The Eden Passion (64 page)

At first the boy objected, more than willing to initiate a new thread into the conversation. "May I ride on your horse one day, Mr. Eden? I'm helping the stableboy to look after him."

John nodded. "Take good care of him for me, Aslam, and as soon as I'm able, we'll ride him hard."

At last the maternal voice won out, though the boy moved close to John's pillow before he was again turned away. "I'm glad you're here," he said with sweet simplicity.

In the distance, John heard the strains of a pump organ wheezing out a melancholy hymn. Dhari heard it too. "Come, Aslam, we're late."

Without a word she ushered her son out of the door and closed it behind her.

John closed his eyes. What series of blunders had led him to this helpless predicament? Even if he were well and able, would he want

to leave here? And where would he go? Back to England? Penniless as always. . . .

He turned his head too suddenly and for his efforts suffered a pain across his forehead. Soon enough he would have to rise and make a decision and choose a new direction.

But for now the distant hymn of the children kindled thoughts of his own childhood, of the Ragged School on Oxford Street, the presence of many children, his father . . .

For several minutes he enjoyed memories he'd long since forgotten, and realized now that he'd missed them.

Four weeks later, John sat on the cool veranda of Dr. Taylor's bungalow within the British Cantonment, drinking tea and looking out at the parade ground where the Thirty-eighth Native Infantry was performing regimental drills. Dr. Taylor had promised him that it would be quite a spectacle, with a grand finale, and well worth waiting for.

It was an awesome sight, the row upon row of men, British-appearing from the distance, with their scarlet tunics and white shakos, though not British, as his present company had repeatedly told him all afternoon.

He looked about at the others on the veranda with him. Dr. Taylor was there, of course, filling a wicker chair like an overfed Buddha.

To his right was his wife, Violet, a harmless creature, as fragile as her husband was massive. After Taylor's initial words several weeks ago concerning his wife, John had come on guard. But she had been gracious to him during the meal and after. Now she presided over her tea table, looking like the displaced Englishwoman that she was.

More threatening were the two ladies on his left, Mrs. George Smyth, Marjorie, as she'd informed him upon introduction, and Mrs. James Metcalfe, Hazel. Their husbands, both officers in the Thirty-eighth, were absent, in Nepal on a tiger hunt for the fortnight.

Gazing out over the shimmering heat waves, John wondered why he had come. He'd known beforehand that it would be dreary, a small suffocating world struggling to keep up the appearances of England. But Reverend Jennings had insisted, pointing out that the doctor had saved John's life and at least John owed him the decency of "breaking bread with him." Even Dhari had joined the conspiracy, producing a decent Western suit of clothes for him from God knew where. Only little Aslam had protested, claiming that if John

was well enough to go riding off in the back of a carriage, he was well enough to honor his promise of long standing to take him horseback riding.

John closed his eyes to rest them from the glare of sun and the meticulous formation of marching men, thinking on the little boy with real affection. How many pleasant hours they had passed, Aslam perched cross-legged on the foot of his bed.

Even more appealing than Aslam's company was Dhari's. Dangerous thoughts there. With his eyes still closed, he saw her so clearly, the most innocent, loving creature he'd ever known. The image that raced through his mind could not be borne in silence, and he must have made a sound, for at that moment Violet Taylor was hovering over him. "Mr. Eden, are you well?"

He looked up, embarrassed, to see all eyes upon him. His embarrassment increased as he saw the two ladies on his left on their feet as well, their hands pressed against his forehead where a single bandage still covered his head wound.

"He feels feverish," one exclaimed. "I'm afraid you let him get up far too soon, Reggie."

John tried to protest. "I'm . . . fine."

"Of course he's fine," Taylor grumbled. "If all of you would stand back and give him air. . ."

Reprimanded, the ladies retreated. Violet summoned a servant and ordered him to fan John.

"No, please," he begged, shaking his head at the approaching boy. "It isn't necessary."

Apparently the flurry of activity had roused Dr. Taylor out of his somnambulant state. To a nearby servant he bellowed, "Gin for two," and a few moments later, as the young dark boy served two appealing glasses of gin and lime, John sipped and felt the abrasive spirit cut through his earlier discomfort. As the ladies gossiped softly, he saw Taylor angling his chair closer, the lethargy of the afternoon apparently dissipated by the cool drink and the separation of the women.

"Well, Eden, what do you think of our coloreds?" He motioned toward the dark-skinned soldiers.

"Impressive," John said politely.

Taylor nodded. "Damn right it is," he muttered. "Look at them. Who'd believe that two thousand niggers could be trained to those maneuvers."

Beyond the man's fleshy shoulder, John saw a "nigger" fanning, listening closely.

"They're children, you know," Taylor went on. "But if you keep a tight rein on them, they'll do all your dirty work and smile while they're doing it."

John sipped his drink.

"Of course, we've had our troubles with them in the past. Every now and then you have to hang one or two just to remind them who the master is. Actually they make better servants than soldiers." He drained his glass, burped pleasurably and immediately called for another. As the young Indian boy stepped forward, John caught a glimpse of his eyes, brooding beneath his tightly wrapped turban. Had he understood anything that had been said?

As Dr. Taylor prattled on about the difficulties of Empire, John felt his mind wandering back to the mission school and took the first step in what he hoped would be a quick exit. "I really should be getting back to Delhi," he began.

"Nonsense," the man scoffed. "Old Jennings sleeps of a Sunday afternoon. And the nigger goes around to visit her grandfather in the palace." He looked up to John. "You have no immediate plans, I hope, to do an encore of your earlier escapade? You might not be so lucky the second time."

Without replying, John circled behind the man and looked longingly toward the broad central gate which led to the road beyond.

"Oh, come now, Eden," Taylor prodded. "What were you doing inside the Red Fort in the first place? It wasn't very intelligent, you know. That's their world. This one is ours. You can expect a measure of mercy from white Christians. Expect nothing from the savages."

The degree of hate in his voice was so heavy that John looked back, curious to see where the jocular fat man had gone. "Why do you stay, sir?" he asked.

"Where would I go?" The man grinned. "In exchange for setting limbs, delivering a babe or two, putting a cracked skull back together, I'm free to satisfy all my appetites." He shook his head vehemently. "I couldn't stand England after this. No, the truth of it is I love it here. Oh, I admit it would be better without the niggers. But you take one, you have to take the other. Right?"

With the next breath Taylor was waving him back into his seat with a mild scolding. "Now, sit down and be the proper English gentleman I told the ladies you were."

John held his position by the veranda railing, thinking how pleasant it would be to bury his fist in that grinning face.

Apparently Taylor saw his expression and lightly apologized. "Oh, come now, Eden, sit down again. I meant no offense. And believe me, the best is yet to come. Shortly we will treat you to a mild display of British authority. You might learn a thing or two from it."

Reluctantly John did as he was told, a bit curious about the "grand finale" which now had drawn others out of their bungalows into the fierce heat. The green surrounding the British bungalows was filling rapidly, pale English ladies with white parasols held aloft, a large contingent of scampering children, a sense of pampered boredom heavy on the air.

John looked away. Then he heard a rustle of excitement from the crowd gathered on the green and noticed simultaneously that the muffled thunder of thousands of marching feet had ceased.

"Ah," Taylor exclaimed. "Enough talk. Pay close attention now, Eden, and you'll see the British imperial hand at its best."

All across the parade ground the regimental drill had come to a halt. The two thousand native soldiers stood erect, their discipline dazzling. The dust blew in eddies about their feet, the air stilled, no sound at all except for the residue of laughing children being summoned and hushed by their mothers.

Slowly, out of the extreme right side of John's vision, he was aware of movement, a small contingent of men emerging from one of the distant buildings, a curious procession, six native soldiers, formally garbed in military uniforms, surrounded by a larger guard of twelve men.

Curious, John asked, "What is it?"

"Punishment," Taylor said. "Oh, not of a very serious sort," he added. "Don't worry. Nothing to offend."

John observed a thin red line of soldiers encircling the waiting native troops, a rapid cordon resembling a tightened knot, their rifles at the ready. Something about the scene struck him as bizarre, armed soldiers encircling armed soldiers.

Ever helpful, Taylor leaned closer with a succinct explanation. "The niggers' guns are not loaded." He grinned. "Ours are."

John received this information as simply one more piece of the puzzle, other events beginning to take place near the center of the parade ground as now six British soldiers marched forward in close formation until they were facing the six sepoys. The rest of the guard

stood back, supporting what appeared to be heavy chains between them.

To one side stood the commanding officer, who lifted his hand in signal, and one by one the six British soldiers stepped forward and pulled the shakos from the sepoys' heads and hurled them into the dust. Next, in precise gestures they tore the gold buttons from the front of the scarlet tunics, then the white cross belts, the ritual stripping proceeding at a rapid pace, the prisoners themselves removing their boots and trousers, standing ultimately naked on the hot parade ground, save for the narrow strip of white loincloth between their legs.

John looked away from the humiliating scene.

"What did they do?" he asked Dr. Taylor.

"Spread rumors, they did," the man replied. "Those six bastards circulated word that we had polluted their sugar and mixed ground bullocks' bones with the flour and that disguised in their food was cows' flesh."

"Any of it true?"

"Of course not. Well, I don't know. Christ, I'm not responsible for their feeding, thank god."

Again John looked out toward the parade ground, wishing more than ever that he'd taken an early leave. For several moments the six men stood erect in their seminaked state, not stirring. Then the remaining guard moved forward, dragging the heavy chains between them and, bending down, commenced one by one to fetter the men's ankles.

All at once, the first man who was being placed in chains lifted his head and cried out a single word.

"Asking for forgiveness." Taylor smiled.

"What is their sentence?" John asked, wondering how women and children could gaze upon such a sight.

"Ten years' hard labor on the roads/' came the pat reply. "Oh, they don't like it. I can tell you that. Look! Look at them."

As the second man was placed in irons, he looked over this shoulder and shouted something to the waiting sepoys.

Taylor giggled. "That one's asking for help. Can you believe it?"

John was prepared to believe anything, his mind still occupied with the harsh sentence. Ten years' hard labor, for spreading rumors about sugarl

The fettering was a slow and clumsy process, and nerves were taut as one by one the prisoners shuffled off, some of them crying for

mercy, some for help. Moved by their grief, John was in the process of looking for a more compatible horizon when suddenly he saw movement from the last of the prisoners, the only one who had yet to be fettered. Darting forward, the man in his terror raced across the parade ground, his brown legs blending with the dust, only his white loincloth sharply visible.

The unexpected escape stirred the troops, as with one accord they shifted forward. The encircling red cordon moved closer, and at the same moment, John observed a single guard raise his rifle with deliberation and sight carefully down his barrel as though he were gauging his range on a rabbit.

A single sharp report rang out over the stilled parade ground. The fleeing man's back exploded into a mass of red and he fell forward, one hand clawing for a moment, then growing still.

Nearby a small girl in her mother's arms started crying. Shocked, John stood up and turned away, facing the house now and the small congregation of servants, tears running down the women's faces, the young servant boy's face reflecting the shock that John felt.

"Oh, come now, Eden, you've seen worse," Taylor chided behind him. "There's this to be said about niggers. There's an endless supply of them, and the man did bolt."

But John could not take his eyes off the native faces. Ultimately they turned away first, leaving him gaping at the empty doorway. The sound of muffled marching and the shouts of the commanding officer filled his ear as the troops withdrew from the parade ground.

As always, Taylor was there, a puffing mountain of flesh and words. "Are you truly offended, Eden?" he inquired. "Surely I don't have to point out to you what would happen if such strict disciplinary measures were not taken. They outnumber us eight to one."

"No," John lied. "I'm not offended. If you'll excuse me, I must be getting back."

He saw Dr. Taylor signal the ladies that their guest was leaving. Then the large man followed him to the top of the stairs as though eager for a last private exchange. "How long will you be staying in Delhi, Mr. Eden?" he asked.