Guns to the Far East (13 page)

“Is Sita Ram coming with us, Mamma?” the little boy had asked, eyes bright with expectation. “Can't we go soon?” And then, slipping easily into the vernacular, “May I ride with you, Sita Ram, on your horse, instead of in the buggy?”

Beaming, the orderly had hoisted him on to his shoulder, setting down the musket and then, just as she had been about to chide Phillip for his impatience, a terrible, ear-piercing scream had come from the Snell's bungalow opposite, followed by a fusillade of shots and the sound of running feet. When she could nerve herself to go out on to the verandah, Harriet had seen smoke rising slowly from the rear of the Snell's bungalow and the old bearer came, the breath rasping in his throat, to tell her brokenly that some sepoys had run amuck and she must go at once, whilst there was yet time to save herself and the
baba-log.

“Snell Sahib is dead, his
mem
and the
baba
also. Delay no longer, Memsahib, for surely they will come here.”

“What Sepoys are they?” she had demanded, not realising the futility of her question until after she had asked it … or had she, perhaps, been as anxious as Jemmy to absolve his men from blame?
Those
men … oh, God!

The bearer had shaken his head helplessly and again begged her to flee her home, a note of panic in his quavering voice. When Sita Ram had made the same plea, she had agreed. With Ayah carrying the baby, she had taken Phillip and little Augusta each by the hand and led them, chattering excitedly in their innocence, out to the waiting carriage, Sita Ram bringing up the rear, his musket at the ready.

The coachman, standing by the horses' heads, looked panic-stricken and ready to take to his heels but, forcing herself to speak calmly, she had ordered him to drive to the Commissioner Sahib's bungalow and he had salaamed and climbed back on to his box. She had been in the act of entering the carriage, Harriet remembered, when the sound of galloping hooves had reached her, coming from the direction of the Lines. Turning her head swiftly, she had seen a horseman approaching, with four or five others some distance behind and it was a second or so before she recognised the leading rider as Jemmy—capless, his thick dark hair blowing wildly in the breeze—and realised, with an acute sense of shock, that those behind him were pursuing, not riding after him. From the rear of the Snells' blazing bungalow a mob of men on foot emerged—some sepoys, in uniform, the rest townsfolk—and, in response to yells from Jemmy's pursuers, half a dozen of the sepoys dashed out to spread themselves across the road and bar his way.

Shots were fired but the aim was poor and Jemmy came on, his right arm holding a drawn sword, which he was waving frantically above his head—waving to her to make her escape, she had sensed, although she could not hear, above the tumult of other voices, the words he was trying to say to her. And she had stood there, frozen, unable to bring herself to desert him in order to save her own life or even those of the children … She had stood there watching him, praying for him, willing him to reach the carriage so that they might escape together. Or die together … Harriet caught her breath on a sob.

He had so nearly succeeded in reaching her, scattering the sepoys on the road before most of them had had time to recharge their muskets, when a shot, fired by a bazaar
budmash
in a white robe, seemingly at random, brought his horse crashing to the ground. Jemmy was flung forward heavily, the animal rolled over, legs threshing, pinning him beneath its heaving body and he had scarcely struggled free of it when his pursuers were upon him. Harriet recognised all of them as native officers of his regiment, saw the stout Havildar-Major strike the first savage blow, his dark face contorted with hate as Jemmy parried his cut and ran him through the arm with his own weapon.

But they had been too many for him and when the sepoys from the road ran to join the mounted officers, Harriet had turned her head away, knowing that it was over. Even then she had made no attempt to escape. Numb with shock, she had simply stood beside the carriage, having in her immobility a dignity of which she had been quite unaware. The children were sobbing in Ayah's arms but she was, in that moment, as deaf to their frightened cries as she was to Sita Ram's pleas that she enter the carriage and seek safety in flight. Flight was, in any case, impossible—the road was the only way to the Commissioner's bungalow and to reach it, the carriage would have to pass through the mob of sepoys and bazaar riff-raff gathering in search of plunder.

“Memsahib …” She had heard Sita Ram's voice then, realised that he had come to stand at her side, ready to protect her. “Memsahib, they are coming.”

“Go,” she had bade him, with weary resignation. “Save yourself, Sita Ram—you have done all you can. They will kill you, too, if you remain. Take Ayah with you.”

“They bring the Colonel Sahib's body, Memsahib,” the orderly had whispered. “That is all. They intend you no harm.”

Incredulously, her heart pounding in her breast, she had watched them approach, two of them bearing Jemmy's lifeless body, Subedar Bihari Lal at their head. In silence they laid the bleeding, barely recognisable corpse of her husband at her feet and Bihari Lal had saluted, stony-faced, and told her that she was free to go, with her children.

“We will give you escort to the Lucknow road, Memsahib. The Colonel Sahib's body shall be placed in his own house and we will set it on fire, so that his soul may find release.”

In vain she had protested, Harriet remembered, saying that she wished to go to the Residency but, pointing to a column of smoke drifting skywards beyond the trees to their left, the Subedar had told her that the Christians and those who had taken shelter with them were either dead or fleeing for their lives. “The Police sowars attacked them, Memsahib, vowing to show them no mercy. But we do not make war on
mems
and
baba-log,
as do those dogs of Muslims. We will set you on the road to Lucknow.”

She had been compelled to agree, since they had left her with no choice, and they had kept their word. An old havildar had taken the place of her terrified coachman on the box and, with Bihari Lal and a dozen others as escort, the buggy had been driven unmolested through the Lines and for over two miles along the Lucknow road. She had looked back only once, Harriet recalled bitterly, to see flames rising from the bungalow that had been her home and which, by some strange logic she did not understand, his sepoys had selected to serve as their Colonel's funeral pyre.

“The Colonel Sahib was a good man,” Subedar Bihari Lal had told her, when they reached the parting of their ways and came to a halt in the shade of a roadside mango
tope.
“We besought him to remain as our Colonel and lead us to Delhi, forsaking the Company's service. But he refused, so we were forced to put him to death. It was not the wish of all of us that he should die, Memsahib … least of all was it mine. But now”—he glanced unhappily at the Havildar-Major—“we serve new masters and must obey their commands.”

The stout Havildar-Major, unlike his military superior, was of Brahmin caste, Harriet knew; he had addressed no word to her and, with the memory still etched in her mind of the bitter hatred in his face as he had struck at Jemmy, she was thankful that he had not. Clearly, he was one of the ringleaders in the mutiny and, as such, even the Subedar feared him. And yet, only a few short weeks ago, at Jemmy's instigation, he had begun to give little Phillip his first riding lessons, displaying a gentle patience towards the boy that had completely won her heart. Had it all been false, she wondered dully; had his protestations of affection for Phillip, his promises of loyalty to Jemmy been deliberately intended to deceive? She shivered again. If he had hated Jemmy, enough to override the other native officers and demand his death, why had he spared Jemmy's children, his wife? Was it, perhaps, because he had condemned them to a slower but no less certain death in the jungle, unarmed and unprotected?

The answer to her unvoiced questions had not been long in coming. They had taken Sita Ram and the carriage with them when they left her at the roadside, with the warning, offered by the Subedar, that she should hide until the mutineers' fury had abated and the regiments set off on the long march all were pledged to make, in order to join forces with their comrades in Delhi.

Poor Sita Ram had wept when taking leave of her. “I am ordered to go with my
paltan,
Memsahib,” he had whispered brokenly. “And I dare not refuse. Seek shelter and concealment in the jungle when we have gone, you and the
babas,
for the sepoys of other
paltans
will hunt for you and kill you if they find you. I will come back if it is possible.”

She had clasped his hand, Harriet recalled, feeling it cold in hers, feeling it tremble. She had longed to reward his loyalty but knew that, if she were to give him money, he might be made to suffer for it—at best, the mutineers would take it from him. She had a ring on her finger—a single small pearl, set in chip diamonds—and, careful that none of the others saw her do so, she slipped it off and let it slide into the orderly's brown palm. He bent over her hand, as if to touch his brow to it and said, very softly, “No, Memsahib, give that to Ayah. She may be trusted … send her to her village to ask for shelter. It is nearby—her people will help you.”

He had straightened to attention, leaving the ring in her hand, salaamed, and marched woodenly off with the others and that had been the last she had seen of them … and of Ayah. No sooner had she followed Sita Ram's advice and given her the ring than the woman, thrusting the baby into her arms, had made off through the trees at a shambling run, calling out over her shoulder that the village was further away than the orderly had suggested and, if she were to reach it before nightfall, no time must be lost.

“You will come back!” Harriet had called after her, trying to keep the despair she felt from sounding in her voice. “Ayah, you will bring help—food for the little ones, if you can—and ask your headman to give us shelter!”

“
Achcha,
Memsahib.” The Ayah's tone had been sullen, her acknowledgement automatic. It was possible that she would do as she had been asked but more likely, alas, that fear would hold her silent when she reached her village. She had been a good servant, devoted to all three children, and had entered Harriet's service five years ago, when little Phillip was born. Five years of exemplary service was no guarantee of fidelity now, though, Harriet reflected wryly—and Ayah had been frightened out of her wits, cowering down in the carriage during the drive to the Lucknow road, in the evident hope that her presence would go unnoticed by the mutineers, until a chance of escape should present itself.

As … She bit back a sigh. As it had when the sepoys had abandoned them by the roadside. No doubt it had been a mistake to give her the ring there and then—she should have waited, should have promised the trinket as reward, when the woman had kept her part of the bargain and returned with help. As it was, they had agreed no rendezvous—Ayah, to whom this area was familiar, had offered no guidance, and yet must have overheard the Subedar's injunction to her mistress to seek a temporary hiding place, even if she had not heard Sita Ram's. Knowing the danger, would the badly frightened woman make any attempt to find her erstwhile charges, when to do so would bring her no further reward and might be to risk her life?

It was too much to expect, Harriet told herself despondently. To Ayah, that small ring would be riches; she would be tempted to keep it and say nothing, but even if she did deliver her message, rescue was still uncertain. It would depend on the goodwill of the headman and on the attitude of the villagers whether a party was sent to search for the fugitives or whether they were left to fend for themselves as best they might. So far, she had managed tolerably well. Despite the baby's weight and the bemused state of shock to which their father's murder had reduced her two elder children, she had led them to this clearing—which she judged to be at least two miles from the road—without mishap. But the heat had exacted a heavy toll of them all and it had taken them almost until nightfall to get here, resting at frequent intervals.

They had encountered only one other human being on their weary, difficult journey—a wounded Eurasian clerk on a jaded horse, who had paused only long enough to gasp out a horrifying account of the attack on the Residency and had then ridden on, refusing Harriet's offer to attend to his wounds. The death of Colonel Birch—shot down with two of his officers by his own Treasury guard—had apparently been the signal for a general uprising. The clerk had witnessed this and had fled in terror to the Residency with the news. His account of subsequent events had confirmed, in blood-chilling detail, the Subedar's claim that virtually all those who had taken shelter with the Christians had been killed and the bungalow burnt to the ground. The few who had escaped had done so by wading or swimming across the shallow river, as he himself had done, or on horseback from cantonments, braving vicious musketry fire. He had found the horse wandering loose in the jungle, the clerk had explained, its rider lying dead nearby, and had taken it, hoping that the animal would carry him to Lucknow.

“I will send back help to you when I get there,” he had promised but the promise had been half-hearted, his concern solely for himself, and Harriet had watched him go, neither believing that he would keep his word nor that he would reach his destination, for his wounds were severe and he was losing blood as he talked to her. But he had named several of those who had contrived to cross the river and her sad heart had lifted a little with the realisation that some, at least, of her friends might still be alive. Captain Hearsey, who had been saved but held prisoner for a time by his treacherous Police; Madelaine Jackson and her brother Mountstewart, the Assistant-Commissioner; Jemmy's adjutant George Burns; and two other young women the clerk knew only by sight, one of whom had been carrying a little girl.