Dishonored (4 page)

The young officer reached her first. He gripped her shoulder with one hand to hold her steady and yanked the shawl from her
head. Already he could see that she wasn’t what he had thought and the disappointment flared his anger. “What the hell is
this…?” He clenched the edge of the shawl in his fingers, a French patterned silk, and crushed it. “Jesus! You impudent…” He raised his arm to hit her.

“Leave her!” Colonel Mills stopped several feet away, panting hard. The realization of who the figure was sent a pain of such
intensity through him that he had to bend double for a moment and hold his chest to ease it. He glanced up at the young officer.
“It’s the ayah,” he said slowly. “Mrs. Mills’ ayah.” He straightened, making an almighty effort to regain his composure, and
took several deep breaths. Finally, he walked across to them. “You can leave us, major,” he said. Without looking at the servant,
he reached out for the baby and took his son into his arms.

“I said leave us!” he ordered, and the baby whimpered at the force of his voice. The young officer turned away.

Holding his son, Colonel Mills started for the bungalow, oblivious to the sobs of the ayah behind him. He carried the baby
badly, inexperienced and disabled in his sorrow, and the child began to howl, a thin weak cry against the blanket of deathly
silence that covered them all.

It was dark when Colonel Mills finally came out of the bungalow. The ayah had gone in after a while and taken the baby from
him to feed it and change it, but he had barely realized. He had sat for a long time in the eerie darkness amidst the horrible
chaos the mob had left behind, and stared blankly out at what was left of the garden, Alicia’s precious garden. He did not
try to make any sense of it all, he had seen too much of men and war for that, but he did try to find someone to blame. In
his ordered military mind he believed there was someone or something responsible for everything. Nothing ever just happened,
events were made. And in the time that he sat, his anger and grief focused on that one fact, Colonel Mills found the someone
responsible he needed. In the distorted logic of pain and misery, he blamed Indrajit Rai.

The trouble in Moraphur had been growing for some time, he realized that now. Hadn’t Rai’s son said so? What was it he’d said?
That the situation was not a comfortable one? He must have known, Colonel Mills reasoned, he must have had some idea! And
if he had known, then his father would have known! Indrajit Rai would most definitely have known, could probably have even
been behind the whole thing! Smiling, gracious Indians, with their parties and European canapés; it was all a ruse, a trap
to lull the British into a false sense of security. But that upstart of a son couldn’t keep quiet! He couldn’t keep his filthy
native mouth shut, could he? Colonel Mills stood, for the first time in hours, his legs weak and stiff from sitting, he paced
the floor. It all began to slot into place, the visit from Nanda, the party, the whole scene was so damn clear he wondered
why the hell he hadn’t seen it before! As he paced, he worked it through. Nanda must have got wind of the mutiny, he worked
for the maharajah, Rai was the maharajah’s jeweler. What if Rai had been planning something like this for years and then found
the chance in the unrest among the ranks. He could have stirred it, raked the hornets’ nest, he could have incited anything
in the atmosphere there was.

The colonel stood on the steps of his ransacked home and looked at the torchlight dotted around the camp, torches to light
the way for burying the dead. He gripped the balustrade as his head swam and he swayed precariously, dizzy with anger and
fatigue. “Jesus Christ, that man will pay!” he muttered through clenched lips. “God damn it he will pay for his part in all…” He stopped as the wail of an infant pierced the silence and made him shiver with pain. It was his own son crying. Henry
Reginald Mills was crying for his mother.

“Captain!” Colonel Mills called out to the officer in charge of digging a grave at the back of the mess. The young man stood
straight and wiped the sweat out of his eyes but his vision didn’t clear. They had been working all day in the choking heat
and the scene had begun to blur into one mass of sweat, dirt and blood.

“Yes, colonel?” He averted his gaze, not wanting to look his superior in the eye. He had buried the remains of the man’s wife;
how could he face the poor devil after that?

“Captain, I want you to go into Moraphur. There are people to hold accountable for the trouble today and I want them brought
in for questioning.”

The captain swallowed, the hard lump of his Adam’s apple moving uncomfortably in his throat. “Sir, I think that we should
try to finish up here tonight if we possibly can. I—”

“I have given you an order, captain!” the colonel interrupted. “I am not interested in what you think!” He jutted his chin
out and squared his shoulders. “There is justice to be done and we must see to it. The men I want brought in are both in the
same family: Rai. There are business premises in the town and a bungalow out toward Deeg. I want them here tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain drove the spade hard into the ground and left it there. He walked across to the small party of soldiers
still digging and shouted out his orders. What the colonel was doing God only knew but he wasn’t in any position to question
him. He hoped there wasn’t going to be any trouble; the poor bastard was obviously out of his mind with grief and with him
in command, the last thing they needed now was trouble.

“It is the British Army, master! Come quickly! Please… there are soldiers outside!”

Indrajit Rai hurried down the corridor from the bedroom he shared with his wife, straightening the cotton
kurta
he had pulled on in the past few minutes. The main room of the bungalow was dark and the bearer stood with a lamp by the
door. He could hear movement from Jagat’s bedroom and he called out to his son.

“Jagat! It is all right, please, go back to bed, I am sure it is nothing.” Taking the lamp from the bearer, he paused a moment
to compose himself and then swung open the front door.

“Indrajit Rai?”

“Yes. I am Rai. What is it you want?” Indrajit blinked rapidly in the glare of the torchlight but could make out only several
indistinct figures behind the officer in command.

“Indrajit Rai, I am here to place you and your son under arrest. You will come with me to the British Army headquarters for
questioning.” The young captain kept his voice even and stared at a spot directly above the other man’s head. He was damned
nervous but didn’t dare show it. If you let that sort of thing slip then the crafty buggers really took advantage. He had
never trusted the natives and he had no intention of starting now. “Is your son inside? Ask the bearer to tell him we are
waiting.”

Indrajit Rai took a pace back and held on to the wall for support. “But please… I don’t understand. Please, there must
be some mistake.” A sweat had broken out on his upper lip as he looked at the officer. “What could you want with—”

“I am placing you both under arrest as of this moment,” the captain interrupted and continued to look over his prisoner’s
head. “You may inform your household.”

“But I…”

Two of the soldiers moved forward behind the captain and Indrajit Rai backed into the house. He could not believe this was
happening, it was impossible! There must be some mistake. His legs buckled under him.

“Papa? Papaji!” Jagat hurried across to the door and took the weight of his father just in time. He helped him across to a
chair. “What is it, Papa? What has happened?” He glanced up at the army out on the verandah. The small group of grimy and
bloody-uniformed men were menacing in the light of the torches.

He swallowed hard and looked back at his father. “What do these men want, Papa? What?”

Indrajit Rai clutched his chest and took a deep breath to ease the pain there before he spoke. “It is the British Army, Jagat,
they have come to arrest us both.”

“No!” Jagat stood. “No! It cannot be! Why? What have we done?” He looked from his father to the men outside and then back
to his father. “They cannot do this!” he hissed urgently. “Papa, they cannot just arrest us! Call the servants! They cannot
just take us away!” Jagat’s voice had risen with panic and the young captain outside shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t hear
the conversation but he could catch the tone and it was beginning to make him damned nervous.

“Hurry up in there!” he called out. “I don’t want to have to send my men in after you!”

Jagat swung around angrily. “You just try! Dammit!” He shouted across to the bearer in Hindi to fetch the rest of the servants.
“Go! Now! And quickly, tell them to come with sticks!”

“Jagat, no!” Indrajit contradicted his son and the bearer stopped short. “It is a misunderstanding, Jagat, that is all!” He
rose to his feet and straightened his clothes. “We will see the colonel about all this; it is simply a mistake, Jagat. You
will see. Come!” Indrajit faced the door. The events of the past day in Meerut and in Moraphur had left Indrajit Rai shocked
and exhausted; he had never seen such violence and hatred in his countrymen. He had been helpless, frightened for the safety
of his own family and he had watched, in shame and anger, the annihilation of innocents. The world was in chaos, this was
simply another part. “Come, Jagat!” he ordered. The young man looked at him, totally uncertain of his words or actions. “Tell
Mrs. Rai that we will be back as soon as this mistake is found out.” Indrajit laid his hand on the bearer’s arm. “Look after
her,” he said quietly in Hindi. “Jagat?”

Jagat took one last long look at his father. Unlike the man he loved and respected, he had no regard for the British sense
of justice. He glanced back at the light in the corridor and saw the figure of his mother watching them. “Yes, Papa,” he answered
finally and together they walked out of the house.

C
OLONEL
M
ILLS SAT ALONE IN THE OFFICERS’ MESS WITH HIS
head in his hands. The heat was choking and he was in full dress uniform, the sweat running almost continuously down the
side of his face, but he was oblivious to it. In these small private moments, he was oblivious to everything; his mind was
completely blank.

In the past two weeks Colonel Mills had brought Moraphur back under British command. With the small battalion of men from
Meerut he had wielded extraordinary power over the small community. He had rounded up anyone he had reason to suspect, he
executed at his will and he kept large numbers of wealthy and powerful Indians under armed guard. He neither knew nor cared
whether what he was doing was right or wrong, he was driven by grief and anger; he had a crusade.

Glancing at his pocket-watch on the table in front of him, he realized it was almost time for the enquiry board to assemble
and he sat upright, straightening his jacket. Despite the chaos, Colonel Mills always looked immaculate; it had become an
obsession with him, after the dirt and blood of clearing up the massacre. He wiped his face on his handkerchief, newly laundered,
the second that morning, and set his papers in a neat pile ready. Moments later, he called out in answer to a knock and the
three other officers who made up the enquiry board filed in.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” He didn’t smile, he never did.

The officers sat, each for his own reasons highly uncomfortable with the situation, and the colonel addressed the matter at
hand. “Rai,” he said, without looking up. “I want to pass a motion that they be executed the day after tomorrow and that all
business, property and land belonging to the said party be requisitioned by Her Majesty’s Government in India.”

One of the officers coughed nervously and the colonel glared across at him. There was an awkward silence while the young captain
in question struggled to find the nerve to disagree but it was short-lived. He knew what was happening wasn’t right but he
just didn’t have the courage to speak out. Reinforcements were arriving in a couple of days and with them very probably a
new command, thank God. He would have to leave it until then. He kept quiet as the colonel addressed the other two and said,
“Those in favor say Aye.” Assent was mumbled and the motion passed. The young captain looked at his colleagues with a weary,
exasperated expression and the colonel went on to the next matter. This meeting was as ridiculous as they had been each day
so far; the enquiry board was a mere formality, Colonel Mills was in command, he gave the orders and, regardless of how bad
those orders were, for the moment at least, they had to be carried out.

* * *

“Papaji, Papaji!” Jagat Rai touched his father on the shoulder and shook him gently. The older man opened his eyes and attempted
a smile, the effort of which seemed to exhaust him, and he closed them again.

“What is it, Jagat?” he murmured.

“Papa, there is something to eat. Here, you must try to take a little.” Jagat held out a rusting tin plate. “Please, Papaji,
just try a little.”

But Indrajit held his hand up and gestured for Jagat to take the plate away. The food had not been prepared by his own cook,
by someone of the right caste, and as a fastidiously religious man, it would defile him to eat it. He had gone a fortnight
now without food and he was frail, dehydrated by the lack of water or nourishment in the intense heat and ill, infected by
the dirt and excrement in the cell. Jagat sighed bitterly, wondering whether to try again and then stood, knowing it was useless.
He walked to the far wall of the cell and placed the plate in the corner on the floor. He gave the disgusting mess they had
been served to the cockroaches.

“Jagat?”

Turning back to his father, Jagat saw that he wanted to say something. He hurried to his side. “Papa? What is it?” He took
the strip of cotton he had ripped from his shirt and dipped it in the cup of water they shared. He gently smoothed it across
his father’s brow to soak up the sweat. “Papaji?”