Nightrunners of Bengal

by John Masters

  They were safe for the moment. He’d make an opportunity to get Caroline alone soon and tell her to be ready-to move tomorrow night or the night after. She was looking desperately worried these days, and never let him out of her sight until he was safely into his room and she in hers.

  He’d better pump these people and see if he could find out the latest news before he made his plan. He said casually, “Does no one ever come to Chalisgon, headman? Travellers, tax collectors, agents of the Rani?”

  “Sometimes--but we always know at least a day ahead because there’s only the one jungle trail. And the tax man has just been. He said it was a special levy and ruined us. There’s nothing more to be sucked from us now, so no one else will come till the cold weather.”

  “We could all die here,” the bannia said, “and the Rani and the Dewan wouldn’t care--except that then there wouldn’t be any crops to confiscate.”

  “There’s not much now after you’ve finished with us,” muttered one of the old gnomes, while his brother snickered. The bannia waved his hands and protested volubly. “I have to live, and feed my family, don’t I? My interest’s fair, isn’t it? There’s a lot of risk in lending money to idle drunken old men, like some I could name----“

  The head man stopped him with a laugh. “All right, babu-ji, all right; he only meant it in fun. How could we afford to have proper weddings without you?”

  The bannia grumbled into silence, and the priest said slowly, “I have heard something. The Rani’s army and the sepoys from Bhowani are gathering in Kishanpur. They will march for Gondwara in a week or two.”

  A mosquito whined in Rodney’s ear. He slapped at it and pretended to look for the corpse in order to gain time and steady his voice. With careful nonchalance he asked, “Will they come through here, do you think?”

  “I have heard so. This is the shortest route; the trail comes out on to the Deccan Pike this side of Gondwara. But have no fear, sahib; we will hide you well.”

  Rodney was silent. He must not show anxiety, or the wretches might summon courage to murder them on the spot. He wondered why the priest had let out the rumour at all, but saw on reflection that it was the safer course for a man posing as a friend. It would have been disastrous for his pretence if Rodney had overheard the news elsewhere in the village.

  He decided to probe a little deeper, with care and cunning. He’d hardly mentioned the mutiny since arriving here, and the villagers had been careful to avoid the subject. Now he knew what they were waiting for and felt strong enough to risk it; there were things he ought to find out and tell the general. He noticed that the women had stopped talking to listen.

  “Tell me, my friends, what do you hear of this mutiny? What do you think about it? Tell me honestly---for are you not the true people of India?”

  That was good; his voice had been warm and solicitous, and they would like being called his friends. The headman and the bannia would certainly die the night that he left; perhaps the priest too--perhaps not.

  The headman answered slowly. “We hear that the sepoys betrayed their salt and murdered many English everywhere, shamefully killing women and children. It was a curse on them. We saw the chupattis and the flesh pass, and talked about it many nights in this room. We did not know then for whom the curse was intended. Now we know; it was for the sepoys. We dare not think of the tortures they will suffer hereafter. But perhaps they will win in this life, because we hear there are hundreds of thousands of them and few English.”

  Rodney scowled. “There are hundreds of thousands of English soldiers coming over the sea. There will be blood for blood, a gallon for a drop--and burning for burning, a tree for a twig.” But he saw in their faces that to them power had no existence unless it was present and effective. What could they know of the sea? He caught his breath and said quietly, “Do you want the sepoys to win? Do you think it is not right for the English to rule India?”

  He used the word Hindustan for India because there was no other in common use, and because among the educated it was a convention that it should have that meaning. He saw at once from their puzzled looks that here Hindustan carried its narrow, true meaning--the upper valley of the Ganges.

  He thought the bannia knew what he had meant, but the headman said in a surprised voice, “Hindustan, sahib? Why should you not rule Hindustan, in particular? We hear there are many lands before you reach the Himalaya or the Black Water--Bengal, Sind, Punjab, Carnatic, Deccan, Konkan-- we do not know all the names, or where they are. We hear they are all ruled by foreigners--English here, Mahrattas there, Afghan Mohammedans somewhere else. We do not know whether it is right, but that is how it is.”

  The bannia took up the tale. “It is like this, sahib. Here we do not care who rules us as long as he rules well. All men are foreigners to Chalisgon except men born in Chalisgon, as all of us here were. We would like best to be left in peace, but that is not possible, because the world is full of tigers and we are poor starving goats. Someone must protect us and give us peace.”

  The twins snorted in unison at the bannia’s description of himself as a starving goat. The talkative one continued in his vile accent. “Someone’s got to do it, and we pray it’ll be the English. The villages beyond the Kishan--only thirty miles away--they’re under the Commissioner-sahib at Bhowani. There a man can’t rob and murder as he likes even if his uncle’s cousin is a friend of the Dewan’s.”

  “Death and taxes we cannot avoid,” said the priest, “but there the taxes are low and regular, and the clerks in Bhowani very reasonable in their extortions.”

  Rodney nodded. “I understand. You of Chalisgon have been good to us. What can I tell the great ones that this village needs most? When we have deposed the Rani you too will be governed by a Commissioner-sahib.”

  The headman swivelled the hookah round, drew tobacco smoke mixed with charcoal fumes into his lungs, and looked at the ceiling. “Water--like the great Dellamain Commissioner-sahib of Bhowani promised the villages across the river. He has been killed, we hear. Who had not heard of him? Water for irrigation. There is a ruined dam and a silted lake five miles from here up our little stream.” He nodded towards the back of the house. “It is called Naital, and the old good rajahs built it--oh, two hundred years ago and more. They made irrigation channels for this village and the ones lower down, and many miles of thorn scrub were then crop land. Now it is in ruin, and we have no water when we need it. The Dewan will do nothing; our taxes go for other necessary things, he says--elephants and armies and the Rajah’s splendour in Kishanpur. It is just that a rajah should live in splendour, even as you sahibs do, with many servants-- and it is just that we should have some water. Then we would be happy, most of all if the Commissioner-sahib came often to hunt here, or you officers came with your soldiers and made a great show. Then we could see the mighty ones enjoying the proper splendour, and so enjoy it with them. Then we would be happy.”

  The others joined in; Rodney listened with half an ear and threw in a word here and a question there to keep them talking, just as though their clownish pretences really interested him. All the while he was sharply alert in himself, and thinking competently. May the twenty-sixth today: the monsoon would break on Gondwara about June the twentieth. He’d better allow a week’s latitude and get there by the thirteenth at the very latest. The enemy would probably attack on the twenty-third because of Plassey. Since arriving in Chalisgon he had had time to think, and the more he thought the more the importance of the battle to be fought for Gondwara impressed him.

  The city was old, rich, famous, and an important religious centre. It was the last city before the border of Bombay Presidency, and it had once belonged to the Rajahs of Kishanpur. It was the site of a ford across the Nerbudda River which could be used all year except during the monsoon; the Nerbudda was unbridged throughout its length as far as he knew, and the other fords and ferries were not so important.

  He looked at his hands, and the rifle in them, the weapon of a common soldier. His tr
ousers were torn, and his shirt dirty; he shaved every day with a piece of glass picked up on the roadside; he had no sword or silver accoutrements or silver blazon; his hands were scarred and thin and the fingernails edged with black. But he rode on a desperate mission; if empires ever hung on one man’s skill and courage, this English empire hung on his. He had not thought his great day would be like this, and glowered under his eyebrows at the naked savages round him, and the women, and the smoky ceiling.

  To work; he had to think. Here in Chalisgon they were about a hundred and twenty miles from Gondwara. If they set out tomorrow night, the twenty-seventh, they should get there by the third or fourth of June. That would give Sir Hector ample warning, and time to make his plans for dealing with the Bengal regiments of the garrison. The general would be wise to hold his hand until the last moment; then he’d have to root out treason, and disarm and execute them all. It would be a pleasant duty to watch and supervise.

  Everything was clear at last. He’d explain to Caroline as soon as he got an opportunity. In the house the headman or his fat wife eavesdropped of course, through the walls. He’d think of some excuse to get her outside.

  She had left the other two women and come over to the men’s circle; the villagers were used to her ways by now and made room for her. At first they had been so dumbfounded that they lost their faculties and couldn’t understand her simplest words. Now they were pretending to be pleased to answer her questions.

  She said, “Do any of you know the Silver Guru?”

  The priest said, “The Silver Guru of Bhowani? Yes, indeed, miss-sahiba, I know him well. All our people revere him. He is a great teacher and a holy man. He has travelled through here once or twice in the past year.”

  Rodney eyed them narrowly. They really believed the Silver Guru was holy, and would follow wherever he led. He wanted to shout out that their wonderful Guru was an Englishman and the dirtiest traitor in history; but Caroline caught his eye and very slightly shook her head. She was right of course; what use to tell them when they were already committed to the enemy? He’d do better to keep his mouth shut and pretend he knew nothing.

  He’d thought of an idea to get Caroline alone and turned to say politely, “Headman, I’ll go out again tomorrow and kill a deer or two for the village, if you like.”

  They all froze. But he wasn’t going to give them another chance to send an assassin with him, and he added quickly, “I won’t need anyone to come with me, except the miss-sahiba--if you’ll send some men up the stream and across, to drive the deer down towards me.”

  They relaxed, and the headman said in a trembly voice, “Certainly, sahib. We will be grateful.” Rodney saw that he was looking at Caroline. Caroline said evenly, “Yes, it is a good idea. I will be with the sahib, all the time.”

  Clever girl. Good girl. She’d caught on; she was warning them not to try and murder him alone, because she would be guarding his back. They wouldn’t dare to touch Robin or Mrs. Hatch while he was out for fear of what he would do when he came back; he’d have the rifle.

  A woman called from the courtyard, and the headman went out. Rodney waited, caressing the rifle, and when the man returned after five minutes scrutinized his face carefully. There had been a long mumbling out there, and he didn’t like it. The headman squatted down near the priest and whispered to him. The priest pulled at one protuberant ear, frowned, and shrugged his shoulders.

  Rodney could not contain himself; he’d startle them into some admission of guilt. He snapped, “What is it? Why do you look worried?”

  The headman glanced at the priest before answering. Then he said, “Cholera, sahib. It started yesterday--the night before last. We have been keeping the news from you because we did not want to alarm you. We hoped it would touch lightly and go quickly, as it sometimes does. But now I think it will not pass from us until we have been severely punished. Three have died already, and more are sick. That was another the woman told me of--my father’s brother.”

  He stared despondently at the floor. The priest got up and folded his arms. “You had all better leave us at once. It will be dangerous here in a day or two. The air will be foul everywhere.”

  Rodney pursed his lips. Perfect! He could tell at once that they were speaking the truth, though of course he’d look at the burning ghats later and make sure. Perfect! The biter bit! The poor superstitious fools believed that the cholera was a punishment for their sin in plotting to murder the refugees. They’d be glad now to see them go, alive. Now he could lead Caroline, Robin, and Amelia Hatch to safety, and leave the village to a fate more dreadful than even he could have devised for it. After that only Piroo would remain to be dealt with.

  He said easily, “I’m afraid you’re right. But I’ll kill some deer for you tomorrow before we go. No, no, don’t think of dissuading me. It is the least I can do for you.”

  “Thank you, sahib.” The headman had tears in his eyes, and joined his palms in front of him in the gesture with which an Indian acknowledges a great favour and kindness. Rodney forced a yawn, although he could have hugged himself with excitement, and got up to go. Caroline opened her mouth, but this time it was his turn to motion her to be quiet. The poor girl looked ready to faint. He said nonchalantly as he passed by her, “Not now. Tomorrow.”

  Then he was in his room, whistling through his teeth and cleaning his rifle by the light of a tallow lamp. He did the things that had been his routine in Chalisgon every night.

  He fitted the bayonet on the end; it was more difficult to sleep with the rifle in his arms if the bayonet was fixed, but much easier to deal with a sudden attack by, say, half a dozen men. He peered into the huge wardrobe and prodded about among the hanging pelts with the bayonet. No one there. He had collected stones from the brook the first day; he arranged them in the bed so that they looked like the hump of a body. He lay down in a far corner. Ten minutes later he was asleep.

  21

  On the plateau in the dawn the air was translucent and warm, the greys tingeing to gold as the sun rose. There was a brittle dryness in it, and in the trees, and in the crackle of the leaves under their feet. Caroline did not speak on the way up, but looked at the sky and the trees and smelled the morning air, and walked as though it were her last walk.

  Soon he found a rocky outcrop from which they could see both ways but were concealed from the south, the direction he expected the deer to come from. He found a flat stone for her to sit on and settled down beside her. There would be no game for an hour yet unless another herd, or a solitary sambhur, crossed the forest in their field of view. He wetted his finger and tested the wind; the air was moving very gently from them towards the beaters. That was bad, but it usually veered when the sun came up. Anyway it must be so loaded here with human smells from the village half a mile behind that perhaps the deer were accustomed to it. Also, as they had not been hunted much, perhaps they would not be alarmed. He looked carefully around--no one in sight.

  He turned on Caroline with shining eyes. “At last. We’re in sight of safety. They daren’t try to kill us until the Rani’s army comes, and we’re going to slip off tonight with Piroo and leave them to the cholera. Then, as soon as we’re well on the way, I’ll shoot Piroo, and we’ll be safe. Safe in Gondwara, by the third or fourth of June!”

  He smiled down at her; his heart was bounding. She said nothing, but looked at him with huge eyes. He understood; she had been his well of strength and now she was empty, drained by the idea of safety. Safe, safe. He tasted the word and said tenderly, “Cheer up, Caroline. You’ve been so strong--wonderful--but you can rest now. All our enemies are dead or are going to die. Prithvi Chand”--she blinked and turned her head away--”yes, he’s dead, I killed him. And that young devil here they sent out to murder me. There’s only Piroo now, and the rest will die of cholera. God is with us, dear. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

  He’d never seen her cry before. Tears crept down her cheek; she looked away still, so that he saw the curve of her cheek
bone. The sari lay crumpled on her shoulders; her hair, mat and lifeless, fell in disorder on her neck.

  He could not bear it, she was so forlorn and lost. He put one arm carefully round her and comforted her. “There, there, it’s going to be all right.”

  She trembled in the crook of his arm. He felt her muscles tighten, her trembling still. Her head came up and round to face him. “Rodney, do you realize that you are insane? Do you know that when you look at people your eyes are like the Dewan’s? Even sometimes when you look at me, or Mrs. Hatch? Anybody--except Robin, or I’d have shot you long ago.” Her voice ached but was steady and firm. “You do know it, don’t you? You see murder and plots where there is only friendship. No one blames you; I felt the same for a little time. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  He let his arm fall and hung his head. So she had been deceived too. He’d have to save them all in spite of themselves. He’d better humour her for the moment. His eyes widened in surprise and he said, enunciating carefully, “Now come, Caroline, you know that’s a ridiculous notion. You know they’re really traitors, all of them. You’re just trying to keep me from worrying. But it’s you who are overtired now.”

  She put one hand on his. “Rodney, don’t. Everyone in the village knows you killed that wretched young man. The dogs found his body the next day. His mother’s a widow. She asked the headman to do nothing to you, not even to tell you, because you had been greatly afflicted by God and couldn’t help it.”

  He gripped the rifle and stared into the blurring forest. Why didn’t the beaters hurry? Why did her voice ache? Why was it so low?