Two telegrams. Both said the same thing: that he had to take over the post of commissioner. But they were different in that one was an order from the Governor and the other a request from his younger brother, John.
As soon as the king was arrested and the Company took over the government, Resident Williams had made it clear that he would resign and return to his country. The two telegrams were a reaction to this. A decision was urgently required. The country had no king.
Holding both the telegrams in his hand, Henry paced up and down the room. He put the papers into his pocket from time to time, and then took them out. Finally, he went up to the door of Mannu’s room. Although the door lay open, he knocked on it twice, hesitantly. Mannu came running up.
‘Can I come in, child?’ he asked. She moved aside for him to enter.
He went in and said shyly: ‘My child, I have come to seek your advice on a certain matter—a personal matter.’
As he began to speak, the resident was astonished at himself. He had so many friends and colleagues in this city, citizens of repute with whom he could have discussed this problem, but he had not approached any of them. It was to this ten-year-old illiterate girl that he had finally come, looking for the answer to his question. And with so much fear and humility. As if her decision was final.
Naturally, Mannu did not understand what he said about trade, government, the difference of opinion he had had with the Company. All she understood was this: that this foreigner whom she had begun to call ‘uncle’ was a good man; that no matter how bad a piece of work was, it was better that a good man did it than a bad man.
‘A good man could destroy himself doing a bad deed. But uncle, will not the deed itself become better when a good man does it?’
Henry stared at the little girl who barely reached up to his waist. The wisdom and logic of what she said astounded him. He had saved her and was caring for her now. And yet, she was thinking of how to alleviate the tragedy that threatened all human beings in general rather than just him, her saviour and protector.
He had just turned to go after thanking her for having helped him take a decision when David Butler’s horse came flying like a bullet and stopped before his bungalow.
‘The battalion has risen in mutiny, sir,’ he said, without alighting. ‘The native sepoys have left the barracks and are attacking the officers.’
‘And your jail?’ asked Henry, trying to look calm.
‘It’s been broken into. The prisoners are out, they have joined the mutineers.’
Henry’s reaction was clear: ‘Something must be done immediately. We have to save the magazine at once, and also the families of the civilians and the officers.’
‘We do not have a single battalion we can call ours, sir,’ said Butler, wringing his hands in despair. ‘There are only officers in the city, no soldiers. Officers who know only how to give orders, not fight.’
‘Never mind, David. Let us go.’
Henry Williams, taking over as commissioner in this way, went out with Butler the jailer. Mannu, who was left alone in the bungalow, stood at the door watching them go. In the confusion of the moment, they had forgotten to tell her what to do or not do.