by John Masters
He nodded towards the wide window embrasures. Caroline hurried from bed to bed, ripped off the sheets, and began to tear them into strips. The others stood in clusters, whispering and arguing and watching. Rodney ran to the left window and climbed into the square funnel of the embrasure. He caught the patterned grille in his hands and pulled gently; some plaster gave. Crouching half upright, he pulled harder The whole grille came away and crashed on the floor of the embrasure. He peered out and down. Far below, the stars were reflected on the satin-black surface of the river. He leaned out farther, judging the distance--fifty or sixty feet.
“Sahib, do not lean out. It is dangerous.”
The voice sounded as if in his ear. He started violently and jerked his head round. Two soldiers hung over the battlements ten feet above him, and stared down into his face. They were armed; the needle bayonets wavered against the sky. He edged back into the room and dropped to the floor.
Dellamain crouched in a corner, his face wet and shining; Geoghegan had taken McCardle’s place as guard and silently held the Commissioner by the throat. McCardle worked quickly with Caroline, knotting the strips of linen together. She looked up as Rodney came back, and he shook his head and pointed up wordlessly at the roof. He was thinking fast. He hurried into the bathroom--no good. Surprise and overpower the sentries at the door, break out en masse? Not enough escapers, or weapons.
Caroline’s fingers flew deftly from knot to knot. She was kneeling and spoke to him as she worked, without looking up. “Didn’t they--murder people--sometimes--in these places--and get rid of the bodies?”
“The chutes? Yes, all these castles have them. I’ve seen the ones at Agra, and they’re probably the same here. But they’re in the dungeons, lower down the wall.”
“Mightn’t they have wanted--to dispose--of an honoured guest--without having--to carry the body--through the castle?”
“They might, but----“
He shrugged. McCardle was listening and interrupted. “Let’s not waste time, man. Pull up the carpets, luke under that divan contraption.”
The rope finished, the three of them set to work. Mrs. Bell climbed off the divan, holding her baby, and watched without interest. As Rodney shoved, he felt suddenly that it was all a waste of effort. There was no way of escape, they must compose themselves to accept whatever came; the Rani might protect them.
Caroline looked at him with blazing eyes, and his mouth dropped open before the force of her. There might be a chute under the divan after all; it was just possible they could escape down it. He flung his weight forward, and the divan began to move.
They dragged back the rugs lying under and around it. One of the newly exposed flags had two iron rings countersunk in it; they heaved, and the flag came up bodily. Rodney looked down a black hole narrow and nearly vertical. There was no way of telling how deep it was, or where it ended; the sides were square-cut and rough-hewn. Kneeling at the edge, he stared from Caroline to McCardle.
Caroline whispered, “It’s our only chance to beat her.”
Her voice trembled; he saw that she was no longer looking at him or at the chute, but at Robin, lying awake on his cot and sucking his thumb. He looked again at the black square. What if there were an iron grille down there now--below the water perhaps? What if the chute came out feet above the river in this dry season, over stones or just-submerged rocks? What if the sheets broke? If they slid down there they would be flayed, broken, burned alive; those who usually took that ride did not care.
He heard Caroline saying, “Me first. Then Robin, then you, then Mr. McCardle.”
He started to argue, but she was the leader, by right of will. She went on, “I’ll give two jerks when I’m down, if I can. Then you pull up, tie Robin on, and lower him to me.”
“All right.”
“Ready? No--wait a minute. I can’t leave these people.” She swung round and raised her voice. “Please listen to me. You are in greater danger than you have ever been. We can get down here. We have friends outside.”
Young Myers looked from his mother to his sister, and they looked at the floor; Mrs. Bell held her baby tighter; Mrs. Bulstrode giggled; Mrs. Hatch stared at the black hole and swore under her breath.
Father d’Aubriac said cheerfully, “Je crois que vous avez raison, mon enfant. Mais ces autres ont le corps et I’âme malades. My place is ‘ere wit’ zem. Allez vite, bonne chance, et que le bon Dieu, qui est mort pour nous, vous preserve dans ses mains eternelles.”
His hand gestured in the sign of the cross; his eyes twinkled and he seemed to savour the words like a fine wine.
Geoghegan turned his head and croaked, “Ah, an’ I’d come but I’d hinder ye . . .Good luck to ye, the luck of the devil.”
He grinned fiendishly and tightened his hands on Dellamain’s neck.
Caroline said, “Thank you Father. Thank you, Mr. Geoghegan. Goodbye--everybody--and good luck. Now!”
Rodney tied one end of the sheet rope--it was about fifty-five feet long--to the leg of a bed, and threw the other end down the chute. McCardle got ready to push back against the bed. Caroline said, “Where shall we meet if we have to separate?”
“Upstream a mile--this bank--my old camp. Know it?”
“I know it.”
“Right.”
She sat down quickly on the edge of the hole, took the rope in her hands, rolled over on to her stomach, and was gone. He watched the top of her head bob down until the darkness hid it. Twenty seconds, forty, sixty. A faint splash echoed up the chute, and the rope jumped. He pulled it up hand over hand; obviously it only just reached the water-McCardle fastened a loop under Robin’s knees and over his shoulders--and that would take off another four or five feet from the length. The sound of a shot, fired on the battlements, boomed in through the windows. If they hit Caroline, Robin would drown. Robin’s dull eyes sharpened, and he screamed feebly and tried to pull himself back from the hole.
“It’s all right, Robin. Auntie Caroline’s down there, ready to hold you.”
Then he couldn’t wait, and pushed Robin’s shoulders down to break the hold of the small fingers on the stone edge. McCardle lowered away, and Rodney could not breathe until his son’s pitiful face faded in the dark. After that the screams of his terror shrilled up the shaft, and in the room Mrs. Bulstrode burst into tears.
They came to the end of the shortened rope, and Rodney looked across the hole at McCardle. Robin must be dangling, several feet above the water, where Caroline couldn’t untie him. They’d have to let the rope go; then he and McCardle would have to slide down. Another shot cracked on the battlements, and a noise rumbled in the passage. Father
d’Aubriac pushed two beds against the door and called to young Myers; Geoghegan let go of Dellamain and shuffled over to join them; together they jammed the door while Dellamain collapsed on the carpet and shouted, “Help, help!”
McCardle untied the rope from the bedpost and nodded. They let go. The last few knots slipped down and disappeared. They heard a splash.
Mrs. Hatch waddled forward. “I’ve never ‘eard of such a thing, but by Gawd I don’t like this. ‘Ere, I’m coming.”
Rodney and McCardle stared from her to each other and again at the black square. Sixty feet. Mrs. Hatch’s face shone belligerently. “‘Ere, roll me up in the Haxminster. Aincher got no bleeding sense?”
She seized a six-foot rug, lay down, and rolled herself into it. They pushed her to the edge of the hole and straight down. Her long involuntary shriek faded; they heard a quickening series of thuds, and a smell of burning wool came up the shaft.
McCardle said, “You next, Rodney--same way. The auld besom had a right gude idea.”
He began to roll Rodney into another rug. The door burst open, the beds against it crashed across the floor, and the Dewan and a score of soldiers rushed in. For a second no one moved, and the room was a murk of shadow and yellow highlights. In that instant Rodney, head twisted up, saw Dellamain’s slack jaw and plump still hands. He saw t
he Dewan in the doorway and the frenzy of lust on his face.
The picture broke. Father d’Aubriac’s skirts flew as he landed a kick in a soldier’s stomach. Mrs. Bulstrode knocked over one lamp with her hand; young Myers kicked the other, and it was dark.
He struggled to get out; he had to help, he had to. Perhaps they could do something against the swine; perhaps he could kill the Dewan. He fought and yelled to McCardle, “Let me out! Let me out!”
The soldiers were firing blindly; the shots crashed and glared, the bullets droned round the walls. Dellamain was screaming, “I’ll tell the Governor General, I’ll tell the----“
A yellow flash showed McCardle’s eyes a foot from his own. The surgeon said softly, “Hold tight, Rodney. Gude luck.”
19
The foot end of the carpet roll tilted down. He gripped the edges in front of his chin and shrunk his head into his chest. His stomach lurched up to his mouth, and his breath stopped. The tunnel roared, louder and louder. The sides hit him in the head with a hard, fast rhythm, and thundered a stone tattoo against his back and skull. The tearing whistle split his ears and the smell of burning wool seared his nostrils.
The solid stone vanished and he felt himself plunging through the air. Water slammed against his feet and sent the shock up his spine to his head. He gasped his breath out, then in. Water gurgled heavy in his stomach. Struggling, he pushed away the rug, released himself, and struck up for the surface. As he broke water the ringing in his head subsided, breath came, and he was thinking fast; there would be men shooting down from the battlements. He swam under the water for a while with the slow current.
When his lungs ached he raised his head cautiously but heard no firing. He slid downstream, looking for the others, and found Mrs. Hatch first. She was puffing and coughing, held up by the billows of her dress. She saw him and spluttered, “ ‘Elp, sir, please. I can’t swim.” He caught her under the shoulders and supported her. A little ahead he saw Caroline; she was floating easily, close under the corner of the wall, and talking to Robin in her arms. She reached the bank first and waited in the water until Rodney climbed out and took Robin from her. The child lay dumb, shocked into silence; his eyes moved from side to side, and he did not recognize any of them.
A belt of trees began here, twenty yards from the corner of the fort, and stretched down for half a mile to the ferry site; a yellow light gleamed from the ferryman’s hut. Rodney led into the wood, turned left, and moved down in it parallel to the river until the trees hid the shape of the fort. They lay down and listened for sounds of pursuit. There was no noise from the fort; the quiet river was out of earshot; they heard nothing but the boom of frogs, Mrs. Hatch’s grating breath, and the drip of water from their clothes.
Caroline whispered, “What happened? Where’s Mr. McCardle?”
“Dead. The Rani’s had them all murdered. The Dewan.”
His teeth chattered but it was from physical chill. He did not feel any emotion except tiredness; he had a sore head, and he couldn’t stop his hands trembling. He heard Caroline draw in her breath, then she went on. “They’ll find us here. We must hurry.”
He replied, “Piroo. I’ll go now and get him. You stay here till I come back.”
“All right, but I’ll go. You’re very conspicuous; I’m not, in a sari. I know the way. Don’t be silly. We haven’t time. I’ll be back in, say, half or three-quarters of an hour. Where will you go if they come here searching for you while I’m away?”
She was a speaking shadow near him. In the dim alleys of the city she would pass as an Indian woman. He hesitated, trying to see her face and thinking of her bandaged feet.
“We’ll go back to the river now, and hide under this bank. If I hear them coming we’ll swim across somehow. Then we’ll move upstream. Same rendezvous, but the opposite bank. That’ll be safer. Caroline, for God’s sake be careful.”
She was gone. He listened until he could not hear the twigs snapping, and knew she had reached the fields. Mrs. Hatch lay in a stupor at his feet; he aroused her, picked up Robin, and crept back to the river. The bank here was four feet high, and the lip, bound together by stones and tree roots, hung over the water. The water was waist deep and the river bottom stony. He searched cautiously up and down for a suitable piece of driftwood to support him in case they had to swim, but found none. He looked sideways at Mrs. Hatch; she was good and plucky, and he’d do his best for her. But if she dragged him down, or got in a panic----He held Robin tighter. The hot night air dried his shirt; the water flowed cool at his waist and tugged gently at his trousers. A bulging gibbous moon rode out from wisps of dark cloud. He wished he could stop his teeth chattering; and only Robin’s weight kept his hands still.
Twenty minutes later, to his left, towards the fort, the frogs set up a louder croaking. Mrs. Hatch clutched his elbow and whispered hoarsely, “I ‘ear something--footmarks.” He put Robin in her arms, caught her under the armpits, and prepared to slide out into the stream. He listened with teeth set and legs taut--only one man, walking carefully, no torch. It might be someone going to the ferry on other business. He waited; his jaw muscles ached with the effort of holding his teeth clenched.
An anxious voice cried out in the wood, “Captain Savage, Savage-sahib. It is I, Prithvi Chand. Are you here?”
He did not answer. Slippers patted the earth and rustled the leaves; the man spoke again.
“It is I, Prithvi Chand, your friend. I have a message for you from Her Highness. You are safe; she will protect you.”
He smiled grimly. It was Prithvi Chand all right; he recognized the voice.
“Come out, Captain, for your child’s sake. I have something very important to say. I am alone and unarmed.”
Rodney made up his mind; he sidled a few yards upstream, hauled himself over the lower bank there, and lay quiet while the water drained off him. Searching with his fingers, he found a big jagged stone and caught hold of it. Prithvi Chand passed by, a moonlit ghost against the trees, quavering out the same message. “You are safe. I promise you.”
He sprang up, swung his arm with the stone, and smashed it against the side of Prithvi Chand’s head. The heavy body fell down among the leaves; he hurled himself astride it and whispered, “One shout, and I’ll kill you, you nigger devil!”
Prithvi Chand groaned and groped slowly up to consciousness. Rodney whispered, “Quiet. What is it? Quick!”
“A message from the Rani. She didn’t order the massacre just now, the Dewan did it all himself. Oh, my head hurts. He heard her say that she’d like to see all of you people dead, that she’d like to strangle you with her own hands. He thought--pretended to think--that she meant it, and took soldiers and did it--oooh! He was going to take you to her alive.”
“Do you think I believe that?”
“It’s true. Here.” He got one hand free and felt in his coat. “Here’s her ring, the ruby ring she gave you. She’s been crying on the stones in the courtyard and has tried to stab herself. She said ‘Give him this ring and tell him to remember when I gave it to him first.’ Sahib, no one’s pursuing you, but a lot of the soldiers are out of hand--the country’s in turmoil. She says you won’t be safe except in the fort. But----“
“But what?”
“Don’t go back. Let me take the two women and the child in, and you get away. Someone must reach Gondwara soon, someone who will be believed. The sepoys there are going to mutiny when our army and the Bhowani regiments are ready to attack, but not before. They’ll be trusted by then, because they have orders to be loyal until then. They’ll fight bravely in all the first battles and the patrol clashes. They’ll hand over a few men who they will say are disloyal. Your general has so few troops there; he can’t afford to disband them without reason.”
Rodney snarled, “Which side are you on, anyway?”
Prithvi Chand, lying flat on his stomach and groaning with pain between his phrases, was a pudgy shape under him. The ring in his hand caught a little moonlight and flashed lik
e a bloodshot eye.
Now his voice steadied and took on an awkward dignity. “I’m on the side of India. I want my country to be a country one day, and be free. But this mutiny is not the way to do it. We should learn from you, laugh at you as we laugh at forward children, treat you as guests in our country even though you did invite yourselves. That is the true India. We could be friends that way, one day. Perhaps you would all go away, perhaps we would ask some of you to stay. This--this is horrible. I did not know anything about it until the Dewan told me on Saturday night.”
Rodney began to get up. As he moved, he heard Robin whimper; mingled with the faint cry were Joanna’s screams, Geoffrey’s babblings, the thunder of the massacre in the upstairs room. He gripped the stone tight in his right hand and the rage boiled in him so that he trembled.
He gauged the distance to the back of Prithvi Chand’s skull and said, carefully keeping his voice steady, “Are you loyal to us?”
“I’ve told you, Captain-sahib, I’m loyal to India, but I think----“
Rodney swung the stone down with all his force. Prithvi Chand’s skull cracked, and he beat and pounded at it, his words jerking out. “Filthy--black--swine! Swine! Swine!”
He stopped and felt the pulp at the back of Prithvi Chand’s head, and drew down his lips in a crooked smile. This one at least would never give them away to the murderous bitch in the fort. What was it the Borgia said at Sinigaglia? “It is well to beguile those who have shown themselves masters of treachery.” That would be an excellent precept to follow in all future dealings with Indians. That, and contempt.
He rubbed his hands on the grass, threw the Rani’s ring into the bushes, and dragged Prithvi Chand’s corpse after it.
Then he slipped back into the water beside Mrs. Hatch. He muttered, “A fool. I killed him.”
He had a clanging headache, but he felt light and happy. This was better. Later he’d do the same to the Silver Guru and the Rani. There’d come a chance, somewhere, somehow. The Dewan would die much more slowly, and there’d be a fire handy. The Dewan--of course; now he understood why the little sod liked killing. It was delicious. He thought Mrs. Hatch was looking at him strangely, but he hardly noticed because his mind had wandered off down a warm and red-lit corridor, lined with streaming flesh.
