The Heroic Garrison

by V. A. Stuart

  And yet, he reproached himself, he ought to have been aware of the possibility, even if Kaur Singh had said nothing. Had not Letty Wheeler warned him that the Nana intended to visit Lucknow—had not both she and Mohammed Khan insisted repeatedly that the Moulvi had not yet forsaken his old, unholy alliance? He passed a shaking hand across his brow, wiping the sweat from it and wincing with pain, for his escort—to make the story of his capture seem more plausible—had, on the instructions of Kaur Singh, dealt with him none too gently on the way to the Kaiser Bagh. His hand, when he lowered it, was sticky with congealed blood, and he cursed them silently, realizing that a chance blow had opened up the old wound across his cheek. But at least he looked the part, he thought ironically. In the filthy, mud-spattered uniform in which, weeks before, he had fought for his life in the square where the doolies had been abandoned, he was already attracting curious glances from some of the sepoy officers standing nearby and . . . Kaur Singh moved forward, thrusting his way through the crowd with well-simulated urgency.

  “Moulvi Sahib!” His voice carried across the room, causing heads to turn and the hum of conversation to die down and gradually to cease, as something of his excitement communicated itself to those about him. “We have taken a prisoner of some importance—one who is well known to you, I have reason to believe!”

  “In Allah’s name, Colonel Singh!” Clearly disconcerted, the Moulvi glared back at him, beetling dark brows drawn together in a resentful scowl. “Your prisoner must be of great importance for you to disrupt this council by bringing him here.”

  “Indeed he is,” Kaur Singh assured him. “He holds the rank of Colonel, Moulvi Sahib, and is a survivor of Wheeler’s garrison at Cawnpore. Look on his face, I beg you, and prove my words. He ...”

  Alex could make out no more from the noisy hubbub of voices that followed this announcement. In obedience to Kaur Singh’s impatiently beckoning hand, his guards dragged him roughly toward the center of the room and the startled crowd stood aside to make way for him.The Nana, he saw, had risen to his feet, his round moon-face drained of color and his voice querulous as he demanded to know the identity of the prisoner, but, in the general uproar, his question went unanswered.

  “There were no survivors of Wheeler’s garrison!” Azimullah shouted furiously. “All are dead—men, women and children, every last one of them! The Peishwa witnessed their slaughter with his own eyes, as did I.Those who did not die at the Suttee Chowra Ghat were executed before Havelock entered Cawnpore . . . that I will swear to! The claim is false, Colonel Bahadur.” He ranged himself in front of Kaur Singh as if to dispute his passage. His attitude was challenging, yet the expression on his handsome face was anything but hostile, and Alex, struggling with his guards a few feet away, realized to his intense astonishment that, far from enmity between the two men, there was understanding of some kind, perhaps in the shared awareness of what was afoot. Certainly there was recognition—or more probably a warning—in the mute signal they exchanged.

  Dear heaven, he thought, stunned by what he had just witnessed, was it possible that Azimullah, too, was a party to the Moulvi’s planned assassination? Had the young Moslem so far forgotten his religious allegiance as to throw in his lot unreservedly with the Nana of Bithur . . . the Nana, whose ambitions had been directed, from the outset, to the restoration of the Hindu kingdom of the Mahrattas, with himself as Peishwa? If that were so, then Kaur Singh must also be the Nana’s man, and it was the Moulvi’s loyalty to the cause of his erstwhile ally that was in doubt—this and no one else’s. Kaur Singh had spoken of him as a would-be tyrant, but the Moulvi, to give him at least his due, had always fought for his Faith with single-minded fanaticism and the prospect of a Mahratta-dominated Oudh would be anathema to him. As indeed it would for the Begum and her newly crowned son . . .

  Alex stared into Azimullah’s smiling face, his brain racing as he attempted to test his reasoning for flaws. There were many, since much of it was guesswork—he had no real basis for his assumption, nothing to go on save the look he had seen on that face a moment ago. Had he read too much into it, he wondered, or even imagined that he had seen it at all? That he himself was a pawn in some tortuous political maneuver he did not doubt; he had had no illusions concerning the role he was expected to play, but to contemplate killing a man in cold blood still troubled his conscience, and he had come with no very clear idea as to how—or even whether—when the moment came, he would act. Until now, though, he had not doubted Kaur Singh. He had believed that, provided he kept his part of the bargain, the Sikh would arrange for his escape, as well as for the transfer of the Sitapur fugitives to Man Singh’s camp, but now he was not sure . . . and he could not be sure, until he put the matter to the test.

  He drew in his breath sharply, risking a swift glance around the audience chamber.There were the talukdars to pacify and the Mohammedan officers, few of whom could be expected to connive at the murder of their leader.They would demand vengeance on his killer and might well exact it, here in this room, before Kaur Singh could order the guards to remove him. And if he were, in fact, the Nana’s man, what need had he to give the order? Better for him, surely—and safer by far for Azimullah—if the assassin were disposed of without the formality of a trial and execution. Alex shivered, despite the heat of the lamplit room. He knew now that his chances of leaving it alive were slim, if they existed at all, and with that knowledge came calm and an end to uncertainty.

  He heard Kaur Singh answer Azimullah’s taunt and then the young Mohammedan approached him, his smile no longer in evidence and his eyes glittering with excitement as he brushed the guards contemptuously aside.

  “Stand back, dogs!” he ordered. “And let us see who you have here, since I doubt that . . . ah!” His pause was dramatic, as was the gesture he made when he turned toward the Moulvi. “The Colonel speaks truly, Moulvi Sahib . . . here is a prize indeed. Come, see for thyself who it is that Allah has delivered into our hands!”

  The Moulvi moved to join him, his way momentarily impeded by the crowd. He was angry, scowling his displeasure at what he clearly considered a time-consuming interruption to an important meeting, but he was unsuspicious, and his tone, as he bade Azimullah curb his tongue, was no more than impatient.

  “What foolishness is this?” he demanded. “We have matters of greater moment than the identity of a feringhi prisoner to discuss, Azimullah.”

  “Only see,” Azimullah retorted, unabashed.He had been positioned between Alex and the group by the window, and now he moved, so as to permit them a clear view. “On your knees, feringhi cur!” he ordered harshly and Kedar Nath grasped Alex by the shoulders, as if to force him to kneel.

  “Now, Sahib,” he hissed. “Now ...” the Adams, as prearranged, was thrust into his cummerbund, the butt protruding, and in the brief struggle that ensued, Alex’s hand closed about it.He retained his balance as the old subedar, his part successfully accomplished, went through the clumsy motions of tripping, to collapse helplessly at his feet.

  Revolver in hand, Alex hesitated only for an instant. The Moulvi was facing him, momentarily frozen into immobility, and, as startled recognition dawned in his eyes, he presented the perfect target at point-blank range. A dozen paces behind him stood the Nana, the expression of fiendish anticipation on his face proof—if proof were needed—that he, too, was privy to the plot. In his eagerness to witness the eclipse of his rival, he pressed closer and Alex’s lingering doubts vanished as if they had never been.

  This was the man who had ordered his guns to fire on the unprotected boats at the Suttee Chowra Ghat, he told himself bitterly, this was the would-be tyrant . . . this his enemy, the one man he could kill without pity or compunction in any circumstances. He remembered poor young Saunders, whom the Nana had tortured to death, he remembered General Wheeler and the rest of the brave garrison of Cawnpore, male and female, adult and child. Above all he remembered Emmy, his wife, sinking below the blood-red water of the Ganges with a sepoy musket-ball in her brea
st.

  He raised the pistol, making no attempt to aim it at the Moulvi. Steadily and unerringly, he pointed it at the Nana’s heart, but, just as he pulled the trigger, Azimullah, divining his intention, made a desperate grab at his arm.The bullet was deflected; it struck the Nana’s right thigh and he went down, screaming with pain, to be surrounded instantly by members of his staff who bore him, still screaming, to a couch.

  “He is alive!” one of them shouted. “The Peishwa is wounded, but he lives!”

  There was no chance for a second shot.Alex stood, the smoking revolver in his hand, waiting for death when the mob closed on him as, inevitably, they must the moment their panic subsided, his sole regret the fact that he had failed to take his enemy with him. He considered turning the Adams on himself, to cut short the ordeal, but before he could do so, Azimullah seized it from his grasp, to spin round with startling suddenness, the weapon leveled at Kaur Singh.

  “Traitor!” he accused, his voice high-pitched and brittle with strain. “Feringhi traitor! I should have known thee for what thou wert!” With no more hesitation than he would have shown in crushing a fly, he fired two shots into Kaur Singh’s stomach and the tall cavalryman fell gasping to his knees, his cry of agony drowned by a deep-throated, angry roar from the assembled talukdars. Now the tulwars were out, the demands for retribution shouted aloud as old religious feuds and differences—held temporarily in abeyance—were savagely recalled, and men, who had allied themselves in rebellion, forgot their allegiance and remembered only past grievances against their neighbors.

  All sensed that there had been a conspiracy, and none, it seemed, doubted that this had been aimed against his own Faith, in a struggle for power that could have had far-reaching consequences.The voices that were raised to vow death to the feringhis were fewer and less insistent than those that hurled accusations of treachery at the Moulvi and the Begum, until they, in turn, were shouted down by a chorus of protests from loyal Oudh officers, led thunderously by General Mirza Guffur.

  Alex, surrounded by his sepoy guard, was saved by their cowering bodies from attack. Paralyzed with fear, they clustered about him, too frightened to attempt to break away and, ironically, looking to him for protection when a menacing group of the Nana’s followers approached, led by Azimullah, howling like animals for his head. He ordered the sepoys to fix bayonets and to Azimullah’s fury, they obeyed him, to form a bristling steel hedge between them, behind which, greatly daring, old Kedar Nath contrived to drag the wounded Kaur Singh.

  The Moulvi, finally, restored order. White with rage, he harangued the whole assembly, hurling back their accusations with biting contempt and, with all the eloquence at his command, reminding them of the danger of divided loyalties. They heard him shamefacedly, their anger fading as swiftly as it had been aroused, and when the Nana was carried out in a doolie and two hastily summoned physicians assured them that his wound was painful but not dangerous, no other voices were raised in dispute.

  “A British officer, who has been known to me since the time when he was the deposed government’s commissioner for Adjodhabad, was brought as a prisoner into this room,” the Moulvi told them. “He was under strong guard, yet he contrived, somehow, to arm himself and, with the pistol he had seized, he fired a shot at the Peishwa—fortunately, as you have heard, without causing him serious injury. I do not know for what purpose he was brought here, nor do I yet know with whose connivance ...but I intend to find out. The Englishman will not escape punishment, my brothers—his life is forfeit and you shall witness his execution at the cannon’s mouth. Before he goes to his death, however, he shall be compelled to tell the truth concerning this night’s happenings and to name any with whom he conspired.” His gaze rested on Azimullah’s face for a long moment, as if challenging him to speak, but he said nothing and the Moulvi went on, his heavy-lidded eyes bright with malice, “I am not entirely convinced that His Highness the Peishwa was the chosen victim of this abortive attempt at assassination . . . indeed, the thought has entered my mind that I was the one who was marked for death.”

  This claim caused angry murmurs from a number of his own adherents, but the Moulvi silenced them with a raised hand.” The truth shall be made known to you all,” he promised. “Colonel Sheridan shall be made to speak before he dies.”

  His words, pregnant with menace, struck chill into Alex’s heart. Fool that he had been, he thought wretchedly, to have had any qualms about shooting the Moulvi of Fyzabad in cold blood . . . and greater fool, not to have placed the muzzle of the Adams to his own temple when his first shot had been deflected! It would have been better, even, to have died under the tulwars of Azimullah’s creatures than to have survived in order to fall into the hands of the Moulvi’s torturers. He glanced at Kedar Nath, ashen with terror, and from him to the unconscious Kaur Singh, over whose prostrate form one of the physicians was now bending, in a vain endeavor to staunch the blood that had dyed the lower part of his chapkan a hideous scarlet.

  “What of Kaur Singh?” a voice from the crowd questioned accusingly. “He whom you yourself appointed to high rank, Moulvi Sahib? Did he not bring the accursed feringhi into our midst?”

  The Moulvi quelled his accuser with an angry, “Ask Azimullah Khan on whose recommendation he was appointed!” And then, still angry, he demanded of the physician, “How fares he?”

  “He lives, but his wound is mortal, Moulvi Sahib. I can do no more for him, alas.” The old native doctor rose slowly to his feet, his hands stained with the blood of the injured man. Nervously he wiped them on a corner of his voluminous white robe, awed by the Moulvi’s smoldering anger and fearful lest he become the brunt of it. “He has, perhaps, a few hours.”

  “Then he, too, shall be made to speak before death claims him,” the Moulvi vowed. “Put him into a doolie.”

  The old physician hastened to obey him.The Moulvi pushed his way arrogantly through the crowd, waving to them to stand aside. He came to a halt facing Alex and his frightened escort who, in response to an order from Kedar Nath, grounded their muskets and shambled to attention as he approached, their faces as ashen as that of their commander.The Moulvi gestured to the gleaming bayonets and observed sardonically, “You guarded your prisoner well with these, did you not? Quite in the old tradition—a sahib commanded and you obeyed! Did he order you to yield up your pistol to him, Subedar-ji?”

  Kedar Nath shook his head. “He wrested it from me, Moulvi Sahib. Truly, I could not prevent it, he—” the Moulvi brutally cut him short with a stinging blow across the mouth.

  “You are either a cowardly dog or a traitor. Whichever you are, you will be no loss to Her Highness’s army.” The Moulvi’s voice cut like a whiplash. Turning to the havildar of the escort, he ordered harshly, “Place this misbegotten cur under arrest! And guard him well, for you will answer to me with your life if he escapes.”

  “He is no traitor,” Alex asserted, moved to pity by the old subedar’s abject terror. It was, he thought, within the bounds of possibility that he might save both the old man and the dying Kaur Singh from further torment if he dissociated himself from them, and he had little to lose if he made the attempt. Like himself, these two had merely been pawns; the real traitors were too powerful to be called to account for their part in the conspiracy and, even if he learned the truth, the Moulvi could not touch them, save at the risk of losing their alliance. He was a shrewd and clever man and, almost certainly, was as well aware of this as he was of the identity of those who had sought to destroy him. His speech to the talukdars had proved it—on the surface, it had not been placatory, but he had gone as far as he dared, with heavy emphasis on the need for mutual loyalty to the cause. No doubt he would bide his time and then . . .

  “What say you of the subedar?” the Moulvi demanded.

  Alex drew himself up to his full, impressive height. Standing thus he was taller than his interrogator and able to look down on him, and he said, with a calm that belied his inner tension, “What I did, I did alone, Ahmad Ull
ah.If you seek one on whom to fasten the guilt, you need look no further than my face.”

  “I see your face, Sheridan Sahib,” the Moulvi answered softly. “It is the face of a brave man and a good soldier—would that I knew the faces of all my enemies as well as I know yours! Nevertheless you will have cause to regret that you did not put a bullet into me when you had the opportunity.” He gestured to the havildar. “Take the sahib, with the other two, to my palace and remember—I will have your head if you fail in your duty!”

  Alex had expected that his escort would be replaced or at least augmented, and his hopes rose, when he realized that this was not to be done, only to fade when the havildar—anxious to demonstrate his reliability—thrust the butt of a musket painfully into the small of his back and ordered him to march. With two of the escort carrying Kaur Singh’s doolie and old Kedar Nath stumbling unhappily at his side, he descended the wide stone staircase into the lamplit hall, his hopes sinking lower with every step.There was a guard in the hall, under a jemadar, and two sentries posted at the iron-bound wooden door, only the postern of which was open. The escort and the sepoys guarding the palace were his men, Kaur Singh had claimed—his men, who would obey his orders in the commotion that would follow the Moulvi’s death—but it was Kaur Singh who was dying, not the Moulvi, and Kaur Singh would give them no orders. Alex expelled his breath in a sigh of frustration. If the worst came to the worst, he thought, he would make a dash for it, into the darkness, and let the sentries shoot him down . . .