A Far Horizon (20 page)

She continued to listen to the rhythmic clink of the woman’s bangles, and the sweet sound of her song. Within moments she knew Harry would sleep, dropping into a slumber from which little ever woke him. Emily could not deny the nurse’s expertise, nor her own relief when Harry slept. Had the woman also fled into the jungle with the rest of Black Town, it would have compounded their difficulties. At last the nurse came towards Emily, the gold spiral of Harry’s small crown aflame in the crook of her mahogany arm. As she lowered him into his cradle, Emily caught the odour of coconut oil from the woman’s hair.

Before he could be placed in his cot, Harry began to cry again. The nurse straightened, the child still in her arms, and turned her back upon Emily. As she moved away it seemed to Emily that she placed her hand on the infant’s face. Once again the rhythmic clicking of her bangles began; the soft melody stirred the room. Emily stared at the woman, unable to explain the sudden unease that filled her. The woman swayed from foot to foot, rocking the baby. A thick oily loop
of hair lay against her head like a coiled snake. As the woman’s soft singing began again, a sharp cry knifed out of Harry, as if a splinter of glass turned in him. Emily jumped up and ran to snatch her son from the woman’s arms.

‘What have you given him? What did you do?’ Suddenly the reason for her unease was clear.

She forced open Harry’s mouth but there was nothing to see. Yet she was sure the nurse had crammed something into Harry. She saw again the movement of her hand across the baby’s face.

‘I have given him nothing, Bibiji. See, now at last he sleeps.’ The woman stood close to Emily. Already Harry’s eyelids drooped; vacancy entered his face as sleep pulled him steadily downwards, fastening him in its sepulchre. Emily shook him gently, but he did not wake.

The anxiety would not leave her. She took a chair and sat by the cot, gazing anxiously from the window. Outside, on the parade ground the new militia performed its manoeuvres. The shout of orders and the metallic clank of muskets rose up to Governor’s House. And beyond Fort William the sun beat down on The Park. Great trees lay about at odd angles, leafy heads shrivelled in the heat, roughly decapitated. Coolies were everywhere, chopping and sawing up the great trunks. Roped oxen pulled the logs away. Emily had watched the difficult job of hacking apart the great banyan tree that had, until recently, stood beside the Tank, spreading its shade across the water. Sometimes she had stood with her back pressed against the runnels of its massive trunk, looking up into a dark firmament. The great tree arched above her like the vaulted pillars of a cathedral. Now it was felled and the sun spun down rapaciously, drumming upon the naked water of the Tank. There was nothing now but a boiling plain. Emily surveyed the growing destruction and the hole of fear widened within her.

Beyond The Park the roof of Omichand’s house could be seen. Once again, like a dream unravelling, Emily saw the knife raised as each woman stepped forward. She heard the shrieks of children
behind the plantain trees and saw again the glistening pools of blood. There seemed no sense in what she had seen. She could not get the picture out of her head.

She thought again of the black goddess in the grotto on the hill, the Goddess of Perilous Passage. Had She been there to give the women the courage to pass into her realm? Did they hear the stamp of her foot by their side as she guided them towards her? Panic washed over Emily. Her life had hardened about her, like the shell of a chrysalis, crushing her within. She returned from her view of the empty park to the silent child, and a chill ran through her.

T
he remains of the moon hung above the town. The weak light from its slender crescent no longer illuminated the pearly walls of White Town. Instead of emitting an unearthly gleam, the town now shrank into the night. To the Chief Magistrate, looking out from the balcony of the Council chamber, Calcutta appeared an unknown place. It was as if the Chief Magistrate stood the wrong side of a mirror and, from that dark place, viewed a town that no longer stood but lived only in his memory. A shiver of fear passed through him as he turned back to the Council chamber.

Before him winged insects swarmed thickly about the candelabra. Drake slumped morosely in his chair, Bellamy’s concentration was upon the Madeira, Minchin yawned and as usual took no interest in things. The rest of the Council of War debated barricading themselves into the fort and bargaining their release with Siraj Uddaulah. Escape by the river was uppermost in everybody’s mind. The arrest of Omichand and the nawab’s proximity now frayed the strongest nerves. Siraj Uddaulah was reckoned to be a mere fifteen miles from Calcutta and could be upon them by the following day. No news had come from Rai Durlabh of the nawab’s much-awaited demise. The Council of War now found their main comfort in
simply sitting together. Arguments revolved and revolved again in an equally comforting way.

The Chief Magistrate returned to the balcony, taking with him a glass of claret. Above him, sleeping adjutant birds crowded the cupola of the balcony. The shifting sound of claws and the knock of beaks alerted him to their massed presence. Doubts about the raja Rai Durlabh had begun to enter his mind. Messengers secretly dispatched from the fort to Rai Durlabh always returned with identical letters. Rai Durlabh constantly urged Fort William to be patient. The smell of the river buoyed up upon the stench of the salt lakes drifted to the Chief Magistrate. The moon’s slow withdrawal of light seemed only to echo the disintegration of his own structured life.

Below the balcony he was conscious of the sound of traipsing feet. The women and children of White Town were entering the fort. They walked quietly down The Avenue beside the denuded Park, trundling carts and carrying bundles. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts. Most had buried their better possessions for safety from the nawab, but carried their jewels and some silver plate, pushing it along on the carts. It was impossible to stop the occasional clatter this made as their barrows traversed the rutted roads. They had been warned against creating a stir that might arouse the suspicions of Black Town, but so great was the general chaos in White Town that their departure had passed unnoticed. Everywhere officers galloped about on horses, powder trains cluttered the roads, troops swore loudly while pushing gun carriages into place and those coolies who remained dug ferociously to finish the trenches and barricades before Siraj Uddaulah arrived. All about, adding to the congestion, were large numbers of fleeing Indians. Still, the ladies of White Town took care to arouse no alarm. They arrived furtively, speaking in whispers, looking over their shoulders, passing into the fort with relief.

In the parade ground, in spite of the hour, there was still a great bustle. The militia and a large group of hastily recruited Dutch
mercenaries drilled by the light of flares, sepoys hurried about dragging gun carriages or sandbags, brusque orders were continually shouted. To the women and children of White Town such activity appeared to signal security and they at once relaxed. They were quickly escorted to Writers’ Row, where they were to be
accommodated
, the young writers of the Company having been turned from their beds.

On the balcony of the Council chamber the Chief Magistrate watched the file of women and children walk towards their temporary quarters. He passed a tired hand over his brow. He was aware of an atmosphere he could not define. Sometimes, before a monsoon, strange pressures played upon his brain, filling him with tension. He looked up again at the sky, but as yet no clouds marred its smooth expanse. Strange noises echoed distantly, making him wonder if, at last, the first sounds of Siraj Uddaulah’s thirty thousand blew to him on the night.

Dry powder from the large magazine in town was being brought into the fort. Holwell gazed into the dark night but could not make out the tall pagoda-like towers of the magazine. The place had once been a temple to the black goddess he so despised. It had come into Fort William’s hands inadvertently some years before through Omichand, who owned the land it stood upon. It had been the Chief Magistrate’s idea to use the building as a weapons magazine. There had been a great protest in Black Town.

Across the parade ground, flares illuminated an arched colonnade along the east wall which served as barracks for the native regiments. Soldiers slept on tiers of wooden planks, protected from the elements but exposed to a view of the parade ground. A small part of this colonnade was bricked in and used as a cell in which drunken soldiers cooled their heels overnight. It was jokingly called the Black Hole. It was in this malodorous prison that Omichand was now held. The Chief Magistrate had visited the merchant soon after his arrival in the fort and found him full of complaints. As Holwell had
expected, the food and accommodation were not to his liking. Words of fury had burst from Omichand like steam from a samovar.

‘I was expecting to stay in the Governor’s House during my arrest. Here I am held like a common criminal. In this cell, I hear you throw drunken soldiers. This is not a place for persons of station. And where is the treasure? Why is it not kept under our eye?’ Behind Omichand, Kishindas whimpered.

‘Arrest is arrest.’ The Chief Magistrate shrugged. ‘You asked for reality in this charade and we have adhered to your request. Believe me, this is far better than our common jail. You have light and air, a view of the parade ground, not to mention a guard to talk to.’ The Chief Magistrate tapped the barred window of the Black Hole with his ivory-topped cane. ‘As for your treasure, it is safe. You need have no worry.’ The treasure had been kept beneath the fort in a
safe-room
with barred doors.

The Chief Magistrate made no mention of the death of
Omichand’s
wives. He had decided that, in everyone’s best interests, this was not the time to reveal to Omichand news of his family tragedy. The severity of the event might turn the merchant’s mind, with disastrous results; he might hold Fort William responsible.

‘One way or another, sooner or later, the manner in which we keep you will reach the ears of Siraj Uddaulah. How much better it looks for you if you suffer the discomforts of this cell rather than the comforts of the Governor’s House.’ The Chief Magistrate saw Omichand forced to swallow his fury before the verity of this reasoning.

*

Omichand was the only person in Calcutta who did not yet know of the dire happenings in his home. Beyond Fort William, news of his dramatic arrest and incarceration in the Hatmen’s hive had produced a profound effect. A further large segment of Black Town had fled immediately into the countryside. This included most of the coolies who had been working on the new defences. Substantial pay increases had been offered, but only a small force had returned. They
worked now by flares in shifts through the night to finish the trenches and palisades that would defend the town.

At Drake’s request the Chief Magistrate had now moved into the fort. He had brought with him considerable baggage although he had buried whatever he could at the end of his garden. He had delayed a departing coolie with the lure of a large sum of money, and in a few hours the man had done most of the digging. There had seemed no end to his possessions however, and he became weary of the sight of things he had recently felt so necessary.

At one point in his labours he was reduced to envy of the Indians, who could disembark so easily from the physical structure of their lives. A length of cloth to wrap themselves in, a cooking pot, a jar for ablutions; they appeared to need nothing more. And also, thought the Chief Magistrate, people whose every step was sustained and surrounded by ancient customs that guided lives along a prescribed path, did not have to ask questions or frame decisions regarding conduct and goals. The Chief Magistrate was forced to remember that the weight he bore in possessions and sensibility was part of the texture of a civilisation he was sure set him above the heathen. He drew back his shoulders at this sobering thought and proceeded dutifully with his labours.

At last he trod the soil back into place over his possessions and returned to the house. A tower of his best plate was still heaped upon his drawing room floor, waiting to accompany him into the fort. The Chief Magistrate sat wearily in a chair and surveyed the sea of silver before him with a sudden feeling of nausea. It was only the thought of Siraj Uddaulah’s looters swarming through his home that gave him the strength to carry on. He could already see the sweaty horde leering at portraits, ripping up furniture, kicking aside the chamber pots with a derisory cry. The shame of it all ran through him. He had loaded everything on to a barrow along with a box of cash and jewels. As all horses had been commandeered by the military, he had then been forced to trundle this barrow into Fort William himself.

Bellamy’s arrival had created the greatest problem, for he had
appeared with three large covered carts of his best wines that he refused to leave to looters. These had eventually been stored beneath the fort in its labyrinthine innards. There had been talk of opening the ballroom for the ladies of White Town, but then it had been decided that the small rooms of Writers’ Row, however damp, provided a much-needed privacy and were to be preferred. The men of the militia could then also join their families in a continuance of domesticity. The ballroom was to be kept for use as a hospital should the need arise. The writers had bedded down wherever they could, loud and unruly, only too glad to be free of their cells. From the balcony of the Council chamber, Holwell listened to the sound of the young men’s laughter and tipsy singing. There was almost a holiday atmosphere.

Drake had offered Holwell accommodation in Governor’s House along with the Chaplain. As soon as he was settled, the Chief Magistrate had opened his box of valuables and lifted out old Jaya’s diamonds. The small chest was filled with a collection of stones of varying size and quality. Bags of emeralds, rubies, opals and sapphires lay heaped within the box, but all paled beside Jaya’s stones. The great necklace lay in the Chief Magistrate’s palm, foaming with iridescence, the light refracting a thousand times within each shimmering gem. Holwell stared for a long time at the magnificent piece. Amidst the tension and uncertainty, the luminous stones appeared to him now not only endowed with magical qualities but the very cement of his future. In all his years of diamond dealing he had never possessed stones of this quality. Like all Indian jewellery, the diamonds were unfaceted, but, shipped back to Amsterdam, cut and polished, they would fetch a tremendous price. Yet, in spite of these thoughts, new fears filled the Chief Magistrate. On this strange and moonless night the future seemed more uncertain than ever. Already, he had left his home, surrendering it to its fate. What if, by some twist of destiny, looters entered the fort itself? When he allowed his mind to approach such perimeters, the blood seemed to drain from his veins. He looked again at the
magnificent gems, then pushed them firmly back into their pouch. He strode from the room with them.

As he reached the parade ground he assessed his surroundings with a new eye for detail. At last, to one side of Governor’s House, he saw a flight of stairs descending. Taking a flare from a sconce on the wall, he made his way down into the belly of Fort William. Beneath Govenor’s House and the parade ground were the warehouses and storerooms of the fort. The Chief Magistrate looked about him. He appeared to be in some kind of entry room. A passage led away into the depths, but as he approached it he heard the scuttle of rats and drew back. Holding up the torch, he examined his surroundings and found at last what he was looking for. Kneeling down before a wall, he began to dig with a pocket knife at a patch of loose bricks. Within moments the bricks were dislodged, revealing a small space behind. Into this the Chief Magistrate pushed the pouch of diamonds, and reinserted the bricks.

*

Next morning the Council of War met early. There had been no further message from Rai Durlabh. It seemed increasingly likely that a battle of some kind might have to be fought if they did not evacuate immediately. Beyond the shuttered Council chamber the sun blazed down upon Fort William. Already a smell of cooking filled the parade ground from breakfast fires lit by the White Town women. After only one night in Writers’ Row they were glad to escape their dank rooms, where sleep was impossible. Beyond the drilling of the militia, children played at hopscotch or skipping ropes. A camp atmosphere infused the place. Soon, breakfast finished, the women were set to work to make sandbags of waste cotton. Lady Russell had agreed to take charge of the children to allow their mothers to work. The ballroom was opened for this purpose and games were organised beneath chandeliers. Beyond Fort William’s walls the sun blazed down upon an empty city. The wedding cake houses of White Town with their fretted balconies appeared suddenly vulnerable. Servantless days and accumulating
dust already gilded them with decay. Now, as the cloud of sand that was Siraj Uddaulah’s army rolled ever nearer, it was possible at last to imagine the danger the houses might pose for Fort William. They clustered about the walls, their upper windows looking directly down on to the parade ground. The Engineer’s suggestion to the Council of War about setting fire to these homes now at last made sense. But as no one had the courage to take such an action, the houses remained, as if awaiting a new set of tenants.

At last, towards evening, the nawab arrived. The tidal wave of dust that hung permanently above his army now rolled on to swallow Calcutta. Suddenly grit filled every crack, sore throats and red eyes were complained about, a dirty powder carpeted floors and was found in soup and water jars. The nawab settled himself in Omichand’s Garden, a retreat owned by the fat merchant two miles east of Fort William. Within the fort, tension was high. A great medley of sounds stretched across the town as Siraj Uddaulah set up his camp. Eventually, in the distance, a city of tents was seen. Bright pennants stirred in the breeze. The bellowing of elephants, the shouts of men, rifle shots and bugle calls drifted over the fort on the wind. Attack was expected at dawn.