Danny’s “Yes, sir!” was closely followed by Akash’s “Haan, sahib.” They hurried away from the screaming corporal and into the busy Delhi street, thankful they hadn’t been recognized.
Danny hesitated and turned toward the Delhi clock tower, as if tethered to its power. He remembered Zavier’s threat all too well. He could stay here in the city. He could try to protect the tower along with the soldiers assigned to guard it.
But if the rebels succeeded, even more towers would fall, and even more innocent lives would be taken.
He had to weigh one soul against thousands.
Hand tight around the small cog in his pocket, Danny turned in the direction of the durbar.
It was easy enough to follow the other privates toward Delhi’s perimeter, where a row of battered autos waited. Danny and Akash approached an officer with a clipboard, who glanced at the names on their uniforms.
“Wilson and Chopra, auto four.”
The driver took off as soon as they were inside. Danny looked behind him as the city grew smaller, hoping that the real Wilson and Chopra wouldn’t look for auto four and already find it gone.
It didn’t take long to reach the enormous durbar campgrounds. They’d overheard that it had taken thousands of laborers to prepare all the tents, the parade grounds, and even a replica of the throne of England.
The British driver glanced back at them and grinned at their awe. “The rajas have already come, and what a spectacle they made of it. The viceroy arrived a few days ago. Shoulda seen it, riding in on a big ol’ elephant, cavalry and trumpeters trailing along.”
Danny did in fact see the elephants on the outskirts of camp. They were clad in chainmail, their faces painted orange and green, with festive streamers hanging from their tusks. He swallowed. As magnificent as they appeared, it wouldn’t take much for one to step on him and crush him into jam. People were meant to ride them?
They clambered out of the auto when it parked, finding themselves on an avenue between tents that stretched toward the parade grounds. The sheer number of soldiers and servants milling about, combined with the village-like quality of the tent formations, was overwhelming.
“Chod,” Akash said under his breath. “How are we supposed to find the viceroy in this?”
The officer who’d waved them inside approached them. “You two, where are your accommodations?”
“We don’t know,” Danny admitted. “No one told us.”
The soldier looked furiously through his notes. “Chopra—you’re in E45. Wilson—N15.”
“But we don’t know where—”
The officer turned back to his work, arguing with a sepoy in Urdu. Akash tugged on Danny’s sleeve and they ducked around a tent.
“We should probably split up to cover more ground,” Danny suggested.
“Let’s at least try to find out where the viceroy is staying.”
Agreeing to meet back at the same spot around noon, they took off.
Danny was sweating under a fierce midmorning sun as he weaved through the other soldiers, trying to get his bearings. There was plenty to take in. Large, ornate tents had their flaps pinned back to reveal Indian princes reclining within, sipping cool drinks. Other tents weren’t quite as grand, and Danny noticed that while a few had special banners embroidered with coats of arms and crests, others did not. The poorer rajas could be seen sulking and glaring at the servants of the richer princes. One loudly complained to a British soldier in the middle of the street, his red turban wobbling with anger.
“I do not see why it is different,” he said. “I would like a banner as well!”
The soldier rubbed his temples. “It’s only the rajas of the feudatory states who get to have banners, not the independent ones.”
But the rajas, vain as peacocks, all wanted to outdo one another. The number of servants and the quality of their ornamentation were on full display. Even the entertainment was pitted against each other; many had brought servants who doubled as musicians. One raja had gone so far as to bring a whole corps of Indian bagpipers dressed as Scottish Highlanders, complete with pink leggings so as to look “authentic.” Another boasted a piper with the most enormous yellow headdress Danny had ever seen. There was even a musician with gilded armor, whom Danny felt especially sorry for. But his personal favorite was a poor raja’s attendant who ground out “God Save the Queen” on a hand organ.
Distracted as he was by his surroundings, Danny tried to look for someone to speak to. Every officer he encountered brushed him aside or barked at him to get back to his duties. Danny got the sinking feeling that Akash had been right after all. No one would listen to a young private with grandiose threats.
He asked a couple of lesser-ranked soldiers what was going to happen at the coronation the next day, and what they were expected to do. He received looks of surprise and contempt, mistaken for a green private who hadn’t bothered to listen to his superiors. Still, he was grudgingly given basic information: the layout of the four durbar sectors, where the viceroy’s camp was, and that all soldiers were expected to attend Lytton’s speech.
“We even get an extra day’s pay,” a second lieutenant said. “And I heard the ones who were exiled after the Mutiny will be granted amnesty.”
“They’ll be pardoned?”
“I expect so.”
He wondered if Zavier and his rebel friends knew, and if they’d even care.
Before he went back to the meeting spot, he wandered toward the viceroy’s camp, which was heavily guarded. Tents were neatly lined in two rows that extended all the way to a huge tent. Nearby, an iron structure had been raised, painted in the colors of Her Majesty’s flag.
Patrolling soldiers gave him disapproving looks. Danny nervously smiled and retreated. There was no way to get to Lytton directly, then; he couldn’t even convince a low-ranking officer to bring Lytton a message.
Danny stopped in his tracks. Message.
“Is there a telegraph here?” he asked a passing soldier, who pointed the way to a command tent near the center of the durbar. Danny eventually found the tent where a few officers were flipping through papers and wiring commands through a clunky metal telegraph.
Danny approached the man handling the telegraph machine and cleared his throat. The man blinked up at him through thick spectacles. Danny didn’t think he was a soldier. All the better.
“Message needs to be sent down to Agra,” Danny said in his best authoritative voice. “To Major Dryden’s cantonment.”
The man readied the machine. “And what is the message?”
Danny forced himself not to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The communication had to be something obvious, but not so simple as to avoid notice. The man waited patiently, and Danny took a deep breath.
“D.H. in Delhi,” he decided at last. “V.L. requiring his service.” But how to tell them he was in the camp, and not the city? “Er … God save the Queen.”
The man obediently typed out the message. “Anything else?”
Danny hesitated. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Can a message be sent to London?”
“Of course. Where to?”