by V. A. Stuart
“My regimental … Colour,” the wounded man whispered faintly. “The sepoys of my company … gave it to me before they deserted. I had it … wrapped round me when … one of the 38th … fired at me from the … Main Guard. My men … two companies of them … did not offer me violence. They waited … all day for … the British troops from … Meerut but they did not come. I—” He attempted to raise himself but Alex gently restrained him.
“Don’t try to talk, sir,” he advised.
“It can do me … no harm, sir. I’m … done for, I’m afraid. But you … my wife and daughter—if you could save them, I … would be more grateful than I … and the Colour. You … you’ll take the Colour, won’t you, when I—”
“Of course, sir,” Alex assured him. The wound had, he saw, opened again, as his wife had feared it would and a glance told him that it was mortal. He was endeavouring to tighten the bandage when the girl, dressed now in a muslin gown that had once been white, came to relieve him of the task. She was very young, seventeen or eighteen, at the most, and he marvelled at her calm competence as she deftly secured the bulky dressing, smiling down at her father as if she had not a care in the world.
“There, dearest Papa, that’s better. I’m going to tie my sash round you, to make sure this doesn’t slip again. And then …” the sash in place, she kissed his pale cheek and rose. “We will get you into the carriage and drive on to Meerut. It can’t be very far now and when we get there the surgeons will make up for my clumsiness and have you well again in no time. You—” her eyes met Alex’s and he was shocked by the pain they held, although she went on smiling and her voice was steady and controlled. She continued to smile and to talk encouragingly as, between them, they helped her father into the carriage. “You ride with him, Mamma,” she suggested. “He should not be alone.”
Her mother, drying her tears, got in beside the wounded man, pillowing his head on her lap. The girl squeezed her hand, then reached for a pistol which had been hidden somewhere in the interior of the carriage and offered it to Alex.
“It will save you reloading yours,” she said practically. “I could not find it, when those men from the village surrounded us. But if I had, I …” she stifled a sigh. “Shall I drive and you sit on the box beside me? Then you’ll have your hand free if they … if they come after us.”
Alex nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She reminded him of Emmy, as she had been when he had taken leave of her in Windsor, on the eve of his departure for India, never expecting that he would see either her or her elder sister, Charlotte, again. This girl, whose name he did not know, had something of Emmy’s childlike candor, her earnestness and certainly her courage, he thought, conscious of a pang as he watched her take up the reins. She had probably never driven a horse and carriage before but no one would have guessed it as she whipped up the horse and the clumsy vehicle started to move forward at a snail’s pace along the uneven, rutted track, its sorely tried springs creaking in protest. Thank God that Emmy had been spared the ordeal that this poor child had endured. For all her protests, he was thankful that he had persuaded her to go to Calcutta.
“Better head across country,” he told the girl, as Ghulam Rasul mounted his own horse and trotted after them, shaking his head to Alex’s mute enquiry. “This track leads to the village and I think we had better give it a wide berth. As soon as we can, though, we’ll return to the road, so as to save your poor father too much jolting. Bear left towards those trees.”
She followed his directions without demur. “How far is it to Meerut?”
“About twenty miles. Perhaps a little more. But don’t worry, we’ll see you get there.”
“If those men don’t come after us. Do you—do you think they will?” He shook his head and saw her smile. “Well, at least we’ll give a better account of ourselves, with your help, than Mother and I were able to … and once it’s light, they won’t dare to attack us, will they?”
Daylight might bring worse perils, Alex reflected grimly. The news of Delhi’s fall must have spread like wildfire and now, unless General Hewitt sent out patrols to search for and aid the fugitives, those who were unprotected and unarmed might find every man’s hand against them. But surely even Hewitt could not have failed to send out patrols?
“Our name is Patterson,” the girl volunteered. “My father is Major Patterson of the 54th and I’m Lavinia.” Alex introduced himself and she bowed solemnly in acknowledgement. “Your daffadar— I noticed his uniform—isn’t he of the Light Cavalry, the—the ones who caused all this trouble?”
“Yes, Miss Patterson, he is … but he has remained loyal and, indeed, he saved my life, not once but twice. You may trust him completely.”
“I’m glad that one of them stayed true to his salt, Colonel Sheridan. My father’s sepoys stayed with him all day at the Kashmir Gate, you know. If the British troops from Meerut had come, he says that they would not have mutinied.” There was a catch in her voice. “Why didn’t Meerut send us help? Didn’t they know what was likely to happen? Didn’t they even try to stop the mutineers from reaching us?”
“I cannot tell you, Miss Patterson,” Alex evaded, his tone carefully expressionless. “I don’t know the reason for the general’s decision or what steps were taken after I left.”
“But you were there, were you not?” Lavinia Patterson persisted. “There was a rumor that all the British troops in Meerut had been wiped out. I heard it, when Mother and I were in the Flagstaff Tower but none of us could believe it. Two thousand British troops—the Rifles, one of the best regiments in the British army … we all agreed that it was impossible. It was, wasn’t it? I mean, they weren’t all killed. The mutineers didn’t defeat them, surely?”
“No,” Alex confessed reluctantly. “They were not defeated and they suffered no casualties that I am aware of. Some of the Company’s officers were killed but …” He gave her a brief account of what had happened in Meerut and saw her small, grave face pucker in bewilderment.
“Then why, Colonel Sheridan? It’s only 38 miles and—”
“I honestly do not know, Miss Patterson. But no doubt we shall learn the reason when we reach Meerut.” Alex called to Ghulam Rasul, anxious to change the subject, and when the daffadar trotted up, they agreed, after a whispered consultation, to return to the road, now plainly visible in the moonlight and not more than half a mile distant. Mrs Patterson replied reassuringly to his enquiry as to her husband’s condition and he said, more in an attempt to keep the girl’s spirits up than because he really believed it, “We’ll probably meet a cavalry patrol soon.”
“Do you really think we will?” She spoke bitterly.
“I’m sure there’s a good chance of it. In any case, the road is the most likely place to find one and, for your father’s sake, the sooner we get on to a smoother surface, the better.”
“Yes, of course.” She applied her whip across the tired horse’s quarters in a gentle flick, clicking her tongue to it encouragingly. “Poor old Rastus! We usually have two horses to draw this carriage—a matched pair that Papa was so proud of—but the coachman stole them and Rastus was the only one left. He’s my hack, not a carriage horse at all, really, but he’s done very well, hasn’t he?”
“He has indeed,” Alex agreed warmly. He laid his hand on her arm. “And so have you, my dear child.”
She flushed and was silent until Ghulam Rasul signed to her to pull up under cover of a clump of trees, while he trotted ahead to reconnoitre the road. Then she asked, in a whisper, so that her mother should not hear, “Colonel Sheridan, do you think there’s any chance that my father will live? If we get him to Meerut, I mean?”
The question caught Alex off guard. She was looking at him, he realized, her blue eyes very direct and searching as they met his and he knew that he could not fob her off with a half-truth. “It’s a nasty wound,” he said. “And he’s lost a good deal of blood. I’m no surgeon, of course, but I would not rate his chances very highly, I’m afraid. Where there’s
life there’s hope, though.”
“Thank you,” Lavinia answered, as if he had conferred a favour on her. “That was what I … what I thought.” Her lower lip trembled but she controlled it and went on, her voice flat and devoid of emotion, “The road is more dangerous than the way we’ve been going, isn’t it—unless we meet a cavalry patrol?”
There were goojur villages close to the road from which, in the present state of affairs, danger might be expected. Alex shrugged. “We’re more easily seen, that’s all, but there’s not much in it. On the credit side, your father will not be so badly jarred and we should be able to travel a little faster on the road.”
“He would not want you to risk your life, Colonel Sheridan, just for the sake of his comfort. I know he wouldn’t. So if you—” Alex cut her short.
“My daffadar’s giving us the all clear, Miss Patterson,” he pointed out. “So I think we’ll try the road for a bit. But thank you for your suggestion.” Again he found himself admiring her courage. “Perhaps,” he added, smiling, “if you asked it of him, your old Rastus might be able to raise his pace a little. How about it, eh?”
Her smile echoed his, although her eyes were brimming. “I’ll ask him,” she promised. “But I’m afraid he hasn’t a trot left in him, poor old fellow.” She leaned forward and, in response to her coaxing, the weary horse managed a few yards at a shambling trot and then lapsed back into its former labored gait, head down and breathing hard.
“I think I’d better lead him,” Alex said. “We’ll have to find some water for him, if we can.” He had given the water-bottle to Mrs Patterson and he saw, glancing into the rear of the carriage, that she had used its contents to moisten a cloth for her husband’s brow. He walked to the horse’s head and started to lead it when Ghulam Rasul, observing their plight, turned back to join them. Slipping from his saddle, he poured the little that remained in his own water-bottle into his shako and held it out, and the old horse drank greedily.
“This horse cannot go much further, Sahib,” he warned, lowering his voice.
“I don’t think it can,” Alex agreed. He did not want to call a halt but knew that he would have to, before long. If the carriage horse collapsed, they would have only Ghulam Rasul’s charger, which was not harness-trained. “Look for somewhere where we can rest, daffadar-ji,” he ordered, shaking his head to the man’s offer to take his place. “No, I’ll lead the horse—you’ll be more useful as you are, you’ve got two hands. Keep your carbine handy and go ahead of us. We’ll need somewhere with enough cover to hide the carriage.”
The daffadar replaced his shako and climbed stiffly back into the saddle. “Take care, Sahib,” he cautioned anxiously. “There are some bad villages about here and I fear that not all the goojurs will be sleeping.”
The darkness swallowed him up and the sound of his hoofbeats had scarcely receded when there was the flash of a musket from the road verge. Whoever had fired had taken careful aim and Alex was conscious of a sharp, stinging pain in his right shoulder. But it was slight and he did not register the fact that he had been hit because the next moment the carriage was surrounded by a score of leaping, shouting figures, armed with clubs and knives, and he had just time to pull the girl down from the box before they were upon him and he was fighting for his life.
“Run!” he bade her urgently and, when she still lingered, he thrust the pistol she had given him into her hand. “In God’s name, Lavinia, get under cover and use this if you have to! The daffadar will come back. Wait for him.”
One of the attackers dived beneath the horse, his long dagger raised to hamstring the animal and Alex fired the Adams at point-blank range and saw him fall back, the dagger clattering to the ground. He brought down two more, who were attempting to climb into the carriage and Mrs Patterson, with a smothered cry, struck out at a third with the carriage whip, before the mob wrested it from her and she went down under a hail of blows.
The Adams had only one shot left in it but Alex used this to good effect on the man with the flintlock, recognizing the evil, pock-marked face as he fired. Those swine from the village they had left must have followed them, he thought savagely, bringing the butt of the pistol down on to the fellow’s head, as he slithered, wounded but still dangerous, to the ground at his feet.
With the loss of their leader, the attackers seemed momentarily to lose heart and he managed to get the horse moving again while they hesitated, engaged in a shrill-voiced argument at the edge of the road. He drew his sabre, brought the flat of it down, none too gently, across the horse’s quarters and released its head, praying that, of its own accord, it would continue along the road. He was turning, the sabre raised awkwardly in his left hand, when he glimpsed a flash of white a few yards from him and realized, to his dismay, that the girl was coming back in defiance of his injunction to hide herself.
“No!” he yelled at her. “Get away from here, Lavinia! There’s nothing you can do. You—”
She ignored his frantic plea. Running to the horse’s head, she seized the rein and brought the carriage to a standstill, calling out breathlessly over her shoulder, “There’s a British cavalry patrol coming! Your daffadar’s bringing them to … help us!”
Alex heard the drumming of hoof beats, coming rapidly nearer and then an English voice shouted an order. He lowered his sabre and breathed a prayer of thankfulness, feeling some of the tension drain out of him. The goojurs heard and recognized these sounds, too, and vanished, slinking into the shadows like jackals hearing the roar of a tiger. Only their dead remained when the patrol clattered up. Their dead and … Lavinia Patterson went to the rear of the carriage, mounted the step and turned away with a little broken cry, to bury her face in her hands, even her courage not proof against what she had seen there.
Alex took a pace towards her, sick with pity but one of the newly arrived officers was before him, slipping from his horse to enfold her in comforting arms and he halted, as two of the others rode up to him, calling his name in mingled astonishment and relief.
” My God, sir, I’m glad to see you!” Henry Craigie dismounted to wring his hand and he recognized Hugh Gough behind him, grinning broadly, with Ghulam Rasul at his side.
“Not nearly as glad,” Alex told them, his voice not steady, “not nearly as glad as I am to see you, my friends, believe me!”
“It was by the grace of God that we came,” Gough said, his smile fading abruptly. “We’re a volunteer patrol, sir, composed mainly of Company’s officers, who now lack regimental employment. But you, I see, have brought one of our regiment back?” He gestured to the daffadar.
“The only one, I fear,” Alex said. “And I owe my life to him twice over.”
Craigie unstrapped a flask from his saddle and offered it. “The most appalling rumors concerning the situation in Delhi have been filtering through to us all day and we set out—with the general’s grudging consent—in the hope of disproving them.” He broke off, to stare into Alex’s white, exhausted face, the light of horrified understanding slowly dawning in his eyes. “Are the rumors true, sir? Is Delhi now in the hands of the mutineers?”
“Without a single British regiment to stand in their way, they had only to walk in,” Alex answered bitterly. “To be received by the king with open arms and joined by the native population and most of the Delhi Brigade. Oh, yes, Delhi is now in the mutineers’ hands all right!” He controlled himself and went on, his voice expressionless, “I failed to get there but the two people in that carriage were among the fugitives and the poor child who is weeping for them is their daughter. You’ll find the 54th’s Colour wrapped about Major Patterson’s body.” He gave brief details and heard Gough swearing impotently beneath his breath. “They waited all day for the troops from Meerut, while the mobs indulged in an orgy of slaughter and then, when the regiments that might, with British backing, have stood firm, finally deserted them, they had no choice but to flee. I could not answer the question they asked me but perhaps you can. Why, in the name of all humanit
y, gentlemen, were no British regiments sent from Meerut?”
The little group of officers looked at one another in unhappy silence and then Henry Craigie said, an edge to his voice, “I am afraid that only General Hewitt can tell you that, sir.”
Cold fury caught at Alex’s throat. “You mean that General Hewitt deliberately refused to … ?” He could not go on.
“Colonel Custance and Colonel Jones, together with Major Tombs, of the Bengal Artillery, pleaded with him for over an hour, sir, and at least a score of junior officers volunteered to go to Delhi in any capacity,” Gough said. “But he simply would not listen. I believe he told Colonel Custance that he considered it his first duty to provide for the protection of his own station. After that, he refused to see any of them!”
The others confirmed this incredible statement and Craigie added, his mouth tight, “As to protecting Meerut, Colonel Sheridan, he didn’t do that very effectively either. While his entire force was ordered to bivouac in The Mall, my wife and I, with Alfred Mackenzie and his sister, were hiding in a Hindu temple less than a mile away, with a mob from the bazaar hunting high and low for us. We only escaped from them at dawn, when Hugh Gough and a few volunteers came to our rescue. We owe our lives to the sowars who hid us in the temple before they left for Delhi, and to my old bearer, who brought us a couple of sporting guns from the bungalow with which to defend ourselves! But to General Hewitt—” He sighed, in remembered frustration, and went on cynically, “There are, I understand, a number of mutinous officers in Meerut at this moment, who would consider the loss of their commissions a small price to pay for the satisfaction of telling the divisional commander, to his face, what they think of him. But he’s barricaded himself in his house, with sentries posted on the door, and left General Wilson to cope with complaints. And Wilson won’t issue any orders without his authority!”