The Eden Passion (66 page)

About thirty minutes later he saw the British Cantonment in the distance, placidly resting under the noon sun. The parade ground was empty, but he remembered that regimental drills did not commence until late afternoon.

He slowed at the gate, expecting to be interrogated. But the sentry boxes were empty. Obviously everyone was either napping or at Sunday dinner.

His destination was military headquarters, the large building on the right, and here he encountered a young corporal, his rifle abandoned to one side. He looked sleepily up as John approached.

"Cricket match don't start till three, mate." He grinned.

"I've not come for cricket," John said, reining Black in. "I'd like to see your commanding officer, please."

The corporal chuckled. "No chance of that. Colonel Wilson, he's gone, he is."

"Could you tell me where?"

The man shrugged. "Who knows? His wife has a sister in Agra. I think I heard he'd gone visitin'."

"Your second in command, then," John asked. "Who would that be?"

"That would be Colonel Hewitt."

"And where is he?"

"At dinner I suppose."

"Would you take me to him?"

The corporal grinned. "Ain't allowed to leave me post, sir. But he's right in there," he added, motioning through the door behind him. "Help yourself. I'll watch your pony for you."

John was tempted to turn back. Then he remembered Dharfs fears and climbed down from his mount, determined to find out what he could from whoever was in authority here.

He tied the reins to a near post, thanked the corporal and walked into the shade of the building. At the far end of the central corridor he heard men laughing, heard the clink of silverware. As he approached the double doors, he saw a sergeant in full dress who bluntly demanded, "Stop and state your business."

John obliged, stating his name and saying he'd come to see Colonel Hewitt on a matter of importance.

"Nothing more important than the colonel's dinner," the sergeant declared flatly.

John suggested that he call him out and let the colonel be the judge of that.

From beyond the door he heard several men laughing, one shouting, "More wine!"

"You see?" The sergeant grinned. "They're getting themselves ready for the cricket match this afternoon. A bloke needs lots of liquid to survive cricket in this hellhole."

John was on the verge of pushing the sergeant aside when suddenly an officer appeared beyond the door. "Didn't you hear me, Sergeant? More wine. Are you deaf?"

John took note of the scarlet tunic, unbuttoned at the neck, the

slight list to the man's walk and the insignia of colonel on the sleeve.

"Colonel Hewitt?" he called through the door.

The man squinted into the corridor and seemed to pull himself erect. "Yes? I'm Colonel Hewitt. And you?"

Again John identified himself and stepped closer. "I'm staying at the mission school in Delhi," he began. "We received a rumor of an uprising at Meerut. I was wondering if you had heard—"

"Meerut?" the colonel repeated, glancing back at his fellow officers. Suddenly he looked accusingly at John. "Who sent you?" he demanded.

"No one sent me," John said, beginning to lose patience. "I was just wondering if you had heard—"

"Meerut?" the officer repeated mindlessly. The other officers were shaking their heads as though sharing his bewilderment. At last the colonel looked back at him. "No, all is quiet in Meerut. We had trouble last month at Barrackpore, but nothing to amount to anything."

John stared at him a moment longer; then, "Thank you," he said, eager to leave the place. As he started down the corridor, the colonel called after him, "You'd better stay for the cricket match. British soldiers against sepoys. It's always a good game."

But John merely waved a hand behind him and by the time he reached the front door and the blazing sun beyond, he looked back to see the colonel gone, the distant sound of men laughing striking the silence of the afternoon.

As he reappeared on the steps, the corporal looked up at him. "That was quick. Take it you found him."

John nodded and swung up on his horse. As he started back down the road, he saw a few children playing croquet around the bungalows. The tedium of a Sunday afternoon was commencing.

Once through the gates, he looked back at the cantonment, which seemed to be sleeping in an immense dream. Even the Union Jack atop headquarters hung limp on its standard, this little pocket of England fast asleep in its foreign clime.

When he reached the mission, he turned the horse over to Aslam and found Dhari and Jennings in the kitchen. Briefly he told them where he'd been and what had happened.

Jennings grinned. "There, you see. And you should have stayed," he scolded lightly. "That's always a first-rate cricket match. I saw it several years ago. Of course, the British always win, but the natives give us a run for our money."

John glanced toward Dhari, who seemed to be looking at him as though he'd betrayed her. "Dhari. . ." he began.

But she left the room, left him standing before the table, his sentence half-formed.

"Pay her no mind," Jennings counseled. "She's a woman and tends to moods. They all do. Come, now, have a bite of lunch, and let's take advantage of the quiet afternoon for a game of chess."

John said nothing and looked with regret at the open door through which Dhari had disappeared. Would it have made her happier if he had brought her news of murder and rioting sepoys?

Maybe Jennings was partially right. A game of chess, then he'd seek her out and make his apologies for the absence of hard facts to support her fears.

The truth was that the only excitement taking place in all of Delhi this afternoon was the cricket match at the British Cantonment between Englishmen and Indians.

Delhi, May 11, 1857

It was the silence that awakened him, the same heavy silence they had endured all Sunday afternoon and evening.

He opened his eyes and saw a morning sun. The courtyard was usually alive with children at this hour, their voices shattering his early-morning sleep.

He sat up, still hearing nothing. From the window he saw nothing but deserted streets, and beyond that the brown plain.

Quickly he dressed, repeatedly thinking he'd heard something. But nothing moved except the morning wind.

As he hurried out into the hall, he glanced toward the central corridor, where normally the children were being lined up by staff members, all speaking that peculiar mix of Urdu and Hindi and English, hoping to say something that someone understood.

Now? Nothing but the shadows of the sun on polished hardwood floor.

Suddenly he started toward the front door at an increased pace, needing to see for himself that the children were at their desks.

Hurrying toward the classroom, he looked back over his shoulder, thinking he'd seen fleeting movement beyond the wall. Then he was running, taking the three steps in one stride, pushing open the classroom doors.

The rows of desks were empty, the windows closed. He heard his own deep breathing and was on the verge of retracing his steps when, peering closer toward the front of the large room, he saw a figure on his knees, clearly at prayer before the simple altar.

"Jennings?"

But there was no response. He started to call again, then changed his mind. At least he'd found someone. Now, Dhari? And Aslam? Where were they?

Midway between classroom and bungalow he lifted his head and heard a curious popping sound in the distance. It came in a sporadic flurry, then ceased, then commenced again. Gun reports?

Suddenly, on the road beyond the mission compound he saw three men running. They passed through the shadows and were gone before he had a clear look at them.

He gained the steps, his head turning in all directions. Blindly he reached out for the door, his hand stopping in midair as from the right he heard the muffled sound of horses, coming fast. He stepped back into the shadows of the porch, feeling the need to conceal himself. A few moments later about half a dozen horses galloped by, their riders, excited Indians, waving swords and torches.

He stared after the curious charge, holding his position until they had disappeared. He'd just stepped inside the door when he heard a distant explosion.

Then it came again, another explosion, louder than the first, causing the floor beneath his feet to vibrate. He braced for a third explosion, peering skyward, searching for the smoke which would identify the location and cause of such explosions.

He stood a moment longer, then turned back into the house, shouting, "Dhari," as he ran down the entrance hall and burst through the kitchen door. He saw her seated calmly at the broad kitchen table, Aslam beside her, two bowls before them.

"Did you hear?" he shouted.

She looked up, her face composed in its customary serenity. "I heard," she said. She pointed toward the corner of the kitchen, toward a shattered pile of china fragments. "It broke Mrs. Jennings' china platter."

John only glanced toward the broken china. 'What was it?" he asked, hurrying toward the back window and looking in the direction of the British Cantonment, where he found his answer in the distant boiling clouds of black smoke. "The . . . arsenal," he murmured in disbelief.

"I'd say yes," Dhari commented quietly.

John watched the smoke as it rose higher into the sky, and finally looked back at Dhari.

"Perhaps we should leave," he said.

She smiled. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. You wouldn't get to the city walls."

"We could by."

"You would fail. It's best now to stay here."

Suddenly her serenity began to annoy him. "Then what do you suggest we do?" he shouted. "What's going on out there? I've seen men riding . . .*

She nodded. "They're from Meerut. I spoke early this morning with one of my cousins. According to him, there's no one left alive in Meerut."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true," she said. "The sepoys have ridden all night. This morning they will be joined by an armed force within the palace."

As her voice droned on, it was momentarily drowned out by thunderous hooves coming from the road in front of the mission. Aslam left his chair, his curiosity drawing him to the window with John. "WTiat is it?" the boy asked.

John shook his head. "You wait here. I'll—"

"I wouldn't, John," Dhari suggested strongly from the table. "I think it's best to stay out of sight."

Still annoyed by her passive acceptance of a world going mad, John snapped, "I'd better get Jennings. He's in—"

"I know. He's been at prayer all night. He'll be along soon enough. I have his breakfast ready."

"Breakfast!" John repeated. "We must leave here, Dhari. Can't you see—"

"I saw it yesterday," she replied, her voice suddenly cold. "We could have been far away by now." She bowed her head. "Now we must wait and hope that. . ."

At that moment, Jennings appeared in the doorway, his cheeks ablaze with color. "Did you hear?" he demanded excitedly. "Did you hear the explosions?" He hurried to the window and peered out. "Look at that." He grinned. "It's happening. My God, it's happening at last."

He commenced pacing about the kitchen. "I never thought it would, you know, not in my lifetime. Oh, I knew they would rise up one day, but I never dreamed—"

"What are you talking about?" John demanded, trying to cut through the man's bizarre joy.

"Rebellion!" Jennings shouted. "Hindu and Muslim, high caste and sepoy, forgetting their difference in a common hatred for the

British." Suddenly he clapped his hands together as though in joyful thanksgiving. "Oh, God, how long I've prayed for it, for the resurrection of the Indian spirit, the courage to reclaim what we've taken from them."

John could only stare, suffering the rising conviction that he was listening to a madman.

"Come," he commanded Aslam, gathering the boy to him, hoping by the force of his voice to stir the other two to good sense. "We must leave. We'll go the back way. I'll saddle Black and—"

Over the urgency of his command he heard Dhari's voice. "Reverend Jennings, your porridge is waiting."

With his arm still about Aslam's shoulder, John watched as Jennings sat at table and bowed his head in prayer. "Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?" he prayed, his face lifted with a smile. "In His hand is the life of everything and the breath of all mankind."

"Jennings!" John commanded. "Dhari!" But both heads were bowed in the murmuring recitation of the Lord's Prayer, while beyond the window the noise increased, the sounds of a world disintegrating, women's screams now blending with the shouts of men.

John lifted Aslam into his arms, feeling himself somehow allied with the only intelligence in the room, and carrying the little boy, he hurried out of the kitchen toward the front parlor, whose window gave a perfect view of the courtyard and street beyond.

As he passed by the front door, he shut it and threw the bolt and glanced through the lace curtains in time to see two white women running down the street, their skirts billowing, hair undone, their arms flailing uselessly at the four men on horseback who pursued them. One stumbled and fell, disappearing behind the low wall, and within the moment the men were upon her, bending over in their saddles, driving their long swords downward again and again, lifting them into the air after each thrust. The second woman stopped and looked back, and was instantly hacked down by a long curved cavalry tulwar.

John shut his eyes, still grasping Aslam to him, and tried desperately to conceive of a mode of escape. Not on foot. Dhari was right. They would never get to the city walls. But there still was a chance on horseback, leaving by the rear.

As he turned to execute his plan, he saw Jennings and Dhari coming toward him down the long hall, one face placid, the other wreathed in a smile.

Aware of the carnage taking place beyond the wall, John warned, "Get back, both of you."

Still they came, Jennings sending his voice ahead in reassurance. "There's no need to be afraid, John." He smiled. "They have no quarrel with us. We've done nothing to offend them."