Read Isabella Rockwell's War Online
Authors: Hannah Parry
Tags: #thriller, #india, #royalty, #mystery suspense, #historical 1800s, #young adult action adventure
Isabella Rockwell's War
Isabella Rockwell’s War
By Hannah Parry
Copyright © 2012 Hannah Parry
All rights reserved.
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Cover Photo by
Alexa
Bailey
Design and Layout by Lighthouse24
Also available in trade paperback
(ISBN-13: 978-0-9573321-0-2)
Table of
Contents
Chapter 6: An Unexpected Friend
Chapter 13: An Ending and a Beginning
:
Trouble
Northern
India
July 1820
It must have
been the cry of vultures which brought Isabella back to
consciousness. Or was it the feeling of hot grit against her cheek,
caked and dusty where her mouth had fallen open? From her position
on her side, she watched as one smashed the outer shell of a
scorpion against a rock to get at the meat inside.
She sat up and
looked at the tree nearby. Its shade, which spread so generously
last night, had now, in the fierce overhead sun, receded to nearly
nothing. She crawled over to its trunk nevertheless, dragging her
bag and rifle with her, and sat in the tiny remaining patch of
shaded brown dirt. Holding her canteen up, she shook it. There was
about two days water left in it, if she was careful. Putting the
metal to her lips she took a sip, but she hadn’t anticipated the
strength of her thirst; how good the cool water felt as it made its
way to her stomach, and she was unable to stop. She knew she was
shortening her chances of survival, but she couldn’t help herself,
and she emptied the canteen in seconds. It dropped from her hand.
It was unlikely she’d be using it again.
With her
thirst momentarily sated, Isabella looked up at the foothills
surrounding her. This uninhabitable land had a strange beauty all
of its own, the distant purple mountains giving way to the grey
shadows of the hills where nothing, save the hardiest of scrubby
bushes, grew. If she tilted her head right back, she could see
mountain goats, white specks hopping from one precipice to
another.
Occasionally
their hooves would loosen a stone and it would fall, dislodging
others, in a soundless shimmer into the valley where she sat.
Nothing else moved in the heat of the Indian noon, so hot each
breath had to be taken with care. Nothing except the vultures that,
eyeing her stillness, were hopping towards her for a closer look.
Her fingers reached over the gravel for her gun; light and tough,
her father had said; the perfect gun for his twelve-year-old girl.
Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes, but she brushed them away and,
raising the gun, settled it comfortably into her shoulder. The
blast scattered the vultures like rice thrown on the wind. She
immediately re-loaded and lifted it again, but she didn’t need to.
She rarely missed, and this time had been no exception. She
grimaced; vulture for breakfast then.
Isabella
waited until her tree was protected from the sun by the shadow of a
hill before building her fire. Then she plucked and cooked the legs
of the vulture, pretending to herself all the while they were
chicken, but she was hungry and had less difficulty eating than she
had expected. By the time she’d finished, the shadows had
lengthened, and some of the power had gone from the sun. The fire
began to smoke and she leaned back into the tree with her bag on
her lap and thought of the campfires at home.
The night had
always come with a curious swiftness, as if a giant finger and
thumb had snuffed out the sun. She loved that time of night, when
all the lanterns were lit, but it was not yet fully dark. Around
the camp, small fires would spring up, as the men of her father’s
cavalry regiment sat outside their barracks, talking of life. As a
very small child Isabella would sit, mouse-like, so the soldiers
wouldn’t notice her, wreathed in the peaty smell of smoke from
their pipes, listening to the rising lilt of Hindi and Pashtu,
until the languages became intelligible and she made them her own.
Often forgetting she was there, they would speak of shocking
things, certainly not meant for small ears, and then they would see
her and laugh.
She smiled to
herself.
They had never
made her feel an outsider, and their children were her playmates.
Soon the time came, if you’d have asked her which was her
nationality, she’d have been hard pushed to reply. Her parents were
British, but it was Abhaya, her father’s housekeeper, who’d raised
her; Abhaya to whom she’d sung her first words in Hindi; Abhaya,
who’d taken the place of the mother she’d never known.
So where were
they all now – those men who’d served loyally with her father for
so many years that, with Abhaya, they were her family in everything
but name?
Isabella felt
the tears start again as she thought of her father.
She’d found
him on the porch that night in his rocking chair, staring out at
the horizon, a bottle of brass polish in one hand, and the rag,
unmoving, in the other. His face hadn’t the sad expression that
meant he was thinking of her mother. No. It was something else.
There was hardness to his thought; his jaw-line set beneath his
moustache.
“Father?” His
eyes swivelled towards her, but she could see it was a moment
before he brought her into focus. “You were a very long way
away.”
“Sorry, pet. I
was.”
“Is it the
monsoon?”
He smiled.
“No, for once
it is not the monsoon. Though I do dread it sometimes.” Isabella
kept silent. Her mother had died during the monsoon, just a few
days after she was born, so though her birthday was always
celebrated, it was also a time of sadness.
Her father
held out his arms to her.
“Come. Sit
with me.” Isabella arranged herself carefully on his lap, enjoying
the smell of hair tonic and the stables, which would forever remind
her of him.
“Oohf, you are
getting so big, missy. Let me see your fingernails.” Isabella held
out her hands with an inward grimace.
“Did you have
a bath?” he said inspecting the semi-circles of black beneath her
nails. “Or was it the river?” Isabella couldn’t help but raise her
eyebrows. How did he know? The screen door onto the porch
slammed.
“Abhaya,” her
father switched to fluent Hindi. “This child! I know she’s only a
sergeant’s daughter, but she might marry well – a captain or an
East India merchant and so keep me comfortably in my old age. How
is that ever to happen, if she is so filthy all the time?” John
Rockwell was laughing now, as the expression on Isabella’s face
changed to outrage.
Abhaya
salaamed, her wrinkled face serious, though her eyes were
smiling.
“Sahib. I have
often thought if I could place Isabella-Bai in a stable next to her
horse, then she would do very well. She could have oats, a hosing
off and a rubdown every night. In this way she would be cleaner
than she is now, and maybe enjoy it more.”
John Rockwell
chortled and Isabella scowled, replying under her breath;
“Chance would
be a fine thing.”
“Anyway,
Sahib, I am here to let the child know her real bath is drawn, and
to come whenever she is ready.”
He smiled.
“Which means
now?”
Abhaya
salaamed again.
“As you wish,
Sahib.” She padded away.
Isabella
tightened her arms around his neck, but her father reached up to
undo them. A tiny chill touched her carefully on the shoulder. She
looked back at her father’s face, but he was looking down.
“I ride out
tonight, Isabella.”
His words were
soft, but she felt her stomach disappear.
“But… but
you’re not ready. What about the men?”
It usually
took the camp at least a month to prepare itself for battle.
Supplies had to be collected, uniforms and weapons polished, and
tack mended. Given the distances in India, the cavalry could be
gone for months on end. Then Isabella would watch from the top of
an acacia tree as her father raised his sabre and the glittering
column of the Regiment of King William’s First Horse moved off.
Sabres would rattle and excited horses would drum their hooves to
unheard music, as the orange sun bathed them in its light.
Isabella’s heart would overflow with pride. She would stay in the
tree long after everyone else watching had gone, until all she
could see was a cloud of yellow dust on the flat horizon which,
when she looked straight at it, appeared not to be there.
Her father
cleared his throat.
“The men
aren’t coming. It’s just Josha Bilram and myself.”
Isabella felt
her mouth fall open.
“Why just the
two of you? Where are you going?”
“It’s not
something we are allowed to talk about. I myself only heard last
night and Josha Bilram has been working hard all day so we might be
ready. I am so sorry dearest, truly I am. I had hoped to be here
for your birthday… but now…”
She swallowed.
“Oh, don’t worry about that.”
“No, I know
but still…” His voice trailed off.
“Might you be
away for less time, if it’s just the two of you?”
“I don’t know,
but two travel more quickly than one hundred, so we have that in
our favour.”
Isabella
looked thoughtful.
“Why are just
two of you going? Are you spying?” Her face lit up. This was
exciting. “That’s it isn’t it, that’s why the Colonel is sending
you? Otherwise he’d send Captain Evesham or Lieutenant Farrar. But
they don’t fit in quite as well as you, do they? They’re too fair,
and they speak Hindi with an English accent. Lieutenant Farrar
can’t even squat,” she finished with disgust.
Her father
tucked a monocle into one eye and held her at arm’s length, looking
at her intently. She could see herself in its glass, the large
smudge on her thin face, and her nut-brown hair in disarray.
Her father
pulled on a curl.