Ghost Fire Read online

  The elephant lumbered around the arena in a broad circle, pausing every so often to scratch the dust with her trunk. The chained man shuffled along behind her.

  “This is too slow,” the nawab complained.

  The court officials looked anxious. They could not afford to displease their master, or they might find themselves suddenly joining the prisoner in the arena. It had happened before. Urgent commands were given. Bare-chested men with spears ran into the arena, prodding the elephant’s flanks. With a honk of outrage, she gathered pace.

  The prisoner had to run to keep up. If he allowed the elephant to get too far ahead, he would be torn apart by the two chains. At the same time, the weight of the chains slowed him down. His run consisted of awkward, jerky motions, like those of a puppet with a broken string.

  “What was his crime?” Corbeil inquired. He didn’t care: he was making conversation.

  Siraj took a piece of mango from the silver plate beside him. “I do not trouble myself with details. Whatever it was, he is guilty. An example must be made.”

  He stared at his French visitor, daring him to disagree. But Corbeil had seen men die in a hundred terrible ways, for good reasons and bad and none at all. Many had died cursing Corbeil’s name, his pitiless eyes the last thing they saw. He didn’t care about an Indian peasant. “When men defy their rulers, the punishment should be exemplary,” he said.

  “Indeed.” The nawab leaned forward. Mango juice dribbled from his mustache. Before it reached his chin, a servant with a napkin wiped it away.

  Corbeil lowered his voice. “You will not tolerate one thief or criminal in your kingdom. Yet in Calcutta you allow hundreds of them to steal from you with impunity.”

  There was an “Ooh” from the crowd as the prisoner tripped—but he recovered his balance and kept running. Weighed down with chains in such stifling heat, Corbeil wondered how long the man would last before his strength failed.

  “The English do not respect you,” the Frenchman continued. “In the bazaars and the marketplaces, they say you are not half the man your predecessor was. They mock you as a spoiled child. They cheat you on the taxes they are obliged to pay. They think you are too stupid to notice and too weak to stop them.”

  Corbeil paused. He wondered if he had gone too far. Siraj’s face was almost purple with fury. No one had ever dared to say such things to his face. He had had men mutilated and killed for less.

  In the arena, the prisoner was losing his battle to keep pace with the elephant. He tripped and sprawled on the ground, distracting Siraj. He tried to scramble to his feet but was yanked off balance by the taut chain and dragged through the dust after the elephant. The chain attached to the post unspooled behind him. The crowd cheered.

  “What do you think they do with the money they cheat out of you?” Corbeil asked Siraj. He had used the goad. Now it was time to dangle the carrot.

  Siraj turned his attention to the Frenchman, keeping one eye on the arena.

  “There is a strongroom in Calcutta, in the governor’s mansion, where the governor keeps his treasure,” Corbeil continued. “All the money he has defrauded from you—many millions of rupees. He sits there at night, counting his coins and laughing at the man he stole them from. He sees your face stamped on those coins and spits on it to polish them. But he will regret his arrogance when you march into his strongroom and force the coins down his throat until he chokes.”

  On the ground, the elephant stampeded in circles. The chain attached to the prisoner’s leg wound tighter and tighter around the stake.

  “Is it not right that you should be given what is owed you, Your Highness?”

  A scream drew their attention. The elephant was rampaging in circles, but the man lay in a crumpled heap, like a bloodied rag doll. His severed leg, spewing gouts of blood, was still attached to the end of the chain behind the elephant. It flew into the air, bouncing on the ground, like a piece of meat trailed before a pack of hungry dogs. The crowd roared and cheered, their bloodlust given full release. The baying became demonic—they wanted more.

  “In a test of strength between a man and an elephant, there can be only one winner,” Corbeil said. “You have let the English flout your rules too long. Now it is time to crush them.”

  The broken prisoner dragged himself through the dust, though he could not escape. The chain on his one surviving leg fixed him to the stake in the middle of the arena. If he could reach it, he might be able to cling on and avoid the elephant’s stamping feet.

  The elephant was charging again. Every man in Siraj’s court craned his neck to see if the prisoner would reach safety.

  But at the final moment, summoning one last gasp of strength, the man leaped forward, straight into the elephant’s path. The crowd gasped as the man’s body exploded in a haze of red.

  The prisoner disappeared in the clouds of dust beneath the elephant’s pounding feet. Everyone watched intently. Moans could be heard, and a fug of disappointment descended. The mahouts corralled the elephant and slowed it to a walk. The dust settled. The prisoner lay flat and limp, like an old pillow.

  Siraj slumped back on his cushions and gulped wine from his cup. “He did not give much sport,” he complained. “Next time, I wish to see the prisoner fighting for his life.”

  Corbeil gave a smile. “If that is what you wish, Your Highness, then that is what I shall give you. In Calcutta.”

  A hungry gleam came into the nawab’s eye. He belched and nodded. “In Calcutta.”

  •••

  Theo and Deegan returned to Calcutta on a Tuesday afternoon. It was June, and the monsoon was coming. In the last days before it broke, the heat was driven to such impossible heights that every movement was an ordeal. The humidity weighed on the air in Theo’s lungs, and even changing his shirt five times a day he was always soaked with sweat. Every day he felt as if he was pushing a boulder up a mountain, the effort greater and greater, waiting for the moment when the burden would lift.

  They crossed the bridge over the Maratha Ditch and entered Calcutta. The ditch was a defense that had been dug some years earlier, when the Company had feared that the brutal Maratha Army might attack the city. But the threat had passed before the ditch was finished, and it had been left incomplete. Now it was overgrown, filled with dirt and rubbish. It could barely keep out the gaunt cows that grazed freely on the outskirts of the city.

  “If you go back to the fort now, you’ll be in time for church,” Deegan pointed out. “Take yourself off to a punch house and, if anyone asks, tell them I had you totting up my books.”

  Theo nodded gratefully. After the liberty of traveling with Deegan, he was not yet ready to return to the tight routines of Fort William.

  It was mid-afternoon, and Calcutta was sleeping. The streets were almost empty, the shutters on the great houses closed as their British masters and mistresses slept out the heat of the day. The monsoon still had not broken.

  Theo wanted a drink—but the punch house did not appeal. The only people there at this time of day would be the worst drunks, a smattering of men who had failed in the Company’s service, and new arrivals he would rather avoid. He needed water to wash the dust of the road from his mouth before he could stomach liquor.

  He was a few minutes from Gerard’s house. Without thinking, he found his weary legs carrying him past the twin tamarind trees at the house’s gate and up the steps. The windows were shuttered.

  The doorman moved to intercept him, shouting urgent protestations that his master was not available. Theo had lived long enough in India to learn the habits of command. He stared down the doorman, and, with a contemptuous toss of his head, barged past.

  The doorknob was so hot it was scalding and Theo had to wrap his hand in his shirt sleeve to turn it. Inside, the hallway was dim and cool. A servant woke from the chair he had been sleeping on and hurried forward, but Theo silenced him with a look. At this hour, Constance would be asleep upstairs. He could surprise her, as he had so many times as a small boy,
sneaking into her bedroom and leaping on her like a tiger.

  He took off his shoes and padded quietly up the stairs. More servants emerged from the shadows, like cats, watching him pass, but none tried to stop him. They could lose their jobs in an instant if they so much as looked at an Englishman in a way he did not like.

  Theo walked down the wide corridor and came to Constance’s door. A low, rhythmic thumping came from inside—probably one of the shutters banging on its hinge. But there was no wind. Perhaps a servant was beating dust out of the carpet. Standing at the closed door, his hand resting on the handle, he could hear soft grunts, and an occasional throaty moan. Maybe the carpet-beater had struck a hand while holding up the carpet.

  It was a strange time to be cleaning the carpets. He opened the door.

  The carpet lay on the floor where it always did. The shutters were closed and fastened securely. As he had supposed, Constance was in her bed. A canopy of gauze curtains hung around her, so that in the dim light she was little more than a silhouette sitting upright.

  Then the opening door pushed a current of air into the stillness of the room. The breeze lifted the thin curtains, while light from the doorway fell on the bed and illuminated it like a theater stage.

  Constance was naked. She knelt up, back arched, one hand cupping her breast and the other rubbing the gleaming wet tuft of fair hair between her thighs. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back and her mouth open in a rapturous expression, making exotic mewls of pleasure.

  She was not alone. She was straddling a man, though his face was hidden by the pillows. His hands clutched her buttocks, squeezing and pulling as he thrust himself into her, so hard it made the whole bed shudder. The sound Theo had heard was the headboard, banging against the wall.

  “Connie,” he cried.

  Theo would never forget the look she gave him. It was not shame, or guilt, or contrition: her green eyes blazed with deep, pure anger. She did not grab the sheets, or even cover herself with her arms. She stayed where she was, her lover still inside her.

  “You should have knocked,” she said calmly.

  Theo stared. In the dull light, Constance’s lithe white body seemed to glow. Her breasts were shapely and firm, the nipples bright red with excitement. He thought the emotions welling inside him might tear him apart.

  The man under her pushed himself up and twisted around.

  “Can a man not take his pleasures in peace?” Gerard said irritably.

  Theo stared at the floor. His certainties about the world were collapsing. And yet he knew what he must do. There was no room for thought or compromise.

  He forced himself to look Gerard in the eye. “I demand satisfaction.”

  Gerard squinted at him. “Damned selfish of you, when you interrupt before I’ve had my own satisfaction.”

  “I mean I am challenging you to a duel.”

  “Don’t, Theo,” murmured Constance.

  “A duel?” Gerard echoed. “For what?”

  “You have dishonored Constance.”

  “Honor is nothing but what other people believe. No one need know.”

  His insouciant tone was too much for Theo. “God damn you, sir—this is my sister.”

  “Theo!” The sharpness in Constance’s voice was like a slap. “Stop behaving like a prig. Go downstairs, have the servants fetch you some tea, and I will be down presently.”

  “You want me to sit in your parlor while you are upstairs with . . . him?”

  “You are not my father or my guardian. You will not tell me what I can do, or where I should take my pleasures.”

  “Your pleasures?” Theo felt sick. The sultry, stultifying air pressed on him, like a funeral shroud. He needed space, light, room to breathe. How could he have been so naïve? “Are you to be married?”

  She shrugged. “We have not talked of it.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Long enough.”

  Her lack of shame fanned his anger. Phrases that had been drummed into his head through all those compulsory hours in church came effortlessly to his lips. “Are you such a wanton harlot?”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Constance turned on him. “You and every other man in this settlement—are you such paragons of continence and virtue, with your Indian bibis and dancing girls? If you married every girl who ever came to your bed, you would have more wives than King Solomon.”

  Theo had no answer. He had never conceived of a woman speaking like this—let alone his own sister. “I am leaving Calcutta,” he said, hardly knowing where the words came from.

  Constance put her hands on her hips. “Do not be such a fool.”

  Theo was trembling. “I cannot stay in this city while you whore yourself out to all comers.”

  That brought a flush of color to her cheeks. He wanted to hurt her, to make her feel as wounded and betrayed as he did.

  “Do not speak to your sister in that way,” Gerard warned him. He swung himself out of bed and stepped toward Theo. He was naked. “Whose honor are you really concerned for?”

  “Connie’s,” said Theo.

  “Do you think anyone cares what happens behind closed doors in White Town?” Gerard’s manhood swung between his legs, still engorged. “Without gossip to occupy them, the women of this city would drop dead from boredom. They have been speculating about your sister since she stepped off the ship from Madras. It is nothing but rumor. But if you start accusing her of fornication, calling me out for a duel, it will be the greatest sport they have had in years. The guardian who seduced his ward—son of the great Baron Dartmouth, no less. The brother who shamed her in order to protect her honor. The cousins who fought a duel. Win or lose, there would be nowhere you could go in all Bengal to escape the taint. There would not be a man in the world who could think of marrying your sister. And you think that would be serving her honor?”

  Theo stared at him, so full of anger and despair he did not know what to say. Gerard met his gaze, even and unflinching. Behind him, Constance had pulled on a gown.

  “I hate you,” Theo spat at Constance.

  “This is not your life,” she said softly.

  “Then I want no part of it.”

  He could bear it no longer. He turned and fled.

  •••

  Theo ran to his rooms in the fort and hastily packed his possessions in a bag. His servants weren’t present: he left them a note, and coins for a month’s wages.

  He did not expect to find anyone at the offices in the governor’s house. The Company men would not return to work until half past seven in the evening, if they came at all. He went anyway and wrote a brief letter of resignation, which he left on Deegan’s desk. He would miss the old Scotsman’s company—but the red-hot fury burning inside him would not relent. He was headstrong, his world polarized into good or bad, life or death, with nothing in between. He felt a crushing emptiness. Connie’s betrayal had left a chasm in his heart, and he was desperate to fill it with meaningful purpose.

  As he came out on the landing, he heard voices from the council chamber on the top floor of the mansion. It sounded as if all the members were in attendance, voices raised in heated debate. He wondered why they were convening in the middle of the afternoon. In all his time in Calcutta, he had never known anything interrupt their afternoon recreation.

  Amid the clamor, he heard Gerard’s voice. If he saw his cousin again now, he would kill him. He ran down the stairs, out of the door, through the river gate, and along the wharf to the landing stage. All his possessions in the world were in the canvas bag on his shoulder, and he did not know where he would go. He felt as if he had been orphaned a second time. Part of him longed to go back, to hug Constance and listen to her telling him everything would be all right. But he remembered her naked body gyrating on top of Gerard’s, the look of abandon on her face, and the rage rose inside him again.

  He stepped into one of the budgerows that clustered at the foot of the steps, like ducks waiting to be f
ed. He thumped down on the thwart, burying his head in his hands, and sat for several moments before he realized the boatman was waiting for him to say where he wanted to go.

  Some twenty ships were anchored in the Hooghly. Theo pointed at the closest, a handsome vessel with her gun ports picked out in green and gold, and the red-and-white-striped Company flag fluttering from her high-backed stern.

  They came alongside and received permission to go aboard. When the officer of the watch heard what Theo wanted, he looked at him as if he was mad. “Passage to England?” He pointed to the sky, and the limp pennant hanging lifeless from the masthead. “The monsoon will break any day. We cannot sail for three months.”

  “Then can I take a cabin on board for my quarters? Please?” He could not countenance returning ashore, where the sideways glances and whispered rumors would follow him everywhere. Escape was his only option.

  The lieutenant peered at him closely. “Are you wanted for a crime? Because if you are, upon my word I will have you clapped in irons and sent to the Black Hole in Fort William.”

  “I have committed no crime. I—” Theo hesitated. “I have been unlucky in love.”

  The lieutenant looked more interested—more for the whiff of gossip than sympathy, Theo suspected. He shrugged.

  “Board will be one pagoda a month, in advance. The passage to London is twenty pounds, but you may pay that to the purser when we are ready to sail.”

  Theo knew he was being cheated. The look on the lieutenant’s face said: If you are so desperate to live in a stifling cabin, on a ship that cannot sail, on the hottest day of the year, I will make you pay for it. Theo did not care. He reached into his purse and counted out three golden pagodas. The Company had taught him well, and in addition to his salary he had made several well-judged trades on his own account. He could afford to live, like an outcast, on this ship until she sailed for London. Perhaps in that time he might work out what he could do when he got there.

  •••