A Far Horizon (34 page)

T
he Chief Magistrate was trundled over rough ground in a large-wheeled bullock cart. The horns of the animals, stained red by henna, were all he could see from where he lay. The rouged tongues protruding from the heavy heads gave the creatures a fiendish appearance. The Chief Magistrate had a sudden vision of being drawn towards an underworld where unknown fates awaited him. At any moment he expected darkness to overwhelm him. Instead, he glimpsed a town of tents. He tried to raise himself upon an elbow but the fetters weighed him down. He lay back again on the rough, bumping boards, powerless to protest the journey. Above, drifts of dark cloud piled up in the sky, heralding the monsoon. He longed for the heavens to open upon him and cool his burning skin, but the rain still appeared a distance away.

He saw the ornate pinnacles of tents against the sky and managed at last to pull himself up. Across the plain tents adorned with bright pennants spread out as far as he could see. Guards stood before each of the larger tents, for these housed the army’s senior officers, along with their servants, harems and wine. A short distance away, Siraj Uddaulah’s great scarlet pavilion rose majestically. The Chief Magistrate expected to be taken again before the nawab to be pummelled by questioning, but the cart bumped on and did not stop
in this area of magnificence. Soon the tents they passed grew smaller and meaner and began to peter out. Eventually the cart stopped and Holwell, along with his three companions, was helped down and thrust into a tent that was no more than a blanket thrown over stakes.

The shelter did not cover their shackled feet, and if they sat up it threatened to topple upon them. So great was the exhaustion of the four men that these discomforts appeared nothing when compared to the suffering of the night before. Although the life of the camp bustled about them, nobody approached and no food was forthcoming. Soon they fell asleep.

The Chief Magistrate awoke with a start to darkness. At first he wondered where he was, and then remembered. The tent was filled with a sudden flash of brightness, as if someone passed with a flare. He saw the sleeping forms of Court, Walcot and Burdet pressed up close about him. Then the crack of bullets filled the air. The Chief Magistrate ducked down, his heart pounding, his mind torn open by fear. Not for a moment of the siege, nor even through the horrors of the Black Hole, had he quaked with this kind of fear. Only once, when as a small child he had watched the flickering of a candle on a wall and realised in those shadows he faced his own death, had he felt such emotion. Then, his mother had entered the room with comfort and a glass of warm milk. Here, he was far from his moorings. His teeth chattered and his body trembled in uncontrollable spasms. A steady trickle of water ran over his feet; he thought he had lost control of himself and was drenched with his own urine. Then the tent was once more illuminated and he saw that the sky was broken by lightning and the bullets were no more than thunder. The first monsoon shower bathed his feet. In sudden relief he realised then that he would continue to exist. He turned on his back and listened to the rain spitting down heavily upon the tent. The thunder cracked and grumbled, lumbering after the lightning. In a while the Chief Magistrate began to feel cold and the ground beneath him turned to mud. Yet in some way he could not understand, the rain appeared a
comfort, washing away the past few days. He closed his eyes and slept.

He was shaken awake in the morning. Although broken by cloud, and sky was hot again with sun. The parched earth had sucked up the rain and there was little evidence of the monsoon’s arrival but a thin wedge of freshness in the air. The Chief Magistrate’s joints were stiff, his head ached and his eyes hurt. He was shocked to see large boils appearing on his naked legs and arms. When he stood, the chains about his feet filled him with shame and anger. He demanded water for them all and was surprised when the water-carrier immediately appeared with his wet skins and allowed them to drink their fill. Soon the Chief Magistrate began to feel stronger. He was able to walk when soldiers once more appeared to prod him with the end of a musket. He presumed they were to be served up with breakfast to the nawab. Instead they were marched through the camp.

They set off from the tent, clothes muddied and torn, the sun roasting their heads and bare feet. Holwell had long ago lost his shoes; without buckles to fasten them they had soon come adrift in the Black Hole. He kept his head down as he walked, the three young writers trailing behind him. All he heard was the clanking of their chains as they were forced down long avenues of tents. The iron chafed against the Chief Magistrate’s ankles and the weight of the fetters diminished his stride to a shuffle. His toes were bleeding from the cuts of stones, and filth formed a crust upon them. With sudden nostalgia he remembered how, in what now appeared another life, the sight of dust upon his shoes had appeared a demeaning invasion.

Lining the road between the tents was a large part of Siraj Uddaulah’s army, called out to view the Hatmen prisoners who had dared to stand against them. The Chief Magistrate threw back his shoulders in defiance, thrusting out his chin. Either side of him was a wall of men; the rumble of their curses sprayed him with hate. The chains on his feet grew heavier, the rhythm of the fetters following the chant of the nawab’s army.

‘Hatman. Hatman.’

Beneath this weight the Chief Magistrate stumbled. He clutched at the soft cloth of a tunic and grazed his hand on the muzzle of a gun before he was pushed back on to his feet.

‘Hatman. Hatman.’

The Chief Magistrate lowered his head once more, not in shame or fear now but from a different emotion. His shoulders grew hunched and closer together, he condensed his tall frame and crossed his arms upon his chest as if to hide an emptiness, or to protect a precious core, his own hands cradling his terrified body. The darkness pressed closer about him until it seemed to shut out the sun.

They did not stop at the nawab’s great tent but were forced to march along the same route they had taken in the bullock cart, the rough ground bruising their bare feet. Occasionally they were given water. They marched all day and passed people already returning to Calcutta to remake their lives in Black Town, trundling carts and carrying babies. Once more women walked to the well, brass pots upon their heads. All turned to stare at the Fort William men clumping along in chains. Eventually, as the afternoon shadows lengthened, they reached the river bank and were ordered to sit on a landing stage jutting out into the water.

‘Where do you take us?’ the Chief Magistrate enquired.

‘The nawab’s order is that you are taken to Murshidabad.’ The guard had brought water but no food.

‘When do we depart?’ Holwell asked. No craft appeared to be in sight.

‘When there is a boat.’ The man shrugged and went back to his friends.

Their chains were not loosened, and without food the Fort William men grew faint. As darkness fell the guards lit a fire and began to eat their dinner. Eventually the Chief Magistrate and the young writers were brought a few handfuls of leftover rice. The guards pitched a tent but no shelter was provided for the Hatmen. The bamboo slats of the landing stage were hard beneath the Chief
Magistrate’s back. He looked up to the sky and saw the slender finger of a new moon slip away behind dark clouds. The scent of the river rose powerfully about him now, the water lapping beneath him. The incessant croaking of frogs was only inches from his ears. The creatures rose out of mud to hop about him; their dissonance resounded everywhere like a victorious braying. He turned and groaned, for he knew he was powerless now before the brutal will of the river. Whenever he closed his eyes the black goddess seemed to hover before him, ready to draw him to herself.

On a low hill a distance away the ruined walls of an old fort were silhouetted against the sky. The crumbling mass rose before Holwell in the dark, the haunt of jackals and ghosts, the secrets of its forgotten life buried by time. Few knew and even fewer cared who had lived or died there. The stoic loneliness of the remains struck a sudden chill in Holwell. India was full of such ruins. They stood everywhere. And for whatever little still stood above ground a whole history lay buried beneath. Under his head the rungs of bamboo pressed uncomfortably and the smell of wet mud filled his nostrils. He had a sudden vision of the earth beneath him, filled by the rubble of countless ruins descending layer upon layer far back into time. Time covered everything with its thick dust, obliterating the achievements of kings and the mundane doings of paupers. Time now appeared, to the Chief Magistrate, to be the mysterious essence of India. It out-waited everything. This thought filled him with fresh unease. India was a land of buried things. His insignificant mark on it would not even be recorded.

S
o strong were the Hoogly’s currents that when the tide flowed against the barge, the rowers were compelled to pull the boat forward with ropes from the shore. The Chief Magistrate had made the journey many times to Murshidabad and knew each curve of the river. On those journeys he had occupied a spacious houseboat and busied himself with work. Wherever they stopped, peasants had hurried forward to provide provisions. Now the barge offered no comfort or protection from the elements but a piece of rush matting to pull over himself. Mosquitoes swarmed about them, drawn to the blood from the pustules he scratched dementedly. He made no effort to sit up in the boat, dreading seeing the scenery he had passed before in such style. Now the river was winding him in like a fish on a hook to Murshidabad.

The monsoon had arrived at last in all its fury. Each day the rain beat down while the Chief Magistrate and the three young writers huddled beneath the inadequate matting. So great was the force of the rain that when each shower subsided the barge was awash with water and the boatman demanded they bail it out. Between showers, Holwell lay and stared up at the angry grey arc of the heavens. A strong wind pushed thick clouds across the sky, constantly forming and reforming them into fantastic shapes. The Chief Magistrate felt
he watched the changing form of a vindictive god whose fierce breath blew him towards his destiny. About him the river, whipped by the elements, pitched the boat about, its tides running beneath like lightning. At times he grew frightened, for between the river and the sky, he seemed pressed in by wrathful spirits determined to annihilate him.

Once, the sun came out and the Chief Magistrate looked up to see a broad rainbow arching above him. Never before had he seen so clear and vivid a sight. His breath caught at the beauty of the shimmering arc spanning the river. For a moment it seemed like a powerful omen sent from above to fortify him. Then he remembered that to the Hindus a rainbow was said to emanate from a serpent that lived beneath the earth. Through a hole in the ground it blew its searing breath, which immediately formed a rainbow. The Chief Magistrate’s surge of simple joy quickly dissipated.

Each night the barge was tied up and the boatmen lit a fire and cooked their dinner before they slept. The Fort William men were given a handful of rice, and water. Holwell slept fitfully, racked by fever and the painful boils still erupting all over his body. The piece of matting did not adequately protect him from the rain and he woke each night cold and sodden. Yet once, he had opened his eyes to a clear starry sky and had lain for hours staring at the heavens, thinking over his life. He had looked at the moon with a new sense of awe. He saw at last that through its descent into darkness it had found the secret of renewal. Then, as he watched, the sky was suddenly filled with innumerable meteors descending towards him like the vivid streaks of fireworks. He sat up in excitement, but when he looked again the phenomenon was gone. In all his years in India he had never seen such a sight. And although he could see nothing but the still, luminous sky, he was suddenly sure God wished to tell him something that he must struggle to decipher.

They stopped on their journey at Chandernagore and were allowed to meet the French residents there. They could not leave the boat, but on the bank of the river a tent was erected where the
French were allowed to offer the prisoners food, fresh clothing and a few hours of companionship. Some strength returned to the Chief Magistrate after these refreshments, and he found the energy to explain to the Frenchmen what had happened at Fort William. When he came to speak of his incarceration in the Black Hole he found his mouth ran dry. Something hot seemed to burst in his head and the words dried on his tongue.

‘And then what did they do to you?’ The Frenchmen sat before him, untouched by battle, immaculate in their formal coats of decorative design. Their eyes were enquiring but cool, filled with sympathy and incomprehension. Their lives, thought the Chief Magistrate, had not been brutally tossed aside by an arbitrary ruler. After his departure they would calmly return to their wine and cards. The Chief Magistrate began his story of the Black Hole, struggling with his anger and anxious to make a dramatic impression on the impassive Frenchmen. The imprisonment of thirty men, however hot and thirsty, with enough air to keep them alive and space to crouch down, however cramped, would not constitute atrocity. The Chief Magistrate knew that it would at once be pointed out that those who had died in the Black Hole were already sick or wounded and fast approaching the end of life as the door of the cell closed on them. Some stretching of the truth was needed to adequately convey the horror and humiliation of that night. The Chief Magistrate’s rage flared up anew each time he thought of it. In his mind now everything seemed confused; a multitude of images from the last few days crowded his memory and unravelled before him as he spoke.

‘Two hundred helpless women and children were taken with us at swordpoint. We were thrust into a warehouse too small for such numbers and left there to endure a night beyond all imagination. We could not move. Water was denied us and there was no air to breathe. The cries of the children were pitiful. Through the bars the guards looked on and laughed, enjoying our discomfort. Countless numbers expired in the night. In the morning, even though so many had already died so cruelly, the devils set the building on fire. By
some miracle we escaped as the fire crashed about us. Out of two hundred, we and a few more are all that are left. The others were freed. Only I and these three unfortunate men are to face the further revenge of Siraj Uddaulah.’ The Chief Magistrate had the satisfaction of seeing the Frenchmen stir in unease at his description. Outside the tent, rain began to fall again, thrashing upon the canvas.

‘Give me pen and paper. I will write it down. Let it be recorded, for if I do not return from Murshidabad, then who will adequately state what has happened?’ the Chief Magistrate announced.

A quill and paper were quickly brought and Holwell leaned forward over the table, his anger suddenly channelled as he moved his pen across the page. His mind was now in a feverish state and he could not stop scratching the boils on his body. Already blood trickled down his legs and stained the clean shirt he wore. He wrote for some minutes, absorbed in his task, unaware of the men before him, reliving the humiliation of the last few days with every word he wrote. For good measure he now made the victims in the warehouse three hundred, and he diminished the size of the building until the crowd were forced to sit upon a carpet of those trampled to death beneath them. He remembered again the privateer captured by the French whose crew had been forced to drink their own urine to assuage their thirst, and added the detail to his own account. At last the Chief Magistrate put down his pen and sprinkled the parchment with sand.

‘If I do not return, see that the world and Leadenhall know of the evil of Siraj Uddaulah,’ the Chief Magistrate urged the Frenchmen.

*

Eventually they reached Murshidabad, drawing slowly into that iniquitous city. Against his inclination, the Chief Magistrate felt forced to take note of his arrival. He sat up in the barge to view the place that he had faced with such certainty before. Now his boat passed the bank unheralded. His filthy face drew no more than curious glances as they neared the landing stage. The palace of Siraj Uddaulah slid past, its great walls austere and almost windowless,
meeting the river’s edge. The Chief Magistrate could not view it without a wave of fear. They did not draw up at the quay near the palace where he was used to arriving, but pulled on to the wharf that served the common people. Here, the Chief Magistrate and the writers were told to disembark.

Once more, Holwell and the three men were paraded through the town, fetters clanking as they shuffled along. The people of Murshidabad jostled to catch a glimpse of them. The Chief Magistrate kept his head down, as was now his policy in such situations, and hardened himself to the scorn. So great was his resolve to show no emotion that he did not flinch when a rotten guava and then some eggs were thrown at him. He was determined that, whatever his fate at the hands of the heathens, he would meet it with dignity. For the men trudging behind he was an example of fortitude and helped them to find resolution. At last they came again within sight of the river and trudged along its bank. Soon they turned back into the town and stopped before a disused stable. They were thrust inside and thrown down upon a bed of straw.

At first the Chief Magistrate felt a sense of relief. After the slimy wet boards of the boat, the straw was dry, and the roof above them would give protection from the rain. It did not take long for the Chief Magistrate to realise his mistake. The straw was filthy and crawling with vermin. And although the cell had a roof, it lacked a door and was open to the road. The populace of Murshidabad had ample opportunity to view the Hatmen for as long as they desired. And this they did, pushing and shoving, gawking and giggling. A stream of red betel-nut spittle soon landed on the Chief Magistrate. At this insult he struggled to his feet to remonstrate with the crowd. A guard pushed in and threw him back on the straw. Later, he realised that the guard was actively announcing that the Hatmen were there for viewing, as if they were circus freaks. He knew then that this stall had been especially chosen for the public access it gave to them.

At times that night he slept, but longed now for the openness of
the barge with the arc of the heavens above. Soon, sick and feverish, he lost track of time, unable to tell if days or hours had passed. He felt himself falling to a timeless place beyond sleep where he was no longer conscious of the world. From this place he rose, delirious, to eat a handful of rice whenever the guard remembered to feed him. He knew in this place he faced death. The familiar smell of the river came to him, and in the night he could hear once more the hollow honking of frogs and the soft lapping of water. A new fear entered his dreams. The black goddess, that bone-wreathed mistress of the place of skulls, appeared near enough to breathe upon him. He shivered at the visions that now engulfed him. Sleeping or waking, he felt the goddess’s rage. He whimpered, turning on the straw, but could no longer deny her. Her slimy attendants, the frogs, croaked from the river through the night, taking force and form in the Chief Magistrate’s mind as if to wreak further terror.

He saw then the lonely transience of his life, puffed up with ambition and emptiness. He saw a vision of ruin and rubble, like the town he had left, overgrown with weeds in the pitiless heat as he himself was overgrown with expectation. He knew that if he could acknowledge the reality of this vision, the goddess would at once be as merciful as she was now merciless. But as he could not do this, could not renounce himself, there was no release from his fear.

Other visions forced themselves up, as if some indigestible substance had been stirred and now spewed out of him. His wife and dead child and then the girl, Sati, swam before him. Her amber eyes had pleaded with him on that long-ago day, even though she had been mute in his grasp. He had not cared as he had forced himself on her, ripping her body apart, cracking her life in two as he sought his revenge on her mother. The pain he had inflicted on her came to him now as his own.

As this vision died, another memory rose. He saw fields of lavender-coloured pampas grass and the white splash of egret storks. Coconut palms and mango trees stood about a pond and the mud huts of a village he had come to in a tour of duty as Chief Zamindar.
Dogs slept in the shade of trees. Blue water hyacinths clustered on the pond beside a group of women washing clothes. A girl swept the ground before a hut; gourds dried on top of roofs in the neat and orderly village. On the walls of the huts and every other available surface, pats of cow dung were drying. Fresh pats stood out in a darker brown and all carried the pattern of fingers. The Chief Magistrate found the village distasteful, for like all villages, it seemed to be built on a foundation of dung. The smell of excrement was in the air and formed the walls of huts. It was used for fuel, poultices and religious fires and was plastered thickly on the trunk of the tree behind him. Nearby, a mound of fresh dung was kneaded like dough by three women. Their hands sank deep into the stuff, coating their arms to the elbow. They gossiped as they worked, feeling no revulsion in their task, shaping dung biscuits between their fingers just as Holwell’s cook fashioned the rolls he ate for breakfast.
People
of
dung
was how he saw them, lost to all effort of civilisation. A wave of strong feeling passed through him. He refused the food the villagers brought to him, eating only what his own servants prepared. At times, after such a tour of duty, the Chief Magistrate returned to his wedding-cake house with a strange energy pulsing through him. It was almost as if he absorbed from these illiterate villages the very throb of their submerged life. He felt himself grow large amongst them, his authority strengthening, his ambition swelling.

That day, beneath the tree, his coolies set up the chair and table from which the Chief Magistrate would dispense his justice. The men of the village squatted in a circle about him, their expressions unreadable, their dark eyes without emotion. The village was troublesome, never paying rent for the farms leased from Fort William without intervention. The Chief Magistrate had brought with him three
gomastah,
the men whom he sent abroad to buy goods in the villages. He had been warned about the village and felt he should be prepared. The
gomastah
were rough men, as they had to be when dealing with an irksome people; they had the power to seal
leases and mete out punishments as they saw fit. The populace was afraid of them.

The Chief Magistrate called the first plaintive and immediately an argument began. The village was adamant they could not afford the rents for their land. The harvest had been bad and cholera plagued the village. Normally, the Chief Magistrate would have listened with some sympathy and tried to find a compromise, but the attitude of the villagers annoyed him. One man in particular appeared the ringleader, encouraging the others to speak out, stepping forward in a bold manner to make demands on behalf of the village. The
gomastah
were enraged, for it appeared this man was the chief offender, never paying his rents on time, always full of excuses, fearing no one. He came right up to the Chief Magistrate’s table and spoke without restraint or even humility, as if he was an equal. Such insolence filled the Chief Magistrate with fury. He demanded past ledgers be opened and the sum of the villager’s debt investigated. The man had then become unruly and lunged at the Chief Magistrate with a knife. Others in the crowd rose up to join him. At last the man had been restrained by the
gomastah,
and his hands tied behind his back.