Only the dead man and I were silent. I never learned his name, but as I gazed down at the dead face amid the triumphant hullabaloo of the living, I tried to reconcile what had happened to him with what was happening around me. The thought of his passive resignation filled me with bitterness, not admiration. I had probably seen him often during the last three months, one of the many men who had grumbled and joked and whored (when they could), got drunk and fought and endured around me, all unwillingly condemned, like me, to a tawdry little hell of other men’s devising. Why was he dead now? One more day, a handful of hours, and he might have lived to see his family and home again. I tried to remind myself that he had died doing his ‘duty’; that he had died selflessly, nobly, for others. That he was a soldier meeting no more than a soldier’s fate. But the sentiments rang hollow. He was a dead man who should have been alive. There was no explaining it; no justifying it. Baffled mentally and emotionally chilled, I pulled the grey blanket over his insignificant features and prayed, perhaps without sufficient piety: ‘Well, God—if there is a God—make it up to this poor soul, if he has a soul!’ It was not much of a prayer but the most I could manage. Perhaps the tears which came spontaneously to my eyes as I turned away made up for the unconvinced tenor of my words. It was a moment in which I despised my own fated humanity and could only hate the injustice of the whole human condition.
But, weak as all our emotions must be in the changefulness of time, I did not long remember that wasted life, and now cannot even reproach myself for my swift forgetting.
The cheering continued, wild and uncontrolled. Never since have I heard anything like it, for it drowned even the reverberations of the guns. The boys of the Martinière, bless them, had all made off while I was occupied with the dying man; the Birches, too, and Kate were nowhere to be seen. One of the sick, seeing me hesitate as I wondered whether I too should run outside as the others had, egged me on.
‘Away with you now, missie,’ he said. He was elderly, with a wisp of grey beard and a bandaged head. ‘Run off and see them come in. Go on, there’s not a man here who will miss ye for the next while and it’s not a sight as you should miss. Fancy what you will be able to tell your children and your children’s children. Away with you. I seen what you just done, missie, and that lad has no need of any of us any more.’
I untied my apron and walked with as contained a step as I could to the door. The hospital stood just to the right and a short way up from the Baillie Guard. From the crowds gathered in the irregular rectangle made by the hospital, Dr Fayrer’s house across the road, and the Resident’s House, as well as from the sight of several extra guns brought to bear on the gateway, it was not hard to deduce that this was to be our relievers’ point of entry. The shot-steps of the walls adjacent to the Baillie Guard were thronged with men looking out towards the Hazrat Ganj, and amongst them I glimpsed Wallace Avery with Mr Roberts beside him. I intended to approach them to ask what they saw but came instead upon Charles, just descending from the roof of the hospital where one of the guns was stationed, and grabbing him by the sleeve demanded to be told what was happening outside the range of my eyes.
‘Laura! Go indoors immediately,’ he began in furious alarm, and as a matter of fact so many bullets whizzed over us that I had every intention of obeying him, but not until I had learned what he had to tell me. The pandies, I suppose, had redoubled their firing to dampen our spirits, but were failing entirely to do so.
‘In a moment,’ I replied, resisting his pressure on my arm, as he tried to direct me back towards the hospital verandah. ‘In a moment, but first tell me what is happening outside. I’ve been shut up in the hospital all afternoon—I must know! What did you see, Charles?’
He dragged me into the comparative shelter of an angle of ruined wall, muttering at my foolishness.
‘Nothing you would want to see. It’s hell out there for those poor devils. What on earth made them choose that route, right through the most crowded part of the city, God only knows. You remember the Hazrat Ganj and the streets leading off it? Should all have been destroyed before the siege began. The minute our chaps entered, they were caught in a murderous crossfire from the windows of the upper storeys and the roofs. No defence possible. No room to manoeuvre, to return fire. It’s a death trap, nothing else. God knows I’m no soldier, but I could have done better by my men than that. They’re lying out there in the mud in scores, and more falling every minute. We are supposed to be giving them what cover we can with our guns, but it’s hand-to-hand fighting out there, Laura, and you can’t do much with artillery in a mêlée.’
‘But they will get through to us? Oh, Charles, surely they must get through to us now? They are not going to be beaten back?’
‘Of course not, silly! They’re here. A few hundred yards away, no more. They’ll be making the final dash across the broken land outside the gate very soon. It’s a matter of minutes now and I’ve got to get back. Stay here, Laura, or better still let me get you back to the hospital?’ I determined to stay where I was, and Charles was too hurried to dissuade me.
The ladies on Dr Fayrer’s verandah, directly across the road, waved to me to join them, but there was such a press of bodies around me that I could not push my way through to them, and since no one paid any attention to the pandies’ bullets, I caught something of the general courage and remained in my shelter of broken wall.
The crowd surged impatiently around me, and obstructing all approaches to the Baillie Guard, so that I could not see how our rescuers would be able to force their way into the enclosure at all, once the gate was open, for as yet it was still barricaded. Men worked feverishly at clearing away the rubble and timber that had been shored against the heavy wooden doors when they had been closed after the battle of Chinhat. Using spades, picks and bayonets, they dug and heaved at the baulks of old wood.
There was no lack of ribald advice from the onlookers. One man yelled to a comrade: ‘Eh, Bert! Get on with it will yer? Even if they doesn’t want to come in, I’d like to get out!’
I was still smiling at this exchange when the laughter became a tremendous unbelieving roar, as a horse complete with its rider was dragged by the reins over the wall just near the arch of the gate. I caught only a glimpse, for immediately beast and rider were obscured by dozens of men anxious to congratulate the very first member of the relief to enter the Residency. I did not give much thought to his identity then, beyond joining in the lusty cheer of welcome. Later I learned that the horseman had been General Outram, who, having in fact led the relieving force though he had surrendered the honours to General Havelock, insisted on being the first man to enter our walls.
The gang at work on the gate redoubled their efforts, and man after man among the onlookers laid down his rifle and got to work to clear a passage, for other horsemen now followed the lead of General Outram, their animals scrambling splay-legged and snorting over the battered masonry. Within minutes these were followed by a horde of Highlanders, who leaped over the wall, firing their muskets in the air and uttering bloodcurdling whoops as they came.
Then pandemonium broke loose truly, the newcomers adding their measure of cheers and yells to those of the relieved. Women and children rushed out of the buildings to greet their deliverers, crying, laughing, even kissing the men, who grabbed up children and placed them on their shoulders and thus continued on their tumultuous way into the enclosure. I wept myself, such was the general emotion, knowing that never again would I live through a moment of such high drama. After eighty-eight days of death and despair, we were at last relieved.
Then the eerie note of the pipes added to the confusion around me, and I could see the piper standing on a chair in Dr Fayrer’s decimated garden with a crowd of women and children around him, for everyone had forgotten the battle still being fought around us. Hungry for news of relatives or friends at Cawnpore, our people fastened on every man who entered, plying them with eager questions: What happened? Are there any survivors? Time and again I heard
variations on those words, and time after time watched a head shake sadly in reply.
I too had a question to ask, but standing there alone with my back to the warm masonry of the shattered wall, watching with tears the event that we had dreamed of for so long, I felt oddly withdrawn and isolated, as if I alone of all those present had no true part in what was happening. I would have left if I could, gone back to the stuffy darkness of our rooms to try to quieten my mind and heart. But, though now the crowd was beginning to disperse, leading away the relievers to feed and house them, I stayed where I was and watched their comrades come in, watched the work continue at the gate … just watched.
At length—perhaps it was for this I had remained so long?—the last of the barricade at the gate was cleared and the singed and shot-holed remnant of the great wooden doors swung apart. I caught a glimpse of what had been road sloping away from the entrance, trenched and shattered by shell, littered with the detritus of war, along which straggled a waver of weary men dragging their feet in the bloody dust and stumbling over the corpses of their companions.
Dusk was upon us, the quick uneasy dusk of India. The joyous tumult of the welcome had dropped to a busy, satisfied hum. A few stars winked in a gauzy pale-green sky over Dr Fayrer’s house. Small fires came to light and the scent of wood-smoke was borne on the warm breeze of evening. Faces became indistinguishable, tallow dips gave a faint radiance to windows, and still I lingered, shivering despite the warmth and suddenly overcome with a dreadful melancholy.
India gives a moment, between the setting of the sun and darkness, when man is forced to recognize his own mortality. Creation then stills to a breathless hush before the dark finality of night; all eyes look inward, the most fervent heart grows chill and old memories of sad happenings beat at the mind like bats. Reality recedes and sorrow for things unguessed at stings to tears. It is a moment that nurses negation, that fosters awareness of omnipresent tragedy, unmasking each man’s knowledge of inevitable failure. It is seldom that one escapes the insidious languors of this moment. Alone, a man will bow his head and surrender; in company, a sudden hush falls on friendly talk as each feels the flick of the wing of mutability. Then, after no discernible length of time, as though a blindfold were pulled from the eyes or a heavy hand lifted from the brow, the world struggles back to the familiar and, quietly still, one turns with relief to the necessity for effort. Long breaths are drawn unconsciously, well-remembered faces are seen as if for the first time, as the hush is dispelled by a barking dog, or the protracted exhortation of the muezzin.
It is a strange moment, instantly recognized by any who have known it, perhaps incommunicable to those who have not, and it caught me there in the angle of crumbling wall as night drew in on that 25th of September. Overwrought by all that I had witnessed that day, my mind a turmoil of conflicting impressions and emotions where death was accompanied by triumph and triumph’s only end was found in death, I succumbed willessly to the smothering pressure of depression, feeling to the very bones of my soul that all man’s struggle was in vain.
I saw, yet did not see, the gang at the gate pick up their tools and move leaden-limbed and slow from the scene of their labours. I recognized in their bowed heads an echo of my own feelings, which were reflected again in the scattered groups of men caught in silent immobility, who like me lingered on for no good reason and watched that strangely gaping gate.
Then, when the weight of melancholy was all but unbearable, the spell was snapped.
A party of officers appeared under the arch of the gate, supporting, almost carrying, a slight figure in white breeches and a long blue, or grey, coat. I knew by the deference with which he was treated that this man was someone of importance, but it was not he for whom I watched and I would have given him no further thought but, gratefully released from the accidie of gloaming, would have made my way homewards, had not a man beside me sucked in his breath with surprise and exclaimed, ‘It’s Havelock! By all that’s holy, Havelock himself!’
I looked again, more attentively. The man paused on the heap of rubble just within the gate. He took a long look at the position he had striven for so long to reach, while his staff stood round him in an anxious group, watching him. General Havelock bent his head as though in prayer, then nodded to the men who held his arms and advanced, stumbling, up the slope.
Thus Henry Havelock entered the Baillie Guard, quietly and without the fanfare that had met his men. Without even a welcome.
I was almost alone now. A few women still lingered, halting the soldiers as they came in to beg for news of their loved ones. At last I too turned away. I had forgotten everything and everyone to whom I owed a duty: Pearl, Kate, Jessie, the men in the hospital. I had forgotten myself, my hunger, fear and long weariness, but not why I remained when others went. Every man that passed, every tired form had borne my earnest scrutiny. It mattered not that they were all in uniform and he would not be; that they were short, perhaps, and he tall; that this man used his rifle as a crutch and that man was carried by upon a litter—I devoured them each with anxious eyes, seeking, searching, longing. But Oliver was not among them. I knew I had no reason so to hope, but as I turned away the tension of my vigil snapped and fatigue struck me like a blow.
I thought for a moment of Ungud, wondered why he had not come to me, wondered where he was, wondered whether he would ever come to me now to admit his failure.
CHAPTER 3
As I walked down the verandah of the Gaol towards our rooms, I found myself feeling much as the Prodigal Son must have felt as he returned to his father’s house. Our kitchen door was open and light fell on the flagged floor of the verandah, while inside I heard voices and laughter and the sound of feasting. Music was provided by a harmonica player a few doors down with a rendition of The Londonderry Air.
Two young men sat at our table, smiling self-consciously, as Jessie ladled stew on to tin plates and Kate did the honours with the drinking-water jug.
‘Ah, here you are then! Where ever have you been?’ she said as I walked in. ‘Jess and I were getting worried about you, especially since we have guests, house guests, too. I have asked these young men to stay the night with us, uncomfortable and all as it is; at least our floor is dry, and it’s threatening rain tonight they say. Just till they get settled in their own billets, but sure who’s going to worry about any but the wounded on such a night as this? Now this is Billy Miles, Laura dear,’ and Kate introduced the taller of the two young men. ‘Used to know his parents well, and indeed I knew Billy too when he was just a nod from nowhere, and now here we are met again by chance, after years and years! And this is Corporal Albert Dines, also of the 64th Foot. The two of them got in together and have been together this weary while, it seems, so will not be parted now. Jessie has cooked us a stew, and we were just about to get started.’
I sat down and watched our guests, pretending not to be hungry. Jessie’s stews were no more appetizing than mine were, but every gristly morsel disappeared, though I noticed that Kate had taken only chapattis and lentil broth.
Since it was a celebration, the lantern had been lit instead of our usual tallow dip, and I watched the shadows play on the youthful faces and wondered what it was they had seen to produce so old a look of experience in youthful eyes.
After the stew we had tea which came from Lieutenant Miles’s pack and chocolate which came from Corporal Dines’s, and when these good things had disappeared, Corporal Dines foraged in his pack again and came back to the table with a bottle of whisky. The mugs came out again, the whisky went down and we all felt better.
Lieutenant Miles described the march up from Cawnpore, the skirmishes and delays, and the battle at Bithur at which the Nana Sahib had been decisively defeated. He told us that many more troops were on the way out from England to quell the Mutiny.
‘I received a letter from home last week. They say the excitement is more even than that caused by the Crimea. All England is outraged, all Europe, even America …’
&n
bsp; It was a comfort to him to know that the loneliness of our struggle was only physical, and that far away, over thousands of miles of strange countries and cruel seas, our people felt for us, thought of us, organized assistance for us. He would have continued with what was in his letter, but Toddy-Bob entered the kitchen—Jessie said he must have smelt the whisky—and soon had the temerity to ask the question that had been on the tip of all our tongues.
‘You were there, then? In Cawnpore?’ he said when I had explained the presence of our guests. ‘Did you see it—the house, I mean?’
Corporal Dines looked at his young officer and shuffled his boots unhappily.
‘Yes. We were there,’ Billy Miles replied for both.
‘What really ’appened?’ Toddy pressed them to answer. ‘We’ve ’eard nothin’ but rumours, you understand, and a body’s got to know the truth sometime.’
The boys glanced at each other uneasily; then the corporal sank his face into his mug of whisky, shaking his head as he did so.
‘I … I was in the house, but some time after it … it had been cleaned up,’ said Lieutenant Miles. ‘Even then, it was … it was not … pleasant. Corporal Dines was with the first detachment to enter, the day after we took Cawnpore. It … he … it affected him very deeply and he would prefer not to talk about it. Anyway, it is not something that is easy to discuss before ladies. Especially with ladies …’
Toddy turned disappointed eyes on us, and I could see him making an inward resolve to buttonhole Corporal Dines at some future date.
‘Boy,’ Kate said sadly, ‘and wasn’t it the ladies who did the dying there?’
‘Yes, ma’am … but, but there’s no need to … to talk of it. And they’re dead now, poor ladies!’
‘Yes, they’re dead. Mrs MacGregor and I both had many friends among those women, whom we had known all our lives. It would ease us to know even the worst. There are few things harder to bear than not knowing.’ She looked directly at me as she spoke, and I felt the tiredness return to my bones and remembered all the sleepless nights and tearless days of the past weeks and thought of the many yet to come. She was right. Not knowing is the hardest thing to bear.
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