A few other metal objects had been fired, such as clocks and hair brushes … but they had proved quite useless. Candlesticks filed into pieces and collected in ladies’ stockings had served for canister for a while, but had been swiftly exhausted. Then a find had been made. Poor Father O’Hara had contracted cholera and died shortly after the withdrawal to the banqueting hall; when his body had been heaved over the ramparts for the jackals and pariah dogs (the only way that remained for disposing of the dead), a number of heavy metal beads, crosses, Saints and Virgins had been discovered in his effects. The Padre, consulted as to the propriety of firing them at the enemy, had given his opinion that they could perfectly well be fired and that they, or any other such popish or Tractarian objects, would very likely wreak terrible havoc. However, this did not seem to have been the case, particularly, except for the metal beads.
There was a small explosion at the ramparts several yards away, but it was nothing to worry about …only Harry trying to free the long, iron six-pounder in which the head of a French cynic, Voltaire, had become jammed … rather surprisingly, the Collector thought, a narrow, lozenge-shaped head like that; Harry had been unable to ram the head home to the cartridge and so, according to normal procedure, was obliged to destroy the charge by pouring water down the vent; followed by a small quantity of powder, also through the vent, to blow out his makeshift shot. Harry had worked as tirelessly as his sister for the last few days; now he sank down on to a stool beside his cannon out of sheer weakness, and began to weep at the thought of the wasted powder and the wasted water resulting from this misfortune. However, he had successfully blown Voltaire’s head out of the bore of the six-pounder; it rolled over the rampart and landed among the skeletons, scattering the pariah dogs who were sunning themselves there while waiting for their next meal to be heaved over.
“The sepoys are very quiet,” the Collector called to Harry conversationally to stop him weeping, because now Lucy was starting and he was afraid that she would spoil the powder by dropping tears into the flask.
“D’you think they’re going to attack?”
“I expect so.” Harry dried his eyes on a piece of wadding, annoyed with himself.
“There’s one thing … the spectators have got tired of waiting, anyway.”
The melon beds had been virtually deserted for the last two or three days. Only a lonely rajah or two was to be seen now, solitary figures surrounded by servants, watching through elaborate brass telescopes acquired at one or other of the European stores in Calcutta. At night there were no longer any bonfires to be seen, either on the hill or way out on the surrounding plain.
The Collector heard shuffling and heavy breathing and knew, though the breathing was not the Padre’s, that the Padre was nevertheless approaching. He could have told this without turning to look; but he did turn, because he did not want to give the Padre the impression that he was avoiding him. The Padre was strung limply between the shoulders of a young ensign and of an ancient pensioner, both of whom looked ill, worn out, and exasperated. They laid the Padre down at the Collector’s side as instructed and arranged his limbs in a suitable position of repose.
“There was something I forgot to mention to you earlier,” said the Padre, who did not normally favour such a blunt approach but felt that given the state of his health there might not be any time to lose … This time he was determined to go as straight as an arrow aimed at Saint Sebastian to the core of the problem, as he saw it.
“I’m referring to a leading article which appeared in The Times concerning the Exhibition and which I should like to read you (by a fortunate chance I happen to have it on my person). It goes as follows: ‘So man is approaching a more complete fulfilment of that great and sacred mission which he has to perform in this world. His image being created in the image of God, he has to discover the laws by which the Almighty governs His creation; and, by making these laws his standard of action, to conquer nature to his use, himself a divine instrument.’ Hm, I wonder did you hear that, Mr Hopkins, or should I read it again?”
“Thank you, Padre. I heard it perfectly and found it most interesting.”
“It seems to me, Mr Hopkins, that the doctrine of this passage has no foundation whatsoever in the word of God. If we turn to the history of man’s creation in the sacred volume, we find that his mission was simply to dress and keep the garden of Eden and to serve and obey his Creator … and that, so far from having any mission to pry into the laws by which the Almighty governs His creation, he was expressly forbidden to do so. The only forbidden tree in the garden was the tree of science and intellect. It is a remarkable fact, Mr Hopkins, that the argument used by the serpent to seduce Eve from her allegiance to her Creator is almost precisely that used by the Editor of The Times: ‘Ye shall be as GODS, knowing good and evil’ … that is, as wise as God Himself!”
The Collector’s mind had wandered yet again, though he nodded intelligently from time to time, hoping thus to soothe the Padre. But his concentration was poor these days: he could hardly keep his mind on anything for more than a moment … and even when he heard what the Padre said it made no sense … “the Editor of The Times as wise as God Himself!” Really, what rubbish. As the Padre’s feeble voice continued to denounce the Editor of The Times the Collector lifted his eyes to the sky where, as always, the kites and vultures were circling.
The Collector was fond of vultures and did not share the usual view of them as sinister and ominous creatures. By their diligent eating of carcases they had probably spared the garrison an epidemic or a pestilence, but that was not what the Collector liked about them … though clumsy on the ground, their flight was extraordinarily graceful. They climbed higher than any other birds, it seemed; they ascended into the limitless blue until they became lost to sight or mere specks, drifting round and round in a free flight in which their wings scarcely seemed to move. They more resembled fish than birds, gliding in gentle circles in a clear pool of infinite depth. The Collector would have liked to watch them all day. Their flight absorbed him completely. He thought of nothing while he watched them, he shed his own worries and experienced their freedom, no longer bound by his own dull, weak body.
He was obliged to return to earth, however, by signs of excitement at the ramparts, which doubtless heralded another attack … and by the Padre who had asked him a question and was waiting with signs of impatience for his reply.
“Well … “ said the Collector cautiously, “of course it’s a matter of opinion…” He had not heard the question but hoped that this reply would serve. The excitement was increasing and he looked anxiously towards the rampart, afraid that the attack might develop before he even saw what was happening. Alas, the Padre was evidently not satisfied. A look of despair, of righteous anger came over his face. Suddenly, to the Collector’s astonishment, the Padre gripped him by the throat and shouted: “A matter of opinion! The Crystal Palace was built in the form of a cathedral! A cathedral of Beelzebub!”
“I say,” said a voice a little distance away. “We’ve come to relieve you.”
“A cathedral of Baal! A cathedral of Mammon!” The Collector, trying to prise the Padre’s fingers from his throat and at the same time turn his head, was just able to see a pink young face with a blonde mustache surmounting a brilliant scarlet tunic. This man was peering winningly over the rampart.