by Hannah Parry
Isabella Rockwell’s War
By Hannah Parry
Copyright © 2012 Hannah Parry
All rights reserved.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Photo by Alexa Bailey
Design and Layout by Lighthouse24
Also available in trade paperback
(ISBN-13: 978-0-9573321-0-2)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Trouble
Chapter 2: Journey
Chapter 3: Rooky
Chapter 4: Clan
Chapter 5: Promotion
Chapter 6: An Unexpected Friend
Chapter 7: Choices
Chapter 8: Be Careful!
Chapter 9: Breaking Away
Chapter 10: Betrayal
Chapter 11: Freedom
Chapter 12: Treason
Chapter 13: An Ending and a Beginning
Chapter 1:
Trouble
Northern India
July 1820
It must have been the cry of vultures which brought Isabella back to consciousness. Or was it the feeling of hot grit against her cheek, caked and dusty where her mouth had fallen open? From her position on her side, she watched as one smashed the outer shell of a scorpion against a rock to get at the meat inside.
She sat up and looked at the tree nearby. Its shade, which spread so generously last night, had now, in the fierce overhead sun, receded to nearly nothing. She crawled over to its trunk nevertheless, dragging her bag and rifle with her, and sat in the tiny remaining patch of shaded brown dirt. Holding her canteen up, she shook it. There was about two days water left in it, if she was careful. Putting the metal to her lips she took a sip, but she hadn’t anticipated the strength of her thirst; how good the cool water felt as it made its way to her stomach, and she was unable to stop. She knew she was shortening her chances of survival, but she couldn’t help herself, and she emptied the canteen in seconds. It dropped from her hand. It was unlikely she’d be using it again.
With her thirst momentarily sated, Isabella looked up at the foothills surrounding her. This uninhabitable land had a strange beauty all of its own, the distant purple mountains giving way to the grey shadows of the hills where nothing, save the hardiest of scrubby bushes, grew. If she tilted her head right back, she could see mountain goats, white specks hopping from one precipice to another.
Occasionally their hooves would loosen a stone and it would fall, dislodging others, in a soundless shimmer into the valley where she sat. Nothing else moved in the heat of the Indian noon, so hot each breath had to be taken with care. Nothing except the vultures that, eyeing her stillness, were hopping towards her for a closer look. Her fingers reached over the gravel for her gun; light and tough, her father had said; the perfect gun for his twelve-year-old girl. Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes, but she brushed them away and, raising the gun, settled it comfortably into her shoulder. The blast scattered the vultures like rice thrown on the wind. She immediately re-loaded and lifted it again, but she didn’t need to. She rarely missed, and this time had been no exception. She grimaced; vulture for breakfast then.
Isabella waited until her tree was protected from the sun by the shadow of a hill before building her fire. Then she plucked and cooked the legs of the vulture, pretending to herself all the while they were chicken, but she was hungry and had less difficulty eating than she had expected. By the time she’d finished, the shadows had lengthened, and some of the power had gone from the sun. The fire began to smoke and she leaned back into the tree with her bag on her lap and thought of the campfires at home.
The night had always come with a curious swiftness, as if a giant finger and thumb had snuffed out the sun. She loved that time of night, when all the lanterns were lit, but it was not yet fully dark. Around the camp, small fires would spring up, as the men of her father’s cavalry regiment sat outside their barracks, talking of life. As a very small child Isabella would sit, mouse-like, so the soldiers wouldn’t notice her, wreathed in the peaty smell of smoke from their pipes, listening to the rising lilt of Hindi and Pashtu, until the languages became intelligible and she made them her own. Often forgetting she was there, they would speak of shocking things, certainly not meant for small ears, and then they would see her and laugh.
She smiled to herself.
They had never made her feel an outsider, and their children were her playmates. Soon the time came, if you’d have asked her which was her nationality, she’d have been hard pushed to reply. Her parents were British, but it was Abhaya, her father’s housekeeper, who’d raised her; Abhaya to whom she’d sung her first words in Hindi; Abhaya, who’d taken the place of the mother she’d never known.
So where were they all now – those men who’d served loyally with her father for so many years that, with Abhaya, they were her family in everything but name?
Isabella felt the tears start again as she thought of her father.
She’d found him on the porch that night in his rocking chair, staring out at the horizon, a bottle of brass polish in one hand, and the rag, unmoving, in the other. His face hadn’t the sad expression that meant he was thinking of her mother. No. It was something else. There was hardness to his thought; his jaw-line set beneath his moustache.
“Father?” His eyes swivelled towards her, but she could see it was a moment before he brought her into focus. “You were a very long way away.”
“Sorry, pet. I was.”
“Is it the monsoon?”
He smiled.
“No, for once it is not the monsoon. Though I do dread it sometimes.” Isabella kept silent. Her mother had died during the monsoon, just a few days after she was born, so though her birthday was always celebrated, it was also a time of sadness.
Her father held out his arms to her.
“Come. Sit with me.” Isabella arranged herself carefully on his lap, enjoying the smell of hair tonic and the stables, which would forever remind her of him.
“Oohf, you are getting so big, missy. Let me see your fingernails.” Isabella held out her hands with an inward grimace.
“Did you have a bath?” he said inspecting the semi-circles of black beneath her nails. “Or was it the river?” Isabella couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows. How did he know? The screen door onto the porch slammed.
“Abhaya,” her father switched to fluent Hindi. “This child! I know she’s only a sergeant’s daughter, but she might marry well – a captain or an East India merchant and so keep me comfortably in my old age. How is that ever to happen, if she is so filthy all the time?” John Rockwell was laughing now, as the expression on Isabella’s face changed to outrage.
Abhaya salaamed, her wrinkled face serious, though her eyes were smiling.
“Sahib. I have often thought if I could place Isabella-Bai in a stable next to her horse, then she would do very well. She could have oats, a hosing off and a rubdown every night. In this way she would be cleaner than she is now, and maybe enjoy it more.”
John Rockwell chortled and Isabella scowled, replying under her breath;
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Anyway, Sahib, I am here to let the child know her real bath is drawn, and to come whenever she is ready.”
He smiled.
“Which means now?”
Abhaya salaamed a
gain.
“As you wish, Sahib.” She padded away.
Isabella tightened her arms around his neck, but her father reached up to undo them. A tiny chill touched her carefully on the shoulder. She looked back at her father’s face, but he was looking down.
“I ride out tonight, Isabella.”
His words were soft, but she felt her stomach disappear.
“But… but you’re not ready. What about the men?”
It usually took the camp at least a month to prepare itself for battle. Supplies had to be collected, uniforms and weapons polished, and tack mended. Given the distances in India, the cavalry could be gone for months on end. Then Isabella would watch from the top of an acacia tree as her father raised his sabre and the glittering column of the Regiment of King William’s First Horse moved off. Sabres would rattle and excited horses would drum their hooves to unheard music, as the orange sun bathed them in its light. Isabella’s heart would overflow with pride. She would stay in the tree long after everyone else watching had gone, until all she could see was a cloud of yellow dust on the flat horizon which, when she looked straight at it, appeared not to be there.
Her father cleared his throat.
“The men aren’t coming. It’s just Josha Bilram and myself.”
Isabella felt her mouth fall open.
“Why just the two of you? Where are you going?”
“It’s not something we are allowed to talk about. I myself only heard last night and Josha Bilram has been working hard all day so we might be ready. I am so sorry dearest, truly I am. I had hoped to be here for your birthday… but now…”
She swallowed. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”
“No, I know but still…” His voice trailed off.
“Might you be away for less time, if it’s just the two of you?”
“I don’t know, but two travel more quickly than one hundred, so we have that in our favour.”
Isabella looked thoughtful.
“Why are just two of you going? Are you spying?” Her face lit up. This was exciting. “That’s it isn’t it, that’s why the Colonel is sending you? Otherwise he’d send Captain Evesham or Lieutenant Farrar. But they don’t fit in quite as well as you, do they? They’re too fair, and they speak Hindi with an English accent. Lieutenant Farrar can’t even squat,” she finished with disgust.
Her father tucked a monocle into one eye and held her at arm’s length, looking at her intently. She could see herself in its glass, the large smudge on her thin face, and her nut-brown hair in disarray.
Her father pulled on a curl.
“You have your mother’s brains, thank heavens,” he smiled. “But I cannot speak to you of this, so please don’t ask me.”
She nudged him for confirmation.
“I am right, though?”
John Rockwell held her close, looking out over her head to where clouds gathered on the far horizon.
“The truth is; even I’m not sure where I’m going. You know of our problems along the Afghan border. The Russians would much rather they were in control of India than the British, so there are always uprisings to sort out and rebellions to put down.”
Isabella frowned.
“Why does anyone have to be in control of India? Why can’t India be in control of itself?”
John Rockwell laughed and took off his glasses, rubbing them with the rag in his hand.
“I often think the same thing. It’s such a beautiful country – I rather feel we ruin it.”
“So why are we here?” Isabella persisted.
Her father rubbed his brow.
“India is rich. That’s all there is to it. Don’t let anyone tell you any different, about how the British civilized the Indians. That’s rubbish. It’s all about money and it always has been. India has spices, silks, jewels and gold, which England wants, so we trade, but it’s never a fair trade. We take far more than we give.” He was silent for a minute. “But then,” her father continued in a softer tone, “for me personally, our occupation is a blessing. I would never have met your mother, never have had you, and never had the chance to live in this country, which I love more than my own. I’d be digging ditches in Ireland, and that’s if I were lucky.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Well, we are not well-born. I have no inheritance to leave to you and I must work for my living. India, at least, offers able men a chance to make something of themselves.”
Isabella digested this.
“I will get a job also, Papa, when I am grown.”
Her father laughed.
“Will you not marry?”
Isabella wrinkled her nose.
“What? So I can watch the children, whilst my husband goes out and has all the adventures? No, thank you. I shall be chief groom to His Majesty the Maharajah of Rajasthan.”
He ruffled her hair.
“Fair enough, but then you must learn your lessons well, for it is not a job for an uneducated person. On my return from this trip, I would be very glad to have a decent report from Miss Hobbs, especially in view of the last one.”
Isabella hung her head and muttered, “Yes, Father.”
Her father patted her shoulder.
“Come, cheer up. It’s not forever. Soon your childhood will be gone. Then you’ll be free to make all the decisions you want, and all your mistakes will be your own.”
How right he’d been.
The following day had been the last time she’d seen him, laughing over his shoulder at something Josha Bilram had said, the camp behind him forgotten and his mind already on the task ahead. How she wished she could go with him. To camp under the starry sky and shoot snakes from her saddle for target practice, leaving the schoolroom far behind. What wouldn’t she have given?
Instead, she had returned to the porch and the comfort of Abhaya, who’d enfolded her in a vanilla-scented embrace.
“Ai Baba, I know, I know,” she said as Isabella’s tears had soaked her sari, “but he will return soon, don’t be sad.” So Isabella had composed herself and tried to talk herself out of her feeling of unease, which was surely just because it was the first time he’d ridden out alone. He and Josha Bilram would be fine and, though it would take time, he would come home.
Occasionally, she would wake in the night and swing her legs out of bed to make her way to her father’s room for comfort, as she had when she was little. Then she remembered he was gone. After a few nights of this, she stopped waking at all.
Three weeks later, however, she’d woken with a start, as if someone had called her name. It was the hour before dawn, and the night was close and black, monsoon clouds blocking out the stars. Isabella went to her window and looked out. As if from nowhere a wind blew through from the north, making her jump with its suddenness. It blew through the trees and blew through the stables waking the horses. It blew through the porches, making shutters bang and then, just as suddenly as it had arisen, it left; and all became still once again.
The hairs on Isabella’s neck rose at a sudden crash from the living room, where she found her father’s portrait blown from its hangings, the frame broken, lying on the floor. Tucking it carefully under one arm she padded from room to room securing the shutters. Then she closed the front door, and placed a statue of their family god against it. A tricky wind like that needed watching, it meant sorrow for someone.
Three days later, she’d been in the stables, and seeing the dark shadow of Abhaya’s head over the stable door, she felt a deep dread. Abhaya never came to the stables.
“What is it Mama-gi?” she asked hardly wanting to look at Abhaya’s face. Abhaya took Isabella’s hands in her own work-worn ones, and sat her on a hay bale. Isabella felt her blood turn to ice.
“Your Papa, dearest.” Isabella shivered despite the heat of the day. “He was supposed to make a rendezvous…but he didn’t make it. Nor did Josha Bilram.” Abhaya took a deep breath and held her close. “A little later they found your father’s saddlebag. The leather had been t
orn, as if there’d been a great battle. Its contents were scattered. His horse was found dead nearby.”
“His horse is dead?” These, oddly, were the first words from her mouth. Not able to wrap her mind around the death of her father, all she could think of was his horse. The one he’d hand-reared from a foal, and ridden to victory at the regiment gymkhanas, year after year. Now her father would whistle at the paddock gate and Flash wouldn’t come. “It must have been a very great battle for him to fall from his horse.”
Abhaya nodded her head slowly, never taking her eyes from Isabella’s.
“Yes, it must.”
“Is there no sign of his body?”
“No.” She rubbed Isabella’s hands. “Your hands are cold.”
Isabella nodded.
“I feel cold.”
“Come, let us go.”
As Isabella had left the stables, she wondered at how it were possible to enter a place as one person and, in such a short space of time, leave it as someone else.
That night she had lain staring at the ceiling of her room. The mosquito net made her room look hazy and indistinct. She was dry-eyed and fearful. If she went to sleep she would have to wake again to a reality she didn’t think she could bear. Was she asleep already? Isabella couldn’t tell. She knew Abhaya had plundered her store of healing herbs for something to help with her shock, but it hadn’t worked. All she could see was her father’s body, blasted by the heat, flies at his nose and mouth, like the corpse she’d come across unexpectedly one day, half hidden in the blonde grasses by the road into town.
She shut her eyes, unable to bear it any longer.
Throwing off the sheets, she hurried through the house, lit by the soft lamps Abhaya had left burning in case John Rockwell’s spirit needed to find its way home. Pulling saddlebags from a cupboard, she hastily stuffed some crackers and a canteen of water into them, before unlocking the gun cupboard. She lifted her gun down and held it in her hands, feeling the weight of cold wood and metal, smoothing her fingers over the catch. It felt awkward and unfamiliar, though she’d handled it a hundred times before. Her fingers ran along the top shelf of the cupboard. She found six cartridges rolling around out of their box. They would do. Now she was ready.
