by V. A. Stuart
Graves gave him no answer; there was, he thought bitterly, no answer to give. They were hauling down the Union Jack from the Flagstaff Tower; even de Teissier’s last two guns were coming back to the city, in the hands of their native drivers and, further along the Ridge, he did not doubt, the guard of the 38th would be breaking open the magazine. He set his face to the north and rode on, shoulders bunched and head bowed, praying that he would be able to make good his promise to return.
In the Kishnagurh Rajah’s house, forty men, women and children who had fled there from the carnage of the Darya Ganj, still held out bravely, without water or food, defending themselves with sporting guns and hog spears—and even stones and kitchen knives—against several thousand frenzied besiegers. They were not all British, many were Eurasian clerks, with skins as dark as those of the mob outside but theirs, although they did not know it, was the last pocket of British resistance left in Delhi. It was to last for two hot, endless days and, a week after their honorable surrender, they were all to be dragged out and publicly butchered by the king’s sons to celebrate a Mogul victory.
“Sahib … Sahib! Waken, I beg you, Sheridan Sahib!”
Alex heard the voice but did not recognize it. He opened his eyes dazedly, conscious of pain. Shafts of sunlight slanting through the foliage above him set his head throbbing; the light hurt his eyes and he closed them again but a hand shook his shoulder, gently at first and then with rough urgency, and the voice continued to call to him by name.
“Sheridan Sahib, it is not safe for you here. I must take you to a safer place. Waken, Sahib. Hear me, I beseech you. There are wicked men roaming the road, budmashes who would rob you and slit your throat. Terrible things have happened in Delhi this day, things I would gladly forget if I could, for I have had a small part in them. Waken, Sahib. If you would live, you must waken!”
Alex made an effort to answer, his own voice sounding like that of a stranger—a stranger, as this man who knelt beside him appeared to be, this man who was nevertheless calling him by name. His vision cleared a little and he stared up into a dark, bearded face, the hair of the beard grey … an old man, then, dressed in the white chuddar of a civilian, yet the face was a soldier’s face beneath the green turban. Stern, even cruel, with the hawk-nose and black, somber eyes. Damn it, who was he? Why had he come when … memory returned.
“Daffadar—Daffadar Ghulam Rasul!”
Relief lit the dark eyes. “Ji-han, Sheridan Sahib. If you would endeavour to sit up … we must go from here, you understand.”
Assisted by the daffadar, Alex dragged himself into a sitting position, the sky whirling about him and nausea catching at his throat. The sun was setting, he noticed. Dear God, for how long had he lain here? He had been on his way to Delhi, in darkness, when the sowars had attacked him—on his way to Delhi, with the note General Wilson had scribbled, to warn the commander of the Delhi Brigade that the three regiments which had mutinied were also on their way. But that, heaven help them, had been the previous night. The mutineers must have reached Delhi by this time unless, of course, Hewitt and Wilson had sent the Carabineers and the Rifles to stop them. Wilson had said that nothing more could be done until daylight but they had had twelve hours of daylight—time enough for the cavalry and Horse Artillery, at any rate, to have got there. Rosser’s two squadrons had fresh horses. He felt in his waistband. Archdale Wilson’s note was still there.
“Delhi,” he managed hoarsely. “Ghulam Rasul, what has happened in Delhi?”
“Terrible things,” the old daffadar answered. “Of which I fear to speak, Sahib. The sowars of my paltan were seized by a madness, the like of which I have never before seen.” He shivered and again urged Alex to try to get up. “I have a horse, tethered by the roadside. If you can get to your feet, Sahib, I will fetch it and—”
“Wait,” Alex bade him sternly. “Have the lal-kote cavalry and the Riffel-ka-paltan reached Delhi?”
The old man rose. He shook his head almost angrily to the question. “No, Sahib, none have left Meerut that I am aware of … perhaps they come now but I have seen no sign of them on the road.” He helped Alex to his feet, holding him in strong arms as he swayed dizzily.
“Why did you come back to me, daffadar-ji? You could have stayed in Delhi.”
Ghulam Rasul eyed him in silence for a moment. Then he sighed. “I have served the Company for twenty years, Sahib, and I have taken pride in my service. An old dog cannot learn new tricks and I … I am too old to learn what I should have to learn, were I to stay in Delhi. The men I commanded have become arrogant madmen, seeking only to kill, like butchers, not as soldiers. They rode through the Darya Ganj sabreing every white passer-by they could see, women, children, even babes in their mothers’ arms. I have no stomach for such slaughter and I …” he smiled briefly. “I had the Sahib on my conscience. Last night you could have taken my life but you did not, Sheridan Sahib, even though I gave it to you.”
“You hit me an almighty blow with your carbine,” Alex reminded him. He put up a cautious hand and felt the swelling at the back of his head ruefully.
“I had no choice,” Ghulam Rasul answered. “If I had not done so, the others would have cut you to pieces. I told them that you were dead and carried your body to conceal it among the sugar canes. But I did not think I had struck you too hard. I came back to make sure that you were not dead, Sahib.” His smile faded and he frowned up at the darkening sky. “I will get the horse. There is no time to be lost. The Sahib is fortunate that he was not seen by those of the infantry paltans who passed by in the night … and still more fortunate that no villagers found him before I did.”
He vanished and Alex moved a few uncertain paces after him, still dazed and finding difficulty in holding himself upright. Just beyond the edge of the canes, he saw the carcass of a horse, already almost picked clean by a flock of scavenging vultures and, a few yards further on, the remains of what had once been a man. That body might well have been his, he thought, sickened, as three or four of the noisome birds, clumsy in their satiation, took wing reluctantly at his approach. But Ghulam Rasul had struck him with calculated force and, before leaving him, had fashioned a protective screen of cane stalks to hide him from both human and animal scavengers. He sighed, feeling the lump at the back of his head again, as the daffadar came towards him with a lathered and weary horse.
“The Sahib’s pistol,” the old cavalryman said, holding out the Adams. “I took it last night.” He bent, offering his hand. “If the Sahib will mount, we can be on our way. My horse is tired but he will carry us both a few miles from the road.”
As they set off across country at a shambling walk, Alex again questioned his rescuer about the happenings in Delhi and, in a low, shamed voice, Ghulam Rasul gave him an account first of what he had seen and then of what he had learned from others. It was a terrible story; worse, infinitely worse than he had expected and, as he listened, Alex found himself wondering whether this was a nightmare, imagined rather than real, an ugly dream from which he would wake, looking up into the dusty tops of the sugar cane, still with the night before him in which to carry his warning to Delhi. He dismissed the hope; Ghulam Rasul’s account was too detailed, too factual to be a figment of his imagination.
He told of the audience with old Shah Bahadur and of how, once they had gained his promise to embrace their cause, the mutineers had taken possession of the palace, ousting the bodyguard which, after admitting them, had gone with a mob of the king’s rapacious retainers to join the scum of the bazaar in an orgy of killing and looting.
“They tethered their horses in the courtyard, watered them at the royal fountains, Sahib,” the daffadar said. “Showing little respect, even to the emperor himself. Some of them spread their bedding rolls on the marble floors of the inner chamber and lay down to rest. Others attempted to raid the harem, firing their carbines into the air if any said them nay. The Begum and her son, Janna Bakht and the other princes, offered them encouragement but I—I could not st
omach such conduct, so I returned to the city. I saw the sepoys of the 54th shoot down their officers at the Kashmir Gate, aided by our men, and later I saw them destroy the Christian church of the sahib-log and set it on fire.”
“Did all the sepoys of the Delhi regiments join in the mutiny?” Alex asked.
“Not quite all, Sahib. Many of the 74th remained true to their salt and two companies of the 54th also … until they saw that it was hopeless. All the sahib-log are gone from cantonments and from the Ridge. The sepoys who were with them saw them go on their way unharmed before they, too, went to join their comrades in the city. …” The old daffadar’s voice droned on, telling of fresh horrors, fresh humiliations but Alex scarcely heard him, his numbed brain unable to take in any more.
If General Hewitt had acted as any general worthy of the name would have acted, he thought bitterly, this might not have happened. If he had sent even half the British troops under his command in pursuit of the mutineers at once, when Charles Rosser had offered to lead them, how many lives might have been saved, how much tragedy averted!
“Let a mutiny succeed in Delhi,” Sir Henry Lawrence had said. “And it will be the signal for an uprising all over the country, from the Afghan border to Calcutta. …” Well, the mutiny had succeeded in Delhi, due largely to Hewitt’s incompetence. Dear heaven, why hadn’t Archdale Wilson taken those letters seriously, why hadn’t he listened to Lawrence’s sage advice? Rosser’s two squadrons of dragoons, a Horse Artillery troop and even two companies of the Rifles, under the command of Colonel Jones might have been sent 24 hours ago and, with British troops behind them at the Kashmir gate, the 54th would not have cut down their officers! Even if they had reached Delhi after the mutineers, the small force he and Rosser had visualized might have deterred many of them from entering Delhi and could have held the Ridge and the magazine, until the Rifles arrived to support them.
But now, if Lawrence was right, every ploughshare in Delhi would be turned into a sword and all India would rise against the British Raj. Delhi was the key and it was in the hands of the plotters; in hundreds of stations where there were only native troops, the pattern would be repeated in all its tragic horror. The very ease with which the ancient capital of the Moguls had been taken would inspire contempt for British authority and British military prestige, and the sepoys would rise in Adjodhabad, in Cawnpore, in Allahabad and throughout Oudh—perhaps even in Lucknow, where Lawrence had only one British regiment, heavily outnumbered. He must return to Lucknow, Alex told himself, but first he would go back to Meerut and add his voice to those who, he was certain, would now be demanding that General Hewitt should take action, however futile and belated it might be. If every man in the Meerut garrison died in the attempt, it would be a small price to pay for the recapture of Delhi and the attempt had to be made, if all India were not to be lost. He felt the sweat break out on his brow, as he heard Ghulam Rusal voice his own bitter conclusion.
“Sahib, we expected that the lal-kote soldiers would pursue us. Throughout the night, we listened in fear for their coming. We posted men on the road and on the Bridge of Boats to give warning of their approach, so that we might take flight before they attacked us. Why did they not come, Sheridan Sahib?”
“I do not know, Ghulam Rasul,” Alex answered. “Before God, I do not know. But they will come, of that I am sure.”
“They will be too late,” the old daffadar said, with conviction. “My comrades and the people of Delhi will not yield to them now. And other paltans will rise and march to their aid. The day for the uprising is not yet, it was planned for the end of this month but when the news is spread that Delhi has fallen, I tell you, Sahib, they will all rise.”
Lawrence’s prophecy, Alex thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. The weary horse stumbled and he asked, with genuine concern, “Daffadar-ji, why do you stay with me? You have saved my life, you have done all and more than I have the right to ask of you. Why do you not return now to your comrades?”
“I told you, Sahib. I am too old a dog to learn new tricks. I will stay with you, if you will permit this, and serve you. If need be, I will die with you. I ask only that when we reach Meerut, you will not send me back to the prison from which I made my escape.”
“You have my word on that, Ghulam Rasul,” Alex promised. The old man slid from the saddle. In the darkness, he held up his hand and Alex took it, sealing the bond.
“The horse tires, Sahib,” the daffadar said quietly. “I will walk for a while, to ease him of his double burden.”
They halted when the animal could go no further. Ghulam Rasul removed the saddle and, like the good cavalryman he was, rubbed the poor creature down with wisps of grass, tethered it to a tree and went in search of water.
“There is a village not far from here. No doubt there will be a well. Rest, Sahib, for you, I think, are also very tired. I will be as quick as I can.”
Alex did as he had suggested. He was still feeling the effects of the blow from the carbine and his head was throbbing unmercifully, so that he was grateful for the respite and lay down beside the tethered horse. Often in the past, he had lain down to sleep on the open ground or made camp at the roadside, anticipating no danger from villagers living nearby and he anticipated none now—the villagers were simple ryots, peaceful cultivators of the soil who, even if tempted by avarice, were usually afraid to rob a British officer. He lay between sleeping and waking, glad just to close his eyes and let his aching muscles relax and he did not move when he heard voices coming towards him, supposing that Ghulam Rasul had returned from the village with some of its inhabitants, perhaps bringing food with them.
Then, as the voices came within earshot and he was able to make out what they said, he felt a sudden chill about his heart. A woman’s voice, an English voice speaking halting Hindustani, was pleading for mercy. “We are wounded … weary from walking. You have our carriage and the horse, our money … even our clothes. Please let us go. We are from Delhi, we have suffered enough. We seek only to reach Meerut. Help us and you will be rewarded. You …”
She was brutally silenced and Alex sat up, feeling for his pistol, every sense alert now, yet—in that moment—more stunned than shocked by the realization that an Indian peasant had dared to strike a British memsahib.
“All the sahib-log in Meerut are dead, how will they reward us?” The question was insolently phrased. “Likewise in Delhi, it is said, the streets run with their blood, and the Company’s Raj is over. All will die, sab lal hogea! Why should we spare you?”
On his feet, crouching low, Alex moved swiftly. He could see them now in the light of the torches some of them carried. There were about eight or ten villagers, two of whom were leading a battered carriage, drawn by a single horse. The woman whose voice he had heard was grey-haired, clad only in a torn shift, hatless and barefooted and behind her, evidently badly wounded, staggered a man, stripped naked save for a blood-soaked bandage wound about his chest, leaning heavily for support on the arm of a girl with long, flowing fair hair.
She replied to the ryot’s taunting question with a quiet, dignified courage which impressed Alex deeply as he heard it.
“If it is your intention to take our lives, then kill us here,” she bade the man, her Hindustani fluent and accentless. “We can offer no resistance. But do not humiliate us by taking us as we are to your village, for your women to mock our nakedness. We have not deserved that of you and you would shame yourselves if you do it.”
One of the villagers raised his hand as if to silence her in the same ruthless manner as her grey-haired companion had been silenced but Alex took aim at him and the crack of the pistol was followed by a shrill scream of pain as the man rolled over, clutching his shattered arm. The two who were leading the horse relinquished its reins and ran for cover, too frightened to look back; one, the only one who was armed with a flintlock, brought his weapon to his shoulder and as quickly lowered it, when he saw that the pistol was leveled at his head.
“We meant no h
arm, Sahib,” he whimpered. “We did but jest. Truly, we could not have hurt the sahib-log, we—”
“Cowardly dogs! Misbegotten curs, back to your kennels!” Alex roared at them, beside himself with rage. “Defilers of women, why should I spare you? Give the memsahibs their garments and then go from my sight before my pistol speaks again!”
They quailed before the fury in his voice and, when Ghulam Rasul ran from the darkness to stand by his side, the chuddar opened to reveal his uniform, even the owner of the flintlock took to his heels, crying out a terrified warning that the soldiers had come to seek vengeance on them for what they had done.
“Our clothes are in the carriage,” the girl said. “I will get them.” Gently she lowered the wounded man to the ground, whispered a word of reassurance to him and crossed to the carriage, walking like a queen in the mudspattered petticoat that was her only covering. The older woman dropped to her knees beside the prostrate form on the ground, shaken by sobs, and when Alex picked up one of the discarded torches and carried it over to her, she thanked him brokenly.
“My husband has been very badly wounded—a musket-ball in the chest. I … I fear that there is little I can do for him. He … we were taking him in the carriage, you see, but they made him leave it and walk. If the bleeding has started again … poor soul, he has endured so much pain, I—”
“Permit me to look at the wound, ma’am,” Alex requested. She yielded her place to him, bravely biting back the tears as Ghulam Rasul, carbine in hand, crossed the intervening space to offer him one of the water-bottles he had filled.
“It will not be wise to linger here, Sheridan Sahib,” he said, lowering his voice. “It is a big village. They will come back when they find out how few we are. I will keep watch and call to you if they come.”
Alex nodded his understanding and bent over the wounded man, holding the water-bottle to his lips and noticed, as he did so, that the bandage wound about his chest was unusually bulky and that a braided scarlet cord held it in place.