Until the Colours Fade

by Tim Jeal

  ‘I know what I’m about,’ drawled George dismissively, taking a hand from his reins and tugging at his drooping sandy moustache: a gesture which Tom supposed was intended to convey nonchalance, but which in fact gave the impression of nervousness. The affected stiffness of George’s posture and his absurdly elaborate uniform with its enormous epaulettes filled Tom with fury.

  ‘Stay on this road and you’ll be killed,’ he blurted out.

  George turned to him scornfully and was about to shout back when he caught his breath. They had reached the bend where the embankment began and George had gained his first view of the scene of bloodshed and confusion, now luridly illuminated by the fiercely burning omnibuses. By the time George turned to his trumpeter, the troopers behind had already halted without waiting for the order. George too had pulled up his horse and was gazing ahead with stupefaction, evidently having thought that Strickland had been exaggerating. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat had broken out around the band of his imposing plumed shako. He had supposed that he would be able to leave the road to get round any obstacle placed there, but the sheer embankment to the left ruled out any attempt to get up behind the rioters, and, the road itself being impassable, his only other option was the precipitous slope to the right. Even in daylight horses would probably stumble and fall on the loose stones and rocks; at night it would be suicidal to try. It was no more than ten seconds since they had halted, but it seemed immeasurably longer. George apparently had no idea what to do, and Tom could think of nothing. It was then that he noticed the ‘fly’ pulled up to the side of the road under the shadow of the embankment some fifty yards away. A moment later the impeccably dressed man in the silk top hat and green pilot coat got out, and, seemingly oblivious to any danger, walked calmly up to them.

  ‘Better dismount, I daresay,’ said the stranger, as though perfectly aware of George’s dilemma. ‘Should be able to get a shot at the embankment from down there,’ he went on, pointing down the slope to his right with his cane to a place where the rocky ground flattened out into a small plateau.

  Braithwaite listened speechless and the blood rushed to his cheeks; nor, Tom imagined, would the soundness of this dandified civilian’s advice improve George’s temper.

  ‘I know my duty, sir,’ snapped George and then barked out the order to dismount and draw carbines. While the troopers fumbled with their ramrods and cartridges, the stranger said with quiet emphasis:

  ‘Some shots in the air to start with might discourage them, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m no butcher,’ George replied stiffly.

  ‘I hope not, Mr Braithwaite,’ replied the other with a hint of a smile. ‘Wouldn’t care to be a witness in the coroner’s court.’

  Tom noticed George’s face freeze as he recognised his adviser.

  ‘Crawford,’ he gasped.

  The gentleman raised his hat a fraction before turning on his heel and walking back to the ‘fly’ with the same unhurried step.

  As the troopers started to slide down the wet rocks to the flatter ground below, Tom was wondering what he should do when the driver of the ‘fly’ came up to him, touched his hat and murmured:

  ‘Gen’lman wants a word with you.’

  Strickland dismounted and the driver took his horse’s bridle. The interior of the ‘fly’ was dimly lit by reflected light from the carriage lamp outside. A sudden feeling of unease made him pause before mounting the step. He heard an impatient voice:

  ‘Come on, man; those fools are nervous enough to shoot at anything that moves.’ Tom sat down on the worn leather seat. His host smiled reassuringly, displaying a glimpse of white and very regular teeth. ‘Yeomanry regiments are all the same.’

  The silence which followed, although embarrassing Tom, evidently did not have that effect on his neighbour, for when Tom made as if to speak he was silenced with a wave of the hand. Irritated at first by this gesture, Tom soon realised that the other was listening for the soldiers’ shots. He had heard George call this stranger Crawford, and this intrigued him, since George hoped to marry a Miss Catherine Crawford. From George – who was lonely as well as rich and, when drunk, condescended to treat his father’s humble artist with a measure of familiarity – Tom knew something of the Crawfords. The head of the family was Rear-Admiral Sir James Crawford, a widower, at present at sea. Catherine lived in her father’s house, four miles from Rigton Bridge, with her brother Charles, a naval officer currently ashore on half-pay. From the frequency with which George spoke of Charles’s excellent professional prospects and his future as heir to his father’s baronetcy, Tom had assumed that if they were not already friends, George had such a relationship in mind. Strangely George had never mentioned another brother. But possibly this newly arrived Crawford was a cousin or more remote relative. As he was pondering the stranger’s identity, Tom heard two stuttering volleys ring out. Then an eerie silence was followed by a distant roar of rage and fear, broken by the screams of a man who must have been hit. At this sound, Crawford leapt from his seat and flung open the door, his face contorted with anger. Tom got out too, in time to see torches being flung away on the embankment, and figures running pell-mell along the parapet and jumping down into the road on the far side of the blazing vehicles.

  ‘That’s that then,’ said Crawford with a shrug of the shoulders, apparently in control of his indignation, but then bursting out: ‘Should have used regular troops. Any half-wit ought to have guessed what was coming when he saw no crowd at the station.’

  Tom was uncertain whether Crawford’s anger stemmed from a fastidious dislike of military bungling or from sympathy with the rioters, who had been so easily routed by an incompetent force.

  ‘Do you know about the prisoners?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Don’t need to. Rioters, strikers, looters – makes no difference. No magistrate transfers prisoners unless he expects trouble in a town.’

  Three more shots came from the lower ground to the right. Crawford compressed his lips and led Tom back to the ‘fly’.

  ‘God knows when they’ll get the road cleared,’ he sighed.

  Crawford had a peculiar effect on Tom: he was impressed by his decisiveness and air of authority, but chilled by his manner which he found aloof and cold. He could not fathom him at all; there was something enigmatic about him, an almost frightening quality. In the fitful light cast by the flames outside, Tom had noticed Crawford’s eyes: a deep blue-grey colour under dark lashes; eyes at times remote and dull, as if he were weary and bored, at others glinting with a sharpness that was disconcerting.

  The two men sitting side by side were very different in appearance: Strickland’s features being softer, less angular, his lips fuller, and his expressions and mannerisms gentler, more fleeting and less precise. Crawford’s skin was bronzed, Tom’s of an ivory pallor by contrast with his dark eyes and the black loose curls that framed his face. Crawford’s hair was cut severely short, not waved nor brushed forward in the new fashion. He looked, Tom thought, about thirty, roughly five years older than himself.

  Tom found the damp confined interior of the carriage oppressive with its smell of straw and musty leather. The silence worried him, and he was wondering whether he had been asked into the ‘fly’ solely because it offered a degree of cover from stray shots, when Crawford turned to him abruptly and extended a gloved hand.

  ‘My name’s Crawford. Magnus Crawford.’

  ‘Thomas Strickland.’

  ‘My people come from Trawden way. Yours?’

  How typical of his class, thought Tom, that he should have named the nearest village, when the house, Leaholme Hall, was one of the three largest in the neighbourhood.

  ‘My parents are dead. I come from London.’

  ‘You’re a friend of Braithwaite?’

  ‘His father’s sitting for me. I’m an artist.’

  Magnus pulled out a flat silver flask and tossed it to Tom.

  ‘Some brandy, Mr Strickland?’

  Tom refused, not knowing wh
ether the offer had been made purely as a matter of form because Crawford wanted some himself, or whether he was really expected to accept. During the moment or two that he held the flask, he made out a few words of an inscription: ‘… Presented to Major Crawford … brother officers … garrison at Kandy … esteem and gratitude….’ There was also a date, which he did not take in.

  Crawford frowned, evidently noticing the direction of Tom’s eyes and the slight hesitation before he returned the flask.

  ‘Ever been to Ceylon, Mr Strickland? Visitors usually enjoy the scenery. Excellent for pictures, I daresay.’

  Tom shook his head and felt his cheeks burning, at what he thought was a reproof. After all the man had offered him the thing.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have read it? I’d be pleased if people were grateful to me for anything.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that depend on what they were grateful for?’ asked Magnus with a trace of mockery. ‘I led two companies against a mob of ill-fed, badly armed natives, a riot really. The Government called it a rebellion. The ones who didn’t run away were tried and most of them shot. I carried out some of those sentences.’ He had said this with a harshness that did not conceal the pain the memory caused him. ‘I was not being mock-modest, Mr Strickland.’

  ‘Why on earth have you kept it, feeling as you do?’

  ‘In case I grow forgetful. You see I’m not going back. I’ve sold my commission.’

  Tom had a sudden recollection of something in the papers about a recent House of Commons Select Committee. The Governor of Ceylon had been recalled because of the evidence of two army officers. Improper land confiscations and illegal courts martial – something of that sort had been levelled at him.

  ‘You gave evidence against the Colonial Government?’

  ‘I did. After the damage had been done.’

  Crawford deftly poured himself some brandy into the top, which was in the shape of a thimble-like cup, and swallowed hard. Then, having screwed on the top again, he gave Tom an appraising look, which seemed to say more clearly than words: I’ve told you something, now it’s your turn. So when Magnus asked him to tell him precisely what was happening in the town, Tom was not in the least surprised, and the eager intentness with which Crawford listened was very understandable given the situation outside.

  Tom had briefly recounted what he knew about the origins of the violence and was telling him about the complication of Joseph Braithwaite’s candidature in the forthcoming election, when Magnus asked sharply:

  ‘Who’s behind old Braithwaite’s adoption?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Tom guardedly. He disliked being devious and was therefore bad at concealment. Crawford grinned at his embarrassment.

  ‘What about Lord Goodchild? He paused. ‘Well, Braithwaite couldn’t stand without his support, could he?’

  Tom nodded reluctant agreement. The following day he hoped to secure Lord Goodchild’s commission to paint his wife’s portrait. He owed this chance to Joseph Braithwaite’s recommendation. Braithwaite was the wealthiest manufacturer in the district, Goodchild the largest landowner. With two such lucrative commissions in close succession, Tom hoped to be able to devote the best part of a year to work of his own choosing. He did not intend to jeopardise these prospects by committing indiscretions. A year free of financial anxieties mattered a great deal to him. Six months ago he had been reduced to sign-painting and tinting architects’ plans. Before that he had been living on a diet of bread and milk.

  ‘It’s a strange thing,’ mused Crawford. ‘Goodchild used to like the Braithwaites about as much as the cholera. He’s short of money, I daresay.’ He shot Tom a questioning glance.

  ‘You know these people far better than I.’ Tom realised, as he finished speaking, that he had said this more pointedly than he had intended, but he was nonetheless astonished when Crawford leant towards him with burning eyes and said with a gentleness utterly at variance with the obsessive determination of his expression:

  ‘Listen, Strickland. I know you need Braithwaite’s money. I know what it’s like to be frightened … like last year when I did nothing until matters ended … I told you how.’ He paused and looked at Tom with a softer expression. ‘You must see that there’ll be a blood-bath on polling day unless the strike ends or Braithwaite withdraws his candidature.’

  ‘What have I to do with such things?’ cried Tom, stung by Crawford’s moralistic tone, feeling anger, but, in spite of himself, an inner blush of shame.

  ‘If Braithwaite bought Goodchild, tell me,’ implored Magnus.

  ‘How could I possibly know?’

  ‘You’re staying in his house, aren’t you?’

  Tom tossed back his head in exasperation.

  ‘To him I’m no more important than a governess or music-teacher. Would he tell me anything?’

  ‘Does George ever talk to you?’

  ‘I’m no use to you, I tell you. I accept the world as it is. Baronets’ sons may get Governors recalled and play politics. I have other things to do.’ Although Tom was sure that Crawford must be aware that he was trembling with suppressed fury, he showed no sign of being put out, but said calmly:

  ‘Understand this. A man like Braithwaite, whose power depends on an absence of will in others, ends up as their servant not their master. I’d no right to ask anything of you until better acquainted; but what if we’re not to meet again?’

  ‘When you’ve worked for Mr Braithwaite perhaps you will then tell me about servants and masters with more authority.’ Tom regretted the bitterness of his tone but could not help it. Normally pacific and courteous, he was appalled by the power of the emotions which Crawford’s challenge had aroused in him. Doubtless the man had personal reasons for wishing to confound Braithwaite. Then let him pursue the matter on his own without enlisting the help of the first likely-looking accomplice, with no thought for what it might cost him. The look of disappointment on Crawford’s face was so obviously genuine, that Tom could not help being disturbed by it.

  ‘If you want to find out anything about George,’ he said, ‘ask your sister.’ Tom had meant the suggestion to contain a slight irony, but when he saw the amazement with which it was received, he wished he had remained silent. Miss Crawford had promised George an answer to his proposal in three months; quite long enough surely for her to have written to her brother, even as far away as Ceylon. But apparently neither she nor Charles Crawford had said anything to him. He would have been several weeks in London giving evidence to the Select Committee. Confused, and mortified to have been indiscreet after all, Tom added quietly: ‘George Braithwaite hopes to marry your sister.’

  ‘Has Miss Crawford accepted?’ Magnus asked shakily.

  ‘She gives her answer next month.’

  Crawford let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.

  ‘Well, Mr Strickland,’ he said, ‘you’ve told me something anyway.’

  A moment later there was a loud tapping at the window, and Tom saw a soldier’s face under a plumed shako.

  ‘Cap’n Braithwaite wants summat wi’ you, sir,’ the man shouted through the glass, seeing Crawford in the far corner. Tom caught Crawford’s eye, and was surprised to find himself smiling. Seconds afterwards Magnus had left the ‘fly’ and was following the trooper down the road. As Tom stepped out, he saw George Braithwaite come up to Crawford, and heard him say:

  ‘Mr Crawford, I fear I must ask you to give up your carriage.’

  Half-a-dozen frightened troopers were stumbling towards the ‘fly’ carrying three of their comrades. As they laid the wounded men down, Crawford bent over one, whose arm had been hanging limply and was now twisted to one side at an unnatural angle. Tom saw that the sleeve had been ripped open at the elbow, where the arm was a mess of lacerated flesh; blood was still welling steadily, and Tom thought he saw fragments of shattered bone. He had taken this in in a moment and looked away at once, feeling sick and faint. Not so Crawford, who grasped one of the troopers by the shoulder and shouted:

>   ‘Your shirt, man, take off your shirt.’

  The man hesitated; it was a cold night; but when Magnus tore open his tunic, the soldier hastened to oblige him. Magnus snatched the garment from him and ripped off a thin strip. With another man’s sabre he cut away the upper part of the wounded trooper’s sleeve and tied this crude tourniquet firmly round the arm above the wound. While Crawford had been at work, the other two, who seemed less seriously hurt, had been placed on the floor of the ‘fly’ under several fur-lined pelisses. The gravely wounded man was laid on the seat. Magnus took out his flask and helped the men on the floor to drink; when he had finished he turned furiously on Braithwaite.

  ‘These men owe their injuries to you, sir.’

  Tom saw George flinch as though he had been struck.

  ‘Those fellows on the hill had nothing to do with it?’ George retorted, recovering some of his composure. Crawford’s eyes narrowed. Tom noticed dark blood-stains on his previously spotless gloves.

  ‘You sent a small detachment ahead in darkness on this road. Why?’

  Braithwaite fiddled with the chin-strap of his shako; his face looked drawn and ghastly.

  ‘Damn it, Mr Crawford, we were surprised.’

  ‘You had no hostile demonstrations going to the station?’

  ‘On my honour, none.’

  Crawford’s sardonic smile showed what he thought of George’s denial.

  ‘And where’s the man you hit? Or can I congratulate you on killing any others?’ Crawford pulled off his ruined gloves and tossed them away.

  ‘We fired high. We found no wounded.’

  ‘I suppose they’d leave men behind to spend years behind bars if they recovered? Better to risk mortifying wounds in some filthy cellar than that.’

  ‘Good God, Crawford, they chose to attack us.’ Braithwaite sounded more bewildered than angry. Tom expected Magnus to tell him that incompetence was an invitation, his plans amateur and negligent, and his inexperience a crime, but, to his surprise, Crawford merely wiped his hands on the shirt and sighed. Tom’s premonition of what Magnus would say to his sister, about the man who had proposed to her, made him wince. Having told George that the trooper’s arm needed immediate amputation, Crawford asked for a horse and suggested that his luggage be sent to Leaholme Hall the following day. He sounded tired and downcast. Although three horses had had to be shot, two men would be going with the wounded in the ‘fly’, so there was no difficulty about finding Crawford a horse and the troop-sergeant soon led one up to him.