The Heroic Garrison

by V. A. Stuart

  “Moulvi Sahib . . .” the old voice was quavering and diffident “I beg you to hear me.”

  The Moulvi glanced at him without interest. “Who are you gray-beard?”

  “I am Subedar Kedar Nath of the Muttees-ki-Paltan, Hoozor. For thirty-two years I have served in the Company’s Army and I—”

  The Moulvi impatiently cut him short. “I have no time to listen to your record of service. What is your business, Kedar Nath?”

  “I have a prisoner, Moulvi Sahib. A feringhi whom I—”

  “A prisoner . . . and you bother me with such trifles? Shoot him, hack him to pieces with your tulwar—what matters it, so long as he dies? We take no prisoners. All feringhis taken in battle are to be put to death.”

  “But this prisoner . . .” the subedar began, only to be silenced by the Moulvi’s imperiously raised hand.

  “Allah give me patience! Is our army officered by brainless dolts? I have given you an order—obey it, Old One, and get out of my sight!” He turned away, shrugging off the interruption, and Alex, who had been listening with every nerve stretched almost to breaking point, felt some of the tension drain out of him. He set down his glass, feeling the better for the heady spirit he had consumed, and let his hand slide down to grasp the hilt of his saber.

  A mere thirty paces separated him from the Moulvi’s unguarded back, and he had nothing to lose. He had been condemned to death with as little thought as if he had been a pariah dog and Subedar Kedar Nath would, without much doubt, consider it his duty to carry out the sentence. He was a native officer of the old school, not overgifted with brains and too set in his ways to disregard an order and although it was possible that he might regret having to obey this one, he would still do so without questioning its justice. Under cover of the table, Alex started to draw his saber, but a hand came out to close over his and, from behind him. a voice said, very softly, in English, “Wait, my friend. The time is not yet ripe and besides, you would be torn limb from limb if you were to attempt anything of the kind.”

  “I shall have no other time,” Alex objected. He turned to look at the owner of the hand and saw, to his astonishment, that it was the tall Sikh cavalryman to whom the Moulvi had been talking so earnestly a few minutes before. In the dim light, his skin appeared to be a dusky, golden brown, but when he moved to interpose his powerful body between the table and those who surrounded the Moulvi, it was revealed in the brighter glow of the chandelier overhead as the tanned skin of a European. His features, too, were European, and his beard, for all its Sikh luxuriance, was not the henna red hue to which some inhabitants of the Punjab dyed their facial hair, but a rich natural auburn, faintly flecked with gray.

  “I have been watching you since you first entered the room,” the stranger stated. He bent closer and added, his mouth against Alex’s ear, “While, in this particular case, I can understand your desire to play the assassin, it would be a pity were you to throw your life away unnecessarily, would it not?”

  “What alternative is left to me?” Alex demanded wryly. “You heard my sentence.”

  “I can offer you an alternative, Colonel Sheridan,” the tall cavalryman assured him. “But we risk discovery if we remain here. Take up your glass and follow me . . . without haste. The gods have watched over you thus far, but you and I will both be in danger if that old imbecile of a subedar comes in search of you.” He filled two glasses from the chatti, gave one to Alex and, a restraining hand on his arm, guided him to an anteroom to the left of the main doorway. There was a window at the far end, opening onto a balcony that, Alex saw when his companion drew back the shutters, overlooked a dark and apparently deserted courtyard some thirty or forty feet below.

  The room was lit by a single oil lamp and the stranger, leaving him on the balcony, strode across and swiftly extinguished it. He returned, moving as silently as a cat, and there was a six-chambered revolver in his hand, which he offered, holding it by the barrel.

  “This will be of more use to you than a saber, I think—for whatever purpose you may wish to put it to, Colonel Sheridan. And now, if you will wait here, I have certain essential arrangements to make for your safety, but I shall be back as soon as they are made.” He started to close the shutters, but Alex prevented him.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked. “And for God’s sake, man . . . who are you?”

  His rescuer permitted himself a brief smile. “I am indebted to Rajah Man Singh for your name, Colonel.And I am known here as Kaur Singh, newly appointed to the same rank as yourself in the Begum’s army. But we cannot talk now . . . I have to intercept that subedar—what is his name? Kedar Nath of the 48th. He seeks a reward, I imagine, for your capture? And you gave him your parole when he brought you here?”

  Alex nodded. “The Moulvi offered a reward of a thousand rupees, it seems, for my head. I regret that I haven’t even a hundred to offer him but—”

  “The promise of it will probably satisfy him, if Man Singh guarantees it. Has he any sepoys with him?”

  “Yes—half a dozen, outside in the gallery.”

  “Then give me what money you have to buy them off.” Colonel Kaur Singh was busy with the shutters. He took the coins Alex offered him without counting them and started to push the shutters into place. “I shall bar these. If you have to make a run for it, lower yourself into the courtyard and I will look for you there. I trust, however, that you will be undisturbed.” He did not wait for a reply. The bar slid into its sockets with a faint click, and he was gone.

  Left alone, Alex made a brief inspection of the balcony and peered down into the courtyard, without seeing or hearing anything calculated to alarm him. The courtyard was devoid of life, the balcony strongly built of stone, with an ornamental wrought-iron balustrade. He removed his sword-sling and belt and secured them to the balustrade, as a precaution; they did not, of course, reach anywhere near the ground but would at least serve to break his fall if he were compelled to seek safety in the courtyard.This done, he settled down to wait, conscious of a lingering regret because his attempt on the Moulvi’s life had been prevented.The chance he had thrown away this evening would probably never again be given to him, he thought bitterly, and he had let it slip through his hands on the word of a glib-tongued, renegade European, about whose motives he knew nothing . . . save that he was involved in some way with Man Singh.

  Man Singh himself was of doubtful loyalty.True, he had sheltered and protected a number of British fugitives from out-stations during the past few months; he had treated them well and had them escorted safely to Allahabad. He had also reported—and reported accurately—on the Nana’s movements in Oudh, both to General Havelock and to the financial commissioner, Martin Gubbins, during the siege of Lucknow . . . yet here he was, in the rebel camp, admitted to their leaders’ inner council and seemingly accepted as one of them, even by the Moulvi. He commanded a considerable army of rajwana troops and had almost certainly brought them with him to Lucknow with the Begum’s full knowledge and approval but . . . to whom was he loyal? Was he, perhaps, playing a waiting game—as Havelock had suspected— keeping a foot in both camps so as to ensure that, whichever side was eventually victorious, he would range himself with the victors? If so, it was a dangerous game, and the Moulvi, should he suspect his new ally of double-dealing, could prove an extremely dangerous enemy.

  Small wonder, then, that Man Singh might want the Moulvi dead . . . but did he? Had it not been he who, through the medium of Colonel Kaur Singh, had prevented his own desperate plan from being put into action a short while ago? Alex sighed.There was no fathoming the Oriental mind, he told himself wearily; no understanding the torturous depths to which treachery could sink, but one thing, at least, he could be sure of—Man Singh had an ulterior motive in bringing about his rescue. It might be that he was to be held as a hostage—a witness, perhaps, to the Hindu chief ‘s good intentions should Sir Colin Campbell succeed in recapturing the city of Lucknow and raising the siege of the Residency.

  On t
he other hand, Kaur Singh had spoken of offering him an alternative to playing the role of assassin . . . He shivered in the warm darkness and felt for the revolver in the waistband of his overalls, finding a measure of reassurance in its touch. Kaur Singh had also said that the time was not yet ripe for the Moulvi to die, which could well mean that a time had been chosen and his role—when that time came—would be unchanged.

  It was a possibility he had to accept but ...Alex got to his feet and started restlessly to pace the narrow balcony. He was letting his imagination run away with him, he chided himself.The arak, potent devil’s brew that it was, had gone to his head . . . for God’s sake, he had eaten nothing for 24 hours and had scarcely slept for two days and nights! He was confused, not thinking clearly. Had not Man Singh shown himself a loyal friend—not once but a hundred times—when British fortunes were at their lowest ebb and the tide of victory was flowing always the rebels’ way?

  The Nana had won Cawnpore, massacred its garrison and gathered the talukdars and ryots of Oudh to his banner . . . yet Man Singh had continued to shelter British refugees, aware that they might never be able to repay the debt they owed him. And Kaur Singh—whatever he might call himself—was a European, or appeared to be.At worst, he was of mixed blood, and he was well educated and civilized brought up, in all probability, in the high tradition of the Sikh warrior class. Between them, he and Rajah Man Singh had saved his life and he had to trust them. He . . . Fingers scraped against the barred shutters behind him and Alex spun round, the revolver in his hand, as the bar was removed and the shutters were cautiously drawn back.

  “Colonel Sahib . . .” The voice was the familiar, diffident voice of Subedar Kedar Nath, and he tensed, the revolver leveled at the native officer’s bemedalled chest. “Have no fear, Sahib,” the old man exhorted him. “I come by the order of the Lord Man Singh to escort you to his camp.”

  “Come you alone?” Alex demanded, his suspicions only partially allayed.

  “Ji-han, Sahib. My men are dismissed, well satisfied with the reward the Rajah Sahib has paid them . . . as am I. The Colonel Bahadur, Kaur Singh, has gone with the Moulvi, but I am to tell you that horses await us below and an escort of the Rajah Sahib’s horsemen.” Kedar Nath smiled and pulled the shutters wide, to reveal that the lamp was burning again in the room at his back. “Take my word, Sahib,” he added, with a dignity that Alex found oddly moving. “As I took yours.”

  “I will take it, Subedar-ji. And I am ready . . . which way do we go?”

  “By the way we entered, Sahib. All are gone, save the sepoys quartered here and they will not question me—they are of my paltan.”

  He had spoken the truth, Alex realized, as together they descended to the entrance hall and walked out, unchallenged, to the main courtyard, where the golandazes now slept beside their guns and the promised horsemen were waiting. The vakeel who had been with Man Singh earlier in the evening was in command of them; he saluted, one of his men led out horses for himself, and Kedar Nath assisted Alex to mount, and they were on their way at a steady canter, across open country toward the river. Skirting the observatory and the Koorshid Munzil—the one-time mess house of the officers of Her Majesty’s 32nd—they headed, as dawn was breaking, for the river, crossed by a bridge of boats and then turned westward, to reach a tented camp pitched among the trees and gardens a quarter of a mile beyond the Badshah Bagh.

  The vakeel, who had spoken little during their hour-long ride, conducted Alex to a tent, furnished in some luxury with a charpoy, tables and chairs, and a carpeted floor, and told him that food would be brought, together with bath water and fresh clothes.

  “My master asks for your parole, Colonel Sahib,” he added, his tone almost apologetic.

  “And if I do not give it, Vakeel Sahib? What then?”

  “A guard will be posted and you will not be permitted to leave your tent. I would advise you to give it. Sahib. Provided you do, you may go anywhere you wish in the camp, attended only by the subedar, who has volunteered to serve you.”

  He was a prisoner, Alex thought resignedly; but a privileged one, with such quarters as these . . . and he would have fared a great deal worse at the Moulvi’s hands. “Very well, you have my parole, Vakeel-ji. It will hold good until I have had audience with your master.”

  The vakeel bowed. “So be it, Colonel Sahib. I will leave you to break your fast and rest. If there is anything that you need, you have only to inform the subedar.”

  Alex thanked him and, within a few minutes of his departure, a small procession of servants entered, bringing with them a hip-bath, hot water, and tea, served on a silver tray. He drank the tea, savoring every delicious mouthful, and then soaked his aching body in the almost forgotten luxury of a bath, which had been liberally sprinkled with a pleasantly pungent oil. A barber shaved him, with silent efficiency, and then dressed the slight wound on his leg; another servant brought him a freshly laundered chapkan and cotton, ankle-length trousers, and assisted him to don them, while two more served a meal of curry and rice, which he consumed to the last grain, his appetite sharpened by his long fast.

  Finally the servants left, and he stretched himself out on the charpoy, to fall into an exhausted sleep.

  He was awakened by the sound of someone tiptoeing into his tent and, sitting up, startled, he realized that it was dark, and the moon, seen through the half-open flap of the tent, newly risen. He had lain down to sleep leaving his revolver on the table beside him and he felt for it now before challenging the intruder. “Koi hai—who is there?”

  “Oh, please do not shoot,” a soft voice besought him nervously, in English. “I . . . I heard that they had brought an English officer here and I . . . it is so long since I have seen or spoken to one of my countrymen that I came in search of you. I did not realize that you were asleep or I should not have ventured into your tent. I waited until dark in case they saw me and tried to stop me, but I . . . oh, please forgive me, I will go. I . . . that is, I will wait outside until you have dressed and . . .”

  The voice was a woman’s, Alex recognized dazedly—an Englishwoman’s. He got to his feet, seeing her in silhouette against the moonlit aperture of the tent flap as a slim, ghostly figure that might, at any moment, vanish from his sight . . . unless somehow he could persuade her to remain.

  “Don’t go,” he begged her. “Please! I lay down fully dressed, intending only to close my eyes briefly, but I was tired and— good heavens, I must have slept the clock round! Believe me,” he said as she still hesitated, “I am respectably clothed and delighted to receive a visitor who is also a countrywoman. There’s a lamp here somewhere. I’ll light it.” He found the lamp and a box of matches and, after some fumbling, managed to light it. By its soft glow he saw that his visitor was a tall, thin young woman of perhaps twenty-five, wearing a native sari, which became her unexpectedly well. Her face was burned brown by the sun, her hair dark, and she could have passed for a native, except for the fact that her eyes were blue. They stared at each other, and the girl was the first to cry out in glad recognition.

  “Colonel Sheridan . . . it is Colonel Sheridan, is it not? I mean, I’m not mistaken—you are the Colonel Sheridan who was in my father’s garrison at Cawnpore?”

  Her father’s garrison . . . then that made her one of General Wheeler’s two daughters. Alex eyed her incredulously. He had known Amelia, the general’s elder daughter, quite well and would have known her again, no matter what sufferings she had endured. The younger, who had been only eighteen, he had seen once or twice but had never spoken to . . . surely this could not possibly be she? He searched his memory for her name, and she said, with conscious bitterness, “You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Lettice—Letty—Wheeler. The others—Amelia and my brother Godfrey—used to call me Pet.”

  Sick with pity, Alex reached for her hand. “Miss Wheeler, I’m thankful to see you—more pleased than I can begin to tell you, I . . . I had believed you dead, with your whole family. Your father—”

 
; “They killed my poor dear father,” Letty told him. “Before my mother’s eyes, when we reached the ghat. They hacked him to death with their sabers, as we watched. We were on the Nana’s elephant, Amelia and I.The mahout made it kneel and one of them shot my mother. Amelia and I were dragged down and . . .” her voice broke on a sob.

  “Don’t speak of it, don’t distress yourself,” Alex beseeched her. He led her to a chair and dropped to his knees beside her, still retaining his clasp of her hand. “It’s enough that you are alive.”

  She shook her head, bravely biting back her tears. “No, I must tell you,” she insisted. “So that you will know what I am, what I’ve become.Your wife was killed, wasn’t she? They told me she was.”

  “Yes,” Alex confirmed flatly. “They shot her and she died before the first boat left the ghat.”

  “She was fortunate, Colonel Sheridan,” the girl said in a shamed whisper. “I wish that they had shot me. But they did not. Two of the troopers took us, my sister and me. Amelia was brave, much braver than I, and my father had given her his pistol. I wasn’t there, I did not see it, but they told me what she did, how she killed the sowar who took her and then turned the pistol on herself . . . but I . . . I had no pistol and I was so terribly afraid.”

  In broken words and in tears, General Wheeler’s daughter told the story of her enforced conversion to the Muslim faith, which had enabled a sowar of the Light Cavalry—one of her father’s murderers—to take her as his wife. He had brought her to Lucknow, but, there, suspicion that she was an unwilling convert had put her in danger of her life and finally her husband had handed her over to Man Singh, with the plea that he protect her. He was among the rebel troops, Letty said, but she had not seen him for over a week.

  “His name is Mohammed Khan Aziz and he is a daffadar in the Second Light Cavalry,” she added. “And, after his fashion, Colonel Sheridan, he has been good to me. But I am a general’s daughter and a Christian . . . I cannot dishonor my father or forsake my faith, I . . .” she was suddenly overcome, and burst into a torrent of weeping.