A Beggar at the Gate

by Thalassa Ali

  Dittoo's theory would also explain the aunt's behavior. Outcasts were never believed. Defeated before they spoke, such people learned to keep their agonies to themselves. Hassan's wife, it seemed, was already learning this difficult lesson.

  How strange that the woman who had been charged with the guardianship of the Shaikh's grandson should herself be alone and unprotected upon the field of battle.

  Ghulam Ali shook his head. By Allah, the woman had courage. How well she had protected herself from a man so much larger than herself!

  Shambling steps hurried toward the tent. It was Dittoo, bearing the child Saboor in his arms. The little boy had been weeping. He hiccupped, his fists screwed into his eyes as he rode against Dittoo's chest. At the tent, he rushed into the arms of Hassan Ali's wife who had come outside, the blood still on her face, to comfort him.

  Ghulam Ali stood up, the knife still in his hand. “Wait,” he barked in his crude Urdu, before Dittoo could depart, “I have a message for your memsahib.”

  “THERE, DARLING,” Mariana soothed. Her arms about Saboor, she stared over his head, remembering Harry Fitzgerald's final letter, its painful words impossible to forget.

  I excuse myself after dinner each night to avoid hearing the shameful things our officers are saying about you. Who will dare to be your friend now?

  “An-nah,” Saboor sobbed against her breast.

  “He would not eat,” Dittoo reported. “He wept instead, saying something had happened to you, that you needed him. I don't know what is wrong. Nothing happened to make him cry.”

  He tipped his head toward the albino who stood awkwardly beneath a nearby tree. “And Ghulam Ali is sending you a message. He says he will sit guard outside your tent. What does he mean, Memsahib? Why has he taken out his knife? What is wrong with your face?”

  Who will be your friend now?

  The child's arms tightened about her. “Nothing is wrong,” Mariana whispered as she buried her crumpling face in his hair. “Nothing.”

  What are you doing here?” Yusuf Bhatti shouted that same afternoon, his square face cheering at the sight of Hassan Ali Khan among the showily dressed sirdars crowding Prince Sher Singh's makeshift court fifty miles northeast of Lahore.

  “Look at you, in all your finery.” Yusuf seized Hassan by an embroidered sleeve and tugged him away from the crowd. “I thought you were in Lahore, waiting for your son to arrive. Does Rani Chand Kaur know,” he went on, lowering his voice, “that you have come to Batala to call upon her rival?”

  “The Rani knows I have come to suggest a compromise between her and Sher Singh. Other sirdars are doing what they can at the Citadel, but their work is of no use. In all the time I have been here, I have not been able to speak privately with Sher Singh. His blood is too hot for compromise, and the Rani at Lahore is too proud and stubborn to listen to reason.”

  Hassan pointed to a graceful, tasseled tent that stood at the center of a large encampment. “I see that the Prime Minister has already arrived. The Rani has offered him the Koh-i-noor if he will return to her, not that she has possession of it.”

  “But hasn't she already offered it to the British, along with the heads of any Afghans she can find?”

  “She has offered it to everyone. She would offer it to me if she thought I could help her. But what of you, Yusuf? Has your irregular cavalry gone over to the Prince? Are you also in line for the diamond?”

  Yusuf leaned over and spat onto the ground.

  Silk-clad courtiers continued to ride in through the main gate of the house, weapons clanking at their sides. Black-bearded men stood by the stables, their chain mail and steel helmets gleaming in the sun.

  “He is coming. The Prince is coming outside,” the crowd murmured.

  A bear of a man wearing a helmet of polished steel had appeared. Flanked by heavily armed guards, he thrust his way through the open gateway. “Do you see these guns?” he bellowed, slapping the nearest cannon with an open palm, sending a crowd of ragged children sprinting to safety. “If need be, these are the guns that will take back the throne!”

  “Yes, Mahraj,” shouted someone in the crowd. “We will prevail within the first hour!”

  “Once we reach Lahore,” the Prince went on, “more chiefs will come, with many more men. Those who do not come out of loyalty will join us when they see our strength. By the time we march on the city, so many troops will have deserted Rani Chand Kaur that we will not need to fire a single shot!” He smiled broadly. “Ah, I see young Hassan Ali Khan, assistant to the Foreign Minister, is still here. And you too, Sher Bahadur,” he added, turning to another man in the crowd.

  Hassan and Yusuf exchanged glances. “It is no use my staying,” murmured Hassan. “I must go to Lahore to meet my son. Are you coming?”

  “Did you see how many of the Rani's spies are here?” Yusuf said as they mounted their horses.

  “I did. They are everywhere, and those who aren't spying for the Rani are spying for the British.”

  Yusuf frowned. “If Sher Singh does attack, I wonder how he will control his men. The troops on both sides have not been paid for months. It would be madness to let them loose inside the walled city.” He sighed. “I am glad my cavalry has not taken sides. I have no stomach for killing Punjabis. We should be fighting our enemies, not our friends and neighbors.”

  “I hope it does not come to violence.” Hassan shook his head. “My father will never leave Lahore. What a bad time for Saboor to return—”

  Yusuf reached over and dropped a thick hand onto his friend's knee. “Cheer up, man. If there is a battle, it will, Inshallah, be over quickly. In any case, the doors of Qamar Haveli are stout. I doubt your family will suffer. We should be celebrating young Saboor's return. A few days from now, God willing, your whole family will be rejoicing.”

  “I wonder,” Hassan said thoughtfully, “what my son looks like after these two years.”

  “I SHALL take you in to dinner myself,” announced Uncle Adrian as he joined Mariana outside his tent in the gathering darkness. “Your aunt has developed a sudden headache, and will not be joining us tonight. I have already sent her excuses.”

  “If Aunt Claire will not be at dinner,” Mariana said sharply, “I cannot come with you.”

  “What?” Her uncle frowned. “Do not be absurd, Mariana. They're all waiting.”

  “No.” Mariana shook her head. Without even Aunt Claire's pallid support, how could she face Lady Macnaghten's party, the officers, the Vulture? How could she sit beside Mott at the table? How could Aunt Claire be such a coward?

  Her uncle again offered her his arm. “Mariana,” he ordered, “you will come with me. I cannot think what is the matter, but whatever it is, it must wait until after dinner.”

  Inside the candlelit tent, Mott stood silently by his chair, his eyes fixed on the silver candelabra in front of him. As Mariana approached the table, she saw Mott's bandaged hand tremble a little on the back of his chair.

  What had he told them all? she wondered. Fearing he had been seen entering her tent had he invented some ugly tale about himself and her? Eyes averted from him, she dropped angrily into her chair.

  Everyone was present: Lady Macnaghten resplendent in blue satin and ruffles, the Vulture draped in a heavy gold watch chain, Uncle Adrian and the four army officers, all chatting comfortably to one another as they took their places.

  It was Mott's new friends the army officers she feared most, but even they seemed absorbed in other conversations. Only Lady Macnaghten stared at Mariana for a moment, then glanced quickly away, a small frown between her eyes.

  In the seat to Mariana's right, her uncle leaned forward, his eyes on her face, now visible in the brightly lit tent. “Why, Mariana, my dear,” he said loudly, “you have cut your lip!”

  Too paralyzed to answer, she sat silently, while Charles Mott twitched beside her.

  The Vulture cleared his throat. “I have news from Lahore,” he announced in his nasal voice. “The thwarted Prince Sher Sing
h is preparing to advance upon the city.”

  “But the Rani is at the Citadel, with her court,” put in a red-faced officer. “Do you think the Prince intends to kill her?”

  “I don't know, and to tell the truth, I don't care,” the Vulture replied genially.

  Lady Macnaghten put down her sherry glass. “The Prince will not attack us, will he, Mr. Clerk?”

  “Oh, no. The Prince wants us on his side. That I can prove. We shall be quite safe, even if he attacks the Citadel while we are at Lahore. After all, we shall be encamped three miles from the city.”

  He eyed his plate of mulligatawny soup with satisfaction. “In fact, I rather hope he does attack. I wouldn't mind seeing the show.”

  Half-listening, Mariana flinched as Mott's bandaged hand stirred on the tablecloth beside his untouched soup plate. After seeing him finish several glasses of wine, she was not surprised to hear his uneven breathing.

  “But why should the Prince resort to military force?” asked Uncle Adrian. “That seems unnecessarily dangerous.”

  The Vulture flapped a careless hand. “The Rani has refused to meet with him,” he said, “but he has possession of Gobindgarh, the fort containing all the Punjab's heavy artillery—some seven hundred guns. The Rani, who is a fool, didn't think to secure it for herself. If she does not capitulate, I expect Sher Singh will smash his way into the Citadel with those guns, and terrify her into submission. But of course that would be after he had besieged the walled city.”

  Besieged the walled city. “But the city has thirteen gates,” Mariana said, too loudly, startling the officer across from her. “Sher Singh can never besiege it successfully. It will take him too long. He will storm the gates instead, with heavy guns. Whatever he does will be disastrous to the population. If he enters by the Delhi Gate, he will endanger Wazir Khan's Mosque and all the houses around it. If he enters from the Bhatti Gate, he will—”

  “My dear young lady,” interrupted the Vulture loftily, addressing her for the first time since his arrival, “I am sure we are all impressed by your knowledge of Lahore, but you are forgetting the point.

  “The point,” he said, regarding her through half-closed eyelids, “is that the heirs to the throne of the Punjab will murder each other whether we want them to or not, and that such murders can only advance our interests.”

  Mott stirred beside her. “Quite right,” he agreed.

  At the sound of that self-satisfied voice, Mariana's simmering anger turned to fury. What an arrogant fool he was! She looked down at the utensils on either side of her soup plate. The knives, with their rounded blades, were not dangerous, but the forks had promise

  “—will fall into our hands, guns, treasure, and all, without a shot fired, and at no expense to ourselves.” The Vulture drew out his words, to emphasize, Mariana supposed, his own brilliance. “Prince Sher Singh's attack on Lahore may cause trouble for the population, but we should remember that it will be their trouble, not ours.”

  Ignoring her uncle's warning glare, Mariana fixed the Vulture with a level gaze. “How,” she inquired, as other conversations died around her, “can you excuse the slaughter of innocents? How can you justify the plundering of treasures that do not belong to you?”

  So saying, she plunged her fork, pointed tines first, into the tablecloth an inch from Charles Mott's injured hand.

  Squealing with fright, he leapt up, turning over his chair and spilling red wine like blood onto his white doeskin breeches.

  All conversation stopped. Lady Macnaghten stared at Mariana, a hand to her breast, her cheeks suddenly as white as her pearls.

  Mariana rose to her feet and nodded toward the head of the table. “I hope you will excuse me, Lady Macnaghten, gentlemen,” she said evenly, then swept past Charles Mott and out of the dining tent in a rustle of watered silk.

  IT WAS after eleven o'clock when Dittoo scratched on the closed blind. “Memsahib,” he whispered, “your uncle is calling you.”

  The air in her tent was cold. Mariana reached, shivering, for a shawl. Uncle Adrian must be furious to have summoned her at this late hour, but she did not care. Wild horses could not make her apologize to the Vulture, Lady Macnaghten, or Charles Mott.

  Politeness had no meaning now. Mired, friendless at the bottom of an invisible social ladder, she had but one choice—to fight for herself. She gathered up several shawls, flung them about her shoulders, and marched to her uncle's tent, her chin high, her breath visible in front of her.

  When she stalked inside, she found him on his feet, still wearing his evening clothes. He acknowledged her arrival with a sharp, red-faced nod, then pointed to a chair beside the bed where Aunt Claire sat against several pillows, her double chin wobbling beneath the strings of a lace cap.

  Braced against his anger, Mariana watched him reach for the bedside lamp. “I want to see your face again,” he rasped.

  The lamp shook as he held it up. Aunt Claire's plump fingers opened and closed on the coverlet as Mariana stared, stony-faced, into the light.

  He set the lamp down hard on the table, causing his wife to start against her pillows. “I must know how badly Mott has hurt you,” he said tightly.

  Dear, silly Aunt Claire had told him. Bathed in sudden relief, Mariana answered, “The cut on my mouth is nothing. He has not hurt me otherwise,” she added firmly, comprehending the real meaning of her uncle's question.

  He nodded. “Come, then,” he ordered, gesturing toward the door. “You can tell me the story whilst I see you to your tent. I shall then pay a visit to Mr. Charles Mott.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT morning, Mariana took a boiled egg and looked cautiously about the dining tent. Everyone was there but Mott. All seemed occupied with their food, even the officers of the armed escort. Ignoring her, they poured milk into their tea and chewed their toast as they had each morning since Allahabad.

  Charles Mott had not, it seemed, boasted in advance of his proposed conquest. He had also, apparently, kept his failed attack to himself.

  At the table's head, a pale-faced Lady Macnaghten pretended as usual that Mariana was not there.

  Aunt Claire picked disconsolately at a kidney. It had taken her hours to abandon her dream of social advancement and tell Uncle Adrian the truth about Mott, but she had done it. Mariana smiled forgivingly in her aunt's direction, and helped herself to a spoonful of sugar. With Uncle Adrian and perhaps even Aunt Claire on her side, she might find the journey bearable after all.

  “Mott admitted to his attack on you,” her uncle had confided on the early morning march as they rode together behind Lady Macnaghten and the Vulture, with Aunt Claire's puffing bearers jogging behind them. “Of course,” he added, “he confessed only after I offered to produce that albino courier of yours as a witness. The thought of being exposed by a servant was too much for him, I suppose. He came clean, but in a most unpleasant manner. I do not like to see a man beg for mercy.” He gave a satisfied grunt. “I then threatened him with his aunt, Mr. Clerk, and the Governor-General if he so much as looks your way again.”

  As light as air in her sidesaddle, Mariana had glanced back at Charles Mott, who was riding so far behind them that he had almost included himself in the baggage train.

  What a difference it made to have allies….

  January 11, 1841

  When the seventeenth-century Moghul Emperor Shahjahan visited his northern capital at Lahore, he had his tents set up at Shalimar, his pleasure-garden, whose name signifies Abode of Love.

  Shalimar had suffered in the hundred and forty years since the fall of the Moghul Empire. The lovely old garden had been stripped of its marble, and the dainty pietra dura decorations had been knifed from the walls of its airy pavilions, but battered as it was, it was still undeniably beautiful. Its three terraced levels were still intact, as were nearly all of its pavilions. Water from Hansli Canal still filled the three great square pools, one to each level. All four hundred carved fountains still stood where Mulla Alaumulk Tuni, the g
arden's designer, had placed them three hundred years before.

  Shalimar was at its best in January. Its formal areas boasted cypresses and blossoming fruit trees—mangoes, cherries, apricots, mulberries, and other varieties, although not the hundreds of trees that had once grown there. But for all the loveliness of its trees, the garden's great feature had always been its roses. Cultivated by the same tribe of gardeners for many generations, the roses were now on full display, dominating the garden with splashes of color, sweetening the breezes that ruffled the water in the pools.

  On one side of the middle terrace, shaded by old mango trees, the tents of Mariana and her aunt and uncle overlooked both a lacy little building and Lady Macnaghten's grand quarters in the center of the middle pool, on an island pavilion reached by a marble causeway.

  Unlike Charles Mott, whose tent stood across the water, together with those of the armed escort, the Vulture had placed his tent far away from everyone else's, near the entrance gate on the lowest terrace.

  “I am pleased that Clerk has arranged for us to stay at Shalimar,” Uncle Adrian told Mariana as they stood surveying the garden, now dotted with their own tents, “although I cannot say I like the man. I find him much too sure of himself. He may be responsible for our political information, but I don't like him setting up his tent so far from everyone else, and conversing secretly with all those natives out of earshot.”

  While Mariana and her uncle watched, a turbaned man left an expensive-looking horse near the main gate, then stood briefly outside the Vulture's tent before disappearing inside.

  “I hope our government will not allow itself to be dragged into the quarrel between Prince Sher Singh and the Rani,” sighed Uncle Adrian, “and I certainly hope those two do not come to blows, as much as Clerk seems to desire it.”

  He frowned, his eyes on the birds swooping between the mango trees. “But none of this is our concern. We shall soon be far away from here. My dear Mariana,” he added, noticing her stricken face, “you must not grieve over that child. You are doing the right thing.”