Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford (7 page)

“I don’t know anything else—” I began, beginning to worry in earnest now.

From behind us, Simon cleared his throat. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Because of the heat today, your men haven’t been out on patrol yet.”

My father wheeled. “You’re right. Simon, go and tell them to be ready to ride in five minutes. And make certain each man has a rifle and a pistol. With double the usual amount of ammunition for both.” To me he said, “Go inside. Tell your mother what is happening.”

“But the Maharani,” I argued. “I’m worried about her.” Something else occurred to me. “She didn’t invite me to visit.”

“Yes, she was worried. She didn’t want you in the middle of whatever might happen in the next ten days. But you’re right about one thing. It’s happening
now
, not later. Go on, tell your mother. We might not be back for a while.”

I turned and, lifting my skirts, ran across the parade ground to our gate. The gatekeeper tried to stop me, but I broke away. Then I realized what he was saying.

“Little memsahib, wait.”

I came to a skidding stop. I could hear my governess calling from the verandah, “Elizabeth! Decorum.”

Ignoring her, I said to the porter, “What is it?”

“Three of the men in the Maharani’s escort are new. And two of the grooms were armed. I found it strange. Should I tell the Major Sahib?”

In their brilliant uniforms and turban caps, her escort looked so much alike I’d often thought to myself they must be brothers. It was Simon who told me that they were all from the same area where the Maharani had been brought up. Her own loyal people. But what about the new men?

“Was one of the new escorts a man with a scar?” I hadn’t noticed him on one of the dark horses, but our gatekeeper would have more time to inspect them as they waited for the Maharani.

“Yes, little memsahib.”

I thanked him, turned again and ran as fast as I could toward the lines. I could already hear the jingle of harness, the snorts of the horses, eager for a run, and the voices of the men as they prepared to mount.

Turning the corner beside the stables, I slammed into someone coming fast the other way, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

Hands grasped my shoulders, setting me back on my feet. I looked up. It was Simon.

“What are you doing here? Go on, go back to the house.”

I caught his hand. “Simon, listen.” I gave him the message from the gatekeeper.

Simon, frowning, said, “Why didn’t he tell your father? Or the Maharani’s aide-de-camp?”

“I don’t know—yes, I do, my father was already on his way to the lines. He didn’t come back to the house after the Maharani had left.”

“Good girl,” Simon told me. “Now go. They won’t wait for me.”

He raced down to the lines, caught the reins of his horse from one of the sergeants, and swung into the saddle. I watched as the troop formed up on command and headed out into the open country beyond the cantonment. Simon waited until they were wheeling toward the north, where the Maharani had come from, then spurred his mount to where my father rode next to Captain Dixon. Their heads were close for a moment, and then Simon fell back to his place in the ranks.

Relieved, I walked briskly back to the house, and listened to Miss Stewart’s scolding with as much repentance as I could muster. When she had finished, ordering me to my room at once, I begged her first to let me give my mother the message from my father.

She relented—she had, I thought, a fondness for my father than she had kept concealed with prim care—and let me go into the parlor, where my mother was looking at the book the Maharani had brought me.

“This is very interesting, Bess,” she began, then looked at me more intently. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Walking across the room to stand by her chair, I whispered my news, even including my visit to the fortune-teller. Outside on the verandah the men who sat cross-legged and kept the fans moving above our heads in the heat were singing softly to themselves, but I took no chances at being overheard.

My mother listened carefully. “Well done, Bess,” she said, when I’d finished. “But Simon’s right, you mustn’t go into the bazaar alone. It isn’t wise.”

“But how did the fortune-teller know something was wrong?” I asked. “I refuse to believe she could see into the future.”

“She could have overheard something.” She sat there, the book closed on her finger to hold her place, her gaze thoughtful. “Fortune-tellers must know a variety of dialects, otherwise they couldn’t ply their trade all across the country. Someone who thought he was speaking confidentially might have been within hearing of her tent.”

Miss Stewart tapped politely at the door, then came into the room. “You’ve spoken to your mother, Elizabeth. Now to your room.”

With a sigh, I took my punishment without complaint, but I sat at the windows of my room, longing to be riding with my father and Simon and the men in his command. What was happening? Had they caught up to the entourage? This had been a private visit, not an official one. The Maharani had come with only a small escort. Perhaps, I thought, so as not to raise suspicion?

What was the point of the warning? Was she to be killed? Or captured and held to make her husband do as he was told? He loved his wife, it had been more than an arranged marriage. Would he agree to her kidnappers’ demands? Yes, surely he would, if that would save her from death or torture or mutilation. I shivered at the thought. But the cousin who was giving the Maharajah so much trouble was a wild sort, the son of the Maharajah’s father’s favorite concubine, spoiled and always ungrateful for his education and position. Until the Maharajah’s son had been born, this cousin had touted himself as the heir to the throne, much to the annoyance of the state and the British government. And then I remembered a story I’d heard when first we came to this province. The Maharajah’s only brother, the only man who stood between the Maharajah and this cousin, had been trampled by an elephant gone rogue. Or had it? That had been shortly after the Maharajah had taken a wife. There were several versions of what had happened. Of course elephants did sometimes turn rogue. It was why ceremonial elephants were usually female. But they could be goaded into action as well.

I couldn’t sit there, simply waiting. I slipped out my window, hurried through the garden—avoiding the gate, where I’d be seen—and sat down on a tree trunk by the wall that surrounded our compound. A breeze touched my face, lifting tendrils of hair, blessedly cool. And somewhere in the distance I heard a rumble of thunder.

Or was it gunfire?

I moved into the open, scanning the sky. This was the hot season, not the rainy season. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in any direction.

Gunfire then. It must be. And it went on for several minutes before the volleys grew more ragged.

My heart was in my throat. My father—Simon—men in the ranks I’d known for years—they were all out there, in danger. I strained to listen.

It seemed to be coming nearer. Had the troublemakers been routed? But why were they coming back this way? To hide in the village until they could manage to escape? It didn’t make any sense. Who would protect them?

I could hear horses now, coming fast.

I sat there, straining my ears to listen. I almost missed the flash of color on the far side of the garden. There it was again, and all at once I heard Miss Stewart scream. It came from the summerhouse, the little wicker house where we sometimes sat in the cool of the evening. Miss Stewart often went there to read.

I was on my feet and running before it dawned on me that to go to her rescue would mean putting myself in danger, and as the daughter of an officer, I was a far more important hostage than a governess. People were shouting now, the men who pulled the fans, the kitchen staff, the porter at the gate. I could hear my mother’s voice, and then she broke off in mid-word.

Had she been taken as well?

I ran for the low wall that surrounded our quarters, climbed over that into the next garden, which belonged to Captain Dixon and his wife, and raced toward the barracks. I burst through the door of the first one I came to. There were half a hundred men there, some of them just coming off duty, others getting ready to take their turn, and a handful sleeping or playing cards. At sight of me, a dozen men sprang to their feet, staring. Some of them were out of uniform, and a sergeant stepped forward at once, blocking my view, saying, “
Miss Crawford
—” in reprimand.

“Sergeant Barton,” I said, fighting for breath, “something’s wrong at our bungalow. There’s been a skirmish—the patrol. I think one of the men they’re chasing has come back to the house. They’ve got Miss Stewart, and possibly my mother—”

They hadn’t waited to hear me out. Sergeant Barton was saying grimly, “I told you it was gunfire, not rifle practice,” as he set me aside and hurried out the door.

I followed, in amongst the men who’d caught up their rifles. “Please, be careful of my mother—Miss Stewart—”

But they had already turned toward the gardens of the Dixon bungalow, next to ours, brushing past the porter at the gate. I saw the old man’s anxious face, and knew he must have heard the cries from my house.

We cut across the garden, and the men leapt over the low wall, bending low, using the trees and shrubs for protection as they made their way to this side of our bungalow. I could see the kitchen quarters now, the servants standing stock-still, looking toward the far side of the house, as quiet as if they’d been struck dumb.

I caught up with Sergeant Barton as he reached the side of the house and turned to deploy his men. “My window—” I pointed to it. He turned to see that it was open, in spite of the heat. Nodding, he motioned to two of his men, then to the window.

“They don’t know their way. I do,” I said quickly. “I can show them how to reach the other side of the house. They can see the summerhouse from my father’s study. I think that’s where whoever it is found Miss Stewart.”

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded again. This time he boosted me up and back through the window.

Just then I heard the patrol coming into the horse lines. Leaning out, I whispered, “My father—he’s back. Someone must warn him, or he may be walking into an ambush.”

The sergeant turned to order one of his men to the horse lines, and I took the opportunity to walk quietly across my room to the closed door. I listened carefully, but didn’t hear anyone. Two privates, cursing under their breath, were following me into my room. I put my finger to my lips, and gently, slowly, opened the door into the passage.

All was quiet. Too quiet. I gestured for the two men to follow me, and I crept as silently as I could down the passage to my father’s study. That door stood open—he hadn’t come back to shut it after seeing the Maharani off. I ducked low, so that I couldn’t be seen by anyone watching the study windows. When I could do it safely, I got to my feet and carefully peered around the curtains.

I could see the summerhouse, just as I knew I could. Miss Stewart was standing in the doorway, and even from here I could see that she was trembling. In the shadows behind her, there was only darkness. And then I saw movement, and the glint of light on what was surely a revolver. Whoever he was, he was kneeling just behind her, hidden from view by her skirts.

But where was my mother?

The two men had caught up with me, and I told them in a whisper what I’d seen.

“She’s simply standing there, a decoy. With someone holding a revolver behind her. I don’t see my mother. I don’t know where she is.”

And then I could hear Miss Stewart’s voice. It was hardly recognizable, quavering, high pitched, clearly badly frightened. “Mrs. Crawford? Please—please come out. He’ll shoot me if you don’t. Please?”

My mother wasn’t there! I breathed a sigh of relief. But what to do to save Miss Stewart?

The sergeant had crept up behind us in the study, and I was sure he’d heard her plea.

“Where do you think your mother is?” he asked me in a hoarse whisper.

“In her parlor. It’s where I left her a little while ago.”

“Go to her. Carefully, now! Ask her to keep them occupied in the summerhouse while some of my men try to circle it.”

I nodded, then made my way out of the study. Creeping down the passage again, I saw that the parlor door was also standing open. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to it and into the room.

Someone near the window whirled, and I saw the muzzle of a revolver pointed straight at me before my mother realized who was there and lowered it.

“Bess!” The word was little more than a hiss.

I crawled over to her, and she held my hand as I told her what the sergeant had said. “But you can’t go out there, or he’ll have two hostages. And that’s worse.”

Mother nodded, then it was her turn to put her finger to her lips, just as Miss Stewart called again.

Mother raised her voice. “I’m afraid. I’m too afraid,” she cried, and it was strange to hear a woman holding a revolver pleading fear.

“Please, you must,” Miss Stewart begged.

“Where’s my daughter? I want to know where she is—if she’s safe. I won’t come out until I know she’s all right.” Her voice was quavering nearly as badly as Miss Stewart’s, but my mother’s eyes were angry, her face set.

“I—I don’t know where she is,” Miss Stewart said. “I sent her to her room.”

“She’s not there. Don’t lie to me. I won’t move from here. Her room is empty, I tell you!”

“Please, don’t worry about her, Mrs. Crawford. Come out, now, or he’ll kill me.”

I crawled away, back to the study. There was still one soldier there, watching events in the summerhouse. He motioned for me to be careful, and after a moment I joined him at the window. Looking out, I thought my governess was on the verge of collapse. Her face was pale, her hands shaking as she held them down against her skirts.

“I can’t trust you, if you won’t tell me where my child is,” Mother was saying.

A hand on my shoulder nearly made me leap out of my skin.

It was Simon, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running.

“Tell me what’s happening.”