Escape from Hell

by Stuart, V. A.

  “It is, sir. But—”

  “Then I shall pray, Commander Hazard,” Cockayne said sardonically, “that you find your naval training adequate for this situation. I give you good day, sir!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The city of Ghorabad was a ghostly vista of huddled buildings and loopholed walls in the wan moonlight, the silence broken only by the splash of oars as the three boats slowly approached their objective.

  Standing in the bows of the leading boat, Phillip felt his stomach muscles tense as he looked about him. A few feet behind him, Petty Officer Devereux crouched, with Oates and the two loaders, Cole and Bustard, beside their long-barrelled rocket-launcher, which was mounted just forward of the single stubby mast. This was the largest of the boats the Newab had provided, with a crew of ten native oarsmen. All three were broad-beamed country boats, used normally to carry cargoes of rice and corn, with straw-roofed awnings covering two-thirds of their deck space. Steered by a sweep from a wooden platform in the stern, they were awkward to handle and, after some thought, Phillip had decided to retain their native crews, posting his own men, armed with rifles, to watch over them. He had been cheered by the spacious accommodation for passengers and by the fact that clean sacks and straw had been laid out beneath the awnings, in readiness to receive the released hostages in some degree of comfort. His own boat could take twenty-five or thirty, each of the others about half that number but Colonel Cockayne, when this was pointed out to him, had retorted cynically that the Newab was adept at deception.

  For all that, he appeared to be keeping his side of the bargain. The boats had been waiting, when the British column reached the river and his son—a handsome youth of seventeen or eighteen—had appeared shortly afterwards with a small escort of zamindari horsemen, who had ridden back to the city, leaving the boy alone in the Colonel’s custody. A little later, the old vakeel had returned, bearing the Newab’s signature to the agreed terms, and he was with them now, squatting under the awning, apparently asleep, his long white cloak wrapped about his bony frame against the chill night air …

  Phillip sighed. The only evidence of hostile intent on the part of the Newab and his people had been the destruction of the Bridge of Boats across the river and clearly Colonel Cockayne had expected this, since he had stated specifically that, if he attacked the city, he would do so from the west bank. According to the plan, there was a second bridge in the heart of the city itself which …

  “There’s the Newab’s palace, over to your right, Hazard.” George Crawford came to stand beside him. “I was instructed to make sure you knew its precise location.”

  “Thanks,” Phillip returned dryly. “I can guess by whom.” Nevertheless he made a careful survey of the sprawling building, with its twin watch-towers silhouetted starkly against the night sky and, as an added precaution, pointed it out to Devereux and the rocket-crew.

  “The fort is beyond the palace,” Crawford said. “Or it was— there’s very little of it standing now, so I doubt if you can see it. And you won’t see much of the old Cantonments either, or the Civil Lines. The Pandies set fire to them before they departed for Lucknow—as well, needless to say, as the Treasury, the Cutcherry and the Jail and all the other symbols of British rule. They were situated to your left, on the far side of the bazaar and the native city, with poor Hardacre’s Residency beyond them again, between the Civil Lines and the city. The ghat—that is the landing stage—we’re making for is the one these boats normally unload at, to the rear of the Subzee Bazaar on the west bank. We should see lights and some sign of activity there when we clear the walls.”

  Following the direction of his pointing finger, Phillip was able to make out the close-packed cluster of flat-roofed native dwellings which constituted the city, the monotony of its skyline broken by a few domed mosques and the burnt-out shells of tall stone buildings which had once housed Ghorabad’s British rulers and administrators. It looked dark and curiously menacing and there were few signs of the activity Crawford had predicted, when the landing stage came in sight about half a mile distant, ahead and to their left, a line of moored and deserted boats alongside it.

  “Do you think,” Phillip asked, lowering his voice so that the men behind him would not hear the question, “that the Newab is likely to betray us, Crawford?”

  George Crawford drew in his breath sharply. “And I can guess by whom that question was prompted, my dear Hazard! In answer to it, however—no, I don’t think he is. I should not have brought his proposed terms or urged their acceptance if I had believed that there was a serious risk of his breaking his word.”

  “I’m sorry,” Phillip offered quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked you such a question. Forgive me.”

  “Don’t apologise, my dear fellow. My confidence in the Newab is based on his well-known desire for self-preservation.” Crawford laughed, with wry amusement. “He likes to be on the winning side—that was why he threw in his lot with the rebels initially. But now, as I suggested to you not long ago, I fancy he’s seen the writing on the wall. If we win the battle for Oudh—as we shall—he knows that both his life and his lands will be forfeit. A pardon will suit him admirably … with that in his possession, he’s playing safe. Also he let his Pandy regiments go to Lucknow and one thing I did find out is that he hasn’t gathered the large force of zamindari troops I thought he would to defend the city. He probably hasn’t more than twelve or fourteen hundred here at present. That state of affairs could change, I’m compelled to admit—it could change tonight.”

  “In which case,” Phillip said, “he might still go back on his word?”

  “He might,” Crawford conceded. “But only, I think, if he’s driven to it. Or …” He frowned. “If the Colonel’s right and he cannot give us our women and children. I’ve had to steel myself to the possibility that they may all be dead, Hazard … and Andrea among them.”

  “Cockayne’s convinced that none of them were spared. He told me we should be given Eurasian Christians, not British women and children.”

  “If any of them survived!” Crawford spoke grimly. “According to the vakeel, they were the first victims of the mutiny, poor souls—as they were in many other stations. Defenceless, living in or near the native city, neither wholly Indian nor acceptably British—if they weren’t in the Company’s service, nobody gave a damn for them. But …” He hesitated. “The Colonel talked to you this morning, didn’t he, Hazard? I take it that what he told you was confidential?”

  Phillip’s gaze was on the landing stage. There were a few lights there now, his mind registered, and men moving about the steps leading down to it, but no sign of any women or children. “A good deal of it was, yes,” he confirmed. “And I gave him my word that I would respect his confidence. I can tell you, though, that you were right in some of the conclusions you drew. He did lie to get these troops and, as I said, he is convinced that the entire garrison perished months ago. He—”

  “Did he desert them?” Crawford asked harshly.

  Phillip turned to look at him. “No, I think not. He was here when they surrendered and he said his escape was contrived by two of his native officers. They kept him hidden in the city and then smuggled him out just before the Pandy regiments left for Lucknow. He said he got as far as Betarwar and—”

  “For God’s sake, Hazard!” George Crawford cut him short. “If he was here after the surrender, he knows what happened … and he’s probably right about the Newab. The swine does intend treachery; he’s trying to bluff us, to play for time. If that’s the case, what the devil are you doing here? Why are you risking your neck in this—this forlorn hope—when Cockayne told you quite definitely that his people are dead? I don’t understand you.” His face was very white in the moonlight, his tone almost accusing. “You could have left it to me— I have a stake in this but you haven’t. Dammit, man, you didn’t even know any of them—you’re a naval officer!”

  Trained to act on his own initiative, according to Colonel Cockayne, Phillip
reflected cynically and … what else had he said? To accept the responsibilities of command in any situation—well, perhaps there was something in that, after all. He had been too occupied with his preparations for the forlorn hope to analyse his reasons for deciding to embark on it, but he attempted to do so now, realising when he thought about it that most of them were rooted in his mistrust of Cockayne.

  “For a start,” he said, “I agreed wholeheartedly with young Williams. If only three or four of the poor souls are left alive, I think we have a duty to try to save them … even if they’re Eurasian Christians and, as you put it, not acceptably British. None of us knows for certain whether or not the Newab’s hostages are survivors of the garrison—even Cockayne must have doubts on that score. This is the only chance we’ve got to be certain and frankly, George, my friend”—he laid a hand on Crawford’s shoulder—“I’d infinitely rather risk my neck than try to live with my conscience if I failed to take it. Besides, I had a sister in General Wheeler’s garrison at Cawnpore and that, I believe, gives me a stake in this affair—in spite of the fact that I’m a sailor, not a soldier.”

  George Crawford eyed him in shocked silence for a moment; then he nodded. “What’s the correct nautical expression—glad to have you aboard? Speaking from the heart … I’m damned glad, Phillip. Because there’s something wrong, you know.” He gestured to the landing stage. “I can’t see anyone on that blasted ghat, except boatmen and coolies. If the Newab intends to release his hostages to us, it’s time they were there.”

  “Give them a hail,” Phillip suggested. “We’re not very adequately lit; perhaps they haven’t seen us.”

  The hail, in Hindustani, evoked only some shrill-voiced chatter from the natives on the landing stage and Crawford, after a brief exchange shouted across the murky water, shook his head despondently. “They say they know nothing of any memsahibs … and I believe them. They’re scared out of their wits.”

  As if to prove the truth of his words, there was a mass flight up the steps from the ghat. At the head of the wide steps was a rambling wooden building, Phillip noticed—a storehouse or godown of some kind, with a flat roof. It lay deep in shadow and the fleeing coolies gave it a wide berth as they ran, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to escape into the narrow confines of the bazaar beyond. He took out his Dollond and subjected the godown to a careful scrutiny, as Crawford said, “Devil take it—there is something wrong! I’ll question Mohammed Aslam.”

  The old vakeel, wakened from sleep and dragged unceremoniously from beneath the shelter of the straw-thatched awning by Crawford and his orderly, was gibbering with fear and, Phillip decided, as bewildered as they themselves were by the absence of his master’s hostages.

  “He says they should be here,” Crawford translated angrily. “And he thinks there’s just been a slight delay, because the Newab ordered them to be brought here when he received Cockayne’s signed agreement to the terms. And,” he added, his voice shaking, “he tells me now, damn his eyes, that they’ve been held in a rat-infested cellar at the Newab’s palace … which means they have to cross the river and pass through the city to get here. He thinks that may be the cause of the delay and he’s offered to go and make enquiries, if we put him ashore. What do you think—shall we let him go?”

  Phillip studied the old man’s face, seeing the fear which had suddenly replaced the bewilderment in his rheumy eyes and the spittle on his beard from the vehemence of his protests. He had been inclined to trust the dignified old native, to believe that he, at least, had spoken the truth but now … he shook his head. Every instinct warned him that the Newab intended to betray them and that his vakeel—if he hadn’t suspected this initially—was only too well aware of it now. Or perhaps he, too, had been betrayed …

  “No, we’ll keep him aboard, George,” he decided. “With a pistol to his head, in the hope that his nerve will break and he’ll tell us what his master is up to. But in case he doesn’t, I’m going to take a party ashore to investigate that godown …” He pointed to the tall, shadowed building at the rear of the landing stage, measuring the distance with his eye. If he took the boat in without lights and landed his party at the extreme end of the ghat, it was just possible that they might circle round it without being observed. The other boats could act as decoys and come in to the support of his party if they were required. He turned to the rocket-crew. “I’m going ashore, Devereux. Haul off when we’ve landed. You know your target. Open fire on it at once if my shore party strike trouble. Oates, douse all lights and then take over the sweep and bring us in as quietly as you can. Steer for the end of the landing stage, under the shadow of that wall—see?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Oates was on his feet, alert and competent. Phillip gave his orders crisply, directing the other boats into mid-stream. “Keep a guard on your boatmen and paddle in slowly,” he called across to Grayson, who was in command of the nearer of the two. “Talk, make as much noise as you can and keep your lights burning. Come in at your discretion if you hear us open fire.”

  Grayson waved a hand in acknowledgement and George Crawford asked, his voice sharp with anxiety, “You don’t think the women are in that godown, do you? Because if they are—”

  “I don’t know,” Phillip admitted. “But it’s certainly occupied and I propose to find out by whom. I’ll take six men with me and try to surprise them.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Crawford said and, as Phillip hesitated, “For God’s sake—Benjy can command the boat.”

  “Benjy?” He had forgotten Ensign Highgate, Phillip realised, but the boy was there, his plump young face pink with supressed excitement. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly, wishing Highgate were Lightfoot. “No heroics, Mr Highgate. Your task is to set the Newab’s palace on fire if my shore party comes under attack and you can leave Petty Officer Devereux to do what’s required—understand? If we’re not attacked, bring the boat in with the others on my signal.”

  “Very good, sir,” Highgate said happily. “You can rely on me, Commander Hazard. Shall I”—he nodded in the direction of the old vakeel—“shall I guard the prisoner?”

  Crawford relinquished his hold on the old man’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to him, Benjy. But treat him fairly; we don’t know that he’s betrayed us yet.”

  The boat glided in towards the darkened ghat, now seemingly deserted and Phillip, peering with narrowed eyes into the shadows, could see nothing calculated to alarm him. But there was neither sight nor sound of the hostages in the narrow streets behind the godown, there were no swaying lanterns or torches, no clattering escort … so either the hostages were still in the Newab’s noisome cellars and he had no intention of releasing them or … he felt his throat tighten. Or else there were no hostages, no survivors of the Ghorabad garrison, not even the poor Eurasian Christians, and this was a trap, into which—against the advice of Colonel Lionel Cockayne—he was obstinately walking of his own volition. He shivered, finding the night strangely cold.

  The men in the other boats were acting their parts admirably. He could hear the distant hum of voices, laughter and the splashing of oars and, out of the corner of his eye, could discern a lantern waving, as if someone were holding it above his head. And then, to his dumbfounded amazement, he heard something else—a single voice, a woman’s voice, raised in song and coming from the darkness ahead. It was a faint sound, the singing not particularly tuneful and it was not until, hesitantly at first, other voices joined in the singing that he recognised it for what it was.

  “O God our help in ages past … our hope for years to come …“ Dear heaven, it was a hymn, an English hymn and English voices were singing it! Women’s voices, children’s …

  “Phillip, do you hear that?” George Crawford gripped his arm and stumbled as the boat came alongside the landing stage with a grinding jerk. “You were right, by God, you were right—they’re there, in the godown! They’re alive!” He flung himself out of the boat, to stumble again and pitch forward face down on th
e uneven ground.

  Phillip followed him, cursing under his breath, and helped him to his feet. “Steady, old man,” he cautioned as the riflemen he had chosen stepped gingerly on to the crumbling stone landing stage. “They may have prepared a warm reception for us, so easy does it, my lads. Spread out and follow me. And not a sound out of any of you, understand? Mr Highgate, hold your boat here!”

  Keeping to the shadows, he led his landing party up the steps towards the godown. It was smaller than it had seemed from the river and more dilapidated, with wooden shutters on its windows and a heavy, iron-bound door. The singing continued as they approached it, growing in volume as more voices took up the refrain and Crawford whispered eagerly, “Why don’t you hail them? I can’t see any guards. They’ve just been brought here and abandoned. Surely we should let them know we’re here? Poor souls, they—”

  “Quiet, for the love of heaven,” Phillip besought him. “They know we’re here; that’s why they are singing. But we must take a look at the place first. We—” A high-pitched shriek froze the words on his lips and the singing ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A smell of burning assailed his nostrils and, an instant later, smoke and flames started to rise from the shuttered godown. Three men with lighted flares in their hands came running from behind the building, but they got no further than the top of the steps. “Let the swine have it!” Phillip yelled and four Enfields spoke almost in unison. “You—” he grabbed one of the riflemen by the shoulder and spun him round in the direction from which they had come—“call the boats in—all of them! Tell Mr Highgate to land his crew—look lively!”

  George Crawford was ahead of him, running towards the building like a man demented, head bent, a cry on his lips. The godown was tinder-dry, and in a matter of minutes, was engulfed in flames, the shrieks and sobs which had been coming from it succeeded by an ominous silence. The men, without waiting for orders, were smashing the shutters with their rifle butts and tearing at them with their bare hands, oblivious to pain and danger alike. They had been only a few yards away when the fire had started. Had they been in the boats, Phillip’s bemused brain registered, they would have been too late—much, much too late. But as it was … He gritted his teeth and hurled himself at one of the windows. As it was, they had a fighting chance.