A Far Horizon (31 page)

The nawab was tired after his exhausting day. Now that he had viewed the inside of Fort William and the home of the irritating Drake was destroyed, he had no energy left to think further of the Hatmen. He too was waiting for his dinner and had already consumed copious amounts of wine in celebration of his victory.

‘Where in the fort are prisoners usually confined?’ he asked in a weary voice.

‘In a cell they call the Black Hole,’ his officer replied.

‘Confine them there then, until the morning, when I shall see that Chief Magistrate again.’

Eventually this message returned to Fort William. The officers in charge of the fort were relieved to receive clear instructions. A group of Hatmen sitting about like honourable visitors had been a worry to them all. Immediately, soldiers with muskets advanced towards the seated Europeans and ordered them to the Black Hole.

‘What is the meaning of this? We have sick and wounded amongst us who are in need of attention.’ The Chief Magistrate placed himself before the men, refusing to take a step forward.

‘The room is too small for so many,’ Holwell protested once more as the nawab’s orders were repeated. But before a plethora of swords, clubs and lighted torches, there was little further appeal to be made. The men gathered together, supporting their sick and wounded.

‘What exactly is the nature of this place?’ the Chaplain whispered hoarsely to Holwell. He leaned heavily on the Chief Magistrate as he stumbled forward. The Chief Magistrate said nothing for fear of alarming the Chaplain.

‘Let us stay where we are,’ Bellamy pleaded querulously. His words were lost in the general protest as soldiers began to prod the group towards the waiting cell.

*

The doors of the Black Hole stood open and the Fort William men were pushed inside. The Dutch mercenaries rose at their entrance and showed great annoyance at being pressed to the walls by the influx of so many men. As the Chief Magistrate had placed himself at the head of the group, he was the first to enter the Black Hole. Behind him Fort William men fell over one another as they were pressed in roughly behind him. Including the five Dutch
mercenaries
, there were soon thirty men or more wedged tightly into the inadequate room.

The Chief Magistrate at once took charge of the situation, ordering men to arrange themselves in such a way that all might sit in some small space. This seemed possible only if everybody drew their knees up beneath their chins and allowed their feet to be sat on. The Chief Magistrate was deeply involved in these manoeuvres, which were made doubly difficult by the darkness, when the sound of bolts being drawn alerted them all once more. The cramped conditions behind the door made it almost impossible to open. It swung inwards on its hinges and crushed those in its way unbearably. The guards pushed from the outside until the space were enough to thrust into the room a young girl and a fair-haired man. Beyond the barred windows the burning torches of the guards threw a flickering light into the Black Hole. The man and the girl stood pressed up against the door, looking helplessly about.

‘Here.’ The Chief Magistrate beckoned to the woman, anxious to show some courtliness to a vulnerable creature, although in the darkness he could see little of her. The fair-haired man wore a
tattered
lungi.
The Chief Magistrate did not recognise him, but many of the young writers took to wearing Indian fashions at home in the worst of the heat. With great difficulty the pair, stepping over the squash of seated men, made their way towards the Chief Magistrate.

‘There is a sleeping shelf here, sit yourself upon it,’ Holwell said to the girl. A few inches of space was made for her to sit by those already wedged upon the plinth, and the man squatted down as best he could beside her.

The Chief Magistrate wondered briefly how a woman came to be amongst them, but there was so much of a threatening nature to be considered that he let the thought pass from his mind. Then a guard, pressing his flare up to the window to monitor conditions inside, lit the room briefly for a moment. The Chief Magistrate found himself staring straight into Sati’s yellow eyes.

*

Raja Rai Durlabh turned the silver cup in his hand. Hours of victorious drinking had blurred his mind. Beyond his tent the sounds of revelry pushed deep into the night. As soon as he could, he had left the celebration. He had drunk with the nawab and his coterie until they were too inebriated to notice his departure. Things had not turned out as expected, but there was nothing he could do. The sense of realignment that Alivardi’s death had brought about still reverberated through Murshidabad. It was too risky to take a stand against the nawab in the way the English expected. Even so much as a glance in the Hatmen’s direction would be to doom himself. Patience was now the essence of the game, for events had moved too quickly. Before long Siraj Uddaulah would be deposed, he had only to bide his time, Rai Durlabh decided. Yet the sight of Holwell prostrated before the nawab had filled him with strange feelings. Rai Durlabh had felt no pity for the man, so full of petty ambition; seeing the Chief Magistrate sprawled so ignominiously in the dust had only brought home his own vulnerability. The course of events, like the currents of a river, could never be predicted.

Except for the occasional ascetic, all men desired money and
power; the English were no different. Yet they were like children, going straight towards a goal, looking neither right nor left. And in this, like children, they were dangerous, thought Rai Durlabh. When a lie might serve them better, they naively told the truth. They did not see that truth should be used with caution, a little at a time.

The image of Holwell, forced down in the dust before the nawab, came to Rai Durlabh again. He lifted his cup and drained it quickly of wine. In the sky a new moon had emerged and the build-up of clouds already heralded the monsoon. He could take but one step at a time.

T
he hours stretched before the Chief Magistrate in a
nightmarish
way. He stood with his back pressed against the wall, unable to sit for the pressure of bodies about him. With so many confined to so small a room, the heat grew quickly intense. The Chief Magistrate was glad he had divested himself of his wig and coat while sitting outside on the bench. For some reason he had kept hold of his hat and found a new use for it now as he began to fan himself. On entering the Black Hole, he had immediately positioned himself beside one of the two small windows, and whatever the pushing and shoving about him, he clung to the bars determinedly. His visits to Omichand had given him the advantage of knowing beforehand the sparse geography of the room. He pressed his face to the bars and the smell of fire filled his nose. Space was at such a premium that the sick and wounded could not be made comfortable and their distress was pitiful to hear. Those still wearing coats had taken them off and rolled them up as pillows for the afflicted. The metallic stench of blood seeped from the wounded and the Chief Magistrate worried that they must pass so many hours unattended, for their wounds were of a dire nature. The Chaplain too, weak and feverish, could no longer sit and had sunk awkwardly between the
knees of those behind him, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open.

The Dutch mercenaries had made their way to the door, trampling indifferently on whoever sat in their path. They attempted to force the entrance open but their endeavours were fruitless. Since he was at the window, the Chief Magistrate called to the guards outside. They yawned and turned away. Only one old man shuffled forward and, holding up his lighted flare, gazed in at conditions within the Black Hole.

‘Release us. We will give you as many gold mohars as you want,’ the Chief Magistrate offered in a pidgin language.

The old man drew back into the darkness to confer with his friends. Soon he returned, shaking his head. ‘It cannot be done but by the nawab’s order. Now he sleeps and no one dares wake him.’ The man vanished into the darkness again. In the Black Hole, men began to panic. The Chief Magistrate attempted to restore some order again.

‘The night ahead will be uncomfortable, but we shall get through it if we remain calm and do not unnecessarily exert ourselves. We are in need of more air and this we can produce if those few of us with hats use them to stir the atmosphere.’ The Chief Magistrate fanned himself to demonstrate. Those who could followed his lead, and for some moments a slight draught circulated about the Black Hole. This effort could not be continued in an effective way, for the men were generally dehydrated and were unable to support such continuous activity. The Dutch mercenaries jeered loudly when the fanning eventually dwindled away.

The Chief Magistrate’s main concern now was for Bellamy, who appeared almost comatose. Holwell had placed him near the window, propped up against the wall. The Chaplain opened his eyes as Holwell fanned him, but seemed not to recognise him.

‘Water. Water.’ The call now swelled within the room. The Chief Magistrate turned again to the window to summon the guards. At his insistence the same old man shuffled over once more and listened to
the new request, nodding in sympathy. He withdrew and after some time reappeared with a water skin. The sight of the wet leather, gleaming in the light of the flares, had an immediate effect upon the incarcerated men. Those who had managed before to control themselves now gave way to hysteria. The greatest obstacle to assuaging their thirst was getting the water through the bars of the window. It seemed that the only means of doing this was by way of the few hats that had earlier been used for fanning.

The Chief Magistrate, and those others who were near the two small windows, held up to the bars the three or four hats that were available. Although the old man outside with the water skin filled these containers in an affable manner, the ferment within the Black Hole was so great, and fights to possess the soggy cups so vicious, that most were overturned before even a sip could be taken. The velour quickly absorbed what little liquid remained. The result of this activity was that everyone became even thirstier than before. The sight of water that could not be reached drove the most sanguine of men insane. Outside the window there were now guards who had not the sympathy of the shuffling old man and who, for the pleasure of seeing the Hatmen struggle, brought further skins of water to repeat the process until they grew bored. The Chief Magistrate was able to bring a little water, cupped in his own palm, to the Chaplain’s lips. Bellamy was unable to swallow and the liquid dribbled down his chin.

All about the Chief Magistrate men groaned in new despair. The temperature in the small room had taken on the element of something solid, pressing upon them like a pillow that would suffocate them all. The Chief Magistrate concentrated on his breathing and tried to think in a positive manner. Although the Black Hole was cruelly cramped, they were not without some air. Men had been confined in worse conditions. He had recently read of a privateer captured by the French. The crew of this ship had been confined in the hold for two days with neither water nor air. It was said those who survived had been forced to drink their own urine
collected in the heels of their shoes, and had sucked their own shirts for perspiration to alleviate their thirst.

‘Only keep calm and all will be well. We have some air and enough space to be seated,’ Holwell reminded them all. His words renewed a fragile hope.

The Chief Magistrate still clung to his place at the window, but he wondered now if he could risk a change of seat to rest his weary limbs. He looked towards the wooden platform, already crammed with men, that ran the length of the Black Hole, and longed to stretch out on it. No sooner did he think this than he saw the dim outline of Sati, illuminated by the flare of a passing guard. All the while, whatever anguish filled each moment, he had been conscious of her presence. It was as if fate had brought her here with the sole purpose of tormenting him further. He peered into the blackness, and although he could make out little in the dark and palpitating room, he sensed her yellow eyes upon him. He had built his life of solid blocks, but she was like a weed growing within the interstices that might one day undermine foundations. He did not want to remember that long-ago day, buried now beneath the years, when her amber eyes had fixed upon him in a way he would never forget. He had sealed away the memory of that day but it welled up now to claim him, like a tentacle uncoiling in the darkness.

He remembered how he had gone to Rita as usual, but earlier than expected. The servants were reluctant to admit him but he had pushed his way in. He had found her naked upon her bed, head thrown back, her slim thighs wound about a dark and ugly specimen of a man who was working himself upon her. The bald, loose cheeks of his buttocks heaved and thrust before the Chief Magistrate’s affronted gaze. Holwell had backed hurriedly away, closing the door, his mind in turmoil. Yet, against his will, he was horrified to find the blood rushing through his veins, hardening his own body. He pressed his back against the wall as if to control his fury and despised himself for still wanting to suck at Rita’s dark nipples, for needing her oiled and supple limbs to draw him to her centre. Until that
moment he had had no idea that she even saw other men. He had thought himself the only one. His rage grew with the shattering of this conceit. If he had arrived when expected he would have innocently bathed in the juices of the grunting creature who had peceded him. Everything in him exploded in revulsion. He hated what she did to him.

His anger pounded within him like a creature that would burst its way out of his body. As he stepped away from the door of Rita’s room he found he faced her daughter, already now twelve years old. With her yellow cat’s eyes and unruly tortoiseshell hair, she would soon be ready for the whorehouses of Black Town, thought the Chief Magistrate in a wave of fresh agitation. He had been trapped by the evil of these lustful women who knew nothing of Christian morality. He had stepped forward, he now remembered, and had taken the child’s arm in sudden resolution, dragging her after him. Even now, remembering his shame at Rita’s door, his anger rose like the after-effects of food sodden with chillies.

At the sudden release of these long-buried memories, the sweat flowed copiously from the Chief Magistrate. He perspired now not from the heat pressing about him but for something he experienced within himself. A new wash of terror consumed him. He slid down to crouch between the comatose Chaplain and a panting Mr Eyre, the Storekeeper. He was trembling with emotion. The memory of Rita, so unexpectedly awoken, stayed with him, and the yellow eyes of her daughter locked upon him from across the fetid cell would, he feared, never now be banished.

The guards outside the Black Hole had withdrawn a short distance and the occasional glimmer of light their torches shed through the windows of the cell had vanished. The blackness, pressing about the Chief Magistrate, was filled with tortured groans. Something seemed to push deep into his body, searching as if for the thread of his life to pull until it unravelled. His heart thrashed in his chest. It was as if something within him, bigger than himself, now unfolded to split him open. He feared the very force of his life would seep from him to
mix with the darkness about him. There was a species of spider in his house that if squashed oozed an umber blood, as if bleeding its own store of evil. Long after it was cleared, a dark shadow remained on the floor. The Chief Magistrate dropped his head into his hands. The door to a dungeon within him had opened and the mess of his life trickled out.

He stood up again and pressed his face to the bars of the window, gulping in the still air. Someone tried to push him aside, but Holwell clung to his hold. The Reverend Bellamy slumped heavily against his legs, making balance difficult. The strong odour of burning entered the cell and filled the Chief Magistrate’s head. Across the parade ground Fort William continued to burn. Holwell stared at the heaps of blackened timber visible through the flames, and drew a shuddering breath, for overriding even the smell of burning, the scent of the river came to him again as if locking on to him at his weakest moment. For a moment he had a vision of the black goddess dancing like an ugly goblin in the dark. Wherever death lurked, the dreadful creature appeared. Such an anger rose up in the Chief Magistrate then that he feared his head might burst. He was at a loss to know what spawned such hatred. He stood with his face pressed against the bars of the Black Hole and knew at last that he was defined by what he hated. He was not ashamed; the emotion had kept him strong in a place that would long ago have destroyed him.

In the darkness now the Chief Magistrate began to see shapes that were not of this world. He reached out a hand in fear, as if something tangible floated before him. A guard with a flare came again to peer through the window. The sudden glow illuminated the far corners of the room. The Chief Magistrate turned and, as he knew he would, stared straight into the yellow eyes of Rita’s daughter. A fresh wave of panic filled him. Against his will he remembered the grotesque voice that had issued from the girl the night of the seance in Demonteguy’s house. He remembered the diamonds he had stolen from her. And now the memory of that day long ago in Rita’s house when the girl was twelve years old was before him at every turn. Perhaps the girl
was possessed, just as they said. Perhaps, as they said, the black goddess resided within her. Now fate had placed her here in this prison, as if to put her in charge of his suffering. The heat of his thoughts beat against his skull. He turned from the window and began to stumble across the cell. His mind ran liquidly now.