Zemindar (90 page)

I untied my apron and walked with as contained a step as I could to the door. The hospital stood just to the right and a short way up from the Baillie Guard. From the crowds gathered in the irregular rectangle made by the hospital, Dr Fayrer’s house across the road, and the Resident’s House, as well as from the sight of several extra guns brought to bear on the gateway, it was not hard to deduce that this was to be our relievers’ point of entry. The shot-steps of the walls adjacent to the Baillie Guard were thronged with men looking out towards the Hazrat Ganj, and amongst them I glimpsed Wallace Avery with Mr Roberts beside him. I intended to approach them to ask what they saw but came instead upon Charles, just descending from the roof of the hospital where one of the guns was stationed, and grabbing him by the sleeve demanded to be told what was happening outside the range of my eyes.

‘Laura! Go indoors immediately,’ he began in furious alarm, and as a matter of fact so many bullets whizzed over us that I had every intention of obeying him, but not until I had learned what he had to tell me. The pandies, I suppose, had redoubled their firing to dampen our spirits, but were failing entirely to do so.

‘In a moment,’ I replied, resisting his pressure on my arm, as he tried to direct me back towards the hospital verandah. ‘In a moment, but first tell me what is happening outside. I’ve been shut up in the hospital all afternoon—I must know! What did you see, Charles?’

He dragged me into the comparative shelter of an angle of ruined wall, muttering at my foolishness.

‘Nothing you would want to see. It’s hell out there for those poor devils. What on earth made them choose that route, right through the most crowded part of the city, God only knows. You remember the Hazrat Ganj and the streets leading off it? Should all have been destroyed before the siege began. The minute our chaps entered, they were caught in a murderous crossfire from the windows of the upper storeys and the roofs. No defence possible. No room to manoeuvre, to return fire. It’s a death trap, nothing else. God knows I’m no soldier, but I could have done better by my men than that. They’re lying out there in the mud in scores, and more falling every minute. We are supposed to be giving them what cover we can with our guns, but it’s hand-to-hand fighting out there, Laura, and you can’t do much with artillery in a
mêlée
.’

‘But they will get through to us? Oh, Charles, surely they must get through to us now? They are not going to be beaten back?’

‘Of course not, silly! They’re here. A few hundred yards away, no more. They’ll be making the final dash across the broken land outside the gate very soon. It’s a matter of minutes now and I’ve got to get back. Stay here, Laura, or better still let me get you back to the hospital?’ I determined to stay where I was, and Charles was too hurried to dissuade me.

The ladies on Dr Fayrer’s verandah, directly across the road, waved to me to join them, but there was such a press of bodies around me that I could not push my way through to them, and since no one paid any attention to the pandies’ bullets, I caught something of the general courage and remained in my shelter of broken wall.

The crowd surged impatiently around me, and obstructing all approaches to the Baillie Guard, so that I could not see how our rescuers would be able to force their way into the enclosure at all, once the gate was open, for as yet it was still barricaded. Men worked feverishly at clearing away the rubble and timber that had been shored against the heavy wooden doors when they had been closed after the battle of Chinhat. Using spades, picks and bayonets, they dug and heaved at the baulks of old wood.

There was no lack of ribald advice from the onlookers. One man yelled to a comrade: ‘Eh, Bert! Get on with it will yer? Even if they doesn’t want to come in, I’d like to get out!’

I was still smiling at this exchange when the laughter became a tremendous unbelieving roar, as a horse complete with its rider was dragged by the reins over the wall just near the arch of the gate. I caught only a glimpse, for immediately beast and rider were obscured by dozens of men anxious to congratulate the very first member of the relief to enter the Residency. I did not give much thought to his identity then, beyond joining in the lusty cheer of welcome. Later I learned that the horseman had been General Outram, who, having in fact led the relieving force though he had surrendered the honours to General Havelock, insisted on being the first man to enter our walls.

The gang at work on the gate redoubled their efforts, and man after man among the onlookers laid down his rifle and got to work to clear a passage, for other horsemen now followed the lead of General Outram, their animals scrambling splay-legged and snorting over the battered masonry. Within minutes these were followed by a horde of Highlanders, who leaped over the wall, firing their muskets in the air and uttering bloodcurdling whoops as they came.

Then pandemonium broke loose truly, the newcomers adding their measure of cheers and yells to those of the relieved. Women and children rushed out of the buildings to greet their deliverers, crying, laughing, even kissing the men, who grabbed up children and placed them on their shoulders and thus continued on their tumultuous way into the enclosure. I wept myself, such was the general emotion, knowing that never again would I live through a moment of such high drama. After eighty-eight days of death and despair, we were at last relieved.

Then the eerie note of the pipes added to the confusion around me, and I could see the piper standing on a chair in Dr Fayrer’s decimated garden with a crowd of women and children around him, for everyone had forgotten the battle still being fought around us. Hungry for news of relatives or friends at Cawnpore, our people fastened on every man who entered, plying them with eager questions: What happened? Are there any survivors? Time and again I heard variations on those words, and time after time watched a head shake sadly in reply.

I too had a question to ask, but standing there alone with my back to the warm masonry of the shattered wall, watching with tears the event that we had dreamed of for so long, I felt oddly withdrawn and isolated, as if I alone of all those present had no true part in what was happening. I would have left if I could, gone back to the stuffy darkness of our rooms to try to quieten my mind and heart. But, though now the crowd was beginning to disperse, leading away the relievers to feed and house them, I stayed where I was and watched their comrades come in, watched the work continue at the gate … just watched.

At length—perhaps it was for this I had remained so long?—the last of the barricade at the gate was cleared and the singed and shot-holed remnant of the great wooden doors swung apart. I caught a glimpse of what had been road sloping away from the entrance, trenched and shattered by shell, littered with the detritus of war, along which straggled a waver of weary men dragging their feet in the bloody dust and stumbling over the corpses of their companions.

Dusk was upon us, the quick uneasy dusk of India. The joyous tumult of the welcome had dropped to a busy, satisfied hum. A few stars winked in a gauzy pale-green sky over Dr Fayrer’s house. Small fires came to light and the scent of wood-smoke was borne on the warm breeze of evening. Faces became indistinguishable, tallow dips gave a faint radiance to windows, and still I lingered, shivering despite the warmth and suddenly overcome with a dreadful melancholy.

India gives a moment, between the setting of the sun and darkness, when man is forced to recognize his own mortality. Creation then stills to a breathless hush before the dark finality of night; all eyes look inward, the most fervent heart grows chill and old memories of sad happenings beat at the mind like bats. Reality recedes and sorrow for things unguessed at stings to tears. It is a moment that nurses negation, that fosters awareness of omnipresent tragedy, unmasking each man’s knowledge of inevitable failure. It is seldom that one escapes the insidious languors of this moment. Alone, a man will bow his head and surrender; in company, a sudden hush falls on friendly talk as each feels the flick of the wing of mutability. Then, after no discernible length of time, as though a blindfold were pulled from the eyes or a heavy hand lifted from the brow, the world struggles back to the familiar and, quietly still, one turns with relief to the necessity for effort. Long breaths are drawn unconsciously, well-remembered faces are seen as if for the first time, as the hush is dispelled by a barking dog, or the protracted exhortation of the
muezzin
.

It is a strange moment, instantly recognized by any who have known it, perhaps incommunicable to those who have not, and it caught me there in the angle of crumbling wall as night drew in on that 25th of September. Overwrought by all that I had witnessed that day, my mind a turmoil of conflicting impressions and emotions where death was accompanied by triumph and triumph’s only end was found in death, I succumbed willessly to the smothering pressure of depression, feeling to the very bones of my soul that all man’s struggle was in vain.

I saw, yet did not see, the gang at the gate pick up their tools and move leaden-limbed and slow from the scene of their labours. I recognized in their bowed heads an echo of my own feelings, which were reflected again in the scattered groups of men caught in silent immobility, who like me lingered on for no good reason and watched that strangely gaping gate.

Then, when the weight of melancholy was all but unbearable, the spell was snapped.

A party of officers appeared under the arch of the gate, supporting, almost carrying, a slight figure in white breeches and a long blue, or grey, coat. I knew by the deference with which he was treated that this man was someone of importance, but it was not he for whom I watched and I would have given him no further thought but, gratefully released from the
accidie
of gloaming, would have made my way homewards, had not a man beside me sucked in his breath with surprise and exclaimed, ‘It’s Havelock! By all that’s holy, Havelock himself!’

I looked again, more attentively. The man paused on the heap of rubble just within the gate. He took a long look at the position he had striven for so long to reach, while his staff stood round him in an anxious group, watching him. General Havelock bent his head as though in prayer, then nodded to the men who held his arms and advanced, stumbling, up the slope.

Thus Henry Havelock entered the Baillie Guard, quietly and without the fanfare that had met his men. Without even a welcome.

I was almost alone now. A few women still lingered, halting the soldiers as they came in to beg for news of their loved ones. At last I too turned away. I had forgotten everything and everyone to whom I owed a duty: Pearl, Kate, Jessie, the men in the hospital. I had forgotten myself, my hunger, fear and long weariness, but not why I remained when others went. Every man that passed, every tired form had borne my earnest scrutiny. It mattered not that they were all in uniform and he would not be; that they were short, perhaps, and he tall; that this man used his rifle as a crutch and that man was carried by upon a litter—I devoured them each with anxious eyes, seeking, searching, longing. But Oliver was not among them. I knew I had no reason so to hope, but as I turned away the tension of my vigil snapped and fatigue struck me like a blow.

I thought for a moment of Ungud, wondered why he had not come to me, wondered where he was, wondered whether he would ever come to me now to admit his failure.

As I walked down the verandah of the Gaol towards our rooms, I found myself feeling much as the Prodigal Son must have felt as he returned to his father’s house. Our kitchen door was open and light fell on the flagged floor of the verandah, while inside I heard voices and laughter and the sound of feasting. Music was provided by a harmonica player a few doors down with a rendition of
The Londonderry Air
.

Two young men sat at our table, smiling self-consciously, as Jessie ladled stew on to tin plates and Kate did the honours with the drinking-water jug.

‘Ah, here you are then! Where ever have you been?’ she said as I walked in. ‘Jess and I were getting worried about you, especially since we have guests, house guests, too. I have asked these young men to stay the night with us, uncomfortable and all as it is; at least our floor is dry, and it’s threatening rain tonight they say. Just till they get settled in their own billets, but sure who’s going to worry about any but the wounded on such a night as this? Now this is Billy Miles, Laura dear,’ and Kate introduced the taller of the two young men. ‘Used to know his parents well, and indeed I knew Billy too when he was just a nod from nowhere, and now here we are met again by chance, after years and years! And this is Corporal Albert Dines, also of the 64th Foot. The two of them got in together and have been together this weary while, it seems, so will not be parted now. Jessie has cooked us a stew, and we were just about to get started.’

I sat down and watched our guests, pretending not to be hungry. Jessie’s stews were no more appetizing than mine were, but every gristly morsel disappeared, though I noticed that Kate had taken only
chapattis
and lentil broth.

Since it was a celebration, the lantern had been lit instead of our usual tallow dip, and I watched the shadows play on the youthful faces and wondered what it was they had seen to produce so old a look of experience in youthful eyes.

After the stew we had tea which came from Lieutenant Miles’s pack and chocolate which came from Corporal Dines’s, and when these good things had disappeared, Corporal Dines foraged in his pack again and came back to the table with a bottle of whisky. The mugs came out again, the whisky went down and we all felt better.

Lieutenant Miles described the march up from Cawnpore, the skirmishes and delays, and the battle at Bithur at which the Nana Sahib had been decisively defeated. He told us that many more troops were on the way out from England to quell the Mutiny.

‘I received a letter from home last week. They say the excitement is more even than that caused by the Crimea. All England is outraged, all Europe, even America …’