Zemindar (112 page)

We could forget the hunger, the privation, the discomfort; the sweltering heat of July and the cutting cold of November nights; we could forget the sickness and the suppurating wounds, the smell, the dirt, the lice, rats, flies and mosquitoes. We could not forget the dead, who had died for the same hope for which we had struggled to live. Their lives, we felt suddenly, had been given uselessly.

I suppose we were too tired and strained to be rational, but the knowledge that within a day the old enclosure would lie empty filled some with wrath, most with bitterness and all with a sharp unlikely grief.

In the hospital, to which, having few preparations to make for our departure, Kate and I repaired as usual, the mood of the men was dour. A few loads of supplies and comforts had been brought in for the wounded, and long-cold pipes glowed comfortably as the men muttered and grumbled among themselves. They were all the familiar faces I saw about me, Sir Colin’s wounded having been removed to the Dilkusha, but marked with a discontented sullenness that scarcely fitted the occasion. I saw fear written on those plain, unshaven faces, too, for no fighting man could remain ignorant of the long torture of jogging litters or crowded, red-curtained ambulance carts, which would be his lot if wounded.

‘’E’s crazy, miss, and I don’t mind what ’e did at Balaclava,’ one man said to me, speaking of Sir Colin. ‘We got to stay put and beat the niggers back. ’Tain’t possible to get us all out and safe away through miles of pandies, nor yet you ladies and the nippers. We’ll be slaughtered in our
doolies
same as the poor bloody beggars was when ’Avelock come in!’

‘Nonsense!’ I countered sharply, because the same thought had occurred to me. ‘They are busy clearing a way for us now, digging trenches and erecting cover so that we will be quite safe. And don’t you hear the barrage? Those are our guns—a breaching fire on the Kaiser Bagh. The new troops will be with us all the way, they say, and we cannot possibly come to any harm.’

The man subsided, muttering, but I knew I had failed to convince him.

That evening Sir Colin called for a general muster of the combatants of the Old Garrison, every man and boy, white, brown or brindle, who had carried a gun.

It was a long time since a parade had been called in the square before the Resident’s House. The last time must have been on the morning of the Battle of Chinhat, when, newly come to martial interests, I had watched with a thrill of excitement as Sir Henry Lawrence led his men, polished, pipe-clayed and swaggering under the eyes of their womenfolk, through the Baillie Guard—and to defeat. Now, four and a half months later, I watched again, but in a very different temper.

Sir Colin and his staff stood on the broken steps of the Resident’s House, and had to wait an unconscionable time for our motley collection of men to gather and form up in what they hoped was correct military style.

Sir Colin was a small man, untidy in appearance, with a brown face wrinkled as a walnut under a thatch of curly grey hair. He had many nicknames, from the ‘Auld Coudy’ of his own Scots of the 93rd Highlanders, to ‘Old Khabardar’ (go carefully) of the natives, to ‘Sir Crawling Camel’, as the young officers dubbed him who found his concentration on detail too irksome for time of war. The entrenchment was already enlivened by rumours and stories concerning him. He had fought as a private soldier at the retreat of Corunna, almost a lifetime before. His prowess in the Crimea was known to all, and how at Balaclava, instead of forming his troops into the wonted hollow square, he had thrown them out in a thin extended front that decimated the Russians’ charging cavalry, earning for his 93rd the appellation ‘The Thin Red Line Tipped with Steel’. It was said of him that, in time of war, he lay down to sleep fully accoutred and wearing his boots, and was so accessible to his men, he was prepared to see them even in his bath.

As we waited, the waning sun pulled long shadows across the space of beaten earth on which the garrison was assembling; a chill wind lifted my short hair as I watched, and I saw Sir Colin shiver slightly and pull his blue patrol jacket closer over his chest. He removed his pith helmet and ran his fingers impatiently through his mass of curly hair, adding to the general dishevelment of his appearance.

Many of the women had gathered to see their menfolk parade, and men of the new relief lounged around curiously, eyeing, in part derision and part admiration, the remnants of our force—something less than five hundred men of all ranks still capable of standing to attention. A further two hundred lay in the hospital.

Justly, the foremost ranks were composed of the men of the 32nd Foot, who had borne the brunt not only of the siege, but of the forays and sorties that had taken place since the first relief. Two hundred and fifty remained of the nine hundred and fifty who had marched into Lucknow the previous December. Behind the 32nd, sternly to attention, stood a couple of hundred sepoys and
sowars
, Sikhs, Punjabis, men of Oudh. Then the volunteer cavalry, long since bereft of their horses: planters, merchants, professional men from the city, and the odd unfortunate traveller, like Charles, cut off in Lucknow by the rebellion. Behind these again were the covenanted clerks and the uncovenanted, and at the very rear fifteen of the older boys of the Martinière School, proudly shouldering the muskets that proved them men. White men, brown men, Eurasians; soldiers, scholars, fortune-hunters and schoolboys. Brave men, all.

A hush fell as Brigadier Inglis, sword raised, advanced to the steps to accompany Sir Colin down the lines of ragged upright figures.

Not a man wore uniform; even the Brigadier, with a couple of pistols in his belt, looked more like a buccaneer than a soldier. A few men wore shakos still; some sported broad-brimmed felt hats; a few had pith sunhelmets or cloth caps, but most were bareheaded. Their breeches were patched and shabby, their shirts dyed in ink or curry powder. Boots were a rarity, shoes were tied together with string; a few were barefoot. Here and there a man proudly stuck out his chest beneath a faded scarlet jacket; the rest, having discarded their makeshift cloaks of native quilts for the parade, shivered in the evening chill.

Sir Colin, very erect, his small white beard out-thrust pugnaciously, marched with military exactitude up and down the tattered ranks. Sometimes he paused before a man for a few words; sometimes he shook his head, in unbelief it seemed to me. On the steps Outram stood with his arms crossed on his burly chest and nodded his head in silent approbation of the scene. Near him, Havelock, supported by an aide, bowed his head in what was probably prayer.

Among the women crowding the area, hardly an eye was dry, for hardly a life had remained untouched by personal tragedy since that last parade on the morning of Chinhat. Of we four females from the Gaol—for Jessie held Pearl in her arms— two had been widowed on the same day, one had lost her mother, and only I had been bereaved of a comparatively distant relative. Our group was representative of all the other women gathered there.

‘George! Oh, George!’ I heard Kate whisper to herself, and saw her fumble in the pocket of her skirt for her rosary. Jessie, not much given to tears, sniffed with what was probably sorrow, though it might have been indignation at Kate’s tears.

‘Well,’ observed a burly ‘Shannon’ standing near us, ‘even to a sailor, they don’t look much like soldiers, but by all that’s holy, they are God’s good fighting men!’

‘Aye! Oh, aye! And so were them that’s gone, lad,’ sighed Jessie. ‘So were them that’s gone!’

My eyes searched the silent ranks for Oliver. Charles I found soon enough among the volunteers, and then Toddy-Bob, whose shortness made a gap in the line like a drawn tooth. Ishmial I could not see; he was probably on the far side of the square, among the other loyal servants who had borne arms with the garrison. But where was Oliver? If I could only mark where he was, I would not let him escape without speaking to him. And then I remembered. Of course, Oliver had not made part of the Old Garrison.

Disappointment brought tears to my eyes. Ever since the parade was called, I had promised myself that at last I would see him, talk to him, explain that night on the Gaol verandah; that much at least I must do. How could I have been so thoughtless, so forgetful? Perhaps because, despite his absence, he had been so present in my mind all through the first months of the siege, I had somehow deceived myself into the belief that he had been physically present.

With so many men now flooding every inch of space before the Resident’s House, and with dusk darkening the scene by the moment, I knew there was no use in looking for him among the bystanders, even if he were present, which, in view of his opinions on military matters, seemed unlikely. My interest in the parade immediately abated.

We returned to the Gaol in a melancholy silence, all of us occupied with thoughts of the men we had lost.

There was much to do that night, our last night in the entrenchment. Our first instructions had been that we could take no baggage with us when we left, but along with the twenty-four hours’ grace forced from Sir Colin by the incensed ladies, permission was obtained to carry with us ‘a modicum’ of personal possessions.

In this respect our little party was more fortunate than the still well-endowed ladies from the private houses for, owning nothing, we had no agonizing decisions to make regarding what should be left and what taken.

All I had was a bundle with a few clothes and the copy of Marcus Aurelius, and in a pocket I had sewn into the inner side of my skirt a packet of Emily’s jewels, that Charles insisted I take with me for Pearl’s sake. In that pocket, too, was the black satin garter, and my mother’s ruby and pearl pin. What extra clothing Kate and Jessie had once possessed had long gone to provide bandages, slings or little dresses for Pearl. Everything else Kate owned had been burned in her bungalow in Mariaon and, as a private’s wife, Jessie had never had very much to carry with her on her peregrinations with the regiment.

With our bundles safely tied, we set to work again on our letters, for there was no knowing when we would next have a table to write upon, and we had been promised that mail would be conveyed to Calcutta as soon as we had evacuated the Residency.

After we had cleared away our final evening meal in a mood well compounded of nostalgia and anxiety, Charles came to accompany us down to the graveyard to make our last farewells to the dead. We took Pearl in to Mrs Bonner, so that Jessie could come with us. Minerva accepted Pearl into her arms with a girl’s ignorant enthusiasm for babies, as her mother, seated on her bed in a wrapper, was busy giving incoherent directions to her
ayah
on the packing of a vast quantity of clothing and other possessions scattered in disarray around the room. An air of great ill-temper pervaded the apartment, and we hurriedly made our escape before Mrs Bonner took in our presence.

It was a dark night, snapping with cold; later there would be a moon, but now only a few large stars gazed down in icy calm upon our errand, as hugging our shawls and cloaks about us, we entered the sad acre where so many of our friends lay.

At my request, Charles led us first to where Mr Roberts was buried, and we stood for a few moments in silence round the grave, while my mind took me back over the months to a rain-lashed deck and my mackinawed mentor imparting to me his knowledge and love of a country that had killed him. ‘Rest well, dear Mr Roberts,’ I said inwardly, ‘in a book-lined heaven, where all facts and figures are open to inspection and where no question remains unanswered.’

We moved on and knelt for a moment where little Jamie had been buried in a box, his head resting on his pillow. Then we left Jessie to her farewells and Charles led us to the long mound beneath which Emily lay with the others who had died the same day. Kate had no grave to kneel beside; neither George’s body, nor Corporal MacGregor’s, had been returned for burial. So Kate knelt down beside Charles and myself, and later Jessie too joined us.

No one that night regarded the pandy fire that threatened the graveyard; everywhere dim figures knelt in the darkness or stood, some weeping, some bowed but silent, some holding hands and praying aloud and together.

Out of the depths I have cried unto Thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my prayer …

As on many other sorrowful occasions, Kate’s familiar voice started the great prayer, but this time I could not join in.

I think I was made dumb by the acknowledgement of my own hypocrisy. I could not remember Emily—not as her mother and father or she herself, perhaps, would have wished me to remember her. I could visualize her, with effort, as she had been in death, dressed in her flowered poplin gown with the neat lace collar and cuffs, but her face remained a blur, an impression of the many faces I had since seen in death, never hers. Even her name now was only a word that roused in me a vague sense of guilt and vaguer regret. Yet Emily had been close to me, a part of my life for many years. Once I had known her well; once I had loved her; I had hated her for a time, pitied her often, understood her but seldom. She had been only nineteen when she had died, after great pain and in circumstances that lacked both decency and dignity. I had held her in my arms as a child and brushed her sodden hair when she was dead; I had witnessed her marriage, been present at the birth of her child. None of this now had reality. I could not remember her.

Is this how life must end for us all, I wondered, with distaste more than fear? Nothingness—even in the minds of those who have loved us? Does it really take only a few months to erase the imprint of a personality on the lives and minds of those who loved it, knew it, helped to form it? Emily living, buoyant, gay, beautiful as she had been, that Emily was beyond my recalling. Only a few of her actions had any significance left for me. The fact that she had married a man I once had loved, and then loved in her turn a man who loved me. Poor Emily, she had been as prone to mistakes as I myself, and they were all I remembered her by, those mistakes and delusions.