The Strangler Vine (28 page)

We began to walk, Blake and I shouldering the last of our baggage, but still Mountstuart struggled. He muttered that his limbs hurt. At first he insisted he would not accept our offers of help, but eventually he let us take it in turns to support him, and so we made progress, but more slowly than we had done. All the while, I could see that Blake was marking our way, observing the sun, and looking out for signs of occupation as we went. In the early afternoon the forest thinned, and he stopped by a stream and smiled.

‘There is a village up ahead,’ he said. The rush of relief I felt was so great I almost stumbled, bringing Mountstuart with me.

‘How can you tell?

‘By the way the undergrowth has been worn and eaten by goats, and the bark has been harvested. The trees thin ahead. There’ll be fields. I shall go in, you stay here. Take shelter in the trees if you can.’

I would have protested, but Mountstuart folded his legs up and crumpled on to the ground and I could see he could go no further, nor safely be left. I too, truth be told, was at the end of my strength. So I watched Blake prepare himself. First he made himself a turban. Then he wound strips of blanket from our escape rope around his legs and arms. He stepped into the stream and covered his feet in mud until they were dirty and grey enough to belong to an elephant, or a much-travelled native, and then took Mountstuart’s sandals. He tore strips off his kurti. In one he cut holes for eyes and mouth, and wrapped it around his face. The others I helped him tie round his hands. He finished by donning one of the blankets. Almost
nothing of him could be seen but his feet. He took the branch Mountstuart had used as a stick, and shaped it with the knife into a stake. Then he bent over, and in one movement seemed to shrink and age several decades.

Mountstuart sat up, better humoured. ‘
Et voilà
,’ he said. ‘The leper.’

The jangal floor was thick with dead leaves and twigs, but there was little undergrowth to provide cover. ‘It would be best if you could get him up into a tree,’ Blake said, doubtfully. ‘You’ll be safer.’

I looked at Mountstuart. ‘I cannot see how that can be done,’ I said.

We ventured beyond the trees, through the tall grass, and eventually came to what appeared to be an abandoned irrigation ditch on the side of what had once been a cultivated field. Mountstuart and I sat down in the shadow of a tree. Blake did his best to disguise our tracks – though he was dissatisfied at the results – and I watched him walk back to the stream, cross it, and continue east into the trees on the other side. Mountstuart fell asleep almost immediately. I was relieved. I lay back and watched the light dapple the leaves, and tried to set aside the worries that crowded in: that I might not set eyes on Blake again, that Mountstuart was in no state to go any further. I dozed.

At length, Mountstuart hauled himself up.

‘If I do not have some form of verbal exchange I shall die of boredom,’ he said. He seemed much brighter than he had been for two days. ‘Young man, you say you came to India because of me. You may tell me which of my works you particularly admire, but first, how did you come to be attached to Blake?’

‘It still seems quite unlikely to me, sir,’ I said. ‘I was sent to Blacktown to summon him to Government House.’

‘So, you dislodged him from that miserable hole in Blacktown?’

‘Only just, sir,’ I said. ‘I think I aggravated him out.’ He smiled, a lazy, amused, charming, tired smile. ‘Then I was sent along with him for lack of anyone else.’

‘How flattering.’

‘Oh no, sir, they did not know how much of an admirer of yours
I was. I was given a copy of
The Courage of the Bruce
when I was fourteen. I have carried that copy, and all the others, all the way from Calcutta to Doora. It’s gone now, of course.’

‘I am honoured.’

I quoted my favourite verses, and he seemed pleased and talked a little about where he had been when such and such had been composed. He spoke of Runjeet Singh, the Lion of the Punjab, about meeting Lord Byron, about his first years in India. He talked of the Rao, and of other native princes he knew; of his dislike of Sleeman and the new missionaries from England and how India had changed, of the report that had been taken by the Thugs, of his new poem. He was animated and amusing, and his words tumbled out at almost too great a speed, and his eyes seemed huge and their pupils tiny little drills. He asked me about my time in Calcutta, and laughed uproariously at my answers, and then about my family and my home, which he plainly found less scintillating. Eventually, he came to a stop and we drifted again into silence. The thought that Blake might never return, held at bay all this time, returned, and the familiar sense of dread took hold.

Towards dusk there came the sound of brushing grasses and light footfalls. I pushed Mountstuart into the grass and flattened myself as best I could. A bundled figure hove into view. He whistled – a sound I thought I had not heard since I was in England.

‘Blake?’

‘Hush!’

Though I had seen him don the disguise that morning, I was still surprised. It might have been another man, older, inches smaller, bent out of shape, hands like claws, and leading, of all things, a donkey, which was carrying several packs and a large pot. He pulled off his hood and mask and unbent himself. ‘I have roti, rice, camel’s milk, walnuts, cloth and sandals.’

‘Walnuts?’ I said.

‘It’s the end of the season, we are lucky,’ he said. ‘We’ll eat the nuts and boil the shells to darken our skin.’

Mountstuart stood up.

‘See the conqu’ring hero comes! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!’ he said.

Blake stared at him, then slowly tethered the donkey to a tree. The food was like manna. Like nectar. Even the odd salty taste of the camel’s milk was good. In under the trees, Blake lit a small fire and filled his pot with water, and we cracked open the walnut shells, He said the village was called Seetabad. He had begged a few things and stolen others, including the donkey, and had established that the road that ran through it led north to Mirzapore. Our fortunes seemed suddenly transformed. I was more cheered than I had been since Doora, but he seemed distracted.

‘However did you take the donkey?’

‘I take no pride in it. It is some ryot’s livelihood and it will soon be missed, so we will have to move.’ He sighed. ‘But I have other news. I thought we would have gone far enough, but they are still pursuing us, and are not far. Two bands of travellers passed through Seetabad this morning: one was a group of musicians. The second, I imagine, was the rest of them. One of them was carrying a fine black and silver-inlaid scabbard. Very distinctive.’

‘Mir Aziz had a most distinctive scabbard just like that,’ I said.

‘Precisely. I calculated about fifteen men in all. I don’t know which way they went. But they are more determined in their pursuit than I had expected them to be. They should long since have melted back into the Mofussil. I fear they must have decided that they cannot afford to let us go; they are more persistent than I expected. If they return here, they’ll hear about my thefts. This place is too small for such happenings not to become widely known. We cannot stay. We must head for Mirzapore as fast as we can. We will travel tonight. It’s possible we’ll find a Company civilian in one of the next villages.’

‘But you have not rested at all, and I do not know how far Mountstuart can go.’

‘I’ll keep up. The donkey is for Mountstuart.’

The water boiled and we tossed in the walnut shells. It turned a dark muddy brown. When it had cooled, Blake took a muslin rag and
rubbed the mixture into his face, the backs of his hands and fingers, his neck, his arms, his feet and legs. The result was surprisingly effective. Mountstuart and I followed suit, and to finish we all dipped our hair in the mixture. I was pleased, but Blake shook his head.

‘Your eyes are too pale, your features too European, you are not built like a native, your feet are too smooth, and every time you open your mouth you betray yourself. If you had a beard and a smattering of Pashtu you might pass for a Pathan. But you don’t, and we must be inconspicuous. And so, Avery, a mute native woman it will be.’

‘Though it must be said that a six-foot native woman is hardly a common sight,’ said Mountstuart.

I was aghast. ‘You joke.’

‘I was never more serious in my life, William.’

I protested that my Hindoostanee had come on in great strides, that I should be hobbled and of little use in a fight. I pointed out that Mountstuart had far more practice in playing a woman. I pleaded that I might be a hooded, mute native man. Blake was immoveable.

‘Don’t be downcast, Avery. After so many years of reading Xavier’s verses, you will be able to tell your own tale of how you escaped the Thugs disguised as a native matron. You’ll be the toast of Calcutta. And it is really not so uncommon. Why, at any one time throughout the country hundreds of young men escape from prisons, and steal in and out of zenanas to visit their lovers, dressed as women.’ He was only half-joking.

There was little to be done. Blake produced cloth from his packs, Mountstuart and he wrapped their heads in pugrees, tied their trousers into rough dhotis, and wrapped blankets over their shoulders and heads. I, meanwhile, was swathed head to foot in the remaining blankets, and gave up my boots in favour of sandals – it was all I could do to prevent Blake from burying them. Mountstuart insisted that he inspect my walk, which he told me was not nearly demure enough. He demonstrated his patented ‘begum’s carriage’ – ‘Young man, I have used this many times in tight scrapes,’ he said – and insisted that I imitate him. Blake watched.

The moon was high and the night clear, and our strange little caravan was well lit: Mountstuart astride the donkey; Blake, his head hooded in his blanket and limping a little; and I, constrained from head to foot by my hateful robes. Blake’s plan was to gain the road, then walk parallel to it through the trees as far as we could before dawn. At first my sandalled feet caught on every creeper and root, and though they permitted me to uncover my face, I was regularly admonished for lifting my skirts too high as I strode. But the night was cool, and I was protected from the worst of the biting insects, and with every step we drew closer to Mirzapore. It was almost pleasant. One could hear the chirp of humming creatures and occasional night calls – the
chuck chuck
of nightjars, the screech of an owl, the cackle of some sinister hunting animal. Once we tiptoed past an old broken temple, fearing to rouse any holy man who might make his home there. The hours passed.

Just before sunrise the trees thinned and we found ourselves in the fields on the outskirts of another village. Several had the small covered platforms on which labourers kept watch for animals coming to eat the crops. At this time of year we did not expect to encounter watchers, but we were careful. We had agreed that we would avoid such places until we found a settlement large enough for a bazaar of sufficient size that we would not be too conspicuous. We walked deeper into the trees, found a hollow beneath a spreading tree surrounded by high grasses, and slept.

When I woke, Blake had gone to survey the village. I waited, the emptiness in my stomach almost painful. Mountstuart woke and looked about, ill-humouredly. He did not acknowledge my morning greeting. Blake returned with some bread. It was hardly enough to feed all three of us, and he was solemn and once again seemed preoccupied.

‘Really, Jem,’ Mountstuart said testily, ‘the bleeding heart is too much. It may be some poor native’s supper, but it is our survival.’

‘It is not that,’ said Blake sombrely. ‘We haven’t shaken them. They’re still after us. They asked about three Europeans. Or if
anyone had seen any group of three travellers. We could wait until they pass on, but the village is too small to steal from without attracting attention. And we must get you to Mirzapore. I reckon it as twelve or thirteen kos. Not more than thirty miles. We must trust to our disguises and take to the road, it’s busy enough.’

‘But you have hardly slept,’ I said.

‘And there is no need to make speed on my account,’ said Mountstuart, almost haughtily.

‘Xavier, you took the store. You took it all. There is none left.’

‘I had to, Jem. Besides, it was mine. And I am sure you have a little left somewhere.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Do not give me that accusing look, young man,’ Mountstuart said, looking at me. ‘You understand nothing!’

‘I am not giving you any kind of a look!’ I answered irritably. ‘And why can you not for once use my name? I do have a name, you know.’

‘Xavier can’t remember anyone’s names, never could. Too much trouble.’

‘He knows your name,’ I said accusingly.

Blake did not dignify this with a reply.

It was a wide dirt track, not unlike the Poona road we had taken south, but it was busier – most of the time. We met herds of goats, groups of singing pilgrims, a series of camel caravans, beggars and holy men. Then there were long periods when the road was empty. I could not decide which I liked less. When the road was busy I was stared at, no doubt because I was perceptibly taller than any woman on the road. I shrank from the scrutiny, pushing into the back of my hood and looking down so I could see even less. When it was empty I expected that small party of musicians with a mule at any moment. I should have felt better if I had not felt so confined and constrained by my skirts, or if I had had a weapon of some kind, but Blake had our one knife. And we made slow progress because of my woman’s garb and because Mountstuart had trouble remaining on the donkey, and so I had to hold on to him. As the day continued, he became testy. He began to slouch and sway, and to mutter in English that his limbs were aching and that he needed to
rest. In vain we frowned at him, and Blake rebuked him in some unfamiliar dialect, but he ignored us. Blake, meanwhile, acted as our scout, falling behind to see who was coming, or striding ahead to survey what would greet us.

It was early afternoon and the road was quite empty when he ran up behind us.

‘They are coming up behind us. Maybe a quarter of a mile. We cannot outdistance them.’