“Go ahead, captain.” Colonel Mills kept his back to the officer.
“Em… We have a bit of a problem with Rai, sir, he is making a fuss in his cell, he says his father is ill, unconscious and that he, em…” The captain cleared his throat. “He demands to see you, sir, he demands an interview with—”
“He demands! He demands an interview!” Colonel Mills swung around, his face white with rage. “He demands an interview…!” He stopped, breathing with difficulty and in the glare of the bright sunlight the captain was shocked by how much events in the past week had aged him. The once plump, ruddy features had become pallid, the flesh hanging in loose folds around his neck and jowls. “That boy should have been taught a lesson years ago!” he shouted. “Bloody upstart! He demands…!”
The captain took a step backward. “Sir, I don’t think…”
“I want that man’s property confiscated! I want his family removed from their home… I want…” He stamped across the room and yanked open the door, hollering into the anteroom. “Sergeant! Sergeant!”
The captain pressed himself against the wall, the force of Colonel Mills’ anger almost physical; it knocked him back. The thought that he should take the colonel’s orders momentarily crossed his mind. The sergeant was a thug and his party of men were little more than hooligans. But he dismissed the idea. The brutality of the past week had turned his stomach; he didn’t believe in an eye for an eye. He wanted no part of it.
“Bloody sergeant! Bloody anus of a man! Where the hell is he?” Colonel Mills strode back to the table and took up his stick, cracking it violently down on the edge before tucking it under his arm. He didn’t realize the captain was still in the room and was talking to himself. “I’ll have those fucking darkies if it’s the last thing I do…” he muttered vehemently and, turning to leave, he walked straight out of the room without even seeing the other man.
* * *
“Open up! Open up!” The sergeant thumped continuously on the door with the end of his truncheon, making a hell of a noise. He smiled as the wood started to give way and cracked under the force of the blows. “Open up I said! It’s the British Army!” His truncheon went through, the top panel of the door splitting down the center. “Open up in there!” He saw the door rattling as someone on the other side attempted to unlock it and he couldn’t resist giving it another smack, just to let them know he meant business.
Indrajit Rai’s bearer fumbled anxiously with the bolts inside as his mistress stood behind him. They had kept the house locked up, despite the heat, ever since the master had been arrested, afraid every waking moment of the soldiers’ return. But now that it had happened, Mrs. Rai was oddly calm. She had suspected that this was inevitable and she would face her fate with dignity.
Like her son, Mrs. Rai had no faith in British justice, she had seen in the past two weeks that they were as bad as any other nation when it came to greed and power. They had arrested her husband and her son, killed them for all she knew, and now they had come for their property. She had hidden what she could, taken the valuables she could find, but she had no clear idea of what her husband owned; she could not hide everything.
“Hurry up in there!” The sergeant kicked the door, impatient with the bearer’s slow-handedness. “Get a bloody move on!” he shouted, kicking again. He was a bully, with a deep hatred of Indians and he relished the job in hand: he could hardly wait for the door to open. “’Bout time!” he snarled as the last bolt gave way, and aiming his foot at the center of the door, he smacked it open with the full force of his boot. The party of soldiers were inside in a matter of seconds.
Knocking the bearer down with a violent crack of his truncheon, the sergeant grabbed Mrs. Rai, tearing her arm up behind her back and shoving her through the house toward the bedroom. She made no sound, though her face had crumpled in pain. There he pushed her on to the bed, held her down with his knees pinned to her chest and ripped at her sari, yanking it away from her hips and thighs. When he had exposed her, her flesh red and scratched from the struggle, he stood back and sneered at her shock and humiliation. “I wouldn’t touch you,” he spat, “you filthy native!” and, as she began to sob with relief, he slapped her hard across the face and left her slumped on the bed.
The rest of the house was being ransacked. As the sergeant came out of the bedroom, he put his foot up the bare ass of one of the soldiers raping the ayah and laughed. The young woman was sobbing silently, her eyes wide open and blank with fear and pain. He joined another of the men in the study and started emptying the contents of a bureau, hurling books, papers, anything he found of no value across the room. The things he wanted he chucked into a sack they had brought for that purpose; any money he pocketed.
It took less than an hour to work through the house and leave a trail of total devastation. The sergeant took the sack and loaded it on to the wagon outside, leaving the men to take the last of what they wanted from the bungalow. When he had done that he gave the order to leave. If he’d had his way, he’d have torched the place, but for some reason the colonel wanted it left. He glanced back at their handiwork and smiled. If he’d had his way, there’d be no fucking Indians left in this God-forsaken place.
Colonel Mills dismounted and tied the reins of his horse to a tree. He walked up the rest of the drive toward the bungalow, hardly remembering it from the night of the party, and climbed the steps up on the verandah. It seemed an age ago he had been here with his wife. He stood, looking into the broken remains of Indrajit Rai’s home and, for the first time in seven days, he smiled, a bitter sardonic smile. This was what he wanted, this was justice.
He took the small gold and jeweled bird his men had looted from the house out of his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked down at the uncut stones, the smooth polished rubies and diamonds, gleaming in the evening sun. Alicia would have liked this, he thought, it was a perfect example of Rai’s workmanship. He closed his fingers around it, clutching it so tighdy that it dug painfully into his flesh. Alicia was dead and buried, what was left of her, along with the rest of them. Alicia would never see it.
Turning, Colonel Mills stepped down off the verandah and walked away from the house. The deathly silence of it pleased him. He untied the reins of his horse and glanced back before mounting. He would execute the Rais the day after tomorrow, before the new command arrived, he would not let them deny him that. That was really what he wanted, he thought finally, that was justice.
5
THE CAMP WAS DESERTED IN THE MIDDAY SUN, JUST AS NANDA knew it would be. As he approached its boundaries with his carriage, the driver drew to a halt and he stood, as if he had spotted an eagle up in the sky, and pointed it out to the driver. He gave his men exactly enough time to crawl out from under the coach and into the grounds of the camp. Then, a couple of minutes later, the first part of the plan complete, the carriage pulled off and continued on to the guard at the entrance, where Nanda made a request to see the colonel at his pleasure.
Within the quarter hour, permission was granted for this visit and Nanda rode along the main thoroughfare toward the officers’ mess, his eyes averted from the sight of the small wooden crosses marking the graves that were littered throughout the camp. He was ashamed of the mutiny but he understood it and he knew that Colonel Mills had gone too far in his reprisals for the massacre.
The driver set him down at the officers’ mess and Nanda gave him instructions to wait. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time with the colonel so they’d have to move quickly. Straightening the sleeves of his sherwani, Nanda nodded to the sergeant on the door at the mess and, hoping he could stall the colonel long enough, went inside to await his interview.
The prison block was a building directly across from the officers’ mess, a lucky coincidence for Nanda. As he went inside, his driver jumped down from the carriage and leaned back against it, his eyes on the soldier Nanda had indicated.
“Psst… Psst, soldier,” he hissed. “I have something to show you.�
�� He smiled and brought out a bundle from the folds of his trousers. He held it up, a packet of postcards, and saw he had the sergeant’s attention. “Over here…” he whispered, nodding to the back of the carriage. “I have nice photos…” again he smiled, winking, “nice photos of girls, white girls…”
The sergeant stood, a flicker of excitement licking the pit of his stomach, and, leaving his desk, he went out into the sun and followed the driver to the back of the carriage.
“Show me,” he said, reaching for the packet of postcards. He wasn’t going to pay unless they were really good. But the driver held on to them as he’d been told to do and untied the bundle himself. Squatting on the ground, his back to the prison block, he laid the first of the pornographic pictures that Nanda had given him on the ground so that the sergeant had to squat beside him to see it He watched the man’s face very closely and, seeing he had his full attention, he gave the signal behind his back, and began to display the rest of the packet, very slowly, one by one.
In a matter of seconds, Nanda’s men were inside the prison block. The guard was taken out with a sharp blow to the back of the neck, his keys removed and the Rais’ cell located. He would be unconscious for only a few minutes; they had to be swift.
“Indrajit Rai?” The first man unlocked the door while the second kept watch. “Indrajit Rai…” His voice was arely audible for fear of the other prisoners overhearing. He cracked open the door, covering his nose and mouth against the stench of the cell Jagat looked up. He had been kneeling by his father’s side, cooling his brow with the last of their water and as he saw the man, he struggled to his feet, his legs weak.
“Malika Shuker! Praise the Gods…” His voice broke. ‘My father… he is too ill… he—” The man gripped his arm to stop him, putting his hand over his mouth.
“We will come back tonight for you,” he whispered urgently. “Not now, Nanda is in the camp, he would be suspected now, arrested…” The man pulled a knife from his elt. “Here! You must call the guard in tonight, when you near the eagle cry… you must use this…” He glanced nervously behind him. “Be ready, after dark, we will not be able to get in again but we will be waiting. The ground at the back will be clear to the boundary, run across there, keep ow, we will have you covered. Listen for the eagle…” He et Jagat go and moved back to the door. “That is the signal… when you hear that it is clear…” There was a groan from the guard as he began to come around, the man started. The eagle,” he hissed. Seconds later, without another word, he was gone.
Jagat ran to the door but it had been relocked. He fell against it, groaning and slumped to the floor. With the other man there might have been a chance, with his help he might have done it. But he would never get out of there alive carrying his father, he would never make it to the boundary in time. He put his hands up to his face and closed his eyes. How could he leave his father here? He dug his fists into his eyes, trying to stop the tears of anger and frustration. How could he do that?”
“Rai?”
He started and swallowed painfully.
“Rai? Answer me!”
The small panel in the door was slid back and the guard looked into the cell, checking the prisoners. “Rai?”
Jagat glanced up and called out hoarsely. The guard moved on. He never usually did his round until dusk but he had dropped off to sleep, gone out like a light in the afternoon heat, waking with his head slumped on the desk. It was something he had never done before and it made him nervous. Satisfied that everything was in order, the guard went back to his post and Jagat listened to his heavy footsteps recede. He stood, rubbing to try and relieve the ache in his legs, and walked across to his father.
I can’t leave him, he thought, kneeling and dipping the rag into the water, I know I can’t. A pain of sheer desperation shot through him. But, as he put his hand on Indrajit’s brow, he realized that he would have to.
His father was dead.
“Mr. Nanda, I really don’t see what this petty ruling of the maharajah’s has to do with me!” Colonel Mills sat at the head of the long dining table in the mess and glared down the length of it at the Indian. If he’d had his way he’d have thrown Nanda into prison along with the rest of them but the man was too highly connected, not just in Jupthana but across the country; the colonel didn’t dare. “I would appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time!” he growled.
Nanda bowed, one eye trained on the window. “But colonel sir, the maharajah wishes your approval. He would not like to be seen to be doing—” Nanda broke off. He caught sight of the sun glinting off a piece of polished silver in the distance and breathed a sigh of relief. “He would like to be doing right at all times, colonel sir.” The signal had been given, the first half of the plan was complete. “Perhaps I can assure him that is so?” He had managed to talk for some length about practically nothing and was now eager to be away.
“Yes, yes, man! If that’s what this is all about, then yes! For God’s sake be done with it and leave me to get on with some work!”
“Oh, thanking you most kindly, colonel sir!” Nanda bowed, backing toward the door. “Thanking you for your time.” He glanced up and saw that the colonel had already dismissed him. He took no offense. He’d gotten what he came for, fifteen minutes of the colonel’s time wasted, and smiling to himself, he turned and left the room.
It was black. A low, thick cloud covered the sky, obscuring he moon and stars, cutting out the light, and it was silent, the heat and air trapped close to the ground making it humid and still.
Jagat Rai sat, his father’s hand in his, the flesh white and cold as he looked through the bars on the small window at the ink-blue sky outside. He waited. He had no idea of the time, or how long he had held his father like that; he was conscious of nothing but the silence. The silence enveloped.him. He was listening so hard for the eagle that his whole body strained and it seemed the silence would go on forever.
Then he started.
The cry came twice. The first time it was muffled, smothered by the cloud, the second time it was high and clear almost as if the bird circled overhead. It was the signal; they had come for him. Jagat looked down at his father. He leaned forward, kissed the icy brow and stroked it with his fingertips. Then he stood, took the knife from his belt and went to the door. He banged, thumping his fists hard against it, and shouted for the guard. He called out that his father was dead, knowing this was the only way the door would be opened and positioning himself, he held the knife ready. As the man came into the cell, Jagat gripped him from behind, and swiftly and silently cut his throat.
Nanda waited. He sat by the roadside with his bearer in the cover of the trees and glanced every few minutes at the horizon. They were forty miles west of Moraphur where the border of Jupthana met the next state. From there it went on to Balisthan and out of British jurisdiction. They had everything ready.
The next time he looked out he saw the dust. Spurring his horse forward, he made off in that direction, leaving the bearer with the spare mounts, and, nearing the riders, he slowed to a trot, realizing there were only two.
“Jagat?” He drew alongside his friend’s son. “What’s happened? Your father?”
Jagat shook his head. He couldn’t look at Nanda.
“Dead?” Nanda reached out to touch the boy. “What…?” He saw the pain in Jagat’s eyes and broke off. “Come,” he said, “you need to rest a while…” Turning the horse, he led the way back to the bearer.
The bearer had set a pot of water over a fire and Jagat sat near it, the firelight illuminating his face, a face much older than its seventeen years. He drank his tea in silence, conscious of the relief to be able to drink without guilt. Unlike his father, Jagat had eaten to keep alive, every mouthful tasting foul in the knowledge that it was deeply against his religion.
Nanda watched him as he drank, his own sadness at the loss of his friend mixed with a deep pity for the boy. He had secured him a future, with the help of the maharajah, but it was nothing compa
red to what he had lost. The British government would requisition his inheritance and he would never be able to set foot in the state again. He had escaped execution but Nanda was still not sure if that was preferable to a life of shame.
“Jagat?” The boy looked up. “It is time for you to go. You must be out of the state before they find you have gone.”
Jagat stayed where he was. “But my mother, where is she?”
“She is safe, Jagat,” Nanda answered. “She is in hiding with one of the maharajah’s relatives. She will wait for you to send for her.” He stood. “Please, Jagat, you must leave!”
Finally Jagat nodded and slowly got to his feet. Nanda walked with him to the horses while the bearer stamped out the fire and began covering traces of it. The two men faced each other, then Nanda embraced his friend’s son.
“Jagat, you must avenge the gods for this murder,” he said quietly. “You will find a way.”
Jagat held on to Nanda and the years fell away; he felt like a child again. “I know…” his voice broke. Moments ater, he turned away.
“Here.” Nanda handed him a small leather pouch. Your papers, letters from the maharajah, money…” He waited while Jagat checked through the information, then he held out a small cloth-covered bundle. “Jagat, after the soldiers had gone, your mother, when she went back to the house…” He saw the boy flinch at his words, hit by the sudden realization that his home had been ransacked. He topped and gave him a little time. “This,” he went on, a few moments later, “she found this, she wanted you to have it.” He removed the cloth and held a small jeweled bird in the balm of his hand, one of a pair and probably the most beautiful thing Indrajit Rai had ever made. Jagat took it. “The other one had gone, but this was…”
“This was all that they left me!” Jagat suddenly spat. This!” He closed his hand over the bird and clenched his list. “This…” He looked up at Nanda. “This is the British justice that my father believed in,” he said quietly. Nanda heard the icy anger in his voice and his heart leaped. The boy would need that anger.
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