The Siege of Krishnapur - J. G. Farrell [53]
“He surely can’t be paying us another visit already,” grumbled the Magistrate, unaware of the unfavourable judgement which had been passed on his character a few moments earlier in the Collector’s mind.
At the window they both listened to the familiar thud of hoofs and jingle of harness which announced the arrival of the General and his sowars from Captainganj.
“Damn the fellow!” sighed the Collector. “I expect he’s come to sneer at my ramparts again.” But even as he spoke he saw the cluster of riders rein up in front of the Residency and realized that something was amiss. The General, instead of waiting to be lifted, had plunged forward over the horse’s head and slithered to the ground. And there he continued to lie until the sowars came to pick him up. But the glare even at this time of day was still so intense that the Collector, looking out from the semi-darkness of his study, could not be sure that he had actually seen what he had just seen...The sudden shouting and commotion that echoed immediately afterwards from the hall left him in little doubt, however.
As he stepped outside on to the portico the light and heat smote him, causing him to falter and put a hand on the wrought-iron railing, which he snatched away instantly, his fingers seared. He waited at the top of the stairs and watched then, as the sowars came towards him carrying the General. Blood was running freely from the General’s body and splashing audibly on to the baked earth. The sowars were evidently trying to stop the flowing of blood by holding him first one way, then another, as someone eating toast and honey might try, by vigilance and dexterity, to prevent it dripping. The General’s blood continued to patter on the earth, however, and all the way up the steps and into the hall where he was laid down at last, after some hesitation, on a rather expensive carpet.
Even when he had at last succeeded in freeing himself from the metal clamps Fleury was by no means sure how to find his way back to the room where he had left Harry stretched on the floor. He started tentatively through a dim series of naked, malodorous chambers; his head was still singing from the combined effect of the clamps and the mercury fumes. Presently he came to the end of the connecting rooms and was faced with a crumbling staircase. He climbed it impatiently and found himself in another chamber as empty as the one he had just left. The air was better here, however, and there were a number of windows screened by intricately carved marble...in one corner of the ceiling there was the bulging, basket-like growth of a bee’s nest. Beyond the window was a verandah, part of which was shaded by lattice curtains and here a number of the Maharajah’s servants were drowsing on charpoys in a long row like the Forty Thieves, their liveries piled untidily beside them. They paid no attention to Fleury as he passed.
The heat and glare were stupendous; the countryside lay motionless in the grip of heat and light and somehow it had taken on the appearance of an Arctic landscape. From where he stood there was nothing but white or grey to be seen: there was the same dim, lurid sky, beneath which clouds of dust resembled driving snow. Returning his eyes to the shade of the verandah Fleury continued to see a grove of leafless sal trees imprinted on his retina like the bars of a glowing furnace.
He heard the sound of rapid footsteps and turning the next corner almost collided with Harry Dunstaple who demanded: “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. There’s been a disturbance at Captainganj and Father sent his sais with a message to warn us...We must get back to the cantonment immediately.”
Over Harry’s shoulder Fleury saw the Prime Minister hastening towards them. In spite of the physical effort he was making his face still wore an expressionless, introverted look.
“The blighter’s been following me everywhere,” Harry muttered with exasperation. “I’ve no idea what he wants.