The Heroic Garrison Page 17

  “First, Sheridan Sahib, he sought a kingdom for the Nana, but now, it would seem, he seeks one for himself. Already he claims to be the Khalifat-Ullah—the vice-regent of Allah—no less!” The daffadar spat his disgust. “He pays lip service to the Begum, and she reposes absolute trust in him, but the young Nawab is kept hidden from his people—in Fyzabad, it is said— and appointments to high command go always to men of the Moulvi Sahib’s choosing. Many are Hindus, and it is known that the Moulvi is in communication still with the Nana, whom he urges to march with the forces he commands on Cawnpore.”

  “On Cawnpore?” Alex echoed, every sense alert.

  “Ji-han, Sahib,” Mohammed Khan asserted. “Tantia Topi has taken command of the Gwalior Contingent, it is said, and is awaiting the Nana at Kalpi. Together they will attack Cawnpore . . . instead of marching against Agra or to the aid of the Shah Bahadur in Delhi.” He sighed in frustration. “The Moulvi told us that we must wage jihad—a holy war—for the Faith. He told us that we must overthrow the Company’s Raj since, if we did not, we should be compelled to adopt the Christian religion. That was the Company’s policy, he said. First we were to be tricked into breaking our Faith by using the accursed cartridges greased with pig fat and then, when our spiritual purity was lost, we should have no choice but to become Christian outcasts.” He broke off, to eye Alex anxiously. “Was that the truth, Sheridan Sahib?”

  Alex, his own anxiety centered on Cawnpore, forced himself to meet the daffadar’s gaze squarely. “No,” he answered quietly. “It was not the truth.” He gave chapter and verse and then asked again about the proposed attack on Cawnpore but, beyond the fact that this was planned to take place after Sir Colin Campbell’s relief force began to march to Lucknow, could glean no more, since the daffadar’s knowledge was based on camp gossip.

  “I would not have betrayed my salt save in defense of the Faith, Sahib,” Mohammed Khan told him earnestly. “I had pride in my regiment and in the Company’s service, as most of us had. But when the Moulvi called upon us to rise and fight for our beliefs, we heeded his words.We followed him blindly, little thinking that we were to be called upon to fight and die in the cause of an accursed Mahratta!” Again he hesitated, eyes now on his booted feet as if undecided, and then, evidently coming to a decision, he looked up. “Sahib, we hear rumors that Delhi has fallen and the Shah Bahadur is a prisoner . . . but these are denied. Do you know if it is so? Tell me truly, Sahib, I beg you!”

  “Yes, it is so, Daffadar-ji,” Alex confirmed. “General Outram received word before we left the Alam Bagh. The forces of the Government assaulted and recaptured the city of Delhi and the Red Fort, and the king yielded himself as a prisoner to them. The mutiny there is over.”

  Daffadar Mohammed Khan was silent for a long, tense moment, his eyes searching Alex’s face. “We should have gone to Delhi!” he exclaimed with bitterness. “We and the Gwalior troops also. We should not have permitted the Moulvi to turn us from our purpose. This,” he waved an arm despairingly toward the domes and minarets of the city of Lucknow, etched in graceful silhouette against the glow of the sunset, “this is no holy war, Sahib! It is not being waged for the Faith but by evil men with political ambitions, who seek power and wealth for themselves. I did not betray my salt that they might achieve their desires, nor did I watch the brave old General Wheeler die that the Nana might place a crown on his head. Auliah tells me that I dishonor myself by—nay, I . . .” he bit back whatever he had intended to say, unhappy color rising to burn in his dark cheeks, but Alex seized upon the smothered admission.The general’s daughter, he thought in relief, was not the only one to have undergone a form of conversion . . .

  “Mohammed Khan,” he demanded sternly, “do you now regret that you did not remain true to your salt?”

  The daffadar expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh. It was evident that he was fighting an inward, emotional battle with himself, but finally he bowed his head.

  “I regret many things, Sheridan Sahib,” he conceded. “I stay here only because four months’ pay is owed to me.When I receive that, I shall depart for my village and take my wife with me.”

  “Would you not be willing to return to the Company’s service?” Alex persisted.

  Mohammed Khan stared at him in disbelief. “I, a mutineer? Sahib, you jest with me cruelly! If I were to return, should I not be blown from a cannon or hanged and my body defiled and burned? It is known to us that General Neill served the men of my paltan thus, if they fell into his hands and—”

  Alex cut him short. “Not if you returned with me to the Residency, Daffadar-ji, having aided me to escape. And if you brought the daughter of General Wheeler with you, a full pardon would be certain and probably a pension also.”

  “And she would be taken from me!” Mohammed Khan flung at him accusingly. “That is what you want, Sahib, is it not—to restore Auliah to your people?”

  “Only if that is her wish, Mohammed Khan.”

  “She is not wholly white, Sahib. Her mother was of Hind. She—”

  “Then it will be for her to choose, will it not?”

  “You know how much choice your people would permit her, were I to bring her to the Residency, Sheridan Sahib.”

  “Speak to her of it, at least,” Alex pleaded.

  “She is my wife. She must obey me and leave such decisions to me. But,” the daffadar eyed him sadly, “I will mention the matter to her.And as to aiding you to return to the Residency—why, Sahib, are you not free to go? I had understood that the Rajah Man Singh does not hold you as a prisoner.”

  “Do I appear to be free?” Alex challenged wryly. “Are you not guarding me?”

  “For your own protection, Sahib.Your life would be at great risk were you to venture beyond this encampment.”

  “Not in your company, dressed as one of your sowars—”

  “The risk is too great, Sahib,” Mohammed Khan said with conviction. “If you take it, that is not my affair, but I cannot aid you without the Rajah’s knowledge and consent.”

  “And if the Rajah gave his consent?”

  Mohammed Khan smiled. “Then I would aid you,” he promised. “And, if assured of a pardon, I would return to the Company’s service. But I would come alone.”

  With this, Alex had to be satisfied, and he did not press the point, although, with each day that passed, his anxiety to rejoin the defenders of the Residency became more acute. Kaur Singh did not, as he had hoped and expected, make any attempt to contact him, and requests for an audience with the Rajah were met with bland excuses.

  “You are not comfortable, Sahib?” Ananta Ram, the vakeel, asked reproachfully. “You are being well treated, surely? If there is anything that you lack, you have only to make your wishes known to me. A woman, perhaps, to beguile these hours of enforced leisure?”

  “I would speak with the Rajah Sahib,” Alex retorted, “concerning my return to the Residency or to Cawnpore. I am a soldier and my people are at war, Ananta Ram. It ill befits a soldier to beguile himself with women at such a time.”

  “True,” the vakeel agreed. “But my master is at present unwell. He can see no one until he has recovered his strength. Have patience, Sheridan Sahib, I beg you.Your release will be arranged when it is possible to escort you safely to rejoin your people.”

  It was almost a week before Alex’s demands were finally complied with, but Man Singh, at their second interview, was evasive, although, as always, courteous and friendly. He spoke of the advance of Hope Grant’s force and of their successful engagement at Agra and confidently predicted the arrival of substantial reinforcements in Cawnpore, even naming the regiments that had arrived or were on their way there. He had sent his vakeel to deliver a letter to Captain Bruce—commanding the newly raised native police in Cawnpore—with the request that it be forwarded to General Outram, he added, smiling. The letter made his own position clear; his ties with the British were too strong to be broken and he had assured both Bruce and the general of his continued loyalt
y and good intentions.

  “Of this you, Sheridan Sahib, will be able to bear witness, will you not?” he concluded, still smiling.

  “I shall be happy to do so, Rajah Sahib,” Alex assured him. “In person and at once, if you can arrange for me to return to the Residency . . . or even to follow your vakeel to Cawnpore.”

  “It shall be arranged,” the Rajah promised. “At the first possible opportunity. At present, however, the road to Cawnpore is too dangerous, and for you to attempt to regain the Residency would be to run the risk of falling into the hands of the mutineers.”

  “I am prepared to take that risk—” Alex began, but Man Singh shook his head. “I cannot permit you to do so, Sheridan Sahib,” he stated firmly. “Be patient, if you please. You will be sent on your way as soon as it is safe . . . safe for us both, you understand. I run a considerable risk in giving you shelter.”

  This was true, of course, Alex was forced to concede, and, aware that argument was useless, he thanked his host stiffly and took his leave, to spend the rest of the day planning how best to make his escape.With Daffadar Mohammed Khan’s help, he might manage to reach the Residency—or, failing the Residency, the Alam Bagh—but alone, he knew, he would stand a very slim chance of avoiding detection, since the river banks and all approaches to the city were heavily guarded. He was waiting with impatience for the daffadar to report for escort duty that evening when, to his surprise, Letty Wheeler appeared at the tent-flap to ask, with a humility he found oddly hurtful, if she might speak with him.

  She was veiled, as before, and the crone was with her, but, when she entered the tent, she firmly bade the old woman wait outside and, disregarding her protests, pulled the tent-flap shut behind her. Seating herself, cross-legged in the native fashion, she said in an urgent whisper, “Colonel Sheridan, I dare not stay more than a few minutes, but I had to see you.”

  “Of course,” Alex acknowledged, recovering from his surprise. He remained standing, his body interposed between her and the tent-flap. “How may I serve you?”

  “Those days are past,” she answered bitterly. “Men do not serve me, I . . .” she broke off, her eyes behind the thin slits in her veil filled with tears.Then, her tone apologetic, she went on, “I think of myself now not as the daughter of General Sir Hugh Wheeler but as the wife of Mohammed Khan. I shall grow accustomed to my role and . . . I am not unhappy. My husband is good to me, insofar as custom and his religion permit. He is a good man and an honorable one and I owe him my life.”

  “But, Letty, my dear child,” Alex began. “If you make your escape to the Residency with me, you—”

  Letty Wheeler cut him short. “My husband has spoken to me of that, Colonel Sheridan. He says he is willing to aid you and to return to the Company’s service with you, on the promise of a pardon. He”—there was a catch in her voice— “he told me that if I truly wanted it, he would take me back also. But we both know what the outcome would be, do we not? He would be pensioned and sent away, while I . . . oh, Colonel Sheridan, surely you know what my fate would be?”

  He knew, of course, Alex thought wryly. British society would never accept her; no matter what excuses were made, there would be smug British matrons ready to point the finger of scorn at her, ready to condemn her because—even if it had been the means of saving her life—she had been married to a native and was, in any case, the child of a mixed marriage. Her mother had been a high-caste woman of impeccable family but . . . she had still been an Indian. Recalling the comparison Letty had made between herself and her elder sister, on the occasion of her first visit to his tent, Alex’s heart went out to her. He laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Then,” he asked pityingly, “what have you decided to do?”

  She looked up to meet his gaze, her own unflinching. “To remain the wife of Mohammed Khan. I am to bear his child, but I . . . for my father’s sake, Colonel Sheridan, the reason I have come here now is to beg that you will not tell of our meeting. Let my father’s people believe me dead—murdered at the Suttee Chowra Ghat with all the rest. It will be better so, believe me.”

  “If that is what you wish,” Alex sighed. “If it is truly what you wish.”

  “It is,” Letty assured him. She rose to her feet and stood facing him, a small yet oddly dignified figure in the shapeless purdah robe. “I am to go to my husband’s village, to the house of his father, who is the headman, there to await the birth of my child. Mohammed Khan has sent for one of his brothers to take me there, and he will ask leave to escort me through the rebel lines. The journey will take only 24 hours—he will return and place himself at your service, trusting in your word that, if he aids your escape from here, you will obtain a pardon for him. You will keep your word, will you not, Colonel Sheridan?”

  Deeply moved, Alex inclined his head. “Yes, I’ll keep it, Letty.”

  “And my . . . my secret also?”

  “That, too, my dear child.”

  “Thank you,” Letty Wheeler said softly. “It would not be fitting for a general’s daughter to be the wife of a mutineer, but, if Mohammed Khan returns to the Company’s service, then I shall be content.” She hesitated, hearing the old woman’s querulous voice from outside the tent. “My chaperone grows impatient. I must go, for it is she who will suffer if I am discovered here. But . . . I have spoken only of myself and there are rumors being bandied about that may be of some concern to you, if you have not heard them . . .” she broke off, seeking to silence the crone with the promise, delivered sharply in Hindustani, that she was about to take her leave.

  “What rumors?” Alex prompted, as she turned to face him.

  “First that Rajah Man Singh is not entirely to be trusted,” Letty warned him gravely. “It is said that he will not release you— that he intends to keep you as a hostage until he is certain that the relief of the Lucknow garrison can be successfully accomplished and the rebels defeated.”

  “That was what I suspected,” Alex confessed ruefully. “Man Singh is trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, I’m afraid. He is not in sympathy with the rebels and, if left to himself, would give us his support. Unhappily, as he pointed out to me quite recently, he’s in a precarious position here. His levies don’t amount to much and he has no guns, whereas the Begum and the Moulvi have vastly superior forces at their command.”

  “I have also heard it said that there is bad blood between Man Singh and the Moulvi, Colonel Sheridan, and that each plots the overthrow of the other. My husband and many of his comrades believe that in spite of their religious differences, the Moulvi still supports the cause of the unspeakable Nana Sahib and that they are in league together for their own ends. Did he— did Mohammed Khan tell you of this?”

  “Yes,” Alex answered. “He did, in general terms. He—”

  “Did he tell you that the Nana is expected here?”

  “Expected here? No, he didn’t mention that possibility. But . . .” Mohammed Khan had said that the Nana was about to join Tantia Topi and the Gwalior troops at Kalpi, with the intention of launching an attack on Cawnpore, Alex recalled.He stared down at Letty Wheeler, in some bewilderment, his brain racing as he considered the implication of her words. “When is he expected, Letty, do you know?”

  She shook her head. “It will be soon, that is all I know. I . . .” she bit back a sob and her voice was choked with emotion as she went on, “that cruel, treacherous man! He betrayed my father’s friendship and his trust, he . . . oh, Colonel, it is wrong to hate, I know, but I pray the Nana may meet the end he deserves—I pray that someone will take revenge on him for what he did to us at Cawnpore! He . . .” the old woman called to her from outside, more urgently this time, but Letty ignored her plea. “Those poor, poor people from Sitapur . . . they were brought in at the Nana’s instigation, in fetters, and they had been so cruelly mistreated that they were barely alive, my husband said. He saw them with his own eyes and was moved by their plight. Colonel Sheridan, when you return to the Residency—as I
hope and pray you soon will—you’ll tell Sir James Outram about them, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I will, Letty,” Alex promised, puzzled. “Do you know where they are being held and who they are?”

  “They were taken to the Kaiser Bagh but . . .” the tent-flap parted and the old woman’s dark face appeared in the aperture, mouthing reproaches. She was so insistent and so clearly frightened that Alex grasped her by the shoulder and drew her into the tent, looking about him for something with which to buy her silence. His cheroot case lay on the table in front of him; it was silver, with his initials engraved on it, and Emmy had given it to him to mark their wedding anniversary, but . . . it was about the only thing of value he now possessed. He thrust it into the gnarled old hand and said harshly, in Hindustani, “Wait . . . the mem will only be a few more minutes,” and the crone sank grumbling onto her haunches, clutching her unexpected prize to her bosom and still looking more alarmed than pleased.

  Letty smothered a sigh. “I don’t know their names,” she said. “Only that they are from Sitapur and that there are three officers and a lady with a child—or there may be two ladies, one with a child. They had escaped from the mutiny of the native regiments and taken refuge at Mithowlee, with the Rajah Lonee Singh. He treated them most cruelly and finally betrayed them to the Nana, who ordered them to be brought here. My husband said that they were starving and barely able to walk, poor souls, and, as I told you, they were fettered. One of the men, he said, had gone quite out of his mind.”

  “A middle-aged man?” Alex questioned. George Christian had been commissioner at Sitapur, he remembered; a kindly, charming man in his late forties, with a young wife and one— no, two small children. His assistant, Sir Mountstuart Jackson, was a youthful baronet, whose two sisters had come out to make their home with him, following the death of their parents.

  Letty shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know, Colonel Sheridan. My husband said that one of the gentlemen was white-haired and he thought the ladies were young—there must have been two, because he spoke of them as mems. He said they were in rags and barefooted, poor creatures, and that the child was whimpering all the time, as if it were ill. My heart bleeds for them, I ...you will do what you can for them, won’t you? When you return to the Residency, I mean—there is nothing, alas, that you can do for them while you are held prisoner here.”