The Great Mogul

“I have heard,” said Mowbray, expounding some such theory to Roger, “that the Emperor once became impatient at the reproaches of the moullahs, who were ever denying him the use of certain meats and wines. ‘If these things are forbidden by the Koran,’ said he, ‘according to what religion can a man eat and drink as he likes?’ ‘That is the teaching of the Christians alone,’ said they. ‘Then let us all turn Christians,’ said Akbar. ‘Let tailors convert our loose garments into closer fitting coats, and fashion our turbans into hats.’ He frightened them, and they all declared that, however it might be for common men, the Koran did not affect the sovereign.”

“Be that as it may,” said Sainton, “and the tale is not unlike some in vogue about our own Jamie, I am a believer in portents. Here we are in Agra, and not a whole day before we run up against a girl and a black robe. In London – ”

“You will anger me, Roger,” cried Walter in sudden heat, “if you speak thus of Nellie Roe and Nur Mahal in the same breath.”

“Ecod, you flare up in the twinkling of a quart pot, the sheer name of which gives me a thirst. What the devil! has it not a queer semblance to magic, to say the least?”

Mowbray grudgingly admitted so much, but their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger who, on behalf of Sher Afghán, apologized very handsomely for his master’s apparent rudeness in leaving them so hastily at the palace, and invited them to the wedding ceremony that night at the residence of the Diwán.

“Here is a spark in a hurry to light a bonfire,” cried Roger when he disentangled the request from a maze of compliments.

“’Twas the Emperor’s command,” said Mowbray, dubiously. “I suppose we must go. He befriended us greatly, though I hold it the wiser thing to send a civil excuse.”

He rose to bid their servants prepare their best attire, and Roger eyed him with a smile.

“Aye, aye,” he murmured to himself. “Everything goes the same old gait, as the man said when he tried a second wife. Here we are, off to the feasting. Thank the Lord! if there be fighting to follow I shall not be snared this time like an owl in daylight.”

Indeed, the first visible indications of any unusual event in progress, when they crossed the bridge of boats before gaining the pavilion in the Garden of Heart’s Delight, savored far more of a campaign than of a wedding. There were guards there, mounted and on foot, who challenged all comers. The Englishmen had taken the precaution to detain Sher Afghán’s messenger, and he was useful now in preserving them from questioning and delay. Clearly, the Persian warrior obeyed his master’s behests to the letter. He not only knew the importance of speedy fulfilment of an order, but he did not disdain to use all requisite means to carry it out.

Outside the gates stood a troop of horse, the stalwart sowars being either Rajputs or Punjabi Mahomedans, as both of these warrior races found favor at the court of Akbar. The transient gleams of flitting lanterns fell on their accouterments, and revealed the presence of several litters, destined, the young men thought, for the comfortable conveyance of Nur Mahal and her attendant women to the bridegroom’s far-off domain at Burdwán.

Within the peaceful garden a different spectacle presented itself. The Diwán’s vast household had used every effort to make a brave display notwithstanding the short notice given. A myriad little lamps festooned the trees or bordered the ornamental waters and flower-beds, whilst the main avenue from the gate to the house was brightened by Chinese lanterns and carpeted with rose leaves.

The guests were conducted, by a new way, to yet another portion of the magnificent garden, and here they were suddenly introduced to a spectacle which held them spellbound for a little while.

In the midst of a green plot was an artificial lake, square, and protected by a small and beautifully carved white marble balustrade. From each side ran a causeway to a circular island in the center, its surface almost wholly occupied by an exquisite marble baraduri, or summer-house. The delicate fantasy of the structure might have been designed by some Florentine artist. Inlaid with jasper, carnelian and agate, it rose with superb grace from the setting of the dreamy lake, whilst the causeways of dark red sandstone enhanced its pearl-like sheen in the rays of the innumerable rows of tiny oil lamps which ran along every cornice and bedecked each tier of the plinth.

Fountains played in the lake itself, and the shimmering waters reflected now the starry gleams of the lights, and again the solemn shadows of a row of tall cypress trees, standing in stately order in the background and silhouetted against the unimaginable blue of an Eastern sky by night.

In the baraduri a band of native musicians were squatted on a rich carpet. They made a deafening row with sitar and daf-thakri, murchang and mirdang, instruments with sounds as barbarous as their names, but capable, perhaps, of soul-stirring music to ears tuned to their torture. Near them, covered with heavy cloaks, sat a bevy of nautch-girls, who, when the married pair had set forth on their first march, would be summoned to the warmer rooms inside the mansion, to dance there and sing their love songs until dawn.

Between the lake and the house stood a mighty elephant, eleven feet high at least. His enormous proportions were magnified by a great silver howdah with roof and curtains, and by the long trappings of scarlet cloth, embroidered with gold thread, which swept down his massive flanks nearly to the ground.

That this fine brute was to provide the triumphal car for Sher Afghán and his wife was evident, when, in a covered court beyond, Mowbray and Sainton saw the Diwán and Sher Afghán entertaining a number of native gentlemen. Active servants, clad solely in white, threw garlands of jasmine round the neck of each guest or offered golden salvers of pan supari, the savory betel leaf so dear to Eastern taste. There was expectancy in the air. The bride would soon come forth and pass forever from the enchanted garden.

Itimad-ud-Daula received them with grave courtesy, and Sher Afghán, who seemed in no wise disturbed by the known fact that Nur Mahal hated the sight of him, made his English friends welcome.

“I have met few of your nation,” he said to Mowbray, “but my heart has never gone out to a stranger as to you and your brother. You shall not suffer because I leave Agra. I have spoken to the Diwán concerning your affairs. Rest content for a little while. When matters are settled over there – ” and he nodded scornfully towards the palace – “he will bring you forward again. You may be obliged to wait a month or two for your money. The Diwán will advise you of this, and you may trust him. If it be so, come to me at Burdwán, and I shall show you how to kill a tiger.”

“How little can a man see into the future,” confided Walter to Sainton when the Persian was called away. “You will perceive, Roger, that we should have missed a good deal had we not come hither to-night.”

“He talks of the killing of tigers, but I vow he will first have the taming of one,” said Roger. “Here comes the bride. Saw you ever such a spitfire? Soul of my body, I’d liefer charge a row of spears than climb into yon silver turret by her side. Yet Sher Afghán is a proper man, a finer fellow by half than the spleenish Jahangir!”

“Perchance she cares little for either, but would sell her happiness for a diadem.”

“She looks a quean of that sort. I ken nowt of love, such as folk make songs about, but my mother always tellt me never to wed a lass for a dowry. She said it bred a heap of mischief and few fine bairns.”

Walter laughed, discreetly enough, but, at that instant, Nur Mahal, who had imperiously flung aside her veil and was preparing to mount into the howdah on the kneeling elephant, looked straight at him.

Her face was deathly pale, and her lustrous eyes shone with a strange light. Pain struggled with anger in her glance. She was defiant yet humiliated, and she shrank from the proffered hand of her husband as though his touch would defile her. When her gaze fell on Mowbray she singled him out for a specially scornful arching of her eyebrows and contemptuous drooping of her beautiful lips. Considering that he had seen her that day for the first time, and had scarce exchanged a dozen words with her, he was taken aback by her evident disdain.

Somehow, though no word was spoken, those wonderful eyes said to him: —

“You, too, have come to witness my degradation – you, in whom I thought I had found a new lover.”

For some reason, unknown even to himself, he bowed sorrowfully. When he lifted his head again, Sher Afghán was seated beside his unwilling spouse, a gorgeously-clad mahout was prodding the elephant’s head with a steel ankus, and the stately animal was marching off into the shadow of the cypresses, his path being marked by two winding rows of lanterns.

Feeling themselves slightly out of place among the nawabs, omrahs, and other grandees who formed the Diwán’s guests, the Englishmen soon took their leave. Their servants, thinking the sahibs would sit long at the feast, had gone off to revel with the rest of their kind, and there was a wearisome delay whilst one guard after another was despatched to search for them, the truth being that each chuprassi seized the opportunity himself to indulge in libation and eat the sweetmeats provided with lavish hand for the household, before he fulfilled his quest.

The wedding cortège had gone, the night was dark and cold, and the patience of the belated pair was fast ebbing, when a hubbub of shouting and firing, mixed with the screams of women and the neighing of horses at some distance, rudely disturbed the brooding silence.

“Gad!” roared Sainton, “I thought there would be a fight.”

“The Prince has attacked the escort. He means to slay Sher Afghán and carry off the girl. What can we do?” cried Walter.

“Bide where we are. Here comes news if I be not mistaken.”

Indeed, the loud trumpeting of an elephant, and the shaking of the earth under his mighty rush, showed that not only had the Persian’s force been overcome but he was in full retreat. The excited servants of the Diwán – those who were left at the entrance – barred the gate and left the Englishmen standing outside. But there was a lamp there, and the row of little lights on top of the wall lit up the roadway sufficiently to reveal the approach of the elephant. He came with the speed of a galloping horse, his trappings flying in wild disorder and his trunk uplifted in terror. Behind him raced a mob of armed men, but, on his left side, managing a fine Arab with consummate skill, and cutting and thrusting madly at Sher Afghán, rode Prince Jahangir. The Persian, leaning well out of the howdah, was endeavoring with equal fury to kill or maim his royal rival, but the swaying strides of the elephant, and the difference in height between the huge brute and the horse, made it difficult if not impossible for either combatant to injure the other.

Yet Sher Afghán’s face was bleeding, and Jahangir’s clothes were torn. Evidently there had been a sharp tussle ere the mahout turned his obedient monster towards the Diwán’s residence.

Behind Sher Afghán, Mowbray saw the white, distraught face of Nur Mahal. He fancied, though the whole incident was fleeting as a dream, that she held a dagger in her right hand, but his attention was distracted by Roger shouting: —

“I can see nowt for it but to cleave Jahangir in two as he passes.”

And cloven the Prince assuredly would have been, for Sainton had drawn his long, straight sword, had not the mahout suddenly wheeled the elephant against the gate, upsetting the snorting Arab by the maneuver. Jahangir was thrown, almost at Mowbray’s feet. The elephant charged the massive doors head downwards, and they were torn from their hinges as if they were paper screens. The arch collapsed, there was a crash of falling masonry and rent wood-work, and the great brute himself, stunned by the shock, fell to his knees.

And that was the manner in which Nur Mahal, on her wedding night, came back to the Garden of Heart’s Delight.

CHAPTER IX

“Why didst thou not smite him to the ground and I would have given thee ten shekels of silver?”

Samuel xviii. 11.

Jahangir was on his feet instantly. Sher Afghán should not escape him now unless the gods fought against him.

“To me!” he yelled. “Spare not! Every man shall have a golden tauq!”2

The elephant struggled to rise, but failed. He was dazed by his terrific impact against the solid gateway. Sher Afghán leaped from the howdah and rushed joyously to meet his frenzied antagonist. Perhaps the fate of India would have been settled then and there for many a year had not the mob of horsemen, unable to stay their disorderly pursuit, swept between the rivals. Many of the sowars were thrown by crashing into the immovable bulk of the squealing beast in the roadway: most of the others either reined in, expecting to encounter a fresh foe, or were carried past the gate.

Walter, in whom the fire of battle had extinguished the dictates of prudence, whipped out his sword, faced the enraged Prince, and engaged him in rapid play. The curved scimitar of the East had no chance against the straight English blade, wielded as it was by one versed in the art of European swordsmanship. Jahangir was disarmed, his wrist nearly broken when he would have drawn a dagger, and Mowbray, closing fearlessly, pinned him against the base of the wall. His infuriated adversary was no puny youth, but Walter was now at his best. He tripped Jahangir, got him down, and gripped him by the throat, saying: —

“Yield, fool, and lie quiet. If Sher Afghán finds thee he will slay thee without mercy.”

In the road a remarkable change had taken place. The elephant’s assault had dislodged a long and heavy iron bar which served to prop the door from within. Sainton, alert as a fox in an emergency, saw it lying amidst the ruins. Any ordinary man would find it a difficult thing to lift, but Roger, sheathing his sword, picked it up and used it with both hands as a quarter staff. He leaped back into the mêlée and made onslaught with this fearsome weapon on men and horses alike. In the press, the Prince’s retainers could not use their arrows, and their cumbrous matchlocks, once discharged, could not be reloaded readily. As for their swords and short lances, of what avail were such bodkins against this raging giant, mowing down all comers with a ten-foot bar of iron? Who could withstand him? Those who escaped him fled, and the clash of steel beyond the circle of light told that Sher Afghán’s followers, though dispersed by the first unexpected charge, had rallied and were coming to the assistance of their chief.

Sainton, who thoroughly enjoyed the fight, ceased his exertions when he saw Sher Afghán helping Nur Mahal to alight from the howdah. A crowd of guests and armed vassals, attracted by the noise of the conflict, had run from the house, and the obedience rendered to the Persian’s orders by a fresh batch of horsemen advancing out of the darkness showed that the assailants had been completely routed.

But some remained. Six horses and more than twenty men were prone in the dust, and few of them moved, for that terrible bar had touched naught that it did not break. The fallen elephant blocked the gate and the big Yorkshireman held the road. None could come out from the garden save by a wicket, and neither friend nor foe dared to approach within striking distance of Roger.

Sher Afghán, who had not earned his name, “Slayer of Lions,” by bragging, glanced at the tumbled heap which surrounded Sainton and cried: —

“May Allah bear witness this night that thou hast saved my life, friend from beyond the seas. I did well to help thee, and nobly hast thou repaid my service. But where is thy brother? I trust he has come to no harm.”

“When last I saw him he was instructing Prince Jahangir in the art of fence,” said Roger, stooping to recover his hat which had fallen.

“Ha, sayest thou? Would that I had given the lesson in his stead! Search for him, I pray you, whilst I conduct this lady to her father.”

Nur Mahal, who stood near, seemed to be in a somewhat subdued mood. There was a new note in her voice as she murmured: —

“Heed me not, my Lord, but look for the stranger. My heart misgives me as to his fate.”

Sher Afghán gave her a quick glance, clearing his eyes in wonderment. Before he could reply the girl darted forward.

“See, here he comes, and with him a prisoner. For my sake, if for none other, let there be no further bloodshed!”

The appeal was timely. Walter, holding Jahangir, whom he had purposely kept in the background until the turmoil had subsided, now advanced. But the spirit of the combat had not wholly left him. When Sher Afghán sprang forward, eager to renew a duel interrupted by the downfall of the elephant, his sword barred the way.

“Not so,” he cried determinedly. “The Prince is unarmed and my hostage. Moreover, I cannot see why two such gallant gentlemen should fight over a worthless woman. Whilst you were defending her and yourself, Sher Afghán, her dagger was raised to strike you dead.”

The Persian stood as though he had been stabbed indeed. He bent a piteous glance on his wife.

“Is it true,” he asked brokenly, “that you would have done this thing?”

She shrank from him.

“You forced me to wed you,” she protested. “I did not love you.”

Plucking a dagger from his belt he offered it to her.

“I dreamed to conquer the fickle heart of a woman,” he said. “If you were minded to end your woes by my death, here is my unprotected breast. Kill me! It is my desire. Better that than an assassin’s blow at the hands of the woman I love.”

She burst into a passion of tears and fell to her knees.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she sobbed; and her grief was music in Sher Afghán’s ears. If, indeed, his wife regretted her attitude he could afford to be magnanimous. Throwing sword and dagger to the ground he bowed to Jahangir.

“Your Highness has been misled by idle tongues,” he said. “Tidings of this brawl will reach the Emperor as fast as men can ride. Let you and me hasten to his presence and together seek his clemency.”

It was a proposal which could only emanate from a chivalrous soul, but Jahangir was too enraged by his defeat, too embittered by Nur Mahal’s apparent submission, to avail himself of it.

“I neither plead nor make excuse,” he said. “Go you in peace with your bride. I call Allah to witness that I have been misled by none save Nur Mahal herself. My followers have fled, though I am glad to see some of the hare-livered dogs cumber the ground. Give me a horse and I shall ride alone, if your foreign ally grants my liberty.”

The lowering anger in his closely set eyes, the quivering lips which scarce could form the words, showed that Jahangir was not only keenly resentful of his plight but that he scorned Nur Mahal for her meekness. The appearance of the Diwán, agitated and faltering in his steps, put an end to a scene which at any moment might have assumed a new phase of violence. The aged statesman, when his first alarm was sped, thought more of the morrow than of the present excitement. He bade Sher Afghán undertake the interrupted journey in a litter as soon as his wounds were bound, and he despatched Jahangir to the fort with a strong guard of his own servants.

By this time the dazed elephant had yielded to the curses and endearments of the mahout. He rose ponderously, and marched across the ruins of the gate to his stable.

For some reason the Diwán would not allow Mowbray and Sainton to return to the caravansary. He may have feared for their safety, or perhaps he found comfort in the thought that Roger, mighty man of war, slept under his roof.

Before setting out a second time Sher Afghán came to the chamber allotted to them. He threw around Roger’s neck a magnificent gold chain studded with turquoises.

“Let me gild the bond of steel which rivets our friendship,” he said.

To Walter he handed a dagger, with a handle so encrusted with diamonds that it blazed in the light of a lamp like a single huge stone.

“It is worthy of the hand of my friend and the heart of my enemy,” he cried, nor would he harken to their protests, but hurried away to the waiting litter and Nur Mahal.

“How read you the riddle of this night’s doings?” asked Roger, when they were alone once more.

“There is no riddle. ’Tis nothing new in history for a woman to plot for a throne.”

“But the wench blew hot and cold. One minute she was for striking her husband dead and the next she was tame as a pet lamb.”

“There you have me. I am only sorry that a brave man like Sher Afghán should be enamored of such a siren.”

“By the cross of Osmotherly, Walter, I came to think I ken more than you of the ways of women. Now, mark me, she is a hoyden of some spirit. When the Prince would have reaved her she was willing enough, and tempted to aid him withal. But when the fight started, she hung back, like a doe watching two contending stags. Her husband was the better man and the greater gentleman, and he did more to win her by a five minutes’ contention than by a month’s wooing.”

“You are right, Roger, but you had most to say in that respect. Now, let us rest. Jahangir was no mean antagonist. He struggled like a bull when I had him on the ground. I am weary.”

They slept late, and, when they had dressed and eaten, were at a loss whether to go or stay, as the Diwán had hastened to the palace soon after daybreak. But their doubts were quickly resolved. A mounted messenger from the Diwán bade them bring their packs with all speed to the fort. The Emperor had laughed when told that his heir was lying abed with sore bones, and gave imperative orders that the bazaar should take place as arranged.

The man told them that the fair was the Khus-roz, or “Day of Pleasure,” and the scene in the garden of the zenana, when Mowbray and Sainton had hurried their train thither, showed that the festival was not misnamed. Not only the ladies of the court, but the wives and daughters of the chief nobles, occupied the stalls, and, while Walter was busily superintending the unpacking of his bales, he heard the Emperor himself chaffering like an old wife about the value of a penny.

He was bargaining shrewdly with a beautiful Kashmiri, and receiving as good as he gave.

“What do you know of merchandise?” she cried. “You may be a good king, but certainly you are a poor trader.”

“And you are selling inferior silk by your pretty face, just as a fine rind may cover a bad apple,” he retorted.

“If your Majesty can only admire my face,” said she, “I fear you must go where you will be better served.”

“Ohé, here is a prude! Come, accept my price and let me take my compliments elsewhere.”

“And what shall I say when I render short account to the Sultana?”

“Tell her that the King thought you ill-looking, so he showed you no favor.”

“Your Majesty is reputed a better judge of women’s nature. Then, indeed, the Sultana would regard me curiously.”

“Oh, go to! You are vain as a peacock. Here, not a pice more!”

He threw down some copper coins, and affected to drop a number of gold pieces by accident. The lady promptly covered them with a fold of her sari, and Akbar strolled away to another stall. Among the money she found a rare pearl, and the gift of a jewel was a signal sign of royal favor.

“They tell me an elephant broke loose outside the Diwán’s house last night,” said Akbar, stopping in front of Walter and eying him keenly.

“For a little while I fancied it was a whole menagerie, your Majesty,” was the quick answer.

“So. And this other elephant, the Hathi-sahib, made a pen for the beasts?”

“Assuredly they found him occupation for a time.”

“’Tis well. I am sorry I did not see him at work. Meanwhile, you shall not lose trade because young blood grows hot. What is the value of your wares?”

“A lakh and a half, your Majesty.”

“Bones of my father! They must have told you that ‘Akbar’ meant ‘a mint’ in your language.”

“The meaning of your Majesty’s name is known far beyond the confines of your kingdom.”