Nightrunners of Bengal (29 page)

The others joined in; Rodney listened with half an ear and threw in a word here and a question there to keep them talking, just as though their clownish pretences really interested him. All the while he was sharply alert in himself, and thinking competently. May the twenty-sixth today: the monsoon would break on Gondwara about June the twentieth. He’d better allow a week’s latitude and get there by the thirteenth at the very latest. The enemy would probably attack on the twenty-third because of Plassey. Since arriving in Chalisgon he had had time to think, and the more he thought the more the importance of the battle to be fought for Gondwara impressed him.

The city was old, rich, famous, and an important religious centre. It was the last city before the border of Bombay Presidency, and it had once belonged to the Rajahs of Kishanpur. It was the site of a ford across the Nerbudda River which could be used all year except during the monsoon;
the Nerbudda was unbridged throughout its length as far as he knew, and the other fords and ferries were not so important.

He looked at his hands, and the rifle in them, the weapon of a common soldier. His trousers were torn, and his shirt dirty; he shaved every day with a piece of glass picked up on the roadside; he had no sword or silver accoutrements or silver blazon; his hands were scarred and thin and the fingernails edged with black. But he rode on a desperate mission; if empires ever hung on one man’s skill and courage, this English empire hung on his. He had not thought his great day would be like this, and glowered under his eyebrows at the naked savages round him, and the women, and the smoky ceiling.

To work; he had to think. Here in Chalisgon they were about a hundred and twenty miles from Gondwara. If they set out tomorrow night, the twenty-seventh, they should get there by the third or fourth of June. That would give Sir Hector ample warning, and time to make his plans for dealing with the Bengal regiments of the garrison. The general would be wise to hold his hand until the last moment; then he’d have to root out treason, and disarm and execute them all. It would be a pleasant duty to watch and supervise.

Everything was clear at last. He’d explain to Caroline as soon as he got an opportunity. In the house the headman or his fat wife eavesdropped of course, through the walls. He’d think of some excuse to get her outside.

She had left the other two women and come over to the men’s circle; the villagers were used to her ways by now and made room for her. At first they had been so dumbfounded that they lost their faculties and couldn’t understand her simplest words. Now they were pretending to be pleased to answer her questions.

She said, “Do any of you know the Silver Guru?”

The priest said, “The Silver Guru of Bhowani? Yes, indeed, miss-sahiba, I know him well. All our people revere
him. He is a great teacher and a holy man. He has travelled through here once or twice in the past year.”

Rodney eyed them narrowly. They really believed the Silver Guru was holy, and would follow wherever he led. He wanted to shout out that their wonderful Guru was an Englishman and the dirtiest traitor in history; but Caroline caught his eye and very slightly shook her head. She was right of course; what use to tell them when they were already committed to the enemy? He’d do better to keep his mouth shut and pretend he knew nothing.

He’d thought of an idea to get Caroline alone and turned to say politely, “Headman, I’ll go out again tomorrow and kill a deer or two for the village, if you like.”

They all froze. But he wasn’t going to give them another chance to send an assassin with him, and he added quickly, “I won’t need anyone to come with me, except the miss-sahiba—if you’ll send some men up the stream and across, to drive the deer down towards me.”

They relaxed, and the headman said in a trembly voice, “Certainly, sahib. We will be grateful.” Rodney saw that he was looking at Caroline. Caroline said evenly, “Yes, it is a good idea. I will be with the sahib, all the time.”

Clever girl. Good girl. She’d caught on; she was warning them not to try and murder him alone, because she would be guarding his back. They wouldn’t dare to touch Robin or Mrs. Hatch while he was out for fear of what he would do when he came back; he’d have the rifle.

A woman called from the courtyard, and the headman went out. Rodney waited, caressing the rifle, and when the man returned after five minutes scrutinized his face carefully. There had been a long mumbling out there, and he didn’t like it. The headman squatted down near the priest and whispered to him. The priest pulled at one protuberant ear, frowned, and shrugged his shoulders.

Rodney could not contain himself; he’d startle them into some admission of guilt. He snapped, “What is it? Why do you look worried?”

The headman glanced at the priest before answering. Then he said, “Cholera, sahib. It started yesterday—the night before last. We have been keeping the news from you because we did not want to alarm you. We hoped it would touch lightly and go quickly, as it sometimes does. But now I think it will not pass from us until we have been severely punished. Three have died already, and more are sick. That was another the woman told me of—my father’s brother.”

He stared despondently at the floor. The priest got up and folded his arms. “You had all better leave us at once. It will be dangerous here in a day or two. The air will be foul everywhere.”

Rodney pursed his lips. Perfect! He could tell at once that they were speaking the truth, though of course he’d look at the burning ghats later and make sure. Perfect! The biter bit! The poor superstitious fools believed that the cholera was a punishment for their sin in plotting to murder the refugees. They’d be glad now to see them go, alive. Now he could lead Caroline, Robin, and Amelia Hatch to safety, and leave the village to a fate more dreadful than even he could have devised for it. After that only Piroo would remain to be dealt with.

He said easily, “I’m afraid you’re right. But I’ll kill some deer for you tomorrow before we go. No, no, don’t think of dissuading me. It is the least I can do for you.”

“Thank you, sahib.” The headman had tears in his eyes, and joined his palms in front of him in the gesture with which an Indian acknowledges a great favour and kindness. Rodney forced a yawn, although he could have hugged himself with excitement, and got up to go. Caroline opened her mouth, but this time it was his turn to motion her to be quiet. The poor girl looked ready to faint. He said nonchalantly as he passed by her, “Not now. Tomorrow.”

Then he was in his room, whistling through his teeth and cleaning his rifle by the light of a tallow lamp. He did the things that had been his routine in Chalisgon every night.
He fitted the bayonet on the end; it was more difficult to sleep with the rifle in his arms if the bayonet was fixed, but much easier to deal with a sudden attack by, say, half a dozen men. He peered into the huge wardrobe and prodded about among the hanging pelts with the bayonet. No one there. He had collected stones from the brook the first day; he arranged them in the bed so that they looked like the hump of a body. He lay down in a far corner. Ten minutes later he was asleep.

O
N THE plateau in the dawn the air was translucent and warm, the greys tingeing to gold as the sun rose. There was a brittle dryness in it, and in the trees, and in the crackle of the leaves under their feet. Caroline did not speak on the way up, but looked at the sky and the trees and smelled the morning air, and walked as though it were her last walk.

Soon he found a rocky outcrop from which they could see both ways but were concealed from the south, the direction he expected the deer to come from. He found a flat stone for her to sit on and settled down beside her. There would be no game for an hour yet unless another herd, or a solitary sambhur, crossed the forest in their field of view. He wetted his finger and tested the wind; the air was moving very gently from them towards the beaters. That was bad, but it usually veered when the sun came up. Anyway it must be so loaded here with human smells from the village half a mile behind that perhaps the deer were accustomed to it. Also, as they had not been hunted much, perhaps they would not be alarmed. He looked carefully around—no one in sight.

He turned on Caroline with shining eyes. “At last. We’re in sight of safety. They daren’t try to kill us until the Rani’s army comes, and we’re going to slip off tonight with Piroo and leave them to the cholera. Then, as soon as we’re well on the way, I’ll shoot Piroo, and we’ll be safe. Safe in Gondwara, by the third or fourth of June!”

He smiled down at her; his heart was bounding. She said nothing, but looked at him with huge eyes. He understood; she had been his well of strength and now she was empty, drained by the idea of safety. Safe, safe. He tasted the word and said tenderly, “Cheer up, Caroline. You’ve been so strong—wonderful—but you can rest now. All our enemies are dead or are going to die. Prithvi Chand”—she blinked and turned her head away—“yes, he’s dead, I killed him. And that young devil here they sent out to murder me. There’s only Piroo now, and the rest will die of cholera. God is with us, dear. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

He’d never seen her cry before. Tears crept down her cheek; she looked away still, so that he saw the curve of her cheekbone. The sari lay crumpled on her shoulders; her hair, mat and lifeless, fell in disorder on her neck.

He could not bear it, she was so forlorn and lost. He put one arm carefully round her and comforted her. “There, there, it’s going to be all right.”

She trembled in the crook of his arm. He felt her muscles tighten, her trembling still. Her head came up and round to face him. “Rodney, do you realize that you are insane? Do you know that when you look at people your eyes are like the Dewan’s? Even sometimes when you look at me, or Mrs. Hatch? Anybody—except Robin, or I’d have shot you long ago.” Her voice ached but was steady and firm. “You do know it, don’t you? You see murder and plots where there is only friendship. No one blames you; I felt the same for a little time. But it’s true, isn’t it?”

He let his arm fall and hung his head. So she had been deceived too. He’d have to save them all in spite of them
selves. He’d better humour her for the moment. His eyes widened in surprise and he said, enunciating carefully, “Now come, Caroline, you know that’s a ridiculous notion. You know they’re really traitors, all of them. You’re just trying to keep me from worrying. But it’s you who are overtired now.”

She put one hand on his. “Rodney,
don’t.
Everyone in the village knows you killed that wretched young man. The dogs found his body the next day. His mother’s a widow. She asked the headman to do nothing to you, not even to tell you, because you had been greatly afflicted by God and couldn’t help it.”

He gripped the rifle and stared into the blurring forest. Why didn’t the beaters hurry? Why did her voice ache? Why was it so low?

“They’re risking death in that village for us—every man and woman, every day. They’ve hardly enough food for themselves, and they feed us. Any one of them could be rich for the rest of his life, by telling the Dewan or the sepoys where we are. Piroo’s left his land and house for us. Sitapara’s risked torture, and you wanted to kill her—I knew it, back there in the cart. Prithvi Chand was your friend. What did he tell you before you killed him? Rodney, Rodney, you are so strong; but nothing’s worth the loss of your humanity. Be stronger still, understand that there is love and charity left in the world, and——”

The teak trees swayed and swooped over him. He’d have to knock her down, take her away by force. He lifted alert eyes to her face, ready to strike. Dark grey—the dark grey granite, the liquid shining eyes, the seas, and under them the stone. He couldn’t touch her while her eyes were open.

Tonight after dark there’d come a time—the cart waiting by the stream and the village stilled with death. She was too near God to see the sinfulness of man; the radiance blinded her. He alone could save her, and he wasn’t fit to touch her.

The rifle lay at his feet, the sun shining on the wooden stock, and the bayonet’s needle point buried in leaves. A sambhur belled in the jungle, and again; the clear tones rang down the aisles of trees. A great stag trotted out and across, head up to sniff the tainted air.

She said, “We must stay in Chalisgon and help them fight the cholera.”

He was going to protest, but decided not to. He did not want to give her an inkling of his plan yet.

She went on urgently, kneading his arm with her fingers. “I know how important it is to reach Gondwara, especially for you. But that’s only military duty—national duty, if you like. The war may drag on, and fifty thousand—two hundred and fifty thousand—people die if we don’t get there in time. But that’s a guess, and there’s no guess about what’s happening here in Chalisgon. At Gondwara, victory is a stake; here it’s understanding, love. They’re more important. They’re more important for England too, in the long run. We’ll be risking our lives here, as many unknown servants in unknown places have before us. It’s not showy. No one will ever hear of it. We may all die. But if we’re to be accepted in India it will be because of things like this—not victories or dams or telegraphs or doctors. Don’t you see that
this
is the great thing to do, come to our hands? We can leave something here which will live when all the fighting’s done, and our palaces are ruins, and we’ve gone home, as some day we will. We must stay. We must fight for Chalisgon, not because Chalisgon’s risking everything for us—we are not tradesmen—but because it is right.”

He listened wearily. She wasn’t thinking as human beings had to think if they were to live. A great task had come to their hands—to make the fight at Gondwara a victory; to punish evil and show no mercy—not to die here among thieves. He remembered the trust that had linked him to the sepoys, and them to him; that had been lovely and it had been poisoned, and whoever had done it must be punished. The sepoys must be punished for their weakness. The Silver
Guru was at large, and only Caroline and he knew of his treason; he must be punished, and he would escape unless they reached Gondwara. Caroline was a saint and he could not argue with her. Saints did not feel human emotions; they didn’t laugh, or care about earthly material things—and so men who weren’t saints crucified them. Tonight he’d have to save her. He said, “All right. We’ll stay.”

He heard distant sounds in the jungle to the south and picked up his rifle. Waiting for the spotted deer, he began to think and plan while Caroline sat silent beside him. Get Piroo to prepare the cart in secret? A risk there, but he’d have to take it and trust to the threat of the rifle. Caroline and Mrs. Hatch—pretend to them that they were being attacked? Set fire to the house? Force or guile, he’d think up something.

In the evening he went early to his room, closed the door behind him, and stood listening in the darkness. They were talking still in the front room but not cheerfully. The cholera hung over them, and each man would soon return to his own house. He heard Caroline and Mrs. Hatch go into their room next to his, and listened to the faint shuffling and slithering as they prepared for sleep. It was burning hot, and he tiptoed to the windows and pushed the wooden shutters a little open—it wouldn’t matter tonight. No light from moon or stars pierced the low overcast; outside and in, it was black. The thin sawing of mosquitoes swooped in his ear and penetrated the farthest corners of the room. He tiptoed to the door again, stood with his back to the wardrobe, and strained to listen.

He heard Piroo’s voice, muffled but suddenly loud. “I’m off to sleep now.”

The outer door into the courtyard had been open when he left and would remain so all night. Piroo slept out there among the cattle and goats. If he valued his life he’d do what he had promised—lie quiet until an hour after the last visitor had gone, then secretly yoke the bullocks into the
cart and steal down to the stream. The axles were greased; that Rodney had seen to himself.

He heard the old twins go. A little later the bannia and the priest left together. Afterward the headman and his wife banged about the house and muttered to each other for a minute. The narrow stairs creaked as they climbed up to the roof where they slept.

The blackness and the heat pressed like fingers into his nostrils, and spiders of fear ran webs over his skin.

Not yet, not yet. Piroo wouldn’t start for an hour yet. It must be half-past nine. He couldn’t go without the cart because of Robin. If Piroo played him false? If a gang waited in the lane with axes and sticks? He couldn’t kill all of them. His hands trembled. He’d better creep down and stand over Piroo with a bayonet. The murderers might not wait that long. They might rush this room, and the women’s next door, and come in through the windows. There’d be too many of them. He’d kill a few, then they’d heave and sweat together in the dark, until an axe edge bit into his skull. That would finish it—all the sunlight, Robin’s eyes, the strength in his hands, the wonder of Caroline. There was a stone inside his left boot, wrinkling the muscles of his instep.

A long time passed and his hands never stopped trembling. He’d had a plan to get Caroline away but he’d forgotten it. He’d trust to luck, be gone before the murderers came. He knew positively that they were coming. When he awakened her, if they had not come by then, she’d smell the murder in the air. If she didn’t, he’d beg her forgiveness and knock her out. If he was holding the doorway and fighting for their lives there’d be no need to explain anything.

The velvet heat embraced him and the sweat soaked through his shirt and trousers. His feet were red-hot inside the boots. The stone grated under his heel. It was the size of a walnut and growing bigger.

He sat on the floor and laid the rifle beside him; it made a small metallic noise as he put it down. He began to untie
the lace. He had taken the boots off once in two weeks. The cracked leather was stiff in the shape of his foot, and his heel would not slide free. He crawled into the corner, wedged his back against the wall, and tugged at the heel. The boot came off and he began to feel inside.

Because he had practised many nights to know the tiny sound exactly, he heard the door open. The headman’s wife kept the hinges oiled, and he had found no way to make them more noisy. When he heard the scrape he put the boot down gently and reached out his hand for the rifle. It wasn’t there under his hand. He remembered he had moved into the corner to pull off the boot. The murderer’s feet slithered on the floor. Bare floor, bare feet. Piroo, the black square of silk ready?

Mouth open and all his life in the tips of his fingers, he reached out, farther along the wall. He couldn’t have moved more than three feet. It must be here, close now, close; not yet, not in his reach. He began to edge sideways.

The feet were silent; at the bed; a rustle and a clop; a hiccough of breath. The death above the feet had found the stones. The feet turned and trod firm and quick, hurrying back to the door. He put out his hand, grabbed the rifle, and overbalanced. Sprawled against the wall, he swung it up into his shoulder—fire when the door opened.

A hinge grated, wood slammed against wood. The trigger crawled under his finger. The door had not moved. He lurched to his feet and lunged the bayonet forward. The point broke against the hard wood of the door, and he jerked it free. A hollow scream, inches away, appalled his ear; death banged and thundered round him. He jumped back and lifted the rifle again, but he didn’t know where to fire. He searched forward, jabbing at the screams, hit wood, jabbed, and struck sparks off the wall. The banging and clattering and screaming rose to a climax of hysteria. His nerves tore apart and he burst for the door, shouting at the top of his voice.

“Caroline, get out! Out! They’re after us! I’m coming to you!”

A huge square thing, black against black, loomed over and crashed at his side, and bounced and sobbed by his feet. The sounds were a woman’s, and he stood in the door searching feverishly for a fuzee. Running feet thudded through the house. They were shouting from the courtyard, from the roof, from the room at the side. In the sputtering glare he saw the wardrobe on the floor. It creaked, and the woman’s cries came from inside. It had fallen front down, and hopped bodily with the efforts of its prisoner to get out. Rigid in panic, he stared down at it. People crowded round him, torches flared, Robin screamed in Mrs. Hatch’s arms. “What is it? What’s happened?” Everyone was shouting.

The distorted noise in the wardrobe was Caroline’s voice; he stepped dazedly forward. Piroo and the headman helped him; between them, hauling and pushing, they stood the wardrobe right way up. Its door swung open. Caroline fell out and lay on the floor, sobbing as though her heart would break. She wore nothing but a sheet, and that had fallen up round her waist. He stared numbly at the bare tight curve of her buttocks. Then he forgot what it was all about, stooped quickly down, wrapped the sheet round her, and picked her up in his arms. She clung round his neck and cried desperately into his shoulder while he muttered softly and foolishly,

“You were in the wardrobe, you were in the wardrobe, it’s all right.”

The knot of watchers in the doorway did not exist. She opened her eyes, looked from him to them, gasped, and slid to the floor, holding the sheet tight with both hands. She stammered, “I—I—I heard a noise, a clink. I was afraid of what you were going to do. I didn’t want to disturb you …”