The Gallant (41 page)

With the result-Jenny finished reloading the Enfield rifle and sat back on her heels, feeling suddenly weak and sickened, as the events of the past few terrible days filled her thoughts.

Colonel Roach’s trusted Rifles had been the first to break out in open mutiny. The colonel-who, whatever his faults, had not lacked courage-had ridden at once to the regiment’s lines, accompanied by his second-in-command and the adjutant, intent on restoring order. But the native troops had shot all three officers down without compunction, following which-Jenny shuddered at the memory-they had induced the other infantry regiment, the Sixteenth, to join them, and together had indulged in an orgy of looting and arson throughout the cantonments, during the course of which Mrs. Roach had been savagely attacked and left to die in her burning bungalow.

Her children had been saved. Four small, terrified little boys and a girl of twelve had been brought to the Residency by their courageous ayah

and the colonel’s orderly, and both servants had remained, refusing to be parted from their charges. Others had followed them. Officers’ wives with their families, many in

their night attire, had come in small individual parties to seek refuge in the Residency, and ill prepared though he was for the influx, Commissioner Melgund had opened his doors to them. Most of them were now in the dining room, at the rear of the building, which was shaded by trees and was a little cooler than the living room at the front, where Jenny now was. The basement-normally a storeroom-was the coolest of all, and this had been reserved for the wounded and the mothers with young babies, of whose number and identity Jenny had lost count-

“Infernal swine! Rifles, of course, devil take them!” Major Lund’s harsh voice again broke into her thoughts, and she tensed as he fired.

“Missed the fellow, damnation! Give me the Enfield, for God’s sake, Mrs. De

Lancey-this infernal musket’s too old. I couldn’t hit a haystack with it.”

He grabbed the Enfield and, with scarcely a pause to sight the weapon, fired again, a high-pitched shriek of agony bearing witness to its accuracy. Her fingers clumsy in their haste, Jenny began to reload the musket, but the major took it from her.

“The Enfield rifle, damn it-not that useless abomination. Didn’t you hear me, woman? The rifle’s what I need.”

She obeyed him in silence, giving him, as William had begged her to, the benefit of the doubt, despite his churlish rudeness. Marcus Lund had been wounded in the knee by a shot from the compound outside, a wound that, since early that morning, had deprived him of mobility, and was clearly causing him considerable pain. The fact that it had prevented him from joining the small party of volunteers William had called for, for the attempt to reach the magazine, had added to his rancor; and since the moment he and she had formed their impromptu partnership at the living-room window, the only words he had addressed to her had been critical and even abusive… . Jenny sighed, meeting the sympathetic gaze of young Cornet Millbank, who was guarding the window beyond.

Poor Archie Millbank had been given the rough side of his superior officer’s tongue more than once in the course of the long, weary day, and he, too, had been compelled to suffer it in silence.

Jenny smiled at him in mute encouragement, grateful to him for the manner in which, when the Lancers had decided to join

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forces with their Hindu compatriots, he had obeyed William’s order to escort her to the Residency.

As their commanding officer, William had seen it as his duty to remain with his men on the parade ground, in a last, vain endeavor to appeal to their loyalty.

They had rejected his appeal, just as they had rejected that of Major Lund, who had, of course, remained with them also. But they had done no hurt to any of their officers, and William, when he had finally reached the Residency, had told her, with an odd note of pride in his voice, that half a dozen of the regiment’s senior noncommissioned officers had guarded them throughout the mile-long journey from the lines.

“There were some hotheads crying out for our blood, but they would have none of it. They even sabered a mob of sepoys of the Sixteenth, who tried to bar our way here, and drove them off. They will march to Delhi, they told us, to offer their services to the old emperor, who is of their faith. And,” he had added, with a catch in his voice, “the

rissaldar

major, Akbar Khan, asked me, quite seriously, if I would go with them as their regimental commander! It was an extraordinary request, wasn’t it, Jenny?

I suppose I should take it as a compliment, damn it!”

But it would not have pleased Major Marcus Lund, if he had heard it, Jenny thought, since apparently no such request had been made to him.

The

rissaldar

major-a rank equivalent to sergeant major of cavalry, William had explained to her-was a fine old soldier, who wore the medals of the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns on the breast of his gold-braided tunic, and no doubt he had heard accounts of the charge of the British Light Cavalry Brigade in the Crimea and was aware that William had taken part in it. That, probably, had prompted the extraordinary request, or-

“Mrs. De Lancey, it’s dark now.” Andrew Melgund came across the floor to crouch down beside her. “You said they’d stop firing that cannon at us when it was dark.”

The two nine-pounder guns had been pounding the Residency’s stout walls at intervals throughout the day, but they had done less damage than might have been expected, for the house was solidly built of brick and stone.

“I expect they’ll stop, Andy,” Jenny answered absently. She raised herself to the height of the windowsill and peered out. There was still a glow from the smoldering cantonment bungalows, some of which had been set on fire by the looters only that afternoon; and from the roof of the church flames leapt high into the night sky, as if that building’s destruction by fire had been an afterthought on the part of the mutineers. Or, more likely, of the criminal element from the native city, who had followed in the soldiers’ wake, intent on plunder rather than vengeance on their white rulers.

Nearer at hand, small, flickering fires could be seen, and Major Lund grunted in annoyance.

“The rogues are cooking their evening meal,” he observed, without looking round. “It might give us a chance to draw some fresh water from the well, while their attention is distracted.”

“I could.go,” Andy Melgund offered eagerly.

“I’m small-they might not notice me.”

“You’re just a bit too small, Andy,” Jenny said, putting an arm about him. “You wouldn’t have the strength to pull the bucket up, when it was filled.” But he had given her an idea, and she gestured to the Brown Bess propped against the table beside her. “Could you load a musket, do you think?

If so, you could take my place and load for Major Lund.”

The boy nodded. “Oh, yes, I know how-I’ve watched you doing it. But … are

you

going to fetch the water? I must say, I could do with it. I’m parched.”

They had spoken in whispers, and Jenny was not sure whether or not Major Lund had heard them, but he raised no objection when she got to her feet, relinquishing her place to Andy Melgund. No one else paid her any heed as she crossed the room in the dim light, picking her way carefully past the sleeping children. Like them, Martha Lund was asleep, as were two other women, curled up on the floor with the children.

In the hallway outside, three empty water chattis

stood awaiting replenishment, and Jenny bent to pick one up just as a shadowy figure emerged from the basement cellar to join her. It was the chaplain, the Reverend Walters.

“Ah-Mrs. De Lancey,” he said. “I see you have the same

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notion as myself. The poor wounded souls down there are sorely in need of water, and since men of my cloth must be noncombatants, I thought I would try to alleviate their suffering by going to the well and getting some. But you-you are a lady, Mrs. De Lancey, and this surely is men’s work. Please, let me have that chatti,

won’t you?”

“We could go together, Mr. Walters,” Jenny answered firmly. “We’d be much quicker, if there were two of us.”

He yielded reluctantly, but Jenny met with fresh opposition when she and the chaplain, carrying the empty

chattis

between them, approached the rear door, where four officers were crouching behind a hastily erected barrier of household furniture and sandbags.

All looked weary and dispirited, and two had sustained wounds, but they turned on her with one accord on catching sight of the

chattis.

“I cannot possibly let you go out into the compound, Mrs. De Lancey,” an elderly captain of the Rifles exclaimed indignantly. “Not without the colonel’s permission, ma’am.. You would be risking your life, and-was

“The colonel isn’t here, Captain Sangster,”

Jenny reminded him. “And like Mr. Walters, I cannot take a musket and man our defenses. But I do

know how to draw water from the well, and our supplies are dangerously depleted. Besides,” she added untruthfully, “Major Lund did not object .

. . and it is pitch dark outside. They won’t be able to see us.”

The four officers held a brief consultation, peering anxiously out into the darkness as they argued, and finally a subaltern of the Sixteenth was deputed to accompany Jenny and the chaplain and to stand guard over them as they drew the water.

Initially they met with no opposition; working as fast as they could, they had filled two of the chattis

when, evidently alerted by the creaking of the ancient wheel mechanism, the watcher in the banyan tree opened fire. He got off two shots, both poorly aimed, which fell short of their unseen target, and then their escort returned the fire and brought the attacker crashing to the ground. He made off, evidently not seriously hurt, and the Reverend Walters murmured admiringly, “Oh, well done, Mr. Campbell! That was a remarkable shot.”

“I spotted the flash of his musket,”

Lieutenant Campbell whispered back, busily reloading his own weapon. “Are you nearly done, Padre? Because I fear they’ll be back in that infernal tree if we stay here much longer.”

“One more bucket will do it,” the chaplain assured him. “Ready, Mrs. De Lancey?”

The brimming bucket was hauled to the well top, their combined efforts speeding its passage, when, without warning, a tremendous explosion rent the air. It was followed by a second and a third, and half a mile away flames rose in a bloodred cloud to light the night sky to startling brilliance.

“By heaven!” young Campbell yelled, throwing caution to the winds in his excitement. “It’s the magazine! They’ve done it, thank God-they’ve blown the whole place up!”

Everyone was cheering when, stumbling under the weight of the heavy

chattis,

Jenny and her two companions regained the rear veranda of the beleaguered Residency. David Melgund came from the basement, his wife and a number of other women following eagerly behind.

Morale, which had been at a low ebb so short a time before, was miraculously lifted, as they all crowded onto the veranda to watch the pall of black smoke that now rose from the shattered magazine building, as witness of its destruction.

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful! Now the sepoys will not be able to bring any more cannon against us!”

“Or take them to Delhi-that’s what my husband’s men told him they intended to do, using elephants to haul them.”

“There were rifles there too-Enfields, the ones they refused, the treacherous fools, because of that scare concerning the grease on the cartridges!”

“The colonel succeeded, Mrs. De Lancey, against all the odds! He is a very brave man. No wonder he was recommended for the Victoria Cross in the Crimea. You must be very proud of him.”

Proud, Jenny thought dully-yes, she was proud of William’s bravery and his selfless devotion to duty. But anxiety for his safety had superseded pride, and she could not join in the cheers or respond to the plaudits of the Residency’s excited defenders, addressed to herself, since William was not there to

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receive them. If only they had listened to him; if only they had heeded his warnings, instead of waiting until the Rifles had murdered their colonel and it was too late! Not so long ago, some of these officers and their wives had reviled William, asserting scornfully that he was a scaremonger or worse, ignorant of the Company’s army and its great traditions, and on that account would have been wiser to hold his tongue.

If they had listened, the Residency might have been adequately prepared to withstand attack. All the British and Eurasian women and children might have been brought in, instead of just a handful, and the magazine might have been placed under European guard, so that there would have been no need for William to take his life in his hands in order to destroy it.

“Look! Isn’t that a Verey light,

fired from the river?” Captain Sangster was pointing, his voice suddenly harsh with strain. “A red and . .

. yes, that’s a green! That’s the signal-De Lancey’s come back by river. And another red-that means he needs help. Campbell, Lauder, Millbank-get down to the wharf as fast as you can! But for God’s sake look out-they may be under attack!”

But there was no firing, even when the three subalterns and the commissioner had set off at a run for the wharf at the far end of the Residency garden. Jenny waited, sick with apprehension, her heart beating wildly.

She tried to pray, but no words would come, and then Bella Gillespie, the adjutant’s young wife, came to stand beside her, white-faced and trembling. Her husband, Arnold, had been one of William’s volunteers, and one of the few officers in the Ranpur garrison who had feared, as had William, that the sepoys’ disaffection would sooner or later manifest itself in open and bloody confrontation.

“Oh, Mrs. De Lancey,” the girl whispered brokenly, “I-I’m so afraid. Oh, please God, grant they’ve come back safely!”

Jenny’s heart echoed her prayer, and they clung together, anxious and afraid, waiting for a glimpse of the returning volunteers. But first to come stumbling across the darkly shadowed garden was a little group of women, with children clinging to their hands or borne in their arms, and Jenny bit back a cry of disappointment, for it was Cornet Millbank, not William, who led the straggling procession, its rear brought up by two olive