“Yes; I could not make up my mind to accompany my wife and daughter on
their occasional visits to Europe for a few months’ relaxation. I was
passionately fond of my work, and I can hardly get over the idea that
all is lost. And it IS lost; I am under no illusion as to that. After
the Russians have once set foot here, they will never give up the
country again. Their rule will be more firmly established than ours,
since they are at heart much closer to the Indians than we are.”
. . . . . . .
On the following day they set out.
Mr. Kennedy and the ladies rode in a mail-coach drawn by four Australian
horses, which had been originally intended for driving to the Anandale
races. He had brought with him his own English coachman, an English
servant, and an English maid; he had paid off and discharged his
numerous Indian servants before starting.
The march proceeded by way of Kalka, the last station on the railway to
Simla, without any incidents, as far as Lahore. Here Prince Tchajawadse
was informed that the Russian army had started on the previous day
for Delhi, and that he was to follow as rapidly as possible with his
detachment.
During the entry into the streets of Lahore, the sight of which awoke in
him so many painful recollections, Heideck was suddenly roused from his
reverie. Behind the pillars supporting the balcony of a house he thought
he caught sight of the form of a woman, who followed with staring eyes
the march of the glittering, rattling troop of horsemen with their
clattering swords. Although her face was almost entirely hidden by
a veil, he felt instinctively that she was no other than his own and
Edith’s preserver--the page Georgi. He turned his horse and rode up to
the house. But the vision disappeared as he drew near, as if the earth
had swallowed it up. He accordingly was driven to assume that it was
merely a delusion of his senses.
He took leave of Prince Tchajawadse with a heartiness corresponding to
their previous relations. The Prince embraced him several times, and his
eyes were moist as he again wished his comrade a prosperous journey
and the laurels of a victorious warrior. Nor was Heideck ashamed of his
emotion, when he clasped the Prince’s hand for the last time.
“If you see your page again, please give him my own and Mrs. Irwin’s
farewell greeting.”
The Prince’s face clouded over.
“I would do it with all my heart, my friend, but I shall never see my
page again. Let us speak of him no more. There are wounds of which a man
cannot feel proud.”
With this they parted.
Heideck, who had resumed his civilian attire, slept at the hotel, and
then took the place Mr. Kennedy offered him in his carriage. He had
found out that the railway between Lahore and Mooltan from Montgomery
Station was still available for travelling.
The English, with their peculiar tenacity, still continued the regular
service in the parts of India that were not affected by the war. The
enormous extent of the country confined the struggle between the two
armies in some degree to a strictly limited area. In the west, the east,
and the interior of India there were few traces of the conflict. Only
the troop trains between Bombay and Calcutta revealed a state of war.
Since the retirement of the English army from Lahore, no more troops
were to be seen on the western railway, and this section was again
perfectly free for ordinary traffic.
Even the Indian population of this district showed no particular signs
of excitement. Only the actual presence of the Russian troops had
disturbed the patient and peaceful people. The travellers even passed
through Chanidigot without any interruption of their occupations or
meeting with any unexpected delay.
The weather was not too hot; the stormy season had begun, and travelling
in the roomy, comfortable railway carriages would have been in other
circumstances a real pleasure.
The travellers safely reached Karachi, the seaport town on the mouths
of the Indus with its numerous tributaries, where Mr. Kennedy’s high
position procured them admission to the select Sind Club, where the
attendance and lodging were all that could be desired. The club was
almost entirely deserted by its regular visitors, since, in addition to
the officers, all officials who could be dispensed with had joined the
army. But neither the Kennedys nor Edith and Heideck had any taste for
interesting society. Their only wish was to leave the country as soon
as possible, and to see the end of the present painful condition of
affairs. As the result of inquiries at the shipping agency, they had
decided to travel to Bombay by one of the steamers of the British India
Company, and to proceed thence to Europe by the Caledonia, the best
vessel belonging to the P. and O. line.
In the afternoon, before going on board, Heideck hired a comfortable
little one-horsed carriage and drove to Napier mole, where an elegant
sailing-boat, manned by four lascars, was placed at their disposal at
the Sind Club boathouse. They sailed through the harbour protected by
three powerful forts, past Manora Point, the furthest extremity of the
fortified mole, into the Arabian Sea.
“Really, it is hard to leave this wonderful land,” said Heideck
seriously. “It is hard to take leave for ever of this brilliant sun,
this glittering sea, and these mighty works of men’s hands, which have
introduced luxury and the comforts of a refined civilisation into a
natural paradise. I have never understood Mr. Kennedy’s sorrow better
than at this moment. And I can sympathise with the feeling of bitterness
which makes him shut himself up in his room, to avoid the further sight
of all this enchanting and splendid magnificence.”
Edith, clinging to his arm and looking up fondly into his face only
answered, “I only see the world as it is reflected in your eyes. And
there its beauty is always the same to me.”
XXII
THE ETHICS OF ESPIONAGE
The steamer from Karachi to Bombay had about twenty officers and a
larger number of noncommissioned officers and men on board who had been
wounded in the first engagements on the frontier. The sight of them was
not calculated to relieve the gloomy feelings of the English travellers,
although during the three days of the voyage the weather was magnificent
as they proceeded through the bright, blue sea along the west coast of
India, so lavishly supplied with the beauties of Nature.
The harbour of Bombay, one of the most beautiful in the world, presented
a singularly altered appearance to those who had seen it on previous
visits. There was a complete absence of the French, German, and Russian
merchantmen, which usually lay at anchor in considerable numbers;
besides English steamers there were only a few Italian and Austrian
vessels in the roadstead.
The steamer from Karachi cast anchor not far from the Austrian Lloyd
steamer Imperatrix, from Trieste, and the passengers were taken from the
Apollo Bandar in small boats to the landing-stage.
Heideck took up his quarters with his new English friends at the
Esplanade Hotel. The admirably conducted house was well known to him,
since he had stayed there a few days on his arrival in India. But the
appearance of the hotel had altered during the interval as completely as
that of the European quarter of the city, from which all life seemed to
have disappeared. The ravages of the plague might have had something to
do with it, but the main cause was the war, which made its presence felt
in the absence of various elements of life which at other times were
especially remarkable.
Formerly the meeting-place of fashionable society, nearly all its guests
at the present time were connected with the army; the few ladies were in
mourning, and an oppressive silence prevailed during meals.
Mr. Kennedy, immediately on his arrival, had paid a visit to the
Governor in Heideck’s interest and returned with good news. He
had obtained permission for the young German to leave India by the
Caledonia, which was starting in a few days with a considerable number
of sick and wounded officers. The route to be taken was the usual one by
Aden and Port Said. Those passengers who intended to travel further by
the railway would be landed at Brindisi, the destination of the steamer
being Southampton.
“So we shall have the pleasure of your company as far as Brindisi,”
said Mr. Kennedy, turning to Heideck. The latter bowed, to show the old
gentleman that he had interpreted his intentions correctly.
An expression of violent alarm overspread Edith’s face, when the
contradiction which she might assuredly have expected did not follow.
She got up to go to her room, but, passing close by Heideck, she found
an opportunity to whisper, “To-night on the balcony! I must speak to
you!”
After dinner Heideck and Mr. Kennedy sat smoking on the terrace in front
of the dining-room. A warm sea-breeze rustled through the banyan trees,
with their thick, shining arch of foliage. Heideck again thanked the old
gentleman for his kindly efforts on his behalf.
“I have only repaid to a very moderate extent all you have done for us,”
replied Mr. Kennedy. “Besides, there was no difficulty in the matter. I
told the Governor that you were a German and a friend of my family,
who had rendered most valuable service to an English lady and myself.
Certainly, I thought that I might with a good conscience say nothing
about your being a soldier, which might easily have caused all kinds
of difficulties. With all my patriotism, I do not reproach myself
very severely for this reticence. For what military secrets could you
disclose in Berlin? Our disasters are plain for all to see, and the
papers are filled with news and conjectures.”
“Certainly. The real purpose of my journey has been overtaken by events
and rendered pointless.”
“And this object--if I may speak without mincing words--was espionage.
Is not that the case, Mr. Heideck?”
“Espionage in the same sense that the despatch of ambassadors, ministers
plenipotentiary, and military or naval attaches is espionage,” replied
Heideck, visibly annoyed.
“Oh, I think there is a slight difference in their case. All these
gentlemen’s names and duties are known beforehand, and they are
expressly accredited in their character of diplomatists.”
“Mr. Kennedy, I could never think of justifying myself to you, for I
have not the least reason to be ashamed of my mission. The military
authorities of every country must have information as to the military
condition of other powers, even though war is not definitely expected or
contemplated. In order to be equipped against all eventualities, it is
necessary to know the forces and resources of other powers, no matter
whether, in case of war, they would be enemies or allies.”
Mr. Kennedy, evidently irritated, replied: “It almost seems as if we
English had grossly neglected this precaution. The Russians would
hardly have surprised us, if we had known how to calculate with German
astuteness.”
“Well, I hardly believe that the English method in this respect is
different from ours. Your Government, like the German, doubtless sent
officers everywhere to obtain information. Just as the General Staff in
Berlin collects information about all foreign armies, fortifications,
and boundaries, I have no doubt that the same thing happens in London.
Besides, it is a purely theoretical procedure, just like the drawing up
of schemes of war to suit all cases. In reality, things usually turn
out quite differently from what is expected. The present war is the most
convincing proof of this. I was sent here to study the Anglo-Indian army
and the Russo-Indian frontiers, although we had no presentiment that war
was imminent, and had made no plans for attacking India. The folly
of such an idea is obvious. Further, if you regard me as a spy, Mr.
Kennedy, I beg you will have no scruple about informing the Governor of
my real character. I am ready at any time to justify myself before the
English authorities.”
Mr. Kennedy held out his hand to him.
“You have misunderstood me, my dear Mr. Heideck. Your personal honour is
to me so far beyond all doubt, that I should never think for a moment
of putting you on a level with those spies who are tried for their lives
when caught.”
At this moment one of the barefooted waiters, dressed in white, came
running and shouting into the saloon, “Great victory near Delhi! total
defeat of the Russian army!” at the same time triumphantly waving a
printed paper in his hand.
Mr. Kennedy jumped up, tore the paper from the boy’s hand, and read the
news given out by the Bombay Gazette.
“Yes, it is true,” he cried, his face beaming with joy. “A victory,
a great, decisive victory! Heaven be thanked--the fortune of war has
changed.”
He gave the bearer of the joyful news a piece of gold and hastened
to inform the ladies. Heideck, however, remained behind, immersed in
thought. The hotel soon became lively. The English ran here and there,
shouting to one another the contents of the despatch, while a growing
excitement gradually showed itself in the streets. In the so-called
fort, the European quarter of Bombay, torches were lighted and
feux-de-joie fired. Heideck took one of the traps standing in front
of the hotel and ordered the driver to drive through the town. Here he
observed that the rejoicings were confined to the fort. As soon as the
conveyance reached the town proper, he found that it presented the same
appearance as on his first visit, and that there was nothing to show
or indicate the occurrence of extraordinary events. In spite of the
lateness of the hour, the narrow streets were busy and full of traffic.
All the houses were lighted up, and all the doors open, affording a
view of the interior of the primitive dwellings, of the artisans busy
at their work, of the dealers plying their trade, of the housewives
occupied with their domestic affairs. Evidently the inhabitants troubled
no more about the war than about the terrible scourge of the Indian
population--the plague. The despatch announcing the victory, although
no doubt it was known in the native quarter, had evidently not made the
slightest impression.
About eleven o’clock Heideck returned to the hotel, where he found the
Kennedys and Edith still conversing eagerly on the terrace.
“Of course we shall not leave now,” he declared. “As soon as the
Russians have evacuated the north, we shall return to Simla.”
Heideck made no remark, and since the openly expressed and heartfelt joy
of the English affected him painfully, he soon took leave of them, and
went up to his room, which, like Edith’s, was on the second storey.
According to the custom of the country, all the rooms opened on to the
broad balcony which ran round the whole floor like an outer corridor.
As a look from Edith had repeated her wish that he should wait for her
there, he stepped out on to the balcony. His patience was not put to
a severe trial. She must have quickly found an opportunity of escaping
from the Kennedys’ society, for he saw her coming towards him even
sooner than he had expected.
“I thank you for waiting for me,” she said, “but we cannot stay here,
for we should not be safe from surprise for a moment. Let us go into my
room.”
Heideck followed her with hesitation. But he knew that Edith would
feel insulted if he expressed any scruples at her request, for her firm
confidence in his chivalrous honour relieved her of all apprehension.
Only the moon, shining faintly, shed a dim light over the room. The
clock on the tower of the neighbouring university struck twelve.
“Destiny is playing a strange game with us,” said Edith, who had seated
herself in one of the little basket chairs, while Heideck remained
standing near the door. “I confess that since the arrival of the news of
the victory I have spent some terrible hours, for the Kennedys have, in
consequence, abandoned their idea of leaving, and seem to take it for
granted that I shall remain with them in India.”
“And would you not, in fact, be forced to do so, my dearest Edith?”
“So then you have already reckoned with this contingency? You would not,
surely, think of travelling without me? But perhaps you would even feel
relieved at being freed from me?”
“How can you say such things, Edith, which, I am sure, you do not
believe?”
“Who knows? You are ambitious, and we poor women are never worse off
than when we have to do with ambitious men.”
“But there is probably no necessity for us to torment ourselves with the
discussion of such contingencies. I have never for a moment believed in
any alteration of our arrangements for the journey.”
“That is to say you doubt the trustworthiness of the report of the
victory?”
“To speak frankly, I do. I did not wish to mortify the old gentleman and
spoil his shortlived joy. That is the reason why I did not express my
distrust in his presence. But the despatch does not really convey
the impression of being true. It does not even contain a more exact
statement of the place where the battle is said to have taken place.
It must, at least, strike the unprejudiced observer as being very
suspicious.”
“But who would take the trouble to obtain the melancholy satisfaction of
deceiving the world in such a manner for a short time?”
“Oh, there are many who would be interested in doing so. In the course
of every war such false reports are always floating about, in most cases
without their origin being known. It may be a money-market manoeuvre.”
“So you think it quite impossible that we can beat the Russians?”
“Not exactly impossible, but extremely improbable--at least while the
military situation remains what it is. Again, it is the absence of
definite information that surprises me. A victorious general always
finds time to communicate details, which the vanquished is only too glad
to defer. I am convinced that the bad news will soon follow, and that,
as far as our plans for the journey are concerned, everything will
remain as before.”
Edith was silent. Her belief in Heideck was so unbounded that his
words had completely convinced her. But they did not restore the joyful
confidence of the last few days.
“Everything will remain as before?” she said at length. “That means you
will leave us at Brindisi.”
“Certainly. There is no other way for me to reach the army.”
“And suppose you abandon the idea of returning to the army altogether?
Have you never thought that we might find another foundation on which to
build our future happiness?”
Heideck looked at her in amazement.
“No, dearest Edith, I have not thought of it. It would have been a
useless and foolish idea, so long as my duty and honour prescribe most
definitely what I have to do.”
“Duty and honour! Of course, I ought to have known that you would at
once be ready again with fine words. It is so convenient to be able to
take shelter behind so unassailable a rampart, if at the same time it
falls in with one’s own wishes.”
“Edith! How unjust the melancholy events of the last few weeks have made
you! If you think it over quietly, you will see that my personal wishes
and my heart’s desires are not in question at all. And really I do not
understand what you think I could possibly do.”
“Oh, there would be more than one way of sparing us the pain of a
separation, but I will only mention the first that occurs to me.
Couldn’t we very well remain together in India? If it is the question
of money that makes you hesitate, I can soon make your mind easy on that
point. I have enough money for both of us, and what is mine is yours.
If we retire to a part of the country which the war cannot reach, a hill
station such as Poona or Mahabeleshwar, no one will trouble you with
questions or think of following you. And if you live there and devote
yourself to your love instead of slaying your fellow-men, it will be
more acceptable to God.”
In spite of the seriousness with which she spoke, Heideck could not help
smiling as he answered: “What a wonderful picture of the world and its
affairs is sometimes drawn in a pretty woman’s little head! It is really
fortunate that we sober-minded men do not allow our heart to run away
with our head so easily. Otherwise we should come badly off, for you
yourselves would certainly be the first to turn away from us with
contempt, if we tried to purchase the happiness of your love at any
price--even at the price of your respect.”
Edith Irwin did not contradict him. Silent and sorrowful, for a long
time she looked out upon the bright moonlight Indian night. Then, when
Heideck approached her, to take leave of her with tender words, she said
in a voice which cut him to the heart: “Whether we understand each other
or not, in one thing at least you shall be under no delusion. Whereever
you may go--into a paradise of peace or the hell of war--I will not
forsake you.”
With passionate impetuosity she flung herself into his arms and pressed
her burning lips upon his. Then, as if afraid of her own heart’s
passion, she gently pushed him towards the door.
XXIII
HOMEWARD BOUND
As Heideck had foreseen, the announcement of the victory was followed
by disastrous tidings for the English. Up to noon on the following day
Bombay had waited in vain for confirmation of the despatch and fuller
particulars. Very late in the evening, amidst a general feeling of
depression, the Governor published the following despatch from the
Commander-in-Chief:--
“The enemy having been reported in great force yesterday to the north
of Delhi, our army took up a favourable defensive position, and a battle
was fought with great honour to the British arms. The Russians suffered
enormous losses. The approach of darkness preventing us from following
up the advantages we had gained, I ordered the main body of the army
to carry out a strategic retreat on Lucknow, chiefly along the railway.
Simpson’s brigade remained behind to defend Delhi. The heavy guns of
the Sha, Calcutta gate, and north gate bastions were very effective.
All arms distinguished themselves, and deserve the highest praise. The
bridge over the Jumna is intact and affords direct communication with
General Simpson.”
While Mr. Kennedy was sitting pondering over this despatch, Heideck came
up to him.
“A decisive defeat, isn’t it, Mr. Heideck?” said he. “As a military man,
you can read between the line, better than I can. But I know Delhi. If
the Jumna bridge batteries have been firing, the Russians must be on the
point of capturing this passage. The north gate bastion is the head of
the bridge.”
Heideck was obliged to agree; but he had read more in the despatch, and
drew the worst conclusions from the general’s retreat on Lucknow.
No more despatches from the theatre of war were published during the
day, since the Governor was desirous of concealing the melancholy state
of affairs from the people. But Mr. Kennedy, who had been in Government
House, knew more. He told Heideck that the English army had fled in
complete disorder, having lost 8,000 killed and wounded, twenty guns,
and a number of colours and standards. The Government had already
abandoned all hope of saving Delhi, for General Simpson could not
possibly hold it. “We have lost India,” sorrowfully concluded Mr.
Kennedy. “It is the grave of my last hopes.”
. . . . . . .
The Caledonia was moored in Victoria Dock, which formed part of the
magnificent harbour on the east coast of the peninsula. In the midst
of a seething crowd the passengers were making their way on board.
Many wounded and sick officers and soldiers were returning on the fast
steamer to England, and filled the places intended for passengers. No
travellers to Europe on business or pleasure were to be seen. All the
women on board belonged to the families of the military. The general
feeling was one of extreme melancholy.
Before embarking Heideck had discharged his faithful servant. Morar
Gopal, with tears in his eyes, had begged him to take him with him, but
Heideck was afraid that the European climate would be the death of the
poor fellow. Besides, he would have been obliged to part with him on
active service. So he gave him a hundred rupees--a fortune for Morar
Gopal.
The great steamer moved slowly out of the basin of the harbour, past
English merchantmen and the white ships of war, which had brought troops
and war material.