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Danger at Dahlkari
Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow
In memory of my beloved sister,
PATSY RUTH HUFF
One
The desert sand was a tannish gray, the sky the color of steel. Heat waves shimmered in the air like semitransparent yellow veils, and as the camels and horses trudged along with that infuriating slowness, small puffs of dust rose and hung suspended over the caravan. Bells tinkled. Harness clattered. Heavy wooden wheels creaked and groaned. In the distance I could see yet another jungle, a black-green line on the horizon, and a dense stretch of jungle ran along the desert on our left. Occasionally, over the jostle and jangle, I could hear the monkeys chatter, hear the brightly hued birds cry out in shrill discord.
Weary of the silk-hung palanquin carried by four strapping bearers, I walked along in the sand, trying to ignore the heat, trying to hold back the sense of apprehension I had felt for the past two days. Joining Yasmin Singh’s caravan had seemed a wonderful idea back in Delhi, the perfect solution to my problem. A Lieutenant Parks and his men were to have escorted Sally and me to the garrison at Dahlkari, but two days before the scheduled departure the unfortunate lieutenant had come down with a severe attack of the measles. It had been the cause of much merriment in the English settlement, Lieutenant Parks the butt of many a joke, but I had felt sheer frustration. It had taken us so long to come this far, so many endless weeks. Another delay had seemed impossible to endure. Learning that the caravan was about to depart, I immediately made arrangements to join them, quite scandalizing all the English ladies who deemed it unthinkable for two English girls to travel up-country alone with a band of natives. Adamant and defiant to the end, I went ahead with my plans, leaving the ladies of Delhi both shocked and dismayed and causing considerable consternation among the military personnel who had tried their best to dissuade me from such an impulsive course.
Red-cheeked and blustering, Colonel Hendricks had tugged at his bushy white mustache and informed me that it simply wasn’t done, implying that he would have me tossed into the stockade if I didn’t give up the idea posthaste. Calm, composed, icily polite, I informed him that I was a civilian and could do as I bloody well pleased. The colonel seemed on the verge of apoplexy when I left his office, but there really had been nothing he or anyone else could do. Sally and I had been traveling with the caravan for four days now, and I was beginning to wish I had listened to reason back in Delhi.
The first two days had been pleasant enough. We had passed a number of villages with their drab brown huts and water holes, sleek black buffalo lolling in the mud, and we had passed beautiful temples festooned with garlands of flowers, moving across rich, verdant green countryside sparkling with brooks and streams, cascades of water splashing down rocky inclines. I responded to this country of my youth, loving anew the flame trees abloom with scarlet, the tamarind, the peepul, the wild plum. Seeing the long-horned white cattle grazing placidly in the flat, watery jade green fields brought back so many memories of my youth, as did the cry of the myna bird and the sight of an elephant moving ponderously along the misty blue horizon. I had been twelve years old when I left India, an orphan, both my parents victims of the cholera, and seven long years had passed, years endured in an ever-so-respectable academy for young ladies in Bath. It was glorious to be back, to know that I would soon be joining my beloved Dollie and her Reggie, now commander of the garrison at Dahlkari.
Dollie McAllister had been my mother’s best friend. She had been like a second mother to me. Her husband, now Lieutenant Colonel McAllister, had been the executor of my parents’ estate, and it was he who had arranged to have me sent to the academy in England. Dollie had kept in touch all these years, her letters as fussy, witty and vivacious as the lady herself. When, upon my graduation, she wrote to suggest that I join her and Reggie in Dahlkari and select myself a husband from among the many potentials abounding there, I wasted no time in accepting the invitation. I wasn’t interested in finding a husband, but I was eager to see the McAllisters again, eager to return to the land I had loved so well.
I was delighted when Sally decided to accompany me. An orphan like myself, though not nearly so fortunate in background, she had been taken on as a parlor maid at the academy, a bright, saucy and alert young minx who longed for adventure, particularly the kind involving members of the opposite sex. Our friendship had quite alarmed the staff at the academy, but I had found Sally far more engaging than any of the prim, sedate young ladies of my own class. When she learned I was to go to India, Sally promptly informed me that I couldn’t possibly go alone, that I would need a personal maid, that she was taking the job. Her liveliness and insatiable curiosity had turned a long, dreary journey into something of a lark. Though her behavior left much to be desired so far as the proprieties were concerned, I couldn’t have done without her.
So we had come to India, landing at Bombay with its beautiful temples and shrines and gold and ivory palaces, its palm trees, crowded and exotic bazaars, its sedate and exclusive English settlement that had as little as possible to do with the natives. Sally had been enchanted by the elephants and snake charmers and the sacred cows that ambled leisurely down the crowded streets and among the stalls. She had been enchanted by the tall bronzed Sepoys in their red jackets and white turbans and even more so by the profusion of English bachelors on hand. A natural and uninhibited flirt, she had captivated a score of them during the two weeks before we departed for Delhi. In Delhi she divided her time between a ginger-haired sergeant and a strapping young corporal, both of whom lavished attention on her and took her to dimly lit native establishments that respectable English girls shouldn’t even have known existed. Sally had become an expert on native dishes, on the use of the hookah, on exotic nautch dancers with spangled veils and vermilion-stained feet. Curious about everything, the girl already knew far more about India than I did.
Both the sergeant and the corporal had been desolate when we left Delhi four days ago. Both had tried to persuade her not to leave with the native caravan, saying it was unsafe, unseemly, unheard of for two English girls to travel in such a manner. Sally retorted that Miss Lauren didn’t care a fig for convention, that Yasmin Singh was utterly respectable, spoke English quite well and would protect us with his life, as would his servants. Truth to tell, Sally had already met Ahmed by that time, and she had lost interest in her two English suitors. The son of a silk merchant, Ahmed was a handsome Indian youth who was transporting some merchandise for his father, traveling with Yasmin Singh’s caravan for security’s sake, and Sally declared that she had never seen such a beautiful creature in all her born days.
Tall and lean, Ahmed had a dark, creamy tan complexion, a wide pink mouth curling in a boyish grin and large, luminous black eyes that flashed with mischievous delight as he tried to frighten Sally with tales of cobras and tigers and bands of brutal Thugs, at the same time assuring her that he would keep her safe from all danger. Ahmed wore kidskin boots, formfitting white trousers and a jade green silk tunic that splendidly displayed his muscular physique. His white silk turban was fastened in front with an ornate jade clasp. No more than nineteen, he was an amiable lad, as flirtatious as Sally herself, but even Ahmed’s jaunty high spirits had begun to dampen after the first two days.
Leaving the rich and lovely agricultural area behind, we began to move over rough, rocky terrain that eventually turned into stretches of burning sand broken by vast clumps of jungle that had sprung up around the streams. It was an oppressive landscape, one that seemed laden wi
th some heavy, invisible menace. The bearers grew tense and nervous, moving through the deep jungle with obvious apprehension, keeping an eye on the horizon as the caravan made its way over the stretches of sand. A pleasant and voluble fellow who had spent the first two days boasting about his immense wealth, his numerous wives, his high standing in his home community, Yasmin Singh fell silent, too, his plump face tight with fear, his heavily beringed fingers tugging worriedly at the folds of his robe. Everyone seemed relieved when five heavily armed men joined the caravan on the afternoon of the third day. Their white trousers baggy, their loose white tunics tied at the waist with colored sashes, they had dark, impassive faces and were decidedly unfriendly. There being safety in numbers, Yasmin welcomed them with enthusiasm nevertheless, and the men themselves seemed only too happy to have found a large caravan traveling in their direction.
“They’re on their way back to their village,” Sally informed me that night. “It’s a long ways off, way beyond Dahlkari. Ahmed talked to them. They’re a fierce-looking lot, all right, but they’re as nervous as everyone else.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“Thugs,” Sally said meaningfully.
“Nonsense.”
“They swoop down on travelers out of the blue and strangle the lot of ’em with scarves, bury ’em in the ground and make off with all their money and jewels. Many a caravan has simply disappeared, just like that, leaving a town one day and never heard of again. These Thugs belong to a cult that worships the goddess Kali, and—”
“I’ve heard all about the Thugs, Sally,” I said impatiently, “and I’m sure it’s all been highly exaggerated. Captain William Sleeman uncovered their foul practices several years ago, and he’s been working all this time to rid the country of them. Thousands of Thugs have been arrested over the years, and the danger has been thoroughly eliminated.”
“Not in this area,” Sally retorted. “Oh, that Captain Sleeman has done a lot, true, but the Thugs still exist. This area is the last great stonghold of their cult. Ahmed said so. He knows all about it. Sleeman hasn’t a clue about their activities here.”
“Ahmed’s just trying to frighten you.”
“He’s worried, too. Hasn’t been himself all day. He keeps watching, expecting them to attack at any moment.”
There was an excited tremor in her voice, and she seemed quite taken with the idea. I smiled, putting the whole thing down to her inordinate love for drama. She scurried off to seek Ahmed, and as I stood there in front of our tent I thought about what she had said. Nonsense. Of course it was nonsense. Even if the Thugs were still active in this area, they weren’t likely to attack a caravan so large, with so many men. I looked at the five strangers huddled around their fire a short distance from the rest of the camp. It was nice to know they were with us, nice to know they had pistols and daggers. With these new arrivals there were a good twenty men. It was foolish to feel so apprehensive.
Yet I did, and so did the others. Fires burned low, glowing orange blossoms in the darkness, and tents flapped and billowed in the wind. The horses and camels stirred restlessly. A huge moon hung in the sky, gilding the sand with milky white light, intensifying shadows. Monkeys chattered in the nearby jungle. There was a rustling noise in the brush, a gentle cough. I knew the sound well from my youth. A leopard was watching us, and as I peered into the dense black jungle just yards away, it seemed I could see a pair of gleaming yellow eyes. I felt suddenly vulnerable, suddenly afraid, and not because of the leopard. He was merely curious and would go away eventually. I felt vulnerable because I was English, and female, because Sally and I were alone with strangers in the middle of a land that now seemed hostile and threatening.
Men spoke in low, subdued voices, all in their native dialects, and I wished they were English, wished they were hearty, jovial soldiers with polished boots and clattering spurs. I hadn’t the typical English suspicion of “the natives”—I had been raised with them, had been devoted to my native ayah—but I was acutely aware that Sally and I were the “foreigners” in this camp, tolerated because we were white and therefore important, mistrusted for the same reasons. Though he had been exceedingly voluble, Yasmin Singh had maintained a certain reserve from the first. His men had been silent and withdrawn, pretending not to speak English. Only Ahmed had been friendly. As I watched the camp fires flickering red-orange in the dark and heard the soft flap of tents billowing, I wished I had listened to reason back in Delhi. We should have waited for Lieutenant Parks to recover. I had known that at the time, but my eagerness to see Dollie had blinded me to all reason.
As the turbaned guard moved nervously around the perimeter of the camp with rifle held against his shoulder, I thought about the Thugs and their dreadful cult. It had existed for centuries, like a great cobweb of horror spreading all over India, but it was only in recent years that it had come to the attention of the British. The Thugs believed that Kali had given the roads to them, that any traveler was their natural prey. Their victims were strangled with the rumal, a handkerchief or scarf they had been trained to use with great skill, the corpses broken and mutilated and buried, never a trace to be found. I had read about the Thugs and shuddered, as had all God-fearing Christians, for it was the horror story of the century. One Thug alone had calmly admitted to killing over eight hundred innocent people, showing no guilt, no remorse, for he had done it in the name of Kali, the sacred goddess of death and destruction. Men like Captain Sleeman and Captain Meadows Taylor had devoted years to suppressing the cult and breaking up their hideous bands. Captain Taylor’s book, Confessions of a Thug, had appeared only last year. I wished now I hadn’t read it.
Surely the roads were safe, I told myself. Surely Ahmed had merely been teasing Sally. I tried to put the horror out of my mind, but it was a futile endeavor. I slept little that night, and now, as the caravan moved slowly across the sand toward the black-green line of jungle on the horizon, I scolded myself severely and resolved to think of other things. The yellow heat waves shimmered. The puffs of dust rose and swelled and hung suspended in the air. I thought about Dollie and Dahlkari and the joys of reunion awaiting me there.
“You get the sunstroke, maybe,” Ahmed said.
I turned, startled to find him moving along beside me.
“Parasol not enough,” he said, “You get back in palanquin, yes?”
“I’m prefectly all right, Ahmed,” I informed him.
“English Missy stubborn,” he replied, grinning that charmingly boyish grin. “Our women, they wear the burka. It keeps out the sun and keeps the men from seeing what they should not see.”
“English customs are different, Ahmed,” I told him. “It—it isn’t improper for a man to see a woman’s face and—and shape in English communities.”
Ahmed nodded with mock severity. There was a mischievous gleam in his dark brown eyes, and I was very aware that my white muslin frock sprigged with tiny violet flowers was rather low cut, the waist formfitting, full skirt flaring over half a dozen ruffled petticoats. Hardly a suitable garment for traipsing in the desert, I thought, but at least the muslin was cool, and most of my other things had been shipped on ahead to Dahlkari two weeks ago. The matching parasol I carried warded off the fiercest rays of the sunlight.
“I shan’t stay out too long,” I promised, “and besides, the sun has already started going down.”
Ahmed nodded. “Soon we camp. We camp at the edge of the jungle. They must like what they see, Miss Gray, the sahibs, I mean. You have a very pretty face.”
“Why—thank you, Ahmed,” I replied, a bit startled.
“Your complexion so creamy, soft pink at the cheeks like rose petals, yes? Your mouth is the color of coral, and your hair—it is, yes, I have it, it is the color of moonlight on teak.”
My hair was a rich chestnut brown, and in a certain light it did indeed have a silvery sheen. Moonlight on teak. Ahmed was most poetic, and rather too forward, I thought. While Sally might relish his flowery compliments, I foun
d them a trifle irritating. I knew that I was exceptionally pretty with my high, sculptured cheekbones and classic features, but it was not at all important, not nearly as important as my intelligence. While I had no vanity about my looks, I was inordinately proud of my mind.
“You find husband in Dahlkari?” Ahmed continued.
“I—I’m not interested in finding a husband,” I retorted. “That’s not why I’ve come to India.”
“No? All the other English missys, that’s why they come—the ones not so pretty. They don’t find a husband in England, they take the ship to India to marry one of the soldiers. English missys very smart, know the English men in India don’t see many English girls, so even the not-so-pretty missys always get a husband. Is very smart.”
“You—you’re very observant, Ahmed.”
“Me, I like the English. They my friends. I learn to speak the English well, no?”
“You speak quite nicely,” I replied.
“Is good for business,” he confided. “My father, he doesn’t speak the English at all. Is bad. The English sahibs buy much silk for their women. Me, I do all the business with them.”
“Your father must be proud of you.”
“Is very proud, says Ahmed a shrewd fellow.”
Ahmed grinned, pleased with himself. I detected a touch of arrogance, a purposeful determination that wasn’t at all in keeping with his affable façade. He was an exceedingly handsome youth, strong and virile, and if he swaggered a bit it was only natural. He walked beside me for a few minutes more, describing the ruined temple in the jungle ahead, then sauntered off to speak to one of the grim-looking natives who had joined the caravan. The two of them spoke in quiet voices, and once Ahmed laughed. He kicked at a pile of pebbles in the sand and paused to pick one up, scattering the rest in patterned disarray, then moved toward the back of the caravan and out of sight.
Danger at Dahlkari Page 1