A Far Horizon (19 page)

E
mily Drake approached St Ann’s Church in her palanquin. Its wounded spire seemed to encapsulate all that awaited her within. Each Sunday the same reluctance overtook her. She must force herself towards the open door of the church, her eyes on the deep and shadowy interior, as if she looked down the throat of an animal. The sun blazed upon her before the gloom of the church swallowed her abruptly. At her entrance there was a brief halting of voices, a suspension of movement. In the silence Emily Drake heard the hollow clack of her shoes as she made her way down the aisle. She did not have the arrogance to shrug defiantly; she had not acquired such learning upon her father’s indigo farm. She moved in separateness and had done so since she was a child, a stranger in her own world. Observing her, people saw an intensity from which they recoiled. They were aware of something concealed. Her silence was disconcerting, and behind it lay a history different from their own. They watched her for the defenceless moment, for the crack that would expose. This knowledge swam in Emily Drake as she placed her hand on the rail of the pew and arranged her skirts demurely. She sat alone, the veil pulled forward over her bonnet. Roger had declined to come. He made the excuse of the Council of War and the emergency work this involved. There was a rustle of movement
behind her as the congregation followed her lead and took their seats. Mrs Bellamy and her daughter Anna across the aisle inclined their heads politely. Mrs Mapletoft, so pregnant she rested her hymnbook upon her unborn child, looked up and then away. Mrs Mackett, also pregnant, pushed her mouth to smile. A difference she could not explain set her apart from these women. And, unable also to explain it, they tore at her outlandish marriage like dogs tear at raw meat.

The Chaplain entered with a smile, sermon notes and Bible tucked under his arm. When at last he reached the pulpit and surveyed his congregation, the Reverend Bellamy saw a large number of
parishioners
were absent. He noted the presence of the Governor’s wife and the absence of her husband. His eyes rested a moment upon Emily Drake. She sat before him attentively, yet he was left with the image of something untamed. She was country born; everyone knew this. For people like Emily, born to the sun and the frangipani, to the screeching of parakeets and the smoke of the burning ghat, the shocking heathenism of India appeared of no consequence. She might hold herself apart from the heathen world like everyone else, but there was the suspicion that beneath the surface India had touched her in some fatal way. Bellamy cleared his throat and frowned. Whatever disturbed him about the Governor’s wife was thankfully shut away. And let it always remain so, thought the Chaplain, looking beyond her to the back of the church.

In the empty pews the pious few of White Town stuck up like old teeth in empty gums. If it were not for a large group of Eurasians, the church would have appeared quite bare. Most people were home, foraging for food or carrying water from the well. The problem of nightsoil continued to plague. Through a stained-glass window a shaft of coloured light poured down. The other windows of St Ann’s were devoid of glass and, but for louvred green shutters, stood open to the elements. The elevation of the pulpit brought the Chaplain level with these windows. As it was still early, the tatties were rolled
tightly up, giving the Reverend Bellamy a view of Omichand’s house and its extensive grounds.

As Siraj Uddaulah drew nearer Calcutta, Reverend Bellamy had decided to preach on John 10:11, ‘I am the good shepherd.’ He had considered a sermon from I Corinthians 1:23–24 on ‘Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumbling block, and unto the Greeks foolishness.’ The sermon notes had begun, ‘Now let me burn out for God.’ He had the feeling it would do nothing to calm the present situation of heightening nervousness. The good shepherd would set the right tone.

As soon as the Chaplain began to speak and his sermon rolled effortlessly forth, his thoughts sank to the ground beneath his feet. This area of the church stood over the end of his cellar and his best casks of wine. He was directly above the prime vintage of 1746, a splendid year for claret. The Madeira beside it was no more than a tolerable breed which the Chaplain kept for picnics, fêtes and boating expeditions, events of a particularly gregarious nature where wine was not tasted but only drunk. On such occasions, once past the first drink when the brain became heated, any quality of wine was acceptable. Now, with the approach of Siraj Uddaulah, he was filled with anxiety for his cellar. If Calcutta surrendered there would be looting. If they were forced to evacuate to the boats, how would his wine be transported? These fears now kept him awake at night.

It was while he was dually employed in this manner, his thoughts running subterraneously while his words on God spewed forth, that his eyes became fixed upon Omichand’s house. A squadron of soldiers from the Fort William garrison was marching down The Avenue, muskets and brass buttons gleaming in the sun, red coats like a streak of fire. With a shout of orders and a clanking of arms, the soldiers halted at Omichand’s gate. Several empty bullock carts followed behind the squadron. The gates swung open and the soldiers and carts disappeared within.

‘Let us pray,’ Reverend Bellamy announced as the gates closed on the Fort William men.

When, once more, the Chaplain raised his head it was to see the gates swinging open again. Omichand’s great carriage, especially built for his immense proportions, had been brought around to the door. The fat merchant waddled from his house and was helped awkwardly down the steps. A thin, bearded man followed behind whom Bellamy realised must be the nobleman Kishindas. Omichand ordered his armed guard to stand back. The Fort William soldiers swarmed closely around both men. Omichand’s servants pushed about this tight cordon, trying to attend their master. Eventually the merchant climbed into his carriage, Kishindas behind him. For some moments they waited as many iron-bound boxes of the type used to hold money or valuables were loaded on to the bullock carts. Then, at last, Omichand’s horses moved forward and the procession started back up The Avenue towards the East Gate of Fort William.

In the upper windows of Omichand’s mansion his women and children crowded together and cried. The sounds of distress reached the Chaplain’s ears as he craned his neck from the pulpit. Below, in the pews, the congregation had not the advantage of the Chaplain’s elevated view. They looked up to find him distracted, calling for hymns or prayers in a preoccupied way, his gaze riveted on the outside world. Emily Drake turned to look up at the windows, as did the rest of the congregation, and saw nothing but the sky.

Unaware that the arrest of the merchant was a charade,
consternation
was great in Omichand’s house. His armed guard, rendered helpless by their master’s own orders, felt free to act once the soldiers were beyond the gates. They immediately opened fire. The Fort William soldiers ducked quickly for cover. They piled into the compound of St Ann’s, hiding behind the wall. From there they returned a spirited volley, their muskets crackling heatedly.

Within the church the sound of guns took the congregation by surprise. Even the Chaplain, closely following events from his elevated perch, had not expected a fight. His parishioners, awash with pious thought, concentrating upon their prayers and hymns and the physical labour of kneeling and standing, knew nothing of the
proceedings in Omichand’s house. The crack of guns for them could only be linked to the nawab’s army. It was presumed Siraj Uddaulah had arrived.

The shocked silence lasted only a moment, then the women began to scream. Mrs Mackett held her belly and rocked about. The Eurasians rose and rushed as one towards the door of the bell-tower. Lady Russell looked wildly about, opening and shutting her mouth. Several gentlemen of White Town stood up and sat down and stood up again in confusion. Mrs Bellamy and Anna fell to their knees. A great noise now filled the church.

From the pulpit Reverend Bellamy raised his voice ineffectively. His words of reassurance could not be heard amidst the general hysteria. The Eurasians only added to the din by drumming dementedly upon the locked door of the bell-tower. At last the Chaplain picked up his Bible and thumped it until the sound was heard.

‘The firing comes from Omichand’s house. The merchant has been arrested. It has nothing to do with the nawab. He is still some distance from Calcutta.’

Slowly the tumult quietened. Mrs Mapletoft and Mrs Mackett sat down, their twin domes of fruitfulness an instant reminder that the future must be considered. The Eurasians trooped back to their pews. The church door was opened and it was seen that although the soldiers still crouched outside, their muskets were now lowered. Yet even when seated once again, the congregation shifted uneasily. Before such agitation the Reverend Bellamy was helpless; God seemed entirely forgotten. A narrow gallery ascended to by a stair ran below the windows. To this vantage point the congregation now made their way, to determine for themselves the truth of the Chaplain’s words. They stood pressed against the windows, looking down into Omichand’s house. What they were now obliged to see was never to be forgotten.

To the thirteen women who were Omichand’s wives, the emergency heralded their end. Their master had been arrested in
such a manner by the Hatmen that his death appeared sure. Above all, one thing was apparent to Omichand’s women: at the very moment of Siraj Uddaulah’s arrival they had been left defenceless. For all they knew, the nawab was already encamped on the edge of town. Any woman falling into the hands of Moors must prepare for rape, murder or abduction. Hysteria swept through Omichand’s house faster than a fire. His women, in their panic, thought only to save themselves and their husband’s honour.

Under the protection of a trusted servant, the women trooped out into the garden. Thirteen women and three children walked in a docile file behind the old man to a coconut grove. There they formed a submissive row before the ancient servant. Without hesitation the first woman, who was also Omichand’s senior wife, stepped forward. The old man drew his dagger from his sash and, raising it high, plunged it deep into her heart. She fell without a sound. As she slumped to the ground a second woman stepped forward. As she fell the next silently appeared before the faithful servant. Again and again he plunged down his dagger until the slaughter was over. Only the children lacked courage, and they were chased to their ends.

It took some moments for the White Town onlookers to understand the nature of events. Only the Chaplain, still resident in his pulpit and having seen the earlier enactment, comprehended something of the proceedings.

‘Dear God. Stop, I beg you. They are innocent creatures, even if they cling to heathen ways.’ Horror and pity tore through the Reverend Bellamy. Not for many years had he beseeched the Lord to listen to him with such a show of vehemence.

The women of the congregation were in no state to absorb further trauma. They twittered like a nest of terrified birds; some began to scream. The White Town men rushed down to the door of the church and peered out again into the street.

Emily Drake stood mesmerised, a cold chill creeping through her. Before her eyes the women were killed one by one, the children cruelly chased and felled. She watched the knife rise and come down
again and again, as if powered by a force beyond that of a simple servant. She was unable to understand the terrible energy suddenly let loose. The scene was like a murderous pageant enacted on a stage. At any moment she expected the women to pick themselves up and wipe off the shocking stains. Instead, they lay unmoving. From behind a fan of plantains came the shriek of petrified children. Emily drew back from the window, a cry smothered in her throat. India was a cruel country where death was commonplace, yet she knew this scene would unfurl in her mind over and over again.

When at last she returned to Fort William she went immediately in search of her child, as if to reassure herself that the assault upon her senses lay far beyond her own life. She found Harry in his cradle as she had left him, his wet nurse in attendance. Along with Parvati and one old servant, the woman had stayed while the rest of the Fort William staff ran away. She was affectionate to Harry and sang to him constantly while he gazed up raptly into her face. Watching the wet nurse, Emily struggled with resentment at seeing Harry so attached to the woman.

As Emily bent over the cradle, the baby stirred. The movement brought colour into his cheeks and filled her with relief. He was not ill and yet his small face had the translucence of alabaster, so pale and unstirring it frightened her. In spite of the heat, his tiny hands and feet were always unnaturally cold. As she watched, Harry began to thrash about, his arms flailing like a windmill. The red orifice of his tiny mouth expanded to great proportions.

Emily picked him up but he struggled in her arms. It was always the same. Some nights she walked for hours with him, attempting unsuccessfully to soothe him. She did not like the wet nurse to constantly attend him, fearing he would forget it was
she
who was his mother. But now his agitation grew to such a pitch, Emily was forced to summon the woman. She took him in her thin dark arms and immediately Harry quietened. Emily was left feeling diminished, staring angrily after the woman. The sight of her child at the
woman’s breast always affected her deeply. There was the irritating clink of bangles as she rocked the baby.

It was only fear for her child that had forced Emily to keep a wet nurse. ‘In this country, if you want a child to live, it must be nursed by a native woman for at least a year or more,’ Lady Russell had commanded. It was she who had sent the woman. ‘They themselves nurse a child until five or six, but this to me is excessive.’ Her advice could not be denied, for she had outlived three husbands and borne a brood of children in India, most of whom survived. Yet whenever Emily observed the wet nurse, she saw the shadow of the woman’s own infant, of whom she knew nothing. The milk Harry drank had been made for a different child. To ensure that Harry might live, that child would have dwindled and died or, if it were a girl, been put down like a newborn kitten. To Emily the ghost of that dead child hung about the wet nurse, like a face glimpsed fleetingly in a dark mirror. None of this seemed to bother the woman, but only Emily Drake.