The Sepoy Mutiny

by V. A. Stuart

  “Ji-han, Sahib,” the orderly acknowledged. He hesitated and then asked, “Are we to return to Adjodhabad, Sahib?”

  Alex shook his head. “No, we go to Meerut. I shall be ready in half an hour, Partap Singh, so do the best you can.” He stepped out of the box and Sultan whinnied again, pawing nervously at the straw beneath his feet, nostrils distended in sudden fear. There was a movement in the little crowd of watchers and a tall, powerfully built man in a knee-length achkan of military cut thrust an arrogant way through their ranks.

  “The horse is frightened, Sahib,” the newcomer volunteered. “Doubtless the stench of blood disturbs him. If the Sahib desires, I will walk him in the courtyard until he quiets down.”

  Partap Singh bristled indignantly at the suggestion but Alex nodded, a warning hand on his orderly’s arm. The tall man’s presence puzzled him; he was obviously not a syce or a servant—dress and manner precluded either calling—and, although he wore no weapons, he looked like a soldier. One of the deposed king’s recently disbanded Oudh cavalry troopers, perhaps, or one of the many small landowners, whose land had been taken from them under Coverley Jackson’s harsh administration. As if sensing the unvoiced question, the man gave him a dignified salaam.

  “My name is Ismail Khan and I came here seeking employment, Sahib. My own horse is tethered yonder.” He waved a hand towards the dark inner recesses of the stable. “I arrived only at nightfall, and with no roof over my head, I was given permission by the head syce to sleep in this building.” He untied Sultan’s head-rope and, handling the big horse with practiced skill, led him out into the courtyard, the crowd parting to let him pass.

  Alex followed him, still a trifle puzzled. The man’s story sounded plausible enough but he decided to ask a few more questions, in order to set his lingering doubts at rest. Ismail Khan was capable of inspiring the terror he had seen in the dead face of the unhappy Ram Dass, but why should a man of his type descend to murder, without apparent motive or gain?

  “Come,” he bade Partap Singh, “and bring the lantern with you.” The orderly beside him, he went out into the shadowed courtyard and waited, seemingly without impatience, until Ismail Khan led Sultan back to him. The horse was calm now, the sweat drying on his glossy neck.

  “This is a fine animal, Sahib,” the tall man said, with genuine admiration. He halted, gentling the horse’s muzzle with strong fingers and, by the light of the lantern, Alex subjected his hands and clothing to a searching scrutiny. Both were clean but there was, he saw, a long, curved dagger at the man’s waist, half-hidden by the folds of his cummerbund.

  “You carry a knife, Ismail Khan,” he stated bluntly.

  “Ji, Sahib.” Without hesitation, Ismail Khan took the weapon from his belt, unsheathed the blade and offered it for inspection. The finely tempered steel glittered in the lantern-light, innocent of stains. “See for yourself,” he invited. “It has not been used.”

  There would, of course, have been time for him to wipe and polish the blade, ample time, but to rid his hands and clothing of any telltale signs of guilt would have taken much longer and, indeed, could not easily have been done without attracting the attention of someone in the stable. Yet no one had reported it. Alex returned the dagger, his suspicions largely allayed.

  “What manner of employment do you seek?” he asked curiously.

  “Any employment, Sahib. I have a wife and children who cry out to me for food. I must provide for them by what means I can. The Company”—a gleam of anger flared in the deep-set eyes—“demands that I pay tax on my poor plot of land, but I have no money even to buy seed to plant there.”

  “Did not the king tax you more heavily?” Alex countered. “And did you not, in addition, have to give baksheesh to his agents?”

  “True, Sahib,” Ismail Khan shrugged his powerful shoulders disdainfully, “but the king gave me employment and I lived well when I was in his service. Now it is ended and those who served in the old rissala, as I did, are beggars living from hand to mouth.”

  So his guess had been right, Alex thought. He had placed the fellow correctly. Like many of his kind, the annexation had left him bitter and vengeful, feeling himself, perhaps with reason, the victim of injustice. A number of the ex-king’s soldiers had enlisted in the Company’s regiments, unwilling or unable to follow any other calling and presumably it was for this reason that Ismail Khan had come to Lucknow.

  “Sahib,” Partap Singh reminded him, “it will soon be light and if I am to find syces and prepare for the journey, as you commanded, there is not much time.”

  He was right, Alex realized. He felt in his pocket for some coins. “Give these to the head syce for the funeral rites, Partap Singh, and ask him if he can recommend two good men. Say I will pay them well and give them money for the return journey also.” He was turning away when Ismail Khan said unexpectedly, “Sahib, I will come with you.”

  “You? But you are not a syce.”

  “No, but I seek employment. I will serve you well, Sahib, and ask no more than you would pay a syce. You go to Meerut?”

  “‘Yes,” Alex confirmed, “I go to Meerut.” He frowned. It had not occurred to him to offer such menial employment to one of the ex-king’s sowars and his suspicions were momentarily rekindled, until the man added, in explanation, “I have a wealthy relative in Meerut, Sahib, who will make a place for me in his household, so it would suit me well to accompany you. And I will work, you need have no fear on that account.”

  Partap Singh said nothing, his expression carefully blank but when Alex invited his opinion, he answered with an indifferent shrug. “It is as you see fit, Sahib. If this man is willing to work, let him do so. It will leave me only one other to find.”

  Half an hour later, they were on the road, heading northwestward towards Sitapur and Bareilly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FROM the time the sun rose, the day became one of fierce, searing heat and what little breeze there was served only to raise the dust in dense, choking clouds from which there was no escape. Alex set a steady pace but well before midday the baggage horses had begun to flag and even the normally resilient Sultan moved listlessly, ears back and neck extended, showing the whites of his eyes as he loped reluctantly along the flat, dun-coloured ribbon of road.

  There was a storm brewing somewhere in the distant hills, which manifested its presence by the low mutter of thunder at intervals and, although it was still a long way off, it brought out hordes of vicious black flies to add to the discomfort of horse and rider alike. Anxious though he was to get as far as possible on his way before calling a halt, Alex knew that, with a seven-to eightday journey ahead of him, he dared not risk knocking up his horses at this early stage. He was looking about him for a suitable stopping place when Ismail Khan spurred his jaded animal to a level with Sultan’s shoulder and, ignoring a reproving glare from Partap Singh, waved a hand in the direction of a village about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  “Sahib,” he shouted, “I know this place well. There is a dak bungalow just beyond the village. Would it not be best to wait there until evening and continue on our way when the horses have been watered and rested?”

  The suggestion was a sensible one, in view of the threatened storm and, after a few moment’s thought, Alex gave his assent to it. They had covered only 25 of the 40 or so miles he had set as their daily target and a prolonged halt now—while it would enable the horses to recoup their strength—would mean riding through part of the night. In the present unsettled state of the country, no night journey was free of risk but … he hunched his shoulders and rode on. It was a chance he would have to take and he decided that it was justified.

  Although the vile assassin’s cult of thuggee had been suppressed, the Indian roads still had their quota of lawless robber bands, particularly in Oudh, where many of the dispossessed had lately joined their ranks to prey relentlessly on defenseless or unwary wayfarers. For this reason, the majority of travelers chose to suffer the heat and discomfort of da
ytime journeys rather than venture abroad after dark, when the danger of a hold-up was greatest. His own small party, however, was well armed and well mounted and thus less likely to invite the attention of any roving predators they might encounter than a party consisting of a few stout, slow-moving merchants, from whom little or no resistence might be expected.

  Reaching the dak bungalow ten minutes later, Alex dismounted with relief, pleased now that he had agreed to halt there. The rest house itself—like the thousands of others situated at regular intervals along the road—was cheerless and sparsely furnished, intended for the use of travelers who required no more than food and a temporary roof over their heads. But it was well shaded by trees, and a stream ran through the neatly tended garden. Two more than usually efficient servants served him tea when he entered, with the promise of a meal as soon as he was ready to eat it. He asked for bath-water, which was brought at once, and stripping off his sweat-drenched clothes he soaked himself gratefully in a tub of mammoth size until the khitmatgar came to tell him that his meal was ready.

  Clad in a clean shirt and trousers, he fell to with a keen appetite, finding the stewed chicken better cooked than his dinner of the previous evening. The vegetables served with it were fresher than those on Sir Henry Lawrence’s table. Pancakes and cheese followed the first course and the meal was rounded off with a bowl of mangoes, still warm from the sun, and a pot of strong, fragrant-smelling coffee. Alex was feeling refreshed and comfortably replete when, the coffee pot empty, he instructed the khitmatgar to call him at four and stretched himself full length on the charpoy that had been prepared for him in one of the darkened bedrooms.

  He ought, he knew, to study the letters Sir Henry had entrusted to him but the desire for sleep was suddenly overwhelming. He had had very little sleep during the past week and there would be time enough to read the letters before he arrived at his destination, he told himself, letting his heavy eyelids fall. It was only Thursday, for heaven’s sake. The earliest he could hope to be in Meerut was Friday, which would be May 8th, and then only if those damned baggage horses stood the pace, which they might well fail to do.

  Voices and the thud of hooves roused him briefly; he heard the khitmatgar ushering someone into the room next to his own—evidently more travelers had decided to break their journey at the rest house, Indians judging by the voices. He heard the khitmatgar addressing one of the newcomers obsequiously as “Bunnia sahib” and then the crash of thunder overhead drowned the voices and Alex drifted back to sleep, dimly conscious of a sense of relief because the storm had not caught him on the road.

  Partap Singh followed the khitmatgar into the room with his tea and he sat up, the mists of sleep clearing swiftly from his brain.

  “Is the storm over?” he asked, reaching for the teacup. Partap Singh put it into his hand.

  “Yes, Sahib, it is over. It has cooled the air.”

  “Good! Then we will ride through the night. I want to …” he broke off, noticing the glum expression on his orderly’s bearded face. “Is something wrong, Partap Singh?”

  “The Poorbeah, he who calls himself Ismail Khan—he has gone, Sahib, without a word.”

  “Gone?” Alex stared at him. “When did he go?”

  “I do not know, Sahib. He did his work, he and the other new syce, but it being Ramadan and he a Muslim, he did not eat with the rest of us. I did not see him go but when I went to order the horses prepared, he was not anywhere to be found.”

  “Well, he probably has friends, or relatives in the village.” Alex drained his tea and swung his legs to the floor. “Did you tell him at what hour we should depart from here?”

  The orderly nodded, avoiding his gaze, his own fixed miserably on the slowly moving punkah above their heads. “Sahib, that is not all.”

  “What is not all? What else is there?”

  “The man has not gone alone, Sahib. He has taken the Sahib’s horse.”

  Alex swore, loudly and angrily. He had owned the big black Arab since his return from the Crimea and, apart from having paid a high price for the animal, he had become deeply attached to him, riding no other.

  “Perdition take the infernal fellow! How could he have taken the horse? Did you not hear or see him?”

  Partap Singh shook his turbaned head shamefacedly. “I slept, Sahib. He it was who was guarding the horses. He offered and I … Sahib, the blame is mine. I did not trust the dog. He had that in his eyes which made me doubt him. I should not have permitted him to remain alone with our horses but I was weary. And he had been engaged for that purpose, he was the syce I told myself, and so I left him.”

  Alex controlled his anger. “It was not your fault, Partap Singh. Rather it was mine, for I engaged him.”

  “Shall I go to the village, to see if any trace of him can be found?” the orderly offered.

  “No, the villagers will tell you nothing.” Alex got to his feet. “He is known there, he told me that. They are probably all hand in glove with him. But I shall have to procure another horse, I suppose.” Partap Singh assisted him to don his boots.

  “The man left his own horse, Sahib, together with the Sahib’s saddle,” he said doubtfully, “Shall I …?”

  “Yes, saddle the brute for me,” Alex ordered resignedly. “I shall have to make do with it. All right, off you go, Partap Singh. I’ll be with you as soon as I have settled with the khitmatgar.” The orderly gathered up his discarded clothing, made a neat package of bedding-roll and saddle-bag and went out noiselessly. Alex completed the buttoning of his jacket and strode into the adjoining dining room, calling for the khitmatgar.

  The man came running, a second tea-tray in his hands. “If the Sahib will wait for one moment,” he begged. “I have just to take this but”—he nodded in the direction of the table—“the chitti is there, Sahib, with all accounted for, if you will permit me to take the Bunnia Sahib his tea.” He parted the door curtain of a bedroom next to the one Alex had occupied and vanished behind it, only to reappear a few moments later, his return heralded by the clatter of breaking china as the tray fell from his shaking grasp. “Sahib!” He was gibbering with fright, his words tumbling over each other and barely comprehensible. “Come look, I beg you! Something terrible has befallen the Bunnia, he … I fear he is dead, Sahib! Murdered as he slept!”

  With a sense of unpleasant foreboding, Alex went into the room. It was dark, as his own had been, the shutters closed, and he flung them open to admit the afternoon sunlight. He knew, almost without looking, what he would see and his gaze traveled reluctantly to the opposite side of the room. The plump, darkskinned body of his unknown neighbor, naked save for a loincloth, lay spread-eagled across the bed, limp and motionless. He approached it and saw, as he had guessed he would, that the wideopen, staring eyes held the same look of frozen terror that had been in the eyes of Ram Dass earlier that day. This time, however, the killer had left proof of his identity—if proof were needed—in the hilt of the dagger which protruded from the dead man’s smooth, hairless chest. Alex looked at it and, leaving it where it was, pulled the sheet up so that it covered the Bunnia’s face. He returned, grim and tight-lipped, to where the khitmatgar waited.

  “Bring me pen and paper,” he bade the shivering servant. “And then call my orderly, the Sikh, Partap Singh.”

  The man obeyed and, seating himself at the table, Alex started to write. When Partap Singh came breathlessly in response to the summons, he told him in a few brusque, explicit words what had happened and sent him to the Bunnia’s room to see for himself. The khitmatgar, joined now by two of the dead man’s servants, stood apprehensively at his elbow, watching as he wrote but making no attempt to interrupt him, all of them seemingly struck dumb. Partap Singh came from the bedroom, his eyes blazing and Alex put down his pen and asked quietly, “What did you see?”

  “I saw the knife of the evil one, Sahib—he who calls himself Ismail Khan—thrust deep into the heart of the poor merchant. But I think, Sahib, that it was meant for you.” From som
e instinct of caution, Partap Singh spoke in his native Punjabi, instead of the Hindustani he had learnt to use during his service in the Bengal army, and the servants looked at him blankly.

  “Tell them the name,” Alex said, “and then append your mark to this report I have written.” The orderly did so; Alex signed and sealed the sheet of paper and addressed it to the district magistrate. Then, rising, he gave it to the khitmatgar. “Send one of the Bunnia’s servants with this to the Kotwal Sahib at once. It contains the name and a description of the killer and of the horse he was riding.”

  “His horse, Sahib?” the khitmatgar echoed. “But surely the horse—”

  “He has stolen my horse,” Alex told him curtly, offering no other explanation. That Partap Singh was right he did not doubt. The knife had been intended for him but, in the dim light of the shuttered bedroom, Ismail Khan had mistaken his victim. And presumably, in the belief that he had left Sultan’s owner for dead, he had taken the horse and fled.

  “Is the man a dacoit, Sahib?” one of the others ventured.

  “He may be, I do not know. But he killed your master, I have no doubt of that and, if and when he is apprehended, I can identify him. I have told the Kotwal Sahib this and that I am on my way to Meerut. When I return, I shall seek for him. … I cannot, alas, delay my journey to do so now.” Alex counted out the amount of his bill, gave it to the still ashen-faced khitmatgar with a generous addition and, motioning Partap Singh to follow him, went out to where the horses were waiting. A ragged boy was, he saw, assisting his sole remaining syce and Partap Singh said apologetically, “The chokra is willing to ride with us, until we can find a man. I engaged him, subject to your approval, Sahib.”

  The boy salaamed and, as Alex walked over to the raw-boned country-bred that had belonged to Ismail Khan, he knelt, offering a thin brown hand to give him a leg-up into the saddle. The animal snapped at him ill-temperedly but he did not move. “I can manage by myself,” Alex assured him. “What is your name, chokra?”