Shadow of the Moon (62 page)

The thing that Alex had visualized in the moment following Niaz's casual comment on the greased cartridge paper - the fire that unthinking officialdom had put into the hands of Kishan Prasad and his like - had caught the fuel that had been prepared. And the fuel was dry and ready.

On that same January morning that had seen the garrison of Lunjore ride gaily out to shoot duck at Hazrat Bagh, a man of low caste, a lascar who worked in the ammunition factory at Dum Dum near Calcutta, had stopped a high-caste sepoy during the heat of the day and begged a drink from his
lotah
- the brass water-pot carried by every caste Hindu and religiously preserved from defilement. The sepoy had stared less in anger than astonishment at the outrageous request. ‘How can that be, fool? I am a Brahmin, and my caste forbids it.'

‘Caste? What is caste?' grinned the lascar. ‘The cartridges that we prepare here are defiled with the fat of hogs and cattle, and soon ye will be as one - casteless together - when the new guns are given out to the
pultons
and ye bite the cartridges daily.'

‘What is that?' said the sepoy thickly. ‘Tell again!'

The lascar had done so, with embellishments, and the sepoy had not waited to hear to the end, but had run to his comrades in the lines. Here was proof at last of the duplicity of the
feringhis
! The hated policies of Annexation and Lapse, the suppression of
suttee
, the seizure of land, the deposing of kings and the curtailment of pay and power and privilege were as nothing to this; for this struck at the deepest beliefs of men, in that it destroyed their souls.

Hindu and Mohammedan together recoiled in horror from sacrilege and defilement. Panic spread through the lines, and from there, with the incredible swiftness that fear lends to evil tidings, it swept out across India, its progress sped and fanned by those who had been ready and waiting for
such an opportunity, and who made the best use of this brand that had been given into their hands.

A hundred men - a hundred thousand - picked up the fearful whisper and passed it on: ‘It is an order from
Belait
! from the Queen and her Council, that by means of the cartridges all sepoys, both Mussulman and Hindu, be defiled - as all men in the towns and cities are defiled by the eating of bone-dust in their flour - so that being made casteless they shall do the will of the sahib-
log
as slaves for ever! We are betrayed by the
feringhis
who have stolen our country and now wish to steal our souls!'

It was then that the nocturnal fires started. Suddenly, in the night, the thatch of an officer's bungalow would catch fire, set alight, more often than not, by a blazing arrow shot by some unseen hand. The telegraph station of the big cantonment of Barrackpore burned to the ground, and night after night, despite guards and sentries, flames would glow bright in the darkness, spreading up northward from Calcutta and Barrackpore …

There were midnight meetings of men with muffled faces who kept to the shadows of walls and where no guards challenged them. There were letters (for the sepoy had learned to use the post in the days before the privilege of free postage to the Army had been abolished). Letters that went out by every dâk, calling upon the soldiery to resist the attempts to defile them. The news that the 19th Regiment of Native Infantry at Berhampur, a hundred miles to the north of Calcutta, had broken out into mutiny spread upwards through India and fanned the panic.

But that mutiny which had flared up so suddenly died out, and without violence. An inquiry into the question of the greased cartridges was instituted and proceeded upon its ponderous way, and officers who had begun to eye the men under their command with an anxiety they would not own to, relaxed again.

The rumours died down, and the Commissioner of Lunjore, who had consistently pooh-poohed the possibility of any serious trouble arising, remarked complacently that he had always known it was a mere tempest in a teapot, and there was too much panic about among fellows who ought to know better. Why, he had even heard some preposterous story of a manifesto being circulated to all Mohammedans, calling for a
Jehad
! All nonsense of course. There hadn't been any such thing circulated in
his
district.

‘About eight hundred of them, I think, sir,' said Alex expressionlessly.

‘
What's that
?' The Commissioner's voice cracked with angry amazement. ‘You're telling me we've had 'em in Lunjore? Then why the devil wasn't I told!'

‘You were, sir. I sent in a full report - in triplicate. It will be somewhere in the files.'

‘Oh,' said the Commissioner, disconcerted. He glowered angrily for a moment or two and then observed sulkily that he hadn't had the time to read every damned, panicky paper that came into the office.

Relieved by the passing of the temporary uneasiness caused by the cartridge scare and the abortive mutiny of the 19th N.I., he had at long last turned his attention to the question of leave and a visit to the Casa de Ballesteros in Lucknow.

32

The January rains had been plentiful that year and the river ran high, so that the bridge of boats creaked and pulled to the current.

There were carts crossing it from the Oudh side, and Winter, who had preferred to ride rather than accompany her husband in the carriage, waited for them to pass, and while Conway fretted angrily at the delay, fell into conversation with a gaunt, white-haired Mussulman who was also waiting to cross.

Looking across at the dense line of the jungle that walled in the sandbanks and the wide, seemingly slow-flowing river with its placid surface and treacherous currents, they had seen a half-burned corpse bob slowly past, turning and twisting as though it were alive as the fish and the turtles tugged at it. It came to rest against the side of the bridge and Winter shuddered, wondering how long it would stay there before someone felt it necessary to push it off with a pole. But the hideous, bloated thing vanished suddenly, pulled under as though by a hand that had reached up from the deep water and drawn it down, and the old gentleman, observing her start, said: ‘That will be the mugger of the bridge. He keeps it free of all such things. Doubtless the All-Wise appointed him to the work. Where does the Memsahib go?'

‘I go to my home,' said Winter, her face lighting to a smile - the first it had worn for more days than she could remember.

‘Thy home? Is thy husband then one of the sahibs newly come to Oudh?'

Winter shook her head. ‘Nay. I was born in Lucknow city. In the house of Aziza Begum, wife of Mirza Ali Shah, that is called the Gulab Mahal. But my father's house lies to the west of the city. It is named the “House of the Peacocks”. Know you Lucknow?'

‘Who better?' said the old man. ‘Yea, yea, I know the house and I have heard the tale. But this is a sad time for home-going, my daughter. In Lucknow the courtyards are empty and the
kutcharis
(law courts) are full, and many who were pensioners of the King starve while the new Government decide what is to be paid to them, and by whom. When one is old and has lived by means of such a grant from the King - a few rupees only each month - and the grant ceases while the new Government talk of whether it is fit that it be paid, then there is nothing left but to die … if the talk lasts longer than an old man and an ageing woman can live without bread.'

His voice was devoid of either animosity or bitterness. He was simply stating a fact, dispassionately and without heat. It had been promised that pensions, wherever possible, would still be paid. But claims to pensions had
to be proved, and the wheels ground slowly, for in the turmoil and disorganization caused by the change of Governments, the processes of justice were necessarily slow.

Ameera and Alex and many of Winter's friends and acquaintances in Lunjore city had spoken of Lucknow and the troublous times that had befallen it, and Winter had listened because it was of her own secret city that they spoke. But it was not until now, when an old man who waited patiently beside her to cross the bridge spoke of those troubles without heat or indignation, that a sudden fear came upon her.

Ameera's husband had also lost employment and livelihood through the annexation of Oudh. Were they, too, in want? Winter thought again, and uneasily, of Ameera's letter …

She had written to Ameera, telling her of the proposed visit to Lucknow, and Ameera had replied with expressions of delight and had promised to call upon her at the earliest possible moment. But she had suggested - it had been barely more than a hint - that she still could not ask her to the Gulab Mahal. They would be able, she wrote, to talk over such matters when they met. The letter had ended with the bald information that her brother, the young Khalig Dad, was dead.

Winter had sent condolences, and had not given over-much thought to the hint that she might still not be welcome at the Gulab Mahal. But she remembered it now. It could not be true that Ameera did not want her at the Gulab Mahal! … or was it the wife of a British official who was unwelcome?

There was nothing in Winter's first sight of the beautiful, barbaric city of Lucknow that awoke even an echo of memory.

They had reached it on the evening of the following day, when the wide sweep of the river, the massed, scented greenery of the gardens, the fantastic silhouettes of golden-domed palaces and soaring minarets, fretted balconies and pointed temple-tops, were bathed in the full glow of the sunset.

There were many British on the wide, shady roads enjoying the evening air: officers and civilians on horseback, ladies in light-coloured dresses driving out in buggies, victorias and high dog-carts, and children bowling hoops under the indulgent and watchful eyes of ayahs or orderlies. Many of them had turned their heads to watch the girl in the grey habit ride past, their attention caught by the bright look of eager expectancy on the young face under the ugly, wide-brimmed pith hat.

Alex would have recognized that expression. But even he had not seen it for many months, and no one else in Lunjore had ever seen it at all.

A long high wall enclosed the grounds of the Casa de Ballesteros, and the gateway of Moorish design was splashed over by the vivid brilliance of bougainvillea. The gateman salaamed low as Winter rode in under the arch, and his bright old eyes followed her approvingly. ‘That is indeed Marcos
Sahib's daughter,' he said, addressing a peering group who had gathered by the gate. ‘I who have been many years in the service of the house, remember. The very look of her father! What a pity she were not a son. It is many years since my young Sahib, his wife being dead of the birth of this daughter, rode away to fight for the
Sikar
(Government) in Afghanistan, and would not take me with him because I lay sick of a fever.
Hai mai
! The house has been empty overlong. It is not good for a house to lie empty … or a heart.'

Her father's house was as unfamiliar to Winter as the city had been. But the golden ghost of Sabrina would have found little changed, for the years had been kind to the House of the Peacocks, and it seemed that here time had stood still. The groves of lemon trees and pomegranates still scented the twilight, roses and jasmine and climbing begonia still filled the great stone jars along the river terrace with cascades of colour, and the fountains still made a splashing, tinkling music in the patios.

Mr Saumarez and his wife, the caretakers whom Marcos had installed so many years ago, had done their work well, and an army of servants, many of whom had served Winter's grandparents, had stayed on under the terms of the young Conde's will and had faithfully swept and polished and dusted the huge empty rooms, taking care always to replace everything in the exact position in which it had been found.

The raging heat and the drenching rains, the dust-storms and the brief cold weathers of close on eighteen years, had taken toll of the house; but on that first evening it was difficult to see to what extent they had done so, for the kindly light of candles hid many blemishes. It was only in the full daylight that the ravages of the years became apparent, and Winter could see where the brocades had faded and frayed until a touch would tear them, where the woodwork had warped and cracked, and the dark, beautiful Spanish portraits on the walls had become stained and blotched with damp.

The servants who remembered her parents had pressed about her with smiles and tears and garlands, and she had been touched; though a little saddened because she could not remember even one face among all those faces. But it had been pleasant to talk to people who had known her parents and spoke of them as though they had only lately lived in that house. People who could remember her mother's wedding-day, and how a dress for the bridal had been found among her grandmother's boxes because the bride had only a riding-habit and had brought nothing with her.

It had been a white dress, they told her, and that had been a bad omen, since white, as all knew, was for widows and for the dead. Red was for bridals! - red and gold, the colours of rejoicing. Though it might be that she had worn white in mourning for the father and mother of her husband, who had died but a short while before … And Winter heard again, from the lips of the old night-watchman who had helped open the heavy door of the tomb, how her grandfather, Don Ramon, had kept vigil by his wife's coffin and
had died of it. The stories that Zobeida had told her, told again and in the house that had seen them happen - the great Spanish Casa that Don Ramon had built in his romantic youth on the banks of the Goomti, and named the ‘House of the Peacocks'.

The peacocks still cried in the dusk and at dawn, and sometimes Winter would find a glittering, gold-powdered tail-feather lying on the grass or on the stone flags of the river terrace. The servants would collect them, tying them together and using the gorgeous things as feather dusters to brush the pictures and portraits that Don Ramon had brought from Spain.

Conway strongly disapproved of what he termed her habit of ‘gossiping with the
nauker-log
'. It was, he said, undignified and ridiculous and merely tended to encourage familiarity, insolence and idleness. There was also, in his opinion, something definitely objectionable about her proficiency in their language. Dammit, what with her black hair and those eyes, not to mention her yellow skin (all this goin' out riding was making her devilish sunburnt) people might even get the idea that he had married a half-caste! To possess a smattering of Hindustani was useful - but to talk it like a native was not at all the thing, and he trusted that she would not display that talent in Luck-now society.

They had not been left long alone, for the news that the Commissioner of Lunjore and his Anglo-Spanish bride were in residence at the Casa de Ballesteros had brought a host of callers to the house, and Conway accepted and issued numerous invitations. This was not what Winter had wished to come to Lucknow for. This was Lunjore again - the endless luncheons, dinners, assemblies, card-parties and races. But she did not know how they could be avoided except on a plea of ill-health, and she could not plead ill-health and then ride in the park and about the city, and she would not hide indoors. There was only one person she had wanted to see in Lucknow, and that was Ameera. And only one place - the Gulab Mahal.

Hamida had brought a message and a gift of flowers and fruit from Ameera on that first evening, but the message had only been to say that Ameera would come and see her as soon as it could be arranged.

‘Then am I not to go to the Gulab Mahal?' asked Winter bluntly of Hamida.

‘Presently, my bird, presently,' said Hamida. ‘But wait until thou hast first seen the Begum Sahiba. She will come soon.'

Ameera had arrived at dusk one evening in a palanquin with tinselled curtains borne by bearers in shabby finery; and by good fortune Conway had been out. She had embraced Winter with tears in her eyes, and they had walked together on the river terrace in the cool twilight while Hamida and two of the grizzled retainers from the Gulab Mahal kept watch to warn away any intrusive males.

They had talked of many things, but the news that Ameera brought had been a bitter blow, for it meant no more than this - Winter must not come
to the Rose Palace. Not now. Not yet. Some day, promised Ameera, but not at this time.

Khalig Dad, son of Wali Dad and Juanita, who had been born less than three months before Winter - Khalig Dad who was to have been ‘a great king and have seven sons' - had been killed in a street brawl. He had died from a blow on the head received when a drunken and truculent crowd of young dandies, of whom he had been the ringleader, had been mistaken for rioters by some fuddled British officers who were returning late at night from a party in one of the recently commandeered palaces. The true story had never come out and no action had been taken by the authorities, for there had been many unpleasant incidents in Lucknow since the annexation of Oudh, and one more was only one among many. But the incident had been exaggerated to stir up trouble and ill-feeling, and the body of Juanita's son had been paraded through the streets by a howling mob who had had to be dispersed by force.