A Far Horizon (22 page)

*

From his perch high upon the ramparts, the Chief Magistrate grew progressively agitated at the sight of the people of Black Town streaming into the fort. This sudden flooding of Fort William seemed to invert the order of things in a profound and disturbing way. In a moment the character of the fort was changed. The terrified women of White Town bolted themselves and their children into Writers’ Row; the militia and the young writers sought refuge where they could. Never before in its history had Black Town invaded Fort William.

‘Only musket fire can stop them now, but with the nawab on our heels, ammunition cannot be spared,’ the Governor worried as he stood beside Holwell looking down at the crowd. In the distance, the flames consuming Black Town leapt into the sky. A dense black cloud drifted over Fort William.

‘How can we now manage to evacuate the fort?’ The Chief Magistrate’s face puckered grimly. The sight of Holwell’s anxiety filled Drake with new trepidation.

After the first fierce battle, the Council of War had decided that the women of White Town should be put at no further risk. The following morning they were to be evacuated to the waiting ships on the Hoogly. The sudden entry into the fort of so many Black Town people now made that operation precarious.

The Chief Magistrate turned back to view the growing tide in The
Avenue, and his knuckles grew white as he gripped the wall before him. The Governor stood silently beside him. At last Holwell turned to make his way back to the Council chamber. The parade ground was filling rapidly as Holwell and Drake strode forward. People who knew nothing of the Chief Magistrate pushed roughly against him. Ragged children trod on his feet; a group of arguing women made no effort to let him pass. Chickens ran between his legs, almost bringing him to his knees. Loaded barrows obstructed his path. A goat began nibbling at his coat. Already the dark was descending and a sliver of moon had appeared. The dust of the parade ground, greatly disturbed by so many feet, rose up to coat everyone even as ash from the Black Town fire floated down upon them. Holwell looked around in desperation. Fort William was unrecognisable. The people of Black Town, like the lava of some unstoppable volcano, now covered every inch, blocking crevices, squeezing through cracks, swamping all other life.

Beyond the fort, the smouldering town appeared like an
extravagant
sunset, lifting up a corner of night. Two water carriers had set themselves up in the middle of the square and now dispensed their wares to the thirsty. Mothers begged milk for hungry children from whoever had brought in a goat. Where would all these people sleep, how would they be fed? The Chief Magistrate looked wildly about, unable to comprehend these enormities. His brain was reduced to a scrambled egg.

He struggled on across the parade ground. The falling darkness, the shroud of smoke, the restless emotional crowd, all threatened to engulf him. Strange dark faces came at him, turned, then
disappeared
. Cries like the whooping of angry birds sounded in his ears. Warm naked flesh collided with him. He gave a sob and the sound of his own grief echoed within him. He was being stretched wider and wider, as if forced to swallow a river. The Hoogly at last had taken a form and exacted its punishment upon him.

Then, through the murky dusk, in the very midst of the throng, he saw a faint speck of brightness. He kept his eyes upon the one thing
he recognised: a European face. He could not see whose face it was, agleam like a beacon in the midst of the swarthy crowd. Perhaps it was a Dutch mercenary, perhaps a member of the Council of War. In the smoky dusk it was increasingly difficult to see anything clearly. The Chief Magistrate set off, wading once more into the crowd. He was conscious of the Governor still trailing behind him. The pale face bobbed in the distance, occasionally disappearing from view. The Chief Magistrate pushed on.

Eventually he thrust aside the last obstacle to stand before the man. In the fading light he stared in disbelief at the white skin, pink eyes and stubble of yellow hair, unable to digest his mistake. Before him Pagal backed away in fear. Then Holwell let out a cry of such fury that the albino held up a hand to protect himself, fearing the Hatman would lash out.

Instead the Chief Magistrate turned away with a despairing sob, unable to hide his distress from Drake, who still followed close on his heels. Once more they turned back into the crowd, like weary swimmers far from shore. The Chief Magistrate pushed on again, oblivious now to the cries and the strange faces, and the acrid smoke billowing about Fort William. Eventually Governor’s House loomed darkly before them. The Governor gave a cry of relief and pushed the Chief Magistrate forward. As they made their way towards the building, they found their path barred by a cordon of women.

The Devi Ashram, arranged in the usual protective circle about the God Woman, stood its ground before the Governor and the Chief Magistrate. Holwell was forced to a halt once more. Even in the near darkness, he could not mistake the faces before him. At first he thought his eyes deceived him, or that he was the victim of a malicious joke. Jaya Kapur stood before him beside her
granddaughter
, legs apart, arms folded across her massive breast. At her side the girl, Sati, stared at him with the same intensity she had on the night of the seance. Holwell groaned and retreated. His strength was waning. On this wild night, it seemed every harpy in hell had been let loose.

At last, the Chief Magistrate reached Governor’s House and with Drake behind him stumbled gratefully up the steps. The flare in the porch lit up the familiar entrance, a guard stood to attention inside. Relief flooded the Chief Magistrate and his knees grew weak. Once inside the sanctuary, he sat down on the stairs to recover himself.

‘The Portuguese are already demanding rice for their families,’ the Governor panted, coming to sit beside him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his wet face. The Chief Magistrate had not the strength to reply. Then, slowly, in the cool quiet of Governor’s house, his thoughts began to order themselves.

‘They must be given it or they will not fight,’ he replied.

‘But we do not know what lies ahead, how long our supplies must last,’ the Governor argued. ‘Already latrine facilities and drinking water are stretched to the maximum.’

‘What does anything matter? Our women and children must soon be evacuated,’ the Chief Magistrate answered, standing up
determinedly
, for he saw now that one way or another this must be achieved. He strode up the stairs towards the Council chamber. Drake hurried after him, his mind aquiver with questions.

*

The Council of War had left their seats about the table to stare down from the balcony in disbelief. The Governor and the Chief Magistrate joined them there. Holwell viewed from a distance the multitude through which he had just struggled and marvelled at his deliverance.

‘At this moment, when the ground should be stripped for action, it is covered by this motley carpet. Tomorrow the nawab will attack again.’ Drake’s voice rose to an anxious squeak as he observed the turmoil below.

‘How will we evacuate our women? As soon as they are seen departing to the safety of the boats there will be a stampede to follow them.’ The Chaplain asked the question now upon everyone’s mind.

‘It will have to be done somehow,’ the Chief Magistrate replied. It was now hard to remember the pristine condition of the parade ground brushed by a synchronised line of sweepers each morning.

Soon the Council of War left the balcony and returned to their places about the table. Once more the Reverend Bellamy opened bottles of his best Madeira. It was already late, but the Council of War had nowhere more comfortable to retire to. The thought of joining their wives in the primitive conditions of Writers’ Row, oppressed by the stench of latrines and persistent flies, was to nobody’s liking. They sat on in the Council chamber, fortified by dry biscuits, the Chaplain’s Madeira and fruitless argument. The task of evacuation occupied everyone’s mind, and it appeared impossible.

‘It cannot be done in daylight, for the refugees will see what is happening,’ Drake worried.

‘We must wait until tomorrow night,’ Holwell decided.

‘Should we not provide rations to the refugees?’ Mackett asked from the end of the table.

‘We have nothing to spare for such a horde,’ Drake frowned.

‘We do not know what is ahead, we must conserve our stores,’ the Chief Magistrate agreed.

‘If no food is forthcoming, they may even be persuaded to leave.’ The Governor’s voice took on a hopeful tone.

‘If we do not feed them they will starve,’ the Chaplain pointed out.

‘Let us assess the situation in the morning,’ Holwell announced, unable to stretch his frazzled mind to any further thought.

‘Then let us pray before we sleep. We do not know what the Lord has in store for us tomorrow.’ Bellamy bowed his head to mutter well-worn words that had suddenly now acquired fresh meaning.

I
n the high-ceilinged rooms that seemed to contain the sum of her life, Emily Drake paced the floor, her child in her arms. She had seen little of her husband; he was locked away in the Council chamber. His absence was a relief. She had seen the women of White Town enter the fort the night before. She had gone down amongst them with what food could be spared, offering help where she could. The conditions in Writers’ Row were far from agreeable; she had demanded the latrines to be cleaned, but no man could be spared to do the job. To Mrs Mackett and Mrs Mapletoft, who were both expecting babies, she had offered shelter in the Governor’s apartment, but they had declined, preferring to stay where their husbands could join them.

Like everyone else she had observed the roll of dust that heralded the arrival of Siraj Uddaulah. Even now she caught the tuneless sound of drums and reed pipes on the wind. Yet the violence of the day and the distant boom of cannon fire at Perrin’s Redoubt had passed her by. Her life was without reality, hollow as a play. She looked down at the silent child in her arms and knew his life hung by a thread. In the night the doctor had come and shaken his head.

‘It’s opium,’ he declared. ‘These native women give it all the time to keep a baby quiet. Your wet nurse must have dosed him every day.
In my opinion, more of our children die in India of the effects of opium than from this dreaded climate.’

Emily had been ignorant of every sign. The silence and the small chill limbs, the transparency of flesh and the sleep from which he hardly woke were each a gate through which Harry passed towards the shores of death. In her ignorance she had done nothing to obstruct the journey. Yet in spite of what the doctor said, she was sure once again that it was Jane who was taking her child. The afternoon light was deep and mellow, shadows were lengthening and a bowl of roses loaded the air with perfume. In spite of the tension within Fort William, the day appeared full of deceptive beauty. It did not seem possible that threaded within it lay an evil detritus.

‘What more do you want?’ she whispered to Jane, laying her cheek upon Harry’s soft hair. All about were unseen enemies that must be fought off every day. In the corner of the room the wet nurse, who had steered Harry to the brink of death, crouched sullenly. It was impossible to dispense with her; no replacement could be found and without her Harry would certainly die. Worse than this, a guard must now be kept upon the woman to ensure she did not run away. In comparison, the bearing-down upon them of the nawab appeared to Emily a flamboyance of unreal proportions.

From the parade ground the cry of a child carried up to her. Afternoon shadows collected in the corners of the room and moved across the ceiling. The scent of roses seemed to grow stronger. She clutched Harry tightly and watched the slow throb of his temples. The blue tracery of veins was etched more prominently, as if death already swam in his flesh. He must fight his fight alone, said the doctor; there was nothing they could do. Emily began to sing, a soft, lilting melody she and Jane had enjoyed as children. The child lay quietly in her arms, as if soothed by the sound. She took him to the window, so that the sun might warm him and the wild colours of the bougainvillaea, massed thickly before her, rouse him with their life. She lifted her head as she sang and looked out beyond the walls of the fort to a wider world beyond.

It was then that she first saw the Black Town fire. The dark smoke rose in a solid pillar. Soon the breeze took hold of the smoke, lifting it high, moving it forwards. It streamed out across the sky like a rapacious winged creature speeding towards her. At first she did not comprehend. Once or twice she had seen clouds of locusts moving over a plain, blackening the sky like night, and thought she saw again the same phenomenon. Then she heard the distant sound of screams and saw that beneath the dark cloud ran the people of Black Town, filling The Avenue. Soon they spilt into the fort. Emily Drake stepped nearer the window for a clearer view. This sudden invasion of Fort William seemed to invert the order of things in the same way that the sky, pinned to earth in a puddle, turned everything upside down. In the high-ceilinged rooms overlooking the fort, something stirred within the Governor’s wife. The sense of separateness she carried within her now seemed an unbearable weight.

Stepping out on to her balcony, she leaned over the balustrade. Old men in
lungi
tottered around where before young writers had swaggered. Bare-bottomed children ran wild, women struggled with babies while unpacking meagre parcels of food. Barrows and cooking pots now littered the ground. The stench of Bagh Bazaar appeared to have entered Fort William. Flies swarmed. The adjutant birds, massed on their perches, squinted red-rimmed eyes as if surprised at the transformation.

In the stuffy rooms of Writers’ Row, the White Town women struggled to maintain a structure that had long since disappeared. Their children cried, ill with fear, heat and exhaustion. Their bedding had gone to prepare for a possible influx of wounded, and they were left to make pillows of dresses and covers of petticoats. Thirst plagued them, along with diarrhoea. No medicines were available. Privies overflowed; no one could be spared to cart the contents to the Hoogly. Flies settled thickly in the latrines which punctuated the lines of cubicles in Writers’ Row. The foul stench of these fetid holes sickened everyone. The whimpering of both Black Town and White Town children merged and swelled as one. Mosquitoes and flies
attacked without prejudice the residents of both towns. Mothers in both encampments spent the night battling these vicious swarms as they crawled over the children, encrusting their nostrils, eyes and mouths. Soon, brought by the scent of suffering, a noxious army of stinkbugs appeared to worsen Fort William’s plight.

*

At last, with the dawn, the shadows grew steadily shorter. In the grey light the refugees woke to stare at the still smouldering remains of Black Town. They climbed the ramparts of Fort William to gaze at the sky, unsure if dawn or the fire coloured it. Gutted shapes rose in the distance; a pall of smoke still hung in the air. The refugees discovered they were dusted with a thick grey ash. The crowd was packed even more tightly into Fort William, for through the night refugees had continued to enter the garrison. About two thousand people now occupied the parade ground.

As the shadows thinned, Emily Drake rose from her bed to settle the baby in his cot. Her dreams had been filled with the sounds of distress from the parade ground and Harry’s shallow breathing. The thread of life within him appeared every moment more tentative. She had held him in her arms all night. Beneath the shroud of mosquito netting, the moon’s measured light had seemed already to claim him. Now, as he slept, she placed him in his cot and watched him settle with relief. She left the stifling bedroom where the stored heat, trapped under the roof, reverberated through the night. She was unable any longer to bear the separateness her spirit placed upon her. From the balcony she could see now that women and children were the biggest part of the crowd. Dawn already curdled the sky; the hot white light of day waiting to boil over the scum of dark clouds. Throwing a wrap over her négligé, Emily left the Governor’s apartment and made her way down the stairs and out into the early morning.

The guard was asleep at the door and she stepped quickly past him. A mist still hung over the Hoogly. Rats scuttled about amongst the sleeping refugees even as the light began to grow. Already, here and there, someone rose, picked up a child and began the journey to
the water. The morning rituals and the waiting river made this no different from other mornings. The musty odour of the Hoogly drifted across the parade ground. Stepping carefully about the sleeping forms, Emily followed the line making their way down the steps of the Governor’s Wharf.

The tide was out and a sticky black border of mud edged the Hoogly upon which squatted rows of the refugees. The men had retreated a distance away, leaving the nearer beach to the women and children. In a practised manner they were attending to the various rites involved each morning in the business of defecation. As they finished their chore, bare-bottomed children were cleaned briskly with a splash of water scooped up in an empty coconut shell. There were the purposeful sounds of the unravelling day: the screech of parrots, the scream of monkeys, the chat of the squatting refugees as they caught up with their neighbours’ gossip. Others attended to their daily ablutions in the river, throwing ochre water over their limbs. Children splashed, shrieking with laughter. Everyone’s strength had returned. Emily threw off her shawl and shoes and ran to the river’s edge.

The scent of the river and the uninhibited splashing had unleashed a stream of memories from which she could not hold back. As the river swallowed her up, a flock of white cockatoos swung by overhead. Their raucous quarrels filled the air as they settled in the nearby trees. The Black Town children, infused with sudden daring, began to splash the White Town woman who had mysteriously appeared in their midst. Emily Drake beat the water, shouting at the Black Town children in a broken but familiar language. They drew back in surprise. Mothers turned in amazement, for Emily Drake’s use of the language retained all the rawness of her own childhood. They edged forward in curiosity, conscious that their common wet and bedraggled state lowered barriers. Bold with questions, they surrounded her, enjoying the novelty of the contact. Beside Emily a child began suddenly to cry.

‘There is no food,’ a woman explained.

‘What could we bring with the flames at our backs?’ another scolded.

‘Our children will starve,’ yet another worried.

‘We have had nothing to eat since the day before yesterday.’

‘If the nawab does not kill us, the Hatmen will starve us.’

The voices rose up about Emily into the breaking day. As the sun pushed aside the last shadows, the first cannon was heard on the edge of town. At the sound there was instant confusion. The squatters on the muddy beach rose as hurriedly as they could. The bathers gathered their garments about them, wading quickly out of the water. Children began to cry again.

Emily watched them streaming landwards, until she stood alone. After some moments she too waded out and threw her wrap around her wet body. Her hair dripped down her back. As she turned, she looked up at Governor’s House and met the eyes of the Council of War already assembled upon the balcony of the Council chamber to take a first breath of the day. She saw the looks of consternation as her husband pushed to the front of the crowd. She turned her back upon them.

Before Writers’ Row, the White Town women were starting their cooking fires. The small store of rice and salted beef Emily had distributed the night before thickened the air with a savoury smell. The women greeted her and then fell silent, staring at her dripping clothes. In the distance came the sound of cannon fire and muskets again. She made her way across the crowded parade ground towards Governor’s House. As she neared the entrance, she came up against the Devi Ashram. Behind a protective circle of women she saw the spirit girl, Sati, and stopped in surprise. The girl looked up and rose to her feet at the sudden appearance of the Governor’s wife. The disciples of the Devi Ashram stared at the God Woman, trying to determine the reason she stood so respectfully before the bedraggled White Town woman.

‘Come.’ Emily heard herself speak as if in answer to a question. The girl nodded and moved forward, understanding.

Govindram looked anxiously at Mohini and the albino and then turned to follow Sati. The devotees of the Devi Ashram hesitated for
a moment before hurrying after them. Emily Drake walked
purposefully
ahead of the crowd. Word spread across the parade ground, a way was cleared for her. People stopped in their tasks to watch the Governor’s wife striding before the Devi Ashram. At last they reached the steps that led down into the warehouses beneath the fort.

‘There may be rice down there,’ Emily told them.

Above her she heard a shout and knew the Council of War still followed her progress. She saw an order given and knew soldiers would soon come for her. She turned back to Sati with new urgency.

A curious crowd of refugees had followed the Devi Ashram. The word
rice
was heard, and repeated back across the parade ground. It was also whispered that the finding of this rice was a miracle performed by the God Woman. Nobody would starve. Women with hungry children rocked their babies in anticipation. Old men grew suddenly cheerful. The crowd quickly swelled about the Devi Ashram and the bedraggled White Town woman.

‘How is rice to be cooked? There are no pans.’ Mohini pushed forward but nobody heard her.

Govindram, the albino and a crowd of men soon disappeared down the steps and returned after some time holding empty sacks and shaking their heads. The rice had already been devoured by rats.

‘Search further.’ Emily told them, ashamed at her inadequacy and the hope she had stirred in these people. She knew rice had been hoarded somewhere in Fort William.

‘There are other rooms. We may find more,’ Govindram agreed.

‘There are no pans to cook it in,’ Mohini shouted again. Already, in the distance, Emily saw soldiers, dispatched by her husband, making their way towards her. Before them ran Parvati, waving her arms about like a mad thing. Emily stared at her in confusion. At first she suspected a trick. Roger had sent the old ayah to draw her back to the house.

‘The baby. The baby,’ Parvati screamed, desperate before the advancing soldiers.

Emily turned when she heard the words and began to run to Parvati.
The breath stuck in her throat, the damp skirt stuck to her ankles, hampering her. The wind rushed in her ears while above her, a dark streak raced across the sky. A breath of heat touched her skin. From out of the sky a cannon ball dropped into the crowded parade ground. The ground shook beneath Emily’s feet. A fountain of earth spurted up suddenly with a thunderous sound, showering those about it. Emily closed her eyes. When she opened them again, women and children lay lifeless around her. The soldiers who had marched to stop the looting of rice already lay limbless before her. Looking down, she saw she was covered not only with dirt but also with blood. At first she thought the blood her own, but she seemed unharmed. She was covered with the blood of the dead. A terrible wail of misery filled the air. Emily looked around, but the Devi Ashram had already fled the mangled piles of limbs.