A Beggar at the Gate (15 page)

“May I get my things and come back, Uncle Adrian?” Please, please, let him allow her to stay! Her eyes on his face, she ignored the Vulture, who twitched impatiently at her uncle's side.

“Do not be ridiculous, Mariana.” Her uncle's tone brooked no argument. “You have no idea of the perils you would face, left alone with those people.”

“Wait.” His face brightening, the Vulture held up a bony hand. “The Shaikh's son is assistant to the Foreign Minister, is he not? And he was called away in the middle of an important interview with Miss Givens? Hah!
I knew it.
There must be news of Sher Singh. He must be coming to seize the city. Why else would Hassan have left in the middle of that conversation?”

Uncle Adrian stared. “But what has—”

“Since the attack may be quite soon,” the Vulture went on, “then Miss Givens's divorce should be accomplished as rapidly as possible. If staying a night or two among the Shaikh's ladies is required for her to gain another interview with her husband, I see no harm in it. And,” he added meaningfully, “any information Miss Givens might come upon whilst she visits the natives of this house would be of
immeasurable
value to us. We are, of course, most interested in the fate of the Punjab.”

Of all the unexpected people to have taken her side! Mariana beamed at him.

“You
may see no harm in her staying here, Mr. Clerk,” her uncle put in sharply, “but her aunt will, I am sure, take a very different view of that idea.”

January 12, 1841

Y
ou must be mad,” Aunt Claire cried from her folding chair the next morning. “I will
not
allow Mariana to stay for
one moment
in a native city full of filth and disgusting diseases!” She glared at her husband from beneath her parasol. “If you send her there, Adrian, I shall
never
speak to you again.”

“Yes, my dear,” he soothed, while Mariana fidgeted desperately beside him. “I do not much like the idea myself, but in order to be divorced, Mariana
must
stay for a day or two with the child's family. We cannot give up now, after coming all this way. She has been there before, you know, and they have never done her any harm. Mr. Clerk is very much in favor of the idea.”

“And what of the attack on the city that everyone is talking about? Mariana could be trapped in the fighting. She might be—”

“Sher Singh has not yet arrived in Lahore.” Uncle Adrian's basket chair creaked under him as he brushed an ant from his sleeve. “Even after he comes, it will be some time before he is ready to storm the Citadel. Mariana must escape her marriage now,
before
the attack, if there is to be one. No one can guess what will happen to Lahore in future. For all we know, a month from now it may be impossible even to enter the city.”

“If I do not go to Qamar Haveli now,” Mariana blurted out, “I shall never,
ever
be divorced.”

It was unfair to be short with Aunt Claire, but she was too heartbroken and anxious to stop herself. Since she had stepped out of her palanquin at Shalimar, she had thought of nothing but Saboor.

Uncle Adrian's “There, there, my dear, it is for the best,” was all the sympathy she had received. Aunt Claire had not even acknowledged her grief, choosing instead to tell her an interminable story about a lost lace handkerchief.

No one at Shalimar understood her. Dittoo had refused to speak to her since she had told him the truth of her plan. Ghulam Ali had vanished without a word, back to his employment at the Shaikh's house, presumably too disgusted to say good-bye.

“Do not take your temper out on me, Mariana,” returned her aunt. “If you must sit and scowl, then sit on a horse and scowl at the natives.”

“Yes, go on, Mariana,” agreed her uncle. “It is a nice, bright day. A ride will do you good.”

Ten minutes later, Mariana approached her tent cautiously, on the lookout for Dittoo, but found him gone. Saboor's bedding was gone. His small trunk of clothes and the little bullock cart with real wheels, carved for him by Ghulam Ali, were both missing, confiscated, presumably, by Dittoo. Mariana's tent, for all its pleasant furnishings, looked comfortless and bare.

What was Saboor doing now? Did he miss her? Had he gone easily to sleep last night without her songs and nonsense rhymes? She
must
see him again. Otherwise, the cruel abruptness of this ending would poison the rest of her life.

Fighting tears, she struggled into her riding habit and top hat. When Dittoo still did not appear, she shouted, her voice breaking, for the sweeper to go and call for a horse and groom.

How would she bear it if Aunt Claire forbade her to go to Qamar Haveli? What would happen if Sher Singh attacked the city before she was able to get to the Shaikh's house?

She raised her chin. She must not entertain such thoughts. Surely Aunt Claire would give in under pressure from Uncle Adrian and the Vulture, and allow her to return to the walled city. Surely Sher Singh would not appear with his army before that decision had been taken….

She opened her door blind and nodded to the frail young groom who had brought her mare. One thing was certain. If she were allowed to return to Qamar Haveli, she would stay there more than one or two days. In fact, she would remain in the walled city as long as she possibly could.

As she rode toward the garden's main entrance, she saw the Vulture sitting outside his tent, deep in conversation with two coarsely turbaned men who squatted on the ground by his chair, long-barreled
jezails
slung across their backs. A heavily loaded camel knelt nearby. The men looked like tribesmen of some kind, Afghans perhaps. The Vulture glanced up from his visitors and offered her a conspiratorial nod. Ignored by the tribesmen, she replied with a solemn little nod of her own.

Without his support she would never go back to Qamar Haveli. It seemed the least she could do.

If God willed, she would leave for Qamar Haveli the next morning. An hour after that, she would again hold Saboor in her arms

The road west of Shalimar was quiet. A herd of bleating goats, a file of women with baskets on their heads, and a group of mounted soldiers wearing chain mail vests over their ordinary clothes were all the traffic Mariana saw as she followed the old road past a deserted walled garden and several small mud villages. A well creaked in the distance, powered by a pair of oxen. The air smelled of dust and dung fires.

An interesting-looking ruin, a house perhaps, or a tomb, lay a quarter of a mile off, between two large stands of thorn trees. Intrigued, Mariana rode toward it, but before she had reached its outer wall the sound of hoofbeats and shouting arose behind her.

A runaway horse galloped toward her across a stretch of open ground, its rider swaying dangerously on its back. Far behind, two men, presumably the horse's grooms, pelted along on foot, losing ground with every step. Such a large cloud of dust enveloped the runaway animal that it took Mariana a moment to realize that the horse was Ali Baba and his imperiled rider was Lady Macnaghten.

He seemed to be coming straight for Mariana. Intending to get out of the way, she kicked her own mount, but before her horse had time to move, Ali Baba had thundered past, foaming at the mouth, too close for safety. An instant later, he was gone, with Lady Macnaghten flopping blindly on his back, her top hat fallen over her eyes, the reins lost, her arms about his neck.

The grooms were too far behind to be of any use. Mariana kicked her mare again and gave chase.

Her own mount would be no match, even for a tiring Ali Baba. Mariana urged the mare to a gallop, but before she had time to despair of catching the Arab, he changed direction and careened toward a mud village whose entire population seemed to have emerged from inside to watch the show. A hundred yards from its walls Ali Baba halted abruptly and stood still, his head hanging, as if he wanted someone to tell him what to do next.

This last was too much for his tottering passenger. As he came to a stop, Lady Macnaghten toppled slowly to the ground and lay un-moving in a heap of expensive gray worsted.

The villagers and Mariana all arrived simultaneously upon the scene. She glanced behind her, to see Lady Macnaghten's two grooms sloping toward them, in no hurry, it seemed, to learn the outcome of this disaster.

Without being asked, a square, barefooted man took hold of Ali Baba's bridle and led him a little way off, while the others gathered in a silent circle about Lady Macnaghten, their brown faces intent.

Lady Macnaghten stirred, rose painfully to her feet and took in the villagers standing shoulder to shoulder around her.

“My horse!” she cried out in English. “Where is my horse?”

When the people crowded closer without answering, she spun about, her eyes wide beneath dusty, loosening hair.
“Which of you has stolen Ali Baba?”

She did not see Mariana dismount and hand the mare's reins to a second bystander. “Make way,” Mariana ordered quietly.

The crowd parted obligingly, revealing Lady Macnaghten dancing with rage and fright in its center.

“I'll have you all hanged,” she shouted, still in English, her face contorted. “Hanged, I say! I'll teach you to steal an Englishwoman's horse!”

At the sight of Mariana, she blinked as if she had seen a mirage.

“The villagers mean you no harm,” Mariana offered, as she bent to rescue Lady Macnaghten's sadly dented top hat. “They are only curious. Ali Baba is here,” she added, taking Lady Macnaghten's arm. “He seems quiet enough now, but I think you should get onto my mare. I shall ride Ali Baba back to Shalimar.”

Lady Macnaghten's grooms arrived and helped her onto Mariana's mare, where she sat shakily, kneading her right arm. Still holding the crushed top hat, Mariana climbed onto the drooping, sweat-covered Ali Baba and clucked encouragingly. Without another word they set off at a walk for the camp.

The road in front of them was quiet. A bullock cart creaked along, piled high with straw. The armed soldiers rode past again, this time going the other way, guarding a quick-moving donkey cart in which two bareheaded prisoners, their arms tied behind their backs, struggled to keep their balance. A man followed them on foot, leading a loaded camel.

Mariana pointed to a stand of trees. “Shall we stop there?” she asked politely, not certain how to treat this new, weakened version of Lady Macnaghten. “We can get off some of the dust.”

“It was a cobra,” Lady Macnaghten offered a little querulously, when they reached the trees. “I had expected to go for only a short ride, but when we passed some thorn trees, it reared up unexpectedly. Ali Baba saw it first. He bolted before I even took in what it was.”

“Hmm.” Mariana could not agree to such an obvious untruth. Lady Macnaghten, stiff, awkward rider that she was, had been quite mad to ride Ali Baba, and he had simply taken advantage of her. But one thing was clear—the woman had nerve: first to have ridden the Arab, and second to have defended him, however wrongly, against the villagers. Courage was the last virtue Mariana had expected to find in Lady Macnaghten.

“Mr. Clerk advised me this morning not to ride such a difficult horse. My husband, too, begged me never to do it.” Lady Macnaghten pushed her hair from her face and sighed tragically. “I only wanted to give him a little exercise.”

Mariana nodded silently. She had done more than that. She had worn him quite out.

“I am afraid of what they will say.” Lady Macnaghten's voice trembled. “I fear they will all laugh at me.”

“Laugh at you? There's no one at camp but us.”

“Mr. Clerk will laugh at me. He's not a nice man, you know.

He'll tell the other officers, and they'll tell more people. You do not know how much I dread being talked about.”

Speechless at the irony of that remark, Mariana could only look away.

“What am I to do?” Lady Macnaghten went on, poking dispiritedly at her ruined habit. “How can I return to camp like this?” She swallowed. “I have been unkind to you,” she whispered. “I thought you had—but you hadn't. My husband told me all about your wedding night. I do not know what to do about Charles, after he did that awful—” She looked away. “He has done it before. That is how I knew.”

Mariana did not reply. Instead she nudged Ali Baba closer, and brushed the dust from Lady Macnaghten's riding clothes. She knocked the dents from the top hat and set it on Lady Macnaghten's head.

“Why,” Lady Macnaghten added, her eyes still averted, “are you being good to me after I have been so cruel?”

She had been cruel, but now she was bruised, frightened, and as disheveled as Mariana had ever been. And she had had the nerve to ride an impossible horse against everyone's advice, and to stand up to native villagers in spite of her fear.

Without answering, Mariana took out her pocket-handkerchief and carefully wiped the dust and the tears of shame from Lady Macnaghten's face.

S
o,” Yusuf Bhatti asked that same afternoon as he and Hassan returned from Batala for the second time that week, “now that Sher Singh is preparing to attack Lahore, is there a chance that the Rani will soften her position and allow him to rule?”

“No chance at all. She has been buying every general she can find with cash and treasure. Sher Singh is doing the same, of course. Between them, they have entirely corrupted our magnificent army.” Hassan slapped dust from his clothes. “The
sirdars
are choosing sides now, each man desperate to be in the winning camp.” He sighed. “I suppose one cannot blame people for trying to save themselves when their very lives and fortunes are at stake.

“I tell you, Yusuf,” he added as they edged their way past a file of heavily loaded camels, “more than anything, I fear the double-dealing of the British. From what I can tell, their Political Agent is deeply involved in the dispute between the Rani and Sher Singh. He has been making promises and giving encouragement to both sides. Few people see it, Yusuf, but I believe the British are the real enemy of the Punjab.”

“I hate to mention this, but have you considered your wife's position?” Yusuf paused, choosing his words carefully. “Is it possible that the same Political Agent has ordered her to—”

“No,” Hassan snapped. “She is no spy. But then there is—”

He looked away from his friend, his shoulders sagging.

Yusuf sighed. The woman had been in Lahore for only two days, and he could see that she was already giving Hassan trouble. The poor fellow had no luck with females. It should have been enough that his first wife died

Like the Shaikh's talkative follower who had broached the subject on that June afternoon, Yusuf believed Hassan should marry again. Ever since the Englishwoman's departure two years earlier, Yusuf had done his best to hammer sense into his friend. Prevented by delicacy from inquiring into Hassan's private feelings about the woman, he had nonetheless offered his advice, first suggesting, then encouraging, and finally ordering Hassan to take himself another, Punjabi wife.

“Our women are beautiful,” he had insisted. “They are the envy of India. A good Punjabi wife will give you six, seven more sons.”

But Hassan had remained immovable. “Yusuf,” he had said finally, “our family men do not keep two wives.”

Yusuf had dropped the subject after that. There was no sense in arguing with the Waliullahs. Like all mystics, they were an impractical lot who relied upon dreams and visions when they ought to be making sense. It had been exactly like Shaikh Waliullah, God bless him, to force his son to wed a foreign woman because of a horse-groom's dream, and it was just like the son to stubbornly refuse to see the hopelessness of his marriage.

What did Hassan see in that noisy, unmanageable woman, beyond her fondness for his son? Surely he had not come to love her….

As they waited for her return, Yusuf had tried to forget what he had witnessed two years before: that same female writhing on the floor of her tent in the agonies of snakebite, her clothing bunching about her legs. It had covered him with shame then, to have seen the face of his friend's second wife. That he had seen more than her face was too horrible to dwell upon.

To be sure, she had proved herself courageous by rescuing Saboor twice from serious danger, but in Yusuf's view nothing she had done warranted Hassan's chaining himself to her forever. If only there were some way to get him out of that mistaken alliance….

“The British are trying to dissolve my marriage,” Hassan said abruptly.

“What? How do you know?” Yusuf slapped at a fly on his horse's neck, concealing his satisfaction at this news.

“Their Political Agent and her uncle brought my wife to Qamar Haveli yesterday. They tried to make my father agree to a divorce. The reasons they offered were perfect nonsense. When my father asked her straight out whether she wished to divorce me, she could not reply. When I spoke to her myself later on, she became confused.” He smiled bitterly. “I don't think she even remembered what they told her to say.”

“But why would the British interfere with your family matters? Surely they have more serious work to do.”

“Perhaps they wish to sever my wife's connection with Lahore before Sher Singh attacks. If so, then at least they are honorable enough to protect one of their women.”

Yusuf nodded. “When will Sher Singh march on Lahore?”

Hassan shrugged. “Soon, if things continue as they are. By the time this contest is finished, nothing will be left of the kingdom.”

A hollow booming came from the direction of the city. Yusuf raised his head. “Artillery fire! What are those fools doing now?”

As both horses lunged into a gallop, the two men leaned forward, their loose clothing flapping behind them.

A messenger rode out through the Delhi Gate and waved to them. “Come quickly,” he shouted above the bustle of the crowded roadway. There is a great
tamasha
outside the Fort. They are blowing men from cannon!”

On the plain below the Citadel's walls, a large body of infantry, some in flowing native dress, others in cast-off European coats and cross belts, had been marshaled to form three sides of a square. Inside the square, a trio of twelve-pound cannon had been set up to face the open side. Trussed and tied over the mouths of the guns were three men, one only a boy, scarcely old enough to have a beard.

“Sons of foulness,” Yusuf cursed loudly as he and Hassan guided their mounts through a thick press of shouting onlookers, all striving for a better view. “Which sons of shame have done this?”

“Lower your voice, Yusuf,” Hassan cautioned. “This is what the Rani does to please the British. She cannot give them the Koh-i-noor diamond, so she executes Afghans to please them.”

The condemned men did not flinch. None of the three faces showed fear, not even the boy's, but their bodies had already betrayed them. Yusuf could see that their hands and feet had gone rigid. The boy's
shalwar
was soaked from his groin to his ankles.

“Look there.” Yusuf gestured. “They have caught your trader and his fat-faced assistant.”

Across the firing ground, guarded by soldiers, a dozen more Afghans squatted in a row, their heads bared, their arms tied behind their backs. Some had narrow, hawk-like faces and some did not, but all had the same emotionless demeanor as the men on the guns. All save two were dressed in coarse, ragged clothing.

Hassan followed his friend's gaze, then wheeled his horse.

“You said you did not trust Zulmai and his friend,” Yusuf argued, as they began to circle the crowd. “Perhaps you were right.”

Hassan stared in surprise. “Those men are human beings, Yusuf.”

He kicked his horse into a gallop, and charged toward the prisoners, with Yusuf beside him. Someone shouted an order. The three cannon fired, almost in unison.

A cloud of black smoke obscured the scene in front of the gun barrels, then drifted toward the two horsemen, filling their eyes as they calmed their startled mounts.

When the smoke lifted, Yusuf grunted in disgust.

The area in front of the cannon had been sprayed with blood. Body parts littered the dirt. Prodded by their officers, a few reluctant soldiers tied their turban ends over their faces and moved to cut down the shredded remains that still hung from the gun barrels.

Yusuf noticed a tall European in dusty black clothes standing at the front of the pushing crowd, observing the carnage with undisguised satisfaction. While Yusuf watched, the man glanced toward the waiting prisoners, caught the Afghan trader's eye, and started abruptly.

“What is this?” Hassan had reined in his horse. He glared down upon the Punjabi officer guarding the trussed prisoners. “What have these men done? Who has ordered these executions?”

From the corner of his eye, Yusuf watched the tall foreigner move closer, then hesitate, listening.

The officer shrugged. “The Rani's orders,” he replied. “These men are unregistered criminals.”

Beside Zulmai, young Habibullah looked up, hope lighting his face. Behind them both, the other prisoners knelt impassively on the ground.

Hassan pointed to the two traders. “These men are no criminals. I know them personally. Let them go at once.”

“They are spies for the Rani's enemies,” offered a soldier, pointing his gun barrel into Habibullah's face for emphasis.

“No, they are spies for the British,” put in another.

“Let them go,” Hassan repeated.

The officer spat. “Pathans are vermin. They rob and beat people for nothing. They kill the English who travel through the passes to Afghanistan.” He gestured vaguely. “Even if these men have not yet committed such crimes, they will. They always do. Why should we wait? We may as well kill them now.”

“Let them go, son of a pig!” Yusuf bellowed. “These men are not even Pathans. Can you not tell a Tajik when you see one?”

“Wait, Yusuf,” Hassan murmured. He dismounted and approached the officer. “Come this way if you will,” he said politely, gesturing away from the soldiers and their prisoners. “We can speak over there.”

As Hassan and the officer moved away, Yusuf looked among the crowd for the black-coated Englishman, but he was gone.

A moment later, Hassan and the officer returned. While Yusuf watched, the officer jerked his head toward Zulmai and Habibullah. “You may leave now,” he grunted, then glowered his own startled men into silence before pointing toward the back of the crowd. “Your camel is over there. As for the rest of you,” he added, jerking his head, “go.”

“But why are you setting them free? You have only killed six of them!” protested someone in the crowd.

“Do not let them go! Kill them, kill them!” shouted the others.

The officer waved his musket menacingly. “Disperse!” he thundered. “Disperse, before we kill you instead.”

“DO NOT cut it,” said Zulmai sharply a little while later, his upper arms still tied behind his back. “That's my turban.”

“So it is.” Yusuf sheathed his knife, then smiled crookedly at the sight of Hassan carefully untying the yards of coarse cotton fabric holding Zulmai's arms together.

Habibullah had already kissed their hands. Zulmai had nodded his thanks, and the twelve other, ragged men had filed past, each one with his right hand pressed over his heart. Zulmai did not smile, but when his arms were free he nodded seriously.

“O heart, when a time of sorrow overtakes thee,”
he murmured,
“It will vanish if thou hast a kind friend. Friends are commonplace in times of comfort, but in a time of trouble, one friend is enough.”

Hassan smiled. “You flatter me, Zulmai, to be quoting Jami over such a small matter.”

Later, as they rode toward the city, Yusuf glanced at Hassan's unadorned hands and let out his barking laugh. “I hope,” he said, “that you weren't too attached to those gold rings of yours.”