The Deceivers (6 page)

The farmer’s son threw a dead branch on the fire. His father said to the merchant, ‘I am going to Madhya. I will report the ferryman to the English sahib there. I hear that most English officials will give justice without a bribe.’

The merchant laughed. ‘You do not know the English, sirdar-ji. In your land your own king still rules, I think? Now, if a man such as you were to make a complaint against a ferryman such as this one is, what would your king cause to be done?’

‘If the complaint was made by a man such as I, a man of good reputation and a good Sikh,’ the farmer answered slowly, ‘our king, the Lion of the Punjab, would send soldiers and cause the ferryman to be trampled under an elephant. Perhaps he would first have the ferryman’s hands cut off, perhaps not.’

It was true enough, William thought wryly as he strained to hear.

‘So! That is true justice,’ said the merchant.

‘Provided always that the accuser is a gentleman of good reputation, and a good Sikh,’ the farmer added quickly.

‘And that is just, as I was saying,’ the merchant went on. ‘But here!
I
am a man of some fame in my own place too. Are not we all, in our degrees?’ There was a murmur of agreement round the fire and from the shadows under the trees. ‘Yet where the English have their grip they treat all men as equal, the blackest damned sweeper from Comorin, the palest twice-born Brahmin. The English Collector in Madhya would ask you for proof. He would keep you there many days while he sent to fetch the ferryman. Then he would appoint a day many more days ahead for the trial. He would keep all who speak against the ferryman. The ferryman, meanwhile, would gather men to speak for him -- perjurers to swear that they, too, were in the boat at the time and that your story is a wicked lie. At the end, when many pages have been written down, there is no judgement. Conflicting evidence! Of course,’ he added, throwing out his arm in a vehement gesture, ‘it is quite other in
civil
cases. Then a clever man with a good pleader can keep a case going for months and years in the English courts. One can so cloud the issue that perhaps the other side, the bad ones, can be worn down by the expenses so that they are glad to settle the case out of court.’ He rose heavily, hitched at his loincloth, stretched, and yawned. ‘I am going to sleep, my friend. I am tired.’

‘Ah, the night is cold.’ A voice spoke from the darkness.

William’s brain registered the non sequitur of the remark. He felt his companion’s hand grip his elbow. He saw two men flanking the Sikh boy crouch forward. A dirty grey cloth flashed momentarily and jerked round the boy’s neck. One of the men tugged at it, the other forced the boy’s head over to one side. For a fraction of a second, through a blinding mist of disbelief, William heard the merchant’s transfigured, fierce voice. ‘That one, quick!’

The farmer lay on the ground, his head twisted round at a right-angle, his eyes bolting out at his son. The two were sprawled at the edge of the fire, among the ashes and the soiled leaves which had been their supper plates. Shadowy men ran, crouched, grunted, swore. The fat merchant was on his feet, a cloth in his hands, pointing, gesticulating.

William gasped aloud and scrambled to his feet. The branches of the bush caught him; the man at his side grabbed his feet and said furiously, ‘No, no! You promised!’ William tore loose and ran forward, shouting in Hindi, ‘Stop it, stand still! I am . . .’

A face popped up from nowhere and the neck fitted into his outstretched hands. His fingers closed with a snap. He felt the strength surge into them as he lifted the man and dashed his head against a tree. The man lay on the ground and did not move. William stood panting over him and glared round the grove.

Suddenly he realized he was alone among murderers. The fat merchant had picked up the musket and was trying to steady his aim. Other men moved around in the shadows behind him. The lopsided man had vanished. The Sikhs were dead.

William bounded over the fire, smashed his fist into the merchant’s face as he passed, and ran out into the darkness. He stumbled among the trees, falling, bursting through thorn scrub, fighting away from the firelight. Men ran after him. He heard the crackle of leaves under their feet. The bright moon scurried through the treetops to his right, keeping pace, holding him fixed in light. A sharp thorn ripped his cheek. Another tore off his turban.

They were close. He threw himself down under a fallen tree and caught his breath. They were loud behind him. He heard them stumble past and run together. They muttered challenge and greeting: ‘
Ali bhai ram ram!’ ‘Ram ram!
’ Ali again! The little treacherous swine -- he would break his neck.

The anger died, and he lay cold as death under the trunk. Insects began to crawl over him. Dead twigs crunched to the left and ahead. They could not be more than twenty feet away. They moved back and forth, met together, whispered, moved away. Silence. Faint sounds from the direction of the fire behind him. Its light filtered among the trees. It was going out, dying to the accompaniment of chunking and slithering. Digging? Smothering the fire? Were they all there? Had they left a pair of men lying here, as silent as he?

After two hours he was trembling so violently that the tiny chatter and stir among the leaves sounded like the march of an army. He began to edge away on his stomach, moving one arm and leg at a time. Drops of blood from his face plopped steadily on to the leaves. A nightjar set up a sudden appalling shriek of alarm. The darkness moved by his right side. Orange light glared on white teeth and popping eyes above him. The explosion rocked him.

He was not hit. They would have to reload the musket. He jumped up and ran, crouching. The surface changed underfoot, the shadow splashes fell away, he saw the moon. He was on a road, and a man stood on it. Two men. Moving, but they had heard him. His throat burned, and he was frightened. He would never escape them.

He turned back into the jungle and ran. The men behind did not call out but came after him. The merchant with the gun was somewhere ahead still. And others. How many?

He slammed into a tree, turned, and ran crazily back towards the road. Human arms reached out for him and he swung his fist. Some noisy thing fell into the undergrowth, groaning. The road again. He began to run down it.

He was not young enough for this, or fit enough. They would get him. He saw the turning to Padwa, ran well past, jumped off the road and lay down. They had lost him for a minute. He got up, crawled through on to the Padwa trail, and ran.

The moon rode high above the knoll and the village. The silence of the fields hammered at him, and the sky swung round the moon. He hurried under the orange trees planted on the side of the street and screamed suddenly when a fruit fell on his shoulder. The two dogs began to bark furiously. All lights were out. He had no idea what time it was. He sagged across the courtyard well, his heart heaving, and could go no farther. He croaked, ‘Ooh, Chandra Sen, come quickly.’

Inside the house nothing stirred. He remembered dimly that they were to leave the door open so that he could creep up the stairs and into the house without knocking. No one must see ‘Gopal’ return to Padwa. He pushed himself upright and stumbled forward.

Under the house the dogs went crazy. He heard a chain snap and the jangling of the broken end as it came over the stones towards him. The dogs were at him; teeth closed in his leg, and the weight dragged him down. He seized that dog by the throat and began to throttle it, while the other tore at his bare stomach. He kept calling, ‘Chandra Sen! Your dogs! Hurry, hurry down!’ The watchman should have been here, but wasn’t. Chandra Sen must have sent him on an errand to keep him out of the way.

The door of the house burst open, the light of a torch flooded the courtyard, and Chandra Sen ran down the steps, a big staff in his hand. He called the dogs by name and beat at them with the stick. William had loosed his grip on the dog’s throat, and it lay retching at his feet. After a few seconds it crawled away, while its brother began to attack it.

Chandra Sen grasped his staff firmly and held up the torch. ‘Who are you?’

‘Sav -- Gopal. Put the light down.’ It would be too much if someone saw him now and word went to the woman at the pyre. All his terrible evening would go for nothing.

He dragged past the patel, across the courtyard, up the steps and into the house. Inside, his legs would not hold him and he sank slowly to the floor. A tall mirror, cracked, and framed in heavy gilt, stood against the whitewashed wall. He saw himself in it and did not wonder that Chandra Sen stared with open mouth.

His brown-stained skin was torn and bleeding. Deep scratches scored his bare shoulders, and the flesh of his stomach was torn. Froth bubbled on his lips. He mumbled, ‘See, I am Gopal!’ and laughed, and cut the laugh short, winning control of himself.

Chandra Sen lowered the torch; its flames dimmed and sprang up again; black smoke wisps curled to the ceiling. He cried, ‘It is! It is! What has happened, lord?’

William sank back against the wall and told his story. He dared not glance towards the mirror while he spoke, or he would have burst out again in mad laughter. He finished, suddenly uncertain, ‘I think -- get your men out, patel-ji, quickly. Perhaps we can catch these murderers. Where is my wife?’Chandra Sen slipped off without a word. Mary’s quick feet, light and firm, came down the passage. She saw him, and checked her step, and ran forward and flung herself on her knees beside him. ‘Oh, darling! William, are you all right? Quick, bring bandages, salves!’

The house awoke. Voices muttered everywhere. William rested his head on Mary’s arm. ‘It’s nothing much.’

‘Did the people try to kill you? Is she safe?’

‘She? Who? Oh yes, she’s safe. It’s something else. I can’t tell you all now. Can’t we stop everyone coming in here? They’ll all know it wasn’t Gopal, but me.’

An old woman with her veil awry, who smelled of cozy sleep, shuffled in and squatted down beside him. From the door Chandra Sen said, ‘Do not worry, sahib. No one will tell. I vouch for them.’ The old woman washed away the dirt, felt his cuts and bruises, and muttered to herself.

Mary said suddenly, ‘Must you go out again?’

‘Yes.’

She did not try to stop him, as he had half expected, but said, ‘Then we must get this colour off. The lotion’s ready. We made it while you were out.’

The room filled, and William’s impatience mounted. The patel’s wife rubbed the spirituous lotion into his face and hands with a cloth. It stung fiercely, and he bit his lips against the pain, but the colour came out. The old woman grunted and grumbled and went on, sure-fingered, with her work. At last Mary bandaged his stomach. He stood up, supporting himself for a moment on her shoulder.

‘I’ll get your clothes,’ she said and ran off to their room at the back of the house. The patel and his wife and the old woman left. Mary came back, and William jerked on his English clothes. Horses’ hoofs clattered in the yard now, and arms clashed. He was ready. He glanced in the mirror -- wild eyes, cuts, otherwise all right. He said, ‘There’s no danger now. Don’t be afraid for me.’

‘I’m not -- not for you. Kiss me.’

He dabbed a kiss hurriedly on her lips, then turned again and sank his mouth on hers. ‘Oh, Mary!’

Chandra Sen waited for him outside. ‘Do we need a big party, sahib? That will take more time. I will have to get men from all over my estates. But we are six here, not counting your honour.’

‘That will do for now. But I think you had better send out to warn the others that they may be needed in the morning ... You have? Good.’

Five horsemen waited in the yard. Two carried sabres, two muskets, and one a pike. The pikeman was his own butler, Sher Dil. His groom was there too, holding his horse, and the pistols were ready in the holsters on the front arch. A young boy, Chandra Sen’s son -- about the age and size of the boy William had just seen murdered -- held the bridle of a seventh horse. The veiled shadows of women murmured shrilly from the lighted doorways and windows of the house.

William gathered his strength and swung slowly into the saddle. He raised his hand. ‘Your master has told you what has happened?’ The riders muttered assent. ‘Good. We will go first to the grove where the murders were done. If we find nothing there, we had better spread out and search the roads.’ ‘How will we know the murderers, sahib?’ said Chandra Sen.

William stopped short. What did they look like? They were nondescript: two Brahmins, four or five others. The fat merchant -- his face was clear enough. Two of the others were Mohammedans; he had known that from their turbans. One was old; he remembered the wrinkled face. One was young -- no, that was one of the Brahmins. But had some of them been among the murdered? The Sikh and his son were not the only ones who had been killed. Or were they? It had happened too quickly. Then he ought to describe the lopsided man; he too must be caught; but it was impossible to describe him, except for that bent neck.

Haltingly he told the party what he could remember. His confidence ebbed away, so that with his hurts he felt sick and ready to vomit. He was not sure now that he would recognize anyone except the fat man with the popping eyes and nibbling lips. Men would be brought roped to his jail, and he would not be able to swear to them. What would the laws of evidence say? What would Mr Wilson say?

Chandra Sen gathered up his reins, looking at William keenly. ‘That is good enough. We will catch them if we have to arrest every traveller on the roads.’

William jerked his shoulders, as though he could by that gesture shake loose his worries, and pushed his horse into a fast canter. One behind the other, the six horsemen tore down the street after him, then on to the path between empty moon- bathed fields, then into the jungle where the horses’ hoofs struck loudly against the tree roots and sparks flew back from Chandra Sen’s torch into the faces of the riders behind.

The grove of murder was silent. In the dying moonlight the shadows lay differently, and William was not sure that this was it. By day it was recognizable easily enough; but there were other groves. He did not know ... he was not sure.