by V. A. Stuart
The surgeon nodded his understanding. “But if you find the enemy in occupation of the house, Colonel, what then? You’ll come back, won’t you?”
Alex shrugged. “Yes—unless there’s a chance that I can get past them without being seen. If there is, I’ll take it . . . but you will get no signal.”
Hollowell, who had been listening intently to their conversation, checked the contents of his cartridge pouch and picked up his rifle. “I’ll come wi’ you, sir,” he offered. “If yon house is occupied, we’ll stand a better chance if there’s twa of us. There’s an eight-foot wall tae climb if you’re wantin’ in tae the enclosure on the far side—you’ll no’ manage that by yoursel’. I can help ye over it and then come back tae report. can I no’?”
It was a sensible suggestion and Alex accepted it gratefully. “Right—come on, then.We’ll take it slowly and carefully— we don’t want those swine on the roof loosing off at us if we can help it. How many rounds do you have left?”
“Four, sir. But I’ve this.” Hollowell grinned, indicating his long bayonet.
“It’s dark enough, anyway,” Surgeon Home said. “Good luck!”
Outside in the courtyard it was, indeed, darker than Alex had expected, the moon no longer visible and rain starting to fall heavily. Either this had driven the watchers on the roof to seek shelter or else they had fallen asleep, for no one moved and no shots were fired as he and Hollowell climbed through the sagging wall of the shed and made their way cautiously to the house. It was in darkness and Alex, making a stealthy inspection of the rear, could detect no sign of any occupants. He pushed open a heavy, iron-bound door, which creaked alarmingly on rusty hinges; waited, pistol in hand and, when nothing happened, he turned left, following Hollowell’s whispered directions, to find himself in a long, low room with shuttered windows, of which he could make out little, save that it was empty.
“There’s not a soul here, sir,” Hollowell reported, after investigating the room beyond. “And hasna been for a gey long while.” He sniffed disparagingly. “The smell puts me in mind o’ ma grannie’s auld house in the Broomielaw when I was a wee laddie . . . musty and damp, wi’ open sewers! But ’tis cleaner than yon shed, there’s that tae be said for it.Will we hoe a look in the courtyard now, sir—the one that backs on tae the walled garden?”
Alex nodded. He asked, as they returned less cautiously to the rear of the house, “If you’re a Glasgow man, Hollowell, what are you doing in a Highland regiment?”
Hollowell gave vent to a low chuckle. “I fancied ma’sel’ in the kilt, sir! And I’ve nae regrets—nae serious regrets—after fifteen years wi’ the regiment. To your right here, sir.”
The wall into the further courtyard was, as he had warned, a good eight feet high, the arched gateway into it locked and barred. “Up on my shoulders, sir,” the Highlander invited, when they had waited, listening intently for some moments, without hearing anything to arouse their suspicions. “The walled garden is away over tae the left,” he added. “It wasn’ dark when I was here before wi’ the surgeon, so we were able tae see into it frae the top o’ this wall. And as I said, sir, the whole garden was swarming wi’ Pandies, so have a care.”
Alex clambered onto the wall. He located the walled enclosure but, in the rain-wet darkness, could discern no movement to suggest the presence of several hundred rebel troops. If they were there, they were keeping pretty quiet; the only sound was a spasmodic crackle of musketry, coming from the direction of the Moti Mahal, a sound that, intermingled with the thunder of heavy guns, had been going on for most of the day.
“Can ye see anything, sir?” Hollowell asked anxiously. “Are the Pandies still there?”
Alex eased the Adams into his belt, ready to hand. “No,” he began, “no, I . . .” and stiffened as, from the walled enclosure below, a man coughed and—almost as if it were a signal—a number of others followed suit. The coughing came from different sides of the enclosure and he knew that, although he could not see them, men were there, probably as many as Hollowell had estimated earlier.They were there and they were waiting . . . He moved to an angle in the wall and stood up, trying to orient himself and locate their exact position.
The Chutter Munzil was ahead of him and to his left, Martin’s House and the Moti Mahal perhaps half a mile away and to his right—musketry fire was still coming from that direction, which meant that the rear-guard was holding both positions and had not yet attempted to evacuate them. He could not see the river—even if the darkness had not blotted it out, the intervening bulk of the Chutter Munzil would have done so—but he knew where it was in relation to the enclosure and his own position and remembered suddenly that, this morning, when he and Bensley Thornhill had passed through it on the river side, a British detachment had been holding part of the walled garden enclosure. Part but not all . . . the rebels had seized an adjoining enclosure on the south side, between the Hirun Khana—the Deer Park—and the river and were probably in the Hirun Khana in considerable numbers as well.
Private Roddy had been right—more right than he knew— the rebels were not only expecting the rear-guard to take this route to the Residency, they were gambling all they had in the conviction that no other route was possible, although why was anybody’s guess. Unless . . . Alex drew in his breath sharply, conscious of a sudden chill about his heart. Surely they were not gambling on his small, exhausted party to bait a trap for the rear-guard? Even if they were, Colonel Campbell was too experienced a soldier to be drawn by such a bait—Napier, too, of course, if he had superseded Campbell in command. Neither would risk his command for the sake of a handful of men, holed up in the heart of the city, who might at any time be overcome when their ammunition ran out. A handful of men who could have been overcome several hours ago, if the enemy had pressed home their attack. For God’s sake, there were hundreds of them in the square—one determined rush would have done it! But there had been no rush, no second attempt to burn them out, no more firing, even, through the flimsy roof of the shed. The rebels had held off, almost certainly because they had been ordered to hold off, and he and Hollowell had been permitted to cross the courtyard unmolested . . . Hollowell, in his all too conspicuous scarlet jacket and kilt! Which could add up to only one conclusion . . . he swore under his breath and Hollowell, hearing him, asked anxiously if there was anything wrong.
“I’m afraid there may be,” Alex admitted. He slid down from the wall and, in a few whispered words, explained his doubts and fears. “I may be wrong—it’s possible that they’re counting on the heavy guns to force the rear-guard to take the route through the square. But we daren’t take a chance on that, Hollowell.”
“No, sir,” Hollowell agreed, with bleak resignation. “So what are we tae do, sir?”
“We must evacuate that shed at once, get the wounded across to the house,” Alex told him. “We’re on our own, lad—we can’t ask for help . . . we’ll be leading our own people into an ambush if we do, in all probability. Go back and tell Dr. Home and the others, will you? Tell them it will be safer here—the house can be defended—but if the worst comes to the worst, we may have to hang on until daylight, so they’d better bring the Brown Bess muskets and ammunition with them, as well as their rifles.”
“Aye, sir,” Hollowell acknowledged. He hesitated. “You’ll no’ be trying tae mak’ contact wi’ the rear-guard now, will you, sir?”
Alex shook his head. “Not yet, no. I’ll see you safely across and then watch the front of the house until you and the others get here.” He felt for the Adams. “Right—off you go!”
Hollowell vanished into the murky darkness.Alex waited, giving him time to reach the shed, and then made his way to the rear door of the house, wary this time of its rusty hinges. It opened, under his cautious pressure, with scarcely a sound. He entered the low back room hearing, as he did so, a faint scuttling noise that appeared to be coming from the room beyond. Rats, he wondered, instantly on his guard—rats or humans? He had to make sure before the w
ounded were brought across and, with so many rebels close by, he dared not take a chance . . . moving as silently as he could, he crossed to the shuttered window and peered out through a crack in the wood. The window looked out on the walled courtyard, and he could see little or nothing save a pool of rainwater gathering beneath the dripping eaves of the house, his first reaction to which was a feeling of thankfulness, since it promised a readily available supply of water for the wounded.
The scuttling sound continued, louder now, only to cease when, approaching the room from which it had been coming, he blundered into some object—a stool or the end of a charpoy, unseen in the darkness—which sent him crashing to his knees, the Adams jerked out of his hand. Cursing his own clumsiness, he groped along the floor for the weapon, found it and crouched there, straining his ears, instinctively uneasy, yet hearing nothing to cause him the slightest alarm. His first guess had probably been correct, he told himself. The scuttling sound had been made by rats or lizards; there was no one in the room. He got to his feet and strode into the room, making no attempt at concealment, only to halt in dismay when he realized that the door leading into the street was open. Through it, he could see the gleam of lights in the house opposite, shining through a curtain of rain. But . . . Hollowell had inspected this room, he had reported it empty and had made no mention of an open door, which could mean only that someone had come, in the interim, and unbarred the door. Someone who could not be permitted to return, if the wounded were to use this house as a refuge . . . Alex moved forward, intending to shut the door when suddenly, without warning, the darkness erupted into menacing life.
There was a rush of feet; several bodies hurtled into him, bringing him down, a man’s arm closed about his chest and shoulders from behind, while a second grabbed his wrist, seeking to wrench the Adams from him. There were more men, entering through the door into the street, silent men, who gave no indication of who they were, but the pungent odor of sweat and breath heavy with the spicy, faintly acrid scent of betel nut, which emanated from those who were holding him, told him that his assailants were natives.
Intent on warning Surgeon Home and the rest of the British party rather than on attempting to defend himself, Alex got off four shots before his pistol was wrested from him, and he felt the sharp, cold prick of steel, as a knife was pressed against his throat.
A voice said, in English, “Do not move and do not call out to the other feringhis or I shall slit your throat!” He remained still, spent and breathless from the struggle, and heard, without comprehending its significance, a fusillade of shots coming from the courtyard. But the high-pitched whine of Enfield and Minié rifles mingled with the crackle of Brown Bess muskets suggested that his party—if it had been fired on—was replying to the rebels’ fire, and a moment or two later, to his intense relief, he heard an excited shout from the rear of the house.
“They have returned to the shed. Subedar Sahib!”
His captor grunted. “All of them?” the subedar demanded, in his own tongue.
“Ji-han, all. The dogs of matchlock men drove them back.”
“Misbegotten curs!” the subedar grumbled. “Bring a lamp in here, one of you, and let us see what manner of prize we have taken.”
The knife remained, the point of its blade pressed against his throat, and Alex said, in English, “Let me sit up. I am disarmed— I will not struggle.”
The subedar, evidently an old regular, responded to the note of authority in his voice. “Give me your word, Sahib,” he requested.
“You have my word. I will not struggle.”
The knife was removed, and Alex dragged himself into a sitting position, as a sepoy, in correct scarlet-jacketed uniform, came in bearing two small oil lamps. Taking one of them, the subedar held it above his head, looking down with narrowed eyes at his prisoner. He was an old man, Alex saw, his uniform impeccable and the ribbons of the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns pinned to his tunic, the medals gleaming in the lamplight. His own uniform, being that of a Volunteer Cavalry officer, bore neither medals nor badges of rank. and he saw the old subedar’s look of bewilderment as he subjected it to a careful inspection.
“Your name, Sahib?” he asked, his tone—almost from habit, it seemed—respectful. One of the sepoys, quicker-witted then he, gestured to Alex’s empty sleeve.
“This is the sahib who has lost his sword-arm!” the man exclaimed. “He is Sheridan Sahib, for whom the Moulvi has offered a reward of a thousand rupees.”
“Dead or alive?” another man demanded. He hawked up spittle, directing it, with insolent deliberation. at Alex’s face. “We waste time, Subedar-ji. Let us take his head to the Moulvi—that will be all the proof we need to earn us the reward.”
The subedar studied Alex’s scarred face bravely and memory stirred. “Nahin!” he said forcefully. “This is no matter for us to decide. Let the Moulvi Sahib put him to death, if that is his wish, but we shall take him alive. There is a Colonel Sheridan of the Cavalry who escaped from Cawnpore . . . if this is he, then he is a prize of more worth than a paltry thousand rupees.”
“Ask him, Subedar Sahib,” the sepoy who had brought the lamps suggested.The subedar started to do so in English, but the man who had spat in Alex’s face said derisively, “He speaks our tongue—canst thou not see, in his eyes, that he understands? Let him speak it!”
The subedar struck him a stinging blow across the mouth, which sent him reeling. “Keep thy place, Gupta Ram,” he ordered angrily. “I am in command, not thou. In our paltan, there is discipline and officers are treated with respect.” To Alex he said, again in English, “Are you Colonel Sheridan, Sahib?”
“I am, Subedar Sahib.”
“And the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Ahmad Ullah, is well known to you?”
“He is well known to me,” Alex confirmed.
“Then we shall take you to him. If you will give me your word that you will not attempt to escape, you will be conducted respectfully, as befits your rank, Sahib.”
Alex hesitated. His chances of escape were, in the circumstances, remote and he gave his promise. “While I am in your custody, Subedar Sahib, I shall make no attempt to escape.”
“So be it.” The subedar stood back and Alex got to his feet. He was still wearing his saber, but none of the men made any move to take it from him.Two of them formed up on either side of him and, in a disciplined column, they marched down the dark, rain-wet street, muskets shouldered and booted feet in step. They had turned right on leaving the house—away from the river and the Chutter Munzil enclosure—and Alex strained his ears in an effort to hear, above the tramping footsteps of his escort, some sound that would indicate the movements and possible intentions of the rebels gathered within the enclosure. But there was none and he could only suppose that they were waiting until the British rear-guard began its withdrawal from the Moti Mahal.
“Where are you taking me, Subedar Sahib?” he asked, scarcely expecting a reply, but again speaking in English in the hope that, since his men probably would not understand, the old man might answer him. The subedar, however, was not to be drawn.
“To the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Sahib, as you already know.”
“True, I know that. But where is the Moulvi?”
“You will see, Colonel Sahib.” The old native officer barked an order to his men, and they took a second right turning, into a narrow lane, flanked on either side by tall buildings. The one on the left had a high, loopholed curtain wall, from which the long barrels of flintlocks protruded at intervals, and Alex identified it as the outer wall of the Hirun Khana.The column turned left at the next corner, the subedar answered a challenge from a sentry and then marched them down a dank, evil-smelling alley for some fifty or sixty yards, which brought them to a wide main road, with trenches dug across it and two field-guns mounted so as to cover the intersection. Guns and trenches were manned as if in expectation of an attack, and the subedar had to answer a number of other challenges from vigilant sentries before leading his small column across t
he road and then through a strongly guarded, arched gateway.
He halted them in a flagged courtyard, lined with trees, while he went to make inquiries of the guard commander. Alex, peering about him in the dim light, did not need to see the gilded domes and cupolas that crowned it in order to recognize the Kaiser Bagh—the king’s palace—a vast edifice, screened by high walls and surrounded by gardens, which the last King of Oudh, Wajid Ali, had built to house the tomb of his most famous ancestor, Sa’adat Ali Khan, founder of the royal dynasty a century before. It had never been intended to serve as a fortress, but now, in addition to their wrought-iron gratings, the windows, he saw, had been bricked up and loopholed and the verandahs sandbagged, so that it closely resembled one. In place of the fountains that had played there in the old king’s heyday, two huge twenty-four-pounder cannon and a squat, bell-mouthed howitzer were parked beneath a canopy, their golandazes squatting beside them, wrapped in sodden cloaks, the fire they had lighted to cook their evening meal flickering to extinction under the assault of the dripping rain.
These were the guns that had caused so many casualties the previous day, when General Havelock’s column had been held up between the Moti Mahal and the king’s stables and, recalling how gallantly the 78th Highlanders had attacked and endeavored to put them out of action, Alex looked at them with searching interest. But before he could ascertain whether or not they had been permanently damaged, the subedar returned and one of his escort thrust a rifle butt into the small of his back and harshly bade him, “A-jao-jeldi, Colonel Sahib!”
They marched across the courtyard, passed under another arched gateway and then ascended a flight of steep stone steps, terminating in a heavy, iron-bound door, which was guarded by a smartly uniformed havildar and two sentries, one of whom held a lantern aloft as they approached. The two native officers greeted each other by name and, on the subedar stating his business, he was saluted and given permission to proceed, all three guards regarding Alex with avid and unconcealed curiosity. He was conscious of their eyes following him, as his escort mounted a finely proportioned stone staircase, above which—reminiscent of the old king’s former splendor—hung a crystal chandelier, ablaze with hundreds of flickering candles.
