The Great Mogul

Here the sentry presented the point of his sword. His intent to use the weapon was so unmistakable that Roger thought better of his resolve, and curled up sulkily to seek such rest as was possible.

Hidden away in the ship’s interior they knew nothing of what was passing without. Some food was brought to them, and a sailor carried to the cabin their own blankets and clothes on which they were able to stretch their limbs with a certain degree of comfort.

They noticed that their guard was doubled soon after the Jesuit quitted them. One of the men was changed each hour, and this additional measure of precaution showed the determination of their captors to prevent the least chance of their escape, if escape could be dreamed of, from a vessel moored in the midst of a wide river, by men whose limbs were loaded with heavy fetters.

With the sangfroid of their race they yielded to slumber. They knew not how the hours sped, but they were very much surprised when an officer of some rank, a man whom they had not seen previously, appeared in their little cabin and gave an order which resulted in their iron anklets being unlocked. He motioned to them to follow him. They obeyed, mounted a steep ladder, and found themselves on deck.

The first breath of fresh air made them gasp. They had not realized how foul was the atmosphere of their prison, poisoned as it was by the fumes of the lamp, but the relief of the change was turned into momentary stupefaction when they saw that the banks of the Thames had vanished, while two distant blue strips on the horizon, north and south, marked the far-off shores of Essex and Kent.

With all sails spread to catch a stiff breeze the ship was well on her way to sea. The prisoners had scarce reached the deck before a change of course to the southward showed that the vessel was already able to weather the isle of Thanet and the treacherous Goodwin Sands. Roger’s amazement found vent in an imprecation, but Walter, whose lips were tremulous with a weakness which few can blame, turned furiously to the officer who had released them from their cell.

“Can it be true?” he cried, “that we have been deported from our country without trial? What would you think, Señor, if your King permitted two Spanish gentlemen to be torn from their friends and sent to a foreign land to be punished for some fancied insult offered to the English envoy?”

The outburst was useless. The Spaniard knew not what he said, but Mowbray’s passionate gestures told their own story, and the courtly Don shrugged his shoulders sympathetically. He summoned a sailor, whom he despatched for some one. A monk appeared, a middle-aged man of kindly appearance. He was heavily bearded, and his slight frame was clothed in the brown habit, with cords and sandals, of the Franciscan order.

The officer, who was really the ship’s captain, made some statement to the monk, whom he addressed as Fra Pietro, and the latter, in very tolerable English, explained that the most excellent Señor, Don Caravellada, was only obeying orders in carrying them to the Spanish port of Cadiz. Arrived there, he would hand them over to certain authorities, as instructed, but meanwhile, if they gave him no trouble and comported themselves like English gentlemen, which he assumed them to be, he would treat them in like fashion.

“To what authorities are we to be entrusted?” demanded Mowbray, who had mastered the first choking throb of emotion, and was now resolved not to indulge in useless protests.

A look of pain shot for an instant across Fra Pietro’s eyes. But he answered quietly: —

“Don Caravellada has not told me.”

“Belike, then, friend, he only needs the asking,” put in Roger.

The monk shook his head, and was obviously so distressed that Roger went on: —

“Nay, if it be a secret, let it remain so, in heaven’s name. Mayhap I may request your barefooted reverence’s good offices in another shape. At what hour is breakfast served on board this hospitable vessel?”

Fra Pietro answered readily enough: —

“It awaits your pleasure. The Señor Capitan bids me offer you, in his name, the best resources of the ship.”

“Egad, let us eat first, after which all he has to do to get rid of us is to place Master Mowbray and me in a small boat with oars. ’Twill save us much bother and the ship much provender, for I am sharp set as a keen saw.”

Without reply, the monk led them to a cabin where plenty of cold meats, bread, wine, and beer graced the table.

He sat down with them, crossed himself, and ate sparingly of some dry crust, whilst Walter and Sainton tackled a prime joint.

Roger, pausing to take a drink, eyed askance the meager provender which sufficed for Fra Pietro; he made bold to ask him why he fared so poorly.

“It is fast day, and, unfortunately, I forgot to tell the cook to boil me some salted fish.”

“Are there many such days in your calendar?” quoth Roger.

“Yes, at certain periods of the year.”

“Gad, if that be so, you ought to follow the practice of a jolly old priest I have heard of, who, having pork but no fish on a Friday, baptized it in a water-butt saying, ‘Down pig; up pike!’ Then he feasted right royally and without injury to his conscience.”

The monk smiled. He was wise enough to see that the hearty giant intended no offense.

“I do not need such sustenance as your bulk demands,” he said. “I heard the men speaking of your proportions, but, until I saw you with my own eyes I could scarce credit that such a man lived.”

“I take it you are not in league with our captors?” put in Walter, anxious to gain some notion as to the extraordinary circumstances which led up to his present position.

“I am but a poor Franciscan, availing myself of a passage to Lisbon.”

“Do you know the Jesuit who visited us last night?”

“I did not see him.”

“Perchance you may have heard of him. He appeared to hold a high place in the household of Gondomar, the Spanish Ambassador.”

Fra Pietro dropped his eyes and murmured: —

“I think he is Dom Geronimo, Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Office.”

Mowbray pushed away his plate.

“Dom Geronimo!” he cried. “Your priestly titles are unfamiliar. Is he, by any chance, one who was known in former years as Fra Geronimo, a Jesuit from Toledo?”

“The same, I should believe. He is now a dignitary of much consequence.”

“He is a foul murderer! He slew my father by a coward’s blow, during the great sea-fight off Dover. Oh, to think of it! Not yet two days since he stood in front of my sword.”

“I was minded to tap the bald spot on his skull with my staff and you restrained me,” growled Roger.

Mowbray’s bitter exclamation seemed to horrify Fra Pietro. He placed his hands over his ears.

“Madre de Dios!” he murmured, “speak not thus of the head of the Holy Office. Did anyone else hear you your fate were sealed, and the Lord knoweth your case is bad enough without adding further condemnation.”

Sensible that the Franciscan could hardly be expected to agree with the denunciation of his religious superior, Mowbray restrained the tumultuous thoughts that coursed wildly through his brain. He bowed his head between his hands and abandoned himself to sorrowful reflection. A good deal that was hidden before now became clear.

It was not to be wondered at that Sir Thomas Roe should be puzzled by the animosity displayed by an unknown clique in Whitehall against two strange youths who happened to participate, as upholders of the law, in a not very serious brawl. The expression of the Jesuit’s face when he heard Mowbray’s name, the determined measures adopted by Gondomar to capture those who had defeated the cleverly planned abduction of the two girls, the remorseless hatred of Dom Geronimo’s words when he visited the captives overnight, all pointed to one conclusion. The Jesuit was, indeed, the fanatic who killed Sir Robert Mowbray on board the San José, and he was ready, after twenty years, to pursue the son with a spleen as malevolent as that which inspired the assassin’s blow that struck down the father.

How crafty and subtle had been the means adopted to crush Roger and himself! Were fair inquiry held, no charge could have lain against them. So an unworthy monarch, already a dupe in the game of king-craft played by Spain, had weakly consented to allow the royal warrant to become an active instrument in the hands of an implacable bigot. Swift and sure was Dom Geronimo’s vengeance. They had the misfortune to cross his path without the knowledge even of his identity, and now they were being ferried to Spain for some dread purpose the mere suspicion of which chilled the blood in Mowbray’s veins.

And Nellie Roe! She, with her beautiful and imperious cousin, was left in the city which harbored a hostile influence so venomous, so pitiless, and yet so powerful. The suspicion that she, too, if only because a Mowbray was her rescuer, might fall under the ban of the Jesuit, wrung a cry of anguish from his lips. Hardly knowing what he did, and not trusting himself to speak, he rushed on deck with the mad notion of throwing himself overboard in a vain attempt to swim ashore. As he emerged from the companionway a whiff of spray struck him in the face. The slight shock restored his senses. A heavy sea was running, and the coast was six miles distant. To spring over the bulwarks meant suicide. Moreover, could he desert Roger? It was not to be thought of. Though death might be a relief, he must stick to his loyal friend, no matter what the ills in store.

Meanwhile, Roger, in his homely way, was telling Fra Pietro the story of their adventures. The monk, who seemed to be of a very kind and benignant disposition, said little. But he listened attentively. Later, when Mowbray had steeled his heart to endurance, Fra Pietro spoke gently to him, and, when the pair were stricken with sea-sickness, he tended them like a skilled nurse.

And so the days passed until, with a favoring gale, they neared the Portuguese coast, and the Sparta, for thus was the ship named, bore up for Cape Finisterre and thence ran steadily, under the lee of the land, down to the harbor of Lisbon. Fra Pietro, with whom they had contracted a very real friendship, although his beliefs and opinions ran counter to theirs on almost every topic they discussed, was greatly concerned when the captain’s edict went forth that during the vessel’s stay in port the two prisoners must be chained in their cabin.

Yet he sought and obtained permission to visit them, and twice he brought them a goodly supply of fresh fruit and a flagon of the famed wine of Oporto. The Sparta was not tied to a wharf. She dropped anchor well out in the harbor, and communication with the shore could only be made by means of a boat.

Fra Pietro came to see his English friends for the last time. There were always two sentries on duty at the cabin door now, so it was evident that Señor Caravellada meant to discharge his trust with scrupulous fidelity.

It is natural that the worthy monk, knowing full well the dreadful fate that awaited the two youths at the end of the voyage, should be much downcast during this farewell interview.

Yet there was a hesitancy in his manner that did not escape Walter’s eyes. He produced his basket of grapes and peaches and rich pomegranates, while, this time, he carried three wicker-covered flasks of wine.

Then he began to laugh nervously.

“In one of these flagons, that with the broken seal,” he said, “the wine is extraordinarily potent. It has the quality of sending a man into a sound sleep if he imbibe even a small measure, yet it tastes like other wine.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Roger, who had caught a hint from the close attention paid by Mowbray to the monk’s words, “that should be a fine liquor if a man wanted to sleep but could not.”

Fra Pietro held out a luscious bunch of grapes.

“Within a bowshot from this ship,” he said, affecting a gaiety that should hide the serious nature of his words, “there is a Portuguese vessel, the Sancta Trinidad. She sails for the East Indies before dawn. The captain, an honorable man, would give safe asylum to those who were distressed, could they but reach his ship, and in this cluster of grapes is a file. My friends, may God prosper you! Though you are not of my faith I cannot but wish you well. I have striven hard ashore to help you. I have pleaded with those in power, but my words have fallen on deaf ears. Now you know the extent of my poor resources. Dominus vobiscum! In manus tuas, Domine, commendo juventes.”

Tears sprang into his eyes, he lifted his hands to heaven as he called down a blessing on them, and the two bowed their heads before this good and true man, in whom the spirit of Christian charity triumphed over narrow conceptions of dogma.

His prayers seemed to abide with them. When night fell the men whose duty it was to maintain the watch indulged in a carouse, as those who had been ashore not only returned full of liquor but carried with them a liberal supply of wine for their less fortunate comrades.

Hence, though Roger drugged two of the guard into torpor, no suspicion was aroused when the relief came, but the sergeant, growling at the drunkards, determined to take a turn himself on duty. Now this circumstance, at first forbidding, turned out to be providential. Walter had plied the file industriously on his shackles, but it was quite certain that several hours of severe labor would be needed before he could cut through his own and Roger’s anklets. Sainton, with his great strength, might have pulled the staples from the floor, but this would be of little avail if they were compelled to swim to the ship described by Fra Pietro. Moreover, their freedom of movement would be so hampered that they might hardly hope to quit the vessel unperceived, even if a boat were moored to the stern.

As a last resource they determined to adopt this expedient, but the presence of the sergeant, in whose pouch rested the key of their leg irons, gave a new direction to their thoughts.

In the most friendly way, Roger plied him with the doctored wine. Feeling himself becoming drowsy the man would have staggered out. At this, the very crisis of a desperate situation, Sainton gave a mighty tug at his chain. The restraining staple came away, tearing with it half a plank.

Startled almost into full consciousness the sergeant sprang towards him, with sword half drawn. So there was no help for it but to assist the action of the wine. Roger grabbed him by the neck and held him, wriggling, until, to say the least, he was willing to lie very still.

In a minute, or less, they were free. They knew that the hour was long past midnight. The dawn would soon be upon them and there was no time to be lost.

Walter seized the sergeant’s sword and Roger took the sentry’s halberd. They would fight for their lives now, even if they were compelled to face the whole ship’s company. But fortune still favored them. The watch on deck were mustered forward, and the clinking of a can, together with the manner of such speech as they overheard, told them that conviviality was well established there. So they crept to the after part, Roger going almost on all fours to hide his stature. Sure enough, a boat was moored there. They climbed down into her, cast off, and a strong tide quickly carried them away from the Sparta.

They looked about for the Sancta Trinidad, and guessed aright that a fine brig, moored about a cable’s length distant from the Sparta, must be the vessel spoken of by Fra Pietro.

Rowing quietly towards her they hailed her by name and were answered. They were hoisted aboard, and a stoutly built, black-bearded man, who came at the cry of the watch, met them cordially: —

“Ah!” he cried, “Eenglish! One dam big fella! I haf wait you dis hour an’ fear you no come.”

Instantly, though it meant the loss of a good anchor and length of rope, the cable was slipped, a sail or two shaken out, and yards were squared. The ship got some way on her and began to move. In the ghostly light the Sparta looked like a great bird asleep on the dim waste of waters. Soon her outlines faded and were lost in the gloom. As the sails filled and more canvas was spread the Sancta Trinidad showed her mettle and spurned the lively waves from her well tapered bows. The hills merged into the low-lying clouds, the lights ashore became smaller and smaller until they vanished altogether, the ship was well out to sea, and the two youths were saved, they hoped, from the devildoms of Spain.

They went to seek the captain, who greeted them again in the most friendly manner.

“No tank me,” he said, smiling until his teeth gleamed. “You tank Fra Pietro. Him good man. Him come my house an’ nurse my son when him sick wid plague. Por Dios! I do anytink for Fra Pietro!”

CHAPTER VI

“For her own person,It beggared all description.” Shakespeare, “Antony and Cleopatra.”

The road from Delhi, as it neared Agra, wound through a suburb of walled gardens. Between occasional gaps in the crumbling masonry, or when the lofty gates happened to be left open, the passer-by caught glimpses of green lawns bordered with flowers and shaded by leafy mango-trees. Diving into a ravine scarred with dry water-courses, the road passed a Hindu shrine and a Mahomedan tomb. On the opposing crest it cut a cluster of hovels in twain; thence it ran by the side of a long, low caravansary, and finally vanished, like a stream suddenly emboweled in the earth, within the dark portals of the Delhi Gate of the chief Mogul city.

Two Europeans, mounted on sturdy cobs of the famed Waziri breed, drew rein at the entrance to the caravansary. One of them held up an authoritative hand to the sumpter train which followed.

“Here we reach the end of a long journey, Roger,” said he. “Agra lies within the gate, the Palace stands beyond the bazaar, and this is the rest-house spoken of by Rasul, our native friend at Delhi. The hour is yet early to seek an audience of the Emperor. Let us refresh ourselves here, make some needed change in our garments, and then hire a guide to lead us to the house of Itimad-ud-Daula, for they say that he alone possesseth Akbar’s ear.”

“That is another way of saying that he shall first possess himself of a moiety of our goods. Well, be it so. ’Tis a strange land at the best. Let us cram his maw, and mayhap he will tell us a more homely manner of addressing him. It passeth my understanding how thou dost mouth this lingo, Walter. Ecod, I can carry it off bravely with a Mahomed or a Ram Charan, but when it comes to Iti – what d’ye call him? – my jaws clag and my tongue falters in the path like a blind man’s staff.”

So saying, Roger Sainton swung himself off his steed, and straightway the gapers gathered, for his height was not so apparent on horseback as when he stood square on his feet.

But the servants tending the pack-animals were accustomed to this exhibition of popular interest. They warned off the rabble with the insolence every jack-in-office displays towards his inferiors.

“Away, illegitimate ones! Have ye not work?” cried one.

“Bapré! If ye stand not aside ye shall eat the end of my stick,” shouted another.

“Bring fire and singe their beards,” growled a Mahomedan driver.

“Kick, brother, kick!” suggested a humorist, tickling a mule, whereupon the long-eared one ducked his head and lifted his heels in approved style, readily clearing a space, amidst the laughter and jeers of the onlookers.

By this time, Mowbray and Sainton had entered the caravansary. It was a substantial looking building externally, but its four walls merely supported an interior veranda, split into sections, where merchants could sleep if they chose, or cook their food and rest during the midday hours. In the open square, which occupied nearly all the inner space, was herded a motley collection of elephants, camels, bullocks, horses, and asses, – while every conceivable sort of package of merchandise was guarded by attendants of many Indian races. At first, it seemed that there was no more room for man or beast, but the requisite amount of shouting, and a lavish use of opprobrious epithets, couched in various languages, secured a corner of the square for the friends’ cavalcade and a clear space of the veranda for their own convenience.

Three years of life in the East, not to mention the new experience of a march of over a thousand miles up country, had accustomed them to such surroundings.

Whilst they were washing and dressing their servants prepared an excellent meal of kid and rice, which they tackled with a gusto that showed appetites in no wise impaired by residence in Hindustan.

They had ridden ten miles that morning, and it is hard to conceive a more exhilarating or healthful exercise than a march across the great central plain of India during the early hours of a fine day in the cold weather. The date was the first day of November, 1611, and, if the two Yorkshire adventurers had changed somewhat since they sailed away from Lisbon on board the Sancta Trinidad, the change was for the better. Walter Mowbray had become more manly, more authoritative, less prone to flash his sword at the first sign of a quarrel, whilst Roger, if he had increased neither in height nor girth, had gained a certain air of distinction that was not due wholly to his gigantic proportions.

Their intervening history may be told briefly. The Sancta Trinidad, touching at the Canaries, might have passed them on to an English ship, bound for Plymouth, which lay there waiting for the wind to change. But worthy Captain Garcia had taken a great fancy to the pair of them. He vowed that such fortunes were to be won speedily in the land of the Great Mogul that they agreed to sail thither with him. They called at Table Bay, were nearly lost in doubling the dreaded Cape of Good Hope, were assailed by pirates off Madagascar, when Roger proved that a capstan-bar, properly wielded, is worth a dozen swords, and finally brought to in the harbor of Swally Road, at some little distance from Surat on the Tapti River. Here, the worthy Garcia realized what his friendship had forgotten. Englishmen were in small favor with his grasping fellow-countrymen, and the two encountered many reverses, until they fell in with an English factor, named Edwards, from Ahmedabad, who asked them to join him in business.

Though they were wanting in experience of the ways of Indian merchants, Edwards undertook to teach them, for he was greatly in need of those whom he could trust implicitly. They learnt the Urdu language, Walter thoroughly, and Roger with less success; they made the acquaintance of Prince Jahangir, acting as Viceroy for his father, Akbar, in the west country, and, ultimately, they and their partner put all their store to the hazard in an ambitious expedition to the far-off capital.

It was their intent to meet the renowned Akbar at Delhi on his way south from a summer spent in Kashmir. News of a rising in the Dekkàn, however, had hurried the monarch’s movements. They missed him at the ancient capital of India, so, having learnt, among other things, the eastern habit of patience, they marched by easy stages to Agra.

And now, refreshed and properly clothed in garments befitting their position, they mounted fresh horses which had been led during the march. Preceded by a chuprassi, or attendant, they advanced towards the gate.

“Make way there!” shouted the man, “stand aside, you basket-carriers! Hi, you with the camel, pass on the left! Oh, you pig of a bullock-driver, do you not see the sahibs?”

Thus, their advent heralded by much unnecessary bawling, they rode through the center one of the three pointed arches of the gate.

Beyond lay the principal street of the narrow bazaar in which the Agra merchants conducted their brisk trade. And what a brilliant spectacle it offered in the glorious sunshine! Lofty houses, gay in tawdry colors and picturesque in their dishevelment, looked down on a crowd as varied as any on earth. Caste and color of every sort jostled in the roadway. Women, erect and elegant, carrying earthen jars on their heads, returning from riverside or well, moved with graceful carriage. Merchants, coolies, sweetmeat sellers, and milk-venders rubbed shoulders with swaggering Rajputs and stately Mahomedans. A Hindu pilgrim, laden with sacred water from the distant Ganges, paused for a moment to buy a handful of millet. A white-turbaned Sikh, attracted by the striped and golden fruit of a melon-seller, tendered a small coin for a rosy slice and stalked on, eating gravely and with dignity. Crawling snake-like in the dust, a devotee wound his way to far-off Ajodhia, where Holy Ganga, if ever he reached its banks, should lave his sins. Near him stood a snow-white leper, thrusting fingerless stumps into the faces of the passers-by, and gaining, by his raucous cries and revolting appearance, a few cowries, or coin shells, from the few who did not remain utterly indifferent to his appeals. An olive-skinned Brahmin, slender and upright, bearing on his forehead the marks of his proud descent, and carrying a brass vessel wherewith to draw the water for his morning ablution, pulled his red cotton wrapper more closely around him as he passed the leper. A young Pathan, fair-complexioned, eagle-nosed, hawk-eyed, stalwart and stately as is the birthright of his mountain race, pushed through the crowd with careless hauteur. The Sikh, the Brahmin, the Pathan, were the born aristocrats of the mob.