Devil's Wind (11 page)

At the Club the ladies talked. Mrs. Crowther, of course, had her word to say about the manner in which things were being managed, or mismanaged.

“Really Captain Morton seemed to think he had nothing to do but enjoy himself in camp,” she remarked. “I should say he would be better employed in looking after his wife. If ever I saw a young woman who required it more—well,
montrez me la
—that is all. And after idling in a tent for a month, he comes back and makes the most outrageous insinuations with regard to his old regiment, and makes them to its Colonel. I had hard work to restrain the Colonel—hard work, I assure you.”

She spoke to meek Mrs. Marsh, and to Miss Darcy, the doctor's elderly sister.

“Oh, Mrs. Crowther!” breathed the former.

“And what did he say?” asked Miss Darcy in her sensible voice.

The secrets of the Council chamber were evidently no secrets from Colonel Crowther's better half.

“He asked—he actually dared to ask— if Colonel Crowther had full confidence in his men.”

Miss Darcy had no tact. “And has he?” she inquired bluntly.

Mrs. Marsh's exclamation this time was, “Oh, Miss Darcy!”

“He has. We both have. The most perfect confidence.”

“Such a comfort,” said Mrs. Marsh, “and my husband has too.”

She raised her head a little, displaying a shade of very modest pride.

Mrs. Elliot came languidly out of the library. She and Helen Wilmot had been choosing books together. She stood a moment by Mrs. Marsh's chair, and inquired:

“What has your husband got? Not fever, I hope?”

Her clear voice always seemed to have a tinge of mockery in it.

Mrs. Marsh bridled perceptibly.

“My husband has confidence in his men,” she repeated.

“Reciprocal, I hope.”

Mrs. Elliot threw a sideways glance at Miss Wilmot, but Helen looked away. She did not consider Mrs. Marsh fair game.

“Oh, yes,” murmured that poor lady, and Mrs. Crowther took up her parable again.

“My husband says that the rumours from Delhi and Meerut are probably grossly exaggerated.”

Mrs. Elliot sank into a chair and fanned herself.

“Of course, if Colonel Crowther says so,” she murmured.

“Of course. If half a dozen women and children were killed, it is the outside of what happened. It is absurd to talk of massacre. Most exaggerated.”

“H'm!” observed Miss Darcy. “When I am killed I shall expect it to be called a massacre, even if I am the only one.”

“A mere half-dozen casualties,” said Mrs. Crowther, with a spark in her light eyes, “a mere half-dozen, scarcely merits that designation. I entirely discredit the extremely unlikely reports that are being circulated. I do not believe there was torture. I decline to admit the probability of mutilation.”

“Oh, Mrs. Crowther!” said pale Mrs. Marsh.

Confidence, or no confidence, her nightly dreams were full of horrors, and her thoughts flew to the two limp, unattractive children, whom Mrs. Elliot had first dubbed the “Marsh Mallows.”

“Some of the tales are pretty circumstantial,” said Miss Darcy. “Now, that one of the sergeant's wife at Meerut—”

Miss Darcy had stout nerves. She told the story in a brisk and matter-of-fact way.

After a moment Helen Wilmot got up and walked away. At the farther end of the long Club verandah she found Mrs. Monson sitting by herself, and dropped into a chair beside her.

“What is it, my dear?” asked Lizzie Monson.

“Those women. They are enough to make one swear—yes, they are. There they sit, all pretending not to be frightened, and telling one another the most perfectly horrible tales—too horrible to be repeated.”

“I wonder if they are too horrible to be true,” said Lizzie Monson.

There was a gentle distance in her look, and her voice had an absent tone. Then without any warning she put her head down on her knees, and began to sob, very quietly, but in a tired-out hopeless way.

“I have pretended too,” she said very low. “Oh, Helen, it's all we can do for the men—pretend, pretend, so that they sha'n't know that we know; but I can't go on, I can't go on. She's so far away, my little Meg, and I can't go to her, and I couldn't leave James.”

Helen squeezed the poor mother's shaking hand in both of hers.

“Oh, she must be safe—she will be safe,” she said. “God won't let her be hurt—not Megsie Lizzie. She is so dear”; and the two women kissed, and leaned together.

The sound of a tinkling instrument startled them. Helen went to the corner of the verandah and looked round it. What she saw did not please her very much.

Adela, in her long grey riding-dress and broad grey hat, was sitting in a cane chair, with young Jelland fanning her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her chestnut curls hung down over the white collar of her habit.

At her feet sat Mr. Purslake, pulling at the strings of a banjo. He had been home the year before and had caught the prevailing American craze. He twanged out a catchy tune, and sang:

“In South Car'lina de darkies go—

Sing song Kitty can't you ki me oh!

Dat's whar de white folk plant de tow,

Sing song Kitty can't you ki me oh!”

Adela's soft laugh rang out, and she shook back her curls, and looked over Mr. Jelland's shoulder to where Carrie Crowther sat at a little distance, with her large china blue eyes fixed upon the group.

“Now the chorus, Mr. Purslake,” she said, and Mr. Purslake wagged his head, and sang:

“Keemo, kimo, dar oh whar,

Wid my hi, my ho, an' in come Sally singing,

Some time pennywinkle, ling turn nip cat,

Sing song Kitty can't you ki me oh!”

Helen came forward, and Adela turned to her.

“Mr. Purslake is so amusing to-day,” she said. “Oh, and, Helen, what do you think Mr. Jelland has been telling me? You remember Frank Manners? Well, I always did say he was odd, and so did poor mamma.”

“Did you?” said Miss Wilmot rather coldly.

“You know I did, and it shows how right I was. Why, he has become quite a native, Mr. Jelland says. And he takes opium dreadfully. Mr. Jelland says he will kill himself if he goes on. They call him the Rao Sahib now, just fancy, and he lives with his uncle at Cawnpore—no, that place near it—but he won't be friends with any of the English, though the Nana Sahib is. He pretends to hate English people, and if that isn't odd!”

Young Jelland coloured a little. He was rather afraid of Miss Wilmot.

Mr. Purslake twanged the strings of his banjo again.

“Sing song Kitty can't you ki me oh!” he sang.

CHAPTER XI

HOW MAY WENT OUT

The wind of the East came out of the East

And brought a bane, It blew a madness into the blood,

And a madness into the brain.

It blew a curse between race and race,

Between man and man. The wind of the East came out of the East

And blew upon Hindustan.

May drew to a close.

In Lucknow, Sir Henry Lawrence, the Chief Commissioner of Oude, was fortifying the Muchee Bhowan, and laying in stores.

In Cawnpore, Sir Hugh Wheeler had finished his fatal entrenchment, and the women and children were ordered into it.

In all the smaller stations, commissioners and deputy commissioners followed these two examples to the best of their ability.

Christian at Seetapore collected all the noncombatants into his own house; others did what they thought best.

Richard Morton wrote to headquarters that in event of trouble he had arranged with Maun Singh, the local Rajah, to receive the ladies and children into his fort.

“I have thought it wisest,” he added, “to base this request upon my apprehensions of a riot during the festivities connected with the Eed. We want all our prestige at present.”

Contrary to expectation, however, the Mohammedan festival of the Eed passed off quietly on May 20th.

Once again Richard Morton agreed with Captain Blake that things were too quiet. There was, for instance, no friction between Hindus and Mohammedans, such as is apt to arise on a day of festival.

Captain Morton would have been decidedly better pleased if there had been a moderate riot—a few Hindu heads cracked by Mohammedan sticks, a few Mohammedan turbans knocked off by angry Hindus.

But now all was peace. Even the local bone of contention, a Hindu temple said to have been built over the tomb of a Moslem saint, evoked on this occasion no angry recriminations, no controversy of rival religions. All was peace. It is very quiet when men are holding their breath.

May went out and June came in. On the morning of the second of June, Fatehshah Khan, Extra Assistant Commissioner, rode out very early. He was by way of copying English manners. Captain Morton rode out early. Mr. Jelland rode out early. Fatehshah Khan therefore did the same.

He rode alone, having dispensed with the attendance of his sais, and presently leaving the dusty, grass-bordered Mall, he came out upon the Cawnpore road.

Early though it was, the road was full enough. Those who journey through Oude in June make what speed they may before the sun is high.

Grass cutters were coming in, with bundles of parched-looking grass upon their heads. A bullock cart lumbered slowly along, raising clouds of the choking dust, or an ekka jingled briskly past, drawn by a dried-up pony, whose projecting bones and sore flanks were scarcely atoned for by an elaborate adornment of blue and white beads.

The mails went by at a gallop, leaving a dense cloud behind. Fatehshah Khan covered his mouth with his hand, and rode through the cloud. Beyond it, under a big tamarisk tree, a blind man with horrible white eyeballs sat swaying to and fro. He wore dirty white clothes, and his beard was dyed a flaming red with henna. As he rocked, he sang in a high and nasal voice that quavered from one false note to another.

“Who goes to Salon?” he chanted, beating the dusty ground with the palms of his hands.

“Who goes to Karra or Hilsa?

“Who goes to Bihar or Bukhara?

“Pir Mohammed is in Salon.

“Shaikh Karrak is in Karra.

“And at Hilsa is the tomb of Jaman Shah Madari!

“Who cares for Muner or Ajmere,

“When a greater saint is here?

“For the Zinda Shah Madar—

“He is buried in Makanpore,

“A shining light, and a holy delight,

“And he whom the Maker will hold in favour,

“He comes to the shrine of Madar.”

Fatehshah Khan drew rein as he heard the first words of the blind man's song. He rode very slowly towards him, and when the final quaver had died away, and the devotee, with a kind of inward groan, was drawing breath for a fresh effort, he interposed.

“Ai Madari,” he said, “salaam”; and the blind man gave the greeting back again.

“I too have been at Makanpore,” said Fatehshah Khan.

The blind man rocked in the dust.

“Who goes to Salon?” he began.

“Who goes to Karra or Hilsa?”

Fatehshah Khan stopped him.

“The road is empty, brother,” he said, and the madari ceased his song, and spoke in a rapid, hissing whisper.

“Who comes to the shrine of Madar?”

“Brother, I have been there.”

“Brother, what did you seek?”

“I sought the living saint.”

“For him who sought the living saint, I have a message.”

Fatehshah Khan bent from his saddle.

“From whom is the message, Madari?” he asked.

The blind man rocked in the dust. As he rocked he spoke:

“The message is from Azimullah Khan. The message is from the Nana Sahib's vakil.”

“And what is the message, O Madari?”

“This is the message. Thus says Azimullah Khan, ‘When the house burns, what does the wise man do?'”

Fatehshah Khan looked up and down the long white road. There was a little cloud of dust very far away. He looked at it, and smoothed his close black beard.

“Does the house burn?” he asked.

And the blind man answered, rocking still:

“It burns. On Sunday the burning began. Yesterday it continued. To-morrow there will be much flame—much flame and the burning ash that carries the flame abroad. What then does the wise man do?”

“He leaves the burning house,” said Fatehshah Khan, and he threw silver into the blind man's lap, and rode back along the way that he had come.

A little later, on that same morning, Captain Morton sat in his office, writing.

What he wrote was his daily bulletin to headquarters, and he had nothing very cheerful to say.

The air was very hot, and Richard had taken off his light coat, and flung it down upon the matted floor.

At a second table Mr. Jelland was occupied over some papers, and in the outer office sat Fatehshah Khan. He did not appear to be very busy, for he sat and stared out of the window. Presently a chuprassi came in, and stood salaaming.

Fatehshah Khan got up, spoke to the man, and then went into the inner office, where he addressed the Deputy Commissioner in his stiff correct English.

“Sir, there is a kossid from Rajah Maun Singh.”

“Who has come? His agent?”

“No, sir. A servant—a runner. He has brought a letter.”

Richard frowned. His pen travelled mechanically. He was expecting the Rajah's agent. A burden of defenceless lives weighed on him day and night. The red and dreadful streets of Meerut rose in his dreams. The tale of the Delhi murders rang in his ears. He had made up his mind to place all the women and children under Maun Singh's protection. The obligations of Oriental hospitality are inviolable. With the women and children safe, he could face and meet any development, however grave.

He took the Rajah's letter, opened it, and pencil in hand, followed the lines of flowery compliment with which it began.

Suddenly he looked up, his jaw rigid.

“Wait outside,” he said sharply to the chuprassi who had brought the letter in. “Wait outside, and shut the door. Is all the heat to come in?”

When the man had obeyed, Captain Morton looked down again at the flimsy sheet of paper, with its strange twisted writing, and read it from beginning to end.

When he had finished he looked up.

“Jelland,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rajah Maun Singh writes that a most unlucky accident has befallen him. Part of the wall of his fort has fallen in. He will therefore be unable to receive the ladies, as arranged.”

Richard Morton had addressed young Jelland, but he looked at his native assistant, and it was Fatehshah Khan who answered him.

“Oh, sir, this is a great misfortune,” he observed, and Captain Morton's face hardened.

“Do you know what it means?”

“I, sir? Oh, certainly not, sir!”

“It is an excuse, of course. But why? There has been no fresh development—or has there? Have you heard anything?”

“Sir, there are always rumours.”

“Ah—and what is the latest rumour, Fatehshah Khan?”

“I have no knowledge, sir. Rumours are beneath notice of the educated. Only the common people believe them.”

“And Rajah Maun Singh,” said Richard sharply.

“Oh, sir!” Fatehshah Khan's contempt for the Hindu landowner was admirable.

“These Rajahs are very ignorant men—quite uncultivated. They have no education. Every bazaar rumour is the truth to them. Maun Singh is quite illiterate person, sir. That without doubt is why he says the wall of his fort has fallen down.”

Fatehshah Khan went back to the outer office, and Captain Morton sat very still for perhaps ten minutes. Then he finished his official despatch and pushed it across the table.

“Send that off, Jelland. The man is waiting. Oh—and by the way, just ask Fatehshah Khan to go over to Elliot's house and see him about that fire in the Police lines last night. I thought he would have been round, but I suppose he is busy.”

Mr. Jelland mopped a pink, perspiring brow, and did his errands.

When he returned, Captain Morton inquired without raising his head:

“Fatehshah Khan gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then just close the door into the outer office, Jelland.”

Mr. Jelland did so, and then sat down on the edge of the office table.

“I say, sir, this is bad,” he said in an uneasy undertone.

“It's not good,” said Richard, still writing.

“What will you do now? Imagine Maun Singh playing us such a trick!”

“It is an accomplished fact, my dear boy. Imagination is not needed.”

“Now I wonder why he did it,” said young Jelland.

“I am afraid I know why.”

“What?”

Captain Morton looked up. His face was very set.

“I've had my bearer fifteen years. This morning he told me that there was a bazaar rumour that the troops at Shahjehanpore had mutinied and killed every soul in the place.”

“Good Lord! Do you think it's true?”

“I think something has happened.”

“But when—”

“Sunday, they say, when every one was at church.”

“But it's not possible that the news could have travelled so fast; it's a hundred miles as the crow flies.”

“Ill news travels apace. I've known it come faster than that.”

Mr. Jelland sank his voice to a whisper.

“D' you think Fatehshah Khan—”

Richard Morton gave a short laugh.

“Oh, yes. He knew. Can't you see when a man's lying, my dear boy?”

“Oh, Lord!” said young Jelland.

Richard laid down his pen.

“I'm afraid I sent him off on rather a flimsy pretext, but it was all I could think of. I wanted to talk to you. Will you go round at once to Colonel Crowther, Major Marsh, and all the other married men?—here's the full list—and say I think all women and children should remove to my house. I propose putting on a guard composed half of Sikhs—the other half to consist partly of Mohammedans and partly of low-caste Hindus—no Brahmins. A Police picket in Monson's compound. Then in case of a mutinous outbreak on the part of the troops, the ladies can fall back upon the ravine behind my house, and get across it into the jungle. Should the worst come to the worst they could strike the road three-quarters of a mile up, by the old bridge, and get away to Cawnpore.”

“D' you think it is going to come to that, Morton?”

Young Jelland's pink face was very much sobered.

“Let us hope not,” said Captain Morton at his curtest, and he returned to his writing.

Mr. Jelland came back very hot indeed. He was also very angry.

“They won't budge,” he declared.

He threw down his hat, and mopped himself.

“Lord, it is hot! They won't move a yard. They've all got absolute confidence in dear John's, or dear Charles's, or dear something or other's men, and wouldn't show any distrust for the world. It might hurt somebody's tender feelings.”

“Good Lord, man, I didn't tell you to see the women!”

“Well,”—Mr. Jelland got some shades pinker—“well, sir, I saw Colonel Crowther, and he seemed to think he wouldn't be able to remember to take his liver tonic, if Mrs. Crowther weren't there to give it to him, and then Mrs. Crowther came in, and wanted to know if you were aiming a deliberate insult at your old corps, and all the rest of it, so I came away, and went and saw Major Marsh.”

“Well?”

“Very stuffy. Very huffy. All in his stiff polite way. Felt quite equal to protecting his own wife in his own house, by the aid of his own men in whom he had the completest, etc. You'd have thought I was asking the lady to elope. Give you my word you would. I felt a dashed fool, so I came away from there, and dropped in on the old Sergeant-Major, and he said his wife had just had a baby. Yesterday, it appears. Nice, pretty little thing she is too—Mrs. Jones, I mean, not the infant. I used to dance with her at the Sergeants' dances at Cawnpore. Little Lou Canning she was, and why she married old Jones—well, anyhow, she can't move, and old Jones said in his most apoplectic manner, ‘The Colonel's lady would have my life, sir, if I let her go. She would indeed, sir.'”

Richard Morton drummed on the table.

“Fewer reminiscences if you don't mind, Jelland. This is serious.”

“Yes, sir, I know. Well, the upshot is that Mrs. Elliot will come round to-morrow, and perhaps Mrs. Hill too. Her husband has got fever—badly—and she doesn't know if he can move. Miss Darcy hummed and hawed. She would and she wouldn't, but I think she'd come if she didn't think her character for strong-mindedness would be imperilled. I didn't see Darcy. He was out.”