by Nev March
He laughed, stalking ahead into the mess hall, where his staff were assembled. Officers turned, staring, since natives were rarely invited. Feeling acutely underdressed in my long grey kurta and unkempt hair, I hung back as befitted my lack of rank.
The word “Scout” followed me, as officers moved to their tables.
Then—a shadow, a blur. I saw it in the corner of my eye and slipped a punch that blew past my ear. Turning, I caught a wrist and swung the chap around. Once I had him immobile, I leaned over to have a look. A heavy, turbaned Sikh groaned as his shoulder twisted in my grip.
“Are we acquainted, sir?” I asked, wondering what had got into him to do such a thing.
The Sardar grimaced, and his eyes flickered to someone behind me.
“Let him go,” Greer said, with a grim smile.
So it was Greer. Having a laugh on me. Someone had told him I used to box.
I released the poor Sardar, saying, “Sorry about that,” and confronted the General with growing resentment, glad that I towered over him. “What the devil was that for?”
Perhaps Adi was right, for that was reckless. Nearby officers looked affronted. I knew I’d overstepped, but found myself reluctant to retreat. Greer had hauled me out to the barracks, blackmailed me into a dangerous task and then set a bloke to hit me. The first two I might forgive, attribute to dire necessity and such, but a punch?
“A test of fitness, Captain,” he said, eyes watchful. “Can’t send a sick man on the job.”
Damn the bloke. If I’d been knocked down, he’d have released me from this task. As it was, I’d just proved I was able.
Seething, I sat at a table where white-gloved mess men waited to serve the meal.
“Jim, me man!” a boisterous voice called out. The familiar lilt belonged to an old comrade, so I welcomed the Irishman who dropped his weight into the next chair.
“Ay, it’s a rare pleasure to see you move again,” he chortled.
“Why so, O’Connor?” General Greer plonked down before us and signaled the servers.
“Why, he’s Sutton’s boxer, isn’t he? Won some beautiful fights in Rangoon. Don’t wager against him, sir.”
A steaming plate of soup was placed before me. Damn army protocol, I thought. Ignoring the others, I dug in. After the obligatory pause for grace, O’Connor went on. I hoped he’d quit recounting fights I’d won or lost, and when he seemed to relish telling Greer I’d lost such weight as to be a shadow of myself, I’d had enough.
“D’you want to paint a target on my back now, friend?” I said. “I’m done boxing.”
Greer guffawed and seemed to accept it as comradely humor.
* * *
Inexplicably, General Greer refused to identify my escort for the impending trip. Since I planned to leave the next morning, this delay deepened my concern.
Was I as reckless as Adi had once suggested? To ride into Pathan-held countryside was in itself hazardous. To try to retrieve ten Gurkha infantrymen from hostile territory, well, it defied reason. I’d agreed because I wanted to find Doctor Aziz. He’d seen Kasim die, and was the only person who might know who was bent on destroying the Framjis.
CHAPTER 36
SETTING OFF
General Greer did handsomely by me, providing carte blanche from the quartermaster and use of the chart room to prepare for our ride. At the stable I chose a fine, glossy-haired Arabian filly and got acquainted with her. Evening brought a fog of weariness, which deepened as shadows spread across the lawn and bearers ran with their appointed tasks. I questioned my sanity, but my course was committed.
When I reached Framji villa at sunset, little Hari clung to my knees, begging to be carried. Razak hung back while I calmed the younger boy, then approached, worried. He crouched beside me, full of questions.
“Bao-di, are you hurt? Did they beat you?”
I assured him I was unharmed.
Chutki peeped around the doorway, so I held out a hand.
With Hari on my lap, Parimal and Razak on either side, her cold fingers gripped my hand. She’d been worried at my absence, left behind in a houseful of strangers.
“Are you well?” I asked.
Chutki’s head wobbled yes. When Diana and her mother came to collect the children for their supper, she said not a word, but went reluctantly.
Entering the dining room, Diana said, “The children prefer the verandah where you slept. It used to be a baith-khana, literally a room to sit, with cushions and carpets. They’ll dine there.”
I sat down and stretched out my legs.
Diana’s face lit up. “Adi’s train from Bombay will soon be here. Papa’s gone to the station to receive him.”
Quick and graceful, she set the table, each step soothing like cool sherbet in summertime. I looked away, but it made no difference—I was acutely aware of her every motion. Before long she’d be put out at me for leaving again. I hoped to delay that for a bit.
She said, “You’re very quiet, Captain.”
Adi and Burjor entered amid a clamor of greetings.
“Captain, you didn’t cable!” Adi said, the moment he saw me. “It’s been sixteen, no, seventeen days without a word.”
I described the state of the railways and telegraph.
“Captain Jim is now a one-man orphan patrol,” Diana teased, describing my little brood.
Adi listened intently, and asked, “What about Kasim—did you learn anything?”
I reported my progress, and mentioned Doctor Aziz.
“So that’s a dead end?”
“Maybe not. Doctor Aziz was an army medic.”
Our dinner conversation grew lively. Although reluctant to disrupt it with my plans of imminent departure, as the meal drew to a close, I could delay no more.
“Sir,” I addressed Adi, “these are for you.” Drawing my commission and the army contract from my vest, I slid them across the table.
Adi examined the contents, the lawyer in him taking hold.
“Why, Captain, it’s already signed. By you and a General Greer, for the War Office!”
“I’ve come to an arrangement with them—a little task they want. They’ll help me find Doctor Aziz.”
“Goodness!” His eyebrows rose as he read, then he said, “Papa, read this.”
While Burjor examined the documents, I savored some gulab jamun, round delicacies drenched in syrup. My little troop was safe, their scrapes and bruises tended with salves, and Mrs. Framji had prepared gulab jamun for the rascals. A flood of gratitude swamped me.
“Good heavens.” Burjor cleared his throat, flipping pages of the contract back and forth. Looking astonished, he asked, “How did you get them to agree?”
Diana asked, “What is it, will someone say?”
Burjor grinned broadly. “Captain Jim has got the army to give me a contract for coffee and tea! Price to be agreed upon, it says. That’s wonderful! We can sell from our plantation in Ooty as well as up here in Simla.”
Adi thumbed through my commission, frowning. “Captain? What’s this? Bereavement pay … to Mr. and Mrs. Framji … in the event of death?”
“A standard clause,” I said. “They asked for next of kin.”
Adi huffed. “What do they need you for?”
“Not at liberty to say, sir, just a short trip tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Diana burst out, sending me a look that did not bode well.
I said, “Miss Diana, I regret I must leave the children with you. I’ll take Razak home, though. It’s on the way.”
“Why tomorrow? Razak’s exhausted, you’re as pale as a ghost, why not rest a bit?”
“The army decides these things, Miss.”
She winced. “So where are you going?”
“Not far—should take about a week.”
“Seven days!”
It would take longer. Pathankot was three full days’ ride if all went well. Rising to my feet, I said, “I must tell Razak—and hope it does not keep him up all night.”
Diana did not return my gaze. “That’s why you were so quiet,” she said.
Had we been alone I would have spoken then, said something of what I felt for her. But we were not alone, and it seemed a rotten thing to do, with so much uncertain, when it was possible I might not return. I gave her a brief smile and went to find Razak.
“Home! My home? Bao-di, truly?” Delighted with my news, Razak hopped about, bursting with the joy of it.
“It might be dangerous,” I cautioned him.
His face shone with excitement.
Chutki, however, wept. Patting her head had no effect. Tears wiped from her cheek were replaced in seconds. She came up behind me and her head rested, a soft weight on my shoulder.
“Bao-di, will you come back?”
“Yes.” If I live, I thought. The Framjis would care for her if I did not return. I knew this for a certainty, and that they would see it as no burden. But they’d retained me to solve a mystery. With Mrs. Enty missing, it must go deeper than the murder of the Framji ladies. Worse, I believed that a threat still hung over the Framjis. Why else had I been accosted on Princess Street? I sighed, remembering Akbar, the burglar, the weight of his blows. What was he looking for? Something was hidden in Framji Mansion, something dangerous. If I died in Pathankot, someone must finish my task. Mulling it over, I went in search of Adi and found him in the dining room, brow furrowed, transcribing my contract.
Dropping into the chair beside him, I said, “Sir, if things … deteriorate, would you bring Maneck into the investigation?”
Adi looked up, closing his fountain pen. “Deteriorate?”
“If … I don’t get back.”
He paused, measuring my reply. “I knew it. The army has their hooks into you again.”
That was a curious phrase. I secured it to examine later. “Maneck. He’s afraid, but he knows more than he’s saying. Talk to him, show him the notes, the evidence. Offer him my job.”
“Are you going back to the army?” Adi asked. When I shook my head, he continued, “So why?” His stare intensified. “Because it’s dangerous, this trip. Jim—you must do this?”
At my nod, his face tightened. “For me? You’re doing this for me?”
“Not entirely. I want to find Doctor Aziz, but it’s more than that.”
He did not question me further, but pulled out his wallet and counted out notes. “Keep it. We’ll settle accounts when you return.”
Diana said, behind me, “Are you going because of what happened in Karachi?”
I’d not known she’d overheard our conversation, so her question took me by surprise. All at once I was back on the front line, cannons thundering, shells exploding, deafening me. I cringed, covering my ears.
“God, Diana!” I heard Adi’s voice far away, faint among the screams in my ears. Bullets whined past my head, a horse neighed, panicked and trapped. Smoke and dust filled my nostrils, and my lips tasted metallic salt, the stickiness of blood.
Diana cried, “What’s happened to him?”
“Steady, Captain,” said Adi, his hands on my shoulders. “Can you breathe?”
I did. Yet I had no air.
“Breathe out!”
I exhaled, hauled in air, and the waking dream released me. The roar of mortar rounds faded, leaving the chirp of crickets at twilight. Adi helped me to a chair.
“Byram called him ‘Hero of Karachi,’ so I wondered.” Diana winced, sorrow and regret in the set of her lips, the tilt of her head. She whisked off to the corner. Water gurgled as she dipped into the earthen pot. She offered me a tumbler of water, but it was no use. My hands shook and I could not take it. Long moments passed as I recovered.
“Has this happened before?” Diana asked. Upon my nod, she said, “Captain, something’s stuck, under your skin. Like a thorn or bullet. You’ve got to get it out.”
Adi swiveled toward me. “Can you tell us? About Karachi?”
I wanted to—but then I’d lose Diana. She’d find out what I didn’t want to face, to lay bare. How could she understand what I could not, myself, forgive?
CHAPTER 37
TALE OF PORT KARACHI
I got to my feet with nowhere to go, trying to regain myself and some measure of control.
Stepping to the window I opened it to the twilight, where a coppersmith bird called, “Now, now, now, now.” A rush of air hit my temples. Right then, I wanted a spread of stars above me, the warm satin of Mullicka’s withers moving under my hands.
I skimmed the chamber, finding nothing upon which to rest my eyes: Adi waiting patiently, Diana’s parted lips. I avoided her—soon that sweetness would turn startled, draw back in alarm as though she’d seen a snake. Damn that gloss of innocence that made men heroes, damn, damn, damn.
She whispered, her voice aching, “Adi, he’s going to leave.”
“Captain.” Adi spread his hands in a plea. “Whatever happened … in Karachi—you’ve got to put it behind you.”
A cuckoo’s seductive call sang in the boughs outside, promising a monsoon downpour.
Diana said, “Jim.”
It stopped me there, that word, held me at the window. What was that note in her voice? Head bowed, I heard it again, an aching sound, regret and more, a word draped in emotion. Jim. Not Captain, just my name.
I pulled in a breath. “Diana.”
We had finally moved beyond Captain and Miss. All right, I thought, so be it. I did not stand a chance with her, never had. But there was something between us and if she was to know me, she must know what demons drove me. Perhaps that was well. I’d seen her awe of the army, the chivalry of uniforms and rank—romantic notions all, illusions. So I would tell her, and lose her. My throat thick and dry, I asked, “Why does it matter?”
“Secrets are like serpents, Jim. They grow in the dark.” Her matter-of-fact tone wrung a chuckle from me. What a talent the girl had, of charm and humor. She wanted to know what happened—but could she bear the weight of it?
Eyes wide and earnest she said, “Courage, Jim. It will be all right.”
Courage. I winced and said, “It will change things.”
It would change everything. But Diana urged me on, steadfast. All right then. Leaning back, I said, “Fifteen years ago, some tribes in the Frontier province banded together. You’ve heard of the battle of Maiwand, in eighty?”
Adi looked up sharply. “You were at Maiwand?”
“I was a groom, for the officers’ horses. My first campaign, with the Gurkha Infantry.”
“Go on,” said Diana softly.
“The Afghans won at Maiwand, but two thousand were killed or wounded. We lost nine hundred, our worst defeat in decades. Most were Bombay boys. The next year we backed the tribes into a corner at Kandahar, forced them into a treaty … but they’ve broken it, again and again, over the years. Two years ago, my regiment returned to the Afghan Frontier. We had a few skirmishes, lost ground in ninety, and retreated for the winter. I was with Smith and my cavalry company then, pulling back to … Karachi, where our ships waited.”
Adi said, “At dinner, Major Smith said you saved his life.”
Again that illusion of heroism. Time I set it right.
“Not true. Smith and I led the advance guard, riding ahead to the port. His horse lost a shoe, stumbled and threw him. Smith landed hard, tore his knee. The horse was lame, so we bound Smith up, got him behind me on Mullicka. We rode slowly, each step jarred Smith, the pain quite bad. Went through Scinde, a wild countryside, feared ambush at every turn. Nine horses, clipping along, too slow, too loud, could be heard for miles. So I stayed with Smith and a scout, and sent the others on ahead to the port.”
At the time this had seemed a good compromise, a simple solution. Whom had I put in charge? Rashid? Suri? I couldn’t remember.
I went on, “The company was ambushed—Afridis, an Afghan tribe, cut them off. Fired on them as they rode in. Would have got Smith and me too, except we heard the shots as we entered the city. I remember blood.… Smith was ble
eding. I sent the scout back on Mullicka to alert the column behind us. Smith and I took shelter.”
Now the hard part. There was no escaping it.
“Those Pathan soldiers killed my troop. I heard our chaps return fire. Heard them scream. Didn’t know what was happening … my friends … Jeet, Pathak, Suri, Rashid Khan. Were the Pathans trying to lure me out? We stayed down, hid.”
I turned away. There, I’d said it. No need to describe their agony, the shots, shouts, cries, while I remained safe in a lean-to on the outskirts.
After a moment Adi asked softly, “How did you get out?”
I leaned against the desk, hands clenched on its edge, remembering.
“We waited. Too long. I waited too long.” I winced at the memory of pain. Wasn’t that my choice, to stay with Smith or to leave him? “Worked my way to the lads. Too late. They were surrounded … broke through.…”
This was a blur in my memory, fragments of fast action. Unable to face Diana, I went on. “Found some of my lads, dead. Searched for the others. Three days later the column caught up, found Smith and me.”
Why had I chosen Smith, my English officer, over the lads? I could not explain it, yet I must have done that, for they were dead, while he and I lived. It haunted my dreams—the sound, the taste of fear—acrid, numbing. Unable to think, cringing from it, I had taken too long to reach my friends. A sheen of tears glistened on Diana’s cheek. Did she pity me? Did she see me as something broken, now?
“Your first command?” asked Adi.
“No. Smith was the senior officer. I was his second.” I groaned as regret choked me, “Don’t you see? I should have been with them, my company—I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Should have left someone with Smith, and gone with them. There had to be some way to prevent that … slaughter.”
Adi said, “If you’d gone, Captain, you’d be dead too.”
“Perhaps.” I searched Diana’s face, expecting reserve, even revulsion. She looked puzzled.
Adi’s jaw clenched, but only sympathy shone upon his face, no trace of that judgement I dreaded. “You survived. Both of you,” he said.
