A Singular Hostage, page 17
Lord Auckland looked silently down on his cavalry escort as they waited for the Maharajah's elephants to join the march. “I agree. We mustn't wait any longer for the old man.” A sigh shook his large frame. “All this is most disappointing. I shall be very sorry to lose the Maharajah's army, although our own force is certainly strong enough to take Kabul without him. But we must get written assurance of a right-of-way up to the Khyber Pass. We must have a signed treaty before another week goes by.”
Macnaghten wiped his face. “I believe we will, my lord.”
“Then get it for us.” Lord Auckland tugged his brocade coat over his midriff. “The Honorable East India Company cannot be held hostage by a petty Maharajah.”
Macnaghten swallowed. “No, my lord, of course not.”
THREE elephants behind Lord Auckland, the two Eden ladies perched on their seats like a pair of bonneted birds. Across from them, Mariana looked ahead for a sight of Fitzgerald riding with the honor guard. She had not seen much of him in the evenings recently, as the ladies had been excluded from Ranjit Singh's nightly drinking parties, orgies by all accounts, most unsuitable for gentlewomen.
That exclusion had been a relief. The old Maharajah's leering glances at Mariana had been unnerving enough in the daytime when he was sober. Heaven only knew how he would behave when tipsy.
As if he had read her thoughts, Ranjit Singh and his elephants materialized like a mirage on the plain, heralded by a great cloud of dust.
“Miss Emily,” Mariana ventured, “I am sure there is an explanation for Lieutenant Fitzgerald's broken engagement. Can we not ask him what happened? Perhaps the story has been exaggerated by gossip.”
If only they would speak to Peter Edwardes….
Miss Emily turned a stern blue eye on Mariana. “My dear child, we would all like to think well of the young man, but I do not believe in smoke without fire. While I agree that some details of the tale may have been exaggerated, I cannot allow you to risk your future on someone with his reputation. Deserving or not, Lieutenant Fitzgerald has been disqualified.”
The Maharajah's procession had drawn closer. The discordant sounds of his music, the bellowing of his men, the circling of his nobles' horses all came into focus through the dust. Mariana bit her lip. This should be one of the great moments of her life. She would never see a durbar like this one again. She turned her bonneted head away from the advancing native train and wiped away her tears of frustration with the back of her hand.
India was ruined for her.
VILLAGERS squabbled over the Maharajah's shower of coins. Petitioners ran, shouting and gesturing, beside his elephant. His band played “God Save the Queen,” leaving out several parts of the melody. Slowly, noisily, the Sikh and British elephants merged into one procession.
“Poor George,” sighed Miss Emily as they watched Lord Auckland climb into the royal howdah and embrace Ranjit Singh. “I do believe he could almost bear this durbar if he did not have to keep hugging the Maharajah.”
Peacock feather fans, yak tails, and silk standards were raised. At a signal, the official drummers began their steady pulse and the band took up the marching song. One by one, the elephants shifted their weight. The ponderous, gaudy, noisy procession began to move. The march to the Golden Temple began at last.
As they set off toward the city and the temple whose dome gleamed in the distance, Mariana caught sight of one of the honor guard riding ahead of the elephants. He wore the blue dress uniform of the Bengal Native Artillery and a shiny dragoon helmet whose red horsehair plume rippled in the sun. He looked back briefiy, a hand shading his eyes, then turned and rode on toward Amritsar.
TEN miles behind the marching elephants, a small caravan of horsemen and loaded camels followed the same road.
Yusuf Bhatti turned to Hassan, his saddle creaking. “If we do not stop for food, we should reach Amritsar by early evening. In that case, we may see the Maharajah tonight.”
“No, Yusuf, we must eat,” said Hassan beside him. “God willing, my Saboor will be waiting for me whenever we arrive.”
Yusuf nodded silently. He did not have Hassan's patience. Even in his agony, the man had done his duty. Days and nights spent arguing with the leaders of Kasur had gained him half the tribute money he had been ordered to collect. Now, with a line of laden camels roped together behind them, he and Yusuf had hope. Saboor's fifteen days had now passed. Surely the Maharajah would keep his word and return the child, especially when he saw the camel-loads of treasure they had brought him. But, Yusuf asked himself, if all were well, why had Hassan's father sent that mysterious letter, delivered three days ago by an exhausted courier from Lahore to their camp at Kasur?
“My son,” the Shaikh had written, “I have not told you this before, but according to Shafi Sahib, Saboor is to be rescued by an outsider whose identity is yet to be determined. As Shafi Sahib is rarely wrong, I believe you may comfort yourself with this news.”
Yusuf had seen the letter himself. He knew that it now lay in the pocket over Hassan's heart.
Rescue. The Shaikh used no word lightly. He must mean that the Maharajah would refuse to return Saboor. He might also mean, although Yusuf had not said this aloud, that Saboor's condition was worse than they had imagined. Who, then, would intervene, and return the child, alive, to his family?
“Hassan,” Yusuf said carefully, “if, God forbid, all does not go as planned, there is the letter.”
The air had grown cold. “Yes,” Hassan said, as he drew his shawl about his shoulders. “There is the letter.”
The interior of the Golden Temple, spiritual center of the Sikh religion, was airy and cool, but it lacked chairs. The three Englishwomen lowered themselves as decorously as they could to the expanse of carpet covering the fioor.
Mariana crossed her legs under her skirts and looked over the men who sat facing each other at the center of the vast space. Lord Auckland looked most uncomfortable on his backless cushion. Fitzgerald must be there, too, but she could not see him.
“I do not know how much longer I can bear sitting like this,” Miss Fanny murmured, wincing as she shifted her limbs beneath rosefigured skirts. “My knees are aching horribly.”
Miss Emily, her face set into grim lines, said nothing.
“I see a lovely, comfortable-looking wall,” added Miss Fanny mournfully, “but it's miles from here.”
Above their heads, perfumed smoke from hundreds of incense sticks hung in the air, catching the light from the temple's high windows. From the direction of the altar, stringed instruments took up a minor melody, joined by nasal voices. Along the walls, the Maharajah's turbaned chiefs stood in elegant, whispering groups.
Mariana absorbed the scene avidly. The Eden ladies had ruined her happiness with Fitzgerald, but, she realized, they had not spoiled India for her. India, with all its peculiarities, would always belong to her, and she must always share it with her father. That much, at least, they could not take from her.
On his own cushion, the old Maharajah talked steadily, weaving pictures with his hands. Facing him, Lord Auckland, his face a mask of strained politeness, nodded at intervals while Mr. Macnaghten translated, his brow knit in concentration. From time to time, Lord Auckland detached his attention from the Maharajah and gazed toward the entrance.
“He looks,” whispered Miss Fanny, “as if he hopes someone will come through the door and rescue him.”
“Shhh,” replied Miss Emily without moving her lips.
The Maharajah looked across, noticing the Eden ladies' expressions. “Your ladies are becoming bored,” he announced, and caught the eye of a white-bearded priest, who nodded. “Let them see the Granth Sahib,” he ordered, then turned his attention back to Lord Auckland.
On the marble altar, beneath a golden canopy supported by silver poles, the holy book of the Sikhs lay under its many fine coverings. The priest motioned for the ladies to approach.
Miss Emily and Miss Fanny rose gratefully and, supporting each other, rustled unsteadily toward the altar and its row of elderly priests. Mariana trailed in their wake.
As she passed a shadowed corner, a small, bearded man stepped suddenly from the shadows. On his shoulder lay a baby in a round, stiffiy embroidered cap, whose mouth hung open as he slept. She gasped.
The man addressed her softly in Urdu. “Memsahib,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers, looking at the ground, at the ceiling, over her shoulder, “Memsahib, you speak our language.”
The baby had drooled, leaving a stain on the man's shirt. He shook the child gently against him. “This little one is a hostage of the Maharajah. His condition is bad.”
This was the exhausted child she had glimpsed with the Maharajah at Firozpur. “Hostage?” she asked, not certain she'd understood.
“Yes. To be sure of the loyalty of his courtiers, the Maharajah sometimes keeps their children in his Citadel. Baba has spent much of his life there with his mother. Now the mother has died, and poor Baba is all alone with the Maharajah. He cannot see his father or his grandfather, or any of those who love him.”
The Eden sisters had reached the altar. They leaned over it, cooing in mannerly appreciation. The priest spoke beside them, his voice a deep rumble. They turned, uncomprehending, looking for Mariana to translate for them.
“There are those at the Citadel who are jealous of the favor the Maharajah bestows on Baba.” The servant pushed up the child's scarlet sleeve. In the half-light of the temple, Mariana could see fading bruises on the small forearm. She felt her heart contract.
“Where is his family?” Her sharp whisper echoed back from the stone walls.
“They are in Lahore, except for his father, who has been sent away.”
What a peculiar, cruel country this was, but what could she do? She spread her hands. “I am sorry.”
The ladies beckoned. Mariana moved to pass, but the servant stepped sideways again, blocking her way. “The Maharajah loves Baba,” he insisted, his voice trembling, “but he knows nothing of children. He does not see how sad Baba is, how much Baba longs for his dead mother, and for his father who loves him. Baba never smiles. I fear he will die of grief.”
Music, tender and insistent, rose from the altar, surrounding Mariana. The first covering of the Granth Sahib, a fringe of enormous pearls and emeralds, hissed and clicked as the eldest of the priests lifted it from the book. The ladies beckoned again.
“What can I do,” the man murmured, “I who am only a servant? How can I save him?” He blinked and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The cooks make him the best food, others make him playthings, but all he wants is his family. The Maharajah gives him jewels, but what does poor Baba care for such gifts?” He met her eyes and his gaze was urgent. “Baba's grandfather, Shaikh Waliullah, is a noble man, Memsahib. He once saved my brother's life. Take the child from this place before he dies. Carry him with you when you leave here, Memsahib. Send him to Shaikh Waliullah in Lahore. It is Baba's only hope.”
Noble. “There are noble men of all religions in India,” her munshi had said. She would like to meet this Shaikh. But how many children in India were lost, how many were beaten? Was this baby not one of a hundred thousand small victims of India's poverty and odd customs?
The baby's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He stirred on the servant's shoulder. Mariana dragged her eyes from him. She should never have shown interest. “I am very sorry,” she whispered firmly, “but I cannot help you. How can I steal a child from Maharajah Ranjit Singh?” She gathered her skirts. “Stand aside, and let me pass.”
She stepped around the servant and child and started toward the altar. The priest had begun to read from the book, his voice a high, hypnotic singsong. Miss Fanny motioned for her to hurry.
The servant's voice followed her. “Allah will aid you, Memsahib. Allah Most Gracious will aid you.”
She looked back to see him wipe his eyes with a brown finger. On his shoulder, the child still slept. She paused irresolutely, then moved away toward the altar.
THE visit to the temple had concluded. The ladies returned, smiling, from the altar. The gentlemen rose from their seats on the carpeted fioor.
The Maharajah unfolded himself from his cushion, and, taking the Governor-General's hand, helped him to rise. “It is getting dark,” he announced, still holding Lord Auckland's hand. “We will have a fireworks display.” He looked about him, his single eye alight. “Where is my baba?”
Mariana shivered and looked away as the bearded servant stepped forward and gave the sleeping baby into the Maharajah's hands.
Wrapping themselves against the chill, the Maharajah and his guests filed out of the inlaid doorway. At the far end of the causeway they climbed a narrow stair to a group of balconies, where they looked back at the temple in its square lake of water.
The setting sun smudged the western sky over the city of Amritsar. From where she stood, Mariana could see torches moving below her. Lamplight glowed in the windows of adjacent houses.
The first explosion made her gasp. It rocked the air before her and rang in her ears. A great spray of sparks lit up the golden dome of the temple, its decorated outer walls, and the waters of the great tank in which it stood. As rocket after rocket went off, the temple became a fairy palace, now blindingly bright, now bathed in shadow, lit from every angle by sudden fiares and showers of sparks.
“Look, my pearl,” an old man's voice observed between explosions, “you can see the fish swimming in the waters of the tank.”
Mariana turned. On the next balcony the Maharajah stood among his bejeweled chiefs, enjoying the show as if he had never seen fireworks before, the baby twisting in his arms. The child, his face puckered around the thumb in his mouth, looked as if he were trying to burrow his way into the Maharajah's chest. There was no sign of the servant. The Maharajah laughed, throwing his head back. Against the old man's chest, the baby turned and looked directly into Mariana's face.
His body stilled. His eyes wide, he stared at her, unblinking, his gaze heavy, full of expectation.
Uncomfortable, she looked away. When she looked again, the baby still stared, seemingly oblivious to the deafening sounds and the cascades of light around them. He seemed to be drinking in her features, his mouth working around his thumb. Baby Freddie sucked his thumb too; but Freddie had been round and pink when she last saw him, with fair hair that stood out in a pale halo about his head, not at all like this brown baby in his strange, shiny clothes. Baby Freddie had never looked at her as this tiny stranger did now, as if she were the most important person in all the world.
His eyes locked on hers, the child rested his head on the Maharajah's shoulder.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Miss Emily inquired. “What are you looking at?”
Mariana shivered. “Nothing, Miss Emily.”
The child had been asleep when his odd little servant had stepped out of the shadows and begged for her help. Why, then, did he look at her now with such keen recognition?
It was too late to save him. Rescue, difficult enough in the temple, was now impossible. She could not reach across the space between her balcony and the Maharajah's, and snatch the baby from the old man's grasp. She kept her eyes on the shimmering waters of the tank, knowing the child had not taken his eyes from her.
The child's fate was none of her concern. How many times had she been warned against entangling herself in the affairs of the natives? This time, she would heed the advice she'd been given. After all, even if the Maharajah were selfishly keeping the baby from his family, he was clearly fond of the poor thing. Surely he would see to it that someone kissed the baby tonight, that someone kept him warm in the cold night air. She wrapped her own shawl tightly about her. That expectant little face, she feared, would haunt her for the rest of her days.
With one last waterfall of light, the fireworks ended. As the crowd began to shuffie down the staircase, Mariana lost sight of the Maharajah. She turned to descend the stairs, relieved to be free of the baby's stare; but a high, despairing wail arose from the direction of the city gate, and she knew instinctively that it came from him. She followed the Eden ladies helplessly down the stairway as the child's cry lifted over the noise of the crowd and filled her ears.
They moved slowly by torchlight toward the rows of waiting palanquins. In front of her, Mr. Macnaghten spoke in a low tone to Major Byrne.
“—tomorrow morning,” he was saying. “I cannot persuade him to meet the Maharajah more than once a day, but he must do so. We cannot be certain of the Maharajah's continued good health.” His voice dropped to an indecipherable hiss.
Major Byrne patted Mr. Macnaghten's shoulder. “Of course, William,” he soothed, then strode off to hail a junior officer, while Mr. Macnaghten's fingers knotted and twisted behind his back.
Alongside Mariana, two British officers helped a third, who staggered between them, his head drooping as if he were about to faint.
She quickened her steps. There was her palanquin, waiting on the ground, her bearers, anonymous in their shawls, crouched beside it.
As she sat, preparing to swing her legs into the curtained box, a small bearded man dashed toward her through the crowd, his head turning as if he were searching for someone, a tiny excited child in his arms. The servant's laboring breath was visible in the cold air, his neatly wrapped turban askew on his head. The baby in his arms rode his servant like a king on his way into battle, his fists pounding the man's shoulder, urging him on.
Child, servant, and young woman saw one another in the same moment.
Mariana's mouth fell open. The running man turned and came straight for her, his lips moving as if he were talking to himself, but before he reached her side, the baby in his arms lunged dangerously toward her. Without thinking, she reached up to prevent him from falling. She gathered him onto her lap and looked up, ready to scold the servant for his presumption. But where the little man had stood, there was only empty space.
