Black Rainbow (27 page)

Early in
1857 the British army in India was issued new cartridges for their Enfield rifles. Heavily greased with animal fat, the casings had to be ripped open with the teeth in order to free the powder before they were rammed into the guns. Some soldiers were of the Hindu faith, which considered cow's fat an abomination; others were Muslims and had been taught to regard pigs as unclean. When Colonel Smyth,
commanding the garrison at Meerut, ordered the men to use the new cartridges, the Indian regiments refused, starting a conflagration that spread like wildfire across British India. The cartridges were only an excuse, the last of many violations of age-old custom by the conquerors; the result was the most bloody military mutiny in history. Reaction in England rose to a pitch of fury when Cawnpore surrendered to the mutineers on June 27, and the women and children of the garrison were brutally massacred.

Like everyone else in England that summer, Jane snatched up the newspaper as soon as it came into the house. Since they took the London journals, she was not particularly concerned when the local newspaper failed to appear in its usual place on the library table, but after three days had gone by she asked the footman whose duty it was to distribute incoming mail and parcels. The newspaper had arrived, he assured her. Perhaps Mr. Edmund . . . ?

It had not occurred to Edmund that the London papers would report a provincial story. Most of them did not, but the
Times
had an ambitious local correspondent who sensed potential drama. The London editor was not so sure, but he gave it a few lines on a back page.

"Labor Agitator Arrested. Incitement to riot, trespass, abduction. . . ."

It was the last charge that left Jane doubting the evidence of her own eyes. The story was infuriatingly skeletal; no names were mentioned except Sam's. Her first impulse was to order her horse brought around, to jump into the saddle and ride. . . . Where? Sam was being held at the county seat, but it would do no good to go there, she would probably not be allowed to see him without permission from a magistrate. Sir William Gilbert was one of the justices. And Edmund was another. ... He had been appointed the previous autumn.

He had gone out, and it was several hours before he returned. By the time he came, Jane had convinced herself there must be some mistake. Edmund would set it straight.

He had been so reasonable the last few days... . Perhaps the journalist had mistaken the name, or an overzealous constable had acted on the old warrant, not realizing it could not hold. There were a dozen witnesses who could prove that Sam Freeman's actions on the night of the riot were blameless.

However, she was too upset to settle anywhere, so when Edmund entered the house, she was lying in wait for him.

"Edmund, I must talk to you at once."

Edmund brushed past her and started up the stairs. "I hope you don't mind if I change first. I have been in the saddle all afternoon."

Jane followed him. His face was calm and untroubled, his manner casual; but for some reason she could not have explained, that moment was the beginning of realization. She had difficulty keeping her voice steady. "It can't wait."

"Oh, very well." He glanced at her obliquely. "I see you are in one of your moods. Where is this confrontation to take place?"

Jane gestured mutely. She needed the comfort of familiar surroundings.

Edmund opened the door of her sitting room and stood back with exaggerated courtesy to let her precede him. Picking up the newspaper, she held it out to him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"It is written in plain English, I believe."

"Then it was you. ... I can't believe it."

"I told you I was determined to put an end to violence of that sort."

"But you know the truth. You know he came to warn us."

"Jane, Jane, you are hopelessly naive. It is time you learned to stop taking people at face value."

The last doubt, the last hope, died as she studied his face. "Yes, you are right," she said finally. "I have been naive. You encouraged the union and the cooperative shop, didn't you? You hoped to lull him into a false sense of security and then you had him arrested."

"I don't intend to explain my actions to you." Edmund turned toward the door.

"You cannot succeed, Edmund. I can stop you, and I will. Never doubt that."

"What do you mean?" Edmund spun around.

"You must be mad!" She struck her hands together, unable to comprehend what she had heard. "If you believe these charges, you are insane. If you know them to be lies, you are a villain. Do you think I will keep silent while you swear his life away? My word is as good as yours, though I am a woman."

Calculation replaced the anger on his face as he stood staring at her. She realized he had not expected such a reaction from her, and she did not know what appalled her more, his overwhelming egotism or his indifference to the feelings of others.

"You can't do that," he said after a while.

"I will do it! How can you prevent me?"

She had thought herself completely undeceived, with no illusions left, but she was wrong; she was still ignorant of how far Edmund had gone on the long dark descent. When he raised his hand she didn't even try to avoid the blow. Until it actually landed, she could not believe he would do it.

Edmund could not have found a more secure prison. The only part of the old wing that was inhabited was the long
corridor at the front. This room was at the far end of the same wing, cut off by several doors and a flight of narrow, twisting stairs. She could scream and pound the door till throat and fists were raw, and even if a servant heard a distant cry he would not come to investigate; he would run away as fast as his legs could carry him. The windows were small and high, so thickly encrusted with the grime of centuries that sunlight scarcely entered.

But the strongest bars on the prison were impalpable. They were created by Edmund's unassailable position and unquestioned authority. She could not imagine what excuse he would invent to account for her sudden disappearance— a message from a dying friend, a sudden whim to travel? He might even profess ignorance as to her whereabouts and set the servants to searching the countryside. It didn't matter what he said. No one would question his word.

Her nerve did not break till darkness came. In the meantime she had explored the room in the forlorn hope of finding a way of escape. There was none; even the windows were sealed shut by rust, their thick, uneven panes scarcely more translucent than the leaded frames that held them. In addition to the bed, a big four-poster with rotted hangings fringing its top, the room contained only a table and two broken chairs, a few rough, chipped earthenware bowls, and a broken candlestick without a candle.

The first trickle of terror invaded her mind while she was walking up and down and heard each footstep echo faintly, as if an invisible companion kept pace with her. Only an echo—of course—but she scrambled up onto the bed with more speed than dignity. At least its headboard was against the wall. There were, she supposed, rats. . . .

As night crept in and deepened, she realized there were worse things than rats. The creatures of darkness entered into their kingdom; goblins and demons, the pale wraiths of the restless dead, every monstrous creature from every folktale and legend she had ever heard crowded around the bed,
gibbering and leering. The barriers of rational skepticism went down before that diabolical assault. Huddling against the carved headboard, Jane sobbed and screamed for help like the madman who had once inhabited the chamber. Her incoherent cries were addressed to Edmund. God had nothing to do with this; the Powers of Light seemed infinitely far away.

Sheer exhaustion finally reduced her weeping to long, gasping sobs, and slowly, so slowly that she was scarcely aware of when it began, she realized that something was aware of her need and was responsive to it. It had no name and no dimension. It was simply there, and in its presence the leering shapes shrank back. Jane's tense muscles relaxed. Her head drooped. She was asleep.

When Edmund finally came, she was still sleeping. His movements roused her, but when she opened her eyes she was conscious of only one thing. Light. Beautiful, comforting, wonderful light. She sat up, brushing the tangled hair from her eyes.

The lamp, which Edmund had placed on the table, was one of hers. Its clean modernity, and the flowers painted on the base, looked utterly incongruous here, but its glow banished the demons.

"There," Edmund said, indicating a heavy basket. "Food and drink and a few other necessities. It should last several days, but I expect to return tomorrow night at the same time."

A wave of fresh disbelief swept over Jane. His calm, matter-of-fact tone was that of an innkeeper attending a guest.

"You can't hope to succeed in this," she said. "How long do you think you can keep me here before my absence is questioned?"

"It won't be long. A week, perhaps two."

"He will come to trial as soon as that? I assume that is your reason for this—this criminal act—to keep me from testifying."

"If you were not so disloyal and treacherous, it wouldn't be necessary."

"But, Edmund . . ." The weaknesses in his position were so apparent to her she could hardly believe they needed to be voiced. "I am not the only one who will speak for him. You can't abduct all the witnesses."

"The others will be reasonable. You have already proved, a hundred times over, that you cannot accept my authority."

"What is to prevent me from going to the magistrates even after the trial? Or do you plan to silence me permanently?"

"How dare you?" Edmund cried angrily. "Can you think me capable of such villainy?"

His indignation was genuine. This was what it must be like to reason with a lunatic, Jane thought.

Edmund resumed, in a quieter voice. "I am deeply hurt, Jane. But that is nothing new. You have wounded me to the heart more times than I can count. When I think how often, how passionately I longed for home and a life of peaceful happiness—and how tragically everything I yearned for has failed me. I will not give in to the unfairness of fate. I will overcome adversity and achieve the happiness I deserve. Oh, Jane, if you would only help me! Life could be so wonderful."

His pleading look and voice, his outstretched hand would have moved her once. Now she felt only numb dismay. Seeing her expression, he shrugged and let his hand fall.

"Perhaps a few days of quiet meditation will change your mind. I have not given up hope of you, Jane. You are not evil, only misguided."

When he reached for the lamp, Jane found she was not as strong as she had thought. "Please, please, Edmund—don't take the light!"

"Very well. If you want it, you shall have it. You see, I am doing my best for you, Jane. Is there any other small comfort you would like?"

Jane let out a strangled gasp of laughter. The desolate, ruined room was so lacking in even basic necessities that his question had a kind of ironic humor.

"Blankets and mattress, cleaning materials, fresh clothing, a bath," she began.

Edmund made it clear that he considered these demands unreasonable, but he promised to bring some of the things she wanted the following night. He was in a hurry to be gone, and Jane was equally anxious to be rid of him. His presence had become a horror worse than any imaginary demon.

The light made all the difference. Or perhaps her fit of weeping had exhausted fear; she remembered her strange fancy, of someone listening to her pleas, with a sad smile and a shake of her head. How glad she was that Edmund had not heard her frantic cries! They would not have moved him, and pride was the only thing she could cling to now. He was guiltless of one crime, though; he had not deliberately deprived her of light. Having no imagination himself, he could not realize the dreadfulness of the dark.

The basket contained a bizarre mixture of practical and luxury items—cheese and bread, a jar of preserved strawberries and a bottle of wine; a pair of high-heeled satin slippers, which she had never worn, and an old flannel dressing gown, among other things. Jane put on the dressing gown and forced herself to eat some of the bread and cheese. She had no appetite, though she had not eaten since lunch, but she knew she ought to keep her strength up.

After brushing the worst of the dust from the bed, she wrapped her gown around her and lay down, her eyes fixed on the comforting glow of the rose-painted lamp. But she had the feeling that even if it were taken away she would never feel the same degree of terror. She had reached the abyss and come back; she would not have to pass it again.

The following
days tried her patience and her strength to the utmost. There were a few incidents of incongruous humor, verging on the farcical; one was the sight of Edmund's look of fastidious dismay when she gravely presented him with the vessel she had been forced to employ as a chamber pot. He hadn't thought of that—though how anyone, even Edmund, could have ignored it she could not imagine. His response was typical. When he returned the following night, he brought a servant with him. The man was a stranger to Jane, who would never have employed such a villainous-looking creature; grossly and unhealthily fat, with little piglike eyes and unshaven jowls. He performed the functions for which Edmund had fetched him with nervous alacrity and retreated without once having looked directly at Jane.

"I will be away for a few days," Edmund said. "He will come in my place."

"That disgusting creature?"

"If he does anything to disgust or offend you, he will be severely punished. He knows that. In fact, he has been forbidden to speak to you, so don't waste time trying to bribe or cajole him into letting you out."

Naturally, Jane did try. But she found her jailer, whose name she never learned, as impervious as Edmund had claimed. He was afraid of her; his sidelong glances and fumbling movements made that clear, and at first she could not comprehend why. One blow from his hamlike fist would have crumpled her like a sheet of paper. Finally she understood. Edmund must have told him she was mad—described fits of gnashing, scratching, biting insanity.