by M. M. Kaye
Sir Henry said: ‘Only one night? That is not long. You’ll stay here, of course.’
‘I would like to, sir, if you are sure—’
‘Oh, Mrs Daly will arrange it. You need not worry. She is in charge just now. I cannot think what I am to do when she leaves me, but her husband is selfishly removing her on the thirteenth. Daly is off to take over command of the Guides.’
Alex turned quickly: ‘Is that true? Congratulations, Harry, I had not heard. You always were a lucky devil. Pleased?’
‘Who wouldn’t be! But I could wish it had come at any other time. It is hard to have to leave Lucknow just as Sir Henry arrives.’
Sir Henry smiled. ‘My dear Harry, don’t think that I do not appreciate the compliment, but as I told you before, you could not dream of refusing the finest appointment open to a soldier.’
Alex said: ‘You couldn’t try pulling a few strings, sir, so that he can stay on here and I can go instead?’
Sir Henry looked at him reflectively. ‘I might try, though it would not have a particle of effect. But would you really go if it did?’
Alex returned the look, and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘No, sir.’ There was an odd note of bitterness in his voice and Sir Henry nodded understandingly: ‘I did not think so. Not at this time.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Well, if you will all excuse me, I must go. I’ll see you later, Alex. When you have had your wigging!’
The conversation had become general after his departure, but although Alex had borne a part in it he had appeared distrait, and Winter found that he did not even glance in her direction. Looking at him across the wide table she was filled with despair. Nothing had changed. She might just as well have never come to Lucknow - have never left Lunjore. She had found no solution to her problems or her unhappiness or her love for Alex. Perhaps there was no solution. And no answer except fortitude.
Alex had left at the conclusion of the meal, and she did not see him again until he entered the crowded drawing-room just before dinner that night. She thought that he looked tired and cross, and she would have given much to have been able to go to him and run her fingers over his forehead to smooth away the frown lines as he had once done to her at Hazrat Bagh. She wondered what he had done that had annoyed Conway sufficiently to send for him to Lucknow at a time like this, and what the interview had been like? The fact that her husband had been unable to see him at eleven o’clock in the morning had not been lost upon her: Conway must either have given or attended a late party last night. She hoped the latter, for the picture of a motley crowd composed of the least reputable members of the British community carousing in the cool stately rooms of the Casa de los Pavos Reales was a singularly unpleasant one.
Winter had not seen her husband since her arrival at the Residency. He had announced his intention of driving over, but he had not done so, and she could only be thankful for it. This was the first time since the day of her wedding that she had not been under the same roof as Conway, and she found the relief it occasioned her more than a little frightening. Was it really going to be possible to spend the rest of her life in the company of a man whose absence brought her such infinite and blessed relief? Could marriage really be regarded as a sacred and binding sacrament under such conditions?
‘Perhaps it is my fault,’ thought Winter. ‘Perhaps if I tried very hard I could make him care for me, which might turn him from the sort of life he likes to lead. If I tried—’ But then to Conway, love meant only lust. It would be easy enough to make him lust after her, but when he had satisfied that lust he would care no more for her than he had in the past. Mr Barton regarded women with a single mind. They were either physically attractive, or not. It was as simple as that. Eastern opinion held that women have no souls and are put into the world solely for the use of men; to pleasure them, serve them, bear their children, and (on behalf of the devil) to tempt them from the paths of duty and righteousness. Conway Barton would have been found to be in complete agreement with these views, and he loved only one person: himself.
Winter had come to see this quite clearly, but nevertheless she had thought again and again during those few peaceful days at the Lucknow Residency that perhaps if she tried hard - if she forced herself to swallow her disgust of him and fought against the shrinking of her flesh at the very thought of his touch - she might gradually wean him from the vices that were rotting his mind and body. Yet now, looking at Alex Randall across the candle-lit table at the Residency, she knew with a helpless and despairing certainty that she could not do it. Not while she could not even look at Alex without a contraction of the heart.
There had been a large dinner-party that night, and from his seat at the head of the long table Sir Henry’s bright, tired gaze had wandered from one to another of his guests: noting the lack of interest or means of communication between many of his British guests and their Indian neighbours, and the animated three-sided conversation between young Mrs Barton and two Oudh nobles, one of whom sat on either side of her. She at least would not lack friends if the need arose. But of how many others could this be said? As for her husband, Sir Henry could only be thankful that there were few officials of his stamp in India, but it embittered him to think that the harm one such man could do easily outweighed all the good performed by twenty able ones.
His gaze moved on to Alex Randall and rested there with affection and approval. These were the proper men to govern the country. Men who would keep the peace by mixing freely with the people and doing prompt justice in their shirt-sleeves, and who did not consider jaghirdars and pensioners as nuisances and enemies, but felt themselves doubly bound to treat ex-foes with kindness because they were down … and because they still retained influence among their own people. Once, nearly nine years ago, Alex had said hotly in the course of an argument: ‘No, I don’t believe in a divine right to govern! But I do believe that now we’ve got this country it is up to us to govern it to the best of our ability.’ He was probably still of the same mind, mused Sir Henry, and he possessed the right kind of ability. He must find an opportunity to talk with Alex after the guests had gone.
But it was not until the last carriage had driven away shortly after eleven o’clock, and the house-party had dispersed to their own rooms, that he found himself alone with Captain Randall in the cool darkness of the high verandah whose tall, supporting pillars stood black against the moon-flooded garden.
‘Well, Alex?’ inquired Sir Henry after an appreciable interval of silence.
Alex turned from his contemplation of the white lawns and the tree shadows. ‘Far from it, sir. Will you forgive me if I omit the reasons for my visit here? I do not feel capable at present of discussing them in a rational manner.’
‘In fact,’ said Sir Henry softly, ‘if anyone were now to offer you command of the Guides you would return a different answer to the one you gave me this morning.’
Alex gave a short laugh. ‘If anyone were to offer me any post whatsoever that would enable me to return to regimental duty, I should accept it!’
‘Oh, no, you would not,’ said Sir Henry placidly. ‘If you think that, you know less about yourself than I do. I have been wanting to see you for some weeks past. I would have written, except that there has been so much to do. Colvin gave me news of you when I stayed with him in Agra on my way here. It seems you saw him in October.’
‘I did,’ said Alex grimly. ‘I had a story to tell him which he was not prepared to believe.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Sir Henry, settling himself comfortably in a long verandah chair. ‘Perhaps you will find me less hard to convince. Sit down and tell me about it.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll stand. I have had a long spell in the saddle, and there is another ahead of me in the morning.’
‘Can you not stay over tomorrow? We have the Nana of Bithaur in Luck-now on a visit, and I shall be seeing him tomorrow. I have my suspicions of the Nana Sahib, and I should be interested to hear what you make of him. Have yo
u ever met him?’
‘No, sir. I missed meeting him once in Delhi, owing to - to unexpected circumstances. And I am afraid that I shall have to miss him again. I cannot delay.’
‘I am sorry for it. Tell me this story that you told Colvin. I imagine that your version differs somewhat from his.’
Alex propped his shoulders against the nearest pillar and told again the story he had told in the previous autumn to Mr Colvin, Lieutenant-Governor of the North-West Provinces. He told it all, beginning with a moonlight night in Malta and ending with his second visit to the ruins near Khanwai with an escort of cavalry and three sceptical British officers, and Sir Henry listened calmly and without interruption and when he had finished asked only one question.
‘Who,’ said Sir Henry, ‘was the man with the ruby earrings? Did you ever find out?’
‘No. I should recognize him again if I saw him, but that’s the most I can say.’
‘A pity. It is a help to know for certain who one’s enemies are. He sounds as though he were a man of some standing, and at this time it is more than useful to know whom we can trust and whom we cannot. Kishan Prasad I know. And the Maulvi too. The latter has been preaching here in the city and he has a very large following. A rabble-rouser and a born leader of men. They say too that he is a miracle worker. I presume he works the same sort of tricks with greek-fire that you saw him use, for the benefit of the credulous. The man’s a charlatan, but he’s a patriot and a fanatic and he uses his head. The same may be said of Kishan Prasad; though with less truth, since he might have been a stout ally if we had not done our imbecile best to alienate him, whereas the Maulvi would never have bent the knee. But they are in general birds of a very different feather, and it is disturbing to find them in the same nest. Have you come up against any signs of serious disaffection in your district?’
‘One. The building, under cover of providing a shoot for the garrison, of a kutcha road between Lunjore and Suthragunj—’ Alex gave details, and Sir Henry listened and nodded.
‘Kishan Prasad again. Any trouble in the villages?’
‘Not as yet, sir. The chuppattis have been in circulation and there has been a bit of taklief (trouble) over the flour being suspected of containing bone dust; but the villages have been quiet enough. They are uneasy of course, what with the chuppattis and the bone-dust rumour, and a deal of talk about omens and portents - you know the sort of thing, sir. Signs in the sky, monstrous births, two-headed calves and the like. Not to mention the old centenary of Plassey prophecy that is being circulated so freely. But the regiments are a different matter. I rely on Niaz Mohammed for my information in that line. He has friends among the sepoys.’
‘He is still with you then?’
‘He is; and he hears things in the lines that I would not. Not much, as he is suspect. But enough. What do you think is going to happen, sir?’
‘Khuda ke malum!’ (God knows) said Sir Henry. ‘Let us have your views. I am on the bench tonight, and I should like to hear what you think.’
Alex frowned abstractedly at the contents of his glass, swirling the liquid slowly so that the moonlight that was beginning to encroach on the darkness of the verandah caught in it and sent pale, circling lights across the matting on the floor.
‘Well?’ inquired Sir Henry after an interval of silence.
Alex looked at the face that was dim in the moon-thinned shadows and the eyes that burnt so brightly in the hollow sockets, and spoke with deliberation:
‘I think it is the Army that we have to fear, sir.’
‘A mutiny.’ The word was a confirmation rather than a query.
‘Yes, sir. Not a spontaneous outbreak, but a planned one. Set to take place simultaneously in every cantonment in India on a given date. A few months ago I would not have believed such a thing possible, because to achieve it there would have to have been some exceedingly strong grievance that was common to both Mussulmans and Hindus - strong enough to unite them against us. We have, however, very thoughtfully provided that common bond in the greased cartridges. That was all that was needed. Having armed their hands, we have furnished the pretence.’
Sir Henry was silent for a moment or two, stroking his beard, and presently he said gently: ‘Any evidence, Alex?’
Alex flung the contents of his glass with a violent gesture over the roses below the verandah rail, and said bitterly: ‘None that is acceptable to the Commissioner or those purblind, pig-headed— I beg your pardon, sir!’
Sir Henry laughed and getting up from his chair put out a thin hand, gripping the younger man’s shoulder in a hard grasp.
‘Hipped, Alex?’
‘Damnably,’ admitted Alex, meeting his look.
‘I know. It’s like banging one’s head against a stone wall. What’s the evidence?’
Alex told him; repeating the words that Kishan Prasad had spoken in the drawing-room of the Residency at Lunjore.
‘In the hot weather …’ said Sir Henry thoughtfully. He had returned to his chair while Alex talked, and now he leant back in it, fingering his lip. ‘Why are you so sure that he was presenting you with the truth in this oblique manner?’
‘I saved his life once,’ said Alex shortly. ‘It was possibly the greatest mistake I ever made, but he feels some sense of obligation towards me. And I also think he has a liking for Winter - Mrs Barton. Or else—’
Alex checked; wondering, as he had done once before, if it might not be that Kishan Prasad suspected Alex of liking Mrs Barton, and for that reason had warned him to send her to safety? He did not complete the sentence but said instead: ‘There is another thing that seems to suggest he was speaking the truth. That road, if I am right about it, will have to be used before the monsoon breaks, because it will be useless afterwards. And that limits it to this side of mid-June. Something will happen before then.’
Sir Henry nodded and leaned forward in his chair, his clasped hands on his knees and his head silvered by the moonlight. He said slowly: ‘I am in agreement with you. Although I still cling to the hope that we may yet avoid the deluge that our blindness has earned.’
‘Then you do not think that I am “harbouring bees in my bonnet”, as my chief is pleased to term it?’
Sir Henry laughed. ‘Hardly! Unless I harbour the same bees. In fact I am so much in accord with your views that I will tell you something that few people are aware of. I have already begun to prepare the Residency to stand a siege.’
‘Then you think—?’
‘I hope!’ interrupted Sir Henry. ‘And I will go on hoping until the last possible moment. But I am also doing what I can to prepare, in case that hope fails me. Perhaps it will not. I have a deal of faith in the Punjab. Nicholson and Edwards are there, and my brother John. They will hold the Punjab quiet. I believe that Nicholson could do it single-handed, and if there were three of him instead of only one I should have no fears for India. But I cannot feel any optimism on the score of the North-Western Provinces, and should Oudh revolt it will go hard with us all. Given time, I believe I may be able to hold Oudh quiet even if the rest of India rises; but it is time we need - time most of all: and that is a thing which God and the Government may not grant me. The sands are running out, Alex.’
Alex said slowly and after a brief pause: ‘How the devil do they get their information, sir? The telegraph doesn’t account for it, for we aren’t on the line at Lunjore and have to get our news by runner. We didn’t get word of that Barrackpore business for a full week, but the city knew it all within two days.’
‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I don’t pretend to account for it, but if I were a superstitious man I’d say that in times like these the very wind carries bad news. I believe that it is done with drums in Africa, but here one would almost say that they are able to transfer their thoughts from one agitator to another.’
‘Talking of agitators,’ said Alex, ‘Gregori Sparkov was expected in Delhi. Hodson told me that - he appears to have sources of information in Delhi. An
d there was a travelling theatrical company who came through Lunjore a month or so ago. They had spent several weeks in Lucknow, and before that they were in Cawnpore and Agra. I had reason to believe that one of them might be a friend of Sparkov’s - or an agent. They were proceeding to Delhi, and I sent word to Mr Fraser. I heard lately that the man disappeared the day after the troupe arrived there. They think that he is in the Palace, but as it cannot be searched he is safe enough. Intriguing with the King, I suppose.’
‘More likely to be the Queen,’ said Sir Henry. ‘The old Padishah is too enfeebled and futile a personage to be of much danger except as a lay figure to prop up on a throne. But Zeenut Mahal is a very different matter. She has brains and drive and fury, and she is burnt up with hate and ambition. I imagine it is she who is the focus of this Russian–Persian intrigue.’
‘Do you suppose there is much in it, sir?’
‘A certain amount. Russia has always wanted India. She has always wanted the whole world! But particularly the East. She can’t get it while we are here, and she knows it. But if she can help to get us out she can crawl in through a hundred cracks and crannies and rot it from top to bottom until it falls into her hand like an over-ripe pear. Naturally she’s doing all she can to fan the flames. That was only to be expected.’
Alex turned instinctively to look towards the north, and he jerked his shoulders in an oddly uneasy gesture and said: ‘Is it true that the native press in Delhi has been printing a good deal of Russian propaganda?’
‘It is,’ said Sir Henry serenely. ‘I believe there was something to the effect that the Tsar had placed an army of half a million at the disposal of the Shah of Persia for the purpose of ridding India of the British. On the other hand, there was also an article that said the Russians were the cause of our war with Persia, and were merely using the Persians to cloak their own intention of conquering Hindustan.’