streaming out on to the Grand Trunk towards the distant Mall — God, I could see flames up there already, out towards the eastern end. There must be bungalows burning on this side of the Mall, beyond the Nullah.
There was only one way for me to go. Behind was Meerut city and the bazaar, which was being smashed up and looted by the sound of things; to my left lay the burning native barracks; ahead, between me and the British Town, the road was jammed with thousands of crazy fanatics, bent on blood and destruction. I waited till the press thinned a little, and swung right, heading for the Nullah north of the Jail; I would cross the east bridge, and make a long circle north past the Mall to come to the British camp lines.
The first part was easy enough; I crossed the Nullah, and skirted the east end of the British Town, riding carefully in the half-dark, for the moon wasn't up yet. It was quiet here, in the groves of trees; the tumult was far off to my left, but now and then I saw little groups of natives — servant-women, probably, scurrying among the bushes, and one ominous sign that some of the killers had come this way — an old chowkidar, with his broken staff beside him, lying with his skull beaten in. Were they butchering anyone, then — even their own folk? Of course — any natives suspected of loyalty would be fair game — including the gora-colonel's lapdog, as Ram Mangal had charmingly called me. I pressed on quickly; not far behind me, I could hear chanting voices, and see torch-light among the trees. The sooner I …
'Help! Help! In God's name, help us!'
It came from my right; a little bungalow, behind a white gate, and as I stopped, uncertain, another voice (Tied:
'Shut up, Tommy! God knows who it is … see the lights yonder!'
'But Mary's dead!' cries the first voice, and it would have made your hair stand up. 'She's dead, I tell you — they've —'
They were English, anyway, and without thinking I slipped from the saddle, vaulted the gate, and cried: 'It's a friend! Who are you?'
'Oh, thank God!' cries the first voice. 'Quickly — they've killed Mary … Mary!'
I glanced back; the torches were still two hundred yards away among the trees. If I could get the occupants of the bungalow moving quickly, they might get away. I strode up the verandah steps, looked through the space where a chick had been torn down, and saw a wrecked room, with an oil-lamp burning feebly, and a white man, his left leg soaked in blood, lying against the wall, a sabre in his hand, staring at me with feverish eyes.
'Are you .?' he began, and then yelled. 'Christ — it's a mutineer — 3rd Cavalry! Jim!'
And I hadn't got my mouth open when out of the shadows someone sprang; I had an instant's vision of a white face, red moustache, staring eyes, and whirling sabre, and then I was locked with him, crashing to the floor, while I yelled:
'You bloody idiot! I'm English, damn you!'
But he seemed to have gone mad; even as I wrestled his sabre from him and sprang away he yelled to his pal, who feebly shoved his sabre towards him; the next thing he was slashing at me, yelling curses, and I was guarding and trying to shout sense at him. I broke ground, fell over something soft, and realised as I struck the ground that it was a white woman, in evening dress — or rather it was her body, for she was lying in a pool of blood. I flung up my sabre to guard another maniac slash, but too late; I felt a fiery pain across my skull, just above the left ear, and the fellow on the floor screams:
'Go it, Jim! Finish him, finish —'
The crash of musketry filled the room; the fellow above me twisted grotesquely, dropping his sabre, and tumbled down across my legs; there were black faces grinning at the window above me through the powder smoke, and then they were in the room, yelling with triumph as they drove their bayonets into the wounded Tommy, hacking at him, smashing the furniture, and finally one of them was helping me up, shouting:
'Just in time, brother! Thank the 11th N.I., sowar'
Aieee! Three of the pigs! God be praised — have ye been at their goods, then?'
I was dizzy with pain, so he dropped me, and while they ransacked the bungalow, growling like beasts, I crawled out on to the verandah and into the bushes. I lay there, staunching the blood that was running down my cheek; it wasn't a bad wound — no worse than the schlager cut beside it, which de Gautet had given me years ago. But I didn't come out, even after they'd gone, taking my pony with them; I was too shaken and scared — that idiot Jim had come within an ace of fmishing me — my God, it had been Jim Lewis, of course — the veterinary. I'd bowed him out of Mason's bungalow only a couple of nights before. And now, he was dead, and his wife Mary — and I was alive, saved by the mutineers who'd murdered them.
I lay there, still half-dazed, trying to make sense of it. This was mutiny, no doubt of it, and on the grand scale — the 3rd Cavalry were out, of course, and I'd seen 20th N.I. men under arms on the Grand Trunk; the fellows who'd inadvertently saved me were 11th N.I., so that was the whole Indian garrison of Meerut. But where the devil were the two British regiments? — their lines weren't more than a half-mile from where I was lying, beyond the Mall, but although two or three hours must have passed since the rioting started, there wasn't a sign of any activity by the authorities. I lay listening to the crackle of firing, and the distant tumult of voices and wrecking and burning — there were no bugle calls, no sound of volleys, no shouted orders, no heavy gunfire amidst the confusion. Hewitt couldn't just be sitting doing nothing — a terrible thought struck me: they couldn't have been wiped out, surely? No, you can't beat two thousand disciplined soldiers with a mutinous mob — but what the hell was keeping 'em quiet, then?26
In the long run I decided I'd have to make a break for at, up to the Mall and across towards the British infantry Imes; it would take me past Duff Mason's bungalow, and the MacDowalls', so I could see what was happening there, though no doubt the people would have withdrawn already to the safety of the British camps. Yes, I could see, when I stood up, that some of the bungalows south of the Mall were burning, and there was a hell of a din and shooting coming from the British Town farther west; I would have to keep well clear of that.
I moved cautiously through the trees, and found the little drive that led up to the eastern end of the Mall. There was a bungalow burning like blazes a hundred yards ahead, and half a dozen sepoys standing by its fence, cursing and occasionally firing a shot into it; on the other side of the road, a crowd of servants were huddled under a tree, and as I stole quietly towards them in the shadows I could hear them wailing. That was Surgeon Dawson's bungalow; as I came level with it, I remembered that Dawson had been down with smallpox — he and his wife and children had all been confined to the house — and there was its roof caving in with a thunderous whoosh of sparks. I felt giddy and ill at the thought — and then hurried on, past that hellish scene; the drive ahead was deserted as far as I could see in the light of the rising moon.
Our bungalow wasn't burning, anyway — but just before I reached it my eye was caught by something on the verandah of the Courtneys' place across the way. Some-thing was moving; it was a human figure, trying to crawl. I hesitated fearfully, and then slipped through the gate and up the path; the figure was wheezing horribly; it suddenly rolled over on its back, and I saw it was a native servant, with a bayonet buried in his chest. As I stood appalled his head rolled, and he saw me; he tried to lift a hand, pointing towards the house, and then he flopped back, groaning.
For the life of me I can't think what made me go inside, and I wish I hadn't. Mrs Courtney was dead in her chair, shot and bayonetted, with her head buried in the cushions, and when I looked beyond I vomited on the spot — her three children were there as well. It was a sight to blast your eyes; the place was like a slaughter-house, stinking with blood — I turned and ran, retching, and didn't stop until I found myself stumbling on to Duff Mason's verandah.
The place was still as death — but I had to go in, for I knew that in Duff Mason's bottom desk-drawer there was a Colt and a box of ammunition, and I wanted them both as I wanted my next breath. I glanced through the trees towards the Dawsons' burning home, but there was no sign of approaching mutineers, so I slipped through the chick-door into the hall. And there I fainted dead away — something I haven't done more than twice in my life.
The reason I'll tell you quickly — Mrs Leslie's head was lying on the hall table. Her body, stripped naked — that same plump white body that I'd fondled only a few hours earlier, was lying a few feet beyond, unspeakably gashed. And in the doorway to the dining-room, Mrs Captain MacDowall was huddled grotesquely against the jamb, with a tulwar pinning her to the wall; clenched in one hand was a small vase, with the flowers it had held scattered on the boards — I realised that she must have snatched it up as a weapon.
I don't remember getting Duff Mason's revolver, but I know that later I was standing in the hall, keeping my eyes away from those ghastly things on the floor, loading it with cartridges and weeping and cursing to myself
