by V. A. Stuart
“Darling, I wanted to spare you,” Alex began and was startled when she rounded on him, in a rare flash of temper.
“When did I ever ask you to spare me? We are husband and wife, Alex, and I … I love you! My place is by your side, not hundreds of miles away in Calcutta. Please, Alex, if you love me, don’t send me away. I beg you to let me stay.”
“But I cannot take you with me to Meerut,” Alex protested, dismayed. “In your condition, my love, it is out of the question. For God’s sake, it’s two hundred and fifty miles and I shall be traveling light and fast, without tents or baggage camels. You—”
She silenced his protests, a finger pressed against his mouth. “I’m not asking to go with you to Meerut; I know that isn’t possible. But it is by no means certain that you will have to go there, is it?”
Alex stared at her. “Not certain? My darling, I’ve been ordered to rejoin my regiment in Meerut—you know that. I have to go!”
“Your orders could be changed or revoked, could they not?”
“Of course they could, Emmy, if circumstances required it. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“No,” she acknowledged. “Alex, you intend to call on Sir Henry Lawrence in Lucknow on your way, do you not?”
“I told you I did—at his invitation. I imagine he wishes me to make my report on Adjodhabad to him in person and I shall welcome the opportunity because I—”
“Because,” Emmy interrupted quickly, “you hope that he may offer to reinstate you in Adjodhabad or, failing that, perhaps, that he may give you another district in Oudh.” It was more a statement of fact than a question and Alex reddened guiltily. He had been careful to make no mention of the reason for his visit to Sir Henry, to her or to anyone else, and he wondered how she had guessed the truth.
“What makes you think so?” he evaded.
“Oh, Alex my dearest, I know you! You cannot bear to leave a task unfinished and you feel a responsibility for the people in Adjodhabad in spite of everything that happened, in spite of what they did to you. But why didn’t you tell me? Were you afraid”—her tone was accusing—“that I’d refuse to be packed off to Calcutta if I knew that there was any chance of your staying in Oudh?”
“Yes, I suppose I was,” he confessed reluctantly. “And it is only a faint chance, Emmy. Sir Henry may have no desire to avail himself of my services in Adjodhabad or anywhere else. I was not a conspicuous success in the political service, was I? Sir Henry may consider me fit only for regimental soldiering.”
“He has sent for you, has he not?” Emmy countered. “And it was Mr Jackson who had you relieved, not Sir Henry Lawrence. Oh, please, Alex”—her eyes pleaded with him, suddenly filled with hope, “if you are reinstated, won’t you take me with you?”
Alex shook his head and saw the newly kindled hope in her eyes fade into despair. “I’m sorry, darling, I dare not take the risk. If there were no alternative, I should have to but Harry has offered an alternative and—”
“And there is the child,” she finished for him, her lower lip trembling. “Well, if you will not take me with you, could I not stay here, where at least I should be nearer you?”
“Stay in Cawnpore—under the Nana Sahib’s protection?” Alex recoiled in horror. “No! In God’s name, no, Emmy—that is quite out of the question.”
“Then in Lucknow—Doctor and Mrs Fayrer would offer me hospitality, I am sure, if you asked them, or the Polehamptons. And there are British troops in Lucknow, a whole regiment of them. Alex, I beg you!”
He almost weakened—it went against the grain to refuse her anything—but finally he repeated his headshake, unable to trust himself to speak. If the nightmare fears which had haunted him for so long became reality, there would be few places in Oudh where any white woman would be safe, for Oudh, he knew, would be the center of the revolt—if, indeed, it were not the cause of the outbreak. The sepoys of Oudh, scattered throughout the length and breadth of Northern India and laboring under a bitter sense of injustice since the annexation of their ancient kingdom, were the ones from whom the spirit of sedition had sprung. It was they who plotted betrayal, they who whispered of treason to their less volatile comrades and it seemed logical, therefore, that when the blow fell, it would fall first in Oudh.
Emmy expelled her breath in a quick, unhappy sigh and Alex braced himself but, to his heartfelt relief, she did not argue. “At least,” she said tonelessly, “send me a message, after you have seen Sir Henry, so that I shall know whether or not you will be returning to Adjodhabad.”
“Of course I will, darling.” He rose, to stand looking down at her uneasily, puzzled by her unexpected capitulation. Emmy, for all her youth, had a mind of her own and more than her fair share of courage and determination; she was a dutiful and devoted wife but she did not always obey him if she considered it in his best interests not to do so. Remembering how she had braved the perils of the filthy, cholera-infested wards of the barracks hospital at Scutari—and the wrath of the formidable Dr Menzies—in order to nurse him when, more dead than alive, he had been brought back from Balaclava, he said sternly, “Emmy, I want you to promise me that, when Harry’s orders come through, you will go with him to Calcutta. There’s to be no delay, whatever may be the result of my interview with Sir Henry. Come, my love—I’ve a long ride ahead of me and it’s time I left.”
Emmy met his gaze stonily. “Don’t you trust me?”
He sighed. “Darling, I dare not … for I know you too, don’t forget. And it is for the best, believe me it is. I shall have no peace of mind until I know that you are safe in Calcutta, so please—give me your word that you’ll go.”
She bowed her head, valiantly fighting against her tears. “If it means so much to you, Alex, then you have my word. I’ll leave when Harry’s orders come. It will break my heart but if it is what you truly wish—”
“It is, dearest Emmy, although it breaks my heart too.” He bent, drawing her to him, his mouth seeking hers, and felt her arms go round his neck. “I want this parting as little as you do,” he told her huskily, freeing himself at last. “But for the sake of the child you carry, for the sake of our son, my love, we have to endure it. God bless you and keep you, Emmy, until we meet again.”
“And you, Alex, and you ...” her voice was choked with sobs. “Promise that you—that you will come back to me, darling, wherever I am and … however long it may be.”
“I promise.” Alex straightened, his throat tight. He tucked the bedclothes about her and, pausing only to take his pistol from the drawer in which he had placed it, made for the curtained doorway. “Au revoir, my love.”
“Good-bye, Alex.” Her voice was a faint whisper of sound, barely audible above the rhythmic creak of the punkah as it swung to and fro above his head. He closed the curtain behind him, willing himself not to look back. Outside, in the shadow of the pillared veranda, his small escort waited—Partap Singh, his orderly, and the two syces, squatting in the dust beside the laden baggage ponies.
His white-bearded bearer, Mohammed Bux, raised the hurricane lantern he was holding to light him on his way and salaamed respectfully. Alex laid his hand briefly on the old servant’s bowed shoulder and said, in Hindustani, “I leave the memsahib in your care. Guard her well, Mohammed Bux.”
“Ji-han, huzoor. Khuda hafiz!”
“As salaam aleikum!” Alex responded and, assisted by one of the syces, swung himself into the saddle of his powerful, seventeen-hand black Arabian mount, Sultan. The first pale light of dawn was tinging the eastern sky as he led the way out of the compound at a brisk trot and headed in the direction of the river along a road of hardbaked earth. Soon the rows of white-painted bungalows occupied by the British officers of the garrison were left behind and he glimpsed the lights of the native city in the distance, its teeming population of some sixty thousand already waking to life. A number, early risers, were like himself making for the river, most of them devout Hindus, preparing to perform their ritual ablutions in the sacre
d waters of the Ganges before the day’s toil began.
“Sahib—” Partap Singh offered a low-voiced warning. “See who comes!”
Alex followed the direction of his orderly’s pointing finger. There was a doolie approaching, borne at a rapid jog-trot by four bearers, and evidently coming from the native lines on the southeast side of the city. As it descended to the bridge of boats leading to the Lucknow road he saw and recognized its occupant with a swiftly suppressed gasp of dismay. So someone—heaven knew who—had released Ahmad Ullah, the Moulvi of Fyzabad, from prison, he thought and, touching Sultan with his spurs, he cantered over, just as the curtains of the doolie were hurriedly drawn across. The Moulvi was a noted troublemaker and, for several months prior to his arrest, he had traveled from city to city, preaching holy war against the infidel British and sowing sedition in the minds of those citizens and zamindars of Oudh who were followers of the Prophet.
Since Cawnpore was predominantly Hindu, it seemed logical to suppose that Ahmad Ullah’s visit had been to the lines of the 2nd Native Cavalry and Alex glanced about him for some evidence of this, finding it in the presence of half a dozen sowars, in white undress uniform, who were hovering watchfully on the edge of a crowd of Hindu bathers on the ghaut fifty yards below him.
“Salaam, Moulvi Sahib!” he greeted, reining in beside the litter. “I had not expected to see you at liberty again so soon.” His tone was deliberately curt but he used the polite Urdu form of address and the curtain was drawn back.
“Salaam O aleikum!” Ahmad Ullah responded smoothly. “And I had not expected to see you, Sheridan Sahib. Indeed, I had heard …” he coughed, as if to cover a simulated embarrassment, the dark, intelligent eyes gleaming with malice, “I had heard a rumor, no doubt false, that you had ceased to hold the reins of government in Adjodhabad.” He barked a command and the litter bearers halted to enable him to alight. He stood, a tall, commanding figure in his flowing white robes and immaculately wound green turban, fingering the tulwar at his side, his beetling dark brows raised in mute and faintly insolent question.
“You heard truly,” Alex acknowledged, hard put to it to hide the intense dislike he felt for this glib-tongued rabble-rouser, whose activities in his district the previous year had caused him so many sleepless nights and futile, wasted journeys. Ahmad Ullah was not a native of Bengal—he hailed from Arcot, in the Madras Presidency—and, until the annexation, had been one of a legion of hangers-on at the court of Wajid Ali, the corrupt old King of Oudh.
A penniless teacher of religion, dependent on the king’s erratic bounty, he had wielded little influence until the widespread resentment of landowners, soldiers and peasants alike, which had followed the annexation, had given him the opportunity to indulge his fanatical hatred of British rule and of the men who sought to enforce it in Oudh. Ironically, it had been Mr Coverley Jackson—Sir Henry Lawrence’s predecessor as chief commissioner—who had brought him to prominence. Jackson, while he had spared no effort to humiliate the deposed king and his senior officials, had given patronage and promotion to many of inferior rank, on the grounds that all who had previously held power under the king had abused it. Ahmad Ullah had been among the chosen and, for a time, Jackson had given ear to him, until even he had to realize that his confidence in his protégé was being abused. He …
“Even in prison, news reached me.” The Moulvi’s voice broke into his thoughts and Alex roused himself. “Accurate news in your case, since you confirm it. And, while I have been here in Cawnpore I heard another rumor concerning you, Sheridan Sahib. A rumor that interested me.”
“What interests me,” Alex countered, “is how you contrived to obtain your freedom, Ahmad Ullah.”
“If you have come, thinking to apprehend a fugitive from justice, you are wasting your time, Sahib.” The dark, hawk-like face lit with a triumphant smile. “No charges could be proved against me. They were, of course, absurd charges, quite without foundation. I have been guilty of no crime—unless to preach the Faith, which is my calling, can be held against me … and surely it cannot? So …” he shrugged. “Your much-vaunted British justice for once lived up to its reputation, and the magistrate ordered my immediate release.”
“I see. And where do you go now?”
The Moulvi’s smile widened into mockery. “Like yourself, I go on a journey … but humbly, not on a fine charger such as yours.” So smiling, he laid a slim, long-fingered hand on Sultan’s neck and the big horse, startled, jerked his head back, snorting and attempting to rear. The cavalry sowars moved closer, the movement protective, though prompted by curiosity. They were evidently an unofficial escort, sent to ensure that Ahmad Ullah went on his way unmolested but Alex, calming the restive Sultan, affected not to notice them. It would do no harm to find out what he could, he decided—the Moulvi’s destination, if nothing else—so that he could pass the information on to Sir Henry Lawrence. The man was clever and as cunning as a snake but he was vain and, given a little judicious encouragement, he would probably be unable to resist the temptation to boast of his achievements or even to offer a subtle insult to a British officer in front of an audience that would applaud his temerity.
“And what rumor have you heard concerning me, Moulvi Sahib?” he asked, when the sowars were within earshot.
The Moulvi eyed him speculatively. “It is said that, now you no longer govern in Adjodhabad, you will return to the rissala— to the 3rd Light Cavalry in Meerut.”
“That is also true,” Alex admitted.
“You go to command the regiment, no doubt? With honor and promotion?” The suggestion was provocative; Ahmad Ullah knew his rank and was well aware that the command of a regiment was not given to a mere captain—certainly not to one who had recently left his well-paid civil post under something of a cloud.
Alex let it pass, refusing to be provoked, and answered lightly, “No, not to command, Moulvi Sahib. And as to promotion, why … I have not yet sufficient grey hairs to merit a step in rank!”
“True,” the Moulvi agreed. He glanced at the sowars and, satisfied that they were listening avidly, went on, his tone derisive, “The Company’s regiments are all commanded by old men. Greybeards, who sleep through the heat of the day, dreaming of past glories and long forgotten battles, in ignorance of what is going on around them now. They will have a rude awakening when the Company’s raj comes to an end and the soldiers they command desert them.”
“How so?” Alex exclaimed, in well-simulated disbelief. “These are wild words, Ahmad Ullah. They have no more substance than the air a man belches when his stomach is full!” He added, fixing a stern gaze on the sowars, “The soldiers of John Company will not betray their salt. They have grievances, perhaps, and they have listened to too many words like yours but they will remain true to their oath of service, you will see.”
“I will see?” Angered, the Moulvi turned on him. “It is you who will see! I tell you truly, Sheridan Sahib, the days of the Company are numbered. Is it not written that John Company will endure only for one hundred years after Plassey and is not the hundredth anniversary of Plassey due to fall next month? It is the will of Allah that all the feringhi shall be ground into the dust. None shall escape from the vengeful swords of the true believers—men, women, even little children, all will die! In’sha Illah …” carried away by his own eloquence, he talked on, his voice raised, careless of who might hear him.
The sowars listened open mouthed. They were too well trained, too much in awe both of himself and the Moulvi to applaud openly but their approval was evident and Alex, registering the fact that Ahmad Ullah had now said more than enough to invite arrest, knew that it would be worth his life to attempt to apprehend him. Here on the tree-grown ghaut, out of sight and sound of the British cantonment, he and Partap Singh were virtually alone in a crowd which, being mainly Hindu, would endeavour to close its eyes to whatever he did or whatever was done to him, but which could be provoked into hostility against him all too easily. The two syces, of course, wou
ld fly in terror at the first hint of trouble and the sowars, although they might be reluctant to lay hands on him, for fear of the consequences, would undoubtedly do so if their Moulvi appeared to be in danger, counting on the crowd’s silence to protect them, if—days later—his body were found in the river.
He sighed, glancing at Partap Singh to see the same thoughts mirrored on his orderly’s anxious face. Only a few months ago, he reflected wryly, he would unhesitatingly have ordered any soldier in the Company’s uniform to place Ahmad Ullah under arrest for seditious utterances, confident that his order would be obeyed without a murmur from the watching crowd.
“The times change, Sahib,” Ahmad Ullah observed, as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Now it is our turn. We shall throw off the shackles of servitude and all Hind will follow our example, religious differences forgotten. When the hour comes, we shall kill for the Faith—we shall restore our king and you British are too few to stand in our way, for you are not the great warriors that once you were. Too many of you left your bones in the Crimea. That was where you”—he gestured to Alex’s empty sleeve—“lost your right arm, was it not? Your sword arm!”
Alex said nothing and, emboldened by his silence, two or three of the sowars smiled behind their hands and one, a young man with a scarred face, spat in the dust, his mouth curving into an insolent grin as he started to move away. He could not let the incident pass, Alex decided, and he called them to attention, his voice cutting through the thin veneer of their complacency like a whiplash. His was the voice of an authority they were accustomed to respect and they obeyed him instantly.
“Escort the Moulvi Sahib to his doolie,” he bade them. “And see him across the bridge. He journeys to Lucknow, does he not?”
The Moulvi eyed him angrily, looking for a moment as if he intended to hold his ground. Then, evidently thinking better of it, he spun around and strode across to his waiting litter. Turning when he reached it, he raised his clasped hands to his forehead in mock obeisance and called back softly, “Yes, I too journey to Lucknow … perhaps we may meet again while you are there, Sheridan Sahib. But you would be well advised not to continue on to Meerut—hasten rather to Calcutta with your memsahib and from thence take ship to your homeland, if you value your life. Give the Lord Lawrence Sahib this advice also, when you have audience with him. He is a good man and I would not have his blood on my hands when the hour strikes.” With a contemptuous jerk of the head, he motioned the sowars to stand aside and settled himself on the cushioned seat of his doolie.
