Zemindar (99 page)

I was welcomed back with warmth by Dr Partridge and soon worked myself into the familiar routine of the ward, but all the old zest and interest in what I was doing had disappeared. I did what I could with whatever skill and compassion I commanded, but now I longed to leave the place almost as soon as I had arrived and, with so many others helping, felt no compunction in the fact that my hours were shorter. With what delighted relief I took off my apron, pulled on my shawl and hurried back to the Gaol each afternoon, and with what joyous recognition I entered the smoky little kitchen to see my invalid, often with Pearl in his arms, sitting on a stool watching Jessie cook the evening meal while he spun her outrageous yarns of his sinful youth in Paris.

For a reason known only to himself, Oliver had decided to exert his charm on Jessie, and she had succumbed immediately. He never ordered her about as he did the rest of us, called her ‘Mrs MacGregor’ most respectfully, asked her advice and deferred to her opinion—or at any rate gave her reason to suppose he did. I wondered what was behind it. Oliver seldom did anything without a reason.

As he grew stronger, so he became more restless, and a few days after my return to the hospital he set off one morning to find himself employment. He had not wasted his time since regaining his feet. Each day he had spent hours practising writing with his left hand and, though always accustomed to being shaved and laced into his boots by Toddy-Bob or Ishmial, he now decided that these were tasks he must do for himself, with his left hand only. Then there was pistol practice. He conceded that he would probably never again be the marksman he once was with rifle or shotgun, particularly since there was no ammunition to spare for training, but there was no reason at all why he should not regain his old skill with the pistol. He would sit on his stool, sometimes with the baby cradled against the useless arm, and try with dogged patience to regain speed and ease in loading, cocking and arming the weapon with his single hand. All these tasks, necessary or unnecessary, were frustrating in the extreme to a man as quick and precise in all his actions as Oliver had been. Cawnpore might have taught him endurance, might have brought him to a gentler tolerance of his fellow human beings, but not even Cawnpore could quite curb the impatient irritation that drove him to end every effort with a string of muted curses. And they were muted only on account of Jessie, who was liable to round on him with outrage and scold him like a fishwife for his ‘black-talkin’, ill-willin’ tongue, Mr Erskine, sirr!’

Determined to be useful, he had no difficulty in finding a useful task.

The troops of the relieving force had been armed with the new Lee Enfield rifle, that same weapon whose disputed cartridge had provoked some of the initial incidents of the rebellion. Men accustomed to the new weapon were loath to return to the old Brown Bess, but the garrison was rapidly running short of Lee Enfield ammunition. By chance, a Lieutenant Sewell of the Old Garrison was found to be in possession of a couple of moulds for Lee Enfield bullets, and soon a small manufactory was in production. Oliver discovered that a left hand was as skilful as a right in pouring lead, and having demonstrated this to everyone’s satisfaction, found himself with a job to do.

I was almost as relieved as he was delighted; for, much as I loved him, now that he was stronger, his bored and idle presence in the kitchen was becoming a strain on us all, a situation that resulted inevitably in sharp words on my part and enjoyment on his.

‘That’s my girl!’ he said approvingly one day when I had given him the length of my tongue over some unimportant matter. ‘Now I know you’ve come through your ordeal unscathed and with your character unimpaired. All this sweetness and light you’ve been shedding, this gentle nursing and kind consideration, has bothered me. It’s not like you.’

‘I wish I could say the same of you!’ I retorted sharply. ‘Unfortunately your present behaviour is precisely what I recollect of you—and leaves much to be desired!’

‘Ah, woman dear!’ he sighed in mock repentance. ‘Forgive me. What a disappointment I am to you. For weeks you have had a beautiful memory of my lifeless carcass to hang your dreams on and then I turn up, alive and still kicking. So impolitic of me, not to say impolite. All your dreams exploded! If only I could be the man you dreamed of.’

He grabbed my arm as I passed him and drew me down so that I was kneeling beside him.

‘You’re an idiot,’ I informed him comfortably. ‘I knew you could never change. I just have to get accustomed to the idea that I can love a man as abominable as I once thought you were, and now discover you to be.’

‘I hope it will not be a very painful process of adjustment.’

‘So do I—for your sake!’

I laughed and put my arms about his neck.

Having found himself a job to do, Oliver went in search of a billet for himself and his retainers.

‘Been with you too long already,’ he told Kate, who had protested at his desertion of the Gaol. ‘Even I cannot expect you to give up a bed indefinitely, and the lads at the Farhat Baksh have ample room and say they will be delighted to have me as a companion. Now don’t fret, Kate. I’ll be back and frequently. Military chatter is not much to my liking, as you know. I’m told they keep a scoreboard down there of pandies killed each day; can’t say how long I’ll be able to keep my tongue among such primitive savages, so I might be thrown out and find myself back among you very soon.’

‘But, Oliver, that’s just what bothers me. Do keep a civil tongue in your head. ’Twas well enough to speak your mind and offend the populace when you always had Hassanganj to retire to, but now—here, and in these times …’

‘A landless fugitive must learn to mind his manners! I understand, Kate. I’ll be good, truly …’

‘No, don’t laugh, Oliver. You’re in trouble already, you know. Mr Roberts was unwise enough to repeat your doubts about the cause of the massacre at the river to Wallace Avery. Wallace, in his cups no doubt, poor man, passed on your theory to his friends, and by the time it came to my ears in the hospital you were not only expressing a doubt but stating a fact, and everyone declared that nothing more than treason could be expected of “Brahmin” Erskine.’

‘Hm, yes, that’s not surprising, I suppose. After all, have I not gone “native”, as they say?’ Oliver laughed, but not pleasantly.

‘Kate’s right,’ put in Charles who was eating with us that night. ‘You cannot afford to get on the wrong side of anyone at the moment. “Cawnpore Fever” has most of us in its grip to one extent or another, and pretty rotten things are being done by the men when they go out on sorties. Old men, young women and any and every pandy who comes within bayonet range is despatched with a yell of “Take that for Cawnpore!” You put a foot wrong and it’s not without the bounds of possibility that you might end with a bayonet through your back. No one wants to hear excuses or justifications for the Nana and his men.’

‘Oh, come now, Charles,’ I expostulated.

‘No, Laura, I’m not exaggerating. It could happen. Oliver has … well, devil take it, you must realize it as well as anyone, Oliver, but you have a bad name among the people of this town. Oh, I know it’s because they do not know you, could never understand you … the fact is that you have. Some time ago the entrenchment was alive with rumours that white officers were leading the pandies. White men, anyway. They’d been seen, so it was said, directing an assault …’

‘I remember that,’ I put in. ‘They were supposed to be Russians, weren’t they?’

‘I heard they were Frenchmen,’ said Kate.

‘Whatever they were, one of the men in our battery declared that there were probably any number of planters in Oudh, dependent on the Nawab’s largesse and the favour of the
talukhdars
, who might be willing to take a hand against us sooner than lose their property and their rights, and your name, I’m afraid, was one of those mentioned. Made it deuced awkward for me, I can tell you, when I had to come out and say that you were my brother.’

‘Oho! Poor old Charles. And what did you do? Tap his claret?’

‘Fisticuffs are a poor way of establishing innocence. I told the man he was a crass, ill-thinking fool and walked out of the room.’

‘Bravo! And thanks. But I’m surprised I was even allowed the dubious honour of being “white”. I believe my erratic opinions and behaviour are generally put down to my having a “touch of the tarbrush” myself.’

‘Damn it, Oliver, I’m serious. The men, particularly the ones who came through Cawnpore—though it has affected them all to some extent—are in an ugly, violent mood. You’ll find that out for yourself once you move down to the Ferret Box.’ (For so the private soldiers had already dubbed the palace of Farhat Baksh.)

‘No doubt. But have no fears on my behalf. I swear I shall be as circumspect as Caesar’s wife, if for no other reason than to save you further embarrassment.’

The following morning, after breakfast, Jessie and I watched Oliver walk down to the Farhat Baksh Palace, accompanied by Toddy-Bob and Ishmial. His feet had healed sufficiently to allow him to wear the boots Toddy had bought him, but his arm was still in a sling of purple calico figured with orange leaves, the remnant of one of Jessie’s gowns. Both Toddy and Ishmial carried various boxes and bundles, for they had not been slow in benefiting from the looting of the several palaces that now stood within our enclosure. Whether directly or indirectly (I never chose to enquire), Toddy had ‘come by’ all manner of useful articles for Oliver, himself and for us. We had sheets on our beds now, some exquisite French porcelain plates and cups, cooking pans, embroidered shawls and dirty brocaded cushions for our stools. It was with difficulty that we restrained the little man from foraging for more costly articles on our behalf. ‘Coo!’ he had said in eye-screwed anguish when I remonstrated with him on this point. ‘You don’t know what you’re missin’ by ’alf, you don’t, Miss Laura. Kashmir shawls soft as silk, and jewels and silver dishes and all manner of fine things—just lyin’ around the rooms and gardens, and all for the takin’.’

I had heard accounts from more reliable sources than Toddy of the splendour of the vast apartments through which the soldiers roamed in search of booty, and not a day passed but some private or his wife would offer for sale or barter along our verandah a jade figurine, a fine ring or a jewelled dagger. These things were a temptation, but one which I had to resist. I had no money for baubles, nor wished to load myself with possessions which might again be lost to me before I could reach safety, so Toddy’s efforts on our behalf were confined to long-desired necessities.

It was mid-October when Oliver moved to the Farhat Baksh, and the news of the recapture of Delhi by General Nicholson had already worn thin as a topic of conversation. The air was fresh, very nearly pure; a pale sun cast transparent cold-weather shadows, and the wide sky was the same candid blue as little Pearl’s eyes. The sunlight glinted momentarily on Oliver’s bare head and, despite his tender feet, he walked away from us with the quick decisive stride so characteristic of him.

‘Och, and he’s a lovely man!’ sighed Jessie as they went, with evident satisfaction. ‘And so good and generous. Mr Charles, now, is as fine a gentleman as you could wish, but yon—well, yon’s a
man
!’

I smiled at her distinction.

‘It’ll be a real pleasure to work for him,’ she went on. ‘And to think he could spare thought, and him in his own sufferings, for a poor widow woman like me.’

‘Work for him?’ I turned a wary eye on my friend.

‘Aye. D’ye no ken? As his housekeeper. He asked me. When all this is gone the by, ye ken?’

‘His housekeeper? But Jessie, do you know where his house is? Or rather was, for it has burned down?’

‘He told me,’ she answered tranquilly. ‘’Tis way out in the country, wi’ the mountains to look at an’ a’—jest like Scotland, he said it was. He said he’s goin’ to build a fine new house, but will be needin’ a body to care for it, ye ken. When I told him he should tak’ a wife to care for his fine house, he laughed and said: “My wife is goin’ to have her hands fu’ takin’ care of me!”’

‘Oh, he did, did he?’

‘Aye!’

‘But, Jessie, you would find the life intolerable. Mr Erskine is by way of being a misanthrope … I mean, he doesn’t care for company, and the place is miles from anywhere. No Europeans, no one to talk to. You’d be so lonely. Besides, surely you want to go home to your own family, your own people?’

‘The wee man would doubtless be about the house, would he no’? And I’ve no kin so close they’d care. I’d as lief tend yon gentleman’s house in the wilderness as return to service in some notary’s villa in Glasgow. No, no, Miss Laura. ’Twill suit me fine to bide in India.’

She went indoors with Pearl.

‘To bide in India.’ My heart constricted with a sudden chill at Jessie’s words. The three familiar figures had disappeared from view, but I sat down on the steps in the sunshine and gazed unhappily in the direction they had taken.

‘To bide in India.’ Was that really what he was planning to do? It was madness. The absurdity of the idea was matched only by its futility. To bide in India? In Hassanganj? Now—after all this? He could not, surely he could not still seriously believe he had a life in India?

Hassanganj was gone, and not only the strange old house. I could imagine what had overtaken the mud-built villages with their careful tillage, their groves and arid pastures. War must surely have flamed them too by now, and torn the roads and breached the mud-banked waterways and filled the precious wells with silt. With no defence, no stern
sirkar
to answer to, even had no marauding sepoys swept the area with destruction, what chance was there that the Hassanganj villages had been spared the malice of the
talukhdars
, or the Rohillas, a neighbour’s jealousy or an enemy’s spite?

There could be nothing left now to which he could return. And if there were, what justification had he for thinking it would still be his? A worn old parchment with the seal of a long-gone nawab? That would not be enough in the new India, for there would be a new India now, so everyone said. The day of the East India Company was gone, scarcely more than a year after that Company had decreed that the day of the nawabs was over. The old methods of administration would, somehow, give way to better, juster, more efficient means of government. Hassanganj, feudal in conception, autocratic in administration, Hassanganj as an entity would be swept away, whatever its state when the rebellion was finally over. And it might be years, I told myself in panic, before peace returned to India.