The Heroic Garrison Page 12

  The staircase opened on to a balustraded gallery, hung with tapestry and Persian rugs, and the subedar, with some hesitation, approached a curtained archway. where he halted and motioned the escorting sepoys to wait. Turning to Alex, he whispered, “I have your word, Sahib—you will enter with me and remain here, by the archway, while I seek audience with the Moulvi?”

  It was thanks to this old soldier of the Company that he was still alive, Alex reflected wryly. Had he been captured by townsfolk or by Oudh Irregulars, they would undoubtedly have shot him . . . he inclined his head. “I gave my word that I would not try to escape from your custody, Subedar Sahib. Rest assured—I shall not break that promise.”

  The native officer looked up at him and, for an unguarded instant, there was regret in the dark eyes. “These are not happy times, Colonel Sahib,” he said softly. “I am sorry that I must deliver you to the Moulvi as a prisoner. But it is my duty— believe me, I am not doing it for the reward alone, although I am a poor man.” He thrust the curtain aside and signed to Alex to follow him.

  The room they entered was ablaze with light, as the entrance hall and staircase had been. It was a vast room, running half the length of the building at least and furnished in the oddly incongruous mixture of Oriental and Western styles so beloved of native rulers since the coming of John Company. Shabby leather armchairs, of the type popular in military clubs in London, were scattered among exquisitely carved examples of native craftsmanship; a billiard table, denuded of its cloth, occupied one corner and was piled high with silver goblets and tankards—some bearing British regimental crests—while priceless Persian rugs were scattered piecemeal over the inlaid marble floor and the remnants of a meal lay, scarcely touched, on a dining table in the center of the room, the lamplight striking reflections from the gold plate on which it had been served.

  The appearance of the room occasioned Alex little surprise; during his service as a political officer, he had seen and been entertained in many others that resembled it.The occupants—of whom there were about fifty or sixty—were a different matter, however, and he drew in his breath sharply as he looked about him, seeing a number of former trusted British allies, talukdars and petty rajahs, whose loyalty had earned them pensions and grants of land at various times prior to the mutiny. They were here now in fighting garb, and he was shocked to recognize, standing a little apart, the Brahmin Rajah Man Singh of Shahgunje, to whom, during the past few perilous months, countless British fugitives owed their lives. Man Singh had protected them, dealing kindly and hospitably with their womenfolk and children; not one had applied to him in vain for refuge and all had been escorted from his domain to safety in defiance of the Nana’s threats and pressure from the rebellious zamindars of Oudh. Yet he was here and he had, seemingly, thrown in his lot with the Mohammedan Court of Oudh although, for the moment, even in their midst, he was holding himself apart, standing in silence with his vakeel, while the others gathered in chattering groups, old feuds and grievances in abeyance—if not, perhaps, forgotten.

  At an open window on the far side of the room, the Moulvi of Fyzabad also stood aloof, a bevy of staff officers keeping a respectful distance between him and the resplendently clad Oudh nobles. Scorning the costly magnificence with which the rest had bedecked themselves, he still dressed as he always had, in a long white robe, the green turban of a follower of the Prophet framing his dark, hawk-like face. The tulwar hanging from his waist was a workmanlike weapon, its scabbard silver but innocent of jewels; he had a pistol thrust into his cummerbund and a pair of cavalryman’s leather gauntlets, which he had evidently just discarded, lay on a small table at his elbow, together with a telescope and a heavy, rain-wet cloak, which suggested that he had only recently joined the gathering from outside.

  Isolated and unnoticed by the curtained doorway, Alex watched him. The Moulvi was staring intently out the window, as if listening for some expected sound, his beetling dark brows gathered in a frown, and the fingers of one hand beating a restless tattoo against the frame of the window. The old subedar, who had made his way hesitantly through the chattering groups toward him, reached his side at last, only to be accosted by one of the staff officers, who drew him away, a hand firmly gripping his arm. He pointed to the window, and the subedar obediently waited, and Alex saw that he, too, was listening. Except for a few spasmodic shots, there was little to be heard, save the murmur of voices from within the room and the clink of glasses as some of the officers helped themselves from the chatties on the disordered dining table. Among those who did so was a thin, frail-looking old man, in the gold-laced chapkan of the old king’s army, scarlet slashed with yellow, his plumed turban and the jewel-encrusted gold chain of office around his neck proclaiming him an officer of high rank.

  Alex stared at him for a moment in bewilderment before recognizing him as Mirza Guffur Khan, one-time general of artillery in Wajid Ali’s service. In the days when he had been commissioner of Adjodhabad, he had known Mirza Guffur as a plump, slothful but immensely likable old aristocrat, living in opulent retirement, whose hunting parties he had attended several times and whose hospitality—despite his adherence to the Moslem faith—had called for a strong head on the part of his European guests. Now, stripped of the corpulent cheerfulness that had characterized him, he looked ill and unhappy and, as he filled his glass with a perceptibly unsteady hand, he glanced apprehensively in the Moulvi’s direction as if expecting to be called to task for his indulgence.

  The Moulvi, however, had no eyes for his artillery commander or, indeed, for anyone else. The subedar, who was clearly growing anxious concerning the prisoner he had left unguarded, signed agitatedly to Alex to withdraw from the room to where his escort was waiting, but his efforts earned him a reprimand from the staff officer who had first accosted him, and Alex, affecting not to understand what he wanted, remained where he was, the door curtain providing him with at least partial concealment. No one else gave him a second glance; the Moulvi did not turn away from the window, the old subedar resigned himself to waiting for a chance to gain his attention, and the voices of the talukdars became louder and more slurred, as more of them followed Mirza Guffur’s example and replenished their glasses from the bottles and chatties on the table.

  Then with startling suddenness, the sound of volley after volley of musketry echoed throughout the room and the Moulvi raised a hand for silence. The hum of conversation died to a whisper and he turned, his hand still upraised, to face his followers.

  “You hear?” His deep voice was exultant. “They are on the move at last and the jaws of the trap are wide open! Allah guide the feringhi dogs into our hands, my brothers, that this night may see the first of many victories, when we embark on the reconquest of all Hind!”

  There was subdued murmur of approval, which grew in volume to a savage roar. Alex, alone in the curtained doorway, knew a moment of paralyzing fear, the fear not for himself but for the men he had been compelled to leave behind him and for those who might even now, be risking their own lives to go to their aid. The sounds of battle were too far away for him to be able to pinpoint the scene of action precisely but the firing appeared to be coming from the general direction of the river and the Chutter Munzil, and he guessed that the sepoys he had glimpsed in the walled enclosure, half an hour before, had come from concealment to attack the rear-guard. Distorted by distance, cries and shouts could be heard, mingled with the beat of drums and the trumpeting of native horns, which suggested that some of the rajwana—irregulars and matchlockmen of the zamindari forces—were preparing to join battle in support of the sepoys.

  He craned forward anxiously, hearing the Moulvi’s voice but unable to make out more than a word or two of what he was saying, his stomach churning as he visualized the all too familiar scene and then, as suddenly as it had started, the shooting ceased. The lull, which lasted perhaps four or five minutes, was followed by the unmistakable sound of British cheers and Alex’s heart lifted.They had done it, he thought, praise be to God, aga
inst all the odds, the rear-guard had done it!

  Forgetful of caution, he advanced into the room to find himself virtually alone, since the Moulvi’s guests had gathered about him at the window, all of them now staring out of it as intently as he.The rain had stopped and when a pale moon appeared, to cast a faint, watery radiance across the night sky, the Moulvi raised his voice to give thanks to Allah.

  “Our sepoys have done as I commanded them, my brothers!” he asserted. “Now they and the rajwana will retreat in seeming panic into the city and the British—who must, in any case, take their heavy guns by road to the Residency—will follow them, confident of victory.”

  “Canst thou be sure,” Mirza Guffur asked querulously, “that they will follow, Moulvi Sahib?” He belched loudly, but the drink he had consumed had evidently loosened his tongue and, ignoring the Moulvi’s baleful look, he went on, “This is not war as I know it . . . and the British are not fools, to walk blindly into thy trap. What are two guns to them? They have guns and to spare in the Residency!”

  “It is a matter of honor to British soldiers. They will save their guns at any price,” the Moulvi retorted angrily. “And their wounded also, if it is possible. They have survivors from this morning’s ambush to rescue . . . or so they imagine. I tell thee, the trap has been well baited and its jaws are open. They will follow and it will close. When word is brought to me that all is in readiness, we will go and witness the slaughter, which few of them will escape . . .” he talked on boastfully, apparently in no doubt that his carefully planned strategy would be successful, and the talukdars, impressed by his eloquence, applauded him noisily.

  Only Rajah Man Singh remained silent, still keeping his own counsel and, when the Moulvi focused on him and charged him with lack of enthusiasm, the Brahmin answered quietly that he would reserve judgment until the final outcome was known.

  “Where learned you the art of war, Ahmad Ullah?” he questioned cynically. “Not, surely, in action against the British, of whose character you profess to have such profound knowledge and understanding? Like the General Sahib, I do not consider them foolish when they make war—the reverse, in fact. Foolish they may be in other matters, but in war I do not underestimate them.”

  “Perhaps, Huzoor Bahadur, you underestimate me!” the Moulvi countered, his tone cold. “Certainly you place too much reliance on the drunken babblings of an old man, whose excesses offend against the teaching of his Faith.” He gestured contemptuously to Mirza Guffur, but, before Wajid Ali’s old general could reply to the insult, there was a shout from the doorway and Alex made a swift retreat into the shadows. Man Singh saw his sudden movement and glanced across at him with a puzzled frown, but he said nothing, and the attention of everyone in the room became centered on the two mud-spattered native officers who came hurrying in, calling urgently for the Moulvi.

  One was stout and gray-haired, wearing the uniform of the Company’s Native Infantry and the rank badges of a colonel; his companion was younger and similarly attired—presumably his adjutant or aide—and the shocked, unhappy expressions on both their faces gave warning that the news they brought was anything but good.

  Seeing the man he sought by the window, the colonel stumbled over to him, breathing hard. He did not salute or come to attention but stood, his head bowed, to blurt out, with a bitterness he made no attempt to conceal, “My paltan has been wiped out, Moulvi Sahib!”

  “Wiped out, Behari Lal? What do you mean, wiped out? In the name of Allah, what are you telling me?” The Moulvi’s voice cut like a whiplash, and the native officer retreated a pace, quailing before the fury in his eyes.

  “We waited, well hidden in the enclosure, as you bade us, Moulvi Sahib,” he answered sullenly. “But we were discovered before the rajwana came to support us.The British were in much greater strength than we had been led to expect. They are in occupation of all the palaces, and they attacked us from two sides, catching us in a terrible crossfire—and then they came in with the bayonet. We were overwhelmed . . . there were hundreds of them and we had no chance. The cowardly dogs of the rajwana fled across the river, ignoring our cries for aid. We—”

  “Across the river?” the Moulvi flung at him. “Not, as I had commanded, to the Khas Bazaar?”

  “There was nowhere else to go, Moulvi Sahib,” the stout little colonel defended. “Ram Chand and I . . . we are the only ones to reach here and we came, at the risk of our lives, to bring you word. The rest—the few that are left of my paltan—fled in the only direction they could. Many were drowned, cut off by more of the lal-kotes, who issued from the Furhut Baksh and the Terhee Kothee to prevent them from reaching the iron bridge. The power of their Enfields is terrible. I tell you truly—we had no chance and—”

  The Moulvi cursed him as if he were a low-caste menial. “And Gomundi Singh, who was posted with two regiments in the Hirun Khana—did you not send to him for support?”

  “There was no time—the attack came without warning. I—”

  “You are a cowardly incompetent,” the Moulvi accused. “One cannot fight when yellow-livered curs of your caliber run at the mere sight of a feringhi bayonet.You are not fit to hold command of your paltan, Behari Lal—you are relieved.You—”

  “I have no paltan, Moulvi Sahib.” Behari Lal was trembling, his plump face ashen. “Did I not tell you, my paltan was wiped out and—”

  The Moulvi brushed his protests aside. “What of the guns?” he demanded harshly. “Do the British rear-guard take them to the Residency?”

  “No, they do not!” Behari Lal answered, sounding as if the dashing of the Moulvi’s hopes gave him pleasure. “They have left them in the enclosure beside the river, and they guard them from the Chutter Munzil, which they now occupy, in addition to the other palaces . . .” he explained the new British depositions, and Alex was conscious of an unholy joy as he listened. His spirits rose still further when he heard Behari Lal describe, in graphic detail, how a small party—taking advantage of the confusion caused by his regiment’s flight—had made a dash through the enclosure from which they had been driven and from there, guided, he could only suppose, by Moorsom, had brought out Surgeon Home and the others without suffering a single casualty.

  It was a miracle, he thought, thankful beyond measure to learn that his companions in misfortune had been saved. His own situation, he was well aware, remained fraught with danger—even if the scene he had just witnessed had driven all thought of danger from his mind, it would behoove him to remember it now. The Moulvi, beside himself with rage at the failure of his much-vaunted plan to ambush the British rear-guard, would show him no mercy when his presence was revealed, as inevitably it must be . . . unless he broke his word to the subedar and attempted to make his escape.The old man was still standing, awkward and ill at ease, on the edge of the group by the window, elbowed aside by some of them but still patiently awaiting an opportunity to hand over his prisoner and claim his reward. It was only a question of time before the Moulvi noticed him and demanded to know his business and then . . . Alex’s throat tightened.

  When that moment came, he decided, the only course open to him would be to sell his life as dearly as he could, taking as many of them with him as circumstances would allow. He had faced death too often to fear it now, but, when it came, as a soldier, he wanted to go out fighting—not to suffer some fiendish torture such as the Moulvi might devise if he yielded himself up as a prisoner. He remembered the Suttee Chowra Ghat at Cawnpore and the ghastly shambles in the Bibigarh and shivered involuntarily; he remembered, too, the terrible death the Nana had inflicted on poor young Saunders, of the 84th, who had attacked him when he had been dragged from one of the blazing boats on the evening of the massacre—a death even the Nana’s followers had deplored for its calculated cruelty. And he remembered Emmy, as he loosened his saber in its scabbard . . . dear God, what terrors could death hold for him, if he forced them to kill him quickly and cleanly, for would not Emmy be waiting for him on the other side?

  He
moved a pace or two forward, calculating the distance between himself and Ahmad Ullah, the Moulvi of Fyzabad, who was engaged in a low-voiced conversation with a tall man in Sikh cavalry dress, to whom he appeared to be listening with more respect than he had shown to any of the others.The Sikh’s face was in shadow, and Alex could not place him, but at least he was holding the Moulvi’s attention, which would be to his advantage. If, Alex thought, he approached the group by the window with sufficient confidence and behaved as if he were one of them, no one, probably, would notice or challenge him. There might even be some among them—the humiliated Behari Lal, for one— who would stand by and watch him attack the Moulvi without raising a hand to stop him . . . at all events until the deed was successfully done. The Moulvi, it was evident had done little to endear himself to those now serving under his command; as at Cawnpore and in his own domain of Fyzabad, he had inspired fear but no trust or liking, particularly among the Brahmins.

  Alex started to move toward the window, pausing to help himself from one of the chatties on the table and, as the talukdars had done, he drank a generous measure of arak slowly, as if savoring its contents, while keeping a wary eye on the Moulvi. He saw that the old subedar was watching him in open-mouthed amazement but apparently without suspecting his intentions, and he held his ground, venturing a smile in his direction, in the hope of allaying any doubts he might be harboring.The old man hesitated uncertainly but, instead of crossing the room to take him again into custody, he went over to where Behari Lal was standing and attempted to speak to him.The stout colonel, sunk in sullen and uncommunicative misery, looked at him blankly and then waved him away and the subedar, after another prolonged hesitation, resumed his original position and once more sought to gain the Moulvi’s ear.