by Anne Perry
“Then help me to do it as nobly as possible,” Narraway snapped. “When you were inside, what did you see, apart from Grant on the floor beside the dying guard?”
“No one else, sir,” Attwood answered dutifully. “I looked into the cell where Dhuleep had been. No one there, just bloodstained bedding on the floor.”
“Lot of blood?”
“Quite a bit. As if there’d been a bit of a struggle, like someone—Dhuleep or Tallis—slashed at Chuttur, one man armed with one o’ them long Sikh swords—edges like a razor, they ’ave—the other one trying to defend ’imself and not making much of it. Bloody murder, it was. Hardly a battle at all. Thank Tallis for that. Must ’ave caught Chuttur a hell of a whack before ’e ever let Dhuleep out. Damn coward, if you ask me—sir.”
Narraway kept his temper with difficulty. It was not that he objected to what Attwood was saying, or to his contempt. He was angry with his own helplessness, and there was a degree of frustration inside him because he resented the fact that he had liked Tallis, that Tallis had even made him believe, for a moment, in the possibility of his innocence.
“Did you hear what Chuttur Singh said to Grant?” he asked aloud.
“No. Grant told us. Don’t remember the words exact, but ’e said that someone ’ad come in an’ caught Chuttur by surprise. Chuttur didn’t tell ’im ’oo, of course. Maybe ’e didn’t even see. Poor devil was dying when we got there. ’E’d been cut to bits.” Attwood’s face was bleak with anger and grief. He was a battle-seasoned soldier, but he was not immune to pain or the loss of a fellow soldier, even after the hundreds of deaths he had encountered and the whole brutal savagery of war.
“Couldn’t ’elp ’im,” he went on. “ ’e told Grant to go after the prisoner. Said ’e knew the patrol’s route an’ that we ’ad to get ’im. We didn’t, but by God, we tried.” He clamped his mouth shut and glared at Narraway out of tear-filled blue eyes, defying him to offer pity.
“Yes, Sergeant, I know that,” Narraway agreed quietly. “Corporal Grant said you found traces of blood, and boot prints. Although I suppose the prints could have been anyone’s. Nobody saw him, is that right?”
“Nobody that’s saying so,” Attwood agreed.
“He must have had blood on him,” Narraway pointed out.
“To some people, one Sikh soldier looks like another,” Attwood said drily. “And some folks are too scared, keeping their eyes shut to what they don’t want to see. Everybody’s frightened and sick and too tired to see where they’re going half the time, never mind tell one Sikh from another. Lost too many people, sir. Too many women and children. What kind o’ people kill women an’ children, I ask you?” He blinked, glaring at Narraway. “Don’t you string this thing out, sir. We need to finish it. Get it all squared away before Christmas. Remember ’oo we are and why we’re ’ere. Get me?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I do,” Narraway answered him. “But it’ll never be over if we don’t do it properly.”
“Then do it properly—sir,” Attwood said abruptly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to my duty.” He saluted and, without waiting for Narraway’s permission, turned on his heel and marched back up toward the magazine.
NARRAWAY FOUND PETERSON, THE THIRD MAN TO ARRIVE at the prison, sitting at ease under a tamarind tree. He was off duty for another hour or so and was smoking a cigar alone, staring into the distance. He was a private soldier of two or three years’ experience. When Narraway stopped in front of him and asked his name, he scrambled to his feet and saluted.
“Sir,” he said obediently, stubbing the cigar out with reluctance.
“At ease, Private Peterson,” Narraway replied. “I don’t think I’ll take up much of your time.” He looked at the dry grass the man had been sitting on and decided it looked comfortable enough. He sat down gingerly and waited until Peterson did also.
“Tell me about the escape of Dhuleep Singh,” Narraway said.
Peterson looked at him with as much distaste as he dared show. “You the officer who’s going to defend Tallis?”
“Someone has to,” Narraway replied.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He added “sir” after a moment’s hesitation. It was not outrightly rude, but bordering on it.
“I’ve been in India nearly a year,” Narraway replied. “I’ve only been in Cawnpore for a couple of weeks. Why? Is there something I should know?”
Peterson kept his expression as bland as he could. “Thought so. You wouldn’t defend Tallis if you’d been here any longer.”
“Why not? Don’t you think he should be tried?”
Peterson remained silent.
“You’d rather we just hang him and be done with it?” Narraway asked. “You’re right, I haven’t been here very long, not long enough to realize we’d sunk that far, anyway. Is there anybody else we should hang, while we’re about it?”
Peterson flushed. “No, sir. I just meant … I don’t know how you can defend the man, that’s all. The whole patrol was wiped out—all but Tierney, and he’ll likely not make it. That’s all down to Tallis, because if Dhuleep hadn’t escaped, that ambush wouldn’t have happened. If they’d been attacked out in the open, it would’ve been a fair fight.”
“There’s nothing fair about war, Private Peterson. I thought you would have known that, after three years’ experience. But trials are supposed to be fair. That’s the whole point of them. Justice, not revenge. We’re meant to be above hanging a man just because we think he might have done something we don’t like.”
Peterson swiveled around to face Narraway, his eyes blazing. “Something we don’t like?” He all but choked on the words. “He let Dhuleep out to betray the patrol so they were butchered. And one of them slashed poor Chuttur Singh to death. I think ‘don’t like’ is a bit pale—sir!”
“Yes, it is,” Narraway agreed. “And after we are satisfied that he is the one who is responsible for all of it, we’ll hang him from the strongest branch and leave him there to swing. But after—not before.”
“He’s the only one who could have,” Peterson responded. “Captain Busby questioned everyone. There’s no one else it could be.”
“Then we’ll have no problem proving that at trial,” Narraway said, surprised that he was still reluctant to give up hope that there was some other explanation. “Tell me what happened when you got to the prison after the alarm went off.”
Peterson essentially repeated what Grant and Attwood had said. He chose slightly different words, more from his own vernacular, but the facts and emotions were the same. When he had finished, he kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance, where two young women were walking with children by their sides. Narraway thought of the woman he had met earlier, the children with their colored paper chains, Helena’s smile.
“We need this finished,” Peterson said quietly. He took a long breath and let it out slowly. He was not looking at Narraway, and yet he was very clearly speaking to him, his voice low and urgent. “Everything we thought we knew for certain has got blown away. People we trusted turned ’round and killed us, all over the place. But Christmas is Christmas, anywhere. We’ve got to remember who we are. What things are like at home. What we believe in, if you”—finally he turned and faced Narraway, meeting his eyes—“if you get what I mean, sir?”
“I get exactly what you mean, Private Peterson,” Narraway said, with an upsurge of emotion that took him by surprise. Peterson had appeared so ordinary, even tongue-tied, and yet he had explained the heart of what was needed better than any of the officers. “I’ll do the best I can.” He said it as if it were an oath. Then he stood up, and Peterson scrambled to his feet to salute him.
FINALLY, NARRAWAY WENT TO THE HOSPITAL TO SEE THE surgeon, Major Rawlins.
Perhaps the only point in speaking with Rawlins was to be aware of what Busby might draw from him, although Narraway knew there was little he himself could do with the information. He was going through the motions, because he had been ordered t
o. He wished he could forget Tallis’s face, his eyes.
He went into the hospital building and walked along its almost-deserted corridors, passing a few orderlies, a couple of soldiers with bandaged wounds, one on crutches. He asked for Rawlins and was directed onward. The place smelled of blood, bodily waste, lye, and vinegar. His stomach clenched at it, and he wished he could hold his breath. How many men and women had bled to death here, or died of disease?
He found Rawlins busy stitching a surface wound in a man’s leg. Narraway had to wait until the doctor had finished and could give his attention to the matter that, for him, was far from urgent.
He had a small office, where he invited Narraway to sit down, waving him toward a rickety chair. He perched on the end of a table himself. Rawlins was a little more than average height, broad-shouldered, perhaps in his forties. His fair hair showed streaks of gray only as the light caught it. His skin was deeply burned by many years in the Indian sun. He was a handsome man, far more obviously English-looking than Narraway himself. Narraway had heard that Rawlins had an Indian wife.
“Thought you’d be coming,” the doctor observed. “But there’s nothing I can say that’ll help you. Wish there were. I liked Tallis. He was a bit of a clown at times, but a damn good orderly. Would have made a good doctor, given the chance. Saved a few men’s lives with nerve and quick thinking.” His face was suddenly sad. “Don’t know what the devil happened to him. About the best thing you can do for him is not give him false hope. There’s only one way it can end.”
“He says he didn’t do it,” Narraway replied. “The facts say he must have, and yet I find myself hard put not to believe him. Or at least not to think that he believes himself. Why would he do it?”
Rawlins shrugged. “God knows. Why would anyone, unless they sided with the mutineers? But if you were on their side, why the hell would you stay here instead of slipping off to join them? Staying here, he had a good chance of being killed anyway. What a bloody mess. The last thing we need is to lose a really good medical orderly. Ask your questions. It’s a waste of time, but I assume you have to go through the motions.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” Narraway admitted. “There isn’t any defense for such a thing.” He wanted to tell Rawlins how helpless he felt and how totally confused he was by Tallis, but he despised complainers. “Busby’s bound to ask you about Chuttur Singh. The way Grant describes it, Chuttur was struck on the head, probably dazed. Tallis let Dhuleep out of his cell. One of them took Chuttur’s sword and hacked him to death, to try to prevent him from raising the alarm. Does that fit in with what you observed once Chuttur’s body was brought to you?”
“Seems to,” Rawlins replied, his face puckered with regret. “Based on the medical evidence, I can’t see anything else possible, honestly. Chuttur had the exact injuries you describe. The Court will draw the obvious conclusion: Dhuleep was locked in his cell, so there had to be a third man, someone who got in from the outside. That person struck Chuttur, taking him by surprise or he’d have defended himself, and unlocked the cell so Dhuleep could escape.”
“Any idea if Dhuleep was injured as well?” Narraway asked.
“Not a clue. I was told he left blood here and there, but not much,” Rawlins answered. “Smudges, smears on a wall, a couple of footprints edged with blood. If he was hurt, if it wasn’t just poor Chuttur’s blood from his clothes, then he wasn’t hurt badly. I’d like to think he was dead, lying out there in the scrub somewhere, or on one of those stony riverbeds, being picked apart by the carrion birds. But he was well enough to get as far as the rebels, because he told them where to ambush the patrol.”
His face was tight with a sudden wave of emotion. If someone had brought the bodies back, Rawlins would have seen them, perhaps identified them before burial. And he would have treated the one man who came in alive but later died from his injuries—and also Tierney, the lone survivor. Being a soldier was easier, Narraway thought, than being an army surgeon. Even trying to defend Tallis was better than Rawlins’s job.
“I don’t suppose it matters anyway,” he agreed. “As you say, the facts allow for only one explanation. How is Tierney doing? Will he make it?”
“Could do,” Rawlins replied. “Lost a leg. Wish I could have saved it, but it was shattered. You can see him if you want, but I doubt he can tell you anything. No question they were betrayed by Dhuleep, not that it makes any difference to your case either way. I wouldn’t waste your time, and the Court’s, even raising that question.”
“I’d like to see him, if he’s up to it.” Narraway rose. “But I don’t want to … upset him …”
Rawlins also stood. “He might be glad of someone to talk to. He’s still in a bad way, just lying there alone most of the time. We do what we can for the pain, but he’s not a fool. He knows everyone’s clinging by our fingernails, as it were. We could all be dead in a few months if we don’t turn this tide. The news is bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Narraway confessed. “Far as I know. But we’ve got Campbell. He could turn the tide, by Christmas. Remember the Crimea, Balaklava?”
Rawlins grinned lopsidedly. “The Heavy Brigade: ‘Here we stand, here we die.’ ” He paraphrased Campbell’s famous exhortation to his men. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“He won,” Narraway pointed out.
“Yes, why shouldn’t the tide turn?” Rawlins agreed. “I’ll take you to see Tierney, if he’s awake. This way.”
Rawlins led Narraway into a small hospital ward where only one bed was occupied. A man lay slightly propped up on a pillow. His face was almost colorless and his cheeks were sunken, the bones sharp and protruding. His skin was stretched over them, papery and fragile. He might have been any age from twenty to forty. The bedding was draped over a frame above his right leg and the empty space where his left leg should have been.
Narraway wished immediately that he had not come, but it was too late to retreat. How did Rawlins deal with this sort of thing day after day and stay sane?
Although they had moved with very little sound, Tierney must have sensed their presence because he opened his eyes and looked at Rawlins.
“Hello, Doc. Come to see if I’m still here?” He gave a very faint smile.
Rawlins smiled back at him. “Only full-time patient I’ve got now. Have to see you,” he replied cheerfully. “If I have nothing to do, they might not pay me. Then how will I buy a decent cigar?”
“That’s what I’d really like,” Tierney said huskily. “A decent cigar.”
“I’ll bring you one,” Rawlins promised. “But if you set the bed on fire, then you can damn well lie on the floor.”
Tierney laughed. It was a rough, croaking sound. “Like I’d know the difference! What’ve you got in this mattress? Sand?”
“Gunpowder,” Rawlins replied. “So don’t drop the ash, either.” He gestured toward Narraway. “This is a brand-new lieutenant—at least, new to Cawnpore. Tell him about the place. We have decent mangoes here. And tamarinds, if you like them, or guavas. Nothing much else is worth anything.”
“Any news?” Tierney asked, still looking at Rawlins.
“Nothing that I’ve heard,” Rawlins replied. “If we win, I’ll tell you, I promise. If we lose, you’ll find out anyway.” He gave a mock salute and left, walking back into the corridor, leaving Narraway alone by the bed.
Narraway lost his nerve to ask Tierney anything about the ambush of the patrol. It wouldn’t make any difference to the trial anyway. It didn’t matter where Dhuleep Singh had gone or what he had told anyone. The murder of Chuttur Singh was enough to damn him.
“Where were you before here?” he asked conversationally.
“Delhi, God help me,” Tierney answered with a downturned smile.
“I imagine it was pretty bad,” Narraway sympathized.
“All so bloody unnecessary,” Tierney replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “The Indian soldier’s a damn good man. If we’d just listened, instead of al
ways thinking we knew everything better. Took their loyalty for granted. Damn idiots should have seen it coming. Stupid bloody mess! You?”
“Calcutta,” Narraway answered, thinking back to his arrival in India, confused, excited, and afraid, hearing rumors of unrest already. “Nearly a year ago. Glad I’d escaped the English winter!” He gave an ironic little laugh.
“Wouldn’t mind a dusting of snow for Christmas,” Tierney said. “Where are you from? You sound like Home Counties, but that could be education, I suppose. I see you’re a lieutenant, and you can’t be more than twenty.”
For no particular reason, except that he was eager to speak about something that had nothing whatsoever to do with India, mutiny, betrayal, wounds, blind stupidity, or trials, Narraway told Tierney about his home in the softly rolling hills and wide valleys of Kent. He spoke of long rides on horseback over the Weald in the early morning, with the light on the grass, which rippled like water in the wind.
“So what are you doing out here in the dust, eating yet another curry and wasting time waiting for something to happen?” Tierney asked with a slight, stiff shrug of his shoulders, his eyes smiling.
“Escaping boiled cabbage, gray skies, and biting wind with an edge of sleet in it,” Narraway replied cheerfully. “And my father’s wrath,” he added.
“Which makes you much like the rest of us,” Tierney commiserated. “Tell me more about Kent. Do you like the sea? I miss the sea, the smell of it and the cold, sharp spray on your face.”
Narraway stayed and talked for close to half an hour, until he could see that Tierney was exhausted. Even then the soldier did not want Narraway to go. It was not until he unwittingly drifted off into a fitful sleep that Narraway walked softly away, grateful to have two feet to stand on, no longer even aware of the smells of blood and carbolic and other odors he would rather not name.
