align="left">The Great Coup de Main

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LACHMI BAI

Chapter I
BEFORE THE STORM

It was a day of angry, torrid heat. The June sun of Central India blazed fiercely upon an uneven plain, upon a river winding to the northward, a lake bordered by trees, and upon the walled city of Jhansi with its rock fortress rising precipitously to guard the western front. Beneath the south wall, amid groves of acacia, whose parched and dust-coated limbs seemed to implore a speedy descent of the rains then due, were discernible the white domes of temples and tombs. A little further away, surrounded by gardens, were situated the bungalows of the Foreign residents, the cantonments of their troops, and the Star Fort containing their treasure and arms.

The hour of noon approached. Over all a reposeful silence reigned. Everyone had sought the shelter of cool halls and darkened chambers. In the fort and cantonments the soldiers had been dismissed from their duties; on the roads leading to the city there was little traffic; within the gates the bazaars were deserted; not a dog even ventured upon the blistering stones of the palace courtyard. Only in the shadow of a pillar near the main entrance to that turreted structure, a blind beggar sat, every now and then raising his monotonous cry for pity and alms.

Externally, an indefinite era of peace seemed to have settled upon Jhansi. Except for the periodical anxiety concerning the rains, there appeared to be no disquieting feature disturbing its outward calm. Yet for months past in that year of 1857 a token,[1] a warning of some great impending occurrence had gone forth through the land; from whence proceeding few men knew, to what purpose the masses did not comprehend, though they watched. With indifference as to what it might portend, the Foreigners had also observed the sign.

But in one place in Jhansi that day there was no rest at the noontide hour. It was in the palace of the disinherited Rani, or Princess of the state. There, an atmosphere of suspense, an air laden with that mysterious foreboding that some mighty event was about to take place, permeated every apartment, the halls, courts, and corridors. The very walls seemed to live with sinister animation. Men, many of them with arms displayed openly, moved stealthily back and forth from room to room, gathering in groups to discuss some weighty topic with hushed accents. Even the women servants appeared to have caught the infection of the hour, pausing to glean snatches of the men's conversation, and passing on with significant looks.

In a small enclosed garden of the palace, where palms, bright-leaved crotons, and fragrant blossoms, afforded a refreshing retreat from the atmospherical furnace without, a man and woman paced side by side in earnest discourse. The man was tall, bronze-visaged, and of martial bearing; the woman slender in form, graceful in carriage, and beautiful in so far as one might gather from features partly concealed by a fold of her embroidered chuddah. The former was a Mohammedan noble, Ahmad Khan; the latter, Lachmi Bai, the disinherited Rani of Jhansi.

At a turn in their walk the Princess turned to confront her companion.

"You say, my Lord," she spoke quickly, "that Bahadur Shah once more reigns supreme in Delhi; that the troops at Aligurth have marched out to join his standard; that Bareli has fallen into the hands of Khan Bahadur Khan; and yet there is no news from Bithur. When, in Heaven's name, is Dundhu Panth, the Peshwa, going to send us the signal to rise in Jhansi? For a month past my people have impatiently strained on the leash, awaiting my word to rush forth and drive the Foreigners from the State. I cannot—nay I cannot hold them in hand much longer. God knows, they have their own wrongs as well as mine to redress."

Ahmad raised a hand restrainingly.

"Patience! Patience! my Lady Rani," he exclaimed. "In a little, to-day, to-morrow, surely the Peshwa's messenger will arrive. Restraint will be for the best in the end. The arm of your people will strike all the harder; their onset will be the more irresistible."

"Aye, truly," she replied, "but you forget, O Ahmad, that the Foreigners will not sleep forever. The news from Delhi must have reached their ears. A single traitor might cause them to awake, defeating all our plans. I fear that the blow upon which we have staked so much, may yet fall without cleaving to the heart."

A Native officer in Foreign uniform entered the garden. He halted and saluted.

The Rani and her companion turned quickly toward him with expressions of sudden alarm.

The officer advanced to deliver a message.

"Your Highness," he began, addressing the Rani. "The Commissioner and Captain Sahibs will shortly arrive at the palace to seek an audience. I have been sent forward to acquaint you of their visit."

The Rani stepped close to the officer and scrutinized his features. Then she grasped him tightly by the sleeve of his jacket.

"Thou art the Jamadar Golab Das"? she interrogated.

"As thou sayest, noble Rani."

"Tell me, O Golab," she besought anxiously. "Have they heard? Have the eyes of the Foreigners been opened? Hath a traitor whispered in their ears"?