by Nev March
Swearing softly, I hauled the scrawny lad over. Hari tumbled from Diana’s lap and threw himself at us. Parimal joined the chaos of limbs and bodies. Diana paused, dismayed.
“Chutki!” I called.
She hobbled in from the kitchen where she had been working the stove. She had not eaten, nor rested her feet. I smiled at her over the entangled children. “A little help?”
Clucking, she pulled a child from the melee, comforted and sent him back to his meal, then another.
As quiet descended. I said, “Eat,” and handed her my metal plate. She sat, filled a poori with potato and bit into it.
“What will you do with them?” Diana asked, an odd expression on her face.
“Bathe them first, I think.” We stank of manure and sweat, days in the fields.
Her lips curved in a wry smile, nose wrinkled in agreement. “And then?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t planned that far, my dear.”
A sound from Razak drew my attention. His body stiff, he stared at me.
“What is it?” I asked in Pashto.
“Angrez?” he whispered.
I understood. “No, son, I’m not English,” I replied, “nor is this pretty lady.” I wasn’t sure he was convinced. My switching languages seemed to worry him.
The Framjis asked about my journey from Lahore, commiserating with me on my trek. Sixteen days had passed since I left Bombay. I told them how Razak had accosted me with my own revolver, sending Diana into gurgles of laughter.
I had thirsted for the sound of her.
After the meal Diana took charge of my boys and had a bath prepared. Clothes were found to replace their rags. Now fortified, Razak and I bathed the boys in a large tub, getting sopping wet, the water sloshing. Parimal giggled and blew soapsuds as I scrubbed his hair. Many of his freckles disappeared under our assault. Razak bathed next, insisting he could manage by himself.
Since Chutki had gone with the women, I said something about her feet to Diana and tottered back to the verandah. Stretched out on the low braided charpoy, I slept.
* * *
I woke in a verandah soft with afternoon light muted through wicker blinds. From the kitchen came dimly heard voices and the aroma of spices. We’d reached Simla. We were with the Framjis. Each breath feeling lighter, I stretched. It felt glorious to settle my shoulders back again, to be Jim again, not Rashid Khan the Pathan or the others I’d been in Bombay.
Someone had removed my boots while I slept, and washed my feet. Had I been still in the army, my batman would have done it.
“You’re awake,” said Diana, stepping in, her face gentle. Dressed in a pale blue saree, springy curls held back with a band, she made an exotic picture. I’d not seen her in a saree before, nor known she’d wear it so naturally. The baby cooed from her hip, giving her a curiously domestic appearance.
I reached for the infant, but Diana pulled back.
“No! They’re all clean. Only you left,” she said, tilting her head toward the washroom.
Realizing I must look like a beggar, I started to go, then noticed the quiet and came abruptly alert. “Where are they, actually?”
“Papa took them to see the horses. We felt you should sleep.”
How grateful I was for that luxury.
Diana moved the baby to her shoulder and asked, “Captain, what’s his name?”
I paused. This could get sticky. “Don’t know, my dear.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “But … how did you come by him?”
When I told her what I’d learned, she said, “Abandoned in a sack!” Pity etched Diana’s face. “The children crowded around you, while you were sleeping. The girl kissed your hand. They’re very attached to you.”
I scratched my beard, sighing. “They slept on blankets, between me and any wall we could find. Made them feel safe. Now, would someone loan me a kurta, d’you think?” I asked, heading to the washroom.
“Oh! Papa sent Gurung to a tailor.…”
She pointed at the garments draped over a chair: grey suit and vest, a grey felt hat.
I hesitated, overwhelmed at this generosity, but uncomfortable at what it signified: the children knew me as a Pathan. In Western dress, would I remain their Bao-di?
“Diana, I can’t. It’s too soon … the children.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Too soon for them? Or for you?”
That was puzzling, so I just said, “Please. A kurta-khamiz will do.”
She floated off to do my bidding. As she gave instructions in the corridor, her voice curled into me. Its hushed timbre, its rhythm rippled across my skin, which absorbed it like a touch. Yet she’d stayed conspicuously distant just now. I remembered the warmth of her welcome and wondered, had I read too much into it?
* * *
As I bathed—sinking into clean warm water, what heaven!—a smooth oval of soap, French perhaps?—I pondered the peculiar events of the past few days. I’d been retained to solve a mystery. It remained my primary goal. But when I’d come upon Chutki and the boys, how could I turn away? Our choices drive who we are, I thought, and who we want to be. If Adi or Diana came upon a child sold into such misery, would they abandon her? I could not imagine it.
After what she’d endured, Chutki surely deserved the Framjis’ pity. But would they fault her for her sordid past? I could not say. When I’d described how Razak took me by surprise, Diana chuckled, admiring their pluck. Neither she nor Burjor withdrew their welcome, yet I held back Chutki’s history, saying only, “I found Chutki. She needed help.” This wasn’t just prudery. Her story was not mine to tell. I feared the uncompromising morals of those who would see her as beneath contempt. How could I defend her from that? I winced, remembering her small black shape uncurling, bound and docile. Her sob—I could hear it still, feel its deep despair.
Combing back my bedraggled hair with my fingers, I donned a grey kurta-khamiz, trousers and black vest and went to the dining room.
“Any news from Adi?” I asked Mrs. Framji.
Watching me demolish a stack of sandwiches with evident satisfaction, she smiled. “He’s already on the train. He’ll be here soon.”
I was glad of it, looking forward to his ready wit, his considered attention. It also meant that the train service to Simla was intact. Since my urchins were still away, I asked Mrs. Framji whether someone might take them in.
“Would their parents not search for them?” she asked.
When she heard how I’d found them, she said, “Adopted? I cannot say. Do you know their caste? Hindus are touchy about that. Perhaps we can ask the Christian Mission.”
I remembered the quiet, white walls of the Mission where I’d grown up, wooden pews, worn smooth, the smell of old books, my palms chalky from swiping my slate, old Father Thomas’s twinkling smile. Would he still be alive?
“Mrs. Framji, I’m sorry about all this trouble.”
“No, son, it’s no trouble. We must do what’s right.” She smiled, a look of such sweetness it stayed with me after she’d left the room.
The front door opened, admitting the clamor of childish voices. The pack descended upon me, no longer silent and wide-eyed, but demanding to be heard with all the power of their lungs.
“Quiet!” I rapped out in Pashto, hauled the youngest up and asked him what he’d done.
His round face glowed. “We saw horses. I touched one!” His hair now neatly trimmed, he was a handsome child, thin like the others, shoulder bones protruding.
Along those dusty roads he’d been a light, loose-limbed bundle, little arms about my neck or clutching my hair when he rode on my shoulders. I’d grown accustomed to the boys’ banter, giggles as they chased butterflies or caught beetles. That last afternoon was a sharp, painful memory—Parimal’s sobs, his exhaustion, the children close to starvation. This little troop had no one, nor did I. Listening to Hari’s chatter, I pondered, could I send them to a Mission? Could I part with them at all?
Someone pounded on the door. Hari whimpered, ar
ms clamping around me.
Mrs. Framji returned, worried. “Two soldiers, asking for you.”
Carrying Hari, I went to see who’d summoned me.
Belted and gloved, their pith helmets neat, two Sepoys dwarfed the Framjis’ living room. They stared, no doubt thinking that I’d “gone native,” something the army disapproved. They did not salute. One said, “Captain Agnihotri? General Greer’s compliments. He requests your presence, sir.”
At the sentry post yesterday, I’d sent word to the garrison commander asking after Doctor Aziz, but scarcely expected such a quick response. Perhaps the good doctor was in Simla!
When I set Hari down, his face crumpled. Patting his head did nothing to reassure.
“Razak, son, see to him,” I said, and went to meet the General.
CHAPTER 35
THE TEST
The Simla garrison occupied a large, walled compound, spread across thirty acres. Rows of barracks lined up in strict precision. Lofty mountains overlooked a lake. My Sepoy escort said nothing as our carriage rattled through a heavily guarded gate and stopped before an imposing colonnaded edifice. One of them led me into a wide foyer and through carved teak doors, into a wood-paneled hall that smelled of cigars, oiled leather and brass polish.
“Captain Agnihotri, sir,” he said to a group of officers in field uniforms.
A short officer who’d been leaning over a table was obviously in command—General Greer. Fit, well groomed, every brass button gleaming, the General turned astonished blue eyes upon me. Dressed as I was in long kurta-khamiz, bearded, hatless, my hair down my back like a mendicant, I was not the officer he expected, but a native.
Since he did not invite me in, I remained by the door and acknowledged him with a Pathan bow, hand over my heart. One did not salute in civilian clothing.
“Retired?” he demanded, frowning at my casual appearance.
“Yes, sir.”
“You served under Brian Sutton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brought six lads through the front?”
“Five children, sir. The oldest is twelve.”
Another officer said something I could not hear. Perhaps the contrast of my English voice and native garb puzzled them.
The General came to the point. “Can you get into Pathankot?”
“Pathankot?” I asked, surprised. His summons had led me to expect some news of Doctor Aziz, but there was more afoot here.
An officer murmured into his ear. That set him right, for he said, “You’re looking for Doctor Aziz?”
I straightened. Had they located the medico? “Yes, sir. Where is he?”
After a huddled conversation Greer said, “We need a scout. D’you want a short commission?”
A commission! After our exhausting trek. “No, sir.”
I should have been more fulsome, declined with regrets, but I had been taken by surprise. The General’s face darkened at my reply. He studied me, scowling. He had no cause to quarrel with me, but that meant little. Commanding the garrison meant his word was law.
He said, “The man you want, Doctor Aziz, is with Major Hadley and the Twenty-first Gurkha Rifles. I want you to bring them back.”
That might suit my purpose too. But that huddle, that quick conference gave me pause. “They’re in Pathankot?”
Greer burst out, “Dammit man, you’re a bloody pain in the rear! Asking Goddamn questions! We’re in a spot right now.…” Jaw tight, he motioned at a topographic map on the table. Red pins marked the British line of control. I saw that, halfway to Kabul, Pathankot’s distinctive roll of hills was deep inside Afghan-occupied territory.
“Pathankot fort? What’re they doing there?” I asked.
“Guarding a supply post. Got cut off when this trouble broke out.”
I learned that several Afghan tribes were up in arms, and they’d engaged British troops in a series of skirmishes. Outnumbered, the Twenty-first Regiment had retreated west to Lahore, unaware they’d left Captain Hadley’s Gurkha Company stranded.
“I’ve just come a hundred and fifty miles east”—I bridged the distance on the map between two index fingers—“and you want me to go north?”
“About a hundred miles.”
I stared. “Where’s their relief?”
“That’s whom you’ll escort.”
He smiled grimly at my dismay. I backed away, showing the palms of my hands.
“Can’t do it, sir. My term’s done. Surely someone else can do this?”
Greer’s mustache bristled. It irked him to have me decline. Had he been my commander, he could simply order me to go. He tapped the map. “The front is a mess. I need someone who’s just been there. You want Aziz, I want those men back.”
Cliff lines swarmed around Pathankot’s treacherous terrain. Doctor Aziz was my only link to Kasim, at the root of my puzzle. If Aziz were taken by the enemy, if he died, my last thread would snap. But Pathankot? That was insane.
“How many men?”
“Hadley had ten Gurkhas, and the physician,” Greer replied, stroking his mustache.
I examined the contour lines. It meant crossing into the wild Frontier province. Cavalry was known for speed, not stealth. We’d be seen miles away, shot down in any number of craggy passes.
“It’s suicide,” I said.
But what if it were just me, on a fast mare like Mullicka, without a column of clanking cavalry? She could weave through the passes, get me to Pathankot. But could I get out? With a company of infantrymen? Impossible. How would I even find them?
“Where are they exactly?”
“The supply post was in the old fortress. Lots of tunnels, I’m told.”
If they were alive, I could find Doctor Aziz. A finger of hope jabbed my chest. “Did they have horses?”
“Some, last I heard.”
“When was that?”
“Four days ago.” Greer grimaced. “Hadley got a man out when they came under fire. Had to abandon the magazine. Since then, nothing.”
It was the first I’d heard of a skirmish. He’d said nothing of it before. Bloody General—he’d send me out with few facts, utterly ill prepared. Perhaps noticing the direction of my thoughts, Greer thrust out his jaw. “D’you accept the job? Yes?” Urgent, his voice rose. “Do this, man! You can name your price.”
His gaze pushed me, seeking, assessing, making judgements about my character. Something flickered in my memory—Razak, my older boy, was from Pathankot. What had he said about going down to the fort with his father to sell sheep? Would he know the rivers, the passes? The men of his village would, surely.
I found myself breathing hard. Pressing a hand to my ribs, I weighed my odds. They weren’t good.
“I’m not well enough to do this,” I said, “but it could be done. A fast rider could follow the gorge up to Pathankot, find the troop. If we’re quick, we could be in and out, with luck.”
Greer exhaled, unclenching his hands. “I wouldn’t ask it, Captain,” he said, “if I had a choice. They’re cut off, trapped. We need to act right away.”
Feeling old and weary, I said, without heat, “They could be dead already.”
He agreed, but did not budge, his chin thrust forward in challenge. Wasn’t this what my old commander, Colonel Sutton, would have done? He’d try every last thing to get you out, bully, bargain, even threaten if he must.
Four days—an eternity to Hadley’s troop, waiting for relief. I remembered huddling by a wall with Smith in Karachi, tasting blood, my face pressed against stone. Bloody hell. I couldn’t leave them there. Not again. “Four days?”
“Can’t be helped,” Greer admitted. “Can’t risk a full campaign.”
I followed his gaze to the trail of red pins on the map. Until reinforcements arrived from the south, he could not spare the troops needed to recover Doctor Aziz.
When my head went down, Greer knew he’d won.
* * *
While the commission was being drawn up, we settled terms.
/> “Hazard pay as Scout, not Captain, of course,” Greer said, writing. “Major Burton will lead. Eight cavalry ought to do it.”
That would lead us straight into a skirmish. “No, sir,” I said. “I need just two fast horses.”
His head snapped up. “What? You’ll go alone?”
“No, sir. I’ll take a local boy. He knows the area.”
While he digested this, I listed the rest of my supplies, and said I’d leave tomorrow.
Nodding, he continued through a list of questions. “Widow’s pension?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced up. “You’re married?”
“I hoped to be, sir, until this crusade.” My smile faltered. I’d answered spontaneously, thinking of Diana with my band of urchins on her hands. But there was no formal understanding between us. Worse, bereavement pay would mark Diana, and that hardly seemed fair. “Payment to Mr. and Mrs. Framji.”
“Did old Moneybags adopt you, eh?” Greer chuckled, writing again.
That sparked an idea for my second request, a just recompense, for if I died Burjor would be burdened with my little band.
When he heard my proposal, Greer grimaced. He brushed his mustache with a knuckle, thinking. “That’s unusual. I’ll take it up with the War Office.” He held up a hand to preempt me. “Can’t promise anything, but it could be done.”
Once we’d signed the documents, he invited me to dine. I accepted, surprised at this uncommon courtesy, since I was dressed like a native, and a disheveled one, at that.
On the way to the garrison mess hall, Greer amended our agreement with a slap on the back. “Captain, you’ll take a soldier with you. Can’t let you go solo. Not done, you know.” Saddled with an army escort, my task would be an official action. Seeing he was set on it, I considered how best to turn this to my advantage.
“Righto sir, I’ll take a fast rider. Someone who speaks Pashto, and isn’t British.”
“Well, you’re English, aren’t you?”
This remark on my parentage didn’t bother me, accustomed as I was to the jibes of fellow officers. I replied with a shrug.
