Before the Collector continued about his business, Dr McNab asked him to come over to the window for a moment. He wanted to examine the Collector’s right eye which had become red and rather swollen. The Collector himself had paid no attention to it, assuming it to be one of the many trivial ailments from which the garrison, deprived of adequate fresh food, was now suffering.
“It’s inflamed, Mr Hopkins. Is it painful?”
“Not very.”
McNab offered no further comment so the Collector went on his way.
The sight which greeted him now in the tiger house was a pitiful one. Hari no longer paced nervously up and down; he lay sprawled on a pile of dirty straw, his eyes extinct. Around him lay scattered the festering remains of half a dozen meals. There was a powerful stench of urine also, as if he no longer went outside to perform his natural functions. He had turned grey, as Indians do when they are unhappy. His eyes were very bloodshot, like small balls of scarlet in his dark countenance, and his cheeks, of which the Collector had always admired the plumpness and the polish, were now hollow and covered with a dark, wispy down. Half buried in the dirty straw, beside a bone crawling with flies, lay the phrenology book, undisturbed since the Collector’s last visit.
The Prime Minister was singing softly to himself when the Collector came in and continued to do so all the time he was there. It was a religious song and a joyful one, the Prime Minister’s eyes sparkled. But they sparkled not outwardly but inwardly, for the deity which was causing him such intense satisfaction was inside himself. The Collector was astonished by how little the Prime Minister had changed during his month of captivity. He looked exactly the same except for his hair, which Hari had shaved off for his experiments and which had now grown into a furry black stubble through which the numbered segments of his skull could still be faintly perceived. The siege had simply made no impression on him whatsoever.
Looking at the Prime Minister the Collector was overcome by a feeling of helplessness. He realized that there was a whole way of life of the people in India which he would never get to know and which was totally indifferent to him and his concerns. “The Company could pack up here tomorrow and this fellow would never notice … And not only him … The British could leave and half India wouldn’t notice us leaving just as they didn’t notice us arriving. All our reforms of administration might be reforms on the moon for all it has to do with them.” The Collector was humbled and depressed by this thought. He noticed that Hari was watching him with dull eyes.
“Hari, I’ve decided to let you go home. I suggest that you leave here before it grows dark so that the sepoys don’t shoot you by mistake.”
A shudder, as from a slight cough, passed through Hari’s inanimate frame, but there was no other response. Hari continued to stare at him dully. At length, after some preliminary champing of his lips during which the Collector caught a glimpse of a white-coated tongue, Hari spoke.
“Mr Hopkin, it is cruel to torture with words. You do better to hang me from mango tree without more ado about nothing.”
“Hari, how could you think such a thing?” cried the Collector, shocked. “This is no game. You’re free to leave here and go home today. Look here, I know that I’ve treated you badly … But you must believe that I kept you here not because I wanted to, but because I believed it my duty to those whom God (or, well, the Company anyway) has placed in my care. Perhaps it was a mistake … perhaps keeping you here has done no good … I don’t know whether it has made any difference, but now we’re obliged to abandon some of our defences and it’s certain that your presence can no longer help us. You’ll be in great danger if you stay. You must forgive me, Hari, for keeping you here. This was wrong of me, I acknowledge it.”
“You acknowledge, Mr Hopkin, you acknowledge! But you ruin health. I die of starvation and disease. I die of musket fire and you acknowledge.”
“Please, Hari, you must not think badly of me. You must put yourself in my position. Besides, I’m not well myself … indeed, I’m most definitely sick,” added the Collector succumbing to a sudden wave of self-pity for it was true, he did not feel in the least well. His right eye, which he had hardly noticed until Dr McNab had looked at it a little while earlier, had begun to throb painfully, and at the same time he felt feverish and nauseated, though perhaps it was only on account of the fetid atmosphere and the stench of urine.
“You must go now, Hari, and take the Prime Minister with you.”
Every moment the Collector became more unwell. All the same, he found it pleasant to watch Hari reviving like a thirsty plant which has just been watered. Hari had already got to his feet and little by little was becoming animated again.
“When you’re ready, go to the Cutcherry and tell the Magistrate. He’ll stop firing while you go across to the sepoy lines. I must ask you not to tell them of our condition, however. Goodbye, Hari.” The Collector had a feeling that even if he survived the siege he would never see Hari again. But before he had reached the door Hari had called to him, following him to the door.
“Collector Sahib, though I do not forgive bad treatment from Sircar and from British Collector Sahib, I do not wish to cause personal grievance to my good friend, Mr Hopkin. I like to make to Mr Hopkin as private citizen a small gift of Frenloudji book, which is the only object in my possession and to give him handshake for last time. Correct!”
“Thank you, Hari,” said the Collector, and tears came to his eyes, causing the right one to throb more painfully than ever.
A little later from his bedroom, where he had retired for a rest, he watched through his daughters’ brass telescope as the grey shadow of what had once been the sleek and lively Hari moved slowly over to the sepoy lines with, as usual, the Prime Minister dodging along behind him.
“I hope he doesn’t tell them what a state we’re in, all the same.”
19
Now that the time had come for the depleted garrison to shrink back inside the new fortifications, accommodation had to be found for the ladies displaced from Dr Dunstaple’s house. Volunteers from the billiard room were needed to move to the banqueting hall so that the new ladies, many of whom were elderly, might be installed in their places in comparative comfort. It was when he was on his way to the billiard room to ask for these volunteers that the Collector suddenly felt faint. The Padre, who was passing, helped him to his bedroom and offered to call one of the doctors.
“No, it’s nothing. Just the heat,” muttered the Collector, dreading lest he be taken to the hospital. “Send me the Magistrate.”
When the Magistrate duly appeared the Collector, lying feverishly on his bed, asked him to take command of the garrison for a few hours. He explained what had to be done. The retreat must be carefully conducted so that it did not turn into a rout. He cursed himself inwardly for this sudden indisposition, which had come at the worst possible moment. Still, the Magistrate was a competent man. As an afterthought, he explained about the ladies who must volunteer for the banqueting hall.