No European could fail to be aghast at the news that the insurgent sepoys had been allowed to march from Meerut to Delhi without stay or hindrance. That they should attempt to do so was understandable; that they should manage to do so unbelievable.
‘But what, after all, could be more natural than that they should want to place themselves under the man they believe to be their legitimate ruler?’ pointed out Oliver. ‘In their eyes, what they are doing is not rebellion; nor insurrection nor mutiny. It is an attempt to throw off foreign domination, and remember that is what the Indians have been doing with various degrees of success for the last three thousand years. It was bound to come, I suppose. If not now, then in ten, twenty or fifty years’ time. But having come, their first instinct would be to place themselves under their king, doddery old puppet that he be.’
‘You speak almost as if you condone them, sir,’ observed our guest of the moment in an affronted tone. He was a major in the 71st Native Infantry, a round-faced man with large but dispirited whiskers and a pompous manner. Charles was with us also that evening, taking the air on the verandah. He was over the sunstroke, as Oliver had promised, but was plagued by boils and prickly heat.
‘At least I cannot condemn them for wanting what, in their place, I would also want. Their methods I do not condone,’ said Oliver.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the visitor. ‘The stories circulating in Lucknow regarding the Meerut massacre are too horrible to repeat!’
‘Nevertheless, we have heard them all, several times over, and with many variations,’ observed Oliver laconically.
‘Then I cannot understand how you can have even a vestige of sympathy with the devils.’
‘But I didn’t say sympathy. I said understanding,’ pointed out Oliver carefully.
‘The same thing, in my view!’
‘No doubt, but not necessarily in mine. Or not in all cases. Where I can place neither sympathy nor understanding is with the commanders in Meerut. They were on the spot and yet made so little attempt, not to halt matters—perhaps that was out of their power—but to raise the alarm in Delhi. One man on a good horse would have been enough to warn the city. But no one had the wit to realize it.’
His tone was scathing, and Major Ingham, rightly reading into it a condemnation of the military mind, huffed and fidgeted, but ventured no reply. For, indeed, the story which had come to our ears of that Sunday night in Meerut was no credit to the workings of the martial intelligence, but an indictment of the lack of initiative consequent on too acquiescent an acceptance of discipline.
The match set to the torch of Meerut was once again the abhorred Enfield cartridge. Advised of the sepoys’ objections to this cartridge, Lord Canning, the Governor General, had ordered that, since the cap could readily be removed with the left hand, the teeth should not be used for uncapping—a wise, if partial measure, which, had it been followed, might have averted much that came later. The military, however, from the Commander-in-Chief, General Anson, through senior officers down to ignorant, newly-arrived subalterns, objected to this compromise as a point of pride, and ignored the directive. In Meerut the commander of the 3rd Light Cavalry, by reputation a vain and puffed-up man, now decided to use the favoured and elite ‘skirmishers’ of his own regiment to prove to their companions that an order from a British officer was inviolable. The skirmishers were paraded and ordered to pull the cartridge caps with their teeth as laid down in regulations. Eighty-five of the ninety men refused. They were court-martialled, condemned, then stripped of their regimentals and fettered at an ignominious public parade watched by all troops, brown and white, in the station.
After a couple of days of savage brooding on this wrong, on a hot Sunday as dusk drew in, the enraged sepoys rose, released their imprisoned comrades (and the other inmates of the gaol) and turned on their officers. The 60th Queen’s Rifles, a white regiment, ready for Church Parade, were ordered out to quell them, but were first required to change their white drill for the Riflemen’s dark green considered more suitable for battle, so that by the time they had been issued with ammunition the station was aflame. Swiftly joined by the native police and the badmashes of the bazaars, the sepoys cut down any officer they encountered, fired the lines and the bungalows of cantonments, and murdered women and children without compunction. The general in command of the station, Hewitt, a man so fat he took parades sitting in a carriage, and his Brigadier, Archdale Wilson, shocked to paralysis by their Baba-log having the temerity to revolt, only added to the chaos with inept and contrary orders and by bickering between themselves. When a junior officer volunteered to lead a contingent of the 60th in pursuit of the mutineers to destroy them before they reached Delhi, his suggestion was refused since it was felt that it would divide the force necessary to ensure the safety of the remaining officers.
So much was fact, as were the terrible accounts of pregnant women disembowelled by mutineers’ swords, of others mutilated but yet living who were thrown on the pyres of their own bungalows, of children decapitated before their mothers’ eyes, mothers set alight while their children watched shrieking. And, as Oliver Erskine remarked acidly, in the horror engendered by these atrocities it was easy to forget the self-love and the complacent arrogance of the officers whose prideful stupidity had caused the holocaust.
As the month of May wore on, the atmosphere of tension and apprehension tautened almost to snapping point, aided by the unremitting, inescapable heat. I wondered sometimes how much of the alarm displayed by our callers, how many of the rumours they recounted, and what measure of the credence they gave them was due to the sun and what to the facts. It seemed to me that many people had abandoned their homes and possessions, not to mention their positions, for trivial or inadequate reasons, impelled by panic rather than necessity. Some of them, particularly the women making their way to Lucknow, appeared almost to enjoy the novelty of their situation, regaling us with long accounts of how they had secured their possessions—the silver had always been buried, or let down a well, or hidden in the thatch—paid off their dependants and disposed of their pets. Some, indeed, carried their pets with them, dogs, cats and birds in cages, and all were accompanied by so many servants that I wondered what possible functions could have been performed by those who had been paid off. The birds reminded me of Connie’s Polly, and I wondered often how that family was faring, and how little Johnny was doing in the heat.
Kate Barry was a more faithful correspondent than Wallace, and we had received several letters from her, the last to tell us that Sir Henry Lawrence had ordered all the women and children from Mariaon, together with the sick of the 32nd Foot, into the Residency.
‘It has been a trying time,’ she wrote, ‘but so far everything has remained peaceable, though you would be saddened to see all the bungalows lying empty now, as even their masters are seldom able to go home. I resisted Sir Henry’s orders till I thought he would clap me in irons and have me forcibly removed to the R. So here we are now, my dears, a lot of cats fighting for space on one small roof. The noise (for the defences are as yet incomplete, and an army of coolies is at work on them), the heat and the crowding are horrible, but George says it cannot be for more than a few days, so I do my best to bear it. But protect me from my own sex en masse, particularly when my boys are either absent or too busy to throw me a word!’
Emily was up and about now, but pale and languid, which I put down to the heat rather than to her confinement. We tried to shield her from a full knowledge of what was taking place, but sometimes she joined the party on the verandah in the early mornings or at dusk, and then she would cry weakly at the thought of abandoned pets in empty bungalows, and pray that all our friends in Lucknow were safe and well. So far she was unaware that Hassanganj too was threatened, and we took care that she should remain in her ignorance, not a difficult matter since she was always willing to have her attention diverted to Pearl, and indeed thought and spoke of little other than her child.
By the end of the month
we had abandoned the pretence that nothing untoward was afoot, for by now the servants, on whose behalf we had dissimulated, were probably in possession of more of the facts than we ourselves. Oliver kept a loaded shotgun beside his bed, and Charles a similar weapon under his, while I took my pistol out of its drawer at night and laid it beside my pillow. I was afraid of it and sure I could never use it but, for all that, it gave me some sense of security. Toddy-Bob swaggered around with a brace of pistols in his belt, and Ishmial wore his enormous tulwar in his.
Oliver continued to ride around the estate day by day, supervising, directing, scolding. Twice a week he held his court in the kutcheri, and a group of villagers with grievances would gather under the mangoes to sleep in the heat until their cases came up for hearing. Each morning, the usual line would form outside the back verandah, to lay a complaint against a neighbour, ask for an extra hour’s water from the canal, or beg the sirkar to be lenient regarding their rent. And each day he heard them all with an equal, comprehending patience; even when we heard the accents of his wrath echoing in the house, we knew it was carefully timed and perfectly controlled. But now, Ishmial sat immediately behind him with his rifle and his tulwar, and Toddy-Bob would saunter, whistling, up and down the line, his sharp eyes alive to every unfamiliar face or unexplained bulge in clothing.
June came in, and on the first day of that month we were descended upon by the Wilkinses: the Major had decided that his womenfolk would be better off in the Baillie Guard after all, so gallantly he was attending them thither, assuring us that, of course, he would call in on us again on his return journey. He made this point so strongly that it was difficult to believe he was wholly innocent of having deserted his post, until it transpired that his post had deserted him, the handful of Indian police and soldiers he commanded having informed him politely, but with decision, that they were off to join the king in Delhi, and he would be wise to go to Lucknow.
‘The damndest thing it was,’ he said, astonishment at the recollection still in his eyes. ‘They just marched in, said it wouldn’t be any good sounding reveille in the morning as they wouldn’t be there and neither would the coolies, and marched out and off! All quite quiet and regular-like and not a shot fired or a harsh word spoken. Extraordinary!’
It was impossible not to smile at the poor man’s discomfiture.
‘And what has become of the other Europeans in your station?’ inquired Oliver.
Mrs Wilkins took it upon herself to reply.
‘Oh, well, the Morrisseys (they’re just police, y’know) have gone to Sitapore to her brother, and young Mr Snaith decided to stay on where he was. Of course he knows the Major will be returning, and he said it was too hot to travel anyway. And Mr Morrissey says he’ll return too, once the rains have broke. But really, Mr Erskine, the cantonments were as quiet as a graveyard with nobody in ’em, and as I says to the Major, what is the use of going back to where there’s no soldiers for you to command?’
‘Hmph! Very reasonable,’ commented Oliver.
‘No question of it, my love,’ said Mrs Wilkins’s spouse. ‘I must go back. To my station. To my command. That’s why I must go to Lucknow, to report the situation, and make them see that I must have a fresh contingent of men. Reliable, responsible men, not like the others. Damn them!’
Oliver regarded Major Wilkins coolly over the orange he was peeling.
‘Perhaps Lucknow won’t be able to supply you with reliable men,’ he suggested. ‘What then?’
‘Oh, nonsense! Nonsense! Of course they will. I’ll make it my business to see that they do. Can’t have the whole mofussil running amok because a few dozen sepoys take it into their heads to march off to Delhi. Delhi indeed! And what do they imagine will happen when they reach there? Will their king up and lead them? That silly old man … nearly blind and all as he is? Lead them against their own salt, for that is what it amounts to after all. He’s never fed ’em, never paid ’em, never taken any interest in ’em. Not as we have. I’ve spent my whole life among the sepoys, Mr Erskine, and I’ll wager I know more about ’em, white as I am, than their old king does.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mr Erskine, with a scepticism that was hard to ignore.
In the evening, Pearl’s ayah brought her out onto the verandah to be admired by the visitors.
‘Oh, Ma! What a mite it is,’ exclaimed Elvira, prodding the white bundle in the ayah’s arms with one thin unenthusiastic finger; but her mother insisted on taking the child into her own arms, and examined her closely.
‘Oh, little pet,’ she crooned. ‘Oh, how lucky you are, Mrs Flood. I declare, I can’t wait until Ellie gives me a grandchild. I just love these little ones. So helpless, y’know, and so pretty. Why this child has a real look of its Papa, hasn’t it, Ellie? Look closely now.’
‘She has not!’ expostulated Pearl’s mother. ‘She’s a true Hewitt. Why, she’s more like Laura there than Charles.’
‘Oh, no! How can you say that? She’s her Daddy’s girl all over, aren’t you, little darling?’ And Mrs Wilkins hugged the child to her massive bosom till she squealed in alarm.
In spite of the single young gentleman whom Mr Roberts had said she was pursuing (would that be Mr Snaith?), Elvira Wilkins was as lethargic as ever. Nothing seemed to move her, neither the present excitements, her unexpected journey, nor seeing us again. One felt that, for Elvira, life held no more surprises, and that she would respond to the Last Trump as if it were the bell at the tradesmen’s entrance. I wondered, as we walked over the lawns, whether her inertia was due to having lost her first lover at an early age or whether it was due to too many summers spent in the Indian heat. But there was one emotion to which she was not immune. Fear.
I had led her out into the grounds to show her the house from a distance; the more distant the perspective from which one viewed it, the more likely it was to appear imposing. Close to, it was a shock rather than a surprise.
‘It is big, isn’t it?’ commented Elvira. ‘And all them funny knobs and turrets. Like a fairy story almost. You know, a picture in a book?’
‘Yes, it is rather,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ve got used to it now. I even rather like it.’
‘It must be nice to live here,’ she went on. ‘You know, sort of safe. These flowerbeds … so nicely planted and that. We’ve never lived long in one place, but I do like gardens … only just as I got things planted out, we’d have to move, so I’ve hardly ever seen my seeds flower.’
‘Are you glad you’re going back to Lucknow?’
‘Yes. Oh yes, Miss Laura! Meelapore, the station Pa was commanding, y’know, has not been pleasant these last weeks. They never seemed to notice things like me, my parents I mean, and I didn’t like to say anything. Perhaps it was only the heat after all. But things changed all of a sudden. I don’t know why, but I was frightened. The people changed too—our sepoys, you know. They used to look at us … well, different. And at night, I used to lie in my bed under the punkah listening to the drums in the bazaar. I never minded them before, but in the last few days I haven’t been able to sleep because of them; they seemed sort of threatening. And they went on for hours and hours. And the conch shells too, and the dogs—they all seemed different somehow. So I’ll be glad to get to Lucknow. You wouldn’t feel it here, I suppose, not with your relations and Mr Erskine with you. But one can be very lonely in India, you know.’
The Wilkinses stayed the night. At dinner Oliver Erskine watched Mrs Wilkins with an unbelieving fascination as she ate and talked and gestured with her fat white hands. I doubt whether he had ever met anyone quite so free with her comments, and by the end of the meal I was relieved to see that the fascination had given place to appreciation.
‘Who would have thought, Miss Laura,’ she whispered to me at bedtime, ‘that your relations would be such marvellous fine people? All this wealth, and the solid silver forks at dinner. And what a fine man he is, your Mr Erskine. I remember thinking so that night at the Residency, though of course I didn’t know him then.
And remember me saying that if ever I could help you …? Me!’ And covering her mouth with a pudgy hand, she giggled her way upstairs. Then she paused and looked down at me. ‘But mind, I still have it, just like I said I would!’ And she patted her skirt in the direction of her knee, and gave me an arch glance before disappearing.
Chota hazri the next morning, which was taken in some state on account of the travellers, was almost a festive occasion. Mrs Wilkins talked as usual, Elvira ate more than all the rest of us put together, and Major Wilkins nodded solemn agreement to all his wife’s remarks on the spaciousness, beauty and luxury of Hassanganj and its house. Then their carriage was brought round, Emily and I were kissed fondly by both the ladies, and I knew a moment of genuine regret when, having assured us that they would write the moment they got to Lucknow, they drove down the avenue. A bullock-cart, laden with luggage and accompanied by several servants, had departed some hours previously.
The house was very quiet when they had gone. The chiks were lowered, the punkahs swung and, in the semi-gloom of the big rooms, we drifted about aimlessly, trying to occupy our minds with something other than apprehension and conjecture.
All morning a dove called in the heat, the three monotonous long-drawn notes irritating me even more than the slap, creak and swing of the punkah or the singing of the mosquitoes. The baby was querulous and poor Charles, tortured by prickly heat, scratched and swore with futile malevolence. No one else called in that day and I realized how much we had come to look forward to our visitors. With nothing to distract us, the waiting in ignorance for an unknown evil became doubly hard to bear. It was a relief to know, once dinner was over, that in two or three hours I could go to my bed, hot, sticky and unrestful as it was, and abandon the effort to appear normal.
It must have been about nine o’clock that I went upstairs to superintend the baby’s ayah performing the final washing and changing of the day. The room was tidy, the baby sleeping soundly but the ayah was absent, as was Emily’s, who at this hour should have been waiting outside the bedroom door to undress Emily when she went up.
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