The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "Nonsense," the man scoffed. "Old Jennings sleeps of a Sunday afternoon. And the nigger goes around to visit her grandfather in the palace." He looked up to John. "You have no immediate plans, I hope, to do an encore of your earlier escapade? You might not be so lucky the second time."

  Without replying, John circled behind the man and looked longingly toward the broad central gate which led to the road beyond.

  "Oh, come now, Eden," Taylor prodded. "What were you doing inside the Red Fort in the first place? It wasn't very intelligent, you know. That's their world. This one is ours. You can expect a measure of mercy from white Christians. Expect nothing from the savages."

  The degree of hate in his voice was so heavy that John looked back, curious to see where the jocular fat man had gone. "Why do you stay, sir?" he asked.

  "Where would I go?" The man grinned. "In exchange for setting limbs, delivering a babe or two, putting a cracked skull back together, I'm free to satisfy all my appetites." He shook his head vehemently. "I couldn't stand England after this. No, the truth of it is I love it here. Oh, I admit it would be better without the niggers. But you take one, you have to take the other. Right?"

  With the next breath Taylor was waving him back into his seat with a mild scolding. "Now, sit down and be the proper English gentleman I told the ladies you were."

  John held his position by the veranda railing, thinking how pleasant it would be to bury his fist in that grinning face.

  Apparently Taylor saw his expression and lightly apologized. "Oh, come now, Eden, sit down again. I meant no offense. And believe me, the best is yet to come. Shortly we will treat you to a mild display of British authority. You might learn a thing or two from it."

  Reluctantly John did as he was told, a bit curious about the "grand finale" which now had drawn others out of their bungalows into the fierce heat. The green surrounding the British bungalows was filling rapidly, pale English ladies with white parasols held aloft, a large contingent of scampering children, a sense of pampered boredom heavy on the air.

  John looked away. Then he heard a rustle of excitement from the crowd gathered on the green and noticed simultaneously that the muffled thunder of thousands of marching feet had ceased.

  "Ah," Taylor exclaimed. "Enough talk. Pay close attention now, Eden, and you'll see the British imperial hand at its best."

  All across the parade ground the regimental drill had come to a halt. The two thousand native soldiers stood erect, their discipline dazzling. The dust blew in eddies about their feet, the air stilled, no sound at all except for the residue of laughing children being summoned and hushed by their mothers.

  Slowly, out of the extreme right side of John's vision, he was aware of movement, a small contingent of men emerging from one of the distant buildings, a curious procession, six native soldiers, formally garbed in military uniforms, surrounded by a larger guard of twelve men.

  Curious, John asked, "What is it?"

  "Punishment," Taylor said. "Oh, not of a very serious sort," he added. "Don't worry. Nothing to offend."

  John observed a thin red line of soldiers encircling the waiting native troops, a rapid cordon resembling a tightened knot, their rifles at the ready. Something about the scene struck him as bizarre, armed soldiers encircling armed soldiers.

  Ever helpful, Taylor leaned closer with a succinct explanation. "The niggers' guns are not loaded." He grinned. "Ours are."

  John received this information as simply one more piece of the puzzle, other events beginning to take place near the center of the parade ground as now six British soldiers marched forward in close formation until they were facing the six sepoys. The rest of the guard

  stood back, supporting what appeared to be heavy chains between them.

  To one side stood the commanding officer, who lifted his hand in signal, and one by one the six British soldiers stepped forward and pulled the shakos from the sepoys' heads and hurled them into the dust. Next, in precise gestures they tore the gold buttons from the front of the scarlet tunics, then the white cross belts, the ritual stripping proceeding at a rapid pace, the prisoners themselves removing their boots and trousers, standing ultimately naked on the hot parade ground, save for the narrow strip of white loincloth between their legs.

  John looked away from the humiliating scene.

  "What did they do?" he asked Dr. Taylor.

  "Spread rumors, they did," the man replied. "Those six bastards circulated word that we had polluted their sugar and mixed ground bullocks' bones with the flour and that disguised in their food was cows' flesh."

  "Any of it true?"

  "Of course not. Well, I don't know. Christ, I'm not responsible for their feeding, thank god."

  Again John looked out toward the parade ground, wishing more than ever that he'd taken an early leave. For several moments the six men stood erect in their seminaked state, not stirring. Then the remaining guard moved forward, dragging the heavy chains between them and, bending down, commenced one by one to fetter the men's ankles.

  All at once, the first man who was being placed in chains lifted his head and cried out a single word.

  "Asking for forgiveness." Taylor smiled.

  "What is their sentence?" John asked, wondering how women and children could gaze upon such a sight.

  "Ten years' hard labor on the roads/' came the pat reply. "Oh, they don't like it. I can tell you that. Look! Look at them."

  As the second man was placed in irons, he looked over this shoulder and shouted something to the waiting sepoys.

  Taylor giggled. "That one's asking for help. Can you believe it?"

  John was prepared to believe anything, his mind still occupied with the harsh sentence. Ten years' hard labor, for spreading rumors about sugarl

  The fettering was a slow and clumsy process, and nerves were taut as one by one the prisoners shuffled off, some of them crying for

  mercy, some for help. Moved by their grief, John was in the process of looking for a more compatible horizon when suddenly he saw movement from the last of the prisoners, the only one who had yet to be fettered. Darting forward, the man in his terror raced across the parade ground, his brown legs blending with the dust, only his white loincloth sharply visible.

  The unexpected escape stirred the troops, as with one accord they shifted forward. The encircling red cordon moved closer, and at the same moment, John observed a single guard raise his rifle with deliberation and sight carefully down his barrel as though he were gauging his range on a rabbit.

  A single sharp report rang out over the stilled parade ground. The fleeing man's back exploded into a mass of red and he fell forward, one hand clawing for a moment, then growing still.

  Nearby a small girl in her mother's arms started crying. Shocked, John stood up and turned away, facing the house now and the small congregation of servants, tears running down the women's faces, the young servant boy's face reflecting the shock that John felt.

  "Oh, come now, Eden, you've seen worse," Taylor chided behind him. "There's this to be said about niggers. There's an endless supply of them, and the man did bolt."

  But John could not take his eyes off the native faces. Ultimately they turned away first, leaving him gaping at the empty doorway. The sound of muffled marching and the shouts of the commanding officer filled his ear as the troops withdrew from the parade ground.

  As always, Taylor was there, a puffing mountain of flesh and words. "Are you truly offended, Eden?" he inquired. "Surely I don't have to point out to you what would happen if such strict disciplinary measures were not taken. They outnumber us eight to one."

  "No," John lied. "I'm not offended. If you'll excuse me, I must be getting back."

  He saw Dr. Taylor signal the ladies that their guest was leaving. Then the large man followed him to the top of the stairs as though eager for a last private exchange. "How long will you be staying in Delhi, Mr. Eden?" he asked.

  "Not long," John replied, looking out over the now deserted parade ground,
where the dead man still lay, unattended.

  "Does that mean"—Taylor smiled—"that you've found what you came for, or you've given up?"

  "I came for nothing, Dr. Taylor," John said, "except adventure, which I've found. I'll be leaving within the month."

  At that Taylor gave him a knowing grin. "I think not," he said, and lifted a finger to summon his carriage forward. "Life is too easy here, Mr. Eden. A man would have to be a saint to deliberately remove himself from it." His grin broadened. "And you are no saint."

  Before John could offer a rebuttal, the ladies were upon him. Graciously he thanked Mrs. Taylor for her hospitality.

  Before he stepped into the carriage, he turned for a final wave, the smile dropping from his face as he caught a last glimpse of the dead man, still sprawled face down in the dust.

  He paid uninterested attention to the short drive to the gate, then settled back against the cushions, trying not to dwell on what he had seen.

  Life is too easy here, Eden. A man would have to be a saint to deliberately remove himself from it.

  As the carriage picked up speed on the road leading back into Delhi, John vowed to himself to prove the man wrong. By the end of the month, he'd be on his horse heading for Bombay, where he'd be more than willing to work for passage home. He'd thought he had witnessed the height of British stupidity in the Crimea. But that futile exercise paled in comparison to this one.

  Of course he would miss Dhari and Aslam. But they belonged here, and he in another world. He'd give himself one month to fully regain his strength. Then he'd return to London, where he'd look up Andrew Rhoades, perhaps even seek an audience with that dim though lovely memory named Lila Harrington, would somehow try to put a life together for himself, without Eden, without Harriet.

  Perhaps it wouldn't be a glowing, joy-sated world. But he'd try to make it at least endurable.

  Delhi, April 1857

  What precisely had detained him for the last thirteen months, he had no idea. First, there had been the rainy season, a time when, according to Jennings, "No man in his right mind left the protection of his shelter." Then there had been Jennings himself, who had begun to exhibit all the characteristics of a graceful loser, stepping aside in the face of John's growing adoration of Dhari, even suggesting that they resume their shipboard battle of chess, Jennings playing aggressively as always, and John letting him win, wise enough to know that every man has to win at something.

  Then there was the mission school itself, its routine seeming to absorb John, to fill him with an unprecedented sense of being needed. He performed an odd variety of jobs, from stacking wood to assisting Jennings with the children's lessons. Since that afternoon in the British Cantonment, it brought him incredible satisfaction to see a dark-skinned, black-eyed child smiling in pleasure.

  Then there was Aslam, who had become the most persistent shadow that John had ever known. The boy dogged his steps, finding in John perhaps the father that he'd lost. The two of them enjoyed long horseback rides along the Jumna River, John thoroughly enjoying the little boy's adoration, marveling at his quick intelligence, and secretly marveling at the realization that this small brown bundle of curiosity and energy was the great-grandson of the last Emperor of the Moghul Empire.

  And of course there was Dhari, who quite simply made the world beautiful for anyone fortunate enough to fall within her spell. Never

  had John felt so filled with well-being and gentleness. With melancholy he always watched her leave, like primordial man must have felt watching the sun go down, as though something too great to understand had withdrawn its warmth.

  Though John had not once returned to the British Cantonment since that first diastrous afternoon, Dr. Taylor had established the habit of coming to the mission every Sunday, to "escape the bloody women," as he put it.

  On this Sunday in mid-April, John sat on the steps of the mission porch, listening to the two old men behind him. He was waiting for Dhari and Aslam so they could commence their usual Sunday excursion out into the countryside. But something had detained Dhari, and Aslam was playing marbles contentedly in the courtyard, and as always the lethargic peace of the hot afternoon and the quiet Delhi streets wove a powerful spell. John lounged against the railing, only half-listening.

  "Terrified of it, they are." Dr. Taylor laughed. "Won't come near it. Have you heard of it, Eden? The new rifle?"

  John shook his head. The man prattled on so that it was difficult to follow him even when one was paying close attention.

  "The new Enfield rifle," Taylor scolded, as though aware that he did not have the undivided attention of his limited audience.

  "Well, what about it?" Jennings snorted, shifting in his chair in an effort to stay awake and hospitable.

  "What about it!" Taylor parroted. "It's just set all the sepoys on their ears, that's what. You see, the gun takes greased cartridges, which must be bitten open to release their powder. Half the grease is animal tallow"—he leaned up in his chair—"made partly from pigs, it is, abominable to Muslims, and partly from cows, sacred to Hindus." He laughed. "We have them coming and going with this one."

  Reverend Jennings looked at his friend, not sharing his amusement. "Then why doesn't the army select another material?"

  "They have," Taylor thundered. "But the dumb niggers won't believe us. Oh, they're convinced that we intend to defile all sepoys and break their castes."

  From where John sat on the steps he could see that the two men's expressions did not match. Jennings sat up in obvious alarm, while Taylor leaned back chuckling.

  "Then they must be told the truth," Jennings insisted.

  "Oh, God, they've been told the truth in every language imaginable. They're stupid, Fraser. They simply lack our intelligence."

  Here was the beginning of the ancient debate which obviously had raged between the two old friends for years; the one trying to subjugate their souls, the other exploiting their services. "Still, it could be dangerous," Jennings muttered.

  Taylor laughed. "Oh, nonsense. The troublemakers are few and far between, I promise." The large man stood now and stretched. "Just last month," he concluded on a yawn, "we had to shoot one at Barrackpore. Took a shot at his commanding officer, he did. Fortunately he missed. Then he turned the gun on himself and missed again. Would you believe it? At least he survived to be executed in public."

  The yawn over, John saw him glance at his pocket watch. "Oh, God, Violet will be furious." As he started toward the steps, John moved to one side to give him easy passage and for his trouble received a scolding. "It's your fault, young man," Taylor grumbled genially. "You know that, don't you? I'm having a hell of a time explaining your prolonged absence to the ladies. Their inquiries are continuous. You should hear the number of ways I cover for you. Of course I'll never tell them the truth, that you've found paradise between a pair of brown legs."

  From the bottom of the steps Taylor grinned up at both of them. "I'd take to locking my doors at night, Fraser, if I were you. Most of them hate your Bible as much as they hate our new rifle. And all you have for protection here is a brood of children, a native staff and a wandering Englishman."

  He shook his head as though concerned. Then he burst into laughter. "A jest, Fraser, that's all," he shouted, waddling on to his waiting carriage.

  John watched until the carriage was out of sight. Without looking at Jennings, he asked, "Was he serious?"

  When after several moments the man had not replied, he looked back to see him relaxed in his chair, his eyes closed. "Reggie is never terribly serious about anything," Jennings muttered.

  John was on the verge of pursuing it further. But as he saw Jennings' head nod to one side, he kept his questions to himself and looked again out over the quiet courtyard. Everything was so peaceful. Here and there a wandering chicken pecked at the dirt, searching for something edible, and on the street beyond the mission, nothing stirred but dust eddies and an occasional passing beggar.

  Where was Dhari? If she didn'
t come soon, he felt as though he would fall into a sleep as instantaneous and as deep as Jennings'. He closed his eyes to rest them from the glaring sun, Taylor's words still fresh in his ear.

  We had to shoot one at Barrackpore the other day.

  He saw again in memory the dead man sprawled in the dust of the parade ground with his glistening red back.

  They hate your Bible as much as they hate our rifle.

  "Dhari?" He opened his eyes and called inside the bungalow.

  But there was no answer, only the soft click of boys playing marbles, and the screech of a kitehawk as it wheeled high in the burnished sky.

  May 10, 1857

  Something was wrong.

  John noticed that at services that morning about half the children were absent. Jennings had waited until almost eleven before starting the lessons. He'd sent John out to ring the bell again, and as he'd passed through the normally bustling kitchen, he'd found it empty, the native staff gone.

  Shortly before eleven a few children had appeared, mostly offspring of Europeans living in Delhi who sent their children for Christian training to Jennings' mission.

  Dhari had appeared briefly at the beginning of the service, but at one point John had looked up to find her gone, only Aslam sitting on the rough pew, looking frightened.

  At the end of the service, the white children had run out to the waiting carriages, and with undue speed the various conveyances had drawn away.

  Now John watched carefully as Jennings discovered his compound deserted, and was amazed to see nothing of anxiety on the man's face. "Feed the animals, John," he ordered kindly before starting back toward the bungalow. "Then come to the kitchen. We'll have to fend for ourselves today."

  Bewildered, John watched the tall figure disappear into the coolness of the house. With Aslam's assistance he fed his horse, Black, and the other animals, longing to speak, but not wanting to say anything that would alarm the boy.

  Finally he couldn't resist and asked, "Do you know where Dhari is, Aslam?"

  The boy was scattering feed to the chickens. "She told me to wait with you." His small hand froze in midair as he looked apprehensively up at John. "Is that all right?"