by V. A. Stuart
“Then I will go to Cawnpore,” Alex put in impatiently. “With your help, I could get there, Ananta Ram. Did you not go and return safely?”
“I had a permit, signed by the Begum herself, and an escort of my master’s horsemen,” the vakeel explained. He expelled his breath in a weary sigh. “It was believed that I, too, went as a spy, Sheridan Sahib. I cannot ask to go again, so soon—that would be to arouse suspicion.”
Alex stared at him in bitter frustration.Wrack his brains as he might, he could think of no way to bring aid to the unhappy prisoners in the Kaiser Bagh, who . . . he glanced down again at the letter from Patrick Orr and reread its closing lines. “Even so, we are so sick and emaciated that I fear we shall not survive if help is not sent to us soon ...” But what help and how could it be sent? Even if the appeal reached Outram and he answered it, an attempt by a raiding party from the Residency would cost lives, and it might well fail to gain its objective . . . in desperation, he turned to Ananta Ram.
“Ask your master, Ananta Ram, if he would consider offering to exchange me for the Sitapur prisoners.”
The vakeel smothered a startled exclamation. “You, Sahib? But you would go to certain death! The Moulvi offered a reward for you, he has a great hatred of you . . . indeed, he would have you blown from a cannon were you to become his prisoner!”
“The Moulvi is well known to me and I to him,” Alex conceded guardedly. “That is why I think he would agree to the exchange. He—”
“My master would not agree to it,” Ananta Ram objected.
“Ask him, Ananta Ram.”
“If you insist, Sheridan Sahib, I will tell my master of your proposition,” the vakeel agreed, with visible reluctance. “But he will not agree to it, of that I am sure.” He added, with a wry smile, “Would he not be exchanging you, Sahib—a colonel and a man in excellent physical health—for some sahibs of junior rank who, with their mems and baba-log, are so sick that they are like to die? Were they to do so, my master would have no witness to the loyalty he has shown to the British cause—he might be accused of having aided the rebels and be unable to prove that he did not!”
His reasoning was typically Oriental, Alex thought resentfully, but . . . it was logical, and it confirmed the warning Letty Wheeler had offered him. Man Singh had no intention of releasing him; he was too valuable a hostage.
“Nevertheless, mention my proposal to the Rajah Sahib,” he said firmly. “And give him this without delay.” He picked up the letter, folded it, and watched Ananta Ram tuck it into his cummerbund before dismissing him.
That night, driven to recklessness by the thought of the Kaiser Bagh prisoners, he made three attempts to escape from Man Singh’s camp, only to be detected on each occasion by watchful sentries. After the third attempt, a guard was placed on his tent and the old subedar, Kedar Nath, brought in his bedding roll and laid it, reproachfully, in front of the tent-flap.
“It is useless, Colonel Sahib,” the old man told him, settling himself down, cross-legged, on the bedding roll, a pistol in his hand. “They will not let you go. I am ordered to fire my pistol at your legs if you try to leave your tent.”
Next morning, toward midday, he had another brief and ostensibly friendly interview with Man Singh, who warned him, under the cloak of concern for his safety, to stay within the confines of the camp.
“Have patience, Sheridan Sahib,” he urged. “My vakeel has told you of the preparations that are afoot in Cawnpore.The column from Delhi wins victory after victory, and, I am informed, is making its way here. Soon the British commander-in-chief will lead a strong force to General Outram’s relief and, with Lucknow once more in British hands, there will be no further need for you to remain under my protection. As to your proposal . . .” he spread his hands in a gesture of mingled mockery and despair. “While it does you credit, my friend, I cannot accept it. The prisoners whose release you seek so anxiously are safe. The Begum has herself promised that no harm shall come to the mems and children, and Wajid Ali will remove them all to his own house at the first opportunity.You need not concern yourself for them.” He added, smiling, “And Captain Orr’s letter will be sent to General Outram tonight.”
As before, Alex had to be satisfied with these assurances. He retired unwillingly to his tent to wait, with what patience he could muster, for the return of Letty Wheeler’s husband but, to his intense disappointment, 24 hours passed and there was no sign of the daffadar. Old Kedar Nath—now his constant shadow— denied all knowledge of the man’s whereabouts but, in a kindly attempt to distract him, brought a pretty, demure young girl to his tent and was hurt and astonished when Alex bade him return her whence she had come.
It was late the following evening when the sound of voices outside his tent roused him from the uneasy doze into which he had sunk. He sat up, his heart quickening its beat as he recognized one of the voices as that of the tall Sikh cavalryman who had come so providentially to his rescue at the Kaiser Bagh . . . the Sikh with blue eyes and the features of a European.The other voice, although it was lowered to a whisper, was unmistakably Man Singh’s.
“He is a brave man—he will do as you ask,” Man Singh said softly.
Alex slid silently from his charpoy, all thought of sleep banished from his mind, his hand groping for the lamp on the table beside him. He had not heard Kedar Nath leave the tent, but the old native officer, fully dressed and wakeful, took the lamp from him, lit it, and then assisted him to don the shirt and trousers he had earlier discarded.
“You have a visitor, Sahib,” he announced.
“The Rajah Sahib, at this hour?” Alex challenged, feigning surprise.
Kedar Nath shook his head. “Oh, no, Sahib, you are mistaken. The Rajah Sahib is not here—it is Colonel Kaur Singh who wishes to speak with you.” He crossed to the tent flap and held it open, coming stiffly to attention as Kaur Singh entered. He was alone and, after a quick glance about him, he dismissed the old subedar and turned to Alex, his bearded lips curving into a warm and friendly smile.
“My salaams, Colonel Sheridan,” he said in English. “And my apologies for having disturbed you at so late an hour.You were asleep, I fear—”
“I have little else to do but sleep,” Alex answered wryly. “So any disturbance is welcome. Indeed, I had hoped that I might see you before this, Colonel Singh.”
Kaur Singh’s smile faded. “I too had cherished that hope but, in my present circumstances, I have to be careful. Visits to this camp, by one of the Moulvi’s staff, would have been misunderstood—perhaps even suspect. I have paid only one other, a few days ago, when you were taking your evening exercise and were not to be found.”
“Then what brings you here now?” Alex demanded bluntly. “Have you come to arrange for my release?”
There was an odd, steely glint in the incongruous blue eyes as they met his, and Alex felt his throat muscles tighten with the instinctive awareness of danger. “That . . . and other things,” Kaur Singh confirmed. “You find your captivity irksome?”
“Unbearably irksome, Colonel Singh. The more so, when some of my fellow countrymen—and women—who have already endured appalling suffering, are held in conditions so much worse than my own. They—”
“And yet you offered yourself in exchange for them? Or so the Rajah told me.” Kaur Singh shrugged, as if incredulous, but Alex sensed that, in fact, he was neither surprised nor in any doubt as to the reasons that had prompted his offer.
He said stiffly, “I did.War should not be waged against women and children.”
“Their lives are in no immediate danger, save from the effects of the weeks they have spent in the jungle, and they are now being well cared for, I assure you. But had you yielded yourself up to the Moulvi, he would have had you put to death instantly. Did the Rajah not warn you?”
“I was warned, yes. But I—”
“Are you still willing to risk your life?” Kaur Singh put in swiftly.
“In exchange for theirs, do you mean?” Alex asked,
somewhat at a loss. “If it can be arranged to their advantage, then I am, yes.”
“Good,” Kaur Singh approved. “I can have them placed under the Rajah’s protection—granted one thing, Colonel Sheridan.”
“And what is that?”
“That the Moulvi is not left alive to prevent it.”
“For God’s sake!” Alex was shocked out of his calm. Recalling his earlier suspicions, he demanded incredulously, “You are surely not suggesting that I should put an end to him, are you?”
“You were ready enough to do so that night in the Kaiser Bagh, were you not?” the Sikh challenged. “And you would have made the attempt, had I not intervened to stop you.”
“The circumstances were quite different—he had just ordered me shot. Colonel Singh, I am no assassin . . . in heaven’s name, I—”
“Nor, come to that, am I,” the rebel officer countered cynically. “But needs must when the devil drives, my friend, and we are both soldiers, are we not, pledged to fight and kill our country’s enemies?”
“In battle, not in cold blood,” Alex qualified.
“Is there really such a distinction?”
“I’ve always believed so. If you think otherwise, why do you not play the role of assassin yourself?”
“Because,” Kaur Singh answered quietly, “I am in a position of trust, which I must continue to occupy until my work here is completed.You understand I—”
“No, Colonel Singh, I do not understand!” Alex interrupted forcefully. “Who the devil are you?”
“It is better that you do not know.Truly, my friend, it is better . . . and safer for us both.”
“You are a European. Tell me this at least—are you a British officer?”
The bearded lips parted in an amused smile. “No, I am French. That is to say, I am half French—my father was one of Ranjit Singh’s generals, my mother the daughter of a Sikh chief. I fought against you in the Punjab, Colonel Sheridan, and I have no love for your countrymen . . . with one or two exceptions.” Kaur Singh’s smile widened. “This much is known to those I now serve, so I am telling you no secrets. My father’s name was Henri Court.”
Alex studied his face with quickened interest but learned little from his scrutiny. General Court’s reputation had stood high in the Punjab; Sir Henry Lawrence, he recalled, had spoken of him with respect. “Then you are a soldier of fortune?” he suggested, his tone intentionally provocative. “A mercenary, selling your sword to the highest bidder?”
To his chagrin, Kaur Singh refused to be provoked. “If you like,” he conceded, still smiling. “But I sell my loyalty with my sword.” His tone changed, becoming urgent. “Colonel Sheridan, you have offered to exchange yourself for the British prisoners held in the Kaiser Bagh. Suppose I accept your offer, which course would you prefer to pursue—to yield yourself up to the Moulvi, who will instantly order your execution? Or to have yourself taken into his presence, ostensibly a prisoner, but armed and guarded by men—my men, chosen by me—who, when you have fired the fatal shot, will take you to a safe place from where you will be returned to your own people? Come, my friend— time presses and I must have your answer. Which is it to be?”
Alex shrugged. “Do I have a choice, Colonel?”
Kaur Singh laughed. “Certainly—you may stay and rot here, if you wish, as the Rajah’s hostage. But if you are the man I think you are, you will take the chance I can give you. It is not without risks—the best-laid plans can go wrong and one cannot guard against the unexpected—but rest assured that I shall do all in my power to ensure your survival. And there is no doubt that you will be ridding your country of a dangerous enemy.”
“And yours?” Alex asked coldly. “Of whom shall I be ridding yours, Colonel Singh?”
“Of a would-be tyrant,” Kaur Singh answered, with the first sign of real feeling he had displayed. “And of one of the most evil men that ever drew breath. Believe me, I know the depths of that evil.”
As indeed did he, Alex reflected grimly. He again subjected the man standing opposite him to a searching scrutiny, wondering for a moment if this were some bizarre trick or, perhaps, a test of his integrity that would be the prelude to an offer for his services as a mercenary. Stranger things had happened, he was aware; a number of mutinied regiments had endeavored to persuade popular and trusted officers to continue to command them, and even to lead them to Delhi to enlist in the service of the Mogul emperor. But . . . Kaur Singh—or Court—was, he realized, in deadly earnest, and there was now no flicker of amusement in his eyes.
He asked warily, “What guarantee have I, if I accede to this extraordinary proposal of yours, that the Sitapur captives will be placed under Man Singh’s protection?”
“You will have my word and his. If the Moulvi dies, nothing will stand in the way of such an outcome.” The tall cavalryman spread his hands in a typically Gallic gesture. “It may assist you to reach a decision, Colonel, if I tell you that the Moulvi has given orders that the male members of the party are to be taken out and shot, should Sir Colin Campbell’s troops gain the Residency. And since I imagine they will, if they fight like Havelock’s did, then . . .” he left the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air between them like a threat.
Alex sighed. “Where will the assassination take place and when—is that decided?”
“Oh, yes, that is decided. It will take place, by coincidence, where the idea first occurred to you—in the audience chamber at the Kaiser Bagh. The talukdars have been summoned there tomorrow evening, so that they may be told what strategy the Moulvi and his generals intend to employ to counter Campbell’s expected advance from Cawnpore. It offers the perfect opportunity, and I have made my plans in such a manner as to take full advantage of the situation. As I told you, Colonel Sheridan, the men on guard there will be men I have chosen, who will obey my orders implicitly.” Kaur Singh’s smile was once again in evidence. “The chamber will be crowded and, in the confusion that will inevitably follow an attack on the Moulvi, the attacker will be hustled out and horses will be waiting in the courtyard. The guard will, of course, claim to have fired on and wounded a British spy . . . and they will be very positive about that, since their own lives will depend on it. Although, in fact, few of those present will mourn the Moulvi of Fyzabad.”
“I see.” Alex was conscious of a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach.This was treachery of the basest kind, and he wanted no hand in it, even if the alternative should be, as Kaur Singh had put it, that he must rot here as the Rajah’s hostage. There was Mohammed Kahn; when he returned, there would surely be a chance to escape. If he returned . . . He said, his voice grating harshly in his throat, “You seem to have laid your plans very skillfully. All that remains to be settled is the identity of the assassin . . .”
“That is so. But I am counting on you and—”
“If I refuse to play the part you have assigned to me, have you anyone willing to take my place?”
“I am not a fool, Colonel Sheridan. Captain Orr has already agreed to my proposition, in order to save his fellow captives.” Kaur Singh had played his trump card and it was evident, from his expression, that he knew it. He added blandly, “I did not think, in the circumstances, that you would wish to relinquish the role to him. He is a brave man, of that there is no doubt, but . . . he is weak and ill. Arranging his escape would present difficulties.”
Aware that he had been outmaneuvered, Alex bowed stiffly, controlling the bitter rage he felt. “Very well, Colonel Singh, I will be your assassin. I take it I shall be given precise instructions as to what I am to do?”
“The subedar, Kedar Nath, will give them to you before you leave here.”
“And Man Singh—is he privy to this plot?”
Kaur Singh shrugged. “He is aware of it, but he will take no active part. He cannot afford to show his hand as yet. I shall be with you, of course.” He waited, and, when Alex did not speak, he moved toward the entrance to the tent. Reaching it, he saluted gravely and was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS KAUR SINGH had predicted, the vast audience chamber was crowded, richly robed talukdars jostling with scarlet-jacketed sepoy officers for a position near the dining table in the center of the room, which, this time, instead of the remnants of a meal, was spread with papers and maps.
Alex, entering with his guards, paused for a moment unnoticed in the curtained archway and, looking about him, experienced the uncanny sensation that history was repeating itself as he saw and recognized many of the faces he had seen there on the occasion of his first perilous incursion into the rebel stronghold. Old General Mirza Guffur Khan was standing by the table, with Man Singh—as he had done previously, holding himself aloof—a few paces away, Ananta Ram watchfully by his side. Two other high-ranking native officers, one wearing the uniform of the 11th Native Infantry—a regiment that had mutinied in Meerut—and the other that of the 22nd, were talking to a group of Rajput chiefs, while a stout, gray-haired Hindu in a general’s sash hovered nervously on the edge of the crowd, as if uncertain of his welcome.
“General Gomundi Singh,” Kaur Singh whispered, his tone contemptuous. “Elected by the sepoys and as useless as he looks! The Moulvi is over there. In a moment, I shall go to him . . . be ready to strike, for you will have only one chance!”
As before, the Moulvi, a tall, unmistakable figure in his flowing white robe, stood before the open window on the far side of the room, his back turned with arrogant indifference to the rest of its occupants. This time, however, he was not alone, and Alex stiffened as he recognized the slim, elegantly attired young man with whom he was conversing. It was Azimullah Khan, the Nana’s Moslem aide—it could be no one else—and, at the sight of him, memory returned, with all its long suppressed anguish . . . the memory of Cawnpore and of the siege of the crumbling, mud-walled entrenchment in which poor old General Wheeler had pinned his faith, and which Azimullah had called so derisively the Fort of Despair.
To his right, slumped in one of the leather armchairs that had once furnished a British officers’ mess house, sat a third man, whose squat, corpulent body was clothed in a resplendent, peacock-blue robe and whose shaven head was surmounted by a Mahratta-style turban, ablaze with jewels. His face was in shadow and he was taking no part—and seemingly little interest—in the earnest conversation of his two companions, but Alex did not need to look at him twice to know who he was. The image of the Nana Sahib, self-styled Maharajah of Bithur, was printed indelibly on his mind and only death would erase it—his own death or the Nana’s. For all the iron control he had imposed on himself, Alex shivered, taken momentarily off guard by the sheer unexpectedness of the Nana’s presence among this gathering of the Begum’s martial supporters.
