Flood of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

dhobins, with a string of donkeys,laden with bundles of washing.
    After leaving the dhobis behind Kesri slowed his pace a little as he drew abreast of the ox-carts that belonged to the bazar-girls. He had long been intimate with their matron, Gulabi, and he knew that she would be upset if he rode past without stopping for a word. But before he could rein in his horse a claw-like hand fastened on his boot.
    Kesri! Sunn!
    It was Pagla-baba, the paltan’s mascot and mendicant: like others of his ilk, he had an uncanny knack for guessing what was on people’s minds.
    Ka bhaiyil? What is it, Pagla-baba?
    Hamaar baat sun ; listen to my words, Kesri – I predict that you will receive news of your relatives today.
    Bhagwaan banwale rahas! cried Kesri gratefully. God bless you! Pagla-baba’s prediction whetted Kesri’s eagerness to be back at the camp and he forgot about Gulabi. Spurring his horse ahead, he trotted past the part of the caravan that was reserved for the camp-following gentry – the Brahmin pundits, the munshi, the bazar-chaudhuri with his account books, the Kayasth dubash, who interpreted for the officers, and the baniya-modi, who was the paltan’s banker, arranging remittances to the sepoys’ families and doling out loans at exorbitant rates. These men were travelling in the same cart, chewing paan as they went.
    It was the munshi who was in charge of letters: to him fell the task of distributing daak to the sepoys. As he was passing the cart, Kesri paused to tell the munshi that a delivery of post had arrived and he had reason to believe that he might at last have received a letter from his family.
    Keep the chithi ready for me, munshiji, said Kesri. I’ll meet you at the camp as soon as I can.
    The throng on the road had thinned a little now and Kesri was able to canter past the bylees that were carrying the paltan’s heavy weaponry – dismantled howitzers, mortars, field-pieces – and its squad of artillerymen, a detachment of golondauzes and gun-lascars. Next came the jail-party, with its contingent of captured Burmese soldiers, and then the mess-train, with its cartloads of supplies for the officers’ kitchen – crates of tinned and bottled food, barrels ofbeer, demijohns of wine and hogsheads of whisky. This was closely followed by the hospital establishment, with its long line of canvas-covered hackeries, carrying the sick and wounded.
    After leaving these behind, Kesri ran straight into swarming herds of livestock – goats, sheep and bullocks for the officers’ table. The bheri-wallahs who tended the animals tried to clear a path for him, but with little success. Rather than sit idly in the saddle, waiting for the herds to pass, Kesri swerved off the path and rode into a stretch of overgrown wasteland.
    This was fortunate for he soon spotted the battalion’s dozen or so English officers: they had broken away from the column and were riding towards the sandy ridge that separated the river from the road.
    They too saw him coming and reined in their horses. One of them, the battalion’s adjutant, Captain Neville Mee, rode towards Kesri while the others waited in the shade of a tree.
    â€˜Is that a dispatch bag, havildar?’
    â€˜Yes, Mee-sah’b.’
    â€˜You can hand it to me, havildar. Thank you.’
    Taking possession of the dispatch bag, the adjutant said: ‘You’d better wait here, havildar – you may be needed again.’
    Kesri watched from a distance as Captain Mee trotted off to deliver the bag to the commandant. Major Wilson opened it, took out some papers and then slapped Captain Mee on the back, as if to congratulate him. Within minutes the officers were all pumping the captain’s hand, crying out: ‘You’re a lucky dog, Mee …’
    The sight piqued Kesri’s curiosity: had Captain Mee received a promotion perhaps? He had certainly waited for one long enough – almost ten years