The Iron Tiger - Jack Higgins [7]
'Don't look at me,' Drummond said. 'I'm a Scot.'
'The same thing,' Hamid said airily. 'Everyone knows it's the Scots who rule Britain.'
He gave his arm to Janet and they moved out into the bright, hot sunshine. Across the square, there was a low wall and beyond it, the river, usually two miles wide at this point, but as always when winter approached, narrowing to half a mile or less, winding its way through endless sandbanks.
'Is this still the Ganges?' Janet asked.
'Ganges, Light amid the Darkness, Friend of the Helpless. It has a thousand names,' Hamid said as they strolled towards the low wall. 'To bathe in her waters is to be purified of all sin, or so the Hindus believe.'
Janet leaned on the wall and looked down the cobbled bank into the in-shore channel at the brown, silt-laden water. 'It looks pretty unhealthy to me.'
Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned beside her. 'Strangely enough, it does seem to have health-giving properties. During religious festivals pilgrims drink it, often at places where the drains disgorge the filth of the town, but they never seem to suffer. Bottled, it keeps for a year. They say that in the old days when taken on board clipper ships in Calcutta, it outlasted all other waters.'
Down below at the river edge some kind of ceremony was taking place and she glanced up at Hamid. 'Can we go down?'
'But of course. Anything you wish.'
'Not me,' Drummond said. 'If I'm going to see Ferguson before we leave, I'd better be moving.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's almost two o'clock now. I'll see you back at the hotel at four.'
He moved away across the square quickly and Janet watched him go, a slight frown on her face. 'I believe Mr. Ferguson said he was in the tea business.'
'That's right,' Hamid said. 'Jack has an air freight contract with him. Ferguson usually comes up to see him once a month. He has a houseboat lower down the river from here.'
'You said Mr. Drummond was once a naval commander?'
'Fleet Air Arm.'
'He was a regular officer, then? He would have been too young to have been a full commander during the war.'
'Quite right.' The Pathan still smiled, but there was a slight, cutting edge to his voice, a look in the eye that warned her to go no further. 'Shall we go down?'
They stood on the edge of a small crowd and watched the ceremony that was taking place. Several people stood knee-deep in the water, the men amongst them stripped to the waist and daubed with mud. One of them poured ashes from a muslin bag into a larger paper boat. Another put a match to it and pushed the frail craft away from the bank, out into the channel where the current caught it. Suddenly, the whole boat burst into flames, and a moment later sank beneath the surface.
'What were they doing?' Janet asked.
'The ashes were those of a baby,' Hamid said. 'A man-child because the ceremony is expensive and not worth going through for a girl.'
'And they do this all the time?'
He nodded. 'It is every Hindu's greatest dream to have his ashes scattered on the waters of Ganges. Near here there is a shamsan, a burning place for the dead. Would you like to see it?'
'Do you think I can stand it?'
He smiled down at her. 'Two years in Vietnam, you said. If you can take that, you can take anything.'
'I'm not so sure.' She shook her head. 'India's different, like no other place on earth. Ferguson told me that and he was right.'
As they moved along the shore, she could smell woodsmoke, and up ahead there was a bullock cart, three or four people standing beside it.
As they approached, she gave a sudden gasp and moved closer to Hamid. A naked man was lying on a bed of thorns, eyes closed, his tongue protruding, an iron spike pushed through it. His hair and beard were matted and filthy, his body daubed with cowdung and ashes.
'A saddhu, a holy man,' Hamid said, throwing a coin into an earthenware jar that stood at the man's head. 'He begs from the mourners and prays for the souls of the dead.'
There was nothing to distinguish the place from any other stretch of the shore, no temples,