass. Through thesmoke 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'ssquare shoulders were visible as he moved hither and thither, seeking toinspire the craven native police with some zeal and courage in theperformance 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 theact of throwing a Mussulman child into the burning mosque, not the onlyone permitted to perish on that fearful night. This Hindu would commitno more murders that evening, for the Jailer was now superintending hisbeing manacled and led off to custody. Then Rayner perceived theCollector in the thick of the fight. He was still on horseback, and atthe moment was trying to stem the advance of a party of desperateMahomedans, who were advancing with weapons of destruction on a surgingmass of Hindus.

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

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

  The Collector was alternately addressing the crowd in fluent Hindustaniand Tamil, his face transfigured by intense emotion, the whole spirit ofthe British Raj flashing in his eyes. With one hand he restrained hisrestive mare, the other was raised as he called now in Tamil to theHindus:

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

  Then, turning to the assaulting mob again, he called in their owntongue: "Mussulmans, your wrongs will be righted. Rely on the sword ofjustice. Take not vengeance into your own hands. If one of you advance astep it will be through my body!"

  A murmur of something like admiration and assent ran through the serriedmass. The fierce, dark faces in the foremost ranks softened as theywatched the intrepid figure, and listened to his ringing words; butothers behind still pressed forward with cries of "Deen! Deen!"

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

  On swept the gallant red-coats, greeted by cheers both fromMahomedans and Hindus, each claiming that they had come to be theirdefenders. Jubilant shouts rent the air, though by some they wereundistinguishable from the resounding yells of the rioters. One of thesewith his party was now making his way up the street at the corner ofwhich Alfred Rayner happened to be standing.

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

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

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

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

  Owing to the pressure in front, the riders were forced back, so thatquite unexpectedly Rayner found himself in closer proximity to his enemythan he quite relished. He began to push back, trying to disappear roundthe corner into the street at right angles to the one in which he stood,when a terrified Hindu, seeking to clear a passage for himself, all atonce thrust him forward, till he almost fell against the Australianhorse and its rider.

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

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

  Zynool cast a glance on the cowering form, thinking he had done it moreinjury than he had meant. The light from one of the oil-lamps fell sheeron Rayner's face. In a moment the plethoric voice of the Mahomedanchanged 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 withterror-stricken eyes, then he made a desperate plunge to strike away.Zynool saw the movement, and determining his prey should not escape, heurged his horse forward and deliberately set it to trample down hisenemy, 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'sno ayah, 'tis mine enemy, La'yer Rayner!"

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

  There was, however, one witness of the scene unsuspected by Zynool. TheAssistant-Collector's eye had been upon the Mahomedan ever since heappeared in the fray, knowing him to be one of the most dangerous of theagitators, and fearing lest he should approach the Collector. Hisattention had been attracted some minutes previously by the old ayah inthe red saree standing at the street corner; he wondered what she didthere at such a time. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw the Mahomedan onhis great horse deliberately charge her, kn
ock her down, and ruthlesslytrample on her prostrate form.

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

  "Zynool Sahib, dismount," he commanded, with flashing eyes. "I amwitness 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 assistanceof one of his party reached the ground. The man who had been ordered todrag away the unconscious form of the ayah stood riveted to the spot onthe appearance of the English sahib.

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

  Mark felt impelled to draw a step nearer the prostrate form while Zynoolstood watching his every movement with a sardonic expression. He bentover the huddled heap in the red saree, and recognised the face ofHester's husband. Almost at the same moment, one of the natives caughtsight of the white knees under the disordered draperies and burst into aloud laugh.

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

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

  It was a terrible moment for Mark Cheveril, but his presence of mind didnot forsake him. He felt the call to be paramount even when so much elsewas at stake. He raised his voice and shouted: "Samptor!"

  The Jailer heard the call above the discordant yells around him. Fearingthat the Assistant was in danger, he forced his way to him, his stalwartlimbs standing him in good stead.

  "I give this man in charge," said Cheveril sternly, pointing to Zynool,whose countenance became black with rage and fear. "Saw him with my owneyes trample down this--this victim," he added, pointing to themotionless form at his feet.

  Leaving Zynool in the strong grip of the representative of authority,Mark turned his attention to the injured man. A stretcher was hastilyimprovised from the remains of an outside shutter that dangled from awindow hard by. Two Hindus who recognised the Assistant-Collectorvolunteered their help. Lifting the prostrate form, they carried it tothe Dispensary, which, fortunately, was at the end of the street, andmore fortunately still, the cavalcade was met by Dr. Campbell. The placewas already full of the wounded brought in from the fray. A briefexplanation sufficed, and Rayner's helpless form was carried to amattress in a corner of the large room.