Until the Colours Fade (2 page)

Braithwaite did not at first recognise Tom in the near
darkness
, but, when he did, his pale blue watery eyes bulged with anger.

‘What the devil are you doing here, Strickland?’

Tom did not answer the question but hurriedly told him what he had seen. George nodded, as though to assure Tom that he had expected as much.

‘Hadn’t you better order your men to stop?’ Tom asked
hesitantly
, as they approached the final bend which would reveal the chaos ahead. Strickland looked about him uneasily and was shocked not to see any sign of the ‘fly’, for they had passed the point at which he had shouted to the driver.

‘I know what I’m about,’ drawled George dismissively, taking a hand from his reins and tugging at his drooping sandy
moustache
: a gesture which Tom supposed was intended to convey nonchalance, but which in fact gave the impression of
nervousness
.
The affected stiffness of George’s posture and his absurdly elaborate uniform with its enormous epaulettes filled Tom with fury.

‘Stay on this road and you’ll be killed,’ he blurted out.

George turned to him scornfully and was about to shout back when he caught his breath. They had reached the bend where the embankment began and George had gained his first view of the scene of bloodshed and confusion, now luridly illuminated by the fiercely burning omnibuses. By the time George turned to his trumpeter, the troopers behind had already halted without
waiting
for the order. George too had pulled up his horse and was gazing ahead with stupefaction, evidently having thought that Strickland had been exaggerating. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat had broken out around the band of his imposing plumed shako. He had supposed that he would be able to leave the road to get round any obstacle placed there, but the sheer
embankment
to the left ruled out any attempt to get up behind the rioters, and, the road itself being impassable, his only other option was the precipitous slope to the right. Even in daylight horses would probably stumble and fall on the loose stones and rocks; at night it would be suicidal to try. It was no more than ten seconds since they had halted, but it seemed immeasurably longer. George apparently had no idea what to do, and Tom could think of nothing. It was then that he noticed the ‘fly’ pulled up to the side of the road under the shadow of the embankment some fifty yards away. A moment later the impeccably dressed man in the silk top hat and green pilot coat got out, and, seemingly oblivious to any danger, walked calmly up to them.

‘Better dismount, I daresay,’ said the stranger, as though
perfectly
aware of George’s dilemma. ‘Should be able to get a shot at the embankment from down there,’ he went on, pointing down the slope to his right with his cane to a place where the rocky ground flattened out into a small plateau.

Braithwaite listened speechless and the blood rushed to his cheeks; nor, Tom imagined, would the soundness of this
dandified
civilian’s advice improve George’s temper.

‘I know my duty, sir,’ snapped George and then barked out the order to dismount and draw carbines. While the troopers
fumbled
with their ramrods and cartridges, the stranger said with quiet emphasis:

‘Some shots in the air to start with might discourage them, I suppose?’

‘I’m no butcher,’ George replied stiffly.

‘I hope not, Mr Braithwaite,’ replied the other with a hint of a smile. ‘Wouldn’t care to be a witness in the coroner’s court.’

Tom noticed George’s face freeze as he recognised his adviser.

‘Crawford,’ he gasped.

The gentleman raised his hat a fraction before turning on his heel and walking back to the ‘fly’ with the same unhurried step.

As the troopers started to slide down the wet rocks to the
flatter
ground below, Tom was wondering what he should do when the driver of the ‘fly’ came up to him, touched his hat and
murmured
:

‘Gen’lman wants a word with you.’

Strickland dismounted and the driver took his horse’s bridle. The interior of the ‘fly’ was dimly lit by reflected light from the carriage lamp outside. A sudden feeling of unease made him pause before mounting the step. He heard an impatient voice:

‘Come on, man; those fools are nervous enough to shoot at anything that moves.’ Tom sat down on the worn leather seat. His host smiled reassuringly, displaying a glimpse of white and very regular teeth. ‘Yeomanry regiments are all the same.’

The silence which followed, although embarrassing Tom,
evidently
did not have that effect on his neighbour, for when Tom made as if to speak he was silenced with a wave of the hand.
Irritated
at first by this gesture, Tom soon realised that the other was listening for the soldiers’ shots. He had heard George call this stranger Crawford, and this intrigued him, since George hoped to marry a Miss Catherine Crawford. From George – who was lonely as well as rich and, when drunk, condescended to treat his father’s humble artist with a measure of familiarity – Tom knew something of the Crawfords. The head of the family was Rear-Admiral Sir James Crawford, a widower, at present at sea. Catherine lived in her father’s house, four miles from Rigton Bridge, with her brother Charles, a naval officer currently ashore on half-pay. From the frequency with which George spoke of Charles’s excellent professional prospects and his future as heir to his father’s baronetcy, Tom had assumed that if they were not already friends, George had such a relationship in mind. Strangely George had never mentioned another brother. But possibly this newly arrived Crawford was a cousin or more remote relative. As he was pondering the stranger’s identity, Tom heard two stuttering volleys ring out. Then an eerie silence was followed by a distant roar of rage and fear, broken by the screams of a man who must have been hit. At this sound,
Crawford
leapt from his seat and flung open the door, his face
contorted
with anger. Tom got out too, in time to see torches being flung away on the embankment, and figures running pell-mell along the parapet and jumping down into the road on the far side of the blazing vehicles.

‘That’s that then,’ said Crawford with a shrug of the
shoulders
, apparently in control of his indignation, but then bursting out: ‘Should have used regular troops. Any half-wit ought to have guessed what was coming when he saw no crowd at the
station
.’

Tom was uncertain whether Crawford’s anger stemmed from a fastidious dislike of military bungling or from sympathy with the rioters, who had been so easily routed by an incompetent force.

‘Do you know about the prisoners?’ he asked quietly.

‘Don’t need to. Rioters, strikers, looters – makes no difference. No magistrate transfers prisoners unless he expects trouble in a town.’

Three more shots came from the lower ground to the right. Crawford compressed his lips and led Tom back to the ‘fly’.

‘God knows when they’ll get the road cleared,’ he sighed.

Crawford had a peculiar effect on Tom: he was impressed by his decisiveness and air of authority, but chilled by his manner which he found aloof and cold. He could not fathom him at all; there was something enigmatic about him, an almost frightening quality. In the fitful light cast by the flames outside, Tom had noticed Crawford’s eyes: a deep blue-grey colour under dark lashes; eyes at times remote and dull, as if he were weary and bored, at others glinting with a sharpness that was disconcerting.

The two men sitting side by side were very different in
appearance
: Strickland’s features being softer, less angular, his lips fuller, and his expressions and mannerisms gentler, more fleeting and less precise. Crawford’s skin was bronzed, Tom’s of an ivory pallor by contrast with his dark eyes and the black loose curls that framed his face. Crawford’s hair was cut severely short, not waved nor brushed forward in the new fashion. He looked, Tom thought, about thirty, roughly five years older than himself.

Tom found the damp confined interior of the carriage
oppressive
with its smell of straw and musty leather. The silence
worried
him, and he was wondering whether he had been asked into the ‘fly’ solely because it offered a degree of cover from stray shots, when Crawford turned to him abruptly and extended a gloved hand.

‘My name’s Crawford. Magnus Crawford.’

‘Thomas Strickland.’

‘My people come from Trawden way. Yours?’

How typical of his class, thought Tom, that he should have named the nearest village, when the house, Leaholme Hall, was one of the three largest in the neighbourhood.

‘My parents are dead. I come from London.’

‘You’re a friend of Braithwaite?’

‘His father’s sitting for me. I’m an artist.’

Magnus pulled out a flat silver flask and tossed it to Tom.

‘Some brandy, Mr Strickland?’

Tom refused, not knowing whether the offer had been made purely as a matter of form because Crawford wanted some
himself
, or whether he was really expected to accept. During the moment or two that he held the flask, he made out a few words of an inscription: ‘…
Presented
to
Major
Crawford
…
brother
officers
…
garrison
at
Kandy
…
esteem
and
gratitude
….’ There was also a date, which he did not take in.

Crawford frowned, evidently noticing the direction of Tom’s eyes and the slight hesitation before he returned the flask.

‘Ever been to Ceylon, Mr Strickland? Visitors usually enjoy the scenery. Excellent for pictures, I daresay.’

Tom shook his head and felt his cheeks burning, at what he thought was a reproof. After all the man had offered him the thing.

‘Shouldn’t I have read it? I’d be pleased if people were grateful to me for anything.’

‘Wouldn’t that depend on what they were grateful for?’ asked Magnus with a trace of mockery. ‘I led two companies against a mob of ill-fed, badly armed natives, a riot really. The
Government
called it a rebellion. The ones who didn’t run away were tried and most of them shot. I carried out some of those
sentences
.’ He had said this with a harshness that did not conceal the pain the memory caused him. ‘I was not being mock-modest, Mr Strickland.’

‘Why on earth have you kept it, feeling as you do?’

‘In case I grow forgetful. You see I’m not going back. I’ve sold my commission.’

Tom had a sudden recollection of something in the papers about a recent House of Commons Select Committee. The Governor of Ceylon had been recalled because of the evidence of two army officers. Improper land confiscations and illegal courts martial – something of that sort had been levelled at him.

‘You gave evidence against the Colonial Government?’

‘I did. After the damage had been done.’

Crawford deftly poured himself some brandy into the top, which was in the shape of a thimble-like cup, and swallowed hard. Then, having screwed on the top again, he gave Tom an appraising look, which seemed to say more clearly than words: I’ve told you something, now it’s your turn. So when Magnus asked him to tell him precisely what was happening in the town, Tom was not in the least surprised, and the eager intentness with which Crawford listened was very understandable given the
situation
outside.

Tom had briefly recounted what he knew about the origins of the violence and was telling him about the complication of Joseph Braithwaite’s candidature in the forthcoming election, when Magnus asked sharply:

‘Who’s behind old Braithwaite’s adoption?’

‘I’m not sure,’ replied Tom guardedly. He disliked being devious and was therefore bad at concealment. Crawford grinned at his embarrassment.

‘What about Lord Goodchild? He paused. ‘Well, Braithwaite couldn’t stand without his support, could he?’

Tom nodded reluctant agreement. The following day he hoped to secure Lord Goodchild’s commission to paint his wife’s portrait. He owed this chance to Joseph Braithwaite’s
recommendation
. Braithwaite was the wealthiest manufacturer in the district, Goodchild the largest landowner. With two such
lucrative
commissions in close succession, Tom hoped to be able to devote the best part of a year to work of his own choosing. He did not intend to jeopardise these prospects by committing
indiscretions
. A year free of financial anxieties mattered a great deal to him. Six months ago he had been reduced to sign-painting and tinting architects’ plans. Before that he had been living on a diet of bread and milk.

‘It’s a strange thing,’ mused Crawford. ‘Goodchild used to like the Braithwaites about as much as the cholera. He’s short of money, I daresay.’ He shot Tom a questioning glance.

‘You know these people far better than I.’ Tom realised, as he finished speaking, that he had said this more pointedly than he had intended, but he was nonetheless astonished when Crawford leant towards him with burning eyes and said with a gentleness utterly at variance with the obsessive determination of his
expression
:

‘Listen, Strickland. I know you need Braithwaite’s money. I know what it’s like to be frightened … like last year when I did
nothing until matters ended … I told you how.’ He paused and looked at Tom with a softer expression. ‘You must see that there’ll be a blood-bath on polling day unless the strike ends or Braithwaite withdraws his candidature.’

‘What have I to do with such things?’ cried Tom, stung by Crawford’s moralistic tone, feeling anger, but, in spite of
himself
, an inner blush of shame.

‘If Braithwaite bought Goodchild, tell me,’ implored Magnus.

‘How could I possibly know?’

‘You’re staying in his house, aren’t you?’

Tom tossed back his head in exasperation.

‘To him I’m no more important than a governess or
music-teacher
. Would he tell me anything?’