Escape from Hell

by Stuart, V. A.

  The wood in front of him shattered, he drew a deep breath and clambered over it, to find himself in an inferno, blinded by smoke. Afterwards he could not have said how many pathetic, half-clad bodies he dragged out of the godown’s blazing interior or how many of those he managed to carry to the comparative safety of the steps outside were alive or dead. Highgate’s party came swiftly to their aid but, by the time the other two boats’ crews joined them, the fire had sunk to smouldering quiescence and, with Grayson and Arbor, he staggered back into the burnt-out storehouse, aware that now they could expect to find only the dead and dying. Among them, to his stunned distress, they found George Crawford. The roof beams had collapsed, pinning him beneath the rubble, and when they freed him it was evident to all three of them that his injuries were mortal.

  But he was conscious and, when they laid him on the steps, he whispered painfully, “Phillip, she is alive … Andrea is alive. I found her and … I brought her … out. I’d be … obliged if you could … ask her to come to me. It was … like a … miracle, finding her in the smoke. God guided me, I think, because … I could not see her face. But it … was Andrea, I’m … sure it was.”

  Phillip glanced at Arbor in mute question. The baggage- master shrugged helplessly. “They are the survivors of the British garrison all right—that’s all I know. Shall we start taking them to the boats? We could be attacked if we linger here.”

  Phillip nodded and, sick with pity, went in search of Colonel Cockayne’s daughter, calling her by name and only half expecting to find her. The withdrawal to the boats was, of necessity, slow; the women, many of whom were badly burnt, had to be carried or led, step by step, to where the boats were moored. But at least there was no sign of an impending attack and, leaving Arbor in charge of the evacuation, Phillip made a round of the sentries with Grayson and then returned, with a heavy heart, to where he had left George Crawford. By the faint glow of a lantern someone had placed on the steps above, he saw that a woman in a torn, smoke-blackened native sari was kneeling beside the injured man. She turned her head at his approach and he found himself looking into a thin, pale face from which all trace of youthful beauty and vitality had vanished. A livid weal circled her cheeks, swollen and bleeding, where the lash of a whip had left its unmistakable mark and he stared down at her, shocked into silence by this evidence of a cruelty he had hitherto only imagined.

  “He is dead,” she told him, gesturing to the still form which lay between them. Her eyes, sunk deep into the bones of her ravaged face, were very blue and empty of the tears he had expected, her voice flat and devoid of emotion as she asked, almost casually, “Who is he, please?”

  Her composure and her seeming lack of womanly feeling took Phillip aback. But some of the Lucknow ladies, he recalled, had shown this same, oddly callous indifference to death. His sister Harriet had explained it, with brief bitterness, when he had asked her the reason. “We often envied the dead, even though we loved them …“ He glanced again at the girl’s scarred cheeks and caught his breath, seeking vainly for words which would soften the blow he must deal her.

  “Don’t you know him, Miss Cockayne?”

  Andrea Cockayne shook her head. “I don’t think so. A soldier insisted on taking me to him—a Highland soldier, who kept saying he needed me. But he was dead when I reached him and there was nothing I could do. Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes,” Phillip responded. He added gently, “His name is— was—George Crawford. He carried you out of the fire and he was in your father’s regiment at one time. I believe that he—”

  The girl got to her feet, cutting him short. “Oh,” she said. “I remember now; my father disliked him for some reason. They quarrelled and Captain Crawford left the regiment. But … that was more than a year ago. I never saw him again and—I did not know him well. Poor man … I am so sorry he had to die like this. But he didn’t carry me out of the fire. A sailor did. I …” She studied his face dispassionately. “I think it was you, was it not?”

  “Was it?” Phillip’s tone was stiff, for all the effort he made to control it. George Crawford had loved this girl, he thought. He had risked and lost his life for love of her, had for years dreamed of making her his wife but she, it seemed, had forgotten him, claiming that she had not known him well. Dear heaven, how vain had been his sacrifice! He looked down at George Crawford’s dead face and anger momentarily transcended pity. He said, a distinct edge to his voice, “I have no clear recollection of that, Miss Cockayne. I was not searching for anyone in particular, but Captain Crawford was—he was searching for you.”

  She stared at him in frank bewilderment. “I’m sorry; I’ve offended you. That was the last thing I intended to do. I … I’m grateful to you and to poor Captain Crawford. We all are. We … that is, they meant to kill us, you know. To burn us alive … after telling us that you were coming and that we were to be freed.”

  “Yes,” Phillip managed, ashamed of his churlishness. “We shot three men who were running away with flares in their hands.”

  “They were obeying the Newab’s orders,” Andrea Cockayne told him. “They said it was to avenge Betarwar—perhaps you know what they meant? We had no idea. We … to us, it was the final act of cruelty. They let us hope—we had been waiting here for more than three hours for your boats to come. The guards had left us, except for those three. We prayed and we heard your voices, English voices and the … the splash of oars … so we started to sing. And then …” Suddenly, her control broke and she was sobbing, remembered terror in the tear-filled blue eyes.

  Deeply moved, Phillip took her in his arms, shocked anew to feel through the ragged sari how thin and frail she was. Behind the brave pretence of composure, there was a frightened, half-starved child, he thought contritely. A child who had been tortured almost beyond endurance, beaten and humiliated and finally deceived by a promise of freedom which her tormentors had never intended to keep … And he, God forgive him, had seen fit to reproach her because, during her long ordeal, she had failed to remember the name of a man who had once loved her. He laid his cheek on her scarred one, tasting the salty bitterness of her tears, and held her close, letting her weep. Then, when the first paroxysm had passed, he stripped off his jacket, charred by the flames, and gently wrapped it about her shoulders.

  “I’ll take you to the boat, Andrea,” he said. “Come, child, you’re free now and safe, please God.”

  She went with him without a word. Arbor came to him when he had left her, in Highgate’s care, aboard the boat. The baggage-master was white to the lips and cursing savagely. “God in heaven, I hope I never have to see the like of this night’s work again!” he exploded.

  “How many?” Phillip asked.

  “Thirty-two, Commander, of whom eleven are children. And six dead … but that number could be doubled before we get back to the column. I’ve put the living in the first two boats, and the dead in mine. I take it we can bring the dead back with us, so that they may have Christian burial?”

  “Yes,” Phillip agreed, his throat tight. “That, at least, we can do for them. And … add George Crawford’s body to your cargo.”

  “He’s dead, poor devil?”

  “Yes, you’ll find him where we left him, at the top of the steps. How about our men? Any of them injured?” Arbor shook his head. “Burns, of course, but nothing serious, as far as I know. They’re not complaining, any more than you are.” He jerked his thumb at Phillip’s blistered hands and ruefully extended his own for comparison. “We’re the fortunate ones— but some of those children … dear God, they’d break your heart! It’s a miracle any of them got out alive.”

  He went off, with Crawford’s orderly, in search of the Captain’s body and Phillip called in the sentries. The boats put off, the native boatmen still at their oars, and Petty Officer Devereux asked gruffly, when Phillip joined him beside the rocket-launcher, “Is our target still the same, sir? I reckon it wouldn’t do no ’arm ter morale if we was to leave them swine with somethin�
�� ter remember us by.”

  By heaven, it would not Phillip thought, with bitter satisfaction … it would do no harm at all. Then he remembered— the firing of the Newab’s palace was to be the signal for Colonel Cockayne to launch an attack on the city, and he gave Devereux a reluctant headshake.

  The pathetic survivors of the garrison had to be escorted safely to Cawnpore. Cockayne, once committed to an attack, might not pull out and, with sixty miles of hostile country to cover, the column could afford no losses. Retribution would have to be postponed.

  “No, Chief,” he said firmly. “We shall only return fire if we are attacked.”

  “But, sir!” The grey-haired petty officer regarded him in stunned astonishment. Outraged feelings overcame the habit of discipline and he gave indignant vent to them. “With respect, sir, after what that bastard of a Newab done to them poor souls? Wimmin, sir, an’ little children—you seen them with your own eyes! Are we jus’ goin’ ter walk out an’ leave ’im ter carry on?”

  “We must, Devereux,” Phillip told him. “Our first responsibility is to get the women and children back to Cawnpore and there are few enough of us to do it. My order stands.”

  From behind him, Ensign Highgate volunteered unexpectedly, “Commander Hazard, one of the ladies told me that the Newab isn’t in his palace. He left, sir, with his troops, when they did … they saw him when they were brought up from the cellars. He’s taken flight, sir—anticipating an attack. So really”—he glanced at Devereux—“there wouldn’t be much point in setting his empty palace on fire, would there? Or in attacking the town. I mean, sir, the townspeople aren’t responsible for the Newab’s treachery, are they? They probably don’t know anything about it and we … truly, sir, I think we have enough blood on our hands.”

  Highgate’s attitude had, it appeared, undergone something of a change, Phillip reflected wryly. He looked at the boy in his torn and smoke-stained scarlet jacket, noting the lines of weariness and strain criss-crossing the grime on his plump young face and drew him aside, out of earshot of the rocket-crew.

  “Well spoken, Benjy!” he applauded. “And you’re right—we do have enough blood on our hands, more than enough. Besides, one act of reprisal simply leads to another. You …” He broke off, hearing the thin wail of a child in pain, which came from beneath the straw-thatched awning. It stopped a moment or two later, and he added, forcing a smile, “You did a fine job of work this evening. Without your timely aid, we should have lost more lives than we did. Well done!”

  Benjamin Highgate reddened and then, a trifle uncertainly, echoed his smile. “Sir,” he said in a low voice, “I almost failed to obey your order—your second order, I mean, sir— to come ashore and aid you in saving those poor souls from the fire.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  Highgate’s colour deepened and spread, suffusing his smoke-grimed cheeks. “Because I’d made up my mind to take the boat out—as you’d instructed me originally, sir—and loose off your rockets at the Newab’s palace. Your men hadn’t heard the second order and I was going to pretend I hadn’t either.”

  Phillip eyed him in astonishment. “The devil you were! Presumably you had a reason, Mr Highgate?”

  “Well, yes, sir.” Highgate avoided his gaze. “I was sure it was what the Colonel wanted. You see, sir, he as good as told me that the Newab would betray us. He said you’d return empty-handed because none of his garrison were left alive, and that taking the boats to the city was only delaying the— the inevitable. When I saw the fire break out, I thought it was a trick and that you had been fooled by the hymn singing. My own idea was to pay the Newab back in his own coin, sir, and bring the column in as quickly as I could. I realise now it would have been wrong and I—I’m thankful I didn’t do it.”

  The Colonel was more to blame than poor young Highgate had been, Phillip thought. “What made you change your mind, Mr Highgate?” he asked curiously.

  Highgate continued to avoid his eye. “The prisoner, sir,” he confessed.

  “What prisoner, for heaven’s sake?”

  “The old man—the vakeel, sir. You left him in my charge.” Of course, Phillip recalled, he had told Highgate to guard the old man and treat him gently. “Well?” he prompted. “Where is the vakeel?”

  Ensign Highgate evaded the question. “He suddenly started speaking in English, sir—and he knew, he knew exactly what was going to happen! He was yelling his head off, saying that our women and children were in the godown and that the Newab intended to serve them as we had served his women in Betarwar. But he was urging me to try and save them, sir, not to let them die.”

  “Save them? But—”

  “Yes, sir. I couldn’t understand it either, but there was no time to think. I could hear the screams by then so I …” The boy hesitated, looking up anxiously into Phillip’s face. “I ordered the boat in and I—that is, I picked the old man up and threw him overboard, sir. I didn’t care if he drowned, I—”

  “And did he?” Phillip demanded.

  Highgate shook his head. He said shamefacedly, “One of your sailors fished him out, sir. He’s in Mr Arbor’s boat now. But—that’s not quite all, sir. When he was in the water, he kept yelling that the hostage the Colonel’s holding is his son, sir, not the Newab’s. I think that was why he had to keep his mouth shut until the last minute and why he was so anxious for us to save our women and children.”

  That could well be, Phillip thought. Clearly the Newab had not wanted to risk the life of his own son and, by sending the vakeel’s son in his place, he had made certain of the old man’s silence.

  “That’s a very revealing story, Mr Highgate,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

  The boy shuffled uncomfortably. “I wasn’t going to, sir. But then I thought about it and when you said ‘Well done’ and called me by my Christian name, sir, I knew I’d have to tell you the truth. Although it … well, it doesn’t reflect to my credit exactly, does it?”

  Phillip flashed him a wry grin. “On the contrary, Benjy, in my view it does. And I still say ‘Well done’ because you came ashore in the nick of time and you kept your head. I could ask no more than that of any officer, I assure you.”

  Benjamin Highgate stared at him for a moment in ludicrous surprise and then with a stammered “Thank you, sir,” made for the stern, his shoulders shaking.

  They were nearing the point at which the column had halted and Phillip was about to hail the shore when, without warning, a fusilade of shots, coming from the city they had left behind them, brought his head round. The shots were followed by the distant roar of cannon fire and he bit back a shocked exclamation as he, too, made for the stern. The native oarsmen, hearing the ominous sound, stopped rowing and two of them dived out of Grayson’s boat, which was just astern, to strike out frantically for the bank.

  “What’s going on, Commander?” Grayson shouted, as both boats lost way. “Can you see anything?”

  Phillip, his Dolland to his eye, could see little more than cannon flashes but his heart sank, as the firing grew in volume and Oates, at the sweep, said angrily, “Those are our guns, sir! Both of ’em. They’re …” the rest of his words were lost as an explosion rent the air and the shadowed rooftops of the native city errupted into flame. Within minutes, as they watched, the tightly packed houses on the west bank were hidden beneath a dense pall of smoke and John Arbor, bringing his boat alongside, called out in dismayed tones, “The column—for God’s sweet sake, they didn’t wait for us! They’re attacking the city! That was the magazine they just blew up.”

  “Put into the bank, Oates,” Phillip ordered. He gestured to the still glowing bivouac fires which marked the campsite and the native boatmen, muttering protests, sullenly yielded to the threat of his pistol and bent once again to their oars. The boat grounded and a sentry challenged hoarsely. “Wait, Benjy,” Phillip cautioned. “Don’t attempt to let anyone disembark until I tell you. And watch those boatmen—we may need them.”

  He swung hi
mself on to the overhanging bank and Arbor, not waiting to bring his boat into shallow water, jumped in and splashed across to join him. The campsite was deserted, except for the baggage waggons and the native camp followers, and Arbor swore horribly as he took in the fact that only a sergeant and a guard of fifteen or twenty men had been left in charge of his precious train.

  “The man must be mad, Hazard!” he growled resentfully. “What in hell induced him to take the column in without waiting for our return? And … in the name of heaven, look at that! He pointed ahead of them to where a body dangled from an improvised gallows, at the edge of a clump of trees. They were too far away to see the dead man’s face but Phillip felt bile rising in his throat as he looked at the slowly gyrating body—the vakeel’s son, without a doubt, had paid a terrible price for his brief hour of masquerade.

  “Perhaps,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his feelings. “The surgeon is still here. If he is, we can thank God for small mercies.” He turned to the startled guard commander. “Is he, Sergeant?” The man nodded. “Then fetch him, man,” Phillip bade him urgently. “Our passengers have need of his services. Tell him,” he added, as the sergeant started to move away, “that they are women and children and that some of them have been badly burnt.”

  “Right, sir.” Infected by his urgency, the sergeant put down his rifle and ran. Roused from sleep, the young assistant-surgeon, to his eternal credit, wasted no time. Within ten minutes, he and his two assistants were at work beneath the straw- thatched awnings and his doolie-bearers were waiting at the water’s edge with their curtained litters to carry the sick and injured ashore.