Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  She tried to sit up, but she had no strength. More debris rained down, hard heavy clods that bruised her skin and piled around her, compacting her body into the grave. She was being buried alive.

  She wanted to scream, but there was not enough breath in her lungs. She writhed and twisted and moaned but the soil kept landing.

  And then it stopped. She heard muffled voices through the earth that clogged her ears. Rough hands pawed at her and scraped away the mounds of dirt.

  Half a dozen men stood around her, naked but for dirty cloths around their waists. They stared with wide eyes. Her pale skin and white gown made her appear like a petni—a vengeful ghost risen from the dead. One of the men brandished his spade at her—superstition had it that iron would ward off an evil spirit.

  Constance stood unsteadily in a cascade of loose earth. The gravediggers retreated, fearful of this grotesque apparition. They cowered and muttered.

  She wanted to run but her limbs were too stiff. She swayed, dizzy with sudden life and freedom. How had she managed to rise from the dead? One of the men struck her bare leg with the blade of his shovel. The wound it made began to bleed. She was human, flesh and blood. The men grabbed her and dragged her along the road to the fort. Had she arrived earlier, she would have met Gerard Courtney stumbling out of the gate and making his way to the ghats. But she was too late for that. None of her people saw her.

  The gravediggers presented her to the jemmautdar, who gave a calculating grin and barked a series of orders. Guards took her, more roughly than the gravediggers, leading her back toward the nawab’s camp.

  She wondered if she’d died after all, if God had judged her for her carnal sins with Gerard and sent her to the outermost depths of Hell. The city they led her through was a carcass of the elegant Calcutta she had known. The houses were smashed, and corpses littered the streets. A sulfurous haze hung over the city. She could hear singing, shouts, and the screams of women as the victorious soldiers took their pleasures. Soon, she realized with a chill, it would be her screams.

  “I am alive,” she told herself, again and again. “I am alive.” She clung to the possibilities opening to her. In the Black Hole she must have lapsed into a coma, unconsciousness saving her from death after the prison’s horrors. She began to relish her good fortune.

  The nawab’s camp was almost deserted. The army was looting the city. The guards took her through lines of empty tents, to the great golden pavilion in its center: a constellation of separate apartments joined by shaded walkways. Guards made a cordon around it, and men in splendid uniforms sat atop elephants at the four corners.

  A dozen serving girls were waiting for her in one of the chambers. The guards withdrew a short distance: Constance could see their shadows rippling on the canvas outside the door.

  The women surrounded her. Without preamble, they tore off her dress, pointing and smirking at the tuft of fine blonde hair between her legs. She was too exhausted to care. They filled a steaming bath and ushered her in. She went eagerly, but the moment she touched the water she cried out in agony. The bathwater was like being stabbed with a thousand hot needles. The women held her down, oblivious to her screams, scrubbing every inch of her clean. It felt as if they were peeling off her skin.

  They dried her on soft towels and rubbed perfumed oil over her body. They brushed her hair until it shone, letting it hang loose down her back. They dressed her in a cotton sari woven so thinly it hid very little. It reminded Constance of what the nautch dancers had worn at the Company party in Madras. The memory would have made her cry but she could not summon the tears.

  She had no resistance. Her mind had shut down, separated from fear or hope. She buried her spirit beyond anyone’s reach. She became a detached observer of her own life, as if she were floating outside her body, watching her life unfold with mild curiosity.

  Guards returned. They led her along the covered walkways, through other tents where women lounged like cats on carpets and cushions. They stared at Constance without pity or scorn, but through narrow, appraising eyes. Musicians plucked at instruments, and the air was thick with perfume.

  They came into the grandest tent of all. Constance’s bare feet vanished into the thick carpets. The walls were hung with gilded mirrors and painted screens, which showed naked women cavorting in complex sexual positions. The only piece of furniture was a wide bed, which stood in the center of the room, like a sacrificial altar.

  Abruptly, the guards pushed Constance hard in the small of her back. She stumbled forward against the bed. Before she could right herself, they lifted her arms and legs and spread-eagled her face down on the mattress. She struggled, but they held her fast. One of the women had followed the guards, bringing bands of cloth. Methodically, she tied the cloth around Constance’s wrists and ankles and fastened each to the corner posts of the bed.

  Then they left her.

  Bound and alone, Connie pressed her face into the pillow. If she twisted her head she could see the figures on the painted screens, women bent unnaturally while bare-chested men penetrated them in imaginative ways. She closed her eyes and tensed, listening hard. The carpets were so soft, she might not even hear an approach.

  She lay there for a long time. If that was part of the nawab’s sadism, or if he was simply busy seeing to his conquered city, she didn’t know or care. After the Black Hole, she was beginning to learn endurance.

  She began to test her bonds. The harem mistress knew her job and had tied them fast, but Constance persisted. She flexed her wrist, back and forth, working the cloth loose, tensing at every noise.

  With a tug, her hand came free. She rolled her wrist to get the blood flowing again. Now she could pick at the knot that held her other hand.

  But even if she freed both hands, her feet were still tied. And there was little hope of escaping with so many guards about.

  Something caught her eye. There was a crack in the headboard. She shuddered to think what might have caused the damage. She saw a long split in the wood and pried at it with her fingernails. The wood was strong but, with persistence, she broke it off. Now she had a splinter, about nine inches long and as thick as her thumb, tapering to a jagged point. It was a makeshift weapon, hard enough to drive into the nawab’s eye or belly. She would not have to worry about getting close enough.

  Outside the tent, she heard the guards snap to attention. She tucked the splinter under her chest, then replaced her hand in the cloth loop.

  The folds of the door-hanging swished gently as someone entered. The carpet softened his steps, but she could hear him approach. His armor clattered as he moved, then stopped. She heard the rasp of buckles, a heavy thud as the armor dropped to the floor, followed by cloth on skin as he stepped out of his tunic.

  She could smell him: stale perfume, sweat and bhang. The bed creaked and sagged as he clambered onto it, positioning himself between her outspread thighs. She could feel the heat from him, inches away. Her body clenched, but she tried to relax.

  He ran his fingers through her fair hair. Then his grip tightened. He twisted her hair around his fingers and yanked sharply, pulling her head back. She felt sharp cold steel pressing against the base of her spine where her buttocks spread apart.

  The point of the blade pricked through her gauzy dress. He cut through the fabric, splitting it open. He ripped it apart, leaning forward so his erect manhood pushed against her. She braced herself.

  With a cry of horror, he let go of her hair and jumped back. She could not see what was happening. He was shouting and cursing. Guards and servants came running, fearful that their master had been attacked. Constance quickly pushed the splinter aside and let it drop under the bed.

  The nawab screamed in disgust and left the room. The guards began a furious consultation among themselves.

  Constance risked pulling her hand out of the cloth loop. Craning her head, she caught a glimpse of her back in the mirror on the wall and gasped. Every inch of her skin had erupted in vivid red boils. Rolling on her
side, she saw they were down her front, too, her belly, her thighs and her breasts. She looked like a leper, or a plague victim.

  She began to be very afraid. With her beauty intact, she had some value to her captors. Without it, she had nothing. She saw the guards gesticulating as they spoke, their hands on their swords. Were they were debating whether to keep her for their own amusement, or to cut her throat? She wished she hadn’t let go of the wooden splinter. She would rather kill herself than let them touch her.

  One of the guards drew his sword. Constance tensed, anticipating a fatal blow, or perhaps they would elect for a slow death, the sensuousness of her gradual bleeding away.

  But the guard did not strike her. He cut through her bonds and gestured to her to get up.

  He took her by her neck and pushed her onto her knees. He stood over her and lifted his tunic, grabbing the sides of her head with both hands. The other men crowded around, offering encouragement. Constance shut her eyes. The guard’s erect manhood pressed against her face, angry and obscene.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici?”

  A shout from the door and the scene froze. A French officer had entered, red-faced with anger. “Laissez-la partir maintenant!”

  The guards did not speak French, but they understood the expression on his face. He tapped the epaulets on his shoulder—Constance did not know what rank they signified—and berated them in a mix of French, Arabic and Bengali.

  Then she heard another voice. Constance turned her head.

  It was the French general with the cold eyes. He spoke angrily, first to the guards and then to the French captain. “What are you thinking, you imbecile?” he shouted in French. “You jeopardize our standing with the nawab over a mere woman?”

  The captain stiffened. “I am sorry, mon général. I felt it would be improper to allow these native savages to molest a European woman.”

  “She is an Englishwoman,” the general raged. “I would not care if the nawab fed her to his dogs. But now I must let one of my officers lose face before these savages. And that is insupportable.”

  Unobserved, Constance watched the general in one of the mirrors.

  He was not a handsome man. His eyes were small, his lips fat, his nose hooked, like an eagle’s beak. His mousy brown hair was cropped short without regard to fashion or appearance, as if he had used a saber to chop it off himself. Yet there was power in his face, an ugly strength that held Constance’s gaze even as he repelled her.

  “Take her out of my sight,” he said to the French officer. “And if you ever force my hand like this again, I will serve you to the nawab for his pleasure. He likes men, too.” He made a crude gesture. “Your arse would please him greatly.”

  The captain nodded. “Very good, monsieur.”

  The guards retreated. The French captain approached Constance. He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to look at him. “Mon Dieu,” he said to himself. Then, still in French: “For God’s sake, cover yourself.”

  Constance pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her. She rose unsteadily to her feet. “Who are you?” she asked, in French.

  He clicked his heels. “Captain Lascaux,” he introduced himself. “I serve on the staff of General Corbeil.”

  “How did you—?”

  “When I heard that the nawab had captured an Englishwoman, I feared the worst. I hastened here immediately. Thank God I was not too late.”

  He was young, barely twenty, with a wide-open face that had not yet hardened to the ways of the army.

  “I owe you my honor and perhaps my life,” she said. “But why as a Frenchman do you want to save an Englishwoman in distress? I thought your country hated the English.”

  He frowned. “We hate their warlike ways, their superciliousness, their presumption and their arrogance, but we do not hate their women.”

  Constance sensed warmth in his smile. She needed to trust him.

  “We are not barbarians,” he told her. “I give you my word as a French officer you will be treated correctly from now on. I will arrange a safe passage to our settlement at Chandernagore. From there, it will be possible to return to your people. Or . . .” He hesitated “. . . you are welcome to stay with me.”

  Her skin burned, her head ached, and she felt sick to her stomach. Theo had abandoned her. Gerard must have died in the Black Hole. She was alone and defenseless, a pretty plaything for any man who chose to violate her at a whim. Or simply to cut her throat because it amused him.

  In the cell, she had sworn never to let a man have power over her again. But that had been folly built on despair. In the hard light of day, she could see the truth. The world was a battlefield where men clashed, like swords, sharp and vicious: women were nothing more than targets for their blades.

  A woman could not fight them on her own. But she was not helpless. Swords could be wielded, if you flexed the right muscles and could stand a little pain.

  She had noticed the way the captain blushed when he looked at her. She forced herself to give him a shy smile. “I want to stay with you.”

  It was late in the day when Theo walked along the road into the township of Bethel. It had taken him a full year to get here—a year honoring a dead man’s last wish. The sun shone golden from a blue sky, but there was a chill in the air, the first breaths of autumn. He could smell ripe apples and freshly cut grass, and the scent of woodsmoke wafted nearby. He was alone.

  These were the last steps of a journey that had taken him across four continents: from Calcutta to Cape Town; from the Cape to the docks at London; from London to Boston, and finally to this American wilderness. The young man who had landed on the quay at Boston harbor was unrecognizable as the tentative child who had left Madras two years earlier. His adolescent frame had taken shape, bulking out with strength and muscle. His bright red hair had mellowed to copper, and his features had hardened. It was still a friendly face, but with an underlying seriousness of purpose. Men and women had smiled when they passed him in the Boston streets. But the men did so with a certain respect, while the women would look again when they thought he did not notice.

  Theo had signed as a landsman on an East Indiaman and worked his passage to London. He had enjoyed the work and the camaraderie with the crew. In London, he had exchanged one of Nathan’s diamonds for a tidy sum in gold, but when it came time to sail to Boston he preferred life in the fo’c’sle with the other hands, rather than in the roundhouse or the stern cabins with the gentlemen passengers. On the main deck, no one asked after your family or your connections: he was free of his past.

  He was near his journey’s end and that gave him an extra bounce in his stride. He was ready to discharge his obligation to Nathan, and to begin the rest of his life. He did not know where it would lead him—but autumn, with its harvest and succulent fruits, was ripe with the promise of new beginnings.

  A cloud seemed to cover the sun as he entered the village. The nip in the air turned sharper—or perhaps it was the looks he received. Men and women with pinched, furrowed faces gazed at him with undisguised suspicion as he passed. Theo stared back. Growing up, he had never seen a white man working with his hands or carrying anything heavier than a book. Yet these people, respectably dressed, were digging vegetables, drawing water and cutting wood in the way that only a servant would have done in India.

  The houses straggled along the road for almost a mile, but they did not go deep. Goats and pigs grazed in the back gardens, and beyond the split-rail fences the forest pressed close. It was a precarious place, carved out of a frontier that had not yet yielded.

  Halfway along the road, in the center of the village, there was a white clapboard church, a duck pond and a muddy green. Something that appeared to be a life-size cross stood between the church and the pond, but its purpose was not religious. It was a pillory raised up on a wooden pole, so that all the villagers could see the unfortunate miscreant. It looked well used.

  Theo gave it a wide berth. But as he strolled closer to t
he church, he saw that a menagerie of animal heads had been nailed to its walls: wolves, foxes, mink and even a small bear. They made a macabre sight.

  He remembered what Nathan had said: Shooting and praying were the only entertainment we were allowed. He wondered what living in such an unyielding place did to people.

  A crow flew up from the tower as the church door opened. A priest stepped out. He wore a black suit, with a starched white collar, and a black hat over his close-cropped white hair. He wandered from the church and stopped in front of Theo, blocking his path. “A visitor,” he said, with no trace of welcome.

  “I am looking for the Claypole family,” Theo told him.

  The priest sucked his teeth. “You know Ezekiel Claypole?”

  “I knew his son.”

  The past tense, and the expression in his voice, left no doubt why he had come.

  The priest nodded. “Last house as you leave the village.” And then, “The town of Bethel keeps its business to itself. Claypole and his son were not close. You will not need long.”

  The priest went back inside the church and closed the door. The fox nailed beside the frame watched Theo with dead eyes, mocking him.

  The Claypole home was a good way beyond the village. The road turned into a rutted single track, hemmed in so close by the trees that the sun had not dried the mud. The light began to fade. Theo wondered if he’d missed the house, or if he should turn back and try again in the morning.

  A shadow caught his eye in the forest. Theo’s hand moved quickly to his belt. In London, he had spent some of Nathan’s money on a new suit of clothes, and a fine pair of matched pistols. He peered into the undergrowth.

  It was a girl. She was squatting by a tree with her back to him, examining the ground. She wore a simple gray dress, with a white apron, which she held out in front of her, like a basket. Her hair was pinned under a white bonnet. She was engrossed in her work.

  She plucked something from among the tree roots and sniffed it, then added it to the stock in her apron. Theo raised his hat. “Good day, mistress.”