Devil's Wind (12 page)

“And the Monsons?”

“Oh, yes, I saw him. He thought there was no need for his wife to move as they were actually next door to you.”

“H'm! Well, you can go on with this report, Jelland, and I'll go and see Colonel Crowther myself. I want to arrange about that guard. Just send this down to Elliot, will you. I want him to pick me out twenty-five of his steadiest men.”

Captain Morton got his guard, but not without a struggle.

Colonel Crowther, backed up by a very angry and towering wife, made it plain that he considered the request insulting, impolitic, unnecessary—an encouragement of the vicious—and several other things.

Richard stood tall and silent in the middle of the room until he had finished.

Then he said:

“Colonel Crowther, do you desire me to report to the Chief Commissioner that you, as officer commanding the troops, decline to comply with my official request for a guard?”

Mrs. Crowther glared.

“Official fiddlesticks!” she said, but her husband caught at her arm, and she felt his hand shake.

“Hush, my dear, I beg you. Really, Captain Morton, I do not know why you should take this intemperate tone. Of course in your official capacity—as Deputy Commissioner—” He paused and put his hand to his head.

“My dear Louisa, I am in very considerable pain. The heated tone of this conversation! I think Captain Morton would do better to retire. Captain Blake can arrange what he wishes. I really do not feel equal.”

And Captain Morton departed with the honours of war, but with no triumph in his heart.

That evening he received the official notification that a mutiny, attended by considerable loss of life, had broken out at Shahjehanpore.

CHAPTER XII

HOW THE STORM BROKE

What is the voice in the wind,

That calls to me?

Is it a voice of the hills

Or a voice of the sea?

Is it the breath of a word

My lips have said?

Or is it the breath of a soul

That forsakes the dead?

There are four great Winds,

As all men know.

North, and South, and East, and West,

The four Winds blow.

The four great Winds,

We hear their breath,

But no man hears the passing-by

Of the Wind of Death.

The East Wind, and the West Wind,

The North Wind, and the South,

They cannot bring the breath again

Into a dead man's mouth.

The Angels of the four great Winds

Stand still and hold their breath,

There is a greater Wind abroad,

The Wind of Death.

By the morning of June 3d, Captain Morton had persuaded some at least of the married men to send their families to his house.

Mrs. Elliot was there with the four-months-old baby, to which she always alluded as “my funny little monkey,” thereby greatly shocking Mrs. Hill, whose naughty six-year-old boy was always “an angel,” no matter what he did.

Miss Darcy, having been attacked by Mrs. Crowther, had discovered that true strongmindedness lay in defying that autocratic lady. A row royal had ensued, during which the two Miss Crowthers sat meekly trembling, and confided to one another in whispers that it would have been rather fun to join the others at Mrs. Morton's.

“Mr. Purslake is sure to be there a great deal,” whispered Milly, and Carrie blushed a very faint pink, and said, “Oh, Milly!” in her plaintive way.

Adela was by no means pleased with her ill-assorted company of guests.

“Really, Helen!” she said angrily, “really I do think Richard is crazy. Fancy asking all this crowd of people here. Clerks' wives too—like Mrs. da Souza. Why she is as black as my ayah. I never did like Mrs. Crowther, as every one knows, but I declare I think she shows her sense in staying away. It's a regular Noah's Ark! I should think all the servants would give notice.”

“We will give them extra wages,” said Helen gaily; “and if they decamp, I will cook, and all the little Da Souzas shall wash up,” and she ran away to dose one of the said Da Souzas with quinine.

Mrs. da Souza was installed in Helen's own room, which she had already reduced to a condition of incredible disorder. Three of her children were actively engaged in adding to the prevailing confusion, whilst the fourth wailed fretfully upon its mother's huge and spreading lap.

As Helen entered, sounds of strife met her ears, and she heard Mrs. da Souza exclaim in a high-pitched sing-song:

“Oah Johnnee, take thee comb out of thee butter, and do not let thee babee rub it on his face! Oh, verree nahtee babee!” and there was a shrill scream of passion from the youngest Da Souza.

A mingled spasm of mirth and disgust made Helen's voice a little shaky, as she proffered the quinine, and asked how the sick child was.

“He is verree ill,” said the mother. Her tears came as readily as her anger. Big drops rolled down her fat dark cheeks and fell upon the little boy's face.

“He is verree ill. Perhaps he will die.”

“Suppose you were to lay him on the bed? It would be so much cooler. And perhaps the children could be made to keep quiet. The noise must be bad for him, poor little fellow.”

“He shall nott die on thee bed. He shall die in my arms,” declared Mrs. da Souza passionately. Then, with no perceptible change in her expression, she screamed at the children on the floor.

“Johnnee, will you fight when your brother is dying? Chup now. Be silent, all of you. Noisee, nahtee children!” The children screamed in reply, and Helen fled. At the door stood Richard Morton, beckoning.

She went to him quickly, and they stood together for a moment in the deep verandah screened on from the garden and the outside heat by a line of hanging bamboo screens.

“Where is Darcy, Helen?” he asked.

“Dr. Darcy? Oh, Lizzie Monson took him over to her house half an hour ago. Her ayah's baby is ill, and she wanted him to see it.”

“They must come back. Darcy is in charge here. He had no business—”

Richard had torn a sheet from a note-book as he spoke, and was scribbling half a dozen lines.

“Here, Helen, send this over at once. Add a line to Mrs. Monson. Tell her she must come. Say I said so.”

“Yes, Dick, what is it?”

“The 114th lines are on fire. Jelland went, and has sent back for me. I don't know what is wrong. Don't say anything.”

“Of course not.”

Richard hesitated a moment, shook his head, moved as if to go, and then turned back again.

“Helen, you've a steady head; get all these women together if you can—at the back of the house. Don't frighten them. Darcy will be here at once. If anything goes wrong—with the guard—you are all to get across the nullah, and make for Cawnpore. Do you understand?”

“Yes, is there anything else?”

“No. I must go, Helen.”

“Yes, Dick.”

She met his eyes and added:

“It's all right.”

For a moment his hand fell on her shoulder and rested there. Then without a word he was gone.

Helen watched him out of sight. Then she called a servant, gave him Richard's note, and one from herself to Mrs. Monson, and told him to make haste with them. When the man had gone, she went back to her room and told Mrs. da Souza that the other side of the house was much cooler, and that they had better move at once. She herself headed the procession, carrying the smeary baby, who had evidently been playing with the butter again, in spite of Johnny's efforts.

The whole family deposited in the dining room, Helen fetched Miss Darcy and Mrs. Elliot to inspect the sick child, and then drafted them into an adjoining room with the suggestion that it would be a charity to assist Mrs. Hill to fan her husband, whose fever was very high.

She was returning to her own room when Adela emerged from her bedroom, very angry.

“Helen, you've never let that Da Souza crowd into my dining-room? I think it is a most unpardonable liberty! I won't have it!”

“Adie, the child is sick.”

“Well, it can be sick in your room. You offered to have them there instead of being firm with Richard, and now, of course, you don't like it, and want to change, and I won't have it! I simply won't!”

“What is that!” said Helen in a curious low voice.

She was listening intently, but not to Adela.

“I don't hear anything except that wretched baby crying.”

“Hush! No, Adie, you are to—”

Helen went to the verandah door and opened it. The heat was intense. It came in in a hot gust, and the sleeve of Helen's dark grey muslin dress seemed to scorch her arm as she leaned out and listened, straining every nerve.

A brain-fever bird was calling from the tall peepul tree in the Monsons' garden.

“Brain fever! Brain fever! Brain fever!” he shrieked, and each metallic repetition was higher than the last.

The Da Souza baby fretted on a low whining note, and Mr. Hill muttered from the room behind.

Helen had heard something different from any of these sounds. She had heard a short, sharp sound that seemed to rap upon her brain. A little nerve quivered there still, and repeated the signal like an echo.

“Helen, do shut that door!”

Helen drew a long breath. It must have been fancy. She was getting nervous. It would never do for her to imagine things. She took half a step backwards, and then sudden and distinct she heard the sound again—clear beyond any mistaking—a shot—two—three—far away—but clear—dreadfully clear.

Helen Wilmot stepped out on to the verandah and closed the door behind her. She went to the corner which commanded a view of the road and the Monsons' house.

Imam Bux rose up, salaaming.

“What is it, Imam Bux?” she said, and she saw that his hands were trembling.

“God knows, Miss Sahib. Miss Sahib, what do I know?”

“I heard—shots.”

“It is true.”

“What does it mean?”

“God knows, Miss Sahib.”

Helen caught up a felt hat from one of the verandah chairs, and walked a few steps clear of the house.

A sentry was pacing up and down. She could see the Police picket in the Monsons' garden, and the guard at their own gate. The men were muttering—looking up and down the road. There was no sign of Dr. Darcy. Out of the distance came a noise of trampling feet.

“It is the guard. They are coming to change the guard,” said Helen to herself, but her heart began to beat, not fast, but very hard, so that she could hear it. It troubled her, because she wanted to listen to that far-off, trampling noise.

Imam Bux went down to the gate, and looked along the road. There was a British officer with the guard, and he spoke to the old servant, and sent him back again.

“The Sahib says it is the new guard. He said, ‘Tell the Miss Sahib to go in. The sun is hot,'” Helen nodded impatiently. She wanted the old man to stop talking. She wanted to listen.

“Helen, you will get a sunstroke,” called Adela. Then she shut the door of her room with a bang, and just as she did so Helen heard a new sound, away on the left past the Monsons' house. It was a sound like horses galloping, a great many of them, all together; and she remembered that the Cavalry Barracks lay beyond.

Suddenly Imam Bux spoke in a quavering voice.

“Miss Sahib, ai Miss Sahib! This is no guard that comes. There are some who walk, and some who run. A guard does not come thus.”

Helen made a step back, half turning. She saw the guard at the gate stir, and separate into two bodies. She saw the officer glance over his shoulder. There was a revolver in his hand. He ran a few steps towards her, and shouted:

“Go in! go in!”

The words came faintly, and they were scarcely spoken when a shot rang out, and he went down. Helen did not see who fired, but at once there was a confusion amongst all the men, and a tall Sikh sprang out of the ranks, shouting and waving his arms.

Helen's feet clung to the ground. She could not move. She looked down the road, and saw a long swirl of dust go up into the air. It hung in a dark cloud, and through the cloud she could see fierce faces and waving arms, and a medley of men in red and men in white who ran and shouted as they ran. They cried aloud:

“Join us, brothers, join us!” and half the guard swung forward, and half held back.

Then there was a wild answering cry, “Oh, yes, we will join you! We will show you how we will join you!”

It came from the tall Sikh, and at the word the Sikhs who were with him fired upon the advancing crowd, and pandemonium was loose.

“Miss Sahib! Miss Sahib!” Imam Bux was catching at Helen's arm, and at his touch a panic seized her, and she turned and ran for the house. She did not see the Police guard charge the Sikhs from the rear. That happened just as she reached the verandah, but before she came to it she heard a great thundering of hoofs, and she saw Lamington's Cavalry come racing down the road. Without pause or check they went crashing past. At the head of the foremost troop, with lifted head and flying bridle, galloped a riderless horse. With the noise of thunder they came, and with the noise of thunder they went. Involuntarily she hung back—her heart jumped. In that moment Dr. Darcy came out of the Monsons' house. He had Mrs. Monson by the arm, and was making her run. Helen saw them running, and her own feet would not stir. There were more shots. The running figures fell.

Helen Wilmot drew a quick sobbing breath, and ran, and as she ran she heard a woman's scream, and a groaning, and then more shouting, and a noise like hell.

The house seemed very dark to Helen. She came in out of the strong light, and for a moment she was blind and giddy, and the dusk seemed full of hands that caught at her dress, and full of the frightened crying of children.

“What is it? Oh, what is it?”

Every one seemed to be calling out together, and the noise from the road grew louder. There were shrieks and oaths, and the clash of arms, and, high and wild, the battle-cries of the Sikhs.

“We must run,” said Helen. Her moment of confusion was over. “We must come at once. To the nullah. Richard said so. Imam Bux, take that child. Yes, Mrs. da Souza, you must. That is right. Adela! Where is Adela!”

“My husband—oh, my husband can't! It will kill him!” wailed Mrs. Hill.

“He must,” said Helen. “Miss Darcy will help you—Adela! Where are you?”

Mrs. Elliot took her baby out of the ayah's arms, and opened the door to the verandah. The noise redoubled and she hung back a moment. Then Imam Bux passed through with Johnny da Souza, and she followed him. Mr. Hill tottered after them, his eyes hazy with fever, and his mind confused. He had heard nothing—understood nothing. His ears buzzed with quinine, and he thought he could hear a drum being beaten, but he could not tell the reason for it, nor why his wife should cling to him, and weep. “What a lot o' women!” he said thickly, and stout Miss Darcy caught his arm, and so they stumbled out into the heat, Mrs. Hill crying all the time, and Jacky highly pleased because he was running races with papa, and mamma, and all the grown-up ladies.

Helen saw them go, and ran to Adela's room, calling all the time. Something held the door against her, and then gave way with a shriek. She pushed her way in, and Adela, wild with terror, rushed through the room, and crouched behind the bed.

“Adie! Adie!” cried Helen. “My dear, come. It is Helen—only Helen!”

“Helen, they are killing each other! They are shooting at us. Oh, I saw them. Oh, Helen!”

Helen pulled her to her feet, and once they had begun to run, Adela's panic set her racing, and it was Helen who was put to it to keep up with her.