A Good Soldier

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  There was the sound of a vehicle arriving. But it was not the doctor. The Whittakers turned expectantly towards the bedroom door. First a small boy came scampering across the drawing-room and paused at the door, gazing wide-eyed at his recumbent master. He was the scullion, the cook’s oldest child, and Sher Mahommed Khan had sent him to the chakla with a message.

  After him, and in haste, came a beautiful girl. She was unveiled and wore no caste mark on her forehead. Silver and coloured bangles adorned her arms and ankles. She wore a gold and ruby stud in her nose. Her sari was of silk and the end draped over her head gave her a chaste look despite her air of self-confident boldness. Her unusually large and beautiful eyes were troubled and shone as though with recent tears.

  She came into the room and politely made Namaskar. Somewhat awkwardly the three Americans murmured equally polite greetings in an uncertain medley of English and Hindustani.

  “Good morning... salaam... hello... how are you... jai ram.”

  She spoke to Sher Mahommed Khan and he replied, but too rapidly for them to follow. She stood close beside the bed and with her eyes on Ramsey conducted a quick question and answer dialogue with the Pathan.

  Ruth could not take her eyes from the Indian girl. She admired her beauty and the grace of her movements; but what was she doing here? What was she to Hugh?

  The doctor’s carriage arrived and he bustled in, carrying a green bottle and a pillbox. From the moment he entered the room his frowning gaze was fixed on Shakuntala. She turned to greet him with joined palms, but he offered no courtesy in return.

  “Who are you? What brings you here?” Dr. Bond’s Hindustani was of an order that the Whittakers could follow. They listened interestedly, the same questions large in their minds.

  “My name is Shakuntala, Doctor Sahib. I came because Sher Mahommed Khan had the goodness to send me word of the Sahib’s illness.”

  “What concern is it of yours?” As if I didn’t know, the religious doctor thought disapprovingly. His pale face reddened at the indecency of this.

  “Rumgee Sahib saved my life.”

  “Where and when did the Sahib save your life?” There was an insulting inflection in Bond’s words that brought a heightened colour to Shakuntala and made her lips tremble. She hated him for humiliating her in the presence of these women, who presumably understood some of the language. And she knew who they were and all about them.

  She could be rude in her turn. “He did not rescue me from the Nawab’s mad horse! We chanced to travel the same road and were beset by Thag. The Sahib and his men,” she made a gesture towards Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh, “were not deceived and when the Thag fell upon us they fought them and killed those who did not run away.”

  Ruth turned to Bond. “Did she say Hugh saved her life when the Thugs attacked him... them? They were travelling together?”

  “So she says. I apologise for her presence, Mrs Whittaker... young lady... and to you, Whittaker. She is a disreputable person, a dancing girl.”

  She would make a fortune in the saloons out West, thought Whittaker.

  The girls were looking at each other in challenge. Ruth did not look round at Bond as she spoke: “I think we can do without her.”

  “I’ll tell her to go away.” Bond addressed Shakuntala: “There is nothing you can do here. I do not want this room crowded with people.”

  “Then tell these three foreigners to go.” Her retort was unhesitating.

  “I asked them to help.” Bond looked angry.

  “I too have come to help. And two of them are standing there idly while one woman sponges Ramsey Sahib.”

  “Go away.”

  “I am a native of Zafarala, Hakim-ji. The British writ is powerless here. I obey the Nawab: no one else.”

  Bond looked at Sher Mahommed Khan. What he saw did not encourage him. He turned to Karim Baksh and found no encouragement there. “Take her away.” He made it as firm as he could. They ignored him.

  Constance asked “Can we take him to our house?”

  The doctor laid a hand on Ramsey’s forehead, then on his wrist. “His temperature has risen and his pulse has quickened extraordinarily in the short time I was away. I don’t like this at all. No, I think we dare not move him.”

  “And what about her?” A touch of shrillness penetrated Ruth’s tone.

  “Nothing short of force would remove her, I fear.”

  “I’m happy to oblige.”

  “Ruth!” Constance thrust the sponge at her husband and took a firm grasp of her daughter’s arm.

  Whittaker looked nonplussed, glanced down at the sponge, glanced at the basin of water. This was women’s work.

  He released his grip when Shakuntala took hold of the sponge and a moment later she was kneeling by the bed, sponging Ramsey.

  “Mother!”

  “It is all right, dear. Dr. Bond, how would it be if Ruth and I and... and this girl take it in turns to...”

  “No. I shall get rid of her. Here, you... Shakuntala: if you insist on staying, I shall refuse to treat Ramsey Sahib.”

  She looked up at him, putting all the scorn she felt into her eyes and voice. “You! That would be the best thing you could do. What do you know of what afflicts him? Have you a cure for the curse of a chural? Go away and leave him to those of us who belong here... to this country. What can you do?”

  She had spoken too rapidly again for the Whittakers’ comprehension; but they could tell from the way he compressed his lips and breathed deeply that Bond was greatly offended.

  “What was that? Did I hear that stupid word ‘chural’?”

  “You did, Mrs. Whittaker. I won’t bother to repeat her nonsense. I shall send her packing, I promise you. Now, Shakuntala, I have medicines here to cure the Sahib. His illness has nothing to do with a curse or a chural. If you are as concerned about him as you claim, you will allow me the chance to cure him. Remember, he is neither of your nation nor your Faith. I have the cure for him. Now leave us.”

  She went on with her gentle sponging and a minute passed in silence. She rose slowly. “Very well.” She left the sponge floating in the basin of water and walked out of the room. She settled cross-legged on a carpet in the drawing-room. Sher Mahommed Khan followed a moment later to speak to her.

  *

  At ten o’clock that night Ramsey was still unconscious. He had been able to take no nourishment although Ruth and Constance had both tried to force broth into his mouth. Dr. Bond had paid two-hourly visits. Shakuntala had hardly stirred from her place on the drawing-room floor. Karim Baksh had brought her food. She had sent for various necessities and declared her intention to stay the night there.

  Ruth could not reconcile herself to Shakuntala’s presence. Every time she looked from the bedroom into the adjoining drawing-room she found Shakuntala’s eyes watching Ramsey and whoever was at his bedside. She would return the look as fiercely as she could but Shakuntala’s never wavered. Shakuntala’s expression would change from watchful patience to possessiveness, scorn, defiance or mockery. Ruth felt herself growing as heated as the burning skin on Ramsey’s face and body when her fingers touched it.

  Constance was aware of the antagonism between the two young women, despite Shakuntala’s passivity and silence.

  “Don’t take any notice of her, Ruth dear. Don’t let her upset you. She’s here because she feels she has a debt of gratitude to repay, that’s all.”

  “Mother, she looks so... so knowing... and challenging.”

  What, she kept wondering, was there really between Hugh and this strumpet? How passionately had she already shown her gratitude to him? Was her resentment caused by lack of faith in Dr. Bond or jealousy of the two women who were nursing him?

  Shakuntala watched her lover with anxiety and pity, and Ruth with envy. She envied her because she was allowed to minister to him, and because Ruth was someone who might marry him and she herself never could. She had left the house once, briefly, to see whether the Sadhu was under the deod
ar tree or had returned to his cave. She found him sitting cross-legged and motionless, his eyes fixed on some distant point or perhaps on nothing at all. She squatted in front of him and sought his glance but his look remained transfixed in reverie.

  “Holy One, I beg you to...”

  He startled her by the suddenness with which he came to life. His eyes lost their vacant expression and blazed at her, his voice sounded strong, determined and commanding.

  “No! I know what you are about to ask. It cannot be.”

  He turned his head away again and his eyes rolled up in their sockets until the irises were hidden and only the ivory-hued, pink-shot whites showed in an illusion of blindness.

  She shuddered in fear and went quickly back to her vigil.

  Dr. Bond’s wife and daughters came to the bungalow to share the nursing. Constance and Ruth went home to rest and eat. They returned when the doctor was at the bedside at ten that night and there was no improvement in Ramsey’s condition. They insisted on staying all night, taking it in turns to sit with him and to doze in a spare room. Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh stayed with them. Shakuntala slept fitfully between spells of wakefulness and watching.

  By morning Ramsey had not stirred or eaten. He looked wasted and his face still wore the taut, harassed expression of someone fighting a stubborn subconscious battle. Dr. Bond came early, forced medicines into his mouth and bled him again. He continued to lie without movement or sound, his breathing laboured.

  In mid-morning Ruth noticed that Shakuntala had gone. She looked triumphantly at her mother. “She has given up.”

  Constance went to the door and looked around the drawing-room. “Poor creature. She is devoted to him: anyone can see that. Such gratitude; it’s touching. I suppose she has a living to earn, poor soul, and she could see she was doing no good here.”

  “She earns her living after dark, Mother.” Ruth turned a trifle pink as she tried to visualise the manner in which Shakuntala made her living.

  “Be charitable, dear.”

  Some two hours later a tonga arrived. Sher Mahommed Khan went out to the veranda. He saw Shakuntala and a shaven-headed priest in a dark yellow dhoti which left half his chest exposed. On his forehead was the vertical red stripe, which symbolised the lingam, of the Shiva Bhakta, the devotees of Shiva. He also wore the phallic symbol carved in bone contained in a small silver box hung around his neck on a string. With it was a necklace of nutmeg-like radraksha berries.

  They paused at the foot of the steps and Shakuntala looked up imploringly at the tall Pathan, who, frowning down from the height of the veranda, seemed gigantic and inimical. She knew how strongly he might resent this idolatrous intrusion and her voice was unsteady.

  “I have brought the head priest from the temple in the chakla.”

  Sher Mahommed Khan glowered at him. All Hindus were alike to a good Mussalman, but he knew that these Lingayat were an abomination to the Brahmin and other orthodox Hindus. Even their priests came merely from high-class members of the Sudra caste, which was much inferior to the Brahmin. Vast numbers of them never did a hand’s turn and roved the land as mendicants, depending entirely for sustenance on the charity and labour of others. As far as he was concerned they were good-for-nothing scroungers. On the other hand, he had his share of his compatriots’ innate respect for all holy men; or perhaps it was caution of them.

  “What brings you, Guru-ji?” There was no friendliness in the Pathan’s tone.

  “Your master’s sickness.”

  “What can you do to cure him? The Doctor Sahib attends him.”

  “Medicine will not cure him.”

  “The Doctor Sahib and his womenfolk have been praying to my master’s God. There is nothing for you to do here: he does not worship your gods.”

  “It was not the Christian God who brought about your sahib’s sickness. How can He heal him?”

  “And how can you? Do you propose to concoct some medicine for him that will do what the English Doctor Sahib’s cannot?”

  “That is not our way.”

  “You cannot enter his room. The memsahib and miss-sahib would forbid it.”

  “I do not need even to remain in the house.”

  “It would be better if you had stayed in your temple.”

  “To do what has to be done I have to be near the afflicted one, I have to see him.”

  Shakuntala took a step forward and extended her arms in a beseeching gesture. “The guru needs only a lock of the sahib’s hair. That, and to see him: one short look will do.”

  Sher Mahommed Khan looked from one to the other, in thought. He had heard many stories of the powers of such men: too many for him to dismiss with peace of mind despite his scorn for their false gods. The Doctor Sahib’s remedies had achieved nothing. On the contrary, Rumgee Sahib’s condition had grown worse.

  “Come to the door of the sahib’s room and I will distract the attention of the ladies while you look at him. Then go quickly, Guru-ji. Do not stay in the house.”

  The priest nodded. Shakuntala raised her joined hands and touched her forehead, with a little bow of the head. They climbed the veranda steps and followed Sher Mahommed Khan into the drawing-room and watched him enter the bedroom.

  They heard Ruth ask “Who was it?”

  “Shakuntala has come back, Miss-Sahib.”

  “Send her away.”

  “That would not be the Sahib’s wish.”

  Ruth looked through the door and saw Shakuntala once more seated on the floor, watching the sickbed. She turned away.

  “Really, Mother, this is such nonsense. It makes me uneasy to have her squatting there like a ghoul.”

  “There’s nothing ghoulish about the poor girl. She’s loyal and affectionate: there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Nothing wrong with the relationship which had engendered such feelings? Ruth thought. She turned and glanced again into the drawing-room. She gave a cry of alarm.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Constance also turned and followed her daughter’s gaze.

  A gaunt figure stood impassively in the doorway. The vermilion line on his forehead looked startling against his coppery skin: like war paint, she thought confusedly. The man wheeled abruptly and strode away.

  Constance looked accusingly at Sher Mahommed Khan. “You let him come in the house. Who is he?”

  Shakuntala answered for him. “The head priest from my temple.”

  “You do not believe in that nonsense, Sher Mahommed Khan. You had no right to bring him, Shakuntala.”

  There was no answer from either of them. Sher Mahommed Khan went out of the room, walked past Shakuntala without a glance and out onto the veranda. The Shivite Jangama was sitting on the ground below one end of the veranda and in its shade. From there he could not see the veranda behind him, and he did not turn his head, but his voice reached Sher Mahommed Khan clearly.

  “You have done well to let me see your sahib. Now bring me a lock of his hair, that is all I ask of you.”

  Sher Mahommed Khan withdrew quickly. He had done enough. Perhaps he had even gone too far in propitiating or humouring this pagan. To allow him a glance at the sick man was enough. He would not participate, even tacitly, in any idolatrous observance. He ignored Shakuntala as he walked past her again. Had he looked at her he would have seen a smile of satisfaction.

  When Dr. Bond next came to the bungalow he saw the guru and accosted Shakuntala angrily. “Is the priest here at your bidding?”

  She did not deign to answer. She, who had danced for the King of Oudh, and shared his bed, to be hectored by a white man whose presence in the state depended on the edict of the Nawab!

  He spoke angrily to Sher Mahommed Khan, who was no more impressed than Shakuntala. Officers were the only white men he respected.

  “Doctor Sahib, my master would not dismiss anyone who wished him well: not even a misguided unbeliever like the Jangama.”

  By early afternoon Ramsey looked close to death. His breathi
ng was shallow, his skin dry and shrivelled. He lay motionless, rasping with every breath, his body exuding the heat of high fever.

  By nightfall the doctor was shaking his head and praying with his wife and daughters at the bedside. When Constance and Ruth came to relieve them and stay on watch through the night he admitted that there was no more that he could do.

  Shortly after midnight Constance was resting and Ruth was doing her best to stay awake. She dozed off for a moment and when she woke with a start she was aware of Shakuntala bending over the bed.

  “What are you doing? Leave him... go away at once.”

  Shakuntala straightened up and, with a faint smile, her hands cupped as though she concealed something in them, glided swiftly from the room.

  The Jangama lay stretched on a mat on the veranda, asleep. Shakuntala woke him and gave him the strands of hair she had clipped with a small pair of scissors. He took them carefully. Presently there was the scent of a stick of incense burning and the sound of the priest’s voice murmuring. Shakuntala stayed awake throughout the night.

  When the sun rose, the guru had gone.

  An hour later Dr. Bond came mournfully into the house. He looked questioningly at Sher Mahommed Khan: who led him, without a word, into the bedroom.

  Propped on his pillows, Ramsey was drinking broth from a spoon held to his lips by Ruth, while Constance watched. The doctor put a hand on his brow: it was cool to the touch and the pulse in his wrist beat strongly at its normal rate.

  Shakuntala, standing in the doorway, stared at Ruth until Ruth turned her head and saw her. Shakuntala gave her a smile of triumph and walked away: out of the house and across the compound; then down the road towards the Sadhu’s deodar tree.

  The Sadhu was gone.

  On the patch of ground where he used to sit, Shakuntala saw a movement in the dappled shadows and the glint of early sunlight on shiny scales. A cobra, disturbed by the movement of some small creature, uncoiled and reared. It spread its hood and darted its head from side to side. It was still erect and swaying when Shakuntala turned her back and began her journey home to the chakla to make her ablutions before taking alms to the temple.