by Wilbur Smith
“It does not feel like peace,” said Constance. She had come up to find him, carrying a small bowl of water. He drank it in a single gulp and regretted it immediately. It only made him more aware of his thirst.
Gerard no longer had the strength to argue. He offered Constance his sword. “If they come, and betray us, and we are separated, put this through your heart. It will be a kinder fate.”
Constance pushed it away, glaring at him with her wild green eyes. “Do not presume to tell me how to spend my life. You forget. My parents died a brutal death, my brother abandoned me, and I am still here. I will not take the coward’s way. As long as I breathe I will fight.”
“I did not mean—”
A single cannon shot shattered the calm. Before the ball struck home, the ruined mansions around the fort had erupted with men, pouring out of their hiding places and racing across the broken ground to the fort. They carried scaling ladders made of lashed bamboo, which they raised to the fractured ramparts.
“They have played us false,” Gerard cried. Pushing Constance back, he leveled his pistol at the first man on the ladder and fired. Blood spread through the attacker’s turban as the bullet penetrated his skull. He lost his grip and fell into the throng below.
But there were thousands more, climbing ladders all along the fort’s walls. Gerard could not hold the rampart alone. Down in the courtyard, the refugees and off-duty soldiers were waking up to the danger. Constance had fled. Gerard looked to the stairs—but the way was blocked with men who had already gained the walls. Smoke and flame licked around them. The nawab’s archers had shot burning arrows into the bales of cloth and mattresses that jammed the gaps in the wall. The dry fabric erupted in sheets of fire.
A bare-chested warrior came at him with a heavy curved sword. Gerard side-stepped the blow and moved forward, tripping his opponent as he stumbled past. He sliced through the man’s hamstrings, and left him behind as he charged toward the stairs.
There were too many men in the way. Half a dozen of them, looking for slaughter. They saw Gerard and bared their teeth. Others were closing behind him. There was no way out.
Flames lit the rampart. One of the bales of cloth had come loose and rolled onto the walkway in front of him. It cut him off from the men ahead—but the men behind had him trapped.
Gerard had no choice. With a grimace, he kicked out into the flames. The heat scorched his leg, but he ignored the pain. He felt his boot connect with the roll of cloth in the center of the fire. With a second kick, it started to roll forward.
The walls angled down toward the river. Helped by the slope, the burning bale of cloth gathered speed, tumbling along the rampart like a fireball. The men in its path dived out of the way. Some flattened themselves against the walls; others, panicking, leaped down into the courtyard, preferring to break their bones rather than risk the all-consuming fire.
Gerard ran behind it, shielding his face against the heat. He was so close he could feel his skin blistering, but he didn’t dare drop back. He had nearly reached the stairs.
Men were closing in behind him. He vaulted over the edge of the wall onto the stairs below. He landed halfway down, turned over with the impact, sprang up and ran the rest of the way.
The besieging army had managed to open the gate. Thousands more men were careering into the fort. All that held them back was the massive press of bodies already in the courtyard—the elderly, the wounded, the women and children who had sought refuge. They had no chance. The nawab’s troops cut them down like grass. They themselves had suffered terrible losses, and now they avenged their fallen comrades with all the savagery of a victorious army.
“To me! All Englishmen, to me!” Above the din, Gerard heard Holwell’s voice roaring defiance. The new governor at least meant to end his tenure more honorably than his predecessor. He had gathered a small knot of Company men and loyal sepoys around the flagpole—and among them was Constance.
The sight of her gave Gerard new impetus. He fought his way to her, slashing and hacking at anyone in his path. The fighting was so desperate, a sepoy by the flagpole nearly ran him through with a bayonet without realizing who he was. Then the bayonet drooped, and the sepoy reeled away, clutching his throat where a spearhead had torn it open. Gerard took his place in the line. His eyes met Constance’s—but only for an instant. He had to defend himself against an incoming blade, and the battle consumed him.
They were outnumbered a thousand to one. Yet Gerard fought, cutting and parrying every stroke that wished him dead. Beside him, a Dutchman took a bullet through his brain and collapsed. A young ensign, who had been a writer with Theo, was dragged out of position and hacked to pieces in front of his comrades. Blood soaked the parade ground.
One by one, the last defenders were whittled down. The knot of men tightened around the flagpole, fighting almost blind in the smoke descending from the burning walls.
A man with a scimitar swung at Gerard. He lifted his sword to block it—but there was no strength in his weary arm. He caught the blow clumsily. The shock shivered down the blade; his hand let go the sword. His enemy stepped back, raising the sword for the killing stroke. Gerard was defenseless.
The blow never came. The man seemed to stand there for an eternity, so long Gerard almost willed him to end it. Then he stepped back, lowering the sword while keeping it pointed at Gerard’s chest. Gerard breathed hard. Was it a trap?
The mob of soldiers surrounding them eased away. Commands were shouted. With remarkable discipline, the soldiers shuffled into lines, arranging themselves around the slaughtered bodies at their feet.
A trumpet blew. Drums beat. A phalanx of guards in burnished armor marched through the river gate from the ghats, making a corridor that led to the open ground in front of the writers’ building. Men scurried to drag corpses out of their path.
“Have we surrendered?” Gerard asked, but no one heard him.
More trumpets sounded. A dozen African slaves entered, carrying a litter so large it barely squeezed through the narrow gate. On it, a man in a white silk robe lounged on plump pillows. He had a pretty face, almost feminine, with pouting lips and long-lashed hard eyes, which took in the scene of his conquest without pity.
Three men rode in behind him on immaculately groomed horses, adorned with embroidered harness and silver buckles that tinkled like bells. Two were Indians of high rank, their robes sewn with pearls and gold thread, and ornate ceremonial daggers tucked into their sashes. The third, to Gerard’s shock, was European, a man with a hooked nose and dark eyes, dressed in the uniform of a general in the French Army.
The slaves halted. More servants came and unrolled a carpet so that the nawab would not sully his feet on the bloodied stones. Others brought in a throne draped with tiger skins. The nawab descended from his litter and seated himself on it.
He swept his eyes over the ruined fort. He spoke loudly and firmly so all the men could hear, no doubt praising their courage and success. Often, he was interrupted by cheering from his men, and chants of Allahu akbar. The tattered Union flag was cut down from the flagpole and replaced with the nawab’s banner.
The nawab turned his gaze to his prisoners. He beckoned them forward.
“Keep back,” Gerard whispered to Constance. “You must not let him notice you.”
Holwell, the governor, approached the throne. Gerard, and two of the other Company men who had survived the final onslaught, fell in behind him. Against the pristine finery of the nawab’s retinue, they made a sorry, shabby picture. The army jeered and whistled, then abruptly fell silent at a gesture from their prince.
The nawab spoke quickly and angrily. The French general walked his horse forward and translated in heavily accented English.
“His Excellency Siraj-ud-daula is most displeased with your insolent resistance. You have cost him over five thousand men, and more than eighty of his bravest officers.”
If he admits to that, he must have lost three times as many, Gerard thought. It was no consola
tion now.
“Because you defied your rightful overlord, your city and all its possessions are forfeit.”
“We agreed to negotiate a surrender,” Holwell protested.
The Frenchman frowned. “His Highness did not accept your offer. He has taken this city by right of conquest, and all that is in it is his.”
“And what becomes of us?” asked Holwell. His mouth was so dry the words barely carried.
“You will remain here as prisoners. If your Company values your lives, perhaps one day they will ransom you.”
Siraj waved them away. The audience was over. He turned his attention to the wrecked governor’s mansion. He looked displeased. Gerard guessed he had meant to take over the magnificent building for his own quarters. There was also cold malice in the nawab’s eyes.
At a word from him, men ran forward with torches, soaked with pitch to make them burn more fiercely. They threw them through the mansion’s broken windows on every side of the house. Flames caught hold of the carpets and the furnishings, licking up the walls and devouring them.
The nawab watched the fire with a mixture of contempt and sadness. With another blast of trumpets and drums, he ascended his litter and was borne away by his slaves and his guards. The general rode after him. The prisoners were herded to a grassy patch of ground near the barracks at the south-east bastion. There were fewer of them now: perhaps a hundred and forty, Gerard guessed. They were a mongrel bunch of every race: English merchants and soldiers, Dutch mercenaries, Indian sepoys, half-Portuguese topassees, even a Negro. Constance was the only woman. During the audience with the nawab, the other women and children who had survived the massacre had been allowed to slip away. The nawab did not want extra mouths to feed.
A few men with clubs and scimitars stood watch over the prisoners, while the mansion burned and the rest of the fort was looted. The writers’ spartan cells were stripped bare. One man cut the silver buckles off Gerard’s boots, and the brass buttons from his breeches. Every bale of cloth and sack of spices that survived in the warehouses was carried off. Gerard could tell by the looks on their faces that what they wanted above all was the East India Company’s treasury that they believed must be hidden somewhere. He wondered what Drake and Manningham had done with it.
Shadows lengthened. The sun sank below the walls, though it made no difference to the heat. The monsoon refused to come. Many of the men had not drunk since that morning and were almost dead with thirst. Gerard gestured to their guards that they needed water. They obliged, and brought a cask, but when broached it turned out to be rum. That did not deter the prisoners, who drained it with thirsty gulps, grateful for anything that would numb their pain and their thirst.
The liquor made them angry. They started fighting among themselves. The watching guards found it amusing, cheering them on. One of the prisoners, a burly sergeant with a sunburned nose, took it into his head to charge at the guards. The attack was so unexpected that he managed to wrestle away a cudgel, knocking one man out and sending two more reeling. Other prisoners, primed with drink, piled in. For a moment, it seemed that the battle might break out again.
Gerard glanced around. Could they slip away in the distraction? The gate stood open, only fifty feet away.
But the fort was filled with the nawab’s men, and they had heard the commotion. There was no way past. In a short time, the sergeant had been disarmed and given a bloody beating to discourage him from any further rebellion. An urgent conversation followed between the captains of the guards.
Gerard pulled Constance closer to him. “If we are not careful, they will decide we are not worth the trouble of being kept alive.”
“Est-ce qu’il y a un problème?”
An assertive voice cut through the argument, silencing the guards. The French general had returned. He eyed the prisoners with a vicious disdain that chilled Constance more than anything their Indian captors had said.
The guards explained the situation. From the snatches he understood, Gerard gathered that they resented the French general’s intrusion. They were minded to let the matter lapse.
But the general had other ideas. He crooked a finger and beckoned Holwell forward. “Where is the prison in this fort?”
Holwell made a gesture behind him, where a shaded arcade lined the wall. Most of the rooms inside were barracks, but one had been walled off and fitted with a door and a grille to make a small cell. The Black Hole.
“How many can it hold?”
Holwell shrugged. “I have never been inside. A dozen men, perhaps.”
Corbeil nodded, considering his options. He barked orders. The guards started rousting the prisoners from where they’d been sitting, forming them into a line and herding them to the arcade.
The prisoners were dazed and battered. Some were drunk. They had been fighting for days, and their resistance was exhausted. They filed into the jail like sheep.
The cell was too small. As soon as the first prisoners reached the back wall, the space was filled. More came in, an endless stream, with much pushing and jostling of elbows. Those who had sat were forced to stand or risk being trampled. Those outside could barely squeeze in, but the guards beat them with the flat of their swords to force them forward.
Holwell saw the danger. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded, “do not put us in here. This is not a prison but a death sentence.”
The French general stood to one side, watching through the arcade. “Your fate will be a warning to others who think they can defy the might of la France.”
He turned away, as the guards beat and kicked the last of the prisoners into the cell. Gerard had not thought it was possible they could all fit. The iron gate slammed shut and was locked. The guards left. By now it was nearly dark. The only light came from the governor’s mansion, still burning like an enormous pyre and casting ghastly, flickering shadows on the frightened faces packed inside. The sound of the azan echoed over the broken city as the muezzin called the victorious faithful to their sunset prayers. His keening voice made it sound like a lament for the fallen.
For long, disbelieving minutes, the prisoners were silent as their predicament sank in. Then the panic started and the claustrophobia was infectious. A hundred and forty odd men—and Constance—were crammed into a cell meant for a tenth that number. There was not even space to collapse. They stood upright, held by the press of bodies around them, like meat packed into a crate. There were moans and screams, muffled by expiring breath, gasps for air.
Gerard’s mind raced. How long would the guards keep them there? The only air coming in was through the bars at the front of the cell, and one tiny window high in the outside wall. There was no water.
The night was pregnant with the oncoming monsoon. Sunset had brought no relief from the immense heat of the day, while the burning building across the courtyard added its own diabolical warmth to the inferno. Those at the back of the cell pushed and shoved, but the room was so tightly packed that movement was almost impossible.
“Keep calm,” said Holwell. “With God’s grace, if we stay resolute, we will all survive this ordeal.”
The first deaths began within the hour. Some died with their arms in the air, still gripping the hats they had been waving to make a breeze. Some died in silence, and some died weeping for their mothers. Men by the windows hammered on the bars to get attention. “For God’s sake,” Holwell gasped, “you cannot leave us like this. We need air—and water.”
By now, every man had managed clumsily to strip off his shirt, and many their breeches as well. Those with hats rolled them up and fed them through the bars, holding them out like begging bowls and clamoring for a drink. The guards arrived. After some discussion, they agreed to bring water, which they poured into the hats for the prisoners to draw into the cells. Much of it spilled going back through the bars, and what little remained caused vicious fighting as men tore at each other to drink it. The guards were entertained by this human bear pit and they fetched more water to goad the prisoners int
o further acts of frenzied barbarism.
So many bodies together undulated restlessly, panic turning some into juddering marionettes, limbs and body functions losing control. Gerard and Constance were pulled apart. He tried to cling to her, but the chaos was inexorable. He let her go, and lost sight of her in the darkness.
Terror gripped him. Gerard had grown up the son of the most powerful man in India, a cruel father without a trace of love in his heart. He had steeled himself to loneliness, acquired an iron-clad inner strength. But in the dark, squeezed into that hell of humanity, with no room for even the sweat to run between them, he felt as if his very soul was being crushed to nothing.
Constance was a few feet from him. She could have reached out and touched Gerard. But her arms were pinned to her sides, and she could not see him in the dark crowd. She, too, felt horribly alone. Theo had abandoned her. The nawab did not care if she lived or died. The guards would take bets on her life, and the men around her would trample her into the stones if it meant saving themselves. Never before had she understood the utter indifference of the universe so completely. There was no grace and no redemption. Nobody cared for her.
Instead of despair, the hideous reality made her angry. Anger made her feel alive. She nursed the rage, like a spark in a tinderbox, the one certainty in the wreckage of her spirit. She would not let the nawab win. She would not let Theo escape while she perished. She would defy them all. She would walk out of this cell alive even if all the others were dead. And then, when she was free, she would never again give any man power over her.
The human current that agitated the crowd was forcing her inward, away from the windows and the hope of air into the dark, dead center of the room. She fought back, jostling and squirming. The weight was relentless. Stony faces came out of the darkness. An old Scotsman named Deegan, one of the merchants she recognized from the governor’s banquets, lolled over her. His arms involuntarily rubbed her breasts through the soaked fabric of her dress. His head swooped down, mouth open as if to kiss her. She recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His lips brushed against hers, so warm it took her a moment to realize there was hardly any life in them.