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  "The telegraph office, Chand! Is it all right?"

  The Indian shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, sahib, but they have torn down the lines."

  He couldn't leave her to that awful fate. He had to do something. At that moment he saw one of the mutineers creeping along the verandah. He raised his rifle and shot the man through the forehead.

  "Tommy! Malcolm!" a man on horseback called. It was Flaxley, who had just left them minutes before. "We're to meet at the parade-ground of the Sixtieth Rifles."

  "We haven't horses!" Grant yelled.

  "Others behind!" Flaxley shouted, or something very similar, for at that moment a crack sounded. Flaxley screamed and was flung off his horse, landing in a crumpled heap at their feet, a great red stain spreading across the back of his shoulders.

  "C'mon, Tommy. We're just sitting targets for those bloody bastards."

  Hamilton nodded numbly. Grant grabbed at the reins of Flaxley's horse.

  "Take me with you, sahibs," Chand pleaded. "They will kill me as well, for I have served you."

  "Come on," Hamilton said to the servant, looking around for another horse. He started toward a riderless animal as Grant mounted the first. Chand was right behind him, then staggered and dropped to his knees. He pitched forward onto his face. For a moment Hamilton stared down at the dead Indian, who had doubtless saved their lives by alerting them; then he vaulted onto the back of the second horse, and the officers turned their mounts in the direction of the parade-ground.

  A screaming mob of Indians — soldiers, troublemakers from the bazaar, servants, villagers — swung around the corner at that moment, heading in their direction. The mutineers brandished torches, and tulwars and lathies, and the two men could hear them shouting "Maro! Maro!" — "Kill him! Kill him!"

  Hamilton and Grant looked quickly around, assessing the situation. They had little choice. They could ride into the line of burning bungalows or they could chance it through the crowd. They might make it, being on horseback; going by foot would be fatal.

  "Through the crowd!" Hamilton shouted. Grant nodded.

  They spurred their horses forward and lashed left and right with their crops as the Indians tried to pull them off their horses. Grant shot two men wearing only part of the uniform of native officers as they raised rifles to their shoulders, while Hamilton kicked one man in the chest, knocking him back into the others.

  "We'll never make it this way," Hamilton shouted. "We've got to find someplace to our advantage. A high place that we can defend, but one where we can't be smoked or burned out, at least until we find the others." Grant nodded that he understood.

  By this time they had managed to push through the crowd, which in its frenzy was turning to pursue them. While the moon was not yet up, they could see quite well from the light of the fires. They galloped through the streets until Grant pointed at the stone church.

  "Up there."

  They crossed the street and rode behind the building, slid off their horses, and led the animals inside the building. They barricaded the double doors with pews they tore loose from the flooring; then the two officers climbed the stairs up to the choir loft to look around. There they found the minister, his throat slit, his belly cut wide open like a hog's.

  "My God," Grant said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Horrified, Hamilton turned away and looked around. "Over here, Malcolm!"

  They set their rifles down by a window, then peered cautiously outside. The mob roamed through the streets, setting fire to buildings, breaking glass, and still shouting ''Maro! Maro!''

  "How many rounds do you have?" Hamilton asked.

  Grant checked, shook his head. "Not enough, I'm afraid. Should have picked up more."

  "I'm afraid we won't be able to accomplish much. Still, we might take some of them with us." Hamilton stood. "I'll check downstairs and see what I can find." Grant nodded, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and stared out the window as he waited.

  Hamilton returned within five minutes, bringing three more rifles and about ten boxes of cartridges. "Found these among the prayer books."

  "Good," Grant said. "Take a look."

  In the flickering firelight the mob had split into two, one section heading off down the street and the other remaining in front of the church. The latter surged into the building across the street. When the mutineers came outside, they were dragging three English soldiers behind them.

  The mob drew back, then reformed to create a circle into which the Englishmen were roughly pushed, and Hamilton was reminded of the humiliation of the eighty sepoys the day before. The British soldiers were thrown to the ground, and when they tried to rise, they were kicked brutally in the chest and face. The three men raised their voices, pleading for their lives. Someone laughed, a cruel, harsh sound.

  One of the mutineers raised a tulwar, the native sword, above his head. It came hurtling down, slamming into the neck of one of the British soldiers. He screamed as the sepoy sawed at his neck. The head, finally severed, bounced away, spewing blood across the mob. The smell of this fresh blood enraged them even more, and they seethed forward, attacking the two remaining men, who were screaming for mercy. When the crowd moved back, the two other soldiers were dead, their bodies pierced with dozens of knives.

  Drawing a bead on a tall sepoy who seemed to be one of the mob's leaders. Grant opened fire. His bullet struck the man squarely in the chest and he dropped, while Hamilton aimed at those mutineers in front, hoping to scatter them. The mob screamed and pounded at the doors of the church, then turned around as about two dozen horsemen rode down upon them, shooting their rifles and hacking with swords.

  Hamilton and Grant fired until they had no rounds left; then Grant went down in search of more cartridges. He found a few more and returned in time to see the soldiers outside setting up a cannon. It fired in a burst of orange, and the mob scattered. The two officers gathered their rifles, went downstairs and out into the street to join the others.

  As midnight approached, the mutineers began disappearing, and the European troops straggled back to the cantonment. Grant and Hamilton gathered with other members of the Dragoon Guards; Captain Rosser proposed to go after the mutineers on the road to Delhi, but was ignored by the commanding officer. Rutherford, like Flaxley, had died early in the battle, while Grant had been wounded slightly in the arm. Because their barracks were burned, the soldiers had to sleep that night on the barrack square.

  In their camps they told the horror stories of what they had seen. European women killed, their children speared and hung on walls. The pregnant wife of an officer, mutilated, her belly cut open, the unborn child squashed upon the floor. Loyal Indians and English alike killed, butchered by the frenzied sepoys. Some of the English families had managed to escape, but too many of them had been taken by surprise by servants and soldiers they'd previously trusted.

  Hamilton, aching from exhaustion, listened to the stories and thought only of August. The mutineers were sweeping across the dry plains outside Meerut toward Delhi. Toward Delhi and his love. She would die like the others he had seen. Mutilated, hacked, burned, or even worse. He closed his eyes against the nausea and pain, and knew he could not sit there any longer; he had to go to Delhi, had to warn her, rescue her somehow.

  When Grant had fallen asleep along with the others around him, Hamilton rose and steathily ran from the square. He found a horse that looked less exhausted than the others, climbed into the saddle, and rode away from the camp. He reminded himself to take care; no doubt he would encounter bands of sepoys along the road.

  What he was doing wasn't wrong, he told himself, as he rode out of Meerut. He wasn't deserting his station; he was rescuing an English citizen. And after all, one man might ride there faster than a large number. At least he hoped so. As he spurred the horse onward, he prayed he would not arrive too late.

  PART II

  Delhi, India: 1857

  Hamilton reached Delhi by late afternoon the following day,
Monday. Most of his time had been spent avoiding the bands of mutineers and robbers who roamed through the countryside, terrorizing and murdering any Europeans they found. He kept away from the road and skirted settlements, fearing the villagers would surrender him to the sepoys.

  Whenever he'd crossed the road to Delhi, he'd seen the signs of the rebellion. Bodies of Europeans, as well as Indians, lay mortally wounded or murdered, while blood pooled alongside the corpses and overturned carriages.

  A mile away from the walled city he turned his horse loose and set out on foot, knowing he could hide more easily in the undergrowth as he approached the city. The shadows lengthened as he approached Delhi, and he knew that the light wouldn't last much longer.

  When he was just on the other side of the Jumna River, he paused to check the gates. Delhi had two main entrances, the Lahore and Delhi Gates, as well as six smaller ones.

  The one across the Bridge of Boats was closed. Either the Europeans had been alerted to the mutiny in Meerut and had shut all the gates, or else the mutineers had closed them when they arrived in Delhi. Either way, he couldn't get in there. The Red Fort loomed upward some one hundred and ten feet; thus its walls were unscalable.

  He tried to remember what he'd learned about the defenses of Delhi when he first came to India. Eight gates, and — Wait. He rubbed the grit from his face as he concentrated. There might be one left open yet — a small water gate at the far end of the palace wall. But first he had to get past the guards on the walls, and he could hardly just stroll across the Bridge of Boats.

  He glanced back and in the twilight saw clouds of dust rising from the road. Another band of mutineers, no doubt. He'd better act soon, then. There was a shout from the walls as the guards spotted the horsemen.

  Now! he told himself, and keeping to the underbrush, he moved to the river's edge. Then he raised his rifle over his head to keep it dry, waded into the river, and began swimming toward the walls. The guards were too engrossed in the approaching mutineers to notice him.

  The gate was still open.

  Hamilton swam through the gate and found he was at the end of a drain. Some feet past the gate he found a ledge hewn from rock. He pulled himself out and crawled along it until he could stand. He made his way into the lower levels of the palace, past fountains and sunken baths. Here he moved more cautiously, for he didn't know how the palace occupants would react if they found him.

  He slipped through the labyrinth of marble corridors and floors, at one point seeing several of the king's attendants coming around a corner. He ducked into a small room, readied his rifle, and held his breath while the armed men went past. Finally, when he no longer heard their voices, he searched the room for robes to wear. He wouldn't fool anyone for long at a close range, but perhaps he could buy some extra time with the marginal disguise. Then he sought a way outside. When he at last left the Red Fort, it was still dusk. He hadn't spent as much time inside the palace as he'd thought. Now to reach the Parrish house, and he prayed he would not be too late.

  Above the city hung a pall of dark smoke, and in the distance he heard shouting and screams. He walked and ran through the maze of filthy streets, past mud and thatch houses, past enclosed courtyards and dark holes and comers, past the many bodies of Europeans, some sprawled across the doorways of their still-burning homes.

  Finally he entered the street where the Parrishes lived. Many of the houses were now in ruins, some still burning. He approached their house slowly. It had not been burned, but it looked deserted, and he wondered if he had come too late. His stomach churned at the thought.

  He darted across the street and into the unlocked house. The fires outside cast a reddish light through the windows, by which he- could see the punkah-wallah, his throat slit, lying inside the front door. Beyond him sprawled the bodies of the butler and the cook, as well as several sepoys.

  The parlor was in a shambles, the furniture smashed, cloth shredded, the paintings torn from the walls, and the glass in shards.

  "August?" Hamilton called. His voice was weak, and he realized he hadn't eaten anything in over a day. He cleared his throat. Called again. Heard nothing but the soughing of the wind.

  Hamilton licked his dry lips as he stepped into the next room and discovered half a dozen more bodies. Servants, and more Indian soldiers. His voice hoarse, he called out again for August. Again no other voice responded. Panic and despair entwined within him, but he couldn't believe — wouldn't accept — that he had come this far to face only grief.

  He found Parrish in the study. He recognized the older man only by the clothes he wore for Parrish's eyes had been gouged from his face which was masked in blood, the blood still damp. Bloated flies, so many that the dead man's head was nearly black, crawled across the wounds.

  Nearby were two sepoys, their throats ripped out and expressions of terror on their faces. He estimated that none of them had been dead for much longer than an hour. Of August, though, he saw no sign. He continued searching, in each room calling her name. He looked through the garden and the servants' huts, and still he couldn't find her.

  She must have escaped somehow, he told himself wildly as he returned to the house. Surely she'd flee. But why hadn't her father gone with her? Perhaps he had been delayed, was to meet her later, and then had been caught unawares by the sepoys.

  Or what — and this chilled him — what if she had been carried away by the Indians? Who knew what those heathens had done to her. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days and his grief overtake him. He was too tired to fight, to go on any longer. He would sink down to sit upon the floor and wait for whatever came.

  Behind him he heard the whisper of cloth. It must be one of the marauding sepoys, he told himself wearily, who had heard his voice and had come to kill him. Hamilton gripped his rifle and whirled around, prepared to defend himself one last time.

  It was August.

  As she glided slowly toward him he could not believe that he was actually seeing her. It has to be a dream, he told himself. He was feverish, or perhaps out of his head from hunger. He shook his head and rubbed the dirt from his eyes, and she was still there.

  As she came closer he saw that droplets of blood had ruined her beautiful gown.

  She was injured! That explained why she hadn't responded immediately to his frantic calls.

  "August! My darling!" he said, his voice breaking with relief. He rushed toward her, his arms outstretched to take her into them. It would be so good to hold her, to know that she was safe. He would tend to her, and she would heal, and then they would leave this house of death and return to safety.

  A foot or so away he stopped as he realized that the blood seemed to come from her mouth. Shocked, he stared at her. What sort of injury was this? Was she bleeding inside? Perhaps even dying? His heart gave a lurch at the thought.

  "Tommy," she whispered, and the sound raised the hair on the back of his neck. "Tommy, my love, I'm so glad you came."

  The blood around her mouth frightened him, for now that he examined her more carefully, she didn't seem injured. But where did the blood come from? He backed away, stumbling over the body of her father, and she still approached.

  "What happened here, August? Tell me what happened today!"

  She shook her head and pressed against him, slipping her arms around his neck. The smell of blood mingled with her scent of musk and sickened him. Her eyes, their depths dark and unreadable, gazed up into his. "I am so glad you have come to rescue your dear August. I've missed you so much, my love."

  He wanted to respond, but his body wouldn't, and so he stood, his arms hanging loose at his sides. "What are you?" he demanded.

  "I don't understand, Tommy. Why are you being so horrible to me?"

  "I've sorry, August. I don't know what's the matter with me." Hamilton passed an unsteady hand over his face. "I've gone through so much in the past day, and after the mutiny began in Meerut yesterday, I feared you would be killed. All I could t
hink of was you and your father, and I came here as fast as possible. Thank God, you're safe!" He managed to hug her a little, but even to him the gesture felt remote. "I don't understand who killed the Indians? Was it the servants? Your father?"

  "It was terrible," she murmured, her body shivering against his, but not, he thought, with fear. "There was so much shouting from outside, and such awful threats, and then they began hammering on the door. Finally it gave way, and the mutineers ran in, killing all the servants and my father, everyone they could find." She shuddered, and he thought her voice was colored by an unholy excitement, but surely he was wrong? Wasn't he? "Poor Father. They found him hiding in the study, and threw him down upon the floor and blinded him first. He begged, screamed, for a merciful death, but he did not receive it, for then they drew a sword across his stomach, cutting him wide open. He died slowly, agonizingly slowly."

  "Shhh," he said reassuringly, "try not to think of what happened." He rocked her in his arms. "How did you escape the carnage, August, my love?" he asked.

  "Why weren't you attacked?" The smell of blood, he realized, was on her breath.

  "I wasn't here," August explained. "I had been in hiding, for Father had listened to your warnings, and he feared that something terrible would happen. The sepoys did not find me until I at last showed myself, and by that time it was too late."

  She'd spoken as though she had explained it perfectly. "I-I don't understand," he said. He shook his head. "Did you try to help the survivors? Are you injured, my love? Where did the blood come from?"

  August parted her stained lips for him, and too late he saw the long white teeth. Weakened from exhaustion and hunger, from fear and disbelief, he did not resist when she kissed him with her icy lips, and blackness swept down across him, claiming him for its own.

  As the long night of Monday, May 10, drew to a close, she roamed the stinking streets of Delhi, skirting the heaped bodies of the dead and the dying.