Shadow of the Moon

by M. M. Kaye

  Mrs Abuthnot had made a few purchases - necessities they would need to tide them over until they reached Alexandria - and they had returned to the hotel for luncheon. The remainder of the day passed without incident, and when, that night, the moon rose pale and enormous to hang above the shining levels of the Mediterranean like some enchanted Chinese lantern, Winter resisted its lure and retired early to bed.

  On the following morning they rose at daybreak, to partake of rolls and coffee under the beautiful vaulted ceiling of the Commercia before re-embarking on the Sirius. And presently the little island vanished into the heat-haze, and once more there was only the blue sky and the bluer sea above and around them, and the white wake of foam stretching away like a pathway behind.

  The long, hot days dragged slowly for Winter, but Lottie and her Edward found the time passed all too quickly. Edward, true to his promise, had approached Mrs Abuthnot on the first day out from Malta to ask her permission, in the absence of Lottie’s father, to pay his addresses to her daughter. He had added a diffident but satisfactory account of his financial situation, and had indeed been so earnest and engaging that Mrs Abuthnot’s heart had quite melted, and she had ended by assuring him that although the last word must of course lie with Lottie’s Papa, if Lottie reciprocated his feelings she herself would not stand in the way of her daughter’s ultimate happiness.

  And indeed, thought Mrs Abuthnot complacently, although dear Lottie might well have made a more dazzling match, Edward English was of good family and appeared to possess both prospects and adequate means. It might do very well.

  As the ship neared the coast of Egypt the heat became more intense. The sea turned from blue to green and the eager passengers crowded onto the paddle-box or hung over the deck-rails to see the minarets and roof-tops of Alexandria apparently lifting out of the water. The pilot, a vast bearded Mussulman, was taken up, and an hour later a variety of Egyptian officials boarded the ship and the passengers went ashore to drive through the town and admire the palms, the giant cactuses, the white houses and the stylish carriages of Alexandria.

  They were to leave the Sirius and go by train to Cairo on the following morning, and they returned to spend a last night on board. But few if any of them were able to sleep, for the air from off the sweltering land came out to them in wafts like the hot breath of some great animal, while the racket of the Arabs coaling the ship by torchlight went on hour after noisy hour.

  Winter did not find the heat too unbearable, and she might have snatched some sleep if it had not been for the noise. But Lottie gasped for air, tossed restlessly on her berth or walked about the small cabin bathing her forehead and arms with water that was almost as warm as the night, until at last Winter could stand it no longer. ‘I’m going on deck,’ she announced. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Lottie? It will be cooler up there, and no one could be expected to sleep in this noise.’ But Lottie only shook her head and flung herself once more upon her berth, and Winter reached for a large paisley shawl, and wrapping it about her left the cabin.

  The deck was a patchwork of jet-black shadows and vivid orange-coloured light from the flaming torches and flickering oil-lamps of the coal-boats, but it appeared at first sight to be comparatively deserted, and Winter peered cautiously over the side from the shelter of a dense bar of shadow to look down upon the swarming coalers who, bathed in the lurid torchlight and with their bowed, almost naked bodies grimed with coal-dust and glistening with sweat, looked like some illustration to Dante’s Inferno. Behind them the sea lay like a dark lake of oil with the mirrored lights of Alexandria barely moving on its sluggish surface, and the hot air stank of coal-dust and sweating bodies, engine-oil and the Middle East.

  A burst of laughter added itself to the noises of the night and Winter turned quickly, to see a group of men come down from the poop deck, cutting off her retreat. They had evidently been dining and wining on shore and were in considerable spirits, and one of them embarked upon a story which, despite the fact that most of it was happily unintelligible to her, was still sufficiently racy to cause her cheeks to burn with startled horror. Yet another man - Winter recognized him as Major Rattray, an officer en route to China - joined the group.

  The Major, a corpulent gentleman, was at the moment clad in nothing but a species of loin-cloth, and Winter became suddenly aware that other gentlemen, equally lightly clad, were lolling about in the hot starlight. With this discovery all the impropriety of her presence on deck at that hour came home to her, and filled with shame and dismay she began to edge her way through the shadows towards the further companionway, when she heard a swift step behind her. A hand grasped her arm and jerked her round, and Captain Randall’s voice said: ‘What in thunder are you doing on deck! Is anything the matter?’

  ‘N - no,’ said Winter breathlessly. ‘It was so hot in the cabin, and I thought—’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ demanded Alex in an exasperated undertone. ‘This is no place for a woman. Half the men have been celebrating ashore and the rest are less than half-dressed, and the place is thick with Arab coolies. You’re going back to your cabin at once. Now, march!’

  He turned her about and propelled her firmly in the direction of the companionway, but just as they reached it a man came up it and blundered out onto the deck. It was Colonel Moulson; noticeably the worse for drink.

  Colonel Moulson was not a particularly pleasant person when sober, and when under the influence of alcohol he was even less so. Alex thrust Winter behind him, interposing himself between her and the swaying figure that stood starkly outlined against the light that streamed up from the companionway. But he had not been quick enough. The Colonel, though drunk, was not sufficiently inebriated to be unobservant, and he gave vent to a raucous whoop.

  ‘A petticoat, b’gad!’ cried the Colonel. ‘Brought a fancy piece on board with yer, have you, Randall? Le’s have a look at her.’

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,’ said Alex levelly, ‘but this lady wishes to go below. Would you please allow us to pass?’

  ‘Lady!’ bellowed the Colonel, ‘that’s rich. ‘Pon my soul that’s rich. If she were a lady she wouldn’t be up here. Don’t be a dog-in-the-manger, m’boy. What is she? a Gyppy, or an Arab bint? Come on out, my pretty - le’s all have a look at you!’

  He made a clumsy dive, and Alex fended him off and repeated patiently enough: ‘I must ask you to let us pass, sir.’

  ‘Damned if I do!’ retorted the Colonel. And staggering backwards a pace or two he barred the entrance to the companionway with outstretched arms and proceeded to utter a series of loud ‘view halloos’. The revellers at the far side of the deck, their attention attracted by the noise, began to move towards them, and Alex addressed Winter without turning his head:

  ‘You’ll have to run for it,’ he said briefly, and took a swift stride forward. His right hand shot out and grasped the Colonel’s neckcloth, twisting it violently so that the raucous whoops were cut off in mid-breath, while his left came into abrupt contact with the Colonel’s protuberant stomach. The next instant the Colonel had been heaved aside to collapse sprawling on the deck, Winter was down the stairs and out of sight, and Alex and the recumbent Moulson were the centre of an interested group of spectators.

  ‘What’s all the to-do?’ demanded Major Rattray.

  ‘Fisticuffs, b’gad!’ announced Mr Commissioner Ferringdon buoyantly: ‘Someone’s given him a leveller.’

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ said Alex solicitously, assisting the gasping Colonel to rise.

  Colonel Moulson staggered to his feet and threw off Alex’s hand. He tore at his twisted neckcloth, his face purple with rage, choking between breathlessness and apoplectic fury: ‘By God, Randall, you’ll meet me for this!’ spluttered the Colonel.

  ‘I shall be delighted to,’ said Alex with disconcerting promptness.

  A considerable proportion of the Colonel’s high colour faded and his ire diminished appreciably. He scowled at Alex, and his breathing
became less stertorous.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ demanded a thin grey-haired gentleman clad simply in a towel, a tasselled smoking-cap and a pair of embroidered slippers. ‘Can’t fight a junior officer; thing’s absurd. Duelling illegal.’

  ‘He struck me!’ spluttered the Colonel. ‘The young puppy struck me.’

  ‘Good gad!’ said Major Rattray blankly. ‘Deuced serious offence strikin’ a superior officer.’

  ‘But he ain’t in uniform, dear boy,’ murmured a languid gentleman attired in nothing but a pair of Turkish-style trousers and an eyeglass. ‘Can’t call that uniform. Purely private matter when not in uniform. Personal disagreement between gen’l’men.’

  ‘I must apologize for being a little hasty,’ said Alex smoothly. ‘One of the ladies, being of a nervous disposition and alarmed by the torchlight and the noise, fancied that - that the ship might be on fire and ran up on deck. I offered to escort her below, but as Colonel Moulson, imagining her to be a woman of a very different sort, disputed her passage, I was compelled to be a little rough. I trust that he will accept my apology for any hurt he may have suffered.’

  The Colonel scowled blackly but there was a look in Alex’s eyes that was considerably less conciliatory than his words had been, and as the fumes of brandy gradually lost their grip on Colonel Moulson’s brain, it began to dawn on him that should Captain Randall’s story be true, the lady in question could well have a husband awaiting her in Calcutta. In which case, his own part in the affair might be brought into question. He therefore growled a surly acknowledgement to the apology and lurched away.

  Alex looked after him thoughtfully. It was a pity it had had to be Colonel Moulson … He had never liked the man and considered him, scornfully, a suitable companion for Conway Barton. But it had been necessary for the smooth running of affairs in Lunjore to keep on good terms with Moulson, and he regretted that necessity had compelled him to make an enemy of the man, since it would make things just that much more difficult in Lunjore. The task of seeing that the Condesa de los Aguilares came to no harm was proving no sinecure, thought Alex irritably.

  Winter had reached the safety of her cabin without further mishap, and as it was in darkness, it was not until the following morning that a shriek from Lottie and a hurried inspection of herself in the looking-glass revealed the fact that her hands were grimed and her face liberally streaked with coal-dust.

  ‘Oh!’ said Winter on a gasp of fury. ‘What can he have thought?’

  It seemed to be her fate to appear before Captain Randall at a disadvantage: losing her temper and lashing at him with her riding-whip like a harpy - struggling in the arms of Edmund Rathley - being degradingly sea-sick - climbing walls and falling off them like a hoyden. And now appearing on deck at a most improper hour of night and being found there with her face streaked with soot like a nigger-minstrel’s! Somehow (she did not quite know why) it was all Captain Randall’s fault. And as she scrubbed her face furiously with soap and cold water she summarized the Captain’s behaviour in trenchant Spanish, to the alarm of Lottie, and resolved to treat him in future with the greatest possible coolness - which was surely no more than he deserved. But there was scant opportunity to do so, for she saw very little of him in the succeeding days.

  In his role of escort to Mrs Abuthnot’s party Alex had arranged for the dispatch of their baggage and their own conveyance to the station, but he had not travelled in the same compartment on the train, and Winter had not seen him again until they left Cairo for Suez two nights later in a ‘desert omnibus’ drawn by mules and horses. Even then he had not spoken to her. He had sat opposite her, and Sophie had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder.

  Winter studied him by the bright starlight and the glow of the oil-lamp that swung by the driver’s seat; aware that her own face was in deep shadow and that he could not return her scrutiny. In a day when luxuriant beards, lush moustaches and flowing Dundreary whiskers adorned almost every masculine countenance, Alex Randall’s clean-shaven face had at first sight an alien and almost effeminate look. Yet in spite of the fact that his thick eyelashes would have compared favourably with any girl’s, there was nothing in the least weak or effeminate in the hard planes of his face or the line of the obstinate chin. His skin was burnt as brown as an Arab’s, but even by that dim light Winter could still see a faint trace of the bruise that her heel had made on that night in Malta. It seemed a very long time ago, yet it was less than ten days since she had helped to drag him over a wall and had run headlong with him through deserted streets, and sat in the moonlight talking to him as if he were someone whom she had known all her life.

  Her gaze moved from Alex’s face to Sophie’s. Sophie was only fifteen, but already a woman: a pretty enough creature, small-boned and fragile with timid brown eyes and a shy, charming smile. She reminded Winter strongly of one of the white mice that Billy Wilkins, the bootboy, had kept in a box in the stableyard at Ware. The van lurched as the offside wheels went over a boulder or the bleached bones of a camel, and Sophie’s small head slipped down from Alex’s shoulder to his breast, but she did not wake.

  Winter was conscious of an acute and entirely irrational feeling of annoyance. It was ridiculous that Sophie should fall asleep in this abandoned manner! though admittedly, most of the other occupants of the van were also slumbering soundly. But she, Winter, was not in the least sleepy, and how anyone of any sensibility could sleep in such a rattling, bumping, uncomfortable conveyance she did not know. Besides, if Sophie must sleep, surely it would have been more proper in her to have inclined the other way and allowed herself to be supported by Mrs Hillingworth, the comfortably upholstered wife of a Major of Bengal Artillery, instead of allowing herself to be embraced by Captain Randall? She saw Alex shift Sophie’s weight and his face twitch in a faint grimace of discomfort, and realized that he was suffering from the twinges of cramp. ‘Serve him right,’ thought Winter crossly.

  She shut her eyes with determination and thought of Conway. But for some unaccountable reason she found that she could not picture him clearly. Always before she had been able to conjure him up by a mere effort of will: the Conway who had given an eleven-year-old girl a gold and pearl ring, standing in the Long Walk at Ware with the sun shining on his blond head and his shadow stretching across the velvet turf. Tall, broad-shouldered, yellow-haired and handsome; a shining knight. Now, for the first time, the vision failed her, and it was no longer a living man that she saw, but a picture out of a child’s book - a flat, two-dimensional representation, crudely drawn, wooden and unreal. A blank face whose blue eyes were as glassy and as empty of meaning as a doll’s, and whose mouth was hidden by a drooping corn-coloured moustache so that she could not tell if it were firm or full or weak.

  Winter opened her eyes and found herself looking once more at Alex Randall’s relaxed, unguarded face in the pale light of the newly risen moon. Alex’s mouth was firm enough, and unexpectedly sensitive. He was Conway’s assistant and she supposed that she would see a great deal of him once she was Conway’s wife. The reflection disturbed her, and the thought passed through her mind that it would be better - she was not sure for whom - if he were to be transferred to some other district.

  Two days later the travellers embarked upon the Glamorgan Castle and sailed down the Red Sea, leaving the dust and glare of Suez behind them. And once more the days settled into a pattern of pleasant shipboard monotony.

  Three days out of Aden they ran into a storm, but it blew itself out after twenty-four hours of tossing discomfort, and on the last evening before they sailed into fine weather again they passed the water-logged wreck of a dismasted ship, its decks swept by the heavy seas.

  Captain Ross of the Glamorgan Castle had manoeuvred his ship as close to it as he dared, and launched a mail-boat, in charge of the first officer, with a boarding party. They returned wet and exhausted with the news that the vessel had apparently been a troopship bound for China, but that there was no one on board and few papers o
r particulars to be found on her. It was to be presumed that all on board had taken to the boats, for all the boats were gone. The bulkheads of her Captain’s cabin had been carried away, the port anchor and the cathead had gone, and from the appearance of the tattered sails and broken spars it was obvious that a sudden squall of hurricane force had carried all away at once. It was unlikely that the men on board would have lived to reach any shore, but there was nothing that could be done about it now, and the Glamorgan Castle went on her way in the swiftly gathering twilight.

  Winter, who had crept up onto the windy spray-swept deck, watched the abandoned wreck fade into the stormy dusk; a forlorn sight with jib and staysail hanging in shreds from bowsprit and jib-boom, her masts shattered and broken spars trailing over the side into the sullen seas that washed the deserted decks.

  A cold shiver ran down Winter’s spine as she looked. In spite of the wild weather the fact that she was actually in the Indian Ocean, and that India itself lay ahead of her at last, had filled her with a sense of glowing happiness. But the sight of that battered and broken ship, drifting and sinking in the lonely wastes of the sea, dimmed the glow and brought with it a chill breath of apprehension and foreboding.

  She heard a sigh beside her that was not the wind, and turning quickly, saw Kishan Prasad standing near by, his eyes fixed on the fast-vanishing wreck. But for once his bland, inscrutable face had dropped its guard and it was as though a mask had been stripped from it, leaving it naked and exposed. He did not appear to be aware of Winter, and he did not move or speak. But quite suddenly, and as though he had shouted it aloud, she knew his thought with a complete and horrified certainty.

  He was thinking, with a fierce, gloating pleasure, of the men who had been on that ship. Seeing them in his mind’s eye swept away by the savage seas; sinking down into the hungry fathoms, dragged under by the weight of their sodden uniforms; choking and drowning, their struggling bodies torn and ripped by sharks and barracudas. He sighed again. The same long-drawn sigh of hatred and satisfaction, and Winter shrank away, and backing from him, turned and ran headlong, stumbling down the steep stairs and tripping on her full skirts.