The Magistrate had argued that if there was going to be trouble it could not be allowed to remain there … its narrow windows commanded the Residency completely; beside it stood some mud hovels which were less of a problem: a few wellaimed shot should reduce them to powder which the next breeze would blow away. What the Magistrate in the blindness of his rationalism failed to appreciate was the spiritual importance of the mosque; the Mohammedans would be outraged if it were demolished and with every justification. The Collector could not afford to alienate the Mohammedans, who were generally considered to be the most loyal section of the native population, and besides, a member of a civilized society does not go around knocking down places of worship, even those belonging to a different faith from his own. The Collector frowned, annoyed with himself. He should have thought of the second reason first.
“He surely can’t be paying us another visit already,” grumbled the Magistrate, unaware of the unfavourable judgement which had been passed on his character a few moments earlier in the Collector’s mind.
At the window they both listened to the familiar thud of hoofs and jingle of harness which announced the arrival of the General and his sowars from Captainganj.
“Damn the fellow!” sighed the Collector. “I expect he’s come to sneer at my ramparts again.” But even as he spoke he saw the cluster of riders rein up in front of the Residency and realized that something was amiss. The General, instead of waiting to be lifted, had plunged forward over the horse’s head and slithered to the ground. And there he continued to lie until the sowars came to pick him up. But the glare even at this time of day was still so intense that the Collector, looking out from the semi-darkness of his study, could not be sure that he had actually seen what he had just seen … The sudden shouting and commotion that echoed immediately afterwards from the hall left him in little doubt, however.
As he stepped outside on to the portico the light and heat smote him, causing him to falter and put a hand on the wrought-iron railing, which he snatched away instantly, his fingers seared. He waited at the top of the stairs and watched then, as the sowars came towards him carrying the General. Blood was running freely from the General’s body and splashing audibly on to the baked earth. The sowars were evidently trying to stop the flowing of blood by holding him first one way, then another, as someone eating toast and honey might try, by vigilance and dexterity, to prevent it dripping. The General’s blood continued to patter on the earth, however, and all the way up the steps and into the hall where he was laid down at last, after some hesitation, on a rather expensive carpet.
Even when he had at last succeeded in freeing himself from the metal clamps Fleury was by no means sure how to find his way back to the room where he had left Harry stretched on the floor. He started tentatively through a dim series of naked, malodorous chambers; his head was still singing from the combined effect of the clamps and the mercury fumes. Presently he came to the end of the connecting rooms and was faced with a crumbling staircase. He climbed it impatiently and found himself in another chamber as empty as the one he had just left. The air was better here, however, and there were a number of windows screened by intricately carved marble … in one corner of the ceiling there was the bulging, basket-like growth of a bee’s nest. Beyond the window was a verandah, part of which was shaded by lattice curtains and here a number of the Mahanajah’s servants were drowsing on charpoys in a long row like the Forty Thieves, their liveries piled untidily beside them. They paid no attention to Fleury as he passed.
The heat and glare were stupendous; the countryside lay motionless in the grip of heat and light and somehow it had taken on the appearance of an Arctic landscape. From where he stood there was nothing but white on grey to be seen: there was the same dim, lurid sky, beneath which clouds of dust resembled driving snow. Returning his eyes to the shade of the verandah Fleury continued to see a grove of leafless sal trees imprinted on his retina like the bars of a glowing furnace.
He heard the sound of rapid footsteps and turning the next corner almost collided with Harry Dunstaple who demanded: “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. There’s been a disturbance at Captainganj and Father sent his sais with a message to warn us… We must get back to the cantonment immediately.”
Over Harry’s shoulder Fleury saw the Prime Minister hastening towards them. In spite of the physical effort he was making his face still wore an expressionless, introverted look.
“The blighter’s been following me everywhere,” Harry muttered with exasperation. “I’ve no idea what he wants. Go away!” he added loudly as the Prime Minister scampered up.
“I think he was told to keep an eye on you in case your illness got worse. How are you feeling, by the way?”
“Oh, right as rain.” But Harry’s face was still pale and beaded with sweat, nevertheless. “Where’s His Highness? We must leave immediately.”
The sepoys had mutinied and attacked their officers on parade, Harry explained as they set off to find the courtyard where the sais was waiting with horses for them. Nobody knew yet how serious it was. “It’s damnable,” he added. “I came out here without a pistol.” And Fleury realized from the tone of his voice that Harry, finding himself unarmed, was suffering not from fear but from disappointment. Here was a possibility of some action at last and he was going to miss it!
With Harry aggressively striding out in the lead they clattered rapidly through another series of chambers, empty except for an occasional servant asleep on the floor. There was no sign either of Hari or of the Maharajah, but the Prime Minister continued to dodge along introvertedly behind them. They came at last, by a stroke of luck, to the door by which they had originally entered the palace. Stepping outside, they were again struck by an oven-draught of hot air.
The sais who had come to warn them was now asleep in the shade of the wall and it took some moments to rouse him. The Prime Minister, his sacred thread just visible beneath his frock coat, squatted mutely on his heels at a distance and observed them in an impartial manner. He was still sitting there when at last they rode away. As the sun shone fully on Harry’s scarlet tunic, which he had re-buttoned in readiness for any military engagements which might present themselves, its colour intensified until it was almost impossible to look at with the naked eye. Then they were cantering through the outer gates where the Maharajah’s army, on which the Collector had earlier been pinning some hopes, still seemed to be in a state of repose, very much as it had been earlier.
7
Picture a map of India as big as a tennis court with two or three hedgehogs crawling over it … each hedgehog might represent one of the dust-storms which during the summer wander aimlessly here and there over the Indian plains, whirling countless tons of dust into the atmosphere as they go … until the monsoon rolls in and squashes them flat. Because there was a duststorm in the vicinity it seemed, and was, much darker than usual. This darkness could not help but be associated with the terrible massacre at Captainganj; even the Collector, who had gone up on to the roof to be alone and had found the stars blotted out, caught himself thinking so.