Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  “You are right, my love—as usual. After this season, when the monsoon winds change in our favor, I will make the voyage to Africa. It will be good to go fishing with Jim again. And Theo and Constance will be astonished to find the cousins they have no memory of.”

  •••

  “I’m bored,” Constance declared. “Who could have imagined that war should be so tedious an affair?”

  She lounged on a chaise in a white cotton sari, examining her reflection in a hand mirror. She was practicing making faces, affecting different attitudes and studying their effects. Her hair hung in braids; her cheeks glistened with perspiration. Her French grammar book lay untouched on a side table.

  She pouted at Theo. “At least you could run away and join the army.”

  Theo looked up from his book. “Do not think I have not considered it. I am as bored as you are. But Father would find me soon enough. I cannot leave, any more than you can.”

  They had been cooped up inside the fort for almost a month. The house they had taken belonged to a Company trader who was away in Bengal; his agent had been happy to let it to Mansur in consideration of a debt the trader owed.

  For the first fortnight Theo and Constance had complained relentlessly about having to leave their home on nothing more than a rumor. Then the French had arrived. They had made camp near the great pagoda to the south, and erected gun batteries around the town. As Mansur had predicted, the Courtney family’s drawing room now hosted two nine-pound field guns.

  A dull boom echoed through the town. It had been going on for days now, though it still startled Theo each time. The French did not prosecute the siege with any great vigor: they rarely fired more than three shots an hour.

  “I do not know how Mother can sleep through that,” said Theo. Verity was upstairs, having adopted the Indian fashion of napping after lunch.

  “Perhaps growing up in so many sea battles she got used to it,” said Constance. “At least she was allowed some excitement.”

  “Father says we must carry on as if nothing was happening.” Theo turned to his book. It was The Life, Adventures and Piracies of the Famous Captain Singleton by Daniel Defoe. It was his favorite book. The tale of the pirates trekking into the undiscovered heart of Africa made him long for adventure, and to see those exotic landscapes for himself. His father had told him many stories of his escapades on that mysterious continent as a boy, which further ignited Theo’s restless imagination. But it was hard to concentrate on fictitious pirates when real French gunners were trying to pound your home into rubble.

  “I have always preferred Moll Flanders,” said Constance. “Twelve years a whore, five times a wife, including once to her own brother, transported to America, yet she still grew rich and died comfortable. That is the sort of adventure I should like to have.”

  “Mother says it is very unsuitable,” said Theo. He did not like hearing his sister use words like “whore.”

  Constance examined her face in the mirror again. “Perhaps one day I will be a kept woman and marry for an obscene amount of money.”

  “What a ridiculous notion. I want to marry a woman I love, like Mother and Father.”

  Constance said nothing. Suddenly she put down her mirror and stood. “Enough. Why should we speak of adventures in books when there are real adventures happening right on our doorstep? I want to go and see.”

  Theo closed his book. “Harjinder will never let us out.” Mansur had posted the guard at the mansion’s door, with orders to allow none of the family to leave without his express permission.

  “Surely you will not let that get in our way.”

  Despite himself, Theo’s eyes drifted to the window. Constance caught his gaze.

  “What will Mother say if she wakes and finds us gone?” he said.

  “We can be back before she wakes and she will be none the wiser. Or you can tell her yourself, if you are too afraid to come.”

  “I’m not afraid.” He could not let her encounter danger alone. He put down his book and lifted the damp mat that had been hung over the window to cool the air. Constance swung her slim legs over the sill and dropped gracefully to the ground outside. Theo followed.

  At that hour of the afternoon, the city was quiet. Most of the British inhabitants were asleep.

  “Where shall we go?” asked Theo.

  “Up to the walls. That will give us the best view.”

  “But they will be guarded,” Theo objected.

  She stuck out her tongue at him. “I know a way.”

  “How?”

  “Follow me.”

  She led him along the wide, sandy streets, keeping as much as possible to the backs of houses, and the alleys behind the Company warehouses. The buildings ended suddenly in a group of shacks and crumbling storerooms, crammed so close upon each other that it took Theo a moment to realize the brick wall behind was actually the outer wall of the fort.

  “Lift me,” Constance ordered.

  Theo cupped his hands and hoisted her onto the lowest roof, then hauled himself up behind her. The outbuildings made a giant staircase that they could scramble and clamber up until they pulled themselves, dusty and sweating, onto the rampart.

  Theo ducked behind one of the battlements, but Constance stood fearless, leaning forward to peer out through the embrasure.

  “Get down,” hissed Theo. “What if someone sees you?”

  “Who?” countered Constance. “Father says the garrison is stretched so thin they can only man the main towers. And if some soldier comes by, I shall simper and smile and clutch his arm, and he will be convinced it is all a great misunderstanding.”

  “The French?”

  “I am sure they are too gallant to fire on a lady.”

  At that moment, a puff of smoke and fire blossomed from the French lines. They heard the boom a moment later, felt it reverberating through the walls under their feet. A spray of sand fountained up from the plain below, as the cannonball fell harmlessly short.

  “You see?” Constance exulted. “There is nothing to worry about, little brother.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Theo rose and peered out cautiously. Fort St. George and the town of Madras had been built on a sandbar, a long finger of land crooked down the coast, separated from the mainland by a tidal lagoon. Across the strand, behind the lagoon, he could see the French encampments dotted among the palm trees around the great pagoda: rows of tents, baggage wagons, and stores. A makeshift parade ground had been cleared, where a company of fusiliers was being drilled. In front, native laborers had dug a row of entrenchments, where half a dozen guns sat mostly idle. Theo could see the gun crew lazily sponging out the gun that had just fired. The Company gunners in the fort showed no great desire to retaliate.

  “If Father was commanding he would have fired four broadsides before the French had reloaded once,” said Theo, with a touch of family pride. Mansur had often told them how he had rescued their mother from her wicked father, how he had commanded his own sloop and engaged Guy Courtney’s flagship, running right under her guns. Since Theo had first heard the story, sitting on Mansur’s knee, he had longed for the thrill of battle. Yet now, confronted with the reality of guns aimed at him, it seemed more complex than Daniel Defoe made it sound.

  “Keep down,” he told Constance. “We should not expose ourselves to danger needlessly.”

  “That last shot did not come within fifty yards of the walls,” said Constance. Her eyes were bright and wide, her face flushed. “They are out of range.”

  “You are enjoying this,” Theo said in wonder.

  She turned to him, one hand resting on her chest. “Of course. Isn’t it thrilling?”

  The cannon fired again.

  •••

  The blast echoed through the fort. The crystal chandelier shivered and tinkled as Mansur entered the house. All the blinds were drawn, and the doors closed against the afternoon heat. Shafts of sunlight lanced through, showing eddies of dust in the air. Howeve
r much the servants swept and cleaned, you could never escape it in this country.

  “Verity?” he called. “Constance? Theo?”

  His anxiety increased as he climbed the stairs—though he told himself there was no reason for alarm. They would be sleeping, as they always did at this time of the day. And the house was well chosen—far back from the western walls and the French guns.

  He opened the door to Constance’s bedroom. It was empty, the bedsheets stretched tight and untouched. Uneasy, he tried Theo’s room. The same. Perhaps they were with their mother.

  Verity lay stretched out on her bed in a thin cotton shift, fast asleep. Even now, approaching forty, she was the most beautiful woman Mansur had ever seen. He thanked God every day for the chance that had brought them together.

  But worries drove those thoughts from his mind.

  “Where are Constance and Theo?” he asked, shaking her awake.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Are they not in their rooms?”

  With greater urgency, they ran through the house, throwing open doors and calling for their children. It took them only minutes to realize that Theo and Constance were not at home.

  “Where can they have gone?” wondered Verity. “They knew they were forbidden to leave without permission.”

  Another bang shook the house: louder, this time, as the English gunners decided to return fire. The vibration agitated the dust, spinning it into angry swirls in the sunbeams.

  “The walls,” Mansur realized, with a jolt of horror. “You know what Theo is like—always playing at soldiers. He will have gone to see the battle.”

  “And Constance?”

  “He must have taken her with him.” Mansur was already at the door.

  Verity hurried after him. “They will be exposed to the full force of the French artillery,” she fretted.

  Mansur remembered the engineer’s warning: “They are in more danger from the walls they are standing on.”

  He led her at a run across the parade ground in front of the governor’s house, then past the church and the well. The scent of pepper, tea and spices surrounded the warehouses, but he did not notice. Cannon fired again, several shots so close they almost rolled together in a single noise. The French had increased the tempo of their attack, and the English responded in kind.

  I pray we will not be too late, he thought.

  They reached the bastion at the south-west corner. A sepoy sentry at the foot of the stairs made to stop them, then thought better of it. Mansur raced up the steps.

  At the top, an English lieutenant blocked Mansur and Verity’s way. The men at the guns, naked to the waist and dripping sweat, stared in surprise at the new arrivals.

  “What the deuce are you doing?” shouted the lieutenant. “This is no place for civilians. We are fighting a battle.” But looking along the walls, Mansur had seen what he was seeking. He pushed the lieutenant aside—harder than he intended. The officer stumbled, screaming as he fell against the scalding hot barrel of the cannon. By then, Mansur was beyond him, Verity too. Her skirts swished past the astonished gunners.

  Mansur raced along the wall, his feet tripping on the uneven stones. “Theo!” he shouted. “Constance! Come down this instant. It is not safe.”

  From the French lines, the cannon roared again.

  •••

  At first Theo and Constance didn’t hear their father’s shouts. They were watching the French, and the sound of the guns had dulled their hearing. Then Theo noticed movement from the corner of his eye. The anxiety he had been feeling turned to horror.

  He tugged on Constance’s dress. “They have spotted us. We will be in such trouble.”

  Smoke from the bombardment drifted along the wall. The haze obscured the figures running toward them, but as they drew closer and clearer, Theo felt an ominous sense of familiarity.

  “Father?” His gaze shifted to the figure behind. “Mother?”

  The rush of guilt was so great it drowned everything else. He turned and ran, no longer a young man but a boy who wanted to hide. He heard his father shouting at him to stop, screaming something about his safety, but he blocked it out. He didn’t hear the cannon fire, or the louder sound that rose, like thunder, behind him.

  His mother’s scream cut through it all. Whether he heard it, or simply felt it ring in his bones, he paused. He turned.

  The wall behind him had disappeared. The rampart he had been standing on seconds earlier was obliterated, collapsing on itself in an ever-widening hole. Bricks cascaded down, like water released from a dam, vanishing into the cloud of powdered mortar and dust that rose out of the rubble and engulfed it.

  Theo ran back, holding his sleeve against his mouth. He paused at the edge of the hole. Loose bricks slithered and tumbled beneath him. How could one cannonball have wreaked so much damage?

  “Go back.”

  The voice was so faint, he hardly heard it above the settling stones. He didn’t know where it had come from. He looked down.

  His father was below him, clinging to a fragment of wall that had somehow remained upright. Further down, a bundle of limp white fabric lay at the bottom of the hole, pinned under the rubble, like a discarded rag. It was Verity.

  “Get back,” Mansur hissed. Falling bricks had knocked out his teeth and left his mouth a bloody mess. His face was ghostly white with dust. “Save yourself.”

  “I can reach you,” said Theo, obstinately. He lay flat and stretched out his hand as far as he could. Mansur tried to reach back, but the pillar of bricks swayed at the least movement.

  The gap was wider than it looked. Even at full stretch, Theo’s fingertips came up short. He edged further out. Loose bricks fell from under him. He was inches from his father’s hand. But he could feel the void opening beneath him. Another movement might bring the whole wall crashing down.

  “Go back,” croaked Mansur. His precarious perch tottered on its foundations.

  “I can save you,” Theo insisted. He reached further. His fingers brushed Mansur’s but could not find a grip.

  The rampart shivered. Theo, lying on his stomach, felt the vibrations in his skull, like a ringing bell. The French had not been idle. They had seen the damage they had caused and trained all their fire on it. Another cannonball slammed into the wall. More bricks shook loose and the shaky pinnacle Mansur had clung to gave way with a crack and started to collapse.

  Forgetting all reason and safety, Theo lunged. Too late. Mansur was already falling away from him, slipping beyond his reach even as his hand stretched out. Mansur mouthed something that Theo could not understand. He wondered if it might have been “Constance.”

  Theo felt the slightest brush on his fingertips—then nothing. Mansur fell into the cloud of dust and smoke and disappeared.

  There was nothing to stop Theo following him. The cannon fire had weakened the rampart he lay on, and his final lunge had taken him beyond safety. He didn’t care. He had lost the two people he loved most in the world, and there was nothing left for him. Too late, he remembered the last word framed on his father’s bloody lips. Constance. If he died now she would be left alone in the world. His father’s dying wish, and Theo had failed it.

  His thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant. As the full weight of guilt and failure hit him, he suddenly stopped falling. For a second, he seemed to hang in mid-air.

  He looked around and saw a red-faced sergeant staring down at him, one hand locked on Theo’s belt.

  The sergeant hauled Theo back and laid him on the rampart. The ground felt heavy and solid beneath him. Before he could get up, Constance ran over and hurled herself onto him, cradling his head to her breast. “I thought you were lost,” she said. “I thought we were lost.”

  More soldiers had arrived. The sergeant was shouting, telling them they must get away to safety. But Theo and Constance were unreachable, locked in a private world of grief. Theo was crying, adding shame to his misery: he should not be so womanly. But his parents had gone. He felt such despa
ir that it was breaking his heart.

  When he told Constance what had happened, she howled with anguish. She was inconsolable, and Theo held her tight, rocking her like a baby. Their world had exploded, shattered in an instant, hopes and dreams in fragments, loved ones pulverized. This was the bitter, brutal reality of war. Theo saw his fate anew through his tears, as the dust stung his eyes, and it was broken and twisted. How could he rebuild his life?

  “This is my fault,” Constance whimpered. “We should have been safe at home. If I had not led us here—”

  Theo gripped her wrist too hard. “Never say that again. We both came. We are both equally to blame. I will not let you take this on yourself.”

  She brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and wiped the tears off his cheek. “Thank you. We will have to look after each other now.” She started sobbing again.

  There was a terrible void inside him, growing until he thought it would swallow him. “Promise me, Connie. Promise me, whatever happens, you will never leave me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Never ever?”

  “Never ever. I promise.”

  Below, a party of sepoys began to pick through the rubble to recover the lifeless bodies of Mansur and Verity Courtney.

  •••

  “We must learn the lessons Providence teaches from this tragedy,” said Governor Saunders somberly. “Mansur Courtney and his amiable wife must not have died for naught.”

  He looked around the silent council room. The French bombardment had stopped; the only trace it had left there was that one of the paintings on the wall hung askew. He would tell the servants to straighten it.

  The men at the table looked around without emotion. Death was ever-present in India, a cost to be borne, like spoiled goods and bribes. And every one of them had owed Mansur money.

  “I have this afternoon sent envoys to the French commander under a flag of truce,” Saunders continued. “He has agreed to accept our surrender, then ransom the city back to us. After some discussions, we have settled on a ransom of one and a half million gold pagodas.”