Shadow of the Moon

by M. M. Kaye

  ‘From what I know of them, I should think that is more than probable,’ said Alex grimly.

  Sir Henry shrugged. ‘Possibly. But then India has believed for many years that the “Russ-log” would one day fight us for the mastery of India, and when we made the mistake of withdrawing troops from this country to fight in the Crimea it was immediately taken as proof that the Russians had so decimated our armies that we had no fighting men left save those out here. But Russia is not the villain of this present drama. We have relieved her of the responsibility by casting ourselves in that role.’

  He looked up at Alex and smiled his tired, charming smile. ‘I am taking a dreary view of the future tonight, am I not? But though I can feel the wind and hear the thunder, I do not yet despair of avoiding the storm. And if it comes - it comes! and I shall look to you to hold the western road for me, so that if you should be right, and the regiments at Suthragunj mutiny and seize the arsenal, they will not reach Oudh by Kishan Prasad’s road.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir. You know that.’

  ‘Even if you were offered command of the Guides tomorrow?’

  Alex threw up his hand in the gesture of a swordsman acknowledging a hit, and laughed, but this time without bitterness. ‘You could offer me no greater inducement, sir, but I will content myself with trying to hold the western road for you.’

  ‘Let us hope it will not come to that,’ said Sir Henry. ‘You mentioned Hodson just now. Have you seen anything of him of late?’

  They talked of other things for a space, until at last Sir Henry rose and held out his hand. ‘If you are making an early start, I shall not be seeing you again before you go. Good luck to you, Alex. God bless you, and—’ He hesitated for a moment and then said thoughtfully, and as though the word were not a light one, ‘Good-bye.’

  His thin hand gripped Alex’s for a brief moment and then he turned and walked away, and Alex had a last glimpse of his tall figure outlined against the lighted square of the open doorway as he passed through it and was gone.

  ‘I shall not see him again,’ thought Alex with sudden conviction; and was startled by the unbidden thought. Why should he think such a thing? Was it only because he was tired and overworked that he had imagined something indefinably final in that last word of farewell? He found that he was staring at the lighted doorway as though he could drag back that spare tall figure by an effort of will, and that there was an uncomfortable constriction in his throat.

  The last months had been full of anxiety and strain and infuriating frustration for Alex, and his recent interview with Mr Barton had driven him dangerously near to breaking point. To be dragged from his district, at a time like this, to explain a wholly justified action taken against a wealthy and dissolute nobleman who had only escaped his just deserts in the past on account of bribes paid to the Commissioner, was beyond bearing. Yet he had set his teeth and borne it, and as a result had arrived at the Residency that evening in no very amiable frame of mind. He had, for the moment, quite genuinely meant what he said when he told Sir Henry Lawrence that he would accept any post that would allow him to return to regimental duty, and he had been seriously considering sending Mr Barton his resignation. But ten minutes of Lawrence’s society had been enough to restore a sense of proportion and sanity. Perhaps that was why men as remarkable and as different as Nicholson and Hodson could regard Sir Henry with so much respect and affection, and why, when he had left the Punjab, thousands had come to bid him farewell and to follow him for many miles as though loath to see the last of him.

  ‘Of course I shall see him again!’ thought Alex. ‘He is not an old man. He is barely fifty …’ But in spite of the windless warmth of the night he shivered as though he were cold, and could not rid himself of a sense of foreboding.

  It was late, and in a few hours’ time he would have to start for Lunjore again. He knew that he should get what sleep he could, but he had seldom felt less like sleeping. The house was hot and it was too warm even in the shadows of the verandah, but the garden looked cool and inviting. Alex walked the length of the verandah and went down a shallow flight of steps and out into the quiet moonlight.

  Although it was almost mid-April the night was fresh and cool, for the hot weather was unusually late that year and it might well have been early March, so green and pleasant were the grass and the flowering trees. The roses were colourless in the milky light, but the late-blooming orange blossom and foaming masses of jasmine were star-white, and the night air was sweet with the scent of flowers and lately watered earth.

  Alex strolled across the wide lawns, his footsteps inaudible on the grass that the gardeners had watered at sunset, and came by chance to a group of flame trees whose shadows lay velvet-black in the moonlight.

  There was someone standing at the far edge of that belt of soft darkness, her wide, pale skirts luminous in the shadows, and despite the fact that her outline was barely distinguishable and that she had her back to him, he knew that it was Winter. He stopped, and would have turned back except that something in the pose of the dimly seen figure arrested his attention. She was watching something, and there was a suggestion of alertness in the tilt of her head that even the deep shadows could not disguise. Curiosity overcame discretion and he went forward and came to stand beside her.

  She heard the quiet footsteps and turned her head, but she made no movement of surprise or alarm and seemed as instantly aware of his identity as he had been of hers. She might almost have been waiting for him, though for once she had not even been thinking of him. But it seemed entirely natural to her that he should be there. The warm stillness of the garden was another world which had nothing in common with the turmoil and tensions and restlessness that were a part of the daylight hours. She accepted his presence as a matter of course, and turned back to her contemplation of the stretch of gardens beyond the trees, as though her interest in what lay there had absorbed her attention to the exclusion of all else.

  Standing beside her Alex could see the pale outline of her profile against the massed darkness of the leaves, and smell the clean, cool scent of lavender that he had come to associate with her. As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows he could make out the curving line of the long lashes, the faint, puzzled crease between her brows and a stray tendril of black hair that curled childishly above her ear.

  Winter did not appear to be aware of his gaze and presently she inquired in a whisper: ‘What are they doing?’

  Alex looked away from her, and for the first time became aware of what it was that had caught her interest. There were things moving across the open ground between the sharp-edged shadows of buildings that lay within the precincts of the Residency: things that moved in complete silence, keeping for the most part to the shadows and flitting noiselessly across the moonlit spaces like a frieze of trolls; bowed, hunchbacked and grotesque, silhouetted briefly against the silver-washed grass or the wall of a house; lost again in shadow and emerging only to be swallowed up by the ground.

  It took him a moment or two to realize that they were men carrying heavy loads, shouldering sacks or bent under weighted boxes, and stowing them away in the underground cellars that lay beneath some of the Residency buildings. He said lightly enough: ‘They are only men laying in supplies for the summer. Grain and—’

  ‘And ammunition,’ finished Winter. ‘Why? And why are they doing it by night? George Lawrence was there a little while ago. I saw him. He said he was going to bed, but he came out here to see that there was no one about. They were doing it last night too. And the night before. They cannot need so many supplies unless … unless they think this place will be besieged. Is it that?’

  Alex did not answer the question. He said instead: ‘Why have you come out here to watch them every night?’

  ‘I haven’t. I mean, I did not come out to watch them. I only came out to walk in the garden.’

  ‘At this time of night? It’s very late.’

  ‘I could not sleep, and this gave me something else
to think about,’ said Winter simply. ‘Is there really going to be a rising? Ameera says—’

  She stopped and after a moment Alex said: ‘What does Ameera say? And who is Ameera?’

  Winter turned to look at him in surprise. It seemed incredible to her that Alex should not know about Ameera. Until she remembered that she had barely seen him, and then only at a distance, for almost three months after her marriage, and that he did not even know the story of how she had come to Lunjore. She told him something of it now, and of Juanita and Aziza Begum and the Gulab Mahal; standing among the scented shadows of a garden that overlooked the teeming city of Lucknow and the house in which she had been born.

  It had been April when Marcos de Ballesteros, riding out through the gateway of the Gulab Mahal, had turned in the saddle to see Sabrina standing among the hard-fretted shadows of the gold-mohur trees, and had not known that he was seeing her for the last time. Eighteen years ago. And now it was April again, and Sabrina’s daughter told that tale as it had been told to her by Zobeida …

  ‘We never knew what had become of them - Aziza Begum and my Aunt Juanita and the others,’ said Winter in conclusion. ‘The letters stopped. That was all. I did not even know if Ameera was alive; or anyone I had known.’

  She was silent for a time and then she said slowly: ‘I think Ameera is afraid. Her husband does not like the British, and I think - I think he does not trust her because of her Western blood. She will not let me go to the Gulab Mahal, and I have only seen her twice. She says it is not easy for her to see me, and I do not think her husband knows that she has done so. Perhaps he would punish her if he did. You don’t think he would, do you? Jehan Khan told me that Nila Ram cut off his wife’s hands because she disobeyed him—’ Her voice had a sudden tremor of fear in it and she put out a hand and caught at Alex’s sleeve: ‘Alex, you don’t think he would do anything like that, do you?’

  Alex looked down at the small hand on his arm and found himself unable to resist the impulse to cover it with his own. His touch appeared to startle her, for he felt the slim fingers stiffen and become quite still under the light clasp of his own. They withdrew gently and without haste, but her unconscious acceptance of his presence was gone and the ease between them was broken.

  Alex said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘No, I don’t. I expect you would find that Nila Ram’s wife was conducting a clandestine affair. To visit a first cousin, even if that cousin is a European, is hardly a major offence. Does she seem to think there is any danger of an armed rising?’

  Winter shook her head. ‘She said that the city was full of strange rumours, but she would not say what they were. Only - only she said that I must go to the hills, and not stay in Lunjore.’

  Alex said drily: ‘I seem to remember saying that myself.’

  ‘I know you did. But there are twenty or more other women in Lunjore, and—’ She broke off abruptly, wishing that she had not spoken. The inference was so obvious, and what did she expect Alex to say? That she was the only one whose safety he cared about? She drew back from him involuntarily, feeling the hot colour flood up and burn in her cheeks, and grateful for the darkness that would conceal it. But Alex’s voice was clipped and cool:

  ‘I am aware of it. And if I had the authority to do so, I would have every one of you sent to the nearest hill station where there are British troops while there is still time. Not for your safety, but for ours.’

  ‘For yours?’ said Winter uncertainly. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘Don’t you? I should have thought it was obvious,’ said Alex brutally. ‘Because men are sentimental over women they will throw away military advantages, and hesitate and weigh the chances of failure when attack is their best or only hope, and lose their opportunity because they “have to think of the women and children”. Men who would not otherwise dream of surrendering will make terms with an enemy in return for the safety of a handful of women. If a man is killed, it is an accident of war; but if a woman or a child is killed it is a barbarous murder and a hundred lives - or a thousand - are sacrificed to avenge it. It is only a man like John Nicholson who has the courage to write, and mean it, that the safety of “women and children in some crises is such a very minor consideration that it ceases to be a consideration at all”. If only more men thought like that you could all stay in Lunjore and be damned to you!’

  There was exasperation and bitterness in his voice, as though some prophetic vision of the future had risen before him in all its tragic futility. And then a dry leaf crunched behind them and he turned quickly to see George Lawrence standing beyond the rim of the tree shadows.

  ‘Who is it?’ George Lawrence spoke softly but sharply, and as Alex moved out of the shadows he said with undisguised relief: ‘Oh, it’s you, Alex. I thought—’ He checked at the sight of Winter. ‘Mrs Barton!’

  His eyebrows twitched together in a sudden frown and Winter said: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lawrence. Did we startle you? I came down to walk in the garden because I couldn’t sleep, and Captain Randall found me here.’

  The Chief Commissioner’s nephew cleared his throat in nervous embarrassment and shot a quick look at Alex that needed no interpretation.

  Alex grinned a little maliciously and said: ‘No such luck,’ as though in answer to a spoken question.

  The moonlight did not disguise the dark colour that showed briefly in George Lawrence’s face. He said sharply: ‘I did not for a moment suppose—’ and checked again, and then said abruptly and as though Winter were not there: ‘How much has she seen?’

  ‘Quite enough,’ said Alex laconically. ‘But she won’t talk.’

  George Lawrence turned to look at Winter and she answered an unspoken question as Alex had done: ‘I promise. I didn’t mean to spy on you, and I won’t speak of it to anyone. Word of honour.’ She smiled at him and his set face relaxed in an answering smile.

  ‘Thank you. It is not a thing that my uncle would wish to become generally known. It is only a precautionary measure, you understand, but if it were to be talked about it might give rise to panic at a time when it is essential to give the appearance of calm.’

  He turned to Alex and said a little stiffly: ‘I thought that you were intending to make a five o’clock start, Alex? It is near one o’clock already. Had you not better be getting some sleep? I will see Mrs Barton to her room.’

  Alex regarded him with a good deal of sardonic comprehension in his gaze. So George considered that he had been gravely imperilling young Mrs Barton’s reputation by being found talking to her in the garden at one o’clock in the morning, did he? He wondered what impression would be gained by anyone who might happen to see Mr Lawrence escorting Mrs Barton to her bedroom at that hour. George would not have thought of that! He said gravely: ‘I am sure I could leave her in no better hands. Good night, Mrs Barton. Good-bye, George. I hear you return to Sikora soon? Good luck to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said George Lawrence soberly. ‘I may need it.’

  Alex lifted his hand in a brief gesture of farewell, and turning on his heel walked away across the moonlit lawn and was swallowed up by the foreshortened shadow of the Residency tower.

  34

  The Dalys had left shortly after twelve o’clock on the following day, and an hour after their departure Winter drove back in Sir Henry’s barouche to the Casa de Ballesteros.

  Her husband, she was informed, was still abed. There had been a party last night; not a large one, half a dozen sahibs in all. But they had stayed until the small hours.

  Despite the lateness of the season, every door and window in the big drawing-room stood wide, but the hot air of mid-day and the scent of fresh-cut flowers could not disguise the stale reek of cigar-smoke, spilled brandy and another smell that reminded Winter of Hazrat Bagh. There was also something in the room that had not been there before: a large square of faded velvet that she recognized as a bedspread from one of the upstairs rooms had been hung neatly over Velasquez’s portrait of Don Cristobal de Ballesteros.
>
  Winter looked at it, puzzled and frowning, and sent for old Muddeh Khan, the head bearer. Muddeh Khan had looked unhappy and had avoided her eye. The Huzoors, he explained apologetically, had been in a merry mood and had damaged the portrait somewhat in sport. He would have removed it, save that the wall also—

  Winter dismissed him, and when he had gone she crossed to the portrait and pulled away the square of olive-green velvet, and knew why the smell in the room had reminded her of Hazrat Bagh. Conway and his guests had used the vast painting as a target, and the dark beauty of the magnificent canvas was spattered with bullet holes which had smashed through it and broken and pitted the wall at its back. The haughty, hollow-cheeked Spanish face with its faint suggestion of scornful amusement was a mess of ruined canvas, and there was nothing left of the portrait that was worth repairing.

  Looking at it, Winter was dragged down without warning into helpless rage. That he could do this to her father’s house! to Pavos Reales! That he should bring his coarse, drunken friends and his cheap, loud women to this beautiful, silent house and vulgarize it as he had done last night!

  She turned and walked out of the house and down to the river terrace; hatless in the hot sunlight and shivering with shock and anger and disgust as she had shivered on the morning that had followed the nightmare of her wedding.

  ‘I can’t bear it!’ thought Winter, staring out across the wide reaches of the river with eyes that only saw the senseless ruin of that magnificent canvas. ‘I can’t bear it …!’ Yet what was she to do? Neither Church nor Law would release her, and she remembered again what Mrs Gardener-Smith had told her. That the law would be on Conway’s side.

  ‘I will go to the hills,’ thought Winter. ‘At once - today! That should at least please Alex. Or … or will it? No, not please him. He does not want me to go because I am I, but because I am merely one of all the women he would like to be rid of so that we cannot get in the way of military decisions if there is a crisis. Alex thinks that there is going to be a crisis. And so does Sir Henry, or he would not be taking all those precautions. Ameera does too - or is it only that she is frightened of her husband? or for him?’ What was it Alex had said? or Nicholson had said? … ‘women … in some crises are such a very minor consideration that they cease to be a consideration at all’.