Devil's Wind (10 page)

“Was the little boy all clawed up dead?”

Captain Morton threw a despairing glance at Helen, who did not quite see how she could assist him.

“Er—yes, I am afraid he was. But my father didn't know that, and if he had, it wouldn't have made any difference, so he rode into the long grass with nothing in his hand but a hogspear, which he always took with him when he went out riding.”

“Why did he take it?”

“To prick the pariah dogs with when they got in his way.”

“Oh!” said Megsie Lizzie, “it's very inresting. What did your father do?”

“He always rode very fast. The natives called him the Lightning Sahib, and he rode right into the leopard, and speared it, and the spear broke off short in the leopard's chest, and my father's horse reared up, and fell over backwards with him.”

“Was he killed dead?”

“No, not that time, but he didn't know what was happening until he opened his eyes and found the leopard lying dead, and the village shikari talking very fast to the man whose son had been clawed, and three or four women crying very loud indeed, and he sat up and said—”

“What did he say?”

“Er—I don't exactly know. I wasn't there, you see, but I rather fancy he was very angry with the shikari, because he had spoiled the leopard's skin.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, he got up and he rode home, and slipped in by the back door.”

“Of a tent?”

Megsie Lizzie was down on him in a flash.

“No, this was when we were living in a house. We did have a house. Well, he slipped in by the back door, and he put on another coat—a dark coat.”

“Why?”

“Because the leopard had clawed his arm before the shikari shot it. And he went in and sat down to breakfast with my mother.”

“And with you?”

“Yes. And now comes the part that I can remember for myself. My mother poured out the tea, and said how late he was, and helped him to a chop, and he took the plate, and said it was a very hot day, and then all of a sudden, down he went on to the floor, like a ninepin, when you knock it over. And when my poor mother got round to him, she was frightened to death, for his coat was all wet, and when she touched it, it came off red on her fingers, and she very nearly fainted herself.”

“And what did you do?”

“I ran and called the servants, and they took off my father's coat, and found the sleeve of it all full of blood, and his arm and shoulder all clawed.”

“And was he melting?” asked Megsie Lizzie in tones of passionate interest.

Helen's head went down, almost into her lap, only this time it was to hide a laugh.

Richard Morton made no struggle, he roared, and Megsie Lizzie looked much shocked.

“I shouldn't laugh if my papa was clawed. Nor if he was melting. I shouldn't,” she observed; and Helen, at least, felt rebuked. There was an impressive pause. Then Megsie Lizzie asked:

“Is that all?”

“Nearly all. My father was very angry indeed, and he wouldn't go to bed, but he had to let the doctor tie up his arm. The doctor said all sorts of dreadful things would happen, but they didn't. The arm healed up all right.”

“And then you all lived happily ever afterwards,” said Megsie Lizzie, in the perfunctory tone of one who makes an accustomed response.

She slipped off Captain Morton's knee, put on her hat, and jumped down from the highest part of the verandah, just at the corner.

“And now I will get you a buttonhole,” she announced, and disappeared from view in a little cloud of dust.

Richard looked after her with a grim smile.

“No, there wasn't much ‘happy ever afterwards' about it,” he said. “The poor old governor was killed out pig sticking a year later, and my mother, whom he had spoiled, and adored, and treated like a queen, had to go home, and live on the charity of relations, who never ceased girding at her because she was left so badly provided for. No,” as Helen looked up in surprise, “there was no pension. My father left the Army as an ensign. He never could keep out of debt. He was a regular free-lance, you know. The natives adored him, and the old King of Oude swore by him, and I suppose he made a lot of money one way and another, but he never could keep a penny of it—he couldn't say no to a friend, and in the end it was my mother who paid.”

Helen looked up, her face very soft.

“I never heard you speak of her before. Did she die long ago, Dick?”

“Ten years. She made a very unhappy second marriage. A wretched business. We are an unlucky lot.”

Captain Morton pulled himself up. His eyes were sombre. There was a moment's silence. Then with an abrupt change of tone he asked:

“Where is Adela?”

Helen looked fixedly at her embroidery. The light had begun to fail, and the fine work required attention.

“She has gone out riding,” she said in cheerful commonplace tones.

Richard's brow darkened.

“Riding? She hasn't anything to ride. I've been so busy, but I saw a little mare to-day that might do. With whom is she riding?”

“With Mr. Purslake.”

“Purslake? Is she riding one of his horses?”

“I believe so.”

Richard lay back in his chair, and put up one hand to cover his mouth and chin.

“Purslake is not a man I care for,” he said in a studiously quiet tone. “Also, he is a very new acquaintance, and I don't care about Adela being under any obligation. Do you think, Helen, that you could give her a hint that I would rather she didn't make a friend of Purslake?”

Helen hesitated. She guessed the effort with which Richard Morton spoke to her of his wife. Her heart began to throb painfully, she was so much afraid of saying the wrong thing—of making matters worse. That they were bad enough already she was well aware. On her arrival in Peshawur she had found a degree of estrangement which appalled her, and she had begun by thinking Richard hard. In the months that passed since then she had found it easier to comprehend his attitude. Her own relations with Adela had undergone a change. There had been scenes and quarrels. Helen hated quarrels, and was clever at avoiding them, but once and again Adela had hurt her very deeply. Such hurts heal, but in healing they harden too.

“I think Adela knew him before,” she said quickly, when the silence had lasted so long that she felt she must say something. Captain Morton offered no comment, but there was a sarcastic expression about his eyes that increased Helen's discomfort and made her say:

“I don't care for him either. He is silly, but quite harmless, I should say”; and she tried to laugh.

“He is a cad,” said Richard Morton shortly.

He rose, and walked to the edge of the verandah, just as Megsie Lizzie appeared with a handful of drooping flowers, which she pressed upon him.

“An' I must go,” she explained, “I must go at once, or I shall be late for saying Good-night to my mamma, because she is going out to dinner, and if she didn't have time to hug me and God bless me first she would cry all into her soup, and that wouldn't be at all polite. Goodnight, Captain Dick. Good-night, Helen lady,” and she slipped away, humming a queer little tuneless song.

“Isn't she funny?” said Helen in tones of relief. When Richard did not answer she went on more from a desire to turn the conversation than from any other motive.

“Dick, she told me such an odd thing. You know all the talk there has been about those chupattis, and how every one said they meant something different?”

“Yes.”

Captain Morton was listening now.

“Dick, I noticed you didn't talk, when every one else did. Was that because you thought it all too silly—or—or—”

“A most expressive ‘or,'” said Richard Morton, with half a laugh.

The light had fallen so much now that Helen could not see his face, but she had the feeling that his eyes were intent upon her.

“Well, that child said she heard their bearer talking to a brother of his who is a Sepoy in the 114th, and he said the message had gone everywhere.”

“The message?”

“Sub lal hojaega.”

Helen shivered ever so little as she spoke. There was quite a breeze springing up, and the evening air struck chill, after the heat of the day.

“What does it mean, Dick?”

Richard Morton did not move.

“Doesn't your Hindustani take you as far as that, Helen?” he said lightly. “It isn't very abstruse, ‘Sub lal hojaega'—Everything will become red.”

“Yes, I know. I didn't mean that. Why did Ram Chand say that everything would become red, and why did his brother answer: ‘And our hands too?'”

There was a pause.

Then Captain Morton moved a little, and said in his usual voice:

“My dear girl, one can never fathom these native superstitions.”

Helen got up.

“Dick, did you ever know a woman who wasn't inquisitive?”

“My dear girl, never.”

“Well?”

Helen was standing beside him on the edge of the verandah, her chin lifted, and her brows arched, but Richard looked past her at the sunset. The sun was gone, and a line of dark ferash trees stood out as black as cypresses against the western sky. Behind their gloomy foliage shone a belt of clear blood-red. It glowed, and changed, passing from rose to scarlet, and from scarlet to a hot and dusky orange. With every change of colour the trees darkened, the light failed, and the breeze increased.

“Well, Dick?”

“Well, Helen.”

Helen came a step nearer. She spoke in a hesitating manner. “Dick, I'm not a child.”

“You are not. You are positively elderly. Only don't harp on the fact, because I am ten years older than you are, you know.”

Helen turned with a swish of her full skirts, gathered up her work, and swept to the door.

“Lift the chick for me, Dick, will you,” she said in her usual voice, and as she passed into the lighted room she turned her head rather suddenly and looked Richard Morton full in the face. As soon as she looked at him, he smiled, but she had seen his eyes first. They were very grave, and there was a deep vertical line between them. Helen looked away again at once, and moved farther into the room. The freshening breeze followed her, and stirred her dress. Outside, the trees rustled.

“How the wind is rising,” she said.

CHAPTER X

THE RISING OF THE WIND

We broke the power of the Kings, we took the sword away,

And beat it into a ploughshare, for ever and a day.

Mussulman and Mahratta, Sikh and wild Pathan,

They should live together in peace, neighbourly man by man.

No more raiding for loot, no more justice by favour;

Life was a sorry affair, woefully lacking in savour.

And the King of Oude, his captains, their sons and heirs, instead

Must learn the English drill, and wear the English red.

Sepoys, not captains they, their fathers' greatness gone,

What wonder if under the English red a pulse of hate beat on.

March went out, and India lay under the heat of April. Between the hazy sky and the parched earth, no breath stirred save that impalpable breath of approaching dread. Unheard, unfelt, the wind was rising, the wind which the natives called the “Devil's breath.” The air was full of the dust of rumour, and the dust fell, silently, unheeded. No one knew where the rumours came from. They were not, and then they were. They came as the dust comes, and no one knew how.

A district, peaceful and contented one week, would be full of buzzing talk the next. Was it true that the new water-mills which the Company had set up were accursed things? Ai, brothers, who could tell? But why should they grind so cheaply? Could that be answered? A cousin at Koti had said that his uncle at Cawnpore had said that there was bone dust mingled with the flour—dust of pigs' bones! The man whose cousin's uncle lived in Cawnpore tore his hair, and wept, and praised all the gods that he had taken no grain to be ground in the Company's mills. Those who had done so, slunk away, or held their heads very high, and praised their gods louder still. And the district seethed like water that is going to boil.

In the lines the Sepoys talked. Always they sat, or stood in groups, and talked volubly. When an officer passed they stopped talking. Here and there one would look away. If he failed to salute his officer he had his excuse. He had not seen him. What did they talk about? Perhaps about Mungul Pandy of the 34th who had cut down his adjutant and the quartermaster-sergeant, in front of the quarter-guard at Barrackpore, no man putting out a hand to stay him.

Perhaps they debated whether to call him mutineer—or martyr.

For Mungul Pandy was hanged, and his regiment saw it done. Afterwards they put flowers on his grave—secretly, as for many years they had put flowers and flags on the grave of an earlier mutineer. Then the regiment was disbanded, and the men went all over India telling the story of Mungul Pandy who had died rather than break his caste by biting the accursed cartridge.

There was a great deal to talk about in the year 1857 and the month of April.

There was the court-martial upon two Sepoys who made treasonable overtures to the native officer on duty at the Mint, in Calcutta. There was the disbanding of the 19th regiment at Berhampore for mutinous conduct on parade.

They were to go to their homes. Such was the clement sentence of the Government. And they too went all over India, and there was more talk, and more, and more, and at the beginning, and in the end, the over-word was still the same—the cartridge.

The Queen of England had said to Lord Gough that all the native soldiers in India must become Christians. Was that true? Undoubtedly it was true. Here was a holy fakir who could tell them the whole tale, ah, brothers, hear the tale then! What did Lord Gough say? He said it would take time, but it should be done. Then the Queen was very angry, and said, “Let it be done at once. Let it be done without fail.”

For this reason the cartridges were devised. They were sent out greased with the fat of cows and with the fat of swine. If a Hindoo touched them, his caste was gone. If a Mussulman touched them, he had touched the accursed thing forbidden by Allah, and by the prophet of Allah.

Would it not be better to serve the King of Oude, and have the plundering of the zemindars again? Would it not be better to serve the Emperor of Delhi and draw the magnificent pay of ten rupees a day? Would he give ten rupees a day? Undoubtedly. Here was one who had just come from Delhi, and there it was the common gossip of the bazaars.

So the talk went, and April passed.

Richard Morton spent the greater part of the month in camp, learning his district by heart, establishing friendly relations with the zemindars, cultivating the acquaintance of the local Rajah, and absorbing information generally.

He returned to Urzeepore with his mind a good deal lightened. Some discontent there undoubtedly was, but the greater part of the district appeared to be peaceful, or at least indifferent. The crops promised well. It would be a good season, and any distrust of the Government's motives would pass with time, and their experience of an equitable rule.

He found his cousin Floss Monteith on her way through Urzeepore with her silent husband and her small son of six. They were bound for Simla, where Colonel Monteith was going to settle them, returning himself to Mian Mir, where he had just been given an appointment on the Stan.

“Floss, will you take Adela and Helen up with you?” said Captain Morton, an hour after he rode in from camp.

Mrs. Monteith made a face behind his back, and then hastened to say all that was hospitable and cousinly.

But Adela refused to go.

“Isn't it just like Richard?” she said angrily to Helen. “He sees I am enjoying myself, and of course he wants to send me away.”

“But the heat, Adie—”

“I am not feeling it at all. This is a very cool house. I am very well, and you know I did feel the height last year in Murree. The doctor said I was not at all strong. Of course, if Richard wants to kill me—and I simply can't bear Mrs. Monteith. I call her a very frivolous person.”

The feeling was mutual.

“I like you. I like you immensely,” Mrs. Monteith told Helen. “I can't think why Dick didn't marry you. You would have suited him ever so much better than that Adela creature. Mercy! what have I said? My dear, I beg your pardon, I really did forget she was your cousin. Now don't be vexed with me. I'm dreadful, you know. I always say just what comes into my head. Fortunately my John has very strong nerves.”

The Monteiths went off the same evening, and with them went Megsie Lizzie, who had begun to droop with the heat.

Floss Monteith had discovered an old schoolfellow in Mrs. Monson, and her son Jack conceived a silent adoration for Megsie Lizzie. The children's despair at the thought of being parted led to an impulsive offer from Mrs. Monteith, which, after a few hours' hesitation, was accepted.

“An' Miss Anna Maria Matilda Jenkins Sweet Pea will love to write you ever so long letters,” said Megsie Lizzie, leaning out of the window of the dakgharri, waving brightly to her mother, who stood by her husband's side, very pale, and with hands that clasped each other very tightly.

Next day there was bad news from Lucknow. A despatch spoke of mutinous conduct on the part of the 7th Irregulars. They had refused the cartridge, threatened to murder their officers, and had been with difficulty coerced into a condition of sullen submission.

Richard Morton interviewed Captain Monson, of the 11th Irregulars, and inquired into the disposition of his men. Later he saw and talked with Colonel Crowther of the 114th, Captain Elliot of the Native Police, and Captain Lamington, who commanded the detachment of Native Cavalry. His face was tolerably grave as he wrote his official despatch.

Captain Blake looked in about sunset, and they talked for an hour or more.

“I don't know what they'll do,” said George Blake. “That's the truth, Dick.”

“Have you begun ball-cartridge practice?”

“A fortnight ago.”

“H'm! Any trouble?”

“No. I thought they would jib, but they didn't. Come to think of it, they hadn't the ghost of an excuse, for the cartridges are some of the old lot. Our own make.”

“But you are not satisfied?”

“No. It's an odd thing to say, Dick, but I believe I'd rather they had made a fuss. They're too damned quiet, I don't like it”

“Anything else you don't like?—”

“Well, I don't know that I care about the sort of carelessness that results in getting ball cartridge mixed up with blank.”

“That been happening?”

“Yes. Pure mistake, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

There was a pause, and then Captain Morton said:

“Have you ever realised that there are only two British regiments in the whole of Oude? They'd spread out pretty thin, if we had to spread 'em out, George.”

“That is so.”

“Please God, we sha'n't have to spread them out.”

And George Blake said “Amen.”

After a moment he spoke again.

“Some one told me Mrs. Morton and Miss Wilmot were going to Simla with the Monteiths.”

“I wanted them to. My wife wouldn't go.”

Richard paused, then he added:

“George, I wish to Heaven we had had this despatch yesterday. It's too late now. There's no escort. I can't get away. It's no good thinking of it.”

That evening Adela grumbled at the heat.

“After all, I wish we had gone to Simla,” she said, and Richard Morton lost his temper, and lost it badly. He echoed his wife's wish in language which she characterised as profane. Then he went back to his office, and worked till midnight, and Helen Wilmot listened to Adela's strictures with a curiously blank expression.

A week later came the news of the Meerut Mutiny. The mine had been years a-digging, the fuse had been months in the laying, but now the spark was set, and the wind fanned it, and fanned it still. Men began to catch their breath, and brace themselves against some vast upheaval. They watched the travelling spark, and set their teeth.

Delhi fell.

“Delhi is far,” quoted Captain Morton cheerfully. Again he held conference with the commanding officers.

“The Mohammedans won't move till their fast is over,” he said. “And the Eed falls on the 20th. I think we should be prepared for trouble then. Fasting all day, and gorging at night, isn't too good for the temper, and when it is over—”

He broke off abruptly.

“Colonel Crowther, how many Sikhs have you in your regiment now?”

Colonel Crowther's wizened little face contracted.

“About fifty, I believe, and from what I hear, Captain Morton, I have grave reason to fear that they are a drunken and dissolute body of men. Drunkenness is a terrible thing, a very terrible thing. A man who is found drunk should be cashiered. It is an outrage, a simple outrage that a Christian Government should order us to enlist men who are well known to be intemperate in their habits!”

“You might convert them, Colonel,” suggested young Lamington with a perfectly guileless expression.

Richard Morton put his hand up to his chin.

“Fifty,” he said. “I remember you never liked the Sikhs, sir. You thought that they might have a deteriorating influence.”

“And I maintain it now—the spectacle of open drunkenness—”

“Very shocking”—Captain Morton was extremely grave—“very shocking indeed. I would suggest, sir, that it would be possible to minimise the effect by drafting all the men into one Company; a strict watch could then be kept over their morals.”

Colonel Crowther appeared to be struck by this idea, and Richard enlarged upon it later on to Captain Blake.

“Keep him up to it, George. Harp on the temperance string. If the old man had obeyed orders, and enlisted his full 200 Sikhs, they might be worth their weight in gold to us at present. But fifty staunch men, if we can only get 'em together—”

George Blake looked vaguely into the dark corners of the room.

“A Sikh came to me last night,” he said. “His father was an officer of Runjeet Singh's, and he is a fine lad. He said, i Sahib, there is much bad talk. Make us Sikhs into a Company, and make me Jemadar, and we will show these budzats that the Sikhs can fight.' How did you know that, Dick? I'll swear you weren't behind the door.”

“No, I wasn't behind the door, and I didn't know it. By Heaven, George, I'd like to make the Sikh Company.”

“So should I. So would not old Crowther.”

“Do what you can, George; get the Sikhs together, and let occasion make the Jemadar. What is your friend's name?”

“Hira Singh.”

“We are in a pretty bad position, you know,” said Richard Morton after a moment. “Even Monson admits that the Irregulars are not to be depended upon. That was why he jumped at the chance of getting his child away. Lamington won't hear a word against the Cavalry, but is doubtful of the Police; Elliot believes in the Police, but thinks that the Cavalry are very shaky. Personally, I think he is right. Cavalry are always the first to give trouble. They are head over ears in debt to the bunniahs, and stand to gain by change and lawlessness. I think Elliot's Police might stand, but, George—I feel doubtful, very doubtful about the old regiment.”

“So do I,” said George Blake.

The words were bitter in his mouth.

“If you had stayed on, Dick.”

“Don't be a fool,” said Richard Morton roughly.

“All right. I say, Dick, the bazaar chowdri reports this morning that the men won't take their rations of flour.”

“Why?”

“You've been mixing bone dust with it, it appears, Richard.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention. It looks as if they were hard put to it for a pretext—or as if there were faint hearts among them. Things are pretty rotten when one has to put one's trust in the faint-hearted.” He spoke slowly. “I wonder whether Mr. Fatehshah Khan isn't one of the faint-hearted. He has been having a good many letters from Cawnpore lately. They kept cropping up in the official mail. I remarked on it. They stopped. I don't feel sure about Fatehshah Khan—Extra Assistant Commissioner though he is.”