out.
“Yes, why shouldn’t the tide turn?” Rawlins agreed. “I’ll take you to see Tierney, if he’s awake. This way.”
Rawlins led Narraway into a small hospital ward where only one bed was occupied. A man lay slightly propped up on a pillow. His face was almost colorless and his cheeks were sunken, the bones sharp and protruding. His skin was stretched over them, papery and fragile. He might have been any age from twenty to forty. The bedding was draped over a frame above his right leg and the empty space where his left leg should have been.
Narraway wished immediately that he had not come, but it was too late to retreat. How did Rawlins deal with this sort of thing day after day and stay sane?
Although they had moved with very little sound, Tierney must have sensed their presence because he opened his eyes and looked at Rawlins.
“Hello, Doc. Come to see if I’m still here?” He gave a very faint smile.
Rawlins smiled back at him. “Only full-time patient I’ve got now. Have to see you,” he replied cheerfully. “If I have nothing to do, they might not pay me. Then how will I buy a decent cigar?”
“That’s what I’d really like,” Tierney said huskily. “A decent cigar.”
“I’ll bring you one,” Rawlins promised. “But if you set the bed on fire, then you can damn well lie on the floor.”
Tierney laughed. It was a rough, croaking sound. “Like I’d know the difference! What’ve you got in this mattress? Sand?”
“Gunpowder,” Rawlins replied. “So don’t drop the ash, either.” He gestured toward Narraway. “This is a brand-new lieutenant—at least, new to Cawnpore. Tell him about the place. We have decent mangoes here. And tamarinds, if you like them, or guavas. Nothing much else is worth anything.”
“Any news?” Tierney asked, still looking at Rawlins.
“Nothing that I’ve heard,” Rawlins replied. “If we win, I’ll tell you, I promise. If we lose, you’ll find out anyway.” He gave a mock salute and left, walking back into the corridor, leaving Narraway alone by the bed.
Narraway lost his nerve to ask Tierney anything about the ambush of the patrol. It wouldn’t make any difference to the trial anyway. It didn’t matter whereDhuleep Singh had gone or what he had told anyone. The murder of Chuttur Singh was enough to damn him.
“Where were you before here?” he asked conversationally.
“Delhi, God help me,” Tierney answered with a downturned smile.
“I imagine it was pretty bad,” Narraway sympathized.
“All so bloody unnecessary,” Tierney replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “The Indian soldier’s a damn good man. If we’d just listened, instead of always thinking we knew everything better. Took their loyalty for granted. Damn idiots should have seen it coming. Stupid bloody mess! You?”
“Calcutta,” Narraway answered, thinking back to his arrival in India, confused, excited, and afraid, hearing rumors of unrest already. “Nearly a year ago. Glad I’d escaped the English winter!” He gave an ironic little laugh.
“Wouldn’t mind a dusting of snow for Christmas,” Tierney said. “Where are you from? You sound like Home Counties, but that could be education, I suppose.I see you’re a lieutenant, and you can’t be more than twenty.”
For no particular reason, except that he was eager to speak about something that had nothing whatsoever to do with India, mutiny, betrayal, wounds, blind stupidity, or trials, Narraway told Tierney about his home in the softly rolling hills and wide valleys of Kent. He spoke of long rides on horseback over the Weald in the early morning, with the light on the grass, which rippled like water in the wind.
“So what are you doing out here in the dust, eating yet another curry and wasting time waiting for something to happen?” Tierney asked with a slight, stiff shrug of his shoulders, his eyes smiling.
“Escaping boiled cabbage, gray skies, and biting wind with an edge of sleet in
“Yes, why shouldn’t the tide turn?” Rawlins agreed. “I’ll take you to see Tierney, if he’s awake. This way.”
Rawlins led Narraway into a small hospital ward where only one bed was occupied. A man lay slightly propped up on a pillow. His face was almost colorless and his cheeks were sunken, the bones sharp and protruding. His skin was stretched over them, papery and fragile. He might have been any age from twenty to forty. The bedding was draped over a frame above his right leg and the empty space where his left leg should have been.
Narraway wished immediately that he had not come, but it was too late to retreat. How did Rawlins deal with this sort of thing day after day and stay sane?
Although they had moved with very little sound, Tierney must have sensed their presence because he opened his eyes and looked at Rawlins.
“Hello, Doc. Come to see if I’m still here?” He gave a very faint smile.
Rawlins smiled back at him. “Only full-time patient I’ve got now. Have to see you,” he replied cheerfully. “If I have nothing to do, they might not pay me. Then how will I buy a decent cigar?”
“That’s what I’d really like,” Tierney said huskily. “A decent cigar.”
“I’ll bring you one,” Rawlins promised. “But if you set the bed on fire, then you can damn well lie on the floor.”
Tierney laughed. It was a rough, croaking sound. “Like I’d know the difference! What’ve you got in this mattress? Sand?”
“Gunpowder,” Rawlins replied. “So don’t drop the ash, either.” He gestured toward Narraway. “This is a brand-new lieutenant—at least, new to Cawnpore. Tell him about the place. We have decent mangoes here. And tamarinds, if you like them, or guavas. Nothing much else is worth anything.”
“Any news?” Tierney asked, still looking at Rawlins.
“Nothing that I’ve heard,” Rawlins replied. “If we win, I’ll tell you, I promise. If we lose, you’ll find out anyway.” He gave a mock salute and left, walking back into the corridor, leaving Narraway alone by the bed.
Narraway lost his nerve to ask Tierney anything about the ambush of the patrol. It wouldn’t make any difference to the trial anyway. It didn’t matter whereDhuleep Singh had gone or what he had told anyone. The murder of Chuttur Singh was enough to damn him.
“Where were you before here?” he asked conversationally.
“Delhi, God help me,” Tierney answered with a downturned smile.
“I imagine it was pretty bad,” Narraway sympathized.
“All so bloody unnecessary,” Tierney replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “The Indian soldier’s a damn good man. If we’d just listened, instead of always thinking we knew everything better. Took their loyalty for granted. Damn idiots should have seen it coming. Stupid bloody mess! You?”
“Calcutta,” Narraway answered, thinking back to his arrival in India, confused, excited, and afraid, hearing rumors of unrest already. “Nearly a year ago. Glad I’d escaped the English winter!” He gave an ironic little laugh.
“Wouldn’t mind a dusting of snow for Christmas,” Tierney said. “Where are you from? You sound like Home Counties, but that could be education, I suppose.I see you’re a lieutenant, and you can’t be more than twenty.”
For no particular reason, except that he was eager to speak about something that had nothing whatsoever to do with India, mutiny, betrayal, wounds, blind stupidity, or trials, Narraway told Tierney about his home in the softly rolling hills and wide valleys of Kent. He spoke of long rides on horseback over the Weald in the early morning, with the light on the grass, which rippled like water in the wind.
“So what are you doing out here in the dust, eating yet another curry and wasting time waiting for something to happen?” Tierney asked with a slight, stiff shrug of his shoulders, his eyes smiling.
“Escaping boiled cabbage, gray skies, and biting wind with an edge of sleet in
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