The man smiled down at them as a loving father might at his weary children who had returned home after a day at play. Then he lit the coconut oil lamp with flint and tinder and went out.
A few minutes later two young women in sarees, smiling and giggling, appeared. The one, with a small pearl let into her left nostril, bore on her shoulder a huge jar of clear well water; the other on her hip a dish of steaming rice and fish. They bowed and set their vessels down.
Greedily the two fugitives gulped the fresh water in great sobbing gasps before tackling the food, which the women ladled out into rough gourds. Not a word was spoken. They ate like animals, shovelling the hot food into their mouths with dirty fingers, while the women, their great dark eyes outlined by kohl, stared as if amazed at such prodigious appetites. Moments after they had finished, feeling content and replete for the first time in days, they fell asleep, her hand in his. Gently the girls covered them and left them there together like new lovers ...
It was a long sleep, deep and untroubled. Once John awoke briefly to the soft pad-pad of bare feet and the hoarse barking of a pariah dog. He had the vague impression that the women were in the hut again, but it was just an impression. In her sleep Georgina turned and pressed her body closer to his. He sighed and fell asleep once more, a gentle luxurious warmth coursing through his tired body.
When he awoke again she was sitting up, trying to comb her hair and listening to the old man, who squatted on his haunches, his frame outlined by bright moonlight. With him was a boy, his bright intelligent face wreathed in smiles, his jet-black hair gleaming with coconut oil.
Georgina nodded at the boy. ‘He is the old man’s — the headman’s — youngest son. He can’t speak ... ’
As if to confirm her words, the boy opened his mouth to reveal, among bright white teeth, the ragged stump of his tongue.
John shook his head. He would never become accustomed to the cruelty of this place. ‘Who did it?’
‘The Pindarees. That is why the father is helping us. Sabu here is to take a message to my father.’
‘But we have only their word for it, Georgina,’ John objected. ‘Perhaps they’re fattening us up for the kill? What if the boy is being sent off to betray us to the Pindarees?’
She considered. The unwritten law of India forbade any villager, however poor, to refuse food and shelter to a starving stranger. Yet equally there was no law forbidding him from slitting his guest’s throat afterwards or betraying him to his enemies.
‘But why should he have rescued us in the first place?’ she countered. ‘He could have left us to die of thirst.’
He shrugged and accepted the logic of her reasoning as the two young women reappeared once more, bearing rice and a sauce of fishpaste and durians. For the time being he would question nothing, but let fate take its course. Suddenly hungry once more, he began to stuff the hot rice into his mouth.
EIGHT
Days passed. The boy without a tongue had been entrusted with one of Georgina’s rings and a note to her father, but neither the headman nor Georgina knew how long it would take him to reach Musulipatan. So they idled the days away, regaining their strength and trying to make themselves presentable for the day when the Collector arrived. The women took their tattered clothing away, replacing his with a choti and loose vest, in which he felt patently absurd, and hers with the deep green saree of the harvest time, which set off her figure and hair to perfection. While the women washed and patched the rags, the men reinforced their worn shoes with stout bark; for they would never kill one of the humped sacred cows, however short of leather they might be.
At night, replete with yet another huge meal of rice and fish, sat at opposite sides of their hut (for after that first night of lying exhausted together, virtually in each other’s arms, he kept his distance strictly), she regaled him with tales of her life with the Collector at Musulipatan.
She told him that India was a land of nicknames. The English of the Madras Presidency were called Mulls, after the hot pepper mulligatawny soup that everyone there ate; while those from Bombay were known as the Ducks because their favourite dish was supposedly Bombay duck, a strong-smelling dried fish. Those from Bengal, on the other hand, were named not after food but from their usual manner of summoning their servants with the words ‘Koi hoi’ — ‘Is there anyone there?’ So they had become nicknamed, qui-his.
But from whatever presidency they hailed, all the English kept a host of servants. Even the poorest European could not manage without a bearer, who rubbed him down after dinner and carried his money; a butler; a cook (who had unfortunate habits such as using his bare feet as a toast rack and straining the soup through an old sock); a scullion; a scye for his horses; and above all a sweeper who emptied the privy and ranked with the water-carrier as the lowest of the low, being ‘untouchable.’
‘But how am I expected — on an ensign’s or lieutenant’s pay — to keep that number of servants, Georgina?’ he had protested good-humouredly. ‘My salary — surely — will not be that large?’
‘No, it won’t. You will be a captain in the Company’s army at twenty-nine, a major at forty-four and with luck a lieutenant-colonel at fifty-four. Those are the averages. You see, there are few chances of advancement and salary in the Army. Naturally your duties as a soldier will not be arduous. Some black rascal will shave and feed you tea an hour before daylight. He’ll dress you. If there’s a parade, he’ll pack you in your uniform and you’ll ride a couple of hundred yards across the drill square, shout a few orders to your company and then you’ll go back to your quarters to resume your nap.’
He laughed hollowly at her account of the military existence and said, ‘I take it, Georgina, you hold little regard for the military?’
She shook her beautiful blonde head. ‘No, I don’t. In time of war, they’re useful. In peace they’re unnecessary lazy fobs, given to drink and loose women.’
She must have seen the sudden look on his face, for she added hastily, ‘But India offers other chances for bold young men. One doesn’t have to be like Robert ... ’ She hesitated, as if another memory had come to mind.
‘De Courcy?’ he prompted.
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘Robert de Courcy, ending his life like that for a pittance, with his head cut off! Careers can be made here, John.’ She leaned forward intently and laid her hand on his knee, eyes angry and burning. ‘Look at My Lord Hastings. He was a ruined man when he came out here, his fortune gone. Yet today he’s the most powerful man in the land, with a title and a fortune to take back home with him when ... ’ Her words trailed away and she said slowly, the sudden fire gone from her voice, ‘You’re not interested in such things, John, are you?’
‘No, Georgina, I don’t want money really, nor power. I was born to be a soldier and undoubtedly,’ he laughed, ‘I shall die one when my time comes.’
‘Then more fool you!’ she snorted, and relapsed into a sulky silence as if it were purposeless to spend words on such an unambitious fool ...
On the night of the fourth day jingling bells and soft insistent drums summoned them to a village wedding. The women wore bright sarees, their hair sleeked with palm oil and smelling of sandalwood; the men, shaven for once, sported intricate ceremonial turbans.
The bride and groom sat on high-back chairs, the girl of only fourteen with downcast eyes and breasts firm beneath her thin saree, the boy proud yet embarrassed. A line of well-wishers formed up to deliver presents on cushions as if the couple were royalty.
Now the fires were stoked higher. In their ruddy fantastic light the bridegroom rose, every inch a king though in reality he was a young fisherman. He raised the girl from her throne, gently, smiling down at her shy face before loosing her saree. Now he undid his own gown and wrapped the loose folds around her, too.
John felt his heart beat more quickly and cast a look out of the corner of his eye at Georgina. Her gaze was fixed hypnotically on the couple under that one garment, as the material moved, indicating what th
e new bridegroom was doing to his bride. Slowly her bottom lip, wet with saliva, drooped, and he was sure he heard a faint moan of pleasure.
Three dancing girls came writhing into the circle of light as a kind of violin joined the drums, etching unreal arabesques on the night air. They were obviously village girls, not much older than the bride. Ankle bells clinked in time to the music as they danced, their hands fanning the sky, taut breasts, nipples erect, bulging in tight-fitting bodices.
John caught his breath. The girls arched their bodies, legs spread in total provocation, as if they were already spreadeagled on a soft broad bed, impatient to be raped. He broke out in a sweat. God, it was too much to bear!
One of the girls brushed by him and he caught the musky woman smell of raw sex. For a moment her hand caressed his cheek daintily, a finger tracing a course along his burning flesh. He choked. Next to him Georgina did not take her fascinated gaze from what was happening beneath the robe.
The fiddle scraped. The drums continued their hypnotic beat. The dancing girls whirled, stamping their bare feet, twirling skirts revealing naked flesh. Now the men were gulping the warm raw rice wine from their gourds, their dark eyes aflame, riveted. Even the children had grown silent, awed by the strange spectacle. The very air was alive with sex.
Now the wedding couple, still locked under the gown, headed for the gaily decorated hut where they would spend their first night of love. Immediately they had vanished, the crazed revelry began. Old men, women, children commenced gyrating to the beat of the drum, working themselves up to a frenzy, eyes blank, teeth flashing, saliva dripping from slack open mouths.
John decided to leave before the orgies began. In Madras he had seen some of their obscene templed friezes and reckoned they were capable of any obscenity. ‘Georgina,’ he hissed, pressing her arm, ‘we must go.’
She did not respond. Her gaze was still riveted, her beautiful face somehow slack, as one of the dancers stripped off her skirt, twisting her naked lower body in slow ecstasy, a secret little smile on her girl’s face.
‘Georgina!’ he commanded brutally and dug his fingers into her bare arm cruelly, ‘You must come with me — now!’
‘What ... oh yes, John,’ she stammered.
He propelled her through the frenzied throng, reeking now of sweat, oil and sex, already beginning to fumble with each other in crazed abandon like the spreadeagled women he had seen on their stone temple carving, grasped by grinning, fat, many-handed gods. It was no use going back to their hut, it was too close to this scene of total abandon. They must wait outside the village until it was over.
Slowly and in silence, minds still racing with the excitement, they walked along the white beach where combers slithered back and forth in timeless harmony. The village sounds grew fainter and fainter, yet still both their young hearts continued to beat to the heady intoxicating rhythm. They walked as if mesmerized; as if they might never stop.
There was a wordless communication between them, a warm longing and desire, an aching overwhelming feeling that something — anything — had to happen soon. It had to!
She stopped and sat down, her arms around her knees, which were tightly pressed together, and stared out at the yellow sea stretching to a purple horizon studded with a myriad silver stars. He sat down beside her. He did not speak. He could not. She turned. Suddenly she gasped as if she were unable to breathe. She flung herself on him. Instinctively his arms tightened around her. His lips pressed themselves on her burning lips. There was pure joy and relief in her body as she opened her mouth. She went soft and relaxed and fell backwards on to the sand, carrying him with her.
Her legs parted. His hand slid inside her saree. She gasped with pleasure, her body trembling with anticipation. He cupped the beautiful right breast which he had desired ever since that day at Madras with the fishing fleet. He touched the trembling rigid nipple. She quivered all over. Her tongue slid into his open mouth, warm and liquid, and her hand fell to his thigh. After a moment it moved to the swelling. He choked with pleasure. Suddenly he began to pant like a dog on rut. He must have her soon!
Later they lay naked in the sand. Once she had broken loose from his hot grasp and run laughing into the water. He had followed. Gracefully, deftly they had swum together, feeling each other in the warm gleaming wavelets. She had stood up and he had dived between her legs. They had laughed uproariously. Now they lay clutching each other, his body brought close to hers so that she could feel the burning urgent tautness, his hands still damp from the water, touching, searching, caressing her everywhere.
In sudden anger, he called, ‘Do you want it? Do you?’ Why he was so angry he did not know.
‘Oh yes ... but wait ... oh, wait — please!’ she moaned, her voice brittle and feverish, almost as if she were in pain. ‘You must ... wait for me ... ’
‘I can’t!’ he hissed back frantically. ‘Not much more ... I can’t!’ Desperately he clutched her burning body to him, digging his fingers savagely into her flesh. He fumbled momentarily and then forced open her thighs with the hardness of his right knee, feeling her moist and hot against his skin. ‘You must do it!’ he moaned, unable to control himself any longer. ‘Do it ... now!’
Abruptly she slipped out of his grasp. Caught off balance, he fell back on the sand, panting wildly. Next instant she had positioned herself above his loins.
Dizzy with desire, straining upwards for that final release, he waited.
She didn’t take long, for now she was to have what she had desired all along. Legs splayed apart, face distorted with unbridled passion like that of a demented woman, she thrust herself upon him. Spine arched, head flung back, hair flying wildly, she rode that pillar of hard burning flesh, mistress of love, taking her pleasure as she had always done — alone!
NINE
The rescue expedition arrived at nine the next morning. First came the lumbering elephants, with Sabu perched on the first one. Urged on by bad-tempered mahouts, they bore the expedition’s brass six-pounder cannon manned by European gunners, scouring the countryside for any sign of the Pindarees. Behind the elephants came the Company’s cavalry, and a squadron of British cavalry sent by Hastings personally at the Collector’s insistence. Finally there were the civilians, mostly officials but as heavily armed as the soldiers, within their centre the Collector Lanham himself. For Mr Thomas Lanham had a great sense of his own worth. He was not going to risk his very valuable person to some marauding heathen blackamoor.
John recognized him at once as Georgina’s father. He had the same pale oval face and light green eyes. But the body had run grossly to fat and the challenging boldness of his daughter’s face had been replaced by a look of pudgy, self-important avarice. Collector Lanham, John decided on the spot, as he grasped Georgina’s hand tightly, looked exactly how a collector of taxes should look.
While Sabu rushed to his father, clutching the golden guinea that Lord Hastings had given him personally, and the troops fanned out to both sides of the village as if they half expected a trap, Lanham, secure behind his screen of civilian volunteers, waited. He appeared nervous, playing repeatedly with his golden fob watch and at the same time constantly dabbing his bald head with a flowered silk handkerchief like a man whose time was precious.
A captain of the European cavalry, dashing with his sabretache and shako, dolman hung from his right shoulder, galloped up and reported to Lanham, gleaming sabre raised to his forehead in salute. Obviously he was reporting that the village was safe; there were no Pindarees in the neighbourhood.
‘Thank you, Captain ... ‘Bout time, sir. Now where is my daughter, sir?’
‘Here ... Here, here, Father!’ Georgina cried. She pulled free from John’s possessive grip and sprang up and down so that her father could see her above the heads of the natives like some little girl about to be given a treat.
The Collector smiled when he saw his daughter. But his eyes did not light up. John, suddenly apprehensive at the prospect of meeting the father of the girl he
had made love to the night before, felt that he had probably never really smiled in all his life. Lanham jerked at the bit and his heavy mare ambled forward, the villagers parting to both sides obediently. He never even noticed.
He reined in his horse and stared down at his daughter, seeing everything, including the handsome young man with the hard face of an adventurer standing next to her protectively, as if he might already be her husband. Lanham was a man well acquainted with the drawing of accounts, especially when he could do so in his own favour. Now he realized almost immediately there was a debit here somehow — and he didn’t like that realization one bit.
Ponderously he dismounted and embraced his daughter, though not taking his gaze off the young man with her for a moment; while his entourage clapped politely as if this was some kind of theatrical performance.
Still clutching his daughter in pudgy white hands, he looked over her shoulder and said coldly, ‘And who are you, sir, pray?’
Before he could answer she pulled herself back and said, ‘This is John Bold, Father. We were the only two survivors from the column led by Captain de Courcy.’
Lanham sniffed, as if he felt only disdain for the dead captain, and said, ‘You were of some assistance to my daughter no doubt, Mr Bold?’
‘He saved my life, Father!’ she said energetically.
‘I see,’ he said, as if making a calculation of what this might mean to him in hard pounds, shillings and pence. He put out his flabby hand. ‘I am deeply indebted to you, sir,’ he said without enthusiasm.
John took the hand. It was soft, damp, and unpleasant, and he repressed the sudden desire to wipe his palm on the seat of his trousers, muttering that it had ‘Been a great honour to serve Georgina — er — Miss Lanham.’
Bugles at Dawn Page 11
