The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The Red Fort shielded the clique-ridden court from the city it ostensibly governed. It was oblong in shape, one hundred yards long and six hundred yards wide, and it nestled on the west bank of the Jumna river at the heart of the walled city of Delhi. The fort’s walls were made of solid red sandstone, and stood twenty yards high by the river, rising to thirty-five yards high where they abutted the city. Despite the perimeter being a mile and a half long, there were just two main entrances to the Red Fort: the Delhi Gate to the south and the bigger Lahore Gate to the west, which also contained the apartments of Captain Douglas, the British commander of Bahadur Shah’s bodyguard.

  Aamira had told Jack that the Red Fort had once housed the fabled Peacock Throne. This fabulous object was a vivid demonstration of the vast wealth and immense power of the Mughal emperor. Made from solid gold, it sat in the Diwan-i-Khas, or Hall of Private Audience, covered by a canopy surmounted with the four peacock figures that gave it its name, their vivid colours replicated by thousands of individual jewels.

  The victorious Nadir Shah of Persia had plundered the city and looted the priceless throne just over one hundred years previously. Like the emperor’s power, it had been stolen away, the pride and strength of the Mughals lost to another more powerful and ruthless empire. Now the Red Fort was little more than a den of iniquity, the court of the Mughal emperor a hotbed of scandal and intrigue. The denizens within its walls relished the minutiae of courtly life, caring little that outside their gilded prison they were regarded as little more than an irrelevance, an anachronism of days now long gone.

  Jack looked up at the fort and wondered at the history it had witnessed. Aamira’s tales had fired a desire to know more of the place he would likely live in for some weeks to come, the idea of immediately embarking on the return journey to Calcutta too awful to contemplate.

  He understood that the city had lived a hard life over the centuries. The notion made him shiver, a feeling of dread sliding slowly down his spine. He could not help but feel that he was coming to a place where the ghosts of the dead walked side by side with the living. Despite the splendour of the fortress’s fabulous red walls, Jack sensed that Delhi was a city of the damned.

  The dak rumbled into the bustling city beneath the high walls of the Lal Qila. The houses around them were little more than mud and thatch, the same mean peasant hovels that Jack had seen in the native quarter of Calcutta. The streets were narrow, the labyrinth of drab houses crowded together, each pressed hard into the flank of its neighbour, the lives they contained spilling out on to the narrow paths that led through the maze.

  ‘Are we there?’ A sleepy voice interrupted his scrutiny of the city he had killed men to reach.

  He stretched across and took hold of Aamira’s hand. She lifted her head, her face coming alive as she realised that they had arrived. She leant forward, her free hand pressing down on to Jack’s thigh as she pushed her head to the dak’s window.

  She said nothing as she drank in the sight and smell of her home. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to look at everything at once, the familiar sights filling her face with joy.

  ‘I am home!’ She pulled back sharply and beamed at Jack, then thrust her head through the opposite window, her breathless laughter infectious. ‘I am home!’

  She twisted round, planting a firm kiss on Jack’s cheek before turning back once again to bury herself in the sensation of having returned to where she belonged.

  Jack watched her closely. Her delight was obvious and it made him jealous. He could not imagine ever feeling the same emotion. To him there was nowhere that meant even a fraction of the feeling he saw in Aamira. He pictured the dank, grimy rookeries of his youth. There would be little pleasure in returning to their cloying embrace.

  Aamira called out instructions to the dak’s crew, who had toiled for so long to bring her back to the place of her birth. They had returned in the aftermath of the Gujar ambush, shamefaced and wringing their hands in angst whilst wailing their sorrow aloud. After several minutes of their raucous display, Jack had been content to allow them back, if only to put an end to the caterwauling.

  The dak rumbled to a halt, the wheels screeching one last time. Jack got out quickly and stood back as the driver’s assistants stripped the carriage of their possessions, working fast to send their passengers on their way through the narrow, busy streets that led to Aamira’s home. Aamira chivvied them along, her voice sniping constantly as she directed them about their task. She was like a sparrow, darting this way and that, her tiny frame lost amidst the finely muscled bodies of the local porters who had swarmed around the dak the moment it had stopped.

  It took several long minutes to get everything organised to her satisfaction. When she returned to Jack’s side, half a dozen porters formed an orderly queue behind her, festooned with the belongings she had acquired in the long weeks of the journey. Jack ran his eyes over the small group, making sure that his single knapsack had not been forgotten in the melee. His talwar was buckled to his side, the weapon incongruous against his civilian garb, but he refused to let the blade out of his sight. His loaded revolver hung at his hip. He might be in his companion’s home town, but he was prepared for anything.

  ‘Are you ready, Jack, or are you planning on standing there all night?’

  Aamira slid her hands around his arm. She pressed close to his body and he felt the curve of her flesh warm against him. For the first time he remembered fondly the cramped confines of the dak.

  ‘Come! Come!’ She pulled him forward, her excitement reflected in the glow of the fires and torches that lit their way.

  He let himself be led but kept his right hand hovering over the revolver on his hip. He had unbuckled the flap on the holster as he waited for them to be ready. The feeling of dread that he had felt on entering the city had refused to disappear.

  She guided him into the narrow streets off Chandni Chowk, the great marketplace that stretched from the gates of the Red Fort into the heart of the walled city. The sun was setting and the place was busy as the churches, mosques and temples filled for evening worship. The air was full of ringing bells, the Christian churches of Delhi as noisy as those in any English town on a Sunday morning. He could even hear the thumping chords coming from the organ in St James’s as the large British community began their evening service.

  The British residents of Delhi lived a life far removed from that of the local population, who had become accustomed to the white-faced foreigners in their midst. After an enormous dinner late in the afternoon, the British would rumble out of the civil lines in their fine carriages, passing through the bottleneck of the Kashmir Gate for their evening drive or heading for the spectacular church in the city’s centre. Thousands of miles from home, they had succeeded in establishing for themselves a civilised and very British existence. They were quite content to ignore the fact that they lived cheek by jowl with a population that possessed a culture and way of life wholly foreign to their own. The two vastly different worlds lived side by side, neither paying any attention to the other, the line dividing them as deep as any chasm between mountain ranges.

  The bells of the Christian churches faded into the background as Jack followed Aamira deeper into the city. Loud voices called out from the minarets that jutted into the sky. The wailing call echoed around the city, summoning the faithful to prayer, the long, melodic chant wavering as it rushed through the streets. To Jack’s ear the cry sounded unearthly, the strange words and sounds wholly foreign to him. It was another reminder of the gulf that existed between the English and the people they ruled.

  They moved on, through more narrow streets where handbells chimed and the hawkers and stallholders tried to work the fast-moving crowds that surged past now that the time for worship had arrived. Underscoring everything was the sound of voices as thousands of people talked as one. Entire families disgorged from their houses and headed out for the evening. Their cries and conversations created a vibrant undertone as they bustled past on
their way to church or the local mosque.

  Jack followed Aamira through the crowds. It was the thing about India that he had most struggled to become accustomed to. The vast multitude of people overwhelmed him: a great swarm of humanity that outnumbered their white masters by thousands to one. He had thought of himself as being a charlatan, but his exploits were as nothing when compared with the great trick of the British Empire. For here, in Britain’s most vibrant colony, existed the biggest deception of them all: in India, the many were controlled by the few, and God forbid the many should ever unite to expel their foreign rulers.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder. He knew he was gawping like a griffin, but he could not resist. He was fascinated by everything he saw. The life of the city was infectious. There was excitement in the bustle and hubbub, and it tantalised him as he studied it from within, inside it, yet not a part. As ever, he was the stranger, the firangi; the one who did not belong.

  The great Red Fort glowed in the last light of the day. Torches were being lit along its walls, and deep inside the palace he could see the bouncing lights of a procession of bearers as some of its hidden denizens embarked on their own march to worship. He cocked an ear and heard the sound of distant music, the repetitive clanging of the church bells sounding discordant against the echo of tabors, trumpets and pipes.

  Their progress slowed. Aamira turned and smiled in reassurance as they picked their way through the growing horde. Their small party pushed past a group of Gujar herdsmen, their fierce glares standing in perfect contrast to the wide-eyed boys from the mofussil who walked in the other direction, gawping and staring at the vibrant life packed into the crowded streets. Jat farmers bellowed and spat as they strode through the melee, their curses following the faster-moving students from Delhi College, who whooped and yelled as they jostled their way through the crowd with youthful exuberance.

  Jack gave up any attempt at nonchalance and let his eyes roam as they passed into a wider street, the crowds thinning enough to let him turn his head more freely. He smiled as he saw a few unfortunate gamblers locked in a line of public stocks, their fellows catcalling and teasing as they headed to the bustling Sufi shrines to ask to be blessed for good luck. Gentlemen from Lucknow in their distinctive wide-bottomed pyjamas glided past, their wealth affording them smoother passage through the riotous streets, their servants clearing their path with loud, hectoring voices and quick hands.

  The party moved on, passing a group of tall, bearded Pathan horse traders from Peshawar and Ambala standing on a corner of the street, their hard eyes roving the crowd, ever watchful for danger and assessing every man as a potential enemy. Their hands were never far from the enormous talwars on their hips and Jack dropped his eyes as they came close, inspecting the weapons that were so very similar to his own.

  ‘Come, Jack!’ Aamira danced in front of him, turning this way and that, her face alive with infectious excitement. They passed Ghantawallahs, the famous sweet shop, which was packed out with a dense surging crowd waiting with growing impatience to taste its famous offerings. Qahwa khanas lined the street near the shop, and Jack felt the surreptitious scrutiny of a hundred stares as dark-eyed men sipped tea or pressed their mouths to the hookah. Others gazed at him without shame, chewing furiously on betel or bhang, their eyes full of distrust for the firangi who was in the wrong part of town.

  Jack followed Aamira into an open square, and a fresh wave of noise assailed him, louder even than the wild hubbub of the narrow side streets. In the large open space, poets stood on small plinths or overturned crates, their voices raised as they recited their verses, each drawing a crowd of rapt onlookers who stared and smiled as they were taken on a journey through the words of the performers. More voices were raised as groups of scholars engaged in debate, the animated discourse building as each tried to sway the other with the fierce passion of their argument.

  Jack’s head turned on instinct as a waft of subtle perfume caught in his throat. A parade of courtesans sauntered past, their lithe bodies painted and decorated in dozens of fabulous colours. The doe-eyed beauties smiled and laughed as the crowds parted before them, the power of their taut flesh matching that of Moses. He could not help but stare in fascination as they came past, the flimsy silks leaving little to the imagination.

  A sharp tug on his hand forced him to look away, and he saw the wide smile on Aamira’s face as she caught him ogling. There was no rebuke in her eyes, just pleasure; her mouth opened as she laughed, but the sound was lost in the din around them. She led him on through the bustling throng, the porters still following willingly in their wake, the promise of payment enough to secure their loyalty. They headed towards a narrow side street on the far side of the square, passing by a group of half-naked labourers, their eyes cast down in exhaustion, not even the sight of a firangi enough to stir them from their rest.

  A storyteller sat on a simple wooden stool close to the entrance to the street Aamira was leading them towards, and for the first time she paused, her desire to get home stalled by the quiet words of the tiny, wizened old man. She turned, pulling Jack close, hugging his arm to her chest as she slowed their progress so that she could hear the man speak.

  Jack listened to the pattern of the storyteller’s words. He could not understand what it was he heard, but there was something mesmerising in the rhythm of the sounds. The old man held his audience rapt, his quiet, assured delivery more effective than the wild bellows and shouts of the debates going on nearby. Jack smiled as the crowd reacted, the gasps and sharp intakes of breath followed by knowing grunts or short bursts of laughter as the storyteller took them on a familiar journey.

  Aamira pressed close, lifting her mouth to Jack’s ear. ‘I remember this man from when I was a little girl. I would listen to him all day.’

  Jack felt the warmth of her breath on his skin, the gentle tease of her lips on the soft flesh of his ear. He pulled her close, breathing in the sensation of her body so close to his, the feel of her hip under his hand, the gossamer-light touch of her hair whispering on his neck.

  ‘He is telling the Dastan i-Amir Hamza.’

  The foreign words echoed in his head as she spoke. His senses were overloaded, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the girl in his arms, trying to tether himself to her lest he be lost in the wild spectacle surging around him.

  ‘It is an epic romance, a tale of lovers.’ Aamira suddenly pulled away. Her eyes never left Jack’s, her mouth curling into a teasing smile as she tugged him forward once more.

  They turned into the side street. It was much less crowded, the houses of a better quality than the ones he had seen earlier. Each of the tall kothis boasted a grand wooden balcony hidden behind a screen of intricate latticework. At the end of the street the gates to the mohalla were being locked for the night, securing the residents against the interference of outsiders from the other quarters of the city.

  He looked up and saw lights and movement behind the lattice screens on the upper floors of the closest kothi. He heard the sound of singing, the lilt of foreign voices rising above the hubbub they had left behind.

  Aamira came to a halt close to the end of the street. She seemed suddenly unsure, as if she could not quite believe where she was.

  Jack said nothing. He let go of her hand and let her stalk forward, her small steps taking her away from him and into the opening that led to the tall town house. He stood and waited, patient now that the long journey was complete. He heard a wild cry of delight, the rapture of the return of the prodigal daughter. He smiled, content that Aamira had found what she had been seeking.

  Yet it reminded him that he was still alone.

  Jack felt the prickle of rising heat as soon as he stepped out on to the balcony. It was still early, the sun yet to fully rise, but already the temperature was building.

  In the British cantonment outside the city, it would be a day for cold baths and lying in darkened rooms, the windows sealed off with woven wicker screens soaked in water in a futile
attempt to chill the scorching air. It would be a day to endure, to survive the suffocating heat until the cooler air of evening made life bearable once again.

  Jack smiled as he thought of the many techniques he had seen the British employ to survive the ferocious climate and carry on as if they lived in the quiet peace of the English countryside. He recalled the rose gardens around the bungalows in the British cantonment outside the city of Sawadh. He remembered the delicate perfume hanging in the air and the splashes of vibrant colour that had stood out so prettily against the whitewashed walls. He shook his head as he recalled the waste. For the pleasing aesthetic was only made possible by a convoluted system of irrigation channels and ox-powered pumps, the efforts of two dozen servants exhausted in a conceited attempt to produce no more than a few dozen stubby bushes.

  The British population spread across the great mofussil fought a constant battle against their surroundings. Cockroaches, lizards, red ants and swarms of flying insects united to drive them to distraction. Wine glasses could not be left outside without silver coasters across their tops to prevent a multitude of insects drowning themselves. At dinner, saucers of water had to be placed beneath the legs of tables and chairs to prevent a legion of ants scurrying up and into the laps of the horrified diners, and no elegant soirée was complete without a dozen or more servants standing behind the guests, their horse-tail swats battling to keep away the more determined of the bloodthirsty insect horde desperate to feast on the sweaty white flesh.

  That morning Jack had been awoken by the noise of the gongs ringing in the Jama Masjid an hour before sunrise. Aamira had told him that it was the sixteenth day of Ramadan and no Muslim could eat or drink from sunrise to sunset. Families rose early, sitting outside in the cooler air to eat their pre-fast meal of sweet seviyan and, for those with the stomach for it, chicken kebabs and bread.