Zemindar (39 page)

A few days later George Barry arrived to collect his wife and take part in the final great duck shoot of the season, bringing with him Major Henry Cussens, the ‘Cussens’ whom I had overheard talking with Oliver so long ago it seemed now on the Banqueting Hall verandah on the night of the Residency ball. His appearance at Hassanganj revived the feelings of chagrin and outraged pride that I had experienced that afternoon I visited his bungalow in Mariaon Cantonment; but only momentarily. I knew enough of Mr Erskine now to believe that, whatever his faults, indiscretion was not among them. Major Cussens, I was sure, knew nothing of that visit or its reason. He was a pleasantly mannered, quiet man, with a soldier’s direct and simple view of life, and very soon I began to like him. It was restful to enjoy masculine companionship free of those undercurrents of too happy or too unhappy memory, embarrassment, regret or suspicion that marred my relationship with both Charles and Mr Erskine.

Invitations to the shoot had been despatched to various planters and officials in the vicinity of Hassanganj, and on this occasion the ladies were to partake of a picnic breakfast with the gentlemen when the latter had finished their sport.

The
jheel
, or swamp, whose denizens were to be decimated, was still in a state of almost primeval innocence, seldom having been disturbed by a shot and then only at long intervals. It amounted almost to a bird sanctuary, and I did not like the thought of the havoc which a dozen guns would wreak among duck so confident of their security as to be almost hand-tame. But, as Henry Cussens told me, it was for just such a massacre that the
jheel
was so jealously protected.

The ladies were to join the sportsmen at a reasonable hour for the picnic, but I was awake when our host, Charles, George and Major Cussens set off just before dawn and, slipping on a wrap, I went out on to my balcony above to watch them depart.

It was unexpectedly cold with the bone-biting cold of the Indian plain. Though there was yet no colour in the east, the sky had lightened and the few stars visible among the clouds were pale. The hour was the stillest and most silent of the twenty-four, the earth and all its creatures seeming to hold breath in anticipation of the sun’s coming. No dog barked in the villages; no cattle lowed; no bird so much as rustled a feather; no wind stirred a leaf. Only the sky changed shade from grey to grey as cloud banked silently on cloud then scudded on, and the great sweep of the plain, featureless, motionless, soundless, spread away to merge into an invisible horizon.

In the deep quiet, small noises made by men and horses were muted. Hoof clinked against stone dully, voices were low, movements almost stealthy. Guns were apportioned to their bearers, ammunition pouches slung around shoulders, girths adjusted in almost total silence, so that, looking on from above, I could have thought I watched a shadow play. Figures were indistinct. Form merged with form and horse with man in the shadowed cold. I strained my eyes for Charles but recognized only Oliver, and he only by his bearing: the quick, decisive walk to his horse, the erect seat in the saddle, one hand on his hip, the ever-present hint of controlled impatience. I was irritated that it should have been he who stood out so clearly, but as I returned to my bed I admitted to myself that he usually did. He dominated any group he found himself in, but I had to acquit him of the charge of doing so consciously. It was his ingrained authority, a calm certainty of his own pre-eminence, and a self-confidence that exceeded conceit, which so singled him out for attention, and annoyed me quite irrationally.

When we ladies arrived at the
jheel
some hours later, the morning was still cold and lowering. ‘A dandy day for the duck,’ as Kate remarked. The sun was well up but lost in a sky as grey and flat as the pewter water below it. There was a sharp breeze now, and I was glad of my heavy cloak as we settled ourselves under a tree to wait while the breakfast was prepared and the men came in from the hides. The best of the sport was over, but shots still rang out in the morning calm, raising great flights of duck to skim against the clouds for a few moments, then alight again with a crackle of wings and a froth of spray in some other corner of the marsh.

‘Stupid things!’ observed Emily sourly—she did not care for early rising. ‘You’d think they’d have the sense to keep on flying instead of wheeling back to the same place they’ve left.’

‘If they had that much sense, there’d be no duck shooting, m’dear,’ said Kate blandly. ‘And then think of the misery of all our men!’

A covey of young boys from the nearest village, naked but for loincloths, retrieved the birds from the water as they fell. Shivering but cheerfully purposeful, they waded out into the cold, dirty water, and brought the still-fluttering birds ashore, where, with one dextrous turn of the wrist, the duck were dispatched, then thrown on to a heap of their fellows by the water’s edge.

By ones and twos the men began to come in, some on foot, some rowing across the silver-speckled grey in dugout canoes: a couple of Army officers from a small station south of Hassanganj, the newly appointed Inspector of Police and his assistant, and the two McCrackens and Mr Baird who had spent Christmas with us. I wondered at the enthusiasm for slaughtering defenceless birds that could bring these men long distances at such an early hour, and then remembered that a Hassanganj shoot was considered an experience worth having even by the most discriminating
shikaris
. And certainly Oliver knew well how to cater to the creature comforts of his guests.

For some time, appetizing odours had issued from the grove of trees where the cook had established his headquarters, and when most of the party had gathered we made our way to the dining-room, another pleasant grove where a tablecloth had been laid over a tarpaulin and cushions ranged around it for seats. The same battery of servants who would have waited on us at Hassanganj served us now in the companionable babel of the Indian outdoors, while a troupe of inquisitive monkeys worked their way lower in the trees to watch us with many shrilled alarms from the young and grunts of irritation from the old until they were close enough for Emily to exclaim over the ‘dear expression’ on the face of one of the babies clinging to its mother’s back. Small parrots, vivid green but for a band of red around the neck, shrieked and chattered in the higher branches, and small grey squirrels, with three black stripes on their backs, scolded all present impartially as they skittered up and down the rough trunks with the speed and grace of dragonflies.

The menu was more varied than we were used to at this early hour. Pilau and chicken curry, lamb cutlets and baked potatoes, cold beef, venison and salads, bread, hot scones and marmalade, tea and coffee. ‘No bacon,’ whispered Kate to me. ‘The
Talukhdar
is a Mohammedan, d’you see.’

Although it was only ten in the morning, the long ride and the novelty of our situation had given me an appetite and I had no difficulty in disposing of most that was put before me, finding time as I ate to wonder at the ingenuity of the cook, who, from what I could see, had produced all this over a stove made of three flat stones fed with charcoal and dried cowpats.

The last to forsake their sport were Oliver himself and the
Talukhdar
of Nayanagar, who had shared a hide, the
Talukhdar
being the guest of honour and, so rumour averred, the worst shot. As they entered the grove, Oliver looking like a brigand in thigh-length boots and an extraordinary corduroy jacket patched with leather on the shoulder where his gun rested, with a bandolier slung around his chest and a battered felt hat on his head, I caught my breath in astonished recognition of his companion. For the plump dark gentleman, very conservatively dressed in European style, was one whom I had last seen clothed in full Oriental splendour: my friend Wajid Khan.

‘I have already the pleasure of knowing Miss Hewitt,’ he said, beaming, as Oliver commenced the introductions. ‘And the honour! Indeed I may say we are in a sense related!’ And he shook my hand with enthusiasm.

‘Indeed? How is that?’ Oliver motioned Mr Khan to a cushion on one side of me and seated himself on the other, giving me a keen glance as he did so. I fear I must have flushed, for I wanted no recital of my ‘heroic’ deed in the Lucknow bazaar in the present society.

‘Can it be that you have not heard of what Miss Hewitt did for my son—how she saved his life?’

‘Never a word! I must prevail upon you to tell me now, Wajid.’

‘Oh, it caused a stir, I assure you, Oliver,’ put in Emily from across the cloth. ‘She was quite the heroine—for a few days—were you not, Laura?’

‘It was nothing,’ I said, blushing now with anger at Emily’s jibing tone. ‘I’ll tell you some other time, but now let us hear what sport you and the
Talukhdar
have enjoyed!’

But it was useless. Oliver ignored me, as he had Emily, and Wajid Khan, chuckling at my discomfiture, told his story, while I fiddled with my cup and Oliver chewed on a chop bone in a suitably brigandish fashion.

‘Hmph!’ was his comment as his guest finished. ‘Very interesting! And may I say how delighted I am that you should be … er … connected, Laura, to my old friend and neighbour, Wajid here. We have known each other since boyhood, and I can think of no one who would more faithfully serve you should the need arise.’

While Mr Khan showed the palms of his chubby hands and shook his head in silent self-depreciation, Oliver threw the chop bone over his shoulder, and with it dismissed my escapade as a subject for conversation.

‘And now, Wajid, tell me something. What is the significance of these
chapattis
that are going round the villages in such a mysterious manner at the moment? You must know about them. Everyone knows of them and yet knows nothing about them.’

Awkwardly placed as I was to watch Mr Khan’s face, I could see very distinctly the well-kept hands, lying on his broadcloth-covered knee, strain together convulsively as Oliver spoke. The question went unanswered for a moment. Mr Camp the policeman, who was sitting on the further side of Mr Khan, looked up with sudden interest.

‘I … I do not know the significance,’ said Mr Khan after an appreciable pause. ‘I have seen nothing of them, but yes, I too have heard that some such matters as passing
chapattis
, some say also goat’s flesh, from village to village, is spoken of.’

‘Always five of ’em in my district,’ put in Mr Camp. ‘I believe some instructions are given with them in the passing, but what I do not know.’

‘I know.’ Oliver spoke conclusively. ‘He who receives them must bake five more, then take the new ones to the boundaries of his village, where he must deliver them to the watchman of the next, with instructions to do the same in his turn.’

‘Curious,’ said Mr Camp.

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Wajid Khan, ‘it is nothing more than the transference of some omen, some charm. This I have known before. Ignorant peoples will do such things without even knowing why!’

‘Yes, that’s possible all right,’ agreed Oliver, ‘but this time there seems to me something purposeful behind it. It is all too thorough, too organized, to be the work of some
sadhu
sitting under a peepul tree in Benares. It is more as though it’s a trial of some sort—perhaps a competition?’

‘Like Pass the Thimble?’ I volunteered. ‘Who can get rid of them quickest, you mean?’

‘Possibly. But to what end, God knows!’

‘I have heard of a similar thing in the olden days, when men wished to measure the time taken to pass a message—in wars and troubled times and so on,’ said Mr Khan.

‘Have you?’ Oliver looked up from his pilau and curry. ‘Yes, that might explain it. It might be an excellent method of ensuring the quick passage of information—a warning perhaps. Provided you could count on there being no interruption to the service, that is.’

‘I had come across them before I left Dacca,’ said Camp. ‘So the practice is widespread already. Was talking to a feller from the Punjab at one of the
dak
-bungalows on the way up, and he knew all about ’em too.’

‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘Yes, very widespread, and they are travelling irrespective of religion or caste, in itself a strange thing.’

‘I cannot know,’ said Wajid Khan, still clasping and unclasping his fingers. ‘We have too much trouble these days; let us hope that this passing of
chapattis
does not bring more. But often these strange things that happen in the villages do bring us trouble. I do not know.’

‘There is an incantation that goes with them,’ Oliver went on thoughtfully. ‘ “From the East to the West. From the North to the South.” Just that. Have you heard of that too, Wajid?’

‘I have heard. But what can be the meaning of such words?’

‘A signal? A warning? A preparation, perhaps?’

‘And perhaps nothing of those sorts. That also is possible,’ countered Mr Khan.

That night, when the last of the guests had departed and we were thinking of our beds, the question of the mysterious
chapattis
again came up. The shooting party had remained to dine with us, so Oliver had not bade us goodnight and left us early as he usually did, but had played the host most cordially all evening, and then rejoined us in the drawing-room after seeing his guests depart, each with his entourage of groom, lantern carriers and bodyguard. A band of
dacoits
, those murdering robbers of the Indian countryside, were active in the region, so the stalwart retainers, with loaded shotguns in their saddle-holsters, performed more than a merely picturesque function, and the gentlemen, with the exception of Wajid Khan, had made no secret of the relief with which they buckled on their pistol belts as they left.

‘Hmph!’ grunted Oliver as he took his place with his back to the fire, monopolizing the warmth in that peculiarly selfish way men have. ‘I don’t care for mystery. And I’m mystified!’

‘What about?’ asked Henry Cussens without much interest, stifling a yawn.

‘Our friend the
Talukhdar
of Nayanagar, Laura’s esteemed relation.’ He smiled at me.