The Eden Passion (65 page)

"Not long," John replied, looking out over the now deserted parade ground, where the dead man still lay, unattended.

"Does that mean"—Taylor smiled—"that you've found what you came for, or you've given up?"

"I came for nothing, Dr. Taylor," John said, "except adventure, which I've found. I'll be leaving within the month."

At that Taylor gave him a knowing grin. "I think not," he said, and lifted a finger to summon his carriage forward. "Life is too easy here, Mr. Eden. A man would have to be a saint to deliberately remove himself from it." His grin broadened. "And you are no saint."

Before John could offer a rebuttal, the ladies were upon him. Graciously he thanked Mrs. Taylor for her hospitality.

Before he stepped into the carriage, he turned for a final wave, the smile dropping from his face as he caught a last glimpse of the dead man, still sprawled face down in the dust.

He paid uninterested attention to the short drive to the gate, then settled back against the cushions, trying not to dwell on what he had seen.

Life is too easy here, Eden. A man would have to be a saint to deliberately remove himself from it.

As the carriage picked up speed on the road leading back into Delhi, John vowed to himself to prove the man wrong. By the end of the month, he'd be on his horse heading for Bombay, where he'd be more than willing to work for passage home. He'd thought he had witnessed the height of British stupidity in the Crimea. But that futile exercise paled in comparison to this one.

Of course he would miss Dhari and Aslam. But they belonged here, and he in another world. He'd give himself one month to fully regain his strength. Then he'd return to London, where he'd look up Andrew Rhoades, perhaps even seek an audience with that dim though lovely memory named Lila Harrington, would somehow try to put a life together for himself, without Eden, without Harriet.

Perhaps it wouldn't be a glowing, joy-sated world. But he'd try to make it at least endurable.

Delhi, April 1857

What precisely had detained him for the last thirteen months, he had no idea. First, there had been the rainy season, a time when, according to Jennings, "No man in his right mind left the protection of his shelter." Then there had been Jennings himself, who had begun to exhibit all the characteristics of a graceful loser, stepping aside in the face of John's growing adoration of Dhari, even suggesting that they resume their shipboard battle of chess, Jennings playing aggressively as always, and John letting him win, wise enough to know that every man has to win at something.

Then there was the mission school itself, its routine seeming to absorb John, to fill him with an unprecedented sense of being needed. He performed an odd variety of jobs, from stacking wood to assisting Jennings with the children's lessons. Since that afternoon in the British Cantonment, it brought him incredible satisfaction to see a dark-skinned, black-eyed child smiling in pleasure.

Then there was Aslam, who had become the most persistent shadow that John had ever known. The boy dogged his steps, finding in John perhaps the father that he'd lost. The two of them enjoyed long horseback rides along the Jumna River, John thoroughly enjoying the little boy's adoration, marveling at his quick intelligence, and secretly marveling at the realization that this small brown bundle of curiosity and energy was the great-grandson of the last Emperor of the Moghul Empire.

And of course there was Dhari, who quite simply made the world beautiful for anyone fortunate enough to fall within her spell. Never

had John felt so filled with well-being and gentleness. With melancholy he always watched her leave, like primordial man must have felt watching the sun go down, as though something too great to understand had withdrawn its warmth.

Though John had not once returned to the British Cantonment since that first diastrous afternoon, Dr. Taylor had established the habit of coming to the mission every Sunday, to "escape the bloody women," as he put it.

On this Sunday in mid-April, John sat on the steps of the mission porch, listening to the two old men behind him. He was waiting for Dhari and Aslam so they could commence their usual Sunday excursion out into the countryside. But something had detained Dhari, and Aslam was playing marbles contentedly in the courtyard, and as always the lethargic peace of the hot afternoon and the quiet Delhi streets wove a powerful spell. John lounged against the railing, only half-listening.

"Terrified of it, they are." Dr. Taylor laughed. "Won't come near it. Have you heard of it, Eden? The new rifle?"

John shook his head. The man prattled on so that it was difficult to follow him even when one was paying close attention.

"The new Enfield rifle," Taylor scolded, as though aware that he did not have the undivided attention of his limited audience.

"Well, what about it?" Jennings snorted, shifting in his chair in an effort to stay awake and hospitable.

"What about it!" Taylor parroted. "It's just set all the sepoys on their ears, that's what. You see, the gun takes greased cartridges, which must be bitten open to release their powder. Half the grease is animal tallow"—he leaned up in his chair—"made partly from pigs, it is, abominable to Muslims, and partly from cows, sacred to Hindus." He laughed. "We have them coming and going with this one."

Reverend Jennings looked at his friend, not sharing his amusement. "Then why doesn't the army select another material?"

"They have," Taylor thundered. "But the dumb niggers won't believe us. Oh, they're convinced that we intend to defile all sepoys and break their castes."

From where John sat on the steps he could see that the two men's expressions did not match. Jennings sat up in obvious alarm, while Taylor leaned back chuckling.

"Then they must be told the truth," Jennings insisted.

"Oh, God, they've been told the truth in every language imaginable. They're stupid, Fraser. They simply lack our intelligence."

Here was the beginning of the ancient debate which obviously had raged between the two old friends for years; the one trying to subjugate their souls, the other exploiting their services. "Still, it could be dangerous," Jennings muttered.

Taylor laughed. "Oh, nonsense. The troublemakers are few and far between, I promise." The large man stood now and stretched. "Just last month," he concluded on a yawn, "we had to shoot one at Barrackpore. Took a shot at his commanding officer, he did. Fortunately he missed. Then he turned the gun on himself and missed again. Would you believe it? At least he survived to be executed in public."

The yawn over, John saw him glance at his pocket watch. "Oh, God, Violet will be furious." As he started toward the steps, John moved to one side to give him easy passage and for his trouble received a scolding. "It's your fault, young man," Taylor grumbled genially. "You know that, don't you? I'm having a hell of a time explaining your prolonged absence to the ladies. Their inquiries are continuous. You should hear the number of ways I cover for you. Of course I'll never tell them the truth, that you've found paradise between a pair of brown legs."

From the bottom of the steps Taylor grinned up at both of them. "I'd take to locking my doors at night, Fraser, if I were you. Most of them hate your Bible as much as they hate our new rifle. And all you have for protection here is a brood of children, a native staff and a wandering Englishman."

He shook his head as though concerned. Then he burst into laughter. "A jest, Fraser, that's all," he shouted, waddling on to his waiting carriage.

John watched until the carriage was out of sight. Without looking at Jennings, he asked, "Was he serious?"

When after several moments the man had not replied, he looked back to see him relaxed in his chair, his eyes closed. "Reggie is never terribly serious about anything," Jennings muttered.

John was on the verge of pursuing it further. But as he saw Jennings' head nod to one side, he kept his questions to himself and looked again out over the quiet courtyard. Everything was so peaceful. Here and there a wandering chicken pecked at the dirt, searching for something edible, and on the street beyond the mission, nothing stirred but dust eddies and an occasional passing beggar.

Where was Dhari? If she didn't come soon, he felt as though he would fall into a sleep as instantaneous and as deep as Jennings'. He closed his eyes to rest them from the glaring sun, Taylor's words still fresh in his ear.

We had to shoot one at Barrackpore the other day.

He saw again in memory the dead man sprawled in the dust of the parade ground with his glistening red back.

They hate your Bible as much as they hate our rifle.

"Dhari?" He opened his eyes and called inside the bungalow.

But there was no answer, only the soft click of boys playing marbles, and the screech of a kitehawk as it wheeled high in the burnished sky.

May 10, 1857

Something was wrong.

John noticed that at services that morning about half the children were absent. Jennings had waited until almost eleven before starting the lessons. He'd sent John out to ring the bell again, and as he'd passed through the normally bustling kitchen, he'd found it empty, the native staff gone.

Shortly before eleven a few children had appeared, mostly offspring of Europeans living in Delhi who sent their children for Christian training to Jennings' mission.

Dhari had appeared briefly at the beginning of the service, but at one point John had looked up to find her gone, only Aslam sitting on the rough pew, looking frightened.

At the end of the service, the white children had run out to the waiting carriages, and with undue speed the various conveyances had drawn away.

Now John watched carefully as Jennings discovered his compound deserted, and was amazed to see nothing of anxiety on the man's face. "Feed the animals, John," he ordered kindly before starting back toward the bungalow. "Then come to the kitchen. We'll have to fend for ourselves today."

Bewildered, John watched the tall figure disappear into the coolness of the house. With Aslam's assistance he fed his horse, Black, and the other animals, longing to speak, but not wanting to say anything that would alarm the boy.

Finally he couldn't resist and asked, "Do you know where Dhari is, Aslam?"

The boy was scattering feed to the chickens. "She told me to wait with you." His small hand froze in midair as he looked apprehensively up at John. "Is that all right?"

John detected the boy's worry and moved to dispel it. "Of course it is." He smiled. "Do you know where she went?"

Aslam shrugged. "She said she would be back."

"Has this happened before, Aslam?" he asked, gesturing about the deserted compound. "I mean, has everyone run off like this before?"

"No," Aslam replied, meeting John's eyes.

"Well, come," he said abruptly. "We've fed the animals, now let's feed ourselves."

They were just securing the latch on the stable door when John heard voices coming from the kitchen annex.

"Dhari . . ."

Then the two of them were running across the dirt courtyard and into the cool shade of the kitchen, where Dhari was speaking with unprecedented urgency. "You must, Reverend Jennings, please."

As they entered the kitchen, she drew Aslam to her and looked at John with clearly entreating eyes. "Make him see," she pleaded. "You must leave here, both of you, and take Aslam with you."

Again Jennings interrupted. "I will not leave, Dhari," he said firmly. "I have no cause to leave."

"You will soon."

"This is my home," he repeated, "my mission. If in the past I were to have deserted it every time I heard a rumor, I would have spent more time away than here. Can't you see, the children need me.

"And can't you see there are no children. They've gone home, Reverend Jennings." Her voice softened. "Their parents know what's coming."

As Jennings turned away, John stepped forward. "What is it, Dhari?" he asked quietly, trying to offset the tension.

"Mutiny," she said simply, and gathered Aslam closer, as though for protection against the word. "I've just come from the palace," she went on. "My cousins are trying to talk my grandfather into taking command."

"A futile attempt, that," Jennings muttered. "I've tried to talk him into it myself on occasion."

"This is different, Reverend Jennings," she said, a new pleading in her voice. She shook her head as though trying to clear the confu-

sion. "I've never heard so many rumors," she murmured, "so much activity. The palace is alive with—"

"What did you hear?" John asked.

"Everything. That the native regiment at Meerut is already in mutiny, that they will ride here during the night and join forces with—"

"Not a chance," Jennings declared. He was moving toward the door. "The rumors will be dead by morning, as will be the scheme. For now, might John and I prevail upon you for a bite of lunch? Rosa and her staff apparently elected to have themselves a holiday. Well, that's all right. We'll manage, won't we?"

"Reverend Jennings, wait." Dhari tried to call after him. But he was gone.

In despair she leaned against the table. John felt as though he were suspended between Jennings' reassurance and Dhari's distress. "Do you think there is real danger?" he asked.

"Yes," she said with conviction. "Oh, John, talk to him," she begged. "Maybe he'll listen to you. I can find a wagon for us now. We can pack a few belongings and be well away from here by dawn. Please, I beg you . . ."

He was moved by her fear, half-convinced of the validity of her words. Suddenly he had an idea. "You wait here," he ordered. "I'll be back in half an hour."

"Where are you going?"

"Fix Jennings his lunch," he called back, "and yours as well. And don't leave the compound."

He ran out of the back door, heading toward the stable, aware that she was calling after him. Hurriedly he saddled Black, aware of Dhari and Aslam at the back door watching him as he rode past. "Stay inside," he shouted, then urged the horse to a trot around the compound, guiding him carefully through the gate and onto the deserted road.