The Siege of Krishnapur - J. G. Farrell [120]
“Hari, I’ve decided to let you go home. I suggest that you leave here before it grows dark so that the sepoys don’t shoot you by mistake.”
A shudder, as from a slight cough, passed through Hari’s inanimate frame, but there was no other response. Hari continued to stare at him dully. At length, after some preliminary champing of his lips during which the Collector caught a glimpse of a white-coated tongue, Hari spoke.
“Mr Hopkin, it is cruel to torture with words. You do better to hang me from mango tree without more ado about nothing.”
“Hari, how could you think such a thing?” cried the Collector, shocked. “This is no game. You’re free to leave here and go home today. Look here, I know that I’ve treated you badly...But you must believe that I kept you here not because I wanted to, but because I believed it my duty to those whom God (or, well, the Company anyway) has placed in my care. Perhaps it was a mistake...perhaps keeping you here has done no good...I don’t know whether it has made any difference, but now we’re obliged to abandon some of our defences and it’s certain that your presence can no longer help us. You’ll be in great danger if you stay. You must forgive me, Hari, for keeping you here. This was wrong of me, I acknowledge it.”
“You acknowledge, Mr Hopkin, you acknowledge! But you ruin health. I die of starvation and disease. I die of musket fire and you acknowledge.”
“Please, Hari, you must not think badly of me. You must put yourself in my position. Besides, I’m not well myself...indeed, I’m most definitely sick,” added the Collector succumbing to a sudden wave of self-pity for it was true, he did not feel in the least well. His right eye, which he had hardly noticed until Dr McNab had looked at it a little while earlier, had begun to throb painfully, and at the same time he felt feverish and nauseated, though perhaps it was only on account of the fetid atmosphere and the stench of urine.
“You must go now, Hari, and take the Prime Minister with you.”
Every moment the Collector became more unwell. All the same, he found it pleasant to watch Hari reviving like a thirsty plant which has just been watered. Hari had already got to his feet and little by little was becoming animated again.
“When you’re ready, go to the Cutcherry and tell the Magistrate. He’ll stop firing while you go across to the sepoy lines. I must ask you not to tell them of our condition, however. Goodbye, Hari.” The Collector had a feeling that even if he survived the siege he would never see Hari again. But before he had reached the door Hari had called to him, following him to the door.
“Collector Sahib, though I do not forgive bad treatment from Sircar and from British Collector Sahib, I do not wish to cause personal grievance to my good friend, Mr Hopkin. I like to make to Mr Hopkin as private citizen a small gift of Frenloudji book, which is the only object in my possession and to give him handshake for last time. Correct!”
“Thank you, Hari,” said the Collector, and tears came to his eyes, causing the right one to throb more painfully than ever.
A little later from his bedroom, where he had retired for a rest, he watched through his daughters’ brass telescope as the grey shadow of what had once been the sleek and lively Hari moved slowly over to the sepoy lines with, as usual, the Prime Minister dodging along behind him.
“I hope he doesn’t tell them what a state we’re in, all the same.”
19
Now that the time had come for the depleted garrison to shrink back inside the new fortifications, accommodation had to be found for the ladies displaced from Dr Dunstaple’s house. Volunteers from the billiard room were needed to move to the banqueting hall so that the new ladies, many of whom were elderly, might be installed in their places in comparative comfort. It was when he was on his way to the billiard room to ask for these volunteers that the Collector suddenly felt faint. The Padre, who was passing, helped him to his bedroom and offered to call one