Shadow of the Moon (22 page)

She buried her face in her pillow and wept.

Alex remained for some time where she had left him. He heard the sound of her light running feet and the swift rustle of her skirts die away in the darkness, and leant against the wall staring blindly into the shadows. His thoughts were not pleasant, but they did not include Winter de Ballesteros: and when at long last he returned to his own room, sleep eluded him.

He lay on his back in the hot darkness and thought of India and the unregarded warning of men like Sir Henry Lawrence. Of the gross stupidities of men like Conway Barton. Of the whispered warnings of spies, of the sadhu whom he had seen in the grounds of the Residency at Lunjore, and the face of Kishan Prasad watching, with eyes that were avid and intent, the shattered men of the British Army flung back from the Redan, stumbling and dying in the mud and blood before Sebastopol.

He thought too of the faces of the three men whom he had seen only that night in a moonlit garden, and realized that he would have to speak to the Governor in the morning. Though he knew just exactly how much good (or how little) that would do, for the Peace Treaty having been signed in Paris there was nothing to prevent Gregori Sparkov, merchant and non-combatant, from visiting the island of Malta, or Mohammed Rashid, son of a French governess and a Persian princeling, from staying at the house of a Maltese Jew. And no reason at all why Rao Kishan Prasad, native of India, gentleman of leisure and passenger on the steamship
Sirius
, should not be seen speaking to either or both of them.

There were many men in India, among them ‘Lawrence's young men', who had learned to speak the languages and dialects of the country and to know and love and try to understand those of its people among whom they lived and worked, who sensed and smelt the approaching storm and saw the
shadow of coming events crawl silently over the uneasy land, drawing closer and ever closer. But they were far outnumbered by the complacent, the smug, the conceited and the merely stupid. By senior officials in the service of the Company who pooh-poohed any talk of a general rising as either hysteria or the unfounded fears of a timorous and over-imaginative minority. By colonels of regiments, wedded to their men and their battalions through long years of service, who looked upon any such suggestions as grossly insulting to themselves and to the men under their command, and derided those who warned as cowards and agitators. Complacency reigned in high places and lay like a bandage over the eyes of those who did not wish to see.

Alex turned restlessly, as though by doing so he could turn his back on the thoughts that kept him from sleep. Kishan Prasad … Kishan Prasad was a victim of the Conway Barton mentality. A man of brains and breeding; imaginative, intelligent and sensitive, whose brilliance had gone for nothing because of the colour of his skin, and whose ambition and enthusiasm had been broken and corroded by a sadistic oaf who was his inferior in everything except mere brute strength.

Alex had suspected for a long time that Kishan Prasad was engaged in treasonable activities, and had reported as much to Mr Barton. The Commissioner had demanded proof, which Alex was unable to supply since it had been more a matter of instinct and rumour than of evidence. He had, however, suggested various measures that might serve to check any tendency towards subversive activity on the part of Kishan Prasad. But these had been ignored, and it was shortly afterwards that the fabulous emerald that Alex had last seen adorning Winter's slim hand had passed into the Commissioner's possession. Which might have been a coincidence, but was probably not.

Kishan Prasad had been permitted to come and go without hindrance, to visit the Crimea and to contact Russian and Persian
agents provocateurs.
And there was little or nothing that he, Alex, could do about it, unless he were prepared to commit murder. Why was it that a man could kill his fellow-men in the heat of battle or by the chill permission of the Law, and yet not be able to bring himself to shoot down in cold blood a single human being who was as dangerous and unpredictable as a loaded pistol in the hands of a child? Or as the lighted brand in the hand of a lunatic that he had used as an illustration to Winter?

Alex had heard something of Winter's story from the Commissioner, and he remembered now that her father had died on the disastrous retreat from Kabul. His death could be laid at the door of the irresponsible architects of the Afghan War, but also at the door of the senile weakling who had commanded the troops in Kabul. Lord Elphinstone's obstinate incapacity must have been obvious to most if not all of his Staff. But since there was no legal way of removing him from command or of over-ruling his feeble and vacillating decisions, might not a well-placed bullet perhaps have saved sixteen thousand people from an agonizing death in those cold passes?

‘It is one of the things that one cannot do,' thought Alex, arguing with himself as he had argued with Winter. ‘But why not?' Because it was the gospel of Violence, and as such it could lead to worse things than the death of the innocent. As for Kishan Prasad, his actions were treasonable or laudable only according to who was regarding them, and in either case entirely understandable. The Briton who plotted against the Roman invader was undoubtedly looked upon as a hero by his compatriots and hung as a rebel by the Romans, and the Cavalier who spied for King Charles was hunted as a traitor by Cromwell's men. If Kishan Prasad schemed for the overthrow of the Company's Raj, did that make him a traitor, or a patriot?

‘And why in the name of hell,' thought Alex in tired exasperation, ‘can't I stop seeing the other man's side of the question? Why can't I believe, as Lawrence and Nicholson and Herbert Edwards do, in the divine right of the British to govern?'

Henry Lawrence and John Nicholson occupied adjacent pedestals in Alex's private pantheon, but he could not believe what they believed. He worked for the same end, but for a different reason: because he believed, with a passionate sincerity, that it was better for England and for India and for the world that the British rather than the Russians should hold the land of the Moguls.

Contrary to general belief, Alex's given name was not Alexander. His father had visited St Petersburg as a young man and while there made a life-long friend of a young Russian officer, and many years later, on duty in India, he had named his son after that friend. Alexis Lanovitch had stood godfather by proxy to the child, but the parson who had officiated at the christening had either been unable or unwilling to get his tongue round such a foreign-sounding name, and the infant had been baptized ‘Alex' and not ‘Alexis' Mallory, and as such had been entered in the register of the English church in the small Indian station where he had been born.

Later, as a boy of fifteen, Alex had travelled in Russia with his father, and the vast, secretive land with its limitless horizons had left an indelible impression on his mind and his imagination. To him Russia was the Enemy. An enemy to be feared above all others because the very vastness of her territory made her invulnerable to attack, as Napoleon had found to his cost. Russia had only to retreat before an invading army - to withdraw into that silent, brooding land that stretched away and away in endless steppes, forests, forgotten lakes and uncharted mountain ranges, eastward to the Bering Straits and westward to the borders of Poland. Six seas washed her shores; the Bering Sea, the Arctic Ocean, the Baltic, the Black Sea, the Caspian and the Sea of Okhotsk. And within her confines Europe and Asia together could be placed and lost. Russia the cold-eyed, the patient: consumed by the hidden fires of her belief in her ultimate destiny as the ruler of the world …

Alex had never forgotten that year in Russia. Or that beyond the Khyber
Pass lay the Kingdom of the Cossacks. ‘We have got to hold India,' thought Alex. ‘We have got to hold it until it is strong enough to hold out by itself, and not for any of the reasons that gross fools like Barton will hold it for.'

Conway Barton— How much damage would the Commissioner of Lunjore have done during the past year? Men like Barton, mercifully in a minority, imagined that the mere fact of their being a member of a conquering race entitled them to be treated with servile awe and admiration, and the fact that their debaucheries and brutality, and their capacity to absorb bribes, were regarded with rage and contempt by the local population did not occur to them, because the anger and scorn was hidden behind lowered eyelids and bland, unreadable Eastern faces.

For the first time since she had turned and run from him, Alex thought of Winter de Ballesteros who was to marry the Commissioner of Lunjore. A girl in a million, thought Alex with a reminiscent grin. She had neither shrieked nor fainted when he had dragged her head-first off that wall, but had fought him instead like a young tiger-cat, and lain still while that huge rough-haired hound had pattered to and fro in the moonlight. She had helped to drag him back over the wall, had run with him until she could run no longer, and then, instead of treating him to tears or an attack of the vapours, she had laughed. She was a thousand times too good for a gross debauchee like Conway Barton.

Not that Alex believed any longer that the marriage would take place. It was quite obvious that the girl cherished some glorified mental picture of the man, based on the memories of an impressionable child; and equally obvious that the Conway Barton of 1856 would bear so little resemblance to this picture that one look would be enough to produce complete and shattering disillusionment.

Alex had imagined, once, that having made a long voyage to a country in which she had no friends or relations, she would be left with no alternative but to go through with the marriage, however distasteful it might appear upon arrival. But he was no longer of that opinion, for the Commissioner's betrothed was plainly no milk-and-water miss. Despite her youth she clearly possessed both character and courage, and was probably quite capable of breaking off her engagement at the altar steps if necessary. He hoped so, for her sake.

Perhaps he should have kissed her tonight. Would it have made any difference if he had done so? There had been a brief moment in the darkness of the archway when he had known without any shadow of doubt that he had only to touch her to have her in his arms, and he did not know what had held him back. Certainly it had been no feeling of loyalty to the Commissioner of Lunjore, and that lovely, passionate mouth would have been sweet to kiss. Had it been some obscure instinct of self-preservation? A sudden fear of being caught up in some emotion from which there might be no escape?

Alex became aware that the square of sky beyond his window was no longer flecked with stars but paling to the clear light of a new day, and as the first faint murmurs of awakening life rose up from the harbour and the crowded city, he turned on his side and slept.

11

Winter awoke late on the following morning to find that Lottie was already up and dressed, flushed and shy and overcome with fluttering alarm at the recollection of her own temerity of the previous night.

‘I cannot think how I could have - have behaved in so
un-ladylike
a manner,' gasped Lottie, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. ‘Oh Winter, do you think he knew? That I had gone out because - because I knew that he was there, and not to - to view the flowers?'

‘Are you sorry that you went?' inquired Winter bluntly.

‘Oh
no
!' breathed Lottie on a heartfelt sigh. ‘He is all that is noble and good. I knew that I could not be mistaken. And— Oh, Winter … he loves me! He told me so. He intends to speak to Mama at the earliest opportunity, and to Papa of course as soon as we reach Calcutta. Do you suppose that it can be right to be so happy when one knows that one has behaved in a bold and forward manner?'

‘Lottie, you are a darling goose,' said Winter kissing her, ‘but I fear I am the one to blame, and if you marry your Edward and live unhappily ever after, it will be all my fault. I behaved quite shockingly last night. I cannot understand it. I have heard tell of people going mad from sleeping in the moonlight. Do you think it can be true?'

‘Perhaps,' said Lottie. ‘I think we must both have been a little mad last night, for I do not know how you can have dared to walk in the streets unattended. You might have been molested. It does not bear thinking about! Did you meet with no adventures?'

‘No,' said Winter briefly. She hoped that Lottie would not pursue the subject, and Lottie obliged her in this since she was far too taken up with her own affairs and the many perfections of Lieutenant Edward English: ‘He is only a second son,' explained Lottie, ‘but he has prospects, and a more than adequate competence in addition to his pay. It seems so mercenary to even
think
of money, but as I know that it will weigh with Mama and Papa, I cannot but feel glad that Edward is not without means. Edward says that he admired me from the very first moment that he saw me when we were embarking at the docks. It is strange to think that I did not even notice him. Oh, I do trust that Mama will not be difficult! Supposing I do not see him at all today?'

But Lieutenant English appeared to be possessed of the determination that so frequently accompanies red hair and freckles, and shortly after breakfast the Abuthnot party found themselves committed to a tour under his guidance.

Winter saw Captain Randall only twice that day. She had donned a wide-brimmed sun-hat and rejoined Mrs Abuthnot in the hall preparatory to setting out to see the town, and Mrs Abuthnot, similarly hatted and grasping a serviceable sunshade, her reticule and a palmetto fan, was talking to Captain Randall. Winter had checked for a fractional moment at the sight of him, and perhaps he observed that involuntary hesitation, for when she joined them he bowed unsmilingly, and after inquiring in a colourless voice but with a faintly derisive gleam in his eye if she had passed a comfortable night, excused himself and walked out into the hot sunlight.

The full daylight revealed a dark bruise on his cheekbone, and Mrs Abuthnot informed Winter that dear Alex had had the misfortune to collide with the open door of his bedroom cupboard in the dark, and that she had advised an instant application of arnica.

Later that morning they had caught another brief glimpse of him coming out of a side door of the Governor's Palace, accompanied by a portly and somewhat pompous looking individual who was wearing military uniform and sweating profusely in the heat. In the hard sunlight his face looked tired and grim, and he had been listening with obvious impatience to his companion's conversation. He had not seen the Abuthnot party, and having bowed curtly to the military gentleman, had turned and walked quickly away in the direction of the Strada Reale.

Mrs Abuthnot had made a few purchases - necessities they would need to tide them over until they reached Alexandria - and they had returned to the hotel for luncheon. The remainder of the day passed without incident, and when, that night, the moon rose pale and enormous to hang above the shining levels of the Mediterranean like some enchanted Chinese lantern, Winter resisted its lure and retired early to bed.

On the following morning they rose at daybreak, to partake of rolls and coffee under the beautiful vaulted ceiling of the Commercia before re-embarking on the
Sirius.
And presently the little island vanished into the heat-haze, and once more there was only the blue sky and the bluer sea above and around them, and the white wake of foam stretching away like a pathway behind.

The long, hot days dragged slowly for Winter, but Lottie and her Edward found the time passed all too quickly. Edward, true to his promise, had approached Mrs Abuthnot on the first day out from Malta to ask her permission, in the absence of Lottie's father, to pay his addresses to her daughter. He had added a diffident but satisfactory account of his financial situation, and had indeed been so earnest and engaging that Mrs Abuthnot's heart had quite melted, and she had ended by assuring him that although the last word must of course lie with Lottie's Papa, if Lottie reciprocated his feelings she herself would not stand in the way of her daughter's ultimate happiness.

And indeed, thought Mrs Abuthnot complacently, although dear Lottie
might well have made a more dazzling match, Edward English was of good family and appeared to possess both prospects and adequate means. It might do very well.

As the ship neared the coast of Egypt the heat became more intense. The sea turned from blue to green and the eager passengers crowded onto the paddle-box or hung over the deck-rails to see the minarets and roof-tops of Alexandria apparently lifting out of the water. The pilot, a vast bearded Mussulman, was taken up, and an hour later a variety of Egyptian officials boarded the ship and the passengers went ashore to drive through the town and admire the palms, the giant cactuses, the white houses and the stylish carriages of Alexandria.

They were to leave the
Sirius
and go by train to Cairo on the following morning, and they returned to spend a last night on board. But few if any of them were able to sleep, for the air from off the sweltering land came out to them in wafts like the hot breath of some great animal, while the racket of the Arabs coaling the ship by torchlight went on hour after noisy hour.

Winter did not find the heat too unbearable, and she might have snatched some sleep if it had not been for the noise. But Lottie gasped for air, tossed restlessly on her berth or walked about the small cabin bathing her forehead and arms with water that was almost as warm as the night, until at last Winter could stand it no longer. ‘I'm going on deck,' she announced. ‘Why don't you come with me, Lottie? It will be cooler up there, and no one could be expected to sleep in this noise.' But Lottie only shook her head and flung herself once more upon her berth, and Winter reached for a large paisley shawl, and wrapping it about her left the cabin.

The deck was a patchwork of jet-black shadows and vivid orange-coloured light from the flaming torches and flickering oil-lamps of the coal-boats, but it appeared at first sight to be comparatively deserted, and Winter peered cautiously over the side from the shelter of a dense bar of shadow to look down upon the swarming coalers who, bathed in the lurid torchlight and with their bowed, almost naked bodies grimed with coal-dust and glistening with sweat, looked like some illustration to Dante's
Inferno.
Behind them the sea lay like a dark lake of oil with the mirrored lights of Alexandria barely moving on its sluggish surface, and the hot air stank of coal-dust and sweating bodies, engine-oil and the Middle East.

A burst of laughter added itself to the noises of the night and Winter turned quickly, to see a group of men come down from the poop deck, cutting off her retreat. They had evidently been dining and wining on shore and were in considerable spirits, and one of them embarked upon a story which, despite the fact that most of it was happily unintelligible to her, was still sufficiently racy to cause her cheeks to burn with startled horror. Yet another man - Winter recognized him as Major Rattray, an officer
en route
to China - joined the group.

The Major, a corpulent gentleman, was at the moment clad in nothing but
a species of loin-cloth, and Winter became suddenly aware that other gentlemen, equally lightly clad, were lolling about in the hot starlight. With this discovery all the impropriety of her presence on deck at that hour came home to her, and filled with shame and dismay she began to edge her way through the shadows towards the further companionway, when she heard a swift step behind her. A hand grasped her arm and jerked her round, and Captain Randall's voice said: ‘What in thunder are you doing on deck! Is anything the matter?'

‘N - no,' said Winter breathlessly. ‘It was so hot in the cabin, and I thought—'

‘Have you taken leave of your senses?' demanded Alex in an exasperated undertone. ‘This is no place for a woman. Half the men have been celebrating ashore and the rest are less than half-dressed, and the place is thick with Arab coolies. You're going back to your cabin at once. Now, march!'

He turned her about and propelled her firmly in the direction of the companionway, but just as they reached it a man came up it and blundered out onto the deck. It was Colonel Moulson; noticeably the worse for drink.

Colonel Moulson was not a particularly pleasant person when sober, and when under the influence of alcohol he was even less so. Alex thrust Winter behind him, interposing himself between her and the swaying figure that stood starkly outlined against the light that streamed up from the companionway. But he had not been quick enough. The Colonel, though drunk, was not sufficiently inebriated to be unobservant, and he gave vent to a raucous whoop.

‘A petticoat, b'gad!' cried the Colonel. ‘Brought a fancy piece on board with yer, have you, Randall? Le's have a look at her.'

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, sir,' said Alex levelly, ‘but this lady wishes to go below. Would you please allow us to pass?'

‘
Lady
!' bellowed the Colonel, ‘that's rich. ‘Pon my soul that's rich. If she were a lady she wouldn't be up here. Don't be a dog-in-the-manger, m'boy. What is she? a Gyppy, or an Arab bint? Come on out, my pretty - le's all have a look at you!'

He made a clumsy dive, and Alex fended him off and repeated patiently enough: ‘I must ask you to let us pass, sir.'

‘Damned if I do!' retorted the Colonel. And staggering backwards a pace or two he barred the entrance to the companionway with outstretched arms and proceeded to utter a series of loud ‘view halloos'. The revellers at the far side of the deck, their attention attracted by the noise, began to move towards them, and Alex addressed Winter without turning his head:

‘You'll have to run for it,' he said briefly, and took a swift stride forward. His right hand shot out and grasped the Colonel's neckcloth, twisting it violently so that the raucous whoops were cut off in mid-breath, while his left came into abrupt contact with the Colonel's protuberant stomach. The next instant the Colonel had been heaved aside to collapse sprawling on the
deck, Winter was down the stairs and out of sight, and Alex and the recumbent Moulson were the centre of an interested group of spectators.

‘What's all the to-do?' demanded Major Rattray.

‘Fisticuffs, b'gad!' announced Mr Commissioner Ferringdon buoyantly: ‘Someone's given him a leveller.'

‘Allow me, sir,' said Alex solicitously, assisting the gasping Colonel to rise.

Colonel Moulson staggered to his feet and threw off Alex's hand. He tore at his twisted neckcloth, his face purple with rage, choking between breathlessness and apoplectic fury: ‘By God, Randall, you'll meet me for this!' spluttered the Colonel.

‘I shall be delighted to,' said Alex with disconcerting promptness.