by M. M. Kaye
He had flung his glass furiously at the impassive butler and that afternoon he had advocated immediate flight. They must all of them go, and by night, in boats down the river. The Company’s Raj was finished. Unless they were all to die, those who were not already dead must fly the country - reach the coast, using the rivers and avoiding the roads, and abandon India. They could not hold it. If they stayed they would all be murdered.
‘Better that than to turn tail,’ snorted Colonel Moulson, observing him with disapproval. ‘I hope you don’t speak in this fashion before your servants, Con. If we can keep our heads we shall weather the storm. Calcutta can’t be idle, and strong reinforcements are certain to be on their way.’
‘How do we know that there are any Europeans left alive in Calcutta?’ whispered the Commissioner. ‘If the native regiments at Barrackpore have mutinied they could wipe out the Europeans in Calcutta in a night. How do we know it hasn’t happened already? - how do we know?’
‘Y’ know, Con, ‘said Colonel Moulson judicially, ‘you’re better when you’re drunk. Nothing to get worked up about - troops as quiet as lambs. If it’s these fires that are gettin’ on your nerves, forget ’em! Work of bazaar budmarshes. The sepoys have worked like trojans puttin’ ’em out.’
The Commissioner had retreated to the brandy bottle, and had taken no interest in the information relayed to him three hours later that the sepoys of Colonel Packer’s Regiment had refused to accept their consignment of Commissariat flour, saying that it was known to be adulterated with bone-dust for the purpose of destroying their caste. Colonel Packer and his officers had expostulated, lectured and finally pleaded, but the men had remained obdurate. They would not touch the flour, and moreover they insisted that it must be thrown into the river to ensure that it was not returned to them again or handed to any of their comrades in the other regiments. The flour had been duly taken away and thrown into the distant river.
‘Thank God it wasn’t Moulson’s lot,’ said Alex to Major Maynard. ‘He’d have ordered ’em to eat it or else - and it would have been “or else"!’
The sepoys, having won their point, had become noticeably insolent and out of hand, and many of them, from all three regiments, had that same evening openly looted the ripe fruit from the gardens of the cantonment bungalows. Their officers had soon succeeded in putting a stop to it, but it was plain that discipline was deteriorating rapidly.
‘They are a little out of hand,’ admitted Colonel Gardener-Smith reluctantly, ‘but that is understandable in the exceptional circumstances. We are all only human. It is nothing serious - though Packer’s Regiment is not behaving at all well. I begin to fear we may have a little trouble with them. Nothing of course that my own men will not be able to set to rights.’
‘Old Gardener’s sepoys are all to pieces,’ said Colonel Packer. ‘I don’t like the look of it. Thank God my men have never given me any serious cause for anxiety. I have assured them that for the present we will discontinue the supplies of Government flour and obtain it locally, and they are quite content.’
‘Wouldn’t trust Packer’s fellows a yard!’ said Colonel Moulson. ‘Or old Nannie Gardener’s either, for that matter! No discipline; that’s their trouble. Now my lot …’
That night Major Wilkinson, who had dined at the Residency and returned drunk to his bungalow, fired at and wounded one of a patrol who challenged him. There was an inquiry held on the following day and Major Wilkinson was acquitted of any intent to wound - on a plea of being unconscious from intoxication at the time.
‘Bloody fools!’ said Alex, exasperated. ‘They should have cashiered him - sent him off to be court-martialled at Suthragunj. Anything but this. To acquit him of wounding a sepoy at a time like this, and on a plea of drunkenness - are they mad? If it had been the other way round, they’d have given the sepoy ten years’ penal servitude or hanged him! If this doesn’t start something, I’m a bigger fool than Packer!’
There was a ball to celebrate the Queen’s birthday on the first day of the new week. Victoria’s birthday had fallen on a Sunday that year, so the ball had been held on the day following it. It had been the end, too, of the fast of Ramadan, and there was a new slim sickle moon in the sky. It hung in the green of the evening, a curved thread of silver; like the crescent of Islam embroidered on the green banners of the Faithful - like an omen in the sky.
‘La Ill-ah ha! il Ill-ah ho!’ cried the muezzins from the minarets of the mosques in the city. ‘There is no God but God!’
The band of the 1st Regiment of Lunjore Irregulars stood smartly to attention, their dark faces creased with concentration, and watched the Conductor’s baton fall. ‘God Save our Gracious Queen, Long live our Noble Queen—’ The familiar tune, the National Anthem of an alien race, blared out through the open windows across the dark parade-ground and the sepoy lines.
She was thirty-eight - that dumpy, imperious, self-confident housewife who had ascended the throne as a slim self-confident girl in the year that Sabrina Grantham had met Marcos de Ballesteros; the year that Anne Marie the second, who was Ameera, wife of Walayat Shah, had been born to Juanita in the little pink stucco palace in Lucknow city.
‘Send her victorious, happy and glorious …’
Sabrina’s daughter danced at the Queen’s Birthday Ball in a wide-skirted ball-gown of water-green tarlatan looped up with garlands of camellias. She smiled as she danced - the same smile that was on the face of every woman who danced in that flag-and-flower decorated room, or sat against the walls listening to the sepoy band playing the ‘Imogene Waltz’, the ‘Sultan’s Polka’, the Laurel; ‘Angelina’, ‘Belle of the Village’ and ‘Lily of the Valley’. A smile that did not reach the eyes and hurt the heart. The smile of women who watch their men and strain their ears to listen, and will not show that they are afraid.
Alex too had attended that ball and there was nothing in his face to show that he had spent the greater part of the afternoon arguing, urging, pleading fruitlessly and for the last time with three courageous, obdurate men for the disarming of the sepoys.
‘It can be done,’ urged Alex. ‘There are enough of us to do it, and this ball will provide the opportunity. No one will expect anything on the night of a ball.’ He had outlined a plan; rash, but possible; and the verdict had been unanimously against it.
‘Until we have actual evidence of mutinous intentions,’ said Colonel Gardener-Smith, ‘no sepoy of mine shall be so insulted or—’
‘I have yet to learn,’ said Alex shortly, abandoning diplomacy and brusquely interrupting that familiar speech, ‘that cure is preferable to prevention. And this Wilkinson affair may well prove to be in the nature of a last straw. I understand that the verdict was not well received in the lines?’
But they were not to be persuaded. They did, however, decide on taking one precautionary measure, for the sake of the ladies, whose nerves were beginning to suffer from the strain of constantly being on the alert. It was the custom among the European families in Lunjore to drive out in the early mornings to get what little fresh air they could before the sun rose and the heat forced them into the dimness of shuttered rooms. Word was conveyed to the families that on the morning following the ball the women and children were to drive instead to the Residency, taking with them such clothing and necessities as they would need for a stay of a few days. The Residency was sufficiently large to shelter them all without too much discomfort, and a party of Military Police was to be posted in the grounds as extra protection, while four guns under the charge of native gunners of Colonel Moulson’s Regiment were to be placed in between the Residency and the lines, and another two between the Residency and the city.
‘The Residency is admirably situated for defence,’ said Colonel Gardener-Smith. ‘With that nullah and the jungle behind it, and a wall round the rest of it, nothing could be better.’
‘I agree,’ said Alex, ‘providing one was defending it against a rabble from the city. But if the sepoys should mutiny it will turn into a
trap.’
‘My sepoys will not mutiny,’ said Colonel Gardener-Smith obstinately. ‘I will stake my life on that.’
Alex said nothing more. He was tired of vain repetitions. He had gone across to the Residency and spoken to Winter. ‘I’m taking Yusaf again. I need him. What have you done with that revolver I gave you?’
‘I have it.’
‘Good. Keep it loaded and keep it within reach. I’ve brought you some more ammunition for it. And see that there is always a horse kept saddled, and—’ He did not complete the sentence but looked past Winter’s shoulder at the blank wall for a long minute, his brows drawn together in a frown, and then shrugged and went away without further words. What was the good of saying anything else? He had done what he could. Had that woman - Ameera? - spoken the truth? Had there been a day set, and had the Meerut rising been premature? It had been remarkably successful, and its success had touched off a series of localized risings. Were those too a mistake? ‘Await the auspicious day’ …
‘Two more days to go,’ thought Alex that night, leaning against the wall and watching a quadrille danced at the Queen’s Birthday Ball.
But there were no more days. Only hours.
BOOK FIVE
THE HIRREN MINAR
40
It was Major Beckwith, second-in-command to Colonel Gardener-Smith, who informed his commanding officer half an hour before sunrise on the morning after the ball that the Regiment had not dispersed after parade, and could no longer be trusted. He had wept as he had said it, for Major Beckwith, like his Colonel, had believed with a whole-hearted belief in the fidelity of his men.
‘I will go back and speak to them,’ said Colonel Gardener-Smith.
‘It’s no good, sir. They will listen to no one.’
‘They will listen to me,’ said Colonel Gardener-Smith stubbornly.
But they had not listened.
‘We will not harm thee, or permit thee to be harmed,’ said their spokesman, ‘for thou art a good man. But we take no more orders from feringhis who have plotted to destroy our caste and enslave us. Go quickly while there is yet time, for we know what we know, and the men of the 105th are not as us, and if they can, may slay thee.’
They had thrust him from the lines, shouting down his words, and had rushed to the bells of arms and seizing their rifles had announced their intention of marching immediately for Delhi to offer their services to the Mogul. They had opened fire on their officers, two of whom had been badly wounded, and there had been nothing for it but to leave before worse befell, and the Colonel had left.
His bungalow was empty, for his wife and daughter were already at the Residency, and it seemed intolerably dark and quiet. As quiet as the tomb. As quiet as old age. ‘I am an old man,’ thought Colonel Gardener-Smith. ‘An old man and a fool. I have given my life to a lie. They will disband the 93rd and remove its name from the Army list. My 93rd!’
His mind went back to the days when he had first joined the Regiment as a young ensign, and he remembered men long dead; sepoys and subadars, men who had fought with him and followed him. The names of old fights and old battles spoke their names in his brain like a roll of drums. He forgot his wife and Delia. Their faces and their names meant nothing to him, and awoke no echo in his mind to drown or disturb the memory of the men among whom and beside whom and for whom he had spent his life.
‘They will disband the 93rd as they did the 19th. It will go down in the records - Disbanded for Mutiny. My 93rd …’
He left the bungalow and went to the deserted Mess, walking bareheaded in the blaze of the newly risen sun, and took down the colours and burned them in the grate, pouring lamp-oil on them and watching until there was nothing left but a heap of evil-smelling black ash. And then he shot himself.
‘The bloody idiot!’ said Alex furiously, hearing of it half an hour later - he had ridden out to speak to the Kotwal of a village beyond the city and had returned late - ‘Just when we need every man who can fire a gun. When one man is worth his weight in - God damn these sentimentalists! Art thou ready, Yusaf? It may be that thou wilt have to wait two days. Three even. But I do not think so, for Fazal Hussain has brought word that a horseman took that road at first light. No matter, there is food and water enough for a long wait. If they come, wait until the first of them are abreast of the rocks by the two palm trees. Go now and go swiftly. B’ism Illah—’
Colonel Moulson had been breakfasting at the Residency, together with several officers who were engaged in assuring the ladies assembled there that there was no cause for alarm and that their presence in the Residency was merely a precautionary measure which would only be necessary for a day or two.
The Residency was noisy with women’s voices and the laughter or yells of children, the rustle of poplin, muslin and barège dresses and ruffled pantalettes. Almost every woman there had danced until a late hour at the ball, and many had had no sleep before starting out for the Residency. But all were gay and in good heart, for the presence of the Police Guard, the sight of the guns with their attendant crews of native gunners, the high white wall of the Residency and, above all, the company of their fellows, had worked wonders on their failing spirits. They felt safer together and in such surroundings than they had separately in their scattered bungalows, and there was a light-hearted and picnic-like atmosphere in the crowded rooms that even the nonappearance of their host, and the news that he was indisposed, did nothing to dispel.
The information that it had been considered advisable to urge all the women and children to take refuge in the Residency, to place guns at the approaches and mount a strong guard of Military Police had been too much for the Commissioner, and it had been a matter of the greatest difficulty to get him into a fit state to make an appearance at the Birthday Ball. Once there, however, surrounded by women in ball-gowns, officers in Mess-dress, flags and flowers and no lack of liquid refreshment, he had recovered his courage. The music and the lights, the laughter and the wine had combined to persuade him that all was well, and that any danger that threatened had been averted.
But this happy frame of mind had not lasted. Awakening with the headache and dry mouth that was the usual aftermath of celebration, the presence of a crowd of women and children whose chattering could be heard all over the house had brought all his fears flooding back. These women were here because they were in danger, and the danger must indeed be great to warrant such measures, yet Fred Moulson had assured him— Where was the brandy? Brandy and yet more brandy was the only refuge from a world that was disintegrating around him. Brandy warmed him and comforted him and cushioned him against fear.
Delia, unlike the majority of the women present, had elected to wear her widest crinoline and a dress that was more suitable for an afternoon party than an early breakfast. Four airy flounces of pale blue muslin edged with narrow velvet ribbon composed the full skirt, and the tight little bodice boasted small puffed sleeves and a wide matching sash of watered silk. Her beautiful hair was not confined in a net, but tied back with a demure bow of ribbon that allowed it to cascade down her back in glossy chestnut ringlets. Colonel Moulson found her enchanting, and was in process of telling her so when the sound of galloping hooves interrupted him …
‘I might have known it!’ fumed Colonel Moulson. ‘Always said that fool Gardener was too soft with his men. I’ll show ’em! Marching to Delhi with the treasure, are they? Where the hell’s my horse? If we double three companies across the maidan we’ll cut ’em off and cut ’em to bits!’
He galloped off into the glare of the morning, his Adjutant and a senior captain riding behind him, and his Regiment received him in silence. They listened to his bellowed commands, and no man moved - their shadows lying motionless on the hot ground. Then a man laughed, loud and scornfully, and another took aim and fired.
Ten minutes later the Adjutant, his arm pouring a bright scarlet flood, slid from his wounded horse onto Alex’s sunny verandah and gasped out the news.
‘They shot him do
wn … and Mottisham too … and Halliwell and Reeves and Charlie and little Jenks. They’re all dead. Packer’s fellows have broken too. They’ve killed him - saw his body. Cut to bits. And old Gardener has—’
‘I know,’ said Alex, knotting a strip torn from a curtain with furious haste about the man’s shattered arm and shoulder. He turned his head and called out to Niaz who had ridden full-tilt round the corner of the bungalow from the direction of the stables:
‘The Lunjore Pulton also! Ride for the river. Get the charges from the Hirren Minar. I will meet thee there. Go quickly!’
Niaz lifted a hand in salute and turned his rearing, frantic horse as Alex helped the Adjutant back into his saddle. ‘If Moulson’s men have broken that means the gunners will go,’ said Alex. ‘Get over to the Residency and tell ’em to get the women and children away over the nullah and into the jungle at once - at once, do you hear! Think you can do it? Good. Alam Din, run with the Sahib - be swift!’
He leapt down the verandah steps and caught at the bridle of his horse. ‘Where - are you going?’ gasped the Adjutant, wheeling his own wounded animal.
‘Magazine.’
Niaz, already half-way to the gate, caught the word and reined in hard.
‘What is it?’ called Alex, spurring down the drive.
‘I go with thee,’ said Niaz between his teeth, and rode out level with him.
‘Do as I tell you!’ said Alex savagely and in English. He cut at Niaz’s horse with his whip and drew ahead, the Eagle easily outdistancing the heavier horse, and yelled back over his shoulder in the vernacular: ‘It is an order! This is in thy hands. Do not fail me, brother!’
The Magazine was a small, square, unpretentious building of whitewashed stone that stood near the centre of the cantonment area and was surrounded by a high wall and several shade trees. There was a yelling crowd of sepoys milling round it, and Alex heard the crackle of musketry and reined back in the shadow of a clump of bamboos. Someone was holding the Magazine, then. He caught a brief glimpse of a pink boyish face, hatless, the red hair bright against the whitewashed stone about the inner parapet, and recognized young Eyton, one of the new-joined ‘griffins’, barely a month out from England. The other lay face downwards thirty yards from the gate and on the edge of the yelling crowd, his brains splashed in an oddly symmetrical star-shaped pattern on the hot dust.
